Rising Darkness (A GAME OF SHADOWS NOVEL) (6 page)

Mary was still processing what Gretchen had said earlier. She said, “You mentioned past lives, so you believe in reincarnation.”

“Yes, I do,” Gretchen replied, sipping her drink. “At least I believe that some form of it exists. A more Greek version of reincarnation is to ‘transmigrate,’ or to pass from one body at death, drink forgetfulness from the river Lethe and then pass into another body. Or something like that, anyway. My memory is a bit fuzzy on the details.”

Mary had heard of the river Lethe, but she had never heard of transmigration before. “You said something about spirits.”

“Yes, I believe in spirits. We are spirits inhabiting bodies, and everything alive has a spirit. And there are spirits who have never had a body that we could conceive of, or understand, like, for instance, the Wakean.”

“The Wakean?”

“The Wakean are the American Indian thunder beings. I always smile when a good thunderstorm rolls in, and I hear them crashing around up in the sky.”

Mary watched the older woman in fascination. Gretchen sat not fifteen feet away but lived in an entirely different world from hers. She said in a doubtful voice, “What it all boils down to is that you think your dreams can either be real or not.”

“Oh no,” Gretchen said. “I believe every dream is real. I just think it takes a dexterous and sophisticated mind to determine to which level of reality a dream belongs. That’s the difficult part.”

Mary sighed. Disappointment crept in. After this whole conversation, she didn’t have much more than what she had walked in with, aside from an odd thought or two that carried a bit of Gretchen’s QVC sparkle. She had been ridiculous to hope for more. “Well, thank you for your time. How much do I owe you?”

“That’s it?” Gretchen asked. “Are you sure you don’t want something else?”

“No, I think that’s it for today. You’ve given me a lot to think about,” she said, keeping her tone polite. She drew out her checkbook. “How much do you charge?”

“Nothing.” Gretchen smiled as she looked up and began to protest. “No, I’m serious, please forget it. I wasn’t busy, I enjoyed the visit and you didn’t ask hardly anything of me. I wouldn’t feel right taking your money. If you want to change your mind and come back sometime, though, I’ll sock you with a bill then.”

No matter what Mary said, the older woman wouldn’t be moved. After a few minutes she gave up. Gretchen saw her to the front door and pressed a card into her hand. “Call me,” she said.

Mary smiled at her. “Thank you.”

Gretchen gripped her hand. “You have blood on your hands.”

Ice slithered down Mary’s spine. “Excuse me?”

“You have blood on your hands. A lot of it. And I don’t know why the color red is so important to you, but it is. I didn’t want to say it earlier, because you were nervous enough, and I didn’t want to frighten you.” Gretchen looked at her searchingly. “Yesterday the blood was all down your front. Are you an EMT?”

“I’m a doctor,” she whispered. “I work in an ER.”

“Someone died yesterday.”

“Yes.” Her lips felt numb.

“I thought I felt someone hovering around you. Maybe even a couple of someones. I’m sure she’s grateful for everything you tried to do for her.” Gretchen smiled and squeezed her hand. “You’re a good healer. A lot of people are thankful for what you do.”

The conga drums were back, playing an encore in Mary’s chest. Boy howdy. No more caffeine for her today. And this conversation had turned far too
Ghost Whisperer
for her. She swallowed, pulled her hand away and forced herself to say, “Thank you.”

After she walked to her car, she stood for a few moments, looking around and breathing hard. Okay, that last bit rattled her. Why was she so upset? She was a fool. For entertainment purposes only, remember? How could she have allowed herself to hope for something else—from a psychic consultant, of all people? She was tired, that’s all. She was strung out from feeling this pressure building up inside of her, and if she didn’t work hard to avoid it, she was going to . . .

What was she going to do? Explode? Crash?

Her mind felt frozen, her thoughts running thick and sluggish, and yet inexorable, like mud in a landslide. What was BabyMama Two’s name? The girl was scheduled for an autopsy today. That shouldn’t be the only thing you remember about a person.

Pain filled Mary’s chest. A thin keen came from the back of her throat as a feverish heat flashed through her body. She pressed a hand to her sternum.

It was an actual, physical pain. It felt like someone who was shattered with grief, like someone who was so far beyond the end of her rope she didn’t know where the end was, like someone who was at the mercy of a convulsing sob.

Sweating, taking short, shallow breaths, she blew out through her mouth until the tight band around her lungs had loosened and she could draw in a deep gulp of air. The wind burst against her cheeks with a frantic urgency.

Is this what a psychotic break felt like? Her thoughts turned to Justin again. She knew that if she called him, he would reschedule the appointment with Tony. If she asked him, he would even come to pick her up. He would be angry and worried, and he would pull more strings, and she could continue down the rational path of Western medicine in the hope of discovering what sanity felt like.

With jerky, graceless movements, she unlocked her car and climbed into the driver’s seat, rolling her window down as far as it would go. After resting for about fifteen minutes she felt calmer, and her body had cooled. Starting the car, she drove with care through downtown South Bend and turned north onto Eddy Street.

Ten minutes later she pulled onto the Notre Dame campus and drove past spacious green lawns. The white domes of the sporting facilities, the jutting silhouette of the library, the glimpse of the golden dome in the distance, all the familiar landmarks soothed her. After some confusion, she managed to locate the small visitor’s parking lot on the northeast edge of the main campus.

As she walked through the grounds, she let the sights and sounds of normal university life wash over her, drifting through the memories of her time as a student. It hadn’t been that long ago, but she still felt completely disconnected from the younger woman she had been.

As a college student, she had been more carefree, although she hadn’t realized it at the time. Her dreams had been nothing more than a cipher to be figured out with time, therapy and conviction. Then they wouldn’t trouble her anymore. She pulled her face into a wry twist. Where had all her stamina gone?

Eventually she reached a familiar incline, and she walked through a grove of trees to reach the Notre Dame Grotto, located by a small picturesque lake.

Built over a hundred years ago, the Notre Dame Grotto was an exact replica of the Grotto of Massabielle near Lourdes in France, only the Grotto at the university had been built a fraction of the original’s size.

The shrine was dedicated to Mary, Mother of God. As she approached the entrance to the man-made cave, Mary glanced up at the statue of the Virgin Mary, which was located in an overhead niche.

Mary, Queen of Heaven. This month—May—was Mary’s month, she remembered, as she wandered over to the glowing candles. A couple stood nearby, talking together in quiet voices. They nodded at her and smiled as they walked out, leaving her alone in the Grotto.

She was grateful for the solitude but wary as to how long it would last. The Grotto was a popular place. She stood for a while looking at the lit candles, letting herself drift into thoughtlessness. Occasionally the restless wind gusted in and caused the candles to flicker, but no one came to disturb her solitude.

Finally she roused herself to do what she came to do.

Hail Mary, Mother of God. . . . she said mentally and smiled. This is Mary Katherine Byrne, praying to you for the first time in what seems like forever. I haven’t said the rosary since I was a child. I don’t remember how it all goes. I do have a good Irish Catholic name, though, and my parents saw me baptized and at least halfway raised. But then they died, and my aunt didn’t care for praying. Do you forgive such things? Do they even cross your awareness?

She found an unlit candle and a taper, and she lit the candle with care. Strangely, though the breeze still gusted around her head and shoulders, the candles had stopped flickering. The tiny flames stood pure and straight.

Queen of Heaven, she thought as she watched her candle. Do you watch over your namesakes? Or are you only concerned with matters that involve your Son?

I NEED HELP!

The mental outcry burst out of her with such force, she staggered. Heat flooded her again. She felt as though her clothes might burst into flame.

Gasping, she tore off her jacket. The breeze had come back to circle her in a whirlwind. She flung out a hand to catch her balance and knocked over candles. The back of her hand felt seared.

What had Gretchen said?

Gretchen had said . . . had said . . .

We could dream of our past lives and we could dream of our futures, other worlds and other realities. We can travel in our dreams and speak to people we know who are alive, or those who are dead. . . .

And that was important, it was a message, it was something she needed to hear, but that wasn’t
IT
. That wasn’t what she needed to remember.

Gretchen had said . . .

Mary said aloud, her hoarse voice an experiment of air and vibration, “My dreams are real.”

As she said it, the intolerable internal pressure that had been building up over the last month, over her entire life, burst. Something tore and she didn’t know what it was, whether it had been inside her or around her.

Something tore away.

The breeze that had turned into a whirlwind now became a maelstrom, and her mind was filled with howling.

Her sight glazed with light. The world tilted, and she fell. She curled into a fetal position to protect herself from the storm, wrapping her arms around her head. She lost track of time. She might have lain forever on cold stone, an effigy, and all her life had been a dream.

A countless, ageless time later she attempted a breath, then another. Her arms loosened from around her head and her body uncurled. She patted the ground with a trembling hand. It seemed solid enough.

In slow degrees she struggled to her knees, wrapping her arms around herself for she had cooled again and was starting to shiver. Her head still rang from the aftermath of a gigantic noise, and she felt blank with shock. She had no idea how to categorize what she had just experienced.

A woman bent over her. Mary started and shrank back, staring up into dark, lustrous eyes. “I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I seem to have, I don’t know, fainted, I guess. . . .”

Child
, the woman said, reaching out one hand.

“Thank you.” Automatically she reached back. Somehow she found herself on her feet. Those incredible, compassionate eyes. Mary couldn’t stop staring at them. They were filled with such beauty, dark and yet lit as if starlight shone in them.

Her world lurched again. It wasn’t starlight in those eyes but candlelight.

The light wasn’t from a reflection in the woman’s gaze
BUT FROM THE CANDLES THAT SHONE BEHIND HER.

Mary sucked air, and everything she thought she knew about the world crashed into ruins.

Child
, the woman said.
You called, and I came.

The words were there and Mary clearly heard them, even though no sound had been made. She pressed fingers against her mouth, and without thinking, she answered in the same way.
Holy crap. I mean, Holy Mother. Th-thank you.

Ephemeral fingers seemed to brush her cheek. Tears spilled down Mary’s face as a brief, desperately needed wave of calm washed over her.
Brave traveler
,
the woman said.
You cannot go home again.

Mary scrubbed at her eyes with a fist, greedy for every moment she saw the woman.
I don’t understand. Why can’t I go home?

You must work hard to remember.
The lines of the cave and floor were visible through the woman’s body.
Remember who you are, and take great care. You are in danger. You have a powerful enemy, and you must not try to go home. You must work hard to find me.

Mary shook her head as her eyes blurred again. Blinking furiously, she said in that mental voice,
I’m sorry
.
I still don’t understand. How do I find you?

You must travel north.

The last few words came at her as if from across a massive divide. Then her vision came clear and for a moment all thought, all movement, was suspended.

The woman was gone, the maelstrom silent and quiet as if it had never existed. The sun shone outside on a bright serene spring afternoon.

Mary stood alone in the Grotto.

Chapter Six

AS MICHAEL LEARNED
meditation, the first memory that he recovered was the strongest, and also the strangest to him.

It wasn’t strange because it was of that first, alien life. That ancient memory was patchy and indistinct, and it came to him much later.

No, the first memory he uncovered was strange because he was happy in it.

Happy.

What a bizarre concept, happiness. As soon as he connected to the emotion in the memory, he realized he had never felt happiness, not in this lifetime or in many others.

In this lifetime, he had never given much thought to happiness before, but when he had, the concept had seemed pastel, an insipid, shallow thing that others claimed to either desire or feel.

Happiness led to other pastel emotions like contentment. It also seemed to be connected to things he had no interest in, things like steady jobs, marriage, children and community. Or it was connected to myths that people believed. Wealth would make them happy, or popularity would, or social standing.

But when the memory surfaced, and Michael touched the actual experience of
happiness
, even though it was only a shadow of the real thing, the feeling was so passionate, so golden and complete it shone a light on all the rest of his life. By comparison every other emotion he had felt was fractured, dirty and gray.

The details of that former life came to him piecemeal.

He had been a Norman lord under William the Conqueror. After the Battle of Hastings, he had been given a castle in York to live in and defend on behalf of the king, and
she
had been there. The other half of himself.

They fit together. Such simple words and yet so profound. They fit. Interlocking pieces, contrast and confluence.

And remembering that was, completely and utterly, the most devastating thing he had ever experienced.

Over the years, he returned to that past life again and again in meditation, painstakingly recovering shards of lost treasure.

The look in her eyes when she smiled at him. She was luminous. (If only he could see the details of her face more clearly, even though he knew that what she looked like did not matter in the slightest.)

How they talked late at night, discussing everything from the latest harvest to their great enemy. (For the danger was with them always, a thundercloud of war that shrouded their entire existence.)

Flashes of a mysterious and powerful intimacy. Her arms around his neck, his face in her perfumed hair. Their bodies entwined, and his spirit expansive and vibrant. (Not this thin, sharp sword that he had become.)

Laughter. Her laughter, and his. (He never laughed anymore. He had not laughed in so long, he had forgotten that he had forgotten how.)

The person he had been in this former life: this was who he was supposed to be. He took the memory and made it the cornerstone of his soul, and he built everything else around it, until he became a fortress.

* * *

IN THE GRAY
light of predawn, Michael pulled his car into the small parking lot at the bottom of a lookout point. He took advantage of the early solitude and remote location to give his body some much needed rest, dozing for an hour or so behind the wheel.

Then something made him open his eyes, turn his head.

The shimmer of a transparent figure stood by his car. It was a strong quiet, steady presence. Recognition kicked him in the teeth. He straightened, staring.

The figure was that of a tall man. In that faint shimmer he caught a glimpse of short black hair, distinguished aquiline features, copper skin.

The figure was a ghost.

Michael
,
it said.
I have fallen.

Heaviness plummeted onto his shoulders. Maybe it was grief. He didn’t know. It was certainly disappointment. They had not been friends, not quite. More like comrades-in-arms. Michael had met him when he had traveled north to spend summers with his mentor. Each year the boys would meet again, having grown taller and stronger, and they would assess each other as possible adversaries all over again. For a brief time, many years ago, they had been sparring partners, until Michael grew too dangerous to train with other children.

Michael slowly opened his car door and stepped out. He was the same height and stood shoulder to shoulder with the tall ghost. He said,
Damn, Nicholas
.
I’m sorry.

There was a faint gleam in the dark, intelligent eyes that regarded him with a grave expression, without self-pity.
I will not leave
,
Nicholas told him.
I will do what I can to protect him.

Michael nodded. Most humans passed on to wherever it was they went after death, but a few who were especially passionate were able to turn away from that journey.

The ghost lifted his hand in good-bye, already fading as he turned to walk away.

Semper fidelis. Always faithful. Nicholas had loved his country and his President, and his continued devotion would help, but it wouldn’t be enough.

Which was why Nicholas had been killed, of course.

* * *

MICHAEL CLIMBED UP
to the lookout point and sat on a short bluff above the western shore of Lake Michigan. The lake sparkled silver and blue, while green pines dotted the broken rocks of the coast. The bluff was north of Racine, Wisconsin, south of Milwaukee, and right in the middle of nowhere.

Even though the sun shone, the weather was unseasonably cold for late May. In some parts of the Midwest, rivers were flooding and people had been forced to evacuate their homes. This close to the Lake, especially with the fading of daylight, the wind felt as though it could peel flesh from the bone.

He didn’t notice. He was deep in meditation.

He had soaked up all the teaching Astra had to offer him with the ravenous appetite of the starving. Somehow he had managed to keep alive during the process, although looking back he knew he had been close to death several times. Most importantly, he had discovered the history and reason for his rage. He had grown into the kind of man who controlled himself with complete discipline and who used his anger as sustenance and weapon.

Now and always, he hunted.

Eyes closed, breathing deep, he had entered into the mental state the Buddhists refer to as utter mindfulness. He was quite aware of his surroundings but unaffected by them. With the hard-won patience he had learned over years, he called in all his messengers and companions. He asked each of them the same questions. He did this as a process of elimination, always aware that the enemy searched with as much eagerness and relentlessness, and with much more cruelty than he.

Voices sounded behind him. Teenagers scrambled up the path to the bluff, their raucous laughter and off-color jokes whooping through the quiet, windswept area. He ignored them, letting their voices flow through him like sand flowing through a glass.

One of them, a female, said, “Mm-mm, will you look at that.”

A boy laughed. “What, a freaking weirdo on a freaking park bench? Dime a dozen, babe.”

“You got no imagination. That there’s a juicy piece of USDA prime beef. Look at them muscles. I could love me some of that. Think his organs have been injected with growth hormones?”

“Girl, you a ho.”

Another called out in a high voice, “You guys. Look at the sky.”

Various exclamations followed. “That’s like something from a horror flick. Hitchcock, right? Or was it Scorsese?”

“How do they get the birds to do that? Are we on TV?”

“What kind of birds are they?” the girl asked.

“Hawks, I think. Hundreds of them. Maybe a thousand? I’ve never seen so many circling around.”

“They look like a tornado. That’s not right. It’s not natural.”

Michael continued to speak to his people.
Brothers, we keep hunting south.

Still along the Lake?
one of them asked, tilting in his flight so the sun shone on proud red-tail feathers.

Always along the Lake
, he answered. He and his old teacher had narrowed the search down to the shores of Lake Michigan. That was still a massive amount of territory to cover, and they were fast running out of time.

Then:

i need help!

The cry ripped across the psychic realm. Unprepared, wide open, Michael reeled from the shock. He heard the babble of teenagers as though through the roar of rushing water. Hands hooked under his arms to help him to his feet. He shook them off, focusing all the considerable force of his attention on that internal, ephemeral place.

There she was.

She was coming awake. She had ripped through the veil herself, and energy blazed from her like she was a psychic version of Chernobyl. Anyone with the capacity to see the psychic realm could see her. She was completely unprotected, and he was too far away.

His heart kicked.

He twisted, lunged down the path to his car, roared at the sky.

A whirling tower of a thousand hawks screamed in reply and hurtled southeast.