F. Paul Wilson - Nightworld

Veilleur was the major factor. For no good reason, something within Alan responded positively—no, enthusiastically—to the man. It had to have something to do with the months Alan had played host to the Dat-tay-vao. After reducing him to a comatose vegetable, the power—entity, elemental force, whatever it was—had deserted him. But it must have left some sort of residue within, whether clinging to his peritoneum, coating his meninges, or riding the neural currents along his axons, he couldn't say. All he knew was that he was drawn to this old man, trusted him; he still remembered the warm glow he'd felt at first sight of him.

And if that's how I feel, what must Jeffy feel?

For Alan had no doubt that the Dat-tay-vao had chosen Jeffy as its new residence.

He saw the priest, Father Ryan, return from the rear of the apartment. Mr. Veilleur followed him, wiping his hands on a towel as he walked in. And Alan felt that warmth again, glowing at his center, seeping throughout his torso and into his limbs.

And Jeffy…Jeffy was on his feet. He ran to the old man and clasped his leg in a bear hug. Veilleur stopped and smiled down at him as he smoothed the boy's hair.

"Hello, Jeffy. It's good to see you again."

The boy said nothing, merely looked up at Veilleur with glowing eyes.

Alan glanced over at the sofa where Sylvia, alone now, sat with a rigid spine and a tight, tense expression, chewing her lower lip as she watched the scene. Her eyes flashed with hurt—and anger. Alan knew the core of anger that coiled within Sylvia like a living thing. It had been quiescent in the past few months, but he vividly remembered how it used to bare its fangs and strike out at the unwary. He sensed it waking and stirring within her now.

His heart went out to her. She had taken Jeffy in when he'd been abandoned at age three by unknown parents who had been defeated by his autism. She had slaved over him with psychotherapy, physiotherapy, nutritional therapy, occupational therapy, butting her head and heart against the unyielding barricades of his autism without ever once entertaining the thought of giving up. And then, a miracle: the Dat-tay-vao smashed through his autistic shell and released the child trapped within. Sylvia at last had the little boy she had been seeking.

But now all that little boy seemed to care about was the mysterious old man who had appeared on her doorstep just two days ago.

Alan felt her hurt as if it were his own. He wanted to go to her side and put an arm around her to let her know he understood and was with her all the way, but he couldn't reach her with his hand and his wheelchair couldn't squeeze by the coffee table to get to where she was and these damn legs wouldn't carry him the lousy half-dozen feet to her side.

His legs. They infuriated him at times. Yes, they were getting stronger; slowly, steadily, he'd progressed to the point where he actually could stand for a few seconds. But that wouldn't help him now when Sylvia needed him. So he had to sit here, trapped in this ungainly, wheeled contraption and watch the woman he loved suffer. At times like this he—

A harsh voice broke through his thoughts.

You!

Alan twisted in his chair, searching for the source. He saw a tall, stoop-shouldered man with unruly dark hair standing in the hallway that led to the kitchen. His head was in constant motion, twisting back and forth, up and down, but his wild-eyed gaze remained pinned on Mr. Veilleur.

All around him was frozen silence. Even Jeffy fell quiet. The room had become a tableau.

"He hates you!"

Father Ryan came up behind him and gently took his arm, saying, "It's all right, Nick. Come back here with—"

"No." The man snatched his arm out of the priest's grasp and pointed a trembling finger at Veilleur. "He hates you so! He wants you to suffer!" He pointed to his head. "Here!" Then to his heart. "And here! And then he plans to make you suffer the tortures of the damned!"

Alan glanced at Veilleur and saw no sign of shock or fear in his wrinkled features. He looked like a man who was hearing exactly what he'd expected to hear. But his clear blue eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

"Come, Nick," Father Ryan was saying, trying to turn the man back toward the kitchen. "You're making a scene."

"Let him stay a moment," Veilleur said, stepping closer to Nick. Jeffy trailed along, clutching his leg. "This is your friend? The one who went into the hole yesterday?"

The priest nodded sadly. "What's left of him."

Into the hole? Alan had heard the news reports about yesterday's tragic expedition. A physicist and a geologist had been lowered into the depths, and the geologist had died in transit. Here was the survivor. What had happened to him down there?

"I've seen this before," Veilleur said to the priest. "On occasion, in the old days, one of the rare persons who survived a trek into a chaos hole returned sensitized to the Enemy." He turned to the man called Nick. "Tell me, my friend, do you know where Rasalom is?"

Nick stepped over to the picture window and pointed at the Park, at the hole down there. Alan had wanted to take a look through that window to see the hole from above but it had seemed like such a hassle to wheel his chair around all the furniture.

"He's down there," Nick said. "Way down there. I saw him. He opened his heart to me. I…I…" His mouth worked but he seemed incapable of describing what he had seen.

"Why?" Veilleur said. "Why is he down there?"

"He's changing."

For the first time, Mr. Veilleur appeared disturbed, and something deep inside Alan quailed at the thought of that man being afraid.

"He's started the Change already?"

"Yes!" Nick's eyes were wilder than ever. "And when the Change is complete, he's going to come for you!"

"I know," Veilleur said in a low voice. "I know."

The light suddenly died in Nick eyes. His gaze drifted and his shoulders slumped.

Father Ryan gripped his shoulder. "Nick? Nick?"

But Nick didn't answer.

"What's wrong with him?" Alan said.

He hadn't practiced medicine in over a year but he could almost hear the associations clicking into place. The man had lapsed into an almost catatonic state. Alan wondered if his behavior had anything to do with the cranial deformities he'd noticed as he'd watched the man. But that was unlikely. And they certainly wouldn't have sent a schizophrenic down into that hole.

"He's been like this since last night—since he came out of the hole."

"Has he been examined by a doctor?"

The priest nodded. "Scads of them. They're not sure what to do for him."

"Why isn't he in a hospital? He should be closely monitored until they work out an appropriate course of therapy."

Father Ryan looked at him a moment and Alan was jolted by the depth of the pain in his eyes. Then the priest looked away.

"Sorry, Dr. Bulmer, but it's…it's been my experience that modem medicine isn't really equipped to deal with Nick's sort of problem."

He took Nick's arm and the younger man docilely followed him into the kitchen, leaving Alan to wonder at what sort of hell that priest had been through.

"Well," Mr. Veilleur said, facing Sylvia and Alan. Jeffy still hung on his leg. "I'm expecting two more people any minute now; then our company will be complete." He pried the boy loose from his leg. "There now, Jeffy. Be a good boy and sit with your mother."

Reluctantly, Jeffy complied, seating himself next to Sylvia, but barely glancing at her. His eyes remained fixed on Glaeken.

"I'm glad you decided to come," Glaeken told Sylvia.

"You didn't leave us much choice," she said. "Not after what happened last night." Her voice slowed. "Strange…you show up at our house Thursday, I kick you out, and on Friday all hell breaks loose."