F. Paul Wilson - Nightworld

"In chess, do you really want the other player's pieces for their intrinsic value? Do you have any plans for those pieces? After you've taken an opponent's pawn in a chess game, do you give it another thought?"

The room was dead quiet for a long, breathless moment.

From the back of the room, Jack said, "What you're telling us, I take it, is that in the old days we had some heavy back-up, but now we're on our own."

"Precisely. He glanced at Mrs. Treece. "Back in 1968 the ally made a subtle attempt to foil what it probably considered a half-hearted feint by the Enemy, then it deserted this sphere for good. We now know that Rasalom's transmigration was not a feint, but the ally power does not."

"So this is the Little Big Horn and we're not the Indians."

"You could put it that way. But we might have a chance of calling in the cavalry, so to speak."

"The necklaces," Jack said.

Glaeken nodded. "The necklaces, the right smithies, and…" He gestured toward Jeffy. "This little boy."

"Would you mind being just a little more specific?" Sylvia said. She was speaking through her teeth. "Just what the hell are you talking about?"

Glaeken was unfazed by Sylvia's outburst. He smiled her way.

"To put it in a nutshell, Mrs. Nash: We need to let the ally force know that the battle isn't over yet, that the Enemy is still active here and about to take complete control of this sphere. We need to send the ally force a signal."

"And just how do we do that?" Sylvia said.

"We need to reconstruct an ancient artifact."

"A weapon?"

"In a way, but what I'm talking about is not so much a weapon as an antenna, a focal point."

"Where is it?" Jack asked.

"It was deactivated more than a half century ago when it supposedly destroyed the Enemy's agent in a Rumanian mountain pass outside a place called the keep."

Alan's mind continued to rebel against Glaeken's words, more intensely now than ever, but his heart, his emotions insisted that he believe.

"All right," Alan said. "Suppose we accept all this at face value." That earned him a sharp look from Sylvia. "How do we go about reactivating the focus deactivated in Rumania?"

"We don't," Glaeken said. "All the essences that made it a focus were drained off by the act of destroying Rasalom—or what appeared to be Rasalom's destruction. Only through a set of unfortunate circumstances—unfortunate for the rest of us—did he manage to survive. And the remnant of that instrument was reduced to dust when Rasalom started on the path toward rebirth back in 1968."

"If it's gone and we can't get it back," Jack said, annoyance creeping into his voice, "why are we jawing about it?"

"Because there were two. The other was stolen in ancient times and dismantled—melted down into other things."

"Oh, jeez." It was Jack again. "The necklaces."

Glaeken smiled. "Correct."

"What are you two talking about?" Sylvia said. Alan sensed her anger edging closer to the surface.

"The other instrument—the other focus—was stolen and melted down. The melting process dislodged a powerful elemental force within the focus, releasing it to wander free. But a residue of that force remained in the molten metal. The metal was fashioned into a pair of necklaces which have been used for ages by the high priests and priestesses of an ancient cult to keep them well and to prolong their lives."

"And the elemental force?" Sylvia said, leaning forward, her face pale, her expression tight, tense.

The answer flashed into Alan's mind. He suspected Sylvia had guessed it as well.

"It wandered the globe for ages," Glaeken said. "It's been called many things in its time, but eventually it became known as the Dat-tay-vao"

Alan thought he heard a faint groan escape Sylvia as she closed her eyes and slipped an arm around Jeffy.

Just then a voice broke through from somewhere in the apartment.

"Glen? Glen!" It rose in pitch, edging toward panic. "Glen, I'm all alone in here! Where are you?"

As Glaeken glanced toward the rear rooms, Alan saw genuine concern and dismay mix in his eyes. It was the first time he had shown a hint of uncertainty. He took a hesitant step in the direction of the cries.

"Let me go," Father Ryan said, moving from his spot behind the sofa and slipping behind Glaeken. "She knows me by now. Maybe I can reassure her."

"Thank you, Bill," Glaeken said, then turned to his audience. "My wife is ill."

"Anything I can do?" Alan said.

"I'm afraid not, Dr. Bulmer, but I thank you for offering." Alan saw no hope in the man's eyes as he spoke. "She has Alzheimer's disease."

Alan could only say, "I'm sorry."

But Sylvia shot to her feet. "Now I get it!"

"Get what, Mrs. Nash?" Glaeken said. He appeared genuinely confused.

Sylvia was leaning forward, jabbing her finger toward him over the coffee table. Her core of anger was fully uncoiled, its fangs were bared, and it was lashing out.

"I should have known! Do you think I'm an idiot? You want Jeffy here so you can use him—or rather use the power you think is in him—to cure your wife!"

"Not at all, Mrs. Nash," he said softly with a slow, sad shake of his head. "The Dat-tay-vao will not work against a degenerative process like Alzheimer's. It can cure disease, but it can't turn back the clock."

"So you say."

Then Jeffy tugged at Sylvia's sleeve. "Don't yell at him, Mom. He's my friend."

That did it. Alan saw Sylvia wince as if she'd been jabbed by a needle.

"We're leaving," she said, taking Jeffy by the hand and guiding him away from the sofa.

"But Mrs. Nash," Glaeken said. "We need Jeffy to reactivate the focus. We need to reunite the Dat-tay-vao and the metal from the instrument."

"But you don't have the metal, do you."

"Not yet, but—"

"Then I see no point in discussing this further. When you've located this magic metal, call me. You have my number. Then we'll talk. Not before."

"But where are you going?"

"Back home. Where else?"

"No, you mustn't. It's too dangerous. It's better that you stay here. You'll be safe here."

"Here?" she said, stopping at the door. "This place is practically on top of that hole out there—all but falling into it. I'll take my chances in Monroe."

"This place is protected, in a way. It will be preserved until the end. You and Jeffy and your friends can share that protection."

"Why? What's so special about this place?"

"I'm here. I'm to be saved until the last."

…and then he plans to make you suffer the tortures of the damned!

Alan remembered Nick's words and wondered why the old man didn't look more frightened.

"Toad Hall will be protected too. Alan and I have already seen to that."

Alan turned his chair and wheeled it toward Sylvia and Jeffy. He'd got on the phone first thing this morning and called around until he found a contractor who could start installing steel storm shutters immediately. He'd offered a substantial bonus if the job was completed by sundown. Now he wondered if shutters would be enough.

Why not stay here? It might be a good move. Crowded, yes, but Alan felt at home with this group, had a feeling that there was safety here among this disparate, unlikely crew. Something going on here. A subtle chemistry, a subliminal bond.

But Sylvia seemed oblivious to all that. She got this way when her anger-core broke free and took the helm. She dug in her heels and refused to budge. Alan knew he couldn't talk to her when she got like this. Nobody could. He'd learned to recognize the signs and—when the storm came—to sit back and let it have its way with her. When the clouds and winds had blown past and she was cooler, calmer, she'd be a different Sylvia, and be able to discuss it. Later he might be able to change her mind. Sylvia's anger could be inconvenient, frustrating, even infuriating at times, but the anger was part of what made Sylvia who she was. And Alan loved who Sylvia was.