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Blurb

BOOK ONE OF THE ELF CHRONICLES
SIR JULIUS VOGEL AWARD NOMINEE!

    “The only way to take charge of your destiny is to create it.”
     His father’s words.
    Alexander Brody is sure he has everything under control, including his “destiny”. Andrew Brody’s rather cryptic reference has no real bearing on his future...
    ...until the day hellhounds spring from nowhere to hunt him down - and creatures the Earth has never seen mark him for death. Zander can no longer ignore his father’s warning, any more than he can ignore the traits which distinguish him from other men.
    Zander is discovering he has a new destiny to face, but first he must determine who - and what - he is.

Elf

Also by N. D. Hansen-Hill

Static
Vision
Trolls

The Light Play Trilogy
Light Play
Light Plays
Lightning Play

The Grave Images Series
Grave Images
Graven Image
Grave Imagery
Grave Imagining

The Trees Series
Trees
Crystals
Mud
Shades
Fire
Light





N. D. Hansen-Hill


Elf








©Copyright September 2002 by N. D. Hansen-Hill
First published electronically in 2002
by Parade Books (an imprint of Argyle House Press)

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Cover design by N. D. Hansen-Hill




To all the wonderful writers on Painted Rock's "biw" list, in thanks for their support and encouragement...
***




Elf

Spires of glass and gilded walls,
Flesheating worms and waterfalls,
Destiny's shadow to eat at your soul,
The challenge? To keep your body whole.

Autumn night sliced by eerie howl,
Hellhounds track, intentions foul -
To rip and tear, the warning clear:
"Protect thyself, for death is near."

Deceit and torture, confusion rules,
Annihilation - the tool of fools,
Who massacre with lethal gas -
The privilege of the ruling class.

Destiny's winged, but it's also blind,
A lifetime must be left behind,
To salvage the past and save today,
By magical means amidst the fray...

by N. D. Hansen-Hill
***

Prologue


        He jogged along in the mostly dark. The infrequent orangy streetlights didn't do much to brighten his path, but they suited his mood. He'd spent the last three hours stocking shelves with cans of dog food and boxes of cereal, and his day had been spent running lab tests. Night job, day job.
        His eyes ached from the fluorescent lights of the supermarket, and his nose burned from all the chemical scents in the lab.
        Here, he had the illusion of being away from it all. He smiled, and sucked in a deep breath of clean air. This might be the industrial section, but after midnight it was the quietest place in town.
        The day-drudge buildings were empty shells at the moment. In a few minutes he'd get clear of the factories and loop past the old city cemetery.
        More empty shells.
        The moon was rising and it was as fat and yellow as he'd ever seen it. The wind ruffled his hair, and touched him briefly with an icy breath. Autumn was coming. The rustle of scattering leaves was loud in his ears. Yellow moons, yellow pumpkins. Children's laughter and costumed invaders at his front door. His smile widened.
        He'd outgrown his fear of all things dark a long time ago. His eyes were keener than most, and he'd found that what was bleak and black to others was seldom fearful to him. He was certain he'd left all his childhood fears behind.
        He was nearing the graveyard now, and he could smell it on the wind. Old flowers, new blossoms, stagnant water, fresh-turned earth. None of these bothered him. What snagged him was the light.
        Little flickers of dancing light were hovering in the windswept night. Maintaining themselves against a wind that was tearing at his clothes now, and making his eyes stream.
        What the hell?!
        Not mere light - flickers of flame. Scattered across the cemetery and beyond - buried in the shrubbery landscaping and rising from the shadowed skeletons of cross and stone.
        Oh, God! His breath caught and he missed a step.
        The fitful clouds ripped apart, and moonlight etched the staring figures on his vision - confusedly silhouetting vacant buildings, angel wings, and snarling beasts.
        Teeth and claws and flaming eyes.
        In that moment, an eardrum-shattering howl hit his sensitive ears. It was both obscene and mournful, carrying with it the scent of rotten meat and ordure. At his back...
        Some part of him recognised the sound, the stench, and his body broke into a sweat.
        No mere memory - something worse. They say the smell brain never forgets...
        Hunters. Hounds.
        And in that moment, he was suddenly certain they'd been waiting for him...
***
Chapter One


        Quist picked up the phone reluctantly. "I'm not here," he said, with a sigh. "This is a recording. Call back next year." He added sarcastically, "Maybe you haven't noticed, but it's the middle of the night -"
        But it wasn't the damned fool he'd thought - it was his damned fool of a brother instead.
        "Have you seen Zander?" Mac's voice was worried.
        Quist smirked at the phone. "What - no 'hello'?" he retorted. "What's this sudden fascination with Zander?" He sniggered. "'s there something you're not telling me?"
        "No joke, Quist!" The concern in Mac's voice made Quist frown. "He's in trouble."
        Quist shook his head, still unwilling to accept it. "What kind of trouble? Have you been sniffing something nasty again?" he asked kindly.
        "Find him," Mac ordered. "Now."
        "I've got company. I can't just go off and abandon a beautif-"
        Mac cut across his blathering, to say harshly, "If we don't find him - soon - he's going to die."
*
        Quist ripped out of his driveway with a squealing of tyres. This kind of night affected him much the way it did Zander. Truth be told, he was happier being out on a windswept evening, than cloistered in the so-called safety of his house.
        He wondered, briefly, whether he should be worried about Mac. He'd had these premonitions or whatever they were, before, and they'd always proved out. If he said Zander was in trouble, chances were he was. Shame Mac couldn't be a little more specific, though. It would be nice to know whether Grocery Man was facing the long end of a knife, or the short end of a gun. Things that might make a rescue a little more difficult.
        He glanced around. Who the hell would mug somebody in a place like this? Maybe ol' Zand had changed his route, and was now jogging through the red light district.
        I would, if I worked nights...
        Mac sometimes acted like Zander was his kid brother as much as Quist. Maybe he felt that way. Both Zander's parents had died when he was sixteen, and Mac had been watching out for him ever since. It had been years now, but Mac still kept tabs on him. They'd never lived very far from Zander, either.
        Quist raised his eyebrows. Mac had always seemed flamboyantly heterosexual to him, but there was no accounting for tastes. Maybe Mac did have a thing for Zander. He thought about it: my best friend and my brother. And grimaced. How totally unappealing. Appalling, even...
        He was still silently berating Mac when he reached the locked gates of the supermarket loading yard.
        No Zander - and stupid Mac was supposed to have met him here. He felt like a fool for chasing down a grown man, who'd no doubt elected to spend the night at some lady's house. And I'll be damned if I'll ask him where he's been! he thought. Mac could be a real dumbass sometimes.
        It was obvious there was nobody here. Quist's eyes were as keen as Zander's and it was easy to scan the parking lot. For thoroughness' sake, he climbed off the motorcycle to make a better search.
        He'd no sooner lifted the helmet than he heard it. Gooseflesh danced along his skin at the long, drawn-out howl in the distance. His nostrils flared and his gut tightened. Some part of him recognised the sound.
        He also knew what it meant.
        Mac was right...
        He listened for a moment longer - his keen ears picking up the direction. Then he hopped on the bike and tore out of the lot, as though the hounds of hell were at his back.
*
        He ran. The wind whistled in his ears, but it couldn't tune out the pounding feet at his back. The running pace that matched his heartbeat. The howls were louder now - practically on top of him, and his eyes wept in terror. Streaming, not crying, with the wind and the salty sweat and the strain of his exertion.
        It was one thing running home and another pounding flat out across the paving. He was beginning to feel the strain. He'd worked all day.
        He couldn't run all night.
        He needed an advantage - any advantage. They'd have him in seconds...
        He dove off the sidewalk, tripped and rolled, then swung onto a flimsy tree branch, and in that second, they lost him.
        It was enough. It told him what he needed to do.
        The park. He needed the trees...
        He dropped, and was toppled off his feet as a heavy body plunged into him, jaw-first. Shark-like teeth gouged into his thigh - slicing muscle and tendon. His blood poured between locked teeth. He could see the glitter in the dark.
        Blood? Glitter? No, that wasn't right...
        He screamed, and pounded on the head that was deadlocked on his leg. Pounding, pounding. Hard bone and eye hollows. He socked and pummelled and poked and pounded till the brain box should have been mush.
        He'd lifted his arm to hit it again, when teeth locked on his raised arm and dragged him back, so his head went crashing against concrete.
        They'd be at his throat next.
        The trees. I need the trees.
        He fought. Fingers in eyes and up nostrils and gouging into ears. Kicking and punching, snarling back, fighting back. He was coated in saliva and blood and hair.
        Then, it got worse. At the point of the bites there came a burning, that traversed his nerve endings in an agonising frenzy of pain, that was nowhere and everywhere at once. He arched his back and howled, as loudly as the beast that was now at his breast.
        It was coming. His ears filled with a roar that came not from without but within. His eyes widened as a growl issued from his lips.
        The hound - the one whose saliva was dripping in his eyes - froze.
        At his core, where the burning of the bites formed an escalating pyre, a shard of ice jagged and seized. Like a seed crystal, its surface grew, layer on layer.
        The frozen mass weighed him down, but as it spread, it must have made him unpalatable. One by one, the hounds spat him out and shook their heads, spraying him with a splattering of saliva and blood. Zander clasped his ripped arm against the gouge in his chest. Rolling onto his stomach, he managed to push himself up and stumble to his feet.
        He looked back - a dozen flaming eyes were watching him hungrily - padded feet moving restlessly.
        They were eager - anxious - desperate, even - to taste him again.
        The tree...
        Zander limped away in a stumbling, tumbling run - trying to put as much distance between them as he could. Panting, he kept his eyes focused on the big tree in the distance.
        He was halfway there, when the howling broke out again.
*
        The howls were broken by the roar of a powerful engine, yelps, the squeal of tyres, and a scraping of metal. Zander twisted, and saw Mac's car go side-sliding into the pack. Hounds were jettisoned across the road, and one ploughed into Zander, tossing them both back on the ground. The hound continued to writhe, and Zander, panicked, rolled away.
        Mac's car was still in motion. It slammed into a curb, which sent it rolling over and over. The whining squeals of the hounds were drowned by the clanging bang, the crunch and shrieks of torqued metal and shattered glass. As the car came to a shuddery halt, upside down, there was a hissing sigh, as though the engine had given its last breath.
        Mac...
        Get him out. Zander hitch-crawled across the paving toward the car, as fast as he could. He was in a shocky daze, filled with glittery blood spots and whining canines with glowing eyes. With cars that sighed out a last breath, and fetid panting at his back.
        At his back...
        The last things he remembered were the now-familiar teeth tearing into his shoulder.
*
        Quist roared into a scene from hell. He was on his phone to emergency services before he'd even slowed the bike. There was Mac's car upside down, and there was Zander, being savaged by a massive black dog. As Quist drew closer, he saw the giant beast lift Zander off the ground and shake him. In his headlight, froth and saliva and blood flew everywhere. Quist felt sick.
        And angrier than he'd ever been in his life. He opened up the throttle and gunned the engine. As the dog turned flaming eyes his way, Quist ran it down, in a satisfying crunch of meat and bone. The teeth were yanked free of Zander's skin, and in his periphery, Quist saw Zand linger briefly on his knees, before toppling over, onto the asphalt.
        Where the bristly dog hair had brushed Quist's hand, his skin reacted, in a hair-standing, gooseflesh-dancing wave of revulsion. His nostrils flared in a sneer at the dark-haired mass now crushed beneath his feet. Lips curled in aversion, he leaped off the bike, then moved swiftly to haul Zander's bleeding body out of contact with that vile form - and away from the now-slackened jaws.
        Quist lifted Zander up, and balanced him over one shoulder. He could feel the warmth of his friend's blood pulsing down across his back. It was in such contrast to his centre, which felt abnormally chilled. For a moment, Quist tensed, scared, until his keen ear picked up the irregular thudding of Zander's heart.
        Still alive. But for how long?
        "Mac!" he yelled worriedly at the car.
        "Still," came a mumbled response. "Zander?"
        "Not good. You?" Quist heard a low rumbling growl, and squatted next to the broken windscreen, his back to the crunched metal. Around him, there was a shifting in the blackness, and his eyes searched their surroundings warily. The hounds were coming back for more. He was beginning to wish he'd left his bike running. "Can you get out?"
        There was a grunt, and a thud, and Quist flinched. He had a feeling Mac had just landed headfirst on the roof. "You okay?" he asked again.
        "Yes," Mac replied, but his voice sounded strained. "I'm coming out."
        There was a warning snarl to Quist's left, and he felt a tremor as a heavy body bounded onto the car at his back.
        Near Zander's head.
        "Negative," he hissed to Mac. "Move over! We're coming in!"
*
        The next few seconds were something out of nightmare. Quist had no sooner shunted Zander in past the broken windscreen, than he felt the first jab in his side as the canine to the left lunged. Teeth, clamping down on his hip. At the same time, the hound above decided to take advantage of his bent position, to come in for the kill. Quist was halfway in, halfway out of the window now, and he knew he didn't stand a chance. Mac was tugging and grunting to yank him in through the gap; Quist was yelling and shrieking as the slavering jaws snapped at his face and neck. He jerked sideways, and thunked heads with Zander, who gave a low groan. Mac, meanwhile, was stuck - caught by the crunched seats and Zander's limp form. He was panicking at the thought of his brother becoming dog chow, and was beating and pounding on any exposed flesh he could find. Some of it was Quist's.
        Zander was roused by the hollow thudding of Quist's head against his own, and dazedly opened his eyes. It took him a moment to figure it out - it was all snarls and howls and ows and yelps and thuds and curses as Mac added his bit. In the distance, there was another sound - the whine of an ambulance.
        It wasn't going to make it - not in time. Quist was in the position Zander'd been in only minutes before, but the hounds were here for the hunt, and they wouldn't be satisfied without some kind of reward. Quist was about to provide it.
        Quist squirmed onto his stomach and tried to pull himself inside. Zander's keen eyesight caught the panic in Quist's eyes as he was tugged backwards out of the car. Mac was clinging to him, yelling, with tears running unchecked down his face. Quist's fingers were white at the effort to hang on.
        And then, the dogs had him. They yanked him back and pounced. At the first snarl, Zander felt something inside him snap.
        It went beyond rage, or horror, or outrage at the bestial brutality. It was something else - something he'd felt just a short while ago.
        A chilling resolve. Mac, sobbing, tried to hold him back as he squirmed out of the car. Zander stilled him with a look.
        The dogs would want him. Him - not Quist. He didn't know why or how, but the knowledge was there. Innate. He cleared the car, somehow pushed himself to his feet - and whistled.
        It was a shrill whistle, a demanding whistle, and the dogs froze. Zander's flesh crawled as they dropped Quist's squirming form and turned - as one.
        The chilling resolve had a home - in his gut. Cold, implacable purpose. The most terrifying thing of all was that he suddenly wasn't afraid.
        He felt the cold move, filling him up, and he wondered in the back of his mind if he was going into shock. Shock numbs the pain, so you don't even feel it...
        Then this wasn't shock. Because he felt every gouge, every slice. But what hurt him most of all was that terrible cold. It was like a freezer burn that makes you flinch and sting. Like the icy ache behind your eyes that made him want to double over with the pain. When it reached his throat he was choking. The frost was blocking his throat, occluding his airway. As the first padded foot stomped on his, he opened his mouth in a silent scream...
        Only, it wasn't silent. It was a shrilly horrifying banshee cry, and Mac slammed his hands against the sides of his head - forgetting all else as he sought to cover his ears. He only hoped his little brother was doing the same.
        The echoingly hollow screech went on and on. Now that the chill was thrusting out of him, Zander couldn't stop it.
        The dogs howled, turned tail, and ran - but they didn't get far. Zander's eyes were squinted nearly closed, he was gripping his middle, and he knew the dogs were in retreat - but he couldn't stop it.
        Nor could he avoid seeing the outcome.
        The flaming-eyed monsters were writhing in agony as they ran - and at the last, one of them turned back with a snarl, desperate to demolish the instigator of this pain. As it clamped down on Zander's calf, the shrill song went up a pitch. The dog released him, jerking in spasms.
        But it was too late - for that hound - for all the hounds. Zander flinched in pain and horror as the flames in the eyes suddenly expanded, and the closest canine burst into flame. One by one they ignited in masses of yellow and blue flames, that seethed sideways in the breeze, flared - before imploding into a splaying of wind-driven ash and pale grey smoke.
        Zander's song died, and in the end, it sounded as though he was choking once more.
        He dimly heard Quist mutter "hot dogs", and Mac call his name, but he wasn't hearing too well right now. He could feel a trickle tickling his neck, and he guessed that blood was now running out his ears.
        It was running down his throat, too. He gagged and choked and dropped down onto the asphalt.
        He never heard the ambulance arrive.
*
        "Dog pack." It was all the man - Maculley Craigen - would admit to. Nothing more. He'd been driving along (at one am?) and seen a friend of his, Alexander Brody, being savaged by a pack of dogs. His brother Quist had been following him on a motorcycle, and had been brought into the fracas, too.
        No medical records - on any of them - so they'd had to do a work-up from scratch. Quist Craigen, who'd been more garrulous than his brother, had openly admitted he'd never been to a doctor. "Never been sick," he'd said, as though it were the most normal thing in the world. Apparently, he'd never needed immunisations, either.
        Well, he was sick now. He and Brody had some infection from the dog bites that Dr. Benjamin Lowry had never seen before. Foul smelling and invasive - and nothing seemed to work on it.
        It was driving the older brother out of his mind. Maculley had some internal damage - Lowry was sure of it - but he'd refused tests. They'd set his leg and stuck him in a bed, but he was unwilling to stay there. He also seemed desperate to avoid further exposure of any kind. No x-rays or imaging, no blood tests, no police reports, no interviews with the local paper. The nurses were starting to complain because he was never in bed - always either in his brother's or Brody's room.
        Watching, listening.
        It would have made Lowry angrier, if he hadn't seen the fear in the other man's eyes.
        Maculley had good reason to be fearful, and the paramedics had been the first to point it out. They'd been startled by the extent of blood loss, and stunned by the quality. By the oddly luminescent glitter.
        Ben Lowry hadn't believed it until he'd seen it for himself. Then, he'd used it. After an initial clean-up, he'd hauled the Craigens and Brody into dark rooms to find further tears in tissue. Convenient.
        But scary as hell. Who were these men?
        Not normal, though Quist Craigen seemed to think he was. His ears were attenuated, as were the others'. There was also an odd slant to their eyes that Ben had at first attributed to some Asian forebear. But wherever their forebears derived from, he'd decided now it wasn't Asia.
        No records, so no idea of allergies. Ben had nearly killed them with an antibiotic infusion this morning. It had been mild - an attempt to get the infection under control - but both Quist Craigen and Zander Brody had gone into anaphylactic shock.
        It had been close. Maculley had refused to leave the room since.
        That was the other odd thing. It wasn't his brother's room he'd refused to leave. It was Brody's. Ben couldn't figure it out.
        He poked his head in the door, and glanced at Maculley's bed, already knowing he wouldn't be there. He detoured to Brody's room. Supposedly, Zander Brody wasn't having visitors, but that didn't stop Maculley. Hadn't stopped him all day. Somehow, he was getting in, cast, nurses, orderlies and all. The man was there now.
        He was asleep in the chair, the casted leg up on the bed. He looked sick and exhausted. There were bruised marks under his eyes, his foot was swollen, and he didn't stir when Ben laid a hand on his shoulder. Concerned, Lowry checked his pulse, then shook him, gently. "Maculley!" he hissed.
        Mac opened his eyes blearily. As awareness seeped back in, alarm replaced the pained look. "Zander -" He jumped, and let out an unwilling groan.
        "He's fine." Ben looked at the bed, checked the monitors, and sighed. Mac's sharp ears picked it up.
        "No, he's not," Mac said raspily. "I'm not going."
        "Room's off-limits," Ben told him curtly. "If you don't like hospital policy, you can leave."
        Mac shook his head. "No," he said quietly, and in that moment, Ben guessed how desperately he wanted his bed. The man was sick, and worn, but for some reason, he couldn't let go.
        "It's not going to help either of you to stay," Ben told him reasonably. "You know," he added almost conversationally, "I'll have to discharge you soon anyway - if you won't agree to treatment. Whole lot less trouble for everyone."
        "Covering your 'ass'ets?" Mac growled. His eyes grew distant and he turned to the window. His attitude told Ben he was listening, to something beyond Ben's hearing.
        A chill went down Ben's spine.
        "They know where Zander is now," Mac whispered. Ben knew he wouldn't have admitted it, unless he'd been desperate. His eyes were pained, and Ben could tell he was scared. Maculley Craigen didn't know how he was going to cope. "They'll be coming."
*
        Zander woke in the dimly-lighted hospital room. He was shivering, and his chest was on fire. In that moment he wished he could return to sleep. He didn't want to think - didn't want to feel. Didn't want to remember.
        Maybe it was all one with his restless dreams. Anything so he wouldn't have to recall the way it had felt. That icy slough in his guts, his limbs. The ear-splitting notes of his own screams.
        How he'd killed, incinerated the dogs so easily, without lifting a hand.
        Only by lifting his voice.
        He was terrified. Horrified that anger could bring him to this. For that's what it had been: fury, at the damage to himself, to Mac, to Quist. Fury that the pain was being visited on someone he cared about.
        But he couldn't forget the stench of roasted dog hair, or the anguish in the beasts' eyes.
        Some things you should remember...
        It was a voice from the past. Six years past. From the day Mac's dad had died. He'd said it solemnly, seriously, but sadly, as though he'd known what was coming.
        Maybe he had. Maybe he, like Mac, had been a victim of dreams. All Zander knew was that Mac's dad, nearly as close to his heart as his own father, had driven away like a madman. His body had turned up a thousand miles away, in a wild stretch of forest.
        He'd been savaged by some animal...
        Zander went cold, and for an instant, he felt as chilly as he had the night before.
        Brian Craigen had been killed by a wild beast. Too big for a dog, they'd said. Possibly a bear or a cat of some kind. It had been a terrible end for a good man; a horror story for family and friends. They'd never talked about it much, but that day had marked a change in Mac's behaviour. He'd gone from playing annoying "big brother" type to Quist and Zander, to even more annoying self-proclaimed protector. He'd been doing it ever since. For the most part, Zander had been able to ignore it - to build his own life and ignore Mac's warnings and worried expression, but now he wondered.
        For he knew how it felt to be savaged by wild beasts. Those black hounds hadn't been domesticated puppies gone bad. They were bad to begin with. And it was too much of a coincidence to have two attacks like that to people he knew. People he'd lived with.
        He lay there, wondering what had wakened him. It seemed he'd arisen from the depths of a near-comatose slumber, and he guessed Ben Lowry had drugged him. Whatever had stirred him, had penetrated those depths.
        It was then he saw it. One of the windows was open to the night - the glass missing and the frame bent and mangled. He'd been awakened by a tapping, a banging. A strong wind had risen and was slamming some of the metal framing back against the wall. The chill he'd felt - the iciness that was beginning to invade him - was real. His blankets were gone, and he lay there in his hospital gown, exposed and shivering. One of his sheets was halfway out the window hole, and he wondered confusedly how the hole - the sheet - the mangled frame - had gotten there.
        Outside, a storm was brewing. Thick clouds roiled just beyond the glass, and the dangling metal slammed harder, in loud, clanging bangs. There was no way to keep the cold out now. He shivered, so hard it hurt.
        Have to get warm...
        At least, the cold was sharpening his senses. Zander felt for the call bell where it had been pinned to the sheet, within easy reach of his hand. The search became a little desperate when he realised it was gone, too - and horror set in when he saw that it had been yanked out of the wall.
        Outside the window, lightning blasted the night. His breath came in panicky gasps as he saw the impossible - the black clouds, thick with mist, were slithering in through the gap.
        Get out!
        He rolled on his side and yanked out the IV. If memory served, his movements - the yanking of connections and wires - should send a warning to the nurses at the desk. They should come streaming down here en masse, crash cart in hand.
        He watched as the machines ticked merrily on, though all connections with his own body were severed.
        There'd be no nurse, no doctor. No help.
        He slid out on the side nearest the door - and took a lurching step before he noticed the chair - or what was left of it. The mangled metal legs had been ripped off, and jabbed into the floor. Four legs, four spikes behind the door, to act as barricade.
        There was only one exit, and it was by air.
        Zander froze, hearing something over the wind. It was a sound he was sensitive to now, after last night. It would be a long time before he'd forget the scratch and click of claws. Unwillingly, his eyes seemed to turn of their own accord toward the window - and he saw the sheet tugged and stretched, as some heavy weight sought entry from below.
        The sheet was snagged in the metal. Rip it loose. Toss it out...
        Almost as though the climber could read his thoughts, the tugs on the sheet became more vigorous.
        Too late...
        As much as he wanted the light, instinctively, Zander now sought the dark. He slammed his fist hard into the nightlight, shattering it. Then he stood unsteadily in the darkness, buffeted by wind, and waiting as the night sky poured into the room.
*
        "He's restless," Steven Kern told him.
        Ben nodded and looked at Mac's chart. "What about the other Craigen?"
        Kern grinned. "Ya mean, is he a pain in the ass like his brother?" He nodded toward the monitor. "Sleeping like a baby. Same with Brody."
        Ben stood there for a minute, watching the monitors. Quist Craigen's showed some normal variation from movement, but Brody's remained constant. No ups, no downs, no jags, just a regular rhythm.
        Too regular. "When'd you last look at Brody?" he asked.
        "Thirty minutes. Why?"
        "Just a hunch." He was halfway up the hall, heading towards Brody's room, when one of the monitors started to scream.
        "Craigen!" Kern yelled.
        Ben tore into Quist Craigen's room.
        Only to find him out of bed. He had an ear - one of those weirdly attenuated ears - against the wall, and he was agitated, panicked. He ignored Lowry entirely and slammed a fist against the plaster. "Zander!" he bellowed. When Ben tried to grab his arm, Quist shrugged him off. "Help him!" he yelled.
        Something in the other man's eyes told Lowry this wasn't hysteria. "Stay here!" he ordered. He tore out of the room, and pushed against Brody's door - stunned when it wouldn't open. Some of Craigen's panic had hit him now and he latched onto Kern's arm as he came by with the crash cart. "Help me!" he said, and the two of them thudded shoulders against the door.
        "Brody! Open up!"
        They can't get in.
        Quist saw the whirling black clouds outside his window - the ones that must be outside Zander's as well. He didn't know what it was - all he knew was that he couldn't sit here and calmly listen to his best friend die. He grabbed a chair and slammed it into the glass.
        As Lowry came running back in the room, he was just in time to see Quist Craigen disappear out the window.
***
Chapter Two


        He smelled the thing before he saw it. As it neared the windowsill, Zander caught a whiff of mouldy rot as the wind swept past his head.
        Death had come calling...
        His eyes were tearing now, making it difficult to see. Gritty dirt swirled in anticipation of its master's coming, nearly blinding Zander with the swiftness of its strike.
        And the wind was being mastered. Weather as foul as the Thing that drove it. The storm, the clouds; the wind tearing at his hair, the dirt in his eyes - they were all part of this. Zander's twenty-first century self wanted to deny it, to tell himself this was just a bad trip - another reaction to the medication. But some part of him, that had roots in a time long past, warned him that he wasn't going to get off that easily. The stench, the scrape and scratch of claws, the fetid breath - they were real. Marks. Signs. Indicators. Things his body knew well - and his body was already reacting to centuries of conditioning.
        The creature was bringing the bad with it. Using it. The chilling gusts were whipping into a whirlwind now, and Zander was being slapped, pummelled, torn by its force.
        Take him off-guard and take him out...
        That was the plan. Blind him, render him impotent, render him dead.
        I need to see it.
        In that instant, he regretted killing the light. He felt like a fool. Now, he had no idea what he was facing.
        What's not as important as where...
        No. No light. If he'd stood here, highlighted in the glow, he'd be dead already. He shivered, and took a step back.
        Suddenly, he recalled the glitter of his blood in the dark and the horror that had filled him at the sight. Time to wonder later - right now, it could be used. He ripped back the bandaging on his arm and tore at the clamp. Blood poured down his arm, and it was just as he remembered...
        He gulped and nearly gagged.
        But somewhere, in the dark, he heard a gasp of anticipation. The thing had seen it - smelled it.
        And it couldn't wait.
        The beast's charge came out of a cloud - just one more movement in the swirling mist. Zander used it, letting himself be toppled backwards, then smearing his opponent with blood from his arm. It sickened him to see how well it worked - how the creature snapped and licked at the stuff now coating its face.
        It was a face that belonged on a rooftop. A distorted visage with a giant head and a bat-like curl of lips and nose. It was all Zander could see before the long tongue snapped out, and lapped the blood delightedly from the face.
        He'd had no trouble seeing the blood-drenched teeth or misshapen scalp.
        It had the hairy shape of a near-human form. Genetic accident? Hunchbacked human? The pity had barely formed when it was wiped by a spiky slash from a well-hooked tail.
        Zander dove to one side, his heart pounding. Not human. Not canine. Not like anything he'd ever seen before. He was shaking in terror now, his senses quickening.
        There was a grunt and snuffle and rapid shuffle. The beast was eager - now that it had tasted him. But things were a little different this time round - because now Zander could see where it crouched.
        The last of his logic vanished with the first slice from a sharp-tined claw.
        A weapon...
        His hand snatched his dinner tray from the floor, to use as a shield.
        The beast laughed - a cackling rattle that shook its body and made those glints of Zander's blood jiggle in the darkness. Of all the sounds that had terrified Zander this night - the lashing wind, the scrabbling of claws - that laughter frightened him the most. For this wasn't a hyena's mindless mirth, or the parroting action of a trained bird - it was amusement, cold and simple.

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        The feeling of cold - that chilling purpose - was coming back to haunt him. There was a tingling in his head, and for a moment, Zander thought he was going to pass out. It was a buzzing, and an ache, much as he'd experienced the night before. He gripped his forehead and fought to stay alert, but he knew he was out of control. He snarled, and felt the ache centre behind his eyes.
        The beast's laughter stopped abruptly, but Zander was scarcely aware of it. He reached for the bed, to steady himself, and fell to the floor, as the bed jerked away.
        What the hell?!
        The monster pounced, claws first, and Zander threw up his hands to shield his face. The creature was jettisoned backwards, while Zander did his own backwards slam, to ram his head against the linoleum.
        Repulsion, he thought, dazed. I'm repulsive...
        The beast was circling him again now, awaiting its chance.
        Zander didn't give it one. He rolled onto his stomach, then crept forward, advancing on his opponent, hand outstretched. He was hit with cloud and rain and ripping wind as the beast fought his advance. Zander was thudded into the wall, the wardrobe, the mirror, but he didn't let it sway him. He came at the beast again.
        But the creature still had some tricks - some weather wiles to manipulate. Zander gasped and choked as a spearpoint of wind tore down his throat.
        Can't breathe...
        His world was fading when another figure came lunging through the dark. It dove at the misshapen beast and knocked it to one side. As the creature reacted, in its own burst of adrenaline, a dark wind caught both Zander and his saviour, and tossed them head over heels into the wall.
        Quist...
        Zander stretched out a hand to his friend, then yanked it back in a panic. The force was still with him - he could feel it. There would be no rest until the shape, the stench, the horror, was gone. Something had happened inside him - and it had triggered his reaction. He was no more in control now than he'd been moments before. The buzzing was building again, throbbing at his temples.
        And the beast was heading towards Quist now - payback for that attack. Zander braced himself against the built-in wardrobe, then lifted his arm once more. In a voice he didn't recognise as his own, he bellowed, "Be gone!"
        At the end of his arm he could feel the dense weight of the intruder's mass, as it was pitched backwards against the window hole. Backwards and out, into the night beyond.
        The storm went with it, in a horrifying vacuum-like jettisoning that took half the room. Lamps, newspapers, books, sheets, food, trays, blankets, IV stand, monitors, clothing were swept from the floor and tossed out, into the night. Anything that had been scattered across the room, anything loose, anything not secured to the wall was set in motion.
        Zander was flipped forward, onto the bed. The wheeled bed rolled toward the gap, its mattress sliding forward, inexorably, toward the space beyond.
        Three storeys! Zander fought for purchase.
        The wind rushed past his face, whipping his hair into his eyes, stealing the bandaging off his chest, his thigh, and sending a trail of glistening drops sailing through the window.
        The last of the storm was fleeing now, and Zander was caught in the suction. It was a mini-cyclone, chasing its master out through the gap, and Zander was snagged mid-centre.
        A last effort to win back what had been lost?
        Drenched and battered, Zander clung to the mangled window frame, as he was yanked across the mattress, and into the black night. He no longer had the strength to fight it - that was going with the seemingly endless trail of glistening droplets that was whirling away in the darkness. Halfway out the window, he could feel the blackness clamping down. His last conscious thought was of something else clamping down - on his ankle. A hand.
        Quist. Zander relaxed and let the blackness come.
*
        There was no mistaking the thudding and jarring - the snarls, whines, and then - yes - laughter, spilling from the room next door. Ben Lowry was on the phone to the police, security, maintenance. He put out a call for staff to help him with the door.
        Impatient with the delays, he ran back into Quist Craigen's room, and leaned out, trying to peer into the room next door. There was a mass of dense black fog - so dark, he thought at first of smoke. But it was too moist; too clammy. Ben's face was wrapped in the stuff, and he stretched out his hand toward the sill next door. Somehow, Craigen had made it across into Brody's room.
        Hell of a jump...
        It was a wonder they weren't peeling Quist Craigen off the ground.
        There was no light in the next room. Ben ran back, to borrow a flashlight from one of the maintenance men.
        The fire department was cutting through Brody's door now, much to the interest of a number of patients and staff from other floors. Ben raced back into Craigen's room, closing the door to shut out the zoo behind him. The less they knew, the better.
        Should have thought about discretion before you called the fire department...
        He shrugged off his doubts, grasped the window frame, and flicked on the flashlight. At that instant, a vortex snagged him, and jerked him up, off the floor. He dropped the flashlight and latched onto the framing, digging his fingers desperately into the warping aluminium and scrabbling with his feet to brace himself.
        The flashlight dipped, then went sailing away. As Ben clung there, unable to move, he could see the flashlight wasn't the only casualty - nor was he getting the brunt of it. Papers, plates, trays, monitors, and God-knows-what-else were still sailing out the window next door - all of it travelling with a horrific whine that made his ears ache.
        Vacuum.
        The first of the glistening droplets chased the hospital equipment through the portal. Oh, shit! Ben thought, realising what it meant. In the next moment, he could see a man fighting to hang on, much as he was, as the wind tried to tear them both through the gap.
        Ben yelled - bellowed - for help, but the wind stole his voice away. Hauled it out and down the black throat of the vanishing vortex - the whirlwind that had swallowed gear and was now trying to consume people as well.
        Ben thought the man'd had it. He was dangling half in and half out - his blood spiralling away on the wind. There was nothing he could do. Ben couldn't help him, any more than he could help himself.
        Then, abruptly, the wind ceased. It stopped, left, whirled away.
        It was gone so suddenly that Ben was caught off-balance. He toppled backwards, onto the floor.
        The next moment, Steven Kern was there, helping him to his feet. "You okay?" he asked in concern. Ben's hair was standing straight up, his clothes were ripped, and he had little glass cuts all over his hands and arms.
        "Are you in?" Ben asked abruptly.
        Kern nodded. "Yeah. Came to tell you -"
        Ben didn't wait any longer. With a slightly dazed look, he pushed past Kern and tore back out of the room.
*
        "It was a cyclone - hurricane," Ben told reporters wearily. They'd caught him on his way to his car. It had been a hell of a day. He felt exhausted, and more than a little sick.
        "Tornado?"
        Ben nodded. "Yeah."
        "Centred on that one room? Isn't that a little weird?"
        "Not one room - two," Ben retorted ruefully, holding up his bandaged hands. Keep it low-key. "Freak of nature. We're just lucky it wasn't worse."
        "Can you describe it?"
        Ben had thought about this one. He'd known they'd be asking. "Like those pictures you see of a waterspout," he replied seriously. "Black. Swirling." And in that moment, he could see it again.
        Ready to suck a man down.
        "Dr. Lowry, are you okay?"
        "Sure," he said. He leaned against the car and tried to fight down the black swirling in his vision. He'd seen people pass out, but it had never happened to him. He had a terrible feeling this was what it felt like.
        Not here. Not now. Not in front of all these people - reporters, for God's sake...
        The swirling was getting worse and he couldn't even hear them now. He buried his face in his arm. "Please," he whispered. "Just go -"
        They never heard where he wanted them to go. The next moment, he was passed out on the paving.
*
        "Where's Lowry?" Mac asked abruptly. It was the first time one of his dreams had included a near-stranger. Usually, it was only family, or close friends.
        But he owed the man. He'd saved Zander's life, the night before. Refused to give up when Zander'd been nearly bled out. Covered up queries about the "tornado", and stopped Quist from rambling in delirium. He'd covered for Zander, for Quist, for them all.
        For himself?
        Probably, but that wasn't the gist of it. The man was only human, after all.
        But you're not. The thought crept in, and Mac banished it, at once. I'm as human as the next man...
        Did the next man have veins that bled shimmery liquid, pointy ears, or a metabolism that wouldn't quit?
        Don't think about it.
        Zander wasn't the only one who'd been remembering Brian Craigen's death. It hadn't been far from Mac's thoughts, either. He'd never really taken his dad's warning that seriously. Quist and Zander were grown men - had been grown men for years. His father's terrible end had been a singular event - he'd thought. He hadn't wanted the responsibility for guardianship.
        For guardship over a man who was grown and independent and didn't need it.
        But the incident with the hounds had hit him hard. Brought back his father's cruel death and his own doubts. There'd been a scent to that scene, a feeling, a sound, which was more than a little familiar. And something inside him had quickened in reaction.
        Last night's attack was like a nail in his coffin. Mac had a terrible feeling he'd never be his own man again.
        He was only three years older than Quist; two years older than Zander. He wanted a life, a destiny, of his own. He didn't want servitude or solitude. He wanted to leave his father's coffin behind and move on. Instead, the coffin nails were being driven into his feet, to pin him down. To tether him - and Quist - to Zander forever.
        He'd tried to save Quist from it. He'd shouldered the burden and endured his brother's cries of "fool" and "dumbass". He hadn't wanted Quist's freedom squelched. Mac knew how irksome it could be. He wasn't built for quiet or complacency. The thought of being trapped for life was anathema to him.
        But it was too late. His father was here, standing beside him, the warning on his lips. Mac could see it - could still recall how his insides had rejected it. How his father had looked at him sadly, because he could understand the spurning of duty. He'd done his best to spare his sons, but then, as now, there was nothing to be done.
        It was Zander. His father had thought he was keeping the burden light - that little mention would keep Mac from dwelling.
        Did he know me so little?
        Or did he just have no idea how ghastly his death would be - and how it would affect us all?
        "They will come, and if they fail, they will return, again and again. Their success will be measured in Zander's death."
        Mac remembered thinking sarcastically, How cryptic, Dad. He would have forgotten the message entirely if his father hadn't picked that day to die. Mac had been annoyed because his father was usually pretty reasonable, and Mac had other places to be. Work, plus a date with his then-girlfriend Susan. He'd sighed with obvious impatience and asked, "So when all this happens, how do I stop it?"
        "Believe in yourself, Mac." Brian had sounded almost like himself then - a pep talk from a father to a son. Then, he'd ruined it. "And your gifts."
        "Great help. I'll do that. Now, if we can get off the topic of death and dismemberment -"
        Brian Craigen had interrupted to say seriously, "Only Zander can end it."
        "How?" Mac had asked flippantly. "By dying?"
        His father had looked slightly taken aback and not at all amused. "That's one way," he'd said sternly, in a voice Mac had never heard before. "There's another." He'd grown agitated, then, and Mac had realised his dad was actually afraid. "If he does the research," he'd mumbled, "it might clue them in."
        "Okay - so what?"
        "So you'll have to play it by ear!" his father had retorted, annoyed. He'd flicked Mac's upper ear. "God knows, yours are big enough!"
        "Gee, Dad," Mac had said sarcastically, but with a grin, "next time, invite Quist over for one of your little talks. He loves dark and desperate shit."
        "Yeah," his father had replied with attempted lightness, but the sadness was back in his eyes. "Since you know him so well, I think I'll leave that to you."
        What Mac remembered most, though, was the hug his father had given him. He'd squeezed him, released him, then grabbed him close and held him again. "I love you, Son," he'd whispered, under his breath, but Mac's keen ears had picked it up.
        He'd had a flicker of foreboding then. Too much, too late.
        "Believe in yourself." His father's words.
        Great advice, Mac thought, almost angrily. How could he believe in himself, when he was beginning to wonder who - and what - he was?
*
        The kids started pouring in after school, bearing gifts. Mac greeted them with a smile, but there was a shadow behind it. Zander had crashed last night, bigtime. He was in Intensive Care, and the prognosis was bad. Mac had heard the whispers - the ones they didn't think anyone could hear. They were worried about the fever, and brain damage, and the words "no heroics" had been bandied about. Mac had jumped halfway out of bed at that, until he'd heard the argument; the "wait and see".
        Where was Ben Lowry? He, at least, had pulled out all the stops. Maybe too many. It seemed to Mac's keen ears that the discussions were riddled with anger. Against Lowry, or on his behalf? Mac couldn't tell.
        Mac had sneaked in to see Quist, but it had used him up. He felt weak and sick and more than a little hopeless. Despair was beginning to creep in, but it would never do to let them see it. The kids - his students - were coming to cheer him up. They didn't need to know how very cheerless he was.
        He smelled it the moment they entered, but his confirmation came in the hastily suppressed giggles, the snickers, the phoney smiles. They were up to something, and they expected him to appreciate the gesture, if not the gift.
        He'd never felt less like joking around, but he donned the expected smile. "What's that stink?" he asked, wrinkling his nose distastefully.
        His sniffing ability was legend.
        "Smells like -" Mac sniffed, stuck out his tongue and pretended to gag, then sniffed again. He groaned and looked woeful. "Chocolate-coated garlic!" He hesitated, his eyes sweeping the group. He sniffed once more, then settled his gaze on Charlie, who was standing inconspicuously at the back. "Or is that your roll-on, Charlie?"
        He'd done it. Pegged the one holding the loot. "I don't get how you do that!" Charlie grumbled as the others shoved him forwards. Then he grinned good-naturedly and plunked several packages down on the bed. "You have to eat that one, right away."
        It was a dare. They knew he hated the smell of the stuff. Knew he could sniff out the student who'd had it on a pizza or bread two nights before. He'd always toss them a breath mint and plead for mercy.
        Now, it was payback.
        He undid the wrapping. "Garlic ice cream?" he verified woefully, giving them the expected pained look. There was a spoon with a big bow taped to the top, and he stared at it in horror.
        "Just a few bites," Jake goaded.
        There was nothing for it. It was a joke, but they'd pooled their money on this. He had a feeling the other bottle was garlic wine. Neither one came cheap.
        "We know how you like to eat," Samantha coaxed.
        Mac flinched theatrically, pinched his nose, and dug the spoon into the ice cream. He forced a bite, worried that he might disgrace himself. They had absolutely no idea how much he held garlic in aversion. It stood somewhere between a physical repugnance and a gastro-allergic reaction. Quist and Zander had similar responses. Right now, he didn't need any reminders of their similarities, if it was about to see his brother and lifelong friend dead.
        He played it out - held the bite in his mouth, and pretended to swish it around in delight. "Yummy!" he said loudly.
        And suddenly, he realised it was. He took another bite, and another. "This stuff is really good," he said in stunned surprise.
        They stood there and watched him eat. They'd brought chocolates, too, but Mac was absorbed in his ice cream. "Great!" he kept mumbling.
        His kids thought it was hilarious. At the end, he'd scraped the carton clean, and was waiting only for them to leave so he could lick it. "Thanks!" he said, gleefully. He felt better than he had in days.
        Jake made the parting gesture, but Mac knew it was on behalf of the class. He tossed Mac a pack of peppermint gum. "Please, Mr. Mac," he said, a little desperately. "Before you come back -?" he hinted loudly, rolling his eyes.
        Mac threw it at him.
        He could hear their rowdy, raucous laughter till they were halfway down the hall.
*
        Mac didn't waste any time. By the time he'd swigged some of the garlic wine, he'd figured it out. It took him a while longer to come up with the "uncut" version. When he had the smelly stuff in hand, he went straight to Quist's room. "I want you to eat this," he told Quist sternly.
        Quist opened one eye and peered at the garlic clove distastefully. "Go to hell, Mac."
        "It'll help -"
        "Better still," Quist interrupted. "You eat it. That oughta gag you."
        "Do you know what trouble I had to go to?!" Mac asked him angrily. "I'm not exactly mobile!"
        "So go be immobile somewhere else -"
        They were falling into the same patterns as always. His father had wanted him to go with his instincts. Garlic was usually abhorrent to him, but now that he was sick, he was craving it. He couldn't get enough. It might just be the placebo value, but Mac could swear he was already feeling better.
        Quist opened his mouth to argue some more. He felt sick as a dog, and as grouchy as hell. For the first time he was really beginning to wonder whether he and Zander could beat this infection. The doctors were all optimistic, but he could read them. They were stumped. "You have a room, don't y-"
        Mac shoved the garlic clove in his mouth.
        Quist nearly choked, accidentally chewed, then started to spit it out. "You bastard -" he began, then stopped. "Damn, that's good," he whispered. "Got any more?"
        Mac grinned, and shoved a dozen cloves into Quist's hand. Quist popped two in like candy. "I can't (chew) believe (chew) this!" The last time he'd eaten garlic, he'd thought he was going to die. "We need to get some of this to Zander," he said seriously.
        "No kidding. Any ideas?" Zander was in ICU.
        "A few," Quist replied. He gave a shiver and broke out in a sweat. "End of fever," he said, surprised. He looked at the garlic clove and smiled. "I'll stick some in his IV if I have to."
        Mac just grinned.
*
        Four days later and it was just like old times, when they were the only ones in the world up and about. It had been that way for as long as Mac could remember.
        Zander worked two jobs and jogged home nights to wear off his excess energy. Quist was a musician by trade, and a security guard four nights a week. Mac? Teacher during the day, and painting fool at night.
        Crazy metabolisms. Another thing that made them "different".
        Mac decided not to think about it. He was just glad Quist and Zander were back up to night-time wanderings.
        "Lowry's sick," Zander whispered. "Hate to suggest this, but I overheard something in the ICU. Seems he may have picked up something nasty from yours truly." He looked both guilty and concerned.
        "You bastard," Quist said calmly. "Or, considering the original source of the infection - you dirty dog."
        Mac rolled his eyes. "Garlic in his IV?" he asked. It had worked for Zander.
        Zander shook his head. "Nope. I've smelled garlic on his breath."
        Quist grimaced. "How distasteful."
        "If it was going to help him, he probably has enough residual in his system to last him for years," Zander added, with a trace of amusement. He'd noticed that for him - and, apparently, for Quist - the scent of garlic was losing its appeal. Must be a sign of returning health. "You still on the garlic, Mac?" he asked casually.
        "Yeah. What about it?" Mac frowned.
        "Nothing. Stay on it."
        "And stay in bed for a while," Quist ordered. "I'll be your dealer - strictly garlic, that is." He saw the stubborn look on Mac's face and added, "Don't worry - I won't let Zander fall out any more windows."
        Zander looked uncomfortable. He pulled himself up on the crutches a little jerkily. "I'll take care of Lowry." He limped silently to the door, peered out, then, with barely a squeak from the crutches, vanished through the gap.
        "Quist, we need to talk -" Mac began earnestly.
        "Not now, you fool! How am I supposed to watch Zander's back, if you're blabbing at my front?"
        Quist shook his head impatiently, then followed Zander out the door.
        Mac grinned, and for the first time in days, actually relaxed. In seconds, he was asleep, the smile still on his face.
*
        "Where have you been?!" Quist asked. He'd spent the last two hours searching, and he could swear he'd visited every room on this floor. He was feeling better, but he wasn't that much better. "If I'd keeled over in the Ladies, it would have been all your fault," he hissed.
        Zander snorted, and leaned the crutches against the bed. "Go away. I'm tired." He flopped back on the pillow.
        Quist propped Zander's bad leg up on a pillow. "You're never tired. You've been up to no good."
        "Yes. And no. Go away," he repeated.
        "This have to do with Lowry?" Zander's eyes were closed, but Quist knew he wasn't asleep. "Will it work?"
        "I hope so," Zander said seriously. Quist could tell he was worried. "It should, if I read my chart right."
        "And if not?"
        "He's dying, Quist."
        "What the hell did you do?!"
        "Made a decision. Now, please," Zander said tiredly, "just go away and let me sleep."
        Quist stood there looking at him for a moment. He did look tired. What had he been up to? Suddenly worried, he dug around in his pocket and pulled out a couple of the garlic cloves he'd saved for Mac. "Zand?"
        "Yeah?"
        The man was barely awake.
        "Have some garlic."
        Zander took one and popped it in his mouth. "Needed that," he said, chewing. "Thanks."
        Quist stood there uncertainly. "Just don't do it any more, okay?"
        Zander re-opened his eyes wide enough to see Quist's face. He smiled. "Wouldn't dream of it," he said.
*
        Quist prowled through Zander's house, disgusted with himself for complying with Mac's paranoia, and wishing he were doing any one of the half-dozen things he had lined up for the evening. He looked at the array of books on Zander's shelves and shook his head. Texts and journals and theses - crap and more crap - on botany and plant physiology and fungi and viruses. Not an interesting book in sight.
        He knew Zander had better taste than that. On a hunch, he opened the cupboard beneath the bookshelves and grinned as a mass of books and magazines spilled out onto the floor. They'd been crammed in there so tightly it was a wonder the doors could close.
        He pocketed a detective novel and a couple of game mags, then slammed one of the doors and shovelled things back in behind it. The house was pretty tidy, considering this was Zander. Quist was lucky enough to come up with a clean shirt and a semi-clean pair of pants for him. It'd do for the ride home.
        He walked through the room one last time, snatching up several of Zander's DVDs as he went. A couple of movies and a game or two tonight sounded just about right. He wasn't up to an abundance of exercise quite yet.
        He glanced around, then sighed. He and Mac would have to have this out. There was nothing here for Mac to worry about. No psychopathic killers, no freak tornadoes, no black dogs. Just Zander's messy house, and a lot of silence.
        Quist left, locking the door securely behind him.
*
        "You loaned me some of your DVDs," Quist told Zander the next morning. "Oh, and a trashy detective novel, too."
        "How generous of me. Tried out any of those cheats?"
        Quist tilted his head to look at him strangely. "'Cheats'?"
        "In the Gamestar."
        Quist grinned. "I don't need any stinking game rag to -"
        "Which issue'd you borrow?"
        "Two, actually. June and September."
        Zander nodded. "When will I get them back?"
        "June and September."
        "That's what I thought." Zander grinned.
        Quist looked disgustedly at the huge pile of gifts. "I'm a sick man. How do you expect me to get all this shit home?"
        "Why? Are we on your bike?" Zander frowned. "How'd you get your own loot home?"
        "Zabu took pity on me." Zabu was a cellist, but he was built like a football player. He'd collected Quist from the hospital two days before.
        "There are such things as 'taxis'."
        "Not a chance." Quist steered the wheelchair out to the parking lot. "Actually, I was planning on using Mac's car, but it doesn't steer very well on its roof. So, I stole your car instead."
        "Let me guess: Wednesday, right?"
        It was Friday.
        "Had to practice driving it," Quist told him. "What? You think it's easy to go from two wheels to four? Besides, in my condition -"
        Zander just looked at him darkly. Quist chuckled.
        They pulled up in front of Zander's house, and Quist's keen eye picked up something odd. A curtain in the living room twitched. He didn't say anything to Zander but "Wait here. I'll open the door."
        A draft. An overdose of Mac's paranoia. Quist crept around to the back of the house and silently unlocked the rear door. Moving swiftly into the living room, he went into a crouch.
        Then, he just froze there, gawking in awe.
        The room was filled with shrubbery. Plants, in an array of autumn colours. Bright berries, scarlet leaves, twining vines. Floor to ceiling. Like outside coming in. His eyes searched the room, and he listened, trying to detect the scramble of an intruder.
        He couldn't see, couldn't hear, couldn't smell anyone.
        But, there was an overpowering odour of "clean". Totally unlike Zander. Totally unlike the night before. No underlying stink of dirty dishes. No mouldy hint of old laundry. Just the overwhelming moist soil and fresh-running sap scent of the severed fronds.
        He'd gone through the kitchen so swiftly that he hadn't really seen it. Now, Quist took the time to look. No shrubbery here, but no dirty dishes, either. Weird. He searched quickly but cautiously through the house.
        But all he could see were the garlands, the wreaths, the shrubs. Hundreds of them. Stacked and piled and twined through every clean room.
        The next moment, Zander had the front door open. "I thought you were opening the door," he began impatiently. Then, he stood in the doorway, gaping open-mouthed, and staring at the room. "Quist, you didn't have to -!" he began.
        Quist's eyes met his and a tremor of gooseflesh danced across Zander's skin. Quist looked solemn, and more than a little frightened.
        "The thing is, Zander - I didn't. I was here last night, an-and, this -" he gestured to include the vines that wound all the way to the ceiling, "- wasn't." Quist didn't give himself time to think any more. He grabbed Zander's arm and half-lifted him, half-dragged him out of the house. Now was not the time to explain about the jiggly curtain. There'd be plenty of time to scare the hell out of themselves later.
        Quist pulled up in front of his own house a few minutes later with a sense of relief. A narrow escape. He had this terrible feeling there was danger at their backs. He could feel it crawling between his shoulder blades.
        He unlocked the door, hustled Zander and his crutches in, then busied himself with latching and double-locking the door. "Go sit down," he ordered.
        But Zander just stood there. "Quist!" he hissed, shocked.
        Quist turned around, only to stare at his living room, stunned and appalled.
        Distraught, he tore from room to room. "An hour. Only an hour," he kept muttering, over and over.
        It was gone, all of it. His house was empty. Vacant. Devoid of everything.
        Almost everything. In the centre of the living room was a small pile of foul-smelling fungus.
        "Dictyophora," Zander whispered.
        "Thanks," Quist retorted sarcastically, but in the same hushed voice. If this was a theft, why had they taken his old couch? His ancient running shoes? He squatted next to the fungus, head buried in his hands. "Hell of a week I'm having," he muttered, near despair. "My music - my violin - everything -"
        Zander sensed he was near tears. He laid a hand on his shoulder. "Time to call the police," he mumbled. "It's the same ones," he said.
        Quist looked at him quizzically. "As what? Your house?" he scoffed. "Not likely."
        "You know those DVDs you told me about? The ones you borrowed?"
        "That's all you're worried about?!" Quist bellowed, not quite believing Zander could be so callous in the face of his disaster. "Hate to tell you," he said bitterly, gesturing at the empty room. "They're gone with the wind."
        "No, they're not," Zander told him solemnly. "When we were leaving my place? I saw them sitting on the table, right by the door."
***
Chapter Three


        Quist drove like a maniac to Mac's house. He was stern and stiff-lipped as he slammed back Mac's front door; relieved when he found the place the same as always. He hastily checked the locks on windows and doors, then, satisfied, he hauled in Zander's stuff.
        "Where are you going?" Zander asked him.
        "To make a police report," Quist growled. "So, lock the door." He hadn't mentioned the twitchy curtain to Zander and he didn't intend to. Time to have it out with whoever was doing this.
        Zander grabbed his arm. "Not alone."
        Quist shrugged him off. "I'm not alone. I have people coming over tonight. Lots of people!" he said, tossing his arms in despair. "I'm gonna stand there, in my empty room, and try to explain why someone ripped off my dirty undershorts!"
        Zander shook his head. "None of this makes sense." Tired, he hobbled over to Mac's overstuffed chair and sat down.
        "You're right," Quist agreed. He pulled a couple of garlic cloves out of his pocket and looked at them dismally. "My only possessions. Here -" He tossed one to Zander.
        "Thanks." He chewed thoughtfully. "Neighbours might know something. I'll start with them."
        "Good idea, but, you're the one who needs to hide. Not me. You know damn well the police won't do much more than search for prints, and ask for a list of what's missing." Quist scratched at his hand, then rubbed the back of his calf. "Feel like I have fleas," he complained. He scratched some more. "I'll have a nosy with the neighbours."
        "Why?" Zander's face looked like thunder.
        "What do you mean, 'Why'?" Quist returned impatiently, beginning to squirm now. "You suggested it. Figure it out."
        "No, you fool! Why am I the one who needs to hide?"
        "Let's be stupid, shall we?" Quist said sarcastically. He pulled up his shirt and looked at the red blisters beginning to form on his stomach. "It was you after work, and you in the hospital. You Mac said to watch out for."
        "But it was your house that got the brunt of it -"
        "Don't you get it?" Quist asked, and there was an anger in his eyes Zander had never seen before. "It's a punishment - for ripping off your car, and stealing your DVDs. You get gifts, and I get shit."
        "That's crazy! You're my best friend! Hell, you're family! If they were after me, like you claim, why would they punish you? Think about it -"
        "You think about it. Whoever's doing this is playing games! Screwing with our heads, just to show they can get away with it! And I'll be damned if they're gonna do it any more!" He spluttered, "Aren't you even listening to me?!"
        Because Zander wasn't looking at his face - he was staring at his neck. "Quist," he said, through stiff lips, "you know that medal: th-the one from your dad?" It was a disc-shaped amulet. Quist had worn it as long as Zander could remember.
        Quist's eyes filled with alarm and his hand went to his throat. "You mean the medallion?!" he asked, panicked. "Don't tell me they took that, the bast-!" He never finished. As his fingers closed on the medallion's etched surface, a humming sound filled the room.
        Zander's eyes widened, and he came to his feet. Mac's TV suddenly came to life in an eye-filling clash of colour and sound, that escalated as the humming grew louder. The microwave in the kitchen began a horrendous whining roar.
        Overload...
        "Duck!" yelled Zander, launching himself onto Quist's startled form as the TV exploded behind him. Glass and metal blasted across the room.
        Zander lay there, facedown on the floor. I came home for this?! To Quist, he said sarcastically, "Yeah, the medallion. I was gonna tell you it was glowing."
*
        Quist wandered into the kitchen, peered at the microwave, then came back in, scratching, and glared at the molten TV. He repeated (for what must have been the tenth time), "I did that...with this?!" He held the medallion warily, dangling it between two fingers.
        "No and no and no."
        "What do you mean, 'no'?"
        "It was a surge, you fool. The metal must be the same as what's in the microwave."
        "Yeah - kinda like the way I heard you 'surge' at those dogs -"
        None of them had mentioned the incinerated canines. Zander had wanted to keep it that way. "You're dreaming," he said, turning away.
        "At least I'm not singing," Quist retorted.
        Zander poked warily at the medallion. "Sure it's the same one Brian gave you?"
        "Quit picking at it!" Quist took it off and looked at it closely. Then, he closed his eyes and fingered it. "Yeah," he said. There was a trace of sadness in his voice as he added, "After Dad died, I used to sit there for hours -" He stopped abruptly, embarrassed. "Never mind."
        Zander grinned at him. "Hey, I miss him, too." He looked at his ring - the one from his own father. Like Quist's medallion, it was quite elaborate - heavy and antique. He'd sworn first to his father, and later to Brian, that he wouldn't take it off. Now it occurred to him how weird that was. "Quist -" he began, but he could see Quist wasn't listening.
        He was looking at the back of the amulet and poking a little gingerly at some of the recessed surfaces. "What d'you think? Lasers? Some form of EM?"
        "I already told you what I think."
        Quist nodded. "Obviously combines with my mighty mental wavelengths." Grinning, he added, "It's a wonder I didn't do any damage before. Have to learn to pace myself."
        Zander snorted. "If you're gonna brag to Mac that you blew up his TV, you'll have to pace yourself pretty fast. Where'd your dad get that thing, anyway?"
        "He said it was an heirloom. But it may have been first-generation, if you know what I mean."
        "'Here's my heir - watch him loom'?"
        Quist shrugged. "Something like that. You know what he was like."
        "Liked history but not the past."
        "Yeah." Quist smiled. "Wouldn't talk about his own past, but big on all of us 'making' our future."
        Quist was still scratching, and Zander remarked, "You're getting a ra-" He froze mid-word, remembering the plants that had filled his rooms. He'd been so shocked at the time that he hadn't stopped to consider what types of plants - till now. "Uh-oh!"
        Quist dropped the medallion abruptly, and jumped back. Then, when he noticed Zander's distraction, he complained, "Don't do that! I thought we were about to blow up again!"
        "Puff up," Zander corrected. "Quist, did you touch any of those plants?"
        "In your house?" Quist stopped mid-scratch to look at him darkly. "Why?"
        "Because they were poisonous. Toxicodendron diversilobum and radicans. It was all the autumn colours," he explained distractedly. "And the shock of seeing them there. I didn't think -" He shook his head, distressed.
        "And this means...?" Quist prompted.
        "That you'd better strip. It's probably too late, but maybe you can stop the spread of the urushiol."
        "Urushiol?" Quist looked scared.
        "From the poison oak. If you're itching already, this may be bad."
        Quist stared at the red patches on his hands and forearms. "You're telling me," he said.
*
        It was nearly eight o'clock before Zander could convince Quist to leave. "Mac will be wondering where you are."
        No kidding, Zander thought. Mac was still in the hospital. Ever since he'd discovered they weren't answering their landlines, he'd been coming unglued. He didn't mind either of them staying at his house, but he did mind that they found it necessary. During the last two hours, he'd been on the phone four times, trying to force the truth out of what he called "Quist's worthless hide".
        It didn't seem to dissuade him that he had lots of company, either. Apparently, he'd decided to coerce as many of his well-wishers as he could to swing by and check on his suffering "brothers", because there was now an unending string of his friends at the door. Add them to Quist's friends, who were coming by to commiserate on his losses, and Zander's own co-workers, who were stopping by after the lab (or before going on to nightfill duty) - and the place was a zoo. Zander had finally given up, dossed down on the sofa and thrown a blanket over his head. He yawned. "Mac says he's bored out of his mind."
        "Bullshit! He'll have so much company he won't know if I'm there or not."
        "If you don't tell him, somebody else will -" He smiled at Zabu, who took it as a sign he needed a tenth Coke and brought one over. "Thanks, Zabu," Zander told him. To Quist, he said, "Mac's freaking. If you don't go see him -"
        "You didn't go visit him tonight?" Zabu interrupted, appalled. "Do you know how worried he is about you?"
        Quist buried his face in his hands, and Zabu chuckled. "I'll take you, Quist. Then, we can go by my place. There's the sweetest little Hungarian violin I just picked up. Made in Budapest." He added temptingly, "You might want to give her a try -"
        Quist lifted his head eagerly and Zander saw the longing in his eyes. Of all the things the bastards had taken, it was Quist's violin he missed the most.
        "Will you be okay?" Quist asked him quickly. He was obviously itching to leave, and Zander knew it wasn't to visit Mac.
        "With you gone?" Zander grinned. "Never better."
        At the doorway, Quist hesitated.
        Zabu gave him a tug. "C'mon, Music Man. He'll be fine." He chuckled as he saw the big glass of juice Jack Freedman was trying to force on Zander. "And if he's not, Quist, he's got lots of help."
*
        Zander didn't remember dozing off, any more than he remembered his company leaving. When he jerked awake, it was to a momentary panic that bore shades of hellspawned hounds and fiend-driven winds; all the things his nocturnal mind couldn't dismiss with logic or denial. His heart pounded as he fought to remember where he was. For days now, he'd been waking up in different beds: first, the hospital; then, ICU; then, back to another bed. Now, he wasn't in a bed at all.
        The couch. Mac's house.
        He'd had a dream - or maybe it was a memory. About his mother.
        He wiped moist eyes and cursed himself for a fool. He'd been a man these ten years or more. Why tonight? Because he was in Brian's - now Mac's - house, and she'd always talked to Brian when she'd had a problem?
        Or was it because Zander's own life had just been turned upside down, and there was no Brian, no Dad, no Mom to talk to?
        That was a big thing he remembered from his childhood - how much both his mom and dad had relied on Brian. Like family. Only, they weren't family - had never been family. Then why the hell were they so close?
        Because they'd grown up together?
        But that answer was too trite; too easy. That's what he and Quist and Mac had - but it was balanced by a healthy dose of separate lives, and separate friendships. It hadn't been that way with Brian, or Andrew and Meg - his parents. They'd lived like hermits - kept to themselves.
        To their own kind.
         The last thought slipped in, under his guard. He'd never been big on self-analysis, and even less on parental blame. His parents had gone their own way, but they hadn't expected him to live their lives. They'd given him a freedom they - for some reason - didn't possess.
        He'd spent his childhood learning to downplay anything that would make him subject to mockery or rejection. Only now, when the cloak of night had somehow stripped away his camouflage, could he look at things baldly. It was stupid to think he could have lived so long without openly acknowledging the differences - those things he shared with his family, that distinguished them from the people around them.
        The things that he and Quist and Mac could disguise, or play down, because they'd grown up here. He had a feeling it wouldn't have been so easy for Meg or Andrew; for Brian. Too many ingrained habits, and too much history. Too few reference points.
        It was only now that Zander realised how much of his parents' background had been garnered from his experiences. How the visits from all the neighbourhood children and school friends had given them substance - a role to play. For years, in the community, it was enough. Zander's parents. "Those are Zander's parents." Credibility.
        "What do your parents do?"
        They'd studied. Weird, really. They'd been study-a-holics. Studying human history and folklore. He could remember his mother's laughter, as she'd read him the classic fairy tales.
        His father had been different. Almost arrogant at times, and too often frustrated. Brian had taught him to use his hands in crafts. Things like glass blowing and sculpture; metalwork and carving. More study. His mother had found a similar outlet in music and painting. Her pieces had begun to sell rather well - toward the end.
        Artists could be excused much. His parents and Brian had made their way along a path strewn with eccentricity.
        Each piece they'd produced - whether metal sculpture, or oil painting - had been inspected. Brian had approved each one before it had gone out for sale, to ensure it was "up to standard". Now, Zander wondered if he'd been checking whether any of the pieces would be too revealing. Too telling about the artist or his background.
        Maybe one of those pieces had given away his parents' lives. They'd died on one of their rare trips, to a distant city, during an exhibition of his mother's paintings. A freak explosion caused by an electronic surge. A lightning strike, Brian had murmured.
        They weren't the only victims. But they were the only ones who mattered to a sixteen-year-old boy.
        He suddenly knew that's why he was awake. There'd been a freak explosion today, in this very room.
        A freak accident...
        No, though the "freak" part fit. Their pointed ears, their tilty eyes. All the things they'd discounted in order to make their way.
        The abnormally keen hearing, the refined sense of smell.
        The speed, the agility, the strength.
        The metabolism that wouldn't stop.
        The time in the hospital? First time any of them had been there. First time any of them had been sick.
        During their school years, they'd been given "holidays", three or four times per year. Days when they'd been kept at home. Then, the return to school with the obligatory note.
        Because perfect attendance would have drawn attention.
        Zander's heart was still pounding. His reflections hadn't done much to calm him down.
        What am I? What are we?
        The conclusions were unmistakable. There was a preponderance of extraterrestrial life dotting the TV screens, and movies were full of them. Maybe aliens weren't little green men. Maybe they were average-sized people, with pointy ears, tilted eyes, and unnaturally strong singing voices.
        Andrew's art. There were some pieces his dad had locked away - pieces that had been fashioned to fail Brian's inspection. Pieces that held too much of the artist's soul - too much of his past.
        Zander flung back the blanket, and reached for his crutches. There were some things he needed to do.
        He needed a wander through his systematics texts. There was something about the fungus in Quist's house that was bothering him. He'd recognised it, for one thing. Yet, it wasn't one he'd seen in the lab.
        Then, he needed to find the box. An ordinary cardboard box that was stacked away somewhere in the attic. No ornate chest, no elaborate hiding place. Just your standard packing box, nestled amidst the dusty mess that Zander called "storage".
        Andrew and Meg - his parents - were lying entombed in a city far away. Brian had made it seem sensible not to bring home their broken bodies, and Zander had been too distraught to question it. Now, it was just one more odd circumstance in a long list.
        Since Zander hadn't been able to bury their bodies, he'd buried their personal possessions instead. Locked them away, so he wouldn't have reminders. Too much pain to remember his mother wielding the brush, or his father's pride in the remaking of stone. He'd put the pain aside, until he was able to deal with it. Now was the time. Time to face it whether he wanted to or not.
        A chill scattering of gooseflesh danced across his skin. He could almost hear Brian's voice in his ear, urging him to act. He'd always taught them to respond on a moment's notice. "When that moment comes, you'll know it -"
        It had come in the shape of hounds, with flaming eyes. With contorted bat faces and cyclone breath.
        "- and it's time to act. Don't think. Go with your instincts."
        Act. Don't think.
        Zander shrugged into a warmer shirt, pulled himself up on his crutches, and silently limped out the door.
*
        It was easy to be wary in a generation of barred windows, padlocked doors, and alarmed everything. Walks were taken with mace, and guns were commonplace. Sadism was entertainment on TV, and murder was as expected as the next morning's headlines.
        Brian had been wary, and now Brian was dead. Zander knew he hadn't been wary, or even very watchful, and it was a wonder he wasn't dead, too.

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        Mac would be in a frenzy if he knew Zander was back on the streets. But, it was the shade of Mac's dad who was urging Zander on. Brian had been insistent about a lot of things. Part of that had extended to seeing things through. If the means wasn't clear, then it was necessary to "hone your vision."
        The vision that had sprung up at Quist's words was not a happy one. It meant that, in some obscure way, he was responsible for Quist's and Mac's injuries. He would have undertaken similar efforts in their defence, but that wasn't the point. If Quist was right, their peril was no accident. It was because Zander Brody was their friend. And Mac, who loved taking things in his stride, wouldn't be going nuts unless he feared it was going to happen again.
        He had good reason. Someone had stripped Quist's house and re-decorated Zander's. This was one time where ignorance was inexcusable - because it could well get someone killed.
        Zander didn't hesitate. His dream had been every bit as valid as one of Mac's. He had much to do and very little time to do it. The only way to take charge of his destiny at this point, was to create it.
        His eyes glistened. Not Brian's words - his father's.
        It was time to discover what destiny his father had been at such pains to conceal.
*
        He parked his car a block from his house, and stared at the distant building with bleak eyes. How many times had he walked this path? How many times had he run in that back door, or opened it to a friend? Despite the poison oak festooning , the intrusion by unknown visitors, this was still home, and he'd always equated "home" with "safe". This was the house where he'd been born - the neighbourhood where he'd grown up. He knew people in every house along the way.
        Which is why it made it all the more difficult to accept the shudder of dread that shook him when he reached for the door. Now, that he was here, he no longer felt "safe".
        He realised it wasn't only the dark doorway that was scaring him - it was the solitude. Zander didn't own any pets because he didn't need to - he had everyone else's. Normally, he couldn't move even a few steps without having some feline or canine rubbing against his legs, jumping up on him, or trailing him down the road. Birds divebombed him, sang in his face, and frequently landed on his head, or his shoulder.
        It was one of the things that had frightened him most about those hounds. Unlike other dogs, those flaming brutes had had no use for him, except as an entree. It was the first time Zander had ever been looked at like luncheon loaf.
        Tonight, no dogs had barked a greeting. No cats had prowled his way. No night birds had sung in warning. He was alone.
        Like the night I went running. All his companions had fled then, too. That last trek towards the cemetery, had been a solitary one - until he'd encountered the hounds.
        He was suddenly angry, with a fury that was rapidly displacing his fear. The intruders had taken away his safety net - his security. They'd persecuted his friends, then made him dependent upon them. They'd violated his privacy and trampled his memories. His parents' personal possessions, their art, their tender reminiscences, the bits and pieces of their lives, were all snagged within these walls. Memories, trapped in notes and photos, drawings and carved stone. A childhood, their young adulthood. All here.
        Act. Don't think.
        He used his anger to get himself through the door, being careful not to brush against the bright autumnally foul foliage. There were rustles in this shrubbery, but he refused to listen. His job was to get upstairs, to the attic. He was stricken with a sense of urgency, as though his parents' stuff were already being dismantled. The feeling that if he didn't act now, it would be too late to act at all.
        Determinedly, and as quietly as possible, he hobbled up the worn steps.
*
        "I'm busy, MacFart. Try bothering Zander." Quist felt more relaxed than he had in days. Zabu Morris knew his weakness for lemon anything, and had pulled a lemon meringue pie out of the fridge. Quist was so far gone he could barely hold the violin bow. He'd been mucking around with Zabu's flute, too, until his lips went too numb. Now, he was just plain happy.
        "Damn you, Quist!" Mac yelled at him. "You've been at the citrus!"
        "Not Thitrus, MacFart - just lemon." He licked his lips, then picked up the plate and ran a finger over a leftover lemon ridge.
        Zabu chuckled and grabbed the phone. "It's okay, Mac. I'll see him home -"
        "To my house," Mac interrupted hurriedly.
        "No point in taking him to his," Zabu pointed out practically. "Quist, you wants you should stay here?"
        "No!" Mac bellowed.
        "Sure!" Quist said cheerily. "Got any more pie?"
        "There's a tangelo in the cupboard." Zabu'd never gotten over how Quist reacted to anything citrus. It was hilarious. Once he got started, though, there was no stopping him. He'd lemon or orange or kumquat himself into oblivion.
        "Gotcha!" Quist snorted, and wobbled towards the kitchen.
        Zabu could hear him banging cupboard doors, and then, "Ooh, come to Papa, you little beauty..." There was a loud slurping sound, a bang and a thud.
        Mac was still yelling, something about Zander not answering the phone.
        "Yeah, yeah, yeah," Zabu replied, finally getting annoyed. "Maybe there's a good reason," he suggested pointedly. "Like peace and quiet." Mac confined was a real pain-in-the-ass.
        Mac went silent.
        "Excuse me," Zabu went on, and Mac could hear the amusement in his voice, "while I pick up ol' Quizzical off the floor. Think he's had his limit." Zabu clicked off the phone.
*
        Damn Quist! Mac tried to make excuses for him, but he was just too angry. They all had the same fool weakness for citrus. This wasn't the time for Quist to be eating himself into oblivion. Not with Zander essentially unprotected.
        But what protection would Quist be? Mac wasn't willing to sacrifice his little brother, any more than he was willing to sacrifice Zander.
        Besides, Quist was still recovering from injuries himself, which is probably why he had no willpower when it came to lemon confectionery.
        Hell, Mac admitted, if someone stuck a lemon tart under my nose right now, I wouldn't be able to resist, either.
        Zabu was right. Maculley Craigen was making both a pest and a fool of himself.
        Zander's failure to pick up the phone? If it were me, I'd have unplugged the phone hours ago.
        Mac leaned back against the pillows, wishing he could sleep. Uninterrupted sleep...
        As much as he needed it, though, his subconscious wouldn't let him drift off. He was too afraid he'd dream, and then he'd have to act on it. Act on something he was scared to believe in, just because he couldn't afford not to let the fear in.
        All day he'd been trying to set things up so he wouldn't be afraid any more. That was the problem: he was terrified. It wasn't only Zander's fate that was in question - it was his and Quist's. The citrus incident had brought it home. The three of them had similar origins. Bonds that, in this instance, were closer than blood. Bonded by their differences...
        Mac liked to be in control. He enjoyed teaching - the lesson plans, watching the development of a faltering student. This was one time when there was no plan. All he had was the memory of his father's death, and his father's words. The warnings, that were too vague to be taken seriously. Vague, because taking them seriously would focus too much attention on them. His father's mumbled, "If he does the research, it might clue them in."
        Them? Who? What research? About their backgrounds?
        There'd been another thing that Quist had found unforgivable, but that Mac had been unable to explain. The vow. The promise.
        They'd known Brian Craigen was dead because they'd seen it in a newspaper. His body had gone unclaimed. There'd been a photo of an unidentified man, and a write-up about his horrendous death. The one article, and then nothing.
        It had torn Quist up, and he'd planned on driving out there, to claim the body.
        But, Mac had promised. It had been an easy promise - foolish, really - because it had dealt with a far-future event. The "when I die, I want my ashes scattered to the wind" kind of thing. His dad had made Mac swear that if anything should ever happen to him, he wouldn't bring the body home. At the time, Mac had guessed it would be incriminating - a way of dragging his sons into some past debt or criminal activity he'd long since left behind.
        Quist hadn't cared about the nearly-forgotten vow, but Mac had. As the elder son, he'd insisted on "leaving Dad to it", the way he'd wanted. Quist, thinking of his father lying alone in a strange city, had claimed it was heartless.
        But Brian did the same with Zander's parents...
        And Quist had yelled, "Don't you know how much that hurt him? Dad was wrong! We need to do right by him - for our own sakes!"
        But they hadn't, and Brian was laid to rest alone; abandoned, though not unmourned.
        Recrimination. Secrets. Mac felt as alone in that moment as Brian in his grave. He didn't know what was happening, and had only a vague idea of whom it was happening to.
        He didn't want to lose anyone else he cared about. He just didn't know how to stop the losing. He had a terrible feeling that the hundreds of people, who called Quist, Zander, and himself "friend", could do nothing to stop the disaster that was coming. The spectre of death was tapping at their door.
*
        His house was full of rustling, unlike anything he'd ever heard before. Zander squelched down the shivers that made him jerk around on his crutches, and mounted the stairs. One flight, two. The stairwell, like the rest of the house, was dark, but there wasn't much he could do about it. He suspected the mains breaker had been flicked off, but he didn't have the nerve to go out and check. It had taken everything he'd had just to step inside the door the first time.
        There were streaks of pale streetlight through curtained windows, that helped illuminate individual rooms, and gave some relief to the hall's eerie length.
        A tickle against his neck made Zander jump. With shaking fingers, he plucked the intruder off his skin and tossed it away. He scratched the spot where it'd been, swearing he could still feel the scraping of its tiny cerci. Yuck.
        Earwig.
        He hated earwigs. Many of the eighteen-hundred or so Dermaptera species had the same affinity for his form as mammals. Once, as a kid, he'd woken up with a mass of earwigs running that little twitchy dance all over his face and chest. It had been horrible, and his keen eyes had picked up every detail from the prognathous head to the brownish-black (and sometimes winged, God help him!) thorax to the segmented abdomen with the forceps-like cerci at the end.
        He had this terror they were going to run into his ears, and munch on his brain. He'd been stupid enough to research them in order to reassure himself, and found out most of them were omnivorous - they'd eat anything. They preferred to hide in warm and humid places, and ears were as likely a place as any.
        Supposedly, they would neither lay eggs in your ears nor munch on your brain, but it was awfully hard to believe that when they were running around on your face, and scuttling towards your earholes.
        There were more earwigs on the stairs. He could hear the occasional crunch under his feet, and once, the crutch slipped on bug slime and nearly sent him toppling down the steps. The poison oak must have been loaded with the things. Thoughtless thugs, to have brought contaminated poison plants into his home.
        He'd become distracted, and he realised it now when he heard a thud from the landing below. Whoever it was, was bound to be faster than he, and he hunkered along as fast as he could on one crutch, with the other gripped firmly as a weapon. If he went down, he was going to do his damnedest to take his opponent with him.
        Maybe it's one of the neighbours, his practical mind asserted, checking on the house.