Prologue 

      The woman dug frantically in the rich soil, the earthy scent making her shiver. There was an underlying sourness to the dampness, which spoke of death...

      It’s here. It has to be. This was where panicky instinct had led her.

      More than intuition...

      No. A bad dream. That’s all it was. Sleepwalking again. Gritting her teeth, Glys forced herself to withdraw her hands—to fight against impulse. She knelt there, rigid with compulsion, and lifted her eyes to the moon.

      It nearly choked her. The light was so cold it chilled to the bone, and gooseflesh rode reckless across her skin. Moonshadows gloomed everywhere, leached from the innocent silhouettes of tree and shrub.

      One of those silhouettes was moving. Her breath caught, finishing what that frozen moon had begun. All rational thought fled in the face of need.

      Her fingers tore at the soil once more, as she dug like a caged animal. Only one way lay freedom....

      The next moment her fingers had closed on it and a wash of cold relief cleared her mind.

      Then, for an instant only, she could see pursuit clearly, racing across the slope.

      It’s a dream...only a dream.

      A nightmare.

      The difference was, in this one, she could run.

***

       Chapter One 
 

      “Cynic,” Rom muttered absently. Jeremy had dredged him out of the soundest sleep he’d had in weeks. “No...Sadist. Go to hell and let me sleep—” He forced open bleary eyes.

      The room was no longer dark. The cheap wooden jamb was illuminated in a soft golden glow.

      “Hang on, Jer—” Rom whispered. He set down the phone and climbed silently out of bed. Muscles tense, he tiptoed to the doorway, across the hall, then hesitated just outside the lounge.

      The Source.

      How theatrical, an inner voice mocked. But it didn’t stop his heart from pounding, or his palms from growing wet.

      Rom took a deep breath, then peeked around the corner.

      The light was coming from beneath his desk. From the goddamn wastebasket.

      A joke. Wick.

      Jeremy, to get back at me for the cracks about his art...

      Rom relaxed a little, a smile quirking the corners of his mouth. Damn, if they hadn’t had him going there...

      He pulled the wastebasket from beneath the desk. Nestled within the load of paper—ad sheets, bill collectors’ demands and gardening magazine lures, that he’d tossed away en masse—the crumpled envelope sat fatly crunched, and brightly luminescent. It was embedded with glowing particles, which shed a glistening radiance to the darkened room.

      Glittery.

      Like gold...

      Rom’s hands were shaking, as he reached into the bin.

      Don’t touch it. Objectively, he knew should keep his distance, but something else was driving him now. His smile faded, and his heart started pounding once more. Again, there was that glimmer of uncertainty, of déja vu; the feeling of something left undone. His skin glowed orange as he clenched the crumpled parchment, and extricated the single sheet of paper—the one he’d casually dismissed without so much as a perusal.

      Just one more advertising gimmick...

      He sat on the floor and flattened the creases with his palm. The paper felt hot beneath his hand, and as he rubbed it, glittering trails crumbled, flared, and sizzled, with little hissing pops.

      What is this stuff?

      Beneath his fingers the paper changed, no longer blank. In the centre was a brilliant watermark, elaborately wrought in opalescent shades: blues, magenta, greens, purples. It was a holographic face, three-dimensional and shocking in its realism.

      And the eyes were looking, directly at him.

      “There is no wisdom in repeated mistakes...” The words echoed hollowly in his memory, and in that moment, all amusement fled. His breath turned to ice, and some of it trickled through his veins, awakening his body to something it had long forgotten. He moved uneasily back into the bedroom, all the while watching the darkened corners. The phrase “repeated mistakes” was throbbing in his head now, keeping time to the drumming of his heart.

      Somewhere outside there was a scrabbling at the window glass, an unexpected thud, the crackling of a branch. The skin on his arms tightened, as the hairs lifted—gooseflesh dancing down his limbs.

      Run...

      The abandoned phone squawked, and Rom could hear Jeremy’s shouted “D’chou fall asleep?”, but he couldn’t answer.

      Not now.

      Maybe not ever. He pulled on his pants, and slipped into running shoes like a zombie. His eyes were wet with fear, but his mouth was dry as the desert sands. In the background, Jeremy’s tinny voice was squawking, issuing harsh “wake up!” commands over the phone. Rom glanced back at it, once, then lifted the receiver with sweaty palms and placed it silently on its cradle.

      Silence. It was all important now.

      He replaced the letter in its showy envelope, buried it in his T-shirt pocket, and crept swiftly out the door. In the distance, there was a humming whine.

      Familiar, like the letter. Something he’d heard before. 

      His hand pressed the letter to his chest.

      “Guard it, with your life...”

      His life. It had come to that.

      Rom leapt off the porch, stumbled, then broke into a run.

*

      The night was crisp and clear—and filled with a thousand voices Rom couldn’t recall. Commanding voices he couldn’t resist.

      Doomed...

      It wasn’t a thought—it was a heavy weight lodged in his gut—a portent of the inevitable.

      An inevitable wrong. Guilt weighed on him, for a deed he’d not yet committed—for the instincts which quickened to unspoken commands. His brain had not yet acknowledged his task, yet already he knew. His mission this night was death.

      And if he didn’t succeed, the forfeited life would be his own.

      Unacceptable. It echoed in his head. Not a moral call—merely the judgement call for failure.

      Rom sprinted, racing out of reason, running to meet his destiny. He was only dimly aware of the asphalt beneath his feet now, and totally oblivious to the windows lining the street. He needed to outrun it: the righteous anger smouldering in his chest, the fury clenching his fists.

      Unjust...evil. Words he’d acquired over the last ten years, to describe what was swiftly becoming compulsion. If he could drench the hatred in sweat, he might yet be able to out race his malice; to chill this misplaced passion in exhaustion.

      He picked up speed. Running in hate, in fear; in mixed, deluded dreams...

      ...which were driving him mad. Only insanity would run through the dark without reason—outdistancing a threat which owed more to inner turmoil than any outside intervention.

      He nearly believed he would make it—until the persistent background hum became a nagging, insistent whine. His skin crawled in anticipated terror.

      So many...hundreds, maybe thousands. Rom was panting now, his course erratic, his brain repeatedly filled with jarring flickers of memory: Technicolor images in flashes of light and sound. Bright contrasts to the duotone shades of night and moon. With every vision, he’d lose pace a little, weaving like some madman across the landscape.

      Here and now. Now and then.

      At this moment, with the demons at his back, he no longer knew what was real. Those scenes—bright moments out of a time he couldn’t remember—were intended to save him—to draw rational thought out of panic, and sense out of dread.

      As were the warnings, sounding through his brain. “So much easier to use a natural means; to inveigh it with purpose.”

      To give it a purpose so aligned with its own. “To hide darkness within the shadows.”

      The shadows clotting his world were mosquitoes: winged bloodsuckers in this part of the country—a harmless nuisance.

      Now vested with new resolve, and a tenacity which clouded the moonscape.

      The whining tickled his ears.

      Vested such, they’d be here to drain him dry.

*

      Jeremy threw on a jacket and headed out the door. It wasn’t the first time Rom had sleepwalked and it wouldn’t be the last. Jeremy had strongly suggested he visit a sleep clinic, to get his sleeping patterns realigned. Rom should’ve learned by now how to manage his problem.

      Only, Rom didn’t see his sleepwalking as a problem—or refused to admit it was one. Part of that was Wick’s fault. Wick had always downplayed it; joked about it, and acted like it was no big deal. Phil was worse—he treated any suggestion of therapy as a feeble-minded admission of weakness.

      Rom, for his part, didn’t even want to talk about it. However lightly Wick and Phil might treat the problem, though, it was the reason, Jeremy was sure, that Rom ended up spending most of his nights alone. One exposure to Rom’s night-time antics would be enough to put most women off for good. Not too many of them would trust a double personality, or put up with a man who wouldn’t recognise them the next day.

      It was a weird dichotomy, and Jeremy felt responsible for dredging it up with that phone call tonight. The Rom who emerged after a few moments’ sleep was usually wary and suspicious, but also a match for Jeremy’s ten years of martial arts training.

      The mild-mannered professor playing out a secret identity?

      Five minutes later he was at Rom’s house. He knocked loudly, then took the key from under the brick and went inside.

      “Rom!” Jeremy shouted. No answer. He flicked on the lights and made a quick perusal. No Rom. The only marks of disorder were the wastebasket’s contents, scattered under the desk. Given Rom’s fanatical neatness, it meant Mr. Sleepwalk was in charge.

      Mr. Sleepwalk was a slob.

      Again, Jeremy felt a nudge of guilt. Not only had he awakened Rom, but he’d given his brain a focus.

      Jeremy tore out the door, his eyes searching the silhouetted hardscape of the quiet, suburban street. There was something wrong...

      It was the quiet. There were no lights. No streetlights. Not a single bulb behind the numerous windows. Jeremy reached back inside, and flicked the switch.

      Odd. They’d worked a second before...

      But now there was nothing. No lights, no power. Only the loud hum of a transformer in the distance.

      Jeremy was looking east when a grey cloud passed across the moon. A grey cloud which was moving way too fast.

      What the hell?

      That hum...it’s no transformer.

      Across the distance, muffled on the night air, curses and threats rang out.

      Jeremy was already in motion by the time the threats rose to howls of pain.

*

      They were on him—a whining, malicious horde, dressed in membranous wings with needlelike proboscis. They were on his skin, on his clothes, penetrating the flimsy fabric of his shirt with spearpoint accuracy. Injecting enough anticoagulant to bleed him out. Even now, as he smashed and slapped, he could feel the slippery wash of blood.

      A thousand needle pricks, jabbing his skin. Rom stumbled, and nearly fell. Already, he was growing weak. His body was one massive itch as his histamine response went crazy. There was too much anticoagulant being injected into his system. Too much foreign protein being put in, and too much blood being taken out.

      He cursed, felt the winged bodies light on his tongue, and spat.

      Use your brain. Pyrethrin. Insect repellent. Daisies.

      I’m in the park, for crissake! Daisies, and a pond.

      Life.

      Rom fell, then crawled, toward the white patch in the distance. He hated the stink of daisies.

      He spat again, then blew his nose. Little life signs tickling his nasal passages. He choked on a sucked-in breath—thick with runny mucous and wriggling bodies.

      I’m drowning...

      He dove, headlong, into the daisy patch.

*

      His footsteps had an echo. As Jeremy pounded up the road, he could hear the other runner. No one in sight, but there was no mistaking the sound.

      He glanced around, but didn’t slow his pace. Rom’s howls had faded into an ominous silence.

      The steps tore past him, but he still couldn’t resolve the runner. The tree branches yielded only patchy moonlight, splotchy and confusing. Jeremy’s eyes caught traces of frenzied movement, streaks of luminescence clinging to the moonglow just a shade too long. For a moment, Jeremy’s already pounding heart quickened its beat. There was an eeriness to the other figure and its determined pace.

      It outdistanced him in seconds—slipping past without so much as a panting breath to mark its passage.

      No one can move that fast...

      He was shaken, as the barely-seen glow shifted and fled in the distance.

      What freaked him most, though, was the familiarity. Something in the shape—that ill-lit phosphorescent image, which existed more in sound than sight—had been so damned familiar.

      For an instant, he had the impression he recognised it...him.

      He’d been almost certain it was Wick.

*

      Rom crawled through the daisies, burying his face in the turgid branches. He snatched at flowers with mosquito-bitten hands, crunching the heads and rubbing them over his swollen face. The pastel masses of blooms were crushed and flattened, leaving streaked and bloodied blossoms in his wake.

      His breaths were panting rasps, ragged and uneven. His chest was filling, his throat was closing, and he couldn’t breathe. Using his elbows and his knees, he squirmed his way along.

      The water. If he could just get to the water. He could see it now through squinted eyes—a black wash in the foreground. Gritting his teeth, he lifted his head, and peered at the moon reflected on the surface. The castaway radiance beckoned him forward, and he crawled, his breaths coming in whiny wheezes.

      Mosquitoes danced into his vision, feathering his eyelids, tickling his eyebrows, darting in stinging raids to feed on his scalp. In such proximity, it was difficult to put them into perspective. They were garish monsters come to steal his life force away. Dancing devils, gossamer harbingers of death...

      He had a defence, but only if he lived long enough to use it. Only if he could reach the reflected moon. It had always been his trigger...before.

      Stay the impulse. The warning sang loudly in his ears. It will bring them in. You will no longer be able to hide in your dreams.

      Surely, it was too late to hide. What was happening to him tonight had forced him to emerge from the shadows.

      Shivering incessantly, Rom pushed himself to his feet. Gagging and choking, he lurched forward, nearly falling on his face. In a stumbling near-run, he took five long, loping strides and leapt, soaring across the dark, watery surface of the pond.

      At the same moment he stretched out his hand, aiming desperately for that bright white globe of reflected light.

      His fingertips touched, then pierced the surface.

      The pseudo moon shattered, into a thousand dancing pieces.

*

      Jeremy was winded by the time he reached the park. It was so quiet he didn’t know where Rom was. He stopped, listening for sounds of struggle.

      Frustrated, he tried to follow the other runner’s lead. That phosphorescent image was long gone, but the regular thudding was still a faint tremor through the soil.

      The annoying background hum was growing louder, and it was accompanied by a sibilant whine which made his skin crawl. Only one insect made a noise like that: mosquito. What was worse was the vibration. This wasn’t one mosquito, or even one thousand. Jeremy had a sudden urge to turn tail and run.

      Instead, he buried his hands in his sleeves and his face in his shirt. Then, he forged ahead.

      They were on him now. In the overwhelming assault, he barely heard the splash, or the one which followed. All he knew was that the whining persistence of his winged adversaries was giving way to high-pitched squeaks.

      Hundreds of them...

      Then it was raining. With a cheerless insouciance the skies filled, all without benefit of wind or cloud. This was a pelting rain—haired bodies with leathery wings. They plummeted limply, as though stunned, then abruptly spread wings and took off in devour mode, to consume the insect horde...

      Jeremy dropped to his knees, arms shielding his head. Mosquitoes were no longer a concern. He was being pounded by something far larger.

      Insectivores, ravenously hungry and navigating by sonar.

      He’d been around the world, but he’d never seen anything like this.

      It was raining bats.

*

      Rom’s fingers scrabbled in the mucky sediments, stirring up swirls of mirey mud, to thicken water still choppy from his thrashing. Mud oozed into his mouth, but he couldn’t taste it. His tongue was as swollen as his face.

      Like the lag from a poorly dubbed film, reality finally registered, as his fingers dug into the goo. I’m on the bottom! Panic shattered his nearly comatose reverie, and he clawed his way to the surface once more, to gasp for breath.

      Drowning...

      His feet kicked wildly as he fought to stay afloat. It’d been hard to breathe before—now, it was impossible. The urgency was still with him, but there was little to drive it. No strength, no breath...

      ...no life.

      His next breath was water, and he savagely kicked his way to the surface again.

      Find the shore. He was lost, in a mini lake. Blind navigation, with safety but a few short lengths away.

      Find it. He forced open one puffy eye with the heel of his hand.

      And saw the moon. That bright orb was nearly eclipsed by a scavenging horde of swooping bats.

      And they were still coming. He realised that, in his panic, he’d made a horrible mistake. As he tilted back his head, to stay afloat, he was barraged—pelted by a dozen falling bodies.

      He lost his focus then, and the shore became a distant memory. He lifted one arm, to shield himself from the thudding bodies—the claws, the teeth, the scratchy wings—only to sink beneath the waves. The water was choppy now, asplash and agitated by his own movements—and those of the panicky bats.

      To whom he was the one island in a choppy sea. Claws clung to his nose, and bat wings occluded his mouth. The high-pitched, frantic sonar filled his ears. He couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t breathe...

      Rom pawed weakly at his face, but there were too many of those small feet. 

      I did this...

      It was his last thought, as he sank beneath the waves.

*

      “Bloody hell!” Wick swore softly, dodging the stinging blows of toppling bats.

      Chiroptera, but not like any this place had seen before.

      “Rom!” he bellowed. He gagged, nearly choked, then spat. Damned mosquitoes.

      He’ll be in the water. With grim certainty, Wick tore across the grass, slipping and sliding as he went. Writhing bodies squirmed beneath his feet, and he gagged again at the crunching and squishing of fragile forms.

      Rom’ll be sick...

      Rom. Wick picked up speed. In the distance he spied the broken moon, glazing a thousand pieces onto the ruffled water.

      At that moment, Rom’s head broke the surface, one arm flailing weakly. The next, he was gone.

      Wick was in the water before the swirling wash could follow Rom down.

*

      Rabies.

      Revulsion curled his lips. Jeremy had thought he could tolerate anything, but he’d never seen anything like this before. He didn’t know what had brought the bats in, but they were migrating, en masse. If this was some kind of frenzy, brought on by hydrophobia...

      He gave an involuntary shudder. Rabies. He choked down foamy saliva, then recalled how some people were allergic to the vaccine.

      Don’t think about it...

      Mosquitoes were still thick on the air, he had no insect spray, and like a dummy, he’d left Rom’s flashlight at the house. He was stuck with nothing but a cigarette lighter and his knife.

      Damned useless...

      There are some situations for which you can never prepare.

      He’d have had to be equipped with a flame thrower to counter this kind of assault.

      The bright moon didn’t help, either. All it did was highlight the bats’ tufted ears and flapping wings—the swooping, diving, squeaking, bashing. Jeremy had a confused black-and-white impression of broken skies and shifting soils. The Earth moved beneath his feet, and nothing in the sky stood still. Even the distant moonscape was marred—the swooping bats appearing like black parasites invading his lunar view.

      Thwack! Distracted, Jeremy took a blow on the head, and toppled onto all fours. He realised he may have been overly optimistic. Rabies was the least of his concerns. Right now he was in far more danger of being buried by bats.

      It may have already happened to Rom. Jeremy weighed the wisdom of crawling forward, and opted for altitude. He’d be no good to anyone lying under a tonne of bat flesh and guano. Once he found Rom, he wanted to be able to run.

*

      Chapter Two 
 

      Not goo. It was his first rational thought. That was dirt, and scalped grass beneath him. His fingers twitched, grasping the soil.

      Real...

      He sucked in air desperately—choked, coughed, and vomited. His throat was so swollen he was nearly asphyxiated once more, and his hands latched onto his neck as he wheezed for air.

      He lay there limply then, taking shallow breaths of bat-tainted air.

      “Rom!”

      With a shaking hand, Rom pried open an eyelid once more, and saw Wick’s anxious face above him, etched in moonshadow. “Hi, Wick,” he tried to say, but his mouth and throat were too swollen. It came out as a sharp croak.

      He croaked again when a bat tumbled onto his chest.

      Wick didn’t waste any more time. He took Rom’s arms and hauled him upwards, then bent to catch him over one shoulder. “Can you breathe?” he asked worriedly. He felt, rather than saw, Rom’s nod. Relieved, he gave a small smile. “Bats’re a nice touch,” Wick muttered, a hint of amusement in his voice.

      Rom flinched, the spasm making him cough once more. He knows.

      He can’t know. How could he? How could Wick know something Rom wasn’t sure of himself? It was his last conscious thought.

*

      Wick stumbled back the way he’d come. Rom’s breathing did one of those harsh, shuddery wheezes, and he picked up speed. Rom was in a bad way.

      Jeremy was around here somewhere, if he hadn’t been spooked by the bats. Wick guessed he was still hanging in close by, searching for Rom—even if it meant wading butt-deep through bats.

      Wick broke into a slippery, uneven jog. He dodged dense pockets of mosquitoes and swoops by low-flying mammals, all the while searching for Jeremy’s silhouette. He was so busy watching around him, that he missed what was under his feet.

      Jeremy was just getting up when Wick rammed into him.

      They did a spectacular topple. Rom went flying over Jeremy’s head. Wick flipped and landed on top of him. Jeremy was back where he’d started—on the ground—only, this time, he was facedown in the mud.

*

      An impatient hand yanked Jeremy’s hair, tugging his nostrils clear, and he roused himself. Someone grasped under his arm now, hoisting him up. Jeremy was barely to his knees when his helper froze. The other man was so tense his fingers gripped like iron, digging into Jeremy’s armpit.

      Jeremy’s caked eyelids shot open, and he tore at the iron grip.

      Wick’s.

      “Let go!” he yelped.

      No response. At this rate, Wick’s damned fingers would puncture the flesh. Jeremy had always thought of himself as strong, but he had nothing on Wick. He swore, all the while pounding on that helpful hand.

      But Wick didn’t seem to notice. He shuddered with the impact, but stayed there, frozen in place. He was staring—oblivious to bats and battering alike—at something in the distance. He was so tense he was shaking, and when Jeremy finally tore himself free, Wick remained oblivious.

      It was then, when his own eyes had cleared enough to focus, that Jeremy noticed Wick’s expression. It was one he’d never seen before, and at first he couldn’t place it. Aversion? Revulsion?

      No, Jeremy realised, and he tensed, much as Wick had. That peculiar grimace reflected an uncommon emotion...something the modern world rarely saw.

      Horror...

      Jeremy followed Wick’s line of sight but he never had the chance to see what was scaring him. Wick exploded into action with a suddenness which sent Jeremy toppling once more. When he looked up this time, Wick was kneeling, shaking Rom so hard the man’s teeth were rattling.

      “What’re you doing?!” Jeremy yelled.

      “Clearing his airway!” Wick puffed, vigorously shaking Rom again. There was more than a hint of panic in Wick’s shadowed expression. “They’re here!” he shouted harshly, in Rom’s face. “Rastic plikva!” Shake. “You have to stop!”

      In the dim light, Rom’s swollen face looked like a pulpy raspberry, and his breathing was coming in shallow rasps.

      Jeremy dove at Wick. “You’re killing him!” he bellowed.

      Rom flopped to one side, doubled-up now in those choking gasps. It sent Wick’s panic up another notch, and his temper wasn’t far behind. “Rastic quoring!” he swore, landing a punch on Jeremy’s jaw. “I’m—saving—his—goddamn—life!”

      Jeremy returned the favour with a kick, which sent Wick flying. Then he sat up, and rubbed his aching jaw. “By shaking his fool head off?!”

      Wick was fuming but silent as he hoisted Rom back onto his shoulder. When he finally spoke, his words were stilted, his expression wary. “Go home,” he warned. “This place is no longer safe.”

      Jeremy had the impression he was referring to more than the bats and mosquitoes.

      Crazy. Insane. But no more insane than what followed. Wick’s eyes swept their surroundings once more. Whatever he was looking for, it wasn’t bats. Apparently, though, the worrisome thing was gone, because he relaxed a little, drooping slightly under Rom’s weight. There was even a glint of amusement in his eyes as he extended his hand to Jeremy. “Farewell, my Friend,” he said, his tone almost formal.

      Jeremy looked at him incredulously. “You’ve lost it,” he said flatly.

      Wick nodded, again with that odd formality which was so foreign. Then he turned to go, hesitating only briefly as though there was something else he wanted to say.

      The moment passed. Wick shrugged, and started to walk away.

      Jeremy was still so angry he didn’t know how to respond. “That’s it?” he managed.

      Wick staggered slightly, then admitted, with a side glance at Rom, “For him.” There was no amusement in his voice now, only regret. “And almost certainly for me.”

      The moonlight etched planes in his face Jeremy had never noticed before. For a moment, he had the impression he was looking at a stranger. Before Jeremy could figure out what to say, Wick had gone, vanishing—with Rom—into the bat-fraught night.

*

      Jeremy stood there, momentarily stunned. Gooseflesh crawled up his spine once more, and he let it come—there was no one here to see it. He was feeling the same reluctance to call out now as he’d felt when the luminescent runner had passed him on the street.

      It’s Wick.

      He couldn’t be afraid of Wick. This was no stranger. They’d known each other since college—ten years now.

      He felt like a fool for letting himself get spooked. Given the circumstances, it was no wonder if Wick was acting strange.

      The bat rain had stopped, and the bats which were still able to fly were leaving nearly as swiftly as they’d come.

      Some of Jeremy’s tension faded. They’d all been a little weirded out by the bat migration. Wick’s madness had been born of panic, and the spookiness edging the bat deluge had dredged up Jeremy’s concerns.

      At least they ate the mosquitoes...

      Jeremy was suddenly certain he had only to go back to Rom’s house to find him—and get him the medical help he needed.

      He sniggered a little at his own foolishness, and Wick’s bizarre reaction. It didn’t stop him from pausing, though, to stare intently into the darkness, his eyes following the direction Wick’s had taken.

      Where he almost immediately spotted the glowing bat. It was haloed, in a weird glittery underlighting, and as it crawled across the ground it left a trail of sparkling glimmers.

      Jeremy’s eyes widened in horror. The bulging, ratlike eyes were glinting. Every twitch of the ears, every shuffling movement of those creeping wings was highlighted.

      It was heading his way.

      Jeremy took an involuntary step backwards, slipped, tripped and over-compensated, then ended up sprawled on his back. Beneath him, wings squirmed, claws ripped, and small teeth gnawed at his clothing.

      Worst of all, though, was the Glowing Avenger. It was coming towards him; an immutable force over which he had no control. It didn’t matter that his size dwarfed the bat’s, or that he could easily have meted out the same kind of crushing blow the bats were getting under his rear. This bat was different. That wicked light, highlighting all those features humans associate with evil, and it was coming for him...

      Delivering a letter. He sat there stupidly, and stared at the bat’s leavings. The thing was trailing glitter, but when it rose on its spindly limbs, its personal underlighting faded, as it left a crumpled—and radiant—envelope behind. With shaking hands, Jeremy bypassed the bat, and swiftly snatched up the paper.

      Instinct told him to drop it. The moment his fingers brushed the glitzy surface, his breath caught in his throat.

      Leave it...

      Instead, he scooted back away from the bat, and straightened the crumpled sheet against his knee.

      Some new gimmick, he thought, mentally making light of it. Paper you can read in the dark.

      Except there was nothing to read. It was blank, save for the watermark. Jeremy flicked on his lighter, to see it better, only to find the watermark had disappeared. When he flicked off the light, it reappeared, embedded in the paper—a glistening and eerie purple, backlighted by the glitzy luminescence.

      When he reached Rom’s house, the lights were still out. Jeremy paused outside the door. A little nervously, he flicked on his lighter again. The flame danced in the window glass, and he dropped it, startled by the reflected glare.

      Still jumpy, Dipshit...

      No Rom, and Jeremy’s phone returned no answer at Wick’s house either. He hesitated, then sat outside on the porch, uncertain what to do. He tried Wick’s cellphone again, but no luck.

      Wick’s smart. Panicked or not, he’d have hauled Rom off to a hospital.

      Jeremy couldn’t settle. He rang the police about the bats, and phoned a few hospitals trying to locate Rom. After the third call, he decided he was acting like a fool, and rang Wick again instead. “Call me,” he commanded the answering machine.

      He sat on Rom’s porch a few minutes longer, on the off-chance that Rom or Wick would turn up. He hadn’t slept yet, and he was dog tired. Settling back in Rom’s favourite lounge chair, he unconsciously fingered the letter.

      Unbelievable. He rubbed a finger across it, enjoying the rough texture. Glints of gold flickered through his jacket flap, and he froze, distracted. What is it about gold?

      It’s not your letter...

      No, it belongs to a creeping bat. I’m just holding it for him...

      Jeremy gave in to temptation and pulled the envelope out of his pocket. He stared at the contents, then dropped the paper, stunned. The metallic flecks shone as brightly as ever.

      But that glowing watermark—that iridescent purple face—had moved.

*

      Wick sat in the dark, knees up, face buried in his folded arms.

      In hiding...

      Cursing himself for a coward, he pushed himself to his feet, and wandered over to the window, to stare warily into the darkness beyond. The moon had waned, hours since. There was too much blackness without, and too much uncertainty within.

      In the background, Rom’s breathing was a harsh rattle.

      “Plikva!” Wick murmured.

      All those years of watching, and hiding in the open. Better than this...this sequestered darkness.

      He’d never met Her, but in the impassioned stupidity of overzealous duty, he’d made the mistake of meeting Rom. Worse still, in his eagerness to camouflage his business, he’d made it a point to insinuate himself into Rom’s. What had begun as a casual acquaintance had been mutated somehow by shared experience and laughter. Suspicion had given way to a grudging trust, which had built over the years into something stronger. Brotherhood, with its requisite commitment. The kind of bond Wick wasn’t supposed to feel for his enemies.

      Wick didn’t even know when his mission had changed—when his task had evolved from saving her from Rom to saving Rom from himself. When one hunter had resolved to free the other from his trap...

      I’m a fool.

      Only now Rom was sicker than Wick had ever seen him. He’d touched the paper, and it was killing him: the chemical signal to his neurological pathways. That glittering sheet was gone, but the toxin had already infiltrated his skin. He was drowning in histamine, and writhing in withdrawal. Wick didn’t think he had a chance of surviving both.

      I need to find it. The paper wasn’t on him, but Wick didn’t want to leave it for anyone else.

      So foolish, Wickenham, to look for the trigger to a loaded gun.

      I’ll stop him. Keep him from chasing his nightmares until he’s strong enough to fight back. Determined, Wick went over to Rom’s flailing form and lifted him up off the boxes.

      Jeremy will help...

      Or die trying. Stupid, to bring him into this. More stupid, perhaps, than fighting Fate. Wick could acknowledge his errors, even as he moved to compound them. The problem was, his loyalties had changed, years before. The victim of this particular drama—the one he’d been sworn to protect—was neither hapless nor helpless—or, at least, no more so than Rom. Those mosquitoes hadn’t been a natural phenomenon.

      And self-preservation had stirred Rom into a supernatural response, while his unwillingness had caused him to forfeit control.

      Now, they’d be hunting him. Rom’s reaction had been both unexpected and overblown.

      Bats, Wick thought, amusement momentarily brightening his expression. He rolled his eyes and sighed loudly. Talk about black humour. Rom had exhibited the very thing he’d been sent here to eliminate.

      In that moment, Wick couldn’t wait to tell him. It was the kind of joke Rom would have appreciated.

      And, if Wick guessed right, Rom’s awakening might be confused, but for the first time in years, his sleeping self would be alert.

      Romulus would be a whole person. No more schizoid episodes. No more hiding in his dreams.

      His own worst enemy.

*

      Jeremy held the paper a while longer—reluctant to tuck it away. The feel of it beneath his fingers was oddly satisfying, and it bothered him that he couldn’t figure out why. It bothered him even more that he was focussing so much on a stupid sheet of paper when Rom was still in trouble.

      You can’t be certain of that, his conscience assured him, as he stroked the paper soothingly. He watched the flashes of light—like mini fireworks—no, sparklers—dancing in the darkness. Why the hell would anyone crumple it?

      He ran a finger over the creases and shook his head admiringly. Even the dents looked good. Dammit if he wouldn’t incorporate some of these refinements into his artwork. He knew he was more of an opportunist than an artist, but a man can change.

      That weird watermark had startled him at first, but it was obviously some new optical effect, illusory in its novelty. He stared at the woman’s face, enjoying the way her eyes met his. The next stage in optics...

      He was still stretched out on Rom’s chaise lounge, and he lay there, relaxed and supremely content. The envelope was crunched securely in his pocket, but the letter was on his chest, one hand holding it protectively; a stupid, and somewhat vacant, smile on his face. He had to rouse himself to look at the figure which stepped noiselessly onto the porch.

      It was almost enough to startle him out of his reverie. He stared at her, then lifted the paper and stared at her again.

      No doubt about it. The reality was devoid of opalescent greens and purples, of course, but it was, nevertheless, her.

      All kinds of thoughts flitted through his head—wonder at how she’d wandered from illusion into reality; curiosity over why she’d had her face embedded in the paper; confusion about why she was here in the middle of the night on Rom’s porch. His brain didn’t seem to be able to wrap itself around any of the words, though. The only thing he managed—alone with that exquisite in the middle of the night—was a lamely mumbled, “Bat had it.”

      She smiled at him then, or at least, he thought she did. His brain was so foggy it was hard for him to get past her presence.

      When her gloved hand touched the paper, though, he frowned and grumbled. When she tried to withdraw it from his grasp he wrapped his arms around it protectively.

      She was insistent, and in the end, he had no choice. His lassitude wasn’t up to her persistence. She plucked it away like a prize flower, shedding sparkling petals across his chest.

      “Steal away like a thief,” he murmured angrily.

      Her eyes flashed then, and he guessed she wanted to retort in kind. Something held her back, though, and he suspected it was reluctance, to leave anything with him: her thoughts, her touch, the sound of her voice. He was to be left with no sense of her self; with nothing but foggy memory.

      He saw her go, yet it seemed but an instant before she was there again. Eyes closed, he grinned, and blindly groped for her form.

      Her form booted the chaise lounge and toppled it onto its side.

      “Paws off, Fool.” Wick. There was a moment of pained silence, then, “If you couldn’t guess from my looks, all you had to do was ask.” Wick’s voice was thick with amused disgust. “No wonder you have so much trouble with your art.” Grimacing, Wick hoisted Rom a little higher, pushed off from the wall, and staggered in through the front door.

      Jeremy wandered in after him, slammed the door awkwardly, then stood there, wobbling, pondering Rom’s raspy breathing. “Needs a doctor,” he offered sagely. He tried flicking on the light, remembered the electricity was out, and leaned against the wall, crossing arms that for some reason, no longer folded properly. “Lights,” he mumbled stupidly. “Hallooo!” he shouted to Wick. “You still here?”

      Wick was momentarily silent. Then there was a squeak of the sofa springs and he was in Jeremy’s face. He sniffed loudly. “You been drinking?” he asked, confused. Not like Jeremy to drink away his worries.

      “Drinking in the night,” Jeremy told him poetically, with an elegant sweep of his arm which clipped Wick across the nose. Jeremy sat down on a chair, forgot there wasn’t one, and thudded loudly on the floor.

      No booze on his breath, and Jeremy hadn’t done drugs since college. “You on anything?” Wick asked him suspiciously.

      “The floor,” Jeremy replied promptly.

      Wick frowned. He squatted down and gripped Jeremy’s shirt. Concussion. “How’s your head?” he asked worriedly.

      Jeremy sniggered. “Dark in here,” he said practically.

      “Yeah,” Wick muttered. “Call it a precaution. They’ll have it back on by tomorrow.”

      Jeremy took a long moment to absorb that, while Wick’s deft fingers checked his scalp for bumps or bruises. Becoming impatient, he shrugged Wick off and complained, “Damn dark.”

      Apparently, he hadn’t absorbed it after all.

      Absorbed. Wick’s eyes widened. “Did you find anything after we left?” he asked Jeremy urgently.

      Jeremy’s eyes took on a crafty glint. “Bats,” he hissed slyly, then spoiled it by laughing.

      “Anything else?” Wick gripped his shirt again. “Jeremy, listen. It’s important! Did you find something...maybe some paper?” Wick’s sharp eyes had no trouble perceiving Jeremy’s crestfallen expression.

      “She took it,” he told Wick angrily. He gazed up, at a spot two feet over Wick’s head and grouched, “Ripped it right out of my hands.”

      “She?” Wick prompted.

      Jeremy rolled his eyes at Wick’s abysmal stupidity. “Yes,” he confirmed loudly. “Duh-h.”

      Wick’s lips twitched. “Do you know who she was? Have you seen her before?”

      “Sure.”

      Rom’s breathing had become a shuddery whine.

      “Where, Jer?!” Wick asked urgently. “Where’d she go?”

      “My dreams,” Jeremy replied wistfully.

      Wick released him abruptly and stood up, running a hand nervously through his hair. Then, he stooped down and turned over Jeremy’s hands, to look at his palms.

      If he’d had any doubts, they were gone in that instant. Jeremy’s palms were glowing, much as Rom’s were: a pallid, luminescent gold.

*

      Moments later, Wick grunted as he hoisted Jeremy into a chair. Jer was snoring loudly, his mouth gaping open and drool running down his chin. When Wick lifted him, he nearly snorted himself awake, chuckled, mumbled something about “ought to see me with my chisel”, chuckled again, then went back to drooling.

      Wick studied him worriedly. He’ll be all right...

      It wouldn’t have the same effect on Jeremy as it’d had on Rom.

      No worse than a hangover. Different physiologies, different molecuflora. Tomorrow Jeremy would be sluggish, and carry only dim memories of tonight’s events.

      It was a comfortable conclusion, and one Wick could walk away with—if he could convince himself it was the truth. Involving Jeremy was only going to take the man down. That much was evident in what had already happened. Jer didn’t need that.

      No friend would do that to another...

      And Wick hadn’t used him for years. So long, in fact, that he’d gotten out of the habit.

      Jeremy had been an asset ten years past, when Wick’d had a cover to establish. Rom, that innocently lethal newcomer, had gravitated into Jeremy’s orbit. Rom’s blend of naiveté and dark wisdom had been mixed, even then, with a healthy sense of the ridiculous, which had lured people to him. He could laugh at himself, and laugh at them, and no one ever took offence. There was no harm in it...in him.

      If they only knew...

      If Rom could but have seen it, his situation was the most ridiculous of all: lofty principles and lethal purpose. A self-directed tool, Wick thought bitterly, who would toss his life away for a wisp of paper.

      But Jeremy’s popularity, and his wide circle of friends, had given Rom credibility. That would never have been Rom’s intention, of course—he’d have baulked at the idea of using someone else, merely to establish himself. Not so Wick. Rom might have no idea who he really was, or what he was designed for, but Wick did. Wick’s principles weren’t as lofty as Rom’s, but they were a lot more honest, because they were founded in truth.

      Truth? If Rom was a lofty-principled assassin with no idea of his own status, and misplaced confidence in his own ethics, what was Wick McClintock? An accidental friend? An Assassin-Buster with a heart of gold?

      I’m a realist...

      “There are no realists in the Land of Lies.” It was something he’d heard long ago, and it came back to haunt him now. There could be no realists because there was no truth. The reality Wick had been trained for listed Rom as an enemy, and Jeremy as a useful nonentity, but there’d been no truer friends to him, over the years.

      It’s all a lie. Jeremy might not die from the poison, but death by letter would have been a convenient garrotte for all those loose ends: Rom, any unwanted witnesses...and me.

      It was difficult to accept. For over ten years, Wick, too, had been playing a role, that had become more a part of him than he’d ever realised. Underlying his daily activities, however, he’d been proud of his nobility of purpose—of his determination to save her life, and—later—Rom’s.

      Now it all seemed like so much hogwash: dirty, confused, and stinking with shit.

      Wick stood there, irresolute. For a man with a multitude of friends, he was suddenly feeling more alone than he had for the last ten years. Back then, he’d had a Cause to support him, but now he needed another kind of support entirely.

      Play the game...

      It was, really, the only choice he had left.

      He picked up the phone and called for an ambulance.

*

      “What the hell happened?!” Wick could hear Douglas Fitzgibbon’s voice all the way out in the waiting room. Late as it was, the ER was still pretty crowded. Had the man no discretion? Wick vowed to give him hell, then realised he’d never get the chance. He wouldn’t see him again after tonight.

      Wick slumped against the chair back, feeling the weight of his decision. With panic no longer driving him, he could only view his planned departure with regret.

      Nothing will ever be the same. He didn’t want to think about how much he’d miss it.

      There was another loud grumble. It was late enough that Fitz didn’t care. He’d always joked about what he’d do to them if any of ’em showed their faces in his ER. Apparently, he wasn’t joking now.

      Wick twitched nervously. His uneasiness was showing, and he wondered whether Rom was in a bad way. Had he waited too long?

      I didn’t save you to kill you, Rom, he thought morosely.

      But he’d known Fitz was on duty tonight. He’d wanted to outlast him; to wait until his shift was over, and avoid the kind of scene which might lead to questions.

      So when you walked away, hauling Rom’s sorry ass, nobody would take much notice.

      Someone must have given Fitz an explanation, and Wick guessed it was Jenny. He’d known her since college, too. Just his luck she’d been working reception. She’d wanted him to stay, and have Fitz look at his bat scratches.

      Wick thought it was ridiculous, and he’d be damned if he’d let Fitz look at his scratches or anything else. But the Rom Protection Plan called for proximity. As soon as Rom got his brains back, they’d whoosh out the door.

      “Is he still here?!” Fitz’ voice roared.

      My cue to leave, Wick thought, all his plans vanishing in a moment of panic. His carefully-acquired camouflage was failing him. He was too exhausted, too worried, and too scared to cope with Fitz’ questions.

      And too damn confused. Rom could sort this one out on his own.

      Wick sprang out of the chair, and sprinted for the doors. They’d whisked closed behind him before he acknowledged he was an idiot. He’d ridden over here in the front of the ambulance. He had no car, and no money. His wallet was lying somewhere at the bottom of a pond, and he wasn’t exactly dressed for hitching—not with a nose swollen from Jeremy’s poetic fist-flinging, mosquito bites dotting his skin, bat lacerations lining his limbs, and damp clothes from his little swim. There were dead mosquitoes in his hair and splatted across his face, and he’d already guessed from the twitching noses in the waiting area that he was wearing bat guano down his back.

      Resignedly, Wick sighed and headed across the parking lot, his shoes squelching in complaint. Now that he was alone, with no one to protect, the night seemed a lot more threatening.

      Definitely easier to be staunch in company...

      And the hunters were out. Hard to discount the spectral forms he’d seen in the park. Wick hastened his step. It was all he could do to hold himself to a walk. His pounding heart was insisting he run.

      You can’t be sure...

      It had been too dark, and the air too thick with insects; the moon obscured by bats.

      And you were freaked out of your mind. Addled by Rom’s display; confused by what it signified.

      Doubt slowed his steps. All he’d had was a glimpse, really—half-obscured in a pocket of smoke. A distant view of sunken tissues strained over bone.

      Had he really seen it, or was this, simply, what he’d feared to see—one of the spectres which had haunted his memories these many years?

      Ghouls...in any world.

      Had his imagination been triggered by Rom’s unexpected display, so he was designing demons from wraiths of smoke?

      I’ve lived here too long, Wick accepted morosely. He’d grown accustomed to safety and freedom from fear. His, he now recognised, was a negligent acceptance of self-determination. Plunging back into the woes of his abandoned world had never been part of his plans.

      He’d nearly convinced himself he’d been imagining things by the time he’d made it halfway home. Duty wouldn’t let him rest, though. He needed to know whether he’d been fathoming phantoms. Rom’s life could depend on it. Reluctantly, he turned his weary steps back toward the park.

*

      Once there, Wick moved silently between the trees. The scent of newly mown grass wafted his way from the grass verge beyond, and mingled with the sharper tang of the pine needles beneath his feet. He hugged the darker patches of night, reluctant to be doing this at all.

      If I had any sense, I’d wait until daybreak...

      But, of course, he couldn’t, because then he’d wonder. Procrastination would only carry his fear through tomorrow. He wanted to be rid of it tonight.  

      He glanced at his watch, sighed and shrugged. All right, today, then. It was two am and all was not well in the depths of the forest...

      His lips quirked with amusement. It had been so long since he’d needed to be wary like this that it could all have been a bad dream.

      Maybe it is.

      He pinched his skin and sighed. Awake enough, then. Too bad he couldn’t be like Rom who vented his angst in dreams he could never remember.

      You don’t want to be like Rom right now, Wick. If that demon was real, he’s a wanted man.

      The idea sent a shudder down his spine.

      A lone bat strayed through the low branches and Wick jumped. Any movement was suspect. Had something chased the bat from its perch? He squatted down, his back pressed against the coarse bark of a Monterey pine. The solidity of it gave him an illusion of safety. The night remained still, as though holding its breath.

      Sucking in the sound and holding it hostage...

      It was like a black hole in his surroundings: sucking in sound, and light, and life.

      When the night quickened once more, and the insect chorus returned to clicked and chirped mating signals, Wick moved on, nesting his feet in the thick needle beds so he wouldn’t accidentally tread upon a branch.

      He never saw It come. It was camouflaged in the nightsound clutter, which took him by surprise. The night suddenly darkened, and the stars were blotted out.

      He was slammed back, against a tree. Slammed and pounded to centre the blood beneath the skin. Wick kicked and punched and pounded back, but he was blinded by smoke. It rose around him, while bony fingers raked at his clothes. His eyes ran, his lungs screamed, and a howl was choked off in his throat.

      He was falling now, dimly aware of pine needles jabbing his skin. Awareness faded quickly, displaced by the lassitude which was filling him. He knew he should fight the feeling; knew what it signified, but all he wanted to do was sleep.

      It was the Hambre Muerte, the Death Gorge.

      No!

      Tradition demanded he lie here and die now, grateful for the mercy of last-moment oblivion. It was the way these things were done...

      No! Not here! Wick’s fingers were already growing numb. He gritted his teeth, forcing the digits to close on a pointed branch. Then he jabbed it, into the bony head. There was a satisfying crunch and thud.

      The Mictlampa ripped back, with an audible slurp, its jagged teeth torn away from Wick’s muscle. Its moment was past, and instead of a wily predator, it was confused and disoriented—flailing and blind.

      Tastes of a leech, and eating habits to match...

      Wick lay there limply, worried about the demon’s reputation for persistence, and worrying more about its companions. Was it alone?

      He recalled another sorry fact from his past. Micts never travel alone...

      He wriggled his fingers, clenched his fists, bent his toes, and jiggled his limbs—determined to lose the lassitude. The blood scent would bring the others in.

      No way! He crunched the bloodsucker with his foot, right in the face. The creature flopped back, writhing in agony, all the while making a low-pitched grunting sound.

      Wick pushed himself up to a sitting position, grabbed another branch, and whopped the thing again.

      The beast was knocked back, onto the pine needle carpet. Silent now, it did what tradition claimed: melted away, into the undergrowth. At least, Wick was sure that was what it had intended. Its actual disappearance looked a lot more like a wobbling retreat.

      Wick sat there, in bloodied triumph, listening to the crunch and thud as it ran into branches, shrubs, trees. He wondered if, ten years ago, he would’ve had the balls to offer a challenge.

      Too indoctrinated.

      He savoured his victory a few minutes longer. That’s what he told himself, anyway, but himself knew he was actually waiting for his heart to stop that erratic flopping in his chest. He leaned back, impatient, but unwilling to risk his life on a quick escape.

      If I pass out here, I’ll never get up again...

      When the stars reappeared in the sky, he tugged himself up the rest of the way, using the trunk for support. Cursing and swearing, he staggered back the way he’d come.

*

      An hour later, he’d covered about a fifth of the way back to the hospital. Rom couldn’t be alone—not now. Wick trudged along, resentful but resigned. He could think of a dozen places he’d rather be, and ten dozen things he’d rather be doing.

      If Rom hadn’t decided to go into crazy-man mode...

      Not his fault. As soon as you heard about the letter, you knew.

      “Heard about the letter”? Gooseflesh raced down his back. From whom? How had he known?

      More importantly, who’d sent it?

      This is not the way these things were done. Rom could be expected to be determined, but not insane. Hell—the man was barely rational.

      That glittery substance coating his hands? Wick was only glad he hadn’t been stupid enough to touch it.

      Not like Rom...

      He was hit by a sudden longing to gloat. For once, he’d been brainier than Romulus. It was damned unfortunate that the only one worth gloating to—the only one who’d understand—was presently out of his mind.

      Wick sighed and attempted to put such unworthy thoughts aside. Pity. I ought to be pitying the poor fool...

      The fact remained: someone had sent him a lethal package. Given his programming, who would bother? He was already programmed to inflict damage—why drive him insane en route?

      Someone had taken the time, to physically deliver the damned thing. Could they want her that badly now? After all this time?

      His duty wriggled before him and he frowned, uncertain. Mosquitoes were no defence against the Micts. A damned lame offence, too, he thought, scratching resentfully.

      Maybe she had another weapon in her arsenal that he didn’t know about. Hell, he didn’t seem to know very much these days. Everyone seemed to have acquired some special skill since they’d arrived: her, with her insect horde; Rom, with his bat brigade. Only one of them had remained, more or less, the same—except, perhaps, for attitude. Me. It made him feel like a useless defender, more likely to become victim than saviour.

      You, too, have a use, Wick, he thought groggily: sacrifice. Feed you to the Micts so the others can make their getaway.

      Plikva!

      He’d barely left Rom’s neighbourhood when they had him cornered. Wick knew there was no way out.

      Phil pulled over the police car with a quick howl of the siren.

      Well, he showed me, Wick thought wearily. Irritated, he ignored them and kept on walking.

      Phil blocked his path. Arms crossed, he said angrily, “Did you ever think Fitz might be worried—?!”

      “—ya thoughtless bastard,” Wick finished for him.

      Dacey’s lips twitched. “Worried enough to get the rest of us out of bed,” she said pointedly.

      “Tsk, tsk,” Wick retorted sarcastically, but he couldn’t quite conceal his surprise. He’d had a lot on his mind, and the idea of causing them worry hadn’t occurred to him. As far as he could recall, no one had ever worried about him before.

      He wasn’t sure he liked it. It made him feel as though he were in the wrong. He frowned, uncertain how to respond, and annoyed because his thought processes were running at quarter speed. Dacey’s expression suggested she required more of an explanation, though, so Wick made an effort. “Didn’t really think about it,” he said lamely. His voice was hoarse with exhaustion.

      “Didn’t think at all,” Phil retorted. He studied Wick for a moment, taking in the white look. He was a mess—masses of swollen mosquito bites under a coating of mud. “You okay?” he asked gruffly.

      “Sure,” Wick said, squirmingly uncomfortable with Phil’s appraisal. He didn’t know how to handle the man’s concern.

      Dacey’s eyes met Phil’s. Good ol’ Wick didn’t even know how far gone he was. Fitz had been right. He was in shock. “Fitz wants to talk to you,” she said diplomatically. She had a feeling Wick would object to anything else.

      “No way,” Wick said. “Got plans.”

      Just then, his keen ears picked up a sound in the distance. Wick’s skin paled further, taking out even the ruddy colour of the bites. He turned milky white, sick with fear.

      “Wick!” Dacey said, worried.

      “What?” Wick asked distractedly. During the last half-hour he’d been thinking a lot about Rom, and the danger he was facing. Wondering how the hell Wick McClintock was going to protect him from the Micts—and how to protect him from himself.

      Now something else occurred to Wick. Protecting Rom might not be his only concern.

      The Micts don’t know...

      They wouldn’t know it was Rom, at the park. It hadn’t been Rom who’d stood there, silhouetted against the night.

      Whose scent was thick on the air...

      Whose blood they’d sampled beneath the trees.

      So it might not be Rom they’d be hunting.

      Wick’s legs started shaking and his stomach tied up in knots. Embarrassed over his weakness, he tried to brace himself on the streetlight.

      Only to have Dacey grab his arm, and pull it over her shoulder. Phil came up on his other side, so the two of them had his weight.

      Embarrassment. Something else he’d never experienced.

      Just then, the high-pitched whistle sounded again, and the bite in his leg began to throb. Wick’s keen eyes picked up a shifting in the blackness—coils of seething movement, traversing the ground.

      Coming...for him. Blood was running down his leg again. He could feel the warm trickle as it pooled in his shoe, then leaked onto the sidewalk.

      “Holy shit!” Phil exclaimed.

      Wick didn’t blame him. The blackness was traversing the ground—obsidian fog. They’d picked up his scent in the park; now they were hunting his blood. The blackness was closing in.

      “Run—” he warned them. 

      He realised too late the blackness came not from without, but within. No way to stop it now. Wick’s eyes rolled up in his head, and he sagged into their arms.

*

      Chapter Three 
 

      The Mict!

      It was on his face, about to bite off his nose. Wick flailed and fought, tore the oxygen mask off his face and the needle out of his arm. In the background, someone was screaming.

      The Mict was pinning him down. Bony fingers, to gouge out his eyes. Jagged teeth to suck him dry. Wick gagged and clawed and punched.

      “Nooooo!” he yelled. Blood was spattering everywhere and still Wick fought. Fought the damn Micts and fought the lassitude...

      “I need help in here!” That was Fitz’ voice. The Micts were after him, too. Wick kicked harder. Blood spattered the curtains.

      Wick reached out, and grasped the front of Fitz’ coat. Then he rolled them both away from the Micts—off the bed, onto the floor and under the curtain.

      It was no good. The next second the Mict got him again, with those jagged teeth—and jabbed him right in the butt.

*

      Rom jolted into wakefulness. His fingertips were burning...

      Warily, slyly, through slitted eyes, he studied his surroundings. Not alone. There were three occupied beds in the room.

      He turned on his side, gauging the reaction.

      Oblivious...

      He lifted his right hand and stared at the palm. It was embedded with iridescent particles. Miniature glitz stolen from...

      ...the paper. His heart beat faster, and he pulled open the drawer to the left.

      Where? In a frenzy now, he threw back the covers, and opened the cupboard door. No glow, no guidance.

      His fingertips were on fire.

      The stinging heat travelled up his arms and into his chest. Find it or die.

      No—find her. Every cell was vibrating now, answering a molecular call. If he didn’t complete the sequence, if he didn’t find a chemical balance, he was going to explode.

      Do it. Now.

      He swung his feet off the bed, and sat up. The room spun, addling his brain—but for just a moment, he saw things clearly.

      It’s wrong. I can’t...

      At the same time, he knew he would. They’d given him something, and it had broken the barriers. He clenched his fists and waited for the room to settle. God help anyone who got in his way...

      He took a step, wobbled, and grabbed the side table for support. Again, he felt that flicker of apprehension, and something like regret. As he staggered for the door, all he could think was God help them.

      God help me...

*

      “So, what is it?” Fitz asked. He sounded as impatient as he felt. His replacement had managed to run into a tree on his way in, and had been too shaken up to work, so Fitz had been stuck with a double shift. And everything had been going to shit since midnight, when Rom and Jeremy had been brought in the door.

      Then Wick had been brought in, too, and proceeded to nearly bleed himself out in the ER. He’d had slice marks on his chest and arms, and what could only be a bite mark on his leg. He’d been pounded pretty hard, too. “Tenderised,” Wick had remarked, in one of his more lucid moments.

      That was right after he’d toppled them both onto the floor.

      He was sedated now, but you’d never know it. He was talking nearly nonstop about rifts and Micts; babbling over Lands of Lies, bat defences and shattered moons. He was also jovial as hell.

      But his vital signs were far from normal. There was average, and then there was the norm, and Wick was well outside both. He wasn’t the only one, either—Rom’s vitals had been all over the place since the paramedics had picked him up.

      Fitz concluded that something else was responsible—like the gold stuff dusting Rom’s and Jeremy’s hands. They’d tried to remove it, but it was embedded, and nothing—from alcohol to nail polish remover—would take it off. Fitz hadn’t found any on Wick—yet. That wasn’t necessarily conclusive, though.

      Addicts are good at hiding their addictions...

      As soon as the words popped into his head, Fitz dismissed them.

      “Suspicious bastard,” he mumbled. But he couldn’t stop his weary thoughts from focussing on the “signs”: Jeremy’s recent and largely unexplained change in occupations, and the amount of money he was throwing around. Fitz had seen his artwork.

      There’s no way anyone would pay him two dollars for it.

      Jeremy claimed he’d been paid two thousand.

      Rom had regained consciousness, but it was the sleepwalking Rom in charge: wary, suspicious, and silent. He’d refused to answer any questions, and his hands had been clenched in fists. Fitz wondered now whether this was the only Rom they would see until the drug was out of his system.

      You have no proof...

      Whacked chemistry; weird vital signs.

      And Wick had been insane tonight. “Bizarre” didn’t even begin to describe it. He’d been certain he was saving Fitz from danger, but the real danger had been at Wick’s hands.

      Jeremy’s vitals were depressed, but he didn’t seem to be in any danger, and he was certainly the most lucid of the lot. Fitz stood next to his bed, unable to hide his anger. He felt like shouting, but there were other people asleep in the room. It frustrated him, trying to vent his ire in a whisper. “You must know what the hell is on your hands,” he said sarcastically.

      Jeremy frowned. “I think it was the paper,” he supplied.

      “Paper,” Fitz repeated flatly.

      “Gold paper,” Jeremy confirmed. “The bat had it.”

      Fitz rolled his eyes.

      The door opened silently, and at first they were both unaware of it. Then Rom was there. Fitz watched in disbelief as Rom ignored them completely and headed for the wardrobe. He grabbed the paper sack with Jeremy’s clothes, and ripped it viciously, scattering the contents across the floor.

      Fitz came up behind him then, and had reached out, to tap him on the shoulder, when a hand gripped his arm and yanked it back.

      Wick.

      Fitz opened his mouth to say, “You shouldn’t be—”, but Wick shushed him. With an “I-told-you-so” look, Wick tapped lightly on Rom’s arm.

      Rom sprang with a snarl. He aimed a kick at Wick which should have knocked him flat.

      Fitz’ eyes widened as Wick deftly sidestepped it, injured leg and all. He dropped Rom to the ground and pinned him with his knees, using Jeremy’s shirt to wrest the envelope from his grasp. Over Rom’s head, Wick clicked Jeremy’s lighter. “If you want it, Rom,” he growled, “you’ll listen.”

      Rom froze, aware of the threat.

      “The Micts are here,” Wick told him harshly. “You can’t leave.”

      Rom’s teeth bared in anger. He writhed beneath Wick’s grip.

      “We go together.” Wick looked unbelievably weary at the thought.

      “When?” Rom asked angrily.

      “I’m free now,” Jeremy chirped up.

      “Tomorrow. ‘When the dead no longer walk’. Go back to bed,” Wick ordered gruffly. He shoved the envelope into Rom’s hand, then tried to stand up.

      He couldn’t. Fitz reached out—a little nervously, Wick thought—to help him.

      “No more drugs,” Wick warned. “For him or me.”

      “What’s with the paper?” Fitz asked darkly.

      “Death,” Wick replied baldly. “Solutions, to someone else’s problems.”

      Fitz summoned two orderlies to haul Rom off to bed. He was asleep again, and snoring loudly on the floor.

      Jeremy, on the other hand, was chuckling. “Great show,” he said enthusiastically. He sniggered. “A real floor show.”

      “Shut up, Jer,” Fitz ordered. He took Wick’s arm over his shoulder, and Wick peered at him closely.

      “Who beat you up?”

      “You,” Fitz retorted.

      “Oh,” Wick replied, then was silent as Fitz helped him back to his room. A trace of shame made his face burn. This seemed to be his night for discovering things he’d rather not know.

      “Some new designer drug?” Fitz blurted, into the silence. He avoided Wick’s eyes.

      Wick looked shocked, then amusement brightened his eyes. “You could say that. Definitely designed.”

      “You on it, too?”

      Wick didn’t answer, and Fitz took it for assent. He looked disgusted, and he wasn’t exactly gentle helping Wick back into bed. “You can’t leave,” Fitz said flatly.

      “Until we’re ‘clean’?”

      “Something like that.” Fitz rehooked the IV, pulled the curtain and stomped out of the room.

      Half an hour later he was still seething. He’d been called away, but now he’d come back, determined to wrest the envelope from Rom’s grip. He edged into the room.

      Rom wasn’t alone. Wick was there, flopped across the end of the bed. He came instantly awake. “’s you,” he murmured.

      Fitz reached for the crumpled envelope, but Wick shook his head warningly.

      Fitz jerked his gloved hand back, disturbed. For a moment there, he’d felt almost afraid, and it triggered his anger once more. He asked—an edge to his voice—“What’re you doing in here?!”

      Not for the first time that night Wick wished the drugs hadn’t loosened his tongue. It seemed he was destined to blab his head off. “A fool’s errand,” he admitted, with a glint of amusement. “Curb him or kill him: that’s my job.”

*

      It was an hour later and Phil was sitting in the coffee shop with Fitz. Fitz had rung him and blabbed on about designer drugs and psychotic tendencies until Phil had urged him to take the conversation outside.

      “So what did you do?”

      “Drugged the shit out of him,” Fitz admitted with a shrug. He shook his head, then added, with a trace of hysteria, “Can’t have him acting out his fantasies.”

      Phil frowned. “I can’t believe he’s walking around. After that scene in the ER...”

      “Neither can I,” Fitz admitted. “By rights he should be flat on his back. I just don’t get it.”

      Phil showed a flicker of amusement. “What? No ‘the human body has remarkable resilience’, or ‘near-miraculous cures do happen’?”

      “No,” Fitz admitted bluntly, “because most of the time they don’t. Their vitals are so crazy they oughta be in ICU.”

      “‘They’?”

      Fitz looked disgruntled. “Must you play policeman all the time?”

      “I thought you wanted my advice.”

      “Will you lock him up?”

      “Not likely.”

      “Then that’s why, Dumbass,” Fitz told him impatiently. “Your advice, I mean.”

      “Good thing I’m not a violent man.” Phil’s laughter was a deep rumble.

      “Good thing I don’t have to work the ER every time you’re on duty,” Fitz replied sourly.

      Phil’s laughter rumbled again.

      “The ‘they’ includes Rom. Jeremy’s okay.”

      “Or as okay as the ‘artist’ ever gets.” Phil frowned, and shook his head. “Can you believe he’s an artist now? I think I liked it better when he was pushing used cars. At least then he didn’t buy his own bullshit.”

      “Maybe it’s a form of chemical lunacy.”

      “Selling cars?” Phil grinned.

      Fitz glowered. “I knew I should’ve called Dacey. Jeremy’s not the one we’re talking about.”

      “Okay, try this one: egomania manifested in psychopathy.”

      “I don’t think Wick fits the profile.”

      Phil answered his phone. It was Dacey. He listened for a moment, looked absolutely dumbfounded, then asked, “What about Jeremy?” When the call ended, he just sat there, looking sombre.

      Fitz tried to respect it, but after about thirty seconds he couldn’t take it any more. “What?!” he asked impatiently.

      “Wick doesn’t have a record...” Phil began.

      “I could’ve told you that!” Fitz said sarcastically.

      “...of any kind.”

      Fitz looked at him blankly. “So?”

      “So he doesn’t exist.”

      “Rom?”

      Phil shook his head. “Jeremy, yes; Rom, no.”

      “But Rom teaches. How the hell did he get the job?”

      Phil shrugged. “Easy enough to get ID.” He rested his arms on the table and slowly sipped his coffee.

      Fitz read his expression. It wasn’t hard to guess what Phil was thinking.

      Ridiculous! He tried to make it sound that way. “They’re not terrorists.” But it didn’t come out with the certainty he’d intended. Fitz had always ridiculed the popular sport of seeing terrorists in every corner. To him it smacked of Nazis and McCarthyism and Big Brother.

      He also knew it would be the first conclusion Phil would leap to. And Dacey must have already made the leap, if she was giving Phil a call.

      “The drug could be the means, or the trigger.”

      “Shit.” Fitz paled. “His research.”

      “What’re you talking about now?”

      “Rom’s a scientist. He says he’s working on plants, but who knows? He went crazy over the paper—tore things apart to find it.”

      Phil frowned. “And Wick?”

      “Nearly tore him apart.” At Phil’s expression, Fitz grinned. “Merely an exaggeration, Dickwit. He didn’t hurt him.” He hated to suggest it, but he would have hated more suggesting it to someone else. His smile faded. “Wick says his job’s to ‘curb him or kill him’.”

      “So you think he’s after Rom’s research?”

      Fitz shrugged, unwilling to commit himself to a theory which might land one of his closest friends in jail. “Maybe. If so, Jeremy got caught in the middle.” Fitz’ pupils were huge. He considered it further, realised he was overtired and getting caught up in theatrics. “I don’t believe this,” he said, disgusted. “My paranoia’s working overtime. Rom wasn’t a scientist ten years ago—and if you’re right,” he said doubtfully, “he didn’t have records any more then than now. Ergo, this is all a crock of shit.”

      Phil didn’t answer. He just sat there, his expression both suspicious and resigned.

      “Hell, you’ve already decided! Helllooo!” Fitz waved his hand in front of Phil’s face. “Wick, a terrorist? Refugee is more like it.”

      Phil’s face had closed up, so Fitz couldn’t read his expression. Fitz reminded him, in a voice thick with disgust, “He’s one of your best friends.”

      “Convenient, having the local constabulary on your side,” Phil said. “Remember, some places train ’em early—start ’em off young.” He took a big slurp of his coffee, added more sugar, stirred it slowly, then slurped again.

      Buying time, Fitz realised. Wondering how to phrase it so it won’t antagonise the witness. It bothered him the way Phil was avoiding eye contact.

      Phil said slowly, “He looked like he’d been beaten to me.”

      “So now it’s information you want?” Fitz spat. His lips had thinned, and there were red patches high in his cheeks.

      So this is what Fitz looks like, Phil thought—when he’s furious.

      “Outa here,” Fitz muttered.  
“What’re you gonna do?” Phil asked suspiciously, as Fitz turned to go.

      “I’m not gonna start flinging accusations,” he retorted angrily.

      Phil’s jaw tightened. There was an angry glint in his eyes now, too.

      “Let’s say I’m going to find a way to get them back in their right minds,” Fitz said, through gritted teeth. His eyes were mere slits, and his tone frosty as he flung, “Shame the same can’t be done for you.”

*

      The sky cracked, ripping apart in a cacophonous concussion of sound. Rom watched, as the layers of troposphere ruptured, spilling methane and noxious waste, spewing forth fragments of matter. The sky was bleeding now; great gashes leaking pestilential hordes...

      Rom jerked and twitched in his sleep, coming awake with a panicky gasp. His fingers closed on the envelope, reassured by its crinkling proximity. There was no consolation for the guilt, though. He recalled the ground littered with bats, the flopping and flailing of grounded wings.

      I did it.

      The admission nearly killed him. His heart gave a jolt, then thudded, hard, so he could barely breathe. The room grew dotted and buzzy; filtered black around the edges.

      “The worldspanners wear destruction, and bleed the land...”

      Rom had arrived here a sacrificial virgin, imbued with a viewpoint as unshakeable as it was unrealistic. Religious ideals and political philosophies that barely worked for his own culture. He’d been trapped into sleep and brought here, for reasons he could not remember. And he’d been left with only sketchy memories—artificial memories—which he’d assumed were all that anyone retained of one’s youth.

      His mission had been slumbering, too. He’d made a life for himself, and a purpose for that life—little suspecting that his purpose was for something else altogether. Never suspecting that all his ethics and hard-won beliefs would be meaningless, against the irresistible molecular activity driving his body chemistry.

      Time was running out, and all that had gone before was devalued by the needs of today. The life he’d built here was now supposed to become secondary—as inconsequential as his forgotten youth.

      The intensity of his mission was still with him, but the drive was running thin.

      And what happens once you finish it, Rom? He tried to think beyond the moment, and his need to fulfil his programming. It was dehumanising; made him feel like a bloody robot.

      I don’t want to kill anyone.

      He had a feeling his personal ethics wouldn’t matter, should he get close enough. All the good intentions in the world wouldn’t be able to conquer the strength of his bloodlust. It was so hot in his blood now that he could feel it eating him away inside.

      And afterwards?

      A murderer. Condemned by this world and outside the bounds of the other. No religious fervour to cover his tracks. No special credo to excuse murder. He simply wasn’t holy enough, or devout enough, to couch his guilt in religious prudery. No hiding, and no forgiveness.

      Nowhere to go...

      He stood up, and took a tentative step, testing his weakness. He was shivering uncontrollably, but however heatedly he burned inside, his limbs felt ice cold and weighted. He’d be lucky if he had enough in him to finish the job.

      Nowhere to go?

      Death was his guide.

      Maybe it would also prove his destination.

*

      Wick jerked awake.

      Almost. His limbs were too heavy and his lids glued shut. Inside his slumbering body his spirit was writhing.

      Rom was leaving. Wick knew it by the pattern of things, and if someone like Fitz had asked him to be more specific, he would’ve had a hard time explaining why. Over the years he’d become imbued with Rom’s signature, and Rom’s wavelength was going walkabout—becoming distant, with more interference.

      From day one, Wick had made it a point to keep tabs on the assassin, just as he’d once tried to keep tabs on his intended victim.

      It had come to Wick in his restless sleep that if Rom were as gifted as the woman, then he had as much obligation to protect him from harm as he did her. This wasn’t merely a matter of friendship: he had an oath to uphold, and beliefs to sustain. He could protect Romulus without compunction. It was his duty.

      Except the damn fool would be out trying to ruin it all. Luring in the bats was bad enough; summoning the hunters was worse. Once a Mict went into hiding, there was no finding the foul thing, unless it wanted to find you. Micts were the punishers of the irreligious.

      In this case, they were the executioners for the indiscreet.

      Only, they’d gotten it wrong.

      Nice to know they can make mistakes. They weren’t omniscient.

      A little more of Wick’s superstitious conditioning chipped away.

      He sniffed—aware, even in his sleep, that something was wrong. He should have been focussed on Rom’s sensory camouflage, yet all he could think of now were Micts.

      It was coming. His eyes were closed, but he sensed it drift through the doorway. He could see it, shifting behind his lids, moving toward him across the room—wanting to finish the job before the daylight finished it. Wick mentally scrambled to the far side of his bed. Physically, all he could do was lie there and flinch.

      The dark smoke was rising now, concealing the evil deed from watching eyes. Couching a simple act of feeding in some vainglorious exhibition of smoky retribution.

      Wick felt the teeth pierce his shoulder even as the first rays of daybreak spiked the skies.

*

      Fitz left Phil and went straight to Rom’s room. He knew it was stupid, and wouldn’t do his rep any good.

      Go home, get some sleep, and talk to them when you’re calm...

      Only, he didn’t think he’d be able to sleep. Whatever these fools were taking, it was killing them. They had to know. Confrontation came a lot easier when you were tired and irritable.

      Besides, I already blew it. Wick had requested no drugs, but Fitz had doped him up anyway. A fool’s solution to a difficult problem, but without it, Fitz would have been concerned about leaving. He would have felt even more remiss if he’d left Wick to strangle Rom in his sleep.

      Rom was gone. His bed was empty.

      Fitz’ eyes were narrowed as he stole into Wick’s room. The door was closing behind him before he realised he needn’t have bothered with being sneaky. Wick was already awake. He was standing at the closet door, and Fitz crossed his arms and leaned against the doorjamb.

      “Going somewhere?”

      Wick jumped, muttered something under his breath, then said, with attempted nonchalance, “Just heading for the head.”

      “Uh-huh,” Fitz said, frowning like thunder. “Where’s your IV?” he asked.

      For the first time, Wick noticed that the bag of blood, which had been transfusing into his arm, had disappeared.

      “Someone must have taken it,” he said lamely.

      Damn Mict! Couldn’t resist an after-Wick snack.

      “Go.”

      Wick looked at him blankly.

      “You said you needed to visit the head,” Fitz told him angrily. “Go do it.” He smiled irritatingly. “I’ll just stay here, to make sure you don’t slip...away.”

      Wick looked from Fitz to the closet door and back again. “No,” he said. Don’t look down, don’t look down, don’t look down...

      Fitz looked down. Blood was dribbling out from under the closet door, and pooling onto the floor. Fitz lifted his head, and looked at Wick in dawning horror.

      Rom!

      “...curb him or kill him.”

      Before Wick could comment, Fitz had slammed him back, against the bed. He took a deep breath, as though steeling himself for a grisly discovery, then yanked open the door.

      And was sent flying. The Mict was slurping fatly on the bag of blood, and didn’t take kindly to having its meal interrupted—or its body exposed to the light. Growls erupted from a dense black cloud as the Mict, concealed within its personal fog, leapt at Fitz’ chest.

      Wick grabbed a chair, and slammed it across the Mict’s back.