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9


Beauty in Tears


The creature glided slowly in her direction. Dr. Susan Sheffield crouched further into the corner, watching as something slid past the tall yellow barrels.

The scientist in her noted calmly that the creature seemed to be comprised of different light intensities, which shifted as it moved. No, not variable light intensities, but rather the absence of light. As it floated through the air, it—absorbed? deflected?—light waves, creating the shadowy framework. It also seemed to be slightly confused by the heavy metals disposal canisters. Possibly the contained radioactivity, or maybe the metals themselves? No way to know, not without some extensive testing . . . 

The other part of her mind was too numb to think, too horrified to consider anything but screaming. But she knew that making a single noise would be fatal. She’d seen one of these things kill Frank, and the new Lab tech, the boy whose name she could never remember. At least, she hoped they were dead.

The creature inched closer, blotting out the last of the light. She was too terrified to scream; she closed her eyes, wishing she could at least know what had killed her . . . 

A faint sound pierced her terror, a sound that she felt resonating beneath her skin, even though the room was completely silent. A melody, strange and alluring, calling to her, calling . . . 

She opened her eyes again, to see the creature still floating in the air before her. It began to move away, drifting toward the stairway. Without thinking about it, she moved after it, following it up the stairs. The music seemed to be saying something to her, something too important to ignore, even with the shadows of death moving through the hallways around her.

She followed the creature up the long flights of stairs, through the emergency exit and toward the main lobby. Other shadow-monsters joined them in this strange trek, drifting past her through the white metal railings.

Something stopped her by the door, though; a silhouetted human figure, standing near the doorway, staring at something beyond. A moment later, she recognized him—Warden Blair, the project manager of the team down on Level 13, one of the “sealed” floors. He stood very close to the doorway, his fingers clenched white on the lintel, as though trying to hold himself back from a force that was pulling him through the door.

She stood there for a moment, as the creatures drifted past her, coiling around her ankles and swirling her skirt around her knees. Beyond, she could see the floodlit area beyond the glass doors. Standing beyond the doors was a young man with long dark hair, playing a flute. As she watched, the shadow-monsters drifted toward the young man, gathering before him, a shifting dark cloud.

Blair turned and saw her. She recoiled at the look in his eyes . . . there’s nothing human there, a corpse has more emotion in its eyes . . . and stepped back, though the music still tugged her forward.

Those inhuman eyes fixed on her face, lit with a strange hunger. Blair let go of the doorjamb, and reached out a clawlike hand toward her.

Susan dove past him, into the dimly-lit lobby. Her hand slapped the door release knob by the side of the glass doors, and she slammed into the doors shoulder first, falling through to the concrete steps outside. She glanced back; there was no sign of Blair in the shadowy lobby. Now she didn’t have to worry about a homicidal maniac . . . instead, she had two hundred of those deadly creatures gathered on the asphalt not quite fifteen feet in front of her. No problem, she thought crazily, and fainted.



All right, Eric. You get one try at this; don’t screw it up. He took a deep breath, and looked out at the gathered assemblage of Nightflyers on the pavement. I can handle this. It’s just like conducting the high school orchestra back home.

Except that the kids in the school orchestra weren’t going to eat me alive if I made a mistake . . . 

The Nightflyers waited patiently. Eric could sense that they were watching him, waiting for . . . something.

For me. They’re waiting for me to make a decision, to lead them. The image of the Nightflyer in the ruined city flashed through Eric’s mind, the creature bowing to him as if to a great lord, a leader.

That’s what I could be to these guys. A leader. He imagined himself at the head of the unliving army, sweeping through the countryside and righting all wrongs . . . no more wars, not when there wasn’t a conventional army on the planet that could fight against his troops. No more crime, no drug wars in the streets of the city . . . no one dying of violence, no one at all, ever again.

Except when these Nightflyers get hungry and need to find a dinner somewhere.

Then again, maybe all of that wouldn’t be such a good idea after all . . . 

Eric shuddered, bringing himself back to the present. He saw that the crowd of Nightflyers had moved closer to him while he’d been daydreaming, and now were hovering only a few feet away, almost close enough to touch. Get your act together, Eric, and get rid of these guys before you end up as the Blue Plate Special yourself.

He brought his flute up to his lips, and began playing a slow slipjig, “The Boys of Ballysadare”—a tribute to fallen soldiers, young boys killed in a battle nearly forgotten in the mists of history—one by one, the Nightflyers faded from view, like shadows touched by bright sunlight Eric felt sweat running down his skin, as he realized just how many of the creatures he had summoned, and still had left to banish.

One of the Nightflyers drifted very close to him as it faded away, the shadow-wings brushing against his skin, a touch colder than ice. He held onto his concentration like a shield, willing the monsters to go away, return to that strange place from which he’d called them. Only a few left, he saw as he began playing the A part of the tune again, only a few . . . one of his fingers, damp with sweat, slipped on the smooth metal key of the flute, and the remaining Nightflyers surged forward toward him. He caught up the thread of the melody again, holding them at bay until the last one was gone, and he was alone in the parking lot.

Eric slid down to his knees on the asphalt, the flute clutched in his nerveless hands. The adrenaline charge hit him a split-second later, his heart pounding too fast, hands shaking with the realization of how close he’d been to death.

Next time, maybe I’ll just call in the Marines instead.

He managed to stand up somehow. Fortunately, he was still alone . . . no, he wasn’t. He saw an older woman, dark-haired and wearing a Laboratory coat over her clothes, slumped on the pavement a split-second later, and hurried to her. Eric knelt beside her, checking her throat for a pulse.

At his touch, the dark-haired woman opened her eyes and blinked at him. “It’s okay,” he said quickly. “It’s all over.”

She sat up slowly, looking around the parking lot. In her eyes, Eric recognized the same look of total shock that he’d seen in the eyes of the Los Angeles elves, after the battle in the park.

“Do you have a car?” he asked. “I’ll help you get home.”

She nodded, not speaking.

He helped her to her feet. She leaned against his shoulder, walking unsteadily. As they approached a blue Suzuki jeep, parked alone beneath one of the floodlights, she silently handed the car keys to Eric. Well, he knew in theory what to do. As Eric drove the jeep out of the Dublin Labs parking lot, weaving like a drunkard, the woman looked back once at the brightly-lit Laboratory complex and began to cry.



Beth held tightly to Kory as the motorcycle banked through the turn from Van Ness onto Geary Street, accelerating through the pools of light and shadows cast by the streetlights. Something bothered her about the moving shadows, the way they glided past the motorcycle and disappeared behind them.

The faerie motorcycle braked delicately into a right turn, heading up their street and toward the only lit house . . . of course Eric forgot to turn off the lights in the garage when he left the house, she thought and smiled. Figures. I just hope he remembered to lock the front door

They pulled up into the driveway, the bike courteously switching off its own headlight. She slid off the motorcycle and nearly lost her balance, grabbing onto Kory for support.

“I’m okay,” she muttered, then repeated the words louder for Kory’s benefit. A moment later, the second motorcycle pulled into the driveway, and Elizabet and Kayla followed them to the front door.

Inside, the house was warm and dark. Beth felt her way carefully through the darkness, turning on lights as she went. She continued into the kitchen and the livingroom, making sure that all the lights were switched on. She caught the curious looks from Elizabet and Kayla as she went into the dining room to turn on the light in that room. When all of the first floor of the house was brightly lit, she rejoined them in the livingroom, slumping into her favorite chair, a Papa-san with a fat pillow-seat.

“Do you want something to drink?” she asked, remembering to be a good hostess. “Some tea or coffee?”

Kayla shook her head. Beth noticed that Elizabet was giving her apprentice a different kind of odd look.

“Is anything wrong, Beth?” the older woman asked, watching her intently.

“No, not at all. I’m just glad we’re home. Are you sure you wouldn’t like anything to drink?” She stood up, walking to the wooden cabinet by the fireplace. “Well, if no one else wants anything, I think I’d like something.” She reached for the bottle of Stolichnaya, and realized for the first time that her hands were shaking.

Elizabet stood up, and took the bottle from Beth’s hand. “I don’t think that would be a good idea, Beth,” the healer said firmly.

Without even thinking about it, Beth slapped her across the face.

She brought her hand up to her mouth, suddenly horrified by what her hands had done. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to . . . I . . . ” To her horror, she burst into tears.

Beyond Elizabet, she could see Kory, staring at her. “I’m okay, I’m okay,” she said, angrily wiping the tears from her eyes.

“I think you need some rest,” Elizabet said, taking her by the arm. Something about that touch, it seemed too familiar to her . . . she glanced at Elizabet’s face, and saw her handsome dark features melt, changing into something else . . . a man’s face, a man wearing a business suit, smiling at her with that look of a little boy with a new toy, he was going to take her apart like a clock and toss all of her gears and wheels across the floor . . . 

She shoved Blair away from her, sending him falling back against the cabinet, and turned to run. Kayla was blocking her path, though . . . why was the little healer kid trying to help Warden Blair? Kayla said something that Beth couldn’t hear, and then the world went very bright, the white light blotting out everything else. Very strange, she thought as the light washed over her and carried her away.



Susan stretched, not wanting to open her eyes. What an awful dream, she thought, remembering her nightmare. Wish I’d gotten more sleep. It’s going to be hell, trying to run the computer data on that test run, if I’m half-asleep and can’t think straight . . . 

She switched on the light on the nightstand, and heard a strange noise from the kitchen. She sat up abruptly.

Burglars!

She reached for her bathrobe, then suddenly realized that she was still wearing her clothes from the day before, the Lab coat and skirt and blouse and pantyhose, sans her Lab shoes. Quietly, she moved through the hallway, pausing to pick up a heavy marble bookend from the table near the window.

She took a deep breath, hefted the reassuring weight of the bookend in her hand, and looked into the kitchen.

A handsome dark-haired young man stood in her kitchen, staring in perplexity at her espresso machine, which was currently spraying hot water into the air.

The man from my nightmare last night . . . 

“I’m really sorry,” the young man said, gesturing at the hot water on the countertop and floor. “I didn’t mean to wake you up or make all this mess, I just wanted some coffee before I went home.”

“This machine is very temperamental,” she said, recovering enough from her surprise to grab a potholder and use it to twist the machine’s spigot several times. The flow of hot water ceased, and a stream of fresh coffee began to pour sedately into the waiting pot. “Give it a few seconds, and it’ll be ready.”

“I’m sorry if I startled you,” he said after an awkward silence. “I would’ve left last night, but by the time we got to your place, I’d already missed the last BART home. I slept on your couch . . . I hope you don’t mind.”

No, not at all, I love having figments of my imagination stay over for breakfast.

Not imagination. That wasn’t a dream last night. It was real, all of it was real . . . 

Either that, or I’ve gone mad.

He took down a mug from the shelf above the espresso machine, and poured himself a cup of coffee, as Susan stared at him.

“Okay, kid,” she said in her best Lab manager’s voice, the one that worked so well on the obnoxious young interns from Cal Berkeley. “I want some answers, right now. What happened last night at the Labs?”

“It was . . . it was a mistake,” he said, staring at his coffee mug. “I shouldn’t have done it, I know that now, but I couldn’t think of anything else to do, and I thought Kory was dying . . . I could’ve lost control of them, and not banished them all . . . Christ knows what those things would’ve done if that had happened.”

Her voice sharpened. “What did you do?”

He looked up at her, an odd expression in his eyes. “I called them. You saw them, you were right there on the lawn. I brought them there, and let them go. What happened in there?”

This kid . . . he thinks he caused what happened last night, whatever that force . . . those creatures . . . were, that came into the Labs. And maybe he’s right, because I saw them gathering around him in the parking lot, as though he was calling them back.

She heard herself describing what she had seen in a calm, detached voice, the one she used to read papers at conferences. “Those things . . . killed a lot of people in the Labs. I don’t know how many, but Frank is dead, and that boy, and God knows how many other people.”

“Excuse me, please,” he said faintly, and made a dash for the bathroom down the hall. Through the open door, she could hear him being quickly and violently ill.

She stood there alone, trying to gather her thoughts. She felt unnaturally calm, distant from this insanity that had suddenly engulfed her life. It’s called shock, Susan, she thought.

Several minutes later, he returned to the kitchen, and took a quick swallow of coffee. There was a different look in his eyes, something she couldn’t identify.

“Who are you? What’s your name?” she asked.

He glanced up at her, a wary expression in his eyes. “Maybe . . . maybe I’d better leave now.”

She stood between him and the only door out. “Not until you answer my questions, kid.”

He looked as if he was going to say something else, then shook his head, pursed his lips, and whistled a brief sequence of notes, something she recognized as the beginnings of an Irish tune called “Whiskey Before Breakfast,” and . . . 

 . . . and she blinked at the sudden bright sunlight pouring through the kitchen window. Her back was aching, as though she’d been standing on her feet too long; she looked over at the clock above the espresso machine, and blinked again.

Ten a.m.? I’ve been standing here like this for two hours?

And she realized something else: she was alone in the kitchen. There was no sign of the strange young man, or where he’d gone, only a half-filled coffee mug left on the kitchen counter.



The choice was to go home or call home; he only had change for one. Eric sat on the BART bench, staring at his clenched hands in his lap. He could see it now, in his mind’s eye . . . the Nightflyers gliding into the building, leaving nothing alive behind them. He knew he could’ve seen it before it had happened, if he’d bothered to think about the consequences of his actions.

What did they do? How many people did they kill, when I let them into that complex?

Something small and shadowy whispered in the back of his mind: We will tell you, if you let us come back . . . Bring us back, bring us back . . . 

“No!” he said violently, loudly enough that the other passengers on the subway looked up at him. He leaned his head against the glass, closing his eyes to shut out the rest of the world.

No, I won’t bring you back, he silently said in the direction of that shadowy voice. No dice. I know what you are now, and I’ll never do that again, never.

The image of the Nightflyer bowing to him in the ruined streets of San Francisco hit him like a fist, a mental sending that was as clear and sharp as a memory.

You have/will/are helping us, the voice continued. Help us again. Lead us, bring us back . . . 

With a sudden clarity, Eric saw the Nightflyers, poised around him, but just beyond reach . . . just beyond a veil, thin and shimmering, that was all that stood between the waking world and the realm of nightmares. He understood their way of thinking in all times at once, past/future/present, and how they hungered for all things human and living. And how they needed him, needed someone or something to break through that thin veil and bring them into the real world. He could feel their slow and patient thoughts, simmering evil that was completely inhuman, and how they had watched him—since he was a child, they’d known he would be a Bard someday (if he lived that long) and would be able to aid them . . . waiting for a moment, a Breakthrough, when the Special Ones could get through.

Well, you’re going to be waiting a hell of a lot longer than that! he thought to the waiting throng. Because I’m not doing it!

Not evil, not us, the voice said quietly across the void between the two worlds. But different, and in need of your masses of humanity to survive . . . we need you, as you needed us . . . 

Eric reached out blindly with his thoughts and shoved, hard, until he no longer heard the voice, and he was alone again in his own head, with no whispering evil by his side. Like a sleepwalker, he left the BART train at the Powell Street Station to change to a Metro bus, and then to step down from the bus and walk up the hill to their house. Even from the end of the street, he saw the two motorcycles parked in the driveway, and felt a weight, that he hadn’t known he was carrying lift away from him. Knowing that Beth and Kory were home, knowing that they were all right, he couldn’t keep a smile from his face. Until he remembered again what he had done to bring them home.

The front door was unlocked, and he let himself in, hanging his jacket from one of the hooks near the door. He heard someone in the kitchen, and his nose filled with the smell of fresh sausage and eggs frying. The smell awoke the sour taste in his mouth again, and the twisting sensation in his stomach. He decided that maybe he’d skip breakfast, just for today.

Kayla walked quickly out of the kitchen, carrying a plate of food and a glass of milk—she stopped short at seeing Eric in the hallway, a strange expression on her face. After a split-second, Eric recognized it as fear.

She gave him a lopsided smile. “Hey, Bard! Glad to see you made it home all right. You sure look terrible.”

He swallowed hard. “Kayla, is everyone okay? Where are Beth and Kory?”

“Kory’s fine,” Kayla said. “But you’d better talk to my boss about Bethany. Everyone’s upstairs right now.”

She looked fine last night . . . well, maybe not fine, but okay. Not bleeding or anything. What could’ve happened after they left for San Francisco?

The exhaustion finally hit him, as Eric started up the stairs. An accumulation of terror, too much magic, too little sleep, and no food . . . the world began to turn white around him, and he grabbed the bannister for support. Kayla caught him and helped him sit down; everything was too blurry, moving too fast around him.

“You’re not in very great shape, either,” the young healer observed clinically.

“It’s been one hell of a night,” Eric said, hoping that he wasn’t going to be physically sick again. That would’ve been the perfect ending to a thoroughly awful night. And it had started out with such an adrenaline rush as he’d realized just how much power he had as a Bard, how he could summon his own personal army of demons and rescue his friends, and no one could stop him . . . 

And God knows how many people I killed last night, it’s my fault, it’s all my fault . . . 

Kayla’s hand rested on his shoulder, and he felt the dizziness pass, and a wave of . . . something . . . wash over him instead. Suddenly he felt a little better, as the nausea faded away. “Thanks,” he said.

“Not a problem,” the kid replied. “That’s what Elizabet calls the Kayla Patented Jump Start, perfect for those bad magical hangover mornings. You kind of overdid it last night, Bard.”

“Don’t you think I know it,” he muttered, his face in his hands.

“Eric!”

He looked up quickly to see Kory vaulting down the stairs towards him. The blond elf caught him up in a bearhug, then held him at arm’s length, his eyes searching Eric’s face. “You look terrible, my friend.”

“I know, I know. Nothing that some sleep won’t cure.” He stood up slowly, and glanced upstairs. “Is Beth okay?”

Kory’s face fell. “I do not understand this at all. This must be a human thing because I have never seen an elf suffer from this illness.”

“Is she awake? Is she—” Eric moved past Kory, heading for the bedroom door. He stopped in the open doorway.

Beth was sitting up in bed, wearing her usual sweatshirt, her dark red hair falling loose over her shoulders. Even from the doorway, he could see that something was different, though he couldn’t tell exactly what. It wasn’t just the way she was sitting so quietly, or the tired look in her eyes . . . it was in the tilt of her head, the way she sat . . . something was different, and Eric already knew that he didn’t like it.

She looked up and saw him, and her eyes brightened. “You look terrible,” she said softly, smiling at him.

“I know, love.” He sat down on the bed next to her, caught her hand and brought it to his lips. “You look kinda awful yourself.”

“I’m glad to see you back, Eric,” Elizabet’s warm voice spoke from across the room. Eric saw the older woman for the first time, seated in the warm sunlight in the window seat. “We were all worried about you.”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. Nothing I couldn’t handle . . . badly, he thought. Nothing I couldn’t handle without getting a lot of people killed.

“Will you be all right without me for a few minutes, Beth?” the healer asked. “I need to talk to Eric.”

“Yeah, sure.” Beth waved away any concerns.

“I’ll send Kayla in to keep you company,” she said, and called downstairs to her apprentice, who ran up the stairs a couple seconds later, giving her mentor a pseudo-military salute before sitting down in the window seat that Elizabet had just vacated.

Eric followed Elizabet out of the room, into the garden. The woman sat down wearily on the grass. “How are you doing, Eric? You look tired and stressed out, but not too much worse than that.”

“I’m okay,” he said cautiously, sitting down next to her. “What’s going on with Beth?”

Elizabet hesitated. “It’s a little difficult to explain. What do you know about mental illness, Eric?”

“Not much.” Not much more than three years with the expensive shrinks my mother hired could teach me. That I wasn’t nuts, but I had to give them the answers they wanted to hear.

“Well, without knowing exactly what happened to Beth last night, all I can guess is that she’s suffering from an affective disorder of some kind—possibly a variation of post-traumatic stress disorder. In layman’s terms, I’d call it extreme shock and the beginnings of a nervous breakdown. Definitely that . . . she cried for three hours last night without stopping. But she won’t talk about it—without adequate information, there’s no way to know what’s really going on.” She stretched, rubbing her eyes. “I’ll need to get some sleep soon, or I won’t be much use to anyone.” She sat up, giving Eric a curious look. “Kory said something about how Beth thought she couldn’t breathe, last night in the Labs. Do you know anything about that?”

He thought about that for a minute. “No, not really. But . . . Beth’s claustrophobic. And they were underground; I’m guessing there weren’t any windows down there. Could that have caused this?”

“A normal claustrophobia attack wouldn’t cause anything this severe. I’d expect to see high anxiety levels, possibly some fairly serious psychosomatic reactions, but not anything like this. It could’ve caused the elevated metabolic levels she was showing last night, but not any of these continuing effects.”

“What about physical damage?” He had to ask. He had to. “Was she raped?”

The healer shook her head. “No, definitely not. Any damage is completely mental and emotional. But something happened to her in those Labs which she won’t talk about yet, and that something is what triggered all of this. And it happened before all of those . . . creatures . . . showed up at the Labs. By the way, I’d like to talk to you about that,” she added, giving him a very penetrating look.

He flushed. “Later,” he said.

“All right.” She accepted that, as she accepted most things, from elves to frightened runaways. “Listen, I need to get some sleep soon. Will you sit with Beth for the next few hours? I don’t want to leave her alone for too long.”

“Is there any particular reason why?” he asked, concerned.

“I’d—I’d rather not say. Just keep an eye on her, all right?”

Without even thinking about it, Eric reached out to touch the woman’s thoughts. Genuine fear for Beth hit him for the first time, reading the thought that was uppermost in the healer’s mind. “Do you think Beth is suicidal?”

Elizabet nodded slowly. “It’s possible. That’s why we’re not going to leave her alone right now. I’d rather not take the risk.”

He felt an icy touch inside, a cold ball of fear that wouldn’t go away. “I’ll stay with her.”

They walked back inside the house. Upstairs, Beth was asleep, the lines of tension no longer visible in her face. He took over Kayla’s place in the window seat, settling down on the pillows. He leaned back against the sun-warmed wood, feeling the terrors from last night washing away, being replaced by new terrors.

He had never expected this, never thought this could happen. Beth had always been the strongest of them all, the most determined, the one who refused to turn away from a fight. He couldn’t imagine a Beth that wasn’t strong-willed and outspoken, vibrant and always laughing. The concept of a Beth who was so quiet and pale, who cried for three hours without stopping, he couldn’t believe that this had happened, that this was real.

He had been so afraid for Kory, knowing that something awful was happening to him, that he might’ve been dying, that he hadn’t even thought that something worse could be happening to Beth. Now Kory was fine, and Beth was the one who had been badly hurt, and hurt in a way that he didn’t understand.

And himself . . . the only word that he could think of to Label himself was monster. Without even thinking of the consequences, he’d summoned the Nightflyers and turned them loose, killing God knows how many people in those Labs. He was a monster, as much as any Nightflyer—and they knew it, those strange intelligent shadow-creatures from across the veil of dreams, and they saw him as their leader, one of their demonic horde . . . 

And somewhere in the back of his mind was a strange feeling telling him that now, when there should be nothing left to do but heal, this wasn’t the end of it, a little prescient touch that things were only going to get worse . . . 

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