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Chapter Eighteen

Petrus lay on his belly in front of the television, remote in hand. "You said you wanted to channel-surf," he said petulantly to Wenlann, who cowered in the corner of the couch. "I want to watch this. This human intrigues me."

Wenlann sighed. "So be it. I think I can put up with this grotesque display of human maleness." A frown passed over her elven features, signaling to Petrus that he had won the argument only for the time being.

On the big screen Sony, Rambo threatened to blow something away with a .50-caliber machine gun. It was the most heroic human Petrus had ever seen; if Rambo were an elf, he speculated, the man would truly be formidable.

This was the first time they'd been left alone in the human house, and Petrus had already decided he liked it. He knew enough to stay out of things he didn't understand, particularly in the garage, where all manner of Cold Iron waited to burn them. There had been the temporary excitement earlier, when the King had accidentally set fire to his carriage, but the danger of unwanted humans entering their new elfhame had passed. Adam had put him in charge of guarding Wenlann, but even now he was beginning to suspect that was only to pacify him, while the "adult" elves went off and did the important things.

"Petrus, what was that?"

The young elf scowled at the interruption. "What was what?"

She looked fearfully toward the front door. "That."

Petrus heard it that time. A thud, then footsteps. Since the big crane had already taken the burned carriage away already, he knew it wasn't that. Was the King back already? He doubted it.

"I'll go look," Petrus said, but he sounded braver than he felt. I'm in charge. I have to go look. But I don't like it.

He crept into the dining room, which had a window looking onto the front yard and circular drive. He saw the charred outline of the carriage, and behind it was another black, rounded carriage. It didn't move, and he didn't see anyone inside.

He observed the carriage for a time, as a sense of dread fell over him like a black shawl. This was how I felt when the Unseleighe took the palace, he thought. Then, We're in danger. I know it.

He ran back to the living room. "Wenlann, I think we should hide in our quarters."

She leaped to her feet. "Why? What's wrong?"

"I don't know," he said. "Just to be safe." She clung to his arm like the frightened child they both were, and Petrus suddenly felt like an adult.

As he helped her up the ladder, he heard the front door crash open.

"Go," he said impatiently as she scampered up the ladder, then pulled it up behind her.

Without really thinking, he ran back to the kitchen and started going through the drawers. He recoiled from the drawer full of Cold Iron knives, but reached for them anyway, burning his fingers. Too hot. I need . . . Then he saw the oven mitt over the stove.

As he grabbed the knife clumsily with the mitt, he sensed a presence behind him. Petrus froze.

"Is this all I have to show for my efforts?" boomed an alien voice. Petrus turned to face the intruder. "A pathetic elf child with a knife?"

Petrus knew this had to be an Unseleighe, but it was unlike any elf he'd seen. Small and vaporlike, the creature looked more like a black rat, with a ragged tunic.

"What are you doing in our home?" Petrus demanded. Despite his best efforts to keep his voice deep, it squeaked, mouselike, on home.

Petrus flung the knife at the intruder; the weapon flew through him, as if he were a ghost.

"Care to try that again, child?" the intruder said. Petrus fled into the garage.

He sensed others in the house as he closed the door behind him. Of course, the lock was on the other side, but at least it gave him a few more moments to scavenge for some other weapon. His eyes fell on the staple gun, one of the items Adam had warned him against, because it spat Cold Iron. It was a large, heavy item, and took both hands to hold up. The Cold Iron the weapon was made of burned, but he still had the oven mitt on and relied on that hand to grip it. He squeezed hard, and out popped a piece of Cold Iron that stuck in the wall. Petrus stood, holding the staple gun in front of him.

"Petrus, what's going on?" he heard Wenlann wail above him.

"Quiet, or they'll hear you!" Petrus shouted back. Then the door burst open. In stepped the biggest Unseleighe he'd ever seen.

"Where are the others, little one?"

Though blond, and in a human seeming, Petrus recognized the face and, when he spoke, the voice.

Zeldan Dhu.

"Gone back to Underhill!" Petrus squeaked, holding the staple gun quivering in front of him.

Zeldan laughed, his voice booming against the interior of the garage.

"Where I have complete control?" Zeldan advanced a step. "Who were you talking to?" His eyes traveled upward, to the ladder. "So that's where they hide!"

"NO!" Petrus screamed, and squeezed the staple gun. The bit of iron flew directly into Zeldan's forehead, where it stuck.

"YAAAAaaaargh!" the Unseleighe screamed, reaching for the iron that protruded from his skin. Two tiny flames shot out where the metal went in. Petrus fired again, and again, missing once, then hitting him in the arm, with the same fiery results.

Zeldan screamed something incomprehensible, and Petrus continued firing until his hands ached. The staples struck his opponent half a dozen times, but fell out, more often than not, leaving only small burns.

Two other Unseleighe charged in behind Zeldan, and Petrus kept firing. They had him by the arms before he realized he'd run out of staples.

Zeldan walked over to where the others had him pinned down. "I would kill you, if I didn't need you for hostages," Zeldan said. Then Petrus saw another Unseleighe with Wenlann, who was screaming and kicking as they came down the ladder.

To the others, Zeldan barked, "Take them to the center. We have a formidable task ahead of us tonight."

 

This is the beginning of the end of the nightmare, a part of Daryl realized during his grief over his brother. I only hope that I've stopped in time.

Despite the assurance from Adam and Samantha McDaris, Daryl was not convinced he would live past the evening.

Can't live with it either, not anymore.

Samantha and her cop partner had gone off to get the listening equipment, and Adam had gone back out to the car for something. He was alone in the dining room as the cops went over the house again. It seemed to be a pattern, sitting in a dining room, feeling like crap, as police searched the house. He liked it even less that it was his house this time.

And then Presto calls in the middle of all this. Terrific. Here I am, giving the cops evidence to put him away. And Dad, wherever the hell he is, will probably be busted, too.

Presto says it goes down tonight. And it will go down more ways than he thinks, when I go in there with the cops.

What a way to die.

He kept looking at his watch, waiting for Dad or Mom to show up. Would the police protect him from Dad? He didn't know if they could; Dad would go ballistic, and Daryl doubted an army would hold him back. It became very important for him to get the hell out of there before one or both parents arrived.

Adam came in with the wire, a thin black box with an coax antenna attached to it. The wire would show through his tank top, so they went looking for clothing to conceal the electronics. Upstairs in his room Daryl tried different shirts that wouldn't be conspicuous in the summer heat, before they finally gave up and ran the rig inside the front of his pants. They did a mike check in the van, and while the sound wasn't exactly Dolby quality, it would do for evidence.

Thirty minutes later, Daryl pulled into the parking lot of the New You Fitness Center. The van and the Caprice, driven by Adam, were parked nearby, out of sight. The hour was 10 P.M., and the fitness center parking lot was packed.

But not with the usual assortment of vehicles. Instead of the sedans and station wagons, the lot bristled with faster machinery: a variety of scooters and motorcycles, Trans Ams, Mustangs, Camaros, Corvettes. It looked like a high school parking lot. He didn't feel out of place, so long as he forgot his purpose for being here.

Daryl sat in his car for some time, afraid to get out, and even more afraid to stay there. It was a classic setup for Mort to appear, and that he hadn't yet seemed odd, especially this close to the Man's hideout. Somewhere in the car was a couple of hundred in cash, perhaps much more, which would pay for a one-way trip to California. If he turned the 'Vette back on, steered it onto the nearest highway, and took off, no one would catch him.

And by the time he reached Arizona, a million innocent people would be going insane.

He forced himself to get out. I have to do this. If I don't, people will die. They may die anyway, but at least I would have tried. Even if I die in the process. His knees felt weak when his feet hit the pavement, but he made himself go on.

I feel like crap. Maybe if I just had a little hit of Dream, just long enough to keep me going . . .

The thought horrified him. I can't even stay away from it for a few hours anymore.

I have no control over it. My life is completely unmanageable.

The thoughts echoed from somewhere in his memory, from a movie he remembered seeing. Something about recovery. Treatment. Meryl Streep was in it. What was the name of that damned movie?

When he reached the front door and entered the fitness center, the decision was made for him.

About twenty or thirty kids, some he recognized from school, most he did not, stood about just inside the New You, smoking cigarettes by the carton. Smoke drifted down the tiled halls, where earlier that day, healthy and near healthy people sweated and grunted away excess fat and calories. It seemed unreal, what he felt and saw then. But then, everything else in his life seemed unreal, particularly the events of the last several weeks. As Daryl stood watching his peers, he wondered if he'd overdosed at his birthday party and had been in a coma ever since; that all the events since were a series of nightmares, strung together in his sleep as he lay somewhere in a hospital bed, hooked up to tubes and wires.

Among them was every grunge bunny and dealer he'd ever known in school, plus a few others he didn't know. They gave him a long, slow, scrutinizing look, one that seemed to say, Okay, so you're one of us.

The air was thick with smoke. Cravings he never knew existed swept through his body. He bummed a cigarette, then a light.

"It's about time you showed up," Mort said, appearing at his side. He took him by the arm and led him down the tiled hallway. "Where the hell have you been anyway?"

Daryl mumbled a reply even he didn't understand. Mort looked him over suspiciously, so much that he thought the damned little demon was going to pat him down. Then Mort shrugged, gave him an evil grin, and led him to the free-weight room, the largest room in the club.

At one end was a portable stage. Behind this were two double doors. Everyone focused on Peter Pritchard, who stood on the stage in front of a big map of the city of Dallas. With a pointer Peter pointed to the surrounding lakes, which were highlighted in red. His loud voice carried clearly in the large room, and everyone seemed entranced by his presentation.

Peter looked directly at Daryl for a brief moment, during which Daryl's heart raced into overdrive. Peter continued, "Now that our lieutenants are all here, I will go into detail on what you will be doing tonight."

Peter addressed the map with the pointer. "You will all be given paper-wrapped packages of product. It is very important that you consume none of it, as it is of a potency that would kill you instantly."

Daryl looked on attentively, cautiously studying the others assembled. They were all acting like zombies, mindlessly listening to what was said on the stage. Granted, this wasn't that much of a change in this group. But it was enough to start him thinking. What other powers are these creatures working on this gathering?

There, he said it. Creatures. Whoever is in charge of this operation, they are not human. Even Peter up there, he doesn't look the same, somehow. Or maybe this is just another hallucination.

He looked around and gratefully saw that Mort had vanished.

"Daryl Bendis and his group will go out on Highway 80 to Lake Tawekoni. There they will deposit the product in the waters near the dam," Peter said. As he spoke, his appearance changed. A cloud of light flared briefly around him, then vanished, leaving behind a dark tunic, trimmed with silver, instead of the preppy workout clothes Peter always wore. Daryl looked on, transfixed, as Peter's skin darkened, his ears grew, his nose lengthened, until he looked like a giant rat.

Daryl stared, trying not to let his fear show, recognizing Peter for what he really was—something unhuman, perhaps from another planet. This didn't seem to faze anyone, and Daryl bit his tongue to keep from calling out. Then his feet wanted to run, but he wouldn't let them do that, either.

I sure hope they're getting this all on tape, he thought.

"Once the product has been delivered, I suggest you all go home, pretend this meeting never took place, and watch the news. Better yet, watch the people around you, first. Things should get very interesting."

Muted laughter rippled through the crowd. Daryl positioned himself so that he had a line of sight view with Peter, or whatever Peter had become. A gremlin? Or a gargoyle? I want out of here!

"And you, Cory, you'll take your group to Lake Ray Hubbard and do the honors there," the creature continued, indicating the lake on the map. "The Highway 30 bridge, along here, would be a good spot to deposit the product. And you, Monk, you and your men will go to Lake Lewisville, to the place we've already discussed." It paused, scanning the group, until he saw who he was looking for. "Ah, there you are. Mikey, you'll take your crew to Lake Grapeville." He regarded the gathering like a doting father. "I trust everyone showed up with a full tank of gas?"

The group grunted acknowledgment. Peter turned to the twin doors behind him as four other critters appeared, each holding a small pallet of paper-wrapped packages, about the size of liter bottles. The creatures resembled the giant rat Peter had turned into; these were smaller, like little gremlins. As one walked up to Daryl and gave him a package, its stench nearly knocked him over.

Daryl looked around as the little beasties handed out the packages. No one seemed particularly alarmed that creatures straight out of D&D were strolling through the free-weight room at the New You Fitness Center, handing out drugs. Their lack of response lent a bit of normalcy to the scene, which made it all the more frightening to Daryl.

They must be under some kind of spell. Or they're drugged. Whatever it is, it's something I'm not.

Daryl took the package with shaking hands. Peter looked his way again, then stepped off the stage. The boy stared at the huge alien rat coming toward him and nearly dropped the package.

 

Offer free drugs, Zeldan thought, bemused at the sight of human cattle massing in the New You, and they will come by the droves.

Never before had he so brazenly assembled a group of human minions in one place, much less in a place used as a front for shadier activities.

Soon the drug will be coursing through the veins of Dallas, and there will be no stopping its effects. With the power of a city in psychosis, we will fuel the Unseleighe forces until they are satiated, then invade Morrigan's territory in numbers.

The raid on the Seleighe stronghold was a disappointment. They left a feeble shield protecting—what? worthless Seleighe children? He had come with enough stored energy to take everyone out, and then some; however, the two he did find would make suitable hostages should the Seleighe try to intervene with his plan. Down in the lab, Rathand was keeping them company while he spoke to the troops up here.

During his speech, Zeldan noticed something unusual about Daryl, something he found quite disturbing. The boy had changed drastically, but the Unseleighe lord was uncertain precisely how. He didn't seem as fogged on Dream. He looked like he might even have a mind of his own now, not one obsessed by Zeldan's gift from Underhill. He even looked, well, suspicious. The boy had always been nervous, worried about when his next voyage down Dream avenue might be, and who might supply it. Tonight seemed to be a different story; Daryl looked like he was going to run out of the building any second now.

Zeldan stepped off the stage and casually strolled over to Daryl. The gargoyles had already handed him his package of Black Dream concentrate, and he stood there holding it as if it were a bomb. Zeldan had made certain their conversation would not be heard by the others when he approached the boy, throwing up a concealing wall of privacy before addressing him.

"Hello, Daryl," Zeldan said. "I believe our human servant Presto called you over two hours ago. What took you so long to get here, I wonder?"

Zeldan gave the words plenty of time to sink in. Human. As we certainly are not—or are you blind, stupid human child?

"Uh . . . I got here as soon as I could," he said, staring openmouthed at Zeldan. "Is something wrong?"

Zeldan regarded him with undisguised hate. "I should ask you the same thing," the Unseleighe said, leaning forward. The human pulled back, flinching. "Do you find my appearance alarming in any way?"

Daryl made a pitiful attempt to establish eye contact, but furtively looked away. "No, of course not. The plan is going smoothly, I hope?"

Zeldan scratched his long, pointed chin. "Right now, young human, I'm not so certain. Tell me, have you spoken with Adam McDaris lately?"

Daryl's eyes widened. "Uh, no. Why do you ask?"

He's lying. Time to let him know what a bad idea that is.

With his claws extended, Zeldan took a long swipe at Daryl, making four bloody incisions down his stomach and cutting through the denim of the jeans. The boy shrieked, but no one turned, or even noticed. Daryl fell backward, and lay cowering. A small box with a wire had fallen out of his pants.

An electronic device, Zeldan thought, picking the instrument up with a single, extended claw. An electronic listening device!

 

Though disguised, the voice coming over Daryl's wire was no doubt that of Zeldan Dhu. There were others the tape picked up, but Zeldan's was the most recognizable.

He was going to hit all the lakes, she thought grimly. And there would have been no way to protect them all with what we have. If we don't stop them all now, we don't have a chance. And neither do the humans who live in this city.

Roach listened to Daryl's wire also, but his mind was distracted by the sleep spell working its way over him; Sammi decided early in the stakeout that this was not something the human police needed to be in on. If it looked like they would need help, they were always there to call, but she doubted the cops would be much help against what Zeldan would be throwing at them.

How does a riot squad prepare for a levin bolt? They don't.

From the sounds she'd picked up over the wire, there were quite a few individuals gathered for the occasion, though she was having trouble determining how many there were, how many were human, and how many were not. She'd caught a brief glimpse of the New You parking lot before they parked on this particular street corner and remembered seeing a large number of motorcycles and sports cars.

Most, if not all of those, belong to humans. Zeldan isn't using only humans to carry this off, or is he? The worst occurred to her. He would if they were going to be expendable. That would definitely be his style.

A knock sounded on the van door, then Adam let himself in. He'd spent the last several minutes handing out black t-shirts printed with the word POLICE in bright white letters to the rest of the elves sitting in the Caprice parked behind the van. Under these were Kevlar vests, in the highly likely event some of the humans wielded handguns. Samantha herself had changed from her professional woman's dress to more appropriate field attire: jeans and a POLICE t-shirt.

She had told Adam to check in with her instead of using the radio, because the operation they were carrying out was less than authorized. It wouldn't do to have the dispatch listening in on an elf war, or have human police as witnesses. That would be too difficult to cover up. So the whole thing was being done on the sly.

Adam closed the door behind him and situated himself next to Sammi. The King made a striking young human cop; if Aedham Tuiereann hadn't already become King of Avalon, she would have to recommended him to the police academy for training.

"Anything?" he asked, but Sammi was paying more attention to the receiver.

Finally, she replied, "Daryl's in the center now." She regarded him with a dark stare. "I just heard their plan to saturate the water supply with Black Dream. Everything Daryl said was true."

Adam groaned. "I was hoping he had imagined the whole thing."

"No such luck, apparently. This may work to our advantage. If they're so distracted with carrying this out, they may not be ready for us." After a pause, Zeldan spoke again, much closer and directly to Daryl. Zeldan's deep voice reverberated too loudly over the speakers; Samantha dropped the bass a little on the receiver.

". . . have you spoken with Adam McDaris, lately?" Zeldan said.

"Oh, gods," Adam said. "Does he—"

"Shhh!" Sammi said.

After that came a rustle and a shriek from Daryl. Then the wire went dead.

"Sammi, he knows," Adam said. "We have to go in there!"

"Let's go," Samantha said, reaching for her Glock as Adam scrambled for the door. "The whole thing's blown now."

In the driver's seat, Roach snored loudly.

"Hold the fort, will you?" Sammi said to her sleeping human partner.

 

The Caprice squealed to a stop in front of the New You, the car's nose pointed directly at the entrance. Just inside the doors a handful of kids spotted them, then ran further in; Adam hadn't anticipated a complete surprise, but he was hoping for more lead time than that. Now they knew they were being raided, before the good guys had even set foot on the pavement.

"So much for the surprise element," Sammi said, pulling her Glock out as she climbed out of the Caprice. Marbann, Spence and Moira swarmed out of the backseat.

"Niamh, you stay here and watch these vehicles," Sammi ordered. "These little shits are going to want out of here in a real hurry, and I don't want them taking off with our car!" Niamh stayed in the front seat of the Caprice, looking altogether pleased about staying behind.

"Everyone, behind Adam," Sammi said, holding her Glock up with both hands.

Adam flipped the power on the laser weapon, and the LED display came to life.

"Shields," Marbann said, and Adam felt a tug on the nodes as everyone simultaneously tapped into them, creating individual shields. They agreed earlier on this tactic to permit them individual freedom, should they be forced to spread out. If the Unseleighe started flinging levin bolts at them, which was highly likely, node shields would be the only effective protection.

"Door's open," Sammi said, pushing the doors aside, while the others entered. Further inside, he heard chaos erupting.

"POLICE!" Sammi shouted, leaping into the hallway in front of them, the Glock drawn and ready. "Put your hands up!"

There were five people in the hall; each of them dropped the packages they were carrying and started running. Which is what they wanted. As a unit, the force charged down the hallway, empty racquetball courts on the right, a free-weight room on the left.

Sammi and Adam rushed in, the others behind them.

"Everyone, put your hands up!" Sammi shouted, but no one obeyed. Paper packages fell to the floor as the crowd scattered. A few of the Unseleighe's human minions remained, however, watching the "police" warily as the rest of the group beat a hasty trail to the nearest exits. Others were going around Adam and his group to get out, the "police" not making any move to arrest them.

Zeldan Dhu, in his true elven form, stood on a short stage at one end of the free-weight room. An unconscious form, which appeared to be human, was draped over his shoulder like a sack of laundry. Hate burned in his eyes as he gazed at Adam, Sammi, the others. Adam raised his weapon, which seemed to puzzle the Unseleighe momentarily. As he took aim, he saw who Zeldan had over his shoulder.

Daryl.

The Unseleighe smirked at his hesitation, and he sent a levin bolt directly at them.

The concussion threw Adam backward. His shield, which was still in place, absorbed much of the shock, but the impact of the levin bolt pressed him against the wall painfully, squeezing him for a split second like a vise grip. His weapon made an uncomfortable crease against his chest, pushing the Kevlar vest's shock plate against his sternum; nothing broke, but if the bolt had been any stronger, he would be dealing with broken ribs now.

Stunned, Adam got up slowly from the floor. Sammi and Moira seemed equally stunned, but unhurt; Marbann and Spence had been thrown into the hallway, but it looked like Adam had taken the brunt of the levin bolt.

Zeldan had vanished from the stage.

The other human helpers, who had no shields whatsoever, were now lifeless forms, thrown into weight equipment and walls like limp rag dolls; one boy, who was no older than Adam, lay dead on the floor, his neck clearly broken.

This Unseleighe doesn't care who dies and who lives, Adam thought, his mind racing. And I had a clear shot of him, if only . . . 

If only Zeldan hadn't used Daryl as a shield.

"They've gone through those doors," Sammi shouted. She ran onto the stage, motioned for the others to follow.

"He's gone to the Gate," Marbann said. "If he gets away, he'll have a chance to rebuild his forces. We cannot let this happen, young King!"

"I know," Adam said, stepping over the bodies. Just like the palace, he remembered. Elven bodies everywhere. Only here, they're human. "He's not getting away."

Adam didn't think he was retreating; at least, not all the way back to Underhill. What is in there that he would need? Daryl must be with him still, which will present a problem if he continues using Daryl as a shield.

Adam heard the roar of a dozen different motorcycles as they sped off, followed by the cars, tires squealing.

"We'll have to collect this poison later," Adam said, toeing a package of Dream over, as if it were a corpse. "The rest of you, stay behind me. How are your shields, Sammi?"

Her shield distorted her sardonic grin, then her voice, as she spoke. "It takes more than that bolt to do anything to mine." She glanced through the doors. "There's a stairway leading down."

A service hallway led off from the stairwell, through which Adam saw another open exit. Beyond these doors a swarm of taillights sped off into the night.

Before him a thick metal door, painfully warm with iron, led to a stairwell.

"A trap?" Marbann said, peering down the stairs. "Or was he in such a hurry . . . ?"

"Don't know," Adam replied. "Might go either way. I don't feel anything safe or threatening about this stairwell." Which way did he go? Out the exit, or down the stairs?

"Banzai," Adam said with a shrug.

Adam advanced down the stairs, stopping at the U-turn it made, then waved for the others to follow. Red lights glowed in the fixtures, bathing the hall in crimson light. Smoke detectors had been installed every few feet or so. Strange.

Dark, Unseleighe magic flowed up from the basement, wafting past him like the stench of a sewer. Adam upped the node flow to his shields, both to filter out the foul magical odor of the place and to see if his nodes were still accessible. It did, and they were. He wiped the sweat off his palms, his temples pounding.

On a certain level, he felt like he'd passed into Underhill. This was only an illusion, enhanced by the Unseleighe forces putrefying down here. There was something else waiting for him, something powerful and alien, something greater than Zeldan. And Zeldan had control of it.

At the foot of the stairs he found another hallway—white painted cinder blocks and a waxed floor, the scent of old office insulation, and something that had died. Red lights lit this passage as well, giving the hallway a squared-off blood-vessel look.

From a doorway stepped a small, black demon.

Ghostlike, the transparent apparition strolled to the center of the hallway, folded its arms, and stopped. Through the being, Adam saw the cracks in the tile, the edge of the wall; the critter itself looked like a cartoon character.

The creature said nothing as it extended a finger toward Adam, then drew it back in a hook.

Follow me.

This seemed wrong, dangerous. Adam looked behind him to consult Sammi or Marbann, but they were nowhere to be seen.

Instead he found Zeldan Dhu preparing another levin bolt, this one directed toward his unprotected back.

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