Lessek's Key

THE FAR PORTAL

‘I can’t open it until five o’clock.’ Steven suppressed his irritation. Jennifer Sorenson was upset, and even he had to admit his story didn’t sound especially convincing.

‘Five o’clock, because that’s when your roommate will lay out his charred, egg-stained rug, and you’ll land right in his lap?’ Her scepticism was salt rubbed in his wounds – wounds that Hannah’s mother was responsible for; he felt as though he had been in a car accident. His ribs and abdomen throbbed furiously from her kicks and his head was about to break open. He felt certain the roadmap of cuts and bruises across his head would never heal.

They sat together in front of the television, watching the coverage of the unprecedented winter firestorm that had already claimed eight square miles along Chicago Creek Road. Between interviews with townspeople and firefighters, the square-jawed anchorman spoke to a helicopter pilot who was monitoring the damage from above. The arrhythmic jouncing of the picture as the helicopter navigated the tricky thermals along Clear Creek Canyon made Steven feel even more nauseous.

It was 4.10 p.m. and it had taken two hours to recount his tale. He left out the part about being able to work magic with the hickory staff. If there was a slim chance that Jennifer Sorenson didn’t already believe he was insane; that, he was quite sure, would have her calling the local psychiatric hospital. She had stopped him several times, throwing up her hands and shouting, ‘That’s enough, Steven, I’m calling the police.’ So far he had persuaded her to let him continue, begging her to wait until five o’clock, when he could prove he was telling the truth.

In the past fifteen minutes the conversation had taken a turn for the worse and Steven knew Hannah’s mother wouldn’t make it through the hour.

‘All right, I’ll do it, but we can only leave it open for a second,’ he agreed reluctantly.

‘Why? Why not leave it open until Hannah comes back, or until Mark finds her?’ Jennifer’s tone was half disbelief and half sarcasm.

Steven, for all his sympathy for the woman, began to get angry. ‘You’re not helping,’ he said. ‘I have been in Hell. I have had my life threatened every day for two months, and I am telling you that, regardless of whether you believe me, you need to have a little faith for forty-five more minutes.’

‘No. Do it now.’ Jennifer’s eyes were hard.

‘Fine, but if Nerak finds us because I open this now, I – we – may have to escape through it, and that means we might be dropped on top of a glacier, or at the bottom of a river, or anywhere. There is nothing I can do about that. Do you understand?’

‘Oh, sure. The demon creature trying to release all the hounds of Hell onto the funny little world you discovered will be right here in the next ten minutes, because you took two seconds to show me a carpet? You are mad, Steven Taylor, mad and dangerous, and I want to know what you have done with my daughter.’

Without another word, Steven took a book from the coffee table, something big with black and white photos on the cover, and handed it to her. He rolled out the Larion far portal, holding one corner, and turned back to Jennifer. ‘When I tell you, throw that book onto the portal. Do not touch it, don’t reach out over it, whatever you do, do not, for your own sake, step on it.’ He looked her straight in the face to be certain she was taking him seriously, but all he could see was her open scepticism.

He shrugged. ‘I don’t have time for your doubts, Ms Sorenson, but if this is what you need to believe me, then fine.’

With that, Steven released the edge of the far portal. The moment the last corner of the tapestry struck the floor the energy level in the room rose, that same shimmer he and Mark had felt in Idaho Springs. Now Steven recognised the feeling: it was the same magic as the hickory staff. He felt it pulsing in the air, breathing him in and out, as if he were just a passerby interacting with an ancient force for a fraction of a second on its interminable journey though the ages.

He looked at Jennifer: she was standing in mute stupefaction: he had been telling the truth. ‘Throw it!’ he shouted, ‘throw it, Ms Sorenson. Throw the book now.’

She threw the book awkwardly, but before it struck the tapestry, it disappeared. Steven used a small metal shovel he had taken from the array of fireplace tools beside Jennifer’s hearth to create a shallow range of hilly wrinkles in the tapestry. In a moment, the shimmer in the air had faded away.

He crouched down and folded the portal in half, then moved to stand beside Jennifer, who was looking far older than her sixty years – decades older than the raving mother who had beaten seven shades of shit out of him earlier that afternoon. She stood looking down at her hands, thin and delicate, Hannah’s hands, as if the book with its tasteful photographs, etudes of light and shadow, would somehow reappear in them. She was a practical woman, and believed her eyes.

For a few moments longer she struggled with the notion that greater things than anything she had ever imagined were at work right in her own living room, then she started to sob. ‘She’s alive? Hannah? Please- I’m sorry, Steven, but please tell me if she-’

Steven took the older woman in his arms and held her tightly as she shook with emotion. ‘She is alive, Ms Sorenson, I promise you. She is in Praga, in Eldarn, and I have been trying with all my strength to get to her, but I’ve been trying to tell you all afternoon, I need your help.’

‘Anything.’ She took Steven’s hands. ‘My God, but look at you – what the hell is this place?’

‘I’ve been through some difficult times, but I’m fine, and I will find her.’ He felt about ready to collapse. Everything hurt, and he was exhausted – his nap on the bus that morning, as the sun rose above the prairie behind him, had been only a thimbleful of the rest he needed.

Thirty-eight minutes and he would be gone.

‘This demon – what was his name?’ Jennifer Sorenson’s tears had slowed and her voice was steadier. She was back in control.

‘He’s not a demon, he’s far worse. He is Eldarn’s greatest sorcerer, the most gifted magician in thousands of Twinmoons – years, whatever – and he has been taken by an evil force. He’s a matchstick compared with what’s coming if we don’t stop him.’ He searched for an explanation that made sense. ‘Nerak is the most powerful and destructive force any world has ever seen, and he’s on his way to this spot right now.’

‘Why?’

‘Because we opened the portal.’

‘Oh shit, Steven.’

The profanity was unexpected; he smiled. ‘It’s all right. Nerak doesn’t want you, he wants me – he may not even show up at all, because he can go back on his own when the portal is opened. I doubt we gave him enough time just now, but I need you to close this portal as quickly as possible after I’ve gone through.’

‘I can do that with this?’ She picked up the shovel.

‘Sure. That will do fine, just wrinkle the thing, and it shuts right down – but then you need to get away from here.’

‘Where? How far away?’

‘Not far necessarily, but someplace I don’t know about, someplace Hannah would never have talked about, someplace I would never have mentioned to-’ Steven hesitated, remembering the security guard’s body on the floor of the bank. ‘Someplace not even my bank colleagues would know.’

‘I’m sorry, I’m being such a pest, Steven, but why? If he wants you, and you’re gone, why would he come after me?’

‘For the same reason I think he took one of my friends today. He wants what you know.’ Jennifer blanched as he went on, ‘He can take from your mind anything you know about me, about my intentions when I get back to Eldarn, or about the portal, anything.’

‘But you haven’t told me what you plan to do.’ Her lower lip was trembling.

‘He doesn’t care.’

Jennifer straightened her spine. ‘All right, I’ll go to-’

‘Please don’t say it. I can’t know. If I know, you’ll be in danger. Just go someplace that I have never heard of, somewhere that wouldn’t be swimming around in-’ He stopped for a moment and swallowed hard. ‘Well, someplace that Myrna Kessler wouldn’t know about.’

‘Myrna?’

‘A friend of mine. I never told her this address, but she knew about your antiques store.’

‘So if Nerak was already on his way to my father’s store, then he might detect this rug-’

‘Portal, yes,’

‘Sorry, portal, and come over here now?’

‘That’s right.’ Steven began organising his pack. His head ached fiercely and he sat down with a groan on Jennifer’s couch. ‘Do you have any aspirin?’

She laughed and looked fifteen years younger. ‘I think we could both use some. I’ll get the bottle.’ She hurried to the kitchen while Steven pulled himself back into Howard’s winter coat.

Four aspirin and a glass of water later, Steven handed the bottle back to Jennifer, who shook her head. ‘Do they have aspirin there? You keep them.’

‘You’re right, thanks,’ he tossed the container into his backpack. ‘Now, I know this will be difficult, but I need you to open the portal again.’

‘Fine. When?’

Steven did a quick mental calculation. ‘Start in two months, that ought be enough time to find her. I want her back here with you as soon as possible, but it might take me that long to get there.’ He paused a moment. ‘What day is it?’

‘The twelfth. Friday.’

‘Okay. So, in two months, February twelfth, start opening the portal every day at five o’clock a.m. and five o’clock p.m. – for fifteen minutes only – you must be sure to close it at five fifteen without fail. Time is a bit different over there. I thought it was moving more quickly, but perhaps it isn’t. Either way, I’ll have this-’ he held up Howard’s watch. ‘It’ll keep the time here perfectly, even while I’m over there.’

‘Five o’clock in the morning? Every morning?’

He laughed. ‘Sorry, that is unreasonable, isn’t it? How about seven o’clock – would that work? Seven in the evening and seven in the morning… but just fifteen minutes, absolutely no more. I’ll have to make sure the others know…’

Jennifer still looked worried. ‘What if the watch doesn’t keep perfect time?’

‘If it doesn’t, then my already miserable day is about to deteriorate further. Mark and Garec are using my old watch to time my return right now, so I’ll be testing my theory in seventeen minutes.’

He checked her wristwatch. ‘Close enough. Now, promise me you will close the portal each time. You don’t want Nerak coming through to find you, or if by naked, pastry-chef luck he gets stuck on this side, tracking you down. So you must swear you’ll shut it down.’ Steven didn’t mean to scare her, but she had to understand how vital this was. ‘One of those days, Hannah will appear. You cannot lose hope, Ms Sorenson, and you cannot miss a day, not ever.’

She looked determined. ‘Absolutely. Seven o’clock, a.m. and p.m., every day, starting on February twelfth.’

‘Thank you,’ Steven smiled. ‘She’ll be back. I promise.’

Fifteen minutes later, as Steven checked Lessek’s key was firmly secured in the front pocket of Howard’s backpack, his hand closed around the second roast beef sandwich he’d stuffed in. He pulled it out and laughed. ‘Mark will love this,’ he said.

Jennifer gaped and, as if remembering her manners for the first time all day, burst forth, ‘Oh my goodness, I’m a miserable hostess. I’m so embarrassed. Steven, what do they eat there? Do you want something before you go?’

‘I only have two minutes, so no thanks, don’t worry-’

‘Wait. I have plenty of food. What can I-?’ Her voice trailed off in embarrassment.

‘Don’t worry about it, we’ve managed just fine,’ Steven said, patting her on the arm. ‘More importantly, you remember what you have to do?’

‘No problem. Seven o’clock, every twelve hours. I will be dead before I miss a turn – and I will not lose hope again, Steven.’ She started to cry, reaching for him. ‘Bring her back home, Steven.’

‘I will,’ he promised, and reached for the fire-shovel. His heart raced as he unfolded the far portal and the Larion magic swirled about the room. ‘Don’t forget: fold this up as soon as I’m gone, then take it and get out of here, as quickly as you possibly can.’

Her face still damp with tears, Hannah’s mother repeated her promise. ‘I will.’

Steven took hold of the backpack straps, checked Howard’s watch, which read 5.04 p.m. and stepped onto the Larion far portal and out of Jennifer Sorenson’s living room.

Jennifer crouched, watching tiny flecks of coloured light shimmer in the air above the tapestry like a cloud of Technicolor fireflies. Her tears had turned to stunned amazement; Steven Taylor had disappeared before her eyes. He had said he would, and the book had vanished, but until it actually happened, she had not realised how scary it would be. He had been telling the truth, the whole truth: Hannah was out there – Jennifer looked down at the ornate, if filthy, rug lying askew across her floor – in there somewhere. ‘Bring her back, Steven,’ she begged again, though she had no idea if he could still hear her. She was distracted by the sound of an accident outside – there were pile-ups on Lincoln or Broadway periodically, and Hannah invariably dashed the two blocks west so see if she could help until an ambulance arrived. But this was more than just the regular slam and shatter of a rush-hour crash: this was awesome, the musical tinkling of broken glass followed by the groan of tired steel and the whump, whump, kablam! of an exploding gas tank.

The sound slapped her back to reality; she heard Steven’s voice again. Nerak is the most powerful and destructive force any world has ever seen, and he is on his way to this spot right now – because we opened the portal.

‘Oh shit, Steven, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!’ She stared at the portal, then whispered, ‘Close the goddamned thing. Move!’ She used the fire-shovel Steven had taken from the fireplace to fold one corner over and as she did so, the waves of energy in the room subsided. Jennifer guessed that with the disappearance of the mystical fireflies, it was safe for her to move the tapestry by hand, then escape to wherever it was she was going. She reached out her fingers, then stopped and retreated to the relative safety of the couch. She didn’t consider herself a brave woman – her behaviour earlier in the day had truly shocked and appalled her – and she was glad no one was there now to watch as she scurried back and forth across her living room like a frightened rabbit.

‘Enough,’ she finally told herself, and steeled herself to touch the tapestry. Once she’d started it was easier than she’d expected, and she folded it into a surprisingly small lump, which she stuffed into a canvas bag. Then she rushed about her house, not really certain what essentials she would require. She grabbed her wallet and collected together a pile of clean underwear and socks and her favourite sweater. She unearthed the small fireproof strongbox she kept hidden in the space above the electric fuse panel. Now she could smell the pungent aroma of burning oil and melting plastic; people were crying for help and someone – or two, she couldn’t tell – was screaming in agony.

He was here; he – it – whatever, Nerak was out there, less than two blocks away.

Jennifer rushed through the foyer, slipped one set of keys into her pocket, then without even a final look around her house stepped outside, locked the door behind her and hustled down the steps towards her car.

Nerak drove like a madman, with the window rolled down so he could drink in the bellow of the Mustang’s racing engine. These automobiles are fascinating, he thought, picturing himself careening through the streets of Pellia – or, even better, Orindale or Estrad – maybe even in one of the colourful giants, one of those trucks, Myrna’s memory supplied. Moving a plug of Confederate Son from one side of Myrna’s mouth to the other, Nerak tried to spit brown juice out the window, but his current mouth was not yet trained and instead it dribbled down the inside of the door.

Traffic had been light, and the raging forest fire still flickering at the edges of the highway had discouraged all but the most intrepid of travellers from risking the journey east, but Nerak was becoming angry. The girl’s memories told him that progress would be slower, but he had no idea how congested the road would be. There were hundreds – thousands – of clumsy, colourful roaring monsters lining the road, an endless caravan. Where were all these people going? He growled.

Home. Myrna’s mind answered him. They are going home.

‘Well, they are in the way,’ Nerak said, and considered his options. He had used most of the bullets on his trip across the country – and a few more in Idaho Springs, just when people had tried to keep him from climbing the concrete ramp to the highway. But it hadn’t taken many bullets to clear that path; Nerak had become quite a skilled marksman. He leaned out the window and spat another mouthful of tobacco juice onto the highway. This was too much; the gun was just a toy, anyway, nothing powerful enough to move all these people. He needed something more, another fire perhaps, or maybe a sand storm – just killing them all as he had in Port Denis wouldn’t get their cars out of his way.

He searched Myrna’s memories; all her thoughts, interactions, ideas and fears were neatly organised and it took only a moment for Nerak to find what he needed. ‘Just to get through this traffic,’ he said, Myrna’s lips splitting to reveal teeth coated in brown fluid, bits of tobacco leaf stuck between her molars. He wiped the sticky open sore on the back of her wrist against one thigh, leaving a trail of blood and rotting flesh on her skirt. His eyes fluttered as he whispered a spell.

With Mantegna’s new siren wailing and red lights flashing, Nerak drove with abandon, dodging parked cars and ignoring pedestrians scattering before him as he careened between cars and over sidewalks. Soon he spotted the row of antiques shops that ran along South Broadway Avenue. Meyers Antiques: Steven might be inside right now – perhaps that was where he planned to open the portal and take Lessek’s key back to Fantus and the rest of the Ronan partisans.

‘Not today, Steven,’ Nerak growled, and pushed the accelerator to the floor. ‘I might keep you alive just long enough for you to watch me eat your heart. That will make for a fitting end to an otherwise thrilling day.’

Perhaps he would crash through the front windows of the store: draw a crowd to witness Steven’s pain. He was in a fine mood, for though he had temporarily lost Lessek’s key, he was confident he would soon have it back – nearly a thousand Twinmoons later, he would reclaim what was rightly his. Lessek’s key? Lessek had not suffered and struggled to earn that key – he may have chipped it from the granite slab that had eventually become the Larion spell table, but Nerak was the one who had earned its knowledge, its power. If it had not been for Pikan and that milksop, Kantu- He paused. He could barely control his rage: how close had he been that night?

Nerak felt a strange but familiar sensation; a tickle in his throat, along the left side of his face, but intent on Meyers Antiques, now only two blocks away, he ignored it – until, suddenly, its significance sank in.

‘The portal!’ he shouted, the power of his voice throwing a young man riding a bicycle into the wrought-iron gate of an upscale cafe. The portal was open, right now – and it wasn’t inside Meyers Antiques. Steven Taylor was nearby; Nerak could smell him, could taste his foul foreign blood, but he wasn’t inside the antiques store; Myrna had been wrong.

He searched her memories again: Hannah Sorenson. Meyers Antiques. South Broadway Avenue, Denver, Colorado. Interstate 70 east to 1-25 south to Broadway.

‘Where is he?’ Nerak cried, shattering the car’s windshield.

Hannah’s home. Her parents. Her apartment.

Nerak cursed his own poor judgment, then shook his head. ‘No matter. The portal will guide me now.’ He honed in on the Larion magic, as loud now and resonant in this curious world as a thunderclap, gripped the wheel and turned left across the busy lanes of South Broadway Avenue.

He didn’t make it. A large yellow moving van clipped the tail end of the Mustang, sending it into a spin. Nerak struggled for control, eventually giving up on the steering wheel and taking over with his mind, but it was too late and he slammed headlong through the wide plate-glass windows of a rare books store. The ensuing explosion as the gas tank erupted beneath him cast the Eldarni dictator out of Myrna Kessler’s burning body.

Gilmour rolled over with a groan. The sun had not yet climbed high enough to bring any light to the fjord, but above he could see the earliest hues of dawn heralding another day. ‘What time is it?’ he asked in a hoarse whisper. Garec, sleeping soundly beside the remains of their campfire, didn’t stir.

Pain flared in his chest and, wincing, Gilmour pulled his legs up tightly against his stomach. There were broken ribs, at least three, and maybe a bit of internal bleeding. With his fingertips, he felt the swelling beneath his armpits and grimaced. Was there any greater pain in life than broken ribs? And not just one, but three, great rutting lords. The damp mud of the shoreline provided a comfortable, if chilly bed, and Gilmour felt his head settle back into the concave dent where it had spent much of the previous night.

‘What time is it?’ he asked again, but Garec didn’t move.

Lessek’s spell book had lashed out at him; he hadn’t been ready. Gilmour stared up at the sky. If Nerak had mastered the spells in that book, Gilmour would be destroyed. It was that simple. He had made a huge mistake by being too terrified to go back to the scroll library. ‘The ash dream,’ he whispered. The first folio was as far as he had got.

He forced himself to relax: one job at a time. He used magic to heal his fractured ribs, then sat up, groaning – this time in frustration – and shouted, ‘Garec, what time is it?’

‘What-?’ Rudely awakened, Garec yawned widely, then sat up with a start, his eyes wide in sudden realisation. ‘Did you sleep? Demonpiss, Gilmour, I hadn’t expected you to sleep. Are we too late? Did we miss it?’

‘Don’t worry. I think there’s still time.’

Garec studied Steven’s watch with a furrowed brow. ‘We have – ten moments before five clocks.’

‘Minutes.’

‘Yes, right, whatever. Ten. Tecan.’ He walked stiffly to the boat and began rummaging in one of the canvas sacks.

‘Yes, I’ll have some tecan,’ Gilmour said. ‘Make a big pot this morning. I’ll deal with the fire.’ With a wave of his hand he moved several logs from a nearby stack into the fire-pit Garec had dug the previous night and set it alight with a gesture. The flames warmed and woodsmoke curled up and around his face in a gentle caress. For once, he really didn’t know what to do – and he realised how much he missed Steven. ‘How many minutes now?’ he asked Garec.

‘Four mimits, momets, whatever you called them.’ Garec approached from across the campsite, a silent Mark Jenkins in tow. ‘Ah, great fire, Gilmour. I wish you would teach me that one.’

He had no idea how much that stung. Gilmour turned towards the fjord, ostensibly to peer across the water, to keep the others from reading the insecurity in his face. ‘Perhaps I will one day, Garec, but for now, I think I’ll get the far portal ready,’ he said.

Garec filled the tecan pot with water from a wineskin. ‘I’ll let you know when to open it.’ He turned his attention to Mark. ‘How are you this morning?’

‘Can we do it today?’ Mark didn’t look up from the fire.

Garec shrugged despondently. ‘I suppose today is as good a day as any.’

‘Good.’ Mark reached both palms towards the flames. ‘What kind of wood do I need to find?’

‘Several types will work just fine. I use rosewood. The grain is tight, very strong. But mahogany and walnut are excellent as well.’ Garec stirred the tecan with a twig. ‘The trick is not so much in selecting the right wood but rather in shaping the bow. You need a relatively thin length of wood from a thick green branch.’

‘You shave away the outer layers?’ Mark made eye contact with him for the first time in days.

‘Lots of them. The best bows take a great deal of time to shape, because the most resilient, flexible wood is the core. The thicker and greener the branch, the more pliable and strong its core will be.’ He gestured towards the twin hills in the east. ‘When we get up in those woods later today, I’ll show you what I mean.’

‘I think I understand.’ Mark reached over and took the twig from Garec. He stirred the tecan as Garec had done, then looked at Gilmour. ‘You ought to check the time.’

Garec grinned. It warmed his heart to see Mark taking back control: the foreigner was a self-proclaimed expert on frenchroastcoffee and regularly criticised the others’ tecan-making attempts. Although Garec had no idea what frenchroastcoffee was, he assumed being an expert had given Mark some deep insight into how to prepare the perfect pot of tecan. Either way, he was excited to see Mark moving back into one of his old roles. Taking over the morning tecan duties was a small step, but in the right direction.

He checked Steven’s watch and called, ‘Five clocks, Gilmour. Open it.’

Four minutes later, as the trio stood around the fire watching dawn over the fjord, Steven Taylor appeared beside the far portal. ‘Hello, boys. Any tecan left?’

‘Great rutters!’ Gilmour shouted, spilling his drink down his tunic. He scurried over to clasp Steven in a bear-hug. Garec followed, while Mark knelt to close the far portal with the twig he was still holding.

‘What happened to you?’ Gilmour asked, holding Steven at arm’s length and checking the lacerations on his head and the burn on his cheek. ‘Are you badly hurt?’

‘No. I’m fine – quite a journey, though.’ He looked around, as if to check they were alone, then continued, ‘But you were wrong, Gilmour. Nerak followed me; he pinpointed my cross-over spot even with the Colorado portal closed.’

Gilmour winced and nodded towards the leather book in the boat. ‘I’m not surprised, Steven, but I’m sorry. And you’re right; I think I underestimated a number of things about Nerak. The fact that he was able to follow you through the weaker portal may be just the beginning of a long list of surprises he has in store for us. But tell us – did you find it?’ The three men were hanging on Steven’s every word now. ‘You managed to get back to the far portal, but Lessek’s key?’

Steven reached into the backpack pocket. ‘Rest easy: I did.’

There was an almost tangible exhalation of relief as he held it out, then Gilmour blanched and waved it away. ‘No, no – uh, you hang onto it.’ The book had just lashed out at him; the key was likely to kill him on the spot. That was naught but the tiniest of tastes, Fantus, drawn from the very furthest reaches of my power.

‘All right,’ Steven agreed, ‘I’ll keep it here.’ He tucked the stone into the pocket of his coat, then, slapping Mark’s shoulder, said, ‘I brought you a few things, partner. Let me get a cup of that tecan, then I can show you what I picked up on my little vacation.’ Steven didn’t notice Mark’s grim features as he walked to the fire, then looked around and asked, ‘Hey – where’s Brynne?’

Nerak took the first person he found, an elderly woman out walking her dog, an irritating Bijon with pink-rimmed eyes and an expensive coiffeur. The portal was closed, and the beacon he had followed was silent. The dark prince slammed into the old woman’s body, killing her instantly as he demanded, ‘Where does Sorenson live, Hannah Sorenson?’

The old woman had nothing in her memory to give Nerak any additional information. He dug deeper. ‘Meyers Antiques? What do you know of Meyers Antiques?’

Dietrich Meyers. He came from Austria. Owned the store over on Broadway. Died last year. It was closed up now. He seemed friendly enough. His wife used to make strudel before she died a long time ago – maybe fifteen years ago. I bought a tea set there once back in the 1970s, a nice floral, something British. Jeffrey broke two cups one morning, and I boxed it up. Ah, but that boy was a wrecking crew.

Nothing. Nerak cursed and left in a rush, ignoring the yammering of the wretched little animal as the woman’s stout body fell in a rumpled heap, her thigh-length support hose exposed as the heavy folds of her wool skirt bunched above her puckered knees.

His next victim was a high school student, in the neighbourhood to catch an art film at a nearby theatre.

Nothing; a waste of time. Nerak left the boy’s body slumped on a bus stop bench, an ad for a massage clinic showing behind the young man’s varsity letter jacket.

A bartender on break, smoking a cigarette out behind a Broadway Avenue tavern, followed. ‘Where does Hannah Sorenson live?’ he asked the dead man’s memories.

Hannah. Pretty girl. Great rack. Saw them once when she leaned over to tie her shoes. Drinks beer, sometimes has wine with her mother. They were working the sale at the old man’s antiques store after he died. She lives over on Grant. Someplace near First.

He had it. First and Grant. The bartender filled in the blanks: two blocks over and one block down. Nerak enjoyed a final drag on the cigarette before allowing the bartender’s body to collapse beside the tavern’s loading dock, the wound on his wrist still wet.

At the corner of First and Grant, Nerak took a well-dressed woman, a financial analyst. She was home from work and taking out the rubbish, the only person outside in the street. Nerak had his answers almost before the woman died.

Jennifer and Hannah. They live right across the street. Three houses down. Tragic the way that girl disappeared. Her mother has never been the same. Used to be very cheerful, but losing her father and her daughter in the same year -

Nerak interrupted the dead woman’s soliloquy: he had everything he needed for now: Jennifer Sorenson was Hannah’s mother. So that’s where Steven went. She’ll have the portal.

He cast his thoughts ahead to examine the inside of the house. No one there. Not surprising; she would already be gone. Steven was reckless and overconfident, but he had not yet proven himself stupid.

‘Where have you gone, Jennifer Sorenson?’ Nerak asked out loud. ‘Perhaps a bit of time in your house will help me track you down.’ He laughed, the sound of a soul in Hell. As he climbed the stairs to Jennifer’s front door he wondered if his latest victim was a fan of Confederate Son chewing tobacco. ‘We must introduce you,’ he promised the hapless body.

Jennifer flipped on the indicator and hoped that being lost in the anonymity of the five o’clock rush hour would offer some protection from the creature hunting her. As the radio DJs cracked jokes about politics and religion, weight loss and divorce, she moved into the centre lane, strangers’ cars surrounding her on all sides and creating a living barrier to protect her from Steven Taylor’s demon.

She tried to decide where to go. Someplace no one would expect her to be, that’s what Steven had said, somewhere no one would think of finding her, because apparently, Nerak had the ability to read minds.

Jennifer had enough money to live comfortably for some time, even if that meant staying in hotels. She had stashed a lot of cash from the liquidation sale at Meyers Antiques in the metal strongbox down in the basement, though she wasn’t sure what she had planned to do with the money. The cheques and credit card receipts were all deposited at the bank, but she still had thousands of dollars tucked inside her tote bag. Jennifer had been feeling a little guilty about her taxes, but that was gone now: if the IRS knew the cash was to save lives, her own life, her daughter’s, and perhaps to help keep the country safe from an evil force with the ability to tear the fabric of the world apart, they might not mind if she kept a few dollars. Or, if they did, maybe they would make arrangements for her to have a corner cell, something with a view. Jennifer smiled. Being in traffic was good; it was helping. As her thoughts cleared, she made a decision.

With the Friday night ski traffic and a forest fire closing several lanes in Idaho Springs, it would be hours before she reached Silverthorn. She nestled herself back into the protective centre lane and thought that another six or seven hours of traffic would be fine with her.

‘The forest of what?’ Hannah spat a mouthful of tecan into the fire. The brown liquid sizzled into steam. ‘You can’t be serious. There has to be another way through.’

‘Not one that isn’t guarded by Malakasians,’ Hoyt explained. ‘They don’t bother with this particular pass because no one would dare come that way.’

‘Except us.’

‘Well, yes, there is that, but it will get us into Malakasia without them knowing.’ He tossed her an apple he had stolen from an orchard that morning. ‘And we may get right through the forest without incident.’

‘You don’t sound convinced, Hoyt.’ Hannah sounded sceptical. ‘The forest of ghosts, good Christ. All right. Um, what happens in the forest of ghosts? Do we meet Casper and the hitchhikers from the Haunted Mansion, or is there something else?’

Alen said, ‘You misunderstand, Hannah. There are no ghosts in the forest of ghosts.’

‘No ghosts in the forest of ghosts?’

‘Only those we bring with us.’

‘All right then, Churn, remind me not to bring any ghosts into the forest of ghosts. I want to go in alone and come out the other side entirely ghost-free. Can you help with a periodic reminder between now and then?’ Hannah’s sarcasm was not lost on the big mute, and Churn grunted a laugh. ‘Thanks, Churn – or am I correct in assuming it’s not that easy?’

‘Uh, no,’ Hoyt answered.

‘The forest of ghosts is an enchanted place along a narrow stretch of foothills south of the Great Pragan Range, the mountains separating us from Malakasia,’ Alen broke in. ‘No one knows how or when the forest developed its curious power, but many travellers have been lost so now no one wanders through there on purpose.’ His words carried a sense of finality that made Hannah shiver.

‘What does it do?’ she pressed.

‘To some, nothing, but to others, it ensnares their minds, trapping them with memories of times in their lives – good times, bad times; no one knows really, because so few have experienced the visions and lived to reach the other side. Of those who have survived, the stories are always the same: they were trapped by the enchanter or the spirit of the place, and shown visions of their lives, pictures of essential moments that had led up to this journey. They always had some ambition or great goal…’

‘And if I’m just out for a morning jog, it will leave me alone?’ Hannah considered the forest’s curious nature. ‘Why would it only target those pursuing lifelong goals?’

Alen went on, ‘Because it feeds on the lies we tell ourselves to soften the blow of our memories. Maybe it grows stronger every time it keeps one of us from reaching our potential or fulfilling a dream. If it can show us the mistakes we have made, the lies – however small or infrequent – we have told ourselves or others to get to this moment, then it can trip us, perhaps convince us to give up – or worse.’

‘Worse?’

‘To stay,’ Hoyt said. ‘We can’t be sure, but the forest may convince some travellers to wait there, reliving the same images from their past again and again until they succumb to hunger or thirst, completely oblivious to the fact that their lives are draining away while they re-enact some bygone moment.’

‘How does it know if we are pursuing something so emotionally important?’ Hannah was trying to find a flaw, a loophole through which she might slip without the forest’s detection.

‘I don’t know,’ Alen said simply. ‘Somehow it reads our dreams. It knows if we are chasing down the last stages of something in which we have invested our passion.’

‘So, of the four of us, who is in trouble?’ Hannah asked.

‘I certainly am,’ Alen replied. ‘Churn is also pursuing a lifelong desire for vengeance.’

Hannah gave the quiet giant a compassionate look; she could not imagine how he had suffered. The mute hadn’t hesitated when Alen told them they would have to make their way inside Welstar Palace to send her back to Colorado. Hoyt was convinced that Churn had been tortured, forced to watch his family die, and then beaten nearly to death before managing to escape. The Pragan healer had found Churn still strapped to several pine planks, as if the big man had torn down a wall to free himself.

Alen added, And you, Hannah.’

My life’s work? This? Nonsense. Hannah envisioned the faculty at the law school, cowled in black at last spring’s graduation ceremony. ‘This isn’t my life’s work. I’m not reaching any lifelong goals here. I just want out of this place. Granted, I would like to find Steven first, but if he is trying to get home as well, we may find him somewhere between here and there.’

‘Not necessarily your life’s work, Hannah,’ Hoyt rejoined the conversation, ‘but something in which you have invested your passion. This journey represents the most important thing you have done in – I don’t know – how long?’

‘Fine, okay, a long time, years even.’ She used the English word to capture the depths of her anxiety. ‘But don’t you think the forest will – well, figure out that I’m just along because there is no other way for me to go?’ She was embarrassed at being so selfish and so terrified out loud.

Thankfully, none of her companions appeared willing to judge her for her insecurity: all three had seen and experienced horrifying things in their past; each knew fear. The fact that Hannah was trying to find a way to avoid the forest of ghosts was a perfectly normal response.

Alen said, ‘I’m afraid not, Hannah. If the forest behaves true to form, you will not pass freely.’

‘Great. That’s just frigging great.’ Hannah stood and began walking back and forth between the fire and a gnarled oak from which she had hacked Churn a longer riding cane that morning. Searching her past, she tried to decide which images the forest of ghosts would use against her. Might it be something wonderful? she thought, Meeting Steven? Feeling the power of those emotions? She did not wish to remain trapped in the forest for the rest of her life, but if she had to relive something from the past, that would be her first choice. Oh shit, though, what if it’s something ugly? Hannah considered the other side of the metaphysical coin. I’ve got a lot of dirty laundry in there, too. Damn it!

A thought suddenly occurred to her. ‘Hey, what about Hoyt? How does he get off without having to wrestle one of these – whatever they are?’

‘I may not,’ Hoyt admitted. ‘I may get in there and discover that I am as susceptible as you or Alen. But if we go by the legends, I ought to be able to move through unhindered.’

‘Because you don’t have anything invested in this little journey?’ Hannah challenged.

‘It is not my life’s work, no.’ Hoyt said, looking down at his boots to avoid eye contact with her.

‘Well, Hoyt, it must be nice for once to be an outsider, huh? To be on the fringes of things that matter? Slash and burn, run and hide? Convenient, isn’t it? Well, let’s hope you’re right about this place.’ Hannah sounded furious, but without Hoyt she would still be pacing the hill overlooking Southport Harbour. Instead, pacing the camp, she wrung her hands in a frustrated gesture that said, I am helpless, again. I have to give away control, again, and I am sick to death of it. She kicked at a loose stone. ‘All right, fine. Let’s get going. If there is no other way in, we don’t have a choice. Do we?’

Hoyt shrugged. ‘No. If even one Malakasian soldier, some scout hiding in the brush above a mountain pass, sent word ahead that we were riding north, we would be stopped, interrogated, arrested – who knows what?’

‘What about those towns you mentioned in the east?’

‘Averil and Landry – we could try, but Churn and I have a reputation there. We’ve met some of the underground fighters, but it’s been too long since our last visit to know whom we can still trust and who would sell us out to the nearest platoon lieutenant. It’s too great a risk. Even if we utilised the network of thieves and spies at work between the border cities, we might get stopped on the street or the highway into town. That area is thick with Malakasians.’

‘So, instead of sneaking in and maybe fighting a squad or two, we are going to butt heads with the supernatural?’

‘We do have Alen,’ Hoyt said. ‘With his help, we should be able to link ourselves together using ropes, our horse bridles, anything, and walk right through.’ Hoyt was irritated at how meek this response sounded, and he suddenly wanted to be gone, anywhere but there, trying to justify a potentially deadly risk the others had to take. Somehow he knew already that he would not have any difficulty crossing through the forest. They didn’t want to go, especially Hannah, but here he was, the one taking essentially no risk, trying to convince her to dive in and trust a thief to see her through.

‘So you’ll lead us, and while leading us you’ll listen in as we relive the most critical and emotionally impacting moments of our lives? The most devastating or wonderful times we have ever known? Do you really want to hear all that?’

Hoyt turned away, blushing. ‘It might not be those memories, Hannah. It might be something horrible, and I promise you when we make it to the other side, I will drink myself into oblivion, until the whole ordeal is wiped from my memory.’

Suddenly serious once again, Hannah said, ‘I wouldn’t want to be you, Hoyt. I don’t want to be me going through there, but having to haul us along while we fall apart? No thanks.’

‘Come along, everyone,’ Alen said, ‘we’ll never know if we don’t get there.’