Out of Body

Chapter 33

This Marley Millet was a spoiler. She wouldn’t bring him down; that wasn’t possible. He would find and deal with her.

But there was a fitting irony in this new battle with the Millets. Marley couldn’t have been pitted against him by accident. This was someone’s deliberate plan to destroy him by using a descendant of the very family that had caused the long-ago woman-Embran to return to her species with a disease they had never been able to cure.

That woman-Embran who married a Millet in Belgium had been blamed for dire threats to the safety of that family. It was after her return to the Lower Place that the Embrans first encountered bodily decay. They had learned how to renew themselves through the contents of their own un-hatched eggs, but the results were temporary, a mere hundred or so years’ reprieve, and they wanted their immortality back.

He had been allowed to come to the surface of the earth after others of his kind had visited but failed to find an antidote to the plague. Now he knew what he could not have before—discovering what the Millets had used on the Embrans could take many visits, especially when there were so many luscious diversions to enjoy in the meantime.

He wanted to hiss, to aim his face at the black sky that was his friend and rattle his jaws until he drowned out every other night sound and left the human vermin in this city too terrified to leave the perceived safety of their homes.

Yet they had no safe defense over an enemy they did not know and who could strike wherever he pleased.

The Millet woman had barged in where she had no right to be. The deepest most disturbing question was, how had she obtained information she shouldn’t have? What had led her to find him?

Who?

He dragged himself over a thick layer of gravel at the bottom of the tunnel only he had ever used. Fleeing that warehouse, he had injured himself. The woman’s fault again. She had interfered. Harm was not supposed to happen to one such as he and there would be retribution for this inconvenience.

Many times he had come through this tunnel to pursue his pleasures. Tonight, for the first time ever, he knew the kind of fear only anger could produce. He had been betrayed by someone who should be too afraid to cross him, and when he discovered the identity of his betrayer, he would grind their bones to dust.

If he had to, he would cut a path of death across New Orleans, searching for his enemies. Afterward he would have to withdraw to Embran, deep in the earth, perhaps for longer than these little people could fathom. And when all those who could get in his way were gone or forgotten here, he would fight all comers in Embran for the right to come back and reclaim the fruits he had earned.

There would be those in the Lower Place who would blame him, try to have him demoted for failing to find a cure for their eventual decay, but he had his cover ready. Alone, he had developed a means of staving off total disintegration of the Embran form for short periods—long enough to get one of them home if the need became dire.

He had already tested his prototype and prepared a small stash.

He resented his need for air. Breathing slowed him down. Next time he came back to this part of his reality with its toothsome fleshly prizes, he must increase his efforts not to need any of the elements the weaklings used.

But he wasn’t ready to leave yet, oh, no. First he must finish with the fools who thought they could stop him, but even that had to wait until he knew if the unthinkable had happened and the one object he must have had been stolen.

The way was too long. Once he had been able to rush to the small but perfect white pavilion, sometimes every few weeks when the hunting was exceptional. He had taken his victims there to enjoy. Some years had passed since then and his precious antidote was losing its power to sustain him.

He reached the steps at the end of the tunnel, worked his way upward and outside. The pavilion stood before him and he turned his head from side to side to bring the walls into clear focus. Here, too, there were signs of aging. Moss clung, and the surfaces had darkened. None of it would do.

Heaving, he fought for calm. If he could hang on a few more days he would be finished with what must be done before he returned to his source of renewal and strength—to Embran.

Just a few more days.

He pulled himself up, stair by stair, to the door of his sanctum and strained to clamp onto a recessed handle. With renewed vigor, he used the small onyx key that was the only means of entry.

The door closed behind him automatically. In the center of a single room draped with diaphanous, many-colored silks and lined with gilded divans, an enameled cabinet stood on a carved table.

He allowed himself a sneer of glee. Shuffling, reaching, trembling in his haste, he touched the chest and tapped the jade and mother-of-pearl inlay. A beautiful thing fit to contain his most precious possession.

The other end of the onyx key slipped easily into a lock that released double doors. They swung open.

On a black velvet bed inside, an image shimmered, a memory of what should have been there.

He recoiled.

As he had desperately feared, the red doll house that was his only escape to his own world was no longer in its place.

He stared at the wavering, transparent representation of his very being—and his salvation—and slid soundlessly to the floor. There was only one course of action now. He would set about repossessing his property—by whatever means necessary.

From the folds of his robe, he brought out the tiny scrap of black cotton that had clung to one of his claws when he had struck out at Marley Millet. Holding the fabric to his brow, he crawled onto a divan and opened his inner eye.

He concentrated, searching for the channel that would take him to her.