CHAPTER TWO
earth—present day
The bright lights of Ferrell’s Dance Studio faded when twelve-year-old Lindsay Richardson turned the corner to step into the shadows of Watlington Street. Shaggy trees, thick with kudzu and poison ivy, deepened the twilight where the forest ran adjacent to the road. The woods crept toward the asphalt to eclipse the three neat brick homes across the road. Leaves whispered to the ground when a mild breeze rattled limbs heavy with vines.
Normally, the sound of cars speeding less than a block away were loud, but tonight the swampy woods muffled the drone of engines. Even the mouth-watering smells from the neighboring restaurants were strangely subdued. Lindsay’s sneakers jarred against the odd silence as she stomped home. She didn’t notice the lack of sound; she only heard the pounding of her older brother Peter’s tennis shoes hitting the pavement behind her.
When Peter called her name again, she set her jaw and walked faster until her ponytail swung violently and her gym bag rapped her hip. Jerk. She hated the tears stinging her eyes; she had never been so humiliated. It just wasn’t fair. She’d practiced all week on her second position. In spite of her efforts, Mrs. Ferrell accused Lindsay of looking like a dead bird. Again.
The mirror behind the ballet barre had reflected the other girls’ glee when Mrs. Ferrell allowed her outstretched arm to sag comically. She chastised Lindsay for her lack of practice in front of the entire group. It wouldn’t take long for that to get around, not with Melissa Kent watching Lindsay’s downfall with hungry eyes. Half the school probably knew by now. Melissa yapped on her cell phone as she walked out of class, and Lindsay heard her name followed by a giggle.
Yet the worst part had been her older brother sitting in a chair by the wall, watching the entire demonstration. Her pride in having a family member stay and watch her practice had crumbled into horror when Peter laughed out loud.
Lindsay kicked a can into the ditch and swiped a tear from her burning cheek. Her dad already said dance classes were a waste of time and money on a klutz like her. This just proved his point. Lindsay hoped he was drunk when she got home, even though his jibes were more vicious; at least then, she could pretend it was the booze talking and not her dad.
“Come on, Lyn, hold up!” Peter’s hand touched her shoulder, and Lindsay whirled on him.
“Thanks. A lot.” Lindsay shoved him; he barely moved. Why did she have to be so small? “I didn’t laugh at you when you fumbled at Tuesday’s game and cost the team a point.”
“Seven points,” he said.
Another renegade tear slipped past her defenses and she bit her lip. God, couldn’t she get anything right? Her dad was right, she was stupid.
Peter sighed and brushed the tear from her chin. “Lyn, it wasn’t that big of a deal.”
Lindsay’s left eye narrowed as she glared at him. How could he say such a thing?
Peter said, “I wasn’t laughing at you. It was Mrs. Ferrell that was so funny. When she flopped into that weird position, she looked just like a dead bird with her bug eyes and pointy nose.” Peter snickered at the memory then sobered when Lindsay didn’t smile back. “Jeez, Lyn, you’re twelve going on twenty. You really take yourself too seriously.”
She was not going to let him put this back on her. “Everybody thought you were laughing at me. That’s how it looked, Pete.”
He sighed and raked his hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, okay? I really didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
Lindsay slid the purple band away from her cornsilk white hair, then gathered her hair and pulled it back into a ponytail. In the past, when Peter’s laughter had been aimed at her, he wouldn’t stop teasing her. He wasn’t ragging her now. His eyes, the same pale blue as hers, were earnest and no smile turned the corner of his lips.
“Hey, listen,” he said as he straightened and raised his right hand, “I swear I will never laugh at you in front of your friends again. Even when faced with fowl old ladies. No pun intended.” He winked at her. “Well, maybe a little one.”
“Don’t make fun, Pete. It’s going to be all over school. And you know Dad is going to find out. He plays golf with Melissa’s dad, and oh, shit.” She couldn’t do anything right for him as it was and now the teasing would never end. She looked for another can to kick.
“Come on, Lyn, you’re tougher than that! Don’t let that bitch Melissa screw with your head. You’re better than her.” Pete’s eyes lit up. “Hey, I got an idea. We’ll tell Dad that it was really her that did the funky bird.”
She sighed and answered her brother. “We’re not going to do that.” She could just imagine the hurt in her mother’s eyes if she found out Lindsay had lied about someone else. No, maybe Peter was right. She was tough enough to deal with Melissa, but she’d do it on her own terms.
“So.” He shrugged. “Are we good, Lyn?”
She scuffed the asphalt with her shoe and looked up at him. She never could stay mad at Pete for long. “Yeah, we’re good.”
He held out his fist and she touched knuckles with him, their private sign of peace. Peter put his arm around her and turned her toward home. As she fell into step beside him, she glanced into the woods where an odd red glow pulsed in the twilight.
At first, she thought someone was playing with a laser, but the light didn’t waver or move erratically. The illumination widened to the size and shape of a door. She stopped walking and Peter halted beside her. He frowned at the light.
“What do you think it is?” Lindsay asked.
“Aliens?”
“Jeez, Pete, be real.” She would have given him one of her most withering looks if only she could have taken her eyes off the hypnotic light.
Entranced, Lindsay watched the beam expand until it ascended from the ground to the sky. The glow shimmered like heat waves rising from summer roads, but the October evening carried a chill that promised an early frost. Her mom had even made her pack her winter coat and gloves for the walk home.
Lindsay examined the Veil. And where did that word come from? It did look like a veil, though… a red veil…
The eerie quiet prevailed.
The Veil shimmered and the swampy woods of Watlington Street disappeared. On the other side of the red haze was a forest with old trees. She saw a huge gray rock covered in lichen, and a man who dozed with his head tilted back against the stone. His sword lay across his lap and shone with a pale luminance. She made out a cane and a pack beside him.
She thought the moonlight enabled her to see him so clearly. When she looked harder, she saw that the radiance didn’t descend to him from above but rose up from within him. Though his appearance was rough, his face was serene in sleep, and rather than fear, she felt drawn to him.
Peter murmured, “Wow, it’s like another world.”
“Yeah,” Lindsay said, but Peter was saying it wrong. It was really ‘Woerld.’ She shivered in the cool air.
“Oh, man, that’s one cool looking horse.”
Lindsay had no idea what her brother was talking about. “What horse?”
“The gray, Lyn. Can’t you see it? It’s dappled gray with a black mane and tail. It has one blue eye and one brown eye and it’s looking at somebody walking in the dark.”
How could he know all that about a horse in the night? Stepping closer to the red curtain…
…Crimson Veil, her mind whispered…
Lindsay peered into the darkness; she saw no horse, no one walking.
The supernatural silence drained the life from their surroundings. She reached out and gripped Peter’s hand. Neither of them noticed the Veil inch closer to them in the deepening gloom until it was too late.
Pete dragged Lindsay’s hand backward, but her terror overwhelmed her and she stood rooted to the spot. The light rushed forward and the Veil swept over them. It was like getting sucked under a wave. She gasped for air. Peter’s hand clenched hers until she thought her fingers would break.
The street faded to black then burst into a blinding white brilliance before the world she knew vanished. A deep whine filled her head, soft and changing in pitch like tractor-trailers zooming on an interstate, but nothing as metallic as machinery. This noise erupted from things alive.
Alive but best not seen.
Peter looked over his shoulder with wide eyes and held on to her. Both Watlington Street and the forest where the man slept were shaded red. She and Peter were carried deep into the Veil. She had no control over her destination; she couldn’t go back, only forward.
She’d felt sick like this when her mom lost control of their car in an ice storm. The world became a blur. All she could do was hold on and hope for the best. She and Peter stood in the eye of a hurricane where, instead of thunder and rain, another world eddied around them. Yet she never lost sight of the sleeping man. Somehow she knew if she could get to him, he’d know what to do.
Shadows deepened in the Veil. Out of the corner of her eye, Lindsay caught flashes of movement. The shadows turned into dark canine shapes running beside them. She tried to turn. Peter jerked her closer to him and held her tight. More of the dogs flitted by them and Peter paled. Pushing her backward as hard as he could, his mouth formed a word: Run.
What was he thinking? She couldn’t run; she was at the mercy of whatever force pulled her. Unable to focus on the danger he saw, she reached for him. He didn’t wait. Peter disappeared into the red mist. The dogs ran past her to pursue her brother deeper into the Veil.
Sick with dread, she screamed his name only to have her voice swallowed by a rising wind. Then she was whirling through the Veil. Her gym bag slipped off her shoulder to land near the sleeping man. He stirred but didn’t wake.
Subtle changes in the air pressure signaled her exit from the Veil and her ears popped painfully. Another force wrenched her past the man. Reality frayed, threads pulled from a tapestry. The dead, white trees faded into a wraithlike mist. Lindsay stumbled through the cold fog to trip and land in a pile of ash.
She choked from the acidic dust flying into her nose and throat. Coughing, she scrambled to her feet and looked around. The man and the forest were gone. Stifling her fear, she tried to calm herself enough to think. Less than a minute had passed from the time the Veil swept over her and Peter. Even if the man was gone, Peter couldn’t be far.
“Peter?” she whispered. A cold wind lifted the loose grit and swirled dust clouds in the semi-dark. The land surrounding her was flat with rock formations jutting out of the darkness. In the distance, mountains lined the horizon, and a volcano belched smoke and fire into the sky. Rivulets of lava poured like bloody tears down the mountainside. Lindsay’s mouth went dry. God, what was this place? She raised her voice. “Hey, Pete!”
He didn’t answer.
Her heart beat so fast she wondered if she was having a heart attack. Okay, don’t panic. Everything is going to be all right. Panic set in nevertheless. She should look for Peter, but she couldn’t make her legs move.
The ground beneath her feet gave a low, ugly rumble. Moans vibrated in the dank air and a group of people emerged from the dusk. A hidden force seemed to tether the lumbering mass of bodies together, prodding them onward, their joints twisted and bowed beneath its pull. As they neared, light erupted overhead and the group was illuminated in a photoflash moment.
Their heads twisted in her direction as if the weight of their skulls were too great for their necks. Parchment flesh clung to their bones and their vacant stares chilled her to her bones.
One of the men stopped walking to retch violently. “Water,” he croaked through cracked lips.
She thought she saw the vomit wiggle as she backed away from him. “I’m sorry,” she managed to whisper.
“Stupid girl.” He swayed unsteadily.
A sob, such a small sound in that great expanse of misery, scratched her already sore throat. She stepped just out of his reach. Oh, God, she just had to find Peter and get home. Please, God. “Please? What is this place?”
He opened his mouth but could only gurgle as he doubled over in a spasm. Another flash of light punctuated the semi-darkness and he lifted his head. In his gaping maw she saw worms chew the back of his throat.
A nasty squeak burped through her lips, gaining momentum, growing to a wail. Pressing her fists to her mouth did nothing to stop the sound and Lindsay’s screams ravaged the night.
†
Heart punching against his ribs, Lucian awakened with a child’s shrieks echoing in his ears. He drew Matthew’s sword with his left hand and stood to survey the low mist hanging over the forest. Deep, rocky gullies sheared away on either side of the hill where he camped. The terrain made good cover for both the hunters and the hunted.
It was only a matter of time before Catarina’s guards located him. Last night, he could have sworn he heard soldiers and horses. Whether it was his sister’s men or a haunting from the dissonant magic of the Wasteland, he did not know.
The War of the Great Schism had turned the country of Norbeh into a wilderness unfit for habitation, and the Wasteland’s fractured spells confused his senses. Four days had passed since his emergence from the caverns; instead of relief, he felt more exposed. During his long nights he realized his terror of the unknown would break him long before Catarina had her opportunity.
A flicker of light caught his eye and he turned. This was no haunting from the Wasteland’s fractured spells but illumination from the Crimson Veil. On the other side of the Veil, he saw an asphalt street and three brick houses standing in a row, each with neatly maintained yards. He didn’t have time to wonder about the purpose of the poles connected with heavy cables before the Veil closed. The houses wavered and dissipated from sight, and Lucian forgot everything when he saw a bright blue and green bag on the ground.
A foundling.
Lucian stared at the bag in disbelief. It couldn’t be a foundling, not for someone like him. Only those with the highest integrity were selected by God to foster the Citadel’s next generation of warriors. He wouldn’t be so blessed as to draw a foundling through the Veil.
She is here. He had heard her voice, and he knew without a doubt it was a girl. Those weren’t things he would know about another Katharos’s foundling.
He used his cane to snag the bag’s straps and lifted it within easy reach. Inside he found a skirt made of stiff lace, slippers, a heavy coat, and a pink cell phone. He replaced everything except the phone, which he held with all the reverence of a holy relic. He had once seen such a device when another Katharos’s foundling passed through the Veil; John showed him how to use the phone and the dangers that accompanied it.
Dangerous or not, the phone in his hand could be his only clue to his foundling’s whereabouts. The girl might be pictured in the display, or he might find one of Hell’s denizens struggling for a way out of Hell and into Woerld through the tiny screen. Only the most minor demons would seek escape through a device such as this, and Lucian had once been the finest exorcist at the Citadel. He wouldn’t be cowed by such a trivial foe.
On Earth the foundling would use the device for remote communication, but on Woerld the qualities of ownership and communication manifested differently. The machine should still be bound closely enough to his foundling to show her physical location. He flipped the phone open with a flick of his wrist and narrowed his eyes to better see the tiny screen.
Static filled the display before solidifying to show the image of a girl standing in Hell. Her fists were pressed to her face and her eyes were wide with terror at the soul before her. The soul reached out to grab her. The girl twisted and stumbled out of his reach. She turned to do the most dangerous thing she could by running blindly into the shadows.
Lucian closed the phone; his breath quickened. He concentrated on the resonance of magic around him. After several seconds, a buzzing sensation traveled up his arms. The weak reverberation of a broken Hell Gate grew stronger then faded again.
Had she passed through the Veil anywhere but within the Wasteland, her journey would have ended beside him. The child must have slipped through the nearby Hell Gate where evil waited to take the unwary or inexperienced, especially those foundlings new to Woerld.
Lucian could save her, but it would mean opening the Hell Gate. To use so much force would automatically inform Catarina of his approximate location. Even someone as dense as Speight would feel the surge of power and the parting of worlds. Everything he had sacrificed, everything Father Matt had sacrificed, would be for nothing.
Don’t dawdle.
Startled by the sound of the old priest’s words, Lucian looked over his shoulder, half-expecting to see Father Matt standing beside him. He was alone.
“You don’t understand—” He stopped talking. Good God, he was going insane.
To open the Hell Gate would be a breach of his covenant with the Citadel to never manipulate the Gates again. Taking the pledge was the lone reason he had left the Citadel alive and, until this day, he had never considered breaking his oath. If he violated his covenant, he would have to stand trial to answer for his recidivism. His exile would be revoked, and he would face a death sentence.
A foundling, Lucian, drawn to your light and allowed through the Veil by God’s hand, Matthew’s voice chided. Will you let her become like Rachael? A one-eyed, drooling monster lost in dreams?
His sister’s mocking words sounded no gentler in the old priest’s voice. Lucian pressed the phone to his lips. Real or imagined, Matthew’s words were true. Lucian couldn’t let the child die, even if it meant giving himself over to the Citadel courts. He had squandered his life, but the foundling deserved her chance to live. Perhaps this was the opportunity Matthew had offered, for what better way to make restitution to Rachael than to save another from the fate she had suffered?
He pocketed the cell phone, closed his eyes, and tried to remember the Psalm to open the way between Woerld and Hell. Yet all he could recall was standing with Rachael the last time he held her. When he’d stroked her cheek to soothe her, she turned her face to press her lips against his palm. He almost stopped, almost took her back to the Citadel on some pretense, but his pride and his sister had set his course.
Lucian snapped free of the memory and opened his eyes. The words wouldn’t come. Panicked, he tried to clear his mind. If he delayed too long, the time could slip, extending the girl’s torment in Hell without a second passing in Woerld.
While inhaling the rotted air of the Wasteland, he caught the faintest whiff of clover. Rachael always smelled of sunshine, clover, and some sweet musky scent all her own. He touched his Psalter, wrapped in the scarf she had once wound through her hair.
Lucian had not prayed since his exile, but this request wasn’t for him. He hoped God would hear him for the child’s sake. “Please, God, help me remember.”
The only words he recalled belonged to Rachael: John doesn’t think I’m ready for the Gates. She had been breathless and impatient. Always impatient was his Rachael and it would prove her undoing.
The memories he’d evaded for the last sixteen years floated to the surface, and this time, Lucian didn’t stop the recollections. Let them come. Let him remember. If he intended to face Rachael, he must stop running from his past.
His fingers tightened around his cane. “Psalm 20,” Lucian whispered to the dawn. That was it. They had used Psalm 20 to open the Gate, and Rachael never lost her focus. Neither of them ever lost their focus. It would be their triumph; it would be their ruin.
“‘The Lord answer me in the day of trouble. The Lord…’” He couldn’t recall the rest of the Psalm. What if he could no longer command the Gates? What if God no longer answered his call? He, who had once guided her so confidently, couldn’t remember the next words in his anxiety. Clearing his throat, he stilled his nerves and began again, recalling once more the musky scent of her skin.
“‘The Lord answer me in the day of trouble! The name of the god of Jacob protect me!’” Yes! Yes! That was it! He was no longer sure to whom he prayed, the God of Jacob or Rachael. “‘May he send me help from the sanctuary, and give me support from Zion. May he remember all my offerings and regard with favor my sacrifices.’”
The hesitancy fled his voice and peace filled him. He felt for the spatial ripple in time as he chanted. “‘May he grant me my heart’s desire, and fulfill all my plans. May the Lord fulfill all my petitions.’”
The words flowed back into his mind as easily as the unseen strength allowing him to channel this greater power. Humbled by the force filling him, he sensed a give in the air and knew the Gate was close to obeying his command.
His baritone thundered through the Wasteland, and he spread his arms wide, feeling Woerld give. “‘I shall rise and stand upright. O Lord; answer me when I call.’” On the final word, he rapped his cane against the earth, a rush of air rippled around him, Woerld fell away, and he was alive again.