Nightworld (Adversary Cycle/Repairman Jack) (67 page)

Manhattan

Carol led the way up, throwing her shoulder against the door at the top of the stairs and bursting out into the cold night air. She was vaguely aware of the hungry buzz and flutter of the night things swooping through the darkness beyond the edges of the building; she barely heard the rooftop gravel crunch under her feet, or noticed the others crowding out behind her. She was locked on the bright beam spearing into the heavens—straight and true, unwavering, a narrow tower of light shooting upward, ever upward until it pierced the sky.

And then it faded.

“It’s gone,” Bill said close behind her.

“No!” She pointed up. “Look. There’s still a bright spot up there. Like a star.”

The only star in the sky.

“Never mind the star,” Bill said. “Check out the roof.”

Carol saw a smoldering hole where the light had burst through. She approached it cautiously and looked down into the living room below, afraid of what she might see there, afraid that Glaeken had been harmed somehow by the blaze of light.

But no charred, blackened remains lay crumbled on the rug below. No Glaeken either. Instead, a stranger stood in his place—in Glaeken’s clothes—clutching the hilt that sat upon the blade.

“Look!” Carol whispered. “Who’s that?”

He was taller than Glaeken. He had the old man’s broad build but was much younger, perhaps Jack’s age. And fiery red hair. His shoulders and upper arms stretched the seams of the shirt he wore. Who—?

And then she caught a glimpse of his blue eyes and knew beyond all question—

“It’s Glaeken!”

She felt an arm slip around her shoulder as she heard Bill’s hoarse whisper beside her.

“But he’s so young! He can’t be more than thirty-five!”

“Right,” she said as understanding grew. “The same age as when he first took up the battle.”

Carol could not take her eyes off him. The way he moved as he tore the blade free of the floor and swung it before him. He was—she could find no other word for him—magnificent.

And then he looked up at them through the opening and Carol recoiled at the grim set of his mouth and the rage that flashed in his eyes. He lifted the weapon and reduced the coffee table to marble gravel and kindling with one blow, then he strode from sight. Seconds later they heard the apartment door shatter.

“He is
pissed,
” Jack said.

Bill shook his head. “I hope it’s not at us.”

“No,” Jack said. “It’s Rasalom. Got to be Rasalom.”

“Then I’m glad I’m not Rasalom.”

Jack spun and ran toward the doorway.

“Where—?” Carol began, but he was already out of earshot.

“Probably headed to Pennsylvania. I know he’s been worried sick about his ladies and his friend.”

Carol shivered in the cold wind and looked back up at the point of light the beam had left in the sky. It looked brighter—and bigger.

She pointed. “It’s growing.”

“I think you’re right,” Bill said, squinting upward at the rapidly expanding spot. “It almost looks like—” He yanked her back, away from the hole in the roof. “Run! It’s coming back!”

Carol shook him off and stood waiting for the brilliance falling from the heavens. It wouldn’t hurt her—she
knew
it wouldn’t hurt her. She spread her arms, waiting for it, welcoming it.

And suddenly she was bathed in light—the whole rooftop awash in blindingly white light. Warm, clean, almost like—

“Sunlight!”

The entire building stood in a cone of brilliance that challenged the darkness from the point source far overhead—as if a pinhole had been poked into the inverted bowl of Rasalom’s night and a single, daring ray of sunlight had ventured through.

Carol ran to the edge of the roof and leaned over the low parapet. Below, on the bright sidewalk, the crawlers were scuttling away into the darkness, fleeing the glare.

She heard a crash as bright fragments of glass exploded onto the pavement. And suddenly Glaeken was there, striding across the street toward the park, his red hair flying as he swung the blade before him, as if daring something to challenge him. And as he stepped from the light into the darkness beyond—

“Bill!” Carol cried. “Oh, God, Bill, come look! You’ve got to see this!”

The light followed Glaeken, clinging to the sword and to his body like some sort of viscous fluid, trailing after him, creating a luminescent tunnel through the darkness.

“Where’s he going?” Bill said as he, Ba, Sylvia, and Jeffy joined her at the edge.

Carol thought she knew but Ba answered first.

“To the hole. The one he seeks is there.”

They quickly lost sight of Glaeken, but together they stood on the roof and watched the tube of light channel its way into the inky depths of the park.

And then something else—some
one
else: another figure, bristling with weapons, running along the path of light.

“Who on Earth—?” Carol began, but didn’t have to finish.

No one felt the need to answer. They all knew who it was, the only one it could be.

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FREDDY: Something’s happened out there, man. We just got a call on the CB that there’s a beam of light coming out of the sky over Central Park West. We can’t see it from here so we don’t know for sure if it’s true.

JO: Hey, the guy who called’s been pretty reliable all through this mess, but you know we’ve all been getting, like, a little funky since the sun went out, man, so if you’ve got a CB and you’re anywhere near Central Park, peek out what’s left of your windows and let us know what you see.

Rasalom relaxes within his chrysalis.

Only a pinhole, nothing more. All that effort expended by Glaeken’s circle and to what end? A pinhole in the night cover. Laughable. It changes nothing.

Except Glaeken. He’s been changed, returned to the way he was when he and Rasalom first squared off against each other. Little did either of them know that they would be locked in battle for ages.

But Rasalom cheers Glaeken’s rejuvenation. It would have been almost embarrassing to crush the life out of the feeble old man he had become. Destroying the reborn Glaeken—young, agile, angry—will be so much more satisfying.

And best yet, he doesn’t even have to seek out Glaeken. The idiot is coming to him. How convenient.

Their last meeting … so like their first. The circle shall be complete. It shall end as it began—in a cavern.

Glaeken stood in the dark on the rim of the Sheep Meadow hole and gazed into the abyss.

Somewhere down there, Rasalom waited. Glaeken could feel him, sense him,
smell
his stink. He would not be hard to find.

But he had to hurry. A rude, insistent urgency crowded against his back, nudging him forward. In spite of it, he turned and stared back at the cone of brilliance that pinned his apartment house like a prop on a stage, at the worm of light that had trailed him from the cone. Because of it, the night things had avoided him on his trek to this spot. They’d been clustered along the edge here but had slithered away at his approach.

He wished they hadn’t—wished something had challenged him, blocked his path. He hungered to hurt something—to slash, cut, maim, crush under his heel, destroy.

I was free! he thought.
Free!

And now he was caught again, trapped once more in the service of—what? The power he’d served had no name, had never presented a physical manifestation. It simply was
there
—and it wanted him
here.

The rage seething and boiling within him was beyond anything he had experienced in all his countless years. A living thing, like a berserk warrior, wild, deranged, psychotic, slavering for an object—anyone, any
thing
on which to vent the steam of its pent-up fury. His whole body trembled as the beast within howled to be let loose.

Save it. Save it for Rasalom.

He was sure he’d need it then. All of it.

He turned back to the pit and swung the weapon. Damn the Ally, but it felt good to feel good, to have his muscles and joints so strong and lithe, to be able to fling his arms freely in all directions, to twist and bend without stiffness and stabs of pain.

And the weapon—he hated to admit how
right
it felt in his grasp as a deeper part of him remembered and responded to the heavy feel of the hilt tight against his palms and fingers. The warrior in him smelled blood.

He sensed movement behind him and whirled. Had one of the creatures dared—?

No. A lone figure approached, trotting toward him. He had a strange-looking shotgun strapped across his back, an assault rifle in his hands, and a pair of pistols stuck in his belt.

Jack.

“Take your back?” he said as he stopped before him.

Glaeken’s bitterness eased at the words, balmed by the man’s casual courage.

“You shouldn’t be here, Jack—you’re the Heir. You should be back with the others.”

He held back from telling him that he was a liability here—that Rasalom might find a way to use Jack against him.

Jack shook his head. “You’re not the only one with a score to settle.”

Yes … the Connells … Weezy and Eddie. Especially Weezy. Glaeken had loved her too.

“I understand, but I’m the only one who can do the settling.” He pointed to Jack’s weapons. “Bullets are useless here.” He hefted the sword. “This is the only thing that can put an end to Rasalom.”

Or maybe not. Maybe he’s too powerful now even for the sword.

“You’ll help me best by waiting with the others. All my dangers lay straight ahead. It’s not my back I’m worried about—it’s you.”

“All right. You go ahead. But I’m not going back. I’m waiting right here—just in case.”

“Just in case what?”

“You never know.”

Glaeken had no more time to waste. He nodded to Jack, slipped the weapon through the back of his belt, and lowered himself over the edge to begin his descent.

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