Worlds Without End (2 page)

I stepped into my room. The walls were windowless and covered in heavy oak paneling. Artwork and bookcases covered every available space, crammed full of everything I found precious. Centered on the north wall was the Renoir.

It was of a young woman and a little girl sitting on a balcony. The woman was wearing a brilliant red hat and she had a face of such sweetness that just looking at her almost hurt. I remembered when he’d painted it. A beautiful copy used to hang in the Chicago Art Institute, but I think it might have been destroyed during the riots in 2011.

So much beauty was lost then.

Here in my secret room I kept the relics of so many dead worlds. Of course dead worlds are all around us. They’re just so much a part of our lives that we stop thinking about it. In London, five-hundred-year-old buildings snuggle next to glass columns built yesterday. Asphalt poured in nineteen-fifty is worn down by the wheels of a thousand rigs never dreamed of until five years ago. And the sweetmeats dance in nightclubs with rags on their backs sewn in sweatshops during the eighties. But that was just a momentary madness. A fad. A passing whimsy of fashion.

The things I’d distract myself with at times like
that.

And here too were memories from a place and time out of mind. A place as unreal to this world as any trideo fantasy. What possessed me to recreate what I could remember? That time was done. Over. Dust.

Right.

Then why were there pictures painted by artists far greater than I, depicting places described by me? Why had I done it? Why had I asked Francisco Lucientes to recreate those nightmare visions? What madness had I unlocked from his mind? For surely he saw them—saw the demons.

His painting leaned against the wall, face down. I reached out and turned it around. Curators from every museum of the world would kill to have this lost treasure. Could they have understood it came not from Goya’s demented vision, but from mine?

It showed a forest of such expanse that it fled from the viewer’s sight back into a ghostly oblivion. Standing in the foreground were two people: a male and a female. She was human, slight of build with a curious face. He was an elf, tall and lithe with dark hair and a small goatee. Growing from his body were thorns.

The skin was puckered where the thorns protruded from his flesh. They ran across his face and showed as stark points across the back of his hands. A thousand slashes rent his tunic, letting the thorns escape.

I reached out and almost touched their faces with my fingertips.

Tears were streaming down my cheeks as hot and warm on my face as the blood that once fed that great forest. Blood poured from the wounds of my people.

But that wasn’t the worst of what had been in that time.

My own complicity. Could such acts of evil ever be forgiven? Or forgotten?

I tried to push these dark thoughts away. But the dream wouldn’t let me go. Wouldn’t let me forget. I’d let myself become distracted by worldly matters. I’d forgotten why I was here.

I swallowed the last of the scotch. A pleasant heat had settled into my limbs. Perhaps now I would be able to sleep. With a simple gesture the illusionary wall was once more in place. I went upstairs. After closing the drapes, I settled under the quilts and comforters. But I couldn’t bring myself to turn off the light. A childish notion, but it gave me some comfort.

And small comfort was all I would have for a long time to come.

A vast forest stretches out before her. Green and lush. Beautiful and deadly. And there are secrets. Terrible secrets. She steps forward and feels that she is sinking into something. Looking down, she sees her foot being swallowed by a pool of blood.

3

Dreams,
I thought,
can’t hurt you.

The day was dreary and overcast. They usually were here. It was well past noon before I managed to pull myself from bed. Despite the scotch and leaving the light on, I didn’t manage to sleep until after the sun rose.

Normally, I would have downloaded the morning
Times
and printed it out while I made tea. But I felt restless and penned-in by the house. I threw on jeans, boots, and heavy sweater, then grabbed my leather jacket as I went outside. It was late October and already the wind was blowing colder from the north.

It took me a few minutes to climb down to the beach. During the night it had rained and the path was muddy. I slipped a little as I ran down it. The sharp tang of the air cleared my mind.

Dreams, only dreams.

But I suspected they weren’t. I’d had premonitions like this before. Before the Great Ghost Dance in 1888. And again before the one in 2014. Before the first VITAS plague. Before the start of goblinization in 2021. Each time I’d seen what was to come and I couldn’t stop it.

Oh I’d tried, but the others weren’t willing to listen. But they rarely thought about the consequences of anything that was happening. It has been that way for far too long. They’ve forgotten. Or didn’t believe the danger was so close at hand.

I was so engrossed with my morbid thoughts that by the time I looked up, I’d gone onto my neighbor’s property. He was a surly bastard and hated the fact that he had an elf for a neighbor. What was it he called me? Ah yes, a pointy-eared, pencil-necked, daisy-eating nigger. The last I assumed had to do with my skin color. It took every ounce of self-restraint I had not to slowly pull his tongue out his hoop the hard way.

But the Brits had an annoying habit of frowning upon murder. Especially when it involved a human and any sort of “meta” being. However, there were plenty of elves among the nobility in the UK, and I actually had good relationships with them. I hated to burn karma with them on someone who would be more annoyed by my continuing presence.

I turned and made my way back to the house. The fog had burned off finally and it was looking to be a rare sunny day. My security system let me back in with a cheery, “Good morning. It’s October 20, 2056. The temperature is 9 Celsius outside ..It rambled on and on, and once again I reminded myself to have the thing removed. But I always forgot. So tomorrow it would be the same, “Good morning. It’s October 21, 2056. The temperature is . . . blah blah blah.”

As I pulled off my boots in the mud room, I found myself whistling an old tune. Well, maybe not whistling, more a tuneless wheeze.

Look on the bright side of life . . . dee, dah, dee dee deedilty dah.

I couldn’t remember any more of the words. That used to drive Caimbeul crazy when we were together. My inability to remember more than a few snatches of lyrics from any song. Sometimes I even got the words wrong. What was that called? Oh, yes, mondegreens.

The kitchen was warm and I set the kettle on to boil on the flat heating element. I went upstairs and started the water for a bath. Stripping out of my clothes, I grabbed my robe and wrapped it around me. The kettle had begun to whistle and I went downstairs to fix tea.

In a few moments I had a tray all set to take upstairs. Sheer decadence to dispel the night fears. Tea and scones while taking a hot bath. Maybe later I’d read—from a real book with pages.

I’d just settled into the tub when the telecom beeped. Happens every time. As the machine picked up, I heard Caimbeul's voice.

“Aina, I know you’re there.” he said.

I gave a universal gesture for contempt and went back to drinking my tea. I hadn’t heard word one from him in eight months. Frag him if he thought I was going to get out of a nice warm bath.

“Look.” he said. “I’m en route to the UK. I should be landing in about an hour. Things have been happening. Things you need to know about. I have it all under control now, but we need to talk. I’ll be up to Arran in about four hours.”

I closed my eyes. The uneasiness that I’d almost dispelled was back. For Caimbeul to come here out of the blue meant something was up. Something big. The dreams came back to me. I shivered. The water had gone cold and I suddenly didn’t like lying there naked and vulnerable.

Quickly, I finished washing my hair and got out of the tub. As I dressed, I tried not to dwell on Caimbeul’s unexpected visit. Whatever the reason for it, I would know soon enough.

And I doubted the news would be good.

It is dark.

A blackness so thick and heavy it feels like a weight against her eyes. It is suffocating, this darkness. It feels as though she is being swallowed up by it. Being turned into it ...

4

Caimbeul was late.

Though I wasn’t surprised, I was annoyed. It wasn’t as though I were looking forward to seeing him, but if you drop in on someone with “important” news, you’d bloody well better be on time.

I’d made tea with all the things Caimbeul liked. Scones, of course, with lemon curd. Those ridiculous little sandwiches with the crusts cut off, slices of cake, tarts. He had a sweet tooth. But now the sandwiches had gone hard and the cake was stale.

I’d switched from tea to sherry, then to scotch. And still no Caimbeul.

Finally, six hours after he’d said he’d arrive, I heard the crunch of tires across my gravel.

I waited until I saw him emerge alone from the car before opening the door. Even though I had security sensors, you can’t be too cautious.

“Prompt as usual, I see.” I said.

“Ah, Aina, still charming as ever.” he replied. “No ‘How are you? Why are you late?’ You wound me.”

I snorted.

“Please, spare me the usual dancing.” I said. “It’s cold out here. Come inside.”

I turned and went into the house. Behind me I could hear him getting his bag and shutting the doors to the car.

“Lock the door and switch the system back on.” I called over my shoulder.

He muttered something under his breath, but oddly enough he did as I asked. I went into the great room where I’d started a fire earlier that evening. Sometime between the sherry and the scotch.

“Did you leave that woman at home?” I asked. “Yes.” he said as he shrugged off his coat and tossed it on the couch. He flopped down into one of the wing chairs in front of the fire. I handed him a snifter of brandy and poured myself another scotch.

“I’m surprised. I’d’ve thought you’d bring her along to iron your shirts. Or something.”

“Or something?” he asked. Coy, that one. “Whatever it is you do with girls young enough to be your great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great—”

He held up his hands. “I get the picture.”

“Oh, please, I don’t want to hear about your peculiarities in that area.”

“Do you care?” he asked. “What goes on between us is none of your business.”

I turned away from him, stung by his remarks. Of course his life wasn’t my concern. It hadn’t been for centuries. But old habits die hard. '

The silence stretched out between us. Once I enjoyed them. But now it felt awkward and tense. I longed for things to be as they once had, but it was far too late for that. As usual.

“I had a terrible time getting through UK customs.” he said at last.

“Were you carrying anything?” I asked as I turned and walked toward him. He gestured for me to sit across from him as though this were his house and not mine.

“No.”

“Made any enemies in the UK lately?”

He smiled then. I was glad he wasn’t wearing his makeup. That awful mask he’d adopted out of some perverse sense of humor. Wicked Caimbeul.

We chatted then about meaningless things. Things to distract us from the free-floating tensions of a failed romance and too many years of history.

The fire had begun to die down and we were both a little muzzy.

“So.” I said. But it came out more like “show.”

“Why all the mystery about your visit?”

Part of me, foolishly, hoped that his surprise had to do with the sudden realization that he’d been momentarily insane all those years ago when he’d left me.

“I beat them.” he said, his voice dropping into a slightly drunken, conspiratorial tone. “You’ve been saying that NAN would bring them back with all that blood magic. And you were right, Aina.”

I felt a cold finger touch my heart. Suddenly the alcohol warmth fled and I was wide-awake sober.

“What are you saying?” I tried to keep my voice from shaking, but I failed. He didn’t notice, though.

“They tried to get back, but I stopped them.” he said. “Ah, well, I did have some help. A group of shadowrunners I enlisted. We went and played our little games on the metaplanes. God, it was fantastic. I haven’t felt so alive since—I don’t know when. Can you imagine it? Just my wits against them.

“Oh, there was some business with them recently in Maui, but that was easy enough to handle.”

He gave a pleased laugh. Full and rich. I hadn’t heard that tone in his voice in so long I’d almost forgotten he could sound that way. Had it been anything else to bring this joy about I would have been delighted, but all I wanted to do was shake him. Hard. Laughing and enjoying this . . . this catastrophe.

It was just like him to think he’d finished them off. What hubris. What ego.