TITLE    : Beyond The Veil Ch. 04
STORYID  : beyond-the-veil-ch-04
SUMMARY  : The mystery grows as the team heads to France.
AUTHOR   : slyc_willie@lit
DATE     : 2009-04-14
CATEGORY : science-fiction-fantasy
FLAGS    : h
TAGS     : |veil|mystery|ghosts|airplane|chase|magic|monsters|conspiracy|


"Dr. Perrin."



Taking a seat in the booth across from the older man, Kyle gave Malcolm Benedict a wry smile at his employer's professional salutation. "So we're talking business, then?"



The older man chuckled, tapping his cigar over the black marble ashtray between them. "When are we not?" There were few other patrons in the hotel lounge known as Shades; the only bartender was Faster, who busied herself with cleaning glasses while flirtatiously bantering with the handsome man at the bar. Kyle had seen the man quite a few times over the previous week, and without asking Faster for details, had realized the two were lovers.



"Very true," Kyle acceded, taking out his cigarette case. Malcolm was quick with a silver Zippo, lighting Kyle's smoke.



"Strange days."



Kyle snorted smoke and gave Malcolm a rueful look. "Well, let's see. In the space of just over a week, we've added a Daelvini woman to the team &#x2013; not that Victor seems to mind but Faster sure as hell does &#x2013; and I've found out that Max Keller is alive and well on the other side of the Veil."



"That's if you believe Xyllah's story."



"She knows too many precise details about him," Kyle insisted. "I don't care how her magic works, she couldn't have gotten into my head and pulled all that out."



Malcolm studied the younger scientist's face. "You're certain of that?"



Kyle glared back. "I've been spending ten hours a day at the Library, researching what we know about psychic phenomena and the Art. There is no mention of any magic that allows for deep mind-reading."



"Keep in mind our resources can by no means be considered complete."



The anthropologist nodded. "I understand that," he said. "But considering that our two most definitive books on magic &#x2013; the Necronomicon and the Grimoire Legerdemaine &#x2013; mention only scant reference to mind-reading spells, I'm inclined to believe the magic doesn't exist."



Malcolm was quiet for a moment, saying nothing as he studied the tabletop of the booth. "We are entering into new territory," he said at last. "Never before, as far as I can determine, has a sentient being from across the Veil been included amongst our ranks. We are setting a new and possibly dangerous precedent."



Kyle looked amused. "So how did you manage to convince the Council?"



Malcolm stretched his back with a soft sigh. "I have my ways," he said. "I can be fairly persuasive when I wish to be."



"No shit," Kyle remarked dryly.



The older man chuckled and puffed his cigar, taking up the snifter of brandy before him. "All right, you believe Xyllah has told you the truth. Dr. Keller is not only alive, but he somehow traveled across the Veil. Another unprecedented event."



"And he is some kind of indentured holy man, according to her," Kyle said. "Apparently, he has been given a measure of status, but he belongs &#x2013; like a slave &#x2013; to her temple."



Malcolm nodded in contemplation. "And undoubtedly has divulged various information in exchange for his continued status."



"It seems that way," Kyle agreed. "Apparently, Xyllah knows him fairly well. Well enough that he has mentioned my name to her on more than a few occasions."



Malcolm smiled slowly. "Dr. Keller did always consider you the son he never had."



"And I always saw him as the father I wish I had," Kyle responded with a blunt edge to his voice. "I want to find him."



Malcolm level his gaze upon the younger man. "I anticipated that."



"I know where to start."



"Oh?"



"I've been doing some research," Kyle revealed with a self-impressed smile. "I'll need airfare to Paris for the team."



Malcolm pursed his lips in consideration of Kyle's offer. He finally spoke after taking a sip of brandy. "That should be easy to arrange," he said.



* * * *



She could taste her own sweat trickling along her upper lip as she panted into the body-warmed silk beneath. Her fists clutched handfuls of bedsheet; her body rocked back and forth, stiff nipples raking against the smooth fabric under her body. With each thrust of the man above her, she pushed back eagerly, despite the occasional pain. She had been wary about anal sex, considering her lover's thickness, but he had done amazing things with his tongue back there, getting her primed and ready. And now, as she felt the bulging tube of flesh penetrating into her rectum over and over, she began to understand the allure of sodomy.



"D-Dwight," she moaned, arching her back, panting over the pillow beneath her. Breath puffed out from between her lips as he pumped rhythmically.



"Yeah, baby?" he growled, his voice somewhat strained, proof of his exertions. Faster found it sexy when he sounded like that.



She grunted again, began to speak, then suddenly moaned loudly and long as an unexpected orgasm radiated out from her sex, overwhelming her body. She was not sure if the sensations originated in her pussy or ass; they seemed to explode across every nerve in both areas. Nor could she articulate the feeling through any means other than impassioned panting and moaning.



Straddling her athletic hips and powerful legs, Dwight hung on, inspired by his lover's convulsive orgasm. He had been holding out for just this moment, and now that Faster was rocking in ecstasy, he willingly joined her, at once relieved and empowered.



The lithe young woman was not aware of the warm seed gushing into her bowels, of the shaking man gripping her taut cheeks with strength enough to leave bruises. She was aware only of the most intense sensation she had ever experienced. It was not an entirely pleasurable one, although that element was certainly there. It was simple new, unprecedented, and utterly undefinable.



Only once the maelstrom-like high began to fade was Faster aware of the weight of her lover upon her back, his muscular legs straddling hers, his arms wrapped loosely about her head. She could just feel the tumescent length of his spent penis against her sticky labia, and the slick seepage between her cheeks.



"Mm . . . b-baby?"



His breath was warm and ragged against her left cheek; their sweat mingled together against her skin. "Yeah."



"Th-that . . . um . . . w-wuh . . . ."



He chuckled. "Was?"



"Yeah. W-was . . . oh my God . . . ."



Dwight lifted up just enough to kiss her cheek. Faster grinned and murmured beneath him. "It was for me, too," he said.



* * * *



Victor had never seen his fellow Veil Society member beam the way she was when Faster approached down the walk from her lover's impressive house. The older, more jaded Victor Cortes could only shake his head in a way that was both envious and jealous. It had been several years since he had enjoyed such a feeling. Jealousy was not an emotion Victor indulged in often; the fact that one of his closest friends was thusly happy confused that feeling even further. Still, it lingered, reminding him of what he did not possess.



"I don't wanna hear any details," he grumbled as Faster slid into the passenger seat of the vintage Monte Carlo. He gave her a lopsided smile that told her he was both serious but understanding of her happiness.



She rolled her eyes, unable to quell the grin that stretched her lips. "Fine. I won't mention anything about the most incredible sex--"



"Dawn. Seriously."



Now, her smile did fade, if only out of concern. Victor never referred to her as "Dawn." Hearing him speak her first name that way invoked comparisons to her father. "Okay," was all she said, her voice stifled. <i>Man, talk about a buzzkill . . . .</i>



Victor's face soured, but he dropped the subject as he pulled the Monte Carlo away from the curb. "We're gonna meet doc and the elf chick at some new safe house they got her set up in outside town," he informed. "Something about her needing space and privacy."



"Her?" Faster asked probingly. "Or <i>them</i>?"



Victor sighed. "Hey, I don't get involved in that kind'a stuff. I ain't into gossip."



"It's not gossip if our team leader is fucking our newest member," Faster snapped, her ire growing noticeably. "And why the hell don't we get a vote in who gets added on, anyway? What, Malcolm figures our opinion isn't important?"



Victor frowned. "Don't remember you making a fuss when the doc was made team leader."



"He never tried to kill us."



His brow furrowed even more. "Maybe I missed something, but I don't remember that chick tryin' to off us--"



"She shot at me, remember?" Faster smacked Victor on the arm. "Did that magic mumbo-jumbo shit and almost hit me with some freaky blue fire."



He sighed heavily. "Yeah, okay, but you shot at her, too."



"Hey, who's fucking side are you on?"



Victor took his eyes from the road just long enough to level his gaze upon his team mate's. "Ours. Yours, mine, the doc's, and Xyllah's."



Faster bristled. "So now you're on a first-name basis with her?"



"Well, something tells me she wouldn't like 'elf bitch' all that much."



They both feel silent as the car's V-8 rumbled through the frame of the vehicle. Outside, the snowfall of late winter was light, allowing fresh green vegetation to poke through the slush along both sides of the road. Sarah Brightman's voice was a faint background sound emanating through the speakers of the car.



"I'm sorry."



Victor softened almost immediately at Faster's apology. "It's okay, baby."



She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, watching the window beside her steam briefly. "Okay, okay, like it or not, the freaky albino chick's part of the team now. But I ain't about to let my guard down around her."



"Me neither," agreed Victor. "But I ain't gonna keep up any walls."



Faster sucked her bottom lip. "Good point," she admitted. "Okay, I'll give her a chance."



Victor nodded. "And you ain't gonna, uh, get jealous or nothing 'cause she and the doc are sharing sheet time?"



She scoffed loudly. "Why the fuck would I be jealous? In case you haven't noticed, I got me a real fine man. <i>And </i>he's got all his body parts."



Victor looked vicariously insulted. "Babe," he chastised. "That was low."



Her eyes dipped in shame. "Yeah, soon as I said it I knew I shouldn't have."



He nodded once, both as an understanding of Faster's self-admonition and as an indication that the conversation was over. Without another word, he reached for the volume knob on the CD player, just as his favorite singer began her moving rendition of "Alhambra."



* * * *



The new safe house was little more than a cottage, hidden amongst dense groves of spruces and elms off a country road several miles from the city limits. This far out from the metropolis, the ground was covered with fresher, purer snow, through which shoots of new green growth protruded in their eternal quest for the sun. The weather was finally beginning to turn toward the warmth of spring, but only just; it would be at least another month or so &#x2013; most likely not until late March &#x2013; before the snows would truly begin to melt and Kyle would no longer need the pea coat.



The taxi driver had required a twenty-dollar charge up front as "good faith" for the drive outside the city. Kyle had been prepared for that, quickly handing over the folded bill. His ready compliance made the eastern European driver chatty for a while, until he realized Kyle was not in the mood to respond.



The anthropologist had no particular reason to be rude. It was only a function of his mind being occupied with so many different tangents of thought that he responded only curtly, if at all, to the driver's comments and friendly observations. The man eventually fell quiet, cutting the silence by tuning in talk radio.



Kyle left the man a worthwhile tip as he stepped from the cab, breathing in air that was crisper, fresher than that to which he had become accustomed in the city. Birds twittered among leafless boughs; frozen underbrush rustled from the passage of rodents. Kyle smirked to himself, wondering where the gingerbread house and big bad wolf were.



The aroma of cedar was pungent in the air, emanating from the narrow stone chimney of the cottage. There was another smell as well, something sharp, pungent, almost acidic. Kyle could not quite place it.



As the cab rolled away, retreating along the snow-covered lane to the main road, Kyle approached the thick wooden door of the cottage and rapped. No response greeted him for almost a full minute. He knocked again, peered through the frosted windows at the distorted chamber beyond. No sign of movement. He wrinkled his brow and stepped away from the door, heading around the side of the cabin.



The late morning sun shone directly upon the eastern-facing rear yard, making the snow sparkle like a bed of diamonds upon white silk. There was a small rear deck of weatherproofed wood, opening to a broad lawn presently encased in the downy white mixture from the sky. About fifteen feet out from the deck, however, was a small bistro table framed by chairs. Snow had been cleared from the table, and a blanket set atop it. The chairs remained covered. Atop the blanket, situated in the center of the small round table, was the slender, sleek &#x2013; and nude &#x2013; form of Xyllah.



She sat with her legs folded, back straight, shoulders pulled back. Graceful elfin hands rest upon pale knees. Her entire body seemed to glow with a pinkish hue which rose through the alabaster hue it normally sported. The nipples of small, upturned breasts were thick and engorged, as if excited. The unmistakable aroma of arousal wafted from her; every pore in her skin apparently exuded the same scent as those between her thighs.



Kyle stared, at once dry-mouthed and awkward as well as aroused. Knowing Xyllah as he did, the familiar tang of her sexual scent had a predictable and alarmingly swift effect upon him. Still, he managed to steel himself, to erect the wall necessary to preserve his clarity. Slowly, almost reverently, he stepped toward her, admiring the line of her lean back, the way it disappeared above the cleft of the firm cheeks of her rear, before making his way around until he faced her. Xyllah's eyes were closed, her face relaxed in meditation. The stark tattoos along her left arm and shoulder all but glistened as if recently etched into her skin.



"Kyle." Her lips scarcely moved; the sound of his name was little more than a whisper.



"Xyllah."



Slowly, languidly, she opened her eyes as if emerging from a dream. She inhaled slowly, deeply, then smiled as the air escaped through her parted lips. "<i>Graca sen, vialor</i>."



He managed a smile, recognizing the words. In only a week, Kyle had picked up an impressive understanding of the Daelvini language. "<i>Graca sen</i>," he responded. He refrained from returning the use of the word "<i>vialor</i>," meaning "lover."



She indicated the object beneath a simple crimson cover &#x2013; one of the pillow cases from the bed, Kyle realized &#x2013; with a knowing smile. "I have something for you," she announced softly.



Warily, Kyle approached, trying to discern what the large, L-shaped item was beneath the silken cloth. "Oh?"



A slow nod tilted the angle of her narrow chin. Kyle could not help but admire her alien beauty. There were women on this side of the Veil, he knew, who would kill for plastic surgery and skin treatments to look as exotic as Xyllah. "Indeed," she answered in her soft, accented voice. "It has taken all of my mastery of the Art to produce. But I think you will be impressed with the results."



"What is it?"



She laughed softly, an airy, tinkling sound Kyle had come to expect after a bout of mutually satisfying lovemaking. With dainty pluck of her fingers and a deft flick of her wrist, Xyllah lifted the vermilion cover and tossed it aside, revealing the object beneath.



Kyle frowned, all at once intrigued and mildly insulted. "I really hope this isn't a morbid joke," he grumbled.



Xyllah's smile remained, and now her eyes became penetrating in an almost challenging way. "Dare you try it on?"



* * * *



The engine of the Monte Carlo popping and settling behind them, Victor and Faster made their way around the cottage, following the cacophonous sounds emanating from the rear yard. Confusion and concern mingling on their faces, the pair darted around the walkway, hands resting upon the butts of pistols beneath their jackets. What they saw when they rounded the oak-walled structure astounded them into dumbness.



Stripped to the waist, their team leader displayed a wiry, fit physique as he faced the third of four heavy wooden posts set into the ground, the top foot or so wrapped tightly in simple rope. As Victor and Faster watched from behind, Kyle effected a practiced martial arts stance before throwing his weight into a powerful punch . . . using a pale, off-looking right arm he had never before possessed.



The impact of fist against post was nearly felt as well as heard. The wooden beam thrust deep into the ground splintered and cracked loudly, sagging back from the force of the blow. Tufts of white powder exploded around the base of the post, momentarily clouding around Kyle like a thousand diminutive pixies before settling to the ground.



"Remember," came the voice of Xyllah, comfortably nude as she sat balanced upon the wooden rail of the porch. "The strength comes from the arm itself, but your body still determines how much weight you can support. In a way, the strength of the arm is an illusion."



Kyle grinned, face beaming like that of a child as he flexed fingers that were as alien to him as they were comfortable. He watched the digits curl back and form a fist, then extend once more. "For an illusion, this is very damned real."



"As real as anything, <i>vialor</i>."



Kyle looked back over his shoulder with an admiring and thankful smile to his lover. As he did so, however, he caught sight of Victor and Faster, stupefied expressions upon their faces. For a moment, his own smile faltered and faded. He met the eyes of his team mates in turn, then chuckled under his breath and grinned once more. Pacing swiftly to the last remaining beam jutting up through the snow, he expelled a forceful breath while lashing out yet another powerful blow, sending splinters and snow into the air.



* * * *



A quiet knock sounded upon the door as Kyle was pulling a shirt over his head. Smoothing both hands &#x2013; how strange yet how natural it was to do so &#x2013; down the garment, he called out "Come in," while simultaneously admiring the new arm which had been arcanely grafted to his shoulder. <i>She did a hell of a job</i>, he realized, turning his arm this way and that. Although composed entirely of stout hickory, the artificial construction seemed to match the weight of his natural left arm, as much as it matched the dimensions. The lines of the wood could be seen across the surface, yet it behaved as malleable as flesh and muscle. Kyle shook his head in wonder.



"Hey."



He glanced up to see Faster standing in the open doorway, a mixture of expressions upon her face. Kyle gave her a small smile. "Hey."



Awkwardly, she gestured toward his new arm. "So, um . . . pretty cool, huh?"



He laughed under his breath. "That's an understatement."



She approached slowly. "Look, um . . . I don't really know what to say," she admitted. "I mean . . . I mean . . . ."



Kyle waited, silent, watching as Faster struggled for words.



"I mean, what the fuck!" she blurted at last. "How the hell does this shit happen, huh?"



He laughed again. "You know, I had much the same reaction."



The slender brunette stared, mouth hanging open for several moments until she realized she was on the verge of catching flies and snapped her jaw closed. "Does it feel like a real arm?" she asked at last.



Kyle nodded with a look of amusement. "Yeah, it does . . . sort of. The fingers are as sensitive as my own, but the arm itself . . ." He rapped the knuckles of his left hand against his wooden bicep, eliciting the expected hollow sound. "It's wood. I can't really explain it."

<hr pg="2" />Faster approached closer, reaching out to touch the artificial limb. "It's just . . . amazing."



"Another understatement."



She ground her teeth, looking Kyle in the eye. "Guess she really does everything for you, huh?"



He met the younger woman's gaze. "In some ways," he responded.



Her faced reddened, but only briefly. "Are you still you, Kyle?"



He frowned. "What do you mean?"



She sighed. "I mean . . . a lot of shit's happened lately, and a lot of things have changed, and . . . I just wanna know that the guy calling the shots here is the same guy who saved my ass a month ago."



Kyle was quiet for a moment, thinking over Faster's words. When he finally spoke, he met her eyes with his own. His words rolled from his lips carefully. "I haven't changed," he affirmed. "But I also know I can't prove that to you. I know you don't like Xyllah. I can't fault you for that--"



"It's not that&#x2014;"



"--And I can't promise she's everything she says she is," Kyle continued despite her interruption. "But one thing I can promise is that I won't needlessly put either you or Victor in jeopardy."



"What if I don't believe you?"



Kyle pointed, his expression as deadpan and direct as that of Death itself. "Then, there's the door."



* * * *



He was relieved when Faster arrived at the airport that evening, despite the dark and shrewd expression upon her face. She said nothing to him, just nodded when he handed over her boarding pass. Faster was first to pass through the security checkpoint, before Malcolm, before Victor, before Kyle and Xyllah.



As he unlaced his boots before the metal detector, Victor glanced back toward his team leader and their newest addition. The fact that the pale-skinned elfin woman stood so close beside Kyle did not escape his attention. He smiled wanly, then straightened.



"She ain't gonna rabbit, doc," he said in reference to the lanky brunette.



Kyle nodded. "I know."



Victor chuckled. "Yeah, you always do."



As the stocky man stepped through the narrow arch, Xyllah looked up to Kyle. "Is there something I should know?" she asked. "Victor seems to think there might be complications with Faster."



He smiled down upon her. "If there are, we'll work them out," he said. "That's what we do."



* * * *



Three hours into the flight to Paris passed without incident. Faster and Victor enjoyed almost an entire row to themselves. Effectively blocked from view from their team mates, Kyle and Xyllah sat close together, with the Daelvini scrutinizing the details of the aircraft around her with almost childlike fascination. She had grown quickly accustomed to the existence of automobiles, electricity, and buildings "taller than a <i>dracon </i>is long" but the airplane seemed to perplex her.



"This flies without the aid of the Art?" she asked once she had gotten used to the vibrations around her. As was her wont, she was dressed in the bare minimum to remain decent; tiny, tight black shorts, a matching tube top, and boots. Her tattoos and overall appearance had gained her attention in the airport, but no one had said anything untoward.



"It's called physics," Kyle responded. "Aided by little things called aerodynamics and jet propulsion."



She said nothing, but looked contemplative. Finally, she shook her head and sat back. "This world . . . it is so different."



Kyle suppressed a smile. "I'm willing to bet I would say the same thing if our roles were reversed."



Her pale skinned stretched slightly at the corner of her mouth when she smiled. "Perhaps. Although I wonder how perplexed you would truly be. Our existence is . . . baser."



"I wouldn't call that a bad thing."



"Perhaps not," she agreed. "But the devices of your world . . . immense buildings, vehicles that power themselves, television, cell phones . . . To think my world might have traveled the same path is incomprehensible."



He reached with his new and still somewhat awkward right hand to find hers, feeling the movement of slender fingers beneath his own. "Not too long ago, my civilization would not have been too different from yours. Our progress has been unusual, when compared with history."



Xyllah looked thoughtful. "The Andrutha tells us that many ages ago, our people lived upon this world, together, along with many others. There was once a great civilization that spanned the globe, with trade from the furthest corners reaching all others. But then came a great cataclysm. The highest priests believe that cataclysm was a war of magic between your people and mine, and we were driven out, sent to live in a shadow of the world and sealed beyond the Veil. In your world, the Art was forsaken, replaced by the new magic of Science. In our world, the Art has remained, keeping us destructive and barbaric."



Kyle frowned. "I'm having a hard time believing Max would say anything like that."



She sighed heavily. "He never has, directly. But his revelations have been interpreted by the Temple. In public, he is only allowed to speak in <i>neutral </i>terms."



Kyle smiled wryly. "I'm guessing he isn't always neutral."



Xyllah laughed softly, her eyes darting to his briefly. "We have spoken in private," she admitted. She touched Kyle's face, then neck, shifting beside him as she slid closer. "In many ways, you remind me of him."



"I take that as a compliment."



The elfin woman's eyes smoldered. "I want to suck you," she whispered, brushing the line of his chin with her lips.



Kyle shifted uncomfortably in his seat, even as he felt his cock stiffening beneath his slacks. "Xyllah--" he began in a cautionary tone.



"No," she responded in a soft but firm whisper. Her right hand was already working to unbuckle his belt. Her breath was warm and moist in his ear. "Now. I want to taste your cock. I want to suck the sweet, warm essence from it."



Not many a man could refuse such a request; Kyle was not among them. He only glanced around as his Daelvini lover's actions bade him part his legs to allow her access between them. He watched the profile of a sleeping middle-aged woman as the cool, recirculated air in the cabin rolled over his manhood, just before Xyllah's graceful fingers wrapped around it. He held back a grunt of pleasure while she pumped her hand up and down, when her silver-haired head slid down along his chest and abdomen, as her soft lips and slick tongue caressed the smooth, firm head of his cock.



He finally sighed in pleasure and trained his attention upon the gently bouncing head in his lap, feeling Xylla's lips pulling wetly along his rigid shaft. On each upstroke, her tongue swirled devilishly about the head of his straining penis, lapping away dribbles of pre-seminal fluid. She moaned now and then, before filling her mouth &#x2013; and occasionally her gullet &#x2013; on each deep plunge. Her right hand slid beneath the musky sacks below his cock, pulling them out as well. The gentle ministrations only heightened the pleasure in which Kyle's heady brain swam.



He splayed his hands across the back of her head and along her back &#x2013; briefly marveling, once again, the fact that he once again possessed two hands &#x2013; as Xyllah's talented mouth brought him closer to relief. A muffled cough in the cabin pulled his attention away for an anxious moment, while faint laughter only a few rows ahead also reminded him of the danger of being caught. But the circumstances were arousing, making his cock throb in the massaging cavity of Xyllah's mouth.



The sleeping woman stirred across the aisle, making Kyle choke back groans of satisfaction as his release pumped between his lover's lips. Xyllah moaned at the taste of his fluid, sucking greedily to consume it all without making him squirm too much in pleasure. Kyle stabbed upward a few times, spearing into the Daelvini's throat, feeling her swallow. He shuddered in hedonistic euphoria.



The middle-aged woman shifted, mouth hanging open as she slept, clueless to the debauchery just a few feet away.



Kyle glanced around, blinking profusely as he controlled his breathing. He patted Xyllah's shoulder meaningfully. She lifted up, pulling one last time on his cock to get that last seepage of warm, gritty cum. She kept it on her tongue as she sat up, pale face lightly blushed while she rearranged his pants. She smiled around sugary lips, then snuggled comfortably against his shoulder.



Releasing a last deep sigh of satisfaction, Kyle relaxed, holding Xyllah gingerly against him. The thrum of the plane's engines lulled him toward slumber, despite the anxiety he felt about what they might discover in France.



* * * *



Cold winds blew down from the Pyrenees, but Xyllah felt none of it. She sat upon the crisp grass, back straight and legs folded in meditation, hands rest upon bent knees. Long silver hair whipped this way and that, leaving strands across her face and neck, trailing from the tips of her elongated ears. The swirling, stark tattoos running like inky vines along her left arm glowed faintly, as if struck at just the right angle by a soft beam of light.



Kyle stood behind upon the windswept slope, watching over her, his eyes focused upon the pile of moss-covered rubble which had once been a fissure in the rock. Ten years before, he had stepped through that passageway to discover the find of a lifetime. And ten years before, it had taken from him the last man Kyle Perrin had ever trusted.



<i>I never thought I'd have reason to come back, he thought. Yet, here I am.</i>



He glanced over his shoulder and down the hill, seeing Victor and Faster standing beside the rented van which had brought them across France. Their differing expressions &#x2013; hers was perturbed, while his bore amusement &#x2013; told of their feelings regarding Xyllah's casual nudity. Kyle himself was indifferent; he had quickly become used to his newest team mate's lack of modesty.



"There is an intersection here," Xyllah informed at last, moving on her head slightly as she broke from her trance. "Lines of power."



"Ley lines," Kyle mused, remembering what he had learned of the ancient Celtic belief. Millennia before the Romans conquered what was then Gaul, the druids of the Celts &#x2013; ancestors to Teutonic and Germanic peoples &#x2013; had recognized a grid of power across the land wherever they lived. Kyle had always considered the belief in ley lines interesting, but never had he considered they may actually exist.



"Yes," Xyllah confirmed as she rose, absently brushing blades of wet grass from her reddened rump. "Our world is rife with them. Some are so powerful they can be seen with the naked eye. In this world, however, they have become weakened from lack of use."



"Not surprising," Kyle commented, still gazing upon the sealed entrance to what he had, for ten years, considered Max Keller's tomb. "Find out anything else?"



Xyllah turned to face her leader and lover. "The land is scarred here," she said. "While I am no adept at geomancy, I can use the Art to commune, somewhat, with the land. What destroyed the caves here was nothing natural."



Kyle's eyes darkened. "You're sure about that?"



"I trust in the Art."



He ground his teeth silently. In the back of his mind, he had always suspected that the cave-in which had nearly killed him had been caused by an explosion outside. He had always wondered as to the pair of deep, muffled sounds which had preceded the cave-in, but had found ways to explain them away. Now, while Xyllah's evidence was less than empirical, it was enough to push him in a certain direction.



"Get dressed," he ordered at last, gesturing for Xyllah to precede him down the hill. As he followed the naked Daelvini toward the van, he noticed that Victor already had the elfin woman's clothes in hand.



"So what's the next stop, doc?" the stocky man asked, making no attempt to hide his admiration of Xyllah's form. The elfin woman dressed languidly, apparently enjoying the attention she garnered from Victor.



"Back to Foix," Kyle directed, evoking the name of the small town which just a few kilometers away. "There's somebody I need to speak with."



* * * *



Of the grand medieval castle's original four towers, only three remained of the Chateau de Foix. Once the seat of a county capitol, the Chateau was now mainly a museum dedicated to the millennium and more of history in the region. Most recently, during the second world war, Foix had been home to members of the French Resistance, who spirited downed pilots and other Allied soldiers to safety in Spain by means of <i>le Chemin de la Liberte, </i>a twisting, narrow mountain pass.



But more recent history was on Dr, Kyle Perrin's mind as the van rolled into the town of less than ten thousand residents. The tourist season had not yet come to this part of France, not that it generally enjoyed much traffic as it was. The buildings were old, some several decades, others nearly a handful of centuries, with architecture that was both practical yet appealing. The way many of the buildings sat so close to the streets was telling of the fact that they had never been erected with automobiles in mind.



Along storefronts and buildings with walls painted in classic earthen tones of taupe, beige and pale amber the van coasted, all within quiet and somber. The radio was tuned to a local station playing French versions of popular songs from a decade or more past. Had it not been for the palpable tension between Faster and Xyllah, they might have found the music amusing.



"Here," Kyle announced at last, indicating a corner establishment. The nature of the pub was only demarcated by the wooden sign with the image of a wine glass emblazoned upon it hanging beside the door.



Victor nodded with a short grunt, finding a convenient parking space along the street. The sun had set as they were driving in, and darkness was quickly enveloping the town. The neighborhood bar showed only a handful of patrons through its spacious windows, most seated at small tables along the ochre-painted walls.



"Let me go in first," Kyle directed, slipping the revolver from his coat and checking the rounds in the cylinder. "Come in about a minute later, and take a table. All right?"



Victor shrugged. "Sure."



"Why?" asked Faster from the back seat. "You're acting like this is some friggin' <i>film noir </i>shit or something."



He glanced over his shoulder with a wink to the woman. "Intimidation is best achieved in layers," he said cryptically, then pushed open the door and slipped out.



Xyllah watched Kyle approach the bar, her features contorted slightly in a frown. "He is . . . peculiar," she remarked.



Faster and Victor responded at the same time. "No shit."



* * * *



Effecting a small smile, Kyle pulled open the door of the pub, noting the quick but only slightly interested glances cast his way. A few of the patrons, he figured, recognized him instantly as an American, but they did not seem to care. With casual aplomb, the anthropologist approached the bar, giving a friendly nod to the middle-aged man in a burgundy beret and spotted white apron behind the counter.



"Bonjour," Kyle said. "Vin rouge, si vous plait."



The man nodded. "Cabernet ou Merlot?"



"Cabernet," responded Kyle, setting a few Euros on the counter. The bartender reached for a bottle, poured the glass, and set it before Kyle before wordlessly snatching up the money.



"Je recherche quelqu'un," Kyle said after taking a sip.



The bartender regarded the American warily as he set the change upon the bartop between them. "Qui?"



"Eugene Garbeau."



The bartender's eyes narrowed. He leaned closer across the bar and lowered his voice. "Why?"



Kyle smile thinly. "You speak English."



The man shrugged. "As well as you speak Francais," he said. "Eugene is a friend of mine. I would hate to hear of any harm coming to him."



"I do not wish him any. I only want to ask some questions."



The man pondered a moment, working his jaw. The chime above the door sounded upon its opening. He watched as two women and a stocky, intimidating man entered and sought out an empty booth. Distastefully, the bartender licked yellowed teeth and returned his attention to Kyle. "I assume they are with you."



Kyle did not turn around. He kept his eyes on the bartender's. "Yes."



The Frenchman sighed, trying to read the anthropologist's stoic face. "Tell me you are not a spy."



Kyle chuckled with mild amusement. "If I was, I'm sure you wouldn't be able to tell I'm not French."



The bartender's lips twisted slightly in a crooked smile. "You make a good point," he said. "All right. Eugene works tours at Labouiche. He's there every day from eight o'clock in the morning."



"Labouiche?"



"The underground river," the Frenchman clarified. "I have to admit, as far as tourist attractions go, it is quite something."



"Labouiche," Kyle repeated. "I'll find it. Merci du vin."



"Vous ete bienvenu," the man responded dryly.



* * * *



The Hotel Pyrene was a nice location, a smaller venue than most tourist-friendly hotels in France, yet equipped with standard amenities. After checking in and getting situated in their rooms &#x2013; Kyle and Xyllah in one, Victor and Faster in the other &#x2013; Kyle headed down to the hotel's store for some basic snacks. Xyllah, he knew, would be preoccupied with her relatively recent fascination for television. He could be gone for hours, he figured, before she began to wonder about his whereabouts.



<i>How the hell did I end up in a relationship? </i>he asked himself as he left the small store cradling a heavy paper bag in his artificial arm. <i>And is that really what Xyllah and I have? Or is it just a convenience for both of us . . . .</i>



His thoughts trailed off as he spied Faster beside the pool of the small hotel. A heavy blue tarp covered the water, but there were no gates to prevent anyone from venturing close. Faster paced back and forth on the far side slowly, turned away from Kyle and facing the commanding view of Foix's quaint village and surrounding foothills. She held her cell phone to her ear; her lips moved slightly now and then.



On impulse, Kyle pushed open the door to the large patio and approached the youngest member of his team. He just caught the last bits of conversation from Faster's end as he came around the pool. She did not seem to be aware of his presence.



". . . not sure," she was saying, with forlorn tone in her voice. "Might just be a few days, might be longer."



She listened for several seconds. Kyle set his bag down on one of several iron-worked bistro tables, then took out his cigarette case. He felt a rueful smile tugging his lips as he cupped one hand over another before flicking the lighter. He was still getting used to having two hands, after a decade of possessing only one.



". . . you're sweet, Dwight, you know that? . . . why? 'Cause no guy's ever treated me like you do before, that's why . . . yeah, you say that, but you'd be surprised . . . okay . . . I will . . . okay . . . 'night, baby. I'll let you know when I'm coming back."



Kyle blew smoke as he watched Faster snap her phone closed. He felt almost guilty for having eavesdropped on that last little bit of intimate conversation, and also, in a strange way, regretful.



Faster sniffed the air, then spun around, glaring at Kyle. "Listening in?" she asked angrily.



Kyle held up his hands. "I just came out for a smoke," he said. "I only just got here."



She ground her teeth a moment, but the features on her face were softening. "Those things'll kill you, you know."



Kyle nodded. "They might."



"But you don't really care."



He shrugged. "Sometimes," he admitted. "Not enough to make me quit."



She laughed softly, but it was still a harsh sound. "No, you don't quit anything."



He cocked his head with a frown. "When did we develop this adversarial relationship?"



For a long moment, Faster didn't speak. She simply studied his face, looking for clues. Finally, she emitted a self-admonishing laugh. "I can be a bitch sometimes."

<hr pg="3" />"Well . . . maybe," he said with a disarming smile.



The one she returned was genuine. "How do you do that?"



"Do what?"



"Make me like you, no matter what."



Kyle shrugged again. "It's a gift." He smiled again, pulled on his cigarette. "How's your boyfriend?"



She smiled back, albeit thinly. "Wanting to know when I'm coming home."



Kyle nodded. "Wish I had an answer for that."



"Yeah. Me too."



"Can I ask you something?"



"Shoot."



"What do you tell him? About what you do, I mean."



Faster inhaled, then laughed under her breath. "I don't," she said. "I just ask him not to ask questions."



"And he just accepts that?"



She nodded. "Yeah. Funny enough, he does. I figure he's got his ideas, but . . . he respects me. Truth is, I'm not really used to that. Kind'a freaks me out sometimes."



"I don't doubt," Kyle said. "Still, it has to be nice having someone to go to, someone who's removed from what you do."



Her eyes dipped. "Yeah. It is."



Kyle thought to continue the topic, but changed his mind. Instead, he looked up from the poolside toward the towering edifice of the Chateau de Foix above them. Carefully-placed spotlights hidden amongst the shrubbery of the castle grounds illuminated the walls in a soft, pleasing light which provided the illusion of warmer air than what was blowing over them.



"You, uh, you think you and Xyllah are going long-term?" Faster's voice was almost jarring.



Kyle looked bemused. "No. She wants to go home, after all."



She cocked her head with a wry expression. "You make it sound like 'home' is just a flight across the country or something, and not a whole other freaking world."



Kyle shrugged. "It's apparently been done," he said. "Besides, creatures from her world cross over to ours all the time. There has to be a way to follow them back."



"I guess." Faster's eyes suddenly glittered with excitement. "Be a hell of a ride if we can do it, huh?"



Kyle chuckled with a gleam of his eye. "You'd better get some rest," he suggested, dropping his cigarette into a conical stone receptacle. "Jet lag's already a pain in the ass, but we need to be as clear as we can."



She nodded, now visibly more relaxed and comfortable around her team leader. "Yeah, you're right. 'Night, Bandit."



He chuckled at her use of the nickname she and she alone used for him. "Good night, Faster."



* * * *



The sounds of gentle moaning greeted him as he stepped through the hotel room door. Owing to its construction two centuries before, the hotel's chambers were expectedly narrow and airy, with high ceilings, arched doorways, and large, thick-paned windows. Xyllah's lack of modesty meant the curtains around the windows remained open as she lay nude upon the burgundy-covered bed, casually stroking the sleek pink lips of her sex while watching the room's small television.



"Find something interesting?" Kyle asked with a quick glance to the TV. An obviously foreign-made adult movie was playing, something which involved hirsute Asian women in satanic robes open down the front. They were performing some kind of ritual around a man tied to an iron-framed bed.



"Quite," she responded, bringing her fingers to her lips. She sucked on them for a moment while giving Kyle an unmistakable look of seduction. "I have noticed there is a great variety among humans. Or is the appearance of these women the result of face paint?"



Kyle chuckled, stripping to the waist and taking two bottles of cola to the bed. Xyllah made room for him, accepting one of the bottles with a smile. "No, there are women who look like that," he said. "They're Asian. Northern Chinese, to be more exact."



"How many human races are there?"



"Well, there is only one race," Kyle informed. "But there are hundreds, even thousands, of ethnicities. There must be differences among the Daelvini. I can't imagine you all look alike."



"Very nearly so," she said. "There is some variation in height and body size, but --" she gestured to the television. "-- no such obvious differences as, for instance, between those women and Faster. However, I have never traveled too far from my home. My entire life has been spent in Nal'Katha."



Kyle ran the backs of his fingers along Xyllah's soft, pale cheek. "I'd love to see your mountain," he said, having no wish at the moment to discuss anthropology.



She smiled, settling a hand to his chest, brushing fingers through the soft dark hair. "I hope you will have that chance," she whispered, before tilting her head and licking her lips in invitation.



* * * *



A more relaxed mood existed between the four Veil Society agents the following morning as they navigated the country road away from Foix toward the underground entrance to the Labouiche. Kyle remembered hearing stories of Europe's longest subterranean river when he last visited, but did not have the opportunity at the time to indulge his curiosity. He wished now that his first visit to such a unique attraction was under less foreboding circumstances.



"So who's this guy we're going to meet, doc?" Victor asked as he drove. Yahoo had provided adequate directions, but Victor was a conscientious driver, knowing all too well that driving in the country is never as simple as Internet directions typically indicated.



"Eugene Garbeau," Kyle responded, feeling a quick wave of melancholic nostalgia as he uttered the name. "He was the guide we hired to take us to the cave where Max Keller died . . ." He pursed his lips, then corrected himself. "Apparently died."



"He lives, <i>vialor</i>," came Xyllah's voice from the back seat.



"Anyway," Kyle continued. "Garbeau was the last person I saw before we went into the cave. If anyone saw anything before the collapse, it would be him."



"What do you think he saw?" Faster asked.



"Maybe nothing," the team leader admitted. "Or maybe a murderer."



* * * *



The entrance to Labouiche consisted of a gaping hole in white rock at the shallow end of a ravine, surrounded by perennial undergrowth. With the grass of the nearby countryside swaying like the flags of invisible pixies, the place possessed an almost magical feel to it. The maw in the rock was like the mouth of Gaea herself, inviting any and all to enter at their own risk.



The small parking area was only half full, Kyle noticed as they left the van and headed down the short trail to the river. The majority of the vehicles sported French, Spanish, and German tags. There was one from the UK, and only one from the States.



A minimal booth stood beside the narrow river's edge, which spanned perhaps half a dozen meters before it flowed into the depths of the cave. Floating atop the water beside a simple pier, three large wooden barges awaited service. A handful of tourists stood idly by, smoking cigarettes, talking, joking, listening to iPods or playing PSPs. Kyle was thankful there were no young children amongst the patrons.



Victor purchased the tickets for the four of them while Kyle, Xyllah and Faster did their best to look like just another group of tourists. The team leader was glad he had cautioned Xyllah to be more conservative in her dress; wearing a leather bikini and thigh-high boots in forty-degree weather would have garnered them unwanted attention. Still, the elfin woman looked uncomfortable in her jacket and slim-fitting jeans.



"How can you not find such clothing restrictive?" the Daelvini asked of Faster.



"You get used to it," the brunette replied with an amused look. "Besides, the right clothes can accentuate certain assets."



Xyllah frowned. "By hiding them?"



Faster shrugged. "Not exactly," she said. "See, you show just enough to make them want to see more."



"I do not understand," Xyllah admitted. "Would it not make matters simpler to show all you have to offer?"



"Sounds good to me," Victor piped up as he approached. He held four printed receipts. "All set for the tunnel of love?"



Faster chuckled, regarding the entrance to the underground river. "You know, now that you mention it . . . ."



"What is the 'tunnel of love?'" Xyllah asked, then brightened. "Are we going to engage in a sexual ceremony?"



Her question resulted in a blush from Faster and a mild coughing fit from the stocky ex-soldier. Kyle slipped his arm around the elfin woman's shoulders and guided her toward the waiting barges. "I hate to burst your bubble, but no."



* * * *



To say he was perturbed by the absence of the man they had come to find would be an understatement for Dr. Kyle Perrin. While their tour guide, Jean, prattled in French about the majestic limestone formations and "ancient, cryptic" stone age drawings, Kyle barely listened. He wondered if Eugene Garbeau had been warned, perhaps by the bartender from the evening before. Scenarios regarding more creative ways of interrogating the Frenchman occupied Kyle's thoughts while the others around him took in the sights.



The underground river made the boat rock as the guide pushed it along with a thick, stout pole. Stalactites hung from the ceiling, glistening wetly and catching the radiance of cleverly-placed spotlights. Now and then, rock landings interrupted the otherwise water-smoothed walls, and it was at such landings that faded old wall paintings could be seen. The other tourists murmured in interest upon looking at them. Kyle did not have to look to know they were typical for the region, and dated between ten and fifteen thousands years old.



"Are you not enjoying this?" Xyllah whispered, jarring the team leader from his reverie. "Personally, I find this all very romantic."



Kyle arched a brow. "It's almost freezing in here, and we're surrounded by other people."



Her dark eyes glittered. "As I said . . ." she trailed off with a seductive nibble.



"Hey, uh, love birds," Victor interjected from behind them. "Hate to interrupt, but it looks like we got company."



Kyle looked over his shoulder, past the others in the barge and the guide droning in his practiced monologue. A good fifteen yards or so behind was another barge, this one empty save for the solitary driver. Even with the dark light and the distance between them, Kyle was certain the blonde-haired head belonged to the man they sought.



"Imagine that," he muttered.



"Yep," said Victor with a slight nod. "I'm guessing he got tipped off by his bartender buddy."



"Which I expected," Kyle said. "So long as he showed up, that's all I was concerned with."



"So what are we supposed to do?" Faster asked. "Jump boats?"



Kyle turned back, silent in contemplation. Ahead, he spied a rather broad landing, to which had been attached a small, rickety wooden pier. The barge was already slowing, ostensibly in preparation for a stop. "No, I don't think it'll be that difficult."



Within minutes, the barge indeed floated to a stop along the pier, with Jean jumping out to secure a soggy, heavy coil of rope to a post on the barge. The tourists disembarked under their guide's urging, as the skinny Frenchman lugged an old plastic chest onto the pier. In French, then German and finally English, he offered bottled water, Coca-Cola, and various snacks for a couple of euros each.



But as the tourists begrudgingly sampled their guide's wares while listening to yet more flowery description of wall paintings and the various "strange and unusual" creatures which lived in the river, Kyle faced the arrival of the second barge. Closer now, Kyle's assumption as to the identity of the second man was confirmed. With a slight flutter of anxiety in his chest, he approached the second boat driver, indicating for his team to remain behind.



"Eugene Garbeau, je crois?" Kyle asked, offering a hand as the man stood upon the listing barge. He paused before accepting the helping hand and stepping onto the pier.



"Oui, mon nom est Garbeau," he confirmed, eyes narrowed as he searched Kyle's face. "You're the American. You look familiar."



"You have a good memory, then, since it's been ten years."



The Frenchman's eyes became more suspicious. "It appears I could say the same of you."



Kyle met the man's eyes squarely. "I assume you know why I wish to speak with you, then."



Garbeau shrugged. "Do you want a tour guide?" he asked casually. "My rates have increased, just so you know; I recently purchased a new car."



Kyle stared, gritting his teeth at the man's flippant response. "Ten years ago, a man I revere more than my own father was killed in a cave-in that you took us to. I want to know what you saw."



Garbeau's eyes flickered away, revealing his nervousness. "What could I see? I was all the way down the hill."



"No. You weren't." Kyle insinuated himself closer, and despite the fact that the Frenchman was a little taller, he seemed to almost cower beneath the anthropologist. "Allow me to remind you of the scene: you took me and Max Keller &#x2013; he was the older man, a little thick in the middle, glasses, grey hair, khaki shirt &#x2013; all the way to the entrance of the cave. Your car was a little blue Peugeot with dents and scratches all over it, parked maybe a hundred feet away. I watched you smoke a cigarette before we went inside. Then . . . ."



Kyle leaned even closer, speaking in an insidious whisper. "Then, someone set off an explosive. A bomb. Right above the cave on the hillside. Someone tried to kill us both, but I survived. And I find it hard to believe you did not see anything, unless you had been told by someone to leave before it happened."



Garbeau swallowed thickly, glancing around quickly as if seeking support. Some of the tourists looked toward the two men, wondering what was going on, but having the presence of mind to keep their distance. Victor, Faster and Xyllah seemed on alert, the first two watching all around while Xyllah was more concerned with the actions of her leader and lover.



"If you care to know," Garbeau finally said in response. "It is because of me that you are still alive."



"You dragged me from the cave, then?"



The Frenchman nodded. "I heard . . . I heard the rumble, then the shouting . . . it was all I could do to get you free."



Kyle fought down his anger, reminding himself he had to remain focused and level-headed. "Do you know who did it?"



Garbeau trembled, and for the first time looked to Kyle with a fearful expression. "You do not understand," he whispered. "I have family. A sister, two nieces and a nephew, parents, friends--"



"They threatened to harm them if you told?"



Somberly, the man nodded. "I am very sorry, but I cannot give you the answers you want."



Kyle thought for a moment, breathing in deeply. He cast a quick look to his team, registering their inquisitive expressions. A cautionary gesture of his right hand told them he was still in control of the conversation; he did not need them just yet.



"Do you think they still watch you?"



Garbeau nodded slowly. "Yes. Because of that, I think I must l--"



"So what makes you think, because you're talking to me now, they haven't already assumed you would tell me everything?"



The man lifted his face slowly, pained eyes searching for mercy in Kyle's stoic features. "That is why I must go--"



"It may be too late," Kyle insisted. "In fact, if I was them, I wouldn't take the chance. I'd assume you've already spilled the beans, and the first chance I got, I'd try to silence you."



Alarm and anxiety instantly flooded the man's face. "I am leaving, now!"



Swiftly, Kyle grabbed the man's jacket and jerked him close, making Garbeau stumble due to the strength of Kyle's enchanted limb. "No, you are going to tell me what you know," he hissed. "Because, if you're a dead man already, you have nothing to lose."



The Frenchman's jaw worked, mouth gaping, as he struggled to find the words to say. But the words would never come, replaced as they were by an abrupt explosion of pink-red ichor from his open mouth. It took Kyle a moment to understand that the man was dead; once-living eyes turned glassy and blank, while lips trickled blood, gore, and flecks of bone from the impact of the bullet in the back of the man's head. Kyle did not even register the fact that his own face was now decorated with spots of blood.



"Shooter!" cried Victor, snapping a pistol into his hand as he dropped to one knee. Behind him, tourists screamed and gasped, falling and stumbling against an ancient painted cave wall.



"Got him!" harped Faster, both her gleaming chrome pistols in hand, aimed back along the winding underground river, toward a shadowed boat floating against the tunnel wall. A single figure could be seen scrambling to pull the cord on the motor.



Kyle let Garbeau's body fall into the barge from which he had stepped, and leapt in with it. He jerked the revolver free from his coat and squatted for cover in the barge. "Aim for the motor!" he barked. "I want him alive!"



"No prob," responded Victor, as both he and Faster unleashed their weapons. The resulting cacophony echoed in the tunnel, painfully assaulting the ears of all within. More screams and curses erupted from the tourists, save for one lone teenaged boy who continued the game upon his PSP in blissful ignorance.



Looking to the frozen expression of pain and shock upon Garbeau's face, Kyle passed a hand over the man's eyes, closing them. "Sometimes, I hate it when I'm right," he muttered.



"Man in the water!" Victor yelled, rising from his position.



Kyle looked, seeing the smoking, sparking ruin of the motor on the distant boat. As well, he could see the flailing arms of a figure paddling away in the dark, cold river. "Come on!" he ordered, sheathing his weapon and taking up the heavy wooden pole. In short order, the rest of the team joined him in the boat. Kyle passed the pole to the stronger arms of Victor, while Faster and Xyllah pushed the barge away from the pier, trying to turn it about.



"Kyle!" shouted Xyllah. "I can--"



"Then do it!"



The Daelvini needed no further encouragement to begin a practiced series of movements with her arms and hands. She intoned under her breath, muttering a quick succession of arcane phrases. Within a moment of her finishing, the barge suddenly bucked and turned, as if guided by an invisible hand.



"Shit!" cursed Victor, stumbling back in the boat as it shot through the water with all the speed of a competition raceboat. Thick waves splayed behind them in a dramatic wake as the barge powered back toward daylight. At the fore stood Kyle, once more with weapon brandished, leaning into the wind.



"There he is!" barked the team leader, indicating a dark-garbed figure running up the slope from the river tunnel's opening. He leveled his revolver, snapped off a single round. But with the bobbing of the boat, the bullet fell wide of its mark. A second round shattered against a small rock just past the man's right leg. For the briefest sliver of a moment, their prey glanced back, revealing a pock-marked face indicative of adult acne. The hard eyes and features belied a sense of purpose and determination matched only by those he read upon Kyle.



But then the man was gone, reaching a scratched and dented Peugeot upon the lot and throwing the door open. Kyle thought to fire again, but his only target was the man's head and shoulders. Too much chance of killing the man rather than wounding him . . . .



"Damn it," cursed the team leader under his breath as the barge bumped against the shore. Setting his jaw, he watched the little car leave a wake of dust and gravel as it sped up toward the road. Lips pursed and head bowed, he pushed open the cylinder of the revolver and shook the shells out into his hand. He dropped the empty ones into a pocket on his coat and reload the weapon, adding fresh rounds from a different pocket.



"Pretty serious Bogart there, doc," Victor commented, stepping up beside Kyle. "Soon as we start talking to the guy--"



"Yeah. Convenient, wasn't it?"



The former solder grunted. "Like the hands on a fuckin' clock."

<hr pg="4" />Kyle snapped the revolver closed with a deft flip. "My thought exactly."



"So what now?"



Kyle's eyes smoldered with determination. "Now we look for a midnight-blue Peugeot with English plates."



* * * *



The little bar appeared somber and gloomy with is weak lighting and off-colored walls. A black wreath hung in the window as a sign of reverence for the passing of a friend. There were, as before, only a handful of patrons in the establishment, and only the same squat bartender behind the counter. His face looked more drawn and dark than before; heavy bags hung beneath smallish eyes, framing the man's ruddy nose.



"Vin rouge, si vous plait."



He looked up, eyes following just beneath the brim of his beret before settling upon the face of a man he did not want to see. "Je ne prends aucun vin pour vous."



Kyle cocked his head, maintaining a fierce lock on the eyes of the Frenchman. He drummed the fingers of his artificial limb upon the bar. "I did not kill Eugene."



The bartender snorted loudly. "Of course not."



The anthropologist leaned closer. "If that had been my intention, why would I be here to gloat?"



The Frenchman stared back, eyes quivering with emotion. "Perhaps you are that sort."



"I was questioned by the police," Kyle said, and held out his bare wrists. "Do you see hand cuffs on me?"



The bartender sighed heavily. "Nevertheless, Eugene is dead and I believe it is because he spoke with you."



Kyle's eyes dipped. "Well, you're probably right about that. I don't suppose my condolences would matter."



"It is a rather weak start." The man grumbled beneath his breath for a moment, then seemed to make a decision about something. He suddenly thrust his hand across the bar in a salutary gesture. "We never were introduced. Phillipe Auburjonois."



Kyle gave a slight smile and shook the bartender's hand. "Kyle Perrin."



"Well, monsieur Perrin," Phillipe continued, jerking a thumb over his shoulder toward a small, black-framed picture on the wall beside the mirror. "Do you see that photograph?"



The anthropologist glanced, taking in the picture briefly. It showed Phillipe with an attractive young woman, obviously a good decade or so younger than he. They cradled an infant swaddled in pale cloth between them. The perfect image of proud parents.



"My wife, Marie," the bartender explained. "And my daughter, Angelique. That is my life. I will not put them in danger."



Kyle met the bartender's eyes with a hard look. "I want to find the man who killed Eugene."



Phillipe scoffed. "Of course you do."



Kyle was unaffected by the Frenchman's dismissive reply. "He drives a blue Peugeot with English plates."



For a long moment, the bartender was silent, eyes cast downward. He seemed to become aware of the fact that he had been polishing the same glass since the conversation started. He set the tumbler aside and settled his hands upon the counter. "I may know who this man is."



"I was hoping so."



With a rueful sound and shake of his head, Phillipe took a paper napkin from the bar top and scribbled upon it. He slapped it down before Kyle. "Is there anything else?"



Kyle straightened, taking up the napkin. "I believe I asked for a glass of wine."



Begrudgingly, the bartender took down the same bottle as before and poured a glass. The dark liquid all but splashed over thew rim as he set it before his customer. "Same price."



Kyle produced the coins. "Not this time," he said meaningfully.



* * * *



"A fucking whorehouse?"



Victor's blurt earned a suppressed snicker from Faster as the four of them stood beside the van parked along the street. "Oh, come on. You were in the military. Don't tell me you never went to a 'house of ill repute' before."



"I do not understand," Xyllah chimed in. "Are such vocations not looked upon favorably?"



"Depends on who you ask," Kyle remarked dryly.



"Hey, whatever I done in the past, stays there," Victor said, shooting daggers at Faster. "Sort'a like Vegas, got it?"



Faster frowned, clearly alarmed by Victor's response. "Hey, it was just a joke, big guy."



The team's resident heavy hitter softened visibly. "I know," he acknowledged, then gave a plaintive look to Kyle. "But why's it gotta be me?"



"Chances are, our enemies already know me," Kyle explained. "And even if they don't, I'm sure the gunman got a good look at my face. I know I'd recognize his anywhere."



"So, what? You think they don't know me?"



Kyle shrugged. "Only chance we've got," he said. "Look, Victor, if there was someone else, I'd be happy to send them in. But our only other options are Faster and Xyllah. How much attention do you think either of them would attract if they went into a brothel?"



"To be honest, I would rather enjoy the opportunity," Xyllah quipped.



Faster rolled her eyes, but she appeared more amused than annoyed. "Why am I not surprised?"



Kyle did not acknowledge the responses from his female team members. His eyes were on Victor, silently encouraging him. Finally, the bald man nodded.



"You're right, doc," he admitted with a grumble in his voice. He rolled his shoulders and let out a breath. "Okay. How long have I got?"



Kyle shrugged. "Until you find something."



* * * *



He felt nervous and apprehensive as he strode through the doors of the brothel. Having once been a hotel, some seventy or eighty years before, the structure retained most of its art deco interior and feel. Wall sconces cast soft light onto smoke-stained walls painted in cheap vermilion hues, and the tables and chairs in the lobby were reminiscent of a time in which Louie Armstrong may have been a guest.



At present, however, it was clear the glory days had long passed. Lazy-eyed men sat smoking cigarettes as they stared blankly at the television in one corner. Only a few bothered to give Victor a glance. Likewise, the open bar was quiet, with only a single bartender chatting with a pair of men whom Victor assumed were regulars.



The front desk beckoned. A skinny young thing smiled professionally upon the stocky man. "Bon jour, monsieur."



Victor fidgeted. "Um . . . English?"



The girl brightened and tittered. "Oh, you are American!"



He grimaced. "Yeah," he muttered.



The young woman, thankfully, understood that Victor was not entirely comfortable, and lowered her voice. "There is no need to be shameful. I see you are not married. There is nothing wrong with needing some relief, is there?"



Victor managed a smile. "No, I guess not. So, um, how does this work?"



The girl smiled sweetly. "It is simple," she answered, and indicated a door beside the desk. "The ladies are all through that door. You find one you like, pay the Mesdame, and . . . well, the rest is up to you."



A flash of insight struck the ex-soldier. "Do most of your, uh, clients go about it like that?"



"Oui. Unless they prefer a certain girl."



"Hmm. Okay. I, uh, guess I'll just, uh, go through the door?"



The girl giggled. "Do not be so nervous, monsieur. I am certain you are no virgin. Besides, the room beyond is not your typical club. You are guaranteed to, how do you say, get lucky?"



Victor felt a twinge of heat rise to his cheeks. "Something like that," he said, then approached the door. With a deep breath, he reached for the handle and pushed.



* * * *



"Care to tell me why Victor was so reluctant to go in there?" Kyle asked of Faster, who sat behind the wheel of the van. Behind them, in the back of the van, Xyllah meditated quietly.



"What makes you think I'd know?"



"I don't. But you've known him longer than I have."



Faster sighed. "I don't know the whole story," she said after a long pause. "All I know is that Vic spent a couple of tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, right after 9/11 happened. I think he met a chick there, and it didn't turn out so well."



Kyle frowned with confusion. "So, he's sworn off women?"



"I've never seen him with anyone," she responded pointedly, then shrugged. "Why didn't you ask him?"



He fixed her a deadpan look.



Faster chuckled. "Right. Victor's about as ready to talk about himself as he is to cut off a finger."



Kyle stared at the brothel's softly-glowing windows down the street. "Maybe I should have gone," he said. "It would have been riskier, but if Victor's compromised somehow--"



"No," Faster insisted. "He'll be fine."



"I wish I was so sure. Emotional conflicts are usually more disruptive than physical ones."



"Trust me, Victor's not gonna fail us. Have a little faith, Bandit." Faster laughed softly under her breath.



"What's so funny?"



"'Bandit,'" Faster said, regarding him with a cockeyed look. "Can't really call you that now, can I?"



Kyle looked down at his right hand. It felt so real, and responded as quickly and fluidly as the limb it replaced, yet he was still very conscious of the fact that it was not flesh and bone and blood. "You know, I tried a prosthesis for a while. It was too clumsy. Just dead weight hanging off my shoulder. I felt like I was lying to the world. But this . . . it's as natural as the real thing."



"Just ten times stronger."



Kyle smirked. "Not quite, but, yes, it's a lot more powerful than any human arm. I could probably arm-wrestle Victor without breaking a sweat."



The skinny brunette chuckled. "That would be something to see."



"I doubt Victor would find it amusing."



* * * *



The first term that came to Victor's mind was <i>seedy </i>once he entered the "ladies' lounge." He had no illusions about the way the women would present themselves, and in that regard, he was not disappointed. Most wore simple sheer robes that offered glimpses of skin here and there as they moved. The air was rife with the scents of a dozen different colognes and perfumes. The women ranged in age from their late teens to twice that, catering to tastes that ranged from favoring young and vibrant to older and experienced. Some looked very girlish, others quite matronly.



A passing waitress clad in a black skirt and matching stockings &#x2013; smallish breasts left hanging free and pert &#x2013; offered a glass of white wine as soon as he entered. Effecting as well as he could the air of the suave, debonair man who knew what he wanted, Victor accepted the glass and strolled about the room. There were a few other men in the room, some grinning and groping at the women, others as reserved &#x2013; or even more so &#x2013; than he.



Toward one corner of the room sat an aging, yet elegant woman clad as if for a costume ball. She even sported a corset which pushed up her prodigious breasts and a large blonde wig which hid her darker, and greying, natural adornment. The fake mole above the corner of her mouth was a classic Parisian touch.



"I'm guessing you're the Madam," Victor commented as he approached. He tilted his glass toward her.



She smiled with smug mirthlessness. "And you're new," she responded in casual English. "East Coast?"



Victor's lips curled. "I'm a King's Highway boy."



The smile became genuine. "I have a few old memories of Queens." She looked the stocky man over in an assessing way. "So what brings you all the way here from the Big Apple? Looking to sample some Francaise-style country pussy?"



Victor's eyes flickered in a brief moment of nervousness. "Just here on business," he said, then winked. "But a man gets lonely, right?"



Her eyes narrowed, but the smile remained. "And that is my business," she said. "So, what sort of girl are you looking for? Do you have any certain kinks?"



Victor glanced around, eyes briefly settling on a narrow-framed blonde clad in a classic flapper dress. Her hair was bobbed short, and lips glowed with brilliant vermilion. She was joking with another girl, a buxom brunette who was her physical opposite in nearly every way.



"Ah," observed the Madam. "You like boy-girls."



The former soldier snapped his head back about with an insulted look. "What?"



The Madam laughed softly. "It's only a term. 'Boy-girls.' Skinny, small-breasted, short-haired . . . they can be very feisty, but also . . . accommodating. That one's name is Lizette. Would you like to meet her?"



Victor shuffled his feet, anxiety showing, but he glanced back to the girl once again, this time to find that she was looking back . . . and sporting a catty, seductive expression. The tip of a pink tongue darted beneath her upper lip, just for a heartbeat.



"Has she been here for a while?" he asked, feeling the dampness on his upper lip.



"Do you mean, is she fresh tonight?"



"Uh, sure."



The Madam tittered. "She hasn't been chosen yet, no."



Victor swallowed nervously, then pushed a convincing smile to his lips and looked back to the brothel's mistress. "Sounds like just what I need."



* * * *



<i>The advantage to a whorehouse, </i>Victor thought as he followed the slightly-swaying hips of his imminent lover up the stairs. <i>Is that you don't have to work hard to get what you want. But the downside . . . no thrill of the chase.</i>



Lizette had spoken only a few words &#x2013; mainly salutations and a query regarding Victor's readiness &#x2013; before leading him up to the third floor and down a hall lined with doors. After finding the one she wanted, she gave the Veil agent a mischievous look before pushing open the door and stepping through.



The room beyond was fragrant with vanilla incense. Two small lamps placed upon a vanity corner and the edge of a dresser were draped with scarlet-hued cloths to cast the room in a soft, rosy glow. A single broad window looked out upon a quiet townscape. The bed was framed in brass with fresh sheets and thick, down-filled pillows. It had obviously not been recently used.



"I hope my room is pleasing you," the young woman &#x2013; twenty, perhaps, maybe one or two years older, Victor assessed &#x2013; said as she let Victor in and closed the door behind him. She followed him with her eyes, noting his muscular frame beneath the layers of denim and leather.



"Yeah, it's fine--" he cut himself off as he turned about, finding that the young prostitute had stepped closed, almost to the point of pressing herself to him.



She grinned. "Do you like fellatio?" she inquired in a soft, airy voice, her accent both strong and endearing. "I am very good at that."



Victor cleared his throat. "Um . . . ."



Boldly, Lizette pressed her hand to the muscular man's crotch, fingers searching through the pliable material of his jeans. She murmured appreciatively. "If that is yes, then I will gladly suck your cock," she whispered hotly, looking up into his eyes. "And I am not, eh, averse to the taste of sperm."



Victor emitted a nervous laugh and stepped back, gently pushing the skinny girl's hand away. "I, uh, need a minute, okay?"



The girl's brow wrinkled, but she nodded in assent and stepped around, seating herself upon the edge of the bed. Quite casually, she hitched up the hem of her short dress, unashamedly exposing the sleek, hairless folds of her fleshy sex. Leaving her legs splayed wide, she leaned back on her hands. "Will this help?"



Victor's eyes darted to the young woman's revealed pussy, noting the flaring lips, the little tuft of dark blonde curls just above the knotty protrusion of her clitoris. "You're, uh, very pretty," he commented awkwardly.



"And you are shy," she returned with an inquisitive look. "Will you remove your shirt and jacket?"



The blush returned to Victor's cheeks. He looked around the small room, spying a coat rack in the corner. "Let me just, uh, hang up my jacket."



The young prostitute smiled cattily, fingers lazily stroking the parted lips of her sex. "However to make you comfortable."



Giving an amused nod, Victor stepped to the coat rack, slipping the jacket from his shoulders. Deftly, he unclipped the holster containing his sidearm from the back of his belt and pushed it inside the sleeve of the coat before hanging it. He turned back to Lizette, hesitantly reaching for the topmost button of his shirt.



The girl's eyes glittered. "Oh, mon cher," she giggled. "You like to tease a girl, non?"



Victor's lips twitched. "Yeah," he said, popping the first two buttons, then the third, fourth, and fifth. "You know, I wasn't sure about this place, even though a buddy told me about it."



She watched as the muscular man pulled the shirt tails from beneath his waistband. "I hope he said good things," she commented.



Victor draped the shirt over the back of a chair, pausing as he gathered the hem of his undershirt in his hands. "Well, he said he was coming back tonight, so I guess that says something."



Lizette drew in a breath as Victor's muscular torso was revealed. The man unceremoniously tossed the shirt atop the other and stood before the prostitute. Well-toned muscles rippled thickly beneath veined, naturally dark skin. The universal tone of his skin's hue was marred here and there by obvious scars. The girl's brow furrowed as she took in the marks of battle etched into the man's torso.



"Are you a soldier?"



"I was," Victor confirmed.



Lizette uncurled her legs and stood from the bed, apparently fascinated by Victor's scarred body. She reached a slender, pale hand to run over his muscled chest and undulating abdominals. The tip of a finger grazed the hard mass of scar tissue between his bottom two ribs. "A bullet wound?"



"Yeah. Taliban sniper. Almost did me in, too."



Her eyes searched his. "I think scars are sexy," she whispered.



<i>Of course you do, </i>he thought cynically. <i>And if I had hairy warts, you'd think they were sexy, too.</i>



"So, uh, my buddy says sometimes you girls are into, uh, group sex, stuff like that."



Lizette smiled slyly. "Sometimes."



"I was just, uh, thinking, you know, if my buddy's here, maybe we could all, like, hook up." <i>Damn it, Cortes! You sound like a fucking kid on Prom night! Grow a pair!</i>



Lizette shrugged, trailing her fingertips down toward the man's belt buckle. "Perhaps. If your friend arrives, and--"



"Oh, he's already here, I think. Skinny guy, short blonde hair, ugly face?"



Lizette shrugged once again. "It is not ethical for me to speak of other patrons."



Victor gritted his teeth, watching the prostitute's downcast features as she pulled on the zipper of his jeans, separating the fabric. She nibbled soft, painted lips while contemplating Victor's boxers, then slid her fingers beneath the waistband.



For a brief moment, Victor felt himself begin to harden, especially as the prostitute's fingers found the base of his cock. But the slight poke of a fingernail jarred him away from whatever pleasure he had begun to feel.



Quickly, he snatched the girl's wrists in his strong hands and forced her to look up at him. "Enough, girl," he growled, all timidity gone. "The guy I told you about. He's an Englishman, and he's here. You haven't been picked up all night, so I figure you've seen the dude."



"Let me go!" snapped the prostitute, staring back defiantly. "If I scream only once, Boris and Jean will be up here in a flick of a cat's tail! And they are bigger than you!"



"Maybe," sneered Victor. "But trust me, I can snap your neck before any of that happens. See this tattoo?" He nudged his chin toward his right bicep, where the image of a dagger thrust through a skull was emblazoned into his skin. "Airborne Ranger, baby. Don't doubt for a minute I can do what I say I can."



The girl trembled in his grip, but she did not cry out. "Wh-who is the man--?"



"I told you. English. Skinny. Blonde hair and a pock-marked face. You wouldn't forget a face that ugly."



Lizette nodded. "I have seen him here. He is . . . rude, sometimes."



"He have a regular girl?"



She shook her head. "Most will not see him a second time."



Victor stared into the girl's eyes with determination. "But you saw who he went with tonight."



Reluctantly, Lizette nodded. "Promise you will not hurt her."



The first genuine smile touched his lips. "I promise."

<hr pg="5" />* * * *



The phone buzzed in Kyle's lap, and he snatched it up quickly. "Tell me some news, Victor."



"I found him," responded the former soldier's gruff voice. "Two doors down from mine on the east side of the building. Figure he's probably finishing up with the whore he went with."



"We're on our way," Kyle informed. "Don't engage until we get there, but if you see him, stop him."



"Got it."



* * * *



Victor tucked in the tails of his shirt after slipping the cell phone back into its pouch. He was aware of the girl's eyes on him as he retrieved the pistol from his jacket and checked the pipe. Chambering a round, he heard Lizette gasp fearfully from the sound.



"You are going to kill him?"



"Not if I can help it," he said, slipping the weapon into place above his right buttock. He threw the jacket around his shoulders, fished out a roll of money. He approached with a hundred-euro note, offering both it and a smile. "For your time."



Hesitantly, she accepted it, saying nothing.



Victor paused as he approached the door, and glanced back. "For what it's worth," he said. "I bet it would'a been a lot of fun being with you."



She stared back, at once annoyed, contemptuous and perhaps even regretful. "Oui. It would."



With a smirk, Victor opened the door and stepped out.



* * * *



Kyle lead the way, Faster and Xyllah flanking one step behind as he strode through the doors of the brothel. Kyle's left hand was wrapped around the grip of the revolver in his coat pocket, while Faster walked with her fingers just tucked into the back pockets of her jeans, inches from the concealed pair of polished weapons under her jacket. Xyllah, of course, had her hands free.



The young woman at the desk perked up at the approach of the trio and gave a wan smile. "Bonjour, monsieur," she called while standing, raising a hand and indicating the two women. "Je suis désolé, mais les femmes ne sont pas permis--"



"This is business, not pleasure," Kyle barked, flashing his billfold with authorial aplomb. "Interpol. Stand aside and--"



The unmistakable report of a gunshot sounded from beyond the door behind the receptionist, followed quickly by frightened feminine cries. Kyle started instantly, darting to the door. The receptionist slapped a hand over her heart, eyes widening in apprehension. She offered no resistance as Kyle shoved open the door.



The room beyond was chaos, with half-dressed women ducking behind chairs or running for alcoved corners as a man raced down the stairs, clothes disheveled. He clutched a heavy coat in one hand and a menacing pistol in the other. Behind him, at the top of the stairs, was Victor, taking advantage of the cover provided by the corner of a wall.



"Hold it!" yelled Kyle, drawing his revolver and taking instant aim. "There's nowhere to run!"



The man stumbled to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, noting the three adversaries before him and conscious of the one still at the head of the stairs. His acne-scarred face distorted in a reckless smile. "There is always a way out, Dr. Perrin!" he shouted, before snapping up his hand and pulling the trigger. The bullet flew wide, however, gouging plaster from the wall beside the door. But his actions did have Kyle and the rest of his team diving for cover.



"Faster! Xyllah! Outside, around the building!"



"On it!" barked Faster, leaping up. She grabbed Xyllah's arm and nudged her toward the door. "Come on, chick! I'll go left, you go right!"



Xyllah paused briefly, watching their quarry run for the back of the lounge, where a closed door awaited. Kyle bolted after the man, while Victor disappeared from the top of the stairs, ostensibly in search of another route down. <i>They are very efficient, </i>she realized. <i>Very swift to take action, with no regard for themselves other than to see the mission done.



And now, I am one of them . . . .</i>



* * * *



The scared cries of prostitutes &#x2013; and the angry tenor of one very unhappy madam &#x2013; muffled by the closed door behind him, Kyle stepped carefully through the hallway leading from the ladies' lounge of the whorehouse. The doors he passed wore labels in French proclaiming "storage" and "laundry" and other mundanities. Ears trained for the slightest sound, he moved carefully yet with purpose, the barrel of his pistol leading the way.



The cell buzzed against his hip, and he snatched it up, flipping it open. "Kyle."



"I got him outside the building, doc," returned Victor's voice. "He's boxed in."



Spying the glowing red "<i>sortie</i>" sign above a heavy steel door, Kyle nodded into the phone. "Be right there," he said, and snapped the phone closed. He jogged to the door, taking a moment to steel his nerves. The cold air outside radiated through the metal; the push-bar was almost frigid to the touch. Switching the revolver from his left hand to the right, he pushed down on the lever, feeling and hearing the lock pop free before he swung the door slowly outward.



A light rain had begun to fall, silvery drops glowing in the harsh white light of a service light in the alley outside. Twenty feet from the door, the alley ended at a high brick wall, against which were set a pair of dumpsters. Trash and other debris littered the broken cobblestone; the aroma was fetid and thick, riding the humid air to soak into exposed skin.



The Englishman stood between the two dented trash receptacles, pale flesh glowing where it was exposed. His open jacket allowed the light rainfall to soak into the cotton of his shirt; he did not seem to care. Breath escaped his thin lips in wispy puffs, floating away into the night. His right hand was held against his side, black pistol tapping against the outside of a water-logged leg.



"You're a resourceful yank," the man commented, grinning beneath a hooked nose dripping with water. "Thought I could get me in a night of pleasure before you'd come knocking. But then, you Veil Society types are supposed to be tenacious, eh?"



"Drop the gun," Kyle warned, aiming over the barrel of his own.



"No, I don't think I will," the Englishman responded, shaking some rain from his face. "You'd have killed me if you could. That means you want me alive. And I can't have that."



Kyle glared. Quick glances around confirmed the presence of Victor on a second-story fire escape above, and Faster at the mouth of the alley behind him. He returned his attention swiftly to the target. "There are different degrees to being alive," he snarled. "Not all of them require you to be <i>intact</i>."



The Brit worked his thin lips, staring back at Kyle. "Is that bravado? Or bluff?"



Kyle did not flinch. He lowered the aim of his revolver and snapped off a round. The report shattered the damp air, reverberating harshly between the walls. The Englishman fell back, smacking against the brick wall behind him, his right leg buckling. The fabric covering his leg darkened around the fresh wound. Still, despite the pain, the man remained standing.



"You tell me," Kyle sneered.



The man breathed heavily through clenched teeth, slapping his free hand over the wound. The chaotic laugh of a desperate mind issued from lips dripping with spittle. "You do your reputation proud, Dr. Perrin," he seethed. "But it will earn you nothing."



Above the wounded man, Xyllah suddenly appeared atop the brick wall, crouching like a spider perched upon a web. She gave Kyle a sly smile, one which he acknowledged with only a brief nod before addressing their prey once more. Faster came up behind him and to the side, both weapons aimed at the Englishman.



"You won't escape," Kyle said. "Your only chance is to tell me what I want to know."



"I thought you would have figured it out, doctor. I do not wish to escape. But neither will you learn anything from me."



The man removed his hand from the wound, shaking blood from his fingers. He looked about quickly, even craning his neck to see Xyllah peering down upon him. He chuckled darkly. "You run with interesting company," he remarked. "You even harbor one of <i>them</i>."



Kyle's mind tumbled with a dozen different tangents of thought. <i>He knows about us. He knows what Xyllah is. </i>But he stuck with those most pertinent to the moment. "Why did you kill Eugene Garbeau?"



The Englishman spat. "That is not what you want to know. But I don't care what you ask; I won't answer anything. The Book will never be yours."



Kyle's eyes narrowed. "What book?"



A raucous laugh erupted from the man's throat. "'What book' he asks!" His mirth ended abruptly and he glared once more. "I have a question for you, Dr. Perrin: do you know what it is like to belong to something greater than yourself? To know, to <i>realize</i>, that your existence is as nothing compared to the power of the faith you possess?"



The Veil team leader stepped closer, keeping his weapon trained upon the Englishman. "No. Tell me about your faith."



The man laughed. "You will learn it soon enough," he rumbled with the sure and smug expression of a man secure in his philosophy. "But I don't think you will enjoy the lesson."



Kyle advanced, patience wearing thin. "You killed Garbeau because he was going to tell me something," he snarled. "Something about what happened ten years ago when Max Keller and I came here! Tell me what you know!"



The Englishman looked unnaturally calm. "I know only one thing," he said after a moment, then swiftly raised his own pistol, shoving the muzzle beneath his chin. "And that is the <i>Black Souls </i>always find those they seek."



The man's abrupt actions and cryptic words gave pause to Kyle's reactions. It was enough of an opening to give the man the split-second he needed to pull the trigger.



"No!" cried Kyle, lunging for the man. But even as he moved, the pistol bucked. Flesh rippled, blood exploded. The top of the man's head erupted like a miniature volcano, showering the brick wall behind in pink-red ochre.



Kyle swayed on his feet, a gamut of emotions ranging from anger to loss radiating through him. He glared upon the corpse as it slumped to the ground, smoke trailing from lips trickling with blood.



"God damn it!"



* * * *



Kyle stepped from the shower in the hotel room, dripping wet and uncaring in his nudity. The air was chilling, even with the windows closed and radiators billowing heat. He wiped the moisture from his face with a towel before finding the shrilling phone amongst his discarded clothes. He was only peripherally aware of Xyllah's absence.



He glanced to the faceplate of the device before flipping it open. "Malcolm. Thanks for returning my call."



The older man's voice sounded annoyed on the other end. "I hope this is a serious call, Dr. Perrin. I am in the middle of dinner with several very wealthy contributors to Ouroborous, who, incidentally, also contribute to your salary."



Kyle's response was direct. "This was a setup, Malcolm," he snapped. "Someone knows who we are."



There was a pause on the other end before Dr. Benedict returned, his voice hushed. "Make it quick. What happened?"



"'What happened?'" echoed Kyle sarcastically. "We've been compromised, that's what happened. Someone knew we were coming. They sent an agent who sniped the man I needed to question, just as I was talking to him, who then blew his own brains all over a brick wall rather than give anything up."



"It may have just been coincidence, Kyle--"



"No. It wasn't. Who else knew we were here?"



"I don't share details with anyone," Malcolm said with insulted insistence. "Not even the Council."



"<i>Someone </i>knew. I don't like how this is panning out."



Another pause. "Do you trust your team?"



Now it was Kyle who fell silent. He ground his teeth a moment while fishing for his cigarette case. "I'd like to think so," he said, then snapped open the case. He tucked a cigarette between his lips, lit up, inhaled, let out a plume of smoke. "You suspect Xyllah?"



"I can't help but consider it as a possibility."



"You vouched for her."



"On your recommendation."



Kyle exhaled again, cracked open a window to help disperse the smoke. "I pride myself on being a good judge of character."



A chuckle. "As do I," Malcolm responded. "There was some question about your worthiness to lead a team, after all. But I stood by my decision."



"As do I," Kyle said, glancing around the hotel room, noting the empty bed, lingering still with the scent of Xyllah's presence. "So if no one on my team is at fault, then what?"



"Then we have to admit we are being monitored," Malcolm answered. "And we can't afford to be compromised any further. Did you learn anything about the assassin?"



"Not a damn thing," Kyle answered contemptuously. "He had no ID, nothing on his person except cash and a weapon. Same for his car. I assume it was stolen."



"That does sound suspicious."



"Very."



"You learned nothing else?"



Kyle pulled on his cigarette, aimed the exhalation toward the window. In doing so, he happened to look down toward the empty western courtyard of the hotel . . . empty, save for the nude form of a pale-skinned woman with silvery hair executing what looked like a series of ritualistic movements. <i>Xyllah</i>, Kyle realized, watching the Daelvini. "Well, there was something," he said into the phone.



"Oh?"



"A mention of a book," Kyle continued, pushing the window open further as he watched his naked lover. Everything she did seemed to incite a reaction from him, even if she was not aware of it. He felt his cock thicken and stir. "He seemed to think we were looking for it."



"What kind of book?"



"I'm not sure. But he said something about 'black souls' just before he blew his head off."



"All right. I'll start looking through the Library. When are you returning--?"



"Tomorrow," Kyle said quickly, then snapped the phone closed. He remained transfixed by the sight of his naked lover below. A slow, salacious grin spread across his face.



* * * *



Every movement, every breath, had been ritualistically designed to gather and focus the arcane energy of the Art. Even in this world, where magic had been largely abandoned, Xyllah could feel its presence, like a sleeping dragon awaiting arousal. She moved and swayed, naked feet brushing through cold, crisp grass. The light pelting of frigid rain upon her glossy skin caused no discomfort whatsoever; the Daelvini were hardy stock, after all, living their lives within the cold hearts of mountains.



She felt his approach before the sound of booted feet crunched quietly upon the grass behind her. A smile stretched her lips, but she did not stop in her ritual, nor did she open her eyes as she addressed the man with whom she shared a bed.



"Do you enjoy watching me?"



Kyle cocked his head, arms folded upon his chest. "A naked, exotic woman dancing in the rain? What's not to enjoy?"



"It is not dancing," Xyllah corrected as she continued her movements. Muscles rippled beneath her skin; the tattoos along her arm glowed with arcane light. As she twisted and turned, Kyle observed the fierce stiffness of her nipples and the extended lips of her sex. The faint aroma of arousal drifted toward him through the algid air. "Well, not quite."



Kyle made a short sound of amusement. "How does one become a Zantra Adept?"



"It involves years of study," she replied. "It is not simply a matter of knowing the movements, learning the words and rituals. You must understand, and believe, that the Art can be directed."



"Sounds like a religion."



"It is," Xyllah confirmed, turning to face Kyle with a hungry expression. "It is the most satisfying religion in all the world."



He approached, eyes locked with hers. "Well, I can attest that it certainly is satisfying."



Xyllah held his eyes, then reached for his face as he stopped before her. "I was young when I first came to the temple," she said, her voice sounding distant. "Every year, the Sirriharda selects only a few disciples. Those chosen are celebrated. It is almost . . . embarrassing."



"You, embarrassed?" Kyle asked dubiously.



The elfin woman's cheeks colored. "As I said, I was young. I had not even opened myself to a man, yet. But that changed quickly. I was taken by the Temple Master, Suvaris. That night . . . began decades of awakening to the discipline of Zantra."



Kyle frowned. "'Decades?'"



She tittered. "I am older than you suspect," she said with surety. "In the short time I have been in your world, it has become obvious to me the human lifespan is woefully brief."



"The Daelvini live longer, I take it?"



Xyllah sidled closer, lightly dragging her damp hand from Kyle's face, along his neck, to his chest. The warmth she radiated was unexpected, but welcoming. "I have seen seven decades already, <i>vialor</i>," she whispered. "Yet, to my people, I am barely more than an adolescent."



Kyle reached up and took her hand in his. The sense of arousal that consumed him was almost supernaturally strong. "Maybe we should continue this discussion upstairs," he suggested.



She smiled sweetly, cheeks coloring. Her sexual aroma was stronger, now. "Do you wish to take me now?"



Kyle's eyes drifted down her brazen form. His mind was focused only upon the incredible sense of arousal which coursed through him with the burning fierceness of an inferno. "In so many ways," he said at last.



* * * *



He did not know why he felt a compulsion to return to the little bar one last time. <i>Maybe I need a sense of closure, </i>Kyle wondered as he ascended the few well-worn steps to the pub's front door. A blustering wind tugged at his coat like the hands of ghosts attempting to disrobe him. The others remained in the van parked down the street, awaiting his return. He had told them he would take only a few minutes.



The door rattled open, with none of the ringing he had heard before. With a frown, Kyle noticed the large black-and-white sign on the other side of the window, hand written in French: <i>En Vente.



What the hell--?</i>



"Bonjour, monsieur. Font vous ont besoin de l'aide?"



Kyle did not respond to the old woman's words, distracted as he was by the sight before him. Or rather, <i>lack </i>of sights he had expected to see. Gone were the sturdy wooden tables and their velvet-padded chairs, gone were the pictures on the walls and gently-glowing wall sconces. Gone were the bottles behind the bar and the mirror against which they had been set. In their place were stark, aged walls with peeling wallpaper stained yellow by decades of cigarette smoke. Hard wooden floorboards were covered with faded linoleum, of the type popular in the middle of the previous century. There remained, in fact, no trace of the neighborhood pub Kyle had visited twice before.



"Monsieur?"



Kyle looked upon the old woman before him, dressed in simple clothing. Her curved back and lined face bespoke a long life of hard work. She squinted at Kyle through a pair of wire-framed spectacles and all but leaned upon the broom she used to spread dust around the floor.



"Oh. Sorry," Kyle muttered, then remembered where he was. "Eh, je suis desole."



She smiled crookedly. "It is fine. I speak English. About as well as you speak French."



Her words struck a chord with Kyle and he ventured closer. "What happened here?"



She looked about in confusion. "How do you mean?"



"This used to be a bar. A pub."



Her frown deepened and she nodded. "Oui. But that was many years ago. Before the war."



"The . . . war," Kyle prompted.



She chuckled. "Yes, the war. With Germany. Are you all right?"



Kyle blinked in confusion, casting his gaze all around for some indication that he was in the wrong place. But the bar was where it had been, and there were brackets in the wall behind where a large mirror had been secured. Holes in the bar top indicated where the pumps had been, but the holes were ragged and worn. Indeed, the bar top itself was somewhat warped and split here and there. Kyle ran his fingertip along the tarnished brass rail, rubbed the dust against his thumb.

<hr pg="6" />"I'm fine," he said under his breath, then noticed a small picture, framed in black lacquered wood, just on the other side of the bar. It showed a man standing upon the steps of the same building in which Kyle stood. Tentatively, Kyle reached for the aged photograph.



"Eh, monsieur, that is private--"



"Phillipe," Kyle muttered, running his fingers across the dusty glass.



The old woman started, concernedly surprised. "Oui. My father."



Kyle turned a slow, uneasy smile toward the woman, noting in her wrinkled features familiar eyes. She had the same nose, and even the mouth was similar to the man's in the picture . . . the man with whom Kyle had twice spoken.



<i>Angelique</i>, Kyle realized in wonder. "When was this picture taken?"



The old woman gingerly took the photograph from him, then smiled fondly upon it. "I was barely born, then," she said. "It was just before the Resistance began to smuggle Allied soldiers across the Pyrenees." Angelique crossed herself quickly, then kissed the picture. "Just before they killed him."



"Your father."



She nodded, face drawn. "Oui. I have only one memory of my father; I was that young. He was shot by a Nazi spy taking American pilots through <i>le Chemin de la Liberte." </i>She sniffled, then stepped back and cocked her head, giving Kyle a proud look. "How do you know of my father?"



Kyle thought quickly. "I'm an historian," he said. "I'm working on a book about this region."



"Ah," she answered, pushing a slight smile to her lips. "Then you may wish to visit Labouiche. It is quite the wonder."



He smiled. "So I've heard. Sorry to take up your time."



She waved her hand dismissively. "I have so little to do with my time these days," she remarked. "I don't know why I bother to keep this place clean. No one will rent it. They think ghosts live here."



Kyle shrugged. "Perhaps. But I don't think all ghosts are bad. Some can be helpful."



She smiled slowly. "You may be right."



"Ciao, mesdame."



"Ciao."



Kyle turned to the door, pausing only a moment as he spied the black wreath hanging in the window. The old, dusty petals were cracked and brittle, evidence of the many years which it had spent looking out upon the town. A moment later, Kyle left the wreath &#x2013; and pub &#x2013; behind as he stepped through the door and back into the chilly afternoon.

