TITLE    : Beyond The Veil Ch. 06
STORYID  : beyond-the-veil-ch-06
SUMMARY  : Politics and perils for the Veil Team.
AUTHOR   : slyc_willie@lit
DATE     : 2010-05-29
CATEGORY : science-fiction-fantasy
FLAGS    : h
TAGS     : |veil|monsters|magic|wizard|intrigue|pale|elf|book|


<i> (Author's note: My apologies to the fans of this series for the long delay in posting this chapter. Numerous reasons are behind my absence from Literotica, but I never intended to stay away for good. With this chapter, I hope to appease those awaiting the continuation of this story, as well as promise future chapters which will, hopefully, be worth the wait.)</i>



* * * *



The way she leaned forward, straddling his legs while rolling her hips back and forth and up and down, Derek Jonas was treated to the inspiring, erotic sight of his lover's unnaturally pink labia caressing his cock. Her sex was a pleasurably burning, wet glove of pleasure, while above, the hairless rosebud of her anus flexed and winked with her movements. Her pale body glowed with orgasmic rouge across narrow shoulders and around her neck. Platinum-hued hair lay dark where it stuck to her glistening neck and back. Her entire body gleamed with a thin film of sex sweat, exaggerating the movement of muscles beneath milky skin.



"Release with me," Xyllah whispered huskily, looking back over her shoulder, dark, opalescent eyes glimmering. "I am nearly there."



Jonas groaned and gripped her narrow, muscular hips. "Fuck, baby, I'm gonna come," he rumbled.



She grinned, flushed face holding that naughty, vixenish expression she wore all too often around him. The inner muscles of her pussy rhythmically squeezed and relaxed, massaging his cock, urging him to erupt.



With a final grunt, Jonas arched his back and pushed upward, burying his spasming penis to the hilt within Xyllah's welcoming womb. His release made his body tingle and mind spin, creating an euphoric fog which dulled all senses save for his ability to feel. And that singular sense rose to the power of all five at once. He barely registered his Daelvini lover's orgasmic gasps and sighs, eventually turning to contented, giggling moans and murmurs. Xyllah continued to milk his cock, squeezing it expertly while drifting down from the heights of pleasure.



Derek let his arms fall to the side on the bed, wincing now and then as his over-sensitive cock burned in the elfin woman's slippery depths. Only when she finally lifted up, allowing his softening penis to fall free from her swollen sex, did he relax. He barely felt the droplets of his own seed as they dribbled onto his matted groin, but he certainly felt the caresses of a warm, firm tongue as it lapped up the pungent essence.



He lifted his head, staring down at Xyllah, enamored and dumbfounded by his lover's obvious fascination and adoration of all things erotic. She was unlike any woman he had ever bedded before; adventurous, kinky, brazen and sultry, as if someone had taken the most attractive elements of a college cheerleader, a femdom, and a willing submissive and packed them into the body of an otherworldly, exotic nymph.



<i>And Dr. Perrin actually kicked all this out of his bed? </i>he wondered in astonishment. <i>What the hell was he thinking?</i>



His cellphone shrilled, a tinny sound that resembled that of an old-time phone booth. He reached for his slacks on the floor beside the bed, thankful that he did not have to stop Xyllah from her catlike laps and licks and nips upon his cock. Sliding the phone open, he stretched out on Xyllah's bed.



"Detective Jonas."



"What's the gig, Derek?" came the irritated voice of his partner from Homicide, Detective Barry Koslanski. "I show up at the station house, and not only am I suddenly partnered with that lame-ass Perez, but you're not even on the roster. What gives?"



Jonas groaned, slapping a hand over his eyes, suddenly no longer enjoying the pleasurable swipes of Xyllah's tongue upon his musky testicles. <i>Shit, that's right. I was gonna call him last night. </i>"Sorry, Barry, I meant to tell you--"



"Some partner you are," Barry continued with biting sarcasm. "Take some time off and don't even tell me about it?"



Jonas sighed. "I wish that was the case," he said apologetically. He paused a moment, weighing the words in his head. "I don't think you're gonna see me around the station house too much anymore."



"Fuck," Barry cursed on the other end with a heavy breath. "You took that offer with IA, right? Come on, man, you know those guys don't give a fat fuck about the rest of us. When did you become a goddamn politician?"



"It's not Internal Affairs," Jonas bemoaned. "But it is a different assignment. I was gonna tell you, but I got a little distracted." He glanced down to Xyllah as he spoke those last few words, watching as she lovingly swiped at his spent shaft with long, affectionate laps of her tongue. She grinned up at him devilishly.



It was several seconds before Barry spoke again. "Don't tell me: you're working with that whacko Dr. Perrin."



Jonas frowned into the phone. "Who told you that?"



Barry laughed condescendingly. "I been hardboiled for damn near twenty years, kid, or did you forget that I'm a detective? Yeah, I know all about your little black bag operation . . . or, at least, the whitewashed version we got. So, what's the deal? You working on some freak-out, Area 51 bullshit now?"



Jonas gritted his teeth. "Yeah. Something like that."



His ersatz partner chuckled ruefully on the other end. "Well, watch out for those aliens," he said with vitriolic aplomb. "I hear they like sticking probes up people's asses."



Jonas was about to retort, but the line was cut. Barry had hung up on the other end. With a heavy sigh, he let his hand holding the phone fall to the mattress of Xyllah's bed.



The seductive Daelvini woman glanced up at Jonas with a look of concern. "Is something the matter?"



He smiled back. "Don't worry about it," he said, touching her fine, silvery hair, her elongated ears. The elfin protuberances fascinated him. Xyllah half-closed her eyes as he massaged the long lengths of flesh-covered cartilage. His eyes finally found hers again. "Now, about what you were doing . . . ."



The impish sorceress smiled once more, keeping her eyes locked on his as she extended her tongue and teased the head of Jonas' cock. "Would you like me to continue?"



He smiled rakishly. "Well . . . if it's not putting you out . . . ."



Xyllah laughed softly, then lifted his penis with her fingertips and swiftly engulfed it whole, pushing the soft, spongy head to the back of her throat. Jonas groaned, arching his back, enjoying the ministrations of his lover as he began to harden once more.



* * * *



The small boat sat languidly upon the waters of the lake. There were no other crafts in sight, nor any other indications of the presence of humanity. Dr. Kyle Perrin could almost believe that the world was his alone for the taking. He knew the truth, of course, but the illusion was a source of some small comfort.



"Been a long time since we went fishing together, son," his father said, eyes watching for ripples in the water near the bob of his lure.



Kyle nodded, his senses also trained upon the water, looking for signs of a fish taking the bait. "Since before I went to college."



The older man &#x2013; pudgier, wrinkled, but still possessing the aura of strength and charisma which had been handed down to his one and only son &#x2013; grunted under his breath. "Damn near twenty years, then," he mused, then added philosophically: "A lot can happen in that time."



Kyle sighed. "It's not like I haven't kept in touch."



"No, emails and the occasional holiday card account for a lot," the older Perrin quipped.



Another heartfelt sigh. "I'm sorry. I've been busy," he said, then cast a sidelong look to the man who had given him life. "Can we just have one day without fighting?"



"Who's fighting? I'm just making conversation."



Kyle soured. "Right."



"I see you got a new arm," his father said after a long moment.



<i>More literally than you know. </i>"Yeah, it's, uh, experimental technology. Almost works like the real thing."



His father was obviously not really interested in Kyle's new arm. He was just making conversation. The older man reeled in his line and inspected the colorful lure. "Seen your name in the news here and there," he remarked with a wry smile. "The boys in blue been keeping you busy, eh?"



"Something like that. I told you I sometimes work with the police."



"Seems to be a lot more than just 'sometimes' lately. Googling your name gets some pretty interesting results."



"It's just a job," kyle said with a disarming shrug. "Like flipping burgers or banking on Wall Street."



His father grunted, lower lip mashed against the upper. "Don't recall reading about ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggedy beasties at any hamburger joint. Now, Wall Street, maybe."



His father's attempt at wry humor was lost on Kyle, who struggled to maintain his decorum. "A lot of that is exaggerated," he finally said.



"I'm sure it is," the older man said, sounding sad, even rueful.



"Something you want to tell me, Dad?"



The patriarch sighed, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. His eyes never strayed from the still waters of the lake as he continued. "Been thinking about some things lately, especially since I started following up on you."



Kyle shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Oh?"



"Yeah. About your mother, for one."



The younger Perrin ground his teeth for a moment. He was always uneasy when the subject of his mother came up. He could already feel the irritating itch of an old wound. At the same time . . . "Why do you suddenly want to talk about her after twenty-five years?"



"Not sure," his father said, reeling in the line. "Maybe it's guilt."



"Well, you did sign the paper that sent her to St. Luke's," Kyle muttered in quiet anger. The mere mention of the psychiatric hospital and its connection to his mouther made him bitter and defensive.



"I thought I was doing the right thing."



"Right. Didn't have anything to do with the fact that you were screwing around with your secretary." Kyle snorted derisively. "That marriage lasted, what, a whole five minutes?"



That comment finally got to the elder Perrin. He snapped his head about, glaring at his son. "You didn't know what it was like. Your mother and I both a hid a lot from you. If you had known the truth . . . ." he trailed off with admonishment, bringing up the lure and inspecting it before casting it back out into the water.



Kyle was quiet for a long moment, as was his father. The silence between them was nothing new; a wall had existed there for well over two decades. But now, with a sudden insight, Kyle began to rethink the motives behind his father's actions.



"What truth?"



His father sighed heavily, chin dropping. "She wasn't well, Kyle. She was always seeing things."



"What things?"



His father shifted in his seat, a grumbling expression on his face. "She'd tell me that the guy at the deli counter in the supermarket wasn't human, that the skateboarders who hung around the hospital were 'ugly little goblins' . . . I laughed it all off in the beginning, but it only got worse as she got older. I was afraid for you, Kyle. I really was. I started thinking you were gonna end up like her, or worse, your Grandpa Jack."



The furrow between Kyle's eyes deepened even more. "What does he have to do with this?"



Another shrug. "Maybe nothing. Maybe everything." he took a breath, fidgeted nervously with his pole. "Jack was a strange one. He saw things, too. But it was worse with him. You couldn't hold a conversation with the man for more than ten seconds before he'd go off about monsters and such. I really hate to say it, but part of me was just a little glad when he died, not long after you were born, so that you wouldn't have to grow up listening to his rants."



Kyle could all but feel an invisible dark cloud hovering over him. "He died in a car accident, right?"



His father nodded. "One in a million freak accident, too. The whole car caught fire. It burned so hot, there wasn't anything left of him."



The younger man's heart palpitated. "Nothing?"



His father looked him over with narrowed eyes. "Not a damn thing."



Kyle fell silent once more. The fact that he could see through the Veil had been a minor one in the face of all he had been through in recent months. He had never questioned why, just simply accepted it. Now, however, a new and disturbing idea dawned in the anthropologist's mind.



"I think I vaguely remember a funeral," Kyle said at last.



"Yep. Closed casket, of course. Most everyone in the family figured he'd been burned so bad that it wouldn't be a good idea to put him on display. Truth is, there wasn't even a body to bury."



Kyle stared at the floor of the boat, ideas, possibilities tumbling through his mind. "How old was he?"



His father chuckled under his breath. "That was another thing." He shook his head in wonder. "The man never aged a day in his life. When I first met him, back when I was courting your mother, I couldn't help but think, 'Christ, this guy barely looks older than me.' But he was pretty young when he married your grandmother, and he was just a few years past forty when he died. But, I suppose some people just have that kind of luck, right?"



Kyle pursed his lips in thought. "Maybe," he said after a moment. "Why are you suddenly bringing all this up?"



His father shrugged. "Like I said, I've been following up on you. Your name pops up in some of those conspiracy theory blogs sometimes. Sometimes, they post a picture of you at some crime scene, sometimes with other people, sometimes not. Some of the things they say . . . ."



"Like?"



Another heavy sigh spilled from the older man's lips. "Do you see things, too, son?"



Kyle was quiet, ruminating, considering his thoughts. He watched his father's face in profile, reading the tension in the lines around the man's eyes and mouth. "Well, since I'm too old for you to send to a mental institution," he said flippantly. "Yeah. I see things."



"They're real, aren't they?"



The question surprised Kyle, but he recovered quickly. In the space of an instant, he realized the depth of guilt his father felt, even if he could not yet sympathize with the man. "Yes, they are," he confirmed. "So this is about Mom, isn't it? Wondering if you did the right thing."



His father's response was a grim, gravelly, "Yes."



Another spell of silence was cast between them. Both men reeled in their lures, checked them, then cast them out, almost as if choreographed.



"There's something I've always wanted to know," Kyle said at last. "I figure I could probably find out on my own, but I'd rather ask you."



"Okay."



"How did Mom die?"



The older man shifted uncomfortably, face scowling. He was clearly not at ease with the topic, but he had opened the can of worms. "She didn't adjust well," he informed. "They put her in a standard ward at first, but after she started fighting with some of the other patients, orderlies, and guards, they moved her to a maximum security hospital. That's one of the reasons why I never took you to see her, even though I visited her every damn week."



Kyle was silent, waiting.



His father grimaced. "She killed herself, Kyle."



"How?"



"She was sent to the doctor at the institution for some reason, and got hold of some painkillers. Lots of them. She overdosed. By the time they figured out what she had done, it was too late."



Quiet anger seethed in Kyle's heart, but try as he might, he could not blame his father for his mother's death. "You blame yourself."



"Sometimes. More often, lately."



"You didn't know."



"But I could have listened."



"What good would that have done? From what you've said, Mom didn't exactly adjust too well to being able to see some things for what they were."



His father gave him a hard, penetrating look. "No, but you have."



"I have help."



"Exactly."



"You can't take back what you've done, Dad."



The older man seemed to almost shrink as he half-heartedly gripped his pole. "I know that. And that's the worst part about it."



Upon the lake, the older man's line suddenly tightened, creating ripples and bubbles.



"Looks like you've got one."



The patriarch sat up and gripped his fishing pole tightly, reeling in the line. "Yeah. Imagine that."



* * * *



The young clerk fidgeted nervously as he led Dr. Perrin through the narrow maze of metal-framed shelving. The chilly, dark basement was rich with the aroma of aging paper, reminding Kyle of the smell of the Library in the Ouroborous' basement.



"You know, if it was anybody but you, Dr. Perrin, I'd have to wait for an official request to see the file."



"I appreciate you making an exception," Kyle said deprecatingly. "And I assure you, I won't tell anyone you bent the rules just this once."



The pale, bespectacled young man glanced back. "You're kidding, right? You know what kind of trouble I'd be in if I told you 'no?'"



Kyle said nothing, frowning to himself. The clerk's reaction, now that he thought on it, was indicative of the deference his mere name earned when interacting with anyone in the government or law enforcement community. The lengths to which the Veil Society's fingers crept continually surprised him . . . and perturbed him as well. With such influence as he seemed to possess, there would be little to stop him from amassing a wealth of intelligence on just about anyone, or anything.



<i>Except people like Malcolm, and the shadowy 'Council' he serves . . . but who keeps them in check?</i>



The thought faded quickly, snatched away by the wind of the moment as the maladroit clerk stopped along the center of one of the rows. The cardboard file boxes, Kyle noticed, were old and cracked, many of them starting to split. The clerk crouched, then gingerly withdrew one such box from beneath a faded old hand-written label which read "1976 Da -Dae." Setting the lid aside, the clerk flipped toward the back, finally coming up with a thin file which he offered to Kyle.



The anthropologist scanned over the cover of the manila file. "Jack Daevon," it read. The spelling of the name didn't escape Kyle's notice. He opened it carefully, finding an official form from the era, the fields filled in with the blotchy ink of an old typewriter. He frowned as he read through the document. "They investigated it as a potential homicide?" he asked aloud, though he was not addressing the man still squatting on the floor. Then he found the investigating detective's notes, which had been copied via a classic, hand-cranked copier. "'No suspicion of foul play at this time, but cause of death has been verified. The only explanation I can give is spontaneous combustion, because there were no remains and the explanation fits.'"



"Spontaneous combustion, huh?" asked the clerk, who then smirked and huffed through his nose. "Seems to be happening a lot lately."



Kyle ignored the comment, engrossed as he was with the photographs taken at the scene. There were only about half a dozen full-size stills, all in black and white and showing the grainy texture common to film of the day. Still, there was enough detail Kyle could make out which he was willing to accept as confirmation of his suspicions.



One picture fully demanded his attention. The car had been completely burned, destroying glass, rubber and leather, even twisting the metal frame. Most of the driver's seat had been consumed by flame, save for areas which corresponded to the general shape of a human body which had been seated there when the fire raged.



Yet, as his father had said, there was nothing left of the body. It had, ostensibly, been fully consumed by fire. But, if it had been a case of so-called spontaneous combustion, the seat would have been the worst damaged.



A heavy weight settled itself upon Kyle's heart and shoulders. <i>Can't be, </i>he thought. <i>Can't be right. My grandfather wasn't . . . .</i>



"Um, Dr. Perrin? You okay?"



Kyle struggled to regain his stoic composure. He handed the file back. "I'm fine," he declared unconvincingly, then turned and headed away.

<hr pg="2" />* * * *



Kyle wore his best nonchalant face as he strode through the doors of Shades. There was a cute young bartender on duty, who flashed a professionally flirtatious smile above prodigious breasts barely constrained in her sleeveless tuxedo shirt. She indicated a booth in the trendy bar's furthermost corner. "Evening, Dr. Perrin. They're waiting for you."



He gave a flirtatious wink. "Thanks, Candice," he responded. "Send over my usual?"



"Of course."



He approached the booth, noting the impatient expression upon Malcolm Benedict's face before he took a seat at the corner. Faster and Victor occupied their own spaces along the curved, padded seat, while Jonas and Xyllah were practically in one another's lap. The Daelvini effected a haughty look that was nearly challenging. If either Faster or Victor noticed, they did not show it.



"Now that we're all here," began Malcolm, making no effort to disguise his irritation over Kyle's tardiness.



"I was doing some research," Kyle said with dismissive casualness. "Time got away from me."



"That just means next round's on you," Faster remarked over the straw in her Long Island Tea.



"Cool. Get the waitress over here," Victor joked, tapping the rim of his half-empty beer glass.



Malcolm huffed, sitting straight-backed in the middle of the booth. His omnipresent cigar smoldered between the knuckles of his first and second finger. "I'd like to get to business before the drinking games start," he snapped. His words were followed by admonishment from everyone at the table, save Kyle, who simply stared back at the team's benefactor in expectation.



"All right," Malcolm said in an authoritative tone. "Over the last several weeks, since you returned from France, I've been searching for any reference to 'black souls' and a book as mentioned by our mysterious assassin before he killed himself. There have been many potential leads, but none of them seem to fit the bill. Until I came across something last week which I've since been painstakingly researching."



He met the eyes of the others, who awaited his next word, and smiled to himself. "It's called <i>Der Schwarzenseelenbuch, </i>or the <i>Book of Black Souls</i>," he said. "Apparently, it was written nearly a thousand years ago by the Monks of St. Joseph, and there has been only the one copy. It's been owned by various kings and queens and, more recently, wealthy collectors. The most recent &#x2013; and current &#x2013; owner is one Beverly Wilcox."



Kyle frowned in recognition upon hearing the name. "Dr. Beverly Wilcox?" he asked.



Malcolm smiled thinly. "You've heard of her."



The younger man shrugged. "She's a living legend in occult circles," he said. "Written a couple dozen books on modern magic, wicca, crystals, whatever."



"Well, she seems to be the sole possessor of the <i>Book of Black Souls</i>, and we want it."



"Okay, so, how much?" Kyle asked.



Malcolm's gaze was penetrating, lending an air of malevolent intent to the next words he uttered. "She does not wish to sell."



Kyle stared back as the others exchanged worrisome looks. "So you want us to steal it."



Malcolm inhaled deeply, then let it out. "If necessary. Bargain with her if you wish, but I doubt it will get you anywhere."



"So, better we do a smash-and-grab for the thing, huh?" Victor asked in his usual brusque way.



Malcolm looked uncomfortable. "I leave that decision to your captain."



All pairs of eyes fell upon Kyle in expectation of a plan to follow. Kyle sighed heavily, rolling his eyes.



"What's so great about this book?" the team leader asked.



"I believe I can answer that," Xyllah offered.



Kyle and Malcolm both turned their attention to the elfin woman. She smiled smugly before continuing.



"The <i>Book of Black Souls </i>may very well be the Ebon Tome, a legendary collection of charms long lost to my people," she informed. "If that is true, I believe it includes one that will allow travel through the Veil."



Kyle regarded his former lover a moment than glanced sidelong to Malcolm. "So that's the real motivation, isn't it? To be able to travel through the Veil."



"Yes," Malcolm admitted readily. "Because, once we can do so, we will."



Faster and Victor stirred in their seats. "You serious?" asked the athletic brunette. "We're really gonna go over <i>there</i>?"



"Fates willing, yes," Malcolm said. "And, more than that, I'm going with you once you return with the book."



The little booth fell silent, despite the music being piped through the air and the hubbub of a dozen innocuous conversations. A young woman clad in the Shades uniform appeared silently and set a rocks glass filled with rich, aromatic scotch before Kyle. Victor caught the woman's eye and tapped the rim of his glass, to which she nodded before questioning the others with her eyes. No one else ordered a drink.



"That's an awfully bold announcement, Malcolm," Kyle said at last. "I thought you didn't take a personal role in our cases."



"It wouldn't be a typical mission. As far as we know, no one has ever crossed from our world through the Veil and returned. The information that stands to be gleaned would be invaluable."



Kyle sipped his drink with a shrug. "Goes without saying. I just wonder as to the ethical question of you coming along."



Malcolm chuckled dryly. "I will be honest, Dr. Perrin. Part of my reasoning is selfish. This could be too good an opportunity to pass up."



Kyle smiled thinly. "I can't fault you there."



The team's benefactor straightened. "That settles it. You leave for Boston in two days. I will take care of all your arrangements." He glanced to Jonas. "And let me just extend a formal welcome to our newest member. Welcome aboard, detective."



The others responded in kind, echoing Malcolm's statement, and handshakes were passed around. With a last puff on his cigar, Malcolm indicated that the meeting was over. "As much as I would like to say that the evening's libations should be paid for out of Dr. Perrin's pocket, under the circumstances, the drinks are on me. Enjoy the night, ladies and gentlemen."



* * * *



The following afternoon, Victor and Faster were waiting in the small courtyard outside a popular coffee shop in an outdoor mall, sipping their drinks. Faster was the first to notice Kyle's approach from the parking lot, and perked up. "There he is."



Victor watched, leaning forward in his chair and extending a hand to his team leader. "So why meeting on the down low, doc?" he asked.



Kyle took a seat and snapped open his cigarette case. "I'll explain in a minute," he said, then lit up, exhaled smoke. "You didn't tell anyone you were meeting me here?"



Both the former soldier and the World's Fastest Woman shook their heads. "Kind'a got me curious, though," Faster admitted. "I mean, what do you wanna tell us that you don't want Mal or Xyllah or fashion-boy to know?"



"Yeah. What gives, doc?"



"A couple of things," the team leader responded. "And I really hope I can trust you both to keep this quiet, at least for now."



The two Veil Society agents exchanged quick, wordless glances, then nodded to one another.



"Okay, shoot, doc," Victor said at last.



Kyle pulled on his cigarette, composing his thoughts. "I found out something recently that really has me bothered. It's one of those things that could be both a boon and a curse."



"Okay," Faster prompted.



Kyle flicked ash off his cigarette. "My grandfather, on my mother's side, died when I was a kid. I barely have any memories of him, but what I do have are pretty unusual ones."



"How'd he die?" asked Victor.



"Car accident. He drove off the road, hit a tree, and the car exploded. Burned so hot even the metal of the frame was warped. There wasn't anything left of him, not even bones."



The other two both frowned. "Okay . . . ." Victor uttered, urging Kyle for more.



"You know how hot a fire has to be to thoroughly burn a human body so that even the bones are turned to ash?"



"No--"



"Crematoriums burn at 1600 degrees or so, but even that doesn't destroy human bone. It just makes them crack and fall apart, until they're like sand. It would take a fire twice as hot to thoroughly destroy bone so that there was nothing left. And no gasoline fire in the world can burn that hot."



"Not sure I get what you're saying, doc," Faster said with a confused look.



"Think about it," he said. "Why would his remains completely disappear after he was dead?"



Faster's sudden realization was obvious upon her shocked face. "Holy shit."



Kyle nodded. "Yup."



Victor looked back and forth between the two, even as his own mind made the same connection as Faster's. "Whoa, wait a sec. If your grandfather was really from across the Veil, then--"



"Then I'm one-quarter non-human, probably Daelvini," Kyle confirmed. "I don't have the empirical data to back it up, and I doubt I'd be able to get it, but the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. My grandfather's name was Jack Daevon. 'Daevon,' as in Daelvini. And given some other things that have happened recently, I'm getting more and more inclined to believe it."



"What other things?" Faster asked cagily, still working her brain around Kyle's revelation.



Kyle smoked his cigarette in contemplation, then finally decided to reveal it all. "Xyllah," he said simply. "She claims to be pregnant."



"What?" cried Faster, all but launching herself over the bistro table.



Kyle raised a calming hand. "Calm down."



She remained wild-eyed, even as she retook her seat. "How long have you known?"



"A couple weeks," Kyle admitted. "I'm still not sure I believe it, though."



Victor frowned. "Why try to lay something on you like that if it ain't real? Besides, you two only been hitting it for a couple'a months."



"It was a ritual thing," Kyle informed. "Some kind of magical ceremony called the <i>Lor'ahua </i>that allowed us to breathe while having sex underwater."



"Kinky," Victor said with a crooked smile. Faster smacked his arm.



"I thought it was just a sexual thing myself," Kyle continued. "Until she informed me that, not only were we bound to Daelvini laws of marriage, but that she was now pregnant."



"What the fuck!" exclaimed Faster. "Pregnant, <i>and</i> you're married?"



He glared at her. "I really don't need you being hysterical right now."



"I'm not being fucking hysterical!" she snapped, gaining the attention of those few others seated at tables around them. Suddenly conscious of her behavior, Faster looked visibly chastised and sagged back in her seat. When she spoke again, it was obvious she was forcing herself to be calm. "I'm just a little pissed that you've been sitting on this."



"I needed time to digest it."



She huffed, folding her arms, looking away.



Victor cleared his throat. "So, uh, if you guys are supposedly married, why's she hanging out with the suit?"



"I let her go," he said, noting instantly the perturbed looks on both his team members' faces. "It's a Daelvini law thing," he clarified. "After Gina was killed, I wanted to be alone."



"I know how that is, doc," Victor claimed.



"Besides, it's probably better if Xyllah's with Derek now anyway. At the least, she's able to maintain her magical abilities."



"By banging the wonder boy," Faster scoffed, finally returning her attention to Kyle. "I still don't see what you're getting at, doc."



Kyle pulled one last time on the cigarette, then dropped it to the cobblestone and mashed it out with his foot. "I'm not sure I'm getting to anything, except that, for whatever reasons, I'm suspicious of Xyllah. I don't know what her motives are."



"She's saved our butts," Faster pointed out.



Kyle nodded. "Yes, she has. But just about everything that's happened since her arrival has been one long, strange series of unlikely coincidences."



"Yeah, there's been some weird shit going on all right," Victor acknowledged.



"I'm betting you aren't planning on telling either Malcolm or Xyllah about this," Faster said.



"No," admitted Kyle with a shake of his head. "That would only lead to a confrontation I don't want to have right now. As it is, my relationship with Malcolm is a tad bit tenuous. I don't want to add gasoline to the fire."



"Nah. That probably wouldn't be the best thing to do," Victor said. "I'll keep mum about this, doc. Maybe that's just me being a soldier, I don't know. I don't like keeping secrets from Mal, but this sounds like it's mainly a personal thing."



"Thanks, Victor," Kyle said with a nod, then glanced meaningfully to Faster.



She sighed slowly, heavily, then threw up her hands. "Yeah, okay. I ain't gonna say anything. But you should've told us about this sooner."



A brief expression of admonishment crossed Kyle's face. "Maybe you're right. But like I said, I needed time to think about it all." Fingers lacing together as he leaned forward atop the bistro table, Kyle addressed his team members with a serious look in his eye. "Now, about this little trip to Boston we're about to make . . . ."



* * * *



The apartment was cool and dark when Dwight opened the door. At the edge of his senses, he thought he detected the aroma of incense, but it did not register right away. He tossed his keys on the half-moon table beside the door and pulled off the tie he had loosened on the drive home. It was then he noticed the ghostly flickering of orange light beyond the cracked-open door to his bedroom. A smirk twisted his lips as he stepped toward the door.



She waited for him, seated on the floor at the end of the bed, deliciously naked with lean, muscular legs spread widely. She casually stroked her moistened pussy as she looked up at him with a catty expression. "Welcome home, baby," she whispered.



Arousal spiked through him immediately. Never had Dwight known a woman so alluring, so brazen and sexual. Her appetite was both intimidating and empowering, especially the way she catered to his fantasies.



"Jesus, Dawn," he finally muttered, feeling the growing bulge of his cock beneath his slacks.



Faster tittered naughtily, taking slick fingers from her flushed pink sex and bringing them to her lips. Erotically, she licked and sucked them, tasting her own fluid. "I want you to fuck my mouth," she whispered sexily.



Dwight shuddered, the stiffening of his cock almost painful within its confines. He reached for his belt.



"No," she said huskily. "Don't take your clothes off. Just pull it out. Pull out your cock."



Face a mask of needy anticipation, Faster's lover did as she requested and unzipped the fly of his slacks while approaching her. Faster's eyes blazed as they fixed upon the obvious outline of her lover's penis through the expensive Italian cloth. When the object of her lust was finally released in its full glory, she bit her lip and looked up sultrily to Dwight's face. She spoke not a word, merely opened her mouth. Firm, moist pink tongue extended just a little beyond her lower lip.



In the short time they had been together, Dwight had learned that his enigmatic young lover occasionally enjoyed being taken. Such times usually occurred before Faster disappeared for a few days or so, he realized. This was obviously one of those times. "You want my cock?" he asked with a growl.



She nodded slowly, mouth still open.



He settled his hands to either side of her head and pushed his hips forward. The warm, massaging cave of her mouth wrapped around him instantly, sending rippling waves of pleasure throughout his body. Head swimming in a maelstrom of pleasure, Dwight watched as his stiff shaft slid back and forth between Faster's lips. The shiny wetness along his cock was telling of his lover's literal hunger for him.



His fingers gripped her head tighter, massaging the scalp through soft raven tresses as he pumped back and forth rhythmically. Faint wet, squishing noises emanated from her full mouth, punctuated with the occasional swallow.



Faster's hands returned to her pussy, the fingertips of one massaging her swollen clitoris, two fingers of the other slipping deep between luscious, moist folds. She whimpered around Dwight's penis, sucking intently as if desperate for his release.



After only a few minutes, Dwight leaned over his lithe lover, bracing hands against the mattress. He looked down as Faster adjusted, tilting her head back and opening her throat. A shudder ran through Dwight's body as Faster swallowed him whole. The sight of his lover's nose pressed against the buckle of his belt, the feel of her chin against his swollen testicles, made his cock twitch. He could feel the snug tunnel of her esophagus around the head of his penis, pulling, massaging, urging.



Giving into the basic, selfish need to get off, he began pumping in and out of Faster's accommodating orifice, going deep every now and then. After only a few dozen heartbeats more, he felt his orgasm beginning.



"Dawn! I'm coming!" he announced, taking one hand from the bed and slapping it to the back of his lover's head. She responded with a muffled, excited mumble, stabbing frantically into her cunt over and over while rapidly mashing her clit. She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with air and swallowed him to the root just as the spasms of release vibrated through his shaft.



Dwight's release was announced by a long, gratified moan, turned to a chaotic, staccato series of gasps and pants as he ejaculated. Her jaw worked around his spurting length, her tongue massaging the underside. Her throat rippled as it automatically swallowed the thick jets of her lover's semen.



Faster trembled with her own orgasm, triggered by the knowledge that Dwight was coming directly into her throat. Her legs fanned back and forth, and she clutched her vibrating sex, fingers buried deep within feeling the contraction of vaginal muscles.



The pleasure center of Dwight's brain was in danger of overload before he pulled back, gracing Faster's hungry tongue with a last thick ooze of cum. He gasped, pulling out completely, looking down at the streamers of saliva mixed with semen that stretched from his cock to Faster's mouth. She licked them away avidly, face flushed from her climax, and brought up her hands to clutch his thighs. She did not want him to leave; she was determined to suckle every last drop from him.



Dwight winced, digging into the silk sheets of the bed with his fingers. Faster engulfed just the head of his penis, sucking hard, massaging all about the crown with a swirling tongue. It was too much for Dwight to handle, however, and he finally jerked back, pushing up from the bed and placing restraining hands on Faster's shoulders. "Too much," he managed to say.



She smiled up at him, a single dollop of milky cream clinging to the middle of her lower lip. "Not enough," she replied devilishly, eyes gleaming.



He shook his head with hedonistic laughter. "Goddammit, Dawn, you're gonna kill me before I see forty."



"Aw, baby," she cooed, kissing and nipping along the sides of his semi-flaccid penis. "You make that sound like a bad thing."



Dwight shook his head in post-orgasmic bliss. "Can I take my clothes off now?"



She grinned. "You better," she declared. "'Cause if I do it, I'll rip 'em to shreds."



* * * *



"How long are you going to be away this time?"



The question filled the darkness as they lay cuddling in shared afterglow. Faster ran her hand over Dwight's muscular torso, feeling the broad bumps of his abdominal muscles. Part of her mind compared her lover's physique to Kyle's leaner, toned body. She struggled to push the thoughts from her mind.



She sighed against his chest. "At least a few days."



He petted her hair. "You know, I'll be honest: sometimes I want to know what you do. But I respect the fact that you can't tell me."



She traced random circles upon his naked stomach. "I could . . . ."



He chuckled. "But then you'd have to kill me, right?"

<hr pg="3" />Faster lifted her head. She stared into Dwight's eyes with all seriousness. "It's not like that. You'd just probably think I'm crazy."



"I already do," he said with affection, curling up a bit to plant a kiss on her forehead.



She smiled slightly. "You really put up with a lot from me."



"I consider it an investment."



She lowered her head to his chest. "An investment in what?"



"Us."



"What are you saying, Dwight?"



There was a long pause. "I'm in love with you."



Faster said nothing in response. Instead, she curled her hand upon Dwight's chest and squeezed the gates of her eyes shut against the flood of tears.



* * * *



With five of them traveling, even a boat on wheels like Victor's vintage Monte Carlo would be too cramped, so Malcolm supplied the team with a large, black Suburban. There was more than enough room in three rows of seating for everyone to be comfortable on the day-long journey to Boston, and space enough for all their gear as well.



Victor and Jonas handled the majority of the loading while Faster was out in her own vehicle securing provisions for the drive and whatnot. All of that, of course, left Kyle and Xyllah alone to talk outside his apartment.



"Shall I get us something to drink?" Xyllah suggested after several moments of uncomfortable silence.



"I'm fine," Kyle said, not meeting her gaze. They sat across from one another upon the outer steps of the building. A few passersby gave the exotic-looking Xyllah second looks, but they saw, Kyle figured, what most saw: a pale-skinned, white-haired young woman who apparently followed the Goth lifestyle. At the back of his mind, Kyle wondered if there were any who saw the elfin woman for what she truly was. And, if they did, did they know what they saw?



Xyllah nodded slightly at his comment, leaning back and fidgeting with her hands. Kyle watched the furtive movements of those slender digits, having never seen his erstwhile lover behave so nervously. She shifted almost constantly on her rump, rearranging her legs, adjusting the way her short denim jacket hung over smallish breasts.



"You think I'm disappointed in you."



His words made her stop all movement. "Why do you say that?"



He finally addressed her sharp-featured face, seeing reflections of himself in those opaque black eyes. "I can tell," he said simply.



She stiffened somewhat. "I suppose you can," she acquiesced. "That is what you do, after all: observe people. Even, apparently, the Daelvini."



His eyes dipped. He was unsure of whether to share what he had recently learned about his own heritage, and how that might impact the discussion at hand. "We really can't afford to be adversaries right now, Xyllah."



"It was not I who pushed you away," she retorted quickly. Her words sounded nearly rehearsed.



He coughed out a harsh laugh. "No, you pushed toward me way too fast." He lifted his head, all but glaring into her face.



Her retort was calmly cold and critical. "I do not recall you objecting."



He eased up with a smirk. "No, you're right. I didn't. And I won't insult you by trying to rationalize my actions. I would have liked to have been better informed about the practices of the Daelvini, though."



"But I thought you--" she began, then stopped herself. A brief rush of color flowed through her cheeks. "No, I suppose I could have told you more--"



"You thought I what?" Kyle asked probingly. "That I already knew something about the Daelvini? Or that there was something about me which you figured would accept it all?"



She huffed, not meeting his gaze. "You are most insufferable."



"I knew that already," he quipped. "Don't change the subject."



Xyllah glared at last, narrow jaw set, dark eyes like polished black shields protecting what lay behind. "You . . ." she said at last, choosing her words carefully. ". . . have this infuriating gift for portraying yourself as a seer, a leader, even a despot. And no matter how you treat others, they always seem to accept it, even thank you for your arrogance. I do not understand that about men like you. Of all those around you, you are the most intimidating, the most challenging, the most . . . impressive."



Kyle arched a single brow. "Not sure how to take that," he admitted.



"Most likely not as well as you would prefer," she said acidly.



"I'm getting that impression."



She softened visibly. "Kyle," she said, then emphatically added: "<i>Vialor</i>."



He regarded her coolly. "I was under the impression that term didn't apply to me anymore."



She laughed dismissively. "You still have much to learn," she replied condescendingly. "I have had many lovers, I admit, and thanks to your recent decisions, I have another."



Kyle cringed automatically, though he tried to hide it.



"But," she continued. "I have never bonded with anyone before. Not even with one of my own kind."



"So why me?"



She blinked once, her expression borderline innocent. "Love."



He stared back. "Really."



"You doubt me?"



He shifted in his seat, rubbing hands together. "I don't . . . easily accept that as an explanation."



Xyllah watched his for a long moment, studying his face, his hands, the quiet movement of his body beneath layers of fabric. "I suppose not. You have been hurt."



He nodded, giving in to the urge to do so merely once, then stopping himself immediately. "Given everything we've been through since our first meeting, Xyllah," he said. "I find it hard to think you'd expect me to just take you in."



"You seemed to."



Another nod, ending with Kyle looking down at his hands. "I guess I gave you the wrong impression."



"Perhaps." Her words sounded distant, regretful. "But it is not too late."



For a long sliver of time, Kyle stared down, at his hands, the floor, the tops of his shoes. He listened peripherally to the constant buzz of noise about him, the crying of distant babies and toddlers, the barking of dogs, the rush of traffic on the street. Little of it registered in his conscious mind, which struggled with the feelings he experienced and how they pertained to the exotic woman across from him.



Finally, he lurched up from his seat with such unexpected aplomb that Xyllah gasped, watching him.



"Maybe," he growled, then headed toward the Suburban.



* * * *



The hazy mists of morning floated away as the black Suburban drove from the motel in Utica and into the city of Boston. Everyone was quiet in the behemoth Chevy, mainly watching outside the windows as rural scenery gave way to the cloistered, cluttered edifices of the city. Boston in late spring was a beautiful city, but its glamor was marred for the Veil Team agents by the heavy haze of their mission.



For Kyle, specifically, he disliked the idea of being ordered to steal something if he could not otherwise procure it. Especially from someone whom he admired, such as Dr. Wilcox. He knew practically every word she had ever published. If Max Keller had been a father figure, Dr. Beverly Wilcox was like an aunt whom he never met, but whose influence was always with him.



"Don't take a genius to tell you ain't happy about this, doc," Victor commented as he directed the big SUV along highway 90.



"You're right. I should be ecstatic about the possibility of being a thief."



Victor's face soured. "Not saying I'm too happy about the idea, but if we need this damn book, we're gonna get it one way or another."



"That's the soldier in you talking, isn't it?"



Victor glanced briefly to his team leader, expression deadpan. "Not being the one calling the shots has its perks sometimes."



"Obviously," Kyle remarked dryly. "But some of us don't have that luxury."



"What are you talking about? Mal's the one ultimately responsible."



"No. I am," Kyle corrected darkly. "Because I'd be the one ordering the act. The one committing it. When I damn well know I can back away if I really want to."



"So I guess you'll have to be extra persuasive," Jonas called from the back.



Kyle turned slowly in his seat to look upon the younger man with an expression of annoyance. "We can always stop by the airport on the way to the Wilcox residence, junior."



The detective rolled his eyes. "Just trying to be funny."



"Tell a joke, then."



Kyle settled back in his seat, trying to ignore the twist of a jealous knife in his chest that had come from seeing Jonas' hand resting comfortably on Xyllah's bare thigh.



* * * *



The edifice of Wilcox Manor stood like a giant surrounded by a cluster of dwarves in the wealthy neighborhood of Back Bay. Only the skyscrapers such as those of the John Hancock Building and the Prudential Tower to the near south overshadowed the mammoth brownstone before which Victor parked. There was an iron gate to the property, boasting the monogram of "G.W," standing for George Wilcox, and a courtyard-like lawn beyond. While only marginally separated from its neighbors, the stone wall around the property supplied the effect of seclusion and importance.



There were still several hours of sunlight left in the day when Kyle stepped from the Suburban. He winced at the feeling of stiffness in his limbs, and took a moment to limber up. The others did likewise.



"I'll go in first, alone," he said to his team in a tone that would brook no objections. He held up his cell. "If anything happens, I'll signal everyone, and you can take any means necessary to come get me. Understood?"



"You think you might be in danger in there, doc?" Faster asked as she cracked her knuckles.



"I always think I might be," Kyle answered. "Stay alert, people."



Leaving the glossy black truck behind, Kyle approached the gate. There was a simple intercom device on a post held fast in the ground, a button upon which Kyle pushed.



The voice which rejoined was nasal and male. "Can I help you, sir?"



"Dr. Kyle Perrin to see Dr. Wilcox," he announced, keeping his eyes upon the mansion before him. Five stories of aged brick, the walls climbing with ivy. A small fountain lay in the midst of the courtyard, depicting dragons and other supposedly mythical creatures spitting water from open mouths. The lawn showed the result of professional manicuring. Beyond lay broad stone steps which narrowed as they led to the carved wooden doors at the front of the building.



"I do not see your name on the list of appointments, sir."



"That's because I haven't made an appointment."



"Uh . . . right. Well, Dr. Wilcox doesn't typically see anyone who happens to stop by."



"Tell her I'm here about <i>der Schwarzenseelenbuch</i>."



". . . what was that, sir?"



"<i>Der. Schwarzen. Seelen. Buch</i>," Kyle repeated carefully. "If you're close enough, I'm sure she'll understand."



There was a long pause before the man spoke again. "One moment, sir."



Kyle remained quietly patient, watching the windows of the house. Most were curtained, though a few allowed scant glimpses of the rooms beyond. There were cameras, Kyle noticed, mounted almost everywhere, watching the gate, the grounds, the fountain, the front doors. Doubtless, there were more maintaining surveillance in the rear.



"Dr. Perrin?"



"Yes."



"The lady of the house will see you."



To punctuate the man's statement, the large iron gate shuddered, then creaked loudly as it parted and swung languidly open. Kyle stepped through, feeling the eyes of numerous cameras upon him while making his way around the fountain toward the steps to the house proper. He was not surprised when one half of the intricately-carved doors swung open.



The figure which emerged was tall and gaunt, the stereotype of the dignified butler. He wore a black suit with a sky-blue tie upon a plain white shirt. Chin tilted back with professional arrogance, he regarded Kyle's approach coolly. "Welcome to Wilcox Manor," the man said with a dignified air, as if he guarded the entrance to Buckingham Palace. The accent matched the man's stuffy aplomb.



Kyle nodded courteously. "Thank you."



The tall butler stepped aside, allowing entry for the anthropologist. The foyer beyond consisted of gold-edged tile surrounded by deep vermilion walls. The anteroom of the house was a circular chamber, sparsely furnished. Portraits of various men and women, framed in gilded wood, were spaced around the curved walls. A single circular staircase lead to the second floor, with a door beneath and two more to either side, and a massive chandelier of undoubtedly expensive crystal.



The butler took the lead, ushering Kyle toward the right-hand door. Through a hallway into which daylight spilled through pale curtains the butler strode, stopping at the second door on the left. He opened it and stood to the side, giving Kyle an expectant look. The academician said nothing as he strode through, entering what appeared to be a small library. The walls were covered with cherrywood shelving, crammed full of thousands of books. In the midst was a round reading table complete with a Tiffany lamp, before which stood a short, doughty, pudgy woman of late middle age.



She smiled professionally. "The inimitable Dr. Kyle Perrin," she breathed, revealing her Northeastern accent. "Coming to see me."



A little heat rose in Kyle's cheeks as he smiled humbly. "I'm surprised you've heard of me, Dr. Wilcox," he observed, sounding more than a little surprised.



"Of course I have," she responded. "Just last year, I was giving a speech at Stanford. A bright young student quoted you &#x2013; I believe it was from your <i>History of Yesteryear </i>&#x2013; in relation to my stance that the oral history of humanity extends back more than ten thousand years. I felt compelled to read up on you since. You've made some very interesting conclusions, promulgated some unusual theories."



"I can't take all the credit," he said. "I was inspired by Max Keller."



Her broad but ultimately spurious smile pushed the fleshy dimples of her cheeks toward her eyes. "Yes, I know. And now, it seems, you are in cahoots with Dr. Benedict."



He wrung his hands slowly as he stood at a comfortable distance, meeting Beverly Wilcox' eyes. "It seems you've already summed up our relationship."



Her fake smile faded. She cast her eyes downward. "I would have preferred a more neutral circumstance for our first meeting," she admitted. "But not every decision is ours to make, is it?"



"I didn't know you were also a philosopher," Kyle commented in a dry attempt at humor.



She responded with a sarcastic look. "Like you, I dabble in many things." Her eyes narrowed. "Unlike you, however, I do not benefit from any association with the Veil Society."



Now it was Kyle who looked suspicious. His response was guarded. "What do you know about the Veil Society?"



Beverly Wilcox smiled ruefully. "Only that it exists, although apparently not on paper. Don't worry, Dr. Perrin; I'm arrogant enough that if I really knew something, I'd throw it in your face."



Kyle smiled thinly. "But also humble enough to admit ignorance."



She shrugged casually. "Yes, well, arrogance is not perfection."



The anthropologist sighed, looking for a chair. He found a low-backed, comfortable-looking piece of furniture and gestured to it. "Mind if I sit?"



"By all means," responded Dr. Wilcox, reaching into an outer pocket of her blazer and coming out with a cigarette case. "Do you smoke?"



Kyle produced his own case with a sly look. "Yes, I do."



Beverly laughed softly. The room was quiet amid the underlying tension between the two as they lit up. The Rubenesque Bostonian leaned against the central table as Kyle sat. Lighters clicked. Smoke wafted through the room.



"The first time I met Malcolm Benedict," Beverly said, wistfully recalling a memory. "I was a young graduate student. He was speaking at Cornell. The man has a way with words, as I'm sure you know. Very charismatic. I found his ideas challenging, even, as my German grandmother would say, <i>verboten</i>. Along with other inspirations, Benedict helped me onto the path I now follow."



Kyle smiled mirthlessly. "He does, indeed, have presence."



"Yet now, more than twenty years later . . . all I have to show for my efforts is a wonderful house, a weekly blog, and the eye-rolling ridicule of the scientific community." She gave Kyle a dark look. "I've even been compared to that hack Rand Flem-Ath."



Kyle chuckled. "Then you're in good company."



"Oh, am I, Dr. Perrin?" she asked with an edge to her voice. "Because I still feel like I'm missing something."



"Such as?"



"The truth," she replied flatly, then continued as Kyle prepared to speak. "And don't give me that academic crap about truth being subjective. Because some of it isn't."



Kyle nodded slowly. "All right. So what do you think you're missing?"



Dr. Wilcox' reply was quick, as if her words had been prepared beforehand. "Nearly half a century ago, President Kennedy was willing to indulge Charles Hapgood's theory that Atlantis lay beneath the Rocks of St. Peter and St. Paul. A full naval investigation was scheduled to launch in the spring of 1964. Obviously, that didn't happen."



Kyle frowned, looking for an ashtray and finding one near the chair. "I hope you aren't suggesting JFK was killed because of that."



"No, I'm not. But a lot of things changed in that decade." Beverly exhaled a cloud of smoke with a heavy sigh. "I was a child throughout it all, but I'm aware of a sense of . . . loss. Of a lot of things. The Civil Rights movement made astounding leaps forward, while the scientific community, quietly, became more stolid, conservative, and resistant to new ideas. If Einstein had proposed his General Theory in 1965, he would have been blacklisted. Even now, compelling science regarding the true age of civilization remains buried except for late-night programming on cable TV. There's no room in science for pioneers anymore."



Kyle tapped some ash from his cigarette and regarded the perturbed woman before him. "Maybe not publicly."



"That's exactly what I mean," she snapped in irritation. "There's always someone who knows the truth about things. But they're never allowed to share it. I wonder if your Veil Society is behind that."



Kyle eased back, meeting the woman's gaze. "I honestly couldn't say. They hide things from me, too."



"Yet, here you are, doing their dirty work," she said bitingly. "Does it ever bother you?"



"Does what, exactly, ever bother me?"



"That you could be part of a conspiracy to keep everyone in the dark. Would it really be so bad to allow the truth be known? The Veil Society could do that, I'd be willing to bet. They seem to have the influence"



Kyle sighed, sagging forward, elbows on his knees. He took a few moments to think before he responded. "Put me in a room with a single, open-minded, rational person, and I could explain everything I know in such a way to help them accept it." He pulled on his cigarette and lifted his eyes, finding Beverly's. His next words were ominous. "But put me in a room with a hundred normal people, and the result would be pandemonium."



The esteemed occultist looked suddenly tired. Her shoulders fell, and she flicked ash carelessly onto the carpet. "Part of me wants to challenge you," she said. "But I wouldn't get anywhere. You have a reputation for tenacity, as do I, which would equate to nothing more than a stalemate."



Kyle nodded silently.



She inhaled deeply, then let it out. "So, it comes down to business. You are here for the <i>Book</i>."



Slowly, the Veil Team leader nodded. "Yes. I'm prepared to offer whatever price you wish. Within reason."



She cackled. "Be careful what you say, Dr. Perrin. The price is not an easy one to pay."



He arched an eyebrow. "Oh?"



Beverly did not respond to him. Instead, she raised her voice slightly, as if speaking to someone else in the room. "Frederick, bring it in, please."



A door on the far wall from where Kyle sat opened only a few seconds later. The same tall, gaunt butler who had met him at the door now wheeled in what appeared to be a hand-carved wooden cart on crooked, squeaking wheels. The cart bore only a single object, an immense tome bound heavily in leather and composed of numerous thick, aged pages. A bronze clasp kept the book closed, which yielded to a tiny key Beverly Wilcox produced from her blazer. Flippantly, she threw the book open.

<hr pg="4" />Kyle stood, looking down upon the massive grimoire. It measured a good two feet long by a foot and a half wide and was several inches deep. The margins were heavily gilded in gold patina, composed of images of serpents and storks. The pages themselves, however . . .



. . . lay blank.



Kyle frowned. "This--?"



"Is <i>Der Schwarzenseelenbuch</i>," Beverly declared with a knowing smirk. "<i>The Book of Black Souls</i>. Is it what you expected?"



"Not . . . exactly."



"You don't see anything, do you? Not a word?"



He shook his head slowly. "No."



Beverly dragged her fingers across a pale, unmarked page. "You see, Dr. Perrin, this is why there is no monetary price on the <i>Book</i>. It cannot be sold. It cannot be given. In fact, there is only one way for anyone to own it."



"Which is?" he prompted with reluctance.



Her next words were delivered with surprising calm. "As the <i>Book </i>itself describes, you must take the place of the current owner, Dr. Perrin," she informed. "Essentially, if you want the <i>Book of Black Souls</i>, you will have to kill me."



Kyle's reaction was one of inscrutable shock. "You can't be serious."



She remained stoically dour. "I am very serious. My father brought this book back from southern France just before the end of the second World War. He killed a Nazi SS officer to get it. And now it is in my possession, one I am none too fond of for having gained."



Kyle's eyes narrowed in thought. "If I follow the logic, then I have to assume you killed your own father for this book."



Her features fell heavily. "Not 'for the book,'" she said, then nodded. "But in a way, yes, it was I who caused his death. He had developed cancer, it metastasized, and it fell to me to pull the plug."



Kyle said nothing, but read the obvious pain within Beverly's features. "I did not come here to kill you," he said somberly.



"Didn't you?"



He glared, insulted. "No."



Her next words were very curt. "Whether or not that's true, that is the quandary placed before you. My life for the <i>Book</i>. Simple as that."



* * * *



He was on the phone as soon as he exited the doors of Wilcox Manor. Malcom answered the call quickly.



"Yes--"



"Tell me you didn't know," Kyle growled maliciously as he trundled down the steps. He stopped on the well-worn cobble of the walkway of the courtyard. "Tell me you didn't goddamn know!"



The reply was brusque and irritated. "Didn't know what, Kyle?"



"The price for the <i>Book</i>," he breathed through gritted teeth.



"How much does she want?" Malcolm asked, perturbed. "Is it really that much? What, ten, fifteen million? I can find the funds, Kyle--"



He slapped the phone against his thigh, staring ruefully toward an overcast sky. <i>He didn't know</i>, he realized. When he returned the phone to his ear and spoke again, his tone was much more civil.



"She's says she can't sell it. She&#x2014;"



"Then convince her."



"It's not that easy! It's not about money!"



There was a pause. "Then what is it about?"



Kyle huffed. "Life. Hers for the <i>Book</i>."



The pause was longer. "Eh, Kyle, say that again."



He laughed twistedly. "This is really going to get your goat, Malcolm. Dr. Wilcox says that if I want the book, I have to kill her for it."



"What?"



"Yeah, that was my reaction, too." He stared at the well-manicured lawn as he paced. He could see the members of his team beyond the gates from the corners of his eyes, presumably anxious to see why their leader was so agitated. "Apparently, it's a property of the <i>Book </i>itself, though I'm not sure I believe it. According to Dr. Wilcox, the only way anyone can own the damn thing, and read it, is to kill the current owner and claim possession."



Malcolm's only response was a deploring sigh.



Kyle stopped pacing. "So you're not entirely surprised."



"I . . . hoped this would not be the case, but there is precedence. The original <i>Necronomicon</i>, for instance, was only revealed to those who actively looked for it, and often caused their demise. H. P. Lovecraft is the most recent example."



"This isn't the same thing, Malcolm," Kyle bemoaned. "If what Beverly Wilcox really has is the <i>Book of Black Souls</i>, and she is right about the way it's obtained, then I'm going to have to murder her to get it."



"Do you think it's really the <i>Book</i>?"



Kyle huffed. "How the hell am I supposed to know? It's a big book, bound in leather, and the pages seem to be the right weight for the time period in which it was supposed to have been made. Real gold patina, from what I could tell."



"Images of snakes and ibis in the patina?"



Kyle frowned. "Yes, actually."



"Then there's a good chance Dr. Wilcox' book is the real thing. A very good chance."



The Veil Team leader groaned. "Fine. I'll go shoot her in the head. We'll be back by mid-day tomorrow."



"Perrin!"



Kyle kicked the grass beneath his feet. "I was just being facetious."



The older man expelled a breath on the other end. "It's hard to tell when you're serious or not."



"I know," Kyle returned rakishly. "I like to be a little unpredictable."



"I need you to be level-headed about this."



Kyle snorted. "When am I not? I'm always level-headed, Malcolm. It's a curse. I couldn't be reckless if I tried."



Malcolm's voice returned after a lengthy moment of silence. "You have a point," he admitted. "Now, I'd like to hear your suggestions on this matter."



Kyle responded quickly. "Easy. Bring her in. Let her see the truth the way she's always wanted to. Then she can use the book on our behalf."



"I doubt that would be a good idea, Dr. Perrin," he said gravely.



"Why not? You should have heard her, Malcolm; she's spent more than twenty years trying to figure out some of the things you and I take for granted. It really bothers her that there are those who can see and those who can't, and that she falls to the latter."



"So, you suggest revealing the Veil to her as a sort of placation? Quid pro quo?"



Kyle shrugged. "Why not? Xyllah said she could use a spell to make Jonas see through the Veil. I assume she could do so for Beverly Wilcox. It's either that, or I go back inside and take the book the Chicago way."



Kyle could nearly envision his benefactor as he mulled the words over. "Despite your flippancy," Malcolm said. "I'm willing to think you'd rather not take the easy way."



"Anything easy isn't worth doing."



"Indeed. All right. Do what you think is best."



Kyle stared out beyond the walls of the house's grounds. "You're trusting me again?"



Malcolm responded with a wry, soft laugh. "I always have. I leave it to you, Kyle."



The Veil Team leader lowered his phone and snapped it closed before slipping the device back into his pocket. He took a moment to breathe and collect his composure before turning toward the gate. His walk was one of purpose.



* * * *



"That is seriously fucked up," Detective Jonas said once Kyle had explained the situation. The five of them sat around a secluded table outside a local coffee shop. The outdoor shopping mall was none too busy for the early evening, despite the fact that the orb in the sky would still be casting its rays for a few more hours yet.



"No shit," Victor added, drumming his fingertips on the wooden table top.



"Despite your penchant for ruthlessness, Kyle," Xyllah chimed in. "I do not see you as the sort to casually claim a life."



"I'm not," he insisted. "But there are always other paths to take." He fixed his former elfin lover with a direct look. "You can make her see beyond the Veil."



The Daelvini nodded. "Yes, I can."



"Is Mal okay with that?" Faster asked in concern.



"He's told me to use my best judgment," the team leader said. "This is my best judgment on the situation."



"And then what?" prodded Jonas. "All of a sudden you two are buddies? She'll just do whatever we want?"



Kyle's return stare was unwavering. "Hopefully," he affirmed, then raised his left hand, forming a gun with his fingers, and placed the index finger against his temple. "Of course, there's always plan B."



"But, if she's the only who can read the damn thing," Faster chimed. "She could do anything with it. If it's some kind of all-powerful spell book, next thing we know, we're dodging fireballs and guys with red skin and pitchforks."



"Part of the risk, isn't it?"



Everyone fell silent, silently ruminating. Clearly, no one was comfortable with the situation, but better ideas were not forthcoming.



Jonas finally broke the silence. "Are we sure we really need this stupid book?"



Kyle nodded. "Malcolm's more or less convinced. This is the mission, Derek. We do whatever we can to succeed."



The detective leaned back, face heavy and dark. "Man, I feel like Joe Pantoliano in the <i>Matrix </i>right now. I should have picked the damn blue pill."



* * * *



Dr. Beverly Wilcox sipped her evening tea as she watched the courtyard of her mansion. For over an hour, she had been staring after Kyle Perrin's departure with both anticipation and dread. She figured her hunch about the man remained correct, in that he was no soulless killer. Indeed, given his numerous books, Dr. Perrin gave her the impression of being a romantic optimist combined with the dour stoicism of a realist. He was a calculating man, of that she was convinced.



<i>But no white knight upon a purebred steed is he, </i>she mused darkly. <i>I can't know how he will return for the book other than he will either make me an offer I cannot refuse, or . . .</i>



<i>Or not give me an offer at all and simply take it.</i>



"Frederick," she called, only slightly raising her voice. The small microphone hidden beneath the lapel of her jacket was sensitive. "Insure that all security measures have been taken."



"Is there reason to worry, doctor?" came the reply.



She sighed heavily. "I hope not," she answered, then lifted the cup to her lips.



Several minutes later, the door to the study swung silently open, giving way before the butler's purposeful stride. "All measures have been taken," he reported. "The house is secure and all systems are green."



She nodded.



"May I ask, Milady," Frederick said after a long, pregnant silence. "Who this Dr. Perrin is?"



Her eyes never left the darkening window. "As soon as I figure that out myself, I'll be sure to let you know."



* * * *



The streets were silent save for the scuttle of the occasional unseen rat or the mewling of a feline. The footfalls of the dark-garbed man echoed only briefly across the street as he made his way toward Wilcox Manor. The cigarette smoldered between his lips, the cherry glowing and paper crackling as he inhaled one last time before taking it away. He stopped upon the cobblestone walk before Wilcox Manor, looking over the impressive mansion beyond the gate. Eyes narrowed beneath wispy strands of blonde hair.



He took a moment to gather his thoughts, raising hands to smooth them back through his long hair. As he did so, blonde became black, long became short. His features changed as well, becoming more angular and sharp. Cold steel eyes transformed fluidly into soft, liquid brown.



"Mrs. Wilcox is no longer taking visitors for the evening," a voice came in response to his push of the 'call' button.



"I believe she will make an exception for me," he said. A cold smile stretched his lips. "Tell her it is Dr. Kyle Perrin."



There was a pause. "One moment, sir."



* * * *



The fact that the gate to the Wilcox mansion lay open put Kyle immediately on edge. He directed Victor to pull into the circular drive and park, while taking out his revolver and checking the rounds within. Following his lead, the others did likewise. Slides slid and clicked, magazines snapped. No one had to be told to be ready and alert.



"Victor, go around back. Find a way in."



The stocky man nodded as he secured the large pistol in its holster.



Kyle spoke again. "Jonas, you're with me. We'll go in the front. Faster, Xyllah?"



"Yes?" both women responded together.



"Follow us on a ten-second delay. Take the upper floors unless I say otherwise."



"Got it," Faster responded, reaching for the door. Xyllah said nothing, but followed her brunette counterpart as she exited the vehicle.



He did not look to see if Jonas followed as he approached the doors atop the steps. His attention lay upon the portal and its ornate brass trappings. The door remained closed, the lock apparently secure. No sign of forced entry.



"Derek."



"Yeah. What's up?"



"How good are you at picking locks?"



The young detective grinned rakishly. "Give me sixty seconds."



"Make it thirty," Kyle responded as he stepped aside.



Jonas scoffed under his breath, fluidly holstering his weapon beneath his jacket and returning with a small leather case. He knelt on the cold stoop before the door, selecting the implements he needed. But as he slipped the needle-like tools into the lock and began working on it, he stopped.



"Uh, Kyle?"



"What?"



"The door's not locked."



The team leader's level of anxiety spiked to the next level. "Step aside."



Hurriedly, Jonas gathered up his tools and slipped the lockpick set back inside his jacket. Once again gripping his pistol, he stepped to the side of the door. The two men shared a quick look, with Kyle voicelessly telling the younger man what he was going to do. A quick grip and a twist of the door handle, and Kyle pushed the portal open, while remaining to the side.



When nothing untoward happened, Kyle and Jonas both peered around their respective sides of the opening and into the well-lit interior. Hesitantly, Kyle stepped through the door, eyes darting all around in search of any hint or sign of a trap.



"Dr. Wilcox?" His voice echoed in the spacious foyer. No response met his query.



"Stay right behind me," he ordered Jonas, who only nodded in assent. Carefully, Kyle entered the mansion, feeling the immediate change in temperature. He made the effort to step as lightly and quietly as possible. A slightly acrid aroma was caught at the edge of his senses. He sniffed quietly.



"Gunpowder," he commented.



Jonas frowned, sniffing as well. "I don't smell it."



<i>Yet I can, </i>Kyle thought, but said nothing as he followed his senses toward the far door beneath the curving staircase. It lay slightly ajar, spilling light that was a shade paler than the golden illumination raining down from the foyer's chandelier. Kyle approached the door carefully, stepping up beside the frame and peering within before reaching a careful hand to the door itself. He cursed under his breath at what he saw within.



Taking up his cell, he spoke quickly on the open channel the team used. "Report locations."



"Just got through the back door, doc," came Victor's reply.



"Front door," answered Faster. "Right behind you. What's up?"



"A dead butler is what's up," Kyle said, pushing open the door to what appeared to be a small kitchen. Framed by stainless steel appliances and polished cherry, the body of the tall butler lay on its back, arms and legs laying naturally. A puddle of dark crimson ichor lay beneath the shoulders and head, having spilled out from the dead man's lacerated throat. Dead eyes stared up at the ceiling.



"Faster, you and Xyllah check the study. Hallway your right from the foyer, second room on the left."



"On it," responded the brunette.



"Victor?" Kyle asked into the phone as he knelt beside the body. The grotesque wound gaped and glistened, exposing tissue, muscle and tendon from just beneath the butler's left ear all the way around to thew right. <i>That wouldn't have been a quiet death, </i>Kyle thought. <i>As the carotid artery sucked in, it would have sounded like a raspy rattle. In a house as quiet as this, that would have carried.</i>



"Waiting on you, doc," the soldier returned.



"Stay sharp. Beverly may have an unwanted guest that hasn't left yet."



"Got it. If I see anyone that ain't one of us--"



"Put him down," Kyle finished gravely. He stood and looked back to Detective Jonas, who remained professionally alert, standing to one side of the open doorway, keeping both the foyer and the doors leading from the kitchen in view.



"You know who we're looking for?" Jonas asked.



"No," said Kyle with a shake of his head as he stood. "But it was someone Dr. Wilcox let in without question. Someone she trusted, or expected."



"Doc, come in."



Kyle snapped up his phone. "I hear you, Faster."



"You wanna come to the study."



The dark tone in the woman's voice told him all Kyle needed to know. Swiftly, he stepped past Jonas, marching across the gilded foyer to the open study door. Xyllah stood to one side of the doorway, pale face unperturbed as she kept a vigilant watch. In the midst of the room, where Faster knelt, lay the inert form of Dr. Beverly Wilcox. Quickly, Kyle noted the cart upon which the <i>Book of Black Souls </i>had been shown to him, laying upon its side against a bookcase on the far wall. The <i>Book</i>, of course, was gone.



"Dead?" Kyle asked as he approached.



Faster shook her head with a thin smile, moving aside so that Kyle could see the doughty woman's pale face. The black hilt of a knife and a few inches of steel protruded from her chest. The cloth around the wound was richly stained with drying blood. Glassy eyes blinked slowly at him. "Not yet," Faster said.



Kyle knelt, setting his jaw so as not to express either anger or guilt. Faster stood, stepping back as her team leader cradled the mortally wounded woman. Slipping off his jacket, he wadded it quickly and lifted the woman's head so as to place the makeshift pillow beneath it. Beverly winced, frothy bubbles of blood appearing at the edges of her mouth.



"Try to stay calm, Beverly," Kyle said in his best soothing voice. "We'll get you to a hospital."



"Won't matter," the dying woman whispered hoarsely. She managed a smile, reaching a hand to touch Kyle's face. "I thought . . . you came back . . . to kill me."



He shook his head. "Never my intention," he said. "Who attacked you? Can you describe him?"



Beverly winced again, grimacing as a lance of pain stabbed through her. "He . . . looked like you," she managed to say. "But it wasn't. I . . . could tell. Something . . . strange about him."



<i>Looked like me? </i>Kyle wondered. "Did he wear a mask?"



She shook her head. "Hard to . . . describe," she said between sputters and gasps. "I just . . . knew . . . it wasn't you." She swallowed thickly, making the effort to smile with blood-glazed teeth. "Sorry I . . . can't tell you more."



"It's okay." Kyle smoothed back her hair, wiped away a trickle of blood from the woman's cheek. "You can tell me more later."



She smiled weakly. "Don't . . . bullshit me, Kyle," she rasped. "I'm dying, and . . . nothing's going to . . . stop that."



"I don't give up easy," Kyle avowed. "You're not dying if I can--"



She shushed him with the touch of a dry finger to his lips. "He took the <i>Book</i>," she said, then coughed, spattering flecks of blood across her chin. "But . . . he doesn't <i>own </i>it."



The weight of the woman's last few words did not escape him. Kyle ground his teeth. "And as long as you stay alive, he--"



The smile remained. "If I know anything . . . I know--" she said, before wincing and coughing again. Blood flowed from both corners of her mouth. "I'm dying. Question is . . . who gets . . . the <i>Book</i>?"



Kyle sighed, his mind tumbling in a dozen different directions. Try as he might, he could not fathom an easier way to save the mission than what Beverly Wilcox was already suggesting. And now, he had precious little time to make his decision. Beverly was not going to live for much longer, he knew.



A hand fueled by desperate strength suddenly gripped Kyle's arm. He looked down into Beverly's face, reading the sudden strong clarity there. "Take . . . the <i>Book</i>," she hissed, every word accompanied by a spray of bloody spittle.

<hr pg="5" />"I'd have to kill you," he responded.



She glared back. "Better you . . . than him," she rasped, before convulsing in spasms of pain.



<i>You make it sound so simple, </i>Kyle thought, even as he slipped the pistol from his belt. The cocking of the hammer garnered the attention of everyone else in the room, including Victor, who had just appeared in the doorway.



"Do it," Beverly whispered, grimacing in pain. "Before it's . . . too late . . . ."



<i>As if I really had a choice, </i>Kyle thought wryly, easing up and bring the pistol-holding hand close to Beverly's head. When he spoke again, his words echoed darkly in the study. "Everybody leave the room."



"Doc?" Faster asked tentatively.



He turned his head, meeting her eyes. "It's the only way," he whispered to her.



Grimly, the lithe brunette nodded and backed toward the door, gesturing to the others. "Come on. Out."



"Wait--" Jonas began, before Faster stepped up close, staring into his eyes from less than a foot away.



"What, you wanna stay and watch?"



"No!" he declared in an insulted tone. "But I'm not just gonna turn a blind eye--"



"So what're you gonna do, stop him?"



Jonas' eyes flickered back and forth from Faster to Kyle, reading the grim face of his team's leader. "I can't believe we're just going to let this happen."



Faster's eyes softened. "Trust me, Derek, you don't want to be in his place."



The young detective lowered his eyes. "I--"



Xyllah touched his arm as she stepped up beside him. "Come," she whispered. "It is the only path he can follow."



Kyle watched the others as they left the room; Jonas begrudgingly, the others with a sense of grim understanding. The door closed behind them. Sadly, the leader of the Veil team returned his attention to Beverly Wilcox, who yet stared up at him with the last vestiges of life glittering behind her eyes.



"I wish I had time to show you what I know," he apologized. "I wish I could show you how close you came to the truth."



The woman could only smile in return, as blood had filled her mouth and begun to saturate her lungs. All she could manage was a nod.



Dispassionately, pushing aside as much of his emotions as he could, Dr. Kyle Perrin moved the muzzle of his revolver against the chest of the woman beneath him, directly over her weakly-beating heart.



Her eyes closed slowly. She inhaled one last breath.



And Kyle pulled the trigger.



* * * *



Waiting in the foyer, the others turned as one when Kyle emerged through the door, chased by the faint aroma of gunpowder behind him. His face was dark, eyes frighteningly alert and focused. In his hand he held the bloody knife which had been impaled within Beverly Wilcox' breast.



"We need to find the book," he declared. "I may be the only one who can read it now, but that won't do us a whole lot of good if I don't have it."



"There was a security room toward the back of the house," Victor said. "Couple of dead guards. Looks like our mystery man was pretty thorough, but maybe he got caught on camera."



"Little problem, though," Faster announced. She held a small police band receiver. "Silent alarm must have been tripped. Boston PD is sending around a cruiser to check it out."



Kyle looked to her. "Do we have time?"



She shrugged. "Wilcox is a big name in this town," she said. "Response time for Boston PD should be pretty good. Maybe we got ten minutes at most."



"Make the best of it," Kyle ordered. "Derek, you and me hit the security room. Everybody else, get back to the SUV and meet us around back."



The others nodded, save for Derek, who appeared less than thrilled. But he said nothing as he followed Kyle through the house.



* * * *



The bank of eight black-and-white closed circuit screens glowed ghostly in the darkness of the room. The corpses of two men &#x2013; one slashed across the throat, the other stabbed numerous times &#x2013; lay on the floor. The caustic, metallic aroma of blood filled the room. Both Kyle and Jonas made the effort to ignore the growing stench as they hacked away at different keyboards.



"You don't approve of what I did," Kyle said after less than a minute.



"I'm starting to think that's a running gig with your outfit," Jonas remarked.



Kyle managed a coarse smile. "Could be," he admitted. "But I think you're already figuring out that we do things quite a bit differently than what you're used to."



"Well, no shit," snapped Jonas. "Hell, in any other circumstance, I would have arrested you."



"But you didn't." Kyle smiled mirthlessly. "Looks like you're catching on."



Kyle inhaled deeply, controlling himself while assessing what he had witnessed with a rational eye. "If the only way to get this all-important book was to kill Dr. Wilcox, I can understand why you did what you did," he said. "It's just . . . I don't know how you do it. I mean, when you shot that troll in the head, that was one thing. But this--"



"It's different," Kyle interjected. "Yes, I know. Don't think for a moment I found any sense of satisfaction. The only sense of salvation I get is from the idea that what I did served a greater purpose."



"But--"



"But nothing," barked Kyle. "Don't tell me you haven't done something distasteful in your life because the end reward was worth it."



The younger man said nothing, merely pursed his lips and resumed his study of the computer screen before him.



<i>Wonder if I touched a nerve, </i>Kyle thought as he continued scanning through the media files on the computer. Thankfully, Dr. Wilcox' security did not appear to use the best encryption measures.



"Doc, check this out," Jonas announced, straightening before his monitor as a file began playing. It showed the front gate, and a man clad in black beside the call box. From the short dark hair to the chiseled features, he all but perfectly resembled the man beside the detective. Kyle glowered immediately.



"If I didn't know better, I'd say that's you"



"Sure looks that way."



"But he doesn't have your mannerisms," Jonas pointed out. "He's not quite as, well, stiff as you are. Look at the way he holds his hands. Fingers just a little curled at his sides. And he also stands straighter than you, but his right shoulder drops a little."



Kyle turned a wondering look upon the detective. "You spend that much time watching the way I carry myself?"



The detective shrugged. "It's a gift," he said, then indicated Kyle's double on the screen as the man disappeared from view. "You ask me, he's military. Probably career."



"Who just happens to look like me."



"Like you said, maybe he wore a mask."



"Or maybe he's something else," Murmured the team leader. He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Something about him looks familiar, but . . . never mind. We'll ask him when we find him."



"And how are we going to do that?"



Kyle indicated the long knife in his pocket. "With a little help from our favorite Daelvini sorceress."



* * * *



They passed a pair of police sedans a little more than a block away from Wilcox Manor, the Suburban rolling along at an unobtrusive pace. Victor watched the receding vehicles in the mirrors, then relaxed as he applied a little more pressure to the accelerator. "We're clear," he announced.



Kyle nodded and turned in the seat, looking back to Xyllah. The elfin woman gave him an expectant look as he took the knife from his coat.



"It will take a little time," she informed, already guessing what Kyle wanted. "And I would appreciate a little privacy. Others around me may confuse the impressions I get, or the information concerning his whereabouts."



"Then we'll give you some time," Kyle muttered as he turned back in the seat. "Anybody hungry?"



* * * *



The lighter flicked in his hand, burning the tip of the cigarette upon which he inhaled. The air was rife with the scents of fry oil and charbroiled beef. Not Kyle's first choice for food, but there were few places open so late. Inside the fast-food restaurant, the others sat around a large corner table, save Xyllah, who remained in the black Suburban. He hoped her idea of "a little time" was comparable to his.



<i>No choice now but to wait and see what she comes up with, </i>he thought tiredly, exhaling a plume of smoke. <i>Just hope we find him before he gets too far away.</i>



He hung his head in self-admonishment. <i>Christ. Just like you to go on with the cold data and not think about the morals or ethics behind your actions. Less than an hour ago, you killed a woman in cold blood. More than that, a woman you respected.</i>



Kyle's eyes drifted skyward, looking up through the indigo sky to the thousands of stars strong enough to pierce through the night. He tried to remind himself of the ultimate insignificance of any actions taken upon this one lone world in a universe undoubtedly teeming with billions of orbs just like it. Against such a backdrop, why should one person's life matter at all?



<i>Why indeed . . . .</i>



"You okay, doc?"



Only marginally disturbed from his self-rationalizing soliloquy, Kyle flicked ash off his cigarette. "Fine as I can be," he muttered.



Victor breathed in, sucking a piece of gristle from a tooth and suppressing a belch. "I remember one of my drill sergeants," he said. "Not much to sneeze at when you first meet him. 'Bout as tall as me and half as big. Had the world's biggest Adam's apple and the ugliest nose a hundred fistfights could get you."



Kyle allowed himself a small smile of mirth at Victor's description.



"There was something about him, though," the stocky ex-soldier continued. "Confidence. Cockiness. Experience. Kind'a like you, just . . . intensified, I guess."



"The unlikely bad ass, I take it?"



Victor snorted a laugh. "He used to tell us he was the kid who always got beat up on the playground. Went years in elementary school giving up his allowance every Friday afternoon and never telling his pop about it."



"Is that why he became a soldier?"



Victor cast a sly, knowing look to his team leader. "Knew you were gonna say that. Actually, he didn't have much choice. He'd gotten arrested in a car theft ring, and the judge gave him the choice of three years in prison or boot camp. So he joined the Army. And damn if he wasn't good enough to go all the way. Hell, he did more shit in the eighties than I've done my entire adult life, and most of it he'll never be able to talk about. If there's anybody I knew who's been put in a situation that'd make you piss blood and hate yourself afterward, it'd be him."



Kyle nodded slowly. "So, are you going to give me some kind of meaningful advice that will make me feel better about killing Beverly?"



"Nope," Victor answered with a shrug. "I ain't that deep, doc. You know that. Just like I know that my drill sergeant had a wife and three kids that he talked about more than any man I've known since. John Q. Public, all he does is bitch about his wife and complain about his kids . . . this guy . . . he <i>appreciated </i>them. The way I figure, he wasn't as good a soldier as he was because he didn't care about life. He was that good because he <i>did</i>."



Kyle thought a moment, pulling on his cigarette. "You think I'm like that?"



"Don't know," Victor answered readily. He clasped Kyle's shoulder. "But I've got faith."



Kyle looked after his team's resident heavy-hitter as the round-shouldered bald man went back inside the eatery. An uneasy smile pulled at Kyle's dry, crooked lips. He took one last pull on the cigarette before letting it drop to the ground. The sound of a car door being popped open brought his attention back to the big black Chevy.



Xyllah stepped from the back door of the massive vehicle, bare torso glowing faintly with pale skin and stiff pink nipples before zipping up her jacket. She still held the bloodied knife, flecks of crimson upon the blade having turned dark. "I know where he is," she announced simply.



* * * *



Tendrils of salty air made their way from the sea just beyond the walls of the old warehouse to the chilly interior, where a man stood alone in near darkness. Weak, generator-empowered emergency lights cast dusty illumination which barely caught the wisps of the man's raggedy blonde hair. He lit a cigarette with all the urgency of a man waiting for the Redeye on Christmas Eve, exhaled smoke into the musty air. Looking down at the table before him, his fingers dragged lightly across the rough, leathery hide of the <i>Book of Black Souls.</i>



"Excuse me, sir," came a gruff, if tentative, voice from the doorway behind.



The man before the table glowered but did not turn around. The words he spoke were carried by a sophisticated accent and air of uncompromising confidence. "I told you not to bother me unless you had received word from our contact."



"Uh . . . yes, sir."



Slowly, the man turned, scarred face catching the dim light before his baleful blue eyes fell upon the messenger. "Well?"



The husky, broadly built man, who looked the type to enjoy immunity to intimidation, swallowed thickly. "We, uh, we've received word from our, uh, contact."



The blonde man smirked. "You don't say."



The hefty man frowned in confusion. "Uh, sir, I--"



"Go away," the man commanded casually, waving his hand. But as the thick-bodied brute retreated, the tall man spoke again. "Has Gethe eaten?"



A strained pause filled the silence for a long heartbeat before the answer came. "Uh, yeah. Twice, I think."



"Excellent. Send him to me. But remember--"



"Yeah. Be nice."



Another crooked smirk stretched between cold blue eyes. "His appetite may be sated, but that does not mean Gethe won't disembowel you just for fun," the man warned.



". . . Right . . . ."



* * * *



Amid the clutter of crates, giant spools of cable, and other discarded debris upon the wharf, a slim figure crouched, engulfed in shadow. Alert eyes assessed the situation before her as she counted half a dozen armed men, clad in clothing which would have garnered them nothing beyond a first glance upon the docks. Only the weapons they sported &#x2013; various small arms mainly of German manufacture &#x2013; would have caused alarm, if there were any authorities around to observe them.



"Squirrel to nest," Faster whispered into the headset she wore. The wire trailing from behind her left ear was connected to the phone clipped to her belt.



Victor's voice responded quickly. "Nest here."



"I got six rats with sharp teeth," she informed, then paused as the door to the warehouse opened. "Make it seven."



"Seven heard."



"Something else," she continued, watching as the thick-bodied man, whose jacket was stretched almost to the bursting point by bulging muscles, approached a large grey panel van. He gestured to one of the six men standing nearest to the van, who looked suddenly nervous.



"What is it, squirrel?"



"Hold on," she hissed quietly. The panel truck's rear door opened, and the muscular bruiser approached. He spoke a few words, very carefully, like a neophyte lion tamer trying to direct a Bengal tiger. The van lurched, shifting back and forth on protesting shocks. At first, all Faster saw was a massive, naked foot at the end of an inhumanly thick and muscular calf. The van rocked again, springs groaning as the massive weight was unburdened.



The six men all stepped back, and even the impressive bruiser with the bulging muscles looked suitably intimidated and even fearful. Whatever he was looking at, Faster realized by judging the angle of his eyes, stood a good two or three feet taller than he.



A moment later, the creature stepped into view. Faster's eyes widened.



"Holy shit . . . ."



"Squirrel?" Victor's voice buzzed in her ear. And then, after no response, "Faster? Babe, what's going on?"



"We got a big problem," Faster whispered, eyes glimmering with both marvel and revulsion at what she saw. "And I mean, a <i>big </i>fucking problem."



* * * *



"Eight feet tall, easy," Faster described once she had returned to the others. "Ugliest fucking thing I ever seen. Warts all over the place, hair in patches, and Jesus it stunk! I was a good fifty feet away, and I could smell it. I don't know how those guys could stand the stench!"



Kyle cursed under his breath, glancing to Victor. "Take no chances," he ordered. "Break out the big guns. And break out the box. Everybody's loading up."



Victor nodded, heading around to the back of the SUV.



"It's an ogre," Xyllah informed, standing beneath a tree at the edge of the overlook to the wharf below. "A very dangerous creature."



"'Ogre,'" repeated Jonas dubiously. "What, like Shrek? Green skin and ear wax? Lots of layers?"



Kyle frowned in annoyance. "Grow up."



Jonas rolled his eyes derisively.



"How powerful is this thing?" asked Kyle of the team's sorceress.



"Brute force and primal rage personified," she responded, still staring down upon the warehouse below. "No finesse, no style, little in the way of intellect, but it is cunning. And immensely powerful. A single blow can crush a man from head to toe in an instant."



"But it can be killed," Kyle said hopefully.



Xyllah nodded slowly, as if distracted. "Yes . . . with determination and . . . skill . . . ."



The team leader's brow furrowed as he looked upon his one-time lover. "Xyllah?"



She sighed and stepped back, finally turning around. "My apologies, Kyle," she said with unexpected deference.



"Is everything all right?" he asked. "Do you think we can kill the ogre?"



She nodded. "Yes. Now that we know it is there, we can prepare for it. Your most powerful weapons will be needed. When you see it, do not hold back, and do not stop in your attack until it is down. And even then . . ." she trailed off, wincing slightly and touching her forehead.



"What is it?" Kyle asked firmly.



The Zantra Adept sighed. "As powerful as the ogre is, it is not our true threat. There is something even more powerful within those walls."



Kyle arched a single brow while Faster and Jonas exchanged wondering and even worried glances.



"And what is that?" Kyle asked.



Xyllah met his eyes with solemnity. "A wizard," she said gravely.



"What, like you?" quipped Jonas.



She regarded him coolly. "I am not a wizard," she spat derisively. "My command of the Art is instinctual, and limited. A wizard has no such limitations."



"So, give me the nutshell version of the difference between a a wizard and a Zantra Adept," Kyle said brusquely.



Xyllah sighed. "The 'nutshell,' as you put it," she said. "Is that I can use my powers more freely, but I am limited to a certain set of abilities. The majority of mine are devoted to indirect applications."



"And a wizard?"



She shrugged. "With adequate resources, a wizard has access to nearly every application of the Art. He would have no practical limits, save that which his command of such forces would allow. A wizard's power is codified. It comes from the energies of the world around him."



"While yours comes from within."



Xyllah nodded. "The real danger of a wizard lies not in how much power he can harness, but in how much he can <i>direct</i>. And until we see what kind of skill he has, we won't know his capabilities."



Kyle considered her words. "So what do you suggest?"



"Tread lightly," she responded.



"And carry a big stick," came the braggadocio voice of Victor as he stepped around from the back of the SUV. With the two .50-caliber small arms in his hands, the body armor covering his torso, and the complement of grenades and other devices of destruction clipped to his body, he looked the epitome of an outlandish action movie hero.



The others could not help but laugh.



* * * *



When the attack came, it was more swift than the man in the warehouse had considered. Devastating explosions split the night with roaring thunder and blinding light, disintegrating the wharfside wall of the warehouse with fire and force. Amid the cacophony, the sharp cracks of weapons fire could just be heard. A trio of bodies fell in through the walls, as much scarred by flame and shrapnel as they were by the impacts of bullets.

<hr pg="6" />The eruption of violence stirred the misshapen giant from its resting position upon the floor. Too swiftly than one would have thought possible for its size, the ogre was on its feet, fists clenched and neck muscles straining as it growled toward the barrage through the wall before it.



"Easy, Gethe," warned the wizard. "Let the fight come to you."



The ogre bellowed, trembling with rage, bloodstained eyes darting back and forth in search of an enemy. "Gethe kill!" the monster roared, speaking only one of a handful of words it knew in it's master's language.



"Indeed," responded the wizard. "Kill anyone who enters this room."



Another enormous bellow, nearly powerful enough to shake the walls erupted from the monster's maw.



The door from the outer warehouse burst open. The stocky, broad-shouldered man stumbled into the room, one hand clenching a large, gleaming pistol. "There's gotta be an army of them--!"



Before he could continue, however, the ogre was upon him, meaty hands larger than his head descending and gripping him. The man cried out in fear and pain as he was lifted from the floor, too quickly to realize what was happening to him. In the next instant, Gethe's monstrous arms ripped him apart at the waist, sending bursts of blood in all directions.



The wizard winced momentarily, watching with detached eye as the ogre sunk its crooked and yellowed teeth into the soft flesh of the dead man's abdomen, ripping away a mouthful of entrails before tossing both halves of the body aside.



"Well, I did say 'kill anyone,'" the man mused, looking all around for signs of further attack. Again, it came more quickly than he anticipated.



As the rent halves of Gethe's victim toppled across the floor, leaving streaks of blood where they danced and puddles where they settled, the doorway burst with activity again. An athletic woman was the first to dive through, followed by a stocky man wielding an unusual rifle and another, younger and slimmer man sporting an identical weapon.



"Give it all you got!" barked Victor as he dropped to one knee, aiming the .50 Smith &amp; Wesson rifle at the lumbering beast which filled his field of view. Even as he did so, Faster was bounding off the wall, somersaulting in the air while her twin pistols blazed. Instinctively, the ogre raised its arms to protect itself. Bullets peppered its thick skin, barely drawing blood.



As the woman landed, Gethe began to turn to face her, with all the sneering malevolence of a dark-hearted child who had captured a fly. But as the first thick-fingered hand reached out, a deeper report sounded, followed by another and another. The ogre felt the pain in its left leg, which compelled it to turn and face the more serious threat with a broad swipe of its arm.



Victor cursed as the rifle was swatted away from him, but reflexes were sharp, following practiced lines. Ducking beneath another vicious swipe, the deadly knife appeared in his hand, held firmly with the blade following the length of his forearm. He spun and slashed, gouging deep into the ogre's thigh, and ducked between the beast's legs, cutting upward yet again and dangerously close to the life-supplying artery near the monster's groin. But not close enough.



"Gethe eat you!" bellowed the warted giant, lumberingly turning about, making wooden boards sag and creak beneath its weight.



"Eat shit instead," growled Victor, crouching defensively, his long-bladed knife ready to stab deep.



The ogre roared, rearing up with balled fists raised above its head. As it did so, however, a flash of brilliant blue light signaled an attack of arcane energy just before the mystical bolt slammed into its back. The ogre grunted in pain, and stumbled. A misshapen head glanced back in annoyance, seeing the slender Daelvini woman emerging from the shadows behind.



"<i>Sporkan'a</i>," the ogre hissed, before registering the presence of the other man, sporting the twin of Victor's rifle.



"Hey, beautiful," Jonas quipped, sighting over the bulbous barrel. "Smile for the camera."



The first raucous explosion from the rifle made Gethe roar in pain and hobble back as blood spurted from a gaping wound in it's shoulder. Turning to face the threat, ignoring the knife-wielding man, the ogre grunted with each successive impact as Jonas pulled the trigger again and again, taking one step in for each step the monster stumbled back. Wounds exploded with dark ichor from the monster's chest, while the ogre flailed impotently at empty air. Victor tumbled out of the way as the beast collapsed to its knees upon the floor, unearthly blood spewing from its wounds.



"Not . . . kill . . . me," sputtered the monster, crimson fluid dripping from its thick lower lip.



Jonas ejected the empty magazine from the rifle and quickly replaced it with another. He jerked back on the loading lever and aimed the barrel at the ogre's forehead. "I'd say 'think again,' but that would be an oxymoron," quipped the detective, who promptly pulled the trigger one last time.



The eruption of blood, flesh and gore from the back of the ogre's skull signaled the end of its life. For a long moment, it wavered on weakening legs until, with a final, rattling breath, the corpse fell ignonimously forward.



"Nice work," Faster commented, quickly reloading her pistols. Slides clacked closed on fresh magazines before the empty ones fell to the floor.



Jonas' only response was a wink before he, Faster, Victor and Xyllah all faced the dark-garbed man in the center of the room. Flickers of recognition sparked in the eyes of all but Jonas as they beheld a man they had seen take his own life only months before. The man assessed them with narrowed eyes, hands held open at his sides. Faint ripples of chromatic energy danced across weathered palms.



"I see only the four puppets," the wizard spoke, glancing around warily. "Where is the master?"



Behind the man, a rickety wooden door creaked open, understatedly announcing Kyle Perrin's entrance. Without turning to look, the blonde-haired man smirked knowingly. "Clever. You have me at a disadvantage, it seems."



Kyle stepped slowly around the black-clad man, keeping a wide berth while holding his pistol at his side. "Maybe," Kyle said, watching the wizard's face in profile. "But I'm wondering if this is just another illusion, like the one we saw in France."



The wizard chuckled darkly. "I must admit to a sense of wicked enjoyment upon seeing your reactions to my apparent suicide," he said.



"I'm sure," Kyle said, stopping and turning to face the man fully. Stance relaxed, he tapped the silvery revolver against his left leg, ready to snap it up at the slightest provocation. "But something tells me we face no illusion this time."



The wizard grinned ruefully. "As I said, you have me at a disadvantage."



"So why the deception?" Kyle asked. "Why the allusion to the <i>Book</i>?"



"How better to bring you here?" the man asked with a smug roll of his shoulders, followed by a knowing smile.



"I find it hard to believe you couldn't just take the <i>Book</i>, if you knew where it was."



The wizard raised a hand to tap his temple. "Then your beliefs need adjusting, Dr. Perrin."



The Veil Team leader narrowed his eyes, wonder compelling a question to form in his mind. But before that question could leave his lips, the wizard gestured, resulting in a swiftly-growing flare of light from his hands.



"He's casting!" cried Xyllah, swiftly making gestures of her own. The others were already reacting, with Faster and Jonas both raising weapons with the intention of putting the wizard down. But as they did so, Victor was already charging forward, dull black knife leading the way.



"Victor!"



"Shit!"



"Back off!" cried Kyle, darting forward to intercept his team's front-line fighter, but even he was too late. As the wizard's spell was completed, resulting in a gleaming slash in the fabric of space behind him, the former soldier's brash charge propelled him into the wizard, carrying them both backward. Like a hungry maw, the dark, shimmering oval of blackness opened wide to swallow both men, then clamped shut with a shearing sound, leaving naught but a brief pinpoint of golden light which vanished quickly.



Perhaps only a pair of seconds had been consumed by those actions, yet the weight of them stretched across future hours, even days. Kyle seethed visibly as he struggled to control himself.



"Damn it!" he yelled in a rare display of pure emotion. Glaring eyes flashed upon Xyllah. "What happened?"



She stared back, eyes wide and round, mouth agape. "I . . . I am not sure--"



Kyle's interruptive response was a roaring command. "Then take a fucking guess!"



The elfin woman balked momentarily, eyes blinking as she focused and considered the possibilities. "I-I believe . . . ."



Kyle stepped menacingly toward her, eyes blazing. "Believe what?"



"It was a transportation spell, of that I am certain," she continued shakily. "And, given the visible effects . . . ."



The team leader's next words were significantly more calm, though his expression remained intense. "Go on."



"If I were to hazard a guess, I would say they have traveled through the fabric of worlds," she said at last. "They have gone beyond the Veil."



Kyle glanced quickly to the small table upon which the <i>Book of Black Souls </i>lay. "Without using the Book."



She nodded. "It would seem to be the case."



The team's leader fell quiet, forcing himself to calm as his logical mind tumbled swiftly. <i>If what she's saying is true, then that damn wizard could travel back and forth through the Veil without the Book. So why did he want it to begin with? What the hell is going on?</i>



"Doc?"



Faster's unnerved query caught his attention. Never had Kyle seen the brunette so anxious, so worried. The fate of Victor was obviously heavy upon her mind. That realization softened him.



"We'll get him back," Kyle vowed.



She swallowed thickly. "We fucking better," she hissed through gritted teeth, the edges of her eyes already beginning to redden.



* * * *



The painting was immense, an abstract reflection of what Kyle could only assume was the artist's view of life, or, at least, the grossly disproportionate woman depicted upon the canvas. The work of art dominated one of the outer hallways in the basement of the Orobourous Museum, little seen by any other than the institution's staff. Kyle thought that a pity, but only peripherally wondered why. The bulk of his attention remained upon the material he had spent the last several days studying, and upon the fate of his wayward team member.



"He killed himself after painting that," came a resonating voice.



Kyle did not have to look to his right to see the owner of the voice as being Malcolm Benedict. "Did he."



"A true tragedy," continued the Veil Team's benefactor, stepping closer. "Martin Brightway. You would think that name was destined for someone of greatness."



Kyle allowed himself a fleeting, rueful smirk. "How did he kill himself?"



"Brutally," responded Malcolm. "Strung a length of cord at neck level in his closet, then tied his ankles and wrists together. He leaned his weight into the cord . . . probably took him several minutes to suffocate, I assume. An eternity."



"Why?"



Malcolm sighed. "He was spurned by a woman," he said. "Who later went on to marry someone else and have several children. What a waste of talent."



"Only if you think talent carries a responsibility to use it," Kyle said philosophically.



"Interesting point," Malcolm grunted. He cleared his throat. "What of your talents? Have you deciphered the <i>Book of Black Souls?"</i>



Begrudgingly, Kyle nodded, not taking his eyes from the now-haunting painting before him. "I'm pretty sure I can use the incantations to travel across the Veil, if that's what you're asking."



"That was only one of many questions I have."



The anthropologist's eyes dipped as he smiled mirthlessly. "I'm sure it's just chomping your bit that you can't read the <i>Book</i>," he said, slowly turning his head to address the older man. "You know, you could always kill me and read the book yourself."



Malcolm's dark eyes glittered faintly as he smiled in return. "Now, why would I do that? You're far more valuable to the Veil Society as a leader. I could not have accomplished this on my own."



Kyle shrugged and looked back to the painting. "No, you'd have to be more ruthless."



The older man's next words were carried on a softer, more sympathetic tone. "I do not envy you for the acts you have committed for the sake of the Veil Society. To be honest, I am not certain I could do the same."



"Truth."



Malcolm frowned. "Come again?"



Kyle inhaled deeply, let it out with a long, slow vacation of his lungs across dry lips. "Something Beverly Wilcox told me," he clarified. "It's all about the truth. Sacrificing my soul is only bearable if I can get to the truth."



"Is that what you believe you are doing, by working with us?" Malcolm asked. "Sacrificing your soul?"



Kyle pursed his lips in thought. "Considering the price, I can only assume so."



". . . I see."



Kyle forced out a short, hard laugh in an effort to seem casual. "It's been a long day, Malcolm," he said. "I'm going to take a walk and clear my head, go home and get some rest."



"And then . . .?"



Briefly, Kyle's sharp gaze flashed to find the older man's own. "Then . . . we'll see about going to the other side."



Malcolm nodded with satisfaction. "I am looking forward to it."



The Veil Team leader watched as the elder academician strode away, eventually disappearing amongst the stacks. He listened as the footfalls faded away, as the faint chime of the elevator sounded. Only then did Kyle return to his perusal of the larger-than-life painting before him, the last and only piece of art crafted by a doomed and tortured soul.



"I'm not so sure."



* * * *



A late evening shower left the streets slick and glossy, the air sharp with the aroma of ozone which barely overpowered the odor of automobile exhaust and other stenches of the city. Kyle strode casually along the broken sidewalk leading to his apartment, enjoying the illusion that he was alone in the world. What he had read across several days' absorption of the material within the <i>Book of Black Souls </i>tumbled through his mind chaotically, as yet unsettled. A good night's rest, he figured, would allow his brain to make sense of it all. He did not look forward to the nightmarish dreams that would accompany his mental organization.



One part in particular stuck with him. He had found it upon the last page of the book, which had been arranged like a ledger. Dozens of names were included, leading back through the centuries and reading like a who's who of historical celebrities. Names such as Napoleon Bonaparte, Louis XVI, and Pepin the Great, and even more nefarious, older, names beside. But the five most recent entries placed within the ledger, written as if inscribed by the hand of a calligraphist, lingered the most.



The fourth most recent had been that of a Nazi SS officer, Wilhelm Gephardt, who claimed the book in 1944. Followed closely by George Wilcox, who took the <i>Book </i>less than a year later, and followed in turn by Beverly Wilcox. Kyle had been only marginally surprised to find his name listed as the current owner of the tome, presumably interred the moment he had replaced the former owner.



It was the fifth most recent name which made him pause when he read it, however, for it sounded familiar and elicited a trickle down his spine.



<i>Phillipe Auburjonois.</i>



The name of the French pub owner with whom Kyle had spoken only months before, yet whom had supposedly perished during the second World War, ostensibly by the SS officer whose name followed his in the ledger.



<i>It can't be a coincidence, </i>Kyle thought as he kicked at a loose piece of broken concrete on the sidewalk.



"It is not."



Kyle stopped abruptly and looked up, spying the familiar, stocky Frenchman several paces ahead, illuminated beneath a streetlight. For several heart beats, Kyle said nothing, merely observing the man before him, before finally speaking. There was a faint, ethereal radiance about the man, suggesting something otherworldly.



"You're not really a ghost, are you?"



The Frenchman chuckled, casting his gaze down as he took a few languid steps toward Kyle. "I would say that depends upon your definition."



Kyle cocked his head and narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "Ghosts tend to be tied to a specific location."



Phillipe Auburjonois responded with a roll of his shoulders. "It would seem, then, that I am not a ghost."



"Then what are you?"



The man produced a cigarette, tucking it between rouged lips. He raised a hand, and a flame appeared upon the palm. He puffed, creating smoke, then exhaled. The flame vanished instantly. "Something else."



Kyle rolled his eyes with a sigh. He was too tired for meldrama. "Let me try a different approach, then," he offered. "Your name appears in the <i>Book</i>. As does mine."



"Yes."



"What's so goddamn important about it?"



The Frenchman flickered his eyes away for a moment, tapping ash from the end of his cigarette. "There was once a time when all that is myth and legend was reality," he said. "And then something changed. An event of some kind, which rent one world in two, casting half the world into a terrible darkness, concealed by a membrane of shadows."



"The Veil."



Phillipe nodded. "A construct of irony," he said. "A barrier born of magic to keep the magic from our world."



"And the <i>Book</i>?"



The Frenchman let out a heavy sound. "One of a handful of rare artifacts." He met Kyle's eyes with a direct and penetrating gaze. "Created before the Veil was made, surviving to this day. It is because of artifacts such as these that at least some semblance of the arcane remains here, in the world to which you and I were born."



Kyle thought briefly. "So I assume we're talking very old magic."



"Ancient," Phillipe confirmed. "And very powerful. The secrets concealed within the <i>Book </i>could potentially destroy the Veil."



"What would happen then?" Kyle asked warily.



Phillipe shrugged as he smoked. "Armageddon? A new age? Since the Veil split the worlds in two, they have never been rejoined. So no one knows exactly what might happen."



"Safe bet it wouldn't be pretty."



Phillipe smirked mirthlessly. "Most likely not. Imagine if all the monsters, peoples and powers of myth and fantasy suddenly became real in this world. The word 'chaotic' would not do the result much justice, I imagine."



"Except for those Ren Faire people," Kyle remarked off-handedly, before giving the ghostly Frenchman a direct look. "You still haven't explained why I'm talking to a man who's been dead for sixty-five years."



The self-assured cockiness left Phillipe's face, and his small dark eyes dipped. "There is a very good reason why the <i>Book of Black Souls </i>possesses such a name."



Kyle waited.



"You have become a member of one of the most exclusive brotherhoods in all of known history," the Frenchman continued. "Every owner of the <i>Book </i>has his soul bound to it. In effect, we become slaves, compelled to serve, to advise, to further the needs of the <i>Book</i>."



"The 'needs of the <i>Book</i>?'"



"Yes." Phillipe looked forlorn and tired, as if in the midst of a long journey. "It is a living thing, Kyle. Fueled by the souls of the men and women who have possessed it. And, like all living things, it has a will. It has desires. A purpose."



"So what is its purpose?"



"I am not sure," the Frenchman replied gravely. "But it has to do with the Veil."



"To destroy it?" the anthropologist asked pointedly. "Or keep it from being destroyed?"



"That is where I am not sure."

<hr pg="7" />Kyle mused quietly for several moments, producing his cigarette case and lighting up as he paced randomly. "You'll forgive me if I don't take everything you said at face value."



"You do not strike me as a fool."



Kyle managed a slight smile. "So, the <i>Book</i>," he prompted. "Because you once owned it, it . . . now allows you to visit the living?"



Phillipe exhaled heavily, eyes darkened and sad. "That is part of the price, Dr. Perrin," he said. "I may have left the body which bore my soul for more than four decades, but my soul has not yet left the mortal world. I remain, as do all the others, bound to serve. Think of it as an affluent apartment, with a splendid view, but one which lies in the absolute worst part of the city."



"A well-dressed prison, then."



"Precisely."



Kyle ground his teeth, then pulled on his cigarette. "Which you're saying I'm now in."



"Again, precisely."



"I don't like that thought."



"Neither do any of us."



Kyle sighed, fighting down the impulse of frustration which wanted him to lash out in some way. "So what the hell am I supposed to do?"



Phillipe shrugged, tossing the butt of his cigarette away. It exploded with a tiny shower of orange embers upon the sidewalk, then vanished like a cloud of mist across a shadow. "Do as the <i>Book </i>desires, for you have no other choice."



"I like to think I always have a choice."



"As do we all. But try to resist, if you wish. You won't succeed."



Kyle stabbed a finger at the phantom. "You know I won't just accept that."



The Frenchman's lip curled. "Yes, I know."



The Veil team leader suppressed the urge to push further, knowing he would only receive cryptic responses regardless of the question. But one such question could not be denied. "What's going to happen when I use the <i>Book </i>to cross over?"



Phillipe looked speculative. "You will see the hidden world in all its chaotic reality, I suppose."



"Is that your way of saying you won't be able to contact me through the Veil?"



A simple, sad nod. "Yes."



Kyle paused for a long moment, mulling over his thoughts. "I guess I'll have to rely on my intuition, then," he said gravely.



The Frenchman's last words, which were cast into the air even as he disappeared like a morning's mist, surrounded Kyle's senses before fading away. "We pray it is enough."







<i>To be continued . . . .</i>

