The chivalrous form lifted his sword and pointed it at the a.s.sailant's head. For the first time since the nightmare began, Shalee realized that she had taken the place of the angel. Somehow, she had become the object of the gray-faced man's affections. And worse, she could feel the pain of the wound that had been inflicted by the dark being's dagger. She could even feel the heat of his breath as the force of his words beat against the back of her neck.

"I won't leave empty-handed!" the gray leader warned. "I have suffered and will claim my reward on this very Peak! Stop hiding behind her and fight me!"

"Ha!" the dark leader scoffed. "As if you have the power to defeat me! This is my plane ... my domain. Go back and beg to live in his good graces, for you won't find peace here."

"The door has been shut," the chivalrous leader retorted. He dropped his sword to his side. "There's nothing to return to. If you have the nerve, let's settle this."

As the dark a.s.sailant removed his dagger from Shalee's throat, he cast her aside. A moment later, he unsheathed a sword that hung from his hip, and accepted the challenge. With the blade pointed in the gray leader's direction, the detail of this new blade became clear. It, too, pulsated like his challenger's weapon, and it was equally excited for battle.

The sounds of searing steel filled the twilight sky as the combatants engaged. Both armies cheered, but now, an elderly woman emerged from the crowd and grabbed hold of Shalee's arm. The woman's hair was silver, and she was holding a staff with an orb attached to its end. Though only for a brief moment, Shalee felt a sense of serenity. The woman's face exuded kindness, safety, and it was the only part of her vision that offered a feeling of solace. "I'm here for you, Child. Worry not," she comforted.

As the battle between both leaders magnified, their armies cheered, but their voices could not be heard. The sounds of of what should have been cries for blood were captured by smoke that billowed out of their mouths and rose into the air like fog.

With the intensity of the battle escalating, the dreamscape changed. Worlds were destroyed and stars were extinguished. The fury of the fight left all life expelled in its wake. Utter despair settled across this alien plane of existence, and there seemed to be no end in sight to the devastation.

Shalee could no longer watch. In her grief, she cried out for the combatants to stop. Without regard for her safety, she stepped forward to intervene, but the result was tragic. Shalee was unable to utter a single word before the blade of the gray-faced leader inadvertently sliced her in thirds during a whirlwind of strikes intended to end his enemy.

Startled by her impending demise, Shalee sat up in bed as she screamed in a panic. "Ahhhhhhhhhh!"

Her blanket was laying on the floor. Sweat had saturated her pajamas, and her breathing was erratic. As the air conditioning attacked the moisture on her skin, a chill washed over her. She grabbed her pillow and wiped the moisture from her face and every other part of her skin that was exposed. "That's the worst one yet," she shuddered. "That poor angel. Wait a minute ... poor me." She reached up to see if her neck was bleeding. It was. "What the...?" she blurted. "How?"

With no answer to her question in sight, she focused on slowing her pulse. She swung her legs over the side of her bed and slipped her feet into a pair of soft, pink, bunny slippers that she had kicked off beside the nightstand. Lifting her arms behind her head to catch her breath, it took a minute before her breathing returned to normal.

It had been more than six months since the nightmares began, and her therapist was stumped as to why her mind was taking her on these horrific trips. But tonight's nightmare was so much worse than the others. Everything felt so real, but how? Why did I switch bodies with the angel? Am I connected to her somehow? she questioned as she pulled out a tissue from her nightstand and dabbed it against her neck.

A long period of silence pa.s.sed as she continued to dissect the dream. I wonder who the old woman is. I've seen her before. Why does she keep showing up?

Shalee stood from the bed, stretched her arms, and arched her back. No relief, at least not like it normally gave. She lowered her arms and looked across the room into the dresser mirror. A frosty breath filled the air as it escaped her lips. "Brrrrrr," she shivered as she stared at the goose b.u.mps on her arms.

She stepped toward the mirror and looked at the reflection of her neck. Nothing-not even a scratch. She looked down at the tissue. It was still white. There was no blood on it. What in tarnation? she thought. I must be losing it.

After a moment, she laughed to expel her anxiety and spoke to her reflection. "What's wrong with you, girl? Why are you acting this way? Pull yourself together. Go turn off the air, and get your b.u.t.t back to bed. We've got one heck of a day tomorrow." She reached out to the mirror and slapped at the reflection of her hand. "High-five, oh yeah." A sa.s.sy wink followed.

Shalee turned to saunter across the room. As she did, her reflection did not mimic her actions. Instead, the image in the mirror scowled as she walked toward the door.

"Happy birthday," the being hissed as its eyes turned red and its teeth elongated to sharp points. "This is the Peak of your harvest," the being added. "Apparently you're necessary. So be it." The image in the mirror turned and walked toward the reflection of the door just as Shalee had done and vanished before it exited the room.

Oblivious to the presence, all Shalee wanted was a drink of water before she headed back to bed. Pa.s.sing the thermostat, she turned off the air and entered the kitchen.

When she designed the home, Shalee had created a great room where the kitchen and living room flowed into each other. Her sense of taste was impeccable: granite countertops from Africa, top-of-the-line carpet from Europe, imported tile from Spain, and three styles of trim to complete the vision.

But tonight, as she turned on the lights, the color of the walls seemed dull. She stopped to take note. As she did, the temperature throughout the home dropped further at a rapid pace for no apparent reason.

"Sam Hill," she whispered. Shalee headed out of the kitchen and rushed for the closet near the front door to grab a coat, but before she could cross the room, an immense pain surged through her body.

Shalee collapsed. As she fell, she caught a glimpse of a tiny figure out of the corner of her eye, but before the image became clear, her head collided with the edge of the coffee table. The gla.s.s surface shattered, almost knocking her out.

Struggling to pick herself up, a steady stream of blood poured from the laceration on the left side of her forehead. Her fear heightened as her mind filled with a sense of helplessness. The red liquid pooled on the floor, her arms trembled, and the room started to spin. Shalee slipped into unconsciousness as the red eyes of the being she never clearly saw faded into darkness.

A tiny squat of a man sat on the sill of a window. No more than two feet tall, his eyes burned red, and his teeth ended in razor-sharp points. He laughed as he dropped from the sill and knelt in front of the fireplace. After dislodging the valve on the gas line, he waddled across the room, jumped up and landed into a seated position on Shalee's stomach.

"Your wish is granted, my lady," the dwarf chuckled. "I wonder why the Collective chose you? I bet he had something to do with this." Wiping the blood off her face, he critiqued her beauty. "You don't appear to be special."

The dwarf reached out and played with Shalee's lips like she was his puppet. "Thank you for stealing me on my birthday, Mr. scary dwarf-man," he made her say. "This is the best birthday ever!"

After amusing himself for a bit longer, the dwarf refocused. "No matter his intentions, I shall discover the truth of your function soon enough. You must be more to him than a baby maker."

Leaning forward to touch Shalee's chin, her body vanished. The dwarf's eyes flickered, and the home exploded. Laughter was all that was left behind as the neighborhood shook. Shalee would be left in a coma and placed in storage for later use.

The Home of George Nailer Orlando, Florida GEORGE NAILER, AN ATHLETIC, clean-cut, blue-eyed man was sitting on the bed next to his sleeping daughter as he ran his fingers lovingly through her hair. She was his everything. They had spent the day going from store to store looking for the cupcake maker she had been asking for over the last month.

George tried to be the father he had always wanted for himself. He loved his daughter to the best of his ability. She was the only person he had never lied to, scammed, or manipulated. He may have been sc.u.m, but this little girl was his shining light to goodness.

He named her Abbie, which means "my father's joy" since that was how he felt on the day she was born. Her five-year-old heart was angelic, and he loved her cute, little smile. Yes, he was wrapped around Abbie's little finger. She knew how to reel him in whenever she wanted something, and though he would never admit it, all she had to do was ask, and she would get anything she wanted.

Growing up as the only child of a cruel father, George's life was filled with constant beatings and s.e.xual abuse. He had been forced to fight his way through childhood just to survive. Even getting food was a challenge since his parents wasted most of his father's paychecks on their nasty habits during regular visits to the local drug dealer.

George knew he was emotionally scarred, and at the early age of 10, he turned to hustling to acquire the things his mother needed. He perfected his skills of manipulation to help her pay the rent, yet despite his best efforts, his mother often wasted the money on her habit. It was not her fault. His father was to blame for her addiction-everything was his fault.

The past played with George's head. His life was like an endless loop of loathing, degradation and shame. The disgust of his situation ran through his veins like a poisonous venom.

Finally, on the eve of his 15th birthday, the poison spilled out. He had enough. After yet another threat to abuse him while watching TV, George jumped his father from behind. He swung without mercy, beating his father over the head with his fists and anything else he could get his hands on.

His father wailed in pain and shouted for help as George's fists rained down again and again while George slipped further away from reality with each swing.

"You're a piece of garbage!" the boy screamed. "You're a loser! I hate you! You'll never touch me again! I'm not your toy! I hate you!"

The police charged in and struggled to pull George off. A moment later would have been too late. He intended to kill his father. He thrashed without concern for the consequences, punching one of the cops in the groin while trying to break free. He screamed at the top of his lungs, "Let me kill him! That sc.u.m deserves it! Let me put him six feet under! Let me kill him! Let me kill him!"

Five months later, George's stay in two juvenile mental hospitals had given him time to think. With his father serving 15 years in prison for his crimes, he finally had some peace. He had recouped much of his sanity and swore an oath-one he cherished and whispered 1,000 times-writing it down to carry with him always: "If I ever have children, I'll protect them. They'll never want for anything. I'll never strike them in anger or make them suffer. I'll never let them be touched in an inappropriate manner. My children will NOT suffer like I have."

Later, in his adult life, George struggled in his marriage to Abbie's mother, which caused him to break his oath. Instead of creating a sanctuary of safety, he gave Abbie a broken home. He hated his failure. Worse, he hated taking his daughter back to her mother's home after their visits. The guilt tore at his heart.

His apartment was small, a two bedroom flat that had been elegantly decorated by the sweat of others. His hunger for the finer things in life was insatiable. He used others to get what he wanted, including countless women, spending most of his time living in their homes, emotionally tearing away at them until his needs were met. Once he had everything he wanted, he moved on without a goodbye or backward glance.

George took one final look at his beautiful Abbie, smiled, and pulled her bedroom door shut. Once it was secure, he turned and leaned against the wall.

"d.a.m.n, this is hard," he mumbled. Rubbing his hands together to try to relieve the stress, he continued. "I won't lose you, baby girl. I'll fight. I'll do whatever it takes to keep you with me." He reached into his front pants pocket and pulled out a summons.

George knew this would be the last time he would see Abbie until after the hearing. His ex-wife was suing for full custody and planned on moving out-of-state with her future husband. George was running low on the finances necessary to fight the fight. He did not have the wealth this new man possessed, but he did have a plan to fix the situation.

He sighed as he made his way to his room and fell across the bed. Tomorrow morning, he would press his Gucci clothes and drop off his little girl at her mother's house before heading to work.

A big-time client was coming in from out-of-town, and George reveled at the thought of the commission he would make as a result of implementing this new plan. As a salesman for Turkman's RV & Marine, George could sell ice to Eskimos if he needed to, and he'd lie at the drop of a hat to do it.

Early the next morning, George arrived at the dealership. The RV he planned to sell was fully loaded, right down to the 40-inch, flat-screen TV with satellite. George opened the door, bounded up the steps and headed for the window on the far side of the cabin. He removed the price sticker, and after a couple hours of careful manipulation, he had made a few perfect adjustments. He now had a new price, one almost $30,000 dollars over list-$970,000-and he would be d.a.m.ned if he did not hold to every penny.

His eyes turned cold as he stared at the numbers and thought, This is for my baby. You've got this one, Georgie boy. You've got this. She's just another sucker.

When Brenda Olsen drove onto the lot, George waved. She had just come into a pile of money, and George's mouth watered as he finally got the chance to size her up. A southern beauty with a soft dialect, Brenda's pinned-up, blonde hair revealed an elegant neckline with an expensive pendant accenting it. She smelled of Victoria's Secret Pure Seduction lotion, and her body matched her delicious personality. She was cla.s.s with a capital "C" and victim with a capital "V".

Brenda was an out-of-state referral who had driven down from Georgia. He knew from pre-qualifying her over the phone that it would be an easy sale. He also knew exactly how he was going to reel her in before she ever set foot on the lot.

During the sale, Brenda asked to see other models, but George looked her dead in the eye and replied without hesitation, "How can I, in good conscience, let you make that kind of mistake? This is a once-in-a-lifetime purchase. To settle for something beneath your cla.s.s wouldn't be right." He put an exclamation mark on his statement by smiling through a set of white teeth.

George had spent years developing his silver tongue, the tongue of a liar and a cheat, using it to perfection. He was a self-proclaimed King of Deception. Even his own family bought into his tangled web-hook, line, and sinker. Even worse, he was the kind of liar who remembered almost everything he said, which made him dangerous.

George took the initial paperwork to his boss and placed it on his desk. Once the manager signed off on the deal, the two shared a laugh over Brenda's ignorance. Thirty minutes pa.s.sed before George took her into the finance manager's office to draw up the final contracts.

As they waited, George b.u.t.tered-up Brenda some more. "Why don't you let me make things easy on you? I will personally deliver your vehicle to your home in a couple days, and then I'll fly back. How does that sound?"

"Oh, George, would ya? That's so generous of you. Thank you ever so much. You're an adorable, little peach," Brenda said as she threw her arms around him and gave him a hug.

"Anything to keep the customer happy," George replied with a seductive smile as he thought about a woman from an old, rundown bar he had met a few nights earlier. He would ask this woman along for the trip, and they would have a swinging time. The RV was perfect for such an occasion.

Even as Brenda stopped hugging him, George continued making plans. He would drop the woman off at a local restaurant before arriving at Brenda's home. He would go in alone and make a play for Brenda's affections. She was a multi-millionaire, and he could easily imagine spending her fortune. He wanted her money in the worst way and would marry her to get it. Smiling inside, he rejoined the conversation, nodding at something Brenda was saying.

After finishing the deal, Brenda prepared to leave, but not without giving George another hug before she lowered into her silver Mercedes. "Drive safely, George. Bring my baby home in good condition."

George smiled. "I'll do just that, Brenda. You take care now. I look forward to seeing you again. Don't you dare miss me before I get there."

Brenda giggled and pulled away.

The next day, George rounded up the lady from the bar, and after a few minutes of smooth talk, she agreed a road trip sounded fun. It was noon when they hit the road, and the drive was smooth for the first two hours.

About 160 miles in, George began to feel tired and wanted to rest. He had told Brenda he needed a couple of days to get the RV to her home, and because of this, he could relax without worry. There was plenty of time to spend with his new friend before arriving in Albany.

"Do you mind driving for a bit?" George queried. "I'd like to get some rest."

Smiling, the woman responded. "Sure, no problem."

George pulled over and let her have the wheel. As he plopped down in the pa.s.senger's seat, he thought, What did she say her name was again? Oh yeah, Tiffany. Hmpf.

George had not made much of a mental note of this fact since his attraction to Tiffany was nothing more than physical. He would never see her again once he dumped her in Georgia, so what did it matter if he failed to fully commit her name to memory? Nothing would be gained by manipulating her further, and she could find her own way home.

The player did, however, admire her body and longed for it from the pa.s.senger's seat. She was soft in all the right spots, and although she was older, she was still young enough that gravity had not taken effect. He knew it would be an eventful night, and he was looking forward to every hour of pa.s.sion they would conjure.

Tiffany had only been driving a few minutes when George heard her mumble something under her breath.

"What was that? I didn't hear you."

The woman pushed her soft, brown hair behind her ear and smiled. Without moving her lips, George heard her voice echo inside his head as she glared at him. "Your wish is granted," the voice hissed with a wickedness that frightened even him.

The air in the cabin turned cold to the point of being painful. The woman's eyes began to glow red, and George could see the razor-sharp points of her teeth. She looked like pure evil, and as George tried to catch his breath, he realized he was in trouble. His eyes were becoming heavy, and as the sensation overwhelmed him, he slipped into unconsciousness-all the while hearing the echoes of Tiffany's laughter inside his mind.

"I have plans for you, George," Tiffany said as her eyes gleamed. "Shall we leave this pathetic Earth of yours?"

Suddenly, the RV collided with an oncoming tanker and both vehicles twisted into a pile of metal. Fuel poured across the freeway from a gaping hole in the tanker's side.

The semi exploded with a horrific force, tearing a six-foot deep crater out of the concrete. At its widest point, the hole was 30 feet across. Many of the vehicles that had stopped were thrown. Some of them landed as far as 70 feet away from the epicenter of the blast.

The police investigating the scene accounted for the body of the man driving the semi, along with the other nine drivers the blast had consumed. Victims were scattered in every direction, many landing in charred, b.l.o.o.d.y pieces.

"It seems as if there was no one at the wheel of the RV," the Highway Patrolman told the reporters who arrived on the scene. "It's like a driver was never on board."

The short, chubby reporter told his viewers: "In total, there are 14 dead. Those injured are being transported to the hospital. At this point, I'm not sure how many."

Well, fellow soul ... I don't know if you're one of the souls who can remember old Earth, but those were the events that happened there more than 14,000 seasons ago. Allow me to take you forward to a whole new world: THE WORLD.

OF GRAYHAM.

CHAPTER 2.

Against Our Will IT WAS DARK, BUT not pitch black, yet George Nailer could not see a thing when he woke from his coma. Disoriented, and with no idea where he was, he sat up. His back ached, and his muscles were sore. He reached down to touch the surface he was sitting on-solid, hard, and cold. Now he understood why his body felt like h.e.l.l. I wonder how long I've been asleep, he thought.

George remained patient as he sat in the darkness. He rubbed his eyes and waited for them to adjust. After a while, he was able to make out what he thought were the edges of the room. The nearest wall in front of him was at least 30 feet away, and it extended high enough he could not tell where it ended. The edges of what appeared to be two large doors sat in the wall at its center. They were shadows, and it was impossible to tell what they were made of.

Turning his head to the left and to the right, two large pillars extended up and out of sight. Beyond, another 30 feet or so, were the edges of yet another pair of walls that stretched up and into the darkness without end. This place is pretty big. He tapped his knuckles against the floor. Must be some sort of marble.

George continued to study his surroundings. To his surprise, he realized he was not alone. Two figures, not more than two feet apart, lay motionless on top of two altars. Both daises seemed st.u.r.dy, smooth and emanated a dull, shallow glow.

There was not a wall beyond the altars. Instead, the room and the pillars stretched into the darkness. This must be some kind of hall. I wonder who these two yahoos are. What's their story? And why is this place so d.a.m.n dark? It's kinda creeping me out. He grinned. Ha! Who am I kidding? I've been in worse places than this. He frowned at the two figures. Hey! Why didn't I get a d.a.m.n altar?

After sitting in silence for what seemed like forever, George whispered, "Where am I? What the h.e.l.l is this place, and how in the h.e.l.l did I get here?" As he spoke, his voice amplified to solicit a response, shouting without fear of the unknown. "h.e.l.lo!"

Nothing. "h.e.l.lo! Someone answer me, for h.e.l.l's sake!" Still nothing. "Figures," he sneered.

He looked again at the bodies lying on the altars. One of them moved, and by the sound of the moan, it was a woman. She was not yet in focus, so he could only guess since she was lying more than 20 feet away.

George knew her eyes would need time to adjust. He watched as she sat up. His mind ran wild with thought, but he said nothing aloud. I wonder if it's safe to say anything? I wonder who she is? Are they together?

It took everything he had to stay silent as the woman continued to stir. He wanted to speak, but his experience as a hustler knew it was best to keep the advantage in every situation.

Stretching, the woman's hand came in contact with the other unconscious figure. She jerked it back. "Who's there?" she asked, panic-stricken. But there was no response.

George grinned. She's scared. Good.

Again, the woman questioned, "Who's there?"

George smirked. I'm definitely not the only one confused. That makes me feel better.

The other figure groaned.