"Goddamn, son, looks like you been through the fucking grinder."

Ingram nodded.

"Hastur. Pissant son of a bitch. He's the sorriest whore's son ever to walk this earth."

Haptic sat on the canon's base, unsnapped the leather strap to his helmet, and pulled the helmet from his head. He set it down beside him, the bright red bristles of the plume jutting skyward, and rested his hands on his knees.

"You know why you're here?"

Ingram shook his head. He realized they weren't on the ship's deck but deep in the Tulagi jungle. Water dripped around them, making plat-plat sounds on the oily leaves. Cap Hap sat on a log now.

"Sit, Bull. Sit down, son. I said, at ease."

He sat on the log.

"There's some fucked up shit going on out there." Cap Hap waved at the brush and undergrowth surrounding them. "It's about to get even uglier, and I need you to do something for me."

Ingram tried to speak, but his voice wavered, like he'd been smoking all night and just woke up to find his throat raw.

"What?"

"I need you to open yourself up to me."

"I don't know what that means."

"It means you'll let me inhabit you when the time comes. Hastur must be checked. Must be stopped. He's working to bring the Old Ones through."

"Old Ones?"

"Goddamnit, son, haven't you been fucking paying attention to what's been going on around you?"

Cap Hap stood and paced in front of the log. It began to rain. More soft plats. Off in the green dark of Tulagi, gunfire sounded, accompanied by the faint screams of dying men.

"The woman summed it all up when she called them the Prodigium. The Titans. The fucking Old Ones." He stopped in front of Ingram and put his hands on his hips. "The Old Ones. They want to eat this world. Devour it. You. Her. The girl. The priest. But not just that. People can die and be remembered, you can keep the ones you love alive in your heart and memory. These fuckers devour love and light. And the memories of love and light. Replace it all with worship and sacrifice to the dark. You won't remember your mother, your fellow soldiers, your best friend. They'll be dead, and it'll be as though you never knew them. Do you want that to happen?"

"Who are you? You're not Cap Hap. He died." Ingram looked around at the jungle. "He didn't even make it this far. At Guadalcanal."

"Bull, I've been with you ever since you went to war. You know me of old, son."

"That's not telling me anything."

"You are the stubborn one, aint'cha?"

Cap Hap patted his breast plate as if it had a pocket, looking for cigarettes. He grinned a bit sheepishly, then dug in the gap at the top of his left greave and pulled out a pack of Pall Mall's. A book of matches was stuffed inside the cellophane.

He shook out a cigarette and offered it to Ingram.

They smoked in the jungle, the wet foliage pressing in close, water dripping from the dark canopy of trees overhead, the sounds of far-off battle filtering through the thick brush.

"Does it really matter who I am? I've been working with men like you for the last three thousand years. I'm for the soldier defending his homeland. I'm for the family. I'm for the child. That's all. Pretty fucking simple, even for a jarhead to understand."

"What'll I get out of it?"

"Five bucks and a hand job."

Ingram stood, dusted off his slacks, wiped moss from his ass.

"You'll be rewarded. I don't even know why I'm having this conversation with you, Bull. When the shit starts hitting the fan, you're gonna have to act, and you'll need my help. Don't look at me like that, marine. I've buried men better than you. Not many fucking stupider, though."

He took a deep drag off his cigarette and then flicked it away.

"When you need me-and you will need me-just say Mithras. In answer to your earlier question, that's my name. I'll come and-I'm not gonna make any bones about it-possess you. Take over. You'll go away for a while, you might be able to see and feel depending how strong willed you are, but I'll be driving and you'll be in the backseat. But I'll take care of what has to be done."

He exhaled a large cloud of smoke, bluish white, swirling, then stepped away from Ingram and the log. The gahn-gahn-gahn of .50 cals cut through the jungle foliage, cut through the air, and when Mithras died, it was almost beautiful, the body arcing, the pop pop pop of gigantic bullets perforating the silver breastplate, a red mist rising up, borne on smoke and bullets, into the air and into the trees, into the green.

Chapter 19.

He woke in the guest room, sheets pooled in a sweaty mass around his waist. With his good hand, he rubbed his face, his eyes, trying to clear his head of the dream of Mithras. Sarah stood at the foot of the bed, watching him.

She was in the room and he had no idea she'd been there, watching him sleep. She came around the side of the bed and placed a hand on his chest, on his heart, where Franny had touched him earlier.

Slowly, she slipped out of her nightgown and dropped it to the floor, her skin prickling in the cool night air.

Ingram's eyes widened. He brought his good hand to her waist, resting it on the curve of her hip where she might carry a baby. Her skin felt warm to the touch.

He felt himself rise. Not speaking, she looked at him with lidded eyes. Her hand moved down his chest, pulled back the sheets at his waist, and found him.

Hissing, he drew her tight and twisted sideways, kissing her rib cage. She turned, one hand still on his erection, putting a breast in his face. He sucked, taking the nipple in his mouth and teasing, rolling it around. Now it was her turn to hiss, drawing air through clenched teeth.

She put a knee on the mattress and rose up, swinging herself on to the bed, keeping her hand on him. Leaning over Ingram, hair falling forward and wreathing her face, breasts swinging, Sarah kissed him. Their lips met, and she sensed his confusion even as his cock pressed hard into her stomach.

"We shouldn't be doing this," he breathed. He kissed her again and pressed her close to his body.

She kept her arm between them, gripping him tightly and working her hand up and down.

"Ssssh." Her shushing sounded loud in the room. "We need to be doing this. I don't think either of us has needed anything as much as this. Ever."

She kissed him again and they twined their tongues, losing themselves in the wet sensations of each other's body. She pulled away, rose up, positioning herself over him, placed his head right at her center, and sank down. She rose and sank. And again.

"Damn," she said. "You're-"

Words failed her. He strove underneath, pushing upward into her, pushing in, coming to grips with her body, the heavy sway of her breasts, the slimness of her waist, the thickness of her ass, her thighs. His eyes like saucers, he took her in, the softness of her face, the blurriness around the edges. The wariness that inhabited her since they met was gone, and she gave over the part of herself she'd reserved. He cupped a breast in his hand, and she brought it to his mouth again, riding him, breath coming in little gasps, faster now. She made a sound in the back of her throat. With every slap of their bodies coming together, she made a chuffing sound, in time with the movement of his pelvis and legs against hers.

She lay on his chest flattening her breasts-he felt the hard nubs of her nipples against his sternum-then he rolled her over onto her back, taking charge, establishing his own rhythms. His wounded hand was forgotten. The slapping sounds grew louder as he increased the tempo. She closed her eyes, giving herself over to sensation, head back, still breathing heavy, the cords of her neck standing out as he moved above her.

She spread her legs wide, as wide as she could, grabbing her ankles.

"Deep," she said. She opened her eyes and leaned up, taking his nipple in her mouth and biting. He hissed again. "Go deep, Bull."

He withdrew from her completely, took himself in hand, and ran his length up and down her seam. She squirmed and opened her eyes to see what he was doing to her, looking down her body at where they almost fused. Almost.

"Deep, Bull."

At the end, she bit her lip to stop herself from screaming.

They smoked, afterward.

He said, voice rumbling in the low light, "Are you gonna regret this?"

She turned, resting her head on her arm, looking at him.

"No," she said. "Why should I?"

"Your husband. Franny."

"My husband is gone. He might as well have died in Bastogne, or Normandy, except for Franny. He lasted a few years at home, and now he's drinking and working himself to death in a slow suicide. Even having a child wasn't able to bring him out of his... self-absorbed-" She waved her cigarette hand, painting with the smoke. "Whatever you call it. He's withdrawing inward and nothing, no one, can get through his wall." She took a deep drag and turned to ash her cigarette in the tray on the bedside table. "I'm filing for divorce."

He nodded.

"Not for you, Bull. I hardly know you."

"Wouldn't have dreamt it."

She laughed and he did too and the bed shook again. He put a hand on her hip. She watched his face.

"I didn't realize how much I needed... contact. Human closeness, maybe. Until I met you. I feel like I've known you all my life. Like we are supposed to be together. Does this make any sense to you?"

"When we found you in the boat, I... I knew. I knew you were here for a reason. And since I was the only one to know it-except maybe Franny, I think she may have sensed something too-"

"You scare me a little, too."

She snorted. "What? I scare you?"

"The feelings I'm having. Like they're beyond my control. And with everything that's happening..." He took her cigarette from her hand and took a long drag. He handed it back. "Sarah, I've seen the dead rise. And every time I try and think about it, well... I'm getting distracted."

"I've had the same feeling. You woke up and my mind's been occupied solely with you. You and your body. I haven't had a chance to think about everything I've learned."

She shook her head, a frown crossing her brow.

He rubbed the bridge of his eyes. "I had a dream before-"

"We got distracted?"

He ran his hand across her flank, watching the goose bumps break out across her flesh. "It was a dream of my old captain, Cap Haptic. He died in the war." He frowned and looked away. "It was strange. He was dressed as a Roman soldier, a gladiator or something. The dream was clear, not like a dream at all, but like I had seen him only yesterday and just remembered. I can remember the conversation we had perfectly."

"What did he say?"

"He said Hastur has to be checked. To be stopped. And that he wants to possess me. Him, not Hastur. To 'inhabit' me. That when the shit hits the fan, if I call on him, he'll help me do what needs to be done."

"Call on him? Did he say how?"

"He said just for me to say his name."

He opened his mouth and then grinned sheepishly.

"You don't want to say it?"

"No. Not really."

"OK. Spell it."

He pushed her back on the bed and traced a letter on her stomach.

"A double-u?"

"No."

"An em?"

After a while she knew the name and he was hard again. He grazed her nipples with his fingers. Leaning forward, he took her breast in his mouth, and her hand sought him out.

Later, Ingram fell asleep and she slipped from the room, padding down the hall. She stopped at her mother's door, listening. Nothing. Back in her room, she realized Franny was gone again. Snuck off to Fisk and Lenora's bed.

She ached as she climbed into bed. Her legs felt rubbery, and her thighs and buttocks burned with the exertion. Pulling up the covers, she sighed and went to sleep and did not dream.

Chapter 20.

It began raining in the morning, the patter of drops on the roof stirring Ingram slowly. He stretched, reached for Sarah in the bed, remembering the previous night. He felt good-amazingly good. Humming, he peeled the bandage off of his chest and threw it in the trash can. Gingerly, he set his great bulk on the settee and unwrapped his injured hand. A whiff of spoiled meat hit him, and he realized he smelled himself, the unaired flesh of his ruined hand. He dressed again in his dirty clothes-no help for it-and went across the hall to the bathroom, washing what he could of his hand and forearm. Purple and yellow streaks went down his forearm to his pinky and that side of his hand was swollen to twice its regular size. His fingers looked like sausages. When he flexed his hand, he felt bones grind inside, but it seemed like he still had mobility. The swelling impeded his hand's flexibility more than the actual break.

He went back to his room and replaced the brace and rewrapped his hand. He slipped on the dead man's boots and thought of Cap Hap, dressed as a Roman soldier. Mithras, he'd told him.

All I have to do is say his name.