The Devil! You are serious?

As a heart attack. But the plastique is Plan B.

Plan B?

Just in case Plan A doesn't work.

Plan A?

And I want you right beside me.

For this Plan A of yours?

That's right.

So what is it you need for me to do?

Nothing. Just hang. I want you close to me.

For Plan A?

You could say that.

Then tell me of your plan. No.

Then how can I help you with your Plan A?

You can't.

I do not understand.

I want you close to me just in case Plan A fails.

But if Plan A fails. . . .

Plan B (I thought), and sent him a mental picture of the probable explosion.

He left me alone for a while and I turned my attention back to the night sky.

It calls to you, he whispered, finally.

What? Art there old mole? "Hic et ubique" and get thee to a nunnery.

You are drawn to the darkness.

Not the darkness, old man, but the emptiness.

The emptiness?

The sky. It's empty, you know.

He had no immediate response.

When I was a child I used to lie on the ground and stare up at the sky, I mused. I used to believe that Heaven was an actual place. That it lay just beyond those distant blue curtains that shrouded it from earthbound, human eyes.

Now, looking up at the stars, I know better. The sky is an empty place. And except for a pittance of cosmic matter, the emptiness just goes on and on in all directions. Forever and ever. Amen.

It is true, Ba.s.sarab answered. When the sun goes down and the light withdraws from the world, one can see things more clearly.

I don't (I thought bitterly). I don't see clearly, at all. . . .

"Headache?" Smirl asked, breaking through my meditation.

I shook my head. "Just thinking."

"About life and death?" He smiled at the look on my face. "No, not telepathic: those of us who dwell beyond the boundaries of humankind think about it, too. Why not? You humans all do. You create religions and philosophies to sculpt sense out of chaos and promise something better on the other side of the dark. We have no theology that grants us eternal souls, existence beyond the grave. So we clutch at the edge of the cemetery gate and refuse to go gently into that good night. We are the embodiment of that rage at the dying of the light."

"So what do you believe?" I asked. "That you simply cease to be?"

He nodded over steepled fingers. "Do the complex array of memories, perceptions, emotions, distinctive selfness that each of us perceive as 'I' come undone and sift away into oblivion-irretrievable, nonexistent, forever lost?"

"Dust in the wind," I murmured, staring into the darkness, the emptiness outside my window.

And, when we are gone, our consciousness flown, are there other minds, other-things-waiting in the darkness, waiting to take up residency? Move into an abandoned body before it loses its viability?

What are you trying to say, old serpent?

That reality is not a one-way street. That, if there are spirits that grow ancient and strong in the cold and darkness, might not other souls grow great and powerful in the nurturing light?

Voivode and Poet, Vladimir? What would you know about the light?

You are young, Csejthe. Come back and prattle your philosophies to me when you have theexperience of five centuries.

"Some of us do terrible things," Smirl mused. "And we suffer terrible things to be done to us. All because undeath seems better than death final and irrevocable."

The plane tilted, making a leisurely turn in the dark emptiness. "We're here," he said. And looked at me.

Pay attention, my dear Christopher: the game is about to be taken to a new level.

Smirl looked away. Looked back at me. There was something in his eyes-something I wasn't sure I liked. "May I ask you a personal question?" he asked.

"I guess so."

"What would make you happy?"

I stared at him. "Happy?"

"Happy. a.s.suming you successfully eliminate Kadeth Bey and survive the process."

I hadn't really thought much about happiness, lately. "Peace on earth," I tried, "goodwill toward men and women."

He grimaced.

"Loose shoes, a significant relationship, and a comfortable bed?"

"Seriously."

"Seriously?"

He nodded.

"I don't know." I did know. I wanted my life back. I wanted to erase this past year.

"You want your life back," he said.

"What would be the point of wishing?" My voice sounded steady enough.

"Precisely. So, beyond that, what do you want? Realistically?"

"Control."

"Control?"

"Of my life. What's left of it, anyway. Since that day in the barn, I've been a dupe or a p.a.w.n or a trophy for somebody or something. I want to be left alone." Ba.s.sarab's words came back to me: serve or be served.

Smirl shook his head. "You gotta know that's as unlikely as the first. Even if you were just another ordinary vampire, they wouldn't allow you to run rogue."

Just another ordinary vampire. . . .

"So, the point is," he continued, "which demesne are you going to be happiest with?"

The cat stirred in my lap, c.o.c.ked its head, and regarded Smirl warily.

"Given the situation with New York, I'm sure you don't want to even consider one of their offers.

And nothing against our allies in Seattle, but the message I'm getting here is that they're cramping your style."

The cat made a rumbling sound in her throat. It wasn't a purr.

"Now, Chicago, on the other hand, has enough territory and opportunities that a man of your needs and resources-"

The cat hissed and Smirl seemed to suddenly remember its presence. "Anyway," he mumbled, "the Doman of Chicago has authorized me to offer you an invitation and," he eyed the cat warily, "it wouldn't be fair to you to not enumerate all of your options." He cleared his throat. "That's all. You make up your own mind."

The darkness was suddenly perforated by a double row of runway lights below us.

"Gone," Lupe said.

"Gone," I said.

"But not far."

"Not far," I said.

"Apparently they were using the old hospital complex for a daynest."

"What? The remains of the old Mount h.o.r.eb Hospital out by Atkinson Road?"

Lupe nodded. "They vacated early, last night. Headed south. I think they've retreated to Weir-possibly to Ba.s.sarab's farm. I didn't want to get too close: the terrain is so open out there, they'd likely see me coming long before I could get a glimpse of them."

I nodded. Yawned. Glanced at my watch: a little less than two hours before sunrise. "Okay. I gotta get some sleep and I imagine you do, too. Let's get an early start this evening and I'll have more to tell you then."

As I shifted my weight on the bed, my canvas valise toppled over and spilled three old wine bottles that had been recorked and then stoppered with wax.

"Not more holy water," Mooncloud said as I righted the bottles, checked the seals for leaks, and returned them to the bag.

"Not," I agreed. I handed her the Satterfield's copy of the Scroll of Thoth. "You once told me that this contains Words of Power-your caps. What does that mean?"

She unrolled the papyrus and considered the writing. Then she looked at me. "If you're looking to bring your wife and daughter back-"

"Will it bring the dead back to life? Yes or no, Doctor?"

"I'd rather discuss the ramifications-"

"No ramifications. No moral issues. As I said last night, we are past such philosophical meanderings.

Before I take this plan, this crusade, a step further, I need to know what will and will not work. The road to this point has been littered with half-truths and lies and I will not go forward without knowing the truth."

"The truth," she said. And cleared her throat. "The truth is . . . I simply don't know."

I waited.

"Yes, there are Words of Power here. And, yes, change would likely be wrought upon dead tissue were these words invoked. But what kind of change?"

"So these are the words which Thoth spoke to raise Osiris from the dead?"

"Maybe. Probably. Who knows? Yes, there is power here. As a shaman I can tell you that powers invoked are designed to return a dead body to some semblance of the living state. But I can't tell you anything regarding the degree or quality." She reached out and grasped my arm. "And even should the body grow warm and its heart begin to beat once more, I can't tell you that the forces invoked by these words could accomplish the rest: could seek out that soul which had departed and return it to its former sh.e.l.l. I can't tell you that. No one can."

I raised my hand. "It is enough if you promise me that you can read the words and make dead flesh a living body once again."

She looked down. "I don't know that I can promise that."

"You don't know that you can? Or only that you will?" I reached out and cupped her chin with my hand. Raised her face and studied her moist eyes. "Taj," I said gently, "I need your trust in this. Trust me that I will do the right thing with this."

"Then trust me, too," she answered. "Tell me your plan so I can best help you."I looked away. "I can't."

She caught my chin with her hand, turned my face back to hers. "Can't," she asked pointedly, "or won't?"

"Both, actually," I said. "I won't because we are plotting against creatures that are inherently telepathic. They have been one step ahead of us throughout this entire pursuit. The more each of you knows about the final plan, the greater the likelihood that a stray thought will be overheard. The greater the chance someone will unwittingly betray all of us."