Chaos Page 8

  “Really?” Johnis shot Silvie a look of understanding.

  “You’ve noticed?” Karas asked.

  “I think it’s what got us into trouble with the Chevy,” Silvie said. “Johnis practically went berserk.”

  Johnis grinned sheepishly. “It did bring a few of our feelings to the surface.”

  Karas lifted an eyebrow, looking from one to the other. “Don’t worry; it passes.”

  “We’re not looking for it to pass,” Silvie said. “Ever.”

  “I’m not talking about the love you’ve vowed for each other on the Net. I’m talking about the raw emotions caused by the transition between worlds. And your thinking feels a bit sluggish, right?”

  “Careless. A little stupid, maybe. We’re stuck with this?”

  “No. The fact is, your mind isn’t sluggish. Just the opposite. Your intelligence is well advanced over the average person here, so far advanced that it’s struggling to compensate for the surge of emotional responses filtering through your mind. At least that’s my best guess after the countless rounds of psychological testing I subjected myself to in an attempt to understand.”

  “But you’re saying our minds will compensate soon enough?”

  Karas nodded. “Have you noticed anything else?”

  “Speed,” Johnis said.

  “Bingo … Sorry, just an expression. Our reflexes and strength are superior to the humans from the Histories. Not by much, but enough to pull out a few tricks now and then. Still, it’s nothing compared to the advantage your minds will give you.”

  Karas went on to retrace her history here: How she’d soon begun compensating for her heightened emotions with a superior intellect. How she’d started using that intellect when she was thirteen to win small bets involving certain mathematical problems, then graduated to more complex problems. “Sleight of mind,” she called it. Soon she was headlining as a child prodigy in her own stage show.

  She studied on her own during the day and began building a small fortune performing in the evening. By the time she was fifteen, she’d exhausted the requirements of primary education and enrolled in a Web-based university program, studying entertainment business management with a secondary emphasis in language and history.

  All the while, she had used every possible avenue to search for them. For Darsal. For Alucard. All to no avail.

  Her plan was well formed even then. She would learn everything she could about history, never relenting in her ambition to find the companion books to the black Book of History in her possession. She would learn as many languages as she thought necessary to assist her in a global search for her friends and the books. And she would launch a career using her advanced intelligence to give her the broad access and exposure needed for her search. Rather than entertain, she would manage entertainers, creating both wealth and exposure through high-profile artists.

  Most importantly, she would appear with her artists onstage frequently, so that she, too, would become world renowned. If Alucard was out there, and she had to assume that he was, she had to be visible enough worldwide to attract the attention of Johnis, Silvie, and Darsal before he got to them.

  “So you’ve succeeded in all of this,” Silvie said, stating what seemed to be obvious. “Well enough to spring us from jail.”

  “That was harder than you might guess. Fortunately, I manage the girl you kidnapped, and I’m very tight with the authorities in Las Vegas. The chief of police owes me a dozen favors. At this moment I manage fifteen of the top billing acts in the world through Global Entertainment Network, GEN.”

  “You’d think the warriors would own the wealth, not the artists,” Johnis said, looking around the lavish setting.

  She laughed. “There’s plenty of money in war—always has been, always will be. But humans will pay as much for their thrills as they will for their security. Was it any different in the forests? The first thing I noticed in Middle were the nightly celebrations.”

  “Like I’ve always said”—Johnis winked at Silvie—“‘a poet is worth two fighters.’ Just ask Elyon.”

  “There’s more than one way to carve a poem,” Silvie said, twirling her knife from a fold in her blouse. She slammed it into the table they were seated around.

  “Nice,” Karas said. “That is a ten-thousand-dollar slab of sandalwood from Indonesia you just defaced.”

  “The knife is from the future and will fetch you ten times that,” Silvie responded.

  “Touchy.”

  “So, just how much wealth have you managed to acquire in your time here?”

  “Enough to own a small country if I so choose. You once told me about the game Thomas Hunter taught you to play with the Horde ball.”

  “It was how we were first chosen,” Silvie said.

  “It’s a very big game here; they call it ‘football.’ I own two teams. With your speed, you could both become huge stars here.”

  Johnis spit to one side. “Doesn’t interest me.”

  “Please, we’re not in a jungle here,” Silvie chided. “Mind your manners.”

  “Sorry.”

  Karas let out a short giggle. “Brings back memories.”

  “Yes, sorry.” He took a deep breath. “There is something I was wondering if you might help me with. Assuming it’s not too much trouble. I don’t want to presume upon your wealth, but—”

  “Enough,” Karas said. “My wealth is your wealth. What is it?”

  He spoke before she’d fully finished. “A Chevy,” His eyes shone like the stars. “A red Chevy.”

  Karas smiled. “Like the beauty you stole in Nevada? The sweet racer with the cherry paint job and souped-up engine that you tore up Las Vegas with?”

  “Yes. That Chevy.”

  “Not a problem, my friend, I bought it as part of your get-out-of-jail package. Cost me twice what the owner had in it, but I paid every dime gladly. One day that car will go down in history. The Chevy that Johnis of Middle, world-renowned driver, first learned to drive in.” She stood. “In the meantime, I have something else for you. Wait here.”

  Karas returned a minute later, gripping a wooden box in both hands. She set it gingerly on the table, opened it, and withdrew the black Book of History she’d harbored for all these years.

  She set it next to theirs. The three books sat side by side: one brown, one green, one black.

  Johnis stood and walked around the table. “We have to protect these at any cost.”

  “I’ve spared no expense doing so. I’ll show you the vault before we leave. No one can know. For all we know, he’s watching us at this very moment.”

  “Alucard?” Silvie glanced at the perimeter.

  “From a satellite in the sky,” Karas said. “From the stars. Unlikely, but we have to be careful.”

  “Then let’s take a new vow,” Johnis said. He dropped to one knee and placed his right hand on the black book. “To never stray from our task of finding the seven before the Dark One does.”

  Silvie placed her cool palm over his knuckles. Then Karas, with wide eyes, joined the ranks of the chosen.

  “To never stray from our task of finding the seven before the Dark One does,” they said together.

  “Though far from home, to remain home in our hearts, never to betray each other or the books.”

  Their eyes met in solemn intent. “Though far from home, to remain home in our hearts, never to betray each other or the books.”

  “Until the books are found or we die.”

  “Until the books are found or we die.”

  THE HELICOPTER REMINDED SILVIE OF A FLYING BEETLE, complete with beating wings and bug eyes, and it took a little encouragement from Karas to get her inside the apparatus.

  The Rose Bowl, as it turned out, was a large stadium filled to capacity with onlookers who’d come to see Tony Montana perform. Karas instructed the pilot to hover over the scene while she explained how it all worked. The lights, the long lines of cars, the sound system.

  “Absurd,” Silvie
scoffed.

  Johnis turned from the glass door. “How is this any different than our own celebrations?”

  “To hear a few people sing?”

  “Your mind is too consumed with war, Silvie! Our own gathering isn’t so different. And the gatherings of the legends! In the end we were made to celebrate; isn’t that part of the Great Romance?”

  In those terms he was right, of course. But she didn’t waste the opportunity to refocus his mind. “Love, my dear,” she said, winking. “The Great Romance is all about love.”

  His face blushed. “Yes. Love.”

  His entire demeanor seemed to have shifted a little off center since coming to the Histories, she thought. He was more excitable than stoic.

  “You think this is something? You should see Agnew take the stage when I can convince them to come out of hiding. Their concerts sell out in hours, regardless of the venue,” Karas said into her mouthpiece. “Take her down, Peter.”

  They landed behind the stage and were ushered in by a contingent of black-suited guards awaiting their arrival. Karas acknowledged each with a nod, a shake of the hand, a smile. By all that Silvie could see, Karas was widely admired here.

  They hurried into a “green” room, which was actually a dirty white room under the stadium. Tony Montana was a slight man, dressed in a black shirt and a white headband. His jeans were torn, perhaps to give the illusion that he’d just come from battle, although Silvie knew nothing could be farther from the truth. The way handlers busied themselves around him, offering him drinks and delicacies, she doubted he’d ever lifted a shovel, much less a sword.

  Any doubts she had about this man the throngs had come to adore fell to the side when he turned and looked at her. His eyes were a bright blue, a complete contrast to his dark skin and black, tangled hair. He studied her with interest, simultaneously intense and innocent. But more than ail of this, his face, the pouting shape of his lips, the small nose, the baby-smooth skin. Apart from his blue eyes, Tony Montana reminded her very much of Johnis.

  Karas took Silvie’s arm. “You see it too?”

  “He looks …” Silvie paused, not sure she should make the comparison.

  “Like Johnis,” Karas said. “If I ever allow myself to fall in love, it will be with this man.” She stepped up to the rock star. “Hello, Tony. I would like you to meet the two most important people in the world to me.”

  He kissed her cheek. “And here I thought I occupied one of those places.” To Silvie, dipping his head, “A pleasure.”

  Tony Montana made polite conversation, but as Johnis gained confidence, they began prying with questions that seemed to genuinely engage each other. Soon they were in a deep discussion about poetry and beauty and love and all things creative.

  An attendant with an earpiece approached them from a side door. “Sixty seconds, Kara.”

  Karas nodded. “You ready, Tony?”

  “Always, my dear.”

  She nodded to the attendant. “Take my friends to the press box. I’ll join you in a few …”

  She stopped, slipped a thin black card from her jeans, and stared at a red light that blinked on one end.

  “Kara?” Tony touched her elbow. “Everything okay?”

  She blinked. Slid the card back into her pocket. “Fine.” But her face had paled. “I’ll meet you in the box.”

  They watched from the press box as Karas took the stage to the sound of cheering cries that suggested she was the star they’d come to see, Silvie thought. It was hard to imagine that this frail-looking woman had been a little girl trapped in Witch’s dungeon only a week earlier, at least from her perspective. Yet here she was, acknowledging the roaring approval of a hundred thousand fans in the Histories.

  Then Karas introduced Tony Montana, and the stadium trembled with pounding hands and feet. The lights went out, smoke rose on the stage, a single drum began to thump, and Silvie held her breath.

  She wasn’t ready for the thunder that followed. Lightening stuttered on the stage, blinding them. The drums pounded. Silvie grabbed Johnis’s arm.

  Tony leaped higher than seemed natural, his legs twisted to one side, and when his feet landed, the guitars roared. Music, the screaming variety she’d heard earlier, shook the stadium.

  “Fantastic!”

  She turned to see Johnis grinning from ear to ear. His delight was infectious. She had to agree: the sound of music from the Histories was, indeed, fantastic.

  “Like it?”

  Karas had come up behind them.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. We have to go.”

  The black card, Silvie thought. There’s a problem.

  “What’s wrong?” Johnis asked.

  “I just talked to Rick. There’s a woman at the house who refuses to give her name. We need to see her immediately.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she claims to have a blue book with her. The blue Book of History.”

  aras walked with a quick, tense step. Silvie had watched her address a hundred thousand screaming fens as casually as a mother addressing her children before sending them off to bed. But news of one woman who claimed to have the fourth Book of History in her possession was enough to betray her true compass. Whatever others thought of Kara Longford’s interests in entertainment here on Earth, in truth her heart teetered on the balances of good and evil in a world far, far away.

  She flung the front door to her house wide before the butler had a chance to open it. “Where?”

  “She’s waiting in the atrium, my lady.” He bowed.

  Karas stepped out of her shoes and moved over the marble floor in her bare feet, followed closely by Johnis and Silvie.

  The woman who refused to give her name stood on the patio next to the lighted pool, her back to them. The night horizon glimmered with a million city lights. A stiff breeze whipped at the guest’s loose slacks and blue blouse. Her long, black hair flowed on the wind. Silvie could only think of one name: Darsal.

  They stopped ten feet from the woman, silent in the night.

  “May we help you?” Karas asked.

  Their guest turned and stared at them. All hope that this woman might be Darsal vanished. The resemblance went no further than her dark hair and height. No scar. Cheekbones too high. Lips thinner. Arms thin, not muscular from battle.

  “Kara Longford.” The woman stepped forward and extended her hand, “It’s so good to finally meet you. Miranda Card.”

  Karas took her hand. “Miranda Card. What’s this about a blue book?”

  “And these”—Miranda looked at Johnis and Silvie—“are the two chosen ones: Johnis and Silvie.”

  “You know about us?” Johnis glanced at Silvie. “What do you know?”

  “Only what Darsal told me,” Miranda said. “Before she died.”

  “Darsal is dead?” Silvie asked. She wasn’t sure what to make of the woman before them.

  “Yes. I’m sorry, you have to forgive me. I never actually believed this day would come. It’s all very strange to me.” She smiled coyly, an expression mixed with some doubt and some intrigue. Her eyes rested on Johnis, and Silvie thought there might be some seduction behind her brown eyes as well.

  They stared at her, stalled by the enormity of what the stranger named Miranda was suggesting.

  “What are you trying to tell us?” Johnis asked. “That Darsal is dead, and you have her book?”

  “I’m sorry, yes; I know it must come as a shock. But you have to understand that this is all a bit shocking to me as well.”

  “Why don’t we sit?” Karas led them to a couch and two chairs that overlooked the city. “Now, perhaps you could start at the beginning. Tell us how you know Darsal and how you knew to look for us.”

  “Of course. Forgive me …” She wasn’t able to wipe the faintest of grins from her face.

  “No need to apologize,” Silvie snapped. “Just tell us.”

  “I’m an American who works as the curator for a large private museum in Turkey,
where Darsal first found me.”

  “Why was she looking for you?”

  “She wasn’t. She came to the library seven years ago, asking about for—”

  “Seven years ago?” Silvie looked at Karas. “She’s been here that long?”

  “Longer,” Miranda said, “She told me she’d come into this reality three years earlier on a quest to find the lost books. At first I thought she was a nutcase, you understand.”

  The woman withdrew a box of the white smoking sticks that Karas called “cigarettes,” lit one with a gold fire-starter, and blew smoke into the night air.

  Still that slight grin.

  “You find this humorous?” Silvie asked.

  “I just flew five thousand miles to meet with you,” Miranda said. “I think that earns me the right to express my nerves any way I wish, don’t you?”

  Silvie decided she didn’t like this woman.

  “Go on,” Johnis said.

  Miranda sucked on the cigarette and blew more smoke. “Let me start over. Your friend Darsal came to me in a state of desperation, suffering what I assumed were delusions of the grandest kind. End-of-the-world nonsense. The Dark One this, the lost books that. Alucard.”

  Johnis was on his feet. “He’s here?”

  “No. Not that I’ve seen. Sit.”

  He sat.

  “She had a blue book that she claimed had transported her from another reality. She had to find six others and return them to the Roush. She was looking for three warriors: Karas, Johnis, and Silvie. I dismissed it all until she came to my house in the middle of the night, bleeding badly from a wound in her neck. ‘A bite,’ she claimed. She wouldn’t let me call for medical help, so I did my best. She died the next morning on my kitchen table.”

  “You let her die?”

  “She refused a trip to the hospital. I had no choice, trust me. Darsal wasn’t the kind of woman you pushed around.”

  “You … she just died on your table and you didn’t report it to the authorities?”

  “I did. They cremated her body after an autopsy that confirmed she’d been bitten by an animal and perished from blood loss.”