Oh, Father, please take me back to Jane's Fan Fiction and tell me more stories! Micki, Jack says we must check the main page for cursed objects, links, guestbooks, and a way to write to the author!
by
`Davis Bentsen' was desperately tired. Oh, he'd pulled plenty of all-nighters in his intern days, but that was in the heat of discovery, when he was young and full of enthusiasm for the way he was going to change the world. He was much older now, far more cynical, and he had no energy left for scientific advancement; it took every bit of strength he had just to keep moving.
He'd been on the run for many years now. Forget medicine. Forget science. His chief skill now was being unobtrusive, colorless, fading in with the people around him. It wasn't surprising that neither Micki Foster nor Jack Marshak noticed him. He never tried to get close enough to hear their conversations, just kept them in sight and concentrated on not blinking. He was positive they couldn't have spotted him, a nondescript man sitting at the rear of the next subway car or standing on the corner outside the diner. Since he knew where they would eventually end up, he could afford to stay well back. Even if he lost them, he could go back to CURIOUS GOODS and intercept them there. But he didn't want to wait one minute longer than necessary to finally be set free.
When the door to the diner opened, he bent to tie his shoe, only glancing up when he heard them walk past him. Another subway ride? Digging out his last subway token, he drifted along in their wake.
At least this car was less crowded. Slouched in a seat at the front of the car, where he could see Micki Foster's flaming hair through the intercepting doors, he found himself lulled to sleep by the rocking of the subway.
He was transformed, a creature less than human, and more. There was danger here. A threat, huge and thickly muscled, like him, and roaring a challenge. Rage clotted in his veins. Temples throbbing, he raised his fists, and prepared to kill....
Thank God the train squealed to a stop and jerked him out of the nightmare. Davis wiped his damp forehead on his arm and squinted into the next car. Were they getting up?
"Excuse me." Since he hadn't rocketed into the aisle like everyone else, now he had to struggle against the passengers streaming into the car as well as those pouring out. "I'm sorry. Please--" Ignoring the glares and muttered curses that passed for a typical New Yorker greeting, he made it to the platform with seconds to spare.
Before his heartbeat had a chance to shift into double-time, he spotted them at the far end. Strangely, they seemed in no hurry to leave. They just lingered there, looking grim. Davis plastered himself against a pillar and waited. The last passengers hurried up the stairs, with a final `shit' echoing behind them. The subway whooshed out of the station. He counted to ten, then sneaked a quick look. The two antiquarians were following the shabby magician through a maintenance door.
Did they, after all, realize they were being spied on? He hesitated, then moved toward the door. If they were hiding in there, he'd just have to confront them, demand to be told where Jantsch's apothecary kit was, make them see reason. But when he opened the door stenciled EMPLOYEES ONLY, no one was there.
Perplexed, he wandered down the maintenance tunnel until he could just make out the hollow voices ahead. They led him to a place of wonder.
From obvious repair tunnels for the subway line, they went down, the tunnels becoming darker and danker, descending a spiral of metal stairs that led to low vaults of brickwork or wet stone. As they went deeper, the rumble of passing subway trains grew thinner, overlaid by clanking on the myriad pipe--electrical? water? sewage?--that were tangled overhead. The clanking sounded systematic somehow; not rhythmic like a drumbeat in music, yet purposeful. Some sort of code, perhaps? Despite himself, Davis felt a quickening of the old scientific curiosity.
It was a good thing he wasn't claustrophobic. As they went still deeper, the lighting vanished. Far ahead, the magician materialized a fireball; when his eyes adjusted from the sudden flare in the Stygian darkness, the fireball had shrunk to a more decorous torch, and Davis kept his gaze on that light as he walked, careful to hover just before the point where the light shrank to nonexistence. It was like following a firefly. Whatever he did, he mustn't get lost. There seemed to be a veritable maze of intersecting tunnels hidden here, miles below the surface of New York City.
They rounded a few turns, and the blackness was relieved by a bizarre variety of objects carefully nestled into wall niches: candles, oil lamps, kerosene lanterns. The odors of damp, smoke, candlewax, and kerosene all mixed with the clouds of steam puffing from the overhead pipes. Davis's pace slowed. He was now truly alarmed. What he saw was proof of an established community, not a one-time secret meeting.
His years of living on the run, always evading the unending pursuit, had given him the finely-honed survival instincts of a wild animal. It was only this that saved him from being spotted by a sentry lurking in one of the side-tunnels. Davis crouche--anything below the usual line-of-sight had a better chance of being overlooked--and stared in disbelief. What he saw was a stripling, presumably male, dressed like an extra in a Robin Hood movie, probably in a winter scene: boots, dark leggings, a long-sleeved brown thermal shirt, a forest-green tunic of wool, and long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. The youth was leaning against a wooden staff. Davis blinked, then crept across the mouth of the tunnel, holding his breath until he was safely past. Further on, he barely evaded another sentry, this one resembling an unshaven Broadway wino swathed in layers of rags, instead of a Robin Hood reject.
The anthropological implications were staggering. If a community had been established here, long enough to develop a means of communication and its own strange sense of fashion--Davis shook his head. Dammit, he had no time for this! He couldn't let his only lead to the apothecary kit vanish
.
He speeded up to a near-run, trying to close the distance between them. This really was a matter of life-and-death. Rage was the trigger to his illness, the sort of uncontrollable homicidal rage that a newborn infant feels but thankfully cannot act on. Unfortunately, the world above was all-too-full of stress and terrors that could start the anger building up inside him: congenitally rude people, massive traffic jams, muggers, riots, wars. Why, he couldn't even let himself indulge in a simple opinion, get into a political debate, for fear he'd get too personally involved in an argument and start to get angry. He needed that plant. He had suffered long enough. Nothing was going to stop him now, when he was so close!
(Someone's coming.)
Panting, he flattened himself against a mold-streaked stone wall, praying it would be just another sentry. One hasty glance sent a chill of horror up his spine. It was no sentry. It was exactly the sort of monster that would fit in these labyrinthine tunnels, something out of a creature-feature. The Beast That Walked Like a Man. The Lion-Man of Mongo.
The magician and the two antique dealers hadn't yet realized their peril. The magician was facing the other way, pointing down another tunnel. If he warned them, they'd run, and he'd lose them in this maze. If he did nothing, the cat-monster would kill them. Either way, he lost his last hope for a cure.
Of course, there could be no question what he'd do. There were human lives at stake. Davis Bentsen snatched up a loose rock and hurled it at the cloaked man-animal. "Get back! Get out of here!" he shouted.
The creature reached up to its golden face and felt the blood already matting its leonine mane. Snarling, it bounded toward him, revealing a mouthful of fangs. He was confronting an enormous lion on two legs, and he was no Gunther Gebel-Williams.
Micki Foster screamed. Her partner enfolded her in his arms, trying to back away. Incredibly, the magician grabbed his elbow, stopping him. Was he crazy? Couldn't he see the danger?
The growling beast was running right toward him.
Adrenaline washed his body, making him shake. His heartbeat felt like the backbeat in a Chipmunk record. Davis tried to turn and run, but he felt like he was moving in slow motion, and then his right ankle twisted under him, pitching him onto the tunnel floor.
Everything turned green.
Massive muscles expanded all over his once-lean frame, as he bent double, gasping with the agony of being reborn within seconds. His shirt was shredded by the sudden growth and flaked off his body like dandruff, as his shoes exploded outward. Unable to scream, he gaped blindly at the dirt floor, feeling his face thicken and change shape. Then his mind shut down entirely.
The teacup was finally empty.
After the first few pungent drops passed his lips, Father had muttered and turned his head, trying to evade it, but one thing Debra Schwann knew well was how to make an obstinate patient take his medicine. "It's for your own good," she had coaxed him, as she eased it down his throat.
And she was right. He was breathing easier, and the hectic flush was fading from his face. Pulse, temperature, blood pressure--they all improved drastically. . .while in the same bed, her daughter was horribly worse.
Father's eyes fluttered. "Mary?"
"No. It's Debra." She studied his face, keeping her own carefully expressionless. "How are you feeling?"
He blinked. "Surprisingly well, actually." He paused, seeming to take stock of himself and his surroundings, then focused on her. "Has Dr. Alcott finally arrived, then?"
"No. Lie still. Get your strength back." It worked! Mouse's absurd little box of unknown herbs really did cure all ills. She could save Dicena!
But the teapot was empty. With trembling hands, she fumbled with the fluted bottle. The cork seemed to be stuck. No matter how hard she twisted and tugged, it wouldn't budge. Finally, frustrated beyond endurance, she pounded the bottle on Father's mahogany desk.
The glass wouldn't break.
Almost sobbing, she snatched up a brass mermaid and tried to crush the bottle, without success. When she stopped to suck in a ragged breath, an eerie verdant glow from the box caught the corner of her eye. Debra's head rose. The ornate writing on the mortar and pestle had changed. It now read `THEE MUST BE CRUEL TO BE KIND,' with the black script haloed in green. Slowly, biting her lip, she reached for the carved box. The skull-and-crossbones grinning from the seal on the black liquid glowed the same uncanny green.
"Debra?" Father's voice sounded stronger. "Debra, Dicena is very ill. I think we'd better hook up an I.V. to combat the dehydration."
She half-turned, and saw him cradling her daughter in his arms. Di didn't move. Debra turned back, picked up the bottle with the sooty black liquid, and pressed it to her heart. It was hard to tell which felt more cold.
"It's. . .it's time for your medicine," she told Father, in a voice she didn't recognize.
A sudden uproar in the Long Hallway outside distracted them both. To Debra, the ungodly racket sounded like a Saturday double-feature of the worst Godzilla and King Kong movies, but Father was more upset. "Vincent!" Despite his alarm, he laid Dicena gently down against his pillows. "Something's wrong."
"But--your medicine--"
Her words were buried under assorted bawls, bellows, and roars; now it sounded like ten minutes past feeding time at the zoo. Father grabbed his silver-headed cane and levered himself to his feet. Debra hesitated, then kissed Dicena's cracked, unresponsive lips; swept up the box; and followed him into the hallway.
The Hulk slowly unfolded to its full gigantic size, raised twin jade fists, and bellowed wordless defiance to the world. In turn, the lion man halted in the middle of the tunnel, blocking the path to the three puny humans, and roared. Lion-man was threatening humans. Lion-man was threatening HULK! Bad, bad, bad kitty!
He swung out his left arm in a sideways swipe that should've hurled the creature partway through the wall, but somehow it evaded him. Hulk scowled. No kitty would make fun of Hulk. Hulk spank! Clenching his fist in a fury, he switched to a powerhouse right, a punch every bit as deadly as the bite of a jackhammer on concrete. It should have killed the cat-thing. Instead, it splintered the stone wall.
Then the roaring creature pounced, jabbing its claws into Hulk's belly and ripping upward. Both of them paused for an instant, staring down at the four parallel scratches that marred the Hulk's lovely green skin, one of them even oozing a single chartreuse drop of blood.
(Kitty hurt Hulk!)
Infuriated, the Hulk grabbed the lion-man in both tree-trunk arms and squeezed, hard. Screeching, writhing, and kicking at Hulk's belly with its booted hind feet, it bit long fangs into Hulk's left arm. That hurt worse. Hulk stopped squeezing and tried to shake the cat-thing loose, waving his arm wildly.
"Vincent? Vincent, no!"
More puny little humans were in the tunnel; a man and a woman. The man limped forward, close enough for Hulk to thump his head flat like balloon, but Hulk was too busy trying to pry lion beast off.
"Vincent," the man said sternly, "let that creature go."
Let Hulk go? No! Hulk was winning! Scowling, the Hulk proved it by flexing the muscles in both arms, flicking the cat-thing aside.
Another human joined the first. Out of nowhere, a shiny black stick appeared in his outstretched arm, and he thumped Hulk in the nose with it, hard.
The Hulk squatted, letting a howl of mingled rage and indignation erupt from his bowels in a basso complaint. Then, with a last backward glare, Hulk thudded down back down the tunnel, pausing every now and then to batter a wall in sheer frustration. No more puny humans attacked him, but he smelled them everywhere. Like mice in the walls. Hulk thought about tearing down the walls to get at the mice, but thinking made Hulk's head hurt.
After awhile, he came to a pool, big and cold and pretty. Hulk sank down on his haunches beside the pool, studying his reflection. He stuck one paw into the water and made the reflection dissolve into a million raindrops. Finally he yawned, unable to remember what had called him out. Time to go to sleep, and let David Banner come out to play.
Jack Marshak was having a wonderful time.
Wanderlust had always run in his family. His own father, a sailor, had died at sea. Not limiting himself to either sea or land, Jack explored the frontiers of the mind, starting with his childhood interest in stage magic. When Dad came home between voyages, the Amazing Marshak would do a command performance, turning silk handkerchiefs into doves--when the doves were in a cooperative mood, that is. Then Dad started bringing home souvenirs, Tiki gods or shaman rattles, and stories about exotic ceremonies in far-off lands, and the Amazing Marshak started imitating psychics, instead.
In his more-than-full lifetime, he'd climbed mountains in Tibet, visited Stonehenge and Easter Island, dabbled in voudon and witchcraft, battled black magicians and actual demons. But he had never sat beneath the streets of New York City in what should've been abandoned subway tunnels, having a civilized conversation with a beast that acted like a man, and a man who turned into a beast. It was fascinating. A pool-complete with its own waterfall-under the city? Unbelievable! His only problem was deciding what question to begin with.
It was Micki who handled that one. No sooner had the stocky patriarch who called himself 'Father' settled them all in his chambers than she fixed Davis Bentsen with a glare. "Why did you follow us here?"
Despite his tattered pants, the half-naked man drew himself erect with dignity. "I told you. I must have that kit."
"Why?"
Jack cut in, "Because he thinks the kit has a plant that will stop him turning into that--that hulking beast."
The man turned to him with pathetic hope. "Then you understand. You'll help me."
"I can't. You don't understand. Lewis Vendredi made a pact with the Devil; everything he sold had a catch to it. You only get your wish at the cost of someone else's life." Leaving him to digest that, Jack turned back to the tawny lion-man. "Is that what happened to you?"
The beast-like muzzle wasn't well-equipped for smiles, but Vincent was clearly amused. "Though I have at times cursed my lot in life, I doubt that a curse made me this way. That's a fairy-tale explanation."
"Then you've never been. . .er. . .?"
"Normal? No. I was like this when I was found, as an infant, near St. Vincent's Hospital." He had a mellifluous baritone more suited to a poet than a beast. "Excuse me. I'm still confused. Pascal said you were taken ill, Father, but you look quite well."
"Better than I've felt in years, actually. Even my hip doesn't hurt." He stroked his short beard of rusted steel, and his grim face quirked in a smile when he noticed Jack was doing the same thing. The smile was short-lived. "Vincent, I was definitely ill. Yet now. . . ."
"The apothecary kit," Micki said. When the honey-maned lion looked up, she nodded firmly. "Someone's used the kit to cure him."
Vincent glanced at his `father,' then back at her, frowning. "What makes you think this kit is here, in our Tunnels?"
"Uncle Lewis sold it to a Joseph Pollard. We tracked him here, but when we went to his house to search for it, we scared away someone who'd already found it."
Jack interjected, "A small, stocky, blond teenager who ran into the subway with it and disappeared."
Simultaneously, Father, Vincent, and the Great Sebastian chorused, "Mouse." It had an air of resigned certainty to it.
Still trying to get matters straight, Jack turned back to Bentsen, who looked more wan and miserable than ever. He was beginning to shiver. "Then you followed us into the tunnels. But what went wrong?"
"I saw...Vincent?" The massive lion-man nodded. "Vincent. I'm sorry, but I honestly thought he was going to attack you. I saw my chance for a cure disappearing, and I. . .lost my temper." He sighed, shoulders slumping. "You see, I was a scientist, researching the cause for the superhuman strength many people display under intense stress, and I tested a machine prematurely. Now the hormones and chemicals released by strong anger make me into the Hulk. The monster you saw." He swallowed, staring at the floor. "I have no control over the Hulk or what he does."
It seemed to Jack that more than ordinary sympathy filled Vincent's azure, very human eyes. "Many people have to do daily battle with a dark side to their nature. It is nothing to be ashamed of, so long as you don't give up the battle." He shucked his blue woolen cloak and swirled it over the man's shoulders. "You're not alone."
Bentsen looked up. "Other people don't have the Hulk's strength, or his rage. We learn to control our anger, to channel it into other activities like sports, as we pass through childhood. The Hulk never learned anything." His eyes were haunted. "I never know if this time I'll wake up to find the Hulk has killed someone--I've killed someone--without even knowing it was happening, or why."
Jack tugged at his beard. The scientist's tragedy wasn't tied to Lewis's curse, so there was no way he could help the man. He leaned forward, almost overturning the battered Queen Anne chair he'd been given. "People, I'm afraid we're missing something here. The kit has apparently been used to heal, er, Father."
Catching his drift, Micki bit her lip. "And there's always a price to be paid. Usually an innocent life."
"I'll take you to the Mousehole."
"No." Father held up one hand. "I last saw him in the sickroom. He has the disease." The crisp British voice was ironic. "I believe it's time Mouse and I have another of our little talks about 'taking' from Above."
When she followed Father into the tunnel, Debra barely noticed the monstrous green giant battling Vincent. At any other moment, she would have been terrified of the colossus, but now it was unimportant. She stood behind Father, numb, clutching the wooden box in stiff fingers.
(My baby is dying.)
Everything and everyone else paled to insignificance next to that awful certainty. She had no one: no father, no lover, just one sweet toddler who was never going to beam up at her again, never giggle "Love ya!" and hug her tight. Unless. . . .
(It's medicine. It's good for you.)
The image of that green-highlighted skull-and-crossbones burned behind her eyes, but she instantly suppressed it. Time was running out. If she didn't act quickly....A shudder ran through her entire body, and she tasted vomit. (I won't let anything happen to my baby.)
Something must have happened while she stood there in a daze; now the immense green monster was loping down the Long Hallway, still emitting occasional muffled bellows. Sebastian and two strangers tentatively followed it. In the middle of the Long Hallway, Father was still calming Vincent, standing with one arm around Vincent's cloaked shoulders, kindly but firmly scolding him.
Stiffening her spine, Debra turned and walked the other way, to the sickroom. She had no real destination in mind, at least not consciously. All her efforts were concentrated on a desperate attempt to find hope, some clear path out of this nightmare. If Dicena died, she had nothing. But what if, to save her daughter, she had to offer someone else's life? The cost was so damned high!
(A mother who truly loves her child will make any sacrifice to save it.)
How long had she been walking blindly through the tunnels? Wrapped around the edges of the carved box, her fingers ached as if the circulation was being cut off. What was the use? If she didn't so something, quickly, Dicena would die. Debra glanced down at the box squeezed so tightly against her chest, and a carved demon's face seemed to leer at her.
(Any risk is worth taking, if it saves a baby's life. Mouse's box works miracles. The green powder cured Father. The black liquid is probably some sort of cure, too.)
No. She knew that wasn't true, but she wasn't going to think about it. Now she moved briskly, purposefully, almost running, and she worked hard at keeping her mind blank. (Don't think about the medicine. Don't think about anything. Dicena's life is all that matters.)
No one even noticed when she stepped into the sickroom chamber. Most of the able-bodied people were clustered around a stack of boxes, dividing something up. Was that Dr. Alcott's curly grey hair and thin figure, bending over the ice bath?
(It doesn't matter. Only Dicena matters.)
Moving mechanically, she walked down the only open path left, until she nearly stumbled over a pallet. Mouse was curled up under a ragged plaid blanket, asleep.
When they first came Below, the little tinkerer had built Dicena an automatic cradle-rocker that nearly dumped her onto the floor; then, in apology, he'd made her a rag doll that could be wound up to kick its arms and legs like a baby. It was still her favorite toy.
(He loves Dicena, too. He'd do anything for her. Anything.)
"Mouse," she said softly.
He rolled over, and grinned happily when he recognized her. "Debra! Is Father better? Did the box work?"
"Yes. He's much better. The box works just fine."
She felt almost as if she was standing outside her body, watching it move but not actually a part of it. Like Mouse's rag-doll robot. Carefully, she opened the carved box and took out the tube of black liquid. Mouse rubbed his eyes and sat up, cocking his head, watching her ease the seal from the bottle. When she poured it into a teaspoon, it oozed out thickly, in a slimy black rope. Mouse made a face. "You have to take your medicine now. It's good for you."
"No." He edged away from the spoon, back against the wall, and tried a feeble smile. "Mouse feels lots better now."
"Don't you want to get cured, like Father? Open wide, now. Just one quick swallow, and it'll all be over--"
A wordless roar of fury from the doorway made her twitch convulsively, spilling the liquid on the stone floor beside Mouse. It writhed there like a living creature, hissing and spitting, making the boy shrink back and curl his feet up underneath his body.
Vincent was fast, but in her despair, Debra was faster. He reached her in two swift strides, and wrenched the tube from her hand, but not before she got it to her lips. She smiled at him, a weary and somehow sweet smile, as she swallowed.
"Save my baby," she whispered. "Don't let my Dicena--"
The words died in a surprised moan. Her body went rigid, and the moan became a rattle deep in her throat. As Vincent gently eased her body to the floor, Debra's body convulsed. Her head snapped backward, as if trying to reach her heels, and then, abruptly, she was still.
None of it made any sense.
Sitting in the tattered tapestry armchair that dominated his study, Father was a man torn by conflicting desires. As the patriarch of the Tunnels, he had to confront these strangers and make sense of this tragedy, yet as the resident physician he wanted only to be in the sickroom with Peter. For the safety of all who lived Below, he had to go on sitting here.
He had done what he could for little Dicena, pumping fluids into the fever-wasted body. Now he could only cradle the child on his lap and sigh. "I find it difficult to believe in gloves that absorb diseases to pass on to other victims, and television sets that swallow people whole."
"I find it difficult to believe there's a cloaked cat-man living in abandoned subway tunnels under New York City," Marshak shot back.
He shifted uneasily in his chair. What a relief it was to feel no pain when he moved! "You have me there, I'm afraid."
The beautiful girl who'd accompanied Marshak was perched on the curving granite pulpit steps that led to the balcony, her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands. She pointed out, "It shouldn't be that hard to accept. The box healed you, didn't it? Then that woman's death fulfilled the curse. Now the box will heal again."
Her partner sat bolt upright in the Queen Anne chair that Cullen had refinished as a present. "I don't think that's a good idea, Micki. Think how many people we've seen destroy themselves-sometimes with the best of motives-by giving in to that sort of temptation."
Father gazed somberly around the study. They were a widely divided group, both physically and emotionally. Sebastian seemed to have completely withdrawn himself from the conversation. In fact, he was on the balcony, absently making coins march across his knuckles. Vincent had seated himself on the edge of the desk, examining the open box and its two dissimilar bottles. He'd claimed there was a green glow around the mouth of the poisoned tube when he took it from Debra, but it was a dead black now, as far as Father could see. As Vincent turned the fluted bottle over in his clawed hands, the scientist-cum-monster sat a few feet away, staring at the hands and the bottle they held as if mesmerized.
He'd let his attention wander. Heatedly, the girl was making some point. "--wrong when you were healed by the same scalpel that cut your heart up?"
"Now, Micki--"
"Was it wrong to use that cursed coin to bring me back to life after it killed me? Are you saying our being alive isn't a good thing?" Marshak held up both hands in surrender, looking abashed. Micki stood up, decisively. "Then our only real decision has to be who will be healed, before we lock this box up in the vault with Uncle Lewis's other 'toys'."
Father turned to his foster son. "The green powder didn't just cure my illness, Vincent, it healed everything about me. My hip doesn't even twinge. I feel positively young. If your. . .shape. . .is some sort of mutation or deformity, perhaps it will cure you, make you like everyone else."
Vincent shook back tawny curls. "And if this is my normal form--if I'm some sort of alien, as Sebastian is always whispering--" From the balcony came a startled oath, and the clatter of coins hitting the wrought-iron railing. "--then the potion will have been wasted."
Instantly, Bentsen was on his feet, quivering with emotion. "I'm the one who tracked down that box. I've lost over ten years of my life! Years of being hunted, of being terrified of myself and what I might do. That box contains the only thing on this earth with even a chance to cure me! You can't deny me that cure!"
Vincent said gently, "You must control your anger, Mr. Bentsen. If that really is your name."
Should he even speak? Father caressed Dicena's face, trying to decide. It hardly seemed fair, after he had unwittingly taken advantage of the herb's healing power. If it hadn't been used to cure him--if Debra had instead given it to Dicena--Debra would not now be dead. Somewhat diffidently, he pointed out, "Mouse is the one who actually found the box and brought it here, and he's very ill now."
Micki walked down the last of the pulpit steps. "From what he's told us, some of the people here are dying. That potion could save a human life."
"There's plenty of powder in the bottle," Bentsen pointed out desperately. "Couldn't we share it?"
Marshak shook his head. "The curse never works that way. For each cure, it demands a life. And it escalates. The next cure might cost two lives, or three, or more. Whatever that powder might have been before doesn't matter; now it's one of Lewis's nasty bits of bait."
Vincent rose, still clutching the fluted bottle, staring down at the scientist until he looked away.
It seemed to Father that this was a room full of curses: Bentsen cursed with his maddened alter-ego; Micki Foster with her foul inheritance; Marshak with guilt over providing Vendredi with antiques; his own son with his inhuman form and instincts. There wasn't enough magic in all the world to heal so many curses, so many miseries.
"Debra gave her life so that this could heal her child." Moving too quickly for anyone to stop him, Vincent strode to Father's side, and shook a few grains of the coarse green powder into Dicena's mouth. "I believe we should fulfill her last wish."
"No! You can't do that!" Bentsen cried.
Father stroked Dicena's throat. She swallowed.
"I already have," Vincent said firmly. He moved to the scientist's side and put one arm around his shoulders. "You know her innocent life is more important than the discomfort that you and I both have learned to live with. You were an adult; you brought your sorrow on yourself through the choices you made. This baby never had a choice."
Bentsen closed his eyes. His misery was so overwhelming that Father had to look away, feeling his own eyes mist over.
Clearing his throat, Marshak rose and closed the apothecary box on its two demonic bottles. "We'll lock this up in our vault, where it can't hurt anyone again. But I do have a lot of contacts in occult fields, Mr. Bentsen. I promise you I'll do everything I can to find a way to lift the curse, so you can use your cure."
"It will never happen," the younger man murmured wearily, raising his eyes with an effort. "Will it?"
Micki crossed the room to stand on the other side of him, adding her touch to Vincent's. "Maybe not. But it won't hurt for you to check in with us every now and then, just in case."
Her older partner turned to Father. "We have to get this home as quickly as possible, but then. . .well, I'd like to come back, if I may. Just for a visit."
Alarm washed away his pity for the drooping scientist. What could he say? How could he protect the Tunnels and his people? "Mr. Marshak, secrecy is our only hope for survival. If you--"
Sebastian stepped around the desk with his usual air of having teleported into position. "I can vouch for Jack's honor, Jacob. He'd never betray us." He flashed a fleeting mischievous grin. "Think of him as a Helper. After all, it was his bank account that paid for our original ventilation system."
"But we--yes, Mary?"
She leaned against the doorway like a wilted rose, but her eyes were alive. "You were right, Father. Peter brought a serum, and it works. William's fever has broken!"
He hesitated, torn. Vincent, who always knew what was in his heart, glanced at him. "They'll need you in the sickroom, Father. Sebastian and I will see to our visitors. You have no need to worry."
Dicena was feather-light in his arms, but cured, as he had been. She clung to him sleepily as he rose. "Get some rest, Mary. God knows you've earned it. Dicena, how would you like to sleep with Michelle tonight, yes? You do like her, don't you, and it will be great fun for you both. . . ."
Mary yawned, then, with a fond smile directed at Father's back as he walked briskly down the Long Hallway, she turned the other way.
Jack found it hard to keep from treading on Vincent's heels as they followed him to another chamber. Everywhere he looked he saw something else that fascinated him. In the next chamber, an elderly woman was patiently demonstrating a sewing machine to a teenager. Wasn't that one of the early Singers? Surely it would command a pretty penny at CURIOUS GOODS. Neither woman seemed at all taken aback by Vincent, though Jack still found his size and overpowering cat-ness daunting. He was more used to fighting demonic creatures whose evil tendencies matched their bizarre appearance than to a beast with tender concern for freezing guests.
When Bentsen was properly outfitted, and provided with a few extra shirts for the road, Vincent teased a smile from the white-haired seamstress and led them back into the tunnels. He seemed to know the labyrinth by instinct, only bothering with a lamp when the others began to stumble in the dusk. Once he paused to tap a rapid-fire cadence on one of the many overhead pipes.
"That's your communication system?"
The shaggy head nodded. "Pascal and his father invented it. It's almost impossible to drag Pascal from his pipes, and in emergencies like this, we're especially grateful. He'll spread the word that we have a cure for the plague and that you're guests, not intruders." He paused at the foot of the towering spiral staircase. "That's what Father was trying to tell you. We've been. . .invaded. . .before, and always at the cost of many lives."
Jack said calmly, "I think it's safe to say we know how to keep a secret."
Bentsen dredged up a humorless smile. "I'll need you to keep my secret, too. I'm supposed to be dead, but there's an investigative reporter--a very good one, unfortunately--hot on my trail. I don't see any way he can track me here, but he might find CURIOUS GOODS."
"Good! Antique dealers love newspaper coverage, right, Micki? By the time we're through hounding him for free publicity, he'll be afraid to even set foot in Canada, for fear we'll find him."
Vincent peered up the stairway. "Sebastian will sneak you back into the subway station. I seldom go above."
Micki turned to him sadly. Jack suspected she was rather taken with the romantic fairy-tale figure he cut. "Then you never see the sunlight? The leaves turning color in fall? Snowflakes falling?"
"I see reflections of them in the stories others tell. For me, that has to be enough." He was matter-of-fact, as though he had long since come to grips with the life he had to lead. The sapphire eyes settled thoughtfully on Bentsen. "Mr. Bentsen, perhaps you should stay here. Our world is usually a peaceful one; we can't offer you the healing you seek, but we can give you a respite. A shelter."
Grimly, the scientist shouldered his bag. "No. If I stopped now, I'd give up. Up there, there are labs and computers and other scientists. I've lost too much of my life already. I have to make my own cure now."
"If you change your mind," Sebastian offered cheerfully, "you'll find me entertaining the hoi pollloi on any subway you care to name, sooner or later."
Bentsen was already ascending the stairs, turning his back on the Tunnels. The others followed more slowly, with Jack lingering for a last look at the leonine face so far below, until Micki prodded him in the back to speed him up.
It felt strange to leave the subterranean world for the florescent lighting of the subway platform. This world was no more real than the one they had just left; in the windowless cavernous room, Jack couldn't tell if it was day or night. All he knew for certain was that he was exhausted. Maybe this whole affair had been an hallucination, brought on by lack of sleep...? No. Maybe not.
The Great Sebastian clapped him on the shoulder. "It was good to see you again, Jack. When you come back, we'll swap tall tales, eh?"
"Some a little taller than others," he agreed.
There were three disinterested people at the other end of the platform, waiting for a train. Sebastian, delicately plucking silks from each sleeve, strolled toward them, looking eager. Bentsen glanced toward the stairs, but Micki touched his elbow.
"Vincent can never walk out of this subway. Yet he hasn't given up hope, has he?"
After a moment, he managed a small smile. "Point taken. All right. I didn't get the cure I hoped for. . .but maybe I learned a thing or two about patience, and endurance, and hope."
"I hope it's enough," she said softly.
He nodded, then turned and slowly walked away.
Oh, Father, please take me back to Jane's Fan Fiction and tell me more stories! Micki, Jack says we must check the main page for cursed objects, links, guestbooks, and a way to write to the author!
As long as this isn't Friday the 13th, it's safe to write to the author and provide some feedback.