Bedtime Story (18 page)

Dafyd took two steps forward, holding his torch far ahead of him.

The Sunstone. It had to be.

He could hardly believe his eyes. Having come all this way, done everything that he had done, the Sunstone was now close enough to touch. Almost his.

As he stepped forward, mesmerized by the stone, he didn’t notice the wisps of mist drift away from the wall, though there was no breeze.

David kicked off the blankets without even realizing it. He suddenly felt too warm, as his eyes flashed across the page. Despite the sheen of sweat gathering on his skin, a chill ran over him as he read of Dafyd in the cave, and the mist coalescing and moving behind him.

The closer Dafyd got to the red stone, the more certain he was. It pulsed with its own power and light. The silver in which it was set looked like an amulet, carved with drawings and symbols.

Behind him, the patches of mist grew more distinct and solidified as they drew closer. Shapes like arms extended, and hands, fingers flexed as they reached out for the boy.

Dafyd was about to touch the stone in the wall when he felt the cold, damp hands upon him. He screamed as they clutched at his shoulders, grabbed him by the arms. He squirmed and turned, trying to get free, trying to see who was dragging him away from the Sunstone.

David could almost feel the cold grip of the creatures in the mist.

He tensed in his bed, his legs twitching, as his eyes raced across each line. His breathing was ragged. A slow ache pounded in his temples.

The Sunstone was almost his.

Dafyd’s torch fell to the floor as faces formed in the misty figures now surrounding him. Distended mouths shaped words.

“Stop,” they said faintly. “You can’t.”

The mist wrapped around his chest, threatened to pull him backwards off his feet. He struggled, but he could not break the grip.

“Stop …” The faint voices echoed in the cave.

Their arms tightened around him. If he didn’t do something soon, Dafyd feared they would drag him to the ground, swallow him.

Summoning all his strength, he pushed himself forward, shaking from side to side to break loose. The apparitions held for a moment longer, then shredded apart, leaving Dafyd free and stumbling forward, falling at the foot of the wall he had been trying to reach. Turning, he saw the mist re-gathering itself into vaguely human shapes, arms reaching out for him once more, mouths crying out, “Stop, stop.”

In seconds they would be on him again. He didn’t know if the Stone’s powers would protect him, but what other hope did he have?

Pulling himself to his knees, Dafyd reached out for the Sunstone.

As his fingers brushed the cold surface, a bolt of red light jumped from the stone to Dafyd’s hand. His body buckled and snapped as the charge went through him. As he slumped to the floor he could smell something burning.

Himself.

It was the last thing he smelled.

In the cave of the Sunstone, deep within the earth, Dafyd, son of Mareigh, closed his eyes and died.

David’s body snapped and writhed as if an electrical current were running through him. He fell off his bed, dragging the covers with him, as he twitched and flailed. His lamp fell to the floor and smashed, and there was the smell of burning in the air, a metallic taste in his mouth as he bit through his tongue. He tried to scream, tried to cry out, but no sound came.

“Sorry,” I said, standing up. “I should …”

Dale waved it away. “More wings for me,” he said brightly.

I answered my cell as I was walking through the restaurant toward the front door. “Jacqui?”

“Chris, where are you?”

It was hard to hear her, to get any sense of emotion from her voice. “Downtown,” I said, stepping onto the sidewalk. “Why? What’s going on?”

“It’s David. He’s in the hospital.”

My stomach heaved. “What happened? What’s … he’s okay?”

“He collapsed,” she said, her voice tight. “I’m not sure. They’re checking.”

“Okay, I’ll meet you. I’ll be right there.”

Every aisle inside the restaurant was thick and clogged. I dodged and shouldered my way back to the table. I wanted to scream.

“I’m sorry,” I said when I finally reached the table. I pulled out my wallet. “I have to go.”

Dale rose halfway to his feet, throwing his napkin onto the table. “What’s going on?”

I shook my head, distracted, counting out enough cash to pay for the meal twice over, dropping the bills on the table.

“It’s David. He’s in the hospital.”

I was already moving before he could react, dialling a cab with my cell phone as I stumbled back out of the restaurant.

Outside, without thinking, I lit a cigarette, drawing on it heavily, frantically, as I waited for the cab.

J
ACQUI PROBABLY WOULD HAVE
called it a typical Saturday night crowd: drunks hunched over cardboard basins; small children whiny and flushed with fever; a young man cradling a broken arm, too long and bending at the wrong angle. In one corner a young man rocked in a chair, muttering an unceasing stream of obscenities, his eyes fluttering back in his head: strangely, no one seemed to notice him, all too wrapped up in their own crises to register the presence of another crazy person in their midst.

No sign of David.

I stepped up to a nurse taking the temperature of a boy about David’s age. The boy noticed me waiting. He had sick eyes, burning with colour, half hidden under drooping lids. He didn’t acknowledge me when I smiled at him.

As the nurse packed up her cart and turned away from the boy, I stepped forward. “Excuse me,” I said.

She didn’t look up. “Sir, someone will see to you shortly. If you’d take a seat and wait for your name to be called.”

“I’m looking—”

“If you have any questions”—she set her stethoscope in her basket decisively—“the reception desk is over—”

“I’m just looking for my son,” I said sharply. “My wife told me that he was here.”

She seemed to see me for the first time. “Are you Jacqui’s husband?”

I nodded.

“David’s back here,” she said, taking the handle of her cart and leading me through a swinging door and down a narrow corridor.

I followed her into a warren of curtained beds and beeping machinery to a large nursing station. Nurses bustled back and forth, pastel blurs, the officious squeak of soft-soled shoes.

Jacqui was standing at the counter, talking to one of the nurses. I was shocked when she threw her arms around my waist, pulling herself tight against me.

“Oh God, Chris.”

“What happened?” I asked. I hugged her reflexively. “Where’s David?”

She pulled away. Her face was pale, and her eyes were wide, darting. She looked like she wanted to bolt.

She hesitated a moment, then gestured with her hand. “In 17.”

I started forward, but she put her hand on my arm.

“The doctor’s with him.” Her voice came out small and fragile.

Following the numbers above the curtains, I spotted 17. Two pairs of feet, and tan pants and blue-green scrubs, moved in the space between the curtains and the floor. “Shouldn’t you be …”

She was bouncing one foot slightly as she leaned against the counter, her lips tight and pale. “They asked me to wait out here. They’re doing a lumbar puncture. They think it might be meningitis.”

The word chilled me. “What happened?”

She shook her head. “I heard a noise. Upstairs. I came into his room—”

The curtains around the bed slid back with a metallic rattle and the doctor and a nurse I vaguely recognized stepped out. The doctor was writing on a clipboard as we moved toward him.

“How are you holding up, Jacqui?” he asked.

“Hanging in,” she said quietly.

“I’m Stephen McKinley,” he said. “You must be Christopher.”

“Chris,” I said, craning my neck around him to see the metal bed.

David.

“Is he going to be okay?”

The doctor took a half-step back and I edged around him.

“We’ve done a preliminary examination,” he began as I reached David’s bedside. “And a lumbar puncture. David is stable. I do have a few questions, though. Is there any family history of epilepsy?”