“I don’t know. But it happened after you left.” His voice was gritty with emotion.
“Oh.” From the corner of her eye, she could see Zarah staring at her.
“Can you hear him?” Quinn asked.
“No. Only you can hear what he says.”
“She is brave,” Caleb said. “Tell her that. And thank her for destroying that blue thing.”
After Quinn repeated the words, Zarah’s brow wrinkled. “Wait a minute. When Griffin is a wolf, he can’t talk to me or anybody else. How can this one do it?”
Quinn hadn’t even thought of that. She tipped her head toward Caleb.
It was strange to see a wolf shrug. “I guess a ghost wolf can do it.”
“He says—because he’s a ghost.”
“And because you’re close to him,” Zarah murmured. “What’s his name?”
“Caleb.”
Step by step, the wolf closed the distance between himselfand Quinn. She went stock-still, feeling his power as he approached her. Because she was still sitting on the ground, his face was about at her eye level.
“She can’t see me either,” he said as he rubbed his face against her neck, his fur making her skin prickle.
Then he raised his head. Slowly and delicately, his tongue stroked against her cheek, sending shivers of awareness over her body. When he stroked downward to her neck, she lifted her chin.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
“You like that. . . . I wanted to be alone with you.”
She knew that. But they weren’t alone, and she couldn’t ignore Zarah. Involuntarily, she glanced toward her friend, but the other woman gave no sign of being aware of the intimacy.Thank the Great Mother.
“We can’t talk about it now,” she said, hoping the tone of her voice would stop him. She wanted to say,
We can’t do this now. We can’t do it at all.
But the words stayed locked in her throat because they would give too much away.
She turned her head, and her gaze fell on the man that she and Zarah had both stabbed. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but she was glad to have something else to focus on. Getting up, she walked to him, then squatted and touched his neck. His body was cooling, and she felt no pulse. “He’s dead. We can’t leave him here.”
“The other one . . . ?” Zarah asked.
“He went over a cliff, into a river, so nobody will find him around here,” Caleb answered. “And if they do, his death will look like an accident.”
Quinn relayed the information.
Zarah made a strangled sound. “But it
wasn’t
an accident.” She hitched in a breath. “I’ve been responsible for the death of three people in less than twenty-four hours.”
“Because
they
tried to kill
you
—
us.
And if you’re talking about the man who went over the cliff, we didn’t do that. He ran from the werewolf, and he killed himself.”
“It doesn’t make me feel better.”
Quinn crossed to her and draped an arm around her shoulder. “The important point is, you’re safe.”
Zarah lifted her head, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. “Is Griffin?”
The question made Quinn’s throat go tight. But she managedto murmur, “He’s smart. And he had a head start. He got away.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“Let’s assume the best.”
Zarah swallowed. “I guess I have to.”
Quinn stroked her arm. “We need to get rid of this body.”
“How?”
“I’d like to take him back through the portal, but that’s too dangerous. More soldiers could be over there.”
Zarah nodded.
“You can bury him later.” The advice came from Caleb. “There’s not much risk. Not many people come here. And if they do I can keep most of them away.”
“How?”
“I make this seem like a bad place—for the people who sense me.”
“Yes. Okay.” She looked back toward the portal, then stood and helped Zarah to her feet. She was remembering Rinna’s account of closing another portal. When she’d told Draden about it, he’d said there was an easier way, if you were closer. And he’d given her some instruction.
“We should close the portal,” she said to Zarah now.
“No!”
“But others might try to come through.”
Zarah’s features took on a look of panic. “If we close it, how will Griffin get to us?”
“We have to do something . . .”
“Can’t we hide it?”
“I don’t know.”
She ran a shaky hand through her hair. When she’d agreed to come through to the other universe, Draden had given her long lectures on the properties of the portal. She’d listened to his explanations, but she hadn’t understood everything. And she’d never thought she’d be in quite this position. Now she had to strike a balance between her friend’s fear for the future and their present danger.
“Can you use your flame to create an illusion?” she asked Zarah.
“I don’t know. Maybe if you lend me your energy.” She fumbled with the small pack she carried and brought out her oil lamp again.
Quinn knew the ghost was watching and listening avidly. Looking in his direction, she asked, “Can you keep guard and tell us if anyone starts to come through?”
“Yes.”
He hurried toward the doorway between the worlds, and the two women followed.
Zarah’s hands were shaking as she pulled out the cork that blocked the neck of the lamp. Then she set the small vessel on the forest floor. When she stared at the wick, nothinghappened.
“I lit it before,” she whispered. “Very quickly.”
“But you’re exhausted now. Take some time to relax.”
“We need to do it now.” Zarah stared at the mouth of the lamp.
Long seconds passed, and still nothing happened.
Zarah made a small sound.
“I wish I could help you,” Quinn murmured.
“Like this?” The question came from Caleb. The flame flared, and Zarah looked toward where Caleb stood. “Thank you. How did you do that?”
“I don’t know,” he answered, and Quinn told Zarah.
“What will you do to the portal?” Quinn asked.
“Make it so the rock is harder to open when you press the lock spot—I hope.”
“Harder?”
“Well, I’ll make it so only someone as powerful as Draden can do it. Or two people with lesser powers, like us.”
“Okay.”
Quinn was nervous about getting close to the doorway when soldiers might be right on the other side, but she looked at Zarah’s drawn face and saw that her friend hardly had the energy to drag herself to Logan’s house—let alone hide a portal. And getting as close as possible would help.
She took Zarah’s hand, and they moved into the cave. Caleb stepped to the side, giving them better access, his teeth bared as he faced the doorway between the worlds.
Moving to the wall of rock, Zarah grasped the lamp in one hand, and took a deep breath.
“Hold one of my hands, and put your other hand against the wall.”
Quinn did as her friend asked.
“Send energy to me,” Zarah whispered.
Quinn closed her eyes, willing herself to do it. But she was so drained from the earlier fight that she was sure her contribution wasn’t going to make a difference.
“I’m hardly getting anything,” Zarah murmured.
“I’m doing my best,” Quinn said, although her attention was divided. She was watching the portal, ready to react if another soldier found his way through. And she was also watching the wolf.
And as she pressed her hand to the cold stone wall, she couldn’t stop herself from wondering if she and Zarah were both too worn out to use their psychic abilities.
Neither of them spoke. For long seconds, Zarah focused on the flame, her face tense, and her fingers digging into Quinn’s.
Finally, Zarah made a frustrated sound.
“You’re dividing your attention between me and the wolf and the soldiers you think are going to come charging through. I need your total focus.”
“I’m sorry. It’s hard to stay tuned to only the flame.”
“But you have to, or I can’t do this.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
QUINN’S CHEST TIGHTENED. Maybe they were both so emotionally drained that this whole exercise was impossible.
Then, from beside her, she felt a hot wind blow. The flame flickered, and she thought it was going to go out. But it steadied,and she knew that Caleb was doing more than guard duty. Again, he was pumping energy to the two of them.
She still didn’t know how he was accomplishing it. She only felt the effect and felt the portal in front of them change. It had been a doorway from one universe to the next.
Now it seemed like a solid barrier, although she knew that was just an illusion.
Zarah sensed the change, too. “Thank you,” she murmured,“I mean both of you.”
“I had the energy to do it. My being is mostly energy,” Caleb answered.
Zarah was still staring at the flame with deep concentration.
“What?” Quinn asked. “Can the soldiers get through?”
“I don’t think so,” Zarah whispered. “But something else is going to happen here. Something to do with you and the wolf.”
“How . . . how do you know?” Quinn asked.
“I told you, carrying my child gives me more power. And I caught a flash of something from the future.”
Quinn looked around. “Something bad?” she asked.
“Something bad—and something good, I think.” Zarah leaned her head back against the rock. “I don’t know any more.”
After a moment, she blew out the flame and replugged the spout of the lamp so that the oil wouldn’t leak out.
Quinn wanted to press her friend for answers. But she knew that if Zarah had any more to tell, she would have revealedit. So she stood and stretched, then reached down to help Zarah up.
Turning to Caleb, she said, “We have to go to my friend’s house and rest.”
“I will go with you.”
“No!” she said, much too sharply. Lowering her voice, she tried again. “No.”
“Why not?”
“We must do this part alone,” she said, hoping he would accept that answer.
Quinn stared at the wolf, waiting. When she had first talked to him, he had seemed like a man who had just awakenedfrom a long sleep. Now he was more aware—and more assertive. Did that mean he would insist on going with her?
His gaze flicked to Zarah, who was looking at the spot where he was standing. Even if she couldn’t see him, she knew where he was. He seemed to stare out at the darkened forest. Then he turned his gaze back to Quinn.
TWENTY
miles away, outside Frederick, Maryland, ColonelJim Bowie stood and leaned his hands against his desk.
He wanted to pound his fist against the wooden surface. But he kept the outward appearance of calm.
He was days away from setting in motion the most devastatingmilitary operation the continental United States had ever seen.
And he had identified a traitor in his midst. Because he had been vigilant. And he had found the bastard with a cell phone down near the firing range. When he’d checked the log of numbers called, he’d gotten a nasty shock. The guy could have blown up the whole mission. But he wouldn’t get a chance. Bowie had stopped the bastard in his tracks before he could do any real damage.
He’d interrogated the man, then locked him in the undergroundcell that served as the stockade on Flagstaff Farm. With the rats and the spiders. He hoped they were giving the guy something to think about.
And the rest of the men as well. All his troops knew about the prisoner. All of them were walking around as if on crushed glass, waiting to find out how the man would die.
Which was one reason he was drawing out the decision.
To his way of thinking, punishment had always been a big part of discipline. And he wanted the lesson to sink in—not just for one individual. For everyone on the compound.
He had studied history. And there were so many ancient and modern models he could choose from. He could go all the way back to the Bible. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. And he liked the lesson from Machiavelli, who had cut out the tongue of an informant and blinded him, then sent him back to his loving family.
Branding was also an interesting option. Maybe he should burn a mark into the guy’s chest before killing him. Or cut off his balls. No, that had sexual connotations that certainly didn’t fit the case.
But one thing he knew. The man would die slowly and painfully, knowing full well that his life was ebbing away. The question was, what method would send the most telling message to the other men?
He clenched and unclenched his fists. He could feel his blood pressure rising as he thought about the traitor.
Months ago the bastard had seemed committed to the cause, as he understood it. Now he’d shown what a snake he was.
“Don’t let him get to you,” Bowie muttered to himself. To regain his equilibrium, he turned his thoughts to something a lot more constructive. Like the bombs waiting in the locked building five hundred yards beyond the barracks.
Albert Einstein had warned President Roosevelt that the United States must have an operational nuclear weapon beforeNazi Germany. So the government had set up a secret program—the Manhattan Project—to produce one. In Chicago and at Los Alamos, the best nuclear physicists the United States could assemble, led by Robert Oppenheimer, had spent years figuring out how to make the bomb work. And they’d ended the war by dropping two of them on Japan.
But you didn’t need a true atomic bomb to cause havoc. All you needed was a conventional explosive—and enough radioactive material to spread over a wide area when the payload went off.
And he was ready to prove it. In a little more than a week.
Getting the explosives had been easy. The radioactive waste was a little more of a problem. There had been no U.S. source he could get to. So he’d investigated obtaining the stuff from one of the former Soviet Socialist Republics.