The Tattooed Heart (Messenger of Fear 2)

I had time to go into the bathroom and stare in the mirror at the place on my cheek where Oriax’s fingers had touched me. There was no sign to betray me.

Graciella. Trent. Aimal. The incubus. Too much. And memories of Oriax. Way too much.

Messenger reappeared with the blond boy. Haarm said a polite hello to me, and glanced around the living room. “Much the same as my place,” he remarked. “A dull and electronically deprived apartment.”

“Coffee?” I asked.

“No, thank you.”

I made some for myself leaving the two of them to stare blankly into space in exquisite discomfort. I didn’t care if they were uncomfortable. I was still vibrating with the Oriax effect. If I were older this sort of experience might call for a stiff shot of whiskey. I made do with coffee and a spoonful of cream.

I could see them both over the rim of my cup, the gloomy boy in black, the more cheerful yet abashed blond boy. Messenger seemed older, far older, though seen objectively the two were much the same age. But Messenger had an aura of power about him, controlled, disciplined power, but power all the more impressive for being thus controlled.

Haarm, on the other hand, looked like trouble. I’ve known boys like him, boys with ready smiles and charm, boys who naturally seek out the line between mere mischief and evil. I sensed that Haarm walked very, very close to that line, and of course he must at some point have crossed it or he would not be an apprentice.

“We will visit Trent so that Haarm may see how he fares,” Messenger said.

“But he’s . . . Isn’t he . . . ,” I said.

“He endur

es his punishment,” Messenger said. “What will seem like days to us is a lifetime to him. In a few of our days he will reach the end of his natural life, and then he will emerge from the trance that holds him.”

This was said for Haarm’s benefit. Haarm said, “I am familiar with the technique. My former master—”

“She remains your master,” Messenger interrupted. “A messenger has but one apprentice. An apprentice but one master.” It sounded like something he’d memorized. Perhaps it was in one of the books I’d been left to read. I strongly suspect that he had gone to seek advice from Daniel and Daniel had given him this formula to recite.

“I’m ready,” I said, putting down my cup.

The instant the cup touched the granite countertop, we were gone from my abode and standing in the aisle of a passenger jet.

“Well, that’s unusual,” Haarm said.

A flight attendant came toward us, bustling and grim. She passed through us and I followed her with my eyes to see that she was rushing to help another flight attendant with a passenger.

The passenger was yelling something hard to understand because he spoke with a slurred voice. Beside the unruly passenger was a large woman who alternated between saying, “Trent, you can’t make trouble now,” and telling the attendants in an urgent voice that, “He needs to go to the bathroom. His bag is full.”

“Ma’am, the fasten seat belt sign is on, he will have to wait.”

“I can’t wait, you dumb bitch!” Trent said through gritted teeth.

Trent was no longer a teenager. He was perhaps twenty-five years old, his hair grown long, his face drawn and sallow.

“Sir, you’ve been drinking, and I need you to remain in your seat and—”

“I have to—”

“He can’t move on his own, anyway,” Trent’s assistant pointed out. “I need to take him to—”

“Ma’am, I understand, and I’m sorry but—”

“Let me go!” Trent raged.

All he could move was his head, which he jerked this way and that, a frustrated, furious effort.

“The seat belt sign is—”

“I know what the —— seat belt sign says!”