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It was huge. And it was intent on killing her.
The Tyrannosaurus Rex stomped through the wild terrain of the Lost Valley, moving with a speed that defied its size. Lara Croft was only a few yards ahead of it, running at a pace that only fear and adrenaline could produce.
She had already run the length and breadth of this narrow valley. There was no exit from it; she was trapped with a prehistoric creature she couldn’t kill.
She could barely remember how she landed in this situation—she vaguely recalled falling when an ancient passageway had given way beneath her feet. It no longer mattered, her weary thoughts were of survival only.
She heard the T-Rex roar behind her and knew, from recent punishing experience, that the sound preceded another thrust of its massive jaws. She steeled herself for a few moments then leapt to one side, crashing through fronds and branches, adding to her growing list of scratches and minor injuries.
She saw the teeth of the dinosaur snap together only a foot away from her leg as she tumbled out its path. If she had delayed a moment longer….
The T-Rex pounded forwards for a few ground-shaking steps then slowed itself and turned towards her. It growled again, the sound as huge as the chest that birthed it. She groaned and rolled to her feet and set off again in another direction.
Her thighs were past aching into the territory of agony. Her breath was laboured; her shirt, soaked with her sweat, clung to her body. She hurt everywhere. She could not maintain this for much longer.
She had no clear idea of how long she had been running; it seemed to be forever.
She couldn’t understand why the bullets from her gun had no effect on the dinosaur. She’d expected it would take plenty of bullets to kill it, but her bullets only seemed to enrage it, without slowing it down at all.
She was exhausted and she knew she had to come up with a solution soon. Her thoughts were as ragged as her clothing. There didn’t seem to be any escape.
Hadn’t there been some fallen stones near the place she’d entered the valley? If she could get on top of them, maybe she could climb out of the dinosaur’s feeding ground.
She veered in the direction she hoped the stones lay in. She wasn’t sure where they lay; she wasn’t even sure if they existed outside her desperate mind. She could hear the T-Rex pounding through the undergrowth behind her and hazarded a backward glance. The foliage that had torn at her clothes and latticed her arms and legs with scratches made no impression on its thick hide. It was unstoppable.
She burst out of the jungle into an open area that seemed unpleasantly familiar. Had she run through here already or was the site reminding her of a past adventure? If so it was not a pleasant reminder. An unsettling feeling of déjà vu passed through her.
She had no time to ponder this. She could hear the T-Rex only seconds behind her and she could see, to her left, an uneven pile of shaped stones. They tumbled from the face of an ancient building hidden beneath a thick curtain of vines.
This was her only chance of escape from the monster that pursued her.
She veered to her left moments before the dinosaur emerged from the jungle. It roared as if triumphant at seeing its prey.
She managed to increase her pace, though the pain this cost her sweating, scored body told her this was her final effort. She would need to be successful or her legs, screaming at her to stop running, would have to be obeyed.
She chose the lowest point of the stones, praying that it was low enough to reach and grip. She would have only seconds to drag herself up and find a point of safety, but at least her arms were not suffering the exhaustion she felt in her legs.
One quick glance back was encouraging. The T-Rex was several yards behind her. If she was quick she could succeed.
She reached the stones without slowing her pace and leapt upwards and forwards, her arms straining to reach her chosen spot exit point. She pounded into the stone, her chest slamming into its unforgiving surface.
Her hands found purchase on the upper edge of the stone; years of climbing experience had not failed her.
She could hear the thudding footfalls of the T-Rex approaching. She had no time to congratulate herself; she had to lift herself out of its reach. She tightened her grip on the stone and hauled herself upwards.
And found that she couldn’t do it.
Her impact on the stone had knocked all the air from her lungs. Her arms did not hurt like her legs but they felt empty, devoid of all power. They simply couldn’t obey her commands.
She glanced back past her outstretched arms and saw what she dreaded. The dinosaur was only moments away; its jaws opened and ready to snap her in two. Even if she could have raised herself, there was no time left to do so.
She dropped to the ground and landed awkwardly, rolling desperately to her right.
She watched the T-Rex lower its jaw to its descending target, its jaws closing on her trailing left ankle. There was a sickening snap of bone and an agony that overpowered the pain she already felt.
She lay on the valley floor and watched in stunned disbelief as arterial blood spurted from her left leg, a leg that terminated at her calf. The dinosaur turned towards her and she could see it swallowing the reward for its efforts, her foot…her foot…moving down its throat. She was dizzy already from the blood that fled her body.
She could no longer run, she could only continue her horrified scrutiny of the dinosaur. It opened its jaws again; its teeth stained with her blood, and lowered its head to bite her again….
She woke screaming, her terrified gaze taking a few moments to focus on the familiar surroundings of her bedroom. It wasn’t until she had reached down to feel her left foot, still attached to her leg, that she breathed a ragged sigh of relief.
There was a polite knock at her door and, knowing who was there, she gave permission for Winston to enter.
He appeared, wearing his livery, bearing a tea tray in one hand. He managed to open and close the door without rattling the china. Despite his grey hair and lined face he still moved with a grace that she had known since her childhood.
“Bad dreams again Miss Croft?” he asked as he poured for her.
“Very bad Winston. And very persistent.”
“Is this the third night this week?”
“It’s the third night in the past three nights. I am not amused.”
“Perhaps some advice should be sought, Miss Croft. Some medical advice?”
She knew who he was referring to and was ready to agree with him. “I’ll ring Falshingham today. He returns from Istanbul this morning.”
“He returned last night, as it happens. I spoke with him then and he would be glad to see you for lunch at his estate today.”
She frowned affectionately. “Who needs a mother when she’s got you Winston?” She looked at her bedside clock. “I’d better shower and go.”
She returned her teacup to Winston, pulled back her blankets then swung her legs out onto the floor.
As she bore weight on her left leg she felt bone fragments shift above her ankle. She collapsed to the floor with a cry of pain.
“Miss Lara!” Winston exclaimed. “Are you injured?”
She was running her hand over her calf and again could find nothing wrong with it. The pain was gone as suddenly as it had appeared.
“I’m not sure Winston. Something rather weird is happening. And when weirdness is involved, it’s time to see Falshingham.”
Lara sat on the stocks, her usual position when visiting Falshingham’s dungeon, grateful to rest her aching ankle. Falshingham had bustled her down the stone stairs, away from the curious eyes of his servants. She barely noticed the grisly surroundings that included genuine medieval torture devices. Torches in wall brackets lighted the dark stones of the underground chamber. Manacles were the only adornment on the walls.
Eric Falshingham, the grey-haired, elegantly dressed Englishman, might have seemed out of place in this setting if not for the fact that he was so obviously at home. He sat on a comfortable desk chair in the corner of the dungeon, shelves of ancient books to one side of him, a computer nook to the other. He listened with concern on his broad, handsome face as she outlined her problem.
“Nightmares Lara? When I saw you limping I thought there would be a more… solid problem to be dealt with.”
“Solid problems I can deal with myself. This one is more in your neck of the woods.”
She told him about the dream she’d had the previous night and the ongoing pain in her leg. “It’s easing off but hasn’t gone. I can walk now, but this morning I couldn’t put weight on it.”
“Strange…”
“I know it’s strange, Falshingham. An explanation would be helpful.”
“Harrumph! Never make a diagnosis without taking a full history Lara. How long have these dreams been happening?”
“About two weeks. At first they were just glimpses of places I’d seen, things I’ve done. Now they’re all about enemies I’ve encountered. Last night was the first time I’d had T-Rex in my dreams and I’m not keen to see it again.”
“And this morning was the first time the dream left a physical manifestation?”
She frowned. “The first time I remained sore after waking, yes.”
“Is there any pattern to the creatures you’re seeing? Are they from one area, from one particular adventure?”
She nodded. “So far, they’ve all been creatures I encountered during the search for the Scion, when the lovely Miss Natla hired me.”
“Hmmm. And Natla is definitely deceased?”
“If not, I don’t know how many more times I’m going to have to kill her. Yes Falshingham, she is dead.”
“Correct me if I am wrong Lara, but have we now arrived at the ten year anniversary of that adventure?”
“Yes. What of it? Are you suggesting I’m having some kind of flashback to what happened then?”
She stood up, wincing briefly at another jab of pain in her left ankle. Falshingham flinched at the anger in her expression. She began to pace the confines of the dungeon, ignoring the pain, talking while she walked.
“This is not a natural thing, Falshingham. As an expert in all that’s unnatural I would expect you to know that.”
“I don’t deny….”
She spoke over the top of his protest. “Someone is doing this to me! I’m being made to relive that whole awful experience! It’s as if I’m someone’s puppet, running when they tell me to run, jumping where they command me to jump.”
“Lara, sit down!”
She was startled by his outburst and fell silent. She limped back to the stocks, though she retained the glare in her expression.
“It is clear that someone is sending these dreams to you—I have not denied that. What I am trying to ascertain is the who and the why of this mystery.”
“Not the how? People don’t just send their dreams out to others.”
“Of course they do. Common enough practice by both voodoo practitioners and the Magyar cultists. What is unusual is the intensity of this sending and the fact that someone like yourself—not exactly a suggestible personality—is victim to this.”
“So now you’d like me to make a list of all the voodoo practitioners and Magyar cultists I’ve offended recently.”
“No doubt you could produce such a list Lara. There’s never been a lack of people you have offended…”
“So kind of you to say so.”
“…but such a list of suspects will not be required.” He raised his index finger in the air like a lecturer about to make an important point, a smile on his face. “My methods of detection are somewhat more sophisticated than that.”
He turned in his chair to face the monitor that was partly hidden in the dark corner of the dungeon. He tapped on the keyboard below it and brought up a website, clicked through a few links then read quickly through what was posted there. His smile broadened as he read.
“Yes, yes, it is as I remembered.” He turned back to her. “We can trace the dream back to its sender.”
Lara stared at him.
“I can tell by your expression that you are unconvinced but I assure you that I will be able to produce a location for you, if not an actual address.”
“An address? Here in England?”
“Distance is an important factor in the sending. To send such strong images to you would require some proximity. So yes, in England.”
“Well then. English voodoo practitioners and Magyar cultists…”
“When you sleep next I will be prepared to trace these images back to their source. I have everything I need here.”
Lara surveyed her grim surroundings. “Here? You want me to sleep here?”
“Yes. It would be difficult and time-wasting to establish another nexus upstairs…”
“Fine. I’ll just stretch out on the rack, shall I?”
“Only if you are that way inclined Lara,” retorted Falshingham. “I will have a mattress and blankets brought down, a process that will take only minutes. Moving my… instruments upstairs might not be completed by nightfall however.”
“Alright Falshingham. God help me, I’m in your hands.”
She raced down a dusty, dark stone corridor. Her pursuer remained outside the penumbra of her flare, so she had not yet seen it. Its grumbling roars and pounding tread made her reluctant to do so.
She turned a corner and saw that the corridor ended in a square of pale light. It was not sunlight; it was the grey-yellow luminescence of ancient magical lighting. There was a large chamber ahead.
She slowed as she approached the square, realising that the corridor did not have a floor past the square of light—it entered the chamber at a higher level. She stopped at the exit and looked down about fifteen feet into a rectangular stone room, with three other exits. The exits were flanked by statues, which depicted mummies with jackal heads. Something about those statues made her very uneasy.
An enraged roar from behind her reminded her that she had no choice but to enter. She dropped to the edge of the stones beneath her feet, hanging suspended for a moment, then dropped further to the floor of the chamber, tumbling to break her fall.
She looked up at her entry point, confirming that it was too high to use as an exit. She did not relish having to pass through the statues to continue her escape.
She saw a pair of yellow eyes gleaming in the darkness of the high corridor; her pursuer had reached the chamber. She saw a snout, with skin that was blood red. There was a hideous snuffling sound, then a harsh snort of frustration. The yellow eyes retreated back into the shadows.
The creature, whatever it was, had chosen not to enter this room.
Her uneasiness escalated into fear.
She scanned her surroundings, studying the strange statues again. Hadn’t she once encountered such figures before? And what were they sculpted from? It wasn’t stone, she realised as she approached one of the doorways, it was more like some kind of cloth…
The statue she was looking at stirred, the cloth that wrapped it rippling briefly. Dust fell from its shoulders.
Lara waited no longer. She chose the door that seemed to have the most light in the corridor beyond it. She raced past the statues guarding it, which continued to shudder into life.
She had gone only a hundred yards before she heard a snarling protest behind her. Five more canine voices joined the chorus then she could hear them come after her.
Running for her life again. How long had she been running?
She turned a corner and felt a surge of relief. There was no visible exit but the next corner revealed a more natural light; this corridor led outside. There might be an escape for her, maybe a chance to take cover and shoot at her inhuman pursuers. Doing so here, confined by the walls of the corridor, would be suicide.
She turned another corner and saw a cherished square of daylight.
She slowed as she neared it, again seeing that it opened into space rather than onto ground. When she reached the exit she saw that she was not outdoors as she had hoped. A huge unroofed plaza was below her, enclosed on each side by tall walls, with a deep pool at its centre.
She looked to either side. There were no crevices or ledges she could negotiate. The only way was down and the pool was too far ahead of her to reach with a standing leap. She would need momentum.
She moved back down the corridor just as one of the mummy creatures turned the corner. She needed more space to run, if she was to make the leap required. She kept moving forward, drawing her pistols and firing, hoping to clear enough space for her run.
Her pistols were empty. She vaguely remembered using the last of her ammunition on another pursuer. How long had she been running?
And in the moments it took to grasp this she had moved closer to her enemy, which was joined at the corner by two more of its awful companions.
She slid to a halt only a dozen yards short of them. She rolled to one side then turned as she rose to her feet and sped away. She could hear them leap from behind her.
There wasn’t enough room to work up speed. She wasn’t going to make the jump.
She had no choice but to try. Her thighs tensed for a final burst of effort. As she propelled herself forward she heard an enraged growl immediately behind her and felt claws gouge their way through her lower back.
She flew forward through the air, limbs flailing, agony in her back.
Her eyes sought out the pool and she was amazed to see that she was above it. The mummy-jackal must have pushed her forward as it swiped at her with its claws. She was going to land in the pool.
The pool rose into her vision with alarming speed. Blue water. And countless crocodiles…
She woke with a scream, briefly disorientated in the darkness. This was not her bedroom. The sight of the iron maiden shocked her briefly until she realised where she was.
Her back burned with pain. The mummy’s claws had gone deep, or felt like they had. She turned trying to glimpse her lower back.
“Lie still Lara,” said Falshingham softly from somewhere nearby. “I have equipment upstairs.”
“Upstairs? I thought I had to sleep in this bloody dungeon because your magical gear was here?”
Falshingham’s worried expression loomed forward out of the shadows. “Different equipment Lara. Surgical equipment.”
She frowned in confusion then turned again to look at her back. The rear of her nightgown was soaked in blood.
She lay naked on her stomach; the surgical gown Falshingham had provided was beneath her on the examination couch. She was in a small treatment room, where he had carried her. He bustled around the room, muttering away to himself as he prepared to sew her wounds.
“I thought myself foolish to have a surgical theatre here, in my home. Just wanted to keep my eye in since my retirement. Never thought I’d need to use it.”
“How bad is it?” She grimaced at her own words. “I sound like a character in an old war movie. I just can’t get a good look at the area.”
“There are three parallel wounds Lara. They are not long, but each of them is deep, down to muscle. I will need to repair them in layers. A lot of local anaesthetic will be needed. He turned towards her with a full syringe in his gloved hands.
“Wonderful,” she sighed, turning away.
“Hmmm. I don’t like the look of this.”
“What? Falshingham--that is not what a lady likes to hear when her bum is exposed”
“Your derriere is exquisite Lara but, oddly enough, not what has caught my attention.”
“For God’s sake Eric, less banter and more information. What’s wrong?”
“Your wounds have healed.”
“Healed? But I can still feel them. And if they’ve healed… well that’s a good thing surely?”
“Not to my way of thinking, no, not a good thing.”
“Were you so looking forward to stitching me up?”
“Consider the situation Lara. Your enemy has demonstrated that he is able to blur the boundary between the imaginary and the real. And now…”
“Were the wounds ever real? Perhaps the illusion was extended to include your perception.”
“My Armani suit is stained with your blood Lara. And I know real wounds when I see them.”
“So why is their healing bad news?”
“Your enemy is now demonstrating that he…”
“Or she.”
“Or she,” acknowledged Falshingham grimly. “Let us refer to enemies then, enemies that can have you savaged in your dreams, can inflict grievous, life-threatening injuries, or can choose not to.”
“I’m being played with. My enemies can prolong the game as long as it amuses them.”
“My conclusion exactly.”
“Did your efforts last night bear fruit?”
He nodded. “Just before you woke I was able to trace the source of the sending. An old and quite isolated estate in Sussex, only a few hours drive from here.” He handed her a note with the address. “An internet search suggests that it was recently bought by a European consortium and with time I hope to learn more about them.”
“Time I don’t have Eric. I’m going there today. Now.”
“Surely a little planning beforehand would be wise. I can try to get the layout of the mansion.”
“You can search for that on the Internet while I drive there, then send me the details.”
“You plan to drive there from here? Don’t you need to return home for… combat gear?”
“I have everything I need in the car and returning home will take hours spent going in the wrong direction.”
She began dressing herself while Falshingham became more agitated.
“Lara, this haste is… unwise. We don’t know whom we’re dealing with. I have to admit; I don’t even precisely know how this dream sending is being done. The images are coming from your mind, Lara, from your memories, not from the mind of the sender. And those memories are all from a relatively short period in your career.”
Fully dressed, she started to move to the door of the treatment room.
“Give me 24 hours to find out what I can Lara. Why do you have to rush in now?”
She turned, her hand on the doorhandle. “Because I don’t want to give them even one more night to attack me. My back feels like it’s in shreds and my ankle pains me whenever I put weight on it. What happens tonight? Will I be able to act against my enemies if I wait until tomorrow?”
His shoulders slumped, acknowledging her logic. “Then take me with you. There is much more to be learned about this if you are to effectively overcome your enemies.”
She shook her head.
“I know I’m not the most sprightly of companions but my new chauffeur is ex-SAS. Surely, between us, we can offer you some support.”
“I appreciate the offer Eric. God knows you’ve helped me before, but I need to do this alone.”
The dejection she saw in his broad, honest face made her explain further. “I have always preferred to work alone Eric. I take pride in it. I don’t like having to worry about what trouble my companion is getting into. My objective here is simple. I will enter the mansion, identify my enemies and eliminate them. I won’t want any witnesses to what I do.”
She smiled but there was no warmth in her expression. “They have chosen me to be their puppet and it’s up to me to cut the strings. If I can’t deal with this myself, then I’m more wounded than I realised.”
Lara waited behind the trunk of an old oak tree, only thirty yards from the mansion. The estate seemed to have no security plan whatsoever. There had been no sensors on the outer wall and no security advisor would have allowed trees so close to the main building. It would take her only a few seconds to cross an unruly lawn to the mansion.
She wore black clothing—boots, combat pants, T-shirt, jacket and backpack all blended in the shadows. Her pistols rested in black hip holsters. The clothing was close fitting but comfortable. The only problem with her dark ensemble was that she was working in the middle of the day.
She had seen no security patrols, no sign of any precautions being taken by the inhabitants. The mansion had three stories and had been designed in an impressive French provincial style. Surely there were items worth stealing inside. Why were there no precautions against intruders?
There were a few ground floor windows showing light behind blinds; the house appeared to be inhabited but was silent nevertheless. She chose a third story window that appeared to be partly open as her entry point, then moved as quickly as her left ankle would allow across the mansion’s wall beneath the window.
Her ankle throbbed from the exertion but it was definitely less sore than the previous day. She wasn’t sure how it would behave if she needed to sprint but expected that if such a need arose, the fear and adrenaline involved would overcome the pain.
She pulled her grapple gun from her backpack. She looked up at the target window; she could neither see nor hear any sign that the room behind the window was occupied. She aimed her grapple at the windowsill and fired. The grapple found purchase and within a minute she had climbed the line and entered through the open window.
She was in a dark bedroom, the furniture also French Provincial. There was nobody in the room and silence was all she could hear as she listened at the door. She opened the door and moved cautiously into a hallway, lit only at her far left, where the top of a stairway was visible. In the wall beside the stairway was a modern elevator door, which jarred visibly with all the architecture around it. The installation must be new; she presumed that the current owners had ordered it. Were there heavy objects that had to be moved between floors?
She proceeded to search each of the rooms on the upper floor. They were all unlocked and unoccupied. She encountered nothing suspicious. There were no pentagrams on floors, no manacles hanging from the walls: Falshingham’s house was far more sinister.
She moved to the stairway and waited, listening, for several minutes. She ignored the elevator since using it would make too much noise. She could hear someone moving around on the ground floor and the lack of conversation suggested he, or she, was alone. She also heard a soft humming sound whenever the occupant moved from one room to another but could not identify the sound.
The mansion appeared to be exactly what it purported to be—an old homestead recently purchased as an investment by a European company and currently occupied only by a caretaker. Could Falshingham have been wrong about the source of her nightmares?
There were still two more floors to investigate before ruling the place innocent. She moved swiftly but silently down the stairway to the middle floor. The layout was the same as the top floor and she proceeded to search the rooms there, with similar results.
After three rooms, when she moved back into the hallway, she heard a sound that halted her in her tracks. A screeching roar, a sound she recognised from her last nightmare, the sound of a jackal.
The noise came from downstairs and was followed by an unnerving silence. She couldn’t have heard what she thought she’d heard. She was wide-awake and it was daylight outside.
Outside? The hallway had become a stone corridor, lit by columns of glowing hieroglyphics. She heard the roar again, from the same direction, but there was no longer any stairway there, no longer any mansion. She was trapped in another nightmare.
Telling herself she was imagining what she was seeing didn’t dispel it. The stones felt real enough under her feet; the walls were solid underneath her hands.
And the ebon jackal that appeared from the end of the corridor was terrifyingly real. It roared again then charged at her.
She drew her pistols and fired. The creature staggered forward for a few paces then collapsed to the floor of the corridor. It moaned then fell silent.
This is not real! This is not real!
She could smell the creature’s carcass, foetid even before death. How could a hallucination be so authentic?
Then she heard the roars of several pursuers, none of them human.
She began to run away from the sound, the pain in her ankle forgotten.
She knew there was a window ahead of her, at the end of a hallway she could no longer see. The corridor was impossibly long but, yes, there was light at the end of it. This did not comfort her; the light was an unholy red glow.
The corridor ended on a stone platform, high above a bubbling, seething lava lake. She looked around desperately, trying to find a way to escape her pursuers.
Then two red-winged harpies appeared from the darkness high above the lava pool, flying towards her, casting fire at her where she stood. They had no skin on their frames, their lean musculature exposed.
She sighted another platform below her to her right. She had no time to use her grapple gun and no time to find a point at which to aim it. She took a few backward steps then launched herself forward in desperation.
The heat of the lava was intense without the cover of the platform beneath her. Her stretching athletic form was lined in a red glow.
She reached the other platform more easily than she had expected. She landed awkwardly, scrambling for purchase, at risk of tumbling from the other side of the platform. She halted and gulped air into her straining lungs, hoping for a respite.
The jackals were halted on the platform above her; she could hear their frustrated barking. However nothing prevented the harpies winged approach.
She rose unsteadily to her feet. A ball of flame landing only feet away scorched her pants and launched her into another run. She fled down a maze of stone corridors.
Corridors that could not exist. She was in an English mansion, wasn’t she?
The pain in her ankle, which had not troubled her during her last nightmare, was agony now. She could feel the wounds on her lower back had reopened, her sweat stinging in the slashes. Her thighs were scorched by the harpies’ attack, adding a new pain to her troubles. Did this awareness of pain mean she was awake?
What new wounds would she soon have suffered?
She could not run forever, though it felt like she already had.
Her pursuers kept coming, loud and enraged and terrifyingly swift. She could not outrun them.
She turned a corner and tried to stop, instinctively feeling a new dread. Something was very wrong in this corridor but she couldn’t remember what it was. Something different about the sides of the corridor.
Then the stone walls slammed into her from either side, crushing her into oblivion.
She knew she wasn’t dead. There was too much pain for that—incredible pain. It seemed that every bone in her body was broken.
She drifted at the edges of consciousness. Impossibly, her pain escalated and she was aware of being moved, of being hoisted in the air. Her legs were pulled apart, for reasons she could not understand, and didn’t really wish to.
She tried to protest this treatment but couldn’t seem to form words. She became aware of a piteous moaning sound coming from nearby. It was the only sound she could hear. Whoever, or whatever, was moving her was not speaking.
Higher she was hoisted, her shattered arms above her head, bone shards impaling her skin. Her mangled legs were spread further apart and her feet were lifted clear of the floor.
The moaning became louder, more desperate, and she realised that the sound was coming from her own bleeding mouth.
Unconsciousness tempted her—the relief of oblivion—but she needed to know the worst. She had to see where she was, even though she knew her situation was desperate.
Her head was hanging down and she saw her bindings first. She was suspended in the air, spread-eagled, by strips of cloth. They were dusty, grey and stained with blood. They stank of ancient tombs, of death and the grave. They were mummy wrappings.
They held each limb in a tight binding and her throbbing aching torso was swaddled in them. She could not have moved much, even if her wretched pain would allow her to.
Incredibly, her legs did not appear to be injured at all. They were pulled apart by the wrappings but each leg looked straight and strong, contradicting the pain those limbs were reporting to her brain.
“Now you know how it feels to be crushed, eh?”
The accented voice was familiar but, even after all the impossible events of the day, she could not believe she was hearing it.
She moaned as she turned her head—any movement was agony for her. She looked into the gloating face of Pierre Dupont.
He sat in a wheelchair, but one such as she had never seen. It was like a metal cabinet, encasing his legs and hips, while his arms rested on padded armrests at the sides of the metal frame. A small control panel sat beneath his right hand. His presence, in front of the ancient grey stonework that enclosed them, seemed more dreamlike than what she knew was illusion.
“The stone walls! Oh, I enjoyed that! Crunch!”
He raised his arms and clapped his hands together to emphasize his last word. She could see from his wasted hands and the awkwardness of his clapping movement that he was a partial quadriplegic.
The minor mystery of the elevator was solved.
“Pierre,” she groaned. “How did you… ?”
“How did I survive Lara? Is that what you ask me? No thanks to you, I answer.”
His shaved head glistened with perspiration and his eyes blazed with outrage. “You left me for dead Lara! You abandoned me in that awful place!”
“No, not fair,” she muttered, barely able to speak through her broken jaw, stabbed by the effort of drawing breath with broken ribs.
“Painful, is it not? Can you feel now what I felt, lying there in the dark?”
She could certainly feel pain, unbearable pain, though wherever she looked upon her helpless suspended body she could see no reason for it.
Then the pain began to ease. It descended to a level where she could breathe freely and start to think of something other than the pain that enveloped her.
“I thought you were dead Pierre. You were trampled to death, or so I believed. If I had known you were alive, I would not have left you.”
“Now you say this. But then, this was not true. You abandoned me Lara. You did not care if I lived or not. I was no longer a threat to your efforts, that was all you cared about.”
“No, not true. I was sure you could not have survived such injuries.”
“You did not care. Did you even check for a pulse, while I lay unconscious?”
“No,” she admitted. The pain was easing further, almost to a bearable level. She realised that Pierre was controlling what she felt, was manipulating a switch on his control panel. Though she welcomed the lessening of her pain, the realization of why it decreased sickened her.
She was completely at his mercy.
“I did not send you on that mission Pierre—Natla did.” She knew she had no chance to physically free herself; she would have to talk her way out of this awful situation. “Blame her if you must blame someone.”
“But she is beyond any vengeance, again thanks to you.”
“We were competitors Pierre. We had been so earlier. I never tried to kill you, then or before. I did not inflict the wounds that killed… nearly killed you.”
“I could so easily have killed you Lara, back then. Did you know? I had both my guns aimed at your back, when you first entered St Francis Folly. I chose not to fire, I chose to be a sport about it—is that the expression?”
“And I always respected your… sportsmanship, your professionalism.”
He laughed a bitter laugh. “Mais non, Lara. It is far too late to charm your way out of this. Though you do look quite charming in your constraints.”
She disliked the way the conversation was going. “How did you survive it Pierre? How did you get out of there? And how did you do—this to me?”
She tugged briefly on the bindings that held her, then grunted in surprise at how much that small movement hurt her. It seemed that her pain was bearable only for so long as she remained still.
“So many questions Lara! But there is plenty of time to answer. All the time in the world. Another of your expressions—you are not going anywhere.”
“Then answer me.”
He smiled at her then did so. “I was never quite the lone operator that you were Lara. I had a support team that was camped close by. When I did not report in at sundown, they came looking for me.
“Three days it took them to reach me. Three days of agonising pain, of desperation in the darkness. Then another day, after they had secured my shattered body in a stretcher, to leave the site. You cannot know what torment it was Lara.”
“I believe I do,” she muttered. “What about now? How did you manage to send me the nightmares and lure me here?
He laughed again, a horrible grating sound. “Lure you here? I never lured you here—I never dreamed I would actually have you here in person, you foolish girl.
“As you can see, physical pursuits are now impossible for me, but in my travels I have seen many strange things. I know you have also. My pursuits then became the supernatural, the learning of what a man can do with his mind, with his force of will. Your current… predicament… is the proof of how well I have learned this craft.
“The distance from here to your home limited what I could do. I could draw images from your mind and form them into nightmares. I could do this only while you slept and I could make you feel pain, lasting pain, but I could not cause real wounds. Then last night you slept closer to me and I could do more. Real wounds, wounds I could kill you with, if I chose to. And now, beyond all expectations, you are here in my home. Now there is no limit to what I can do with you.”
His smile terrified her. Her heart was pounding in her chest and she could feel panic growing in her aching body. “But why do this?” she asked, trying one last ploy. If you can do this to me, imagine what else you could do.”
“Oui, many things I could do. But only one thing I wish to do—hurting you—and so many ways to do it.”
He was beyond reasoning with. She could see madness in his bright gaze. And eagerness. He was about to start a new nightmare for her.
She could feel something fluttering behind her eyes, could feel him crawling through her memories. It was a loathsome sensation.
She tugged at her wrappings but only succeeded in reigniting the pain that plagued her. She looked at the far end of her arm bindings to see what they were attached to but the roof was in darkness. When she looked back at Dupont she saw that he was no longer alone.
Larson stood beside his wheelchair, a lecherous smile on his face. His muscular body was as she remembered it, dressed in a tight dark shirt.
“Well darling, you seem to be all trussed up,” he drawled in his Southern accent.
Larson was definitely dead, she told herself. This was not real. This was not real!
“Maybe I should say gift-wrapped? A gift for me and the hands-on approach I told you about.”
This was not the first time he had haunted her dreams, but it was the first time he was alive in them. The guilt that inhabited those dreams was absent now, when she saw the avid expression on his face.
“Stay away from me Larson. I’m warning you…”
“What’re gonna do honey? Murder me again?”
He swung a fist into her stomach and she gasped for air. The blow bent her forward, firing all her other dull aches back into life.
“No! Don’t!”
He hit her again, harder than the first time. She had no breath left to protest.
He was tall enough to reach up and cup her chin in his hand. “Such a pretty thing, you are. And always so uppity, so damn English! Never had time for a common man like me, did you? Well we’ve got plenty of time now.”
He withdrew his hand from her chin, then punched her there. Her head jolted back and pain exploded in her neck and back. Her vision blurred but she was somehow aware of Larson walking behind her.
She looked over at Pierre. There was a tightening of his expression, his brows drawn together in concentration, but his smile was one of bliss.
Then Larson hit her from behind, pounding her left kidney area.
“Ugh!” she grunted as she swung forward in her bindings. “Enough! Pierre! Stop this!”
Larsen punched her right loin, shuddering her aching body.
“God! Enough! What do you want Pierre?”
“Isn’t that clear? This is what I want! To punish you!”
Larsen moved in front of her. “Don’t talk to him honey. I’m the one you’re dealing with now.”
He grabbed her left breast, roughly hoisting it up in his grip.
“No! Get your hands off me!”
“I thought that would get your attention,” Larsen said, then slammed his fist into her breast.
She could not move away from the punches that rained on her, that pounded every inch of her torso. Several times she came close to passing out but remained awake and suffering.
When the punches stopped it took her several minutes to realise it. She hurt everywhere, she hurt to move, she hurt to breathe.
But Larson was gone. She was alone with Pierre again.
“So Lara, was it nice to see your old friend Larson again?”
“No more,” she pleaded, no longer caring how pathetic she sounded.
“But there are so many more ways to punish you! Perhaps Natla will pay you a visit, or one of her harpies? What about Kade, with his hunting knife? Do you have a preference?”
She struggled to process his last words. What would he summon next from her memories to torment her with?
She reviewed the struggle for the scion and all that she had encountered then. There was one creature that had not been seen in any of her nightmares and she began to understand why.
Falshingham always taught her that magic, in every one of its forms, had its own internal logic. If one understood that, one could start to overcome it.
She could feel Pierre trawling through her memories, choosing her next punishment. She made her own selection.
They came thundering into the room, hooves pounding, eyes blazing red, their shields and spears in combat position.
“Non! Non!” screamed Pierre and she knew her deductions were correct. The centaurs were the only part of the scion adventure that Pierre was involved with. They were more his nightmare than hers.
They charged at him before he had a chance to activate his wheelchair. There was an awful déjà vu as she watched them rear on their hind hooves and stomp their helpless victim with their front hooves.
Blood flew from his shattered face and his screams died in his throat.
She dropped to the floor as her bindings vanished. The pain that had wracked her was fading away, already dimming into memory. She rose to her feet, standing on the carpeted floor of a bedroom.
Her déjà vu persisted as she moved over to Pierre’s still, lifeless form.
This time she checked for a pulse, and found none.