Nemesis (FBI Thriller #19)(27)

Another shock of panic. He calmed. Relax, go with it. It wasn’t as if he had a choice anyway.

He sniffed the air, smelled smoke. He couldn’t remember actually smelling anything in a dream before, but now he could. It was burning wood, off to his right. He walked toward it, along a wide trail through the trees and the undergrowth, noticed again that he didn’t feel the brambles on the trail under his feet, though he walked right over them. He reached out to touch a pine tree, but his hand went through it. He drew back, slashed his hand through the tree again, harder. Nothing there. He knew then this wasn’t a dream. His subconscious had nothing to do with this. No, it was something else. Was he in some sort of hologram?

Something or someone else was in charge of his spirit-walk thought these woods and toward the unknown. He felt a presence, a presence he knew he should fear. What do you want from me? Why am I here?

Savich stepped out of the pines and into another clearing. An ancient stone tower stood before him, lichen growing thick on the stones. He saw two rough-cut skinny windows covered with what looked like animal hides. Why this bizarre tower?

He raised his hand to push the knob on the large black door, paused. Slowly, he laid his palm against it. He was surprised. It was solid, the wood rough against his palm. Savich shoved and the door swung open. He stepped into a magnificent Moorish-tiled entryway with a soaring ceiling so high he couldn’t see the top. The smell of smoke was strong inside, as if the air itself were burning, making his eyes tear. The stone beneath his bare feet felt icy cold and as solid as the door. Very well, for whatever reason, inside this tower, he wasn’t insubstantial, he was real.

He felt a sudden blast of arctic air. What was that—a touch of the spurs? Had he broken a rule? Whose rule?

He slapped his hands to his arms for warmth and looked around. He had to admit it was an awesome illusion, a vast space replete with Gothic trimmings. There were rush torches fastened to the stone walls, but they weren’t lit. Couldn’t you manage that?

Some twenty feet beyond him, wide stone steps led upward, fading into the roiling shadows in the distance. They looked well worn, as if centuries of heavy booted feet had marched over them. There was a solid stone wall on his right and an arched stone doorway on his left. He walked through it and into a room from the past, filled with dark, heavy, richly carved furniture, like he’d seen in an old castle near Lisbon. There was a blazing fireplace large enough to roast a cow, which blew out blue puffs of smoke. He walked over and reached out his cold hands to the flames, but they held no heat, no warmth at all, like a moving picture of a fire. There were dark beams crisscrossing overhead, but no windows, only large faded tapestries of medieval hunting scenes on the walls.

The air was oppressive, heavy, but the thick smell of smoke was now gone. He felt something stir behind him. It was the presence he’d felt in the forest. It was here. He turned slowly, but there was no one there.

He called out, his voice clipped and impatient, “You went to a lot of trouble to bring me into this elaborate dream with you. I smelled your smoke and found you, as you wanted me to. Time for you to show yourself and stop showing off.”

Savich heard a laugh, a man’s deep laugh, not the sort of laugh you’d join in. It was crude, mocking. He turned toward the arched doorway. It was no longer empty.

A man stood there, his hands crossed over his chest. He was swathed in a hooded black robe with long, billowing sleeves. The robe seemed to twist and swirl around his dark boots, as if stirred by an unseen wind. A thin gold cord was tied around his waist, the ends dangling nearly to his knees. His face was long and thin, his head covered by a hood. From what Savich could see of his face, he was pale, with long black hair that spilled forward from his hood onto his shoulders. He looked like an ancient scholar, or perhaps a monk from an old religious order who might have worked in a dark tower like this. He’d seen pictures of witches in robes like that, dancing in their ceremonies, their faces exalted while they chanted to the heavens, carving the air with sharp-bladed Athames.

“You are not frightened,” he said in a deep voice. “I admit that surprises me. I brought you here to instruct you about what you’re going to do for me.”

His voice was resonant yet strangely hollow, like an old recording played too many times. He sounded faintly European. Savich said, “You mean the kind of instruction you gave Walter Givens and Brakey Alcott, to stab their friends?”

“You’re quite intuitive, I see. Perhaps that is why you are not as afraid of me as you should be. You realized quite quickly my beautiful forest wasn’t a dream, that I had eased into your mind, created this splendid setting to bring you into.”

“I should be afraid?”

“You will do as I say, as they did, whether you are afraid or not. Before we are done here, you will revere me, worship me. And you will remember nothing.”

Savich waved his hand around him. “I don’t see much to be afraid of, actually. Look around you. You couldn’t manage to get the lighting right, so many shadows, so many blurred corners in your tower. And you couldn’t provide heat, either, could you?

“Worship you? If you don’t mind, now I’m too cold.”

The hooded figure didn’t move, stood with his black cloak swirling about his ankles. If Savich wasn’t mistaken, he looked surprised at the mockery. What would he do? Savich hated to admit it to himself, but he was afraid. He had no idea what would happen if he were killed in his mind. Would his body die as well?