Stones: Experiment (Stones #3) Read online

  Yarah is dreaming.

  Jhata scans her surroundings as the ground shakes beneath her feet. Massive claws thrust up through a pool of mud only a few meters away. A black creature pulls itself out of the filth until it stands upright on hairy hind feet. It has the shape of a bear with a long neck and boxy head. White fangs protrude from its dark mouth. Its sore-infested hide reeks with the stench of rotting flesh.

  Still dressed in her fairy godmother dress, Jhata slowly backs away from the dark specter. The sudden appearance of this monster puts her in a delicate position. If she exits too quickly, she risks attracting its attention, and with it, the attention of Yarah.

  Like Jhata, the price the little girl pays for her mind-seeing abilities is that her dreams are unusually vivid and easily remembered. Yarah might become suspect if she recalls seeing Jhata in this netherworld.

  As the beast’s eyes sweep the plain toward Jhata, she looks in vain for a place to hide or an object to hide behind. The flat prairie is featureless. The best she can do is lie in the grass, hide her own form, remain motionless, and hope that she stays out of mind and unseen.

  Jhata curses herself. This is precisely the risk of careless mind-skimming, and she hates herself for giving in to the temptation.

  As she lies in the wet grass, the beast falls silent. Perhaps it’s gone. In dreams, especially the dreams of children, such creatures come and go with random abandon.

  Jhata ventures a look up.

  Damn.

  The great black head hangs directly over her, small white eyes staring, head cocked to the side like a curious puppy.

  She freezes, avoiding eye contact.

  The beast grunts, and then swings a clawed hand, open palmed, in a great circle that will terminate in a slash across Jhata’s chest.

  Springing up into the air, Jhata arches into a back flip as the claws pass inches beneath her shoulder blades, catching the fabric of the dress and ripping a large piece completely away. Landing on her feet and still facing the monster, she sprints forward and past it.

  An ear-splitting roar breaks from the beast’s mouth.

  As Jhata shoots across the plain, the beast is in close pursuit.

  You won’t take me this easy, Yarah.

  The green grass is soft under her feet. It’s better to keep running than risk a direct confrontation with the figment of the little girl’s imagination. In the world of Yarah’s mind, the little girl is lord and master. The best Jhata can hope for is that a shift in the unstable strata of Yarah’s mind will provide a way out.

  Without warning, massive shards of green glass the size of tree trunks explode out of the ground on either side of Jhata, raining dirt and broken crystal on her. Across the plain, thousands of the spikes burst through the prairie grass, looking like three day’s stubble on a drunken man’s chin.

  Jhata stumbles through the forest of spikes, weaving in and out to avoid slamming into one.

  The beast is close behind, unrelenting in its pursuit, running in a straight line, oblivious to the glass spikes, shattering them into fragments that fall like daggers to the ground.

  Up ahead, Jhata draws close to the sheer sides of the rock cliff thrusting through the prairie floor at an angle. In another few seconds, she will run up against it, her back literally to the wall with no path of escape. But she doesn’t dare turn to the left or right, afraid of giving the beast a shorter line to intercept her.

  The breath of the creature changes from a heavy, labored sound to a more silken and fluid tone, almost melodious.

  Jhata takes a quick glance over her shoulder.

  The dark beast has morphed into a white dragon covered with lustrous scales and a satin underbelly. It has blue feathers on its head, two pairs of legs and wings folded close to its serpentine body. Lifting up its head, it leaps into the air, passing over Jhata in a great arc, sweeping its tail over her, knocking her to the ground into a sea of broken glass.

  It stops ten meters away at the base of the cliff wall, standing in full profile and focusing steely eyes upon her.

  She picks herself off the ground, remnants of her dress hanging in strips from her shoulders. Blood drips from a hundred cuts and abrasions.

  Jhata has only one thought in her mind.

  If I die here, Yarah will take all my Stones.

  The columns of green glass vanish across the plain, sucked back into the ground. As she turns to run, a ring of fire springs up, enclosing Jhata and the dragon, its walls reaching a hundred meters into the sky.

  Yarah, please wake up and release me.

  A piercing cry rains down from the sky.

  A black dragon circles overhead, its snake-like body a perfect match to the white beast staring at Jhata. The two dragons exchange shrieks and snarls, the one on the ground looking back and forth between Jhata and its mate in the sky.

  And then she understands.

  They’re planning an attack.

  The airborne dragon draws its wings in and swoops. Bracing herself, Jhata gets ready to spring away at the last minute.

  If only I could use my Stone.

  Jhata knows from long experience that she can use a Stone while inside another’s mind. She can come and go as she pleases.

  But those luxuries fall away when the dreaming starts. Once a dream pulls her in, all bets are off. She is like an actor in a movie, part of the dreamer’s consciousness, totally at her mercy, without a Stone or an exit.

  The dragon’s wings shoot out like airbrakes, and a black sphere drops from the claws of its hind leg, landing on the ground only a few meters from Jhata.

  She backs away until the heat of the wall of fire singes what’s left of her clothes.

  The sphere bursts open, spilling out thousands of tiny worm-like creatures. Their bodies squirm and writhe, spreading out like a pool of black oil.

  The white dragon lands at the edge of the pool. Rearing back its head, it sprays fire on the black worms. For a moment, the flames spread to their bodies, and it looks as if they will be consumed in the inferno.

  But then Jhata realizes they’re growing larger, feeding on the flames like yeast feeds on sugar.

  The white dragon and its mate leap into the sky, circling overhead, a giant ying and yang, waiting for the inevitable conclusion.

  The black worms grow in the flames until they are the size of cats. The fire burns out, and the worms charge.

  Jhata freezes in place until the black tide reaches her feet. Unable to escape, the worms flow over her, climbing up her legs, burning and flaying her skin, consuming her flesh to the bone.

  She sinks, swimming in a sea of chaos, slowing losing consciousness, her life draining away.

  So this is how it ends for the mighty Jhata?

  And then, as quickly as it began, the black worms vanish, along with the dragons and the grassy prairie, leaving behind only silence and stillness. The grip of the dream falls away.

  Jhata, her body riddled with holes, lies in the center of a bare white plain running to the horizon in every direction.

  It is finished.

  Summoning the last of her strength, she closes her eyes and leaves the dream space behind.

  When Jhata opens her eyes, she is sitting at the table, across from Yarah and Leo.

  Yarah is just waking up.

  CHAPTER 41

  Ryzaard stares into the empty hole in the floor under his desk. The place where he hid one of the implant prototypes. Stolen from its hiding place by Matt when he jumped to Ryzaard’s office a few days ago.

  Matt was either reckless or desperate. Either way, it reveals the actions of a young man sorely lacking in common sense, a young man that may already be dead.

  If only Ryzaard had been there to meet him. The two of them might have had a stimulating conversation ending with the utter pleasure of killing the young man with his own hands.

  The implant isn’t a great loss. Ryzaard had tested it, first on Little John, and then on the two children. The devices turned out to be defect
ive, no doubt due to their defective origin.

  The Lethonen.

  Which reminds him. It’s time to have a little conversation with the poor bastards.

  A necessary, but distasteful, task.

  He picks the jax off the desk and plays his fingers along its side. “Alexa, I have some important business for the next few hours. See that I’m not disturbed.”

  Her voice jumps out of the jax. “As you wish.”

  The lock engages on his office door.

  Ryzaard drops the jax on the desk, slips off his tweed jacket, kicks off his shoes and stands facing the window. Sitting on a wood platform with a cushioned top, his hands fold together in his lap, and he lets his eyes drift until they come to rest on the Brooklyn Bridge.

  After five minutes of watching his breath, his eyes close, and he is immersed in a vast darkness. The world shifts. A sense of heaviness settles upon him, as if gravity itself has been turned up, pulling his body deeper into the cushion.

  Audible movement stirs nearby. The hair on his arms and the back of his neck rises up. Sweat beads on his forehead, and a subtle chill passes through his body. Uneven voices, high and low frequencies, flow past him, forming a loose chorus. It slowly condenses into a single voice, clear and low.

  We are here.

  Ryzaard’s eyelids sag. With effort, he forces them open and looks straight ahead in the darkness.

  A humanoid form floats in the emptiness before him, its shape familiar to Ryzaard. It wears no clothing, and is little more than a flowing mass of black and gray particles with a shifting outline. Other than dark depressions where one would expect the eyes and mouth to be, the face is devoid of features.

  The lights of the Brooklyn Bridge shine through the semi-transparent figure.

  Ryzaard hears its voice in his head, a multitude of sounds running together. He steels himself for the encounter.

  Why have you called us?

  From past experience, he knows that, when dealing with the Lethonen, it’s always best to begin with an argument. To act rather than react.

  “Why have you deceived me?” Ryzaard stares straight ahead.

  The entity’s face comes together into a definite form with a hard outer skin. The rest of its body remains fluid and undefined.

  We do not understand.

  Ryzaard pulls two Stones from his chest harness. His eyes drop as he turns them over and over in his hands, admiring their beauty, flaunting them before the entity floating in the darkness. Tossing the Stones up and down with careless abandon, he throws out a taunt.

  “Do you really want the power?” Ryzaard says. “I could give it to you now.”

  Give us the power. We want it all.

  The entity morphs into multiple layers, pulling apart like the pages of a book. Dozens of eyes appear in its head, each tracking the Stones on their upward and downward trajectory in Ryzaard’s fingers. Numerous hands form at its side and shoot out, trying to catch one and pull it away, but the Stones fall through them as though they are mere vapors of smoke.

  Ryzaard grasps the Stones and closes each of his fists on them, holding them fast, slowly bringing his gaze up to the entity.

  Brace yourself, he thinks.

  He clears his throat. “I want to give you the power, as promised. But you will never have the power if you continue to deceive and manipulate me.”

  The entity disintegrates in an explosion of purple and red fragments that shower on either side as Ryzaard sits on the cushion. It re-forms into a hideous head, horns and fangs sprouting from an eyeless skull, a high-pitched shriek emanating from deep inside the grisly cranium. The rest of its body loosely forms into arms, legs and a trunk, all of it a gesticulating mass of chaotic movement. It lurches forward with a gaping mouth, threatening to engulf Ryzaard in one gulp.

  His muscles tense, and it takes great effort of will to suppress the urge to scream, panic and hide.

  “You know the truth. You can only access the power of the Stones through me. But destroy me if you like. Then the power you crave will be destroyed with me.” He replaces the two Stones in his harness.

  The entity stops only inches from Ryzaard’s face. The smell of burnt sulfur in his nostrils is overpowering.

  We need the power.

  “Then stop hiding the truth from me!”

  The truth?

  “Yes, the truth. Other worlds, other Stones, other Holders more powerful than I. You lied. You never told me.” Ryzaard straightens his spine and braces himself. “You and the Allehonen are not the only ones out there.”

  The entity resolves into a humanoid shape. It has a smooth outer skin, metallic, like foil. The arms, legs and torso take on a definite form. Claws burst through fingers and toes. A bony ridge bulges through the forehead and works its way down the entire back of the skull and spine. Tiny spikes burst through the surface of its entire body. The eyes glow deep orange.

  Do not speak that name.

  “Then tell me now,” Ryzaard says. “The Alleho—” He stops himself mid-sentence. “The Others are of no concern to me. I know what they offer, nothing more than an ideology of weakness, servility and subjection. False hope.” He raises his arms to the creature writhing in the darkness. “But today I saw a woman with many Stones, and now I know the truth. Holders live on other worlds, flesh and blood, who wield the power of the Stones. Tell me of them.”

  The humanoid shape breaks apart into layers. Multiple voices, high and low frequencies, clamor for attention. Could it be that the plural entity is arguing with itself? The conversation has the quality of recorded words, sped up and played in reverse.

  Ryzaard begins counting.

  By the time he reaches ten, the layers of the entity collapse into one. Its orange eyes stare at the Stones on Ryzaard’s chest.

  When you grow strong, we will teach you of the secrets of the power.

  Ryzaard shakes his head. “I am strong. Future promises are of no value. I want to know now.”

  Reaching up to his chest harness, he pulls out a Stone in each hand and raises them to the creature, palms open. “I’m losing patience. Let me be clear. This is power. I have it. You do not. If you want it, you will only get it through me. Now answer my questions.” The Stones glow deep purple in his hands.

  The entity splits into two, then four, then eight separate shapes, surrounding Ryzaard. Each of them shriek and reach out trembling fingers to the Stones, their arms growing longer, their mouths gaping open, black teeth growing into fangs. A churning maelstrom of wind flows past him. The hair on his head rises and his clothes billow in and out. The stench of sulfur fills his nostrils again.

  Give us the power.

  Ryzaard looks at the floating shapes. “Not until you answer my question.” He turns his hands and lets the Stones drop to the floor.

  The shapes reel backward, collapsing like an accordion into one form directly in front of Ryzaard. The claws and fangs diminish in size until they are gone, and the spikes and outer skin dissolve away, leaving the same churning entity of particles and multiple voices.

  You will not understand.

  “Try me,” Ryzaard says.

  We will show you.

  “Good.” Ryzaard picks the Stones off the floor, one in each hand. “I’m ready.”

  The entity moves forward until its fingers touch Ryzaard’s forehead. The floor beneath him falls away, and he floats in utter blackness.

  Many worlds.

  Ryzaard swims in an ocean of almost infinite points of light, each distinct and clear against a dark background.

  “Yes, I know.” Ryzaard yawns. “I’ve seen it before. The universe. Infinite and majestic.”

  Not infinite.

  A force pulls Ryzaard forward. The points of light turn to streaks shooting past him. The lights thin out until only one dot remains. Speeding toward it, it fills his entire field of vision.

  Near its surface, Ryzaard sees what it is. A fiery star.

  He passes deep into its interior where a burning
inferno rages about him. Layers of colored plasma move by, and he sinks closer to the core. As time passes, he drops through magnitudes of size until the sea of fire resolves into dancing particles, floating like icebergs.

  “Hydrogen atoms,” Ryzaard says. “The stuff in the heart of stars.”

  No.

  Multiple voices filter into his ears.

  Your atoms are an illusion. Witness reality.

  He falls toward a single particle and becomes a speck on its endless surface before it sucks him under. As he passes through its outer boundary, all light vanishes, plunging him into an intense black void. For a moment he wonders if he is still in his body.

  Worlds within worlds.

  As if on cue, a million pinpricks of light pop out of the darkness. A new universe.

  Ryzaard stares in wonder.

  The power of the Stones is the key.

  “The key to what?”

  The key to freedom.

  “I don’t understand.” Ryzaard says. “Why must you speak in riddles?”

  Without the power, there is an end. With the power, there is no end.

  And then it hits him.

  The Stones hold the power to move between universes. Every particle in every universe is a portal to another universe. Without the power of the Stones, one is forever trapped in a single universe. A large place, to be sure, but ultimately finite. Only with the Stones can one escape a finite universe to a chain of universes that never end.

  It is too small. We need infinite space and matter. Like the Others.

  So that’s it. Ryzaard has learned something.

  The Lethonen crave the power of the Stones because they’re trapped and wish to escape. Knowing they will never move beyond a single universe is claustrophobic. An end to growth and expansion. An end to real power.