Part 2 (2/2)

And another.

They came from Shepherd. Originating from inside him, they shot through his clothing, which took fire but wasn't consumed. The fabric transformed to . . . to what? The folds and seams remained intact, but it looked like no cloth I'd seen before. They appeared to be folds of pure color. We're talking laundry-detergent-commercial special effects here-the reddest reds and bluest blues I'd ever seen.

The intensity of the colors vied for supremacy, growing ever brighter until something had to give. They began to chase each other around him, swirling around the shape that had once been Myles Shepherd, slowly at first, then faster, and faster, blending with each other until they became a dazzling white, a hurricane of radiance.

What was happening here? Was I hallucinating? I hoped I was, because the alternative was that Myles Shepherd, my constant rival, was not of this world. The idea that I'd gone to high school for four years with ET and never knew it was hard to admit to myself.

Overhead, the gargoyle shadow creatures-now looking mossy green and solid-stared at Shepherd with expressions of awe and adoration and painful longing.

I knew exactly how they felt. I felt the same way. Whoever, whatever, stood before me was mesmerizing.

Think of a perfect starlit night when you're lost in your lover's eyes, a moment suspended in time and bliss. Multiply that euphoria by ten thousand times, and you'll begin to grasp the beauty that lay just beyond my reach.

The attraction was so intense I had to grab a bookshelf to keep from dropping to my knees and wors.h.i.+pping it.

Here was an elegance wondrously strange. I wanted it to go on forever. Tears marked my cheeks. I mumbled incoherently. I dared not blink lest I lose a fraction of this marvel.

But then the light reversed itself. Blasts shot past me a second time as the glorious hurricane became a swirling accretion feeding on the colors in the room. Instead of giving off light, it began swallowing it, gulping it greedily.

How do I describe what I saw?

It was a vortex. A black hole. All at once wondrous and comical.

The red slashes on the graded exams lifted off the paper and, like snakes, slithered their way toward the vortex and were swallowed up. So, too, rivers of Times Roman font lifted from the papers, streamed to the vortex, and disappeared. t.i.tles from books followed, peeled from the spines of the volumes on the shelves.

The file cabinet was stripped of its yellow color, reduced to a pale ghostly white. Even the blue of my tie was sucked off, and the color lifted from my cla.s.s ring, leaving the ruby crystal clear.

The colors made the vortex-formerly Myles Shepherd, though he no longer bore any resemblance to a man-pulse with nightmarish power.

For not only was the room stripped of all color, it was stripped of every pleasure, every good feeling, leaving me bereft, emotionally bankrupt, despairing of hope and life. I was abhorrent to myself. Spasms of depression racked me. I craved annihilation, nonexistence, confident that my death would make the world a better place. I sobbed uncontrollably, begging the ent.i.ty to rid the world of me.

He consented.

He loosed the hounds.

The shadow gargoyles fell upon me with a vengeance, tearing into me, plunging into the inner depths of my being. They fed on me, occupied me with contentious voices.

My mouth contorted into a scream, but whatever sound I produced was instantly swallowed by the vortex.

I reached out to what had once been Myles Shepherd, begging him to make quick work of me. To unborn me, if that were possible. All I knew was that I was desperate to no longer be.

The last thing I remember were his words filling the room, sounding like a chorus of a thousand voices. He said, ”I am Semyaza. Tremble before me.”

My first sensation was cold tile against my cheek and the pungent odor of industrial floor detergent. It took several painful blinks before my eyes focused. I heard a moan. I think it came from me.

Memories like lost hitchhikers came straggling back. The high school a.s.sembly. The cla.s.sroom. Myles Shepherd seated behind his desk, then morphing into a whirlwind. The shadow creatures, straining to get at me, clawing onto me.

I cried out and raised an arm to defend myself. But there was nothing in the corner. My hand flew to my chest. They weren't there either. My heart hammered. I was alone in the room.

I moved slowly, working my way into a sitting position. My head swam with the effort. I glanced around. Everything was in its place. The towers of books. Stacks of papers. The trophy. The file cabinet was yellow. All the books had their t.i.tles.

I turned toward the doorway. The cla.s.sroom was as dark as the office. It was night.

Somehow I managed to get to my knees, then to my feet. I had to steady myself on the edge of the desk.

When I felt I could trust my legs again, I navigated a short distance away. My hand brushed my coat and tie. It hit something unexpected. I looked down.

Pinned to my tie was a square piece of pink notepad paper. I removed the pin. There wasn't enough light to read it, so I found the light switch and flipped it on. Fluorescents flickered, then burst to life. Light poked me rudely in the eyes. After several moments I gave the note another try- Grant, Let yourself out. Don't forget to lock up.

M.S.

Staggering between rows of chairs, I made my way out the cla.s.sroom door and stumbled into the night air.

The world smelled disgusting. Rancid. Like a pair of dirty gym socks. Wrinkling my nose, I glanced around. The spring gra.s.s was muddy green. The stars were depressingly dim. The air tasted greasy. It was all I could do to keep from retching.

An annoying squeak, squeak, squeak p.r.i.c.ked my ears as a potbellied janitor appeared pus.h.i.+ng a mop pail. When he saw me, he started. ”Hey! What's goin' on here?” he cried.

He looked repulsive. Flesh hung from his jowls and arms like algae on a s.h.i.+pwreck. His voice was a parrot's squawk.

”It's all right,” I croaked, my throat as dry as parchment. ”I was here earlier. Just came back for my car.” I motioned feebly toward the parking lot.

”Are you drunk?”

Without answering him, I started toward the parking lot. The janitor watched my unsteady progress with a suspicious squint.

I was relieved to find my rental car still in the lot. As I unlocked the door I pacified myself with the thought that while Myles Shepherd may have won the battle, I had landed the last blow.

I didn't lock up.

CHAPTER 2.

The gra.s.s crunched like sour milk cartons beneath my feet. Imagine traversing a landfill that stretches from horizon to horizon, where everything you touch is filthy, with a slimy film to it, and you have an idea of what it was like for me to get to my car.

Climbing into the rental-a luxury-edition sedan with barely thirty-seven miles on the odometer-was like crawling into a garbage Dumpster. Windows up. Windows down. It didn't matter. The odors were suffocating.

I contributed to the stench. My flesh reeked. Not from lack of hygiene, mind you. I shower daily. My body had the odor of a carnivore. My skin was permeated with the stench of the dead flesh I'd consumed earlier-prime rib the night before, sausage for breakfast. Every time my hands came close to my face I winced. Each nauseating waft of decayed meat reminded me how pure, clear, and clean was the radiant presence in Shepherd's office.

But I couldn't think of that now. I had to warn the president about whatever or whoever attacked me in Myles Shepherd's office. Though I still hadn't figured out what I was going to say-”h.e.l.lo, Mr. President? Be on the lookout for a high school teacher who can dazzle you, then suck the life from you”-I felt an urgency to warn him. Whatever it was in that office, the power was incredible.

Another word came to mind. I didn't want to use it. It wasn't a word you used around educated folk, the kind who walked the halls of Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C. But something supernatural had taken place in that office. Whether I wanted to admit it or not.

Two a.m. I made my first call to Chief of Staff Harold Ingraham's direct line while sitting in the car in the parking lot. With the three-hour time difference, it was five o'clock in Was.h.i.+ngton. Ingraham should have answered. He didn't.

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