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“Probably to the convention. Sharon wanted to see all the famous, rich people,” Sean replied.
“Okay. You want to see some famous, rich people?”
The kid shrugged. “Pa took me the first day we got here. They just looked like regular people, only in fancier clothes.”
Cross reached out and ruffled the boy’s hair. “You’ll do, kid.”
FARLEY HAD DONE AS PROMISED. CROSS WAS ON THE LIST TO ENTER THE stadium. He told them Sean was his son. The statement had the kid turning red, then white, then red again.
“What the hell’s wrong?”
“I can’t be your son! It’s sacrilege.”
“No, it’s just lying.”
“You still shouldn’t say it. And lying is wrong.”
Cross gave up. “You’re right. Now can we please go find them?”
It was hot in the stadium, the air heavy with competing scents—sweat, aftershave, and hair pomade. Men huddled in clumps speaking in low, urgent tones. Ties had been loosened, shirt collars were limp. Up in the bleachers sat the women, fanning themselves, their white gloves flashing like signal flags. They looked like a flock of birds in their feather-adorned hats.
Cross scanned them, searching for Sharon. Sean tugged on his sleeve. “There’s my pa,” he said, and pointed. The Old One in a people suit was talking with Farley.
“Sharon’s the key. Help me find her. Try the other side of the stadium.” The boy headed off with one last look of longing at his father’s carcass.
Cross hoped that extracting the Old One wouldn’t kill the human vessel. Sean was a nice kid and deserved a happy ending. Pity they came along so rarely. Because in truth, no universe gave a shit about the lives of the creatures crawling around inside it.
Cross headed off in the opposite direction, and then he saw her. Or rather, he recognized the swaying hips and the shapely calves, and those perky red shoes climbing the stairs. Cross vaulted the railing and climbed. She turned, speaking to the women to either side of her, and started to sit down. Then she spotted Cross, stiffened, and remained standing.
Cross reached into his pocket and took out the box. Fury and alarm warred across her features. Slowly he reached into his other pocket, pulled out his Unique lighter, and slid his thumb across the roll bar. The horizontal flint struck and a steady flame burned. Panic washed across her face. Awkward in her haste, Sharon started to run down the stairs toward him.
“No! No. Don’t!”
He had the box open. Even though she was still ten feet away her hands stretched out to him as if she could somehow snatch back the box. Cross laid the flame against the hair. He had witnessed many battles and many autos-da-fé in his long existence. It wasn’t so much the smell of roasting human meat that he remembered as the sweet/harsh scent of burning hair. The smell killed any chance that he would feel pity for her. She had made compacts with creatures bent on causing human suffering and death.
Sharon let out a scream of terror and pain. The glove on her right hand was charring. The material fell away, and Cross saw flames licking up around the amber ring as the braided band burned like the hair in the box. Sharon ripped off the ring and threw it to the floor. The last of the hair turned to ash. The metal box was hot in Cross’s hand, and the cheap metal had softened. He crushed it and dropped it.
Sharon let out a keening cry, knelt on a step, and gathered the amber piece in its silver setting in her hand. Cross reached out with his power. The shadows that had swirled around the ring and around her were gone. The inside of the ring glittered as if it held captured fireflies.
There was a stir on the floor of the stadium. He heard Sean’s voice, shrill with fear, crying, “Pa! Pa!”
Cross leaped up the stairs and snatched the gem away from Sharon. He then ran for Sean and the man who lay on the floor, choking in his son’s arms. The Old One was exacting revenge and feeding off the son’s grief and fear, and growing stronger with each psychic gulp.
In the face of such power, Cross felt helpless. He couldn’t fight the other. He would fail and
be shattered. It would be a disaster for Conoscenza if that happened in such a public venue. And he didn’t think that he could face the pain. He started to back away. The boy looked up at him, tears clouding his eyes, but his expression showed total trust and confidence.
Cross stopped his retreat, reached out, and touched the boy’s feelings about his father. He drank deeply of those more complicated emotions—respect, love, admiration. He delved into the ring and sensed the electrical impulses that made up the man. Felt his emotions—worry for the son, sorrow that he wouldn’t see him grow to manhood.
Cross summoned every ounce of power. He gripped the other Old One, and it felt like icy talons gripped back. But the boy’s father began to breathe again as the Old One turned its attention to Cross. Next, Cross reached into the ring and secured the man. Cross felt the bonds that held his body together weakening as he struggled to make the switch. The Old One was fighting wildly. It was going to be a near thing.
Then Cross staggered as he was struck by a bolt of power. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Sharon, swaying drunkenly, coming onto the floor. It was taking all his energy to hold both the Old One and Marshall Hanlin, and keep himself together. He had nothing left for speech. Cross rolled an eye at Sean, who knelt on the floor holding his father in his arms. The boy looked from Cross to Sharon and down at his father.
He gently laid his father down and stood. Hurry! Cross said mentally. Sean ran at Sharon and slapped her hard. Her assault on Cross frayed and died. He took a tighter hold, gathered his strength, and made the switch. To his eyes, which could see beyond the normal dimensions, it looked as if Marshall Hanlin’s body was washed with a net of electricity. And the inside of the amber was no longer clear. It roiled with shadows.
Slowly, Hanlin sat up and placed a hand against his forehead. “Sean?” he said weakly.
“Pa!” The boy was fighting back tears, trying to be a man. He ran to his father and embraced him.
