A book fell from one of the shelves.
She stood in the doorway for an instant, then strode out, closing the door behind her.
I tossed the cigarette to the floor and ground it out. Her footsteps receded in the distance for a long time, merging slowly into the sound of ocean waves.
Another book dropped from the shelves. Then another. The floor began to tremble. I tossed the Peacemaker onto the rug and walked toward the door.
One entire bookcase tilted away from the far wall, scattering books like falling leaves.
I took a good-bye look at the pair of dead Gods. They still looked more solid than metaphors.
I pulled the door open.
'Ann?' I said.
And fell into darkness.
28
Terra Cognita
I was falling. Falling perpetually, no wind whipping past my flesh, no sound whistling in my ears. I was suspended in a dark place, weightless.
Not quite dark, though.
A candle guttered on the altar. I smelled of sweat and other personal foulnesses. Cramped muscles spasmed into knots of aching strain at the slightest attempt to move. I was wet and soiled and worse. My tongue was a swollen puffer fish in my mouth.
'Ann,' I barely croaked.
No reply.
Near the candle, a granule of incense popped and flared for an instant. It was the only sound aside from my breathing. I tried to flex my arms.
The Witch's Cradle still held me fast, in addition to the muscle tension from being in the same position for God only knew how long.
It struck me that God was no longer in a position to know anything.
I shuddered. Where was Ann? Where was Bridget? I glanced over to where Isadora had been tied into the Cradle.
The red and white matrix of yarn was intact. Isadora was gone.
Something floated near me. Ann's athame. Slowly I worked at snaking my fingers free of the twine prison. It seemed as if hours passed before they would even bend. The various drugs I'd taken still seemed to be residually active-everything I did appeared magnified in importance.
My right hand worked through the strings to stroke the blade toward its grasp. It floated lazily closer until I could seize it.
I sawed at the yarn that enclosed my arm, then slashed across. The twang of splitting line resounded like harp music. I bent forward with pained care to cut my legs free.
I floated within the remains of the sundered Cradle, massaging stiff muscles, flexing neglected tendons.
My neck ached from the injections. My head swam in zero-G disorientation. I yanked off the Theta Wave Amplifier helmet.
'Canfield!' I shouted hoarsely. That hurt. Using the Witch's Cradle as a ladder, I dragged myself to the airlock and peered through the observation port.
Canfield floated inside, unmoving.
I punched at the controls to cycle the outer hatch shut, pressurized the lock, and unsealed the inner hatch.
I fumbled for the cargo bay lights, switching them on. He looked to be in worse shape than I was. Of course, I hadn't looked in a mirror yet.
