The Ninth Nightmare

so, he extended his right hand, rotating his wrist so that his reflective palm would line up with Jemexxa’s.

Jemexxa fired a dazzling lance of lightning out of her right hand. It hit Jekkalon’s hand with a deafening crack, and instantly ricocheted upward. The fire breather exploded still thirty feet up in the air, the lamp oil in his lungs detonating in a massive orange fireball bigger than those he had breathed out over the Night Warriors.

Fragments of flesh sprayed all across the audience, as well as bones that whirled over and over as if somebody were juggling with them, and surrealistic loops and skeins of skin. As Jekkalon reached the next trapeze, and deftly caught hold of it, the whole of the big top was already in an uproar, with men roaring in disbelief and women screaming in horror, and performers and circus hands running in all directions.

The clowns and the freaks who were dragging Brother Albrecht’s contraption off the stage were momentarily dazed with shock. They stood staring at the fine drizzle of blood which drifted across the auditorium, and the scorched tatters of orange clothing which were the very last to come see-sawing down to the ground.

For the first time, as the girl with the dog’s paws and the old woman with the blood-red eyes watched the smoke from the explosion curl away, Dom Magator had an unobstructed line of fire. He aimed his Absence Gun until he saw Brother Albrecht in his sights, tousle-haired, impossibly handsome but still frowning in fury, and he pulled the three-stage trigger. The ceramic barrels whirred around, and the air in front of the gun appeared to ripple, as if he were looking at Brother Albrecht through the hot rising fumes of a coke-fired brazier.

SIXTEEN Send In The Clowns

Dom Magator had fired an Absence Gun only once before, at an elderly man who had appeared in a small boy’s recurrent nightmares about being abused. In reality, the boy had never been abused, and the man in his dreams was long dead, but the only way to rid him of his nightmare was to make sure that the man had never existed at all. The thunderclap when the man had vanished had been the most exhilarating sound that Dom Magator had ever heard, and had left him deafened for several hours afterward — even in the waking world.

He pressed the first of the three sequential triggers, but tonight nothing happened. No hum, no thunderclap. Nothing at all. Brother Albrecht slowly turned around to frown at him, but even when he realized that Dom Magator was aiming his Absence Gun at him, he gave him nothing but a contemptuous shake of his head.

Dom Magator fired another wave, and then another, stopping only when the little girl with the dog’s feet stepped into this line. But they had no effect on Brother Albrecht at all.

‘What’s wrong, bro?’ asked Zebenjo’Yyx, in frustration. ‘You had him, you totally had him! Don’t tell me you missed?’

Dom Magator looked down at the Absence Gun in bewilderment. ‘You can’t miss with this baby. It’s soul searching. It knows who you want to hit, and it always hits them, even if it hits a few other people who happen to be standing in the way.’

‘Then what the hell happened?’

Brother Albrecht’s black contraption had now been pulled right to the very back of the stage, and the ringmaster was furiously winding the handle that operated its black leather canopy. Just before the canopy folded down over his head, Brother Albrecht gave Dom Magator a sloping, sardonic smile. A few seconds later the heavy velvet curtains were jerked across the stage and the contraption and all of its attendants disappeared.

‘What do we do now?’ asked Xyrena. ‘We’ve blown it, haven’t we?’

‘Where’s our mom?’ said Jekkalon. ‘Kiera — did you see what happened to Mom?’

Dom Magator looked up. Up above them, An-Gryferai was slowly circling down to the stage.

‘Are we going to try and save this poor girl here?’ said Xyrena. Maria Fortales was still lying on the gurney, her left shoulder exposed. She was shuddering slightly, but it looked as if she was unconscious.

Xyrena walked across the stage toward her, but she was immediately surrounded by more clowns and freaks and little people, all of them with threatening scowls on their faces.

‘Where’s our mom, for Chrissakes?’ said Jekkalon. ‘She was here a few minutes ago.’

The big top was filled with people talking and shouting and milling around. Although the clowns and the freaks looked hostile, and kept crowding around them and barring their way, they didn’t seem to be making any attempt to attack them. They had killed Doctor Friendly and two circus hands and the fire breather, but none of the performers seemed to be interested in exacting revenge.

Dom Magator turned around and looked at the audience, and then he suddenly knew why. The rows of seats were emptying fast — not because the dreamers were walking out, but because they were vanishing. They had probably been jolted out of REM sleep by the grisly spectacle of the fire breather being blown apart, and one by one they were waking up.

‘Crap!’ he said. ‘Is George Roussos still here? Quick!’

An-Gryferai switched on her sensors and scanned the remaining members of the audience, from one side of the big top to the other, and back again. But even as she did so, more of them simply vanished, and the auditorium was beginning to take on the appearance of a checkers board, with counters being taken faster and faster.

‘Jesus, An-Gryferai!’ Dom Magator shouted at her. ‘Is George Roussos still here or not? If he’s woken up already, we’re screwed! We’re going to be stuck here in this goddamned nightmare with no way of getting out of it until he dreams it again! If he ever dreams it again — ’cause I sure as hell wouldn’t want to, if I were him!’

‘I don’t see him!’ said An-Gryferai. ‘I don’t see him anywhere!’

‘Sheeit!’ said Zebenjo’Yyx. ‘How much worse luck can any one person get, man? I’m crippled by day and stuck in some asshole’s nightmare by night!’

‘No — no, wait a minute!’ An-Gryferai interrupted him. ‘I see him now! George Roussos! He’s sitting right at the end of the sixteenth row, talking to some woman. It looks like the woman’s upset, and he’s trying to comfort her.’

‘Then let’s get the hell out of here, right now!’ said Dom Magator.

‘What about our mom?’ Jekkalon begged him. ‘We can’t just leave her here!’

‘We’ll be back, Jekkalon!’ Dom Magator told him. ‘We have to come back! We still haven’t finished off Brother Albrecht yet!’

Dom Magator took hold of Xyrena’s arm and helped her to climb down from the stage. The clowns and the freaks nudged them and pushed them, but none of them made any serious effort to stop them, especially when Zebenjo’Yyx pointed his finger at them, and Dom Magator unholstered a large nickel-plated handgun.

‘You know what this is?’ he demanded, waving it from side to side. ‘It’s called a Jangle Pistol. You know what they call it that? Because it jangles, and when it jangles it shakes your teeth out, that’s what it does. All of your teeth — incisors, canines and molars, so you end up as gummy as a geriatric. Now, get out of my fricking way, unless you want to be sucking rusks for the next eight hundred years.’

The clowns and the freaks lifted their hands in mocking surrender, and some of them jeered, and pursed their lips to pretend that they had no teeth already, but they stayed well back. The Night Warriors jostled their way out through the main entrance of the big top and emerged into the wild and windy darkness. As An-Gryferai had warned them, it was stormier than ever, and a blizzard of leaves and twigs were flying through the air. A wooden chicken- coop was being blown between the caravans, over and over, with three black chickens squawking inside it.

They started to head back the way they had come, toward the hill. But before they had reached the last of the tents, An-Gryferai saw what looked at first like a long line of fir bushes waving in the field up ahead of them. She said, ‘Hold it, everybody! Wait up just a second!’ and focused on the bushes more closely. They had pointed tops but they weren’t swaying in the same way that bushes would sway. When she switched on her night-vision clarifier, she realized that they weren’t bushes at all, but clowns — clowns wearing black and white and blood-red suits, and that all of them were wielding knives or clubs or sickles or catapults. Their faces were painted in a variety of classic clown expressions — dead white and expressionless, or scowling in exaggerated hostility, or madly grinning.