violet pouches under her eye testified to sleepless nights.
“We’ve tried everything, but it just keeps getting worse. You’re our last hope.” “I understand.” Nefertiti knelt before the boy so that she could look him in the eyes. “What is your name, sweet child?” “Brian,” he wheezed. “But the kids at school call me Squeaky, ’cause of the way I breathe.” “Not anymore they won’t.” She raised her eyes to the heavens. Her voice took on a more imperious tone. “Now, by the sacred blood that flows within me, let this innocent child breathe freely once more!” Taking a deep breath, she laid her hands upon Brian’s trembling shoulders. Bright blue sparks crackled around her fingertips, and Brian stiffened as though zapped by a Tesla gun. Tiny hairs stood along the back of Pete’s neck. Suddenly the atmosphere inside the tent seemed charged with static electricity. He sniffed the air. A cloying sweetness invaded his nostrils. He nudged Myka. “Do you smell that?” “Yep,” she verified. “Fudge.” The chocolaty aroma was often associated with artifact activity. Nobody had ever really been able to explain why. Looks like Artie was right on target, he thought.
As usual. Down on the stage, Brian gasped and collapsed against Nefertiti, who deftly caught him before he fell. “Brian!” his mother cried out in alarm. “Baby!” “Fear not,” Nefertiti assured her. “All is well.” She cradled the boy in her arms. “He’ll be all right in a moment.” Sure enough, a few seconds later Brian lifted his head from the healer’s shoulder. “Mommy?” He looked around in confusion. “Where am I? What happened?” “A certain amount of disorientation is normal,”
Nefertiti explained. She placed Brian back on his own feet. “How do you feel now, Brian? Breathe for me.” “Mommy?” His voice already sounded stronger. He didn’t seem to be wheezing anymore. “Go ahead, baby,” his mom pleaded. “Breathe for Mommy.” “Okay.” Hesitantly at first, he inhaled. His eyes widened as he sucked in a deep breath, perhaps his first in who knew how long. A delighted grin broke out across his face. “Mommy, Mommy, I can breathe! Listen!” “I hear you, baby!” Overcome with emotion, Brian’s mom dropped to her knees and hugged her child. Tears of joy flooded her cheeks. She gazed adoringly at Nefertiti. “I can’t thank you enough!” Pete’s throat tightened. He couldn’t help being touched by the joyous scene. Glancing at Myka, he saw her dab at her eyes. Nefertiti appeared to be the real deal, and doing nothing but good. “I don’t get it,” he whispered. “Where’s the downside?”
CHAPTER
5
LANCASTER COUNTY, PENNSYLVANIA
Calvin Worrall kept off the main roads. Behind the wheel of a luxury Lincoln Town Car, he drove north past miles of moonlit countryside. Acres of cornfields and leafy tobacco plants provided most of the scenery. Amish farms advertised fresh eggs and homemade root beer, but not on Sunday. A horse-drawn buggy, trotting slowly along the shoulder of the road, forced the car to slow to twenty miles an hour. Worrall sighed impatiently but reminded himself that this sort of delay was to be expected, given the route he had selected. The main highway would have been faster, true, but there were good reasons to stick to the back roads. More privacy.
Fewer witnesses. Gloved hands gripped the steering wheel. Despite the humid weather, the windows were rolled up and he wore a dark turtleneck sweater to keep warm. He was pushing thirty, but he looked much older. His gaunt face was pale and drawn. Swollen veins wormed beneath his shaved scalp. Sunken gray eyes were streaked with red.
Classical music emanated from an expensive sound system. He drove alone, the backseat of the car filled with luggage. He had been on the road for weeks now, covering hundreds of miles a day. Home was a fading memory. He glanced at his watch. It was already after eight.
Soon he would have to start looking for another motel, unless he felt like driving all through the night, which he was doing more and more often, health permitting. The northbound road called to him like a drug. He was getting closer. He could feel it. An open straightaway gave him a chance to pass the buggy. Hitting the gas, he left the clip-clopping horse and its burden behind. About time, he thought.
Maybe now he could finally make some progress toward… Where? Ah, that was the rub. He had no idea where his final destination was, only that he was getting closer with every mile. Soon, very soon, his search would be over. I know it’s out there, he thought. It’s pulling on me. A billboard advertised a roadside diner a few miles ahead. His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten for hours. He scowled at the inconvenience. The last thing he wanted to do was stop driving, not when he could feel his prize somewhere up ahead, but apparently his treacherous body had another idea. What’s more, he could feel a headache coming on. Acid churned in his gut. His jaw clenched. All right, he groused. Maybe just a quick stop. The diner was a low steel structure that resembled a boxcar. A neon sign promised All-American Eats. Only a handful of vehicles were parked out front. The Lincoln pulled in beside them. He stepped out of the car into the cool night air. Gravel crunched beneath his feet. He had to admit, it felt good to stretch his legs after all that driving. But then the migraine caught up with him, just like it always did.
Pressure started building in his temples, squeezing his skull like a vise. Throbbing eyes felt hard as marbles. A sudden wave of nausea swept over him. Already? he thought. Again? A queasy stomach drove all thought of food from his mind, but he didn’t get back in the car.
There was no point. Pretty soon he would be too sick to drive anyway.
Unless… He dragged himself toward the diner. An annoying bell announced his arrival. He winced at the chime. Bright interior lighting stabbed his eyes and he hastily put on a pair of designer sunglasses. “Seat yourself,” a solitary waitress called out to him.
“Be with you in a jiff.” He glanced around the diner, which was decorated in nostalgic 1950s kitsch. A jukebox, mercifully silent, occupied one corner. Vintage Coca-Cola signs were mounted on pink walls the color of Pepto-Bismol. A transparent display case held slices of fresh shoofly pie. A jar by the cash register collected change for the March of Dimes. Seating was available at the counter or in booths with molded plastic seats. Only one of the booths was occupied, by a family enjoying a night out. A trio of high school girls were seated at the counter. They whispered and giggled amongst themselves. Everyone seemed to be happy, healthy. Damn them. Their carefree chatter grated on his nerves. These stupid people had no idea how lucky they were. They took their sound, healthy bodies for granted. They hadn’t spent their whole lives sick and miserable. It’s not fair, he thought bitterly. Why should I be the only one to suffer?
Invisible ice picks jabbed his brain. Resentment bubbled over inside him, like the acid climbing up his throat. He choked on the reflux, coughing violently into his right fist. The noise drew anxious looks from the other customers. A teenager spun around on her stool. She wrinkled her nose in disgust. The parents in the booth turned their heads and covered their mouths to keep from catching anything. Like that was going to do them any good. He dropped into the nearest empty booth. Ragged breaths shook his bony form. He massaged his temples, but the trembling fingers brought little in the way of relief. It was all he could do to keep from vomiting. Even the slightest movement sent a fresh jolt of agony through his aching head. He considered taking a pill, but why bother? It wouldn’t do any good. It never did.
Only one thing helped. The waitress, a middle-aged floozy wearing an apron, approached him. A plastic name badge pegged her as Marjorie.
She handed him a menu. “You okay, hon? You’re looking a little green around the gills.” He could believe it. There was no turning back now.
“I will be,” he rasped. “At least for a while.” He seized her arm with his left hand. An oily gray haze flowed from his fingertips. Misty tendrils seemed to sink into Marjorie’s skin. A sour, gangrenous odor clung to the haze. She swooned and grabbed onto the seat to keep from falling. Her order pad slipped from her fingers. All the color bled from her face. Her lips took on a grayish tint. “W-what did you do to me?” she stammered weakly. “I feel sick…” She fainted onto the floor. “That’s odd,” he said archly. “I’m starting to feel much better.” One of the teenagers screamed out loud. Over at the other booth, the mom and dad put their arms protectively around their kids.
They gaped at Worrall. “Listen, mister,” the father began, “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but…” Worrall ignored the man’s pointless babbling. He rose from the booth, moving less painfully than before. His head was still pounding, but not for much longer. He stood in the aisle, blocking the exit. He coughed again to clear his
