Memory and Dream

“You would know if you saw him. No one else could hold so much darkness in their body and still pass themselves off as human.”

Davis nodded, but it was more in agreement to what Rolanda had said than Cosette’s curious observation.

“Do either of you know where the hell we are?” he asked. “Besides the obvious.”

When Rolanda and Cosette both shook their heads, Davis looked out the window again, trying to find a landmark. He was about to give up when he realized that the taller building behind the tenement with a dozen or so chimney stacks foresting its roofline looked familiar. It took him a moment before he remembered the name of the abandoned factory, then another while he mentally cross-referenced it to the city map he carried around with him in his head. Plucking the microphone from the dash, he radioed in their position and requested backup. When he got an affirmative, he replaced the mike and leaned back in his seat.

“That’s it?” Rolanda demanded when it was obvious he wasn’t planning to take action.

“We can’t do anything else until the backup gets here.”

“They could be dead by then.”

“Look, lady—Rolanda. I have to follow certain procedures.”

“Well, I don’t,” Cosette said.

Before they could stop her, she’d popped open her door and stepped out into the night. Rolanda and Davis watched her scurry into hiding behind the abandoned bus. She studied the tenement for a few moments, crouching in the same spot where Bitterweed and Scara had captured her and the others earlier. When she darted across the street, Rolanda opened her own door.

“Now, hold it,” Davis said, grabbing her arm. “We can’t all just go off half-cocked like a bunch of—”

Rolanda pulled free of his grip. “Do what you like,” she told him, “but don’t try to tell me how to live my life, okay?”

Stepping out of the car, she hurried after Cosette. Davis slammed the ball of his palm against the dashboard.

“Shit!” he muttered.

He reached under his seat and pulled out a shotgun. Once he was outside, he stood listening, but the night air didn’t bring the welcome sound of approaching sirens. Davis sighed. He gave it another minute; then, against his better judgment, he followed Rolanda and Cosette into the derelict building across the street.

XVIII

Isabelle stared at Rushkin’s numena, this creature he’d made the mistake of calling across from the before with a self-portrait, and tried to make sense of what she was seeing. She had to ask herself, had she ever met the real Rushkin? Would she even know the difference? The Rushkin who stood here threatening them with his revolver was the man she remembered, the man she knew. He had the same features, the same voice and the same eyes. He carried himself with that familiar arrogance, and she soon discovered that, just like the Rushkin she’d known, he loved to hear himself talk. So how could she think of him as anything but Rushkin?

Rushkin, for his part, seemed particularly intrigued by John’s presence. That puzzled Isabelle until she realized that, insofar as Rushkin knew, he’d already killed John.

“I have to admit that I am curious,” Rushkin said. “How did you survive?”

John shot Isabelle a quick warning glance before replying. Isabelle understood. Rushkin knew nothing of Barbara’s abilities and that was the way it should stay or Rushkin would turn to her next.

“It’s no real mystery,” John said. “We foresaw it coming to something like this, so we had Isabelle make a copy of her original painting, one that opened the gate only a crack—enough to give you a taste of the before, but no more.”

Rushkin regarded them with an admiration that made Isabelle want to crawl under a carpet, out of his sight.

“Now that was clever,” Rushkin said.

John acknowledged the comment with a nod, then lifted his hand to indicate the corpse hanging on the wall behind them. Rushkin’s index finger tightened slightly on the trigger of his revolver, relaxing when he realized the innocence of the gesture.

“When did you kill him?” John asked in a quiet voice.

“We disagreed on my existence—he had a conscience, you see.” The smile that touched his lips was as feral as Scara’s had been. “But it doesn’t really matter anymore, does it? It was too long ago to make any difference to us now.”

Isabelle shook her head. “How can you say it doesn’t make any cliff—”

“To all intents and purposes,” Rushkin broke in, “I am the only Rushkin now. The only one you have ever met.”

“I don’t believe you,” Isabelle said. “We know that numena can’t harm makers.”

“They can here,” Rushkin told her. “In dreamtime.”

That gave Isabelle pause. Of course. Why else had she and John come here to the coach-house studio?

“So you lured him here and then you just killed him,” she said.

She found it hard to put much conviction behind the accusation, since she herself was guilty of attempting to do the same. The only difference was that the Rushkin she’d come to kill wasn’t an innocent.

Rushkin shook his head. “No, I followed him here. A small point, I realize, considering that the end result was the same.”

“But all those paintings. I saw them being done right in front of me.” Anger flashed in Rushkin’s eyes.

“The talent belonged to me more than it ever did to him. I, at least, had the courage to use it.”

But not to show it, Isabelle thought. She’d give the creature this much: he did have talent. The work he had produced was stunning, but he hadn’t had the confidence to put it under the scrutiny of the academic art world where someone might have been able to debunk it. The only ones he had shared his work with were the hapless students such as herself who were too overawed by his presence to ever think of questioning him. And then there was the whole question of bringing across numena.

That gave her pause. A numena couldn’t bring others across, so who had painted Bitterweed’s gateway?

“You’re lying to us,” she said. “You couldn’t have brought Bitterweed across because numena can’t be makers.”

Rushkin laughed. “How would you know?”

“Because ..... Isabelle turned to John for help, but he was too intent on Rushkin to notice.

“You know only what I’ve chosen to tell you,” Rushkin said. “No more.”

“Then answer this for me,” John asked. “Our kind doesn’t change. We live forever as our makers brought us across unless our painting is destroyed or we are physically harmed.”

“What of it?”

“Why do you feed on us? Why does your appearance change?” Rushkin smiled. “I could tell you it’s only because I enjoy doing so.” Isabelle could feel the tension building in John. Don’t let him get to you, she wanted to tell him, but all she did was step closer to John.

“But the truth is,” Rushkin went on, “when I took my maker’s place, I lost my connection to the before. I have no choice now but to feed on what Isabelle here so quaintly calls numena.”

Isabelle bristled at the condescension in his voice. Remembering the advice she’d wanted to give to John, she made an effort to remain calm. Keep him talking, she told herself. Learn everything you can.

Doubtful as it seemed, something might prove useful.

“I don’t get it,” she said.

“But you do, don’t you?” Rushkin said, addressing John.

“I’m not sure ....”

“Numena don’t need to eat or dream,” Rushkin explained to Isabelle, “because their needs are fulfilled through their connection to the before. By taking my maker’s life for my own, I was cut off from my source painting and forced to seek such sustenance through surrogates.”

“But not ones you bring across yourself,” Isabelle said, understanding finally. “Because they require a piece of