them out.”
He was right. The people in the crowd weren’t as identical as the rows of guys in the marching band, but for the most part, several characters repeated over and over. Mixed in with all that sameness, a few unique faces stood out. Most were human, but a couple were Old People. Forked tongue flickering, a huge black snake swayed its head back and forth. Sylvester the weeping willow loomed over everybody else. Or maybe it was just one of his kind. With all the hair hanging over his face, it was hard to tell.
What I could tell-or at least I thought I could-was that none of the real people wanted to be there. They screamed, shoved, and grabbed for Timon’s stupid beads with the same crazy eagerness as everybody else. But, like the bald guy in the fake Monte Carlo, they had something dazed and sick in their eyes.
“I’m still bored,” Timon said. “Let’s kick it up another notch.”
He chucked a string of red beads. The spectators shoved even harder to get within reach of it. Somebody knocked down a little kid-one of the real ones-in a Transformers T-shirt. And then people trampled him, mashing his squirming body against the pavement.
I wanted to jump off the float and run over there, but my gut told me that wasn’t the way to help him. I turned back to Timon just as he lobbed blue beads at the people on the other side of the street.
Another real person, a girl with a pierced nose and sleeve tattoos, grabbed them. And probably expected to keep them, because up until now, when somebody got a string in his hand, it ended the struggle for that particular prize.
Not anymore. Sylvester-if it was him-reached over her shoulder with one of his long weeping-willow branch arms, grabbed a dangling loop, and tried to rip them away.
The pull spun her around to face him. In real life, the sight of him probably would have frozen her in amazement and fear, but not here. Not in a dream, and not with Timon yanking her strings. She hung on to the beads and then it was a tug of war.
That would have snapped a real string of cheap plastic beads, but again, no such luck here. Sylvester clenched his other knobby-knuckled, long-fingered hand into a fist and bashed her across the face with it. She fell down, and in a split second, people were trampling her, too, as they scrambled to try and get the beads away from him.
That wasn’t the only brutal all-out fight. By now, people were throwing punches, wrestling, and gouging eyes up and down both sides of the street. A cop unholstered his M amp;P. But nobody rushed the float to get beads at the source. With Timon making the rules, it probably never even occurred to anybody.
“Make it stop!” I said.
Timon smirked. “Really, that’s the best part. It doesn’t ever have to stop. If I really want to put the energy into it, I can keep a dreamer trapped in this moment indefinitely, long after you and I have moved on to other things.”
As I’d seen.
“You can but you won’t,” I said, as the cop’s automatic began to bang, and the people near him started screaming. “I’ve already seen what you wanted me to, so what would be the point?”
“Well,” Timon said, “I have been known to do it just because it’s funny. Or to remind the chattels who I am. But since I am still recuperating… ” He waved his hand with its ragged, filthy nails.
And then we were flying, with the lights and roofs of Tampa far below us and bright stars above.
It wasn’t like rocketing across the sky in my spirit body. It was peaceful and joyful at the same time, like getting lost in great music. It was perfect, and despite the nastiness I’d seen just a second ago, I had to struggle to remember that I needed to watch what I said.
“Do you like this better?” Timon asked.
“Much. If you can do this and feel this anytime you want, why even bother with hurting people?”
His ragged clothes fluttering, Timon looped the loop. Just for fun, I guessed. “Why do you take such pleasure in defeating your opponents in a game?” he asked.
“It’s not the same thing,” I said. “It’s a rush because it’s a fair contest. I don’t know if I’ll win, and if I do, it’s because I worked for it. It’s not just bullying and meanness.”
Timon surprised me by smiling. “You have a point. The pleasure of competition is real and keen. I’m certainly addicted to it. But what I did to the people in the crowd is something different and greater.”
“What?” I asked.
“Kingship. Godhood. Ecstasy that’s purest when you put people through something agonizing, degrading, and unforgivable, and yet they have no choice but to forgive.”
“You should apply for a job with the CIA,” I said. “You’d fit right in.”
“It makes you squeamish because you still think like a human. Let me show you how it can be. Let’s find this Victoria of yours. Or little A’marie. Or how about both of them together?”
“Jesus Christ! No!”
“Someone else, then. Anyone you want, to do and feel whatever you want.”
“Are you even listening to me? I told you, I don’t want any part of it.”
He scowled. “Damn you! I
I snorted. “Is that what it was?”
“Yes, you ungrateful idiot, it was! I made you my champion-”
“Because no one else would take the job.”
“-I taught you magic-”
“Because I need it to save your ass.”
“-I paid your human girl’s ransom, and I offered to share the greatest pleasure I know. But you still won’t give me your loyalty.”
“I’m loyal to the terms of our deal. I’m going to win the tournament for you. And that will have to be enough, because I’m never going to kiss your ass.”
“Believe it or not,” Timon said, “I’m sorry about this. But a horse is useless until you break it to the saddle.”
Since he’d warned me what was coming, I flew at him with my hands stretched out to grab him by the throat. But before I could close the distance, he ripped the ability to fly away from me. And then, of course, I fell.
Everything went black, and then I landed with nothing more than a bump, like I’d dropped three feet instead of hundreds. A second later, a little light came back into the world. Some of it was flickering in front of me, as AK47’s cracked and chattered. The air stank of cordite, blood, and shit.
I was back in Afghanistan, crouching behind a rock with al-Qaeda, Taliban, or some heroin warlord’s thugs shooting at me. I tried to lift my M16. My hands were empty.
I looked around for the rifle. I didn’t find it. Instead, I saw the rest of my platoon, all lying on the ground. It was their blood and shit I smelled. I gasped in shock and grief. Then the need to survive pushed those feelings down, and I looked for my buddies’ weapons. They didn’t have any, either.
Panic surged inside me. I strained to control it, and that was when my thinking cleared a little. I remembered I was dreaming, and seeing what Timon wanted me to see.
That might mean I could make an M16, like I had in the Pharaoh’s temple. It might even mean I could flash the Thunderbird and tear the whole nightmare apart.
But would that be the smart play?
Since Timon really did need me, he wasn’t going to leave me trapped here for days, weeks, or months like Rufino, or do me any permanent damage. Not tonight. But maybe sometime. And beating him then might mean making moves he didn’t know I had, or at least didn’t know would work against him in his own special playground.
I decided to tough it out.
But that didn’t mean just curling up into the fetal position and taking whatever the dream dumped on my head. Even if I wanted to, the fear that was still on the verge of boiling over inside wouldn’t let me. As the enemy started forward, I jumped up and ran.
It was dark, I kept low, and for a few seconds, I thought that maybe they didn’t see me. Then something
