Jason closed the door to his room and pulled the Book out from under the bed. He let his mind drift and avoided focusing on any one thought for too long. He believed that the Book could read only his "surface thoughts," things strong enough to occupy the forefront of his mind to the exclusion of all else. So long as he did not dwell on an idea too long or too hard, he could keep it private.

He sat down on the bed, the Book weighing on his lap. He flipped through the pages once but found nothing unusual. He suspected as much; the Book had proven before that it could conceal its contents to casual observation. Even the same spell would often appear in a different part of the Book each time he called upon it, as if the pages were just for show and their contents conjured as needed.

Jason tried a few more times, flipping the pages more slowly. Still nothing.

If you are looking for a particular spell, you need only ask.

Jason closed the Book. "Show me the spell that taps energy from the lines, the one we cast--"

Flipflipflipflip...

"--on Saturday."

The spell was displayed before he finished his statement. The pages appeared intact. He tried a few more of the line manipulation spells. All were present and pristine.

He had the Book revert to the mind control spells. He could find all the ones he remembered. All were perfect, as if the ink had only just dried upon fresh parchment.

As a thought exercise, Jason presented himself with the same challenge that had faced the Book: he had to select a spell to damage without revealing what he had done. Known spells were out. Spells related to known spells were out, as they could be stumbled upon. It would take a spell that he knew his owner would never want to use.

"Show me the Rite of Power."

The Book did not move.

Jason's heart thumped. "Show me the Rite of Power," he repeated in a louder voice.

Why do you wish to see that spell?

"Why do you feel you need to ask?"

The Book remained silent and still.

"You need only to provide me the spells I want," said Jason. "I want to see the Rite of Power."

It is not appropriate for your battle against Victor.

"I didn't ask if it was appropriate," Jason said, gripping the cover of the Book. "And I don't recall you ever questioning what I want. Show me the spell."

A pause for what seemed like eternity, then...

Flipflipflipflip...

The Book opened to the Rite of Power. Jason's eyes scanned the two pages facing him. Both appeared flawless.

You see? It's not what you need. It would take far more preparation than you can do in the limited time you have.

Jason ran his fingers down the second facing page. At the bottom it described the last of the preparation tasks. The rest of the spell was on the next page. He thumbed the corner and started to turn the page.

The underlying page came into view. Not far from the edge, the cursive script vanished into a splotch of scorched black.

The Book suddenly wrenched itself from his grip, snapping shut a hair's breadth from his fingertips. Jason jumped to his feet, the Book falling to the floor with a jarring thump at his feet.

"Jason!" his mother shouted from below. "What's going on up there?"

"Nothing, Mom!" Jason yelled back. "Just dropped some schoolbooks on the floor!"

Jason stared at the Book. It lay still, its cover closed. He reached down to pick it up and thought he felt it shudder as he touched it.

You do not need the Rite of Power, the Book told him. I will not show it to you.

He didn't need to see it anymore. He had seen enough to prove his hypothesis. Victor wanted to destroy the Book, and the Book knew it. Now it would do anything to prevent its own destruction.

Melinda sulked as she looked at herself in the full-length mirror. Behind her, Heather struggled not to giggle. Off to the side, Armando peered over his glasses with restrained impatience. "Is the young lady satisfied?" he finally prompted.

Melinda's head snapped towards him. Her antennae swayed and bobbed, and Heather snorted once. "You really want me to answer that?"

Armando let out a slow sigh and folded his thin arms across his chest. "I suppose not. It is perhaps a moot point, as I have nothing else for you."

"Don't remind me!" Melinda looked at herself in the mirror again and frowned at her sparkling silvery outfit. "Shit, I look like I was dipped in a vat of glitter!"

Heather clamped her hand over her mouth and snorted louder.

Melinda whirled around, her translucent wings wobbling. "Shut up, bubblehead!"

Heather lost what little control she had and let out a gale of laughter. Armando raised an eyebrow. Melinda balled her hands into fists and stamped her foot. Heather laughed even harder.

"I hate this costume, I hate this party, and I hate you!" Melinda shouted.

Heather managed to stop herself, though her voice was still shaky with mirth. "You don't mean that last one."

"Fine, I guess I didn't," she said in a testy but lower voice. She folded her arms and glanced down at her swelling breasts. "Jeez, this thing is tight! I feel like my boobs are being strangled."

Heather stepped forward. "Here, let me see."

Melinda hesitated, then lowered her arms. The costume did indeed seem a size small. The glittery fabric was stretched tight around her breasts, squeezing a bit of the flesh over the edge of the cups. Even unaroused, her nipples were visible as faint bumps.

"The young lady is more ... endowed than I had been led to believe," said Armando in a dry voice. "Unfortunately there is not enough material for me to let it out any further."

Heather smirked. "You're bustin' out all over I guess."

"Oh shut up," Melinda muttered. She faced the mirror again and turned herself to one side and then the other. She let out a small, distressed sigh. The costume somehow reminded her of the incident in the hallway and the unwanted feelings it had triggered towards Kelly and Lynn which had yet to fade.

She tried to think of something else. Her thoughts turned to her fellow Harbingers and their plans that evening. She thought about Mrs. Radson, and how she might join the fray, her legs spread, her pussy wet and willing, her ...

Melinda suddenly shivered and clamped her hands around her arms.

"Hey, you okay?" Heather asked, all trace of amusement gone.

Melinda blinked. "Huh? Yeah, why?"

"You kind of zoned out there for a minute." Heather's eyes flicked up and down her sister's body. "Are you trembling?"

"I'm cold!" Melinda lied and gestured towards her legs. The skirt came down to mid-thigh, her legs clad in black and silver striped hosiery. Her nipples had risen to hard points. "You would be, too, wearing this damn thing."

The costumer sniffed. "I assure you the thermostat reads seventy-six."

"Yeah, whatever," Melinda muttered. She stepped away from the mirror, antennae and wings bobbing. "Just show me back to the changing room and hand me a crowbar so I can get myself out of this thing."

Heather giggled again as Melinda disappeared into the back under Armando's lofty gaze.

Debby Radson could not help but be in good spirits.

It had been a long time since she had hosted any children for a gathering at her house. Susan's friends had always shied away from invites to the Radson household. Debby had never glossed over her religious beliefs, and her very obvious Paganism and witchcraft were too much for many parents to handle.

Halloween, especially, was a social dead zone. Debby refused to festoon the house with the more "traditional" (she would use the term "bastardized") symbols of Halloween, many of which had little or nothing to do with the Pagan celebration of Samhain.

Everything was ready. Her daughter Susan was spending the afternoon with her girlfriends and would be out on a date that evening. That would put her as far away from both the house and the school as possible. Her husband had chosen to work late so he would not be present for the other activities.

Debby visited the room that she had set aside for that purpose, a guest bedroom that otherwise saw little use. She wished she had something larger. She had burned some candles in the room earlier that day and left them in place unlit, each with flecks of ash from burned incense gathered about them. She had hoped to shield the room from evil influence, though she doubted that her feeble attempts at magic could stand up against the Darkness.

She let out a slow sigh, a hand draped across her bosom. She had wrapped herself in a long, flowing robe of deep blue and nothing else. For the first time in a long while she felt uneasy about her state of undress, despite the lack of titillating purpose. Her attire was born of practicality; the closer she was to nudity, the easier her magical energies flowed.

Debby still could not shake the feeling that this was wrong. Debby Radson the parent balked at the idea of providing a place for underage sex, let alone participating, and felt a twinge of guilt when the thought sparked a tiny flame of desire.

The doorbell mercifully interrupted her thoughts.

She dashed downstairs and checked that her robe was closed. The last thing she needed was to broadcast her intentions to the neighborhood. She opened the door and smiled. "Hello, Jason."

Jason managed a ghost of a smile in return. A long, flat box was tucked under one arm. In his other hand he held the handles of the plastic bag that contained the Book. "Hi, Mrs. Radson. Sorry if I'm kind of early, but I thought you might want me to catch you up on what's been going on."

"Yes, Jason, I would appreciate some more understanding about what the Harbingers will be doing at the party, and if I can help in any way." She tilted her head. "You didn't come in costume?"

Jason glanced at the box under his arm. "Um ... I did try it on at the costumer, so I know it fits. I just thought I would wait until some of the others got here before I changed."

Debby nodded and gestured for him to enter. She restrained herself from prodding him for more details. While she did not hold to the trick-or-treating concept, she did enjoy seeing the costumes. It at least distracted her from the other item he carried.

Jason took a seat at the end of the sofa and dropped the Book to the floor. He bumped it with his heel and tucked it under the sofa. As Debby joined him, he reached under his shirt and pulled out the pendant. Before Debby could ask him what he was doing, he removed it and placed it on the coffee table.

"I found out something about the Book, Mrs. Radson," Jason said. "And I don't want it listening in."

This statement alone was enough to rattle her, and when Jason explained how the linked pendant operated, it became clear that there was more to it and the Book than her mother had ever led her to believe. "It makes sense, Jason. Anyone who possessed that Book would find such communication useful."

"It allowed me to find out what Victor really wants with the Book," Jason said.

"But wasn't that obvious? From Heather's visions as you described them, he wishes to give it to the Darkness."

"Yes, but not to use it. The Darkness wants to destroy it and absorb its energy."

Debby stared, stricken. "I-Is that even possible? My mother assured me it was impossible to destroy the Book!"

"I know, but everything must have a limit. Or the Darkness knows of a special spell or rite. In either case, I think the Book knows, and it's as desperate to keep it from Victor as I was."

Debby folded her hands and stood up. "I had feared that the Book would attract people to Haven who knew of its existence and could sense it had been uncovered, but I never thought in terms of its raw energy potential. Goddess, it must have an enormous amount of power locked within its pages!"

"That's what we're afraid of."

Debby glanced up the stairs. "Jason, this ... this ritual you and the Harbingers will be doing, do you think this will really gain you enough power to stop Victor?"

"I don't know. I just have to hope it will."

Debby sighed. This made it harder to resist joining them. She had hoped to restrain herself, as her motivations were too tangled with her raw sexual desires. The fear that her run-in with Melissa had left lingering effects hung over her like a weight on a frayed string, waiting to drop and shatter her and her daughter's fragile recovery.

Debby wondered if that was the real reason behind encouraging Susan to socialize more. It kept Susan out of the house and removed a source of potential temptation. Perhaps she had simply transferred her lingering desire for her daughter to the Harbingers.

"I'm really glad you agreed to help, Mrs. Radson," said Jason. "I know this is difficult for you."

Debby turned towards him and forced a faint smile. "Perhaps in more ways than you realize."

Richie's wide grin greeted him in the mirror above his bathroom sink. This was the first time he had worn his costume. He had refused to try it on at the costumer's store, mumbling something about Armando looking "too gay" for his comfort. It had not mattered, as the fit was perfect.

It didn't even look like a costume. He swore it was bona-fide New York Yankee pinstripes. The Yankees were not his favorite team by any means, but he thought they had some great players over the years.

He put on the cap and looked at what he hoped was his future. Playing major league baseball was a secret ambition he had voiced to no one, not his mother, not Jason. He was not sure he would tell even his father if he were there.

But first he had to get the hell out of Haven, and that wasn't going to happen until the Darkness was gone and he hit eighteen. He was not sure which would come first.

His grin faded. The costume was not quite complete. There was one item missing.

Richie tugged on the brim of his cap and marched out of the bathroom, through his bedroom, and into the hall. "Mom! Where the fuck are you?!"

"In here, Richie," came her low, sultry voice from the master bedroom.

"Yeah, that figures," Richie muttered.

Richie stepped into the doorway of his mother's bedroom but went no further. His mother sat up on the bed and gave her son a lusty smile. She slipped a thumb under one of the straps of her lacy black bra and gave it a snap. Her breasts jiggled. "You wouldn't want to head off to the party without giving your mother a goodbye fuck, would you?"

"I gotta help with the setup, so I gotta get goin'," Richie said. "So I want my fucking baseball back."

Sandra stretched her bare legs before her and crossed her ankles. She leaned to the side so her breasts weighed against the cups of the bra. "I can't do that for nothing, Richie," she cooed. "First fuck me, then we'll see."

"I. Don't. Have. Fucking. Time. I want the baseball back now."

Sandra uncrossed her ankles and spread her legs. She slipped her fingers under her panties. Richie heard them squish into trapped moisture. "Even if I'm already so very wet for your cock?"

Richie clenched his teeth. His cock rose to attention, but he ignored it as if it were not even part of his body. "Mom, you said you would let me have the baseball for the party!" Richie shouted. "Give it back!"

"I can't, Richie," Sandra said in a more serious tone, though her voice remained breathy and wanting. "I'm too horny."

"Bullshit."

"Then I'm being made horny. Does it really matter? I still can't cum unless you fuck me."

Richie was again tempted to tear the house apart. For once he wanted to use his ability to see the past. Yet he thought the only thing that would tell him where she had hid the ball was the ball itself.

Sandra crawled to the foot of the bed, her breasts dangling into the cups of the bra and tugging the straps into her shoulders. "Richie, I really am so very hot and wet. Fuck me, and I might be able to give it back to you."

He wanted to tell her what she could do with her half-baked promises.

Sandra sensed his hesitation and drew herself forward. She paused, then smiled and turned herself around. "I know what you want, Richie." She lay her head against the pillow and thrust her ass into the air. "You want me from behind. Go ahead. Pull down my panties and slide it inside me. Fuck me nice and hard."

Richie's cock jumped. He stared at his mother's rear, his eyes tracing the patterns of black lace stretched tight over her buttocks. They were the same she had worn when she had first offered herself to him after stealing the ball.

"Richie?"

Richie blinked. "Huh?"

"Your mother's pussy is waiting."

Richie was silent for another few seconds. "Um ... yeah, okay. Yeah. But ... but I don't wanna do it here."

Sandra turned over and got out of bed. "Where do you want to do it?"

"My bedroom. Get yourself there now. I, uh, gotta use the bathroom first."

Sandra smiled. "Anything you want." She started for the door.

"Oh, uh, wait!" Richie called out.

Sandra turned at the threshold. "Yes?"

"Take your underwear off here. I don't want you wearing anything. You, uh, should be naked so I can see your pussy and boobs all the time."

Sandra shivered with induced delight. She shed her bra and panties, tossing them onto the bed. Richie could not resist a glance between her legs. Her pussy glistened, moisture smeared along the insides of her thighs. Sandra fingered her wet slit and moaned. "Please, don't keep me waiting."

"Just as long as it takes me to take a dump, that's all."

Sandra nodded and left the room.

Richie waited until he heard Sandra's footsteps leave the hallway. His heart thumping, he snatched the panties and bra from the bed and grasped them in his hands. Reality shifted, but all he witnessed was a replay of his last tryst with his mother. He gripped the underwear tighter, and it shifted again. Now he spied her mother masturbating at night.

Richie dashed into the bathroom, but nothing came to him. He closed the bathroom door loud enough for his mother to hear, then eased himself out of the room.

Reality shifted again for him, and he saw his mother emerge from the master bedroom. Water from his bathroom shower whined through the pipes. She padded to his room, then emerged a few seconds later, holding the baseball. She headed down the stairs, and the image from the past dissolved back to the present.

Richie had to pass the door to his room to reach the stairs. He crept up to the open door, his mother's soft moans drifting from within. He peeked around the door frame and saw his mother lying on his bed, her legs spread, her fingers massaging her folds. Her eyes were closed.

Richie leapt past the door.

"Richie?"

Richie froze at the top of the steps and held his breath. After a long pause, he heard a wet sound and escalating low moans.

Richie let out his breath as a ragged sigh and stole down the stairs, lifting his jacket from the post at the bottom as he passed. Once in the living room, he stopped and clutched the underwear once more. Another reality shift, and he saw his mother take the ball into the garage.

"Richie?" came his mother's voice. "Are you done yet?"

Richie ran into the garage and held the underwear to his chest, his hands shaking. "Come on, come on, fuck it, where did--?!"

Reality shifted.

His mother appeared and advanced towards the car, opened the back door, and leaned inside. Richie raced towards the car and peered over his mother's shoulder. He saw Sandra tuck the ball under the back seat on the passenger side, hidden from view and stopped from rolling around by all the detritus that had accumulated on the floor of the car.

The vision vanished. A floorboard creaked above his head. He tried both doors on that side, but they were locked. He clambered over the hood and grabbed the driver's side front door. It flew open and banged into the shelves on that side of the garage. Richie thrust his hand inside and unlocked the rear door, then yanked it open and dove into the back seat.

"Richie!" came his mother's muffled yell.

Richie tore through the garbage littering the floor of the car. His fingers touched the baseball, but it rolled further back. He groped under the seat and finally snatched it. He scrambled out of the back seat and whacked the top of his head against the frame of the door, letting out a sharp, vile curse.

Feet pounded down the stairs. "Richie!"

He vaulted over the hood of the car and slammed his hand into the button of the opener. He thrust the ball into the pocket of his jacket and leapt towards his bike. The door from the house burst open, his mother clad in a robe held closed only by one hand.

Richie ran his bike to the garage door, tilting it to the side and ducking his head. His mother smacked the button and reversed the door's progress, but Richie broke the safety sensor beam a second later. The door shuddered, stopped, and rose.

Richie tipped the bike lower and it slid from his hands as it shot under the edge of the door. It skittered over the driveway, the handlebars fouling his step. He stumbled and landed hard on his backside, the ball nearly jumping out of his pocket.

As he stood, the collar of his jacket was yanked hard. He lost his footing a second time as his mother tried to haul him back towards the garage. He broke her grip as he jumped to his feet, spun around, and thumped the palms of his hands against her shoulders as hard as he dared. She stumbled back and banged the back of her calves against the fender of her car, sending her tumbling to the ground.

"Richie, you get the FUCK back here!" Sandra screamed.

Richie picked up his bike and ran it towards the street.

"Get back here, Richie, or I swear I will--!"

Richie never found out what she would have done. He had vaulted onto his bike, his teeth clattering as the wheels left pavement for asphalt. He pedaled away and tried not to feel too huge a sense of triumph.

Heather and Diane were next to arrive. Debby smiled faintly as Diane removed her coat and revealed her costume beneath.

"That ... looks very nice on you, Diane," said Debby.

Diane gave her a soft, dreamy smile. "I thought so, too, though my mother was worried that it was too revealing."

Heather folded her hands behind her back, trying to ignore the tingle in her pussy as she looked at Diane. Diaphanous veils of dark purple billowed about Diane's legs and arms, and sparkling silver covered her crotch and cupped her breasts. The shoes were silver as well, with three-inch heels and curled toes. Her hair was piled atop her head, held in place by a delicate gold netting, a ponytail squeezed from the top and trailing down the back of her head.

"Um ... well, I guess I could see her point," Debby said. She forced a smile. "But I suppose you don't need me mothering you. You've had enough of that from your own mother, I'm sure."

Heather wondered if Debby felt as awkward saying that as she did hearing it.

"Anyway, it was nice to meet you, Diane, and you as well, Heather. There's soda in the fridge, so please help yourself. Or would you like to sit down?"

Heather smiled at Debby and turned her head when she saw movement out of the corner of her eye. Jason was descending the stairs. "Diane, why don't you sit with Mrs. Radson for a bit? I need to talk to Jason."

Diane nodded. "Of course, Mis ... Heather."

Heather rushed towards the foot of the stairs as he reached the bottom step. She leaned in close and whispered to Jason, "Did you tell her about our slave?"

Jason sighed. "No, not yet."

"You're going to have to tell her before we start the spell."

Jason looked past her as Debby and Diane sat together on the sofa. "Mrs. Radson might figure it out for herself after talking to Diane. And, Heather? Please don't refer to her as 'our slave' anymore."

Heather looked puzzled, but slowly nodded.

Jason hid his frustration and forced a change of topic. "Where's Melinda?"

"She's coming with Richie."

"I thought they would be here by now."

"Yeah, I know, but Richie had some major blowup with his mother, and he had to get out of sight in a hurry. He's making her walk a few blocks down a cross street to meet him."

Jason frowned. "Melinda's not going to be happy about that."

"Considering she hates her costume and had to put it on before going to meet him? Yeah, you pretty much pegged that right. She's been a little snot all afternoon and won't tell me what's bothering her. It can't be just the costume."

Through the apparent insult, Jason could hear the concern in Heather's voice. His thoughts turned to Melinda's trauma, and he glanced at Diane again.

Heather smirked. "Oh, and speaking of costumes, where's yours?"

"It's upstairs. I was going to wait."

"What for?"

"Because we're going to take them off anyway to do the spell," Jason said testily.

Heather grinned. "You're not much for costume parties, are you?"

Jason folded his arms, his cheeks pink. "I've never been to one."

"Never been to a costume party?" Heather asked. Jason remained silent. "Wait, you don't mean you've never been to any party?"

Jason nodded.

"Wow. That's, like ... weird."

"Thanks for understanding," Jason muttered.

Heather smirked, but her voice was more contrite when she spoke. "It was just a joke, Jason. I mean, come on, it's not like you need to go to a party to meet girls for hot sex."

Jason managed a small smile. "Mrs. Radson is going to want to know more details about the spell, anyway. I'll tell her about Diane then."

Charles sat at his desk in his home office, nursing a drink. He peered down at the open drawer, where an inch of the handle of the gun was visible. He ignored it and focused his eyes on the satchel beneath it.

He should have burned those papers long ago, but not for the cult secrets they held. The words would seem so fantastic to the average person that they would read like a poorly-written urban fantasy novel. It was the symbolism of those papers that tortured him. Within those pages was a chronology that, his alcohol-tinged perception imagined, would reveal how the cult grew far beyond Victor's intent or ability to control, and how Charles had ignored all the warning signs for the privilege of owning his own private sex toy for the past twenty-one years.

Charles was about to take a drink when he heard a soft knock on the door. Charles jumped to his feet. "Yes, come in, please."

The door opened to reveal a paunchy man with dark brown hair fringed with gray, a stethoscope dangling from his neck. The man stepped into the room and let out a windy sigh as he set down his black medical bag on a filing cabinet.

"Well, Gary?" Charles prompted, impatience creeping into his voice.

Gary closed the door behind him and fixed Charles with a hard gaze. "You did not clear this with Victor, did you?"

"That's my business, not yours," Charles snapped. "Just stick to your job."

"I did. And my job does not cover whatever is going on with Lydia."

"What's wrong with her?"

Gary took off his stethoscope and lay it over the bag. He gestured at Charles' glass as he walked towards the desk. "I think I'll take a little of that myself."

"What's wrong with her?" Charles repeated in a louder voice.

Gary splashed a generous amount of scotch into the glass and picked it up. "Physically? Nothing." He brought the glass to his lips and tipped it back, taking two good swallows. "You don't need me, Charles, you need a psychiatrist."

Charles stiffened, his lips twitching into a small frown.

"Oh, but we can't do that, can we?" Gary said with a humorless smile. He brought the drink to his lips again, paused, then lowered it. "And you realize how angry Victor would be if he found out you told me about Lydia in the first place?"

Gary raised the glass. Charles grabbed it and forced Gary to lower it, splashing liquor over the desk. "You better not be threatening me," said Charles. "I will not take kindly to that."

Gary sighed. "Really, Charles, stop being paranoid." He wormed the glass from Charles' grip and took another long swallow before setting it down on the desk. "I have no intention of telling him. But he has a habit of finding these things out. And I would not want to be in your shoes when that happens."

"You said there's nothing wrong with Lydia physically," Charles said in a quavering voice. "So giving her the sedative didn't do anything to her."

"I didn't say that. Again, I cannot tell what's happening in her head. But from the way she seems to be so out of it, perhaps not much."

"You don't mean she has ... she has brain damage?"

"Not that I can tell, but I can only test her autonomic functions. When she's near catatonic like that, I can't get a sense for her head. She could be damaged, or she could simply have retreated from reality for awhile. Without knowing exactly what Victor did to her--"

"I told you what he did."

"And you think I magically understand how that works? You think I have an inkling as to how Victor's power works?"

Charles stared at Gary for another moment before collapsing into his chair. He leaned over the desk and covered his face with his hands. "Lydia was just fine a week ago. It was just a normal year. It was supposed to pass."

Gary raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps I need to leave you alone." He turned and headed towards the door.

Charles looked up. "Wait, you haven't told me what I need to do!"

Gary frowned. "Do?"

"Something is wrong with her. She shouldn't be this ... this unresponsive."

Gary shrugged. "She did everything I told her to do."

"I don't mean that! Didn't she react to you at all, like you were ... like you were something else?"

"Some ... thing ... else?"

Charles' eyes shimmered. He had withheld some details from Gary, such as the way Victor had altered Stephanie's mind to make her think she was dead, and that her soul was in some sort of hellish afterlife that demanded punishment dispensed regularly by her demonic keepers.

The core of Stephanie's mind had been too strong to succumb, as linked as it was to her awakening psychic powers. Thus Victor "caged" her, and created "Lydia" from the rest.

"I suppose I had assumed that her trance-like state was normal," said Gary.

Charles' jaw tightened. "It's not. That's the point."

"Yes, so I gathered." Gary grabbed his stethoscope and medical bag. "But again, I am not the one that can diagnose her. Perhaps you should simply talk to Victor."

"I have talked to him, dammit!" Charles shouted. "He won't take this seriously! He's too wrapped up in his own agenda to see the forest for the trees!"

Gary cast a disapproving gaze at Charles. He did not worship Victor, but he revered the man enough to grow uncomfortable with Charles' implied slander. "There is nothing I can do about that." He reached for the door knob and paused. "Tell me again how long Lydia has been kept in this state?"

Charles wiped his face with his hand. "Twenty-one years."

"That's a long time to keep someone a prisoner in her own mind. Perhaps that has something to do with it."

"No."

Gary raised an eyebrow.

"Victor has been making slaves for over four decades. None of them have ever slipped. They remained slaves for the rest of their lives, totally loyal, obedient, and content."

"Yes, but Lydia was never made into a slave, now, was she?" said Gary.

Charles tried to speak, but nothing would come to him. Gary left without another word.

He stared at the closed door for another few seconds before he dropped his gaze to the drink. He pushed it aside and put the flask back in the drawer, his gaze lingering on the gun for a moment before he pushed the drawer closed.

As she trudged up the walk to Debby's door, Melinda was sure she would have felt less embarrassed to arrive naked.

To his credit, Richie had refrained from poking fun at her after letting off a few guffaws when he first saw her. Then it was only the other Harbingers' reactions that she dreaded. Though what worried her more was Mrs. Radson's reaction. Melinda had convinced herself that the woman would be offended (Melinda had little idea what Paganism was about, so her mind filled in the details, mostly wrong) or think it was the most darling thing she ever saw. Melinda could not decide which was worse.

Melinda wanted to sound a warning that she didn't care for any comments on her costume, but Debby gushed the moment Melinda opened her coat.

"Melinda, you look absolutely adorable in that costume!"

Near the back of the room, Heather snickered.

Melinda shot her sister a glare. She had intended to give Debby just a grudging acceptance of the compliment, but she was distracted by the sight of Debby's clingy robe.

"You look very nice as well," Debby said to her companion. "Richie, is it?"

"Yeah, that's me, Mrs. Radson," Richie said with a wide grin.

Melinda glanced at him in time to see Richie's eyes roam over Mrs. Radson's body, especially her ample breasts and prominent hips. Melinda wanted to snipe at Richie, but she found herself staring at Mrs. Radson in similar fashion. Her skin flushed hot despite the lingering cold air that had followed her from outside.

"Something the matter, Melinda?" said Debby.

Melinda flinched and shook her head. "No, I'm fine. Um, thanks, Mrs. Radson, glad you like the costume."

Melinda stepped past her and trotted across the living room. She looked towards the stairs and stopped. From halfway down the stairs, Jason stared at her.

Melinda looked back, eyes burning with defiance. If he makes one joke ... if he laughs even just a little bit...

"You look really nice, Melinda," Jason finally said.

Melinda narrowed her eyes. "You really mean that?"

"Well, yes. I mean ... I wouldn't have said that if--"

"You blew it," Heather said with a wry grin.

Jason blinked and stared at Heather with a panicked look. Melinda eyed Heather in confusion.

"You're supposed to say something real sappy like 'you make anything look good, Melinda!'"

"Uh ... w-well ..." Jason stammered.

Melinda stomped up to her sister, her wings jiggling almost as much as her breasts. "You are such a bubblehead." She whirled around, slapping her sister's face with the edge of one of her wings. "So where's yours, Mr. Starfleet Officer?"

Jason's cheeks pinked. "I'll put it on later."

Melinda raced up the stairs, her antennae bobbing, one of the glittery globes at the ends bopping her forehead. "Oh no you don't! If I have to parade around in this thing, then you're going to have to do it, too. Come on!"

"But Melinda, wait, I--"

Melinda grabbed his hand and hauled him up the stairs, determined to remain in control despite whatever Victor's damnable cult had left in her head.

In the darkest depths of Lydia's mind, something stirred.

It shuddered like a great, black beast rising from a long hibernation. It stretched its tendrils into the corrupted mindscape of Lydia's psyche that it had so arranged with painstaking care two decades ago.

The reality that Victor's avatar had constructed was tightly-focused and compact. There had been little for the avatar to do after it had been completed. This reality fed back on itself, drawing off most of Stephanie's own psychic power to fuel and perpetuate itself. Thus Stephanie's awakened abilities became the instrument of their own suppression. A clever if cruel trick.

Yet something had disturbed the avatar. It would not have awakened unless something was required of it. Its Master had not called upon it. Victor was still there, a distant light in the Dreamverse, but he was silent. Nor did the girl with the Dream Gift touch the remnant of Stephanie's consciousness. A pity. It enjoyed stalking about in its Master's form.

The avatar stretched itself outward, like a creature from some dark myth sending its slithering, probing tentacles into a slumbering and helpless landscape. Lydia's reality was as it should be. It sensed no taint from what was once Stephanie. She remained locked away in her own isolated corner.

Then, unexpectedly, the avatar touched nothing.

It was not simply the lack of something. It was a total cessation of existence. The term "void" seemed inadequate. It was beyond the capability of the avatar to understand its nature.

Thus the avatar interpreted as best it could. It reasoned that if it had touched something where Lydia's mind should be, but what was there was something else, then the only conclusion was that the boundaries of Lydia's psyche had shrunk. And the only explanation for such a phenomenon that fit into the avatar's limited world-view was that its control was being contested.

This was something it understood. It believed that Stephanie had pushed back. This is what had happened when it had first established itself, until it had siphoned away enough of Stephanie's psychic energy such that she could no longer sustain her resistance against Victor's power.

Lydia's mind was quiet, perhaps more so than it had remembered. It was not alarmed. It could handle this problem. That was its reason for existence, to tend to Lydia's mind so Victor did not need to devote his own personal energies to the task.

The avatar steeled itself and began pushing against the boundaries. It would simply apply its will -- itself an extension of Victor's immense will -- and overwhelm the resistance. There was no need to notify Victor for such a trivial matter.

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