Bubbles of thick, gurgly sound streamed by her, racing to the incredibly distant surface. A surface that shivered and shook in the moon's reflective wash.

Then it was all kicking and clawing, as Delgado fought to get past her—to use her as one more piece of leverage in the fight for his life.

He was still screaming—or maybe it was her. He had her by the hair, and he wouldn't let her go. A death lock, that even death wouldn't break.

She punched him, but it was no use. She could see it in his eyes. Those wide-open staring eyes that mocked her.

She twisted and jerked, but he had her tangled. Panicking, desperate, she kicked at him, and clawed at his outstretched arm—the one that had her trapped. She tried to yank away—better bald than dead—but there was nothing to push against but his lifeless form—and he co-operated with justice as little in death as he had in life.

Through squinted eyes, she caught a glimpse of those ascending bubbles—taking her life with them.

As the last of the air bubbles left her throat, she closed her eyes against the encroaching darkness.

It was the only way to separate the water from her tears.

*

Bump. Bump-bump. "Come in," Nate said drowsily.

Only, the damn fool wouldn't enter. He just kept pounding on the door.

"Come in!" he repeated.

He couldn't remember locking it. But then, he couldn't remember much of anything at the moment. His brain felt as numb as his body.

And remembered where he was. It was the first time he'd awakened in the dark, since those terrifying moments in the gully.

It had taken forever and some painkillers to get him to sleep. He body was still set on "slumber", and he wished he'd stayed there.

It might have been possible if it hadn't been for the knocking. Nate flopped back, and gawked, with a kind of dulled wonder, at the brightest object in the room.

It was a bat. A big one. Beating itself against the glass.

It was so vibrant—so alive with its flapping wings and shimmery light... He flinched at the thought of it battered and broken on the ground. Like me.

Yawning loudly, he shook his head to clear it, and threw back the covers.

Nate limped heavily along the wall, grateful for the painkillers that kept him numb. There was a dull ache in his gut, and a matching one in his leg, but nothing he couldn't handle. He stumbled cautiously toward the window.

The bat was drenched in its white-orange light. Every time it thumped the glass, the rostrum would flicker a dense red. The vibrant light would dissipate down the body, until it disappeared.

That moment of shared suffering did it. Nate opened the window as far as the latch would allow.

"Go," he urged, reaching out his hand to the poor beast. His anxiety had been replaced by an almost desperate sadness. This reminded him of the rodents that had invaded his room.

Suddenly, he was desperate for the bat to go. He swung his hand a little wildly, inadvertently slapping one wing. Not leathery. It was neither coarse nor leathery.

What bothered him most was the reddish cast along the creature's wing—pain he'd inflicted.

A flicker of anger stirred.

The bat fell, landing with a crackling of branches in a stiff-branched Abelia bush. An Abelia that—to Nate's eyes—also glowed in luminescent glory against the backdrop of night.

He watched for a few seconds—hoping to see the bat's bright energies lifting skyward. Nothing.

He had his hand on the call bell before he realised how stupidly he was acting.

In the shrub, there was a flicker of shifting light.

A quick trip down in the elevator, a rummage in the bushes, then a quick trip back up. No one would be the wiser.

Nate rummaged in the closet, and out of frustration, opted for the robe. "Leave it to Aje," he muttered. It was a garment which would have done a pimp proud. All red satin, with gold embroidery.

"Impress your guests," Aje had said. He'd burst out laughing, and Brandon had made a hasty exit, which meant he'd been in on it, too. Now, Nate looked at it, and wondered how the hell he was going to be discreet.

But, then, there was the bat. Abelia was one of those shrubs with branches going every which way. Scratchy, sometimes brittle.

Nate remembered the way they'd felt—and how the radiance of that flapping, furry body had filtered through the glass, to brighten his room. He couldn't just lie here, and pretend it hadn't happened.

Nate grabbed the crutches and slipped his arms through the supports with a trace of excitement. As a youngster, he'd envied all those broken kids who got to hop around with crutches. It always looked like such a great game. And, of course, in those days, anything anyone else had always seemed like more fun that what you had yourself.

Too high. He was surprised to find himself sitting on the bed.

*

"Fuckin' hell!" He'd been battling it out with Delgado's hired hands. And now Chaz was missing…

Jim Casavas wrapped his fist in a cloth to stop the bleeding, as he raced along the dock. It was the last place she'd been, and she, like he, had been fighting for her life. Now, there was no sign of her.

Jim didn't want to believe it. He looked out across the water, desperate for some sign of a getaway.

At that moment, several air bubbles sifted to the surface.

Jim hit the button on his phone that would bring Hollebeck running, and tossed it onto the dock. Then, with dread weighing heavily in his gut, he jumped off, into the water.

*

By the time he'd reached the exit, he'd remembered the other thing about crutches—they were damned painful on your arms. They could also make you damn tired. He'd managed to avoid the orderly in the hall, and the two nurses at the nurses' station, but now he almost wished he'd run into someone. Someone who could have advised him on a more sensible course of action, like returning to his bed. The vision of the bat's finer points was fading fast.

Nate leaned against the building, and searched for the guilty shrub. Any awe he'd felt for the glowing leaves, or the weird colours the night had taken on, was long gone. It had never occurred to him he'd have trouble telling one shrub from another. The problem was, the landscaper had made his shrub-of-choice Abelia. The darned stuff was everywhere.

It would have helped if he could locate his window. The truth was, he couldn't even remember what floor his bed was on—or what room. Everyone who'd come to visit him had known where he was, so he hadn't bothered to think about it. And this was the first time he'd been up since he'd arrived.

The shrub to his right gave a suspicious wriggle, and Nate pounced. He bent and broke and pawed at branches—until he realised he'd never even thought about rabies or plague or anything else the bat might be carrying. That's what you get for letting them dope you up—then acting like a dope…

He'd left his hesitation till too late. The bat came crawling out—walking forward on those bent wings that acted like legs. Nate could see it clearly in its haloed light—right down to the blindly beady eyes, squashed snout, and vicious mouth. In the eerie glow, it looked far from the elegant creature that had fluttered outside the glass. It looked much more like a squat gargoyle, with evil on its mind. It scuttled forward, and Nate let the bushes go with a horrific twang.

Which made the bat sproing outward—right into Nate's horrified face. Nate flopped over backwards—feeling the crunch in his leg and gut as he went. Moments ago he'd come close to feeling no pain. Now it seemed like his world was full of it.

The bat reacted to his agitation. It clawed and scratched and danced its devil dance on his face and hair, all the while making these high-pitched squeaky-squawks and gyrating around on those stiff, flappy armwings. The bat-stench was unbelievable, and Nate began to gag—at the same time fighting not to open his mouth.

In a panic, Nate ripped the bat off his face. It turned on him, squirming to get at his hand. Howling now, he flung it skyward.

After that, he couldn't do anything. He was gone. Used up. Spent. Flopped where he lay.

And praying like hell it wouldn't topple anywhere near him.

Something swooped past his head, coming in low—a glowing gargoyle straight from Hades.

It was the last thing he remembered for a while.

*

Duncan Hollebeck stood on the dock and looked out at the water. All he could see in the wavery chop was the eerie reflection of the half moon. He felt a brief spasm of pity for Casavas, and how it must have been for him. Finding her had been a mission in itself.

He'd read it wrong, opting for clandestine, even when it forfeited security. I should have taken the chance on wiring them both.

I backed her up—but not till she had her back to the wall. Not until they'd had to fish her out of the water.

Then there'd been twenty minutes of CPR—a useless gesture, because they knew she was already gone. The farce had continued as they'd loaded her onto the helicopter. It was an act of respect, but more than that, it was a necessary illusion—to convince Casavas and the others that Duncan Hollebeck had done everything in his power to offer her his support. Without the power of the illusion, he would have forfeited the power of his command.

However strong the illusion, Hollebeck knew it would never have the strength to conceal his shortcomings—from himself.

*

Nate opened his eyes and saw it, far in the distance. It was coming for him—its glow flickering uncertainly in the roar of its arrival.

The next moment, he was sitting in the Abelia, much as the bat had a short time before. Only, he didn't fit nearly as well as the bat. Spent, he perched there and waited for the helicopter traffic to hustle by.

There was someone on the stretcher. He froze, watching with his newly heightened perspective.

It was a woman. She was drenched—and to his eyes, her skin wore a glaze of blue marble. Near her heart, her head, though, some sparkles of light lingered.

"She's gone…"

Nate heard the words, and stiffened. It was too close to the time when he'd been the one on that stretcher.

He looked regretfully at the red glow that was now ensheathing his leg. He realised what a fool he'd been, to take a chance like this—to take his survival so lightly.

I'm sure she'd think so. His eyes went to the woman's still figure once more.

And was stunned to find a heated yellow glow surrounding her—a response to the man's words.

She heard him, Nate realised, shocked. She's angry, because they're ready to give up on her, before she's ready to die… The thought filled him with a grim horror.

Almost involuntarily, he put out his hand in her direction, and a stray glint of her light—of that pulsingly heated glow surrounding her—passed into his skin. He gasped at the sensation—at the tingle of warm energy running up his arm.

They still had a chance, if only they'd take it.

They were moving swiftly now, away from him. Anxious to get this done; eager to get past their failure. Too swiftly for him, but too slowly if they were going to save her. Not the way they would have moved if they'd thought she stood a chance.

But there wouldn't be any more attempts at saving.

Buried alive.

And, by the time her coffin was lowered into the ground, it really would be too late.

Nate clawed his way out of the shrubbery, yanked up his crutches, and hobble-hopped after them into the building.

*

"I'll call it." Adam Saracen looked at the clock, then at the still figure on the table. Some kind of cop, they'd said. He tried not to react—not to let the pity in. Keep it light. No sense in bemoaning what you can't change.

Think of the ones you've saved.

"Time of death—"

A man pushed—no, almost fell—through the swinging door. Kate Morgan was arguing with him. "You can't go in there! If you want to see the doctor—"

Dan Yergano, from Security, latched onto the intruder's red robe. At that, the man on crutches nearly lost his balance. He started to topple forward, and Dan let go—undoubtedly seeing visions of lawsuits dancing through his head.

"Problems?" Adam asked.

Jude Lawson caught the man's arm and steadied him. "He's got a bracelet," she said.

Adam nodded. The garish garb had thrown him off. This was the one who'd been brought in the other night. The one who'd toppled off a mountain. "Shouldn't he be upstairs?"

Kate shrugged. "I'll ring up to three."

"Let me take a look at him first," Adam told her with some asperity.

He caught the warning glint in her eye. He was letting his impatience show—and his intolerance for fools who were patched up, then proceeded to damage themselves again in a repeat performance of their stupidity.

So, Adam made an effort. He squared his shoulders and pasted on a polite smile. "What's your name?" Adam asked Mr. Red Robe.

Red Robe didn't seem to hear him.

Jude looked at the bracelet. "Leighton, Hubert N."

"Mr. Leighton?" No response. Adam turned to Jude. "Check on his meds. Could be some kind of reaction."

"They didn't even know he'd left," Kate said, putting down the phone. "Ben's coming down."

*

Nate wasn't listening—no, the truth was, he could no longer hear what they were saying. His eyes were focused on the drenched figure lying on the table. The radiant lights surrounding her were pulsing dimly now. Something stirred inside him, and at first he thought that it was pity, or horror, or even some remnant of the tingling buzz which had entered his skin in that moment of contact.

Then he was afraid, because he suspected it was something else.

He wanted to turn away then, before it could happen. The sensation building in his chest was familiar. It was a heat, that turned his limbs to ice. Molten, and roiling—almost alive. He'd been afraid, all his life. Afraid that it would build like this—and somehow get away.

The worst part of it was that it somehow belonged to his past. To the blasts of static electricity that sent him scurrying under the bed.

He stood there, leaning on his crutches, and unaware that he was wobbling. His balance was the traitor, and he had to shift his feet in order to stop from toppling. In that instant, he heard a crackle of static.

*

The man was oblivious to their chatter, and Adam's eyes met Jude's. "Mr. Leighton?" he tried again.

Then, he noticed where Leighton was looking—at the dead woman. "Cover her up," Adam ordered. The man was suffering from shock, all right, but he'd misjudged the cause. And the fool's gawking irritated the hell out of him. "Let's get him out of here," he said abruptly.

At that, Jude fluffed around—did everything, in fact, but cluck disapprovingly.

Adam's annoyance faded. "But first, we'll put Mr. Leighton in two, and make sure everything's okay before we send him on his way."

*

That crackle of static terrified him—as though it were telling him more than he'd ever wanted to know.

In that instant, he was tempted. Tempted to walk away before they knew what he was seeing—before he could act on his vision.

Before he'd be forced to admit what some part of him already knew: that something about him—some innate part of him—had changed.

Those glints brightening her heart, her brain, were drifting. The white blanket enfolding her body was rapidly becoming a shroud.

He gulped, and a sensation like heartburn ate at his chest.

He had the sensation of being burned alive. From the inside out.

*

The lights flickered.

"Not again," Adam said. All eyes followed his—to gaze at the ceiling.

*

Nate moved. He shoved the doctor to one side, and launched himself at the table. In his efforts to offset the cast, he overshot his mark. He landed right on top of the dying woman, and sent the gurney rolling across the floor.

It was obscene. Appalling. And it was obvious the doctor felt the same way. His "What the hell!" reverberated through the room. And twanged the tension in Nate's already-overwrought nerves.

The trigger for the cataclysm.

And now all he could hear was a crackling rush of sound—white noise with a signature.

The white hot wires singed his heart—his lungs—any more and he'd self-immolate…or explode…

And all he could see were those damned lights, jiggling and dancing everywhere he looked.

Nate pulled her chilly flesh against his own—knowing a momentary relief at that instant of cold—and let the explosion come.

*

The lights flickered, buzzed and went out. One of the bulbs blew out of its socket, but nobody noticed.

Blue arcs of light warred with white lightning bolts across the ceiling and floor of the emergency room. The man, Leighton, was screaming—a hoarse cry of agony that got shriller as the arcing went on—and on.

He also told himself he should be finding some way to cut the power—to push the bodies out of reach—to prep the crash cart—but he couldn't seem to move. Those white and blue arcs held him and his co-workers as tightly bound as Leighton's arms did the dead woman.

The room was filling with misty smoke. Adam heard the drone of Dan's voice in the background, as he rang the fire department.

It was Jude who first saw the "smoke" for what it was—the humidity being generated by the moisture rising off the woman's clothing. It was enough to make Adam sure that what he saw next must be a mistake—had to be a mistake. For, as the last of the crackling died from the air, the woman in Leighton's arms opened her eyes.

Adam nearly lost it then. Gooseflesh danced down his arms and legs, and he gave an involuntary shiver.

Until she began to cough, and was, once again, simply another human being. She shivered and gagged, then vomited water, across the floor. Across Leighton, who still held her loosely in his arms.

Across that improbable red robe and its even more improbable owner. Adam had this weird feeling he was in some other reality, characterised by garishly bright red brocade garments, resurrected bodies, and people who could shoot lightning bolts out of their fingers.

The woman coughed again, then wheezed, sucking in big deep breaths of steamy air—air that had risen from her own dead body.

The lights came back on in Emergency, but Leighton was as oblivious as he'd been before.

Adam recognised the look. He'd seen it in his own face, the first time he'd messed up a diagnosis. The man was as terrified of himself, as he was of other people finding out.

Adam realised he'd come to some conclusion about Leighton—and about what he'd just witnessed. It was no bare wire, or electrical short…

Leighton wanted to leave now—was desperate to leave. He pushed himself up, off the gurney. Off the woman who was still silent and damp.

Only, the man had no strength left. It was as though he'd tapped his inner reserves, and had left nothing for himself. Adam got the impression Leighton was fading, right before his eyes.

Adam's still-stunned, and inanely inadequate "Are you all right?" was met by that frightened stare, until the man's eyes lost focus and he sagged against the gurney. Until he accidentally touched the woman's hand, and jerked his own away.

It was the last gesture he was to make that night. As Adam watched, Leighton sighed, then toppled over onto the floor.

*

"Take it." The phone's blipping sounded unnaturally loud, now that the last helicopter had left.

Ian Termill nodded. Duncan Hollebeck was in no mood to be diplomatic, and he knew better than to argue.

Ian listened for a moment, then promptly dropped the phone. When he picked it up again, he was looking a little stunned. He held out the phone to Hollebeck.

"What is it?" Duncan asked coldly. At the same time, his stomach sank. Another emergency. His own failure was too close for him to interpret Termill's actions in any other way.

"It has to do with Chaz—"

At the mention of her name, Hollebeck felt a qualm he had trouble concealing. The last thing he needed now was information on some needless suffering—some useless input into how she'd died.

Hollebeck's expression hardened. "Keep it brief."

Ian Termill sighed, then gave what may have been a smile.

Hollebeck could have pounded him.

Until he heard the man's next words. "Chaz is alive, Duncan—and she's asking for you."

*

"Brandon? It's Angela."

"Do you need a ride back to the hospital?"

"It's not that, Brand," she admitted. She was hesitant; reluctant to talk.

"What's up?" he pushed.

"There were some people here asking questions—about Nate." She paused. "I didn't tell them much."

"There was an incident at the hospital last night. Did you know he's back in ICU?"

"No," Brandon said, concerned. "I saw him yesterday. He was doing great."

"Brand, are you and Nate still pretty close?"

Brandon smiled at her choice of words. He was just glad Aje wasn't here, to twist them. "We're friends, yes, if that's what you're worried about."

"Nate's never going to forgive me for this," she said worriedly. "But it's for his own good—and his safety."

"I'll come to your hotel," Brandon offered.

"Not the room," Angela said quickly.

Brandon frowned. What'd she think? They'd have it bugged or something? "I'll meet you in the restaurant," he said. Unable to resist, he jokingly added, "I'll take a cab, just to make sure I'm not followed."

"Make it the restaurant near the hospital," she told him. "And it might be better if you switched cabs halfway there. Eleven sound okay?"

His job had been eating at him lately. It was getting harder all the time to believe that the pimps, the pushers, the gangs, the thieves and the murderers were in the minority. That the majority of people didn't have any urge to beat their neighbours to death, or club their wives. That most people wouldn't cheat or steal, pound on their children, or vandalise other people's property, if given the opportunity.

Brandon had a sudden urge to hang up the phone. If one of his friends was involved in something "shady", he'd prefer blissful ignorance to guilty deceit. He'd learned a lot about flexibility since he'd started this job. If the rules needed to be bent a bit, he'd prefer it to be painless—so he wouldn't have to live with either the stress of deceit, or the discomfort of guilt. It was the only way he could reconcile his job with his life. And there was enough of him in both things to make the reconciliation necessary. It didn't sound like the reconciliation, when it came to Nate, was going to be an easy one. He had an uncomfortable feeling that after today, his and Nate's friendship would never be the same.

"Brandon?"

He sighed. "Eleven will be fine," he said.

*

In the four hours since Brandon had seen Angela, he hadn't done anything constructive. Instead, he'd gone back to the mountains, and sat for a while, trying to imagine what it must be like to be struck by lightning. Then he'd driven to Nate's house, and checked out the cars assembled there. They were undoubtedly searching the premises, and Brand was tempted to storm in there and demand to see a search warrant. He would have, too, if he hadn't already known how little there was for them to find.

Brandon had smiled at that one, and he realised things might not be as grim as they seemed. It was all a matter of coming to terms with these new aspects of Nate's personality. Nate had been living a lie for years. Either that, or he was in some weird form of denial.

Brand idly noted a few of the licence plate numbers on the otherwise unmarked cars, knowing it wouldn't do him much good. He was angry at Nate for hiding his handicap, if that's what it could be called, but maybe Nate didn't see it as such.

Lying by omission. Omitting to tell his best friends about his problem. Endangering them rather than admitting the truth.

Well, Brandon'd be damned if he'd be guilty of the same kind of omission when it came to Aje. Adrian Morton deserved to know what was going on, if only to protect himself. Brand picked up the phone, and punched in Aje's number.