Splintered: The Labyrinth, Book 3, page 10
It also didn’t help matters that Clyde seemed to know everybody. With each few steps, another townsperson would stop him to shake hands or talk. LeHorn frowned. The man was obviously well-liked in his community. Why then, did he have this unsettling feeling about the musician? He gave off the same vibe that Kandara’s cultists in Baghdad had exuded. The same vibe Saul O’Conner had given him so long ago. LeHorn staggered. O’Conner. There was somebody he hadn’t thought about in a long while. While he knew now that his other selves had also come to magic in their own various ways, he still remembered his particular path. How could he not? It had been Saul O’Conner who had first introduced him to magic, with his damned Daemonolateria—that most rare of occult tomes, with no two alike, as each copy was compiled by an individual magus. O’Conner had boasted once that his Daemonolateria existed across several different planes of existence, with some pages and chapters only accessible via other dimensions. At the time, LeHorn had still been a simple farmer, and hadn’t really believed the man.
Now, of course, he knew better.
LeHorn’s hands curled into fists. It had been O’Conner’s influence over him that had ultimately led to his wife’s death.
No. That wasn’t true. The fault had been his own.
Once again, his thoughts turned to Patricia, and the possibility of a version of her being alive on this level. If he had more time, he could seek her out, the way Teddy had done with Rose. But what would he find, if he did? Obviously, he himself didn’t exist on this level. There was only one of him. Nelson LeHorn Prime. But would this world’s Patricia know him? What if she was married to someone else?
LeHorn skidded to a halt and glanced around. Clyde was gone. Shaking his head, he chided himself for getting distracted. He scanned the crowd, searching for the old man. After a long moment, he spotted Clyde and five other old-timers passing by a food truck that sold funnel cakes. The group walked together, and LeHorn assumed that the other men must be Clyde’s bandmates. He pushed past a particularly obese family in matching t-shirts and followed. As he walked by the food truck, and caught a whiff of fried dough and powdered sugar, his stomach growled.
The group headed toward what appeared to be a town park. The crowd began to spread out in the wide, grassy space. LeHorn tailed the men until they reached a large, white, raised bandstand in the center of the grounds. A pile of instrument cases were stacked at the top of the stairs, and a younger man bustled back and forth, running power cords and checking audio equipment. He greeted the band members warmly.
LeHorn stood watching as they began to unpack their instruments. Then, frowning, he glanced around the park, looking for a quieter location. Spotting a cluster of trees next to a historic marker. He made his way over to that location, pausing only to read the sign, which denoted something about the first County Life Council meeting being held at that spot on February 15, 1924. Then he ducked into the trees and sat down cross-legged. Satisfied that the low-hanging branches and thick undergrowth concealed him, LeHorn peered out at the bandstand. He had a clear view of Clyde, who was tuning his fiddle.
“Okay,” LeHorn whispered.
He took a deep breath, focused, and closed his eyes. He rested his elbows on his knees, but his hands worked, tracing intricate patterns in the air. Then, LeHorn exhaled slowly and opened his eyes again. The Labyrinth was now overlaying the park. He could still see the trees and grass and people, but they were ghostly images against the walls and corridors of the Labyrinth itself. He turned his attention to Clyde, and his eyes widened in alarm.
“Oh my…”
As he had explained to the others before, LeHorn could often track the location of various entities in the Labyrinth based on the color of the energy around a door. If, for example, they were standing amidst the Labyrinth, and Ob had fled to another level, LeHorn simply had to look for a doorway with a distinct aura. That glow was how the human mind visualized the residual energy left by the entity’s passage. The same principle worked on members of the Seven, as well. He could, in theory, find Tony, Teddy, Frankie, or any of the others just by searching for their energy—left behind and lingering between dimensions like the vapor trails of a jet airliner.
The Labyrinth sat spread out before him, superimposed over the physical reality of the park. He saw an endless array of corridors and doorways, but none of them glowed. Instead, it was Clyde Justice himself who was surrounded with energy—a halo of sickly, black matter that resembled snow, except that it was obsidian instead of white, and rather than falling, it floated. It was almost as if Clyde had his own gravitational force, and the dark stuff was caught in his pull, circling around him. LeHorn had seen this type of matter before. It was always there in the moments before and after one of the Thirteen came through a door, but he had never seen it surround and orbit a person before. And a person couldn’t be a door.
Could they?
The Exit says he’s just that, LeHorn thought. He is an exit. And an exit is a door. Could Clyde be a…?
His eyes grew wider in alarm. Something was about to occur. He wasn’t sure what, exactly, but it was nothing good. Could it be possible that one of the Thirteen had tracked him, Teddy and Sarah to this level? If so, what did that mean for the fate of any other level they traveled to? They could doom entire planets just by their presence alone.
He stared, studying the phenomena and trying not to panic. The dark matter only surrounded Clyde, and didn’t seem to be connected to any of his bandmates. It stood to reason that Clyde was the threat—even if he wasn’t sure exactly what that threat portended.
Further away, LeHorn spotted a glowing door, indicating the presence of one of the Seven. His frown deepened. The plan had been for the Exit to reunite with Frankie, Bloom, and Tony, and wait for himself, Teddy and Sarah to rejoin them. The glow surrounding this particular door—which occupied the same space as a park bench—was weak and subdued, indicating only one of their number, rather than a group. What did that mean? What had happened in the time since they had parted ways in R’lyeh?
Sighing, he broke the meditation and stumbled to his feet. His numb legs tingled, and his head ached behind both temples. Rubbing his fingers through his beard, LeHorn did his best to walk calmly across the park and not attract attention to himself. When the bandstand was out of sight, he quickened his pace, pushing and shoving his way through the ever-increasing crowds.
A voice boomed over a sound system. “CHECK…CHECK…ONE…TWO…”
“Excuse me.” LeHorn’s tone was urgent. “Please, I have to get through. It’s an emergency.”
Some people got out of his way. Others stared at him with confusion, distrust, or curiosity. Despite having cleaned up at Rose’s home, he realized how he still must look—frantic, wide-eyed, and his beard and hair in desperate need of trimming. These people lived here year round, and the ones who didn’t had lived here at one point in their lives. That was the purpose of any Old Home Week celebration. He was uncomfortably aware of his outsider status. He saw it reflected in the faces as he weaved and dodged and pushed through the crowd. He wasn’t from around here. LeHorn felt like shouting, I’m not even from this Earth!
Many of the townspeople had mobile phones, and he marveled over their usage. When he had first entered the Labyrinth, back in the Nineteen Eighties, their usage had been a curiosity only for the wealthy. Now, they were everywhere. He wished that he and Sarah had the ubiquitous devices. If so, he could have updated her on what was happening.
A leering woman invited him to have his fortune read. She’d set up a small card table along the sidewalk, and had a coffee can for tips. LeHorn held up one hand and shook his head.
“Aw, c’mon.” Her southern drawl was thick. “It don’t hurt none. Aren’t you curious what your future holds?”
“I have a pretty good idea what my future holds,” LeHorn said, rushing past, “and I don’t think you’d like what you see.”
Breathless, he reached the Ponderosa and stumbled up the stairs onto the porch. He heard a voice behind him calling his name, turned, and saw Sarah and Carl approaching. He held up a finger, motioning at them to wait, and then rushed inside the community building. He caught Earl’s attention, and weaved the older man over to him. Perhaps seeing something in his expression or demeanor, Earl quickly excused himself from a group of other old-timers and hurried over to him.
“Outside,” LeHorn muttered. “I don’t want people to overhear.”
He led Earl over to Sarah and Carl, and then ducked around the corner of the building. They followed him, their own expressions now concerned.
“What is it?” Sarah asked. “What’s wrong?”
Panting, LeHorn turned to Earl. “Do you have a cell phone?”
“No, not anymore. Had one for a while, but all I got was telemarketers and scam calls, so I got rid of the damned thing.”
LeHorn turned to Carl. “How about you, Mr. Seaton?”
Carl shook his head. “No. My grandkids tried to teach me to use one, but that’s beyond my abilities. I reckon I do okay without.”
“Nelson,” Sarah asked again, “what’s wrong?”
“Something bad is about to happen. One of the Thirteen…”
Her eyes widened. “Here? Which one?”
“I don’t know. It hasn’t happened yet. But I fear it is about to.” He turned back to Earl. “I need you to go get Teddy, on the double. Tell him—”
“Teddy?” Carl held up a hand. “What’s this now?”
“We don’t have time to explain, Mr. Seaton.”
“Mister, you’re talking about the best friend I ever had. A man who’s dead. I reckon you’d better take the time to explain.”
Earl placed a hand on the older man’s shoulder and gently squeezed. “It will all be okay, Carl. Maybe you’d better come with me. Would that be okay, Nelson? If I took him along?”
LeHorn nodded. “If what I think is about to happen happens, then yes. At least he’ll be out of harm’s way.”
Carl scowled. “Now listen here just one goddamned minute. Do you know how many Germans I killed during—”
“Come on, Carl,” Earl said, guiding him toward the road. “Ain’t nobody questioning your ability to handle yourself in a fight.”
“But—”
“No buts. Let’s get in my truck, and I’ll explain everything on the way to Rose’s house. I’d better do that anyway, because you’re in for one hell of a surprise and I don’t want you dropping dead of a heart attack.”
LeHorn and Sarah watched as the two men walked toward the river embankment. Then they turned to each other.
“Okay,” Sarah sighed. “What’s the plan?”
“I don’t know,” LeHorn admitted. “I guess we’re going to have to make one up as we go along. This must be how Tony feels all the time.”
AS THE SOUND of instruments being tuned echoed across the public address system, the crowds began making their way toward the park. Sarah and LeHorn were swept up in the throng. Again, LeHorn was aware of the eyes upon them—the curious, bemused and knowing stares marking them as not from around here. Despite that, many people nodded or smiled in greeting, or said a quick hello. More microphone checks followed, and the collective pace quickened. Spotting a break in the line, LeHorn grabbed Sarah’s arm and led her around the rear of an Italian sausage food truck. A gasoline-powered generator chugged noisily, and they had to strain to hear each other. They ducked low and leaned close together.
“How’s that plan coming along?” Sarah asked.
“I suspect that Clyde—the fiddle player whom we met earlier—is similar to the Exit and myself.”
“I don’t think you and Mendez are alike at all. He’s a murderous fucking asshole, and you’re like my nice uncle.”
LeHorn’s smile was tight-lipped. “I don’t mean in that way. We’re both adept at opening and closing doors. I think Clyde might, be, too. At least, that’s one possibility. Another is that he may not be aware of his ability. He could be an unwitting pawn.”
“A pawn of who, though?”
“Well, that’s the big question.” LeHorn shrugged. “One of the ten remaining Thirteen. Of that, I’m certain. I just don’t know which one. I think this concert is connected to whatever they’re going to do.”
“Well, then we’ve got to warn everybody. Get them out of here!”
LeHorn gestured at the bandstand. Clyde’s group stood on stage, having apparently completed their tune up. The crowd filled the park, surrounding them on all sides, and spilling out into the nearby streets, sidewalks and yards.
“If we start a panic, a lot of people are going to die.”
“And if one of the Thirteen comes through, even more will die, Nelson.”
“Point.” He paused, watching as the band members took their places. Clyde sat center stage on a high-legged stool, fiddle in one hand while he adjusted his microphone with the other. In addition to him, there was a drummer, a bass player, two guitarists, a steel guitar player, a banjo picker, and a harmonicist. “We can’t be in the middle of that crowd. If something happens, we’d have a hard time fighting, and if there’s a panic, we’d be crushed.”
“Howdy, Renick!” Clyde’s shout produced a quick squall of electronic feedback. “Y’all ready?”
A thunderous roar went up from the gathering—a cacophony of cheers, shouts, whistles, and applause. Grinning, Clyde waited for it to die down.
“On behalf of the town council, I’d like to welcome everyone back for Old Home Week. It sure is good to see so many folks returning home to visit.”
The crowd responded with another round of enthusiasm.
“That hillside over there.” LeHorn pointed. “It’s far enough removed, but gives us a good view of everything. We’ll position ourselves there.”
“And do what?”
“Get ready to fight whoever comes through.”
“Couldn’t we just stop Clyde?”
LeHorn shook his head. “We don’t know who he’s summoning, or what his abilities are. We need to know more before we can act. If we go after him, we could make things worse. The crowd would certainly turn on us. Do you really feel like fighting another mob?”
“I did okay in R’lyeh.”
“Yes,” LeHorn agreed, “you did indeed. We were lucky to have you there with us. But Sarah, these aren’t the spawn of Leviathan. These are human beings—the people we’re meant to be saving. And they’re not a part of whatever is happening. Could you really kill them if you had to?”
Sarah’s expression crumbled. Instead of responding, she simply shook her head.
The band began to play, and the sound swept over all. LeHorn and Sarah made their way to the hillside.
“What is that?” she asked.
“Big Ball’s In Cowtown,” LeHorn replied.
“Excuse me?”
He nodded. “It’s a traditional. First recorded in Eighteen Ninety-Six and covered by everyone from Bob Wills to Waylon Jennings and Mel Tillis to George Strait. At least on my level it was. Apparently, it’s just as popular here. Have a look.”
Indeed, the crowd—young and old—danced and swayed and sang along. Front and center of the bandstand, what looked like a square dance mosh pit buzzed with twirling, spinning people. The scene was repeated throughout the park and in the yards.
“That looks like fun,” Sarah admitted.
“It is.” LeHorn’s tone grew solemn. “My wife and I used to go to a barn dance once a month. Even for a non-dancer like me, it was always fun. Something to do together. This song was always a staple there.”
They reached the hillside and stopped, watching the concert. ‘Big Ball’s In Cowtown’ segued into ‘Orange Blossom Special’ and ‘Turkey In The Straw’. LeHorn and Sarah sat down in the grass. The band slowed the tempo for a blues number—a cover of Harmonica Slim and Hosey Levy’s ‘Cold Tacos and Warm Beer’. When that was over, Clyde waited for the applause to die down.
“Nelson,” Sarah said, “what if we’re wrong? Maybe nothing’s going to happen. Maybe we’ve just got PTSD from everything we’ve—”
“Thank you,” Clyde said. “Y’all are too kind. Thank you very much. We’d like to do an original number now. This is the first time we’ve played it. It come to me in a dream. It’s called ‘The Lord of the Dance’.”
LeHorn’s eyes grew wide.
Clyde drew his bow across his fiddle strings, producing a mesmerizing tune. The band joined in and the crowd went nuts.
“Oh no…” LeHorn gasped.
“What?”
“Ob,” Clyde sang. “Meeeeeble… Ishtariiii…”
“I know who he’s summoning,” LeHorn moaned, leaping to his feet.
“Kandaraaaaaaa,” Clyde continued, as the hypnotic melody washed over all. “Kat…”
“Who is it, Nelson?” Sarah grasped his arm and squeezed. “Who is he summoning?”
“PURTURABO!” Clyde’s voice boomed through the speakers.
Holes appeared in the air, popping into existence in the blink of an eye and seeping a noxious, oily smoke that hung heavy in the air. The revelers seemed either unaware or unperturbed by their sudden materialization. They danced on, oblivious, whirling and stomping and clapping. The park echoed with the thunder of a thousand feet. Their glazed eyes focused only on each other. Those without partners found willing participants. Clyde’s hypnotic fiddle riff washed over all. The smoke spread out, and then red flames flickered out of the holes. LeHorn and Sarah gaped in horror as a young woman caught on fire in mid-twirl. Rather than stopping, dropping, and rolling, she simply danced faster, shrieking with glee as the flames engulfed her. She quickly became a spinning torch, and her laughter continued even after she collapsed to the ground, sizzling and bubbling. The air stank of roasting meat.
The townspeople danced on.
“What the fuck?” Sarah stomped forward. “We’ve got to help her, Nelson!”
He grabbed her arm and yanked her back. “We can’t do anything for her, Sarah. But maybe we can save the rest of them.”
