Lost Souls in the Hunting Ground - Part one (cont)

Penelope Hill
Dinner was excellent. McFarlane was a genial host, plying us with expensive wine and witty small talk. He was also very good at evasive remarks; normally I would expect to pick up a whole slew of hints and clues about my company during the course of a meal, but while Dixie and Joe let drop a number of interesting snippets, our host remained an enigma. He'd been in Europe recently, he admired Warhol, and he thought Picasso overrated. And that was about as personal as he was prepared to get. Art and history clearly fascinated him; he displayed an impressive knowledge of both subjects, which impressed Dixie immensely.

It impressed me too.

The food was good, although I noticed that McFarlane ate very little of it. Nor did he drink much, although he was continually refilling our glasses and encouraging us to drink deep. Dixie got a little merry, and Joe wasn't far behind her; even I found myself mellowing as the evening progressed, although I was trying not to overindulge myself. By the time we had pushed away empty dessert plates I felt replete, relaxed and not a little confident.

Okay, I admit it. I was drunk.

Not staggeringly, world-spinning, fall-down drunk. That was Joe, barely able to get to his feet when our host suggested we retire to his drawing room for coffee. I was lightheaded, rosy-glow tipsy, full of goodwill toward all. I don't know what McFarlane had been mixing with the wine, but it had packed a subtle punch that none of us had noticed coming.

And I should have known better.

We'd dined in a wood-panelled room, seated at a table designed to hold twenty or thirty people; just the four of us, gathered together at one end of that expanse of wood, and fêted with gilded candlesticks and expensive crystal. I hadn't even noticed when McFarlane had told his servants to leave, but by the time that we staggered into the next room, with its vast landscapes and its Queen Anne furniture, we were alone. Sunset was falling over the world outside; the curtains in the room were drawn tight. Joe leaned on my arm and swayed unsteadily, laughing as he did so. McFarlane escorted a giggly Dixie and deposited her onto the yielding surface of a velvet upholstered chaise longue.

I dropped Joe down beside her, and he reached to gather her up, complimenting her with slurred words as he did so. I found that I, too, was laughing, although I didn't know why.

"Leave them," McFarlane whispered in my ear, catching my arm, pulling me away. "Let us find more diverting entertainment."

I followed him, almost without thinking, into the quiet of the hallways. I'd kicked off those stupid sandals sometime during dinner and my bare feet sank into the luxury of the carpeting as we walked; his hand rested lightly on my arm, guiding me down the passage and around another corner. The door at the end admitted us to a large room in which a full-sized concert grand piano held pride of place. A fully equipped bar ran down one wall, its curved wooden surfaces gleaming softly in the cool light that filled the room. The windows were tinted, just like the one in the reception area downstairs, turning the dying day from orange fire into sullen mauves.

"Sunlight," McFarlane confided as he caught my glance toward the outside world, "is anathema to true art. I keep it out. Do you like my piano?"

"It's beautiful."

It was, too. A finely crafted Steinway, polished to perfection. I walked across and carefully depressed a single key. The note that answered was rich and resonant.

"Do you play?" my host enquired, watching my reaction. I nodded almost without thought, then caught myself doing so. I didn't know if Chris Kneally played or didn't. Al had said he was an actor, not a musician.

"A little," I decided to admit, covering myself for either eventuality.

"I thought that was the case." McFarlane looked pleased. "You have the look of a true artist. Men of genius are so rare in this world of ours; it's a pleasure to find one where you least expect to do so."

Flattery will get you everywhere...

What did McFarlane want, I wondered distantly. Even in the arms of intoxication I found time for concern. Chris didn't belong in this rarefied atmosphere of fine art and sophistication; I wasn't even sure that I did.

"I'm hardly a genius, Mr McFarlane."

He laughed.

"I wouldn't say that," he insisted, leaning against the bar and considering me thoughtfully. "You see, I've heard you perform. Very impressively too."

"Really?" I tried to put the right amount of surprise into my reaction. Chris would be extremely flattered by the remark. I was flattered by the remark.

"Oh yes," he assured me softly. "You were magnificent. Such talent from one so young. Such potential for art. Such brilliance..." He was suddenly beside me, turning me toward him, catching my eyes with his own. A flutter of alarm caught at me, too fleeting to cling to. "Such depth," he hissed.

And I was lost.

Simple as that, taken off my guard, lulled by my own misconceptions. The haze of the wine spun my senses, befuddled my thinking. If I'd had a defence, it was one he'd measured and accounted for long before. He'd tested me earlier, planting the first seeds of his sorcery; now he gathered up his power, and made me his own.

His eyes were shadows, filled with baleful fire; they wove threads of darkness about me, while old terrors gibbered in their depths. There was truth in their darkness, tempting, enticing, seductive; it drew me deeper, tangled me in webs of half-glimpsed revelations. To resist was to lose all hope of those answers, yet to surrender was to give up my soul...

I fell. Like a hopeless moth I battered the wings of my dreams against the bitter sweetness of his promises until he drew me in, until he drowned me in his corruptions.

And it was nothing but lies. All lies.

There were no truths in the darkness, only despair.

Only decay.

The coldness of death denied, the yawning emptiness of the pit, and the horror of his soul...

I think I gasped. Once; the impact of his presence denied me any other reaction. He held me with his smile, pinned me to the spot like an insect pierced for display. I could not move, other than he wished it.

And I still did not understand...

"Sam?" Al's voice registered through the mists that had engulfed me. "I think we may have a problem, kid."

May?

McFarlane's hand wrapped around my shoulder, led me deeper into his lair.

"Ziggy did what you suggested - checked the records for McFarlanes as far back as she could go? And we found one. A Lieutenant Colonel Cameron McFarlane, commander of the Ninth Virginia Wolf Pack back in 1861."

Another room, filled with mirrors. Images surrounded me, a multiplicity of figures: Chris Kneally, Cameron McFarlane. And in their midst, unseen by the silvered glass? Sam Beckett and his faithful shadow. A hologram has no reflection. I had a thousand. None of them were mine.

You're a vampire, I'd accused once, startled by my friend's failure to appear beside me in a piece of glass. He'd laughed. As I had done, later, at his fears and assumptions.

There's no such thing as vampires, Al, I'd said.

Oh, such folly to be so wise...

McFarlane's reflection opened a panel in the glass; revealed a narrow staircase leading down.

"You go first," he whispered, his fingers brushing the curve of my cheek as he lifted his hand away. Not a suggestion. A command.

I obeyed it without question.

"Sam-" Al didn't understand my failure to acknowledge him. He reappeared ahead of me as I arrived at the bottom of that narrow flight. "Did you hear me? We found a McFarlane. And it was this McFarlane. The photographs are an exact match."

An exact match?

But that was impossible, wasn't it? How could this man be the same one who'd commanded a Rebel brigade back in the 1860s?

"Oh my god..." My friend had registered his surroundings. I had registered my surroundings. A short flight of steps down into madness; the missing thirteenth floor. The hidden truths behind the public façade.

Opulence was not the word. Opulence paled into insignificance beside that riot of colour and richness. The room was draped in woven silks, lit with soft lamps and carpeted with a pile so lush it was like walking on sand. And it was filled with treasures: golden pieces, rich enough for the ransom of kings, lay in heaps amid ancient statuary and modern sculptures. It was like stepping into the tomb of Tutankhamen. Everywhere my eyes fell, they found wonders waiting for them...

"My personal collection," McFarlane announced, closing the panel in the wall that had admitted us to his haven. "Go through, Sam, please."

I moved in the direction he indicated, leaving Al standing dumbstruck in the midst of splendour.

He called me by my own name...

Panic was building up inside me, a panic that could find no outlet, no escape. I was no longer in control of myself, let alone the situation. I drifted through the indicated arch, finding another chamber awaiting me. Like the first it was littered with prizes; at its heart lay a padded circular couch, draped with a layer of pristine white silk.

"Sit," my host's voice commanded, and I did so, sinking onto the yielding surface. McFarlane was standing close to the arch, looking back with a hint of impatience. "Don't just stand there," he drawled. "Come in, why don't you?"

After a moment, Al did just that, the handlink tucked into a pocket, his manner defensive and his eyes alarmed. McFarlane gave him a little bow as he ushered him through; the man's expression was amused.

"Two enigmas in the midst of mystery," he considered, standing where he could see us both. He'd always been able to, I realised, a tight hand clenching at my stomach. Right from that first moment that I had stepped out of the elevator he had seen me - Sam Beckett - and not the cloak of Chris's aura at all. No wonder he had looked puzzled. No wonder he had stared at Dixie on the stairs. Because he had been staring at the figure standing on thin air behind her; the figure that I had heard, and she had not.

"Sam," Al queried, his question tight, "what the hell is going on here?"

"Close guess," McFarlane smiled. It wasn't a nice smile at all. It never had been. The eyes above it were empty, cold and calculating.

Al glanced in my direction; my eyes flicked toward him in answer although I could not turn my head. My limbs felt heavy, my body not entirely my own. Fear was clawing at my guts, pounding my heart into overdrive; I drew in a sense of impending malevolence with every breath.

Get outta here, Al, I wanted to scream.

I wondered if it showed in my eyes.

The hologram moved a little closer, as if - simply by being there - he could offer a me a measure of protection. "Sam..."

"He hears you, but he will not answer. Not unless I choose otherwise." McFarlane's voice held contempt. "You come into my home, spy on my purposes, plot against me ... why should I give you the courtesy of truth? Except," he added, the smile curving with cold cruelty, "that it is such a delicious truth..."

A shiver ran down my spine; Al went a little white.

Get the hell out, damn you!

But he didn't move. Not right then.

"It took me a little while to make sense of things," my captor continued thoughtfully. "Why my mirrors would show one thing, my eyes and my perceptions another. But once I had realised that I was the only one who saw your shadowplay, I understood a little better. Like me, you pursue a masquerade, only yours is poor puppetry compared to my own." He crouched a little to bring his face level with mine, studying me with the same attention he had given to his works of art. "What brings you back, Sam Beckett? Why concern yourself with the past? Merely because you can?" He laughed, softly. "Oh, what a piece of work is man. Playing with things he cannot possibly understand - with things he does not seem to control. Would that power not be better placed in wiser hands than yours?"

He knew who I was. Had comprehended some of what I was doing there. He wanted a piece of it for himself...

I didn't know what he was. But I was beginning to have terrifying suspicions.

"What did you have in mind?" Al's question was wary; he was probably trying to play for time while he figured out what was going on. McFarlane threw him a calculating look.

"What sort of man are you, I wonder?" he mused, lifting himself back to his full height. "I have no sense of it in your image. He has potential. The taste of true art. And such strength of purpose, such clarity of soul. Once I possess that, I think perhaps that I will possess the world." He turned to pace away, expressing a level of excitement, of expectation. Al stared after him with a look of dawning horror that matched my own.

"You were right," my host acknowledged wryly. "About the Wolf Pack. They slaughtered so many at my command. The fields ran red with it, heady, rich, and so replete with pain..." He drew in a slow breath of pleasure at the memory and I began to struggle in earnest. Desperate, hopeless, pitiful. I could neither break the hold he had over me, nor escape him, even if I could. But I tried. I tried so very hard...

"It was a good war," McFarlane decided. "And afterward I was so drunk on it that I slept for thirty years. I was a power among the Kindred once. I will be so again." He swung back toward us both, his eyes a glitter of dark fire in the depths of his face. Al took an involuntary step backward, into the surface that supported me.

"What-" he questioned somewhat faintly, "are you...?"

I knew. I could no longer deny that I knew. There was a part of my mind, rational, desperate, that still flailed for alternative explanation, that labelled the man's words as madness, his claims as impossibilities. But my soul knew better. It knew the terrors of the heart, the darkness that waits forever at the edges of the comforting illusion we call the rational world.

We feel so secure in our comforting lies and our self-certainties. We have come to know so much with our science and our rational orders. We dismiss the old tales as simple myths and pity those who believe otherwise. Yet, if there is a god - and there is something toward which our hearts yearn, our souls strive - then why should there not be other forces, lurking in the dark? Beneath our comfortable world why shouldn't another fester, hidden, secured by our own foolish refusal to see? Man is not alone; nor has he ever been. There are others that wait in the shadows, predators that reap the rich harvest of unknowing lives.

We are at war. We have always been at war. And the battlelines were long ago obscured by mistold tales and deliberate misdirection.

The enemy is among us.

The enemy is us.

All we have to do is surrender to its power...

McFarlane must have done so once. It had rewarded him even as it had destroyed him; what was left was dark parody, pretending to be a man, cloaking the beast in urbane charm and cruel pleasures.

He was the face of the canker that festers at the root of the world, the worm that gnaws forever at its core.

The demon that stalks so scornfully amongst us.

One name might be vampire.

And he wanted me...

"What am I?" McFarlane laughed, stepping closer, dropping some of the masks he wore; allowing a sense of his true nature to escape and revealing a shiver of cruelty beneath his surface smile. "Do you want dramatic acclamations? I am death? I can be. If I wish. Or worse... But I am so much more than that. I am of the Kindred; a noble of the blood, chosen to rule the pitiful cattle that calls itself mankind. You are nothing but a subject, merely a slave, and if you were here in the flesh I would rip out your soul, feast on your heart and throw away the empty husk when I was done."

Performance art. He meant it to sound pretentious. His words were mocking, intentionally derisive, wrapped in total contempt.

And they were as terrifying as hell.

Al took another step backward. I wouldn't have blamed him if he'd turned tail and run right there and then. "Oh, jeeezusss..." he breathed. The vampire merely laughed again.

"Call all your saints and angels, if you wish," he offered generously. "They will have no power over me."

"Sam," my friend gulped, groping in his pocket for the link, backing off from the approaching shadow that held me in thrall, "I'll get you out of this, I swear I will. I don't know how, but I will..."

I was screaming at him to go, to get away, to seek the sanctuary of the future, the world I knew I would never see again.

But not a word escaped me. Only the barest whimper as my master's hand reached out to stroke my cheek.

"Promise all you want," McFarlane murmured softly. "He is mine. I will make him a prince among men, give him the power to match his potential. And when the time has passed, and the circle is complete, perhaps I will send him to seek you out. Perhaps he's waiting for you even now. Right outside your door..."

No. Not that. Anything but that...

"Sam..." Al's voice was cracked with terror. Something inside me flared into fire. I turned my head, finally found voice for my words.

"Get out!" I screamed. Our eyes met across a gulf of nearly thirty years - and then he was gone, leaving me with the image of his desperate horror, of his dismayed comprehension that there was nothing he could do but obey...

Leaving me alone with my death.

But isn't that how every man faces it in the end?

McFarlane reached to capture my cheek, to turn my face toward him with gentle persuasion. I fought him - or tried to, my struggles mere shadowplay against the strength of his will. Had I known his nature before, had I been forewarned against his intent, I might have made a better defence of myself. But I'd let him slip past my guard, had allowed him to dull my thinking, and lull my suspicions with the wine.

And, as Chris Kneally had done the first time round, I had given myself up to his power because it had held such tempting promises...

Was this what he had done to Chris? Had he added him to his collection as if he were another painting, another piece of porcelain? The taint of his darkness had reached out and engulfed Dixie, destroyed Joe.

Oh, Dix. Sweet Dix. Finding freedom in the ultimate release...

Had he fed off them all? Tasted her sweetness as well as her brother's? Had it been the memory of his eyes that had pushed Joe into the bottle, abandoned by his master as unworthy, too contemptible even to tempt a noble's palate?

I would tear out your soul, feast on your heart and throw away the empty husk when I was done...

Was that what he was going to do to me?

I met his eyes, looked into the abyss that waited there.

And knew that my fate was to be far, far worse...

His fingers slid from my cheek, caressing the curve of my throat. Not a lover's touch, but the amused assessment of a predator, measuring the sleekness of its prey. I shuddered, as far as I was able to, my skin crawling at the contact.

Just as my soul shrank from the impact of his presence.

A cold presence, menacing and inescapable. It filled the room and dominated everything, tainting every sense, every perception. I wanted to scream. I wanted to fight. But I was held immobile, helpless and aware of my helplessness, struggling against unseen bonds, perspiring and panicked like a fly ensnared in an invisible web.

Knowing the spider was close...

Oh, god, so close!

His hand moved lower, fingers curling in obstructive fabric, then ripped with casual strength. The cotton parted, letting air at my sweated skin, letting him place the cool surface of his palm over my pounding heart.

His eyes held anticipation; they promised terror.

Inch by beleaguered inch he pushed me back with slow deliberation, despite my desperate cling to sanity. Darkness gibbered at my heels, dragging at me with tendrils of clammy malevolence; I fought and I struggled, driven to the very edge of the pit with calculated persistence.

And he was playing with me.

He could have plunged me into the murk without a moment's hesitation, could have ripped away the tenuous hold with which I clung so desperately. Could have immersed me in the substance of his darkness, tossed me contemptuously into the yawning chasm that he intended for my fate. But all he did was push. Taunt and terrorise.

It wasn't just that he wanted me to anticipate the fall, to extend the struggle. There was a promise in his smile.

He wanted me to jump.

Submit, it whispered with endless temptation. Let go. Surrender. Embrace the darkness and it will cushion your descent. Accept your fate, seize the corruption.

It will only hurt that little while.

And then you will feel nothing at all...

My struggle was hopeless, but I would not give in. I would not give him the satisfaction of my surrender.

 His hand was on my shoulder, pushing me back, pushing me down. I was sinking into the softness of silk, into the chill of its touch, the pristine embrace of the shroud...

Somewhere I found the strength to close my eyes.

But I could not shut him out from my soul.

"Relax," his voice murmured, close, intimate, laughing... "I will be gentle, I swear..."

I almost believed him.

Until the impact; until he struck, white hot, ice cold, burning. The fangs of the beast closed in my throat, ripping at my sense of self, my existence. I bucked and squirmed, finally released from my torpor to struggle and fight; all to no avail. He pinned me with unholy strength, taking his time, savouring the feast of my resistance. Moment by moment he devoured me; a rape of the self, a theft of my soul.

Dear god, I screamed, a sound that emerged from my throat without the substance of words. I was torn by the torment of his feasting, feeling my strength ripped away from me, my protesting life taken with savage pleasure.

The pain was nothing beside the terror he inspired - and the pain was so much more than I could bear...

I retreated from his onslaught, clinging with desperation at the very edges of the pit. He reached out and took me, laughing, revelling in my fear, my refusal to accept his mastery.

And my hold weakened, as I weakened, the pain and the terror fading as my strength drained away. I spiralled down into oblivion, drifting, the chill of the darkness no longer enough to hold me, the menace of the pit receding, my spirit finally set free...

Free to float in the comfort of nothingness, free to abandon all the fear and the pain, free to seek the first glimmerings of light that waited, peaceful and promising, just beyond my reach.

Free to embrace the release of death, to take that last step, that final Leap...

My heart yearned for that brilliance; I was drawn to it, gentle, inexorable, leaving behind all that I had ever known, all that I had loved. I let them go, one by one.

Half-remembered moments with my family, cherished days in the Indiana sunshine.

Lost memories of lost loves, of lives that had touched mine and lingered in my heart. Nicole. Tamlyn. Donna...

(Had she loved me, had she been strong enough to care? Had I changed time to make her part of my life forever? I'd never know now, never return to a world that might hold her smile...)

Echoes of old dreams, of passions and ambitions; music that had inspired me, traumas I had endured, other lives that I had led...

And, at the last, my faith and my friendship. My hold on the lifeline that had sustained me through each and every Leap.

Left behind, not abandoned, not given up, just faced and accepted and bidden farewell. The ties that held me to the world unravelling.

No space for regret, no time for repentance. I was all that I was, no more...

The light enfolded me.

Peace enfolded me...

Fire enfolded me.

Burning, bitter, flames of pain and savagery that ripped through the serenity, replaced it with choking distress. I was dragged from the light, bound by chains of ice and acid, plunged from warmth to relentless cold. I fought and screamed and broke into a thousand pieces...

Bile filled my mouth, the taste of death, the acrid scent of corruption and decay. I choked and gagged, brought back to awareness, back to a sense of weight, a sense of place and time.

Need filled me, unholy desire, a craving for the dark fire that burned my mouth and lips. I struggled against it even as my hands reached, and my throat swallowed-

- and sense returned with each bitter moment, consciousness focusing through the all-devouring hunger, the desperate thirst that demanded relief, yet was not slaked by the acid that filled my soul...

 I was huddled in supportive arms, cold and relentless in their apparent compassion. His presence cloaked me with possessive darkness, cradled me, just as he cradled me, one hand resting above my heart, the other-

- the other -

Oh, god...

The other curled around my cheek, supporting my head, letting me drink, letting me draw the dark life from his veins...

I drew back with a gasp of realisation, a protest of terror, twisting, seeking escape from this, just as I had fought before. He held me; the hunger held me. The scent of my death filled my senses, the taste of my corrupted self tainted by his own.

"Drink, and grow strong," he commanded softly. "Take all you need for now. Later I will bring you a sweeter wine with which to warm your heart."

The need was overwhelming; I hated myself, hated him, hated everything as I bent to obey. The dark liquor was bitter; it burned, thick and caustic as it etched its way from mouth to stomach to soul...

Yet it did return strength, did return my sense of existence, my self awareness. Eventually my abhorrence overcame the need and I gagged and struggled until he let me go.

Still weak, still shivering and disorientated, I dragged myself to the far edge of our mutual support, huddling down into my dizziness. I coveted oblivion, release from knowledge, escape from overwhelming horror.

But it would not come.

It was never going to come...

"You cannot fight it, my child." His voice was soft, still amused, still savouring my downfall with cruel pleasure. My master's voice... "Let me tell you what you have become. Accept it. Embrace it.

"As I have embraced you, this night, given you this moment of your rebirth."

I wanted to shut out the sound, wanted to scream and deny the truth.

But all I could encompass was a soft whimper, a protest of quiet pain.

What has he done to me?

"In the beginning," McFarlane considered quietly, "there is the hunger. Always there is the hunger. Feed it and it will repay you with power. Answer the beast and you will not become one. Deny it - and it will make you its own. This-" he hissed, moving closer, leaning over me, "this is the riddle and the legacy. Monsters we are, lest monsters we become...

"Yet we are monsters, to those who will not accept our dominion. Those that do not understand. We are the true power, the chosen, princes among men. And you are mine - my child, my chosen one.

"You have such a bright soul, so strong, so determined. You will surrender all that to me, as you have surrendered yourself to me. For the beast dwells within you now, and you cannot deny it, cannot escape it. And when you know the depravity of the beast then - ah, then, you will accept my mastery without question."

Never, my heart denied. I could not voice its protests. But he heard them anyway.

And laughed.

"The longer you resist," he told me, "the surer I become of my victory. Rest now. Consider your gifts - and I will return with that which will seal the pact between us..."

His weight shifted from the yielding surface and his sense of presence moved away. I huddled tighter into my ball of misery, knowing I was alone, knowing I was lost, knowing - deep in my heart - that he had won, no matter how hard I struggled, no matter how long I determined otherwise.

The children of the damned have no tears. Yet I wept, bitterly and despairingly.

I'm alone...

And, oh god, I feel so cold ...

I don't know how long I stayed there, curled into that ball of denial, shivering and racked with despair. In the end, though, a kind of sense reasserted itself. I sat up, hugging myself defensively, and took wary stock of my situation.

I was still Sam Beckett, right?

I certainly retained that sense of self, the slightly fuzzy identity that is the best that Swiss cheese has ever allowed me. I felt unclean, tainted, touched, no longer quite myself, no longer entirely in control. But in some ways that was reassuring, as if knowing the horror of my corruption allowed me to consider that I was not entirely given to the darkness.

Not yet, at any rate.

Victims of rape always find ways to blame themselves:

Did I encourage him?

Was there some way I could have fought him away?

Why did I...?

How could I...?

 I went through all of that and more. Pointlessly, of course, but the mind does not always function rationally at the best of times. This was not a rational situation.

The way I saw it I had two choices.

I could face what McFarlane intended, fight him to the bitter end, and after it exist in his darkness, knowing what I had been, and knowing the truth of my downfall.

Or I could just go mad ...

Right there and then madness seemed a tempting alternative. Maybe I was already crazy, a certified lunatic, locked in a padded cell somewhere, dreaming this spiral of time and the horrors that lay beneath its surface veneer. Maybe I'd never really Leaped at all.

Maybe I'm a patient in an asylum, lost in a delusion of my own making, indulged by the orderlies and other patients, playing out the parts I assign them...

Only I knew that wasn't true. Wasn't true at all.

I took my pulse - or tried to, finding the staccato impact of my life reduced to a slow drumbeat that I could barely feel. Somehow I wasn't surprised by the discovery. What need did I have for a heartbeat?

Now that I was dead...

Each breath I took was just an illusion. But was that a deception of self? Or one intended for the world I had left behind?

Part of the masquerade?

I got to my feet, driven by a restlessness I didn't understand. The remnants of my shirt were an irritation I tugged free from my chilled skin, and I scrubbed uselessly at the sense of taint that lingered at my throat and lips. Something I couldn't focus on nagged at me for attention, something I wanted, something my body needed and my heart craved...

I was cold. Bitterly cold. My senses seemed to have been sharpened, giving me an intimate sense of my surroundings. And my thoughts were a turmoil of conflicting images, a battle between despair and determination, of confusion and clarity.

I will not surrender, will not accept his 'gifts'.

Yet his taint had taken root in me, deep and inescapable.

Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad...

I tuned it out. Tuned it all out, focusing instead on the myriad treasures that littered McFarlane's domain. Wonderful things. Beautiful things; stark contrast to the festering evil that made up the core of his soul. Lost treasures, many of them. Stolen, some in wartime, spirited away from public view, hidden and buried for the sake of his own selfish greed.

I'm just another prize in his collection ...

I paced and fretted among the statuettes and paintings, walking amidst the spill of precious gems and the golden platters on which they were displayed.

Buried treasure.

As I was buried, a corpse among the grave goods of another man, a cold cadaver pretending life with each slow beat of my heart, each needless intake of breath.

And not even my reflection was my own...

Temptation urged me to destroy what lay around me. That I despoil his works of art in revenge for my own violation. I half-reached for a delicate piece before sense reasserted itself. I had no right to destroy such beauty. To do so would be to fall into his trap, the violence of destruction, the wanton vandalism of hatred.

I turned away, shaking. He was right. There is a beast that dwells in all men, a monster that righteousness and conscience keeps under tight control. Normally it is a caged and ineffective creature, expressing itself in petty spites and minor rages.

But give it the strength to claw its way free, and who knows what it might become?

I thought that I knew.

I'd looked into its eyes.

I knew its name.

I am become death, the destroyer of worlds...

The sharpness of sound drew my attention - a rasp of metal on metal, the whisper of near-silent hinges that sounded like a shout. My master was returning. Fear followed that realisation, a fear I fought and struggled to control.

I couldn't hide. But I could make sure he knew I did not accept his mastery willingly.

I went to stand under the curve of the arch, preparing to face him, to present my defiance. I was not a cowed and defeated creature, not yet. He had possessed my heart and enslaved my soul.

But he hadn't entirely conquered me.

There is nothing left he can do to me, I considered, finding cold comfort in the thought.

How little I knew...

The door opened; a figure tumbled through, thrown down with violence so that he landed with hard impact and lay there with a dazed groan. Behind him a lighter footfall; the predator, returning to his lair.

Reactive instinct took me half a step forward, then sense restrained the impulse. I stepped back, wary and attentive. McFarlane found me a calculated smile.

"The gods of fate offer such delicious ironies," he murmured, closing his door behind him, looking down at the man who lay sprawled between us. A man in a dark blue shirt, acid yellow circles etched across its surface. "Or perhaps sheer desperation brings a man so early to his threatened end."

He crouched down, resting his knee in the small of his victim's back, reaching to tangle his hand in the lushness of blow-waved hair.

Anger seethed in my heart at the callous treatment. I'm sorry, Joe, I apologised silently. There was nothing I could do...

"I was going to find you a suitable gift," McFarlane was saying with decided pleasure. "And then this one came along, all of his own accord..."

His hand jerked up; his prisoner groaned, and my heart thudded to a complete halt.

Oh my god...

Images shifted, flowed, one into the other; Joe Hallam's angular features were a blurred illusion that focused into the reality underneath. Another face, one I recognised with instant - and utter - despair.

Jeezus, Al ...

Of all the crazy, idiotic, stupid things you could have done...

I moved almost without thinking, a growl of anger driving me, the beast stirring with reactive violence. Was it hatred or jealousy that gave me strength to challenge my master?

Or was it love...?

"Get your hands off him!" I spat, striking out with savagery. McFarlane moved like a snake, so fast I never even touched him. One moment he was crouched down, the next he was beyond my reach, laughing at my eagerness, misinterpreting my urgency.

"Help yourself," he offered, the irony deliberate, his smile cruel. I dropped to my knees, reaching to touch my friend - my crazy, reckless, friend - and then I was scrabbling backward with horror, heedless of the treasures I scattered, heedless of almost everything except the surge of desire that had slammed into me, the almost overwhelming need that had risen in reflexive response to the unexpected sense of warmth.

Of life ...

"Not hungry?" McFarlane taunted me. "Don't worry. You will be."

I huddled back against the barrier of the wall, shaking inside and out. The hunger clawed at me, fingers of ice ripping at my senses, its presence stirred into frenzy by the siren intensity of a living soul.

No. Dear god, nooo ...

Al groaned a second time, stirring into consciousness, rolling himself over so that he lay on his back.

"Oh, god ..." he muttered, fighting to focus on the draperies of the ceiling. "What the hell hit me...?"

"I did," McFarlane answered lightly, his reply spurring instant response from his victim. Al scrambled up in consternation, backing away as he did so. Toward the opposite wall, fortunately. Had he moved in my direction right then, I might not have been able to control myself.

"Oh god..." he said for the second time, comprehension dawning with heart-stopping impact. I didn't need to hear the echo of horror in his voice. I could feel it, like a sharp taint in the air. His eyes flicked briefly toward me. "Sam...?" he questioned almost under his breath. I shuddered, huddling deeper into my chosen retreat, unwilling to meet his gaze, aware of his presence as I had never been before; vital, electric, intense...

Over sixty years of determined life, tempered by adversity, shaped by inner passions, rich in experience - and right then terrified as hell.

What in the name of god are you doing here?

Rhetorical question; I knew what he had done - and why. I suspected that I'd have done much the same had our situations been reversed. But that didn't stop me being mad about it. It was a noble gesture, sure. It was also reckless, desperate, and utterly stupid.

And at that moment I was too damn scared for him to consider it anything else...

McFarlane laughed at his reaction, glancing between the two of us with clear delight. "I always admired Yankee gallantry," he mocked, emphasising his accent for effect. "So bold, so resolute - and so misplaced. I'm afraid," he went on, turning to address Al directly, "that you are too late. Our mutual friend here has already been inducted in my cause - although, for me, your timing is perfect.

"Absolutely perfect..."

He took a menacing half-step in my friend's direction, making him shrink back in alarm, then laughed and swung toward me instead.

"You have a loyal friend, Sam," he observed softly. "A foolish one, but no less admirable for that. He came to save you. How noble of him. How self-sacrificing... And how fitting that your first kill should prove such a sweet feast. I adore a truly vintage wine. I'd almost be tempted to save it for myself, but - I don't think so, somehow. You'd just resent me the longer if I killed him, wouldn't you?"

I glared at him, summoning a measure of anger, since that seemed to help me focus my mind. "What makes you think I will?" I growled. Across the room, Al's expression had shifted from one of tight anxiety to one of confused alarm. My master chuckled.

"I know you will," he corrected caustically. "You'll see. When the hunger grows too strong for you to fight it, you will have no choice. You will kill. Messily, I expect. And then-" He leaned a little closer, looming over me with authority, "then you will truly be mine. Heart and soul, Sam. Ensure his damnation - and you will know that you can no longer deny your own."

I went on glaring, while my mind worked overtime. Was he serious? Of course he was. The need that cramped though me was agony. I could fight it, but for how long? And what happened when it overwhelmed me?

There was death in my master's eyes, a savage death, one of screaming protest and stark terror, an anticipation of pain...

Strike now, he urged with silent expectation. Strike and strike hard. Take what you want, what you need. Bury yourself in the heat of his heart. Immerse yourself in the fire of his life...

 I turned away with an effort, barely freeing myself of his temptations, trembling from head to foot.

No, I denied inwardly. I won't...

But I would, and he knew I would. When the need grew too strong, when the beast took control, I would kill.

Kill, and feed - feed the hunger that tore and savaged me. A hunger for warmth, a hunger for life.

For a living soul ...

Any victim would have suited McFarlane's purpose; he knew that my downfall would be complete once I had killed. But his malicious pleasure belonged to the bitter irony that added to my sense of dilemma; it wasn't going to be just any victim.

Fate had directed that it would be the man I called my friend. The only friend I could be sure of, in all my scattered lives.

Damn you, Al, I screamed in silent anguish, facing the final horror of what I had become. Why did you have to come after me?

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Lost Souls in the Hunting Ground. Part One. Disclaimer:This story has been written for love rather than profit and is not intended to violate any copyrights held by Donald P Bellasario, Bellasarius Productions, or any other holders of Quantum Leap trademarks or copyrights.
© 1996 by AAA Press. Written and reproduced by Penelope Hill. Artwork by Joan Jobson