That was when Harry had drawn back his shuddering telepathic probe, pulled out of Johnny’s mind and let the man get on with his nightmaring. Except of course in Pound’s case the nightmares could barely match up to the reality . . .
5
. . . and Fancies
And then the Necroscope had dreamed of Darcy Clarke, which was also a form of nightmare, for in it Darcy was dead and his voice came to Harry as deadspeak.
Even so it didn’t come clearly but was distorted, drifting a thousand echoes coming together from all directions and combining to form a strange, out-of-sync sighing.
I couldn’t believe you would have done that to me, Harry, said Darcy when he’d established his identity. I mean, I knew the moment they killed me – when I saw that they actually could kill me, despite my guardian angel – that you were responsible. It could only have been something you did inside my head when you were in there. You killed off the thing that watched out for me, and so left me vulnerable. But I still can’t believe you would, and I still don’t know why. I thought I knew you, but I didn’t know you a damn!
This is just a dream, Harry answered him then. This is my conscience – while I still have one – giving me trouble because I protected myself at someone else’s expense. This is a nightmare, Darcy, and you’re not really dead. It’s just me blaming myself that I had to interfere inside your head. As for why I did it: to be sure that if you came up against me before I was out of here, then that you would be vulnerable. Because of all the talents in E-Branch, yours is the one that scares me most. It gives you the edge, makes you invincible. I could try to stop you again and again, and fail, but you would only have to pull the trigger once and I’d be a goner. And it wouldn’t be new to you – you could do it-for you’ve done it before.
Darcy’s deadspeak presence was gathering itself now, coming together as an act of sheer will, so that his fragmented voice lost its echoing sigh and took on authority as he said: It’s no dream, Harry. I’m dead as can be. And even though I’ve come to you while you’re asleep, still you should be able to see that. But if you doubt me, why not ask your thousands of friends, the Great Majority? The teeming dead will tell you I don’t lie. I’m one of them now.
A cop-out! Harry answered, smiling and shaking his head. I can’t ask the dead anything, because they don’t want to know me any more. Hey, I’m a vampire, remember? I’m not one of you living guys, and I’m not one of those dead ones. I’m somewhere in the middle, Darcy. Undead. Wamphyri!
Harry, said Darcy, bitterly, there’s no need for all this subterfuge. You don’t have to try out your Wamphyri word-games on me. I’m admitting it: you won. I don’t know why you wished me dead, but anyway you got your wish. I am dead! I really am.
Harry tossed and turned in his bed and began to sweat. Sometimes, like any other man, his dreams were just so much junk; or again they might be erotic or esoteric fancies and fantasies; or they could be, well, just dreams. But at other times they were a lot more than that. And this was beginning to feel like one of those times.
OK, he finally said, still unconvinced and wanting desperately to stay that way, so you’re dead. So who killed you? And why?
The Branch, Darcy answered, with a typical deadspeak shrug. Who else? Whatever you did to my mind, the mere fact that you’d been in there gave me mind-smog. You interfered inside my head, cancelled something, took something away from me. And in its place I got your taint. No, I’m not saying you vampirized me, just that you . . . spoiled me. They could smell you on me – in the heart of my being – and they daren’t take any chances with me. Which was surely the way you planned it. . . ?