Watching the esper empty the flask, Harry could feel something dark swelling inside him. It was big, maybe even bigger than he was. He flowed forward, came to a halt directly behind the unsuspecting telepath. What a joke it would be, to let go of Wellesley’s shield right now and deliberately aim his thoughts into the back of Paxton’s head! Why, the esper would probably leap straight into the river!
Or perhaps he’d just turn round again, very slowly, and see Harry standing there looking right at him, into him, into his quivering, quaking soul. And then, if he went to scream . . .
The dark, alien, hate-swollen thing was in Harry’s hands now, lifting them towards the back of Paxton’s neck. It was in his heart, too, and his eyes, and his face. He could feel it pulling back his lips from drooling teeth. It would be so easy to sweep Paxton up and into the Möbius Continuum, and . . . and deal with him there. There, where no one would ever find him.
Harry’s hands only had to close now and he could wring the esper’s neck as if he were a chicken. Ahhh!
The thing inside sang of emotions as yet unattained, which could be his. He thrilled to its message, to the ringing cry which echoed through his innermost being even now: Wamphyri! Warn –
– And Paxton hitched back the sleeve of his overcoat and glanced at his watch.
That was all: his movement had been such a natural thing, so mundane, so much of this world, that the spell of an alien plane of existence was broken. And Harry felt like a twelve-year-old boy again, masturbating furiously over the toilet bowl and ready to come, and his uncle had just knocked on the bathroom door.
He drew back from Paxton, conjured a Möbius door and almost toppled through it. Too late (and mercifully so), the mindspy sensed something and whirled about –
– And saw nothing there but a swirl of fog.
Drenched in his own pungent sweat, the Necroscope vacated the Möbius Continuum into the back seat of Paxton’s car. And he sat there shuddering, retching and being physically ill on to the floor until he’d sicked the thing right out of himself. At last, looking at the stinking mess of his own vomit, his anger gradually returned. But now he was mainly angry with himself.
He’d set out to teach the esper a lesson and had almost killed him. It said a hell of a lot for his control over the thing inside him, which as yet was . . . what? A baby? An infant? What hope would he have later, then, when the thing was full-fledged?
And still Paxton was there under the trees by the river bank, there with his thoughts and his cigarettes and whisky. And he’d probably be there tomorrow, too, and the day after that. Until Harry made a mistake and gave himself away. If he hadn’t done so already.
‘Fuck him!’ Harry said out loud, bitterly.
Yes, screw him, shaft the bastard! Which had to be better than murdering him, at least.
He climbed over into the front seat of the car and took off the brake, and felt the wheels slowly turn as she began to roll. He guided the car fully on to the road and let gravity take her along. Rolling down the gentle gradient, the vehicle gained momentum.
Harry pumped at the accelerator until he could smell the heavy petrol fumes, pulled out the choke and pumped some more. A quarter-mile later he was still pumping and the car was doing maybe twenty-five, thirty. The curve was corning up fast, with its grass verge and high stone wall. Harry let go the wheel, conjured a Möbius door out of the seat beside him and slid over into it.
And two seconds later Paxton’s car mounted the verge, hit the wall and went off like a bomb!
Just that moment returning from the river to the road, the esper stared uncomprehendingly at the spot where his car had stood – then heard the explosion farther down the road and saw a ball of fire rising into the night. And: ‘What . . .?’ he said. ‘What?’