Chapter Twenty
“It was so unreal,” Clea said. “Yet . . . very real.” She shook her head in confusion. “And nothing was more real than Nightmare.” She shivered, hugging herself, and leaning against Stephen Strange.
The fire in the grate crackled. Stephen had put on soft music to soothe her nerves. They needed a moment of rest, and of planning.
“Nightmare was more real . . .” Strange said softly, his eyes lost in thought. “There’s something there . . .”
“Well, in a way, it was all nightmare time, Stephen.”
“Yes, but you felt Nightmare was more real than the rest of it.”
“Yes, but he was, after all, the focus of everything. I naturally paid him more attention.”
“No, there might be something here that is below your conscious mind; you may have sensed something . . .” He put his fingers to his lips and pondered.
“Nightmare has always tried to invade our dimension,” he said after a few moments of thought. “His whole purpose seemed to be to become a reality here, where nightmares are not real. There must be a reason.”
“I’ve never understood that,” Clea said. “He’s the ruler of the dream dimension—the undisputed ruler from all we can gather. Here, he is certain to have opposition, not only from you, but from many others. What could he gain?”
“A good point, Clea. What can he gain? Or, to put it another way, what does he lose by staying in the dream dimension?”
“Lose?”
“Why has he been trying so desperately to escape the dream dimension?”
“Escape? Stephen, I thought he was trying to invade us, to add our dimension to his. Perhaps even fuse them in some way.”
“That may be where we have made our mistake in the past. We assumed he was attempting invasion, not escape. Perhaps this dimension is the only one he can escape to. Perhaps his dimension exists only because ours does. Someone has to do the dreaming, after all. At any single moment on Earth there are millions of people asleep, and most of them are dreaming. Nightmare has a source of power there.”
“You mean, as long as people dream he exists, the dream dimension exists?”
“Perhaps. It seems a reasonable hypothesis.”
“If everyone stopped dreaming, then the dream dimension would vanish?”
“Again—perhaps. We are working in the unknown here. I believe it would certainly be weakened—or perhaps starved would be a better word.”
“Then why is Nightmare trying to escape? Surely there is no chance of humans stopping dreaming?”
“No, there must be some reason of which we know not. Perhaps . . .” Strange’s voice trailed off for a moment as he thought. “The clue might be your feeling he was more real than the rest. Perhaps Nightmare feels that, too! Perhaps his ‘realness’ has made him different from the rest of his dimension . . . or that his own perception of reality has changed by his constant contact with us.”
“Maybe he feels he is becoming a dream himself,” Clea suggested. “Becoming too much of an unreality.” She looked up quickly. “Stephen—the white universe he put me in, the negative universe—there may be a clue there. In the dream dimension itself what would be the most unreal thing of all?”
“Reality!” Strange said quickly. “Clea, this may be it!”
“Nightmare is, or is becoming, more real—if only in his mind. That means that in the dream dimension he is becoming unreal! That’s why he seeks escape. He may be Nightmare here—and nightmarish—but he is more real here than there!”
Strange’s smile faded. “Yes, but how does he intend to accomplish this? He has been here in our reality before, if only for a temporary stay. I have always defeated him, in one way or another.”
“He may have conceived a new way.”
“Through people like Jacks and Peerson and that mysterious rifleman?”
“Through their dreams.” She leaned forward and looked earnestly into Strange’s face. “Stephen, dreams are his only weapon—dreams and illusions. When are Jacks’s television programs broadcast?”
“At night. They are taped and broadcast into each time zone at night. Yes, I see your point: night, when people normally sleep.”
“Jacks is the wedge by which Nightmare hopes to enter our dimension.” She sat back, a frown on her face. “But there are so many that would oppose him.”
Strange spoke softly. “But there are millions he might be able to control. Millions will hear Jacks’s broadcasts. What if there were something going out in addition to Jacks’s words and ideas? Some kind of signal, or message, or . . .”
“Umm . . . Millions of ordinary humans would have power that even the greatest of the superheroes might be unable to handle. And even superheroes sleep from time to time.” She shivered and once again hugged herself.
Dr. Strange suddenly stood up. “Where is the newspaper? There was a listing of the cities in which Jacks was to make a personal appearance. Six cities, if I remember correctly.”
Clea helped him find the paper and they searched for the news report of the cities in which the Crusade for Change would have massive rallies.
“New York, Chicago, Toronto, Charleston, and Nashville. Oh, and Charleston, again, only instead of South Carolina, it’s Charleston, West Virginia.” She looked up at Strange. “It’s a bit odd, isn’t it? That’s not exactly a big city.”
“No, but look at the pattern. Five cities with one in the center.”
“A pentagram!”
Strange bent to look at the schedule. “Tonight is the last night—he’s appearing in Charleston, West Virginia!”
“The center of the pentagram! Then it’s tonight!”
“Come, we do not have much time,” Strange said, turning toward the door.
“We are going physically?”
“Yes—we are more powerful that way and I feel we will need every bit of our skill.”
They went quickly to the balcony of their mansion and Strange wrapped them in a spell of invisibility. There was no use attracting more attention to themselves than necessary, or generating more UFO reports. They rose effortlessly into the late-afternoon light, cleared the buildings around them and aimed directly southwest.
They had the Appalachian mountain range to clear, then over the wooded hillsides of the Alleghenys at five thousand feet. The sun was setting as they arrowed down from the Allegheny Plateau toward Charleston, West Virginia.
They swept invisibly over the city, heading toward the largest auditorium they could see. There were a number of large trucks parked next to the building, all television mobile units. An immense portable antenna had been erected on a flatbed truck, which would be used to broadcast the signal to the communications satellite that would rebroadcast Jacks’s sermon to the world.
They came to earth between two trucks, returned to visibility and strode out, toward the stage entrance. Black cables snaked out the door, which had been blocked open with a sandbag, spreading to each white truck. Inside, at banks of monitor screens and at the big professional tape recorders, sat directors and technicians. All the networks were there, either as a news-gathering team, or as the prime broadcasting facility.
“Wait a minute there, you two,” a burly rent-a-cop said. “No one goes in but authorized . . . uh . . . oh . . .” He stepped back and gestured them in, his face smoothing out from his authoritarian frown. Strange had made but a slight movement of his expressive fingers.
Backstage there was organized confusion. Men wearing head mikes muttered to unseen others, checking clipboards and looking harassed. Stagehands went by with awed looks. They were not used to this kind of worldwide responsibility in Charleston, West Virginia. Strange saw two network reporters from opposing networks chatting. He kept their attention elsewhere as he and Clea went down the steps marked To Dressing Rooms.
“Stephen, darling!” They turned and looked back. Michele Hartley was coming toward them, a black mink coat open and flying like a cape. Her dress was red, low cut and clinging. “Darling! How perfectly marvelous!” She took Strange’s arm and stepped between them, turning him so that his back was to Clea. “I’ve been so busy! I’m doing postproduction on Phantom Lover and preproduction on another film.” She tugged him back toward the stage, her breasts tight against his arm. “But I haven’t forgotten Merlin, darling. It will be simply marvelous to work with you! We’ll be in England for six months, Stephen, just you and me, won’t that be just super?”
“Ms. Hartley—”
“Michele, please call me Michele. May I call you Stephen, Stephen? Please forgive me. The industry is like that. First names right off. If I met the president it’d be George or Abe first thing, I just know.” She pulled him into a huddle. “Darling, I’ve got to see you—alone. Perhaps we could, ah, see each other soon? Real soon? My Rolls is at the side entrance. Silver Cloud, with my initials on the side, very small.”
“Miss Hartley . . .”
“Ms. Or Michele. Please?” She smiled brightly up at him.
“Ms. Hartley, I have important things to attend to.”
She slipped a piece of paper into his hand. “My private number in Hollywood and my room number here at the Plaza. Do call, darling.” She leaned very close and whispered, “We could take up where we were so rudely interrupted.”
Then she walked away, smiling at the cameras, walking right into the sudden glare of lights. Michele Hartley was a living legend in a business that spawned living legends.
Clea spoke softly. “Shall we continue?”
Strange looked at her, a smile twitching at his lips. “Jealous?”
Her eyebrows went up. “Are you applying for a Screen Actors Guild card?”
He shook his head and they continued on their way. Behind them the actress was saying, “We’re just good friends” and “He’s perfectly charming, darlings, and so mysterious!” Clea gave Strange a knowing look as they entered the passage to the dressing rooms.
“Stop right there,” a deep voice said. A tall, muscular black man stepped out of the shadows. It was Joe Peerson and he seemed ready to fight. “The good reverend doesn’t like to be disturbed before the call of his ministry.”
Strange studied the fighter carefully. He was the man of the dreams.
“We want no trouble,” Strange said.
“Go, then.” Peerson’s belligerence was formidable.
“Stephen,” Clea said softly.
He touched her arm, but he spoke to Peerson.
“The reverend needs our help.”
“He don’t need the help of no queer-looking dude in a cape. Nor no white-haired bitch in a funny suit. Git.”
“Sorry,” Stephen smiled and started to go past. He ducked as the fighter loosed a vicious left, but he did not evade the right cross, which struck his jaw and sent him flying.
“Stephen!” Clea turned with fury in her eyes and blasted the fighter with twin bolts fired from her clenched fists. Peerson staggered back, the front of his ruffled shirt and purple suit in flames. He patted at his chest with frantic hands as Clea bent to Stephen.
The sorcerer sagged weakly, his body sliding to the cement floor. “Stephen!” Clea cried again, but the magician slipped into unconsciousness.
. . . falling . . .
. . . hurting . . .
. . . ribbons of color . . .
Then suddenly reality . . .
Mad laughter made Strange turn. In the moment, before he saw the source of the laughter, impressions and sensations flooded over him.
He was naked, without even his Eye of Agamotto around his neck. The world was black and white, without color, the drab, featureless grayness of dreams. Endless, rolling amorphous landscape blending into the distant horizon. Shapeless lumps protruded, like extrusions of mud smoothed by the wind.
The figure that stood on a slight rise was gray and black, with a bald skull devoid of hair or features. No mouth opened to utter the laughter. To Strange the entire scene was blurred and slightly askew.
The faceless creature’s hands came up, held out before him. There was a shimmering of light and a gleaming long weapon appeared in his hands. There was a moaning in the sky as the figure brought the weapon around. Stephen Strange opened his mouth to utter a protective spell, but his movements were as slow as molasses. It seemed as though time were stretching and there was no way he could stop the killer. The silvery weapon’s muzzle was swinging toward him. The roar in the sky grew. Strange’s words were incomprehensible, garbled and stretched out.
“Steeeephennnnn . . .”
His name echoed and vibrated until the very sky rippled with streaks of white. The featureless killer was still bringing the weapon to bear, slowly, ever so slowly, but still faster than Strange’s desperate incantation.
“Steeeeeeephennnnnnn . . . !”
The muzzle was almost there . . .
The killer laughed . . .
There was a flash, deep within the dark circle of the muzzle . . .
“STEEEPHENNN—!”
Red—a blossoming flower of red, with a white-hot heart.
“Stephen!”
He was in Clea’s arms, lying on the floor of the corridor. Joe Peerson was crumpled nearby, his shirt smoldering. He wasn’t moving, but there were figures coming with an emergency stretcher.
“Stephen?”
“I’m . . . I’m all right.” He felt foolish. Downed by the fist of a fighter, not by the blistering spell of a great magician. With a wry smile at the ways fate had of humbling one, he got to his feet. Clea was looking at him closely.
“I had a . . . a dream. There was a killer, with a long weapon of some kind.”
Clea looked around. More people were coming and they were receiving odd looks. The dark snouts of television cameras were pointed at them and Clea turned, her lips moving silently, her brows down and angry. Suddenly the different cameramen were pulling the cameras from their shoulders, poking and prodding. Reporters and sound men were looking at tape reels and cassettes with worried, puzzled looks. Clea turned back to Stephen and pulled him along the corridor.
“I’m all right,” he said. “This way.”
Two more rent-a-cops, both bigger than the first one, attempted to stop Strange and Clea, and ended up opening the dressing-room door for them. The dressing rooms here were built-ins, not portables, and the walls were of cream-painted cement.
“Strange!” Billie Joe Jacks turned with an angry frown as he caught the red-caped figure in the mirror. “Now you two get out of here! Sergeant!”
“Silence,” Strange said, lifting his hand.
Surprisingly, the evangelist did not fall silent. “Who do you think you are, you witch doctor? If those lazy rent-a-cops can’t keep you out, I can! Billie Joe ain’t forgot his wrestling days back home, no sir! Now you and your fancy Halloween suit shake a leg right outta here!”
If Stephen Strange felt surprise that his spell of silence did not work, he did not show it. He wanted only to quiet Jacks so that he might investigate what he felt was a case of dream possession. But Jacks was not to be silenced. When Strange did not leave, nor look as if he were going to leave, Billie Joe Jacks took a punch at him.
“May the good Lord forgive me, but—!”
Strange became two, then four figures, crimson caped and black haired. Clea, too, split and became four figures confronting Jacks.
“Aha!” the evangelist snapped. “A conjurer’s trick!” He lashed out with a fist—which went right through the projection he was aiming at.
“We wanted to talk,” all four figures said.
“I’ll not talk with the Devil!” Jacks punched air again.
“By the eternal Vishanti!” the four images of Strange said. Billie Joe Jacks jerked as if struck by a live wire, but it only made him more determined. He threw his fist out again and again met air. He turned with triumph to the fourth figure—that one had to be Strange. His balled fist swung hard—and passed right through the dark-haired vision.
“No, can’t be!” Jacks said. “Not all four! One of them has to be you!”
“The twelve moons of Munnipor!” chanted Strange. “Surround this soul and isolate him from the dark powers!”
Twelve glowing dots appeared at Strange’s fingers, three from each projected image. The images merged into one as the twelve dots expanded, becoming baseball-sized spheres that glowed with a cold white light. They orbited Jacks, who stepped back angrily. He snatched at one of them, missed, and tried again. The orbiting spheres moved faster; this time Jacks caught one, but released it at once with a cry of pain.
“They seek only to protect you,” Strange cried over Jacks’s exclamation. “Let them sever the control from Nightmare!”
“Nightmare? Nightmare?” Jacks batted at the balls, which were moving faster and faster in an intricate set of orbits that encased him from floor to head in a blinding ball of light. The orbits were so fast it seemed as if the balls were bars of light and the light spread, becoming an almost solid sphere of cold white light.
“No!” Jacks cried out and the twelve moons of Munnipor exploded away from him, dissolving into points of light which died out.
Jacks stood swaying on the dressing-room floor, glaring hatefully at Strange. “Enchanter! Satan!”
“Stephen, he broke the spell—!” Clea whispered.
“Corrupter! Sorcerer!”
“I am the Sorcerer Supreme,” Strange said with dignity.
“Aha!” Jacks cried, pointing. The walls of the dressing room rippled, the mirrors cracked and crashed down, spilling makeup and combs. The ring of light bulbs around the mirrors exploded in twos and threes. The dressing room was illuminated only by the light from the corridor. “Begone, imp of Satan!”
“Stephen!” screamed Clea.
“Veil of Kashmurti!” exclaimed Strange, sweeping his hand across between himself and Jacks. A blackness followed, blotting out everything, leaving only nothingness.
But to Strange’s surprise, Jacks stepped through the blackness. Clea gasped. The veil of Kashmurti was penetrable only by certain ways, all of them ancient and arcane!
“Leave this place!” Jacks thundered. “You are not wanted here!” He put out both hands, fingers spread, as if to push, and Strange and Clea felt as though a truck had hit them. They crashed back through the dressing-room door into . . .
. . . blackness.
at
Seduction of the Innocent
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