Between,
A Novel
by Shelby Beckett
Prologue
A sliver of darkness darted purposefully through the sullen dusk, dodging between thorny, twisted arms of what once had been trees. Reaching the heart of this blighted landscape, it halted. Here the earth was glazed and crusted as if seared by incredible heat. Towering over the center of this devastation churned a massive, smoky column. Nightmarish apparitions whirled within it in a grotesque dance, accompanied by muted screams and moans.
A rumble like the earth splitting open issued from the center of the writhing column.
“Iblis?”
The sliver of darkness swelled, flickered briefly, then stabilized. A thin, whistling voice emerged from it. “Yes, my lord. It is Iblis.”
“You have located the tool I sent you to find?”
“I have, Lord Serizzin. He is an opportunity waiting to be taken. It will be easy to make him believe that I am a part of his own mind.”
“You have done well, thus far.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“Continue to establish your connection with him. I do not yet know in what manner he shall serve me, but it is clear that he is essential to my success.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“ I grow restless, Iblis. It is a sign that events are at last arranging themselves in my favor.” The column of darkness twisted and whirled more rapidly, discharging tongues of sooty vapor that licked toward Iblis, who edged away. The voice rumbled again from the column’s center. “Go, then. See to it that this tool is under your control when the time for his use arrives.”
“Yes, Lord Serizzin.”
Turning, Iblis fled.
Chapter 1 (first section)
The child’s body weighed lightly in Stacy Addison’s arms. His hairless head gave him the appearance of a tiny, wizened old man, whose sunken eyes stared up at her with the weariness of one resigned to suffering.
His mother, a thin woman in her late twenties, stood nearby, watching anxiously. “The chemotherapy didn’t work,” she whispered into the microphone positioned at the center of the stage. “The doctors have given him a month at the most.” Turning pleading eyes toward Stacy, she said, “He’s only three years old! You’re our last hope.”
Stacy smiled briefly at the mother, then bent over the boy, the halo of her copper-penny hair glowing in the muted spotlight. The entire auditorium fell silent; not even a cough interrupted the collective sense of intense anticipation. Stacy looked into the child’s face. His pale blue eyes were now gazing steadily into her dark ones.
“All right, then,” she murmured. “This thing’s not going to cheat you out of your future if I can help it!”
Bending over him, she opened herself to the energy pulsating insistently against her. It rushed in through the top of her head, filling her as if it would burst the boundaries of her skin, leaving her barely aware of herself and of the child in her arms. Only the power existed, flooding her, pouring through her hands and out her very pores, flowing from her into his fragile body.
Finally, she lifted her head, her upper lip dewed with perspiration. The child stirred and began to push against her, stretching his arms and legs. The audience watched as a pink flush crept across his pale cheeks, and even those seated at the back of the room could see the dark circles surrounding his eyes beginning to fade. Squirming out of Stacy’s arms, he staggered toward his mother and clutched her knees.
“Ice cweam!” he demanded, tugging at her skirt.
The sound of breath being released rippled through the meeting hall; then pandemonium broke loose, as the crowd clapped, cheered, whistled, and wept. The child’s tearful mother swept him into her arms and was assisted from the stage by volunteers waiting in the wings. Spreading her arms as if embracing every person in the room, Stacy pivoted toward each corner of the auditorium. Arms still raised, she smiled the smile that had already captivated crowds across four states.
The little boy had been last on this evening’s schedule, but his response had been so rapid that a few minutes still remained of the time allotted to the meeting.
“One more.” Stacy spoke into the microphone. “We have time for one more.”
A stout woman in a blue dress stood up, her face creased with pain. Walking carefully, as if each movement hurt, she mounted the stairs leading to the stage. Stacy met her at the top of the steps, helped her to a chair near the microphone, and placed her hands on the woman’s head.
She always savored the moment when a completed healing clicked into place. It seemed an actual physical sensation, as if something inside her brain rotated and locked itself into position. That impression had been so intense with the little boy, that she had actually taken a step backward. This time, to her surprise and dismay, the feeling didn’t come.
Finally, she removed her hands and stepped to one side. The woman slowly stood up, tears streaming down her face, and squeezed Stacy’s hands. Stacy tried to pull away. She wanted to explain that she wasn’t sure, that this time the healing might not have completed itself, but the woman had already turned back toward the crowded auditorium.
Raising one of Stacy’s arms into the air, as if announcing her the winner by a knockout, she sobbed, “It’s gone; my migraine’s gone. I could hardly see for the pain, and now it’s gone!”
Applause again rolled across the hall like thunder. Turning back, the woman enveloped Stacy in a hug that lifted her off the floor of the stage. “You’re an angel, Stacy Addison; you’re an angel!”
Still disturbed by the absence of the indicator upon which she had come to depend, Stacy smiled automatically at the woman and turned her over to the backstage volunteers. Continuing to smile, she faced the crowd, once again raising her arms in her signature embrace.
This time, however, both smile and lifted arms felt mechanical. As she pivoted from side to side, smiling, most of her attention was focused on the fact that her validation, the signal that all was as it should be, had failed.
Again.
