Magic Time: Angelfire by Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff, Marc Zicree Page A

into that cold blue sky, which—unless I should sprout wings and fly—would be fatal. Fall or drown—hell of a choice.
    What’s most disturbing about the dream is that it’s progressive. Every time I have it, I’m a little farther up the stairs, and the voices are a little louder.
    And this is why I wanted the Tegretol; I had a hope, however absurd, that it might deflate the nightmare/vision, because I suspect that I am not merely in the Tower, I am the Tower.
    And the black ooze? I lie in the dark of my hospital room and hold my cupped hand before my face, concentrating on a spot in my palm. A flame sprouts there, cool, blue, and softly bright. It’s pleasant, soothing to the eye, and quite outside the realm of normal human ability. I did this for the first time less than a day after the Change. Not as easily, but I did it. A very handy thing in a world in which batteries are never included.
    Back then, I found it exhilarating. Now, my exhilaration is tempered with a little old-fashioned fear.

    When I finally drag myself out of bed the next morning, I’m surprised I’ve been allowed to sleep in. I expected we’d mount up and be on our way, but such is apparently not the case. We are not moving on today, Cal tells me. And maybe not tomorrow.
    I hope you’re not doing this for me, I say, and teeter on the edge of guilt, an emotion I’ve worked hard to avoid. I don’t need guilt, thank you, I have manias.
    Cal tells me that, of course, it’s not just for me, it’s for all of us and for the people here who could really use Doc Lysenko’s help setting up a real E.R. and an effective triage. Just a day or two, he says. No big deal.
    Right.
    Left to my own devices, I gather up a field kit—jerky, canteen, matches, a knife scavenged from the hospital kitchen—and follow inner promptings to the edge of town. It seems I have a Quest of my own.
    From the city limits I can look down a long slope and see the swath of burned grass that marks last night’s adventure. Beyond it, the woods stretch north and west, a giant’s picnic blanket spread out along the Ohio River.
    There is something peculiar in those woods, and I have, for some reason, fixated on it. It is a place where Shadows walk and Angels sing loudly enough for dogs to hear.
    I look up at the sky, but it’s hard to tell what time it is through the overcast. Mechanical watches still function, but it’s been so long since I’ve worn one, it’s hard to get back into the habit. I figure it’s still fairly early, judging from the place where the clouds are brightest. Leaning against a convenient tree, I check my food stash, swish my canteen, and pat my knife.
    “Going for a little stroll?”
    Colleen is standing on the opposite side of the tree, looking nonchalant as hell. I suspect her presence is a function of Cal’s concern, and the poor girl was unlucky enough to draw the short straw.
    “Contemplating it.”
    “You still think there’s something out there.”
    “Yup. Besides, I lost my hat.”
    “What a shame. You know, you might have been hallucinating.”
    “I’ve never once hallucinated while in the throes of mania.”
    “That was then; this is now,” she says. “All bets are off, right?”
    She has a point, however trite.
    “You know, Colleen, I’d love to stand here all day discussing my mood disorder, but with this overcast, it’s going to get dark early.”
    “Then I guess you’d better get going.”
    I start off; Colleen falls into stride with me. I realize she’s also dressed and outfitted for the bush—belt packs, machete, the works.
    “So,” I say, “you got elected to keep an eye on the goof-ball, huh?”
    “No. Actually, I figured you’d do something like this and I just thought I might tag along. Call it curiosity.”
    I think very hard about minding, then realize I don’t. “You must be bored stiff if you’d rather baby-sit me than tinker with broken machinery.”
    “I don’t do baby-sitting,” she tells me.