"Careful, now," Rob advised Rebecca as he saw her out the door, "I see the fog's come in, and some nights you can't see yourself blink around here. Drive carefully."
She nodded, and turned as he closed his gaily painted front door behind her. He was right, she reflected, picking her way along the walk between the bushes and rocks; it got dense up here. San Francisco had nothing on Grizzly Peak when the fog rolled in. She could believe the old stories about London.
Rob's house was on one of the narrow roads below the ridge, keeping company with the Lawrence Hall of Science and all the hermits who liked to live up here. Not that he was a hermit, she amended -- he was a very nice Australian fellow who had taken up with one of the dot-coms in the city, and managed to work at home here. He probably just liked his privacy.
One result of that privacy, however, was a road so narrow that he had very little driveway. Rebecca was forced, most times she came here, to park about a quarter-mile away, at one of the gravel shoulders at a bend in the road. It was a pleasant walk, even in the fog.
A breeze came up and broke through the mist for a moment, showing the sun in a valiant battle to break through the fog before it set. Then it was gone, and the light became a pearly gold again, trails of white eddying along the ground, licking at her legs. The eucalyptus trees loomed above her, their dark shapes shifting a little like ghosts.
She stepped around another small branch, long thin leaves still clinging to it. Where most trees would shed the occasional leaf, eucalyptus trees shed whole branches, everything from twigs to huge limbs. She had seen several which had apparently lost half their canopy when a branch two or more feet across had dropped; they still bore the scars, and sometimes split or splintered trunks. Maybe that was routine, though it seemed strange to her, or maybe they couldn't handle the sort of winds there were here; they had had a few really windy days lately. Maybe she could ask Rob about it next time; eucalyptus were Australian, though he called them "gum trees". It had puzzled her until she realized what he was talking about.
The breeze stirred again, and she thought she heard a backfire in the distance. A few more sounds followed, and she thought to herself that it was more likely a string of firecrackers. Maybe Chinese New Year was coming up; she hadn't looked it up this year, but it might be around now, and Berkeley had a sizeable Asian population.
An explosion directly overhead made her jump. Looking up, she saw the dark shadows of the trees waving gently -- and then one of the shadows descended out of the mist.
Time stopped. A branch as thick as her leg drifted like a feather toward where she stood; it would crush her if she didn't move, didn't run, she needed to find her feet... Soft as thistledown, it floated straight down, and she could see every leaf, every peel of bark in exquisite detail. She could touch it, if only she could move...
It caught another arm of the tree, and suddenly, so fast she could barely follow it, it whipped around, spinning. It fell past her, and she was too stunned to feel a branch the size of her wrist catch her on the side of the head and lift her up in a graceful arc. She was unconscious before she hit the ground.
"Look into the light... Good." The doctor snapped off his pen light. "Well, you had a really bad blow, but it looks like you don't have more than a light concussion. That's downright amazing. How do you feel?"
Rebecca nodded, careful not to let her head fall off. It felt as though it wanted to. "All right, I guess. A headache, and I'm a little dizzy."
He nodded. "That's to be expected. It's not every day you stop a tree with your skull, after all. Go home, and take it easy; if you start vomiting, or your vision alters, or you can't stand up, come back here. If you can have someone spend the night with you, maybe a friend or a neighbor, that would be even better. All right?" He helped her up, and added, "Do you have a ride home? Where do you live?"
"Pleasant Hill." She rubbed between her eyes. "I'll get a cab, I guess."
"I'll have the nurse call one for you. Take it easy." The doctor made sure she was steady on her feet, then went off to consult with his staff. Rebecca walked slowly past them, then out the door into the fresh air. Walking took enough care that she concentrated more on that than on where she was going; it was soothing, somehow, and helped to clear away a little of the fog in her head. It was the middle of the evening, and as she came to the small line of shops clustering around College and Ashby, the restaurants and boutiques spilled welcoming light out onto the sidewalk. Many places in this college town stayed open until nine or later, even on a foggy night in late winter.
Something about fog... She shook her head and walked on.
One of the restaurants caught her eye, a little Irish place full of dark wood and relative quiet. It seemed more restful than the Mexican cantina down the block, more soothing to the eye than Peet's Coffee. She slipped in and took a stool at the bar.
"Can I help you?" The bartender rested his hands on the inner edge of his bar, his tone friendly. Suddenly realizing she was thirsty, Rebecca said quietly, "Ginger ale, please." The doctor's confidence notwithstanding, she wanted to go easy on her stomach for a while. Most of all, she wanted to sit and be left alone. Her head hurt.
He nodded, and promptly gave her a small glass. After a glance to make sure she didn't need anything else, he returned to cleaning.
A sip of the soda brought back old memories of staying home from school, of sick days and her mother's care. She was halfway across the country, now, those days long past; she wondered whether her mother still defended her to her father, whether he even allowed mention of his wayward daughter. She wondered whether her mother still cried because Rebecca had left them.
She pushed the thought aside. She was successful now, a successful businesswoman... Hadn't the hospital given her some painkillers? The pain backed every thought, aching dully.
A small, polite beep made her start. It happened again, and she looked down reflexively. Her pager -- of course. Where was her herb kit...? She pressed the button to quiet the little device, then brought it out to look at it. A Berkeley number, probably, with that prefix, though there was no area code; it seemed slightly familiar, but she couldn't place it. Taking a look around, she saw two pay phones at the back, and slid down to walk to them. Her steps steadied after the first few feet.
The number was local enough not to need more than the usual change; it rang only once before someone picked up. "Hello?"
"Hello?" she echoed. The voice was male, but not anyone she could name by two short syllables. He seemed brusque.
"Where are you?" He was definitely businesslike, and someone she knew -- she hated having to ask a name of someone she knew, had sometimes known for years, so she decided to wing it.
She looked around, trying to spot the name of the place. "A restaurant, a little Irish place, on College, I think... Why?"
"What are you doing there? Why haven't you come back?" The voice was perplexed, and offended somehow -- had she stood someone up by accident? Trying to recall any appointments, she failed totally, and threw tact to the winds. "Who is this?"
Silence, then a careful, "Is something wrong?"
Her head ached abominably. "I..." She felt dizzy again, and sat down carefully against the wall. "I have a headache, that's all. Was I supposed to be somewhere? I'm sorry -- I can't seem to remember your name."
"Rebecca." The voice was so familiar; a client? A schoolmate? "Are you all right?"
Trying to fit a name to his voice fanned her headache into a blaze. "I... I just need to sit for a while, I think. I'll be all right. I'm sorry if I stood you up or something -- I'll try to call you tomorrow, and we can get together later, okay?"
"What happened? Tell me what's going on." He sounded almost frantic, though he tried hard to hide it. "Rebecca."
Feeling suddenly weary, she said, "Sorry. I'll talk to you later." Reaching up, she found the cradle and rested the receiver on it. The clink of change in the phone lanced through her skull, and she sat there for a moment, letting her headache ebb, then got up slowly and made her way back to her seat.
The ice in her drink helped, and she spent a little while just letting her mind go blank. When she reached the end of her drink, she put a hand in her pocket, brought out a bill, and left it on the counter as she stood. She didn't check how much it was, but she was pretty sure it wasn't a single, and anything else would do all right. Feeling a little better, she went back outside. Her car... It was somewhere, but she couldn't think where. Maybe if her head cleared a little more, maybe if she walked around, she might remember where it was. She needed it to get back home, after all. Pleasant Hill was a good distance from here. She started walking.
Steven restrained himself with some effort as the bartender took his time serving a drink to a man down the bar. When the white-aproned server finally sauntered up to him, he stifled the desire to grab the mortal by the shirt front and pull answers out of him. His voice hissed a little with impatience. "Have you seen a young woman, with brown hair and glasses, wearing a vest and jeans? She probably would have been here in the last half-hour."
The bartender frowned for a second, then said mildly, "Yes, I remember her. She ordered a ginger ale and paid with a twenty... not sure she was all there. She left about ten minutes ago."
Steven clamped down harder on his impulses. "Do you know where she went?"
The kine shook his head. "She didn't tell me."
Throttling the Beast that wanted to drain this bloodbag dry to drown his frustration, Steven turned away and stalked to the door. Ten minutes. That could put her anywhere... She hadn't sounded well, so she might not go far before she stopped again. "Not all there"... What was going on?
Quickly scanning the street, he walked to his car. If she were making her way back to the chantry, she would go east, up Ashby, the same way he came. He didn't think she was, though, not if she hadn't known his voice on the phone -- or couldn't acknowledge that she knew it. If she was in some sort of trouble, where would she go?
Not west, probably. There was very little farther down Ashby, and if she were headed toward I-80, she would be on the freeway by now, with no way he could catch her. South? College went for a long way, and eventually ended up in a ratty Oakland neighborhood on the other side of 24. North was the university.
He turned toward the nearest pay phone and called the chantry, spending a couple of precious minutes convincing Ezra to have the university combed. He then got into his car and headed north, toward the college; faster to check this direction first, then try the other way.
He drove slowly, thankful that weeknight traffic wasn't heavy on this tiny two-lane road. A few pedestrians caught his eye, one or two white cars, but not Rebecca. He was almost halfway to the university when he spotted someone on the right sidewalk; a streetlight through the trees shone on her patterned vest, glinted on wire-frames. She walked like she was asleep; as he watched, she put a hand out to the wall and stopped briefly.
Fear lanced through him, and it took a moment to collect himself long enough to park. He had to swing onto one of the side streets, and he fumbled with the parking brake, trying not to imagine what might be wrong. Why wouldn't she come home? What could prevent her?
The sidewalk was dark, the streetlights concealed by mist and by trees which didn't see fit to lose their leaves in this mild climate. He could see her, stumbling slightly on the rough pavement, watching her feet. Uncertain, he approached her slowly, and was finally close enough to put a hand on her arm. "Rebecca."
She looked up, slightly puzzled, and he searched her face. Her eyes widened a little, and a small frown formed between her brows; her gaze turned inward for a moment, thinking, then looked closely at his face. Concentrating hard, her lips moved, and he stood, poised, waiting to hear what she would say.
"I know you..." Her frown deepened.
His heart sank, and he felt a chill. "Yes, you know me. What's wrong? Are you in trouble?"
Her eyes dropped, and she blinked. "You were the one on the phone. I still can't remember your name..." She looked at him again, her gaze intense, eyes narrowed against some difficulty. That look robbed him of speech -- that focus, that hint of... pain? It denied any possibility of deception, of dissembling for an audience, such as she might do if she were afraid that someone might be watching. This was no ploy, this was real; she honestly couldn't remember who he was, and it looked like it hurt to try.
Suddenly she gasped and staggered, taking a step back, and for a moment she looked like the wind had been taken out of her. Before he could step forward to support her, he head snapped up and she looked him full in the face. It was the look of an animal, startled and terrified, and it lasted for only a second before she turned and ran.
He started after her, but even with his immortal endurance, she outpaced him, running with the speed and strength of absolute fear. After one turn, and a next, she had gotten a lead on him, enough that when she led him through a maze of backyards and driveways, she lost him entirely.
He stood for a moment, not breathing at all, let alone hard, with the sudden wish that he had Celerity. Then it hit him that she was gone, lost, with god knew what going on and no way to find her.
No... they had ways to find her. Somehow. He started back toward his car, toward the chantry. They would find her.
One foot before the other. She was tired. Somehow, finding her car had become less important -- where was her car, anyway? -- and now she focused on walking. One foot, then the other, then the one. She had two feet... it seemed like she might have more, might use up one foot for every step she took. One. Other.
Why was it she was tired? She had run... She remembered running, as fast as she could, with someone behind her. A dark shape, someone she half-knew, someone terrifying, in a scene like a nightmare. But in nightmares you didn't get away, and she had gotten away... Who had it been? She couldn't think through the fog. One. Other.
Ezra hung up the phone. "Orinda police picked up a young woman on the street about a half-hour ago. She seemed dazed or drunk, but after asking some questions, they took her home. She had long brown hair and was wearing a colorful vest."
Steven stopped pacing. "Home? She hasn't shown up here."
"They didn't say where "home" was; I suppose I could call back and find out where she asked to go." Her eyes were troubled. "If she was in Orinda, though, she wasn't headed here."
"Orinda." To have walked that far... Unless she had hitched a ride, but that seemed unlikely. He had been almost biting his nails for three hours, wondering where she was. "East."
Ezra looked up. "You think she was heading for her apartment?"
"Maybe." He was still thinking about the pain he had seen in her eyes.
"She couldn't get there on foot, Steven. That's over thirty miles. She must have been going somewhere else."
"I... don't think she was thinking about the distance." He chewed his lip. "She may not have been thinking at all."
Ezra looked him over carefully. "I can call back Orinda police to check, but they may wonder why. How certain are you that she's going there, and not to meet someone, for example?"
He thought over what he had seen, what he knew of her. "I'm sure."
After a pause, Ezra murmured, "If her memories are gone or blocked, there may be other things going on..." She shot another glance at Steven, then nodded. "All right. If this fails, I can still call back Orinda police, and we can try again."
Steven thought about how Rebecca had looked. "She'll be there."
It was colder here, especially sitting on concrete. Rebecca shivered a little, and tried to get her thoughts together. Home... No, she had gone home already, and the door was locked, and she didn't seem to have the right key. Besides, a peek through the blinds showed a stranger's house. So she had sat down on the steps, and tried to get her thoughts together.
What was going on? Something was different, something was wrong. Her apartment wasn't hers. Strange men out of nightmare, and walking for years... Was it a dream? It might explain some things, and then she could wake up. Wake up, Rebecca...
But no, in nightmares you run but you don't get away, and she had gotten away. The police had given her a scare, but they had kind faces, and they had brought her home. Here. If only she could think through the pain, see through the fog...
Maybe if she walked some more, maybe she could come out of the fog. She stood, and her feet screamed in protest, but her headache was stronger. At least walking would make her warmer. She carefully descended the stairs.
She had taken a few steps when she heard her name. She looked around, but didn't see anyone. She was about to start forward when she heard it again.
There, in the shadows, a deeper shadow. She tried to make it out, straining her eyes -- couldn't she see better than this, somehow? -- but couldn't find any details. It was a soft voice, like velvet, and hauntingly familiar.
"Who is it?" She didn't want to get any closer to the dark.
"It's all right, Rebecca. You're safe." The figure came forward a step. "Are you all right?"
A woman, in flowing garments, her face still too dark to see. Rebecca relaxed a little, instinctively responding to the lack of threat in a fellow female presence. "I..." She hesitated, trying to remember this lady. She seemed nice, and courteous, and Rebecca's manners wouldn't let her ignore this woman's question. "My head aches, but I think I'll be okay."
That soft, smooth voice, light with concern. "Do you know why your head aches?"
She shook her head. "It just does. The fog... keeps me from thinking straight. I just need to walk a while to clear my head."
The woman stepped forward again, bringing herself into dim light. Rebecca focused on her face; she was dimly aware that the lady had spoken again, but she was trying too hard to remember who this was. She was having a horrible time with names -- if only the pain in her head would let up... Such a familiar face.
An image flashed through her head, blinding her; the pain took her breath away. This woman, amused, talking to her... Someone to fear, but somehow a promise of safety. A powerful person, who had smiled at her expense and saved her from -- what?
The velvet voice came to her again. "What is it? What happened?"
Still struggling with the feeling of being punched in the gut, Rebecca panted, "An image, of you, I think. I know you from somewhere, I just can't think where."
Thoughtfully, the lady asked, "What was the image like?" She took another slow step forward, moving almost regally.
Rebecca shook her head. "It was so brief. I don't know what it was about, except... You're a powerful person, but you saved me from something. That's all I know."
"I saved you." She seemed bemused. "Do you trust me to protect you?"
Rebecca looked at her face again. So composed, so full of secrets... but her concern was real, the memory seemed real. "What's happening?"
"I intend to find out." The woman nodded, once.
Had Rebecca not been watching her so intently, she might not have seen the woman's eyes flicker; she spun, but was caught by strong hands. Suddenly overwhelmed by fear, she fought to get free -- oh, god, it was the man she had run from, the one with the familiar face and the familiar voice, who had stopped her on the street and she was afraid of, she didn't know why. The woman, too, was terrifying, with the fear that came from under the bed. He was so strong, and he was whispering to her, "It's all right, it's all right." It wasn't all right, something was different, something was wrong.
She couldn't get away. She started to sob, frantic, and felt a gentle hand on her back. "Rebecca, relax. We won't hurt you."
Trapped, she froze, and heard again, "Relax," in that velvet-smooth, warm, soft voice. The voice from the image, the powerful woman who laughed at her and protected her. Helpless, Rebecca went limp, tears streaming down her face. They were terrifying, but familiar. Maybe they really wouldn't hurt her. She could hope.
Something different. Something wrong.
Ezra drove back to the chantry, with Steven and Rebecca in the back seat. Rebecca had curled up with her knees as close to her chin as the seatbelt allowed; Steven studied her, hoping for a hint of what had happened to her. She hadn't been frightened of him until she had nearly fallen on the street, then she had done it again with Ezra. An image, she said. A memory? She might have some sort of amnesia, and memories might be surfacing when she tried to remember hard enough. What had she seen with him that had terrified her so much?
What had happened to her?
After maybe fifteen minutes of speculation and dark thoughts, he saw Rebecca begin to stir a little, looking around. Steven kept silent, not wanting to alarm her again. Finally she looked at him, that puzzled frown telling him that she was trying to think of who he was.
Resisting the urge to reach out to her, he said gently, "Don't try too hard. You might hurt yourself."
She looked down, still frowning. "I wish I knew..." Her gaze returned to him. "I don't --"
She gasped again and doubled over, putting a hand to her head. Steven stopped his hand short of her arm. "What is it?"
"A hand," she gasped. "A hand on my shoulder, and fear."
A thousand possibilities flashed through his mind, but he kept his voice gentle, like Ezra's had been, drawing her out. "Fear of what?" Someone who had done this to her, maybe?
She hesitated. "Discovery. You were there, I was talking to you, I was afraid, and" she shivered "there was a hand on my shoulder, and fear. I feared the hand."
If he was there, then it was either a memory, or someone was using his visage... "Where were we?"
"In a very large room. There were lots of people there, I think." Her voice trembled with reaction. "I recognized it, we had been there before. She was there too." A motion of her chin indicated Ezra.
It sounded like court, and he had a suspicion that he knew whose hand that had been. "Ezra?"
The Regent met his eyes in the rear-view mirror, and she said softly, "I think we know what she's talking about."
The Archon. It was a memory, then, probably one of the strongest she had. The terror of discovery by the Archon that had visited the court, who had thrown her against a wall and demanded her death. Steven had been talking with her, debating whether she should leave the court, when the Archon had come out of Obfuscate and laid his hand on her shoulder. It was a bitter memory for him; he had failed her that night, once when he had been caught lying to protect her, once when he had not prevented the Archon from putting her life at risk.
The image wasn't of tonight, however, nor did it seem to increase her fear of him, and he relaxed a little. "That was a long time ago, and it's over now."
"You remember that?" She looked at him, startled. "So it did happen?"
He nodded. "I remember. It was almost a year ago, and we both survived it. Don't let it frighten you."
She folded herself up again. "I wish I could remember..."
The rest of the trip passed in silence.
She hadn't paid a lot of attention, but she thought they were back in Berkeley. The woman -- Ezra? -- guided the car through the fog-bound streets, streetlights shining eerily orange. She finally pulled into a small side-street and stopped the car. The quiet when she turned it off caught Rebecca's notice.
In unspoken agreement, the man stayed in the car while the lady came around to Rebecca's door and opened it. They were still guarding her, then, perhaps keeping her captive. Rebecca didn't have any more reason to run than to stay, however, so she didn't resist.
They got out and followed a walkway past a building, under eucalyptus trees. Something... she shook her head and kept walking, ignoring the chill the trees gave her. She forgot it entirely when they rounded a corner and started up a flight of steps. Her pace slowed.
It was an enormous building, wings jutting out to either side and gables lost in the mist. Cypress trees lined the long stair, framing the lit windows. A lawn stretched to the opposite wing. It was sanctuary, and it was intimidating, and it was familiar with the same aching feel that her companions were familiar.
They urged her up the stair and in through the double doors, and the smell of old books and dignity struck her like a wall, brought memories to her mind unbidden, making her head throb. Baking in a large kitchen. Sweeping the dark wood of the floor. Sitting in that chair, there, and talking until dawn. "Where is this?" she breathed.
Her companions exchanged a glance, but didn't answer.
She was led to a room off the main hall, furnished in dark elegance, with a banker's lamp on the desk and a tapestry hung on the far wall. Her head ached. The woman invited her to sit, and seated herself across the desk. Rebecca sat, and the man came to stand near her.
The velvet voice seemed to soothe her head a little. "What's your name?"
She answered absently, "Rebecca Nelson." Did they have any aspirin here?
"Where do you live, Rebecca?"
She began automatically, "Pleasant --" Wait, that wasn't right. Her place was a stranger's house. Where was home?
The lady didn't let her dwell on it. "How old are you?"
"Twenty.... seven." It was hard to remember her age, sometimes. The years went so fast. The lady frowned a little, but went on.
"What do you do?"
"I..." Damn, her head hurt unbearably. Where was her kit? "I dispense herbs. I forget the word."
"An herbalist," said the woman smoothly. Rebecca nodded. "Who are your clients?"
"John, Bill, Shoyan... Maria, up on the hill... Ted..." Her head was splitting. She frowned. "No, wait -- I don't think..." What had happened to Ted? Wasn't she going to his place tomorrow? An image entered her mind, of Ted's house empty, its garden abandoned. What..?
"What did you do today?" The woman didn't pause.
Rebecca stopped to think. "I -- visited a client, I think, and... I saw a doctor. He shined a light in my eyes... I went to a bar, and walked, and ran from..." She stumbled to a halt, realizing that the man she had run from was standing beside her.
The woman nodded. "Do you remember what the doctor said?"
Rebecca closed her eyes. "He said I had a mild concussion, and a headache was normal," her skull was going to split apart, "and that he was going to call me a cab. And he said something about stopping a tree with my head." Was that what had happened? Something about fog... "Ezra is a biblical name, isn't it? But I thought it was a man's name -- is that what you're called?"
The woman rose and came around the desk, with an amused look. "It's a name in the Bible, yes, but it was used elsewhere as well." She stopped before Rebecca's chair, her eyes intent. "Does that name seem familiar to you?"
Rebecca blinked. She had heard it before, but it was a man's name; she spent a fraction of a second wracking her early Sunday-school memories in search of it, then gave up. She had heard it in California, though, not in Boston, in connection with someone she knew... This woman seemed to defy names, her personality larger than a simple word, too complex for so ordinary a label. Ezra fit as well as anything, but no name could describe her. "I don't know. Maybe. Is that what I should call you?"
The intentness was gone as though it never was, and the lady smiled again, slightly. "Perhaps you should."
A motion to the side caught Rebecca's attention; the man's head bowed, and he had turned away slightly. She felt like she had failed a test, and redoubled her efforts to remember these people. Her head throbbed, and she put a hand to it, as if to try to hold it together. Ezra -- yes, it might fit, somehow -- reached out to touch her chin. "I'm going to look at your head, Rebecca."
She bent beside the chair, turning Rebecca's head to the light with gentle fingers. Light touches probed her skull; pain lanced through her and she hissed. It happened twice more, and Ezra straightened again.
"Well, she has a head wound, certainly. How she got it, I can't tell..." Ezra paused and picked a fragment of bark out of Rebecca's hair. "Whether she hit a tree or whether something hit her, though, she has head trauma; the cause may be moot."
The man was frowning. "If someone... tampered with her memories, though, why hit her? All they would have to do is look in her eyes and dominate her." Did she hear a slight emphasis there? "Maybe if she ran, to stop her..." He shook his head.
Ezra sighed. "Lots of things could have happened. She knows about dominate; maybe she figured out what they were up to and tried to fight. Maybe she recognized the person, and they had to catch her. Maybe they found her already injured, and took advantage of it." She looked at Rebecca. "Maybe she really did just get bumped on the head and lose her memory. The bruise alone can't tell us.
"Do you remember anything more about tonight, Rebecca? Any people you've seen?"
The man snorted slightly. "If someone dominated her, they would have erased the memory of themselves."
Ezra paid him no attention, concentrating on Rebecca; Rebecca, in turn, concentrated on backtracking through the night. The events were blurry, even after she had run across this man, lost in a haze of pain and half-remembered things. "I remember the doctor, and..." a jumble of images "...before that... I can't think of anything--"
A flash of pain seared through her, leaving her deaf and blind. Grey swirled in her vision, and something rushed at her. Fog...
She came to herself with a scream ringing in her ears, her chair a foot back from where it had been. Ezra and the man (what was his name?) were staring at her, startled. After a moment, Ezra asked, ever so softly, "What was it?"
Rebecca just shook her head, the vision gone and all her strength with it. Her head throbbed, and she felt out of place and alone. Unable to help herself, she began to cry.
The man made a movement toward her, but Ezra stopped him. "See if you can get Vladimir here -- he's on duty tonight. Say it's a family emergency. Wait for him."
The look he shot Ezra was pure venom, and he seemed on the verge of a scathing retort. She met his gaze with steady calm, and he swallowed what he was going to say. With a deeply anxious look at Rebecca, he left.
Rebecca was dimly aware of Ezra kneeling by her chair. Light touches brushed away the tears on her cheeks, and Ezra's velvet-smooth voice was soothing. "Your head hurts, I know. I can try to heal it, but you have to do what I tell you, all right?"
Rebecca looked at her. She seemed sincere, and any possibility of getting rid of this pain was something she would willingly explore. "Yes."
"Close your eyes, and relax. Don't open them until I tell you."
She closed her eyes, and felt hands settle on her scalp. A few seconds passed, and a light started to grow beyond her eyelids. The urge to look passed as it grew brighter and brighter, powerful as the sun; then it faded, and so did the ache in her skull. She didn't look until Ezra said, "All right, you can open your eyes now."
The room looked the same as it had before, and so did Ezra. Rebecca laid a careful hand on her head, and realized that the pain was completely gone, and with it went some of the fog, allowing her to think. She looked at Ezra and asked, "How did you do that?"
All she got in response was a mysterious smile. "I trust you're feeling better." At Rebecca's nod, she continued, "Good. I need to do a few more things, to try and determine what happened to you. May I borrow your vest?"
Mystified, Rebecca shed her vest and handed it to her. Ezra took it, leaned back against the desk, and closed her eyes. Her eyelids flickered.
After about fifteen seconds, Ezra opened her eyes again, frowned, and handed the clothing back; she looked preoccupied. "May I borrow your glasses?"
More cautiously, Rebecca gave her the wire-frames. Ezra repeated the performance, and returned them with an air of deep thought. Rebecca watched her, not wanting to disturb her concentration, and started when Ezra suddenly seemed to come to life and search the floor.
The other woman stooped and came up holding something -- the bark from Rebecca's hair? After handing the glasses back, she meditated on the fragment of wood, spending most of a minute on it this time. Rebecca, thoroughly intrigued now, waited patiently for her companion to finish, wondering what she could be doing. Psychic readings? The thought of this woman poring over palms and crystal balls was just absurd, but that was more than anything what this resembled.
Ezra came back to herself, but before Rebecca could ask what she was doing, the door opened and the man came back in. Following him was another young man, more handsome, his expression openly worried; the tie holding his long, dark hair back had slipped, and wisps trailed along the folds of his paramedic jumpsuit. "What's going on?" he asked. Rebecca reflected that his voice would be more suited to casual talk or cheerful banter, where it would take on more depth. It sounded flat with strain.
"I'm not quite sure yet, but I have some idea where to start looking." The long sleeves of Ezra's blouse drifted as she set the bark on the desk, settling herself on the edge. "Rebecca's recent memory -- perhaps as much as the last few years of it -- has gone missing. She had a concussion, as well, and a very nasty bruise; I healed those just now, and did what investigation I could with spirit's touch." (What was that?) "The memory loss might be because of the concussion, or it might not be related; all I could turn up was that there was an impact of some kind, with a tree involved, and she hit the ground. Her glasses were taken away at some point, but considering the bruise, they were probably removed to examine her. None of the rest was any help."
The man she had run from was looking at her, his expression almost stern, and she wondered what he was thinking. Perhaps he looked stern as a matter of course; he had heavy brows and deep-set eyes behind light glasses, and his hair was pulled tightly back to lie, strictly controlled, between his shoulderblades. His brown goatee looked dark against the pale of his skin. Even his clothes were formal, though he had shed his fedora and coat when he came in -- a dark vest and slacks, with a white dress shirt. His eyes were unreadable. A deep fear stirred slightly within her, and she realized that she did not want this man angry at her.
He still held a whisper of visceral terror for her, but she felt drawn to him somehow. Even when he turned his attention to the others, she studied him.
Ezra continued, addressing the paramedic. "Steven found her near College and Ashby; what's the nearest hospital there?"
He cocked an eyebrow. "Alta Bates is practically right around the corner from there. It's an easy walk."
Ezra sighed. "And Alta Bates serves most of Berkeley. Damn. I had hoped..." She paused for a moment, then told him, "Get on the phone to the Alta Bates E.R. and see who brought her in. I want to follow this back."
Rebecca, following the conversation with half an ear, heard a name that snagged her thoughts. Her mind was less clouded now, but she was tired, and watching the formal man occupied her attention. Still, the name stood out. She knew a Steven...
The man she was watching spoke. "If the amnesia isn't from the concussion, then what could it be from? Would anyone do it deliberately?"
Ezra shook her head, and the paramedic moved toward the phone on the desk. "It could be done a few ways, but most important is why," she replied. "Wiping a few minutes to erase your presence, yes, but whole years... Perhaps it was part of an attempt to turn her against us, or drive her away, or a botched attempt to erase a small memory. Or perhaps it was just meant to create confusion." She looked at Rebecca, who returned the gaze wearily. "We may never know for sure."
A muscle jumped in the man's jaw. "Have you checked for tampering?"
"Not yet. That was the next thing. I also wanted to see if any memory has returned."
The man's eyes flicked to Rebecca, then back to Ezra. "I have aura perception. I can try to see whether anything is different."
Her eyebrows rose. "If you think you'll be able to tell. It may be very difficult."
"But I know her aura better than you do," he countered. "I probably have a better chance of telling whether something is wrong."
She gave him a speculative look, which he bore with some impatience. Finally, she said, "All right. Shall I wait to talk to her until you're finished?"
Please, thought Rebecca, someone talking to me instead of about me would be rather nice right now.
He shook his head. "It shouldn't make any difference. It might even bring something to the surface."
Ezra nodded. "All right." She moved to where Rebecca sat, the murmur of the paramedic on the phone breaking the silence occasionally. The woman stopped at the boundary of Rebecca's personal space, and said gently, "I need to ask you a few more questions."
Rebecca nodded and leaned her head back against the chair, gearing her tired mind for another attempt at recollection.
The lady began. "Where do you live?"
She caught herself this time before she said Pleasant Hill. "I'm not sure," she said hesitantly.
"Do you know my name?"
She spoke slowly, after looking at the woman hard. "I believe it's Ezra -- I can't come up with anything else, except that you had an odd name. Ezra fits, I guess. I think..." she squinted at the woman, who looked younger than Rebecca was, but must be older, much older if her impressions were true. "It feels like you have some sort of title, too. I don't know." She shook her head.
The lady's expression didn't change. "Do you know his name?" She indicated the man Rebecca had run from; he was frowning in concentration, his gaze turned on Rebecca, but unfocused, as though he were looking through her.
Rebecca looked at him. Emotions rose in her, a complex mix that she couldn't decipher, and she said the first thing that came to mind. "Paul." He gave a start, his concentration shattered, just as she said, "no, wait..." Images of talking with him for hours teased the edges of her mind, but nothing crystallized. She knew him well, though, she could feel that. "I'm not sure. I might know if I heard it."
Ezra looked at him. He had relaxed a little, though he still looked badly shaken; his expression suggested he had gone white as a sheet, but his complexion was so pale it was hard to tell. After a moment, she asked him, "Did you find anything?"
He shook his head, composing himself. "I'll try again."
The paramedic interjected, "Alta Bates says she came in by ambulance. I talked to Sara -- she's on dispatch tonight -- and she said it was a 911. I can ask around the 911 crew, see who took the call... We might be able to find out who phoned in."
Her voice intent, Ezra asked, "Where was she picked up?"
"Out on Des Arboles; it's off of Grizzly Peak. She was apparently lying on the side of the road." He cast a look of worried sympathy at Rebecca. "My guess is it was phoned in by one of the neighbors."
Ezra nodded. "Meanwhile, she seems to have a little more back," she glanced at her formally dressed companion, "but not much." She turned back to the paramedic. "What do you know about treating amnesia?"
He shrugged. "Mainly wait, see if it comes back on its own. That's the safest way, and the most natural. Everything else is like electric shock, or another concussion -- more trauma."
Ezra nodded. "Or we could try fixing it on our own. We might even find other memories, an explanation of what happened."
Rebecca was watching the man who was studying her. The inward focus of his gaze unnerved her; it was alternately like he was searching her soul and looking at nothing at all. He bothered her in himself, as well -- he wasn't what he seemed, somehow, like a magician in an oblique sort of way. She blinked, startled, as that struck an echo of memory; something about doing the fantastic. He wasn't quite ordinary, her gut told her. She watched him, trying to see what was different.
The paramedic frowned a little. "Going to the scene might help jog it, if it's simple memory loss. Sometimes amnesia victims are cured by physical reminders, especially places."
Ezra shook her head. "She's gotten barely anything back by being here; I don't think we can accomplish anything more by running around in the hills at night than by trying to unblock her memories with dominate, and it would take a lot more time."
The paramedic still didn't seem convinced. "You should give her a choice, at least."
Rebecca concentrated. The man in the vest was so pale, and she expected... she...
A memory flashed across her mind, intense but so short she could barely grasp it. She flinched, then frowned in confusion. "Why do I remember the taste of blood?"
The two in conversation didn't hear her, but the man did. His eyes met hers, stunned, until Ezra's voice cut across them. "Steven."
He turned reflexively, and Rebecca forgot to breathe. That was his name, then, this was the Steven she knew. In a way, the name's familiarity and her deep memory of him seemed to fit, two half-recognized pieces to a puzzle. She felt closer to seeing the picture, but it was still like looking through a fogged window. The frustration made her want to scream.
Ezra was speaking. "Did you find anything this time?"
He shook his head. "It doesn't look any different, except how she seems to react to things, and I think that's just that she doesn't understand what's going on. I didn't see any evidence that someone else has touched it."
There was a long pause as Ezra thought. "So we don't have any more idea of why these memories are missing. I'd like to uncover what we can, give her back anything we can unblock. I still think there might be something there." She took a step forward, then glanced back at the paramedic, who was giving her a look. Ezra smiled slightly, and approached Rebecca.
Rebecca was still trying to make sense of what she remembered, trying to see more of the picture, and looked up at the sound of her name, still confused. Ezra was saying, "Have you heard what we've said? You have two choices."
"Choices for what?" The memory of blood had scrambled her thoughts.
The paramedic answered. "We can wait for your amnesia to lift, or we can do something about it." He came forward, his high-cheekboned face serious. "Waiting is more natural, and harmless, really."
Rebecca blinked. This was so difficult, never knowing what she would remember, or when, or what the full story was... "How long?"
The young man's lips thinned. "A week. A month. Several months. Maybe years. There's no way to tell, and you might not ever get some of it back."
Years of this? She fought down panic. "What's the other option?"
The lady spoke. "I can get into your memories, and remove any blocks there." The paramedic interjected, "That means that she has to rummage around in your head, though. I thought you deserved the choice."
"Rummage in my head? So it's like hypnosis or something?" The lady's mouth twitched, but she nodded. Steven was silent, watching, as Rebecca thought.
She wanted to get rid of the guesswork, the strange images that haunted her. She wanted to know who these people were, how she knew them, put everything together and see the full picture. But she had the layman's wariness of hypnosis, of putting herself in someone else's control, especially someone who she might not trust if she had her memory. On impulse, she turned to the paramedic. "You seem like the kind of person who tells the truth."
His eyebrows rose. "I try to make a habit of it, yes."
"Do I..." she gestured vaguely, "belong here? Is this where I should be?"
He looked at her for a long moment, his blue eyes full of gentle sympathy, then gave her a small, genuine smile. "Yes. You belong here. You can trust them."
His quiet assurance quelled her nervousness. This was not the sort of man who would say that just to soothe her; he meant it. And if she belonged here, which the sense of familiarity seemed to agree with, then she could relax a little. "Thank you." He nodded.
She thought again about her choices, then turned to Ezra. "If you think you can fix it, please try."
Ezra nodded, and directed the paramedic to bring another chair up in front of the desk. "Do you trust me?"
Fear returned, as those words echoed in her memory. "Is it dangerous?"
Ezra smiled. "No. I won't hurt you, I promise."
Rebecca took a deep breath. "I trust you."
Ezra nodded again, and took a seat in front of her. "Look in my eyes, and don't fight me. It may feel a little strange."
Rebecca nodded, and looked the woman in the eyes. They were calm, but strong as the sea, and dark. She let herself sink into them.
Steven fought the urge to pace. Ezra was taking her time; necessary, perhaps, but difficult to watch. They stared into each other's eyes for several minutes, Ezra murmuring softly from time to time. Vladimir yawned.
Ezra released Rebecca's gaze, and Rebecca recoiled, trembling, seemingly stunned. Steven took a step forward, but Vladimir put a hand on his arm to stay him; he shook it off angrily, but didn't come closer.
After a moment, Ezra's voice fell into the silence. "Rebecca."
Rebecca opened her eyes, but didn't say anything. Ezra asked, very gently, "What is your name?"
Almost inaudible, she murmured, "Rebecca Nelson."
"How old are you?"
That seemed to take a moment. "Thirty."
"What is my name?"
Rebecca looked up at her, hesitantly, a dazed look in her eyes. "Ezra," she said slowly. "Ezra Darke."
"You said I had a title. What is it?"
She thought for a moment. "Regent."
Ezra pressed on. "Regent of what?"
Rebecca blinked, seeming to shake off a little of the daze. "Regent of the Tremere chantry."
"What are the Tremere?" What is she getting at? thought Steven.
"A Clan." It was like a schoolchild reciting by rote, but she appeared to know more than she had before.
"What are the Clans made up of?" Ezra's voice betrayed no hint of emotion.
"Kindred." There was a pause, and Rebecca's eyes focused on Ezra. She blanched, then, and seemed to shrink in on herself. Unable to hold back any longer, Steven strode forward, but checked himself as Rebecca turned her gaze on him. It was full of all the old fear of a year ago, all the terror of Kindred she used to have and all that still slept beneath the surface. She flinched as Ezra leaned forward, shaking visibly. When the Regent stretched out a hand to touch her cheek, Rebecca dodged it, and whimpered. Steven twitched, and she cried, "Don't..."
Ezra watched for a moment as Rebecca tried to phase through the back of her chair, terrified beyond thought, trembling so hard Steven could feel it through the floor. Then Ezra motioned Steven forward. Not wanting to hurt Rebecca further, he came slowly, but every step seemed to send a bolt through her. He stood beside Ezra, his heart twisting within him, wondering what the Regent had in mind.
Ezra reached forward, took Rebecca by the shoulder and waited until Rebecca looked at her, then slapped her.
Cold with shock, it took Steven a moment to realize that Rebecca had stopped shaking; had, in fact, stopped breathing. Just as he thought to worry, she took a deep, shaky breath and blinked.
"Now." Ezra's voice was as smooth as ever. "Let's try this again. What are Clans made up of?"
"Kindred." Rebecca's voice seemed to have a little more life in it.
Ezra wasn't done. "What are Kindred?"
With only a slight hitch, Rebecca replied, "Vampires."
"Look at me." Ezra held Rebecca's gaze for a couple of seconds, then nodded. "Good."
Rebecca dropped her eyes, swallowed, and took a few more breaths. Almost involuntarily, Steven closed the gap between them, coming to rest at her side. Very, very carefully, he stroked her hair, and she laid her head against his side. After a moment, he closed his eyes in relief and relaxed, still stroking her.
Ezra said softly, "She should have everything back, more or less. Some of it may be difficult for her to find, but she can look for it now and put things in their proper places." He nodded, too relieved to think about much more than the soft hair under his fingers.
"Now. Rebecca." The Regent's voice was more firm, but not unkind. "Let's see how much you recall of tonight. Where did you go during the day?"
Rebecca took a deep breath, then another, but didn't move or open her eyes. "I ran some errands, and then visited a client. Rob." She shook once, then, and frowned, her face full of old grief. Irrelevantly, she murmured, "Ted... Ted is dead. He died of AIDS. His family sold his house."
Ezra lapsed back into the calm, soothing velvet tone she used earlier. "Where does Rob live?"
"Up on Grizzly Peak." The tension in the room relaxed a palpable notch as that registered on those listening, and Rebecca herself seemed to calm again. "He's on one of those streets off the main road, the narrow ones, so I had to park farther down and walk."
Ezra nodded. "Did you see him?"
"Yes. He just needed more tea for the cold, and something for the knee he injured in college. It's colder and more damp here than his part of Australia." Her voice was casual.
"Do you remember leaving?"
Rebecca paused, then said, "Yes... he told me to be careful, because the fog--" her voice cracked. "The fog was coming in."
"When was that?"
"The appointment was at four, so it was probably around four forty-five -- we chatted for a while." Steven ran idle fingers over her hair, surprised she was so relaxed.
Soft as a feather, Ezra asked, "What did you do when you left his house?"
"I walked down the street, toward my car, and..." Rebecca frowned, tensing. "I..." She fell silent, concentrating hard.
After a moment, Ezra prompted, "There was a tree..."
"I remember the trees." It came in a rush. "The fog was coming in, and I could barely see them, but I heard them rustle a little, and there were leaves on the road..." She trailed off.
"And?"
Rebecca was silent for some time, and finally murmured, "Something dropped down, out of the fog..." She shook her head. "It's gone."
Ezra's shoulders dropped, ever so slightly. "What's the next thing you remember?"
"A hospital, I think. I was lying down, and someone was looking me over. Then a doctor came in and talked to me."
A twist to her lips, Ezra thought for a moment, then turned to Vladimir. "When was she checked in?"
He blinked, then looked into the distance as he went over the phone call. "Seven or so."
"Two hours. And no memory of any of it." Troubled, Ezra moved to the chair behind the desk, displacing Vladimir to one side. Almost diffidently, he commented, "It's not unusual for trauma victims to lose a few minutes of memory before and after the event... As for the rest, she could have been out for a while." He didn't sound confident.
She said nothing, and silence filled the study. After a few minutes, Ezra sighed. "Well, at least we know where to find her car. There might be some evidence up there still; I'll go look for it and retrieve her car. Alice can accompany me." She looked at Vladimir. "I trust that nothing you have seen here will leave this room."
Vladimir looked away from his regard of Steven and Rebecca, and cocked an eyebrow at her. "Of course. Why would you think otherwise?"
She regarded him levelly. "Maybe the fact that you're the biggest gossip in the chantry."
He laughed. "Well, there is that." His smile faded, but he had a gleam of humor in his eye when he replied, "Don't worry. No one will ever know." He glanced back at the pair and the humor faded to bemusement. Ezra caught his eye, and they exchanged a long look; then Vladimir left, looking thoughtful.
Ezra came back around the desk and touched Steven's shoulder, and he came to himself abruptly. "Put her to bed," she murmured. "And check her feet, she may have blisters. I'll deal with the rest."
Rebecca was half-dozing under his hand, and he roused her. "Can you stand?"
She took his hand and got to her feet, wincing. "Remind me not to walk so much."
He smiled, still overwhelmed by having her intact. Ezra showed them to the door, Rebecca hobbling as Steven supported her, and bid them good night.
He let her lean on him to the base of the stairs, her feet obviously very tender, then looked around unobtrusively. Finding no one in sight, he stopped, swept her up, and carried her up the two flights to their floor, then down the hall to her room. It would have been impossible without vampiric stamina, and even so he felt his muscles starting to burn as he set her down at her door.
After opening the door, he carried her in and set her on the bed, then went down the hall to the bathroom. A few minutes later he brought her a basin of cool water and a washcloth, and started taking off her shoes.
She protested faintly, and he ignored it, concentrating on her feet. They were swollen slightly, he thought, and he looked them over for blisters. Finding a couple, he cleaned them gently, and placed her feet in the water to soak, making a mental note to get some bandages.
He found her looking at him, and she dropped her eyes, murmuring, "I'm sorry I was so much trouble."
He rose, then sat next to her, but didn't even try to answer her. After a moment, she said, haltingly, "I'm sorry I ran."
He understood; she was ashamed of having thought he was an enemy, of having run away from him when he was searching for her, when he was worried half to death. She knew how frightened he had been for her. He thought he could understand how frightened she had been of him.
That was what kept him from trying to reply. Instead, he turned her face toward him, and kissed her as tenderly as he could.
She looked at him once, her gaze full of words, then closed her eyes and rested her head against his chest. He stroked her hair, and he was content.
He was so content, in fact, that he missed the dawn and fell asleep on her bed. Rebecca woke sometime later to find that he had fallen sideways and was slumped against the headboard, out cold. She smiled wryly, and arranged him so that he was fully on the bed, composing him into a comfortable position regardless of the fact he wouldn't notice. Her feet were still sore, but a thought occurred to her; yes, she still had some vitae. A moment later, she left, walking gingerly on her stiff legs, and headed down the hall to sleep in his room. So much for Kindred superiority.