A legacy, so far removed
One day will be improved
Eternal rights beleft behind,
We were the better kind
You this day met free too,
I always looked to you
I always looked to you
I always looked to you.
--Joy Division, "A Means to an End"
After a quick shower and a change into a clean pair of pajamas, Derek donned his robe and left his bedroom. None of the others seemed to be up and about, but he knew Sloan would probably be awake for a little while longer. He walked to the control room, figuring the Legacy leader would be in there, working.
Once through the hologram, he could see Sloan sitting at one of the computer consoles, reading something on a screen. At his approach, however, Sloan turned to face him, smiling when he saw who it was.
"Derek, are you all right?" he asked quietly. Derek arched one eyebrow, recognizing that tone.
"No, William," he answered truthfully, "Actually I am *not* all right. Is anyone else awake?"
"Not that I know of -- they all went up to bed pretty early -- although Philip might be researching. I think we need to talk: just *when* were you going to tell me about Azazel's having a chance to kill you? And you said this happened *twice*?" Sloan asked, his tone becoming increasingly annoyed.
"I have a better question, William," Derek said, pulling the envelope out of his pocket and thrusting it in Sloan's face. "When were *you* planning on warning *me* about the danger I was in?"
His question stopped Sloan dead in his tracks and the older man looked down at the envelope with confusion. "Danger? What?" He took the envelope when Derek maintained his stony silence, looking first at the address and then opening it and sliding the contents out. A moment later, Derek saw the colour rise in his face and he knew Sloan recognized what it was.
"You *are* the one who hid this in my father's journal, aren't you?" Derek asked as Sloan looked through the photos, his expression becoming unreadable.
"Yes, I am," Sloan answered, looking back up at Derek and meeting his angry gaze steadily. "Derek, this happened while you were a young man of legal age. You weren't a member of the Legacy -- as a matter of fact, you'd done everything you could to distance yourself from it as much as possible. It wasn't Legacy business."
"Wasn't -- Legacy *business*?! William, you *knew* the Arkadi family was one of the Legacy's enemies -- if you read this letter, you knew he was trying to use me against the Legacy -- how could you say it wasn't Legacy business? And if you could still justify that, why didn't you try to help *me*?" Derek asked.
"You were angry and blamed the Legacy for your father's death, Derek. Would you have listened to a warning, or just ignored it as more meddling in your life by people you didn't like?" Sloan asked softly, realizing that Derek was more hurt than angry -- and that not all of the hurt came from the Legacy's lack of involvement. "Your father was already dead, so Arkadi's gloating didn't affect him. We even thought perhaps you might be able to make *him* change . . ."
"And if he had succeeded in using my talent to find artifacts he could use against the Legacy, would you have gotten involved then? Would it have been worth meddling then, or would you have just written me off?"
"Derek, I'm sorry. I really am -- it just wasn't our place to do anything about it," Sloan said softly, putting the photos and letter away again. "Come on, sit down," he added, pulling another chair over for Derek. "Would you *truly* have listened to us?"
They both sat and Derek looked down, finally answering, "No, I most likely wouldn't have -- not at first, anyway."
"I really am sorry, Derek," Sloan repeated, intending to return to his previous line of questioning now that Derek had calmed, but he saw Derek reading the screen he knew he should have cleared.
"What is that, William?" Derek asked, his tone one of annoyance and rising suspicion. "It looks like a genealogy . . ."
"Ah--" Sloan hedged awkwardly. _Stupid, Sloan, really stupid!_ he berated himself as the look in Derek's eyes darkened further.
"Too many things have been coming back to haunt me all of a sudden, and I am beginning to feel that they are not unrelated after all. Now what *is* that, William?" Derek repeated, anger intensifying his accent.
"It's interesting that you chose the term 'unrelated'," Sloan began, deciding he would do better to just ignore Derek's anger.
"And what do you mean by that?" Derek prodded, wishing he could turn away the cold dread that gripped his heart.
"You know that the person who killed Lucas Rayne's wife was a member of the Arkadi family," Sloan began, already knowing the answer. When Derek nodded slowly, he continued, "And you know that your family in particular has had repeated encounters with them which sometimes were far more personal than the Legacy's trouble with them?"
Derek frowned and looked Sloan in the eyes, then asked, "You have to ask *me* that question?"
"Sorry, Derek," Sloan said again, knowing he had hit a nerve -- and that part of him had intended it. Derek nodded briefly and looked at him expectantly. "Well, I've been researching some old records, and -- hell, Derek, your families are related," he finally blurted, relieved when he finally said it. It wasn't fair to play games with Derek about things like this, he knew, but it had become such a habit . . .
Derek stared at him, his expression suddenly unreadable. "Related," he said flatly. "This isn't funny, William. Not funny at *all*."
"I'm not joking," Sloan said, all trace of humour gone from his tone and expression. "Here, look for yourself." He keyed in some commands and the genealogy was displayed on the large screen. "The links will take you to the pertinent records in the archive -- all of this information has been carefully researched, Derek. I'm sorry -- we weren't about to take any of this as gospel without careful double-checking."
Derek looked briefly at the family tree displayed on the screen, seeing the offshoots and branches that led to places he didn't want to think about; then turned back to Sloan and shook his head slowly. "I don't need to look at it. I trust you -- and it . . . explains a few things."
He shook his head again, the cold dread now squeezing his heart and the rest of his insides, constricting his chest -- it explained a *lot* . . . "I-- verdomme!" he muttered, lapsing into his native language. Sloan gently touched his arm, and after a moment or two he calmed, knowing there was nothing he could do to change the situation. He looked at the screen again and said, "At least it doesn't seem to have happened recently . . ."
"No," Sloan agreed, "the closest relation would be distant cousins, many times removed."
"Good," Derek said stiffly, then asked, "Do *they* know?"
"I'm not sure -- although I would expect them to use the information somehow if they did," Sloan answered. "I don't know."
"So, is there anything *else* I should know about myself, William?" Derek asked with an edge to his tone.
"Not that I know," Sloan answered, knowing that Derek had every right to be upset. It was a hell of a lot to find out all at once . . .
"Great. Then I'll see if I can get any sleep tonight, and I will see you in the morning."
Sleep was as hard to attain as Derek had suspected it would be. When it did come, it was filled with dreams of disturbing visions: nothing as simple to explain away as the erotic dreams of his past, but dark things filled with images of beating wings and grasping hands; unholy light gleaming from the sepulchres he'd hidden away in the basement vault, hoping they wouldn't bother his team again; music swirling around him, pulling at him, filling him with a pleasure he knew had little to do with the heavenly choir it sounded like . . .
. . . The angels had just winged their way past him, the breeze of their passing like the heated breath of a lover on his cold skin. They were creatures of great beauty, but not the holy angels as he imagined them. Instead, they were darker somehow, expressions of lasciviousness and wanton hunger burning in their perfect faces. Now he could hear them singing, but couldn't understand the words -- only that they wanted him to follow. He took a step, knowing that he shouldn't but unable to stop himself, then another, and another; suddenly he was falling as the land dropped away below him. In the darkness that suddenly swallowed him, he could hear a velvet voice calling to him -- a voice that he had once ached to hear, that had made his heart sing whenever it was speaking of or to him. As the wind shrieked past his ears with the speed of his descent, Victor Arkadi's voice reached inside him, deep into his mind, and told him, "Fly, Derek! Fly and free yourself from the chains they have put on you!"
For an instant he tried to deny it, to shake his head and scream "No!" but nothing would come out. He had no desire to die -- there was still so much to do . . . He clung to the voice inside him as if it could hold him up by its strength alone. Suddenly there was a great tearing pain in his back, his shoulders, wrenching an agonized scream from his throat -- and suddenly he was no longer falling. Instead, the wind of the chasm buoyed him up, tickling the feathers of his wings.
Flying -- he was flying! The pleasure of it was unbelievable -- the wind caressing him and tickling him; flowing under his wings in a manner that he suddenly realized was as intimate as a lover's touch . . .
A shadow swept over him then and he looked up to see another figure fly past, a strong male body with tanned skin and dark hair; then he caught a glimpse of his own wings, beating against the wind already as he tried to catch up with the other figure. Wings with feathers as black as the darkest pits of hell . . .
. . . "NO!" he screamed, waking drenched in a cold sweat and shivering violently as his heart threatened to pound out of his chest. His bed was a wreck, pillows scattered and sheets twisted about him, some of the items on the nightstand overturned with the severity of his thrashing. He sat in his bed trying to slow his thundering pulse, afraid to look behind himself or in a mirror in case it had been more than a dream. His body finally ceased its violent shaking at about the same time there was a soft knock on the door. "Who is it?" he called unsteadily.
"Derek, it's Philip. I heard y'call out -- are y'hurt?" Philip's voice came through the thick door.
"No, Philip, I'm fine," he answered, slowly getting to his feet. He'd have to let Philip in, or the man would wake the others . . .
"Are y'sure?" Philip was asking as he opened the door. When the priest saw the wild-eyed expression he shook his head. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Derek, y'must've had a *terrible* nightmare . . . let me come in f'r a bit -- you shouldn' be alone right now."
Derek nodded, realizing the shaking was returning and recognizing it as the body's reaction after an intense burst of adrenaline wore off. Within a moment, he was shivering as Philip helped him back to his bed.
Philip wanted to ask him about his nightmare, but refrained from doing so -- if Derek wanted to tell him, he would. Instead he bundled his friend back into his bed, straightening the sheets and comforter and plumping Derek's pillows for him, tucking him in as he would a child. He sat down beside Derek and stroked his hair, murmuring soothing words. Gradually the shivers diminished and Derek began to drift off again. The last thing he said to Philip before he fell asleep confused the priest completely, but Philip was loathe to wake him again after he seemed to be calm . . .
_What on earth did y'mean by 'I would have fallen either way,' Derek? Dear God in Heaven, what was your nightmare about?_ Philip thought, continuing to stroke his hair and watch him sleep.
To be continued in part 8
Poltergeist: The Legacy is (c) 1997 MGM/UA and Trilogy Entertainment. This story is not intended to infringe on these copyrights.E:±
Any comments may be sent to:
UVAlpha@aol.com
Get your own Free Home Page