Part 10: Baiting the Demon
The fine white grains of sand were soft under his knees and sneakily found their way into his socks. Chris sighed, deciding he was spending far too much time in a less than fully upright position. As much as he'd like to cut himself some slack and perhaps indulge in a little restful sunbathing, enjoying a more relaxing slow death under the warming rays of the mock-Mediterranean sun, the threat the Nightmare demon posed to Wyatt wouldn't let him to do that. And, besides, there was a werewolf chasing him.
A throaty growl from the grisly creature sounded all too close, and sent Chris scrabbling back to his feet. Sand wasn't the ideal thing to run on at the best of times, but a whiff of unwashed dog combined with dried blood was a good motivator.
The burning in his raw throat and overworked lungs was worse than the agony in his abdomen, though that was largely due to the drifty numbness in that region... Chris came to a halt. It was without warning, as sudden as though he had just come to the edge of an abyss. However, in front of him the pale sandy beach stretched on, waves lapping at it from the calm turquoise sea on one side and on the other side palm trees stepped down from the cliffside to sand.
Yet Chris could see the abyss in his mind. Oblivion. It wasn't a spatial thing; it was a temporal thing. His own doom was fast approaching and he was damned if he was going to let himself spend his remaining time running away. The time for caution had passed – it was too late for that.
Chris Halliwell wanted to go out fighting.
He spun around on his heel, surprisingly graceful. Self-sacrifice gave him a kind of majesty, the symptoms of desperation bowing before it. Boldness added colour to his ashen cheeks and the sparkle of challenge was unmistakable in his eyes. The slanting curve of his bluish lips brightened them with mischievousness, which carried the message that if he acted the fool, he was well aware of it and didn't give a damn.
The werewolf came to a staggering stop. Narrowed black eyes regarded Chris suspiciously, a low growl rumbling in the creature's throat.
Chris stood his ground, locking his gaze with the flesh-lusting stare of the werewolf.
It was the light of a midday sun that beamed down on the shaggy unnatural mix of man and wolf, which looked exactly like the creature from a film Chris had seen once and not so much like the yellow-eyed wendigo written about in the Book of Shadows. All was testimony to the Nightmare demon's growing power.
It was only a matter of time before the demon was strong enough – or rather, Chris was weak enough – for him to reach into Chris's mind and pluck out the secret of his identity. What the Nightmare demon would do with such knowledge, Chris scarcely dared to consider. As Wyatt's brother he would be seen as a much greater threat that must be eliminated at once, or possibly as an asset to a wider plan that could have him used against the Charmed Ones. Not to mention that the dreamscapes would undoubtedly be…devastating.
For now Chris had the bizarre dreamscape of a werewolf on a beach to contend with.
The creature was uncomfortable having its stare matched and finally snapped, its tempted hunger becoming too much to bear. Chris telekinetically threw it backwards as it ran at him. It jumped straight back up and Chris threw it straight back down. The scenario played out like that a few more times, before Chris grew bored and orbed the werewolf out into the sea.
Chris turned his back on the fabricated Mediterranean waves and headed for the shade of the equally fabricated palm trees, knowing it would take at least an hour for the tiny bobbing dot to swim to shore. The Nightmare demon could, of course, send another fabricated werewolf after him, but he doubted he would. Instead he suspected something nastier would meet him in the trees.
However, he was mistaken. No sooner had he stepped out of the sun and under the palm leaves, than the sand was torn away and replaced with flagstones.
Before Chris's senses could fully grasp hold of the busy old-fashioned kitchen, the smooth stone floor was gone. The double assault on his senses sent them reeling, and Chris queasily swayed on the neatly trimmed lawn beside the little table with its prim white cloth. He was surprised to find that the Nightmare demon wasn't in view, his wicker chair empty.
"I changed my mind." The smooth words came from behind Chris and were accompanied by something sharp pricking him between the shoulder blades.
Chris turned slowly, the weapon marginally retreating to allow him the movement. He found himself facing the Nightmare demon, who stood pompously poised with a hand on a jutted hip and a gleaming sabre pointed at Chris's chest. The blade hovered inches above his heart.
"I could kill you where you stand," the demon said with a velvety quality to his voice. Then he smiled, slyly. "But I won't."
The Nightmare demon stepped back and began masterfully swinging the sword in graceful arcs, his eyes locked onto Chris to watch his reaction to the movements of the impressive blade.
Quietly Chris watched the large sabre, as it flashed in the sun and whistled through the air. A sly smile of his own crept up to join the look of unconcern on his face.
"Compensating for something?"
He'd said that to Wyatt once and Excalibur had nearly taken his head clean off his shoulders.
The Nightmare demon's upper lip curled and he went for him too. However, the lunge was wild and clumsy – there wasn't any need to orb, a simple step back took Chris out of danger.
As the demon stumbled on his immaculate lawn, Chris orbed the sword out of his hand and into his own.
In a truly ungraceful position, rear in the air, manicured hand in the grass and dark foppish hair in his eyes, the Nightmare demon glared at Chris with a blazing, truly demoniclook. An unbecoming snarl came from between his bared teeth.
The ground shifted beneath Chris, the sabre vanished from his hand and the grounds of the manor house became an old library.
Table lamps warmed their immediate surroundings, but didn't reach the distant ceiling, leaving the tops of the tall, heavy bookcases hidden in fathomless gloom. Leather-bound books filled the shelves, the gold and silver lettering on their spines proclaiming them all as books relating the myths and psychology of dreams and sleep.
"The library of a Sandman's apprentice," Chris muttered, gazing up at the imposing bookcases.
As you say.
"Get set much homework?"
The Nightmare demon replied with a disembodied grunt of contempt.
Chris squeezed past a little wooden table, slowly beginning to make his way down the narrow isle formed by the bookcases that reared up on either side.
"You do know that Sandmen don't kill their dreamers, right?"
A sinister, amused laugh echoed down the isle.
I'm not one for the copycat routine. Besides, Vir de Somnio's drab robes are really not my style. And I'm certainly not going to have wrinkles. Ever.
"Thinking of a change in career plan, then?"
I think this one is working out quite well, don't you?
"Depends on how you look at it."
The Nightmare demon laughed again. Indeed.
"You know," Chris said, conversationally, as he squeezed past another table, "in all this time we've spent together, you've never told me your name."
The demon made no answer.
"Oh, come on!" Chris cried, tauntingly. "What, is it embarrassing? Or perhaps something too ordinary to give justice to your arrogant splendour?"
You try my patience, foolish child.
"Or perhaps it's that you don't have one," Chris continued, and grinned mischievously.
There was a deafening boom.
In front of him, the bookcases exploded into the isle.
The blast knocked Chris back against a table. Ripped paper and splinted wood rained down on him.
As the last torn page fluttered down to the rubble, he looked up to see that there was now a large, ragged gap in the bookcase on either side, offering walkways into the isles running parallel to the one he was in.
"I think I hit a nerve," Chris murmured, breathless.
A pained creaking sound rapidly increased in volume. Then came a loud crash, which sent vibrations through the floor and a blast of air against his back.
Chris turned in time to see two bookcases fall inwards onto the wreckage of two others, a loud crash reverberating through the library again.
The fallen bookcases were a safe distance away from him, however, as he watched, the bookcases next to them trembled and then fell. These were followed by the next pair. And the next. The gap between the falling bookcases and the spot where Chris stood was rapidly reducing.
Fear jerked Chris forward, taking him stumbling over the rubble in front of him and running along the isle away from the falling bookcases.
He fled, but the crashing sounds were catching up.
Dust filled the air. Darkness was forming like a cloud, as the table lamps were smashed one by one.
Chris came to a right-angled turn in the isle and swerved around the corner.
Then he stopped, stunned.
There was a stone floor beneath his feet and up ahead a torch burnt and spat in a holder fixed to the damp wall. A chill pierced through the gloomy corridor.
He was back in the castle.
Chris spun around and found himself facing more gloomy corridor.
The dreamscapes had merged seamlessly.
Numbly, Chris walked towards the torch. His eyes drifted down to the floor and locked onto a dark, wet stain.
The Nightmare demon's power continued to grow. Chris didn't have much time left. And not just for that reason.
His ailing body was not easily paying off the toll of running for his life through the library, if the light-headedness he was experiencing was anything to go by.
He wasn't strong enough to defeat the Nightmare demon. He could only hope Wyatt would have more luck.
A rustle of silk reached him.
Chris turned and telekinetically grabbed hold of the damsel's throat. He began to choke the startled girl.
Clutching at her throat, she stumbled forward towards him, tripping on the skirts of her cream dress.
Chris's face was lined with strain. He couldn't hold her much longer.
The girl was panicking, but her gaze was steady.
Chris's magical grip failed. Exhausted, he fell to his knees in a half-faint.
The damsel gasped for breath and glared at Chris angrily, as she rubbed her neck. Then she slipped a hand into the folds of her skirts and withdrew the jewel-encrusted dagger. Stealthily, she approached Chris's slumped form.
Suddenly Chris snapped his head up, and magically knocked the girl backwards.
The telekinetic hit hadn't been able to send her to the floor, but it had unbalanced her enough for the dagger to fall from her hand.
Chris reached forward and grabbed it from where it had fallen. He slowly got to his feet, the girl watching him warily.
"Are you going to be a good little girl and run away? Or do I have to kill you?" Chris was breathily heavily, but he held the dagger with a steady hand.
The damsel tilted her head back defiantly.
"Do your worst," she spat.
Chris took a deep breath and then brought up his empty hand, telekinetically pushing her against the wall. Holding her there, he threw the dagger.
Then Chris turned his back on the corpse and walked hurriedly away. There was a dark shadow in his eyes and a grim line to his pale lips. He was sick of the Nightmare demon's fabrications.
Heavy, clanging footsteps came up the corridor from around the corner.
Dread leached the remaining flickers of colour from Chris's face.
He distinctly didn't like the demon being in control of which dreamscape he was in.
Chris began to run.
Paige sat down heavily in a chair beside the bed Chris lay sleeping on. Only she wasn't so sure his state could be described as sleep.
The young man was ghostly white and curled up in the fetal position, his face lined with pain. His breathing was worryingly fast and shallow.
With a weary sigh, she reached over and gently took his hand in hers. His skin was cold and clammy.
Phoebe was sat on the end of the bed, staring intently at Chris, as she tried to read his emotions and discern what might be going on where he was. She raised the fresh mug of coffee, which Paige had just handed her, to her lips. Anxiety made the caffeine redundant, but she found something comforting in the warmth of the drink.
Next to Wyatt's cot, Piper leaned against Leo. The Book of Shadows was open on top of the cabinet next to her, and she was idly turning the pages, her gaze aimed at Chris, but unfocused. Guilt and worry were written clearly across her features.
Leo held Piper close, looking washed-out and regretful. His medical knowledge and Elder powers told him exactly what injuries Chris had, but he was powerless to do anything to help. Magic could do nothing and the bandages they had wrapped around the bleeding wound didn't seem to have much of an effect – whatever plane Chris's mind was in was controlling the damage and the treatment. Not that there appeared to be much of the latter going on.
Chris was not doing so hot in the Nightmare world.
In fact, he was on Death's doorstep.
Chris groaned as he rolled over onto his back, sharp edges poking him from inside his chest informing him of several broken ribs.
He had just fallen out of a castle window. Luckily, it had only been a first floor window and the drenched grassy hill was relatively spongy.
Coughing, fluid filled his throat and came out onto his hand as a little puddle of crimson. Oh dear. Not good.
However, it didn't matter. A grin that only had a tenuous hold on sanity stretched across Chris's ashen face. He had worked out how to vanquish the Nightmare demon.
Then the grin slipped from Chris's face, as a dark shadow fell over him. It was the shadow of a huge mace, joined to the shape of an even bigger knight in full armour.
Piper stared transfixed at the flecks of crimson on Chris's pale lips.
Then he began coughing again.
Red fluid pooled over his lips. Swiftly Paige grabbed hold of him, tipping his head so he wouldn't choke.
Suddenly, the jingly sound of orbs drew the attention of all three sisters and Leo to Wyatt's cot.
Piper turned just in time to see her sleeping son disappear in a shower of blue-white light.
Aghast, she stared at the empty crib.
To Be Continued...