half-finished futuristic with some magnificent aliens.” He considered her, leaning his head to one side. “I can see you in Paris, all chic and secretive.”
For some reason, a flush rose through her body to her face. She hoped her makeup hid it. He only quirked his expressive lips and turned to the computer he’d just left. His fingers flew across the keys.
“The computers,” she said, frowning. “Real or virtual?”
“Real. Well, both, I suppose, since our virtual forms can operate them.” He glanced up at her over his shoulder. “One thing you have to bear in mind. The game is an environment. A blank canvas with only the most basic of plots. You control the events by your thoughts and desires, and when you want to leave, you do. But that’s the tricky part. You have to really want to leave not just the scene you’re in but the entire game, otherwise it doesn’t work. That bit takes practice, so you’d better just tell me. Which means you’ll have to stay with me at all times. There should be a safety cutout on a time mechanism, plus a distress sensor, but they weren’t properly operational when I made this stuff, and I don’t know how far along Dale’s got with it.”
“Not very, if you’ve been here for two days,” she observed and was instantly sorry when his expression clouded. His eyelids swept down, and he turned back to the computer.
He had long, dark eyelashes that looked oddly appealing against his pale skin. “That’s different. I’ve got nowhere else to go. OK, Paris, 1942. Ready?”
“What do I do?” she asked, suddenly panicking.
“Nothing.” He straightened and came toward her. “Take my hand.”
She did, clinging to it like a lifeline as the world changed dizzyingly around her.
****
The force of the vision dropped Sera to her knees. A man’s terrified face stared up at her, contorted because someone else was ruthlessly squeezing the air out of his windpipe. Crackling flames loud in her ears, the glow of fire close to the dying man’s head. A log fire.
It vanished as quickly as it had come, and Sera knelt, panting on the hard hearth of the Ewans’ sitting room.
Fuck.
A man had died here, deliberately murdered. And it was on this spot at the hearth. Touching it with her foot had brought the vision; falling to her hands and knees had intensified it for the instant it lasted.
Sera rose shakily to her feet. Violent visions never got easier to bear, but she had a job to do.
“Well,” she muttered, gazing around her. “No wonder you’re pissed off. Someone killed you, right here. Tell me all about it.”
She stood by the hearth where he’d died and closed her eyes, concentrating on her memory of the vision, of the dying man—youngish, wild-eyed, unkempt brown hair. Presumably Genesis Adam, although she tried to avoid thinking the name, just held on to the feel of the vision, to the cool fringes that hung in the air like the echo of the angry spirit, and called to it.
Without warning, a gust of air hurled her hair back from her face. She had to hold on to the mantelpiece to avoid staggering backward.
“Be easy,” Sera told it, sending calming, soothing vibes. “I’ll find who did this to you. I’ll make sure he’s punished. It’s not your concern now. I’ll do it.”
Something moved above her head. She only just managed to leap out of the way as the framed original art crashed to the floor where she’d been standing.
No wonder there was no “stuff” in the house. The bloody poltergeist kept trashing it.
“You have to go,” she said firmly and began imposing herself upon it, pressing into its essence, forcing it apart.
Then the door crashed shut, and her mind was left clutching nothing.
She might have imagined it had gone, except she could hear doors banging all over the house.
“Stand still , you bloody awkward…” No, no point, in being angry with it. It would bury her. Taking a deep breath, she followed it.
****
Jilly dangled
For some reason, a flush rose through her body to her face. She hoped her makeup hid it. He only quirked his expressive lips and turned to the computer he’d just left. His fingers flew across the keys.
“The computers,” she said, frowning. “Real or virtual?”
“Real. Well, both, I suppose, since our virtual forms can operate them.” He glanced up at her over his shoulder. “One thing you have to bear in mind. The game is an environment. A blank canvas with only the most basic of plots. You control the events by your thoughts and desires, and when you want to leave, you do. But that’s the tricky part. You have to really want to leave not just the scene you’re in but the entire game, otherwise it doesn’t work. That bit takes practice, so you’d better just tell me. Which means you’ll have to stay with me at all times. There should be a safety cutout on a time mechanism, plus a distress sensor, but they weren’t properly operational when I made this stuff, and I don’t know how far along Dale’s got with it.”
“Not very, if you’ve been here for two days,” she observed and was instantly sorry when his expression clouded. His eyelids swept down, and he turned back to the computer.
He had long, dark eyelashes that looked oddly appealing against his pale skin. “That’s different. I’ve got nowhere else to go. OK, Paris, 1942. Ready?”
“What do I do?” she asked, suddenly panicking.
“Nothing.” He straightened and came toward her. “Take my hand.”
She did, clinging to it like a lifeline as the world changed dizzyingly around her.
****
The force of the vision dropped Sera to her knees. A man’s terrified face stared up at her, contorted because someone else was ruthlessly squeezing the air out of his windpipe. Crackling flames loud in her ears, the glow of fire close to the dying man’s head. A log fire.
It vanished as quickly as it had come, and Sera knelt, panting on the hard hearth of the Ewans’ sitting room.
Fuck.
A man had died here, deliberately murdered. And it was on this spot at the hearth. Touching it with her foot had brought the vision; falling to her hands and knees had intensified it for the instant it lasted.
Sera rose shakily to her feet. Violent visions never got easier to bear, but she had a job to do.
“Well,” she muttered, gazing around her. “No wonder you’re pissed off. Someone killed you, right here. Tell me all about it.”
She stood by the hearth where he’d died and closed her eyes, concentrating on her memory of the vision, of the dying man—youngish, wild-eyed, unkempt brown hair. Presumably Genesis Adam, although she tried to avoid thinking the name, just held on to the feel of the vision, to the cool fringes that hung in the air like the echo of the angry spirit, and called to it.
Without warning, a gust of air hurled her hair back from her face. She had to hold on to the mantelpiece to avoid staggering backward.
“Be easy,” Sera told it, sending calming, soothing vibes. “I’ll find who did this to you. I’ll make sure he’s punished. It’s not your concern now. I’ll do it.”
Something moved above her head. She only just managed to leap out of the way as the framed original art crashed to the floor where she’d been standing.
No wonder there was no “stuff” in the house. The bloody poltergeist kept trashing it.
“You have to go,” she said firmly and began imposing herself upon it, pressing into its essence, forcing it apart.
Then the door crashed shut, and her mind was left clutching nothing.
She might have imagined it had gone, except she could hear doors banging all over the house.
“Stand still , you bloody awkward…” No, no point, in being angry with it. It would bury her. Taking a deep breath, she followed it.
****
Jilly dangled
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