Heretics book 3 - The Apocryphile Press

:: 51 ::
THE KINGDOM :: 247
Even though he was walking through a clearing with
Jaguar, Dylan knew that his body was lying on Mikael’s bed,
and he could make use of that proximity energetically. “Jes’
a minnit, Jag,” he said, and closed his eyes, concentrating on
the body he knew was only six inches away. He reached
toward it with his mind, and sought out places of concentrated
energy. Oddly, he was drawn to Mikael’s back, and
holding onto Jaguar with one hand, he entered into it in his
mind. When he opened his eyes, he was in another place
altogether: a shabby apartment with a stained orange shag
carpet. The television was on, and Bob Barker was telling
someone to “Come on down!” Flies buzzed at the windows,
and dishes were piled high beyond the rim of the sink. Dylan
stepped over plates of wet cat food, scattering more flies, and
made his way over to the couch. The room was oppressively
hot, even though the windows were open and a generous
breeze blew through.
On the couch, apparently unconscious, was a woman in
her thirties. Dylan hovered over her—he could see a resemblance
between herself and Mikael. She was missing several
teeth, and the skin of her face was wrinkled beyond her
apparent years. A pool of what appeared to be dried vomit
had accumulated on the fabric of the couch. Dylan heard a
rustling from another room, and then a shrieking voice,
“Hold still, you little shit!”
It was an old woman’s voice, and Dylan followed it into
the bathroom.
The door was shut. He tried the knob—it was locked. He
turned to Jaguar. “I can’t get in,” he said.
“You don’t want to go in,” Jaguar countered. “To go in,
all you’ve got to do is walk through the door.”