The Woman Who Never Was free porn video

The Mantra characters are copyrighted by Marvel, Inc. Opening quotes are taken from the works of Sir Walter Scott. THE WOMAN WHO NEVER WAS By Aladdin Chapter One REFLECTIONS "Could yet the fair reflection view, In the bright mirror pictured true, And not one dimple on her cheek A tell-tale consciousness bespeak? --" For the thousandth time I saw despair in those cobalt blue eyes. How well I knew her feelings and why she felt such pain. I could say or do nothing to help her, so I turned away from the mirror. If I had been weaker man than I was, I could not have held back the tears that tried to fight their way down my cheeks. But I refuse to weep. I have wept before, but that was always for the tragedies of others. Never for myself. If I should ever give into tears for my own plight, I am lost. ~Buck up, Lukasz! If it took no more than sorrow to kill you, you would have been dead long ago.~ I looked up at the star-studded sky. This side of Vahdalan asteroid was rotating away from the twin suns at the center of the Godwheel and was fast falling into twilight. Beholding the desolation of the dead city, I was hard to remember that its structures had been built many thousands of years go by beings who, while they lived, had dared to believe themselves immortal. ~But they were only as immortal as the dust.~ Had these superior ones realized that they were like me, the helpless pawns of unrelenting Time, Time that slays all things and makes mockery of godhood? Had gone despairing into the darkness as mortals do, or did their long-delayed negation afford them only relief? How inevitable their passing now seems in retrospect. Nothing endures forever except Death. Death is the Wild Hunter. He may be evaded for a span, but his nets at last snare one and all. Vahdala brings home to me the fact, even more than did the deaths of my patron and comrades, that no one wins the game forever. I know that I shall not either, not for much longer. But if life means only emptiness and loneliness, why should I feel to be lost in the void? It was but a short while ago that I counted myself happy! Poor fool. For a fleeting instant my beloved Eden Blake and had I stood side-by- side; the gods who once had held sway here were dead, but so alive were we that it did not occur to us to pity them. Joy makes one forgetful. But while happiness is brief, sorrow lasts an eternity. How could we have believed that our fragile happiness could endure, that the trials that had kept us apart until then were at last at an end? How besotted and forgetful we were! How many times must I relearn the lesson that though it is hard to achieve one's hopes, they can be can be struck dead in but an instant. Eden, does your soul at least still live? Are you looking down at me and remembering our love with a tenderness that shall last for eons? I have died a thousand times, and not as the coward dies them, but if I could but believe that I might join you where life never ends, where happiness never ends, I would be sorely tempted to make my next death the final one. ~You grieve too much, Lukasz. It will drive you mad.~ I finally sink back against a wall, each labored breath drawn only with pain. Vahdala's atmosphere is thin and it had been slowly starving Eden's for air from the instant of my arrival. By means of magic I could free oxygen from the adamantine stones beneath my booted feet, but I feel weary, so weary, and the need to draw breath matters but little. If I died here and now, unwept and unburied, who would be left to grieve, now that Eden is gone? ~No, that's wrong. It is Lukasz that no one knows. Should Eden Blake never returned, innocent hearts would break.~ ~Enough of this brooding,~ I thought. I would be betraying Eden if I let her children wake up to an empty house wondering why their mother wasn't clattering around the kitchen, why the smell of oatmeal didn't fill the morning air. I could not bear the thought of them watching the electric clock slowly extinguishing the long minutes while they listened for the rattle of the latch, a rattle they would never hear again. ~If I must give up the ghost, let me not do it willingly as long as it will bring sorrow to the innocent.~ I could no more that was useful here on this forlorn outpost in space. It was time to go --back to the only real home I have known since in more than a thousand years, to the only family I have known since then, to that little, non-descript, well-mortgaged ranch house in Canoga Park, California. I focused upon my magic, fighting against my breathless fatigue while drawing power from the mystical springs that well deep inside this body, this body that Eden Blake had made her dying gift to me. Had I waited too long? Was dead Vahdala unable to channel me the vitality I needed to work the Magic of Life? Perhaps it was not. Once more I felt the manna flowing, like the heat of my own blood, felt its energizing tendrils spreading through every fiber of my being, making what had grown cold feel warm again, if only for a moment. . . . ~Focus, Lukasz, focus.~ ~It was coming!~ Before my dazzled eyes I saw a cascading fountain of light. It was the Gate, the pathway between worlds. I gave an incoherent cry, born of despair and of exultation, and plunged into its dazzling currents. The vortex would carry me across the vast gulfs of dimensional space, but even as the flow took me, I could not forget how alone I was and would forever be. It's not good to be alone. It could have been different. ~If only Eden had not died,~ I found myself wishing. If only this Gate could lead me back not to the grief I could not escape even here, but to a time and a place where she was still alive. ~To have Eden back again, I would I would give my very.... ~ *** The wormhole --if that's what it is --suddenly flared out and my heels slammed into ~terra firma.~ I staggered with the impetus of my forward leap and fell to my weakened knees. Leaping space and time always leaves me dazed, used up, and temporarily night-blinded. For a moment I crouched on alert, in case I would need my heavily-sapped powers to defend myself, but gradually my eyes adjusted and I could see that I had returned to the same empty lot from whence I had launched myself to Vahdala. I was home -- ~almost.~ The cool night breeze penetrated my thin garments. I stood up with a yawn and an involuntary shiver and then started walking, unsteadily at first. I glanced warily about as I attained the weed-overgrown sidewalk, alert to the approach of any possible enemy, anything larger than a cat or a squirrel. How the sense of life-currents revived me! How different this place was from the dead city of the gods! In a moment I had drawn in enough power to flash into my civilian clothes. But that was all I could do magically. I was too tired to fly, and it would not be well for people to see Mantra walking in Eden Blake's neighborhood. So far, I had successfully protected my assumed identity, but if people should ever stop to think, they would realize that Eden Blake is of the same size, shape, and coloring as Mantra. It would take no genius to put two and two together. ~Some peopled do know the truth, alas. Perhaps too many.~ There were my allies Warstrike and Pinnacle. On the enemy side, there was Necromantra and Kismet, though I believed that the latter two were dead. Evie Blake, too, knew that her mother is an imposter, though I'd kept Eden's mother and son in the dark. I didn't see any point in breaking a mother's heart with the news that her daughter is dead. And I certainly couldn't level with Gus. The Bart Simpson of Canoga Park would immediately blackmail Mantra for a new Sega system -- and that would only be the beginning of a lifetime of shakedown! It may have been a mistake to let Evie know the truth, but she had asked me about it directly and I couldn't bring myself to lie. Was it asking too much of a girl of tender years to protect such a huge secret, even from her own brother? And what choice did I have now but to burden her with my trust? If I gave up Eden Blake's identity I'd have nothing left to cling to, nothing to build a life from. I would have to leave the Blake house to protect those who lived there and create an entirely new identity. It would be an empty, false, friendless life, but it would be all that I had left. I will not go that route unless I have to. As long as I believe I can give back a little of what I took from the Blake family, I cannot abandon them to bereavement. I'd walked a long way under the cloud of my gloomy thoughts, and before I knew it, I was home. *** I made my way along the edge of the swimming pool. Absent-mindedly, I tried to go phantom and walk through the door. I bumped square into it, still too tired to work major magic. Having fumbled the key out of my jeans pocket, I unlocked the door and stepped into the kitchen, still a bit rattled and hardly able to see the outlines of the sink and cabinets. Fortunately, I was by now familiar enough with the layout of the house to have walked it with both eyes closed. So why did I immediately bang my hip upon a chair and stumble over a throw rug that shouldn't be there? Someone had rearranged the furniture that night! Like any parent, I automatically assumed that the kids were guilty. Woolly-headed with fatigue, I'd forgotten that both of my crumbcrushers had gone to bed even before I'd lit out for Vahdala. I felt my way by groping hand into the living room and into the hall behind. Evie's door is next to mine and as I passed it, some strange magnetism seemed to tug at me. How odd. Before becoming a mother -- if that's what I am -- I'd never had much to do with children. So why did I feel an impulse to tiptoe into a little girl's room and there kiss her cheek without waking her? I shook my head, and held my hand back from the doorknob. As out of sorts as I was, I'd probably fall across her bed. Let Evie enjoy her slumber; parental smooching would best be saved until the tyke came down for breakfast. That got me to thinking drowsily about her eleven-year-old brother. I'd be smart to cut Gus in on the mushy stuff, too. All the child-rearing books say that little boys need the physical demonstration of parental affection to keep them from growing up to become drive-by shooters. Anyway, a criminal record would prevent the lad from becoming the fireman he wanted to be. I gritted my teeth at the decision I'd made. Kissing surly little boys doesn't recommend itself naturally to me, considering my background. Worse, whenever I've tried it in the past, Dennis the Menace has always acted like I was inflicting a public humiliation. Funny thing. I'd always liked to be kissed by my own mother -- as long as no one was watching. When I became older and bitterer, I think the memory of those kisses saved a few lives that I otherwise might have taken. With a yawn, I took my doorknob in hand and turned it with a tired, faltering grip. ~A funny way to start a nerve-wracking adventure, but sometimes one doesn't get a choice.~ * * * * Chapter Two KISMET "The Living Dead, whose sober brow Oft shrouds such thoughts as thou hast now, Whose hearts within are seldom cured Of passions by their vows abjured. . . ." No sooner had I limped into my dark bedroom than an amalgamation of scents -- perfume, cologne, and bath lotion -- assailed my nostrils. All these smells were out-of-place, but it was the moans of someone's disturbed slumber that drew me up short. Someone was sleeping in my bed! Evie? Gus? Absolutely not! The sighing that disturbed the darkness was heavy and masculine. Was I so fatigued that I had blundered into the wrong house? A faux pas like that would explain the odors -- but no, I was dead sure that it was my kitchen and living room downstairs, despite the near darkness. I knew then that I'd walked in on an intruder! Were the kids all right?! Alarmed because I was so depleted, I cast a blue-white beam into the sleeper's face, which would blind him and give me a chance to dodge if I didn't like what I saw. What I saw made me gasp and then bridle; instead of a stranger I saw my -- Eden's -- ex-husband, August Blake, sitting up under the covers. What in hell was the big stiff doing in my bed? Before I could utter my first syllable of rebuke, a second sleeper let out a bleary groan and rolled languidly toward her bedmate. It was her, not him, who reduced me to open-mouthed staring. "Gus, is that you?" Mr. Blake growled in my direction. "Turn off that light, for Pete's sake, and go to bed!" "Gus? What is it?" the female murmured. Astonished, I dosed the light, went phantasmal. I summoned magic enough from some adrenaline-charged reserve to shoot up through the ceiling. I set myself down in the maple tree outside, still disbelieving what I'd seen: August Blake had been lying side by side with his ex-wife ~Eden!~ *** From my eyrie, I kept a close watch on my bedroom window as the light went on and then off again. I had by now gathered my wits sufficiently to explain a situation which was otherwise impossible. Last summer, I'd gotten sick and tired of living Eden Blake's life and so had announced to the family that I was leaving and never coming back. Evie, believing that I was her real mom, had gotten mad and told me that she never wanted to see me again. But once I was actually gone she had felt sorry for her outburst and gone to a magic shop to find a spell to make me come home. The kindly proprietress had taken her pennies and given her a charm supposedly possessing the power to summon back a loved one. It really was magical, but magic is always chaotic stuff -- and in the hands of a child it's pure dynamite. Somehow her "come-home" wish missed me and materialized the Archimage's spiritual construct, Kismet, one of my -- one of Mantra's -- earliest enemies. By the time I realized that I didn't have any place to go and returned home, I discovered that Kismet had taken my shape and was impersonating me -- that is, impersonating Eden Blake. She had even inveigled my ex -- ~Eden's ex~ -- to agree to a hasty remarriage. I only just managed to get the better of Kismet and stop the marriage. I'd supposed that I'd finished off Kismet once and for all -- but here she was again! It had to be Kismet; who else used the same M.O.? Whatever the twisted minx's intentions might be this time, her instincts were always homicidal -- at least toward me. Worse, Gus and the kids had again become her unwitting hostages. So what could I do? ~Wait until morning,~ I decided; if Kismet were playing it coy like last time, she'd be acting like a benign housewife, letting the kids go out and play while big Gus shuffled off by himself until supper time. That would leave me with a window of opportunity to confront her. On the downside, my plan called for hours of inactivity -- a lot of time to mark when one is falling- down exhausted and worried about his family at the tender mercies of a monster. A motel would have been the easy answer, except that I'd "left home without it." ~Live and learn, Lukasz!~ I swore that from here on I was going to carry a credit card tucked away in what I've been calling my "mystical closet," that place wherein my change of clothing hides out. Unfortunately, for the moment, I had to deal with being broke and on the street. Where was I going to stay? Even at half strength, my powers of stealth would surely have turned any housebreaker green with envy. But even if I was not so used up, crime doesn't square with me. I've killed many enemies -- even as Mantra -- but I won't steal. I loved Eden Blake too much to make her a common thief, even if it's too late to keep her from dirtying her hands with blood. My best bet was to crash with a buddy -- preferably some friend able to help me put the kibosh on Kismet. It would be better to clobber my enemy with overwhelming force rather than risk a knock-down, drag-out fight at the expense of my house and innocent bystanders. At the top of the list of people I could touch there stood Warstrike, but Brandon had suffered some kind of breakdown on the Godwheel last December and had gone off on an extended cruise for recuperation. Likewise, Wrath, another ultra who owed me, had retired into obscurity with his new wife, Kristen and I didn't have his address. Prime was out, too; Kevin Green was just a kid and short of calling him in to save my life, I wanted to keep him out of trouble. There were the other members of the UltraForce, of course, and also the Strangers, but I really didn't know any of them very well. What's more, calling in such heavy artillery to extirpate a second-rate magical hologram had to hurt my professional reputation as an ultra. Even more important, how could I explain Kismet's connection with Eden Blake, and what Eden Blake meant to me? Who else? Pinnacle was a pal, but I already owed her a lot. I first met her as the mind-controlled bimbo secretary of a corporate tyrant, but since then I'd learned that she had a thing for guys in girls' bodies. I just wasn't emotionally strong enough that night to face up to her outr, kinks. So, by a process of elimination, I scraped the bottom of the barrel and found Edgar Strauss squatting way down deep. *** Too antsy to bide my time out on a tree limb, I started walking toward downtown L.A., and hoping that some of my powers would be back by the time I reached the freeway. I managed to flash back into my ultra outfit and launch myself in a wobbly flight after about a half hour. My goal, the brownstone Conjuror's Club, was not only Strauss' place of business, but also his residence. For that reason he always maintained magical defenses around it, visible only to a wizard like myself -- threads and tendrils of energy crawling and coiling repulsively across the brickwork. The net they formed looked formidable, but Strauss was strictly a third-rate sorcerer. To date, a simple Mantra spell had never failed to quell his best efforts. My relationship with Edgar Strauss has always been a complex one and for that reason I'm always wary when I approach him. Exerting myself to the utmost, I went phantasmal and sailed through the glass and brickwork, not stopping until I reached his bedroom, where --channeling my feeble power into an invisible shield against sudden attack -- I filled the darkened space with a soft white glow, to let me see where he was, and vice versa. The sleeping Strauss turned over on his side but continued to snore. I shook my head; it was lucky for him that it was only me breaking in and not one of his enemies -- of which he probably had a thousand. "Strauss!" I exclaimed sharply. "Get up!" The sandy-haired man snapped awake. "I'm sorry to burst in this way," I apologized, "but I need a place to stay tonight." Startled, Strauss demanded: "Who are you?!" I set my fists akimbo. "Wake up, damn it! Who do you think I am? How many other women go knocking around Southern California in a Little Blue Riding Hood cowl and a nutty rock-video outfit?" The hint seemed totally lost on my would-be host. "I don't know you," he said. "How can I? You're wearing a mask!" What? This exchange was rapidly getting exasperating! "Of course I'm wearing a mask, meathead! You've never seen me without a mask before, and you never will. What's wrong with your noodle?" He just gaped at me. "If I didn't know better," I said, "I'd say you've gone brain-dead from one of those magical rituals amateurs shouldn't mess with." "That mask --," he was mumbling, "-- it's the one they stole from me back last year!" Now it was my turn to be confused; what did he mean by "they?" I had "stolen" the mask myself -- and he very well knew it! "We settled this a long time ago," I reminded the wizard. "Why are you suddenly going on about the mask again?" He grimaced. "You must be with those thieves. Was it you who sent them after it?" The question was absolutely crazy! Strauss seemed delusional. "Edgar," I enunciated very carefully, "you have to know that it didn't happen that way!" The bemused merchant of magic swung his legs out of bed and sat up. "What else should I think -- Miss? Thugs in circus outfits stole the mask in front of a hundred witnesses and now you've got it. What did you come after this time?" Miss? He'd never called me that before. I don't much like being called a "miss" and Edgar Strauss knew better than to be disrespectful to Mantra. But that look in his eye -- complete and earnest bafflement. It had to mean something. "Why are you acting like you don't know me?" I asked sternly. "Because I don't! Where did I meet you?" "I'm Mantra!" He shook his head. "I never heard of any `Mantra'. That sounds like a name one of those ultra-hero would come up with. Excuse me; in your case I should have said `heroine.'" I distinctly preferred `hero,' but let it pass. Had I fallen down a rabbit hole? There was no reason for Strauss to pretend that he didn't know Mantra, so what was going on? Was it all part of some larger scheme? Strauss suddenly didn't know me on the same night that Gus and some Eden Blake ringer were sharing a bed. I had a ticket to ride, but no clue where the engine was heading. A terrible thought struck me. What if I had somehow suffered an accidental time-slip en route from Vahdala, one which had sent me back to the days when Eden Blake was still alive? That would explain why Strauss didn't know me; we hadn't met yet. But no, that explanation didn't play; Strauss had referred to 'last year' as the time frame in which the mask was stolen. It had been a tab over a year ago. "What's the date?" I asked, just to be on the safe side. My forgetful ally returned another odd look. "April 18th, or the 19th -- if it's after midnight." "I mean, what's the year?!" "The year?" "That's what I said!" He answered slowly, tonelessly, like someone humoring the neighborhood axe-murderer. The date he gave meshed, so there had been no time-slip. Was Strauss simply suffering a lapse of memory? Could there be something more sinister underlying his behavior? Mentally and physically used up, I needed time to rest and mull things over -- but couldn't stay at the Conjuror's Club now that Strauss had suddenly become a stranger. I mean, he was always risky enough to trust even when I considered him an ally. "I may be seeing you again later, E.G.," I said, "but I've got something to do first." Then, backing away, I turned phantasmal and leaped like a high-diver through the outside wall; three seconds later I was streaking through the nighttime sky -- to no place in particular. *** What precisely had happened between my visit to Vahdala and my return home? What had that bizarre interview with the bargain-basement sorcerer been all about? Was Strauss the only one suffering from a memory gap? Had anyone else forgotten Mantra? I'd learned to expect the unexpected whenever sorcery is concerned. Previously I hadn't questioned the theory that my identity had been usurped by Kismet -- but now I wasn't so sure. All this strangeness, whatever its source, had become bafflingly complex. Would Pinnacle or the Strangers still remember me, or would it be like with Strauss all over again? The idea of being shut out of my own home, of friends talking to me as if they'd never set eyes on me before, was confounding. I had to find a safe place to rest and clear my head, but where could I go with barely any power and no money? I started to think about sneaking into an empty hotel room, but then remembered that I carried my own hotel around with me! I laboriously levitated to the summit of a tall building, therefore, and tied my cloak securely to a lightning rod, strengthening the knot with magic. That done, I dove headfirst into the cape's billowing folds, where Never Never Land was hidden. My cloak is more than a garment, even more than magical armor; it's the gateway to a pocket-universe created long ago, or at least discovered and appropriated, by my former master, Archimage. It's actually just an envelope of nothingness -- except for a deserted castle that houses the master mage's library and artifact collection. I can't conceive of how it was built in such a place or transported in from elsewhere, buy the Arch was good at what he did. Since discovering the place last winter I hadn't exactly decided what the deuce it was good for. Its Late Medieval layout, by the way, didn't look strange to me; I'd gotten used to castles when they were still the rage in architectural innovation. Cloakless, I spiraled down into a small courtyard and stumbled wearily into the chateau through an open door. Among its dozens of rooms I soon located a few furnished bed chambers, no doubt belonging to the officers of the small cadre of guards that Archimage used to maintain here. One of these I took for my own. Unable to sleep in my metal teddy -- or "titanium thong," as I unfondly call it -- I blinked back to my street garb. This I stripped off in turn, and then slipped wearily beneath the covers. No rest for the wicked! I'd forgotten a lot since 1600 A.D. -- like just how sneezy and itchy medieval bedclothes could be -- and Eden's body is cursed with sensitive skin. So, kicking off my vile woolen blanket, I drew upon my magic to warm the chamber sufficiently for sleeping. That much I could manage. *** Despite everything, I soon dropped off and awakened hours later, feeling at least two-hundred percent stronger. Having eaten supper with little Gus and Evie the night before, I wasn't too hungry as yet, but didn't have a clue as to where my next lunch would be coming from --especially given my hero's code no to steal apples from street venders! How exactly was I going to reclaim my home? For the next hour I paced around the castle's chambers and corridors, trying to sort things out. To coin an axiom, nothing in, nothing out. How could I form a plan of action on the basis of no information whatsoever? While thus listlessly exploring the maze-like edifice, I found many different types of weapons and suits of armor on display, most of them standing about in magical suspension, as if worn by invisible men -- and women. In one chamber, in fact, the armor was all female -- and the sparing cut of much of it made me grateful that Mantra's aureate maillot covered me up as much as it did! I wondered who the Arch had taken these suites from, or whom he intended to give them to. What I didn't know about how that man's mind work would have filled an encyclopedia. The last part of my hour of wandering found me in the library where I poured distractedly over a few of Archimage's arcane grimoires. As I have said, I'm still a novice where magic is concerned; the abilities I've developed have come not through long years of study but by way of Eden Blake's mystical bloodline. As far as I know, only the women of the family are so empowered. That's the reason that Archimage, when he wanted to make me a wizard, had appropriated Eden's body for my use. Because I would never have consented to becoming a woman, he didn't bother to ask for my consent. I flipped through several of Archimage's strange volumes, none of them written in any language I knew -- and I know a lot of languages. A couple of faltering attempts to translate exotic texts by means of sorcery (as I'm able to do with spoken languages) both failed. Restless and needing to be elsewhere, I slammed shut the tome, re-donned my adamantine tank suit, and flew back to the real world. The burning question was why Strauss did not know Mantra. I needed to reassure myself that the world had not forgotten me, even if Edgar Strauss had. Until I knew that, I wouldn't know how to go about getting back into Eden Blake's life. So, resuming my street clothes in an empty alley, I trudged to the nearest branch-library I knew of, where a number of loafing, hygiene-challenged individuals reminded me how a bath and a change of clothes was becoming due. * * * * Chapter Three MONTROSE "Is such mean mischief worth the fame Of sorceress and witch's name?" Not only did the ~Los Angeles Times~ database bring up hundreds of references to Prime and the UltraForce, but also a score of ultras known to me either personally or by reputation. The odd thing was that I was finding stories about ultras whom I'd never even heard of, while not one word was written about "Mantra." I searched out a big story that absolutely had to mention my code name -- the one involving the "Spear of Destiny" robbery a few months back. What a fiasco that had been! Just because the museum guards recognized me fighting with the thieves they assumed that Mantra had to be the leader of the gang; in fact, the real culprits were a group of unknown ultras whom I have found no trace of since. The database mentioned the sighting of unidentified thieves with super powers associated with the theft, but nothing about Mantra. It was like all memory of me had been blotted off the face of the earth. I put on my thinking cap, wondering whether I had I fallen into the Twilight Zone. How was it possible to suddenly become the Person Who Never Was? My situation reminded me of that classic movie, ~It's a Wonderful Life,~ where a discouraged man is visited by an angel who lets him see the world altered by just one important detail -- he'd never been born into it. Jimmy Stewart's character sees his friendly little town reduced to hopelessness, squalor, and bitterness, which leads him to comprehend that his life in it had been pivotal. In the end he's reconciled to the path that his life had taken and becomes able to see all his frustrations and disappointments as merely the trade-offs required to gain something of transcendent value. Good for you, Jimmy, but I saw a world that seemed to be getting along fine without Mantra. I felt miffed; what had all my bruising battles been for if everything I'd accomplished was a wash in the end? More importantly, how had I gotten here? Surely no grumpy angel had done a number on Mantra, but what else could explain it? I'd read science fiction books and seen television shows which involved parallel worlds -- like that Star Trek rerun where the Federation was a ruthless Empire. Far fetched? Not really! I suspect that the Godwheel exists in different universe? Was that the key? Had the return trip from Vahdala accidentally spun me off into an alternate reality, one that looked very similar to my own but still differed from it in a few crucial details? If so, what could I expect? According to the theories espoused by prime-time entertainment, the same people might exist in more than one universe, but their lives could have turned out bizarrely different. Sometimes a very trivial incident, like a bad shipment of Venezuelan bananas in one world, was all it took to create two very different historical time-streams. But even if I could accept that something had squeezed Mantra out of existence, I refused to believe that an entire world could be defined simply by the absence of a single ultra. Following that train of thought, I did a little background checking in the database. I soon came to the conclusion that this Earth's history was no different from the one I knew -- until the 'Eighties, that is, when peculiar little anomalies started cropping up. Serious discrepancies had arisen by the mid-'Nineties. For example, different sports teams had won important championships and a number of celebrities alive in my world were dead here, and vice versa. Ex-President Jimmy Carter, for example, had died a year earlier, from a series of debilitating strokes. By early afternoon my research had rendered the whole Kismet theory absurd; why should the minx exist here at all if Archimage had never created Mantra for her to spar with? But still, if the woman at the Blake house wasn't Kismet, who was she? The probable answer boggled the mind. Had I really become an unwitting intruder into a parallel world? Did my own Earth still exist somewhere? Could I return to it? If I couldn't, what then? I'd be left with no identity, no money, no home, no friends, no family. In fact, it would be a replay of the night I'd become Eden Blake -- only worse. Back then I'd at least had Eden's keys, her billfold and ID, and I could steal into her house, crawl into her bed, and pull her covers up over my head. Now I had diddly squat! I knew I could survive -- I was good at surviving -- but I'd just started to settle down and accept things the way they were. Did this grotesque situation have a silver lining? The whole incredible business was too much to mull through on an empty stomach -- and this begged the question, how was I going to fill it? Go to a Salvation Army soup kitchen? Panhandle? Ludicrous! I had my pride. Taking a job was equally out of the question; in this world I had no social security number, no resume, and no history of education. True, I'd been playing the bogus identity game for centuries and knew how to create a false ID, but even assuming I could land a job quickly, it would take time to tally up my first check. I wanted to be home long before that. Or did I? Maybe all this had happened to tell me that I didn't really belong there. *** Well, first things first. Money, and how to make it. Before getting magic, fighting had been my only career. I'd oftentimes taken loot from the enemy, but never ran in the rat race the way most people do. Archimage, as rich as Croesus, had kept us knights well provided. Living that way had made us into a tribe of grasshoppers, never thinking about tomorrow. But how could we have avoided it? What was the point of salting away a nest egg when we each had an average life expectancy of only two years in any single identity? Unwilling to beg, too stubborn to steal, I was in a pretty pickle. To add another clich?, where there's a will there's a way. By an incredible stroke of luck I noticed a hand-written notice taped to a streetlight just outside the library. "A blue-gray Scottish fold, missing since Friday afternoon from 2420 Victory Blvd., Ste. 401; $200.00 reward." Then it gave the phone number. I read the handbill twice, letting the possibilities sink in. Though I hadn't kept a pet for decades, I guessed that a "Scottish fold" had to be a breed of cat or dog; people seldom sheltered cattle or horses in urban L.A. The more I thought about it, the better the opportunity seemed. Locating lost goods was not only quick money but honest work to boot. I started scanning the drain grates for lost coins. A lot of pocket change gets lost on the street and by phantasming my arm I soon retrieved the all telephone money I needed. Using the public phone in the library entry way, I dialed the number carefully. "Hello," answered a woman on the other end. "Oh, hi," I said, "is this the family with the lost Scottish fold?" "Yes!" she affirmed excitedly. "Did you see a cat like that?" Oh, so a Scottish fold was a cat; good to know. "Not yet," I replied, "but I might be able to help." "How?" "This might sound funny -- but I'm a psychic." I could almost feel the temperature dropping along Victory Boulevard. "Is this a joke?" "No, it's not a joke, ma'am! I'm interested in the reward, but you won't owe me anything if I can't do the job. It would help a lot if I could touch something that belonging to your pet. Is that all right?" "I don't know. . ." she mused, each word drawn out long to give herself time to think. "This really sounds outlandish." "Police use psychics all the time to find missing children," I reminded her. "Well, you sound respectable...." "I look respectable, too," I said. "I've got your address. Can I come over?" The lady had gone so quiet that I imagined she was about to hang up, but then the line came alive again: "All right, I'll give you a chance, if it doesn't cost me anything." I said I'd be right over. Her home turned out to be in a good-looking condominium complex. I located the security intercom beside the mailboxes and punched the apartment number. When the reply came I identified myself and was told to wait. The lady came down a minute later, probably wanting to get a good look at me before letting some nut case have the run of the building; this was L.A., after all. Still, I knew where she was coming from; I'd only been a woman for about a half- hour before being accosted by a street-person with robbery-and-worse on his mind. The lady who opened the door was pushing fifty, apparently affluent, and wearing a smart V-necked jumper. I knew I looked a little grungy by comparison, but was banking on the notion that Eden Blake's charm transcended mere dishabille. Even so, I judged the pet-lover's welcoming smile to be a bit tight and tentative. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, my hostess escorted me via elevator to the fourth floor, where she introduced herself as Mrs. Massey and asked, "Are you an actress?" "Why?" "You look like one." I met her gaze bemusedly. "It's a kind of a feast-or-famine business, they tell me.""Mostly it's famine right now," I smiled bravely, falling into the role, "but I really am a psychic. It runs in the family." That much, at least, was true. "A family of witches? Maybe you can sell the idea to a Hollywood producer -- Miss --?" "Eden. Eden Freeman." I was using Eden's maiden name to insulate her family against any trouble I got myself into while in this world. "You've got a good idea there, but some things are just too unbelievable for fiction." Once inside her apartment she brought out a framed picture of a plump, blue-gray cat with bent-down ears, whose name, she said, was Monty -- "Montrose." "Are you a fan of Scottish history?" I asked. She nodded. 'Romance novels. There's a folk group that has a rather nice ballad about him, too.' "I rather liked Montrose myself," I said. What I didn't say was that I'd actually met him. I studied the photograph intently, trying to impress the feline's image upon my unconscious. The strangest thing about the Scottish fold breed was its ears; they really were folded, giving the animal a flat-topped silhouette. Otherwise, Montrose looked like any other well-cared-for gray cat. Once I had drawn all I could from the picture, I asked to examine Monty's sleeping basket and feeding tray -- items that should still retain traces of his bio-electrical field. Mrs. Massey brought me the requested items and as soon as I touched them I detected some faint, but encouraging, aural emanations. If the truth were told, I'm not a conventional psychic but a life-witch and elemental-witch able to form a telepathic link with any living being whose bio-force I've assimilated. Prime and I, having traded energy back and forth, share an exceedingly powerful bond; that's the reason I was able to teleport him across-country from New York last spring to save my bacon when Rune blind-sided me. "May I have a bit of Montrose's fur?" I asked. This commodity was readily supplied by the Scottish fold's grooming comb. Though trying to resemble the garden-variety mystery-movie medium, I was in fact drawing off the vestigial life-essence which lingered in Montrose's hirsute sheddings, an action which markedly strengthened my connection to the missing pet. But maybe it would not be enough; up to then I had never tried to find a subject whom I had never previously met in the flesh. Fortunately, Mrs. Massey was a woman with an intensely emotional and immediate bond with Montrose. It occurred to me that her bio-electrical field could help to strengthen the link between the feline and myself. . . . "Mrs. Massey," I said, "I may be able to make contact with Montrose, but I think you could help out. What we'll end up doing will be a lot like a s,ance." "Do you mean we hold hands?" I nodded. "Hand-holding is good. Do you mind?" She sized me up one more time before saying, "All right, when do we start?" "Right now," I said, extending my right hand. She took it. "Now, Mrs. Massey," I said, "think about Montrose; front- load all your love and affection into the little guy's image. Make that mental picture actually become Montrose. Got it?" She dipped her head affirmatively, took a deep breath, and narrowed her eyes into contemplative slits. So far, so good. Drawing upon my magical resources, I absorbed some of Mrs. Massey's energy, but only enough to make her drowsy, and then used the bond thus formed to augment my psychic outreach to the missing beast. Even with my hostess to help, I found it hard to pick up Montrose's psychic thread. I'd already practiced enough magic to know that the simplest-seeming feats are sometimes the most difficult. All at once my mind opened like a swinging door, revealing something, dimly, darkly. I coaxed the impression along using sorcery, rather like one cranks up the volume on a weak radio broadcast. "I see a room," I muttered, "a barren room. There's no furniture, but it still looks cluttered. I see a carpenter's sawhorse, a toolbox, and lots of tools. There are big rolls on the floor. They're rolls of carpeting, I think. Their color is like coffee with milk." I started to lose the image. I simply needed more power to perform a task so delicate; it would have been easier had I been wearing my mask, which always beefs up my sorcery tremendously. A spent force, I let go of Mrs. Massey's hand and slumped back into my chair. Breathing heavily I asked, "Did I help? Is there any redecoration going on in the neighborhood? "The lady yawned thoughtfully, the s?ance having taken something out of her. "There's an empty condo being redecorated," Mrs. Massey said. "I saw workmen carry in rolls of carpeting Friday morning." Then she added with a lilt: "And I think they were brown!" She sprang up. "If only we dared to hope --" I heaved to my feet, asking, "Where's the apartment?" "Ground floor!" We took the elevator downstairs. This being Saturday, the condo-under- redecoration was, not unexpectedly, locked up. "The workmen would have left at 5:00 p.m. yesterday," Mrs. Massey lamented. "They won't be back until Monday morning!" She futilely shook the knob. I could have gotten into the apartment easily, but using magic wasn't feasible with Mrs. Massey watching. "Say his name," I suggested. "Maybe he'll answer!" The lady put her lips to the door, calling: "Monty! This is Mommy! Are you in there?!" Though we listened intently, neith nonetheless remained game for another try, even if we had both grown a little less hopeful. "Is there a building manager. . . ?" I began, just as Mrs. Massey repeated her call. "I think I heard something," my companion blurted. "Montrose! Are you in there?! Speak to Mommy!" This time I heard the whine, too. Mrs. Massey raced off to find the building manager and I waited beside the locked door, content to let developments take their course unaided by sorcery. * * * * Chapter Four THE TWILIGHT CALLER "Stand forth, arch deceiver, and tell us in truth, Are you handsome or ugly, in age or in youth? Man, woman, or child -- a dog or a mouse? Or are you, at once, each live thing in the house?" A quarter of an hour later I was lunching on hot Cajun chicken fingers while Montrose gobbled down Purina Cat Chow with Omega 6. The feline must have been even hungrier than I, having fasted a half-day longer. The way Mrs. Massey and I worked it out, Montrose must have slipped into the hall and bounded downstairs where the redecorators were at work. When quitting time came the latter closed things up, forgetting that their visitor might still be inside. Mrs. Massey, seeing that I was finishing lunch, went off to get her checkbook. Red flag! Banks didn't cash checks for non-depositors without proper identification. "Ah, Mrs. Massey," I said, "no offense, but I'd really appreciate payment in cash." "Tax problems . . . ?" she inquired with a raised eyebrow. "Hardly! I just don't have any I.D. to show to a bank clerk. My purse was snatched at the bus depot and it had my driver's license, my social security number -- everything, in fact." Whether she believed me or not, my hostess went into the bedroom and returned with a handful of greenbacks. "This about cleans me out until I can get to the ATM," she remarked, "but I can't thank you enough, Eden." I accepted the currency gratefully. "I'm glad I could help -- but from here on make sure the tiger doesn't go prowling again; I may not be in town for long." "Don't be discouraged, dear, you'll get your big break; you're still young." "Young at heart, at least," I grinned wanly. Five minutes later I was back on the street -- and very much on my own. *** Two hundred dollars doesn't go far in a city like L.A., but I knew ways to economize. Who needs a cab when he can fly? Rent wouldn't be a factor either, not with a castle of my own traveling around with me. As for bathing, I could summon a flow of water out of the thin air with my elemental powers, all I'd need is a private place to get naked. I'd have to eat, naturally, but Eden's body didn't crave much and, in fact, it could stand to lose a pound or two. Fresh clothes being the immediate problem, I found a Salvation Army store with row upon row of cast-off clothes in stock. I paused to reflect that nothing characterizes an age better than its fashion; modern clothes, as a whole, are ugly and sloppy-looking -- so unlike the finery of, say, the Seventeenth Century. On the other hand, Late- Twentieth-Century toggery comes at bargain rates; fashionable apparel in Louis XIV's France on the other hand, could, and sometimes did, bankrupt even the landed aristocracy. When I finally got down to business, it didn't take long to put together a satisfactory ensemble of casual wear. I'd learned that it didn't necessarily cost very much for an American woman to gad about unfashionably decent-looking. The hardest thing to cope with when I first acquired this shape was the fact that Eden's body seemed to have a deep-seated instinct to wear the magazine-recommend outfits of the day, and many of these would have made a Byzantine streetwalker feel self-conscious. Though I wouldn't have believed it, I soon got the hang of miniskirts. These days I hardly think twice about Eden's flamboyant wardrobe -- though I still dislike the attention it attracts. Today, though, simplicity ruled: basic underwear, fresh blue jeans, a wine-colored tee. Sensible stuff only. For accessories I bought a spring jacket, a bathing suit, and a large handbag -- the latter needed to tote along the grooming items and toiletry that I intended to pick up at drug store. A man can get along with just a comb, but a woman looks embarrassingly drab unless she does a lot more. Of course there were times when fashionable men did just as much with fabric and makeup, such as during the age of foppery concurrent with the English Georges. After finishing my day's shopping, I filched a quick shower at the swimming pool in the park, no other place being really private. By four and I needed something to eat and time to think. The Green Parakeet Cafe, whose counterpart I'd patronized back home, was a welcome sight in this strange and lonely land and its familiar decoration helped to put me at ease. Even so, I was still stressed enough to set aside my usual low-cal salad and diet Coke and be seduced by the steak-sandwich special of the day. I'd knew I have to work off the fat and calories by walking instead of flying right away, before they took up permanent residence on my hips. Being a woman fashionably and socially is something I'm trying to taper into, but being a fat woman is absolutely out of the question. It's not just vanity; the good housekeeping of this body is something that I owe to Eden's memory. Also, I'd look silly as a pudgy Mantra. The supermodel look suits her best. Munching absently upon my sandwich, I watched the anonymous strangers passing outside. Their comings and goings made me feel more alone than ever. How disorienting it is not to possess the little things that add up to something called 'home.' I definitely had no home just now. Why had this happened? What should it mean to me that Eden Blake was still alive in this world? I had been mentally avoiding that subject all day, but I couldn't duck it any longer. I had to meet her, like an addict needs his fix. A dozen half-baked ideas how to do that had been running through my mind since I'd gotten up. The late afternoon sun shined warmly into the cafe, casting my reflection plate glass window and I saw myself as others saw me -- a brunette in her early thirties but looking younger, wearing a printed shirt and tight slacks. The operational word was brunette. I was no potential lover for any red-blooded American girl. I was her twin sister! I'd have better luck going courting in a chicken suit! It wasn't fair. Couldn't I revolt against my fate? Could I be a man again? Last December I'd charged into NuWare, the leading U.S. wetware company, and practically demanded a new cloned body from the owner, billionaire-tycoon J.D. Hunt. Unfortunately, the man was a borderline psycho. First he got suggestive and when I wasn't having any of that, he turned his bio-enhanced killing machine loose on me. I actually did get a new male body that day, thanks to Pinnacle, the aforementioned killing machine, but not before I'd written Mantra's name on Hunt's hate list. The short list. My manhood had lasted only a few days, alas. I had to trade it away to regain Mantra's powers, which I needed to save not only my own life but also Evie's, Pinnacle's, and even Strauss.' The only person I couldn't save that day was Eden herself. ~No use getting down in the gills again, Lukasz; you've been there, done that. Keep the sunny side up. Eden is back. Isn't she?~ If I became a man again and stayed on in this world, I'd have to give up my life back home. Once that would have been easy, but I'd promised Eden to live her life for the sake of the kids. Where I grew up a person's word meant something. Also, the longer I stayed in this identity the more roots I put down. Everything and everybody I knew, and even my Mantra powers, were at stake. The latter had become important to me; they were a source of personal pride and of control in a life in which so many things seemed to lack control. More than that, my sorcery could become a force for good, and what better honor could I do Eden than to use her talents the way she would have wished me to? What was I willing to lose, how much injury was I willing to inflict on innocent people just for a second chance at love?I shook my head. My bowing out might be best for all involved. Maybe I was overestimating my importance. Wouldn't the kids benefit if I put myself out of the picture? I'd been brought up in the Fifth Century; what did I know about rearing youngsters in this day and age? What kind of mother could a professional soldier make? What kind of role model is a killer of thousands for an impressionable little girl like Evie? Still, deep down, an uncertainty lingered. Maybe I needed these little people more than they needed me. But what, really, were my choices? I might never be able to find my way home. And the more I thought about it, the less sure I was about going back. By the time I'd finished my meal, I realized that I was unconsciously delaying the inevitable. I'd never find the missing answers while lounging in the Green Parakeet. Only the Eden Blake of this world could tell me what I needed to know. *** I freshened up in the cafe,'s lady's room, tidying my hair with a few pins and a stretching hair band. A little lip-gloss and a bit of powder made me look more or less presentable. I was making up Eden's face to make a call on Eden herself. Talk about irony. But exactly how should introduce myself? To show up as an Avon lady wearing her face would have been stretching credulity. My mind kept chucking up one implausible scheme after another. How should I approach her and what words should I speak once I had? I finally settled on a game plan that had virtue of simplicity and then steeled myself for the flight over the treetops to Canoga Park. The closer I got to my destination, the sillier my playbook seemed to read. By the time I'd touched down in the nearest park it was too late to rethink the plan. What was the point? Just about every other conceivable option sounded absolutely stupid in comparison. The shadows had grown long and slanting by the time I found myself on my familiar block. "Hi, Mrs. Blake!" my -- Eden's -- neighbor, Mr. Griswell, yelled from his front step. I returned his salutation with a raised arm, but declined to stop and chat. I wasn't supposed to be Eden Blake today and it behooved me to act accordingly. Well, there it was -- number 3047 Leadwell, the homey little ranch-style house that Gus Sr. had bought when he was just married and starting out in business. I already knew that it had a swimming pool in back, built by the young couple at the sacrifice of their small backyard. It gave me a strange feeling to be going home not as myself but as a stranger. At last, sucking in a deep breath, I strode manfully to the bell that I punched with grim resolve. Half a minute later the door swung open and young Eve Blake stood there staring up at me, all forty-two inches of her. Before I could say, "Hello, little girl," the flabbergasted kid let out a "Yeep!" and ran back into the living room shouting, "Mommy!" I heard Eden back in the kitchen, mildly admonishing her daughter for acting silly. Then I heard her approaching stride, and I was too nervous to notice that it lacked the firm directness of most people walking in their own homes. The door widened and there she stood. I couldn't see my own expression, but my heart must have been pumping pure adrenalin; I wanted to throw my arms around her and cover her face with kisses, but I fought the impulse down. "I'm sorry for my little girl's behavior," Eden apologized. "She's usually very polite. Who's there? How may I help you?" Who's there? How could she ask that? Didn't she recognize her own face? I had expected a gasp of startlement at the sight of me -- not blandness. "My name is Lukasz," I muttered, watching for a reaction. I had suddenly realized that it was possible that she might have met the Lukasz of this world, even if Mantra didn't exist. I never even considered that ~she~ might be the Lukasz of this world; the sight of her in bed with Gus had taken that possibility off the charts. Eden smiled pleasantly; my name obviously meant borscht to her. "How to you do, Miss Lukasz?" She was waiting for me to state my business. After a few seconds of awkward stammering on my part, the lady of the house patiently interjected: "Excuse me, are you selling something, ma'am?" "No," I replied raggedly, recalling my cover story with effort. "I heard about you at the Coast-to-Coast and decided to come over and say `hello' while I was in town. I hope this isn't a bad time." "Not at all," she replied, fixing her vague gaze upon my left ear. "But I don't quite understand. What did you hear about me at the hardware store?" It was about all I could do to keep my tone light and gracious. "Well, someone said that -- that I strongly resembled a lady who lives in this neighborhood. They gave my your address. I guess I should have called ahead first, but sometimes I'm too impulsive. It gets me into awkward situations sometimes. Anyway, the person was right. I can see the resemblance. Uh, can't you?" She smiled, finally understanding my nonplussed behavior. "Oh, of all things! That would explain Evie's scare." Eden was still looking at me without clear focus. "I'm sorry, Miss Lukasz," she said. "What you say must be true, but I can't see anything. I'm blind." *** Reactively, I muttered, "I'm sorry. I didn't know. How did --?" My question trailed off. One can't politely buzz a stranger's doorbell and ask: "How did you become blind?" But Eden met my discomposure with a rueful smile. "A collision three years ago," she explained. "I should consider myself lucky; I was nearly killed. Would you like to come in?" She stood back and I carefully stepped around her, stammering "T-Thank you." Strangers we might be, but I was appalled to hear about her accident. It was so hard to reconcile that handicap with my own Eden, whom she resembled in every way. I noticed just then that Evie had been hiding behind the door listening to our exchange. She looked so adorable that I wanted to scoop her up for our traditional "big hug" but didn't dare be so forward with someone else's child. "You must be Evie," I ventured, offering the tyke my hand. "I hope I didn't frighten you too much." She grasped my fingers and as quickly dropped them, her wondering stare never leaving my face. "Is it true, Evie?" Eden asked her daughter. "Does this nice lady look a lot like me?" "Uh-huh," the seven-year-old whispered. "It's like -- like there's two of you!" "Did you know that you look an awful lot like your mommy, too?" I teased. In fact, Evie resembled a finely crafted miniature of Eden Blake, just like Gus is the very image of his father. "Well then, come into the kitchen, Miss Lukasz," Eden urged. "I have some coffee perking. Do you have a first name?" "It's -- Sharon." She offered me a chair and I sat down. At first I wondered whether I should try to be helpful, but Eden's movements displayed a confidence nearly equal to a sighted person's. We had both recently undergone a very distressing life-style change, I realized. I only wished that I could have handled mine as well as she handed hers. "I'm used to housekeeping in the dark," Eden suddenly remarked, "but pouring hot liquids is one of the riskiest things I have to do." Even so, she did exactly that, and without spilling a drop of coffee. We spent the next hour rambling amiably about many casual subject while enjoying cookies and java. My look-alike hostess began to wonder whether we shared some common ancestor. I had come prepared for such a question and offered clues that our ancestors had come from the same part of Pennsylvania back in the 1800's. It wasn't hard to rattle off the names of families and towns; my -- Eden's -- mother, had bent my ear chattering about the Freeman family roots more than once. "We might be distant cousins then," Eden postulated brightly. My mouth being full, I nodded, but then, mindful that she couldn't see my gestures, I swallowed and replied, "That's right. Small world." But spinning fantasies about myself would gain me nothing; I wanted to learn how Eden lived in this new world. The more the young homemaker revealed about herself, the more I appreciated how much she was like the woman I had longed to marry. "What's your son's name?" I inquired after a casual reference to him. "Gus. He's named after his father. It gets a little confusing sometimes, but the oldest sons in his dad's family have always been named August. Well, I mean they have been from about the turn of the century, anyway. He and his father aren't home right now. They went fishing up in the mountains." A fishing trip? That didn't jive with what I knew about August Blake. Trying to get Gus Sr. to go anywhere or do anything with his children was like asking the mountain to go rapping-tapping on Mohammed's chamber door. Had his wife's blindness called forth certain sterling qualities hitherto undiscovered in Mr. Blake? Exactly how well Eden was faring in this `saved' marriage of hers? "So many fathers can't make time for their kids these days," I probed "Your Gus must be quite a guy." She squirmed and I remembered how personal questions had always made Eden turn shy. "I guess he is," she said with a light flush. "I wouldn't trade him in for a new model, anyway." Eden's avowal sounded sincere enough. I suppose that I had wanted to hear that her marriage was on the rocks and that she'd soon be available. But, on the other hand, I also felt relieved -- for Gus Jr.'s sake especially. The boy whom I knew was an angry, moody child, hurt deeply by his parents' divorce. His attitude was made all the worse by his father's indifference since the separation. It hadn't always been that way. I understood that the breakup was Eden's idea, not his, and the ordeal of it might have changed him. The boy's mother had been trying hard to help young Gus adjust before Archimage had so brutally thrust me into her life. Her work wasn't half done at the time of her death and now he was my responsibility, sink or swim. Gus came across as a hard kid to love, actually, but for Eden's sake I wanted to see him set on the right track. It all seems so easy on the TV family shows, where nothing is so serious that it never takes more than thirty minutes with commercial so set it right again, but I just can't seem to get at the source of his ache. Eden became more relaxed and convivial the longer we chatted; after all, we shared a lot in common. In many ways, this Eden was identical to the person I'd known and loved, but there was, at the core, a major difference, one that I could not overlook. I had only come to love Eden Blake, really love her, during those months when we shared the same body. We had merged, like two thoughts in the same head, neither of us able to keep secrets from the other -- not even the most intimate and discreditable. She had come to know who and what Lukasz was, and I had discovered the soul of Eden Blake. The love we shared was not based on superficialities, as most people's are; it was born of an intimacy more complete and all-pervasive than any that was ever experienced before by two people. To think that Eden had known everything, had fully comprehended what I'd done to her, and yet she refused to hate me. We had shared weeks of danger and adventure, had discussed matters of gravity, had concocted great plans. We had embarked upon desperate projects and dared daunting obstacles that would have led to our becoming man and wife. Fate had been unkind to us. I tried not to think of the recent past, lest my voice break in front of Mrs. Blake. Anyway, I had other things to think about -- important things. At first it had been easy to see the similarities between this Eden and mine. It took a little longer to appreciate the differences. So many of the things that had made my Eden unique were missing. This Eden Blake had never shared with me what the other had shared. As the minutes ticked on, I realized more and more that she could never fill the void that my Eden's death had left in my spirit.I suddenly found myself wanting to get away, to go off alone somewhere and be sad. When I had stayed decently long, I suggested that I was taking too much of my hostess' time. Eden didn't dispute this, but thanked me for my visit, expressing the hope that we actually were distant cous