Five
8 December, 1999, 60 miles West of Chamdo, Tibet
The low drone of the chant brought Logan’s consciousness to a perfectly level plateau. There was nothing but the single, unwavering note. All three of him were together, here, pivoting about the spot in his mind; slowly turning. His anger fell through him, like salt through a sieve. It fell away into the abyss that was below, the abyss that was above. He was thin, like paper, but strong, like steel. He could not be broken. And he floated, slowly wheeling through the abyss, as long as the note was maintained.
He hummed along with the monks, the vibration in his chest and throat resonating throughout his entire being, warming him somehow, shaking out the impurities, like a deep tissue massage. He was feeling mentally and physically invigorated just sitting here with his eyes closed.
Then the wheeling quickened, he began to spin faster and faster, his heart beat galloping to catch up. At the center; at his center, a bright light was burning. It was blinding and beautiful and it grew the faster he spun. There was no world; no troubles; no monks; no chant; just the light and the abyss. Slowly he tuned out the abyss, settling his narrowed consciousness on the light, the spinning growing faster. No anger; no revenge; no Spike-
A hand came down on his shoulder and his eyes shot open. Spike. Logan whirled around, his hand clenching the sleeve of the one who interrupted him. But it was only a monk. A prelate, actually, judging from the headgear. The man leaned down and spoke in soft tones into Logan’s ear.
Logan’s hand slowly closed, his fist quivering. He turned his head slightly and nodded to the prelate his thanks. Once the messenger was gone, Logan slowly rose, arranging his robes around him. He looked for a moment out to the small rock garden and the sitting monks who still chanted that note, the one that was lost to his ears and his consciousness now. He turned, his robes sweeping over the cobbles, and left the bright garden, heading for the darkest corner of the lamasery; the corner that was his.
12 December, 1999, Chamdo, Tibet
Whistler sat with him on the bank of the Mekong. There was silence between them as they looked across the quiet river. Logan had left his robes, his habit, as he called them, at the lamasery. It wasn’t really a lamasery. That was just its front. It was the center of operations for a displaced Czechoslovakian fundamentalist cult, who, among other things, were intimately aware of the mystical goings on of the world and accepted his help as a resident conjurer. He had gladly helped them with all their small schemes; destroying a small time crime lord who just happened to be keen on eating his enemies; thwarting the three separate incidents in Tibet involving the Gentlemen; obliterating a dragon sent to harass Tibet, most likely by some Chinese Taoist conjurer... the list went on. It kept his mind off of... things. It also built his favor among those of the lamasery, those who were in direct control of the protection of the object of Logan’s desire. The desire above and beyond his desire for revenge. But always they kept it out of his reach.
He had requested to be informed of all vampires visiting the continent from America, in the off chance that Spike would try and hunt him down. Now that small spy network had reported a blond haired vampire just arrived in Tartu, Estonia from somewhere in the American North East.
“If you go,” Whistler said, throwing a small twig onto the river and watching it drift along, “you’ll regret it.”
Logan rolled his shoulders back and listened to the crack. There was something like Yoga at the lamasery, but he never joined in. “Is this a suggestion or are you trying to cover for a slip in destiny?”
“Destiny doesn’t slip,” Whistler gave a small smile. “Falter; maybe. Hesitate; perhaps. Slip? Fall? Never.” He blew out a breath into the stillness at the river’s edge. Tibet really was good for the soul. Maybe that was why Logan had no reason to stay. “You can struggle all your life against it,” Whistler said thoughtfully, “but at the end, you become your struggle, not the goal, and you might then just find yourself in vain.”
“Destiny will never quit,” Logan observed, his voice even and thoughtful, almost as Whistler’s. The meditation was useful, regardless of what anyone said to the contrary. “But destiny will blink. On that day, in that blink of the great eyes on the world, I will be where I need to be.” There was a kind of distant wisdom and self assuredness about him; he wasn’t making a threat or a promise, but almost a prophecy of his own. “And when destiny’s eyes open again, Spike will be dead, and I will be laughing.”
Whistler pulled another twig apart, waiting exactly seventeen seconds before responding, tossing the twig bits into the river. “You can start laughing right now,” he let the little grin spread across his face. “You just missed your flight.”
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