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I reached across the training table and poured another glass of champagne, emptying the bottle.

"Take it easy on that stuff," Louis said, looking up from where he worked at untying my shoes with his big, capable hands. "You already had too much."

I drained the glass, foaming bubbles stinging my throat on the way down. "I've got my reputation to think of, Louis. Everyone expects me to be the bad boy of boxing."

Finished with the shoes, Louis stood and handed me a clean robe. "Just 'cause people expect somethin' don't mean you got to give it to 'em. ‘Sides, the reporters are all gone."

I laughed, letting some of the nastiness I felt roll his way. "If you don't like my style you can always quit."

Seeing the hurt in his dark face, I felt a spasm of guilt. Louis had been with me since I’d started fighting professionally. He might be the only real friend I had, the only one who cared more about me than what I could do for him. "Hell, Louis, it's only part of the act. I didn’t mean anything by it."

He nodded, the mournful expression still on his face. "I jus’ hope you know when the show's over. Someday you goin' to find life ain't all a game."

I smiled. "You must have practiced those down-home sayings for years to always have one ready.”

Louis started to answer as I slid off the table, but I lost his words in a wave of dizziness, the world coming apart around me. I grabbed the table for support as the walls lost their solid edges, dissolving into a gray void.

A moment later the emptiness resolved itself into stone-walled chamber filled with chanting men in gold choir robes. For a heartbeat the apparition hung in the air around me, then flickered, faded, and was gone.

"You all right?" Louis asked, the concern in his voice reflected on face. "You need me to get the Doc back?"

"No, I'm fine," I said, shaking off the lingering fuzziness and crossing to my locker.

"You don't look fine," he said, the soft country accent gone, replaced by a hard edge I'd only heard when he pointed out mistakes in the practice ring. "It's those dreams, isn’t it?" He grabbed my arm and forced me to face him. "They're back, aren't they? You got to do something about them.”

I pulled away, slamming open the locker door. "Stop worrying so damned much, I'm just tired. It'll pass.”

I knew it wouldn't though. It was always like this just before Robar's annual visit, this year worse than ever. Even while awake the dreams didn't stop. But Louis was right about one thing, it was time to do something about it.

Louis studied me through narrowed eyes, concern drawing deep lines on his face. After a moment he shook his head. "Do you have to do everything the hard way?"

"What the hell do you know about the hard way, old man?"

Knowing it would hurt him, I pulled another bottle of champagne from its icy resting place and opened it, sending the cork across the room in a spray of sticky foam. Filling the glass to the top, I tipped my head back and drained it, then poured another.

Louis looked at the floor, avoiding my challenge. "Someday you're going to face a situation you can't control," he said, a knowing sadness in his voice. He hit me with another homily. "I just hope you don't turn out to be nothin' but cheap wallpaper coverin' the cracks."

"What’s that supposed to mean?"

Before Louis could answer, the door opened and I looked at myself in twenty years. In his mid forties, Robar's tall, slender build, coffee with cream complexion, and almond shaped eyes left no doubt as to our genetic ties. Except for the age difference we could have been twins. At the sight of him Louis's frown deepened.

"So you found me," I said, noting the anger in Robar's eyes, and enjoying it.

"I should not have had to," he said, his voice deep, and heavy with what many took to be an Eastern European accent. He sounded pissed off. I was glad.

"Did you enjoy the fight?" I asked.

"You have a great deal to celebrate."

"He's already done enough celebratin'," Louis said. "He needs to get some rest."

Stopping in front of the mirror, Robar took a moment to straighten his black tie and brush a bit of invisible lint from the tailored jacket. "Aaron has obligations." Turning, he looked at me, the corners of his mouth curling into a false smile. "I'm surprised you didn't remember them."

"I remembered perfectly.” I picked up my towel and entered the shower room, point made. Too bad I was the only one keeping score.

I pushed a stool under the hard spray and dropped onto it, grateful for a few minutes alone. I felt awful. I was going to need all the strength I could muster for the showdown with Robar. I closed my eyes and I let the water sting my face, telling myself it didn't matter that I was in no condition for what lay ahead. I'd waited nearly twenty years for the bastard to answer my questions. I wasn't going to be put off again.

I turned off the shower, then returned to the locker room where Louis and Robar stood glaring at each other in stiff silence. It was obvious they’d been arguing. Not that arguing with Robar was special. He had a habit of treating people like objects. If they were useful, he handled them like an expensive piece of furniture. If they were unnecessary, he ignored them. Or worse.

My own attitude towards him was mixed. I didn't like his arrogant aloofness any more than other people did. But each year his neglect left me more angry that he didn’t spend time with me. Damn it, the man was my uncle and guardian, didn't that entitle me to some consideration? Robar didn't seem think so.

Almost twenty years ago he’d appeared at the door of an eight year old child, telling me my mother wasn't coming back. Refusing to explain further, he stayed just long enough to arrange for a boarding school, then disappeared without leaving me any way to contact him. He returned only once each year, to conduct an odd little ritual he said was part of the family religious tradition. Otherwise he seemed to take no interest in my life.

That was about to change. I’d deliberately scheduled this fight on the night of his return to make a point, I was no longer dependent on him. It was time he either answered my questions or found another congregation.

"Louis tells me you haven't been sleeping well,” Robar said, standing with arms crossed as I dressed. “That you have been troubled by dreams. Is this true?"

I glared at Louis. "What are you, my nurse?"

"Anyone with eyes can see you ain't right," Louis said.

I turned away. The easiest way to deal with Louis when he was like this was to ignore him. I finished dressing in silence.

"Where is your band?" Robar asked, seeing me slip a watch onto the wrist where I usually wore the heavy silver bracelet he’d given me when we’d first met.

"I left it at home."

"You left it─" Anger and something that looked like fear twisted Robar's face. For a moment I thought he was going to hit me. "How long since you last wore it?"

I shrugged. "A few days, maybe a week."

"I told you never to go anywhere without it, especially now!"

"I'll be home tomorrow. I’ll get it then," I said, happy to have breached his armor so quickly.

"Tomorrow will be too late. It must be tonight."

"I'm sorry, I didn't know it was that important to you.”

Robar turned away and muttered under his breath. When he turned back his face was calm. "The bracelet has a great deal of personal meaning. It was your mother's."

"You never told me that," I said, feeling my throat tighten.

Robar's eyes widened in mock surprise. "I'm sure I told you. Perhaps you don't remember, you were very young at the time. Only nine I believe." I think he got the age wrong on purpose.

He pulled back his sleeve and exposed a wide, heavy bracelet. "You will honor her by wearing mine," he said, unhooking it.

Seeing the threat in his eyes, I took the bracelet without argument. I was looking for answers, not a fight. Not yet anyway.

The bracelet was identical to my own. Made of silver, each of the six links held a dark, eight-faceted stone of volcanic glass. As I fastened the bracelet around my left wrist, I ran my fingers over the intricate symbols carved on the surface of each stone, wondering for perhaps the hundredth time what they meant.

Though Robar had never explained it, I knew they had some religious symbolism. Because at our annual get-togethers, he would remove the stones from our two bracelets and lay them out in a hexagram, one for each of the six points. He then placed another stone at each of the six places where connecting lines would cross if a Star of David were drawn, though no such lines ever were. I was thirteen before I recognized the pattern as a variation of the pentagram seen in so many late night movies.

Robar considered the bracelet a moment, then shook his head. "I don't know what will happen with only six," he said softly. "But we must try." He opened the door. "Come, time is short."

I pulled on my jacket and followed him into the hall. Shorter than you think Uncle, shorter than you think.

"We must hurry," he said, switching from English to the language we spoke when alone.

It was the language of my mother, the only one spoken in our home as I was growing up. I’d asked Robar about it once and he’d told me it was Romanian. But I’d met some Romanians at an international boxing meet they hadn't understood a word. When I’d asked him again, Robar said it was an obscure Gypsy dialect. I took it as a reflection of how little he respected me that he didn’t even bother to make the lie convincing.

"Slow down,” I said, having to rush to keep up as we crossed the casino's shadowy parking lot. "Let’s stop for a drink, talk about all the old times we never had."

Robar stopped walking and spun to face me. "You push me too far," he said between clenched teeth, his eyes wild with intensity. "What we do is no joke. In your haste to punish me you may have initiated your own destruction." He turned and resumed walking. "What I do is for your safety."

I shook my head. Robar really believed all the mumbo-jumbo involved in this ritual. Still, if I wanted answers I had to keep pushing.

"Let's skip the ceremony," I said. "Find a good bar and get to know each other. Maybe you could even tell me what happened to my mother."

Robar stopped next to a black Mercedes sedan, opened the driver’s side door, then looked across the roof at me. "How do you feel?"

"I'm fine.”

"Oh?" Robar lifted his eyebrows, silently calling me a liar. "What about the headaches? The dizziness? The visions?"

We were getting close to things I wanted to know. "What the hell’s my health got to do with your pagan ritual? And don't tell me the position of the stars determines when I get the flu every year."

"You don't know what you're saying. Now get in the car."

I shook my head, half in refusal, half to clear it of the voices chanting in time to the beating of my heart, goading me to defy Robar. "I'm not going," I said, unsure if it was me or those others in my head talking.

Robar came around the car, his movements stiff, his body tense. "You will come with me. Now."

"Like hell. I’m not─"

Robar leapt at me before I could finish, slamming his shoulder into my chest and driving an elbow into my stomach as I fell.

I hit the ground hard and barely managed to avoid the shoe aimed at my ear. I rolled away from another kick and stumbled to my feet, eyes filling with tears and gasping for breath as I backed away.

"What the hell are you doing?" I demanded between wheezing lungfuls of air.

Robar's answer was to move towards me, hands held in front, a waist high wrestler’s pose. He seemed totally unconcerned that I was twenty years younger and a trained fighter. The old man didn't know what he was getting into. A lifetime of resentment said it was time to teach him.

Settling my feet, I waited, letting him get too close to avoid the blow. When he was there, I threw a straight left intended to crush his nose and send him to the pavement spitting blood. But instead of following my script, Robar moved with a speed I thought impossible.

He avoided my blow with a sideways jerk of the head, then drove his right fist into my side just above the kidney. Pain ripped through my guts while colored fireballs shot holes in my brain. I barely managed to keep my feet as I slipped between the bumpers of two cars, using their bulk to provide a few seconds of relief beyond his reach.

Where had Robar learned to fight? The man was unbelievably fast, better than any professional I'd ever faced. I needed to slow him up, get a feel for his style, wear him down. After all, there was no way a man his age could keep this up for long. And the Brooklyn Bridge is up for sale.

I let him close with me, fighting a defensive battle, studying his ability. We spent the next minute dancing between parked cars, testing each other's skill. Robar was good, very good. But his training wasn't in the same league as mine. He made mistakes. Some of them left openings you could drive a truck through. It was time to take the wheel.

I led with the jab Robar expected, deliberately let him block it, then followed with what I hoped was a desperate looking right. He bought it, brushing my arm aside, but leaving himself uncovered as he set up his counter punch.

I had him. Instead of falling back as I’d been doing, I stepped in close. Dropping my left under his guard, I brought it up in what the newspapers call a crushing uppercut, intending to break his jaw. Unfortunately, I wasn't fighting a reporter. Once again I’d underestimated Robar's reflexes. He snapped his arm down like a closing bear-trap, deflecting my fist and turning the killing blow into a glance off the jaw.

Still, most fighters would have gone down for a mandatory eight count. Robar only stumbled back a step.

I was getting desperate. The booze, the earlier fight, and the sleepless nights were catching up with me. If I didn't put an end to this soon, he’d put an end to me. I needed to stop boxing and start fighting. It was time for some moves not sanctioned by WBA rules.

Robar landed a jab and I tasted blood. Backing up a step, I let him think he was getting to me. Which he was. As he slid forward I left myself open for a shot to the stomach, hoping he would take it. He did.

The moment he committed himself, placing his weight on his front leg, I lashed out, driving the toe of my shoe up under his kneecap. His leg collapsed. As he fell I chopped down with a right, catching him behind the ear hard enough to break the skin and send drops of blood splattering across my shirt front.

Even then he tried to get up. I let him reach his knees before I kicked him in the side of the head. He collapsed in a heap and lay there, too stunned to do more than roll onto his back.

Tearing the bracelet off my wrist, I threw it at his chest and walked away.

His screams followed me across the parking lot as he struggled to sit up. "Stop! They will find you! You must come with me!"

In your dreams, Uncle, in your dreams. Entering the casino, I let the closing door cut off the sound of his voice.

The two woman giggled as they half led, half carried me through a haze of cigarette smoke and ringing slot machines, the casino alive under lights designed to wash away the night.

I was doing a pretty good job of washing away things myself. As we stumbled to a stop in front of the elevators, I felt every one of the half-dozen drinks since the fight with Robar. Unfortunately, I hadn't been able to drown my headache. And I was having a terrible time with my eyes, seeing things that weren't there.

To hell with it, I was free. My future my own. I could forget about Robar and the past. It would be just Louis and me, all the way to the top.

I gave one of the girls a friendly squeeze. "Tonight I take charge of my life," I said to the pretty, but uncomprehending face. Ignorance is its own reward.

The elevator doors opened, and for a moment I heard chanting from inside. "Damn it, girls," I said, slapping my own face playfully. "How much did we drink? I'm hearing voices."

Giggling, the two women helped me onto the elevator. "Are you really an Italian count," the short blond asked, repeating one of the many rumors about my background.

"Shh," cautioned her friend in a loud whisper. "That's rude. Besides, he's a Gypsy King. Isn't that right?" she asked, patting my arm.

I tried to frame an answer, but my mind wasn't up to it. The best I could do was produce a fool's grin. True to myself as always.

As we began our rise to the twelfth floor, the world again pulled its disappearing trick, leaving me hanging in pewter colored-emptiness. Where elevator walls should have been I glimpsed a series of rapidly changing landscapes. A tree covered mountain buried in snow. A molten river of lava running over the barren rock of an immense cavern. Low sand-isles amidst a green sea. An underwater city with impossibly tall spires. And damned if the images didn't seem to be moving closer, bringing the voices with them.

I glanced at the two woman leaning drunkenly against my side to check their reaction. Neither of them seemed to notice a thing. So much for the quack they'd sent to check me over after the bout. It didn't take ten years of medical training to know I had a concussion.

"It's cold in here," said the blond, letting go of my arm to hug herself as the elevator slowed. "They got that air-conditioning on too high."

Her friend laughed. "Hell, Rita honey, if you were wearing anything under that dress it'd be fine." They both giggled, grabbing me for support as the elevator came to halt.

Abruptly the giggles stopped as the women saw what lay beyond the widening doors. Instead of the hotel's twelfth floor, a shifting cloud of crimson-streaked gray filled the opening. Screaming, they scrambled for the back of the elevator, knocking me off balance in their desperation to escape whatever was in front of them.

I took a stumbling step forward, lost my footing, and fell through the doors, landing on my hands and knees. For a moment I felt carpeted floor under my fingers. But when I looked down, there was only emptiness.

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