Death of an Adept

Chapter Twenty-Six

THE authority Adam had in mind was not to be sought on any earthly plane. While Peregrine made ready to keep watch between the worlds, Adam settled comfortably in the chair beside Harry, touching his Adept ring to his lips and invoking the guidance and protection of the Light as he closed his eyes and took a moment to ground and center himself. With his next breath, he let himself sink into the light trance that was his gateway to the deeper, more profound verities of the Inner Planes.

His inner image of the library seemed to expand around him like a soap bubble, its receding walls becoming thin and translucent as gauze before melting away altogether, leaving him suspended in an opalescent sea. Momentarily, a familiar pang of disorientation tugged at his inner equilibrium. Then the surrounding firmament began to re-form itself around him, gathering substance until all at once he felt solid ground beneath his feet.

A shining portal manifested itself before him, its panels iridescent as pearl. Above and beyond it, Adam could sense the towering presence of a great temple not made by human hands. Gathering his intent about him like a garment, he set his outward aspect on this plane in the guise of a supplicant priest, approaching bareheaded and barefooted to the foot of the great portal, where he pronounced the Word that would gain him entrance.

His utterance reverberated throughout the sanctum. As the echoes subsided, the portal swung open. Beyond the threshold lay an aery vault so vast that its proportions could only be guessed. Near at hand, however, beneath a soaring canopy of arches whose depths receded into infinity, a scintillating pillar of rainbow radiance took visible form: the astral emanation of the powerful intellectual Presence that Adam had come to recognize as the Master.

He bowed low in token of profound respect. As he did so, he was greeted by a voice in which many musical textures were combined in a single melodic strand.

The enemy hides in Shadow, Master of the Hunt. Therefore, be as wise as a serpent, having seen the face of the Adversary.

Adam lifted his head, surprised by the directness of the warning - and chilled by the confirmation that it was, indeed, Raeburn who had been responsible for the kidnap attempt just foiled.

"It is of another that I came seeking counsel, Master," he said. "The Hunt has taken up the scent, but into our protection has come a Hunt Follower who could be more."

The Hunter must know himself as he seeks to know his quarry, swift to discern where weakness lies. Being wise, he will not set forth on the scent without first making provision against the storm.

Any companion who follows him must go armed against the perils that lurk in the shadows. But if the Follower's heart is set upon the Chase, then the Hunt itself will prove him.

The rainbow pillar swirled to engulf Adam in a timeless instant of benison, then dissolved away. Bowing, Adam gave wordless thanks for the guidance offered, then withdrew to settle back into his body with a sigh. As he stirred, Peregrine sat forward eagerly, hurrying to lay a fresh log on the fire when Adam shivered and hugged his arms close to his chest, rubbing his upper arms.

"How did you make out?" Peregrine asked. "Did you find the answers you were looking for?"

Adam gave a blink and ran a hand over the back of his neck. "As much a warning as any guidance, I think. It does appear we're dead-on regarding Raeburn. As you're probably coming to realize, however, such guidance as we receive from the Inner Planes can be frustratingly oblique. If we hope to profit by it, we have to be prepared to work for the meaning. Give me a minute while I see how much I can sort into concrete terms at short notice."

Peregrine subsided. Sitting forward to stretch out his hands to the warmth of the fire, Adam bent his gaze upon the leaping flames while he reviewed the Master's instruction from beginning to end. The warning about Raeburn seemed clear. The Biblical reference to serpents and the next two lines likewise had the vaguely ominous ring of a personal caution as well as sage advice for any would-be newcomer. But the rest seemed to offer guarded assent for Harry Nimmo to try his hand at the Hunt.

"I'm going to have to give this further thought," Adam said, looking up at Peregrine and sitting back in his chair. "Perhaps it's simply too soon to receive an active mandate for Harry to join us. But I've no impression that we should discourage him, either. The gist of what seems applicable to him simply warns that any prospective candidate must be made aware of the risks involved, and must be equipped to look after his own safety."

Peregrine glanced over at the sleeping Harry.

"He does still require some looking-after, doesn't he?" he murmured. "He's certainly game, though - and he's already helped us out more than once, in an auxiliary capacity. I don't know him nearly as well as Noel does, of course, but he certainly doesn't strike me as a man inclined to run away from danger. If you were to offer him the opportunity to serve on the front line, I don't think he'd turn you down."

"No, but I think it might be unfair to Harry, to send him into the front lines before he's acquired adequate defenses. According to the Master, any companion who follows the Hunt must go 'armed against the perils that lurk in the shadows.' Harry is learning to see some of the perils; now he needs to learn what to do about what he sees - and not to pull back simply because what he sees looks new and frightening. I believe you'll recall the learning of that lesson, not so very long ago."

Peregrine smiled, lowering his eyes.

"You were very patient with me."

"My patience has been amply rewarded," Adam said gently. "Shall we talk to Harry?"

The counsellor emerged from his trance with the air of one refreshed by the experience, and apparently without conscious memory of any of it.

"That was certainly painless enough," he said, his slightly fuddled expression conveying a trace of lingering bewilderment. "Was I any help at all?"

"You were, indeed," Adam said. "Have a look, Counsellor."

He held out a hand to Peregrine for the sketches he had made, passing them across to Harry. Harry's brow furrowed as he shuffled through them.

"These are the blokes behind tonight's little episode?" he asked, a note of scorn in his voice. "I was expecting something far more exotic. This one looks like a stevedore, and this wispy one could be an accountant, or a school teacher." He tapped the sketch of Raeburn, cocking his head for another angle. "Or maybe a banker. Yes, I suppose he could be a cutthroat banker."

"Don't be deceived by appearances," Adam said. "That man is one of the most dangerous black Adepts I've ever come across."

"You're joking." Harry arched an eyebrow. "What's his name?"

"I'd rather not say."

"Why not?"

"Because names have power," Adam said bluntly, "and once you start to find out more about him, you'll be party to knowledge that could become extremely dangerous to you. Peregrine and I, among others, are committed to going ahead with this investigation. If you involve yourself in it too, you become partner to the same responsibilities - and subject to the same dangers."

"Do you take me for a coward?" Harry demanded, bridling slightly.

"Certainly not. But courage should always be tempered by caution and common sense. The fact that your talents are beginning to manifest at this point in time suggests that you've come to a turning point in your life. And the more often you use these talents, the more likely it is that you'll be noticed by others with similar talents. Not all of them are on our side, and some of them are very dangerous."

"What do you mean, I'll be noticed?" Harry murmured, suddenly subdued.

"Simply this," Adam said. "Beginning to use psychic talents is a bit like sending up flares on the astral. Those who can see them tend to investigate, the opposition included. You can learn to shield those flares, conceal them from those not meant to see them; but until you do, or until you can defend yourself against those who come investigating, you'd be putting yourself in immortal danger if you join us. And you could put us at risk, trying to protect you."

"In - immortal danger?" Harry murmured, a little white about the lips. "Are you trying to frighten me off?"

"No, but I am asking you to think about what I've said. When you've had a chance to digest it - maybe in a few days - we'll talk again. Meanwhile, we should probably let you get home. It's late. I want to thank you again for your help tonight. We'll deal with this for now."

The following morning, in a Victorian house on the outskirts of Paisley, those responsible for the previous night's events - and failures - were preparing to answer before an inquisition which had all the more sinister earmarks of a military tribunal. Seated behind the desk in the library, flanked by two of Richter's hard-eyed mercenaries, Angela Fitzgerald took a moment to rake her gaze over the three men arraigned before her. Her dark eyes were hard and glittering as marcasites as they came to rest upon the youngest of the trio, who might have been handsome had he not been green with apprehension. He was nursing a bandaged right hand.

"So, you're the idiot who decided to rush things," she observed dispassionately. "I suppose that makes you responsible for this fiasco."

Her tone was conversationally mild, but the man to whom the statement was addressed cringed as if struck. Swallowing hard, he opened his mouth as if to offer some excuse, but no sound came out. Beside him, the driver on the ill-fated mission spared his colleague a scathing side-glance before venturing his own excuse.

"I reminded him of orders and told him to wait, but he got impatient. I didn't think he'd bolt with the Hand - and then I didn't want to risk a commotion - "

"Oh, shut up!" Angela said in a voice that would have cut glass. "You didn't think. And you, Mr. Zoller," she glared at the third man, "if Summers couldn't stop him, why didn't you? You must have known Lovat was still downstairs."

Before Zoller could summon any reply, she returned her basilisk glare to the first victim of her anger.

"Hoping to make a name for yourself, were you, Mr. Fen-ton? It's a dangerous thing to have ideas above your station. Ambition is no bad thing, but you shouldn't have allowed yourself to forget that failure has its price."

The man Fenton flinched away from her gaze, almost on the brink of tears, his brow beaded with cold sweat.

"Give me another chance," he begged in a strangled voice. "I swear it won't happen again!"

"Indeed it will not!"

Angela transferred her attention to Klaus Richter, who was standing against the door behind the men, arms folded across his chest, as if to place himself at one remove from the proceedings.

"You're the one who recruited this nitwit," she pointed out acidly. "Are you prepared to overlook his insubordination?"

Richter shook his head minutely, his blue gaze hard as steel.

"You may do with him as you wish," he stated flatly.

This bald disavowal drew a strangled whimper from the principal culprit. Angela ignored it.

"The two of you, get out of my sight!" she told Fenton's companions.

As Richter stood aside to permit their hasty retreat, Angela turned to Fenton himself with a thin, cold smile.

"So, Mr. Fenton, what are we going to do with you?" she asked. "I dislike wasting resources, so I'm not going to have you killed - yet," she informed him. "It's just possible that you may be able to redeem yourself. That will be for Mr. Raeburn to decide, when he returns. But until then, I don't want to look at your stupid face. Krankauer, take him somewhere and put him on ice for now," she said over her shoulder to the larger of her two attendants.

Fenton blanched at these words, knees visibly trembling as he made a broken attempt to plead for mercy, but Krankauer and his partner turned deaf ears as they came to take him away, as did Angela. When the door had closed behind them, she shifted her acid gaze to the waiting Richter.

"And what's your excuse? I thought your people were supposed to be good."

Richter shrugged, refusing to be intimidated. "Most of them are. Every so often one encounters disappointment."

"Disappointment? That's hardly an adequate word for this fiasco. Having planted the Hand of Glory, the least the silly fools could have done was to retrieve it before letting themselves be driven off!"

"I agree," Richter said mildly.

"Well, this mess is yours, so you can clean it up," Angela replied, somewhat deflated. "Find out what's become of the Hand, and try and get it back - preferably before Mr. Raeburn emerges from his retreat. What he's going to say when he learns that all his preparations have been wasted, I leave to your speculation."

She sat fuming behind the desk for several minutes after Richter had left. It had been Raeburn's plan to seal his pact with Soulis at the next dark of the moon, now three days hence. To that end, he had absented himself the day before for a three-day period of fasting and preparation. Another time, Angela might have taken spiteful pleasure in knowing that Raeburn was squandering his energies to no good purpose. On this occasion, she sent for Barclay.

"I need to get in touch with Francis," she informed him when he arrived. "After last night's disaster, the reasons should be obvious. Do you know where he is?"

Barclay shook his head. "No, ma'am, I don't. Last I saw of him was when he had me let him off at the railway station. Where he was planning to go from there, he didn't say."

Angela tapped her foot in vexed frustration, biting back a comment inappropriate in front of an underling. "This really is too much," she muttered darkly. "Being circumspect is one thing, but this is verging on paranoia!"

When Barclay made no comment, she rose and began pacing the carpet with an impetuosity born of growing anger.

"If you can't tell me where Francis is," she flung over her shoulder, "maybe you can explain what he thought he was doing when he ordered Richter's people to go in after the Lov-ats. For pity's sake, that wretched artist is a Huntsman. It would have been dangerous enough if the attempt had succeeded. As matters stand at the moment, we're going to have Sinclair and company hounding us with every breath we take, and us with nothing to show for it!"

Barclay said nothing, and after a moment, Angela sighed and returned to the desk. Learning both hands against it, she considered her options until Raeburn should return.

"All right," she murmured. "I'll make yet another attempt at damage control. See if you can find him. He needs to be aware that we won't be going forward on the twenty-second."

After a beat, Barclay said quietly, "Do you care about him, Miz Fitzgerald?"

The question brought her up short. After the briefest of hesitations, she shook her head emphatically.

"Don't be impertinent."

Barclay shrugged. "He does take risks, Miz Fitzgerald," he said. "But Mr. Raeburn thinks the rewards will be worth the risks."

"Mr. Raeburn is riding straight for a fall," Angela said. "I don't intend to go down with him. Anyone else who feels the same way had better start making plans for the future."

Their eyes met and locked.

"I'll certainly give the matter some thought, Miz Fitzgerald," Barclay said. Shifting his gaze to the window, he added, "You never know when the wind may change."

Two days later, Raeburn returned from his self-imposed exile looking haggard, drawn, and underslept. The pallor brought on by three days of fasting yielded to the hectic flush of a towering rage when he learned how his orders had miscarried. The ensuing display of temper was as explosive as any his henchmen had ever witnessed. Nor did the storm die down after he had dismissed everyone but Angela from the library.

"Really, Francis, you're starting to rant like a lunatic," she said petulantly, when he had finally wound down. "This kidnap scheme was ill-conceived from the very outset. If you hadn't insisted on muddying the waters with a Hand of Glory, it could have been a straight snatch, with no hiccups. It would be far more becoming of you to admit as much, and stop blaming the hired help for your mistake."

Her words brought Raeburn up short in the midst of pacing the floor. Rounding on her, he snapped, "What would you know about it, you stupid cow? If they'd followed instructions, everything would have gone according to plan - and in a fitting manner to please our Patron. If you can't comprehend that, you have even less imagination than I gave you credit for!"

He sank into the nearest chair, his pale, glittering eyes fixed moodily at some distant vanishing point. "That wretched artist and his wife were a perfect choice of offerings: an Adept's body for Soulis, a tender morsel of flesh for his familiar. The combination would have bought us everything we wanted, and more. Not only would we have succeeded in harnessing the power of Taranis, we could have sent Soulis back into the bosom of the Hunting Lodge, wearing Lovat's guise, and gained access to their innermost secrets."

" 'If, if, would have' - but it didn't happen, Francis!" she cut in brutally. "Before you interrupt again, with your lofty aspirations, let me acquaint you with the realities of the current situation. Richter's contacts have been able to establish that the Hand of Glory is not in the custody of the police. There's no official police record of it. We must therefore assume that it has been secretly retained by the Hunting Lodge, undoubtedly at Strathmourne - which is the best-defended of any of the residences known to be connected with Sinclair and his friends.

"Furthermore, Sinclair has beefed up the security arrangements for the entire estate, and has men patrolling at night. That makes the prospect of stealing back the Hand rather in-feasible. I suggest we might better utilize our energies to scramble the psychic backtrail so that the preparation of the Hand can't be traced back to us."

Raeburn seemed to be only half-attending. His pale eyes were abstracted, their gaze roving the room like a fly seeking a place to light.

"You would do well to listen to me," Angela said acidly. "You know, I think all this trafficking with discarnate spirits and chaotic elementals is beginning to unbalance your mind. You're starting to remind me more and more of the Head-Master - and he was barking mad by the end of his career. If you don't get a grip on yourself and start listening to reason, the same thing could well happen to you."

"I'm touched by your concern," Raeburn said coldly, casting a scathing glance up and down her form. "Is that the reason why you're looking so wan and wasted, worrying about me?"

Angela glanced instinctively at the mirror above the fireplace, which reflected an image almost as haggard as Raeburn's own. Even the careful application of makeup could not entirely conceal the dark circles underscoring her eyes, nor compensate for the pinched pallor of her cheeks.

"Don't flatter yourself," she retorted. "As it happens, I've been working hard while you were off playing mystic - engaged in damage-control and seeking ways to compensate for this setback. Since the bid to capture the Lovats failed, it's clear you're going to need new victims for the Soulis sacrifice - if, indeed, you're set upon this folly. Well, allow me to submit my personal nominations."

Retrieving her tooled leather briefcase from a nearby alcove, she returned to set it on the edge of Raeburn's desk while she extracted a slender file folder. When she handed this across to him, her sleeve drew back enough to reveal a line of puncture marks and shallow cuts disappearing up her arm.

Raeburn took the folder without commenting on this evidence of repeated and extensive bloodletting, sitting back in his chair as he flipped the folder open. On top of several single-spaced resume sheets within were two glossy black-and-white eight-by-ten photographs, both of the same male subject from different angles.

Raeburn arched a supercilious eyebrow before lifting the photos to read the first few lines of the resume.

"Surely you're jesting," he said.

"There's more. The family history will bear out what I propose. Just read it before you say anything else."

Lips pressed together in a prim, poisonous smirk, Raeburn set the photos aside and began to read. As he scanned subsequent pages, his brow cleared, his expression slowly shifting from sour indulgence to surprised but increasingly avid concurrence, then changing to startled rejection which, after further reading, gave way to thoughtful deliberation.

"How did you come by this information?" he finally asked, leafing back through the previous pages.

"My methods are my own affair," she said with a tight smile. "Suffice it to say that I went to considerable trouble and personal expense to obtain what's in that folder. Don't squander it."

The feral smile he finally lifted to her held a gleam of cunning far more malevolent than any earlier outburst of anger.

"Angela, my darling," he purred. "Sometimes I almost think I do love you."