Season of the Witch

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Romeo and Juliet was an evening of penguin suits and champagne. But, as Gabriel was about to discover, the tastes and interests of the sisters Monk were eclectic.

Within the week he had also escorted them to an open mike poetry evening, a kickboxing tournament in Essex and a picnic in a graveyard. The graveyard, it had to be said, was not just any cemetery, it was Highgate: final resting place of Marx, Christina Rossetti, George Eliot and Michael Faraday.

"And the haunt of Lucy Westenra," Morrighan added. She was sitting cross-legged on the grass with a plate of sandwiches on her lap, her finger hovering between cucumber and egg-mayonnaise.

"Dracula," she explained in response to the query on Gabriel's face.

He looked down at her where she sat, her posture at ease but her back straight. Morrighan seldom slouched. Even at her most relaxed you had the feeling of leashed-in energy. Kneeling next to her, was Minnaloushe, red hair fastened in a careless knot. She was worrying the cork from a wine bottle. He knew he should offer his help, but Minnaloushe looked so cute, bottle clutched in one fist, tongue slightly protruding with effort, that he refrained. And as he looked at the two women, side by side, he felt his heart lift.

"Dracula? "

"Yes. Highgate was where Bram Stoker got his inspiration from."

Morrighan closed her eyes and intoned in a deliberately doleful voice: "He is young and strong; there are kisses for us all… The girl went on her knees, and bent over me, simply gloating. There was a deliberate voluptuousness which was both thrilling and repulsive, and as she arched her neck she licked her lips like an animal, till I could see in the moonlight the moisture shining on the scarlet lips and on the red tongue as it lapped the white sharp teeth…"

She stopped and opened those startlingly blue eyes. Before he could gather his wits, Minnaloushe started speaking, obviously taking up where her sister had stopped. "Lower and lower went her head as the lips went below the range of my mouth and chin… I could hear the churning sound of her tongue… 7 could feel the soft, shivering touch of the lips on the super-sensitive skin of my throat, and the hard dents of two sharp teeth, just touching and pausing there. I closed my eyes in a languorous ecstasy and waited-waited with beating heart."

"Holy shit." He looked from one woman to the other. "What the hell was that?"

"Poor Jonathan Harker. Fighting off Count Dracula's succubae. Erotic, don't you think?"

"I'll say. That was from the book?"

"Uh-huh." Morrighan nodded. "Those Victorians knew about the allure of sexual mastery and submission, you have to give them that."

"Well, it's obviously a favorite. Do you keep it next to your bed?"

"Maybe Minnaloushe keeps it under her pillow. It wouldn't surprise me. But I haven't read Dracula since high school."

"Me neither." Minnaloushe shook her head. "I have to admit, when I was fourteen the Count was top of the pops for me. Dark, handsome, good teeth. But I'm happy to say I've grown up and no longer require my men to be quite as exotic." She laughed and leaned over to high-five her sister.

He joined in their laughter, but he was slightly taken aback. Whereas he had difficulty remembering his phone number, these women apparently had word-perfect recall of entire paragraphs of text. From a book they hadn't read in years. Impressive… and weird.

From the bottle in Minnaloushe's hand came a satisfying squeak as she finally succeeded in removing the cork.

"Gabriel, wine?"

The wine bottle, he noticed, had no label. He sniffed suspiciously at the dark red liquid. "What's this?"

"Berry wine. It's Morrighan's brew."

He took a gingerly sip from his glass. It was unexpectedly wonderful. "I could get used to this." He took another swallow.

Minnaloushe smiled slowly. "Good. It's very healthy. It will build up your immune system. Make it part of your daily diet."

"Maybe I will." He drained the glass. The liquid left a red sediment circle at the bottom.

She nodded again, satisfied. "Another glass?"

"Why not?"

"To us." Minnaloushe smiled.

"To getting to know each other," Morrighan added. She squinted her eyes against the glare of sunshine. Her glass when it touched his pinged so pure it sounded like joy.

Good for your health it might be, but Morrighan's berry wine also packed a kick like a mule. When he got home Gabriel fell asleep in front of the TV. When he woke up it was to find himself slumped onto the sofa at a very uncomfortable angle, drool staining the cushion under his head. The TV was still on. The phone on the coffee table was ringing.

He glanced at his watch. 11:53 P.M. – Too late for a social call.

He clicked the mute button on the remote and picked up the receiver.

"Did I wake you?" Frankie's voice was so clear, it sounded as though she was standing right next to him.

"It's OK. What's up?"

"Nothing much." A long pause. "I just wanted to chat. I was wondering how you're doing."

He frowned. "I'm good. You?"

"I'm OK." But there was something in her voice that was off.

"What's wrong, Frankie? It's late. Why aren't you in bed?"

"I am in bed."

"Oh. And William?" Surely she wasn't calling him just for a chat with her husband lying next to her.

"He's sleeping. Since his illness started, he sleeps in his own room. He doesn't want to worry about disturbing me." A pause. "I was dead set against it, at first. But he insisted. And maybe it's easier for him that way."

"I'm sure." Gabriel wondered how much physical intimacy there still was between Frankie and her husband. He knew he shouldn't be speculating about something like that, but under the circumstances it was hard not to.

"Gabriel…"

"Yes?"

A long pause, so long he thought for a moment she was no longer on the line.

"Have you ever thought what it might have been like if…"

"If what?"

"If we had stayed together?"

He rubbed his forehead. "Of course I have." Not only that, he thought silently, but since she came back into his life, there were times when he had wondered if they might have a second chance. He hadn't felt good about it-it was as though he were wishing William Whittington dead. Which emphatically was not the case. But the fact of the matter was that Frankie would be a free woman again in the not so distant future.

A long, drawn-out sigh. Her voice muffled now. "I love William. With all my heart. I need you to believe that."

"I do, of course."

"But sometimes I can't help wondering… I'm sorry, I shouldn't be saying these things. And I shouldn't lay this on you. It's not fair."

"You know you can talk to me about anything."

"It's too soon, you know? He and I haven't had enough time together. And now that he's ill, he's withdrawing. He's already said good-bye. I can't reach him."

"Frankie, I'm so sorry."

"You, I could always reach. You were a bastard in many ways, but I knew what you were about."

"Well, thanks, I guess."

"I feel disloyal. Talking like this."

"We all need a shoulder to cry on."

"I know."

"Frankie…"

"Sorry I woke you." She was in a rush now. She was regretting calling him, Gabriel could tell.

He sighed. "Anytime."

He replaced the receiver and stared at the phone. Two weeks ago he would not have believed a conversation like this to be possible. Frankie opening up to him, talking about the past, reaching out. And two weeks ago, he would have been thrilled to receive this call. But now, he was not quite as excited as he would have expected, and he did not need a shrink to tell him why. For a moment he thought of the hapless Jonathan Harker on the verge of turning into neck candy for Count Dracula's brides. I closed my eyes in a languorous ecstasy and waited-waited with beating heart.

Oh, man. Why the hell did everything always have to be so complicated?

Complicated, of course, did not even begin to describe the situation in which he found himself.

In the eight weeks that followed he and Minnaloushe and Morrighan Monk became virtually inseparable. And as he got drawn deeper and deeper into the sisters' world, he was losing his ability to think about them with any kind of objectivity.

He knew they had an agenda. The diary made that crystal clear. Should it have kept him watchful? Undoubtedly. Did it? Hardly. The more time he spent in their company, the more difficult it was to keep up his defenses. This was a slow seduction. To be the object of attention of two extraordinary women was heady stuff.

And they were extraordinary. Even though he saw the sisters almost every day, and sometimes in the most mundane of situations-doing the laundry, or early in the morning still dressed in their bathrobes with hair mussed and lips pale-they remained exotic creatures, their ways mysterious. They were undoubtedly women of their time, but there was a twist to their thinking, which was not modern in the least. It was even evident in their immediate environment.

"Do you still use this?" he once asked Minnaloushe, pointing at the ivory-beaded abacus.

"Of course," she replied, as though astonished by the question.

And then there was their interest in alchemy. It carried with it a whiff of witchcraft, old dusty books and divine insanity.

He was starting to neglect his work. He had always worked as hard as he played, but the balance between the two was slipping. Every day saw him squiring Minnaloushe and Morrighan Monk around town. The two ladies made an impact wherever they went, and it was flattering to enter a room with a stunning woman on each arm. Everyone watching. He would feel pride and even a certain sense of possessive-ness. They're with me, he'd think, noticing the sidelong glances. I'm their guy.

But it wouldn't be the gala evenings, the polo matches or the dinners at restaurants he'd remember when later he thought back on those two months. What he would remember best were the evenings spent quietly at Monk House. Lovely long dusks in the darkening garden watching the humpbacked tree with its fiery petals turn to black; breathing in the fragrance of the star jasmine smothering the rows of trellis. At other times finding himself slouched in one of the creased leather armchairs in the living room, a glass of Morrighan's berry wine in his hand. Morrighan would be curled up in the peacock armchair, reading with fierce concentration. Perched on a high stool at the workbench was Minnaloushe, fairy-sized chisel in her hand, working on restoring a weathered mask.

There would always be something beautiful playing on the state-of-the-art Nakamichi music system. The sisters had a vast library of music, but their favorite piece was "Andante Cantabile," Tchaikovsky's String Quartet no. 1, opus 11. When later he remembered those long days of summer, he would always recall the bittersweet violin notes: a musical leitmotif running through their days like golden thread.

But he was leading a deeply schizophrenic existence.

To us. To getting to know each other. Except… their tight little group had a fourth member. Invisible but ever-present. When they filled their glasses with wine, he too would be at the table, raising his glass in a silent toast. When they were in the garden, soaking up the sunshine, he was stretching out his lanky legs to catch the rays, smiling a sweet uncomplicated smile, his eyes-those absurdly innocent eyes-crinkling at the corners.

Robert Whittington. Who had died screaming, his mind shattered.

On the surface Gabriel laughed with the sisters, flirted with them, teased them affectionately. But all the while, beneath that gleaming river of friendship lurked the knowledge that one of them was a killer.

He sometimes forgot that. Or maybe he simply didn't want to think about it. One of these women walked through his dreams every night. The bizarre fact that he didn't have a clue as to which of the two women she was meant he did not want either one of the sisters to be guilty.

He had thought it inevitable that he would be able to put face to voice as he got to know both sisters better, but as each day passed, the identity of the diary's owner remained tantalizingly elusive.

Minnaloushe, despite her warmth and copious charm, had an opaque quality about her. She made him think of smoke on water. Of mist, fog and hidden places. Her femininity was full on. The long golden red hair cascading over her cheekbones, the full breasts and rounded hips and the generous gypsy mouth were elementally female.

Morrighan's personality was less diffuse. Everything about her seemed pure and clear-cut. Her features were as elegant as a profile on a Grecian urn. The black of her hair so black it gleamed blue with a midnight sheen. The white of her eyes so white it looked almost artificial. She carried herself with feline grace. You had the impression that what she wanted from life-and from love-she took. No hesitation.

With Minnaloushe you were aware of a slow, throbbing erotic energy. He recalled one of the diary entries: I am addicted to experiencing love with all my senses open. Surely the voice in the diary must belong to Minnaloushe.

hove is extreme sport. It exercises the muscle of the mind with the same intensity as climbing a mountain exercises the muscle of the heart. And it is just as dangerous. Was the voice Morrighan's?

Each day Gabriel watched the sisters: evaluating their behavior, trying to match it to the template of the diary's enigmatic text. If he watched closely enough, maybe he would get lucky. All he needed was one giveaway gesture; one word to betray her true identity.

It did not occur to him that his search for the diary's owner had taken precedence over his quest to find Robert Whittington's killer. He told himself the two goals were inseparable. Once the identity of the writer was established, the identity of the mysterious M she referred to in her pages would also be revealed. And he would have found his killer.

The possibility that the diary's writer might be the killer herself was a possibility he simply refused to consider.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

There was another way in which the identity of the killer could be established, Gabriel knew. The answer might lie in the mysterious file The Promethean Key. And so, within days of escorting the sisters to Romeo and Juliet, he had made sure to retrieve the tiny electronic spy he had installed inside their keyboard.

Isidore was much relieved. The logger's rightful owner-a wizard named Aaron-had the brain of a techno nerd but the arms of a cage fighter. Messing with him was to be avoided. But before returning the logger to its owner, Isidore analyzed the keystrokes it contained.

He called Gabriel with the password the very next day.

"The password to The Promethean Key is a name: Hermes Trismegistus. T-r-i-s-m-e-g-i-s-t-u-s."

Gabriel wrote the words down carefully. "That's a mouthful."

"Now that you have the password you can take a peek at that file, bro. Just make sure they don't catch you at it."

"I'll do it as soon as I can."

At the time, when he said those words, he meant them. But as the days passed, he kept putting it off. To be fair, the perfect opportunity to access the Mac did not immediately present itself. But when he finally got his chance, he did not take it.

It was a Saturday afternoon. He was in the kitchen slicing up a lemon to add to some freshly made granita. Minnaloushe and Morrighan were in the garden, sharing a hammock, balancing it between them effortlessly. He had been sent inside by Minnaloushe to find her something to drink.

After slicing up the lemon, he took the jug with granita from the fridge and poured the mixture into a tall glass. As he replaced the jug, he paused.

The door of the fridge was covered with photographs drooping lopsidedly from colored magnets. Many of the snapshots were of himself. There he was, looking decidedly goofy doing an Ali G impersonation. Man, that was embarrassing. He must have had way too much to drink that night. But in all these pictures he looked amazingly carefree, he thought. Happy.

Just as Robert Whittington had looked happy.

He frowned, remembering the photographs of the boy tacked to the wall in the bedroom upstairs. He wondered if they were still there. After that first clandestine visit to Monk House, he had not had the opportunity to visit the top floor again. Certain things were still off-limits to him despite his friendship with the women. Bedrooms were definitely out of bounds. Sadly so.

He picked up the glass and headed out of the kitchen. As he walked through the living room, his eye fell on the Macintosh. The screen saver was on, the woman with the flowing hair and swirling robe smiling gently at the exploding sun waxing and waning in her hands.

He stopped. The ice cubes inside the glass tinkled lightly.

Through the slatted shutters he could see the hammock and its two occupants. Morrighan had covered her face with her hat and seemed to be napping. Minnaloushe was reading her magazine.

He looked back at the machine. All that was needed was for him to type in the password. Open the file. Steal one of the spare CDs in that plastic holding case over there and download the data.

Easy.

So do it.

He was dimly aware of a trapped bumble bee desperately buzzing against the windowpane. In his glass box on the shelf above the computer, Goliath stirred, long legs moving restlessly.

He waited, his mind oddly blank. Inside his chest a sick feeling.

The contents of that file could tell him who Robert's murderer was.

Do it.

Teardrops of condensation were forming on the sides of the glass. His hand was wet.

He transferred the glass from one hand to the other and wiped his hand dry on his pants. Pushing the French doors wide, he walked back into the heat of the garden.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

At about this time Gabriel started having the dream.

He was in the portal. The room in which Robert Whittington had opened a door and discovered madness. And even though he had come to know it well, each time he entered the vast circular space, the sense of awe was as sharp as though he was seeing it for the first time. The blinding light illuminating the dome. The massive concentric stone walls covered with symbols. The feeling that he was entering sacred space.

At this point in the time line of the dream Gabriel would be happy, a sense of expectation lifting his heart. If only the dream stopped there, but it never did.

The door. The door that was open a crack. He knew he should keep his distance. He knew what was lurking behind it. Pain and an avalanche of images and sounds that would crush his mind to pulp.

He was sweating. Turn away. Turn away. But he kept moving forward, his fingers reaching for the door.

He had once read that dreams could be harbingers of what was waiting down the road. Patients dreaming about mutilation and death have been shown to have serious health problems. And the more nightmarish their dreams became, the more their condition had worsened, even though they might not even have been aware of their illness. Progression in the dream mirrored progression in the disease.

Gabriel's dream was also progressing. Every time, he knew he was one step closer to opening the door. With every installment he was moving closer to that moment when his ringers would not just reach for the door but open it fully.

But if his dream life was progressing, the same could not be said for his waking life. He was still no closer to identifying the siren voice who kept him in a state of invisible intimacy. It sometimes felt to him as though she was engaged in a game of cruel, perpetual arousal. Here I am, she seemed to say. You may look, but you can't touch.

It was driving him crazy.

Last night in bed I thought of G. I fantasized. Touch me here, I said and placed his hand against my breast. And here, and I guided his fingers between my legs.

He read her words-cool black against white-and his body was sweating and restless and he ached with wanting to know who she was.

"Who would you like it to be?" Isidore asked him.

"What do you mean?"

"If you had a choice," Isidore asked, half-serious, half-mocking, "who would you like your mysterious anima figure to be? Minnaloushe or Morrighan?"

But to that question he was unable to give a straight answer. "I would like it to be the one who did not murder Robert Whittington, that's who."

"So you admit the writer of the diary could be the guilty one. The last time we talked you said it could never be."

"I still think that… most of the time."

"You haven't answered my question. If you had to choose between Minnaloushe and Morrighan-who would you choose?"

"I don't know."

"You can't like both of them equally, Gabe. Come on. Go with your gut."

"Isidore-I don't know."

"What do you like most about Minnaloushe?"

"Her warmth. Her sense of play."

"And Morrighan?"

"Morrighan… Morrighan is intrepid."

"OK. Let's try this. If you had to live on a desert island for the rest of your life-who would you rather want to be with?"

In his mind came an image of Minnaloushe, stretching lazily like a cat, curling up in the sunshine that is striking the padded window seat where she is sitting. The hair at her temple is gold and her eyes are turquoise flecked with bronze. Her breasts are full and heavy underneath the silk blouse. She catches him looking at her and strikes an exaggerated pose-a model performing for the camera-before blowing him a kiss.

But even as he smiled at the memory, another memory came crowding in. Morrighan drying her hair, her forearms pearling with drops of water after her shower. Her robe is clinging to the dampness of her skin, accentuating the lovely V of her back. The robe is thin and the light such that he can see the outline of her narrow hips, a shadow between the long legs. She combs her hair with bowed head and catches a glimpse of him through the triangle of her arm. She smiles-the delighted smile of a woman who knows she is being admired.

He sighed. "I can't choose. It's too hard."

"You know you're playing with fire."

"I know."

"You've got balls of steel, my friend. And even if your diary writer isn't the murderer, she must have known what her sister was up to. They're close, those two."

Yes, they were close, Gabriel thought, but it was a closeness that was not trouble-free.

M's arrogance. That pure, bright arrogance that burns within her like a flaming sword.

The diary had exposed a relationship that was a tangled bond of affection and aversion. In fact, the writer's feelings for her sister sometimes seemed to vacillate between extreme admiration and outright hostility.

I am in awe of M. Her thoughts are like hammer blows. Powerful enough to crack the world wide open.

Another entry: Sometimes I cannot abide it. I look at M and my skin starts itching as if from a toxic rash. Her obsession is like a growth sucking

all the oxygen from the air. I feel strangled. 1 feel like screaming at her, over and over again: Stop! Stop! Stop!

But it wasn't only the diary that told him that not everything was smooth sailing between the sisters.

"She can get anyone to do anything she wants." Morrighan's voice was casual, as though she were mentioning some trivial fact of no real importance.

Gabriel turned toward her, surprised. She caught his glance and smiled faintly. "You can't blame me for being envious. Minnaloushe has always been able to twist people around her little finger. And once she wants something from you, she won't stop until she gets it."

He felt awkward.

"Minnaloushe is beautiful, Gabriel. Don't you think so?"

"Morrighan, you're beautiful too."

"I know," she said without any pretense at mock modesty. "But I don't have her charm. That devastating charm. She can make you follow her into a burning house." And her voice was no longer casual.

The rivalry wasn't one-sided. Once, quite by chance, he had pulled a photo album from one of the bookshelves at Monk House. It contained newspaper clippings and photographs of Morrighan's more adventurous exploits. Morrighan skydiving. Morrighan free climbing. Morrighan picketing outside a nuclear facility in the Ukraine, confronted by baton-wielding security guards with menacing shoulders. As he paged through the album, fascinated, he was joined by Minnaloushe. She looked over his shoulder and watched in silence as he turned the leaves.

"Your sister leads quite a life."

"Yes. I envy her."

"Envy?"

"I envy Morrighan her fearlessness. Look at this picture." Minnaloushe tapped against a black-and-white close-up photograph. Morrighan's head was thrown back and her face was sooty. Her hair lay sweatily against her forehead. Across one cheekbone was a clotted scratch. Her eyes were challenging, but there was a smile on her lips. The overall impression was piratical.

"When was this taken?" he asked. "What was she doing?"

"God knows. I can't remember. Something that required guts and a total disregard for safety, you can be sure of that." She sighed. "I am convinced that in a previous life Morrighan was a great warrior who led armies into the night. Or maybe a Joan of Arc. I can see her embracing the pain."

"And you?"

"Me? I'm feckless." She repeated the word as though she liked the feel of it on her tongue. "Feckless."

Sometimes the fault lines in their relationship erupted into open warfare.

He was taking a nap outside in the garden when he woke suddenly feeling inexplicably anxious. It was as though someone had shouted into his ear only a moment before. But when he looked around him, there was no one.

He tipped himself out of the hammock and started walking toward the house. As he approached the French doors, he could see the two sisters inside the living room. They were facing each other. There was something about the way they held themselves-the rigidity in Minnaloushe's shoulders, the jut of Morrighan's chin-that made him slow his steps.

"You did it on purpose." Minnaloushe's voice was hard, accusing.

"No."

"Yes. You knew it would upset me."

Morrighan made a sharp, disgusted noise. "I know you find this hard to believe, Minnaloushe, but the idea of what you like and might not like does not always occupy my mind. You think the world revolves around you. It doesn't."

"Sometimes…" Minnaloushe's voice was now trembling. "Sometimes I think I should leave this house."

"And sometimes you're so childish I can't stand it."

He shouldn't be witnessing this, Gabriel thought. He should get the hell out. He took a long step backward, trying to be as quiet as possible.

But at that moment, Minnaloushe turned her head sharply in his direction. Even though it had not been his intention to eavesdrop, Gabriel felt embarrassed.

Her lovely face was flushed and her eyes very bright. For a second it looked as though she might say something, but instead she turned on her heel. Back held ramrod straight, she walked-stalked would probably be the better description-in the direction of the dining room and disappeared from sight. Another few moments and they heard the door to the kitchen slam shut with tremendous force. ›

Silence. It was as though the entire house were in shock.

Gabriel looked at Morrighan. As she caught his glance, she smiled wryly. She turned her palms upward. "Sorry about that."

He stepped gingerly into the room. "That's OK. Sorry I interrupted."

"No. It's just as well. We might have ended up saying things to each other that would have poisoned the atmosphere for days." Morrighan looked tired. Her eyes were shadowed.

"Have you guys ever thought of living apart?" he asked, his mind on Minnaloushe's last words.

"Oh, yes. I often think the best thing would be for us to go our separate ways."

"So why don't you?"

"It's complicated. We need each other. And neither one of us wants to leave this house."

She brought her hand up to the pendant dangling from her neck. He had seen her do this before, as though she derived strength from it. It was the pendant in the shape of the letter M.

He watched as she twirled the silver chain around her finger. She had lovely hands with graceful fingers. The nails were unvarnished and cut short.

"My mother gave me this," she told Gabriel, noticing his interest.

"Minnaloushe has one too, doesn't she?"

"Yes. Mum gave them to us at the same time. I was sixteen. Minnaloushe a year younger. Six months later my mother wasn't able to recognize us. She suffered from Alzheimer's."

"I'm sorry. That must have been hard."

"It was horror. It is the most primal of all fears, I think-the fear that your mother will forget you."

"I'm sorry," he repeated.

"It was because of my mother's condition that Minnaloushe became interested in the subject of memory. She did her Ph.D. on that topic, you know."

"Yes, I know."

"I think it helped her come to terms with the dreadfulness of it all."

"And you?"

"I wept," she said simply. "I wept for a long time." She paused. "I still weep."

For once her face was unguarded, the habitual expression of cool amusement gone. Morrighan did not like to appear vulnerable. This was the first time she had opened up to him in this way.

Gabriel touched her hand in sympathy. Her fingers twitched underneath his, and as he looked into her eyes, her pupils swelled.

His breath caught.

Morrighan's eyes went past his shoulder. He turned around.

Minnaloushe was standing in the door, smiling at them. Her smile included her sister-a clear sign that hostilities had ceased.

"Sorry, sis."

Morrighan sighed. "Me too. Sorry."

Minnaloushe looked at Gabriel. "If we promise to behave, will you stay for dinner?"

He hesitated.

"Please?"

He relaxed. "Thanks. I'd love to."

"Good." She linked her arm through his and dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Because this morning I baked my magic chocolate cake for dessert."

"Magic?"

"Sure. Eat it and you'll become smart, sexy and psychic."

"I thought I was all of that already."

"And modest," Morrighan added, taking hold of his other arm. "Did she mention modest?"

He joined in their laughter, the discomfort of having been a witness to their argument receding from his mind. Placing an arm around the waist of each, he drew them toward him. Still laughing, the three of them walked side by side into the garden, where twilight was turning a blue sky pink.

Later that night, after he had returned to his own apartment, he logged on to the diary.

When G placed his hand on the small of my back today, my whole body reacted. I wonder if he noticed. I could feel my skin flush, sweat in my armpits. My legs becoming weak- His fingers were touching that exact spot, where a man places his hand when he guides a woman in a dance, inviting her-oh so gently, but oh so insistently-to follow his lead. And as in a dance I wanted him to lean into me. To feel the muscles straining in his thighs. To feel my hips moving to his rhythm. Sexual desire inflamed, but kept at bay by the formality of the steps.

I could see M watching me. And it wasn't just because of our argument today. I know she senses my attraction to G. Is she worried that I will falter and not give him his name? Or is she jealous?

But I can't help myself. I think about it too often. What it would be like to taste his mouth. What it would feel like to have him lying heavy and spent on top of me, to have him- crush me beneath his weight.

Gabriel got up and walked onto the balcony, his hands gripping the railing hard. His heart was beating as though he had run a hundred-meter sprint. He stared into the light washed darkness.

My love. Who are you?

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Gabriel suppressed a sigh as he looked at the yoga teacher, who was once again wearing his polka-dot poncho. He had spent a lot of time on this guy, but it didn't look as though he was going to get anything worthwhile out of the man. Frankly, he was losing enthusiasm for the project. Ariel was not the most exciting conversationalist, and getting up at the crack of dawn every Tuesday was getting to be tiresome. As usual he had spent a late night with the sisters. Setting the alarm for six this morning had been a heroic act. Maybe he should terminate the project today. Pity, though. He'd really thought this one would come through.

The yoga teacher was moaning about having a lot of pressure at work. Gabriel was listening with one ear, not really paying attention. He wondered whether he had any Neurofens in his locker. He had a headache-he really should start watching his consumption of Morrighan's berry wine. He was getting a wee bit too fond of a dram every night.

"Sorry?" He focused fully on the yoga teacher. "What was that you just said?"

"I said, the company I work for is now providing live network jacks inside the cafeteria, so employees can access the corporate network while they're having lunch. How diabolical is that? They're putting pressure on us to work while we eat. You can't even have a sandwich in peace anymore."

Bingo. Gabriel stared at the man. "Live jacks," he repeated slowly.

"Yes. Don't you think that is putting pressure on employees to continue working during their downtime? Quite disgraceful."

"Yeah. Disgraceful." Gabriel nodded. His brain was working furiously. He had always known that in order to crack the code at LEVELEX, he would have to break into the premises. But LEVELEX hired guards who looked like marines and the premises were pretty much burglarproof. Except for the cafeteria. The cafeteria was in a low-level security sector of the building. Which made sense: nothing much of value there. But for those live jacks. All he would have to do was find his way to the food hall, which would not be guarded. Once there, he could plug in an Ethernet cable from his laptop to the wall jack. And then… rich pickings.

He looked at Ariel and wondered how he would react if he was told that by sharing this one tiny detail of his job-which he probably didn't even think was confidential-he had exposed his company to a deep hack. Way to go, Blackstone. He knew he'd hit the jackpot at some point.

All that was left now was to get Isidore on board.

Isidore was uncharacteristically irritable.

"So where's the report? You promised me you'd finish the analysis last night. So where is it?"

Gabriel's head was aching. After he had left the yoga teacher he had popped two Neurofens, but in the battle between berry wine and drugs, berry wine was winning hands down.

He squinted at his friend. "Why are you in such a good mood, Sunshine?"

"I mean it, Gabe. This isn't fair. You're playing Casanova and I'm working overtime. You knocked off early yesterday and you promised me the analysis this morning. Actually, you promised it to me two weeks ago already. So what's the plan? Do you even have one?"

Gabriel sat down heavily in Isidore's hideous pumpkin-colored velour armchair. He really did feel fragile. Being lectured to was not what he needed right now.

Isidore moved a stack of books from one end of his desk to another. His movements were abrupt and he slammed the books onto the desk with a bang that reverberated inside Gabriel's head.

"I've decided that we should terminate the LEVELEX project." Isidore's voice was firm. "I'm spending way too many hours on it and it's an impossible hack. I know you like the money, but we're giving the advance back."

Whoa. Gabriel sat up straight. "Don't do that, Is. I'm working on it."

"If I can't crack it, you won't be able to either." Isidore's voice was matter-of-fact.

Gabriel sighed. It was true, of course. Isidore was the master.

"I'm not talking about a hack. I have found another way in."

"Yeah? How?"

Gabriel hesitated.

"Oh, shit. No!" Isidore's voice rose. "Don't tell me you're grooming someone inside the company? "

"Isidore, calm down. The guy won't lose his job. And he doesn't even know about it."

"That is not the point. Dammit, Gabe. You know how I feel about social engineering."

"First you accuse me of not pulling my weight, and then when I come up with a solution to a problem you can't fix, you crap on it."

"Gabriel, I'm not your handmaiden, OK? I have a say in the running of the business as well. And I'm telling you, no. Manipulating people is not an option."

Gabriel flushed at the contempt in Isidore's voice. "Don't be so bloody squeamish. This is the real world-get it? And you're not the one getting your hands dirty. Go play with your little friends in Dreadshine. Leave the hard stuff to me."

For a moment they glared at each other. Before either one could speak again, the front door buzzer sounded.

Without asking who it was, Isidore placed his finger on the release button. Downstairs a door opened and slammed shut.

Gabriel frowned. "Who is it?"

"Frankie," Isidore answered briefly. "I've asked her to come over."

Shit. Gabriel cringed. He had been avoiding Frankie over the last couple of weeks, dodging her phone calls, leaving noncommittal e-mail and text messages. Obviously, a showdown was in the cards today.

Light steps sounded on the stairs, and the next moment Frankie entered the room. She was dressed in gym clothes and sneakers. Her hair was windblown and there was a lovely color in her cheeks. She looked vital and glowing. It made him feel even more decrepit.

"Hey you," she said, her voice friendly, and leaned over to give Isidore a kiss. Turning, she looked at Gabriel, a withering expression on her face.

"Well," she said. One word only, but it dropped the emotional temperature in the room by several degrees.

"Hi," he said feebly.

For a few agonizingly long moments there was quiet between them.

Isidore pushed a chair toward Frankie. "Maybe you should sit down."

"Thanks," she said without taking her eyes off Gabriel's face.

Silence again.

"What's up, Gabriel?" Frankie's voice was deceptively soft.

"I don't understand what you mean." He knew he sounded defensive.

"You've completely forgotten about Robbie."

He pressed his hands against his temples. "That's not true."

"Oh, really." This was Isidore, the traitor. "So why haven't you accessed The Promethean Key yet? I gave you the password for that computer weeks ago. You must have had plenty of opportunities by now."

Gabriel sent Isidore a bitter look.

"OK," Frankie said. "Forget about the computer, for a moment. You've been around the sisters a lot. By this time you should know who the remote viewer is. And if you know the identity of the remote viewer, you have a pretty good idea who the killer is."

He stirred himself. "I don't, Frankie. I didn't want to risk scanning either one of them and tipping the viewer off. And she hasn't tried to scan me again."

"Are you sure? Are you sure you'd know if she tried to access you?"

"For goodness' sake. Give me some credit. Of course I'd know."

Frankie's voice was tight. "Why have you been avoiding me, Gabriel? Is it because of the phone call I made that night? Did it scare you so badly?"

Isidore's embarrassment was palpable. "Maybe I should give you guys some privacy." Frankie waited until he had closed the door behind him.

"Was it the phone call? I was needy that night, I know."

"It's not the phone call."

"So it's the sisters."

The silence this time was stretched excruciatingly tight, like a rubber band refusing to snap.

"You're besotted with them, aren't you? Like Robbie was."

He didn't answer.

"Gabriel… what's wrong with you? One of them is a killer. And the other one probably helped her."

"You don't know that."

"What I know is that they're poison. And you're dying a slow death."

"Frankie, please. It's too early in the morning for melodrama."

"I should have known. I should have known you wouldn't be able to stay the course. You've never been a long distance runner. Not at Eyestorm and not now."

His face burned. "I don't need to listen to this." He got to his feet.

"Gabriel, don't go. We have to talk."

"I'm finished talking."

As he walked past her, she said something, her voice low.

"Please don't disappoint me. Not again."

He slammed out of Isidore's house in a foul mood. So this is what happens when you try to help someone, he thought. No good deed goes unpunished. He should have stayed the hell away from Frankie and her missing stepson.

Except… he would not have met the two most fascinating women he had ever encountered in his life.

A taxi, its light on, was coming toward him and he lifted his hand. "13 Drake Street," he told the cabdriver. "Chelsea."

It was Morrighan who opened the door for him at Monk House.

"Gabriel. What a lovely surprise. I wasn't expecting you before tonight."

"Sorry. Am I interrupting?"

"Not at all. Come on in. Minnaloushe isn't here so you'll have to make do with me, I'm afraid."

As he stepped into the house, he felt his mood lighten. The house was quiet and peaceful. The scent of flowers was everywhere. He followed Morrighan into the kitchen and sat down on one of the chairs.

"Can I make you some tea?"

"No thanks. You get on with whatever you were doing."

"I'm taking inventory," she said, turning toward the pine table with the chemistry equipment. "It's long overdue. I've been lazy."

She started counting a number of tiny brown bags and plastic tubs. Muttering something to herself, she paused and made a note in a book, which lay open on the table.

"Are you OK?" She flicked him a glance.

"Of course."

"You seemed a little agitated when you arrived."

"No, I'm fine."

"OK," she said amiably and turned toward the table again.

Gabriel watched as she picked up a vial, squinting at the contents. Her movements were sure and practiced.

"So who's the alchemist here-you or Minnaloushe?"

"The laboratory is mostly my baby. But we're both interested in alchemy. I tend to go for a hands-on approach whereas Minnaloushe's interest in the subject is more cerebral." She pursed her lips. "The thinker and the doer. As always."

He leaned back in the chair. He was starting to relax. The argument with Isidore and Frankie suddenly seemed of little importance. All that mattered was that he was here, in Monk House with a lovely, fascinating woman who was happy to have his company. What more could he ask for?

Morrighan was wearing a strappy lacy top. Her black hair fell cloudlike over her shoulders. She was beautiful. He suddenly wondered what it would be like to scoop the hair away from her face, to press his lips against the soft skin at the side of her neck…

Manfully he turned his eyes away to study the framed prints on the wall. Not that these prints were designed to make one think of higher things. They seemed to focus on pretty primal emotions. Naked figures hugging, touching fingertips to one another, dancing with pagan abandon in front of bubbling cauldrons. Flames, heat, sweat.

"Smell this." Morrighan held a small tub out at him.

He took a cautious sniff. "Is this perfume?"

"Yes. But solid perfume. You rub it on, you don't spray it on. We're thinking of selling it along with our other stuff. Do you like it?"

He wasn't quite sure. The scent was wild and woody and for some reason made him feel strangely anxious. But it was certainly distinctive.

"I made this perfume according to alchemical principles. Separate and reassemble. See." She lifted her brows. "Alchemy can have quite pedestrian uses as well."

He gestured at the liquid vials and the prints. "You have to admit, all of this looks very hocus-pocus."

"You don't believe in magic?" Her tone of voice was the same as if she had said, You don't believe the earth is round? Surprised incredulity.

"I can't say I do."

"Nothing has ever happened to you that can't be explained by the laws of physics?"

Slamming a ride probably qualified, he thought. But remote viewing was free from incantations and spells and he had never picked up even a hint of sulfur.

He shrugged. "I suppose there are things that can't be explained yet, but which will be in future. I don't think alchemy qualifies. It has already been discredited."

Morrighan shook her head firmly. "Alchemy used to be a highly respected discipline. And many of the great figures of deductive science who openly ridiculed alchemy were actually closet alchemists themselves. Copernicus, Kepler, Bacon. Even Newton tried to discover the secrets of the philosopher's stone. Some of the alchemists who practiced during the Middle Ages and Renaissance were responsible for breakthrough discoveries in metallurgy, chemistry and medicine. Just think of Paracelsus."

"Who he?"

She frowned at his irreverence. "He introduced chemical compounds into medicine and described zinc. He was one of history's greatest physicians and could heal gangrenous limbs, syphilis and ulcers." She grinned. "He even practiced an early form of homeopathy, treating plague victims with tiny amounts of their own feces."

"Innovative."

"I thought you'd be impressed." She turned around and gestured at the bottles and jars on the table. "I use many of his techniques when making my lotions and drinks." She caught the expression on his face. "Excrement-free, don't worry."

"Well, the guy sounds like a lateral thinker, I'll give you that."

"And a courageous one. To be a practicing alchemist was very dangerous in those times. They met with very sticky ends." She paused, frowned again. "No, wrong metaphor. They met with very dusty ends. Corpus kaput. They were usually burned at the stake. Like Bruno here." She bent down and stroked the head of the cat, which was rubbing itself against her legs. "Isn't that so, my sweetest sweetheart?"

Gabriel looked on dispassionately. He and the cat had achieved a kind of armed truce. They still disliked each other intensely, but in deference to the ladies they tried not to give in to their mutual animosity. But whenever he entered the room, Bruno's tail would start swishing as though animated by an electric current. Minnaloushe and Morrighan thought it very funny.

Morrighan looked up at him. "You know that Bruno here was named after Giordano Bruno?"

"Yes. Minnaloushe told me. She said he was a magician."

"Most alchemists were, and we're not talking card tricks. These men were adepts. And very, very powerful."

He shrugged. "Well, if they were able to turn lead into gold, they have my vote."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" She smiled wryly. "But that's not what alchemy was really about. Material transmutation was only one part of it. Alchemy is really the transformation of the spirit into a higher form of consciousness. Enlightenment. Coming face-to-face with God and discovering his motivations for creating the universe and your own place within it. Don't you think that is a far greater secret than knowing how to exchange one metal for another?"

"Will you hate me if I say I'd still rather settle for the gold?"

She sighed. "You're a barbarian."

"It's the world we live in. It's all about money and things which can be measured, perceived and weighed."

"Oh, no," she said. "That's not the world we live in at all. Why," she placed one hand on her breast in a strangely ecstatic gesture, "don't you realize… the world is imagination. The world is magic."

His eyes were drawn to her hand. Her fingers were touching the tattoo of the Monas on her breast: the rose and its enigmatic sign inked into breathtakingly creamy skin. A deeply erotic bruise.

She lowered her hand. "Alchemy is fascinating."

He swallowed. "I'm beginning to think it might be."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

He was supposed to spend the day with Isidore mining the latest data they had collected on the Pittypats project, but Gabriel did not feel like facing Isidore after the verbal punch-up of the previous day. His friend's self-righteous anger was more than he could deal with right now. And so, instead of heading to Smithfield, he found himself escorting Minnaloushe to a bookstore in North London.

Minnaloushe pulled a footstool toward her and stepped onto it. Extending her arm to its fullest reach, she began to worry two books from a shelf almost out of reach. As he watched, her top rode up to reveal the base of her spine and the Monas in all its delicate intricacy.

It was amazing what a visual punch a few inches of bare skin could deliver, he thought. And how fortunate that he should have the privilege twice in as many days.

She looked over her shoulder and caught him looking. "Hey, you." She handed him the book. "Stop drooling and take this. And no peeping up my blouse."

He smiled. "Sweetpea, I've seen it all before. Remember? And much more besides."

She grinned. "So you have. OK. Take a good look." And without any self-consciousness, she lifted her top and bent over forward, her hair cascading in front of her face like a waterfall. On the other side of the room a studious-looking young man stared at her and dropped his book. He looked as though someone had hit him over the head, leaving him severely concussed. When he saw Gabriel looking at him, he picked up his book abruptly and started reading again. Maybe he was concussed after all. The book was upside down.

Gabriel touched the tattoo lightly. "Very nice."

She straightened and gave him a wicked smile. "It is, isn't it?"

"I noticed Morrighan has one too."

"We had them done on the same day."

"So what does it mean? Make peace not war? Ban the bomb?"

"Oh, please. Give us credit for a little originality. It represents the unity of the cosmos."

"How Age of Aquarius."

She swatted his arm. "It was designed in the sixteenth century by a magus, no less. A certain John Dee. His personal diaries are kept at your old alma mater: in the Bodleian Library at Oxford. What's really cool, though, is that he's an ancestor of mine."

"Great."

She put her head to one side. "You don't look nearly impressed enough."

"No, I am. Really. Very cool." But something about what she'd just said was bothering him. If only he could put his finger on what it was.

She was now reading from one of the books she had taken from the shelf and her face was assuming a mask of concentration. It made her look almost stern. He had noticed this about her before. There would be something in her eyes, or the set of her mouth, that-for just a moment-would give him pause. It made him wonder what lurked beneath the playfulness, the femininity, which he associated with her so strongly. There was another side to her that was cool and watchful and determined.

He looked away, his eyes traveling over the rows of books packed murderously tight on the long shelves. At the far end of the room the store clerk was writing something on a blackboard. She was slim and had a delicately oval face with brown hair springing from her forehead in a widow's peak. Just like Frankie. Frankie, who had looked at him yesterday with disappointment. Her face etched with strain.

No. He shut his mind deliberately to the image. He wasn't going to allow himself a guilt trip. He had nothing to feel guilty about.

Minnaloushe replaced the first book she had taken off the shelf and opened the second one. He was standing slightly behind and to the side of her and was able to catch a glimpse of the contents of the book as she riffled through the pages. They appeared to be rilled with watercolors but the scenes they depicted were not exactly pastoral. Fire seemed to be the prevailing motif. And caught in the flames were women in flowing robes, their bodies writhing in anguish but their faces eerily serene. It was rather shocking.

"Witches." Minnaloushe's voice was dispassionate. She hadn't looked up from the book in her hands, but she must have sensed his reaction. "Or rather, women perceived to be witches."

"Perceived by whom?"

"Oh, men. Men scared by the idea of women wanting to know the great secrets. Scared of other things too. Like female sexuality." She slammed the book shut. "Do you know how they used to test for witches?"

He shook his head.

"They'd throw the woman in a river with weights tied to her feet. If she sank, she was innocent. If she floated, she was a witch. Or they'd throw her off a high cliff to see if she could fly. In many seventeenth-century records of English witchcraft trials you'll find the words 'not guilty, no flying.' Which means, of course, that these women literally had to die in order to prove their innocence."

She stepped onto the stool again and pushed the thick tome back into place. It was much bigger than the other books on the shelf and stuck out awkwardly.

As they stepped through the wide doors that would lead them to the outside, he looked back. Even from this far away he was still able to see the black leather book with its spine jutting out like an accusing finger.

But it was sunny outside, and the uneasiness he had felt inside the bookstore was dissipating. It was lunchtime and they bought sandwiches from Marks & Spencer to eat in Regent's Park. From her capacious bag, Minnaloushe also extracted a bottle and two plastic cups.

"I came prepared," she said, grinning at him.

"Morrighan's?"

"Of course. Drink up. Good for you."

They ate slowly and in silence. Across from them an exhibitionist type was taking off his shirt and oiling himself. Gabriel had to admit he had an imposing physique: all coiled muscles and rock-hard abs. And he had the I'm-so-cool-can-you-stand-it look down pat. Minnaloushe was staring unashamedly.

She glanced over at Gabriel and caught his sardonic smile. "He's cute," she admitted.

"I could tell from your expression."

"But he's still a baby. It will take another ten years or so before he's interesting. Men don't become worth your while until they're in their thirties."

"At least I make the cut, then."

"Well, it's not automatic with all men, you know."

"Right."

"With women, of course, it's different. Women are born interesting." She dimpled again and flopped down flat onto the grass.

He poured some more wine into his cup, watching her. She was lying, arms spread-eagled, eyes closed. Hair like Spanish moss. Was this his love? he wondered for the hundredth time. Are you the girl who can hear the sun set? Who likes to dive to the bottom of an ocean where the floor is made of glass and where fish get lost on purpose?

What if he simply asked her? "Minnaloushe, I've been snooping on you and your sister. I think one of you is a killer. But the other one writes the most intriguing diary and I've fallen in love with her. Is it you?"

If only it were that easy.

She opened her eyes. "What are you thinking?"

He reached out a languid hand and picked up a strand of silky soft hair.

"Minnaloushe. Such a pretty name. It suits you. It's very feminine."

She smiled gently, amused. "That's very sweet of you. But it's actually a man's name."

"No…"

"Yes. From the Yeats poem about a cat. Black Minnaloushe who wanders and wails, his pupils changing from round to crescent, his blood troubled by the pure cold light of the moon. It was my father's favorite poem. He desperately wanted a boy after Morrighan and had the name all picked out. But he got me instead. Big disappointment. I got stuck with the name anyway. It could have been worse, I suppose. He could have had his heart set on Cuchulainn." She laughed and pushed herself into a sitting position.

"And Morrighan? That's unusual too."

"Irish again, what do you know? From Irish mythology this time. My mum was from Galway."

"So you're half-Irish."

"Oh yes. Descended from fairies and pixies and beautiful witches."

"And the great John Dee."

"Yet another wizard." She stood up and brushed herself down. "It's getting late. Morrighan will be waiting."

It was only when they arrived back at Monk House that he realized what had bothered him earlier that day when they had talked about John Dee. Dee's diaries could be found at the Bodleian Library, she had said. At Gabriel's old alma mater. Except he had never told her he had been to Oxford. So the sisters had made some inquiries about him. Which meant they probably knew about Eye-storm as well. Of course, they already knew he was a remote viewer, but Eyestorm was not something he wanted to share. He supposed he should have expected that they would check up on him, but it still made him feel unsettled.

"Gabriel?"

He looked up to see Minnaloushe holding the door open for him. "Aren't you coming inside for a drink?"

He hesitated. For the first time he was reluctant to enter. It was as if some interior seismograph were warning him of danger ahead. If he wanted to evade it, he should flee now.

The moment passed. Inside the house a light came on and a moving shadow appeared against the lace curtains. Morrighan, engaged in some or other task.

He was suddenly tired and aware only of how pleasant it would be to pour himself a drink and to stretch out on the sofa in the cool, high-ceilinged living room with its scent of roses.

"Yes," he said, "I'm coming."

That night he dreamt. It was the old familiar dream of the portal but with a difference this time. One moment he was still inside the vast circular space with its symbol-clad walls, approaching the door, which was pulling him like a magnet. As always he was sweating, shivering in anticipation of the moment when the door would open fully.

And then suddenly he was not alone. A woman was standing with her back to him. Her hair was swept up underneath her broad-brimmed hat. She turned around and he saw it was Minnaloushe. In one hand she held a large Black leather volume. In the other she was holding a wineglass filled with liquid that sparkled like the magic potion in a comic book. "Here," she said holding the glass out at him. "Drink up. Good for you." But as he stretched out his hand to take the glass from her, she suddenly burst into flame, the fire enveloping her in a cocoon of light.

And then he was standing on top of a tower and he and Morrighan were preparing for a jump. She was pressed against him and he felt the tautness of her breasts, her hips moving against his. As they stepped into nothingness, she placed her arms around his neck and said something. He strained to make out the words: "Perfect like flying," she said, her voice snatched away by the wind. "Perfect like flying."

But as they continued to fall-sky and earth merging into an insane blur-he realized he had misheard. "Perfect like dying," she was saying, over and over again. "Perfect like dying."