Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 04 (72 page)

 
          
When
she left the bookstore, Colin watched after her, troubled. He had a feeling he
had not experienced in many years
—
the sense of sending a young
warrior into battle against almost insurmountable odds.

 
          
As
July sweltered on into August, the Overlight was turbulent with the reflections
of Simon's dark work, though Colin could gain little further Earth-plane
insight into his plans or knowledge of what effect
—
if any
—
his call to mindfulness had
had on Simon's chosen consort and Alison's chosen successor. After conducting
his series of concerts, Simon had gone on to teach a Master Class at the
conservatory
—
Emily Barnes was in it
—
before disappearing on an
extended business trip at the beginning of August.

 
          
Cassie
Chandler
—
who played with an early music consort, and thus was privy
to much of the music-world gossip
—
said that Simon had flown to
Chicago to talk to Lewis Heysermann, the world-famous conductor, about
scheduling Simon's return to the stage.

           
Her voice had been studiously
neutral as she relayed the information, but Colin was horrified. He was not a
professional musician himself, but he had known many over the years. If Simon
was expecting to perform in public within a year, he had either lost what was
left of his sanity, or he had reason to believe that he would be back at the
height of his power soon.

 
          
And
there was no natural way for him to be so. ...

 
          
The
second week of August, Colin awoke to the sounds of crashing thunder; a raging
storm powerful enough to rattle the windows and doors of the Victorian. He
fought his way up out of sleep, and only then realized that there was no
earthly storm at all.

 
          
His
body ached as though he'd been sleeping in chains; the effect of the sweltering
summer weather, which might allow oblivion but didn't allow rest.

 
          
He
switched on the lamp. It was only a few hours past midnight; he'd fallen asleep
on the couch in the living room, and the window fan still desultorily flipped
the edges of some papers as it rotated past them. Outside the open windows, the
star-choked sky shone cloudlessly over a city parched with unseasonable heat,
but in Colin's mind the storm still resounded.

 
          
What
had awakened him? He looked around the room, drawing his cotton bathrobe more
securely closed and getting to his feet. He ran a hand over his greying hair
and grimaced in annoyance. Whatever it was, it had made no incursion into his
conscious mind
—
and this was no hour at which to awaken Claire and see if
she had sensed anything herself.

 
          
As
he was making himself a cup of tea
—
Colin's universal panacea
for those things which could not be cured but must be endured
—
the phone rang. Colin picked
it up at once.

 
          
"MacLaren
here."

 
          
"Did
somebody already call you?" Joe Schiafardi sounded faintly suspicious.

 
          
"I
couldn't sleep," Colin said. "It's the heat. What's up?"

 
          
Joe
Schiafardi was one of Colin's contacts on the SFPD. He'd been a friend of
Alison's. Colin did not know how deep that friendship had run, nor did he wish
to pry, but back when all this had started, Colin had asked Schiafardi to keep
an eye on Leslie and the house, and
—
as far as he could, within
the bounds of professional ethics
—
let Colin know if anything
happened.

 
          
"I
just called to tell you that Dr. Barnes had a break-in about an hour ago. Some
loony with a wrecking maul came in and smashed the sister's harpischord to
matchwood. We chased him off before he could get started on the other stuff,
though. Both the women are okay, although they're pretty shook up."

 
          
"Thank
God," Colin said quietly. Had he been foolish to stay so far out of
things, trusting to Leslie to call him when the need was greatest?

 
          
"Say
it twice, brother. Funny thing is, we can't figure out how the hairball got in.
The whole house was still locked up tight as a drum when we got there."

           
"That's . . .
interesting," Colin said slowly. It wasn't interesting, of course; it was
terrible, confirming the Otherworldly nature of the attack. There could be only
one source. But why would Simon lash out so at Leslie and Emily?

 
          
"I'm
glad I amuse you." Schiafardi's voice was sour.

 
          
"No."
Colin collected himself. "Of course you don't. It's just that this is such
a shock."

 
          
"Not
as much of one as some skel is going to have when I catch up with him."
Schiafardi's voice held grim promise. "Jesus, Colin
—
you should'a seen that
place. It looked like somebody's put the thing in a blender and then poured it
out again."

 
          
Colin
sighed. "I just hope you catch him, Joe." /
wish this had been
done by a person that you could catch.

 
          
"Don't
worry; this one we're putting in overtime on. Dr. Barnes has helped us out a
couple of times, and I guess we owe her one."

 
          
After
a last brief exchange of pleasantries, Schiafardi hung up
—
there was still the
paperwork to do on the break-in.

 
          
Colin
went back to the kitchen and rescued his tea from the teabag. It was stronger
than he liked, but he drank it anyway, hoping for clarity, and wished for his
pipe, though it had been years now since he'd smoked. Still, he missed the
company it had been as he wrestled with some elaborate problem.

 
          
Further
sleep would be impossible. He dressed, then decided to walk over to the
bookstore. He could use the walk to order his thoughts, and the city streets
would have to be cooler than his apartment.

 
          
Though
Colin was a supremely urban soul, there was something in him that loved the
quiet that could only be found in the city's unused hours. He supposed he'd
learned the habit during the war; strange to think that those events which were
still so immediate in his memories were now more than forty years in the past.
He was sixty-four this year and soon
—
not this year, nor even
next, but soon
—
it would be time to leave this life behind and go on to the
next turn of the Great Wheel.

 
          
The
odd, pleasant melancholy stayed with him as he opened the bookstore. It was
nearly six by now, but the only other light on the street was the diner up the
block. He went into the back and put the water in the kitchenette on to boil.
Claire would be here soon, and normally he'd leave such tasks to her, but if
her night had been anything like his own, she would need an immediate
restorative.

 
          
He
was right. Claire came dragging into the shop at seven-thirty, looking rumpled
and puffy-eyed, though her
Madras
skirt and crisp blouse were
bandbox-neat, as usual.

 
          
"I
thought I'd be first in. Is that tea I see?" she said hopefully.

 
          
Colin
handed her the cup, and Claire drained it in a few swallows.

 
          
"That's
better. Oh, dear, I feel as if I slept inside a kettledrum while the orchestra
was playing. There was a terrible ruckus on the Inner Planes last night; I
spent most of my night with my hands over my ears, figuratively speaking. I
think it was the same energy that I stirred up over at Alison's Sanctuary a
while back
—
I would have called you, but I thought one of us should get
some sleep," Claire said, a little enviously.

 
          
"It
actually managed to wake me," Colin admitted, "though if it hadn't,
Joe Schiafardi would have. He called to tell me there was a disturbance up at
the Barnes house last night."

 
          
"Disturbance?"
Claire said warily.

 
          
"Something
turned that harpischord of Alison's that Simon lent Emily into kindling,"
Colin said bluntly. And since none of the windows or doors was forced or even
unlocked, three guesses as to the cause."

 
          
Grief
etched itself on Claire's face, showing Colin what she would look like when she
was old. "Simon. But what is he
doing?"
Claire demanded with
weary anger. "He isn't even here in the City! I'd better go and see
—
"

 
          
Colin
held up a hand. "Wait. It would be better if she asked you to intervene.
Leslie's understandably touchy about things as they stand, and if she were to
suspect that either of us has been keeping a weather eye on her ..."

 
          
He
watched as Claire struggled with her impulse to help and finally sighed.
"I suppose you're right," she admitted. "Lord! Was I ever that
prickly?"

 
          
"That
much and more," Colin assured her, smiling. "That's not to say that I
don't want you to go, only to have a good obvious harmless reason for going
—
and when you do, I want you
to turn the place inside out and find out exactly what we're dealing with here.
Maybe it isn't Simon after all."

 
          
Claire
grinned back. "Shame on you, Colin, teasing a helpless woman this way. For
a moment, I almost thought you were going to go with a hands-off policy! I'm
going to go pour myself another cup of tea
—
and I suppose you haven't
had anything in the way of breakfast?"

 
          
Meekly,
Colin admitted that he had not.

 
          
"Well,
the diner's just up the block. Why don't we go there for breakfast? And then we
can come back here and see what the day brings."

 
          
Frodo
called around
nine A.M.
to let Colin know that an emergency had arisen and he
wouldn't be able to come into the store that day. Fortunately he and Emily had
made up their estrangement earlier this week; it wasn't hard to guess the
nature of Frodo's "emergency."

 
          
The
heat was brutal and very few people seemed to be in a book-buying mood. Even
the bookstore's regulars stayed away, influenced by the strange oppressiveness
that seemed to hang over the city. Claire was on edge, searching for the
pretext that would let her go to Leslie.

 
          
Finally,
a few minutes before five, Frodo called again
—
he was taking Emily home
with him for supper and was worried about Leslie being all alone in the house
so soon after the assault. Would Claire go up and see if she was | okay, he
asked?

 
          
"Of
course," Claire said, so calmly that Colin smiled to hear it. "I'll
just get . my purse and leave Colin to lock up. It won't take me twenty
minutes."

 
          
The
shadows were already blue and slanting when Claire reached Green-haven. The
walk
—
Claire
didn't keep a car in the City, and Greenhaven was just up the hill
—
had given her plenty of time
to regret her decision to simply come without calling ahead. She was not at
all sure of her welcome, after the way she and Leslie had parted. But when
Leslie opened the door, she only seemed a little surprised, and invited Claire
into the kitchen.

 
          
The
atmosphere in the house was different. Claire noticed it at once. It had been
cleared since the last time she was in it
—
Simon would have taught
Leslie how to do it, but its new atmosphere was not the one of calm peace that
Claire had always associated with Alison's house. Though superficially quiet,
the house was edgy, charged, and if Simon had helped Leslie to clear the house,
he had certainly not set up barriers against himself. Leslie must be encouraged
to reseal the house herself, or last night's violence would only return, worse
each time, feeding on itself as it escalated out of control.