Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 04 (80 page)

 
          
She
carried the pot over to the kitchen table along with two hand-painted china
mugs
—
souvenirs
of some long-forgotten country fair
—
the sugar bowl, and a bottle
of unpasteurized cream from one of the local farms. Rowan poured for both of
them, and then liberally doctored her own tea with several spoonsful of sugar
and a generous dollop of cream that threatened to overfill the cup.

 
          
"And
what else do you see?" Claire asked her, when it became apparent that
Rowan did not intend to volunteer anything more.

 
          
"Things,"
Rowan said, and this time Claire could tell the vagueness was deliberate.
"Poor Sara. But I guess sometimes things have to go bad so they can be
good later. God! That sounds like one of Laney's stupid New Age sayings,"
she added in a more normal voice.

 
          
"Poor
Sara."
Claire shuddered inwardly at the remote sound of pity that had
been in Rowan's voice. In the back of her own mind she, too, could feel the
terror tangled up in the sound of drums, but Claire dared not go in search of
Sally Latimer. She would be almost certain to get lost on the back roads in the
dark, and if she went, it would leave the Moorcocks undefended against whatever
might come searching for them
—
and Rowan, in particular, was very vulnerable.

 
          
But
it still seemed like a very long time until dawn.

 
          
At
about 4:30 Justin came in from his workroom and chased Rowan off to bed
—
tomorrow was a school day,
as he reminded her, and she'd have to be up by seven to get there on time.
Rowan assured him that she'd be fine
—
and at her age, she probably
would be, Claire reflected enviously
—
and skipped off out of the
room after a good-night peck on the cheek.

 
          
"Is
she all right?" Justin asked Claire, after Rowan had left.
"Really?"

 
          
"She'll
be all right," Claire temporized, not wanting to lie. Whatever had I been
calling from the old church on the hill had stopped a few minutes ago, and
Rowan was in no further danger.

 
          
Not
tonight, anyway.

 
          
Claire
took the cups and Rowan's plate over to the sink and set them carefully in the
dishpan for later washing. "Especially once she goes away to" school.
You
know
that, Justin," she added.

 
          
Justin
Moorcock sighed, running a hand through his thick auburn hair. "Sometimes
I wish I hadn't brought her back here at all, but she was so broken up when
Merilee walked out, and I'd always been happy here. Besides, Granddad isn't
getting any younger. . . ." He wouldn't meet her eyes, as if he were
afraid of hearing things that he would have to deny.

 
          
"Don't
beat yourself up over this, Justin," Claire said firmly. "Rowan's going
to be fine. She's a very sensible girl."

 
          
"I
suppose you're right," Justin said with reluctant relief. "Well, goodnight,
Claire."

 
          
"Goodnight,
Justin."

 
          
By
the time Claire returned to the bedroom, Rowan was soundly asleep beneath a
pile of quilts, tightly clutching her stuffed dragon. Claire only wished she
could set aside her own problems as easily. She had the terrible feeling she
would have to choose between the safety of her cousin and her young friend . .
. and Claire was not sure she had it in her to make such a choice.

 
          
It
was a long time before she managed to sleep.

 
          
It
was after
nine
o'clock
when Claire awoke again, this time to the ringing of the telephone. Clarence
was hard of hearing and would just let it ring, and if Justin was in his
workroom he wouldn't hear it either. Fortunately there was an extension
upstairs in the hall; Claire struggled into her bathrobe and lifted the
receiver.

           
"Hello?" she said
groggily.

 
          
"Claire?"
Colin's voice. "You sound a little ragged."

 
          
And
he, like Justin, wouldn't have heard a thing even if he'd been right here all
night. There are times when I'm downright jealous. . . .

 
          
"I
had a bad night. Never mind. What can I do for you?" she asked.

 
          
"Sally
doesn't have a phone and I'm tied up all day, but Brian Standish phoned me
about seven this morning; his answering service gave him a message that she'd
tried to reach him yesterday, but by the time he got it, it was too late for
him to call. He's probably asleep now, but I was hoping you could find the time
to run past Sally's place."

 
          
"I
was planning to do that today anyway," Claire said, mentally arranging her
schedule. "I'll give you a call later, okay?"

 
          
"I'll
be at the college until five or six," Colin said. "You can reach me
there."

 
          
Hanging
up the phone, Claire tottered back into the bedroom. Clouds had rolled in
overnight, and the day was drizzly and bleak. She shivered as she tucked her
feet into her fleece slippers and padded over to the window. Rowan's bedroom
overlooked the driveway; looking out, Claire could see that both Rowan and
Justin's cars were gone. Something must have gone wrong with the FedEx pickup
—
he would have driven Rowan
to school otherwise, Claire was sure.

 
          
/
guess I'll have to see if I can borrow the truck,
Claire thought
resignedly. She hadn't bothered to rent a car of her own, since it had been
easy enough so far to borrow Rowan or Justin's car whenever she needed
transportation
—
and the nearest place to rent one was in Boston in any
event. Normally she would have just waited for Justin to get back.

 
          
But
her errand to Sally couldn't wait.

 
          
Uncle
Clarence was willing to loan Claire the old truck
—
if a bit dubious about her
ability to drive it
—
so after a scratch breakfast of coffee and toast, which
barely made up for her broken night, Claire was on her way. The raw day did
much to clear her head of the lingering cobwebs of the night, and by the time
Claire reached Witch Hill at
eleven o'clock
, she was ready for anything ... so she thought.

 
          
Some
lingering intuition
—
or impulse
—
had led her to put together a "care package" of
coffee and an old drip coffeemaker that no one would miss. Whatever might be
going on at the old Latimer house, Claire thought strong coffee would be needed
and she wasn't sure Sally would have the makings.

 
          
As
she nursed the old truck up the hill, Claire could hardly believe her first
sight of the old Latimer place
—
if there were ever a horror beyond imagining, this was it.
It looked like one of those old houses in a Stephen King novel, the kind that
had rooms leading off into alternate dimensions. Every possible piece of
ornamental woodworking that could ever have been added to the house had been
added at some time in its life, and towers, dormers, and bay windows seemed to
jut from it in a fearful asymmetry. The weathercock at the highest point of the
roof was a rather ominous-looking black bird, and as it followed the shifting
wind, it made a faint, tooth-hurting screeking.

           
Claire pulled her uncle's truck up
under the porte cochere and shut off the ignition. For a moment she couldn't
quite figure out where the front door was
—
there was something so
wrong
with the design of the Latimer place that it was difficult for the eye to
really focus on any part of it
—
but then she located it and strode briskly toward it.

 
          
If
just looking at this place gives me the willies, how much worse must it be to
live
here? Poor Sally! I can at least bring her home with me for a decent meal
and a few hours away from this horror.

 
          
Her
worry about Sally increased when there was no answer to her knocking
—
though she'd seen a white
face peer out through one of the upstairs windows
—
but finally Claire heard the
sound of the bolt being dragged back, and a moment later the door opened.

 
          
Sally
Latimer stood in the doorway, wearing nothing but a heavy flannel bathrobe. Claire
tried not to let her shock show on her face
—
Sally's glorious red hair
was a tangled mess, and her eyes seemed sunken deep in their sockets. Her
pupils were enormous; she winced as if the daylight hurt her eyes, staring at
Claire as if she might burst into tears at any moment. The girl was bird-thin;
what had been coltish slenderness the last time Claire had seen her had now
crossed the line into haggardness.

 
          
Belladonna
would account for the dilation of the eyes, and nightshade was a traditional
component of the flying ointment that diabolic witches wore to the Sabbat
—
or Esbat.

 
          
Colin
must be told. Things are far worse than we'd thought. But the best thing for
Sally just now is the illusion of normalcy,
Claire told herself firmly.

 
          
"Did
I come at a bad time?" she asked, schooling her voice to conventional
brightness. "Colin said you were staying here, and I don't know another
soul from here to Innsmouth
—
" Claire chattered on until she saw the first trapped
terrified expression on Sally's face fade and thought she might risk a direct
question. "Are you sick, Sally?"

 
          
"Not
exactly," the girl answered. Her voice was rough and slurred, bolstering
Claire's impression that she'd been drugged, and finally she seemed to realize
that she was keeping her guest standing outside in the rain. "Come in,
Claire," Sally Latimer said, stepping back.

 
          
Claire
stepped inside and hugged Sally impulsively. She felt the girl flinch away from
her touch, and felt a warm wave of pity.
Poor child! She shouldn't have had
to face last night all alone. . . .

 
          
"I'll
just go put on some clothes," Sally said slowly.

 
          
"Don't
think you need to get dressed up just for me," Claire said reassuringly.
"I've brought some coffee
—
do you mind if I make some up while you dress?"

 
          
"Please
do," Sally said hesitantly. She wandered out of the kitchen, the robe
slipping unheeded from her shoulders as she went.

 
          
When
she was gone, Claire took a deep breath and, bracing herself, opened her senses
to the old house.

 
          
There
was nothing here
—
nothing at all.

 
          
She
realized that she'd expected Witch Hill to be reeking with malignant psychic
energy, with the kind of taint that accrued from the practices of something
like the Church of the Antique Rite. But there was nothing here of the sort
—
the place was as neutral and
impersonal as a paper cup or a modern city apartment.

 
          
Claire
shrugged and went to make the coffee. Experience with Cousin Clarence's kitchen
enabled her to negotiate the cranky propane stove easily, and soon she had the
coffee perking, sending its rich fragrance through the kitchen. As she hunted
about for cups and spoons, a magnificent ginger tomcat appeared.

 
          
"Hello,
sweetie," Claire said, bending down and extending her fingers for it to
sniff. Seeing him made her realize how much she missed having cats of her own
—
Monsignor had died several
years before, old and fat and full of years, and then Poltergeist had joined
her playmate last fall, leaving Ancient Mysteries
—
and Claire
—
catless for the first time
in many years. Claire had been thinking about getting another kitten, or even
two, but had not wanted to do so while the memory of her dear friends was still
fresh. Still, she missed feline company.