Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 04 (84 page)

 
          
"Well,
Devant and Lovelock nailed him good
—
he's had to take a week of
vacation to recover."

           
There was general laughter. Colin
raised his eyebrows interrogatively at Miles. He was glad to see that Miles had
such a good working relationship with his staff, since parapsychologists, Colin
knew from experience, were inclined to be as temperamental as opera singers.

 
          
"Kit
Lovelock, one of our researchers," Miles explained.

 
          
"I
can't stand her," Viv said scornfully. "We might as well have the
Amazing Randi on the payroll!"

 
          
"We
do
have the Amazing Randi on the payroll," Dylan pointed out amiably.
"Only his name's Mask Devant."

 
          
"Sneaking
a
—
a
—
a
magician
in when
Bertie was working with Hans
—
it's a complete violation of trust!" Viv went on.

 
          
"Considering
that Hans was as bogus as a three-dollar bill," a new voice said coldly,
"I think it was just as well that we nailed him now, instead of after
several hundred expensive hours of test runs."

 
          
Colin
turned toward the woman who had spoken. She was standing beside the coffee urn,
her cup in her hand. Despite the fact that he was certain he'd never laid eyes
on her before, she seemed oddly familiar.

 
          
She
had dark hair
—
cut barely long enough to keep from looking mannish
—
and was severely dressed in
a navy pinstripe "dress for success" suit that made her look older
than her years. Though Colin knew little about fashion, he felt that this might
have been the effect she was striving for, since she looked quite young
—
probably fresh out of
college.

 
          
"Colin,
you haven't met the newest member of the institute," Miles said.
"She's a rather solitary soul, but her work is excellent. Came to us
directly from Harvard, and we're lucky to have her. Truth, this is Dr. Colin
MacLaren, the former director of the institute. Colin, this is Truth
Jourdemayne, our statistical parapsychologist."

 
          
Truth
smiled
—
with
much the wary expression that one might expect from one who was being
introduced by her employer to an illustrious stranger.

 
          
So
that was the reason for that haunting familiarity! Colin got to his feet.

 
          
"Truth
Jourdemayne," he said warmly. "I knew your parents. Your father would
be proud to see that you've chosen to follow in the family tradition."

 
          
Suddenly
Colin had the sense that he'd said something terribly wrong. Out of the corner
of his eye he saw Dylan wince and cover his face.

 
          
Colin
had respected Caroline Jourdemayne's wishes that all of Thorne Blackburn's
friends and associates stay clear of her and her niece, but it had never
occurred to him until this moment that she might not have told Truth who
Truth's father was.

 
          
"Thorne
Blackburn," Truth said, in a voice like breaking glass. "I'm afraid
you've been misinformed, Dr. MacLaren. Thorne Blackburn has been dead since
1969. He couldn't possibly have anything to do with my life or my
choices."

 
          
There
was a pause, as if Truth was aware that she'd backed herself into an
undiplomatic corner but wasn't sure how to get out. "It was very nice to
meet you, but I'm afraid I'm swamped with work." She turned and walked
off, her empty cup still in her hand, and a few seconds later Colin heard a
door shut firmly.

 
          
"Truth
is ... a little sensitive on the subject of Thorne Blackburn," Miles said
into the silence.

 
          
'"A
little' doesn't begin to cover it," Colin heard Dylan mutter.

 
          
"I'm
sorry to have raised such a painful subject, in that case," Colin said,
and the moment passed off.

 
          
But
despite the leisurely air of things at the institute it was still a work day
for the staff, and soon they drifted away
—
Dylan to teach an afternoon
class, Viv to get her notes in order for her trip to the institute's sister
organization on the Isle of Man, and the others to pursuits of their own.

 
          
Miles
walked Colin to his car.

 
          
"I'd
like to apologize again for saying the wrong thing to Ms. Jourdemayne,"
Colin said, opening the door of his little rental coupe. "It only occurred
to me after I'd spoken that Caro might not have told her much about her
father."

 
          
Miles
waved the apology aside.

 
          
"Apparently
she didn't know much about Blackburn when she decided to become a
parapsychologist, and of course, as his daughter she attracts the usual lunatic
fringe; Blackburn
was
an important figure in twentieth-century
occultism, and separating occultism and parapsychology in the public mind is
difficult at the best of times. It's a bit of an awkward situation for
her."

 
          
"I
understand," Colin said. "Best of luck to her, then."

 
          
"And
to you," Miles said. "Don't wait so long to visit next time
—
and perhaps we can snag you
for a lecture series sometime."

 
          
"I'll
look forward to it," Colin promised. "Why don't I give you a call in
a few months, once I'm back in the Bay Area?"

 
          
"I'll
be expecting it," Miles promised.

 
          
The
meeting with Truth was an unsettlingly tangible reminder of how time was
passing. That terrible night at Shadow's Gate did not seem that long ago, yet
Thome's daughter had been barely two years old then and she was a grown woman
now. A generation had passed; time enough for men and women to grow to
adulthood for whom the decade of the sixties belonged to that vast prehistory
of the time before their birth.

 
          
The
sense that time was passing
—
was running out, leaving him with many things undone
—
stayed with Colin even after
he and Claire took the train back to Massachusetts. The days were dwindling
toward the Sabbat, and soon the Antique Rite would act to anchor the ancient
soul of Witch-Sara in the body of her descendant once and for all.

 
          
But
Colin and Claire had, themselves, been far from idle.

 
          
It
was just before dawn on the last day of July when Colin and Claire came walking
up the hill toward the graveyard. Over his shoulder Colin carried an old
battered canvas bag, grey with age and use; a bag such as plumbers carried
their tools in. Claire carried nothing at all. They had left the Chevy parked
at the edge of the road a mile away, not wanting to awaken either Sara or
Matthew with the sound of the car's engine. But tonight was the night of the
Great Sabbat, and there were many things Colin needed to do before then.

 
          
"Pheugh,"
Claire said softly, as they reached the edge of the graveyard. The tumuli and
broken stones were barely visible in the cold predawn light. "This
stinks."

 
          
She
looked down at her stout walking shoes, as if expecting to see them covered in
garbage.

 
          
"I'm
afraid it only gets worse before it gets better."

 
          
Colin
sketched a quick Sign in the air
—
his fingers tingled numbly
—
anc they went on, picking
their way carefully in the dark. Colin paused at each of the trees and
gravestones they passed to Seal them, and as he did, he became aware of an
increasing dull ache in his chest that tingled down his arm. He put it down to
exhaustion, but he could not stop now. They must be done and gone from here
before it was full day.

 
          
"Won't
Hay notice what you've done?" Claire asked. "I've been watching the
rest of the coven members, and they don't seem to have the power among them to
light a candle with a box of kitchen matches, but Hay's got something."

 
          
"Agreed.
But it isn't as much as he thinks it is," Colin said. "I'd say that
the Antique Rite's been riding on its reputation since his grandfather's time,
at least. And my bet is, Hay's going to be focusing on Sally and Brian tonight,
rather than on the magic."

 
          
Brian
Standish was the weak link in the resurrection of Witch-Sara. Brian was Sally
Latimer's lover, not Sara's, and Sally's anchor to the human world of light and
sanity. Colin had always known that the coven would need to destroy Brian in
order to ensure Witch-Sara's ascendancy, and in fact
—
so Claire had heard from her
uncle
—
there
had even been a suspicious "accident" involving the brakes on
Brian's car. But for the last several weeks it seemed that Sally had been
protecting him from Hay and the coven, finally even going to the extent of
driving Brian away by allowing him to catch her in bed with Matthew Hay and
Tabitha Whitfield. The young doctor had been heartbroken
—
country gossip was both
far-reaching and precise
—
but though Brian had avoided her since then, Colin had
known that Hay's monstrous ego would not allow Brian to escape that easily.

 
          
And
he had not.

 
          
"Wouldn't
just arresting all of them do as much good as seeing this through to the
ritual? They kidnapped Brian
—
he can swear to that," Claire said, glancing up toward
the Hay house. There was a light on in the kitchen
—
country people kept country
hours.

 
          
"Swearing's
one thing, but proof is quite another," Colin reminded her. "It would
be his word against Hay's, and I'm sure Hay has a lot of people who would be
happy to swear that Brian came to his house perfectly freely. Besides,
stopping the coven's Lammas ritual won't do a lot to help Sally-Brian."

           
"I'm not sure I like Brian
being dragged into all this, though," Claire grumbled.

 
          
"I'm
not wild about it myself. Undoubtedly Sally bargained with Hay to leave Brian
alone in exchange for renouncing him. But Hay can't afford to leave Brian alive
if he's to get Sara back."

 
          
"So
Hay goes back on his bargain and Brian becomes the human sacrifice
du
jour"
Claire muttered.

 
          
"I
doubt Sally knows about that
—
that's the point. And at any rate, Hay's plans for him will
ensure that Brian remains alive and well
—
if not very comfortable
—
until tonight. We don't dare
tip our hand by rescuing him, not if we're to save Sally too. Now, here's the
lychgate. It made
me
uneasy, so be careful."

 
          
Claire
stopped a few feet short of the corroded bronze archway
—
no more than a dark shape in
the dimness
—
and closed her eyes to concentrate. Almost at once she
winced and staggered back, throwing up a hand to protect herself. The tiny gold
cross at her throat glinted.

 
          
"Yes,"
she said unsteadily. "It's bad. You'll need to haul out the big
guns."

 
          
Colin
set down his bag and withdrew a pyx and a small vial of anointing oil.
Murmuring prayers, he anointed the bronze gateway at several places. The metal
was unpleasantly warm, though the sun was no more than a line of gold upon the
horizon.