Ghostlight (37 page)

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Authors: Marion Zimmer Bradley

BOOK: Ghostlight
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What's going on?
“Isn't it
horrible?
” Irene said. She came through the parlor into the foyer. “It was—Oh, how
could
Ellis have done it—he'd been up and down those stairs a hundred times!”
“What did—” Truth began, but then the EMTs came back, wheeling the gurney slowly and carefully. Gareth and Hereward followed, faces grim.
Ellis was on the gurney, strapped to a fracture board that spoke volumes for the seriousness of his condition. His face was gray with pain and his eyes glittered. When he saw Truth he moved weakly against the straps, his mouth opening and closing.
Truth ran over to him. “Ellis?”
“He fell down the stairs. The servants' stairs—we don't use them, they're so steep, and—” Gareth said.
“He fell on his head,” Hereward said harshly.
Ellis was plucking at Truth's hand with ice-cold fingers. She stared into his eyes; they were fixed on hers, and welled with tears of pain. His mouth worked desperately, but the words he was trying to say wouldn't come.
“It's all right,” Truth found herself saying. Ellis's pain had defused the last of her rage, and all she felt now was
a vast, aching pity. Ellis closed his eyes—in frustration? Resignation?
“Miss?” one of the EMTs said, and Truth let herself be moved back out of the way. The two technicians maneuvered the gurney carefully down the steps.
Truth glanced back the way it had come and saw Julian, all in shark-gray Armani silk. He was staring after Ellis with an unreadable expression on his face.
What would Julian do now? She didn't know much about the workings of his Circle, but she did know that Ellis had occupied an important position in the ritual. Ellis was the Black Dog—one of the four Guardians. Could Julian find someone to replace him?
“Truth?” said a voice from the open doorway.
She turned around.
It was Dylan.
Dylan Palmer stepped into the foyer. He glanced backward, to where the driver of the ambulance was closing the doors on its injured cargo.
“When I drove up here and saw that thing, I thought … Well, I'm just glad it wasn't you.” His voice was ragged with relief.
Dylan was wearing a gray corduroy work shirt with the sleeves rolled up a few turns, faded jeans, and work boots. His sandy hair was in unruly disarray, and he looked as if he stood in a different light than the others.
“And you are?” Julian said before Truth could sort out the conflicting emotions surging through her and speak. Julian stepped forward, and the difference between him and Dylan was as jarring as that between Julian and Gareth—yet somehow Dylan did not come off the worse in the comparison.
“Dr. Dylan Palmer,” Dylan said, stressing his title slightly. “Of the Margaret Beresford Bidney Memorial Psychic Science Research Laboratory at Taghkanic College. You must be Julian Pilgrim.” He held out his hand, smiling.
“And what brings you here?” Julian said, his voice neutral. He did not offer his hand. Though Julian didn't look in his direction, Truth saw Gareth start uneasily, and she remembered the morning the crates had been delivered.
Julian didn't like surprises.
“I'd better go back down and close up the gate,” Gareth said.
“Don't bother. I don't imagine Dr. Palmer will be staying long,” Julian said.
Dylan lowered his hand but did not stop smiling. “Well, actually,” he said. “I came here to see Truth.”
“There she is,” Hereward said.
“Hello, Dylan.” Truth said uncomfortably.
What the hell are you doing here?
Finally—as though something inside her had decided what defense to offer—anger began to well up, threading itself through all her perceptions. How dare Dylan come here?
As if summoned by some inaudible alarm, Caradoc came out of the library and Donner appeared from the back of the house, and suddenly the grouping in the foyer had all the earmarks of a confrontation spoiling to happen. But this wasn't right. Dylan was hers, to punish as
she
chose—it was not for these others to judge him.
“Julian, could we use the parlor for a while?” Truth asked. Julian nodded, smiling faintly. Truth crossed to Dylan and took his arm, leading him away from the others.
 
“What's with the Mad Scientist and his crew of muscle boys?” Dylan said, nodding toward the closed door into the foyer.
“What are you doing here?” Truth demanded. The anger rose up in her in sweet seduction—the fury that she'd felt earlier came surging up, rinsing away confusion and doubt now that it had found a new target, and that target was Dylan.
“I could ask you the same question,” Dylan said, his voice rough with confusion and concern. “Two weeks ago you up and vanish, telling me you're going to write a bio of Thorne Blackburn and start here. Ten days ago you call and tell me you need monitoring equipment for Shadow's Gate—which I got for you—and then … nothing. I tried the cellular number, I tried the house number—nothing.”
“So you came up here to check on me,” Truth said accusingly.
“So I came up here to see if you were all right,” Dylan amended. “What's going on? Who was that guy they were putting in the ambulance?”
“Ellis Gardner. Another of Julian's ‘muscle boys,' as you so politely put it. He fell down a flight of stairs.” She could hear the anger in her own voice and it excited her, a dangerous thing, begging to be let free.
Dylan didn't respond directly. “I've been worried about you,” he finally said. “This isn't like you.” He took a step toward her; Truth raised a hand as if to ward him off.
“How do you know what's like me and what isn't, Dylan? I'm Thorne Blackburn's daughter—blood will out.” Truth strode across the room to the fireplace, and stood with her back to Dylan. “And while I suppose I should appreciate your concern—for your equipment if not for anything else—now you've seen me, and Julian really doesn't want visitors right now so why don't you just be on your way?”
The silence stretched, and Truth turned to find that Dylan was staring at her. “What the hell's gotten into you?” he said bewilderedly. “What's going on here?”
“The Blackburn Work,” Truth said harshly. “And no, I haven't gotten involved with it, if that's what you mean. I'm here because Julian has a useful collection of Blackburn memorabilia—that's all.”
“And what about the haunting?” Dylan asked angrily. “Or am I supposed to just forget about that too?”
Truth shrugged, trying to back off from the building confrontation and not entirely sure she could do it. “I'm not … All the equipment runs on electricity, Dylan. It isn't working. The battery packs drain in hours; nothing holds a charge.” She laughed shortly. “But see for yourself—Julian will be delighted to have the phenomena investigated by a complete staff—next week.” Her words were a warning.
“Once he's done his Halloween ritual? Oh, don't look so surprised, Truth—I'd be a damn poor ghosthunter if I didn't know the beasties' high holy days. Samhain and Walpurgisnacht, those are the biggies. Just how far is Julian planning to take after Thorne? Who's going to die this time?” Dylan's fists were clenched—he was almost shouting now, as if something in Shadow's Gate that fed on emotions had realized it had a fresh victim.
“That's a filthy thing to say!”
Truth cried, losing the battle for calm, her body trembling with the need to lash out at her enemy. “You don't know anything about Julian and what he's done, but you just charge in here making baseless accusations, when Julian is—” She stopped, reining herself in with the greatest effort she had ever had to make. Her nails made separate stars of pain as she dug them into her palms, fighting for control. “Julian is the kindest, sanest human being I've ever known, and I won't listen to your filthy slanders. He wants to help me with the book—”
“No book is worth this!” Dylan interrupted loudly. “Are you listening to yourself? Can't you see what they're
doing
to you? How can you be so blind—”
“Get out.” All Truth's anger had collapsed inward on itself, until it was a cold hard unyielding thing burning like frostfire in her chest. “Irene Avalon was my mother's dearest friend. Light is my
sister.
Do you think they'd hurt me? We even have a rationalist who's sure Julian's the Antichrist—Julian isn't likely to be raising
any devils with
him
around. Go away, Dylan, and save your mumbo-jumbo for the Late Late Show.” She folded her arms around herself, chilled even in the bright sunlight that streamed through the parlor windows.
Dylan came and stood before her, his expression remorseful.
“I should never have let you stay here once you told me this place was haunted. Hauntings play upon the
mind
, Truth, that's why they're so insidious—you don't need walls dripping blood and headless nuns when the untapped power of the human mind can be far more dangerous,” he said sadly. “Please—”
Truth regarded him coldly. Why wouldn't he give up and leave her alone? Her kind had no use for human emotion.
But Thorne had chosen otherwise—and the choice had destroyed him.
“This is my specialty, Truth. I
know
,” Dylan said earnestly.
“I am not finished here,” Truth said. The power was here for her to draw on; she could see it now that she'd used it against the house. She started forward, and Dylan was forced to retreat a few steps.
“I suppose I could drag you out of here by force, or blackmail you into leaving with me by threatening to go to the police, but I've always preferred the use of reason,” Dylan said. His hands were spread in a soothing gesture. “If you're staying of your own free will—”
“I am,” Truth interrupted.
“Then you're a grown woman and capable of making your own choices, even if I happen to think they're wrong ones. But for God's sake take care of yourself, Truth—the most dangerous place on Earth for an unprotected medium is a haunted house.”
“I'm no medium,” Truth said, momentarily startled out of her anger. She'd never tested out of the normal
range in any of the tests the Institute ran; considering her father, she'd been
glad.
…
Dylan sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. “Maybe. Can you take the chance? Your aunt was one of the most powerful trance mediums that ever worked with Rhine. That's how Thorne became interested in her and her twin in the first place. Of course, it was his theory that they had
sidhe
blood in them, too, or something, but no matter how you slice it, ESP is hereditary.”
“Oh, God.” The icy fury that held her was loosening its grip. Truth put her hands to her face, backing up against the mantelpiece. She could dismiss Irene, and Michael, and even Thorne in his ghostly visitation, but when Dylan—calm, rational, credentialed Dylan—said the same thing, what was she supposed to think?
“Why didn't I know?”
“I thought you did.
Truth
—” Dylan moved forward.
“I'm so glad you're still here, Dr. Palmer,” Julian said. “I'd like to take the opportunity to apologize for your reception earlier—if I'm not interrupting?”
“No, Julian, of course not,” Truth said gratefully. Julian crossed the room to stand beside her, and Truth leaned against him.
“Just as you arrived, Dr. Palmer, a valued associate and a very dear friend suffered a severe injury. They're taking him to Saint Francis Hospital in Poughkeepsie.”
“So far?” Truth asked, startled.
“I'm afraid there isn't anything closer that would do poor Ellis any good, darling,” Julian said, reaching down to take her hand. “Northern Dutchess doesn't handle trauma of that sort and Albany Medical is even farther away. So I'm afraid I was more than normally abrupt,” he finished, speaking to Dylan. “I take it you are the psychic researcher I will be paying host to next month?” He offered his hand. “I hope I can convince you to be our guest for lunch?”
Dylan was courteous enough to shake it. And everything else that might have been between Truth and Dylan went unsaid.
 
Julian phoned the hospital during the meal—the phone service at Shadow's Gate having experienced one of its intermittent revivals—and came back to the table looking dourly amused.
“He's still in X-ray, and they weren't sure they wanted to talk to me at all. I told them I'd be covering the bills, and it was amazing how forthcoming they suddenly became.”
“You?” Dylan asked.
“Of course,” Julian said. “Actors have no money—and less medical insurance. And as Ellis was, in a sense, working for me …”

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