Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 01, page 32
"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, 1 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 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 . . ."
"Noblesse oblige," Dylan said, but that was as pointed a remark as he made the entire time.
The enforced civility of the situation also gave Truth time to rein in her emotions and think. She couldn't just go to Julian demanding the return of Venus Afflicted without admitting she'd had it in the first place, and that would mean admitting that she'd brought it to Shadow's Gate and kept it hidden while he'd practically begged her for it.
She just couldn't.
Cut your losses and leave, a Thorne-like voice whispered inside her. You didn't have the book two months ago; you don't need it now. Cut your losses and run.
"The most dangerous place on earth for an unprotected medium is a haunted house," Dylan had told her.
"You're not like the others, baby. You're special—you're my daughter," Thorne's voice repeated.
No. She could not simply confess. And the only reason to do so would be to gain Julian's help in recovering Venus Afflicted, something she was not sure that she could count on.
Truth studied Julian through her lashes, but he was chatting amiably with Dylan and seemed not to notice. Could she find the book herself?
Maybe. She'd have the house and the night to search, after all—she knew exactly where all the house's inhabitants would be, and for how long too. Midnight to six in the Temple, and you could drop a bomb outside the door without disturbing anyone inside.
Except for Michael, but in her need to do something to recover Thorne's book, Truth glossed over that problem to herself. She'd take care of Michael when the time came. She'd find the book, take it back, and leave. Tomorrow morning she could try again to get Light to go with her— perhaps the final ritual wouldn't take place at all.
But if, with Ellis injured, Julian wasn't planning to continue the actions of the Circle, how could she go looking for her book?
Dylan left after lunch, driving his small brown Datsun down the road to the gate. Truth and Julian stood together on the steps, watching him go.
"I'm glad he's gone," Julian said. "I felt like a nervous freshman being interviewed by the Dean. I wonder if I passed?"
"I've never seen anyone who acted less like a nervous freshman," Truth said, leaning against him. Julian put his arm around her waist, in a proprietary way that Truth no longer questioned. It was remarkable how guiltless she felt, considering that she intended to burgle Julian's room that very night. Of course, she didn't intend to steal anything, but that didn't make any difference, did it?
"It's my years of practice," Julian said, turning her toward him. "For a while I was wondering if I had a rival in Dr. Palmer—do I?"
"Of course not," Truth said, turning faintly pink. Julian had no rival— and no peer. He took her arm and led her back inside.
"Then come away with me, fair Incomparable—we'll put a girdle round the globe in considerably more than half an hour, find out all of Thorne's little secrets, and—Who knows?" He smiled down at her as he closed the front door behind them.
"Julian, what about the Work? I mean, Ellis isn't going to be able to work with you tomorrow night, even if it's only a few bruises."
"Which it isn't," Julian said, walking with her back into the parlor. "A skull fracture at the very least. I'm going down there to straighten out the bill, and possibly they'll have more information for me."
He picked up a glass paperweight from the mantelpiece and stared into it as if the information about Ellis's condition might be there.
"But what about the Circle?" Truth persisted. Julian turned back to her.
"Oh, one of the others can take on Ellis's part—we've had to double so many roles already that everyone knows everyone else's. Gareth can do it. We'll manage. I'm not putting this off for another year just because of—" he broke off. "I must sound terribly callous," he said with a small, self-deprecating smile.
"No. Just dedicated." Truth felt indecently relieved—they would be in the Temple tonight after all.
"I'm afraid, though, that I must—oh, not withdraw, but defer our invitation to become one of us. There's no more time. But perhaps I can persuade you on our travels." Julian's smile grew warmer.
"I—" Truth faltered.
She'd meant to tell him plainly that she had no intention of going to England with him; that she didn't think a romance with him was something she could comfortably handle; that right now her duty was to her sister and her work.
"Who knows?" Truth said instead, and the warm thrill of possibility made her skin tingle in a rush of surging blood.
Julian drove down to Poughkeepsie to settle arrangements with the hospital. He did not ask Truth to accompany him, and she did not ask to go with him. She went looking for Light instead, although she'd changed her mind—she didn't intend to even try to convince Light to come away with her. If Ellis's removal was a strain on the Circle's workings, Light's defection would bring its activities to a screeching halt. She'd always known that—Light was their trance medium—but before Ellis's injury she'd hoped there was a chance of convincing Light otherwise. Now she knew that was impossible. The Circle's incompleteness was too nakedly exposed. To lose Light was to fail utterly.
And while Truth wasn't sure that was such a bad thing, she wasn't sure she could get Light to agree. Julian wanted this ritual to happen so desperately, and Light owed him so much—and so did Truth.
And what was he going to do Tuesday morning, when the world was still as it had been and he saw it had all been for nothing?
/f /t was . . .
Truth sighed, caught between rationality and the compelling beliefs of the reborn Circle of Truth. Light would go with her Tuesday morning. She was sure of it. She'd take her away from here, and then . . .
Truth shrugged. She'd worry about that on Tuesday.
The evening meal was tense and edgy, as fraught as the new storm boiling up over Storm King Mountain. Julian wasn't back, but he'd called from Poughkeepsie—Ellis was in guarded condition, and Julian would return in time for the evening's ritual. The next to last.
Michael was gone also, without explanation, though no one commented on it. Perhaps he made them as uneasy as he did Truth—though he and Irene had seemed to be close.
Truth closed her eyes wearily. Who could she believe—what could she believe? Everyone couldn't be telling the truth—their stories were too contradictory.
"Poor Ellis," Irene sighed again, "I told him those stairs were treacherous."
"They wouldn't have been, if he didn't drink like a fish," Fiona snarled. "I don't care if he's hurt; I'm glad he's gone—I never liked him anyway."
"Spoken like a true lady," Hereward drawled. Fiona glared poisonously at him.
"It's nice to see we're all getting on so well in the master's absence," Caradoc said. He was wearing a pale gold silk suit and an open shirt, almost as if, with Julian gone, the responsibility of high fashion devolved upon him. He toyed with the signet ring on his right hand and did not touch his food.
"What do you expect?" Donner said irritatedly. He was so quiet Truth was always surprised when he said anything. She got the impression his fellow Blackburnites did not impress him much. "We're all exhausted. Six hours of ritual every night, four hours minimum of prep, more damn Latin and Greek than any of us has ever seen, and Julian pushing—" he broke off, as if what he had been about to say was too far from favorable.
And in fact, Truth thought, he did look tired. They all looked tired, even Fiona. No, more than tired. Drained, as if someone were building . . . something . . . out of their very life force.
"And Julian pushing," Hereward agreed. "Sometimes I think he'd do it all by himself if he could."
"But he can't, so he doesn't," Caradoc said, and that seemed to dispose of the matter.
Truth had set her travel alarm for midnight, just in case she fell asleep. It was key wound, and did not seem to be afflicted with the troubles that beset other clocks at Shadow's Gate, although her wristwatch had stopped long since. But in any case there was no need—she sat bolt upright and wide awake as the minute hand swept the hours away.
She used the time to review her working notes. She could have sent them away with Dylan, but what was the point if the grimoire wasn't going with them?
The truth was, Truth admitted to herself, that she hadn't wanted to give her notes to Dylan—not now. He'd only use them as a further excuse to meddle, to involve himself in what was happening here at Shadow's Gate.
She didn't know if she wanted to protect him, or punish him, or keep all the glory for herself—but she knew she didn't want him here. Not until tomorrow night had come and gone.
Outside her windows, rain drummed on the glass and the out-thrust roofs below. The storm had broken after she'd gone upstairs, but electrical power seemed to be holding for now, and she had a candlestick and candles ready to hand, just in case. The rain was a steady accompaniment to her reading, and far-off thunder prowled the Hudson River hills.
It had rained that night too: The 1872 fire had been so easily contained because it had been raining all day, soaking the earth and trees and protecting them from the sparks and flames. Otherwise the fire might have spread and devoured acres.
It had rained in 1969, for Thorne's final ritual. Irene had told her how the storm had blown open every door in the house.
It had been clear all week. Clear . . . and quiet.
And now it was raining again. Storming.
Truth looked at her key-wound travel clock, the most dependable timepiece remaining to her. Eleven forty-five. She'd wait another half hour to be sure, and then she'd search their rooms one by one for what had been taken from her.
She wiped damp palms on the legs of her chinos, nervous now. It had been so much easier when the possibility of meeting Elijah Cheddow in these halls simply hadn't existed. And though it was only a small possibility, it was enough to make her uneasy—and if Thorne showed up again she'd probably just die of fright.
If Thorne showed up, she could just ask him who had the book—and the necklace and the ring. They'd been gone too, when, after Dylan had left, she'd finally thought of checking on them, but by then she'd been too whipsawed by events to be properly angry. Let Thorne worry about them—he said they were his.
But the book—that she had to have. That wasn't Thorne's—not any longer.
At twelve-fourteen there was a crack of thunder right overhead and all the lights went out. Truth merely snorted and lit her candles. But the clinical rationalistic bravery she felt inside the room was harder to maintain once she got out into the hall with her wavering candle. She'd seen things that could not be—and talked to them too. It was harder to be brave knowing what could happen.
