Summoned (25 page)

One step up the embankment at a time, but at the moment she couldn’t see any cracks into which to cram her fingers and toes. Uncle John would have had the answers. Probably he’d written them down in the papers he’d entrusted to Marvell. But with Marvell out of touch, John might as well have taken the papers into his grave.

Helen told the window, “I want to call Scotland again.”

“Please, use our phone,” Gus said.

The kitchen phone was a step away. Helen pulled out Marvell’s card and put in the call. Leezy McGrigor answered. “Helen, is it? How nice to hear from you again.”

“Thank you, Mrs. McGrigor. Have you heard from Professor Marvell?”

“Ah, no. The weather’s been so fine, I imagine he and Robert have been tenting out instead of running into town. Good luck for them, but not for you, I’m afraid?”

“No. I need to reach him if it’s at all possible.”

“Well then, here’s what we’ll do. I’ll send my Forrest, my son, you know, up toward Beinn Dearg. I reckon he’ll find our rogues.”

“I hate to be so much trouble—”

“Not a bit, my dear. Theo would never forgive me if I didn’t do my best by you.”

She gave Leezy McGrigor both her cell number and the number at the Chomsky house. Turning from the phone, she saw that Jeremy had returned to the kitchen door. “Mrs. McGrigor’s going to send her son after Marvell.”

“And meanwhile?” Gus said. “We keep at the disks?”

“That, and figure out who else to call for advice.” Someone at MU, at the library? Marvell couldn’t be the only one who knew magic was real. Another believer. Still better, a practitioner, like Redemption Orne—

The thunderclap of realization must have shown on her face: Jeremy and Gus were staring at her. “Gus, if you could go on with the
Necronomicon
?”

“No appointments today. I can keep right at it.”

“Okay. I need a shower and breakfast. Then, Jeremy, can you drive me back to Arkham?”

“If Gus will stay with Sean. Why?”

“I want to try him again, alone,” Helen said. “Mr. Geldman, at the pharmacy.”

Lulled
by the rhythmic scrape of the windshield wipers, Helen fell asleep before Jeremy made I-95. She didn’t wake up until they were in Arkham, rumbling over the iron bed of the Peabody Avenue Bridge. The dashboard clock read: 10:31. “That was quick,” she muttered.

“Two hours. Couldn’t break any records in this storm.”

She smoothed her T-shirt, peering out the rain-bleared side window. “Wait. Don’t turn here. Go straight up to Curwen Street.”

“Why?”

“We’ve got to park a couple blocks from the pharmacy, out of sight. I’m going there by myself, remember?”

“I’ve been rethinking that plan. I’m going with you.”

“I wish you could. Stop, Jeremy! Go straight.”

He went straight, but he said, “I’m going.”

“You can’t. The pharmacy was always open for me until the other day, when I went there with you. What if it doesn’t want you to see it and you jinx it for me again? Wasted trip.”

Jeremy’s lips tightened out of existence. God, don’t let him go stubborn on her now. “He could be dangerous, Helen. We don’t know what he’s up to.”

“I’m not afraid of Solomon Geldman.”

“You don’t know him.”

“In a way I do. Every time I’ve seen him, I’ve felt—” What? Could she explain it? “Protected,” she said, and it sounded right.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Safe, watched over, I don’t know. But I’ve got to go with the feeling.”

Even though Jeremy offered no further argument, Helen wasn’t sure he’d given in until they turned onto Curwen and he pulled the Civic to the curb two blocks from Gedney. “This do?”

“Looks fine,” Helen said. “Do you have an umbrella?”

Jeremy got out and rummaged in the trunk. What he unfurled over her as she stepped into the rain was a cheerful yellow monstrosity on which someone had drawn black skulls and crossbones. “Sorry about this,” he said, handing her the umbrella. “Sean’s sense of humor again.”

“I like it. The
Flying Dutchman
look.” Though if she remembered her Wagner, that opera hadn’t ended too well for the girl. “Wait here five minutes. If I don’t get into the pharmacy, I’ll be in Tumblebee’s.”

“And if you do get in, how long should I wait outside?”

“Thirty minutes? Sixty. Let’s say an hour.”

“Then?”

“Call my cell. If you can’t reach me, try to get in. There’s a gangway next to the pharmacy. Maybe you could find an inconspicuous window.”

“Breaking and entering. I’m already set for that.” Jeremy opened his windbreaker to reveal a flashlight and cat’s-paw crowbar stowed in the inner pockets.

Should she laugh or be grateful for his forethought? Why not both, so she did laugh, and she said, “Thanks, but I don’t think you’ll have to use those. Five minutes.”

“Five. Not one more.” And he meant it; she’d better not dawdle.

Helen trotted off under the pirate parasol. Thunder grumbled out at sea. Raindrops exploded on the bricks under her feet. As she neared the corner of Gedney and Curwen, she dipped Sean’s umbrella in front of her face, but even as she shielded herself from disappointment she knew she didn’t have to. Geldman’s had been open for her before. It would be open for her again. She passed the side windows of Tumblebee’s, then halted by its steps and peeked under the rim of the umbrella.

Geldman’s Pharmacy was alive and well. The display windows radiated warm interior light. The green awnings offered shelter to the storm drenched. In one of the lace-curtained windows of the second-floor apartment, a black cat washed its face.

The door opened, and Solomon Geldman wheeled out the fortune-telling scale. He looked up as Helen forded the flooded street. “Good morning, Ms. Arkwright. Wet but good, like all mornings.”

Jeremy’s paranoia had infected her, after all—she was reluctant to step under the awning and into Geldman’s sphere of influence. “I’ve been thankful for mornings lately.”

His brows lifted. “Then you’ve found the nights long?”

“Very. I was hoping we could talk.”

“Of course. Let’s get out of this wind.”

Furling her umbrella, Helen braved the awning. As far as she could tell, it shot no mesmerizing rays through the top of her skull. She followed Geldman inside and trod immaculate tiles to the counter, where he took the umbrella and deposited it in a stand. “Have you come for yourself or a friend?” he asked.

“A friend, Sean Wyndham. He bought the Powders of Zeph and Aghar here.”

“I remember the transaction. Shall we go in back? I could offer you tea.”

During the short walk between sidewalk and counter, she had regained her conviction that she’d be safe wherever Geldman was. Even so, she gave the entrance (escape route) one last look. Though she’d heard no splash of approaching footsteps, Jeremy stood pressed to the pharmacy door. Obviously he could see the place as she did, because his eyes met hers wide with astonishment. He tried the door. It didn’t budge. He knocked, then pounded on the spotless plate glass. The slam of his fist made no more sound than the fall of snowflakes on the other side of the world.

“You won’t let him in?” Helen said.

“No. He doesn’t belong here. However, it wouldn’t be polite to leave him unacknowledged.” Geldman closed his eyes.

On the other side of the glass, of the world, Jeremy spun toward the scale. It poked an insolent pink tongue from the brass slot under its face, out-in-out, until he grabbed the proffered fortune. As Jeremy read it, Geldman recited: “Mr. Wyndham. Please don’t worry. I mean Ms. Arkwright no harm. May I suggest you have coffee at the establishment opposite? The house blend is very good, and it’s best not to loiter around abandoned buildings.”

Abandoned? Yes. Where Helen and Geldman stood, the pharmacy remained alive and well. Beyond them, it had gone dark, because the windows were opaque with grime and the door was boarded over with warped plywood. The scale now lay inside, face smashed, one more piece of garbage on the dust-furred tiles.

“Mr. Wyndham has gone for his coffee,” Geldman said. “Shall we?”

He had opened a half door in the counter. Helen turned from the abrupt wreckage and passed through it. She stepped aside to let Geldman take the lead. He walked down a corridor with closed doors to either side and a closed door at its end.

Geldman opened the end door.

19

From
the stutter of overhead fluorescents, Helen walked into a parlor lit by candles in sconces, candles in chandeliers, candles in silver and crystal sticks. The army of tapers redoubled their flames in a dozen ormolu mirrors. Two armchairs and a tea table stood before a hearth ablaze with votives. Flocked red paper covered the walls, red velvet curtains a pair of windows that had to overlook the gangway. Convenient for Jeremy, if he needed to stage a rescue. He wouldn’t. Helen stood on the mild wilderness of a carpet like a woven forest, at ease, almost at home. To her left, next to an ebony secretary laden with books, was a stairwell. To her right, behind one of the armchairs, was a brass perch on which bobbed a raven-like bird, all glossy black except for its white bib.

Geldman took the armchair over which the bird presided. Helen sank into the other, and the cushions plumped and gave, molding themselves to her particular curves.

To the bird, Geldman said, “Please tell Cybele we’d like tea.”

It flapped up the stairwell. “
Corvus albus,
” Geldman said. “The African pied crow. This one’s my familiar.”

Well, if frankness was to be the order of the day. “So you
are
a magician, Mr. Geldman?”

“Or a wizard, sorcerer, witch. I’m not fussy about the label, although you’ll find that many are.
Wizard
is my preference, since it derives from
wise.
Like yourself, Ms. Arkwright, I aspire to wisdom.”

“You seem to know a lot about me.”

“I know what I’ve seen in you.”

“Is it what you see in someone that decides whether this place is open for him?”

Geldman smiled. “It depends on both the person and the situation.”

“Why did you hide it from me the other day?”

“Sean’s father and uncle were there. Also, you needed to learn more about Sean’s dilemma before we spoke.”

“You know what’s happening to him?”

“I know he’s summoned a blood-spawn.”

Even here, in the sanctuary of the parlor, anger sparked in her. Geldman knew how much trouble Sean was in, he was partly responsible for the trouble, and yet he’d stayed in hiding to await further developments?

She opened her mouth. Geldman raised a hand. “One moment, please.”

Like a herald, the crow flew out of the stairwell croaking, “Tea! Tea! Tea!” By the time it had resettled itself, a girl of ten or so appeared at the bend of the stairs, carrying a silver tray. She looked at Helen with open curiosity; Helen looked back equally unabashed, struck by the porcelain delicacy of the girl’s face, the flax blond of her hip-length hair and flax-flower blue of her eyes. She wore a sleeveless white shift. Her feet were bare and so white they glowed.

Geldman went to take the tray. “Thank you, Cybele.”

The girl continued to gaze at Helen.

Geldman touched Cybele’s forearm with his elbow. “Go up. You haven’t finished your reading.”

Cybele retreated around the bend. Helen heard the swift patter of her feet up the steps.

Geldman put the tray on the table between them. It was arranged as daintily as a photo in a decorating magazine: white tea service, white linen napkins, silver spoons, and a plate of tiny white-iced scones embellished with candied violets. As Geldman poured, laughter boiled up Helen’s throat. There was no bile in it, but it wasn’t clean laughter, either—it had too much of reaction in it, reaction to her interrupted anger, reaction to the terror of the last two days, reaction even to the wonder of parlor and familiar and angelic young food stylist. And the candles. Though they’d been burning at least since Helen had entered the room, none was diminished, none showed a drop of wax run down its side.

The laughter came up shrill. Helen stifled it behind her hand.

Geldman placed a cup of tea before her. She pressed her hand harder against her mouth, while Geldman presented the crow with a scone. It dropped the scane into the perch seed cup and pecked with a connoisseur’s air. “Excuse me,” she whispered at last.

“There’s nothing to excuse.”

She steadied her cup on the saucer. The tea was summer fragrant; the smell alone calmed her, so that she didn’t get hysterical again at her genteel remark of, “Cybele’s an unusual name. A goddess, wasn’t she?”

“From the Neolithic Anatolians to the Roman worshipers of Magna Mater and beyond.”

Helen sipped tea: lavender, rosemary, thyme, other sweet and bitter herbs her taste buds couldn’t identify. It was like a liquid distillation of the physic garden in Jeremy’s window, or of the garden Kate had actually planted in their yard. “Is she your daughter?”

“After a fashion.”

Geldman’s smile didn’t alter, but heavy lids hooded his eyes. There were questions he wouldn’t answer, which was just as well. If Helen hared after everything that beckoned in this new world, she’d forget her business. Sean, Jeremy, the Chomskys, they couldn’t afford that. She couldn’t afford it. “How did you find out what’s going on with Sean?”

“A colleague of mine has been testing him. It’s his affair, really.”

Geldman poured himself tea with such graceful nonchalance that Helen’s fingers tightened on the fragile rim of her saucer. As if in response, the cup exhaled fresh fragrance, which enticed her to drink and be soothed. “I suppose your ‘colleague’ is Redemption Orne.”

“Reverend Orne, yes.”

“Tell me about him.”

“That would be a long story, Ms. Arkwright.”

“Then tell me what I need to know.”

Geldman set down the teapot. “First, let me assure you he’s no impostor. He’s the same man who came to Arkham in 1690.”

“How has he lived so long?”

“Wizards have many ways to extend their lives. To discuss Orne’s method would be a professional indiscretion. Suffice it to say, he’s made excellent use of his time. He’s a master among masters.”