The Adept Book 2 The Lodge Of The Lynx (22 page)

“Of course I’ll see her,” Adam said reassuringly. “As it happens, I’m in London at the moment on some personal business. Why don’t I arrange to meet you and Mrs. Talbot some time tomorrow at the hospital? It would be helpful if Dr. Ogilvy could be there as well. What time does she normally make rounds?”

“She generally stops in around ten,” said Gillian’s father. “But if you think that’s too early—”

“Ten o’clock will be fine,” Adam said. “And if I may, I should like to bring another medical colleague of mine.”

Chapter Seventeen

ADAM WENT INTO
the adjoining room to find his mother ensconced in a tartan-upholstered armchair, shoes kicked off and stockinged feet tucked up under her like a girl, sipping tea from a delicate porcelain cup. Her smile lit up the room as she set the cup aside and leaned forward to pour him one.

“Well?” she said. “What
was
all that about?”

Adam slid into the chair opposite and accepted the cup and saucer that Philippa held out to him, setting it down to add milk and sugar.

“You remember I rang you a few weeks ago about that Gillian Talbot girl, and all the business with Michael Scot?” he said, giving the tea a stir.

“Of course.”

“Well, the parents have finally made contact,” Adam went on. “They want to put their daughter under my care.”

Philippa raised a knowing eyebrow, all illusion of girlish abandon giving way to the focused attention of a professional—on several levels.

“From what you told me, I’m surprised it’s taken them this long.”

Adam sipped at his tea. “Better late than never,” he said. “I just hope the situation can still be salvaged.”

“Yes, there is that.” Philippa gave a small, eloquent shudder and hugged her arms as if against a sudden chill.

“Poor soul, past and present! I certainly hope that when this present frame of mine is eight centuries dead, no miscreant will find reason to want to haul
me
back to the remains!” After a pause, she added, “How are you going to explain things to the parents?”

“If they press me for a concrete diagnosis,” Adam said, with a gesture of his cup, “I suppose I’ll define the problem as a
personality disorder—which
is accurate enough, as far as it goes.” He shrugged. “Beyond that, I’m going to urge them to let me transfer Gillian to Edinburgh. I’m given to understand that my new fledgling is to be involved in the resolution, and I can’t very well bring him down here to do the work—especially since we’re not yet sure what the work will be. Besides that, I have other things demanding my attention in Edinburgh as well.

“That’s certainly true,” she replied. “Well, I shouldn’t think you’ll get much opposition from the parents. I would gather they’re already convinced that you represent their daughter’s last hope for recovery.” She paused and added thoughtfully, “I wonder if the Lodge of the Lynx knows anything about Gillian’s existence.”

Adam set down his empty cup and shrugged. “Difficult to say. One would think her existence must have been known to the team who originally carried out the Melrose summoning. They certainly must have known they’d hauled Scot out of a present incarnation. And if even one member of that team should have survived the faerie massacre at Urquhart, he or she would be in a position to pass that knowledge on to other operatives within the organization. For what it’s worth.”

“And what
is
it worth?” Philippa asked.

Adam grimaced. “I wish I knew. As she is at the moment, Gillian is of no consequence to them, either as a present threat or a future asset. But that situation might change overnight, if our enemies should come to suspect there was any likelihood that she might be healed. After all, at least one of her underlying personae—that of Michael Scot—has knowledge that the Lynx wanted. If they thought
we
might get it—and hence, gain some clue to what they’re trying to do—that alone would be sufficient cause for them to try to destroy her, rather than risk her passing that knowledge on to us.”

“In other words,” Philippa said succinctly, “the less anyone else knows about this affair, the better.”

Adam nodded. “I’m not even entirely happy about transferring her to Edinburgh—though it’s necessary, if I’m to have sufficient access to do her or us any good. It puts her into closer physical proximity to whatever the Lynx are planning—and could make her more vulnerable.”

“What about putting her in a private clinic?” Philippa asked. “You’d have better security, and better privacy for getting on with what needs to be done.”

“This is Britain, not America,” Adam reminded her. “I have to work within a system that’s sometimes very rigid. Unfortunately, so long as she’s a public patient, there are limits to how far I dare deviate from standard procedures. It’s going to raise enough eyebrows, just getting her transferred up to Scotland. Once she’s there, I’ll need to keep a very low profile while we figure out what to do with her.”

“In that case,” Philippa said, “it seems to me that it wouldn’t be a bad idea for some member of the Hunting Lodge to take responsibility for safeguarding this child while you do that.” As she leveled a meaningful look in her son’s direction, Adam smiled.

“Am I to understand that you’re volunteering?”

“Why not?”

“Why not, indeed?” Adam grinned over at his mother in mingled affection and respect. “Any scion of the Lynx who sees
you
as easy prey is going to be in for quite a shock!”

“I do like to think that I’ve not lost my edge,” she said, with a droll smile that transformed into a yawn as she indulged in a stretch. “Dear me, I assure you it isn’t the company. It’s been a long day, though, and I do need my beauty sleep.”

“Good Lord, yes! You must be frightfully jet-lagged,” Adam replied, preparing to rise. “You shouldn’t have let me go on so.” He glanced at his watch. “I—ah—don’t want to put any pressure on you, but I wonder if you might like to come along with me to the hospital in the morning and meet our patient. I’ve arranged to be there at ten. The Talbots have already welcomed the suggestion that I might bring along a colleague, but that decision is entirely up to you.”

“As if I would ever let myself be caught lolling idly about in my bed when the game is afoot!” Philippa’s dark eyes had taken on a militant sparkle that belied her silver hair. “If I’m going to act as watch-dog, there’s no time to begin like the present. Once we get back to Scotland, we may find ourselves under fire, and I for one would like to feel we’ve left nothing to chance.”

* * *

Adam and Philippa, had they known it, were not the only ones to be laying long-range plans this November night. One hundred fifty miles north of the Scottish border, amid the snow-covered crags of the Cairngorm Mountains, twelve white-robed senior acolytes of the Lodge of the Lynx sat cross-legged in the topmost tower of their frowning castle retreat, their leader in their midst, there to await the coming of a visitor.

Above the wintry shrilling of the wind, the Head-Master was the first to hear the approaching chuff of helicopter rotors. Roused from his meditations, he lifted his hairless head and directed a piercing look across the circle at the acolyte nearest the door.

The woman nodded her acknowledgement and rose silently, signaling her withdrawal from the circle with a ritual gesture and then bowing herself out of the room. When she returned a short time later, she had Raeburn with her, barefoot and clothed like all the others in a loose white robe like a monk’s habit. She was also carrying something wrapped in a swath of scarlet silk, which she bore reverently to the Head-Master and set into his hands before returning to her place. Palms pressed together at breast level before him, the newcomer advanced to the center of the chamber to make a deep obeisance.

“Head-Master,” he said.

The Master eyed him up and down, his face sallow as parchment in the yellow glow of the surrounding gas lamps.

“Lynx-Master,” he replied, his voice dry and cold. “Allow me to bid you welcome on this memorable occasion—though you are somewhat later than expected.”

The faint note of censure sent a crackle through the air in the room, like a flicker of static electricity. Raeburn inclined his sleek blond head and said smoothly, “Forgive me, Head-Master. I am not yet privileged to control the Scottish weather.”

The statement was neutral, a simple statement of fact, but it caused a slight ripple among the watching acolytes.

Not so the Master, who merely inclined his head.

“Now that you are here, you will render your report.”

“Certainly, Head-Master,” Raeburn said with a bow.

He squared his shoulders, conscious of the envy lurking behind the watchful eyes of some of the acolytes present, several of whom had personal reasons for resenting his successes. Recent developments dictated that he would have to tread carefully if he hoped to maintain his ascendancy.

“We are all aware of our objectives in this present campaign,” he said silkily, folding his hands quietly in the full sleeves of his robe. “That being the case, I see no reason to reiterate them here. Suffice it to say that the next target has been designated, along with the time and the place for his execution. Before this week is out, another pillar of the Temple will have fallen, and we shall have gained another measure of power to give substance to the designs of our Patron.”

All the while he was speaking, his pale blue eyes did not stray from the Master’s writhen features. Nevertheless, he was keenly aware of what lay on the floor between them: a thick sheaf of yellow parchments cradled on a mat of black ram skin—and on top of the parchments, the scarlet-wrapped bundle of the torc Raeburn had just surrendered. He could almost taste its shadowy potency, pulsing like subsonic rumblings of thunder-power sealed with blood, and soon to be enhanced with the letting of more blood. The craving to have it back in his possession was like the compulsion of a drug.

Half-intoxicated, he recalled himself with an effort, reminding himself that he had not yet finished his report.

“In short,” he went on, “our plans are progressing according to schedule. There is, however, one complication.”

The Head-Master’s face stiffened. “Explain.”

Raeburn met the old man’s hard gaze unflinchingly. “First, allow me to reassure you that the matter is being dealt with,” he said. “It concerns a certain police inspector from Edinburgh. You will recall that we had a conversation about him not so very long ago.”

The old man’s sunken eyes took on a malevolent, reptilian gleam as he moistened withered lips with a flick of his tongue.

“Inspector McLeod,” he hissed.

“The same,” Raeburn agreed. “He did me the dubious honor of calling at my home two days ago. During the course of our conversation—which, by the way, seems to have been purely routine, as police matters go—I took the liberty of applying certain . . . tests. I am now in a position to confirm what we previously only suspected: that Inspector McLeod almost certainly is a member of a Hunting Lodge.”

This bald announcement provoked a stir among the assembled acolytes, though no one ventured to speak. The Head-Master quelled the rustling with a piercing glare before returning his attention to Raeburn.

“You say you tested him. I hope you were not so foolish as to betray yourself in the exchange.”

“No.” Raeburn took pains to sound confident. “The inspector has considerable strength, but relatively little sensibility. Difficult to overcome, but easy to outmaneuver. That being the case—” he paused to smile thinly “—I have already devised what promises to be an effective means of putting him out of action—for good.”

Seeing that he had the attention of all present, he went on to explain. When he had finished, the Head-Master favored him with a calculating look.

“You do appear to have the situation well enough in hand,” he acknowledged coldly, “at least so far as McLeod himself is concerned. But he is not the only one to come to our attention from that direction. What of the troublesome Adam Sinclair? If you are correct about McLeod, then Sinclair is almost certainly a Huntsman as well—possibly even their leader. What’s to prevent him from intervening on McLeod’s behalf?”

Raeburn’s smile was cold like his eyes. “I’ve done my homework, Head-Master. Sinclair has gone to London for a few days. Even if McLeod should prove strong enough to withstand the initial shock of the assault, he won’t be able to sustain a defense for more than a few hours without outside assistance. Not even a man of Sinclair’s resources could hope to overcome the distance factor within the allotted time.”

“What of other Huntsmen nearer at hand, who might be able to interfere?”

“Obviously, we cannot rule out that possibility,” Raeburn conceded. “But thus far, Sinclair is the only one we know of to evince the necessary talent and training. There may be others—but in order to intervene, they will have to show themselves. And if they show themselves, we will henceforth have them in our sights.”

The old man bared yellow teeth in a death’s-head smile. “Satisfactory. You persuade me that you are worthy of the mission about to be entrusted to you. Are you prepared to be presented to our Patron?”

“I am,” Raeburn said strongly, damping down a flutter of anticipation.

“Then, let us call upon our Patron to bear witness.”

Raising his hands palm outward in an imperious gesture of command, the Head-Master cast his cold gaze around the room. At once the assembled acolytes shifted onto their knees, then bent in unison to prostrate themselves, foreheads to the floor. As the Head-Master got slowly to his feet, Raeburn dropped to his knees before him, his face aglow with expectation. Standing over him, hands raised now toward the vaulted ceiling, the old man began to chant in a voice as hoarse as a crow’s.