The Adept Book 2 The Lodge Of The Lynx (3 page)

The fourth man, masked across the eyes like an executioner, was brandishing a sword as he led the odd procession. Light glinted from a heavy, silvery medallion around his throat and a ring on his right hand, but the very light made it impossible to see the items in detail. Above and around them all, whirling like a swarm of angry hornets, hung a hungry cloud of green-glowing spheres. The spheres in the foreground each contained the spectral impression of a winged homunculus with gaping jaws and razor-sharp teeth.

On the back of this painting Peregrine had scribbled.
The fury of the Sidhe.

“Whoever would have believed that anything so tiny could be so deadly?” the artist said, surveying his own work with a wondering shake of his head. “The next one’s even more fanciful, if you don’t believe in monsters.”

He passed Adam a third sheet of watercolor paper. This painting, a much darker night scene, showed two men cowering in the stern of a sleek, high-powered speedboat as it tossed about on a stormy sweep of black water. The speedboat was overshadowed by a huge serpentine form rearing out of the waves off the starboard bow. Reptilian eyes glittered green in a basilisk head, as the creature gathered its coils to strike and dive . . .

Anyone else viewing the picture might have taken it for the cover illustration from some modern horror novel; but Adam knew better. He had witnessed the event with his own eyes from the beach below Urquhart Castle, overlooking Loch Ness—but Peregrine’s painting showed far more detail than anyone could have seen from the shore.

For Peregrine Lovat had the gift of seeing more than other people. It was part of what made him such a gifted portrait artist—this ability to see more about his sitters than mere physical appearance—and it was what had driven him to seek Adam’s help. In learning to accept his talent for the gift it was, he was coming to understand what Adam already knew—that the truth sometimes went beyond empirical evidence and what would be admissible in a court of law.

Being privy to the truth could be dangerous, of course. Peregrine’s last two paintings bore testimony to that fact. The first framed the upper body of the hooded man with the sword, the blade now discernible as an ornate Italian rapier. The detail of the sword-hand and the rapier hilt was good, the blade just striking the blow that had left Peregrine wounded, but the red-stoned ring on the sword-hand was not clearly visible.

“Here’s a better detail of the leader’s ring and medallion,” Peregrine said, handing Adam the last painting. “I had to think about this for a long time, but I finally got a clear look at what was on them.”

It might have been artwork submitted for a jeweller’s commission, so finely was it done. The opaque red gemstone set into the golden bezel of the ring had been skillfully cut to show the snarling mask of a big cat with the tufted ears and side-whiskers of a lynx. The disk of the medallion, sharply delineated in shades of black and grey, bore the same design. Adam’s long mouth thinned at the sight of the device, for it stirred memories that were far from pleasant.

“You’ve seen one of these before, haven’t you?” Peregrine observed quietly, noting the narrowing of the other’s dark eyes.

“Aye,” Adam said quietly. “As a matter of fact, the ring you’ve depicted was recovered at Loch Ness. McLeod showed it to me, after we got back from having your hand sutured.”

Peregrine gaped, glancing at the painting again, then returned his attention to Adam.

“What does it mean, then?”

Adam pulled a tight smile that had no mirth in it. At Loch Ness, he and McLeod had guessed the truth, but they had kept the knowledge to themselves. However, if Peregrine was to join the Hunt, he had to know something of what they were up against.

“You’ve seen the rings that Noel and I wear when we’re working. Many Black Lodges do the same. This is the Sign of the Lynx.” He tapped the illustration of the Lynx ring with a well-manicured forefinger. “Let’s just say that the Lodge of the Lynx is an old enemy.”

Peregrine’s hazel eyes widened, but he said nothing. After a moment, Adam continued.

“We last encountered them about fifteen years ago. At that time, their leader was a man named Tudor-Jones. We lost three members of our own Hunting Party before we succeeded in bringing the Lodge of the Lynx to its reckoning. At the time, I dared to hope we’d gotten most of the ringleaders.”

Peregrine blanched slightly.
“Gotten?”
he murmured.

His tone roused Adam from his abstracted recollection, and the older man smiled briefly at his young colleague’s discomfiture.

“I’m sorry. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that
we arrested
them. You’ll perhaps remember that conversation we had in the car, the morning after the incident at Loch Ness, in which I said that Noel and I were something like an occult police force? Well, the analogy holds true on several levels. Like our more mundane colleagues, we’re committed to upholding the Law—in this case, the Law of the Inner Planes. The members of organizations like the Lodge of the Lynx, like any other criminal organization, want what they’re not entitled to, and will stop at nothing to get it. It’s our job to apprehend such people and bring them to justice before they can wreak harm on the world at large.

“Which is not to say that there haven’t been fatalities on both sides,” he continued soberly. “As it happens, in the case of Tudor-Jones and his followers, most of those who were most heavily involved in the work of the Lynx are dead. But that was certainly through no intention of ours. We’re enforcers, not executioners. Our job then—as now—was to stop them from committing serious violations against the Law of the Inner Planes. When we’re obliged to use force, we try to utilize only that force already employed by the opposition—optimally, to turn it back against those who summoned—it but even then, only as a matter of necessity.”

He might have said more, but at that moment there was a brief rap at the door, followed by the precipitous entry of Humphrey carrying a small, tabletop TV.

“I beg your pardon, sir, for barging in like this,” he said over his shoulder as he made hurriedly for the nearest electrical outlet, “but one of the headlines on the morning news may interest you. The actual report should be up any second now.”

He set the TV on one of the mahogany side tables, plugged it in, and switched it on. Almost immediately, the jagged silhouette of grey turrets against a greyer sky filled the screen, to the accompaniment of a cultivated BBC voice-over.

“ ... Grampian Police are investigating a mysterious explosion that took place early this morning within the grounds of Balmoral Castle,” the voice said, as the camera tilted down to a wet-looking expanse of formal garden and well-manicured lawn. “The explosion, which severely damaged the baronial tower of the castle, occurred shortly after midnight. No one was injured. Chief Constable William McNab declined to comment on the probable cause of the explosion, asserting that the facts will only be known following detailed examination of the wreckage. A police forensics team from Aberdeen and another team from the army are presently sifting through the debris In search of clues.”

The steadicam panned to the damaged tower of the castle, showing a blackened stump of blasted masonry where the north turret ought to have been. Several figures in military and police uniforms were picking through the rubble that littered the grass around the base of the building. The camera pulled back to focus on the figure of a cold-looking newscaster in rain slicker and tweed cap, standing in the foreground with microphone in hand.

“A spokesman from Buckingham Palace has confirmed that no member of the Royal Family was in residence at Balmoral at the time of the incident,” the newscaster reported gravely. “The authorities are looking into the possibility of a gas explosion, but it is understood that they have not yet ruled out the possibility of a terrorist bomb. To add to the mystery, there have been several unconfirmed reports by local witnesses claiming to have seen a freak bolt of lightning strike the roof of the castle. There has been no official statement as yet on behalf of the police or of the regiment currently in charge of castle security. So until the authorities are prepared to come forward with an explanation, the cause of the explosion seems destined to remain a mystery. This is Alan Cafferty, BBC News, Balmoral Castle.”

The story concluded with a final close-up of the ruined turret, smoke still rising in thin wisps from the blackened stones. As coverage shifted back to London for the business news, Adam signed for Humphrey to switch off the set and take it away, and glanced aside at the wide-eyed Peregrine.

“Mystery, indeed,” he murmured. “I wonder . . .”

Reaching behind him, he snagged the telephone and punched out the numbers that would give him the residence of Detective Chief Inspector Noel McLeod, veteran of many such unsolved “mysteries.” The line picked up on the third ring.

“Edinburgh 7978,” rumbled a familiar bass voice at the other end of the line.

Adam’s expression eased slightly. “Noel? Adam here. I don’t suppose you were listening to the news just now?”

“The bit on Balmoral? Aye, that I was,” said McLeod. “I was in the middle of shaving when Jane called me out to see it.”

Adam found himself smiling at the mental image of McLeod hurrying into the sitting room with the shaving foam still on his chin.

“I don’t suppose you know any more about it than I do, then,” he said. “What did you think?”

“My first thought was to be thankful it’s outside my jurisdiction,” McLeod replied. “It was only the bit about the lightning strike that gave me second thoughts.”

“Hmmm. Me, too,” Adam said. “At the very least, I wonder who the unnamed witnesses are. It seems strange that anyone should attribute the damage to a freak lightning strike, unless that was precisely what they thought they saw. It could be that there’s nothing more to it than some odd trick of the weather, but I don’t know that I’m prepared to make that assumption.”

“Aye.” McLeod’s brusque reply made it clear that he was digesting what Adam had just said and not said. “Well, I don’t suppose it would do any harm to have a wee look over the ground, once the press have backed off the case, if only to set our minds at ease.”

“My thinking, precisely,” said Adam. “If you can arrange the time off, perhaps we could drive up to Balmoral sometime early next week.”

“No problem there,” said McLeod. “I’ll ring you once I’ve had a chance to set it up. Were you maybe thinking to bring along young Lovat?”

“If he wants to come,” said Adam, with an inquiring glance toward Peregrine, who had been listening avidly to Adam’s half of the conversation and now nodded vehemently. “As a matter of fact,” Adam went on, grinning, “he’s here with me now. We’ve been out for a ride. I’m being given to understand that a team of wild horses couldn’t keep him from corning along.”

McLeod chuckled.

In the meantime,” Adam continued, “I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t be left to enjoy the weekend in peace. Give my love to Jane, and I’ll look to hear from you in a few days.”

With that assurance, he rang off. No sooner had he set down the receiver, however, than the instrument gave out with another trill of summons. Surprised, Adam answered it himself.

“Strathmourne, Sinclair here.”

“Adam? Good Lord, you’ve answered your own phone!” said a man’s musical tenor, as familiar in Adam’s ears as McLeod’s gravelly bass. “Oh, capital! I was afraid I might have missed you. It’s Christopher here. Seen the news broadcast this morning?”

“If you’re referring to that incident up at Balmoral, I’ve just been on the phone about it with Noel,” Adam said.

“Ah, then it struck you as odd, too,” the other replied, with jaunty good humor. “Well, we can talk about it further when we meet up. You
are
still coming?”

“Of course. I was planning to leave as soon as I’d finished breakfast and gotten cleaned up,” Adam said. “I gather there’s been no change since we last spoke?”

“No, not that I know of.”

“In that case, we’ll carry on as planned. By the way,” Adam added, “I happen to have someone with me at the moment who might be useful to have along. His name is Peregrine Lovat.”

“The artist chap?”

“That’s right. Would you mind if I were to bring him?”

“Mind? Good Lord, no!”

“In that case, I’ll see if
he
minds.”

He turned to Peregrine, who was manfully struggling to mask his curiosity.

“Well, what about it?” said Adam. “Have you got any plans for this morning?”

“Actually, I was going to spend a fascinating morning unpacking cartons of books,” Peregrine said drily, the hazel eyes eager behind the gold-rimmed spectacles. “But if this is an invitation, the books can wait!”

Adam chuckled. “He says he thinks he can break away,” he told his caller. “We’ll meet you at the rectory as planned.”

“Splendid! See you then.”

As Adam returned the receiver to its cradle, Peregrine sat forward eagerly.

“So. What have I let myself in for?”

“Oh, nothing
very
serious,” Adam said. “The gentleman on the phone just now was Father Christopher Houston, an Episcopal priest and a very good friend of mine. A former parishioner of his has been complaining about her new flat being haunted. He’s asked me down to have a look at the place.”

At Adam’s” use of the word
haunted,
a dubious expression crossed Peregrine’s open face.

“Now, there’s no need to look like that,” Adam said. “I don’t for a minute believe that the flat is really
haunted,
in the Gothic sense of the word. Christopher has already been out once to visit the premises, and he doesn’t think it calls for anything like a formal exorcism. On the other hand, the young woman who lives there has been having nightmares ever since she moved in. Whether the cause is psychic or psychiatric remains to be determined.”

“Which is where you come in,” said Peregrine.

“Which is where I come in,” Adam agreed. “We’ll approach the situation with open minds. The young lady in question may simply be undergoing some passing stress. Or there may actually
be
something unwholesome in the atmosphere of the place. Either way, we shan’t let the matter rest unresolved.”