The Adept Book 2 The Lodge Of The Lynx (32 page)

Before he could commit the image to paper, however, a suppressed shriek from Iris Talbot startled him out of his semi-trance and drew his gaze. He blinked sharply in a whirl of shifting images and saw that Gillian’s mother was gaping at her daughter in open-mouthed astonishment and pointing. Shifting back in alarm, Peregrine found himself confronted by a pair of wide blue eyes.

Gillian was staring directly at him. The impact of her regard was like a physical blow. Before Peregrine could turn away, he was assailed by a sudden tidal wave of conflicting images. Like a cataract of broken glass, the images tumbled over him in a flood of splintered colors and shapes.

Peregrine gave a choked gasp and tried to look away. The tide held him fast, buffeting him with impressions so intense and so confusing that the force of it sent him reeling with vertigo. His pencil slipped from his fingers and onto the linoleum in a wooden clatter, and he only just managed to keep the sketch pad in his grasp. His determination not to drop it cut short a last surge of broken pictures, after which everything suddenly was still.

He closed his eyes and exhaled on a long, swooping breath, a little surprised that he was still in his chair. Still clinging blindly to the sketch pad, he willed his dizziness to subside. After a seeming eternity, he cautiously cracked an eye open and found Iris Talbot bending over him, her face pale and excited.

“Did you see it, Mr. Lovat? Did you?” she demanded, half-fearfully. “Gillian opened her eyes! You saw it, didn’t you?”

Peregrine nodded, then wished he hadn’t. Taking a grip on himself, he said, “Yes, I saw.”

“That’s the first voluntary movement she’s made in weeks!” Iris continued, already on her way back to Gillian as a nurse poked her head through the doorway in response to the outburst. “She opened her eyes!” she told the nurse. “Call Dr. Sinclair and tell him, please! I was afraid I might have been imagining things, but Mr. Lovat saw it too!”

As the nurse glanced at Peregrine in question, he merely nodded. With a quirk of one eyebrow, the nurse withdrew to call and Iris took up one of her daughter’s slack hands’ to stroke it. Peregrine stole a glance at Gillian, but the shadowed eyes were now closed, and she appeared to have slumped back into whatever strange coma held her in thrall.

“Mr. Lovat, do you think this could be a sign that she’s starting to come out of this?” Iris asked tremulously.

“I really couldn’t say,” Peregrine replied. The memory of the chaos he had just experienced was strong enough to make his head swim, and he casually turned the first sketch back over the second and laid the sketch pad in his box. “I think we’d better wait for Sir Adam and Lady Sinclair, and see what they think.”

Adam and Philippa, however, were equally circumspect in their response to Iris’ account of the incident.

“It
is
an encouraging sign—as far as it goes,” Philippa conceded, after checking Gillian’s vital signs, “but don’t be tempted to place too much significance on so slight an occurrence. While, in theory, it’s quite possible for an autistic patient to undergo a sudden dramatic awakening, such instances are highly unusual. It’s
too early for you to think of getting your hopes up.”

Iris twisted her fingers together. “I suppose you’re right,” she said reluctantly. “All the same, I can’t help feeling more optimistic than I’ve felt for weeks.”

She turned to Peregrine with a smile almost of awe. “A week ago, I think I would have resented it if my daughter had responded to anyone but my husband or myself. But I don’t feel that way anymore. On the contrary, I’m just glad to think that it’s possible for
someone
to reach her. I don’t know what you did, Mr. Lovat, but I’m grateful all the same. You
will
be coming again, won’t you? Please say that you will.”

Peregrine met her gaze squarely, surprised at the strength of his own determination.

“I wouldn’t back out now for anything,” he assured her.

“Your feelings do you credit, Mrs. Talbot,” Adam interposed gently. “But please bear in mind that we’re still a long way from finding a working miracle . . .”

That was all he and Philippa were prepared to say in Iris’ presence. Peregrine wisely bided his time until the three of them had gained the privacy of Adam’s office before pressing his own questions.

“Was Mrs. Talbot right?” he asked. “Was Gillian responding specifically to me?”

“So it would appear,” Adam said, with a fleeting smile for Peregrine’s lingering astonishment. “We’ve already noted that Gillian’s earlier persona, as Scot, singled you out at Melrose as the appropriate person with whom to communicate. Evidently, in spite of all the damage her indwelling soul has suffered, some form of recognition is still possible, at least where you’re concerned. With luck, that may give us something concrete on which to build in the days to come.”

He eyed Peregrine more closely. “Now, tell us what you saw.”

Peregrine grimaced at the memory. “Nothing very coherent, I’m afraid. It was a bit like looking at a large-scale painting by Picasso—everything broken to bits and scrambled around. I had the feeling all the pieces were still there—but what a job to sort them all out and put them back together in all the right places!”

Adam decided to let that issue lie fallow for the moment. “You did say you made some drawings, didn’t you?”

“Only a couple,” Peregrine said, handing over his sketch pad. “Nothing that’s very helpful where Gillian herself is concerned, I don’t think—but I
can
tell you what happened to her hairbrush. Don’t pay any mind to the first one. It was just a warm-up.”

Opening the pad, Adam flipped past the first sketch with only a cursory glance, turning his closer attention to the second.

‘’This is very interesting,” he murmured, studying the drawing of the cleaner. “Take a look at this, Philippa. Marjory Lewis, I’ll warrant—if that’s her real name.”

As Peregrine looked on in question, Philippa eyed the drawing in her turn.

“Well, that puts a whole new twist on things, doesn’t it? Apparently we’re more closely monitored even than we feared.”

“You mean that cleaning woman is some kind of agent for the Lodge of the Lynx?” Peregrine looked revolted at the notion. “But what could they possibly want with Gillian’s hairbrush?”

“They’ve obviously gotten curious about her,” Philippa said. “They want to know who she is—or was. Next to a blood sample, a sample of hair is the next best thing to use as a focus for anyone wishing to carry out certain kinds of psychic investigations—in this instance, probably an inquiry into Gillian’s existential past.”

Peregrine went very still, remembering the other image he had not had time to draw.

“Adam,” he said apprehensively, “did you order more blood tests on Gillian? Or did you, Lady Sinclair?”

The way mother and son exchanged cautious glances confirmed to Peregrine that they had not.

“There was a man in the room early this morning,” Peregrine said steadily. “I saw him after the hairbrush images. He was drawing blood. If you look, I’m sure you’ll find a fresh needle mark on her right arm. I’d assumed it was routine—and then Mrs. Talbot started squawking about Gillian’s eyes being open. But it wasn’t routine, was it?”

Adam shook his head, then flipped Peregrine’s sketchbook to a fresh page.

“Draw what you saw, Peregrine,” he said, handing it back. Peregrine blinked at the blank page, but his hand seemed oddly reluctant to move to the paper.

“I—don’t think I can, Adam,” he whispered. “There’s something—”

“Close your eyes and go back to the memory,” Adam commanded, setting one hand on Peregrine’s shoulder and clasping the other lightly across his forehead. “Take a deep breath, the way I’ve taught you, and settle into that altered state in which you can work most effectively. Just draw what you see. Let it flow . . . ”

As Peregrine drew a deep breath, trying to do what Adam wanted, Adam dropped his hands and sat back. Peregrine’s eyes opened and his hand moved dutifully to the sketch pad and began to draw; but though the vague suggestion of a white-coated man took shape, bending over a figure that was unmistakably Gillian, his pencil kept avoiding the man’s face.

“Draw the face, Peregrine,” Adam’s whisper urged. But Peregrine could not seem to get a clear look at it, and had to shake his head perplexedly as he came up out of trance.

“I can’t do it, Adam,” he said. “I just can’t see it properly. It’s like there’s a veil—”

“Or a shield,” Philippa said, turning the sketch for a better angle. “Just offhand, I’d say Peregrine may have stumbled upon one of the full members of the Lodge of the Lynx protecting his identity as he goes about his evil business.”

“And now they have blood as well as hair to make the connection with Gillian,” Adam said. “If they’re at all competent, by this time tomorrow they’re going to know precisely who Gillian is—and more important, who she was.”

“They could do that, just with blood and hair?” Peregrine asked, wide-eyed.

Adam nodded. “Depending upon the skill of the particular individual making the inquiry—yes.
We
could. And given that they had the knowledge to re-animate Scot’s body and force his soul back into it, I would have to say that they probably do have the resources—unless, of course, their expert in that area was one of the casualties at Loch Ness. But a gifted investigator can plumb as far back as his subject’s original awakening.”

“Well, if they
can
make the connection between Gillian Talbot and Michael Scot,” Peregrine said, “what do you suppose they might do?”

“It’s useless to speculate,” Philippa said, scowling in Adam’s direction. “One thing is quite certain, though: we can’t adequately protect her in her present hospital environment. If you want my recommendation, I say we should move her out to Strathmourne as soon as is humanly possible.”

Adam grimaced. “That thought has crossed my mind as well. The only question is, can we do it without causing a stir?”

“Causing a stir is the least of our worries,” Philippa said practically. “We have twenty-four hours’ grace at the most, I should say, before our enemies succeed in breaching the bounds of secrecy where Gillian is concerned. After that, the only way we can be sure she’s safe would be for you and me to mount guard round the clock over her room—and I promise you,
that
would cause even more comment.”

Adam pulled a considering frown. “All too true, I’m afraid. However, I believe Peregrine may have given us the beginnings of a plausible excuse for moving Gillian out of hospital and into a home environment.”

“I have?” Peregrine looked from Adam to Philippa and back again.

“Indeed, you have,” Philippa said, slowly nodding. “Now that we’ve had some inkling of response, one could argue that it might be worthwhile to see how she reacts to surroundings more like a home environment—namely, Strathmourne, where she can be closely supervised by both her attending physicians.” She tilted an inquiring glance at her son. “Didn’t you mention once that your Mrs. Gilchrist used to be a nurse before she retired?”

“I did,” Adam said. “I gather you’re suggesting she might be persuaded to do a stint of private duty care under a familiar roof. The hard part will be getting the ambulance service to agree to make the transfer at short notice—but I’ll see what I can do.

“In the meantime, we have Mrs. Talbot to persuade.” He cast a pointed glance at Peregrine. “And for tonight,” he went on, ‘’I’d be very much obliged, Philippa, if you could do whatever you can to ward Gillian’s room.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

THAT SAME NIGHT,
in the cellar level of a house near Stirling called Nether Leckie, Francis Raeburn and a select handful of his subordinates gathered to pursue their interest in Gillian Talbot. Present were the three who had done Raeburn’s bidding in preparing an origami lynx, hardly a week before—Napier, Fitzgerald, and Wemyss—and the wiry, dark-haired man named Barclay, whose assorted talents ran far beyond the piloting of helicopters. All five had donned the hooded black robes that were their working uniform, and each bore the silver medallion and carnelian-set ring that were the badges of full membership in the Lodge of the Lynx.

Their working place was warded and ready, with fire guttering in black iron cressets on three of the whitewashed walls. The fourth wall presented a dark, brooding fresco of a faceless, vaguely humanoid form shrouded in shadow and roiling clouds, with an aureole of lightning bolts set about the area where the head should be, picked out in hammered iron. Facing this wall, and a rack of candles set between it and him, the pilot Barclay sat quietly in a high-backed wooden armchair, head tilted back, eyes closed in trance.

At his right hand, a black iron brazier on a three-foot tripod sent a thin thread of incense smoke curling lazily upward. A small table beside it held other accoutrements necessary for this night’s work: more incense, a shallow glass vessel like a petri dish, an egg-sized tangle of golden hair, and a 10cc hypodermic syringe filled with dark blood. Raeburn himself presided over this array, with the hard-eyed Angela Fitzgerald to assist him. On the other side of Barclay, Napier had pushed back the pilot’s left sleeve and was tightening a length of rubber tubing around his upper arm while Wemyss loaded another syringe from a small vial of opalescent pinkish fluid.

“You’re aware that he won’t be able to fly for twenty-four hours,” Wemyss said, withdrawing the needle and handing off the vial to Napier, holding the syringe to the candlelight and expelling a few air bubbles.

“I don’t
need
him to fly until Saturday,” Raeburn murmured, watching as Wemyss tore open an alcohol swab and scrubbed over Barclay’s bulging vein. “This ‘flight’ is far more important just now. If, as I suspect, our young Gillian Talbot is the current incarnation of Michael Scot, then this night’s work may well point the way to recovering access to what was lost at Loch Ness. Barclay was present when the late lamented Geddes summoned Scot back to his body at Melrose; he will know if the perception is true. Please proceed.”

Without further demur, Wemyss slipped the needle into Barclay’s vein and loosed the tourniquet, slowly injecting about half the contents of the syringe and then pausing to peer under one of his subject’s eyelids. Napier had shifted to steady Barclay by the shoulders, so was prepared when, after Wemyss had injected more of the drug, Barclay gave a shudder and a moan.

“He’s nearly there,” Wemyss muttered, as the eyelids fluttered open. “Barclay, can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

The pupils were dilated, Barclay’s gaze fixed and unfocused. Satisfied, Wemyss tightened his thumb minutely on the plunger, delivering a small additional dose of the drug. Then, pressing the alcohol swab over the injection site, he deftly withdrew the needle and folded his subject’s arm up against his chest before stepping to one side.

“Whenever you’re ready, Mr. Raeburn,” he said.

Smiling, Raeburn moved forward, leaning both hands on the arms of Barclay’s chair to gaze into the drugged eyes.

“Are you comfortable, Mr. Barclay?” he said softly.

Barclay’s head gave a slight nod. “I’m doin’ okay, Mr. Raeburn.”

“Excellent.”

Stepping back, Raeburn had Angela help him move the brazier in front of the chair, nearly touching Barclay’s knees. Simultaneously, Napier and Wemyss each took a shoulder and urged Barclay to sit forward, splaying his knees so that the brazier could be moved even closer. As Raeburn scattered a pinch of incense on the glowing charcoal, Barclay began inhaling deeply of the fumes. It was the same incense, Raeburn knew, that had been used that night at Melrose; and Barclay’s shudder, and the intent look on his face, indicated that he knew it too.

“Yessss,” Raeburn hissed. “You know that scent, don’t you? It’s taking you back to that night at Melrose. Will yourself there now,” Raeburn urged. “See the scene before you in the smoke. Focus on the presence that was called up that night. And now here’s something to help you lock in on the target.”

At his gesture, Angela Fitzgerald cast the ball of golden hair onto the brazier. As the stench of burning hair wafted upward, Barclay bent closer to inhale of it deeply, eyes vaguely focused through the smoke.

“Reach for it,” Raeburn commanded. “Bring the two together and compare them.
Is
the Talbot girl Scot’s current incarnation?”

“It’s coming,” Barclay breathed. “Close . . . very close. Can’t—quite—get the focus, though. Help me.”

Nodding to Wemyss and Napier, Raeburn took up the syringe of blood, expressing a coin-sized pool of dark crimson into each of Barclay’s palms as his two keepers upturned them. The rest of the blood went into the shallow glass dish, which Angela had already set on the charcoal. The blood sizzled on the hot glass, individual droplets racing around the edges, and Barclay inhaled deeply of the stench, nodding as he rubbed his palms together to increase the contact.

“Yes,” he said, eyes closed as he brought his bloody hands closer to his face to inhale of the blood itself. “Oh, yes, they’re one and the same. But Scot’s angry. His cooperation won’t be easily gained. He’s powerful, even unfocused by the condition of his present body. But he
can
be used. Force can be brought to bear. Yes . . . it’s definitely Scot. Mustn’t let the Hunting Lodge enlist his aid. Powerful enemy . . . but also a powerful slave . . . careful . . .”

Gradually he wound down, finally slumping forward exhausted, head supported by bloody hands. When it was clear that no more information would be forthcoming. Raeburn withdrew the brazier and signaled Wemyss and Napier to draw their subject upright once more. Barclay was still conscious, but only barely so, and Raeburn glanced at Wemyss in question.

“Is he all right?”

“He will be, when he’s slept,” the physician replied, leaning forward briefly to check as Barclay’s eyes rolled upward in their sockets and he went limp in their grasp. “Yes, he’s finished for tonight. Shall I take him up to a bed and get him cleaned up?”

“Yes, go ahead,” Raeburn agreed. “Mr. Napier will help you carry him. We’ll meet in the library in half an hour to decide how to use this information. I don’t think it’s urgent that we move before Friday night—nothing is apt to interfere with
that—but
I do believe we’ll want to devote some attention in future to Miss Gillian Talbot.”