The Adept Book 2 The Lodge Of The Lynx (39 page)

“I had a glimpse of a table like this, while you were occupied with your Mr. Anderson,” he murmured, touching the design of interlocking triangles. “This symbol, in particular. I’d guess that the
sign of desecration
he spoke of must be buried somewhere underneath all this.”

“Aye, let’s see if we can shift some more of this rubbish,” McLeod agreed.

First with hands and then taking up the tools the rescue workers had not yet come back to retrieve, they set to work clearing away the larger pieces of debris from the base of the table. When there was nothing left but heaps of still-warm ash, they went more slowly, taking time to sift each spadeful of grey powder as they shoveled it aside. Peregrine was starting to wonder if they were going to be at it all night when his shovel turned over something that glinted a dull metallic grey in the light of their work lamp.

Without thinking, he reached down with his bare hand to pick it up and got a jolt like a brush with an electrified fence. He gave a yip and sat abruptly back on his haunches.

“Peregrine, what the—”

Peregrine pointed to the fragment of metal he had uncovered, almost too shaken to register that this was the first time McLeod had ever addressed him by his Christian name.

“That,” he said. “It gave me a shock when I went to pick it up. I think it may be what we’re looking for.”

He flexed his fingers. The knuckles were still tingling unpleasantly. As he picked himself up, dusting ash off his seat and hands, McLeod crouched down to inspect the find more closely. The inspector’s hand dipped into a coat pocket as he continued to study the item, and emerged wearing a familiar sapphire ring. The hand with the ring sketched a sequence of symbols over the item which seemed to enliven the very air around it—then dipped again into the coat to produce a handkerchief.

“Well, well, well,” McLeod muttered, clucking his tongue as he carefully lifted the object in the handkerchief’s insulating folds.

As he held it up to the light, Peregrine could see that it was the slagged and twisted remains of a silvery disk, perhaps two inches across. His eyes went wide behind his spectacles.

“Is that it?” he faltered. “Is that the
sign
we were told to look for?”

“You tell me,” said McLeod. “Is it?”

Drawing a deep breath, Peregrine narrowed his eyes and shifted his focus. The ensuing blur resolved into the ghostly image of a snarling lynx head.

“Dear God, it’s a Lynx medallion!” he whispered. “It’s what I’ve been getting glimpses of, since this all began, except I’ve never really seen one at firsthand.”

McLeod grinned wolfishly and wrapped the handkerchief more securely around it, then sketched another symbol over the bundle.

“Well, we’ve got one now,” he told the artist, “and I’d say it confirms responsibility for this piece of work.” He presented the bundle to Peregrine. “Adam’s certainly going to want to see it. Since I don’t know how soon I’ll be free to get back with him in person, maybe you’d better take it and deliver it to him as soon as he gets home.”

Nodding, Peregrine wrapped the bundle in another layer of his own handkerchief, then gingerly stuffed it away in an inside pocket of his duffel coat and got to his feet. McLeod threw a glance back over his shoulder, then spread both his hands palm-down over the area of the ruined altar. He held that posture for the space of several heartbeats, lips moving silently in what Peregrine assumed was a prayer. Then his right hand moved to sketch a banishing pentagram in the air.

Peregrine felt a slight tug at his senses, as if something sticky had just been pulled away from his skin. Then all at once, the atmosphere in their immediate area seemed to clear. Peregrine was reminded of that moment in Helena Pringle’s flat, when Adam had united his efforts with those of Christopher Houston to rid the place of uncleanliness.

After another moment of introspective silence, McLeod squared his shoulders and sighed.

“There,” he said quietly. “Now the Brethren can rest easy.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

EVERYTHING WAS QUIET
at Edinburgh Royal Infirmary, where Adam Sinclair lay restless in his hospital bed. His dream of earlier in the evening had left his nerves a-jangle. Ten o’clock had come and gone without bringing any word from McLeod. He knew he should try to get some rest, but between the aches in his body and the worry brewing in his mind, he found himself unable to settle down for more than a few minutes at a time. Dutifully he went through the familiar exercise of composing himself for sleep, usually fail-proof, only to wake up again with a start a few moments later, haunted by the vividness of the dream he feared increasingly had been a portent of whatever disaster McLeod now was dealing with.

A brief flurry of activity at around eleven marked the nurses’ change of shift. By then, Adam had abandoned all pretense of trying to go to sleep. As the changeover bustle died away, the nighttime hush of the hospital floor became almost oppressive. After another quarter of an hour, unable to stand the suspense any longer, he struggled once more out of bed and dragged on his hospital-issue dressing gown, clutching it sketchily about him with his good hand as he hobbled lamely over to the door and peered out.

The dimly-lit corridor was empty. The nurses’ station at the far end of the hall appeared to be unoccupied. He could hear lowered voices coming from the wardroom toilets; evidently some other patient had gotten up without leave and was about to be chivvied solicitously back to bed. Sighing inwardly over the sheepdog instinct that seemed to be an ingrained feature of all competently trained nurses, he eased out of his room as quietly as his sore muscles would allow and made for the door to the television lounge, determined to catch the late night news before he was discovered and sent back to his room.

At this hour he had the place entirely to himself. He left the overhead light switched off—no point in advertising his presence—and limped stiffly over to turn on the TV. As he was shuffling back to the nearest chair, the sound came on, cutting in with the late night credits and voice-over headlines for the local regional news. The first item on the agenda was a grim proclamation of disaster.

“Seventeen die and more are injured as a mysterious explosion causes the collapse of a Masonic Lodge in Dunfermline.
”

Adam’s senses reeled as other, lesser headlines passed through his awareness as a blur. Eyes drawn to the brightening screen, he groped for the arm of the chair and lowered himself into it as the on-screen presenter went on to deliver a more detailed account of the facts:

“Seventeen men died tonight and at least eleven more were injured in a freak explosion which utterly destroyed the upper floor of a Masonic Lodge in Dunfermline and seriously damaged the rest of the premises. The incident, which is being investigated by the police, occurred shortly after eight o’ clock. Eyewitnesses claim to have seen what has been described variously as a bolt of lightning or a ball of fire strike the roof of the Lodge . . . “

The story continued, accompanied by camera footage taken at the scene. Adam grimaced at the sight of the roofless, smouldering building, its shattered windows gaping like blind eyes in the lurid glare of the emergency floodlights. There was no doubt in his mind that this was the event he had witnessed in his dream. Thinking back on the timing, he realized that the two events must have occurred simultaneously.

The camera cut away from the devastation to an earnest television journalist.

“Given the controversial nature of the eyewitness reports,” she was saying, “the task of determining the cause of the explosion has already been complicated by public speculation. When we asked whether or not the police intend to treat the incident as suspicious, Detective Chief Inspector Noel McLeod had this to say.”

Adam sat forward as McLeod’s familiar face appeared on the screen, a streak of ash smudged across one cheekbone. He was looking drained and worn, and spoke curtly into the microphone, as if at least a part of his mind was preoccupied with matters far more important than satisfying the demands of the media.

“Yes, there is some evidence to suggest that the source of the explosion might have come from outside rather than inside the building,” he told his interviewer, “but we have not yet ruled out more conventional explanations, such as a gas mains explosion.”

“Could it have been a terrorist bomb, Inspector?” another reporter asked from off-camera.

McLeod’s gaze turned wearily in the direction of the questioner.

“We have no evidence at this time to support such a suggestion. Any speculation that anyone might make at this time must be purely conjectural. Quite frankly, we’re still most concerned at this time with making certain that there are no more bodies buried under the rubble.”

“When
do
you expect to have a statement on the cause, Inspector?” the first reporter asked.

“When we do, I assure you it will come through the appropriate channels and the media will be notified,” McLeod said patiently. “I must emphasize that assessing the forensic evidence in a disaster of this magnitude will take time. I have no further statement at this time.”

As he turned away and the camera switched back to the reporter for a quick recap, Adam reflected that this might almost have been a repeat of the Calton Hill incident, but on a much grander scale. The masters of the Lynx were escalating their operations at a frightening rate. He switched off the TV and stared blindly at the blank screen while he weighed up the import of this latest act of mayhem. He was not aware that anyone else had entered the room until suddenly the overhead light switched on and a female voice broke in upon his reverie in tones of mingled concern and exasperation.

“What
are
we going to do with you, Dr. Sinclair? It’s nearly midnight, when all
good
patients are supposed to be in bed!”

Adam blinked himself out of the blackness of his thoughts and raised his eyes to meet those of a very attractive accuser. She was a nurse he hadn’t seen before, a slight young redhead with a tip-tilted nose and more twinkle than frown in her grey eyes. Her name tag read
J. Brown, RN.
She folded her arms across her chest and cocked her head at him sympathetically.

“I have to say, you don’t look as if you’re much enjoying being up. If you’re too uncomfortable to sleep, there’s no point in being too polite to say so. You’ve got more medication on the way up, if you’re needing some relief. Why don’t you come on back to your room while I ring the pharmacy and see what’s holding it up?”

Adam’s wrenched and tired joints were aching like a bad tooth. Suddenly the thought of sleep seemed overwhelmingly attractive. But first he had one last task to fulfill.

“I’ll come quietly,” he told the nurse with a strained smile. “I believe the arrestee
is
entitled to one phone call, though.”

“At this, hour?”

“Please,” Adam said. “It’s very important.”

The nurse took a second look at his face, then capitulated with an indulgent shake of her head, like a mother humoring a wayward child.

“All right, then,” she told him. “But only a short one.”

It seemed like a mile from the television lounge to the nurses’ station. Leaning heavily on the counter, Adam repeated his performance of earlier in the evening in order to ring up McLeod’s home telephone number. Jane answered almost at once.

“Hello, it’s Adam again,” he told her. ”Look, I’m sorry to be phoning so late—”

“Not at all,” said Jane. “I’ve been waiting up in case Noel should happen to call.”

“Then he hasn’t checked in yet?”

“No—which probably means he’s still in the thick of things up at Dunfermline.” She paused, then asked, “Have you seen the late night Scottish news?”

“Yes, that’s why I’m ringing back. Naturally, I’m appalled, but if Noel’s going to be in for a long night of it, I’m thinking it might be better for all concerned if we postpone our conversation till some time later tomorrow. He’s obviously needed where he is. Better that the pair of us should get some sleep and come at the problem fresh.”

“All right, I’ll tell him, Adam.”

As he was ringing off, the lift door adjoining the nurses’ station opened with a whoosh to eject a spruce young man in a white lab coat marked
Pharmacy.
He was carrying a tray load of prescriptions packaged up in individual dispensing envelopes. He greeted the red-haired nurse with a jaunty wave and deposited the tray on the desk in front of her.

“There you are, Jeanne, my lass,” he said cheerily. “All present and accounted for.”

Jeanne cast an eye up at the clock above her head and clucked her tongue in mock disparagement.

“You weren’t in any great hurry to get here, were you, Neil Redmond?” she observed. “Dr. Sinclair here was just about to write up a fresh set of orders for himself.”

“Hey, don’t blame me,” Redmond said, with an apologetic look in Adam’s direction. “I got waylaid by Dr. Wemyss. He barged into the office just as I was getting ready to bring these up to the floor.”

“Dr. Wemyss? What’s he doing here this late?”

“Must be on night call,” the pharmacist said with a shrug. “He had a bee in his bonnet about somebody on the day shift misreading his orders for one of his patients—made me put the tray down and go back into the dispensary to check the records. If it hadn’t been for that, I’d have been here ten minutes ago.”

“All right, you’re forgiven,” the red-haired nurse said with a twinkle. She picked up the envelope with Adam’s name attached and turned to him with a smile. “Come along, Dr. Sinclair. You’ve had your phone call—now it’s time for your medicine.”

Adam hardly glanced at the pair of yellow capsules the nurse tipped out of the envelope onto his hand. He swallowed them meekly and lay back with a long-drawn sigh to wait for the welcome painkiller to take effect, idly fingering his ring as he checked his wards for the last time. Very shortly, his eyelids began to droop. As his strung-out muscles began to relax at last, he allowed himself to drift into exhausted sleep.

For a long while his rest was deep and dreamless, a quiet voyage across calm, silent, featureless seas, blessedly tranquil. But after a time, the stillness began to resolve into sequences of imagery. Initially he viewed the passing scenes from outside, like pictures displayed in an art gallery. Then one of the pictures expanded to engulf him, and he found himself suddenly taking part in another extraordinarily vivid dream.

Only this time, the focus of the dream was entirely personal. He was lying on his back in his hospital bed, but the curtains surrounding the bed had been partially drawn, obscuring his view of the door and the room at large. The only illumination was the dim glimmer of a night light from the direction of the corridor. Suddenly he had the feeling that he was completely alone in this dream version of the hospital wing.

The sense of isolation sparked a vague sense of menace. Cautiously, he eased his dream-self up on one elbow to listen. After a moment his straining ears picked up furtive scuffles of movement somewhere in the region of the door. The sound conveyed the impression of some large, feral creature padding about in the dark.

Adam tensed at the sound and what it implied. Fortunately, his dream-self was not hampered by the injuries that impaired his physical body—though his thinking seemed more sluggish than usual for dreamtime activity. Moving very quietly, he drew himself into an upright sitting position. His ring was on his right hand, the stone turned inward, and he turned it under his thumb, seeing the flash-point of the stone as a clear blue beacon of more-than-light. The indistinct scuffling gave way to a stealthy scrabbling and sniffing, just on the other side of the curtains, which were the visual manifestation of the wards he had set, he suddenly realized. And whatever was approaching was working its way inexorably toward the place of Adam’s concealment.

Something brushed against the curtain on the right of the bed. Instinctively, Adam flung up his hand and sketched a symbol of power in the air between himself and the unseen thing that was seeking to creep up on him. With the responsive quickening of the wards, the curtain went translucent. In
the same heartbeat, the shadows at the bedside suddenly coalesced into a looming, bestial presence just the other side, all teeth, eyes, and darkness.

With a slavering hiss, it threw itself at the bed. The wards flared blue in the dark in a raw burst of sparks. For an instant, the creature hung silhouetted against the light of the energy grid as a huge, shambling cat-thing, fanged jaws gaping in menace. Then it uttered a piercing screech of pain and recoiled with a spring.

The backlash of opposing powers set the wards flickering. One of the boundary markers guttered and winked out. Outside the collapsing perimeter of power, the shadow wheeled and crouched for another spring. Adam knew what he
should
do, but his will seemed to be embedded in treacle. Before he could bring any new defenses to bear, the creature lunged again for his throat,
through
the breached wards!