The Adept Book 2 The Lodge Of The Lynx (48 page)

Adam’s other visage had melted away with the column’s completion, but he still was more than merely mortal. Bringing his palms together, he gave the column grave salute, then opened his hands toward the still form of the little girl lying supine on the bed behind it.

“The vessel of the body waits to receive you,” he said quietly but with authority. “Be welcome in your own house.”

He expected to see the pillar of light melt away into its companion tabernacle of flesh. Instead, to his surprise, it remained in place, shimmering and pulsing like a living prism—the essence of pure spirit requesting a human agent through which to communicate.

“Noel,” Adam said softly, “I believe you’re needed.”

The inspector nodded and moved into place between the bed and the column of light, slipping off his aviator spectacles and pocketing them before giving salute.

“I am here,” he told the Presence. “You are free to speak with my voice.”

As he dropped his hands to his sides, bowing his head in receptivity, the pillar of light flowed forward and overshadowed him. He stiffened with a shudder as its essence suffused him. When he looked up, another intelligence looked out through McLeod’s blue eyes, and as the lips parted below the bristling moustache, the voice that came forth was the one Peregrine had heard at Melrose—the voice of Michael Scot.

“Thanks are owed to all within this room, but chiefly to you,” he said, addressing himself to Adam and Peregrine, “not only for this great labor of healing undertaken on my behalf, but for keeping my gold and my book of spells from profanation at the hands of our common enemies. If there be aught I may offer in return for the great services ye have done me, ask now, and I will give it freely.”

Adam thought only an instant, quite aware what he must ask, and that time was limited.

“We seek no reward for ourselves, brother, but only a focus for how we may carry out what we began in your behalf. We would have you share your knowledge of our common enemies. Do you know what they sought from your book of spells?”

“I do not,” came the response, “but the magic that summoned me to Melrose was dark, indeed—alien magic—the same that brought about the physical death of the incarnation previous to this one, more than half a century ago . . .’

The voice trailed off briefly, as if at a recollection of old pain. When it resumed, its tone was hard.

“The Lord of Shadows in that day was one called Hitler. His work did great damage to the canopy of Light. Had he succeeded in all his intentions, he would have called down all the fury of the darker elementals . . .”

The reference to Hitler chilled Adam to the bone.

“Was it Hitler’s magic that summoned you?” he asked.

“I know not,” came the reply, “but I would swear by all I hold holy that the power to summon me was worked from a common source. And the Lord of Shadows had a book of spells . . .”

“Hitler
had a book of spells?” Adam asked, his mind racing now.

“He did,” the voice of Scot acknowledged, “but I know not what became of it. More than this, I cannot tell thee. I wish thee good hunting, Master of the Hunt. But now, lest mine absence undo the good thou hast done here, I would beg leave to resume my present-day incarnation, to take up the life which, by thine intercessions, I now am free to continue.”

“I would not cause you further pain,” Adam said. “You have suffered all that anyone could ask. Go in peace, with the blessings of the Seven, to fulfill your appointed destiny. The body you inhabit shall be protected, until such time as you are strong enough to walk your path alone.”

With a nod, McLeod’s body turned to lay hands on Gillian’s feet. Prismatic light flowed out of him into Gillian. At the instant of severance, McLeod uttered a slight gasp and crumpled to his knees, catching himself on the foot of the bed. In that same instant, the child in the bed gave a sudden, convulsive shiver and opened her eyes.

Her wide, bewildered gaze swept the room and the sea of unfamiliar faces. She gave a small whimper of fright and recoiled against the pillows, too weak to do more than stare, and Victoria moved in to enfold her in her arms and comfort her while Christopher took one of her hands.

“There, now, Gillian, you needn’t be frightened,” Victoria said softly, rocking her like a baby, stroking the blonde curls. “I know this all looks a little strange, but you’re quite, quite safe. You’ve been ill for rather a long time, but you’re going to be just fine. You’ll see your mummy in the morning. She’ll be so happy to see you’ve woken up.”

Philippa was already moving in to deal with the medical aspects of the situation, quickly assessing Gillian’s vital signs and then taking advantage of the shield presented by Christopher’s body to inject a light sedative into the girl’s I.V. While Adam eased McLeod to a sitting position on the floor at the foot of the bed and snapped an ammonia capsule under his nose, Peregrine kneeling anxiously at his side, Gillian shivered and whimpered a little, clinging baby-like to Victoria’s supporting arms.

“Mummy?” she whispered almost voicelessly, her pale lips framing the word.

“She’s asleep in the next room,” Victoria said soothingly. “But let’s not wake her just now, shall we? She’s been watching over you day and night since you fell ill, and she’s very tired. Think of the wonderful surprise she’ll have in the morning, when she wakes up and finds that you’re getting better.”

With the help of Adam and Peregrine, McLeod picked himself up, satisfied despite his own lingering unsteadiness when he saw that Gillian had come to her senses, if only for a brief time. Her blue eyes were already glazing under the influence of the sedative as she drifted into sleep, but this was a sleep that was controllable, unlike her previous state. Victoria continued to rock her and croon endearments until the little girl subsided against her shoulder. When they had settled the sleeping child back under her blankets, Adam fished in his pocket and brought out the ring that was intended for Peregrine.

“I’m afraid your part isn’t over quite yet,” he told the artist, displaying the ring. “I think there can be no doubt you’ve proved worthy of this, but it’s up to a much higher authority than I to give you the official affirmation that this physical ring represents. Are you up to one more foray onto the astral?”

Peregrine was looking more than a little dizzy, overwhelmed by what he had already seen and experienced that night. Even so he managed a nod. Smiling, Adam took the younger man’s right hand in his left, feeling the faint scar as he isolated the ring finger.

“Noel, are you with me?” he asked softly over his shoulder.

McLeod closed ranks on Peregrine’s left, signifying his readiness with a nod.

“All right,” Adam said to Peregrine, “close your eyes once more, and prepare to go very, very deep.”

As Peregrine obeyed, Adam gathered his own focus, also closing his eyes.

“Peregrine Justyn Lovat, be blessed now and forever in the service of the Light,” he whispered. “Receive this ring in memory of one who wore it before you, and be joyful in that abiding fellowship of which you both are now a part.”

With this instruction, he slipped the ring onto Peregrine’s finger.

At once, the three of them were once more standing in spirit in the astral temple. Glancing down at himself, Peregrine saw that he, like his companions, was wearing a robe of deep sapphire blue. The orientation this time was to the south, where a crimson gateway stood waiting, its doors flung wide and its crimson curtains swagged back. The One who waited beyond wore the guise of a towering figure armored in red-gold light, with a diadem of scarlet flames bound across his brow. The pinions of his wings flickered like tongues of flame, adorned with fiery peacock’s eyes, and his flaming sword rested with its point to the floor, the coppery quillons under his hands.

Christopher and Victoria joined them in the temple, coming forward to stand on either side as witnesses, followed closely by Philippa and Lady Julian. The others were there as well, whom Peregrine had yet to meet in the physical. Acknowledging their presence with a regal nod, the Being subjected Peregrine to a moment’s close scrutiny, then flung back his head, so that his flowing coppery hair made a flaming nimbus all around his head and shoulders. As it had been in the presence of the other angel, Peregrine heard the musical voice in his head.

Thou dost credit to thy mentor, who is Master of the Hunt,
the Being said.
He hath petitioned for thine admittance to the Hunting Lodge, and stands guarantor for thy devotion to this weighty vocation to which thou art called. One thing more remains to be asked of thee: Wilt thou pledge unreservedly thy fealty to the Most High, whereby thou shalt receive the accolade of His warriors and keepers of His peace?

Peregrine’s assent was unflinching.
I do pledge it.

Then as Captain-General of the Lord of Hosts, we do receive thee in His Name. Kneel.

Trembling with emotion, Peregrine sank to both knees, Adam moving forward to take reverent charge of the flaming sword while the Master lightly clasped Peregrine’s joined hands. An incandescent glow spread throughout Peregrine’s fingers, concentrating about the ring that blazed on his right hand like a star.

Let this ring be a sign that thy gifts are pledged to the service of the Lord of Hosts,
came the mighty voice in his mind.
Let all the works of thy hands and heart give glory to that Name Which is above all other names.

So saying, the Master stepped back, hand outstretched to receive the sword once again into his keeping. Raising the fiery blade, he touched Peregrine lightly on either shoulder and then on the head. Each touch of the burning blade intensified the sensation of raw power coursing through Peregrine’s veins.

The final touch sent him plunging over the edge, and he lost consciousness.

Chapter Thirty-Four

WHEN PEREGRINE
came to his physical senses, he was flat on his back on the floor of Gillian’s room. Adam was kneeling beside him, anxiously checking his pulse. McLeod was also on his knees, peering down at him with searching concern. As soon as he saw that the younger man’s eyes were open, he uttered a gruff exclamation of relief.

“It’s all right, he’s coming round now,” he announced to the Houstons and Philippa, hovering in the background.

Remembering the Archangel with the flaming sword, Peregrine blinked, unable to recall when he had last felt so drained and yet so at peace.

“Right,” Adam murmured. “Let’s get you up, then. Come on, Noel, give me a hand.”

With his two mentors helping, Peregrine managed to get his legs under him and stand. He stole a glance at the ring on his finger as they steered him to the nearest chair. It seemed to him that the ring glowed with a new lustre, reflecting his joy, but it was a quality sensed rather than seen—an unstated pledge that what he had just experienced was real on a level which transcended all his previous understanding. As he closed his fist and brought the ring’s stone to his lips in reverent thanksgiving, he realized that both Adam and McLeod had turned their gaze toward Christopher, who was standing expectantly beside Gillian’s bed, hands clasped. He gave the priest his attention as well, easing quietly to his feet again.

“Lord,” the priest said, lifting his hands in benediction, “now lettest Thou Thy servants depart in peace, according to Thy Word. And may the words of our mouths and the thoughts of our hearts be always acceptable in Thy sight.”

Peregrine joined with the rest in voicing the responsive “Amen.”

“This night’s work by this Lodge is completed,” Christopher continued. “Let us go forth joyfully to do the will of the One Who sends us.”

“Amen, Selah, so be it,” the others responded.

It was, Peregrine realized, a formal closing to their work, for with those words, the atmosphere changed and people began restoring the room to its normal order and preparing to leave. On impulse, Peregrine found himself moving to intercept Christopher, catching shyly at his sleeve.

“Father Christopher, may I speak with you a minute?” he said softly, though he did not shrink from the priest’s gaze. “I-don’t know how to ask you what I want to ask, but—would you give me your blessing before you go?”

The request earned him a gentle smile from Christopher, the usual banter put aside.

“You knew
exactly
how to ask,” he said quietly, “and I’ll give it with all my heart. Only remember that what you receive at my hands is the gift and blessing not of me but of the Light we serve.”

As Christopher lifted his hands, Peregrine found himself sinking to his knees with head bowed over his folded hands. The priest’s touch on his head was an earthly reflection of the benison he had received at the hands of what he could only imagine were angels, and he found his vision blurring with tears of joy and gratitude as Christopher spoke the words of blessing.

“May the blessing of Almighty God be upon your head and within your heart, and remain with you now and always.” Christopher’s hands lifted for the left one to drop to Peregrine’s shoulder and the right one to trace a cross over his head. “In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

“Amen,” Peregrine whispered, and did not bother to wipe away the tears from his eyes as he got to his feet.

* * *

After tea and sandwiches in the library, to finish grounding after their Work, the non-resident members of the Lodge took their leave of Adam and Philippa with fond good wishes—except for Peregrine, who accepted Philippa’s suggestion that he spend the remainder of the night in his old guest room. When he had bade them good-night on the landing and retired, starry-eyed, to take some much-needed rest, Adam leaned down to plant an impulsive kiss on his mother’s cheek.

“It’s been rather a remarkable night, hasn’t it?” he observed with a weary smile. “Now I have a little of an inkling what you went through, when you sponsored me all those years ago. Did I ever think to thank you?”

“The way you’ve turned out has been my reward,” she said proudly. “It’s all I ever asked, in all my prayers—to be for you the teacher you needed, to grow to your fullest potential. But as I recall, you
did
thank me, that long ago night. And now it’s my turn to say thank
you.”

Smiling, he hugged her closer and kissed the top of her head.

“We did good work tonight, didn’t we?” he murmured.

“We did, indeed,” she agreed, with a look that spoke volumes. “And on that note, I suggest we both retire as well, to digest it all. I’ll stay the night in Gillian’s room. That child will probably be awake at dawn, and goodness knows how I’m going to explain to Iris.”

Philippa’s prediction proved accurate. Iris Talbot’s delight was unbounded when she awoke the following morning to the news that her daughter had come to her senses in the early hours of the morning. Rushing across to Gillian’s room, she found her just rousing, looking woefully frail, but with the gleam of intelligence restored to the blue eyes that for so long had been vacant and staring. Philippa had already been busy, removing the tubes that had sustained Gillian in the past weeks, and left mother and daughter alone to celebrate their reunion with tearful laughter and hugs while she headed downstairs for a much-needed cup of tea in the company of her son.

“Gillian’s wide awake, and so is Iris,” she informed Adam prosaically. “I’ve told Humphrey to give them half an hour, then go up and see what they want for breakfast. By then they should just about be ready for it.”

Adam pulled a crooked smile. “One small battle won, at least,” he observed. “But the war itself is still hanging in the balance.”

“I haven’t lost sight of that,” Philippa said. “I suspected you were probably already considering our next gambit.”

She sank down in the neighboring chair, her still-beautiful face sternly reminiscent. “Ever since I arrived, I’ve been aware of something in the air—a hint of something dark and dangerous that I thought I recognized, but couldn’t quite put my finger on. We’d already agreed that it isn’t just the Lodge of the Lynx.”

Adam gave his mother an appraising look.

“Go on.”

“I’ve been giving some thought to what Michael Scot said last night about Hitler being the Lord of Shadows, and him having a book of spells,” she continued. “That’s absolutely true. There’s no doubt that Hitler was a black magician of the first order, with power enough at his disposal to carry out his wildest and most brutal aspirations. What ultimately stopped him was Hess. Hess was also a dabbler in the Black Arts, but even he couldn’t abide what Hitler was doing, after a while. That’s why he made that secret flight to Scotland in 1941.”

Seeing Adam’s look of bafflement, she went on.

“Didn’t I ever tell you about that?”

“No.”

“Good gracious. Well, it’s ancient history now, but my uncle, Eric Rhodes, interviewed Hess several times after his capture. I didn’t know about it at the time, because I was doing my internship then, but I saw some of the psychiatric transcripts, years later. Anyway, he was convinced that Hess was a raving nutter at first, but Dougie Hamilton’s cousin always claimed that the real reason Hess flew to Scotland was not to have Dougie take him to meet the king, but to get Hitler’s book of spells out of Germany; some manuscript he’d pillaged out of a monastery somewhere in northern Europe, but it was supposed to have had Celtic overtones—Druidic, maybe, or Pictish.”

Adam stiffened, but she did not seem to notice.

“Anyway, word began to circulate in esoteric circles that the manuscript was in Scotland,” she went on. “David Tudor-Jones got wind of it—the father, apparently, of our present adversary—and he tried to barter for it. But saner souls had decided it would be safer if it went to America, where Hitler was never likely to get his hands on it again. The Duke of Kent was supposed to take it as far as Iceland in a diplomatic pouch—he hadn’t a clue what he was carrying, and everybody thought it would be safe with a Royal—but Tudor-Jones smuggled a bomb aboard his plane. Poor Georgie smacked into a mountain somewhere up in Caithness—Morven, I think it was, August of 1942. Anyway, the manuscript was lost, along with the most attractive and charming of the Royal Dukes.”

She raised a wistful gaze to Adam, but he was connecting what she had said with a different thread of logic that led back to their present situation.

“Philippa, I don’t think the manuscript was lost,” he said in a voice of steely calm. “Tudor-Jones may have bombed the duke’s plane, but he took the manuscript first. I think Francis Raeburn has it now—or Francis Tudor-Jones, as he should be called—and he’s using it to carry out the present work. Or—no, they can’t have had it all this time, or they would have used it before now. The Lodge of the Lynx have
never
had this kind of power at their disposal before. So someone
else
has to have had it until recently, someone closely associated with its wartime history. Someone—”

He stopped short, because an even more audacious thought had just occurred to him. “Good God, you don’t suppose it could be Hess himself?”

Philippa stared incredulously at her son. “Don’t be ridiculous, dear. Hess is dead. He died three or four years ago.”

“Did
he?”

“Well, of course.”

“No, a man died in Spandau Prison who people
said
was Rudolf Hess; but a British surgeon who examined him in the late 1970s claimed the man in Spandau
couldn’t
have been Hess, based on the absence of scars from injuries known to have been sustained in the First World War. As I recall, two separate post-mortems also failed to find the scars that had to be present in a man wounded as Hess had been. More recently, even Hess’ son, Wolf Rütiger Hess, has tried to sue the Allied Powers who were responsible for his father’s custody, claiming that the body returned to the family in 1987 was
not
his father’s.”

A deep frown furrowed Philippa’s high forehead. “I do remember something about that, now that you mention it. The surgeon’s name was Thomas, I believe. Hugh Thomas—another Welshman. And didn’t David Irving write something shortly after Hess’ death, about his movements between the time of the crash and the end of the war?”

Adam nodded. “Hess spent quite a lot of time in Wales after he was captured, while they tried to decide what to do with him. Incredible as it may seem, they used to allow him to go off on long walks alone—and it was during that time that Hess apparently underwent a radical personality change, except that I don’t think it was Hess’ personality that changed at all; it was the man himself. Hugh Thomas postulated a double.

“What if Tudor-Jones engineered the switch,” he continued on a rising note, “then spirited the real Hess off to Scotland, along with the manuscript? What if
that’s
who’s holed up in that lair in the Cairngorms? It would certainly account for that impression that something’s involved besides the Lynx—something incredibly powerful.”

Philippa drew a long swooping breath. “Put like that, it does make a lunatic kind of sense, doesn’t it? Still . . .” She paused to bite her lip. “But surely Hess isn’t still alive. Why, he’d be—goodness, nearly a hundred!”

“People do occasionally live that long,” Adam said, a touch impatiently. “But even if I’m wrong, and the power behind all of this isn’t Hess, we’ve still got the proven involvement of Tudor-Jones’ son. Francis Raeburn is in this up to his eyeballs. And if his father
did
steal the manuscript, and if it’s now in the hands of someone who knows how to use it—”

Mother and son gazed at each other in dismay.

“Hitler’s book of spells,” Philippa said flatly. “Dear God, what kind of power has that given them?”

“Well, power to call down lightning, at very least,” Adam replied. “And however they’re focusing that power, factoring in human sacrifices adds a dimension that’s going to be very hard to counter cleanly. What was it that Scot said about Hitler?
Had he succeeded in all his intentions, he would have called down the fury of the darker elementals.”

Philippa snorted. “It sounds like our opposite numbers are already doing
that,
albeit in a relatively modest way, compared to Hitler. But they’re getting stronger, there’s no doubt about that. And the toll of human life mounts with each new attack. The question is, why? What do they hope to gain, beyond mere chaos? Though perhaps that’s enough, for now.”

* * *

But their further speculation that morning suggested no new answers, and the busy lead-up toward Christmas permitted little time and energy to be spent in seeking out new leads. Over the next few days, Adam managed to pass on their suspicions to other members of the Hunting Lodge; but the spectre of a Hitlerian angle was a new perspective for most of them, and required a drastic shift of mental gears as they focused in on it. For the three of them who had brushed the edges of that brooding power firsthand, the prospect of taking it on without more information than they now had was repugnant to the point of almost paralyzing reluctance. Under the pretense of continuing to recuperate from his car crash, Adam was able to allocate several hours each day for delving into the vast resources of his library, but nothing emerged of note. They seemed to be at a stalemate, obliged to wait until the enemy should strike again—and even then, there was no assurance that guidance would be forthcoming in how to pursue the problem from that point.