The Adept Book 2 The Lodge Of The Lynx (5 page)

“But, if they were responsible for our losses at Urquhart—”

“Our losses at Urquhart are ultimately of little consequence,” the Head-Master said dismissively. “What have we really lost? The gold? Unfortunate, perhaps, but we have other means of generating wealth. The book of spells? Who can say for certain that the spells it contained were as potent as tradition claims? Let us bear in mind that even the bumbling Geddes was able to entrap the spirit of Michael Scot and force it to do his bidding. Could he have done that, I wonder, if Scot had truly possessed all the knowledge and power that legend attributes to him?

“As for Geddes and his men,” he continued scornfully, “must we regret the loss of those who fail to accomplish what they set out to do? No, the Lodge of the Lynx has no room for failures. We are stronger without them. Let it be as if they had never been!”

Clutching the carnelian ring in one claw-like hand, he heaved himself shakily out of his chair and moved over to a plain oak side table set into an alcove to the left of the window bay. On top of the table stood a small portable furnace, along with an assortment of tools and moulds for making models from lead.

The Head-Master switched the furnace on. While it was heating up, he locked the band of the ring in the jaws of a table vise, then picked up a small jeweller’s hammer. A swift, sharp tap to the stone reduced it to half a dozen shards, like crystallized blood, which he swept into his cupped hand and placed in a mortar. A few seconds under an electric pestle rendered the shards into a fine, scarlet powder, which he poured into a plastic vial and capped. The setting he removed from the vise and dropped into a tiny crucible, which he then set inside the furnace.

Raeburn watched the procedure from his seat at the table, half coming to his feet as the Master rejoined him and deftly catching the plastic vial which the Master tossed in his direction.

“So much for Geddes,” he remarked, as the old man seated himself again. “Where do we go from here?”

“Where we have always intended to go,” the Head-Master said testily. “The end remains unaltered. We shall simply resort to other means.”

Raeburn’s head lifted with a slight jerk. “You mean the Soulis torc?”

“And why not?”

He opened a drawer in the end of the table and produced an oblong box of polished ashwood, which he pushed across the table towards Raeburn. After a Sidelong and almost incredulous glance at his superior, the blond man thumbed the latch on the front of the box and carefully lifted the lid. Inside, cushioned on scarlet silk, lay a heavy necklet of meteoric iron worked in Pictish designs. Raeburn’s pale eyes widened in awed recognition.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” murmured the Master. “Its Druidical makers were masters of their craft. The elemental powers with which the torc is imbued are as potent as any spell Michael Scot ever devised—and it is already in our keeping. Haven’t I urged from the very beginning that we should reawaken its slumbering energies and make use of them according to our own purposes?”

“You have,” Raeburn acknowledged. “But after a lapse of so many centuries . . . the risks—”

“Are well within acceptable limits,” said the Master. “And you are wrong in thinking that the torc has not been used for many centuries. How could I possibly vouch for its potency, if I had not already personally put it to the test?”

Raeburn looked up sharply at this disclosure. “The Balmoral incident? I
did
wonder. Who was your subject, then?”

“No one of consequence,” said the Master, with chilly indifference. “An underling with ideas above his station. Next time, however, we shall want someone more eminent. I hope you have found him for me.”

Raeburn had resumed his air of silken composure. “Have I ever disappointed you?” he asked, reaching for the document case on the floor beside his chair.

As the Head-Master looked on, Raeburn opened the case and took out a black-and-white photograph, which he tendered to his superior. The old man glanced briefly at the photo before turning it over to read the typed bio taped to the back of the print. When he had finished reading, he took a second, longer look at the photograph before placing it face-up in the open lid of the box containing the torc.

“Excellent,” he murmured. “A most appropriate choice. Will you require any assistance?”

“It would, perhaps, be helpful,” Raeburn said. “My own men know what is expected of them, and are prepared to assume their roles when the time comes. But this undertaking will require much more than simply putting a few rounds through the head of a no longer useful pawn. If I could count on some extra backup, I would be that much more confident of success.”

The Head-Master’s wrinkled lips framed a cold smile.

“Of course. Choose whichever six you wish.”

Chapter Three

THE RECTORY
for St. Paul’s Scottish Episcopal Church, Kinross, was a rambling Victorian cottage adjacent to the church, set well back from the street amid an exuberant riot of rose bushes. As Adam eased the blue Range Rover into the gravelled driveway in front of the house, avoiding a miniature pink bicycle with training wheels, Peregrine glanced ruefully at the sky, which had clouded considerably since their pleasant ride of earlier in the morning.

“I don’t think there’s anything quite so fickle as Scottish weather,” he said. “It’s a good thing we started when we did. We’ll be lucky if it doesn’t bucket before lunch time.”

As Adam cut the engine, an active, upright figure in a clergyman’s collar and trenchcoat emerged from behind a yellow painted door, a small briefcase clutched in one hand. He gave them a jaunty wave and bounded down off the trellised porch to meet them as they got out of the car.

“Good morning again, Adam! So glad you could make it. Is this Mr. Lovat, then?”

“The same,” Adam said. “Peregrine, allow me to introduce you formally to Father Christopher Houston, a friend of long standing.”

Peregrine studied his new acquaintance over a firm handshake. Seen at close range, Christopher Houston was lean and loose-jointed, with a wide, good-natured mouth and a flyaway shock of fine brown hair that made him look artlessly dishevelled, like a schoolboy newly come from the playing fields. He wore his black clerical suit with casual ease, but the brown eyes above the long, straight nose were disconcertingly shrewd.

Peregrine summoned what he hoped was an appropriate air of respect and said sincerely, “I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.”

“No, Adam’s the ‘sir.’ I’m just Christopher,” the priest said amiably.

“What my husband means is that there’s no need to be so formal,” said an amused female voice from behind Christopher’s shoulder. “The fact that he wears a collar is absolutely no reason to stand on ceremony—particularly since you’ve come to us in Adam’s company.”

Taken slightly aback, Peregrine shifted his gaze and found himself looking into a fine pair of blue-grey eyes. The face that went with the eyes was attractive rather than pretty, with a smooth, wide brow and an agreeably determined chin. She had two little girls with her, the elder about five years old, and the other a toddler of two or so. All three were dressed to go out, in coats and hats.

“My wife, Victoria, and my daughters, Ashley and Alexandra,” Christopher explained fondly. “Vicky, did you happen to catch the introductions just now?”

“I did,” she said. Her smile afforded him a glimpse of lurking dimples. “Welcome to Rosemount, Peregrine. I’ve been an admirer of your work for quite some time—though I had no idea you were so young. You should be at least twenty years older, to paint the way you do!”

Adam chuckled and set his hand under the elbow of a blushing Peregrine, edging him back toward the car and casting a summoning glance in Christopher’s direction.

“He’s an old soul, Victoria,” he said casually, “but you’re going to have to wait until we get back to discuss that further. Besides that, you and the girls look like you’re on your way out as well.”

Victoria cast an indulgent glance in her daughters’ direction. The girls were gazing up at Peregrine in wide-eyed curiosity. The friendly innocence of their regard dispelled his own initial stiffness. Feeling all at once at home, he smiled down at them, and bad the satisfaction of seeing them smile shyly back.

“We’re only going as far as my mother’s,” Victoria said, “if, that is, the girls will stop flirting with Peregrine. But the three of you
are
going to be coming back here for lunch, aren’t you?” Christopher nodded yes. “Oh, good. We’ll see you later, then. Come on, girls. Grandma was expecting us for ten, and we’re already late.”

“We’ll be late too, if we don’t get going,” Christopher said.

“We’re only waiting for you,” Adam replied with a laugh.

“Come on, man, get into the car.”

Peregrine repaired to the back seat, deciding that he liked the Houstons. Christopher handed back his briefcase, and Peregrine stashed it on the floor beside his sketchbox while Adam started the car. But as everyone buckled up and Adam and Christopher briefly discussed the best route to take, Peregrine found himself momentarily far more curious about the Houstons than whatever might lie in store for them in Edinburgh.

Of one thing only was he certain yet, concerning the two. He had the distinct feeling that there was far more to both of them than met the eye. Though the brief conversation in front of the rectory had dealt only in friendly commonplaces, Adam’s manner had been unusually open, suggesting that he felt no need to be on his guard where the two were concerned. And that seemingly casual remark of his, about Peregrine being an old soul . . .

Curious to test his intuition, at least about Christopher, Peregrine took a deep breath and sat back in his seat, letting his eyelids droop until the physical images before him softened to a blur of color and motion. Turning his attention to the back of Christopher’s head, he took another deep, slow breath and prepared to let his deeper sight take over . . .

Before he could capture his first impression, Adam’s mellow voice intruded on his reverie.

“So, my friend,” he said, addressing the priest, “before we meet this young lady of yours, is there anything more you think I ought to know about her?”

Peregrine snapped out of near-trance to discover that Christopher Houston was frowning thoughtfully into the windscreen.

“Rather think I’ve already told you everything of substance,” he said. “Helena Pringle’s a sensible lass, not at all the sort to give way to flights of fancy. That’s what made me prick up my ears when she first phoned me up to say there was something wrong about the flat.”

“Has she actually claimed to see anything like a physical manifestation?” Adam asked.

“No, thank God. But since I visited her there, she’s had more of the nightmares—nasty enough to make her afraid to go to sleep. I know I told you before that I didn’t think there was any need for a formal exorcism, but you ought to know that I did bring along a few things, just in case.”

He gestured toward his briefcase in the back as he spoke, but his use of the word
exorcism
had already given Peregrine an unpleasant jolt. He looked up sharply and found himself meeting Adam’s amused gaze in the rearview mirror.

“Don’t worry,” Adam said. “I know I told you we didn’t think it was serious, but Christopher likes to be prepared, as do I. Whatever else we’re going to do today, I doubt very seriously that we’ll be casting out demons by bell, book, and candle. Just keep your eyes open, and be ready to draw anything that comes strongly to mind . . . ”

Nicholson Street was an area inhabited largely by students from Edinburgh University. Helena Pringle’s flat was located on the second floor of a large, mid-terraced house across from a row of small shops. Christopher led the way up two flights of stairs and knocked briskly on the door at the left-hand side of the landing. Almost at once a girl’s soft voice called hesitantly from the other side of the door.

“Father Houston?”

“At your service, m’dear,” Christopher said jauntily. “Brought along some reinforcements as well. If we’re to do a proper investigation, I thought we might as well make a thorough job of it.”

Helena Pringle opened the door. In person she was plump and fair, with a fresh complexion and lustrous ginger-blond hair. She made an effort to smile as she ushered them through into the sitting room, but Adam was quick to note the shadows of sleeplessness underscoring her wide blue eyes.

“This is Dr. Adam Sinclair,” Christopher said, performing the introductions. “He’s a psychiatrist—specializes in hypnotherapy. And this is, Mr. Lovat. Between us all, we should be able to sort this thing out.”

Helena glanced uneasily from Christopher to Adam, standing tall against the light from the sitting room windows. She was nervously twisting her hands together.

“A psychiatrist?” she murmured. “Does that mean I’m mentally ill?”

“Not in the least,” Adam said with a reassuring smile. “But from what Christopher has said, I understand that you’ve been having some exceptionally disturbing dreams. It occurred to both of us that it might be useful to look more closely at those dreams, to see if we can find out what’s causing them. With your permission, I thought I might try hypnosis to help you recall details that you might have overlooked.”

“You want to hypnotize me?” she whispered apprehensively.

“I assure you, it won’t be anything like what happens in the more lurid late-night horror films,” he said, trying to reassure her enough to elicit a smile. “I’ve never yet bitten a patient on the neck.”

At her startled look, he smiled gently and continued. “Seriously, the procedure is perfectly safe, and quite clinical. You will always remain in control. My own function is merely that of guide. Christopher will be here the entire time. He can even hold your hand, if you like.”

Despite an obvious effort not to, Helena did allow a brief, self-conscious smile to flicker on her lips.

“I-I see,” she murmured. “I suppose I’m being silly, to be so frightened.” Her blue eyes shifted uncertainly to Peregrine, hovering uncomfortably in the background. “Are you a psychiatrist, too?” she asked.

“No, I—”

“Mr. Lovat is an artist,” Adam interposed easily. “He’s assisted me before. He has a gift for translating psychic impressions into concrete images. And there’s nothing at all silly about being frightened. But once you understand what’s frightening you, I think you’ll find that you aren’t frightened anymore. Again with your permission, I should like Mr. Lovat to make sketches as you narrate the events in your dreams.”

“Father Houston?” Helena turned appealingly to Christopher, who gave her an encouraging pat on the shoulder.

“Wouldn’t have brought them, if I didn’t think they could help,” he told her firmly. “Think you might be willing to give it a try?”

Helena swallowed hard, then gave an affirmative nod. “All right,” she said tremulously. She squared her shoulders and transferred her attention to Adam. “I’ve never been hypnotized before, Dr. Sinclair. What do you want me to do?”

Adam had already made a survey of the room. It was cosily furnished, its old-fashioned cast-iron fireplace tastefully altered to accommodate a modern gas fire. The glow from the grating reflected warmly off the flowered print upholstery of an overstuffed three-piece suite arranged around the hearth. The assortment of small ornaments in the room included half a dozen small crystal prisms strung up across the right-hand window on transparent strands of nylon thread.

“First of all,” he said, “I suggest we all make ourselves comfortable. May I call you Helena?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Thank you. Then perhaps you’d care to take a seat in that armchair to the right of the fireplace, Helena, and I’ll ask for the loan of one of these lovely prisms in the window. Yes, this should do very nicely.”

Watching as Adam set the stage for the work he was about to do, Peregrine was reminded of his own initial experience with hypnosis. Like Helena Pringle, he had been bedeviled by fears and spectres—until Adam had helped him discern the gift beneath his fears. He hoped that Helena’s case would end as happily as his own.

Carrying the prism by its nylon thread, Adam brought it back from the window frame and hung it temporarily over a candlestick on the mantel, so that it dangled over the edge and could catch the light.

“Now, we’ll just draw the inner curtains to
filter out some of the light,” he said, heading back to the windows. “You’ll find it much easier to relax with the lighting a bit more subdued.”

Helena watched him closely, her manner stiff with shrinking uneasiness, and Christopher moved closer on the adjacent settee.

“There, there,” he murmured. “Nothing to be afraid of, I promise you. Here—hold my hand, if it will make you feel better.”

He reached out and took one of Helena’s small, tense hands firmly between his own. When her fingers tightened on his, he moved closer yet, so that they were almost touching knee to knee.

Peregrine, meanwhile, had selected a straight-backed chair between the windows, where he knew the light would be best for sketching. It would also put him outside Helena’s peripheral vision, and therefore less likely to distract her. He sat down and was just arranging his sketchbook and pencils when something about Christopher’s apparently casual double handclasp with Helena struck him as being somehow significant.

He took a closer look. Then his gaze focused sharply on the priest’s right hand. The ring had not been there before—Peregrine was certain he would have noticed. The gold-set sapphire was square-cut rather than oval like those Adam and McLeod sometimes wore, and somewhat smaller, but Peregrine suddenly had no doubt that the ring served the same purpose.

Good God, he’s one of them!
Peregrine thought, hardly knowing whether to be scandalized or impressed by his discovery, though somehow it did not really surprise him.
He’s doing the same sort of thing Adam does—helping him, starting to guide that girl safely into a hypnotic trance, so she won’t be afraid. And it isn’t the first time they’ve worked together this way!