The Curse of Arkady (15 page)

The stuff of nightmares, he thought, looking at the dark, brooding house.
His
nightmares. His blood went cold and stayed that way, as his hand froze on the edge of the car window. His senses whirled about him as he looked up at what could only be described as some sort of fortress, gated and overlooking the bay like some gargoyle of an estate. He could almost see the power tumbling about it, chaotic and wild, as if the building were caught in its own storm of mana, and it hurt to look at it.

“Wha-what is this place?”

“This is the McHenry estate.”

He'd known it, somehow. Maybe it was the telltale fact that the road seemed to lead right inside the coal-black gates, or the fact that McIntire was driving right up the hillside toward it, or even just the fact that he was here, now, and the fortress of his nightmares yawned in front of him. He gripped the door handle tightly. A small sound escaped his clenched lips.

“It's something, isn't it? I don't agree with his taste, and it doesn't look like any castle I've ever seen, but word is, it was taken from a famous old fortress in Wales. They also say he had every board and stone shipped over to build it. Back in the day when Huntington and other bankers and railroad men were building their homes near Los Angeles, McHenry was building his here. Been here over a hundred years now, and someone wants to tear it down.”

“Will they? Will you?”

“I don't know the answers, Jason. Yet. Want to come in with me or sit and wait?”

He wanted to sit. He never wanted to set foot on the paved driveway, but he knew he should. He should see the difference between reality and his nightmare. The road gate, for one, was already vastly different. No dragonhead lock, no quest to pass this far, not even a security buzzer to press so that it might open. It hung open as though locking it were out of the question, yet as they drove through, pain battered his skull for a moment. His head snapped back in surprise at the sharpness of it. Jason sank down in the seat, blinking, his ears ringing.

Gatekeeper.
Of all the thoughts that used to run through his mind when considering Magick and all its uses, that had never been one. Yet it had been he who had found the gateway between Camp Ravenwyng and an alternate domain, shaky though the passage might be. Now Gavan Rainwater and all the elders were working their Talents to try and make both planes steady, with an open doorway between them, so that the camp could be a sanctuary for those with Talent the real world might exploit or condemn. Efforts had not yet been successful. Jason was the only Magicker who could reliably enter the valley he'd found beyond the old rusted back gate of the summer camp. Other tries sometimes brought success, other times left Gavan or Tomaz wandering around in a blind canyon for hours, going in circles.

He was the Gatekeeper, like it or not.

He put one hand to his temple as McIntire eased his vehicle into the sweeping, circular driveway of the McHenry estate. His head felt as though it could throb hard enough to burst, and then, suddenly, all was still. He sat up on the truck seat. McIntire had parked and turned the engine off without Jason even noticing. He looked back and saw the gate swinging slightly in the wind. It wasn't a Gate, not by any means. More like a two by four to slam someone in the head with for trespassing through the real Gate.

McIntire seemed unaware of Jason's reaction. He got out and looked over an older white Mercedes already sitting in the driveway, then glanced over his shoulder at Jason.

“Getting out? This old place might be fun to look at.”

He slid out gingerly as if the gate might try to bludgeon him again, but nothing happened. He could smell the sea salt spray from below, and hear the cry of gulls as they wheeled and hung in the air over the gulf for long moments of time, then plunged down to the ocean to dip and skim. He could almost feel the dizzying drop in his own gut as they fell, but they had outspread wings to catch them. Jason ran a few steps to keep up with McIntire's long stride, and they both reached the carved double front doors at the same time. Jason wasn't surprised to see that a great, bronze door knocker with a grotesquely twisted gargoyle face hung in the center of the main door.

Jason nearly winced as the Dozer grabbed the ring and thumped it, hard, three times. The noise reverberated inside the building as if he'd struck an immense Chinese gong. For a moment, he thought he caught the huge, lumpy nose of the gargoyle twitching in time with the brazen echo. The estate seemed to groan in answer, but his stepfather apparently noted none of the fuss as he released the door knocker and shifted his weight, waiting impatiently. They heard footsteps long before the door actually opened, and as it did, Jason leaned with it, to peer inside.

A huge cavernous entryway met his gaze. No wonder everything echoed. It looked like a massive concert hall, with room to hold his school's marching band. Doors at the far end stood open, leading to the north, west, and south. The individual who held the entry door, however, looked like a butler, formal suit, cravat, vest, and all, and wings of graying hair combed back into dark full hair, a strong Roman nose, and disdainful eyes as he gazed down at them.

“May I help you?”

“I am William McIntire, builder. I have an appointment.”

“Ah. Yes.” The butler looked down at Jason. “Your apprentice?” One eyebrow rose in disapproval at Jason's attire and state of appearance.

“My son. He'll be fine.” McIntire managed to look a bit insulted, as if the butler insinuated that Jason would be difficult to tolerate.

“Follow me, then,” the tall man said quietly. He strode off, with a slight lean to his left, one shoulder a tiny bit higher than the other, as though he walked into a strong wind and had to forge his way through it. He wore ankle boots and the heels drummed solidly on the gleaming wooden floor as he trod it, the planks creaked as they all crossed over it. For a moment, Jason stared downward, as if he could discern the hollow levels below, just waiting for the boards to give way and open up, just as in his nightmares, though these boards had not been dry-rotted by time and neglect.

Even the Dozer glanced down once as if pondering what lay under the flooring. That reassured Jason only in that it wasn't his imagination, but made him worry more about the soundness of the structure. The complaints of the boards sounded much louder under McIntire's heavier footfalls. Only the butler seemed not to notice or care as he led the way through the northern door at the foyer's far end.

While the entry had been somewhat recognizable from his dreams of the place, nothing beyond the northern door was. Understandable, as he usually fell through into the catacombs below long before getting very far in his exploration. Jason looked about warily. It was, in many ways, a very imposing fortress or castle, even in these times. It also seemed nearly empty, what furniture there was pushed to the walls, with wooden crates lying about, either nearly filled or already hammered shut and stenciled. He tried to read the wording as they were hurried past, but it seemed to be in a language other than English or something equally baffling.

McIntire let out some words of appreciation as they were led into a great library, its built-in shelves still full of books and other wonders, lined by empty crates on the floor, the wood paneling gleaming with polish and care and beauty. A great oxblood leather sofa lined one half wall, and a sprawling desk of golden oak held court in the center of the room. Three gentlemen were seated at it, two behind and one in front. His vision blurred as a fraction of the power that had hammered at him earlier, struck at him now. For a few moments, he could hardly see or stay on his feet.

Jason scrubbed at his eyes. One of the men got to his feet smoothly and left through a door in the side paneling, but not before Jason caught a blurred and fleeting glimpse of his face. He stumbled over an edge of fringed Persian carpet lining the floor and when he looked up, the man had completely disappeared from sight.

Jason righted himself quietly, and stood by McIntire in near shock. It looked like . . . but surely couldn't have been . . . the man who had attacked him in the park that morning.

H
E wanted to hide behind McIntire's burly frame, but he knew he couldn't. It wouldn't help any, and he'd just be that much more conspicuous. All the same, it was trouble just being here. He didn't believe in coincidences anymore. The Hand was behind this, somehow, and drawing his family in. Magick forbidden or not, he would do what he had to.

From beside McIntire's elbow, Jason watched the procedures warily.

“This is a fine old home,” William McIntire said, as he leaned forward and offered one of his great hands to shake.

“It is a liability on the current market, but I agree it was made well years ago. Upkeep, however . . .” The man leaning forward to connect with McIntire was tall and thin, with graying red hair and a small sprinkling of freckles over his face. He was older but not old, slender, and held more power in his voice than in his bones. He shook swiftly and straightened, tapping a portfolio stuffed with papers that lay on the desk.

“I understand you're the one to do the work.”

“I am, if it's the project I've been sent permits and drawings on. It's an ambitious project and one I think would utilize many efforts. I take it you are spearheading the holding company, and the sale on this place has gone through?”

“Yes, and nearly. We're trying to get a head start, so if we need any loans or funding, we can point out our many strengths. Having you as head of construction would certainly be an asset.”

McIntire smiled only a little. He wasn't easily flattered, Jason knew. In fact, he tended to distrust flattery, preferring to earn praise after a job was done, not before it. Jason moved a little, trying to get comfortable, his legs slightly stiff after the morning's runs, and was instantly sorry as attention shifted abruptly to him.

“Brought your son along?”

“Yes, but he knows this is business. He'll keep quiet and not repeat anything.”

“A good lad, then.” The redheaded man studied Jason a moment, then lost interest as Jason did his best not to look noticeable.

“What do you think, McIntire? Is this a project you'd be interested in? Think you might like to come on board?”

McIntire chuckled. The deep noise reverbrated throughout his hefty frame. “We'd need to talk time, crew, and salary, of course.” He looked around. “I'd hate to tear down a place like this. Maybe you could consider making it your anchor. Break it into artists' lofts upstairs and a restaurant and a few nice shops or offices down here. I know an interior decorator that would give her eyeteeth to have this room as her studio.”

The other looked about, too, as if seeing the room for the first time. McIntire's finger jabbed the air. “Those are good woods, some excellent carpentry in those bookcases, the paneling.”

“Yesss . . .” the other answered slowly. “We hadn't considered it really. An anchor for the development, you say?”

“A bit of class. Never hurts.”

“True. We've plenty of grounds left to do what we want. Hmmm. This place is immense, you know. A good seventy-five acres.”

“I think that leaves you room to be generous here. Consider it. Despite my reputation, I hate destroying to develop. This is a solid, good building with ambience and craftsmanship, and it would be a shame to pull it down.”

“We have our reasons, but I'll put your ideas out. May I tell them you're interested?”

“Work up an offer to put on the table, and we'll talk again.”

“Done, then.” The red-haired man smiled faintly, and picked up his portfolio. “I've got a flight out, but I'll be back soon and perhaps we can do lunch then. I promise I'll have an offer to put on the table that will make it worth your while.”

“Do that.” They shook hands firmly and when McIntire let go, stepping back and dropping his hand to his stepson's shoulder, Jason thought he felt a creepy-crawly tingle. It had to be his imagination. Had to be.

“Can you find your way out or do I need to . . .”

“We're fine,” McIntire rumbled. He turned Jason about and guided him out the library door and back down the way they'd come in. He did not say a word till they were buckled into the truck and easing out the entry gates. Then he let out a low, heavy sigh. “I don't know if it's the place or the people,” he said, “but it makes me uneasy.”

Jason gave a nervous laugh. “Do you really think anyone would want to have shops or stuff in there?”

“Not sure, really. The McHenry place has some historical significance, and it really shouldn't be leveled, but as far as going to a restaurant in there or anything else, I dunno. Made the hair on the back of my neck stick up.”

“Me, too!” Jason put a hand back there and scratched a moment.

The Dozer laughed at him. He patted his shoulder again. “Nice thing about my job right now is that I don't have to work with people who make me feel like that! He could put all the money in the world under my nose, and I could say no if I wanted to.” McIntire looked in his rearview mirror as they drove down the winding roads and could smell the ocean. “If I wanted to,” he repeated slowly.

“But you're not sure yet.”

“No. Not quite yet. If that bluff is developed, it ought to be done . . . how can I say it? Gently? Without disturbing the area around it, and without putting a great stucco eyesore on the face of the earth. It would be a challenge.” McIntire trailed off, lost in thought. He shook himself. “Need to get you home. Showered. Homework this weekend, no doubt, and other stuff, right?”