Under Cover of Darkness (25 page)

“Like all you want, but keep your distance,” the first one commanded. “She's here for
him
, remember. You know the rules.”

The other turned sulky and resentful. “It's always all about
him
, isn't it? And you know damn well that as far as he's concerned, all this is going to be wasted. He doesn't care what they look like as long as they're willing to give him what he wants.”

“Act your age, you oaf. God knows you ought to be grateful that looks don't matter to him, or you'd still be on the outside looking in, slaving away, believing all the lies.”

The lies . . .

I took a deep, shuddering breath. Not so long ago, that had been me, all my dreams and aspirations so deeply entrenched in the layers upon layers of widespread, purposely generated falsehoods that these men and others of their arcane brotherhood—men and women both—consistently maintained to keep the unworthy at bay. And I had believed those lies, every last, miserable one of them. Had I truly been that innocent?

Yes. Yes, I had.

“You know what we
should've
done?” the second man said. “We should've given her . . .
the routine
. Sure, she was sharp enough to snag the Master's attention, but she never would've seen through . . .
the routine
. Trust me, it would've been the best deal all 'round. At least with
the routine
, she'd be able to keep on hoping forever. Honestly, is that so bad? Once she meets the Master, it's win or lose, in or out, no second chances.”

“Damn it, man, you spend so much time toying with the outsiders that you think I'm as green as they are! I know why you'd want to give her
the routine
: Because as long as she keeps hoping, even when she's staring at the world's biggest dead end, she'll be thinking about
all
the possibilities for getting past it.” There was a freight of dreadful meaning in the way he said
all
.

The second man chuckled lasciviously. “Come on, like
you
never let one of the pretty ones believe that sleeping with you would open the sacred doors? Oh, but I forgot: You're the Master's
good
little messenger. You're
soooo
pure, you'd never even dream of using your position for personal advancement or gain.”

“No, I would not.” The reply was stiff and severe. “And not because I'm some paragon of virtue.
He
would hear of it. Oh, he might allow me one slip, two, a dozen, a score—Who can tell where his gracious charity toward a fallible follower ends? But it
would
end; believe it. And the consequences . . .”

A dismissive sound—a sudden expulsion of breath between lips tightly pressed together—answered the first man's cautionary words. “You worry too much. He may be the Master, but if you want me to believe he's got uncanny knowledge and powers, you can go pound sand down a rat hole; it'll accomplish more. Brother, you'd better learn to save
that
crap for the rookies.” He gave my arm a tender, repulsive squeeze and added: “Isn't that right, sweetheart?”

I uttered an unthinking cry of revulsion and jerked away from him so sharply that I staggered off-balance. I would have fallen if the first man hadn't grabbed me and set me more steadily on my feet.

“Easy, easy,” he murmured. “Don't worry, no one's going to take advantage of you. You're under the Master's protection. Now be a little more careful about how you walk. You're too valuable to go breaking your neck on us.”

“Not yet, anyway,” the other said, and he followed up this sally with a gurgling laugh that made the short hairs on my arms rise up. The dread was too much to bear. Chills shook my limbs; my knees buckled and I dropped to the ground. My collapse took the first man by surprise; he lost his sustaining hold on my arms and let me fall.

I expected to feel the icy, unforgiving impact of bare stone slabs under my palms and knees. Instead, they encountered a soft, silky carpet so finely woven that my lurching footsteps hadn't even dragged against the delicate pile. I gasped, shocked to find a thing of such luxury here, in the bowels of the ancient office building where I had come so blithely, so willingly.

That was my third mistake: there wasn't enough air inside the hood to let me draw so deep a breath. My senses reeled, then fled. As I plunged into oblivion, I thought I heard one of my guards exclaim a mild obscenity, but I would never know for sure.

Visions swam up out of the blackness engulfing me, taunting memories. Once again I was the simple, thoughtless girl whose heart admired
them
, the golden souls, the favored ones. Others claimed that
they
were like the rest of us, but I knew otherwise.

How else to account for the adulation of their swarms of devoted adherents? For the most part, these people had neither the physical attractions, the athletic prowess, nor the ostentatious displays of wealth that usually evoked such fervent idolization.

How else to explain their intellectual domination of lesser beings, their astonishing ability to destroy their luckless adversaries with a few well-chosen words of power? Their triumphs were legendary, and many a devoted hanger-on took the deepest pleasure in recounting, decades later, having been present to witness such unequal combats.

And then there were the whispers, the hints, the covert rumors of how the elite among these people—the Master's own, the select of the select, chosen of the chosen—not only enjoyed the benefits of earthly renown, but would in due time know the ultimate gift: Immortality.

The first time I heard such a rumor, I laughed it off. The second time, I refused to believe it, rejecting it as a sacrilegious joke in the poorest of taste. The third, I began to doubt my own adamant adherence to what I thought were the dictates of simple common sense. At last I opened my eyes and beheld evidence as irrefutable as it was unthinkable: Death had no meaning for these people. Indeed, the so-called “dead” walked among us. I had felt their presence and been affected by their influence as much and more than that of our so-called
real
leaders, the puppets who postured and chattered in the chambers of Congress or from the tawdry stage of the Oval Office.

I wanted that power. I hungered for it. I wanted that chance to win eternal life, eternal influence. I was willing to do whatever it took to achieve it.

Now see where it had brought me.

A cool breeze caressed my cheek. My eyelids fluttered, then opened to a muted amber glow. I felt a cushion of scented softness beneath me and gazed up at a ceiling painted by the hand of genius. The scene above my head was an idyll straight out of Classical mythology, a verdant mountainside where satyrs, fauns, gods, and goddesses danced. But in one corner of the painting, just out of sight of the heedlessly frolicking throng, I saw a lone figure of gaunt, intent aspect. Cloaked and crouching, he watched the merrymakers, a malicious, knowing smile playing over his thin lips.

I knew that look. I had seen that look before, on the faces of the men who had brought me here and on the faces of their colleagues as well: It was pity. The gods frolicked, but their joy was a fragile, hollow thing, their powers a joke. The
true
power lay elsewhere and they, poor fools, would never know.

“No!” I cried, tossing my head to one side and closing my eyes tightly. The ghost of mocking laughter filled my ears, together with those sly, hurtful words of so-called “encouragement” that had been my bane from the first day I determined to make myself one of the chosen:

Just keep at it; it's only a matter of time.

You're really doing everything right. I'm sure you'll succeed any day now.

You can't waste your time obsessing over things that aren't in your power anymore. Keep busy. You'll hear something when there's something for you to hear.

Hey, don't feel bad: We all had to pay our dues. It comes with the territory.

Look, we both know you're better than a whole lot of the people who've succeeded already. You'll get your turn before you know it.

No, really, just keep working. It'll happen for you. Trust me.

“My dear, are you all right?” A gentle hand touched my cheek and a deep, compelling voice thrilled in my ears. I opened my eyes once more and gazed up into the sharply-drawn, handsome face of a silver-haired gentleman. His eyes, the color of a winter's dusk, regarded me with genuine concern and compassion.

“Y—yes,” I faltered, laying one hand to my damp brow. “I—I think so.” I tried to sit up, but the room spun around me. Candles burned everywhere, and their fat, crimson bodies traced smears of blood and light across my dazzled vision. It was too much for me; I sank back into the welcoming contours of the plush chaise longue upon which I had awakened. The tawny cushion offered up the scent of lavender and crushed roses.

“I—I'm sorry, sir,” I said, my lips dry. I knew to whom I spoke. Could it be any other? “O great Master, if my weakness has offended you, I beg of you, forgive me!”

The Master sat back and smiled, his long, graceful hands folded in his lap. He was clothed from neck to ankles in a robe of midnight blue, the collar secured by a silver pin shaped like a brace of lions
couchant
, with glinting sapphire eyes. Nobility and benevolence clung to him, along with a bittersweet aroma that was oddly evocative. Where had I smelled that before? Every cell in my brain clamored that it had been a recent experience, one that would be stunningly self-evident if only I could call it forth from the fogs of treacherous memory.

Then it hit me: the hood. The hood had contained exactly such a smell, and that smell was—

“Chocolate?” The Master picked up a small, golden box from the little table at his elbow and offered it to me. “I sometimes find it to be a better restorative than liquor.”

Chocolate, the famed elixir of the brethren, the eternal bean whose transfiguring power was second to none, not even its baselessly proud cousin, coffee! Wordlessly, I plucked out the first bonbon that my fingers touched, without my usual dithering over such choices. I was rewarded for my maturity with a mouthful of smooth, delectable rum truffle. It could have been the hated and shunned orange cream just as easily. In my overwrought state, I decided that I had just received a divine sign, an auspicious omen. I sat up again, more slowly this time, and rejoiced to find that my balance was restored, my vision steady. O blessed confectionary panacea!

The Master seemed to understand that I was myself again. All at once his air of sympathy transformed into a brisk, professional attitude.

“Welcome, child,” he said. “I trust you comprehend the full significance of your presence here?”

I slipped from the chaise longue and knelt at his feet, my head bowed before him with the utmost deference. “I have been brought here, O Master, for you to determine whether or not I am worthy of the sublime favor, the grand blessing of membership among the chosen brethren.”

I heard him utter a short, dry laugh. I didn't dare look up to see whether he was regarding me with contempt for such a toadyish response. Inwardly, I berated and abused myself for having expressed myself so feebly. How could I now hope to be admitted to the ranks of the favored few—those beings of legendary eloquence and verbal skill—after having given such a display of my own sorry way with words? I fought valiantly to hold back hot tears of disappointment.

To my surprise, the next speech from the Master's mouth was not a summary dismissal, laced lightly with scorn, but rather: “Rise, child. You do me too much honor.”

I saw his hand before my face, palm upward, offering to help me to my feet. I took it and rose. He, too, stood, and his warm grip on my fingers did not slacken. When I dared to meet his eyes, I saw nothing there but kindness.

“You are only partly right,” he told me. “I do not command my servants to bring me just anyone. The fires of ambition burn high and hot in you, but that is not enough. You yearn for the privileges and boons reserved for those of our clandestine brotherhood, but that is not enough.”

“You have a killer rack, but that is not enough.” The impious words that shattered the holy moment were spoken in a whisper so low that in ordinary circumstances they would have passed unheard, unheeded. Alas, the acoustics of this strange chamber were such that the blasphemous sally was greatly amplified. It echoed from the high, painted ceiling, snaked swiftly through the forest of gold-capitaled, green jasper pillars supporting that lofty vault, and fell like the knell of doom at the Master's feet.

His blazing eyes flashed at once to the unlucky man who had let the desire to be accounted witty supersede the discernment to be accounted wise. I knew him: He was that one of my escorts here who had spoken of manipulating me with
the routine
, and who had mocked me and my dreams. A gloating demon sparked to unnatural life in my belly. I would enjoy watching this one receive his comeuppance at the Master's hand.

I did not have long to wait. The Master held my hand even more tightly, then without warning turned away so that both of our backs were toward the hasty-tongued fool.

“Child, pay close attention,” he said. “This is your test: succeed, and you may call yourself one of us from this day forward. Fail, and you deserve to share that thickwit's ostracism.” His fingers traced strange shapes within my palm, after which he hooked the first two fingers of his right hand onto the webbing between my thumb and forefinger. He completed his odd succession of gestures by enclosing all my fingers in his grasp and squeezing them quickly once, twice, and after a pause of no more than two seconds, a third and final time.

“There,” he said, smiling. “Now teach
him
.” He indicated my other escort, the man whose devotion to the Master had caused his companion so much ill-considered mirth.