Taltos (Lives of the Mayfair Witches 3)

The bell sounded. Michael searched in his pocket and drew out some pound notes as he went to the door.

How extraordinary, she thought, that he remembers such things, that he keeps everything going. But she had to get a grip on herself. Lasher's fingers biting into her arm. Her entire body convulsed suddenly and she reached for the place where he'd hurt her again and again and again. Heed your own advice, Doctor. Be calm.

"Now, Yuri, you have to sit down and draw pictures," said Michael. He had the paper and the pencils.

"What if Stuart doesn't know that Aaron is dead?" asked Yuri. "I don't want to be the one to tell him this. God, they must know. They know, don't they, Rowan?"

"Pay attention," said Rowan gently. "I've explained to you before. Ryan's office did not call the Talamasca. I insisted that they wait. The excommunication gave me my excuse. I wanted time. Now we can use their ignorance to our advantage. We have to plan to have this telephone conversation."

"There's a good-sized desk in the other room," said Michael. "This little Louis Quinze thing will fall apart if we try to use it."

She smiled. He'd said he loved French furniture, but everything in this room seemed to be prancing. The gilded moldings were bubbling up and down the paneled walls as if they were made of neon lights. Hotel rooms, she had been in so many of them. All she could think of when she'd arrived was, Where are the doors, where are the phones, does the bathroom have a window for possible escape? Another flash of Lasher's hand closing on her arm. She flinched. Michael was watching her.

Yuri was staring off. He hadn't seen her shut her eyes, and then struggle to catch her breath.

"They know," Yuri said. "Their newspaper clippers will have seen it in the New Orleans papers. Mayfair. They will have seen it, and faxed the clippings home. They know everything," he said. "Absolutely everything. All my life is in their files."

"All the more reason," said Michael, "to set to work now."

Rowan stood still. He's gone, he's dead, he can't hurt you. You saw his remains, you saw them covered with earth when you put Emaleth with him. You saw. She had folded her arms and she was rubbing her elbows. Michael was speaking to her, but she hadn't caught the words.

She looked at Michael.

"I have to see this Taltos," she said. "If he exists, I have to see him."

"It's too dangerous," said Yuri.

"No, it isn't. I have a small plan. It will take us only so far, but it is a plan. You said that Stuart Gordon was Aaron's friend?"

"Yes, for years they worked together. You want us to take Stuart into our confidence? You want to trust Ash that he has told us the truth?"

"You said that Aaron had never heard the word Taltos' until it came from Lasher's lips?"

"That's correct," said Michael.

"You can't contact those two, you can't do it!" said Yuri frantically.

"Michael, the drawing can wait. I have to call Claridge's."

"No!" cried Yuri.

"I'm not a fool," she said with a small smile. "Under what name are these odd-sized persons registered?"

"I don't know."

"Describe them," said Michael. "Say the name Samuel. Yuri said everyone knew him, they treated him as if he were a jolly little Father Christmas. The sooner we make this call the better. They could have already left."

"Aaron never knew what a Taltos was, he never read anything or heard anything--"

"That's right," said Yuri. "Rowan, what are you thinking?"

"All right. I make my call first," said Rowan. "Then you make yours. We should go now."

"Don't you want to tell me what you mean to do?" asked Michael.

"Let's see if we can reach these two. It falls apart if we can't reach them, and we're back to the starting line. Let's go."

"I don't have to draw pictures?" asked Yuri. "You said something about pictures."

"Not now, get your jacket, come on," said Michael. But Yuri looked as helpless and confused as he had all morning. Michael took the jacket off the chair and put it over Yuri's shoulders. He looked at Rowan.

Her heart was pounding. Taltos. Got to make this call.

Twelve

MARKLIN HAD NEVER seen the house in such an uproar. This was a test of his talent to dissemble to the max. The council room was crowded with members, but the meeting had not been called to order. No one noticed him as he passed in the corridor. The noise was deafening under the arched wooden ceilings. But this commotion was a blessing. No one seemed to care about one novice and his reactions, or what he did or where he went.

They had not even awakened him to let him know what was happening. He'd stumbled onto all of this when he'd finally opened his door and discovered several members "patrolling" the hallway. He and Tommy had scarcely exchanged words.

But by now Tommy had reached Regent's Park and disconnected the fax interception. All physical evidence of the false communications was being destroyed.

And where was Stuart? Not in the library, not in the parlors, not in the chapel praying for his beloved Aaron, not in the council room, either.

Stuart could not break under this pressure! And if he was gone, if he was gone to be with Tessa ... But no, he would not have fled. Stuart was with them again. Stuart was their leader, and it was three against the world.

The big case clock in the hallway said 11:00 a.m., the face of the bronze moon smiling above the ornate numerals. In the noise, the chimes were nearly inaudible. When would they begin formal deliberations?

Did he dare to go up to Stuart's room? But wouldn't that be natural for him? Stuart was his tutor within the Order. Wouldn't that be the right thing to do? And what if Stuart was in panic again, crumbling, questioning everything? What if Stuart turned on him again, as he had on Wearyall Hill, and he did not have Tommy to help him bring Stuart back?

Something had just happened. He could hear it in the council room. He took a few steps, until he found himself in the north door. Members were taking their seats around the huge oak table. And there was Stuart, Stuart looking straight at him--a sharp-beaked bird with small, round blue eyes, in the usual somber, almost clerical clothes.

Dear God, Stuart stood beside the empty chair of the Superior General. He had his hand on the back of the chair. They were all looking at Stuart. They had appointed Stuart to take over! Of course.

Marklin reached to cover his imprudent but inevitable smile with a curled hand and a muffled cough. Too perfect, he thought, it's as though the powers that be were on our side. After all, it might have been Elvera, or Joan Cross. It might have been old Whitfield. But it was Stuart! Brilliant! Aaron's oldest friend.

"Come inside, all of you, be seated, please," said Stuart. He was extremely nervous, Marklin could see it. "You must forgive me," said Stuart, forcing a polite smile which was certainly not required and was hardly appropriate. Dear God, he's n

ot going to be able to pull this off! "I have not quite recovered yet from my shock. But you know I've been appointed to take over. We're waiting at this very moment for communication from the Elders."

"Surely they've answered, Stuart," said Elvera. Surrounded by cronies, she had been the star all morning, the witness to Anton Marcus's murder, the one who had conversed with the mysterious man who had entered the building and asked strange questions of those he encountered, and then coldly and methodically strangled Marcus to death.

"There is no answer yet, Elvera," said Stuart patiently. "Sit down there, all of you over there. It's time for this meeting to begin."

At last the room fell silent. The giant table was surrounded by curious faces. Dora Fairchild had been crying, and looked it. So had Manfield Cotter. So had others whom Marklin didn't even know. All friends of Aaron Lightner, or worshipers, to be more correct.

No one here had really known Marcus. His death had horrified everyone, of course. But grief was not a problem there.

"Stuart, has the Mayfair family answered?" came another question. "Do we have any more information about what happened to Aaron?"

"Patience, all of you. I will post the information as soon as it's received. What we know now is that something has gone terribly wrong within this house. Intruders have come and gone. Perhaps there have been other breaches of security. We do not know if all these events are connected."

"Stuart," said Elvera, raising her voice shrilly. "This man asked me if I knew that Aaron was dead! He walked into my room and started talking about Aaron!"

"Of course it's connected," said Joan Cross. Joan had been in a wheelchair for a year now; she looked impossibly frail, even her short white hair was thinning, but her voice was impatient and domineering as it had always been. "Stuart, our first priority is to determine the identity of this killer. We have the authorities telling us the fingerprints are untraceable. But we know that this man might have come from the Mayfair family. They do not."