Death of an Adept

"That's good, Harry. How many are there?"

"Three."

"We'll start with the one who's clearest," Adam said quietly. "I want you to describe each one in turn, as fully and accurately as you can manage."

Peregrine was already leaning forward, his pencil poised at the ready. For the next half hour he hung on Harry's every word, laboring to translate the counsellor's words into images, perfecting the images that were taking shape on the paper in front of him. It was harder work than when he could rely on his own psychic talents to help fill in the gaps, especially with a headache, but by the time Harry had wound down, Peregrine had managed to capture three distinct likenesses. At his nod to Adam that he had finished, Adam reached over and lightly clasped Harry's wrist.

"You've done very well, Harry," he told him softly. "Now I want you to rest for a while. You'll hear nothing until I touch your wrist again and call you by name. Just rest and float. Will that be all right?"

Harry's head bobbed in assent.

"Good man," Adam whispered. "Rest now. I'll touch your wrist when it's time to awaken."

As Adam withdrew his hand, Harry's head lolled back against the headrest and he exhaled with a sigh. Adam watched him for a moment, and softly whispered his name, but Harry made no response. Satisfied, Adam turned his attention to Peregrine, who was leafing through the drawings he had just done.

"All right, let's see what you've got," Adam murmured, scooting his chair closer.

The first sketch was of a middle-aged man with the disproportionately muscular build of a weight-lifter.

"I don't recognize that man at all," Peregrine observed, turning to the next sketch. "I was beginning to think I'd lost my touch, or that Harry was way off base. This second fellow, on the other hand, seems vaguely familiar - though that might only be because he looks like a Nazi. I kept wanting to sketch him in a Luftwaffe uniform, complete with a Blue Max at his throat."

Adam studied the second drawing, of a compact blond man with a military crewcut and steel-rimmed aviator spectacles.

"I see what you mean," he said, "but I've seen this man before!" He tapped lightly on the drawing with a fingernail while he concentrated a moment, mentally reviewing the gallery of faces he recalled from prior encounters with the Lodge of the Lynx - and came up with a match.

"I have him," he said, on a grim note of triumph. "You and I have both seen him before. That's the man in the dinghy, who came off the seaplane that snatched away Raeburn and his Nazi diamonds. He must be more highly placed in the Lynx organization than we realized at the time."

"And the best is yet to come," Peregrine said archly, revealing the third drawing.

Grimly intent, Adam cast his gaze over the next page Peregrine presented. Of the three drawings, this was by far the most nebulous - little more than a suggestion of fair hair and slender height.

Even so, there could be no doubt about the subject's identity - especially in light of all the other evidence he and his fellow Huntsmen had so far been able to assemble. The ghostly image looking out at them from the page could only be Francis Raeburn himself.

"Yes, indeed," Adam murmured, raising his eyes to meet Peregrine's. "An old adversary. I don't suppose you have any doubts on that account?"

The artist only shook his head wordlessly.

"Right, then," Adam said. "It seems our Mr. Nimmo has come through for us yet again. And whether or not he's aware of it, he's done this plenty of times before. I think, before we bring him back, it's high time his contributions were brought to the attention of a higher authority."

Chapter Twenty-Six

THE authority Adam had in mind was not to be sought on any earthly plane. While Peregrine made ready to keep watch between the worlds, Adam settled comfortably in the chair beside Harry, touching his Adept ring to his lips and invoking the guidance and protection of the Light as he closed his eyes and took a moment to ground and center himself. With his next breath, he let himself sink into the light trance that was his gateway to the deeper, more profound verities of the Inner Planes.

His inner image of the library seemed to expand around him like a soap bubble, its receding walls becoming thin and translucent as gauze before melting away altogether, leaving him suspended in an opalescent sea. Momentarily, a familiar pang of disorientation tugged at his inner equilibrium. Then the surrounding firmament began to re-form itself around him, gathering substance until all at once he felt solid ground beneath his feet.