Death of an Adept

"No, but I think it might be unfair to Harry, to send him into the front lines before he's acquired adequate defenses. According to the Master, any companion who follows the Hunt must go 'armed against the perils that lurk in the shadows.' Harry is learning to see some of the perils; now he needs to learn what to do about what he sees - and not to pull back simply because what he sees looks new and frightening. I believe you'll recall the learning of that lesson, not so very long ago."

Peregrine smiled, lowering his eyes.

"You were very patient with me."

"My patience has been amply rewarded," Adam said gently. "Shall we talk to Harry?"

The counsellor emerged from his trance with the air of one refreshed by the experience, and apparently without conscious memory of any of it.

"That was certainly painless enough," he said, his slightly fuddled expression conveying a trace of lingering bewilderment. "Was I any help at all?"

"You were, indeed," Adam said. "Have a look, Counsellor."

He held out a hand to Peregrine for the sketches he had made, passing them across to Harry. Harry's brow furrowed as he shuffled through them.

"These are the blokes behind tonight's little episode?" he asked, a note of scorn in his voice. "I was expecting something far more exotic. This one looks like a stevedore, and this wispy one could be an accountant, or a school teacher." He tapped the sketch of Raeburn, cocking his head for another angle. "Or maybe a banker. Yes, I suppose he could be a cutthroat banker."

"Don't be deceived by appearances," Adam said. "That man is one of the most dangerous black Adepts I've ever come across."

"You're joking." Harry arched an eyebrow. "What's his name?"

"I'd rather not say."

"Why not?"

"Because names have power," Adam said bluntly, "and once you start to find out more about him, you'll be party to knowledge that could become extremely dangerous to you. Peregrine and I, among others, are committed to going ahead with this investigation. If you involve yourself in it too, you become partner to the same responsibilities - and subject to the same dangers."

"Do you take me for a coward?" Harry demanded, bridling slightly.

"Certainly not. But courage should always be tempered by caution and common sense. The fact that your talents are beginning to manifest at this point in time suggests that you've come to a turning point in your life. And the more often you use these talents, the more likely it is that you'll be noticed by others with similar talents. Not all of them are on our side, and some of them are very dangerous."

"What do you mean, I'll be noticed?" Harry murmured, suddenly subdued.

"Simply this," Adam said. "Beginning to use psychic talents is a bit like sending up flares on the astral. Those who can see them tend to investigate, the opposition included. You can learn to shield those flares, conceal them from those not meant to see them; but until you do, or until you can defend yourself against those who come investigating, you'd be putting yourself in immortal danger if you join us. And you could put us at risk, trying to protect you."

"In - immortal danger?" Harry murmured, a little white about the lips. "Are you trying to frighten me off?"

"No, but I am asking you to think about what I've said. When you've had a chance to digest it - maybe in a few days - we'll talk again. Meanwhile, we should probably let you get home. It's late. I want to thank you again for your help tonight. We'll deal with this for now."

The following morning, in a Victorian house on the outskirts of Paisley, those responsible for the previous night's events - and failures - were preparing to answer before an inquisition which had all the more sinister earmarks of a military tribunal. Seated behind the desk in the library, flanked by two of Richter's hard-eyed mercenaries, Angela Fitzgerald took a moment to rake her gaze over the three men arraigned before her. Her dark eyes were hard and glittering as marcasites as they came to rest upon the youngest of the trio, who might have been handsome had he not been green with apprehension. He was nursing a bandaged right hand.

"So, you're the idiot who decided to rush things," she observed dispassionately. "I suppose that makes you responsible for this fiasco."

Her tone was conversationally mild, but the man to whom the statement was addressed cringed as if struck. Swallowing hard, he opened his mouth as if to offer some excuse, but no sound came out. Beside him, the driver on the ill-fated mission spared his colleague a scathing side-glance before venturing his own excuse.

"I reminded him of orders and told him to wait, but he got impatient. I didn't think he'd bolt with the Hand - and then I didn't want to risk a commotion - "

"Oh, shut up!" Angela said in a voice that would have cut glass. "You didn't think. And you, Mr. Zoller," she glared at the third man, "if Summers couldn't stop him, why didn't you? You must have known Lovat was still downstairs."