Death of an Adept

"Mr. Raeburn is riding straight for a fall," Angela said. "I don't intend to go down with him. Anyone else who feels the same way had better start making plans for the future."

Their eyes met and locked.

"I'll certainly give the matter some thought, Miz Fitzgerald," Barclay said. Shifting his gaze to the window, he added, "You never know when the wind may change."

Two days later, Raeburn returned from his self-imposed exile looking haggard, drawn, and underslept. The pallor brought on by three days of fasting yielded to the hectic flush of a towering rage when he learned how his orders had miscarried. The ensuing display of temper was as explosive as any his henchmen had ever witnessed. Nor did the storm die down after he had dismissed everyone but Angela from the library.

"Really, Francis, you're starting to rant like a lunatic," she said petulantly, when he had finally wound down. "This kidnap scheme was ill-conceived from the very outset. If you hadn't insisted on muddying the waters with a Hand of Glory, it could have been a straight snatch, with no hiccups. It would be far more becoming of you to admit as much, and stop blaming the hired help for your mistake."

Her words brought Raeburn up short in the midst of pacing the floor. Rounding on her, he snapped, "What would you know about it, you stupid cow? If they'd followed instructions, everything would have gone according to plan - and in a fitting manner to please our Patron. If you can't comprehend that, you have even less imagination than I gave you credit for!"

He sank into the nearest chair, his pale, glittering eyes fixed moodily at some distant vanishing point. "That wretched artist and his wife were a perfect choice of offerings: an Adept's body for Soulis, a tender morsel of flesh for his familiar. The combination would have bought us everything we wanted, and more. Not only would we have succeeded in harnessing the power of Taranis, we could have sent Soulis back into the bosom of the Hunting Lodge, wearing Lovat's guise, and gained access to their innermost secrets."

" 'If, if, would have' - but it didn't happen, Francis!" she cut in brutally. "Before you interrupt again, with your lofty aspirations, let me acquaint you with the realities of the current situation. Richter's contacts have been able to establish that the Hand of Glory is not in the custody of the police. There's no official police record of it. We must therefore assume that it has been secretly retained by the Hunting Lodge, undoubtedly at Strathmourne - which is the best-defended of any of the residences known to be connected with Sinclair and his friends.

"Furthermore, Sinclair has beefed up the security arrangements for the entire estate, and has men patrolling at night. That makes the prospect of stealing back the Hand rather in-feasible. I suggest we might better utilize our energies to scramble the psychic backtrail so that the preparation of the Hand can't be traced back to us."

Raeburn seemed to be only half-attending. His pale eyes were abstracted, their gaze roving the room like a fly seeking a place to light.

"You would do well to listen to me," Angela said acidly. "You know, I think all this trafficking with discarnate spirits and chaotic elementals is beginning to unbalance your mind. You're starting to remind me more and more of the Head-Master - and he was barking mad by the end of his career. If you don't get a grip on yourself and start listening to reason, the same thing could well happen to you."

"I'm touched by your concern," Raeburn said coldly, casting a scathing glance up and down her form. "Is that the reason why you're looking so wan and wasted, worrying about me?"

Angela glanced instinctively at the mirror above the fireplace, which reflected an image almost as haggard as Raeburn's own. Even the careful application of makeup could not entirely conceal the dark circles underscoring her eyes, nor compensate for the pinched pallor of her cheeks.

"Don't flatter yourself," she retorted. "As it happens, I've been working hard while you were off playing mystic - engaged in damage-control and seeking ways to compensate for this setback. Since the bid to capture the Lovats failed, it's clear you're going to need new victims for the Soulis sacrifice - if, indeed, you're set upon this folly. Well, allow me to submit my personal nominations."

Retrieving her tooled leather briefcase from a nearby alcove, she returned to set it on the edge of Raeburn's desk while she extracted a slender file folder. When she handed this across to him, her sleeve drew back enough to reveal a line of puncture marks and shallow cuts disappearing up her arm.

Raeburn took the folder without commenting on this evidence of repeated and extensive bloodletting, sitting back in his chair as he flipped the folder open. On top of several single-spaced resume sheets within were two glossy black-and-white eight-by-ten photographs, both of the same male subject from different angles.