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  On the highway he quickly accelerated to sixty, then seventy, eighty. But Stuart was long gone. And he could not know whether Stuart had even taken the highway-whether it was to Tessa or to Yuri that Stuart had gone. And since he had no idea whatsoever where Tessa was, or Yuri, he was following nothing and no one!

  “Tommy, I need you,” he said aloud. He reached for the car phone and, with his thumb, punched in the number of the secret digs in Regent’s Park.

  No answer.

  Tommy might have already disconnected everything. Oh, why hadn’t they made a plan to meet in London? Surely Tommy would realize the error. Surely Tommy would wait there.

  The loud screech of a horn startled him. He slammed down the phone. He had to pay attention to what he was doing. He floored the accelerator and passed the truck in front of him, pushing the Rolls to its top speed.

  Thirteen

  IT WAS AN apartment in Belgravia, not far from Buckingham Palace, and expertly fitted with everything he required. Georgian furnishings surrounded him, a great deal of fine new white marble, and soft shades of peach, lemon, oyster white. A staff of expert clerks had been retained to do his bidding, stringently efficient-looking men and women who set to work immediately preparing the fax machine for him, the computer, the phones.

  He saw that the near-unconscious Samuel was put to bed properly in the largest of the bedrooms, and then he took possession of the office, seating himself at the desk to read through the papers quickly, and absorb whatever he could of the story of the murder outside London, the man who had been strangled by a mysterious intruder with very large hands.

  The articles made no mention of his height. Curious. Had the Talamasca decided to keep this secret, and if so, why?

  “Surely Yuri has seen this,” he thought, “if Yuri is functioning at all normally.” But then, how could he know whether or not Yuri was?

  Messages were already coming in from New York.

  Yes, these were things he had to attend to. He couldn’t pretend even for one day, really, that the company could run without him.

  The young Leslie, who apparently never slept, looked radiant as she waited upon him, receiving yet another few pages from a clerk, and placing them to one side.

  “Your lines are connected, sir,” she said. “Anything else?”

  “Dearest,” he said, “see that a great roast is prepared in the kitchen for Samuel. He’ll be a bear when he opens his eyes.”

  He was already punching in the direct line to Remmick in New York as he continued speaking to her.

  “See to it that my car and driver are ready for me whenever I need them. Fill the refrigerators with fresh milk, and buy some cheeses for me, soft double-and triple-cream cheeses. All manner of the best Camembert and Brie that you can find. But you must send out for all this. I need you here. Tell me immediately if Claridge’s calls with a message, and if you don’t hear from them, call every hour on the hour, you understand?”

  “Yes, Mr. Ash!” she said zealously, and at once began to scribble everything on a notebook which she held two inches from her eyes.

  In a twinkling, she had vanished.

  But he was to see her rushing about with marvelous energy every time he glanced up.

  It was three o’clock when she came to the desk, with all the enthusiasm of a schoolgirl.

  “Claridge’s, sir, they want to talk to you personally. Line two.”

  “Excuse me,” he said, pleased to see that she at once backed away.

  He picked up the lighted line.

  “Yes, this is Ashlar, you are calling me from Claridge’s?”

  “No. This is Rowan Mayfair. I got your number from Claridge’s about five minutes ago. They said you’d left this morning. Yuri is with me. He’s afraid of you, but I have to talk to you. I have to see you. Do you recognize my name?”

  “Absolutely, Rowan Mayfair,” he said softly. “Will you tell me where I can meet you, please? Yuri is unharmed?”

  “First tell me why you’re willing to meet me. What precisely do you want?”

  “The Talamasca is full of treachery,” he said. “Last night I murdered their Superior General.” No response from her. “The man was part of the conspiracy. The conspiracy is connected with the Mayfair family. I want to restore order to the Talamasca so that it will go on being the Talamasca, and also because I vowed once that I would always look out for the Talamasca. Rowan Mayfair, do you know Yuri is in danger? That this conspiracy is a threat to his life?”

  Silence on the other end of the line.

  “I haven’t lost you, have I?” he asked.

  “No. I was just thinking about the sound of your voice.”

  “The Taltos you bore did not live past infancy. His soul had not been at peace before he was born. You cannot think of me in those terms, Rowan Mayfair, even if my voice reminds you of him.”

  “How did you kill the Superior General?”

  “I strangled him. I did it as mercifully as I could. There was a purpose to what I did. I wanted to expose the conspiracy to the entire Order, so that the innocent might know, as well as the guilty. However, I do not think the problem involves the whole Order, only a few.” Silence. “Please let me come to you. I will come alone if you like. We can meet in a crowded place. Perhaps you know you’ve reached me in Belgravia. Tell me where you are.”

  “Yuri is meeting with a member of the Talamasca right now. I can’t leave him.”

  “You must tell me where this meeting is taking place.” Quickly he stood up and motioned to the doorway. The clerk appeared immediately. “I need my driver!” he whispered. “Now!” He lifted the mouthpiece again. “Rowan Mayfair, this meeting could be dangerous to Yuri. It could be a very, very bad mistake.”

  “But that man too is coming alone,” said Rowan. “And we will see him before he sees us. His name is Stuart Gordon. Does that name mean anything to you?”

  “I have heard the name. The man is very old, that’s all I can tell you.”

  Silence. “Do you know anything else about him, anything that would make it likely that he would know about you?”

  “No, nothing,” he said. “Stuart Gordon and other members of the Talamasca do go from time to time to the glen of Donnelaith. But they have never seen me there. Or anywhere. They have never laid eyes upon me.”

  “Donnelaith? You’re sure it was Gordon?”

  “Yes. I am very sure. Gordon used to appear there often. The Little People have told me. The Little People steal things from the scholars during the night. They take their knapsacks, or whatever they can snatch in a moment. I know the name Stuart Gordon. The Little People are careful not to kill the scholars from the Talamasca. It makes trouble to kill them. They don’t kill the people of the countryside, either. But they kill other people who wander in with binoculars and rifles. They tell me who comes to the glen.”

  Silence.

  “Please trust me,” said Ash. “This man I killed, Anton Marcus, he was corrupt and unscrupulous. I never do these things on impulse. Please accept my word that I am not a danger to you, Rowan Mayfair. I must talk to you. If you will not let me come-”

  “Can you find the corner of Brook Street and Spelling?”

  “I know where it is,” he said. “Are you there now?”

  “Yes, more or less. Go to the bookshop. It’s the only bookshop on the corner. I’ll see you when you arrive there, and I’ll come to you. Oh, and do hurry. Stuart Gordon should be here soon.”

  She rang off.

  He hurried down the two flights of steps, Leslie following, asking all the requisite questions: Did he want his guards? Should she go along?

  “No, dear, stay here,” he said. “Brook and Spelling, just up from Claridge’s,” he told the driver. “Do not follow me, Leslie.” He climbed into the back of the car.

  He did not know whether he should take the car to the very meeting place. Surely Rowan Mayfair would see it and memorize its license, if such a thing was even necessary with a Rolls-Royce stretch
limousine. But why should he worry? What had he to fear from Rowan Mayfair? What had she to gain from hurting him?

  It seemed he was missing something, something extremely important, some probability that would make itself known to him only with pondering and time. But this line of thinking made his head ache. He was far too eager to see this witch. He would go the way of the child.

  The limousine bumped and shoved its way through the busy London traffic, arriving at the destination, two busy shopping streets, in less than twelve minutes. “Please stay here, near at hand,” he said to the driver. “Keep your eyes on me, and come to me if I call you. You understand?”

  “Yes, Mr. Ash.”

  Fancy shops dominated the corner of Brook and Spelling. Ash got out, stretched his legs for a moment, walked slowly to the edge of the corner, and scanned the crowd, ignoring the inevitable gawkers and the few persons who made loud, good-natured remarks to him about his height.

  There was the bookshop, catercorner from him. Very fancy, with polished wood window frames and brass fixtures. It was, open, but there was no one standing outside.

  He crossed the intersection boldly, walking against the traffic, infuriating a couple of drivers, but he reached the other corner, naturally, unharmed.

  There was a small crowd inside the bookshop. None of them witches. But she had said that she would see him and that she would meet him here.

  He turned around. His driver was holding the position, in spite of the traffic going around him, with all the arrogance of a chauffeur at the wheel of a monstrous limousine. That was good.

  Quickly, Ash surveyed the shops on Brook to his left, and then, looking across, down the length of Spelling, taking the shops and the passersby one by one.

  Against the crowded window of a dress shop stood a man and woman. Michael Curry and Rowan Mayfair. It had to be.

  His heart quite literally stood still. Witches. Both of them.

  Both of them were looking at him, and they had witches’ eyes, and they gave off that very faint sheen that witches always possessed in his eyes.

  He marveled. What was it that made the sheen? When he touched them, if he did indeed do that, they would be warmer than other humans, and if he put his ear to their heads, he would hear a low, organic sound that he could not detect in other mammals or people who were not witches. Though occasionally, very occasionally, he had heard this soft, whispering murmur from the body of a living dog.

  Good God in heaven, what witches! It had been so long since he had seen witches of this power, and he had never seen witches with more. He didn’t move. He merely looked at them, and tried to pull loose from their staring eyes. No easy thing. He wondered if they could tell it. He remained composed.

  The man, Michael Curry, was Celtic to the core. He might have been from Ireland, and not America. There was nothing about him that was not Irish, from his curly black hair to his blazing blue eyes and the wool hunting jacket, which he wore for fashion, obviously, and his soft flannel pants. He was a big man, a strong man.

  The father of the Taltos, and its murderer! He remembered it with a dull shock. Father … killer.

  And the woman?

  She was very thin and extremely beautiful, though in a completely modern way. Her hair was simple, yet lustrous and alluring, around her narrow face. Her clothes, too, were seductive, calculatedly skimpy, indeed almost flamboyantly erotic. Her eyes were far more frightening than those of the man.

  Indeed, she possessed the eyes of a man. It was as though that part of her face had been removed from a male human and put there, above the soft, long, womanish mouth. But he often saw this seriousness, this aggressiveness, in modern females. It’s just that this was, well, a witch.

  Both were enthralled.

  They did not speak to each other, or move. But they were together, one figure slightly overlapping the other. The wind didn’t carry their scent to him. It was blowing in the other direction, which meant, strictly speaking, that they ought to catch his.

  The woman suddenly broke the stillness, but only with the slight movement of her lips. She had whispered something to her companion. But he remained silent, studying Ash as before.

  Ash relaxed all over. He let his hands hang naturally at his sides, which he seldom did, due to the length of his arms. But they must see he concealed nothing. He walked back across Brook Street, very slowly, giving them time to run if they wanted it, though he prayed to God they would not.

  He moved towards them slowly on Spelling. They did not move. Suddenly one of the pedestrians bumped him accidentally and dropped an entire paper sack of small items to the pavement with a crash. The sack broke. The items were scattered.

  “Now of all times,” he thought, but quickly he smiled, and dropped down on one knee and began to pick up everything for the poor individual. “I’m so very sorry,” he said.

  It was an elderly woman, who gave him a cheery laugh now, and told him that he was too tall to bend down to do such things as this.

  “I don’t mind at all. It was my fault,” he said, shrugging. He was close enough to the witches, perhaps, for them to hear him, but he could not show fear.

  The woman had a large canvas bag over her arm. Finally he had gathered up all of the little bundles and deposited them in the canvas bag. And away she went, waving to him as he waved cordially and respectfully to her.

  The witches hadn’t moved. He knew it. He could feel them watching him. He could feel the same power which caused the sheen to them in his vision, perhaps the same energy. He didn’t know. There was now at most twenty feet between them.

  He turned his head and looked at them. He had his back to the traffic, and he could see them clearly in front of the plate-glass window full of dresses. How fearsome they both looked. The light emanating from Rowan had become a very subtle glow in his eyes, and now he did smell her-bloodless. A witch who could not bear. The scent of the man was strong, and the face was more terrible, filled with suspicion and perhaps even wrath.

  It chilled him, the way they looked at him. But everyone cannot love you, he thought with a small smile. Not even all witches can love you. That is far too much to ask. The important thing was that they had not run away.

  Again, he started to walk towards them. But Rowan Mayfair startled him. She gestured with a pointing finger, and a hand held close to her breast, for him to look across the street.

  Perhaps this is a trick. They mean to kill me, he thought. The idea amused him, but only partially. He looked as she had directed. He saw a coffee shop opposite. And the gypsy was just emerging, with an elderly man at his side. Yuri looked ill, worse than ever, and his haphazard jeans and shirt were far too light for the chilly air.

  Yuri saw Ash at once. He stepped clear of the busy entrance. He stared at Ash madly, or so it seemed. Poor soul, he is crazy, thought Ash, truly. The elderly man was talking very intently to Yuri, and did not seem to notice that Yuri was looking away.

  This elderly man. It had to be Stuart Gordon! He wore the somber, old-fashioned clothes of the Talamasca, wing-tip shoes and very narrow lapels, and the vest to match his coat. Almost precious. Yes, it was Gordon, surely, or another member of the Talamasca. There could be no mistake.

  How Gordon pleaded with Yuri, how distraught he seemed. And Yuri stood not one foot from this man. This man could at any moment kill Yuri in any of a half-dozen secret ways.

  Ash started across the street, dodging one car and forcing another to a hasty and noisy stop.

  Suddenly, Stuart Gordon realized that Yuri was being distracted. Stuart Gordon was annoyed. He wanted to see what distracted Yuri. He turned just as Ash bore down upon him, reaching the curb, and reaching out to grab Stuart Gordon’s arm.

  The recognition was indisputable. He knows what I am, thought Ash, and his heart sank slightly for this man. This man, this friend of Aaron Lightner, was guilty. Yes, without question, the man knew him, and gazed up into his face with mingled horror and a deep secretive recognition.

  “Yo
u know me,” said Ash.

  “You killed our Superior General,” said the man, but this he had latched upon in desperation. The confusion and recognition went far beyond anything which had happened only last night. Gordon went into a panic and began to claw at Ash’s fingers. “Yuri, stop him, stop him.”

  “Liar,” said Ash, “look at me. You know full well what I am. You know about me. I know you do, don’t lie to me, guilty man.”

  They had become a spectacle. People were cutting out into the street to get around them. Others had stopped to watch.

  “Get your hands off me now!” said Stuart Gordon furiously, teeth clenched, face coloring.

  “Just like the other,” said Ash. “Did you kill your friend Aaron Lightner? What about Yuri? You sent the man who shot him in the glen.”

  “I know only what I was told about these things this morning!” said Stuart Gordon. “You must release me.”

  “Must I?” said Ash. “I’m going to kill you.”

  The witches were beside him. He glanced to his right and saw Rowan Mayfair at his elbow. Michael Curry stood right beside her, eyes full of venom as before.

  The sight of the witches struck new terror in Gordon.

  Holding tight to Gordon, Ash glanced to the corner and quickly raised his left hand for his driver. The man was out of the car, and had been watching the whole proceedings. He slid behind the wheel at once, and the car was turning to come down the street.

  “Yuri! You’re not going to let him do this to me, are you?” Gordon demanded. Desperate, brilliant, counterfeit indignation.

  “Did you kill Aaron?” Yuri asked. This one was almost insane now, and Rowan Mayfair moved to restrain him as he pressed in on Gordon. Gordon began to writhe in courageous fury, scratching again at Ash’s fingers.

  The long Rolls-Royce jolted to a halt beside Ash. The driver stepped out immediately.

  “Can I help you, Mr. Ash?”

  “Mr. Ash,” said the terrified Gordon, who stopped his vain struggling. “What sort of name is ‘Mr. Ash’?”

  “Sir, there’s a policeman coming,” said the driver. “Tell me what you want me to do.”