Order of the Black Sun Box Set 8

by Preston William Child

  “The human brain is made of fat, my dear,” he retorted with a snide undertone, but she ignored him. Something caught her eye, occupying her attention. “Sixty percent of fat in the average brain, so what does yours run on?”

  “Shit!” she gasped pensively.

  Principal Willard raised an eyebrow and leaned back in surprise. “I must congratulate you, my dear. You have been hiding that pretty well, given your passable intellect.”

  Miss April pursed her lips together to avert that hard bearing grin she was known for. “Funny, very funny,” she told the eccentric old schoolmaster with his peculiar moustache. “But I bet I have found something you might find very interesting.” Miss April held the paper in one hand, slipping her index finger into the pages to play bookmark. Pouting happily, she gently swayed, waving the newspaper before him.

  Principal Willard sighed through his bagel-filled teeth, “Really, April. Horoscopes are daft.”

  “Let me read yours,” she beseeched, but her face spelled something else than just a reading of star sign predictions. She was up to something. He could see it, so he held his tongue and allowed her to humor him. With his surrender, she squealed in delight as she hopped onto the desk and opened the paper again. The lowering sun grew stronger in its final run, obscured by clouds half the time, but casting a red glow on her face. Its bright illumination only embellished her hauntingly green eyes, deep set in their sockets.

  She cleared her throat and shuffled her butt until she was comfortable. Willard reckoned that this had to be some prediction, for the ceremony associated with it. April smiled as she read the quarter-page size article’s tag line. “Scorpio Majorus to host annual Round Table Fund Raiser in early December.” His eyes grew wide and he ceased chewing on the second word. April read nothing further, teasing Principal Willard beyond words.

  “Well, come on!” he moaned frantically. “What else does it say?”

  “Does it matter?” she asked.

  “David Purdue is coming out of his ivory tower to host a lavish party for the stupidly wealthy again,” Willard stated the obvious. “Where? When?”

  She shoved the newspaper hard against his chest and dismounted the table gracefully. “Read your own paper. I have a ball to get ready for, Stepmother.”

  He grabbed her arm. “You? Why would you go? I am going. This is my scrap, not yours,” he reminded her, his subordinate. “If you wish, you can accompany me to sell the charade, yes, but do not think by any means that you get to attend this party and take care of this loose end.”

  “Does it matter which of us do it?” she argued. “After all, had it not been for my class, you would never even have known that Excalibur existed. I am going to Wrichtishousis and I am stealing Arthur’s sword.”

  Principal Willard scowled in confusion. “Steal Excalibur?” he began to rant, but then, something in his eyes changed, forcing him to reconsider. “Why would you be better at it than I would?”

  She cackled like a timid young witch. “Because I am prettier than you.”

  At Wrichtishousis in Edinburgh, David Purdue was in a meeting with his personal assistant, Jane, arranging the upcoming fundraiser he had been asked to host. It had been several years since Purdue threw a bash like this. Before he was ousted and incriminated by the Order of the Black Sun’s lackeys working in MI6, MI5 and government, he was a debonair billionaire, known for his genius in technology, physics and his aptitude for funding and leading relic hunting expeditions. Since all the dark happenings that almost killed him several times, he had severed most of his business relations both locally and internationally. He did not need them, actually. Being wealthy beyond measure, David Purdue had no need for association or service that he could not create and manage himself.

  The one good thing that stemmed from the few dark years being vilified and targeted by former affiliates, was that he was subsequently forced to purge himself and his businesses of unnecessary burdens from untrustworthy people. In the end, it left him with a much smaller group of associations, friends and organizations to attend to. This greatly diminished the amount of trouble in Purdue’s life.

  One of those good companies still standing after the war on Purdue, was the Round Table. This year’s function would see Purdue’s welcome return to hosting, as most of the international clubs were quite fond of him. His impeccable knowledge of most cultures made him a favorite, and several Round Table clubs expressed their approval at the choice of host for this year’s fundraiser. Purdue invited all clubs and affiliates, including the 41 Club and the Ladies Circle, to attend his fundraiser.

  “I am exhausted,” he yawned when they finally concluded the venue confirmations and guest lists. “You will get on the private security thing, won’t you, my dear?”

  “First thing tomorrow, sir,” Jane affirmed as she packed up her folders and closed her compact tablet applications. “Honestly, I am surprised you do not host here at Wrichtishousis, instead of renting a yacht. By the way, you have a small fleet of your own. Why would you rent?”

  Purdue smiled lazily and stretched back in his chair. “Because I do not want to worry about insurance, liability and all that shite that comes with inviting strangers to one’s property. Renting a yacht makes it the leasing company’s responsibility, not having the shindig at my house serves the same and we all go home with less stress.”

  He grinned cheerfully. Jane smiled, “Well, you always know best.”

  “Sarcasm?” he chuckled as she left the office.

  Without looking back she answered, “Is it?”

  Purdue walked to the double doors that led out to the balcony of his study come office come library. There was approximately a week to go before the fundraiser and he looked forward to seeing old acquaintances again after many years of absence. Below his second story vigil, the smaller trees in the garden swayed, some bare boned from the oncoming winter season. Whether it was winter or summer, his garden always held immense beauty.

  The gardeners knew how to arrange the vegetation so that both seasons would yield equally beautiful plants, flowers and trees. A sense of peace overcame him while the cold Scottish breeze ruffled up his white hair. Leaning on the bannister, he looked right down beneath the balcony, finding a rare moment to spy on the frantic activity of the sparrow hawk, looking for sparrows and finches.

  “No matter how beautiful your world, you are always in danger of being devoured,” he mused to himself as he watched the bluish grey bird. These moments were once a mere dream to Purdue, moments of solitary peace and contemplation. Fortune came in more than money, he realized by now, to allow him time alone that did not leave him melancholy. Before those dark times he recalled feeling rather empty when not surrounded by people. Even in his laboratories and server rooms, where he created his next generation technology, he had to have at least three technicians on duty, even just to populate the chambers. Otherwise, he would feel alone.

  Loneliness was no longer a problem, he noticed of late. It was revered as a blessing, because he could find himself without the opinions of others. Inadvertently, his thoughts wandered to his latest victory – the unearthing of the legendary sword of King Arthur.

  After recovering it along with his usual accomplices, Nina Gould and Sam Cleave, he had hung it upon the newly refurbished walls of his grand dining room. Among the new acquisitions was a round table, reminiscent of the Arthurian relic, completing the room wonderfully. Purdue knew that most visitors would not believe the great blade to be genuine, which was of no consequence to him. In fact, it was better that it was believed to be fake, otherwise all manner of greedy collectors would have sent thieves to rob it from its new station.

  He was silently grateful that the agents of the Order of the Black Sun involved in the last hunt for Excalibur, had been extinguished. The old secret Nazi organization had been encroaching on his emotional comfort for a very long time, using his pursuits of religious and legendary relics to find him. He went downstairs, finding his massive manor blissfully
quiet, but homely. Heading for the renovated dining room, Purdue took in the smell of burning cones and wood, marrying the blissful odor of his housekeeper’s freshly baked rusks. Lillian, the lady responsible for the baking, was absent for the moment, allowing Purdue to steal away some of the confection for a nibble.

  With a glass of red wine, he made himself comfortable in the high back chair next to the fire, chewing heartily at the fresh sweetbread. Above the mantle, Excalibur glinted in the light of the flames, and for a moment, Purdue could have sworn that he could hear its distant singing.

  8

  Bad Company

  From the Oban coast, a strong front forced the tide. Over most of the town, a foggy onslaught impaired sight for all its citizens and visitors, both on the roads and those treading the pavements. The houses near the beach, as well as those higher up on the hill, got the strongest ocean breath, a salty and cold sigh from the grey swells.

  One of those houses elevated considerably above beach level, was that of Dr. Nina Gould. Since Sam left to answer the invitation from an old associate of Paddy’s she had spent the days catching up on some research for a book as was approached to write for an Oxford history professor, now provost of a local college. Leafing through some old manuscripts she had catalogued a while ago, but neglected to return as yet, she felt a strange shiver of apprehension come over her.

  Nina, not being a believer in far-fetched ability without some skepticism, wrote the peculiar feeling off to a bout of dejection. Perhaps it was the temporary loss of the kitten she had rescued from under her house that fondled at her sanity. The little creature was still at the veterinary hospital to be treated for possible bartonellosis detected by the vet Nina had taken the kitten to. Another surprise was that the baby cat was not grey after all. When cleaned, they discovered that Dr. Gould’s charge was, in fact, a pure white variation, which earned her the name Blanca. With the house lacking in action again, even that off chasing a wild animal, Nina could not quite focus on her research. Her mind was scattered everywhere, it seemed.

  Suddenly, her attention was alerted to the ringing of her landline phone downstairs in the lobby. “Oh, thank God,” she gasped, glad for the interruption of that which she could not get running in the first place. Nina jumped up and hurried to the old-fashioned telephone at the front window next to the front door. “Coming, coming, coming,” she babbled as she tapped down the stairs. Whoever was calling was persistent, because they did not hang up after what would normally seem like too many rings, but held on until Nina made it there.

  “Hello?” she panted in a slightly raised tone.

  “Nina?” she heard a familiar voice she could not quite identify.

  “Aye. Who is this?” she frowned, trying to catch her breath. She was more than a little glad to have a conversation at this stage after the lonely days since the Blanca episode.

  “Jesus, Nina, am I glad to have found you!” he gasped. The man sounded timid and fearful, but in the same breath relieved. “It is Norman.”

  “Norman who?” she asked. “I know a few.”

  “N-Norman…uh, your…your stepbrother,” he stuttered with the last part subdued for fear of being heard. “Norman Kingsley.”

  “Ohh!” she sang as she realized who it was. “Hey, how goes it? Are you back in town?”

  He chuckled self-consciously, obviously feeling guilty at his coming affirmation. “I am, as a matter of fact. I would like to catch up.”

  At this point, Nina was elated. She had always gotten along with her mother’s other child, fifteen years her junior, although they were never close. But the thought of having company came just at the right time, so she elected to extend an invitation. “Why don’t you come by my house and we can make an afternoon of it?”

  “This afternoon, maybe?” he asked quickly.

  It was a bit hasty, she thought. “Um, that soon?” she asked, realizing how she was not ready for visitors after all.

  “Aye, why not?” he replied. In his voice she could detect uncertainty, but the desperate sort. “I am in Oban already, so…where is your house, then?” In the background, Nina could hear someone prompting her stepbrother and she figured this man was the reason for Norman’s behavior. Her sixth sense cautioned, but her propriety stepped in.

  “Do you have a pen and paper?” she asked, feeling both irate at her impulsiveness and excited to see her mother’s son again. Nina dictated her address to him and pretended not to hear the whispers of his not so silent companion.

  “See you in a few minutes,” Norman Kingsley closed the call, wishing he had never opened his big mouth at that audition. Now he had family involved in some heavy shit he could not avert. The past two weeks had been hell with Terry acting as his shadow, living with him, stealing from him, while Kingsley had to find Nina’s current whereabouts without letting on that she would never call him, as per his deceit.

  “She was never going to call you, was she?” Terry scoffed. “Bitch.”

  Kingsley could never let Terry know that his stepsister had no idea what was going on, so he nodded in agreement, but withheld much encouragement. “I guess she was just very busy. You know what women are like who live for their work,” Kingsley said. “They feel no urgency to pay attention to family. I think maybe she forgot.”

  “Sounds like she just ignored you,” Terry persisted as they got into the car. Inside, Kingsley had to make some sort of defense in the favor of his stepsister.

  “Listen, Terry,” he said nervously, “when we get there…”

  “What then?” Terry challenged.

  Shrugging, the actor replied, “Just, you know, keep it easy. Just do not treat her badly or anything. We need her to find out what she knows about the Templar Mr. Keating needs to find. She is just a link in the chain, so do not confront her or get aggressive.”

  “Because otherwise she will be scared and tell us she knows nothing, right? There are ways to get information from women,” Terry grinned.

  Bewildered, Kingsley stared at the thug for a long moment. He shook his head and corrected Terry. “No. No, you misunderstand my appeal, mate. Let me rephrase. Nina is not a weak, quivery woman. What I meant was, do not fuck with her.”

  “Is that a threat?” Terry roared. His tone was full of rage, but his face brimmed with amusement at Norman Kingsley’s ridiculous attempt at growing balls in this late hour.

  “Not a threat,” he said quickly, seeing a bleak near future for himself between the two characters he was about to introduce. “Just a warning. Do not shoot the messenger.”

  “She a harpy, then?” Terry caught on. Kingsley nodded reluctantly. It was the closest turn of phrase to what he was trying to say, although not absolutely accurate.

  “Let us just say that Nina is spirited,” he tried again. Terry laughed, “Don’t matter, mate. No woman scares me!”

  Kingsley knew what he knew. Warning Terry about Nina was a waste of time and breath, so he accepted the way Terry thought about her. Kingsley had not been in his hometown since he was a teenager. Not much had changed in past years and he found it easy to direct Terry to Dunuaran Road, where Nina’s historical residence peaked the hill behind a strong growing little forest of oaks, ashes and rowans, leaving only her chimneys to jut out from their tops.

  “Wow,” Kingsley exclaimed.

  “Looks like she is doing something on the side, hey, mate?” Terry mocked Nina’s reputation. Kingsley was not in any position to defend her name right now, so he delivered no retort to satisfy the bully, but quietly regarded the majestic old house. He too, was impressed by how well Nina had apparently done for herself. Had he not known her, he may well have come to the same conclusion as Terry.

  “Now listen, please, let me do the talking, otherwise we could lose her trust and then we will have nothing to tell Mr. Keating,” Kingsley reminded Terry as they drove up the steep driveway under the dark shelter of the trees.

  “Only until I run out of patience,” Terry warned. “I am not going to play nic
e for long, mate. You think I enjoyed sleeping in your faggot nest for two weeks and wiping my feet at your bachelor shit hole? Nay, my friend. Your little contact better give and give quick, see?”

  In awe of the magnificent architecture of Nina’s residential masterpiece, her stepbrother’s eyes followed every detailed curvature and abutment. “This house is a heritage site, you know,” he said softly to nobody in particular, but Terry was far from refined enough to care. Behind Kingsley, the six-foot six thug sauntered. His footfalls fell heavily on the wooden porch and the sound hurt Kingsley’s ears, as if Terry was already disrespectfully storming into Nina’s quiet fortress.

  Nervously the actor knocked on the front door, holding up his collar to avert the brunt of the ocean wind. There was no reply yet.

  “Let me try,” Terry grunted impatiently, and hammered three or four times on the door.

  “Give her time, dammit!” Kingsley complained. “For fuck’s sake, it is a big house she has to walk through to get to the door. It is not like she is standing just here, waiting for people to knock.”

  The scrawny runt was right, Terry realized, but he still wanted to knock Kingsley’s block off in vexation. He was about to bring another blow down with the side of his massive fist, when the lock sounded on the inside of the door. He ceased the effort short, in mid-air and pretended at once that he had been scrutinizing the doorpost, where copper inlays colored the iron.

  Nina stood in the door, looking mildly annoyed at the previous hammering. Before her stood her stepbrother with a sheepish grin on his face, looking almost apologetic for his presence.

  “Nina,” he gasped happily, and reached out to embrace her.

  “How are you doing, Norm?” she reciprocated, locking her arms around his narrow waist. “What the hell happened to your eye?” she mumbled.

  “Accident in London,” was all he gave her. He was very thin, she found, and much taller than she remembered, as she buried her head under his chest. While swaying almost imperceptibly, she noticed the massive boots that were no doubt responsible for the thundering pace that alerted her to her guest’s arrival, standing behind Kingsley. Her blood threatened to boil already, but she held her reins, just as Sam had been training her to over the last couple of years. It had not been easy, but she had been trying to hold the lava a bit longer when she felt like erupting.