He glanced around. Nobody else in the restroom. No more collateral damage to fix. Now, how to get them both out of here? He could only carry one at a time. He tore off the bottom of the girl’s shirt and ripped it into strips, then used them to gag her and bind her hands and feet. He stretched his Cloak to cover the kid as he folded her into a stall.
“Back for you later, sweetie,” he muttered.
He went back and slung the kid over his shoulder. Jason called him a kid, but the guy was big. He hauled his baggage to the parking lot and sat Tremaine in the car. Not much time now. The parking lot was clearing out. Better look like he was heading out, too. He got in and pulled the car down the road, around the first curve. Then he reached across to the glove compartment and pulled out a couple of vials. Tremaine was stirring. That would never do. Jason needed him out cold and going nowhere while he went back to get the girl. He was going to have to hike back a couple of hundred yards.
He popped open the vial, pulled the kid’s head up by his nose and poured the contents down his open mouth.
There. That would hold him. Make the drive to Las Vegas a lot easier, too.
*
Morgan could hardly breathe. The light from the glowing cases that held the Sword, the Wand, and the Cup seemed to waver, casting a strobe effect across the room. Or maybe that was her flickering consciousness. She put out a hand to steady herself on the back of the big couch.
“What is it?” Hardwick asked.
“Jason says the Tremaine boy he’s been following knows what the fourth Talisman is.”
That stopped Hardwick in his tracks. His eyes, always deep-set in his lined face, opened wide. “What is it?”
“We don’t know yet. But we will. Your job.” It was a job Hardwick was very, very good at. “I’m going to get Thomas. We’ll need him here when we have them all.” She glanced at her watch. “I’m leaving within the half-hour. Call the airport and get the plane ready.”
They stood, looking at each other for a minute. This was it. The culmination of years of planning was about to come to fruition. She would get the one thing she wanted, the one thing that all this effort was for. Not money, not power, though she would certainly have those. Only Hardwick knew how important this really was to her.
“Congratulations are in order, I believe,” he whispered softly.
“Not yet, Hardwick. Not yet. But soon.” She broke the moment. “Phil, where are you?” she yelled. “Rhiannon? Get me packed. I want to be at Mount Athos by noon tomorrow.”
*
“Tris, can you go out and see if Lanyon and Greta want any breakfast?” Jane whispered. She was standing between Tris and his coffee in the kitchen. Elizabeth had gotten him up early this morning, and while Maggie had fallen back to sleep, Tris hadn’t.
Tris sighed. Why was he Lan’s keeper these days? “They still out in the gazebo?”
“I think so,” Jane said, casting a surreptitious look at Senior and Tris’s mother at the breakfast table. “I knocked on his door earlier and no one answered. I thought they would have come in during the night. It’s getting pretty chilly out these days.”
“They just don’t want to be bothered,” Tris muttered.
“I didn’t hear them in there.”
It was true that Jane would have heard them breathing, even if they were trying to be quiet.
“Please?” She probably didn’t want to catch them in the act. Feminine sensibilities.
Tris grunted and made for the French doors to the terrace. Jane knew exactly how to get what she wanted. Her ‘please’ was as good as a command.
“Thank you,” Jane called after him.
Tris stalked out across the wet lawn to the gazebo, ready for any state of undress and disarray he might see. He remembered his first days with Maggie. All they wanted to do was make the world go away while they had ecstatic sex. Still did, though they’d learned to control themselves a little better, as befitted responsible parents. He passed the telescope, still set up on the lawn. Looking north, he saw two figures walking the cliff path that looked to be Drew and Michael. Michael was such a big guy he was hard to mistake.
“Okay, you two,” he called at the entrance to the gazebo, to give the errant couple ample warning. “Time to rise and shine.”
He didn’t expect a response but he didn’t even hear any scrambling around. He peeked cautiously around the edge of the post that held the dense bougainvillea curtain.
Nothing. An afghan lay across one of the benches. They’d been here. He looked back across the lawn, searching the corners of the terrace, the stairs down to the stables. Nothing but the abandoned telescope indicated they’d been there.
Goddamnit. They were in Lan’s room and just didn’t want to be bothered. Jane was probably trying not to hear anything she shouldn’t. She’d always been a little shy. He stalked around the side of the house and in through the French doors at the end of the Bay of Pigs. He stomped up to Lan’s closed door to give them some notice before he banged on it. “Lan. Time to come out.”
Nada. Tris stilled so he could listen. Nothing. No breathing, no giggling, no pulling up of covers. “Lan? I’m coming in.” He took a breath and gingerly opened the door.
Nothing. Bed was made and tidy. Must be Greta’s work, since Lan wouldn’t bother. No clothes scattered around. He made a quick tour, but he already knew they weren’t in the bathroom. He strode into the corridor and made for the stairs. Maybe they were in Greta’s room.
But they weren’t.
Tris made for the office wing. “Kemble,” he said, bursting in to his brother’s office. “Can’t find Lan and Greta.”
Kemble looked up, frowning. “They’re around somewhere. Did you try—?”
“Gazebo. His room. Her room. Jane says nobody saw them come in last night.”
“They could be down in the hay loft of the barn for all we know,” Kemble said, obviously annoyed.
“Or in view of our little brother’s track record, they could be in Timbuktu by now.”
“He can’t have gotten off the property. I’d have known.” Tris saw Kemble go still and search through the security systems. “Damn him.”
“What?”
“The cameras on the cliff path are smeared with paint or something.” Kemble was looking downright angry at this point. “Why didn’t I catch that?”
“Better get Michael on it.”
Kemble looked stunned. He punched a number in on his phone. “Michael, can you get over here? Okay, good.” He looked up and Tris saw the anger at Lan turn into a niggling worry. Tris was already way beyond that. The Clan had them. He just knew it. Michael’s in the driveway.”
It took only another minute before Michael filled the doorway. At six-five and built like a brick shit-house, he could really fill a doorway. “What is it?”
Kemble grimaced. “Can you do a Find on Lan? We can’t seem to locate him or Greta.”
To Michael’s credit, he didn’t miss a beat. He’d been Delta Force for a lot of years. Guess that kinda made you expect anything. He nodded. His eyes went unfocused. Tris saw them flicker as they sorted through data. Michael said he saw his quarry through a grid when they were far away, a kind of three-dimensional map without any labels.
Michael snapped into focus. His expression was steely. Not good. “Maybe three hundred miles east of here. Skyline says it’s Vegas. Elevation says he’s underground.”
Oh, very not-good. Las Vegas was where Michael had Found the Talismans.
“Morgan has him,” Kemble said. His eyes darted between Tris and Michael.
“Greta’s there, too,” Michael said his gravely voice grim.
“Damn him,” Kemble whispered. “Why did he have to tempt fate?”
“What can we do?” Tris asked himself as much as the others. If Lan and Greta were locked in the stronghold of the Clan, what was there to do? Clan members were some bad fuckers, and there was no doubt they were holed up someplace impregnable.
“We can’t risk fa
mily,” Kemble said, obviously thinking aloud. “That’s why we’ve been playing defense all these years.” He ran his fingers through his hair.
“Damn it, Kemble.” Tris gritted his teeth. “Isn’t Lan family? Seems to me he’s pretty ‘at risk’ right now.”
Kemble looked like he’d been slapped. Then he got mad. “So, what are you proposing, little brother? Should we storm the castle?”
“Yeah.”
Both Tris and Kemble turned to Michael’s voice. “Yeah,” Michael repeated. “We storm the castle. I did some hostage extraction stuff.”
Tris felt relief shoot through him. Michael knew what to do. “Well, then let’s get going,” he said as he started for the door.
“Whoa, whoa.” Michael held up a hand. “The key to an operation like this is planning.”
“No time,” Tris growled. “Do you know what they could be doing to them?”
“Yes.” The way Michael said it shot shards of ice through Tris’s heart. “Because I’ve had some of that stuff done to me. They’ll live. But not if we go bursting in there without proper preparation. They’ll die immediately, along with all of us, or we die and they get tortured to death. Lose-lose all around. We do it right, or we just agree to call them collateral damage.”
“No way,” Kemble hissed. “I get you. Now what do we do?”
“I’ll try to nail down their location a little better. If we can identify the building, then cue you Kemble to get us plans. They’d be online, right?”
“Or in the construction company’s system archives.” Kemble’s gaze had gotten a laser-like focus now that he had a task.
“While you’re at it, see if you can find Greta’s blood type,” Michael said. Then he turned to Jane. “Jane, you’re medical logistics. My jump kit is—”
“In the wine cellar,” Jane interrupted.
Michael nodded. “Inventory the contents. Make sure the oxygen tank is full. And set up a blood drawing station.”
Jane nodded briskly and strode out.
Tris didn’t like the sound of that. But since his mother couldn’t heal them, he was damned glad Michael had some experience with this.
“What can I do?” Tris asked.
“Get me Drew. She’s out on the terrace. She may be able to identify where they are from her visions.”
“Done.” Tris took off at a trot.
*
Lan hit the floor like a sack of flour. He couldn’t seem to make his legs hold him up. Somebody was groaning. He hoped it wasn’t Greta. Where was she? His vision flickered. Something hit the floor next to him. He turned his head. A girl. Long blonde hair. Greta. Good. He knew where she was. Bad because she was here, wherever here was. He couldn’t seem to move his limbs in any coordinated way to get to her. Just like in the car.
Car? Yeah. He remembered movement. His head hurt in the car. He threw up, and a guy with pale blue eyes swore at him. Where had he seen that guy before? Then the guy had poured something down his throat. It tasted bitter. Lan had dreamed about that taste before. He’d looked for Greta, called her name.
“She can’t hear you, kid,” the guy had said. His face had kinda flickered, like a computer screen with a bum video card. Drugs, Lan realized now.
The guy was here now, standing over him. His light eyes were hard and flat, like he wasn’t human. Lan knew those eyes. This guy was Clan. He’d been among those who’d attacked The Breakers. “I’d concentrate on sobering up. Hardwick is gonna want to talk to you.”
What did the Clan want from him? He sucked in a breath and it was painful, like somebody had kicked him. They knew he knew what the fourth Talisman was. He’d said it out loud for God’s sake, in a public place. How stupid could you get? “What if I don’t want to talk to him?” His words were slightly slurred.
“Oh, you will.” The guy gave him a push with his boot so Lan rolled over onto his back. His hands were bound behind him. The position was awkward. His head pounded, his shoulder and his hip throbbed. All in all, he felt like shit.
The door closed with a booming sound. Like a bank vault. The room went totally black.
Shit. He was in deep. And Greta was in it with him. He’d really screwed things up now.
*
Morgan strode into the tiny stone room the monks used to receive the few visitors the monastery entertained. She was dressed as a man, since women weren’t allowed in Mount Athos. It was practically an island, the narrow isthmus to the mainland impassible. Morgan arrived like anyone who wanted to go to one of the monasteries, in a small coracle paddled by a lanky peasant. Visitors needed special permission to come. This was the last bastion of ascetic Christianity after all, not a tourist destination.
Permission wasn’t an issue for Morgan, of course. Brother Theodosius knew she paid the price of her Byzantine visa—written in a language long defunct—in the lavish donations she made to the monastery.
Not that you’d get the impression of lavish from her current surroundings. But Brother Theodosius had a personal mission, and a very un-ascetic craving, for preserving early-Christian art and documents. The monastery had one of the finest collections in the world, and Morgan had contributed the resources to obtain some very expensive pieces.
Brother Theodosius, dressed as usual in a simple brown robe with a knotted rope belt, let himself into the visitor’s room where he usually received her. “Mr. Le Fay,” he murmured. He always kept up the pretense that she was a man, even when they were alone. “You look…well.”
Damn right she looked well. She looked twenty years younger than when she’d been here last year. “It’s time.” She had no patience for beating around the bush. Hardwick might already have gotten the location of the Talisman out of the Tremaine boy, and she might be that much closer to her goal.
“You have come for him at last?” the monk asked.
“Yes. My plane waits in Athens.”
“Let me send for him. He is working in the stables. Or perhaps I should send him to wash first. He will be dirty.”
“Let us go to him.” She didn’t want him out of her sight another minute. She had cultivated him since he was nine. She’d waited long enough. “I will supervise his preparation.”
Brother Theodosius glanced to her, then down. “Very well. He belongs to you, after all.”
Yes, he does, she thought with satisfaction. Body and soul.
The monk led the way from the tiny visitor’s room, out through the brilliant Mediterranean sun. Of course, Thomas would not be out in the sun. She wanted him well-muscled by work, but she preferred a paler skin than the local olive tone—one more in keeping with his Celtic origins. They crossed the stone-flagged courtyard and into another stone building where the animals were kept. She saw a fleeting shadow or two in the cloister corridor beyond, but most monks were apparently at their prayers.
“And has he remained pure?” she asked her companion sharply.
“Oh, yes. As you required.”
“Any more of those nasty nocturnal emissions to report?” He’d had his first shortly before her last visit.
“Sadly, yes,” the monk said. “But he is nearly twenty-five. I’m afraid it’s natural at that age, in spite of one’s best efforts. And he always reports them faithfully.”
Morgan felt herself getting wet between her legs. “And you take proper action?”
“He has been scourged on each occasion. I will say his questioning nature has been quite suppressed. He is totally focused on being worthy of your faith in him and on his purpose.”
Of course, neither Thomas himself nor the monk who had preserved his virgin state knew what that purpose was. She was sure the monk thought it was a holy purpose. She smiled inwardly. Maybe it was.
“Excellent.”
The barn was dark to her eyes as they moved in through the wide doors. Morgan heard the animals moving around in their stalls; the soft shuffling, an occasional snort or lowing sound. There—the grunt of a pig. The stable was actually huge. Through the doors at the far
side of the aisle she could see a chicken coop with cackling fowl wandering around a yard. Inside, the stable smelt of straw and dirt and leather and…
There he was, naked, as she required, bending with his pitchfork to toss straw into a stall. Dear me. Since she’d required additional work for him, his body had grown more thickly muscled. He was perhaps a little lean. Monks apparently didn’t know the meaning of, ‘Feed him enough food.’ But she would soon cure that. His back was turned to them, showing tight buttocks and thick thighs, gleaming with a light sheen of sweat in the heat of the fall afternoon. The muscles moving underneath the skin as he worked made him look like a sleek machine of skin and blood. His nut-colored hair curled around his shoulders, which were laced with scars and fresher welts, as were his lower back and buttocks.
Morgan calmed her breathing. What a pleasure he would be as he fulfilled his destiny.
“Thomas,” the monk called. “Stop your work. You have a most prestigious visitor.”
He turned. Morgan didn’t know what was more startling, his blue eyes or the impressive organ nestled in the thatch of hair between his legs. He had angelic features, open and regular, with a cleft chin and a strong jaw. But it had always been his lips she loved; sensual, a little full. Lovely. He immediately knelt and bowed his head.
“Sir,” he breathed. “How may I serve you?”
“It’s time you fulfilled your purpose,” she said sternly. “You will prepare yourself to come with me.”
He glanced up, his eyes full of hope, even joy. Oh, the monks had done their work well. “Thank you, sir. A thousand thank yous.”
He spoke English to her, as she had required, but he had also been taught Greek, both ancient and current, and Latin. In fact, he was quite educated, though much of it was self-taught in the books he was required to study by the candle in his hut, which sat just outside the walls of the monastery. Still, Brother Theodosius tested him rigorously and had found him intelligent and diligent. No contact with the outside world had been allowed, of course. His studies had been mathematics, certain philosophers, and classical literature. No religion, though that hurt Brother Theodosius mightily, and no social or political tracts or current history. He had no idea of the modern world. She didn’t want him getting any independent ideas. No, he was to be a perfect, innocent, willing vehicle. She had picked him most carefully. His lineage was perfect. His parents had exhibited the powers of the gene before she had eliminated them. His upbringing had been as perfect as she could make it. It had taken her nearly sixteen years to achieve this result. And he was now ready, just in time for the acquisition of the final Talisman.
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