It was a deception, Trevor knew. Dr. Tenney had not healed the mare. He’d only masked her pain and hidden the injury beneath a cloak of illusion. The driver was convinced. He hooked the carriage to the horse’s harness, and his passengers crowded back inside.
Trevor despised himself for not speaking up. He knew too well what would happen to the horse. By the time the blocking spell wore off, the injury would be compounded beyond repair. The horse would have to be put down. So that he could complete his comfortable ride home, the Adept had condemned the mare to agony and death and her owner to poverty.
Les, you were right. I wish I’d listened to you.
Les haunted his thoughts. Les would not have kept silent about the horse. Les had seen Dr. Tenney for what he was, had escaped, and the doctor’s ghoulish servant hadn’t yet been able to find him. Veronica must be protecting him, but Trevor could not count on her help after being rude, questioning her power, and ignoring her advice. He got into this mess by himself, and he’d have to get himself out of it. He spent the rest of the ride home pondering how to do this.
In the days since Dr. Tenney had bound him to Carl, Trevor had tested every talent he had or thought he might have, but he could find no gift of his free from Carl’s domination and therefore from Dr. Tenney’s. He had to escape, but he could see only one way to do that. He would have to kill the doctor. Not by power; that would be impossible. He’d have to find a way to do it using normal subterfuge and superior physical strength.
He’d observed that the doctor’s self-indulgent lifestyle left him weak and easily winded. If he could take him by surprise and strike quickly before the Adept could summon his power, he might succeed. Dr. Tenney’s insistence on keeping Carl and Trevor with him, forcing them to stay in his home, would work to Trevor’s advantage, increasing the opportunities for such an attack.
Trevor dreamed of killing Carl as well, but he knew that the link between them would not permit it. To kill Carl would be suicide. With Dr. Tenney out of the way, though, he could engage in a power struggle with Carl that might place him in the dominant position.
When the carriage delivered them to Dr. Tenney’s house of horrors, Trevor had not developed a specific plan for killing the doctor, but he had convinced himself that he could and must do it at the earliest opportunity, before the doctor sapped his will.
Miryam insisted that she should go with Veronica to scout out Dr. Tenney’s home. Les declared that if she went, he would go. He’d regained strength in the past three days, but neither Veronica nor Miryam felt he was well enough for the planned foray. So Miryam yielded and agreed to stay behind with him, while Veronica reconnoitered on her own. The Adept, after all, was able to conceal and protect herself.
“I don’t work the way he does,” she said. “Wouldn’t be caught dead using those contraptions of his. He’s no match for me, in spite of them. You two stay locked in here, and you’ll be safe enough while I’m gone. No need to worry about me.”
She left, and Les felt suddenly awkward and ill at ease. Miryam was close to being an Adept, he felt sure. He couldn’t let himself care for her, yet he knew he did care, very much.
She smiled, and her smile drove out his fears. “Miryam,” he said. “Miryam, I shouldn’t love you, but I do.”
She stiffened. “What do you mean, you shouldn’t love me?”
“I have no talent. I’ll hold you back.”
“Is that all?” Relief was evident in her soft laugh. She gave him a quick kiss on his forehead. “Les, it’s only because you don’t have power that I can love you. For so many years Carl’s used my power to do terrible things to other people. It’s made me despise power.”
“But you weren’t to blame for what he did,” Les said, taking her hand in his.
“The power was mine. That made me a part of it. I always felt guilty and unclean. But you—without using power, you have strength.” She swallowed hard before continuing. “I … I want to be like you. I mean to set aside my power and be strong without it.”
“But you have so much. It would be a waste—”
“Shhh!” She pressed the tips of her fingers against his mouth.
His hand closed over hers, and he felt her ring with its fiery gem. “This ring—doesn’t it represent your freedom to use your gifts?”
She looked surprised. “Or to not use them. But it’s more than a symbol. Veronica made it for me. She says it’s for protection and that while I have it on, neither Carl nor anyone else can draw on my power. No one will control me again.”
“Then promise me to wear it always.” He gazed into the soft brown depths of her eyes. They’d lost that wounded look; he saw his own love reflected in them.
He couldn’t believe his fortune: that she could love him, that she was glad he wasn’t gifted, or couldn’t use whatever gift he might possess. After all that had happened in Port-of-Lords, he no longer wanted to find his talent. For her sake he would have been willing to pursue it, but he was relieved to know he needn’t do so.
He slipped his arms around her and pressed his lips against her cheek.
In that instant the room faded away, and her face receded into fog.
Instead of kneeling on thick fur, he seemed to be walking cautiously across a wood floor. In the dim light he could barely make out the outspread hands with which he picked his way through a forest of small tables. Not Veronica’s tables. These held twisted shapes of metal and wire and glass. He was in Dr. Tenney’s laboratory.
Yet he was not. Hands patted his face, shook his shoulders. A voice called his name.
He couldn’t respond. His body, his own body, hadn’t moved, and he retained a faint awareness of it. Yet his mind was captive somewhere else, seeing through someone else’s eyes. Trevor’s.
He was sure of it, though this time no one spoke in his vision, and he could not read the intentions that directed his host’s movements.
Veronica had explained his previous experience as being due to a link created when she’d routed Carl’s power through him as she separated it from Miryam. Dr. Tenney must have been with Carl when Veronica freed Miryam. The doctor would have known what was happening and must have replaced Carl’s link to Miryam with a link to Trevor. In some way Les had been drawn briefly into that link.
Veronica hadn’t expected the phenomenon to recur. It was, she’d explained, something like an afterimage, a fading shadow. But she had been wrong. He was back in Trevor’s mind, accompanying him on some mysterious errand.
Trevor stopped at a table and unwound and detached a long, thin wire from the odd assemblage on it. Les could see him testing the wire’s strength, wrapping several lengths of the wire around one hand, wrapping the other end of the wire around the other hand so that the middle section of the wire stretched tautly between them. Thus equipped, he moved stealthily from the hall out into the corridor.
It was clear to Les that Trevor intended to garrote someone.
Trevor, no! Be careful! Les’s thoughts screamed the warning, but Trevor continued resolutely forward with not the slightest hesitation to indicate that he’d heard.
Les cursed his helplessness.
Trevor turned and passed through a doorway into what seemed to be a study. Through Trevor’s eyes Les saw the gleam of Dr. Tenney’s bald head visible over the back of a chair. The doctor was seated at a desk; Les couldn’t see what he was doing—whether reading, writing, or perhaps dozing in his chair. Slowly Trevor drew nearer. Again Les attempted a mental warning, but again it went unheeded.
Trevor stood directly behind the chair. He raised his hands to bring the wire over the doctor’s head. Les, looking out through Trevor’s eyes, spied what held the doctor’s attention.
On the desk directly in front of him sat a lidded gallon jar. Inside, a white moth beat its wings against the imprisoning glass.
Trevor’s hands paused in their downward motion. Dr. Tenney leaned forward. The wire flamed, crisped, shriveled to nothing. A scream tore from Trevor’s throat.
The chair and its occupant vanished, Miryam appearing in their place. She was shaking Les, patting his cheeks, calling his name. They were both kneeling on the furs.
He jumped to his feet, pulling her up with him. “Dr. Tenney has Veronica,” he panted. “He might be killing Trevor. We’ve got to get to his house. Right away.” He raced for the door, had it open by the time she caught up with him.
“How do you know these things?” she asked, holding his arm. “Veronica said we weren’t to leave here.”
“I was with Trevor. I saw. We’ve got to go, no matter what she said.” He pulled free and ran toward the dark street, looked back, and saw her shut the door and hurry after him.
“It’s the middle of the night,” she said. “How are we going to get there?”
“I don’t know.” He looked up and down the street. “We’ve got to find a way. Steal bicycles if we have to. Or a horse, if there’s one anywhere close.”
She nodded. “We might find a cycle. Some of these buildings have courtyards, and that’s where their residents might keep bicycles. I don’t like the idea of stealing, but I’ve done worse things for Carl, so if you’re sure it’s necessary …”
“I’m sure. Let’s go.”
Hiking up her skirt, she ran with him.
They crossed a street lit by a flickering gaslight. Beyond the reach of that feeble light the night seemed darker. Miryam pulled him to a stop at an archway past which he could see nothing but blackness. “Here,” she whispered. “I think this passage leads to a courtyard.”
“We need light,” he said.
She cupped her hands. A tiny flame, like the glow of a match, hung suspended above her palms. Small as the light was, it allowed them to see the brick walls of the passage and set their course between them. It did not allow them to see more than a few paces ahead or to know whether any barrier blocked their way.
Torn between the need for haste and the need for caution, Les entered the passage at a pace that kept him at the edge of the light.
Something stirred in the shadows. Les slowed; Miryam held the light high. A cowled figure barred their way. Hands emerged from its long sleeves, metal hands with steel fingers that locked around their arms. Miryam’s light went out. From within the creature’s hood a toneless voice said, “Dr. Tenney is waiting for you.”
It was the doctor’s servant. The metal hand was icy; Les’s arm grew numb. He struggled against the viselike grip, his battle conducted in total darkness. He struck the creature with his free hand, used his feet and knees to pummel it. The blows could have fallen on rock. They jarred Les, brought tears of pain to his eyes, and had no effect on his captor. Les’s arm was bloody, his fist and knees bruised and bleeding. Not being able to see Miryam added to his desperation. He remembered the ring she wore. It was supposed to protect her.
A brilliant light shattered the darkness. A captive lightning bolt blazed down, striking and severing the arm that held Les.
Les stood stunned and blinded. “Run, Les,” Miryam’s voice urged.
He blinked and through a red haze saw the servant’s robe burning. By the light of that fire Les saw Miryam, still a prisoner. She had used power to send the lightning, freeing him instead of herself.
“Go!” she urged again.
But he could not leave her. The servant stomped around, its movements erratic. It dragged Miryam with it as a child carelessly drags a doll. Les had to save her.
As its robe burned, the thing’s body grew visible: a construction of metal and twisted wire, like the devices in the doctor’s laboratory.
Les lunged for the arm that gripped Miryam. It swung away from him. The last remnants of its robe crumbling from it, the metal servant turned and ran from the passage, dragging Miryam with it. Les followed, the metal hand still clamped around his wrist, the severed arm clanging against the brick wall as he ran.
Les emerged from the passage only a fraction of a second after the servant. The street was empty. He peered into the darkness, straining to see, to hear.
The night was silent. The whole thing could have been no more than a dream, except for the twisted metal shackled to his arm. He wrenched the thing off. It clattered to the pavement.
“Miryam!” he shouted. “Miryam, where are you?”
“Quiet down there,” a gruff male voice called from a window above his head.
He ran down the road, staring into the darkness, hoping to catch a glimpse of his quarry. Hearing a yowl and a thud behind him, he whirled to race in the opposite direction.
A scrawny cat bounded across the road and leaped over a stone wall. Nothing else.
Dispiritedly he walked back to the passage. The servant would take Miryam to Dr. Tenney’s house. Not knowing what else to do, Les groped his way through the passage into the courtyard. Straining to make sense of shadows, he stumbled about until he ran into one of the bicycles Miryam had predicted they’d find. By touch alone he found the front of the cycle, gripped the handlebars, and pushed the two-wheeler back to the passage, which somehow he located in the dark. The cycle clanked and clattered, and he was sure the building’s residents would hear and chase him. A high-pitched query came from a window overlooking the courtyard, but no one challenged him. He scarcely breathed as he wheeled the cycle through the passage. Not until he reached the street did he dare to swing onto the seat, balance precariously, and finally pedal off.
He had only a vague idea of where Dr. Tenney’s house was located; he knew that it was on the outskirts of the city, far from his present location. His body ached from his exertions against the servant. He rode poorly; he’d been on a cycle no more than two or three times before. The front wheel wobbled, making the bicycle veer from side to side like a foundering ship. He reached a section lit by streetlights where, sweating and shaky, he stopped to get his bearings and to think what to do.
He knew little of Port-of-Lords, but by the soft illumination he spied a landmark he recognized: the Maritime Museum. Carl had pointed it out to them when he conducted them from the train station en route to the place where he had drugged and robbed them. It had stuck in Les’s mind because of its odd construction, its front built like the prow of a ship. He had seen it again the day he and Carl had gone to visit Doss Hamlyn.
He thought he could find Hamlyn’s mansion from here. It wasn’t too far; he could make it. Hamlyn could direct him to Dr. Tenney’s house. With luck he could be persuaded to help.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
NIGHT TERRORS
Les climbed off the bicycle and staggered to Doss Hamlyn’s front door. He grasped the heavy bronze knocker and dropped it into its cradle several times, then pounded on the door with his fists.
“Who is it?” The words boomed out from no discernible source. He thought he recognized Doss Hamlyn’s voice.
“It’s Les Simonton. I need help.”
Several minutes passed during which Les wondered whether he’d been heard. He lifted his hand to knock again, when the door swung open, apparently of its own accord. Les saw no one in the lighted foyer, but he stepped inside anyway. The door swung shut behind him.
“This is a most irregular time to pay a visit,” said the disembodied voice. “Please state your errand. Be brief.”
How could he be brief when he had so much to explain? “I need help for my friend Trevor Blake. And for a girl named Miryam Vedreaux. Dr. Tenney has them, and they’re in terrible danger.”
Again he waited. Needing to sit, to rest, he looked longingly at the antique chair, shook his head, and stayed on his feet.
“Follow the light, please,” said the voice, startling him out of the numbness of exhaustion.
A globe of silvery light danced in front of him and bobbed away. He trailed after it, this time taking no note of the rooms through which it led him. He expected to be conducted to the study where Hamlyn had talked with him and Carl. Instead he was guided into a large bedchamber with a bed wide enough to accommodate eight sleepers. The light globe burst like a bubble
. Instead, a rich golden light streamed from the ornate gas chandelier above the bed.
Doss Hamlyn, wearing a brown velvet robe, sat in a straight-backed armchair near a curtained window. He hadn’t bothered to comb his hair or wash the sleep from his face. He looked much older than he had when Les had seen him before. He motioned to a second chair. “This had better be important,” he said.
“It is, sir.” Les launched into the tale, speaking rapidly and holding nothing back.
Hamlyn interrupted occasionally with a pertinent question, frowned when Les spoke of Veronica, but neither his questions nor his expression gave Les any hint of his reaction to the story until the telling was complete.
Then he said, “Carl Holdt deceived me, with your help. I offered assistance to your friend Trevor when he and Carl were voted into the Community, and he spurned my offer. I see no reason to help him now. As for Veronica, that witch can take care of herself.”
“But, sir,” Les argued, “Tenney is holding Trevor a prisoner and probably prevented him from accepting your help. Please believe me, the situation is desperate. You and Trevor’s uncle were good friends; his Uncle Matt sent us to you because of that friendship and because he believed that the Community stood for something good. Was he wrong about the Community and about you? Will you turn your back on the nephew of your good friend?”
“Humph! Matthew Blake and I were good friends, but that was many years ago. And the Community is not what it was when I wrote Matt about it.” Hamlyn stopped and stared at the curtained window for a few moments, then said, “Well, I suppose for Matthew Blake’s sake I should do something about young Trevor.”
He rose and came to stand in front of Les. “I’d like to see Tenney brought back into line. He’s a brilliant fellow, really. Probably has more talent than all the rest of the Community combined. What it was that twisted him, I don’t know, but three or four years ago, about the time he moved into that ugly old house on the edge of town, he started using his power to manipulate people and gain undue influence in the Community. I warned several of the members. So far, I’ve prevented him from taking over, but now he’s shifted the balance in his favor by bringing Carl and your friend into the Community. He’ll turn the whole Community to a direction it was never meant to take, and I doubt that I’m strong enough to stop it.” He wiped the sleeve of his robe across his forehead.
A Perilous Power (Arucadi Series Book 5) Page 16