Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 02 (8 page)

 
          
The
half-echo of her own thoughts started Winter into a laugh.

 
          
"Though
it's really too soon to be really sure your problem is paranormal in
nature," Truth said carefully, "and I can't say this particular
problem is related, I think it would help both you and us if you came to the
Institute for the full battery of tests."

 
          
"But
all the animals," Winter said. That was really the worst—the bodies of the
dead animals left in her path like some ghoulish offering. "I have to make
that stop."

 
          
"We
don't know where poltergeists come from," Truth repeated, "so we
don't know what affects them. I know you think it's useless, but do, please,
try the tea I suggested." Truth pulled a pad of paper over to her,
scribbled a name on it in pencil, and pushed the pad over to Winter. "And
perhaps some meditation techniques. They can't do any harm, and they may help
you to ... stand up to it."

 
          
"I
thought you said poltergeists couldn't be controlled," Winter said
suspiciously, ripping the top sheet off the pad and pushing the paper into her
purse without looking at it.

 
          
Truth
shrugged and smiled apologetically; Winter realized that Truth
Jourdemayne
was much younger than she seemed.

 
          
"I
said that—as far as has been reported in the professional literature—no one
ever has. But that isn't to say that it can't be done—and I don't think you're
the sort of woman who submits tamely to the vagaries of fate."

 
          
Winter
forced herself to smile, feeling—if not hopeful, then at least that she was
finally in a fight. "No," she said. "I guess I don't give up
easily."
And I certainly don't
believe the first quack that comes down the pike. On the other hand. . .
She
hesitated. "What's the name of that store again?"

 
          
"Inquire Within.
It's down in
Glastonbury
. Meg has a stock of their cards out front;
tell her I told her to give you one. You can set up an appointment for a round
of
psi
-tests with her, too, if you like."

 
          
/
don't think so.
Winter had always
been a fighter, an instinct that had stood her in good stead in her years on
the Street. Just the act of putting her darkest fears into words had
strengthened her against them. She could fight this, this—hobgoblin that was
trying to take over her life— yes, and reclaim her own past as well. And she
didn't need anyone else's help to do it. For some reason it was better to think
she was haunted than that she was crazy, and this large, official-looking
building, filled with researchers and machines and civil, civilized people who
took all of this so seriously, made her feel that being haunted was more than
an option, it was almost respectable.

 
          
"I'll
. . . think about it," Winter said hesitantly. "But thank you for
your patience—both of you. I don't imagine I've been the most charming
guest."

 
          
"In
comparison to some," Dr. Palmer said with a twinkle of mock sobriety in
his eyes, "you have been a paragon of virtue. Thank you for coming,
Winter—and don't hesitate to stop by again."

 
          
"Thank
you, Dr. Palmer. I'll certainly keep that in mind."
The next time the
ghoulies
start nipping at
my toes,
Winter thought with a faint flash of mordant humor.

 
          
But
the bout of febrile high spirits that had momentarily possessed her vanished
when she was out of doors once more. Winter clutched the business card that
Meg Winslow had given her and blinked at the bright sunlight. She hadn't taken
a good look around before. All around her were apple trees white with blossom;
the spring campus looked as scenic and inviting as a painting in a book. And it
ought to be familiar. She had gone to school here—so Dylan Palmer said. If she
could trust anything he said.

 
          
No!
She brought her wandering mind up
with sharp anger. Start thinking that way and she'd be mad in truth. Dr. Palmer
had told her the truth—he had no reason to lie to her, as far as she knew.

 
          
But
why couldn't she
remember
anything?

 
          
Despite
her weariness, Winter chose a direction and started off, almost at random.
Maybe more exposure to theoretically familiar sights would jog her memory back
into place—and if not, the exercise would at least ensure a dreamless sleep
tonight.

 
          
In
spite of herself, Winter shuddered. What dreams could she have that were more
horrible than her awakenings?

A HAZY SHADE OF WINTER

The winter I'll not think on
to spite thee, But count it a lost season, so shall she.

—JOHN DONNE

 
          
BUT AN HOUR
OF WALKING AROUND THE TAGHKANIC campus failed to jog loose
any hidden memories, and only served to remind Winter how recently out of a
hospital sickbed she was, though once upon a time she had . . .

 
          
A
ghost of a memory, of a much younger Winter, running laughing among the apple
trees, being chased by ... who?

 
          
She
shook her head. The scrap of memory was gone, leaving her with nothing to do
but follow the rest of Truth
Jourdemayne's
prescription.

 
          
Winter
felt butterflies collect in her stomach as the taxi pulled up to the curb of
the little storefront. She had only realized how reluctant she was to come here
once she was fully committed to it. Here was where all the trouble had started.

 
          
No. Be honest. Here was where the trouble
continued.

 
          
"I'd
like you to wait," Winter said to the driver.

           
"How long?" Tim Sullivan
said. He was young and fresh-faced, and looked more afraid of her than she was
of him—a far cry from the
New York City
taxi drivers she was used to.

 
          
"I'll
pay for the waiting time," Winter said. She knew that being outside the
city, these cars were not equipped with a meter that could charge for waiting
time. "Fifty dollars."

 
          
The
driver's jaw dropped and he nearly choked.
"Fifty
dollars?
But, ma'am—"

 
          
"My
car's in the shop and I need a way to get around. And there isn't anyplace
around here that I can rent a car, is there?"

 
          
"I—well—Dave
Kelly's Garage has a loaner sometimes. . . ."

 
          
Ah, the joys of living in a small town.
"Fine.
Then we can go there next. If you'll wait for me here?"

 
          
"Urn
. . . sure." Sullivan was dubious but faintly willing. "Just let me
park this thing."

 
          
He
slid the car without difficulty into a space along the unoccupied curb and
turned off the engine. Winter got out of the car.

 
          
There's nothing to be afraid of. . . .
Winter
put her hand to the door.

 
          
It
was green-painted wood, and the glass panel in the top half had been replaced
with stained glass; another moon on another storm-tossed celestial sea. The
whole effect was clownish rather than frightening, and the silly tableau in the
window of crystal ball and pointy hat completed the impression of Saturday
morning cartoon magic. This was an herbs and crystals shop, nothing more.

 
          
A
bell jingled as she opened and closed the door. The air inside the store was
musty and sweet-smelling, and the first thing Winter focused on was a large
calico cat sitting on top of a glassed-in bookcase. It blinked green eyes at
her and stretched disdainfully.

 
          
"Can
I help you?" came a voice from the back of the shop.

 
          
The sixties are not dead,
was Winter's
first derisive thought. The woman who approached her was small and slender,
with long blond hair and a kittenish face. Her hair was parted ruler-straight
down the middle of her head and held in place with a braided leather headband.
She was even wearing the love beads and bell-bottoms of Winter's childhood. /
wonder where she finds them in this day and
age?

 
          
"Can
I help you?" the woman said again, coming closer. She smiled disarmingly,
and Winter saw that despite the illusion of youth, the woman was closer to
forty than thirty. "I'm Tabitha Whitfield; the owner. I wondered if there
was something you were specifically looking for; you look a little lost."

 
          
"I
came in for some tea," Winter said. She rummaged through her Coach
briefbag
for the paper that Truth
Jourdemayne
had given her. "Something called . . . Oh, I can't remember!" And the
paper was not showing up.

 
          
"Oh,
don't worry; I'm sure we can reconstruct it," Tabitha Whitfield said
cheerfully. "You're from the college, aren't you?"

 
          
"Why?"
Winter was instantly suspicious.

 
          
Tabitha
laughed. "Because when people come in with—excuse me!— your particular
shell-shocked expression, they've almost always been sent down by the
ghost-hunters. At the lab?" she added, in case Winter hadn't understood.

 
          
"Yes,"
Winter said shortly. "It was a woman named Truth
Jourdemayne
."

 
          
"Oh,
Truth!"
Tabitha said. "Then
I know just what she sent you for. She's quite the local celebrity—did you know
her father's Thorne Blackburn?" Tabitha added, just as if she expected
Winter to recognize the name.

 
          
Tabitha
gestured to a stack of books on a marble-topped table in the corner. "She
even wrote a book. I'll just get that tea." The proprietor disappeared
behind the inevitable bead curtain into the back room of the shop.

 
          
Her
interest piqued, Winter went toward the table. The calico cat stretched out a
languid paw toward her as she passed.

 
          
The
books on the table were all the same title. Winter saw a dust-jacket that was a
collage of sixties images: love beads and pentagrams, and a man dressed up as
Merlin the Magician. She picked up one of the books.

 
          
Venus Afflicted: The Short Life and Fast
Times of
Magister
Ludens
Thorne
Blackburn
and the New
Aeon
.

 
          
What the hell?

 
          
She
opened it and read the flap copy. Along with the sight of a glossy, insincere
picture of Truth
Jourdemayne
with fluffy hair, Winter
discovered that the book was a biography of a sixties nutcase who'd claimed to
be a warlock—and was, incidentally, Truth's father.

           
Winter shut the book with a snap,
her lip curling in disgust. She wasn't quite sure what was so irritating about
this, and she didn't feel she owed it the courtesy to find out. Anger crept
back into her mind: She'd gone to the Institute for help—it was on a
college campus,
for God's sake; it ought
to be at least a little bit respectable—and all they'd been able to field was a
John Denver look-alike who said he'd gone to school with her and the daughter
of the
Archdruid
of Canterbury!

 
          
Winter
felt her heartbeat begin to race, and belatedly recognized the trap. Strong
emotion—of any sort—seemed to bring on those spells of disastrous bad luck that
were almost more tormenting than the visitations of the
thing
that opened doors and ripped animals to shreds. Even now, she
felt compelled to distinguish the two, as if they were not one problem, but
two. Clutching the book tightly, Winter took a deep breath, then another,
groping for the iron-willed self-control that had served her so well on the
Street—and felt the clutch of frightened anger fade.

 
          
"And
how are you finding everything?" Tabitha Whitfield's cheery voice broke
into Winter's mood of wary self-congratulation.

 
          
"Just
where you left it," Winter said, trying to keep the edge out of her voice.
Sarcasm had always been her first line of defense against the world; a way to
lash out before she was hurt. She came over to the cash register, and realized
she was still holding
Venus Afflicted
in
her hands. "I'll take this, too," she said, by way of tacit apology.
She placed the book and her bag on the counter beside the small parcel Tabitha
had brought out of the back room—a small brown paper package with a
silver-and-white label on it.
Centering
Tea
was written on the label in ornate purple felt-tip.

 
          
"You
should take it on up to the college and get it signed," Tabitha said,
opening the book to run her scanner over the bar-code. "But I can see why
you were drawn to it—you're one of the Grey Angels, just the way she is. Your
aura's very strong, you know; I can feel it from here—"

 
          
"What
do I do with the tea?" Winter said brusquely. Whether she was an
angel—gray or otherwise—she really didn't want to hear about other people's
auras. The eighties were over.

 
          
Fortunately,
Tabitha seemed willing to be diverted. "All you need to do is steep it in
a pot like regular loose tea, and be sure to sweeten it with honey or
molasses—they're much better for you than the artificial sweeteners like
refined white sugar. I've got a page of directions right here—" she
rummaged beneath the counter "—and a booklet of the exercises that go with
the tea. That'll be thirty-seven seventy-eight."

 
          
Exercises?
Whatever the explanation for
that one was, Winter wasn't in the mood for hearing it at the moment. Recalling
one of the very prosaic stickers in the window, Winter dug through her purse
again and handed over her Visa card, incidentally turning up the piece of paper
with Truth's handwriting on it. She peered at it.
Centering Tea
it was, whatever that was. She crumpled the paper
into the bottom of her purse.

 
          
"There's
a meditation group that meets here on Wednesdays after hours," Tabitha
said as she validated the card. "Some of the locals and some of the kids
from the college—you're welcome to come."

 
          
The
offer, though flaky, had been well meant. "Thanks," Winter said.
Maybe in another lifetime.

 
          
Tabitha
Whitfield handed Winter back her charge card. Winter glanced briefly at the
photo on the front of the Visa card. Had that vital young predator really been
her? She tucked the card back into her wallet and took the bag Tabitha handed
her. It seemed to be rather full of flyers. Oh, well, the stove at home could
always use kindling.

 
          
To
Winter's relief, Tim Sullivan was in fact still waiting outside
Inquire Within
when she emerged,
blinking, into the thin spring sunlight. She slung her Coach bag and the brown
paper sack into the backseat and climbed in.

 
          
"Do
you want to go to the garage now?" Sullivan asked.

 
          
"Sure,"
Winter said recklessly. The more time she spent successfully navigating the
pitfalls of the world, the cockier she became. Jack had always said she was
crazy and reckless with it—and that was what made a good trader.

 
          
"You've got the killer instinct,
sweetheart, and you aren't afraid of blood. That's what it takes to survive
here."