Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 04 (41 page)

 
          
"Oh,
pish," Cannon said, lightly dismissing Colin's objection. "You don't
really believe in all this hoodoo, do you?" He smiled briefly at his own
joke. "We aren't talking poltergeists here; this is a bunch of people who
think that if they click their heels together three times and say, 'There's no
place like home,' something's going to happen. Besides,
Blackburn
's stuff is already in
print, as you see. I just want to humanize it a little, that's all. Make it
accessible. Give people an idea of the man behind the myth."

 
          
"Mr.
Cannon," Colin said. "A moment ago you called this hoodoo, and from
your lecture tonight you seem to be hell-bent
—
and I use the term advisedly
—
on involving yourself with a
lot of pretty unsavory people. I'm not interested in arguing the legitimacy of
any of this with you, but without even entering into the realm of the
supernatural, let me remind you how fiercely people will defend their beliefs
when they feel them threatened ... no matter how outre you feel their beliefs
to be."

 
          
"I
can defend myself," Cannon said, patting a pocket as if he held some sort
of weapon there.

 
          
Colin
shook his head. "I'm certain that you believe that, Mr. Cannon, just as
I'm certain that the forces that you are trifling with
—
if you're so unlucky as to
run into the genuine article
—
are dangerous beyond your wildest dreams. And completely
without a sense of humor, when it comes to investigative journalism."

 
          
"You
talk a pretty good line, Professor," Cannon said. "I don't suppose
you'd like to back it up with some names, places, dates? Something I can check
out?"

 
          
Colin
sighed, feeling suddenly tired. "No, Mr. Cannon, I wouldn't." He felt
in his pocket for his wallet and withdrew one of his cards, holding it out to
the younger man. "But I strongly advise you to give up this project of
yours, and forget about
Blackburn
as well. You haven't the right attitude for it. But
there's no way I can force you, so ... please. Here's my card. If you ever feel
that you're in over your head, call me, at any hour of the day or night. I'll
do my best to help you."

 
          
Cannon
took the card, inspecting it closely. All it contained was Colin's name,
address, and phone number. The writer shrugged and thrust the card into a
jacket pocket.

 
          
"Sure,
Mr. MacLaren, thanks," he said in a tone that made Colin certain he would
throw out the card as soon as he got home. "Thanks for the tip. And maybe
I'll give you a call in a few months, and we can work on that
Blackburn
thing together. Call it
something like
King of the Witches,
eh?"

 
          
Without
waiting for a reply, he strode jauntily off.

           
It was hard to imagine who'd be more
offended by such a title, Thome or the witches, Colin mused as he gazed after
the departing writer. He'd say a prayer for John Cannon tonight. The man was
playing with fire.

 
          
Hellfire.

 
          
The
lecture had started at six, so it was dark by the time Colin left the shop. Wan
streetlights at the end of each block did little to illuminate its middle, but
Colin was not worried. The evening was mild, and the hour was still early.
Possibly he'd arrive home ready to tackle the galley proofs for a few hours
more before bed.

 
          
As
he rounded the corner, a man in a dark blue trench coat brushed past him,
hurrying up the street. He wore no hat, and as he passed beneath the
streetlight, it flashed brightly off his flaxen hair.

 
          
Colin
stopped and stared after him before continuing on his way, somehow suddenly
uneasy. When he was within a block or so of home, he finally traced the source
of his disquiet. The chance-met pedestrian had reminded him, somehow, of Toller
Hasloch.

 
          
He
had not thought of the boy in years, and so Colin took the connection advanced
by his unconscious mind seriously. Instead of returning to the manuscript when
he reached his apartment, he went to his bedroom and opened the closet door. In
the back of the closet hung a long tunic of heavy cream linen and a pair of
loose-fitting pants of the same material. He changed into them, then reached
for the items piled atop the chest in which his robes were stored
—
a large flat pillow, a low
wooden stool, and a small oil lamp.

 
          
He
set the pillow on the floor, and, using the stool as a low table, set out the
lamp and a packet of matches beside it. He checked to be sure the lamp
—
a simple clay shape,
purchased on one of his passes through the Near East
—
was filled, and then sank
down to the floor in a lotus position with an ease that belied his years.

 
          
Lighting
the lamp, Colin let his eyes fix on its brilliant light. His Lodge did not
invoke the elements to aid them, as Alison Margrave's did; rather, Colin had
been taught to make his appeal directly to the Light itself, the Light which
held the elements and all Creation within itself. Colin gazed into the Light,
allowing the Light to gaze into him as he breathed slowly in and out in the
Yogic discipline of "no mind."

 
          
He
did not permit his mind to drift; rather, he emptied it completely, so that it
could become a more perfect reflection of the One Mind upon which was built the
foundations of the world. It was one of the first disciplines that the Adept
was taught, the one upon which all of the others were based, and it was both a
tool and an end in itself. He released all Self and all desire, and waited,
like a blank page, for the touch of the scrivener.

 
          
Hours
later, the oil lamp flickered out and Colin stirred, closing his eyes and
stretching after the long immobility. He put away his equipment and checked the
time: nearly
midnight
.

           
It could have been Toller Hasloch
that he'd seen in the street, but whether it had been or not did not matter
now. It had been a warning.

 
          
People
like John Cannon existed to be protected. No matter how strenuously they put
themselves in harm's way, it was Colin's job
—
and that of those like him
—
to see that they never came
to any. The words he had said to Claire when he'd first explained himself to
her, many years ago, came back to him now:
"The great mass of humanity
has the right to not be troubled by forces outside the scope of their daily
lives, or manipulated by forces they have no way of resisting. When I find
someone interfering in people's lives with Black Magick, it's my duty to stop
them if I can. It's my job."

 
          
John
Cannon was hunting for a black coven. No doubt he'd already run into an example
or two; there were a lot of would-be Satanists out there, filled with a
collegiate desire to shock and impress the mundane world. Most of them were
pretty harmless, never rising above extortion and a little forced sex from its
female acolytes, leaving their members sadder but wiser overall. If that sort
of thing was what Cannon faced, the man was quite right: he could take care of
himself.

 
          
But
Colin did not think it was. Call it a hunch, a whim, or even a genuine
communication from the Inner Planes. He was certain that bigger game prowled
the forest of the night; something darker and altogether more proficient than
the hobbyists who made up the clientele of places like the Sorcery Shoppe. For
their own sakes, as well as for the sake of those lives they might harm, Colin
must stop them.

 
          
All
that he had to do was find them
—
before John Cannon paid the ultimate price.

 
          
A
fortnight later, Colin was less sanguine. As he knew from his own experience,
the only time a cell
—
which was how he must look at the thing, after all
—
became vulnerable was when
it communicated with outside groups. If this black coven were not recruiting or
making some other sort of mundane contact with outsiders, it might take Colin
years to find them. A Black Lodge might be easy enough to track down in the
Overlight
—
though the hunt was insanely dangerous
—
but locating its
Astral
Temple
gave no clue to its
temporary location. Finding their real-world location required real-world
means.

 
          
Unfortunately,
Colin could not hunt them in person. His meeting with Jock Cannon had shown him
that he was too well known to risk impersonating a gullible Seeker, and
because of what he was, it was impossible for him to pretend to his quarry that
he was instead a more experienced practitioner of the Black Arts.

 
          
For
this hunt, he'd need help.

 
          
"Nothing."
Claire's succinct assessment as she slid into the booth opposite him made Colin
sigh.

 
          
They
were meeting at an all-night coffee shop up near
Columbus Circle
, far enough from either of
their homes so that if they
were
under surveillance, there was a good
chance their stalkers might miss them.

 
          
His
wartime habits had come back to Colin with frightening ease, as though the war
were not thirty years ago, but yesterday. He'd taught them all, painstakingly,
to Claire: how to follow, and how to see if you were followed. How to lose a
pursuer. How to tell whether your home or office had been searched. How to
leave a message for a confederate. How to run, and when, and what to do if you
could not run.

 
          
It
all seemed silly
—
theatrical, somehow, without even the shadow of a present
threat to justify it. But Colin knew they would not always be as lucky as they
had been a decade ago in
Berkeley
, when Toller Hasloch, boy
Nazi, had tipped his hand so grandiloquently. So often the Shadow only
manifested itself unequivocally in the moment it was about to strike.

 
          
"You're
sure of that?" Colin asked. Claire pulled a wry face.

 
          
"I'm
certain," Claire said.

 
          
The
waitress came over to take their orders, and after she'd left, Claire resumed
her story. Colin reached for his pipe and began to fill it.

 
          
"I
didn't Sense a blessed thing. The so-called Inner Grotto of the Court of Typhon
isn't anything much. Some drugs, I think, and probably a lot of group sex.
Nasty enough, but not what we're looking for. They've got an Enemies List, all
right, and members are encouraged to add to it, but as far as I can tell, they
couldn't raise enough Power to blow out a candle. They've got a very fancy
setup, though
—
apparently one of their members is a theatrical set
designer
—
Mr. Cannon's going to have a field day when he gets around
to them."

 
          
"And
they were our most promising lead." Colin sighed and struck a match. He
puffed his pipe alight, giving the gesture all his concentration.

 
          
The
waitress brought their orders
—
an omelette for Colin, a hamburger for Claire. Claire
tucked into her food with good appetite.

 
          
Colin
was glad to see her looking so well
—
he would never have involved
her in this dangerous game if he had not thought she was psychologically whole.
It was a little over four years now since Peter's death; perhaps enough time
had passed that Claire could finally gain enough distance from it to be willing
to take emotional chances again. Lately, she'd been taking classes in small
business management and was thinking about finding a career outside of nursing.
Considering the dangerous state of the city hospitals, it was a move that Colin
heartily endorsed.