Greely's Cove (49 page)

The dashboard clock told her it was nearly two hours past lunchtime, but strangely, she was not the slightest bit hungry. She had spent the past four hours wading through volumes about the occult, scouring the indexes and tables of contents for any reference to Hadrian Craslowe, by that or any similar spelling. Though she had not found the name, she had come across numerous references to several books that were purportedly complete encyclopedias of noteworthy characters throughout the history of the occult. But the university library did not stock those particular books. They could be ordered, of course, the librarian had said, but that might take days.

“Try this place,” he had advised, scribbling on a notepad. “It’s a little store off Jackson Street—wait, I’ll look up the address for you. It’s supposed to have everything there is on the occult: encyclopedias, histories, how-tos, the whole nine yards. If you don’t find them there, you won’t find them anywhere.”

Lindsay had thanked the guy and left, feeling just a little foolish for having dedicated a precious morning to scratching a mental itch, a little guilty for playing hooky from the brokerage, but no less determined to find out—

Find out what? Whether Hannie Hazelford’s ravings had contained a grain of truth? The implications of that possibility were too outrageous, so Lindsay suppressed them and concentrated instead on getting across the Washington Ship Canal to Highway 520, and from there to 1-5 South, which would take her to the International District.

“Robbie, wake up. We have work to do.”

Hannie was shaking him with her bony hand. Reluctantly he opened his eyes, to discover that he had fallen asleep in an armchair in her living room. He sat up straight and saw that Hannie was naked, her pince-nez perched on her nose, meaning that she had been scrying again.

“What time is it?” he rasped, unable to focus on his watch just yet.

“It’s early afternoon, and time’s a-wasting. Here, I’ll help you with your boots.” She exuded an English sense of urgency.

“I can’t believe I fell asleep,” said the Texan. “After last night’s little go-around with that Craslowe fella, I doubted that I’d ever sleep again.”

“Be thankful that you were able to rest. Now come.”

“Aren’t you gonna put somethin’ on, hon? I s’pect you will freeze if you go out like that.”

“Oh, I’ll put something on,” she answered, as though Robbie had been serious, “but I must first cast a protective spell for you. I doubt that you’ll need it in the broad daylight, but it’s better to be safe than sorry, wouldn’t you say?” Her energy level had apparently returned to near normal, which Robbie was glad to see.

“I’m not so sure I like that idea, Hannie. The last time you hung something around my neck, it blew up and burned the holy you-know-what out of me.”

“Really, Robbie, I haven’t time to argue with you. There’s a young man who needs our help, and he needs it desperately. I saw him just now, while scrying Whiteleather Place. It’s Jeremy’s father. I told you about him, I think.”

Robbie’s face grew serious as he pulled himself up and onto his crutches. “Yeah, you did. And I saw him during your scrying last night. He was lookin’ for his boy, drivin’ around the streets, up and down alleys. He wasn’t a happy man.”

“He’s even less happy now, I fear. He’s actually gotten inside the mansion and gone down to the undercroft where the Giver of Dreams resides. I’m happy to say that he’s safe for the moment, but his sanity has worn a trifle thin, and he needs our guidance. We must go to him. Now come along, and roll up your sleeve, if you please, because I’ll need some more of your blood.”

“Aw, come on, darlin’, you can’t be fixin’ to cut me with that knife again! Shoot, I’ve got a big scab where Monty Pirtz took a chunk out of my wrist, another one where you cut me last night, a blister on my chest the size of a half-dollar, even a gouge in my hairdo—”

“Will you
please
stop behaving like a child and roll up your sleeve! This won’t hurt, I promise you.”

But of course it
did
hurt. It hurt like the frigging blue blazes.

“Are you certain you’re well enough to drive?” asked Ianthe Pauling, staring at Carl with her huge almond eyes. “It would be no trouble at all to drive you home.”

He leaned forward in the passenger seat of Hadrian Craslowe’s Lincoln, in which the mysterious Mrs. Pauling had whisked him away from Whiteleather Place to the spot where he had parked the Roadmaster.

“I’m fine now,” he lied. “I can drive.”

In truth he still felt shaky, as though his equilibrium had evaporated through his ears, as much because of the incredible things Mrs. Pauling had told him as the ordeal he had suffered at the undercroft.

“Very well, then. I shan’t keep you any longer.” She touched a button that unlocked the doors with an electrical thud, and Carl flinched.

“Mrs. Pauling—” His voice cracked, and he coughed to clear his vocal chords. “Ianthe, are you sure there’s no way I can get Jeremy out of there? It just seems so—so
insane
to leave him.”

“As I’ve told you, Mr. Trosper, there’s absolutely nothing you can do for your son. He’s lost to you forever. Any attempt by you to get him back would only result in your own death, which would be prolonged and excruciating beyond belief. You already have gotten a taste of what I mean. You’ve seen the victims of the Giver of Dreams, so you know what would lie in store.”

Once again Carl felt heat rising from his chest to his throat, the fire of grief and rage. He held back what would have been a most unmanly sob.

“But he’s my
son!
He’s my own flesh and blood!”

“Not anymore. He’s become like Hadrian, the manciple of the offspring. His whole existence is tied to the creature—caring for it, feeding it, keeping it safe and helping it to procreate. This will be Jeremy’s life from now on. In return he’ll have wealth and longevity, a thousand years or more, and his mind will absorb more knowledge than any human was meant to have. He’ll be a great sorcerer, and he’ll use his magic to further his ends, to create more of his kind, perhaps. Other mere mortals will serve him, just as many have served Hadrian, lured by the promise of wealth and success, both of which Jeremy will be able to provide through his magic. Or he will simply blackmail them, or hold hostage their loved ones, as Hadrian has done with me. Jeremy will
thrive
on evil, just as Hadrian does. He’ll take his sustenance from the agonies that he inflicts, from the fear and grief that will follow him wherever he goes. He has become an agent of Hell, Mr. Trosper, and no longer yours.”

Carl swallowed and clinched his eyes for a moment, trying to digest the execrable things he had seen within the past hour, all that Ianthe Pauling had told him. In the space of sixty short minutes, his rational universe had toppled against a barrage of inexplicable events. He had seen them with his own eyes, heard them with his own ears. Who could possibly disbelieve, having survived the past hour?

He opened his eyes and stared straight ahead, seeing nothing beyond the video screen of his thoughts. “This offspring that Jeremy serves,” he said miserably. “Where did it come from?” Mrs. Pauling’s silence made him turn his head toward her. When his eyes focused, he saw the turmoil in her face, the glistening tears. He tried again: “Ianthe, I asked you—”

“I heard! There’s nothing to be gained by talking about it. Haven’t you seen enough, heard enough? For God’s sake, Mr. Trosper, go home now! Pack your things and leave this town for good. Forget about everything that has happened and make a life for yourself somewhere else. You’re a young man yet, and you still have time.”

“But I only wanted to know—”

“Take my advice and get out while you can! Hadrian will consider you a threat for having found out his secrets, and he’ll retaliate. He’ll send forces against you, the most appalling things imaginable. So get away from here, as far away as you possibly can, like I should have done years ago. That’s all I’m going to say.” A crystalline tear rolled down her cheek. She jerked her head forward to study the steering wheel. “Now, good afternoon, Mr. Trosper.”

Carl opened the door and got out, but he hovered unsteadily a moment, gazing at the woman who had delivered him from something that he had never dreamed could exist.

“Ianthe, I know this will sound inadequate. But thank you. Thank you for getting me out of there. And for telling me the truth about—about Jeremy. I owe you my life. I only wish there was something I could do for you.”

“You can repay me by getting yourself to safety, by forgetting all this. Not that I deserve any repayment: I’ll always carry the guilt of having had a hand in making your son what he is.”

“You didn’t have any choice in that. Craslowe has had a hold on you.” He didn’t mention her brother, who she had said was rotting away in a Welsh mental institution, a victim of Hadrian Craslowe’s magic, a hostage to guarantee her continued service. Carl shuddered as he thought of the price she might pay for having saved his skin. “I hope that somehow things go well for you,” he managed. “Good-bye.”

He closed the door of the Lincoln, heard her start the engine, and watched her turn back toward the mansion. The sun glinted brilliantly off the shiny skin of the car, the breeze stirred the forest that walled the road, and gauzy clouds inched across the blue sky. Carl lingered a moment in the warmth of the sun on his shoulders, trying hard not to think of the poor souls who still languished in the mephitic bowels of Whiteleather Place, and then walked toward the Roadmaster.

“So this is where Jeremy lives,” said Robinson Sparhawk, as Hannie’s red Jaguar braked to a halt at the curb in front of the squat little bungalow at 116 Second Avenue. “Damn, it looks ordinary.”

“Surely you can feel the presence, your being a psychic and all,” said Hannie, switching off the ignition. “Even though Jeremy is not here, the presence lingers. Just look at the lawn and the shrubbery—all dying, even those hardy old trees. It’s the effect of the evil that he partook of at Whiteleather Place. It radiates from him, poisoning the air and the elements. Green things are especially susceptible, and so are birds and animals.”

“And people, too, apparently,” said the psychic, eyeing the ruined yard. “It drove his mother to kill herself.”

“Indeed. But there was a purpose behind her dying, as you well know. It was premeditated, part of a plan. The death of the yard is merely incidental.”

Robbie buzzed the window down and lit a cheroot. “Are you sure Carl will come back here?” he asked, tucking his lighter away.

“Not positively, but I strongly expect that he will. He’s a shattered man, and he’ll want the comfort and familiarity of the place he calls home. At the moment this is the only home he’s got, so he’ll come here to collect himself.”

“And we’ll be waiting for him. I can’t say I envy him, considering what he’s going to hear.”

“We must be gentle with him,” said the old witch, checking her lipstick in the rearview mirror, “but we must hold nothing back from him. If he is to be our ally, he must know the whole truth.”

“Even about Lorna?”

“Especially about Lorna.”

“What if he doesn’t believe us? You’ve got to admit that this whole thing sounds a little farfetched. To your average old boy in the street, it’d be nothing more than a Halloween story.”

“The Giver of Dreams has, in fact, inspired many Halloween stories. Its victims have given rise to the legends of vampires and werewolves and zombies. Carl Trosper will believe, though; of that you can be certain. Don’t forget that he has visited the undercroft and seen things that defy reason. I’m certain that he encountered at least one victim of the Giver of Dreams while there. If this is the case, he will believe
anything.
You should know, having yourself encountered one.”

Robbie watched as she straightened her blond wig, and he hoped that her aged body was up to the rigors that lay ahead. For that matter, he hoped that his
own
body was up to the rigors that lay ahead.

They fell silent as a 1954 Buick convertible approached from Frontage Street. It slowed and swung into the driveway of 116, then halted. A lean man with reddish-blond hair and a short matching beard got out, stood beside the car, and eyed Hannie’s Jaguar, which was anything but unobtrusive in this modest neighborhood. He waved feebly. Hannie returned the wave, and the witch and the psychic got out to meet Carl Trosper.

KRAZLOV, GADRIAN (ca. 1590-?), early 17th-century magician and physician around whom numerous dark legends emerged throughout eastern and western Europe
...

Lindsay Moreland read the first line of the entry and developed a sudden case of gooseflesh. She shifted her weight and braced the bulky volume against the bookshelf, popped out her foggy contacts, and groped through the pockets of her coat to find her horn-rims. The light in the Man-And-Magic Bookstore was not conducive to reading, and there were no tables at which to examine the goods—only high-walled canyons of dusty books about magic, witchcraft, vampires and werewolves, and virtually everything else worthy of the term
weird.
The one that she cradled in her arms was
An Encyclopedic History of Western Occultism
, by a scholar named Charles Frederick Stout.

...
often with varied spellings of the name. Though virtually nothing is known of Krazlov’s actual origin, most occult historians agree that he was born in what is now Bulgaria sometime in the 1590s, and that he traveled throughout Europe during his adult life.

Among the outrages ascribed to him was the murderous practice of antinopomancy (reading the future in the entrails of women and children), for which ecclesiastical and secular authorities often sought to put him to death. Krazlov always managed to escape capture and prosecution, however, often with the help of wealthy clients for whom he had effected cures or told the future.

Lindsay closed her eyes a moment and breathed deeply of the stale air, hoping to cure the mild nausea she felt coming over her. The name
Krazlov,
she told herself, probably was
not
a variation of
Craslowe,
notwithstanding that the given names were identical but for the first letters.