Read Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 04 Online
Authors: Heartlight (v2.1)
The
animal butted his head against her hand, and Claire could feel the drops of
rain on his fur. So he'd come in from outside . . . but how?
Maybe
a window was open somewhere.
About
then, Sally returned. She was wearing a powder blue corduroy skirt that looked
as if it had been slept in, and a Shetland pullover in the same color. Around
her neck she'd tied a paisley scarf in a clashing shade of orange
—
Claire wondered why a
flaming redhead had ever bought such an item
—
and her mouth was smeared
where she'd first applied, then wiped off, lipstick in an unfortunate shade of
coral. Her hair was still uncombed and hung around her face like a madwoman's.
Don't
react,
Claire told herself firmly. Her instincts told her that Sally
Latimer wasn't ready to be confronted with anything that might frighten her.
Something had already done that job too well.
"He's
beautiful," she said instead, still stroking the cat. "Did you find
him here?" Some perverse reality-testing impulse impelled her to add:
"Was he your Aunt Sara's cat?"
"Heaven
knows," Sally said dully, slumping into a chair. She laughed unsteadily.
"Some of the locals have some theories about that. I call him Barnabas,
after that old TV show." She ran her fingers through her hair, pushing it
back from her face. There were dark bruises beneath her eyes, more evidence of
some sort of drug.
"Have
you eaten anything?" Claire asked, and, receiving the reply she expected,
began to bully Sally into eating. As she did, she took a good look around the
kitchen for the first time.
It
looked as if both the Jukes and the Kallikaks had been living here. Dishes and
garbage were piled in the sink, and it was plain that no one had cleaned the
kitchen since the death of that other Sara, seven years before.
Claire's
face must have given her away despite all her good intentions, because Sally,
watching her, suddenly began to cry.
"I know
—
I know
—
it's all horrible! But it's
because of Matthew
—
he said that I was Aunt Sara and I had to attend the Esbat,
and I told him he was crazy
—
I tried to get away
—
I called Brian
—
but Tibby had a pet jackdaw
and I kept getting lost
—
I couldn't get to the bus stop
—
and then the bus left
without me
—
and I went home and locked the door, but then Matthew came
with Judith
—
and she had a strawberry shortcake
—
I didn't eat it, but there
was unguent on the plate and she drugged me, and then
—
and then
—
"
For
a moment Sally broke down completely, then finished her story in a wavering
ragged voice: how she'd fallen down in a swoon with the witches' unguent on her
hands
—
the
Esbat afterward that seemed half dream, half nightmarish reality
—
how she'd awakened, naked,
in the graveyard at dawn. Clare listened to it all impassively, pouring Sally a
cup of strong black coffee and setting it in front of her.
"Do
you think I'm crazy?" Sally demanded. "Do you believe me,
Claire?"
"I
don't know what to think," Claire said cautiously. She had the evidence of
her own senses that
something
terrible had happened here last night, but
Sally's story of her experience was almost too pat to be possible
—
it contained all the
elements of the classic European witch-cult tales, and those tales had been
created by the persecutors, not the practitioners, of the Old Religion. It was
hard for Claire to believe that any Wiccan coven
—
or even any
Satanist
Temple
—
practiced rituals such as
Sally had described.
But
then, the Church of the Antique Rite wasn't either Wiccan or Satanic, although
its tangled roots might lie somewhere in the pre-Christian folk worship that
the missionaries from
Rome
had never entirely eradicated.
"I
believe that you believe it. And I must admit, I knew you were in some kind of
trouble. That's why I came."
"You
knew
—
what?"
Sally demanded with sudden suspicion.
"That
you were in trouble," Claire repeated slowly. For a moment, something
unlike the sunny young artist Claire knew had stared out through Sally
Latimer's eyes, and Claire felt a faint thrill of unease. "But right now
you need food," she said firmly, and turned to making the best she could
of Sally's meager supplies.
Claire
felt very much out of her depth
—
how much of what Sally had told her had a basis in
objective fact? She wished that Colin were here. He knew more about the Church
of the Antique Rite than she did, and would be able to untangle fact from
drug-induced hallucination. But Colin wasn't here, and Sally needed answers
—
and reassurance
—
now.
"All
right," Claire said, as they ate. "Let's assume that some of what you
experienced was real. Why do you think it might have happened?"
Sally's
mouth twisted in a sketchy parody of a smile. "I thought ... a sick
practical joke."
"To
be that sick, a man would have to be a basket case," Claire said roundly.
"You
don't think Matthew Hay is capable of it?" Sally asked, again with that
strange undertone in her voice that put Claire's every instinct on guard.
But
what danger could
Sally
be to her? Sally had been the victim, not the
instigator, of whatever had happened last night.
Unless, of course, this wasn't Sally
at all. . . .
She
must not suspect you,
Claire thought urgently, and did not question the
Tightness of that instinct. She had Rowan to protect as well as herself.
"I
think Matthew Hay is capable of anything," Claire said. She felt very much
as if she were playing a part
—
the dim but goodhearted friend of the heroine in a creaky
Gothic novel, there to offer pretend-sensible explanations for a battery of
occult phenomena. She had the strong sensation that if she seemed to know too
much
—
or
too little
—
she would give the game away, and alert the not-Sally that
she was watching from behind Sally Latimer's frightened green eyes.
So
Claire prattled on as if she had no idea of Matthew Hay's true motives for
drugging Sally, and pointed out the evidence that she
had
been drugged
(it would have been obvious to anyone with any medical training, and Sally knew
she'd been a nurse), and counseled Sally about how hard it would be for her
to
prove
anything that had happened the night before.
"I
just want to know that I'm not losing my mind," the girl repeated, and
Claire heard the plea for help concealed beneath those words. If she could just
get Sally to come away with her, she'd drive her straight to Colin. Colin could
certainly handle anything Sally
—
or her unwelcome guest
—
could throw at him.
"Look
here, Sar
—
Sally. Do you want to go to the hospital? The emergency
room's sure to be open
—
you could have a toxicology screening; I'm sure Brian would
order one. At least they could treat your physical symptoms."
She
saw Sally hesitate, looking at her like a prisoner gazing at freedom through
the bars of her cell. Just as the girl drew breath to answer, the moment was
shattered by the clang of the doorbell.
Both
women jumped. Sally quivered as if beset by a sudden chill; the coffee in the
cup she held between her hands slopped over the sides.
Claire
got to her feet and glanced out the window that overlooked the kitchen steps.
"Matthew
Hay," she said disgustedly. Claire had run into him once or twice at the
general store in Madison Corners
—
a tall, gangly man with a face like a cold straight-razor
and the pale blue eyes and washed-out mouse-colored hair that came with
generations of inbreeding. Yet despite the fact that he looked like an unholy
combination of Arnold Schwarzenegger and Ichabod Crane, there was a sort of
compelling power about him. "I suppose he's come to check on your
story."
"Stay
out of sight, Claire," Sally said quickly.
Claire
looked at her in surprise.
"I
mean . . . maybe if he thinks I'm alone he'll say something to prove my story
one way or the other," she added. "At least then I'll
know."
"I
don't like to leave you alone with him."
And why do you want to
be
alone
with him, Sally
—
if everything you've told me so far today is true?
"You
think I want to be alone with him?" Sally protested unconvincingly. She
got to her feet, shooing Claire toward the back pantry with quick motions of
her hands. "But you'll be there if I need you."
Some inner warning prompted Claire
to withdraw. This was her young friend
—
and yet it wasn't. There was
something else here, just beneath the surface of Sally's normal personality.
Disassociation,
rape trauma, schizophrenia, multiple personality disorder. .
. Claire ran
through the psychological buzzwords she'd learned in her college courses, and
none of them seemed to fit. Only the older, darker term seemed right.
Possession.
. . .
From
her vantage point in the pantry, Claire could only see Hay, and not Sally. She
didn't dare move to a better position, lest she draw attention to herself. She
listened as Sally and Hay bickered
—
there really wasn't any
other word for it
—
as if they both shared some peculiar assumption. The
conversation even veered momentarily to the young woman whom Sally said had
kept her from fleeing the day before
—
Tabitha Whitfield.
"I
notice you didn't think twice about my being poisoned," Sally drawled. Her
voice was different; hard, somehow older, and there was a mocking note in her
voice that Claire couldn't remember ever having heard before.
"Can't
make omelettes without breaking eggs," Hay said, shrugging. The door
behind him was still open, filling the kitchen with dank cold, but he didn't
seem to notice. "You're alive, so why are you complaining?" He took a
step toward her, and Claire felt a sudden rush of Power in the room.
That's
quite enough.
"So
you admit it, Mr. Hay? You tried to poison Sally? Did you rape her, too?"
Claire asked.
Hay
seemed taken aback by her sudden appearance
—
probably thought his occult
powers should have warned him of my presence
—
and stared from her to Sally
in shock. Claire was chilled to see the taunting smile on Sally's face as she
savored his discomfiture.