Bless the Child (62 page)

T
he lioness headdress from Brooke’s costumers was more comfortable than Maggie had expected. The salesman had handed her an instruction sheet for creating a lion face with theatrical makeup, and it proved surprisingly easy to conceal her features, without a mask. The costume itself consisted of a black leotard and a body-hugging, tabby-striped fur vest; black jazz shoes with painted-on paws completed the outfit. They were flat-heeled and good for both comfort and mobility.

Ellie’s exotic regalia include a straight black Cleopatra wig, and plenty of upswept kohl around her eyes for camouflage; much of the rest of her was bare. Maggie glanced at her friend, certain that none at the Sabbat would even bother to look at Ellie’s face.

The two women drove to Greenwich and parked their car at the home of Amanda’s friends, the Randolphs, who were currently in Scottsdale. A groundskeeper led them to the boathouse, and gave them their pick of the rowboats and the dinghies that sat like pilot fish around the large catamaran anchored there.

“Can you imagine what he’s going to tell his wife tonight about the two dingbats in the dinghy,” Ellie chuckled, as they settled into the small boat. Ellie rowed, and Maggie coached her on the floor plan of the Vannier house, one last time.

“There’s a story I want you to hear, Mags,” Ellie said, “before we hit the beach.”

Maggie looked at her questioningly.

“The major male Deities of the Eastern Pantheon—Brahma, Shiva, Vishnu, and the like—left their village one day to go off into the mountains and do their thing, leaving Kali, Shakti, Lakshhmi, and all the other female Deities alone to mind the kids of the village.

“The Demon saw their departure, and decided this was his great opportunity. He would conquer the female deities in short order, and the males would be so imbalanced, he could conquer them, too. So, he called up the demons from the Pit to overcome the women, who, he thought, would be a snap to defeat.

“All day the battle raged, and the women fought so valiantly to protect home and family—sometimes battling with children in their arms—that they held off the demons until nearly nightfall, when, in a last heroic moment, Durga, the Goddess of Battle, arrived back from her travels, riding her white tiger. With the help of her battle expertise, the demons were vanquished and thrown back into the Pit.

“Just about then, the male Gods arrived home, and saw the village in shambles, the women binding up wounds, and nursing the children’s terrors.

“Did something happen here today?” Lord Brahma demanded, and Mother Kali stepped forward and said, ‘Nothing we women couldn’t handle, dear.’”

Maggie burst into laughter. “What a great story!”

Ellie shook her head. “Not just a story, Mags. A metaphysical allegory. It’s been said that men must rely on ritual to defeat the Demon, but women are empowered by the Goddess to confront him face-to-face. You may need to remember that.”

The light from the shore ahead had begun to grow larger and more defined. “The place is festooned like Versailles, before Le Déluge,” Maggie said, peering over Ellie’s shoulder at the house beyond the beach.

“So, where do we land?” Ellie asked, craning her neck to see behind her.

“Anyplace but near the dock, I guess. There’s a stretch of beach, by the wooded end of the island. No decorations or anything else that looks trafficked. I think we should try for there.”

Ellie seemed remarkably calm and collected, Maggie thought, as she sat back and watched the land draw nearer. There was a taut, warrior energy about her friend tonight; strong, focused, and very spirited. Like Mr. Wong, before battle.

Maggie checked her own mind and body as they neared the shore. She’d made a new last will and testament, and put her affairs in order, as best she could; there wasn’t much left undone she could think of, and that was freeing, somehow.

The small boat thudded and scrunched to a halt on the rough sand; Maggie and Ellie pulled it as far up the pebbly beach, toward the woods, as they could manage. Then, they hugged each other once for good luck, before scrambling up the embankment, and making their way through the wooded grove that skirted the large mansion.

The Vannier house was aglow with activity; lights were strung from tree to tree, and out along the elaborate balustrade. Hundreds of candles flickered in the breeze from the Long Island Sound, and elaborate floral decorations had transformed the early spring garden into the splendor of bygone centuries.

Men and women in elaborate costumes wandered the grounds, entering and leaving the house at will. There appeared to be a hundred or more guests, and dozens of liveried servants scurrying back and forth, like ants in service to a demanding queen. Maggie spotted Ghania in animated conversation with a man in a cardinal’s cummerbund, at the south end of the loggia.

“Look, Mags,” Ellie whispered from the cover of trees at the edge of the garden. “That’s Pope Honorius, the Anti-Christ! And over there—the plump one with the goatee—he’s Dr. John Dee, Queen Elizabeth I’s personal alchemist. I’d say we’d better hang out together until I identify a dozen or so of these costumes for you, just in case anybody wants to play Twenty questions with you, after we split after.”

“Twenty questions! I assure you, Ellie, I have no intention of engaging any of these costumed creeps in conversation.”

“Look, Mags, part of the fun of dressing up like famous villains is to get other guests to identify you. It’s a game they play. They’ve each chosen to emulate some diabolic creature they admire, tonight, so it flatters them when someone else guesses their identity.”

“Yuk!” Maggie replied eloquently and Ellie grinned.

“That tall distinguished-looking character with the opera cape . . . I’d peg him for Cagliostro. Of course, he could be Aleister Crowley, dressed up in his Cagliostro duds. No. I’ll stick with my first impression. And, that woman in the black nun’s habit—now, she could be any number of people . . . a sister from the Convent of Loudun, for instance, unless that’s too plebeian for this crowd.” She thought for a moment. “I’ve got it! She’s the Abbess of the Convent of the Innocents, outside Paris, where five hundred babies, were sacrificed, according to the tale. I can’t recall her name at the moment.” She looked to the right of the doorway. “That one, with the Marie Antoinette wig, is easy, Mags. She’s Madame D’Urfé, the witch friend of Louis XV.”

Many of the revelers were masked, but others were quite distinguishable despite their costumes.

“My God, Ellie,” Maggie said, as a new group moved into view. “Isn’t that Dr. James Ambrose, the famous plastic surgeon, with Iscariot of the Apostle’s Creed band?”

The two women quickly catalogued a well-known anchorwoman, two senators, a half dozen film stars, and more industrialists than they could count.

“If all these heavy hitters are on Satan’s payroll, Ellie,” Maggie whispered, “even if there’s no real magic involved, and it’s only in their own sick minds that they’ve dedicated themselves to Evil—this is an incredibly potent force for destruction that’s assembled here tonight.”

“Kind of makes you want to reconsider your stand on capital punishment, doesn’t it?” Ellie sniffed. “But don’t kid yourself, Mags. There’s plenty of real magic afoot around here. My antenna is spinning from the forcefield their combined energies are producing.”

If Cody really is the Isis Messenger,
Maggie thought bleakly,
then before this night is over, the most powerful tool in the Universe could be in the hands of terrible men, and Cody could be lost forever.

The two women moved out into the garden, and were relieved to see they could easily lose themselves among the costumed guests. The tall caped man they’d seen earlier engaged Ellie in conversation, giving Maggie a chance to slip away.

With her heart in her throat, Maggie-the-Cat-Goddess-Bast forced herself to walk at a normal pace through the throng of guests and servants on the patio, and on into the main house. She passed room to room, smiling back pleasantly at those who smiled at her. The woman in the massive wig of an eighteenth-century French courtier caught Maggie’s arm, just as she thought she’d cleared her way to the double-return stair, that led to the floor above.

“My dear,” the woman gushed, “how droll of you to be another kitty on Sekhmet’s home turf. Cats are notoriously territorial, you know. Aren’t you afraid she won’t want to share her litter box?”

Maggie managed to find her voice, despite the terror constricting her throat. “Don’t tell me,” she said, with what she hoped was a diverting smile. “D’Urfé! Madame D’Urfé, right?”

The buxom little woman preened with pleasure at being recognized, and Maggie was able to escape.

Her heart was pounding so hard, she had to stand still a moment to center her breathing.
Calm Maggie. You’ve got to stay calm.
She said the words over and over as she made her way toward the back stairs, hoping they’d be less populated.

“What are you doing back here?” a waiter called out to her, when she was halfway to the second floor; he stood at the foot of the pantry stair, frowning up at her.

“Shh!” she called back conspiratorially, putting her finger to her lips. “There’s a tomcat up there, waiting for me.” She managed a slightly intoxicated wink, as she waved to him, and cleared the landing without further mishap.

Peter Messenguer
drove by the Vannier estate once, before doubling back nearly a half mile, to the place he’d decided to leave his car.

He parked, and sat for a moment behind the wheel, collecting himself. Then, got out of the car and stretched his long limbs.

He slipped off his jacket and adjusted the hooded Dominican robe he’d borrowed from a friend—if anyone questioned his garb, he would call himself an Inquisitor. Peter adjusted his sandals, tied the cincture around his waist, and loaded the deep pockets of the borrowed habit with the tools he’d brought from home.
Holy Water, Holy Chrism, Blessed Sacrament . . .
he tucked the
Roman Ritual
inside the pocket of the slacks he wore under the robe, took inventory, then a deep breath, and started walking toward the Vannier estate. He was glad the strategy he’d worked out with Maggie and Ellie had split them all up, so there’d be a second team in place, if the women were discovered. He was glad, too, that it allowed him some moments of reflective solitude. Tonight, he felt he needed to be alone with God.

The
nursery wing was completely deserted, so Maggie was forced to do a systematic search of the house.
Fifty rooms, Jenna had said.
Her heart sank at the prospect of searching all of them.
Don’t think of Jenna, now. You’ll go crazy if you think of Jenna in this terrible place.

The second and third floors yielded no sign of Cody; Maggie’s anxiety was growing with every bedroom she checked to no avail. At least, there were fewer merrymakers on this floor, to distract her efforts. She was about to try a small door in an alcove, when she heard the sound of heavy footsteps behind it. Hastily, Maggie ducked into the nearest bedroom, leaving the door open a crack. She saw Ghania emerge from the alcove, smiling. Fearing to breathe, she stayed absolutely motionless as the Amah moved swiftly down the hallway, toward the main staircase, and descended to the floor below.