Lucifer's Crown (22 page)

The tortured profile of the house ended at an ell whose stern stone walls, narrow windows, and slate roof were obviously medieval. Was that the priory, then? Had there really been a holy stone in these airts? His dad might have known. His dad wouldn't be telling him, though.

In the cold marble bathroom Mick brushed his teeth. But no toothpaste could clear away the sick-sweet reek in his nose and mouth. Only time could do that, and at present he wasn't taking the long view. He tucked the
sgian dubh
into his waistband, beneath his jumper, locked his door, and chapped at the next. Rose opened it straightaway. “Your door locks,” he told her.

"Yeah, but I bet this place has secret passageways.” She closed up her room and fell into step beside him, her freshly-brushed hair gleaming in the light of elaborate wall sconces.

Beside her he felt puggled and travel-worn. “Did you see the old building at the end of the house? Like Thomas's chapel...” A shape whisked through a darkened alcove. “Is that a cat?"

"Looks like one,” answered Rose. “The food smells good—good for the soul as well as the body, right?"

"Oh, aye.” She was doing her best to take him in hand after his bereavement, food being the equal of affection and all.

They walked through the gallery, gawping at the moldings, arches, and cornices. Every space that could hold an ornament held two—Mick had never seen such conspicuous consumption in all his life. Along the walls hung portraits of people in period clothing, their eyes reptile-cold.

The dining room seemed chilly as well, despite the fire blazing in an alabaster fireplace and a crystal chandelier glittering above a table fitted out with linen and silver. Soulis keeked in from the kitchen, her dress now protected by a ruffled pinnie. “Here you are then. Sit down."

They sat down. She brought out lukewarm plates laden with eggs, bacon, and sausage. The food wouldn't do to fill the hollow beneath Mick's ribs that was his heart, but it would do his stomach. He began scoffing the lot.

Prince came poncing in and sat himself down at the head of the table. Soulis handed him a plate, then sat down with the teapot. “Kildare, is it, dear?"

"Yes'm,” said Rose, her mouth full.

"You're Irish, then."

"American. My ancestors went there during the potato famine."

"Well then,” said Soulis, “if they wouldn't shift for themselves it was just as well they emigrated, isn't it?"

"The crops died so they couldn't eat and they couldn't pay their rent,” Rose returned. “The landlords wouldn't help."

"No need to encourage idleness in the lower classes. Oh no, dear, much better your family unburdened respectable people and made their way elsewhere. Although America's quite the peculiar place, isn't it? Those dreadful Hollywood films...” She clucked her tongue. “...what they force us to watch these days! But of course the producers and studio owners are after undermining our culture, aren't they?"

Rose stared up at her. “Excuse me?"

Prince buttered a scone.

"I'm from Scotland, myself,” Mick offered cautiously.

"Are you then? I'd never have known, you seem a well-mannered young man.” Soulis passed the jam. “I suppose you're looking for work? Better you stay at home, we already have foreigners taking the work from our own lads. I understand why you'd want to leave a frightful wilderness, but no fear, you'll find work guiding shooting or fishing parties."

"Have you ever visited Scotland?” Mick asked, between a laugh and groan.

Rose added, her brows atilt, “Or America?"

"Oh no, why should I want to visit God-forsaken places like that? Although, to be fair, we aren't half having our own problems here. My sister lives in Bradford, she says the blacks had the cheek to build one of those heathen temples there. Can you imagine, in the midst of a country built on good Christian principles?"

And on neolithic stones, Druids, Mithras, and Woden
, Mick thought.

"My next-door neighbors back home are from Lebanon,” said Rose. “They're of the Ba'hai faith."

"Are they now? What a shame the authorities cater to Satanists and cultists. In the old days they would have been moved on, and right smartly, too. Good job we have the Freedom of Faith Foundation to protect us. Politicians natter on about pluralism and multi-culturalism, moderation and tolerance, but we know the truth, don't we? That God-fearing folk like us are under siege.” Smiling affably, Soulis added hot water to the teapot.

Calum had attended Foundation meetings
. Mick looked sharply at Robin. His lips were curved in a satisfied smile. Across the table Rose stopped eating and stared at her plate.

Soulis leaned across to refill Mick's cup. “My neighbors up the road, now, are proper moral folk. Their family goes back to the Conquest. Would you care for another scone? Milk? It's the European Union, you see. Do you know that its bureaucrats will not allow our teachers to tell our children England is the best of the best? Why, I hear that now the Channel Tunnel's open the road signs in Kent are printed in French and German as well as English! There's a shocking erosion of values for you."

Prince leaned back in his chair. From his pocket he produced a long cigar. Leaping to her feet, Soulis offered him a lighted match. He puffed away like a dragon, the tiny flame of the match reflected in his uncanny green eyes. Swirls of pungent smoke rose upward.

"God decreed that man have dominion over the Earth,” Soulis said, sitting herself down again. “The EU would have us save plants and animals that God has doomed to extinction, destroying our businesses and forcing us to live in poverty! Imagine that!” She turned to Rose. “You're in England to learn proper ways, I expect."

Shriveling, as though she were trying to disappear, Rose murmured something about the study course and her university...

"Now why,” interrupted Soulis with a puzzled look, “should a nice girl like you waste her time at university, reading books that would be better off for a burning, like as not. You'd best take care you're not infected by these feminist sorts. Equal rights, they say, when everyone knows their true goal is to reject the authority of their husbands, kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism, and become lesbians. Another egg, dear? Fresh tea?"

"No, thank you,” Rose said, half-strangled.

"And for you, lad?"

Mick laid his knife and fork across his plate and scooted back his chair. “Thank you, Mrs. Soulis. The food was right tasty.” It was the company that made his gorge rise. “I think I'll have a rest now."

"Good idea.” Rose said. “Thank you."

Prince gestured with the cigar, leaving a blue vapor trail. “I'll come and fetch you presently. Lydia, may we use the library?"

"Of course. I'll take away the dust covers, shall I?"

Mick pulled the door shut behind them. Coughing, Rose wrapped her arms around her torso. “Robin agrees with all that crap Mrs. S. was spouting, doesn't he?"

"He hinted my dad was warning me off Gupta when he said
Am Fear Dubh
, the Black Man. Have you seen a telephone?"

"No. No books, either, although I guess they're in the library. Sounds like she never goes there—and I don't mean because of the dust covers. Look, there's the cat."

This time Mick saw the beastie clearly, a gray and white cat gliding on silent paws through the shadows at the end of the hall. It watched from a safe distance as they stopped outside Rose's door.

She turned her bonny face up to his. “Now what?"

Instead of being merely clapped out, now Mick was clapped out and nervy. “Let me steady myself a bit. Then we'll decide what to do."

"See you in a few minutes, then, and we'll plot.” With a quick kiss on his cheek, she unlocked her door and went inside.

Mick waited long enough to hear her turn the key behind her, but not long enough for his cheek to stop tingling. He went into his own room, stripped off his jumper and his shirt, and had a quick wash in the basin. The room was so cold he broke out in gooseflesh.

Next door water splashed as well, then stopped. In the sudden silence he heard the faint pulse of the sea. This place might just as well be a desert island. What the hell was he doing here? Helping his dad? No, getting himself and Rose into deeper trouble. It depended on who Robert-Robin-Fitzroy-bloody-Prince really was, and what he was about.

Had Prince bashed Calum over the head? Hard as it was to think of Calum murdered, somehow it was worse to think of him falling, crawling into that muddy pit, and dying slow and all alone. And why? For a rock? For a legend?

Mick remembered his mother dying, all tucked up tidy in a hospital bed. Leaving the Royal Infirmary that night he'd looked at the streets of Edinburgh as though they were Martian valleys. Now even Mars would've seemed more familiar than this bewildering landscape. Who, what, where—
why?
That was it, wasn't it? He was here because he had to know why, and when he knew why, he wouldn't feel so bloody helpless.

Faintly Mick heard Rose singing
No Man's Land
, a lament for a dead soldier. “I hope you died bravely, I hope you died well..."

Her brilliant voice ripped Mick's grief open. A sob caught his throat, and tears gushed in hot streams down his face. “God,” he moaned. He didn't know whether he was calling his father's God, or Rose's, or Thomas London's, or whether there was a God actually there, listening to him—it didn't matter, the word came spontaneously from his soul. “God help us."

Rose's voice stopped but the words hung on, invisible clouds of melancholy. For a moment Mick wallowed in it. Then he groped after his senses, this being a very bad time to lose them.

His bedroom door opened.
Gowk
. He'd seen that Rose's door was locked but forgot his own.

"Mick?” her voice called.

He wiped his face, even though he had nothing to be ashamed of. She wouldn't be laughing at him, not Rose.

She stood just inside the door, her blue eyes filled with warmth and compassion. She raised her arms toward him. From the hall beyond came a faint scraping noise.

Mick went dizzy. He shut his eyes. When he opened them Rose's arms were snaking around his chest, her red lips parted invitingly. She was no longer wearing a jumper, only a T-shirt, and her small, firm breasts pressed against his naked chest. Static flooded his mind. He swept her into an embrace so fierce it startled him, kissing those red lips and tasting every corner of her mouth until dark spots swam before his eyes.

She wasn't even breathing hard. “Mick,” she whispered, “I know what we need to do. We need to get the Stone ourselves. We owe it to your father."

"Eh?” he said, his mouth full of her flesh—cold flesh, that was strange—what soap had she used—its odor was sweet and thick as caramel.

She was pushing him toward the bed. “Where's your knife, Mick? Here, in your jacket? Show me your knife, why don't you?"

That was a double meaning ... She pushed him down on the duvet, straddled his hips, and pulled the
sgian dubh
from his waistband. “Let's get the Stone ourselves. Tell me where it is."

He saw her delicate hand holding the knife. He saw her eyes as dark a blue as a midsummer gloaming when the sun never quite set. He saw the canopy of the bed arching behind her and the gray cat sitting in the open doorway, its head tilted as though watching its favorite pantomime.

"Mick, where is the Stone?” Her lips smiled, but her eyes narrowed. Her voice grated oddly and her accent had changed into a parody. “Don't you want to help your father? After you let him get hurt?"

A chill slithered up Mick's spine and sunk sharp teeth into his mind. No time to be losing his senses? Hah! “Get away!” He threw her—it—aside and seized the knife. Ripping it from its sheath he swept it across the duvet. Feathers exploded into the air. “The Cross of Christ be with me!"

The image vanished. It was there and then it wasn't. Like magic. The bed curtains fluttered and fell still. The cat's tail twitched.

If Mick had had the Stone he'd have given it to Prince right enough, between the eyes. The man had made that image, somehow. More than image. Mick had felt it, his body had responded to it, he'd seized it like an animal. Nothing personal, he thought toward the cat, but Rose deserved better of him.

Rose!
Mick leaped up, ran into the hall, and rained blows on her door. “Rose!” No answer. He tried his own key. It turned. Inside, her things lay on the bed but she was gone. She wouldn't have gone with Prince alone, Mick told himself. If he'd forced her she'd have struggled and shouted out. Unless he'd used an illusion on her, too.

Mick raced back into his own room. He threw on his clothes, packed his rucksack, then ran into Rose's room and packed hers. They were leaving this place, now, Prince and Soulis and his own muddled head be damned.

Clutching their belongings in his left arm, he took the
sgian dubh
in his right hand and walked down the hall as though he knew where he was going. The cat was waiting for him at the top of the stairs, and led him into the darkness.

Rose had washed her face and hands when they first arrived. Now she washed them again, and brushed her teeth clean. The food had tasted good at the time, but now the lingering flavor of the cloyingly sweet jam reminded her of the stench of death.

Her fantasies had never included a dead body. A dead body that walked and talked. But that hadn't been Calum. That had been an illusion, like the ghosts and the figure on horseback.

Her fantasies seemed weak and thin compared to the real thing. The real thing was
glamorous
. Magic. Not rabbit out of a hat magic, but something both dangerous and seductive. Robin was seductive. But even if he didn't have anything to do with Calum's death, let alone the illusions—and Rose wasn't betting the farm on either—he was sure dangerous. It was Mick who was alluring, beguiling, charming ... Rose suddenly realized she was singing “No Man's Land.” Good God, he could probably hear her. Nothing like total insensitivity.

Making sure the miraculous medal was still hanging like a warm tear drop next to her skin, she unlocked her door. The hall was darker, puddled with shadow. Some of lights had gone out. She knocked on the next door. “Mick?” The push of her hand opened it. Go figure, he was all protective of her and forgot about himself. “Mick?"