Amy nibbled her bottom lip, concern crossing her face. "They're going to be wondering about us." She looked at Allen. "About you. I've got to let them know we're okay and get instructions for what to do next."
"There's a pay phone near the tram stop," Penny offered.
"Wait a minute," Allen said. "I'm not interested in your calling your Society pals just so they can stuff me in a trunk again."
"We should get in touch with Father Paul," Penny insisted. "I'm telling you there's some kind of mistake. You're wrong about him."
"No!" Sudden heat in Amy's voice. "I need to get in touch with the Society. There are things happening, and we need to know. Come with me to the pay phone."
"To hell with that," Allen said.
"Then I'll go make the call myself," Amy said.
"If you do, I'll run out of here as fast as I can. As soon as you're out of sight, I'm gone," Allen warned. "Unless you promise not to tell them where we are."
She opened her mouth to object.
Allen cut her off. "Just tell them we're fine. Find out what's going on if you want to, but just give us some time to rest. Please."
Amy went a little pink in the face, clearly frustrated.
Too bad, Allen thought. I'm tired of getting shoved around.
"Okay," Amy said. "But you've got to promise to wait here until I get back. I could spell you, compel you to stay, but I don't want to do that."
Allen rolled his eyes. "Yes, fine. I promise. Please don't spell me."
"Okay. I'll be back."
She left. They listened to her footfalls fade down the outside stairs. The silence stretched a full minute.
"She's very attractive, Allen," Penny said. "I suppose I can understand why you'd be interested."
"Oh, just... we're not... I barely even know her and... what do you care, anyway?"
"Me?" Penny's hand went to her chest, her eyebrows arching in innocent surprise. "Oh, I don't care. None of my business. How you conduct yourself is of no concern to me." She made a low, disapproving noise in her throat, almost like a growl.
Allen sighed, then sank into the chair. "Don't be that way."
"What way?"
"That way."
"Okay, okay," Penny said. "It's just that we're close friends, and well, I don't know. I guess I feel a little proprietary about you or something, and it was just kind of sudden seeing you guys together in bed and, anyway, I don't even know what I'm saying so I'll just shut up."
Penny had always been there for him; she'd talked him back to sanity when he'd gone through the gut-wrenching breakup with Brenda. She'd been solid as a rock, a steadfast friend and classmate. Why was she so suddenly bent out of shape about a minor misunderstanding?
It was almost as if she was... jealous? She'd said she felt a little proprietary about him, but she'd meant like a sister. Right?
He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. He couldn't think about this right now.
"My head is swimming," Allen said. "If I don't sleep soon, I'll drop dead."
Penny said, "Take my bed. The sheets are fresh. I should have offered sooner. Frankly, you look terrible."
He smiled weakly. "Thanks."
"I'll hit the market. You'll want something to eat sooner or later."
Allen pushed himself out of the chair and headed for Penny's bed.
"Allen?"
He paused in the doorway to her bedroom and looked back at her. "Yes?"
She smiled, warm, all earlier irritation gone from her face. "Never mind. I'll be back soon."
Allen crawled into Penny's bed and was asleep in less than ten seconds.
Father Paul and Finnegan stood in Allen's dorm room.
Finnegan poked through the random clothing spread out on the top bunk. "The boy's not much of a housekeeper, is he?"
"They left in a hurry." Father Paul's sharp eyes took in the small room quickly. "Just like in those chambers below Zizkov." He nudged a damp towel on the floor with his boot. "They showered and changed."
The big priest raised an eyebrow. "They?"
Father Paul pointed at the floor. "Two towels." Then he pointed at the pink wad in the corner. "Women's clothes. I saw her wearing them when we stormed the Society safe house. I think we fouled up, Finnegan. When we went in guns blazing to save Cabbot, it made us look like the bad guys, didn't it?"
"We'll set him straight, sir."
"We've been doing this all wrong," Father Paul said. "Instead of chasing after him, we need to get ahead, wait for him someplace down the line."
"Where?"
Father Paul stuck a cigarette into his mouth without lighting it. "What's the word on Evergreen's apartment?"
"About a block from here. We've got somebody watching," Finnegan said. "But intelligence still thinks it's a decoy. The professor has probably rented a place under a different name, maybe out in one of the suburbs."
Father Paul lit the cigarette, puffed. "Let's find out where."
Allen opened his eyes and looked at his watch. He'd slept three hours. He swung his feet over the side of the bed, felt fuzzy-headed. He shuffled into the tiny bathroom, splashed water in his face. The dim light over the sink buzzed. The face that looked back at him in the mirror had dark circles under the eyes.
Back in the sitting room, he spotted Amy on the couch, shoes off, breathing lightly. He tiptoed past her into the kitchen. Penny had left a note on the small table:
Allen,
There's food in the refrigerator. I'm going to let you and your Friend sleep. I can tell you've both had a tough time. I'll be back soon. Please wait for me.
Penny
Allen built himself a salami sandwich on dark bread with some soft kind of orange cheese. A bottle of water. He sat at the small kitchen table, chewing and considering his situation.
Had Amy kept her promise to keep her Society friends at bay? He finished the sandwich, put the plate in the sink. And where had Penny gone? The sudden notion she'd gone to fetch Father Paul sent a shiver of anxiety up Allen's spine. Penny refused to believe the priest could possibly be one of the bad guys. She might be bringing him back here at this very minute in some misguided attempt to help Allen. Amy claimed to be one of the good guys too. Everyone said they wanted to help him.
So why did Allen feel like a rabbit with hounds on his heels?
He leaned against the doorframe between the kitchen and the sitting room, looked again at Amy curled on the couch. It could be a lot worse. He could be stuck with Clover. If he'd been on the run with the punk rock girl, he'd probably have been hog-tied with tape over his mouth, stashed in some closet.
Allen had to admit his time with Amy had not been entirely unpleasant. Perhaps that was why he'd felt slightly defensive with Penny earlier. He'd not been doing anything wrong with Amy when Penny had walked in on them-not that Allen would have refused any offers.
And yet... Penny. He was starting to see her in a way that hadn't occurred to him before. Or had it? Hadn't he always wondered about her? Just a little.
Okay, this was ridiculous. The completely gorgeous girl on the couch in front of him had been part of a plot to kidnap him. His close friend Penny was a devout Catholic who was likely on her way to a priest who seemed to favor automatic weapons over rosary beads.
Allen turned away from the sleeping girl and walked softly across the kitchen. He'd promised to wait until she returned. Well, she'd returned. Yeah, he was splitting hairs, but the fact was Allen had to figure things out, and Penny and Amy would only continue to cloud his thinking. He opened the door, stepped outside, and closed it quietly.
Allen needed answers. He walked quietly down the steps and headed toward the tram stop. The man who seemed to be at the core of this shit-storm would have those answers, Allen hoped.
Allen hopped the next tram headed toward Letna and Professor Evergreen's apartment.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Jackson Fay sat at the oversized wooden desk. It was too big for his small faculty office at St. Sebastian's College, but he liked the artificial sense of power it gave him, although he did not admit this to himself, not exactly in that way.
Power. It filled him yet left him hungry for more. The most powerful aphrodisiac he'd ever known, yet the climax never came. It was the curse of power that the more he had, the more he needed.
He looked out his dingy window. London was as drab and gray as his mood.
A knock, the one he'd been waiting for, sounded at his door. "Enter."
The door swung open and an old woman entered. She had steel-colored hair and deep lines at her eyes. She wore a black pantsuit, starched white blouse, and a bloodred brooch at the throat. An apple-cheeked man in a slightly garish pin-striped suit followed her, closing the door behind him. They stood crowded up against the desk.
"Professor Fay," the old woman said, nodding at him. Her companion nodded too.
"Margaret. Blake." He returned the nod.
"There is bad news out of Prague," the old woman reported. "Our people were hit hard, scattered. News trickles in, but we don't have the complete picture."
"The Vatican?"
Margaret nodded. "A crack squad of Battle Jesuits, if I'm reading the situation correctly. The cardinals are giving us top priority, it seems."
Fay steepled his fingers under his chin, sat back in the oversized leather chair. He considered the bad news. Jackson Fay was a lean man, with straight shoulders and eyes so green it seemed as if someone had airbrushed them. He had thick black hair with streaks of white above each ear, and a sharp chin and cheekbones. He wore a tan tweed jacket and a muted red vest.
"We have perhaps overreached," Fay admitted. "What does the Council say about withdrawing our operation?"
"There's more," Margaret said. "Evergreen is apparently very close to the philosopher's stone."
"A little too damn close for comfort, if you ask me." Blake's voice had a mild Irish lilt.
Fay leaned forward and rested his elbows on the enormous desk. "That's not acceptable."
Margaret shook her head. "No."
"The stone in Evergreen's hands would be... problematic."
Margaret nodded. "Yes."
"Suggestions?"
Blake cleared his throat nervously. "We think our position toward Evergreen should... ah... be taken to the next level." He tugged at his tie, as if he was suddenly uncomfortable.
"We want him killed," Margaret clarified. "Before he gets the stone and uses it."
"That has already been attempted," Fay told them.
Margaret raised an eyebrow. Although the Society bylaws allowed the high councilman to take emergency actions without consulting the rest of the Council, the elimination of a rogue member would usually be seen as significant enough to call a meeting.
"And are we convinced he even knows how to use it?" Fay asked.
"The Council would prefer not to take that chance." Margaret shrugged, a slight movement.
"What if," posed Fay, "we let our Mr. Evergreen find the stone?"
Blake made a vague choking sound and tugged at his tie again.
Margaret asked, "To what end?"
"Finding it is the hard part," Fay said. "It would not be so difficult to then take it away from him."
The old woman considered, then said, "Naturally, if the stone were to come into our possession for safekeeping, that would be best. Perhaps our people could even divine a way to destroy the blasted thing."
"I suppose," Fay said. "But that's not precisely what I meant. What if we could find a way to use the stone ourselves?"
Blake went pale. Margaret frowned.
"This could be one of the most powerful arcane items in recorded history," Fay said. "Can we not harness its power, use it for our own purposes?"
Margaret and Blake looked at each other. Tension grew thick in the room.
"I would oppose such a scheme," Margaret said. "As I believe would the rest of the Council."
Blake nodded apologetically. "Yes, I'd quite have to agree, old chap. Just too damn risky, don't you see?"
Margaret's eyes were hard as granite. "I think our high councilman understands our feelings in this matter." Her gaze remained unwavering, locked on Fay.
Another long tense moment.
Fay sighed, relaxed back into his chair. "Naturally you're right, Margaret. You too, Blake."
The old woman's gaze softened microscopically. Blake actually laughed, wiped sweat from his forehead.
"As high councilman, it's my responsibility to consider all possibilities. I hope you can appreciate that. Still." He leaned forward, lowering his voice and encouraging the others to lean in to hear him. "There is one minor aspect of this situation you may have failed to consider fully." He reached for a small, wooden box at the corner of his desk and lifted the lid.
Margaret raised an eyebrow. "And what might that be?"
Fay reached into the box with thumb and forefinger, pinched out a small portion of the dull silver powder within. "This."
Fay blew the powder into her face, harsh syllables flying from his mouth immediately after.
The dust particles hardened to tiny diamond shards, blasting the old woman's face, shredding flesh and bone. Blood sprayed against the door and wall behind her. A scream began somewhere deep in her throat, but it was cut short as glittering death flayed her tongue, turned the back of her throat into hamburger. She dropped dead onto Fay's expensive Persian rug.
"Bastard." Blake looked appalled, confused, betrayed. Terrified. His hand glowed blue-green as he raised it toward Fay.
Fay was already out of his chair and across the desk. He grabbed Blake's wrist and twisted, the karma bolt discharging harmlessly into the ceiling.
With his other hand, Fay thrust a thin dagger into Blake's gut.
Blake grunted, eyes going wide. He looked down where Fay still held the blade in his belly. A silver skull at the end of the hilt grinned up at him. Blake's mouth tried to form words. Fay twisted the dagger, and Blake coughed blood.
"Anticlimactic, isn't it?" Fay said, acid in his voice. "All of the intricate and deadly magic at my disposal, yet you meet your end with a simple dagger thrust."
Fay jerked the blade out and thrust it home again. "Never underestimate the mundane." Blake twitched. Fay gave another stab to be sure, and Blake's eyes rolled up like cartoon window shades.
Fay let the man go, and Blake fell facedown across the desk, a pool of blood spreading to a stack of ungraded essays on King Arthur and the Holy Grail.
He looked from Blake's dead body to Margaret's ruined face. The sweet sensation of power still hummed along his bones. He'd been itching to try out the spell he'd used on the old woman. It had felt exactly as good as he'd anticipated. No heroine junky could know this feeling, no coke-head. And it was getting more difficult to reach this euphoria each time. Jackson Fay needed the philosopher's stone. He'd outgrown the Society, had long suspected his personal ambitions would have forced him to make some sort of decision like this sooner or later.
And he'd never liked Margaret anyway, possibly because he'd been able to tell she'd never really liked him. A shame about Blake, though. A nice enough fellow, eager to please, but ultimately useless and a bit weak.
Fay took a pocket handkerchief from his jacket, wiped the blood from his hands and dagger. Fay appraised the mess he'd just made. There was no time to deal with it now. A simpler aversion spell would keep people out of his office until he had time to tidy up. He really should try to discover a simple spell that made dead bodies disappear.
He picked up the phone and dialed the extension for his department's administrative assistant. "Edna, can you book me a flight to Prague? Right away, please."
TWENTY-EIGHT
Two hours later, Jackson Fay sat aboard a Virgin Airways flight to Prague, sipping a glass of Pinot Noir and contemplating the savage things he would do to Professor Evergreen to make him divulge the secrets of the philosopher's stone.
But a mere twenty minutes after Fay left the still warm bodies of his fellow Council members lying on his office floor, the red gem of Margaret's brooch began to glow at her throat, dully at first, then more brilliantly. A stranger walking his basset hound below Fay's office window paused to consider the sudden red glow, then shrugged and went about his business.
This is when Margaret joined me among the legions of the untimely dead. I wish I could have been there to show her the ropes. Still, she seemed to have a natural talent for it. In her own limited way, Margaret made a reasonably effective ghost.