The anxious crease in the apprentice's forehead relaxed and his eyes fluttered open. "I exist to serve, Chevalier."
"I have no need of an apprentice." He lowered the blade and touched it to the young man's shoulder. "By the authority granted me, I raise you to the station of acolyte in the Fraternis Maltae.
"Don't be too pleased with yourself. It is possible for a king and a pawn to checkmate an enemy, but the odds are not in our favor. However, I suspect the Trevaynes know even less about what it is they have discovered than we do." The Chevalier caught the inquiring look in the young man's eye. "Oh, yes. We know what it is they have found. Our client told us to expect some kind of reaction when its power was awakened. More importantly, he told us what they would do next. When they make their move, we — you and I — will be ready for them."
He tapped the newly anointed acolyte on the opposite shoulder, then sheathed the blade. "This is rebirth for you brother and a rebirth calls for a new name. I think I know exactly what I shall call you."
For a little while, as she darted back and forth between the two wounded men borne on makeshift litters through the tunnels of the London Underground, monitoring their condition and keeping them alive with little more than her own indomitable will, Molly felt in control. More than that, she was, in a way that she couldn't really explain, happy.
Helping the sick and injured had always brought her a sense of satisfaction, of being in charge of her own destiny, in a place where she was in charge of almost nothing. It hadn't really dawned on her that the work she did, healing the wounds of the rubber plantation laborers along the Congo River, had been its own reward. She would never have associated the inhumanity she had witnessed there with any kind of positive emotion. It was only now, several months and thousands of miles removed from that life, that she realized just how important that work had been to her. Her studies in New York occasionally brought her a measure of what she felt she had been missing, but somehow it wasn't quite the same. In the Congo, there had been only her standing there in defiance of the Grim Reaper himself. At the hospital in New York, she was one of dozens of interns and, given both her gender and her social pedigree, most of the patients she was assigned were chronic hypochondriacs looking for some attention.
For a little while, as she kept Baylor and the other man alive during their transport to the hospital, Molly was happy again. And when, in the hospital waiting room, her father turned to Sir Reginald and, in his quiet but irresistible manner, repeated his demand to meet with Winterbourne, she felt the loss of that happiness all the more acutely. She was back in their world again; her father's world of God and devils, Hurley's world of guns and brute strength, Dodge's world….
She missed Dodge and she was worried about him and she hoped nothing had happened to him… but this was his place; adventures and saving the world was his business. He was supposed to be here with Hurricane and the Padre, not her.
"We cannot simply drop in for tea," Christy protested. "If we are followed, we will put him in great danger."
Hobbs was unmoved. "And I tell you again sir, that the danger to him is nothing when held against what the world will face if this prophecy is not averted."
"The man is a recluse," Christy protested. "I doubt he'll even open the door for us."
"We can be very persuasive." Hurricane smiled, crossing his arms over his broad chest. Something about his tone and demeanor suggested that maybe he wasn't talking about persuading Winterbourne and Christy seemed to get the message. He sagged in resignation.
"Very well. I'll ring for a car."
It was the kind of night, Molly thought, where Jack the Ripper would feel right at home. Despite the fact that electric lamps and neon signs had replaced gaslight, the fog-shrouded alleys seemed to hold promise of unimaginable evil.
Their route appeared aimless, but Molly knew that their driver was simply being cautious, trying to determine if they were being followed by their enemies and if so, to shake off the pursuit. She soon gave up trying to follow the serpentine course they traveled; like everything else in her life, she was being swept along by forces beyond her control.
It was nearly midnight when the car finally pulled up in front of an apartment block and Christy announced that they had arrived. Molly followed behind her father, while Hurricane pulled up the rear, his guns concealed beneath his overcoat, but easily accessible as he scanned the shadows for any hint of danger.
Christy led them inside to a door on the first floor, where he rapped out an odd rhythm with his knuckles. "Let's see if he remembers the old signal."
Hobbs raised an eyebrow but said nothing. The sound of someone shuffling and grumbling emanated from inside and after a moment or two, a bar of light gleamed in the crack between the door and the threshold.
"Prepare yourself for a less than enthusiastic reception." The rasp of a bolt sliding in the latch punctuated Christy's remark.
The door opened with surprising abruptness and a painfully bright flash of illumination momentarily blinded Molly. She shaded her eyes, but the damage was done; a radiant blue circle dominated the center of her vision. At the edges, she could just make out the image of a figure holding some kind of lamp in one hand and a large revolver in the other.
"What part of 'to hell with you all' was unclear?" growled a voice from behind the light.
Christy retreated a step, as if the glare from the man's lamp was a physical assault, but Hobbs deftly stepped around him. "Please, sir. Our need is urgent."
"It always is with you lot. Now clear off before I have to 'defend myself' if you take my meaning."
"Oh for God's sake, would you just listen to what we have to say?" No one was more surprised than Molly at her outburst, but she also took a step forward, her hands defiantly on her hips.
The man in the doorway slowly lowered both his pistol and the lamp. "Well this is different. Trevayne's letting ladies in now?"
"We're not from the Trevayne Society," Hobbs offered. "Except for Sir Reginald and he brought us here under protest."
"Not from Trevayne? Well, why didn't you say so?" He took a step back and motioned for them to enter.
"And I'm no lady," Molly muttered under her breath, squinting to make out the man's face as she passed. The bright spot burned into her corneas was now a dark spot, shrinking with each passing second, but still enough to hide him in shadow.
As soon as they were all inside, the householder closed the door and motioned them into the adjacent sitting room. The sparsely decorated area appeared seldom used. A bookcase dominated one wall but only a few volumes occupied its shelves. There was a side table with an ashtray next to a threadbare overstuffed chair and a coffee table piled with a jumble of tabloid newspapers positioned in front of a davenport, which was itself shrouded in a white dust cover. A set of heavy drapes hung above what she assumed to be the front window, directly behind the couch. It was nothing at all like Molly expected. Where were the tribal masks and ancient artifacts? The tomes of forgotten lore?
Their host placed his lamp on the side table and his pistol in the spacious pocket of his silk smoking jacket and then settled into the chair. "So, what need have you of an old man, that's so urgent that it couldn't wait until morning?"
"It concerns the prophecy of the Child of Skulls."
"Oh." Winterbourne's face went dark and he was quiet for a long time. "Well. I suppose it's too late to shoot you now. Please, sit down and let's hear what you have to say."
CHAPTER 12 — THE SOURCE