"You've come in the nick of time, Derek," she said, as Mallory entered and came to close off the second unit of blood. "I do believe I nearly had our very attractive captive convinced that I was going to ravish him on the spot."
"What, and deprive our Patron of his sport?" Mallory retorted, with a heavy-lidded leer. "But you mustn't tease, Angela dear. We wouldn't want to spoil the offering."
Still smirking, he took a blood pressure cuff from the bedside table and applied it to Adam's right arm, sobering as he took his reading and then felt for a pulse, first in Adam's wrist, then in neck and groin.
No longer smiling, Angela watched as Mallory removed the cuff and stuffed it into his pocket, then unplugged Adam's old IV and capped off the cannula in his wrist.
"Two units - that's a lot to lose, in his condition," Angela said, as Mallory picked up the two bags of blood. "Is he going to be all right for the ceremony?"
"Oh, he'll last," Mallory assured her. "I don't dare sedate him any further, but we'll give him a unit of dextran en route. That ought to improve his blood pressure a bit. Keep an eye on him. I'll be back in a minute."
When he had gone, Angela settled on the side of the bed again beside her victim, smiling again as she brushed her fingers lightly along one shaven cheek.
"Mmmm, soft as a baby's - " She broke off and laughed wickedly, showing her teeth. "Dear Adam Sinclair, I'm going to let you in on a little secret before Derek comes back to work his wicked ways on you again. I thought you might like to know what Francis has planned for you. I hope you'll appreciate the delicious irony." She gave another tinkling laugh before deigning to enlighten him further.
"In consideration of the number of times you've interfered with us in the past, we put a great deal of thought into deciding how best to incorporate your participation into our little performance tonight. You will die - I don't think you ever doubted that - but the actual moment of your death will be framed within the context of a Satanic Mass - with suitable adjustments, of course, since the ritual ordinarily calls for a young virgin of the female persuasion. It seemed a fitting end for a Christian Adept - to see all your holy symbols profaned, and to know that your Patron is powerless to save you.
"Of course there are - other details that needn't concern you yet," she went on, smiling again. "Let's just say that a prize like you should suffice to buy Francis exactly what he wants: Satan's own authority to command all lesser demons, including Taranis. I just thought you'd like to know," she concluded, as Mallory returned with one of Richter's mercenaries.
Already drifting perilously close to shock, Adam was also reeling with numb rejection of this revelation as Mallory and his assistant set about finishing his preparation. After releasing his restraints, the two men hauled him up into a sitting position so that Angela could pull a white robe over his head, the three of them then working his arms through the sleeves and tugging its folds into something approaching alignment.
"All right, he's ready," Mallory said. "Let's get him out of here."
Adam would have struggled if he were able, but even holding his head up was too much effort. Praying that intent would count on some level, he continued trying to visualize spiritual resistance, unable to prevent them dragging him to his feet, the two men shouldering his sagging weight between them. Angela gathered up the quilt and followed as they hustled him out the open door and along a dimly lit corridor, toward another open door and his impending fate.
Chapter Thirty-Four
BACK at Strathmourne, the grey afternoon had merged in-distinguishably into a greyer dusk by five o'clock, and full darkness by six. Earlier, Duart had brought his men into the kitchen by shifts, for a hot meal, and Philippa had insisted that members of the Hunting Lodge sleep by turns, in hopes of conserving precious energies for a last-minute breakthrough regarding Adam's whereabouts; but as seven o'clock came and went, and the standby crew fretted, an even deeper depression had begun to settle on the occupants of the house.
They had by no means given up their search, but they had yet to find a focus. In the library, Philippa had resumed attempting to scry in the crystal ball with Adam's skean dubh and Julian's locket, assisted by Julian and both Houstons. Harry had taken up a post to watch them, straddling a straight-backed chair and with chin resting on his folded forearms laid across the back, his distracted gaze ranging idly over the map of Scotland spread on the table beneath Philippa's crystal. McLeod was stretched out on the couch, arms folded on his chest, eyes closed behind his aviator spectacles. The general was pacing back and forth before the library window.
Ximena had retreated to a place in the window seat with Julia, gazing out dejectedly at the lights in the waiting helicopter, idly watching Donald Cochrane talk to two of the SAS men sheltering in the lee of the craft for a smoke. Having argued persuasively earlier in the day that Adam might well need emergency medical attention if they found him alive, she had gained grudging permission to go along on the rescue mission if it ever got off the ground - and had packed her medical bag with essentials that the SAS medics might not have to hand, since it was far more likely that she would have to deal with reversing the effects of heavy sedation than with battlefield-type injuries. She had also dressed in rugged outdoor wear of heavy trousers and boots and multiple layers of sweaters, similar to the way McLeod, Peregrine, and Harry were attired; but it appeared less and less likely that she or any of them would be given the chance to utilize any of their preparations.
"Peregrine," Harry said softly, lifting his head to glance over to where the artist was hunched over a sketch pad. "What ever happened to those drawings you did, that night you called me out to touch the Hand of Glory?"
Peregrine had been doodling in light trance, hoping he might pick up some impression too faint for conscious perception, that might somehow transmit itself through his drawing hand. As he surfaced at the sound of his name, looking blank, McLeod also roused, and Philippa gave a little gasp, turning to stare at Harry.
"The Hand of Glory," she murmured. "Dear God, how could we have been so blind?"
"The Hand of Glory?" Peregrine asked, still muzzy.
"That's an angle we haven't even considered," Philippa went on, as McLeod slowly sat up, comprehension lighting his blue eyes as he came fully awake. "They've got Adam hidden… and they'll be expecting us to focus all our energy on finding him - which is exactly what we've been doing."
"Pippa, what are you saying?" Julian asked, leaning across to touch her friend's hand.
"We have a very potent link to Raeburn himself," Philippa continued, hardly hearing her. "We know he participated in the preparation of the Hand of Glory. So if we find Raeburn, we find Adam - because whatever Raeburn has planned for Adam, he wouldn't miss it for the world! Back in a minute!"
"But - where is she going?" Peregrine asked, still at sea as Philippa dashed out the library door.
"To fetch the Hand, I should think," Julian replied, motioning for Christopher and Victoria to clear the crystal and skean dubh off the map, as the rest of them surged closer.
"Wait a minute," Ximena protested. "Are you telling us that she's had the Hand locked away all this time?"
"Well, of course," Julian replied. "One doesn't leave that sort of thing just lying around. Don't worry; I'm sure she had it in the safe."
"But - Julian, this is crazy," Peregrine said with a shake of his head. "What makes you think Raeburn won't be cloaked the same way Adam is?"
"He probably was, in the beginning," McLeod retorted, "but I doubt he is now. He'll be saving his energies for tonight. Besides that, he's too damned arrogant to expect we'd be looking for him instead of Adam - and he may have forgotten about the Hand; we did.