Marley tried to cover her face against the foul stench.
An arm shot out and fingers scraped the side of her head, tangled with her hair and tore painfully, this way and that.
She panted and gulped down sobs.
They were not fingers, but talons. She felt them scratch her scalp.
“You don’t believe what I tell you, hmm?” he said. “Perhaps I can persuade you with a little gift. I hope you are clever with your needle, Marley Millet.” He made a croaking sound as if amused, or pleased. “You see, I know who you are. I know your family. They have been a curse to us, but that will end.”
Claws on the free hand poked at her mouth, pried her lips apart, and she felt cloth shoved inside her cheek.
He pushed her and she fell backward, this time onto a couch. She slid sideways and lay with her face turned into a pillow.
Shivering, her muscles in spasms, she grew colder and colder until at last she dared to open her eyes a little. Beneath her, the couch was covered with light-colored material, pale yellow with beige leaves. Marley pulled up her feet.
She was alone.
There was no blue chair and no silk-covered screens.
The music still played, never growing any louder. And the whispering she would have welcomed while she was alone with the creature rushed in around her.
“You must find a way to help me,” she said to the Ushers. “If I must turn to the ultimate form of neutralization, I will.”
The Mentor demanded that paranormal martial arts be used only when one’s life was in jeopardy. The Millets must never be unfair.
But if she chose to use what she could, she would have to engage that creature physically. How badly would he wound her before she prevailed?
Her mouth felt thick and she remembered the cloth that thing had put there. She pulled it out, sickened at the thought of what it might be.
Under the weak light of several bulbs in an overhead chandelier she saw a piece of black cotton and knew what it was. She held the piece of her T-shirt that had been torn from her sleeve the night she saw Pearl Brite disappear from the warehouse.
Marley clenched the fabric in her fist. The Millet rules of chivalry even in the face of great provocation were starting to annoy her.
Growing from a confluence of shifting specks of white light, a form took shape. Marley blinked; she turned her head aside and tried to bring the apparition into focus.
Her skin stretched tight over her scalp, freshening the pain from that creature’s talons.
Either what she saw was a brilliantly golden book encrusted with gems or she could be looking at the top of a box. She had seen this once before, in her flat with Gray beside her. Her father had mentioned a small casket. Marley screwed up her eyes. She thought she was seeing a book and as she decided she was right, the front cover fell heavily open, revealing a yellowing parchment title page on which there were a few words: The Mentor: Triumph Through Honor.
“You only need remember our code,” a man said. He sounded so reassuring, she smiled.
Chapter 37
Tonight he had finally found her for himself. With the aid of the scrap from her clothing, he had summoned enough of the old power to seek out the pattern of Marley Millet’s aura. No two patterns were absolutely alike, although it was possible for him to make a mistake.
When he was fully strong, he never misread an aura, but in times of increasing weakness such as he suffered now, his eyesight deteriorated when he was transformed.
Now, too drained to stay and deal with her further, he had returned to his own place again, and to the young whelp who was his supposed helper. Soon he would discover if his horrible notion about his enemy’s identity was correct. If he was right about who had betrayed him to the Millet woman, the way forward was more dangerous than he could have imagined.
Only willpower kept him dragging his body forward while the young man scurried at his heels, gabbling in his fear. It would be easier to go alone and do what must be done, but this one must be there, too.
“Are we going to be found out?” the terrified whelp said, panting. He tried to laugh. “Can you save us?”
The questions didn’t deserve answers and he tossed his head in disgust.
“I’m sorry,” the younger one babbled. “Sometimes I forget you can always keep us safe.”
The Embran marveled that this weakling could be the product of his own being. Completely human in appearance, it was true—and without the power to transform himself into Embran form—yet he had come to being through the joining of Embran and human. It had been wise to hide this failure’s true partnership. “Shut up, you sniveling fool. Stay with me, and we’ll discover if you failed in the only important task I ever gave you to do.”
“I don’t know what you mean. I have never failed you.”
“We shall see.” He must regain the chinoiserie house. How long had it been gone? Where was it now? Was it safe? He choked on his own misgivings.
With each dragging step his torment grew. The red house was his access to the renewing chambers of the Lower Place, Safehold as some citizens called Embran, where he had begun his existence centuries ago. Weeks back he had been warned that it was time to return, but unfinished business here had tempted him to gamble on how long he could put off going for the infusion that brought him back to his full might.
He had obviously waited too far beyond his own limitations and an enemy had used his rare lapse in judgment to attempt to eliminate him.
Who was it? Did he know? Had he already unearthed the identity? The possibility that his suspicions were correct made it almost impossible for him to go on.
He paused to take a package from his robes. From inside the string-tied brown paper he removed a handful of dust and tiny bones. These he crammed into his mouth while he closed his eyes and waited for even the meager flush of strength the compound could bring. Eating the crushed shell and the bones of the dead Embran young inside had become his panacea for weakness. In the Lower Place, live young were used, but they could not be kept fresh on a journey to the Earth’s surface.
A minute passed. And another. Nothing.
He couldn’t wait any longer.
Slowly, he stumbled down the stairs that led to the basement and his possible answer. Soon he would find out if his worst fear was a fact. If so he had to work fast, and do whatever he must to save himself.
He heard his companion’s hoarse breathing and took a small pleasure from this one’s fear.
The cold of the basement helped calm the throbbing in his thickened skin. Ignoring everything but making it to the ice vault in the farthest corner, he wrenched open the door and fell to all fours. Crawling, he made his way deep into the vaporous compartment. He didn’t bother to look up at the swinging hooks—his tools to cause ultimate fear.
When he reached the first of the long row of white caskets, he started to count.
Grunting, he pulled himself forward. Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen…there it was. Fourteen.
With draining effort he hauled himself to his feet, tore off a hasp and raised the lid.
Empty. His human wife’s body was gone. “How can this be?” he shrieked, turning on his companion. “Where is she? Your only duty has been to look after all of these.” He indicated the lined-up iced caskets.