In the elevator on their way to the ground Ellen looked at him.
'Harvey,' he said to her; which told Duquesne nothing.
Then to the professor: 'It seems you'll be having a colleague sooner than we thought, monsieur.'
Peter! Ellen thought with a stab of delight.
He'd been the only friend she'd had at Rancho Sangre Sagrado…unless you counted people who were obscenely evil, batshit crazy with variations on Stockholm syndrome, or both. Certainly the only one she'd been able to talk freely with, Jose, had been all right, but he was born a renfield.
The Frenchman was looking at his own notepad; Adrian had transferred a list of suppliers and locations.
'Sweden?' he said. 'An abandoned military base? And underground?'
' Discretion, monsieur. Toujours discretion. Remember what happened in Paris.'
He shivered a little. 'And these people, these suppliers…are they reliable?'
'Entirely, as long as they're paid. Will there be a problem with logistics?'
'I am familiar with that aspect, and there are some individuals I could hire to handle administrative matters, perhaps?'
'I leave that entirely in your hands. I wish results, and quickly; I don't care how. More than our lives depend upon that, but certainly our lives, at least.'
Duquesne's expression was dubious, some fear, with a hint of exaltation. From her acquaintance with Peter Boase she understood that. Anyone who'd spent his adult life fighting for every penny of grant money would be attracted by the prospect. It was a peculiarly rarefied and intellectual form of greed in the service of pure curiosity.
'But it is-' he began.
'Most irregular, I know. You are not…how do the Germans put it…you are not operating in a salonfahig fashion anymore.'
When they were alone for an instant waiting for the cab, she leaned close to Adrian.
'He's alive?' she asked. 'Peter's alive?'
'Yes. Evidently my parents…acquired him rather than killing him. Possibly because of the research he was doing for Adrienne. And he has escaped.'
'He escaped? He's safe, then?'
'Escaped, but not at all safe; he contacted Harvey, and that makes it entirely likely the enemy will be on his trail as well. That's why we have to get there as soon as possible, while Monsieur Duquesne gets his project started here.'
Peter Boase gripped the silver table knife convulsively. The night was much cooler than the day even here in southern Arizona. Outside the night was silent, save for the hoot of a great horned owl once as it glided past. He tensed at the sound, relaxed as he realized what it was, then tensed again.
It's not paranoia. They really can turn into birds. That would be a good way to scout around.
His eyes flicked to the ancient LCD beside the bed. One o'clock in the morning. Hours before the sun would come up and…
Make things just a little less dangerous. There's absolutely nothing to prevent one of them from walking in at noon and just fucking shooting me. Or one of their hired guns. That would make me just as dead. Adrienne had that platoon of mercenaries working for her. Plus the police in Rancho Sangre. Plus probably they could have the government send people to kill me. No, make that certainly, from what they said around me, and they had no reason to lie. It actually explains a lot of things, once you know they're pulling the strings.
Maybe it was paranoia. How could you think about this stuff and not go crazy? There was even a slight impulse just to slash his own wrists with the sharpened table knife and get it over with. It wasn't the animal escape from pain that had tempted him while he was undergoing withdrawal. Now the impulse came from the knowledge that he probably was going to die anyway, and very painfully, and the sheer tension of waiting every second.
He hadn't bothered to close the window. The fresh air was worth it, when the people…things…he feared could walk through walls. He'd gotten thoroughly sick of the smells in this room, too.
But the wall-walking thing meant they could be right behind him. Right now.
He turned quickly. Was that a noise?
'Nothing. Sheesh!'
Peter straightened up with a shaky laugh and turned back towards the door.
The front six feet of the giant python were already reared up man-tall. He had just enough time to see the head flash as it struck like a triphammer into his shoulder, and the knife went skittering across the floor. Then the coils were whipping around him, like trying to fight a berserk steel cable, around his ribs and his left arm, squeezing, squeezing…
'Isn't it wonderful that Peter escaped?' Ellen smiled.
She lay back in the deeply padded recliner and fought not to sleep as the engines rose to a muted scream outside and acceleration pushed at her.
The aircraft was an Airbus A321 Elite, a two-engine wide-body that had served as the toy of an oil prince, before being sold on the rental market when he tired of it and bought something more recent; he'd probably moved up to an A380, because judging by this, the concept of restraint wasn't one of the files on his hard drive.
'Perhaps it's your Power operating without your knowing it?' she asked.
Effectively the plane was a luxury penthouse with wings, complete with gym, study, entertainment center and two huge bedrooms, with an air of jasmine and ozone. Half the cargo compartment below was extra fuel tanks, which gave it more range than a B-52. She felt a little guilty using it for the pair of them-the normal complement of passengers would be over two hundred-but it was the first thing that had been available, if money were no object.
'Yes,' Adrian said. 'That could well be so. The Power'-he smiled grimly-'operates in mysterious ways.'
This thing reminded her a little uncomfortably of Adrienne's private jet, though it was bigger, and the decor- Birdseye marble tile in the bathroom, Persian carpets in the lounge area-was considerably less restrained. Gaudy, in fact, though extremely expensive and very well maintained.
'Particularly where many purebreds, many adepts, are involved,' he went on. 'Strokes of luck may happen, yes, but they may be…ultimately…lucky for someone else than the first recipient. Coil upon countercoil.'
Wow, Ellen thought. It takes a bit of getting used to, strokes of luck that really happen.
He frowned a little. 'Even so, it seems rather odd, since normally my parents would have killed any of Adrienne's lucies who survived her. Granted, I am more purebred than they, but they are there and the Power attenuates according to the inverse-square law, generally.'
Ellen winced at the thought of the orgy of slaughter that had probably followed her escape. Poor Monica. The den mother of Lucy Lane, with her brownies and her sympathy…and Jose…
Jose might get off. He's a native, born into the service of the Brezes. God, I hope Monica's kids are okay. They don't feed on kids but that doesn't mean they wouldn't hurt them. Adrienne's parents…Adrian's too…they were always charming, and I got the distinct impression they'd watch people thrown to crocodiles and make witty repartee about it.
There was no way to tell for sure, of course. It had taken all Adrian's command of the Power and the Brotherhood's resources just to find the main estate of the California branch of the Brezes. None of them was going into that maze of traps arcane and physical again if they could help it; plus Adrian's parents were there now, which put two adepts in charge instead of just one. They were postcorporeal, but that wasn't much of a handicap.
Still, I wish I knew what had happened.
Adrian quirked a smile at her. 'You are a refreshing change from the people I have associated with most of my life, my sweet.'
'Honey?' she said.
'You are sweet,' he said. 'Empathetic. You care for people. Even people you met in a very horrible place.'
'So are you a sweetie. You've just…not had much opportunity to show that side of yourself.'
'The running and hiding and fear and killing and death do tend to limit opportunities for emotional expressiveness…'
'I could hit you sometimes, Adrian!'
'You see what I mean.'
