gaze only at the medallion, which he swung slowly back and forth, back and forth. Sant’Angelo had seen similar displays at the salons of Franz Mesmer in Vienna, and within minutes the suggestible young woman was under his sway.
“You are in a deep sleep,” he intoned, “a deep and comforting sleep… but when I tell you to awake, you will awake, and you will rush to kiss the oldest man you see in the room.”
For a split second, the marquis wondered if he would be unmasked.
But when the duchess came out of her trance, she glanced about, as if unaware that anything at all had happened, then scurried to a dignified old burgher, distantly related to the Habsburgs, and throwing her arms around his neck, kissed him.
The room erupted into laughter, and the duchess, blushing fiercely, stepped back, her hand to her mouth. The burgher reached out playfully, as if to claim another kiss, but Cagliostro called him forward instead. The man took the chair the princess had vacated, and once again the count placed him under his spell.
“And when you awake,” he suggested this time, “you will stand on one leg and crow like a rooster anytime Her Majesty plays the refrain of ‘ C’est Mon Ami.’”
A ripple of subdued mirth went through the room, and Cagliostro raised a finger to hush them. Bringing the burgher back to his wits, he said, mournfully, “Alas, your will was too strong for me.”
“I could have told you that before you went to so much trouble,” the old man huffed, proudly.
“I could do nothing to overcome it,” Cagliostro said, as the queen crept to the harpsichord and began to play the refrain of “ C’est Mon Ami.”
Not even back in his own seat yet, the burgher suddenly lifted one leg and let out a trilling cock-a-doodle-do. Then, so surprised was he at his own action-and in front of the queen yet!-he tumbled, beet red, onto a velvet settee.
The marquis knew where this was going-the count was going to mesmerize everyone at once, then do something to leave the proof that he’d done it-removing and hiding all their shoes, for instance. Mesmer had once switched everyone’s jewelry around. It was all just a parlor game, and Sant’Angelo knew that it depended upon the willing abdication of will on the part of everyone in the room… a phenomenon he knew could sweep over an intimate group quite readily.
So, when the count did indeed ask for everyone’s attention, and insist that they all follow his instructions and his voice to the letter, he played along, lowering his own eyelids, then his head on cue. But his hands were folded in his lap, like an arrow, and his thoughts were directed, straight as a rapier, at the count.
Already, he could sense a hesitancy creeping into Cagliostro’s words.
The marquis raised his eyes, and even in the gloom, he could see that the count was studying him.
Yes, I know every trick in your bag, Sant’Angelo thought.
And like a lightning bolt, a thought shot right back into his own head. Every trick?
The marquis rocked back in his chair, in shock. This so-called count had greater powers than he had ever imagined, powers that Sant’Angelo assumed only he possessed. The marquis knew nothing of the Egyptian Masons, with whom Cagliostro claimed to have studied, but it was clear that he had learned great secrets, nonetheless. What Sant’Angelo had divined from the ancient stregheria of Sicilian witches, the count must have imbibed from his Coptic priests. While heads drooped and arms hung listlessly all around the room, Sant’Angelo and his adversary were wide awake, all their respective faculties focused on each other.
But you challenge the power of the pharaohs, my friend.
To Sant’Angelo’s astonishment, the shadows in the room began to move and take on the shape of birds-fat black ravens-that swirled across the walls and ceiling, before ominously massing. The marquis’s respect for Cagliostro’s powers grew even larger as he braced himself for an attack.
Which came only seconds later.
In a silent horde, their wings spread and beaks open, the ravens swooped down and Sant’Angelo instinctively started to raise his hands to protect himself against them. But then he caught himself-if you gave in to the illusion, you only gave strength to it-and deliberately let his arms drop to his sides.
If you let your adversary alter your reality, you became his slave.
And Sant’Angelo was not about to let that happen.
The parrot on the mantelpiece squawked in alarm, and the white monkey screeched. The little dogs yapped and scuttled from the room, as the queen stirred in her chair, and Fersen muttered uneasily.
I know what you’ve come for, the count continued.
The marquis berated himself for allowing his desires to become evident.
So it must be more valuable than I know.
The candles in the chandelier sputtered, some blowing out, as a wind seemed to sweep through the garden and rustle the curtains.
Oh, how he had underestimated his opponent, Sant’Angelo realized.
But then, so had the count.
The marquis took a steadying breath, and concentrated his mind. He could feel Cagliostro trying to batter his way in again, but now that he was aware of the count’s abilities, Sant’Angelo was able to effectively shut him out. He imagined himself ensconced, surrounded, protected, behind the high walls of the Chateau Perdu.
A draft blew through the room, sending the sheet music flying from the harpsichord.
And then the marquis conjured an eagle, its broad wings and razor-sharp talons spread, flying into the flock of ravens, tearing their ranks into disarray. The ravens scattered, some plummeting from the sky with broken wings and loose feathers, others disappearing like smoke.
If a battle of conjurations was what Cagliostro wanted, the marquis would give it to him, in spades.
But even as his eagle wreaked havoc, another and more sinister figure arose on the wall to defy it-the size and shape of a man, it bore the long snout and high pointed ears of a jackal.
Sant’Angelo recognized it instantly.
It was Anubis, the ancient Egyptian god of death, rising up like an avenging angel.
Before his eyes, the creature expanded, its muzzle extending out over the ceiling, its jaws open, its teeth like the jagged edge of a saw…
And even Sant’Angelo felt a momentary shudder. Resist it, he told himself.
The creature’s paws seemed to extend along the walls, long nails raking the mantelpiece and window frames.
Terrifying as it is, it is just an illusion.
But then, even to the marquis’s astonishment, the monster’s claws knocked a vase from the mantel. It shattered on the floor, and Antoinette herself let out a whimper of fear.
My God, he thought-Cagliostro was the most formidable adversary he had ever crossed.
The back of his neck tingled with what felt like the jackal’s hot breath, and even the drip of saliva from its slavering jaws.
“ Do you surrender? ” He heard the count’s voice, echoing as if from the bottom of a well. “ Do you bend your will to mine? ”
And in answer-what use were further words?-Sant’Angelo conjured a lion, massive and ferocious, roaring with rage. It sprang up from the floor, taking shape as it rose, its mane bristling, its ragged claws taking wild, deadly swipes at the head of the rearing jackal.
A tremor rumbled through the parquet floor, and the Princesse de Lamballe, though still in a trance, slumped to the floor.
The lion rose on its hind legs, bellowing, and the jackal began to shrink.
Looking up, Sant’Angelo saw the count reeling back, his focus lost, his confidence shaken. La Medusa dangled limply in his hand.
But rather than easing off, the marquis pressed his advantage.
On your knees, he ordered. He formed his thoughts like musket balls and shot them directly into his adversary’s mind. Your knees, I say!
The count faltered, then slowly sank down, his own will broken. The shade of Anubis dwindled to the size of a rat… and scurried off.
And hear only my voice. He sent the words like another volley.
Cagliostro shook his head, as if trying to rid it of a searing pain.
