Taltos (Lives of the Mayfair Witches #3)(63)
Author: Anne Rice

“Donnelaith? You’re sure it was Gordon?”

“Yes. I am very sure. Gordon used to appear there often. The Little People have told me. The Little People steal things from the scholars during the night. They take their knapsacks, or whatever they can snatch in a moment. I know the name Stuart Gordon. The Little People are careful not to kill the scholars from the Talamasca. It makes trouble to kill them. They don’t kill the people of the countryside, either. But they kill other people who wander in with binoculars and rifles. They tell me who comes to the glen.”

Silence.

“Please trust me,” said Ash. “This man I killed, Anton Marcus, he was corrupt and unscrupulous. I never do these things on impulse. Please accept my word that I am not a danger to you, Rowan Mayfair. I must talk to you. If you will not let me come—”

“Can you find the corner of Brook Street and Spelling?”

“I know where it is,” he said. “Are you there now?”

“Yes, more or less. Go to the bookshop. It’s the only bookshop on the corner. I’ll see you when you arrive there, and I’ll come to you. Oh, and do hurry. Stuart Gordon should be here soon.”

She rang off.

He hurried down the two flights of steps, Leslie following, asking all the requisite questions: Did he want his guards? Should she go along?

“No, dear, stay here,” he said. “Brook and Spelling, just up from Claridge’s,” he told the driver. “Do not follow me, Leslie.” He climbed into the back of the car.

He did not know whether he should take the car to the very meeting place. Surely Rowan Mayfair would see it and memorize its license, if such a thing was even necessary with a Rolls-Royce stretch limousine. But why should he worry? What had he to fear from Rowan Mayfair? What had she to gain from hurting him?

It seemed he was missing something, something extremely important, some probability that would make itself known to him only with pondering and time. But this line of thinking made his head ache. He was far too eager to see this witch. He would go the way of the child.

The limousine bumped and shoved its way through the busy London traffic, arriving at the destination, two busy shopping streets, in less than twelve minutes. “Please stay here, near at hand,” he said to the driver. “Keep your eyes on me, and come to me if I call you. You understand?”

“Yes, Mr. Ash.”

Fancy shops dominated the corner of Brook and Spelling. Ash got out, stretched his legs for a moment, walked slowly to the edge of the corner, and scanned the crowd, ignoring the inevitable gawkers and the few persons who made loud, good-natured remarks to him about his height.

There was the bookshop, catercorner from him. Very fancy, with polished wood window frames and brass fixtures. It was, open, but there was no one standing outside.

He crossed the intersection boldly, walking against the traffic, infuriating a couple of drivers, but he reached the other corner, naturally, unharmed.

There was a small crowd inside the bookshop. None of them witches. But she had said that she would see him and that she would meet him here.

He turned around. His driver was holding the position, in spite of the traffic going around him, with all the arrogance of a chauffeur at the wheel of a monstrous limousine. That was good.

Quickly, Ash surveyed the shops on Brook to his left, and then, looking across, down the length of Spelling, taking the shops and the passersby one by one.

Against the crowded window of a dress shop stood a man and woman. Michael Curry and Rowan Mayfair. It had to be.

His heart quite literally stood still. Witches. Both of them.

Both of them were looking at him, and they had witches’ eyes, and they gave off that very faint sheen that witches always possessed in his eyes.

He marveled. What was it that made the sheen? When he touched them, if he did indeed do that, they would be warmer than other humans, and if he put his ear to their heads, he would hear a low, organic sound that he could not detect in other mammals or people who were not witches. Though occasionally, very occasionally, he had heard this soft, whispering murmur from the body of a living dog.

Good God in heaven, what witches! It had been so long since he had seen witches of this power, and he had never seen witches with more. He didn’t move. He merely looked at them, and tried to pull loose from their staring eyes. No easy thing. He wondered if they could tell it. He remained composed.

The man, Michael Curry, was Celtic to the core. He might have been from Ireland, and not America. There was nothing about him that was not Irish, from his curly black hair to his blazing blue eyes and the wool hunting jacket, which he wore for fashion, obviously, and his soft flannel pants. He was a big man, a strong man.

The father of the Taltos, and its murderer! He remembered it with a dull shock. Father … killer.

And the woman?

She was very thin and extremely beautiful, though in a completely modern way. Her hair was simple, yet lustrous and alluring, around her narrow face. Her clothes, too, were seductive, calculatedly skimpy, indeed almost flamboyantly erotic. Her eyes were far more frightening than those of the man.

Indeed, she possessed the eyes of a man. It was as though that part of her face had been removed from a male human and put there, above the soft, long, womanish mouth. But he often saw this seriousness, this aggressiveness, in modern females. It’s just that this was, well, a witch.

Both were enthralled.

They did not speak to each other, or move. But they were together, one figure slightly overlapping the other. The wind didn’t carry their scent to him. It was blowing in the other direction, which meant, strictly speaking, that they ought to catch his.

The woman suddenly broke the stillness, but only with the slight movement of her lips. She had whispered something to her companion. But he remained silent, studying Ash as before.

Ash relaxed all over. He let his hands hang naturally at his sides, which he seldom did, due to the length of his arms. But they must see he concealed nothing. He walked back across Brook Street, very slowly, giving them time to run if they wanted it, though he prayed to God they would not.

He moved towards them slowly on Spelling. They did not move. Suddenly one of the pedestrians bumped him accidentally and dropped an entire paper sack of small items to the pavement with a crash. The sack broke. The items were scattered.

“Now of all times,” he thought, but quickly he smiled, and dropped down on one knee and began to pick up everything for the poor individual. “I’m so very sorry,” he said.

It was an elderly woman, who gave him a cheery laugh now, and told him that he was too tall to bend down to do such things as this.