Taltos (Lives of the Mayfair Witches #3)(72)
Author: Anne Rice

“I don’t regret it!” said Marklin. He was becoming irritated by Tommy’s businesslike manner, his absurd optimism.

“You’re afraid you can’t pull it off, aren’t you?” asked Tommy. “You’re afraid you’ll crack like Stuart. But, Marklin, you have to realize Stuart has been in the Talamasca all his life. What is the Talamasca to you or to me?” Tommy gave a little flat laugh. “Boy, they made a mistake with us, didn’t they, brother?”

“No, they didn’t,” said Marklin. “Stuart knew just what he was doing, that we’d have the nerve to carry out schemes that he could never realize. Stuart didn’t make a mistake. The mistake was that somebody killed Anton Marcus.”

“And neither of us stayed around long enough to find out about this person, this crime, this fortuitous incident. You do realize it’s fortuitous, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. We’re rid of Marcus. That’s that. But what happened at the moment of the murder? Elvera talked to the killer. The killer said things about Aaron.”

“Wouldn’t it be simply marvelous if the intruder was one of the Mayfair family? A top-notch witch? I tell you, I want to read that whole file on the Mayfair witches from cover to cover. I want to know everything about those people! I was thinking. There must be some way to lay claim to Aaron’s papers. You know Aaron. He wrote down everything. He must have left cartons of papers. They must be in New Orleans.”

“You’re moving too far ahead! Tommy, Yuri may be there. Stuart may have cracked. They may know everything.”

“I doubt it seriously,” said Tommy, with an air of one who wants to meditate on more important things. “Marklin, the turn!”

Marklin had almost missed it, and when he swerved, it was into the path of another car, but the car gave way, and Marklin raced forward. Within seconds he was away from the highway and going down the country road. He relaxed, realizing only then that he had braced himself so hard for an accident that his jaw was aching from the clenching of his teeth.

Tommy was glaring at him.

“Look, ease up on me!” Marklin said suddenly, feeling the heat behind his eyes which always meant that he was perfectly furious, and had not completely realized it. “I’m not the problem here, Tommy. They are! Now back off. We play it naturally. We both know what to do.”

Tommy turned his head slowly as they went through the front gates of the park.

“Everybody in the Order must be here. I’ve never seen this many cars,” said Marklin.

“We’ll be lucky,” said Tommy, “if they haven’t commandeered our quarters for some deaf and blind octogenarian from Rome or Amsterdam.”

“I hope they have. It’s a perfect excuse to turn everything over to the old guard and very considerately clear out.”

Marklin brought the car to a halt, several yards from the busy attendant who was directing the car in front of them to a parking spot quite far away, on the other side of the hedge. In all these years, Marklin had never seen cars packed side by side on the other side of the hedge.

He got out, and tossed the keys to the attendant. “Will you park, please, Harry?” he said. He peeled off several pound notes, a bribe sufficient to waive all objections to this breach of custom, and headed towards the front doors of the house.

“Why in the hell did you do that?” Tommy said, catching up with him. “Try to follow the rules, will you? Fade into the woodwork. Say nothing. Do nothing to attract attention, are we agreed?”

“You’re too nervous yourself,” said Marklin crossly.

The front doors stood open. The hall was choked with men and women, thick with cigar smoke, and positively roaring with voices. It had the air of a crowded wake or intermission at the theatre.

Marklin stopped. Every instinct in him told him not to go in. And all his life he had believed in his instincts, as surely as he believed in his intelligence.

“Come on, man,” said Tommy, between his teeth. He urged Marklin forward.

“Oh, hello,” said a bright-faced old gentleman who turned to greet them. “And who are you?”

“Novices,” said Marklin. “Tommy Monohan and Marklin George. Are novices allowed to come in?”

“Of course, of course,” said the man, stepping aside. The crowd pressed in behind him, faces turning towards him and then away indifferently. A woman was whispering to a man on the other side of the doorway, and when her eyes met Marklin’s, she made a small noise of surprise and distress.

“This is all wrong,” said Marklin under his breath.

“You should all be here, of course,” the jolly man was saying, “all the young ones should be here. When something like this happens, everyone is called home.”

“Why, I wonder,” said Tommy. “Nobody liked Anton.”

“Shut up,” said Marklin. “It’s quite remarkable, isn’t it, the way that people—you and I for instance—respond to stress.”

“No, unfortunately, it’s not remarkable at all.”

They edged their way through the press. Strange faces to the right and left. People everywhere were drinking wine and beer. He could hear French, Italian, even people speaking Dutch.

There sat Joan Cross, in the first of the formal parlors, surrounded by faces unknown to Marklin, but all of them in serious conversation.

No Stuart.

“You see?” said Tommy, whispering in his ear. “They’re doing what comes naturally after someone dies—gathering, talking, as if it were a party. Now that’s what we have to do. What comes naturally. You understand?”

Marklin nodded, but he didn’t like it, no, not at all. He glanced back once, trying to find the door, but the door had been closed, apparently, and the crowd blocked his view in any event. He could see nothing. Indeed, it struck him as strange that there were so many foreign faces, and he wanted to say something to Tommy, but Tommy had moved away.

Tommy was chatting with Elvera, nodding as Elvera explained something to him. She looked as dowdy as ever, with her dark gray hair knotted at the nape of her neck, and her rimless glasses halfway down her nose. Enzo stood beside her, that devious-looking Italian. Where the hell was his twin?

How dreadful to spend one’s life in this place, he thought. Did he dare to ask about Stuart? Certainly he didn’t dare to ask about Yuri, though of course he knew. Ansling and Perry had told him about Yuri’s call. Oh God, what was he to do? And where were Ansling and Perry?