Taltos (Lives of the Mayfair Witches #3)(58)
Author: Anne Rice

“Then he wasn’t lying when he told you he wanted to help you,” said Rowan, watching him keenly.

“No, he wasn’t lying. And he wants to protect the Talamasca, why I can’t tell you. It all has to do with the past, and perhaps the archives, the secrets, though what is really in those archives nobody knows now. Oh, if I could only trust that the Elders were not part of it. But a witch, don’t you see, a witch of Mona’s power is simply too valuable to Ash and to Samuel. I should never, never have told them about Mona. Oh, I was a fool to tell them all about the family. But you see, this Samuel, he saved my life.”

“But did this Taltos say he had no mate?” asked Michael. “If ‘mate’ is the proper word?”

“That was plainly obvious. He came here because Samuel told him that a Taltos—Lasher, with you, Rowan!—had appeared at Donnelaith. Ash came immediately from someplace far off, I don’t know where. Ash is rich. He has bodyguards, attendants, he travels in a little motorcade, so Samuel tells me. Samuel talks too freely, really, for his own good.”

“But he didn’t mention a female Taltos?”

“No. Both of them gave me the distinct impression that they did not know of the existence of a female Taltos! Rowan, don’t you see, the Little People are dying, and the Taltos is damned near extinct. God, Ash could be the only one living, now that Lasher is gone. Imagine it! You see what Mona means to these two?”

“All right, you want my opinion?” asked Michael. He reached for the coffeepot on the tray beside him and refilled his cup, holding it like a mug, without the saucer. “We’ve done all we can about Ashlar and Samuel.” He looked at Rowan as he spoke. “There is a one-in-ten chance, perhaps, that we can locate them at Claridge’s even—”

“No, you must not approach them,” said Yuri. “You must not even let them know mat you are here. Especially not you.”

“Yeah, I understand,” said Michael, nodding, “but—”

“No, you don’t understand,” said Yuri, “or you don’t believe me. Michael, these creatures can tell a witch when they see it, male or female. They know. They do not require modern medical tests to know that you have the chromosomes which are so precious to them. They know you, by scent perhaps, and surely by sight.”

Michael gave a little shrug, as if to say he was reserving judgment, but he wouldn’t push this now.

“Okay, so I don’t go over there to Claridge’s right now. But it’s awfully hard not to do that, Yuri. I mean, you’re saying that Ash and Samuel are only five minutes away from this hotel.”

“God, I hope they are gone. And I hope they are not gone to New Orleans. Why did I tell them? Why was I not more clever? Why was I so foolish in my gratitude and in my fear?”

“Stop blaming yourself for this,” said Rowan.

“The guards are quadrupled in New Orleans,” said Michael. His relaxed posture hadn’t changed. “Let’s just leave the subject of Ashlar and Samuel for a moment, and go back to the Talamasca. Now, we were making a list of the oldest members in London, ones who could either be trusted or must surely have smelled a rat.”

Yuri sighed. He was very near to a small satin chair by the window, one dressed in the same high-pitched moiré as the draperies, so that it was scarcely visible at all. He flopped down on the edge of it, putting his hands over his mouth. He let out his breath again slowly. His hair was rumpled.

“Okay,” said Yuri. “The Talamasca, my refuge, my life. Ah, the Talamasca.” He counted now upon his right fingers. “We had Milling, he’s bedridden, there’s no way to get to him. I don’t want to call him and agitate him. Then there was … there was …”

“Joan Cross,” said Michael. He picked up the yellow pad from the coffee table. “Yeah, Joan Cross. Seventy-five years old, invalid. Wheelchair. Declined to be appointed Superior General due to crippling arthritis.”

“Not the devil himself could subvert Joan Cross,” said Yuri, words tumbling faster than ever. “But Joan is too self-absorbed. She spends all her time in the archives. She wouldn’t notice now if the members were running around naked.”

“Then the next one, Timothy Hollingshed,” said Michael, reading it from the pad.

“Yes, Timothy, if only I knew him better. No, the one we should select is Stuart Gordon. Did I say Stuart Gordon? I said Stuart Gordon before, didn’t I?”

“No, you didn’t, but it’s quite all right to say it now,” said Rowan. “Why Stuart Gordon?”

“He’s eighty-seven and he still teaches, at least within the Order itself. Stuart Gordon’s closest friend was Aaron! Stuart Gordon may know all about the Mayfair witches. Why, he almost certainly knows! I remember him telling me once in passing, last year it was, that Aaron had been near to the family too long. I swear on my soul that nothing could corrupt Stuart Gordon. He’s the man we should take into our confidence.”

“Or at least draw out,” said Rowan under her breath.

“You have another name here,” said Michael. “Antoinette Campbell.”

“She’s younger, much younger. But if Antoinette is corrupt, then so is God. But Stuart—if there is anyone on that list who may be an Elder, and we never know who they are, you see, it would be Stuart Gordon! That’s our man.”

“We’ll save the other names. We shouldn’t contact more than one of these people at a time.”

“So what do you lose by contacting Gordon now by telephone?” asked Michael.

“He lets them know he’s alive,” said Rowan. “But perhaps that’s inevitable.” She was watching Yuri. How would he ever handle a key phone conversation with anyone in this state? Indeed, the sweat had broken out on him again. He was shaking. She’d gotten him clean clothes, but they were already soaked with sweat.

“Yes, it’s inevitable,” said Yuri, “but if they don’t know where I am, there’s no danger. I can get more out of Stuart in five minutes than anyone else I can think of, even my old friend Baron in Amsterdam. Let me make this call.”

“But we cannot forget,” said Rowan, “that he may be in on the conspiracy. It may be the entire Order. It may be all of the Elders.”

“He would rather die than hurt the Talamasca. He has a pair of brilliant novices who might even help us. Tommy Monohan, he’s some sort of computer genius. He might be of great assistance in tracing down the corruption. And then there’s the other one, the blond one, the pretty one, he has a strange name, Marklin, that’s it, Marklin George. But Stuart must judge this situation.”