Katherine Kurtz - Adept 02 - The Lodge of the Lynx

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HE IS ETERNAL. SO ARE HIS FOES…

Through countless lives and eras, the Adept has fought the powers of Darkness. Now, as psychiatrist Adam

Sinclair, he leads his loyal Huntsmen against supernatural evil in all its myriad forms.

But the Darkness is striking back - in the guise of an unholy cult long thought to be extinct. Endowed with

the elemental energy of an ancient Druidic artifact, the Lodge of the Lynx stands ready to unleash destruction

on Sinclair, his allies and, ultimately, all of Scotland.

The old battle begins anew - and this time the future may belong to…

THE LODGE OF THE LYNX

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either

are the product of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously,

and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business

establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

THE ADEPT: THE LODGE OF THE LYNX

An Ace Book / published by arrangement with Bill Fawcett and Associates

PRINTING HISTORY

Ace edition / June 1992

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced

in any form without permission. The scanning, uploading, and

distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without

the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please

purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or

encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the

author's rights is appreciated. For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10.014.

ISBN: 0-441-00.344-3

ACE Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10.014.

ACE and the "A" design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

For

Our Aunts and Uncles:

Stephen and Janie Carter

and in loving memory of

Gretchen and Marshall Fisher

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Grateful thanks are due to the following, for their assistance in rendering this novel:

Sgt. Graham Brown, PC Alan Jeffries, and PC Ian Richardson, Lothian and Borders Police, Edinburgh, for

background on Scottish Police procedures;

Dr. Richard Oram, for continuing to provide a wealth of scholarly information on matters of Scottish history

and archaeology;

Mr. Kenneth Fraser, for his on-going help in the St. Andrews University Library;

Mrs. Edith Rendle, for her advice on Scots law and Scottish legal procedure;

Dr. Ernan J. Gallagher, for general medical advice, and Dr. A.V.M. Davidson, for her advice on Scottish

medical facilities and practice;

Scott MacMillan, for his expertise on weapons, police procedures, and interesting motor vehicles;

Peter Morwood, for military advice, especially on the SAS;

Bob Harris, for general aid, comfort, and research assistance;

And once again, to the St. Andrews branch of the Scottish Tourist Information Bureau, especially Rhona

McKay, for their tireless efforts in running down local information not to be found in the guidebooks.

prologue

A brooding stillness lay upon the chill night air. High above the tower's conical roof, the old man could feel the

energy beginning to gather - a faint electrical prickle that stirred the hackles at the back of the neck and

crawled on the tiny hairs of bare arms like invisible insects. At first it seemed little more than a tense,

ongoing flicker in the silence, skittish as a flight of hunting bats. Then the pulses gathered strength, growing

more potent with each passing moment. Before long, the energy was beating about the roof slates like some

huge, winged predator struggling to break free from the restraint of its jesses - held only by the strength of will

of the one who had summoned it.

Even to undertake such a summoning was both difficult and dangerous. To direct the power thus summoned

required exquisite control, acquired only through long years of study and unspeakable sacrifice. The merest

wavering of will, the slightest distraction, might release the tight-leashed energy prematurely, to rebound with

disastrous consequences upon the very tower where the summoner sat surrounded by his chosen Twelve.

But the venerable Head-Master who ruled the tower was one well-accustomed to taking calculated risks.

He had chosen both the venue and his acolytes with care. The chamber from which they worked occupied the

entire topmost floor of the tower - a massive, twelve-sided structure that dominated the castellated manor

house of which it was a part. Bleak and remote among the cataracts and crags of Scotland's Cairngorm

Mountains, the house had been built in Victorian times upon the foundations of an Iron Age broch, with the

tower and even parts of the house incorporating undressed stones from the earlier structure.

Nowhere were these primitive origins more apparent than in the topmost tower chamber, whose thick, nearly

windowless walls had been plastered starkly white, the ceiling above divided like a wheel by converging

beams of black oak. Though the house and the floors below were wired for electricity, gaslight remained this

room's sole source of illumination. Gas jets hissed behind shades of crimson glass in brass sconces at the

room's four quarters, dispersing the fitful yellowish glow and casting only soft, vague shadows before the

twelve white-robed figures seated cross-legged around the room's perimeter.

No shadows at all intruded upon the center of the room, with its mound of scarlet cushions. From there the

white-clad Master directed the Work, palms upturned upon splayed knees, hairless head bowed, eyes closed

in a gaunt, wizened face that resembled a mummified skull.

Before him on a mat of black ram skin lay a stacked heap of parchment, the pages yellow and brittle with

age. And weighting the stack of parchments, its arc as wide as the span of a man's spread hand, was the

object of the old man's concentration - a Celtic tore wrought of black meteoric iron. Its crafting was of the

same distant age as the broch, with geometric knots and flowing zoomorphs cunningly inlaid with fluid

traceries of silver. Smoky cairngorms smouldered baleful as serpents' eyes among the interlocking shapes

and whorls.

Focusing upon its ancient energies, the old man extended his hands over the tore like a man warming his

hands at a fire, feeling its potential danger prickling beneath his hands, only barely contained by the dark

hallowing he had imposed upon it. Even with his eyes closed, he could sense its potent magnetic influence

acting upon the elemental energies building outside the tower, straining to be away.

And soon would be away. The moment was nearly at hand. Hardening his intent for the ultimate exercise of

his will, the old man lifted the tore in palsied hands and slipped it around his scrawny neck. The kiss of the

cold metal against his throat plunged him even deeper into trance as he felt the ancient energies mesh with

his own, and he flung back his head and raised blue-veined arms in a gesture both of invocation and

command. Only then did he at last allow the image to form in his mind of the distant object of his intention.

Some forty miles away, the royal castle of Balmoral lay quiet under a clear, frosty sprinkling of November

stars. With the Queen and Royal Family back in London for the winter, the Scots Guards in charge of

grounds security went about their appointed late-night rounds with the relaxed efficiency of men who had no

reason to expect any serious trouble but were nonetheless prepared for it - in battledress and black berets for

night patrol, and armed with the latest Enfield "Bull Pup" rifles.

Corporal Archie Buchannan had just completed his hourly circuit of the south lawn and was headed for his

post by the south door, shifting the weight of his rifle on its shoulder sling, when a flicker of movement in the

sky overhead made him glance up. He stopped short in his tracks, his brow furrowing sharply in surprise and

astonishment.

A dense bank of black cloud was sweeping down on the castle out of the west, moving faster than any storm

Archie had ever seen before. Its curdled vapors writhed and boiled like pitch in a cauldron, stirred by erratic

pulses of sheet-lightning, so that within the span of only a few heartbeats, the clouds had blotted out half the

stars in the sky.

"What the de'il?" Archie murmured under his breath.

A low growl of thunder rolled hollowly across the lawn, accompanied by a more defined crackle of lightning

within the roiling clouds. The brief flare picked out two more figures in battledress uniform as they hurried out

onto the grass from the shadows of the building, eyes turned skyward under uniform berets.

"Oi! Archie! D'ye see that?" one of them yelled. "Where did all these clouds come from?"

Before Archie could venture a response, an eye-searing bolt of bright-white lightning ripped the sky above the

castle roof, accompanied by a deafening crack of thunder. The lightning bolt struck the north turret of the

great square tower with the force of a mortar round, hurling stones and roof slates up and outward in a blazing

fountain of destruction.

The concussion flung Archie to the ground. As he frantically scrambled for cover underneath the nearest

hedge, trying to protect his head from the debris already beginning to rain down, he could only think that it

must have been a bomb, regardless of what his own senses told him. Above the ringing in his ears, he

started to hear the intermittent clangor of security alarms going off. As the patter of falling debris subsided, an

attendant clamor of shouts began to rise from other parts of the castle grounds, along with the thud of booted

feet approaching.

Cautiously Archie raised his head to look around, squinting against the sudden glare of security lights fitfully

coming on all around the castle and grounds.

"Archie? Are ye all right, man?" said a voice close beside him, as a hand roughly grasped his shoulder.

"Aye, just let me catch my breath," Archie muttered, rolling over to see the smudged faces of two of his

colleagues, both looking slightly wild-eyed and dishevelled.

"Jesus, what happened?" demanded the one who had shaken him, as his larger partner shifted his grip on his

rifle and looked around uneasily. "It sounded like a bloody bomb!"

Archie shook his head and let the other man help him sit up, testing gingerly for injuries beyond the bruises

he knew were inevitable. Ears still ringing, he pulled himself stiffly to his feet, then gaped as he gazed across

the lawn in the direction of the baronial tower.

Where the north turret had stood but minutes earlier, the bomb - or lightning strike - had left only a burning

stump of charred masonry.

Forty miles away, on the other side of the mountains, the old man in white exhaled with a long-drawn sigh of

satisfaction and savored his moment of triumph. Outside confirmation would have to wait until morning, when

the news services undoubtedly would be full of it, but he had no doubt that his aim had been successful.

Slowly he reached to his throat, removing the ancient tore with both hands and carefully laying it back atop

the stack of parchments before him. Then he let his arms sink to his sides, bowing his head in deep

obeisance as he acknowledged the Power that had delivered the lightning into his hands. His twelve acolytes

bowed with him, their shadows blurring together as they touched their brows to the floor.

But it was only outwardly a gesture of humility. A silence born of dark exultation reigned in the room as the

acolytes straightened and then bent again, this time in homage to him.

Smiling primly, the old man acknowledged their deference with a nod and a hand gesture and dismissed

them, waiting until they all had gone before lying back in his cushions to exult in private, and plan the further

exercise of his art….

chapter one

THE silvery jingle of snaffles rang clear as sleigh bells in the frosty air of a fine November morning as two men

on horseback approached the crest of the wooded hill overlooking Strathmourne House. Sir Adam Sinclair's

grey thoroughbred pricked his ears and snorted softly at the scent of the stables below and would have

quickened his pace to a trot, had his rider not applied legs and reins with gentle firmness.

"Easy, Khalid. Walk," Adam said.

The big gelding crested and tried a few tentative, prancing steps in piaffe, all but floating just above the

ground, then settled back to a resigned, sedate walk, as if there had never been any difference of opinion

between horse and rider. The second rider, a younger man with gilt-bronze hair and gold-rimmed spectacles,

chuckled aloud at the sheer artistry of the partnership.

"Ah, the master's touch," he remarked with a grin. "He really is an exceptionally fine animal, Adam. You

must let me capture the pair of you on canvas one of these days - perhaps something along the lines of that

study of your father and his grey hunter in your drawing room." He cocked his head appraisingly at the older

man.

"What about it? Shall I do you an equestrian portrait for Christmas?"

The question elicited a companionable chuckle and a pleased smile from Adam.

"Do you think your painting hand is up to the strain? If so, there's nothing I'd like better!"

Peregrine Lovat lifted his gloved right hand from the reins of his own mount, a blood-bay mare with a silken

mouth and a coquettish disposition, and flexed the leather-clad fingers so that Adam could see them.

"Oh, not to worry on that account," he said cheerfully. "My hand's virtually good as new, thanks to your

exacting supervision of the repair job. As a matter of fact, I've been back at my easel for nearly a week now,

and haven't had more than an occasional twinge."

"All the same, I wouldn't overdo," Adam cautioned. "It was a nasty laceration that might have ended your

painting career once and for all. I'd hate to think you might yet jeopardize it through impatience."

Peregrine set his hand back on the reins, all at once very conscious of the protective bandage under the glove

that he continued to wear when engaged in strenuous or dirty activities. The circumstances of the injury itself

still gave him cause to cringe, whenever he thought about it too long. Sword cuts were not exactly common in

this day and age. But in fact, it was precisely the sharpness of his recollection that had prompted him to take

up his paints and brushes so quickly, as soon as the sutures were out and he felt able to hold a brush

properly again. He bit at his lip thoughtfully, trying to find words to explain his recent sense of compulsion.

"It isn't really impatience," he told Adam. "Perhaps I pushed myself a little, but - well, this may sound a bit

odd, but the fact of the matter is, I didn't think I dared delay it. The - ah - studies I've been doing are all

connected with what happened at Loch Ness."

Adam gave him a sharp look from under his velvet riding cap. The two had met little more than a month ago,

but that initial, brief social acquaintance, sparked by professional concern, had led to an esoteric partnership

that was as welcome as it had been unexpected. Without Peregrine's unique and hitherto unsuspected

talents, employed both at Loch Ness and in the days leading up to it, the outcome might have been far less

satisfactory. The young artist might not yet understand a great deal about that part of his talent that went

beyond the mere artistic, but he was learning every day - and obviously had been busier than Adam

expected.

"I haven't yet dared to try that self-portrait you suggested," Peregrine said, guessing the possible direction of

his mentor's speculations. "Somehow, it's seemed more important, for now, to make a pictorial record of

everything I could remember about that night at Loch Ness. My recall of it seems to be somehow linked to

this cut on my hand - almost as if the wound itself is the very thing that ties me into that part of the affair.

Right after it happened," he continued, "all my mental impressions were crystal-clear, right down to the

smallest details. But since my hand's started to heal, those impressions have begun to fade. I can still

recover them, but it takes much more effort."

Adam now was watching him closely, as their horses picked their way down the last of the sloping trail.

"That's an interesting speculation," he said. "What makes you so sure that it isn't simply the passage of

time?"

Peregrine grimaced and gave a snort. "Well, maybe you could get at the memories by using hypnosis or

something, but the only way 7 seem to be able to do it is by first concentrating my attention on the cut on

my hand. And since that's healing, I thought I'd better push on with the paintings before I maybe lost the

recall."

A smile lit Adam's dark eyes. "You're learning more quickly than I thought. I think I'd like to have a look at

what you've done."

"Somehow I thought you might," Peregrine said, with an easy grin that would not have been possible for the

tight-wound young man of a mere month before. ' 'I brought them along in the back of my car this morning. I

thought they might make for interesting conversation over breakfast."

The ring of steel-shod hooves on the cobbles of the stable yard summoned John, the ex-Household Cavalry

trooper who looked after Adam's horses. With a grin and a wave that was almost a salute, he came to take

the reins as Adam and Peregrine dismounted.

"Did you and Mr. Lovat have a good ride, sir?" he asked, as Adam ran up his stirrups on their leathers and

loosened Khalid's girth.

"Yes, splendid," Adam replied. "We had a good, long canter along the ridge in the upper field, and Mr. Lovat

even tried a few easy jumps - successfully, I might add. At this rate, we'll have him legged up enough to hunt

by Christmas."

Peregrine, tending his own mount, rolled his eyes in good-natured self-deprecation.

"In this case, I'm afraid that successful is a very relative term, but I did manage not to fall off!"

Adam chuckled as the horses were led on into the barn, and Peregrine fell in beside him as they walked

briskly on through the garden adjacent to the back of the house and headed for the back door. There

Peregrine diverted briefly to collect a portfolio from the back of a green Morris Minor Traveller. When he joined

Adam in the mudroom, hanging his riding helmet on a hook beside Adam's, the older man had already

exchanged his boots for velvet slippers crested with the Sinclair phoenix and was drying his hands on a

monogrammed towel.

"I'll take those on into the morning room while you wash up,"

Adam said, relieving Peregrine of the portfolio. "Humphrey's left a second pair of slippers there by the

bootjack. If we track mud on Mrs. G.'s clean floors, she may not speak to any of us for days."

Grinning, Peregrine peeled off his riding gloves and applied the bootjack to his own muddy boots, then thrust

stockinged feet into the indicated slippers. After ducking into the adjoining washroom to douse his face and

hands and run a comb through his hair, he followed the way his host had gone, along the service corridor and

on into the gold-damasked morning room.

Humphrey, Adam's butler of more than twenty years' service, had set up for breakfast in the sunshine of the

room's wide bow window. As always, the table was an immaculate array of crisp Irish linen, fine china and

crystal, and antique silver. Adam was sipping fresh-squeezed orange juice from a Waterford goblet while he

glanced at the front page headlines of the morning, paper. Humphrey was pouring his master's first cup of

tea. Both men looked up as Peregrine entered, Adam raising his glass in salute and Humphrey poising the

silver teapot over the cup set before Peregrine's place.

"Good morning, Mr. Lovat. May I pour you a cup of tea?"

"Yes, thank you, Humphrey. Good morning."

"Sir Adam tells me that you've moved the last of your boxes into the gate lodge," the butler went on. "I trust

that the new accommodations are proving satisfactory?"

Peregrine grinned as he pulled out the Queen Anne chair and sat, shaking out his napkin with a flourish. It

was barely two weeks since he had accepted Adam's invitation to come and live in the vacant rear gate

lodge, and already he was finding it a decided improvement over the cramped studio loft he had occupied in

Edinburgh.

"More than satisfactory, Humphrey," he said happily. "You know, I thought I'd miss the hustle and bustle of

the city. Oddly enough, though, I find myself settling quite contentedly into the life of a country gentleman.

There really is more room to breathe."

This expansive remark gave Adam cause for private amusement, for he knew that literal breathing space was

not at all what Peregrine had in mind. If the truth were strictly to be told, he suspected that Peregrine's

new-found sense of liberty was due as much to a change in outlook as it was to a change in environment. As

a psychiatrist, Adam was not unfamiliar with the general phenomenon, but Peregrine's case had presented

factors Adam encountered all too seldom. Though reserved and withdrawn at their initial meeting, brooding

like a hawk in captivity, Peregrine gradually had been given the opportunity to try his wings. Even now, though

Peregrine himself was not altogether aware of it, the young artist was in the process of joining the Hunt in

earnest, like the falcon-breed for which he was named. And if Adam Sinclair was reading the signs aright, the

process was rapidly nearing completion.

"Have a scone, Peregrine," he murmured with a smile, as Humphrey offered the younger man a linen-nested

basket. "And you ought to know that Mrs. Gilchrist brought these by fresh this morning, especially for 'that

nice young Mr. Lovat.' Apparently she's taken quite a fancy to you."

Peregrine had started to take just one scone, but now he plucked a second out of the basket before

Humphrey could offer it across to Adam.

"I'd better have two, then, hadn't I?" He grinned wickedly. "After all, I shouldn't want Mrs. G. to think I wasn't

properly appreciative. Good housekeepers are worth their weight in fresh scones!"

"Aye, and you won't find a better one in the entire county," Adam agreed. "She accomplishes more for me in

three half-days a week than most folk could manage working at it full-time. I don't know what Humphrey and I

would do without her. If she's offered to do for you, down at the lodge, don't let her get away, whatever

happens!"

"Oh, I shan't!"

As breakfast conversation ranged on from appreciation of domestic staff to their morning's ride and the clouds

now glowering to the north, the scones slowly disappeared, washed down with cups of tea. Humphrey, eyeing

the portfolio Adam had set casually just inside the door, brought in a folding rosewood card-table from the

adjoining parlor and set it up beside the breakfast table while they ate.

"Suppose we have a look at what you've brought now, shall we?" Adam said, when Humphrey had retired to

the kitchen and they were about finished with breakfast.

Peregrine, after popping the last bite of his last scone into his mouth, wiped his fingers hastily on his napkin

and shifted his chair around to the rosewood table to unzip his portfolio, delving deep inside to draw out

several sheets of watercolor paper, cut to varying sizes.

"My hand was still a bit stiff for pencil work when I started these, and oils take too long to dry," he explained,

as he handed one across to Adam. "I managed to get a fair amount of detail, though, even with the

watercolors. Besides, I've always felt that watercolors were the best medium for capturing the feel of rotten

weather."

The first painting showed three figures crouched in the driving rain in Urquhart Castle's car park, eerily backlit

with a wash of luminescent green. The figures meant to be Peregrine and Adam himself were little more than

vague suggestions of form, glimpsed from behind, but the third, brandishing a long, metal-cased police torch,

quite clearly was Detective Chief Inspector Noel McLeod, Adam's professional and esoteric colleague of

many years' standing. Rain spattered the inspector's wire-rimmed aviator glasses and streamed off his

short-clipped grey moustache as he turned slightly to glance back at them, and both he and Adam wore the

dark green waxed jackets peculiar to country pursuits all over Britain. Peregrine sported his familiar navy

duffel coat.

"Yes, indeed," Adam murmured, smiling as he turned the painting face-down and read the caption Peregrine

had penciled lightly on the back: Master Huntsmen and rank amateur. The smile died as Peregrine handed

him the second painting.

It had the same greenish luminance as the first one, but the perspective had shifted down to the rain-lashed

shore of Loch Ness. Marching across the center of a night landscape, silhouetted by lightning flashes, was a

procession of four dark-robed and hooded men. The two in the middle were struggling to carry a small but

heavy chest of archaic design. The one bringing up the rear bore what appeared to be a framed picture above

his head, ducking beneath it like a shield.

The fourth man, masked across the eyes like an executioner, was brandishing a sword as he led the odd

procession. Light glinted from a heavy, silvery medallion around his throat and a ring on his right hand, but the

very light made it impossible to see the items in detail. Above and around them all, whirling like a swarm of

angry hornets, hung a hungry cloud of green-glowing spheres. The spheres in the foreground each contained

the spectral impression of a winged homunculus with gaping jaws and razor-sharp teeth.

On the back of this painting Peregrine had scribbled, The fury of the Sidhe.

"Whoever would have believed that anything so tiny could be so deadly?" the artist said, surveying his own

work with a wondering shake of his head. ' "The next one's even more fanciful, if you don't believe in

monsters."

He passed Adam a third sheet of watercolor paper. This painting, a much darker night scene, showed two

men cowering in the stern of a sleek, high-powered speedboat as it tossed about on a stormy sweep of black

water. The speedboat was overshadowed by a huge serpentine form rearing out of the waves off the starboard

bow. Reptilian eyes glittered green in a basilisk head, as the creature gathered its coils to strike and dive….

Anyone else viewing the picture might have taken it for the cover illustration from some modern horror novel;

but Adam knew better. He had witnessed the event with his own eyes from the beach below Urquhart Castle,

overlooking Loch Ness - but Peregrine's painting showed far more detail than anyone could have seen from

the shore.

For Peregrine Lovat had the gift of seeing more than other people. It was part of what made him such a gifted

portrait artist - this ability to see more about his sitters than mere physical appearance - and it was what had

driven him to seek Adam's help. In learning to accept his talent for the gift it was, he was coming to

understand what Adam already knew - that the truth sometimes went beyond empirical evidence and what

would be admissible in a court of law.

Being privy to the truth could be dangerous, of course. Peregrine's last two paintings bore testimony to that

fact. The first framed the upper body of the hooded man with the sword, the blade now discernible as an

ornate Italian rapier. The detail of the sword-hand and the rapier hilt was good, the blade just striking the blow

that had left Peregrine wounded, but the red-stoned ring on the sword-hand was not clearly visible.

"Here's a better detail of the leader's ring and medallion," Peregrine said, handing Adam the last painting. "I

had to think about this for a long time, but I finally got a clear look at what was on them."

It might have been artwork submitted for a jeweller's commission, so finely was it done. The opaque red

gemstone set into the golden bezel of the ring had been skillfully cut to show the snarling mask of a big cat

with the tufted ears and side-whiskers of a lynx. The disk of the medallion, sharply delineated in shades of

black and grey, bore the same design. Adam's long mouth thinned at the sight of the device, for it stirred

memories that were far from pleasant.

"You've seen one of these before, haven't you?" Peregrine observed quietly, noting the narrowing of the other's

dark eyes.

"Aye," Adam said quietly. "As a matter of fact, the ring you've depicted was recovered at Loch Ness. McLeod

showed it to me, after we got back from having your hand sutured."

Peregrine gaped, glancing at the painting again, then returned his attention to Adam.

"What does it mean, then?"

Adam pulled a tight smile that had no mirth in it. At Loch Ness, he and McLeod had guessed the truth, but

they had kept the knowledge to themselves. However, if Peregrine was to join the Hunt, he had to know

something of what they were up against.

"You've seen the rings that Noel and I wear when we're working. Many Black Lodges do the same. This is the

Sign of the Lynx." He tapped the illustration of the Lynx ring with a well-manicured forefinger. "Let's just say

that the Lodge of the Lynx is an old enemy."

Peregrine's hazel eyes widened, but he said nothing. After a moment, Adam continued.

"We last encountered them about fifteen years ago. At that time, their leader was a man named Tudor-Jones.

We lost three members of our own Hunting Party before we succeeded in bringing the Lodge of the Lynx to

its reckoning. At the time, I dared to hope we'd gotten most of the ringleaders."

Peregrine blanched slightly. "Gotten!" he murmured.

His tone roused Adam from his abstracted recollection, and the older man smiled briefly at his young

colleague's discomfiture.

"I'm sorry. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that we - arrested them. You'll perhaps remember that

conversation we had in the car, the morning after the incident at Loch Ness, in which I said that Noel and I

were something like an occult police force? Well, the analogy holds true on several levels. Like our more

mundane colleagues, we're committed to upholding the Law - in this case, the Law of the Inner Planes. The

members of organizations like the Lodge of the Lynx, like any other criminal organization, want what they're

not entitled to, and will stop at nothing to get it. It's our job to apprehend such people and bring them to

justice before they can wreak harm on the world at large.

"Which is not to say that there haven't been fatalities on both sides," he continued soberly. "As it happens, in

the case of Tudor-Jones and his followers, most of those who were most heavily involved in the work of the

Lynx are dead. But that was certainly through no intention of ours. We're enforcers, not executioners. Our job

then - as now - was to stop them from committing serious violations against the Law of the Inner Planes.

When we're obliged to use force, we try to utilize only that force already employed by the opposition -

optimally, to turn it back against those who summoned it - but even then, only as a matter of necessity."

He might have said more, but at that moment there was a brief rap at the door, followed by the precipitous

entry of Humphrey carrying a small, tabletop TV.

"I beg your pardon, sir, for barging in like this," he said over his shoulder as he made hurriedly for the nearest

electrical outlet, "but one of the headlines on the morning news may interest you. The actual report should be

up any second now."

He set the TV on one of the mahogany side tables, plugged it in, and switched it on. Almost immediately, the

jagged silhouette of grey turrets against a greyer sky filled the screen, to the accompaniment of a cultivated

BBC voice-over.

"… Grampian Police are investigating a mysterious explosion that took place early this morning within the

grounds of Balmoral Castle," the voice said, as the camera tilted down to a wet-looking expanse of formal

garden and well-manicured lawn. "The explosion, which severely damaged the baronial tower of the castle,

occurred shortly after midnight. No one was injured. Chief Constable William McNab declined to comment on

the probable cause of the explosion, asserting that the facts will only be known following detailed examination

of the wreckage. A police forensics team from Aberdeen and another team from the army are presently sifting

through the debris in search of clues."

The steadicam panned to the damaged tower of the castle, showing a blackened stump of blasted masonry

where the north turret ought to have been. Several figures in military and police uniforms were picking through

the rubble that littered the grass around the base of the building. The camera pulled back to focus on the

figure of a cold-looking newscaster in rain slicker and tweed cap, standing in the foreground with microphone

in hand.

"A spokesman from Buckingham Palace has confirmed that no member of the Royal Family was in residence

at Balmoral at the time of the incident," the newscaster reported gravely. "The authorities are looking into the

possibility of a gas explosion, but it is understood that they have not yet ruled out the possibility of a terrorist

bomb. To add to the mystery, there have been several unconfirmed reports by local witnesses claiming to

have seen a freak bolt of lightning strike the roof of the castle. There has been no official statement as yet on

behalf of the police or of the regiment currently in charge of castle security. So until the authorities are

prepared to come forward with an explanation, the cause of the explosion seems destined to remain a

mystery. This is Alan Cafferty, BBC News, Balmoral Castle."

The story concluded with a final close-up of the ruined turret, smoke still rising in thin wisps from the

blackened stones. As coverage shifted back to London for the business news, Adam signed for Humphrey to

switch off the set and take it away, and glanced aside at the wide-eyed Peregrine.

"Mystery, indeed," he murmured. "I wonder…"

Reaching behind him, he snagged the telephone and punched out the numbers that would give him the

residence of Detective Chief Inspector Noel McLeod, veteran of many such unsolved "mysteries." The line

picked up on the third ring.

' 'Edinburgh 7978,'' rumbled a familiar bass voice at the other end of the line.

Adam's expression eased slightly. "Noel? Adam here. I don't suppose you were listening to the news just

now?"

"The bit on Balmoral? Aye, that I was," said McLeod. "I was in the middle of shaving when Jane called me out

to see it."

Adam found himself smiling at the mental image of McLeod hurrying into the sitting room with the shaving

foam still on his chin.

"I don't suppose you know any more about it than I do, then," he said. "What did you think?"

"My first thought was to be thankful it's outside my jurisdiction," McLeod replied. "It was only the bit about

the lightning strike that gave me second thoughts."

"Hmmm. Me, too," Adam said. "At the very least, I wonder who the unnamed witnesses are. It seems

strange that anyone should attribute the damage to a freak lightning strike, unless that was precisely what

they thought they saw. It could be that there's nothing more to it than some odd trick of the weather, but I

don't know that I'm prepared to make that assumption."

"Aye." McLeod's brusque reply made it clear that he was digesting what Adam had just said - and not said.

"Well, I don't suppose it would do any harm to have a wee look over the ground, once the press have backed

off the case - if only to set our minds at ease."

"My thinking, precisely," said Adam. "If you can arrange the time off, perhaps we could drive up to Balmoral

some time early next week."

"No problem there," said McLeod. "I'll ring you once I've had a chance to set it up. Were you maybe thinking

to bring along young Lovat?"

"If he wants to come," said Adam, with an inquiring glance toward Peregrine, who had been listening avidly to

Adam's half of the conversation and now nodded vehemently. "As a matter of fact," Adam went on, grinning,

"he's here with me now. We've been out for a ride. I'm being given to understand that a team of wild horses

couldn't keep him from coming along."

McLeod chuckled.

"In the meantime," Adam continued, "I don't see any reason why you shouldn't be left to enjoy the weekend

in peace. Give my love to Jane, and I'll look to hear from you in a few days."

With that assurance, he rang off. No sooner had he set down the receiver, however, than the instrument gave

out with another trill of summons. Surprised, Adam answered it himself.

"Strathmourne, Sinclair here."

"Adam? Good Lord, you've answered your own phone!" said a man's musical tenor, as familiar in Adam's ears

as McLeod's gravelly bass. "Oh, capital! I was afraid I might have missed you. It's Christopher here. Seen the

news broadcast this morning?"

"If you're referring to that incident up at Balmoral, I've just been on the phone about it with Noel," Adam said.

"Ah, then it struck you as odd, too," the other replied, with jaunty good humor. ' 'Well, we can talk about it

further when we meet up. You are still coming?"

"Of course. I was planning to leave as soon as I'd finished breakfast and gotten cleaned up," Adam said. "I

gather there's been no change since we last spoke?"

"No, not that I know of."

"In that case, we'll carry on as planned. By the way," Adam added, "I happen to have someone with me at

the moment who might be useful to have along. His name is Peregrine Lovat."

"The artist chap?"

"That's right. Would you mind if I were to bring him?"

"Mind? Good Lord, no!"

"In that case, I'll see if he minds."

He turned to Peregrine, who was manfully struggling to mask his curiosity.

"Well, what about it?" said Adam. "Have you got any plans for this morning?"

"Actually, I was going to spend a fascinating morning unpacking cartons of books," Peregrine said drily, the

hazel eyes eager behind the gold-rimmed spectacles. ' 'But if this is an invitation, the books can wait!"

Adam chuckled. "He says he thinks he can break away," he told his caller. "We'll meet you at the rectory as

planned."

"Splendid! See you then."

As Adam returned the receiver to its cradle, Peregrine sat forward eagerly.

"So. What have I let myself in for?"

"Oh, nothing very serious," Adam said. "The gentleman on the phone just now was Father Christopher

Houston, an Episcopal priest and a very good friend of mine. A former parishioner of his has been

complaining about her new flat being haunted. He's asked me down to have a look at the place."

At Adam's use of the word haunted, a dubious expression crossed Peregrine's open face.

"Now, there's no need to look like that," Adam said. "I don't for a minute believe that the flat is really haunted,

in the gothic sense of the word. Christopher has already been out once to visit the premises, and he doesn't

think it calls for anything like a formal exorcism. On the other hand, the young woman who lives there has

been having nightmares ever since she moved in. Whether the cause is psychic or psychiatric remains to be

determined."

"Which is where you come in," said Peregrine.

"Which is where I come in," Adam agreed. "We'll approach the situation with open minds. The young lady in

question may simply be undergoing some passing stress. Or there may actually be something unwholesome

in the atmosphere of the place. Either way, we shan't let the matter rest unresolved."

''So, where do I come in?'' Peregrine asked.

"Well, when Christopher and I first discussed the case," Adam continued casually, "I mentioned you as

someone possessed of unusual artistic insight. Christopher was very interested to hear about your gifts, and

expressed a strong desire to see some of your work. It occurred to me that this might provide an opportunity

not only for me to introduce you to someone I value as a friend, but also for you to exercise your talents to

good purpose."

"You want me to draw what's in the flat?"

Adam nodded. "Assuming that there's anything to draw."

Both men knew they were not talking about furniture or decor.

"Fair enough." Peregrine grinned. "Just tell me when you want me ready to go."

"Well, Christopher lives in Kinross," said Adam. "He's expecting us round about ten."

Peregrine glanced first at his watch and then at his clothes.

''Good God, Adam, you keep the tightest schedule of anybody I know! Have I got time to take a shower and

change?"

"If you're quick about it," Adam said with a chuckle, "I intend to."

Peregrine tossed off the last of his tea and began hurriedly bundling his watercolor studies back into his

portfolio.

"I don't know how you do it!" he muttered. "What's the uniform of the day, for meeting vicars and exploring

haunted flats?"

"Oh, casual - but do wear a tie," Adam replied, as the young artist made for the door. "I'll collect you at the

lodge in half an hour," he called laughingly to Peregrine's back. "And don't forget to bring your sketchbox!"

chapter two

THE rhythmic thump of helicopter rotors reverberated across the granite summits of the Cairngorms, little

muffled by the dusting of snow on the peaks. A trio of white-tailed deer started up from their browsing and

took to their heels, bolting off across the frost-burned heather and bracken as a sleek private chopper

swooped over the top of a ridge and skimmed along the floor of the valley below. At the far end of the valley,

at the edge of a bleak escarpment, the glancing rays of the morning sun picked out the bluish roof slates and

Gothic-arched windows of a Victorian manor house, poised breathlessly above a rushing cataract of white

water.

The chopper followed the contour of the river as it made for the house, its shadow ghosting along the valley

floor. It surged upward just before the cataract, circling once around the great central tower before settling like

a wasp on the grass of the walled forecourt.

The pilot cut the rotors and got out of the chopper, rangy and economic of movement, barely ducking under

the decelerating sweep of the blades as he came around to open the door for his passenger. He wore the

brown leather flying jacket and scruffy peaked cap affected by military pilots half a century before, but

sunlight flashed briefly off thoroughly modern mirrored sunglasses.

The man who alighted from the passenger seat was pale and slender by comparison, with silky fair hair going

thin at the top and brushed back at the sides. By his dress, he might have been anything from a successful

barrister to a university professor. The well-cut topcoat suggested the former, thought it might have been

within the budget of a very senior university lecturer; the suit beneath it spoke more of Saville Row than the

halls of academia.

In fact, Francis Raeburn dabbled in both areas of enterprise - and had made his fortune in neither. When

pressed as to the source of his not inconsiderable wealth, it was his wont merely to smile and look

inscrutable, murmuring vaguely about prudent investments, an indulgent bank manager, and the hint of family

money.

The light grey eyes were even more inscrutable than usual as he stood motionless on the lawn, silently

contemplating the Gothic grandeur of the house. Behind him, the pilot stretched back into the cockpit to

retrieve an expensive leather document case, which he handed over to his employer with a deferential nod.

"Anything else, Mr. Raeburn?"

The man called Raeburn shook his head distractedly and tucked the case under his arm, his attention now

focused on the upper reaches of the tower.

"Not for now, Mr. Barclay. Consider yourself at liberty for the next hour or so, but don't wander too far. In fact,

you might head down to the kitchen and see if Cook can provide something for that insatiable sweet tooth of

yours."

At his glance and bemused half-smile, the pilot grinned and sketched his employer an appreciative salute.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Raeburn!"

As the man leaned back into the chopper to make certain everything was properly switched off, Raeburn set

off briskly across the lawn toward the house. The front door opened as he approached, a man in what looked

like a white monk's robe greeting him with a nod that was almost a bow. Without speaking, the man ushered

him respectfully through the entrance lobby and into a long corridor panelled in oak. Off the corridor to the left,

an interior door gave access to a small cloakroom, where another open-fronted robe of white wool was

hanging next to a full-length mirror.

Raeburn shrugged himself out of his topcoat and suit-jacket, handing them into the care of the waiting acolyte

before sitting briefly on a small stool to remove his shoes and socks. He donned the white robe over his shirt

and trousers, retrieved his document case, then allowed the acolyte to lead him back out into the main

corridor.

A steep turnpike stair at the far end took them up to a circular landing with doors on two sides. The acolyte

knocked at the south door, waited for a word of acknowledgement from within, then admitted Raeburn to the

opulent confines of a Victorian library.

The south wall of the library was dominated by a great bay window, its upper panels worked in stained glass

and grey-patterned grisaille. Sunlight spilling in from outside laid jewel-like splashes of color on the floor

across a rich array of Oriental rugs. Where the walls were not lined with bookshelves, a patterned paper of

crimson and gold echoed drapes of a heavy, antique damask swagged to either side of the bay.

At the center of the room, silhouetted dark against the bright window, stood a broad mahogany library table,

its scrolled legs decorated in ornamental boulle-work. Seated at the head of the table, in the deep velvet

comfort of a heavily-padded wing-back armchair, was the old man Raeburn had come to see.

"Head-Master," Raeburn murmured, inclining his head briefly but never taking his eyes from the other man's.

After a moment's penetrating scrutiny, the old man lifted a gnarled finger and beckoned the newcomer nearer,

indicating the chair at his right hand.

"Sit down," he rasped, in a voice that was thin and rough with age. "Sit down and let me hear your report."

Raeburn lowered himself into the chair, pausing only to settle the folds of his robe and lean the document

case against the chair leg to one side.

"You will not welcome what I have to say," he warned. "Our worst fears concerning Geddes and the others

stand confirmed. All of them are dead, and the treasures lost."

When the other's stern expression did not change, Raeburn went on.

"Barclay, you will recall, was in the van on the further side of the loch that night, waiting to receive Michael

Scot's gold, along with his book of spells. From all the evidence I've since been able to piece together, it now

seems certain that the storm of lights he reported seeing can only have been a Hosting of the Sidhe. I must

conclude that they were responsible for the loss of those concerned."

The old man gave a contemptuous snort. "It would appear, then, that Geddes fatally overestimated the virtue

of the Fairy Flag of the MacLeods."

"Perhaps," said Raeburn, "but I think not. If the Flag failed to protect our men, I would guess that it was

because of a change in the Flag's status. Our agent in the Edinburgh constabulary tells me that the Fairy

Flag - minus its frame - was handed back to the Chief of the MacLeods at Urquhart Castle by another

member of the Edinburgh police force, an Inspector Noel McLeod. This means that the frame and glass

containing the Flag must somehow have gotten damaged before Geddes and the others could make good

their escape. And once the Flag was no longer encased, it became a danger rather than a protection."

"Explain."

"There is a legend," Raeburn went on, "that if anyone not of the Clan MacLeod should lay hands on the Flag,

that individual will suffer instant immolation. The police are saying there may have been a bomb, but I suspect

that, in fact, the legend is true. The glass and frame somehow got broken - perhaps through the agency of

this Inspector McLeod - but our man forgot the legend, in his panic. He tried to take it up again and, not being

a MacLeod, paid the ultimate price. And once it was clear that to touch the Flag was certain death, the

survivors had no choice but to take their chances among the Faerie Host - who tore them to shreds."

The Head-Master pondered this conjecture in silence for a long moment, then fixed the younger man with a

sharp eye. "You're sure that Geddes was among the victims?" he said.

"Oh, yes," said Raeburn. "I'm quite sure."

He slipped a graceful hand into his trouser pocket and drew out a handsome gold ring set with a blood-red

carnelian, mate to one he wore on his own right hand. When he held it up for the other man to see, the

sunlight flashed on the device incised in the face of the gemstone: the snarling head of a stylized lynx.

"This was Geddes' ring," he informed the Master curtly. "It was still encircling a severed finger when the busy

Inspector McLeod booked it into evidence, along with other shreds of human flesh and bits of clothing, pieces

of the boat, and the Hepburn Sword. Our Edinburgh police agent was able to check the print taken from the

severed finger against the set of Geddes' prints on record in our own membership files. The match was

conclusive."

The Head-Master reached out a bony, blue-veined hand. When Raeburn laid the ring in the open palm, the old

man curled his fingers tightly over it and closed his eyes. For a long moment he sat motionless, as if lost in

deep thought. Then he opened his eyes with a grim nod of confirmation.

"Yes, this is Geddes' ring," he said. "With regard to the fingerprint, I trust that the police will not be able to

repeat your comparison of prints and identify him?"

"Impossible," Raeburn said with cool certainty. "Geddes had no police record. We're quite safe there."

"What about his medallion?"

"It wasn't recovered," said Raeburn. "It must have been lost in the loch."

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HEISETERNAL.SOAREHISFOES…Throughcountlesslivesanderas,theAdepthasfoughtthepowersofDarkness.Now,aspsychiatristAdamSinclair,heleadshisloyalHuntsmenagainstsupernaturalevilinallitsmyriadforms.ButtheDarknessisstrikingback-intheguiseofanunholycultlongthoughttobeextinct.Endowedwiththeelementalenergyofananc...

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