witches. This might take years. But both of them had money. Marklin had real money, and Tommy had the unreal kind that expressed itself in multimillions. Tommy had paid for everything so far. But Marklin could support himself, no problem. And the families could chew on some excuse about an informal sabbatical. Perhaps they would even enroll in courses at the nearby university. Didn’t matter.
When they had their sights on the Mayfairs, the fun would begin again.
The bell, dear God, that bell …
Mayfair witches. He wished he were in Regent’s Park now, with the entire file. All those pictures, Aaron’s last reports, still in Xerox typescript. Michael Curry. Read Aaron’s copious notes on Michael Curry. This was the man who could father the monster. This was the man whom Lasher had chosen in childhood. Aaron’s reports, hasty, excited, full of concern finally, had been clear on that point.
Was it possible for an ordinary man to learn a witch’s powers? Oh, if only it were a matter of mere diabolic pact! What if a transfusion of the witch’s blood could give him the telepathic abilities? Sheer nonsense, more than likely. But think of the power of the two of them—Rowan Mayfair, the doctor and the witch; Michael Curry, who had fathered the beautiful beast.
Who had called it the beautiful beast? Was that Stuart? Where the hell was Stuart? Damn you, Stuart. You ran like a ruptured duck. You left us, Stuart, without so much as a phone call, a hasty word of parting, a hint of where and when we might meet.
Go on without Stuart. And speaking of Aaron, how could they get his papers from this new wife in America?
Well, everything rested upon one thing. They had to leave here with an unblemished reputation. They had to ask for a leave of absence, without arousing the least suspicion.
With a start, he opened his eyes. Had to get out of here. Didn’t want to spend another minute. But there was the bell. It had to be the signal for the memorials. Listen to it, tolling, an awful, nerve-racking sound.
“Wake up, Tommy,” he said.
Tommy was slumped over in the chair by the desk, snoring, a tiny bit of drool on his chin. His heavy tortoiseshell glasses had reached the very tip of his rounded nose.
“Tommy, it’s the bell.”
Marklin sat up, straightened his clothes as best he could. He climbed off the bed.
He shook Tommy by the shoulder.
For one moment Tommy had that baffled, annoyed look of the just-awakened, and then the common sense returned.
“Yes, the bell,” he said calmly. He ran his hands over his sloppy red hair. “At last, the bell.”
They took turns washing their faces. Marklin took a bit of Kleenex, smeared it with Tommy’s toothpaste, and cleaned his teeth by hand. He needed to shave, but there was no time for it. They’d go to Regent’s Park, get everything, and leave for America on the first flight out.
“Leave of absence, hell,” he said now. “I’m for leaving, just going. I don’t want to go back to my own room to pack. I’m for heading out of here immediately. The hell with the ceremony.”
“Don’t be so foolish,” Tommy murmured. “We’ll say what we have to say. And we’ll learn what we can learn. And then we’ll leave at the appropriate and less conspicuous time.”
Damn!
A knock sounded at the door.
“We’re coming!” Tommy said, with a little raising of his eyebrows. He straightened his tweed jacket. He looked both mussed and hot.
Marklin’s own wool blazer was badly rumpled. And he’d lost his tie. Well, the shirt looked all right with the sweater. Would have to do, wouldn’t it? The tie was in the car, perhaps. He’d ripped it off when he was driving away the first time. He should never, never have come back.
“Three minutes,” came the voice through the door. One of the old ones. The place was going to be choked with them.
“You know,” said Marklin, “none of this was bearable even when I thought of myself as a dedicated novice. Now I find it simply outrageous. Being awakened at four in the morning … Good God, it’s actually five … for a mourning ceremony. It’s as stupid as those modern-day Druids, dressed up in sheets, who carry on at Stonehenge on the summer solstice, or whenever the hell they do it. I may let you say the appropriate words for us. I may wait in the car.”
“The hell you will,” said Tommy. He took several swipes at his dry