Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 02

by Witchlight (v2. 1)

  Or would it? The sudden doubt chilled her. What were evenings like here at 167 Grammercy Park Road, shut up in this little house in the middle of suburbia with a man who obviously resented any spark of competence shown by a woman?

  No wonder Janelle doesn't paint any more, Winter thought, and felt a little like crying.

  "So. What do you do?" His first hunger satisfied, Dennis Raymond was now prepared to make what was his version of small talk. But, with senses abraded raw by tension and stress, Winter knew that what the world would see as small talk was only Dennis's method of setting up another attack.

  And unfortunately, any retaliation on Winter's part would have a price that was paid by Janelle, and not by her. A high price.

  "I have a seat on the New York Stock Exchange," Winter said, although that wasn't quite true. Arkham Miskatonic King paid the five-figure rental fee each year, not her, and she was sure that by now her pit pass had gone to someone else.

  Still, it sounded impressive.

  "Well la-di-dah," Dennis said archly, waggling his hand. He was not entirely sober. "I guess you're one of those women who thinks she can do just fine without a man."

  For some reason the statement made Winter think of Grey again; if she concentrated, she could almost imagine him here, now, one slanting golden eyebrow raised and a mocking smile of deliberation playing about his mobile mouth.

  "Denny—" Janelle said.

  "Shut up, Neenie; I'm talking to our guest. Isn't that right, Miz Mus-grave, that you're one of those women who thinks she's as good as a man?"

  I'm as good as some and better than some. And you aren't even a man, Dennis Raymond—you're a willful, spoiled brat and someone should spank you. Hard.

  There was the sound of shattering glass from the kitchen and Winter started guiltily. Had she caused that breakage?

  Dennis swore and shoved his chair back. "Gaw-dam kids," he said, his words more slurred than they had been a moment ago. He lurched to his feet and shambled off in the direction of the kitchen.

  Winter looked at Janelle.

  "The local kids," Janelle said. "They throw rocks at the house. They broke the kitchen window last week—cracked right across."

  Oh no they didn't, Winter thought with despairing certainty. She heard another crash from the kitchen, and the ugly sound of Denny's cursing. She heard the kitchen door open and slam.

  "He's gone outside. But he never finds them," Janelle said dejectedly.

  This might be my only chance.

  A clear cold sense of purpose cut across the tangled emotions of the evening, sharpening Winter's will and senses as if she'd inhaled pure oxygen. If she did not ask about Hunter Greyson now there might not be another chance.

  "Jannie, do you remember Hunter Greyson? Do you remember Nuclear Circle—the things we used to do?"

  Janelle's face lit up; she looked eager and wistful. "Oh, golly—Grey! I haven't thought about him in years! I guess the two of you broke up?" she asked Winter.

  Or. . . something.

  "So you don't hear from him?" Winter asked, just to be sure. It was only later that she realized that Janelle had sidestepped her question about Nuclear Circle completely.

  "No." Janelle's face was losing its animation, regaining its defensive mask of vagueness. "Maybe Ramsey does; I don't know. He's never mentioned him."

  Denny Raymond stomped back into the dining room. His face was an alarming shade of crimson, and he'd taken the opportunity in the kitchen to refresh his drink. This time the short glass was half full of straight bourbon—no ice.

  "Well, your little friends got away again," he said to Janelle. "She encourages them," he added to Winter. "They're always sucking up to her, hanging around—she feeds them, that's what it is, when honest to God, they've got their own homes to go to, don't they?"

  "Most of the women around here work," Janelle murmured apologetically. "All I do is—"

  "All you do is get taken advantage of, Neenie, and don't forget I told you. You don't work—I told you when I married you I was going to take care of you, didn't I? And these guys that say it's okay for their wives to work—well, you aren't going to be the one taking care of their kids—or anything else of theirs for that matter—and when I catch those little bastards ..." His voice trailed off ominously, and he glared at both women as if they'd contradicted him.

  Was this what Denny thought of as taking care of his wife? Winter wondered. For that matter, was this what Janelle had wanted out of their marriage? Someone who would make all the decisions, take all her freedom, so she would not have to face the pressure of her own success or failure?

  Surely not. She'd been eight years younger when she'd married him, and in the flush of romantic love. Surely she hadn't known what Dennis Raymond was—or would turn into.

  But she knew now. And she was still here.

  There were several other unexplained noises during the rest of dinner, but Denny didn't get up to investigate them. Instead he complained about the quality of the meal, the housekeeping of the immaculate house, and even about the way Janelle looked until it was all Winter could do to hold her tongue. She could not keep the treacherous, dangerous thought out of her mind that if the creature that stalked her—and which apparently, in defiance of the laws of space and time, was here in Rappahoag, New Jersey, at the same time it stalked Glastonbury—wished to hurt and kill, here was one candidate who would not be missed. She prayed very hard that she had no influence over it, since if Denny turned up dead Winter would find it difficult to forgive herself, no matter how pleasurable the thought of his death was to contemplate now.

  Finally dinner and dessert—a gooey bakery cake—were over, and Winter, hastily rising to her feet, thanked Janelle for a lovely evening while saying she had to go.

  "I've got to hit the road bright and early tomorrow morning, you know. It's been terrific seeing you again, Jannie—and a pleasure to meet you as well, Mr. Raymond."

  Winter had learned, on Wall Street, to lie passionately and convincingly on short notice, and she drew on those skills now.

  "Yeah, stop by anytime." The inflection Denny put on his words turned them into their opposite. He did not get up; he merely stared into his empty glass.

  Janelle went back to the guest room with Winter to retrieve her coat and purse. Winter just happened to be looking toward her as Janelle reached for the hanger, and that was how she saw the mottled green and yellow bruises that circled Janelle's wrist like a bracelet. She took no pleasure from having her suspicions confirmed.

  "You could leave him, you know," she said to Janelle.

  "Yeah." Janelle turned toward her, holding out the coat. "But where would I go? And what does it matter, anyway? I'm not anybody."

  "Yes you are," Winter told her fiercely.

  But she knew that no words of hers would pierce the impenetrable hedge of psychic thorns that Janelle had woven around herself. Denny, monster though he was, was only the tool by which Janelle Baker— clever, talented Janelle—had made it impossible for herself to succeed and unnecessary even to try. And for that form of freedom Janelle would pay any price.

  Even this.

  Janelle saw where Winter was looking and pushed the sleeve of her sweatshirt back down so it covered the bruises.

  "It . . . it's only sometimes. But he doesn't mean it," Janelle said dully. "It was an accident, really."

  Winter wondered with a flash of despair just how many other marks the baggy, all-encompassing green sweatsuit hid. And she knew that with no one to stop him, Denny Raymond would go from sometimes to always—if he hadn't already—and that at his fists someday Janelle would find in truth the oblivion she sought.

  "How could it happen?" Winter asked, and it wasn't the beatings that she meant. Janelle shrugged, and now there were tears glittering in her eyes.

  "I don't know, Winter. You make choices, and by the time you figure the first one wasn't that good and ought to be unmade, you've already made five more on top of it, then ten—and you can't
go back. It's just easier, I guess, to let it ride. Because you're all tangled up, and even if you could get loose and shove everything back to square one, the chances you thought you had when you were twenty are all gone—and there's no way you could have known how they were going to work out anyhow. I'm just not that brave."

  Winter nodded, biting her lip to keep from crying. "If I could—"

  Janelle put a hand on her arm.

  "It's too late, Winter. It's too late for all of us. Even for Grey, wherever he is. It's too late."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  WINTER AND ROUGH WEATHER

  Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude.

  — WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  BACK IN HER NEAT, ANTISEPTIC HOTEL ROOM-- AS SOULless and bland as Janelle's house but with more justification—Winter paced and fretted. She was not completely well even yet, and should have been exhausted from the long drive and everything that had happened that day, but somehow the frustration energized her until her body and mind were racing like an engine with no cut-off switch. How could she leave Janelle in that horrible situation, married to a man who beat her and despised her?

  And who would someday kill her. Someday soon. Truth Jourdemayne might have called it a psychic flash; Winter Musgrave only knew that it was an unwelcome and unprovable intuition that she had no trouble at all believing. And the guilty, angry suspicion that Janelle would welcome that release did nothing to make Winter feel better.

  All her life Winter had been a realist—accepting with good grace or at least good manners the things she could not change, however much she hated them. And 1 did bate them—a lot of them, anyway. But the daily realities of Janelle's life filled her with a monstrous sense of unfairness; even if Janelle were afraid of her artistic talent, surely she did not have to be punished so much for choosing not to use her gifts.

  That horrible, pompous, arrogant, mean-spirited little hypocritical coward of a man! Winter dug her nails into her palms until the flesh bled. Dennis Raymond's face filled her mind's eye. He was not evil—she had a hazy acquaintance with evil, at least enough to know what it was not—but he was the sort that let evil in, and then whined afterward, desperate to escape the consequences of the actions they'd relished at the time.

  Warmth and strength filled her, a tingling rush of power that was curiously numbing, though Winter felt achingly alert. The inoffensive neutral tones of carpet, walls, and bedspread that made up the Marriott bedroom seemed to take on vividness, as though they were painted with light, and the plain yellow illumination of the lamp on the dresser seemed to be filled with patterns of coruscating color. She felt a hot congested warmth beneath her heart; a predatory certainty. . . .

  The row of cosmetics lined up on the dresser began to dance upon its surface, trembling as if perturbed by a small earthquake. With horrified intuition, Winter saw the hate-serpent that lived inside her wake, its aura pressing out through the surface of her skin until she could look down and see a shimmering mist of sequin-bright scales overlaying her skin, as the monstrous intolerant guardian within her spread its patterned hood and sought for prey.

  No!

  Winter sank slowly to her knees, the faint trembling of the objects on her dresser sounding as loud as the rumblings of an avalanche in her ears. She would not let this happen here—the creature that stalked her, the magickal child, that creature she could not control—but the poltergeist, born of her very marrow, should be hers to command. She could master this shameful shadow-twin; she'd found that out that night at the Institute. But the tension in her body was nearly sexual in its intensity, unambiguously demanding release. Winter nearly panicked and surrendered to its craving—but to panic would be to lose all.

  To panic would be to fail.

  Winter drew the refusal to fail about her like an icy cloak, like the season for which she was named. She tried to concentrate, but could not remember what would stop the thing that drew its life from her, and it had seduced her on until she was far too keyed-up to release the energy and the tension within her.

  She took a deep breath, forcing her lungs to expand against the iron weight crushing her chest. And having nothing else left to fight with, she set her mind and her bare will against the power in which she still only half believed.

  No. I will not let you. They aren't yours to play with. They aren't mine to make over in my own image. They're people—they belong to themselves, and what they choose to do is their own business, even if what they do makes me unhappy. Leave them alone. I do NOT give you permission to act in my name!

  The power raged through her; she was flame, within and without, surrendering even her name. The only thing she clung to was that she would have her own way—what she wanted was what would happen, and anything that lived in her, or worked through her, would learn to understand that.

  But it was a long hard fight.

  Winter awoke as dawn was coming in through the open curtains. She was lying on the floor of her hotel room. Her gray flannel skirt was rumpled and her pantyhose were run; every muscle was stiff and she felt sick and light-boned as if she'd been on the mother of all benders. When she sat up, a bolt of pain behind her eyes made her cry out in protest.

  What was 1 drinking—furniture polish?

  She managed to make it all the way to the bathroom before she threw up what was left of last night's dinner, retching until her entire torso ached with the spasms and her throat felt raw and scoured. There were bruises on her forearms as if she'd been grappling with something—or, more likely, had banged into the hotel furniture while she was on the floor. The marks were black with angry red centers; severe and painful. Bruises that would take a long time to heal.

  Bruises like the ones on Janelle's arms.

  Winter repressed a reflexive pang of hatred for Denny, letting it sweep away in the dawning realization of what she'd done. She'd gotten her own way. She'd won, even if it'd almost killed her. The serpent had not struck—all her instincts said so.

  Before—in Glastonbury and at the Bidney Institute—she'd panicked and been too weak. Her unconscious mind had been able to seize control and throw its angry tantrum, acting out a rage that Winter could not fathom the source of. But now she was stronger. And she'd stay stronger— and be ready for it the next time it decided to coil up out of its lair.

  A poltergeist, eh? Well, we'll see who's going to haunt whom!

  She tried to stand then and found she couldn't, no matter how great a victory she'd won the night before. On hands and knees Winter crawled out of the bathroom—ruining her clothes further—and dragged her purse down off the bed where she'd carelessly slung it. She dug through its considerable contents with dogged desperation until she found Tabitha Whitefield's battered little pamphlet, tucked in between two fresh packets of Centering Tea. Slumped on the floor, holding her eyes open with an effort of will, Winter began at last to read.

  Half an hour later, the raging hunger that hammered her body was so great that Winter realized it would be impossible to concentrate until she'd done something about it. Cudgeling her brains to remember what Truth and Dylan had said about first aid for psychics, she scrambled awkwardly over to the built-in bar. With a reckless disregard for the charges that would appear on her room bill later, she opened the small refrigerator and crammed her mouth full of chocolate, then slugged down a can of Coke Classic. The quick sugar fix cleared her brain; sipping a second Coke more slowly, she placed a call to Room Service—

  "I'd like some waffles or pancakes or something—whatever's fastest. Hot water for tea. And lots and lots and lots of maple syrup."

  —and then retreated to the bathroom to finish cleaning up.

  Two more cans of Coke and a couple of candy bars later—the sugar seemed to vaporize as it hit her bloodstream—her breakfast arrived. Winter dumped Centering Tea into a carafe of hot water to steep, and tucked into scrambled eggs and French toast with a morning appetite she hadn't felt in longer than she could remember.

>   As she ate, Winter read through the pamphlet a second time. The "centering" (centering what? Winter wondered) exercises started out very simply—timing and counting breaths—and then went on to what Tabitha called directed visualization. First Winter was to imagine a white square, and when she could do that, she was to go on to a blue circle. Finally, when she had also mastered holding the image of a red triangle in her mind's eye without distraction, she was to attempt to see all three at once, superimposed one on the other, while she breathed slowly and regularly and sensed her body's energy flowing in a regular circuit from the top of her head through the soles of her feet and back to the top of her head again.

  Sounds loony, Winter declared, but at this point what have I got to lose?

  She almost wished she could call the Institute and ask Truth's opinion of the practice—she'd formed a stronger bond with the young researcher than she yet wanted to admit—but realized that to do that would simply be to entangle herself further with Truth Jourdemayne and Dylan Palmer. And this particular quest was something she had to accomplish alone.

  Only, if the point is to outrun the thing that tried to kill Truth and seems to be fixated on me, I'm not doing a very good job of it. It seems to be here ahead of me, atjanelle's house.

  Everything Janelle had mentioned—the vandalism, the dead animals— pointed to the artificial Elemental rather than to Winter's poltergeist, but Winter somehow felt she was being offered a stalking horse. As if, even if the creature were here before her, its true motive in tormenting Janelle was to force Winter to surrender to it.

  Well, I won't, Winter vowed simply. Now, who's next on the list?

  The next name that Nina Fowler had given her was Ramsey Miller, and Janelle had also mentioned being recently in touch with him. Winter took out the copy of the 1982 Taghkanic yearbook that she'd bought in Glastonbury and stared at the picture of a youthful Ramsey Miller wearing long sideburns and a soup-strainer mustache. His hair curled over the edge of his dark turtleneck in an oddly antique fashion. She wondered what he looked like now.