Elric suddenly began to clap his hands, very slowly. “Excellent, Thomas. I told you that the outlanders would sit there with what was the old expression? Ah, yes, with egg on their faces.”
Ryan’s mind was racing now, in full combat mode, examining and rejecting dozens of hypotheses and possible scenarios, trying to see how dangerous the information was, and how seriously compromised it might make them.
But he couldn’t see a major threat two men and a butler and a few zombielike servants, no sec men and no sign of any blasters against them.
“You are calculating whether we present any threat to you, Ryan,” Thomas said, smiling. “I can almost hear the wheels spinning inside your brain.”
“You backtracked us?”
The papery face creased into something of a smile. “An intelligent guess. Partly true. I see no reason to tell you more than that.” The smile vanished. “What greatly interests all of us is the extent to which you have mastered the controls. Where did you learn the secrets of Project Cerberus?”
“Upon my soul!” Doc exclaimed, pushing back his chair. “How did”
Ryan interrupted him. “Enough, Doc. Let me do the talking here.”
“Of course, my dear fellow. Of course. But scarcely anyone now living can have knowledge of Cerberus.”
“Or Chronos,” Elric teased.
“Or Overproject Whisper,” Thomas stated.
“Or Enterprise Eternity,” Elric added.
“No!” Thomas shouted. “I told you before that we do not mention that. Not to anyone.”
“It can’t hurt.”
Both of them stood, glowering at each other, their eyes seeming to glow like burning rubies.
Thomas threw back his head and hissed at the younger man like an enraged panther. “No more!” He pointed a long-nailed finger. “Leave us, now.”
“You don’t have the authority without the rest of the kindred.”
Thomas dropped his voice to a whisper, sitting and sipping from a goblet of a red wine, so dark that it was almost purple, staining his lips. “Do it,” he said quietly.
Elric stalked to the door without a word, jostling Norman out of his way, pausing in the entrance to the dining hall and spinning to face the company. He bowed low from the shadows, his black clothes making him almost invisible.
“I was foolish,” he said calmly, seeming completely in control. “Thomas was correct. My mention of Enterprise Eternity was unwise.”
The door opened and closed, and he was gone.
Ryan knew that Doc wouldn’t be able to resist asking the question. And here it came, reliable as the sun in a summer wheatfield.
“Might I ask you about Enterprise Eternity?” he said. “I am not familiar with it. Was it something that was being researched in the redoubt nearby?”
“It was. You failed to penetrate into the main part of the complex, did you not?”
Ryan nodded, assuming the question was being addressed to him. “We did. You found the open door.” He made it a statement. “That was the first time any of us had ever encountered the mat-trans unit. That was what the signs said it was called.”
“Indeed?” Ryan could almost see the raised snowy eyebrows, hearing the undisguised note of disbelief riding in the calm, gentle voice.
“Indeed, Thomas.”
“Where did you make the jump from?”
“Jump?” Ryan gave himself a mental pat on the back for hurdling that one.
“What they called utilizing the gateways. How did you find yourself in the system?”
“Accident. Mind if we leave it at that? Just slammed the door in a hidden fortress and that sort of triggered something. We all passed out and when we came around we were someplace else. You know how it works? Or how many there are of them? Be good to control something like that. Give a man real power.”
“It would, Ryan. We know much, but that is a secret that has escaped us.”
While the conversation had been going on, the first course had been finished, and plates piled high with roast beef were brought in. Norman had served the Lafitte, getting a nod of delighted approbation from Doc.
Thomas had eaten nothing, contenting himself with sipping at his own wineglass.
After the discussion about the gateways he appeared to lose interest in the whole gathering, sitting with his snowy head slumped down on his chest, tapping at his goblet with the end of his forefinger.
Like Elric, Thomas was dressed completely in black, with a shirt of satin and pants of velvet tucked into polished black knee boots.
A slender golden chain encircled his neck, holding a medallion that looked to Krysty like a silver ankh. Every now and again Thomas would lift a hand to it, as though to reassure himself that it was still there.
The last course was a choice between a steaming cherry cobbler and a pecan pie, with or without cream. Most of them chose helpings of both.
With cream.
Thomas ate nothing.
Mildred noticed that the hooded eyes kept turning to Jak, as though Thomas were trying to work something out about the albino teenager.
Finally he leaned forward and spoke to the young man. “Jak Lauren?”
“Yeah,” the youth said, wiping a dribble of cream from his chin with the sleeve of his coat.
“Your age?”
“Sixteen, going on seventeen.”
“You have always had that hair and those eyes?”
“Sure.”
“And you have lived only sixteen years. And every year you grow older, do you, Jak?”
“Course. Everyone does.”
Thomas nodded, smiling gently at Jak. “Everyone does, lad. Indeed. My own words to myself, a hundred times a day. Everyone does.”
He stood and walked slowly around the long table, patting Jak on the shoulder, whispering something to Norman as he reached the door.
“Tomorrow you will meet everyone. And I look forward to seeing your film, Johannes Forde.”
The door shut behind him.
“How did he know about the film?” Forde said.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Ryan didn’t know what had awakened him.
After the meal, Norman had brought around tiny glasses with a choice of sweet, sticky liqueurs, bright rainbow colors, deep green and cerulean blue and violet and a sickly gold. All of them tasted of sugar and fire.
Krysty had described them to Ryan, who’d shaken his head at the idea. He’d eaten well rather than wisely and was feeling liverish. But she’d pressed him and picked one for him that she said was the color of ripe oranges.
Norman had poured him a glassful and it hadn’t tasted bad, orangy with a hint of chocolate and a slightly bitter aftertaste that Ryan couldn’t identify. But on principle he’d left most of it, and Krysty had finished it for him, without, she said, letting the butler see.
They’d all gone up to their rooms. Both Ryan and Krysty were exhausted and promptly fell asleep.
Now, something had awakened him.
“What was that?” he whispered to Krysty.
But she didn’t stir. He could tell from the sound of her heavy breathing that she was deeply asleep, lying on her back. Ryan nudged her in the ribs, but she muttered and half raised an arm to vaguely push him away.
“Guess I’ll just have to go and take a look-see myself. Or a listen-hear. Never heard of that. Mebbe I just invented it.”
His head ached and felt muzzy.
Sitting up and swinging his legs out of the bed brought a passing wave of nausea, but it didn’t last. Ryan slept with most of his clothes on, from force of habit. But he was barefooted as he padded carefully across the room, tucking the SIG-Sauer into its holster as he moved, both hands outstretched to try to avoid bumping into the furniture.
Behind him, the sound of Krysty’s snoring grew deeper and louder.
Ryan was pleased that he made the walk to the door without even touching anything, his right hand dropping onto the cold metal of the ornate brass handle at the first attempt.
The door opened without a sound. Ryan hesitated. The Cornelius mansion was generally in poor condition. But every door hinge and lock had been recently greased. It was an interesting fact to store away and examine later.
Behind him, he heard Krysty muttering something about a milch cow.
He still had no idea what had awakened him, but the short hairs at his nape were prickling, and he knew better than to ignore such a warning.
The house seemed silent, except for the inevitable faint creakings and settling sounds.
Ryan had managed, during their time with the Family, to build up an accurate plan in his mind. Both Krysty and Dean had helped him, taking him on a repeated tour of the first three floors, telling him where all the doors and barred windows and sets of stairs were, who was in each room.
He eased himself into the corridor, head turning, alert for any noise.
A full set of armor was just to his left, and he reached out to touch the cold metal of the breastplate. To his right hung a large portrait of a stern-faced man. Doc had described it to him, saying he thought it was by an inferior Dutch artist called Van Helsing.