Beltaire nodded, and packed up his paraphernalia. "I will leave you to your experience," he said. "This first time, you might not be able to break through the barriers to the Other Side; if not, be patient, for sometimes your body needs to become accustomed to these things so that your spirit can soar freely. And sometimes your spirit is preoccupied with a problem that must be solved before you are free to seek other realms. If that is true, and you identify the problem, solve it at once."
Paul did not notice him leaving, but after a timeless interval of lying in a state of hazy, vague pleasure on his bed, neither was he able to make the breakthrough he had hoped for. Despite Beltaire's advice, this frustrated him. Try as he might to empty his mind of everything, one problem kept intruding; the need to find his Vessel, the untouched female—or male, but Paul preferred to use a female Vessel, and it was much easier to tell if a female was a virgin than a male.
If only he could find an adolescent—or better yet, an adult!
He stared at a spot on the ceiling, a water-stain shaped like a cloud. Scant chance finding a virgin past the age of ten, he grumbled to himself, his euphoria flattening. At least, not one I can get hold of without getting the police on my trail. And as for an adult—huh, there's only one that I know of, and—
It hit him then, like a bolt of lightning. His Vessel, his perfect Vessel, was right at hand and waiting for him! That Hawkins harridan—she was a virgin, and a fat lot of good her virginity was doing anyone, too! She wouldn't be missed by anyone but Cameron—he still had free access to Cameron's estate, and if he caught her outside the mansion on one of those long walks of hers, Cameron would never know what had happened to her! Cameron wouldn't report her missing, he wouldn't dare; he couldn't face police himself, and there would be no one else who could answer questions about her! He might even assume she had run off, frightened by the things he was asking her to read to him.
He levered himself up off his bed. Best to do it now, as Simon had said, as if the Firemaster had somehow known that this would be the solution to his problem. If he waited, Cameron might get tired of the lack of progress and send her off himself, or she might decide that poverty was better than reading what must seem to her to be the ravings of lunatics, and quit.
He had a moment of doubt as his hand fell on the doorknob. Beltaire had said that the drugs would last for many hours, and that they would have several different effects on his mental and physical condition. Should he do this while he was still under their influence? Could he? They might slow his reflexes, so that he would botch the kidnapping. They might send him visions that would confuse him. They might render him too euphoric to act. Or—they might give him immensely greater strength and endurance, and render him impervious to pain. He stood twisting the knob in indecision.
But then, he saw that while twisting the doorknob, the thing had come off in his hand. It hadn't simply fallen off, either; he'd wrenched it from the doorplate.
Well! So that is one of the effects! Beltaire had warned him to be careful around the house, and now he knew why! There were several drugs that had the effect of numbing the nerves and enhancing strength, and Beltaire must have put them in his mix.
Perfect. If I leave now, I can borrow the motor-launch and be in Pacifica in an hour I can have the men drop me in the shallows, then anchor the launch just below the cliffs, and I can take the path up from the beach. I can wait there for her.
Neat, clean, and impossible to trace. She would simply disappear.
And there's no reason for Cameron to suspect me.
He would finally get Rosalind Hawkins, and she would finally get what she deserved.
Rose could hardly help but compare April in California with the same month in Chicago. There was nothing to choose between, to be frank. April had always seemed to be one of the most miserable months in the calender to her—the weather was hideously distempered, changing every few moments, and all of the changes unpleasant. There was just enough promise of spring to raise one's hopes, but not enough to be convincing that winter's grip was loosened—and there was always the chance that a blizzard in the middle of the month would send everything into an icy winter freeze for another week or more. There could be no opera, no ballet, no concerts, even; it was Lent, after all, in a predominantly Catholic city, and if there was any music available, it was all religious, and dolorous. Menus at University were full of fish, a dish that Rose got weary of rather quickly, given the limited imagination of the University cooks. Their illiterate Irish cook had always insisted on honoring the Lenten custom as well, and her ideas beyond fish were limited to vegetable soups and stews, and Welsh rarebit. By the time Lent was over, Rose was generally ready to kill for a pot roast.
San Francisco did not seem to notice that it was the Lenten season. This was the month that Caruso and the Met were coming to perform at the Opera. Fish had no greater share in the city's menus than any other time of year. Flowers had been in full bloom for two weeks and more, and if it rained a great deal, well, the fresh greenery looked very pretty in the rain.
Rose had resumed her walks as a guarantee that Jason would ride Sunset at least once a day. She had no trouble encouraging him if she called out that she was about to get her exercise, but if she said "I believe I'll continue working, so why don't you go take your ride," he would always find some excuse to remain. As long as it wasn't pouring rain, a fast walk down to the sea and back was a good way to shake off discouragement and depression—it was very hard to think of one's self as a martyr when there were birds singing in every tree, and flowers filling the air with perfume.
And today it was impossible to think of herself as anything but incredibly lucky. Tomorrow she would take Jason's private train into San Francisco again, and she would listen to Caruso for the following two days from Jason's private box.
Cameron had asked her to consult Master Pao about some disturbances he had felt lately among his Salamanders that he thought might be Earth-related. She had resolved to tell Master Pao the whole truth about Jason's problem—for he still was unaware of the extent of the damage the "accident" had caused and see if there was something Eastern Magick could do that Western could not.
Perhaps we will never be able to undo what was done to him. That thought had occurred to her several times over the last two weeks, sounding what could have been a pessimistic note with overtones, for her, of hope. If Cameron remained in his half-lupine form....
It would be sad, of course, but not the tragedy it might otherwise have been. He didn't need servants as long as he had Salamanders and Sylphs. He was able to get out on his estate again, atop Sunset. Granted, he could no longer entertain his old friends, but he didn't seem to miss them.
He does miss music, but there are gramophones, and there are inventions like the radiophone that hold some promise of bringing distant concerts to listeners. I should persuade him to get a gramophone and a collection of recordings. Soon enough, electricity would come to Pacifica, and thus to the estate; with electricity would come the telephone. He could conduct all of his business from his office here, and for what needed the personal touch, there was his agent, and there was Rose.
I don't need a degree to do research and publish. I certainly don't need one for Magick. I could stay here with him forever...
Could her company—and yes, her love—make up for his restricted life? She liked to think so. Certainly he seemed to be enjoying himself more now than he had been when she first arrived.