Read Online Bride of the Rat God by Barbara Hambly - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Barbara Hambly
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hand to her temple in a gesture worthy of Pavlova; Norah could see Christine’s eyes follow and knew that particular manner of leading with the wrist was going to show up on screen very soon. “The answer lies upon the astral plane,” the counselor said in a hollow voice indicative of deep meditation. “We must ascend to that plane to seek it.”
“Better not get your ladders set up yet,” remarked Alec, coming back in from the porch. “The Trib ’s just parked on the other side of the road, and I think the car that just pulled up is the Times.”
Christine sprang to her feet with a squeak, clutching Black Jasmine to her bosom, “Shit! And me not dressed!” She bolted up the stairs. From the kitchen Buttercreme emitted a few small, disapproving ruh s to indicate her opinion of the entire proceedings, and Chang Ming dashed eagerly to the door to greet his newest set of long-lost parents.
“We shall return,” Neferu-Aten promised, and swept past the reporters on the porch with the cold aplomb of a priestess ignoring supplicants upon the temple steps. But then, thought Norah, she’d probably done that kind of thing through several lifetimes and was good at it.
“You’re never going to get rid of them, you know,” Alec warned her later as Norah walked him to his car. Christine was still in the house, reclining artistically on the sofa, hand pressed to her brow, breathing a low and husky account of Frank Brown’s party. Every now and then a bright burst of light in the windows indicated a photographer’s interest. Knowing Christine, even in the grip of such a mind-searing shock to her sensibilities, the titles Kiss of Darkness and She-Devil of Babylon were going to figure prominently in interviews, plus accurate reviews of last night’s premiere. “I should have warned you earlier, California’s the breeding ground for table tappers and Ouija readers...”
“Oh, I knew that,” Norah said slowly, folding her arms as he climbed into the rickety Model T that was parked in front of the press cars on the other side of the street. The rain had ceased, but the sky still lowered above the hills; the world breathed of wet spiciness and damp stone. “In fact, I’m sure they’ll be back for a séance tonight. Cecily Pendergast went in for it—spiritualism, that is—and had half a dozen regulars, and all of them were reincarnated priestesses of Isis or Mayan temple virgins who’d got themselves chucked down sacred wells. I kept wanting to ask them if there was some rule about it—that priestesses and temple virgins and the like were required to come back as spiritualists, or whether fishwives or charladies ever got considered for the job after they died.”
He advanced the spark lever, got out again, and walked around to the front of the car. “And did you?”
“No.” She chuckled a little. “I’m sure they’d have explained that it did happen, but they were perfectly sure they’d been priestesses, and cite all the things they recalled from former lives to prove it. One of them—Oneida Majesta, she called herself—once discovered an ill omen in the way the smoke curled around the candles, and on the strength of it Mrs. Pendergast refused to leave her room or to let me leave my room for twenty-four hours, until the stars had jiggered themselves into a more favorable position.”
“I hope you counted the silverware once the stars got realigned.” He put his shoulder to the radiator, grasped the crank in one hand and the choke wire in the other, and turned the engine twice, then released the choke wire and, gritting his teeth, spun the crank with all his strength. Norah stepped back. After three or four spins the engine exploded into life with a roar, and he bolted around to leap back into the seat and advance the spark. The engine settled down into a dull, steady roar that shook the little car’s bones, and he half turned, one foot on the accelerator and the other resting on the running board.
“Better not get your ladders set up yet,” remarked Alec, coming back in from the porch. “The Trib ’s just parked on the other side of the road, and I think the car that just pulled up is the Times.”
Christine sprang to her feet with a squeak, clutching Black Jasmine to her bosom, “Shit! And me not dressed!” She bolted up the stairs. From the kitchen Buttercreme emitted a few small, disapproving ruh s to indicate her opinion of the entire proceedings, and Chang Ming dashed eagerly to the door to greet his newest set of long-lost parents.
“We shall return,” Neferu-Aten promised, and swept past the reporters on the porch with the cold aplomb of a priestess ignoring supplicants upon the temple steps. But then, thought Norah, she’d probably done that kind of thing through several lifetimes and was good at it.
“You’re never going to get rid of them, you know,” Alec warned her later as Norah walked him to his car. Christine was still in the house, reclining artistically on the sofa, hand pressed to her brow, breathing a low and husky account of Frank Brown’s party. Every now and then a bright burst of light in the windows indicated a photographer’s interest. Knowing Christine, even in the grip of such a mind-searing shock to her sensibilities, the titles Kiss of Darkness and She-Devil of Babylon were going to figure prominently in interviews, plus accurate reviews of last night’s premiere. “I should have warned you earlier, California’s the breeding ground for table tappers and Ouija readers...”
“Oh, I knew that,” Norah said slowly, folding her arms as he climbed into the rickety Model T that was parked in front of the press cars on the other side of the street. The rain had ceased, but the sky still lowered above the hills; the world breathed of wet spiciness and damp stone. “In fact, I’m sure they’ll be back for a séance tonight. Cecily Pendergast went in for it—spiritualism, that is—and had half a dozen regulars, and all of them were reincarnated priestesses of Isis or Mayan temple virgins who’d got themselves chucked down sacred wells. I kept wanting to ask them if there was some rule about it—that priestesses and temple virgins and the like were required to come back as spiritualists, or whether fishwives or charladies ever got considered for the job after they died.”
He advanced the spark lever, got out again, and walked around to the front of the car. “And did you?”
“No.” She chuckled a little. “I’m sure they’d have explained that it did happen, but they were perfectly sure they’d been priestesses, and cite all the things they recalled from former lives to prove it. One of them—Oneida Majesta, she called herself—once discovered an ill omen in the way the smoke curled around the candles, and on the strength of it Mrs. Pendergast refused to leave her room or to let me leave my room for twenty-four hours, until the stars had jiggered themselves into a more favorable position.”
“I hope you counted the silverware once the stars got realigned.” He put his shoulder to the radiator, grasped the crank in one hand and the choke wire in the other, and turned the engine twice, then released the choke wire and, gritting his teeth, spun the crank with all his strength. Norah stepped back. After three or four spins the engine exploded into life with a roar, and he bolted around to leap back into the seat and advance the spark. The engine settled down into a dull, steady roar that shook the little car’s bones, and he half turned, one foot on the accelerator and the other resting on the running board.
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