15

The man who was more than a man, who was known as the One to members of the Septimus Order, and as Mr. Osala or “the Master” to members of this household, sat in his bedroom and waited.

Ever-faithful Gilda had informed him of yesterday’s trespass, telling him she’d caught the girl opening one of his desk drawers. From the sound of it, he doubted she’d seen anything of importance. And even if she had, she wouldn’t understand. He had instructed Gilda to leave the door ajar today. Knowing the girl as he did, he was sure she would find a second look impossible to resist.

He wondered what he should do with her. She was a burden. She complained constantly of her confinement here. He would have let her end her life that night but for the uniqueness of the child she carried, so deeply redolent of the Taint. Foolish, pathetic Jonah Stevens had thought he could use that child against him. It might have worked, but would have been a very long shot. For that reason alone he should eliminate the girl and her child.

However . . .

The day might come when he would have need of the child. If the Fhinntmanchca achieved his purpose, the point would be moot. In that case he could foresee no use for her or her offspring, except perhaps as a brief amusement. But should the Fhinntmanchca fail . . .

Better to hold the child in reserve, and make sure it and its reluctant incubator remained in good health. To that end—

The door to the outer room—his office—squeaked as it opened. He rose and waited until he heard one of his desk drawers slide, then stepped into the office. The girl had her hand in the drawer.

“Perhaps I can help you find what you are looking for.”

Her startled reaction was almost comical. She stared in openmouthed shock as she flushed crimson.

“Mister Osala, I . . . I was just . . .”

“Just snooping?”

She took a breath, gathered herself, and faced him with a defiant expression.

“Yes, I suppose I was.”

Well, well, well. Perhaps he’d underestimated her mettle.

“Is that how you repay my hospitality?”

“Hospitality? How about total imprisonment?”

He shook his head. “We will not have this conversation again.”

“Okay, then. How about I’d like to know more about the guy who’s got me locked up in his house?”

“I’ve told you—”

“Yeah, I know what you’ve told me, but how do I know it’s true?”

She was trying his patience now.

“Because I say it is.”

“Really? And what about this other ID in your drawer here? And the way you’ve been changing your looks. Who’s the real you?”

She could never know that. Wouldn’t be capable of understanding if she were told. As for that other identity and his change in appearance . . .

A man he thought he had destroyed was slowly rising from the ashes. His resilience was remarkable. He needed another crushing blow to complete his destruction. He had researched the man’s circumstances and determined the perfect point of attack. He would insert himself into the hated one’s life and obliterate it from within.

Of course, the success of the Fhinntmanchca would render his preparations a waste of time. But making plans to annihilate an enemy was almost as enjoyable as the act itself, so he proceeded anyway.

Just as he would proceed with assuring the safe birth of this Tainted child.

“The real me?” he said. “The real me is looking out for you and your baby. To that end, I have scheduled an appointment for you with an obstetrician later this week. He will examine you and—”

“Obstetrician? What for? I don’t want to deliver it! I want it out!”

“That is not an option right now.”

Her voice rose. “It’s now or never! I’ll be too far along!”

Reached out and brushed his fingertips across her forehead.

“Silence.”

She quieted and stood there, staring at him.

“You vex me as you are,” he told her. “So you will change. You want this child. You will do anything to assure its well-being. And you are happy here. You do not wish for anything beyond these walls. Now, return to your room for a nap.”

She turned and walked from the room.

Perhaps he should have put an influence into her earlier—it would have prevented her little excursion back in May—but he had enjoyed the subtle, savory susurrance of her uncertainty and frustration, floating through the duplex like background music. And he’d been unsure of the effect on the new fetus. But the fetus was more mature now and . . .

And the Fhinntmanchca, the Maker of the Way, was imminent. If the fetus was damaged by the influence, what matter?

Only the Fhinntmanchca mattered.