§ § § -- October 17, 1981
She almost stumbled into the main house, halting abruptly in the foyer when she saw her guardian standing behind the desk, gazing out the open French shutter doors. She'd felt distinctly lightheaded all the way home, but for the moment she was still in control of herself. She hoped she wasn't getting sick as she came to the desk, past the mirror that still stood in the study. "Mr. Roarke?" she said a little hesitantly.
Roarke turned and studied her with a look of mingled relief and worry. "Oh, Leslie, I'm glad you came…I am very concerned. Please sit down." She took a club chair and he settled into his own desk chair. "I have done battle with the devil on many occasions, and I have always managed to outwit him."
"He's so arrogant," Leslie muttered, aware of strange mental twinges in the back of her head that nothing would dispel. "So sure of himself."
"Perhaps he felt that the law of averages is against me this time," Roarke mused, then studied a small wooden box on the desk in front of him. "In any case," he went on, "I have laid a trap for him."
Leslie tipped forward earnestly in her seat. "Let me help you, please," she said.
Roarke regarded her, as if he saw something she herself wasn't yet aware of, then said, "Yes." He nodded once and arose. "Yes, I want you to keep this safe for me." He picked up the wooden box and handed it to her.
"What's in it?" she asked.
"Something which will sway the odds in our favor," Roarke replied.
Leslie shifted the box in her grip, reaching to open it. "What's in it?"
"No," Roarke said hastily, lifting a hand for emphasis and stopping her where she sat. "That's a secret I cannot reveal to anyone. But whatever you do, you must not open this box. I must have your word on it."
"I promise, of course," Leslie said, mystified, but willing to accede to his wishes.
"Good," said Roarke. "Keep the box with you at all times. I will tell you more later, when I can."
"I'll guard it with my life," Leslie promised him solemnly.
Roarke seemed to relax slightly, and the ghost of a smile came and went in a split second before he said softly, "I know you will." With that he turned and left the house through the open shutters, leaving Leslie standing there with the box.
Once he was gone, the light dimmed again and thunder growled, just as had happened on the path. Leslie looked up automatically; as she did, that lightheaded feeling came back, far stronger this time. A strange compulsion came over her and, out of nowhere, she laughed—in the voice of Mephistopheles, rather than her own. Shocked at the sound, she clapped a hand over her mouth. What if this lightheadedness isn't a sick feeling at all, but… she thought, and suddenly wondered fearfully what she'd see if she looked in the mirror. The moment she pulled back the red curtain that covered it, her suspicion was confirmed: Mephistopheles stared back at her, rather than her own image. She gaped, frozen in terror, too frightened to move.
"That's right, Leslie," Mephistopheles taunted, grinning. "I'm here, inside of you. You belong to me!"
Slowly she felt herself lose control of her own body, and when she tried to cry out for Roarke, her voice refused to obey her. She was indeed under Mephistopheles' control, body and brain alike. On the sharp edge of panic, she retreated into a dark recess of her own mind, telling herself to bide her time. Mephistopheles, in his zeal to do battle with Roarke, would lead her to him sooner or later.
It was a couple of hours before Roarke returned to the main house, where he began checking some of the potted plants on the terrace just outside the shutters. In the midst of this, the sunlight dimmed quite unexpectedly, and he paused, eyes widening for a moment with realization. He heard a footstep behind him and glanced over his shoulder at Leslie emerging from the study, carrying the box he had given her. Something about her expression looked off-kilter, and he frowned, suspicion and certainty blooming within him side by side.
"Here's the box," Leslie said from just behind him. He turned fully to face her and stared at the odd expression on her face: it was an uncharacteristic smug, knowing look, almost taunting.
"Thank you…Leslie," Roarke said, accepting the box and watching a cold look steal across her features. Acting on that strong certainty, he said deliberately, "We will build a fire of juniper wood and burn the contents of the box. It's a vital condition."
"But the brick won't burn," Leslie informed him.
Roarke looked sharply up at her. "No," he said quietly, "but it has confirmed my worst fears. Leslie would not have known about the brick; my ward would never have broken her word and looked inside the box." He put the box on a nearby table and glared narrow-eyed at Leslie, knowing full well it wasn't she who stared mockingly back. "Oh, I know what you have done," he breathed, rage barely leashed.
Even for him, it was disconcerting to hear Mephistopheles' voice emerge from Leslie's mouth. "Not bad, Roarke," the devil conceded. "That brick really had me going! It was a clever ruse."
Roarke shook his head. "It was nothing compared to the convoluted deviousness of your traps," he said. "You are after me—and yet you ensnare Leslie, of all people."
"Oh, come on now, Roarke," Mephistopheles scoffed, obscuring Leslie's form with his own true appearance, "you didn't think I'd be such a fool as to attack you directly! Not with your dear little girl so near at hand, ready to be plucked!"
"She hasn't had an evil thought in all her life," Roarke said softly.
Mephistopheles faded back within Leslie, and once more his voice emerged from between her lips. "All the more reason, Roarke, why I delight in her downfall. Excuse me." The possessed young girl turned and started back into the study, but Roarke lunged forward and caught her arm.
"One moment," he said. "I will talk to Leslie."
"Too late!" Mephistopheles snapped. "Get out of my way!"
Roarke tightened his grip. "Leslie, you must hear me," he insisted urgently. Her eyes narrowed and widened alternately, fear and malice chasing each other by rapid turns across her features, telling Roarke she was still present within her own mind. "Answer me," he coaxed, lifting a hand and sweeping it slowly through the air just in front of her face, without touching her.
Inside herself, Leslie felt some unnamed power sweep aside the mental curtain that had been yanked over her consciousness, and she found herself staring at her guardian through her own eyes. Roarke saw her return in the fear and pleading that gleamed from them. "Help me, please," she begged him. She knew this was her guardian's doing; she alone would never have had the strength even to make this plea if he hadn't forced Mephistopheles aside.
Roarke touched gentle fingertips to her cheeks. "As long as you are alive, Leslie, you are the master of your own soul." As he spoke, encouraging her, he could see the ongoing battle within her for control. "No one, no power, can take from you your choice of heaven or hell. While you breathe, I will help." His gaze grew focused and deliberate, and Leslie concentrated on it as a lifeline. "Join your will to mine…" Their eyes locked and they stood frozen; then Roarke whispered, "Now!"
Leslie applied all the meager force her battered consciousness could muster up, and at the same time she felt something firmly drive away the unwelcome entity that had been crowding her mind. But she as so weak from her previous struggles to regain control that she could no longer stand on her own and began to collapse where she stood. Roarke caught and braced her, supporting her with his considerable strength.
The light grew perceptibly dim again and Mephistopheles popped into view like an apparition, looking somewhat put out. "There was no need to be violent, Roarke," he said, shaking his head, his arms folded over his chest. Roarke turned to stare at him, and he went on, "All you had to do was ask me politely and I would've left her body. You should know it's her soul I'm after. And I will take that, at midnight tomorrow." Leslie stared at him from the shelter of Roarke's arms, her knees threatening to buckle under her again. She had no more strength with which to fight.
"No," she managed, panic giving her a last thread of energy, and turned to her guardian. "Please save me," she begged helplessly. She knew it went without saying; but she was so weak and so close to total panic that she just couldn't think straight.
"Roarke, there is a way," Mephistopheles exclaimed, quickly taking advantage of what he seemed to see as an opening. "Yes, she is mine—unless, of course, you offer me your soul in place of hers." They watched him, Leslie with rising alarm and Roarke in a cold silence. "I think you'll agree, I know you better than you know yourself; and you are not the sort of man to let your young charge down." The words made Leslie wonder if he knew exactly how she had come to be under Roarke's care, and she tried not to think about it, lest he sense her thought and seize on it.
"It's checkmate, Roarke," Mephistopheles said. "At midnight tomorrow, you will agree to serve me. I will own you, Roarke." This he said with particular relish; Roarke simply continued to stare at him. Leslie turned her head away from the sight and buried her face in Roarke's shoulder. Someday I'll have to ask why Mephistopheles is so eager to get Mr. Roarke's soul, she thought, like it's some kind of trophy. Of course, they were going to have to find their way out of this predicament first!
‡ ‡ ‡
Supper was actually a rather lively affair, what with Roarke, Tattoo, Julie and Leslie all eating together. Once Mana'olana had served the meal and retreated to the kitchen, Roarke surveyed the dinner party and observed, "Well, this seems like a good time to get a progress report. Tattoo, how is Mr. Plummer getting along?"
"He was pretty disillusioned when I went to check on him," Tattoo remarked with a grin. "He met the real Kid Corey all right, but the Kid had stolen his horse and Mr. Plummer was trying to find him. Last I saw him, he was headed off in the direction I showed him, looking for the Kid. I guess that outlaw showed his true colors right from the start."
Roarke chuckled. "I expected something of the sort to happen."
"He wanted to come back here," Tattoo added, "but I explained about your policy of finishing out a fantasy once it starts. So by the time I have to go back tomorrow, he should have all his questions answered."
"Excellent work, my friend," Roarke said warmly. "Julie?"
"Oh, Ms. Rogers and Mrs. Michaels have already had a couple of knock-down-drag-outs," Julie reported with a wry smile. "Ms. Rogers is in the process of stealing Mrs. Michaels' granddaughter's boyfriend, and right now everybody's pretty unhappy."
"Regretful," Roarke said. "Keep an eye on them, Julie, just to be sure things don't get out of hand. They must work it out for themselves."
Silence held for a few beats; then Tattoo peered at Leslie, who hadn't spoken at all thus far. "Boss, what about Leslie?" he asked curiously.
Roarke drew in a breath and gave Leslie a wry look; she met it for only a moment before letting her head drop and staring at her plate. "Leslie managed to get herself involved with Mephistopheles," he understated dryly.
"Sacre bleu, Leslie, how'd you do that?" Tattoo demanded, horrified.
"I said something stupid in front of him," Leslie told him, self-disgust radiating from her, and explained what had happened early that day. "So of course he decided he was going to win, and since Mr. Roarke said he's beaten him a lot of times before, I figured the odds were good he'd do it again. So I thought, I bet you don't, and I didn't even realize I'd actually said it till he looked right at me and Mr. Roarke gave me this awful stare."
"Really," said Julie, looking outraged. "I'd have gone ahead and said it right out loud!"
Her companions stared at her for a long moment before Roarke cast a supplicating glance in the general direction of the darkening sky. "Then perhaps it's as well you weren't there," he said, shaking his head. "Surely you realize precisely how foolhardy it is to directly challenge Satan! Bad enough that Leslie spoke her thoughts accidentally—I should have found it twice as difficult to help you in the wake of a deliberate statement!"
Julie blushed and shrugged her shoulders. "Well, really, uncle, if you've escaped the devil as often as you claim to have, there's no reason to believe you wouldn't this time."
"Don't ever be too optimistic," Leslie said ironically. "As soon as you are, you get proven wrong. I've learned that one before."
"Your confidence in me is earth-shaking," Roarke said to her with even more irony, and now she blushed as well.
"Well…I mean, if we don't escape him, it'll probably be my fault," Leslie said with a long sigh. "And on top of that, I'm likely to have another nightmare tonight."
" 'Another' one? Do you have them all the time, or what?" Julie asked.
"Later, Julie," Roarke said quietly, and she subsided with some reluctance. "I think you and I had better have a little talk after the meal, Leslie. Which, by the way, is growing cold as we speak, so I suggest we finish it before it goes to waste."
As it turned out, Roarke's talk had to do with an idea he had concocted to keep Leslie from dreaming that night. "If you truly believe you're going to dream again, then it might be prudent to try a potion on you."
"What kind of potion?" Leslie asked.
"It's a bit of a variation on a sleeping pill," Roarke told her. "With the correct ingredient added to it, it suppresses dreams. Since that is our goal, I'll make up one dose for you, if you're willing to try it."
"How does it taste?" Leslie questioned warily.
Roarke chuckled. "There is no taste," he said. "You need have no fear that it will be bitter or taste like cold medicine. What good would a potion do a fantasizer if it couldn't be easily ingested in order to work?"
"True," she agreed with a small smile. "Okay, I'll try some."
Just as Roarke had promised, she slept soundly and dreamlessly that night, allowing her guardian to do the same. The rest did them both good; Leslie felt better on Sunday morning, and by that time Roarke had come up with the germ of an idea which he kept to himself for the time being. To keep Leslie occupied, he sent her off with Julie to see how things were going with their two elderly guests, and started his preparations. Fortunately, Mephistopheles did not make an appearance all day; Roarke imagined he probably felt there was no real need, since they would have the final confrontation that night.
Julie and Leslie returned to the main house around eight-thirty that evening, Julie looking happy and Leslie with a pinched expression. "Mrs. Michael and Ms. Rogers are old ladies again, Mr. Roarke," Julie told him.
In surprise Roarke pulled out his gold pocket watch and examined it carefully. "If memory serves, the Ziegfeld Follies Revival show began only half an hour ago, and is still in progress," he said. "Are you certain, Julie?"
"Yup. Leslie and I were backstage waiting to see them dance their big number, and all of a sudden this stagehand came stumbling out their dressing-room door looking like someone had hit him with a mallet. We had no idea what was wrong with him actually, because we saw them dance in the introductory number and then come backstage to wait for their main part. But then they went into their dressing room and didn't come back out. So when that stagehand gave them their two-minute warning, Ms. Rogers dragged him back inside for a minute and then let him out."
"And then he knocked again and asked if he'd really heard them right—whatever they said—and backed right out again. As soon as he left, out came the two old women," Leslie concluded. "I think they must have told him it was all a fantasy—just the way you told them not to do yesterday."
"I'm sure they had their reasons," Roarke said with a knowing smile.
"I know they saved their friendship," Julie announced with pride. "So that's one fantasy all settled for the weekend."
Reminded, Leslie's expression closed down again and she slumped into a club chair. Roarke glanced at her but turned his attention to Julie for the moment. "I believe that frees you up for the evening," he said. "If you like, you may return home."
"Think I will," Julie agreed. "Thanks, uncle, see you at the plane dock tomorrow morning. Good luck to you and Leslie both."
"Thank you," said Roarke calmly.
"We can use all the good luck we can get," Leslie added direly, and Julie grinned before exiting the house. Just as she left, Tattoo came in, glanced at Roarke and Leslie with a quick wave and started toward the closed door of the time-travel room. He'd made it no farther than down the foyer steps when there came a loud yell from that room and a grunt. Leslie sat up and twisted in her seat to stare; Tattoo, without breaking stride, headed right for the door and opened it, signaling at someone within. Sure enough, a couple of seconds later, out came Ned Plummer, rolling his head around his shoulders and rubbing his neck.
"I'll show you to your bungalow, Mr. Plummer," Tattoo said, very much the gracious host, and escorted the Brooklynite out the door. Leslie watched them go and then turned back to Roarke.\
"What happened to him?" she asked.
"I suggest you ask Tattoo when he gets back," Roarke replied with a smile.
The moment Tattoo walked in the door again, she pounced. "What happened?"
"Oh," Tattoo grinned. "It's a long story, but let's see if I can summarize it. Somehow Mr. Plummer got arrested along with Kid Corey, and the Kid got the sheriff to release him from jail because of that 'Wanted' poster that Mr. Plummer was carrying around. Since the picture on it looked just like Mr. Plummer, they let the Kid go free, and Mr. Plummer was sentenced to death by hanging. Some reporter was there making notes for a story, and there was a photographer there too. I just got back from completing the hanging, and that sent Mr. Plummer back here."
"Oh," said Leslie. "Then I guess that's two fantasies taken care of." She sighed deeply.
"Hey," Tattoo said consolingly, coming to her chair and patting her arm. "Don't worry, Leslie. If anyone can get you out of this, it's the boss, for sure."
Roarke looked up then and smiled. "Your confidence is much appreciated, my friend," he said. "Leslie, child, you might take a cue from him."
She simply sighed again, and Tattoo shrugged in Roarke's direction. "I tried," he said.
Roarke chuckled. "So you did. Well, you've earned the evening off, so go ahead and enjoy it. And thank you for your invaluable assistance this weekend."
"Anytime, boss, just say the word," Tattoo said cheerfully. "Good night, and good luck. You'll beat the devil for sure." He waved at Leslie and walked out.
Leslie sank into her own thoughts for a while and Roarke returned to what he had been doing; after quite some time she roused herself and tried to see what he was working on. "What's that, Mr. Roarke?" she asked.
Roarke looked up. "I'm just about finished here," he said, rising then and picking up two documents from the desktop. "You need concern yourself only with these, Leslie. Take a good look at them before you do anything else." He handed her the pages, and she pulled her head back a bit in surprise.
"The print's so tiny," she said. "What are they?"
Roarke smiled. "Just read them," he said, and she did so, her eyes widening. It didn't take her long to understand exactly what their purpose was, and she grinned when she got to the bottom and noted Roarke's signature on each one. He handed her a pen, and she arose and stood at the corner of the desk to write her name on the second blank line of both documents. But as she did, the abdominal butterflies reared up again and her elation vanished. Suppose it didn't work…?
She handed the pages back to Roarke and bit her lip nervously; Roarke looked over her signatures, then focused on her. "Your affairs are in order, Leslie?"
"Yes," she said.
Roarke studied her carefully. "You understand everything I have told you?"
"Yes, I understand," she said, not quite able to meet his gaze. Her voice wasn't steady, and Roarke could practically watch her nerves tightening.
"Don't be afraid, Leslie," he said.
She glanced up then, an apology in her eyes, but unsmiling. "I'm sorry," she said with a sigh. "I can't help it."
Roarke smiled. "You're stronger than you know," he told her.
She smiled, feeling sheepish. "I won't let you down, Mr. Roarke," she promised. If he was willing to go out on a limb for her, the lease she could do was give it her all.
"The devil isn't infallible, you know," Roarke said. "There are many ways to slip through his traps. I have done it many times."
"But how?" Leslie asked helplessly.
"I have an idea that might work…a scheme in his own design," Roarke said, catching the corner of his lip between his teeth in a thoughtful manner. Then he focused on her again and settled her back into her chair. "But first, we must have the most serious conversation two people can have. It is a question of how much we love and trust each other."
She stared up at him and knew with sudden certainty that her two and a half years of being his ward, her dependence on him and her feelings for him, were going to be called into question and put to the ultimate test.