So it must be more valuable than I know.
The candles in the chandelier sputtered, some blowing out, as a wind seemed to sweep through the garden and rustle the curtains.
Oh, how he had underestimated his opponent, Sant’Angelo realized.
But then, so had the count.
The marquis took a steadying breath, and concentrated his mind. He could feel Cagliostro trying to batter his way in again, but now that he was aware of the count’s abilities, Sant’Angelo was able to effectively shut him out. He imagined himself ensconced, surrounded, protected, behind the high walls of the Chateau Perdu.
A draft blew through the room, sending the sheet music flying from the harpsichord.
And then the marquis conjured an eagle, its broad wings and razor-sharp talons spread, flying into the flock of ravens, tearing their ranks into disarray. The ravens scattered, some plummeting from the sky with broken wings and loose feathers, others disappearing like smoke.
If a battle of conjurations was what Cagliostro wanted, the marquis would give it to him, in spades.
But even as his eagle wreaked havoc, another and more sinister figure arose on the wall to defy it—the size and shape of a man, it bore the long snout and high pointed ears of a jackal.
Sant’Angelo recognized it instantly.
It was Anubis, the ancient Egyptian god of death, rising up like an avenging angel.
Before his eyes, the creature expanded, its muzzle extending out over the ceiling, its jaws open, its teeth like the jagged edge of a saw.…
And even Sant’Angelo felt a momentary shudder. Resist it, he told himself.
The creature’s paws seemed to extend along the walls, long nails raking the mantelpiece and window frames.
Terrifying as it is, it is just an illusion.
But then, even to the marquis’s astonishment, the monster’s claws knocked a vase from the mantel. It shattered on the floor, and Antoinette herself let out a whimper of fear.
My God, he thought—Cagliostro was the most formidable adversary he had ever crossed.
The back of his neck tingled with what felt like the jackal’s hot breath, and even the drip of saliva from its slavering jaws.
“Do you surrender?” He heard the count’s voice, echoing as if from the bottom of a well. “Do you bend your will to mine?”
And in answer—what use were further words?—Sant’Angelo conjured a lion, massive and ferocious, roaring with rage. It sprang up from the floor, taking shape as it rose, its mane bristling, its ragged claws taking wild, deadly swipes at the head of the rearing jackal.
A tremor rumbled through the parquet floor, and the Princesse de Lamballe, though still in a trance, slumped to the floor.
The lion rose on its hind legs, bellowing, and the jackal began to shrink.
Looking up, Sant’Angelo saw the count reeling back, his focus lost, his confidence shaken. La Medusa dangled limply in his hand.
But rather than easing off, the marquis pressed his advantage.
On your knees, he ordered. He formed his thoughts like musket balls and shot them directly into his adversary’s mind. Your knees, I say!
The count faltered, then slowly sank down, his own will broken. The shade of Anubis dwindled to the size of a rat … and scurried off.
And hear only my voice. He sent the words like another volley.
Cagliostro shook his head, as if trying to rid it of a searing pain.
Down! the marquis insisted. Down!
And the count sank lower, sprawling on the floor.
Sant’Angelo rose from his chair, and wending his way past the tormented dreamers, stood above the count. Cagliostro’s hands were pressed to his temples, as if his head might split open at any second; with one more, well-directed tap, Sant’Angelo thought, he could break it in two like a quartz crystal. Cagliostro groaned in agony.
La Medusa lay beside him on the floor.
Sant’Angelo bent down and picked it up, clutching it in his fist as if to never let it go.
You will remember who overmastered you tonight, Count.
Cagliostro writhed, his boots scraping on the wood. The white monkey, screaming in fright, tried to run past, but Sant’Angelo snagged its leash and looped it several times around his groveling foe’s neck.
But you will never be able to speak of it. His mind, Sant’Angelo knew, would rot from within, like termite-infested wood.
Turning toward the queen and her guests, restive but still mesmerized, the marquis instructed them to awaken only at the tolling of the clock. It was one minute before midnight.
Then he gathered his wolfskin coat and left. He was halfway to the Trianon’s gate when he heard—added to the shrieks of the monkey and the cawing of the parrot—the commotion of the queen and her guests shaking off their trance. There were shouts of nervous exultation, raucous laughter, voices babbling in shock and surprise.