Frank Lauria

Lady Sativa

(A Doctor Orient Occult Novel)

 

{Doctor Orient - 3)

Copyright © 1973 by Frank Lauria

 

 

For M.P.L. and V.A.L.
the three bravest people I know

 

 


CONTENTS


 

 

CHAPTER 1

 

 

The plump woman was nervous.

She shifted her weight, trying to find a more comfortable position on the carpet. She tugged at her pink leotard, sat up, crossed her legs, and looked down through the almost transparent surface of the floor next to her. As she watched the darting rainbow flashes of the small fish swimming in the water underneath the glass panels, she took a deep breath. She imagined that she was with them, gliding lazily across the room toward the base of the large rock jutting up through the surface of the open pool. She took another breath and felt the muscles in her diaphragm relax. She closed her eyes.

Liquidy coolness caressed her skin. A sudden floating vertigo caused her to open her eyes. She was in the water, looking up through the milky substance of the glass at a round pastel smear above her. She swam up closer to the glass, moving with luxurious, weightless, ease. As the giddiness subsided her vision cleared and the pastel smear focused into a rippling image.

A woman with red frizzy hair that framed her wide, florid face.

The woman was wearing some pink, skin like material that folded and bulged with the curves of her body.

She realized, without surprise, that the woman was herself.

A looming shadow darkened the water nearby. She flicked away, reacting with instinctive swiftness to the intrusion. Then she saw the angular face and long, lean body of the man coming toward her and the anxiety was replaced by a sense of joy. The man lifted his arms and held something out to her: a statue of a cupid figure, with a clock in its belly. She swam closer to the cupid statue and saw that the hands were set at six-twenty. The focus blurred into blackness as a flush of dry warmth poured over her skin like sun-baked sand. "Perfect."

She opened her eyes. She was inside her body. She saw the rock across the room, the floating green vegetation, the strip of transparent glass panels along the edge of the running pool of water. She looked across the carpet at the man sitting facing her. The man she'd just seen swimming underneath the glass.

"I think you've got it," he said.

Sybelle uncrossed her legs and leaned back on her hands. "You were holding an absolutely grotesque clock. Why you chose that cupid I'll never guess." She smiled at him. "But it was a lovely swim."

"Anything else?" he prompted. He hugged his bony knees against his chest and waited.

Sybelle let him wait. She suppressed the glow of satisfaction rising within her and pretended to be confused. He wasn't going to get his answer without making a deal, she decided. She deserved it.

His green eyes watched her face and a slight smile lifted the corners of his wide mouth. "Well?" he said softly.

"Do I get a decent meal if I tell you?" she demanded. "I feel like Oliver Twist for heaven's sakes!"

"Did you see anything else?" he repeated, ignoring her offer.

She shook her head slowly. "Owen Orient you are the most stubborn man. But not today. A full five-course meal. With wines. Or no time."

When Orient grinned, the bony angles of his sculptured face softened with boyish delight. "So you did see the time on the clock," he chuckled.

"I'm not saying another word."

"Don't worry about your food," he told her, "this is an occasion. Sordi s getting everything ready now."

"It was six-twenty," Sybelle muttered, not convinced she wasn't being tricked out of her dinner.

"Tell me something." Orient leaned forward watching her intently: "Did you have any particular emotion when you saw the time?"

Sybelle furrowed her brow. "Not clear. Perhaps a kind of worry. As if I was late or something."

Orient nodded. "Great. The intent of my mental image was to let you know we were running late." He smiled. "Sordi doesn't like to warm his meals over."

"So that was all there was to it," Sybelle mused. "After all that hard work and exercise it came down to just relaxing my mind."

As Orient stood up, Sybelle saw his long, corded muscles, flexing in sharp relief against the stretch fabric of his gym tights, and wondered if she wanted that five-course dinner after all. Since she'd started training with Owen, her own weight had dropped twenty pounds. Her body still retained its lusty curves, but now they were firm and her skin glowed with vitality, almost as pink as her tights.

"All that physical exercise helped establish a vital harmony between your mind and your senses," Orient was saying. "A balance. To keep perfect balance it's important to continue the exercises. But now that you've located the fulcrum point of that balance, you'll be able to use it whenever you wish."

"You mean that's really it?" Sybelle whispered as the full significance of his statement spread through her understanding. "Do we have full communication?

"You're a full-fledged telepath Sybelle," Orient said. "Welcome pilgrim."

She took his extended hand and pulled herself easily to her feet, reveling in the new smoothness of her movements. "Well then," she said, "what's for dinner?"

Orient's face was blank. "Fish, I think," he murmured.

Sybelle thought of the graceful, languid moments her mind had just passed beneath the surface of the water and decided she wasn't hungry after all.

To Sybelle's relief, she found that Orient had been sending her up. There was no seafood. Instead Sordi served tomatoes stuffed with wild rice and herbs, a flaming Grand Marnier omelet garnished with orange slices and resting on delicate crepe's, green salad with lemon dressing, candied yams, various cheeses and dark, fresh-baked bread. For dessert he had made a buckwheat cake layered with sour cream and juicy strawberries. And all through the meal, Sordi kept her long-stemmed glass full of chilled champagne.

"Just divine," Sybelle cooed, batting her violet-tinted lashes at Sordi. "How is it such a talented man decided to waste his time working with this awful vegetarian?" Distinguished, too, she added silently as she gazed at Sordi's blue-gray eyes. They were sensitive and soft in contrast to his sharp features. His gray-streaked hair and elegant dress gave him the air of a visiting diplomat. She wondered if he'd ever been married.

"Glad you like my cooking Sybelle," Sordi murmured. He wanted to say much more, but he was seized by a rush of embarrassment.

"Sordi's help has made the big difference in my being able to continue research," Orient said. He shook his head. "But we may have to cut off operations for a few months."

"There must be a way to keep going," Sordi blurted. To his surprise the intensity of his feelings seared through his momentary shyness. "It's too important; you can't stop now."

Orient shrugged. "No choice. The upkeep on this place is too heavy. If I don't sell the house, I've got to sell the equipment. It makes sense to stop now and look for another place to setup shop."

"It does seem a pity to let this place go Owen, darling," Sybelle scolded. She sipped her champagne and looked around at the large room that served as Orient's library, studio, equipment area, media lab, and living quarters. Situated on the second floor, it spanned the entire length of the three-story townhouse, and the high stretch of crossed-beam ceiling was unbroken by walls or partitions. Instead the huge space was divided by functions. The rolltop desk stood next to the bookshelves in one corner; the stereo audio equipment extended past the study area into the center of the room, becoming part of the video and film complex. The lights, cameras, and wires stopped short of a pillow-lined conversation pit in the near corner. Tools, furniture, and occasional objects of art all merged to form a flowing environment of possibility, where form and function could stimulate creativity. Paintings, graphs, bulletins, diagrams of projects, posters, and ribbons of exposed film coexisted on the walls, their shapes and colors pulling the disparate elements of the room into scattered harmony.

"It's perfect for your work," Sybelle reflected. "A little busy for my taste, but I think Sordi's right."

Orient started to say something, but she wasn't listening. She was thinking about the rest of the house; the meditation room upstairs, the biochemical lab next to the "garage, and especially the oversized kitchen on the first floor.

"No," she said firmly, interrupting him, "it just won't do to sell this place. Not when you're on the verge of a significant discovery. Besides, there isn't a kitchen like yours in the entire city. No darling, it's out of the question."

"Exactly what I've been telling him." Sordi glared at Orient. "I'm glad somebody appreciates that fact. Not to even mention the herb garden.

"The meditation room Owen," Sybelle persisted, "the lab. There must be some way to keep the house. Let me help you. I've got some loose cash tucked away. I'll lend it to you."

Sordi sighed. "He won't take any money Sybelle. I tried too. He's too stubborn."

Orient looked at them and smiled. "No use ganging up on me. I like this house myself. Money's just a temporary solution. When that runs out, I'll be left with the same problem."

"What problem?" Sybelle asked.

"No way to Continue research until I find a way for it to support itself financially. Not only current expenses, but a way to cover the costs of another eight months. That would give me time to develop the telepathic technique further. Since the overhead here is too high it's simple logic to sell the house and use the proceeds to set up another lab. Perhaps somewhere in New Jersey."

"New Jersey?" she lifted an artfully plucked eyebrow. "Darling you can't be serious. That's like going to Pittsburgh. Just listen to me for a moment."

Orient folded his arms and listened. He knew it was useless to argue with Sybelle when she was enraptured with a cause. And he had the distinct impression that she'd just taken up the colors of a righteous crusade: saving his house.

"Today in your meditation room you did something absolutely historic. You taught me how to communicate telepathically. And you told me yourself that my telepathic potential wasn't even evident before you snowed me the technique."

"Only partially true," Orient reminded her. "You were already a professional medium. The barriers to developing your natural telepathic faculty were already partially open."

Sybelle paused. "True," she said finally, flashing a smile at Sordi, "I am exceptionally gifted."

The smile faded when she looked at Orient. "But you forget that being able to communicate mentally is still quite an achievement. For any human being. Surely there must be scientific foundations or grant foundations that would sponsor your work."

"Sordi and I spent two solid months looking up research grants. The only program interested was a Pentagon unit that wanted to investigate telepathy for possibly military application." He shook his head and grinned. "Even if I agreed to get involved with that absurd choice. I wouldn't even be able to make basic muster. Any security check on me would bounce."

Sybelle waited for him to say more, but he just shrugged and reached for his glass. She was very tempted to pursue his last remark. Even though she'd become very close to Owen Orient she knew very little about his life—past or present. But something in his wide green eyes stopped her. They glinted with amusement over the rim of his glass, but the jade centers of his pupils were dark and very private. "Are you sure you've tried everywhere?" she asked instead. "Perhaps darling there's a few things you don't know about," she added, frustrated by her inability to feed her taste for savory gossip.

Orient set his glass down arid looked at her. "Appreciate hearing some," he said calmly. "Sordi and I hit every name on the list."

Sybelle felt a sudden rush of remorse at her snappish attitude when she saw the quietly attentive expression on his face. He looked very young, despite the white streak that shot through his shaggy black hair. The lean, high-boned features were as earnest as those of an inquisitive boy. There's one good possibility," she said softly, "if you want to save the house. It's exactly the kind of foundation that can help you. And I happen to be a member of the board."

"What board is that Sybelle?" Sordi prompted when Orient didn't answer.

Sybelle gave him a grateful smile. "It's called SEE," she told him. "Society for Extranorjnal Exploration."

"I've heard of it," Orient said slowly. It's backed by Bestman Corporation. But when I tried to get in touch with Anthony Bestman, his office told me he was unavailable. And they had no information about an organization called SEE"

"There, I knew it," Sybelle gushed enthusiastically. "You tried to contact the wrong man."

"I checked the corporation listing myself," Sordi protested. "Anthony Bestman is President."

"Oh, he runs the business," Sybelle said, patting his hand, "but most of the stock is controlled by his brother Carl. Carl Bestman is the inspiration and financial benefactor of SEE. Anthony is a horrible man. Of course, he wouldn't speak to you. He considers us all a crackpot club out to fleece his brother. All Anthony knows are money and big-game hunting. But Carl is a biologist; he's quite different. I knew there was something I could do." She picked up her glass and drained it. "Simply perfect."

Orient drummed his long fingers on the table. "Sounds good," he said, "as long as Carl Bestman understands that the telepathic technique has nothing to do with SEE's interest in the occult."

"I told you Carl is a biologist," Sybelle sniffed. "And all five members of our board approach the study of extranormal phenomena scientifically. Don't be such a snob, darling. I recall you also having a morbid interest in the occult your own self." She sat back in her chair, adjusted the pink lapel of her satin pantsuit, and gave Sordi her most devastating smile. "Give us a try."

Sordi shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "You think this Carl Bestman will give Dr. Orient some money?"

"In a month," Sybelle said, lowering her voice. SEE is going to meet at Carl's estate. At the conference each member can present a candidate for the approval of the board. The person who, in the opinion of SEE's board, is most deserving takes a prize of fifty thousand dollars." She looked at Orient. "And when we show them the results of your research I'm positive they'll award you the prize."

"Sounds great to me," Sordi looked hopefully at Orient. "What do you think?"

Orient's smile relaxed the jutting contours of his face. "Sounds like just what we need to keep us going," he said softly.

"Now stop being such a conservative, darling," Sybelle said. I've decided it's just the thing. It's about time you started meeting people. You've practically become a hermit."

"Just what I've been saying all along," Sordi put in, unable to restrain his enthusiasm. "He needs to get out more. He works too hard."

Orient beamed at Sybelle and Sordi. "Seem to be outvoted and out-diagnosed. Tell me what to do and I'll do it."

"And you won't regret it." Sybelle extended her glass over the table. "To the new Dr. Owen Orient." She looked at Sordi and lowered her lashes. "And to new friendships," she added softly.

 

Later, as Sordi drove her home, Sybelle curled down against the deep, leather upholstery and regarded him carefully. He certainly was a good-looking man, she noted, going over his assets. And very loyal to Owen. She liked that quality in a man. She decided to wait for him to make the first move. But after only a few seconds of watching him maneuver the large limousine through the traffic, her curiosity won out. "You drive so well," she said, "and it's such a huge machine."

Sordi snorted and shook his head sadly. "This monster. Dr. Orient spent a lot of time and money getting this tank together." He remembered how he had tried, tactfully, to convince the doctor to get himself something more modern.

Orient had explained patiently but firmly that the coachwork on the Rolls Ghost had been done by a special designer. An American called Brewster. Orient also told him that the car had been specially built in America. Sordi shook his head. Lots of cars were made in America. "It runs great, he made sure of that," Sordi muttered, "but he should have something with more styling."

Sybelle agreed. The polished wood and dark leather interior were very tasteful, but she preferred the lush convenience of a newer car. However, she didn't intend to discuss automotive engineering. "How long have you been with Orient now?" she asked casually

"About six years," Sordi's gaze was fixed on the wide windshield, but his voice betrayed his interest. "How about you?"

"Ten years," Sybelle admitted with a trace of annoyance. It occurred to her that in all that time she had discovered very little about Owen Orient. They had become good friends in the time they'd worked together, but she still hadn't managed to crack that quiet, deceptively mild exterior. The thought irked her.

When she'd first met him he'd been just twenty, a very brilliant and very eager student who asked her hundreds of questions about her work as a medium. Then when he began practicing psychiatry he continued to come to see her, occasionally taking part in some seances and readings. He watched everything that was done very carefully, as if he was trying to memorize the procedure. Being bright, handsome, and rich he'd become a great favorite at her gatherings, but he always remained reserved. At first Sybelle had thought it was shyness, but she gradually came to understand that it went deeper than that. Owen had some other preoccupation beyond social success. He seemed extremely restless for a time, then he left New York and was abroad for two or three years. She lost touch, but she heard he'd been seen in Paris and Beirut. Finally, someone told her he'd gone to India. When she saw Owen again she sensed a complete change in him.

His manner remained reserved, but it couldn't be mistaken for shyness any longer. He radiated an aura of serene assurance. He told her that he'd been in Tibet for nine months and was back to begin research. They had maintained occasional contact, but it wasn't until this year, when he'd asked her to help him with some experiments, that she discovered that his research concerned telepathic communication. And just recently she'd come to realize that Owen's knowledge of her own field, the occult sciences, was as extensive as her own. "You must know Owen very well," Sybelle prompted sweetly, "being his assistant all this time. It was right after he came back from Tibet wasn't it?"

Sordi nodded. "Working with the doctor has been great for me. I studied science in Italy, but he's taught me things I didn't think were possible."

"Has Owen taught you his technique?"

"Not yet. My Psi factors are still blocked." He squinted through the windshield. "Maybe after you get the project on its feet."

He was charming, Sybelle thought as she nestled deeper into the seat. "Doesn't Owen see any girls?" she purred sleepily.

Sordi hesitated. "There've been a few." He was silent for a moment as he braked for a light. The oversized disc brakes that Orient had installed brought the long, heavy car to a gentle stop. "He's been working too hard," Sordi confided. "He hasn't been seeing anyone except you and some other old friends." He fell silent again.

"He never wanted to get married?" Sybelle prodded.

His shift into first and the slow acceleration of the car were both noiseless. He pursed his lips for a moment before he answered. "Well, he was interested in a couple of those girls," he said slowly. He glanced at her then stared straight ahead. "But it didn't work out. One girl, especially, I think he was serious about. He was with her for a few months in Europe. They stayed at my house in Ischia. But that was almost two years ago. These days the doctor's been trying to keep the house operating. It hasn't been easy."

"What happened?" Sybelle sat up in her seat, her interest totally activated. "To the girl I mean."

"It... didn't work out. They broke up in Europe."

Sybelle remembered something else she'd always wondered about. "Has Owen ever conducted any experiments in the occult?" she asked.

Sordi opened his mouth and then closed it. "I really "don't know," he said after a moment." But someday you should visit Ischia. It's in Italy and it's very beautiful."

"I'm sure I should." Sybelle slumped down again as she realized that Sordi was as close-mouthed as his employer. It was frustrating. "Perhaps you'll show me Ischia someday," she suggested, deciding to try another tack.

"I'm sure you'll be crazy about the place," he said, ignoring the direction of her remark.

Sybelle sighed. She would have to cast her lines patiently, she told herself, if she hoped to land Sordi at all.

When they reached Sybelle s brownstone, Sordi parked the car and came around to open her door.

"Thank you so much," she flashed her brightest smile and extended her hand. "It was a lovely evening. And your cooking was divine."

"Anytime," Sordi mumbled. Impulsively, he bowed and kissed her hand. "Good night," he said, edging back to the automobile.

How simply marvelous, Sybelle thought as she hunted for her key. There's nothing like a European man to make a girl feel feminine. She would definitely have to pursue this matter. After all, she wasn't getting any younger.

Sordi waited until Sybelle was inside before starting the motor. That's some woman, he observed as the Ghost pulled away. She was heavy-set, but he liked that. She reminded him of the strong, healthy women of his birthplace. Not like some of those American stringbeans who never ate anything except Jello and cottage cheese. He began to sing softly over the resonant vibration of the engine as the car floated smoothly across the deserted streets. Things were looking up. Just as long as she wasn't looking for a husband.

 

As he climbed the stairs to his room, Orient wondered if he'd made a wise move in accepting Sybelle's offer. SEE was known as an organization more concerned with random occult matters than laboratory sciences. It was possible that association with the group might tend to put the telepathic techniques in the category of witchcraft.

No other choice, he reminded himself, just be grateful for old friends. As it was he could make it for another three months before the operation folded. A grant from SEE would keep them going for at least another year. It was the only game in town and he was lucky to have a chance of playing. He went into the bedroom and took off his clothes. The important thing, he decided as he walked across the hall to the meditation room, was to make sure that his presentation would deserve a prize. He slid the doors apart.

He sat down cross-legged on the soft carpet next to the pool. On one side, beneath a clear glass strip on the floor, he could see the bright flashes of fish in the water below. Across the open pool, on the other side of the room, was a large black rock. Its massiveness, contrasted against the rippling water and soft spots of light, created a sense of emptiness in the long room. Orient stretched his naked body on the carpet and began the physical exercises. He began with the Yang movements, twisting and bending his spine and giving up all thoughts of money, prizes, and problems to the vibrating absence around him.

He narrowed his concentration to his body, pulling his consciousness across his muscles, lungs, and blood vessels as he increased his efforts.

He went into the Yin series, the breathing patterns which expanded his awareness until he was in communication with every cell of his chemistry. He drew his mind through the millions of connections until he found the source of the energy. The code gene, the tiny organism that spun the web of his being. He suspended and let the gravity of that tiny universe within him draw him into an orbit where all present, past, and future time was compressed into one atmosphere.

He soared around a primary chemical sun, feeling the magnetic heat of its presence charge his senses with new possibilities of existence.

Then a high wind came across the glittering void, subtly altering the ecstatic pattern of his flight. A flash of color entered his field of vision and he realized he was. passing a large, crudely shaped structure. A shape from a forgotten reality. A room.

A man was sitting erectly at a table. The man's face seemed far away yet loomed up large against his consciousness.

The face was unknown.

It was triangular in shape and the steely gray eyes were accentuated by thick black eyebrows that angled sharply around them. The long, thin nose was set above full, smiling lips. The narrow chin made the broad forehead seem very wide and high....

All form shredded and the wind faded away, leaving Orient hovering free in the timeless gravity.

He spun effortlessly through the magnetic emptiness, listening for the soothing pulses of energy radiating from the source of his time.

Orient came out of his meditation with a refreshed awareness of the harmonies within himself. The relationships between his mind and body were supple and new. But this time something else remained: a lingering sense of disturbance.

He went back to his bedroom, took a shower, and went to bed. He tried to channel his thoughts to the editing job he had waiting for him in the morning.

He had to cut and arrange the footage of his work with Sybelle into something usable. He only had a month.

Just before he went to sleep, however, the smiling face he'd seen during his meditation flickered across his memory like a recurring television image, rolling monotonously over a badly tuned screen.

 

 

CHAPTER 2

 

 

After two weeks of steady work, Orient managed to put together the first ten minutes of what he hoped would be a thirty-minute visual demonstration of his work in telepathy with Sybelle.

As he went through the tedious hand process of marking the tape, cutting and splicing, he thought of the CBS Automatic Editor he once planned to add to the studio. Just mark the special screen with an electronic pencil and the computer does the rest. Handy but very expensive, and there was other lab equipment more crucially needed:

He had cut a full twenty-one minutes of the film by the time Sybelle called to tell him SEE had agreed to consider his project. "In two weeks," she told him breathlessly. "Isn't it marvelous?"

"Great." Orient cradled the phone between his neck and shoulder as he spoke, hands moving restlessly over the strips of tape on his worktable. "Should have our visual finished by then, with luck."

"Well, of course you must. This is your chance to educate the public darling. They're going to be astounded."

"Have you been keeping up your routine?"

"Like a drudge. And my powers have never been keener."

"Who else is competing?"

"Just some sort of girl prophet. But that's old hat. I've been known to have my moments myself. The conscious transmission of thoughts is something new. I'm positive we'll absolutely stop them dead."

Orient laughed. "Going to need your help to do them in, so keep on your diet. Anything else I have to do?"

"No, I don't think so. The conference lasts for a few days. They're supplying the tickets so you won't have to worry about that end, and—there was something else— oh yes, bring lots of warm clothes."

"How come? It's only September."

Sybelle giggled. "Didn't you know darling? Carl Bestman lives in Sweden. That's where we meet every year. It gets very cold, very early. Better bring long Johns." She giggled: again and hung up.

 

Orient's luck proved to be running lame during the next couple of weeks. He was plagued with underexposed images, overheated power packs, inferior skills, and an increasing desire to forget the whole thing.

An hour and a half before he was due to meet Sybelle at the airport, he found himself still running the last three minutes through the screener. Sordi stood behind him, alternately checking his watch and giving last-minute instructions. "I packed the cashmere blazer and a couple of extra sweaters; I left the leather trench coat out. You'll need it when you reach Stockholm."

"Okay, thanks," Orient murmured, intent on the screen images. "Do you like the close-up of Sybelle here, or do you think I should splice in a medium shot?"

Sordi glanced at his watch. "Keep the close-up. It's more personal. The tux is packed, too."

Orient's attention was still distracted as he began winding the tape. "What?"

"Your tuxedo. It's right on top. Hang it up right away when you get there," Sordi explained.

"What makes you think I'll need a tuxedo?"

"Sure you will, when you win the prize." He waved away Orient's protests and pointed at his watch. "Don't worry about anything. Just make your speech and collect the money. Go get your coat. I'll finish packing this stuff. We don't have much time. We still have to pick up Sybelle."

When the Ghost pulled up to Sybelle's brownstone Orient saw her sitting in front, on the sidewalk. She was perched on the largest of four pastel green suitcases that matched the color of her Laurent lapelled, shantung pantsuit. She waved and picked up a hooded, red fox fur coat that complimented the orange highlights in her hair.

"We're late," she called, as Orient and Sordi started loading the bags into the trunk.

"Don't worry. We'll make it." Sordi held the door open for her. "You look great Sybelle."

"Why, thank you." She smiled and lowered her lashes, silently grateful that the Rolls' large door made a graceful entrance possible. She began to appreciate Owen's fondness for the vintage car.

She was bubbling with anticipation as Sordi sped along the East River Drive toward Kennedy airport. "It's going to be a fascinating trip, darling," she told him. "You'll meet the biggest names in the psychic field."

"Looking forward to it," Orient grunted. He was stretching the truth. Groups, gatherings, and academies made him uneasy. He preferred to work alone and avoid the inevitable politics. He took a silver case from the pocket of his coat and looked at the oval design on its surface. The swirling figure was his Mandala, his meditation scroll The case had been given to him by the master Ku many years ago in Tibet. It was a sign that the time had come for him to return to the cities after months on the mountain. It was also a reminder that he had to take part in the affairs of his time to fulfill his destiny. Orient opened the case and extracted a hand-wrapped cigarette. He looked at Sybelle. "Smoke?"

She made a face. "You know I hate the way those things smell." She took an envelope from her purse and fanned herself vigorously as Orient struck a match and the pungent odor wafted back.

Orient reached over and pressed a switch. A small exhaust fan near Sybelle quickly cleared the air in the car.

"What a good thing to have," Sybelle said approvingly. "This museum piece of yours has its advantages." She handed the envelope she was holding to him. "The tickets. We connect to a train when we reach Stockholm. Carl will pick us up at the station. You'll love it. His place is so beautiful and secluded. A marvelous place for our meetings."

Orient nodded. "What happens during the meetings?"

"We discuss various ventures the members bring up, examine new findings, bring up projects. Carl's donated a lot of money to setting up a library in Amsterdam."

Sybelle stretched out her legs. "We all contribute. A wonderful project. The first library of psychic science." And then, of course, after the meetings, we judge the merits of the applicants."

"Are you one of the judges?" Sordi inquired hopefully.

She smiled prettily into the rear-view mirror. "Not for Owen. It wouldn't be fair. I'll sit it out. But he won't need my vote." She patted Orient's shoulder. "His research is a real breakthrough. Carl will probably want some notes for the library."

"I'll give him a copy of the tape," Orient said, staring at the burning tip of his cigarette. "And that's it? No other business at the conference?" He looked up.

Sybelle wavered under the steadiness of his wide green eyes. "Well," she smiled nervously and sat back, "of course there's the seance."

She glanced at the back of Sordi's head and lowered her voice. "Carl is very interested in contacting the dead. I usually assist. We all do." Orient nodded, vaguely uneasy at the prospect.

"Now I don't have to be a mind reader to catch that stern look of disapproval," Sybelle chided. "Don't be such a purist darling." She pouted at him. "I would have told you sooner, but then I'd have to sit through one of your dreary lectures about caution. And you'd probably have made a fuss about coming."

Orient smiled. "No fuss unless your chums try to pay us off in ectoplasm instead of cash."

"That's the spirit," Sordi said dryly. "Make your speech and collect the money."

"I must say your attitude is marvelously festive; pity there isn't anything in this fancy car for a pre night celebration."

"Just pull the handle in front of you," Orient told her. "Glasses, ice, soda, and Scotch. Sordi restocked it specially for you."

"How thoughtful. When we get back, we'll have to have a nice dinner. Just the three of us."

"A victory dinner," Sordi said. "And I'll cook."

Orient said something, but Sybelle wasn't listening. She was absorbed in calculating what she would wear when she next saw Sordi.

 

Sybelle decided to stay with Scotch on the plane. After an hour of flight and three more drinks, she was ready to spend the next eight hours talking.

Orient kept her busy for a while, reviewing the procedures they would go through. "We'll screen a thirty-minute documentary then finish with a live demonstration," he explained. "Think you'll be able to communicate in front of an audience?"

"I always have before darling," Sybelle winked. "We'll floor them. It's just the kind or thing Carl's been looking for. Proof of your telepathic technique will finally justify his fight to keep SEE going." She held up her empty glass as the stewardess passed.

"Two more," Orient said.

"Doubles," Sybelle corrected. She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.

"Did Carl Bestman have much trouble organizing SEE?"

Sybelle opened one violet-shaded eye. "His brother," she whispered, "hates SEE. He even tried to get a court order to take over Carl's estate. But Carl had it thrown out."

"It did seem strange that Anthony Bestman wouldn't normally refer me to his brother."

Sybelle smiled grimly. "He's like that. I met him once and he was terribly rude. Count Germaine told him to his face that a true sportsman never killed except for food, and never insulted a lady." She took a mirror from her purse and hastily checked her make-up and curly halo of bright red hair. "European men are so gallant— like your friend." She put the mirror away and leaned closer. "About how old is Sordi?"

Orient grinned. "Any special reason?"

"Of course not. It's just that he reminds me of the count: distinguished and very kind."

"Who is this count?" Orient asked, avoiding her question.

She sighed. "He's a lovely man. Count Germaine is the leading member of our board. A remarkably gifted hypnotist. Very tall. Stately. He's the head of the library in Amsterdam. And so kind, so gallant." Her reverie was interrupted by the arrival of the stewardess with the drinks. She plucked a glass from the tray and handed it to Orient.

"The count devastated Anthony," she said, relishing the moment.

"Carl and Anthony seem to have a messy time of it."

"Oh, it was awful. For a long time. It was especially hard on Carl. He's such a gentle soul. But after he lost the court suit Anthony went back to his silly big-game hunting."

"Now that you mention it, that coat you're sitting on looks like a big-game trophy," Orient said.

"Damn right, darling." Sybelle winked. "I begged a dear French furrier who was mad about me." She patted the red coat draped over her chair. "Isn't it marvelous? It's the warmest thing I have. And it's perfectly legal. It's an antique that was made pre-ecology."

 

Seven hours later, when the plane landed at Arlanda, near Stockholm, Orient discovered that his own trench coat was poor protection against the sharp North wind cutting steadily through his clothing, Sybelle, wrapped to her pink ears in red fur, was ecstatic. All during the long cab ride into Stockholm, she continued to chatter. Orient half-listened and watched the scenery, grateful for the comparative warmth of the taxi. Sybelle's words filtered through his thoughts as a splendid parade of trees, their gold and rust leaves brilliantly arrayed against the dark green foliage, flashed past his widow.

"Maxwell is a dear. He's a genius. Only twenty-one and he's been a member of our board for three years. Marvelous boy. I'm sure the two of you will have a lot in common."

"Who?"

"Maxwell Andersen. You must have heard of him. He's the British chess champion."

Orient half-closed his eyes. Sybelle's enthusiastic drone set off a contagious air of well-being and he began thinking ahead to the details of their presentation.

"Don't you dare go to sleep," she scolded after he failed to respond a few times. "We still have the whole train ride and I need company."

"Just going over the check list for the televised section."

"Are you having it shipped?"

"It's on the plane. In my suitcase."

"But you only have two bags. Didn't you bring anything to wear?"

"All we need is the equipment in one suitcase. All portable-screener, laptop, and CD. Unless your friends are beyond electricity, we're in good shape."

"That's lovely, dear," Sybelle murmured. "Now do try to stay awake for a few hours longer. I detest traveling with no one to talk to."

They reached Stockholm's central station only thirty minutes before the departure time of their train. After checking their bags in their compartment, they decided to take a stroll around the station to unwind from their flight.

They wandered through a maze of food shops, boutiques, and restaurants thriving in the fluorescent light of the underground market. Sybelle bought a huge box of candied fruit. "For Carl's wife," she told Orient, "she loves them so."

"Is she a member of SEE?" Orient asked as they walked back to the train.

"No, but Hannah understands Carl's work; she's his secretary. She doesn't have a psychic gift, but she does have great faith. I've heard it said that Anthony wanted to marry her, but she was in love with Carl. She made a fabulous choice. Imagine having to tramp around in the jungle after a man who enjoys shooting helpless animals!"

What about your coat, Orient thought.

 

When they reached their compartment, Sybelle tucked her fur coat under her round chin and promptly fell asleep.

Orient, now fully awake, was left to stare out at the approaching darkness as the train rolled out of Stockholm and headed North. A small seed of anticipation took root and flowered as he looked ahead to a busy week in the company of professional colleagues. As the hours passed, however, the sleepless grind dried up his optimism and anticipation eroded into impatience to reach Bestman's home and find a bed.

Sybelle slept the entire six hours and when the train arrived at the small station marked Hudiksvall, Orient had to try three times before he succeeded in rousing her. He looked in vain for a porter and finally had to pass the six suitcases through the window to a still-bleary Sybelle on the platform, and then hurry off the train just as it started moving.

"Okay, we're here. Where's Bestman?"

Sybelle blinked and looked around. "See a big black Mercedes anywhere?" she mumbled.

Orient pulled his collar up and jammed his hands into his pockets. The wind blew in gusts down from the dark hills behind the station and swept across the wide canal on the other side. The station house was a dimly lit, two-story building. It looked closed. Orient shivered as he waited for Sybelle to get her bearings.

"Carl always sends his car," Sybelle insisted. "Try the entrance."

Orient walked around the unlit side of the building, moving slowly in the unfamiliar shadows. The blackness above him was crammed with thousands of stars, their hard sparkles competing with the velvet glow of a distant moon.

He stepped out of the darkness to the front. The station faced a single, deserted street. He took a few steps toward the streetlamp.

There was no car in sight along the narrow road that ran from the station entrance into the wind-swept darkness. A dog barked somewhere.

He heard the sound of an approaching motor, and he stood waiting in the light of the streetlamp, hopping from foot to foot, to keep his blood circulating in the numbing wind.

A pair of headlights beamed through the shadows, bobbing across the tangled branches of the trees lining the road.

The car wasn't a Mercedes, but, to Orient's relief, was an unoccupied Volvo taxi. He waved it to a stop and in a halting mixture of Swedish and English asked the driver to pull around to the side of the station.

After the bags had been fitted in the trunk and overhead rack, Orient crawled into the back seat. "We're loaded. Now just tell our friend where to deliver us."

Sybelle stared at the driver. "I don't recall. Oh, dear. Does he know Bestman Herrgard?"

The driver scowled at Orient and shook his head. "Nay. Nay Bestmon Herrgard." He raced the motor impatiently.

"I just can't remember the address, but I've heard it many times before." She bit her lip. "Sounds something like Weekhawken. I'm so bad with linguistics. North Weecoogan. I think that's it." She smiled brightly at the driver.

"Nord-vee-coo-gan?" she pronounced slowly.

The driver shut the motor off and turned around to squint glumly at Sybelle. "Hey?" he said finally.

"North wee-cow-gen?" she ventured hopefully.

The driver shrugged. "Norbo-scoogarna, maybe," was all he could suggest. He started the car and pulled away from the station.

The slow, steady throb of the motor was monotonous but reassuring as the taxi moved through the enclosing stillness.

The car's headlights only managed to pierce the blackness for a short distance before their glow was swallowed by the shadows at the edge of the road. They drove slowly through an immense stretch of forest on a road that seemed to be getting narrower with every mile.

"Recognize any of this?"

"Could be..." Sybelle said without conviction as she leaned forward to peer through the windshield. "Let's wait to see where he takes us."

Orient stared ahead into the night, trying to make out some crude signs of habitation. There was nothing except the empty road.

"I hope he's going somewhere" Sybelle grunted. "I have the exact address and phone number written down, but it's packed. Carl is usually so prompt about sending the car. Perhaps he didn't get my wire. Didn't we send a wire from the train station?"

Orient shook his head slowly. "No wire. All we did was buy a box of candied fruit."

Sybelle brightened. "Oh yes, for Hannah. That explains it."

"Explains?"

"Why Carl didn't send the car. We bought the candied fruit instead"

"Right on." Orient sat back and watched the lights drill forward through the tangled darkness. "I hope the driver sees it your way."

"Oh, I'm sure," Sybelle muttered. "It's so lonely out here."

A few minutes later the driver brought the car to a stop. He got out of the car and disappeared into the shadows, leaving the motor running. He came back a few moments later, took his post behind the wheel, and - without any word of explanation resumed driving through the brooding forest.

"Did he stop to wee wee or get directions?" Sybelle whispered.

"Probably getting his bearings. Look."

Sybelle followed the direction of his finger and looked out the window. The wall of trees parted, revealing a. three-quarter moon that sent orange streaks rippling across an ebony surface of water.

"The lake," Sybelle exclaimed. "I'm sure he's going the right way." A fork appeared in the road and the driver turned onto the smaller, rougher path. The car crawled along the edge of the lake toward a luminous dot in the distance. The dot became the outline of a window on the second floor of a small wooden house set off the lake. The driver parked the taxi in front of the house and went to the door. A light winked on in the first floor and the door opened. Orient could see the driver talking to someone through the steamed windows, but all he could hear was the gentle rumble of the idling motor. The door shut and the light went out as the driver came back to the car. The return of the darkness was somehow comforting to Orient. The driver opened the door.

"Bestmon?" he growled at Sybelle. "Bestmon Herr-gard."

Orient told him in Swedish that Bestman Manor was correct.

"You speak the language!" Sybelle was outraged. "You could have told him all the time."

"I just hope that we understood each other properly," Orient said. "I don't think he's going to give us a second chance."

"If you speak Swedish, why didn't you translate my directions for him?"

"He speaks dialect," Orient explained, closing his eyes. Twenty minutes later the taxi turned off the road into a grove of huge trees and continued along a high stone wall until they came to a gate. Before Orient could ask Sybelle, the driver guided the car through the open gate and headed for a group of lights back above a rolling, terraced lawn. The lights were part of a house which stood on the highest slope. The structure rose in jagged silhouette against the star-dusted sky as they approached.

"Thank goodness." Sybelle patted her hair and tried to see her reflection in the rear-view mirror. "Here we are. I can't wait to have a hot brandy."

The driver stopped at a door lit by an ornate overhanging lamp. Orient took the suitcases from the rack on the car and paid the driver while Sybelle ran ahead to the door. As he watched the lights of the cab recede, he began to entertain visions of an open fire and a snifter of cognac. When he joined Sybelle, however, he found that no one was answering the bell.

"Those lights are from Carl's study," she whispered in the stillness that crept in around them as the noise of the departing taxi faded into the shadows.

"Try again." His voice sounded unnaturally loud. He shivered in the damp wind.

The door opened and the slash of light released seemed to provide a sudden wave of warmth. A pointed, balding head peered turtlelike from around the door.

Sybelle's hand fluttered to her face. "Is Dr. Bestman at home?" she stammered in confusion.

The head receded and the door opened wider. A short man, who resembled a truculent reptile, stood at the threshold. His bullet head was supported by a thin, lined neck that moved back and forth between his narrow shoulders as he looked at them.

"Who are you please?" he asked in a voice much too deep for his size, suggesting that his chest was hollow to allow his head to retract. Even his nubby green suit seemed reptilian in pattern.

"Sybelle Lean and Dr. Orient," she said, somewhat flustered. "Is Carl at home?"

The man stepped back from the door. "Come in, please. You've been expected. I'm Mr. Neilson, Dr. Bestman's attorney."

Orient followed Sybelle inside a long wood-paneled hall.

"I'm sorry," the little man began, "there's been a change...."

A door opened at the end of the hall and a female voice called out. Orient looked up and saw a pale woman in a long black dress coming toward them.

"Sybelle," the woman called out. "I'm so glad you're here." A tall man followed her through the door.

"... you see Miss Lean, Carl Bestman was buried this morning," Neilson was saying.

Orient heard something fall. The box had slipped out of Sybelle's hands and spilled its contents on the carpet.

The woman rushed up to embrace Sybelle. "Carl is dead," she wailed softly. "Oh, Sybelle, he's gone."

Orient looked at the man who came behind her. He was much taller than Neilson and his hard-set triangular face was set off by thick eyebrows that angled beneath the shock of white hair on his wide forehead.

The face seemed to separate from the man's body and come crashing against Orient's memory. He had seen it recently.

It was the same looming face that had disturbed his meditative trance, weeks before.

"It happened two days ago," the face was saying.

 

 

CHAPTER 3

 

 

Orient ran his tongue across his dry lips and took a deep breath.

Neilson edged closer. "You must forgive us doctor," he boomed. "It's been a shock for us all." He took Orient's arm. "Allow me to present Count Germaine of Amsterdam."

The tall man bowed.

Orient recovered his scattered presence of mine sufficiently to return the bow.

"I had hoped to meet you under happier auspices," the count said, his voice low and melodious.

Orient glanced at the woman who was pressing her tear-streaked face against Sybelle's shoulder. "Please accept my regrets."

Neilson's balding, mottled head wagged back and forth. "A shock for us all," he repeated. "Very sudden.'

A robust man holding a cigar in front of him like a direction finder came into the hallway and hurried to join the two women.

"Come now, Hannah," he soothed as he gently tool her arm from around Sybelle's neck.

Hannah stepped back from Sybelle and pulled her arm free. "Please don't touch me, Tony!" she snapped.

The man glowered at her then turned abruptly and fixed his glare on Neilson. His small, dark eyes glinted from deep inside his fleshy face. His bristling mustache gave his mouth a fierce, tenacious curve. "I won't have this disturbance at this time," he warned.

Neilson folded his arms and pulled his head closer to his chest. "I'm only going according to Carl's own wishes." There was a note of flinty stubbornness in has slow, deliberate words.

The man looked at Orient and Germaine. "Can't you people see Mrs. Bestman is under a great strain?"

"Please leave my husband's guests alone, Tony," Hannah said softly. "It's you who are unwelcome here."

Anthony Bestman stabbed the air with his cigar. "You're talking nonsense, Hannah."

Hannah smiled. "Please, Tony."

Anthony started to speak, then clamped his mouth shut and stalked back to the door at the end of the hall.

"Please, Hannah, let me take you upstairs," Neilson said, reaching out for her arm.

"All right, Nels," she sighed wearily. "In a moment." She came closer to Orient and extended her hand. "Welcome doctor," she said, "my husband told me he was looking forward to meeting you."

Orient could see that she was maintaining her composure by a sheer effort of will. Deep shadows of grief and fatigue lined her pale face. When he took her hand her skin felt damp. "You have my deepest sympathy," he murmured.

She nodded absently, took Neilson's arm, and began walking slowly to the stairs. Sybelle moved to assist her but Neilson frowned and put a finger to his lips. She came back to Orient's side.

"I can't believe it," she whispered, looking at Germaine. "How did it happen?"

"Suicide. Carl shot himself." His full mouth tightened into a regretful smile, but his eyes were oddly flat, like pieces of gray slate. Orient studied the man who had appeared in his innermost consciousness, weeks before, as a looming image.

Count Germaine was tall. He held his slender frame erect and straight with an almost determined dignity. Near sixty, he had the, supple grace of an expert skier or swordsman. He betrayed a guttural, non-European accent under his flawless English when he spoke.

"I'm sure we could all use a drink. Why don't-you come inside and join the others? We can take care of your bags later."

"That's a divine idea," Sybelle said, taking Germaine's arm. She smiled wistfully at him. "I'm absolutely shattered."

"I understand," Germaine said as they walked to the room at the end of the stairs. "Carl was a dear friend. I shall miss him. But let us remember that he believed, as we all do, that death is merely a transition -like birth."

"Hannah will be lonely."

"All things must pass," Germaine said softly.

The first person Orient saw when he entered the library was Anthony Bestman, sitting behind a massive desk, his jutting, aggressive chin resting on his hairy fists. His eyes were dark swirls of anger as he watched them enter.

Germaine ignored the stare and guided them to a couch on the other side of the room. All three of the armchairs around the couch were occupied, by two men and a girl. Both men rose as they approached. "Sybelle, you already know Maxwell and Daniel," Germaine was saying, "but I'd like you to meet a new friend, Lady Lilith Sativa."

"Please call me Lily," the girl said as she uncoiled her body and rose from her chair.

For the second time since he'd entered the house, Orient found it difficult to breathe.

Her hair had the burnished bronze color of fall leaves. Shades of rust and glints of red weaved through the thick strands cascading down the back of her jade-green velvet dress. The headband made of beads lent a savage highlight to her yellow-flecked, amber eyes. Her face was finely featured, but there was a reckless curl to her sculptured hips. Full breasts widened the deep opening of her neckline, thrusting against the soft fabric of her dress. The only flaws on her golden skin were a trio of freckles on the edge of her small, straight nose. "Lily Sativa," she said. Her voice was as warm as the fingers that gripped his hand.

"Owen Orient," he replied, his senses activated by her touch.

She looked at him with curiosity. She was about to speak when Germaine interrupted. "Lily is my latest discovery. Like your Dr. Orient."

"Looks like you've lost her to Owen," a high, mocking voice observed. Orient realized he was still holding Lily's fingers. He let go of her hand and turned in the direction of the voice.

"If it should matter to you, and I'm sure it doesn't, my name is Maxwell Andersen," a pudgy youth was saying. He held out a round, pink hand that was covered with rings.

His expression was hidden behind a pouting smile, and reflecting sunglasses. The hand he offered was limp.

Orient grinned. "You're very observant, Maxwell."

"Now that you've all finished introducing yourselves," Anthony Bestman barked from across the room, "perhaps you'd all be so gracious as to leave my brother's study. There's no longer any reason to be here. Your meeting is finished." He folded his arms across his chest. "You're all crazy, anyhow. Do better to book yourselves in a good rest home."

"You're mistaken, Mr. Bestman," Germaine told him, a slight rueful smile playing at the edge of his words. "We are not finished. Dr. Orient hasn't yet been introduced to Professor Hazer. Daniel, this is our eminent young physician from New York. Sybelle's candidate."

A bent, rumpled old man wearing a dusty blue suit' stepped forward and stiffly grasped Orient's hand. "Daniel Hazer," he said curtly, squinting his rheumy blue eyes through thick glasses.

As he went through the strained charade of introduction, Orient could feel Bestman's angry stare on his back.

"Daniel has had the most fascinating career,*' Sybelle said sweetly, breaking the tension."Do get him to tell you about his methods." She looked up. "Wasn't someone going to get me a drink?"

Bestman slammed a big hand down on the desk. "You forget that a man is dead m this house."

Germaine looked at him and shrugged. "We are perhaps more sensitive to that fact than you might imagine."

Please, Anthony," Neilson rumbled. The squat lawyer was standing in the doorway. "Everything is according to your brother's wishes." He walked over to the desk "and handed Bestman an envelope."This is a copy of a letter dated six months ago." He turned and came over to the couch. "Be seated," he said gruffly. "There is something I must discuss. Please pour me a brandy, Count Germaine."

As Germaine went to the cabinet, Bestman crumpled the letter he was reading into a ball, threw it on the floor, and left the room.

"What a relief." Sybelle patted the cushion next to her. "Do join me," she said, beaming at Neilson. The others sat down in a circle around the lawyer.

Orient accepted Maxwell's armchair then was vaguely disturbed when the young man perched on the edge of Lily's chair. He wondered if he was jealous. She smiled at something Maxwell was whispering in her ear.

Neilson waited until Germaine had served all of them before speaking. He extended his neck and looked around. "Here's to Carl Bestman, may he rest in peace. Skoal.1* He took a long swallow of his brandy. "Now let us go over the matters that concern us here." He took an envelope from his pocket and gave it to Germaine. The tall man set down his snifter and extracted two folded sheets of paper. "It's dated April 15 of this year," he murmured. After a moment's hesitation, he began reading.

 

Esteemed friends of the highest path I greet you. I write this so that if something unforeseen should occur, our efforts will continue. I wish to entrust Count Germaine of Amsterdam, a great spiritual force in my life, with the management of SEE's financial and scientific welfare. In the event that SEE should cease to function for lack of membership, all assets should revert to the maintenance of our library in Amsterdam as a permanent archive.

In my main will I've bequeathed half my liquid estate, as well as all my properties, to my wife Hannah. To SEE I've left the other half of the liquid assets (list attached to Will) and I ask Count Germaine to accept this trust in my behalf.

I also leave to SEE the grounds on which our library stands in hope that a workshop can be maintained on the site.

To Sybelle Lean, our most gracious and lovely medium, I bequeath my collection of Crystal Skrying Globes, in hopes that she might discover more happiness there than their previous owner.

To Professor Daniel Hazer I leave my camera equipment and all fond wishes for his devoted healing of man's weak, pitiful body.

To Maxwell Andersen, brilliant and headstrong young colleague, I leave my carved bone Nepalese chess set and this advice: listen very carefully before you speak and study the board well before you move.

I request that our membership be enlarged immediately to five, and even more if dedicated seekers are available, in order that our work continues to grow.

To SEE's archives I leave my unpublished thesis detailing my fifteen-year research into the nature, cause, and cure of Lycanthropic Schizophrenia. I ask that copies of this thesis be distributed to the surviving members of SEE in hopes that my work in this field will be continued.

I request that my Lawyer and trusted friend, Nels Neilson, be allowed to take my place, at subsequent meetings until a fifth member is named.

I finally, urgently request that a seance be held, in hopes that perhaps I can once more communicate with my beloved associates.

 

Germaine looked up. "It's signed by Carl."

"He was such a dedicated man," Sybelle sniffed.

Professor Hazer took a gray, tattered handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his glasses. "Were it not for Carl, I could have never erected my clinic. There are so few men in the world like him."

"I'm sure I speak for all of us," Germaine said softly, "when I say that every one of Carl's wishes will be carried out to our utmost ability."

Neilson nodded. "I'm sure. I was close to Carl and he told me a great deal about your fine work. You now have the responsibility of managing a trust of eight million dollars m cash and negotiable securities. Use it well."

"Well, Carl certainly wasn't one of your bloody Swedish tightwads, was he?" Maxwell poked Lily. "That's rather heavy bread."

"Now, now," Hazer clucked gently. He placed his glasses on the bridge of his nose and squinted at Andersen. "Carl was a rare man. That's to be respected."

Maxwell frowned and flicked an imaginary ash from his lapel. "I have all respect for Carl, but it doesn't mean that I should respond to tribal, emotional conditioning and revert to crude ritualistic behavior in the face of death," he said in a bored flat voice. "Carl believed, as all of us in SEE do, that death is a transition to a more efficient existence. Perhaps you haven't exorcised the primitive fears we've inherited Professor, but those who have shouldn't be expected to give up their franchise on freedom."

Sybelle hurried to break the awkward silence that followed. "But how did this horrible thing happen? On you tell me Mr. Neilson. Was anyone here?"

Neilson pulled his bald head in closer to his body. "Just Hannah. Carl shot himself with a hunting rifle two days ago. Hannah found him and called the police."

Sybelle frowned. "I didn't know Carl owned a hunting rifle."

"Apparently, it was Anthony's." Sybelle nodded as if the fact held great significance for her. "And where was Anthony when it happened?"

Neilson smiled. "In my office, Miss Lean."

"Oh," she said in a small voice.

"The police were quite satisfied," Neilson went on, "and so was I. Carl had been extremely despondent lately."

"That's right," Germaine put in quickly. "I've never seen him so—" he hesitated, searching for the proper word—"melancholy. He sent me three letters early this year, each time repeating he was desperately tired."

Orient glanced at Lily. She was watching Germaine from under blue-shadowed eyelids. She could have been listening to a description or a dinner party. But even composed and relaxed, her lithe body seemed to be poised at the edge of explosive motion.

Maxwell's plump, jeweled fingertips rested lightly on her shoulder. Orient wondered if they were good friends. He hoped not. He'd already decided that Lily was too much of a good thing.

Lily turned and saw him staring at her. Her lovely face never changed its expression of serene indifference.

"Perhaps we should have our regular meeting after lunch tomorrow. Afterwards, we can hold a seance for Carl tomorrow night." He looked around at the others. "Do you agree? That way we can leave promptly and not disturb Hannah any more than necessary."

"I agree." Hazer pulled a battered pipe from his pocket. "Hannah's under a great strain. I could feel it when I first saw her this morning." He produced a worn pouch from another pocket and began filling the pipe, spilling crumbs of tobacco over his wrinkled suit. She needs a long rest."

"What do you mean, Daniel?" Sybelle asked nervously.

He looked at her over the bowl of his pipe. "She's completely exhausted." He struck a match. "Sea air and sun is what she needs. Plenty of liver, figs, and herbs. Maybe Italy."

Germaine turned to Neilson. "Professor Hazer has the gift of healing. He's able to diagnose physical illness even, from photographs sent to him."

"Yes," Neilson said, looking shrewdly at Hazer. "Carl told me a great deal about the members of SEE. I myself have no special gifts in the, er... psychic field, but I'm very interested in your work." He looked up at Orient and Lily. "Carl even told me a little of the two young people who are candidates for his award." He smiled. I'm looking forward to seeing your talents."

"I heard that Dr. Orient was going to revolutionize the concept of the human brain." He studied the rings on his hands. "Is that true, Sybelle? Perhaps you can give us a sneak preview."

"Oh, Maxwell, darling, do be patient," she scolded. "Owen is exhausted and so am I. As a matter of fact, I'd like to go to bed if there's no other business."

"Yes, all of us have had a long, hard day," Germaine stood up. "Will you be staying overnight, Mr. Neilson?"

"No. I have a place a few kilometers from here." He got to his feet. "I'll see you all tomorrow afternoon. At the meeting."

Sybelle came over to Orient's chair as Germaine went with Neilson to the door. "Let's get our bags and go upstairs," she whispered. She looked at him knowingly. "I want to talk to you."

Orient nodded, his full attention distracted by Lily's presence. She was still sitting, talking to Maxwell. All that could be seen of Andersen's face under his bangs and reflecting glasses was his pouting, self-indulgent lips. , Orient didn't know if it was Maxwell's personality or his proximity to Lily that brought up a sense of annoyance. He got up and went into the hall.

"Come doctor," Germaine waved from the front door. "I'll help you with your luggage."

When Orient went outside, the icy wind immediately permeated the warmth he'd come to take for granted. He picked up the suitcase containing the screener and hoped that exposure to the biting cold hadn't frozen the mechanism.

"These must be Sybelle's," Germaine said. "They match her beautiful suit. I'll take care of her luggage. Come with me. I'll show you your room." He put two of the suitcases under his arms then picked up the other two and walked ahead of Orient into the house. As he followed him Orient recalled that he'd found Sybelle's bags to be extremely heavy. Yet Germaine handled them as if they were hollow stage props as he led the way up the long stairway to the second floor.

Germaine set the bags down in front of a door at the head of the stairs. "This is your room, doctor. I'm sorry that this tragedy has prevented us from making you more comfortable."

"Please call on me if there's anything I can do to help you or Mrs. Bestman."

It was difficult to tell if Germaine's small smile was rueful or mocking. "Thank you, doctor. We shall all try to comfort Hannah in this time of sadness. Sleep well."

Orient opened the door and stepped inside a comfortable, wood-paneled room appointed with a full-sized four-poster bed. Near the bed, next to a ceiling-high window, was a bookcase holding an assortment of volumes. A door in the far wall led to a bathroom and shower. Orient undressed, put oh a terrycloth robe, unpacked the rest of his clothing, and then began working on the equipment.

He'd just begun to wipe the moisture from the laptop casing when he heard a light knock. The door opened slightly. "Are you awake?" a high voice asked. ,

The door opened wider and Sybelle peeped in past the edge, her eyes wide under an orange-flowered bed hat. "Marvelous darling," she whispered, "I was hoping you'd wait up."

"Wait up for what?"

Sybelle closed the door behind her and came over to the bed. She pulled her quilted pink robe tighter around her and sat down. "There's something that bothers me about all this, Owen," she announced.

"It must be quite a shock."

Sybelle lowered her voice and leaned across the bed. "Carl would never use a rifle. He detested violence. And certainly he wouldn't have used his brother's rifle. And there's something else, too." She waited until a murmur of voices outside the door had passed before going on. "The thesis in his will. The Lycanthropic Schizophrenia experiments," she whispered triumphantly.

Orient unscrewed the back of the screener. "Must be an interesting study; the myth of the man-beast has been around for a long time. Even a few cases in modern psychiatric records. But nothing definitive. Still rare and incurable."

"I knew Carl for ten years and he never mentioned a word about his research. Sybelle jabbed Orient's shoulder. "And Daniel Hazer told me the same thing."

"We were friends for a long time before you knew I was involved with telepathy," Orient reminded as he began wiping off the main tubes. "And Professor Hazer seems to be a forgetful sort."

"Yes. He is absent-minded." Sybelle tapped her forehead. "He's so completely involved with his healing that he's sometimes unaware of time. He's helped thousands of people all over the world. I've been to his clinic in Brooklyn. He takes ordinary snapshots people send him and from the vibrations makes accurate medical readings. Simply stunning. He cured an aunt of mine of terrible stomach cramps. He located a small clamp that had been left inside her after an operation. It had been there for years. Never showed up anywhere. But Daniel found it through a photograph I gave him of my aunt. Her bad side. I called her doctor in St. Louis and when he checked he found the clamp."

"Still doesn't follow that Hazer would know everything about Carl's work. Hannah and Neilson seem to be satisfied it was suicide."

"I just don't like any of it," Sybelle insisted, "especially Anthony being here."

Orient opened the case that held the CDs and began to sort them. "He does make it unpleasant. It will be a pleasure to leave tomorrow."

"We must stay for the seance," Sybelle stated emphatically. "I wouldn't dream of going without fulfilling poor Carl's last wish. I'm sure he wants to tell us something."

Orient wiped the moisture off the CDs and replaced them in the case. "What about Lady Sativa?" he asked casually. "You didn't tell me about her."

"Interested?" Sybelle teased. "She's the competition."

Orient smiled at her. "Did Germaine mention what sort of project she's working on?"

"No he didn't, but I've seen her before. She's been in all the magazines in London. They call her the Moon Lady because during the full phase of the moon she can foresee the most amazing things. She called the Los Angeles earthquake to the day."

"Sounds hard to beat," Orient observed as he began placing the equipment back in his suitcase. "Don't let your mind wander too far or you'll have to hock your fur to get us home."

Sybelle stood up. "Perhaps you're right, Owen," she sighed. "This has all been so shattering. I'll speak to Mr. Neilson in the morning. And do stop fussing over that gear and get some sleep yourself."

Orient was still thinking about Lily after he'd arranged his things and gone to bed. As he lay in the darkness, he heard the wind rattle the window and saw the shadows cast by the moonlight move across the glass. He remembered the golden perfection of Lily's skin, the bronze hair spilling over her rounded breasts. It had been a long time since nearness to a woman had brought such an exhilarating attraction. He felt drawn to her as if she was an old friend—a dim, lovely recollection from a forgotten reality.

‘.The memory of Germaine's face intruded On his thoughts. He hadn't forgotten where he'd seen the count before tonight. As Orient recalled the looming image of his meditative trance, he noted that the surprise that scattered his thoughts when he first saw Germaine had been replaced by a sense of wariness.

In spite of his affable, courtly manner he remained unconvinced of Germaine's sincerity. Orient got the impression that he was being carefully sized up by the count. The fencer testing an adversary. Orient yawned. It was absurd. He'd only seen the man once before. He speculated if the vision in his meditation was significant or just a phenomenon of concentration, like a radio picking up vagrant signals from another band. He fell asleep wondering if Lily and Maxwell were old friends from London.

In his dreams that night, he was running across the sand. He knew his pursuer was just behind him in the shadows... he saw a huge rock, stopped, and crouched down next to it. He strained to see, but there was nothing but blackness behind him... then a sudden noise nearby startled him and he began running as fast as he could... running... running... running—desperately from the pounding footsteps behind him.

 

 

CHAPTER 4

 

 

The lemony sunlight dispelled the gloomy residue of Orient's fitful sleep.

He limbered up his travel-knotted muscles on the carpet in front of the bed and began the basic breathing patterns. As his body relaxed, his concentration sifted out the dregs of jet lag and doubt from his thoughts.

After a brief meditation, he went inside for a hot shower, finished off with a driving cold spray that left his reflexes tingling. As he began to dress he felt completely refreshed. He checked his watch and saw that it was almost noon.

He decided that a blue cashmere turtleneck and heavy twill trousers would be best against the chill. He found a rolled-up pair of glove skin boots inside the sweater. He gratefully zipped up the lined boots over his trousers. They would keep his feet much warmer than the loafers he'd worn last night.

When Orient reached the bottom of the stairs, he saw Sybelle standing near a large doorway. She pulled nervously at the black silk scarf around her neck and whispered something to Germaine.

The tall man was bent attentively over her. The intent press of his lips became a smile as he looked up and saw Orient approaching. "Good morning, doctor. Did you sleep well?" he asked, his voice melodious and calm.

"Everything is very comfortable." He looked down at Sybelle: "How's the reception today?"

"Marvelous darling. But I'm so concerned about the seance this evening. I do hope we can make contact."

"If it's meant to be, we will," Orient offered with little enthusiasm. Years ago, high on the mountain, Ku had initiated him as. an adept of the Serene Knowledge. Sometime later, while in North Africa he had been advanced to the second level. But occult science was part of the Serene Knowledge he accepted cautiously. The raw power was far in advance of the present capabilities of ordinary human control.

Germaine caught Orient's reluctant tone. "Surely, you will assist us this evening." He smiled. "You don't disapprove of trying to contact the souls of the dead, I trust."

"Only if the powers involved are invoked for weak motives," Orient said evenly. "I'll be happy to sit in."

"I think it's important darling," Sybelle assured him. I told the count what I told you last night and he said that Carl never told him anything about his work in Lycanthropy. And the count agrees about the gun."

Orient shrugged. "A man committing suicide isn't logical. And many men prefer to work in secrecy."

"Quite right," Germaine chuckled with forced heartiness. "It's the nature of the alchemist to work alone, eh doctor? A remnant of the days when inventors, scientists, and magicians were burned at the stake. Come," he said as if the idea had just given him an appetite, "let's have lunch."

Hannah, Neilson, Lily, and Maxwell were seated around the dining table, waiting for them as they entered.

Hannah smiled vaguely and shook the little brass bell on the table next to her. A stout woman dressed in a white starched uniform took a step into the dining room, counted heads, and popped back into the kitchen. She reappeared in a few minutes with a large tray and began' serving.

Orient glanced at Lily, sitting across from him. Her hair was a coppery flash against the clinging, black leather jumpsuit that outlined the long, supple curves of her body. She seemed engrossed in her whispered conversation with Maxwell. Orient wondered if the young Englishman had also declared himself Lily's sponsor. He decided it was none of his business and tried to focus on what Hannah was saying.

"It couldn't be avoided; I had to ask Anthony to leave this morning. I don't want him to interfere with the seance." Hannah's neck was thin and very white against the black silk collar of her suit. Severely drawn-back hair accentuated the pointed, birdlike features of her face. Her eyes were set deep in blue circles that betrayed her insomnia and grief. "I was so tired of fighting with him," she said softly.

"He's a most unpleasant man," Sybelle said, consolingly. "You did the best thing."

Hannah turned. "I've put aside the crystals Carl left you. The package is in the library along with the things for Daniel and Maxwell."

"You shouldn't bother, Hannah, darling," Sybelle clucked. "Why don't you come stay with me for a few months?"

"Yes, I do plan to close the house and go somewhere. But I don't know where yet."

"I'll be very interested to see Carl's thesis," Germaine said as he poured some wine into Hannah's glass. "I had no idea he was interested in Lycanthropy."

Hannah lowered her eyes. "Carl was working on something for years, but even I don't know much about it."

Germaine nodded. "Is it available?"

"I don't know. It wasn't with the other documents in the lab," she said softly. "But one drawer is still locked. We can't find the key to it."

"You'll probably run across it," he assured her, "no hurry." He looked around the table. "Perhaps we should go over the agenda," he said.

"When do we start, count?" Neilson rumbled.

"Right after lunch. We'll have our regular five member meeting and then call in the candidates separately. Dr. Orient and Sybelle will give the first demonstration." He turned and smiled at Lily. "Our young prophetess needs some time to prepare herself. We'll see her in the late afternoon."

Her amber eyes looked almost yellow in the sunlit room. "I hope Owen doesn't mind warming you up," she said, smiling.

"Owen won't mind," Maxwell assured her. "He's of the old school. I know the breed well. A vanishing breed I might add, and all proper ladies and gentlemen."

He was intent on the wine he was pouring and all that could be seen of his face was the smirking mouth.

"Perhaps I can help you further your studies," Orient said calmly. "Our breed is full of surprises."

Maxwell reached across the table and filled Orient's glass with wine. "Interesting. Do you play chess?"

"Yes," Orient said, regretting the word as he spoke. Chess was Maxwell's game. And he'd been goaded into a neat gambit for Lily's benefit.

Maxwell looked up. "Fine, then we'll play. Perhaps you can read my mind and guess my moves."

Orient could see the twin reflections of his own face in the silver lenses of the sunglasses. "If you like," he said.

"Now be careful, darling," Sybelle trilled. "Maxwell's a champion or master or something. Don't play him for money."

"Or anything else," Lily said, laughing.

As he ate his salad, Orient wondered if her words were a chance remark or a subtle warning.

Hazer leaned over. "Are you nervous?" he whispered. "I was, first time I came to submit my research."

Orient smiled. "Depends on Sybelle, as much as myself."

"Know what you mean," Hazer said, squinting mischievously at him. "Half the time I don't even know what I'm saying when I'm in one of those trances. I play it back on the tape recorder and try to make sense of it. Most of the time it works."

All through the meal the professor recounted stories of strange afflictions and even stranger cures that had occurred during his career as a healer. "Cured Helen Nolan," Hazer informed him gruffly. "Famous female explorer. Had a case of leprosy in her fingers. She went to every witch doctor in the Congo before she sent me her photograph. When I held her picture, I felt a throb in my wrist. Wired her a remedy of garlic and almonds. Told her to keep flexing her wrist. Something was impeding her circulation." He took a sip of wine and smacked his lips.

"Arrested her condition and she only lost the tip of one finger."

From time to time, Orient's attention was diverted by the metallic glint of Lily's bronze hair or the sound of her husky murmur. Hazer's easy conversation relaxed him, however, and he grew to like the elderly gentleman.

Over coffee, Germaine explained the procedure they would take. "Sybelle and myself will not vote since we each have candidates. Mr. Neilson, Maxwell, and Daniel will have that honor. Agreed?"

Orient and Lily nodded.

"Good, then if you'll both retire to the library and wait, we'll call you when we're finished with our regular business meeting. As in the past, Hannah will serve as our secretary."

Orient and Lily left the room. As they passed the stairs they saw Anthony Bestman leaving the house. He was dressed in a long greatcoat and carrying a suitcase.

"That was a good sign," Lily whispered as they entered the library. "That man interferes with my vibrations."

"You interfere with mine."

She looked up at him, her opaque amber eyes glowing with amusement and pleasure. "I hope it's not an unpleasant disruption," she said, sitting on the windowsill.

"Very nice, but confusing," Orient said gently.

She smiled and looked out the window. "I was hoping we'd have time to talk. But it's such a difficult time for me right now. Maxwell has been helping me through."

Orient nodded. "Has he been through this with you before?"

She shook her head. "We've just met. I ran into Maxwell on the plane from London. We found out we had friends in common and were both headed for the same place. He became very interested in guiding me through this next moon phase."

"Interesting work," Orient agreed, somehow pleased that Maxwell was a new friend.

Lily turned and looked at him. "When I saw you I felt a pull, an attraction to you. Do you know what I mean?"

"Yes, I do," he said softly.

The sun sent a copper sheen across the waves of hair tumbling over her shoulders. "It would be nice to become friends," she said. Her eyes became amber smoke. "But in two hours I'll be in my phase. The first rise of the full moon."

"Do you have control?"

She looked away. "Some. But I'm much too sensitive to deal with relationships. If the dream messages I receive become too confusing, I lose all sense of time. It usually only lasts twelve hours. But sometimes it extends."

As she spoke, Orient inhaled and began to control his breathing. The rhythm focused his concentration and he went receptive, opening his empathetic senses to the vibration emanating from Lily. He felt her energy swelling and receding in his mind, rising and falling like the amplified pulse of a heartbeat. Various emotions flashed through his understanding. Then he felt a crackling static cloud of sexual electricity expand across his groin.

She stared at him, her moist lips parted in a smile. "You're very sensitive," she said, her voice low and fuzzy. "That's so nice. It's such a good feeling to find someone who understands."

The patterns of energy crisscrossing his consciousness dissolved. He smiled back at her. "It's a sweet tide," he said softly. "Someone could swim there for a long time."

"The currents change very quickly." Her smile became speculative, as she studied his face. "You have to be a good swimmer when the moon's out."

His reply was interrupted by a voice behind him. "We're ready, darling," Sybelle called, "if you are."

"Good luck," Lily whispered, touching his hand. As he walked out to join Sybelle, Orient felt a glow lingering on his skin from the warmth of her fingers.

"Is the equipment ready?" Sybelle hissed.

Orient snapped his fingers. It's upstairs. I'll go get it."

"Now who doesn't have whose mind on the job?" she scolded. "Think about Lily later. I want to go home with my coat."

He hurried upstairs, picked up his equipment case, and headed back to the dining room. Germaine sat at the head of the table, flanked by Hannah and Sybelle. Maxwell and Professor Hazer sat on the same side of the table, facing Orient.

"This is Owen's film of our experiment," Sybelle explained as he set up the screener. "We taped every step. Owen wanted to find out if someone with low telepathic potential, but marked psychic talent, could be taught to receive direct impressions."

Orient inserted his CD, adjusted the image on the large screen, raised the volume, then sat down and avoided looking at the faces of the people watching his film.

He tried to keep his mind clear and free of tension, but as the documentary went on his doubts nibbled at his calm. His own voice sounded like a drone on the speaker, describing dry results of pattern tests, symbol tests and abstract image experiments. He was grateful when the film reached the point where narration trickled off. This was the section where Sybelle began to form her own personal awareness technique, using what she'd learned. There was a short section covering her dramatic increase of correct answers on the Psi tests. The film ended with both of them experimenting with the unique style of open consciousness Sybelle had developed during her training.

"Each of us has a different vibration tone on an infinite scale. Like a spiritual fingerprint," Orient explained as the screen went blank, "but the basic technique now has proved to work with varied personality types—all of whom have either high Psi potential or, as in the case you just saw, unusual psychic talent."

"Looked like an advertisement for a Yoga school," Maxwell observed, leaning back in his chair, "and it was overlit."

"Maybe we should remember that Dr. Orient isn't here to be judged on the merits of his directing," Hazer murmured, "although I found the film absorbing. Quite a piece of work for one man."

"Remarkable," Neilson agreed.

"Of course," Maxwell countered, "computer images can be edited to show many different results. It's so plastic, isn't it?"

"The second phase of this presentation," Orient said calmly, "is physical evidence. Sybelle will leave the room and you can ask me to transmit any message you like to her.''

Sybelle got up and walked to the door.

"Who'd like to be first?" Orient asked as she left the room, closing the door behind her. "You, Maxwell?"

"I suppose I must," the young man answered. He drummed his fingers on the table. "We need something difficult." He reached into an inside pocket "Perhaps this will do."

He took out a pamphlet and put it on the table.

Orient noticed that Maxwell's shaving lotion was liberally applied as he bent over the paper. It was an ad for a hotel in Montego Bay. Maxwell's white, well-manicured finger was poised at a paragraph describing car rentals.

Orient inhaled imperceptibly, digging into his concentration. He formed an image and charged his consciousness, letting the sudden burst of energy orbit around his control. When he felt the gravity of Sybelle's awareness he released, and let the energy be drawn by it. He exhaled as it pulled away. "Professor Hazer," he asked, looking up, "do you have something?"

The old man looked pleased, then flustered. He fumbled through his pockets, muttering until he found something. A matchbox advertising a restaurant called Nino's.

Orient again charged his consciousness with an image. As he felt the energy circle, then twist away, he looked at Neilson.

The man was pushed back in his chair, arms folded and chin pressed down against his chest. ‘I'll pass," he grunted.

"Count Germaine? Would you like anything conveyed?"

Germaine shook his head, watching him closely from under his thick, angled eyebrows.

Hannah rose, went to the door, and called Sybelle inside.

"Is that it?" Sybelle inquired as she sat down.

"What can you tell us? Maxwell demanded.

Sybelle smiled. "I gave you some money and you gave me the keys to a lovely new car. It was near a beach somewhere."

Maxwell frowned.

"And Professor Hazer gave me a matchbook then took me to dinner at a place called Nino's," Sybelle went on. "Very nice."

"Absolutely right," Hazer said jubilantly. "Excellent, doctor."

"Pretty good Neilson admitted reluctantly, examining the matchbook.

"Your presentation was professionally impeccable, doctor," Germaine said gravely. "I commend both of you."

Orient began packing the equipment. "Thank you for your attention," he said, suddenly anxious to leave the meeting.

He went upstairs to his room and stretched out on the bed. The tension he'd felt in the dining room clung to his thoughts. He took a deep breath. It had gone off without any breakdowns. Sybelle had been perfect. But Maxwell seemed determined to be unimpressed. And Neilson was a question mark. He got up and went to the window.

He could see the immaculate lawns terracing down to the edge of the forest. The almost full moon hovered over the tree-matted hills in the distance, glowing dully like a battered gold coin, shadowed and bruised with age.

Lily would be giving her demonstration, he thought, as he stared at the darkening sky. He wondered if he could teach her the technique. She might be able to use it to protect her sensitivity during the lunar phase. It also occurred to him that she might need the prize money as badly as he did.

As the moon rose in the inky sky, the possibility of helping Lily continued to dominate his thoughts until Sybelle interrupted his brooding.

"Owen!" she cried, snapping on the electric lights. "Whatever are you doing standing around in the dark? Good news, darling. You've won!"

"Great," he said.

"Count Germaine told me that even though Lily is his own candidate, he must agree that your work is highly significant. And Neilson said that as a layman he sees fantastic future possibilities. It was almost unanimous."

Orient didn't have to ask about the almost to know who'd cast the negative vote.

"Of course, we mustn't forget that Lily was marvelous," Sybelle went on breathlessly. "Her impressions were quite accurate. She said some things that were quite startling."

"What sort of things?"

She blushed slightly. "Oh, things about my love life for one. She also said she saw a black wind approaching the house. Maxwell was most impressed."

"I'm sure he was."

Sybelle kissed him on the cheek. "Now get dressed and I'll meet you in the library." "Dressed?"

"Of course," Sybelle opened the door. "Didn't I tell you? Our last dinner before our seance is always black tie,"

To Orient's relief, it wasn't necessary to make a speech. Neilson informally presented him with a check during the drinks.

"Your work is wonderful," Hannah said. "My husband would have approved." Her drawn, delicate face turned to the table set with eight chairs in the corner. "I hope that he can speak to us tonight."

I'm sure that if it's possible that we'll contact your husband." As he spoke, Orient felt vaguely apprehensive. The desperate nature of Carl's death could very well complicate attempts to reach him so soon.

A warm arm slipped into his. "It's nice to lose to someone you like... but not that nice," Lily whispered. Her brown silk gown was held across her breasts by a gold chain link almost the same color of her smooth skin.

"I'll try to make it up to you," Orient said, his lips suddenly dry. He was very conscious of the long, soft arm against him.

She threw her head back and smiled, her amber eyes glinting with some private amusement. "We'll see," she murmured.

Maxwell came up beside them. "Nice work," he said. His smile was grudging. "Perhaps Owen's talent will help us reach Carl tonight." He pulled at his ruffled lace cuffs.

Orient felt Lily shiver slightly against his arm. "I hope it goes well," she said.

Lily sat between Maxwell and Orient, but during dinner Andersen kept drawing her attention, talking in muted, intimate tones.

"There could be only one winner of the prize," Germaine announced during dessert. "However, according to Carl's wishes, we are pleased to welcome both Lily and Owen as members of SEE." He looked around the table. "Welcome."

Orient smiled. "Thank you."

Lily looked up from her conversation with Maxwell.

"I'm honored to be in such distinguished company," she said, glancing at Orient.

Neilson cleared his throat. "Then there's only one service remaining for SEE to perform," he said, extending his bullet head and peering around the table. "Are we all ready?"

They adjourned to the library and gathered around the prepared table. While Sybelle removed her sparkling rings, bracelets, necklaces, and brooches, Germaine burned a small bowl of incense, salt, and herbs to purify the elements in the room. Orient found it heartening that SEE's members were thoroughly professional and respectful of the energy they intended to call up.

"After appropriate preliminaries," Germaine explained to Neilson, "we will form a circle around the table, join hands, and concentrate while Sybelle engages her control. The control is a spirit messenger who helps find Carl's soul." He smiled. "When and if contact with Carl is established, Hannah will speak."

"I hope Victor is feeling cooperative tonight," Sybelle confided. "He was a great stage actor in his former life and he's still quite temperamental."

Germaine struck a match and fired the wick of a tapered candle in the center of the table. "We pray to the powers of the positive light to guide our undertaking," he intoned.

Orient knew the prayer. He had heard it used once before in Marrakech. It was an invocation from the books of Pythagoras. Germaine went to the wall and switched off the lights.

"Be seated," Sybelle said crisply. Her cherubic features were set with determination. Orient knew that her candy-sweet exterior obscured the fact that she was a skilled medium.

She bent her head low over the table in concentration. Orient fixed his eyes on the point of flame balanced in the candlewick. He inhaled and charged his awareness.

"Join hands," Sybelle said softly, lifting her arms.

Orient gripped Hazer's blunt hairy hand on his right and, gently took Lily's fingers with his left hand. Her long, warm fingers caressed his skin. ,..

As his concentration expanded, Orient began to sense a running current of tension, raising the pulse rate in his left wrist. He fixed his awareness on the flickering flame and felt the energy building around the table.

Germaine's vibration was massive, Sybelle's balanced and immovable, Maxwell's restrained; even Hannah and Neilson radiated steady elements of empathy and concentration.

Then he felt the tension within Lily, pulsing rapidly through his wrist. She was straining to keep her consciousness in focus.

"Are we welcome?" Sybelle whispered.

Orient looked at her face across the table. Her eyes were closed and her chin hung down, dangling as if a bolt in the hinge of her jaw had been pulled out.

"Vic... tor... greets... you all. "

The sound rasped from her slack, unmoving mouth. Her lips puckered. "Will you guide... me tonight?"

There was a long pause.

"Cannot... go there...."

Sybelle moved her lips. "Why Victor?"

"Cannot cross... go back...."

"Why?" she persisted.

"Cannot... go back...."

Victor's voice became a moan that faded into Sybelle's heaving chest.

"Why Victor?" she called. As Sybelle spoke, Orient felt the energy in the room intensify.

Every vibration in his awareness began to hum and he saw Sybelle begin rocking back and forth.

Lily's hand trembled in his as she fought down the rush of tension that was crackling through her body.

Orient felt his own control waver and pitch dangerously. Something behind the table fell, splintering noisily against the floor.

A sputtering, electric wind began to whirl around the table, sending tiny sparks against the ceiling.

"Leave us," Sybelle commanded, her voice loud and harsh.

The candle flame blinked out, plunging the room into total darkness.

Orient felt both Lily and Hazer tighten their grip on his hands as the wind buffeted the room. His arms and legs began to jerk as soft shocks of energy shot through his body. He closed his concentration around the pinpoint memory of the candle flame and from that image forged a loop-topped cross of light. He fixed the picture of the luminous Ankh, the loop-topped symbol of the life force, in his mind and tried to remember the words of dismissal. Heavy thumps and the metallic crash of shattering glass exploded against his concentration. Orient held the image of the Ankh behind his closed eyes and called out the formula through the increasing static of the wind.

"Buldumech. Thou art commanded by the God of Abram and the God of Isaac and the God of Jacob— leave this house in peace." He repeated it slowly.

He felt the table shift and heard the candle roll off the table.

"Leave us," Sybelle whispered, her voice hoarse.

Lily's voice rose. She was shivering uncontrollably and mumbling indistinct singsong sounds.

"In the powerful name Agla," a calm, melodious voice intoned, "go in peace."

Abruptly, the wind faded and the only sound in the stillness was the rising and falling of Lily's straining voice.

 

There are three no more...

in one is the key

find the drawer...

there are three no more...

in one is the key...

 

She sobbed, repeating the meaningless rhyme over and over in the blackness.

 

 

CHAPTER 5

 

 

Orient pulled his hand away from Hazer's grip, and broke the circle. He put his arms around Lily and held her tight.

"... find the drawer... she continued, her head against his chest."... there are three...."

"Easy, it's over," he said softly. He opened his awareness and tried to absorb the fear that was squeezing her throat. He held her close and whispered reassuringly as the rigid tremors in her body ceased.

Maxwell struck a match. "What the hell do you think you're doing, you bloody incompetent?" he snarled. He picked up the candle and relit the wick.

Sybelle was slumped in her chair, eyes half-closed.

"Don't you know it's dangerous to break contact during a seance?" Maxwell persisted.

Orient stroked Lily's hair, ignoring Maxwell's fury.

"Dr. Orient broke contact well after the disturbance had passed," Hazer said, his voice unnaturally tight. "Please control yourself, Andersen."

"Hazer's right." Germaine went to the wall and snapped on the electric lights. "There's been enough confusion. Someone get Lily and Sybelle some brandy."

Maxwell compressed his lips into a pouting scowl and went for the brandy.

In a few moments, Lily was able to sit up in her chair by herself.

"That's never happened before," Sybelle announced, lifting the glass Maxwell handed her and taking a long swallow. She looked across the table. "Is Lily all right?"

Lily opened her eyes. "I'm fine," she said. "Sorry if I... upset your concentration. I don't know quite what happened."

"Don't apologize," Germaine said gently, "none of us know what it was. But it's obvious that we've been under some kind of psychic attack."

Orient looked across the room. The library was strewn with broken glass and overturned furniture. Books had ‘ been pulled from their shelves and flung to the floor. The floor was littered with debris as if a huge balloon had suddenly expanded inside the room and burst, scattering ‘ everything before it evaporated. "Someone called out a command of dismissal," he mused as he gazed at the damage, "from the Testament of Solomon, I believe."

Germaine smiled and bent his head in a mock bow. "Correct doctor, you're most discerning. And you used the words from The Book of Demons. The command to Buldumech, the cause of discord between married couples. An apt choice. Who is to know, however, which of our formulas helped cast out the disturbance?"

Sybelle got up from the table and waded through the papers, books, broken glass, and upset objects on the carpet. "Look!" she cried, bending down and picking up something. "One of the Skrying glasses Carl left me is still whole. That's a small relief, anyway. But this place is a wreck. I hope the other rooms are all right. I must find a more reasonable control," she said as she came back to her chair. "Victor is positively wicked."

"It's not important," Hannah murmured, staring down at her clasped hands. "But we couldn't find Carl."

"Perhaps we're misreading what went on," Hazer grunted. "As I recall, Victor didn't sound angry. He was scared." He looked around the table. "He told us to go back."

Hannah looked up. "Yes, that's right. He said he couldn't cross." "And then the wind blew up," Hazer pointed out,

"And we did contact Carl, I think. Lily, do you remember what you were saying?"

"All I remember is chaos," she whispered.

"Well, I do." He lit his pipe. "One, two, three, no more, find the key, open the door," he repeated, brushing the ashes from his vest. "Isn't that it?"

Germaine's wide brow furrowed. "That's right."

"Does that mean anything to you, Hannah?" Hazer asked.

"I don't know." She clasped her hands tighter. "Could mean anything."

"One, two, three, no more..." Maxwell repeated. "Must be a set of three, obviously."

Neilson cleared his throat and extended his bullet head toward Hannah. "But there is a set of three here," he rumbled. "Don't you remember? Carl always kept three photographs of you on his desk. Framed. He showed it to me one day." He nodded his head at the litter of papers around the desk. "It must be there somewhere." He got up, walked over to the desk, and started rummaging through the debris. He found something and brought it back to the table. "Isn't this it?" he said, his lips pursed expectantly.

Hannah nodded.

He took the soft leather frame he was holding and held it close to his face. Then he turned it upside down and poked his finger inside the brace flap. In a moment, he extracted a metallic object. He tossed it on the table.

"And there's the key," Maxwell said, "now where's the door?"

Hannah's eyes were fixed on the key lying on the table. "It might be the key to that locked cabinet in the. lab," she said slowly. "Carl never told me what he kept there."

"His thesis perhaps," Hazer suggested. "It was the one thing he kept from all of us. Perhaps he finally wants us to have it."

Neilson picked up the key. "Will you show me to the cabinet, Hannah? As your attorney, you should have told me about it sooner. Carl may have important documents there."

Hannah shrugged. "I just don't know, Nels. Come, I'll take you there now."

As they left the room, Maxwell leaned over next to Lily. "Feel all right, love?" he whispered.

"Yes," she said, turning to Orient, "and thanks for your help. I was scared."

Orient smiled. "Happen often?"

"Not for a few years." Her amber eyes became smoky as she looked at him. She wet her parted lips with the tip of her tongue. "It's only the third time ever, in fact. The first time was when my father died."

"The lunar phase is a risky time for you to participate in a seance."

She smiled. "Almost everything is risky when I'm at full tide." She kept her eyes on Orient's face. "But perhaps that can be changed."

"I agree with Hazer that Carl contacted us through you Lily!" Maxwell snapped. "You were the most sensitive link. I'm sure Neilson will find something."

"Yes," Germaine said, "perhaps Lily has led us to Carl's research thesis."

"She also predicted that a black wind was approaching the house," Maxwell observed. "That's something telepathy couldn't do. Maybe we made the wrong choice, after all."

"Please Maxwell." Lily's eyes flashed with yellow streaks as she turned. "I don't think that's very funny."

"Lily is right," Germaine put in gravely. "You're compromising all of us with your humor."

Orient felt cold anger push through his calm. He was just about to speak when Neilson and Hannah came back into the room.

"Empty," the lawyer rumbled. "The key fit all right but there was nothing there." He drew his head in between his hunched shoulders and peered around the table.

"Yes, the key fit Carl's cabinet." Hannah's voice was very low.

"I don't understand." Hazer sucked at the end of his pipe. "Why would Carl go to so much trouble to contact us for no reason?"

"Souls of the departed have been known to play pranks on the living," Germaine suggested with a thoughtful smile.

"But we solved the joke. It's not fair," Sybelle said.

"It bloody well seems the joke's on us," Maxwell reflected. He held up his hand and examined the rings on his fingers in the light. "Absorbing to think that a sense of humor exists beyond life. Perhaps I'll code that into Albertus, my computer. He'll blow his main connection."

Neilson's bullet head bobbed uncertainly. "Does this conclude the, er, proceedings?"

"I'm afraid there's not much hope of reaching Carl now," Germaine told him. He folded his arms. "Unless one of you has a suggestion."

No one spoke.

"In that case, it appears that our work here is finished."

"Are you sure you don't want to come back to New York with me, dear?" Sybelle asked Hannah.

"I think it's best I stay." She tried to smile. "I'll settle Carl's affairs and go away next month or so."

"Don't worry," Neilson assured them. "I'm right next door. I'll come by every day to help Mrs. Bestman close up the estate. And then I'll see to it that she goes on that trip."

"To Italy," Hazer reminded him.

"Yes," Hannah said, her voice remote. "Italy."

For the next hour, they discussed the violence of the seance and its possible causes, but soon the conversation became sluggish. First Hazer, then Maxwell, and shortly afterward Lily, drifted out of the circle around the table and went upstairs. Orient was just about to do the same when Sybelle asked an interesting question.

"Wherever did you meet Lily?" she said casually. "She's very gifted and so lovely."

Germaine's smile was not without pride. "I met her quite accidentally in London. At the time she was suffering a good deal during the moon phase, but I've worked with her closely and she's adjusted well."

"Perhaps Owen's technique could be adapted to help Lily control her powers," Sybelle suggested. "We could all work together.

Germaine's steely eyes flicked across Orient's face and for a moment the smile sagged. In that fleeting second, Orient felt a physical intensity emanating from beneath the thick brows that recalled the looming image of his trance. Germaine shrugged and the smile widened. "Completely up to Lily," he said. "She's free to decide."

Orient decided to go to bed as Germaine, Sybelle, Hannah, and Neilson began discussing plans for another seance in a few months. As he went up the stairs he wondered if it wouldn't be better to leave the dead to their new existence unencumbered by debts from past reality. Germaine had been right. The seance had been disrupted by a psychic attack.

There was something else interesting about the count's choice of a spell to dismiss the disturbance. He had used the formula of a third-level adept. Germaine was advanced almost to the level of high master.

Apparently, he was a very special man—skilled occult mechanic as well as hypnotist.

Orient stood at the window, smoking a cigarette, still pondering the significance of the disruption. As he stared at the moon he speculated on that dead satellite, circling the earth and reflecting the ebbs and swells of energy pulsing from the universe. He knew that the moon had always affected men's deepest instincts. As man learned to plant crops by the moon his sense of ritual, then religion, formed. Even though the moon's glow was just reflection, its unique spatial presence transformed the energy of the sun before it reached Earth. Like the sympathetic function of one vital organ for another. Then he saw something move across the reflection of the bed lamp in the windowpane.

"Come in."

Lily closed the door behind her. "Hope I'm not disturbing you," she said softly. She polled the lapel of her brown angora robe tighter around her neck. "Or are you a difficult sleeper?"

"I sleep all right," Orient turned away from the window. "But it's nice to see you."

She sat down on the edge of the bed and looked up at him. Her amber pupils were splintered by yellow slivers that glittered in the dim light with a feverish excitement. Her voice, however, was calm and husky. "Thanks for taking care of me tonight,"

"I did very little." He reached into his pocket and held out his cigarette case. "Smoke?"

She shook her head.

"Where do you go from here?"

"London, maybe Amsterdam. I have a project to complete over the next couple of months. With Count Germaine. After that I could go anywhere. I'll be free." Her moist lips parted in a smile. "I will have a puff on your cigarette. It has a wonderful aroma."

Orient sat down next to her and passed his hand-wrapped cigarette. "Maybe you'd like New York for a few months. It could be interesting to explore your sensitivity to the moon."

She inhaled and let the smoke drift out slowly through her nostrils.

"Could be interesting," she mused. She leaned closer, and returned his cigarette. "You drew all of the confusion and the tension out of my body, as if you were inside me."

He watched the swirls of transparent blue smoke caressing her shimmering bronze hair. "There's a good chance you can control your powers completely," he said.

The robe fell away from her throat as she leaned back and the soft golden bulges of her breasts pushed out against the downy edges of her robe. The thin angora clung to the lines of her long supple body. "Think you could teach me?" she said, her voice low and vibrant.

"The telepathic technique could activate dormant functions in your mind." As he leaned over to put out his cigarette, Orient felt a sudden animal energy radiating from her. He opened his consciousness and a hot rain of sexual electricity spattered against his senses.

"It would be lovely to learn a new technique," she was saying. She reached up and gently pulled him close to her. The intense warmth of her body saturated his awareness as he slipped the soft fabric of her robe over her smooth shoulders and kissed the jutting nipples of her heaving breasts.

She moaned softly, her fingers searching restlessly across his chest and stomach, leaving glowing pockets of heat where they touched. She tugged his robe open and pressed her body against his skin. His taut muscles tingled as she twisted under him. Husky mews of delight flared like jets of flame against his ear, searing through his nerves and igniting every thread of desire in his spine.

Then he felt the satiny smoothness of her thighs embrace his hips and he lifted against her.

She slowly melted as he entered her, becoming honey-thick and warm around him. Her rising cries were muffled against his throat as a lush, liquid swell rippled through his groin and he sucked in his breath, letting it pass, stroking through the luxurious waters toward further surf. She arched up and ground her belly against his as a delicious billow swept them up and spun them through a churning whirlpool of sensation. She dug her nails deep into his shoulders and her cries rose above the roar of the surging wave, ringing against his pleasure-drenched brain like the echoes of an endless scream.

For a while, they floated in each others arms, talking quietly, until another flood of desire washed them away to the edge of a profound, caressing silence.

Lily stirred and opened her eyes after a long doze. "It would be luscious to just fall asleep against your chest like this," she murmured.

He nuzzled her ear. "Still early."'

She shook her head, her silky hair brushing across his arms. "Not this time," she sighed. "This house is in mourning. It wouldn't do for anyone to see me coming out of here. She sat up and stretched, pulling the, long muscles tight under her skin and lifting her dark-nippled breasts. "But I'll be in New York in two months." She leaned over and put her lips against his ear. "And then we can stay in bed for weeks." She kissed him, then rolled off the bed and stood up, her movements as fluid as those of a playful cat.

Orient rested his head in his palms and watched her. "No chance of your showing up sooner?"

She moistened her pale lips with her tongue. "I'm committed. Count Germaine needs me at this stage and the project is imperative."

"Hypnotism?"

She frowned slightly. "I'll tell you about it when I see you again. In New York." "Just send a telegram."

"I'll do better than that," Lily said, grinning as she began pulling the light angora robe around her shoulders, "I'll send you roses." She blew him a kiss.

After she was gone, Orient lay awake for some time, thinking about her. He wanted to see Lily again. It occurred to him that the experiment Germaine was conducting could be an occult rite. He felt a pang of anxiety and suppressed it. She was free to explore what she saw fit. His mind drifted back to the warmth of her soft body. Their minds had touched as they made love. As he eased into sleep he remembered the smoothness of her golden skin....

He was on an immense plain. He was running... urging his weary legs toward a distant shadow on the horizon... they were just behind him... the pursuers... the hunters... he stumbled and cried out, but no sound came out of his mouth... he broke his stride again and fell. He could hear muffled footsteps coming louder... he scrambled to his feet and started running

toward the shadow... the footsteps were closer... a dazzling glare exploded in front of him...  he leaped into the light....

Orient opened his eyes and was blinded by the beams of flashlights pointed directly into his face.

"What's the matter?" he grunted, lifting his hands in front of his face. "What is it?"

"Talk Swedish?" a man's tenor voice inquired.

"A little," Orient answered in Swedish. "Who are you?"

"Police," a gruff basso informed him. "Please get dressed."

"Been here all night?" the tenor asked.

Orient rubbed his eyes and reached for his robe. "Yes."

"Alone?"

Orient tried to see past the glare of the flashlights. "Yes. Why?"

"A man has been killed," the tenor replied calmly. "I believe you know him."

 

 

CHAPTER 6

 

 

Orient's mind was numb from confusion, shock, and lack of sleep. He moved through the events of the morning like a dazed survivor of a car wreck.

The two policemen waited impatiently while he dressed, then took him downstairs to identify the body.

The dawn sun cast a dull, metallic sheen across the gray-blanketed sky. It had rained during the early morning and there were dirty crusts of frost on the muddy ground.

The body was sprawled in the wet dirt, face up, a few feet from the open door of a car. His shirt had been torn from his body and long black scratches ran from the top of his bald head to what was left of his throat. Part of his hand was missing and yellowing splinters of bone pierced through the ragged chunks of surrounding flesh.

Orient took a step nearer.

"Please, no closer," the tenor voice said. It belonged to a lanky, grim-faced man dressed in a tweed overcoat.

"You know him?" the other detective rumbled. He was short and powerfully built. The small eyes in his doughy face were hard as they stared at Orient.

"It's Nels Neilson," his voice was almost inaudible. "What... happened?"

"Could have been a wild animal," the thin detective said. "But there aren't many in this district. And all the' tracks in the ground are human."

The other man went to the car. The door on the driver's side was open. "There was a struggle here," he said.

Orient walked over next to him. The spongy, rain-soaked dirt near the car was gouged and pitted. "He must have resisted," the tenor voice behind Orient observed. "Didn't you hear anything?"

Orient jammed his hands into the pockets of his blazer. He remembered Lily's moans of pleasure against his ear. "No," he said, "nothing."

"Will you tell us, please, what you did last night?" the fat-faced detective said sharply.

Orient went through a brief explanation of the meeting and then the seance. The two plainclothesmen listened without comment, but the expressions on their faces were identical: glum and disbelieving.

"And you went to bed and heard nothing," the tall man said.

"That's correct."

"Are you sure you were alone all night?"

Orient hesitated. If he lied to them, it could put Lily in jeopardy. "Lady Sativa and I talked for a few hours after the seance," he admitted.

"You told us you were alone," the lanky man said pleasantly.

"I was not alone. But I heard nothing."

"All right," the short detective grunted. "Let's go back to the house."

As Orient turned to go, he noticed some small, reddish-brown splotches on the driver's seat, as if the white leather upholstery had suddenly begun to rust. He leaned closer and saw that they were streaks of dark talcum powder.

"Come along," the lanky man said, "the others are waiting."

All seven of the occupants of the house were assembled in the library when they arrived. Hannah was on the couch, being comforted by Sybelle and Germaine. Hazer was sitting nearby in an armchair. Lily and Maxwell were standing near the window and the cook sat at ^the desk, presiding over a steaming coffee urn. Orient went over *to take a cup before moving to join Lily. As he approached, Maxwell scowled" and turned away.

Lily looked up, her amber eyes dark with the pain that tightened her pale mouth. "Did they make you go out there?" she asked softly.

Orient nodded.

"They asked a lot of questions." She shivered and hugged herself.

"What did you tell them?"

"The truth." She put a hand on his arm. "Didn't you?"

"Eventually."

She cocked her head and smiled slightly. "Don't tell me you tried to protect my reputation?

"Something like that."

"I suppose I should be complimented, but it smacks of the chauvinist. I'm a firm believer in straight honesty all the time." She reached up and touched his face. "Agreed?"

Agreed," he murmured.

"Should always tell the police the truth," Maxwell mused as he stared out the window. "But you ran true to form—gallant and proper."

The corded muscles in Orient's neck tensed and his eyes narrowed. He clenched his jaw and tried to hold back the anger that clawed at his instincts.

"Your attention, please," the lanky detective called out, his voice oddly pitched as he formed the unfamiliar English words. "Please all be seated."

Maxwell managed to take the armchair next to Lily, leaving Orient the narrow space on the couch.

"Please be patient with my English," the detective continued "But it is language we all understand here and we must proceed as best we can." His craggy face was set in a mournful frown as he looked around at him. "The facts are these: Mr. Neilson was killed about two this morning. None of you heard sounds even though—" he looked at Orient—"some of you were awake." His pale blue eyes moved to Hannah.

She was rocking back and forth silently in Sybelle's arms like a child who'd just recovered from the worst part of a fit. Her delicate face was lined with fatigue, and the skin around her eyes was raw and red from crying.

"Mrs. Bestman was the last person to see Neilson alive," the detective said.

Germaine stood up. "Surely, you're not inferring that Hannah had anything to do with this?"

The detective took his hands out of his pockets. "Please be seated, count," he said calmly. "I've made no accusation."

"Now then," he continued as Germaine took his seat, "Is there anything someone has not remembered?" No one spoke.

"You had some sort of Black Mass in which Neilson and the rest of you joined, no?" he persisted. "Some magic rite."

"We conducted a seance" Germaine said, correcting him, "according to the wishes set forth in Carl Bestman's will. It was not a mass or rite. It could be called a scientific experiment."

The detective nodded glumly. "And there was a fight? Things broken and thrown around?"

"There was no fight of any kind," Germaine explained patiently. "There was a psychic disturbance when we tried to contact Mr. Bestman's soul."

The lanky detective squinted around the room, his face reflecting disbelief and disapproval. "You say there was a disturbance?"

"We tried to speak to the soul of Carl Bestman," Hazer said, slowly filling his pipe. "When we tried something knocked the furniture over and broke some lamps. Some spirit element. That's the clearest explanation anyone here can give, I think. Lady Sativa received a message "from Carl to open a certain cabinet. But when Neilson and Hannah went to look they found it empty."

"Only Mrs. Bestman and Neilson?"

"That's right."

"And then you all retired?"

"Yes." Hazer fumbled through his pockets.

The detective lowered his voice. "You went outside with Neilson, Mrs. Bestman?"

"Yes," Hannah whispered. She didn't look up. "But it was drizzling so I came back to the house right away."

"And you saw nothing?"

"No."

"Strange that no one heard anything last night," Hazer struck a match and lit his pipe. "Perhaps he couldn't make any sound after his throat was... damaged."

Hannah began to sob.

"Please, captain, can't you see that Mrs. Bestman needs rest," Sybelle scolded. "Why in heaven's name can't she go to her room?"

"In due time. First, we must discover the truth of a man's death."

"You know the truth." Sybelle's eyes were blazing. "No one here is lying. We've told you everything."

The detective smiled sadly. "Everything except who killed Nels Neilson."

"Could have been a stray bear or wolf," Maxwell suggested

"There were no tracks, Mr. Andersen."

As the detective spoke, there were loud voices at the door. "Hannah!" Anthony Bestman shouted as he came into the library. "Are you all right?" His bulk was covered by, a fur-collared greatcoat that reached to his ankles. He glared around the room. "I told you this would happen if you continued to shelter these degenerates. Now we've been doubly disgraced"

"Please get him out of here, officer," Hannah said quietly. "I don't want that man in my house."

"My sister-in-law is crazy," Bestman spat vehemently. "She drove my brother to suicide.

"Liar," Hannah gurgled as she suddenly lurched to her feet.

"I tell you she's crazy!" Bestman yelled as she lunged and tried to rake his face with her nails.

The detective stepped between them and grabbed Hannah's shoulders.

"He drove Carl to kill himself!" she screeched. "Wouldn't leave Carl alone."

"Sit down, Mrs. Bestman," the detective said firmly, guiding her back to the couch.

Hannah sank back on the couch and collapsed, sobbing, into Sybelle's arms.

"Please come with me," the detective said to Bestman.

"I'll be glad to tell you everything I know about these people," Bestman sneered. "That woman has ruined my brother and his family's name."

"We'll see," the detective sighed as they walked to the door.

Everyone was absorbed in private thoughts as they waited for the detective to return. The room was silent except for the occasional murmur of the fat-faced detective who was sitting near the coffee urn, flirting with the cook.

Orient stretched his legs out and tried to relax. Neilson had been literally ripped apart. It would take a very strong person to do that. Or someone completely crazed.

The cook let out a muffled giggle as the detective whispered something in her ear.

It was at least two hours before the lanky detective returned. He was accompanied by a uniformed policeman.

"You will please come with us, Mrs. Bestman," he said, approaching the couch.

"But what on earth for?" Sybelle protested.

"She is under arrest for the murder of Nels Neilson."

Germaine slapped his fist against his palm. "Impossible."

"Anthony Bestman informed us that his sister-in-law once committed herself for shock treatment. We confirmed this. She has been diagnosed as a border schizophrenic. Our laboratory has also confirmed that traces of powder found in the car correspond to talcum powder found in Mrs. Bestman's bedroom," the detective droned impassively. He reached into his coat.

These were also found under some clothing in the bedroom." He handed some papers to Germaine, "Possibly you can explain this better than I."

Germaine scanned the papers. "It looks like part of the thesis Carl mentioned." As he read them, his wide brow furrowed in a frown. "This proves nothing," he said finally, passing the papers to Hazer.

The detective said nothing and waited until everyone had read the papers found in Hannah's room.

When Orient received them he saw that there were two typewritten sheets and one Xerox. One of the typed sheets was titled: Lycanthropic Schizophrenia

He read it carefully.

 

Introduction

My unsuccessful pursuit of a cure for the devastating and highly virulent disease known as Lycanthropy began because I have seen the destructive mental and spiritual results of such a case in my own family.

For years the schizoid bestial nature of this unfortunate person has surfaced with the advent of the full moon. I have done everything humanly possible to arrest this cursed condition and have even turned my investigations to the realm of extranormal physics to seek an answer.

During this entire period my marriage has been destroyed. With each attack, it becomes more difficult for my wife to bear the strain. I have found only partial..

The paragraph ended in mid-sentence. Orient looked at the other sheet. It was numbered on the top right-hand corner. Page 345. He began reading.

... conclusion that the disease can only be cured in its early stages, as with other forms of Cancer virus. Experiences in Nepal, India, and Ceylon have proved that results can be obtained using the original Greek formula described earlier (a translation is attached). However, even when this formula is carefully deciphered, proportioned, and administered orally, it is effective only if the Lycanthropic has not yet consumed raw flesh during a seizure. After that, like a predatory animal who's tasted its first kill, there is no turning back. The virus takes root in the metabolism and eventually predominates.

Even this pitifully mild discovery comes years too late to unburden Hannah of the awful secret she must carry with her.

The results of the analysis support

 

There was no more.

Orient turned to the Xeroxed sheet. It was a copy of a page taken from an illuminated manuscript. Even though the highly stylized symbols were from the ancient Greek, he guessed that the text had been recopied during ‘ a later period, probably Medieval. There was something written in ink on the lower part of the page.

 

to soothe the poor soul

who bears the mark of the beast

take the mold of wheat and yeast

add mandrake, wolfbane and poppy pitch,

then an equal part of the beautiful bitch,

Indian rope to complete the feast

remember ten measures which the beast loves best

from one who loves him more than all the rest.

 

He hastily checked the doggerel against his half-remembered knowledge of ancient languages. As far as he could make out, the translation was faithful. He passed the papers to Maxwell who snatched them unceremoniously from his hand.

"I tell you they prove nothing," Germaine was saying. "Carl himself might have put them in the room without her knowledge. You must let this poor woman get some rest, or she'll break down."

"There's nothing else I can do," the detective said. "The only tracks near the scene of the crime belong to her. The evidence is there. We shall take her to a hospital in the morning. But tonight she'll have to spend the night in jail."

"No!" Hannah cried out, clutching at Sybelle. "Please don't let them put me in a cage."

She looked up at the detective and something in her delicate face seemed to crumble. "I'll go to the hospital in the morning, but let me stay here until then. I promise I'll tell you everything in the morning," she pleaded, her voice trembling with fear.

"If you take Hannah, you have to take me too," Sybelle warned.

"Please," Germaine said. "I ask you as a man and a human being to have pity on this poor woman. Her worst crime can only be sickness. She agreed to go to the hospital. Let her stay here tonight."

The detective jammed his hands in his pockets. "Very well," he said wearily. "We'll wait until nine tomorrow morning. But I'll expect a full statement from every one of you. And no one is to leave this house for any reason."

After Hannah had been taken to her room, Anthony came into the library. Orient watched him as he conferred with the two detectives, gesturing excitedly as he spoke. From time to time he would glare around the room at the guests and whisper something to the short detective, punctuating his remarks with jabs of his cigar. Finally, he and the detective left the room.

"Tell me," Sybelle sweetly asked the lanky detective, "do you know where Anthony Bestman was when Nels was killed?"

The detective looked at her, his lips set in a tight smile. "He was at police headquarters, miss. Trying to get an order to evict you all from the estate and get Mrs. Bestman to a hospital.

Her face reflected her disappointment at Anthony's ironclad alibi. "You mean he wanted her committed?"

The detective nodded.

Later, they were served a cold supper in the dining room. Their conversation was muted as they ate.

"I simply cannot believe Hannah could be capable of something so horrible." Sybelle picked dejectedly at a slice of ham. "I'll never believe it."

"There seem to be many curious facets to this affair," Germaine said "I've known Carl and Hannah for many years and yet I never knew that she'd suffered a breakdown."

"Nor I," Hazer poured himself a glass of wine. "Could it be that she tried shock treatment for a condition of Lycanthropy? And it's very strange that Carl never told anyone about his experiments."

If the papers the police found in Hannah's room are genuine, then it's bloody simple to understand why Carl wanted to keep things quiet," Maxwell smiled faintly under his sunglasses.

"Why is that Andersen?" There was a slight edge in Orient's voice.

"Didn't you read what he wrote?" Maxwell asked scornfully. "I think it's rather obvious that if your wife has raving delusions that she's an animal every full moon, you'd want to keep it a secret."

"Perhaps you're jumping to conclusions," Orient said, trying to keep his dislike for Maxwell out of his tone. "Carl did not say that Hannah was suffering from Lycanthropy."

"... unburden Hannah of the awful secret she must bear," Maxwell mock-recited. "I happen to have a photographic memory, Orient, and that's what was written on the page marked 345."

"Excellent memory, but poor logic," Orient said calmly. "You're just guessing."

"Am I?" Maxwell looked around the table. "Then why didn't Hannah tell Neilson about the cabinet in the library right away? And she seemed rather reluctant to decipher Carl's message to Lily. If you recall, it was Neilson who reminded her about the three pictures in the frame. And he was the one who found the key."

"All inconclusive evidence."

"I agree with Owen." Sybelle lifted her wine glass to the light and squinted at it. "And none of this conversation is going to help poor Hannah. If any of this is true, then she needs psychiatric care, not a prison."

"I'm afraid there's no way to help Hannah until we hear what she has to say in the morning," Germaine said softly. "It's up to her now."

After dinner, Orient left the others in the process of forming a bridge game. As he climbed the stairs, he saw Anthony standing near the library door in deep conversation with the fat-faced detective.

When he reached his room, he stretched out on the bed and tried to piece together what had happened since the seance. It was difficult to believe that a frail woman like Hannah could rip a man apart. He knew that homicidal maniacs, including Lycanthropic Schizophrenics, had been known to indulge in cannibalism. It supported the delusion that they'd been transformed into flesh-hunting beasts. Still it was hard for him to imagine Hannah reverting to such a state.

He wondered what she meant to tell the detectives.

His mind drifted back to Lily: the smooth warmth of her skin, the way their minds had touched while making love.

He heard a soft sound at the door.

He swung his legs to the floor, went to the door, and listened. There was no sound. He looked down and saw" a piece of blue letter paper just under the door and picked it up. It was a typewritten note.

"Meet me in the churchyard behind house. Near the biggest tree. Use the door in the pantry next to kitchen. Something important you should know. Need your help. Please do not betray me. HB."

Orient studied the last two letters. Hannah Bestman, He debated whether he should show the note to Sybelle.

Or Germaine. Not wise, he decided Either he gave it to the police or he went out to meet Hannah. It was stupid to involve anyone else. And it would lessen his chances of slipping out of the house undetected If, that is, he was foolish enough to compound his earlier lie with a charge of accessory after the fact. He remembered Hannah, huddled like a broken doll in Sybelle's arms, and decided to risk it.

He changed into a thick wool turtleneck and checked his watch. Ten o'clock. Everyone would still be up. The cook, however, would be finished with her work in the kitchen. If the hall was clear, this was probably the best hour to move around the house, before everyone retired His presence wouldn't be suspicious. There was a good chance that he could slip back in time to bid everyone good night.

He went to the door, opened it, and stepped into the hall. He descended the stairs and headed for the kitchen, trying to look as if he'd just decided to have a late-night snack. The uniformed policeman, sitting at the front door reading a magazine, didn't look up as he passed. He heard the sounds of people talking in the dining room and went past the door quickly. He headed for, the far door behind the dining room and entered the darkened kitchen. A glowing red bulb, under the still-hot coffee urn, gave off enough light to enable Orient to avoid a large table and find the door to the pantry.

It was too dark even to see table shapes inside the small room, but he decided against lighting a match. Instead, he felt around the wall until he located a doorknob. When he opened the door, a cold blast of wet air scraped the warmth off his nose and ears and he realized it was raining outside.

He stood in the protection of the doorway for a few moments until his eyes got used to the darkness. The lights from the dining room gave off a faint glow that was quickly lost in the drizzling blackness. He closed the door behind him and started walking along the side of the house toward the back. The damp, muddy ground quickly soaked through his shoes and chilled his feet.

He stopped at the corner of the house and peered across at the barely visible rise of trees a hundred: yards away. If he crossed the open space in front of him, there was a possibility he'd be seen. He retreated a few paces then crossed the short space between the house and a line of high bushes that extended into the trees. He could hear his heart thumping as he walked across the dimly lit area and entered the shadows.

Once inside the protective concealment of the bushes he moved swiftly around their perimeter until he reached the grove directly behind the house.

As he started up the steep rise, he saw a shape at the base of a tree and hesitated. He took a step closer and recognized the jutting outline of a stone cross leaning at an odd angle to the ground.

He walked slowly through the cemetery, straining to see through the wind-driven rain that sent rivulets of water running down his forehead and into his eyes.

He stopped under a tree and huddled against its trunk. Finding the churchyard had been easy, but locating the biggest tree in the dense, rain-swept darkness would be difficult. From where he stood, he could make out branch-shredded patches of light below him, coming from the house on the other side of the trees. They looked warm and cozy. He jammed his hands in his pockets and peered through the shadows. A single, insistent question jangled through his mind. Why had Hannah asked him, almost a complete stranger, to help her? He squinted through the rain and considered going back to the house. May as well give it a try as long as you're already wet, he thought.

As his vision adjusted to the murkiness, he saw that above him, looming like a massive guardian beside a square structure, was a gnarled, fat-trunked tree. Thick roots spilled out of its bulging base like a nest of just-loosed snakes scrambling down to repel intruders.

Orient took his hands out of his pockets and edged toward the tree. As he neared, he saw that the building it protected was a mausoleum.

A twig cracked behind him. He stopped and looked around. There was no one—only the hiss of the wind-lashed leaves above him. Small drops of water wriggled under the damp neck of his sweater.

He took a few more steps, listening carefully as he continued slowly up the rise toward the immense tree. As he approached, he saw someone standing just behind the trunk. He stepped into the shadow of a large bush and waited.

For a moment, he thought that he'd been misled by a moving branch, but then he glimpsed a dull flash of skin near the dark stone wall of the mausoleum.

The blood was racing through his pulse as he stepped over the protruding roots to the edge of the building.

Hannah was standing between the wall and the tree trunk, her pale skin barely visible beneath a black shawl that covered her head. Her hand went to her mouth. "What do you want?" she whispered.

"You sent me a note." He reached for the folded piece of paper in his pocket and took a step nearer.

The shawl fell away revealing a face contorted with fear. Her lips were twisted away from her teeth and her eyes glittered intensely. "No," she said shrilly, rushing at him, "don't. Go back."

Orient's fingers had just closed around the note when a bone-numbing blow on his chest sent him sprawling into the mud. Someone fell heavily on top of him, crushing the wind from his belly and pinning his hand in his pocket. Hannah's blurred face appeared next to his, eyes squeezed shut and mouth open.

Her screams exploded against his ear and a gloved hand closed over his throat. Instinctively, he jabbed his elbow back. Something like a wet slap shocked across his forearm and he realized he couldn't move his fingers. He jabbed again and rolled, trying to dislodge the weight holding him down and free his other arm, but the hand ground his face into the cold gummy dirt. A rush of hot, damp breath caressed the skin of his unprotected throat.

There was a hollow pop and the pressing weight on his body suddenly lifted. He raised his head and saw a flash of light. There was another pop as he rolled over.

Hannah pushed herself up to her knees, half-turned, and fell across his legs.

 

 

CHAPTER 7

 

 

Orient heard the sounds of running footsteps and men yelling in Swedish. Then the bright electric rays of flashlights cut through the shadows and illuminated Hannah's face.

She was staring in open-mouthed terror at the gnarled roots that dug into the wet earth near her face. Her chin was thrust forward in the mud and there was a small blue hole in her temple.

The flashlights bobbed closer, blinding him. He tried to shield his eyes with his arm and found that it was paralyzed from the elbow down. Something warm and oily filled his palm. He looked down and saw that it was blood.

"You disobeyed my orders," someone said.

Orient recognized the tenor voice of the lanky detective. "I received a message," he grunted as he got to his feet.

"I sent no message." The detective shined the light on Orient's arm. "Were you shot?"

He pulled back the sticky, ragged sleeve of his sweater. His forearm was streaming blood from four deep gashes that raked his skin open to the wrist. He tried to flex his fingers. They moved slightly. "Looks like I was stabbed. Or bitten."

"Tell me about the message you received," the detective said, lifting his flashlight to Orient's face.

He turned away from the glare and reached for the paper in his pocket.

"Hold it."

Orient heard the soft warning and froze. The detective moved the light to the gun in his hand. "Take it out of your pocket very slowly, doctor," he said.

He took the paper between two fingers and held it up to the light. The detective took it.

Another beam crossed Orient's eyes. "She's dead," a voice growled in Swedish.

"Tell me what you were doing here, doctor," the tenor voice asked patiently.

Orient shivered inside his wet clothes and gritted his teeth against the throbbing pain that was beginning to pulse through his wounded arm. "I received the note you have. I came out here and saw Hannah. Just as she spoke to me, I was attacked."

"What did she say?"

"I think it was ‘go back'."

"And then she attacked you?"

"I suppose so. I don't know. It was very... confusing."

Orient heard them speak softly and then one of the flashlights moved away, its beam sweeping the ground near the mausoleum.

"You were fortunate we were warned, doctor. Neilson wasn't as lucky."

"Warned?" Orient felt his face flush and the word was slurred.

The detective lowered his light. "You'd better come with me," he said. "Someone should look at that arm."

"Someone warned you this was... going to happen?" Orient managed, swaying slightly. He felt giddy.

"Anthony Bestman warned us that his sister-in-law was a homicidal maniac. We watched her leave the house and followed her to see what she would do. We also followed you when you left the house. We saw Hannah Bestman attack you and fired. Fortunately, we managed to hit the right person."

"It's... very dark," Orient mumbled, remembering something, "hard... to see."

"Yes?"

"Perhaps... someone else was here besides Hannah."

"I've considered that possibility, doctor." The detective waved his light impatiently. "My men are searching the courtyard now. Come."

Orient followed him. When the flashlight beam passed Hannah's body, Orient noticed a reddish smudge on her shawl. He bent over and saw that it was a smear of dark powder.

"Please come along, doctor," the detective said "Yon m need medical attention."

Orient straightened up and a wave of dizziness came over him. He stumbled after the detective toward the warm, distant lights of the house.

There were hundreds of questions to answer and countless forms to fill out over the next two days. At first Orient was confined to his room under guard, but after all the details had been examined and everyone's statement taken, he was allowed to have visitors.

Lily came to his room that afternoon.

She was dressed in a velvet jumpsuit that matched the golden color of her skin and she was carrying yellow flowers. "Couldn't find roses," she explained, putting them in a vase by the window. "How are you feeling?" She came over and sat at the edge of the bed. The sunlight streaming through the window behind her sprayed a halo of metallic glints around her bronze hair.

Orient grinned. "Like a man who's just been brought flowers by a beautiful woman."

She smiled and narrowed her amber eyes. "You'd better get well before I get to New York," she said softly. "I want you in one piece."

"Healing fast." He lifted his arm and flexed his fingers. "A lot of blood, but I guess it was superficial Didn't even need stitches."

"Thank heavens the police were following you," she said with a slight shudder.

Orient didn't answer. The sequence of that night's events were still scattered through his mind, like confetti in a windstorm. There seemed to be so many small pieces missing.

"Maxwell said she may have killed some others before Neilson and Carl knew about it,

"I don't know," he murmured. "She seemed terrified."

Lily leaned over and gently kissed him. "Probably didn't know what was happening, poor thing: frightened out of her wits with paranoia."

Orient rubbed the back of her neck with his fingers. The skin was tender and warm. "I suppose so," he sighed. "The violent part of her personality must have made even the simplest act a frightening experience." As he spoke, he knew that it was logical. Everything fit the pattern. A double personality—one homicidal and the other timid. Periodically, the violent personality dominated and acted out savage physical attacks. A clear case of schizoid Lycanthropy. "Still can't figure out why she sent me that note," he mused as he continued to massage her neck.

"You were handy," Lily purred, her eyes half-closed. "We were playing bridge, remember? I must say she made the best choice even though she didn't take advantage of it properly." She kissed him again, her lips cool and moist against his. "I'm going to miss you," she whispered. "And I rarely miss people."

"When are you leaving?"

"The police said we could go when we like. I'm catching a train in a couple of hours." She lifted her head and looked at him, her eyes smoky and teasing. "Still want me to come visit you?"

He smiled. "Just send me a message."

"And I won't forget the roses," she murmured, brushing her mouth against his ear. She stood up and caressed his face with her hand. "Ciao love, take care until I see you again."

Long after she'd gone, Orient could feel the lingering warmth of her fingers on his skin.

Later that afternoon he was visited by Sybelle.

"Owen, darling, we've been frantic with worry. Are you all right? She stood at the door, smiling uncertainly, her pink hands rubbing against her navy silk trousers. As she came into the room, Orient saw that Germaine was behind her.

"How are you, doctor?" The tall man's melodious voice was- hearty but somewhat labored, as he drew up chairs for himself and Sybelle.

"I'm fine," Orient held up his arm and flexed his fingers for them. "I can even carry my own suitcases. Are the police still here?"

Germaine smiled slightly. "They've gone. We're all free to go."

"There's a train in about four hours," Sybelle said hopefully, "but if you don't feel up to it we can wait until tomorrow."

"I'm up to it."

She breathed a long sigh of relief. "Well, that makes it easier, darling. Anthony has been acting like the rude pig he is and wants everyone out of here as soon as possible. Maxwell and Lily left for London a little while ago, and Professor Hazer left this morning. He asked me to tell you he was sorry he couldn't wait. But I know how he feels. I'd like to leave this house, too. I find it so depressing now. Poor, tragic Hannah." She dabbed her eyes with a blue handkerchief and looked at Orient. "I hope you don't hate me for bringing you here. But I just didn't think anything like this could ever happen."

Orient didn't answer. His mind was still considering the fact that Lily and Maxwell were together.

The thought evoked a faint trace of annoyance and doubt. She was under no obligation to him in any way, but he would have felt better if she'd told him.

"I'm sure Dr. Orient doesn't blame you," Germaine was saying. "After all, he escaped with minor injuries and won a substantial sum of money, isn't that so, doctor?"

"Of course, but I'm sorry none of us could do anything to help Hannah."

Sybelle lowered her voice and leaned closer to Orient. "They should investigate Anthony's background. I'm positive they'd find plenty. If Hannah was mad, he had something to do with it."

"I'm afraid the police consider the case closed." Germaine smiled. "A homicidal maniac killed during an attempted murder." His gray eyes were steady and penetrating. "Doesn't your statement back their pronouncement?"

"As far as I knew, Hannah sent a note to meet her then became frightened and attacked me. She had fantastic strength."

"Classic case of schizophrenia," Germaine said. Orient nodded

Hours later, however, on the train ride to Stockholm, he patiently told and retold the story of Hannah's death for Sybelle; and each time he reconstructed the events of that night he was left with the feeling that his version was incomplete. As if he'd left something of significance behind in the mud of the dark churchyard.

 

 

CHAPTER 8

 

 

The restaurant was small, dimly lit, and casual by New York standards. The waiter didn't seem overly offended by Sybelle's request for a second drink after dinner.

She was relieved. The evening was too lovely to rush. She sipped her Grand Marnier and gazed at Sordi's pensive face over the rim of her glass.

"So Hannah Bestman tried to kill the doctor," he was murmuring. "It's unbelievable."

"The whole thing was simply dreadful," she agreed. "This is the first evening out I've been able to enjoy since I've been back." She frowned slightly. "Didn t Owen tell you anything?"

"Very little. He told me we'd be able to keep the house so I knew he won the prize. But murder is serious business. No wonder he's been so closed up and nervous lately."

"Both Carl and Hannah were so dear to me," she sighed. "And that nice Mr. Neilson. I didn't want to believe it myself. Poor Hannah. But the facts were there. She was a schizophrenic Oh, it was heartbreaking." She took a long sip of her liqueur. Sordi's fine-featured face was drawn with concern. It made him look attractive, she reflected, like a Renaissance scholar pondering a philosophical problem.

I guess that's why the doctor hasn't been able to settle down," he ventured. "He needs a vacation after all that."

Sybelle nodded emphatically. "Oh, I'm sure. The poor darling was in bed for two days after the attack. And Anthony Bestman was just horrid. He practically threw him out of his sickbed." She smiled and lowered her voice. "But let's talk about something else now. Dinner was divine."

Sordi's smile softened the lines around his mouth. ‘It was a nice victory celebration. Even if the guest of honor couldn't make it."

"Isn't that just like Owen to become so involved with something at the last minute?" she asked sympathetically. But actually she was pleased that she and Sordi were alone. It had solved a problem for her. "Maybe we can all have dinner at my place soon," she purred. "Just the three of us."

"Great." He signaled for the bill. "The doctor needs to get out and relax." His private beliefs were less optimistic. If anything, Orient had returned in worse shape than when he left. He wasn't himself. In the past, he'd shown a tendency to shut out reality with his work. But he hadn't done anything at all for two weeks except take long walks at night. This talk with Sybelle had cleared up the reason.

It was just a matter of time before the doctor got back to his routine. He paid the bill and looked up at Sybelle. "Still early," he said softly. "Would you like to go somewhere? This is a celebration for us, anyway."

She was delighted with the suggestion. "Let's go dancing," she whispered. "It's just the thing for getting rid of gloomy memories."

As she stood waiting at the entrance for Sordi to bring the car around, she wondered if it was too soon to ask him over to her apartment for a nightcap.

 

Orient had gone through two hours of physical exercise, but he couldn't seem to loosen his muscles. He stretched out his legs and stared up at the indirect glow of colored lights shading the ceiling. His concentration was way off. It had been three weeks since his last successful meditation

He rolled over, sat upland folded his legs into the Lotus position. The aggressive mass of rock and yielding pooI of water set off harmonies in the room that serenaded his awareness as he started the breathing pattern.

His consciousness extended, then seemed to cringe, withdrawing instantly from the suspension point and leaving him completely drained. He felt the nudge of a headache at the base of his brain. He did a few exercises to loosen his neck and upper back, then decided to give it up. He left the meditation room and went downstairs for a long, hot shower.

He was more relaxed after his workout and bath, but a small vein in his temple was still throbbing unpleasantly.

As he drew on his shirt he saw the pale outlines of new skin on his arm, covering the gashes he'd received when he'd been attacked. The cuts had started healing immediately and were almost invisible. There wouldn't even be a scar in a few days.

He had a lot to be thankful for. He took a cigarette from his silver case. "Om, Aing, Chring, Cling, Charmuda, Yei, Vijay... " he whispered, repeating the Brahmin Mantra for the consecration of Bhang.

He leaned back on the bed and wondered if he could bring himself to do some work in the media lab. The throb in his temple intensified and he had an urge to go outside for a walk. But he remained on the bed, staring at the glowing tip of his cigarette, trying to focus his concentration.

It was useless. Since he'd come back from Sweden, the only progress he'd made was cashing the check SEE had awarded him.

His thoughts drifted back to Lily. He could still recall the warmth of her hands and the silky feel of her hair.

In a week she'd be going through her Lunar Cycle. He stood up and began to pace the floor, his mind nicking from emotion to memory like a restless insect.

He remembered Hannah's terrified face and flew over the flashing scenes of the attack once more, searching for an image he'd overlooked. But there was nothing but the dull weight of the headache pulling at his flight.

His senses bristled with impatience. He felt the need for unimpeded motion. He stubbed his cigarette and finished dressing. Perhaps a long walk would help assemble the scattered fragments of his memory. And then he could do some work.

But it wasn't until a week later that he was able to bring himself to think of work again. He decided to test his equipment by editing some old tape in his workshop.

He moved carefully through the tangle of lights and cable, as if he was visiting the studio for the first time.

When he reached his worktable he leaned against it for a moment and considered going to see a movie instead. His project couldn't really begin until Lily arrived. Still the equipment had to be tested and ready. He looked around for the screener. It wasn't in its usual place on the worktable. His previous indecision turned into a persistent, impatient hunt for the missing tape viewer. After a few frustrating minutes, he went over to the intercom on the wall and jabbed the button. "Get down here, Sordi," he barked into the speaker. "In the studio."

He came back to the studio area and continued looking for the machine, his frustration mounting until it frayed his temper.

"Where the hell's all the equipment?" he yelled as Sordi hurried into the room. "I can't find a goddamn thing around here."

Sordi stopped and narrowed his eyes. "What equipment?" he asked calmly.

"The goddamn screener." He mimicked Sordi's even tone of voice. "Where did you put it?"

Sordi walked through the equipment section to the library area. He picked up a suitcase that was on the floor, next to the roll top desk, and brought it back to the work-table.

"It was where you put it when you came back."

"Why wasn't it set up?" Orient demanded.

"I didn't know you wanted to start working right away. I thought you wanted to rest."

His placid explanation infuriated Orient. He felt his face flush as the blood in his neck boiled up into his brain. "I'll let you know when I need rest," he spat through clenched teeth. "From now on, I want everything ready in this studio. Is that understood?"

"Of course."

The unruffled answer further goaded at the anger gushing through Orient's body. Fists closed and chest heaving, he stood glaring at Sordi for a moment before he turned, walked quickly out of the room, and left the house.

The city's nightly display of blinking neon obscured the stars above the Hudson River and dumped garish pigments into the dark water. A chill, constant wind sent the colors shimmering across the river's surface.

The wind also made it uncomfortably cold, but Orient was unaware of the temperature or the scenery as he wandered through the streets, trying to control his fury.

The vein in his temple pulsed like a broken tooth, shooting spasms of pain through his thoughts. He slowed down and took a deep breath, trying to clear away the confusion. At last he stopped completely and began a formal, meditative breathing pattern, digging deep past the numbing hurt for his concentration. The anger subsided, but the throb in his temple continued to send painful twinges through his brain at regular intervals like the ticking of some torturous clock.

As he began walking again, he continued the breathing pattern, trying to make his reason function despite the discomfort. He shouldn't have lost his temper like that. He would have to apologize to Sordi. A fresh spasm of pain in his temple mocked his remorse.

He kept walking for a long time, drifting further and further downtown before he stopped to get his bearings. He was near the Port Authority building on the West Side. He could go there and find a cab that would take him back home....

But as he ambled toward the transportation center, he passed a bar decorated with gaudy lights and heard the electronic beat of rock music spilling through the door. He hesitated. A drink might help calm his nerves before he went home. He could use some relaxation. He hadn't had a night out in weeks. He walked over to the entrance and stepped inside.

The room was narrow and noisy and filled with customers. As Orient entered, he saw that it had been crudely set up to utilize all available space. The chrome bar broke off at right angles in the rear of the room and a four-piece band was perched on a stage above the shelves of bottles. Their amplified sounds pounded monotonously over the garbled static of the crowd The enveloping smoke and rhythmic din seemed to help untangle the conflicting emotions in his thoughts. He found an empty stool in the corner, and signaled for the girl working behind the bar.

As she came near, Orient saw that her thick make-up wasn't enough to conceal the age lines on her face. She was wearing an abbreviated bikini joined, top and bottom, by a strip of sequins that inadequately covered the swelling folds of her sagging belly. She leaned over the bar and smiled. There was a trace of lipstick on her front tooth and Orient knew that she was the kind of woman who could look messy even completely nude. Her fleshy untidiness excited him.

"If you don't see what you want, ask for it," she rasped cheerfully.

Orient grinned, took a folded bill from his pocket, and stuffed it into the top of her bikini. "A double anything. In honor of you and yours."

She laughed and wiggled away. Orient stared at her rolling thighs and felt a brief itch of desire.

She came back with a double Scotch and he gulped it thirstily, letting the warmth spread through his stomach and ease the tension in his neck and shoulders as he looked around the room. Most of the women looked as if they were waiting to go onstage, with exaggerated make-up and complicated wigs. He glanced along the bar and spotted a tall girl with long brunette hair sitting nearby, talking to a bald man. She was turned away from Orient, but he could feel a familiar sexual vibration, emanating from her slender body, like heavy perfume.

The barmaid came over with another drink. She leaned over so that her powdered breasts hung down to the bar and swayed her shoulders in time to the music, as she set the glass down. "This time they're both on me," she leered. "Have a ball."

Orient picked up the drink and toasted her. "Let's all three of us have a ball," he suggested.

"A girl has to make a living, daddy. Maybe in a few hours." She winked and moved away to serve another customer.

As Orient drank he noticed that most of the people in the bar were sweating—everyone except him. He felt cool and dry in the airless, overheated room. The revelation amused him and he began to laugh softly to himself as the constant throb of electrified sound massaged his brain.

He lifted his head and saw that the brunette down the bar had turned and was looking at him. Her face was narrow and angular with black eyebrows that slanted severely over green-shaded eyes. Her skinny arms were marble-white against the black leather vest laced tightly around her body. He stared back at her through the smoke and waited.

In a few minutes, the bald man left and the space beside her was empty. Orient got up, eased through the crowd, and elbowed past a bearded man who was about - to occupy the empty stool

"Hey, man, what are you doing?" the man protested.

As Orient turned, he felt the stabbing throbs of anger slash across his temples. "I'm sitting down," he muttered. "What about it?"

The man looked at Orient's clenched jaw and vacant green eyes and moved away to another part of the bar.

Orient took a deep breath and tried to recapture his calm. He crooked his finger at the barmaid.

She hurried over. "Double Scotch, right?"

"And whatever my friend here is drinking." He pointed his thumb at the brunette on his left.

The brunette turned to study him with glazed blue eyes. "You can make it a gin," she told him in a high nasal voice.

She continued to stare at him. "I saw you looking at me," she said finally.

"That's right." As he spoke, her musky scent clung to his nostrils. "Do you mind?"

She shrugged. "At least you're not bad-looking. That's more than I can say for the other creeps in this joint."

"Here you go lover-boy," the barmaid grunted. "Double Scotch and gin. And you pay for these." She wasn't smiling any more.

Orient pulled a ten from his pocket and inserted it between her breasts. "Next time I'll try to be more patient."

"Happy Halloween," the brunette offered, lifting her glass.

He took a long swallow of his drink. The whisky seemed to burn away the cobwebs of anger sticking to his thoughts. A rush of exhilaration overcame the lingering dregs of his headache and he began to stroke the girl's arm. The smell of her perfume filled his awareness. "You smell good enough to eat," he said, his voice slightly slurred and hoarse. "You feel nice, too."

The brunette's face remained an impassive, painted mask, but her eyes glittered with blue sparks of excitement.

"You've got to slow down, baby," her nasal whisper rasped against his ear. She took his hand from her arm and turned it over. "Let's see if I can read your future," she purred running a teasing green fingernail across his palm.

He looked down at his hand, Ever since childhood his palm had been wrinkled like that of a very old man. But tonight the network of lines seemed as pronounced as the chasms on the dead surface of the moon.

The brunette whistled softly. "You've got some future baby or some real weird past."

"What does it say for the two of us?" he asked as the music rose louder in his brain.

Her smile barely broke the green-tinted line of her mouth. "It says fun and games galore." She released his hand. "I have to split and meet a friend of mine. Do you want to come along?"

When she stood up, he saw that she was very thin. Her trousers were stretched tight over her narrow hips and long thighs and the cuffs were tucked into high, suede boots. She looked like an artificial night flower fashioned out of black leather, white plastic, and green paint. A surge of sexual power rolled over his senses as he contemplated the erotic excesses of her fantasy search for pleasure.

He finished his drink and followed her through the swirl of people and noise to the coatroom. He helped her put on a fur-lined, snakeskin cape, then tipped the bikini-clad attendant.

"Don't you have a coat?" the brunette asked when they reached the street.

It was then that he noticed that he was wearing only a V-neck cashmere sweater, suede trousers, and loafers without socks.

"Aren't you cold?"

Her nasal whine made him laugh. "I'm not cold," he said. "Feel." He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close to his body.

"Hey, yeah, you are warm," she whispered. "Like a dog I used to have. Groovy."

He laughed again and looked for a taxi.

She took him to a bar that was smaller and more subdued than the midtown lounge. There was space at the bar and the blare of the jukebox made normal conversation possible. Orient gave his order to a wide-shouldered, barrel-bodied bartender who looked like an ex-wrestler.

The brunette offered him a cigarette. "What's your name?" she murmured.

Orient took the cigarette. "Scott. Mike Scott. With two t's."

"I'm Dominique." She lowered her voice. "Do you like to make scenes? You know, swing."

He held a match for her. "Are you sending an invitation?"

She blinked her double set of false eyelashes. "Yeah. You're really sexy in a weird way. Did you ever think about working as a model? I've got lots of connections in that business."

Orient shrugged and picked up his drink. "I'm doing all right." He leaned closer to her. "But I can tell you'd be a very talented fashion model."

She blinked again, this time with pleasure. "Wait till my friend gets here," she whispered, digging her green nails into his knee. "We'll have a party and you'll see."

Orient became impatient as they waited for her friend to show up. He ordered another round and checked the door again.

Dominique leaned closer to him. "Don't fret, Mike. Robin will be here soon." She had loosened some of the thongs of her vest and he could see her hard, pointed nipples pushing out against the thin leather. His groin tingled as he anticipated ripping the vest away from her slender chest. "Let's go," he said, his mouth dry. "I'll show you how to have a party by ourselves."

"Wait a second. Here he is." Her voice rose to an unpleasant wail. "Over here, Robin."

She was waving at a slender young man dressed in an outfit almost identical to her own. His laced vest had long sleeves and was pale blue to match the streak of shadow over his eyes. His long brown hair was bleached to a frosted blond at the tips and was combed into bangs. He moved quickly and gracefully to where they were sitting and gave Dominique a flamboyant hug. When he saw Orient, he lifted one penciled eyebrow. "New faces," he observed in a high, mocking voice.

"This is my friend, Mike," Dominique giggled. "With two t's. He wants to play with us."

Robin smiled and held out a slim hand. "Hello, Mike," he purred insinuatingly. "Very nice to meet you."

Orient stared unmoving at Robin's hand. A pang of annoyance flickered across his temple and he set his jaw in a tight frown.

"Friendly, isn't he?" Robin said, delighted with Orient's discomfort. "But he is cute."

"He's tough," Dominique teased. "You need that."

"Of course." The boy clapped his hand on Orient's shoulder. "I'm sure Mike knows how to handle us."

When Robin's fingers touched him, the compressed anger in his nerves ignited, searing his brain with intense implosions of agony. Fury flared through his muscles and he lashed his clenched fist against the boy's mouth.

As Robin fell stunned to the floor, the other customers around the bar jumped back from the scuffle. Orient smiled as he glimpsed the blank fear on their faces. The violence had released some of the pain and his body pulsed with power. All time and movement floated on the surge of energy pouring through his consciousness.

"What are you, freaked out or something?" Dominique was yelling. "Not here you fool. You've hurt Robin."

"Keep your hands off me, gay lord," Orient warned as he stood up. "I don't like you." He grabbed Dominique's thin wrist. "You're coming with me."

She pulled back. "Let go. You hurt him." The pain nudged his temple as he yanked her off the stool.

"Wait," she pleaded. "I want to see if Robin's all right."

Orient saw the bartender coming around the bar with a piece of pipe in his hand and let go of her wrist. The bartender came slowly. He crouched down and cut him off from the door with a few professional moves of his burly body.

Blinding pain stabbed through Orient's temple, but a deeper, stronger instinct for violence riveted his attention on the hunched, flat-footed figure approaching him.

"All right, buddy," the bartender growled. "Outside. 1 don't want trouble with you freaks."

All the rage and pain in Orient's senses compressed into a soundless, floating calm. "Take it easy," he said softly. "I just don't like those guys touching me."

"Then go somewhere else." The bartender straightened his body slightly and the arm holding the pipe relaxed.

Orient took a step toward the door. As he passed the bartender, the tension in his body suddenly burst. His knee came up and his foot snapped out against the bartender's groin. The man howled and went down, clutching his testicles with both hands.

Another flash of energy tingled across the base of Orient's brain and his muscles trembled with a hunger for complete release. He took a short step and deliberately kicked the kneeling bartender in the face. Something crunched under his foot and when the man rolled over Orient saw the blood gushing out of his smashed nose. The energy swelled through his chest and rumbled through his throat, becoming a primitive growl of triumph.

He spun around, positioning his body to defend against anyone else who wanted to challenge him. But the others were all cringing back against the wall. Someone was dialing a telephone.

Dominique was on the floor, kneeling awkwardly next to Robin. The boy was sitting up, watching Orient with a dazed, wide-eyed stare. The bright red smear of blood around his mouth looked like lipstick on a circus clown.

Orient felt a compelling urge to hit him again, but he dimly understood that the police would arrive soon. He backed slowly out of the bar and when he reached the street he began to run.

He ran quickly for two blocks then slowed down to a steady, loping jog. He kept that grueling pace until the pounding exhaustion in his brain and lungs forced him to stop. He ducked into an alley and leaned against the brick wall.

He lifted his head to gulp some air and saw a full, golden moon drifting over the tops of the darkened buildings and the savage exultation of combat collapsed in a whirlpool of despair. His stomach heaved and a wave of bitter nausea broke over his tongue.

As he crouched in the shadows, spilling his bile on the concrete, the pounding in his skull boomed like rolling thunder, shattering all emotion.

 

 

CHAPTER 9

 

 

When he was able to breathe normally again, Orient. pushed himself to his feet and leaned against the wall, trying to clear the congestion of fear and sickness in his belly.

A large section of his brain, just above his eyes, throbbed like a bruised muscle. He inhaled and tried to think past the aching confusion. He focused and lifted his will against the stubborn weight crushing his concentration. He staggered out to the street and started walking. The movement seemed to loosen the numbing grip of pain around his mind.

He walked for blocks, his thoughts forming very slowly. He was sick. He had to get help. An image of the bartender's bloody face ballooned in front of him. The sharp acid of remorse welled up in his throat and he had to stop.

He saw a phone booth in front of him on the corner. It seemed far away. He stood swaying, breathing heavily as he fumbled through his pockets for a coin. He had to call Sordi and tell him to bring a sedative. He stumbled to the phone, trying to remember the number.

The first number he dialed didn't answer. Orient called information and found that he'd switched the last two digits. He called the correct number. Still no answer.

He called information again and got Sybelle's number. But when he dialed, no one answered.

Orient stood in the booth holding the phone, reluctant to hang up and leave the security of the plastic enclosure.

He needed help. There had to be someone he could reach. A dim memory tried to push past his straining thoughts. The healer he'd met in Sweden. Professor Hazer would know how to help him. The old man lived in Brooklyn. He hurriedly dialed information for Hazels number.

This time someone answered. "Professor Hazer?" Orient's voice sounded deep and thick as if his mouth was stuffed full of cotton. This is Owen Orient. From the SEE meeting last month."

"Yes, yes, of course. How are you?"

"Not so good. Can I come see you?"

"Certainly. What's the trouble? Are you ill?"

"Yes," he managed as a spasm of pain cleaved through the center of his brain. He squeezed the phone against his ear while Hazer gave him the address and subway instructions, trying to remember the directions through the agony.

After he left the booth he walked for blocks before he found a subway entrance. There was a cab standing empty nearby. The driver was leaning against the fender, reading a newspaper by the light of the streetlamp. When he saw Orient approaching he quickly folded his newspaper, got into the cab and pulled away, tires screeching.

As Orient walked slowly down the stairs to the train, he was only faintly aware of what he was doing. He was moving by instinct alone. All awareness had become an extension of the torment in his senses: a series of liquid images prodded into grotesque shapes by the unrelenting pain.

"Say friend...." An unshaven old man with rumpled clothing took a step toward him. Then his rheumy eyes went wide when he saw Orient's face. "... forget it," he finished, his voice cracking as he backed away.

Orient continued toward the tollbooth, but before he reached the platform he saw a disheveled, familiar figure coming toward him and stopped.

It was a few moments before he realized he was staring at his own reflection in a store-window mirror. His hair was a ragged tangle in front of his eyes and his lips were twisted away from his teeth. His face seemed to be swollen, distorting his features so they looked hard and brutal. White flecks of spittle drooled out of the corner of his mouth and his sweater was stained with vomit.

He heard the train coming and turned away from the window. He found the tollbooth closed. Without hesitating he vaulted the turnstile, landing on his toes like a cat, somewhat surprised at the powerful agility of his reflexes.

The three occupants of the subway car looked uncomfortable when Orient entered so he sat as far away from them as possible, closed his eyes, and tried to smother the jangling hurt in his body.

The vibrations of the subway train eased the tension in his chest and groin and he felt the knot around his mind relent. As the throbbing in his temple diminished, his mind and senses began to function.

A bouquet of spicy odors filled his nostrils.

He opened his eyes.

It seemed as if each of the passengers in the car had a unique aroma that he was able to distinguish.

The black woman in the flowered hat smelled of strong soap, lavender, mothballs, and sweet wine.

The round young man with blotchy pink skin smelled of beer, sweat, and hair tonic.

The other man in the car gave off the unmistakable scent of cigar smoke and whiskey.

Orient found it difficult to make out visual details; his eyes were still aching from the pressure that was pushing them from their sockets, but the odors gave him a distinct perception of the people at the other end of the car. Perhaps more complete than just sight. A yawning hunger opened in the bottom of his stomach.

The odors in the car became more acute; the sweet -artificial scent of a blob of gum on the floor, crumbs from a salami sandwich And each smell fanned the raw appetite spreading across his senses.

The train groaned to a stop and he lurched to the door.

It was the Fourth Street Station. Hazer had told him to change there. Still mumbling Hazer's directions, Orient located the stairway to the lower level and descended quickly, trying to ignore the hundreds of tantalizing scents that goaded at his smoldering hunger.

He came to a platform that was smaller, older, and dirtier than the one above. It was also empty. He saw a candy machine and looked for a coin. He felt famished, as if he'd burned up every last ebb of energy in his body. Every cell inside him was parched.

He tried every lever until one worked. He tore the wrapper off the candy bar that dropped into the slot and stuffed it into his mouth. But the artificial consistency of the candy congealed into a cold, toxic jelly on his tongue and he spat it out, A ripe aroma warmed the inside of his nostrils. Instinctively he stood still, not even moving his head as he located the source of the scent. Then he turned slightly. It was coming from somewhere in the shadows, near the stairs.

Orient crouched, picked up the remains of the candy bar, and threw it toward the source of the odor. His underhanded toss landed on the narrow extension platform next to the stairs.

Then he waited, his body motionless and his concentration centered on the hot aroma in the shadows.

After a few minutes had passed, he took a step forward and paused. He took another cautious step, his movements directed by a single instinct: his will to feed.

His feet didn't make a sound on the deserted platform as he came nearer. When he reached the stairs, he climbed the first step and stopped.

It was directly below him. He saw it warily approaching the chewed candy bar he'd thrown. A plump brown ball of hair and flesh. Its raw scent promised new strength to replenish the dried vitality in his cells and soothe the raging appetite in his belly. He waited until the rat had begun to feed on the candy before leaning on the stair rail and springing effortlessly to the narrow platform below. He landed in a crouch over the rat. As the animal tried to scurry away his hand flicked out with the speed of a striking snake and scooped it up. His fingers squeezed around the furry throat to prevent the rat's long, sharp teeth from biting. His mouth filled with saliva as its maddeningly hot smell saturated his senses. He cradled the rat in both hands and brought it close to his face.

He saw the animal's fear-brightened eyes and shiny white teeth. Then he saw something that stunned his reflexes.

It was a strip of hair on the side of his thumbs. He opened his free hand, the other still gripping the rat's neck.

The puckered, wrinkled skin on his palms was covered with fine black hair. Memory snapped like a whip through his awareness.

Hair-covered palms. The sign of the beast. The full moon. Another memory lashed out against the ravenous hunger. If he tasted flesh, he wouldn't be able to stop.

His memory balanced on the crest of a swelling wave of pain that threatened to spill across his consciousness. He knew that the only way he could dam the approaching agony was to consume the squirming flesh in his hands.

He lifted his arms over his head and hurled the rat to -the tracks below. The roar of the arriving train covered his howl of anguish as the torment broke across his mutilated nerves.

When he staggered through the doors of the train his jaw was set in a grin of sheer effort as he struggled to.stifle the screams in his throat. The few passengers in the car left quickly as he fell into a seat, wrapped his arms around his stomach, and pressed his head against his knees. As new pains convulsed his muscles he groaned and repeated Hazer's address through his clenched teeth. He droned the words and numbers over and over again like some frantic, garbled prayer. There was no comprehension in his delirium except his need for help. He began to tremble as another shard of pain skewered his will with the certainty that he could resist the agony no longer.

He left the train at the next stop and walked blindly through corridors trying to find an exit. He found a stairway that led to fresh air and he took the steps two at a time.

When he reached the street the wind brought a faint but familiar spoor to his nostrils: a hot, sweet scent that stood out vividly against the gasoline-tinted air. The intense pain dulled as his appetite for flesh awoke and took complete control of his instincts.

He started to walk and then broke into a loping run, padding toward the smell like an animal stalking his prey. Other odors drifted near his senses, but the musty prominence of the scent drew him past, leading him to the object of his clawing hunger. He trotted for blocks, all memory of Hazer's instructions blotted out by the compelling aroma in the darkness ahead of him.

The scent grew stronger when he reached a tree-lined street; floating warm through the cool mint of the foliage. He slowed down to a walk as he tried to pinpoint the exact source of the smell. He moved fluidly, his hungry muscles responding instantly to the dominance of the scent.

He walked past a house, stopped, and then came back. The smell was coming from inside the door of the house. He was standing in front of a four-story brick building that adjoined two other houses of the same simple bow design. There was a light coming from a window on the -top floor.

When Orient saw the name on the top bell a brief elation lanced his mindless raving. Professor Daniel Hazer. But as he repeated the name he felt the pain stirring again.

He tugged at his will. If he could hold on, Hazer would be able to help him. He ground his teeth together and pushed open the door as a tide of anguish loomed in his brain.

By the time he neared the top landing he was straining to contain the swelling torment. He saw a door marked D. Hazer and tried the knob. It was locked. Feverish with frustration and enraged by the nearness of the scent, he shoved against the door. It gave away and he stumbled inside.

The bright overhead light made it hard for him to focus his eyes. All he could make out were blurry, unfamiliar shapes. But his nostrils were clogged by the warm, musty scent around him.

He took a few steps forward and the aroma became overpowering. Unable to resist, he bent his body close to the source of the smell and he made out a crumpled shape in front of him on the floor. As he grasped what it was, spasm after spasm of pain rippled through his consciousness. He cried out only once before the blurs became a blackness that shut out all sensation.

 

A high wail pierced the silence,

Orient's eyelids fluttered open. He was lying facedown on the floor. He blinked and tried to focus. His temples were hammering, their heavy pulses battering his brain like measured drumbeats.

There was something he had to remember, but the rising whine punctuated by the booming inside his skull drowned out his thoughts.

Then his vision cleared and the memory was a reality in front of him.

Half of Hazer's face had been gouged away, exposing part of his cheekbone. The old man's throat had been ripped apart like a paper bag, spilling blood and tissue across his chest.

Orient had difficulty getting to his feet as a series of convulsions in his stomach squeezed bitter fluid into his mouth. He inhaled and groped for his concentration. The bruised cells in his mind responded sluggishly and thought began to form.

Hazer was dead. Torn apart like Neilson.

He looked around the small room. It was a shambles.

Every closet, cabinet, and shelf had been ransacked and their contents strewn on the floor.

Then he realized that the piercing whine in the room was the electronic wail of a siren, and he knew that he had to get away from there.

As he turned to leave, he saw something on the floor. It was a smear of reddish brown powder on the carpet.

The high-pitched sound of the siren began to decline. He went to the door, stopping to wipe his fingerprints from the knob as he glanced wildly around the darkened hallway for an escape route. The siren growled lower and was silent.

Orient saw a ladder against the wall that led to a trap door in the ceiling and decided to try it. He climbed up, pulled back the bolt locking the door, and pushed it open.

As he crouched on the roof, lowering the door shut, he heard the sound of voices at the bottom of the stairs.

He closed the trap door and walked quickly across the rooftops until he came to the edge of the last house.

There was a short gap and a drop of perhaps six feet between him and the next roof. His reflexes squashed all hesitation. He leaped out and landed lightly on his hands and feet on the edge of the far roof.

Even though his senses were charred and his mind was gutted of all emotion, some instinct in his body, some desperate chemistry of survival, kept the vital fluids flowing through his muscles.

Far away he could see the blazing towers of the city, rising like luminous spikes from some glass-skinned cactus at the edge of the silver-streaked water. Overhead the sky was clear, and a white, swollen moon lit his swift passage across the rooftops to the other side of the block.

He found an open doorway and went down a long, dark stairway. He didn't run when he reached the street, but crossed over and made himself walk slowly to the corner. There he crossed the street and turned the next corner before picking up his pace slightly. He didn't slow down until he saw the glowing blue globes of a subway entrance up ahead.

He took the first train that came and spent the next few hours wandering from wrong stop to wrong station, lost in the bottomless mechanical caverns beneath the city. When he reached the street again he saw that dawn was streaking the sky pink and the moon had fled.

 

 

CHAPTER 10

 

 

He was awakened by a burst of static and a series of electronic barks. He rolled over, opened his eyes, then quickly squeezed them shut as memory flared in his mind.

"Doctor?" Sordi's voice squawked through the intercom. "Sybelle is on the phone."

Eyes still closed, Orient stretched out his arm and pushed the speak button on the wall. "I'll call her back."

"She says it's important."

"Can't talk to anyone right now."

"Are you all right?"

"Yes. I'll call her later." He pulled the disconnect switch and slumped head-down on the bed, limp from the effort of moving his body. Every part of him, from his fingertips to his toes, felt as if they had been individually and methodically punished. A swarm of images overran his tired brain. Flashes of crowded bars, empty-streets, endless tunnels, Hazer's mutilated body, and the relentless pain all clamored around his desire to sleep like an unruly mob.

He opened his eyes and sat up. He was still wearing his clothes. He had only a vague recollection of how he had made it back to his bedroom from Hazer's apartment.

His thoughts moved gingerly through his throbbing brain. He knew what Sybelle wanted to tell him. But he didn't know what he could say to her. He got to his feet arid shuffled wearily to the bathroom, feeling old and damaged.

The clothes he was wearing were stained with whiskey and vomit, but a long, hot shower washed away the dirt and stink clinging to his body. When he was finished he turned off the hot nozzle and let the stinging cold spray clear the fuzziness in his senses.

Then he went into the bedroom and began going through the physical-meditation exercises. He ignored the discomfort, pushing his concentration and repeating the movements until the tension locking his muscles released. He felt his neck and spine respond and become supple. He inhaled through his nose and began a rhythmic breathing pattern, trying to rebuild the shattered surface of his awareness. As his senses reconnected, the rhythms of his breathing pattern set off harmonies in his mind. The music drew the momentum of his concentration to a dark, cool place and his thoughts gratefully dove into a pool of soothing liquid.

His consciousness remained beneath the healing waters for a long time while his body drank the energy vibrating from the liquid.

The first thing he felt when he returned to normal awareness was a clean, sharp pang of hunger.

He dressed and went downstairs, his body refreshed, but his thoughts still balanced between confusion and depression. When he reached the next landing he smelled fresh coffee and followed its cheering scent to the studio. A tray containing a pot of coffee, orange juice, buttered toast, jam, yogurt, and honey was on his worktable. His balance toppled into depression as he recalled his unreasoning rage at Sordi the night before. But then raw hunger pushed remorse aside and he began to eat.

He was having a second cup of coffee when Sordi came into the studio.

"Everything all right? Need anything else?" he asked cautiously.

Orient set down his cup and stood up. "1 want to apologize for last night," he murmured.

Sordi picked up the pot and poured some coffee into an empty cup on the tray. "You've been on edge lately."

For a moment, Orient considered telling him what had happened but a leaden certainty stopped him. He didn't understand himself what had taken place to alter his personality. "Still doesn't excuse anything," he said instead. "It won't happen again."

Sordi smiled. "Don't worry about it. What you need is a vacation. You've taken care of your money problems. Relax for a while."

Orient nodded. "You're right. I have been on edge lately."

As he spoke, he remembered the lust for flesh that had dominated his instincts the night before.

"Sure I'm right. Try a few weeks in the Caribbean, maybe even Mexico."

"Not right away," he sighed. "There's still some things to clear up."

"Sybelle sounded excited when she called."

Something arranged itself in Orient's memory and he understood what he had to do. "Would you call her back and ask her to come over here? Tell her it's vital."

As Orient waited for Sybelle to arrive, he went to the library and began looking through his occult manuscripts, psychiatric journals, and microfilmed textbooks. All the information he found led to the same numbing conclusion.

His violent symptoms of the night before were those of a Lycanthropic Schizophrenic The appearance of hair on his palms, the headaches, the influence of the full moon, his raging desire to kill—it was all there.

He began to tremble as his memory dredged up the twisted images of violence, and the breakfast he'd just eaten turned to acid in his body. He'd hurt and tried to loll like an uncontrolled beast. And it was possible that he had attacked Hazer in his madness. He took a deep breath and tried to keep his emotions from crashing through his sanity.

"Owen? Have you heard? It's simply dreadful."

He looked up from the manuscript on his desk and saw Sybelle advancing on him, a rolled newspaper held out in front of her like a lance. "Just like poor Mr. Neilson. It's just awful" When she reached the desk she plopped the paper down. "Daniel is dead," she said in a small, wavering voice. "It's on page three." He opened the newspaper and found the headline.

 

"PHOTO HEALER"
FOUND MURDERED

 

Professor Daniel Hazer, 77, famed around the world for his ability to heal sickness by examining photographs of patients, was found brutally murdered in Brooklyn home today.

Police acting on a phone tip found the body, which had been mutilated. Police spokesmen said they had not ruled out the possibility that Hazer was the victim of a Black Magic rite.

Professor Hazer was able to take ordinary snapshots and make accurate, often startling findings. His, cures were lauded by many noted physicians but were never recognized by the American Medical Association.

He first received international acclaim in 1927 for his successful cure of child movie star Midge La Rosa, who had suffered a sudden attack of paralysis.

 

"We've simply got to do something," Sybelle was saying.

Orient wondered if he could tell her what really happened.

"Don't you see? It's just like Neilson."

He got up and pulled over a chair for her. "What do you think we can do?"

She flashed him a grateful smile and sat down. "Well, it's obvious isn't it? We should go to the police and tell them about poor Mr. Neilson in Sweden. I knew they were wrong about Hannah. Now this proves it."

Orient folded his arms. He had to tell her. She was the only person who could understand what was happening to him. For a split second he thought of Lily, but he pushed the memory aside. He needed help right now. "There're a few things you should know," he said softly, "before you go to the police."

He told her everything he could remember about the night before—losing his temper at Sordi, drinking, meeting Dominique, his violent attack on Robin and the bartender, the pain, the overwhelming hunger that led him to Hazer's home-—as if by explaining it to Sybelle very carefully he could finally put the nightmare fragments into a sequence he himself could comprehend. But at the end of his account there were still too many entries missing. "So you see," he concluded shaking his head, "I don't know if I killed Daniel or if he was dead when I got there."

Sybelle was staring at him wide-eyed, her cupid lips forming a small o.

She closed her mouth then opened it again.

"Owen... I can't tell you... I'm... I don't know what to say... I can't believe..."

"I know, but it's true," he said calmly. "What to do about it is another problem. I don't think going to the police will do any good."

"Police? I should say not. What can a detective do about a were—? Oh, it's all so dreadful. What can we do, darling? I'll do anything possible to help."

"Thanks. But it maybe too late for help."

"Owen Orient what do you mean?" she scolded. "We must remain positive and have faith."

Orient looked at her. "In the papers the police found in Hannah's room, Carl Bestman claimed that if a Lycanthropic ate raw flesh the disease became incurable. And I may have lost control and attacked Daniel." He sat down behind the desk and stretched out his legs. As he waited for her to speak, he stared at his upturned palms. He remembered the fine glove of hair covering the cracked skin. His hairy fingers.

Something jogged against the brooding memory. "But you couldn't hurt anyone," Sybelle insisted.

He shook his head. "The pain and hunger are too intense to resist. There's just one small thing that gives me hope that I'm not incurable yet."

"Well, what is it, darling?"

"Last night I saw some talcum powder on Hazer's rug. It had a very strong odor. And I remembered that there were powder traces like that in Neilson's car and on Hannah's shawl the night she was killed."

"But didn't the police analyze some talcum powder?"

He nodded. "They said it was the same as some powder they found in Hannah's room."

"But Hannah's dead. How could her powder be on Daniel's carpet? I think you've found something very significant. You've got to stop blaming yourself. After all, you certainly didn't kill Nels."

Orient shrugged. His thoughts struggled to emerge from a bog of despair in his brain. He bit his lip and tried to remember some detail he might have overlooked, something that would give him hope.

Suddenly, he saw it. On the wrinkled palm of his hand.

"Gloves," he grunted.

Sybelle raised her eyebrows. "I beg your pardon?"

"The night Hannah was killed I was attacked by someone wearing gloves. But it wasn't gloves. It was hair. The disease caused hair to grow on my palms last night. But when I saw Hannah's hands they were smooth."

"Someone else attacked you," she exclaimed triumphantly. "I knew you couldn't have killed Daniel just -like I knew Hannah was innocent. The real werewolf killed Nels, attacked you, and killed Daniel."

"Not the real werewolf," Orient reminded her, "the other werewolf."

There was a long pause before she spoke again and when she did her voice was subdued. "Owen, I'm sure Anthony Bestman has something to do with these murders."

"Perhaps. I don't know," he said wearily.

"Well I do!" Sybelle snapped with an air of sudden decision. "The very first thing we should do is talk to Anthony and find out what he blows about all this."

Orient watched her as she dialed the telephone. He tried to rally his will against the sucking hopelessness that was draining his energy, but one thing weighed down his efforts—the reality that he was infected with the disease of the beast.

"Oh good. Thank you very much," Sybelle was saying. She put the receiver down and smiled. "Mission accomplished. He's staying at the Delmonico. His secretary said he had a business meeting." She lowered her voice as if the fact had great significance. "He's been there all weekend."

Orient didn't answer.

"Well," she said impatiently, "are you ready?"

He looked up. "Ready for what?"

"To go see Anthony Bestman, of course." She pulled her fur coat over her shoulders. "Have you got a better idea?"

Orient didn't, and as he maneuvered the Rolls through v the traffic he brooded about his inability to muster some kind of resistance to the sickness secreted in his cells.

"Don't worry, darling," Sybelle murmured. "I'm determined to help you get to the bottom of this."

"I guess we should decide what we're going to say to him." He tried to sound hopeful. "It'll go smoother if we're prepared."

"If I know Anthony," she mused, "the only way to deal with him is to call his bluff. Suppose we tell him we're going to the police?"

"Could work," he said. But as he drove down the wide stretch of Park Avenue the chrome-and-glass buildings yawned over him like the smooth sides of an exitless pit.

He let Sybelle out in front of the hotel then drove around the block until he found a parking space. He walked back to the hotel slowly, letting the chill breeze revive his sluggish awareness. When he came to the entrance, he stopped and took a deep breath before going through the revolving door.

As he entered, he saw Sybelle standing next to the elevator, talking excitedly to three men. When he saw who they were he froze and his thoughts started whirling in disorder. People and objects were suddenly suspended in position, giving the narrow lobby the elongated perspectives of a dream.

Anthony Bestman was glowering at Sybelle, stabbing the space between them with short, vicious jabs of his cigar while Count Germaine and Maxwell Andersen looked on.

 

 

CHAPTER 11

 

 

"Over here Owen," Sybelle called out across the lobby.

Orient moved awkwardly to join her, the spinning confusion making it impossible to focus his thoughts.

"You too, Orient," Anthony Bestman snarled when he reached the elevator. "Don't you think you've gotten away with a thing. I'm not finished with you yet, either. You drew fifty thousand dollars from my brother's estate under false pretenses."

"Dr. Orient cashed the check he received from SEE in good faith." Count Germaine's melodious voice was calm, but his triangular face was lined with barely repressed anger. "You can sue to break Carl's will if you wish; however, there's nothing you can do against any of us."

Bestman jammed his cigar between his teeth and picked up the suitcase at his side. "I'll see you in court Germaine and I promise you SEE won't get another cent of my brother's money."

"Perhaps." Germaine smiled slightly and bowed. "Thank you very much for your invitation. I found our little talk most enlightening."

"You must come to London to see my home," Maxwell added, his mouth curved in a mocking pout. "The chess set Carl left me looks smashing in my study. They tell me it's worth thousands."

Bestman's eyes narrowed. As he turned to leave, he hesitated and looked at Sybelle. "And I don't want you hounding me any longer, you blasted busybody. If you want to go to the police, then go to them and be damned." He pushed past her and headed for the door, moving quickly for a man of his bulk.

"Well, she sniffed, looking uncertainly at Germaine, "the nerve of that man."

The tall count smiled. "He's quite stubborn. Vicious, really."

"He's a stuffed fool," Maxwell said, yawning. He looked at Orient and his lips curled unpleasantly under his reflecting sunglasses. "And how are you, doctor?"

Orient was too preoccupied to notice the jibe. He stared at the boy's pudgy face, trying to sort out his scattered thoughts. "I'm fine, Maxwell," he murmured. "What are you doing in New York? I thought you were all in London, running an experiment."

Germaine glanced at Maxwell and then fixed his eyes on Orient's face. The sharp angle of his eyebrows gave his steely eyes a penetrating case. "Anthony got in touch with me in London," he explained smoothly. "While Lily, Maxwell, and I were preparing the experiment. Bestman insisted it was crucial But when we arrived, we found that Anthony was trying to blackmail us. He claimed he could have Carl's will judged worthless by reason of insanity. He wanted us to take a cash settlement." He inclined his head toward MaxwelL "But my young friend here offered some choice suggestions as to the best way of disposing of Anthony's offer.

"Why didn't you call me?" Sybelle protested. "How could you come to New York and not let me know? But now that you're here you can help us investigate poor Daniel's death."

Germaine shook his head slowly. "I'm sorry. We only have a few hours. It's imperative that we return to London tonight. I really don't know how we can do anything concerning Daniel's death. We'll have to let the police handle it until our work in London is finished."

As he spoke, Orient felt a flood of disappointment wash over his confusion. Lily could have taken the opportunity to come see him while Germaine and Maxwell were occupied with Bestman. Then he remembered something else.

"Surely, you didn't leave Lily alone during the lunar phase," he said.

Again Germaine glanced at Maxwell. "She's quite all right," he said curtly.

‘Can't you spend a few hours?" Sybelle pleaded. "I'm sure we can clear Hannah's name."

"Sorry old dear," Maxwell grunted. "Plane leaves in a couple of hours."

"I'll take you to the airport," Orient offered. He needed more time with them. Perhaps they knew some small detail that could untangle the jumble of questions knotting his brain.

But as the long car glided swiftly along the parkway it was Sybelle who did most of the talking. She chattered nervously, jumping from topic to topic in a vain attempt to stimulate conversation.

Germaine and Maxwell sat impassively in the back seat, answering her remarks in monosyllables; Orient kept silent as he drove, his depression becoming deeper as they neared the airport and he realized that the two men couldn't or wouldn't communicate anything that could help him.

"Don't you see that if the police were wrong about Hannah that means the real killer is still loose," Sybelle was saying. "We should all try to do something."

"You must remember there's also a very good chance that the two murders were quite unrelated," Germaine reminded. "But I promise you that I'll look into it next month, when our work has been completed."

"Tell you what Sybelle," Maxwell offered. "We'll bottle the formula Carl left us and corner the werewolf patent-medicine market."

His comment snapped across Orient's gloom. "You have a good memory, Maxwell," he said casually. "Do you remember the exact ingredients in the rhyme?"

"Thinking of starting a business?"

"I can remember part of it," Orient continued, ignoring the dig. "Something like... to soothe the poor soul who bears the mark of the beast... take the mold of wheat and yeast... add the beautiful bitch...."

"Add mandrake, wolfbane and poppy pitch," Maxwell corrected. "And an equal part of the beautiful bitch, Indian rope to complete the feast. Remember ten measures of that which the beast loves best, from one who loves him more than all the rest," he concluded in a bored voice. "It does have a certain romantic flavor, but of course it's completely ridiculous."

"Ever try to figure out what it means?"

"Of course not. What nonsense," Maxwell scoffed. "Why on earth should I waste my time?"

Orient looked up and caught Sybelle staring at him, an expression of pity and surprise on her face. "Oh, do give me your number in London, Maxwell," she said quickly. "I want to know where to reach you. Poor Daniel's murder has made me a nervous wreck.

"I can understand," Germaine said. "It was a great shock to us when we read the newspapers. I had known Daniel for twenty years."

Orient saw the approaching overpass and decided to be more blunt. "Were you and Bestman talking business all night?"

"We arrived in New York yesterday at six," Germaine said evenly, as if he was prepared for the question. "We were in conference with Anthony until nine. He lost his temper at the end of dinner and we didn't see him until this morning."

"Left us with the check," Maxwell put in.

"He called us in the morning and tried to discuss the matter of Carl's estate again, but it was no use."

"There you see!" Sybelle cried. "That means Anthony could have killed Daniel and come back to the hotel without anyone knowing."

"Quite difficult to prove," Germaine observed gravely.

Orient didn't say anything, but he couldn't shake the nagging doubts. He could sense a vibration of agreement between Maxwell and Germaine, as if they had rehearsed what they would say if questioned.

The drive back from the airport was long, slow, and choked with traffic. Both Orient and Sybelle stared silently through the windshield, lost in their private thoughts.

Orient's doubts and confusion merged to form a roaring waterfall that crashed against his reason. All he could understand was that Germaine and Maxwell were in New York when Hazer was killed. They had just as much opportunity. He wondered why Lily hadn't come to see rum. He tried to reassure himself with the reminder that she was probably too sensitive to travel during the moon phase. It occurred to him again that Germaine was conducting an occult rite as part of his experiment. But then the confusion crumbled the fragile calculations of his mind.

He knew that none of it made any difference.

In four weeks, the agony would come again and he wouldn't be able to resist the tantalizing lust for raw flesh.

Hours later, when he fell asleep, the confusion and despair continued to pursue him... in his dreams he was still lost... running mindlessly through the shadows... his heaving lungs stuffed with a nameless, unseen dread of the relentless footsteps behind him....

 

 

CHAPTER 12

 

 

Sordi was a worried man.

He was certain Dr. Orient was sick. Ever since he'd come back from Sweden he'd been increasingly nervous, uncommunicative, and depressed. His weight, never excessive, had dropped alarmingly and he moved around the house like a skeletal, melancholy ghost.

He sighed and continued sorting the blood samples Orient had given him to prepare. The doctor should take a vacation, at least get out more with friends. The only person he saw lately was Sybelle. The two of them stayed locked in the studio for hours at a time, working on their experiment.

Even Sybelle had changed. He'd always known her to be gregarious, even exuberant, but in the past weeks her manner had become distant. Perhaps she'd come down with the same sickness as the doctor. He shook his head. And neither of them would drop a hint about what they were up to in the studio. Both of them were as evasive as spies, as if they shared a guilty secret of some kind.

He sighed again and put the slides under the lens of the microscope. It made him sad to think that they wouldn't take him into their confidence. He wondered if it had anything to do with the murders Sybelle had told him about. He shivered and hoped the doctor wasn't mixed up in something dangerous.

When he'd finished preparing the samples, he put everything away and pushed the speak button on the intercom. "Doctor?"

"Yes?" Orient's voice sounded hollow through the small speaker.

"Samples are ready."

"Good. Bring what you have to the studio."

Sordi picked up the Plexiglas tray containing the slides of blood samples and headed for the stairs, still brooding. The doctor hadn't even told him why he wanted the samples prepared. It was almost insulting. For a second, he considered handing in his resignation, but he quickly brushed the impulse aside. If the doctor wanted it this way there must be a good reason for it, he decided. He'd stick it out for a while longer and see. And then, if it became necessary to quit, he'd ask the doctor point-blank what the hell was going on.

When he entered the studio, he saw Sybelle and Orient huddling over a pile of papers on the desk. "Uh, here are the slides," he said softly. He placed the tray on a shelf. "Anybody want anything? Coffee?"

Sybelle smiled. "Why thank you, that's a lovely idea."

Orient looked up and Sordi saw that his dark skin was stretched tight over his high cheekbones and deep lines pulled at the corners of his mouth. Even his voice sounded flat and haggard. "Thank's Sordi. I guess I could use a snack, if you're up to it."

"Sure. Of course." He wanted to say more, but they had already turned their attention back to the papers in front of them.

As he went back to the kitchen, Sordi regretted his impulse to resign. The doctor had looked very sick. Now was the time to stand by him in case he needed help.

Sybelle felt a sudden rush of sympathy as she watched Sordi leave the studio. "I really think you should tell him something, darling," she scolded. "It's not fair to go on avoiding him like this."

Orient remained intent on the scroll he was examining. "It's not fair, but there's nothing we can do right now. It's senseless to involve Sordi. Perhaps even dangerous. I'm not sure I did the right thing involving you in all this."

"How could you even think such a thing? Fm the one who got yon involved remember?" Her annoyance melted when she looked at him. He seemed completely worn out. The green eyes she'd always thought of as magnificent were muddy and had receded deeper into their dark sockets. His skin seemed jaundiced and even the white streak in his hair had yellowed.

"Well if you don't want to tell Sordi anything it's your business," she relented. "Let's look at the slides. Maybe they'll tell us something." She tried to sound cheerful, but she knew she was becoming discouraged. They still hadn't found a single clue to the nature of the disease.

Orient went to the wall and pulled down a screen. Then he turned on a projector and inserted the tray of slides. She walked over and stood at his side while he focused the image on the screen, and lowered the lights.

The color-swirled rectangles looked like six separate stained-glass windows of abstract design. The four top rectangles were variations of one basic structure; bubbles of white and red cells grouped around a free-form mass that resembled a dark green jellyfish. The two slides at the bottom, however, were completely different.

There the bubbles were flattened like footballs and sharply divided. The red cells were assembled on one side of a thick green line. The white cells were grouped on the other side of the line and tiny yellow dots filled the spaces between them.

"That seems to confirm it," Orient said.

"What does it mean?"

"Something's happened to change the structure of my blood cells. The top four rectangles are samples of my blood taken a few months ago. The other two I took yesterday. The yellow dots in the current slides look like spoors that usually indicate cancer. But it's impossible to tell without extensive testing."

She peered through the dim light, but the expression on his face was obscured by the shadows. "Owen I don't understand," she whispered.'

"That makes two of us. But the blood samples confirm the fact that I've been infected with some disease that's altered my metabolism."

Neither of them spoke for a few moments while they stared at the colorful arabesques on the screen.

Orient finally switched the projector off and turned up the lights. "It seems that everything, including the research, has taken us to a dead end. The symptoms of Lycanthropy have been documented as far back as Ancient Egypt, right up through the science of psychiatry, but there's no data on any cure for the disease. Maybe the best thing I could do is check into a hospital."

"We still haven't deciphered Carl's formula," she reminded him emphatically. "Surely, it must be valid or he wouldn't have included it in his thesis."

"I have been going over it," he admitted reluctantly. "I think I've got most of it worked out."

"Good thing dear Maxwell has a photographic memory. I couldn't begin to remember how it went."

He paused and looked up. "I've been thinking a lot about Maxwell. And Count Germaine."

She wavered under his steady gaze. "Well, what about them?"

"The fact that they were in New York with Anthony the night Hazer was killed seems like a curious coincidence," he said calmly.

"But, darling—what you're suggesting is fantastic. Surely, you don't think Maxwell and the count are involved? I think what we should be thinking about is investigating Anthony. If anybody is a werewolf, it's him.''

Orient shrugged. "Maybe you're right. But there's no time to investigate anybody. There's less than two weeks left before the next moon phase. And I'm nowhere near a cure."

Sordi's entrance with a tray of food interrupted her reply. As they ate, however, she kept thinking about what Owen had said. It was silly. She'd known Count Germaine for ten years at least.... His character and reputation were beyond reproach. Maxwell the same.

Still one could never really know. Who would have believed that Mr. Neilson and Daniel would be murdered? She shuddered. If only Owen were well enough to check up on Anthony. Another possibility made her appetite queasy. What if Owen's suspicions weren't those of a logical mind? Suppose he was displaying paranoid symptoms from that awful disease? She put the thought out of her mind and reached for the coffeepot.

Sordi quickly got up and poured for her. She beamed up at him. "How sweet. I adore courtesy. So like you gracious Europeans."

He smiled shyly. "Anything else you want?"

"Not a thing," she purred. He was so kind; she really had to remember to give him more of her attention, she told herself. "We've been so busy" she said. "I'm sorry if it seems we're neglecting you."

"That's all right," he murmured. "I'm used to the doctor's upside-down schedules."

"We have been keeping odd hours," Orient said. "Thanks for putting up with us."

"Oh, no trouble, doctor," Sordi mumbled, but it was obvious that he was pleased. "Uh, what is it you're working on anyway?" he asked casually.

Sybelle glanced at Orient and then lowered her eyes.

"Mostly some follow-up experiments."

Sordi waited, but Orient didn't explain further. They were making a big effort to be nice, he decided as he cleared up the dishes, but they weren't telling him anything. He hadn't missed the guilty look Sybelle gave the doctor when he asked what they were doing.

"Let's go over the rhyme Carl left in his notes," Sybelle suggested when Sordi was gone. "I'm certain we can get it all. I wonder why he didn't explain it?"

"There were only three pages found. Maybe the explanation was part of the missing thesis. Anyway, we don't have it." He folded his arms and examined the tips of his loafers. "Even if we can figure it out there's no guarantee that it works."

"Now don't be negative, darling," she chided. "It's the only thing we have to go on. Tell me what you've got so far."

Orient sighed. "Okay. Let's go over it. The first thing mentioned in the formula is the mold of wheat and yeast. That's easy. They're both ergot substances. Then there's mandrake, wolfbane, and poppy pitch. The last probably means raw opium gum. I'll have to order that special through a government warehouse. The next line says to take an equal part of the beautiful bitch. ‘Equal part' is the key proportion. Very important. It means one measure to quarter measure of the mold, herbs, and opium gum."

"But what in heaven's name is the beautiful bitch business all about?"

He smiled. "I'm sure it means Belladonna. Literally translated to beautiful woman. It's one of the earliest psychedelic herbs used by man; especially by sorcerers, priests, and assassins.. The Borgia family boasted all three professions and refined its use. The extract can produce anything from sexual elation and expansion of consciousness to hallucinations, madness, and death. That's why the correct proportions are so important."

"But that's wonderful. You have the ingredients and the proportions. Why don't you order the opium right away?"

"There's still two more lines to the formula."

"Oh yes. The Indian-rope business." Sybelle bit her lip. "Did you manage to figure it out?"

He put his hand in his pocket and took out his silver cigarette case. "That we have right here. Indian hemp. Also used since primitive times, but much more gentle and benign than belladonna. Usually it's used as a mild stimulant or tranquilizer. But with correct use it can move one closer to profound spiritual awareness."

Sybelle screwed up her nose. "I can't stand the smell of the smoke."

"Best thing in this case is to make a liquid extract. Enough to offset any unpleasant side effects from the belladonna." He looked up at her. "But there's still the last line." He shook his head as he repeated the phrase. "Ten measures of that which the beast loves best, fr6m one who loves him more than all the rest." He grunted and returned to studying the tips of his shoes. "Even if I could figure it out," he said softly, "I don't know where to find any."

Sybelle wrestled silently with the last line for a few minutes then gave it up. "I'm just hopeless," she concluded. "I've never been any good at these word games. All I can play are Chinese checkers and poker."

Orient didn't answer, but he noted that she had hit on exactly the word that described his condition. Hopeless.

That night, Orient restlessly paced the floor of his bedroom, trying to dislodge his thoughts from a marsh of desolation. Despite Sybelle's loyalty and help he felt isolated. In a week the moon would be full and his mind would pass through its violent mutation. He would become something other than human. And he would be completely alone.

He stood at the window, looking out across the black, light-streaked river. If only Lily could come to New York. Perhaps she could help him resist the mutation.

But he knew he was clutching like a drowning man. What he really wanted was her physical presence next to him. In the seven weeks they'd been apart her absence had grown inside him like a cactus, prickling his impatience.

He wondered if she, too, was impatient. She hadn't taken advantage of Germaine's trip to try and see him. He took a deep breath and pushed the thought aside. Lily wasn't really able to travel during the full moon. During those periods she herself needed care. It would have been a shambles. Him out of control and Lily terribly frightened. He sat down heavily on the bed and rubbed his sleepless eyes with his knuckles. No, it was a good thing she hadn't come.

But the certainty didn't blunt the sharp need he felt for her. He could remember every detail of her warm, golden body; the comic freckles at the tip of her nose, the joyous explosion when their minds touched while making love. He opened his eyes and regarded the telephone on the night table. It would help ease his depression to just hear her voice.

As he continued to stare at the phone, however, his instincts were held back by doubt. He didn't want to intrude on her privacy. He leaned back and rested his head on the pillow. Best to just forget it. He'd have to wait until her experiment with Germaine was finished.

Loneliness and curiosity kept the image of her shimmering bronze hair and smoky amber eyes alive in his mind. He just wanted to talk to her, tell her he was thinking about her. He wondered what they were working on that demanded so much of her time. Annoyance jabbed at his thoughts as he recalled Germaine's polite conversational fencing with Sybelle. Not only had he refused to help, but he seemed to dismiss Hazer's death as unimportant. And Maxwell seemed to be pushing for a confrontation. His annoyance flared to anger as he remembered the boy's mocking smile. The suspicion that they were conducting an occult experiment in London returned.

The anger spurred his sense of resolution and he sat up, picked up the receiver, and dialed the long-distance operator.

As he waited for the operator to ring back with his call he considered canceling out. But instead he lay back on the bed and continued to wait.

The sound of the phone startled him out of his reverie and he let it ring a few more times, while he collected himself, before picking up the receiver.

"Yes?"

Her voice sent a rush of emotions into his throat and he hesitated. "Lily?" he managed. "It's Owen." "Oh. Where are you?"

"In New York. I wanted to talk to you," he said lamely. Now that she was on the line he couldn't remember what it was he wanted to tell her.

"Are you all right?"

"Sure," he lied. "How's the experiment?"

"Oh it's... we should be finished in a week or so. After the next moon period. I've been getting impatient for it to end. So we can be together. But there's still some things. I've already booked my seat for New York, though."

He tried to sound enthusiastic. "Great. Hope it works out."

"I'll send you a telegram when I'm definitely on my way," she whispered. "I've got to ring off now. Take care of yourself until I get there. I miss you."

"I miss you, too," Orient said but the line was dead.

He put the receiver down very slowly, stretched out on the bed, and closed his eyes.

Sleep refused to come, however, and his thoughts slogged wearily through the darkness. He'd been unable to communicate anything to Lily. He felt farther away from her now, as if their telephone conversation had created a new barrier. There was already the rise of a full moon between them. And he understood that he'd have to cross that tide of despair alone. The knowledge taunted his sleepless thoughts until dawn.

 

Lily had just completed her physical preparations, and was daydreaming along with the radio music while she waited for Maxwell. She was anticipating long, pleasure-filled days with Owen in New York. Everything about him seemed so right. It was the first time in her life she had ever felt so secure about her feelings.

Ever since she'd been a young girl she'd been searching for that security. Not in the sense of permanency, for she'd learned from experience that the only certainty in life is change. But she had to be sure that her emotions weren't being squandered on a trivial attachment.

When she was a little girl she had been spoiled by her parents, but after their death she shunned the material comforts she'd inherited. Instead she'd embarked on. her search. At first it took her through the intrigues of academic honors and an important career as a television journalist. Her title ushered her easily into the places where money and power called the tune and no one was tone-deaf.

What she heard didn't satisfy her, however, and her restlessness took her to the flash and flattery of in clubs, fashionable drugs, sexual exploration, and pop notoriety. Her affairs with Europe's most talented and successful men were duly doted over by the media and she was photographed in the company of film directors, rock stars, and various renegade Members of Parliament.

When that period of her life began to wane, she flirted with a choice of a brilliant marriage or a career in politics.

The surface of her life was as glossy as a magazine, but she was becoming disappointed by the emptiness of its content.

It was then that she had her crisis. She'd always undergone unusual symptoms during the moon phase and as she grew older she came to realize that it was precognition of future events that was causing the disturbance within her.

For a long time she'd been very careful during the time the moon was full, but she suddenly decided to explore her psychic potential. It seemed like a lark to use her powers as a medium.

The press dubbed her the Moon Lady and she" began answering requests for readings during the lunar phase. But then something happened to change the readings from a fun experiment to a nightmare.

The first few sittings were mildly successful, but she suffered unpleasant side effects. Then the sittings started getting out of control. One night she was held by a force that seemed to buffet her very soul with its intensity and she broke down.

While she was recuperating at home, Count Germaine came to visit her. He dropped in casually for tea and before the afternoon was over he had diagnosed exactly what had happened to her. The count had always been part of her family and childhood life and she continued to see him. She'd always been grateful that in the past he hadn't felt the obligation to advise her, unlike so many other friends of her family. But until that afternoon she hadn't realized he was so completely versed in the arts of the occult.

Not only did he teach her how to control, direct, and protect her psychic powers during the lunar phase, but he also gave her a new purpose—the quest she'd been seeking all her life.

Then, quite by chance, she discovered another of the count's secrets, and she decided that above everything else, she wanted to share that secret with him. He refused flatly at first, but she persisted until he accepted her as an apprentice.

There had been a time when she felt she could fall in love with Count Germaine, but as she learned the arts of his science she understood that her most profound emotion had yet to be touched.

It had been Dr. Owen Orient who'd touched that emotion. After years of searching, it had taken her only a few minutes to know that she was in love with the soft-spoken American.

She had sensed the serene strength in his blazing green eyes and she had come to admire his honesty and total lack of concern for material gain. And when they had made love she'd understood that what they shared went far past physical feeling. She recalled the way his mouth turned up at the corners, so that he seemed to be always smiling gently at some unspoken humor, and smiled to herself at the memory.

When the phone rang, she assumed that Maxwell was calling to tell her Germaine was ready. The sound of Owen's voice threw her into a sudden confusion.

She couldn't tell him the truth when he asked her about the experiment. The anxiety and guilt of the deception caused her to cut the conversation short.

She was immediately sorry after she hung up and impulsively started to call him back. But then she replaced the receiver.

It was no use, she told herself, she'd only be forced to deceive him again. She wasn't sure he could accept the truth about what she was doing. It was best to wait until the rite was finished. Her mind went back to his call. Somehow she thought she'd detected a fleeting note of need in his voice. She stood up quickly and turned the radio up louder. She couldn't allow herself the luxury of personal feelings right now. It was vital that she put Owen out of her mind.

She had to bring her full mental and physical concentration to bear during this last period. Every thought, every emotion, every desire, every conscious moment had to be devoted to the ritual she'd contracted to perform.

 

 

CHAPTER 13

 

 

Sybelle arrived early at Orient's house the next morning, bright and determined to rouse his spirits.

"All right, darling," she called as she flounced into the studio. "I'm ready. Did you make a list? "

"A list of what?" Orient grunted, looking up from the tray of slides he was studying. A night without sleep had left him with a hangover and he wasn't prepared for Sybelle's bustling energy.

"A list of the ingredients for the formula. The cure, remember? We'll go shopping this morning for the herbs and things and you can order the poppy seed or whatever it is you need. Did you work out the last line in the rhyme?"

He shook his head.

"I thought maybe it could be a piece of moon rock, or something like that. Do you know anyone at the space agency?"

Orient smiled and put the tray down on the table. "I think the price tag is too high for us right now. I'll order the opium, but I don't think the incomplete formula will work."

"Who knows? In a crisis you have to try everything. Now let's go. I know a lovely herb store downtown that should have everything you need."

The sun glinted off the blue surface of the Hudson River like a bright cosmetic, giving the waters an unpolluted sheen. As they drove, Sybelle maintained a running line of patter, like a disk jockey, making it impossible for Orient to tune her out and withdraw into the comfortable shell of his depression.

"You'll see. I'm positive the formula will clear up those dreadful symptoms. And then as the moon phase is over, we can get after Anthony. Do you think it's a good idea to hire private detectives? Perhaps not. Much wiser to handle it ourselves. Don't you think so?"

"It would be difficult to explain a werewolf to a private detective," he agreed morosely.

"You're perfectly right, dear. And while we're waiting for your opium to get here we can go through a few tests of my own."

"Tests?"

"You know, a psychic reading. After all, I am New York's leading medium. And I know my business. Agreed?"

"You win," Orient sighed. He didn't have the will to argue the point. The days were getting short and he would try anything.

Sybelle directed hirr to Khiel's Herb Pharmacy on lower Third Avenue; there they were able to find mandrake, wolfbane, and belladonna among the hundreds of exotic roots and herbs stocked in the century-old shop.

From there Orient drove further downtown to a medical warehouse and ordered three hundred grams of pure poppy gum. He was prepared for the inevitable checks on his credentials and the ten or so forms to be filled out.

Opium such as he needed formed the base for all of the highly addicting drugs and was under rigid control.

"I was beginning to think you took a cab home," Sybelle complained when he got back to the car.

"They just wanted to make sure I wasn't an illegal drug dealer. They had to phone my name to a central computer that checked my record nationwide."

"Did they tell you when it will be delivered?" she asked anxiously. "I've been making some calculations and...."

"Don't worry," Orient grinned. "Only four or five days. In time for the next full moon. We can mix the potion then." He started the motor and pulled the Rolls away from the curb. Somehow the physical activities of the morning had eased his depression considerably. "Lucky for us they use computers now. Otherwise it would have taken a month."

"Well, anyway that's taken care of. And in a few days I want to give you the Sybelle Lean treatment. All right?"

"Anytime you say," he murmured. She wasn't being unreasonable. He knew that she was highly skilled. Her empathetic powers gave her an amazing ability to make predictions or give advice.

"Call me within the next few days then," she said. "When you're feeling cooperative and alert."

But as the time drew nearer to the moon phase, Orient's alertness was crumbled to dust by a grinding sleeplessness that became a nightly adversary. He tried everything he'd learned: physical exercise, Yoga concentration and flushing techniques, hot showers—none of it helped. He could only manage an hour or two of rest a day. And then the dreams came, leaving him more exhausted than before.

As the days passed, he gradually lost the ability to perform routine activities. His desire to maintain his spiritual disciplines eroded. He lost touch with Sybelle and avoided contact with Sordi. He spent most of his hours walking the streets, completely withdrawn in his insulated desolation.

He tried to find distractions, but he was unable to sit in a movie house for more than fifteen minutes. Even the time required to eat a regular meal extended past the" narrow limits of his patience. The only amusement he found that could keep him occupied for a few moments at a time were pinball machines.

He realized his sanity was disintegrating, but he kept moving through the city. All function burned out, but his muscles and motor drives accelerated in compensation. As if sheer motion justified the existence of his mindless parts.

He did, however, manage to cling to some habits. One in particular flowered from simple curiosity into obsession. Every night, before he went out, he went to the library and consulted his almanac for the coming phases of the full moon.

 

Two days before the moon was scheduled to appear, Orient received a telegram. He thought at first it was from. Lily and a sharp surge of expectation sliced through his despair as he tore the message open. But it was only a notice from the warehouse telling him that the opium base had arrived.

The fresh breeze of enthusiasm that blew up when he'd received the message remained and as he drove downtown to pick up the package it occurred to him that he should call Sybelle.

He opened a panel on the ebony dashboard, took out a phone receiver, and pushed the buttons for her number.

Her voice came to him on a cloud of static.

"Darling. Isn't that just amazing? I tried to call you just this minute."

"Something special?"

"What we talked about. Did you get your poppy?" "Picking it up right now."

"Wonderful. Come see me as soon as you're finished."

He replaced the phone receiver and increased his speed, suddenly curious.

Picking up the opium required another round of credentials and certifications and when he finally received the small package the tension that had built up inside him slowly collapsed. His patience had been stretched to the breaking point by the tedious transaction. Still he'd managed to complete the simple task and even that was enough to sustain another rare breath of well-being.

When Orient arrived at Sybelle's apartment, he saw that she had set up an extra table in her living room and it was loaded with pads of paper, astrological graphs, numerology charts, books, pencils, and other less familiar implements. "I'm simply mortified that I didn't call you

sooner," she apologized as soon as he entered. "But I've been running a whole psychic profile on you and the graph said you wouldn't have a good day until today. Was I right?"

"Right on target," he said, congratulating her. "You have a lot of artillery there. A whole Pentagon of prophecy."

"Good, good," she muttered distractedly. "Just sit down, darling, while I consult my charts. I'm glad we're accurate, but it doesn't look promising."

As he sat down Orient noted that Sybelle's round face was without make-up and she was wearing a simple cotton shift. The absence of jewelry on her fingers made her pink hands look soft and small. The serenity relaxing her unpainted features suggested that she'd been in medita-tion, preparing her psychic faculties.

"Now just tell me everything you can think of," she said softly, sitting next to him. "Did you sleep well last night?"

He realized she was trying to establish conversational rapport so she could take a psychic fix on his vibration.

At first he just communicated in short phrases, but as he sensed her growing receptiveness he began to speak openly.

"I don't know if I can prevent myself from killing someone this time. I haven't been sleeping and my nerves are shot and I can't meditate properly any more. Can't really do anything." He looked down at his hands. "And whenever I do manage to fall asleep I keep having a dream—the same one every time."

"What sort of dream?" Sybelle prompted gently.

"I'm... actually I'm in no specific place except that its dark and I'm on some kind of flat plain. I'm running away from someone who's hunting me.

"Does he want to hurt you?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. But I'm afraid; all I can do is run."

She looked at him. "All the charts I ran on you were negative. So I'd like to try something else."

"Was it really that bad?"

"I don't think so dear, not really," she said soothingly. "But you won't have another day like this... so much positive energy, I mean, for a long time."

The news bit into his understanding and numbed his enthusiasm bit by bit, like venom. "What else?" he persisted. He suddenly wanted to know every detail as if they could somehow measure the limits of his disease.

Well, today for instance your Venus is very strong and complements other factors including your energy number. But tomorrow Mars takes over and your energy number will be very low. This trend continues right up to the moon period." She hesitated. "Isn't it wonderful what a complete reading one can get with just a few simple facts about time of birth? I always find it so fascinating."

"Don't try to change the subject. What happens during the Full moon?"

She sighed and patted her hair. "Your graphs show intense conflict," she told him reluctantly. The horoscope and numerology chart both show danger, and it's also one of the abysmal cycles on your I Ching reading. But now that you've got your poppy gum we can mix the formula right away and everything will be fine, I'm sure."

Her cheery tone reminded him of a visitor in a hospital ward She reached out and grasped his hand "Don't despair," she whispered, "there's something else we can try now that you're here."

Orient felt the energy radiating through her hand and knew that she'd established a vibrational harmony between them. For some reason, it gave him a sense of security.

Sybelle stood up and went to a shelf on the other side of the room. She picked up a small glass globe and brought it back to the low table in front of the couch. "This is the Skrying glass poor Carl left me in his will," she explained as she sat down on the floor in front of the table. "Come sit here next to me, darling. Perhaps your unusual powers of concentration will help us get a strong reading."

He shook his head. "My concentration's been zero lately. Don't think I'll be able to see anything in your crystal ball."

"Let's give it a try anyway," she insisted. "I've always-gotten my best results with Skrying. I seem to have a natural affinity for it. And this Skrying Glass is something special."

"It's a beautiful piece of work," Orient observed, easing off the couch onto the carpet. Three slender prongs of silver balanced the crystal ball above the heavy base, allowing light to pass unobstructed through the glass. The crystal had a subtle, smoky tint that seemed to shade and soften the reflections trapped inside. "Do you use a special technique?"

"Of course." She took a square of cloth from the pocket of her shift. It was a piece of raw linen which had been inscribed with an eight-pointed star set in a triangle.

He recognized the symbol as one of the Pentacles of Gerbert; the alchemist who had become Pope Sylvester II. The Pentacle was used to divine magical images from bowls of mercury or water.

"I prepared the invocation very carefully last night," she said as she slipped the linen square under the silver base of the glass.

"Now all you have to do is try to join my consciousness," she told him. "Nothing more. My vibrations will activate the reflections in the glass. All you have to do is look at them."

Orient inhaled as he gazed into the crystal, trying to establish a simple breathing pattern. In a few seconds he was able to maintain a wobbly concentration and he felt Sybelle's vibrational energy radiate across his dulled senses.

At first the reflections in the glass were inert and unchanging: two crossed streaks of fight shooting through a dark center. Gradually, he began to see that the dark center was actually a compressed image of the entire room, its dimensions distorted by the curve of the glass. He found his own reflection, a tiny figure with an elongated head, sitting inside the room.

The constant flow of Sybelle's energy helped him focus as the tiny image of himself cleared and became larger. His face loomed in the center of the crossed - streaks of light, expanding past the confines of the space.

He saw his gaunt, etched features and sunken eyes. The eyes grew huge and he could see his hair, then red and blue vessels around the shaded green sunburst in his pupils. Then the sunburst slowly disintegrated and he was surrounded by a dark, fog-like cloud.

He was no longer sitting on the floor, but was walking through the fog. Moving away from the land of the strangers toward home. An edge of impatience quickened his steps as he remembered how long it had been since he'd seen his woman. He smiled in the darkness when he thought of her. The fog began to diminish as he pushed on, guided by his instincts, and the reassuring memory of her promise to wait.

He walked faster across the dusty plain, anticipating the pleasures of his arrival. The mist had disappeared and he could make out the familiar landmarks.

But then he saw smoke curling like a dark snake from the top of the Pyramid, outlined on the horizon ahead, and a vague uneasiness intruded on his reverie. It was the time of the Seven-Year Festival. He had been away too long. He began to run toward the Temple.

As he neared the Pyramid he could make out the tents at the outskirts of the marketplace. They seemed deserted. He remembered that everyone would be gathered at the river while Kam, the Pharaoh's priest, prepared the flames for the sacrifice.

Then he saw that not everyone had gone to the river. Two or three soldiers were sitting under the shade of a tree. He slowed down and walked toward them, hoping they would recognize and help him.

He saw them arise as he approached and draw their short swords. He lifted his hands to show he was unarmed. Suddenly, one of them called out his name and they began to run toward him, their swords lifted as they tried to cut him off from the Temple.

Realization and fear exploded in his mind and he sprinted desperately toward the Temple. They had recognized him, but they weren't there to help him. Their orders were to kill him. Kam was making sure he didn't disrupt the Festival. His woman had been chosen Priestess, and victim, of the sacrifice.

He drove his legs harder as the footsteps pounded close behind him. He had to abort the rite. If he could reach the Temple, he could claim his right to judgment. Kam was bound by law to submit to his claim. He could explain why he'd left his woman alone so long.

Someone shouted and a thrown sword glanced off his shoulder, momentarily breaking his stride. He lowered his head and increased his speed as he raced through the empty marketplace, hoping that his pursuers would be forced to give up. But they came on. They were soldiers and hunters and used to running their enemies to the ground.

As he neared the Temple, he saw two soldiers standing guard beneath the giant torches at the entrance. In a moment they'd see him and he'd be hemmed in. It would be over in a few seconds. The pace of the soldiers behind him slowed as they saw that he was trapped.

Gasping for breath he continued to head directly for the entrance. The guards at the entrance spotted him and advanced toward him.

With his last ebb of strength, he cut sharply to the right and headed for the hidden door at the side of the Pyramid. The maneuver confused the soldiers and gave him an advantage of a few yards.

He slowed down as he passed the massive blocks of stone that formed the base of the Temple, looking for the concealed stairway. When he found the small footholds cut into the rock, he quickly crawled up to the third level and located the passage.

The soldiers, ignorant of the small chinks in the sheer face of the rock, cursed him as they tried to scale the blocks that were taller than any two of them.

His muscles were trembling with exhaustion as he hurried through the narrow passageway to the Room of Worship, the Altar of Tem-Khepera.

A strangled cry forced itself through his twisted lungs when he rushed into the huge room. A naked priest was standing at the silver table beneath the golden statue, and his woman was there, chained to the altar. Her golden skin was streaked with blood.

He lunged toward the priest, but a stunning blow at the base of his skull sent him sprawling to the floor. He rolled over and saw Kam standing over him. Half of his face was hidden by the ritual mask, but his pouting, sensual smile betrayed his identity. Still smiling, Kam seized a sword from a soldier's hand and brought it swiftly down....

All light and sensation were flooded by an intense cold... the fog rushed in to cover him like a shroud of ice....

Orient blinked.

He was sitting on the carpet, staring at the crossed streaks of light in the center of the crystal globe. His skin was chilled and damp and a lump of fear froze his throat so he couldn't speak.

"I said, are you all right?" Sybelle repeated anxiously.

He wet his lips. "I think so. I'm here anyway."

"I saw a pyramid and statues. You were running, like in the dream you told me about."

Orient didn't answer. He was trying to remember something. The mouth under the priest's mask. The cruel, mocking pout. The priest had been Maxwell A sudden glare of clarity illuminated the memory and he understood that he had re experienced his death in a past existence. And Maxwell Andersen had been his executioner.

"I couldn't see clearly," Sybelle was saying. "What happened when you reached the Pyramid?" Orient looked at her. "I was killed."

"Oh, dear." Her hand flew up to her mouth. "I think it was a mistake to try the crystal. What happened? Was it an accident?"

He didn't hear her questions. His brain was stuffed with one single image. The mutilated woman in the Altar Room had been Lily.

"Owen, darling, for heaven's sake, tell me what you saw."

"I think it was an image of a past life," his voice sounded flat. "It was the moment of my death."

Sybelle opened her mouth, closed it, and stood up. She strode purposefully to the velvet-covered bar against the far wall. The red velvet was intricately embroidered with Zodiac Symbols and lit by colored lamps giving that part of the room the gloss of a newly opened lounge.

She came back with two large glasses and handed one of them to him. "What you need," she said firmly, "is a good stiff drink."

 

For the next hour, Sybelle pressed him for details of his vision, but he managed to avoid telling her what he'd actually experienced.

He didn't want to explain his relationship with Lily and it would only confuse and frighten her if he named Maxwell as his reincarnated murderer.

As he dodged her questions, his thoughts kept racing back to the room. To Lily. He had to warn her.

He remembered something as he was leaving. "Don't expect to hear from me until after the moon phase," he told Sybelle. "I'll be in tight seclusion when I test the formula. But the night of the full moon I want you to keep the doors and windows locked. Don't let anyone in. Not even me."

"But darling," she gasped, "are you afraid something's going to happen to me?"

"I don't know," he said softly. "But if our guess is right, then there'll be two werewolves who'll appear that night. And one of them is a killer. Maybe both".

He didn't go home after leaving her apartment, but: drove aimlessly through the city trying to decide what to do. His thoughts were besieged by a crowd of suspicions, all shouting the same alarm. He had to tell Lily what he'd seen in the crystal. He reached for the phone in the dashboard and punched the code for the long-distance operator.

It took a half hour before she called back to tell him that his call was ready.

"Hello, this is Lady Sativa." Her voice was indistinct and Orient silently cursed his stupidity for failing to drive toward the outskirts of the city where mobile-phone reception was stronger.

"I'll be on holiday for the next three days," she continued, "so I've made this recording. If you have a message just speak when you hear the tone and it will also be recorded. Thank you very much."

Orient hung up before the tone sounded.

He turned the Rolls Ghost toward home and feverishly ransacked his mind for someway to reach her. Someway to tell her that in less than forty-eight hours she'd be participating in an experiment with a man who, lifetimes before, had offered her life as a sacrifice to his gods.

 

 

CHAPTER 14

 

 

Orient spent the rest of the night and most of the morning synthesizing the ingredients for the formula.

He knew that the missing ingredient ruled out a complete cure, but he clutched at the hope that the herbs he already had would help subdue his violent symptoms. With some control and a little luck, he had a chance to reach Lily. Despair nibbled at his preparations, however, as he realized that even a little luck might be too much to borrow against his bankrupt resources.

By the afternoon he had finished blending the potion. There was enough for a small dose and a large dose. He decided to take the small dose when the symptoms began and the rest later, when he'd gauged the effects.

Sordi called over the intercom to tell him that the next available flight left at midnight. Orient told him to book a seat, but as he measured out the potion into separate vials he knew that even time had withdrawn its meager assets from him. At midnight it would be already five in the morning in London. He'd have only a few hours to find Lily before the moon came up to lure his sanity to destruction.

He stayed in the laboratory until it was time to leave, discouraging Sordi's attempts to satisfy his curiosity. When it was time he called a cab and left alone for the airport.

While he was still in the departure room he became aware of a dull throb in his temple. The rush of energy that had carried him through the two days of activity was exhausted. And he hadn't even begun.

The throb became sharper when the plane was in the air and his nerves recoiled from the memory of the agony he'd suffered during the last attack of the disease. He sat motionless in his seat, hoping it would pass, but the spasms of pain increased, stabbing methodically through his defenses and deflating his will

He unhooked the safety belt and reached for the vial containing the small dose. It seemed too soon somehow, but there were less than eighteen hours before the rise of the moon. The tide was coming in.

He asked the stewardess for a bottle of water and an empty glass. When she returned with his tray, he poured the potion in the glass, drank it down, and then followed it with a glass of water.

The water wasn't strong enough to wash away the clinging, repellent taste of the substance and for a second he thought he'd have to use the airsick bag. He gritted his teeth and drew long breaths of air through his nostrils, fighting to keep the potion down. The throbs became more acute and shafts of pain pierced through his inner ear.

He became afraid. He'd been a fool for enclosing himself inside a small space in midair during the lunar phase. If he displayed any erratic behavior, or became violent, he'd be shot by a sky marshal as a madman hijacker. There was no place where he could crawl and hide and howl when the agony became unendurable. He'd be like a wild animal trapped in a cage. He might even attack an innocent passenger. He gripped the arms of the chair and squeezed his eyes shut.

The pain reached a shrill peak, like a dentist's drill, then slowly, almost imperceptibly, began to recede. The nausea subsided, leaving the inside of his mouth feeling dry and dirty. He drank another glass of water.

His jaw unclenched and the muscles in the back of his neck relaxed. He took another deep breath as a sweet warmth crept up his spine and spread through his brain.

Exultation floated across his awareness like a tropical breeze. The potion was working. -The sensation of drifting on billow clouds gently rocked his thoughts..

His fear was covered by a thick, downy blanket as the potion soothed his troubled senses. He had hoped that the ingredients in the potion would produce positive physical effects, but he hadn't been sure of the mental reaction it might produce. Now he was secure. He could feel each of them performing its function in his body.

The mold was an ergot substance and acted to enlarge the small veins in his brain. Medically, it was used to overcome migraine headaches, but it also had curious side effects. It served as the key ingredient in most psychedelic compounds like mescaline. Combined with belladonna it could have produced a severe reaction in his consciousness. But the heavy, sensual tranquilizing effect of the opium anchored the expanding vibrations of his thoughts to an unwavering calm.

The wolfbane, mandrake, and hemp, all pacifying herbs that contained mild mood altering chemicals, combined to form a pleasantly euphoric counterpoint to the effects of the other ingredients.

The total balance kept his mind and body in a cozy state of dynamic harmony, similar to meditative planes, where awareness transcended the politics of existence and gravitated toward the magnetic source of the universe.

All of his problems were arrayed like jeweled playthings in his mind, fixed in glittering focus. He knew he would find the answer he was seeking during this moon phase. It was with this blissfully shimmering assurance that he slipped into his first deep sleep in days.

 

The effect of the potion began to wear off when the plane reached London a few hours later and by the time he found a hotel room he was feeling the grinding weight of a grueling hangover. His confidence, determination, and euphoric aura of success had crumbled and were quickly decomposing into a stagnant certainty that he wouldn't even be able to reach Lily.

Everything he tried that morning and afternoon seemed to support his certainty. He dialed Lily's number and when the recorded message answered again, he hung up and fumbled through the phone book for Maxwell's number.

He called Maxwell's number every half hour, but there was no answer. Finally, he looked up the listed address and forced his weary body to leave the hotel room.

Maxwell Andersen's home was a large Georgian house set back from the street on a corner lot in the tree-lined Knightsbridge district. The immaculate lawns were surrounded by a high metal fence.

As he vainly pushed the electric buzzer at the gate Orient realized that Maxwell, Lily and Germaine might not even be in London. He shivered in the damp wind, peering through the bars at the blank, curtained windows; his mind was numb from the aftereffects of the potion and the sheer effort it required to hold his trembling body upright.

Reluctantly, he moved away from the gate and returned to the waiting cab. He decided to go back to his hotel and try to get a few hours' rest.

Instead he spent the waning hours of the afternoon staring at the gray-white ceiling above the bed, as a faint throb stirred, awoke, and began pounding at his temples, He didn't resist the headache, but just lay still, trying to absorb the increasing pain.

An unexpected burst of energy roused him from his apathy and he started pacing nervously around the room. The activity seemed to help cushion the stabbing throb in his brain. It was still relentless, but bearable. It occurred to him that the potion might have cured him already. Perhaps the final ingredient was some sort of prank. The possibility eased his nervousness and he felt an urgent need for fresh air.

He wrapped the vial containing the remaining full dose of the potion in a handkerchief before putting it in his pocket. The soft bulge against his hip gave him a sense of security as he left the hotel and began walking briskly through the streets.

The worst part of his hangover seemed to be over and his determination to find Lily had returned. He decided to check out her address.

He discovered that Lily's flat was located in the same area where Maxwell lived. When there was no answer at her door, he continued on to try Maxwell's home again.

It began to rain and he was forced to stop at a small pub to ask for directions and dry off his wet hair and clothing. The bar was empty and its wood and brick interior was cozy and warm. He ordered a drink and pondered his next move. The apparent success of the formula was a relief and carried the added implication that he hadn't been responsible for Hazer's death. The sense of imminent crisis diminished and he gradually concluded that his own fear and paranoia had exaggerated the image in Sybelle's Skrying crystal. The whole experience could have been the projection of a schizoid personality.

The Scotch spread its relaxing warmth through his ‘ stomach and he ordered another drink. If he could control the Symptoms of the disease, there was a good chance he could be cured. He could also look into the real facts behind Hazer's death.

The pub started filling with customers and the noise and smoke began to press uncomfortably around him. He finished his drink and decided to get some fresh air.

He walked for a few blocks, enjoying the light spray of rain and wind that scrubbed his face. He debated whether he should go back to his hotel or keep looking for Lily. Perhaps it was best to let her go through with her experiment unencumbered by his fears.

His debate was suddenly cut off by a powerful stroke of pain that cleaved through the center of his unsuspecting brain.

A wave of dizziness and nausea threatened to topple his balance as the agony wound around his senses and squeezed, crashing his fragile hopes.

The pain became unendurable in a matter of seconds. It permeated every nerve and muscle. His body convulsed and he doubled over.

"Can I help you, sir?" A man's voice was saying.

"No... thanks... " Orient managed to say, not looking up. When he tried to straighten up and walk, the effort almost brought tears to his eyes. He stumbled a few steps then leaned against the side of a building. His fingers trembled uncontrollably as he fumbled for the vial in his pocket.

His breathing was a series of gasping sobs as he unwrapped the handkerchief from the vial and drained its contents.

He clapped his hands over his mouth as his heaving belly tried to reject the thick, bitter fluid. He locked his jaw and sank to the ground, no longer able to hold up against the pain and revulsion.

For a long time he crouched against the wall, his fingers muffling the whines of misery welling up in his throat, until the spasms decreased. He felt the band of agony around his mind relax a slight notch. The potion was cutting very slowly through the noose gripping his awareness.

He took his hands away from his face and opened his eyes. He was huddled in a tight crouch against the wall. His mutilated senses still throbbed and it took long minutes before he could stand up without using the wall for support.

He waited until the last bitter dregs of the nausea had passed, then tried a few tentative steps. He was still weak, but he was able to keep his balance. He kept moving, one careful step at a time, as if he was learning to walk for the first time.

Before he reached the next corner the shattering pain was replaced by a soothing glow that gathered in and mended his tattered awareness. The muscles in his legs began to tingle as new strength poured into them.

His battered consciousness unfolded and stretched luxuriously. It separated from his aching nerves and gently ascended, propelled by a tender breeze. The movement of his body became a means of absorbing the energy in the rain-soaked air. He walked faster, letting the vibrations roll down his senses like healing oil.

As he walked through the steaming streets his mind became charged with purpose. He'd check Maxwell's house once more and if Lily wasn't there he'd find a drugstore, buy a bottle of sleeping pills, and go back to his hotel room. There he could ride out the Moon Phase and get a plane to New York in the morning. Every facet of his plan glinted with logic. There was even the chance that this full dose of the formula would effect a permanent cure.

A warm, sensual blanket cushioned his senses from the wet chill as his instinct directed his movement. It was unerring.

He crossed part of a park, turned a corner, walked a few more blocks, and came onto Montpelier Square where Andersen lived. The house was half-obscured by the mist and darkness. It looked deserted.

As he pushed the buzzer on the gate his mind was already going over the next step in his plan—the sleeping pills. He moved away from the fence and started walking to the corner. Then he glanced up and saw something that snapped the struts in his logic and sent his thoughts crashing down in confusion.-

A sliver of light was leaking from between the curtains of a second-floor window. The mist swirled densely and for a moment he wondered if he'd been mistaken. Then a gust of wind parted the fog and he saw it again. The glow dimly illuminated a terrace rail and a tree branch that touched the side of the house.

Curiosity prodded the confusion in his brain. He peered through the shadowy mist for a sign of activity on the streets. There was nothing but the drizzle.

Without hesitating, he reached up and began to scale the iron fence. He crouched on the top bar, his feet balanced between the protruding spikes and jumped.

The pale-blue satin lining the walls reflected the light -flickering from the large candles that stood in each corner of the room.

Count Germaine was sitting on a high-backed, brocade chair. His naked skin was withered and stiff like the petals of a dead flower. He was sitting erect, watching Lily, Maxwell, and a slender Asiatic girl making love on the floor in front of the chair.

Orient dumbly realized that the whines he'd thought were caused by the wind were the passion-glutted cries of humans locked in pleasure.

A black mask covered the upper half of Lily's face, but the familiar cascade of bronze hair blazed in the candle glow as she kneeled over the naked girl on the carpet. Her legs were sheathed in sheer black stockings and the lacey black band of a garter belt dug into her golden skin when she thrust one knee between the Asiatic girl's parted thighs.

The Asian girl moaned and Orient caught a glimpse of her face, lips pulled back in a tight grin of ecstasy, before Maxwell's round, white body obscured her features and muffled the sounds. He became dimly aware of a stir of movement on Germaine's rigid body. Then he focused on the source. The man's wrinkled organ was expanding and becoming erect. It deepened in color as it swelled, looking oddly ripe and powerful against his parched, hollow groin.

Lily unhooked the garter belt across Maxwell's flabby buttocks, her breasts swaying as she rocked her knee harder against the girl's grinding hips.

Jackhammers began to batter the inside of Orient's chest as he watched her twisting with frenzied pleasure on the other side of the glass. Germaine's body jerked upright as if his stringy muscles and thin bones had been jolted by a sudden snap of electric current. A silky stream of semen glistened in the candlelight as it spurted from his twitching penis and arched out to spatter against Lily's shoulder.

All the energy in the room collapsed.

Germaine slumped down in his chair as if unconscious. Lily fell across the Asian girl's body and pressed her head against her breasts. Maxwell lay still on the carpet.

Orient's heart continued to chatter in the abrupt silence that stuffed the shadows. He wanted to leave the terrace, but his legs wouldn't respond; all reflex was paralyzed by the reality of the orgy in the room.

Germaine lifted his head. It looked abnormally large above the thin shoulders and narrow, ridged chest. His gray eyes glinted like chrome discs under his angled eyebrows as they stared directly at the part in the curtains, and the melodious sound of his voice cut through the stillness. "Someone is outside," he said, "on the terrace."

Maxwell sprang awkwardly to his feet and padded over to the glass door.

 

 

CHAPTER 15

 

 

An icy calm froze Orient's emotions. His heartbeat slowed and his confusion congealed in a - cool rush of confidence as Maxwell flung open the terrace door.

"What the bloody hell are you doing here, you damned fool!" Maxwell yelled.

"Hello, Andersen," Orient said softly. "I was just passing by and saw the light."

Lily looked up when she heard the sound of his voice. "Owen?" she called out. "Is that you?"

He smiled. "May I come in?" He noted, without displeasure, that Maxwell's pudgy body seemed to deflate and the frown under his reflecting sunglasses was unsure. As he stepped inside, he screwed his will tighter over the whirling confusion, determined to keep the advantage of his control.

Inside the room smelled of sweat and sex and something else—something pungent and heavy.

"You have no right here, Orient," Maxwell growled.

"There's no sense getting angry. I don't intend to intrude on your work." He paused and looked at Lily sitting on the floor. "You're all free to do as you like."

She stared at him with open-mouthed bewilderment from under her mask.

"This is most unexpected, doctor," Germaine said.

Orient shrugged. I suppose it is. Hope I didn't disrupt anything."

The Oriental girl sat up and yawned. There was a fond, bemused smile on Germaine's face as he watched her. "Have no fear, doctor," he said. "Our experiment is concluded." He looked at Orient and his features hardened. "But you could have destroyed the work of months and endangered us all. Why are you here?" His eyes flashed like steel spear tips from the triangular head that dominated his withered body.

Orient's billowy calm absorbed their thrust. "Because I believe a homicidal schizophrenic murdered Daniel, Hazer," he said slowly.

Lily gasped and looked inquiringly at Germaine.

"Didn't you know?" Orient murmured.

"Count Germaine and I agreed not to discuss the matter!" Maxwell snapped. "There was no need to upset Lily before our final phase. And there's no bloody need for you to be in my house, upsetting her now."

Orient's gaze remained steady on Germaine's face. "Your experiment is related to the moon phase," he said, ignoring Maxwell.

Germaine's eyes clouded over. "Yes, it is."

"An occult experiment?"

Germaine let the question hang in the silence.

Orient's intuition covered his brain like a swarm of bees, their delicate antennae dowsing for minuscule vibrational signals. He could feel Maxwell's fury, Lily's confusion, and the Asian girl's curiosity. But there was nothing but his own unanswered question emanating from the naked, skeletal figure sitting in the brocade chair.

"I feel you're not telling me all the truth," Germaine mused. "But it makes no difference. I will answer your question." He smiled at Orient. "Tonight we completed the third phase of the Kundalini rites according to the Tantric discipline."'

The insects crawling over Orient's consciousness began to hum, tingling his comprehension. Kundalini was the Tantric-Yoga rite of sex force. "The Serpent Fire," he said aloud.

Germaine nodded his head slightly. "You have the education of an adept, I commend you. It's true the stages of the Kundalini rite are structured to awaken the Serpent Fire of renewed life that sleeps coiled at the base of the spine." Amusement flared in his eyes. "Do you also know how to perform the rite?"

The sensitive antennae bristled across his mind. "It produces longevity, doesn't it?"

"The Tantric Rite of Kundalini unleashes the very core of the life force. By controlling the Serpent Fire, one can extend the life cycle indefinitely." Germaine's voice trailed off to a whisper. "But only a handful of humans are able to manipulate the force. "These children," he lifted a pale, fine-boned arm and looked down at Lily and the Asian girl still sitting at his feet, "my little apprentices, in time they too may learn the technique. If they can make the sacrifice."

The last word sent a warning buzz through Orient's awareness. "Sacrifice?" he repeated.

Germaine's smile became regretful. "To follow the Tantric Path of extended youth the apprentice must learn that the desire to reproduce must be sacrificed to a higher function. One can only release sexual energy once a year, at the apex of a three-month moon cycle." He pressed his fingertips together, as if he was praying. Surely, you don't think I meant a blood sacrifice, doctor?"

"The possibility occurred to me. Your life goes on, but two men are dead. Each on the night of the full moon. During the phase of your Kundalini rite."

"All right, Orient, I think it's time you got out of here," Maxwell barked. "I'm sick of your damned, meddling accusations."

Lily stood up and took the mask away from her face. Compassion and disbelief clouded her amber eyes and there was a husky catch in her voice when she spoke. "You're wrong Owen. The Kundalini rite is just a technique for expansion. Like yours. Nothing more."

Orient realized she was pleading with mm to understand. Small beads of perspiration trickled down her neck and across her golden skin, running into the crevasse between her curved, dark-nippled breasts. She took a step toward him. When she lifted her arm, he saw the sperm clinging like yellow-white jelly to her shoulder. "Don't you see, darling?" she crooned softly. "It's not wrong to want to prolong your youth."

"Forget it, Lily," Maxwell warned. "I told you before you were wasting valuable time with this clumsy paranoid."

She hesitated.

Perhaps it was her obedient hesitation when Maxwell spoke, or the understanding that Lily had told him about their relationship, or the splotch of sperm on her skin— but something scattered the delicately tuned network of his intuition and stung his reason. His fist lashed out and smacked Maxwell with such force that he stumbled and fell against the wall.

A stab of pain pierced the protective cloak of calm like a hot needle, pricking an exposed nerve in his brain. He howled as the agony and fury seared through his unprepared defenses.

"You need help. You're sick." Germaine's arm shot out and his fingers closed like a steel vise around Orient's wrist.

Orient roared and wrenched away. He ran out to the terrace, jumped up to the rail, and in the same fluid movement stepped out onto the tree limb.

When he reached the trunk, he swung down, hand over hand through the branches, until he reached the ground. Then he sprinted across the lawn, climbed over the high fence, and started running away from the house.

He kept running until he came to a park and saw a grove of tall bushes. He crawled inside the grove and lay down in the cool, wet shadows; curling his body around its exhaustion and pain like a hunted animal who'd just found a burrow of refuge.

 

When he walked out of the park, a half hour later, he felt strangely refreshed, as if he'd drawn some natural healing energy from the mud and minty leaves that had concealed him

The complete calm he'd felt earlier had returned to smother the pain while his body recuperated from his physical efforts.

The rain had stopped and he wandered through the streets, his thoughts enveloped by the lush effects of the potion. Every detail of what had happened at Maxwell's house was clear and distinct in his memory and the certainty that he'd been deceived by Lily pulsed insistently through his muffled emotions. He remembered the anger and agony slashing through his control and his raging attack on Maxwell.

Apprehension stirred in his mind as he understood that the formula's effectiveness could be overcome. He wasn't cured. But even the fear couldn't quell the satisfaction of having unleashed his dislike for the boy. As he though of Lily again, the satisfaction grew, fed by the certainty of her deception.

He continued to walk aimlessly. The streets became dirtier, brighter, and more crowded, but he paid little attention. His awareness kept rocking in monotonous reveries of Lily's betrayal and his revenge.

He noticed a group of wild-haired young people sitting underneath a large statue. He stopped as he realized that, it was the statue of Eros in Piccadilly Circus. His hotel was on the other side of London. He looked around the busy, neon-stained square and wondered if he should call a cab and go back to his hotel.

He rejected the idea immediately. He wasn't tired any more and he felt restless. He decided to find someplace with some life and people where he could get another perspective.

He chose a crowded pub at the edge of Soho. He stood in the corner with his drink, avoiding any more contact than necessary with the patrons. The loud noise and whiskey seemed to stimulate his thoughts and he began making plans for his return to New York.

He could make up another, larger amount of the potion and then investigate the truth of what Germaine had told him. The Tantric rite was a left-hand path of the Serene Knowledge, an occult science closely linked with negative elements. He wondered if Lily would tell him the truth.

"Why not have a seat?" a thick feminine voice inquired.

A tall, thirtyish woman with streaked blonde hair and glazed eyes was leaning toward him, one hand on the empty seat next to her.

He grunted and sat down. It was a relief to get off his stiffening legs, but he didn't feel like talking.

The woman examined him over the rim of her glass. "Are you shy or just born with a lock on your mouth?" She took a swallow of whiskey and set the glass down. "My father was like that," she confided hoarsely. "Didn't have any use for wastin' words."

Orient didn't answer.

"And just look at you," she persisted. "You're a proper sight, aren't you?"

He glanced down and saw that his clothes were rumpled and stained with dirt.

The woman squinted knowingly. "You've been on a roaring binge, haven't you?"

He looked at her. She was wearing a short suede skirt and thigh-length snakeskin boots that accentuated her rounded hips. The sharp, ferret like features of her face were slack from drinking and blurred by exaggerated, make-up, but something about her physical nearness excited him. A quick, sensual urge caressed his consciousness. "That's right," he smiled. "A long party."

She smiled back at him and as she turned to signal the bartender her black sweater strained against the thrust of her breasts. "Two more, Randy," she called out. Then she leaned close to him. "Don't worry, love," she purred. "You're with somebody who knows all about it. Just have a good time and Lynn will take care of you."

Orient stiffened. "What did you say your name was?"

"Why it's Lynn, short for Eleanor. Don't you like it?"

His suspicions collapsed at the sight of her smeared, uncertain smile. "Nothing really. Your name just sounds like somebody else I know."

She leered drunkenly. "Some old flame, I wager, But I'm not the jealous sort." She took one of the glasses the bartender brought and set it down in front of Orient. "What's your name?"

"Mike." He picked up the glass. "Mike Scott. With two t's."

"Drink up, Mike," she urged. "Tonight the party's on me."

He sat in the bar with her until closing time. Despite Lynn's efforts to draw him out, he had lapsed into a silent reverie.

He knew now that Lily had been deceiving him all along. For some reason, she was allowing Germaine to manipulate her powers during the lunar phase. And Maxwell was the one who'd turned her against him. It was clear Maxwell had always been the one who hated him. Even in another lifetime, Maxwell had been his enemy.

"Do you want to come home with me love?" Lynn whispered, her breath was warm against is ear. He shrugged. "Anything to drink there?''

"Of. course there is, Mike." She rubbed her soft breasts against his arm. "Do you think I'd take you there if it wasn't super-cozy?"

She continued to lean against him as they walked slowly to her home. When they turned the corner, she pulled him into the shadow of a wall and kissed him hungrily.

She reeked of whiskey and heavy perfume and her scent awakened his dormant sense of smell.

His nostrils filled with dozens of odors: the fumes of gasoline, fried fish, beer, human sweat, and animal droppings crowded through his senses.

He pushed from Lynn's wet embrace and began walking. She staggered after him, caught up and took his arm. His temples were throbbing as his thoughts centered on Maxwell. It was plain that the boy had set out to destroy his relationship with Lily.

"Here's my house, love," Lynn was saying. "Wait till I get my key."

A musky, familiar odor tickled Orient's nostrils. The smell sparked across his memory exploding the hatred there. He had to stop Maxwell. It was the only way to free Lily.

"Where are you going, Mike?" She grabbed at his sleeve as he moved away.

"Have to do something," he said impatiently.

"All right, love. I'm the sort who understands," she murmured. "But take a good look at my door. And come back when you've finished."

"Yes," he said. "I'll remember." He pulled away before she could say anything more and moved off quickly into the shadows.

 

 

CHAPTER 16

 

 

Orient had intended to go straight back to Montpelier Square, and confront Maxwell with what he knew. But the musky scent drew his instincts, guiding him to unfamiliar streets.

He didn't notice the swing in direction. His concentration was saturated with a single emotion: the need for revenge. As he walked, his mind replayed the countless slurs and insults he'd suffered from Maxwell. Every step of his progress had been undermined and derided by the boy—because of Lily.

The warm smell became diffuse when he turned a corner and he stopped, momentarily confused. Then he realized he'd turned away from the wind. He lifted his head, nosing for the scent like a dog.

He found the cloying aroma and let it take over the functions of his awareness once again, as he walked through the streets.

He turned another corner and the smell grew stronger, oozing over his instincts like honey.

His hatred and desire for revenge suddenly evaporated as a fiery gust of hunger blasted through his belly, and jerked his body alive with a consuming need to find the source of the sweet scent. He walked faster, then started loping through the dark streets.

The spoor grew stronger as he crossed a familiar corner and he slowed down when he saw the spiked fence that surrounded Maxwell's house.

He approached slowly, his animal wariness aroused by something out of place. Something different. But the huge shape beyond the fence was dark and still. Then he saw what had stirred his curiosity. The gate was open.

He walked carefully up the pebbled path, searching the shadows for any sign of movement. There was nothing except the silence. When he reached the front door, he found that it also was unlocked and slightly ajar.

He stood for a moment in the hallway, adjusting his vision to the gloom before he moved forward, guided more by his sense of smell than by his ability to see.

Hunger tore at his instincts and he made out the sharply angled outline of a set of stairs. He began climbing silently up the carpeted steps to the source of the looming odor that stuffed his nostrils and sent saliva trickling down his chin. When he reached the next floor, he knew it was close by.

The lack of any identifiable shadows made it difficult to see. He reached into his pocket, took out a pack of matches, and struck a light.

When the match flared in his fingers, the sulphur fumes muffled the odor, and the flash revealed a thatch of fine, black hair on his palms. As the musty scent left his nostrils, his memory was released and he understood the significance of what he saw on his hand. The potion was wearing off and he was out of control. He had to leave the house before he hurt someone.

But when the match went out, his understanding was crushed by a thumping pain behind his eyes. He reeled forward and fell to his knees. The agony pressed relentlessly against his consciousness, squeezing out all sensation as the blackness swallowed up his cry.

It was still dark when he awoke.

His face was against the floor. He tried to sit up and the movement set off trip hammers inside his aching skull. The musty scent lingered dimly in his senses, but it did little to ease the hurt as he tried to get up. He arched his will and pushed himself to his feet. As his balance returned, he remembered where he was. A chill slap of fear awakened his dazed reflexes and he started feeling his way along the wall. His fingers found the nub of a light-switch. He hesitated, then flicked it on.

The electric light gave the empty hallway the stark unreality of a dream. He squinted, trying to focus his vision.

He was standing a few feet away from an open door at the head of the stairs. The overhead light illuminated part of the darkened room and reflected dully from two white shapes on the floor inside. A pair of bare feet.

 

He located the light switch inside the room and when the lights came on his mind started careening like a driverless truck.

The feet belonged to Maxwell. He was lying in the center of a dark stain of blood in the carpet that framed his plump, naked body. His throat and part of his thigh were gone and a series of scratches crisscrossed the blue-white skin on his chest.

Orient circled the mutilated corpse, reluctant to go nearer. Sickness and confusion spun endlessly through his thoughts as he looked around at the overturned brocade chair, broken candles, and long shreds of satin that had been ripped from the walls in the struggle. Then he spotted something that dragged his memory through his reeling awareness.

It was a small splotch of powder on the floor, near the terrace door. Reddish brown talcum. He'd seen it before. And each time he'd seen it someone had died.

He took the book of matches from his pocket and scraped up some of the powder into the thin cardboard cover. Then he deposited the powder and matchbook in his cigarette case. Some of the powder clung to his fingertips and he brought his hand to his nose. The hot, musty smell burst through his brain and awakened the hunger in his belly. The hair on his neck bristled and he had the urge to lick the powder from his fingers.

A screech of tires outside cut through the hunger and activated his reflexes. He dropped the cigarette case in his pocket, crossed to the wall, turned out the lights, then went back through the shadows to the terrace door. He opened it, went outside, and looked down at the street. Two cars had pulled up in front of the house and men with flashlights were walking toward the gate.

Orient put his foot on the rail and stepped up onto the branch nearby. As he put his full weight on the limb he slipped and fell forward. He desperately embraced the branch with both arms and legs and crawled to the tree trunk.

He had reached the ground and was only a few feet away from the tree when the lights went on in the windows, illuminating the lawn. He sprinted across the grass to the fence and scrambled over. As he dropped to the sidewalk, he heard shouts and began to run.

He wheeled around the corner, not certain of where he could hide. Then a fresh aroma filled his nostrils and pulled his legs toward a darkened area, a few yards in front of him. The renewed prominence of the musty scent surged over his need to escape as he slowed down and stopped near a high hedge. The hunger was stronger.

As he approached the bushes a whining buzz stung the air near his ear and the branch in front of him shattered. He saw a flash in the corner of his sight and reacted.

He ducked and began zigzagging across the sidewalk until he reached the cover of a parked car. From there he dashed to the corner, cut sharply and kept on running, until he couldn't lift his legs any longer.

It wasn't until much later, when he was walking across the still busy intersection at Piccadilly, that he fully realized that someone had tried to shoot him.

 

Lynn Rigby was completely content with her lot in life.

She slept late, wore expensive clothes, did no housework, and was pampered by the men who paid for the privilege of making love to her.

As she stepped out of the tub, she squinted approvingly at her reflection in the full-length mirror.

Her breasts were still firm and her skin was healthy. She'd be good for another ten years before she retired to Portugal, a proper lady.

She lingered in the bathroom after she'd finished drying herself, basking in the luxury of the countless sprays and lotions that crammed her shelves. It was her favorite room in the flat. There she made herself beautiful, preparing herself like a queen before she performed the duties of her calling.

Even on nights like this, when there was no one waiting in the gilded, four-poster bed in the next room, it gave her a sense of accomplishment to carefully clean and adorn her body.

She hadn't always had the time or the privacy to take such good care of herself. As a child she'd lived in a two-room hovel with her father and two sisters and the bathroom they shared with the other tenants on the floor was always filthy and never unoccupied. She had to find work as a scrub-girl and waitress to get herself the smallest necessities.

But she was quick and saw that there were easier ways. Men were always attracted to her and she schooled herself in their habits, dislikes, desires and kinks, until she'd learned enough to become a well-paid love object. She'd learned her lessons well and was proud of the skills she acquired. They'd taken her from her grimy childhood to a cushy London flat and solid security.

She wasn't like the others who threw their money away on drink or dope or flashy pimps. She knew what it was like to grow old poor. She'd watched her sisters dry up and their lives wither away, used up in a few years by too many kids and worthless husbands. Oh, yes, she'd learned. She kept a nice sum tucked aside for the days when she wouldn't be able to entice men as easily as she did now.

She also calculated that before those days came she'd be able to lure a wealthy older gentleman. But until then it was strictly business.

Not that she didn't enjoy a little personal fun every now and again. Like earlier that night. She'd felt in the mood to go out and find herself a man. Not a John who'd buy her for a. few minutes of exercise, but a real man. Someone who could fully arouse her special needs. Someone strong and hard who could command her complete respect. And as soon as she'd seen Mike Scott at the bar, she knew she had found what she was looking for.

There had been a wildness in his green eyes and gaunt features that she'd recognized immediately. She would have given in totally to his reckless, animal intensity.

Except for one thing, she reminded herself. The bastard ran off, had more important things to attend to.

She put on a sheer blue chiffon negligee and gave her carefully arranged hair a final pat with a brush. No matter, Lynn girl, she told herself as she went into the bedroom. He might still be back for a try. Probably a thief of some kind, she speculated. She knew his kind well enough. He was grimy all right, but his blazer and sweater were expensive. He wasn't an ordinary John, that was sure.

Could be he was an addict. The possibility narrowed her eyes as she turned down the silk covers of the bed. She'd been around long enough to know that addicts were trouble. They were lazy, messy, and spent every cent they could get for the stuff. A man like that could affect her business and eat up her security.

But when she heard the knock on the door, she didn't hesitate. She flung her magazine aside and went quickly to answer. The certainty that he was back shattered her caution and she threw back the bolt.

The certainty erupted into a flow of desire when she saw him leaning against the doorway. Then she noticed the dark circles under his eyes and the lines of exhaustion pulling at his mouth. "Mike, are you all right?" she gasped.

He lurched inside.

"Need a drink, love?" She lifted her hand to help him, but when she touched his arm a shock of sexual electricity charged through her body.

As his arms went around her, she heard him grunt softly and she knew he'd felt the same fierce surge. He pawed her body roughly and she responded, biting his lip and grinding her breasts into his hands. She wasn't concerned when he tore her negligee and half-dragged her to the bed. This was what she'd been craving when she'd gone out into the streets. She whispered hoarsely, urging him on as she pulled at his clothes.

A groan of savage delight convulsed through her belly when he entered her. It bubbled past her throat, fragmenting into a babble of pleas, promises, frantic suggestions, and obscene bribes as his electric flesh jolted the base of her spine with excitement. She squirmed and begged for more as he spanked her thighs and the jolts became a single spasm of pleasure. He beat her harder, smacking his palms flat against her legs and slapping her face and breasts. She kicked her legs in fear as he began to really hurt her, but he roared and twisted against her hips, intensifying pleasure and pain until they became unendurable and she passed out.

 

 

CHAPTER 17

 

 

Lynn murmured contentedly when she woke up and felt the warm ache on her thighs. It was an almost comforting reminder of her pleasure the night before. She rolled over and found the space next to her empty. She looked up and saw him standing at the head of the bed, pulling on his sweater. "G'mornin' love," she yawned.

He nodded slightly and smiled. "Morning."

She could tell by the way he glanced away, as if he was looking for something, that he wanted to leave right away.

Well, she decided, it wouldn't be her to make a fuss. He was too good to risk offending. She wanted to see this one again—addict, thief, or whatever he was. "You leaving then Mike?" she asked casually.

When he looked at her, something in his face told her that Mike wasn't his real name. "Thanks for the party, Lynn," he said softly.

"You're not goin' away without giving your Lynn-baby her good-bye kiss, are you, Mike?" she teased, stressing his name.

He came closer and kissed her gently on the lips.

"You be a good boy and come back soon," she whispered.

After he left, she lay awake thinking about him. Mike or whatever his name was, seemed different this morning. She'd never known her craving for violent sex to be so fully sated, and yet today he wasn't at all dominant.

Nothing like the surly, brutal tough she picked up in Soho. The hard lines in his face were gone, making him seem younger, and his eyes had lost their wild glaze. He had been almost shy with her this morning.

Men were like that, she reflected smugly. Especially afterward. But he'd be back soon enough, even if he was married. It had been too good between them.

As she fell asleep, she wondered if he'd made any marks on her skin. She had a client who'd love to see them.

 

When Orient reached his hotel room, he ran a tub of hot water and soaked in the soothing warmth for a long time.

His wrist was swollen and all that remained of his charred senses was a small, pulsing cell of pain in his hand.

His sanity stayed anchored by a fragile certainty. He was sure he hadn't killed Maxwell. He'd been raging mad and out of control, but still he was certain.

The fact that someone had tried to shoot him shored up his belief.

As he lay in the tub, he slowly pieced together scattered bits of memory. His wrist had been hurt by Germaine's incredibly tight grip. He took a deep breath, shifted lower, and let the water ease the tension that sprang across his chest when he remembered the orgiastic Tantric rite he'd watched Lily perform. He understood she had every right to pursue her beliefs, but his thoughts throbbed with the suspicion that she'd intended to betray him.

Most likely Maxwell had been sacrificed. He recalled the way Germaine had lifted Sybelle's suitcases, as if they'd been hollow. A man that strong could overpower any victim he chose.

His suspicion that Germaine influenced Lily to help sacrifice Maxwell nagged at Orient's limping awareness. He avoided dwelling on the possibility that she was a willing assistant to the murder. His mind had touched hers and had found truth there.

The realization that he might not be qualified to judge truth on any level wafted across his suspicions like half-digested garlic as he lifted himself wearily from the tub.

He put on fresh clothes and stuffed his soiled trousers and jacket in his suitcase with the rest of his gear. The best thing for him to do was to go back to New York and concentrate on finding a cure. Perhaps the powder he'd found on Maxwell's rug would give him a clue. It was the only link he had to all four deaths. It was even possible that the talcum could lead him to the missing ingredient in the formula. He decided to take a cab to the airport and wait for the next available flight.

But as the cab pulled away from the curb, he knew he couldn't leave without seeing Lily. Beneath his suspicion was still the imprint of her mind on his memory. He asked the driver to turn around.

Lily didn't seem to be surprised when she answered the door. Her fine-featured face remained expressionless when she saw him. "Come in," she said softly. "I've been waiting for you."

Thick velvet curtains shaded the afternoon light filtering in through the high windows. She moved ahead of him and pulled one of the curtains aside. The sudden brightness touched off bronze flames in her hair.

Her amber eyes remained impassive when she smiled. "Please sit down. I was hoping you'd come."

His body stiffened slightly at her nearness when she sat next to him on the couch and she noticed it. She drew back and looked at him. "Maxwell is dead," she whispered.

"I know."

She cocked her head, suddenly confused. "But... I thought... Count Germaine just found out...."

"I went back to his house last night. After you left. I found him there."

Her stare was cold and disbelieving. "Did you kill him?"

"No," he murmured, "did you?"

"Count Germaine thinks you did. He also thinks you may have killed Hazer."

How about Neilson, and Hannah?"

Her gaze wavered. "I told him you couldn't kill anyone," she said quickly.

"Why doesn't he go to the police?"

"I don't know." She looked away. "He's not sure."

"Perhaps it's because they'd investigate and find out that you'd all been together, performing an occult rite, the night he was murdered," he suggested. "Could be messy for everyone concerned. Suspicion would be centered on him. And the newspapers would burn the Moon Lady in print, especially if a connection was found to Hazer's death."

She wrung her hands nervously. "Yes," she said quietly. "He told me that, too."

‘‘What else did he tell you?"

When she looked up at him again, he saw that the coldness in her eyes had melted and tears were running down her face. "He asked me to stop seeing you. He said he was going back to Amsterdam to start an investigation himself. And when he found the... the werewolf he was going to kill him."

Orient sighed and sat back.

"Owen, I'm afraid," Lily sobbed, leaning closer to him. "Last night, when you came to Maxwell's, I could feel the terrible violence in you—as if you'd gone mad."

He closed his eyes as the warmth of her body relaxed his tense defenses. Thoughts and memories gathered like an unruly mob around his brain, yelling to be heard. But he put down the impulse to reach out for her to help him shut out the confusion. There was still something she hadn't told him. "Did you kill him?" he repeated.

He heard her quick intake of breath and opened his eyes. She was staring at him with bewilderment.

"You really think I could kill someone?"

He met her stare. "It's possible. Are you sure the price for extended youth doesn't include more than just mental sacrifice?"

She stood up. "That's really why you came here. I suppose you think that a woman who'd take part in an orgy would do anything. Even kill."

He shook his head. "I'm not concerned with popular morality. What you choose to do is your own responsibility. What worries me is the fact that four people have been killed in the last three months, three of them by a maniac."

"Why don't you complete the charges?" she snapped, suddenly angry. "And each one died during the phase of the full moon."

"We were together one of those nights," he reminded her. "I remember it quite clearly."

She bowed her head helplessly. "Why did you come last night?"

"I thought you were in danger. Maybe I was right." He stood up and took her shoulders. "Are you afraid of Germaine?"

"No." When she lifted her head, her smile was sad. "But last night I was afraid of you. You were like an enraged animal. I could feel the hate. I wish you hadn't seen the rite. I wanted to tell you after we had time to be together and know one another." Her smile disappeared and her eyes flashed yellow. "Please understand I didn't feel any obligation to explain myself, but I didn't want to have to lie to you. I wanted perfect communication between us."

"I still feel the same way," he said gently.

As he spoke, she pressed her mouth against his. He pulled her against him, his will dissolving at the taste of her lips.

"Darling, let's just go somewhere we can be together. Back to NewYork, anywhere." Her moist breath stroked his ear. "I want us to forget all this."

He pulled away. "I can't forget it, Lily."

"Why?"

"I can't tell you."

Her mouth hardened as she drew her arms away. "You do think I had something to do with the deaths."

"I think it's possible that you don't know everything there is to know about your friend Count Germaine," he said, suddenly weary.

A pale flush of anger colored her cheeks. "I don't know anything about you, do I?" she said sharply. "Yet I've known Count Germaine since I was a child. He was a friend of my father."

"Was your father interested in the occult?"

"No," she hesitated. "He never knew that Count Germaine practiced Tantric Yoga. He met the count through his own father, my grandfather."

Exhaustion numbed his thoughts as he realized that Lily couldn't understand unless he admitted that Germaine had guessed right. That he carried the disease of the werewolf.

"Don't you understand, darling?" she was saying. "I trust the count. He was even reluctant to install me as his apprentice in the rite. But I kept after it, exploring by myself until he saw I was serious. I had seen him live past generations of older relatives and friends. I wanted to learn the technique. And he agreed to teach me."

She came closer, searching his eyes for a sign of response. "Last night I was very sensitive. I felt a great hate and violence in you. You were capable of killing someone. Tell me what happened to make you like that."

The suspicion and confusion remained knotted around his guilt, and he was unable to tell her. "I was angry."

"No." She shook her head and folded her arms. "It was more than that. We both know it."

"Perhaps," he said deliberately, "Germaine can tell you."

Her eyes narrowed. "Then I suppose there's nothing more we can do for each other."

Orient shrugged. "I must go back to New York. You're right. There's nothing to do now."

Her voice was barely audible. "I don't know if I can join you, Owen."

He nodded, picked up his bag, and moved to the door.

"Owen."

He stopped and turned. She was poised as if she was about to run to him. "Ask me to go anywhere with you right now and I will. Just tell me what's wrong."

"I want us to be together," he said slowly, "but I can't promise or explain anything. Maybe your count is right. Maybe it's best if you don't see me any more."

As he spoke, he felt the words congeal and form a barrier between them. Lily remained frozen in her graceful ballerina pose, but her pale mouth reacted as if he'd slapped her.

He turned and opened the door. This time she didn't try to stop him.

 

The aftereffects of the potion and physical exhaustion combined to make the trip back an ordeal. Orient's bruised thoughts staggered blindly through his understanding. He sat up during the entire flight, unable to think, sleep, or forget; as his mind replayed the desolate exchange in which he'd lost Lily, over and over again.

 

 

CHAPTER 18

 

 

Sybelle was overcome with shock and grief when Orient told her about Maxwell's murder. And later, after he explained the circumstances, her sorrow was seized by fear and she realized that there were only four members of SEE left alive. The circle was becoming smaller.

Despite the fear, however, she absorbed everything Orient explained. Her career as a medium had taught her a stoic, accepting calm in the face of death, and curiosity quickly overcome her panic. But when he told her about Lily she almost became angry.

"Owen, you are the most exasperating man," she sniffed. "How could you be carrying on an affair under my very nose and never tell me a word? It's underhanded. And running off to London like that. Just madness."

Orient drummed his fingers on the desk as she scolded. "Sheer lunacy," he agreed.

"It's not funny. You can't expect me to help you solve these terrible crimes unless you confide in me, darling. Everything depends on our faith and mutual trust."

Orient hesitated. He still hadn't told her the details of the rite. Or his suspicions about Germaine. "Anyway the one positive result is that the potion works," he said.

"But it's only temporary. We have to find the killer and the missing ingredient. You should have asked Count Germaine for help instead of breaking in on his rite. "I think I'll call him."

"Not a good idea."

"I don't see why not,"

"Because," he explained reluctantly, "Germaine claims that I killed Maxwell. He's beginning an investigation."

"But darling, don't you see? That's exactly why I should speak to him. We can clear all this up if we all work together."

He folded his arms. "There's something else. I believe Germaine may be involved with the murders."

Sybelle's violent-shaded eyes widened. "Owen," she whispered, "I just can't believe that. What makes you so sure?"

"Two things." He avoided her eyes and stared down at his wrinkled palms. "First the rite they were performing. It was a Tantric form. The rite of Kundalini, the Serpent Fire."

"Tantric? Isn't that one of the forbidden forms? I was told that it's extremely dangerous."

"It is, if practiced by weak or dishonest disciples. But heavy power can be generated by an adept. And I don't know if the power derives from human sacrifice."

"But you're saying the count is a deliberate murderer," Sybelle protested. "I've known him for years and he's always been a dear friend."

Orient nodded. He'd known that she would find his real suspicions difficult, if not impossible, to accept; but it was important that Germaine remained unaware of his movements. "Someone took a shot at me that night," he reminded softly. "And Germaine has already said he wants to kill me. Perhaps his investigation is a convenient cover for another attack."

"You're too excited, darling," Sybelle decided. "It's not logical. He has no motive for wanting to kill you. Unless he believes you're the werewolf. I could explain that you're sick, but you're definitely not the person responsible for the deaths."

"I want you to promise to tell him nothing," he insisted. "It would put us both in danger."

"Exactly what makes you think so?" She persisted. "What motive could he have?"

"Excluding the possibility that he's insane, there are two strong motives. Lily told me Germaine performs the Kundalini rite to prolong his life. Extended life is sufficient reason for a sacrifice killing to some men. But there's another even more practical reason that would tempt most men."

"Which is?" Her voice was cool, but he knew that he'd hit a chord of recognition.

"There are only two original members of SEE left alive. Four, including Lily and myself. Our votes control an eight million dollar trust. A man who intends to live forever might very well intend to be rich."

Sybelle opened her mouth and then closed it. She leaned back in her armchair and fussed with the lapel of her yellow silk pants suit while she thought it over.

Orient watched her closely, knowing that she had to believe him.

She shook her head and sighed. "All right, I promise Owen. Maybe it is best if I don't call him."

"The talcum I picked up may give us a lead," he pressed. "It's been the link with all of the murders. Even Hannah's death."

"The, er... scent that makes you violent," she reflected. "Well, I suppose you know what's best, darling. When will you have the results of your test?"

"Six or seven days."

He explained the details, but she wasn't listening. What he'd suggested was so difficult to accept. Of course, it made sense. Eight million was a lot of money. Especially for a man who dared tamper with the rite of Serpent Fire. But there was something else. She could see that Owen wasn't well. The flesh under his jutting cheekbones was worn away and his eyes shone moist and over-bright from inside their hollow sockets.

He was rocking back and forth in his chair as he spoke, unable to suppress the anxiety that lined his wide mouth.

She noticed his sweater and trousers hanging loosely on his thin frame and realized that the feverish intensity that burned like green flares in his eyes was consuming his strength. She wondered if it wasn't consuming his mind as well.

The question smoldered under her thoughts long after she'd left his house.

 

Orient was disappointed.

He could see that Sybelle didn't completely believe him and the awareness plunged him deeper into the certainty that he was alone.

He knew he was drawing on the last fund of energy left to him. The reflex that implied that he should will himself to go on was almost exhausted. Love ended, friendship shaky, and betrayed by his own body, he was left with nothing but that diminishing spasm of will. He knew there was no hope of finding a cure. Remember ten measures which the beast loves best, from one who loves him more than all the rest. Even if he could grasp the answer to the riddle, he couldn't come up with anyone who fit that description.

As the days passed his depression was amplified by fear. He was sure he was the next victim on the maniac's list. And he knew that Germaine was hunting him. Every path in his destiny seemed to converge on disaster, and e was helpless to change his course. He kept himself busy in his laboratory, working methodically to prepare three strong doses; arming himself against the next attack of the disease. But he understood that if Germaine didn't find him, the vibration of the full moon would; and his preparations were as vain as the flailing of a hooked fish.

In a week, Sordi brought him the results of the tests they'd run on the talcum.

 

"That stuff is a mixture of ordinary talcum, dried blood, and a trace of aromatic mushroom,'' he reported "Toxic variety.''

"Lethal poison?"'

Sordi nodded sadly. "Yes. But what's it for? Your disease?"

Orient's attention was diverted from the typed report by his remark.

"What do you know about my sickness?".

Sordi hesitated. He hadn't meant to blurt out what he'd deduced from the doctor's lab requests. And he wasn't prepared for such a startled reaction. He felt a twinge of foolishness at having blundered into his privacy. "I knew that the blood samples you wanted me to check were yours," he said. "And I saw the blood cells were mutated."

Sordi regretted his impulsiveness when he saw the drawn, defeated smile on his face. "It's true, I am sick," he said. "I guess I should have told you sooner, but I didn't want to alarm you."

"But that's a fantastic attitude," Sordi protested. "If you're sick, you need care. You haven't eaten or slept right- for weeks. Why not check into a hospital? At least let your friends help you. Does Sybelle know?"

Yes. But there's nothing any physician can do right now. The disease just has to run its course."

"Well, at least keep up your strength. Why don't you let me fix you a hot meal?"

"You're right," he sighed. "I've been pushing too hard. Some food would probably give me some stamina."

"Of course. Isn't there anything else I can do for you?"

He narrowed his eyes. "Yes. If anyone comes looking for me, I want you to let me know."

"If who comes looking for you?" Sordi demanded.

"Any stranger. It's important that I don't see anyone until I work out the cure for the sickness."

"I'll remember," Sordi promised. He retired grudgingly. He knew the doctor was still being evasive and the fact that he wasn't being told stung his pride.

But he went about his work resolutely, determined to show Orient he could be an effective friend in a crisis.

 

During the next week Orient's despair eroded into apathy. ‘The slim chance that the talcum might be the missing ingredient in the potion was negated by the chemical report. The presence of poison mushroom rendered it useless for the cure.

He spent days shut up with his manuscripts of occult science and his psychiatric journals, following up any reference he could find to Tantric Yoga and the rite of Kundalini. There was very little. After a while, he even stopped searching through the papers and microfilm and just sat at his desk for hours, staring at the network of lines in his aged, puckered hands.

Sordi came in one afternoon to interrupt his brooding. "There was a girl here a few minutes ago asking for you," he announced. "I told her you were away."

For a moment, Orient didn't respond, then a spark of expectation flashed across his dried hopes. "Did she leave her name?" he asked suddenly.

"No. She wouldn't leave any name. But she said you were expecting her. Tall girl with reddish gold hair. Very nice...."

Orient was on his feet and heading for the door before Sordi could finish his description. He took the stairs three at a time and ran out of the house into the street.

Both sides of Riverside Drive were completely empty. Confusion doused the brief flare of energy as he wondered which way she'd gone. Then he saw something on the sidewalk. A yellow rose.

He went over to pick it up and saw another, a few feet away. Beyond the second flower, at the corner, there was a third. When Orient reached the third rose he saw her.

She was sitting on a stoop, holding a bouquet of yellow roses, waiting for him."

"I was afraid I was going to have to use them all up before you found me," she said.

He tried to control the wildfire that spread through/ his mind as her smile touched his fierce need.

"I want to help you, darling," Lily whispered, holding the flowers out to him. "And I want us to be together. Do you want to try?"

As Orient took the flowers, he noticed that their velvety petals were almost the same shade as her golden skin.

 

 

CHAPTER 19

 

 

Lily changed many of Orient's habits in the weeks that she was with him. His appetite for food, for play–and for her –increased, stimulated by her vibrance.

They went window-shopping, visited museums, dined out, and made love with equal enthusiasm. Every small event became an important part of their communication.

Lily liked to fill the house with music as soon as she awoke and the snatches of tunes and chords seemed to underscore the significance of their hours together.

Even Sordi was relaxed and enjoyed the presence of a guest in the house. He outdid himself in preparing exotic meals and pampered Lily outrageously. She in turn showered him with attention and compliments and the two of them formed a rapid alliance, easing the tension that had grown between the two men, as Sordi was reassured that everything would be all right again.

Sybelle was also reassured. She was captivated by Lily's lack of pretension and delighted by her companionship. She, too, became a warm friend and bubbled optimistically about finding a cure for Orient's sickness.

But although Lily's closeness had dispersed Orient's depression, he couldn't bring himself to be completely honest with her. He was too acutely aware of the passage of time; and the possibility that Lily could be an ironic idyll before his execution.

"Mmnn, look how nicely the flowers dried."

Orient lifted his head from the pillow and peered at the vase of yellow roses on the table across the room.

Their petals had darkened in death and stiffened like starched cloth.

"They'll keep for years now that they're like' that," Lily gloated, nuzzling his ear. "I'm glad. My first gift will last to haunt you. Even if you throw me out in the street"

"Sounds complicated," he murmured lazily.

"Beast. You're supposed to convince me, after many assurances, that you'll never, never cast me out into the street. But you give me lovelorn-column psychology." She nipped his ear and pulled away.

"Sordi wouldn't let me cast you out into the street," he protested.

"That's because he's a European gentleman."

"That's because he's a man," Orient corrected gently as he drew her down next to him. "And he's been dazzled by moondust."

"How about you?" she giggled. "Are you immune?"

He smiled trying to cover the quick grab of anxiety that grabbed his memory. "Of course not," he said softly. "You're too dazzling. Like Christmas."

Her face was close to his and he could see vibrant yellow crystals of pleasure in her eyes. "That's good enough for me," she whispered. She kissed him and her tongue ignited his senses. Her hungry hands made restless patterns of delight on his skin as he covered her soft, warm body with his.

Afterward, she lay exhausted against his chest while he brooded.

"Are you thinking about the moon phase?" Her voice was husky in the stillness. "Yes."

"I've been thinking about it, too. Something we said reminded me. Moon dust," Orient nodded.

"There's not much time left, is there?" "Less than a week now."

"Perhaps the stronger dose of the formula will work."

He tried to look hopeful. "Could be."

"You know," she began, as if struck by a sudden inspiration, "I'll be very sensitive during the full moon. Maybe if you teach me the telepathic technique I could help you mentally control the symptoms."

A nudge of suspicion tripped an alarm in his mind and he hesitated. "It's a good idea," he said carefully, "but I don't know if my concentration is strong enough these days. The disease has interfered with my abilities."

"You have the CDs you made with Sybelle. I could study those and you could guide me. Wouldn't it be lovely if we could communicate telepathically?"

His thoughts accelerated as she spoke. Perhaps this was really why she was here. Germaine had sent her to learn the technique before getting rid of him.

"On second thought, maybe it's an awful idea. It might be terrible to know your lover's thoughts."

"Very risky." He wondered if her remark was significant.

"Perhaps Count Germaine could help us," she ventured in a low voice.

"No. We'll wait." His mind tensed for her reaction, but it never came.

"All right Owen," she murmured drowsily. "If that's the way you feel, we'll wait." She closed her eyes and pressed her face against his shoulder.

He wanted to say nothing and go to sleep, but the insistent doubts finally forced him to ask.

"Do you still practice the Tantric forms?"

She stirred and he heard her take a deep breath. "Yes. Some exercises and meditation forms. But the Kundalini rite doesn't take place for another year." She paused. "Does it... bother you? Is that why you don't want to see Germaine?"

Orient had asked himself the same question many times since that night. Whenever he recalled the sexual rite he'd seen Lily perform, his memory danced between jealousy and curiosity. He understood that her participation wasn't evil, but his emotions weren't as sure.

"You're free to explore any path you wish/' he said. "No other way."

Her body relaxed. "I think it's important, darling. I know that Tantric Yoga has always been looked upon as a forbidden form, but that's only because of artificial sexual custom. The sexual power is used to release the natural energy at the base of the spine. The technique has been misused by evil men, but a skilled adept can turn the energy released toward good. If you like, Count Germaine could teach you the technique. Then eventually we'd be able to perform the rite ourselves. And we could remain as we are indefinitely."

He wondered if she was offering him a bribe to lull his suspicions of Germaine. "Could be interesting," he said. "But not until after the moon phase."

"Good." She.snuggled closer to him. "And then all the barriers between us will be gone."

As he lay awake in the darkness, however, he knew the barriers would exist until he found the identity of the killer.

His mind went back to the first murder. It was possible, he admitted reluctantly, that Germaine had sent her that night, to keep him out of the way. Even as she slept beside him, Lily could be homing his movements for her master.

 

It seemed to Orient that his suspicions made themselves apparent in a hundred different ways over the next few days. Despite his effort to maintain normality he became less talkative and started spending long hours alone in his library. And when they were together, he was unable to muster any enthusiasm for future plans.

If Lily noticed the changes she didn't question him. She lovingly overlooked his inability to communicate and continued to be cheerful and optimistic about their relationship.

He wanted to empty his mind of everything except her tenderness, but he couldn't. Time filled his thoughts with the certainty that unless he remained alert against her love, it would betray him.

He was in the library one day, studying the data on the coming lunar phase, when the phone rang.

"Hello, darling," Sybelle gushed. "How are you lovebirds doing? Where's Lily? "

Orient winced. "Right now she's out gathering twigs for our nest."

"How sweet. Now tell me, are you two free for dinner this coming Thursday?"

"Don't think so. We decided to cancel our nights out until after the moon."

"Oh, yes, of course. What a pity. I wanted you to meet some dear friends from Paris. They're also friends of the count. Oh, well, some other time. I won't insist."

"Some other time," he said, doubly relieved he'd declined. He wanted no more ties to Germaine to burden his already strained relationship with Lily.

"You know, dear," Sybelle said casually, "you might reconsider what you said and let me call the count. I'm sure he'd be happy to help."

His fingers tightened around the phone. "Did you tell Lily about anything we've discussed?" he demanded.

"Why no, of course not. As a matter of fact she once mentioned it to me. Why not try it? If only for Lily?"

"You know why."

"But dear surely you can't believe Count Germaine would kill someone? Lily would certainly know if he did. She'd have to be an accomplice. Don't you see how silly that is?"

"Is it?" he grunted.

For a moment there was a shocked pause. Then he heard her indignant exhale of breath. "Owen Orient you are simply a male savage. That poor girl loves you and wants to help you."

"Did she tell you that?"

"No. But a woman can... oh, I'm wasting my breath. I suggest you think very carefully about what you're saying. I'm going to prove to you that you're absolutely mistaken."

The phone clicked and went dead.

Orient replaced the receiver, sat back in his chair, and sighed aloud. Germaine had threatened to kill him and yet both Lily and Sybelle claimed he was faultless. And Sybelle had exploded at the hint that Lily could be involved.

The more he brooded over Sybelle's reaction the clearer became the confines of the trap he was in. In the short time she'd been with him, Lily had managed to win over his closest friends. She could act with impunity and all his suspicions would be discredited. She'd completely undermined his defenses.

Of course, he could always go to some remote hunting lodge in Canada or Maine until the lunar phase had passed. But that would leave Lily alone in the city. If he was wrong and something happened to harm her, his life would be of no further use to him. He had to stay and wait for the moon's whim.

 

Orient had always been taciturn, and on the mountain with Ku in Tibet he'd passed through months of total silence; but as the day or the full moon neared, the inability to communicate became a strain on his nerves.

Lily continued to go out during the day, but he withdrew further into the blank shelter of his studio and they saw each other only for a few hours at night. Their relationship had already deteriorated into the sullen armistice of a foundering marriage.

He continued to search through his manuscripts and microfilm for a way to protect himself against the coming tide, but found only extravagant invocations against dangerous spirits.

He couldn't use any of them. His demon was already part of his chemistry and could only be exorcised by himself. There was nothing in his books he could turn to.

A vague memory tugged at his depression and his thoughts went back to Ku, who had given him the secret of telepathy as a trust. He knew now he hadn't learned enough on the mountain. But as he brooded something from his past schooling as a neophyte came back to him.

The old monk had once taught him a formula to use if he ever needed martial assistance or protection from the League of the Serene Knowledge. As he remembered he became apprehensive. The rite required impeccable concentration, and his will was undependable. The formula of Mars was too powerful a force to invoke in his condition.

But then a faint surge of exhilaration pushed through his fears and he left the studio to prepare himself. He had to try it; for Lily, for himself, and for the trust his teacher had placed in his care.

When he'd found everything he needed, he went down to a small, basement room beneath the garage. The room was empty, except for a low wood table, and the walls and floors were lined with white tile. It was Orient's altar room for performing special rites. He'd installed the tile himself to facilitate cleaning. He'd even built the altar table by hand, as dictated by the law of occult science. This law also required that an altar used for a rite be perfectly clean to prevent negative elements from intruding. He hadn't used the altar room for two years, but now that he was ready it was spotless, thanks to Sordi's efficiency. He took off his shoes and went inside.

He set the shopping bag containing his implements down on the floor and unfolded the large red sheet he was carrying under his arm. Red, the primary color of Mars, was the only shade allowed in performing the rite. He spread the sheet on the floor, in front of the table; then unpacked the objects in his shopping bag and placed them on the sheet.

When he was finished he removed his clothes, put them in the empty shopping bag, and placed the bag outside the door, next to his shoes.

He came back to the sheet and placed a square of red cloth, the size of a napkin, on the, altar table. Then he carefully arranged five small red candles on the square so that each candle was a point of an invisible pentagon.

Red was the color of Mars, five his number, and so too the instruments he used were all appropriate to the God of War. Almost everything was made of steel or iron; the long table knife that would serve as his sword, the automobile wrench that would be his rod of power, and the vessel in which he would burn sulphur and saltpeter, both minerals of Mars' domain.

He placed the iron bowl containing the minerals in the center of the table, struck a match, lit the candle points of the pentagon, then touched the flame to the paper wrapped around the minerals in the bowl. The yellow fumes of the sulphur gave off the odor of decomposing eggs as he began the rite.

He sat down in a full Lotus position in front of the table. In his right hand he held the rod of power and in his left the sword.

He took a deep breath and began the breathing pattern, trying to charge his dim concentration. As his awareness increased, he understood the implications of the ritual and the fear returned. He opened his consciousness and began to invoke the force.

"Agla, Agla, Agla, Agla," he whispered. "Almighty God of the four parts of the universe. Through the power of thy holy name... Tetragrammaton. Bless this carpet in thy name...." He lifted the wrench above his head.

"Bless this rod of power in thy name and that of Yod and of thine aide Paliel..."

As he lifted the knife above his head he felt a soft implosion of energy in his belly.

"And bless this sword of defense in the name of Gegurah of the Fifth Sephira, the Sphere of the God of Battle...."

Still holding the implements over his head, he changed his position until he was lying face-down on the sheet, with his arms stretched out in front of him.

"Bless these things in thy holy name," he continued, "as thou blessed the cloak of Elijah in the hands of Elijah; so that, with thy wings I will be protected against all."

His voice seemed to be enclosed in the walls of his skull; so that no sound he made escaped to disturb the silence in the room.

"He shall hide thee under His wings and under His feathers thou shalt trust, and His truth shall be thy protection." He concluded. He closed his eyes and waited.

His consciousness rang with the echoes of the words and he felt another implosion tremble through his senses like a distant rumble in a subway tunnel Then he felt nothing at all-

He was vaguely disappointed as he dressed. He was sure he'd adhered to every intent of the rite and yet he'd felt nothing familiar. Of course, he hadn't quite finished.

He felt almost foolish repeating the words as he folded the sheet. "Recabustira, Cabustira, Bustira, Ra... " he droned before placing the sheet in the shopping bag with the other implements.

He took care that everything in the altar room was as he'd found it then opened the door, put on his shoes, and went upstairs to hide his instruments.

 

That evening Lily came back to the house with a gift for Orient. A silver penknife.

She seemed especially enthused at dinner and Sordi regaled her with stories of his misspent youth in Ischia, while Orient half-listened, still preoccupied with his rite.

He'd reached the conclusion that it had been a failure even though reason advised him to be patient Since it was the first time he'd actually performed the formula it was wise to wait for the result. But he was sure it was hopeless. He could have easily made a mistake, or just as easily be beyond anyone's help.

That night when they were alone, Lily broke the long silence that had built up between them. "Did you like your present, really?" she asked shyly.

He tried to smile, but it didn't come off. "Exactly what I needed."'

She hesitated. "You seem so worried, darling. I wish you could talk to me about it. Do you want to?"

When he looked at her he saw that her lovely face was framed by the bronze hair spilling over her pillow, and her eyes were dark and pleading.

"Really nothing to talk about," he murmured. "I guess I'm scared of what might happen this next moon phase. But all I can do is wait."

You mean all I can do," she corrected, lifting her head to kiss him.

He wanted to believe her, but he knew that there was nothing that could stop the moon from becoming full in the sky. The certainty made his lips as cold as stone.

 

The next morning Lily left the house early, without mentioning where she was going. Orient knew that he should be making a check on her movements, but he couldn't seem to gather the courage to spy on her and confront her with her deceit.

He was getting weaker and there was only one thing he could count on when the time came. The potion would serve to suspend some of his anguish. And even that could betray him.

Something occurred to him and he went to his laboratory to check the bottles in their hiding place. Three full doses. They appeared un tampered.

Earlier, to make absolutely sure, he had put a moistened hair across all three corks. Each hair was still in place.

He went back to the studio and considered taking a long walk in the fresh air. He should have gone out with Lily, he decided. No matter what her deviousness her company still lightened his dread of the future. His sleep was sounder now that she slept beside him and his nightmares were gone. A demon couldn't have a more charming lady to nurse his affairs if he'd created her himself: fashioned her out of autumn leaves, and wood smoke, and rain, and the needs of a hunted man.

The afternoon dragged on without her and he became more anxious for her return. When the doorbell rang he hurried to answer, but it wasn't Lily at the door. Instead he saw a familiar triangular face, and steely eyes that stared from under sharply angled eyebrows.

"What do you want?" Orient demanded through the rush of anger and confusion. His instincts tensed his body automatically against a hostile gesture.

Count Germaine's smile was apologetic "You called me," he said. "And I've come."

"Called you?"

"When you invoked your rite of Mars." His voice was soothing and melodious, but his eyes were gray ice. "May I come in?"

 

 

CHAPTER 20

 

 

As Orient led the way to his studio, the only thought that made sense in his churning brain was that he shouldn't have his back turned to Germaine. He veered nearer to the stair rail and slowed down so the count was walking almost beside him.

"This is an ideal room for your work, doctor," Germaine said as they entered the workshop library. "For any man's work. You must come visit my home in Amsterdam one day."

"Perhaps we should eliminate formalities," Orient said, his body still poised against a treacherous move by the tall man. "You've accused me of Maxwell's death and you've announced that you intend to kill me. Is that why you're here?"

Germaine sat down on the couch. "But I've told you why I'm here," he said calmly. "It's true that for the past month I've been investigating the circumstances around these murders. But I haven't sworn to kill you, have I? I've sworn to kill the werewolf."

Orient then decided it was foolish to think he could keep his disease a secret from Germaine. "Two months ago. On the night Hannah was killed I was infected by Lycanthropy when I was attacked. But I didn't kill Hazer or Andersen. There's another werewolf–the one who killed Neilson and attacked me."

Germaine smiled. "To be perfectly truthful, I had suspected you of killing Daniel and Maxwell."

"Suspected?"

"Now I'm bound by a higher duty. My doubts must be put aside in the service of the League. You called me into that service when you invoked the rite. And I must help you."

For a moment, Orient was unable to conceal the disbelief and fear that jammed his thoughts. Then he set the muscles in his face. He couldn't display any sign of weakness. Right now it was best to just play along and wait for an opening. "Why did you become so interested in Daniel's murder?" he asked, stalling for time. "As I recall you were disinterested in any investigation of his death."

Germaine's smile became regretful "Yes," he sighed, "it's true that if I'd acted sooner, I might have prevented Maxwell's death. But if I didn't complete the appointed yearly rite of the Serpent Fire I would have been unable to prevent it anyway. It was fated. Only the successful completion of the rite keeps me alive. If I was somehow prevented from performing the bloodless sacrifice my body would age very rapidly."

He pounced on the word. "Sacrifice?"

"Bloodless sacrifice," Germaine corrected. "My body's own hoard of sperm."

Orient took a deep breath and tried to squash the memory of the rite he'd seen Lily perform. But his emotion spilled over into his voice when he spoke.

"To be perfectly truthful with you? he said deliberately, "I've always believed it possible that these deaths are connected with an occult sacrifice."

"You know, doctor," Germaine mused, "I've lived a very long time and I know that not only is everything possible, it's probable. Reality is just a matter of choice." His smile disappeared and his eyes were penetrating as he stared at Orient. "Who of us is wise enough to choose?"

Orient recognized the, challenge. All his instincts warned him to ignore it, but he knew that he couldn't back away from a confrontation without leaving himself vulnerable. He'd be in the position of not knowing his opponent's movements.

"What do you propose?" he asked softly.

 

Germaine shrugged his narrow shoulders. "Actually, I came to hear your request. But if you like I can suggest that I stay here, as your guest, while we investigate the problem of your disease and its... cure." He smiled genially. "If I'm not disturbing the privacy you and Lady Sativa share."

"How did you know Lily's here?" Orient snapped. "Did she tell you?"

"During the course of my investigations, I've made it my business to know the movements of everyone connected with SEE. It's obvious to me that one of the remaining four members will be attacked during the next full moon. But, of course, you also know that, don't you?"

Orient's thoughts scrambled through his consciousness, searching for some hidden meaning behind his remark. But all he found was his own racing apprehension. "All right," he said. "I accept your suggestion. Remain here as my guest, I'm sure Lily will be happy to see you."

 

He wasn't completely accurate.

Lily's enthusiasm seemed subdued by Germaine's arrival She was pleasant through dinner, but her usual high spirits were replaced by a grave, almost respectful, wariness. Orient watched her closely, but her composure remained steady, even when Germaine mentioned the telepathic technique. "Lily's powers are so unusually strong during the full moon," he reflected. "Perhaps if you teach her to communicate with you she could be of some help."

Orient glanced at Lily, but she was involved in a conversation with Sordi. Now he was sure that Germaine had come to learn the secret of telepathy before he killed him. The knowledge gave him a strange confidence as he met" Germaine's eyes. "There's not enough time. Less than forty hours before the lunar phase."

Germaine nodded then turned to Sordi and congratulated him on his cooking in the same bland, melodious tone he'd employed to ask Orient about the technique. Never once did the polite smile flicker with uncertainty. The tall, soft-spoken count knew his opponent was cornered

Later, when the three of them were alone in the library, Germaine tried another approach. "I take it you've investigated Carl's formula," he said casually. "Any results?"

"Only partially," Orient admitted "But the last ingredient is stall a riddle."

"But you've tried a partial mixture?"

Germaine was clever, Orient thought. He could almost admire the impeccable logic and cool control of his voice and expression. Lily leafed through a book as if she was unaware of what was being said But Orient was alert to the implication of the suggestion. If Germaine could find the hidden potion it would destroy any hope of resistance. "I made up a dose last month," he said. "There's none left."

"Then that's probably the point we should concentrate on when we begin our work in the morning. I'll help you make up a new batch."

It was a reasonable suggestion, forcing Orient to agree. Lily seemed oblivious to their transaction, but he got the impression she was pleased.

If she was confused she didn't discuss it with Orient when they were alone. She made no attempt to draw him out, but let the silence remain between them. They lay side by side, separated by a trackless forest of quiet and his certainty that she was stalking him.

He could guess how it had come about. She'd somehow found the shopping bag he'd bidden in the closet, deduced that he'd performed a rite of Mars, and discovered a perfect reason for Germaine to visit. Now the trap was complete.

 

Orient's anticipation of impending treachery was accentuated by Lily's surprising decision the next morning.

She wanted to forgo her usual round of shopping and museum-hopping, to remain with them as they prepared a new batch of the formula.

As she and Germaine went over the rhyme in the laboratory, Orient stood apart, watching them for any sign of deception. Both of them seemed absorbed in interpreting the words of the riddle, however, and didn't notice his lack of participation. When they were finished their results were the same as his own. Everything but the final ingredient, which remained unsolvable.

"I have most of the herbs here in the lab," Orient explained, "but none of the opium. And there's no way to requisition any more from the warehouse. I've used up my quota."

"I can get a hundred grams or so through an associate here," Germaine said smoothly. "But of course there's still the last couplet."

Orient shook his head. "Any ideas?"

Germaine smiled. "Ten measures which the beast loves best, from one who loves him more than all the rest," he recited softly. "Badly metered but amusing. And of course obvious. I can't tell you what the beast loves best. Only the werewolf can do that. And you're the werewolf, aren't you?"

Orient's caution was toppled by a turbulent, unreasoning anger.

"Remember that I was with Owen the night Neilson was killed," Lily said quickly. "There are two werewolves."

"Perhaps. But only one of them can solve the riddle for us," Germaine said.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Orient growled. His chest was pounding and his fists clenched as the rage splashed over his senses.

"Very well," Germaine said softly. His eyes remained fixed on Orient's face. "I'm going to procure the opium base you need. Why don't you think about what I've suggested until I return?"

When he left the laboratory, Lily rushed to Orient's side and took his arm. "Darling, Fm becoming worried," she whispered. "I don't like his coming here. And I'm worried about us. Can't we go somewhere until after the moon phase?"

A cold shower of suspicion alerted his instincts. He drew away and looked at her. "You suggested calling him."

She brushed a few strands of hair from her forehead. "I was wrong. He seems to be goading you. And I can't help remembering his threat to kill... the werewolf." She folded her arms and shivered. "I can feel the hostility between you. Can't you send him away? "

The ploy snapped in his mind like a door bolt. He understood what she was trying to do. She was pretending to be afraid of Germaine so that she could gain his confidence. He smiled as the knowledge cooled the remnants of his anger. "It's the only way we'll know for sure." -

She shook her head. "I don't know. We've changed too Owen. It's as if we're strangers."

"Sorry Lily. But everything depends on being ready."

"But not alone, darling." Her husky voice became intense. "Don't you feel we need each other?"

He reached out and took her shoulders. Her skin was warm under her cashmere sweater. "We'll see this through here. Together. But I don't want you hurt by any of this." As he spoke the words he realized that he wanted them to be true.

Her mouth relaxed and her amber eyes became smoky. "Thanks, my love," she whispered. "Just remember that it's not me or you. It's us."

She kissed him; and as his body responded to her warmth, his mind withdrew behind a cold, protective curtain.

 

Lily proved to be a skilled lab technician and with her help it took them only a short time to distill the herbs Orient had on hand. While they were working he got a telephone call from Sybelle. Not wanting Lily to overhear, he pushed the hold button and went into the other room.

"Well," Sybelle sniffed when he released the call. "I'm glad you're still talking to me." "AsI recall..."

"I'm the one who hung up. Yes, I am sorry, but you can be infuriatingly stubborn, darling. Is everything all right?"

"Germaine is here."

There was a pause. "But that's fabulous? she said finally. "So Lily managed to talk some sense into you after all Perhaps I should come over right away and we can all—"

"Don't come here."

"What?"

"Don't come here. I'm not sure about the real reason Germaine came to New York. And from now on keep your apartment door locked. Don't take any chances. It might even be better if you didn't go out anywhere today."

"But, darling, I have a very important appointment this evening. You mean you're still persisting in that... bizarre notion that the count is responsible for the murders? I can't believe it. You should be working with him. He can help you. He's a very knowledgeable scientist. Please, darling."

"Don't worry, we're working together," he assured her. "We're making up a new batch of the formula. But it's best that we try it out privately. So we can gauge its effects with minimum danger. Meanwhile I think it's smart to just sit tight,"

He hoped she would accept what he said. There was no use arguing now. The important thing was that she didn't interfere.

"Well, I suppose that's good advice," she sighed. "But not exactly a cheerful prospect for going out with my friends."

"Cancel out and watch TV.".

"Not this one, sweetie. All right I'm off. Give the count my regards."

"I'll call you," he said, but she'd already hung up.

 

When Germaine returned, the three of them added the opium gum to the herbs and made up a large dose of the formula. Orient was satisfied as he watched them work that they hadn't tampered with the ingredients.

Until he remembered that he'd left Lily alone in the lab when Sybelle called. He recalled the presence of poison mushroom in the aromatic talcum and became apprehensive:

"Do you want to take it now, Owen?" Lily asked.

He shook his head. "There's still a few hours before the symptoms appear. I'll take it when I have to." His mind accelerated as his evasions compounded. He had to find an opportunity to be alone in the lab, so he could take the doses he'd mixed himself. The pounding in his heart and the tension in his neck and shoulders became an uncomfortable throb in his temple.

"I've done what we've agreed to do, doctor," Germaine said, "and now I would like you to do something for me. Perhaps it will seem like an odd request."

Orient sensed that the trap was about to spring. He took a deep breath and readied himself. "What is it you want me to do?" As he spoke his hand dropped into his blazer pocket.

"I'd like you to show me your altar room."

He hesitated and then met Germaine's steely stare.

"What makes you think I have an altar room?"

The count smiled, but his eyes remained flat and hard beneath his thick eyebrows. "You couldn't have performed a rite of Mars without it. Isn't it time we really tried to find a cure? Or have you grown fond of your beastly nature? Is that why you won't tell us the answer to the last line of the formula?"'

A quick flush of anger heated the back of Orient's neck and his fingers closed around the knife he'd put in his pocket earlier that day. It was the table knife he'd consecrated as his sword of defense in the rite.

"Please, count, why are you saying all these horrible things," Lily protested, glancing at Orient. "He needs our help."

Germaine's eyes didn't waver from Orient's face. "Perhaps I'm tired, Lily. I traveled long to reach you. And the journey is as relentless as the flow of water."

The words froze in Orient's mind. They were part of a traditional greeting between adepts of the occult league. Memory melted through his confusion and he automatically responded. "One must take care, the journey is strewn with illusion," he said softly, his fingers still on his knife.

"Then the journey will take a long time to complete."

"The journey will complete itself in time."

Germaine bowed his head. "So be it,"

His thoughts spun like tires on ice. The count had completed the salutation perfectly. Orient moved away from the tall man. "But you haven't told me why you need the altar room."

Germaine's eyes suddenly flashed like chrome. "To cure you, doctor. That's why I'm here."

He hesitated. Lily was leaning against a table watching them, a rapt expression of curiosity on her face. She was waiting for the right moment. He decided to give it to her. "All right," he murmured. "Come with me."

Orient kept Lily and Germaine in front of him as he guided them past the garage to the stairway that led to the small room. The throb was building in his temple and he knew he should go back to the lab and take some of the potion right away. But he wanted to know what Germaine planned. He was sure it had something to do with the Kundalini rite. And every instinct was prepared for the possibility that the count needed the altar room for his sacrifice.

"Remarkable, doctor." Germaine congratulated him when they were inside the tiled room. "Completely functional Is this where you called me?"

"Yes." Orient closed the door and faced him. "Now tell me what you want to do."

Germaine's eyes narrowed. "I had hoped that I could put you in a state of trance in order to induce you to reveal the last ingredient. But I see you're still not convinced."

"Can't we stop this bickering?" Lily snapped. "Owen doesn't have much time. I can feel the tide rising."

"It's up to him," Germaine replied calmly. "He must choose."

"Tell me," Orient stalled, his hand tightened around the handle of the knife as an acute pain shot through his brain. "Tell me why you aren't afraid. After all, you believe I murdered Maxwell. Hasn't it occurred to you that I might attack you?" The last two words echoed endlessly across his mind.

"Darling, what's wrong?" Lily was saying.

He turned as she moved toward him. The distraction was enough. He only caught a glimpse of what Germaine was doing.

Then the revolver was in his hand.

"I've sworn to kill the werewolf," Germaine said gently. "The bullets in this weapon were dipped in silver and mercury. I'm here to help you and the duty is greater than my oath. But if you have killed, and are incurable, then I must use the only available means to end the disease. I must execute you."

Orient stiffened then relaxed his grip on the knife. He couldn't take it from his pocket before Germaine pulled the trigger. It was over.

 

 

CHAPTER 21

 

 

Germaine lifted his arm and held the revolver out to Lily. "Take this," he said softly.

"I... don't understand," she said, reaching for the gun. "What do you want me to do with it?"

Germaine's gray eyes glinted as they returned to challenge Orient. "Let me put you in a trance, doctor," he whispered. "If either of us attacks, Lily can protect herself." His melodious voice wound around Orient's brain like a velvet snake. "I've given up my weapon. Give up yours."

Orient resisted, trying to shake off the desire to give in to the voice. It was a trick. Lily would kill him while Germaine performed the rite. A band of agony tightened around his thoughts.

"Look at your hands, doctor," the voice insisted.

Orient hesitated then lifted his hands in front of his face. His cracked, wrinkled palms were covered with a layer of fine black hair.

"You have to trust me," Germaine's voice crooned. "The disease has already taken your body. Now you must try to save your soul."

Orient's will suddenly crumbled and weariness flooded his senses. He took the knife from his pocket and handed it to Lily. It didn't make any difference how she ended his battered existence. He was ready to die.

"And now you must relax." Germaine's voice became deeper and his words rose and fell as if he was chanting.

"Close your eyes and rest. Let me take you to a peaceful place... where the pain will disappear...."

Orient obeyed numbly, letting the voice absorb the increasing throb of hurt in his temples.

"... let me guide you to your friends...."

The voice rose in his thoughts until there was nothing else except the rhythmic tones. "... where you can find peace...."

The darkness behind Orient's closed eyes became illuminated by a mist of silver light. He found himself walking in a grassy valley between two huge, silent mountains. As he walked he could hear the muted whisper in his senses, guiding his steps.

He entered a grove of trees. There he realized that the light was coming from the thick vegetation that glowed with a colorless luminosity of its own. He pressed forward in response to the faint sounds in his awareness.

For a long time he wandered alone through the shimmering silence, but then he felt, rather than heard, footsteps coming behind him.

He turned and saw a figure dressed in a hooded robe hurrying toward him. Something about the robed figure seemed familiar. Recognition and memory collided as the hood fell away from his pudgy face.

Maxwell Andersen was coming toward him, his mouth open as if he was about to speak. A concussion of fear slammed against Orient's body and he started to run. He heard the pursuing footsteps and he understood that this was the trap.

He was to be hunted by his executioner through an unknown forest, like a fox who'd just been released for a day's sport.

He zigzagged desperately through the trees in an effort to elude Maxwell and kept running until the luminous mist began to dim, making it difficult to see clearly in the dense undergrowth.. He slowed down and peered through the bushes, looking for a hiding place. Then he saw the illumination.

An intense blue light in front of him was lighting a narrow path through an arch of trees.

He hesitated for a moment, listening for sounds of pursuit behind him, but the gloomy forest was still. Even his slow, cautious steps along the path seemed to be muffled by the trees around him.

The light became brighter and he quickened his pace. Then he saw the source of the light and stopped, crouched down, and moved off the path into the concealment of the vegetation.

The brilliant glow was coming from a clearing under the branches of a great tree which stood apart from its smaller brothers, emanating from the blue robes of the old man who sat at the base of the giant trunk. The man's slender frame was dwarfed by the tree; yet his form vibrated with immense, iridescent energy. The impression of power was great enough to suggest that the shimmering corona of light sending its glow through the forest, was only a small part of the force contained in the old man's thin, bent body.

He wanted to run, but he knew that any sudden movement would draw the old man's attention and concentrate the weight of that terrible force-field. He decided to try to circle the seated figure, using the cover of the trees, until he reached the other side of the clearing. Then he could find a way out of the forest.

But as he crept forward he discovered that he was veering closer to the clearing instead of away from it. He turned to go deeper into the underbrush, but his eyes caught a glimpse of the old man's face and he froze.

All fear collapsed as he saw the face of Ku; and his awareness hummed with excitement when he approached the Master who had initiated him into the League of the Serene Knowledge. He felt absolutely secure in the presence of the venerable teacher.

Ku lifted his head. His smooth skin was broken by a web of fine lines when he smiled and his eyes were pinpoint glints behind their curved eyelids. "Welcome, little brother." He said. "You have journeyed long to reach us."

The words trickled into his consciousness like sand filling an hourglass. "The journey is like the flow of water," he replied.

"And water finds a thirsty man." He completed the salutation. "You are in need of me and yet have rejected my help. Why little brother?"

The question seemed to fall into a chasm in his mind; the sounds becoming fainter in the void until they were lost.

"Your faith is a weapon," Ku continued. "Without the weapon there is no function for power. And your faith," he repeated, "is the weapon...."

The light vibrating from the old man's body intensified until it was blinding. Then the incandescence diminished and Ku's features blurred and changed....

His face became like a child's... then that of a bearded man, then a young woman... rippling constantly so that the images were only there for an instant before they shifted... the features of a painted warrior flowed into a distended resemblance to Maxwell Andersen's pouting scowl before they blurred again and refocused into the triangular shape of Germaine's head....

"This is the Master C.R.C., named Koot Hoomi." Ku's voice lowered as Germaine's face began to swell "Oldest of the Nine Unknown Masters. His light has filled the void for three centuries and he continues to guide the league forward. Let your faith embrace his existence. Here, in the Valley of the Wesak, magnetic junction of rebirth. Now!"

He opened his consciousness and heard the chanting melody of Germaine's voice booming against his comprehension.

"... ride the beast until you find... the secret of his love...."

Then the looming face exploded in slow, soundless motion, sending luminous shreds in all directions; and he understood what he had to do.

He turned and began to run through the forest, sprinting and leaping with the abandon of an unchained animal. The leaves and grass gave off a fresh minty odor that cleared his lungs. He kept running until the bushes became so thick that he was forced to crawl on his elbows and knees to make any progress forward. He moved steadily through the obstruction, however, as new strength surged through his limbs and he drove forward until he reached a clearing. There he stopped to rest.

As his muscles relaxed, he became aware of a ceaseless throb in his belly. He listened to it for a long time before recognizing it as hunger. His senses made a tentative move to examine the throb then drew back.

"Now!"

The word pushed his mind forward to the cusp of the hunger. "Now!"

His consciousness wavered... then toppled into the yawning need... he was falling....

"Tell me what the beast loves. Now."

Orient opened his eyes. He was standing in the white-tiled altar room.

Germaine was standing in front of him, his eyes wide and metallic. "Tell us," he repeated.

"Blood."

As Orient spoke, he saw Lily's face and shame made him turn away. "The beast loves blood best."

Germaine exhaled loudly and the light in his eyes seemed to recede. "Then we must use ten measures of blood from one who loves you."

"Use mine," Lily said softly.

 

Orient was only dimly aware of physical reality as he made his way up the stairs to the laboratory. He watched without understanding what was happening as Germaine took some of Lily's blood, then measured it, drop by drop, into the waiting potion. When the count put the glass in his hands, he drank its bitter contents then lapsed into numb apathy.

But in a few minutes, his body responded to a soothing pulse of energy and his aching brain came to life again. Relief disintegrated the pressure on his thoughts as his awareness expanded and drifted free.

His senses tingled with a mixture of vibrant joy and the dull dregs of shame as he understood that his suspicions had been the feverish rantings of his sickness. Violence, fear, and sexual paranoia had prevented him from seeing that Lily was telling him the truth. He looked down at his hands and saw that the wrinkled palms were hairless. Lily's blood had cured him. And her love.

"Are you all right, darling?" she asked. Her upturned face was tense with worry and her eyes were moist.

He nodded. "I'll be okay." He smiled and held out his hand. Then she was close to him and her hair was like perfumed silk against his face.

"I've fulfilled my duties here," Germaine was saying. "But there's still my oath. The werewolf must be hunted down."

The scent of Lily's hair caressed Orient's memory and he recalled another scent. The musky odor of the talcum. The smell of dried blood. Dried blood. A hunter's device to lure game. A hunter's device....

Lily suddenly stiffened in his arms and groaned. "I feel something horrible near us," she whispered frantically. "Waiting nearby. I'm afraid."

Realization and fear jolted Orient's instincts.

He pulled away from her and went to the phone. But when he dialed the number there was no answer—not even the sound of the ringing phone. The second time he tried the operator cut in to tell him the line was out of order. He slammed the receiver down.

"Better come with me," he told them as he headed for the door. "Sybelle's alone and her phone's dead"

 

 

CHAPTER 22

 

 

Sybelle mixed herself a second drink and took it with her to the couch. Normally, she didn't have more than one when she was alone, but tonight was a perfect time for a celebration.

She felt rosy and flushed with achievement as she sipped her Scotch and gazed around the empty apartment. Yes, she decided, she was pleased with herself. She fondly regarded the red plush bar across the room and sighed. If Owen wasn't so completely unreasonable they could all be celebrating with her tonight instead of keeping her cooped up like a drudge. She shook her head sadly. But, of course, poor Owen was becoming irrational. She'd so hoped that Lily would be a healthy influence, but he seemed worse than ever.

She wondered why Germaine hadn't called. She wouldn't mind spending some time showing the tall, handsome count the wonders of New York. It was positively wicked of Owen to keep her from seeing her friends.

She took another sip of Scotch and her thoughts went back to her success that evening. Her little plan had taken two weeks to hatch, but she'd finally won the vital piece of information she needed to help Owen.

She'd gone right up to the offices of the Bestman Corporation, pretending she was a highly qualified secretary looking for a job. This had given her an excuse to strike up a casual friendship with a few of the girls on Anthony Bestman's staff.

The difficult part had come in finding an excuse to extend the friendship without seeming too pushy. She'd accomplished that intricate maneuver a few days later by waiting in front of the building during lunch-time. When she spotted the girls she'd met in Bestman's office she followed them to a restaurant and then entered five minutes later. Of course, the girls invited her to join them and she made sure to pick up the check. After that it had been easy. And tonight, when she met the girls for drinks, one of them let it drop that Anthony Bestman had gone to London the day Maxwell was murdered.

Now she had definite proof for her suspicions. Anthony Bestman was the man they should be investigating. Owen was wasting precious time by persisting in his mad delusions. But perhaps her information would help cure all that.

She put her glass down and glanced at the red velvet telephone on the bar. If only he would call. Perhaps she should try reaching him. Last time it was three days before she heard anything. She certainly couldn't spend that long locked up in her apartment. Still she didn't want to upset anything Owen was working on. She sighed again and it seemed overloud in the stillness, almost as if it had been made by someone else.

She didn't move. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she sat listening and her mind jumped back to Owen's warning. He seemed to be sure there was going to be another murder.

Her heart was pounding as she stood up, went to the door, and checked the lock. She should have asked someone to keep her company, Sybelle decided. She was too excited to wait it out like this. She folded her arms and shivered slightly as she went to the bar. She'd been so anxious to find something to link Anthony Bestman with the killings that she'd neglected to make adequate arrangements for her own safety.

She sat down on the red velvet barstool and stared mournfully at the phone. No, she admonished, you cannot give in and call. It's too important for Owen.

She knew that the disease had sapped most of his physical energy. He was worn thin as a bone and his brilliant mind was exhausted. A surge of compassion smoothed over her ruffled nerves as she recalled the helplessness and desperation in his gaunt face. She'd just have to wait it out. For his sake.

As the minutes passed, however, her reasoning took another tack. Owen was the one most in danger from Anthony Bestman. She owed it to him to tell him. She reached for the phone and started to dial. Then she realized she'd heard no dial tone. She pushed the receiver button down. Still no tone. She tried dialing the number anyway, but the result was the same. No tone, no ring, nothing—the phone was dead.

She tried to keep calm against a rising flood tide of apprehension, but it was useless. It made her nervous to know that she was locked in alone in her apartment with no way of calling for help.

She looked up startled as a floorboard creaked somewhere.

She sat perfectly still for a moment, her hand still resting on the velvet-covered phone, trying to hear above the booming of her heart.

The apartment was absolutely silent.

She was jumpy, she told herself. It was against her nature to just sit and wait. She'd been foolish for listening to Owen in the first place. His judgment was impaired by the disease. The best thing for her to do would be to go out to someplace where there were bright lights and lots of people. Perhaps she could even stop at Owen's house later to see if everything was all right. She'd get her coat and go to a pub somewhere.

But as she turned and looked at the darkened doorway of her bedroom, she hesitated. For some inexplicable reason, she didn't want to leave the cozy circle of light around the bar to go get her coat. There was something menacing about the dark room. She took a deep breath and tried to screw up her courage.

"You're just being as silly as an old-maid aunt looking for burglars under the bed, she scolded, making herself get off the barstool and walk toward the bedroom.

An electric buzz split the silence.

Her hand flew to her mouth and she looked fearfully at the front door. Her first instinct was to ignore the bell

The buzz was longer the second time. Sybelle set her jaw, went quickly behind the bar, picked up a heavy glass pitcher, and went to answer.

"Who is it?" she demanded.

"It's me Sybelle...." For a moment she didn't recognize the muffled voice. "Sordi Are you busy?"

She heaved a great sigh of relief and threw back the bolt.

Sordi smiled sheepishly from the doorway. "I tried to call," he explained quickly, "but your phone is on the blink. I was taking a walk and saw the lights. Am I disturbing you?"

"Not a bit!" she exclaimed. "Come right in."

Sordi noticed the pitcher in her hand. "Expecting trouble?"

"Oh, no," Sybelle evaded. "Just making a drink. Would you like one?"

Now that Sordi was here, her fears of a moment ago seemed childish. She patted her hair and headed for the bar.

"How about a nice bi... er... little Scotch?"

"That'll be fine. How've you been?" he asked, settling down on the couch. "Haven't seen very much of you lately."

"Oh, well," Sybelle bubbled as she prepared the drinks, "So much has been going on. I haven't had a chance to visit. And Owen's been so involved, poor thing." She put the glasses on a tray, tugged at the waistband of her trousers, then reappeared smiling from behind the bar.

"Anyway, it's certainly lovely to see you now," she gushed as she gave him his drink. Delightful, she thought as she sat down next to him. She'd been hoping that Owen's associate would make a move to extend their friendship. And tonight was a perfect time. She smiled again and raised her glass. "Cin, cin."

She watched him over the rim of her glass as he returned the toast. He was wearing a checked walking suit and the deep-green silk scarf around his neck accentuated his blue eyes and graying hair. But his dapper good looks had a worried air. "It's always nice to see you," she ventured.

He seemed to become more ill at ease. "Yes: I've been meaning to stop by earlier, but lately there's been another guest at the house and there's been a lot to handle."

"I can imagine,'' she sympathized. Then she brightened. "And how is dear Lily? I'm so happy Owen's found someone at last."

Sordi nodded thoughtfully. "I was very happy myself. She's a fine girl." He looked up. "But I'm really worried about the doctor."

"Well, of course, he's ill. But I'm sure he'll find a remedy."

"I'm not so sure." He shook his head and looked away. At first when Lily came to stay with him I thought things would work themselves out. But since that man arrived... that count... the doctor's been at the edge of a breakdown. I know. I haven't been able to talk to anyone about it. Do you know this Germaine?"

"Oh, don't worry about him," Sybelle said quickly. "I've known the count for years. And I just learned something today that might help Owen get over his... er, nervous attacks."

Sordi didn't seem to be listening. "He hasn't told me anything," he mourned. "He's either locked up in his study or he's in conference with Lily and the count. I haven't even been able to find out what kind of tests he's running in the lab. I think it's time I give him my resignation.

"Oh, my, don't do that," Sybelle said with genuine alarm. "It would be awful to lose those lovely dinners."

He finished his drink and set his glass down carefully. "A man can only stay at a job as long as he's useful," he muttered.

Sybelle took a deep breath and made a decision. It wasn't fair that Sordi was being kept ignorant of what was happening. If something should go wrong he'd be in as much danger as anyone else. She'd have to bend her promise.

She told Sordi everything: how Owen had contracted the disease, the deaths of Daniel and Maxwell, and why Owen had changed over the past few months. "He needs us right now," she pleaded. "He's going through a great deal of mental stress. He even thought he killed poor Daniel. And we're all worried that someone will be next."

Her voice became an excited whisper as she confided what she'd discovered that evening. "I found out that Anthony Bestman, a man who always hated SEE, was in London the night Maxwell was murdered. And he came back the next day," she added triumphantly.

Sordi sat up in his chair, his eyes snapping with urgency. "But why didn't you tell him? It may be what he's looking for."

"Well, the phone was out and I didn't want to disturb Owen and the count. It's so crucial they find that missing ingredient."

He reached for his coat. "Finding a murderer's crucial, too. Come on. We'll go back there and I'll tell him myself."

"Of course, you're absolutely right," Sybelle agreed emphatically. I should have gone there right away." She lowered her eyelashes. "But then we couldn't have had our little visit, could we?"

She started for the bedroom then hesitated. Even though Sordi was with her she still felt a bristle of apprehension when she went near the shadowy doorway. Would you mind very much getting my coat?" she asked sweetly. "It's in the closet in there, but I think I'm' afraid of the dark. All this intrigue has made me ridiculously nervous."

"Sure." He walked past her to the door and reached around for the light switch. "What kind of coat is it?"

She was just about to tell him when she felt a nudge at the base of her brain. Then the picture formed in her stunned thoughts.

A fanged dog leaping for a woman's throat.

The image faded and her mind was blank for an instant before a roaring torrent of fear washed over her senses. "Wait!" she yelled "Don't!"

She was too late. Her scream became part of a kaleidoscope of noise and violent movement.

Sordi fell to the ground, struggling with a growling1, twisting shape on top of him and she screamed again. The room teetered and began to whirl like a carousel gone out of control. Buzzers screeched, doors burst open, voices cried out; the din reached a babbling crescendo before it exploded with a sharp crack and collapsed.

Sybelle blinked and focused her eyes through the ringing stillness. Owen and Lily were standing behind Germaine at the door of the bedroom. The tall count held a smoking revolver in his hand.

She looked at them dazedly. Then the room tilted again and her legs turned to water.

"Sybelle, are you all right?" Germaine's melodic voice was near her ear and she felt his strong arm around her shoulders, supporting her.

"Yes... I—" Her throat was too constricted for her to say any more.

"Are you all right?" Orient repeated far away. She looked in the direction of the voice and saw that he was talking to Sordi. Lily was kneeling beside him in the doorway as they helped Sordi sit up. Blood was streaming from two deep cuts on his forehead and the sleeve of his jacket was torn.

"Doctor, you made it just in time," Sordi stammered. "I... he was too strong."

"Easy now," Lily soothed as they helped him get to his feet. "We've got to get those cuts cleaned out."

Suddenly, Orient muttered a curse and went into the bedroom. "Look," he called out. "In here."

Germaine left Sybelle's side and went through the door, revolver held ready. She took a few hesitant steps after him.

When she first entered the room she was too shocked and confused to understand. Then she slowly grasped what was wrong.

The bedroom was empty.

 

 

CHAPTER 23

 

 

"Where... where is he?" Sordi whispered.

Orient's thoughts were scrambling as he looked around the room. There was nothing but an overturned table and the bed. The draped window was closed. He went to the closet and threw open the door. Except for Sybelle's clothing, it was empty. Then his nostrils filled with an unmistakable odor and he went near the bed. There was a smudge of dark talcum on the carpet.

"There was someone here," Sordi insisted. "He jumped me."

"Yes, there was," Orient assured him. "He left his calling card. But how could he get out?"

Germaine came over to examine the carpet. "I know I hit something," he murmured. But his smile was uncertain.

Orient gaped at the powder, his hands clenched helplessly. Then he remembered. The lure. The hunter's bait. He inhaled and the pungent scent prodded his memory of another moon. "When I left Maxwell's house after finding his body, the smell of blood in the talcum powder drew me to a spot where I'd be an easy target for a bullet. It's a hunter's trick to lure game." He stood up. "And Anthony Bestman is a big-game hunter."

"Well, finally you've come to your senses, darling," Sybelle said congratulating him. "Since you wouldn't listen to me in the first place, I went ahead and did some snooping of my own. Anthony was in London the night poor Maxwell was killed. And he came back the next day."

"But how... did he get out?" Sordi groaned.

"Oh, dear, let me look at your poor hand." Sybelle took his arm and led him to the door. "Come to the bar where we can wash it out. You need a brandy. In fact, we all need one."

Orient looked at Germaine. "Bestman tried to set me up before. Maybe he hoped to do the same thing tonight. Even though I'm in remission my sense of smell is still good enough to sniff out his bait."

Germaine bowed slightly. "Lead the way, doctor. But don't expose yourself unnecessarily."

"Don t go outside, Owen," Lily warned. "I know he's still nearby. I can feel it."

‘That's why we've got to go," Orient said softly. "We have to stop him." He smiled and kissed her gently. "Don't worry, I'll be careful."

"Come," Germaine said. "We have work to do."

Orient went across the living room to the front door.

"Do you want a brandy?" Sybelle called out. Her eyes widened when both Orient and Germaine pressed frantic fingers to their lips.

Orient turned back to the open door and opened his nostrils to the faint but discernible odors of the street. The fumes of gasoline and animal excrement mingled with a warm, musty scent and he knew he was right. Bestman had planted some of the talcum nearby and was waiting in the darkness to kill him. He slipped through the door and quickly went down the few stairs to the sidewalk. He crouched down behind a parked car and scanned the empty street.

In a few moments, he'd located the source of the scent. It was coming from a point diagonally across the street. He looked back and signaled to Germaine.

The count came out of the shadow of the doorway and joined him behind the car. Orient pointed to the spot where the dried blood had been left as bait.

Germaine nodded. He stood up, rested his gun on the roof of the car, and aimed the barrel at the darkness across the street.

Bestman would be expecting him to cross toward the odor, Orient decided, so he would do the opposite. Surprise would give him an edge. But no matter which way he went he'd have to draw Bestman's fire. He was still the quarry. He eased around the other end of the car and then quickly dashed across the street and slipped between two parked cars.

When the scuffling echo of his footsteps died away the street was silent.

Orient crouched and began moving along the outside of the row of parked cars, closer to the area where Best-man was waiting.

As he neared, the musty scent of the powder expanded in his senses. He stopped, stood up, and squinted into the shadows.

When he lifted his head over the top of the car a simultaneous boom and flash of light went off in front of him, outlining a burly figure standing in a doorway.

Orient ducked and heard the report of Germaine's shot behind him. There was a muffled grunt and a door slammed shut. He signaled Germaine to follow and crept around the front of the car.

The sidewalk was empty. The doorway where the shot had come from was dark and still. He waited until Germaine was near enough to cover him before going in. He flung the door open and stepped back against the wall.

A shot whined off the concrete near his feet. Then he heard the hurried shuffle of footsteps climbing stairs and started moving. He made out a stairway in front of him, but just as he started going up he heard the footsteps stop and he dropped, flattening his body against the steps.

The explosion of gunfire filled the narrow stairway. For a moment, Orient couldn't hear anything except the painful ringing in his eardrums. Then there was a stumbling scramble of footsteps above and Germaine pushed past him.

Orient got up and followed, amazed at the quickness of the aged count. Germaine's pace didn't falter as he hurried up the seemingly endless stairway. Above them, however, the footsteps were becoming heavier and slower.

A sudden shaft of dim light illuminated the stairway and both of them crouched down. The light was coming through the open door, two flights above them.

"He's on the roof," Germaine hissed. He continued up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Orient's chest was heaving as he strained to keep up.

When Germaine reached the open door, he stopped -and pressed against the wall. Orient crept up the remaining stairs along the opposite wall and stood looking out across the shadows.

The occasional shapes on the flat-tarred roof were outlined by the glow of the full white moon above. They were completely still.

"Nothing on my side," he whispered.

"Another door over there." Germaine lifted the revolver and pointed it past Orient's head. "And a fire escape. He can't go anywhere else."

Orient ducked down away from the gun and peered around the edge of the doorway.

There was a small square structure on the other side of the roof and he could make out the door in the moonlight.

A shadow crossed the door and Germaine fired.

Orient heard a hoarse cry of pain and the clatter of something falling to the ground. Then the shadow separated from the wall and he saw Bestman shuffling awkwardly toward the curved metal rails of a fire escape. He was clutching his arm and his gun was gone.

"I warn you, Bestman," Germaine called out.

Anthony Bestman stopped and turned around. He stood swaying slightly, his face contorted with rage and pain.

Orient went across the roof and recovered Bestman's pistol It was an elaborately worked hunting pistol with a long barrel.

"Stay back," Bestman growled as he approached.

Germaine took a step nearer. "Where are Carl's papers? What did you do with the rest of them after you put those pages in Hannah's bedroom?"

Bestman's lips curled back in a defiant grin of triumph. "They're where you'll never find them," he rasped. "You'll never use any of it."

Orient moved as he saw Bestman's body tense, as if he were about to spring at Germaine. Even wounded, the burly man was dangerous.

But before he could reach him, Bestman turned and leaped head-first over the edge of the roof.

A peaceful silence descended over Orient's surprise, but it was shattered a moment later by a loud crunch of metal and the splintering of glass. Then the quiet reformed in the darkness. He went to the edge of the roof and looked down.

Bestman had smashed against a parked car eight stories below, caving in the roof and part of the hood. Pieces of the windshield were scattered over the broken body like confetti.

"We'd better get back to Sybelle's apartment before the police arrive," Germaine said calmly. "They could be very difficult. Someone must have heard the shots. There's not much time."

Orient nodded and followed him to the stairs, his mind still swarming with unanswered questions.

 

Brandy was poured and waiting on the red velvet bar when Orient and Germaine got back to Sybelle's apartment.

Lily rushed across the room when they entered and threw her arms around Orient. "I heard the shots," she whispered, her eyes searching his face. "But then the fear left me and I knew you were all right."

"What happened? Was Anthony outside? Did you find him? Somebody tell me something? Sybelle demanded as she put the finishing touches on an elaborate bandage around Sordi's head.

"Bestman was waiting outside with a gun," Germaine told her. "He was waiting to shoot Dr. Orient. That way he hoped to get rid of two more members of SEE at the same time, and place responsibility for the murders on the doctor. But he didn't know the doctor had been cured."

Sordi perked up and beamed. "You are? That's wonderful, doctor. I was really getting worried."

The high wail of a police siren interrupted Orient's answer. He glanced at Germaine.

The tall, erect man was unruffled. He took a snifter of brandy from the bar and drank, ignoring the sound completely.

"I still don't understand how Anthony got out of the ‘bedroom," Sybelle complained.

"That's right," Sordi's voice dropped and he looked around the room. "I was fighting with someone. If Sybelle hadn't warned me, I would have been done for."

"It was Owen," Sybelle corrected. "He sent me a telepathic message. How did you know, darling?"

"Actually, Lily knew. She received an impression of danger while we were completing the cure. Since three of the members of SEE were together, and in no apparent danger, I decided to call you. When I found out your line was dead, I knew. On the way over the potion cleared the disturbance in my senses enough so I was able to break through and send. It's been so long that I wasn't sure I could reach you. Still," he murmured, "it worked out better than using the phone."

"Much better," Sybelle agreed. "But no one's explained yet how Anthony got out of that room." Orient was silent, unable to answer her question.

"Well, cheers anyway," Sybelle offered, lifting her glass. "The werewolf is dead and Owen is cured."

Germaine set his glass down. "I'm afraid I can't drink to that." He smiled regretfully. "You see, the werewolf is not dead."

Lily's shocked whisper broke the long hush that followed his remark. "Anthony Bestman just tried to kill Owen. He set a trap."

Germaine nodded. "That's true. Anthony was responsible for the killings. But he wasn't the werewolf." His gray eyes glanced around the room. "He stole Carl's thesis and used part of it to compromise Hannah. She was the only other person who knew that her husband Carl was infected with the disease of the beast. That was the secret she had to bear. The secret Carl himself wanted to reveal to SEE."

Sybelle gasped. "Carl? But... he's...."

"Dead?" Germaine shook his head. "In a way. Anthony shot him and made it appear to be suicide when he found out Carl was leaving his estate to SEE. But when Anthony stole Carl's thesis, he found something that gave him more control over his brother in death than he'd ever had while he was alive. The formula for the scent that calls the violent energy of the werewolf. And he decided to use it to get rid of SEE and break Carl's will. All he had to do was place the powder somewhere in the victim's home. When the moon rose, Carl's bestial energy would rise with it, and his emanation followed the scent to the kill. The astral emanation would feed and then return to Carl's inert body. That's how he was able to get out of the bedroom."

"Astral... you mean a spirit attacked me?" Sordi demanded.

"If you wish. Yes. Certain functions of Carl's body stopped existing. But the vibrations of the moon continued to exert their influence on other sensitive organs to create concentrations of hostile energy. It was this energy, this bestial emanation, that attacked you."

Sordi's face looked blank. "Sure," he said.

"But how... how... how can you be sure?" Sybelle sputtered. "Are we still in danger?"

Germaine shrugged. "I'm sorry, but I don't have time to answer all your questions. I must leave for Sweden right away."

Orient slowly comprehended what he was saying. "I'll go with you," he said softly.

 

 

CHAPTER 24

 

 

The effects of the curative potion wore off eventually, but Orient's released awareness refused to sleep. Fragments of memory and emotion danced through his mind like lingering guests after an all-night party, determined to carry on the celebration. He wished they would all go away and let him rest. His body was just beginning to feel the bone-twisting effects of his passage through the disease and he knew his nerves had been stretched to the breaking point. He sighed, checked his watch, shifted in his seat, and looked out the window. There was nothing to do except hang on until his nervous energy expended itself. He checked his "watch again.

"We still have six hours, doctor. You should try to sleep."

Germaine's melodic voice seemed to calm his anxiety. He shook his head sadly. "Over tired. I think I'll try Sybelle's all-purpose potion. Will you have a brandy with me?"

"Excellent suggestion, doctor. Make it a double. It's been an arduous seventy-two hours."

Orient watched him with open curiosity. He'd been impressed with Germaine's physical strength when they first met. But then he thought he was only fifty or sixty years old. Now he knew that the tall count was capable of quickness and endurance that would try a man of thirty, despite the fact that he'd been alive for over three hundred years. It had been Germaine who'd made the arrangements for their departure. Sordi was still in a slight state of shock so Germaine drove them out in time to board a direct flight to Stockholm. There hadn't been, even a spare minute to buy a toothbrush at the airport. And now while he sat rumpled, limp, and unable to relax, Germaine sat across from him, looking like a man who'd just walked out of a brisk shower into a freshly pressed suit.

When the stewardess came with their drinks, Germaine took his glass and lifted it in a toast. "To the success of our venture." He smiled and bowed his head slightly. "And to Lily's happiness."

Orient didn't know how to interpret the last part of the toast, but he sipped his brandy. The hostility he'd always had for the count had been replaced by respect and a growing sense of admiration.

"I've known Lily since she was a child," the count mused, his eyes fixed on Orient's face, "watched her become a fine, sensitive woman." He took a sip of his brandy.

Orient stared into his glass as a swirl of confusion scattered his emotions like dead leaves.

"What I'm trying to say, Doctor, is that what you saw of the Kundalini rite was something quite apart for the love I know she holds for you."

He looked up. Germaine was leaning forward expectantly, his eyes clouded over with concern. Orient's confusion disappeared. He had no doubts about Lily. "Yes," he said. "I understand."

Germaine nodded and sat back in his seat. "Of course, I'll arrange to conduct the rite with another apprentice when the Tantric Cycle occurs next year."

"Not necessary, count," Orient yawned. "All that is up to Lily." He leaned over, clinked his glass against Germaine's, then tossed the rest of his brandy down; the Stubborn tension in his muscles dissolved into the warm alcohol smoldering in his belly. He smiled and closed his eyes.

He was still smiling as he dropped into a deep, dreamless, pocket of sleep.

Orient awoke refreshed when they reached Stockholm.

Since there was a long wait for the next local to Hudiksvall, Germaine decided to rent a car and insisted on driving, explaining to Orient that he was familiar with the country and used to the icy condition of the roads. Orient agreed, more amazed than ever at the man's vitality.

"Why not stretch out on the back seat and get some sleep," Germaine suggested. "We won't be able to make it in less than seven hours."

Orient settled down in the front seat and watched the monotonous rows of skeletal, snow-shrouded trees roll past his window. "I feel alert after that nap on the plane. You're the one who should be sleeping. Your physical powers are extraordinary."

Germaine glanced shrewdly at him then turned his attention back to the road. "The Tantric form is very effective if properly controlled."

"I did some heavy research into Tantric Yoga, but I could only find scattered references to it."

"Yes. Tantric science is guarded almost as closely as the secrets of the league. Without proper guidance, the results can be insanity or the uncontrolled generation of evil. That's why I'm nappy that Lily is with you. The relationship will provide a needed balance to the intensity of the rite."

Orient sighed. "I'd become so saturated with paranoia that I couldn't see Lily was concealing something she. thought would hurt us. I couldn't understand."

"I've lived a long time," Germaine observed, "only to discover that there are certain flaws in our capacity to accept that no amount of time can adjust. I myself was convinced last month that you were the killer. Despite the fact that my own research in Lycanthropic Schizophrenia had brought me very close to the truth. You see, I had the advantage of being able to study books and manuscripts that Carl donated to the SEE library. If I had only been able to bridge my own personal suspicions, Maxwell's death might have been prevented." He looked at Orient. "Fate has its own time and no man can escape it, no matter what he understands."

The sky began to darken in the afternoon and by early evening, when they reached Hudiksvall, night had already fallen.

Germaine's manner changed as they neared their destination and the geniality of the traveling companion became the brooding concentration of the hunter.

Orient broke the long silence that had settled over their conversation. "Do you have everything you need?" he murmured.

"I think so."

He decided to ask something that had been bothering him for some time. "When did you figure out that Carl is the werewolf?"

Germaine kept his eyes on the narrow tunnel of light carved\y the headlamps as they drilled steadily through the shadows. "When Sordi's attacker disappeared it occurred to me that our adversary had more than human qualities. Anthony, however, had to use a gun. Neilson, Hazer, and Maxwell were murdered by the beast. That left Hannah and Carl. If I'm wrong about Carl, it makes no difference. Both of their bodies are in the same place."

Orient didn't answer. He hoped his friend was well prepared. It was a simple matter to kill a living man, but the raw energy of a malevolent presence was beyond the physical limitations of nature. He also knew that whoever the werewolf was, it had failed to feed its yawning hunger and would be ravenous.

Germaine swung the car off the narrow road and Orient recognized the stone wall surrounding Carl Bestman's estate. As the car rolled slowly past the gate , and up the terraced drive Orient's memories of the night he'd been infected with the disease twisted into a cord of fear.

He saw the jagged, approaching shape of the house on the top of the highest terrace and berated his impulsiveness. He was a fool for not arming himself before attempting something like this. The fear pulled tight around his thoughts when he considered the risk of contracting the disease again. Germaine brought the car to a stop and shut the headlights. "There's a flashlight in the glove compartment," he said calmly.

Something in his voice melted Orient's fear. Wordlessly he opened the panel in front of him and took the light in his hand. Germaine was a Master of the league. The responsibility and power was with Koot Hoomi now. Orient's place was in his service. "There's a can of gasoline in the trunk."

Orient opened the door and went to the back of the car. He took the plastic container and then came back to where Germaine was waiting.

"You lead the way to the mausoleum," the count told him. "I'll cover you. But be very careful, I think I may have wounded it last night. And he hasn't eaten."

The thin beam of the flashlight seemed like a flimsy, bobbing line cast into a sea of darkness. Germaine was completely enveloped by the shadows, giving Orient the nagging impression that he was alone as he walked toward the cemetery behind the great house. Like the night he'd gone to meet Hannah.

Perhaps tonight, like then, a stalking beast was waiting just beyond the string of light guiding his slow steps to the churchyard.

The possibility didn't encourage him as he picked his way past the crumbling headstones and looming shapes of trees. His heart was thumping when his beam lit a gnarled tangle of roots at the base of a huge tree. He stopped and set the container of gasoline down on the ground and waited.

"There," he whispered when Germaine moved up beside him. He moved the light slightly to the left and exposed the side of the stone building underneath the tree.

Germaine nodded, took the flashlight, and began walking toward the mausoleum. He moved cautiously, pausing every few steps to sweep the area with the beam of his light, When he reached the metal door of the building he stood very still, his head lowered and his eyes closed.

Orient understood that he was preparing his concentration and did the same. He went into a breathing pattern that charged his awareness and let the humming receptors in his senses absorb the powerful vibrations of Koot Hoomi's consciousness.

Germaine lifted his head, opened his eyes, and then tried the door. It was locked.

He stepped back, lifted his revolver, and blew the lock off the door.

A blinding flash exploded the darkness and everything became a blur of motion. Germaine kicked the door open and Orient stumbled into the tomb after him, his vision still spotted by the sudden flare of the shot.

Thar inside of the vault was damp and the dead air reeked of decayed meat. Germaine's probing beam revealed that every crypt had been smashed open. Chunks of stone, shreds of molded cloth, the remains of caskets, and fragments of human bone Uttered the dusty floor. Then the light pierced the shadows in the far corner of the room and stopped.

There was a shiny black casket lying open on the floor. It seemed oddly new and un mutilated among the rubble.

Germaine's light poked higher.

A shriveled, hairy creature lay resting inside the coffin," its head propped up by a satin pillow.

As the light illuminated the man's contorted features, he opened his eyes. They were glazed red like those of a wild animal. He started to get up from his coffin and Orient saw black blood oozing from a wound in his arm.

The crack of Germaine's gun was flat, compressed by the cold walls of the vault.

One of the creature's red eyes became a dark spurting fountain and it fell back against the pillow.

Orient remained frozen as his ears rung with the echoes of the shot. Then he heard a melodious voice far away.

"I'm sorry, old friend," Germaine whispered. "But now your soul will be free of its earthly torment and can continue its journey." He put the revolver in his pocket and held the flashlight out to Orient.

He kept the light steady on the blood-spattered body in the casket. Carl Bestman was dressed in the tattered remnants of a formal suit. The parched, yellowed skin on his face, chest, and hands was matted with hair and the long nails on his fingers were like sharp splinters of black bone. His hands reminded Orient of the stained, greasy claws of a flesh eater.

Germaine took a small vial of clear liquid from his pocket and began sprinkling it over the body.

"In the name of the holy spirit. May this holy water protect those here from evil," he intoned. "Oh, Lord, to Thee we flee for Thy Power."

The words filled Orient's mind and he recognized the ritual of Honorious, the Magus Pope. The invocation could only be assumed by a high adept. Orient knew that even though he'd studied the rite his consciousness hadn't evolved to the level where he could control the awesome forces unleashed by the exorcism. But as Germaine went on, Orient could feel the strength of the Master Koot Hoomi smothering the constant implosions of chaotic energy touched off by the invocation.

"Let that evil in us become like dust scattered before the wind. And let the Angel of the Lord come down to cause the darkness to vanish. We shall be protected by the power of Omega, Ely, Sady... It is the Lord who sent Satan crashing like a thunderbolt from His kingdom. He has given us the power to destroy the beasts of evil. We shall be protected by the power of Elion, Tetragrammaton, Jah, Adonay, and Sady... "

As the melodic chant rose louder in the stifling enclosure, Orient thought he could see the blood-masked grimace on Carl's face relax and soften.

Germaine held a square of white paper over the body. "Just as thy names are bound in this pentagram so will thy evil be burned." He placed the paper in the casket. "In the name of Tetragrammaton! Thy will be forced O spirit Carl Bestman into that fire and redeemed. In the name ANEXHEXETON! PRIMEMATUM!"

He roared out the last two words and Orient felt the air in the room congeal into a thick field of static electricity. Blue sparks spat across the shadows and the restless crackle of swelling energy filled the small vault.

"Get back near the door," Germaine grunted wearily. He lifted the container from the floor and poured the gasoline over the body, ignoring the spattering electricity.

Orient backed up slowly, feeding his light on the casket so Germaine would have a path to the door.

The count flung the container against the wall and leaped away just as one of the sparks burst near the casket, touching off the gasoline.

Carl's body erupted like a tree of flame as the entire crypt began to bloom with bright, silent, flowers of fire.

Orient staggered through the door as a rush of heat evaporated the cold sweat on his face. Germaine stumbled out behind him.

They stood side by side, watching the flames mount higher. The intense light flickering at the open door sent long, wildly dancing shadows across the frosted ground.

"Life clings to life for its own sake," Germaine said softly. "Even though Carl's existence was torment his emanation would have continued to feed, if only to sustain its hold on eternity." He shrugged and jammed his hands into his pockets. "Well now he's free," he grunted, "and so will I be someday."

He turned and began walking slowly back through the darkness.

Orient couldn't take his eyes away from the blaze that filled the door of the vault. He knew the pain, and ceaseless fear, of Carl's existence. The parched, shriveled, vicious remnant of humanity was part of him now. And the memory would last beyond his life.

The knowledge stuffed his heart with weariness as he turned away from the flames and followed Germaine down the steep, ice-crusted hill.