“Armand gave me everything, Inspector. Everything except deliverance from my curse. That was impossible, even for him. He was content to share my terrible, dark secret: he was my friend, my companion, and my fears became his own. Others like me have been less fortunate . . . But one day Armand had to go away. He didn’t say where or why, he only swore that it was his duty and begged me not to ask questions. I obeyed him, as always. And after that, I was left alone. Alone to face the truth of what I am. And when the thirst came upon me, all the promises I had made to my husband before his departure meant nothing. You cannot possibly imagine what it feels like to be me, Inspector, the indescribable torment of being alive. Nor can you imagine the dreadful loneliness that devours me in this world to which I do not belong, which considers me accursed . . . Do you think I don’t want to die? Every day I wish I were dead with all my heart . . . But I promised Armand I wouldn’t kill myself, that I would stand firm, that I would find a way of living with my curse. And I assure you I tried. Oh, yes, I tried with all my might, but I failed . . . At first, I endeavored to survive by killing livestock and small animals, as you deduced, but I soon realized that wouldn’t fend off my craving for long, and that very soon I would have to track down the sustenance I really needed . . .”
Clayton looked at her impassively, saying nothing.
“It would all be a lot simpler if I were just wearing a belt made of wolf hide, wouldn’t it? Because I would only have to burn it. Unfortunately, what changes me into what I am is also part of me.” The countess tried to make light of the situation. “But I promise you, that isn’t the real me. No, that isn’t me. Believe me when I tell you that each of those deaths weighs on my conscience.”
“Assuming you have one,” Clayton muttered.
The countess smiled weakly.
“But the thing I shall never forgive myself for is failing the man who gave me everything,” she went on, ignoring the inspector’s remark, “the man who considered me beautiful, despite knowing what I was, who made me feel, not like a monster, but like a worthwhile being—the most worthwhile being in the entire universe . . .” Her voice faltered and her eyes filled with tears. “And you remind me so much of him . . . The first time I saw you, I felt I was looking into my husband’s eyes anew . . .” She edged toward Clayton, reaching out a hand to touch his face. The inspector could feel the scorching heat from the fire on his back, and yet the countess’s fingers burned more than the flames themselves. With neither the strength nor the will to resist, Clayton let her run them over his cheek in an ardent caress, scarcely brushing his lips before withdrawing her hand. “You have the eyes of an old man, Inspector, eyes that view the world from somewhere remote and unassailable, that endeavor to understand it whilst remaining outside of it. And yet . . .” The countess moved her face closer to Clayton’s, who could smell the salty aroma of her tear-stained skin. “Your lips are made for love.”
Clayton gripped her wrist, restraining her.
“Don’t even try,” he warned. “You cannot prevent me from doing what I have to do. I am going to arrest you, Countess. It’s my duty. I shall deliver you to Scotland Yard handcuffed, in chains if necessary . . . and may God save your soul,” he murmured, giving an impression of coldness that belied his true feelings. “I shan’t deny that I feel a sense of horror at your tragic fate. Our scientists will strip off your splendid clothes, strap you naked to a chair, and examine you as if you were an animal. They won’t stop until they discover what sort of monster lives inside you, and afterward they will lock you in a cage for the rest of your life.”
The countess simply smiled at him, the way a man would smile when recalling the stories that frightened him as a child. It was then Clayton saw, from close up, that the countess’s eyes were not totally black: a fine ring of gold, like a solar eclipse, encircled her irises.
“What you said earlier is true,” he heard her say, her lips within kissing distance of his. “I manipulated you. I used my smiles to cloud your thinking. But all the time I was dazzling you . . . I was also falling in love with you.”
“You’re lying,” Clayton said between gritted teeth.
The countess pulled an amused face, as if he were joking.
“Do you know why you love me, Clayton? You love me because you don’t understand me, because I am a riddle to you. I intrigue you, I trouble you, I keep you awake at night, and I take away your appetite. You want to solve the puzzle I present you because that is the most powerful form of possession there is. And I confess that for the first time in my life I feel the same way,” she said, her breath quickening. “It’s true, from the moment I saw you I felt the need to discover what lay behind your eyes . . . Believe it or not, I fell in love with you, Clayton. But I forced myself to struggle against those feelings that were growing stronger and stronger. I am a monster and cannot permit myself the luxury of falling in love. But I don’t want to struggle any longer, Inspector. Not now. I, too, deserve to know at least once in my life what it feels like to love. So, I am begging you, Inspector, let’s forget who we are just for tonight and give way to our desire. I promise you that tomorrow we will go back to being a Scotland Yard inspector and his prisoner . . . But the night is still young.”
As she spoke, Clayton felt her hot breath on his face, he smelled the sweet fragrance of her hair, and he noticed the blood pulsing fiercely in her slender wrist, still firmly clasped in his hand. And, perhaps because at that point it was his only way of resisting, Clayton squeezed that part of her as hard as he could, hoping to cause her pain, to hear her fragile bones snap in his grip. The countess groaned, but that didn’t stop her. Her smoldering lips slid across his cheek toward his mouth.
“I only want to know what it is to love, before the day dawns and everything comes to an end . . . ,” she whispered to him before her lips melted in his.
Clayton slowly released the countess’s wrist, opening his fingers almost without realizing it, like a tree letting the fruit it has been cradling for months fall to the ground. For a few seconds his arm hung in the air, orphaned, purposeless, until at last the countess flung her arms around him. After a moment’s hesitation, Clayton clasped her by the waist with a fervor he had never imagined he could feel. A mysterious, powerful desire raged through him like a fire, searing his veins and setting his reason alight, threatening to rip open his body from the inside, to blow him up like a keg of dynamite. And in his urgency to smother that fire, Clayton pressed his body hard against hers, as though he hoped to break through the frontiers of her flesh and plunge headlong into the muddy depths of her soul. He knew he wanted to possess her, to put an end to the sudden hunger overwhelming him. The countess pulled her mouth away from his and Clayton felt her run her lips excitedly over his neck, nipping him with her teeth. Incapable of thinking rationally, Clayton pushed her from him, ready to throw her down on the rug and make her his, take her roughly until he had extinguished the flames of desire burning him up. At that moment, their eyes met, and the inspector was jolted out of himself. The countess’s gaze wasn’t what he had expected. A cold, calm light flickered in her eyes, belying the abandon of her body.
“I can’t let you arrest me, Inspector,” he heard her say, as if her voice were reaching him from far away. “Armand de Bompard’s finest creation cannot end up in a dirty cage. Nor can I destroy you, my beloved Cornelius, because I love you as I’ve never loved anyone before. So there is only one thing for me to do . . . Forgive me, I beg you.”
Clayton reacted swiftly, but he was unable to dodge the blow. He only succeeded in preventing the poker, which the countess had taken from the hearth while they had been kissing, from hitting him square on the head. Reeling, he tried to grab her to stop his fall, but only managed to slide his hands languidly over the countess’s hips before sinking to his knees and slowly toppling over, in an almost absurdly voluptuous manner, onto the rug where seconds before he had wanted to take her.
3
FORTUNATELY, THE VIOLENT BLOW HAD not been
hard enough to plunge his mind into the fog of unconsciousness, and, sprawled on the floor, Clayton could hear the countess’s footsteps as she fled the dining room and the subsequent tapping sound in the hallway, like a tune interspersed with silences, as she walked across the rugs. His head throbbing, still too befuddled to order his body to stand up, the inspector heard her leave the castle, and in his imagination saw her descending the castle steps, holding up her skirts, running away from it, plunging into the forest that lapped at its doors like a sinister ocean. He realized if he didn’t go after her immediately, he would never catch her. With a supreme effort of will he rolled over painfully and, placing his hands on the floor, began to heave himself up. A violent wave of nausea forced him to remain on his hands and knees for a few seconds, head lolling between his shoulders, as though bowing to some ancient idol. At last Clayton managed to stand and, propping himself up on the furniture as he went along, left the dining hall.
The yawning castle door exhaled the ghostly breath of night. Clayton strode through it, his resolve growing as the cold air cleared his head. He was surprised to find the countess’s shoes and jewelry strewn haphazardly over the steps. Apparently she had cast them off as she ran. If this was part of some erotic game, Clayton found it almost unbearable. He took one of the lanterns illuminating the bottom of the steps and plunged into the forest, following the tracks left on the ground by the countess’s bare feet.
He walked on for a while, guided by her footsteps. He was shivering with cold, and yet his head was burning, especially in the spot where the countess had aimed her treacherous blow, which was throbbing painfully. From time to time, his vision became blurred and he had to lean against a tree while he tried to focus again. Then he resumed the chase, jaw firmly clenched as he sharpened his senses as best he could, listening for the slightest sound coming from the forest. Like the bow of a violin, the wind drew languid whispers from the branches of the trees. The darkness crowded in on him, as if trying to smother him. Suddenly, on the ground, Clayton made out what looked like a black puddle reflecting the starry sky. Holding the lantern aloft, he discovered the countess’s glittering dress lying among the dead leaves. Kneeling, he clasped it in his hand reverentially. The exquisite robe still exuded the countess’s warm fragrance, but it was torn in several places as though she had ripped it off clumsily. Clayton rose to his feet and cast a bewildered look around as the cold grip of fear began to settle over him.
He continued walking, trying not to panic. After a while, he noticed the countess’s footprints had begun taking on a strange shape and the distances between them were growing longer. At first he thought he had lost the trail, but advancing a few yards he stumbled upon it again, only to lose sight of it once more. In spite of this, he pressed on, guided by instinct more than anything else. Now and then, he would come across a lone footprint in the middle of the path, a footprint that no longer seemed human, or a tree with its branches broken. All this brought fresh doubts to Clayton’s mind, but he resisted the temptation to speculate in order to stay sane as long as he could. All of a sudden he recognized the path the countess was taking. He himself had followed it with a few men from the town two nights before . . . It led to the ravine where Tom Hollister had plunged to his death.
He couldn’t help seeing himself once more leading that group of townsfolk through the impenetrable darkness of the forest, heady with the excitement of the chase and the fantastical idea that they were pursuing a genuine werewolf. But things had changed. Now he was tramping alone through that accursed forest, feeling terribly naked, surrounded by menacing trees that seemed to conspire against him. With an overwhelming sense of regret he realized that the world he knew had vanished forever. The enormity of his loss almost took his breath away. He carried on along the path like a sleepwalker, knowing it would never lead him to where he wanted to go: to the past, to the reassuring, rational past, precisely to the day when the legendary Captain Sinclair had invited him to join the Special Branch, so that he could turn him down, inform him that he wasn’t the slightest bit interested, that he preferred to carry on living in the bland but comforting universe whose workings he understood so well and where supernatural beings never escaped the pages of bestiaries. For there was always a risk you might fall in love with one of them. Now it was too late for that, he reflected forlornly. There was nothing for it but to follow Valerie de Bompard’s tracks and perform his role in the insane performance it was his destiny to take part in.
With his free hand, Clayton had unwittingly begun stroking the key that hung round his neck, nervously fingering the two tiny wings of the angel that adorned it. The key opened the Chamber of Marvels in the basement of the Natural History Museum, and since it had been entrusted to him less than a month before, Clayton had come to see it as a sort of lucky charm, a symbol of that supernatural world hidden in one of reality’s folds, toward which he seemed to be heading that night. But now he was convinced that the knowledge awaiting him was something for which he considered himself ill prepared, knowledge capable of destroying a man forever.
Trying desperately to make his mind go back to thinking with its reassuring logic, Clayton wondered why Valerie de Bompard was guiding him to that place. For he was sure of one thing: the countess was leading him exactly where she wanted, as she always had, as she always did with everyone. And he had no choice but to answer her call.
Suddenly the night was shattered by a long, mournful howl coming from the ravine. Clayton, his face twisted with fear, grabbed the gun from his pocket and ran toward the sound, holding the lantern up in front of him and drawing back the veil of darkness as he went. Gasping for breath, he came to a small clearing in front of the gully. Once again, he made out a pair of strange-looking tracks. They appeared to approach the edge, then vanish. Clayton put down the lantern, swallowed, and drew closer to the ravine. He steeled himself to look down, unable to fend off the image of Valerie de Bompard’s beautiful body lying smashed to pieces on the rocks, unsure if that was the worst thing he could discover. But the foot of the ravine was plunged in thick darkness, and he could see nothing. Even so, he lingered at the edge for a few seconds, peering stubbornly into the blackness, his clothes whipped by the icy wind arising from those depths like a noiseless cry of despair. Finally, mystified, he retreated a few yards. And it was then that he heard a low-sounding growl behind him, so faint that for a moment he thought he had imagined it. Very slowly, he swiveled round, pistol half raised, as though still not wishing to admit his danger. Atop a small, rocky outcrop, a she-wolf as imposing as an ancient sphinx was observing him. The animal’s soft golden pelt shone in the moonlight as if it were sculpted in bronze.
“Valerie . . . ?” he whispered half unconsciously.
The wolf tilted its head to one side and gave another low growl, as though laughing at Clayton. Suddenly, the inspector felt the weight of the gun in his hand. He was almost surprised to discover he was armed, that the cold, metallic object he was holding was a weapon: a device man had created in order to take the lives of his enemies and preserve his own. Still, Clayton made no attempt to aim at the she-wolf. He was content to wait, and for an infinite moment man and beast stared at each other in silence the way Clayton and the countess had in the dining hall at the castle, separated by the length of an oak table. Then the she-wolf bared her fangs and leapt at him.
The animal’s heft knocked him to the ground, winding him. The gun slipped from his hand as if of its own volition. Before he had time to react, he felt the wolf’s jaws close around his throat, pinning him to the ground, its sharp fangs pressing into his flesh, like a deadly snare about to snap shut around his neck. Clayton didn’t move. He awaited the she-wolf’s decision, quaking under its weight. The animal remained in that position for a few moments, with Clayton at its mercy, as if to make it clear his fate depended on a mere movement of its jaws. And then, as swiftly and gracefully as when it had knocked him over, the wolf withdrew. Clayton breathed out, amazed that he was still alive. How
was it possible? Unsure whether the wetness he could feel down his neck was blood or sweat, and hardly caring, he tried to sit up. The animal was watching him from a few yards away, body tensed, ready to pounce again at any moment. Clayton observed the wolf in silence, ashamed because he could not stop trembling. Was this creature that growled like a wolf, smelled like a wolf, and moved like a wolf really the woman he loved? Part of him refused to accept such an outrageous idea, perhaps because to do so would be to hurl himself into an even deeper abyss—that of insanity. But the other part of him that was skilled at piecing things together had no doubt. Out of the corner of his eye, Clayton could see the gun within easy reach, and he automatically started calculating. If he rolled over fast enough, he might be able to grab it before the wolf pounced again. Was that what she wanted? No sooner had he formulated the question than the wolf suddenly gave a snarl and hurled itself at Clayton like a bolt of coppery lightning. The inspector reacted without thinking, stretching his right arm out toward the gun while raising the other to repel the creature’s attack. He wrapped the fingers of his right hand around the gun butt just as the wolf buried its fangs deep into his left forearm. Seized by an intense burning pain, Clayton pressed the gun barrel to the wolf’s enormous head but did not shoot. He remained motionless, his finger on the trigger. Man and beast looked deep into each other’s eyes, frozen in that position, which seemed to hold back the flow of time. Clayton was so close that he could see fine rings of gold, like solar eclipses, encircling the wolf’s irises. And he had the impression the animal was imploring him. But this time he had no intention of bowing to its desires. Not this time. The gun still pressed to the animal’s head, the inspector watched the blood begin to trickle from his trapped limb, spreading out in a dark stain on the sleeve of his jacket. He felt a stabbing pain in his arm, but in the end it was a bearable pain. The wolf also seemed to perceive this and sank its fangs even deeper into Clayton’s flesh, until he could feel them tearing through the muscles in his forearm. He clenched his jaw to stifle a scream but couldn’t help an inhuman cry escaping from between his gritted teeth. There was a brief pause, and then the wolf’s fangs bit into his flesh with renewed ferocity. Clayton’s face twisted into an agonized grimace. As the pain intensified, so did his resolve not to pull the trigger. For if he did, it meant that she would have won. Then he heard a crunch of bones. A searing pain swept him like a flood to the brink of unconsciousness. In spite of everything, Clayton still did not shoot.
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