by Andre Norton
At that moment I shared the terror that soft, almost caressing voice evoked. Célie's eyes were held by his, her mouth hung a little open. She had the vacant look worn by Victorine when she had been under the influence of the powder Mrs. Pleasant had supplied.
“Bon, they know not Christophe, but they shall learn. By the power of Damballa, I, who am the Voice of Baron Samedi—the Prince of Death—ah, these whites shall learn!” There was a deadly force in him. “Bon. To the business at hand. For one can dream of the future, but action now must bring that dream to life. You shall go and find me such a messenger as can be trusted, one that yellow bitch Pleasant cannot control. Go!”
Célie left us in a sleepwalking fashion. I cowered, for now he turned those yellow eyes upon me as his smile deepened.
“Miss Penfold—” He noted my start. “But of course I know you—the companion, the wardress of my dear Victorine—set to guard so that she does not come to me, her rightful lord. I have much to thank you for, Miss Penfold, in that you walked straight into our hands this night. Now you have given me that with which I can bargain. You shall rise.” He leaned over me, jerked to loosen the cloak binding me. “You shall go to that table—”
He pointed to a small gilt-legged one on which stood a vase, two glasses, and a bottle. With a sweep of his hand he sent all those crashing to the floor, the wine dribbling from the bottle to the carpet. From his pocket he took a folded sheet of paper, smoothed it out, and produced a black crayon.
“You shall sit—so—” He moved a chair to the table on which he had laid the paper and crayon.
“Why?” I struggled against the mesmeric influence his voice exerted.
“Why?” D'Lys repeated. “Because, first of all, I say that you do this. Secondly, your actions may, just may, save your life. You shall sit and write as I tell you.”
I had witnessed his brutal handling of Célie and I knew that for the moment I was helpless. My best course of action would be to present the appearance of one wholly cowed to submission. Which I could not honestly deny was far from the truth. So I went and seated myself as he ordered.
“Now you shall write thus—” He stood on the other side of the table, setting on me that compelling, yellow-eyed stare. Only inside me my will was strengthening. That he intended me any good, whether I obeyed him or not, I felt was a false hope.
To Monsieur Alain Sauvage:
I am now in the hands of him who wishes to be reconciled to his lawful wife, Victorine D'Lys. I shall remain so until Victorine is free to join her husband. I am told that the time for arranging this to-be-desired reunion is limited, and the consequences for me, in case this does not occur, shall be dire. Instructions will be sent you as to how to effect the exchange.
The crayon was greasy in my hold and the writing of necessity bold and coarse. But I put down each dictated word. That Alain Sauvage would accept such instructions I thought impossible. It might be that I could hope for no rescue unless Mrs. Pleasant's people would move on my behalf.
It was ironic that I must now pin my very faint hopes on the very person I had come to distrust. And her payment might come high. But I could only face the future one step at a time, and hope—
“He will not agree,” I said, as indifferently as I could.
“No? But that would be then such a pity for you, Miss Penfold. Now, to make him understand the better—” The lamplight flashed on a knife in his hand. From whence he had drawn that blade I could not have said. Before I was aware of his intention, he snatched off the net confining my hair, so long locks fell about my neck and shoulders.
D'Lys cut off a length which he wrapped around the note, using it as he might a cord.
“Now I shall leave you for a space, Miss Penfold. Pray to your white-skinned god for aid if you wish, not that he shall answer you. But it is always well to occupy yourself so. If Monsieur Sauvage wishes you well, he will say ‘yes.’ If he proves stubborn, it will be so sad for you.”
He went out the mirror door. As that slammed behind him I could not mistake the click of a key. I was indeed a prisoner.
Now there welled in me such terror that, had I lost control, I would have screamed and thrown myself at the mirrored wall, hammering at the glass until that broke. I fought one of the hardest battles of my life, forcing myself to continue to sit in the chair, to try and think beyond panic and fear.
As I looked helplessly about me those monstrous painted women on the walls seemed to titter and jeer. In the old days my father had armed me with a derringer, made me practice with it until I was a fair shot. And he had also trained me to think that I might someday, in some way, have to defend myself physically.
But that weapon had remained behind on the India Queen. I thought of it longingly. But memory would not arm me, I must seek something I could use here and now.
My hand went to my seam pocket. I still carried that bag of money. Would bribery serve here? But who to bribe? If I dared reveal that small store it might be wrested from me. With it was the spider bracelet. I remembered Submit's reaction to that. Suppose I showed it to some maid—
Mrs. Pleasant had said the maids here were Negroes, sometimes supplied by her. If I could see one—get my message out. (That it could serve me, I doubted, but I would keep it ready.)
Now I studied the room. The vulgarity of its furnishing made plain its use, catering to the lusts of those with money enough to tempt Célie. She had boasted to Mrs. Pleasant that those were not lesser citizens of this city. Could I appeal to such men? Shame them into coming to my aid? But how could I? I could guess that screaming here would not cause comment nor arouse the house, even if my voice carried beyond the walls of this room.
In those mirrors I saw only too clearly my bedraggled person, my loose hair, my face smudged by contact with that vile bag, my clothing plain and creased, flounces torn. I was no person to raise quick belief.
There I was reflected and reflected, two, three, a dozen of me. If I could only summon all those mirrored mes to stand shoulder to shoulder—I realized that I was perilously close to hysteria.
Always those leering, horrible pictures, their voluptuous forms made to intrude upon notice, their sly eyes watching me. I tried not to glance at them as I still searched for a weapon. The fireplace—those gilded fire irons—!
Fearing that I might be spied upon through some wall peephole, I arose and tottered so I almost fell. My will was strong, but now my body could not match it. There was an instant of vertigo and I clutched at the back of a chair. The floor wavered under me like the deck of a storm-tossed ship.
The unsteadiness passed but it left behind a residue of foreboding that it might strike again. I moved slowly as I might walk across a bog, crossing to the fireplace. The heat was almost stifling in this closed room, but the fire had fallen away to ash-encrusted coals. Stealthily I withdrew the poker from the stand, held it against my side so the drapery of my overskirt concealed it. I went back to the chair and sat down.
How long I maintained the vigilance I do not know. One enters such an ordeal with highly keyed nerves and an alertness of senses. But as time passes so does the fine edge of that alert. I began, in spite of myself, to be lulled, slightly off guard.
I had seated myself to face the hidden door, so no one could come on me unseen. And I tried not to think of what might be happening elsewhere, but rather concentrate on my own trial.
Time seemed endless, I could hear the ticking of the clock, raise my eyes now and then to where that stood on the mantel. It was a timepiece in keeping with the room, the dial upheld by a fat, petulant-faced cupid. The hour was now close to midnight.
Would they just leave me here?
I stiffened; a sound had interrupted the ricking, the turning of a key. Since I must now give the impression of one who felt herself to be without protection or resources, I allowed my shoulders to slump.
The door was flung open and Christophe D'Lys lurched in, caught his balance to walk more steadily. He had laid aside his hat and
waterproof to show broadcloth and fine linen. In one hand he carried a champagne bottle, his fingers hooked about its neck.
His face was flushed, his eyelids drooped to half conceal those yellow eyes. His lips looked very red and moist, and his tongue moved ceaselessly across them as if he savored something which gave him pleasure.
Though his entrance had been that of a half-drunken man, now his movements suggested he was in full control of his body. He set the bottle down, half turned from me.
My grip tightened on the poker. I had never struck a blow in my life. My resolution would be now tested if I could defend myself so. I arose, hoping to give the impression of one shrinking in fear, backing away.
“White—white meat—” That much was in English. Then D'Lys lapsed into the patois Victorine and Amélie had used. I could guess what he said and it made me sick, but I must not allow that to weaken me.
“Soft white meat—for the eating—” He did not appear to address me even though he again spoke English. “In the old days—the days of fire and knives and blood when my people arose—the soft white meat—they ran—the masters, the mistresses—they squealed—they tried to hide. Papa Ricardo, how often did he tell me how it was then, and he grew younger with every word. White meat—they were ours!”
D'Lys was caught up in a world of his own. His head swung back and forth, his tongue tip played in and out, a flicker of pink on his lower lip. As a snake might show its tongue, sway—a snake!
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I continued to edge back, away from the door. He watched me—or did he see me at all? His disjointed English faded into those other sounds. His words were hissed.
Step after slow step he followed me. I did not believe I would have more than a single chance, and I must make the most of that. Everything depended upon my being able to choose the right moment.
“Now I shall feast of white meat—what will it matter? This one is already Damballa's and who else but His Mouthpiece has the right to eat?”
He pounced like a great cat. Almost I failed. For his advance had been so slow I had been partially deceived into believing he was drunk. His fingers closed on the edge of my bodice and he ripped that down with great force, tearing open my clothing as if the materials were the thinnest paper.
At the same moment I swung the poker, brought it, with all the strength of arm I could muster, against the side of his head. My breath came in harsh gasps, for a long second I could not move, only stood there, staring down at what now lay at my feet. D'Lys had made no sound. But that other noise—the hollow thud of the blow—would I always remember that? His flailing arms, his clutching hands, caught in the velvet cover of the bed, dragging that down to fall across his body.
His body—! I shuddered, hurled away the poker with revulsion, wiping my hands on my skirt. I thought that, too, I must carry with me always, the feel of the gilded metal.
D'Lys made no movement, no sound. I could not bear to touch him to hunt for any signs of life. I felt I dared not let myself fully comprehend that I had killed this man with far less pity than I would have felt toward a mad animal. To me he was less than any animal.
Somehow I tottered to the dressing table, found, amid the welter of trifles, pins to make my bodice decent. My legs were so weak under me, I was shaking so badly, I could not be sure I was physically able to crawl out of this room. Nor did I underrate the perils of this house. But I must try—
Back to the bed I wavered, making a wide detour around the body, caught up my cape and pulled it around me. Then I started for the door. But I was never to reach that.
The mirrored surface swung. In the aperture stood Célie, and behind her another, a monstrous caricature of a woman, a fitting part of this nightmare. Though she was decked out in garish finery, a strange aping of fashion, she presented more the appearance of a man striding about in grotesque masquerade, save that her mountainous breasts strained against the lacing of her bright green satin bodice.
Célie was a small woman; this giantess reduced her to the proportions of a child. For the newcomer must have been more than six feet in height, thick-bodied to match her size. Her face, under an elaborate dressing of bright red hair, was raddled, her nose veined with red almost as bright as her hair, her mouth wide, her eyes protruding, giving her a froglike mask of feature.
The reek of strong scent and stronger drink hung about her. I longed for the poker, but that lay across the room where I had thrown it.
“What's all this?” In contrast to her giantess form the woman's voice was high and shrill. She prodded Célie on the shoulder with the tip of a ring-laden finger.
But Célie was staring at what lay on the floor. She shuffled forward and stooped to pull away the cover. D'Lys’ head was turned toward her, a dark stain on the carpet beneath it. She cried out.
“He's dead!”
“Is he now?” The shrill voice held only interest, no horror, nor surprise. As if such scenes of violence were not uncommon in her world. Then she looked to me.
“How did you down ‘im, gal?”
Célie, backing away from D'Lys, trod upon the poker. With a cry she pulled her skirts about her, edged to one side to display the weapon. The giantess stamped forward with a ponderous tread, picked up the metal length, to swing it back and forth.
“Nice little toothpick, Célie. You oughta be more careful, gal. Somethin’ like this means bad trouble.”
“Non!” Célie moved back against the wall, as far as she could get from the tumbled body. “Non, eet vill not! Ziss house, eet ees mine! I shall not lose eet, all vat I have in ziss world! I did not vant zat von here. Zat she makes trouble ees no my fault.” Her courage was flowing back. “No von shall know—”
“He's here and he's dead, Célie. How you gonna fix that?”
Célie stood with the knuckles of her right hand pressed to her teeth. It was plain she was thinking furiously.
“No von must know,” she repeated. “He must be found on zee street—away from here—struck down by a thief. Zat vill be eet! Such has happened before.”
“An’ just how does he git away from here, Cel? That pore critter ain't likely to git up and walk, now ain't that so?”
“He can be taken. Jasper and—” she swung to face the giantess—“and you, Bessie. You could carry him een one hand!”
“Wal, now, Cel, that there's an interestin’ proposition, it truly is. An’ what do I git for playin’ your little game?”
“Plenty. I know you,” returned Célie grimly. “You can take her!” She pointed to me. “I vant her mouth closed, see zat she never talks to zose who can make me trouble. Use her eef you can. Eef you can't”—she shrugged—“do as you vish viss her. She ees supposed to be a lady—might be a new attraction for your place, Bessie—bring een new trade.”
I was in such a daze of horror to hear them discussing me so, as if I were an object for barter, that I could not protest nor move. The giantess tossed the poker back on the floor and reached me in one stride. Her puffed hand closed like a vise on my chin, a grip which could not be denied, and she pulled my face to the light, inspecting me, her foul breath in my face.
“She ain't much of a looker, not as how m'lads like ‘em. But being as she's untouched goods, yeah, I could work up a little extra for her for a while. So I take her—an’ what else, Cel?”
“A veek's takings,” the other returned promptly. “You know vat zat runs to here, Bessie.”
“ ‘Deed I do, Cel. But we'll just make that two weeks, if you please. An’ me to count the tokens when I come to collect.”
Célie did not protest. Her shrug agreed. It was then that I found my tongue.
“You can't do this! Mrs. Pleasant—my friends—”
Bessie laughed. “Gal, from now on you has just one friend, that's me.” She thumped herself between those huge breasts. “You be a good little gal, don't make no trouble, an’ all'll be nice an’ friendly. You ask any of m'gals, Bessie treats ‘em right if they don't give no trouble. ‘Cou
rse you go in for tricks like this now”—she waved at the body—“an’ I'll git real annoyed. An’ git me annoyed, gal, an’ you'll wish you hadn't. I got m'ways of handlin’ them what does. Just to make sure you ain't goin’ to give me trouble now—” She stripped off my cape and I was a child against her great strength as she twisted my wrists behind me, secured those with a stocking Célie tossed her.
“Now”—Bessie turned to eye the body—“this here's gonna be a poor gentleman as can't handle his drink. I'll just take him down an’ put him in my own carriage, seein’ that he gits safely where he's goin’. No need to bring Jasper into this, Cel. Fewer knowin’ the better. I've the Dummy drivin’ me tonight an’ what he knows never matters none, since he ain't got no tongue to blab with.”
Bessie had some difficulty getting the limp body through the door but I guessed from her brisk competence this was not the first time she had done something of the sort. When she was gone I took the chance to appeal to Célie.
“You know Mrs. Pleasant is a friend of mine. Why should I ever talk? I killed him. Do you think I want to suffer for defending myself?”
She had been engaged in folding up the coverlet, showing a housewife's anxious care. Now she faced me, her face hard with hate.
“You! Eff Mammy Pleasant learns vat has happened here I shall never have any peace. He vas zee only one who could stand up to her and now how he ees gone. She's a devil, a devil! She know everything and she can curse zee life out of you, make you vish you vas dead, only you just go on living. I have seen her do zat to zose who crossed her. Do you seenk I vill risk zat?”
“But if I told her you held me here against your will. I saw him hurt you, force you to do as he wished—”
“Hurt me?” She struck me across the face, viciously, without warning. “Of vat do you speak? He vas a lover such as you do not know. Me, Célie, he vanted. Such men do not vant your kind. They vant us who give their bodies full pleasure. I never know a real man ever until zat one came to my bed, and you keeled him! I do not forget zat Bessie, she shall make eet for you so zat you vill not forget eet either—vhile you live.”