"Firemaster!"
The Salamander popped up under Sunset's nose, startling the stallion into a fit of rearing and bucking. Cameron fought to control the horse with knee and voice; his heart hammered as he even hauled on the reins of the bitless bridle to force the horse's head down into a position where it would be difficult to buck.
"Help! Firemaster!" the Salamander shrilled again. "Rose! Danger! Help, Firemaster!"
What? At that same moment, he fought Sunset to a shivering standstill, and he twisted in his saddle to face the Elemental. "Where? What? How?"
"Du Mond has her!" it screeched. "Follow!"
It shot off like a streak of red lightning in the direction of the path to the cliffs; without a second of hesitation, he wrenched the horse's head around in the right direction. Digging his heels into Sunset's sides, and shouting, he gave the stallion his head. Already excited, Sunset needed no encouragement to break into a gallop. The horse pounded after the blazing Elemental, as Cameron's thoughts churned chaotically.
Du Mond-but why-the Salamanders can't protect her, I sealed him against their direct interference-the cliffs-what can he want-he wants her, he always has, he's been after her all along-
He urged Sunset to his fastest with shouts and slaps of a light twig he carried instead of a riding-crop, but his thoughts went from chaos to incoherence. Red, bloody rage built up in him, as it had once before, at the thought of du Mond putting his filthy hands all over Rose, his Rose-
I'll kill him-kill him-kill-
Bile rose in his throat, and the thick musk of rage in his nostrils. His stomach knotted, and his vision misted.
Sunset thundered down the path to the cliffs, covering in minutes what it would take someone afoot a half hour to cross. His vision was narrowed to the path ahead, and filmed with scarlet. Sunset was tiring, slowing, but it didn't matter, for he saw du Mond ahead of him now, dragging Rose. Her clothing was torn and her face scratched, but she was kicking and fighting and screaming at the top of her lungs.
He might have been able to control himself, if it had not been for the sheer terror in her screams.
That sent him over the edge-and over Sunset's neck as the horse pulled up in startlement. He leapt upon du Mond like a wolf leaping for a rabbit, claws extended, and nothing in his mind or his soul but the need to destroy.
He caught a glimpse of du Mond's face as they both went down-which did not even show that the man registered his presence. Then they were grappling together.
Du Mond's strength was prodigious, far greater than the man should ever have commanded on his own. He managed to hold the wolf off for a few moments; long enough for him to realize, in whatever drug-fogged world he was in, that he was in trouble. He wrenched briefly away, and stumbled over Rose as she lay prone, stunned, where he had dropped her.
He still might have been able to save himself, if he had simply fallen flat and unresisting. Instead, he drew a knife, and tried to grab for Rose again, perhaps with the vague notion of using her as a shield.
He never got any farther than the motion.
With a growl that clawed its way out of his throat, Jason leapt for him again, swatting the knife out of his hands-
At that point, everything faded into a scarlet haze.?
He came to himself a moment later, with a strange, sweet, warm, metallic taste in his mouth. His claws held du Mond's shoulders to the ground; beneath him, the body quivered as the last vestige of life passed from it. Du Mond's head was flung back, and in his eyes was a look of sheer horror. Du Mond's throat was a red ruin.
With a shock, Jason recognized the taste in his mouth as blood. Fresh blood.
Du Mond's blood.
He had ripped out du Mond's throat with his bare fangs.
With an inarticulate cry, he shoved himself to his feet, and staggered back clumsily a pace or two.
A sound that was part sob, part wail of fear, and part gasp made him lurch about-
-meeting the horrified gaze of Rose.
The beast had won-and she had witnessed it all.
No-no!
He gave a howl of anguish, and ran, not knowing where he was going, and not caring, so long as it took him away, far away, from those fearful, accusing eyes.
Rose didn't remember how she came to be halfway up the path to the house, with the rags of her blouse gathered about her in one hand, the reins of Sunset's bridle in the other, and her hair straggling about her face. She only knew that at one moment she was staring into the eyes of a creature she had thought she knew-a creature with the blood of a man on its hands and fangs, which stared back at her with no sign of recognition in its face. She had been fighting for her life at one moment, and at the next had watched the man she loved tearing out the throat of her attacker.
Literally.
I'm in shock, she thought, dimly. I must get back to the house-
But he had run off, howling, in that same direction. What if he was lying in wait for her, his blood-lust unappeased by his first victim?
This is Jason you're thinking about!
But it had not been Jason who had looked at her with the uncomprehending eyes of a beast. It had been the werewolf, the loup-garou, and she did not know it at all.
Sunset walked along beside her in utter exhaustion, head down, sides heaving, streaming sweat. She dimly recalled hoofbeats approaching before something had flown over her head and sent her sprawling into the underbrush. Had Jason ridden him here? Had the Salamanders alerted him? But why hadn't they attacked du Mond themselves?
She thought of the blood on Jason's hands, dripping from his abbreviated muzzle, and shuddered. She had never seen anyone die before, not even her father. How could he have done that to anyone, even his worst enemy?
How could she stay here? What if he snapped again?
She had once asked him how much of him was wolf, and he had seemed startled and uneasy at the question. Now she knew why.
How close to the surface is the wolf? And what if I am the one to make him angry next time?
As she emerged from the forest in front of the house, two Salamanders flitted up to take charge of Sunset. She dropped the reins listlessly, and stumbled on to the house, with both hands holding the ruins of her blouse over her chest in a vain attempt at modesty. Her hands, her wrists, her arms ached, and she was limping because the heel of her right shoe had broken off in the fight.
She found herself in her room, again with no clear idea of how she had gotten there. With a frightened gasp, she whirled, and with trembling hands, locked her door.
Only then did she stumble into the bathroom, where she knelt beside the toilet and retched until her stomach and chest ached and there was nothing left for her to be rid of.
She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, feeling the sting of scratches there as she did so.
Shaking in every limb, she got slowly to her feet again, to find a bath waiting ready for her although she had not ordered one. She lifted her hands to look at them with dull curiosity; they were covered with deep scratches, and her hair, now loose and straggling, was full of twigs and knots.
She looked down. There was blood splattered on her skirt, on the remains of her blouse. There was too much of it to be hers.
In a frenzy of sudden horror, she ripped the rags of the clothing from her body without regard for fasteners, breaking a nail in the process. A Salamander appeared just as she struggled out of the last of it. She did not wait for it to ask what she wanted.
"Take it!" she wailed, shoving it away with her foot as far as she could. "Burn it! Burn it all!"
The Salamander levitated the pile of blood-stained clothing from the floor; still shuddering, she turned her back on it and its burden, and freed herself of her corsets and the rest of her underthings, just dropping them and leaving them where they fell. She plunged into the bath as into the waters of life, scrubbing frantically and hysterically to remove any taint, any hint of blood.
She blanked out again, and came to herself as sh
e was dressing in entirely new clothing. Presumably the Salamanders had brought it all; she didn't remember. Something had combed out the tangles and twigs from her hair; perhaps she had, perhaps they had. Perhaps her own Sylph had.
She did not want to go out into the next room. She wanted to stay here, in the clean, white, safe bathroom.
Against her will, her feet walked into the bedroom, and from there into the sitting-room, and her body was forced to follow.
Her trunk and other baggage was waiting for her; she had not packed it before her walk, and could not have packed it afterwards....
There was a note. Numbly, she picked it up and read it.
I have sent for the train. Go into the city, tonight. Stay long enough to see Caruso, if after all this you still wish to. I have engaged a room at the Palace Hotel for you so that you need not see anyone who knows you and who might require an explanation, and there will be a porter and a taxi waiting at the station. You must rest tonight. After that, if you wish to leave, I will understand, leave word with my agent where you wish to go and first-class tickets will be waiting for you at the station. After you have gone, I will arrange for the rest of your things to follow. My agent will arrange for your bank-account to be cleared, and add a generous severance-fee.
It was not signed, but it didn't need to be. Not with the copperplate script burned into the paper as only a Salamander could.
In a state of benumbed emptiness, she gathered up her gloves and her cloak, pinned her hat to her still-damp hair, dropped her veil over her scratched face, and left, without a backward glance.
She told the concierge at the hotel that she had suffered an accident and a great shock and wished to be left alone. He stared at her scratched, bruised face behind the concealment of her veil, murmured polite words of sympathy, and had the porters usher her immediately to a first-class room with a private bath. Presumably, he did not want to take the of risk playing "host" to a young female having a case of strong hysterics in his hotel lobby, for he did not even require her to sign the register, but expedited her check-in himself. Immediately after, the concierge sent up a large bottle of brandy to her room.
She was tempted by it, but did not drink it, much as she would have welcomed the oblivion. Instead, she sent for a pot of hot water, and searched through her toiletries for her selection of Master Pao's herb teas. He had given her what he described as his "medicine chest": a tightly-packed box of herbal remedies, each packet with the purpose handwritten in his peculiar script on the front.
She found two, and hesitated between them. Sleep, said one, and Calm, the other.
But she was already calm; granted, it was the false calm of shock, but it was calm of a sort. Sleep was what she needed now, and that was the tea she chose.
She locked her door, checking it twice to make certain she had done so. Then she undressed, slowly, with a care for the hundred new bruises and aches she discovered with every passing minute. She put on the thickest and most enveloping of her night-dresses, drank down the bitter tea without bothering to sugar it, turned off the lights, and climbed into bed.
It was barely sunset, and her room had a westward-facing window. The setting sun made a red glow against the closed curtains, as if the entire city were aflame outside her window.
There were still those strange blanks in her memory; she also did not remember the train ride here. She must have convinced the men manning it that she was all right, or she suspected they would have delivered her to a hospital and not to the waiting taxi. Shock certainly did strange things....
Her window was open, allowing the sounds of the city to drift into the room. She knew two men in this entire city, and one of them had just torn out the other's throat in front of her.
If I were a normal, rational woman, I would send for the police, she thought, abstractly. But she knew that she would not. What was the point? Cameron would dispose of the body in some fashion, probably by burning it to ash. The chances that anyone would inquire after du Mond were minimal; she had the impression from Cameron that the man had no relatives-or at least none who cared about him. If Cameron was clever, he would file a report with the police himself, describing du Mond as having taking flight to parts unknown with a large sum of Cameron's money.
And why should she say anything to the administrators of justice? Du Mond had clearly been planning something horrible for her; Cameron had saved her. Du Mond had died quickly; possibly more quickly than he deserved. If Jason had shot the miscreant in front of her, would the result have been any different?
That was what anyone else probably would have done in the same circumstances, and du Mond would be just as dead, possibly just as bloodily dead. In newspaper stories, in novels, and on the stage, men were applauded for saving women in danger from their attackers. When the villain met his end at the point of gun, knife, or bare hands, there was no one crying out in reproach-rather, the saviors were toasted as heroes, and basked in glory afterwards. The police, if this were made known to them, would probably give Cameron a medal for heroism, not an accusation of murder.
A non sequitur occurred to her. She had always railed at the heroines of stage or literature who, when confronted by villains, conveniently fainted dead in their arms, making it perfectly easy for the cads to carry them off. She had sworn that if she had been in that situation, she would have fought tooth and nail, and her friends had always laughed at her, saying that she would never know how she would react, and that she would probably faint dead away. At least I proved them wrong, was her peculiarly flippant thought. And I have the bruises to prove it.
The scarlet light outside faded, deepened to dark rose, the bluish-rose, then deep, twilight blue. The light within the room faded with it, and with the loss of vision, her hearing became more acute. She heard the murmurs of conversation in the room next to hers; water running somewhere, and the clink of china and silver as a room-service cart was wheeled past her door.
There were no werewolves here; no men with the faces of beasts....
But there are men with the souls of beasts, and which is worse? Somewhere outside those windows, people who looked more human than Jason Cameron were doing terrible things to other people, things infinitely worse than simply killing them. Master Pao, although he was not a Christian, worked closely with some of the Christian missionaries who worked against the slave-traders and opium-suppliers. On her last visit, he had told her something of the evils they were combating; that there were hundreds of opium-dens in the Barbary Coast area alone, places where men took money so that other people could slowly destroy themselves. And he had told her that there were over a thousand "cribs," that he knew of, tiny, closet-sized rooms where Chinese girls as young as ten or eleven sold their bodies twenty times a night and more at the behest of their owners. Ten or eleven! She had been horrified-and more so when he told her gravely that this was not the worst thing that could befall a little Chinese child, brought to this country by the slavers. He had not told her what the worst thing was-and she had not really wanted to know.
Compared to that, Jason Cameron was a Saint George, a Sir Galahad. She had never seen the face of the beast until the moment when her life was imperiled; he had not lost control until that moment, which should tell her at least that he was fond enough of her to lose control at the sight of her being beaten and carried off.
But this fact remained-the beast had been ascendant, for that one moment. How could she trust that it would not happen again and again, until the beast was all there was left?
She was still mulling that over when Master Pao's tea went to work.
Cameron was dictating the most difficult letter of his life; Pao would surely repudiate him for it, but there was nothing he could do about that. Pao must know the whole truth now, for if Rose went to him for help, he must be fully aware of the situation she had faced. He had revealed the whole of his transformation and why it had happened, why he had brought Rose here, her growth in Magick, his growing love and need for her, and fina
lly the murder at his hands-or teeth-of du Mond.
"She may turn to you; in any case, please, Pao, watch over her while she is within your sphere. If I had not been so certain that she could not remain here and also remain sane, I would not have let her go. She is probably in shock, and definitely vulnerable. Take care of her, if she will let you. I beg of you, for her sake, if not for mine." He fell silent for a moment, and the Salamander stilled. "Sign it, Respectfully, Jason Cameron." The Salamander burned the last of the letters into the page, and he took the missive and sealed it into an envelope, handing it back to the Elemental. "Now take it directly to him, and wait to see if he has a return message."
The Salamander nodded wordlessly, and it and the envelope vanished. Cameron hid his head in his paws and dug his claws into his scalp.
When he had returned to the house, he had locked himself into his chambers, then gone into a frenzy of telegraphing: ordering up the train, passing orders on to his agent. When all of his orders had been confirmed, he sent the Salamanders to Rose's rooms to put the rest of his hasty plan into motion.
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