So at the interval, although Rose had enjoyed every note Caruso sang, she had not been distracted much from her troubles; certainly not as much as she had hoped to be.
When the lights came up for intermission, she decided to remain in her box rather than brave the crowd in search of champagne or milder drink. It seemed like far too much effort to squeeze through the mob just to obtain a single glass of indifferent wine or weak lemonade.
But a tap at the door of the box startled her, and she answered it before she thought. "Yes?" she called, revealing that the box did have an occupant. The intruder took her tentative reply as an invitation, and opened the door.
She found herself facing a middle-aged man of relatively good looks; one whose figure suggested that he might be allowing good living to overcome the athletic physique of his youth. His dark hair was perfectly groomed, as was his small mustache. He was attired in perfectly-tailored evening-dress, and the cut of the suit suggested that the large diamond stickpin in his cravat was the genuine article and not paste.
He looks like some character out of an opera, but I cannot think who! Don Giovanni in modem dress, perhaps?
He held two glasses of champagne, and Rose was certain that he had mistaken her box for another.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Hawkins, but may I come in?" he said, disabusing her at once of the idea that this had been a mistake. "I hesitated to disturb you, but I had a perfectly good bottle of champagne and no one to share it with-and then I saw that you were occupying Jason's box, and hoped you might do me the favor of drinking half." He smiled, but it was a smile of confidence, rather than an ingratiating smile, as if he was quite certain of his welcome. "You see, it would be a very great favor. Half a bottle of champagne never hurt anyone, but to drink a whole marks one as quite the dissolute."
He apparently took her stunned silence for assent, and walked in, with an usher with a plated bucket of ice and the open bottle of champagne following behind. Before Rose knew what to say or do, the man had handed her a glass, given the usher a tip, and settled himself into one of the chairs opposite her. All of her old diffidence around a strange or powerful man had reasserted itself.
"I beg your pardon, I never introduced myself," the man said, acting as if he had all the right in the world to be there. "I am Simon Beltaire. I am not precisely a colleague of Jason Cameron's-more of-shall we say-a gentleman of his circle."
She found her tongue. "Oh, really?" she replied. She had hoped to make it sound sarcastic, but the words emerged weak and without intonation. Beltaire's black eyes glittered in a way she found both repellent and fascinating, she found it difficult to look away. How did he know who I was? That can't be exactly common knowledge-
"Jason and I share many, many interests," Beltaire continued, as she automatically sipped at the glass he had put into her hand. "More than you might think."
He managed somehow to draw her into conversation, although she could not imagine how; his probing questions prompted her to reveal more than she had intended to, and his eyes seemed to catch all of the available light as he spoke. She had never felt herself quite so maladroit at conversation before; she learned nothing of him, until their conversation lulled for a moment, and he sat back in his chair.
"I will be frank with you, Miss Hawkins," he said, finally. "Because I can see from what you have told me that Cameron has let you into more of his secrets than I had supposed. Many more. In short, he has trusted you with the reason why he needed your services."
"He has?" she replied inanely. "I can't imagine what you're talking about, sir-"
He waved his free hand in the air, dismissing her prevarication as precisely that. "Do not think you need to dissemble with me, Miss Hawkins. If he can trust you, why, so can I. You are probably wondering how it is I knew that you even existed, much less your name and your vocation, and your relationship to Jason." He leaned forward again and refilled her glass-a glass she did not recall emptying. "It is very simple. It is impossible for one Firemaster to keep many secrets from another."
His words sent an electric shock down her spine, riveting her to her seat. His next words shocked her even further.
"I know everything there is to know about his so-called 'accident' as well, Miss Hawkins. It was no accident that gave Jason Cameron the face-and the nature-of a wolf."
She had not even realized that the opera had started again, and the wild strains of the "Fate" theme served as an eerie punctuation to his words. The glass fell from her suddenly-numb hands to the carpeted floor, where it bounced without breaking, spilling its contents on the red wool beside her feet.
Was it her imagination, or did he smile for a moment at her reaction? Perhaps it was just a trick of the light, for in the next moment he was leaning forward, nothing on his face but concern.
"I know more-a great deal more-about this transformation Magick than he does. I have manuscripts dealing with it that he does not even dream exist. And I know what it can do to the inside of a man as well as the outside." He tapped his temple with one white-gloved hand, significantly.
But her attention was caught by his previous words. Could he be the one the Unicorn referred to? The one who has the manuscript Jason needs?
He went on, his voice low, and yet it somehow carried over the voices of the singers and the music from the orchestra. "Jason Cameron is half beast, Miss Hawkins, but it is the side of him that is the beast that is growing to be the strongest. The longer this goes on, the more the beast will be in the ascendant. His ability to think will fade, and the instinct of the beast will take its place. He will be given to ungovernable rages, and during those rages, he will not know who or what he attacks." He nodded solemnly as she gasped in recognition-and as her memory of Jason's face and eyes flashed before her mind's eye. "That is why the old tales of the werewolf told how the creature would kill the things it loved most when it was a man-because it knew nothing but the urge to kill when the rage was upon it, and it attacked whatever was nearest."
She clasped her hands together tightly, as her throat and chest constricted until it became hard to breathe. Beltaire caught her eyes again in his glittering gaze.
"He sent you away, didn't he?" the man whispered softly.
She shook her head, and found her voice again. "No!" she replied. "No this was a trip we had planned since I arrived-"But her denial sounded weak, even to her own ears, and Beltaire nodded as if she had answered in the affirmative. "He knows. He may not be aware of it, consciously, but he knows. He does not wish innocents to come to any harm, and he has sent you away where he feels you will be safe. I expect, if he has not already, he will send you an offer of severance."
The knowledge of the note back in her luggage burned in her heart like a guilty secret. Beltaire leaned farther forward, and put one of his hands on both her clasped ones.
"I would like to help you, Miss Hawkins," he said. "I sense that you are a brave young woman; I know that you are an accomplished woman, a resourceful woman, and a beautiful woman. I would like very much to help you, but I cannot unless you allow me to."
She found her voice again. "Help me?" she croaked. "How?"
He did not release her hand, and she could not look away from his eyes at all. "In a sense, you would come under my protection," he said. "You would do the same thing for me that you have been doing for Cameron. I could use a fine translator for the many works of Magick I have acquired over the years. My scholarship and knowledge of languages is not as great as his, but my knowledge is broader. If you have any personal interest in Magick, I could further it, easily enough. But I know that you have limited means, and that your position with Cameron is a precarious one. He is not a generous man, and he can be a vindictive one. He might even blame you for his own failures, and turn on you. If that were to happen, in the state that he is in, he might lose all caution and hunt you down like a frightened doe no matter where you happened to be-unless you accepted my protection."
It was so hard to breathe! She gasped, as
if she had been running. "And then-what?"
Beltaire shrugged. "Eventually, something will happen. Either he will realize that he cannot reverse his condition and end his suffering by his own hand, or he will more likely revert entirely to the beast, break out of the grounds of his mansion, and go hunting. When that happens, someone will cut him down. It is just a matter of time."
"What do you have to do with this?" she asked, in a thin whisper.
"I? Well, for one thing, I am able to protect a fine scholar." He patted her hand. "I have seen your record; do not protest. If Jason reverts to the beast-it should be the hand of someone who knows him and will give him a quick and easy death that takes him down. I would also make certain it happens before he kills someone."
Was this a nightmare? It felt like one! But if it was a nightmare, why couldn't she wake up?
"If you are willing-and brave enough-you could make certain of that, Miss Hawkins, and I would see you had a reward commensurate with your risk," he continued, with earnest intensity. "You could serve as the bait in the trap for the beast. You could make certain that no one who was innocent and helpless became his victim. Think of it! Think of a child, or an innocent youth, or a harmless old woman being in the wrong place at the wrong time when he finally snapped! Think of him rending their flesh, tearing their throats cut! And think of his horror when he realized what he had done! If you value his honor, if you have compassion for what remains of his humanity, you can save him from that, Miss Hawkins. You can make it possible for him to die with some shred of honor and dignity left!"
She shook her head, but the movement was so faint, he probably didn't see it. Or else he chose to ignore it.
She heard music, and recognized it as the fortune-telling scene in the gypsy camp. It seemed to come from a thousand miles away.
He released her hand. "Then-when it is all over-I can send you back home. Back to Chicago," he continued in silken tones as he sat back, releasing her from his eyes as he had released her from his grip. "That would be your reward. I can send you back with restored fortunes. I can make certain that you have all you once had before your father's ill-considered speculations-the house, the furnishings, the income-all. You will never need to worry about money again for the rest of your life. It will be a fitting reward for a brave heart and a gallant, self-sacrificing lady."
She licked lips gone suddenly dry. "I-I'll think about it," she heard herself saying, as from a vast distance.
Somewhere, out beyond the curtains of the box, the orchestra thundered as Carmen turned over the card for Death.
Her entire body jerked and her eyes closed. When she opened them again, Beltaire was gone. There was only the half-empty bottle of champagne, and a single glass lying on its side on the floor, to show that he had been there at all.
Jason Cameron fought the red rage as it threatened to engulf him and prove that everything Simon Beltaire had told Rose was true. He succeeded barely-and sat literally panting in exhaustion with his paws clenched tightly on the arms of his chair. Meanwhile, in the mirror, Rose watched Don Jose murder Carmen in a scene that unfortunately more closely resembled Captain Ahab stabbing Moby Dick with a harpoon. Under other circumstances, he would have been howling with laughter, since he would not offend anyone with his mirth.
He was nearer to tears than to laughter at the moment. As his rage died, the stark truth of at least some of what Beltaire had told her chilled him even further.
This incredible rage was getting stronger; when it had first hit him, he had only scored claw-marks in his desk. Now he had killed one man, and if he had been able to get his hands on Beltaire, the total would have been two.
How long until he did lose out to the animal urge to kill even further, and slaughter those he loved?
Beltaire had confirmed what he had already suspected, that the other Firemaster possessed the manuscript that would free him from this hell. He would never release it to Cameron, however, nor could Cameron see any way of obtaining it by force or otherwise. And there were other truths there. If persuaded to swear upon the Pact, he would do everything he had promised Rose, and Cameron knew that Rose was wise enough to make him swear that very oath. He could even help her; he could allow her to serve as bait in a trap, then evade the trap at the last minute. Her duty would be fulfilled, and by his oath, Beltaire would have to give her everything he had promised. Wouldn't that be the best thing he could do for her to let her see for herself that he was the beast and no longer himself, then let her go?
If you really love her, you will, whispered a little voice, deep inside of him. What she might not accept from you as a gift, she will accept from him as payment. That had been one of his greatest fears; that she would recklessly throw away every parting gift he offered because it came from a tainted source, and escape with very little more than she had arrived with.
He struggled with himself for hours, as he watched her in his mirror, her face reflecting a similar struggle. She had not gone back to her room in the Palace Hotel; instead, she had the taxi-driver drop her at the front entrance, but had changed her mind and begun to walk. She did not go far; stopped by a concerned policeman, she had assured the worried man that she had many troubles on her mind, and simply wished to walk until she had thought them out. He suggested kindly that she simply circle the block so that he could keep an eye on her safety, and with a shy bob of her head, she had agreed to follow his suggestion.
Around and around the block she went; granted, it was a long city block, but she circled it many times in the next few hours, and Cameron held vigil with her while she did so. Down Market, across to Mission, up Mission, and back again; around and around she paced, beneath the bright street lights and the everwatchful eye of the policeman. He expected her to finally tire and return to her room at about three in the morning, but she continued to walk as if she were tireless, or so restless that she could not have stopped if she wanted to. The city was very quiet at that hour and the noise of her footsteps was very nearly the only sound to be heard other than the chiming of clocks in towers all over the city. Four came and went, and still she kept her unchanging orbit.
What is it she is thinking about?
Finally, around five, the sun, behind the Berkeley Hills in the east began to lighten the sky, moving from the grey of false-dawn to the clear blue of another lovely spring day. The street-lights dimmed, then went out. Several carts passed, drawn by horses; the first traffic of the day was beginning. She paused, looked wistfully ahead to the entrance of the hotel and sighed wearily.
The chimes rang out the hour, and she looked at her watch to confirm it. She sighed again, and looked, first eastward towards the dawn, then south-in his direction.
Then she shook her head, and turned back towards the hotel. She had just reached the entrance at about ten minutes after five, and Jason stretched and relaxed a little, seeing the end of his vigil in sight.
All the horses on the street stopped dead in their tracks-and screamed in utter terror. She whirled, staring at them.
He froze, as out in the stable, Sunset and Brownie screamed in tones of identical terror.
Rose had made up her mind to go back to bed for a few fitful hours of sleep before visiting Master Pao. She knew nothing of Simon Beltaire, but he might, and she would trust his judgment. The man had tried to exert some hypnotic magnetism over her last night, of that much she was certain, but it had not lasted once she began to walk. Perhaps he had not counted on that; certainly, had she gone straight to bed, she would still be quite certain of the utter and complete truth of everything he had told her.
Now, she was not at all sure. In fact, given his behavior, and the arrogant way in which he had bullied his way into the theater-box, she was less and less inclined to trust him in any way. After all, the best way to tell a great lie was to salt it liberally with small truths. Just because he had been telling her things she knew were true, it did not follow that everything he told her was true. It did not follow that most of what he told
her was true.
And if he knew Jason's problem, and possessed other manuscripts dealing with it, and was the "friend" he pretended to be-
Why didn't he offer help to Jason, rather than coming to me and asking me to be the means for Jason's demise? A very good question!
She had taken perhaps a dozen steps in the direction of the hotel entrance, when suddenly every horse in the street stopped dead, threw up its head, and screamed in mortal terror.
And with that scant warning, the earth rose up in revolt.
A terrible rumbling that made her stomach churn and her knees go to water began in the distance, and as she looked instinctively towards the sound, impossible as it seemed, she actually saw the earthquake approaching.
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