Sir Henry’s eyes flashed from the Sâr to the Duc, from the Duc to me, and back again
“I concur, Sir Henry,” the Duc put in. “My friend the Doctor here has never been known for his tact, but I would stake my life on him. I give you my word he intends no harm toward this conference. So, you can do one of two things. You can welcome him as my personal guest, at my responsibility, or you can continue to look like a complete and total jackanapes in front of your guests.” He folded his arms defiantly.
The Duc’s words seemed not only to break the spell over Sir Henry, but deflate him as well. He vented a huge amount of air out his mouth as he tried to regain his composure and color. “I…see, Your Grace,” he stated at last. “Please, forgive me. Certainly, if you recommend him I would be… glad to have this gentleman here for the evening. In fact, why don’t you go out into the gardens and talk there? It’s lovely and quite private. Alexander can show you where it is.” He nodded toward his son, and, as if by a prearranged signal, the younger put his arm around the Duc, guiding him away. “Right this way, Your Grace.”
“But I think–”
“Oh, it’s no trouble at all, Your Grace.” And they were out of earshot.
Very, very slowly, Sir Henry turned back to us, glaring evilly. “We. Will. Speak Of. This. Later.” And he stalked away, pulling Appleby with him.
“Well,” said the Sâr, “it seems my presence has gotten you in a bit of a mess, Dickson.”
“You think so?”
“Now don’t go losing your temper, young man. As it happens, I’ve had occasion to meet your mentor a time or two. We don’t really get on, but I’m sure that if something should happen, I can cover things for you. But who is this?” He glanced behind me.
Kritchna was waiting there, regarding the proceedings with a wry eye. “So you haven’t thrown Prince Zaleski out yet?”
“That’s the Sâr Dubnotal, young man, although I prefer ‘Doctor’ or ‘El Tebib’ if you know Arabic,” the Sâr snapped sharply. “I take it you’re one of the servants here.” Then he frowned, peering intently as the young Indian. “Tell me, sir, are you at all psychic?”
“Me?” Kritchna’s eyes rose at the unexpected question. “No. Why?”
“Are you certain? You should be.” The Doctor’s eyes probed the servant up and down intensely. “Your aura is one of the strongest I’ve ever seen. It practically screams of psychic potential. Dickson doesn’t have it; my friend Michel doesn’t have it, and as for our host–well, he’s practically sterile. But you–the only ones I’ve seen nearly so powerful are those of my assistant, some old enemies of mine, and my fellow countryman, M. Solange. And the Figalillys, but they’re so fey.”
“I–I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“No? Well, never mind. As I said, I’m merely here to see my friend. Nothing more.”
“Nothing?” I asked. “So you’re not here for the séance at Rutherford Grange?”
“Not in the least. Why should I? It smacks of pure fakery anyway, and my assistant is more than capable of exposing that. Grigori Yeltsin? Never heard of him. Probably a false name. No, I am simply here to–”
But what he was about to say, we would never learn. For, suddenly, the air was rent with the most horrified scream of shock and pain I have ever heard. It screeched through the room like a sharp, tentacly knife, sending shudders down the spine of everyone who heard. Then it was gone–cut off as quickly as it had come.
The crowed stood frozen in stunned silence. The scream had come from the gardens. And now came another sound–a long, loud, mournful howl, as if from the throats of a dozen dogs. It hung like a dirge over us and ended in a crescendo of snarls. I have never heard the like before.
“Michel!” the Sâr cried.
That was all I needed to hear. I tore through the crowd toward the garden doors, shoving my way past servants and diplomats alike. A mere half-pace behind me dashed the Sâr, gripping his carpetbag. For him, the crowd parted like the Red Sea. But no sooner had he passed than they immediately fell in behind him, trooping for the garden.
I pulled the glass-enclosed doors open with a mighty yank, my shoes clattering over the cobblestones of the walk. The Doctor was but a step behind. He very nearly collided with me as I stopped short, unable to believe what I was seeing.
“My God!” I heard a voice exclaim in a quaver–and was astonished to realize it was my own. For was what waiting before me was a scene of sheer impossibility
Alexander Westenra lay flat on his back, head bloody from a gash in his forehead, desperately trying to crawl backwards from the horror looming over him. Half a yard away upon the grass the body of the Duc d’Origny lay, eyes staring, a mass of red flesh and bone jutting out from where his throat had been. And standing over them like a nightmare, bent over Alexander in a bent parody of human posture, claws and teeth dripping with crimson, was a wolf. A wolf fully seven feet high at the shoulder, black-furred, eyes glowing redly, shimmering with power and muscle. A wolf looming upright–upright!–on its hind legs, legs that ended in long, splayed feet like that of a distorted kangaroo’s, reaching out its forelimbs toward the elder Westenra scion greedily. The paws on those forelimbs were too large, too thick for real paws. They looked more like the three-fingered hand of a giant. It stepped forward, clumsily, as if uncertain of its balance, but unhesitatingly toward its prey.
It was laughing.
Laughing, a deep, rumbling, from the center of the torso laughter. “Hree ree ree ree.” And with each step there was a peculiar sucking sound, like water sloshing in a paper bag.
Instantly, I knew what had killed Colleen two nights before.
“Lord save us!” screamed a voice I recognized as Appleby’s. “It’s the Werewolf! The Werewolf of Rutherford Grange!”
Impossible, I thought automatically. What was standing before us, salivating blood and foam from its jaws, could not possibly be the legendary Werewolf of Rutherford Grange. Why? Because werewolves did not exist, that’s why! Werewolves did not exist!
If so, someone should have told the terror bending over Alexander Westenra. It threw back its head and howled, a bellow filled with hate and malice. With a little hop, it advanced before the cringing man. Then with a ravenous snarl, it sprang–
–And something rushed past me with the velocity of an exploding volcano, literally launching itself into the air to pound itself right in the center of the creature’s chest, knocking it off its already precarious balance and causing both of them to fly backwards, skidding across the hard cobble.
For a moment, the Beast actually looked surprised. But it had no time to digest what had happened for now its attacker was furiously beating it across the face and snout with a fireplace poker it had seized, slamming the black bar against it again and again
“No!” Darshan Kritchna roared. “That bastard’s mine!”
“Darshan!” I cried, the shock of what I was seeing freeing me from my temporary immobility. I dashed forward, not thinking of the danger, just knowing I had to do something, when the Beast–for I can call it nothing else–screeched and with a mighty heave of a powerful arm, swatted the man away like a gnat. Kritchna flew back, colliding with a set of patio chairs. He rolled over, groaning, and lay still.
The Beast was already back upon its feet, snarling, and shot a hand-paw out toward me. I felt myself hoisted off my feet and then everything turned on its head as I found myself hurtling through the air to land almost right upon a panicked Alexander Westenra. I was only able to extricate myself when a hand grabbed me by the collar and pulled; Peter Westenra had seized his brother and myself and was desperately trying to haul us to safety.
Everywhere else, pandemonium was ensuing, as diplomats, servants, aides, musicians and everyone else screamed and headed for the doors, shoving, cursing, trying to push their ways inside before the monster could charge them.
“Alexander!” screamed Sir Henry and shoved his other son away to grab at his eldest boy. A t
hick foot landed on my chest as he pulled Alexander to safety. Unseen, Peter quickly joined them. But the Sâr was moving forward; at the first sight of the creature, he had dropped to his knee, grabbing his carpetbag, and tore it open to pull out what looked like–Good Heavens! Some sort of semi-large, vaguely star-shaped stone. What did he plan to do with that, bean the creature?
Apparently not, for he thrust out the hand gripping the stone like a crucifix, showing a side that had some sort of drab, rune-like figure painted on it. From his mouth flowed a torrent of strange words, in a tongue I could not identify.
The Beast stopped dead in its tracks. In the Sâr’s hand, the Stone almost seemed to glow–but it had to have been a trick of my blurry vision and the moonlight. “Isha Thar Ch’tanid!” the man seemed to be saying, and the Beast pulled back. But then it struck out, arm moving like lightning, sending the stone from the Sâr’s hand skittering over the cobbles and the Sâr himself into the lawn. Shaking as if in pain, it whipped around to find any other threats.
It was something I would never have imagined of him, but somewhere in the portly frame of Mr. Appleby was a wellspring of courage previously unseen. He darted between the Beast and his masters, making the Sign of the Cross in the air and screaming, “In the name of God, begone!”
At the words, the Beast flinched, as if having been struck, lightly. It paused for only a moment, then the massive jaws split into a skeletal grin and it lunged its teeth for the servant’s throat. Appleby fell over, tripped by his own feet, just in time. “Lord Jesus help me!”
Once again the Beast dropped back a bit, as if in some pain. Struggling to rise, still smarting from my blow, I tried to clear my head enough to think. Why was the Beast pausing? At Appleby’s pleas? But those were merely words–weren’t they? And what had the Sâr been thinking of?
Whatever it was, Appleby’s delay gave the Doctor enough time to roll for the odd star-shaped stone again. Sweeping it up, he shot to his feet in a fluid movement, thrust it out once again and cried: “Ch’nan vykos Nodens ka!” Whatever that meant. And, in almost the same breath, “Do it again, man! The prayers! Say the prayers!”
For a dazed moment, I wondered whom he was yelling to, but then Appleby started again with the pleas to his God: “Our Father, Who Art in Heaven, Hallow’d Be Thy Name...”
Simultaneously, the Sâr advanced quickly upon the Beast, shouting out in his unintelligible tongue.
The Beast stopped, roared, and began to tremble violently. Caught between the two “chanters,” it trembled like a cord strung between batteries–at least, that’s the thought that came to my mind. It staggered, swaying drunkenly upon its legs, and for a moment, it seemed as if the fur and muscle of the creature was actually shimmering. Then, it twisted, falling down upon all fours, and darted away across the lawn for the wall separating the estate from the outside world.
With one spring, it shot into the air, clearing the top with inches to spare, and vanished down the other side–and the wall was a good ten feet in height. Then there came one long, last howl–and it was gone.
It seemed an eternity before anyone moved. Then like a wave it hit, voices everywhere at once going: “God, what was that thing?” “A monster!” “The Duc! The poor Duc!” “What if it comes back? We’ve got to get out of here!”
In the midst of the crowd, Alexander was mopping his brow. “We had just came out to the garden when that thing leaped over the wall! Before either of us could move, it grabbed the Duc and tore his throat out right in front of me! Then it came for me! Me! I just thank God I’m alive!”
Sir Henry patted his shoulder. “There, son, you’re safe now. I saved you.”
Darshan and myself slowly picked ourselves up, heads aching. We looked at each other, daring the other to speak first. “Why?” I said at last.
“Because I want to kill him,” Kritchna said quietly.
The Sâr had risen and carefully picked up his star-stone, looking out in the direction the creature had gone. “Where does that lead?” he asked quietly.
“Toward Rutherford Grange,” replied Kritchna.
The Sâr said nothing. He pocketed the stone and went to the prone body of the Duc. Gently he knelt, cradling the staring head a moment. “My dear, dear friend.” Then he gently closed the corpse’s eyes.
“You!” The Doctor found Appleby standing over him. “What are you? A witch of some kind? A magician? Are you responsible for that–that thing?”
“Neither and no,” the Sâr snapped back. “What that Beast was and why it was here, I haven’t the slightest. Yet. As for myself, I am merely a student of the Ancient Mysteries.”
“A student of the Devil, more like! I saw you use that talisman!”
“I’ll admit the Star-Stones have no particular link to Christianity,” the Sâr snapped, “they represent other Powers. But not the Powers of Darkness–they were created to ward off evil, not strengthen it You have nothing to fear from me, Christian. The Powers I serve may not be exactly yours, but they are on the same side.”
“That’s impossible! There’s only one God! I don’t know who you are, but I know deviltry when I see it!”
“So do I,” the Sâr gestured angrily. “And it just went over that wall. It’s killed one of my dearest friends, it almost killed one of your masters, and if I don’t get after it now, it will certainly kill again! If you cannot help me, Appleby, then kindly get out of my way! I must–here! Release me, sir!”
These last words were not said to Appleby but to Sir Henry, who had come up from behind him and seized the Sâr by the arm.
“You!” the master of Westenra House roared. “I don’t know how you did it, but you’ve ruined everything! This didn’t happen until you arrived! Alexander! Peter! Hold this man until I figure out what to do! Everyone else, stop! Come back! No–no Police! My career–I mean, we can’t let this get out! Everything here is too sensitive! Wait! And you–” With his other hand he grabbed me. “You were supposed to be running security here! What kind do you call this? Now a guest is dead from some animal and my son was nearly killed! How dare you? How dare you?” He was shaking me violently and I was in no further mood for it.
“Let go of me now, Sir Henry.”
“Why? What you are going to do, boy, tell your employer? Your former employer when I get through with him?”
Something poked the fat man in the neck. The tip of a fireplace poker. “He said to let go of him, Westenra,” Darshan said dangerously. “Now.”
“Kritchna, stop!” Appleby cried.
“Not this time,” Kritchna said coolly. “I’ve been wanting to do something like this to you for a long time, Westenra, after what your son did to my family. And I will if you don’t let Dickson go. Right now.” He pressed a bit upon the skin for emphasis.
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh, don’t tell me you don’t know. You and Alexander–Appleby! Let go!” He tried to wrench the poker from the butler’s grasp but the elder man held firm. “Stop this, Darshan, before it’s too late!”
“It is too late,” came a voice and Alexander grabbed the Indian about the waist, pulling him away from his father. Arrogantly, he tossed him to the ground. “What do you mean, you damnable woggie?”
“My sister!” snarled Kritchna staring up at the man. Blazing hatred shone in his eyes. “Ashanti!”
“Ashanti?” Alexander blinked. “Ashanti? Who–what, you mean that little whore from Bombay? She was your sister?”
“She was,” spat the Indian, “And she was no whore. Ever. You seduced her. Like you did dozens of other girls. Then when you got her pregnant you threw her aside!”
Alexander snorted. “Please. Not my fault. If the girl couldn’t control herself around white men, it’s no affair of mine. And I’m certainly not going to take responsibility for some little mulatto. Anyway, last I heard, she lost the brat, anyway.”
“She did.”
Alexander shook his head, glancing in bewildered amusement at his father, his b
rother and the crowd who stood listening. “What, you’re blaming me?” he asked the latter. “Please. It’s not like I didn’t do what any of you’ve not done in India. Besides, think about this ridiculous idiot here. He decides to come to England and infiltrate my family’s staff, just so he can get revenge on me for a woggie stillborn!”
“For more than that,” growled Kritchna. “Oh, don’t look so innocent. You know what else you did. The very day your family leaves to go back here, my sister disappears from Bombay! You killed her! I know you did! I’ve been looking for proof ever since I got here! What did you do to the body, drop it in the river?”
Now Alexander actually looked surprised. “What are you talking about? I never saw the bitch after I told her to get out. I suppose I should thank you for saving my life from that–that creature, but knowing why you did it, I won’t. In fact, I think I’m going to throw you out like I did her!”
He lunged for the younger man. Automatically, I broke away from Sir Henry, thrusting myself into Alexander, but suddenly a dozen hands from everywhere had seized me and were dragging me away, through the House and out the front door, through the gardens toward the gate. I was vaguely aware of voices, apparently Peter’s and Appleby’s, crying out in protest, but it was no good. The gate was flung open and the hands shoved me forward, and both Darshan and I landed undignified onto the road. The gate slammed shut behind us.
For a few minutes, we just lay there, panting as the voices faded. Then, slowly, we rose
“Well,” Kritchna said ironically, dusting himself off. “That could’ve gone better.”
I hit him.
“What did you do that for?”
“Just what did you think you were up to, you imbecile? Were you just going to up and murder Alexander in his sleep? Is that it? For what, because you think he murdered your sister? Where’s your proof?”
“I was looking for it!”
“So that’s why you lied about going to the cinema. Let me guess, questioning the villagers to see if any of them knew anything? I thought so. Damn it, why didn’t you just tell me your suspicions? I’m a detective! I could’ve helped!”
Tales of the Shadowmen 2: Gentlemen of the Night Page 8