by Frank Lauria
“Don’t come here. I’m not sure about the real reason Germaine came to New York. And from now on keep your apartment door locked. Don’t take any chances. It might even be better if you didn’t go out anywhere today.”
“But, darling, I have a very important appointment this evening. You mean you’re still persisting in that... bizarre notion that the count is responsible for the murders? I can’t believe it. You should be working with him. He can help you. He’s a very knowledgeable scientist. Please, darling.”
“Don’t worry, we’re working together,” he assured her. “We’re making up a new batch of the formula. But it’s best that we try it out privately. So we can gauge its effects with minimum danger. Meanwhile I think it’s smart to just sit tight,”
He hoped she would accept what he said. There was no use arguing now. The important thing was that she didn’t interfere.
“Well, I suppose that’s good advice,” she sighed. “But not exactly a cheerful prospect for going out with my friends.”
“Cancel out and watch TV.”.
“Not this one, sweetie. All right I’m off. Give the count my regards.”
“I’ll call you,” he said, but she’d already hung up.
When Germaine returned, the three of them added the opium gum to the herbs and made up a large dose of the formula. Orient was satisfied as he watched them work that they hadn’t tampered with the ingredients.
Until he remembered that he’d left Lily alone in the lab when Sybelle called. He recalled the presence of poison mushroom in the aromatic talcum and became apprehensive:
“Do you want to take it now, Owen?” Lily asked.
He shook his head. “There’s still a few hours before the symptoms appear. I’ll take it when I have to.” His mind accelerated as his evasions compounded. He had to find an opportunity to be alone in the lab, so he could take the doses he’d mixed himself. The pounding in his heart and the tension in his neck and shoulders became an uncomfortable throb in his temple.
“I’ve done what we’ve agreed to do, doctor,” Germaine said, “and now I would like you to do something for me. Perhaps it will seem like an odd request.”
Orient sensed that the trap was about to spring. He took a deep breath and readied himself. “What is it you want me to do?” As he spoke his hand dropped into his blazer pocket.
“I’d like you to show me your altar room.”
He hesitated and then met Germaine’s steely stare.
“What makes you think I have an altar room?”
The count smiled, but his eyes remained flat and hard beneath his thick eyebrows. “You couldn’t have performed a rite of Mars without it. Isn’t it time we really tried to find a cure? Or have you grown fond of your beastly nature? Is that why you won’t tell us the answer to the last line of the formula?”’
A quick flush of anger heated the back of Orient’s neck and his fingers closed around the knife he’d put in his pocket earlier that day. It was the table knife he’d consecrated as his sword of defense in the rite.
“Please, count, why are you saying all these horrible things,” Lily protested, glancing at Orient. “He needs our help.”
Germaine’s eyes didn’t waver from Orient’s face. “Perhaps I’m tired, Lily. I traveled long to reach you. And the journey is as relentless as the flow of water.”
The words froze in Orient’s mind. They were part of a traditional greeting between adepts of the occult league. Memory melted through his confusion and he automatically responded. “One must take care, the journey is strewn with illusion,” he said softly, his fingers still on his knife.
“Then the journey will take a long time to complete.”
“The journey will complete itself in time.”
Germaine bowed his head. “So be it,”
His thoughts spun like tires on ice. The count had completed the salutation perfectly. Orient moved away from the tall man. “But you haven’t told me why you need the altar room.”
Germaine’s eyes suddenly flashed like chrome. “To cure you, doctor. That’s why I’m here.”
He hesitated. Lily was leaning against a table watching them, a rapt expression of curiosity on her face. She was waiting for the right moment. He decided to give it to her. “All right,” he murmured. “Come with me.”
Orient kept Lily and Germaine in front of him as he guided them past the garage to the stairway that led to the small room. The throb was building in his temple and he knew he should go back to the lab and take some of the potion right away. But he wanted to know what Germaine planned. He was sure it had something to do with the Kundalini rite. And every instinct was prepared for the possibility that the count needed the altar room for his sacrifice.
“Remarkable, doctor.” Germaine congratulated him when they were inside the tiled room. “Completely functional Is this where you called me?”
“Yes.” Orient closed the door and faced him. “Now tell me what you want to do.”
Germaine’s eyes narrowed. “I had hoped that I could put you in a state of trance in order to induce you to reveal the last ingredient. But I see you’re still not convinced.”
“Can’t we stop this bickering?” Lily snapped. “Owen doesn’t have much time. I can feel the tide rising.”
“It’s up to him,” Germaine replied calmly. “He must choose.”
“Tell me,” Orient stalled, his hand tightened around the handle of the knife as an acute pain shot through his brain. “Tell me why you aren’t afraid. After all, you believe I murdered Maxwell. Hasn’t it occurred to you that I might attack you?” The last two words echoed endlessly across his mind.
“Darling, what’s wrong?” Lily was saying.
He turned as she moved toward him. The distraction was enough. He only caught a glimpse of what Germaine was doing.
Then the revolver was in his hand.
“I’ve sworn to kill the werewolf,” Germaine said gently. “The bullets in this weapon were dipped in silver and mercury. I’m here to help you and the duty is greater than my oath. But if you have killed, and are incurable, then I must use the only available means to end the disease. I must execute you.”
Orient stiffened then relaxed his grip on the knife. He couldn’t take it from his pocket before Germaine pulled the trigger. It was over.
21
Germaine lifted his arm and held the revolver out to Lily. “Take this,” he said softly.
“I... don’t understand,” she said, reaching for the gun. “What do you want me to do with it?”
Germaine’s gray eyes glinted as they returned to challenge Orient. “Let me put you in a trance, doctor,” he whispered. “If either of us attacks, Lily can protect herself.” His melodious voice wound around Orient’s brain like a velvet snake. “I’ve given up my weapon. Give up yours.”
Orient resisted, trying to shake off the desire to give in to the voice. It was a trick. Lily would kill him while Germaine performed the rite. A band of agony tightened around his thoughts.
“Look at your hands, doctor,” the voice insisted.
Orient hesitated then lifted his hands in front of his face. His cracked, wrinkled palms were covered with a layer of fine black hair.
“You have to trust me,” Germaine’s voice crooned. “The disease has already taken your body. Now you must try to save your soul.”
Orient’s will suddenly crumbled and weariness flooded his senses. He took the knife from his pocket and handed it to Lily. It didn’t make any difference how she ended his battered existence. He was ready to die.
“And now you must relax.” Germaine’s voice became deeper and his words rose and fell as if he was chanting.
“Close your eyes and rest. Let me take you to a peaceful place... where the pain will disappear....”
Orient obeyed numbly, letting the voice absorb the increasing throb of hurt in his temples.
“… let me guide you to your friends....”
The voice rose in his thoughts until there
was nothing else except the rhythmic tones. “... where you can find peace….”
The darkness behind Orient’s closed eyes became illuminated by a mist of silver light. He found himself walking in a grassy valley between two huge, silent mountains. As he walked he could hear the muted whisper in his senses, guiding his steps.
He entered a grove of trees. There he realized that the light was coming from the thick vegetation that glowed with a colorless luminosity of its own. He pressed forward in response to the faint sounds in his awareness.
For a long time he wandered alone through the shimmering silence, but then he felt, rather than heard, footsteps coming behind him.
He turned and saw a figure dressed in a hooded robe hurrying toward him. Something about the robed figure seemed familiar. Recognition and memory collided as the hood fell away from his pudgy face.
Maxwell Andersen was coming toward him, his mouth open as if he was about to speak. A concussion of fear slammed against Orient’s body and he started to run. He heard the pursuing footsteps and he understood that this was the trap.
He was to be hunted by his executioner through an unknown forest, like a fox who’d just been released for a day’s sport.
He zigzagged desperately through the trees in an effort to elude Maxwell and kept running until the luminous mist began to dim, making it difficult to see clearly in the dense undergrowth.. He slowed down and peered through the bushes, looking for a hiding place. Then he saw the illumination.
An intense blue light in front of him was lighting a narrow path through an arch of trees.
He hesitated for a moment, listening for sounds of pursuit behind him, but the gloomy forest was still. Even his slow, cautious steps along the path seemed to be muffled by the trees around him.
The light became brighter and he quickened his pace. Then he saw the source of the light and stopped, crouched down, and moved off the path into the concealment of the vegetation.
The brilliant glow was coming from a clearing under the branches of a great tree which stood apart from its smaller brothers, emanating from the blue robes of the old man who sat at the base of the giant trunk. The man’s slender frame was dwarfed by the tree; yet his form vibrated with immense, iridescent energy. The impression of power was great enough to suggest that the shimmering corona of light sending its glow through the forest, was only a small part of the force contained in the old man’s thin, bent body.
He wanted to run, but he knew that any sudden movement would draw the old man’s attention and concentrate the weight of that terrible force-field. He decided to try to circle the seated figure, using the cover of the trees, until he reached the other side of the clearing. Then he could find a way out of the forest.
But as he crept forward he discovered that he was veering closer to the clearing instead of away from it. He turned to go deeper into the underbrush, but his eyes caught a glimpse of the old man’s face and he froze.
All fear collapsed as he saw the face of Ku; and his awareness hummed with excitement when he approached the Master who had initiated him into the League of the Serene Knowledge. He felt absolutely secure in the presence of the venerable teacher.
Ku lifted his head. His smooth skin was broken by a web of fine lines when he smiled and his eyes were pinpoint glints behind their curved eyelids. “Welcome, little brother.” He said. “You have journeyed long to reach us.”
The words trickled into his consciousness like sand filling an hourglass. “The journey is like the flow of water,” he replied.
“And water finds a thirsty man.” He completed the salutation. “You are in need of me and yet have rejected my help. Why little brother?”
The question seemed to fall into a chasm in his mind; the sounds becoming fainter in the void until they were lost.
“Your faith is a weapon,” Ku continued. “Without the weapon there is no function for power. And your faith,” he repeated, “is the weapon....”
The light vibrating from the old man’s body intensified until it was blinding. Then the incandescence diminished and Ku’s features blurred and changed....
His face became like a child’s... then that of a bearded man, then a young woman... rippling constantly so that the images were only there for an instant before they shifted... the features of a painted warrior flowed into a distended resemblance to Maxwell Andersen’s pouting scowl before they blurred again and refocused into the triangular shape of Germaine’s head....
“This is the Master C.R.C., named Koot Hoomi.” Ku’s voice lowered as Germaine’s face began to swell “Oldest of the Nine Unknown Masters. His light has filled the void for three centuries and he continues to guide the league forward. Let your faith embrace his existence. Here, in the Valley of the Wesak, magnetic junction of rebirth. Now!”
He opened his consciousness and heard the chanting melody of Germaine’s voice booming against his comprehension.
“... ride the beast until you find... the secret of his love….”
Then the looming face exploded in slow, soundless motion, sending luminous shreds in all directions; and he understood what he had to do.
He turned and began to run through the forest, sprinting and leaping with the abandon of an unchained animal. The leaves and grass gave off a fresh minty odor that cleared his lungs. He kept running until the bushes became so thick that he was forced to crawl on his elbows and knees to make any progress forward. He moved steadily through the obstruction, however, as new strength surged through his limbs and he drove forward until he reached a clearing. There he stopped to rest.
As his muscles relaxed, he became aware of a ceaseless throb in his belly. He listened to it for a long time before recognizing it as hunger. His senses made a tentative move to examine the throb then drew back.
“Now!”
The word pushed his mind forward to the cusp of the hunger. “Now!”
His consciousness wavered... then toppled into the yawning need... he was falling….
“Tell me what the beast loves. Now.”
Orient opened his eyes. He was standing in the white-tiled altar room.
Germaine was standing in front of him, his eyes wide and metallic. “Tell us,” he repeated.
“Blood.”
As Orient spoke, he saw Lily’s face and shame made him turn away. “The beast loves blood best.”
Germaine exhaled loudly and the light in his eyes seemed to recede. “Then we must use ten measures of blood from one who loves you.”
“Use mine,” Lily said softly.
Orient was only dimly aware of physical reality as he made his way up the stairs to the laboratory. He watched without understanding what was happening as Germaine took some of Lily’s blood, then measured it, drop by drop, into the waiting potion. When the count put the glass in his hands, he drank its bitter contents then lapsed into numb apathy.
But in a few minutes, his body responded to a soothing pulse of energy and his aching brain came to life again. Relief disintegrated the pressure on his thoughts as his awareness expanded and drifted free.
His senses tingled with a mixture of vibrant joy and the dull dregs of shame as he understood that his suspicions had been the feverish rantings of his sickness. Violence, fear, and sexual paranoia had prevented him from seeing that Lily was telling him the truth. He looked down at his hands and saw that the wrinkled palms were hairless. Lily’s blood had cured him. And her love.
“Are you all right, darling?” she asked. Her upturned face was tense with worry and her eyes were moist.
He nodded. “I’ll be okay.” He smiled and held out his hand. Then she was close to him and her hair was like perfumed silk against his face.
“I’ve fulfilled my duties here,” Germaine was saying. “But there’s still my oath. The werewolf must be hunted down.”
The scent of Lily’s hair caressed Orient’s memory and he recalled another scent. The musky odor of the talcum. The smell of dried blood. Dried blood. A hunter’s device to lure ga
me. A hunter’s device….
Lily suddenly stiffened in his arms and groaned. “I feel something horrible near us,” she whispered frantically. “Waiting nearby. I’m afraid.”
Realization and fear jolted Orient’s instincts.
He pulled away from her and went to the phone. But when he dialed the number there was no answer—not even the sound of the ringing phone. The second time he tried the operator cut in to tell him the line was out of order. He slammed the receiver down.
“Better come with me,” he told them as he headed for the door. “Sybelle’s alone and her phone’s dead”
22
Sybelle mixed herself a second drink and took it with her to the couch. Normally, she didn’t have more than one when she was alone, but tonight was a perfect time for a celebration.
She felt rosy and flushed with achievement as she sipped her Scotch and gazed around the empty apartment. Yes, she decided, she was pleased with herself. She fondly regarded the red plush bar across the room and sighed. If Owen wasn’t so completely unreasonable they could all be celebrating with her tonight instead of keeping her cooped up like a drudge. She shook her head sadly. But, of course, poor Owen was becoming irrational. She’d so hoped that Lily would be a healthy influence, but he seemed worse than ever.
She wondered why Germaine hadn’t called. She wouldn’t mind spending some time showing the tall, handsome count the wonders of New York. It was positively wicked of Owen to keep her from seeing her friends.
She took another sip of Scotch and her thoughts went back to her success that evening. Her little plan had taken two weeks to hatch, but she’d finally won the vital piece of information she needed to help Owen.
She’d gone right up to the offices of the Bestman Corporation, pretending she was a highly qualified secretary looking for a job. This had given her an excuse to strike up a casual friendship with a few of the girls on Anthony Bestman’s staff.
The difficult part had come in finding an excuse to extend the friendship without seeming too pushy. She’d accomplished that intricate maneuver a few days later by waiting in front of the building during lunch-time. When she spotted the girls she’d met in Bestman’s office she followed them to a restaurant and then entered five minutes later. Of course, the girls invited her to join them and she made sure to pick up the check. After that it had been easy. And tonight, when she met the girls for drinks, one of them let it drop that Anthony Bestman had gone to London the day Maxwell was murdered.