Lady Sativa (22 page)

“Do you want to come home with me love?” Lynn whispered, her breath was warm against is ear. He shrugged. “Anything to drink there?’’

“Of. course there is, Mike.” She rubbed her soft breasts against his arm. “Do you think I’d take you there if it wasn’t super-cozy?”

She continued to lean against him as they walked slowly to her home. When they turned the corner, she pulled him into the shadow of a wall and kissed him hungrily.

She reeked of whiskey and heavy perfume and her scent awakened his dormant sense of smell.

His nostrils filled with dozens of odors: the fumes of gasoline, fried fish, beer, human sweat, and animal droppings crowded through his senses.

He pushed from Lynn’s wet embrace and began walking. She staggered after him, caught up and took his arm. His temples were throbbing as his thoughts centered on Maxwell. It was plain that the boy had set out to destroy his relationship with Lily.

“Here’s my house, love,” Lynn was saying. “Wait till I get my key.”

A musky, familiar odor tickled Orient’s nostrils. The smell sparked across his memory exploding the hatred there. He had to stop Maxwell. It was the only way to free Lily.

“Where are you going, Mike?” She grabbed at his sleeve as he moved away.

“Have to do something,” he said impatiently.

“All right, love. I’m the sort who understands,” she murmured. “But take a good look at my door. And come back when you’ve finished.”

“Yes,” he said. “I’ll remember.” He pulled away before she could say anything more and moved off quickly into the shadows.

16

Orient had intended to go straight back to Montpelier Square, and confront Maxwell with what he knew. But the musky scent drew his instincts, guiding him to unfamiliar streets.

He didn’t notice the swing in direction. His concentration was saturated with a single emotion: the need for revenge. As he walked, his mind replayed the countless slurs and insults he’d suffered from Maxwell. Every step of his progress had been undermined and derided by the boy—because of Lily.

The warm smell became diffuse when he turned a corner and he stopped, momentarily confused. Then he realized he’d turned away from the wind. He lifted his head, nosing for the scent like a dog.

He found the cloying aroma and let it take over the functions of his awareness once again, as he walked through the streets.

He turned another corner and the smell grew stronger, oozing over his instincts like honey.

His hatred and desire for revenge suddenly evaporated as a fiery gust of hunger blasted through his belly, and jerked his body alive with a consuming need to find the source of the sweet scent. He walked faster, then started loping through the dark streets.

The spoor grew stronger as he crossed a familiar corner and he slowed down when he saw the spiked fence that surrounded Maxwell’s house.

He approached slowly, his animal wariness aroused by something out of place. Something different. But the huge shape beyond the fence was dark and still. Then he saw what had stirred his curiosity. The gate was open.

He walked carefully up the pebbled path, searching the shadows for any sign of movement. There was nothing except the silence. When he reached the front door, he found that it also was unlocked and slightly ajar.

He stood for a moment in the hallway, adjusting his vision to the gloom before he moved forward, guided more by his sense of smell than by his ability to see.

Hunger tore at his instincts and he made out the sharply angled outline of a set of stairs. He began climbing silently up the carpeted steps to the source of the looming odor that stuffed his nostrils and sent saliva trickling down his chin. When he reached the next floor, he knew it was close by.

The lack of any identifiable shadows made it difficult to see. He reached into his pocket, took out a pack of matches, and struck a light.

When the match flared in his fingers, the sulphur fumes muffled the odor, and the flash revealed a thatch of fine, black hair on his palms. As the musty scent left his nostrils, his memory was released and he understood the significance of what he saw on his hand. The potion was wearing off and he was out of control. He had to leave the house before he hurt someone.

But when the match went out, his understanding was crushed by a thumping pain behind his eyes. He reeled forward and fell to his knees. The agony pressed relentlessly against his consciousness, squeezing out all sensation as the blackness swallowed up his cry.

It was still dark when he awoke.

His face was against the floor. He tried to sit up and the movement set off trip hammers inside his aching skull. The musty scent lingered dimly in his senses, but it did little to ease the hurt as he tried to get up. He arched his will and pushed himself to his feet. As his balance returned, he remembered where he was. A chill slap of fear awakened his dazed reflexes and he started feeling his way along the wall. His fingers found the nub of a light-switch. He hesitated, then flicked it on.

The electric light gave the empty hallway the stark unreality of a dream. He squinted, trying to focus his vision.

He was standing a few feet away from an open door at the head of the stairs. The overhead light illuminated part of the darkened room and reflected dully from two white shapes on the floor inside. A pair of bare feet.

He located the light switch inside the room and when the lights came on his mind started careening like a driverless truck.

The feet belonged to Maxwell. He was lying in the center of a dark stain of blood in the carpet that framed his plump, naked body. His throat and part of his thigh were gone and a series of scratches crisscrossed the blue-white skin on his chest.

Orient circled the mutilated corpse, reluctant to go nearer. Sickness and confusion spun endlessly through his thoughts as he looked around at the overturned brocade chair, broken candles, and long shreds of satin that had been ripped from the walls in the struggle. Then he spotted something that dragged his memory through his reeling awareness.

It was a small splotch of powder on the floor, near the terrace door. Reddish brown talcum. He’d seen it before. And each time he’d seen it someone had died.

He took the book of matches from his pocket and scraped up some of the powder into the thin cardboard cover. Then he deposited the powder and matchbook in his cigarette case. Some of the powder clung to his fingertips and he brought his hand to his nose. The hot, musty smell burst through his brain and awakened the hunger in his belly. The hair on his neck bristled and he had the urge to lick the powder from his fingers.

A screech of tires outside cut through the hunger and activated his reflexes. He dropped the cigarette case in his pocket, crossed to the wall, turned out the lights, then went back through the shadows to the terrace door. He opened it, went outside, and looked down at the street. Two cars had pulled up in front of the house and men with flashlights were walking toward the gate.

Orient put his foot on the rail and stepped up onto the branch nearby. As he put his full weight on the limb he slipped and fell forward. He desperately embraced the branch with both arms and legs and crawled to the tree trunk.

He had reached the ground and was only a few feet away from the tree when the lights went on in the windows, illuminating the lawn. He sprinted across the grass to the fence and scrambled over. As he dropped to the sidewalk, he heard shouts and began to run.

He wheeled around the corner, not certain of where he could hide. Then a fresh aroma filled his nostrils and pulled his legs toward a darkened area, a few yards in front of him. The renewed prominence of the musty scent surged over his need to escape as he slowed down and stopped near a high hedge. The hunger was stronger.

As he approached the bushes a whining buzz stung the air near his ear and the branch in front of him shattered. He saw a flash in the corner of his sight and reacted.

He ducked and began zigzagging across the sidewalk until he reached the cover of a parked car. From there he dashed to the corner, cut sharply and kept on running, until he couldn’t lift his legs any longer.

It wasn’t until much later, when he was walking across the still busy intersection at Piccadilly, that he fully realized that someone had tried to shoot him.

Lynn Rigby was completely content with her lot in life.

She slept late, wore expensive clothes, did no housework, and was pampered by the men who paid for the privilege of making love to her.

As she stepped out of the tub, she squinted approvingly at her reflection in the full-length mirror.

Her breasts were still firm and her skin was healthy. She’d be good for another ten years before she retired to Portugal, a proper lady.

She lingered in the bathroom after she’d finished drying herself, basking in the luxury of the countless sprays and lotions that crammed her shelves. It was her favorite room in the flat. There she made herself beautiful, preparing herself like a queen before she performed the duties of her calling.

Even on nights like this, when there was no one waiting in the gilded, four-poster bed in the next room, it gave her a sense of accomplishment to carefully clean and adorn her body.

She hadn’t always had the time or the privacy to take such good care of herself. As a child she’d lived in a two-room hovel with her father and two sisters and the bathroom they shared with the other tenants on the floor was always filthy and never unoccupied. She had to find work as a scrub-girl and waitress to get herself the smallest necessities.

But she was quick and saw that there were easier ways. Men were always attracted to her and she schooled herself in their habits, dislikes, desires and kinks, until she’d learned enough to become a well-paid love object. She’d learned her lessons well and was proud of the skills she acquired. They’d taken her from her grimy childhood to a cushy London flat and solid security.

She wasn’t like the others who threw their money away on drink or dope or flashy pimps. She knew what it was like to grow old poor. She’d watched her sisters dry up and their lives wither away, used up in a few years by too many kids and worthless husbands. Oh, yes, she’d learned. She kept a nice sum tucked aside for the days when she wouldn’t be able to entice men as easily as she did now.

She also calculated that before those days came she’d be able to lure a wealthy older gentleman. But until then it was strictly business.

Not that she didn’t enjoy a little personal fun every now and again. Like earlier that night. She’d felt in the mood to go out and find herself a man. Not a John who’d buy her for a. few minutes of exercise, but a real man. Someone who could fully arouse her special needs. Someone strong and hard who could command her complete respect. And as soon as she’d seen Mike Scott at the bar, she knew she had found what she was looking for.

There had been a wildness in his green eyes and gaunt features that she’d recognized immediately. She would have given in totally to his reckless, animal intensity.

Except for one thing, she reminded herself. The bastard ran off, had more important things to attend to.

She put on a sheer blue chiffon negligee and gave her carefully arranged hair a final pat with a brush. No matter, Lynn girl, she told herself as she went into the bedroom. He might still be back for a try. Probably a thief of some kind, she speculated. She knew his kind well enough. He was grimy all right, but his blazer and sweater were expensive. He wasn’t an ordinary John, that was sure.

Could be he was an addict. The possibility narrowed her eyes as she turned down the silk covers of the bed. She’d been around long enough to know that addicts were trouble. They were lazy, messy, and spent every cent they could get for the stuff. A man like that could affect her business and eat up her security.

But when she heard the knock on the door, she didn’t hesitate. She flung her magazine aside and went quickly to answer. The certainty that he was back shattered her caution and she threw back the bolt.

The certainty erupted into a flow of desire when she saw him leaning against the doorway. Then she noticed the dark circles under his eyes and the lines of exhaustion pulling at his mouth. “Mike, are you all right?” she gasped.

He lurched inside.

“Need a drink, love?” She lifted her hand to help him, but when she touched his arm a shock of sexual electricity charged through her body.

As his arms went around her, she heard him grunt softly and she knew he’d felt the same fierce surge. He pawed her body roughly and she responded, biting his lip and grinding her breasts into his hands. She wasn’t concerned when he tore her negligee and half-dragged her to the bed. This was what she’d been craving when she’d gone out into the streets. She whispered hoarsely, urging him on as she pulled at his clothes.

A groan of savage delight convulsed through her belly when he entered her. It bubbled past her throat, fragmenting into a babble of pleas, promises, frantic suggestions, and obscene bribes as his electric flesh jolted the base of her spine with excitement. She squirmed and begged for more as he spanked her thighs and the jolts became a single spasm of pleasure. He beat her harder, smacking his palms flat against her legs and slapping her face and breasts. She kicked her legs in fear as he began to really hurt her, but he roared and twisted against her hips, intensifying pleasure and pain until they became unendurable and she passed out.