Lady Sativa (23 page)

17

Lynn murmured contentedly when she woke up and felt the warm ache on her thighs. It was an almost comforting reminder of her pleasure the night before. She rolled over and found the space next to her empty. She looked up and saw him standing at the head of the bed, pulling on his sweater. “G’mornin’ love,” she yawned.

He nodded slightly and smiled. “Morning.”

She could tell by the way he glanced away, as if he was looking for something, that he wanted to leave right away.

Well, she decided, it wouldn’t be her to make a fuss. He was too good to risk offending. She wanted to see this one again—addict, thief, or whatever he was. “You leaving then Mike?” she asked casually.

When he looked at her, something in his face told her that Mike wasn’t his real name. “Thanks for the party, Lynn,” he said softly.

“You’re not goin’ away without giving your Lynn-baby her good-bye kiss, are you, Mike?” she teased, stressing his name.

He came closer and kissed her gently on the lips.

“You be a good boy and come back soon,” she whispered.

After he left, she lay awake thinking about him. Mike or whatever his name was, seemed different this morning. She’d never known her craving for violent sex to be so fully sated, and yet today he wasn’t at all dominant.

Nothing like the surly, brutal tough she picked up in Soho. The hard lines in his face were gone, making him seem younger, and his eyes had lost their wild glaze. He had been almost shy with her this morning.

Men were like that, she reflected smugly. Especially afterward. But he’d be back soon enough, even if he was married. It had been too good between them.

As she fell asleep, she wondered if he’d made any marks on her skin. She had a client who’d love to see them.

When Orient reached his hotel room, he ran a tub of hot water and soaked in the soothing warmth for a long time.

His wrist was swollen and all that remained of his charred senses was a small, pulsing cell of pain in his hand.

His sanity stayed anchored by a fragile certainty. He was sure he hadn’t killed Maxwell. He’d been raging mad and out of control, but still he was certain.

The fact that someone had tried to shoot him shored up his belief.

As he lay in the tub, he slowly pieced together scattered bits of memory. His wrist had been hurt by Germaine’s incredibly tight grip. He took a deep breath, shifted lower, and let the water ease the tension that sprang across his chest when he remembered the orgiastic Tantric rite he’d watched Lily perform. He understood she had every right to pursue her beliefs, but his thoughts throbbed with the suspicion that she’d intended to betray him.

Most likely Maxwell had been sacrificed. He recalled the way Germaine had lifted Sybelle’s suitcases, as if they’d been hollow. A man that strong could overpower any victim he chose.

His suspicion that Germaine influenced Lily to help sacrifice Maxwell nagged at Orient’s limping awareness. He avoided dwelling on the possibility that she was a willing assistant to the murder. His mind had touched hers and had found truth there.

The realization that he might not be qualified to judge truth on any level wafted across his suspicions like half-digested garlic as he lifted himself wearily from the tub.

He put on fresh clothes and stuffed his soiled trousers and jacket in his suitcase with the rest of his gear. The best thing for him to do was to go back to New York and concentrate on finding a cure. Perhaps the powder he’d found on Maxwell’s rug would give him a clue. It was the only link he had to all four deaths. It was even possible that the talcum could lead him to the missing ingredient in the formula. He decided to take a cab to the airport and wait for the next available flight.

But as the cab pulled away from the curb, he knew he couldn’t leave without seeing Lily. Beneath his suspicion was still the imprint of her mind on his memory. He asked the driver to turn around.

Lily didn’t seem to be surprised when she answered the door. Her fine-featured face remained expressionless when she saw him. “Come in,” she said softly. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Thick velvet curtains shaded the afternoon light filtering in through the high windows. She moved ahead of him and pulled one of the curtains aside. The sudden brightness touched off bronze flames in her hair.

Her amber eyes remained impassive when she smiled. “Please sit down. I was hoping you’d come.”

His body stiffened slightly at her nearness when she sat next to him on the couch and she noticed it. She drew back and looked at him. “Maxwell is dead,” she whispered.

“I know.”

She cocked her head, suddenly confused. “But... I thought... Count Germaine just found out....”

“I went back to his house last night. After you left. I found him there.”

Her stare was cold and disbelieving. “Did you kill him?”

“No,” he murmured, “did you?”

“Count Germaine thinks you did. He also thinks you may have killed Hazer.”

How about Neilson, and Hannah?”

Her gaze wavered. “I told him you couldn’t kill anyone,” she said quickly.

“Why doesn’t he go to the police?”

“I don’t know.” She looked away. “He’s not sure.”

“Perhaps it’s because they’d investigate and find out that you’d all been together, performing an occult rite, the night he was murdered,” he suggested. “Could be messy for everyone concerned. Suspicion would be centered on him. And the newspapers would burn the Moon Lady in print, especially if a connection was found to Hazer’s death.”

She wrung her hands nervously. “Yes,” she said quietly. “He told me that, too.”

‘‘What else did he tell you?”

When she looked up at him again, he saw that the coldness in her eyes had melted and tears were running down her face. “He asked me to stop seeing you. He said he was going back to Amsterdam to start an investigation himself. And when he found the... the werewolf he was going to kill him.”

Orient sighed and sat back.

“Owen, I’m afraid,” Lily sobbed, leaning closer to him. “Last night, when you came to Maxwell’s, I could feel the terrible violence in you—as if you’d gone mad.”

He closed his eyes as the warmth of her body relaxed his tense defenses. Thoughts and memories gathered like an unruly mob around his brain, yelling to be heard. But he put down the impulse to reach out for her to help him shut out the confusion. There was still something she hadn’t told him. “Did you kill him?” he repeated.

He heard her quick intake of breath and opened his eyes. She was staring at him with bewilderment.

“You really think I could kill someone?”

He met her stare. “It’s possible. Are you sure the price for extended youth doesn’t include more than just mental sacrifice?”

She stood up. “That’s really why you came here. I suppose you think that a woman who’d take part in an orgy would do anything. Even kill.”

He shook his head. “I’m not concerned with popular morality. What you choose to do is your own responsibility. What worries me is the fact that four people have been killed in the last three months, three of them by a maniac.”

“Why don’t you complete the charges?” she snapped, suddenly angry. “And each one died during the phase of the full moon.”

“We were together one of those nights,” he reminded her. “I remember it quite clearly.”

She bowed her head helplessly. “Why did you come last night?”

“I thought you were in danger. Maybe I was right.” He stood up and took her shoulders. “Are you afraid of Germaine?”

“No.” When she lifted her head, her smile was sad. “But last night I was afraid of you. You were like an enraged animal. I could feel the hate. I wish you hadn’t seen the rite. I wanted to tell you after we had time to be together and know one another.” Her smile disappeared and her eyes flashed yellow. “Please understand I didn’t feel any obligation to explain myself, but I didn’t want to have to lie to you. I wanted perfect communication between us.”

“I still feel the same way,” he said gently.

As he spoke, she pressed her mouth against his. He pulled her against him, his will dissolving at the taste of her lips.

“Darling, let’s just go somewhere we can be together. Back to NewYork, anywhere.” Her moist breath stroked his ear. “I want us to forget all this.”

He pulled away. “I can’t forget it, Lily.”

“Why?”

“I can’t tell you.”

Her mouth hardened as she drew her arms away. “You
do
think I had something to do with the deaths.”

“I think it’s possible that you don’t know everything there is to know about your friend Count Germaine,” he said, suddenly weary.

A pale flush of anger colored her cheeks. “I don’t know anything about
you,
do I?” she said sharply. “Yet I’ve known Count Germaine since I was a child. He was a friend of my father.”

“Was your father interested in the occult?”

“No,” she hesitated. “He never knew that Count Germaine practiced Tantric Yoga. He met the count through his own father, my grandfather.”

Exhaustion numbed his thoughts as he realized that Lily couldn’t understand unless he admitted that Germaine had guessed right. That he carried the disease of the werewolf.

“Don’t you understand, darling?” she was saying. “I trust the count. He was even reluctant to install me as his apprentice in the rite. But I kept after it, exploring by myself until he saw I was serious. I had seen him live past generations of older relatives and friends. I wanted to learn the technique. And he agreed to teach me.”

She came closer, searching his eyes for a sign of response. “Last night I was very sensitive. I felt a great hate and violence in you. You were capable of killing someone. Tell me what happened to make you like that.”

The suspicion and confusion remained knotted around his guilt, and he was unable to tell her. “I was angry.”

“No.” She shook her head and folded her arms. “It was more than that. We both know it.”

“Perhaps,” he said deliberately, “Germaine can tell you.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Then I suppose there’s nothing more we can do for each other.”

Orient shrugged. “I must go back to New York. You’re right. There’s nothing to do now.”

Her voice was barely audible. “I don’t know if I can join you, Owen.”

He nodded, picked up his bag, and moved to the door.

“Owen.”

He stopped and turned. She was poised as if she was about to run to him. “Ask me to go anywhere with you right now and I will. Just tell me what’s wrong.”

“I want us to be together,” he said slowly, “but I can’t promise or explain anything. Maybe your count is right. Maybe it’s best if you don’t see me any more.”

As he spoke, he felt the words congeal and form a barrier between them. Lily remained frozen in her graceful ballerina pose, but her pale mouth reacted as if he’d slapped her.

He turned and opened the door. This time she didn’t try to stop him.

The aftereffects of the potion and physical exhaustion combined to make the trip back an ordeal. Orient’s bruised thoughts staggered blindly through his understanding. He sat up during the entire flight, unable to think, sleep, or forget; as his mind replayed the desolate exchange in which he’d lost Lily, over and over again.

18

Sybelle was overcome with shock and grief when Orient told her about Maxwell’s murder. And later, after he explained the circumstances, her sorrow was seized by fear and she realized that there were only four members of SEE left alive. The circle was becoming smaller.

Despite the fear, however, she absorbed everything Orient explained. Her career as a medium had taught her a stoic, accepting calm in the face of death, and curiosity quickly overcome her panic. But when he told her about Lily she almost became angry.

“Owen, you are
the
most exasperating man,” she sniffed. “How
could
you be carrying on an affair under my very nose and never tell me a
word?
It’s underhanded. And running off to London like that. Just madness.”

Orient drummed his fingers on the desk as she scolded. “Sheer lunacy,” he agreed.

“It’s not funny. You can’t expect me to help you solve these terrible crimes unless you
confide
in me, darling. Everything depends on our faith and mutual trust.”

Orient hesitated. He still hadn’t told her the details of the rite. Or his suspicions about Germaine. “Anyway the one positive result is that the potion works,” he said.

“But it’s only temporary. We have to find the killer and the missing ingredient. You should have asked Count Germaine for help instead of breaking in on his rite. “I think I’ll call him.”

“Not a good idea.”

“I don’t see why not,”