Lady Sativa (30 page)

Sybelle gasped. “Carl? But... he’s....”

“Dead?” Germaine shook his head. “In a way. Anthony shot him and made it appear to be suicide when he found out Carl was leaving his estate to SEE. But when Anthony stole Carl’s thesis, he found something that gave him more control over his brother in death than he’d ever had while he was alive. The formula for the scent that calls the violent energy of the werewolf. And he decided to use it to get rid of SEE and break Carl’s will. All he had to do was place the powder somewhere in the victim’s home. When the moon rose, Carl’s bestial energy would rise with it, and his emanation followed the scent to the kill. The astral emanation would feed and then return to Carl’s inert body. That’s how he was able to get out of the bedroom.”

“Astral... you mean a spirit attacked me?” Sordi demanded.

“If you wish. Yes. Certain
functions
of Carl’s body stopped existing. But the vibrations of the moon continued to exert their influence on other sensitive organs to create concentrations of hostile energy. It was this energy, this bestial
emanation
, that attacked you.”

Sordi’s face looked blank. “Sure,” he said.

“But how... how... how can you be sure?” Sybelle sputtered. “Are we still in danger?”

Germaine shrugged. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have time to answer all your questions. I must leave for Sweden right away.”

Orient slowly comprehended what he was saying. “I’ll go with you,” he said softly.

24

The effects of the curative potion wore off eventually, but Orient’s released awareness refused to sleep. Fragments of memory and emotion danced through his mind like lingering guests after an all-night party, determined to carry on the celebration. He wished they would all go away and let him rest. His body was just beginning to feel the bone-twisting effects of his passage through the disease and he knew his nerves had been stretched to the breaking point. He sighed, checked his watch, shifted in his seat, and looked out the window. There was nothing to do except hang on until his nervous energy expended itself. He checked his “watch again.

“We still have six hours, doctor. You should try to sleep.”

Germaine’s melodic voice seemed to calm his anxiety. He shook his head sadly. “Over tired. I think I’ll try Sybelle’s all-purpose potion. Will you have a brandy with me?”

“Excellent suggestion, doctor. Make it a double. It’s been an arduous seventy-two hours.”

Orient watched him with open curiosity. He’d been impressed with Germaine’s physical strength when they first met. But then he thought he was only fifty or sixty years old. Now he knew that the tall count was capable of quickness and endurance that would try a man of thirty, despite the fact that he’d been alive for over three hundred years. It had been Germaine who’d made the arrangements for their departure. Sordi was still in a slight state of shock so Germaine drove them out in time to board a direct flight to Stockholm. There hadn’t been, even a spare minute to buy a toothbrush at the airport. And now while he sat rumpled, limp, and unable to relax, Germaine sat across from him, looking like a man who’d just walked out of a brisk shower into a freshly pressed suit.

When the stewardess came with their drinks, Germaine took his glass and lifted it in a toast. “To the success of our venture.” He smiled and bowed his head slightly. “And to Lily’s happiness.”

Orient didn’t know how to interpret the last part of the toast, but he sipped his brandy. The hostility he’d always had for the count had been replaced by respect and a growing sense of admiration.

“I’ve known Lily since she was a child,” the count mused, his eyes fixed on Orient’s face, “watched her become a fine, sensitive woman.” He took a sip of his brandy.

Orient stared into his glass as a swirl of confusion scattered his emotions like dead leaves.

“What I’m trying to say, Doctor, is that what you saw of the Kundalini rite was something quite apart for the love I know she holds for you.”

He looked up. Germaine was leaning forward expectantly, his eyes clouded over with concern. Orient’s confusion disappeared. He had no doubts about Lily. “Yes,” he said. “I understand.”

Germaine nodded and sat back in his seat. “Of course, I’ll arrange to conduct the rite with another apprentice when the Tantric Cycle occurs next year.”

“Not necessary, count,” Orient yawned. “All that is up to Lily.” He leaned over, clinked his glass against Germaine’s, then tossed the rest of his brandy down; the Stubborn tension in his muscles dissolved into the warm alcohol smoldering in his belly. He smiled and closed his eyes.

He was still smiling as he dropped into a deep, dreamless, pocket of sleep.

Orient awoke refreshed when they reached Stockholm.

Since there was a long wait for the next local to Hudiksvall, Germaine decided to rent a car and insisted on driving, explaining to Orient that he was familiar with the country and used to the icy condition of the roads. Orient agreed, more amazed than ever at the man’s vitality.

“Why not stretch out on the back seat and get some sleep,” Germaine suggested. “We won’t be able to make it in less than seven hours.”

Orient settled down in the front seat and watched the monotonous rows of skeletal, snow-shrouded trees roll past his window. “I feel alert after that nap on the plane. You’re the one who should be sleeping. Your physical powers are extraordinary.”

Germaine glanced shrewdly at him then turned his attention back to the road. “The Tantric form is very effective if properly controlled.”

“I did some heavy research into Tantric Yoga, but I could only find scattered references to it.”

“Yes. Tantric science is guarded almost as closely as the secrets of the league. Without proper guidance, the results can be insanity or the uncontrolled generation of evil. That’s why I’m nappy that Lily is with you. The relationship will provide a needed balance to the intensity of the rite.”

Orient sighed. “I’d become so saturated with paranoia that I couldn’t see Lily was concealing something she. thought would hurt us. I couldn’t understand.”

“I’ve lived a long time,” Germaine observed, “only to discover that there are certain flaws in our capacity to accept that no amount of time can adjust. I myself was convinced last month that you were the killer. Despite the fact that my own research in Lycanthropic Schizophrenia had brought me very close to the truth. You see, I had the advantage of being able to study books and manuscripts that Carl donated to the SEE library. If I had only been able to bridge my own personal suspicions, Maxwell’s death might have been prevented.” He looked at Orient. “Fate has its own time and no man can escape it, no matter what he understands.”

The sky began to darken in the afternoon and by early evening, when they reached Hudiksvall, night had already fallen.

Germaine’s manner changed as they neared their destination and the geniality of the traveling companion became the brooding concentration of the hunter.

Orient broke the long silence that had settled over their conversation. “Do you have everything you need?” he murmured.

“I think so.”

He decided to ask something that had been bothering him for some time. “When did you figure out that Carl is the werewolf?”

Germaine kept his eyes on the narrow tunnel of light carved
\y
the headlamps as they drilled steadily through the shadows. “When Sordi’s attacker disappeared it occurred to me that our adversary had more than human qualities. Anthony, however, had to use a gun. Neilson, Hazer, and Maxwell were murdered by the beast. That left Hannah and Carl. If I’m wrong about Carl, it makes no difference. Both of their bodies are in the same place.”

Orient didn’t answer. He hoped his friend was well prepared. It was a simple matter to kill a living man, but the raw energy of a malevolent presence was beyond the physical limitations of nature. He also knew that whoever the werewolf was, it had failed to feed its yawning hunger and would be ravenous.

Germaine swung the car off the narrow road and Orient recognized the stone wall surrounding Carl Bestman’s estate. As the car rolled slowly past the gate , and up the terraced drive Orient’s memories of the night he’d been infected with the disease twisted into a cord of fear.

He saw the jagged, approaching shape of the house on the top of the highest terrace and berated his impulsiveness. He was a fool for not arming himself before attempting something like this. The fear pulled tight around his thoughts when he considered the risk of contracting the disease again. Germaine brought the car to a stop and shut the headlights. “There’s a flashlight in the glove compartment,” he said calmly.

Something in his voice melted Orient’s fear. Wordlessly he opened the panel in front of him and took the light in his hand. Germaine was a Master of the league. The responsibility and power was with Koot Hoomi now. Orient’s place was in his service. “There’s a can of gasoline in the trunk.”

Orient opened the door and went to the back of the car. He took the plastic container and then came back to where Germaine was waiting.

“You lead the way to the mausoleum,” the count told him. “I’ll cover you. But be very careful, I think I may have wounded it last night. And he hasn’t eaten.”

The thin beam of the flashlight seemed like a flimsy, bobbing line cast into a sea of darkness. Germaine was completely enveloped by the shadows, giving Orient the nagging impression that he was alone as he walked toward the cemetery behind the great house. Like the night he’d gone to meet Hannah.

Perhaps tonight, like then, a stalking beast was waiting just beyond the string of light guiding his slow steps to the churchyard.

The possibility didn’t encourage him as he picked his way past the crumbling headstones and looming shapes of trees. His heart was thumping when his beam lit a gnarled tangle of roots at the base of a huge tree. He stopped and set the container of gasoline down on the ground and waited.

“There,” he whispered when Germaine moved up beside him. He moved the light slightly to the left and exposed the side of the stone building underneath the tree.

Germaine nodded, took the flashlight, and began walking toward the mausoleum. He moved cautiously, pausing every few steps to sweep the area with the beam of his light, When he reached the metal door of the building he stood very still, his head lowered and his eyes closed.

Orient understood that he was preparing his concentration and did the same. He went into a breathing pattern that charged his awareness and let the humming receptors in his senses absorb the powerful vibrations of Koot Hoomi’s consciousness.

Germaine lifted his head, opened his eyes, and then tried the door. It was locked.

He stepped back, lifted his revolver, and blew the lock off the door.

A blinding flash exploded the darkness and everything became a blur of motion. Germaine kicked the door open and Orient stumbled into the tomb after him, his vision still spotted by the sudden flare of the shot.

Thar inside of the vault was damp and the dead air reeked of decayed meat. Germaine’s probing beam revealed that every crypt had been smashed open. Chunks of stone, shreds of molded cloth, the remains of caskets, and fragments of human bone Uttered the dusty floor. Then the light pierced the shadows in the far corner of the room and stopped.

There was a shiny black casket lying open on the floor. It seemed oddly new and un mutilated among the rubble.

Germaine’s light poked higher.

A shriveled, hairy creature lay resting inside the coffin,” its head propped up by a satin pillow.

As the light illuminated the man’s contorted features, he opened his eyes. They were glazed red like those of a wild animal. He started to get up from his coffin and Orient saw black blood oozing from a wound in his arm.

The crack of Germaine’s gun was flat, compressed by the cold walls of the vault.

One of the creature’s red eyes became a dark spurting fountain and it fell back against the pillow.

Orient remained frozen as his ears rung with the echoes of the shot. Then he heard a melodious voice far away.

“I’m sorry, old friend,” Germaine whispered. “But now your soul will be free of its earthly torment and can continue its journey.” He put the revolver in his pocket and held the flashlight out to Orient.

He kept the light steady on the blood-spattered body in the casket. Carl Bestman was dressed in the tattered remnants of a formal suit. The parched, yellowed skin on his face, chest, and hands was matted with hair and the long nails on his fingers were like sharp splinters of black bone. His hands reminded Orient of the stained, greasy claws of a flesh eater.

Germaine took a small vial of clear liquid from his pocket and began sprinkling it over the body.

“In the name of the holy spirit. May this holy water protect those here from evil,” he intoned. “Oh, Lord, to Thee we flee for Thy Power.”

The words filled Orient’s mind and he recognized the ritual of Honorious, the Magus Pope. The invocation could only be assumed by a high adept. Orient knew that even though he’d studied the rite his consciousness hadn’t evolved to the level where he could control the awesome forces unleashed by the exorcism. But as Germaine went on, Orient could feel the strength of the Master Koot Hoomi smothering the constant implosions of chaotic energy touched off by the invocation.