Lady Sativa (14 page)

He spun around, positioning his body to defend against anyone else who wanted to challenge him. But the others were all cringing back against the wall. Someone was dialing a telephone.

Dominique was on the floor, kneeling awkwardly next to Robin. The boy was sitting up, watching Orient with a dazed, wide-eyed stare. The bright red smear of blood around his mouth looked like lipstick on a circus clown.

Orient felt a compelling urge to hit him again, but he dimly understood that the police would arrive soon. He backed slowly out of the bar and when he reached the street he began to run.

He ran quickly for two blocks then slowed down to a steady, loping jog. He kept that grueling pace until the pounding exhaustion in his brain and lungs forced him to stop. He ducked into an alley and leaned against the brick wall.

He lifted his head to gulp some air and saw a full, golden moon drifting over the tops of the darkened buildings and the savage exultation of combat collapsed in a whirlpool of despair. His stomach heaved and a wave of bitter nausea broke over his tongue.

As he crouched in the shadows, spilling his bile on the concrete, the pounding in his skull boomed like rolling thunder, shattering all emotion.

9

When he was able to breathe normally again, Orient. pushed himself to his feet and leaned against the wall, trying to clear the congestion of fear and sickness in his belly.

A large section of his brain, just above his eyes, throbbed like a bruised muscle. He inhaled and tried to think past the aching confusion. He focused and lifted his will against the stubborn weight crushing his concentration. He staggered out to the street and started walking. The movement seemed to loosen the numbing grip of pain around his mind.

He walked for blocks, his thoughts forming very slowly. He was sick. He had to get help. An image of the bartender’s bloody face ballooned in front of him. The sharp acid of remorse welled up in his throat and he had to stop.

He saw a phone booth in front of him on the corner. It seemed far away. He stood swaying, breathing heavily as he fumbled through his pockets for a coin. He had to call Sordi and tell him to bring a sedative. He stumbled to the phone, trying to remember the number.

The first number he dialed didn’t answer. Orient called information and found that he’d switched the last two digits. He called the correct number. Still no answer.

He called information again and got Sybelle’s number. But when he dialed, no one answered.

Orient stood in the booth holding the phone, reluctant to hang up and leave the security of the plastic enclosure.

He needed help. There had to be someone he could reach. A dim memory tried to push past his straining thoughts. The healer he’d met in Sweden. Professor Hazer would know how to help him. The old man lived in Brooklyn. He hurriedly dialed information for Hazels number.

This time someone answered. “Professor Hazer?” Orient’s voice sounded deep and thick as if his mouth was stuffed full of cotton. This is Owen Orient. From the SEE meeting last month.”

“Yes, yes, of course. How are you?”

“Not so good. Can I come see you?”

“Certainly. What’s the trouble? Are you ill?”

“Yes,” he managed as a spasm of pain cleaved through the center of his brain. He squeezed the phone against his ear while Hazer gave him the address and subway instructions, trying to remember the directions through the agony.

After he left the booth he walked for blocks before he found a subway entrance. There was a cab standing empty nearby. The driver was leaning against the fender, reading a newspaper by the light of the streetlamp. When he saw Orient approaching he quickly folded his newspaper, got into the cab and pulled away, tires screeching.

As Orient walked slowly down the stairs to the train, he was only faintly aware of what he was doing. He was moving by instinct alone. All awareness had become an extension of the torment in his senses: a series of liquid images prodded into grotesque shapes by the unrelenting pain.

“Say friend....” An unshaven old man with rumpled clothing took a step toward him. Then his rheumy eyes went wide when he saw Orient’s face. “... forget it,” he finished, his voice cracking as he backed away.

Orient continued toward the tollbooth, but before he reached the platform he saw a disheveled, familiar figure coming toward him and stopped.

It was a few moments before he realized he was staring at his own reflection in a store-window mirror. His hair was a ragged tangle in front of his eyes and his lips were twisted away from his teeth. His face seemed to be swollen, distorting his features so they looked hard and brutal. White flecks of spittle drooled out of the corner of his mouth and his sweater was stained with vomit.

He heard the train coming and turned away from the window. He found the tollbooth closed. Without hesitating he vaulted the turnstile, landing on his toes like a cat, somewhat surprised at the powerful agility of his reflexes.

The three occupants of the subway car looked uncomfortable when Orient entered so he sat as far away from them as possible, closed his eyes, and tried to smother the jangling hurt in his body.

The vibrations of the subway train eased the tension in his chest and groin and he felt the knot around his mind relent. As the throbbing in his temple diminished, his mind and senses began to function.

A bouquet of spicy odors filled his nostrils.

He opened his eyes.

It seemed as if each of the passengers in the car had a unique aroma that he was able to distinguish.

The black woman in the flowered hat smelled of strong soap, lavender, mothballs, and sweet wine.

The round young man with blotchy pink skin smelled of beer, sweat, and hair tonic.

The other man in the car gave off the unmistakable scent of cigar smoke and whiskey.

Orient found it difficult to make out visual details; his eyes were still aching from the pressure that was pushing them from their sockets, but the odors gave him a distinct perception of the people at the other end of the car. Perhaps more complete than just sight. A yawning hunger opened in the bottom of his stomach.

The odors in the car became more acute; the sweet -artificial scent of a blob of gum on the floor, crumbs from a salami sandwich And each smell fanned the raw appetite spreading across his senses.

The train groaned to a stop and he lurched to the door.

It was the Fourth Street Station. Hazer had told him to change there. Still mumbling Hazer’s directions, Orient located the stairway to the lower level and descended quickly, trying to ignore the hundreds of tantalizing scents that goaded at his smoldering hunger.

He came to a platform that was smaller, older, and dirtier than the one above. It was also empty. He saw a candy machine and looked for a coin. He felt famished, as if he’d burned up every last ebb of energy in his body. Every cell inside him was parched.

He tried every lever until one worked. He tore the wrapper off the candy bar that dropped into the slot and stuffed it into his mouth. But the artificial consistency of the candy congealed into a cold, toxic jelly on his tongue and he spat it out, A ripe aroma warmed the inside of his nostrils. Instinctively he stood still, not even moving his head as he located the source of the scent. Then he turned slightly. It was coming from somewhere in the shadows, near the stairs.

Orient crouched, picked up the remains of the candy bar, and threw it toward the source of the odor. His underhanded toss landed on the narrow extension platform next to the stairs.

Then he waited, his body motionless and his concentration centered on the hot aroma in the shadows.

After a few minutes had passed, he took a step forward and paused. He took another cautious step, his movements directed by a single instinct: his will to feed.

His feet didn’t make a sound on the deserted platform as he came nearer. When he reached the stairs, he climbed the first step and stopped.

It was directly below him. He saw it warily approaching the chewed candy bar he’d thrown. A plump brown ball of hair and flesh. Its raw scent promised new strength to replenish the dried vitality in his cells and soothe the raging appetite in his belly. He waited until the rat had begun to feed on the candy before leaning on the stair rail and springing effortlessly to the narrow platform below. He landed in a crouch over the rat. As the animal tried to scurry away his hand flicked out with the speed of a striking snake and scooped it up. His fingers squeezed around the furry throat to prevent the rat’s long, sharp teeth from biting. His mouth filled with saliva as its maddeningly hot smell saturated his senses. He cradled the rat in both hands and brought it close to his face.

He saw the animal’s fear-brightened eyes and shiny white teeth. Then he saw something that stunned his reflexes.

It was a strip of hair on the side of his thumbs. He opened his free hand, the other still gripping the rat’s neck.

The puckered, wrinkled skin on his palms was covered with fine black hair. Memory snapped like a whip through his awareness.

Hair-covered palms.
The sign of the beast. The full moon
. Another memory lashed out against the ravenous hunger. If he tasted flesh, he wouldn’t be able to stop.

His memory balanced on the crest of a swelling wave of pain that threatened to spill across his consciousness. He knew that the only way he could dam the approaching agony was to consume the squirming flesh in his hands.

He lifted his arms over his head and hurled the rat to -the tracks below. The roar of the arriving train covered his howl of anguish as the torment broke across his mutilated nerves.

When he staggered through the doors of the train his jaw was set in a grin of sheer effort as he struggled to.stifle the screams in his throat. The few passengers in the car left quickly as he fell into a seat, wrapped his arms around his stomach, and pressed his head against his knees. As new pains convulsed his muscles he groaned and repeated Hazer’s address through his clenched teeth. He droned the words and numbers over and over again like some frantic, garbled prayer. There was no comprehension in his delirium except his need for help. He began to tremble as another shard of pain skewered his will with the certainty that he could resist the agony no longer.

He left the train at the next stop and walked blindly through corridors trying to find an exit. He found a stairway that led to fresh air and he took the steps two at a time.

When he reached the street the wind brought a faint but familiar spoor to his nostrils: a hot, sweet scent that stood out vividly against the gasoline-tinted air. The intense pain dulled as his appetite for flesh awoke and took complete control of his instincts.

He started to walk and then broke into a loping run, padding toward the smell like an animal stalking his prey. Other odors drifted near his senses, but the musty prominence of the scent drew him past, leading him to the object of his clawing hunger. He trotted for blocks, all memory of Hazer’s instructions blotted out by the compelling aroma in the darkness ahead of him.

The scent grew stronger when he reached a tree-lined street; floating warm through the cool mint of the foliage. He slowed down to a walk as he tried to pinpoint the exact source of the smell. He moved fluidly, his hungry muscles responding instantly to the dominance of the scent.

He walked past a house, stopped, and then came back. The smell was coming from inside the door of the house. He was standing in front of a four-story brick building that adjoined two other houses of the same simple bow design. There was a light coming from a window on the -top floor.

When Orient saw the name on the top bell a brief elation lanced his mindless raving. Professor Daniel Hazer. But as he repeated the name he felt the pain stirring again.

He tugged at his will. If he could hold on, Hazer would be able to help him. He ground his teeth together and pushed open the door as a tide of anguish loomed in his brain.

By the time he neared the top landing he was straining to contain the swelling torment. He saw a door marked D. Hazer and tried the knob. It was locked. Feverish with frustration and enraged by the nearness of the scent, he shoved against the door. It gave away and he stumbled inside.

The bright overhead light made it hard for him to focus his eyes. All he could make out were blurry, unfamiliar shapes. But his nostrils were clogged by the warm, musty scent around him.

He took a few steps forward and the aroma became overpowering. Unable to resist, he bent his body close to the source of the smell and he made out a crumpled shape in front of him on the floor. As he grasped what it was, spasm after spasm of pain rippled through his consciousness. He cried out only once before the blurs became a blackness that shut out all sensation.

A high wail pierced the silence,

Orient’s eyelids fluttered open. He was lying facedown on the floor. He blinked and tried to focus. His temples were hammering, their heavy pulses battering his brain like measured drumbeats.

There was something he had to remember, but the rising whine punctuated by the booming inside his skull drowned out his thoughts.