Lady Sativa (17 page)

Sybelle smiled. “Why thank you, that’s a lovely idea.”

Orient looked up and Sordi saw that his dark skin was stretched tight over his high cheekbones and deep lines pulled at the corners of his mouth. Even his voice sounded flat and haggard. “Thank’s Sordi. I guess I could use a snack, if you’re up to it.”

“Sure. Of course.” He wanted to say more, but they had already turned their attention back to the papers in front of them.

As he went back to the kitchen, Sordi regretted his impulse to resign. The doctor had looked very sick. Now was the time to stand by him in case he needed help.

Sybelle felt a sudden rush of sympathy as she watched Sordi leave the studio. “I really think you should tell him
something,
darling,” she scolded. “It’s not fair to go on avoiding him like this.”

Orient remained intent on the scroll he was examining. “It’s not fair, but there’s nothing we can do right now. It’s senseless to involve Sordi. Perhaps even dangerous. I’m not sure I did the right thing involving you in all this.”

“How could you even
think
such a thing? Fm the one who got yon involved remember?” Her annoyance melted when she looked at him. He seemed completely worn out. The green eyes she’d always thought of as magnificent were muddy and had receded deeper into their dark sockets. His skin seemed jaundiced and even the white streak in his hair had yellowed.

“Well if you don’t want to tell Sordi anything it’s your business,” she relented. “Let’s look at the slides. Maybe they’ll tell us something.” She tried to sound cheerful, but she knew she was becoming discouraged. They still hadn’t found a single clue to the nature of the disease.

Orient went to the wall and pulled down a screen. Then he turned on a projector and inserted the tray of slides. She walked over and stood at his side while he focused the image on the screen, and lowered the lights.

The color-swirled rectangles looked like six separate stained-glass windows of abstract design. The four top rectangles were variations of one basic structure; bubbles of white and red cells grouped around a free-form mass that resembled a dark green jellyfish. The two slides at the bottom, however, were completely different.

There the bubbles were flattened like footballs and sharply divided. The red cells were assembled on one side of a thick green line. The white cells were grouped on the other side of the line and tiny yellow dots filled the spaces between them.

“That seems to confirm it,” Orient said.

“What does it mean?”

“Something’s happened to change the structure of my blood cells. The top four rectangles are samples of my blood taken a few months ago. The other two I took yesterday. The yellow dots in the current slides look like spoors that usually indicate cancer. But it’s impossible to tell without extensive testing.”

She peered through the dim light, but the expression on his face was obscured by the shadows. “Owen I don’t understand,” she whispered.’

“That makes two of us. But the blood samples confirm the fact that I’ve been infected with some disease that’s altered my metabolism.”

Neither of them spoke for a few moments while they stared at the colorful arabesques on the screen.

Orient finally switched the projector off and turned up the lights. “It seems that everything, including the research, has taken us to a dead end. The symptoms of Lycanthropy have been documented as far back as Ancient Egypt, right up through the science of psychiatry, but there’s no data on any cure for the disease. Maybe the best thing I could do is check into a hospital.”

“We
still
haven’t deciphered Carl’s formula,” she reminded him emphatically. “Surely, it must be valid or he wouldn’t have included it in his thesis.”

“I have been going over it,” he admitted reluctantly. “I think I’ve got most of it worked out.”

“Good thing dear Maxwell has a photographic memory. I couldn’t begin to remember how it went.”

He paused and looked up. “I’ve been thinking a lot about Maxwell. And Count Germaine.”

She wavered under his steady gaze. “Well, what about them?”

“The fact that they were in New York with Anthony the night Hazer was killed seems like a curious coincidence,” he said calmly.

“But, darling—what you’re suggesting is fantastic. Surely, you don’t think Maxwell and the count are involved? I think what we should be thinking about is investigating Anthony. If anybody is a werewolf, it’s him.’’

Orient shrugged. “Maybe you’re right. But there’s no time to investigate anybody. There’s less than two weeks left before the next moon phase. And I’m nowhere near a cure.”

Sordi’s entrance with a tray of food interrupted her reply. As they ate, however, she kept thinking about what Owen had said. It was silly. She’d known Count Germaine for ten years at least.... His character and reputation were beyond reproach. Maxwell the same.

Still one could never really know. Who would have believed that Mr. Neilson and Daniel would be murdered? She shuddered. If only Owen were well enough to check up on Anthony. Another possibility made her appetite queasy. What if Owen’s suspicions weren’t those of a logical mind? Suppose he was displaying paranoid symptoms from that awful disease? She put the thought out of her mind and reached for the coffeepot.

Sordi quickly got up and poured for her. She beamed up at him. “How sweet. I adore courtesy. So like you gracious Europeans.”

He smiled shyly. “Anything else you want?”

“Not a thing,” she purred. He was so kind; she really had to remember to give him more of her attention, she told herself. “We’ve been so
busy”
she said. “I’m sorry if it seems we’re neglecting you.”

“That’s all right,” he murmured. “I’m used to the doctor’s upside-down schedules.”

“We have been keeping odd hours,” Orient said. “Thanks for putting up with us.”

“Oh, no trouble, doctor,” Sordi mumbled, but it was obvious that he was pleased. “Uh, what is it you’re working on anyway?” he asked casually.

Sybelle glanced at Orient and then lowered her eyes.

“Mostly some follow-up experiments.”

Sordi waited, but Orient didn’t explain further. They were making a big effort to be nice, he decided as he cleared up the dishes, but they weren’t telling him anything. He hadn’t missed the guilty look Sybelle gave the doctor when he asked what they were doing.

“Let’s go over the rhyme Carl left in his notes,” Sybelle suggested when Sordi was gone. “I’m certain we can get it all. I wonder why he didn’t explain it?”

“There were only three pages found. Maybe the explanation was part of the missing thesis. Anyway, we don’t have it.” He folded his arms and examined the tips of his loafers. “Even if we can figure it out there’s no guarantee that it works.”

“Now don’t be negative, darling,” she chided. “It’s the only thing we have to go on. Tell me what you’ve got so far.”

Orient sighed. “Okay. Let’s go over it. The first thing mentioned in the formula is the mold of wheat and yeast. That’s easy. They’re both ergot substances. Then there’s mandrake, wolfbane, and poppy pitch. The last probably means raw opium gum. I’ll have to order that special through a government warehouse. The next line says to take an equal part of the beautiful bitch. ‘Equal part’ is the key proportion. Very important. It means one measure to quarter measure of the mold, herbs, and opium gum.”

“But what in heaven’s name is the beautiful bitch business all about?”

He smiled. “I’m sure it means Belladonna. Literally translated to beautiful woman. It’s one of the earliest psychedelic herbs used by man; especially by sorcerers, priests, and assassins.. The Borgia family boasted all three professions and refined its use. The extract can produce anything from sexual elation and expansion of consciousness to hallucinations, madness, and death. That’s why the correct proportions are so important.”

“But that’s wonderful. You have the ingredients and the proportions. Why don’t you order the opium right away?”

“There’s still two more lines to the formula.”

“Oh yes. The Indian-rope business.” Sybelle bit her lip. “Did you manage to figure it out?”

He put his hand in his pocket and took out his silver cigarette case. “That we have right here. Indian hemp. Also used since primitive times, but much more gentle and benign than belladonna. Usually it’s used as a mild stimulant or tranquilizer. But with correct use it can move one closer to profound spiritual awareness.”

Sybelle screwed up her nose. “I can’t stand the smell of the smoke.”

“Best thing in this case is to make a liquid extract. Enough to offset any unpleasant side effects from the belladonna.” He looked up at her. “But there’s still the last line.” He shook his head as he repeated the phrase. “Ten measures of that which the beast loves best, fr6m one who loves him more than all the rest.” He grunted and returned to studying the tips of his shoes. “Even if I could figure it out,” he said softly, “I don’t know where to find any.”

Sybelle wrestled silently with the last line for a few minutes then gave it up. “I’m just hopeless,” she concluded. “I’ve never been any good at these word games. All I can play are Chinese checkers and poker.”

Orient didn’t answer, but he noted that she had hit on exactly the word that described his condition. Hopeless.

That night, Orient restlessly paced the floor of his bedroom, trying to dislodge his thoughts from a marsh of desolation. Despite Sybelle’s loyalty and help he felt isolated. In a week the moon would be full and his mind would pass through its violent mutation. He would become something other than human. And he would be completely alone.

He stood at the window, looking out across the black, light-streaked river. If only Lily could come to New York. Perhaps she could help him resist the mutation.

But he knew he was clutching like a drowning man. What he really wanted was her physical presence next to him. In the seven weeks they’d been apart her absence had grown inside him like a cactus, prickling his impatience.

He wondered if she, too, was impatient. She hadn’t taken advantage of Germaine’s trip to try and see him. He took a deep breath and pushed the thought aside. Lily wasn’t really able to travel during the full moon. During those periods she herself needed care. It would have been a shambles. Him out of control and Lily terribly frightened. He sat down heavily on the bed and rubbed his sleepless eyes with his knuckles. No, it was a good thing she hadn’t come.

But the certainty didn’t blunt the sharp need he felt for her. He could remember every detail of her warm, golden body; the comic freckles at the tip of her nose, the joyous explosion when their minds touched while making love. He opened his eyes and regarded the telephone on the night table. It would help ease his depression to just hear her voice.

As he continued to stare at the phone, however, his instincts were held back by doubt. He didn’t want to intrude on her privacy. He leaned back and rested his head on the pillow. Best to just forget it. He’d have to wait until her experiment with Germaine was finished.

Loneliness and curiosity kept the image of her shimmering bronze hair and smoky amber eyes alive in his mind. He just wanted to talk to her, tell her he was thinking about her. He wondered what they were working on that demanded so much of her time. Annoyance jabbed at his thoughts as he recalled Germaine’s polite conversational fencing with Sybelle. Not only had he refused to help, but he seemed to dismiss Hazer’s death as unimportant. And Maxwell seemed to be pushing for a confrontation. His annoyance flared to anger as he remembered the boy’s mocking smile. The suspicion that they were conducting an occult experiment in London returned.

The anger spurred his sense of resolution and he sat up, picked up the receiver, and dialed the long-distance operator.

As he waited for the operator to ring back with his call he considered canceling out. But instead he lay back on the bed and continued to wait.

The sound of the phone startled him out of his reverie and he let it ring a few more times, while he collected himself, before picking up the receiver.

“Yes?”

Her voice sent a rush of emotions into his throat and he hesitated. “Lily?” he managed. “It’s Owen.” “Oh. Where are you?”

“In New York. I wanted to talk to you,” he said lamely. Now that she was on the line he couldn’t remember what it was he wanted to tell her.

“Are you all right?”

“Sure,” he lied. “How’s the experiment?”

“Oh it’s... we should be finished in a week or so. After the next moon period. I’ve been getting impatient for it to end. So we can be together. But there’s still some things. I’ve already booked my seat for New York, though.”

He tried to sound enthusiastic. “Great. Hope it works out.”

“I’ll send you a telegram when I’m definitely on my way,” she whispered. “I’ve got to ring off now. Take care of yourself until I get there. I miss you.”

“I miss you, too,” Orient said but the line was dead.

He put the receiver down very slowly, stretched out on the bed, and closed his eyes.

Sleep refused to come, however, and his thoughts slogged wearily through the darkness. He’d been unable to communicate anything to Lily. He felt farther away from her now, as if their telephone conversation had created a new barrier. There was already the rise of a full moon between them. And he understood that he’d have to cross that tide of despair alone. The knowledge taunted his sleepless thoughts until dawn.