Lady Sativa (20 page)

He knew that the missing ingredient ruled out a complete cure, but he clutched at the hope that the herbs he already had would help subdue his violent symptoms. With some control and a little luck, he had a chance to reach Lily. Despair nibbled at his preparations, however, as he realized that even a little luck might be too much to borrow against his bankrupt resources.

By the afternoon he had finished blending the potion. There was enough for a small dose and a large dose. He decided to take the small dose when the symptoms began and the rest later, when he’d gauged the effects.

Sordi called over the intercom to tell him that the next available flight left at midnight. Orient told him to book a seat, but as he measured out the potion into separate vials he knew that even time had withdrawn its meager assets from him. At midnight it would be already five in the morning in London. He’d have only a few hours to find Lily before the moon came up to lure his sanity to destruction.

He stayed in the laboratory until it was time to leave, discouraging Sordi’s attempts to satisfy his curiosity. When it was time he called a cab and left alone for the airport.

While he was still in the departure room he became aware of a dull throb in his temple. The rush of energy that had carried him through the two days of activity was exhausted. And he hadn’t even begun.

The throb became sharper when the plane was in the air and his nerves recoiled from the memory of the agony he’d suffered during the last attack of the disease. He sat motionless in his seat, hoping it would pass, but the spasms of pain increased, stabbing methodically through his defenses and deflating his will

He unhooked the safety belt and reached for the vial containing the small dose. It seemed too soon somehow, but there were less than eighteen hours before the rise of the moon. The tide was coming in.

He asked the stewardess for a bottle of water and an empty glass. When she returned with his tray, he poured the potion in the glass, drank it down, and then followed it with a glass of water.

The water wasn’t strong enough to wash away the clinging, repellent taste of the substance and for a second he thought he’d have to use the airsick bag. He gritted his teeth and drew long breaths of air through his nostrils, fighting to keep the potion down. The throbs became more acute and shafts of pain pierced through his inner ear.

He became afraid. He’d been a fool for enclosing himself inside a small space in midair during the lunar phase. If he displayed any erratic behavior, or became violent, he’d be shot by a sky marshal as a madman hijacker. There was no place where he could crawl and hide and howl when the agony became unendurable. He’d be like a wild animal trapped in a cage. He might even attack an innocent passenger. He gripped the arms of the chair and squeezed his eyes shut.

The pain reached a shrill peak, like a dentist’s drill, then slowly, almost imperceptibly, began to recede. The nausea subsided, leaving the inside of his mouth feeling dry and dirty. He drank another glass of water.

His jaw unclenched and the muscles in the back of his neck relaxed. He took another deep breath as a sweet warmth crept up his spine and spread through his brain.

Exultation floated across his awareness like a tropical breeze. The potion was working. -The sensation of drifting on billow clouds gently rocked his thoughts..

His fear was covered by a thick, downy blanket as the potion soothed his troubled senses. He had hoped that the ingredients in the potion would produce positive physical effects, but he hadn’t been sure of the mental reaction it might produce. Now he was secure. He could feel each of them performing its function in his body.

The mold was an ergot substance and acted to enlarge the small veins in his brain. Medically, it was used to overcome migraine headaches, but it also had curious side effects. It served as the key ingredient in most psychedelic compounds like mescaline. Combined with belladonna it could have produced a severe reaction in his consciousness. But the heavy, sensual tranquilizing effect of the opium anchored the expanding vibrations of his thoughts to an unwavering calm.

The wolfbane, mandrake, and hemp, all pacifying herbs that contained mild mood altering chemicals, combined to form a pleasantly euphoric counterpoint to the effects of the other ingredients.

The total balance kept his mind and body in a cozy state of dynamic harmony, similar to meditative planes, where awareness transcended the politics of existence and gravitated toward the magnetic source of the universe.

All of his problems were arrayed like jeweled playthings in his mind, fixed in glittering focus. He knew he would find the answer he was seeking during this moon phase. It was with this blissfully shimmering assurance that he slipped into his first deep sleep in days.

The effect of the potion began to wear off when the plane reached London a few hours later and by the time he found a hotel room he was feeling the grinding weight of a grueling hangover. His confidence, determination, and euphoric aura of success had crumbled and were quickly decomposing into a stagnant certainty that he wouldn’t even be able to reach Lily.

Everything he tried that morning and afternoon seemed to support his certainty. He dialed Lily’s number and when the recorded message answered again, he hung up and fumbled through the phone book for Maxwell’s number.

He called Maxwell’s number every half hour, but there was no answer. Finally, he looked up the listed address and forced his weary body to leave the hotel room.

Maxwell Andersen’s home was a large Georgian house set back from the street on a corner lot in the tree-lined Knightsbridge district. The immaculate lawns were surrounded by a high metal fence.

As he vainly pushed the electric buzzer at the gate Orient realized that Maxwell, Lily and Germaine might not even be in London. He shivered in the damp wind, peering through the bars at the blank, curtained windows; his mind was numb from the aftereffects of the potion and the sheer effort it required to hold his trembling body upright.

Reluctantly, he moved away from the gate and returned to the waiting cab. He decided to go back to his hotel and try to get a few hours’ rest.

Instead he spent the waning hours of the afternoon staring at the gray-white ceiling above the bed, as a faint throb stirred, awoke, and began pounding at his temples, He didn’t resist the headache, but just lay still, trying to absorb the increasing pain.

An unexpected burst of energy roused him from his apathy and he started pacing nervously around the room. The activity seemed to help cushion the stabbing throb in his brain. It was still relentless, but bearable. It occurred to him that the potion might have cured him already. Perhaps the final ingredient was some sort of prank. The possibility eased his nervousness and he felt an urgent need for fresh air.

He wrapped the vial containing the remaining full dose of the potion in a handkerchief before putting it in his pocket. The soft bulge against his hip gave him a sense of security as he left the hotel and began walking briskly through the streets.

The worst part of his hangover seemed to be over and his determination to find Lily had returned. He decided to check out her address.

He discovered that Lily’s flat was located in the same area where Maxwell lived. When there was no answer at her door, he continued on to try Maxwell’s home again.

It began to rain and he was forced to stop at a small pub to ask for directions and dry off his wet hair and clothing. The bar was empty and its wood and brick interior was cozy and warm. He ordered a drink and pondered his next move. The apparent success of the formula was a relief and carried the added implication that he hadn’t been responsible for Hazer’s death. The sense of imminent crisis diminished and he gradually concluded that his own fear and paranoia had exaggerated the image in Sybelle’s Skrying crystal. The whole experience could have been the projection of a schizoid personality.

The Scotch spread its relaxing warmth through his ‘ stomach and he ordered another drink. If he could control the Symptoms of the disease, there was a good chance he could be cured. He could also look into the real facts behind Hazer’s death.

The pub started filling with customers and the noise and smoke began to press uncomfortably around him. He finished his drink and decided to get some fresh air.

He walked for a few blocks, enjoying the light spray of rain and wind that scrubbed his face. He debated whether he should go back to his hotel or keep looking for Lily. Perhaps it was best to let her go through with her experiment unencumbered by his fears.

His debate was suddenly cut off by a powerful stroke of pain that cleaved through the center of his unsuspecting brain.

A wave of dizziness and nausea threatened to topple his balance as the agony wound around his senses and squeezed, crashing his fragile hopes.

The pain became unendurable in a matter of seconds. It permeated every nerve and muscle. His body convulsed and he doubled over.

“Can I help you, sir?” A man’s voice was saying.

“No... thanks… ” Orient managed to say, not looking up. When he tried to straighten up and walk, the effort almost brought tears to his eyes. He stumbled a few steps then leaned against the side of a building. His fingers trembled uncontrollably as he fumbled for the vial in his pocket.

His breathing was a series of gasping sobs as he unwrapped the handkerchief from the vial and drained its contents.

He clapped his hands over his mouth as his heaving belly tried to reject the thick, bitter fluid. He locked his jaw and sank to the ground, no longer able to hold up against the pain and revulsion.

For a long time he crouched against the wall, his fingers muffling the whines of misery welling up in his throat, until the spasms decreased. He felt the band of agony around his mind relax a slight notch. The potion was cutting very slowly through the noose gripping his awareness.

He took his hands away from his face and opened his eyes. He was huddled in a tight crouch against the wall. His mutilated senses still throbbed and it took long minutes before he could stand up without using the wall for support.

He waited until the last bitter dregs of the nausea had passed, then tried a few tentative steps. He was still weak, but he was able to keep his balance. He kept moving, one careful step at a time, as if he was learning to walk for the first time.

Before he reached the next corner the shattering pain was replaced by a soothing glow that gathered in and mended his tattered awareness. The muscles in his legs began to tingle as new strength poured into them.

His battered consciousness unfolded and stretched luxuriously. It separated from his aching nerves and gently ascended, propelled by a tender breeze. The movement of his body became a means of absorbing the energy in the rain-soaked air. He walked faster, letting the vibrations roll down his senses like healing oil.

As he walked through the steaming streets his mind became charged with purpose. He’d check Maxwell’s house once more and if Lily wasn’t there he’d find a drugstore, buy a bottle of sleeping pills, and go back to his hotel room. There he could ride out the Moon Phase and get a plane to New York in the morning. Every facet of his plan glinted with logic. There was even the chance that this full dose of the formula would effect a permanent cure.

A warm, sensual blanket cushioned his senses from the wet chill as his instinct directed his movement. It was unerring.

He crossed part of a park, turned a corner, walked a few more blocks, and came onto Montpelier Square where Andersen lived. The house was half-obscured by the mist and darkness. It looked deserted.

As he pushed the buzzer on the gate his mind was already going over the next step in his plan—the sleeping pills. He moved away from the fence and started walking to the corner. Then he glanced up and saw something that snapped the struts in his logic and sent his thoughts crashing down in confusion.-

A sliver of light was leaking from between the curtains of a second-floor window. The mist swirled densely and for a moment he wondered if he’d been mistaken. Then a gust of wind parted the fog and he saw it again. The glow dimly illuminated a terrace rail and a tree branch that touched the side of the house.

Curiosity prodded the confusion in his brain. He peered through the shadowy mist for a sign of activity on the streets. There was nothing but the drizzle.

Without hesitating, he reached up and began to scale the iron fence. He crouched on the top bar, his feet balanced between the protruding spikes and jumped.

The pale-blue satin lining the walls reflected the light -flickering from the large candles that stood in each corner of the room.

Count Germaine was sitting on a high-backed, brocade chair. His naked skin was withered and stiff like the petals of a dead flower. He was sitting erect, watching Lily, Maxwell, and a slender Asiatic girl making love on the floor in front of the chair.

Orient dumbly realized that the whines he’d thought were caused by the wind were the passion-glutted cries of humans locked in pleasure.

A black mask covered the upper half of Lily’s face, but the familiar cascade of bronze hair blazed in the candle glow as she kneeled over the naked girl on the carpet. Her legs were sheathed in sheer black stockings and the lacey black band of a garter belt dug into her golden skin when she thrust one knee between the Asiatic girl’s parted thighs.