Lady Sativa Read online

  Apparently, he was a very special man—skilled occult mechanic as well as hypnotist.

  Orient stood at the window, smoking a cigarette, still pondering the significance of the disruption. As he stared at the moon he speculated on that dead satellite, circling the earth and reflecting the ebbs and swells of energy pulsing from the universe. He knew that the moon had always affected men’s deepest instincts. As man learned to plant crops by the moon his sense of ritual, then religion, formed. Even though the moon’s glow was just reflection, its unique spatial presence transformed the energy of the sun before it reached Earth. Like the sympathetic function of one vital organ for another. Then he saw something move across the reflection of the bed lamp in the windowpane.

  “Come in.”

  Lily closed the door behind her. “Hope I’m not disturbing you,” she said softly. She polled the lapel of her brown angora robe tighter around her neck. “Or are you a difficult sleeper?”

  “I sleep all right,” Orient turned away from the window. “But it’s nice to see you.”

  She sat down on the edge of the bed and looked up at him. Her amber pupils were splintered by yellow slivers that glittered in the dim light with a feverish excitement. Her voice, however, was calm and husky. “Thanks for taking care of me tonight,”

  “I did very little.” He reached into his pocket and held out his cigarette case. “Smoke?”

  She shook her head.

  “Where do you go from here?”

  “London, maybe Amsterdam. I have a project to complete over the next couple of months. With Count Germaine. After that I could go anywhere. I’ll be free.” Her moist lips parted in a smile. “I will have a puff on your cigarette. It has a wonderful aroma.”

  Orient sat down next to her and passed his hand-wrapped cigarette. “Maybe you’d like New York for a few months. It could be interesting to explore your sensitivity to the moon.”

  She inhaled and let the smoke drift out slowly through her nostrils.

  “Could be interesting,” she mused. She leaned closer, and returned his cigarette. “You drew all of the confusion and the tension out of my body, as if you were inside me.”

  He watched the swirls of transparent blue smoke caressing her shimmering bronze hair. “There’s a good chance you can control your powers completely,” he said.

  The robe fell away from her throat as she leaned back and the soft golden bulges of her breasts pushed out against the downy edges of her robe. The thin angora clung to the lines of her long supple body. “Think you could teach me?” she said, her voice low and vibrant.

  “The telepathic technique could activate dormant functions in your mind.” As he leaned over to put out his cigarette, Orient felt a sudden animal energy radiating from her. He opened his consciousness and a hot rain of sexual electricity spattered against his senses.

  “It would be lovely to learn a new technique,” she was saying. She reached up and gently pulled him close to her. The intense warmth of her body saturated his awareness as he slipped the soft fabric of her robe over her smooth shoulders and kissed the jutting nipples of her heaving breasts.

  She moaned softly, her fingers searching restlessly across his chest and stomach, leaving glowing pockets of heat where they touched. She tugged his robe open and pressed her body against his skin. His taut muscles tingled as she twisted under him. Husky mews of delight flared like jets of flame against his ear, searing through his nerves and igniting every thread of desire in his spine.

  Then he felt the satiny smoothness of her thighs embrace his hips and he lifted against her.

  She slowly melted as he entered her, becoming honey-thick and warm around him. Her rising cries were muffled against his throat as a lush, liquid swell rippled through his groin and he sucked in his breath, letting it pass, stroking through the luxurious waters toward further surf. She arched up and ground her belly against his as a delicious billow swept them up and spun them through a churning whirlpool of sensation. She dug her nails deep into his shoulders and her cries rose above the roar of the surging wave, ringing against his pleasure-drenched brain like the echoes of an endless scream.

  For a while, they floated in each others arms, talking quietly, until another flood of desire washed them away to the edge of a profound, caressing silence.

  Lily stirred and opened her eyes after a long doze. “It would be luscious to just fall asleep against your chest like this,” she murmured.

  He nuzzled her ear. “Still early.”’

  She shook her head, her silky hair brushing across his arms. “Not this time,” she sighed. “This house is in mourning. It wouldn’t do for anyone to see me coming out of here. She sat up and stretched, pulling the, long muscles tight under her skin and lifting her dark-nippled breasts. “But I’ll be in New York in two months.” She leaned over and put her lips against his ear. “And then we can stay in bed for weeks.” She kissed him, then rolled off the bed and stood up, her movements as fluid as those of a playful cat.

  Orient rested his head in his palms and watched her. “No chance of your showing up sooner?”

  She moistened her pale lips with her tongue. “I’m committed. Count Germaine needs me at this stage and the project is imperative.”

  “Hypnotism?”

  She frowned slightly. “I’ll tell you about it when I see you again. In New York.” “Just send a telegram.”

  “I’ll do better than that,” Lily said, grinning as she began pulling the light angora robe around her shoulders, “I’ll send you roses.” She blew him a kiss.

  After she was gone, Orient lay awake for some time, thinking about her. He wanted to see Lily again. It occurred to him that the experiment Germaine was conducting could be an occult rite. He felt a pang of anxiety and suppressed it. She was free to explore what she saw fit. His mind drifted back to the warmth of her soft body. Their minds had touched as they made love. As he eased into sleep he remembered the smoothness of her golden skin….

  He was on an immense plain. He was running... urging his weary legs toward a distant shadow on the horizon... they were just behind him... the pursuers... the hunters... he stumbled and cried out, but no sound came out of his mouth... he broke his stride again and fell. He could hear muffled footsteps coming louder... he scrambled to his feet and started running

  toward the shadow… the footsteps were closer... a dazzling glare exploded in front of him... he leaped into the light....

  Orient opened his eyes and was blinded by the beams of flashlights pointed directly into his face.

  “What’s the matter?” he grunted, lifting his hands in front of his face. “What is it?”

  “Talk Swedish?” a man’s tenor voice inquired.

  “A little,” Orient answered in Swedish. “Who are you?”

  “Police,” a gruff basso informed him. “Please get dressed.”

  “Been here all night?” the tenor asked.

  Orient rubbed his eyes and reached for his robe. “Yes.”

  “Alone?”

  Orient tried to see past the glare of the flashlights. “Yes. Why?”

  “A man has been killed,” the tenor replied calmly. “I believe you know him.”

  6

  Orient’s mind was numb from confusion, shock, and lack of sleep. He moved through the events of the morning like a dazed survivor of a car wreck.

  The two policemen waited impatiently while he dressed, then took him downstairs to identify the body.

  The dawn sun cast a dull, metallic sheen across the gray-blanketed sky. It had rained during the early morning and there were dirty crusts of frost on the muddy ground.

  The body was sprawled in the wet dirt, face up, a few feet from the open door of a car. His shirt had been torn from his body and long black scratches ran from the top of his bald head to what was left of his throat. Part of his hand was missing and yellowing splinters of bone pierced through the ragged chunks of surrounding flesh.

  Orient took a step nearer.

  �
��Please, no closer,” the tenor voice said. It belonged to a lanky, grim-faced man dressed in a tweed overcoat.

  “You know him?” the other detective rumbled. He was short and powerfully built. The small eyes in his doughy face were hard as they stared at Orient.

  “It’s Nels Neilson,” his voice was almost inaudible. “What... happened?”

  “Could have been a wild animal,” the thin detective said. “But there aren’t many in this district. And all the’ tracks in the ground are human.”

  The other man went to the car. The door on the driver’s side was open. “There was a struggle here,” he said.

  Orient walked over next to him. The spongy, rain-soaked dirt near the car was gouged and pitted. “He must have resisted,” the tenor voice behind Orient observed. “Didn’t you hear anything?”

  Orient jammed his hands into the pockets of his blazer. He remembered Lily’s moans of pleasure against his ear. “No,” he said, “nothing.”

  “Will you tell us, please, what you did last night?” the fat-faced detective said sharply.

  Orient went through a brief explanation of the meeting and then the séance. The two plainclothesmen listened without comment, but the expressions on their faces were identical: glum and disbelieving.

  “And you went to bed and heard nothing,” the tall man said.

  “That’s correct.”

  “Are you sure you were alone all night?”

  Orient hesitated. If he lied to them, it could put Lily in jeopardy. “Lady Sativa and I talked for a few hours after the séance,” he admitted.

  “You told us you were alone,” the lanky man said pleasantly.

  “I was not alone. But I heard nothing.”

  “All right,” the short detective grunted. “Let’s go back to the house.”

  As Orient turned to go, he noticed some small, reddish-brown splotches on the driver’s seat, as if the white leather upholstery had suddenly begun to rust. He leaned closer and saw that they were streaks of dark talcum powder.

  “Come along,” the lanky man said, “the others are waiting.”

  All seven of the occupants of the house were assembled in the library when they arrived. Hannah was on the couch, being comforted by Sybelle and Germaine. Hazer was sitting nearby in an armchair. Lily and Maxwell were standing near the window and the cook sat at ^the desk, presiding over a steaming coffee urn. Orient went over *to take a cup before moving to join Lily. As he approached, Maxwell scowled” and turned away.

  Lily looked up, her amber eyes dark with the pain that tightened her pale mouth. “Did they make you go out there?” she asked softly.

  Orient nodded.

  “They asked a lot of questions.” She shivered and hugged herself.

  “What did you tell them?”

  “The truth.” She put a hand on his arm. “Didn’t you?”

  “Eventually.”

  She cocked her head and smiled slightly. “Don’t tell me you tried to protect my reputation?

  “Something like that.”

  “I suppose I should be complimented, but it smacks of the chauvinist. I’m a firm believer in straight honesty all the time.” She reached up and touched his face. “Agreed?”

  Agreed,” he murmured.

  “Should always tell the police the truth,” Maxwell mused as he stared out the window. “But you ran true to form—gallant and proper.”

  The corded muscles in Orient’s neck tensed and his eyes narrowed. He clenched his jaw and tried to hold back the anger that clawed at his instincts.

  “Your attention, please,” the lanky detective called out, his voice oddly pitched as he formed the unfamiliar English words. “Please all be seated.”

  Maxwell managed to take the armchair next to Lily, leaving Orient the narrow space on the couch.

  “Please be patient with my English,” the detective continued “But it is language we all understand here and we must proceed as best we can.” His craggy face was set in a mournful frown as he looked around at him. “The facts are these: Mr. Neilson was killed about two this morning. None of you heard sounds even though—” he looked at Orient—”some of you were awake.” His pale blue eyes moved to Hannah.

  She was rocking back and forth silently in Sybelle’s arms like a child who’d just recovered from the worst part of a fit. Her delicate face was lined with fatigue, and the skin around her eyes was raw and red from crying.

  “Mrs. Bestman was the last person to see Neilson alive,” the detective said.

  Germaine stood up. “Surely, you’re not inferring that Hannah had anything to do with this?”

  The detective took his hands out of his pockets. “Please be seated, count,” he said calmly. “I’ve made no accusation.”

  “Now then,” he continued as Germaine took his seat, “Is there anything someone has not remembered?” No one spoke.

  “You had some sort of Black Mass in which Neilson and the rest of you joined, no?” he persisted. “Some magic rite.”

  “We conducted a séance” Germaine said, correcting him, “according to the wishes set forth in Carl Bestman’s will. It was not a mass or rite. It could be called a scientific experiment.”

  The detective nodded glumly. “And there was a fight? Things broken and thrown around?”

  “There was no fight of any kind,” Germaine explained patiently. “There was a psychic disturbance when we tried to contact Mr. Bestman’s soul.”

  The lanky detective squinted around the room, his face reflecting disbelief and disapproval. “You say there was a disturbance?”

  “We tried to speak to the soul of Carl Bestman,” Hazer said, slowly filling his pipe. “When we tried something knocked the furniture over and broke some lamps. Some spirit element. That’s the clearest explanation anyone here can give, I think. Lady Sativa received a message “from Carl to open a certain cabinet. But when Neilson and Hannah went to look they found it empty.”

  “Only Mrs. Bestman and Neilson?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And then you all retired?”

  “Yes.” Hazer fumbled through his pockets.

  The detective lowered his voice. “You went outside with Neilson, Mrs. Bestman?”

  “Yes,” Hannah whispered. She didn’t look up. “But it was drizzling so I came back to the house right away.”

  “And you saw nothing?”

  “No.”

  “Strange that no one heard anything last night,” Hazer struck a match and lit his pipe. “Perhaps he couldn’t make any sound after his throat was… damaged.”

  Hannah began to sob.

  “Please, captain, can’t you see that Mrs. Bestman needs rest,” Sybelle scolded. “Why in heaven’s name can’t she go to her room?”

  “In due time. First, we must discover the truth of a man’s death.”

  “You know the truth.” Sybelle’s eyes were blazing. “No one here is lying. We’ve told you everything.”

  The detective smiled sadly. “Everything except who killed Nels Neilson.”

  “Could have been a stray bear or wolf,” Maxwell suggested

  “There were no tracks, Mr. Andersen.”

  As the detective spoke, there were loud voices at the door. “Hannah!” Anthony Bestman shouted as he came into the library. “Are you all right?” His bulk was covered by, a fur-collared greatcoat that reached to his ankles. He glared around the room. “I told you this would happen if you continued to shelter these degenerates. Now we’ve been doubly disgraced”

  “Please get him out of here, officer,” Hannah said quietly. “I don’t want that man in my house.”

  “My sister-in-law is crazy,” Bestman spat vehemently. “She drove my brother to suicide.

  “Liar,” Hannah gurgled as she suddenly lurched to her feet.

  “I tell you she’s crazy!” Bestman yelled as she lunged and tried to rake his face with her nails.

  The detective stepped between them and grabbed Hannah’s shoulders.

  “
He drove Carl to kill himself!” she screeched. “Wouldn’t leave Carl alone.”

  “Sit down, Mrs. Bestman,” the detective said firmly, guiding her back to the couch.

  Hannah sank back on the couch and collapsed, sobbing, into Sybelle’s arms.

  “Please come with me,” the detective said to Bestman.

  “I’ll be glad to tell you everything I know about these people,” Bestman sneered. “That woman has ruined my brother and his family’s name.”

  “We’ll see,” the detective sighed as they walked to the door.

  Everyone was absorbed in private thoughts as they waited for the detective to return. The room was silent except for the occasional murmur of the fat-faced detective who was sitting near the coffee urn, flirting with the cook.

  Orient stretched his legs out and tried to relax. Neilson had been literally ripped apart. It would take a very strong person to do that. Or someone completely crazed.

  The cook let out a muffled giggle as the detective whispered something in her ear.

  It was at least two hours before the lanky detective returned. He was accompanied by a uniformed policeman.

  “You will please come with us, Mrs. Bestman,” he said, approaching the couch.

  “But what on earth for?” Sybelle protested.

  “She is under arrest for the murder of Nels Neilson.”

  Germaine slapped his fist against his palm. “Impossible.”

  “Anthony Bestman informed us that his sister-in-law once committed herself for shock treatment. We confirmed this. She has been diagnosed as a border schizophrenic. Our laboratory has also confirmed that traces of powder found in the car correspond to talcum powder found in Mrs. Bestman’s bedroom,” the detective droned impassively. He reached into his coat.

  These were also found under some clothing in the bedroom.” He handed some papers to Germaine, “Possibly you can explain this better than I.”

  Germaine scanned the papers. “It looks like part of the thesis Carl mentioned.” As he read them, his wide brow furrowed in a frown. “This proves nothing,” he said finally, passing the papers to Hazer.