The Fire Rose

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Paul du Mond watched in fascinated detachment as hands that did not seem to belong to him slowly drove a potent load of clear, pink-tinged liquid into his vein through the medium of the syringe needle. The hands squeezed the plunger hard as the last of the liquid entered his body; he wanted to be certain he got every precious drop. Beltaire was generous with his drugs, but du Mond was not going to repay that generosity with wastefulness.

"What did you say this was?" he asked Beltaire, as he removed the bandage from around his elbow, and felt the first rush of euphoria hit him. He sat back on his bed, and watched Simon through a sweet haze of pleasure.

"I didn't," Beltaire replied casually. "A little of this, a bit of that, actually, including a few things known only to The Great Beast's devotees. You've had most of them in single doses already. It is a blend designed to last longer than cocaine, yet one which will not send the partaker into a mindless dream-world like many of the opiates. Eventually, it will free your spirit-eyes so that you can see beyond what fools call the real world into the many worlds beyond this one."

Paul nodded wisely, although in his current euphoric state he probably would have nodded wisely had Beltaire recited a nursery-rhyme.

"I don't suppose you've heard anything more about the virgin child your suppliers were supposed to get you?" the Firemaster continued, raising an interrogative eyebrow. "We really must have a virgin for the final ceremony opening up all four Elements to you." He sighed. "Best of all, of course, would be virgin above the age of puberty, but that's too much to hope for from these Chinese slave-merchants. They never can resist sampling their wares."

Du Mond shook his head, and a deep, hot anger awakened from the coals that were always glowing within his soul. He had paid, and paid dearly, well in advance of delivery—and all his supplier could offer him were excuses. There were shortages, due to high mortality in the shipments. It was harder to get people to part with children than with useless girls of marriageable age who had no dowries. The missionaries had confiscated his shipment. The missionaries had made it difficult to bring his shipment into port. Always difficulties, never anything but excuses.

He already had a Fire Elemental bound to his service, which was more than he'd ever achieved with Cameron. The trouble was hardly with his new Master. Simon Beltaire delivered everything he promised and more.

"I'll have words with them again," he replied, and added darkly, "I can always send Smith and Cook to them if they have nothing more to offer than excuses. I suspect the two of them could extract our money, at least."

"That should be your court of last resort," Beltaire warned. "It would be better to go to the extreme of doing your own hunting before you turned force on your suppliers." He raised a finger suggestively. "Remember that you have the use of my motor-launch when I do not require it. There are quarters in San Francisco—as you well know—where a brat might not be missed for several days. Most would go with anyone who offered them candy—and opium-powder mixed with taffy or fudge is a sure way to keep an urchin sleepy and cooperative long enough to get it into the launch across the Bay. Once it is in my house, of course, it can yell as much as it likes. Under normal circumstances I would not suggest this at all, except that the matter is fairly urgent if you are to make continuous progress. A local brat would at least be sturdy, which is more than can be said for Chinese merchandise that's just made a long voyage."

Paul licked his lips. "I'll consider it."

Beltaire nodded, and packed up his paraphernalia. "I will leave you to your experience," he said. "This first time, you might not be able to break through the barriers to the Other Side; if not, be patient, for sometimes your body needs to become accustomed to these things so that your spirit can soar freely. And sometimes your spirit is preoccupied with a problem that must be solved before you are free to seek other realms. If that is true, and you identify the problem, solve it at once."

Paul did not notice him leaving, but after a timeless interval of lying in a state of hazy, vague pleasure on his bed, neither was he able to make the breakthrough he had hoped for. Despite Beltaire's advice, this frustrated him. Try as he might to empty his mind of everything, one problem kept intruding; the need to find his Vessel, the untouched female—or male, but Paul preferred to use a female Vessel, and it was much easier to tell if a female was a virgin than a male.

If only he could find an adolescent—or better yet, an adult!

He stared at a spot on the ceiling, a water-stain shaped like a cloud. Scant chance finding a virgin past the age of ten, he grumbled to himself, his euphoria flattening. At least, not one I can get hold of without getting the police on my trail. And as for an adult—huh, there's only one that I know of, and—

It hit him then, like a bolt of lightning. His Vessel, his perfect Vessel, was right at hand and waiting for him! That Hawkins harridan—she was a virgin, and a fat lot of good her virginity was doing anyone, too! She wouldn't be missed by anyone but Cameron—he still had free access to Cameron's estate, and if he caught her outside the mansion on one of those long walks of hers, Cameron would never know what had happened to her! Cameron wouldn't report her missing, he wouldn't dare; he couldn't face police himself, and there would be no one else who could answer questions about her! He might even assume she had run off, frightened by the things he was asking her to read to him.

He levered himself up off his bed. Best to do it now, as Simon had said, as if the Firemaster had somehow known that this would be the solution to his problem. If he waited, Cameron might get tired of the lack of progress and send her off himself, or she might decide that poverty was better than reading what must seem to her to be the ravings of lunatics, and quit.

He had a moment of doubt as his hand fell on the doorknob. Beltaire had said that the drugs would last for many hours, and that they would have several different effects on his mental and physical condition. Should he do this while he was still under their influence? Could he? They might slow his reflexes, so that he would botch the kidnapping. They might send him visions that would confuse him. They might render him too euphoric to act. Or—they might give him immensely greater strength and endurance, and render him impervious to pain. He stood twisting the knob in indecision.

But then, he saw that while twisting the doorknob, the thing had come off in his hand. It hadn't simply fallen off, either; he'd wrenched it from the doorplate.

Well! So that is one of the effects! Beltaire had warned him to be careful around the house, and now he knew why! There were several drugs that had the effect of numbing the nerves and enhancing strength, and Beltaire must have put them in his mix.

Perfect. If I leave now, I can borrow the motor-launch and be in Pacifica in an hour I can have the men drop me in the shallows, then anchor the launch just below the cliffs, and I can take the path up from the beach. I can wait there for her.

Neat, clean, and impossible to trace. She would simply disappear.

And there's no reason for Cameron to suspect me.

He would finally get Rosalind Hawkins, and she would finally get what she deserved.

Rose could hardly help but compare April in California with the same month in Chicago. There was nothing to choose between, to be frank. April had always seemed to be one of the most miserable months in the calender to her—the weather was hideously distempered, changing every few moments, and all of the changes unpleasant. There was just enough promise of spring to raise one's hopes, but not enough to be convincing that winter's grip was loosened—and there was always the chance that a blizzard in the middle of the month would send everything into an icy winter freeze for another week or more. There could be no opera, no ballet, no concerts, even; it was Lent, after all, in a predominantly Catholic city, and if there was any music available, it was all religious, and dolorous. Menus at University were full of fish, a dish that Rose got weary of rather quickly, given the limited imagination of the University cooks. Their illiterate Irish cook had always insisted on honoring the Lenten custom as well, and her ideas beyond fish were limited to vegetable soups and stews, and Welsh rarebit. By the time Lent was over, Rose was generally ready to kill for a pot roast.

San Francisco did not seem to notice that it was the Lenten season. This was the month that Caruso and the Met were coming to perform at the Opera. Fish had no greater share in the city's menus than any other time of year. Flowers had been in full bloom for two weeks and more, and if it rained a great deal, well, the fresh greenery looked very pretty in the rain.

Rose had resumed her walks as a guarantee that Jason would ride Sunset at least once a day. She had no trouble encouraging him if she called out that she was about to get her exercise, but if she said "I believe I'll continue working, so why don't you go take your ride," he would always find some excuse to remain. As long as it wasn't pouring rain, a fast walk down to the sea and back was a good way to shake off discouragement and depression—it was very hard to think of one's self as a martyr when there were birds singing in every tree, and flowers filling the air with perfume.

And today it was impossible to think of herself as anything but incredibly lucky. Tomorrow she would take Jason's private train into San Francisco again, and she would listen to Caruso for the following two days from Jason's private box.

Cameron had asked her to consult Master Pao about some disturbances he had felt lately among his Salamanders that he thought might be Earth-related. She had resolved to tell Master Pao the whole truth about Jason's problem—for he still was unaware of the extent of the damage the "accident" had caused and see if there was something Eastern Magick could do that Western could not.

Perhaps we will never be able to undo what was done to him. That thought had occurred to her several times over the last two weeks, sounding what could have been a pessimistic note with overtones, for her, of hope. If Cameron remained in his half-lupine form....

It would be sad, of course, but not the tragedy it might otherwise have been. He didn't need servants as long as he had Salamanders and Sylphs. He was able to get out on his estate again, atop Sunset. Granted, he could no longer entertain his old friends, but he didn't seem to miss them.

He does miss music, but there are gramophones, and there are inventions like the radiophone that hold some promise of bringing distant concerts to listeners. I should persuade him to get a gramophone and a collection of recordings. Soon enough, electricity would come to Pacifica, and thus to the estate; with electricity would come the telephone. He could conduct all of his business from his office here, and for what needed the personal touch, there was his agent, and there was Rose.

I don't need a degree to do research and publish. I certainly don't need one for Magick. I could stay here with him forever...

Could her company—and yes, her love—make up for his restricted life? She liked to think so. Certainly he seemed to be enjoying himself more now than he had been when she first arrived.

She did not want to hope for something so selfish, and so tragic, as his continued imprisonment in his altered form—but it was difficult not to.

Time for research was at a premium with her departure so soon, and she thought seriously about turning back halfway down the path. But the distant roar of the waves lured her on, and she told herself that they would have plenty of research-time when she returned. It is not as if we are pursuing this under some deadline, after all.

Sunlight showing past the trees ahead of her pointed to the clearing at the top of the cliffs, and her turn-around point. I'll just enjoy the sea and the wind for a moment, and get some sun, then I'll walk back at a faster pace—

Her ears warned her a fraction of a second before it happened; there was the crackle of underbrush, and she had just enough time to half turn before something heavy hit her from behind, grappling her around the waist.

But her assailant did not get a firm grip on her, nor did he manage to pin her arms. With a shrill scream startled out of her by sudden fear, she clawed and struggled her way free, leaving her jacket in his hands. As she wrenched herself away, she let her momentum take her and staggered a few paces away in the direction of the cliffs.

That was not where she wanted to go—nor did she want this attacker between herself and the mansion! She staggered about to face him, her hands crooked instinctively into claws to tear at his face and eyes, her hair draggling down into her eyes, and one sleeve of her shirtwaist half torn off.

To her utter shock and horror, when he scrambled to his feet and glared up at her, she recognized the face of Paul du Mond. And to her deeper horror, she recognized by his dilated, glassy eyes, his pale complexion, and his fixed stare that he was not his normal self. She had already marked him with a long scratch down one cheek; he did not seem to notice it, not even to wipe the blood away. Nor did he speak, or alter his predatory stance in any way although he must have recognized her, and knew that she now knew him.

Her stomach knotted and her heart chilled. For some reason, known only to him, he had come to attack her. If he is drugged—he won't feel anything I do. I could claw his face to ribbons and he won't feel it—

He lunged for her again, his lips twisted into a snarl, a thin line of spittle drooling from one corner of his mouth. She tried to evade him, but this time his luck was better, or hers worse; he caught her by the skirt, and wrenched her offbalance long enough to take complete control of the situation.

She had no time to react; his reflexes were inhumanly fast. He seized both her wrists in one hand with an iron grip; she made herself go limp, landing on her derriere with a painful thump, determined to make of herself a dead weight that he could not carry. And once she was down, she began to kick at his knees and legs with the hard heels of her shoes. If she could break a bone, drugged or not, he would not be able to carry her off, as he seemed fixed on doing!

Her focus narrowed to her struggle; although her entire body thrilled with terror, she did not, would not, could not let it overwhelm her. She must fight; Jason was who-knew-where, and his Salamanders were probably with him. Only one person was going to save her: herself.

She didn't scream; she saved her breath for the fight. No one would hear her this far from the house. But inside, she was screaming in terror. Her arms burned with pain as he hauled at them; it felt as if he was tearing them out of her shoulder.

He ignored the vicious kicks at his legs, and began to drag her inch by inch toward the clearing. Twigs tore at her clothing, her face, her arms, marking her skin in fiery paths—she twisted and turned, trying to break that powerful grip in her wrists, until her arms were nearly wrenched out of their sockets. What did he want with her? What could he want with her? And why was he dragging her towards the cliffs?

The struggle went on in grim silence; the roar of the ocean covered the sound of her panting and gasping, and he seemed as impervious to everything as if he were an automaton made of clockwork and steel. She made one attempt to bite him, but gave that up when he used the opportunity to attempt to land a blow to her jaw that would surely have knocked her senseless had she not ducked out of the way. After that, she did her best to keep her head out of his reach.

Kicking and writhing, hooking her legs around trees until he tore her loose, forcing him to fight dearly for every inch, she was dragged inexorably towards the clearing and the cliffs. Her shirtwaist was in rags; her skirt, of sturdier stuff, hampered her attempts to get a purchase enough to throw him off-balance. Was he going to throw her over the cliffs? And why?

Whatever he wanted with her, the fact that he apparently wanted her alive for it made her even more terrified, if that was possible. Panic gave her new strength, and she twisted like a wild thing in his grasp, wrenching her arms back and forth. But some other force had given him incredible strength, and he continued to pull her onwards.

Only two or three yards of cover remained between him and the clearing. Once he got her that far, there would be nothing for her to hold on to, and he could simply drag her across the slippery grass unimpeded. Her heart pounded so wildly she thought it would burst.

Terrified past reason now, she screamed in hopeless terror, and fought with all her strength.

"Firemaster!"

The Salamander popped up under Sunset's nose, startling the stallion into a fit of rearing and bucking. Cameron fought to control the horse with knee and voice; his heart hammered as he even hauled on the reins of the bitless bridle to force the horse's head down into a position where it would be difficult to buck.

"Help! Firemaster!" the Salamander shrilled again. "Rose! Danger! Help, Firemaster!"

What? At that same moment, he fought Sunset to a shivering standstill, and he twisted in his saddle to face the Elemental. "Where? What? How?"

"Du Mond has her!" it screeched. "Follow!"

It shot off like a streak of red lightning in the direction of the path to the cliffs; without a second of hesitation, he wrenched the horse's head around in the right direction. Digging his heels into Sunset's sides, and shouting, he gave the stallion his head. Already excited, Sunset needed no encouragement to break into a gallop. The horse pounded after the blazing Elemental, as Cameron's thoughts churned chaotically.

Du Mond—but why—the Salamanders can't protect her, I sealed him against their direct interference—the cliffs—what can he want—he wants her, he always has, he's been after her all along—

He urged Sunset to his fastest with shouts and slaps of a light twig he carried instead of a riding-crop, but his thoughts went from chaos to incoherence. Red, bloody rage built up in him, as it had once before, at the thought of du Mond putting his filthy hands all over Rose, his Rose—

I'll kill him—kill him—kill—

Bile rose in his throat, and the thick musk of rage in his nostrils. His stomach knotted, and his vision misted.

Sunset thundered down the path to the cliffs, covering in minutes what it would take someone afoot a half hour to cross. His vision was narrowed to the path ahead, and filmed with scarlet. Sunset was tiring, slowing, but it didn't matter, for he saw du Mond ahead of him now, dragging Rose. Her clothing was torn and her face scratched, but she was kicking and fighting and screaming at the top of her lungs.

He might have been able to control himself, if it had not been for the sheer terror in her screams.

That sent him over the edge—and over Sunset's neck as the horse pulled up in startlement. He leapt upon du Mond like a wolf leaping for a rabbit, claws extended, and nothing in his mind or his soul but the need to destroy.

He caught a glimpse of du Mond's face as they both went down—which did not even show that the man registered his presence. Then they were grappling together.

Du Mond's strength was prodigious, far greater than the man should ever have commanded on his own. He managed to hold the wolf off for a few moments; long enough for him to realize, in whatever drug-fogged world he was in, that he was in trouble. He wrenched briefly away, and stumbled over Rose as she lay prone, stunned, where he had dropped her.

He still might have been able to save himself, if he had simply fallen flat and unresisting. Instead, he drew a knife, and tried to grab for Rose again, perhaps with the vague notion of using her as a shield.

He never got any farther than the motion.

With a growl that clawed its way out of his throat, Jason leapt for him again, swatting the knife out of his hands—

At that point, everything faded into a scarlet haze.

He came to himself a moment later, with a strange, sweet, warm, metallic taste in his mouth. His claws held du Mond's shoulders to the ground; beneath him, the body quivered as the last vestige of life passed from it. Du Mond's head was flung back, and in his eyes was a look of sheer horror. Du Mond's throat was a red ruin.

With a shock, Jason recognized the taste in his mouth as blood. Fresh blood.

Du Mond's blood.

He had ripped out du Mond's throat with his bare fangs.

With an inarticulate cry, he shoved himself to his feet, and staggered back clumsily a pace or two.

A sound that was part sob, part wail of fear, and part gasp made him lurch about—

—meeting the horrified gaze of Rose.

The beast had won—and she had witnessed it all.

No—no!

He gave a howl of anguish, and ran, not knowing where he was going, and not caring, so long as it took him away, far away, from those fearful, accusing eyes.

Rose didn't remember how she came to be halfway up the path to the house, with the rags of her blouse gathered about her in one hand, the reins of Sunset's bridle in the other, and her hair straggling about her face. She only knew that at one moment she was staring into the eyes of a creature she had thought she knew—a creature with the blood of a man on its hands and fangs, which stared back at her with no sign of recognition in its face. She had been fighting for her life at one moment, and at the next had watched the man she loved tearing out the throat of her attacker.

Literally.

I'm in shock, she thought, dimly. I must get back to the house—

But he had run off, howling, in that same direction. What if he was lying in wait for her, his blood-lust unappeased by his first victim?

This is Jason you're thinking about!

But it had not been Jason who had looked at her with the uncomprehending eyes of a beast. It had been the werewolf, the loup-garou, and she did not know it at all.

Sunset walked along beside her in utter exhaustion, head down, sides heaving, streaming sweat. She dimly recalled hoofbeats approaching before something had flown over her head and sent her sprawling into the underbrush. Had Jason ridden him here? Had the Salamanders alerted him? But why hadn't they attacked du Mond themselves?

She thought of the blood on Jason's hands, dripping from his abbreviated muzzle, and shuddered. She had never seen anyone die before, not even her father. How could he have done that to anyone, even his worst enemy?

How could she stay here? What if he snapped again?

She had once asked him how much of him was wolf, and he had seemed startled and uneasy at the question. Now she knew why.

How close to the surface is the wolf? And what if I am the one to make him angry next time?

As she emerged from the forest in front of the house, two Salamanders flitted up to take charge of Sunset. She dropped the reins listlessly, and stumbled on to the house, with both hands holding the ruins of her blouse over her chest in a vain attempt at modesty. Her hands, her wrists, her arms ached, and she was limping because the heel of her right shoe had broken off in the fight.

She found herself in her room, again with no clear idea of how she had gotten there. With a frightened gasp, she whirled, and with trembling hands, locked her door.

Only then did she stumble into the bathroom, where she knelt beside the toilet and retched until her stomach and chest ached and there was nothing left for her to be rid of.

She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, feeling the sting of scratches there as she did so.

Shaking in every limb, she got slowly to her feet again, to find a bath waiting ready for her although she had not ordered one. She lifted her hands to look at them with dull curiosity; they were covered with deep scratches, and her hair, now loose and straggling, was full of twigs and knots.

She looked down. There was blood splattered on her skirt, on the remains of her blouse. There was too much of it to be hers.

In a frenzy of sudden horror, she ripped the rags of the clothing from her body without regard for fasteners, breaking a nail in the process. A Salamander appeared just as she struggled out of the last of it. She did not wait for it to ask what she wanted.

"Take it!" she wailed, shoving it away with her foot as far as she could. "Burn it! Burn it all!"

The Salamander levitated the pile of blood-stained clothing from the floor; still shuddering, she turned her back on it and its burden, and freed herself of her corsets and the rest of her underthings, just dropping them and leaving them where they fell. She plunged into the bath as into the waters of life, scrubbing frantically and hysterically to remove any taint, any hint of blood.

She blanked out again, and came to herself as she was dressing in entirely new clothing. Presumably the Salamanders had brought it all; she didn't remember. Something had combed out the tangles and twigs from her hair; perhaps she had, perhaps they had. Perhaps her own Sylph had.

She did not want to go out into the next room. She wanted to stay here, in the clean, white, safe bathroom.

Against her will, her feet walked into the bedroom, and from there into the sitting-room, and her body was forced to follow.

Her trunk and other baggage was waiting for her; she had not packed it before her walk, and could not have packed it afterwards....

There was a note. Numbly, she picked it up and read it.

I have sent for the train. Go into the city, tonight. Stay long enough to see Caruso, if after all this you still wish to. I have engaged a room at the Palace Hotel for you so that you need not see anyone who knows you and who might require an explanation, and there will be a porter and a taxi waiting at the station. You must rest tonight. After that, if you wish to leave, I will understand, leave word with my agent where you wish to go and first-class tickets will be waiting for you at the station. After you have gone, I will arrange for the rest of your things to follow. My agent will arrange for your bank-account to be cleared, and add a generous severance-fee.

It was not signed, but it didn't need to be. Not with the copperplate script burned into the paper as only a Salamander could.

In a state of benumbed emptiness, she gathered up her gloves and her cloak, pinned her hat to her still-damp hair, dropped her veil over her scratched face, and left, without a backward glance.

She told the concierge at the hotel that she had suffered an accident and a great shock and wished to be left alone. He stared at her scratched, bruised face behind the concealment of her veil, murmured polite words of sympathy, and had the porters usher her immediately to a first-class room with a private bath. Presumably, he did not want to take the of risk playing "host" to a young female having a case of strong hysterics in his hotel lobby, for he did not even require her to sign the register, but expedited her check-in himself. Immediately after, the concierge sent up a large bottle of brandy to her room.

She was tempted by it, but did not drink it, much as she would have welcomed the oblivion. Instead, she sent for a pot of hot water, and searched through her toiletries for her selection of Master Pao's herb teas. He had given her what he described as his "medicine chest": a tightly-packed box of herbal remedies, each packet with the purpose handwritten in his peculiar script on the front.

She found two, and hesitated between them. Sleep, said one, and Calm, the other.

But she was already calm; granted, it was the false calm of shock, but it was calm of a sort. Sleep was what she needed now, and that was the tea she chose.

She locked her door, checking it twice to make certain she had done so. Then she undressed, slowly, with a care for the hundred new bruises and aches she discovered with every passing minute. She put on the thickest and most enveloping of her night-dresses, drank down the bitter tea without bothering to sugar it, turned off the lights, and climbed into bed.

It was barely sunset, and her room had a westward-facing window. The setting sun made a red glow against the closed curtains, as if the entire city were aflame outside her window.

There were still those strange blanks in her memory; she also did not remember the train ride here. She must have convinced the men manning it that she was all right, or she suspected they would have delivered her to a hospital and not to the waiting taxi. Shock certainly did strange things....

Her window was open, allowing the sounds of the city to drift into the room. She knew two men in this entire city, and one of them had just torn out the other's throat in front of her.

If I were a normal, rational woman, I would send for the police, she thought, abstractly. But she knew that she would not. What was the point? Cameron would dispose of the body in some fashion, probably by burning it to ash. The chances that anyone would inquire after du Mond were minimal; she had the impression from Cameron that the man had no relatives—or at least none who cared about him. If Cameron was clever, he would file a report with the police himself, describing du Mond as having taking flight to parts unknown with a large sum of Cameron's money.

And why should she say anything to the administrators of justice? Du Mond had clearly been planning something horrible for her; Cameron had saved her. Du Mond had died quickly; possibly more quickly than he deserved. If Jason had shot the miscreant in front of her, would the result have been any different?

That was what anyone else probably would have done in the same circumstances, and du Mond would be just as dead, possibly just as bloodily dead. In newspaper stories, in novels, and on the stage, men were applauded for saving women in danger from their attackers. When the villain met his end at the point of gun, knife, or bare hands, there was no one crying out in reproach—rather, the saviors were toasted as heroes, and basked in glory afterwards. The police, if this were made known to them, would probably give Cameron a medal for heroism, not an accusation of murder.

A non sequitur occurred to her. She had always railed at the heroines of stage or literature who, when confronted by villains, conveniently fainted dead in their arms, making it perfectly easy for the cads to carry them off. She had sworn that if she had been in that situation, she would have fought tooth and nail, and her friends had always laughed at her, saying that she would never know how she would react, and that she would probably faint dead away. At least I proved them wrong, was her peculiarly flippant thought. And I have the bruises to prove it.

The scarlet light outside faded, deepened to dark rose, the bluish-rose, then deep, twilight blue. The light within the room faded with it, and with the loss of vision, her hearing became more acute. She heard the murmurs of conversation in the room next to hers; water running somewhere, and the clink of china and silver as a room-service cart was wheeled past her door.

There were no werewolves here; no men with the faces of beasts....

But there are men with the souls of beasts, and which is worse? Somewhere outside those windows, people who looked more human than Jason Cameron were doing terrible things to other people, things infinitely worse than simply killing them. Master Pao, although he was not a Christian, worked closely with some of the Christian missionaries who worked against the slave-traders and opium-suppliers. On her last visit, he had told her something of the evils they were combating; that there were hundreds of opium-dens in the Barbary Coast area alone, places where men took money so that other people could slowly destroy themselves. And he had told her that there were over a thousand "cribs," that he knew of, tiny, closet-sized rooms where Chinese girls as young as ten or eleven sold their bodies twenty times a night and more at the behest of their owners. Ten or eleven! She had been horrified—and more so when he told her gravely that this was not the worst thing that could befall a little Chinese child, brought to this country by the slavers. He had not told her what the worst thing was—and she had not really wanted to know.

Compared to that, Jason Cameron was a Saint George, a Sir Galahad. She had never seen the face of the beast until the moment when her life was imperiled; he had not lost control until that moment, which should tell her at least that he was fond enough of her to lose control at the sight of her being beaten and carried off.

But this fact remained—the beast had been ascendant, for that one moment. How could she trust that it would not happen again and again, until the beast was all there was left?

She was still mulling that over when Master Pao's tea went to work.

Cameron was dictating the most difficult letter of his life; Pao would surely repudiate him for it, but there was nothing he could do about that. Pao must know the whole truth now, for if Rose went to him for help, he must be fully aware of the situation she had faced. He had revealed the whole of his transformation and why it had happened, why he had brought Rose here, her growth in Magick, his growing love and need for her, and finally the murder at his hands—or teeth—of du Mond.

"She may turn to you; in any case, please, Pao, watch over her while she is within your sphere. If I had not been so certain that she could not remain here and also remain sane, I would not have let her go. She is probably in shock, and definitely vulnerable. Take care of her, if she will let you. I beg of you, for her sake, if not for mine." He fell silent for a moment, and the Salamander stilled. "Sign it, Respectfully, Jason Cameron." The Salamander burned the last of the letters into the page, and he took the missive and sealed it into an envelope, handing it back to the Elemental. "Now take it directly to him, and wait to see if he has a return message."

The Salamander nodded wordlessly, and it and the envelope vanished. Cameron hid his head in his paws and dug his claws into his scalp.

When he had returned to the house, he had locked himself into his chambers, then gone into a frenzy of telegraphing: ordering up the train, passing orders on to his agent. When all of his orders had been confirmed, he sent the Salamanders to Rose's rooms to put the rest of his hasty plan into motion.

She could not possibly want to remain here. That much was certain; what woman could have faced what he had done and have any shred of feeling left for the monster that had done it?

He must give her the means of escape from this place before she felt trapped, did something rash and tried to run away from him by herself. That was the only course of honor left to him. And after that?

Somewhere, at the back of his soul, there was still a tiny shred of hope. She might, possibly, consent to return—but only if he could guarantee that the beast would never break loose again, and only if he gave her this means of escape freely.

I will drug myself senseless if that is what it takes to bring her back....

The body. He must get rid of the body.

"I have burned the attacker to ash, Firemaster." His special Salamander appeared at his elbow. "The ash is scattered. The train is coming, the woman is going down to the platform to wait for it. She seems unwell."

"She is unwell," he told it. "Watch over her. Protect her, if you can."

The Salamander vanished.

Was she still wearing his watch? She seemed to put it on automatically; he called up the link in his mirror, and saw to his relief that she was. She was at the platform, and more Salamanders had already delivered her luggage; she was sitting on the steamer-trunk. She was wearing light gloves and long sleeves that would conceal her mistreated hands; she not only had sense to do that, she had the sense to wear a modish, but very concealing veil, as well. He had telegraphed the men that an emergency had come up; that they were to insert the train as soon as the track was open, and make all speed into the city. He knew them; they were good men. They would not tarry, but would get her and her things into the carriage and get out on the main track as soon as the signals cleared. They would not plague her with questions—they probably would not look at her too closely. From now until the time she reached the hotel, she was safe.

The Salamander he had sent to Pao returned at that moment—and it had a folded sheet of Pao's handmade paper with it. He snatched it up and unfolded it.

The Dragons are restless; I am attempting to calm them, but fear the wont. I will help as circumstances permit, but cannot now. Trust in your courage and her heart. Pao.

His first reaction was relief so great it made him lightheaded. Pao had not cut him off! That was better fortune than he'd had any reason to expect—

But hard upon the relief came irritation—why the devil did the man have to speak like a damned fortune-cookie! The Dragons are restless indeed! Just what was that supposed to mean? He had never discussed Eastern Magick with Pao; didn't the old goat remember that? All they had ever discussed—in the rare moments when they were in a less-than-public place—was Chinese Herbalism as it related to Western Magick and Western medicine.

Trust in your courage and her heart. Charming sentiment, but not too damned useful.

All right, then; he would keep a watch over her himself, and if anything happened, either send word to Pao or deal with it in the form of his Salamanders. He could not leave her alone in the city without someone to see that she was safe, not in her current mental condition.

He called her image in his mirror again; the train had arrived, and the last of her baggage was being loaded. The men seemed respectful and sympathetic, but not at all alarmed, as she murmured something about a riding accident and an urgent telegram from Chicago. No, she had no details yet, but she wished to be in San Francisco in case she was summoned home. Yes, she was quite upset, but would be all right.

A riding accident! That is not something I would have thought of. It would be a reasonable explanation for bruises, scratches, even broken bones! How was she thinking of these things?

The same way I did, I suppose; part of her is having fits of hysteria, but it is not the part that is in control of what everyone sees.

He had not intended to watch her in the mirror during the train trip, for after all, nothing was likely to happen to her there—but he could not help himself. There wasn't a great deal to see; she sat in her chair with her hands clasped in her lap, and did not even raise her head to look out the window. That alone told him of her state of shock, for he had never once seen her sitting idle. If she had nothing else to do, she always had a book in her hands.

He knew that his own men could be trusted to care for her properly, but he had not expected the same consideration from strangers. Yet the driver of the taxi that was waiting for her, the doorman of the hotel, and the hotel concierge all seemed to sense her precarious mental state and treated her with amazing delicacy. And once she was safely in her room, with the door locked, he felt himself able to attend to other matters.

More telegraphs went off to his agent; arrangements for the transfer of a substantial sum into her account, for someone to replace du Mond in Oakland, for notices of termination to be sent to the servants and his landlord. Cameron's lips twitched as his hand sent further signals to ensure that no one would inquire after the deceased; authorizing his agent to have an audit done of the accounts du Mond handled, and to report du Mond's disappearance together with a large sum of cash and other valuables kept in the safe of the townhouse. The police would go to the townhouse, of course; the safe would be opened, and there would be no cash there. That would be because a Salamander took it, not du Mond. The police would question the servants, who would give them the evidence that although du Mond had not been seen at the townhouse for many months, he had every opportunity to make a key to the front door. Cameron would post a reward asking for information concerning du Mond's activities. People would come to claim the reward, and although there would be nothing forthcoming about his whereabouts, his unsavory pastimes in the Barbary Coast would soon be uncovered. The police would eventually assume that du Mond had bought his way aboard one of the many tramp freighters that used San Francisco as a port-of-call, and advise Cameron's agent to that effect. A reward would be posted, which would never be claimed. And the trail would be neatly covered.

He sent off the Salamander to empty the safe, and leave a note warning the servants that du Mond might have absconded, possibly with valuables. They often received notes slipped in through the mail slot, which they assumed came by special messenger—and in a sense, they had.

He completed his arrangements, and looked in again on Rose. She seemed to have gone directly to bed, which was probably the best place for her.

He glanced longingly at the dust-covered bottle of narcotic pills on the corner of his desk. Oblivion would be very welcome tonight....

But he dared not take the chance—what if he were unconscious and she awoke with the sudden conviction that she must leave the city? What if she awoke, disoriented, and wandered out into the streets?

No; she deserved the respite of sleep, but while she slept, he would remain on guard.