Part 24 (1/2)

”G.o.d, what an orgie!” he whispered. ”Look at the thing. It's insane. A n.i.g.g.e.r hammering a scarlet phallus against a cymbal moon.”

His words vanished in the din and Lockwood remained with eyes drawn in and hard. When he turned to his friend he found him excitedly pounding his fist on the table and bawling for a waiter. A man, seemingly asleep amid confusions, appeared and took his order.

”There's a woman in here I've got to find,” Dorn shouted.

”You're crazy, man.”

”I saw her,” he persisted, talking close to his friend's ear. ”I saw her face in the door. You wait here.”

Lockwood seized his arm and tried to hold him, but he jerked away and was lost in a pattern of dancing bodies. Lockwood watching him disappear, frowned. He felt a sudden uncertainty toward his friend, a fear as if he had launched himself into a dark night with a murderer for a companion.

”He's crazy,” he thought. ”I ought to get him out of here before anything happens.”

He sat fumbling nervously with the stem of a wine-gla.s.s. Outside, the rain chattered in the darkness and the alto of the wind came in long organ notes into the din of the cafe. He caught sight of Dorn pulling an unholy-looking woman through the pack of the room.

”Here she is--our lady of pain!”

Dorn thrust the creature viciously into a seat beside Lockwood. She dropped with a scream of laughter. The music of the n.i.g.g.e.r orchestra had stopped and an emptiness flooded the place. Dorn bellowed for another gla.s.s. Lockwood looked slowly at the creature beside him. She was watching Dorn. In the swarthy depths of her eyes moved threads of scarlet. Beneath their lashes her skin was darkened as if by bruises. An odd sultry light glowed over the discolorations. Her mouth had shut and her cheeks were without curves, following the triangular corpse-like lines of her skull. Her lips, like bits of vermilion paper, stared as from an idol's face. She was regarding Dorn with a smile.

He had grown erratic in his gestures. His eyes seemed incapable of focusing themselves. They darted about the room, running away from him.

The woman's smile persisted and he turned his glance abruptly at her.

The red flesh of her opened mouth and throat confronted him as another of her screaming laughs burst. The laugh ended and her gleaming eyes swimming in a gelatinous mist held him.

”A reptilian sorcery,” he whispered to Lockwood, and smiled. ”The face of a malignant Pierrette. A diabolic clown. Look at it. I saw it in the lightning outside. She wears a mask. Do you get her?” He paused mockingly. Lockwood s.h.i.+fted away from the woman. Erik was drunk. Or crazy. But the woman, thank G.o.d, had eyes only for him. She remained, as he talked, with her sulphurous eyes unwaveringly upon his face.

”She's not a woman,” he went on in a purring voice. ”She's a l.u.s.t. No brain. No heart. A stark unhuman piece of flesh with a shark's hunger inside it.”

He leaned forward and took one of her hands as Lockwood whispered,

”Christ, man, let's get out of here.”

The woman's fingers, dry and quivering, scratched against Dorn's palm.

He felt them as a hot breath in his blood.

”What's the matter, Warren?” he laughed, emptying a wine-gla.s.s. ”I like this gal. She suits me. A devourer of men. Look at her!”

He laughed and glared at his friend. Lockwood closed his eyes nervously.

”I've got a headache in this d.a.m.ned place,” he muttered.

”Wait a minute.” Dorn seized his arm. ”I want to talk. I feel gabby. My lady friend doesn't understand words.” The sulphurous eyes glowed caresses over him. ”You remember the thing in Rabelais about women--insatiable, devouring, hungering in their satieties. The prowling animal. Well, here it is. Alive. Not in print. She's alive with something deeper than life. Wheels of flesh grinding her blood into a hunger for ecstasies. She's a mate for me. Come on, little one.”

He sprang from the table, pulling the woman after him.

”Wait here, Warren,” he called, moving toward the door. It opened, letting in a shout and sweep of rain, and they were gone.

”A crazy man,” muttered the novelist, and remained fumbling with the stem of his gla.s.s.