The curtain fell again. As suddenly as I had found Gratia, I lost her. On the evening of the ninth day, Claude reclaimed his bride. Gratia and I had been playing backgammon in the library window seat; I remember the way the dying amber rays of the sun glinted in her eyes when she laughed almost tenderly at my run of ill-luck. And, I remember how the laughter died, so abruptly, so completely. I looked up from the game and saw the blood drain from the warm mounds of her cheeks; the dark wells of her eyes grew suddenly shallow and secretive; her pallid lips moved, but no words came. A faint sibilant rustle made me start and turn my head. And, then, I saw it—standing in the gloom that shrouded the library threshold—the smiling, animated corpse that was Claude Ashur.
In that wasted visage, only the curled gash of the mouth and the pitted blazing eyes gave testimony to the corrupt flame of life that still burned within that fleshless body. The dry, achromatic skin of the massive forehead seemed swollen, and the hairline had receded markedly. The unwholesome brown splotches had disappeared, leaving the facial flesh seamed and sallow. A heavy, dark-colored scarf was muffled about his throat, and (oddest of all, I thought), pale, kidskin gloves covered his hands. From that day forward, I never saw Claude without them.
“Well!” The twisted lips scarcely moved, but his soft, insinuating voice held all the old malicious humor. “This is a most touching little domestic scene…” Shifting in their sockets, the seering pin-points of fire ate into the wan softness of Gratia’s face. “I’m sure Richard has been a charming substitute, my dear, but really… Shouldn’t you be just a bit more enthusiastic about your husband’s recovery?”
With the hypnotic grace of a delicately wrought puppet, Gratia rose from the window-seat; her pale hand brushed against the game-board, and several scarlet backgammon pieces spilled to the carpet. She didn’t notice them. Slowly, she crossed the dusk-dimmed room to where Claude stood. Her firm, bare arms went around his neck and, passionately, she kissed the ugly wound that was his mouth. For a long time, they stood embracing in the shadows, and all the while, over Gratia’s shoulder, my brother’s evil face smiled at me. That night, I heard the drums again.
I thought I’d had a nightmare. A moment before, the demoniac thrumming had been pounding against my eardrums, throbbing in the depths of the nighted Priory. But, when I started up from my sweaty pillow, peering into the dark that swarmed in upon me, abruptly, the sound was gone. I sat forward, taut and waiting. The silence was profound, limitless; the silence of the tomb. It was as though some titanic heart-beat had been suddenly stilled. I tried to relax. I passed a clammy hand over my forehead, and attempted a laugh. There was nothing but a dry rasping in my throat. Determinedly, I lay back; I told myself I was letting my nerves get the better of me.
It didn’t work; the longer I lay there, forcing my icy hands to stillness, listening tensely to every silken, uncertain whisper of the night, the more conscious I became of the caul of impending danger that had spread its slimy veil over Inneswich Priory. The silence was unnatural; it was the seething quietness of the demented killer before he strikes. Cursing my nerves, I threw back the counterpane and struggled into robe and slippers. Clammy air swirled about my bare ankles as I opened the bedroom door and ventured warily into the Stygian gloom of the corridor. Instinctively, I turned in the direction of the East Wing. Through the single massive casement of the upper hall, moonlight fell, making a pale, shadow-latticed desert of the floor. It was as I passed through that livid pool of moonglow that I saw her.
“Gratia!”
She seemed not to hear; as she came toward me from the shadows, her white gown murmured. It was like the warning hiss of a poisonous snake. I stared at the hueless angularity of her wasted face. The deep-set eyes burned into mine and the narrow slit that was her mouth twisted in a sardonic smile. Her tongue, pink and strangely pointed, flicked out to moisten dry lips. The mouth worked.
“Kill!” it whispered in the accented, venomous voice that didn’t belong to Gratia Thane. “I must kill… It’s the only way… The sure way… He could cause trouble… It’s best this way… Yes… He must be destroyed. Killed… Kill! Kill! Kill!”
I caught her waist as a knife slashed downward toward my chest; razor-edged steel grazed my left cheek; I felt blood trickle along my jaw. It wasn’t easy to hold her; she struggled with a vicious strength that was out of keeping with the fragility of her body… with the power of a desperate madman. The colorless lips curled back from her teeth.
“You!” she hissed. “I must kill you! Kill! Destroy! Silence forever!”
“Gratia!” I shook her violently. “Stop it! You hear me? Cut it out!”
There was the flat, brutal slap of my hand across her hysteria-twisted face, and suddenly, she was still. Insane anger melted into bewilderment; her eyes widened and gained warmth and depth; the shadows faded. Gratia’s lips, pink and moist, trembled. For an instant, she could only stare; her terrified gaze moved from the flesh-wound of my face to the glinting blade of the knife she still held. She gasped. I saw her fingers open convulsively; the knife thudded to the floor. Again, our eyes met, and then she was in my arms.
“Richard… Rick, I didn’t mean to… I didn’t know what I was doing… He made me… It was the drums… and his voice… Here… here in my head…”
The fresh perfume of her hair was in my nostrils; her cheek brushed mine. Gently, she was wiping the blood from my face with the sleeve of her gown.
“It’s all right,” I murmured. “It’s all right, now…”
I held her close again; her body was trembling. She cried. It was the soft, bewildering cry of a little girl.
“I’m scared. Rick, I’m so scared! He’s doing something to me… He’s…” She shook her head frantically and clung to me. “Don’t let him… Please… You won’t let him! Promise you won’t let him…”
“No.” My voice sounded flat and hard in my own ears. “He won’t hurt you… He won’t hurt you ever again…”
“The triumph of true love!”
Bitter, weighted with sarcasm, the softly spoken words seemed to tear Gratia from my arms. Standing on the edge of the shadows, his eyes slitted in their blue-black wells, the desiccated flesh of his face more livid than ever in the moonlight, Claude Ashur laughed.
“You can’t have her. You know that, don’t you, Richard? I’ve tried to be patient with you; but, I’m afraid you’ve interfered once too often. You see, Gratia is more than a woman and wife to me. She’s my very life; my one hope of survival. I’ll never let you take that hope from me…”
He had begun to move slowly toward me through the moonlight; each stride had a fluid, evil grace that was almost feline. The brilliant gaze flashed to where Gratia stood, then back to me. Again, briefly, that loathsome smiled toyed with the corners of his mouth.