“I’ll get into their rooms,” Matthew replied, his voice tight.
“Very good, then.” The professor rose smoothly to his feet. “Oh,” he said, with an upraised finger. “I’d like you to see clearly what I am now, Matthew. I am curious about all forms of life, of course, but one of my interests is in marine life, in all its varied shapes and forms. It is the specialized lifeform that most intrigues me. The creature, you might say, from another world. One may say…the nightmare, formed in flesh? If you desire a further insight, you might meet one of the servants at six o’clock in the morning at the foot of the main stairs. Don’t be late, please. With that, I will say goodnight.”
Matthew stood up. Not necessarily out of respect, but because this was after all the man’s domain. He nodded, still finding language difficult.
Professor Fell unlocked the door, opened it a crack and peered into the corridor. He waited for a moment, because perhaps someone was nearby. Before the professor slipped out, he said without looking at Matthew, “Don’t fail me,” and then he was gone.
Matthew relocked the door. He hadn’t realized that his hands had begun to tremble. He splashed some water into his face from the basin. For a few minutes he stood outside on the balcony staring at the stars in the black sky and hearing the waves rumble.
He was himself a creature from another world, he thought. He did not belong in this one. His heart yearned for New York, his regular life and his friends. But before he, Berry and Zed could get back to that solid earth…
…he would have to present evidence of treachery to Professor Fell, the master of treason.
It was nearly too much for his mind to comprehend and his soul to bear. He drew in deep lungfuls of the salt air, but it didn’t help. Then, tired to the point of desperation, he turned away from the sea that had almost claimed his life and went to bed to seek the ethereal solace of sleep.
Twenty-Six
A TAPPING at the door brought Matthew up from the pit of a fitful sleep. He hesitated, listening. And yes, there it was again. Someone definitely at the door. And what time was it? A squint at the candle clock: nearly two in the morning. Now what the hell was this? Matthew wondered. He sat up on the bed’s edge. “Who is it?” he asked, but of an answer there was none. A third time: tap tap tap. Someone definitely wanting him to open that door. Matthew started to call again, but he knew it would be no use. If they had wanted to reply, a reply would have been given. Still…perhaps it was someone who didn’t wish their voice to carry in the hallway. Or…more ominously…it could be one or more Thackers, wishing to finish the job they’d started yesterday. That thought made him mad. He’d had a damned gutful of those orange-haired nubbers. If they wanted some of him, they’d get it…in the form of a candle clock smashed across their skulls. He got out of bed, plucked up the candle clock and, oblivious to the wax dripping onto his right hand, went to the door, unlatched it and opened it a fraction. A caped and hooded figure was standing there, touched by the golden glow of its own candlelight. “Who are—” Matthew began, but he could not finish the question because in the next second the figure blew its candle out, pushed the door open, blew Matthew’s candle out before light could reveal the face, and pressed her lips against his own. And very definitely, from the shape of the body beneath the cape, it was a her. He pulled back and started to speak again, to ask the same unasked question, and now in the velvet dark the figure fairly flew upon him and, dropping her own candlestick to the floor, clasped his arms to his sides and kissed him again. Whoever she was, she was strong. Lithe and nimble, he thought. Her body strained against his, a powerhouse of earthy passion.
It had to be Fancy.
He started to speak her name, and yet her mouth upon his was unrelenting in its quest to consume every word he might try to utter. She backed him across the room to the bed, proving that an Indian could see, catlike, in the dark. He fell back before her, upon that selfsame bed, and she proved also that an Indian maiden could be far from maidenly.
She began a campaign to disrobe him, if it meant tearing the nightclothes from his body. And they were not even his nightclothes, but provided to him from Sirki, and Matthew thought that if the East Indian giant wanted them back after this misadventure he would have to settle for the rags the West Indian girl had rent them into with fingers and teeth. Her haste was ridiculous, but also flattering.
“Wait!” he said, stunned by the speed of this disclosure of desire. He couldn’t get out the second wait, for she clamped a hand over his mouth and bit his belly just south of the navel. With his nightclothes torn into tatters and himself nearly naked, Matthew found the girl hellbent on pinning him to the bed and having her way with him.
She kissed his mouth, grasped his tongue with her lips, and nibbled his throat. What could he do, but lie back before this onslaught? He returned her kisses and would be remiss—actually insane—if his body did not respond. And so it did.
She wore no clothing under the cape. She had no time for formalities nor foreplay; she got astride Matthew and mounted him with the dampened ease of wanton and needful urgency. He did not protest this action, but when he tried to reach up to touch her face and hair beneath the hood she gripped his arms all the harder and held them fast to the bed.
If any member of her tribe had attempted to mark time to the thrusting of her hips with a drum, his hands would’ve been beaten bloody within the first minute. “My God!” Matthew said, or thought he said; he wasn’t sure, since his senses were beginning to fly in mad circles round the room. He thought he wouldn’t be able to walk tomorrow, but what a hell of a run he intended to have tonight.
She leaned forward then and harshly bit his lips. Very harshly, in fact, and most painfully, and Matthew realized from the roughness of her toothy attention this was not Fancy at all.
It was Aria Chillany.
Of course it was. She of the cold soul and brutal demands. She was demanding of him right now and he intended to deliver. Her intention was strictly to enjoy his flesh, and all else be damned. He could bear that hardship. In fact, her soul might be cold but something else was quite hot. Quite.
He decided to give as good as he got, and so he met her halfway on each stroke and their banging together might have broken bones if it had been any more violent a wallop. His teeth cracked together in his head and he feared his eyeballs would jump from his skull. The woman was wild. She ground down on him and moved her hips around and around and Matthew who had not experienced anything like this since the episode with the sex-crazed nymph Charity LeClaire could only hang on for the pounding and try to keep the impending explosion from knocking Madam Chillany through the ceiling.
But no, no…he had to withstand this assault as long as he could. Therefore he sent his mind out on an errand of imaging himself a man swimming under the cold sea, whereas in this room the pulsing heat and violence of their frenzied encounter promised the seaman must in a short time certainly rise from the depths.
He tried to reach up for her again and was again promptly arm-pinned. Then her rhythm changed to a softer beat and she leaned forward and kissed him gently on the mouth, the touch of her lips stirring a not-so-distant and very pleasing memory.