“Yes,” he said. “I—heard you. I was not disturbed. Only one thing can
open this door.”
From his pocket he drew a key, shining with a dull silver sheen.
“Only this,” he finished, replacing it. “Your knife is useless, Mart
Prescott.”
“Maybe,” I said, edging forward very slightly. “What have you done to
Jean?”
A curious expression, almost of pain, flashed into his eyes. “She is
mine,” he shot out half angrily. “You can do nothing, for——”
I sprang then, or, at least, I tried to. The blade of the knife sheared
down, straight for Futaine’s white shirtfront. It was arrested in
midair. Yet he had not moved. His eyes had bored into mine, suddenly,
terribly, and it seemed as though a wave of fearful energy had blasted
out at me—paralyzing me, rendering me helpless. I stood rigid. Veins
throbbed in my temples as I tried to move—to bring down the knife. It
was useless. I stood as immovable as a statue.
The Chevalier brushed past me.
“Follow,” he said almost casually, and like an automaton I swung about,
began to move along the passage. What hellish hypnotic power was this
that held me helpless?
Futaine led the way upstairs. It was not yet dark, although the sun had
gone down. I followed him into a room, and at his gesture dropped into a
chair. At my side was a small table. The Chevalier touched my arm
gently, and something like a mild electric shock went through me. The
knife dropped from my fingers, clattering to the table.
Jean was standing rigidly near by, her eyes dull and expressionless.
Futaine moved to her side, put an arm about her waist. My mouth felt as
though it were filled with mud, but somehow I managed to croak out
articulate words.
“Damn you, Futaine! Leave her alone!”
He released her, and came toward me, his face dark with anger.
“You fool, I could kill you now, very easily. I could make you go down
to the busiest corner of Hollywood and slit your throat with that knife.
I have the power. You have found out much, apparently. Then you know—my
power.”
“Yes,” I muttered thickly. “I know that. You devil—Jean is mine!”
The face of a beast looked into mine. He snarled, “She is not yours. Nor
is she—_Jean_. She is Sonya!”
I remembered what Futaine had murmured when he had first seen Jean. He
read the question in my eyes.
“I knew a girl like that once, very long ago. That was Sonya. They
killed her—put a stake through her heart, long ago in Thurn. Now that
I’ve found this girl, who might be a reincarnation of Sonya—they are so
alike—I shall not give her up. Nor can anyone force me.”
“You’ve made her a devil like yourself,” I said through half-paralyzed
lips. “I’d rather kill her——”
Futaine turned to watch Jean. “Not yet,” he said softly. “She is
mine—yes. She bears the stigmata. But she is still—alive. She will not
become—_wampyr_—until she has died, or until she has tasted the red
milk. She shall do that tonight.”
I cursed him bitterly, foully. He touched my lips, and I could utter no
sound. Then they left me—Jean and her master. I heard a door close
quietly.
* * * * *
The night dragged on. Futile struggles had convinced me that it was
useless to attempt escape—I could not even force a whisper through my
lips. More than once I felt myself on the verge of madness—thinking of
Jean, and remembering Futaine’s ominous words. Eventually agony brought
its own surcease, and I fell into a kind of coma, lasting for how long I
could not guess. Many hours had passed, I knew, before I heard footsteps
coming toward my prison.
Jean moved into my range of vision. I searched her face with my eyes,
seeking for some mark of a dreadful metamorphosis. I could find none.
Her beauty was unmarred, save for the terrible little wounds on her
throat. She went to a couch and quietly lay down. Her eyes closed.
The Chevalier came past me and went to Jean’s side. He stood looking
down at her. I have mentioned before the incongruous youthfulness of his
face. That was gone now. He looked old—old beyond imagination.
At last he shrugged and turned to me. His fingers brushed my lips again,
and I found that I could speak. Life flooded back into my veins,
bringing lancing twinges of pain. I moved an arm experimentally. The
paralysis was leaving me.
The Chevalier said, “She is still—clean. I could not do it.”
Amazement flooded me. My eyes widened in disbelief.
Futaine smiled wryly. “It is quite true. I could have made her as
myself—undead. But at the last moment I forbade her.” He looked toward
the windows. “It will be dawn soon.”
I glanced at the knife on the table beside me. The Chevalier put out a
hand and drew it away.
“Wait,” he said. “There is something I must tell you, Mart Prescott. You
say that you know who and what I am.”