THE MARK OF MARCHOSIAS
The Sequel to 'Bewitched'
Tom Kovack drove pensively back to the hotel where Michele Brent awaited his return from the doctor's to have the stitches removed from the wound in his right hand. He was deeply worried. The burn mark on his palm held the distinctive mark of Marchosias, imprinted when he grasped the pendant around Parrish's neck before he killed him a week previously. The mark had gone unnoticed whilst the knife slash was treated and stitched, but now, in the cold light of day, its presence was about to have a profound effect on the character and personality of Tom Kovack. The doctor had looked closely at it, but confirmed that nothing short of plastic surgery could remove it. Tom Kovack was maimed for life with the Mark of Marchosias.
---oo0oo---
He stopped at a chemist's and bought an elastic support bandage to cover his palm, as he did not wish Michele to see it. A short while later, he returned to the hotel and went straight to his room. He sat on the bed, his expression blank, then rolled the bandage down and stared at his injured hand. Michele, in her neighbouring room, heard him arriving and knocked on the adjoining door. Hurriedly pulling the bandage back into position, he opened the door and looked at Michele as if he didn't know her. Puzzled, she pushed past him into the room, saying "You look worried Tommy - is your hand okay?"
He kept his back to her as he closed the door, then, turning slowly, he said "Hand? Oh, yes, it's fine, Michele. I've just gotta keep this bandage on awhile."
"Why? Let me see it!" and she made to touch his hand.
"No! Don't touch it! Stay away from me!" and he spun around and away from her, standing with his back to her from the other side of the room.
Concerned, Michele crossed over to him. "Tommy! What is the matter? Does your hand still hurt?"
Almost reluctantly, he turned to face her, a strained, haunted expression on his face. Taking a deep breath to control his feelings, he replied "No, no. My hand's fine, I tell you!" but his voice held a sharp edge that Michele had never heard before. She looked hard into his eyes and saw that the normal gentle, deep brown colouring had changed to jet black.
*There is something wrong, Tom Kovack, * she thought to herself, *but you don't want to tell me.*
Aloud she said, holding her hands in front of her in a pacifying gesture: "Okay, okay, Tommy, I didn't mean to annoy you - I'm - sorry." His mood suddenly changing, he replied "Aw, gee, honey, I didn't mean to be edgy - it's just that - I don't want you to touch my hand. I guess it is still a bit tender!" Closing the space between them, he encircled her slim waist with his left arm. Pressing his hips hard against her, she felt him stir as he kissed her. Disengaging the contact, she noticed his right hand was in his jacket pocket, where it remained. She looked up into his now gentle eyes, saying: "I understand, Tommy." But a seed of doubt had been sown in her mind - why didn't he want her to see the wound? No reason she could think of could explain his uncharacteristically violent reaction. *Leave it for now.* she thought. *Maybe he's self-conscious about the scar. Moving away from him and changing the subject, she asked: "Now that you've been cleared by the doctor, what's next on the menu?"
"Huh?"
"I mean - what are your plans?"
"Oh! Well, I'm soon gonna have to get back to the States, honey - I've got a race meeting in a couple of weeks' time in Detroit and I'll have to give the car a few test drives before then."
"Oh." Michele's face fell. "So it's going to be 'goodbye' then?"
His voice lower than before, he replied: "Do you want it to be 'goodbye?' and he bent his head as if to invite another kiss.
She realised that, if she let her emotions rule her head, she might take an inexorable step in her life. Not ready for that decision yet, she skipped lightly away from him, not replying. Instead, she said "Tom Kovack, you really are 'the limit'."
"Limit? What limit?" His puzzled expression made her smile. "Oh, it's just an Olde Englishe expression:"
"Oh, I see." he replied, knowingly. There was no accounting for these English expressions of speech, he thought wryly. Then, spotting the chance at playing English with her, he said "Well, I must 'limit' my time in this beautiful country to one more week, Michele. I ..." His eyes became glazed and he stood very still.
"You're 'seeing something, aren't you, Tommy? What is it?" her voice and face showed concern.
Suddenly, he shuddered uncontrollably and sank to his knees, holding his right shoulder, a look of pain and anguish on his dark features.
"Tommy? Tommy, tell me." she said as she knelt beside him. He was gasping, his breath rasping in his throat. Still in the grip of the vision, he spoke in a deep, guttural, ragged voice that was not his own. "Venez! Venez ici ... ici!" Then he went limp into Michele's waiting arms.
Thoroughly frightened, Michele tried to bring him round by slapping his face, then, laying him gently down, she went to the basin and filled a glass of water. Somewhat reluctantly, she threw it in his face. He gasped, struggling to regain consciousness, and at last his brown eyes focused.
"Michele!' his voice was still husky. "What - happened?"
"You had another vision, Tommy, but you couldn't tell me what you saw. Can you remember now?"
He furrowed his forehead in concentration, then puzzlement. "Can't remember! I can't remember! Did I say anything?"
"Yes. You spoke in French."
"French! But I can't speak French! What'd I say?"
"You said 'Come here' in a voice that wasn't your own, Tommy. Go where - can't you remember? You've got to try to remember!" She thought she saw a flicker of recall in his dark eyes, then it was gone.
"No. No, I can't remember." but he averted his eyes from hers as he said it.
Shakily, he struggled to get to his feet and then sat heavily on the bed, head down, arms on legs.
"Feeling better?" Michele asked, sitting beside him but not touching him.
"What?" he looked. at her, the blank expression again on his face. "Oh, sure - just give me a moment, Michele." He took a few deep breaths, colour and intelligence returning to his face. "What were we talking about before ...?"
"You were saying you'd have to be going back to the States after next week."
"Oh, yes." He stood up, giving himself a mental shake to dispel the strange feeling within him. "But I can't go now, I must go ...." He stopped, surprised at what he had just said.
"Where, Tommy? Where must you go?"
He shook his head in bewilderment, still unable to shake off the strange feeling from the vision. "Don't know - along the Riviera, I guess. Coming with me?"
"I think, perhaps, I ought to, Tommy."
"Swell." He was suddenly business-like. "Let's get packed and. started."
---oo0oo---
Driving along the South of France in the little red racer he had hired, they passed through Nîmes and stopped at Arles for lunch. Whilst enjoying an excellent French meal, Michele found herself talking almost incessantly as Tom grew more and more morose and introverted, and she noticed him rubbing his right palm with his left thumb with increasing frequency. The next time he rubbed it, she said: "Tommy, there's something wrong with that hand of yours - has it got an infection?"
"No!" His dark eyes flashed in sudden anger. "I told you, there's nothing wrong with my hand, so stop nagging me, will ya?" and, pushing away his unfinished meal, he turned away from her, crossing his long legs and shielding his hands from her sight.
"Don't be angry with me, Tommy." she pleaded, leaning over to touch his arm, which he pulled away from her. "I'm - worried - about you - you're not yourself just now."
Without another word, he got up from the table, throwing the cost of the meal onto it, and walked quickly to the car. Michele ran after him, watched by curious diners, and she only just managed to get into the car before he gunned it away. They drove, too quickly by Michele's reckoning, along the highway through Marseilles, Tom's eyes continually on the road, his expression set and dark. She sensed a feeling of cold remoteness emanating from him, as though he had erected an impenetrable steel barrier between them.
---oo0oo---
On the road to Toulon, with no word having been spoken for over an hour, Michele became increasingly aware of the fact that a natural function was going to have to be performed - soon - as he hadn't given her time to go at lunchtime before he stormed off to the car.
*Doesn't he need to go, too?* she wondered. She sneaked a surreptitious glance at him from behind her sunglasses.
*Apparently not.* she concluded, but that did not solve her urgent and pressing problem. *If I ask him to stop, maybe he'll drive off without me, leaving me stranded.* She crossed her legs hard and waited awhile longer until her discomfort became unendurable.
*Nothing for it, I'll have to ask him.* Aloud, she said "Tommy?"
He grunted.
"Tommy, will you please stop at the next café - I've got to go."
"Go? Go where?" His eyes never left the road, his voice unusually husky.
"I've got to spend a penny!" she stated, plaintively.
"Oh! I see!" he laughed softly, mirthlessly. Shifting in the driver's seat, he suddenly realised he had developed the same problem, and said: "Ah! Yeah, guess it would be a good idea, at that!" and, to Michele's intense relief, he drew into a service station where he bought petrol and they took turns to freshen up.
---oo0oo---
Unknown to Michele, the slight irritation Tom had felt in the palm of his right hand at lunch in Arles was gradually increasing and totally pre-occupying him as they drove east along the coast and, when they stopped, after he had bought the petrol he went to the gent's and took off the elastic bandage to wash his hands. When he looked at it, he saw that the Mark of Marchosias was inflamed and throbbing. He ran his hand under the cold tap, but to no avail. He was drying his hands on the towel supplied when he quite clearly heard a voice which seemed to be everywhere around him. "Venez! Venez à moi! À moi! À moi!" He spun round, but he was quite alone. Alarmed, he ran out into the sunshine, but he was shivering with fright.
Michele, sitting waiting in the car, noticed him emerging at a run, looking all around him frantically, and nearly getting run over by a car swinging into the petrol station. Easing himself into the driver's seat, he placed his hands on the wheel and leaned forward till his head was resting on his hands.
"Tommy!" she said when he didn't speak. "Did it happen again?"
"Yes!" his husky voice was tinged with desperation. "It said 'Venez à moi!' and it seemed to echo, like in a cathedral or cave! I feel as if - I'm being drawn, like a magnet, but I don't know where or why! Oh!" he had suddenly realised that he had left the elastic bandage in the gent's and went quickly back for it before Michele could catch a glimpse of the horror on his palm. Returning, he jumped into the car and drove off. It became clear to Michele that he was going to remain silent, so she prompted him.
"What did you mean by being 'drawn like a magnet', Tommy?"
The incessant throbbing in his hand was making him short-tempered and he snapped at her: "I don't know! I don't know! Just - leave me alone, will ya?"
---oo0oo---
They drove in silence to Cannes, and onwards to Nice, the throbbing increasing to a pounding intensity. Evening was approaching but, when Michelle suggested stopping, Tom said, an unfathomable expression on his face: "No! Must go on ... can't stop now ...so near ..." and he turned the car onto the twisting, snake-like road which climbed the corniche around the Gorges du Loup which led to the perfume-factory town of Grasse. Darkness fell suddenly whilst they were on this road. Turning a bend, Tom suddenly gave a cry and released his right hand from the steering wheel as if he had been burned. The car swerved and he had to fight to control it. Michele screamed as she saw the precipice on the left coming dangerously close to the wheels of the car. Tom steadied it just in time and they continued.
"Tommy, please let me see that hand!" but he said nothing and drove on till they approached the village of Pont du Loup. A look of relief crossed Tom's face as he said. "Here - we stop here!" and pulled into the forecourt of the small hotel. Getting out of the car, he pulled out his overnight bag from the back, handing Michele hers at the same time.
Fortunately, the concierge had two single rooms "Just perfect for M'sieu and his lady." and the ruddy-faced Frenchman led them up, opening both doors and windows to let the balmy evening air flow through the rooms.
After freshening up and changing, Michele went down to the restaurant. Tom, already seated at a table on the balcony overlooking the deep gorge, was contemplating the menu. In the soft light she noticed how deeply lined his face had become, and a pang of concern shot through her. *He really doesn't look well.* she thought, but made no comment to him. The gorge was very dark as the moon had not yet arisen over the steep, overhanging cliffs, which seemed to add. to the air of foreboding which Michele instinctively felt descend on her. *That's silly.* she thought. *Snap out of it - you're just tired from the long drive, too. Don't let him depress you, girl.* and she settled down to enjoy the speciality of the house - grilled trout cooked in butter. Tom remained silent throughout the meal, his eyes downcast, avoiding her glance. "What's bothering him so much?* she wondered. *I wish I could help him, but he won't let me near him.* Trying to make conversation, she said "Tommy, I've been in this area before. There's a famous confectionery factory just up the road - they let the tourists look around - shall we go there tomorrow morning? And there's an antique shop I'd like to look through too - may find a good First Edition, with a great deal of luck!"
Tom dragged himself from deep reverie to reply "Uh - sure, honey, anything you want - just fine." but his voice was unenthusiastic.
Whilst he was eating Michele thought she saw his right hand had swollen, but had no idea that the burning sensation had now permeated his whole body. Placing his fork on the plate of his unfinished meal, he said "I'm real tired, Michele - guess I'll - bed down for the night."
"Yes, of course, Tom. The rest will do you good and you'll feel better in the morning. I think I'll join you -" then, when she saw his darting look, rephrased it - "I mean, I'll retire for the night, too!" He gave a faint, wan smile and they walked together to their separate rooms. He did not try to detain her outside her door. In fact, he walked past her and, opening his own, simply said "Goodnight." and closed his door behind him. It was Michele's turn to shrug in disappointment, but, as soon as she went into her room, she locked both the door to the passageway and the adjoining door, although for the life of her she could not say why.
---oo0oo---
Late into the night, Michele was awakened by strange sounds which seemed to be coming from Tom's room. She lay in bed and listened for some time, and became increasingly concerned as she realised that Tom was ceaselessly pacing his room with quick, regular monotony. Occasionally, a sound like a grunt came from him, and, she didn't like that sound at all. Eventually, she heard the creak of the bed as he lay down, and a few minutes later heard the sound of steady breathing, indicating that he had at last fallen asleep. She lay awhile longer, turning over in her mind whether or not she should do what she had in mind. Weighing up the pros and, cons, she thought *Well, he's sleeping peacefully now. If I'm very quiet, he'll not hear me.* and she slipped out of bed and softly turned the key to unlock the adjoining door.
As she entered the room she was immediately conscious of a coldness in the air. Bathed in moonlight, he lay curled up on his left side, facing the window, the linen sheet covering him up to his waist. His right hand was lying under him, palm upwards and unbandaged. Strangely, noted Michele, the hand was making pawing movements, like a sleeping cat or dog makes whilst dreaming. Hardly daring to breathe, she moved on tiptoe to his bedside and looked down on his sleeping form. *He really is a handsome man.* she thought, wanting to reach out and touch his face, relaxed now in repose. Suddenly, moving in his sleep, he made a whimpering sound and turned towards her. As he moved she saw quite clearly in the moonlight the scar imprinted on his hand. Glowing with a faint, independent luminescence, what she saw made her gasp and jump back in shock - the Mark of Marchosias was burning deep in his palm!
Unfortunately, her rapid movement away from his bedside made her collide with a table lamp, which crashed to the ground. He was awake in an instant, and with an agile, panther-like elegance he was out of bed and grasping her by the wrists, his face a contorted mask of rage in the silver light of the moon, his touch icy cold on her skin. She struggled to be free, but he was too strong. With a shock she realised that he was quite naked and - ready. "No! No, Tom! Not like this!" she struggled in vain in his tight grip. His breath, coming in short, grunting gasps, frightened her. "Come into my room in the dead of night, would you? Well, lovely lady, I will give you what you so obviously want!" the voice was ragged, guttural and obviously not his own. He spun her round, trying to get her into position. *My God!* she thought, *All I'm wearing is my nightie - it's going to be very easy for him to ... * and she struggled all the harder, clawing, scratching at his chest, trying to reach up for his eyes. He shifted his grip, forcing her hands behind her back, consigning both her narrow wrists into one big hand, his hardness pressing, hot and urgent, against her. With his free hand, he reached down in an attempt to lift her nightie as he pushed her back onto the bed. As she fell back, she managed to bring her knee up hard, finding its mark, and. he immediately let go, his hands clutching himself as he sank to his knees, almost howling in his agony. While he was incapacitated she made her escape to her own room, locking the door and placing a table and two chairs in front of it. She checked that her front door was locked, too, then sat down on her bed, shaking with reaction. Through the closed door, she heard his breathing slowly return to normal, then she thought she heard a chuckle - a chuckle which heightened to a loud, evil-sounding laughter that sent a chill right down her spine. He started trying to force the door and, when he was unsuccessful, it sounded to Michele as if he was throwing his whole weight against it in a desperate effort to reach her.
She cowered in her bed, more frightened than she had ever been in her life. *That's not Tommy!* she thought. *Tommy would never do that to me - he's so gentle! That - thing - on his hand - that must have happened when he was fighting Parrish! The Spirit of Marchosias has left Parrish and entered him! He's under an evil spell - possessed!*
The sounds of rapid pacing once again started behind the door.
*I'm getting out of here* she decided. *I'm going to get help. But, who?* She remembered her two tutors in the occult that she had mentioned to Tom on the first occasion they had met. *Ram Gat Singh. Could he help? No, he was more into transcendental meditation. Willie Smith, then.* After her two years of study with Willie Smith, who had taught her a lot about the occult, ancient occult practices and homeopathic healing, Smith had said "If ever you need anything, my rose, you know where I am."
*Yes* she thought. *Willie Smith. I'll drive into Nice, phone him and get him out here, quickly.*
As the moon set, the restless pacing noises ceased as Tom Kovack recovered and laid himself back down to sleep for the remainder of the night. There was, however, no rest for Michele Brent. She hurriedly dressed and, as the dawn broke, she was driving into the outskirts of Nice. Seeing an international phonebox opposite the Post Office, she made to go into it, then realised the time. Britain was an hour behind local time. She would have to wait. She found an all-night cafe, went in and ordered a French breakfast, and settled down to wait until nine a.m., local time.
---oo0oo---
Back up at Pont du Loup, Tom Kovack awoke. The early morning sunshine was flooding into his bedroom, and. he could not understand why he felt so tired, both mentally and physically, and why there were scratch marks on his chest and face, which stung painfully as he showered and shaved. Ready to go down for breakfast, he went to the adjoining door and knocked. "Michele! Michele, are you awake?" Silence met him. "Hey!" he called, louder. "Wake up, sleepyhead!" Still no response. Next, he tried to open the door but, when he realised it was locked from her side, he shrugged and headed down for breakfast. He was more surprised when she wasn't there, either, and asked the concierge, who bustled in with the breakfast menu, where his friend was.
"Oh, m'sieu! She left very early this morning!"
"Did she say where she was going?" he asked, puzzlement on his face.
"No, m'sieu, but she drove down towards Nice."
"Drove?"
"Oui, m'sieu, in your red car." Seeing the red weals on his face, the woman asked "You have hurt your face, m'sieu?"
Thinking fast, Tom came up with "Oh, we went for a walk in the dark and I - ah - failed to see an overhanging branch, which scratched me. It's okay, though."
After breakfast he walked through the village and mentally noted its name. *Pont du Loup.* he thought. *Bridge of the Wolf. Bridge of the Wolf? How did I know that? I don't know any French.* Suddenly, he felt a compulsion to look above him and he moved his head as though sniffing the air, trying to define or locate an elusive scent. Something was calling to him, drawing him up the steep hillside. His hand started its painful throbbing again. As he climbed, the feeling of compulsion and attraction increased within him with every step he took. He must climb the mountain - must climb the mountain ...
Neither his shoes not his clothes were designed for steep hill climbing, and on more than one occasion he slipped and slid back down some of the way he had come, and only willpower made him hold on and clamber back up when he overbalanced and was in danger of plunging into the depths of the ravine. He clung onto an overhanging shrub, hauled himself up and, with nary a glance at the fate that had awaited him, continued his arduous climb. It was late afternoon when, his hand throbbing unbearably, he felt an overwhelming compulsion to move to his left then, as he approached a small cave, he was sure he heard his name being called, "Venez à moi, Tom Kovack! Venez ici . .. ici ... ici..." and he was drawn into the cave, where an all-embracing and consuming Presence flooded over him and enveloped him. The pain in his hand abruptly ceased, and a thought crossed his mind - *I have come home.* His eyes, accustomed to the glare of the sun, took a few moments to adjust to the gloom of the interior, then he saw a pentagram on the floor, the Mark of Marchosias on the ceiling directly above the pentagram, and a flat rock in the shape of an altar, with stains like dried blood on it. Its only adornment was a single, unlit black candle at the base of an inverted Cross. He took the candle in his left hand and, feeling a tingling sensation in his right palm, he cupped his hand round the wick and it lit in a flash of spontaneous combustion. The candle burning brightly, he stepped into the centre of the pentagram and immediately a voice boomed in the cave, or in his mind, he knew not which. "Excellent, Tom Kovack. Know that you are the embodiment of Marchosias, the Spirit of the Wolf. There are those who wish to destroy Marchosias. They will say they wish to help you, but they only wish to destroy, but Marchosias must not die! Rest now, my Wolf! Rest until the moon shines full, then go forth, destroy those who would destroy you!" and the reverberations and echoes ceased, and the cave was silent again.
Hot and exhausted from both his exertions of the night before and of the arduous climb, Tom Kovack felt compelled to remove his clothes, then he curled up behind the altar and slept peacefully.
---oo0oo---
Michele Brent had spent many anxious hours awaiting the arrival of her friend and mentor, Willie Smith, at Nice Airport. She had had to send an order to her bank to supply him with the necessary finance to make the trip and, when the flight arrival was finally announced, she was in a state of nervous exhaustion with worry over Tom. She waited impatiently as the aircraft disgorged its passengers until she saw the familiar figure of Willie Smith appear through Customs. A tall, well-built man in his mid-40s, he was dressed in old jeans and an African-print shirt, his brown hair wild and uncombed, his clear blue eyes alert with interest and anticipation. Michele, spotting him, called "Willie! Coo-ee!"
He caught sight of her, waved, and. they met for the first time since she had been his student. He hugged her, kissed her forehead and spun her round in his arms in delight.
"Michele!" his voice was light, with a pleasant, mid-English accent. "Now, tell me what all this is about, my rose!"
She led him to the airport café, bought him a much-needed coffee, and explained in full the occurrences leading up to the present unpleasant situation. Her story over, she stopped and awaited his comments. For a few moments he stared into his empty coffee cup, mulling over all the incidents she had outlined, then he said: "It looks as if, my rose, we have an ancient, evil spirit which has been resurrected for nefarious reasons. The spirit, as you suggest, has been passed into the id of your friend Kovack, and he is in the greatest danger. If, as you have implied, this malevolent entity takes the shape of a wolf, your Mr Kovack may transmogrify at the next full moon."
"Yes, I thought of that, but when is it?" she asked, and. scrabbled about in her handbag for her diary. Her face paled as she saw the date and looked up at Willie Smith with desperation in her eyes. "Oh, Willie - it's tonight!"
"Oh, my! What's the time just now?" and he looked at his watch, which read 6.30 p.m. "When's moonrise?"
"I don't know!" she wailed, frustration and worry almost overcoming her. "Oh, Willie, what are we to do?"
"We must get to him as quickly as possible, Michele, and I'll see if I can exorcise him in time. Where did you leave him?"
"Up in Pont du Loup!" Then she gave a little gasp. "I've just realised something - 'le loup' is French for 'the wolf'! Let's hurry, Willie!" and they ran to her car.
The evening traffic conspired against them, however, arid the stars were twinkling in the evening sky; a silvery glow could be seen behind the steep cliffs as they drove upwards and were entering the village of Pont du Loup when they both heard a sound that made the hairs on the backs of their necks stand out. Quite clearly, high up on the mountainside, they heard the howl of a lone wolf baying at the moon.
Michele stamped on the brakes, eased the red racer into the hotel car park and. turned to Willie, fear in her eyes. "Do you think ...?"
"Do you?" responded Willie.
"Oh, Willie! Help him, please - help him for me."
"He means a lot to you, doesn't he?"
"Yes." she said quietly. "Willie, I love him, and I think - thought - he loved me."
"Why do you say 'thought'?"
She had omitted to tell him about the violent episode of the previous night, wishing to keep that secret. "It doesn't matter now, Willie. Please, just - help him."
"Come on, then." and he jumped out of the car. She followed as quickly as she could, but their progress was hindered by the lack of further aural evidence of the whereabouts of - what?
---oo0oo---
He felt so fit, so powerful. The moonlight helped him to find his way back down the mountainside without difficulty and he was surefooted and agile. He knew they were near, those who would hurt him. And there were others, his new, acute senses warned him. Others who had heard his call to the moon as he left the cave in the brightness of the full moon. But he must reach the two who most wanted him first. He sensed the human female and a big, powerful male stranger beside her. They were near. Good. He leaped from rock to rock, keeping himself well out of sight amidst the bracken and shrubs that adorned the mountain - his mountain. But the others, who had heard his call. They had met up with the man and woman. Pity. Makes it a little more difficult. Never mind. Wait - wait to pounce, then rip, tear, kill! It will be good to drink human blood! Silently, stealthily, the wolf stalked his prey.
Michele and Willie had started to climb the mountainside when a party of villagers from Pont du Loup appeared, one of them armed with a rifle fitted with telescopic sights. Glancing down at the noise the party was making, Michele and Willie stopped their ascent and waited till the party caught up with them. Michele counted seven men as they came up towards her. Seven - the mysterious number! Their heads down and concentrating on the steep climb, the men did not notice the two figures standing silently above them until they came within speaking distance. In French, Michele asked what the party was doing, and a shiver of apprehension ran down her spine at the leading man's reply. "Oh, Mademoiselle, you should not at all be here on this night! It is most dangerous! We believe that there is a werewolf up there! Truly, we have heard his call!"
"Why do you say there's a werewolf up there?" asked Michele, fearing the answer.
"Because there is a local legend, mademoiselle - once every hundred years an evil spirit returns here in the shape of a man turned into a wolf. We know not who the man is - he is not local - all men are accounted for - but this wolf will not rest until it has killed, has drunk human blood. If, perhaps, we can kill it tonight, then it will never again return to haunt and torment us. Excuse me, mademoiselle, m'sieu, but time is of the essence, it is necessary that we must hurry and find the wolf before the moon sets. Even now it approaches - we must see it first, and, kill it! This rifle has nightsights and will help us to detect it. We shall not fail - but please, mademoiselle and m'sieu, descend - you are in the greatest danger!" and the party pushed past them up the hillside. Michele grasped Willie's arm, an expression of dread and terror in her brown eyes.
"It's okay, Michele," Willie patted her hand reassuringly, "we'll find him first - we've got to!"
Deep in the undergrowth, he stalked his prey. They were near, very near, now, and coming up towards him, making it easy for him! The two he wanted were at the back of the ascending party. Wait. Be patient. They were dropping farther behind, their shoes not designed for such hard treatment. These puny humans, they were not fit! They could not leap and bound over his mountain! *Now. Crawl on my belly. Get behind the other seven humans, one with a large stick-like thing in his hand.* He did not like the look of that thing, or the hatred emanating from the man holding it. *Danger there! Silently now, try not to be heard as I go through the brush. Bunch my muscles, my strong legs, beneath me. The man first then the woman! Now!*
---oo0oo---
A flurry of fur and growling, snarling wolf leaped out of the undergrowth at Willie Smith. He gave a shout and lifted his left arm to protect himself, instinctively knowing that the wolf would go for his throat. Michele screamed and the party of villagers turned, looking down on the scene, and saw the biggest wolf they had ever seen, standing snarling over the man, its mouth clamping down on his upraised arm, the big dog-like head tossing, worrying its prey. Michele found a stone, threw it at an angle that it would not hit Willie. The stone bounced off the animal's side, the shock of the impact making it release Willie's arm and scamper for cover in the undergrowth. Michele saw a glint of gunmetal, saw the rifleman taking careful aim at the fleeing animal. "No! Don't shoot!" she shouted and flung a piece of wood that lay at her feet towards the gunman. She heard the crack of the rifle, but the piece of wood had successfully deflected the man's aim and the bullet sang over the wolf's head and ricocheted off a nearby tree. The wolf disappeared into the darkness.
"That way! He went that way!" the man with the rifle shouted, and the villagers slipped and slid back down the hillside in hot pursuit. Willie, injured arm bleeding, staggered to his feet. Michele hurriedly bound it up with a scarf she had in her handbag, then they hurried after the group.
---oo0oo---
He was running, hard and fast, to escape, the taste of blood, human blood, still salty in his mouth. He only knew he must escape, go to ground, hide away until the humans had gone. His breath was rasping in his lungs as he ran, first downwards then, circling, upwards, back towards his cave, the silver light of the full moon showing him the way. Behind him, he heard the sounds of pursuit arid suddenly felt an empathic contact. As he leaped over rocks and clefts with graceful agility, he heard, in his mind's ear, a voice calling "Tommy, Tommy, run! They're going to kill you! They don't understand!" He longed for the freedom of the mountain and the sanctuary it would give. He realised he was near the cave now and, if he could reach it, all would be well. He saw ahead of him in the moonlight an exposed ledge that he must traverse. He knew his pursuers would see him silhouetted there, but there was no other way to the cave, so he bounded across it. He heard the voice in his mind, screaming "No! Don't shoot him! Please don't shoot him!" then he heard a noise like a crack and felt something punch into his right shoulder. He yelped in pain and staggered, losing his footing momentarily.
---oo0oo---
Down the hillside, the pursuers stopped, peering up the moonlit mountainside. Michele heard the men speak excitedly to each other. "Did you get him?"
"Think so - think I wounded him at least. Saw him quite clearly in my sights. He's a big 'un, I tell you!"
Michelle suddenly felt her emotions welling up inside her and she sobbed in frustration and anger. "If you've killed him ..." The French gunman turned to her as Willie, nursing his injured arm, tried to comfort her.
"Mademoiselle, you know who - or what - that is up there?"
"Yes," she said, fighting for control of her emotions. "He's - a friend of mine - I think he's been - bewitched!"
"Friend or not, mademoiselle - he must die!" and he swung his rifle over his shoulder and recommenced the climb, the others following. Willie, his arm still bleeding, assisted Michele as much as he could in an attempt to keep up with the group of men.
---oo0oo---
He tried to put weight on the injured shoulder but howled in pain. The limb was useless, making it very difficult to keep on climbing, but his will to live and to reach the cave over-ruled his agony and kept him going. He was aware that his blood was leaving a clear trail on the rocks, but there was nothing he could do about that. Sobbing and gasping with the pain and exertion, he finally saw the cave up above. With a final rush of adrenaline he hauled himself up and into the cave, retreating to its darkest depths to lick his wound. The moon was setting and he knew he had some time before the pursuers could approach. Maybe by then, his strength will have returned ...
---oo0oo---
Clothes torn and soiled by the heavy undergrowth, Michele and Willie kept close to the pursuers. Suddenly, Willie stopped her. "If only we can reach him first, there's a chance." he said.
"Chance?" she almost shouted, and Willie had to 'shush' her for fear of the men hearing. Quieter, she continued "What chance does he have?"
Willie produced a small, silver gun.
Michele's eyes widened. "For God's sake, Willie, he's already been shot!"
"Trust me, Michele, please - just - trust me."
They returned to the climb and said no more, but worried more deeply with every passing second - they must get to him before it's too late ...
---oo0oo---
In the cave, he curled up to protect himself from the cold and to nurse his arm. As the moon disappeared behind the high hills, he felt himself slipping into unconsciousness. He fought it for a while, but eventually succumbed. His last thought was that he may never awake again.
---oo0oo---
As the rays of the morning sun pierced the furthest recesses of the cave, revealing the pentagram on the floor and the sign of the Wolf above, Tom Kovack came to with the scrabbling noise of the approaching men. He saw a pile of clothes - his clothes - lying neatly on the altar and slowly, painfully, eased himself into them as best he could. His arm was caked in blood and the movement opened the wound again. *At least,* he thought, *if I must die, then I'll die with dignity.* Grimacing in pain, he propped himself up into a sitting position against the wall, facing the cave entrance, and awaited his fate with resignation.
---oo0oo---
They approached the high cave cautiously, seeing the trail of blood leading towards it. They indicated to each other to be silent but Michele, trailing behind the main group, summoned all her remaining strength to shout "Tommy! Tommy! Watch out! They're outside!" Rousing himself, Tom Kovack crawled painfully behind the altar, his last possible hiding place. The man with the rifle poked the muzzle round the side of the cave entrance then, slowly, he slipped inside soundlessly. He saw the occult markings on the floor and ceiling and gasped in surprise. Then he saw the pool of blood on the floor. The others, on his gesture to 'come on', entered the cave behind him. Their eyes flicked apprehensively around the grotto and, seeing the altar, the gunman gestured 'he's behind there!' and moved cautiously towards it, unsure what he would find. He found Tom Kovack, wounded and in pain, huddled behind the stone slab. The two men's eyes met and, slowly, Tom got to his feet and swayed, clutching his wounded arm, silent tears of pain running down his haggard face, he squared himself, standing with dignity and acceptance as the rifleman, eyes steely with determination, raised the gun, his finger whitening as he squeezed the trigger ...
"No!" shouted Michele in French as she and Willie at least reached the cave entrance. "Don't shoot him!"
"Why not, mademoiselle?" asked the gunman. "I have already said he must be destroyed - he is no longer human - he is a werewolf!"
"No! That's not true! He's under an evil spell, and Willie and I can help him!"
Tom's pain-filled eyes turned to Michele and, his voice deep and husky, said: "Michele, if you love me, please - let him pull the trigger. I cannot exist like this any more - please, honey, let me die!"
"No!" she ran to him, protectively. "I love you, Tommy, I won't let them kill you! It's not your fault - you were fighting to save me and my family when this happened to you!"
"Michele!" he said softly, gently prising her off him. He left himself open and vulnerable for a moment as his attention was diverted to her. In that moment, Willie Smith brought up the little silver gun and fired at point-blank range.
Tom staggered back against the wall, a look of surprised disbelief and incomprehension on his face and, then, very slowly, his legs buckled from under him and he pitched forward and lay unmoving. Michele screamed and made to kneel beside him, but Willie Smith was suddenly commandingly authoritative. "Stay back!" his voice echoed in the confines of the cave. Suddenly, a strange blue light appeared round Tom Kovack's right hand, then travelled up his wounded arm, quickly enveloping his whole body. Twisting and writhing convulsively, Tom emitted an unearthly shriek, a shriek which his own voice had not made. The blue light rose above Tom's prostrate form and he ceased to move as the light, resolving itself into the shape of a wolf's head, made a howling, whooshing noise as what appeared to be a gale-force wind ripped around the cave, blowing everybody there off their feet before it found the exit and escaped, the morning sunlight dissipating it completely and for ever.
---oo0oo---
As they began to pick themselves up, a deep rumbling noise began at the back of the cave, behind the altar and beneath the pentagram. "Quick!" commanded Willie, "Everybody out!" The Frenchmen did not need a translation and escaped as Willie and Michele went to Tom and lifted his body between them, carrying him out seconds before the whole interior of the cave collapsed, ejecting rocks and dust that enveloped the group of people standing outside. When the cave-in ceased, Willie and Michele gently lowered the still form of Tom Kovack onto the ledge, where they both knelt beside him. Michele gently lifted the limp body in her arms. "Oh, Tom, Tom! Why did you have to kill him, Willie?" her tear- filled eyes looked accusingly at the Englishman. Michele looked down on the face she loved, peaceful now in his release from torment. Smith, making no reply, put his hand under Tom's shirt.
"Hah!" he exclaimed. "It worked!"
"Worked?" asked Michele, puzzled. "What worked?"
Smith produced a bottle from his jacket pocket, uncorked it and placed. the top to Tom's lips, pouring a little of the essence into his mouth. He took Tom's jaws in his hands and moved his head back, forcing the liquid to go down Tom's throat. He repeated the exercise a second time, then leaned back on his haunches. Michele noticed Tom's uninjured hand begin to twitch, then his lungs filled with air and he sputtered and coughed violently.
"Ah!" gasped Michele. "He's alive! Oh, Tom, Tom! Can you hear me?" The eyelids flickered and his head moved from side to side as he fought to regain consciousness. Then Michele was looking into gentle, puzzled, brown eyes. He tried to speak her name and she was kissing his lips, his eyes, his forehead, till he gasped in pain and, trying to sit up, he held his wounded shoulder.
"Hey!" came the deep, familiar voice, "Have you ever heard of killing someone with kindness?"
"Oh, Tommy, I thought you were dead."
"My shoulder - hurts - real bad, Michele. What happened?"
"You've been shot, Tommy, but it's all right now."
"No, it is most surely not." cut in the gunman, apparently able to catch the gist of the conversation. Speaking still in French, however, he said "I'm not letting - that - thing - come back down the mountainside alive!" and he once more levelled his rifle at Tom's head.
Willie Smith placed himself in front of Tom and Michele. Looking around for the first time, Tom said "What's he doing? Where am I?"
"Don't you remember, Tom?" asked Willie.
"And who are you?" Tom's confusion was compounded. "Say, what's been going on here?"
"Tommy," asked Michele gently, "what's the last thing you remember?"
Tom furrowed his brow in an effort to remember through the pain.
"I remember - fighting with Parrish and feeling a burning sensation in my right hand...." he winced as he tried to move his arm. His unbandaged right palm was lying limply upward and Michele looked down at it - the deep burn mark of Marchosias was gone! "Willie, look!" exclaimed Michele happily, "The wolf's head burn mark on his hand has gone!"
"Just as I suspected!" replied Smith, satisfied with himself. "It was a psychic burn and, when he received it, he became possessed with the evil spirit of Marchosias. It has left him. He is no longer possessed. Marchosias is dead forever!
Tom tried to say something, hut it turned into a groan of pain. Turning to the gunman, Smith said "Put your gun down. There will be no further - unpleasantness - from him, or from the spirit of Marchosias. He is a normal man again."
Michele quickly translated and, very reluctantly, the man uncocked the gun, still not fully convinced of Smith's statement.
In command, Smith said: "This man needs a doctor - quickly. He's lost a lot of blood. Help me make a stretcher - he can't climb down on his own - he's too weak for that." But Tom didn't hear him - weakness and exhaustion took its toll and he quietly lost consciousness in Michele's caring arms.
---oo0oo---
He came to the next day in hospital, his shoulder and arm in a plaster cast. Drifting in and out of consciousness, he was dimly aware of Michele sitting by his bedside.
---oo0oo---
The following day he was ready for visitors, and Willie Smith joined Michele during morning visiting hours, his injured arm heavily bandaged.
"Tom," said Michele brightly, "I'd like you to meet Willie Smith."
"Oh, you're the guy - who got me down off the mountain last night."
"Two nights ago, actually!" Smith smiled, shaking Tom's offered left hand.
"Excuse the left-handed handshake," apologised Tom, "but I'm afraid ..."
"Oh, that's all right, Mr Kovack, as you can see, I have problems in that department as well."
"How did you injure your arm, Mr Smith?" enquired Tom.
"You - ah - bit me!" responded Willie, with a rueful grin.
"Bit you? How could I ... Look, I know this sounds a bit - ah - theatrical, but - what happened to me?"
Sitting on the edge of Tom's bed, Smith adopted a pedantic attitude. "You were, quite simply, possessed, Mr Kovack."
"Call me Tom."
"Tom. Yes. Tom. Well, you became possessed of the evil spirit of Marchosias when you - terminated - the previous incumbent's existence. You grasped the wolf pendant he was wearing and thus transferred the entity into yourself."
"But I touched another pendant - smashed it - the one round the little girl - Jennifer's - neck."
"Ah, yes, but she was merely a slave of Marchosias. Parrish was Marchosias."
"Ah! I see." said Tom, comprehension on his face. "And how did you - reverse the process?"
"I - ah - shot you - with a silver gun and bullet."
"Oh, so that's how I got this shoulder wound?"
"Oh, no, no, no. That was caused by a real bullet. I shot you with a silver bullet filled with a deep tranquilliser that gives the appearance of death - the heartbeat stops briefly, as does breathing, until an antedote is administered. The bullet dissolved on impact."
"Touch of the Lone Ranger, eh?" joked Tom. Smith didn't understand the allusion.
Turning to Michele, Tom said: "Thought I'd had my fill of tranquilliser bullets from LaGrange!" and smiled ruefully, massaging his chest where a large bruise was developing where the bullet had hit him.
Smith continued: "The evil spirit, believing itself to be trapped in a dead body, immediately vacated it - ah - you - and was unable to enter another host before the cave that was its home was completely destroyed in a cave-in caused by the noise of the gunshot. We were all lucky to escape unharmed."
"And I'm very lucky that you were around, Mr Smith." said Tom, with gratitude.
"Well, actually, it was Michele who brought me here."
"Yes, I brought him over from London, Tom." interjected Michele. "You remember when I first met you, after your TV interview, that I told you I had studied for 5 years with Ram Gat Singh and for 2 years with ..."
"Willie Smith!" exclaimed Tom, memory flooding back and a big smile accompanying it. "So you're the famous Willie Smith!" Tom's smiling eyes appraised the man anew. "Thank you for coming over to - help me out of this!"
"Not at all, not at all. It was a fascinating experience!" Tom Kovack's right eyebrow rose of its own accord. "Anyway," continued Smith, "I see my usefulness here is at an end. I shall bid you adieu and return to London."
"You've got your return air ticket okay?" enquired Michele. "Yes, as you instructed, I purchased a return. I'll leave you two alone. I think Michele has a lot more to tell you." He shook Tom's hand again, planted a light kiss on Michele's forehead and walked quickly out of the ward, and out of Tom and Michele's life.
Tom could at last devote all his attention to the pretty woman sitting by his bedside. "Well." he said, his voice deep.
"Well yourself, Tom Chester Kovack!" she replied, a twinkle in her hazel eyes.
"Looks like I'll not be driving in that race next week."
"No. The doctor says you'll be in plaster for at least six weeks, then there's physiotherapy ..."
He reached over and placed his big hand over her small one. She turned her hand palm-up and squeezed. "Just tell me one thing for now, Michele Brent."
"Yes, Tommy?" her eyes were wide, curious.
"Did I, in the midst of my delirium, hear you say you loved me?"
She disengaged her hand and lowered her eyes from his gentle, brown regard.
"I might, in the heat of the moment - have said something like that."
"I see." His voice dropped even deeper. "And ... did you mean it?" he asked softly.
He looked anxiously at her and gently lifted her chin with his good hand until she was looking at him again.
She suddenly realised that her whole future life now depended on the answer she would give him. She hesitated but a moment, took a deep breath and quietly said "Yes."
His smile was the most radiant she had ever seen. "Would you be at all interested in being this racing car driver's chief mechanic - for life?"
"Is that a proposal, Tom Kovack?"
"It is, Michele Brent. This might not be the best place or time, but, if I'm putting two and two together correctly, I believe the correct phraseology is: Would you like to be married to a werewolf?"
"An ex-werewolf!" laughed Michele, "and the answer is 'Yes'!" He leaned forward and gave her a long, lingering kiss, to the amusement of the others in the ward, who applauded.
---oo0oo---
And for evermore the smile he gave her at that moment would always be described by Michele to her friends as "a wolfish grin"!
---oo0oo---