Baron Orgaz

By Frank Lauria

Fifty shades of noir: Nazi sadists, occult killers, and underground BDSM bars are all part of a paranormal investigator’s job description

When Dr. Owen Orient is asked to investigate a young man’s sudden disappearance, he reluctantly agrees. What begins as a missing-person case quickly morphs into murder, and before long, Orient is thrust into an international manhunt that takes him from Manhattan’s S&M underground to the heart of Egypt’s Great Pyramid of Giza.
 
After years of dedicated study in Tibet, Dr. Orient has honed his telepathic skills to become a formidable psychic investigator. But he finds himself the target of a powerful Nazi cult and becomes involved with a beautiful woman whose concept of sexual loyalty is slippery at best.
 
With the help of his assistant, Sordi, Dr. Orient faces hostile cops, psycho Nazis wielding massive occult powers, and a hot war in Egypt in a case that races from drug and sex parties at a fabulous Hamptons mansion to the secrets of the ancient world. But will this adventure of a lifetime steal his soul?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Jun 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504009751

Frank Lauria

Frank Lauria was born in Brooklyn, New York, and graduated from Manhattan College. He is a published poet and songwriter and has worked in the publishing industry as a copywriter and editor. He has been writing novels since 1970 and his twenty books include five bestsellers. He has traveled extensively through the Middle East, Morocco, and Europe to research his occult novels. He lived through and participated in the Beat era, reading poetry with Jack Kerouac, Alan Ginsberg, and most of the other well-known artists associated with the movement. He lives in San Francisco, where he teaches creative writing and performs with his rap band. Lauria blogs regularly and publishes installments in his autobiographical journey through the cultural past of the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s. Lauria is perhaps best known for the seven volumes of the Doctor Orient series. Doctor Orient is a delver into mystery and the arcane, a knowledgeable man on all subjects occult, and a seeker of truth. His adventures take him around the world and into the depths of psychic and spiritual challenge and adventure. The books in the series are Doctor Orient (1971), Raga Six (1972), Lady Sativa (1973), Baron Orgaz (1974), The Priestess (1978), The Seth Papers (1979), and Blue Limbo (1991). An eighth Doctor Orient novel is currently in the works. Lauria has written a number of tie-in and young adult novelizations of hit movies, including Dark City (1997), Pitch Black (1999), and End of Days (1999), as well as a series of Zorro novelizations.

Book preview

1

The bikers handled their machines like a crack drill team.

All three were identically outfitted in leather jumpsuits, and the stark black uniforms emphasized their symmetry as they improvised swift patterns through the clumsy Saturday-night traffic. At midtown they cut away from a herd of cars milling around the exits and leaned into a series of screaming curves with precisely timed bursts of reflex and power.

When they hit an open stretch, they veered into a crisp V formation and sat upright on their black BMW motorcycles, as if reviewing the looming assembly of light-studded ocean liners docked along the West Side Drive.

The point machine accelerated as they neared the Eighteenth Street exit, allowing the two trailing bikes to fall into line just before they howled down the ramp to the street.

A staccato chorus of booming echoes marked the trio’s progress along the deserted waterfront. They gunned their throttles as they sped through the vacant streets below the elevated highway, ignoring one-way signs and traffic lights.

The metallic thundering stopped abruptly at Washington Street. The bikers cut their motors and coasted silently through the shadows until they came to a wide space between two parked freight vans. Without word or signal all three of them halted, backed their motorcycles into a perfect rank, and dismounted.

One of the bikers removed his helmet and started walking slowly across the street. The other two followed a few paces behind, falling into the same V formation they’d held while riding. Both of them still wore their crash helmets, and the shiny black globes with rounded face masks gave them a menacing, alien appearance, as if they were hunters from a distant world, stalking the still streets for a trophy of the planet.

The trio stopped when they reached a darkened building near the end of the block that was nestled between two larger warehouses. A storefront bar and grill occupied the ground floor. Its dingy windows were boarded over, but dim slivers of light leaking through the cracks hinted that it was open.

A flash of noise pierced the silence when the lead biker pushed open the door. As he entered, the two figures behind him dropped back and stood in the shadow of the warehouse. They waited there in the darkness as the door closed and the quiet dropped over the street like a blanket of invisible snow.

Arnold was bored.

He surveyed the crowd of studs in the room with arch indifference and wondered if he could call a taxi.

Preening slightly, he examined his reflection in the mirror over the bar. He was wearing something new tonight—a black leather tunic with a silver-studded collar. He’d had it made up especially. He might have saved himself the trouble.

His eyes roved contemptuously over the posturing males in their clubby S/M outfits. With the exception of the few dressed like cowboys, the rest were wearing the stock black-leather-motorcycle-jacket/Brando-cap/engineer-boot uniform. There wasn’t one man in the place with any real imagination or flair.

He winced inwardly as he remembered how excited he’d been when he first discovered the Panther’s Lair. Everything about the place had seemed so mysterious and authentic—the waterfront location, the boarded-up exterior, the thick chains hanging over the bar, the beautifully sinister young men dressed in leather and boots. It had both fascinated and frightened him. For years he’d entertained wild sexual fantasies of being whipped, raped, and dominated by brutish butch types wearing black leather; but when he finally found a place that promised to make his fantasy a reality, he became as nervous as a new bride.

Much to his disappointment, all his fears had proven to be groundless. The marriage was never consummated.

Every so-called sadist he’d encountered at the Panther’s Lair had been more obsessed with acting out a role than inflicting real pain. They were just fabulous when it came to their little psychodramas. They loved to play commandants of prison camps, or policemen, or stern schoolmasters. But they had no concept of pain beyond the token spanking or whipping. One strutting S had actually become faint when he accidentally drew blood during a fumbling torture scene.

The sinister young men who looked so butch in their motorcycle jackets had all turned out to be nothing more than ordinary nelly queens in weekend drag. And the Panther’s Lair was just another gay bar, despite the heavy atmosphere the management tried to maintain.

Arnold sighed and reached for a mentholated cigarette. He’d never realized his fantasies, and he doubted if he ever would. Not tonight, anyway. It was Saturday, and every ribbon clerk in the city had crawled out of his closet. The noise, smoke, and blaring music were giving him a headache. The only thing preventing him from going home to bed and the Late Show was the fact that it would be hell finding a cab in the waterfront neighborhood. Not only was it phony atmosphere, it was downright inconvenient. He swore and struck a match.

It never reached his cigarette.

Arnold’s eyes had automatically wandered to the door as it opened, and when they focused on the man who entered, every muscle in his body froze.

The man’s skin was very fair, almost as white as the wide area framing his pale blue eyes. His hair too was white, and cropped close to his high, dome-shaped skull.

A tightly cut leather jumpsuit covered his body, and his hands were encased in black gloves, accentuating the stark beauty of his face. Each of his features was magnificently defined, as if carved by a Renaissance master. But it was the animal energy in those eyes that held Arnold’s breath. They flashed through the smoke like luminous knives and embedded themselves in his brain.

A sudden flare of pain spurred his reflexes.

Arnold dropped the burning match he’d been holding in midair and dunked his thumb into his drink. Instinctively he looked up and rechecked his own image in the mirror. Attractive enough, he decided. He was glad now that he’d worn the new tunic. True, there was a trace of puffiness around his chin that came from too many expensive lunches and not enough exercise. His skin was flushed, however, and his eyes were bright with excitement, giving his face a youthful, almost boyish glow. He struck another match and inhaled deeply on his cigarette, savoring the lingering hurt on his finger and the strange sense of anticipation generated by the man in the doorway. His presence had already seared away Arnold’s boredom and charged him with a sensation that was halfway between ardor and fear. He could feel the intensity of the man’s eyes smoldering in his memory, but he couldn’t summon up the courage to turn his head and confront them again. He started to reach for his drink, then hesitated.

The man was standing just behind his stool, watching him intently in the mirror.

In the midst of his panic Arnold was able to grasp two unrelated facts; one was that the room had suddenly become stiflingly hot, and the other was that the man was waiting for him to speak.

On impulse he swiveled around, arching his back seductively, as he’d once seen Jean Harlow do in a movie, and smiled brightly.

Arnold’s smile withered under the cold scorn in the man’s eyes. Up close, he could see that the pupils were a light, almost transparent shade of blue, flecked with metallic fragments that gave them a silvery tint. Arnold felt a chill crawl up the back of his neck as he realized there was no reflection in those pupils. They were like disks of blue ice.

Would you … like a drink?

No thanks. The man smiled slightly, making him seem very young.

Arnold floundered for something clever to say, still unable to wrench his gaze from the man’s face.

Stuffy, isn’t it? the man remarked, as if sensing his discomfort.

Arnold managed a weak grin. Awful. I hate Saturday nights. The fact that he was able to speak intelligibly encouraged him to try something more direct.

Haven’t seen you here before. I’m Arnold. What’s your name?

The man ignored the question.

You’ve been waiting a long time, haven’t you? he asked softly.

Arnold’s chin dropped. You mean tonight?

I mean every night. You’ve been waiting a long time for the right person. Someone who knows exactly what you need. His bloodless lips curled up slightly. Isn’t that true?

Yes. Arnold blinked and took a deep breath. Uh … what’s your name? he repeated, trying to gain some time to recover his composure.

The man leaned over until his mouth was close to his ear. I’m called Christian.

The name created a vacuum inside Arnold’s skull that sucked his thoughts away from their moorings and sent them whirling in confusion.

Why don’t you take a little ride in the fresh air? Christian was saying. With me. It wasn’t a question.

I, uh, don’t know … I mean, I … was waiting for someone. To his annoyance, Arnold heard his voice rising, like the squeal of a coy queen. Uh … do you have a car here? he added quickly, making an effort to control his agitation.

Motorcycle. Christian’s voice was still soft, but edged with impatience. Perhaps it’s too primitive for you.

Oh, no. It’s not that at all, I love motorcycles. Arnold wondered why he felt so distressed. He’d been approached by beautiful men before. Of course, Christian was something special.

Even beyond his looks, his arrogant, assured manner promised that he could satisfy that long-unfulfilled craving for ecstatic cruelty.

You see, I’m meeting this, uh, friend, he repeated lamely.

Christian shook his head. I can’t wait.

Arnold’s confusion suddenly vanished. He looked across the room at the crowd of costumed men acting out their limp perversions while they glanced longingly at Christian, and he made up his mind. He’d be a fool to play the shrinking violet now. He wouldn’t let a schoolgirl qualm ruin his first opportunity for real sex. He picked up his cigarettes from the bar, checked himself in the mirror once more, then stood up. All right, I’m ready, he announced. Where are we going?

Uptown. Christian watched his face carefully. But understand one thing. If you decide to take a ride with me, there’s no getting off until I say it’s over.

Arnold swallowed, more with anticipation than from apprehension. I understand.

A vivid flurry of disconnected impressions fed his growing excitement as he followed Christian through the crush of customers—the pinched envy on the faces of the posing studs, the surge of warmth when the music pounded higher, the cool, crisp quiet of the street outside. The fresh air made him giddy, and he started to giggle.

Christian stopped and looked at him. His face was impassive, but the fury in his eyes crackled through the darkness. Their icy intensity chilled the laughter in Arnold’s throat, and he stood very still, not daring to move.

From now on, Christian said calmly, you will not speak or act unless ordered to do so. Your only function is total obedience. He turned and walked away.

Arnold felt a delicious thrill shiver through his spine as he hurried across the street after his new master.

He was startled when the two helmeted figures appeared out of the shadows, but he didn’t react. He saw at once that they were also under Christian’s domination by the way they waited motionlessly until he was seated before mounting their own machines.

Arnold accepted their presence without question or regret. He’d surrendered every responsibility for his existence to Christian, and there was nothing left except the blissful security of his enslavement.

When he beckoned Arnold got on the bike. He pressed his face against Christian’s back and closed his eyes as the metal beast between his legs shuddered to life, shattering the darkness with its triumphant cry.

Its roar exploded into a windswept howl that filled Arnold’s dreams for a long time before fading away, leaving him suspended in a soundless void.

He lifted his head.

They were on a deserted street on the far West Side, somewhere near midtown. The other two men had already dismounted and were coming toward them. Like mute robots, they waited until he got off and then escorted him to the sidewalk. Except for a natural twinge of jealousy, Arnold was unconcerned with their presence. His entire attention was concentrated on Christian.

He watched in rapt silence, reveling in every graceful movement Christian made as he wheeled the bike into place. Even the massive machine responded instantly to his touch. Though his features were obscured by the darkness, his slightest gesture was a figure in an erotic ballet.

Arnold was completely in the thrall of that dance as he followed Christian to a loft building. Once inside the dimly lit hallway, his heart began to pound frantic counterpoint to the deliberate rhythm of Christian’s footsteps on the stairs above. A sudden chorus of sexual fantasies drowned out everything except his impatience for his initiation of pain to begin.

He was perspiring heavily when he reached the third landing, and his mouth was dry. The door was open, but he waited until the two men behind him reached the top of the stairs. They ushered him into a long, wide room. Except for the fact that the walls and ceilings were covered with white soundproofing board, there was nothing remarkable about the place. A magazine modern kitchen had been installed at the rear of the room. A few plants, some small tables, and several low chairs were scattered through the rest of the large space. A thick black rug extended from the kitchen tiles to a white partition that cut off part of the loft. The only decoration on the walls was a large black X painted on a narrow door in the partition.

Christian was standing in the center of the room removing his gloves. The other two went across the room to join him. When they removed their helmets, Arnold saw that they were very young. Both of them had the same freckle-faced, rawboned good looks of the classic American high-school hero. The looks he usually associated with apple-pie heterosexuality.

Arnold watched them, knowing instinctively that he had to conduct himself very carefully. He didn’t want to make some amateur blunder and ruin the performance.

Christian’s eyes interrupted his preoccupations.

Their pale blue incandescence seared away Arnold’s trivial thoughts like jets from an acetylene torch, and set fire to his senses.

Take off your clothing and put it in there. Christian spoke casually, pointing to a cardboard carton on the floor.

Arnold unlaced his tunic, slipped it over his head, and placed it in the box. His nerves tingled as he finished undressing, and when he finally stood naked before Christian, his skin crawled with pleasure.

To his disappointment, Christian turned his back and said something to the two men.

Their innocent, homespun faces were blank as they pulled off their boots and socks and then removed their leather jumpsuits. They folded the suits carefully and placed them in a pile next to their high black boots, military fashion. Then, clad only in black trunks, they came over to Arnold and motioned him across the room. They escorted him to the door marked with the black X. One of them pulled it open, and he stepped inside.

The windows, walls, and ceilings were covered with the same soundproof partitioning used in the outside room. The only piece of furniture was a very large marble-topped table in the center of the room. The table was lined up directly in front of a large black box standing against the far wall. The place was lit by a single lamp in the ceiling.

Arnold’s bare feet were uncomfortably cold against the white tiles that covered the floor. One of the men waved him over to the table. He sat gingerly on the marble and waited.

Without warning or emotion, the two men pushed him face-down on the table and spun him around roughly so that his feet were pointing toward the door and his head was facing the black box.

Holding him firmly in place, they reached down beneath the table and produced a set of steel manacles that were attached to lengths of chain.

The only sound in the small room was the heavy scrape of metal as the two boys chained Arnold’s wrists and ankles to the legs of the table. Then the noise stopped, and he heard the door close behind him.

Ever since he’d left the Panther’s Lair with Christian, Arnold’s senses had been humming with anticipation. But now a new sensation was throbbing in his belly, a pulse that began as the last manacle was locked into place. It rose in tempo until his entire body shivered with the voluptuous knowledge of total helplessness. He closed his eyes and gratefully pressed his cheek against the cold stone.

In a short time the two young men came back carrying some objects. One of them knelt down on the floor in front of the black box and began to draw a careful circle on the white tile, using a length of cord and a black felt-tipped marker.

Arnold watched them through half-closed eyes, enjoying the display of their supple young bodies as they prepared. The boy on his right left the room when the circle was finished. The one in front of the table picked up a metal ruler at his side and measured off a line within the circle.

As he did this, the other boy returned, carrying a large metal urn filled with coals. His muscles rippled and tensed under his skin as he placed the heavy urn a short distance away from the table, to the right of the circle. He bent down, twisted something at the base of the urn, and struck a match. Tiny jets of blue flame flowered up immediately between the coals, and Arnold realized that there was a gas burner beneath the bowl.

The boy in front of the table stood up and went to help adjust the placement of the urn. When it was correctly positioned, they picked up their tools and left the room.

Arnold looked down at the floor in front of him.

There was a perfect triangle inscribed within the circle. The thick black lines of the symbol were absolutely precise, as if done by a professional draftsman.

He was wondering about the significance of the symbol and the urn when one of the young men returned.

The boy went to the urn and thrust a long metal bar into the coals.

For a moment Arnold was confused. Then understanding flooded his brain with wild excitement. The boy was heating a branding iron. They were going to brand him. He began to tremble.

The other boy came in, holding three silver goblets, which he set down very carefully on each point of the triangle. When this was done, they both left.

The manacles were beginning to chafe Arnold’s skin, and the discomfort amplified the excitement booming through his chest. He turned his head, and a low moan escaped his lips when he saw the glowing red coals in the urn. He rocked from side to side as he thought of what Christian was about to do to him. In the midst of his rapture he wondered if his lover was going to brand him with his initials or with the mysterious triangle symbol.

He was still wondering when the overhead light went out. Arnold heard the door open behind him. For long seconds there was no sound in the darkened room but the sputtering of the flames in the urn. Then he heard the deliberate tread of boots on the tiles.

As Christian walked slowly around the table, Arnold saw that he was cradling a black velvet bag against his chest, with both arms.

Taking care to avoid the triangle symbol on the floor, Christian walked up to the black box against the wall, and then very carefully placed the velvet bag on top of it.

The other two young men, now completely naked, came into the right corner of Arnold’s vision and stood behind the blazing urn, but his attention never wavered from Christian.

He gorged himself on the dynamic contours of Christian’s back, the lithe outline of his leather jumpsuit, the reflections of flames flickering across his polished jackboots. Every thought, emotion, and nerve in Arnold’s body was filled with the expectation of his master’s whim.

When Christian finally backed away from the wall, Arnold searched his face vainly for a sign of recognition. Christian’s pale blue eyes were fixed on the place he’d left.

The hard edge of his features was softened by a beatific expression of reverence.

When Arnold glanced up at the source of Christian’s admiration, a sharp shock of awe shot through his belly, and he began to shiver.

A crystal glass skull rested on the black box.

Every detail of human bone structure was visible in perfect proportion. Tiny galaxies of light expanded and contracted deep inside the emptiness of its eye sockets, and its smooth transparent dome shimmered with a rainbow vibrance that was more radiant than anything Arnold had ever seen.

Prepare him.

The sound of Christian’s voice seemed to come from a distant sun in the center of the skull.

Electric twitches of anticipation rippled across Arnold’s outstretched body when he saw the wire whips flashing in the hands of the two naked boys.

The first blow exploded against his shoulders.

His torso twisted up from the marble, and the manacles bit into his wrists as the second lash ripped his thighs like a hot claw.

He shrieked as another whistling slash of hurt seared his brain, fusing his mind and flesh into a writhing, sweating mass of agony. Relentless jolts of pain screamed through his nerves, and he begged them to stop. But his words cracked in his throat, emerging as broken animal squeals.

Arnold rolled his eyes, trying frantically to signal Christian. Then he saw Christian’s face in the wavering light of the flaming urn, and his shrill pleas disintegrated into bubbling sobs of hysteria.

There was no compassion in the cold set of Christian’s features. His eyes were flat and metallic against his white skin, and his lips were compressed with loathing. His shoulders began to shake when he caught sight of Arnold’s imploring eyes, and his mouth parted slightly.

A high, singing laugh hummed through the shadows like a whining snake. Its sound intensified as it coiled around Arnold’s senses and crawled into his tortured brain.

Suddenly Arnold’s agony subsided.

His body began to shudder with slow convulsions of pleasure. His pleas became urgent grunts of encouragement as each new lash released a soothing lubricant that spread across his torment like perfumed oil. The laughter intensified in pitch until it was a ringing chord that paced his swelling excitement.

He felt himself getting an erection and lifted his body to free his bursting penis as a volcano of delight erupted at the base of his brain and oozed down his groin like glowing lava. He looked up wildly and saw Christian approaching the table with the poker in his hands.

Arnold squeezed his eyes shut, but when the burning metal tip sizzled into his buttock, a white-hot crescendo of ecstasy sent his awareness soaring to meet the chiming laughter winging above his frenzied groans. Overwhelming tremors of release racked his body, forcing his eyes open.

The crystal skull loomed in front of him, no longer transparent but opaque and glowing blood-red like some grotesquely grinning ruby.

Its mouth was wide open and emitting the cacophony of laughter vibrating through everything in the room.

It was the last thing Arnold ever saw.

2

For the first time in his life Orient felt like deliberately hitting a woman.

Years of practicing deep spiritual control prevailed, however, and he went into a basic breathing pattern instead, one intended to cleanse the body of tension and lift the mind’s level of awareness.

You’re angry, aren’t you? Whenever you’re annoyed, you go into those bloody breathing patterns. Why don’t you just lose your temper and be done with it?

He gripped the wheel tighter and fixed his attention on the highway traffic.

You could acknowledge that you heard me, at least.

Getting angry won’t help, he told her softly. I don’t even want it to.

Orient felt the tension between them suddenly dissolve, and glanced up at her. Lily was curled up in the far corner of the front seat like a long, tawny cat. Her mane of copper-streaked hair cascaded over part of her face, but he could see she was smiling. You’re right. There’s no sense getting angry, she purred.

She was silent for a few moments. Then Orient felt the tension returning.

Maybe it would help to just talk about it, Lily suggested.

Really nothing to talk about. You’ve got to do what you think best. I understand that.

Then you’re not disturbed at all that I’m going to meet Count Germaine?

The name tumbled any harmony he’d achieved with his breathing exercise.

Just let it be, Lily, he muttered.

"I have explained everything. And you of all people should understand the significance of what I’m doing."

I’ll repeat it once more. Orient heard his voice becoming louder, and made an effort to regain control. You’ve got to do what you think is best.

But you don’t have to agree that it’s valid, do you? And that’s the problem.

It’s my problem.

"It’s our problem, Lily insisted. I feel as if I’m betraying us, when all I’m doing is conducting a scientific experiment. We could fly off to Amsterdam together and find out if you can take part in the rite with me. But you don’t want to. Why?"

Orient sighed. I guess I’m not interested in living forever.

I think it’s your basic sexual-guilt hangup, Lily taunted.

And I think you’re baiting me, he said very softly, through clenched teeth.

Lily didn’t speak for a long time. Then her voice was against his ear, covering his emotions like warm honey. I’m sorry, Owen, she murmured, caressing the back of his neck. I know I’m being a bitch. I should be grateful that you’re not making some outraged Victorian scene. I won’t press it.

Her touch melted his anger, but not his confusion. He knew he had no right to disapprove of Lily’s beliefs. And yet he did disapprove, despite the fact that he’d found no logical basis for his feelings.

In a way, his confusion had begun long before, when Lily first came to live with him. From the start, her presence had both enhanced and disturbed his life.

Her personality was in direct opposition to the habits he’d developed when single. For most of that time he’d led a private, almost monastic existence, dedicated to developing the scientific techniques of telepathy and his own psychic powers. He was motivated by more than ambition. Since his initiation as a first-level adept in Tibet, he’d come to regard his work as an obligation.

Lily regarded it all as a lark.

She’d swept into his life as if it was an apartment badly in need of a decorative overhaul. She replaced his wardrobe, rescheduled his work habits, and restyled his social image.

She loved activity and was given to wild swings of mood. Even after a year together, Orient was never quite sure who the girl sleeping beside him would be when she awakened.

Today she was Scarlett O’Hara, going with the wind to keep a slightly scandalous appointment. But Orient wasn’t sure if he was Gable in the scene, or Leslie Howard.

Her hand moved off his neck and moved teasingly along his chest. You haven’t even said you’ll miss me. Not even after making wild, delicious love to me all morning.

Hard to find the words to say good-bye to a moon goddess.

Don’t try your mystical sweet talk on me, you cad. You’re avoiding the question. Are you going to bloody miss me or not?

He grinned. You know bloody well I’ll miss you.

I’m so glad you said that, darling. So spontaneously, too. Gives a girl a feeling of security. She snuggled against his shoulder and remained curled up against him, like a little girl, until they reached the airport.

She straightened up as they entered the parking lot, and primped her hair nervously in the rear-view mirror.

Got everything?

She bit her lip and nodded. Think so.

Orient watched as she checked through her snakeskin clutch bag for tickets and passport. One moment she’d been a sleepy child, and the next saw her as a fretting lioness, anxious to be loosed from her long confinement.

I’m together. Everything’s here. She looked up.

The afternoon sun streaming in through the windshield set off bursts of coppery fireworks in her hair, framing her golden-skinned face with gleaming bronze highlights. Though her finely boned features tended toward delicacy, they were strengthened by a reckless upward curl of her pink mouth. As she tried to smile, he saw flecks of orange lightning flash across her amber eyes. Then they misted over, and she was in his arms, her face warm and wet against his. Take care of yourself, my darling, she whispered. Remember I love you.

He closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of her tears mingling with the perfume on her neck. Come home soon, he said softly.

She leaned back and looked up at him. Perhaps I can ask Count Germaine to consider you for next year’s rite. So we won’t have to go through these farewells.

Orient felt his muscles stiffen.

What’s the matter? Lily pulled away and sat up, her eyes flashing angrily.

He shook his head and stared through the windshield.

Are you annoyed again because I mentioned Germaine?

Your timing could have been sharper.

"I don’t believe he upsets you so much. You know who Count Germaine is. And you should understand what this rite means to me."

Orient took a deep breath, but he wasn’t able to suppress the resentment surging past his lips. I understand, Lily, he said very slowly, but I still don’t give a damn about Germaine or the rite.

As he spoke, he felt the tension flaring up around them like a thick cloud of static electricity.

And me? Her question cracked like a pistol in the enclosed space.

You know how I feel about you.

I’m afraid I do.

She waited for him to answer, but he couldn’t. His emotions were pounding, but his words were twisted up in his throat.

When she spoke again her voice was flat and cold. All right, darling. You needn’t bother going with me to the plane. All a lot of bother anyway. She stepped out of the car, opened the back door, and pulled out her suitcase. I’ll call you when it’s over, she said, just before slamming the door shut.

Orient was still trying to untangle his confusion as he watched her stride away. The great bubble of nervous energy that had ballooned between them collapsed when Lily shut the door, leaving his whirring emotions suspended in a shock of emptiness.

On reflex, he went into a breathing pattern, inhaling slowly through his nostrils and exhaling from his diaphragm, until the tension within him relaxed.

He considered going after her, then reached into his pocket for his cigarette case and extracted a hand-wrapped cigarette.

As he smoked he contemplated the enigma of his relationship with Lily. They had the unique ability to merge minds and yet were still unable to resolve their personal differences. In the last few months even the telepathic communication had faded because of their constant disharmony.

Orient understood that he wasn’t used to women like Lily and the things that amused them. The ways of fashionable parties and clever groups were lost on him. He’d always found life’s real wisdom in conversations with ordinary people.

And Lily was born holding an engraved invitation in her hand. As Lady Lilith Sativa she was reared to grace the social arenas, and she was a natural contender. When news of her powers during the full moon reached the press, they dubbed her the Moon Lady and made her the most publicized deb in Europe.

When Orient met her, she’d already established an international reputation as a clairvoyant, but had no control over her powers. She never knew how the lunar phase would affect her.

They’d worked together for months in New York while Lily learned to use her potential effectively. She quickly mastered the technique for mental projection of thought images and, less quickly, learned to protect her extreme sensitivity to the moon’s attraction.

But as their attachment to each other grew deeper, their difference became more apparent. Lily had restless periods when she would drag him through the city’s chic salons in search of diversion. Those times were difficult, but as the cycle neared for Lily’s yearly ritual, an alien tension wore down his emotions. An unexpected resentment that ground relentlessly at his patience. He knew the sexual acts required for the ritual of the Serpent Fire were just external forms, necessary for the arousal of life’s primal flame at the base of the spine. He understood that the tantric rite had the power to maintain its practitioners in a perpetual state of suspended youth. Ageless and vital.

But he didn’t know how to contain his natural animal jealousy. As a result, Lily was flying off alone to participate in the ritual. And their year together had come down to a brief exchange that seesawed violently between tenderness and antagonism.

Orient ground out his cigarette and slipped the stub into his silver case before starting the car.

For a moment he sat listening to the throaty rumble of the seven-liter straight-six Rolls engine. The vintage Ghost was one of the few enthusiasms that he and Lily still shared. The car, and making love; everything else was a question.

One that might never be resolved, he reflected wearily as he drove the Ghost out of the parking lot and away from his last chance to see Lily.

Orient arrived home tired, hungry, and tense.

He accepted his condition as temporary and looked ahead to a long workout in his meditation room. That, and a good night’s rest, would help ease the knots in his brain.

He hoped that Sordi had taken the day off, so he wouldn’t have to dodge questions about Lily’s departure, but he was waiting in the study when Orient entered. Lily get off all right? he greeted genially.

Oh, sure, fine. Orient stood awkwardly for a moment, then started walking to the other door. I’ll probably be working late tonight. You may as well take the weekend off.

Sordi’s lean, leathery face showed no surprise. Okay, doctor. But before you get lost up in your meditation room, I think you should know Sybelle Lean is joining us for dinner.

He stopped and turned. How did that happen?

Sure that he had Orient’s full attention, Sordi took his time answering. His white hair, aristocratic features, and elegant dress gave him the air of a successful European diplomat, and he accepted the role with enthusiasm.

He flicked an imaginary speck of dust from the cuff of his peppermint-striped silk shirt and assumed an expression of discreet innocence. I explained you’d probably be tied up, but she said it was really important. So I invited her to dinner. I can call her if you like.

Orient shrugged off his momentary annoyance. He knew that Sordi’s instincts were usually correct. Don’t bother calling. It’s all right. Do I have time for a shower before she gets here?

A sly smile cracked Sordi’s dignity. Sure. It’ll give Sybelle time for an extra drink or so before dinner.

Orient decided to relax his lingering tensions with a short workout before his shower. Just as he was ready to begin he caught a glimpse of himself in the bedroom mirror and realized, with some surprise, that he’d lost weight over the past few months. He was tall and naturally slender, but now the long muscles in his abdomen and legs were deeply defined. There were dark circles around his green eyes, and they were set way back in the hollows of his