The Avenger. Matthew Blood
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but it was difficult to remember what it was. Damned difficult. Almost impossible. Every cell in his body leaped in response to her, every fiber of his being strained to get closer.
His teeth were set together so tightly that his jaws ached and he exerted every atom of will power he possessed to turn his head slightly from her and look down at the rumpled shirt on the floor. He didn’t realize the strength of his grip on her shoulders as he demanded hoarsely, “What about Hake Derr?”
That name broke the spell. He felt the rigidity of Priscilla’s body go away under his fingers. She turned her head also and looked where he was looking. His hands fell away from her shoulders and she moved listlessly to pick up the shirt. Over her shoulder she said:
“You were right downstairs. It is too late.” She moved into the bedroom, balling the shirt up in her two hands and then tossing it casually into a corner.
Wayne followed her to the doorway. Every sense was alert now. Every moment was important. He had to recapture some of the essence of the moment before, yet not enough to be trapped by it. God knew, a man could be trapped by it easily enough. For one moment back there . . .
She stopped in front of the low vanity. From across the room, Morgan Wayne heard the swift intake of her breath, saw the swift movement of her hand that wiped out the four letters on the powder-strewn glass.
She turned to face him, leaning back with hips against the table edge, supporting herself with hands on both sides of her. She looked tired now, almost contemptuous.
“Why don’t you get out, Morgan Wayne? Of course it’s too late . . . for you.”
“You lie, Priscilla,” Wayne told her. “You lie most foully in your beautiful teeth. You asked me a question a while ago. You didn’t have to ask it. You already knew the answer. You knew it when you looked at me as you stood at the piano and I was at the bar. The only question is when. For us it has to be right.” His voice was insistent. Urgent and demanding. Speaking with a quiet logic and a certainty that again ripped away the barrier that had risen between them. “You know that, Priscilla.” Wayne began to move across the bedroom toward her.
She didn’t respond. Not yet. She still looked tired, but the expression of contempt was beginning to be replaced by one of speculation. She lowered her lashes and ran the tip of her tongue around dry lips.
“Who are you?”
He halted two feet in front of her. “Morgan Wayne.”
“But what are you?”
Her lashes remained lowered but the words burst from her lips as though long pent up.
“Ask Hake Derr.”
“He doesn’t know. Only hints about you here and there. Rumors that you’re this and that. For God’s sake,” she pleaded wildly, and she lifted her lashes and showed actual wetness in the limpid green eyes, “go away from here. Stay away from Hake. I’ll follow you. I’ll come wherever you say. Whenever you send for me.”
The wetness was tears. They streamed down her cheeks unashamedly. Wayne took one step forward and put his arm about her shaking shoulders. She twisted her face away from him. Her teeth were chattering and she crushed the knuckles of one hand against them.
Wayne pulled the hand away roughly. He twisted her head so her mouth came up to meet his. It was a savage kiss. Her breasts were crushed against him and both arms clung desperately about his neck and a low moan escaped from her set teeth. Her head fell back away from him limply and her eyes were closed, her face peaceful now with a strange look of content.
She said, “Yes, darling. Yes! But hurry. I have no shame left. No fear. Nothing. Hurry, my dear. Oh, God! Hurry.”
A shudder traversed the length of her body. She opened her eyes to his gaze and there was a little-girl pleading in them. A surprised and almost virginal look of ecstasy.
Wayne turned to lower her unresisting body onto the unmade bed. She lay back limply and closed her eyes again. A tremulous smile fluttered across her lips. Wayne lay beside her and lowered his face within inches of hers. She lay with eyes closed, quiescent and waiting, only the gradual increase in the tempo of her breathing betraying the inner excitement gripping her.
Wayne kissed each eyelid gently. He moved his mouth down a tear-wet cheek to the slightly parted lips and across them. She began to shudder again and her hands reached for him.
Wayne drew himself back from her seeking hands. He said huskily, “Where is Hake?”
“He doesn’t matter,” Priscilla murmured, still with closed eyes. “Kiss me, Morgan Wayne.”
“He does matter.” Wayne’s voice was guttural with desire and with the driving determination that was in him. “Suppose he comes back . . . to get his shirt?”
Her fingertips caressed his cheeks gently. “He would kill us both.” Her voice was still a murmur. Without inflection. Uncaring and unafraid. “Are you afraid of death? They say you’re not. They say . . .”
“What do they say about me?” Wayne demanded roughly as her voice trailed off.
“Many things. And I believe them now. I’ve lived in fear so long, my dear. You can’t know. Hake Derr isn’t human. He loves death . . . for the sake of killing. Ugly and lingering death. He tells me at night. Gloats over it.”
“That,” said Wayne harshly, “is what I thought. Do you want to die, Priscilla?”
“I don’t think I care. Take me in your arms.” Her voice was dreamy now, languid and peaceful as the sea after a violent storm has abated.
Morgan Wayne sat up angrily. He made his voice even more harsh. “Come out of it, Priscilla. I might be willing to trade my life for half an hour in bed with you, but by God, I want to be assured of that half hour. Where is Derr at this moment?”
“Where it would take him more than half an hour to get here. Do you have to waste time with questions?”
“Yes,” he said savagely. “Until I know.” He reached forward and lifted the French telephone from a low stand beside the bed and held it close to her face. “Here.”
“What’s that?” She opened her eyes and looked dazedly at the phone as though she had never seen one before.
“A telephone,” he said patiently.
“What for?”
“To check on Hake Derr. If he’s where you think—if we have got that half hour—then we’ll have it.”
She sat up slowly, as though emerging from a hypnotic trance. “Suppose Hake isn’t there?”
“Then we get the hell out of here—fast.”
She sighed and took the telephone. She suddenly seemed to come alive to full awareness of the situation again, and gave him a nervous smile that was almost a hoyden’s grin.
“I guess that does make sense. What’ll I say?”
“Anything. Just to make sure he’s there.”
“I’ll have to say something about your being here. Willie will tell him.”
Wayne shrugged and reached for a cigarette. “Play it straight. Tell him I was here and frightened you.”
Priscilla Endicott drew in a deep breath and dialed a number. Wayne was lighting his cigarette and appeared uninterested, but he watched her finger with concentration and etched the numbers in his mind.
She said, “Hello,” into the mouthpiece, her voice unconsciously becoming hushed and guarded. “That you, Al? Priscilla. Let me talk to Hake.”
She listened a moment, then said forcibly, “I know all that, but this is important. Put Hake on.”
She cradled the mouthpiece hard against the valley between her breasts and told Wayne in a low voice, “He’s there,