Mansfield with Monsters (20 page)

Leila seized the shoulder of the stunned man's coat, pulled him close and sank her fangs into his jugular vein. His blood pumped thick and rich, increasing her thirst rather than quenching it. She clutched at him with a force his struggles were powerless against, holding him up as they waltzed to the rhythm of his pulsing heart. It was only when the heartbeat faded below the distant strands of the band playing inside that Leila realised her mistake. She released her hold on the fat man and his lifeless body fell to the ground.

Why did she have to kill him? Laurie had warned her to stop before the heart slowed. Why had he insisted on following her out? She hadn't even wanted him for her first partner, her first bite. Even in the shadows of the garden, he looked shabby when Leila compared him to her other partners. His waistcoat was creased, there was a button off his glove, his coat looked as if it was dusty with French chalk.

She would not let the fat man spoil everything. This was only the beginning. She would leave him, return before the ninth dance, and next time she would do better. She was stronger now she had fed—how light his hefty body seemed when she dragged it over to a canna lily on the edge of the garden. She hid the fat man beneath the awning of leaves and silken flowers, glimpses of ashen face and bulging eyes appearing only when the stalks swayed and quivered in the luminous moon-light.

Without a backwards glance, she strode through the swing doors and into the life and noise of the ball. Presently a soft, melting, ravishing tune began, and a young man with curly hair bowed before her. She would have to dance, out of politeness, until she could find Meg. Very serenely she walked into the middle; very haughtily she put her hand on his sleeve. But in one minute, in one turn, her feet glided, glided. The lights, the azaleas, the dresses, the pink faces, the velvet chairs, all became one beautiful flying wheel.

And when there was a cry from the garden and a crowd rushed over to see the drained body discovered outside, she was swept along with them and felt more radiant and alive than ever. She didn't even recognise the fat man again.

A Cup of Tea

Rosemary Fell was not exactly beautiful, not in human form. As a wolf she was magnificent, with a sleek russet coat that gleamed like a pool of blood in the moon-light. But without the charm of the full moon you couldn't have called her beautiful. Pretty? Well, if you took her to pieces then her features were too sharp and predatory in the stark light of day. And her eyes? While they were a beautiful shape and such an exotic shade of amber, there was something unsettling in her gaze. But why be so cruel as to take anyone to pieces? She was young, brilliant, extremely modern, exquisitely well dressed, amazingly well read in the newest of the new books, and her lunar parties were a delicious mixture of elegance, sophistication, and the most exhilarating of hunts a thrill-seeking lupine could desire. Her guests—her ‘pack' as she laughingly called them—were intriguing creatures, discoveries of hers, some of them too terrifying for words, but others quite presentable and amusing.

Rosemary had been married two years to Phillip who was such a treasure. A true alpha of the pack, and he absolutely adored her. They were rich, really rich, not just comfortably well off, which is odious and stuffy and sounds like one's grandparents.

Wealth suited Rosemary for spending money came as naturally to her as breathing and killing. Phillip joked that her appetite for shopping would rival any werewolf's hunger on a full moon hunt.

On the day of the hunt she made her usual trip to the flower-shop. The roses were exquisite—long, delicate stems stretching up into perfect little crimson buds. There were white roses too, their soft ivory petals too divine to resist. And tulips! Four dozen short, stubby tulips all neatly bundled up in round bunches.

She bought them all, smiled dreamily and glided out the door while the nervous assistant fussed around wrapping her flowers.

The discreet door shut with a click. She stepped out into the winter afternoon. Rain was falling, and with the rain it seemed the dark came too, spinning down like ashes. There was a cold bitter taste in the air, and the new-lighted lamps looked sad without the moon above them. Dimly they burned as if regretting something. And people hurried by, hidden under their hateful umbrellas.

Rosemary felt a strange pang. She always felt restless on the day of the full moon. A young girl, thin, dark, shadowy—where had she come from?—appeared at Rosemary's elbow and a voice like a sigh, almost like a sob, breathed: “Madam, may I speak to you a moment?”

“Speak to me?” Rosemary turned. She saw a little battered creature with enormous eyes, someone quite young, who clutched at her scarlet coat-collar with reddened hands and shivered as though she had just come out of the water.

“M-madam,” stammered the voice. “Would you let me have the price of a cup of tea?”

“A cup of tea?” There was something simple, sincere in that voice; it wasn't in the least the voice of a beggar. “Then have you no money at all?” asked Rosemary.

“None, madam,” came the answer.

“How extraordinary!” Rosemary peered through the dusk and the girl gazed back at her. How more than extraordinary! And suddenly it seemed to Rosemary such an adventure. It was like something out of a novel by Dostoevsky, this meeting in the dusk. Supposing she took the girl home? Supposing she cleaned her up and made a pet of her? She could have the girl sit down to dinner with the pack to-night. She would feed her and be kind to her and then the hunt would begin. It would be such thrilling sport. Rosemary's lips curled up, revealing sharp white teeth, and she said, “Come home to tea with me.”

The girl drew back startled. She even stopped shivering for a moment. Rosemary put out a hand and touched her arm. “I mean it,” she said, smiling. And she felt how simple and kind her smile was. “Why won't you? Do. Come home with me now in my car and have tea.”

“You—you don't mean it, madam,” said the girl, and there was pain in her voice.

“But I do,” cried Rosemary. “I want you to. To please me. Come along.”

The girl put her fingers to her lips and her eyes met Rosemary's. “You're—you're not taking me to the police station?” she stammered.

“The police station!” Rosemary laughed out. “Why should I be so cruel? No, I only want to make you warm and to hear—anything you care to tell me.”

Hungry people are easily led. The footman held the door of the car open, they walked down the pavement and a moment later they were skimming through the dusk.

“There!” said Rosemary. She had a feeling of triumph as she slipped her hand through the velvet strap. She could have said, “Now I've got you,” as she gazed at the little captive she had netted. But of course she would have said it kindly. Oh, more than kindly. She was going to make this girl believe that wonderful things did happen in life, that rich people had hearts, that fairy godmothers were real. She turned impulsively, saying, “Don't be frightened. After all, why shouldn't you come back with me? We're both women. You can trust me…”

But at that moment, the car stopped. The bell was rung, the door opened, and with a charming, protecting, almost embracing movement, Rosemary drew the other into the hall. Warmth, softness, light, a sweet scent, all those things so familiar to her she never even thought about them, she watched that other receive. It was fascinating.

“Come, come upstairs,” said Rosemary, longing to begin to be generous. “Come up to my room.” And, besides, she didn't want this poor little thing to be looked at too closely by the servants; she decided as they mounted the stairs she would not even ring to Jeanne, but take off her things by herself.

And “There!” cried Rosemary again, as they reached her beautiful big bed-room with the curtains drawn, the fire leaping on her wonderful lacquer furniture, her gold cushions and the primrose and blue rugs.

The girl stood just inside the door; she seemed dazed. But Rosemary didn't mind that.

“Come and sit down,” she cried, dragging her big chair up to the fire, “in this comfy chair. Come and get warm. You look so dreadfully cold.”

“I daren't, madam,” said the girl, and she edged backwards.

“Oh, please,”—Rosemary ran forward—“you mustn't be frightened, you mustn't, really. Sit down. When I've taken off my things we shall go into the next room and have tea and be cozy. Why are you afraid?” And gently she half pushed the thin figure into its deep cradle.

But there was no answer. The girl stayed just as she had been put, with her hands by her sides and her mouth slightly open. To be quite sincere, she looked rather terrified. But Rosemary wouldn't acknowledge it. She was doing so well at being kind and generous. The girl must come to trust her. She leant over her, saying: “Won't you take off your hat? Your pretty hair is all wet. And one is so much more comfortable without a hat, isn't one?”

There was a whisper that sounded like, “Very good, madam,” and the crushed hat was taken off.

“And let me help you off with your coat, too,” said Rosemary.

The girl stood up. But she held on to the chair with one hand and let Rosemary pull. It was quite an effort. The other scarcely helped her at all. She seemed to stagger like a child, and the thought came and went through Rosemary's mind, that if people wanted helping they should respond a little, just a little, otherwise it became very difficult indeed. And what was she to do with the coat now? She left it on the floor, and was deciding what to do next when the girl said quickly, but so lightly and strangely: “I'm very sorry, madam, but I'm going to faint. I shall go off, madam, if I don't have something.”

“Good heavens, how thoughtless I am!” Rosemary rushed to the bell.

“Tea! Tea at once! And some brandy immediately!”

The maid was gone again, but the girl almost cried out: “No, I don't want no brandy. I never drink brandy. It's a cup of tea I want, madam.” And she burst into tears.

It was a terrible and fascinating moment. Rosemary knelt beside her chair.

“Don't cry, poor little thing,” she said. “Don't cry.” And she gave the other her lace handkerchief. She wondered how she was going to strengthen this frail creature to give good chase by midnight. She put her arm round those thin, bird-like shoulders.

Now at last the other forgot to be shy, forgot everything except that they were both women, and gasped out: “I can't go on no longer like this. I can't bear it. I can't bear it. I shall do away with myself. I can't bear no more.”

“You shan't have to. I'll take care of you.” Rosemary tightened her embrace around the girl's delicate shoulders. “Don't cry any more. Don't you see what a good thing it was that you met me? We'll have tea and you'll tell me everything. And I shall arrange something. I promise. Do stop crying. It's so exhausting. You'll need your strength. Please!”

The other did stop just in time for Rosemary to get up before the tea came. She had the table placed between them. She plied the poor little creature with everything, all the sandwiches, all the bread and butter, and every time her cup was empty she filled it with tea, cream, and sugar. People always said sugar was so nourishing. As for herself she didn't eat; she smoked and looked away tactfully so that the other should not be shy.

And really the effect of that slight meal was marvellous. When the tea-table was carried away a new being, a light, frail creature with tangled hair, dark lips, deep, lighted eyes, lay back in the big chair in a kind of sweet languor, looking at the blaze. Rosemary lit a fresh cigarette; it was time to begin.

“And when did you have your last meal?” she asked softly.

But at that moment the door-handle turned.

“Rosemary, may I come in?” It was Phillip.

“Of course.”

He came in. “Oh, I'm so sorry,” he said, and stopped and stared.

“It's quite all right,” said Rosemary, smiling. “This is my friend, Miss—”

“Smith, madam,” said the languid figure, who was strangely still and unafraid.

“Smith,” said Rosemary. “We are going to have a little talk.”

“Oh yes,” said Phillip. “Quite,” and he caught sight of the coat and hat on the floor. He came over to the fire and turned his back to it. “It's a beastly afternoon,” he said curiously, still looking at that listless figure, looking at its hands and boots, and then at Rosemary again.

“Yes, isn't it?” said Rosemary enthusiastically. “I'm sure to-night will be perfectly wild.”

Phillip smiled his charming smile. “As a matter of fact,” said he, “I wanted you to come into the library for a moment. Would you? Will Miss Smith excuse us?”

The big eyes were raised to him, but Rosemary answered for her: “Of course she will.” And they went out of the room together.

“I say,” said Phillip, when they were alone. “Explain. Who is she? What does it all mean?”

Rosemary, laughing, leant against the door and said: “I picked her up in Curzon Street. Really. Isn't she a little treat? She asked me for the price of a cup of tea, and I brought her home with me. “

“But what on earth are you going to do with her?” cried Phillip.

“Be nice to her,” said Rosemary quickly. “Be frightfully nice to her. And then I thought she might be the guest of honour at our hunting party to-night.”

“My darling girl,” said Phillip, “you're quite mad, you know. It simply can't be done. We can't hunt someone you openly picked up off the streets. My dear, please understand that we must be discreet.”

“I knew you'd say that,” retorted Rosemary. “Why can't we hunt her? I want to. Isn't that reason enough? Besides no one cares what happens to her. No one would have noticed if I'd left her to die on the streets.”

“But, my sweet Rosemary, the servants and who knows who else would have seen her coming here.”

“Well I doubt anyone would see the difference between one waif and another. And besides, we're hunting with twelve hungry werewolves to-night. There won't be a scrap of meat left to recognise.”

“But,” said Phillip slowly, and he cut the end of a cigar, “she's so astonishingly pretty. People would have seen her. No pretty girl ever escapes notice.”

“Pretty?” Rosemary was so surprised that she blushed. “Do you think so? I—I hadn't thought about it.”

“Good Lord!” Phillip struck a match. “She's absolutely lovely. Look again, my child. I was bowled over when I came into your room just now. I think you're making a ghastly mistake. Sorry, darling, if I'm a spoil-sport and all that. Of course if your heart's set on it, I won't deprive you of your fun. Who knows? Maybe I'll develop a taste for pretty young girls and won't be satisfied with any other prey.”

“You absurd creature!” said Rosemary, and she went out of the library, but not back to her bed-room. She went to her writing-room and sat down at her desk. Pretty! Absolutely lovely! Bowled over! Her heart beat like a caged animal and her jaw twitched. Pretty! Lovely! She drew her cheque-book towards her. But no, cheques would be no use, of course. She opened a drawer and took out five pound notes, looked at them, put two back, and holding the three squeezed in her hand, she went back to her bed-room.

Half an hour later Phillip was still in the library, when Rosemary came in. She had just redone her hair, darkened her eyes a little and put on her pearls.

“I only wanted to tell you,” said she, and she leant against the door again and looked at him with her exotic gaze, “Miss Smith won't dine with us to-night.”

Phillip put down the paper. “Oh, what's happened? Previous engagement?”

Rosemary came over and sat down on his knee. “She insisted on going,” said she, “so I gave the poor little thing a present of money. I couldn't keep her against her will, could I? It might have attracted attention,” she added softly.

Phillip smiled but said nothing.

“I suppose I'd better get ready for to-night. It's been such a frightful day. I haven't any idea what to wear,” said she, and her tone, sweet, husky, troubled him.