Douglas Preston - The Obsidian Chamber

And she was a tigress in other ways, as well… It tormented him that he was so blinded by hatred of his brother that he’d viewed his successful seduction of her as a triumph over Aloysius. Only later, on his bed of pain, had he realized the night they spent together had been the most remarkable, exciting, raw, sublime, and pleasurable of his life. He sought hedonism like a penitent seeks a cilice — and yet nothing in his life came close to what he’d experienced upon igniting the passions of that woman, pent up for over a hundred years, inflaming that supple and hungry body… What a fool he had been to throw that away.

The rude, ancient medicines of the woman who had tended him had done little to help with the pain, but had done wonders to minimize the scarring. And two months later, he’d left Ginostra — with a new goal in his life…

He realized with a start that Constance stood before him. He had been so distracted that he had not heard her approach.

He rose quickly from the chair before recollecting it had been his intention to remain seated. “Constance,” he breathed.

She was dressed in a simple, yet elegant, ivory dress. A half-moon of lace embroidery below the throat chastely covered, but could not conceal, a most admirable décolletage. The lines of the dress, shimmering like gossamer in the flickering candlelight, ran all the way to the floor, where they hid her feet in a gauzy gathering of fabric. She was looking back at him, regarding his evident discomfiture with an expression he could not quite read: a complex mixture of interest, circumspection, and — he thought and hoped — guarded tenderness.

“Yes,” she said, in a quiet voice.

Diogenes raised one hand to the knot of his tie, fiddling with it unconsciously, uselessly. His mind was so disordered he couldn’t respond.

“Yes,” she repeated. “I’ll retreat from the world with you. And… I’ll take the arcanum.”

She paused, awaiting a response. The shock of relief and delight that broke over Diogenes was so strong that it was not until this very moment he realized just how terrified he’d been that she would say no.

“Constance,” he said again. It was the one word he could manage.

“But you must assure me of one thing,” she said in her low, silky voice.

He waited.

“I need to know this arcanum truly works, and that its creation didn’t involve harming any human being.”

“It works, and no one has been harmed, I promise,” he said, his voice hoarse.

She looked searchingly into his eyes for a long minute.

Almost without knowing what he was doing, he took her hand in both of his. “Thank you, Constance,” he said. “Thank you. You can have no idea how happy this makes me.” He was shocked to find himself blinking away tears of joy. “And you will soon learn just how happy I can make you, too. Halcyon is everything I’ve promised, and more.”

Constance said nothing. She merely looked at him in that strange way of hers — appraising, expectant, inscrutable. Diogenes felt unmanned by this look that, paradoxically, was both titillating and intoxicating.

He kissed her hand. “There is one thing I should explain to you. As you might imagine, I have been forced to create, and maintain, a variety of identities. The identity under which I purchased Halcyon is named Petru Lupei. He is a Romanian count from the Carpathian mountains of Transylvania, where his family fled during the Soviet era. Most were caught and killed, but his father managed to bring out the family wealth, which Petru — he prefers to be called Peter — inherited as the sole son and last survivor of the House of Lupei. Their crumbling family castle is said to be adjacent to the estate of Count Dracula.” He smiled. “I enjoyed that touch. I made him a man of impeccable manners and taste, a beautiful dresser, witty and charming.”

“Fascinating. But why are you telling me this?”

“Because on the way to the airport, I will have to take on the identity and appearance of Petru Lupei — and keep that identity until we reach Halcyon. Please don’t be surprised at my temporary change of looks. On Halcyon, of course, I can be myself. But during the journey there, I would ask you to think of me as Petru Lupei, and to address me as Peter — to preserve my identity and ensure my safe passage.”

“I understand.”

“I knew that you would. And now, please excuse me. I have so much to do before we leave — which, if you like, could be as early as tonight.”

“Tomorrow, if you don’t mind,” Constance said. “I’ll need some time to pack and… say good-bye to this life.”

“Packing,” Diogenes said, as if the thought was new to him. “Of course.” He turned away; hesitated; turned back. “Ah, Constance you are so very beautiful — and I am so very happy!”

He vanished into the gloom of the basement corridor.

Proctor tried to rise, but only managed to haul himself to his knees. He checked the position of the sun, which was directly above, a white-hot disk. He had been unconscious for about an hour, he guessed. The rank smell of lion blood filled his nose. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and the world momentarily spun around. Bad idea. Steadying himself, he took several deep breaths and looked about. His pack lay in the sand a hundred yards off, where he had shed it during the lion attack. Near the pack lay the first dead lion, a sprawl of tawny fur. The second lion lay directly beside him, close enough to touch: stretched out, mouth open, eyes and tongue already alive with flies. A sticky, drying pool of blood soaked the sand around its chest.

His KA-Bar knife, covered with dried gore, lay beside him; he cleaned it by pushing it roughly into the sand several times, then slid it back into the scabbard on his belt.

Once again he tried to rise, but found he did not have the strength. Instead, he crawled across the sand, the heat burning his palms. When he gritted his teeth at the pain, sand crunched between them. He tried to spit it out but, through the fog of thirst and pain, he realized he had become severely dehydrated, his lips cracked, his tongue swollen, his eyes raw. There was water in the pack if he could only get to it.

Slowly, he made his way toward it and finally, with a gasp, reached out and seized it, sinking to the ground and pulling it toward him. He fumbled out the canteen and, taking great care not to spill a drop with his shaking hands, unscrewed the cap and took a long drink. The water was almost too hot. He forced himself to stop and wait, taking long breaths, letting that first drink settle. Five minutes passed and he took another drink. He could feel a small surge of energy and clarity returning. A third drink and that was it. If he didn’t save the rest, he’d be dead in twenty-four hours.

The smell of the closer dead lion was overpowering. His .45 lay on the sand next to it. He crawled over and reached for it, then immediately let the weapon drop: the sun had rendered it too hot to pick up. He stared at it for a moment, trying to clear his head and think. He delved into his pack, removed a crank flashlight that had a hook at the end, hooked it through the trigger guard, and slid the gun into a side pocket, zipping it up.

A brief shadow passed over and he looked up, seeing that a column of vultures had formed and were circling lazily, waiting for him to either die or go away so they could feast on the dead lions. He thought, You’re welcome to the lions, but you ain’t going to get me .

Six hours to sunset. It would be suicide to travel in the heat of day; he had to remain where he was until it was dark. He could see, perhaps half a mile off, a lone acacia tree. He would need that shade — if he could only make it there.