A viper reared up from where it had been lying coiled beneath the robes on the corpse’s chest. The snake’s hooded head faced Father Jacob. The viper’s tongue flicked out of its mouth. The snake hissed at Father Jacob and seemed to want to strike, but the priest held it in thrall with his magic. The viper’s head swayed back and forth, its slit eyes fixed on Father Jacob.
“You must cut off the head, Sir Ander,” said Father Jacob coolly. “Quickly, man! I cannot hold sway over it much longer.”
Sir Ander swallowed his inborn revulsion of all things that slithered on the ground and drew his broadsword from the scabbard slowly, trying not to make a sound that might cause the viper to attack. He held his sword in his hand, estimating the stroke.
“You’re too close to the snake. I don’t want to cut off two heads instead of one,” said Sir Ander softly.
“I don’t dare move,” said Father Jacob. “If I do, I will break the spell that is holding the viper in thrall.”
Sir Ander drew in a deep breath. “Then when I swing, you must pull your head back. Are you ready?”
“Ready,” said Father Jacob.
Brother Barnaby was softly praying.
“Put a prayer in God’s ear for me, Brother,” said Sir Ander and, using a backhanded stroke, he swept the blade through the air.
Father Jacob lunged sideways. The blade whistled past him and sliced through the viper, severing the snake’s head from the body. The head flew off onto the floor. The snake’s body fell, twitching, on top of the corpse.
“A Tissius viper,” said Father Jacob, eyeing the snake with interest. “Comes from the Kharun Dir Desert. Highly poisonous. Brother Barnaby, could you find me a sack? I should like to take the corpse back to the yacht to study-”
Sir Ander coughed and jerked his head.
Father Jacob looked up at Brother Barnaby. The young man leaned against the wall, shivering. Father Jacob’s expression softened.
“I am sorry you had to witness this, Brother Barnaby,” said Father Jacob with a sigh. “And I am sorry I struck you. But if you had touched the corpse, the viper would have bitten you. Death would have been inevitable and most painful.”
“I understand, Father.” Brother Barnaby gulped. He looked ill, but he stood steadfast. “Please do not apologize. I will find a sack-”
“Thank you, Brother, but never mind,” said Father Jacob in regretful tones. “I wouldn’t have time to dissect it anyway.”
Sir Ander drew his handkerchief and carefully wiped his blade. He thrust his broadsword back into the scabbard and tossed the handkerchief in disgust onto the floor.
“Why did the Warlock plant the snake on himself?” asked Sir Ander. “Just to have the sadistic pleasure of knowing that he could still kill after death?”
Father Jacob was staring with perplexity at the corpse. “I’m not certain that was the reason. From what I know of him, the Warlock, though young, is highly intelligent. His actions are always purposeful. Reason and logic guide him.”
He looked more closely at the corpse, then he said urgently, “Tell the soldiers to start searching the area.”
“What are they searching for?” Sir Ander asked, puzzled.
“For the Warlock, of course,” Father Jacob snapped impatiently.
Sir Ander had no idea what the priest was talking about-the Warlock was dead on the floor. But Sir Ander had been with Father Jacob for ten years and he knew that questioning him now would only further aggravate him. He trusted the priest implicitly and although the Warlock was most certainly dead, he went to tell the soldiers to conduct a thorough search of the building and the surrounding area for the Warlock.
The soldiers looked at Sir Ander as though he was crazy, but he was a Knight Protector and they were bound to obey. They walked off slowly, muttering among themselves. They wanted to leave this place, go back to pick up their dead. Sir Ander didn’t blame them. A mug of cold ale in some noisy tavern where people were carefree and laughing seemed like Heaven to him about now.
“They’re searching for him,” Sir Ander said on his return. “Though they have no idea why.”
“They won’t find him,” Father Jacob remarked, talking to himself more than his companions. “He had his escape route all planned. A brilliant young man. He could have done great things in this world. For such a mind to be corrupted…”
Brother Barnaby was bewildered. “I don’t understand, Father,” he said hesitantly. “Isn’t this dead man the Warlock?”
In answer, Father Jacob placed his hand on the young man’s cheek and, with a sudden jerk, ripped off the blond mustache. Brother Barnaby flinched and gasped in shock.
“It’s not real, Brother. Spirit gum,” Father Jacob said succinctly, holding up the mustache. “The sort used by actors.”
He tore off the blond beard, then twitched aside the collar of the red robes to reveal the breasts, bound in strips of flannel, of a young woman.
Brother Barnaby hurriedly averted his eyes. The young monk took his vow of celibacy seriously. Sir Ander drew closer to get a better look, then he remembered the snake and kept his distance.
“Oh, it’s quite safe now,” Father Jacob said. “The poor child will not hurt anyone anymore.”
“She can’t be more than fifteen!” Sir Ander knelt down to gaze with pity at the youthful face. He sighed and said quietly, “Elaina Devroux.”
“Yes,” said Father Jacob. “Sad news for the viscount and his lady wife.”
“He murdered her and then disguised the body so that we would think it was him,” Sir Ander said grimly.
“He did not murder the girl, though one might say Elaina Devroux perished the day she fell victim to him and his cult,” said Father Jacob. “Note the expression on her face. The young woman died in a drug-induced state. The juice of the poppy, if I’m not mistaken. She dressed with care, even to binding her breasts to make herself appear flat-chested. She put on men’s boots, which are too big for her.”
He looked at the rigid, pale face with its strange and terrible smile. “The beard and mustache are made of real human hair and were applied by someone who knew his business. Such a disguise required careful planning and forethought. She must have agreed at the outset to sacrifice herself for the Warlock should that become necessary. The Warlock was her lover. She ran away from home, to go to him and to the opium he fed her.”
“How do you know she was taking opium?” Sir Ander asked.
“When her parents first found her, wandering aimlessly about the city, they thought her ravings were the result of ‘demonic possession.’ In truth, the seizures were brought about by the removal of the drug to which she had become addicted. I have seen the same behavior among patients in the infirmary who were given opium in honey for the pain of broken limbs. In some instances, when the opium is taken away, these patients appear to have been seized by demons.”
The priest drew back Elaina’s robes and pointed to two small marks on the young girl’s neck.
“That is how she died. When the Warlock placed the viper on her chest and covered it with her robes, she knew that it must eventually bite her.”
“But why would she do such thing?” Brother Barnaby asked, his voice soft with dismay.
“To give the man she adored the opportunity to escape, of course,” said Father Jacob. “He needed time to evade our pursuit and this poor child provided it.”
“He escapes, leaving her and everyone else in his cult to die. I hope he rots in Hell!” Sir Ander said savagely. “He was warned in advance of our coming.”
“Yes,” Father Jacob said and he added bitterly, in sudden anger, “As if we needed more proof than the fact that I walked into his trap and now eleven men are dead!”
“But who could have warned him? No one knew except you and me and the viscount…”
Sir Ander saw the grim look on the priest’s face. “The viscount? You can’t be serious! Why warn the very person he wanted us to catch? His soldiers were the ones who died in the assault.”