He might have been able to control himself, if it had not been for the sheer terror in her screams.
That sent him over the edge—and over Sunset's neck as the horse pulled up in startlement. He leapt upon du Mond like a wolf leaping for a rabbit, claws extended, and nothing in his mind or his soul but the need to destroy.
He caught a glimpse of du Mond's face as they both went down—which did not even show that the man registered his presence. Then they were grappling together.
Du Mond's strength was prodigious, far greater than the man should ever have commanded on his own. He managed to hold the wolf off for a few moments; long enough for him to realize, in whatever drug-fogged world he was in, that he was in trouble. He wrenched briefly away, and stumbled over Rose as she lay prone, stunned, where he had dropped her.
He still might have been able to save himself, if he had simply fallen flat and unresisting. Instead, he drew a knife, and tried to grab for Rose again, perhaps with the vague notion of using her as a shield.
He never got any farther than the motion.
With a growl that clawed its way out of his throat, Jason leapt for him again, swatting the knife out of his hands—
At that point, everything faded into a scarlet haze.
He came to himself a moment later, with a strange, sweet, warm, metallic taste in his mouth. His claws held du Mond's shoulders to the ground; beneath him, the body quivered as the last vestige of life passed from it. Du Mond's head was flung back, and in his eyes was a look of sheer horror. Du Mond's throat was a red ruin.
With a shock, Jason recognized the taste in his mouth as blood. Fresh blood.
Du Mond's blood.
He had ripped out du Mond's throat with his bare fangs.
With an inarticulate cry, he shoved himself to his feet, and staggered back clumsily a pace or two.
A sound that was part sob, part wail of fear, and part gasp made him lurch about—
—meeting the horrified gaze of Rose.
The beast had won—and she had witnessed it all.
No—no!
He gave a howl of anguish, and ran, not knowing where he was going, and not caring, so long as it took him away, far away, from those fearful, accusing eyes.
Rose didn't remember how she came to be halfway up the path to the house, with the rags of her blouse gathered about her in one hand, the reins of Sunset's bridle in the other, and her hair straggling about her face. She only knew that at one moment she was staring into the eyes of a creature she had thought she knew—a creature with the blood of a man on its hands and fangs, which stared back at her with no sign of recognition in its face. She had been fighting for her life at one moment, and at the next had watched the man she loved tearing out the throat of her attacker.
Literally.
I'm in shock, she thought, dimly. I must get back to the house—
But he had run off, howling, in that same direction. What if he was lying in wait for her, his blood-lust unappeased by his first victim?
This is Jason you're thinking about!
But it had not been Jason who had looked at her with the uncomprehending eyes of a beast. It had been the werewolf, the loup-garou, and she did not know it at all.
Sunset walked along beside her in utter exhaustion, head down, sides heaving, streaming sweat. She dimly recalled hoofbeats approaching before something had flown over her head and sent her sprawling into the underbrush. Had Jason ridden him here? Had the Salamanders alerted him? But why hadn't they attacked du Mond themselves?
She thought of the blood on Jason's hands, dripping from his abbreviated muzzle, and shuddered. She had never seen anyone die before, not even her father. How could he have done that to anyone, even his worst enemy?
How could she stay here? What if he snapped again?
She had once asked him how much of him was wolf, and he had seemed startled and uneasy at the question. Now she knew why.
How close to the surface is the wolf? And what if I am the one to make him angry next time?
As she emerged from the forest in front of the house, two Salamanders flitted up to take charge of Sunset. She dropped the reins listlessly, and stumbled on to the house, with both hands holding the ruins of her blouse over her chest in a vain attempt at modesty. Her hands, her wrists, her arms ached, and she was limping because the heel of her right shoe had broken off in the fight.
She found herself in her room, again with no clear idea of how she had gotten there. With a frightened gasp, she whirled, and with trembling hands, locked her door.
Only then did she stumble into the bathroom, where she knelt beside the toilet and retched until her stomach and chest ached and there was nothing left for her to be rid of.
She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, feeling the sting of scratches there as she did so.
Shaking in every limb, she got slowly to her feet again, to find a bath waiting ready for her although she had not ordered one. She lifted her hands to look at them with dull curiosity; they were covered with deep scratches, and her hair, now loose and straggling, was full of twigs and knots.
She looked down. There was blood splattered on her skirt, on the remains of her blouse. There was too much of it to be hers.
In a frenzy of sudden horror, she ripped the rags of the clothing from her body without regard for fasteners, breaking a nail in the process. A Salamander appeared just as she struggled out of the last of it. She did not wait for it to ask what she wanted.
"Take it!" she wailed, shoving it away with her foot as far as she could. "Burn it! Burn it all!"
The Salamander levitated the pile of blood-stained clothing from the floor; still shuddering, she turned her back on it and its burden, and freed herself of her corsets and the rest of her underthings, just dropping them and leaving them where they fell. She plunged into the bath as into the waters of life, scrubbing frantically and hysterically to remove any taint, any hint of blood.
She blanked out again, and came to herself as she was dressing in entirely new clothing. Presumably the Salamanders had brought it all; she didn't remember. Something had combed out the tangles and twigs from her hair; perhaps she had, perhaps they had. Perhaps her own Sylph had.
She did not want to go out into the next room. She wanted to stay here, in the clean, white, safe bathroom.
Against her will, her feet walked into the bedroom, and from there into the sitting-room, and her body was forced to follow.
Her trunk and other baggage was waiting for her; she had not packed it before her walk, and could not have packed it afterwards....
There was a note. Numbly, she picked it up and read it.
I have sent for the train. Go into the city, tonight. Stay long enough to see Caruso, if after all this you still wish to. I have engaged a room at the Palace Hotel for you so that you need not see anyone who knows you and who might require an explanation, and there will be a porter and a taxi waiting at the station. You must rest tonight. After that, if you wish to leave, I will understand, leave word with my agent where you wish to go and first-class tickets will be waiting for you at the station. After you have gone, I will arrange for the rest of your things to follow. My agent will arrange for your bank-account to be cleared, and add a generous severance-fee.
It was not signed, but it didn't need to be. Not with the copperplate script burned into the paper as only a Salamander could.
In a state of benumbed emptiness, she gathered up her gloves and her cloak, pinned her hat to her still-damp hair, dropped her veil over her scratched face, and left, without a backward glance.