The Warlock by Marc Olden

Author:Marc Olden [Marc Olden]
Language: eng
Format: epub

Janicot’s smile wasn’t a smile at all. It was a gesture, something to do until he moved in for the kill. “Half full or half empty the glass.” When he spoke, his voice filled the huge main room of his villa.

The high ceiling was painted in a mural of naked men, women, and children staring and pointing up at a black sky. The silent figures seemed to be waiting for something or someone to come through a huge white and gold circle.

Percy Bone stared at the mural, wishing he was up there with them looking down. The black man had gotten away, escaping from the plane and disappearing into the night

Now Bone, Janicot, Justin Evans, Chavez, Synne, and a few others sat around the large white and gold room with its thick columns and twelve-foot-high glass and wood doors.

What the hell did Janicot mean about “half full, half empty the glass,” wondered Bone. Sometimes Janicot was hard to understand.

“The optimist says the glass is half full,” said Janicot. “The pessimist says it’s half empty. Tonight we failed to capture the black man, but we have supposedly convinced him he has killed me.”

Synne smiled at him. “You’ve made a remarkable recovery.”

“Thank you, my dear. Too bad Clarence isn’t here to see it.” Janicot turned toward Justin Evans. “What exactly did you inject my reflection with?” Clarence. His reflection. The Warlock’s lookalike.

Clarence, a Yugoslavian who Janicot had had released from a Paris jail by someone in the French government, had been kept around the Warlock for the past few months.

Women, liquor, drugs, money. Clothes, cars. Whatever Clarence wanted, he’d gotten.

Tonight, he’d paid for them. As Janicot knew he would eventually.

Poor Clarence. But he’d lived well for almost three months, enjoying things he was too dumb to have earned on his own.

Justin Evans, tall and, thin, with white hair, beard and mustache, sipped his brandy, then gazed down into the glass. “The exact formula would only be confusing. Suffice it to say, it is of my own creation. I combined three drugs, injecting him with various doses over twelve hours. Tonight, he had no more mind of his own than that wall over there.”

Evans enjoyed the freedom found with Janicot and his world. Here a man lacked nothing. Money, women, excitement. And above all, power. Janicot paid well for drugs and a knowledge of them.

And even with his past difficulties in too freely dispensing drugs to the rich and powerful, Evans was now making more money than before. Janicot was generous when he wanted something.

At the moment, Evans wanted something. Synne. He’d had her a couple of times before, but she had since avoided him. She bored easily, but no matter.

Janicot told her to come to the fifty-five-year-old doctor’s bed, she’d do so. And she would perform most excellently, too. Evans eyed her across the top of his large brandy glass. Silver hair. Sensual. So very, very sensual.

“I would much prefer to be enjoying the sight of the black man writhing in pain,” said Janicot, his eyes staring at the mural above him.

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