Harry Dickson and the Werewolf of Rutherford Grange by G.L. Gick

Author:G.L. Gick [Gick, G.L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Black Coat Press
Published: 2013-04-28T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVEN

The prone figure of Miss Christina Rutherford lay across the road before our stunned eyes; beautiful features marred by streaks of goo and thick bruises. Hair, skin and dress were sopping wet from the pouring away of the glop that had surrounded her—ectoplasm the Doctor called it—and her eyes, while open, stared blankly at us. Then it seemed as if recognition and memory all flowed back at once. Her mouth opened and she let out a howl, not of wolf-like malice and hatred, but one of terror, a long, drawn-out wail of horror and misery. She tried to rise but fell back, screaming: “Mama! Mama!”

To his credit, it was Kritchna who first knelt and gathered her up, pulling her close. “It’s all right, Miss, it’s all right. You’re safe now”

“My God! Mother! Mama!”

“Miss Rutherford!” The Sâr gently took her from Kritchna. “My assistant, Gianetti. Where is she? Is she safe? What do you remember?”

“Gianetti?” She paused, not recognizing this man and unable to find the words to answer him. “I—I remember sitting at the table. Mama was there, and Uncle John, and Gianetti—and we were calling on Papa—and then—and then…”

“Go on,” the Sâr said softly.

“And then…. and then, I felt hate. The most vicious hate. Coming over me.”

“Hate? From within? Like something was invading your soul?”

“No...” Christina shook her head. “Like… like something from outside was covering me up, cocooning me. And I saw Uncle John jump and Mama screamed… and then I reached out for her but my hands weren’t my hands anymore—and I—and I—” She burst into tears. “Mama!”

“Enough,” Kritchna demanded. “Leave her alone.”

“Someone’s coming,” I interjected.

The beams of headlights were flashing through the night toward us, but not from the direction of Westenra House—from the opposite, the direction of the Grange. In an instant, a car which I recognized as the Rutherfords’ own swerved toward us, screeching to a halt by the side of the road, nearly banking into the ditch.

Lord John Roxton was out of the driver’s seat before it was even fully braked. A rifle was slung over his shoulder. “Christina! Thank God you’ve found her!” Without preambles, he shoved the Sâr away to take his niece in his arms. He looked haggard. “Christina, Christina, it is Uncle John. It’s all right.”

“Doctor!” cried another, and an equally-haggard Gianetti Annunciata climbed out of the passenger side, racing toward her mentor. “Doctor, what are you doing here?” She seized his hands. He smiled down at her, in evident relief, but if she would have liked more, he made no move toward it.

“Gianetti, what has happened? Tell me everything!”

“Doctor, it’s horrible! Mrs. Rutherford is dead! Killed by that creature!”

“It’s worse than that, my dear. It was here too. It killed Michel.”

“The Duc? He was killed too? Oh, sweet Mary.”

“Doctor?” Roxton said. “Your employer’s here? My God! It’s you!”

“Ah.” The Doctor smiled, briefly. “Hello, Roxton.”

“You’re this ‘Sâr Dubnotal’ character? You? Back when I knew you in India, you called yourself—”

“No names, please.” The Sâr held up a warning hand.

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