Anselme felt that the sorceries of Sylaire were more complicated than he had hitherto imagined. But amid his bewilderment he was unable to trust the weird being before him. He had heard many tales of werewolves, who were reputedly common in medieval France. Their ferocity, people said, was that of demons rather than of mere brutes.
‘Allow me to warn you of the grave danger in which you stand,’ continued Malachie du Marais. ‘You were rash to let yourself be enticed by Sephora. If you are wise, you will leave the purlieus of Sylaire with all possible dispatch. The land is old in evil and sorcery, and all who dwell within it are ancient as the land, and are equally accursed. The servants of Sephora, who waited upon you yestereve, are vampires that sleep by day in the tower vaults and come forth by night. They go out through the Druid portal, to prey on the people of Averoigne.’
He paused as if to emphasize the words that followed. His eyes glittered balefully, and his deep voice assumed a hissing undertone. ‘Sephora herself is an ancient lamia, well-nigh immortal, who feeds on the vital forces of young men. She has had many lovers throughout the ages — and I must deplore, even though I cannot specify, their ultimate fate. The youth and beauty that she retains are illusions. If you could see Sephora as she really is, you would recoil in revulsion, cured of your perilous love; You would see her — unthinkably old, and hideous with infamies.’
‘But how can such things be?’ queried Anselme. ‘Truly, I cannot believe you.’
Malachie shrugged his hairy shoulders. ‘At least I have warned you. But the wolf-change approaches, and I must go. If you will come to me later, in my abode which lies a mile to the westward of Sephora’s tower, perhaps I can convince you that my statements are the truth. In the meanwhile, ask yourself if you have seen any mirrors, such as a beautiful young woman would use, in Sephora’s chamber. Vampires and lamias are afraid of mirrors — for a good reason.’
Anselme went back to the tower with a troubled mind. What Malachie had told him was incredible. Yet there was the matter of Sephora’s servants. He had hardly noticed their absence that morning — and yet he had not seen them since the previous eve — And he could not remember any mirrors among Sephora’s various feminine belongings.
He found Sephora awaiting him in the tower’s lower hall. One glance at the utter sweetness of her womanhood, and he felt ashamed of the doubts with which Maiachie had inspired him.
Sephora’s blue-gray eyes questioned him, deep and tender as those of some pagan goddess of love. Reserving no detail, he told her of his meeting with the werewolf.
‘Ah! I did well to trust my intuitions,’ she said. ‘Last night, when the black wolf growled and glowered at you, it occurred to me that he was perhaps becoming more dangerous than I had realized; This morning, in my chamber of magic, I made use of my clairvoyant powers and I learned much. Indeed, I have been careless. Malachie has become a menace to my security. Also, he hates you, and would destroy our happiness.’
‘Is it true, then,’ questioned Anselme, ‘that he was your lover, and that you turned him into a werewolf?’
‘He was my lover — long, long ago. But the werewolf form was his own choice, assumed out of evil curiosity by drinking kom the pool of which he told you. He has regretted it since, for the wolf shape, while giving him certain powers of harm, in reality limits his actions and his sorceries. He wishes to return to human shape, and if he succeeds, will become doubly dangerous to us both.
‘I should have watched him well — for I now find that he has stolen from me the recipe of antidote to the werewolf waters. My clairvoyance tells me that he has already brewed the antidote, in the brief intervals of humanity regained by chewing a certain root. When he drinks the potina, as I think that he means to do before long, he will regain human form -permanently. He waits only for the dark of the moon, when the werewolf spell is at its weakest.’
‘But why should Malachie hate me?’ asked Anselme. ‘And how can I help you against him?’
‘That first question is slightly stupid, my dear. Of course, he is jealous of you. As for helping me — well, I thought of a good trick to play on Malachie.’
She produced a small purple glass vial, triangular in shape, from the folds of her bodice.
‘This vial,’ she told him, ‘is filled with the water of the werewolf pool. Through my clairvoyant vision, I learned that Malachie keeps his newly brewed potion in a vial of similar size, shape and color. If you can go to his den and substitute one vial for the other without detection, I believe that the results will be quite amusing.’
‘Indeed, I will go,’ Ansehne assured her.
‘The present should be a favorable time,’ said Sephora. ‘It is now within an hour of noon; and Malachie often hunts at this time. If you should find him in his den, or he should return while you are there, you can say that you came in response to his invitation.’
She gave Anselme careful instructions that would enable to find the werewolf’s den without delay. Also, she gave him a sword, saying that the blade had been tempered to the chanting of magic spells that made it effective against such beings as Malachie. ‘The wolf’s temper has grown uncertain,’ she warned. ‘If he should attack you, your alder stick would ‘ prove a poor weapon.’
It was easy to locate the den, for well-used paths ran toward it with little deviation. The place was the mounded remnant of a tower that had crumbled down into grassy earth and mossy blocks. The entrance had once been a lofty doorway: now it was only a hole, such as a large animal would make in leaving and returning to its burrow.
Anselme hesitated before the hole. ‘Are you there, Malachie du Marais?’ he shouted. There was no answer, no sound of movement from within. Anselme shouted once more. At last, stooping on hands and knees, he entered the den.
Light poured through several apertures, latticed with wandering tree-roots, where the mound had fallen in from above. The place was a cavern rather than a room. It stank with carrion remnants into whose nature Anselme did not inquire too closely. The ground was littered with bones, broken stems and leaves of plants, and shattered or rusted vessels of alchemic use. A verdigris-eaten kettle hung from a tripod above ashes and ends of charred faggots. Rain-sodden grimoires lay mouldering in rusty metal covers. The three legged ruin of a table was propped against the wall. It was covered with a medley of oddments, among which Anselme discerned a purple vial resembling the one given him by Sephora.
In one corner was a litter of dead grass. The strong, rank odor of a wild beast mingled with the carrion stench.
Anselme looked about and listened cautiously. Then, without delay, he substituted Sephora’s vial for the one on Malachie’s table. The stolen vial he placed under his jerkin.
There was a padding of feet at the cavern’s entrance. Anselme turned — to confront the black wolf. The beast came toward him, crouching tensely as if about to spring, with eyes glaring like crimson coals of Avernus. Anselme’s fingers dropped to the hilt of the enchanted sword that Sephora had given him.
The wolf’s eyes followed his fingers, It seemed that he recognized the sword. He turned from Anselme, and began to chew some roots of the garlic-like plant, which he had doubtless collected to make possible those operations which he could hardly have carried on in wolfish form.
This time, the transformation was not complete. The head, and body of Malachie du Marais rose up again before Ansehne; but the legs were the hind legs of a monstrous wolf. He was like some bestial hybrid of antique legend.
‘Your visit honors me,’ he said, half snarling, with suspicion in his eyes, and voice. ‘Few have cared to enter my poor abode, and I am grateful to you. In recognition of your kindness, I shall make you a present.’
With the padding movements of a wolf, he went over to the ruinous table and groped amid the confused oddments with which it was covered. He drew out an oblong silver mirror, brightly burnished, with jeweled handle, such as a great lady or damsel might own. This he offered to Anselme.
‘I give you the mirror of Reality,’ he announced. ‘In it, all things are reflected according to their true nature. The illusions of enchantment cannot deceive it. You disbelieved me, when I warned you against Sephora. But if you hold this mirror to her face and observe the reflection, you will see that her beauty, like everything else in Sylaire, is a hollow lie — the mask of ancient horror and corruption. If you doubt me, hold the mirror to my face — now: for I, too, am part of the land’s immemorial evil.’