Priestess of Murder Read Online Free Page A

whistle came
again, and Leila crashed to the ground as the terrible grip on her throat,
the pinning thrust of the bestial knee, were released.
    Leila wallowed in her distress, while somewhere above her a tumultuous
sound crashed momentarily and died away. She pulled air into the sore agony
of her lungs.
    "Leila," Stan cried, somewhere above her.
    It wasn't Stan. It couldn't be Stan. Stan was lying dead in the old house
that had suddenly become an abode of horror. Stan had bled to death there
because she had not been able to get to him in time to save him.
    "Leila, darling!"
    Hands were tugging at her, were rolling her over. Stan's hands. His dear
face was looking down at her, anxiety clouding his eyes. Stan's face...
    "Leila! Speak to me. Leila!"
    The girl sat up. He was disheveled. His trooper's uniform was gashed, torn
by the tearing brambles of the forest, and there was a livid weal across his
tanned cheek that a lashing tendril had made. But he was alive. It was Stan
who had saved her, at the last possible moment, from an awful death.
    "Stan! What—how did you get here? How...?"
    "I was knocked out, there in your house, I came to, heard the back door
close. I rushed out there and saw you vanishing into the woods. I've been
hunting for you... "
    "Then wasn't..."
    "Don't talk now," Stan silenced her. "You're hurt, exhausted. When I get
you home, get you warm, you can tell me all about it."
    He was tender, solicitous. He loved her still. Leila nestled in his arms,
thrilling to his strength, thrilling to the feel of his heart heating against
her own. She would obey him, she would keep quiet for a few minutes. If she
started to talk, if she told him that it had been Eve he had seen, not her,
she would have to tell him the rest.
    She would have to tell him that the girl in his arms had killed his
father. How could she tell him that? How could she?
    The black trees of the forest slid by, rustling in the night. Leila
whimpered. "Hush, darling," Stan murmured. "We'll soon be out of this. We'll
soon be where it's warm and light."
    Light. Would there ever be light again in her dark soul? Darker than ever
now. Thought burred through Leila's aching brain. Stan had been attacked in
the house, had been knocked unconscious. That was evident. Foster Corbett
must have done that, lying in ambush. Then Leila must be sane.
    But Eve Starr's actions had confirmed the awful speculation that it was
Leila who had attacked her. Leila, in whose mind no memory remained of the
terrible deed. That proved her insane.
    There wasn't any answer. There couldn't be any answer, because she didn't
know how much of her experiences was real, how much she had forgotten, how
much she had imagined. The Monster, for instance. Stan's coming had saved her
from him, but Stan didn't seem to know anything about him. Had that lecherous
attack been only her own madness? Had her own maniac fingers torn the clothes
from her shoulders; clamped, tightening, about her own throat?
    Or had Stan's call, his threshing approach, frightened the brute away
before the trooper could see him?
    Over Stan's shoulder Leila saw a shadow move, high up on the bough of a
tree. It haunched, came sprawling down; great arms flailing; spread,
spatulate talons clawing for Stan's throat!
----
     
IV. — MASTER OF THE MONSTER
    "STAN!" Leila Monroy shrieked and contorted in his arms,
driving her forehead against his chest. This instantaneous inspiration of her
terror was the only thing that could have saved her lover. It unbalanced him,
sent him reeling backward, and the down-dropping monster missed his mark.
    The brute crashed down into the underbrush, was momentarily tangled in the
whipping leaves. In that instant Leila slipped from Stan's hold as the
trooper recovered his footing and reached for his holstered gun. Calban
bellowed, soared from the ground. His shaggy arm lashed ahead of him with a
cobra's lightning-like lash, struck Stan's gun-wrist, pounded