Margaret Carter - Tall, dark and deadly
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Tall, Dark, and Deadly
©Margaret L. Carter, 2002
Chapter One
The air hummed with rapt attention from dozens of human minds, most of them
female. "Oh, lady bright! Can it be right—This window open to the night?" Claude
paused in his recitation to savor the shallow breaths and rapid heartbeats of his
audience, inaudible to human ears but plain to his. He had performed this reading of
Poe's "The Sleeper" so often that it required only a fraction of his attention. He knew just
what phrases to linger over to coax the most intense emotions from the listeners.
Their fascination perfumed the air like a cloud of incense. He could almost taste it, a
delicious appetizer for the more substantial feast he anticipated enjoying later that
night. For the black-clad young women he half-affectionately thought of as "vampire
groupies," he knew his hypnotic delivery transformed the drab hotel function room into
a boudoir "beneath the mystic moon" with an "opiate vapour, dewy, dim". While he
didn't believe Poe had written "The Sleeper" with a vampire's nocturnal visit in mind,
doubtless the "window open to the night" conjured up just that image for most of the
audience, a reaction that suited Claude very well.
His eyes swept over the group while he intoned, "Oh, lady, dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?" Locking glances briefly with each female in the
first couple of rows, he savored the way a blush blossomed on each one's face at the
fantasy that he addressed the lines to her alone. About midway to the back of the room
though, he captured the eyes of one person who watched him with peculiar intensity, a
woman of about thirty, with mahogany hair pulled back in a braid. From her he sensed
a hunger that answered his own with a more complicated need than the yearning for a
fantasy vampire's bite.
Pleasantly rounded, from what he could see of her, though not enough to violate
the current standards for female beauty, she had what people used to call a "peaches
and cream" complexion. Claude approved of her apparent refusal to either diet herself
into emaciation or bake her skin under cancer-inducing rays. She would make an
excellent dessert. The image made his jaws ache.
He mentally shook himself. He already had plans for tonight. Still, it wouldn't hurt
to make contact with her and keep her in reserve, so to speak. Winding up the poem, he
smiled at the memory of a lapel pin he'd seen on one of the fans earlier that day:
"Cthulhu Saves—He Might Get Hungry Later."
He stood up with a flourish of his cape to signal the end of the session. Instantly,
the audience mobbed the front of the room, convention programs and pens in hand.
Teeth clenched in the closest thing to a smile he could manage, he scribbled his name as
requested, watching the back of the delectable woman's head vanish into the corridor.
With all the people blocking his view, he hadn't even managed a glimpse of her name
tag.
Finally, dry-mouthed with thirst from exposure to his fans' body heat, pulse
sounds, and keyed-up emotions, he broke away and headed for his room. Though he
lived only a few blocks away, his need for a refuge in the middle of the convention
made renting a hotel room worthwhile. He craved a few hours of sleep before that
evening's awards banquet.
When he unlocked the door, he noticed an unfamiliar scent. His nostrils flared. Not
human, but acrid and quasi-metallic, like one of his own kind. Something rustled under
his feet as the door closed behind him. A large manila envelope.
Tossing the cape onto the bed, he took the envelope to the desk and opened it. Two
newspaper clippings fell out. Both, he saw, came from a San Francisco paper. The first
headline read, "Human Remains Discovered Under Church Parking Lot."
About a month earlier, archeologists had begun excavating that parking lot in
downtown San Francisco in preparation for expansion of St. Anthony's parish hall.
Inside the buried ruins of the original church building, destroyed in the 1906
earthquake, searchers had found two bodies. Oddly, one, a woman's, had been reduced
to a skeleton, yet the other was remarkably preserved, as lifelike as the famous Inca
maiden sacrifices. That mummified corpse was a man's.
Claude's heart raced. He had to concentrate to force it under control. He was
annoyed to discover his hand shaking as he picked up the second clipping. "Earthquake
Mummy Vanishes." The bodies had been turned over to the anthropology department
at the University of California, Berkeley. Two days after being transported there—more
like two nights, Claude suspected—the man's corpse had vanished. Claude knew the
"corpse" had never been truly lifeless though, and he wasn't surprised to read of the
security guard found dead in the hallway outside the storage vault.
So Philip was alive. Not only alive, but here in Los Angeles at this very hotel. He
had obviously shoved the envelope under the door of Claude's room within the past
couple of hours. He's after me. Wonder what the devil he wants? Revenge, no doubt, but what
kind?
He flashed on a memory of the ground shaking and the church roof caving in, while
Philip howled in anguish over the maimed body of his woman.
Picking up the phone, Claude dialed the Prime Elder's number. If the Council didn't
already know about Philip's resurrection, they needed to. Claude heaved an
exasperated sigh at the vanished prospect for a decent afternoon's sleep.
* * * * *
Panting from her run to the elevator, Eloise Kern dashed into her hotel room and
flung herself onto the bed. She'd meant to introduce herself to Claude Darvell after the
poetry reading, but her reaction to his resonant voice and penetrating gaze had
embarrassed her so much she couldn't face him. Especially after that moment when
she'd imagined his eyes had lingered on her a bit longer than on anyone else.
Oh, stop thinking like a ditzy fan! she scolded herself. Every female in that room had
doubtless imagined the same thing. She hadn't come here to indulge in fantasies about
her favorite horror movie star. She'd wheedled her friend on the con committee into
seating Claude next to her at the awards banquet so she could conduct business, not
drool over his ebony hair and violet-gray eyes. Keeping her mind on screenplay
contracts would have been a lot easier if he'd looked less ravishing in person than on
film, instead of more so.
For weeks since receiving his latest letter, she'd had to read it over and over to
confirm she hadn't imagined it. She'd even packed it in her overnight bag for
reassurance. By now she knew the relevant passages by heart, from "Dear Ms. Kern" to
"I look forward to discussing your proposed adaptation of Varney the Vampyre in person
at ConCatastrophe." She peeled off her clothes and stepped under a hot shower, lost in
visions of Claude—"tall, dark, and deadly," as a tabloid reporter had labeled him—
emoting the lines from her own script.
She visualized him in the opening scene taken directly from the novel, climbing
through a window on a moonlit night, like the one in the poem, to plunge his fangs into
the heroine's delicate throat. Eloise's nipples puckered at the image. Throwing her head
back, with her eyes closed, she let the warm water flow over her own neck, imagining
his lips fastened there. There you go again, like a teenybopper with a crush, she mocked
herself.
Better to wallow in that daydream than to brood over the other letter, the one she'd
stuffed in her purse right before leaving home. The home she might not have much
longer. The management of her townhouse complex had spent the past few months
planning a conversion from rentals to a condominium regime. Eloise had started saving
toward the down payment and closing costs, a slow process between her mother's
nursing home fees and the uncertainty of a writer's income, but she hadn't expected the
shift from rental to condo for another couple of years. Suddenly the schedule had
accelerated. She had six months to dredge up the money or get out. Guild minimum for
a screenplay would make the difference between home ownership and homelessness.
Wrenching the shower to the "off" position, she toweled dry with impatient
roughness, threw on a robe, and sat at the dresser to brush her hair and redo the French
braid. Why was she imagining herself as a bag lady? Multi-published authors with
doctorates in English Lit didn't end up on the street. She gave her hair a last, firm twist
and looped a scrunchy around the end. Enough negative vibes! She had to project
confidence when she met Claude at the banquet. What actor would want to produce or
star in a movie scripted by a writer with the stalwart firmness of a bowl of Jell-O?
Chapter Two
He wasn't coming. The place next to Eloise at the award recipients' table, with
"Claude Darvell" on the name card, sat empty. He must have been stricken with a
sudden illness or called away on some emergency. Blinking in the atmospheric
candlelight, she considered eating his chocolate mousse. Anxiety always made her feel
like nibbling, and all the rolls were gone. Sure, she didn't have to meet him in person to
negotiate the projected movie deal. But she felt she'd have a much better chance if they
could discuss the script face to face.
Lost in worry, she clapped automatically after each presentation and almost missed
her own name. Recovering, she scurried up to the podium to receive her award for the
con committee's pick as author of the year's best paranormal romance. She read her
brief acceptance speech off an index card, her own voice echoing hollowly in her ears as
if it were somebody else's. Glad to make it back to the table without tripping over her
high heels, she didn't register at first that the seat beside her was no longer vacant.
In a black, crimson-lined cape that seemed to add inches to his already imposing
height, Claude Darvell stood up to give her a half-bow of greeting. "Eloise? I'm Claude."
"Yes, I know." She cringed internally at the inane remark.
"Congratulations on your award." He clasped her hand briefly. His skin, she
noticed, felt cool. A delightful shiver ran up her arm. "Forgive my lateness. I'm afraid I
overslept."
She stomped firmly on a fantasy of his dark, wavy hair tousled from the pillow. In
person he looked even more like an updated Lord Byron than he did onscreen. "You
missed dinner."
Gathering the cape over one arm, he sat down. "I didn't come here for the food." His
violet-gray eyes prowled over her before turning toward the speaker on the podium.
"I'd like a glass of wine, though." He waved at the half-finished bottle of burgundy,
which she passed to him.
"There go my illusions," she whispered. "What happened to the 'I never drink wine'
bit?"
"After a day at a convention, I'll drink anything," he whispered back, leaning close
so that his breath ruffled her hair.
A sensation like the caress of invisible fingers tickled down her back. She sipped her
own wine and forced her attention to the next presentation. Minutes later, Claude got
up to accept his award for best male lead in a horror film. Eloise watched his panther-
like stride with growing appreciation. As far as she could tell with the cape and tux, he
had the build of a greyhound, sleek and thin. Far from an illusion of makeup and
camera angles, his demon lover persona proved even more captivating face to face.
She still had trouble believing her luck, that he had taken the time to write an
appreciative letter about her article analyzing his "Count Orloff" vampire movies in the
Journal of Popular Culture. Still more incredibly, her note of thanks in reply had elicited
another message from him, and they'd become regular correspondents. When she had
mentioned her half-finished script based on that sprawling Victorian penny-dreadful
novel, Varney the Vampyre, Claude had expressed his own long-standing desire to film
the novel. So here they were, sharing a bottle of burgundy and the hopes of making a
movie together.
When the master of ceremonies finished his concluding remarks, Claude turned to
her. "Did you bring any of your Varney material with you?"
Of course she had, though she wouldn't have committed the faux pas of pressing it
on him without an invitation. "Yes, I've got a proposal and a partial script." Thanks to
her past dealings with producers who had optioned a few of her books, she had enough
familiarity with the workings of Hollywood to prepare such things in the proper
format.
"I'd love to take a look at them." Pulling out her chair, he lightly clasped her wrist,
as if taking her pulse.
Bracing herself against the prickle of sensation that danced along the inside of her
arm, she told herself he wasn't doing that at all. Or if he was, the gesture was only part
of the vampire pose he assumed for the entertainment of his fans. "Great, let's go up to
my room," she said, hoping the invitation didn't sound like a come-on. Not that she
would have minded if he'd taken the words as an opening for seduction, but if she
wanted to deal with him on a business level, she'd better not mix her signals.
On the way to the elevator, Claude's hand rested on her back at her waistline. When
they'd touched before, she'd thought his skin felt cool. How could it burn her through
the satin of her evening gown? By the time the elevator started ascending to her floor,
she already felt lightheaded. I'm just nervous about the script, she thought. That was the
only reason for her rapid pulse. Sure.
"I noticed you at the reading earlier," he said as they walked down the sixth-floor
corridor.
"I didn't want to try to introduce myself in the middle of that crowd," she fibbed. To
her annoyance, her hand shook when she tried to insert the key. Inside, she switched on
the foyer light and one of the reading lamps.
"That's plenty," he said before she could turn on any others. He stepped over to the
window and gazed at the sparkling skyline, with the famous illuminated "Hollywood"
sign on a distant hillside. "It's a beautiful night. As beautiful as downtown Los Angeles
ever gets, anyhow." He punctuated the remark with a wry smile.
"Yeah, I haven't seen a night this smog-free in ages." Eloise took the treatment and
script out of her briefcase and handed them to Claude.
"Oh, yes, you live nearby."
"Pasadena. But I'd rather pay for a room than drive home after midnight two nights
in a row." "I share your sentiments," he said, leafing through the printout she'd given him. "I
have a penthouse just a few blocks away on Wilshire." He set the pages on the desk and
drew her to the window with a casual touch at her waist. "I'll read all this later. Right
now, I'd rather hear the highlights straight from you."
"Sure." She froze, half wishing he wouldn't touch her, so that she could keep her
mind on Victorian vampires, and half wishing he'd make that touch more than casual.
Her nipples peaked, creating friction with the lining of her bra, and her stomach
fluttered. "I'm sorry I don't have anything to drink I can offer you."
"Don't worry about that. I'm not thirsty—right now." His hand drifted from her
waist to her neck, skimming the bare skin above the low-cut dress on the way. His
fingers insinuated under the braid and gently rubbed the roots of her hair. "Are you
planning to have me commit suicide in Mount Vesuvius, the way the book ends?"
"Sure. Think of the cool special effects." She tried to focus on a vampire diving into
a volcano, instead of the heat that swirled around her scalp and down her spine.
He chuckled. "More hot than cool, n'est-ce pas?"
"Ha, ha. Don't most vampires attack with fangs, not puns?"
"I suppose we can't do without fangs. Audiences expect them. Speaking of attacks,
we'll start the film with Varney invading Flora's bedroom?"
"Of course. The first scene of the book is too good to waste. Hail, thunder, wind,
lightning, and a demon of the night feasting on a half-naked girl. Starting and ending
will be the easy part. The hard part is deciding what to do with the other 800 pages in
between." She tilted her head, the better to enjoy his gentle rubbing. She felt like a cat
having its ears scratched.
"I'm sure you'll work it out. I do look forward to playing jolly old blood-and-
thunder Varney, as long as we don't make him one of those undead twits who
constantly whines about the terrible curse he’s under."
"Perish the thought." She caught herself leaning back against the hard length of
Claude's torso. His massage, moving from her hairline to her shoulder blades, made her
want to purr. I really should make him stop that.
"Handled properly," he said, "Varney could be a new twist on the tragic vampire.
New to the box office public, anyway, since nobody reads the book except specialists
like you. I have a couple of financial backers in mind. Once I've got a general idea of the
plot outline, I'll contact them and set up the deal."
The conversation was progressing faster than Eloise had dared hope. She knew
Claude, even though his official biography said he was independently wealthy,
wouldn't put up the funding himself. No sensible actor/producer would violate
Hollywood's "OPM" rule—use Other People's Money. The fact that he'd already
considered the financing issue showed he was serious. She murmured a wordless
sound of agreement. Why did she feel so fuzzy around the edges? She hadn't consumed
that much wine at dinner. Why did Claude's touch seem to scorch right through her
clothes? She'd never responded to a man so intensely, not even one who embodied her
deepest fantasies.
"Very well, I break into Flora's chamber in the middle of a storm. What's my
motivation? Other than my appetite for her nubile flesh and sweet blood, of course?"
His breath ruffled Eloise's hair. Her pulse pounded in her temples, and she felt her
face flush. "The house," she said, trying to catch her breath. "He left England in the
seventeenth century, when he turned into a vampire after Cromwell's men killed him.
Now he's back, and the Bannerworths are living in his mansion. He's tired of wandering
and thinks he can find peace in his ancestral home. He wants to scare them into selling
it."
"Is Flora frightened of him?" Claude's hands moved to her upper arms and stroked
up and down, making the bare skin prickle with heat. He seemed to savor the sensual
motion as much as she did.
"At first. Who wouldn't be, with a man crashing in through her window? Not to
mention a man with fangs and claws and glittering, silver eyes."
"Hold on, the book says his eyes look like polished tin."
"Never mind that," Eloise said, her breath coming shallow and fast. "It's my script,
and I don't think polished tin sounds very romantic."
"Oh, so you want a romantic vampire?" A hint of soft laughter underlay the remark.
She blushed still hotter. "You've read my stuff. You know what kind of vampire I
like." She'd sent him autographed copies of a couple of her novels, and his reply had
made it plain that he'd done more with the books than glance at the title pages.
"Will this film have an R rating? Where will Varney pierce Flora's tender skin?
Here?" To Eloise's surprise, he bent to kiss the side of her neck with a butterfly-wing
flicker of his tongue. "Or here?" One fingertip traced a line from the hollow of her throat
to the swell of her right breast above the V of her gown.
Her heart raced. A melting sensation flowed from the spot where his touch lingered
to the hollow between her legs. She forced a deep breath and said, "I think you'd better
leave."
He flung off the cloak and draped it over a chair, then removed his bow tie and
tossed it on the desk. "I'll leave when I'm good and ready," he said in a tone of genial
firmness. "And I'm nowhere near ready."
Chapter Three
Eloise knew she ought to lash out indignantly at that arrogant pronouncement.
Instead, when he put an arm around her waist and steered her towards the bed, she
found herself following him without a moment's hesitation. Somehow she was sitting
beside him on the edge of the mattress rather than shoving him into the hall. Weird, she
thought. Not only her own behavior, but his. I've heard of the casting couch for actresses,
but never for writers!
"I'm thirsty now," he said. "For your lips." He nibbled the edge of her mouth, darted
his tongue in and out, then withdrew to gaze into her eyes.
What a hokey B-movie line, she thought. Yet "thirsty" seemed a perfectly apt word for
her own dry-mouthed, head-whirling excitement. Or possibly "fever". "We shouldn't—"
she began.
"You desire this as much as I do. I wouldn't touch you, otherwise." His hand rested
between her breasts. "I feel it in the beating of your heart."
She opened her mouth, whether to confess or deny, she wasn't sure. He cut off her
answer with a deeper kiss. A taste and scent like hot metal flooded her senses. His
tongue and lips seared hers, while his hand on the curve of her breast sent electric
currents through her, switching every erogenous zone to "on". The flutter in the pit of
her stomach migrated lower and became a full-fledged throb of need.
Good thing he couldn't read her mind. He couldn't know how her nipples strained
against her bra, begging for a caress, or how her clit tickled maddeningly and wetness
pooled between her thighs. She crossed her legs and squeezed. With his fingers
creeping under the V of her dress, the pressure didn't bring any relief.
As if he did read her mind, he abandoned that tactic and instead cupped her right
breast through the satin. Rubbing in slow circles, he coaxed the nipple to a hard peak.
The other one ached for the same attention. Instantly, Claude draped his free arm
around her shoulder to reach her left breast and fondle both in the same rhythm.
Meanwhile, his tongue continued to probe her mouth. She fought to keep from
squirming. Without her conscious will, she unfastened the top buttons of his shirt and
ran her fingers over his chest. No undershirt, just cool skin and velvety hair. With the
fog of lust clouding her brain, she gave no more than a fleeting thought to the difference
from the usual texture of male body hair.
"You'll be more comfortable lying down," he murmured, nuzzling her neck. She felt
him grope behind her to unzip her dress.
This would be the proper moment to cut the encounter short. Never in her life had
she fallen into bed with a man on first meeting. Claude's erotic expertise and her crush
on him shouldn't matter. Contaminating business with sex, losing her self-respect, and,
for all she knew, risking some ghastly disease would be far worse than a few minutes of
frustration. Besides, she could remedy that frustration by herself as soon as he left.
Before she realized she had moved, though, she lay on her back, with Claude
reclining on one elbow next to her. He captured her mouth for another long kiss while
he slid the dress off her shoulders. His practiced skill at undoing the front clasp of her
bra stung her with a pang of jealousy. How many women did he seduce per year?
Probably one at every convention.
She forgot that question the moment his tongue traced a path to one breast and
spiraled inward to the peak. After slipping off her bra, he licked that nipple while
teasing the other with thumb and forefinger. Somehow he knew just the pressure and
speed to send ripples of pleasure through every nerve.
Involuntarily, she clutched his shoulders and eased her thighs apart. One of his legs
covered hers with tantalizing pressure against her slit through her skirt. Already she
trembled on the edge of orgasm. He abandoned the nipple for a brief, hard kiss on her
mouth. "You taste as delicious as I expected." Passion roughened his voice, lending the
words a tone of sincerity she hadn't anticipated.
He probably uses that line on all his victims. By now it didn't matter, though. Her clit
and her vagina ached for relief. And hearing the same need in his voice, she couldn't
deny him.
She arched her hips, trying to press her swollen clit against his leg. He moved aside,
drawing a hiss of protest from her. Removing her shoes and reaching under her skirt,
he swept his palm up the inside of her calf and thigh. On this summer evening, she
hadn’t worn pantyhose. Her bare skin tingled, making her tremble with impatience for
him to reach her hot, wet center. He cupped her mound through the bikini panties,
silencing her moan of pleasure with a kiss.
Fumbling inside his shirt, she dug her nails into his chest. He growled and nibbled
a path from her mouth to her neck. At the same time, he stretched the elastic of the
panties to part her petals and caress the throbbing bud. Her clit started to twitch the
instant he touched it. The frenzied licking of his tongue at her throat matched the rapid
strokes of his fingers. When the throbbing began deep inside, he plunged two fingers
into her slit, while his thumb kept rubbing the spot that ached most desperately.
She erupted like that volcano they had mentioned earlier, pumping her hips in time
with his finger-thrusts. When she hit the peak and began to spiral down, he nipped her
neck and flicked her clit in some magical way that sent her even higher.
At last, soaring to a height so rarefied it sucked the breath from her lungs, she fell
off the precipice into oblivion.
Chapter Four
When she opened her eyes, a rosy mist clouded her vision, and her throat felt dry.
After dragging herself to a sitting position, she rubbed her face and looked around. Oh,
Lord, I can't believe I acted that way! How can I ever face Claude again?
Come to think of it, where was he? His cape still hung over the chair, but he was
nowhere to be seen, and she didn't hear any sounds from the bathroom. No way could
she look him in the eye, at least not until she'd put some distance between herself and
her humiliating cat-in-heat behavior. Maybe he'd be gentleman enough, next time they
met, to pretend the encounter had never happened. Meanwhile, she had to get out
before he reappeared. When he saw her gone, with luck he would return to his own
room and leave her alone.
Standing up, she had to grab the bedpost until a surge of dizziness faded. Noticing
how loosely the bodice of her dress hung, she reached behind and pulled up the zipper.
Muzzy-headed, she staggered out the door and along the hall to the elevator, one hand
on the wall for balance. By the time she'd ridden to the ground floor, the danger of
toppling over at every step had passed. Her brain still felt like oatmeal, though. She
drifted through the lobby to the main doors, with a vague idea of letting the night air
clear her head.
She shoved through the double glass doors and meandered to the corner of
Wilshire Boulevard.
* * * * *
Claude came back from his foray to the vending machines with a full ice bucket and
a can of Coke. After her involuntary donation, Eloise would feel dehydrated. Even
before unlocking the room door, he sensed her absence. What the devil had got into the
woman? He hadn't expected her to wake so quickly, but what had possessed her to run
off the moment she did?
And without her shoes, he noticed. Or her key, which he'd taken with him. While
these thoughts ran through his mind, he was already heading for the stairs. He could
dash to street level on his own power faster than the elevator could arrive and carry
him down. If Eloise hadn't gone all the way to the first floor, he could search the hotel at
leisure. The first priority was intercepting her if she was indeed wandering around the
lobby barefoot and half-conscious. Damn, this was the last thing he wanted to be doing
after the mutually satisfying "dessert" they'd sampled.
Hurrying from the stairwell into the lobby, he scanned the area. Just in time, he
caught a glimpse of Eloise disappearing out the main entrance. He strode after her as
fast as possible without breaking into a trot. She paused at the corner. As he walked
toward her, he noticed the dreamy vagueness of her gaze. She stepped off the curb with
no sign of noticing the red stoplight. Claude darted into the stream of traffic, wrapped
his arms around her, and flashed back to the sidewalk too fast for human eyes to follow.
Clinging to him, she shook her head in obvious bewilderment. "Claude—?"
He sensed the fog lifting from her brain. In a second she would start complaining
about the way he'd chased and grabbed her. He also sensed eyes boring into him. Not
just the curious glances of people who wondered how a man in a tuxedo and a barefoot
woman in a formal gown had suddenly appeared on the sidewalk. Hostile eyes that felt
not quite human.
He wasted no time processing this impression. Choosing action over analysis, he
draped himself in a psychic veil that repelled vision. He projected a "you don't see me"
aura that amounted to invisibility. With Eloise held close to him, she fell under the same
curtain. Casual passers-by would blink at their "disappearance," then instantly forget
about them. As for the watcher who troubled Claude the most, if he, she, or it existed at
all, the illusion might provide enough time for an unseen retreat to the shelter of
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Tall,Dark,andDeadly©MargaretL.Carter,2002ChapterOneTheairhummedwithraptattentionfromdozensofhumanminds,mostofthemfemale."Oh,ladybright!Canitberight—Thiswindowopentothenight?"Claudepausedinhisrecitationtosavortheshallowbreathsandrapidheartbeatsofhisaudience,inaudibletohumanearsbutplaintohis.Hehadperf...
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