Wolf Moon Rising (19 page)

time and living in the tower room at Collinwood was the paint er,

Charles Delaware Tate, an old man by then to be sure, but still

alive, still capable of making another portrait, and another spell, if only he could convince him that he was worthy of such a gift.

First he intended to search the old house alone. Toni had

been no help. He had plied her with all her favorite drugs—

speed, grass, LSD, and she had remembered nothing. Nothing!

Exasperating woman!

Th

en he realized that he had neglected to question her

daughter, that grim child with the spooky eyes— pale blue, al-

most white, colorless unless they turned silver in the moonlight.

Why hadn’t he thought of her sooner? She had helped rebuild

and restore the Old House. She might have taken the painting

and secreted it away somewhere.

He approached the entrance beneath the giant columns and

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knocked on the door, feeling it vibrate in its frame. All was si-

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lence. He turned to look at the blurred line of trees beyond the

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white expanse, woods he had fl ed into that night maddened by

rages he never knew he possessed.

He was startled to see a gray shadow, wolf shaped, moving

in the whitened air. Was it a kindred soul come to claim him? A

lethal silhouette weaving in and out of the trees, the creature

stopped and its red eyes caught the light just as the wind lifted

wisps of fresh snow into breathlike swirls. It was a coyote, prob-

ably hunting, starved in the time when its usual prey remained

underground. Th

e animal looked at him a long moment—

almost with pity— before it turned and slunk away.

Becoming impatient, he pounded again, this time with

more eff ort. When he received no reply, he tried the handle and

found the door unlocked.

Th

e house was silent and seemed to be sleeping, as though it

were night inside. He wandered through the empty rooms, past

the cold fi replace, ashes sprinkled on the hearth. Even candles

that were sometimes lit were burned to stubs, and the chairs

and tables were dusty and abandoned. Th

e heaviness that held

the house in its grip crept into his breast.

He decided to search on his own, every closet and storage

area. Perhaps she had overlooked a place where the painting

could be hidden. He began in the kitchen, opened every cabinet,

looked under the sink, even, ridiculously, the oven and the re-

frigerator, but except for a dearth of eatable goods, they revealed nothing. Furiously, he tore though the pantry and the broom

closet, checked under the fold- out ironing board and the closet

in the entrance hall, uncovering old magazines, piles of coats,

suitcases, and books.

After climbing the stair, he found the door to Antoinette’s

room ajar. She was sleeping, and he left her there, venturing

further, through deserted rooms still unfurnished. He remem-

bered that the house had been restored after the fi re and Antoi-

nette had not yet renovated all the suites. To his surprise he

discovered one room that seemed to belong to the young girl

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where piles of drawings and oil paintings lined the walls, and

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Lara Parker

his hopes bloomed. But after shuffl

ing through the canvases he

became despondent once again. Th

ey were all of David, or An-

toinette, and even a few of Barnabas. Th

e girl was talented; she

had a remarkable gift. But his portrait was not among them.

After searching thoroughly, every dark corner and closet,

even the cabinets in the bathrooms, he returned to Antoinette’s

bedroom. He found her still sleeping, her breathing noisy, her

hair tumbled across the pillow. He searched her closet and laun-

dry basket, inhaling a musty odor from her unlaundered gar-

ments; then he stood by the bed and looked at her, wondering

whether to wake her, and he was shocked to see her sunken

cheeks and swollen eyelids. She was deathly pale. Was she ill?

He reached for her shoulder and she groaned and turned to her

side, then fell back into a deep sleep.

On a whim he lifted the quilt and, after taking off his shoes

and jacket, lay down beside her. Slowly he took her in his arms.

Her familiar warmth, her ferny odor reassured him. He had

missed her aff ections, even though he had not valued them, and

now he looked forward to her delight when she woke and saw

him, her eagerness to engage him in conversation or love, her

wit and her silliness. He had been wrong not to appreciate her.

Perhaps he could make it up to her.

Gently he caressed her. Her breast fi t his hand; her stomach

was supple. He wanted to rouse her. How could she be sleeping

so soundly in the middle of the day?

Quickly, he rose again and removed his clothes. Th

en he lay

down next her as quietly as possible and with great delicacy

moved closer until their bodies were touching. She moaned and

came into his arms.

Her warmth bestowed profound relief. Gone for the mo-

ment were all his miseries, and his fears slipped into oblivion.

Turning her head, he brushed her mouth with his; he wove his

fi ngers into her hair, and brought his face into the curve of her

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neck. Th

e skin of her shoulder was moist beneath his cheek. He

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breathed in her fragrance and slid his hands down under her

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arms, then traced the curve of her hip. His lips moved into the

dimple of her throat. He sighed, languid and peaceful, as though

he were sailing on a calm sea, with very little wind in the sails.

He nudged her knees and drew her to him. He was a man who

loved women. Each was unique, each a new challenge, each sur-

render a sweet conquest. A woman completed him. Wretched

when alone, restless and without purpose, always he searched for

that one— for Elizabeth— but never fi nding his beloved, instead

he had devoted himself to the art of seduction.

His caresses fi nally woke her completely, and she withdrew a

little at the sounds he made, feral growls and gasps. He knew he

gave off a foul odor. She tried to pull away but he held her fast, his weight pressing her down until she relaxed beneath him and

her fl esh felt strangely cold. He imagined he was out in the snow

again, thick masses all around, and he was plowing through the

drifts, struggling to reach the top of the hill where he could see

the sky. She tossed her head to the side and he lifted up to look

at her.

He recoiled in shock! Oh, God! How could he have missed

it? Two red and swollen puncture wounds throbbed above her

jugular. And they had been there all along, beneath his lips. He

smothered a sudden urge to scream as his brain was pitted by a

horrible thought. She was whore to the vampire, and he had

just—

She opened her eyes and looked up at him.

“Quentin . . .”

In a rush all his terrors returned tenfold, fl ooding his body

with rage. He rose and backed away from her, reeling, and tugged

on his clothes. Th

e room was spinning as she sat up and, pulled

the sheets about her, her face a grimace of remorse.

“Quentin, what are you doing here?” But she was turning in

a gyre. He could barely stand to look at her. Her features were

fl ashing and disappearing.

“Toni . . . why?”

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“Oh, Quentin, it’s not my fault. Please don’t hate me. I’m so

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sorry. I didn’t want you to know. But now that you see what has

happened, I’m so glad you have come. I need you to— please,

please help me. You can save me. Take me away from all this—”

“No. No, not now!” Suddenly he was so infuriated by his exis-

tence he wondered if he would go out of his mind.

“Quentin, I love you. Don’t leave me here with him.” But he

ran from her pleading eyes, dashed for the stair, almost tripped

on the landing, and he was just grabbing for the front portal

when he remembered he had not looked in the cellar, the one

place where the painting had been hidden before it disappeared.

He longed to fl ee, but he knew he might not have a chance to

return again anytime soon.

Tears stinging his eyes, he hesitated before descending the

stair to the basement, but then preceded on the creaking treads,

his hand against the stone wall to keep his balance, his mouth

soured in disgust. Hurriedly, he scanned the area, wanting only

to escape this wretched place. Th

e gloomy space was dusty and

cobwebs hung from the raf ters, but like all the other rooms, it

was empty of anything other than a few old chairs, discarded

lumber, and canvas cloths. Th

ere was a pile of paint cans in the

corner and Quentin remembered once again that the house had

been restored, rebuilt after the fi re. Nothing would be stored

down here; it was all too new.

Th

en he was startled by something beside the back wall in

the shadows. It was a casket glistening in dusty rays of sunlight

streaming through a small window.

Quentin sucked in his breath. Was this the coffi

n where the

vampire slept? Vulnerable during the daylight hours and helpless

if he were to be exposed to sunlight? He drew nearer, curious to

see his rival, the creature who had ruined Antoinette. Looking

around for some weapon, he saw nothing he could use, but agita-

tion roused in him a sudden willfulness. He approached the cof-

fi n and placed his hands on the edge of the lid. He was forcing it

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up when a blast of cold air came through the basement window

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and he felt a tingle at the back of his neck. Something was

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standing behind him in the dark beside the stair, a fi gure hover-

ing like a ghost fl oating in the gloom.

He whirled, feeling a guilty trespasser, and tried to make out

whom it could be. His heart thudded. He blinked at the shad-

ows in the room, and, yes, there was a fi gure standing there—

silent and unmoving.

Finally he found his voice. “Who is that?”

Th

e shape came forward. “It’s me.”

“Who?”

“Jacqueline.”

His body relaxed. “Oh, of course, I’m so sorry. I— I couldn’t

see you there.” She came a little into the light, and he could see

she was wearing jeans and a heavy sweater. Her hair was tied

behind her back, and her eyes were shining as if they were the

only brightness in the room. Something about her— or perhaps

it was the cold— made him shiver.

“Have you been visiting my mother?” she asked.

“Yes, well . . . yes. She is . . . she is sleeping.” What, if anything, did this young girl know?

“She sleeps all the time now that he is here.”

“Who?”

She didn’t answer but only stared at him, her pale eyes ac-

cusing him. He was shivering and uncomfortable and said,

“Sorry, I was just leaving,” as he walked past her.

Th

en she said, “Have you found the painting?” Startled, he

looked back.

“No,” he said shaking his head. “Do you know anything

about it? I mean, by any chance, have you any idea . . . have you

seen it?”

“I have seen it,” she said, and he caught his breath.

“You have?”

“But only in my mind. It’s hidden in a dark place, a room

with a dirt fl oor, a vault, or a cave.”

What did she mean? Was she insane? He was exasperated.

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Was this her way of teasing him or making him suff er for

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dallying with her mother? He walked over to her and took hold

of her arms. He was surprised at how thin she was and he real-

ized she was little more than a child. He shook her anyway.

“Don’t play games with me,” he said, his voice close to a

snarl. “If you know where it is, get it for me. I must have it. Do

you understand?”

She tensed in his grip but stared up at him her, her expres-

sion impassive. “David and I have been searching. He’s sure

we’ll be able to fi nd it.”

“How? What makes you think so? Just tell me where it is.

What’s become of it?”

“We’ll use some magic. You’ll see.”

Quentin felt ready to explode. His fate lay in the hands of a

child. Suddenly he remembered she was mentally ill and could

be no help to him at all. He stared at her a moment in vexation,

then let her go and strode up the stair and slammed the door

behind him.

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