Wolf Moon Rising (54 page)

“Take me back in time,” Quentin had said. “Take me to the

past where I can fi nd the painting, and I will tell you who the

vampire is. I know him well. And you will have your cadaver for

what ever experiments you desire.” Traitorous friend. Where

was their unspoken contract? Quentin didn’t deserve to be called

a Collins.

All he had to do was call to mind the horror of the monster

gnawing his face to feel his resolve grow stronger, but his guilt

was a heavy burden. If he had not stolen the painting— in a mo-

ment of reckless jealousy— none of this would have happened.

Enamored of Antoinette, hoping to marry her when he had been

human, he had twisted the hand of fate and sabotaged the spell

that kept Quentin out of harm’s way. How he wished he could

take back that single moment of weakness and leave the portrait

in the basement of the Old House where he had found it.

Perhaps it had been the work of Angelique all along—

possessing Antoinette, working her insidious wiles within the con-

fi nes of Antoinette’s indiff erent behavior? He would like to think that he had been manipulated once again by the witch who had

stolen his life, but he could not believe he was not culpable as well.

What could he do? Was there any other choice? He searched

for a way out and could fi nd none; the enchanted portrait was

lost, the full moon was on the rise, and the monster would wake

with his demons.

Also, Quentin would be in the company of that obsequious

bastard Blair conducting their damned séance. Blair, the false

physician whose gruesome obsession was to open up a vampire.

What presumptuous vanity. Th

e doctor’s search would end in a

fatal discovery.

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On him he would feed.

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T w e n t y - t w o

When David woke there was a light, brighter than any light

he had ever seen, blinding his eyes, and a strong smell of

antiseptic that made his nose tingle. Lying on his back, strapped

to a table, he saw there was a huge round bulb above him shin-

ing down on him like the sun. Trying to rise up, he found his

wrists and ankles were pinned, and he squirmed helplessly and

jerked his head around to see where he was. It appeared to be a

laboratory; there were white enameled counters with medical

paraphernalia and a man with his back to David standing be-

side one of the tables, leaning over and sorting instruments that

glimmered in the bright light: scalpels and tongs, steel tubs and

glass bowls, cotton balls and gauze.

David lurched up again, but metal cuff s restrained his

limbs. He was suddenly terrifi ed. “Hey!” he cried out. “What’s

going on?”

When the man turned, David could see that it was Blair,

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Lara Parker

who was smiling feverishly, his face lit like a ghoulish mask by

the overhead spotlight.

“Aha,” he said, “fi nally you are awake!”

David writhed in his bindings and yelled, “What are you

doing? Untie me!”

“No, no, my boy. You belong to me now. I have waited too

long for this delicious moment, and I am going to savor every

second. Th

e world is waiting. Together, we will make his-

tory.”

“What are you talking about? Untie me, you bastard!”

Blair shook his head, his black eyes darting about like loose

marbles. “I know vampires have great powers, but I have made

you fast. And if you become too diffi

cult, I still have the needle.”

He raised the hypodermic and it spewed a stream of liquid. “I

can use it again.”

“But— You’re crazy. I’m not a vampire—”

“What? You deny it? Oh, but I have unmistakable proof,

David. I caught you in the act of feeding, blood on your clothes,

on your face, in your mouth—”

“But it’s not like that. You’re wrong.”

Blair simply chuckled and shook his head. He was lugging

a black contraption over under the light, and then he attached a

clumsy camera to a tripod and adjusted the lens.

“What’s that for?”

“A Super 8 video camera. I intend to fi lm the pro cess,” he

explained in a nonchalant tone, but he had a crazed expression

on his face, both diabolical and ecstatic, “so that I have a record of the operation— or the autopsy, depending on your defi nition

of
living
and
dead
.”

“Pro cess? What kind of pro cess?” David’s heart was racing.

Blair was bending over him now, close enough for David to

see the grease in his black hair, his prickly mustache, and his

small teeth clenched together.

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“I would like so much for you to be awake, but it may not be

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necessary. Scientists will savor the treatise I will compose for

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centuries to come. I will see what is inside a monster that drinks

blood to stay alive. Is there a liver? Is there a heart?”

He reached for David’s coat and began to undo the buttons.

David’s body convulsed in terror. Hot tears swan over his pupils

and his mouth became dry.

“Wait— Wait a minute! What are you doing? I’m telling

you, you’ve got it all wrong! I’m just a teenage boy. I’m— I’m

alive, God damn it! I’m not a vampire!”

Blair pulled David’s coat open and laid the sides back; then

he began to undo the buttons of the shirt. He chuckled. “Of

course you would say that. But I’m afraid your protestations fall

on deaf ears. I saw with my own eyes—”

David bucked against the restraints and cried out, “No! I

just found him lying there. I was checking to see if he was alive,

feeling for a pulse—”

“With your mouth against his neck?”

David heart blasted against his ribs. He suddenly saw him-

self as Blair must have seen him, bending over the corpse, suck-

ing blood. “Th

at wasn’t it. You’ve got to believe me.”

“I would have thought a vampire would be more cautious. In

broad daylight— my, my.” Blair threw his head back and laughed

like a crazed hyena that has stolen a lion’s kill. “You are found

out! Your victim was like all the others, drained to an empty

shell, sucked dry. And what about all those others? You should

be ashamed.”

David writhed on the table and wrenched his wrists until

he could feel the skin split, but he could not free them.

Mumbling to himself now, Blair reached for the cart and

wheeled it clattering over to David’s gurney; then he stopped

and began to roll the cuff s of his sleeves. Th

e bevy of instruments

fl ashed.

David lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, wonder-

ing what building they were in. Where were they? In town?

Maybe someone was around outside. He screamed.

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Blair turned with a scalpel in his right hand and with his

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left pressed down on David’s chest. His eyes were like two

shiny beetles as he drew the sharp edge over David’s breastbone

and made a thin slice. David screamed again.

“Hold still,” said Blair somewhat peevishly, “or we will

make a mess of it.” Th

en he took up a small mechanical saw

with a circular blade and fl ipped the switch. Th

e saw made the

purring sound of a fi nely tuned motor, and the tiny ratchets

refl ected the dancing light.

David was growing hysterical with fear and he blubbered,

“No, please no—,” as Blair leaned in with the saw in his

hand.

“Shhhhh,” he whispered, “let’s see what you are made of.”

Th

ere was a loud pounding on the door. Blair cursed, threw

down the saw, and reached for the hypodermic. He thrust the

needle into David’s arm.

David screamed again, this time in agony, and before he

could open his mouth to shout even louder, Blair had smacked a

piece of tape across his lips and thrown a sheet over his body,

blotting out the room. David heard him toss down the needle

and walk unsteadily to the door, where he could hear Quentin’s

angry voice, and he squirmed and moaned but could make no

more noise than a grunting sound.

“Where the hell have you been?” Quentin cried. “I have

been waiting for over an hour!”

“Yes, yes, I’m on my way. I was delayed, but I’m on my way.”

“It’s twilight. We’re running out of time!”

Th

e drug was working, blurring David’s mind. Even the

pumping of his terrifi ed heart could not resist the substance

entering his very human veins.

Hurriedly, and obviously distracted, Blair placed the velvet

cloth on the table in the library, set some books and foun-

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tain pens about, and lit the candles. Muttering to himself, he

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took his seat and reached for Quentin’s hands. Th

e scientist was

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ner vous, and his palm was moist when Quentin squeezed it and

looked over with an encouraging nod.

“So,” said Blair offi

ciously. “We are in pursuit of a painting,

am I correct?”

“Yes, I’ve told you a dozen times! What’s wrong with you,

man?” Quentin was tight- lipped and rigid. “Th

e paint er was here

in this house in 1929, when I was . . . when I was young.”

Blair sat up in his chair— his blackened widow’s peak and

pointed eyebrows prominent— closed his eyes, took a deep breath,

and began the incantation: “Power of Darkness, Dark of Night,

Shadows of Memory, Memories Long Forgotten— open the mys-

terious portals that guard the years and let us enter. Here in this house that harbors a thousand secrets, here in this room where the family gathered, and here at this table where they dined, spoke

together, and even prayed— unfasten the locks of time.”

Quentin became agitated. Th

e incantation was arbitrary

and absurd. He could not concentrate. Th

e man was an imbe-

cile. “Hurry up, you fool!” he said. “Th

ere is no more time!”

“Move through the years,” Blair continued in his nasal voice,

“fl ying back in time to a moment in the past. Move through the

ghosts, and let not them stay our journey. We seek the painted

image of the man within our circle. We seek contact with a time

when he and the artist were together . . .”

A sudden fl ash that blasted the window startled Quentin,

and there was a far- off rumble as though an explosion had oc-

curred in the channels of his ears. Th

e room swirled, grew dark,

and Quentin felt weightless, spinning above the table, losing

hold of Blair’s hand. Th

ere was an odd smell, of gunpowder over

water, and another odor of death.

Th

e air was fi lled with smoke and Quentin was nauseous,

his stomach clenching, and the ground beneath him rocked back

and forth. He opened his eyes to fi nd himself at sea in a boat ap-

proaching a gray shore, the surf pounding. His eyes glazed over

as he tried to make out the place.

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Th

e strand they drew near was deserted and nothing moved

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on the beach. Th

e sand was covered with debris, sunken craft

and wrecked vehicles, and there were many bodies in the water.

Horrifi ed, Quentin saw himself leap into the chest- high surf

and wade ashore where the beach was still arrayed with the

bodies of American soldiers wearing the blue and gray patches

of his division. Exasperated, he shook the memory from his

mind. He wasn’t meant to be here. He had been swept back to

the war! Normandy after D-day, when he had arrived with his

companions. What had gone wrong? He clawed the air and

screamed at Blair, “No! Th

is is not the place! Th

is is all a mis-

take, you idiot. I don’t want to go there! Take me away! Do you

have any idea how to do this?”

Th

en there was darkness again, circling mist, and the ab-

surd sound of a tinkly piano. A jukebox was playing the An-

drew Sisters singing “Drinkin’ Rum and Coco cola.” Quentin

teetered back in his chair when he saw himself in the back room

of the Blue Whale, unloading a crate of whiskey. As he leaned

over to lift the box he noticed that his wounds were almost

healed— so quickly. His comrades in France had not been

blessed with the same good fortune.

He struggled to place the year. He remembered he had not

intended to stay long in Collinsport. Th

e town was too fi lled

with painful memories, but he had come back to see his family,

most of all Jamison, who was ill, and a short stint as a bartender

at his old haunt was a welcome distraction. Th