Wolf Moon Rising (56 page)

such a task. Had he in some fi endish manner captured Julia,

and— what a misfortune!— was she destined to a terrible fate

if she was not able to save herself?

For a moment Barnabas was paralyzed with indecision.

When he looked back, Blair was no longer in the room, and he

heard the sound of a motorcar starting up in front of the house.

His cane struck the window with the deafening sound of

exploding glass. It shattered the casement in the shape of a star-

burst, and through it Barnabas glimpsed Quentin standing

there alone, his expression hopelessly acquiescent as though he

had been expecting Barnabas all along.

“Please, my good man,” Quentin murmured, “don’t harm

me.”

Barnabas was shaken. He tried to compose himself. Furi-

ously, he searched for an excuse, some way to cover his abrupt

behavior. “I— I was— I intended to catch Dr. Blair, unawares—”

“Dr. Blair has left.”

Quentin moved behind the table, watching Barnabas warily,

his body tensing as he hunched over, arms dangling at his sides,

but he managed to say in a low voice, “Not here, not now.”

“Th

en where?” said Barnabas, looking to the window, aware

that Quentin was stalling for time. He knew he still had the ad-

vantage, but in a moment that would no longer be the case. Yet he

hesitated, confl icting urges uncoiling within his body, both guilt and desire for revenge fl ushing their poisons into his blood.

His visage growing darker and with a catch in his voice,

Quentin said. “Take me to the Old House and chain me so that

I cannot escape to night. Can’t you do that? I am the most

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wretched of men.” He shivered and hung his head. “I have

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caused so much unhappiness, and I would rather die than be-

come what I am cursed to be. Barnabas, believe me, I no more

want to harm those I love than you do.”

Here was a solution. Was there time? Barnabas could see

the change coming on. Quentin’s hands sprouting fur and his

skin darkening, and, his voice gravelly. “Please help me. Stop

me. I beg of you. Or leave me to my fate.”

Barnabas looked again through the shattered glass. Th

e full

moon had emerged and was a swollen sphere surrounded by a

halo of blue light. Craters gaping, it pulsed with a fi endish fi re, and at the instant its beams penetrated the broken shards,

Quentin’s face betrayed his anguish. He threw back his head

and uttered a howl that tore the night’s silence.

Barnabas braced himself, grasping his wolf ’s head cane, but

Quentin stood, still a man, shaking his head, his hands clenched.

He stared at Barnabas in supplication, confused and desperate,

as he fought the moon’s power. His eyes were orbs of lunacy

when he turned and leapt through the casement, the sharp sliv-

ers raking his body, and then, uttering garbled sobs, he stag-

gered over the snow and down toward the sea road. Barnabas

followed stealthily, drawn by some primal instinct of the hunt.

No longer strong enough to kill the monster— he knew to en-

gage in a match would be disastrous— he still stalked his old

enemy. Drawn by a morbid curiosity, even a fascination that

shamed him, he wanted to witness the transformation. Again

he wondered whether he was being drawn to his own fate, to be

destroyed by the wolf man. But when he thought of those who

were also in danger— David and Jacqueline, so innocent and

helpless, unable to shield themselves— he knew he must protect

them. He had promised himself to watch over Jacqueline, and

David was the last in the line; his life meant more to Barnabas,

now than his own.

Barnabas searched stealthily among the trees, but fi nding no

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beast in the forest, he hesitated and wondered whether to wander

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further or to return to Collinwood and keep his vigil there and,

if the monster came upon them, be prepared to sacrifi ce himself.

But fi rst he must fi nd Blair. He felt a fl eeting concern for Julia.

Was she the vampire imprisoned by the demented scientist?

Passing the cemetery, he saw a dark shape up ahead hurry-

ing through the snow. Still in the form of a man, Quentin

stopped and looked up at the moon with such torment that even

Barnabas felt pity. Why had he not suff ered the transformation?

Quentin held up his hands as if he could prevent the beams from

reaching him, then ducked into the shadows of larger trees and

stumbled down the road, head bowed, his gait dogged with pur-

pose. He did not stop until he reached the curve to Widow’s

Hill, and for Barnabas, the unthinkable suddenly seemed im-

minent. He watched Quentin trudge through the snow, his

boots digging into the drifts, and then, covering the rise in leaps, the poor man raced toward the cliff as though he were determined in the only way he knew to stop his rampage.

Barnabas felt his throat tighten. Here at this precipice, his

beloved Josette had chosen death when she saw the horror her life

would become. So with the werewolf. Rather than face existence

as a hideous creature doomed to an eternity of shame, would

Quentin choose the same fate and leap to the rocks below?

How often he had said to himself,
I would rather be lying in

a coffi

n with a stake though my heart than to be what I have become.

For the fi rst time he realized what courage it required to live as he did, every hour facing his hideous propensities, trying to

carve out a life without remorse. How clever was the dev il?

What temptations had he infl icted on his followers? What des-

perate choices? Evil had a thousand faces, all of them shameful;

goodness had but one.

As he watched the lone fi gure approaching the rock face,

Barnabas searched for some way to save Quentin, to bring him

back from the brink, but the desperate man lumbered toward

the cliff ’s edge with the instincts of a brute and the resolve of a

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human. When he reached the edge, he swayed and raised his

head. His silhouette was carved against the ice- white moon,

and when he cried out to the swirling stars, it was with all the

wretchedness of a soul already in hell.

Barnabas drew back in shame. He could not bear to witness

Quentin’s fi nal moments. More than anything he wanted to

weep, but his eyes were tearless, and his heart beat relentlessly

in his ears as he began the lonely journey back to Collinwood.

A howling wind was coming off the sea when Jackie raced to

the cliff ’s edge with the cumbersome painting banging

against her legs. Stumbling toward Widow’s Hill dragging the

heavy canvas, she cried out, “Quentin!” but her words were swept

away in the tumult. Th

e sea beneath was frothed with spume,

each ripple edged in silver, and the waves curled against the

rocks as though off ering a sweet embrace.

Jackie called again, “Quentin!” and he turned, searching for

the source of her voice. Th

e wind whipped around her body, her

coat fl apped in the air, and her hair was strung out in tangles as she lifted the painting like a sail and was buff eted, barely able to stay on her feet. She could feel the vibrations of the portrait

entering her fi ngertips as she approached the dark fi gure, and

she whispered a prayer that the image had captured the spell.

At last she was close enough to see Quentin’s chest expand-

ing and smell his foul odor, but she could tell that, even though

the moon was like a meteor in the black sky, he had not yet en-

dured his metamorphosis. His bloodred eyes gleamed and he

panted, his hot breath fl owing around her, as he glared at her

in perplexed confusion. Jackie slammed the painting on the

ground at his feet and backed away, saying, “Th

ere! Th

ere is

your portrait!”

She was trembling, but certain with all her being that she

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had succeeded, that the painting would prevent the change.

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Quentin shook as he approached the canvas on the rocks,

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reached for it, then his body convulsed. As the moon fl ashed,

his massive form was sucked into his image like into the mouth

of a whirlwind. He doubled over, fell to the ground, and the

shape that lay on the snow was not a wolf ’s but a man’s.

When Quentin lifted his head, his chiseled face was perfect

once more, the dark hair, and the alabaster cheeks— all magically

restored. Jackie stared in awe as Quentin rose to his feet, and the singing wind blasted them both alone on the rock- strewn crag.

Th

e air was vibrating in waves, the sky reeled with stars, and the

full moon came into her arms.

Quentin staggered toward her, his face awash with relief.

Weak with gratitude, he reached for the painting at his feet. All

that he was and all he would ever be glimmered on the surface

of the canvas, and his image was so clear he could have been

gazing into a mirror.

Th

en, out of the wailing tempest, Jackie heard the sound of

Angelique’s laughter, the haunting melody traveling up and down

the scale, like the sad music that came from the grave.

Quentin looked at Jackie in awe then leaned over to grasp

the frame, but at that moment a burst of wind came off the sea

with such ferocity it blew them both back from the edge. Quen-

tin cried out, “No! Oh, God!” as the canvas was ripped from his

fi ngertips. He stumbled at the edge of the precipice. Th

e paint-

ing lifted, caught the currents of air, and fl ying just out of Quentin’s reach hovered a moment before it tumbled, revolving slowly

over the chasm, and then fl ickering like a new comet, it spiraled

down, crashed into the rocks, and was swallowed up by the

waves.

Gaping at the hungry foam that swirled onto the sand,

Quentin let out a deep groan and his hands went to his throat.

He hunched over and his shape darkened again. Silvered fur

burst from his body.

“Run,” he growled, and Jackie watched in horror as the wolf

man began to emerge. His hoary shoulders were frosted by

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moonlight. Th

e wind shrieked with the sounds of the booming

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surf, and the beast’s rank odor made her stomach clench. When

it opened its huge jaws, she scrambled away, and she looked

back just as the werewolf climbed against the moon a second

time that night and rent the sky with its wails.

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T w e n t y - f o u r

All David could think was he was going to die before he had

lived, before he had loved, and if only he had been civil

to this phony scientist rather than intentionally antagonizing

him, this might not have happened. He stared up at the white

light through the sheet and— grimacing and tossing his head—

tried again and again to pull his lips apart beneath the tape so

that he could scream. Th

e sheet smelled faintly of bleach and

pulsed in and out with his breath. His wrists were bloody and

throbbed with pain but still remained tightly incased in the

metal cuff s, even though he tried to pinch the bones in his

hands together and slip them through. His ankles were re-

strained as well, and he could barely move his legs.

Heaving his body in jerking motions, he tried to propel the

operating table he was pinned to toward the shelf of instru-

ments, but only managed to send something large and heavy

crashing to the fl oor, probably the camera. He tried to perform

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a rhythmic lunging, hoping to move a few inches at a time, but

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soon he knew it was helpless, as he was unable to make any

progress. He was going to die, and he wondered whether he

would pass out when Blair began his dissection.

He began to rehearse a speech, apologizing and pleading

for his life, but he knew Blair’s maniacal determination would

be impervious to logic. Perhaps some threat of the Collins fam-

ily’s reaction, legal consequences. A murder trial. Th

at was it.

Th

ere must be some way to convince Blair that he was not a

vampire, but of course he would fi nd that out soon enough, after

it was too late. What would become of his body? Would his fa-

ther fi nd him? If only he had some way of getting word to his

father, of reaching him telepathically.

Th