Wolfsbane (4 page)

The Claude Bauterre home was one of the most beautiful homes in the state. The most beautiful home in Ducros Parish. A Greek Revival home, built between 1832 and 1834. It has eight great Doric columns on each of its four facades, with two additional for the portico. Each window opens on a gallery and has a divided split paneling below which swings open, so each window thus becomes a door.

There are two widely separated lanes in three rows of trees: live oaks, magnolias, and cedars. A formal garden of shrubs and perennials, laid among walkways lead to the house.

Behind the acres containing the mansion, the gardens, and carriage houses and outbuildings, lie three thousand acres of farmland. It has been in the Bauterre family for one hundred and seventy-five years.

The main house is called Amour.

Love.

For a full one hundred and fifty of those years, the Bauterre family has been hated in Ducros Parish and especially in the small town of Joyeux, the parish seat.

The reason behind that hatred has rarely been spoken of since 1934, and those born in Joyeux since then would be hard to convince of its authenticity. For the old ways have all but died out, and the occasional sightings of “monsters” in the swamps and bayous were not given much credence.

Indeed, the children of Claire and Claude Bauterre, and their children's children, had no knowledge of the events of years past.

Awfully difficult to tell one's offspring that their grandfather had been a suspected
loup-garou,
and his father, and his father's father, and so on down the genealogical ladder, all the way back to France, when the Bauterre family had been driven out of the country by enraged and frightened villagers, driven all the way to Nova Scotia. Driven out of Canada a few years later, they changed their name to Bauterre and found their way to Louisiana. There, they lived in a secret peace for almost twenty-five years, during that time amassing a fortune by slave trading, farming, and piracy.

They were driven out of France and Nova Scotia because the male members of the family had been cursed by the disease called lycantropia, or wolf madness, and on occasion, the very rare porphyria. It is a real and tragic illness, although, fortunately, extremely rare.

And still exists.

The person actually believes he is a wolf. Although the medical profession scoffs at the change of human into beast, not only is the true lycanthrope physically altered so that he resembles the wolf of his maddened, heightened schizophrenic mind, but his mind is altered so he actually behaves like a wolf. He will attack and kill with his teeth, in many cases devouring his victims, eating the raw, bloody flesh.

Like a wolf.

But it has been written that some go a few steps further in the altering, physically and mentally. It has been written that a few, a very few, with the help of the Dark One, actually change into a beast, and cannot really be killed, except with the help of God. And like their mythical (?) cousin, the vampire, can return again and again. In search of food. Or perhaps to seek revenge. Or to once again taste the warm, salty flavor of blood.

 

“I love you as if you were born out of my own body,” Victoria Bauterre said, when Janette appeared on the steps of Amour House. “I have raised you since infancy. But you were a fool to come here. I wish you would turn around and leave.”

“I am a Bauterre,
grand'mère.
A member of this family. I have a right to know everything about this family. By law I own one-half of everything. It is my right.”

The old woman smiled, then stepped aside, motioning Janette into the coolness of the great house.

Janette's eyes took in the surroundings, lush and expensive, some of the antiques many hundreds of years old. “So this is where I was born?”

“Upstairs, first bedroom to the right.”

“And my mother?”

“Same room.”

“I'd like to talk about my parents someday soon,
grand'mère.
Especially my father. Perhaps now we may have the time to do that?”

“I have no wish to discuss that man, Janette. I have told you that. He was weak . . . spineless.”

“But perhaps I do wish to speak of him; learn of him.” It was not a question. “That is also my right,
oui?”

Victoria smiled. “A true Bauterre, that's what you are,
ma petite-fille.
Perhaps we shall discuss your . . . father, after all.” She rang a small silver bell and a servant appeared. “See to my granddaughter's luggage and make her room presentable.” She looked out at the new car parked in the drive. “Rented?” she asked, a hopeful tone in her voice.

“No,” Janette replied. “I arranged to have it ready for me in New Orleans. It's mine.”

“You've come to stay, then?”

“Yes,
grand'mère.
I have returned home.”

“So be it,” the old woman said, her smile fading. “But just remember: you were warned to stay away.”

“I won't forget.
Grand'mère?
There was some trouble at the villa. I . . .”

“I know all about it, child.”

“I should have known Louviere would call.”

“Louviere did not call me. No one called.”

“Then, how . . . ?”

“The man that was killed was a distant cousin of your
grandpère.
He was mentally ill to the extent he could not tolerate people. The illness is called an-thropophobia: fear of people. He was deemed incurable and I thought it best he be allowed to live out his years in the villa.”

Janette looked at her, thinking: you are telling me a bald-faced lie,
grand'mère
! Why? “He attacked me,
grand'mère
—physically attacked me.” She touched the bruise on her face and opened her blouse to expose the yellowing bruise on her shoulder and arm.

“He did that to you?”

“Yes,
grand'mère.”

The old woman sighed, her eyes furious. But the fury was not a sympathetic anger. Janette could read that much in the woman's eyes. “Then perhaps what happened was for the best. It was a tragedy, but we will speak no more of it. You are here, against my wishes, but I cannot order you out of a home that is rightfully yours. So stay.” She slowly turned and walked away, leaving her granddaughter standing alone in the foyer, wondering how her
grand'mère
had found out about the incident at the villa.

I have much to learn about my family, she thought.

“Much more than you will perhaps care to learn,” Victoria spoke from the hall. “So much more.”

A sudden chill tingled Janette's flesh as she realized the old woman had read her thoughts.

“She wishes to learn about her father,” Victoria spoke to a cross hanging upside down in her room.

Then, tell her, a voice she alone could hear rang in her ears.

“No. She carries the Bauterre blood in her. The pure blood. She is not like us.”

Your sentimentality could well prove fatal, Victoria. She is a strong woman. You know I was opposed to granting you this time. Revenge is one thing, stupidity is quite another matter. You know . . . He will not tolerate much of this. Too much, and it ceases to be a game; then it becomes a head to head confrontation between the powers. And somehow, I always lose. Which is why I try to avoid them whenever possible.

“I have served you well.”

Granted.

“I want my revenge on this village.”

Impossible!

“On a few, then.”

All right, the voice agreed reluctantly. But be forewarned: He knows of this.

“Impossible! How could He?”

Oh, don't act the fool, Victoria! You know He knows everything, just as I know everything . . . well, almost everything. Damn Him! He could have at least given me equal powers. Ah, well, I suppose eighty percent of something is better than a hundred percent of nothing. But, I digress, forgive me. He is preparing a warrior.

“A warrior! To send here? I never heard of such a thing!”

Don't interrupt. Yes. But I cannot understand His thinking on the matter. It's not like Him. You know . . . you remember that time in . . . where was it? That dismal South American country . . . He sent that Bible-waving nut in and our man barely got out with his pants intact.

But the man He has chosen . . . why, this fellow is scarcely more than a heathen himself! For Hell's sake, the man was once a—

A violent ringing of bells almost brought a scream from Victoria. She clasped both hands over her ears and waited out the tempest.

The bells ceased and Victoria said, “You broke the rules again.”

Yes. I came close to blowing this one. You're on your own for a time, Victoria. I can tell you this: look to the east. Goodbye. Good luck.

Victoria turned and stood for a moment, gazing through cold eyes to the east. But she could see very little. A barrier had been placed she could not penetrate.

“No matter.” She broke her concentration. “I will know all I need to know when the time comes. Not even You can prevent that.” She touched the upside down cross and left the room.

 

“Do you know what grandpa Vincent told me?” Betty Jane Vincent asked her husband. She smiled as she served his breakfast.

Nick looked up from his paper. “I hate to ask. When did grandpa say this?”

“Last evening.”

“Had he been drinking?”

She grinned her reply.

Nick forced a returning smile. She was in a good mood this morning; not on his ass about his drinking. . . or Carol. Just thinking about Carol brought a giddy feeling to his head. But no guilty conscience . . . not anymore. He had long since given up any hopes of he and his wife working things out. He knew she was still very much in love with Doctor Lormand.

“Grandpa said bloody times will soon be upon Joyeux.”

“S'at right? Why?” He was not at all interested . . . but, what the hell?

“He said the Bauterres were back. Said they all had bad blood in them.”

Nick laid his paper aside. “Bauterre? At Amour House?”

“Yes.”

“They've come back?”

“I guess so. Anyway, old man Guilbeau told grandpa to shut up.”

“And?”

“Grandpa shut up.”

“Eddie Guilbeau?”

“Yes. But Eddie agreed with grandpa about the bloody times coming. But he wouldn't say why he agreed.”

“Old men's babblings. That's all it is. For some strange stupid reason the Bauterre family has never been liked around here. I remember my father telling me—I was just a little boy, and he'd been drinking—that he wished someone would burn down that devil's house.”

“But it's such a beautiful home! I think it's the grandest home in all of Ducros. But I didn't think anyone had lived there for years, except the caretaker and that old servant.”

“Haven't. Something happened there a long time ago. Before I was born.”

Betty sat down and began eating her own breakfast. “So, what happened?”

Nick shrugged, wishing she would just eat her goddamned breakfast and shut her ratchet-jawed mouth. “I don't know. Something awful, I guess.” A mean streak surfaced in him. “Why don't you ask your friend, Stella Latour?”

Her eyes narrowed as she recognized what was coming.

“Yeah,” Nick said, laughing in a nasty sort of way. “She ought to know all about it?”

“That's not funny, Nick. I feel sorry for Stella. Just because her grandmother makes gris-gris and potions and people think she's a witch—”

“She is a witch! Goddamned old bag. Sits out there in the swamps and mumbles old-time mumbo jumbo. And Stella's momma claims to be a
traiteur;
heals people with herbs and potions and bullshit!”

Betty rose from the table. “Maybe I'll go see old Annie Metrejean; get me a gris-gris. Maybe get her to put a mojo on you.”

“Yeah,” he looked up. “You'd like that, wouldn't you? Then you and Don Lormand wouldn't have to sneak around every time you got the urge to fuck!”

She slapped him.

He was on his feet like a cat, swinging a balled fist. Betty ducked the blow, throwing up her arm to protect her face. The fist slammed against her upper arm, bruising it, the force of the blow knocking her to the shining kitchen floor.

She looked up at her husband, defiance in her dark eyes. “I think maybe we'd better split the sheets, Nick. I'm getting tired of your double standard. I didn't start the running around, remember? You did.”

He kicked her on the buttocks with a boot. She bit her lip against the pain. “That's my decision, Betty,” he told her, fighting back a very strong urge to kick her in the face. Smash her. Beat her into submission. “I bring the money into this house. Me! So if I wanna play around a little bit, that's my right as a man. But I decide when and if we split. Until then, you do as I say. Understood?”

She pressed her face against the coolness of tile and said nothing, expecting another kick from him. This wasn't the first time he'd knocked her down. Once he had beaten her so badly she had been unable to leave the house for a week. Her hip and arm were beginning to throb with pain. Up until that point, she had never been unfaithful to her husband. Since then, all they had done was play the game of charades. But on this day, Betty made up her mind it wasn't going to last much longer. Problem was, she was afraid of Nick, afraid of what he might do.

She kept her eyes tightly shut, and then she heard him walk away, through the house, slamming things around. The banging of the front door seemed louder than usual. His car engine roared into life.