Look For Me By Moonlight (17 page)

How actors did things like that I had no idea, but it didn't matter. If I had to die to destroy Vincent, I would. Anything—even death—would be better than being his forever.

Will paced back and forth, thinking. Suddenly he stopped and pointed to the trapdoor. “Remember what I told you about the cave?”

I nodded, thinking of the dark and the damp and the smell of the sea far below.

“Bring Vincent here tonight,” Will said in a low voice. “Use some excuse. I'll hide outside. While you're in the shack, I'll padlock the door so he can't open it.”

He fumbled in his pocket and gave me a box of kitchen matches. My hands shook when I took them.

“Toss a lighted match into that pile of rags near the stove. I'll soak them with turpentine. Hopefully Vincent won't notice; artists' studios always smell like oil paints and solvents.”

“But how will I get out?”

“As soon as the fire starts, go to the trapdoor. I'll leave it open for you. Be sure and lock it behind you. There's a bolt. If we're lucky, Vincent will be trapped.”

I clenched my fists against the pain. It was horrible to imagine Vincent's destruction, to picture him burning, writhing in pain and terror. He was so beautiful, so perfect, so clever. How could I kill him?

Will stared at me. “Is it too risky? Are you afraid? Maybe we shouldn't, maybe . . .”

“I don't know if I can do it,” I sobbed. “He's strong, Will. It's hard to resist him.”

By the door, Todd whimpered. He shivered, his hands and legs twitched. Leaping to his feet, he flung himself at the door. “It's dark, it's nighttime. We have to go home, Cynda. Vincent's waiting for us!”

I felt the same tug Todd felt, the same panic. We couldn't keep Vincent waiting. My hands shook as I zipped my jacket and pulled on my gloves. I was afraid, so afraid. Will's plan would never work. Todd and I were doomed.

“What's wrong, Cynda?”

“I'm scared.”

“You can do it,” Will said. “You have to.”

Giving me a quick hug, he unlocked the door. Todd ran out into the cold, dark night, and I followed him.

Ahead was the inn. Its windows glowed with candles, summoning us to Vincent.

 

Susan met us at the kitchen door. “Where have you been?” She pulled Todd inside and glared at me. “You know he's sick, Cynda. How can you be so irresponsible?”

Once I would have defended myself, yelled back, accused her of blaming me for everything. Not tonight. Vincent stood in the hall behind her, head raised, eyes narrowed, watching me suspiciously.

“We went for a walk,” I mumbled. “I forgot it gets dark so early.”

“She took me to Will's shack,” Todd whimpered. “He locked the door and kept us there. That's why we're late, he wouldn't let us go.”

Susan's eyes widened. “You saw Will, Cynda? After what he did last night?”

Although I didn't look at Vincent, I felt his power. Against my will, I said, “We met him on the path, he took us to his shack, he tried, he tried—” I started crying. Vincent was forcing me to lie.

Susan murmured something, and Vincent stepped forward. “Perhaps you should call the police,” he said. “The boy's obviously dangerous.”

“Yes,” Todd agreed. “Make the police put Will in jail, keep him there forever and ever. I'm scared of him. He tried to hurt Cynda.”

“What's happened?” Dad joined us. He looked from Todd to me, then turned to Vincent.

Masking his cruel face with compassion, Vincent sighed. “It seems Will frightened Cynda and Todd this afternoon. I suggest you inform the police before something worse happens.”

“No, it's not true,” I whispered, “Don't believe him.” My voice was inaudible to everyone but Vincent. His eyes met mine, dark and questioning. It was obvious he was furious with me.

When Dad picked up the phone, I ran to my room, planning to climb out the window and warn Will. Above me, the lamp went on in Vincent's room. In the oblong of light it cast on the snow, I saw his shadow. He was watching. If I went to Will, Vincent would follow me. He'd destroy us both.

I drew the curtains. Over my head, Vincent began to pace, back and forth, back and forth. He was waiting for night to fall, for the earth to darken and become his.

As restless as he, I flung myself into a chair. I tried to think, to plan, but, as usual, Vincent's footsteps came between me and my thoughts.

In despair, I went to Dad's study. I'd tell him the truth, I'd beg him to believe me, but just as I raised my hand to knock on his door, I heard a footstep on the stairs. Vincent stood on the landing, smiling down at me. Todd held his hand.

“You mustn't bother Daddy when he's writing,” Todd said.

“That would be very foolish,” Vincent agreed.

“Come here, Todd,” I said, “I want to talk to you.”

Vincent tightened his grip on my brother's hand. “I've promised to read to Todd till dinner's ready.”

“
I'll
read to him.” I ran up the stairs and grabbed Todd's other hand. “Come away from him, Toddy. Right now!”

Todd pulled his hand free. “Leave me alone, Cynda! You're not my real sister, I don't have to do anything you say. I hate you, I hate you!”

Todd's shrieks brought Susan to the foot of the steps. “What's going on?”

“Cynda yanked my arm, she hurt me,” Todd cried. “Make her leave me alone, make her go back to her real mother. I don't want her to live here anymore.”

I turned to Susan, trying to tell her, warn her, beg her to save us, but Vincent was too close. I felt his finger, sharp nailed and cold, trace my spine, his touch as light as frost on a window pane. Chilled into silence, I stared at Susan, imploring her to understand.

But she misread the message. “I know you don't feel well, Cynda. I know you're upset, but don't take it out on Todd. He's upset too, we all are. This business with Will is just heartbreaking. We never thought, never expected . . .”

Rubbing her forehead, Susan murmured, “Poor Mrs. Bigelow. I don't know how she'll bear it. She thinks the world of Will.”

Vincent's fingernail pressed through my sweater like a shard of ice. His breath stirred the hair on the back of my neck. “It's a pity,” he agreed softly. “Such a talented boy, nice-mannered, polite, handsome. Quite tragic really.”

“I hate Will,” Todd said. His voice was as cold and pitiless as Vincent's.

Susan stared at him. “Todd, what have I told you? It's wrong to hate people. Will is sick, he couldn't help what he did. He didn't mean to hurt Cynda, I'm sure he didn't. He couldn't have. Not Will.”

“Now, now, Susan,” Vincent said gently, “I know you were fond of the boy, but you mustn't allow your affection to cloud your judgment. Will might have done irreparable harm to Cynda. Be grateful we stopped him in time.”

As he spoke, Vincent continued to run his finger up and down my spine. Numb, he was numbing me. I could barely focus my eyes. Nonetheless, I continued to stare at Susan, willing her to read my thoughts.

“Cynda,” she said, “you and Todd look exhausted. Maybe you should both rest till dinner's ready.”

Vincent moved his hand to my arm and squeezed it amiably, chilling me to the bone. “Perhaps you'd like to join Todd and me. We're going to read in front of the fire.”

Todd opened his mouth to protest, but Vincent hushed him with a chuckle. “Shame on you, Toddy. You love your sister, you know you do. In fact, you love her so much you don't want to let her out of your sight.”

As Vincent hoisted Todd to his shoulders, a look passed between them that made me shudder. Susan noticed nothing. Satisfied that we'd stopped quarreling, she'd already turned away.

“Come along, Cynda,” Vincent said pleasantly.

Instead I hurried after Susan. “Don't you want me to help you with dinner, set the table, do something?”

“No, no.” Susan gave me a quick hug. “Get some rest, Cynda.”

Vincent smiled. From his perch on Vincent's shoulders, Todd smiled too. Like a prisoner, I followed them to the living room. Vincent settled himself on the couch and Todd climbed into his lap. Seizing my arm, he pulled me down beside him.

“Even if you told Susan the truth,” he whispered, “she wouldn't believe you. Nevertheless, I have no intention of giving you the opportunity. Why take the risk?”

Todd eyed me coldly. “You're a tattletale, Cynda, but I'm not. I know how to keep secrets.”

Vincent kissed Todd and Todd tilted his head back, exposing his throat. “Not now, Toddy,” Vincent murmured. “Wait till later, when everyone's asleep.”

“No,” Todd begged. “Do it now, Vincent, I want you to.”

I tried to pull Todd closer to me, but Vincent restrained me and hushed Todd at the same moment. “No more quarreling, children. We mustn't worry Susan.”

Todd pouted for a few minutes but soon fell under the spell of Vincent's deep voice. “Once upon a time there was a kindly old wolf,” the vampire began. “He lived alone in a beautiful mansion full of toys and candy but he was very sad, he wanted some company, a dear little boy to love . . .”

Susan called us to dinner before Vincent reached the end of his tale. Patting Todd's head, he said, “We'll finish the story later, won't we?”

At the dinner table, I took a seat opposite Vincent. Whenever I raised my eyes, I met his dark stare. He seemed to be reassessing me, considering options, musing on my fate. There was a hungry look about him, an expectancy that made my neck ache. He meant to kill me, I was sure of it.

When the meal was over, we returned to the living room. Todd sat on Vincent's lap again, listening to him talk to Dad and Susan, showing no sign of boredom. He found Vincent as fascinating as I used to.

Save me, save him,
I begged Dad.
Can't you see what Vincent is
?

But of course he couldn't. To Dad, Vincent was a fascinating, well-educated man, a sympathetic listener who understood the writing life. A charming fellow, a delightful guest.

Susan was no better. She sat by the fire sewing, her face rosy and innocent. Her earlier suspicions forgotten, she now doted on Vincent, offering him tea, sherry, claret, whatever he wished—her blood, I supposed, if he desired it.

Why can't you seel
I shouted silently at them, my head aching with wasted energy.
Why can't you wake up and help me!

Vincent glanced at me and smiled. He heard my pleas, but he knew no else would.

A cold draft tickled the back of my neck. I turned to see if the window was open. It was shut tight. Outside, falling snow brightened the darkness. Driven by the wind, it hissed against the glass. A girl as pale as moonlight stood on the lawn, facing the inn. Shrouded in snow, she stretched her hands toward me. She wasn't alone. Behind her, barely visible, were the others. Like Eleanor Dunne, they reached out to me. Their white dresses swirled, their long hair streamed. The wind gave voice to their pain.

Without thinking, I flung the window open. “Eleanor,” I cried, “Eleanor, help me!”

Dad and Susan leaped up, frightened by my behavior, but Vincent reached me first. He pushed me away from the window, pulled it shut, and fastened the latch, his eyes black with anger. As Dad rushed to help Vincent, I tried to break free of his hard, hurtful hands, but I was too weak. Vincent's sharp nails bit into my flesh, his pale, perfect skin glowed like the finest porcelain, his dark eyes told me there was no escape, no hope:
You can't defeat me. Neither can they. I'll do with you what I wish, little mouse.

Exhausted, I slumped to the floor. It was useless to fight him. Not with Todd perched on the sofa, watching me pitilessly. Not with Dad and Susan leaning over me, blind to what was really happening. Only Eleanor could help—but she and the others were shut outside in the dark, in the snow, in the merciless cold.

Soon I'd join them. I'd be one of the ghosts haunting Underhill, unseen and unheard till another girl came to the inn, unwittingly bringing Vincent with her.

Dad shook me, begging me to look at him. “Cynda, for God's sake, talk to me, tell me what's wrong!”

“Blame Will Bigelow for this,” Vincent said angrily. “Your daughter's emotional health was so fragile, so delicate, Jeff. His attack has obviously traumatized Cynda.”

“No,” I sobbed, “not Will . . .”

Dad held me tighter, hushing me with reassurances. “Don't worry about Will Bigelow,” he said bitterly. “He won't have a chance to hurt you ever again.”

“No, Dad, you don't understand. Will, Will—” I couldn't go on. Vincent took my words before I could say them.

Susan knelt beside me. “Here, sip this.” She pressed a glass against my lips. My mouth filled with brandy. I choked and sputtered; tears ran down my cheeks.

I let her help me to my feet, lead me to my room, undress me, tuck me into bed. “Sleep,” Susan whispered. “Sleep, Cynda.”

As soon as she left, I tiptoed to my window and quietly opened it. Snow blew into the room, whirling and spinning. The girls came with it. Silently secretly they circled me like snowflakes dancing on the wind.

Eleanor came close. Silently she touched the crimson spot on my neck. Her fingers burned my skin like dry ice. Slowly she pointed to her own neck and gestured at the other girls. They surrounded me. Each bore Vincent's mark, the only color on their skin, drops of blood on fallen snow.

The wind blew through the open window. Crying for vengeance, it filled my room with phantoms. “No peace,” it moaned. “No rest for us, no rest for you.”

Behind me, Vincent strode into the room, carrying Todd on his shoulders. The girls vanished into the darkness outside, blown away like wraiths of smoke. Eleanor was the last to go.

Vincent shut the window. “What did I tell you?” he hissed. “They're ghosts, phantoms. They have no strength, they can do nothing. I took all their blood, I gave them none of mine.”