Wolf Moon Rising (18 page)

of a winter night beneath a waning moon that seemed to vibrate

as though some unseen hand turned a dial that made it brighten

and grow dim.

Th

ere was no one in the yard. Still shivering, David fl ipped

on the outside light. A lone lamp poured a yellow beam across

the snow, and far off he could hear the yapping of a coyote. He

extinguished the light, bolted the door, turned, and made his

way back to the stair where his aunt Elizabeth waited on the

landing.

“Everything seems to be fi ne,” he said. “I think we can go

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back to bed.”

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Th

e house was quiet now and the only sounds were the

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Dark Shadows: Wolf Moon Rising

ticking of the hall clock and his own heart tapping softly in

his ears.

Several mornings later, Quentin stood at his bedroom win-

dow and looked out at the world. Th

e moon, the sky, and

the snow were all varied shades of deathly white: the moon like

a dull misshapen shell was fl oating in a smoky dawn, and the

melting snow on the lawn was the color of bleached bone. It was

a gibbous moon, on its way to a crescent, and then, how many

nights before it would swell again?

He knew he was doomed, and what a cruel joke it was. Like

the gambler at the roulette wheel who watches the last of his

fortune spin down the vortex; the tightrope walker whose foot

slips for the fi rst and fi nal time; the sailor who braves the storm only to discover he is not brave at all, but an impotent coward

with no skills to save himself in the whirlwind. Th

is was what he

was now—

a wolf in the forest, a rapacious brute. He was

doomed. Tentacles of fear slithered though his body.

He turned from the window and caught a glimpse of him-

self in the mirror above his dresser. He was startled by the tall,

gaunt man who looked back at him. Th

ere were shadows under

his eyes and a two- day stubble could not hide deepening lines in

his face. He laughed bitterly. From lover of women to destroyer

of women— oh, how the mighty have fallen! Once a romantic

libertine, a gallant roué, he was now to become a groveling

predator. He smiled ruefully. Perhaps the two had more in com-

mon than he cared to admit. For how many years had he traded

on his manly charm? And if fi nally he were to become this

Beast every full moon, where was his Beauty?

Ah, she was near, but what was left of her glow was hidden

away in a decaying house where she had been a recluse for twenty

years now, turned inward by guilt. He loved her still, loved the

memory of the golden girl who had so dazzled him, who, when

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she walked into a room, had made it bright with sunlight and

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Lara Parker

whose voice was musical as a fl owing stream. He longed to re-

turn to those blissful days.

But like a torch in the forest, a light moving among the

leaves, he had begun to see the signs: his feet seemed elongated

when he forced them into his leather boots, hair on the arches,

and on his toes, the beginnings of claws. He could feel in his

throat, at the back of his tongue, an extended row of teeth. His

voice was a bark, harsh and vibrant. His tongue like a root.

What was most surprising was a novel sense of canine loy-

alty, a reversal of his usual cool indiff erence. He thought of Toni, who was lovely, as so many had been before her, sweetly intimate, yet skilled, conscious of his plea sure, but lately needy, suggesting something he had found repugnant, of all the most

repulsive states in the human condition: marriage. And now he

was surprised to discover that he longed for a mate, for a family,

to hunt in his own pack, or even to curl up by her side by the fi re, seeking her warmth. He shivered and shook away the image.

Oh, the smells! His nostrils, black and quivering, drew in

odors that aroused him in new ways. He was curious about every

cranny of the world, of leaf mold and moss, bird droppings, slugs

in their crevices, snails in their shells. Th

e air reeked of tempting

perfumes, and tendrils of smells drifted into the crannies of his

nose and drove him mad— musky rabbit, dank squirrel, spicy

quail.

But what did all that matter? He had become a crime of na-

ture, as absurd as a murderous clown. And this after he had re-

mained young for over a hundred years. Youth longs for love, for

the many chimes and charms that come with passion; old age

longs only for youth. After all these years of de cadence, a surface left unscarred. His handsome face! But, he thought grimly, unless wisdom were written in the creases of his cheeks, in the

gray of his beard—
was
there wisdom? Did the blandness of his surface sink to his core? Th

ese thoughts made him restless; al-

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ways the drifter, bored and irresolute, his mind wandered again

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into thoughts of a séance. He could escape, return to another

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Dark Shadows: Wolf Moon Rising

time when life was rich with promise, music, dancing, and dan-

ger. He had been such a clever rake, and a slip of a girl had be-

witched him. He wanted her again, wanted to hold her in his

arms the very fi rst time. He clung to the idea, to go back, before the curse, before the war. He would speak to that man Blair at

the fi rst opportunity. Th

e séance could save him!

But fi rst he decided to visit Antoinette, to ply her mind

once more. He had not spoken to her since that night, and he

had tortured himself with wondering whether she had recog-

nized him in his bestial state. He did not think she had. Barn-

abas had been distracting her, Barnabas, whom he had almost

destroyed. Somehow, he had managed to stop himself. And

whom
had
he killed? He had no idea! Some kid wandering in

the woods alone, a pimply- faced schoolboy. And he had eaten

him alive! His whole body convulsed at the thought. What con-

temptible thing had he become?

He walked to his cabinet and perused the long row of hand-

made suits and overcoats, all of expensive woolens, exquisitely

tailored and fl awlessly brushed. Th

ey were evidence of his im-

peccable taste, but they now seemed merely excessive. He gri-

maced when he noticed the suit he had worn on the night of his

transformation ripped and stained with blood, and thrust into

the back of the closet. He must fi nd a way to burn it at the fi rst opportunity.

He paused before selecting his day’s attire, a gray fl annel

with a wine- colored cravat and emerald tie; but as he reached for

a matching pocket handkerchief, his hand closed instead around

a red box he kept in the top drawer with his cuff links and cum-

merbunds. His arms weakened as he carried the box to the bed

and opened the lid.

Inside were all Elizabeth’s clippings and photographs, saved

and secreted away for years. Her lovely face stared up at him,

her soft eyes and full lips, her blond ingénue charm, her sultry

glamour. Long ago, he had taken scissors and carefully cut away

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her costars, lovers, and husbands, and left only her gorgeous

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Lara Parker

image intact. He had even excised himself standing by her side

at the hospital. Gone was her notorious matinee idol father,

Jamison Collins, and actors she had worked with: John Ever-

more, Fredrick Simmons, and Mason Clark. Gone was Paul

Stoddard, her third husband and his would- be assassin, the

man who had insisted she dye her golden hair black and change

her image from ingénue to siren. Gone were all her directors,

Fritz Singer, Henri Renoir, and Vincent Fiorelli.

And there were the many publicity shots of Liz at various

premieres, at the Academy Awards, Liz at home in Beverly Hills

seated on a long white couch and smoking a cigarette, Liz at the

races in an fl owered hat, Liz at a club in Manhattan wearing a

halter gown that hugged her lovely breasts, Liz looking pert in

Little Women,
luscious in
Th

e Woman in the Window,
seductive in

Scarlet Street
.

A parcel of tacks was also hidden in the box and carefully,

methodically, he unfolded the photographs, smoothing the

newsprint where it had curled, trying not to tear the fragile pa-

per. Th

en, one by one he fastened the photos on the wall over his

bed so that they would all look down on him, He lay down and

let her beauty fl ood over him. He basked in her warm smile, her

tender gaze, and her luminous eyes. Here she was the coquette,

and there she was the vamp; here she smoldered with sexual

longing, and there gazed at him as she had when they were mak-

ing love. He ached for the woman she once was, gone now for-

ever, as if she had died, and he closed his eyes as a piano and

violin played somewhere far off , and the words of an old song

came to him

Shadows of the night falling silently

Echoes of the past calling you to me

Haunting memories veiled in misty glow,

Phantom melody, playing soft and low.

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In this world we know now, life is here and gone

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But somewhere in the afterglow love lives on and on.

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Dark Shadows: Wolf Moon Rising

Dreams of long ago meet in rendezvous

Shadows of the night calling me to you.

He buried his face in his hands and his body heaved with

sobs. He was doomed. A life of desolation lay ahead. What was

he to do? He could fi nd it in his heart to welcome old age. For a

brief period he would be with her in time. But the bestiality—

how would he bear it? Dread washed over him, leaving him

weak, and he drifted into nightmares fl ooded with guilt before

he fell asleep and dreamed of Elizabeth, of his happiness with

her, his promises to take her away and make her his wife.

Th

ere was a night when late, after midnight, he had found

the keys to her car and driven it beneath her window. She was a

vision when she came to the casement and looked down, the

breeze fl uttering her fl imsy nightgown. She waved to him with

delight, then ducked back into the room to dress. He remem-

bered being on fi re with the thought of her, of her gaiety and ra-

diance, so young and reckless, and he wondered if she would let

him make love to her that night. When he saw her climbing out

the window, he watched as she fi t her slipper into the crook of the vine. She wore a sheer slip of a dress and he could see the whole

length of her legs as she descended clinging to the creeper, and

dropped to the ground breathless, ran to the car, and in a rush she was in his arms, smelling of gardenias. What a baby she had

been, and when he kissed her, his hand slid into her hair and he

saw that she had chopped it all off ! He slipped his fi ngers through the short waves and felt her tiny neck and then kissed her breasts

through her shift while she nestled her body against his and

purred like a kitten. He had loved her more than life itself.

Quentin woke at noon and decided to go to the Old House

to search one more time for his portrait. He would look in

every possible hiding place until he had convinced himself that

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it was no longer there. Choosing an impeccable black overcoat

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Lara Parker

and scarf, he left by the kitchen door, and began his walk down

the snowy road. Th

e earth had disappeared, wrapped in a downy

quilt, the bushes, steps, walls, fences all rounded mounds and

thick white clumps. How black the trees were! Th

ey pierced the

sky with lancelike branches. He noticed his shoes were pinch-

ing. Th

e elongation of his toes had altered the fi t. Th

e air was

cold and he buttoned his coat and pulled his scarf across his

face. He caught a whiff of his sour breath. Th

ere was blood still

beneath his fi ngernails, and his tongue probed the crevices of

his mouth for remnants of fl esh even though his rampage had

been days ago. What had come to life in him that night? What

vile hungers? Who would he murder next? Could he stop him-

self before he killed someone in the family, someone he loved?

As he trudged through the snow, a plan formed in his mind.

He must return to the past. Th

ere was no other solution. Th

at

man Blair could conduct a séance and take him back in time,

back to his days with Elizabeth, and he could slip from fate’s

grasp. It was the only solution. What’s more, still alive at the