Wolf Moon Rising (49 page)

lonely and dark as the grave, and with a tormented heart, he made

his way to the basement and to the comfort of sleep,

But when he descended the cellar stair he caught his breath

and grabbed the railing to steady himself. Antoinette was wait-

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ing for him, standing beside his casket in the dim light. He rec-

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ognized her silhouette and her tangled blond hair. His heart

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lurched in frantic gratitude and he cried out with a sob of relief.

Fate had not robbed him after all. He moved to her and took her

in his arms, crushing her to him, but when his fi ngers wound

into her hair he realized something was diff erent. It was dry and

matted, and when he pulled back to look at her he was shocked

by her smile, lascivious and almost cruel. “No,” he whispered, “it

can’t be. Is it? Angelique!”

She nodded and moved again to embrace him, but he jerked

away and reaching back, tugged on the string to the overhead

light and saw her face suddenly illuminated like a mask, pale and

enlivened by her silver eyes. It was not Angelique. It was the girl, Jacqueline, wearing a cheap blond wig and smiling up at him

with a crazed look. Her resemblance to her mother was uncanny,

but somehow macabre, like a manikin in a shop window.

“Jackie—what are you doing here?”

“My mother—”

Ah, he thought, so she knows at last, and she is gone mad

with grief. “My dear, I know. I’m so sorry—” He was suddenly

uneasy.

She spoke in a whisper. “My mother has left.”

“Yes, Jacqueline, I know.” He felt helpless in her presence.

Did she blame him?

“Dr. Hoff man took her to the train station, and she went to

Boston.”

“Dr. Hoff man?” He tried to journey into her mind, but it was

a miasma of sorrow.

She continued in her soft voice. “I have come to beg you

not to follow her, not to summon her or try to fi nd her, but to

let her be.”

He fl oundered for an answer. “Of course . . .”

“She is very weak, but she is brave. I’m sure she will recover

if you don’t try to get her back.”

“I— I . . . no, I won’t try to get her back.” He dropped his

head in shame. Th

e girl came forward into the light and he saw

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her cheeks were fl ushed. A strange light danced in her eyes.

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Lara Parker

“And you need not depend on her anymore. I came to tell you

that I will take her place.”

“Jackie, I . . . I don’t think you know what you are

saying—”

She became more energized. “I know the truth about you. I

have known all along. I saw you— briefl y—but that was years

ago. You probably don’t remember—” She took a breath, her eyes

took on a fi ery tint, and the words tumbled out in a rush. “Let

me stay with you, Barnabas. You won’t need her anymore. It

should have been me all along.” Something in her tone made

him shiver because it was familiar— he had heard those same

words spoken many years ago.

Th

en she moaned, lifted her hand to the frown creasing her

forehead, and looked around as if she did not know where she

was. “Barnabas, what am I doing? I— I have to tell you— You

must know— I have an illness. Sometimes I think I am going

mad—”

He was torn between a desire to console her and a vague

suspicion of her motives. As if she had read his mind she sud-

denly cried out, “Barnabas, please, help me.” She collapsed

against the side of the coffi

n, grabbing the edge to steady herself,

and he saw she was about to faint.

He moved to catch her, “Here, let me—,” and took hold of

her waist and lifted her, easing her into a chair. “Are you dizzy?”

He sat opposite her and took her hands.

She raised her head and Barnabas noticed for the fi rst time

Jackie’s resemblance to her mother— not the same coloring, of

course, but even though she was young, only about fi fteen, he

could see the shape of her face, the way her head in the blond

wig was set on her small shoulders, her slender neck, the wide-

set eyes, and even her hands too lined for someone her age, with

the thin wrists and the fi ngernails bitten to the quick.

Her breathing was shallow. “What was I saying?”

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“You were speaking about your mother.”

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“My mother has left me. I am supposed to go to her but I

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can’t. I will only make her situation worse—” She seemed to be

struggling to sound rational, but her eyes were fl icking about,

and her mouth twisted as if she found the words distasteful. She

wore jeans and a loose sweater, but in her shape on the chair he

could see her mother’s body— Angelique’s body— her slightly

rounded shoulders and her narrow hips.

Icy fi ngers crept up his spine. Who was she?

She looked at him, her eyes fl ooded, and her lips trembled.

“Barnabas . . .”

How could he comfort her? Her sorrow made him even

sadder; it refl ected his own melancholy, and he felt he hadn’t the words to ease her pain. “Jackie, all of us grieve. It is part of life.

All of us know loss and heartbreak. You must be strong. Many

people you love will die in your lifetime—”

“Are you saying she is dead?”

“No, I— I don’t know, I—”

“Yes! It’s true, isn’t it? I was so afraid that it was true!” And

suddenly she was in his arms, clinging to him, her face against

his chest, tears fl owing. She convulsed, choked, then shivered.

Her hands were like claws— gripping his vest. “I want to stay

with you,” she cried.

“Jackie . . .”

She looked up at him, her face damp. “How can I live

alone? What shall I do? I’m so afraid . . . I need to be with you.”

“No, believe me, you do not want that. I am”— he said it

with diffi

culty—“I am not what you think—”

“But I know what you are! You are a vampire.”

He caught his breath. How did she know? But of course she

must have seen him with her mother. She fi xed his eyes with her

own and said in a low voice, “And I am a witch.”

He looked at her, astonished. Why would she say such a

thing?

“Don’t you see that we belong together?” She moved closer

to him and put her arms around him, her head close to his face.

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She smelled of pine and vanilla and she shivered, as if from the

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cold. He could not help but feel drawn to her, but he placed his

hands on her shoulders and moved her away so that he could

look at her. She was still so young, barely more than a child, and

her child’s skin, although pale, was fl awless, unblemished as

silk. Her eyelids were perfectly formed, as were her lashes, the

dark hairs wet with tears, her eyes huge and pale.

“Th

ere is one great diff erence,” he said sadly. “You are alive,

whereas I am— I am not.”

He reached up and pulled the blond wig off her head. It was

dry in his hand like rusted steel wool. Her black hair tumbled

down. He moved it back from her neck and saw the tendon be-

hind her ear. She was a virgin, he was certain, as innocent as the

dawn, and yet— was she? She looked into his eyes. Th

ere was

something smoldering there—

a knowing glance. And she

whispered again, “I am a witch. I know the dark secrets. We are

both depraved. Both evil.” He stiff ened as she moved her body

against him. “No one will ever love you as I do. I will devote my

life to making you happy.”

He felt a rush of desire, and a sense that his pain could be

eased, but behind the fl ood of longing was a vague foreboding.

He had heard those words before!

“But . . . but you are so young,” he said.

“It is only an illusion. I have lived before. And loved before.

It was you that I lived for and you that I loved.”

“Oh, my dear, I can’t imagine— what do you mean?” A ter-

rible realization was dawning and he found himself wondering

whether it could possibly be true. “Who are you?”

“Don’t you remember? I was a witch in Salem and I was

hanged for crimes I did not commit. You were there. You came

with my mother to save me, but you could not. I cursed the Col-

lins family from the scaff old.”

“Yes,” he said, “I do remember, but—”

“I have powers that rival yours, and I have lived even longer

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than you. Let me into your world, and I will take you into mine.”

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He looked at her for a long moment. Considering. His body

was shaking and his mouth grew damp. She was eager, defi ant.

Yes, she was powerful— he could feel the vibrations emanating

from her body and he could see the woman she would become.

Th

en, his hands still on her shoulders, he drew her close to him

again and his face was in her hair, its silkiness against his cheek, and he said in a low whisper, “I cannot— I could never— harm

you.”

She pulled away from him and rose from the chair; some-

thing in her fl ashed in anger. “You can’t refuse me! Don’t

abandon me. Don’t leave me empty. I don’t want a meaning-

less life!” Th

en she whispered, “I want to have a great love!”

He was dumbfounded, and wanted to laugh. “A great love?

Yes, but you will, my dear. Many wonderful things will come

your way. You are only a child. Your whole life lies ahead.” He

seemed to remember she was David’s sweetheart. “What about

David? Isn’t he your—”

“No. Don’t speak of David. He doesn’t know me as you do.”

“As I do? Jackie, don’t say that. Don’t reject the happiness

closest to you for a faraway dream—”

“Please . . . hold me. Let me love you. I will make you

happy.”

He was surprised by her passion. Th

ere was something so

familiar, something beyond her youthful defi ance, something

otherworldly, as though someone was speaking through her.

And then suddenly he knew. Of course. Why hadn’t he seen it

earlier? She was possessed. Even as she spoke, the words were

not her own but were burned into being by some unseen force.

But she would not give over, and she became breathless.

“Barnabas, try to understand. I have nothing else to live for

but you. We have been given a chance for something wonderful.

For our needs and our fates to be linked together. I’m not an

ordinary girl and . . . and I don’t want my days to be ordinary. I must belong to you!”

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Suddenly he was concerned for her. “Jackie. Th

e thing you

say you have inside of you— something evil— you must not give

it power over you. You must fi ght it.”

He got up and walked away, determined to resist her, but

she called to him and when he turned back, the transformation

was obvious.

She stood as Angelique had stood, so many years ago, her

eyes luminous, a pulse in her throat, her chest rising and falling

with her breath.

Once again he was bedev iled by choices that would be irre-

versible. His voice was hoarse and weakness moved through his

body. “Jacqueline,” he said in a shaking voice, “you must go for

now. We will talk of all this tomorrow.” Th

e force of her power

was pulling him back to a time in his life when everything had

been damaged forever, and yes, she was bewitching, seductive,

even in her teenager’s shirt and jeans, off ering herself, something within her tugging at him, a magnetism he recognized, turning

his will to water. He had only to go to her and he would be lost.

“Jacqueline, I beg you to leave me be.”

Her eyes were pleading. “Barnabas, please . . .”

His hands opened and closed. “My dear, you must go.”

“Can’t I stay with you here while you sleep?” It was her girl’s

voice again, and his will dissolved.

“Why? I mean, of course. It is your house.”

“And it is yours as well.”

David stood at the top of the stair leading down into the

basement. He had been on his way to fi nd Jackie when he

heard her speaking to Barnabas, and he had stopped for fear of

interrupting. For long minutes he had been there, listening, and

at last, able to bear it no longer, he turned and stumbled back

through the house.

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Barnabas, too troubled by Jackie, could not climb into his

casket. He sat with his head in his hands, and fi nally, when

he thought she must have left, he turned to sleep. But he was