Her Loving Husband's Curse (23 page)

Leaving was nothing new for James. He lost track of how many places he lived over three hundred years. Istanbul. Tokyo. Sydney. British Columbia. London seven times, not including the first twenty-eight years of his life. Germany. France, Italy, and Switzerland. All over the United States. Salem, too many times to count. He didn’t feel strange leaving his house behind since he had left it many times before. What troubled him was the pain in his wife’s eyes. She wasn’t used to leaving in the middle of the darkness. She left, once, when she was Elizabeth, when the pock-faced man took her away. If James found any solace it was in knowing that that night was different. That night they left before anyone could catch them.

He worried about Grace, dragging her along on this midnight ride, but the baby didn’t seem to sense anything was wrong. Grace, as was her way, was babbling her nonsense syllables, clapping her hands to the words she understood herself well enough, and she even made herself laugh a few times. Soon, the rolling car lulled her to sleep, which is how she stayed for the remainder of their drive to Maine. James checked her in the rear view mirror as she slept, her rose-colored cheek resting against the soft green mesh of her car seat, her gold eyelashes fluttering like butterfly wings. He marveled, perhaps a bit proudly, that his daughter looked more like him than Sarah. She had parts of Sarah, certainly, her full lips, her curls, her thoughtful gaze. But she had his gold hair, the blue eyes he had before he was turned, and his ability to sleep through anything.

Sarah pulled her cell phone from her bag, then put it down again. “Can’t they track our phones?” she said. “I wanted to call Olivia.”

“You’re not the only one who has brilliant ideas, Mrs. Wentworth. Check beneath the seat.” Sarah pulled out a small black cell phone, an older flip-top model. James smiled, pleased with himself. “Use that. It’s not attached to either of our names.”

“Where did you get this?”

“You can get anything over the Internet these days.”

“What if Olivia doesn’t recognize the number and won’t pick up?”

“She knows the number. She’s the only one who does.”

Sarah turned away from the window and closed her eyes as though she were dizzy from the flash-fast speed as James’s extrasensory reflexes kept them moving along the highways and byways toward Maine. He could see her fighting the tears away.

“You were planning for something like this,” she said.

“Yes. And so were you.”

Sarah nodded. She held herself together, but he knew her face so well. Every frown, every grimace, every squint, he knew them before they appeared fully formed, before she was conscious enough of them to try to hide them. He had known every feature of that face for over three hundred years. Even when she wasn’t there for him to take into his arms he knew that face, dreamed of it, imagined he kissed it during his loneliest hours. And at that moment she had the same strained look she had had as Elizabeth when they accidentally stumbled upon their friends as they were hung from an ugly tree on Gallow’s Hill. She pressed Olivia’s number into the keypad on the cell phone, put the phone to her ear, and waited.

Theresa and Francine Silvers lived in Herrick Bay, Maine, nestled close to the islands in the Gulf of Maine near the Bay of Fundy by New Brunswick and Nova Scotia. A drive that should have taken five hours took two with James behind the wheel. There were no strange looks from the half-awake attendant when they stopped for gas. No police cars followed them. They left Salem after midnight, so the I-95 North to Salisbury/Portsmouth New Hampshire was deserted, and Exit 52 to the I-295 to the Maine Turnpike to Exit 113 very nearly so. They drove through small northeastern towns bordering deciduous forests, passed farmhouses, curious horses, and rural roads. When they arrived in Maine they drove toward their destination in Brooklin, along Route 175, Reach Road, which became Bay Road further along. Finally, they arrived at Flye Point Road along Herrick Bay, the water just feet away, and James drove past the tall, spindly trees, the sprouts of forest green waving at the nervous-looking newcomers as they passed the cleared-out driveway toward the one-floor tan cottage with white trim, a reconverted carriage house.

Sarah studied the note in her hand, her handwriting scrawled from writing in the fast-moving car, and she searched the house for some clue they were in the right place. It was nearly three o’clock in the morning, and it would be terrible to knock on the wrong door though that must have been the place since there were no other houses around. When she saw two red-haired women, obviously mother and daughter, peeking at them from behind red-gingham curtains and nodding, she knew they were in the right place. James stopped the car in front of the house, but the older woman came outside and pointed to an open whitewashed garage out of view of the road.

Theresa and Francine walked to the garage while James parked. After he stopped the car they helped Sarah lift the baby from her car seat and the cat in her carrier. The women’s friendly smiles were as wide as their open arms. The older woman embraced Sarah, and the younger woman held Grace.

“Welcome James and Sarah,” the older woman said. She peeked under the blanket draped over the younger woman’s shoulder to look at the baby. “And this pretty little one must be Grace. I’m Theresa.” She nodded at the younger woman holding the baby. “This is my daughter Francine. Don’t worry. You’re among family here.”

Theresa looked like Olivia, James thought. She had the same wisps of gray in her red hair, only her tone was more burgundy, shoulder length and pulled into a ponytail. Francine was younger, college age. Her dyed orange-red hair hung down her back, and she wore black eyeliner and a black Irish-knit sweater over black jeans. Though she should have been intimidating looking, like a goth, she showed the same kindness her mother did, the same friendliness James had known from Olivia and Jennifer, from their whole family back generations. Theresa clasped her hands together, a very Olivia-like gesture, and took Grace from Francine’s arms. Grace woke up, her blue eyes tired but curious as this stranger woman hugged her close and kissed her cheek. Grace smiled at the woman, babbled her greeting and patted her hair.

“You are the most precious thing,” Francine said. “Mom, isn’t Grace the most precious thing?”

“She is.” Theresa touched Grace’s ringlets. “Look at those gold curls and those big blue eyes. She’s like a little doll with her cheeks and lips painted pink.” She looked at James, then back at the baby. “She looks just like you, James.”

James opened his mouth but said nothing.

“It’s all right,” Theresa said. “We know who you are. We know about Elizabeth,” she nodded at Sarah, “and we know about Grace too. You have nothing to fear from us. We’re Wiccan, like Olivia and Jennifer, like our family all the way back. You know, James. Your secrets, and all of you, are safe here.”

“Hush, Mom.” Francine looked around to be sure no one overheard, but there were no neighbors for miles. James felt as though he had driven to the end of the earth and they were the last five people left in the world. The thought suited him fine.

The old carriage house was larger inside than it looked from the road. Outside it looked like a casual, modest bungalow, similar to other homes that populated the sparse, rural land. Inside it was spacious, with high ceilings and rooms that stretched toward the sea. It was simply furnished, with red and white checkered curtains, red overstuffed chairs and a matching sofa, light wood furniture. The windows were large and framed by light wood, overlooking the spindly feathering trees and the rocky coast of the jagged bay.

The women allowed their houseguests a few moments to acquaint themselves with their surroundings. Finally, Theresa said, “Olivia said to tell you that Jennifer and Chandresh have gone to Oklahoma. Steve, Jocelyn, and Billy left for Canada since Steve has family in Montreal. They’ll be here to see you as soon as they think it’s safe.”

“Were they going to take Billy away?” Sarah asked.

“Olivia didn’t say.”

Theresa showed James and Sarah to their room off the side of the kitchen. “You’ll find us to be gracious hostesses,” she said. “James, you’ve known my family for over three hundred years, which means we consider you part of our family, which makes you and Grace our family as well, Sarah. I can’t believe we’re just meeting now for the first time, James. I insist you treat this like your own home. Take off your shoes, put up your feet. If you want something from the fridge, take it. We’ll take care of you too, James, don’t worry. We’re very informal here, isn’t that right, Francine?”

“If you guys need anything, just let us know. My room is down the hall on the right.”

“We’ll leave you to rest,” Theresa said. “It’s been a long night.”

Sarah kissed both women on the cheek, and James shook their hands, grateful for their hospitality, silently blessing Olivia for being Olivia. When Theresa closed the door behind her, he saw the square room with white walls, a four poster bed of light wood and a beautifully carved antique-looking crib pressed against the wall with freshly washed linens and a small stuffed brown bear inside. He sighed, believing they could wait out the madness in this comfortable home in Maine, then go back to their wooden gabled house when sanity returned. He looked for the window and realized it was already covered, four quilts thick, to keep the daylight outside. He nodded. For that moment, everything was all right.

Sarah was overwhelmed with appreciation for the kindness of these women who were virtually strangers to them. She didn’t know what she would do without her wonderful Olivia and her loving family. She took a sleeping Grace from James’s arms and set her down inside the crib. Sarah stroked her daughter’s gold curls from her eyes but then she was overwhelmed by the weight of it all. She turned from Grace, she didn’t want her daughter to see, and she crumpled over and wept. James caught her in his arms and pressed her close, her head to his chest, his hands on the small of her back, his lips on the top of her hair.

“We’re safe here,” he said. “It’s all right.”

Sarah relaxed into his arms. She exhaled loudly, as though she held her breath the whole drive from Massachusetts to Maine. She was too tired to struggle so she let James take care of her. Theresa and Francine had thoughtfully left a bottle of rose-scented bubble bath on the rim of the bathtub, and Sarah watched as he poured the pink liquid under the hot running water and she watched the foamy bubbles form under the tap. She let him undress her, one piece of clothing at a time—first her cardigan sweater, then her t-shirt, then her jeans, then her bra and panties. When she stood naked in front of him he kissed her, everywhere. There was something urgent in his kisses, she thought, something that needed her. The idea crossed her mind that he was worried they might not have much more time together. She shuddered the thought away.

She felt the heat between them flush her cheeks pink, and she undressed him, too, piece by piece, and he joined her in the bathtub, letting his hands wander her body. It was perfect, she thought, the man she loved beneath her, his skin against hers in the comforting warmth of the bubble bath, his hands on her breasts, his lips kissing the back of her neck. As he rubbed his hand between her thighs and she knew she couldn’t wait for him any more, she straddled him and she kissed him and she knew everything was going to be all right.

When she saw him sleeping in the dawn she was envious. Sleeping like the dead had its advantages, she thought. She laid down next to him and watched him in his stillness, taking comfort in his strong arms and extrasensory perception. She closed her eyes, tried to still her breathing, counting backward from one hundred, imagining her family in the comfort of their wooden gabled home, but she couldn’t settle herself enough to sleep. Wearily, she pulled herself out of bed, she was so exhausted, and turned on the small tube television on the whitewashed dresser. As soon as she saw the headline flash across the screen, “Attacking the Pro-Vampire Factor,” she knew she should turn the television off, but she didn’t.

We’ve been hearing a lot about the vampire problem facing our country, and some vociferous cuckoos are saying it’s fine for vampires to be out and about in the world. After all, they argue, vampires have always been around, and we’ve survived. Have we? How many murders have been committed in the night by these bloodsuckers? Do we really need to worry about vampire rights? What about our right not to be attacked while out for a nice dinner with the family? Who’s protecting that right?

The President said the American people are generous enough to accept the vampire as our neighbors and friends. He said there’s no reason to be frightened by vampires when they’ve given us no reason to be frightened except in scary movies. Once again he’s off his nutter. He can’t see what’s right before his face: the American people are outraged at this blatant display of death. Hasn’t the President seen the reports of people rallying in the streets shouting anti-vampire curses and wearing garlic ropes around their necks and waving wooden stakes and rifles loaded with silver bullets? A Congressional committee has come together to write a bill that would require all vampires to register with the government. That’s the most sensible thing I’ve heard in years. I don’t want a violent criminal in my neighborhood, and neither do you. Vampires are murderous blood drinkers, and they need to stay far away from my neck of the woods.

The Americans I know prefer to operate on facts. Here are the facts:

1. Vampires drink blood. Where do they get blood? From us, that’s where. We’re not talking about borrowing a cup of sugar here, people. We’re talking about piercing someone’s skin to get to the blood underneath. Grossed out yet?