Look For Me By Moonlight (12 page)

I stared at her, too shocked to speak. Dad drew in his breath as if he thought she'd gone too far, but Susan didn't seem to care. “It's not a healthy situation,” she went on. “Your father and I think you should see less of Vincent.”

When Dad nodded in agreement, I turned to him, my face burning with anger and humiliation. “Whose side are you on?” I shouted. “Hers or mine? In case you've forgotten, I'm your
daughter!
”

I expected my father to defend me, but he said, “I'm afraid I agree with Susan. We've both noticed a change in your attitude, Cynda. Although I don't think Vincent is to blame, I'm disturbed by your sneaking up to his room. Then there's Todd's story of seeing you outside with him and the nasty scene with Susan . . .” Dad fumbled with his pipe as if he were too embarrassed to go on.

I leaped to my feet. “Why did you invite me here? You never want to see me, you never talk to me about anything that matters! You lock yourself up in your den all day. Is that stupid book all you care about?”

Dad reached for my hand, but I turned and ran from the room. In the hall, I collided with Vincent.

“Cynda, what's wrong?”

His voice was rich with concern. I wanted to hurl myself into his arms and beg him to take me away. We could drive all night in his beautiful car, get married in Canada, and never return. Dad would be sorry then!

But Susan and Dad were standing a few feet away, watching, listening, forcing me to protect our secret. They mustn't guess I loved Vincent.

“Don't look so alarmed, Vince.” Dad dismissed the scene with a nervous laugh. “You know how teenagers are. They have to create a little melodrama every now and then to keep themselves from getting bored.”

At that moment, I hated my father. He was making a fool of me in front of Vincent, belittling my tears, turning them into a joke for adults to laugh about.

Vincent glanced at me. The little mark on my neck tingled as if he'd touched it with his lips. I knew he'd come to me later. We'd be alone, free to say and do what we wanted. Without looking at Dad or Susan, I stalked down the hall to my room.

 

Just before midnight, I heard a light footstep in the hall, then a soft rap at the door. Ebony raised his head and stared at me. Lashing his tail, he growled and rose to his feet, back arched. Ignoring the cat, I tiptoed to the door.

Vincent stood in the dark hall. “May I come in?”

“Of course.” I stepped aside; my heart beat hard and fast.

The moment Vincent crossed the threshold, Ebony slipped past him and ran toward the kitchen.

My room seemed smaller with Vincent in it. He prowled about, examining my books, my rocks and shells, Mom's postcards, a snapshot of her and Steve arm-in-arm in front of the Colosseum. I followed close behind, waiting for him to talk to me, hold me, kiss me.

Finally he took a seat in a chair facing the fireplace. Immediately I sat in his lap and kissed him as long as I dared. When I drew back, surprised by my own boldness, he looked hard at me. “Do you have any idea where this little game is leading, Cynda?”

Suddenly shy, I toyed with his earring. I yearned to please Vincent, to make him love me as much as I loved him. Whatever he wanted I'd give to him, he only had to ask. “I love you,” I whispered into his ear, “Oh, Vincent, I love you so much.”

“Do you really?” He sounded slightly amused.

“I've never loved another living soul the way I love you,” I insisted. “I'd do anything for you, Vincent.
Anything.
”

“Anything?” His body tensed, his eyes darkened, his amusement vanished.

I stared at Vincent, a little frightened by the change in him. The sympathy was gone from his eyes, and so was the tenderness. In their place was something I'd never seen before. “Yes,” I whispered. “Anything.”

He twisted a strand of my hair gently around his finger. “‘Bess, the landlord's daughter,'” he murmured. “‘Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.' Remember, Cynda?”

“The girl in the poem,” I whispered, “the one who died to save her lover's life.”

“Would you die to save my life?”

“You asked me that before,” I said, trying to suppress the tiny shiver of fear racing up and down my spine. “I said I would.”

“But I didn't believe you. Perhaps I should put you to the test now.” Vincent rose to his feet so quickly I almost fell. Opening his arms, he said, “Come to me, Cynda.”

It was a command, not an invitation. I hesitated, but he was smiling, his arms spread wide to receive me. He was certainly in no danger of dying, his life didn't need saving. Hoping it was a joke, I stepped into his arms.

“Remember, you brought this upon yourself,” Vincent hissed into my ear. “It's not my nature to resist temptation.”

Making no effort to deaden the pain with a kiss, he sank his teeth into my throat. Pain arced between us like electricity leaping from pole to pole. I tried to scream, tried to escape, but Vincent was too strong. He held me tightly, mercilessly. The room darkened, grew dim, spun slowly, then faster. At last I understood, I knew what Vincent was, what he wanted. Unable to bear the pain of that knowledge, I closed my eyes and prayed to die fast.

But my prayer wasn't answered. Gradually I came to my senses and found myself lying on my bed, too weak to move. Vincent sat beside me, watching me. Except for the dim light of the candles, the room was dark, silent, cold. So cold. I was numb with cold.

“Don't worry,” Vincent said. “You won't die.” There was no kindness in his voice, no love, no gratitude, just a cool satisfaction.

I tried to sit up. I wanted to call my father, I needed him to protect me, but I couldn't even lift my head. Sick with fear, I stared into Vincent's eyes. “I know what you are,” I whispered. “You're, you're . . .” But the word I needed was slipping away, sinking into a dark place beyond recall. I couldn't say it.

Vincent smiled. “Yes, you know, little mouse, but no one else does. Nor will you be able to tell them.” Still smiling, he leaned closer. “You know what I want, too. You're willing to give it to me, aren't you? Night after night, you'll invite me to take it.”

“No, no,” I sobbed. “I won't let you, I won't.”

Vincent touched my throat lightly, so lightly, yet my blood raced eagerly to the little red mark. His laughter broke like ice. “I've made you mine, Cynda. You can't resist me, can you?”

I turned my head, unable to bear the mockery in his eyes. “I loved you, I thought you loved me.”

“Love,” he said scornfully. “Poor little Cynda. Did you really believe I cared about you or your petty little problems? Such a boring litany of whining complaints—Mommy doesn't love me, Daddy doesn't love me. No one appreciates me, no one understands.”

Vincent's words struck me like sharp stones. They shattered the hours I'd spent with him. They buried themselves in my heart. They annihilated everything. “Kill me,” I said, weeping. “Just kill me, I don't want to live anymore.”

He rose to his feet and gazed down at me as if I amused him. “Not yet,” he said softly. “I'm not finished with you, my dear Cynda.”

Without looking at me again, Vincent left the room. The last thing I heard was the wind's familiar lament: “Ill has come to you, ill has come.”

 

I woke in the morning troubled and frightened. Scenes from books and movies tormented me, imaginary evils, things that didn't exist, couldn't exist, things I had no name for. Dreams, hallucinations . . . What I remembered couldn't be true, it hadn't happened.

When Susan came to the door, she found me in tears. “Cynda,” she whispered, her face filled with concern. “What's wrong? Are you sick?”

I nodded. My throat hurt too badly to answer, but it didn't matter. Vincent had stolen the word for what he was, what he'd done. Just as he'd predicted, I couldn't tell her the truth.

Susan covered me with an extra quilt. “You'd better stay in bed. I'll bring you toast and tea.”

The day passed slowly, gray and dull. Clouds hid the sun. I drifted in and out of dreams. Sometimes I saw the murdered girl hovering near me. “Ill has come to you,” she sobbed. “Ill has come to me.”

Sometimes Vincent came. His face hung over me, cruel and pitiless, inhuman; he whispered dark promises, he warned me not to tell. “Our secret, yours and mine; our moonlight secret; our sweet, sweet secret . . .”

At lunchtime, Susan brought me soup and a sandwich. Wrapped in his blue cape, Todd stared at me from the doorway, his face pale and worried. I heard him say something about Vincent.

“No, no, darling,” Susan said. “Vincent has nothing to do with this. Cynda's sick, she has a bad cold, flu maybe.”

I wanted to tell her that Todd was right, my illness had everything to do with Vincent, but she was already leading him away. “I don't want you to catch what Cynda has. It might be contagious.”

Late in the afternoon, Vincent began pacing the floor above me. Back and forth, back and forth. Once his footsteps had excited me. Now they echoed dully in my head, throbbed in my veins, gave me no rest.

When Vincent came to my door tonight, I swore I wouldn't let him in. I'd call Dad, I'd make him send Vincent away. I'd tell him exactly what sort of creature he'd invited into his home. Even if I couldn't remember the word, my father would believe me.

At least I hoped he would. Because if he didn't, if he laughed, if he said there were no such things—what would happen to me?

Darkness fell. The clock ticked the minutes away, chimed the hours. Every swing of the pendulum brought Vincent closer. I heard him come downstairs to have his glass of wine, I heard him go up to bed, I heard Dad and Susan follow him. The inn grew quiet. I told myself I'd be strong, I'd resist, I'd send Vincent back into the dark and the cold.

At three
A.M.
he came to my door. “Cynda,” he called softly, “may I come in?”

The sound of his voice froze my blood. I huddled under the blankets and prayed he'd go away.

“Cynda, please let me in,” he whispered. “I must talk to you, explain, apologize. I didn't mean to frighten you. I've paced the floor all day unable to write, unable to forgive myself.”

His voice ached with pain, throbbed with sadness. I felt myself weakening, but I forced myself to lie still. If I didn't get up, I couldn't open the door.

“I thought you loved me, Cynda, I thought you wanted me as much as I want you. Don't shut me out, please don't.” His voice was so low I barely understood what he was saying. Vowing not to let him in, I tiptoed to the door and pressed my ear against it. I heard him breathing softly. “How can you be so cruel, Cynda?” Vincent paused as if he were struggling against his own nature. “I've never felt this way, I've never loved anyone, I didn't think I was capable of it.”

I gripped the knob, wanting to believe him, yearning to be with him, to talk the way we used to. Maybe I'd been wrong, maybe I'd dreamed the horrible thing he'd done to me. It couldn't have happened the way I remembered it. It wasn't possible.

“Let me in,” Vincent begged. “Just for a little while. I promise I won't hurt you.”

I watched my hand turn the knob as if it belonged to someone else, I watched the door open, I heard myself say, “You can come in for a minute, but only if you . . .”

Wordlessly Vincent took me in his arms. His teeth sought my throat.

“No,” I cried, “don't, please don't, you promised . . .” I pushed him, I shoved, I beat at his chest, but, like last night, I couldn't get away, couldn't even cry out. He sucked hard, greedily, drinking my blood, draining my strength.

As suddenly as he'd grabbed me, he shoved me away. I fell on the bed, weak and dizzy, and he perched beside me. His eyes shone in the dark like a cat's.

“You see?” he murmured. “I mean you no harm. I could have drained every drop of your blood, I could have killed you, but I chose not to.”

“It wasn't a dream, I didn't imagine it,” I sobbed.

“But you still love me.”

“No,” I sobbed, “I hate you, I despise you, I loathe you. You're hideous, you're depraved, vile. . . .”

Vincent listened to me curse him, smiling as if it pleased him. What I said, how I felt meant nothing to him.

“What will you do now?” he asked, twirling a strand of my hair around his finger like a ring. “You won't try to betray me, will you, Cynda?”

He tightened the ring of hair, hurting me. “Remember, you promised not to tell.”

Despite the pain, I struggled to pull free of his hand, but there was no escape from his eyes. They held me, I couldn't turn away.

“Did you honestly think there'd be no price to pay for the attention I lavished on you? Even a mortal man expects a return on an investment, my dear, naive child.” Releasing my hair, he lay back on my bed and gazed at me.

“Maybe I can't tell Dad everything,” I whispered, “but I can at least tell him you tried to seduce me, you made advances, you took liberties, you, you . . .”

Vincent mocked my choice of words—so old-fashioned, so Victorian. “I'll tell your father
you
tried to seduce
me
,” he said. “When I refused, you made up a lie to spite me.”

I forced myself to sit up and slide away from him. “Dad would never take your word over mine.”

But even as I spoke, I began to doubt. In all the time I'd been here, Dad hadn't once taken my side against Susan or Todd. It would be no different with Vincent. Ever since Dad had welcomed Vincent to Underhill, he'd listened eagerly to his guest's opinions. Except for his belief in ghosts, Dad agreed with every word Vincent spoke.

“After you ran to your room last night,” Vincent went on, “your father told me he's thinking of taking you to a psychiatrist. He said you haven't adjusted to the divorce as well as he'd hoped. He spoke of your hostility toward Susan, your jealousy of Todd, your inability to study.”