Look For Me By Moonlight (14 page)

Dad leaned toward me. “Eat your steak, Cynda. Red meat is just what you need to build up your strength.”

I stared at the meat, cooked extra rare the way I liked it. Red juices seeped out and puddled on the plate. Without thinking, I lowered my head and licked the juice, recognizing it for what it was—blood.

“Cynthia!” Dad reached for my plate. “What are you doing?”

Suddenly angry, I tipped the plate and drank more of the blood before Dad could stop me.

Todd covered his face and began to cry. Horrified by my behavior, Susan lifted him out of his chair and left the room.

Dad stared at me. Beside him, Will sat stupefied, his mouth open.

Realizing what I'd done, I pushed the plate away and burst into tears. Dad took my arm. “You're overtired, Cynda. You'd better go to bed, lie down, get some rest.”

Too ashamed to look at Will, I left the room with my father. At my door, Dad stopped and studied my face. “Why did you do that, Cynda? What in God's name is wrong with you?”

I clung to him. “I must be crazy,” I sobbed. “Maybe you should take me to the hospital, lock me up in the psych unit, keep me there.”

Dad stroked my hair and murmured comforting words. I was sick, visiting Dr. Berman had exhausted me, I'd feel better in the morning, and so on and so on. “Get into bed, Cynda, rest.”

“Don't leave me, Daddy,” I begged. “Stay with me, don't let him come, keep him away.”

Dad freed himself from my hands. “Keep who away? What are you talking about?”

I fell on my bed weeping. I couldn't say Vincent's name. He was right over my head, pacing back and forth. His footsteps beat out a warning:
Don't tell, keep it a secret, remember your promise.

“Nothing,” I sobbed, “nothing, I'm just upset, I don't know what I'm saying, just stay a while, please, Daddy.”

Dad sighed and sat down on the bed. “I left poor Will sitting at the table all by himself,” he said. “And Susan's worried about you, I have to tell her you're all right.”

“Please, Daddy, please.” I clung to his hand and cried like a baby. I hadn't been this upset since he'd left Mom years ago. I'd begged him to stay with us, I'd wept, I'd promised to be good, but he hadn't listened then and he wasn't listening now.

“Cynda, for heaven's sake, you're sixteen years old, you're in your own room, what on earth can happen to you?”

I heard the impatience in Dad's voice, but I kept on pleading. In desperation, I used my ultimate weapon. “You don't love me,” I sobbed. “You never have.”

“That's ridiculous.” Dad stood up and went to my door. “Get a grip on yourself, Cynda. I mean it. There's no reason for this behavior.”

He left, shutting the door firmly behind him. I listened to his footsteps march away. I started to run after him but stopped at my door. Will was still in the dining room; I heard his voice. I couldn't face him.

The ceiling creaked. Vincent kept pacing, his ear attuned to every sound from below. Soon he'd come downstairs. Taking his seat in the shadows, he'd charm Dad and pacify Susan. Then, when they were fast asleep, he'd come to my room. Even as I vowed to keep him out, I knew I wouldn't be able to. He'd taken too much of my strength.

 

Hours later, Vincent tapped on the door. “Cynda,” he whispered, “let me in.”

I tried to ignore him but his voice sang in my veins and throbbed in my neck. Moving like a sleepwalker, I opened the door and Vincent stepped into my room.

When he'd taken what he wanted, he lay on the bed beside me. I gazed into his eyes, so alien, so cold. It was hard to focus. His face seemed to double, triple, and split into dozens of replicas. Finally I succeeded in making him stay still. One Vincent was more than enough.

Propping himself up on his elbow, he said, “Shall I tell you about myself, Cynda? I know you're curious. Mortals love to hear my history. They find it fascinating.”

I closed my eyes. Vincent's ego was boundless. He'd tell me whether I wanted to hear or not.

“I've been as I am for over five hundred years,” he began. “The immortal who gave me his blood was a master of the species. Like him, I cannot be stopped with garlic, silver crosses, or stakes through the heart. I dislike sunlight, but it cannot seriously harm me. Nor do I need a coffin of earth to sustain me. Why should I? I've never been buried.”

He chuckled and ran his finger down my throat, caressing the mark he'd made. “Some of my brothers and sisters claim they were taken against their will. They insist they despise themselves, they long to die. Not I. I sought my destiny, I yearned for it. I have no wish to end my life. I'm delighted with myself.”

Somewhere in the darkness, the owl called. Vincent sprang to his feet and flung the window open to listen. When the last spooky note faded away, he turned to me and smiled. “How I love this old inn. It suits my needs perfectly—lonely, isolated, far from town, near the sea.”

Cautiously I slid off the bed. My legs were weak, my head so light I feared I might float across the snow as weightless as smoke.

Vincent slid his arm around my waist to steady me. “Best of all,” he murmured in my ear, “whenever I return to Underhill, I find a tender little mouse waiting for me, eager to give me what I need.”

He pointed into the darkness. The murdered girl stood on the snowy lawn, gazing at us and weeping. There were others with her, paler and less substantial, some no more than glimmerings of moonlight. Like her, they wept.

“My fans,” Vincent said, scorning them. “Even though their bodies are dust, they still want me.” He raised his hand in a threatening gesture and the ghosts fled, dissolving like mist. “They dare not come near.”

“And will you kill me too?” I whispered.

Vincent smiled. “The choice is yours, Cynda. As long as you amuse me, why should I kill you?”

He closed the window then and led me back to bed. Tossing a quilt over me, he stretched out beside me. “I've been careless of your health,” he said, “so careless, your friend Will drove you into Ferrington to see a doctor.”

“I didn't go in, I couldn't, I thought he might . . .”

Vincent cut me off with an unpleasant chuckle. “A doctor would indeed be puzzled by your blood.”

I stared at him. “You're doing something to me, aren't you? You're changing me, I'm not the same. The sun hurts my eyes, I can't concentrate, I do strange things, the whole world seems different, darker, scarier . . .”

“It's unavoidable,” he admitted. “When I take your blood, my saliva enters your veins. It affects your behavior, your appetite, your response to sunlight.” He laughed. “I'm an infection for which there is no cure. Not even death.”

I shrank away from him. “No wonder Todd hates me. I'm becoming more and more like you, and he knows it.”

“What a clever little devil the child is.” Vincent rolled over on his back and contemplated the ceiling. I watched him uneasily, wishing I could read his thoughts as easily as he read mine.

Suddenly he laughed out loud and sprang to his feet, obviously pleased with himself. Before he left, he leaned down to embrace me. “‘One kiss, my bonny sweetheart,'” he whispered, “‘I'm after a prize tonight.'”

I pulled away fearing the sharp teeth behind his lips.

“Such a fickle child,” he said. “Once you couldn't get enough of my kisses.”

Not long after the door closed behind him, I heard a soft cry. It might have been the owl, it might have been the cat, it might have been almost anything. Yet I found it hard to sleep for worrying. Was Vincent merely quoting a line of poetry or did he plan to seek another victim?

Susan shook me awake. “You frightened me, Cynda. You were sleeping so soundly, you didn't move, I wasn't even sure you were breathing. I thought . . .”

She didn't need to finish the sentence, I knew what she thought. In fact, I almost wished it were true. Let the game end, let him stop, grow tired, finish me.

“How do you feel?”

I shut my eyes against the sunlight. My head throbbed, my throat hurt. I felt thinner, smaller, lighter. If it weren't for the covers anchoring me to the bed, I'd surely float away like milkweed fluff in the autumn wind.

“Maybe I shouldn't have disturbed you, maybe I should have let you sleep.” Susan gestured at the tray she'd set on the table. “But I thought you should eat something.”

I shook my head. “I'm not hungry.”

“Please, Cynda, just a sip of tea.” Susan held the cup toward me.

Steam rose, bringing with it the scent of peppermint. I closed my eyes, reminded of Will and the day he'd fixed tea in his studio. Will, kind, sweet, normal Will. He'd stayed for dinner last night, he'd sat beside me, he'd seen me lap the steak's juice like an animal. I'd frightened my little brother, I'd horrified and disgusted everyone—including myself.

“Last night,” I whispered, “what I did, it was awful, terrible—” Unable to go on, I covered my face with my hands and wept.

Susan patted my shoulder. “Jeff shouldn't have insisted you eat. You were tired, upset . . .” Her voice trailed off. She'd run out of excuses.

“But Will,” I said, “Will must think . . .”

Susan shook her head. “He understands, Cynda.”

Silently I finished the sentence for her.
Will understands you're crazy.

“Don't cry,” she said. “You'll waste your strength.”

Strength, I had no strength. Vincent had taken it all. I looked at Susan, but she was staring at the doorway where Todd had suddenly appeared.

“I thought I told you to stay in bed today,” she said wearily. “Your cold is worse. You need to rest.”

Instead of leaving, Todd climbed onto my bed and rested his head against Susan's stomach. “When the new baby comes, you won't love me anymore,” he said sadly. “I'll be all alone.”

“Where did you get such a silly idea?” Susan asked, taking Todd's unhappiness as lightly as Dad would have.

Todd began to cry. “There's nothing silly about it.”

Susan stroked his blond curls. “You're not all alone, Todd. Daddy loves you and so do I. The baby won't change anything.”

He shook his head. “That's not what
he
says.”

Susan stared at Todd, puzzled. “Surely you don't mean your father?”

“No, not Daddy,” Todd said scornfully. “Daddy lies just like you.”

“What are you talking about?” Susan grabbed Todd's shoulders and peered into his eyes.

“He came in my room last night, he told me things—”

At that moment, Vincent began to pace back and forth on the floor above. Todd stared at the ceiling and drew in his breath. “I was just teasing, Mommy. Nobody told me that, I made it up.”

Wriggling away from his mother, Todd slid close to me. “Vincent's my friend now,” he whispered. “He likes me better than you, he told me so.”

Without hearing what he'd said, Susan took Todd's hand. “Back to bed, sweetie. Maybe you'll feel better tonight.”

Long after they were gone, I lay still and listened to Vincent's footsteps. Now I knew where he'd gone after he left me, whose cry I'd heard in the dark, what prize he'd been after. Why had I told Vincent about Todd? Sick with guilt, I swore I'd save my brother—if I could. The ease with which Vincent had taken him frightened me.

When I felt strong enough to get up, I read the newspaper article I'd copied at the library. The murdered girl's name was Eleanor Dunne. She'd died in 1934 at the age of sixteen. A blurred photograph showed a pretty face, sweet and shy. A yearbook pose, a yearbook smile.

According to the reporter, Eleanor was a quiet, studious girl. Her parents, the owners of Underhill Inn, had no idea she'd fallen in love with a guest, a man they'd admired and trusted. A gentleman, Mrs. Dunne said of Victor McThane; intelligent and well educated, a good conversationalist, Mr. Dunne said.

Goose bumps prickled my arms—if Vincent killed me, Dad and Susan would say just what Eleanor's parents had said.

I forced myself to go on reading. Apparently Eleanor had made it a practice to meet Victor secretly. One cold night, someone saw her walking arm-in-arm with him on the cliff top. The next morning her parents found her bed empty. Several days later, three fishermen found Eleanor's corpse on the rocks, her throat slashed, her body drained of blood and white as snow.

The police looked for McThane, but he had disappeared without a trace. To aid in the search, an artist had drawn a crude sketch of the man. It didn't surprise me to see Vincent's face staring at me from the old newspaper. He and Victor were one and the same.

Accompanying the account of Eleanor Dunne's murder was another story titled “A History of Violent Deaths at Old Inn.” In Underhill's early days, smugglers and criminals frequented the place, brawling and killing one another, but the reporter felt a disproportionate number of young women had been slain there. One every sixty years or so. None of the murders had been solved, yet the method was always the same. The victim's throat was slashed and her body was thrown into the sea.

“Legend has it that Underhill is haunted,” the story concluded. “Perhaps there is good reason to believe the legend.”

I refolded the paper carefully and slipped it into my pocket. Vincent had told the truth. He'd been coming to Underhill since it was built, letting enough time pass between visits to ensure no one would recognize him when he returned. How was I to save Todd and myself from such a powerful killer?

A draft stirred the curtains. For a second, icy fingers touched my face. “Ill come to him,” Eleanor sighed, “ill come to him.”

I reached out, longing for her help, but Susan chose that moment to open my door. Eleanor vanished, leaving nothing behind but cold salt air.