Wolf Moon Rising (29 page)

“Jesus Christ!” he said. “It’s a werewolf!”

Jackie stared unblinking and then said softly, “Th

e painting

is under a spell.”

“And it guards a pretty heavy secret. No wonder he wanted

it back.”

“I saw that wolf,” Jackie said, “the night we found Barnabas.

Could that have been what attacked him?”

“I don’t know,” said David, “but this could mean Quentin is

dangerous— a threat. If that’s really him, Jackie, he’s a dissem-

bler. He’s a member of my family. And he’s a werewolf.”

Jackie just nodded her head and her fi ngers closed on Da-

vid’s arm.

“We have to fi nd out what it all means,” he said simply, and

he thought, but didn’t say, that it meant his family lived under an evil curse. A vampire, and now a werewolf. A wave of darkness

swept through him.

Not knowing what else to do with it, but reluctant to leave

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it there, they covered the leering visage with the blue satin and

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put the painting in the back seat of the car. Snow fl urries blasted

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Dark Shadows: Wolf Moon Rising

the windshield when David turned the key and the engine

rumbled to life.

He was surprised to hear Jackie say, “I don’t want to go

back,” as they started down the road.

“I know. Th

ey’ll probably take the car away from us as soon

as they see it.”

“What shall we do with that?” She glanced toward the back

seat.

“I say we throw it in the swimming pool. With the other

ghosts. Let them fi ght it out.”

She watched the snowfl akes roiling in the headlights. “Maybe

it’s not it,” she said softly.

“Maybe, but how many paintings do you think there are

fl oating around?”

“What do you know about werewolves?” Jackie said.

“Only folklore. Th

ey change on the full moon. And

something about silver bullets.”

She looked over at him. “How about we throw it into the

sea?”

“Good idea. Let’s toss it off Widow’s Hill and that’ll be the

end of it.”

She sighed and stared out the window. “You know we can’t

do that. Th

e painting is under a spell. It’s something supernatu-

ral. We have to fi gure it out. We’re the ones who found it. We’re the ones who could uncover the secret.” She watched the trees

fl ash by her window; then she sighed. “But it isn’t ours. We

should just give it to Quentin.”

“You’re right. Of course we should.”

“But fi rst I could try to repair it. I have paints.”

“You would touch that hideous thing?”

She smiled. “I’m not afraid. I’m an artist.” She paused, then

giggled. “And I’m a witch, remember?”

A reckless urge pulsed through his body and he stepped on

the accelerator, easing the car into third gear and picking up

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speed. It had stopped snowing and the headlights cast their

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Lara Parker

golden stream down the tunnel beneath the trees like a corridor

of fl ame. Th

e radio was playing again, and this time he recog-

nized Gershwin’s
Rhapsody in Blue
pouring in a rich horn melody out of the speaker.

David gripped the wheel and watched as the trees fl ew by

and the speedometer crept up to fi fty, then beyond. He knew

how fast the car could go and he had a fl eeting thought of Pha-

eton in the chariot of the sun, the enormous engine rumbling,

the galloping horses beneath the hood, and he knew he should

pull in on the reins, that the car was not used to his hand on the

wheel, but thoughts of danger slipped to the back of his mind

and the idea that nagged at his consciousness was that they

might never be here again. Th

e music rose to a crescendo of

golden clarinets just before he hit a wide sheet of ice and felt the wheels slip. Jackie cried out, “David! Stop! Don’t hit them!”

Th

ere were shapes up ahead moving in the headlights, and

pairs of red eyes fl ared in the beams and glowed in the darkness

like burning coals.

He jerked his foot off the gas, but the car had already begun

to spin. He felt the wheels break loose and the body slide side-

ways. It rocked a little, drifted, then turned again, until, with a rumbling shudder, it crashed into a huge drift of snow. He heard

Jackie scream as he lurched forward and hit his head on the

dash.

When he came to, Jackie was out of the car and standing in

the headlights. She seemed to be in shock. Th

e coyotes slunk si-

lently around her, as if they were protecting her, tongues hang-

ing out, tails twitching, curious and restless, waiting for some

sign from her. Th

ere must have been at least ten of them circling,

moving out of the dark through the beams and disappearing

again in the blackness.

His head throbbed. “Jackie?”

She turned to look at him. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

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Her eyes were shining orbs of silver, the pupils huge and dark.

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He could barely make out her expression, but there was some-

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thing unsmiling and demonic in her stare, and a chill sliced

through him. She was so still and barely breathing, and she be-

gan to hum softly, vibrating as she glared not at him but through

him, her eyes focusing on something behind the car. Her face

was suddenly older; her skin was white as marble, and she re-

minded him for a moment of the statue of the angel in the cem-

etery. She looked lost and distant, and he suddenly thought of

Orpheus who had been so impatient, Orpheus who had rescued

his Eurydice, won her freedom from death, only to lose her

again when he looked back to see whether she was behind him.

He had been impetuous and willful, he had failed her just when

he had saved her, and she had been swallowed back up into the

Underworld.

Fearing the worst, he climbed out of the car and winced

with a pain in his chest as he approached her. She reached for

him and took hold of his arm, dug her fi ngers into his fl esh,

stared deep into his eyes with an anguished look, and whispered,

“Barnabas . . .” And again, this time in a tone so wretched it

made his heart clench, “Where is he? Where is Barnabas?” be-

fore her eyes glazed over and with a whistling of breath she

slipped to the ground.

“Jackie . . .” He leaned over and pulled her to him. Her limp

body fell against his, and he watched helplessly as the coyotes

slunk off into the trees. Th

en, his throat tight with sobs, he car-

ried her to the car and lifted her inside.

His hands shaking so much he could barely hold on to the

wheel, he mumbled a prayer under his breath, “Oh, please God,

please help me, please get us out of here,” and reached for the

key. Th

e engine rumbled to life and the gears complained as he

let out the clutch and put the car in reverse. To his surprise, they slid out of the snowdrift and back onto the road. Jackie was

asleep on the seat, her head against his knee, and all he could

think was how stupid he had been to imagine he could do this,

take the car when he was only sixteen and didn’t really know

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how to drive, and bring it home safely. He had speeded

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Lara Parker

recklessly, and he raged at himself, furious and terrifi ed that he had hurt her and that she would never recover. Th

is time he

drove slowly, methodically, with as much care as he was capable

of, easing slowly down the road, the car rolling on the soft snow,

the trees fl ickering by the windows, and the half moon gleaming

high in the sky, so bright he could not bear to look at it. He could see the lights of Collinwood in the distance and he wondered

what he should do next, drive back to the barn and hide the car,

take Jackie inside where he could phone a doctor to get some

help, or just drive on into Collinsport to the hospital. He was

about to settle on the last idea when he heard her moan, and

slowly she sat up.

“Where are we?” she asked in a groggy voice.

“We’re home,” he said. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

She didn’t answer.

“Jackie?”

She was staring out the front window as they glided toward

the Great House, her expression one of amazement. He looked

up as well and was shocked by what he saw. It was Collinwood,

but not the Collinwood he had known all his life.

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T w e l v e

The moon was defi nitely on the wane. A rocking crescent in

the eve ning sky gleamed like a silver bowl on a lavender

table. Quentin sat staring out the back kitchen window and

agonized over his plight. Th

e candles on the table had melted to

blackened stubs, and the fl oor was strewn with the provocative

images of the tarot. He looked down at his hands and saw that,

out of frustration, he had ripped— with his lengthening nails— a

jagged tear in one corner of the tablecloth.

Th

e séance had been a failure. Having placed his faith in

this obsequious doctor— or this Specialist in the Occult, as Na-

thanael Blair liked to be called— Quentin was disgusted with

himself, but at this stage of the game he had felt he had no-

where else to turn. A séance seemed the perfect solution to his

dilemma, and a medium was necessary if contact were to be

made. It had seemed a simple request, especially of one who had

bragged so obnoxiously about his earlier experiences with sé-

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ances, describing in tedious detail the successes he had already

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Lara Parker

achieved— conversations with Th

omas Edison, for example, Al

Capone, and even Jack the Ripper. To reach back in time and

summon an acclaimed but hardly distinguished paint er seemed

an absurdly simple proposal.

Quentin could not help but imagine that Charles Delaware

Tate, born in 1865, would have been fl attered to be called up out

of the grave, even if he had gone mad. He had probably not

spoken to a single soul since his death.

And Quentin’s portrait had been his most brilliant achieve-

ment.

Of course, hidden beneath his stated objective, Quentin

had harbored a profound desire to be whisked back in time, to

be young with the young Elizabeth, to see her as she was when

he fi rst met her, to suff er in every brilliant detail their love aff air again. But he knew without her there in the room that would

not be possible, and she had stubbornly refused to take part.

Nevertheless, this incompetent fool— this brother of Nicho-

las Blair, and ineptitude seemed to run in the family— had bun-

gled the whole thing. Contact had been made but with whom

remained a mystery. No paint er, no painting.

Th

ey had retreated to the library, the curtains had been

drawn, the candles lit. A phonograph record was still turning

listlessly on the Victrola, and in fact the perfect musical accom-

paniment had been discovered in the collection of old recordings

kept in the Jackson Press— Caruso in fi ne form singing lustily

from
Rigoletto
.

He and Blair had reached across the table, grasped one an-

other’s hands, and even though the ceremony bordered on the

absurd, he had to admit the chanting had been impressive. Th

ey

had chosen a date— 1929, a year when Quentin knew Tate had

been at the height of his fame and residing at Collinwood, much

older than when he had completed Quentin’s portrait, and al-

though mad, still in possession of his technical skills.

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Th

ere had been no response. Th

eir summoning chants had

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spiraled down into the vortex of time and disappeared.

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Th

en, against his better judgment, Quentin had suggested

that Blair call up Magda the Gypsy, a diffi

cult woman whom he

had every reason to fear, but one who was certain to know

where Tate could be found if she decided to cooperate. Quentin

had not expected to reach her, but after they had summoned

her, there had been a spark, and he had taken heart. Th

e table

had vibrated, the candles had been extinguished by a breath, the

room had darkened, and a specter had made its presence known

with a low moan. Whispers had danced across the leather spines

of the old books and a marvel had occurred: a secret panel had

opened in the bookcase and revealed a hidden corridor. Th

e

shadowed hallway had been abandoned, but out of it had gusted