Wolf Moon Rising (3 page)

she fl oats off her chair and hovers above her canvas, her brush

lifting an image out of the shadows. But it is not a painting of

the boy who dreamed of her, or the portrait of Quentin her tor-

tured mother must fi nd. Th

e brush moves by itself; something is

guiding her hand. Sparks fl y out of the tip as it rolls on deep

maroons and magentas. A vision emerges of a brooding man

she does not recognize. Coal black hair combed into curving

spikes across the forehead, bloodshot eyes dark as chestnut seeds

with a tiny fl ame in each iris. Craggy jaws and a large Roman-

esque nose, and faintly glimmering just inside blood- tinged lips,

two enlarged incisors. With a sharp cry, Jackie throws down her

brush and pulls back from the canvas. Something malevolent

has risen out of her subconscious. She has painted the vampire!

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O n e

Anxious to fl y the night, Barnabas listened for some sound

before raising the lid of his casket. Fully awake now, he as-

sessed his predicament: this place was dangerous, too easily

discovered, and if he were to survive, he would need to return to

his coffi

n in the Old House. Antoinette lived there now, all the

more reason she should become his slave.

Antoinette! Her face fl oated across his mind— her mouth

blossoming, her eyes hypnotic. Already, he could taste her,

and— as he had done every eve ning since his transformation— he

renewed his plan. He would draw her to him, bend her reluctant

body to his, and he would force her to look into his eyes, all the

while dazzling her with a power she had never imagined. Ig-

noring her struggles, he would fi nd her heartbeat, and at that

moment possess all that she was, all that she had been before.

His pulse raced at the thought. Th

e mystery of her past would

be revealed to him— the moment he took her blood— and he

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would know at long last whether or not she was Angelique.

Many things die, but desire is not one of them.

His memory of her indiff erence when he was still a human

was painful— that night at the Blue Whale when Antoinette

told him she would not marry him, that she did not love him.

Humiliation in courtship was a common experience for mor-

tals, but the sting of dismissal lay outside the vampire’s range of emotions. Now that he had regained his powers, he vowed that

she would come to regret her cruel rejection.

He reached across the width of his casket— so lovingly cho-

sen for its breadth: providing room enough for two— and was

relieved to fi nd Julia gone. Julia, his savior and his guardian.

Ever since his return— had it been a month?— he had been forced

to lie with her, submitting to her embrace. Th

is after a year of

agony, her fi endish elixir, the painful injections, the curative that tamed the vampire’s hungers. He could still hear the tinkle of

the syringe, see her blood pumping into the tube, and feel the

infernal heat when the concoction entered his veins. She made

him human again, but infected herself in the pro cess. Th

at dark

December night when she drained him and fed him and re-

turned him to this monstrous form, he shuddered to think of it.

He pushed open the lid of his coffi

n and gazed at the raf ters

above his head. Th

e basement room was suff used with the odor

of lilies— white lilies Christian mortals bought to celebrate

Easter. Although he could not see them, Barnabas knew the

walls were hung with tapestries, scenes of Elizabethan hunters

on horse back chasing a unicorn. In one tapestry, the snow- white

beast was cornered and fenced within brambles, and the hunters

hoisting spears and bows stood around in plumed hats— their

shapely legs incased in striped tights.

All these decorative eff orts would be Julia’s doing. Ridicu-

lous how a woman must adorn her nest— even a vampire’s nest—

and Julia mistakenly believed lilies and candlelight would sway

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his crippled heart. But she was shrewd; he would have to admit

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that. He must never underestimate her cleverness. And oddly

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enough, even though they were reproductions, he rather liked

the tapestries.

Still lying in his coffi

n, he adjusted his silken shirt, pulled

the cuff s into the sleeves of his jacket, and carefully tied his cravat, all the time considering his troubling companion. What

drove her to devote her life— my God, her own blood— to this

last misadventure, to this trifl ing with the dead? Even after they had both gone over to the dark side, she had insisted that it was

love. Barnabas uttered a dry chuckle.
A living death, Julia, is not
what you dreamed it would be.

He sighed, now reluctant to embark upon his night’s vile

quest. What drove her, he had come to realize, was that old

worn- out engine:
age
. She was no longer young, and now, if life were to brim, it must brim with the juice of others. For a brief

period, as a human of her making, he had succumbed to a limp

sense of loyalty. But now, and this was the fi nal irony, she had

terminated the treatment, given him back his powers, and—

without realizing it— created a monster incapable of gratitude.

As he gazed up at the ceiling of his basement prison, and at the

giant fl oor beams of the mansion where his family resided, he

resolved to be rid of her. Th

e thought of spending eternity with

her was an abomination.

A voice fl oated out of the gloom. “Good eve ning, Barnabas,

my love. I was waiting for you to wake.” Ah, she was there. Ris-

ing up, he turned to look at her.

Th

e room was small and the hard stone walls were bur-

nished by the glow of candlelight. Julia was sitting among the

lilies on a step that led up into the basement, and he was shocked

again to see that she was not the aging woman he remembered

but a vampire of shameless splendor. She wore a dress of wine

dark velvet, and her arms were shapely, as were her surprisingly

round breasts just glimpsed within her décolleté. He had im-

mediate qualms when he thought of trying to overpower her, for

he could see her body was as strong as a lioness’s.

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She had already ventured into the night. Her victim was

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reclining on her skirts, a young girl with bleached hair and a

smudged face, still breathing, and the terror frozen in her eyes.

Her threadbare coat was muddy— or were those bloodstains?

And her bare legs were scratched. She wore no shoes and her

feet were fi lthy, perhaps black with frostbite. Where had Julia

found such a miserable wharf rat?

Behind her, the tapestries gleamed with life. One was a

scene from an elfi n forest where delicate fl owers and small ani-

mals surrounded a medieval lady as she looked down demurely

and rested her hand on the unicorn’s long and slender horn.

Barnabas imagine the three of them as a theatrical staging for

his amusement— a triptych of womanhood: the goddess, the

vampire, and the dying girl. Which would he choose?

Julia smiled, lifted the girl up into her arms, and the bright

head fell against her breast. “You see what I have brought you?”

Even though he was hungry, Barnabas recoiled. “Like a

house cat brings a dead mouse to her master?”

A shadow crossed Julia’s face. She pursed her lips and spoke

in a voice edged with sarcasm. “Can I do nothing to please you?”

Julia was a new vampire, still taken with the thrill of the

hunt, not aware that there was far more to feeding. After more

than a hundred years, one’s victim was a delicate choice, and

he had awakened this night with his selection already in mind.

It was to be Antoinette, and only Antoinette. As he slid from his

coffi

n and rose to his feet, he was conscious of his body’s new

tensile strength. Once again it surprised and even pleased him.

“I am perfectly capable of fi nding my own, in fact, I would

prefer to—”

“But why, when it is my joy to serve you.”

He combed his thick, black hair with his fi ngers. “Julia, you

must respect my wishes.”

She rose— thoughtlessly allowing the girl to tumble among

the fl owers— and, fl oating as vampires do, drew close and placed

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a fi nger across his lips.

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“Wait. Don’t speak. I want to tell you the thoughts I had

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this eve ning as I wandered the streets.” Her skin was fl ushed,

and he could smell blood, a not unpleasant aroma, on her breath.

“I am still amazed at this new existence that I now share with

you, and each discovery brings me closer to . . . to those com-

plexities of your mind I have always found so bewildering.” He

turned away, but she caught his arm. “Please, Barnabas, listen

to me! I understand your hungers, and your remorse. And now

that I am with you, you need not worry. Because I will protect

you from guilt or shame. I will hunt for you.”

He sighed.
Like a good little wife.

Vampires, if nothing else, were beautiful, and Julia’s beauty

was blinding. Gone were the sunken cheeks and thrust- out chin

of her middle- age years. Her amber eyes were soft, her skin

glowed, and her hair had grown long and brushed with bronze.

Was that why she was able to wander Collinsport in the eve ning

without being recognized?

When she leaned against him and took his hands, he could

see beneath the glittering facade the same needy and manipula-

tive woman she had always been. Sensing his prying thoughts,

she glanced back at the dying girl.

“Don’t you want her?”

Still breathing, the girl stared past him, and then her eyes

locked on his. She seemed unable to move; perhaps her back was

broken.

“Please, help me,” she whispered. A pink bubble formed on

her lips. Yes, he could share her with Julia, and they could bond

on that feast. Fill their veins from the same source. He imagined

himself bent over the young body, his mouth pressed against her

throat.

“No, I’m not interested,” he said, and moved away as he

began his preparations for the night.

Julia’s copper eyes narrowed while he smoothed his black

suit jacket over his scarlet vest and reached for his cape. As he

adjusted its dark folds across his shoulders, it skimmed the fl oor

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of his prison and the candle fl ames danced. Th

en he reached

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back into his casket for his cane. Th

e silver head of a wolf molded

to his hand.

She became agitated in the old way and took hold of the

back of his cloak. “Where are you going, Barnabas? Don’t go

without me.”

Vile juices rose in his throat. Perhaps the moment had

come. His hands twitched and his fi ngers curled on the cane’s

handle as if they were grabbing her by the neck, forcing her

down. But her vigorous energy restrained him, and he was dis-

tracted by another lady in the tapestry, the one with the fl owing

hair. Th

e unicorn had risen up and placed his feet in her lap. She

wore a golden crown and had a wicked glance that reminded

him of Antoinette— or was it Angelique? Recalling his night’s

mission, he longed to fl ee, but he stopped beside the fl owers, the sweet odor rising to his nostrils, and turning back to his waiting

companion, spoke with as much control as possible.

“My dear Julia, we are not involved in a love aff air. Much

less a marriage. Did you believe that we were? I don’t have to

explain where I am going.”

Flickering in her eyes was the same confusion he had seen

so many times when he had been brusque with her, but now she

possessed a stronger will. She would be a powerful adversary.

“I thought,” she said in a hoarse voice, “that things would be

diff erent now.”

“Th

ings
are
diff erent,” he said, growing impatient. “Th

ings

are very diff erent now, thanks to you, and your incompetent

meddling. You have brought this all upon yourself. And upon

us. And now there is nothing to do but make the best of it.” He

swayed with restlessness.

“What are you saying, Barnabas? Th

at I should have let you

die?”

“In a word . . . yes. Death would have been far more palat-

able than this. You are still in the honeymoon of the vampire’s