by Lara Parker
In this confused state of mind, Barnabas presented himself in Elizabeth’s bedroom. Julia was sitting with her, watching over the elderly lady, her own face lined with concern.
“Oh, Barnabas. Thank you for coming. I hate to ask, but would you mind…? Willie has the car at the gate, and we need you to go into town, to pick up a prescription. She hasn’t been taking her medicine—it’s for her blood pressure—and I’m afraid she’s had a bad spell.”
“My own fault,” Elizabeth said weakly, lifting up from the pillow. “I ran out of pills, and—”
“Hush now, lie down, dear. It’s all right. Barnabas can get them for you,” Julia said soothingly.
“Is the pharmacy open at this hour?” he inquired.
“Yes. The one on Main Street—Pierson’s. I’ve already called, and they have it waiting for you.”
“I shall leave at once.”
“Thank you so much, Cousin,” Elizabeth murmured from the bed.
“She should be fine once she has the prescription—”
“Say no more. I’m delighted to be of assistance,” he assured them, and left.
* * *
It was near dawn when Willie brought Barnabas back up to his room. Julia, who had been frantic with worry, came running from her bedroom the moment she saw Barnabas staggering down the hall, his arm across Willie’s shoulders.
“Barnabas! My God! What happened?” He turned and looked at her with vacant, red-rimmed eyes. His shirt was covered in dried blood, and fresh blood was streaming from his neck. He moaned and collapsed in her arms. Supporting his weight as best she could, she looked beseechingly toward Willie. “What was it?”
“I dunno,” Willie answered. “He couldn’t tell me. I think he was attacked by some kind of animal.”
Barnabas reached for his neck, which was bleeding painfully. As the two of them placed him on the bed, Barnabas groaned and rolled his head.
“Will he be all right?” asked Willie.
“Let me look at him.” Julia fought to keep her voice calm. “Do you have Mrs. Stoddard’s medicine?”
“It’s right here.”
Willie held out a wrinkled bag, which was also stained with blood.
“I-I had to change the tire, after it blew, and—and the car was on a hill, so I had to find a rock to prop under the back wheel—”
“It’s all right, Willie, I’ll hear about it later. Just take Mrs. Stoddard the prescription. Oh, and throw the bag away first.”
“Okay, I’ll do that.” And he lumbered out.
Julia leaned over Barnabas and unbuttoned his shirt, which was drenched in blood. He moaned and opened his eyes.
“Barnabas, can you tell me what happened?” He stared at her, dazed and unblinking, as though he were staring far off into space. “Barnabas…”
“Julia … I was followed by some creature,” he whispered. “I-I didn’t know what it was—some man—but not a man—he was too strong—some demon…”
“Was … he … dressed in a man’s clothes?”
“A suit, I think, no … a cape. And he had the strength of a … of a…” His voice trailed off, and he lay back with a shudder.
Julia went to the bathroom and returned with a large enamel bowl and several washrags, which she placed on the bedside table. Her foot struck a small object on the floor just beneath the bed, and she leaned over. She picked up the diary and held it a moment before the lamp. “Were you reading this last night?” she asked in a tone that betrayed her disapproval.
“What … did you say?”
“Were you reading Angelique’s journal?”
He stared at the ceiling. “I told you it didn’t interest me.”
She put the book down on the bed and gently began to clean the blood from Barnabas’s neck, afraid of what she might find. She wiped his wounds with the wet cloth, dipped it into the water, wrung out the rag, and wiped again.
Barnabas began to speak in a whisper that burned with intensity. “He came out of nowhere.”
“Where were you?”
“Near the docks. I told Willie to take the shore drive. We were at the bottom of Canal Street, when we ran over something—something sharp, like a broken bottle—and the tire blew.”
“Oh, that’s an awful neighborhood, all warehouses, isn’t it?” She had found a jagged tear just below Barnabas’s collarbone, and he flinched when she touched it with the rag.
“Yes, I saw several derelicts—homeless men huddled around a fire in a trash can—so I said to myself, when I got out of the car, well, at least it’s not completely deserted.”
“You should never have walked there alone.”
“Perhaps, but I was so preoccupied with obtaining the medicine, you see. Elizabeth was depending on me, and I sense the family has the feeling that I am … irresponsible.”
“That’s not true. Roger is condescending to everyone—that’s his nature. You mustn’t take it personally.”
Julia was always so calm and sympathetic, he thought, always able to comfort and reassure. But there was something different in her mood at this moment, distant, removed. He grimaced from the pain.
“Here, you must lie back. Don’t strain yourself. You don’t need to talk.”
“It seemed like such a simple task,” he said impatiently. “Drive into town with Willie, pick up the prescription, and return. And it was necessary. Elizabeth needed the medicine. I couldn’t imagine remaining with the car, waiting for Willie to change the tire.”
“I understand. So then what?”
“I left Willie just as he was removing the jack from the trunk. You know, the street rises sharply there.”
“Above the docks…”
“Yes. Well, I started up the block, thinking that when I reached Main Street, I would turn down it toward the pharmacy, which is only three blocks on the right.”
“Can you sit up so that I can remove your shirt?”
Barnabas felt a slight irritation that Julia didn’t seem to be paying attention, almost as though she thought what had happened was his fault. “At any rate, as I was climbing the hill, I reached a stretch of the sidewalk where the streetlights are out. It was extremely dark, and I noticed there were several large arched openings set deep in the wall.”
“It’s an old carriage house,” she said.
“Really? Yes, well that’s right, now that you mention it, the openings are large enough for carriages—arched brickwork and wooden doorways, quite deep. Just as I was passing one of the openings, I noticed a homeless man asleep there, on a pile of newspapers. I made a wide berth around him so as not to disturb him, but when I looked back at him, I saw that his eyes were open, staring out, and there was a large pool of blood on the newspapers just beneath his head. All of a sudden I realized he was dead!”
“Good Lord, do you think someone killed him?”
“I don’t know. I was so determined to obtain the medicine, I just hurried on by. It was so heartless of me, so indifferent, to hurry off in that manner, but he was past help, and I thought Elizabeth might be in dire need. I decided I could call the police once I got back to Collinwood.”
“He was probably in some kind of brawl.”
“Perhaps, but he was lying on newspapers.”
“He was dumped in the doorway?”
“Yes. Well, at any rate, I finally reached Main Street, and even though there was no traffic at that hour, at least the storefronts were brightly lit. I was hurrying toward the drugstore—I could see the Pierson’s sign flashing on and off—when I thought I heard someone behind me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Walking. Footsteps. But footsteps completely in sync with my own, because when I stopped, they stopped; and when I walked on, I heard them again.”
“Perhaps it was an echo. Sometimes the street will do that.”
“That’s exactly what I decided, because when I heard the footsteps strongly ring out, I turned around. And there was no one there!”
“It must have bee
n terrifying.”
By then the basin of water was red with blood as Julia continued to wring out the cloth and wipe Barnabas’s chest and upper arm. She went into the bathroom, poured the darkly tinted water into the toilet, and filled the basin again. When she returned, she began to work on the ugly rips in the skin of his neck.
“At any rate,” Barnabas continued, even more agitated, “I made it to the drugstore and, happily, Pierson was ready with the prescription. Seems the usual pharmacist was ill. He handed over the pills, while inquiring after Elizabeth and making comments on the possibility of rain tomorrow. Just as he was ringing up the price on the cash register, he glanced at the store’s front window and gave an involuntary gasp. I swear to God, all the blood rushed from his face, and he looked as pale as a corpse!”
“What was it?”
“That’s what I asked immediately. ‘Do you see someone there?’ But in less than no time, he came to his senses and shook his head.
“‘Ah, it’s nothing but the odd spirit out this time of night,’ and he laughed as though it were a joke. But I noticed an abrupt change in his demeanor because he hurried me to the door and, after letting me out, pulled it shut with no further ceremony, bolted it, and drew the shade. Almost instantly the lights were flipped off, and I could see him walking quickly to the back of the store, where, I suppose, there is a rear door on to an alley.”
“It was as if he were frightened of something,” Julia suggested.
“Yes, and a moment later I heard the engine to his automobile and immediately thought of asking him for a lift.”
“Of course! If he had decided to lock up and leave, he could have taken you back to your car.”
“An old Packard came out of the alley, and Pierson turned into the street with such alacrity, he actually crossed over the curb with his front tire and screeched off at great speed. I never had an opportunity to wave him down.”
“What a pity!”
“Still, I told myself it was only a few blocks, and Willie should be finished with the tire by now, so I walked, or jogged, back to Canal Street and turned onto it. Right away, I began to hear the footsteps again.”
“You didn’t pass by the body of the dead man.” Julia had become caught up in the story.
“No. I intentionally came down the other side, continually looking back over my shoulder and trying to catch sight of the infernal stalker, and I suppose, once or twice I glanced over at the corpse, but I was not conscious of what lay to my left, some dark wooden buildings—”
“Stables,” she informed him.
“What?”
“Those are the old stables, those wooden buildings, just opposite the carriage houses—”
“Exactly. And I was foolishly oblivious to any open door, or dark corner, when—from out of nowhere—came this … fiend!”
“Oh, God…”
“He wore a black cape, and … he leapt upon me from behind, or—when I think back—above. Yes, he dropped from above, onto my back.”
Julia was speechless, her mouth agape.
“His strength, Julia, was so out of proportion to his size, which was human—not giant—yet he seemed to float above the ground—to rise up and fall on me again—ripping at my neck with his … long nails, or—worse—with his teeth!”
“What did you think he was?”
“Why—a robber—I had no idea what. I tried to shed him, but he clung to my back like a great … ape … his breath hissing and his teeth gnashing. And then, of course, I knew the worst.”
“Barnabas—you don’t mean—he must have been—”
“A vampire.”
“Oh, my God, did he…?”
“He drew blood, but he did not … feast.”
“There was no—”
“No deep penetration, no loss of consciousness, I never felt him enter. Have you found anything?”
She turned Barnabas to the window, where the cheerless sun was shrouded in thick clouds, and in the light inspected the several wounds, now cleaned of blood.
“Deep cuts, rips, but no fang marks. You were fortunate. How did you get away?”
“I don’t know. He was clumsy, perhaps … new … inexperienced.”
“Or it could have been … your blood—the elixir in your veins—that repulsed him.”
“Yes, you’re right. That may have been it.”
Barnabas was suddenly very tired. He sighed deeply, and his shoulders slumped. Julia placed a bandage over the cuts.
“I think you were saved. But I should administer an injection, just to make certain.” She crossed to her medicine bag, withdrew the hypodermic needle, drew the fluid into the capsule, and came to Barnabas’s side. As she injected the serum, she said, “You must rest now. I’ll stay here with you. I won’t leave you until you’re asleep.”
“Bless you, Julia,” he said, looking up at her with gratitude. “You’re all I have in the world. You know that.”
He lay back, and she pulled the covers up to his face and kissed him. Then she sat beside him until he fell into a fitful slumber. More than once he moaned and thrashed, or cried out, and she was obliged to calm him with soft words and a hand stroking his forehead.
While she was sitting there, she glanced over and saw the diary lying on the bed where she had placed it. Hesitating a moment, she leaned across and took it in her hand, opened to one page, then another, shuddered, and set it down on the bedside table. But after a moment she reconsidered and, checking to see whether Barnabas still slept, took it up again, slipped it inside her jacket, and tiptoed from the room.
Sixteen
Caught in the twilight between sleep and waking, Barnabas was prey to torturous flashes of memory as he was transported back to the summer of his eighteenth year. They saw the fast moving frigate on the far horizon, her three masts swollen with sail. As she drew near they could view through the spyglass, the flag of the Spanish Main flying above her topsail and the dreaded skull and crossbones furled beneath. There was bedlam on board his own vessel, sailors manning the cannon and firing the powder. But the guns were ill set, and the balls flew wild. She came at them steadily, and though they turned and fled before the wind, she caught them easily, and the pirates swarmed aboard, shouting oaths, flashing cutlasses, grinning like devils.
Had he fought gamely? He believed he had—but rashly, recklessly. He had a fierce memory of slashing the cheek of one of the beasts and hearing him howl in surprise. The melee was a blur of swords, bellows of pain, and, yes, he remembered thinking the buccaneers were no gentlemen because they would not stand and fight like soldiers, but engaged only to distract, so that one of their depraved comrades might sneak up behind and stab a good man in the back. He remembered blood on the slippery, treacherous deck, and a severed arm—and could it have been?—a head! sliced clean off by a prodigious blade. He had been determined to keep his back against the mainmast, the better to hold the ruffians at bay. He remembered beating the air with his sword in a futile attempt to ward them off.
But their numbers had been too many, and they overpowered him and lashed him to the mast, where he was forced to witness his shrewd, resourceful captain—that same courageous gentleman who had lost three fingers to buccaneers once before and still prevailed in that battle—cut down by the bloodthirsty bastards, like a bull slaughtered in sacrifice.
At first he had no explanation for why the pirates had seen fit to spare him. But, after the ship was lost and his comrades were all dead, he heard the outlaws arguing among themselves. One of his fellow officers had bargained for his own life—only to lose it in the end, for there was no honor among those thieves—with the information that there was the son of a wealthy merchant on board worth a magnificent ransom if spared and brought back alive. Some of them had believed it.
The pirates had thrown him into irons alongside his captured slaves. He was forced to lie with them in chains, down in the hold, wallowing in their offal, listening to their moans. He had then endured such humiliating shame, and su
ch heartrending remorse, that he believed it had been enough to transform him once and for all into a man of integrity, with an irrevocable sense of justice.
But what use was that at the time? He had been convinced he was going to die in the full knowledge that his family’s corrupt enterprise, the trading of human lives, had brought this punishment upon them all.
How long had he been captive? The days had run together into one long night of hunger, thirst, and wretchedness of body and spirit. Until finally, he had felt the ship swing into calm water and had heard her anchor drop. They came with sniggering jests for the slaves, but left him there, he felt certain, to die.
Then the unexpected had occurred. He could still see the boy bending over him, telling him that he would protect him, that he had nothing to fear. And what had the boy done? He struggled to remember. Was his memory perverted? Had he really seen him stalk and capture … a rat? Did he actually crawl along the inside of the staves reaching into the putrid water of the bilge until he caught the swimming creature? He could still see the boy’s slender figure silhouetted in the opening of the hatch, with the limp brown body in his hand.
Later, when the boy returned with a companion, a young slave, he had the key, and he had unlocked the chains. Then his young rescuer had led him past the two guards, who lay retching on the deck, tankards of spilled rum beside them. While the slave watched, the boy had taken him down a ladder to a waiting dinghy, equipped with an oar.
Unbelievable! She had saved his life. Barnabas was wide-awake now, and he was burning with curiosity. The memories he had dredged his mind to discover provided too few details. How had she done it? The rum! That was it! She was already a witch at thirteen, and she had made a potion and poisoned the rum.
He had to know if he was right. He sat up, wincing from the pain in his shoulder, and felt around for the diary. It was not in the bedclothes or on the bedside table. Julia had said something about it before she had washed his wounds. She had asked him if he were reading it. Had she put it somewhere?
