"You mean your sister."
"Yes." He took one of her hands, lifted it to his lips, and kissed her fingers. "But I happen to know you've learned quite a bit about me in a short time. Not necessarily good things. I'm sorry about that."
"What, in particular, would you be sorry for?"
"When we were together before. I was so…rough…with you. At the time, it seemed right. Since then, I'm not so sure."
"I didn't tell you to stop."
"No," he said, gazing deeply into her eyes. "I think I was surprised."
"You think?"
"Pretty sure."
"What else?"
"I was very short with you when you were frightened. That was wrong of me."
"You were trying to make a point."
"Did I?"
"Maybe."
"Then I might not be sorry."
"No. Be sorry."
"Why?"
"Because I want you to be." Finally, she put her arms around his shoulders and kissed him lightly on the mouth. He embraced her tightly and returned the kiss, holding her there for an endless moment, absorbing her warmth, her energy. When he moved again and began to pull her toward the bed, this time, she didn't resist. But as she lay down beside him, she asked, "Why do you have this in here, when your room is just down the hall?"
"I actually sleep here fairly often. I like the atmosphere. I just work until I can't work anymore, and then I settle in for the night. It's handy."
She glanced around at the paintings on the walls. "They're almost…disturbing to me."
"Perhaps when you get to know me better, they won't be."
"Don't bet on it. If someone I didn't know had painted these, I might think he was disturbed."
"Ah. It never pays to judge an artist by his work. But if they affect you deeply, then I must be doing something right."
"You're very talented. But it's all so dark — even the one of me. You must have some light in your life."
He looked at her tenderly. "I think that would be you."
She laughed, not hiding the bitterness. "If you think so, then I really am worried about you. It's been a long time since there's been any light in my life. A long time."
"That doesn't mean you don't illuminate someone else's."
She stared into his gleaming, still-earnest sapphire eyes. He seemed so different without his hard, sardonic mask, but she still wasn't sure which face — if either — revealed the true man. For now, though, she felt secure with him. More so than she had with Jan, earlier.
He leaned forward and kissed her deeply, and she returned it, feeling that, at least for the moment, she could put aside the fear that had been simmering inside for days now. When he released her, he rose from the bed and turned off the studio light, casting the room into near-pitch darkness. A sliver of moonlight pierced the window and glanced off the oily surface of a nearby painting.
The image highlighted there nearly caused her heart to stop. It was a pale, indistinct face, roughly skull-shaped, with deep, empty eye sockets, its features crisscrossed by what appeared to be the shadows of intricate latticework — as if the thing were staring in through a window in the canvas.
She sat upright and leaned closer to the painting, as curious as she was unsettled, and as she examined the image more carefully, she discovered that the moonlight had fooled her eyes. In reality, the "face" was a stylized depiction of the moon itself, floating above a swirling cloudbank that smothered a landscape studded by the same burnt-looking trees from the portrait of Jan.
As David slid back into the bed with her, she felt his eyes studying her intently. "What's the matter?" he asked.
She shook her head. "Nothing. Just…I think I might need glasses."
"It is a bit dark in here for reading," he said with a chuckle. Then he took her hands in his. "And tonight, all you need to see with is these."
"So he does have a sense of humor — however lame."
His arms encircled her and drew her to him. "I'll show you lame."
Their lips met again, and now she lost herself in his kiss, her body growing warm as his hands roved up and down her body, slowly and tenderly, so unlike the way he had touched her the night before. The icy fingers that had seized her melted and became a hazy memory, and she surrendered to his caresses, which he lavished on her with gentleness and genuine affection.
It was wonderful, revitalizing. Perhaps, she thought, this was at least a glimpse of the real man.
Somehow, though, she suspected that his more cruel performance the previous night represented his true, governing nature. To her own shamed surprise, she found herself beginning to hunger for that darker, harder side. She wanted him to take pleasure in dominating her, in using her as nothing more than an object, because maybe, for all her sins, she deserved nothing better.
At least, that was how every man she had ever known intimately saw things.
At 3:00 am, she woke feeling terribly cold, and after a few groggy moments, she realized that David was no longer in bed with her. She sat up slowly, wondering why the room felt so frigid, and she remembered that, ever since she had come here, she so often felt chilly, even though autumn was still a few weeks away. A low rumble rose and fell somewhere beyond the walls, accompanied by intermittent groans and shudders, and she realized that a strong wind was pummeling the creaky old house. Darkness, unbroken except for the dimly illuminated rectangle of the window, filled David's studio, and her eyes automatically sought the painting of the moon she had previously seen. The fact that it was now invisible to her felt somehow comforting.
Outside the window, the moon had passed beyond her line of sight, but its pale light still shone on the nearby tree branches, which were dancing and bowing beneath the force of the gale. She was halfway thirsty and her bladder desired relief, but she didn't particularly want to get out of bed — mainly because she was afraid she wouldn't be able to find the door to the hall without tripping and breaking her neck.
Where had David gone, she wondered — and why? The bathroom? The kitchen? If so, wouldn't he have left the door open, and perhaps a light on in the hall?
She lay back down and pulled the covers tightly around her body, listening intently for the sound of footsteps or other movement beyond the door, a little disconcerted by his absence and the ominous rush of the wind outside. Maybe she had been sleeping restlessly, and he had gone back to his bedroom for a reprieve. That sometimes had happened with Frank, particularly when she was under stress, and he would end up going to the living room to sleep on the couch. The idea that she might have driven David out of bed on their second night together did not thrill her.
Which meant she must anticipate more nights to come.
"Let's not jump the gun," she grumbled and turned her eyes to the window, half-fancying that a shadow had passed just beyond the glass — something other than the swaying tree branches. She suddenly felt very alone and vulnerable here. It should have seemed silly, being nervous about the dark, but in light of recent events, certain old, juvenile fears hardly seemed so outlandish.
At least Aunt Martha had forgone her nocturnal yowling session, at least so far, and at this hour, it seemed unlikely that she would start.
The image of Hank Surber hanging from a broken, jagged tree branch formed in her mind, and a cold lump rose in her stomach. Like Jan, she wouldn't consciously wish such a horrible death on anyone; yet somehow, deep inside, she felt a certain, perverse satisfaction that the little freak bastard had gotten what was coming to him.
No. She couldn't think like that.
These grim thoughts were reeling through her mind now, and she really wished David would come back.
She heard a shuffling, creaking sound somewhere outside the room, which brought with it little rush of relief, for it had to be David returning. He had probably just gone to the bathroom, and he would be back in bed to warm her up any moment. She waited expectantly for him to slip back inside, but it didn't happen. Again, the floor creaked, nearer this
time. Then all went silent except for the moaning wind.
Dammit. That hadn't been just the house settling. If not David, then Jan, perhaps. Surely not Aunt Martha, for she had her own bathroom upstairs, and she wouldn't even pass the studio door if she were on her way to or from the main floor.
The pressure in her bladder increased; she really needed to get up and relieve herself. The hard part would be getting from the bed to the door without colliding with David's easel or knocking paintings off the wall. Drawing a deep breath to bolster her determination, she slid her feet out of bed and carefully rose, holding onto the headboard to steady herself. She was wearing only her underwear, but under the circumstances, propriety was hardly her foremost concern. In the hazy moonlight, she could make out one leg of David's easel, and she carefully maneuvered around it, gritting her teeth against the crash that would result if she misjudged its position. Once clear of it, she extended her hands and, very slowly, one shuffling step at a time, crept toward the door, praying that no other obstacles lurked in her path.
She was halfway there when a rustling sound and a long creak rose out of the darkness — very distinctly inside the room with her. She froze, but one outstretched hand struck a hanging painting and sent it swinging back and forth on its wire, the wooden stretcher scraping the wall with the sound of an old woman's laugh. Thankfully, the piece didn't fall. But now, an all-too-familiar, cold dread had begun to spread through her body, binding her muscles like taut cords, and she remained stock still, listening for any suggestion of sound. For uncountable seconds, she heard nothing. Then a creak, only a few feet away.
"Who's there?" she whispered. "David?"
"Not David," came a low, raspy voice, and a claw like cold steel encircled one of her wrists. She tried to pull away, but the vise-like grip refused to yield. "Be still! Do you hear me?"
She braced herself and tugged her arm as hard as she could, but to her disbelief, the old woman's strength more than matched hers. She realized she could either attempt to scuffle with Martha in the dark or submit, at least for the moment, and find out what the creature wanted.
She relaxed a tad, but set her legs in a ready stance in case she needed to defend herself against some physical assault. "What do you want? Where's David?"
"Don't worry about David," the woman said, her voice like an angry cat's. "Worry about yourself."
"Why?"
"Because you have reason to." In the dull moonlight, Courtney saw two gleaming eyes. "Tell me, girl. Do you believe in God?"
Incredibly, the vise around her wrist tightened even more painfully. "I think so. I — I believe I do."
"You think so. Just what I might have expected. A girl who doesn't know her own mind."
"It's not so simple a question."
"Oh? Either God exists or he doesn't, and you either believe or you don't. Nothing complicated there."
"Why are you asking me this? Let go of my arm."
"I ask because I'm curious."
"Let go of me."
"Why don't you try to free yourself?"
"I might hurt you."
Martha cackled harshly. "Go on. Try."
For a second or two, she nearly gave in to the urge to simply use her weight to overpower the old woman, but something — fear or better judgment — stopped her. She shook her head at the darkness. "I won't be responsible for injuring you."
"I'm touched by your concern. Now, let me ask you another question, Miss Maybe-I-Believe. Has he made you pregnant?"
"What?"
"Answer."
"What business is it —"
A second claw gripped her other wrist, and Courtney felt herself being pulled forward. She felt rather than saw the old woman's face an inch from hers, and the growling voice came again.
"David. Has. He. Made. You. Pregnant?"
"No."
"You're certain?"
"Pretty certain. Now you tell me," she said, trying to force confidence she did not feel into her voice. "Why are you asking me this?"
"So I might know what to do with you."
"What does that mean?"
A long silence followed. "I have a vested interest in these children," Martha finally said. "I wonder if I have any interest in you."
"Are you threatening me?"
Martha exhaled a chuckle. "I don't need to threaten you. Or make promises. I just do what must be done."
"You had no business coming in here."
"And you had business coming into my room? You forget where you are, girl. I come and go where I please, any time I please." Martha's voice lowered. "You've seen something… unusual… around this house, haven't you? But you doubt your senses. I have some advice for you. Do not doubt."
Courtney shuddered under the old woman's invisible glare. "I haven't seen anything," she whispered weakly.
"Fool yourself if you wish. That's not good for you, though. Not good at all. I asked about your belief in God because, if you have any issues to take up with him, now might be a good time."
"Explain yourself," she said, her dread melting as her old friend rage began to simmer. "If you're going to threaten me, you'd better speak plainly."
Martha cackled again. "I've said what I came to say." The steel claws released her wrists. "Now, good night."
"Wait."
She heard a few creaks and groans, and then the door opened and closed quickly, never revealing a glimmer of light in the hall. Only the sound of the rushing wind outside now filled the chamber.
"Damn it."
She stood there for a few terrible minutes, her heart pounding, her head aching with fury and frustration. My God, how could that old woman have so easily immobilized her, in the dark and with just her bare hands?
Shortly, she again heard a creaking outside, and a few seconds later, the door opened to reveal the hallway — now illuminated by the overhead lights — and David's framed silhouette. As he stepped inside, he caught sight of her in the encroaching light, and he flipped a switch beside the door. The studio lamp above his easel flared to life, scorching her sensitive eyes.
"Courtney? What's the matter?"
"I had to go to the bathroom," she said, disappointed to find her voice quavering. "But your aunt came into the room."
"Martha? In here?"
She nodded. "She seemed to be interested in whether you've made me pregnant."
David raised an eyebrow. "Nosy old biddy, isn't she?"
"Much more than that. Where did you go?"
"I wasn't sleeping well, so I went to get a drink. I didn't want to disturb you."
"You didn't."
He came to her and slipped an arm around her shoulders. "You're upset. I'm sorry."
"You didn't know she would come in here — did you?"
"She's never done anything like that before." He glanced at the ceiling. "I've got to take her into town in the morning for some things from the drug store. I'll straighten her out then."
"David, what's wrong with her?"
"I take it you don't mean physically."
She shook her head. "It's much more than just dementia."
"What do you mean?"
"That woman is dangerous. And you know it as well as I do."
His eyes narrowed. "Why don't you tell me what's on your mind?"
"First, I am going to go pee. Then I'll do exactly that."
Chapter 11
After breakfast, David left for the drugstore in his BMW with Martha, whose expression suggested more than disgust that she might be subject to any ordinary human frailties. From the living room window, Courtney watched the car turn out of the driveway, doubting that David would so much as mention the previous night's incident to Martha, much less "straighten her out." Then, as soon as the car passed beyond the trees, Courtney turned and hurried up the stairs, past the second floor, up to the third, too resolute now to feel nervous, only hoping that Jan would stay in her room for the next few minutes and not come looking for her.
However, once she stood
alone in the silent gloom of Martha's secretive domain, a cold sense of foreboding swept over her, and her thudding pulse became a hammer against her eardrums. She crept toward the closed bedroom door, wary of the floorboards groaning and alerting Jan to the fact that she was up here. Testing the doorknob, she found it locked — as she expected — so, from her jeans pocket, she drew the skeleton key she had taken from David's door and slipped it into the keyhole, praying that it worked on both the upstairs and downstairs locks. She took a bracing breath and carefully turned the key.
With a gratifying click, the lock yielded, and she pushed the door open, releasing a noxious mélange of mothballs and disinfectant. Leaving the door open in case she needed to make a hasty retreat, she stepped into Martha's inner sanctum.
The first thing she noticed was that the soft drink cans were gone and the furniture had been dusted. In fact, in the morning sunlight, the tidied room bore an almost cheerful glow. The old witch must have grown weary of living in squalor, she thought. Apart from the rather morbid-looking grandfather clock and the peculiar, rope-framed bed, the sheer ordinariness of the woman's room seemed at odds with Courtney's expectations, and for a terrible few seconds, she felt her resolve wavering. But the moment was fleeting, and she went straight to the huge dresser and began opening drawers.
Nothing but Martha's undergarments, sweaters, and a few scarves. A cardboard box filled with toiletries. A sewing kit and a few loose spools of thread. A couple of small jewelry boxes, both empty.
How could she possibly expect to discover what Martha was up to when she had no idea what she was looking for? But something pressed her to believe that she would know it when she found it. Heaving a sigh of frustration, she went to the closet — where she learned what had happened to the soft drink cans.
As she opened the door, a dozen or so cans came clattering out to roll across the hardwood floor, and as reflexes sent her stumbling back from the avalanche, she nearly lost her balance, maintaining her footing only by grabbing one of the tall bedposts — which budged the heavy bed just enough for its feet to scrape the floor with sound of a bear growling.
Monarchs Page 12
