by Lara Parker
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 different now.”
“Things are different,” he said, growing impatient. “Things are very different 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? That I should have let you die?”
“In a word … yes. Death would have been far more palatable than this. You are still in the honeymoon of the vampire’s adventures.” He looked down at the dying girl. “Enjoy it while you can. You are swept up in the excitement. But that will pale, my dear, and grow brutally dull. Believe me, you will soon learn that you are doomed, as am I, to unrelenting misery.”
She gasped as though he had slapped her. “How can you say that?”
“Because I have lived almost two hundred years, and I know it to be true!”
Grasping his cape, her eyes dark and her lips drawn tight, she bit out her words.
“Don’t … don’t think you can ignore me. I brought you back with my own blood. In time you will see that you cannot exist without me.”
He wondered if that were true.
“And I will never leave you.”
“Then I must leave you.”
“How can you be so ungrateful?”
“You restored the curse! I despise you for that!”
He wrenched himself free, but she was too quick for him and again blocked his way. She fell to her knees.
“Wait! Don’t go without me. We can have our lives and our happiness for all eternity. I gave up my life to make you what you are now. We belong together.” She lifted herself into his arms and he could feel weakness trickle through him. She was stronger, perhaps because she was more determined. Her obsession fed her passion whereas he was drained of any feeling. As she caressed him, he felt hopelessly ensnared, and—as he had in his coffin—unable to breathe. With a determined effort, he pulled away and placed his hands on her wrists.
“Julia, this is pointless. Set me free, now, or we are both damned.”
Carefully stepping over the wretched girl, he avoided her pleading eyes as he climbed the narrow stairway to the vast underground basement. Easing the portal open, he felt a blast of stale air, all the time aware of Julia still standing in the secret room, willing him to turn back. She whispered one last word.
“Never…”
He could sense her power draining him, and his knees felt weak as he shut the door on her face—a face he never wanted to see again.
The basement smelled of rat feces, and it was cluttered with dusty stacks of magazines and housekeeping paraphernalia—brooms and mops, sacks of rags, and old paint cans. Their room beneath the stair was well hidden but too close to the family living in the house. He fingered the key to their secret portal and thought of simply locking her in. He hesitated, feeling his hands open and close, one still gripping his cane.
Breathing hard, he made his way through the debris and searched among the gardening tools for what would be needed. He caught sight of a hay rake with five tines and a sharpened hoe; shears and clippers; a heavy shovel; and rolls of wire fencing. A dusty carpenter’s bench displayed tools more purposeful, various wrenches and screwdrivers, hammers, and boxes of screws and nails. Near old bags of solidified cement mix and a pile of discarded lumber lay a few iron stakes. Any of these would do.
His patience was exhausted, and better to snatch the moment when his ire was rich. The stake was rough in his hand, decayed with rust, and a mallet lay on the bench. An open padlock he had found earlier, the key still inserted, hung from a nail on the wall; and, in a shadowy corner, behind some wooden skis, a child’s sled beckoned, and a tangle of rusty snow chains tumbled out of a cardboard box.
When he slid open the door again to his chamber, Julia was feeding. All about her were strewn the bruised lilies—crimson pollen staining the petals—as if she had ripped them in anger. The flames of the candles had died; only one still flickered in its pool of wax. It cast her shadow on the wall, rising and falling as she drank. She was lying awkwardly on top of the girl with her dress draped over the body, and her copper hair falling across a face now frozen in death.
Watching her, Barnabas was revolted by a feeling of nausea; he could see her only as a reflection of his own morbidity. Desperation flowed through him like an electrical current. How could he spend eternity with her, ever to be reminded of his own loathsome nature, to see it mirrored in another—and one who enslaved him—leaving him with no will of his own?
The lady with the unicorn gazed down at him with a melancholy smile, bestowing her blessing. She stood in her brocaded gown among her rabbits and birds, her serenity a challenge and a taunt, the snowy beast curled by her side.
Barnabas gathered his courage, and, floating behind Julia, raised the stake. Finding his mark, he hesitated, and then realized in a rush that he had to do nothing; Julia’s naiveté had done it for him. She had succumbed to the vampire’s drunkenness and was sucking the girl dry, already drawing death from her victim’s veins.
Only sipping up until now, tasting the nectar from so many vines, she had never learned that she must cease before draining the final glass. She knew to make a new vampire one must stop just before the heart stops and then feed the victim with one’s own blood. That was the way she had brought him back. She had ripped open her own neck for him and leaned in to let him drink.
But did she know to kill a victim and not become mortally ill, one must never drink from a corpse? A vampire rarely fed until the body was drained because he was satiated long before then, but Julia’s bitterness and her anger with Barnabas must have stunted her reason. Or, perhaps she did not know. There was no one to tell her, and she had drowned her sorrows in this excess. Now, he thought with a chuckle, rather than putting an end to her, it was up to him to save her.
He bent forward and placed a hand on her shoulder, gently pulling her loose. Julia groaned and rolled over, her hands grasping the air. Her mouth was slack, her face smeared with blood. Her eyelids fluttered, and her eyes grew soft.
“Barnabas,” she whispered, “my love. You came back for me.”
“Yes…” He leaned over and lifted her into his arms. She was weak and nearly unconscious. It was but a few steps to their coffin, and after he settled her on the satin, he placed the paper-thin body of the dead girl beside her. Julia stretched in luxuriant ease, smiling up at him, her eyes barely focusing.
“Come, my dearest,” she said in a slurred voice. “Lie with me.”
“Yes, I am coming. In a minute. Sleep now.” He reached for the lid and only glimpsed her puzzled look the moment before he slammed it shut.
Enormous strength flowed through him, enough to resist her upward thrust. But still she fought like a tiger, the casket rocking with her struggles as again and again she forced the lid a gap, enough for him to catch sight of her wild eyes and hear her frantic screeching. He threw off his cape, climbed up on the casket, and knelt on the bucking lid. Then with a mighty heave he jammed it tight and held it there.
The first nail and the second slid in with single blows, and Julia’s muffled wails were soon drowned out by the sounds of the hammer rattling down, pounding in nail after nail. Breathing heavily now, his heart ready to explode, Barnabas reached for the chains and hoisted them on the coffin, encircling it again and again, until all that was left was to attach the padlock.
After donning his cloak he made for the stair, but something jerked him back. His heart clenched. Had she escaped and got hold of him? But he saw he had only nailed a corner of his cape between the lid and the coffin. The unicorn maidens watched in amusement as he ripped off a piece of the fabric in order to free himself. With a final look back at the silen
t room, he bolted the door, dragged the cement sacks against it, and tossed the key into a corner of the basement before he fled.
* * *
Still shaking from the brutality of his deed, Barnabas crept stealthily up the basement stair and through the quiet kitchen. When he emerged into the outside world, he was awestruck with wonder. The grounds had been transformed into an endless ocean of white. Collinwood’s vast lawn was blanketed by a heavy snow that obscured every shrub and wall and walkway. It was still twilight, and rising early behind the feathered trees was an enormous bloodred moon.
Realizing that Julia had risked daylight to bring him a victim ignited a flicker of guilt, but he shrugged it away. He was thankful to be rid of her. As he savored his freedom, he breathed in the frozen air along with the odors of warm-blooded animals that wafted out of the forest. Hunger gnawed in his gut, and he thought of Antoinette.
As he moved quietly toward the front of the Great House, he remembered that she had a daughter, Jacqueline. What would become of her if her mother disappeared? Would he be obligated to care for her as well? The thought made him uncomfortable. An oddly mysterious girl, she had fascinated him in ways he did not understand, although he had only spoken to her once or twice. He knew his young cousin David had developed an affection for her, and he had told Barnabas he believed her when she said she had lived past lives. Barnabas felt a pang of sympathy when he thought of David, and he worried about a teenage romance that could threaten the Collins heritage.
Still disturbing was the memory of a journey back in time with Antoinette—to Salem during the dreadful witch trials—in a misguided effort to save a girl she said was her daughter—a girl accused of witchcraft. He could still picture the black-robed parishioners who sent the young woman to her death and her enraged benediction from the scaffold: If you take away my life, God will give you blood to drink.
He remembered she had cursed all her judges, and one of them had been a Collins. Could she be the same girl who lived now with Antoinette? And was she a threat to David, Barnabas wondered, as the boy’s welfare and happiness were his only concern. In spite of his unnatural state, Barnabas was still a Collins, and he had vowed always to watch over his young cousin, the last in the line.
The full moon glimmering behind the trees jarred his memory and pricked what was left of his conscience. He remembered he had one errand to complete before he could go to the Old House. During his time as a human he had made many mistakes in judgment, but one had been especially grievous. He had stolen a token of power that belonged to another, and if it was still where he had hidden it, he should return it to its rightful owner. As a vampire once again, he must respect those who were also immortal.
He flew freely through the trees behind Collinwood and a luminous blanket of snow stretched out beneath him. The unblemished earth was so bright it could have been day—a day with many shades of black and gray tinged with gold. The moon was a Wolf Moon, the first moon in January, rising at dusk, and so brilliant that it pained his eyes to look at it. Below was the graveyard, the home of all his memories, and he could not help but wish he were there among the dreaming dead, asleep in a tomb like some fortunate soul at rest.
He settled where the snow-topped statues were like robed phantoms poised to leap and dance. Yielding to a sentimental whim, he first stopped to visit a white marble tombstone, and, with his long cape spread out over the snow, he scraped the inscription with his shoe. It was an indifferent gesture, but when he exposed the name—Josette—he felt a twinge of remorse. There she lay, his beloved, so rudely taken, and he was somewhat surprised that he still remembered her with regret. Perhaps, in spite of a mind poisoned by bitterness, he had not gone completely numb.
He could still see her coming through the garden. She was wearing a pale cream dress nipped at the waist, an ermine across her shoulders, and a wide-brimmed hat that framed her delicate face. Her skin was petal smooth and her lips were trembling as she placed her gloved hand in his and lifted her face to be kissed. The ridiculous hat fell off her head, and when he reached to catch it, his fingers plunged into her curls. He could still feel their glossy texture against his lips.
A prickling in the back of his neck spread up into his hair, and he turned to see another grave. It was marked with the statue of an angel, her robed shape wavering in the whirling snowflakes. Her head was lowered, her hands clasped, and the frosted canopy of her wings rose above her in the moonlight. Her dark eyes peered into his with an accusing glare and he shivered. He had no need to find the inscription. Angelique was buried there, and for a moment he thought the ground beneath his feet was heaving. Hers had been the spiteful curse that had destroyed his life: You will never love, and anyone who loves you will die! Even buried beneath his feet she stirred rancor through his body.
As he stood among the marble monuments honoring the dead, he could feel the planes of his own face grow rigid. In the falling snow his dark cloak formed a shroud. The flakes dusted his eyebrows and chin—as though turning them to stone—and he felt the cold seep to his fingertips and into his heart.
Then something moving in the shadows caught his eye. Gray canine shapes as pale as ghosts threaded the graveyard fence. Their eyes gleamed crimson, their tongues drooped as if they had run for miles, and their bones were loose and jarring as they trotted past him. Coyotes, he thought in amazement, and he did not remember ever seeing a pack like this. Possibly there had been one lone animal, but never a group moving together. He watched them weave through the statues until they faded to whispers in the blurry air.
It was not easy to find the small crypt among the gravestones buried in the drifts, but when he finally discovered it, he brushed away the snow that had obscured the wooden portal, and pushed open the low door. In the dim light he could see a pile of dead leaves, and the animal odors of blood and feces rose to his nostrils. When he reached into the debris, his hand closed on a warm shape and he pulled out a rat. Tail twitching, it blinked at him with beady eyes and squirmed in his grasp. His hunger flared, and he considered a tasty morsel, an appetizer perhaps, but he was not inclined to spoil the feast to come. Releasing the creature, he watched it scamper off through the tombstones, then turned and rummaged further until his hand brushed against a hard surface. His stolen prize was still there wrapped in faded blue satin—the portrait of Quentin. He hesitated before extracting it, thinking perhaps he should leave it. He knew where it was hidden, that it was safe, and better stored in this secluded spot than unprotected in Antoinette’s basement.
Nevertheless, prey to cold curiosity, he dragged the bundle out and, after leaning it against the stone wall of the crypt, removed the wrapping. He stared at the portrait dismayed to see that the rats had gnawed the gilded frame and the surface was covered with mold. What had he expected? He had left it for months in a filthy vault filled with rotting leaves. Areas of the painting were frayed, exposing the canvas, and others were eaten away, but Barnabas brushed off the debris and found that the visage was still compelling: a man of majestic beauty, dark-haired with long sideburns, and eyes of alluring intensity. Staring out from under heavy brows, those eyes—and a bemused smile—promised secret delights. Even in its damaged state, Barnabas could see it was a face that would seduce any woman. And, he thought with chagrin, even Antoinette had fallen under his spell.
Then, as though exposure to the air had caused an alteration, the features slowly dissolved into those of a hoary old man; the seductive gaze became demonic, the skin yellowed with age, and the lustrous black hair turned thin and gray. Barnabas backed away in disgust, remembering the spell that governed Quentin’s life. The portrait aged, while, mysteriously, Quentin remained young.
He picked up the frame and moved it to where the moonlight fell upon it. But when the glare silvered the surface, it underwent another transformation even more hideous. As if the portrait were a magical hologram, the visage darkened and changed to that of a feral beast: the matted gray hair became fur that sprouted above pointed ears and
the nose elongated into a jaw of exposed teeth gleaming over a crimson tongue.
Barnabas gasped. Somehow, immersed in his own concerns, he had ignored this dark secret until the full moon glowed in the sky. The painting absorbed a double curse that governed Quentin’s existence: he was also a lycanthrope, and the portrait had succumbed to the wolf man’s spell before Barnabas’s eyes.
He tried to remember why, when he had first discovered the portrait in Antoinette’s house, he hadn’t destroyed it. It was because he had been human, suffering from human weakness, and in a moment of compassion he had worried that Antoinette might be harmed by the werewolf if Quentin were to assume that form.
But now there was nothing to fear. He, Barnabas, would be her protector. Quentin would never come near her. And if she still believed she loved Quentin, she was about to change. Barnabas laughed bitterly. He vowed he would never be tormented by jealousy again.
The picture was quivering with life, yet as threadbare as an ancient tapestry, and Barnabas lifted it, his arms trembling, feeling the power of a magic talisman radiate through his body. Its force was like an electrical shock, and in a sudden rage he raised the painting above his head and slammed it against the edge of the stone crypt. The canvas split, and the portrait gaped open in two halves that hung lifeless in the frame.
With that, it changed back into a faded old oil without luminosity, resembling so many hanging in dingy museums around the world, and it seemed drained of its power. As he clung to the ruined artifact, Barnabas realized that he had been deceiving himself all along. He had never meant to return the painting—he no longer felt any sympathy for Quentin—and now he had destroyed it. What would become of his rival? Would age catch up with him? And what of the werewolf curse? Barnabas shrugged off any concern he might have felt, and, without needing any further proof, he knew that he possessed—as a vampire once again—a heart of stone.
