by Lara Parker
For some reason he began to think about his mother, gone from his life since he was ten. He fought the painful memory of her death in the flames, and the vision of her calling to him. A sharp pain gripped his chest.
Jackie roused, looked over, and smiled at him. “Are you still here?” she said.
He leaned into her and smelled her ferny odor. “I— I was worried about leaving you alone.”
Her eyes were red, and even though she seemed tired, she reached out and touched his arm. The moment was confusing; there was the familiar ache from missing his mother, and at the same instant, Jackie’s nearness, her warmth, and her woodsy fragrance excited him.
Then she said something that bewildered him. “You mustn’t be sad,” she whispered, “she will come back,” and he was soothed by her voice, wise beyond her years.
“Why do you say that?”
She lay back and closed her eyes. “Because I know you will see her again.” She was speaking as if she could grant wishes. Then she said in a drowsy tone, “She is a Phoenix. She will rise from the fire, and you will be with her again.” And she fell back into sleep. David watched her for a long time, her chest rising and falling.
Just as dawn was breaking he woke and, in the dim light, he was able to make out the paintings and drawings on the walls of Jackie’s room. He had never seen her artwork, and he was disturbed by an uncanny awe. He rose up from his chair and walked around the room, looking at each one closely. The drawings were astonishing—each displaying amazing technique. He was surprised when he saw several small charcoals that were of him, his face downcast or in repose, and all very good likenesses. There were sketches of Antoinette, and of the flowers and birds that could be found in the garden, and one larger canvas of coyotes. And then he saw a drawing that shocked him. It was a portrait in oil of Barnabas with his dark brows and penetrating gaze, staring out as though something mysterious had caught his attention and he could not look away.
* * *
It was morning when weary, his bones aching, his clothes filthy and covered with blood, David opened the front door at Collinwood as quietly as possible with the intention of stealing up the stair to change before the household awoke. He caught a glimpse of the dining room table already set for breakfast, and the idea of food made his stomach turn. Unfortunately, his father was already dressed and standing in the drawing room before the fire talking with a stranger in a silver gray suit.
“David!” he called out, his voice like a bark. Adrenaline jumped through David’s body, landing in his fingertips. “David, I must speak to you.”
“In a moment, Father, I just—”
“Where have you been?”
David’s throat tightened as he hesitated on the landing and floundered for an answer. “I— I fell off the snowmobile into … and I have to take off—”
“At this hour of the morning? What were you doing out before dawn?”
“Hold on. I’ll be down in a moment.”
“David, come here this instant.”
“Father, hey … mellow out. I’ll be right back.” He dashed up the stair to his room just as Roger walked angrily into the foyer, his voice a foghorn of irritation.
“David, come down immediately, do you hear? We are having a family meeting and it’s imperative that you be present.”
David closed the door to his room and tore off his clothes in disgust, gathering them into a pile to be thrown away, then stepped into the shower. The hot water soothed his body, dispelling the chill as he leaned back with a long sigh and let the spray fall onto his face. He licked grime from his lips. He soaped himself, lathering furiously, and paused to dig the reddish dirt out from under his fingernails, then watched the water turning pink as it settled in the drain. The spray pounded his back, neck, and arms, and he scrubbed his face with a washcloth. Then he stood, hands dangling, and let the water pour over him while he shook uncontrollably.
Jesus, what was that in the pool house? Had it been something real? He trembled, even in the hot shower, goose bumps rising on his arms, when he remembered the hands on his back, shoving him. Something didn’t want him coming around. How could he have imagined that? But he must have. No one was there.
And then, Jackie had appeared out of the night, at first in his unconscious, and then she was calling him, standing by his side. Her voice breaking, she told him she had found Barnabas lying in the snow.
David dried off and began to dress. Uncertain now of what had even happened, he was pushing from his mind the worst part of the night, the memory he would erase if only he could, the moment so incomprehensible it made his teeth clench to think about it: the moment when Antoinette had descended the stair.
There was a knock at his bedroom door and a voice called, “David, everyone is waiting.”
He opened the door to see his cousin, Carolyn, his childhood companion, even though she was six years older. They had grown up together in this weird family, but the two of them never spoke of what went on, as though it was forbidden to acknowledge anything. She was wearing a T-shirt and a tennis skirt, and her golden cap of pale blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She smelled of lemony sweat, and he knew she had been down in the indoor tennis court, hitting balls at the backboard. She had a hard time sleeping and often played alone at two in the morning. Her cornflower blue eyes glowed in her exasperated face, and her tiny mouth pouted with coral lipstick. “Because of you, I’m going to miss my lesson,” she said. “Come on.”
David turned back into the room. “Tell them I’m not coming. I’ve got other things to do rather than stand at attention and be lectured.” His wanted to return to the Old House and see about Jackie, make sure that she was okay, and find out what had happened. He was also anxious to start the search for the painting anew, this time in earnest.
“You have to be there. David, don’t be difficult. You know if you make Uncle Roger angry he will take it out on the rest of us, especially Mother, and she is not feeling well this morning.”
“What is it? Is it something I’ve done?”
She frowned. “Here’s a clue. You are not the center of the universe, at least not this morning. No, it’s something about what Uncle Roger called ‘a development at Collinwood.’”
“And I have to be there ’cause I’m the heir to all this.”
“You could act like it a little more. All that could change, you know.” She gave a little chuckle.
“Well, if you had any idea what happened to me last night…” He stopped, wondering whether he should say anything about his adventure.
“What?”
“Nothing. So what’s the big family problem? Who’s the culprit?” Family meetings usually involved some high or low misdemeanor, ranging from being late to dinner, and making more work for Mrs. Johnson, to participating in some escapade in town that would sully the family reputation. Which was a joke as, even though no one spoke of it, it couldn’t be worse than it already was. The Collinses were the laughingstock of the community, with their reclusive manners and dismal secrets.
Invariably, at these meetings, fault would be found and blame placed, usually by his father, who always assumed the position of a magistrate but was really only a bully who could never let things go.
David shuddered, thinking of the problem that existed at this very moment at the Old House, which would overshadow anything Roger could come up with.
“I have a feeling it’s serious,” Carolyn said. “Everyone is there, even the servants. Someone has come to see us. All I know is that he says he is Nicholas Blair’s brother.”
“You’re kidding. I thought we were done with his sort.” He was combing his hair in the mirror above his dresser, trying to get the wet curl on his forehead to fall just right.
“Come on, conceited one, leave off the primping.”
David was vaguely interested. Nicholas Blair, who had claimed to be a lawyer, and who had entered their world unexpectedly, had seemed to possess a strain of evil. He had meddled in their famil
y affairs and caused a lot of trouble with his snooping. David had always wondered what had become of him; and now, he had a brother?
* * *
The family was gathered in the drawing room where the gray light from a snowy day leaked through the leaded glass and along the square panels of the walls. The air, as usual, was overheated, the fire ablaze. Mrs. Johnson and Willie hovered together in the foyer just outside the double doors, Mrs. Johnson with her self-important air and Willie holding his cap and scuffing the rug with the side of his shoe.
His Aunt Elizabeth was perched on the velvet settee, the light from the window falling across her hands in her lap, her back very straight. Somehow, it made David tired to look at her perfect posture. She was done up as usual, a bunch of glossy curls on her head and two strands of pearls at her neck. Her skin, David had to admit, was smooth for an older lady who could have been wrinkled. She always dressed like she was ready for a party, and he could smell her magnolia perfume seeping across the room, mingling with the smoky odor of the fire.
Roger was standing by the fireplace in a morning jacket, vest, and perfectly pressed gray pants, a look of stern authority etched on his square face. He was obviously feeling important this morning. Quentin had drawn back into the shadows beside the bookcase, his black brows furred over his glowering features, probably annoyed by having to be awake at such an early hour. David noticed that his shirt was stained, his jacket was rumpled, and he already held a glass of brandy in his hand. He looked like he had been out on the town all night.
Carolyn took her usual seat at the fireplace bench, where she had left her racket. She crossed her legs and tapped her foot nervously. Barnabas and Dr. Hoffman were missing. Julia had been away for days, maybe weeks, and Barnabas, well—only David knew where Barnabas was.
Standing in the center of the room was a man who could easily have been Nicholas Blair, the same iron black hair gone white at the temples and the Errol Flynn mustache, the same beady twinkle in his eye, the same small straight teeth. But he seemed less heavyset and more cheerful. He turned to David and said, “Ah, the young man of the family,” and came to shake hands, which he did with ferocity. His palm was cold and dry. “Marvelous to make your acquaintance, David.”
“Sure, you too.” Blair’s look was a little too intimate for a first meeting, and there was an odd tremor David could feel in his fingers.
“I understand you are planning for Princeton in the fall. Fine university.”
“Well, I … I mean, I still have the SATs.”
“David is a brilliant student,” intoned Elizabeth. “He has been tutored at home so there have been no grade point averages to place him at the head of the class, but his early scores show quite clearly that he would have been valedictorian at Collinsport High School. He made a perfect eight hundred in English, and—”
Carolyn broke in. “Uncle Roger, can you tell us why we’re here?”
“Of course. Let’s see. Where to begin,” said Roger. “To catch you up to date, David, I have been approached by this gentleman here, Nathanial Blair, the brother of an old acquaintance, Nicholas Blair—you remember him, I’m sure, a most fascinating and peculiar gentleman who gave us no small degree of trouble, I’m afraid. All that business with the Dark Side.”
Roger cleared his throat and continued. “However, this Mr. Blair, this Mr. Nathanial Blair, has apologized for his unfortunate brother’s indiscretions and he pledges to be a very different sort of person indeed. Mr. Nathanial Blair is a scientist, an anthropologist and physicist, and a college professor. We were just discussing his meritorious career before you arrived.”
“Yes, and what could such an important person possibly want with us, Roger,” Carolyn said, tugging on her short skirt.
“He … well, that is … why don’t I let you explain, Mr. Blair.”
“I’d be happy to.”
Nathanial Blair walked to the writing desk and leaned against the edge, crossing his arms over his chest. He seemed to be quite at home for a visitor in a strange house, David thought. Damn, he looked just like Nicholas, hair a little grayer, but that same flat smile. His widow’s peak was prominent as were the tents of his eyebrows, and David wondered if they were dyed. His voice was eerily familiar, rasping, seeming to come from stiff lips and a tight throat, the pronunciation precise. “I am very grateful that you have allowed me to come to Collinwood and talk to you about my ideas.”
I haven’t allowed you a thing, David thought, but he was curious in spite of his anxious thoughts of Jackie.
Blair stuck a thumbnail under his front tooth and bit at it. His nails were yellow and stubby—all bitten down to the quick. Then he placed his hands on the desk, as if to balance himself.
“I have been interested in many things,” he began. “I have written a book about a tribe in Papua, New Guinea, called the Asmats—marvelous people. I actually lived with them for a year. I have written another book on the mechanical techniques of the moon landing, and I have predicted that there will be humans living there by the year 2011. But I won’t bore you. My latest publication is an inquiry into the adventures of Castaneda and his drug-induced hallucinations. I am attempting to discover whether his visions can be verified or if they are simply a charade. My interests vary and have always been backed by strenuous scientific investigation. But lately I have become bored with the factual world of science and anthropology. After a long conversation with my brother, I became interested in the occult, and I have chosen to go in another direction. I want to write another book, this time on the paranormal.”
“Oh my goodness,” said Elizabeth.
“What’s that?” asked Carolyn.
“Oh, I’m sure you know. The existence of ghosts, werewolves, vampires.”
David felt his heart jump and he gripped the back of a chair.
“Well, I hope you will forgive me, but that is absurd,” Elizabeth said, glancing over at Roger. “I don’t mind what you write about, Mr. Blair, honestly I don’t, but what could that possibly have to do with us?”
Blair smoothed his narrow mustache with his fingertips. David found his nonchalance annoying. A stranger should have shown more deference, a touch of humility. Quentin came to the small table beside the armchair where the brandy was kept and poured himself another glass. David thought he could see his hand shaking and was shocked to see his face, which was unusually dark with what looked like bruises.
“I’m sure you have heard,” Blair continued, “of the recent attacks in the village. Unexplained murders of the most grisly sort.”
Elizabeth caught her breath.
“Get to the point,” Quentin’s voice rang out.
“I don’t believe these are ordinary murders. Some animal, or some human form of animal perhaps—”
“Nonsense.” Roger was growing perturbed. “Look here, my good man, any sort of homicide will be well investigated by our local police.”
“Not as well as by me,” answered Blair. His teeth gleamed as he spoke and David felt a twinge of disgust. “I have examined the corpses, and several bear the unmistakable signs of—if you will forgive a conjecture so incredible—of the vampire.”
“Great God Almighty,” stormed Roger.
“What sorts of signs?” asked Quentin dryly.
“Bodies drained of blood, fang marks on the neck. There is no animal that does that.”
“But a vampire? Are you completely out of your mind?” Roger puffed out his chest and drew in his chin.
David, however, felt a shiver creep over his body. He didn’t know whether he believed in vampires. But if there was one, it could only be Barnabas. The idea lifted the hair on the back of his neck, and suddenly the hidden mysteries of his family fluttered across his mind like the pages of a book.
“No, I am perfectly sane,” Blair responded. “And as for any connection with your family, well, don’t try to deny it. It’s well known that the Collinses have kept secrets; disturbing stories circulate through the village. You know you are iso
lated out here in this large, decaying mansion, and that you are ostracized by the townspeople.”
“Now look here, Dr. Blair—,” began Roger, but Quentin interrupted. “Roger is the judge and the jury,” he said. “Always the protector of the hallowed Collins name.”
Blair nodded his assent. “Ostracized for good reason. Many suspicious activities have been covered up over the years. But the police turn a blind eye because of the family’s prestige, and this charming town has a good summer trade of tourists seeking antiques and sometimes a thrill or two. So they keep the stories simmering quietly.”
David, who had been listening with dismay to these last remarks, spoke in a tone he hoped was nonchalant. “How do you know so much about us?”
Nathanial turned to the young man eagerly. “The Collinses have been written about in psychic journals, and, although I’m sure you are not aware of it, you have aroused great interest among those who pursue the occult. Members of your family have been thought to be telepathic, clairvoyant, or simply mystical. You are suspected to have struggled with evil and destructive forces beyond your control. Over the years there have been stories circulated as to the presence of witches, time travelers, dabblers in immortality, and yes, even vampires in your midst. I think there was even a short-lived TV show based on your family’s past.”
The man did know a lot, thought David. “And you have decided to pursue these rumors?”
Outside the window, the snow began to roil with greater fury, lighting the somber faces of the family members with flickering glimmers, as though a pale mirror ball was slowly revolving in the center of the room. The wind whined and a blast spiraling down the chimney caused the fire to sputter and flame up. Carolyn jumped to her feet with a cry and snatched her racket away. “Mother,” she said, “I have a lesson.”
“In the snow?” asked Blair, smiling at her a little too intimately.
