Dark Shadows: Wolf Moon Rising

by Lara Parker

  Twenty-four

  All David could think was he was going to die before he had lived, before he had loved, and if only he had been civil to this phony scientist rather than intentionally antagonizing him, this might not have happened. He stared up at the white light through the sheet and—grimacing and tossing his head—tried again and again to pull his lips apart beneath the tape so that he could scream. The sheet smelled faintly of bleach and pulsed in and out with his breath. His wrists were bloody and throbbed with pain but still remained tightly incased in the metal cuffs, even though he tried to pinch the bones in his hands together and slip them through. His ankles were restrained as well, and he could barely move his legs.

  Heaving his body in jerking motions, he tried to propel the operating table he was pinned to toward the shelf of instruments, but only managed to send something large and heavy crashing to the floor, probably the camera. He tried to perform a rhythmic lunging, hoping to move a few inches at a time, but soon he knew it was helpless, as he was unable to make any progress. He was going to die, and he wondered whether he would pass out when Blair began his dissection.

  He began to rehearse a speech, apologizing and pleading for his life, but he knew Blair’s maniacal determination would be unfazed by logic. Perhaps some threat of the Collins family’s reaction, legal consequences. A murder trial. That was it. There must be some way to convince Blair that he was not a vampire, but of course he would find that out soon enough, after it was too late. What would become of his body? Would his father find him? If only he had some way of getting word to his father, of reaching him telepathically.

  Then he remembered that Jackie might be susceptible to a summons, that she might sense his anguish and come looking for him. How had she found him at the pool house? Or the night he had started the car? He closed his eyes and concentrated on her face, her mind, imagining her hearing his voice, saying to her over and over, “Jackie, where are you? I need you. Please, help me.”

  But to his dismay he heard in response to his summons the mournful and agonized howl of the wolf echoing through the forest, and cold tremors made his muscles spasm. The werewolf! And she was out there, so vulnerable, so innocent, and the monster so close. At that moment true anguish washed though him. She needed him desperately and he had the means to save her, but could not reach her. He imagined her terrified eyes, her desperate attempts to flee the bloody jaws, and he silently screamed at the injustice, a scream that filled his chest with sharp stabs of pain.

  If only the werewolf would come for Blair.

  Again he bucked the table and wrenched his body, before he finally lay panting and feeling a fool. His eyes filled with tears and he found it hard to breathe. He thought of others facing death, those dying of the plague, or going to the gallows. How were they able to bear those final moments? Were their hearts ready to burst? Or men who went into battle almost certain they would not make it out alive. Where did they find the courage?

  He bucked the table again and this time it left the floor a few inches and he heard it clatter. He decided when Blair was close to him, leaning over him, he would lunge at the doctor with all his weight and using his head as a battering ram, try to knock him over with his body and the table. He would not do it now for fear of ending up on the ground even more incapacitated, but the plan gave him hope and he decided he would fight with everything he had, and if death came, he would face it bravely.

  Was courage possible? he wondered. Surely Achilles had been brave when he fell to Paris’s bow. Jean Valjean had shown nobility. David decided that bravery must lie within, as he slowed his breathing and had a vision of acceptance and sacrifice, and a profound wave of gratitude flooded through his body. At that moment he thought of Jackie and how fortunate he had been to meet her, to have grown to an age when he could imagine love and to have taken their magical journey together. He remembered their flight through the dark night and their sleep in the cave, their bodies entwined. They had lived a lifetime in those hours. A kind of peace flowed through him and he eased her face into the center of his thoughts.

  There was a noise in the room, a door opening and closing, a shuffling sound, and someone knocked the table where the instruments lay because they rattled and tinkled on the metal surface. David held his breath. The doctor had returned. David could hear his heavy steps, his slow breathing. David tensed, his body rigid, his eyes wide with terror, but he lay without moving, his heart pounding in his chest.

  Twenty-five

  The vampire was still sleeping, and this was a good thing, thought Blair, not so much trouble. This whole Collins family was quarrelsome and self-involved. Never had he met people with such an enormous sense of entitlement. They seemed to see themselves as some kind of royalty, demanding, as though the world spun in its orbit for their personal needs, and peevish when those needs were not met. Quentin, for example, had been adamant: “A séance must take place immediately!” and then belligerent when it did not produce the desired result. He must study up on séances, Blair thought, as his did not seem to go too well.

  But nevertheless, the doctor was elated, and he put all failure from his thoughts. Finally the time had come for his breakthrough, the experiment that would make him famous in the annals of science, and he was feverish with excitement. Already he could picture the prize at the Royal Society in London, as nothing in America would be worthy of this discovery. The Royal Society’s motto, Nullius in verba, “Take nobody’s word for it,” was the perfect rejoinder to those who scoffed at the existence of vampires. Yes, the Royal Society would award him a prize, perhaps a monetary stipend. He might publish a paper in Philosophical Transactions, elucidating his discoveries that would be fascinating to the entire scientific community, a treatise applicable to the biological fields at both the molecular and cellular level, as well as the disciplines of biochemistry and neuroscience.

  His pulse raced and he began to pant as he clumsily arranged his notebook and pens for recording data and placed in order his surgical tools, scalpels, cauterizers, and gauze. Fingers twitching, he tested the small circular saw and was pleased to watch it spin brightly before he set it within reach. Beneath the operating table he placed three large enamel pans. He planned to stem the flow of blood immediately and drain it into the containers, since he needed clear images on the screen of whatever he discovered.

  To his dismay, he found that that the camera had fallen to the floor, and he raised it up gingerly, looking it over carefully and even turning on the reel to assure himself that it was still in working order. It whirred obediently, and he replaced it on the tripod and secured it carefully. He noticed that the bolt to hold the camera was loose and he was irritated when it fell forward instead of remaining upright. Even though his hands were shaking from nervousness, he was able to fasten it in place. Stooping over and peering though the lens, he made certain that the body of the vampire—still beneath the sheet and still sleeping—was both well lit and in focus. Making a slight adjustment to the light he felt his body flare with the heat of anticipation, and he began to pant noisily.

  It occurred to him that he should protect his clothes and he reached for a full-length rubber apron and wrapped it around his body. As he buckled the closures, he had a sudden crisis of confidence. What would he find, and how would he record it accurately? He had a tendency toward excitability and rash decisions. What if he botched the dissection? This might be his only chance, the opportunity of a lifetime. After a year’s long search, incredibly, he had finally trapped a vampire. Would such good fortune ever come his way again? And irony of ironies, it had turned out to be the boy who had been so contemptuous, dismissing him as though he were nothing but a fool.

  Was that a movement beneath the sheet? Blair reached for the hypodermic needle, filled it, and positioned it for another injection. His body drained of adrenaline, he became suddenly gutless, and he made a decision. He would keep David asleep so that he could proceed slowly with his investigation. He did not want to become hurried and
dispatch the vampire before the creature had surrendered his mysteries. No, he would be cautious and exercise the utmost skill, for this was his finest moment.

  After pulling on rubber gloves, once more he arranged the microscope, the scalpels, knives, and oval saucers. Stretching up, he turned on the video camera and the red light glowed. Sweat moistened his upper lip and his eyes watered as he reached tentatively for the sheet. Trembling with excitement, he took a breath, uttered a prayer, and slowly pulled the cover away from the vampire’s face.

  He hesitated at the hairline, the hair oddly thick and black, and then—flooded with a sudden foreboding—he jerked the sheet back in one clumsy motion, uttering a hoarse cry.

  A hideous creature was staring up at him, a man with porcelain skin, sunken cheekbones, deep-set sockets rimmed in blood, and a malevolent scowl that was more a smile of satisfaction. Glossy black hair curved across his forehead, glistening fangs emerged from within his crimson lips, and beneath his shaggy brows the bloodshot eyes gleamed with fiendish cruelty.

  Blair’s heart stopped, his hand flew to his throat, and he stumbled back, uttering a choked cry.

  “What? Who are you?”

  A creature such as he had never imagined, lithe and powerful as a caged panther, rose up from the table and floated to the floor, a black cape flaring about his feet. A man like a god—a man he knew but had never met—thrust the table aside as though it were nothing but a toy and came for Blair with his long yellow fingers dangling at his sides.

  Floundering helplessly behind him, Blair felt for the saw and his hand closed around the grip. Flipping it on with his thumb, he held it before his face and struggled to find his voice but could only manage a hoarse whisper over the whirring blades.

  “Barnabas…?”

  “Yes, Dr. Blair. It is I. Barnabas. And you will be pleased to know your search is finally over. You have found the prize you so lusted for. Does that make you happy?” He uttered a low chuckle and raised his lips in a grimace, uncovering his fangs.

  Blair recoiled in terror. “No— No, I…”

  “Did you really think a young and healthy boy like David could possibly be one of the living dead? No, my good doctor, observe me well. Feast your eyes on the monster. This is the look of death! Behold the vampire!”

  And Barnabas stood a moment beneath the garish light, his face a chalky mask, his eyes raw, his long eyeteeth glistening, and uttered a growl that came from deep within his frame before he lunged across the table, scattering the instruments with a ringing clatter and flung his cape around the doctor’s torso.

  Helplessly, Blair lashed out with the saw, slicing the fabric of Barnabas’s waistcoat, but he was not quick enough. With a crippling grip, Barnabas wrapped his fingers around the doctor’s wrist, forced him back upon the gurney, and, taking hold—from Blair’s limp hand—of the humming saw, aimed the blade toward Blair’s exposed Adam’s apple.

  “Clever little instrument,” said Barnabas. “Makes things easier.”

  Paralyzed, Blair saw the blood-rimmed eyes glaring down at him, heard the silvery motor buzz in his ear, felt clawed fingers dig into his shoulders, and sniveling helplessly, watched the dark head dip into his neck.

  He howled, “No, stop! For God’s sake, no!” But his jugular exploded and his words were drowned in his own blood.

  Twenty-six

  The night was quiet, with only the far-off sound of the surf crashing against the rocks and Jackie’s ragged breathing as she stumbled through the snow, running and leaping over the hillocks, terrified the werewolf was on her heels. More than once her fear lifted her into the air; but each time she fell back to the earth. She had relinquished all her magic, and the painting she had repaired with such skill had been stolen from her. Even though she had given up her powers in order to be free, she had not escaped Angelique.

  When she heard the barks and cries of canines, her body stiffened. The almost-human yelping and yowling at first confused her until she glimpsed the commotion in a snowy clearing up ahead.

  The beast was bent over, a hunchbacked fiend, surrounded by Jackie’s coyotes. They leapt at him from all sides, snarling and ripping his fur. Jackie cried out to stop them, but they were yapping hysterically, teeth bared, eyes crazed, as they launched themselves again and again at the werewolf’s neck and flanks.

  Rumbling in fury, he lifted one coyote into the air and, enclosing its body in his massive jaws, shook it until it collapsed into a lifeless sack. Then, tossing it aside, he pawed at a second, pausing to snatch a morsel of flesh and swallow it before returning to the fray. Blood and entrails littered the snow, and Jackie’s eyes filled with tears when she saw her feral friends who had come to protect her slaughtered.

  The beacon moon shone down on the carnage, and the gray bodies were strewn about, some still whimpering, some unable to crawl more than a few feet into the trees, until Jackie could watch no longer, but took off again, the barking still ringing through the forest, and she ran through the woods, heaving and gasping for breath.

  How she wished she could shake herself free and release the earth, fly above the trees, and skim the tops of the cedars, a dark bird in the moonlit clouds. The wind once whistled by her ears, her hair streaming out behind her, as she floated on currents of air, embracing a power that she knew now had deserted her. She remembered her time in Salem and how the great Sachem had told her, When you fly through the trees, Sisika, you fly among the souls of your ancestors.

  But it was not to be. She had shed her heritage, her other lifetimes, her spells and curses, and now she wondered what this lifetime would bring—now that she was no longer a witch.

  She saw the spires and slate roof of Collinwood, crossed the yard, then, breathing hard, stumbled up the steps, lunged for the portal, and thrust her body into the quiet safety of the Great House.

  She was greeted by the sleepy face of Carolyn Stoddard, who had come downstairs for a glass of milk and was holding it in her hand when she saw Jackie scramble through the door.

  “A werewolf,” was all Jackie could muster before she collapsed on the floor.

  When she woke, she was looking up at what she thought must be an angel, china blue eyes and long golden hair framing a heart-shaped face. Carolyn had placed a pillow beneath her head and was offering her a glass of water—except no, it was whiskey, she realized the moment she took a whiff.

  “Here, drink this,” Carolyn said kindly. “You’ll feel better.”

  Jackie looked around in wonder at the dark entrance hall with its grand staircase and leaded windows. “Where am I?”

  “On the floor. You came in the door and fainted.” She placed the rim of the glass against her lips. “Just take a sip.”

  Jackie tried to oblige but only sputtered when the whiskey hit her throat. Still in a daze, she sat up and stared into the drawing room where the moonlight streamed in the casements. She recognized the room from her journey back to the Twenties, but more dimly from another time when she had longed with all her heart to be wed to Barnabas and become the mistress of this mansion.

  “You’re Jackie, aren’t you?” said Carolyn. “You’re the girl who’s been bewitching my little cousin David.” She laughed lightly. “Do you have any idea how much you have made him suffer?”

  Jackie spoke in a low voice, “I— I think we should bolt the doors.”

  “What…?”

  Just then a dark shadow moved past the closest panes and Jackie sat up. “We should pull the curtains over the windows.”

  “Why?”

  “To keep it out.”

  “To keep what out?” Carolyn’s eyes were suddenly huge.

  “The werewolf.”

  “I’m sorry. The what?” But then Carolyn glanced at the window, saw a blurred shape, and caught a glimpse of crimson eyes. “Oh, my God, what’s that?”

  Jackie grabbed Carolyn’s hand and dragged her to the door. “Hurry!”

  She was jarred to see a portrait of Barnabas hanging beside the portal, and sh
e was attacked by a swarm of memories. Frantically, she fixed the bolt, then turned and raced across the drawing room and dragged the heavy curtain over the glass. Running, she struck the table and a lamp fell to the floor.

  “Careful,” whispered Carolyn as she followed on Jackie’s heels, “we mustn’t wake Mother. She’s been ill. Of course, nothing ever bothers Uncle Roger.”

  Jackie looked around her, stunned by images of her recent journey, and of another much more painful period in her life when she had cast the spells that had destroyed two lives. If you want your Josette so much, then you shall have her. But not in the way you imagined. Then, shaking off her dizzying visions, she whispered, “Carolyn, listen. There’s something out there.”

  The girl nodded, her face flushed. “Should we lock up the kitchen? And the door to the hallway?”

  “Yes. Hurry.”

  Carolyn raced with Jackie toward the back of the house. Behind the sink they saw through the window a dark shape again, and something glistened. Carolyn jerked the curtain down, then turned, her chest heaving. “I’ve always wanted some excitement around here,” she cried, “but this is ridiculous.”

  “Where else?”

  “What about the ballroom? It’s never used, and the walls are all French doors!” The grand chamber with its huge varnished floor and marble statues shrouded with sheets greeted the girls with a silence that seemed uncanny to Jackie, who had seen it lit with a thousand candles only a few days earlier, overflowing with bright couples gyrating to jazzy music. Then Carolyn cried, “Oh, no! Look! There it is!”

  Shuffling outside the mullioned windows was a huge bearlike creature bashing against the glass. Carolyn ran to bolt the two doors to the drawing room, but when the werewolf caught the moon’s gleam and Carolyn finally saw the grim visage clearly through the pane, she cried out, “Jackie, it’s the wolf! The one that’s been attacking people around here.” She ran back to the foyer and closed and locked the double doors, and drew the French bolt, then said breathlessly, “It’s the one that got in the basement and mauled the exterminator’s son. We have to kill it!”