He smiled with deliberate mockery. "What's it to you, you ugly son of a bitch?"
The drunk let fly after a moment's disbelieving pause. It was pathetically easy to dodge the blow and slip around behind.
He kicked the drunk's feet out from under him. The audience laughed and snickered as the brute went sprawling… until the man pulled a pistol from his trousers. His shot went wild and crashed into the stained mirror behind the bar.
Several onlookers jumped the shooter, disarmed him, and tossed him into the street. The bartender cursed over his shattered mirror, and the rest returned to their drinking and whoring.
But the "freak" wasn't satisfied. He stuffed the money back into his pockets and went in pursuit of his prey. He found the drunk on his knees in the street, swearing a blue streak and wiping hands on muddy trousers. Bloodshot eyes lifted to his, narrowed in hate.
"D'you really want to see a freak?" he asked pleasantly. When he had the drunk's full attention, he stripped and Changed. It hurt, the way it always did, but he didn't care. He reveled in the pain. He finished, every muscle and bone screaming in protest, and waited for his prey to realize what he saw.
The drunk's eyes nearly popped from their sockets. He tried to scream. He wet himself and fell into a dead faint.
Laughing with his wolf's grin, he raked his sharp fore-claws along the slack, pockmarked face. Let the drunk remember this encounter, as the previous bully would. Let him scare his fellows with mad tales of men who turned into beasts. No one would believe. They never believed.
He bent back his head and howled. The sound bounced off alley walls and floated on the fog like a banshee's wail. All noise from the saloon stopped; he could almost see the faces turned toward the door, the hasty gulping of whiskey, the furtive gestures made to appease God or the devil.
He belonged to neither. Let them listen and be afraid.
He Changed back, dressed quickly, and turned for the hotel… and the woman. But a vast weariness overtook him; curse it though he might, he knew what it portended. The more he fought, the greater the chance the Other would seize control.
He must rest. Find some quiet place where he wouldn't be disturbed, and he might wake still in possession of this body.
With the last of his strength, he began to search for a sleeping place. In the end, he found he could not leave the vicinity of the hotel, where she lay. He discovered an abandoned, fire-damaged cottage two blocks away, tore through the boards nailed across the door, and lay down close to a window, where he could still catch the merest whiff of her scent over the smell of burned wood and mouse droppings.
She's mine, he told the Other. No matter how often you drive me out, I'll come back. I will have her in the end.
And you will have nothing.
Chapter 2
Though she had made this journey several times since she and her "family" had come to live in California, Johanna never tired of the view she saw from her window as the Napa Valley Railroad made its way north into this little bit of paradise.
Once South Vallejo and the marshy delta were left behind, the valley began in earnest. At first one saw only wide fields of grain and cattle pastures, isolated farms and rolling, nearly bare hills in the distance on either side of the tracks. Majestic, isolated oaks stood sentry singly and in small stands, their branches twisted into fantastic shapes. The native grasses were golden brown, almost the color of caramel. It had taken Johanna several months, that first year, to get used to the arid summers of California. She had come to appreciate their beauty.
At the valley's entrance lay Napa City, the capital and largest town in the county. Its dusty streets boasted the usual assembly of shops, hotels, saloons, and even an opera house. Here the train made an extended stop, and Johanna disembarked to escort Peter to his elder sister's home on the outskirts of town.
He'd been a quiet, solemn companion since they'd left the hotel early this morning. And no wonder: His life had taken an abrupt change in course. Johanna understood the shock of that all too well.
Peter's sister was glad to take him in, though she lived humbly and had the careworn face of most countrywomen. But country folk could also be fiercely loyal to their own. Johanna returned to the train depot satisfied that she'd made the right decision.
It was important that something good had come of last night's confrontation. She hadn't really slept at all in that narrow bed, and it wasn't because of the discomfort. Even now, in the bright midmorning sunshine, she imagined herself back in that foggy alley with the phantom.
Be sensible, she told herself. You are always sensible.
She settled back into her seat on the northbound train and turned her attention to the landscape once more. Such openness and abundance refuted the very existence of shadowy avengers. And she was going home.
Home. Der Haven, she'd named it… the Haven. A simple farm backed up against a wooded hill at the very top of the valley, surrounded by the last of her uncle's vineyards. A place of refuge for the small collection of former patients she and her father had brought with them from Pennsylvania two years ago. They were all that remained of the inmates of Dr. Wilhelm Schell's unorthodox private asylum—the patients with nowhere to go, no one to trust but the physicians who'd cared for them.
Dr. Schell the elder was no longer capable of caring even for himself much of the time. The apoplexy that had struck him down so tragically had curtailed his vigorous movements and the sharp brilliance of his mind. He needed the Haven as much as the others did. It was Johanna's charge to keep the place functioning, its residents content.
And to heal them, if she could. The need to heal was an essential part of her nature, and it made the responsibility worthwhile.
The train left Napa City and passed several small villages, their tiny depots strung along the rail line and its parallel road like knots on a rope: Yountville and Oakville, Rutherford and St. Helena, Bale and Walnut Grove. Gradually the valley narrowed and the hills to either side grew higher, clothed now in brush and trees. The vineyards that were beginning to attract so much interest appeared more frequently, each gnarled grapevine was thick with green leaves and hung with ripening clusters of fruit.
The grapes were very much like people, Johanna thought. Each variety took its own time in ripening, and had to be coaxed along by the vintner. Some were simply more fragile than others.
She blinked at her romantic turn of mind. Quite impractical, such thoughts. But they kept her from thinking about last night, or Peter's ultimate fate, or how well Papa and the others had gotten along without her. If not for the chance to hear an eminent neurologist lecture in San Francisco, she could not have brought herself to leave. But Mrs. Daugherty could be relied upon to look after the Haven for a day or two. Of all the people in the town of Silverado Springs, she was least bothered by the "loonies" who lived with the crazy woman doctor. And she needed the money.
Money. Johanna clasped her hands in her lap. That, too, was never far from her thoughts. When she'd brought her father and the others to California, her uncle's inheritance had been a godsend. Upon his death, Rutger Schell had left his brother the greater portion of his unsold vineyards at the head of the valley, a sizeable house, a fruit orchard, and several acres of wooded hillside. It had seemed sufficient to keep them all comfortable for many years.
But Johanna had miscalculated. Without families paying for the support of patients, without her father's practice, the money went too quickly. First she had sold the outlying vineyards, then the ones closer to the house. Now only the orchard, two acres of vines, and the woods remained. She had little else to sell. They grew much of their own food, but some they had to buy. And there were other necessities.
She smoothed her worn skirts and rejected the self-pity of a sigh. She would simply have to find a solution to the money problem… or trust that one would appear in time, as Uncle Rutger's inheritance had come so providentially just after Papa's attack.
Finding the landscape an inadequate distractio
n, Johanna removed one of the European journals from her valise, unfolded her spectacles, and began to read. Charles Richet's work—quite fascinating, though she could see he was missing the profound healing potential in the new science of hypnosis…
A light touch on her shoulder woke her from her trance.
"Silverado Springs, ma'am," the conductor said, tipping his hat. "Last stop."
"Of course. Thank you." Johanna smiled and tucked the book back in her valise. She was the last passenger to leave the train. No one had evinced much interest in a plain, spinsterish woman* absorbed in a massive volume, and that suited her very well.
Of course, the people in Silverado Springs itself knew somewhat more of her. Like all small towns, even one prone to the visits of the more worldly health-seeking patients from San Francisco, residents of the Springs made it their business to know the habits of everyone in the vicinity. A woman doctor was certainly a novelty wherever she went.
"That hen medic," was the worst she'd been called—within her hearing. As she descended the steps from the platform and entered Washington Street, the central avenue in Silverado Springs, she could feel the stares of the idlers hanging about Piccini & Son's general store and Taylor's livery stable.
There was scant harm in them. She had encountered much worse in medical school, both in Pennsylvania and in Europe. She had long ago dismissed any doubt that she should not be a physician merely because of her sex… let others think what they might. Her father's opinion alone was the one that mattered.
Had mattered.
She adjusted her grip on the valise, passing a family of well-dressed tourists in town to take the waters. Though Silverado Springs was past its prime as a resort, it still had its share of summer visitors, who set up temporary living quarters at the Silverado Springs Hotel. There they could enjoy the warm weather, bathe in mineral springs, and gaze up at the great, bald-topped bulk of Mount St. Helena looming to the east.
She strode north among the neat frame houses of the town's residential section. It was a brisk four-mile walk to Der Haven, one Johanna was well accustomed to. She made her way back to the main, unpaved road, which ended just a little north of Silverado Springs, then continued crosscountry along a wagon path that pointed the way to the small farms clustered where the hills came together to close off the valley.
The Haven was one of the most isolated houses. It was that isolation that made Johanna feel her patients were safe from the prying eyes of the townsfolk.
The very potent sunshine on this particularly warm day in July almost tempted Johanna to remove the pins from her hair and let it fall. No one was liable to see her. But she resisted the impulse and increased her pace.
Surely Papa would be fine. She'd be glad to see him, nonetheless, glad to be back in charge and with everything under her personal guidance. Irene had been on good behavior two days ago; she hadn't made May cry in a week.
Lewis, the former Reverend Andersen, was in the midst of one of his low periods, not likely to disrupt the household with his talk of sin and his devotion to excessive cleanliness. Oscar was seldom any trouble. And Harper was… Harper, silent and unresponsive as usual. She wasn't about to give up on him.
On any of them.
The toe of her scuffed boot connected with something long and solid lying in the grass. She caught her balance and looked down.
A man lay there, sprawled insensibly on his stomach, most of his body hidden by the tawny grass. It was his shoulder she'd kicked, but he wasn't apt to have felt it. His face was turned away, but she knew he was unconscious.
She knelt beside him and felt for his pulse. It was thready, but regular. The man himself had a lean, tall build and reddish-brown hair. His clothing was that of a gentleman and had seen hard wear; it was dirty and torn. It also stank of alcohol.
Another inebriate. She'd had her fill of that last night. Compressing her lips into a firm line, she carefully rolled the man over.
The first thing that struck her was his handsomeness. His face was the very epitome of an aristocrat's: clean, strong but finely drawn, as if designed by a sculptor bent on depicting the ideal male. His long-fingered hands were tanned from the sun. His lips had a mobile look, even in stillness; his eyelashes were long, his brows slightly darker than his hair, lending strength of character to his features.
Strength he clearly didn't possess, if he'd gotten drunk enough to be lying here. She didn't recognize him from any of the nearby farms or from town.
A stranger. A vagrant. A drunkard somewhat less brutish than the one in Vallejo. Someone who might possibly require her help.
If he'd accept it. And while he remained unconscious, she had no way of transporting him to the Haven. She'd have to get home and harness Daisy to the buggy. If she were very fortunate, he might come to his senses and be gone before she returned.
Just as she was getting to her feet, he opened his eyes.
They were the color of cinnamon, a light reddish-brown to match his hair. They seemed to stare at nothing. His breath caught and shuddered, as if he'd forgotten how to breathe.
"Are you all right?" she asked. "Can you hear me?"
His body jerked, and he lifted his head with obvious effort. She could see his eyes focus on her, the blurred confusion gradually replaced by stunning clarity.
For an instant she thought she knew those eyes. Then the moment of familiarity passed, and he spoke.
"You…" he croaked. "You're… in danger."
It wasn't in Johanna's nature to laugh in such circumstances. She crouched beside him. "I?"
"Evil," he said. His eyes began to unfocus again. "Evil—you must… be careful—"
She touched his forehead. It was damp with sweat, warm but not feverish. If he were experiencing delirium tremens, his symptoms ought to be more extreme. His speech would imply some sort of hallucination…
He grabbed her wrist. His grip was paralyzing in its strength. "Listen—" he said. His eyes widened in terror, and abruptly his fingers loosened, freeing her hand and leaving it numb. She shook it several times, concentrating on bringing her own pulse back to a normal speed. Her brief fear was totally without justification; he was in no state to be a danger to anyone.
A quick evaluation of his condition indicated that he was unconscious once again. With a renewed sense of urgency, Johanna made him as comfortable as possible. She had nothing to put over him but the short mantle she'd taken with her to San Francisco. It barely covered his shoulders.
"I will come back for you," she said, knowing he couldn't hear. "It won't be long."
She strode the remaining mile to the Haven in record time. When the whitewashed fence that ran along the perimeter of the orchard came into view, she released the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. The branches of the trees, like the grapevines in their neat rows, were hung with ripening fruit, but she had little thought to spare for their bounty.
The Haven was a large, rambling one-story house, constructed of wood and stone with a broad porch bordering three sides. It looked exactly like the refuge she called it, friendly and inviting and lived-in. She half-expected several of the "family" to be waiting on the porch to greet her. But it was Oscar alone who rose from his seat on the stone steps, waving his big hand and grinning from ear to ear.
"Doc Jo!" he said, lumbering toward her. "You're back!"
She noticed at once that the young man's shirt was misbuttoned, and he'd forgotten to wear his braces, so that his trousers fell loosely about his hips. Otherwise he clearly hadn't suffered in her absence.
"Good day, Oscar," she said, taking his outstretched hand. "How is everyone?"
"Good," he said, nodding vigorously. "Only we missed you."
"As I missed you."
"What was the city like? Were there lots and lots of people?"
"A great many, Oscar. But I can't tell you all about it now. First I need your help."
Immediately his guileless face grew wide-eyed and solemn. "I'll help you, Doc. Just tell
me what you want me to do."
She patted his arm. "We must go and rescue someone who is ill. I'll need your strength to lift him."
He puffed out his broad chest. "I can do it."
"I know you can. I'm going to harness Daisy to the buggy, and then we'll be on our way. Could you take my valise inside, and tell the others we'll be back shortly?"
Oscar took the valise, lifting it as if it were filled with nothing but air, and trotted back to the house. Johanna crossed the yard to the small pasture just beyond the barn and fetched placid, reliable old Daisy, who tossed her head in greeting and allowed herself to be harnessed without a single mild protest.
If only human beings were so cooperative.
Oscar was waiting for her by the gate, nearly bouncing in his eagerness. He handed her up into the driver's seat and plopped down beside her, jostling the carriage with his weight. Johanna urged Daisy into her fastest pace.
The man was still lying where she'd left him, but his condition was considerably worse. Instead of resting quietly, his lean body was shaking with unmistakable tremors. He'd flung her mantle off into the grass.
Delirium tremens. She had no doubt of it now. He could become very dangerous if he began to hallucinate again. She was profoundly grateful for Oscar's dependable strength.
"This man is very sick," she told him. "We have to take him to the Haven to get well."
Oscar wrinkled his nose. "He stinks!"
"Yes. We'll have to clean him up later." She knelt beside the stranger and took his pulse again. It was racing. He might come out of unconsciousness at any time.
Her hand brushed a bulge beneath his coat, and she felt underneath. A heavy leather pouch hung from a strap over his shoulder. She opened the flap at the top. The purse was bursting with coins, both gold and silver, and a tightly rolled wad of bills. A great deal of money indeed, especially for a man who should have been robbed long since.
She closed his coat. "We'll put him in the back of the buggy," she said to Oscar. "Can you lift him gently, by the shoulders, while I take his feet?"
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