by Lara Parker
He walked to his cabinet and perused the long row of handmade suits and overcoats, all of expensive woolens, exquisitely tailored and flawlessly brushed. They were evidence of his impeccable taste, but they now seemed merely excessive. He grimaced when he noticed the suit he had worn on the night of his transformation ripped and stained with blood, and thrust into the back of the closet. He must find a way to burn it at the first opportunity.
He paused before selecting his day’s attire, a gray flannel with a wine-colored cravat and emerald tie; but as he reached for a matching pocket handkerchief, his hand closed instead around a red box he kept in the top drawer with his cuff links and cummerbunds. His arms weakened as he carried the box to the bed and opened the lid.
Inside were all Elizabeth’s clippings and photographs, saved and secreted away for years. Her lovely face stared up at him, her soft eyes and full lips, her blond ingénue charm, her sultry glamour. Long ago, he had taken scissors and carefully cut away her costars, lovers, and husbands, and left only her gorgeous image intact. He had even excised himself standing by her side at the hospital. Gone was her notorious matinee idol father, Jamison Collins, and actors she had worked with: John Evermore, Fredrick Simmons, and Mason Clark. Gone was Paul Stoddard, her third husband and his would-be assassin, the man who had insisted she dye her golden hair black and change her image from ingénue to siren. Gone were all her directors, George Cukor, Max Ophuls and Fritz Lang.
And there were the many publicity shots of Liz at various premieres, at the Academy Awards, Liz at home in Beverly Hills seated on a long white couch and smoking a cigarette, Liz at the races in a flowered hat, Liz at a club in Manhattan wearing a halter gown that hugged her lovely breasts, Liz looking pert in Little Women, luscious in The Recklass Moment, seductive in Scarlet Street.
A parcel of tacks was also hidden in the box and carefully, methodically, he unfolded the photographs, smoothing the newsprint where it had curled, trying not to tear the fragile paper. Then, one by one he fastened the photos on the wall over his bed so that they would all look down on him. He lay down and let her beauty flood over him. He basked in her warm smile, her tender gaze, and her luminous eyes. Here she was the coquette, and there she was the vamp; here she smoldered with sexual longing, and there gazed at him as she had when they were making love. He ached for the woman she once was, gone now forever, as if she had died, and he closed his eyes as a piano and violin played somewhere far off, and the words of an old song came to him:
Shadows of the night falling silently
Echoes of the past calling you to me
Haunting memories veiled in misty glow,
Phantom melody, playing soft and low.
In this world we know now, life is here and gone
But somewhere in the afterglow love lives on and on.
Dreams of long ago meet in rendezvous
Shadows of the night calling me to you.
He buried his face in his hands and his body heaved with sobs. He was doomed. A life of desolation lay ahead. What was he to do? He could find it in his heart to welcome old age. For a brief period he would be with her in time. But the bestiality—how would he bear it? Dread washed over him, leaving him weak, and he drifted into nightmares flooded with guilt before he fell asleep and dreamed of Elizabeth, of his happiness with her, his promises to take her away and make her his wife.
There was a night when late, after midnight, he had found the keys to her car and driven it beneath her window. She was a vision when she came to the casement and looked down, the breeze fluttering her flimsy nightgown. She waved to him with delight, then ducked back into the room to dress. He remembered being on fire with the thought of her, of her gaiety and radiance, so young and reckless, and he wondered if she would let him make love to her that night. When he saw her climbing out the window, he watched as she fit her slipper into the crook of the vine. She wore a sheer slip of a dress and he could see the whole length of her legs as she descended clinging to the creeper, and dropped to the ground breathless, ran to the car, and in a rush she was in his arms, smelling of gardenias. What a baby she had been, and when he kissed her, his hand slid into her hair and he saw that she had chopped it all off! He slipped his fingers through the short waves and felt her tiny neck and then kissed her breasts through her shift while she nestled her body against his and purred like a kitten. He had loved her more than life itself.
* * *
Quentin woke at noon and decided to go to the Old House to search one more time for his portrait. He would look in every possible hiding place until he had convinced himself that it was no longer there. Choosing an impeccable black overcoat and scarf, he left by the kitchen door, and began his walk down the snowy road. The earth had disappeared, wrapped in a downy quilt, the bushes, steps, walls, fences all rounded mounds and thick white clumps. How black the trees were! They pierced the sky with lancelike branches. He noticed his shoes were pinching. The elongation of his toes had altered the fit. The air was cold and he buttoned his coat and pulled his scarf across his face. He caught a whiff of his sour breath. There was blood still beneath his fingernails, and his tongue probed the crevices of his mouth for remnants of flesh even though his rampage had been days ago. What had come to life in him that night? What vile hungers? Who would he murder next? Could he stop himself before he killed someone in the family, someone he loved?
As he trudged through the snow, a plan formed in his mind. He must return to the past. There was no other solution. That man Blair could conduct a séance and take him back in time, back to his days with Elizabeth, and he could slip from fate’s grasp. It was the only solution. What’s more, still alive at the time and living in the tower room at Collinwood was the painter, Charles Delaware Tate, an old man by then to be sure, but still alive, still capable of making another portrait, and another spell, if only he could convince him that he was worthy of such a gift.
First he intended to search the Old House alone. Toni had been no help. He had plied her with all her favorite drugs—speed, grass, LSD—and she had remembered nothing. Nothing! Exasperating woman!
Then he realized that he had neglected to question her daughter, that grim child with the spooky eyes—pale blue, almost white, colorless unless they turned silver in the moonlight. Why hadn’t he thought of her sooner? She had helped rebuild and restore the Old House. She might have taken the painting and secreted it away somewhere.
He approached the entrance beneath the giant columns and knocked on the door, feeling it vibrate in its frame. All was silence. He turned to look at the blurred line of trees beyond the white expanse, woods he had fled into that night maddened by rages he never knew he possessed.
He was startled to see a gray shadow, wolf shaped, moving in the whitened air. Was it a kindred soul come to claim him? A lethal silhouette weaving in and out of the trees, the creature stopped and its red eyes caught the light just as the wind lifted wisps of fresh snow into breathlike swirls. It was a coyote, probably hunting, starved in the time when its usual prey remained underground. The animal looked at him a long moment—almost with pity—before it turned and slunk away.
Becoming impatient, he pounded again, this time with more effort. When he received no reply, he tried the handle and found the door unlocked.
The house was silent and seemed to be sleeping, as though it were night inside. He wandered through the empty rooms, past the cold fireplace, ashes sprinkled on the hearth. Even candles that were sometimes lit were burned to stubs, and the chairs and tables were dusty and abandoned. The heaviness that held the house in its grip crept into his breast.
He decided to search on his own, every closet and storage area. Perhaps she had overlooked a place where the painting could be hidden. He began in the kitchen, opened every cabinet, looked under the sink, even, ridiculously, the oven and the refrigerator, but except for a dearth of edible goods, they revealed nothing. Furiously, he tore though the pantry and the broom closet, checked under the fold-out ironing board and t
he closet in the entrance hall, uncovering old magazines, piles of coats, suitcases, and books.
After climbing the stair, he found the door to Antoinette’s room ajar. She was sleeping, and he left her there, venturing further, through deserted rooms still unfurnished. He remembered that the house had been restored after the fire and Antoinette had not yet renovated all the suites. To his surprise he discovered one room that seemed to belong to the young girl where piles of drawings and oil paintings lined the walls, and his hopes bloomed. But after shuffling through the canvases he became despondent once again. They were all of David, or Antoinette, and even a few of Barnabas. The girl was talented; she had a remarkable gift. But his portrait was not among them.
After searching thoroughly, every dark corner and closet, even the cabinets in the bathrooms, he returned to Antoinette’s bedroom. He found her still sleeping, her breathing noisy, her hair tumbled across the pillow. He searched her closet and laundry basket, inhaling a musty odor from her unlaundered garments; then he stood by the bed and looked at her, wondering whether to wake her, and he was shocked to see her sunken cheeks and swollen eyelids. She was deathly pale. Was she ill? He reached for her shoulder and she groaned and turned to her side, then fell back into a deep sleep.
On a whim he lifted the quilt and, after taking off his shoes and jacket, lay down beside her. Slowly he took her in his arms. Her familiar warmth, her ferny odor reassured him. He had missed her affections, even though he had not valued them, and now he looked forward to her delight when she woke and saw him, her eagerness to engage him in conversation or love, her wit and her silliness. He had been wrong not to appreciate her. Perhaps he could make it up to her.
Gently he caressed her. Her breast fit his hand; her stomach was supple. He wanted to rouse her. How could she be sleeping so soundly in the middle of the day?
Quickly, he rose again and removed his clothes. Then he lay down next her as quietly as possible and with great delicacy moved closer until their bodies were touching. She moaned and came into his arms.
Her warmth bestowed profound relief. Gone for the moment were all his miseries, and his fears slipped into oblivion. Turning her head, he brushed her mouth with his; he wove his fingers into her hair, and brought his face into the curve of her neck. The skin of her shoulder was moist beneath his cheek. He breathed in her fragrance and slid his hands down under her arms, then traced the curve of her hip. His lips moved into the dimple of her throat. He sighed, languid and peaceful, as though he were sailing on a calm sea, with very little wind in the sails. He nudged her knees and drew her to him. He was a man who loved women. A woman completed him. Wretched when alone, restless and without purpose, always he searched for that one—for Elizabeth—but never finding his beloved, instead he had devoted himself to the art of seduction. Each was unique, each a new challenge, each surrender a sweet conquest.
His caresses finally woke her completely, and she withdrew a little at the sounds he made, feral growls and gasps. He knew he gave off a foul odor. She tried to pull away but he held her fast, his weight pressing her down until she relaxed beneath him and her flesh felt strangely cold. He imagined he was out in the snow again, thick masses all around, and he was plowing through the drifts, struggling to reach the top of the hill where he could see the sky. She tossed her head to the side and he lifted up to look at her.
He recoiled in shock! Oh, God! How could he have missed it? Two red and swollen puncture wounds throbbed above her jugular. And they had been there all along, beneath his lips. He smothered a sudden urge to scream as his brain was pitted by a horrible thought. She was whore to the vampire, and he had just—
She opened her eyes and looked up at him.
“Quentin…”
In a rush all his terrors returned tenfold, flooding his body with rage. He rose and backed away from her, reeling, and tugged on his clothes. The room was spinning as she sat up and pulled the sheets about her, her face a grimace of remorse.
“Quentin, what are you doing here?” But she was turning in a gyre. He could barely stand to look at her. Her features were flashing and disappearing.
“Toni … why?”
“Oh, Quentin, it’s not my fault. Please don’t hate me. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want you to know. But now that you see what has happened, I’m so glad you have come. I need you to—please, please help me. You can save me. Take me away from all this—”
“No. No, not now!” Suddenly he was so infuriated by his existence he wondered if he would go out of his mind.
“Quentin, I love you. Don’t leave me here with him.” But he ran from her pleading eyes, dashed for the stair, almost tripped on the landing, and he was just grabbing for the front portal when he remembered he had not looked in the cellar, the one place where the painting had been hidden before it disappeared. He longed to flee, but he knew he might not have a chance to return again anytime soon.
Tears stinging his eyes, he hesitated before descending the stair to the basement, but then proceeded on the creaking treads, his hand against the stone wall to keep his balance, his mouth soured in disgust. Hurriedly, he scanned the area, wanting only to escape this wretched place. The gloomy space was dusty and cobwebs hung from the rafters, but like all the other rooms, it was empty of anything other than a few chairs, discarded lumber, and canvas cloths. There was a pile of paint cans in the corner and Quentin remembered once again that the house had been restored, rebuilt after the fire. Nothing would be stored down here; it was all too new.
Then he was startled by something beside the back wall in the shadows. It was a casket gleaming in dusty rays of sunlight streaming through a small window.
Quentin sucked in his breath. Was this the coffin where the vampire slept? Vulnerable during the daylight hours and helpless if he were to be exposed to sunlight? He drew nearer, curious to see his rival, the creature who had ruined Antoinette. Looking around for some weapon, he saw nothing he could use, but agitation roused in him a sudden willfulness. He approached the coffin and placed his hands on the edge of the lid. He was forcing it up when a blast of cold air came through the basement window and he felt a tingle at the back of his neck. Something was standing behind him in the dark beside the stair, a figure hovering like a ghost floating in the gloom.
He whirled, feeling a guilty trespasser, and tried to make out whom it could be. His heart thudded. He blinked at the shadows in the room, and, yes, there was a figure standing there—silent and unmoving.
Finally he found his voice. “Who is that?”
The shape came forward. “It’s me.”
“Who?”
“Jacqueline.”
His body relaxed. “Oh, of course, I’m so sorry. I— I couldn’t see you there.” She came a little into the light, and he could see she was wearing jeans and a heavy sweater. Her hair was tied behind her back, and her eyes were shining as if they were the only brightness in the room. Something about her—or perhaps it was the cold—made him shiver.
“Have you been visiting my mother?” she asked.
“Yes, well … yes. She is … she is sleeping.” What, if anything, did this young girl know?
“She sleeps all the time now that he is here.”
“Who?”
She didn’t answer but only stared at him, her pale eyes accusing him. He was shivering and uncomfortable and said, “Sorry, I was just leaving,” as he walked past her.
Then she said, “Have you found the painting?” Startled, he looked back.
“No,” he said shaking his head. “Do you know anything about it? I mean, by any chance, have you any idea … have you seen it?”
“I have seen it,” she said, and he caught his breath.
“You have?”
“But only in my mind. It’s hidden in a dark place, a room with a dirt floor, a vault, or a cave.”
What did she mean? Was she insane? He was exasperated. Was this her way of teasing him or making him suffer for dallying with her mother? He walked over to her and too
k hold of her arms. He was surprised at how thin she was and he realized she was little more than a child. He shook her anyway.
“Don’t play games with me,” he said, his voice close to a snarl. “If you know where it is, get it for me. I must have it. Do you understand?”
She tensed in his grip but stared up at him her, her expression impassive. “David and I have been searching. He’s sure we’ll be able to find it.”
“How? What makes you think so? Just tell me where it is. What’s become of it?”
“We’ll use some magic. You’ll see.”
Quentin felt ready to explode. His fate lay in the hands of a child. Suddenly he remembered she was mentally ill and could be no help to him at all. He stared at her a moment in vexation, then let her go and strode up the stair and slammed the door behind him.
Nine
It had stopped snowing at last, and all the lawns were sparkling with the reflected light of the sun. Everything familiar took on a new character, draped or turreted with a thick soft layer of white. As they slogged through the snow, David hoped he had finally found a way to connect with Jackie. She had not wanted to talk to him, and it had been difficult to persuade her to come today, but on the way over to the Old House he had seen something he thought she might like.
She had not spoken a word since they left, but only walked alongside him, her hands plunged in the pockets of her coat, her head bowed and her dark curls falling over her cheeks. She was wearing boots but her knees were bare, as if she had a skirt on underneath her jacket. He thought she must be cold, not dressed for the snow.
Then she surprised him by saying softly, “Are we going to look for the painting?”
Hanging his arm across her shoulders he said, “Yes. But first there’s something I want to show you. And only you. Something as magical as you are.”
She looked up in surprise. “What is it?”