by Lara Parker
Jackie gasped, “Oh, no, it’s too dangerous.”
“Are you kidding? It’s just a wild animal. Although it’s a pretty big one.” She grinned and grabbed Jackie’s hand. “Come on. We’ll get Uncle Roger’s gun. The one he keeps in the secretary. I know where he hides the key.”
There was an air of recklessness in Carolyn that reminded Jackie of Liz, Carolyn’s mother, at the same age. She remembered Liz clinging to the running board of the car, the gun raised to her shoulder. Carolyn’s slender body was afire with the same energy, and her face beneath her golden hair was flushed with excitement.
As Jackie raced behind her into the drawing room, her mind whirled in panic. The werewolf was Quentin. They couldn’t kill him. Somehow she had to stop it. But how?
* * *
David bolted out of Rose Cottage and soon the snow-covered earth was flying beneath his feet. His shoes crunched through the crust and his chest ached from breathing the frozen air. His body was sluggish from the drugs, and the path was farther from the house than he remembered, too far for his screams to have been heard. His thoughts were spinning. He had been in Rose Cottage! He remembered now, Elizabeth had offered Dr. Blair Rose Cottage for his laboratory. Damn Aunt Elizabeth! That guy was a maniac.
Far off the howls of the werewolf echoed across the snow, and running, his throat raw, the cut on his chest oozing blood, David kept his hand on his heart—not too bad, only a surface wound, and Jackie would heal it with her tears, if only— Oh, God, he must hurry! Ahead Collinwood rose against the dark sky, its turrets, chimneys, long slate roof, and arched windows all painted in silver. He stopped a moment and turned back to see the source of the light.
And there she was! Artemis, goddess of the moon, driving her chariot across the sky. David could feel her breathing down on him. The wolf howled again, closer now, a sound so high-pitched it ripped his nerve endings. Had something caught it to make it scream in such agony? David ran, stumbled, his breath a hoarse wheeze. Up ahead was the Great House, for over a century the refuge of secrets. He could see the tower where he had slept ever since he was a boy—the same tower where he had found the painting—and the windows where he had looked out at the sea. The stone walls were as impenetrable as a medieval castle’s. There his family had lived out their lives haunted by memories of unthinkable deeds. This was all to be his: this land, this mansion, the Collins name, and an inheritance of denial and shame.
As he ran he thought of what an odd childhood he had known after his mother’s death, so many hours alone, wandering through closed-off deserted rooms, encountering melancholy ghosts, stealing into secret passages, and one, just one, that must still be intact—in the library—tucked behind the dusty books never read. If it were still there, he promised himself he would read them all.
How close he had been to death! Barnabas had appeared out of nowhere, the vampire he had thought was his rival had come to save him, unlocked his shackles, and given him his blessing—laid no claim on Jackie, none whatever.
“Do you really love her?” he had asked.
“Yes,” David had answered, “more than all the world.”
“Then you must go to her. You must not let anything stand in your way.” No, nothing, unless— The mournful howl sounded farther away, as if from across the sea, but David thought it was from the Old House, and if she were there—his body spasmed with shudders—he imagined Perseus riding the waves to free Andromeda, the Gorgon’s head beneath his arm, his sword ready to slay the sea dragon who had chained the maiden to the rocks. The waves buffeting her body, the monster’s huge jaws—
The wolf howled again as though it would tear the moon out of the sky, an echo reverberating, and then another, and David thought he saw the creature gamboling through the snow, a rude beast hunched over and huge, lifting its snout to sniff the air, its eyes glinting. He looked back over his shoulder certain he heard footsteps not his own and then he reached the pavers silvered in the blue light, the tiles of the portico, the kitchen door, and grasped the handle—only to find it locked!
Backing up he looked to the window and called out. “Help! Somebody help! Open the door!” There was no answer, only the wind sighing in the trees like a giant’s breathing.
Desperately he ran to the kitchen door and rattled the lock. “Carolyn! Aunt Elizabeth? Somebody?” He sped around the house and across the flagstones of the terrace. All the doors were bolted and the curtains closed. There was barely a glimpse of light from within. He rapped on the glass and cried out again, with no response. He was growing hysterical, banging harder. “Father? Carolyn? Hurry. Please. Somebody!” Then he was certain he heard the beast—a rumbling growl—on the ballroom side of the house where there were so many windows.
Looking up, David could see, three stories above his head, his own room in the tower. The vines snaked up the stones all the way to his window, which was always left open. He was fond of the sea air and couldn’t sleep without its caress on his face. He backed up to gauge the distance. He had shinnied up those vines many times when he was a boy, and they still looked strong enough. In the glare of the moon, he could easily see his old handholds. Grasping one of the thickest branches and hoisting himself up, he began to climb.
The vines were old and some branches were brittle and decayed; others were broken and stabbed his hands. He struggled to find a foothold, slipped, and caught himself swaying. When he was looking down at the flagged porch along the terrace and the wide expanse of snow-covered lawn that fell to the sea, he saw—there! Moving close to the ballroom windows was the werewolf’s dark shadow.
* * *
“Listen,” Carolyn whispered when they heard knocking. “It’s beating on the doors. And its cry—it sounds almost human.”
Jackie stared at the gun Carolyn had retrieved from the secretary along with a box of bullets. She recognized the revolver. It was the same cowboy pistol Liz had called her “trusty six-shooter,” the one she had fired at the Mafia crooks disguised as cops. Jackie remembered the Old West design, the ivory handle, and the engraving on the long barrel. Again she thought of Liz’s incredible courage when they drove off in the Duesenberg, of Liz perched on the running board of the car, the pistol cocked and aimed.
She looked at Carolyn warily. “You don’t know how to fire that, do you?”
“Sure I do. Uncle Roger gave me a lesson a couple of years ago. After a lot of nagging. It’s a Colt 45 revolver. It’s easy. See the cylinder?” Carolyn pressed her thumb on the latch, and the chamber fell open. “It’s an heirloom—belonged to my great-grandfather.”
“If it’s so old, it probably won’t work.”
“Oh, Uncle Roger keeps it cleaned and oiled. It’s one of his treasures.”
“Listen, Carolyn, you shouldn’t try to shoot the wolf. It’s too dangerous. What if he attacks us?” She paused. “As soon as the moon goes down it’ll leave.”
“The moon? What the hell are you talking about?” Carolyn spun the chamber and smiled. “You know, Jackie, you should think about getting a new coat. That one looks, uh … very much loved.” Hurrying, she tried opening the box of bullets, but the paper lid was stuck.
“Here, let me help,” said Jackie, and she grabbed the box and spilled the bullets on the floor.
“Hey! What are you doing? Are you crazy?”
“I— I don’t want you to fire that gun.”
Carolyn was on the floor scooping up the bullets. “Well, sorry, but I’m going to.”
Desperate, Jackie reached for the gun and had her hand on the barrel when Carolyn snatched it away. “Don’t do that!” She got to her feet and backed up. “Wow, I knew there was something funny about you. David said so, but I didn’t believe him.”
“Carolyn, stop, there’s something you should know. The wolf is not what you think. It’s … it’s magical, it’s enchanted…”
“Yeah, and wouldn’t it be great if we killed it?” She slipped the bullets one by one into the chamber. “The police are idiots. They haven’
t been able to track it down. Imagine. The Collinses do something right for a change.” She snapped the cylinder into place and tested the hammer. “I’m going around to the kitchen where I can watch for it in the dark, and open the window above the sink just a crack.” She stopped and looked at Jackie. “You coming?”
A shadow passed by the window outside the curtains.
“Look!” Carolyn shrieked. “Oh, God. There it is, Jackie. It’s huge. It’s circling the house. I think it wants to get in. Let’s get out of here!”
“Carolyn, wait!” Jackie’s mind was a blur. Was there some way she could keep the gun from firing? And if the wolf did get in, could she control it? She didn’t think so. None of her spells would work now. Her heart pounding, she followed Carolyn toward the kitchen, but then there was a crash and the splintering of glass and wood—sounds from the other side of the house.
“Oh, God! It’s broken in!” Carolyn cried. “It’s in the ballroom.” They could hear the beast snuffling, and when they crept back into the foyer they saw the shadow moving in the space beneath the double doors and heard the claws scratching at the panels. Then the wolf threw its bulk against the frame, and the door shuddered on its hinges.
“Quick! We can hide in there,” Carolyn whispered, backing into the drawing room. “Get behind the couch.” The girls crept across the carpet and crouched behind the sofa, afraid to breathe, waiting, listening. Carolyn pulled back on the hammer and aimed, the gun resting on the wooden frame, but the ballroom was quiet again.
“Where’d it go?”
“Maybe it took off,” Jackie said as relief poured through her.
* * *
David flew down the stair and into the back corridor smelling Collinwood’s familiar odor of dust and old rugs and heavy draperies, and many fires in the fireplaces, as though for the first time. The library was shadowed, the spines of the books gleamed in moondust that poured through the leaded window where shards of glass formed a lethal ring of daggers.
David lunged for the bookcase, and his hands slid frantically over the books—where was it? The Inferno—he could not see it in the dim light.
He reached for the lamp and clicked it on, but at the same moment there was a thumping outside, and his heart jumped against his ribs. The window was shadowed with something huge that hovered there, the moon was blotted out, and then he saw the wolf’s huge head encircled by the glass sunburst.
David drew back against the shelves, reaching behind him for the book that sprung the latch, remembering that it stood next to one large black tome on the shelf—the Holy Bible—and his hand found the wide spine with the embossed letters, and then, beside it, the small red volume. He pushed and pushed again, and then he heard the creak of the secret hinge. The dark opening gaped, and a wave of cold air floated into the room with odors of earth and decay. Then David heard gunshots coming from the drawing room.
* * *
As they were about to creep from their hiding place, the girls heard a crashing sound, and the door rebounded with the weight of the wolf’s charge. The wooden portal burst from its hinges and collapsed on the marble floor. Sparks flying from its fur, the werewolf sprang into the foyer and landed on four feet, its crimson eyes searching the dark. The odor of rotting meat rose from its coat, its breath was like smoke, and it rumbled like thunder inside a volcano.
Carolyn fired. At the sound of the explosion the wolf rose up and moved its shaggy head from side to side, then fell back on all fours and pawed the floor before it slowly slung its shoulders toward the drawing room. She fired again. And again. The blast of the gunshots shattered the air. The werewolf crashed into a small round table and crouched on the carpet. “What’s wrong?” she whispered to Jackie. “I hit it. I know I did. Why does it keep coming?” Again she pulled back the hammer, aimed, and fired.
With an enraged snarl, the werewolf heaved its bulk over the sofa, and the pistol went flying. The animal landed beside Carolyn, who screamed and rolled into a ball, her hands protecting her head, as the beast leaned over her, its huge paws on either side of her body, its gums curled back, its teeth exposed,
Jackie cried out, “Quentin! Stop! Don’t hurt her!” but the frenzied creature lowered its head and Carolyn moaned, tried to rise up, then fainted dead away, her yellow hair spread across the floor, her face serene beneath the slathering jaws.
Jackie clawed for the gun, her hand closed around the barrel, and, with only a faint idea of how to fire it, she pulled back the hammer and pointed it at the wolf. The gun was heavy and she was shaking so much she couldn’t aim, but she had a vague idea of frightening the werewolf if she fired over its head. Then she remembered—silver bullets, she would need silver bullets—just as she pulled the trigger.
The blast shattered the globe of the lamp, and the room went dark, but the beast rose up, whirled in the direction of the shot, and was upon her. She screamed as it pawed her, rolling her over like fresh kill and nosing her body with its snout. Her ears filled with its growls until her head felt thick with fear, and she felt the jaws pinch her shoulder. The werewolf pulled her out from behind the couch and into the center of the room. She could feel hot breath on her face and then a rasping tongue. Sharp teeth pierced her arm and fear darkened her mind.
Her body felt empty, like an abandoned shell. She had given up the power she had once had to protect herself. She had driven it out, and now she was helpless. But was she? A primal fury still lurked within her. The creature paused, glared down at her, and stood panting, its hot breath on her face, one clawed paw still on her shoulder. Then her anger ignited and she screamed. To her surprise, the two huge silver candelabras on the mantel above their heads shuddered, then swayed, tumbled through the air, and came crashing down upon the wolf man’s skull.
For a moment the werewolf seemed disoriented, swinging its massive head back and forth as though it had lost the scent, growling but not attacking, its bulk heaving.
“Quentin!” David’s voice cracked in the air. The werewolf lifted its head and Jackie saw David standing in the doorway to the library. His body was silhouetted by the moonlight behind him and his face was flushed with determination. Jackie collapsed inside and sobbed with relief, “David!” as she tried to squirm away, but the stunned beast still held her captive with its huge paw. Then David was running to her and grabbing her under her arms, dragging her from under the monster’s jaws and she struggled to her feet.
A dazed Carolyn crawled from behind the couch. “Run,” David cried. “Into the library! Hide! In the secret corridor!”
The three ducked inside the library door, and she looked back and saw the animal sniff the air. Had she done that? Had she flung the candelabras? Then, a rumbling sound emanating from its chest, it slung its weight around to follow them. Its eyes were crimson and its tongue lolled from its jaws. Across the room, a sunburst held the moon’s leering face within a halo of splintered shards, and on the other side of the table, in the wall of books, Jackie could just make out a dark crevice. She followed David blindly, running, her nails digging into his palm, Carolyn at her heels.
“Hurry,” she whispered. “It’s coming.” And they slipped through the opening in the wall.
David had a flashlight, but its beam was dim.
* * *
Slowly their eyes became accustomed to the darkness. David floated the ray of light around the narrow corridor, and it picked out the stone walls of Collinwood’s foundation and the huge floor joists overhead laden with rotting insulation. The floor was littered with debris, broken glass, and splintered wood. A large rat slithered close to the wall, scampering away from them.
“It’s here,” David said breathlessly. “It’s got to be here. I left it here in the Twenties, behind all the whiskey bottles.”
“What’s here?” said Jackie.
“The painting.”
“Can the wolf get in here?” Carolyn said, shaking violently.
“I hope the tunnel is too narrow,” David answered. They heard the animal
snorting in the library, and books clattering off the shelves.
“There’s no whiskey here now,” said Jackie. “Only broken bottles. I can feel them under my feet.”
“Where are we?” Carolyn asked.
David pulled them along. “It’s a secret corridor, hidden behind the bookcase, used for storing contraband, or even treasure.”
“Something more than that,” said Jackie when her foot bumped up against a hard mass and she almost tumbled over it. David lowered the light and the three shrank back, gasping. It was a corpse, long decayed, its skeletal head staring up at them out of hollow eye sockets and its teeth grinning.
Then Carolyn screamed again. “It’s coming!” The werewolf had found the opening in the bookcase and broken in; its body blotted out the moonlight as it squeezed into the narrow space. Jackie felt David’s hand grab hers as growls rumbled through the corridor. Tendrils of fear slithered through her body, and her heart beat so loudly it seemed to come from inside her ears.
They took off running, bashing against the walls. “Wait,” David cried. “We have to feel around for the painting.”
“It’s not here,” Jackie said. “It was too long ago. It’s gone.”
“We can’t keep going. We’ll be trapped here with no way out,” cried Carolyn.
“But we can’t go back!” David said. “It’s like a cave under the house. It must open to the outside somewhere.” Behind them, they could hear the werewolf’s ragged breathing. David shook the flashlight but it flickered, then died.
The darkness deepened, smelling of decay, thick and overly moist, like the inside of a culvert, and Jackie thrust her hands out in front of her, thinking at any second she would touch something dead, or worse, reach the end of the corridor with no way to escape. Their shoes made slopping sounds as if they were trudging through mud, the air grew stale, and their breathing became more labored.