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Thorns Along The Way
By Kay Kelly
Rating: M | Status:
Complete | Genre: Drama | Series: None
Summary: Original Series Novella. In 1960, a dream comes true for
Quentin... but it soon turns into
a nightmare.
Warning: Contains graphic content for mature readers
only. Do not read if you are under 16 years of age.
Go to: Part 1
| Part 2 | Part
3
Part 2
He stood transfixed.
The only movement in the studio was the devil-dance of the flames, the
only sound their crackling laughter. They pounced on the portrait,
licked lustfully at the blackening burlap.
He fought a wild impulse to plunge into the fire and retrieve it. Amanda.
Think of Amanda.
Another thought intruded. Tate. Rhymes with "hate."
Tate and Jared were gazing spellbound into the flames. I can jump him
now, catch him off guard and grab Amanda's portrait. Get out the door
and away before anything happens to me, deny him the pleasure of seeing
it.
He half turned toward Tate, rose on the balls of his feet.
And searing, slashing pain tore across his left cheek.
He screamed, less from the severity of the wound than from its shocking
suddenness. Forgetting Tate, he sank to his knees, clutching his face.
Something was happening to his cheek. He felt not only pain, but a
pulling sensation that was drawing his lower eyelid down, the corner of
his mouth out and up... He moaned in horror.
Stabbing pain in his right eye, water streaming from it... Every joint
in his body seemed suddenly aflame, and he gasped as a knife-sharp pain
in his back bent him double. The werewolf transformation? No, it was
never like this.
He gagged on loose objects that had somehow gotten into his mouth. Spat
them out, and realized they were teeth.
His hands pained him, and what blurry vision he still had--in the left
eye--told him arthritis had twisted them into claws. Claws spotted with
age... He stifled a whimper.
His coat was unbearably heavy, weighing down his frail, pain-wracked
body. He wanted desperately to struggle out of it, but knew he could
not. His breath came in ragged gasps, his heart threatened to burst from
his chest...
A booted foot crashed into his ribs.
The kick sent him sprawling. An explosion of pain took his breath away,
and for a few seconds everything went black.
Then he found himself lying on his face, in a paroxysm of coughing.
Coughing up blood, he could taste it. Spitting out more teeth.
"Perfect! Can you hear me, Quentin?" Hands gripped him
roughly, yanked him up to his knees again. "Look at me when I speak
to you!" He felt bones crack, and a spreading wetness in his crotch
told him he had lost control of his bladder.
Tate laughed.
"Yes, from the look on your face, you know what's happening."
His tormentor shook him--hard--and then let him slip down to a sitting
position, dropping to his knees beside him. "This is what I was
hoping for. You still understand what's going on, as a wolf wouldn't.
But you're in no condition to give me any trouble."
Quentin struggled to speak. "So you're...happy it...works this
way," he wheezed. "You may not be...as happy...when
someone...destroys...your portrait." An empty threat, and
they both knew it.
Tate leered at him. "I'll take my chances. I don't know why you're
so cranky, Quentin! It looks like you won't have to worry about the
werewolf curse." He chuckled. "The moon won't be full for a
week, and you don't look healthy enough to last that long.
"But for now, I'm glad you're conscious and lucid. Can you see well
enough to follow what I'm doing?" His fist shot out, stopping
inches from Quentin's face--as Quentin blinked, gasped, and tried feebly
to pull away. Then the fist made rapid feints to left and right.
"Yes, I think you can. At least one eye is tracking--sort of."
Tate leapt lightly to his feet. "I've been planning this evening
for some time. Glad you'll be able to appreciate the rest of the
entertainment!" He sauntered away.
There's more? Quentin clung to consciousness, blinked frantically
in an effort to clear his vision. He wanted to sit up, watch his
enemy...but the weight of his coat and the pain in chest, side and back
proved too much to bear. He felt himself crumpling.
"Can't have you lying down on us, Mr. Collins!" Jared. The
manservant grabbed his coat collar, dragged him to the nearby door, and
propped him against it with a thump. "There. Aren't you going to
say 'thank you'?"
Quentin was past speech. But he managed to spit at Jared--and was
rewarded with a hard blow to his ravaged left cheek. Darkness closed
in...
Then the room swam back into view. His face throbbed, and he felt
swelling already threatening to shut his "good" eye. But Jared
was holding a bottle of smelling salts to his nose. "No nodding
off, sir!"
Hang on. It will all be over soon. I've had a long life, and I'm
ending it well. Whatever Tate does to me, I'll be able to die in peace,
knowing I did the right thing. I didn't let you down, Amanda! You'll
never know about this. But for once in my life--at the end, when it
mattered most--I did the right thing.
Tate walked into his field of vision. Carrying Amanda's portrait.
Oh, God.
The artist smiled pleasantly. "We've destroyed one extremely ugly
portrait tonight--sorry, Quentin! No offense intended." He smirked.
"Now it's time to rid ourselves of another eyesore. Would you like
to do the honors again?"
Quentin gurgled. Fought for breath, tried again. "No!" he
croaked. "Tate--you wouldn't! No!" He tried desperately
to get to his feet--floundering like a fish on land, aware Jared was
laughing at him. Tears stung his eyes, rolled unchecked down his cheeks.
"No?" Tate sighed theatrically. "Then it seems to be my
turn."
He came closer. Loomed over Quentin, still writhing on the floor in a
vain attempt to get his legs under him. Allowed his victim a clear look
at the portrait, and his own maliciously smiling face.
Quentin tried to clutch at his ankle, found his hands crippled to the
point of uselessness.
Tate turned away.
And flung the portrait into the fire.
"Noooo! Nooooooo!" Then Quentin was merely
shrieking, over and over, language forgotten. He braced himself against
the door, somehow pulled himself up. Get to the fireplace. Save it,
save it! He lurched forward. But quivering matchstick legs refused
to support him, and he fell in a sobbing heap at Tate's feet.
"You idiot." Tate grabbed him by what remained of his hair,
and pulled him up to a sitting position. This time, at a gesture from
Tate, Jared held him that way--with a leg at his back, a hand clutching
the hair to keep his head up.
"Listen to me. I want you to understand what a fool you've
been." Tate bent over him, a demonic gleam in his eyes. Spoke
slowly and clearly. "I wouldn't have hesitated to destroy a real
portrait of Amanda Harris. But the canvas I just burned couldn't
protect--or harm--anyone. I only painted it within the last few days! If
you had insisted on examining it, you would have discovered the paint
was still wet."
For an instant, Quentin felt only relief.
Then it hit him. There had been no need to destroy his portrait.
There was nothing, nothing Tate could have done to hurt Amanda!
His fury erupted in a savage howl. He lashed out at Tate, flailing
wildly with his puny arms.
But none of his blows connected. His strength failed him in less than a
minute, and his arms fell limp at his sides. His sobs trailed off,
ending in a broken moan.
Tate waited until Quentin was still, his panting breath the only sound
in the room. Then he continued. "I never gave Amanda any magical
protection. She aged in the normal way. In fact, she's been dead for
twenty years.
"I was sure she had died. But even so, I went to great lengths in
investigating Olivia Corey. As you could have, if you hadn't been so
eager to believe. I checked her background, even tapped her phone.
Olivia is just what she claims to be--a twenty-two-year-old from the
Midwest, fresh out of college. Her resemblance to Amanda is pure
coincidence.
"Do you understand, Quentin? You've thrown your life away for
nothing. Nothing!" He drew himself up to his full height, stood
proudly over his fallen foe.
Quentin found his voice. "You could have...destroyed...my
portrait. Any time."
"Yes, of course," Tate acknowledged. "But it was
important you be here. I was telling the truth about this being a test
case.
"And given that"--his lip curled--"I couldn't resist
tricking you into destroying it yourself. You even paid ten thousand
dollars for the privilege!
"You have no one but yourself to blame. I gave you a sporting
chance. I deliberately left the paint on the fake portrait wet--gambling
that after the scar convinced you of the authenticity of your portrait,
you wouldn't question Amanda's. Jared thought I was staking too much on
your gullibility, but you didn't disappoint me.
"You could easily have seen through my ruse. Failing that--if you
had simply had the brains to put yourself first, you could have gotten
away! Even if Jared and I pursued you--and I'm not saying we would
have--you could have escaped with your own portrait."
"I know." A barely audible whisper.
Tate shook his head. "You're a romantic fool. But I'm glad you are.
Your stupidity has given me the revenge I've dreamed of for sixty
years!"
Quentin let his eyes close, didn't try to answer. You don't
understand, do you, Tate? You have no sense of honor.
You haven't defeated me. You're killing me, but you haven't defeated me.
I can die knowing that, given the knowledge I had, I did the only right
thing. If I had run away, I never would have been able to live with
myself again. And then, only then, would you have won.
Drifting toward unconsciousness, he was brought back with a jolt when
Jared released his hold and let him fall heavily to the floor.
"What do you plan to do with him, sir?"
"We'll leave him in an alley somewhere." He heard the shrug in
Tate's voice. "Far from here--that's all that matters."
"You don't intend to--ah--make sure he's dead before we leave
him?"
A moment's reflection. "No. Don't worry. He's too far gone to last
the night. Even if he should, no one would believe his story. And he'd
never be able to find this place again.
"But...I want him to live as long as possible. Suffer as
long as possible."
And suffer he did. He was still conscious when they dragged him out into
the street, along a stretch of uneven, icy pavement, and heaved him into
the back seat of a car. More bones fractured.
He focused on keeping silent, not allowing them the satisfaction of
hearing him moan.
He was not completely successful.
Lying helpless on the seat, he rolled off onto the floor the first time
Jared braked for a red light. Mercifully, he passed out. But when he
came to the car was still jouncing along, and he was still on the floor,
limbs bent at impossible angles. He stank of feces, felt the warm bulk
inside his trousers.
It doesn't matter. Nothing matters now. Go back to sleep.
But "sleep" refused to come, and the bumping and bouncing went
on for what seemed an eternity.
At last he heard Tate say, "This will do. We won't find any place
darker."
Jared slammed on the brake, and he felt the car skid on ice. He wished
it would crash into a building and kill them all... But no, Tate and
Jared couldn't be killed.
Instead, it came to a shuddering stop. He heard doors flung open, felt a
rush of air even colder than the still-frigid interior. Gasped as
someone grabbed him by the feet and forcibly straightened his legs.
"Huh. He is still alive back here." Jared sounded surprised.
"I thought he would be. Tough old bird." Was that grudging
admiration? "Haul him out."
More nightmarish jolting and jarring, more bumping along icy pavement.
Then he was dropped half into a snowbank.
"Quentin?" Tate's voice. And Tate's foot, undoubtedly,
prodding him in the ribs. "Once again, I've enjoyed doing business
with you. Hope you consider your ten thousand well spent!"
Tears froze on his face as the men's mocking laughter died away.
He lay shivering where they had left him. Unsure
which was worse, the agony of his shattered bones or the killing cold.
He made a feeble attempt to pull his coat more tightly about him. Don't
know whether to be glad or sorry they left me the coat. Death would come
sooner without it.
Snow was falling again. It covered his eyes, filled his slack mouth. Can't
lift a hand to brush it away. God, what a way to end! I wonder if I'll
be half-eaten by rats before I'm found? Considering what I must look
like, it might be an improvement.
No, don't think like that. However it may seem, I am dying with dignity.
I'll be with Amanda soon, and she'll know, she'll know.
Strange. It just hit me that I'll never see daylight again.
How could this have happened so quickly? Betty...was it only yesterday?
Betty, I'm sorry...
He drifted in and out of consciousness, and coherent thought gave way to
a jumble of dream images. Amanda, heart-stoppingly beautiful, cried out
in despair as he tore himself away. Time traveler Julia Hoffman faded to
nothingness before his eyes. Jenny breathed her last, with his hands
around her neck. His vampire cousin Barnabas bade him farewell at the
depot and strode off into the night, risking his life to stay behind and
face Count Petofi. A wild-eyed Beth backed away from him and stumbled
over the edge of Widow's Hill. The boy Jamison screamed, "I hate
you!" Betty met his eyes across the breakfast table and said,
"You're leaving me, aren't you?"
At first, dreaming or waking, pain was his constant companion. Then,
mysteriously, it eased. He was numb, almost warm. Not uncomfortable.
Even his dreams became less troubling, as he frolicked with a younger
Jamison...clasped the hand Barnabas extended in friendship...sank
sleepily into the embrace of a woman he could not quite identify. Jamison
is dead. If Barnabas stayed in the past with Kitty Soames, he's dead
too. Amanda...?
No matter. He was ready.
And then someone was bending over him, stale whiskey-laced breath in his
face. "Mister? Mister, are you all--Omigod!" Snow-muffled
footsteps pelted away.
"Don'...don' call anyone," he mumbled. Or thought he did.
" 'S all right. Leave me alone. Let me...die in peace..."
He was still muttering when the ambulance arrived.
After that he lost all track of time. He knew he was in a hospital. No
more darkness, but no daylight either. Never again. Here there was only
artificial light, so bright it hurt his eyes. No respite, never any
respite from the light.
Tubes. Needles. Shocked faces, kind voices. Decent people trying to make
him comfortable, aware they could do nothing more.
The inevitable question. "Can you tell us your name, sir?"
And he said clearly, "Quentin Collins," proudly claiming the
name that had not crossed his lips for sixty years.
It made no difference, of course. He would be given a pauper's burial,
in an unmarked grave. But at least he would die under his rightful name.
More tubes. More needles.
"Mr. Collins?"
The too-bright light resolved itself into a face surrounded by a cloud
of midnight-black hair, and for an instant he thought she was someone
else, a long-dead someone who came to see him often now, in his dreams.
Then his vision cleared. As much as it ever did. And he saw there was
only a slight resemblance. This woman was...was...
Betty.
Betty?
He caught his breath. She couldn't be here, couldn't!
But she was. He drank in the sight of her...then realized that, whatever
crazy chance had brought her to his bedside, he mustn't let her know he
recognized her. There would be no explaining it.
"Mr. Collins? Can you understand me?" She bent close, and
gently touched his face. Her lip was quivering. "My name is Betty
Thorn. I'm going to take care of you. I promise!
"But please, please, try to tell me what's become of my husband.
What has happened to Rick?"
He stalled for time while he tried to think. "Who...how...?" And
when, Betty, did you begin to think of me as your husband?
"My husband, Rick Thorn. He's disappeared. And you were wearing his
clothes, carrying his identification." She hesitated, studying his
face, then forged ahead. "And...and you had a letter. The envelope
was addressed to Rick, but the note inside began 'Dear Quentin.'
"
Damn. How could he possibly explain that? He closed his eyes,
trying to shut out the pain in hers. Why in God's name did she still
care? How had they even found her?
"Please! Tell me what's happened to Rick!"
He sucked in a breath. Heard the rattle in his throat.
"Rick...is...dead."
"I don't believe you!"
He forced himself to look at her again. She was weeping now, her tears
fell on his cheeks...her glittering eyes seemed to pierce his soul.
"There's something about you," she whispered. "Your
face... I see something of Rick in you. Are you...a relative?"
"No! I...can't help you. And you...don't need...to bother...with
me. Go away."
"Never!" Her eyes widened. "Oh, my God...now I
know who you are. I don't understand it. But...somehow...you are Rick!"
He tried to speak, but she silenced him with a shaky,
feather-light kiss on his cracked lips. "Don't try to deny it. And
don't worry, I won’t tell anyone else. Just rest, sleep. Let me take
care of you."
He gave up protesting. Somehow, insane as it seemed, she knew, she
believed.
This couldn't be happening. But he was bone-weary, and his head ached.
He'd try to figure it out later.
He slipped his gnarled hand trustingly into hers, and drifted off to
sleep.
When he woke he was being moved onto a stretcher. "No!" he
gasped. "Please, no more..."
"It's all right, Mr. Collins. Sshh." Betty. So that hadn't
been a dream, she was really here. She turned to speak to someone else.
"Let me talk to him alone for a few minutes." He sensed,
rather than saw or heard, nurses and orderlies drifting out of the room.
Betty knelt beside him, her soft face almost touching his. "Don't
be afraid, Rick. I promised I'd take care of you."
He squinted, trying to see her more clearly.
"Why...weren't...you...stopping them? They...wanted to...move
me..."
"I'm the one who wants to move you! I'm taking you home." She
said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"Home?" He repeated the word without comprehension.
"Betty. I'm. Dying."
"I...I know." Her voice trembled, then steadied. "I can
make you more comfortable at home, Rick. Not in our own bed, I'm afraid,
but at least downstairs. In the study you love so much, remember? The
trip will be easy, I promise."
The trip. From New York to Boston? It made no sense. Why wouldn't
she let him die in peace?
He was struck by sudden suspicion. Why did she want to torture him by
moving him now? What was she doing here in the first place? He found
himself remembering Tate's words. "My...unique talent...has
brought me wealth and influence, Quentin. Influence extending
into areas you couldn't possibly imagine."
No! I can't let my experience with Tate make me suspicious of everyone.
If I let him poison the one good thing left in my life, he wins.
Still...he heard himself asking, "How...did...you...get here?
How...did you...know?"
His tone must have been harsher than he intended. He saw the hurt in her
eyes. But she said calmly, "The police found me. You were carrying
ID, remember? No address or phone number, but there was an address on
the envelope in your pocket. The Boston police came to the house while I
was packing to leave. Another ten minutes and I would have been
gone." She shuddered.
"Anyway, I've told them you're my husband's grandfather. That
doesn't explain your carrying his ID, but it will have to do. Thank God
I hadn't blurted out that you were wearing his clothes! I suppose I was
in denial, didn't want to admit it even to myself."
He pursued the main point. "Why do you...want to move me? Now?"
"Rick--is it all right if I call you that? I'll always think of you
as Rick." Was she on the verge of tears? "Even if we only have
a little time left, I want to make it quality time. I can make
you comfortable at home!
"And the doctors here aren't really doing much. They didn't think
you could...tolerate surgery. Or heavy casts. So they just taped your
ribs, and put light-weight splints on your broken legs. And they're
giving you IV fluids, and medication for pain. That's about all."
"I...know that." Something still didn't make sense.
Suddenly, he realized what it was. "Don't you...don't you...wonder?"
"How this could have happened to you?" She drew back a little,
gazed at him sorrowfully. "Yes, of course I do. But even if you
know the answer and want to tell me, I understand you're too weak to
explain.
"So it's okay. It happened. I can accept not knowing how or
why."
He felt a surge of guilt at having doubted her. And yet... "How...Boston?"
"I promise we'll move you gently, Rick, and we'll give you
something to help you sleep. You'll sleep the whole way. I've chartered
a plane, and you'll have round-the-clock private duty nurses at
home."
"Plane?" He almost choked. Had Betty lost her mind? He
couldn't have afforded that before Tate cleaned him out. Now,
even private duty nurses were out of the question.
"Betty." His heart was pounding, but he clung stubbornly to
consciousness. He had to reason with her. "Listen...to me. The man
who...did this...to me...tricked me into...giving him...ten thousand
dollars. That was...practically all I had. We...can't afford...a plane.
Or nurses. We...don't have any money!" Tears of shame burned on his
cheeks.
"It's all right, Rick." Her voice was soft, soothing. "I
have plenty of money. Don't worry about it. Don't worry about
anything."
What? How could she have "plenty of money"? All his
doubts came flooding back. He pulled away from her in panic.
But she must have gestured to someone waiting outside the door. Even as
he tried to say, "No!," a hypodermic needle drove into
his thigh.
Sinking into sleep, he managed to mutter a final request.
"Outdoors."
"What?"
"Let me...see...outdoors. Daylight. One last time."
"I...I will, Rick." Her voice cracked. "I'll wake
you--with another injection, if necessary--while we're outdoors. I'll
make sure you see it."
She was true to her word.
The ambulance ride to the airport, the flight, and another long drive
blurred into one. He was physically comfortable, slept throughout much
of the trip...but even in sleep, questions nagged at him.
How could Betty have this kind of money? She had been a schoolteacher,
for God's sake. Living frugally when they met. And she was only in her
thirties, too young to have accumulated significant savings...
Only in her thirties. Was she in her thirties? Tate's mocking
laughter echoed through his dreams. "Influence extending into
areas you couldn't possibly imagine..."
Was Betty indebted to Tate?
Was it his publisher who had given Tate his address? His banker, who had
disclosed details of his finances?
Or...
Where was she taking him, really?
He woke in what he recognized as a hospital bed. The room around him was
a whirl of muted colors...but gradually, it stabilized.
His study. It truly was his old-fashioned, book-lined study. His most
treasured possession, his antique gramophone, was so near him he
could...he could... Still disbelieving, he stretched out a withered arm,
touched the satin-smooth surface. It was real. And daylight was
streaming through slitted shutters, the shutters he had lovingly painted
only last month.
"Hello. Isn't this better?" Betty, stroking his sparse hair.
He tried to smile at her. "Yes. Better. Thank you."
But as the hours (days?) wore on, he continued to fret over Betty's
money. "How...how can you...afford this? You were a
teacher..."
"You can't let it rest, can you?" She had been with him almost
constantly, despite the presence of a half-dozen nurses.
Now she sighed. "I can't blame you for wondering about it. I'm not
proud of my past, or I would have told you long ago.
"The truth is, I have a large inheritance. My father was very
wealthy. But I was illegitimate. He claimed to love me. But I wanted
public acknowledgment, and he never came through for me. Left me money
instead.
"I was tempted to refuse the inheritance. But something--a voice
within--told me to accept it, that I'd need it someday. I wasn't willing
to live on his damned money, so I invested all of it. Continued in the
life-style I could provide for myself.
"I didn't tell you about the money because I knew you wouldn't want
to use it, either. You struck me as an old-fashioned man who wanted to
support his woman. Was I wrong?"
He managed a rueful grin. "No."
She perched on the edge of the bed, caressed his face. "And now I
know why I accepted it. This is the crisis I needed it for.
"So please, Rick, let me spend my money on you. Only on
you..."
Wondering, he slept.
For a time, with devoted care, he rallied. He knew he would never rise
from this bed again. But he did begin taking nourishment by mouth. First
sipping water and juice through a straw, then swallowing soft foods that
Betty gently spooned into his mouth.
"Good, good," she crooned, as she fed him a spoonful of
yogurt. "You're a fighter, aren't you, my darling? I'm so proud of
you."
"My darling"? You never called me that before. For God's
sake, woman, don't go falling in love with me! Not now, not now...
Soon, all too soon, a cough that had been suppressed by medication
determinedly reasserted itself. Stronger doses were of no avail...and
every spasm of coughing left him weaker. The small gains he had made
slipped away. His intervals of consciousness were fewer, his mind
clouded. Whenever he succeeded in focusing on Betty's face, her eyes
were moist.
He knew he was sinking fast. Surprisingly, there was very little pain.
But the death-rattle in his throat was constant.
He reached out, groping in the darkness that was rapidly closing in...
"Yes, Rick!" Betty, of course. "Do you want to touch your
gramophone again?" Guiding his hand to it.
"No," he rasped. "Wanted...to touch...you."
The pain struck without warning. Unlike any pain he had known recently, waves
of excruciating pain that began at the crown of his head and swept down
the length of his body, contorting his limbs, shattering the wooden
splints on his legs, as Betty's white face bent over him her perfumed
hair tumbled around him her shrieks mingled madly with his. Pain he had
not known since...since...
Oh my God. I forgot. How could I forget?
He saw Tate again, heard his enemy's mocking voice. "Tonight is
Friday, in case you hadn't noticed... It looks like you won't have to
worry about the werewolf curse. The moon won't be full for a week, and
you don't look healthy enough to last that long."
A week. Oh, God. Could I have survived like this for a week?
The pain, the convulsions eased. What did that mean? Oh yes, there
always was an interval when the pain stopped, when I let myself hope it
wouldn't go any further.
"Always." Four months, that's all it was, four months in
another century, another lifetime. It can't be happening now, not the
way I am! It can't...
Panting, he looked up into Betty's wild, terrified eyes. Terrified as
Beth's had been, long ago. She was braced to hold him down on the bed,
her breathing as labored as his.
The reaction was hitting him now, spindly body soaked with sweat and
shivering uncontrollably.
Betty said brokenly, "I'll...I'll call..."
"No! Don't...call anyone. What...what day is it?"
"What?" Confused and panicky now, starting to cry.
He tried to swallow, catch his breath. Consciousness fading... "What...day...is...it?"
"F-Friday." Her lip trembled. "Friday, December
second."
No no no no noooo!
He steadied himself. It's all right. My body can't take this, there's
no chance I'll live long enough to transform. Concentrate on Betty's
face, let that be the image I carry with me into eternity.
The pain came again, convulsions that ripped his flesh and rent his
bones, and he bucked like a tortured animal in Betty's grasp, their
screams ripping and rending the fabric of the night. On and on it went,
on and on.
God no! A clear thought cut through the pain. I am
going to transform!
"Betty!" he howled. "Get away! Get away!"
But she was frozen in shock. He felt himself reach out to her again,
this time involuntarily. Blurred vision showed him the limb he was
extending--an animal's hairy forelimb, ending in wicked claws that went
straight for her breast.
"Nooooo!" As unrelenting night closed in on him,
he heard his cry of despair give way to a werewolf's growl.
**********
He was cold, very cold. And for a moment he felt a trace of nausea.
But his overwhelming sensation was one of exhilaration, of extraordinary
well-being. He stretched, flexed his muscles, then sprang to his feet
and stretched again. Took a deep breath that filled his lungs with
crisp, invigorating air--and let out a whoop of sheer delight. He even
executed an impromptu dance step.
This made no sense at all. He forced himself to stand still, try to get
his bearings.
It still made no sense. It was winter, and he was standing in what
appeared to be an alley--barefoot, wearing only the tattered remains of
some kind of nightshirt.
Had he been sleepwalking? Maybe...it was barely dawn. And sleepwalking
might account for the confused state he was in. But if he had wandered
outdoors on a winter night, practically naked, why did he feel so good?
He was drunk, that was it! Drunk, or high on something else. Maybe this
was a stage he always went through when he got smashed, and he normally
didn't remember it.
First things first. He wasn't falling-down drunk, thank God. And there
wouldn't be many people in the streets--the streets of wherever--at this
hour. So it shouldn't be hard to acquire clothes.
He set about his task methodically, trying to ignore the chattering of
his teeth. Fortunately, he was in the right part of town--or rather, of
a city he quickly identified as Boston. He selected a stylish men's
clothing store, warmed his hands at a sidewalk grate, and expertly
disabled the alarm. One of many skills he had picked up in the course of
a long and sometimes shady life.
Five minutes later, warm and comfortable in the now discreetly lighted
store, he padded into a fitting room carrying an armload of shirts,
trousers and underwear. Dropped his burden...and got his first look at
himself in the mirror.
Nothing unusual about the tall, muscular body, the tousled dark hair and
unlined face.
But the torn nightshirt was heavily stained with blood.
He considered that. Obviously not his own blood...so he must have gotten
into a fight while he was drunk. (Wearing a nightshirt?) The
amount of blood was misleading, had to be! He was hopelessly
uncoordinated when he was drunk; he couldn't have done any serious
damage. He had bloodied the other guy's nose, that was all.
He put the blood resolutely out of his mind, stripped off the
nightshirt, and concentrated on selecting a new outfit.
In another ten minutes he had settled on navy pants, a blue-and-white
striped shirt and crimson pullover. He donned appropriate shoes and
socks (not boots, the weather didn't seem severe enough for that), and
began looking at winter jackets. He was whistling cheerfully now. He'd
probably keep the clothes...to make himself feel better about it, he'd
mail the store enough cash to cover the purchase price. Mail it
anonymously, of course...
He stopped in his tracks, suddenly realizing what he was whistling. My
God. "Shadows of the Night"? I haven't thought of that in
years, that old song I used to play all the time on my...gramophone...
Something clicked in his mind.
"Yes, Rick! Do you want to touch your gramophone again?"
"No. Wanted...to touch...you."
And then it all came flooding back, the week-long nightmare that had
been too horribly real, the werewolf's claws reaching out to rake
Betty...
That was when he began to shriek.
He was only dimly aware of bursting out of the store--still without a
jacket--and racing through deserted streets in the general direction of
home. Slipping on ice, blinded by tears... Betty can't be dead, she
can't be... No, face it, damn you. There's no way she can be alive. You
killed Betty last night, and if you burn in hell for all eternity, it
won't be punishment enough.
A car passed him, a blur at the edge of his field of vision--moving
slowly in the opposite direction, from the suburbs in toward the city.
Moments later he heard brakes squealing, the motor kicking in again. A
U-turn?
Now the driver behind him was honking madly. Leave me alone, for
God's sake! Haven't you ever seen a running man before? There's no law
against it.
Of course, there probably is a law against tearing one's wife limb from
limb...
"Rick! Rick!"
He pulled up short. It couldn't be. Couldn't!
He turned slowly, afraid to see the face that belonged to that voice.
And then she was tumbling out of the car and into his arms. Her mouth
locking on his in a kiss such as they had never shared before, her hands
wildly exploring his hair, his face, all the contours of his
well-muscled body, until they came at last to his zipper.
He lifted her back into the car, laid her on the seat and flung himself
on her.
And never, never had it been like this. Not with her. Not with anyone.
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