Authors: Lara Parker
wearing a pale cream dress nipped at the waist, an ermine across
her shoulders, and a wide- brimmed hat that framed her delicate
face. Her skin was petal smooth and her lips were trembling as
she placed her gloved hand in his and lifted her face to be kissed.
Th
e ridiculous hat fell off her head, and when he reached to
catch it, his fi ngers plunged into her curls. He could still feel
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their glossy texture against his lips.
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A prickling in the back of his neck spread up into his hair,
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Dark Shadows: Wolf Moon Rising
and he turned to see another grave. It was marked with the statue
of an angel, her robed shape wavering in the whirling snowfl akes.
Her head was lowered, her hands clasped, and the frosted canopy
of her wings rose above her in the moonlight. Her dark eyes
peered into his with an accusing glare and he shivered. He had no
need to fi nd the inscription. Angelique was buried there, and for
a moment he thought the ground beneath his feet was heaving.
Hers had been the spiteful curse that had destroyed his life:
You
will never love, and anyone who loves you will die!
Even buried beneath his feet she stirred rancor through his body.
As he stood among the marble monuments honoring the
dead, he could feel the planes of his own face grow rigid. In the
falling snow his dark cloak formed a shroud. Th
e fl akes dusted
his eyebrows and chin,— as though turning them to stone— and
he felt the cold seep to his fi ngertips and into his heart.
Th
en something moving in the shadows caught his eye. Gray
canine shapes as pale as ghosts threaded the graveyard fence.
Th
eir eyes gleamed crimson, their tongues drooped as if they
had run for miles, and their bones were loose and jarring as they
trotted past him. Coyotes, he thought in amazement, and he
did not remember ever seeing a pack like this. Possibly there
had been one lone animal, but never a group moving together.
He watched them weave through the statues until they faded to
whispers in the blurry air.
It was not easy to fi nd the small crypt among the grave-
stones buried in the drifts, but when he fi nally discovered it, he brushed away the snow that had obscured the wooden portal,
and pushed open the low door. In the dim light he could see a
pile of dead leaves, and the animal odors of blood and feces rose
to his nostrils. When he reached into the debris, his hand closed
on a warm shape and he pulled out a rat. Tail twitching, it
blinked at him with beady eyes and squirmed in his grasp. His
hunger fl ared, and he considered a tasty morsel, an appetizer
perhaps, but he was not inclined to spoil the feast to come. Re-
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leasing the creature, he watched it scamper off through the
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Lara Parker
tombstones, then turned and rummaged further until his hand
brushed against a hard surface. His stolen prize was still there
wrapped in faded blue satin— the portrait of Quentin. He hesi-
tated before extracting it, thinking perhaps he should leave it.
He knew where it was hidden, that it was safe, and better stored
in this secluded spot than unprotected in Antoinette’s basement.
Nevertheless, a prey to cold curiosity, he dragged the bundle
out and, after leaning it against the stone wall of the crypt, re-
moved the wrapping. He stared at the portrait dismayed to see
that the rats had gnawed the gilded frame and the surface was
covered with mold. What had he expected? He had left it for
months in a fi lthy vault fi lled with rotting leaves. Areas of the painting were frayed, exposing the canvas, and others were eaten
away, but Barnabas brushed off the debris and found that the vis-
age was still compelling: a man of majestic beauty, dark- haired
with long sideburns, and eyes of alluring intensity. Staring out
from under heavy brows, those eyes— and a bemused smile—
promised secret delights. Even in its damaged state, Barnabas
could see it was a face that would seduce any woman. And, he
thought with chagrin, even Antoinette had fallen under his spell.
Th
en, as though exposure to the air had caused an altera-
tion, the features slowly dissolved into those of a hoary old man;
the seductive gaze became demonic, the skin yellowed with age,
and the lustrous black hair turned thin and gray. Barnabas
backed away in disgust, remembering the spell that governed
Quentin’s life. Th
e portrait aged, while, mysteriously, Quentin
remained young.
He picked up the frame and moved it to where the moon-
light fell upon it. But when the glare silvered the surface, it un-
derwent another transformation even more hideous. As if the
portrait were a magical hologram, the visage darkened and
changed to that of a feral beast: the matted gray hair became fur
that sprouted above pointed ears and the nose elongated into a
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jaw of exposed teeth gleaming over a crimson tongue.
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Barnabas gasped. Somehow, immersed in his own con-
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Dark Shadows: Wolf Moon Rising
cerns, he had ignored this dark secret until the full moon glowed
in the sky. Th
e painting absorbed a double curse that governed
Quentin’s existence: he was also a lycanthrope, and the portrait
had succumbed to the wolf man’s spell before Barnabas’s eyes.
He tried to remember why, when he had fi rst discovered the
portrait in Antoinette’s house, he hadn’t destroyed it. It was be-
cause he had been human, suff ering from human weakness, and
in a moment of compassion he had worried that Antoinette might
be harmed by the werewolf if Quentin were to assume that form.
But now there was nothing to fear. He, Barnabas, would be
her protector. Quentin would never come near her. And if she
still believed she loved Quentin, she was about to change. Barn-
abas laughed bitterly. He vowed he would never be tormented
by jealousy again.
Th
e picture was quivering with life, yet as threadbare as an
ancient tapestry, and Barnabas lifted it, his arms trembling,
feeling the power of a magic talisman radiate through his body.
Its force was like an electrical shock, and in a sudden rage he
raised the painting above his head and slammed it against the
edge of the stone crypt. Th
e canvas split, and the portrait gaped
open in two halves that hung lifeless in the frame.
With that, it changed back into a faded old oil without
luminosity, resembling so many hanging in dingy museums
around the world, and it seemed drained of its power. As he
clung to the ruined artifact, Barnabas realized that he had been
deceiving himself all along. He had never meant to return the
painting— he no longer felt any sympathy for Quentin— and
now he had destroyed it. What would become of his rival? Would
age catch up with him? And what of the werewolf curse? Barn-
abas shrugged off any concern he might have felt, and, without
needing any further proof, he knew that he possessed— as a
vampire once again— a heart of stone.
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T w o
David stepped out of the shed where he had been working on
the snowmobile, and stretched his cramped muscles. He
had been tinkering with the engine for hours, and he was
tempted to go for a quick ride before picking Jackie up at the bus stop. Th
e storm had dumped several feet of new snow, and he
could see that it was as light as the air, held in crystalline suspen-sion, and all the trees, benches, and walls were draped with heaps of spun sugar frosting. Th
e garbage cans wore lopsided hats, and
huge cakes of snow sat on the stone pilasters.
He jumped on the sled and pulled the start cord, pleased
with the smooth sound of the engine. Beyond the drive, the
drifts were perfect for carving turns, and soon he was fl oating
over the dips and rises or fl ying through the trees, sending up a
high curving plume of powder as the engine roared beneath his
legs. After a couple of gnarly turns— leaning way over until he
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could brush the snow with his knee— he settled down and
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drove more cautiously along the path toward the highway.
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Meeting Jackie at her bus after school was the highlight of
David’s day, and he always caught his breath when she appeared,
her blue scarf wrapped around her dark hair, her pale eyes
brightening when she saw him. After a tentative “Hi” and “Hi,”
they usually trudged down the path together, close enough for
him to inhale her woodsy fragrance. She was often quiet and
thoughtful, and sometimes he walked backward in front of her
so that he could look at her while he talked to her. Today he was
bringing her home on the snowmobile for the fi rst time, and he
was looking forward to her snuggled up behind him on the seat,
her arms around his waist.
When he was with her, he always felt light- headed, and
everything his eye fell upon he saw for the fi rst time. A bird
against the sky, the curve of a tree branch, the dew- lit web of a
spider: all seemed miraculous, and he struggled to fi nd the words
to describe things to her. But it would come out, “Hey, look at
that bird!” or “See the moon?”— words so inadequate they left
him feeling embarrassed. Still, whenever they were together, he
felt he moved in a cloud of enchantment, his whole body buzz-
ing with happiness.
When he looked back, David always believed that his life
began the day Jackie and her mom moved into the Old House.
He had been curious when the moving van drove up to deposit
their belongings, and he wandered over to see the progress when
the workers began the restoration. Th
en one day he saw her
walking back and forth from her mom’s car carry ing lamps and
rugs, small tables and chairs. It was summer, and she wore a
dress that clung to her body. She had long black hair and a little
bounce to her walk, and she moved with the grace of a dancer.
For a while that summer, there had been a band of hippies
living in the woods by the stream below the Old House. On hot
afternoons, they swam naked in the river and several times, al-
though he had been forbidden to do so, David had gotten up the
courage to spy on them.
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He had seen her naked, stretched out on a fl at rock in the
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Lara Parker
sun, or tiptoeing through the shallow rapids, her body like a
wood nymph’s, and he thought he had never seen anything so
beautiful. She reminded him of Bernini’s statue of Apollo chas-
ing Daphne through the forest. In the myth, just as Apollo
caught her, Daphne was transformed into a tree, her hands and
feet turning into twigs sprouting leaves where her fi ngers and
toes had been.
He and Jackie had become friends, even though she was
usually reserved when she saw him. But one night, when the
moon was full and they were sitting around the campfi re, a
strange thing had happened. She took his hand and led him
away from the group. Her eyes glowed with mischief and she
held his fi ngers so tightly they pinched. She fed him some kind
of strange- tasting drink, and then she lay down with him in a
huge pile of fallen leaves. She was trembling when he kissed her,
the fi rst and only kisses of his life, and he had felt her body
against his with the leaves rustling beneath them and pricking
them with their stems. Just that once. And then, she had be-
come distant again. Often when he lay in bed, he thought about
that night and the memory left him aching.
After the fi rst winter storm, his father had given him per-
mission to play around on the snowmobile stored in the garage.
Since he was fi nally sixteen, what he really wanted was a car, but that was not about to happen. His father felt he was still too im-mature, and he had made some stupid mistakes when he was
younger his father wouldn’t let him forget.
Th
e sled was an old Ski- Doo that ran a little rough and
jerked when it went uphill, but it was better than walking in
the deep snow. He’d been fi ddling with it, trying to improve the
per for mance, and sent off for some parts in the mail. Its rumble was supremely satisfying since he had taken off the factory muffl er and replaced it with an extremely loud expansion chamber.
Today, as he glided over the snow, he fi gured the engine was
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about 2 percent more powerful and maybe 50 percent louder. If
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