Soon I’d join them. I’d be one of the ghosts haunting Underhill, unseen and unheard till another girl came to the inn, unwittingly bringing Vincent with her.
Dad shook me, begging me to look at him. “Cynda, for God’s sake, talk to me, tell me what’s wrong!”
“Blame Will Bigelow for this,” Vincent said angrily. “Your daughter’s emotional health was so fragile, so delicate, Jeff. His attack has obviously traumatized Cynda.”
“No,” I sobbed, “not Will . . .”
Dad held me tighter, hushing me with reassurances. “Don’t worry about Will Bigelow,” he said bitterly. “He won’t have a chance to hurt you ever again.”
“No, Dad, you don’t understand. Will, Will—” I couldn’t go on. Vincent took my words before I could say them.
Susan knelt beside me. “Here, sip this.” She pressed a glass against my lips. My mouth filled with brandy. I choked and sputtered; tears ran down my cheeks.
I let her help me to my feet, lead me to my room, undress me, tuck me into bed. “Sleep,” Susan whispered. “Sleep, Cynda.”
As soon as she left, I tiptoed to my window and quietly opened it. Snow blew into the room, whirling and spinning. The girls came with it. Silently secretly they circled me like snowflakes dancing on the wind.
Eleanor came close. Silently she touched the crimson spot on my neck. Her fingers burned my skin like dry ice. Slowly she pointed to her own neck and gestured at the other girls. They surrounded me. Each bore Vincent’s mark, the only color on their skin, drops of blood on fallen snow.
The wind blew through the open window. Crying for vengeance, it filled my room with phantoms. “No peace,” it moaned. “No rest for us, no rest for you.”
Behind me, Vincent strode into the room, carrying Todd on his shoulders. The girls vanished into the darkness outside, blown away like wraiths of smoke. Eleanor was the last to go.
Vincent shut the window. “What did I tell you?” he hissed. “They’re ghosts, phantoms. They have no strength, they can do nothing. I took all their blood, I gave them none of mine.”
Tipping his head, he smiled at Todd. “What shall we do with your half sister, Toddy? Do we still want her in our family? Or shall we send her to join her friends out there in the dark?”
Todd considered the question. How pale he was, how thin. Vincent had taken more than his blood; he’d robbed him of happiness, of innocence. My brother was an empty husk. I ached for him, but there was no mercy in his blue eyes.
“Throw her in the ocean,” he said in his new voice, cold and spooky, almost as inhuman as Vincent’s. “That’s what you did to the others.”
Vincent grinned. “What a marvelous boy you are. I shall never grow tired of you, Toddy.”
Like a good father, Vincent fetched our coats and gloves, scarves and hats. “Bundle up, children,” he said gently, but his eyes mocked me. “You wouldn’t want to catch your death in the cold.”
The three of us went out into the stormy night, Todd riding Vincent’s shoulders, me stumbling beside him, his strong hand clasping mine. In seconds, the inn vanished, candles and all, behind a wall of falling snow.
Every now and then the veils of snow parted, giving me glimpses of Eleanor and the others. They filled the air around us. Ahead, behind, on all sides, they seemed to guide us through the night.
The wind carried their voices to me. Vengeance, it cried, vengeance.
If Vincent saw or heard them, he gave no sign. Despite the knee-deep snow, he walked tirelessly, dragging me after him. I was weak, exhausted. If I fell I wouldn’t get up, I’d lie still and let the snow bury me. But Eleanor wouldn’t allow that. Although Vincent seemed unaware of her, I felt her near me, helping me, urging me to be brave and strong.
We started down the path to the ocean. Beneath the roar of the wind, I heard the surf pound the rocks. Just ahead was Will’s shack. Candles flickered in the windows. Wood smoke curled from the chimney, mingling its smell with the sea air. It looked warm and cozy. Perhaps Will was there after all, waiting for us.
“What is that building?” Vincent studied the shack, curious as always.
“It’s Will’s studio,” Todd said. “He must be in there. He’ll see us, Vincent, he’ll know.”
Vincent hushed Todd. “Suppose we sneak up on Will and surprise him? If we’re very clever, Toddy, we can make it look like Will killed Cynda, then himself.”
“No, Todd,” I cried, horrified to see my brother smile. “Will’s our friend, he’s always been good to you, surely you wouldn’t want to harm him.”
Todd scowled at me. “That was a long time ago,” he said, hugging Vincent. “I’ve only got one friend now—Vincent.”
“That’s right,” Vincent said. “And don’t forget it, son. I’d hate for you to disappoint me the way Cynda has.”
Vincent placed his finger against Todd’s lips to silence his protests. Taking care to make no noise, he stalked through the snow. Todd leaned forward, his face eager. Unwillingly I followed, my hand crushed in Vincent’s. I prayed Will had done the things he’d promised.
With Todd clinging to his neck, Vincent kicked the door open. The shack was empty, but the stove glowed with heat. The candle flames streamed in the wind, but they did not go out.
“Your father’s call to the police must have resulted in Will’s arrest,” Vincent said smugly. Putting Todd down, he walked around the shack, examining the few paintings Will had left on the walls. Rough sketches, most of them. Not his best work, but still impressive.
“The boy has real talent,” Vincent murmured approvingly. “Perhaps you’d rather have a brother than a sister, Toddy.”
Todd frowned. “I don’t want a brother or a sister,” he said. “I want to be your only child so you’ll always love me best.”
Vincent turned to me, smiling, beautiful, perfect in his evil. “Poor Cynda, such a hateful half brother. You need comforting, don’t you?”
Without warning, he seized me and forced my head back. His teeth found the mark on my throat. As he bit into my flesh, Todd cried out angrily and hurled himself between us.
“Don’t kiss Cynda—kiss me, Vincent!” he yelled.
Taken by surprise, Vincent laughed and released me. “Don’t be so impatient, Toddy. I have a big appetite.”
Now, the wind cried, now.
Stumble-legged with fear, I grabbed Todd and ran toward the trapdoor hidden in the shadows behind the stove.
“Let me go!” Todd screamed. “What are you doing? Vincent, help me!”
Apparently amused, Vincent said, “Bite her, Toddy. Show her how sharp your teeth are.”
He clearly didn’t consider me a threat. No need to be alarmed, no need to stop me. Where could I go? What could I do? As far as Vincent knew, I was trapped.
It was his overconfidence that made it possible for me to pull the matches out of my pocket. Before he or Todd realized what I was doing, I struck a handful and hurled them into the rags Will had left near the stove. At the same moment, a gust of wind toppled the candles, and a wall of fire leaped up between Vincent and me.
Shocked by the flames, Todd forgot about biting me and redoubled his efforts to escape. “Vincent,” he screamed. “Vincent!”
Shielding his face from the fire, Vincent leaped back. “Stop, Cynda,” he shouted. “I command you!”
My neck throbbed. I felt weak, dizzy. I couldn’t let Vincent die. Not like this.
As I hesitated, the wind rose. They were out there in the dark and the cold, Eleanor and the others, lost until every drop of their blood was burned from Vincent’s veins. They whirled around the shack, begging me to destroy him, to save them, to give them peace.
Holding Todd tight, I groped for the trapdoor. If Will hadn’t left it open, I wouldn’t have had the strength to lift it. Weak with terror, I yanked my brother down the ladder with me.
“Todd,” Vincent cried, “make her stop. I love you, you love me. You’re mine, mine! Don’t let Cynda destroy us!”
T
odd writhed and twisted, cursing me and crying for Vincent. Praying we wouldn’t fall, I pulled the trapdoor shut and slid the bolt home.
Over our heads, the fire roared. I felt the heat through the door. From the inferno, Vincent screamed—a horrible sound, worse than anything I’d ever heard or imagined. It raced through my veins, scalding my blood as if it were being consumed by invisible flames.
“Cynda,” Todd sobbed, “Cynda, what have you done?” His voice rose to a high, keening wail almost as chilling as Vincent’s. “The fire’s inside me, it’s killing me, too!”
The air was too hot to breathe. Smoke blinded me, choked me. Clinging to the ladder, I peered into the damp, sea-breathing darkness below. “We have to climb down, Todd.”
He gripped a rung and shook his head. “No,” he sobbed. “No. I hate you! You killed him, now you want to kill me!”
I felt him tremble. He was too weak to fight me, too exhausted to move. Cautiously I edged past him and began to feel my way down with my feet, begging Todd to follow me. The ladder swayed under our weight. Its rungs were wet and slippery, but the air rushing up to meet us was cold and damp and sweet.
At the bottom, I held Todd tight and let him cry. “We’re safe,” I whispered again and again. “We’re safe, Toddy. He can’t come after us, he can’t hurt us.”
Finally Todd stopped crying and looked at me. His eyes were alive again, the cold hatred gone, washed away by tears. “Is Vincent dead? Did he burn up in the fire?”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, he’s dead.”
Todd shuddered as if he’d just awakened from a bad dream. “Vincent bit me,” he said, touching his neck. “He made me do bad things, he made me say bad things. He made me think bad thoughts about you and Mommy and Daddy.” Tears filled his eyes again. “How can anyone love me now, Cynda?”
I smoothed his hair and kissed him. “It wasn’t your fault, Toddy. Nobody will blame you. Vincent was bad, evil. He was a—”
“Vampire.” Todd blurted out the word. “Vincent was a vampire. He bit us, he took our blood, he wanted to kill you. And so did I, I wanted what he wanted . . .” He broke into loud sobs and buried his face in my neck. “I’m sorry, Cynda, I’m sorry. I don’t want you to be dead, you’re my sister, I love you.”
“I know, Toddy, I know. I love you too.” I rocked him in my arms to comfort him. “Vincent was so strong, so clever. He knew just what to tell us. I believed his lies just like you did.”
Still weeping, Todd nestled closer. Glad for his warmth, I held him tight. Gradually he relaxed. His body went limp, his breathing deepened.
While my brother slept, I stared into the darkness. Vincent was dead, I told myself. His spell was broken, his power destroyed. Todd was himself again. So was I. When we were strong enough, we’d leave the cave, go back to the inn, and live our lives as if we’d never known Vincent. At least we’d try. . . .
22
I’m not sure how long Todd slept. When he woke up, I tried to lead him to the cave’s entrance, but it was dark and the rocks were slippery. I hadn’t thought to bring a flashlight, and the matches Will had given me flickered and went out as soon as I lit them. The surf boomed, reminding me how easily we could drown.
Suddenly Todd grabbed my arm. “Look, Cynda, a light. Someone’s coming.”
My first thought was Vincent—he’d returned like a creature in a horror movie, springing upon us just when we thought we were safe. Todd must have feared the same thing for he flung his arms around me and began to sob.
The light came closer, closer. Its beam lit the rocks and shone in our eyes, blinding us. Will ran toward us, calling our names. For a few seconds we couldn’t speak. We all clung to one another, laughing and crying.
“I was so scared,” Will said at last. “The police kept me for hours. I thought I was too late, I was afraid you and Todd . . .”
I gasped. “The door—you weren’t here to lock it, Will. What if Vincent escaped?”
We stared at each other. Had we failed after all? I’d been so sure Vincent was dead. I’d felt him burn, shared his agony, known when it ended. So had Todd.
“Let’s get out of here.” Will handed me the flashlight and lifted Todd to his shoulders. The three of us made our way slowly and cautiously over the rocks. The sea slapped at us, waves rumbled and surged, driven into the cave by the wind. Todd whimpered in fear, but we found our way safely to the trail and climbed to the top of the cliffs.
Nothing was left of the shack but ashes and charred wood licked by tiny flames. Silently we watched the fire dancing in the wind, flaring up here, dying there, glowing like Christmas lights in the falling snow. Despite the crackle and pop of the fire, despite the wind and the surf, the night seemed incredibly still.
Suddenly Will put Todd down and ran to the shack. For a moment, his body was a black shape against the firelight. He bent, picked something up from the snow, and brought it to me.
“It’s the padlock,” he whispered, “and the hasp. Someone locked the door, Cynda. Someone made sure Vincent couldn’t escape.”
While Will examined the lock, I stared into the darkness, listening for voices in the wind. Snowflakes as shy and cold as airborne kisses touched my cheek. I glimpsed pale faces, blowing veils of hair, hands lifted in farewell. Then Eleanor and the others were gone, drifting away like fog. The wind dropped. The night was still and peaceful.
“Goodbye,” I whispered. “Goodbye.”
Will looked at me, puzzled. “Who are you talking to?”
“Didn’t you see them?”
He shook his head and picked up Todd again. He’d seen no one. Neither had Todd. Turning our backs on the fire, we trudged toward the inn.
“What will we tell your father?” Will asked. “How will we explain Vincent’s death?”
“Say he was a bad man,” Todd said fiercely. “Say he told lies, say he hurt Cynda and me, say we burned him up in a fire. Say he deserved it.”
I squeezed my brother’s hand. He yawned and rested his cheek on Will’s cap. By the time we reached the inn, Todd was asleep. He looked like himself again, rosy and healthy, an ordinary little boy.
Before I went inside, I looked up at Vincent’s window. His room was dark, the curtains hung motionless, but it was hard to believe he wasn’t standing behind them, watching us come home. I expected him to fling the curtains aside and say, “Surely you didn’t think you’d get rid of me so easily.”
With the memory of his laughter ringing in my ears, I ran past the mound of snow burying the Porsche and raced up the steps ahead of Will and Todd. When I opened the kitchen door, I heard Dad shouting into the phone. “I tell you they’re missing, both of them. I don’t care how bad the roads are, get out here and help me find them! By morning it may be too late. For God’s sake, it may already be too late!”
“Daddy, Daddy,” Todd cried. Will set him on the floor and he ran into the inn with us close behind.
Dad’s face lit up with joy. He dropped the phone and gathered us close. Susan leaped up from the table and threw herself into the hugs and kisses. It was a long time before anyone remembered the phone, still swinging on the end of its cord, beeping with alarm.
“Where have you been?” Susan cried.
“Where’s Vincent?” Dad asked at the same moment.
I clung to Dad and wept. “He took us to Will’s shack, he tried to hurt us. There was a fire, Daddy. It was horrible, terrible . . .”
“Vincent was a bad, bad man,” Todd sobbed. “I told you and told you. Why didn’t you listen, Daddy?”
Dad held Todd tighter and turned to Will, his face agonized. “My God,” he whispered, “I believed Vince, I thought you—how could I have been such a fool?”
“Oh, Will,” Susan wept, “we’re so sorry. I don’t know what was wrong with us. It’s as if, as if . . .”
Will let Susan hug him. He looked close to tears himself.
By the time the police arrived, Susan had made a pot of peppermint tea and we were gathered around th
e kitchen table, afraid to let one another out of our sight. We’d stopped crying, but we were far from calm.
Sergeant Jackson had many questions, but her voice was soft and pleasant and she seemed genuinely sympathetic. She listened to the same story we’d told Dad and Susan. Her assistant wrote down every word carefully, stopping every now and then to verify things. He seemed puzzled by how little any of us knew about Vincent.
When she’d gotten all the information she wanted from us, we took her upstairs to Vincent’s room, while the assistant phoned the station to check out the car’s license plate number. All Sergeant Jackson found were two neatly folded black sweaters, spare socks and underwear, a tweed jacket, two shirts, and a pair of slacks. On Vincent’s writing table were stacks of second-hand books and sheets of paper covered with illegible scribbling. If he’d had money or credit cards, a driver’s license or a Social Security card, he’d carried them in the pockets of the clothes he wore to the shack.
The policewoman led the way downstairs. Even though I knew Vincent was gone, I feared the darkness at my back. Suppose I looked over my shoulder and saw his pale face watching us from the shadows?
To no one’s surprise, the Porsche had been stolen several weeks ago in New York. “That explains why Mr. Morthanos never left the inn,” Sergeant Jackson said.
At the bottom of the steps, I moved closer to Dad. He was trying to answer one last question from Sergeant Jackson. She still didn’t understand how Vincent had managed to kidnap Todd and me.
“It’s hard to explain,” Dad admitted. “It seems Susan and I dozed off. We couldn’t have been asleep for more than a few minutes but when we opened our eyes the living room was empty. Todd and Vincent were gone.”
Dad’s voice broke and Susan went on for him. “We’d put Cynda to bed earlier, she’d been upset. When we went to her room, our children were gone and the window was wide open.”
“We saw tracks in the snow,” Dad added, “signs of a struggle.”
“It was as if a spell had lifted,” Susan said. “We looked at each other and we knew, we knew Vincent had taken our son and daughter.”