Читать книгу Weathering Rock - Mae Clair - Страница 12

Chapter 7

“I hate this,” Wyn muttered.

Caleb followed his nephew down a rickety staircase, descending to the basement. Strung from the ceiling, a series of bare light bulbs cast elongated shadows over squat limestone walls and an uneven concrete floor. Must and mildew permeated the air, virtually overpowering to Caleb’s werewolf-enhanced sense of smell.

“I’m not overly fond of the situation myself.” He smiled grimly. “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m the one who gets locked up in a cell.”

“Caleb–”

“Winston, stop worrying.” He waved his nephew’s protest aside. “After three years of monthly hell, I’ve adapted to the confinement.”

That wasn’t true, but Wyn didn’t need to know how much it bothered him. Rather than dwell on the abysmal night ahead, Caleb focused on his surroundings.

The lower level of Weathering Rock hadn’t changed much over the centuries. There were a few new additions, including a row of metal shelves that had attracted a hodgepodge of items–tools, gardening supplies, paint cans, rope and other oddities. Two large oil tanks, a hot water heater and furnace had been added on the northern wall, the original coal chute long sealed over. The small section under the stairs was empty now, but it had once been his mother’s favorite place to stack jars of homemade relishes and jams, canned peaches and vegetables. He remembered his father hauling sacks of potatoes down the plank steps, his blond hair heavily streaked with silver in his later years.

“What’s wrong?” Misinterpreting his silence, Wyn stopped walking. “I don’t like locking you up any more than you like being locked up.”

“It’s not that. I was thinking of home.” Caleb nudged him forward. “My parents. Did I ever tell you my father ran the local land office?”

“There’s a lot you haven’t told me. You’re not exactly an open book.”

Caleb knew he tended to be closemouthed, but was attempting to change.

“My father was convinced I would be killed in the infantry,” he explained, overlooking Wyn’s comment. “He never wanted me to go to West Point. I sometimes imagine he knew the war was coming. My class graduated a year early because the Union needed officers. After Crinkeshaw, they made me a colonel.” He fingered the scar on his neck thinking of the battle. Of fighting in the saddle with blood streaming down his throat, the anguished groans of injured soldiers in his ears. And Seth…hating him, blaming him. “You won’t find Crinkeshaw listed in your history books, but it’s where Seth was injured.”

“That much I know.”

Caleb continued as if he hadn’t heard. “It was late summer of sixty-one. We thought the war was going to end quickly, the Confederate South no match for our Federal armies. My father insisted it would drag on for years, but everyone scoffed, convinced it would be over by Christmas. We never expected the South to be so dedicated.” He paused. “My father did.”

As far back as he could remember, Richard DeCardian had possessed an uncanny insight about what lay ahead. At times Caleb had found that ability unnerving. How could a man know so much about the future and be deadly accurate with those predictions?

He sent Wyn a speculative glance from the corner of his eye.

“My father used to say this house was a legacy.”

“It’s a solid house. It’s needed updating over the years, but–”

“You’re missing the point.” The closer it drew to full moon, the shorter Caleb’s patience became.

“Okay.” Wyn raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Don’t get huffy, Colonel. Enlighten me.”

Caleb narrowed his eyes. “There was something secretive about the house he wouldn’t discuss. Something he wouldn’t share.”

“Caleb, it’s a house. There are hundreds of old homes from the eighteen hundreds still around.”

“Weathering Rock is different.” They’d reached the rear of the basement and halted by a steel door. Wyn had custom ordered it from a company in Canada, both sides reinforced with bands of sterling silver in the form of a large X. The nearness of the bright metal made Caleb’s skin crawl. No matter how often he allowed himself to be locked in the windowless room, the proximity of silver so close to changing time unnerved him.

“When I was nine years old, a storm rolled over the fields while I was outside,” he said. “It was the first time I’d seen ball lightning. When I told my father, he grew angry and made me swear not to tell my mother. He seemed afraid. He told me never to speak of it, and threatened to take a stick to me if I went anywhere near the field in the future. I’d never seen him act that way.”

“I can’t blame him.” Wyn cracked a smile, trying to lighten the mood. “I’ve been tempted to take a stick to you too. It’s probably the only way the old man had of getting you to listen.”

Caleb brushed off the humor. “My father never laid a hand on me or my brother in our lives. He was…different. He wasn’t like other parents about discipline. He talked to us and explained when we did something wrong. But when I mentioned ball lightning, he changed. He knew something, Winston. I never made the connection before, but he knew something.”

“Okay, so maybe he did.” Wyn flashed an anxious glance at his watch. “We’re going to have to talk about it later. The moon will be up soon.”

Damn it all to hell, Wyn was right. Wednesday night, full moon. In a short while he would lose all memory of anything human. Once the moon climbed the sky, he would be powerless to resist its ancient spell. Already he could feel changes in his body, his normally acute senses heightened to feral awareness. He heard the rustling scuttle of a spider in the corner, the trickle of water from an overhead pipe, the intrusive thump of Wyn’s heart. That one bothered him the most, the allure of human blood, coupled with the instinctive urge to hunt, a seductive narcotic.

“I wish there were another way of doing this.” Wyn glanced at the door. The room behind it was empty, little more than a ten foot by ten foot square. Secured by two deadbolts from the outside and composed of solid limestone walls, it was a virtual prison.

Caleb ducked his head, sucking down an uneven breath. The thump of Wyn’s heart grew louder, dangerously enticing. “Hurry,” he muttered.

The blood-beat of his pulse throbbed against his temples. In a short while he wouldn’t be able to think, every impulse reactionary.

Wyn pushed the door open and a draft of dank air struck him in the face. It carried the sour reek of bondage.

“Let’s get it over with.” Before he could change his mind he shouldered inside, pacing off a small circle in the empty space.

“I hate this,” Wyn said for the second time. “You’re going to go through hell.”

“Do it,” Caleb snapped. If he stopped to think about it, there was always the chance his resolve would weaken. Even now, his human conscience still intact, part of him longed to surrender to the animal pulse beating inside. He yearned to hunt and embrace the debauchery of butchered flesh and syrup-sweet blood. If he abandoned himself, the ecstasy veered on sexual. Once, when he’d first been turned, his control minimal, the yearning had been too great and he’d ejaculated in his pants before the transformation overtook him. He’d felt shamed afterward, debased and inhuman.

“Get out of here, Winston.”

He didn’t know where the moon was in the sky, not that it mattered. He didn’t have to be touched by its light. Sometimes the change would overtake him when it hung low on the horizon, round and bloated like a lidless eye. Other times the transformation waited until it ascended to a lofty peak in the heavens.

“It’ll be over by dawn,” Wyn promised.

Unable to reply, Caleb braced a hand against the wall, bowing his head as the door scraped closed. He wished he had the strength of character to acknowledge his nephew’s friendship, but Seth had stripped him of that too.

The lock turned, sealing him inside. Restless, he filtered a hand through his long hair. The walls closed in, cramped and heavy. He panted through his mouth, pacing in the confines of the small room, faster and faster. In a short time, his clothing grew restrictive. Unable to withstand the touch against his skin, he clawed the offending articles off and prowled the cell naked.

All that remained was guttural instinct, a flashpot of images and crude sensation. Hunger overpowered him, the pain a hot knife in his gut. He doubled up in agony, stumbling to his hands and knees on the cold concrete floor.

His skin cracked, fragile human flesh splitting apart as his body underwent the punishment of transformation. Witch-fire exploded in his head and he rolled onto his back, caught in the excruciating throes of change.

“God, help me!” Thick hair sprouted from his body, the stink of animal fur overpowering. His jaw came unhinged, elongating beneath the jutting thrust of fangs. His muscles cramped, painfully reshaping themselves like malleable clay.

Caleb threw his head back and screamed. The sound bounced off the walls, echoing in his ears, mocking his torment. The curse of the werewolf claimed him, and he surrendered to the mind and desires of a predatory animal.

* * * *

“Caleb.”

Somebody jostled his shoulder.

He groaned and tried to tuck into a ball.

“Caleb.” The voice was persistent, the hand on his shoulder firm.

He cracked his eyes to find his nephew bending over him. Wyn’s face was pale, his features creased with deeply-etched lines of worry.

“It’s morning, Caleb. No more full moon for another twenty-nine days. Here.” He held out a blue robe. “Put this on. I have some water for you.”

“I–” He couldn’t get anything further past his lips, his mouth dry, soiled by blood. Somewhere during the night he must have bitten his tongue. Dazed, he glanced around the room needing to assure himself there was no evidence of destruction. Bruises and scrapes he could live with, but harming someone else was unthinkable.

Wyn helped hold a plastic water bottle steady while he took a greedy swallow, the splash of cold liquid against his parched throat pure heaven. Another night had passed, the full moon claiming his soul. And still the barrier of steel, silver and limestone had held. Shakily, he latched onto his nephew’s forearm. “Winston–”

“It’s over. Let me help you upstairs.”

Too weak to protest, Caleb consented to the aid, pulling on the robe. After three years it had become a familiar routine, but he still felt shamed by his nakedness and vulnerability, grim reminders he wasn’t wholly human.

He was tainted. Debased.

“I’ll be fine after I sleep,” he mumbled.

Sleep gave him strength, reasserted his humanity. It put everything in perspective for another twenty-nine days until the next full moon. Caleb knew he was going to be hard pressed to appear natural to Arianna later that night. Agreeing to a date so soon after his transformation hadn’t been the brightest thing he’d ever done.

But there was no going back.