Lorelei
by Lucidscreamer
Written 1994; previously published in "Wolf Tracks" and "The Collective" fanzines.
Part 2 of the Twist of Fate series. Follows "A Fate Worse than Undeath?"
Disclaimer: Dark Shadows is the creation of Dan Curtis.
Warning: contains some graphic violence.
Barnabas awoke with blood on his hands, blood on his face, the coppery bitterness lingering between his teeth. His once fine clothing was in tatters.
A low moan, composed of equal parts physical and psychic distress rasped from his throat. Slowly, every muscle protesting, he rolled onto his back.
Morning sunlight filtered through the leaves of the crab apple tree which had sheltered his restless slumber. The gnarled thorny branches were heavy with their crop of bitter fruit, the small ripening orbs like miniature moons, mocking him. His stomach tightened. The remnants of his last meal -- consumed by the light of the full moon -- lay like lead in his belly.
The reminder of his moonlit rampage was enough to set his stomach churning. Rolling hastily onto his side, he retched -- a moment later, he had emptied the contents of his stomach onto the grass, and was reduced to dry heaves.
Finally, he sat up and scrubbed his face on the remains of his waistcoat. He stared at the stained rag, at the crimson smears on the brocade, and on his hands. Dear God...Moisture stung his eyes, was ruthlessly ignored. How could he continue this way? Transforming with the moon...murdering...
He shuddered from a sudden chill that had little to do with the early morning air. His clothes were bloody rags, bearing evidence of the beast's feral appetites. His stomach threatened revolt, again.
When the nausea had passed, he fell back on the grass and stared blankly at the morning sky. With some small measure of gratitude, he realized that tonight, at least, there would be no full moon.
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A few days travel found him on the outskirts of a small settlement. He gazed without favor on the rough-hewn buildings, the dusty wagon-rutted track that served as the town's main street. Those few townsfolk out about their business in the lowering twilight sidled barely-curiuos glances at the stranger in their midst, but none spoke to him. A few crossed the poor excuse for a street in order to avoid him. Barnabas glanced down at himself with a rueful smirk. Hardly surprising, he thought. In his tattered clothing, he looked even less prosperous than this town.
But though he might appear as poor as the meanest beggar, Barnabas was not completely penniless. A leather coin purse, heavy with gold, lay hidden beneath his shirt. Thankfully, the beast had not lost it for him during its nighttime romps. Along with the pistol tucked into the waistband of his breeches, the money made a comforting burden. Near the end of the street, a crudely painted sign beckoned him into a tavern. The thought of real food -- and afterward, a real bed to lie in --drew him like a moth to flame.
Forgetting all else for the moment, he hastened tavern's interior was ill-lit and smelled of greasy smoke and infrequently washed bodies. A fire blazed in the great stone hearth which dominated the main room, lending its heat to the oppressive atmosphere. Rough pine trestle tables and benches ran the length of the room. Opposite the massive fireplace, a rickety bar sheltered several kegs and the squat, unlovely form of the tavern keeper. The man's coarse appearance was no more inspiring than his primitive surroundings, but Barnabas was beyond caring for appearances. He knew now how deceiving they could be!
With a forced smile, he slowly approached the bar and, before the other man could speak, placed a single coin on the scarred surface. The barman's dour expression didn't alter, but he didn't order Barnabas to leave.
With a practiced sweep of his hand, he made the coin vanish."What can I do for you then, sir?" he asked gruffly, reaching automatically for a tankard.
"A meal," Barnabas said, barely containing his eagerness. "After that, aplace to sleep."
The barman nodded. "You don't mind me sayin' so, friend, you could do with a new suit o' clothes, as well. What happened to you?"
Barnabas had prepared for that question. "I was beset by thieves. They made off with my horse and most of my belongings. If you can tell me where I might purchase fresh supplies, I would be most grateful."
"Of course!" Greed glittered in the man's beady eyes, and Barnabas knew that where ever he was directed, this man would see a tidy profit. But all the man said now was, "But first you'll be wantin' that meal..."
He called loudly over his shoulder; a moment later, a woman stepped through the curtained doorway behind the bar. She scowled at him. "What do you want, Jeb?"
"Fetch this gentleman a bowl of stew and a tankard," Jeb ordered. "Then you can ready a room for him."
The woman looked as if she might rebel at being ordered about so, then glanced at Barnabas and smiled. There was something about that smile that caught his attention. A sense of...what? At the moment, he was too tired and hungry to puzzle it out.
Barnabas found a place at one of the long tables. He had just settled comfortably when the woman returned with his food. She set the bowl of stew on the table in front of him, along with a hunk of dark bread and a tankard of ale. He thanked her absently, his attention tightly focused on the wonderful aromas wafting up from the stew was thick with chunks of vegetables and some gamy meat. The bread was gritty and coarse; the ale watered thin and bitter.
It was the most delicious meal he had ever eaten.
Replete, he looked up to find the woman watching him, a faint smile on her lips. Her eyes, he now saw, were a piercing, winter-sky blue, large and luminous in the tavern's gloom. She brought him more ale, brushing against him as she bent over to pour. Her scent filled his senses -- clean and tangy, like the forest after the rain, all pine and wild herbs and something unidentifiable that set his pulse to pounding.
"Thank you," he managed, around the sudden tightness in his throat. At her questioning glance, he nodded to his tankard. "For the ale." She smiled, and again that elusive sense of -- familiarity? -- wafted over him.
"Why, you're quite welcome, sir."
Again she leaned close, again her perfume flooded his senses. For a moment,he could think of nothing else. It took a second for him to realize she had spoken. "Forgive me, what did you...?"
"I asked if you would like to see your room now, sir."
Her smile had a dark edge to it, a hint of...invitation, perhaps? He imagined what it would be like, to take her into his bed. To caress the soft skin revealed by the low scoop of her neckline. To see those luminous eyes glowing with desire...
Barnabas shook himself. He could not forget who he was...Or what. Love -- or even its coarser cousin -- was not for him. Not now. With a sigh, he rose and followed her to his room, intent on nothing more now than sleep.
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A good night's sleep...
His stomach filled and his body cleansed and clothed in a simple nightshirt, Barnabas had hoped to rest once he lay down on the lumpy bed the tavern keeper had provided. But healing sleep had eluded him...and, hours later, eluded him still.
Because no matter how dearly he longed for it to be otherwise, his dreams would not let him forget the terrible truth...of the rapacious beast within.
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The werewolf stalked toward its prey, its black, leathery lips drawn back in a hungry snarl. The woman cowered and cried out; tried to scramble away from the monster. But its claws had already found her flesh, raking deep red furrows into her exposed thigh, across her abdomen. The copper-sweet stench of fresh blood and bile drew the creature after her, its slavering jaws wide in anticipation. Crouching, ready to spring, it bared long yellow fangs...
The prey screamed, a high mewling sound of mortal terror. She dragged herself weakly along the stony ground, her body weakening with every fresh gout of arterial blood, the glistening coils of her intestines protruding from the wound in her abdomen. Behind her, only open air yawned over the drop into the sea. There was no escape.
Saliva dripped from the werewolf's jaws; it licked its lips, watching her with a predator's caution, anxious to feed, but not so anxious that it would risk injury. There was very little fight left in her, now, though. Soon, it would feast.
The woman stared into the amber eyes of death, breathed one last prayer to heaven,...and pushed herself over the edge. She fell in eerie silence, into the dark waters below. The waves swallowed her up without a trace.
Cheated of its meal, the werewolf thrust its blunt muzzle skyward and howled its loss to the sorcerous moon...
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Barnabas awoke, the threadbare blanket wrapped tightly around him like a shroud, his thin nightshirt plastered to his skin by cold sweat. His heart was pounding as if he had just run a race for his life, and the cloying taste of remorse lay thick and sour on his tongue.
*Would he never be free of this torment?*
The dream images were already fading back into the dark cavern at the back of his mind, the stygian lair where the wolf lurked, always ready for the moon -- or his nightmares -- to unleash it. Fighting the memory, he cried out, thrashing against the imprisoning blanket.
Something soft and cool brushed his forehead.
His eyes flew open in shock. A woman sat beside him on the narrow bed, her hand extended, arrested in the act of stroking his brow. He smelled her sweet perfume, the clean pine-forest scent clouding his mind even as it awakened his senses. He stared up at her, no longer surprised by her unexpected presence. He felt curiously detached, as if he were still asleep and dreaming sweeter dreams.
As if reading the thought, she murmured, "You are dreaming, *mon cher*. A sweet dream of me. Soon we will be together, this I promise you, Barnabas. And it shall be far sweeter than any dream."
Her lips brushed softly over his. The pine-and-wildflowers scent washed over him, lulling his mind, ushering him back into the waiting arms of Morpheus. But in his dreams, her arms held him tight.
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Barnabas broke his fast with a bowl of lumpy porridge laced with honey. What it lacked in refinement it more than made up for in bulk. His clothing consisted of newly purchased, rough brown breeches and a homespun shirt. He wore his own scuffed leather boots.
Clean-shaven, his dark brown hair still damp from his morning ablutions,and his stomach full, he felt almost human again as he walked outside. His mouth twitched gently at the thought. It was almost funny, considering the alien terms he had learned under Angelique's harsh tutelage. Lycanthrope. Loup-garou. Werewolf. Could he even call himself truly human , now?
No matter the name he gave it, the beast lurking inside him was a fierce, ravenous monster, existing only to kill, wanting only the moon to release it.
Instinctively, he glanced at the cloudless sky. Soon , he realized, with a sinking feeling. It would be all too soon.
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Twilight found him on the outskirts of town, gazing moodily into the wooded distance. Despite its obvious shortcomings, he wasn't all that eager to leave this place. Here at least, he had hot food, a roof (however ill-constructed) over his head, and a bed to lie on. For as long as his money lasted, anyway.
He almost laughed aloud. Oh, Father... How far your son has fallen.
"Something amuses you, sir?"
Barnabas turned to find the serving woman from the tavern standing behind him. Something stirred inside him at the sight of her, something he had no immediate name for. "Misstress..." He fumbled, surprised by his own awkwardness. "Forgive me, but I don't know your name."
"Cassandra, sir." She swayed toward him, her covered workbasket balanced on one hip. "My name is Cassandra."
She was close to him now, so close that her tantalizing fragrance filled his nostrils. Quite unconsciously, he took a deep breath, drawing the wild scent into his lungs. "Were you looking for me?" she asked, slanting an almost feral look at him. A deliberate toss of her head swept her raven hair back from her shoulders, and a knowing smile lifted the corners of her mouth. "Did you want me...for something?"
Barnabas told himself he was imagining the hidden meaning in her words. "No, I...of course not." He sounded unconvincing even to his own ears. His head was spinning. What was it about her...?
"Oh, I think you were," she said, reaching up to caress his face with her fingertips. Her touch left hot trails of fire in its wake, and he shivered. "You want me...as I want you."
He brushed the basket aside, neither of them noticing as it spilled to the ground, freshly picked herbs scattering at their feet. He pulled her against him, her perfume washing over him, making him dizzy. Making him almost painfully aware of the desire spiraling across every nerve ending. Her fingers tangled in his hair, drawing his face down to hers and, when their lips met, he forgot everything but the woman in his arms.
The shadows beneath the trees were deep and inviting. He didn't protest when she took his hand and led him into them.
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Barnabas lay beneath in the cool shadows beneath the trees, listening drowsily to the muted murmur of the nearby brook. Cassandra's body curved warmly against his, her dark head resting on his shoulder. As the fires of passion cooled, regret stirred, bringing with it guilt. Josette was dead...and this was how he honored her memory?
With a muttered curse, he moved to disentangle himself from Cassandra's embrace. She stirred reluctantly. "Barnabas? What's wrong?"
"This was a mistake." He slipped free of her entwining arms and began hastily gathering his scattered clothing. "I have to..."
She propped herself langorously on one elbow and toyed with the leather charm she wore about her neck. The gesture released a fresh wave of perfume, and Barnabas flet his desire returning. The sudden rush of longing threatened to overcome all reason, and he swayed on his feet.
"Barnabas? Mon amour -- " She held out her arms to him, beckoning. She was so lovely, so...
"No..." This was wrong! He shook his head, trying to clear it. What was she doing to him?
He scrambled back a few steps, suddenly seeing things in a new light. What was she doing to him? He stared at her, at the small leather pouch dangling between her breasts. "You...you're a witch!"
A sly smile flickered across her lips, not quite reaching her eyes. "And how have I possibly harmed you, Barnabas? Tell me you found no pleasure in my caresses, no joy in my arms..."
When he remained silent, she laughed, mocking him. "You cannot! It pleased you very well to lie with me." She smiled. "Come, my love...Lie with me, again."
"No! Never!" He dressed swiftly, not bothering to tuck in his billowing shirttails. "You'll not work your spells on my again!"
"This?" She held up the leather charm, let it dangle from her fingertips. "Oh, mon cher ..." She laughed. "Do you truly believe that I would need a love charm to draw you to me? No, no...this serves another purpose. You came to me quite of your own free will...as you did in Martinique."
As he watched, horrified, her countenance blurred, rippled...and reshaped itself into one that was all-too-familiar. Suddenly, she was as he had always known her: golden hair spilling about her bare shoulders, laughing up at him with the devil's own blue eyes.
"Did you really think you had escaped me, Barnabas?" she asked, smiling. "I will always be with you, my love. Always ."
" Angelique ..."
He turned and fled, but he couldn't outrun her mocking laughter...
The series continues with "The Winter Wild".