"I--I can't get it." Betty was crying and giggling at the same time. "My hand keeps shaking. Here, you do it." She pressed the key into Quentin's hand.

He had the shakes too. But he got the door open somehow, and they stumbled into the living room and collapsed on the sofa. A moment later they were embracing again, each of them rapturously caressing a warm, vital young body they had thought lost forever.

They made love again. But this time, when their passion was spent, he held her at arm's length and looked long and hard into those shining eyes.

"Betty. Do you understand what I turned into last night?"

The light in her eyes faded. "Y-yes." She hugged herself, looking away. "I'd know about it from your books, even if I'd never heard of it before. You became a"--she choked on the word--"a werewolf."

"All right. I'll try to explain. But..." He looked around, trying to organize his thoughts. Feeling more and more bewildered. "I don't understand what happened here."

It made sense, on reflection, that their screams the night before hadn't roused the neighborhood. He'd had the house soundproofed a while back, after the neighbors objected to an especially noisy occult ritual he had tested prior to describing it in a novel. Their protests would have been even more vocal if they'd guessed that the howls in response to his chants were, in all probability, of demonic origin.

But why hadn't those private duty nurses rushed into his room last night? If they'd been afraid to come in, why hadn't they called the police? They obviously hadn't, or the place would be swarming with cops now. All Betty had told him in the car was that the nurses were all right.

She met his eyes. "You're wondering about the nurses. I had dismissed them, Rick, earlier yesterday. B-b-because I thought you were dying, that you wouldn't last the night. There was nothing anyone could do at that point. And I just w-wanted to be alone with you!" She broke down in tears. He gathered her into his arms, felt her quivering like a frightened bird.

He held her, stroking her until she was calmer. Then she looked up, and continued in a shaky voice. "I-I tried to stop you from running out of here, after you ch-changed. But of course I couldn't. I didn't know what to do... I cried all night, then started out at daybreak to look for you. But I never expected to find you, certainly not l-like this. I didn't expect to find you alive at all!"

"I didn't expect to find you alive either." He studied her troubled face. "Betty. Do you have any idea why I didn't kill you?"

"Y-yes." She gave a long shudder. "I think it was because of...this."

She fumbled inside her turtleneck, and pulled out something he had never seen on her before. A silver chain...and suspended from it, a medallion. A pentagram.
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He recoiled in spite of himself. Confused, hurt. "You knew? You expected me to turn into a werewolf?"

"No, of course not!" Her eyes blazed. "How could I? All I expected you to do last night was die! I didn't even know there was a full moon. I was so wrapped up in you that I was completely out of it."

"Then why--?"

"Why was I wearing a pentagram?" She sighed. "Because I always wear it, Rick. Or rather, almost always. Inside my clothes.

"I knew what it was, and I knew you understood such things, so I was self-conscious around you. I never wanted you to see it. When I was getting ready to go to bed with you, I always took it off and slipped it under the pillow."

He reached out and touched it with a tentative finger. Still mystified.

Betty captured his hand and lifted it to her lips. "I'll tell you why I wear it now. It's...the only memento I have. Of...my father."

His jaw dropped. "Your father?" His mind raced back, struggling to recall what little she had told him about that mysterious parent. "Your father was--?"

"No, no! It's not what you think. He didn't give it to me for protection." Her hand closed on the medallion, and her eyes misted. "It was the best day I ever spent with him. The one time I ever felt close to him.

"He told me he wanted me to have this to remember him by, always. Because it was his most treasured possession. He said he had taken it--this 'piece of jewelry,' he called it--from the dead body of the only woman he had ever loved. Not his wife, or my mother. Someone else..."

"How strange," Quentin breathed. "That was all it meant to him, a 'piece of jewelry' of sentimental value? He didn't understand the significance of the pentagram?"

"I can only tell you what he told me, Rick. Not what was in his mind."

"Of course... Betty, I wonder about the woman! Did she know what it was, I wonder? Or had it simply been handed down in her family for generations, its purpose forgotten?"

She shot a glance at him, and gave a shaky laugh. "I know you. You're already thinking of using her story in a novel!"

He felt a rush of blood to his cheeks. "I'm sorry." Still, he forged on. "If she was concerned about an actual werewolf, I assume it didn't kill her. Couldn't have, if she was wearing this. Did your father tell you how she died?"

"Y-yes. She drowned. And my father..." She bit her lip.

"What? What were you going to say?"

"Only that...he sometimes wondered if he was the only one who mourned her. He was young at the time, but he never forgot."

She had released her hold on the medallion, and Quentin fingered it again. Reverently, this time. "Betty," he whispered, "do you realize they saved your life last night? Your life and my sanity, at the very least.

"Your father, a man I never knew. And a woman neither of us knew, a woman we can't even name..."

"Only a writer. Only a writer would give it a romantic gloss like that!" She was laughing at him again.

But her eyes were brimming with tears.
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Twenty minutes later Quentin was digging into a stack of pancakes, eating with the same gusto with which he found himself doing everything now. "Great to have teeth," he said around a mouthful of food. "Not that I really need them for pancakes, but you know what I mean."

"Yes, I know." Betty hadn't touched her own meal, beyond moving it around the plate with her fork. She was smiling indulgently at him, but the smile failed to reach her eyes.

He stuffed another forkful into his mouth. "I am--" He had to give up on it, wait till he'd swallowed. "I am going to tell you about myself. But I was just so hungry!"

"I understand, really I do." She reached across the table to pat his arm. "You haven't eaten properly in a week. Relax, enjoy your breakfast. You can tell me over coffee."

The morning Globe lay on a corner of the table, where she had dropped it after skimming the front page.

As Quentin returned to his pancakes, she nudged it out of sight behind the toaster.
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They took their coffee into the living room. He still hadn't been able to bring himself to look into the study.

He surveyed the living room and announced, "This year I want a Christmas tree! Right there, in the bay window."

Betty frowned up at him. "You never wanted a tree before."

"I know. I don't understand what's come over me." He closed his eyes, reveling in the imagined scent of new-cut pine warring with the aroma of mincemeat that would drift in from the kitchen. Christmas goose, plum pudding. All the things he hadn't bothered with for a half-century or more. "I feel...more alive than I have in a long, long time. I want to sense everything, experience everything! This may be the way I felt when I really was as young as I look. It's been so long, I'm not sure."

"Well, that answers one of my questions." She rolled her eyes. "Whether you're actually closer to thirty or ninety."

"I'm ninety." He sank onto the sofa, pulling her down beside him. "And I swear, the only reason I never told you this before is that you wouldn't have believed it."
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He told her everything. Or rather, almost everything. He didn't omit the parts that reflected worst on him, chief among them his half-accidental, half-deliberate strangulation of Jenny. His betrayed wife had been insane, trying to kill him--but in light of the difference in their strength, that was no excuse.

It certainly hadn't impressed Jenny's sister, the gypsy Magda, who'd saddled him with the werewolf curse.

But in explaining his own past, he was careful to safeguard secrets entrusted to him by others. The time-traveling vampire cousin who might--or might not--lie sleeping in a chained coffin in the Collins family mausoleum. The grandson who had borne the werewolf curse for six years, and now roamed Europe in the ageless body of Garth Blackwood.

It was to protect Gavin, he told himself, that he omitted all mention of Count Petofi. If he discussed the old sorcerer, he'd have to assure Betty they were in no danger from him, wouldn't he? And he could hardly convince her he knew Petofi was dead without telling her how he had died, exposing Gavin's secret. He knew Betty could be trusted, but he had promised Gavin absolute confidentiality.

Strange, how easily the story flowed without his including Petofi. Tate had painted his charmed portrait, Tate had stolen it after Quentin took Amanda away from him, Tate had--as he thought--enjoyed his final revenge in New York last week. It was all Tate. He merely let Betty assume Tate had painted the portrait of his own volition, for money. No lies in this tale, only omissions.

To protect Gavin. Solely to protect Gavin.

Petofi was dead, dead, dead. And yet...why did he have this fear, deep in his gut, that mention of the sorcerer's name might rouse forces best allowed to sleep undisturbed?
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Betty had listened with rapt attention, asking only occasional questions. Her face was like a thundercloud when he haltingly described the tortures Tate had inflicted on him in New York.

Now he brought his story to a close, and shifted uneasily on the sofa. "I've been...sort of taking for granted that you and I would still be together. But maybe, now that you know the truth..."

"Rick." She squeezed his hand. "It's okay. I'm still here.

"This past week, I realized for the first time how much I...care for you. I didn't mean for this to happen, but it did. So I'm here for the long haul."

He was still uncomfortable. "You're not upset that I was willing to dump you, as Tate so elegantly put it, for Amanda?"

"No." Did he imagine tears welling in her eyes? She blinked furiously. "They say everyone has...one great love in their lifetime. I can understand that. And I'm proud that you were willing to make the sacrifice you did for her."

She cleared her throat. "One thing you haven't explained--I don't know if you can. Do you have any idea why you transformed into a young man this morning?"

Relaxing, he pondered the question. "I haven't had much time to think about it. But yes, I can offer a theory.

"It may be that the werewolf brain, such as it is, controls the transformation back into human form. And that brain must have been totally confused. If I had aged in a normal way, transforming into a werewolf every month, it could have adjusted to the gradual changes in my human form. But I was only a werewolf for four months back in 1897, when I was twenty-seven years old! Then, from the wolf's point of view, nothing for over sixty-three years. And now, suddenly, I was a dying old man.

"I think the wolf brain was unable to cope with that. So it transformed back into the form to which it had become accustomed over that four-month period in 1897."

He heaved a sigh of relief. "And I'm certainly glad it did!"

Betty was nodding thoughtfully. "Rick, that could explain why you're bursting with energy today. You've always seemed like a young man to me. But perhaps, now, you really are twenty-seven years old, in a way you weren't when you were dependent on the portrait."

"I think you're right." His sudden, barking laugh made her jump. "Tate may actually have done me a favor!" He got up and headed for the kitchen. "More coffee?"

"No," she said weakly. "And, Rick, I wouldn't have put it quite that way..."
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It was mid-afternoon before she succeeded in breaking through his exuberance. "Rick, aren't you concerned that the moon may be full again tonight?"

He froze. "Oh, hell. It's so wonderful just to feel well again that I haven't thought of it all day.

"I can't believe I'll transform tonight." He looked at her pleadingly, as if she could somehow control it. "A day as perfect as this one couldn't end like that!"

"I hope you're right," she said heavily. "There's...something else you haven't thought of, Rick. I hesitated to bring it up, but...once you were sure I was all right, you never asked what you actually did last night."

"What I...did?" Not comprehending. Refusing to comprehend.

She retrieved the Globe from behind the toaster. "It's all over Page One." Forced herself to look up, directly into his anxious blue eyes. "Two people were mauled to death by a 'wild animal.' A woman...and a five-year-old girl."
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"I never killed a child before." Quentin swished the remains of a drink, gazing moodily into its depths. "I killed two women as a werewolf in 1897, but I never killed a child."

Unless you count my ghost's killing David Collins in 1969, in a history Barnabas supposedly changed. Who knows. By the time 1969 rolls around, maybe I will be a ghost. Killing children.

He drained his glass, and reached automatically for the decanter.

"You've had enough, Rick." Betty moved it away from him.

"S'pose you're right."

"And, Rick"--she leaned across the table and lifted his chin, making him look at her--"this isn't your fault. You bore some responsibility for what happened in 1897. But this is Tate's doing."

He settled back in his chair. "Is it?" he mused. "I believed I was doing the noble thing when I risked myself to save Amanda. But I never thought of the people I might kill or maim if I became a werewolf.

"I've killed two people already. Even if I had saved Amanda from a 'fate worse than death,' would that be a morally acceptable trade?"

"If you intended it as a trade, no," she said reasonably. "But you didn't. You were thrust without warning into a desperate situation, given no time to think. What you did was heroic! You could easily have died without ever becoming a werewolf again."

"I suppose I could die now." Then he shook his head vehemently. "No, no! I've heard frightening legends about what happens to werewolves who commit suicide.

"But aside from that...after the past week, the shock of getting my life back, I can't give it up. God help me, I can't!" His shoulders heaved as he began to sob.

"And there's no reason you should." She came around the table to comfort him, and hugged him fiercely. "I can't lose you. I won't! I tell you, Rick, you're an innocent victim."

"M-maybe you're right." He tried to pull himself together. "Tate hasn't heard the last of this!" Anger flared, then collapsed under the weight of his depression. What was the use of railing against Tate? The man was invulnerable.

Concentrate on the immediate problem. "When you saw I wasn't thinking clearly, you should have reminded me sooner. About the danger tonight."

"I didn't have the heart. But what difference would it have made? We can't do anything about it." Her face was a study in frustration. "If you become what you became last night, I don't think there's any lock that would hold you."

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He had almost mentioned a doctor of his acquaintance...a doctor who had kept one werewolf safely under lock and key during full moons, and would willingly have done the same for another.

But could he, in all conscience, appeal to Julian Hoffman? His son's friend was approaching eighty, and had a wife who would have to be kept in the dark.

Could he, for that matter, risk going to Collinsport?

No.

He sighed. "I could have gotten out of town, maybe to a forest where the wolf would attack only animals. But I'd have to drive a long way from Boston to find a place like that.

"Anyway, I'm here now. I may as well be doing something." He pushed his chair back.

"What?"

"Burning those clothes. The ones I"--watching her closely--"stole this morning."

As he thought, it hadn't occurred to her that the clothes were stolen. He saw her eyes widen slightly as she grappled with that, then accepted it. "Why do you have to burn them?"

"Maybe I'm being over-cautious," he conceded. "But I chucked that nightshirt in the clothing store I broke into. And I realize now it had the werewolf victims' blood on it. Even if someone connects the incidents, they can't search every closet in the Greater Boston area for those missing clothes--but I'd still prefer to be on the safe side."

She nodded emphatically. "What about fingerprints, Rick? You must have left some in the store. Are your prints on file anywhere?"

"N-no." He wracked his brain, then shook his head and said confidently, "No. Interpol had them a few years ago, associated with a different alias. But I broke into their files and got rid of everything they had on me."

"I won't ask why Interpol was after you." A thin smile. "While you're burning the clothes, I can call some acquaintances, mention that your grandfather died last night. I suppose I should say his body has been taken back to New York State for burial--Monday?"

Quentin nodded, feeling more like himself as they dealt with manageable problems. "That sounds about right. Then we can go somewhere Monday, be seen driving off and coming back hours later. The neighbors may not be paying any heed, but we should cover all bases.

"And as soon as possible, I'll have to replace the study window the werewolf"--he couldn't bring himself to say "I"--"broke last night. If anyone notices, I'll say the wind broke it."

"The wind?" Betty frowned. "Rick, it hasn't been that windy."

"Then..." He turned the problem over in his mind, and came up with a solution. "It didn't fit well. Rattled so much, in even light wind, that the glass was finally weakened enough to break. It must have broken out rather than in, but there's still enough ratty grass out there that no one will have seen the shards. And the neighbors don't know poor old Grandpa was in that room, so the coincidence of its breaking the night he died won't seem unbelievable.

"Thank God the shutters weren't closed. We never could have explained their being broken too!"
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By the time he had burned the clothes in the living room fireplace, and Betty had made her phone calls, darkness was descending.

Betty strolled outside. Noted that the Dennison house, on one side, was completely dark, while the O'Briens, on the other, were apparently in their living room.

She went back in and said tersely, "Kitchen."

So they sat in the kitchen, back door open despite the chill, Betty's pentagram outside her sweater.

And waited.

After an hour, Quentin allowed himself to relax. "It's okay. It would have happened by now." He was shaking visibly.

Betty stood up, ashen-faced. Stumbled, and had to grab a chair for support. But she pulled herself erect, took a deep breath.

And said, "Let's get dinner."
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They fell into bed early, exhausted from the strain they'd been under. Lay side by side, too tired for lovemaking.

"I'll have time to prepare for next month," Quentin assured her. "I'll drive around well in advance, find a wild area where I can hole up for as many days as necessary." He traveled frequently, researching legends he could adapt for his novels. No one would become suspicious.

"Let me go with you," she suggested. "At least next time. The moon will be full New Year's night. Our going away together over the holiday would be more believable than your going alone."

"All right." He rolled on his side and kissed her bare shoulder. "Thank you, Betty. For everything..." His voice trailed off.

She lay awake for another hour, listening to his regular breathing.

And wondering why, in telling her the life story she in fact knew almost as well as he did, he had never mentioned Count Petofi.