An unnatural stillness fell over the apartment, and for a long time Chloe stayed where she was, her eyes fixed on her mistress’s lifeless body. Finally she rose to her feet and padded across the floor toward Andrea. She put her forepaws on the sofa and began licking at Andrea’s hand, then climbed up to lick at her face. Only when she was exhausted from her efforts to bring her mistress back to life did the little dog finally press herself close to Andrea’s body, curl herself into a tight ball, and fall into a restless sleep.
On the floor below, the party went on, no one having seen or heard anything at all.
CHAPTER 18
Tony Fleming knew the time was near — he could feel the cravings in every cell of his body now. It was a strange kind of hunger, not centered in his belly, but raging through every part of his body, gnawing at his mind, devouring his very soul.
The soul he was certain he didn’t possess.
He shut his mind to that thought, concentrating his attention on Caroline, who lay next to him in the bed. They’d made love an hour ago, and even though his body felt weak and his mind had been distracted with the craving, he’d hidden it all from Caroline, satisfying her as perfectly as he had on that first night, when they’d slipped out of the main house and made their way down the path and through the palm trees to the beach. The tide was low, and they’d lain on the sand beneath the full moon. Caroline had worried about the children at first, begging him to go into the little cabana by the beach, but under the spell of his caresses she’d quickly forgotten her worries, surrendering herself to the ecstasy he offered. Tonight, he’d offered her that ecstasy again, and she’d writhed and moaned under his touch, arching her body toward him, gasping and pleading until finally he’d satisfied her. Then, as the craving welled up in him once again, she’d drifted into sleep, her panting breaths slowing to a steady gentle rhythm that should have lulled him into slumber, too.
But sleep would not come to him — not yet at least. So he lay in the darkness, waiting for the clock on his bedside table to strike the hour of midnight. It was a beautiful clock — an ancient crystal regulator so perfectly maintained that its brass glowed like gold and its movement needed resetting only twice a year, in spring and fall. Its ticking was so quiet as to be all but inaudible, and when its hammer fell on its chime, the sound crept through the night with the stealth of a thief.
Only if you were listening for it could you hear it at all.
Then at last it happened: the clock struck once, twice, then ten times more, and Anthony Fleming rose from the bed, bent close enough to his wife to feel her breath on his lips, then moved through the familiar darkness of the bedroom into the privacy of his bathroom. Closing the door carefully enough that the click of the latch was barely louder than the ticking of his clock, Tony turned the light on and gazed at himself in the full-length mirror that was mounted on the inside of the bathroom door.
His body still looked strong — his shoulders broad, his torso narrowing to his hips without the slightest trace of bulge or flab. His chest was covered with a thick mat of curling black hair, just beginning to be shot through with the same gray that was starting to show on his head, but except for those first strands of gray, he looked far younger than his years. Under the bright light of his bathroom, though, he could see far more clearly that time was taking its toll.
The tan he’d gotten on Mustique didn’t quite cover up the liver spots on his hands and arms. His skin was beginning to lose its elasticity: the faintest beginnings of wattles were starting to show on his neck, and the veins in his legs were starting to look varicose. Soon his hair would begin to thin, his muscles would lose their tone, and his eyes would sink deep into their sockets. He would start to look like his neighbors, his youth ebbing away, leaving behind nothing but a living carcass rotting from within. Would his eyes go first, leaving him blind like Helena Kensington? Or would his muscles atrophy to the point where he could no longer walk, like Lavinia Delamond?
As all the images of youth destroyed by devouring age flickered through his mind, the cravings that had stolen his sleep that night grew stronger and stronger, calling out to him.
Tempting him.
Beseeching him.
He stared into the mirror at the image of his aging body.
And knew the cravings inside him must be satisfied before it was too late, and he could satisfy them no more.
Flicking the light switch, he plunged the room — and himself — into darkness.
There were people in Laurie’s room.
But that wasn’t right. It was her room, and nobody was supposed to come in unless she told them it was all right.
And the light was on.
Except there was something about the light that was different. It wasn’t the bright light the chandelier cast, or the even brighter beam of her new halogen lamp that stood on the nightstand.
Or even the glow from the streetlights outside.
No, this light was different, filling her room with a strange misty glow like nothing she’d ever seen before. It was as if it were foggy, but the sun was out.
And from out of the mist the voices came.
The same voices from last night?
She couldn’t be sure.
They seemed to be much closer than they were last night, but she couldn’t quite make out the words. Then, right next to her bed, a figure appeared.
A figure she recognized.
Helena Kensington!
The old woman was bending toward her, reaching out with her gnarled fingers, and a moment later she could feel their touch playing over her face. Closing her eyes, Laurie tried to pull away, but couldn’t.
It was as if she was bound to the bed, neither her arms nor her legs obeying her mind. But neither could she feel anything tying her down.
She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out and her mouth felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton.
She tried to twist away from Helena’s touch, but there was no escape from the twisted fingers.
Now more fingers were touching her, and suddenly Laurie could see more faces gazing at her through the glowing mist. Dr. Humphries was there, and Tildie Parnova, and George Burton, and some other people she recognized, but whose names she couldn’t remember. They were all talking, but Laurie couldn’t tell if they were talking to her, or to each other.
She felt someone pulling the blanket and sheet back, and now she was lying on her bed, covered only with her nightgown.
Suddenly she felt cold, even though the room had been warm a minute ago, and her skin went all clammy.
She felt something on her leg now, underneath her nightgown.
A hand?
She couldn’t quite tell.
Now she felt a pain in her body, as if someone was inside her, and trying to cut their way out with a knife.
She wanted to cry out against the pain, but the terrible cottony stuff in her mouth still choked her words, and suddenly she couldn’t breath, either.
What was happening?
The voices were louder, but still she couldn’t understand what they were saying. More hands were touching her, exploring her body, reaching under her nightgown, pinching her flesh. And every instant, the pain in her body grew worse, until she didn’t think she could stand it anymore.
Then, as the pain finally exploded inside her, she felt a terrible gushing sensation between her legs.
Blood!
It was pouring out of her, soaking her nightgown, spreading across the bed. The babble of voices grew, and now she could see fingers being dipped into the blood — her blood — then raised to drooling lips, licked off.