Anne Brontë Nightwalker

Chapter 33

"Easy, Anne," William says. "I give you my word, I shan't let any harm come to you. You are perfectly safe."

Woody stirs, looking around, unseeing and blinking. He sniffs the air. I place him on the car seat and William reaches a hand out, grasping my arm to stop me from bolting. "Trust me. You are under my protection." His heart beats so smoothly I can't believe he is lying.

William steps out of the car with Woody, whom he places on the ground. He comes to my door, but I don't wait for him to open it. I step out and give him a dark look. My heart is racing while his beats calm and steady. He should be afraid, not me, and with a shaky breath I try to keep that in mind.

Woody and I follow him to a pair of enormous hand-carved doors. They swing inward, seemingly of their own accord, and I am presented with a grand, expansive dome-shaped room with cathedral-like ceilings. Chandeliers of Murano crystal illuminate the room in shades of lavender and pink. An immense Persian rug covers thirty feet of floor, embroidered in tight silk stitches with trees and birds and fruit. Across the room are walls of books and scrolls vanishing up toward the ceiling. I follow them with my eyes, tilting my head back to see. Epictetus in Latin, Aeschylus in Greek, the Torah in Hebrew, Sanskrit, Coptic, Russian, Old English fairy tales, Gaelic and Icelandic myth. Everyone is there: Dickens and Dostoyevsky, the Rosettis and David Vann.

Delicate ladders on wheels are placed before the ascending souls and halfway up, a narrow ledge circles the books. In the center of the dome, stained glass glows from the light of the moon. Stars and a crescent moon are emblazoned upon it and in one corner a crimson sun is just beginning to rise.

A fire blazes beneath a carved marble mantle, reminding me of Savannah's long bright hair. Its heat licks out toward me in sparking tendrils. An endless library table resides some distance away where an elegant man sits at one end. A manuscript is open before him. With a start, I recognize the Biltmore's night watchman, Old Man Vander. Tonight his hair is down, silvery white. Instead of his park ranger uniform, he wears a velvet smoking jacket and black silk trousers. He smells of tobacco and blood.

A Night Walker! It's a trap. William has betrayed me.

I spin for the door, but it shuts behind me with a heavy thud. There are no windows, only the skylight high above. In fury, I turn on William but he's sauntered away closer to his ally.

Vander stands and gives me a deep bow.

"Anne," William says, "may I present to you George Washington Vanderbilt. And to you, sir, I present, Miss Anne Brontë."

I recoil in surprise.

With a liquid wave of his hand, Vanderbilt says, "I have outgrown formalities. Please call me Vander, my dear. I know exactly how you're feeling, Miss Brontë. It appears the erudite professor has a knack for tracking. He has found me out as well. But after all these years of solitude, I believe you'll find it rather pleasurable having a friend and enlightening conversation. I'm sure you will come to appreciate his talents as much as I do."

"I won't be staying around to appreciate anyone's talents," I snap. "And the name is Bell. Anne Brontë is dead."

Vanderbilt nods. "I quite understand, my dear. But desperate times call for desperate measures. Someone is killing the young maidens of our fair town and as I do not leave the grounds, it falls to you to bring this predator to justice."

"To me! Are you nuts? I can no more stop an Alpha from killing than end a world war."

"Once you eat properly, your fortitude will be restored. Anorexia has made you frail and given you a greater sense of vulnerability than you really have. Please, my dear, take a seat and let us get caught up on one another's lives."