Wolfsbane by William W. Johnstone Page A

few hundred feet, walked a few hundred, and repeated the process several times, down the dirt road that led to the county-maintained blacktop. He repeated that run/walk once more before sunset, then, too tired to eat, collapsed in his bed. He could not remember ever being so exhausted.
    Or so sober.
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    In her dreams, she heard a howling; a howling of such fierceness she fought her way out of sleep and sat up in the bed, her heart pounding from fright. She listened carefully to the night sounds, but the howling—if it had been real—was not repeated.
    She rose from the canopied bed and walked to a window, slipping into a gown. She stood for a time, gazing over the moonswept grounds, the open areas of the estate bathed in soft light, with tall, leaping shadows dotting the landscape.
    So beautiful, she thought. So beautiful. Why was I never told about this lovely place? Why did grand’mère Bauterre keep its existence from me?
    So many unanswered questions.
    Janette knew she had been born in Louisiana, of course, but she had left there when she was a month old—and had never returned. Until now. Raised and educated in France, Janette had learned at a very early age not to ask questions about Louisiana, or about grand-père Bauterre, or the mysterious deaths of her parents.
    So many unanswered questions.
    Somewhere on the sprawling estate, a dog howled. But it was unlike any howling she had ever heard. It was—she searched for a word—a warning howl.
    Something dark and large darted from the protection of a huge live oak. Janette watched the . . . thing lope across the yard on all fours. Then, to her amazement, the creature suddenly stood up on its hind legs, as erect as any man. The moonlight was brilliant, illuminating the grounds and the reflecting pool by the side of the house. A hexagonal garçonnière, on the south side of the mansion, dwarfed by the immense trees surrounding it, seemed to glow as the moonlight struck it with shafts of light. The creature moved toward the garçonnière, then stopped, suddenly spinning about, and turned its face upward, toward the mansion. The man/beast screamed as it spotted Janette standing in the window.
    The creature was just like the one she’d seen in the villa in France.
    Janette slumped to the carpeted floor in a dead faint.
    She awakened by her bed, the canopy familiar and reassuring above her. Then quick fear struck her: how had she gotten in her bed? The last thing she remembered was the sight of the creature . . . and then falling to the floor.
    Who had put her in the bed?
    And that awful dream. She had dreamed that her grandmother was standing over her . . . but that creature in her nightmare could not have been her grandmother. Not with wild eyes and fanged teeth. And that awful-looking man . . . so pale.
    No! Janette sat straight up in bed. No, it was not her grandmother. It had been her mother! But who was the bloodied man?
    â€œImpossible!” Janette stepped from the bed and walked to the window. “That is ridiculous!” She looked down at the peaceful grounds in full light.
    She brushed the nightmare away and tried to convince herself that she had seen no creature on the grounds. “It was all part of my dream,” she muttered.
    She tried to convince herself of that. She tried very hard as she bathed in oiled and scented waters in the large sunken tub. But the image of the creature and the people in her dream stayed with her, unshakable.
    And she knew the creature had been real. She wondered about the people in her dream. She wondered if there was truth in that, as well.
    She dressed carefully . . . in a dress. For Victoria Bauterre did not approve of women in men’s pants, as she referred to them. Whores paraded around in britches, she was fond of saying.
    Of course, Janette owned several dozen pantsuits and at least that many jeans, but she tried to dress for meals.
    She walked down the elegant curving