Vampire Hunter by Michael Romkey

Author:Michael Romkey [Romkey, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Horror
ISBN: 9780449002001
Google: sDePD3Ao6cwC
Amazon: 0449002004
Publisher: Fawcett
Published: 1999-01-01T22:00:00+00:00

25

NUMBER 13 GARDEN Terrace sat in the middle of the antebellum neighborhood where the money

in Calhoun had collected during the nineteenth century. The Georgian-style mansion previously belonged to

Howard Mosely, a lawyer now retired to Palm Beach. Mosely's decision to sell the family home stunned his

neighbors, though he and his wife had no children to turn the sprawling home over to, with its formal gardens

and expensive upkeep.

The houses in Garden Terrace were owned by Calhoun's leading citizens. The next house to the south,

number 12, belonged to Edward Stapleton, president of the First National Bank of Calhoun. To the north was

number 14, the residence of Dr. Richard Williams, chief of staff at Calhoun Hospital.

Number 13 sat on a spacious lot filled with mature, well-tended trees, the perimeter of the property neatly

delineated with a spike-topped, wrought-iron fence. Behind the house was an English-style garden, with

trellis-lined brick walkways. There was a low marble fountain in the center of the garden, the focal point of a

geometric arrangement of low hedges. In the fountain, golden carp swam among the lily pads. A gardener and

his helper came by three days a week to maintain the garden and lawn.

At the back of the lot, a carriage house with room for six cars adjoined the alley. It was empty except for the

black Lexus.

Four broad columns in front held up number 13's white portico. The double front doors opened into a

spacious formal entry. There were parlors off to either side. A broad staircase climbed the right wall, sweeping

upward past the second floor to the attic, where the house slaves were once quartered. There was no furniture

in the foyer or either of the two front parlors.

The solarium in the back of the house at the far end of the hall was the only room with anything in it. Angled

into one corner of the sparsely furnished room was an antique four-poster bed. Piled high around the bed

were teetering stacks of books. In front of the fireplace was a single leather club chair and ottoman surrounded

by still more heaps of books—novels, histories, biographies, heavy art books. In the center of the room, a

long formal dining table sat at an angle to the walls. There were still more books on the table, plus

miscellaneous art supplies-tubes of paint, a box of pastels, brushes—and a Waterford decanter of port and a

glass.

The western wall was a series of French doors opening onto a limestone balcony and steps leading down to

the garden. The heavy curtains were pulled back on either side and tied open. An easel sat near the windows,

angled to take advantage of the natural light when the sun was up. The canvas was new, its blank surface

awaiting the artist's touch.

Dante sat at the table with his sketch pad propped on the knee of his crossed leg. Oak logs crackled in the

fireplace. How he loved a fierce fire! It was the perfect antidote to years spent trapped in the dark, frigid

waters. Fires, Mozart, and art—they were the only three nexus points with the past that didn't make Dante's

head whirl.

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