As we walk toward his home, I rock Woody in my arms like a babe. William appears deep in thought and doesn't say a word. Does he recognize Emily? Me? We look so altered from the turning, he couldn't possibly know. Few artistic renderings of us ever existed and even then, they hardly did us justice. What reason would he have for believing Anne and Emily Brontë are here in Asheville almost two centuries after their deaths? Only a madman would consider such a thing. Then I remember, William is slightly mad, although it is hard to reconcile his appearance with the thought.
We come upon his green and burgundy home. I didn't really see it earlier, so dazed was I by his pleases as he led me inside. Now I take a closer look. It's in need of a new roof and paint job, but nonetheless appears sturdy. Two reading chairs and a lamp snuggle on his front porch, which is strung with tiny, twinkling amber lights. Ivy spills over a pot down a wall and a Montford neighborhood flag hangs beside his door. For a moment, the ridiculous hope flares that he's taking me to his porch to sit and talk about literature with Woody at our feet, Ivanhoe upon the rail.
Instead, he opens the protesting passenger door to a boxy gold Mercedes. The door sticks and he gives it a yank. I slip in over the duct-taped leather seat holding Woody in my arms. William shuts the door behind us.
I'm supposed to be leaving. What in the world am I doing? But I can't leave Emily. Not when I just found her. And yet if I'm so worried about my sister, why am I in the car with William?
Self-awareness can be such a burden.
It takes a while for the car to start. William presses his lips together as the engine struggles to turn over. I remember my earlier words, your mother would be gravely disappointed, and shame stings my cheeks. I can see embarrassment at his recalcitrant vehicle rising in his face, filling him with blood. He smells delicious. "It's in need of restoration," he says with a worried glance my way. "As is the house, also. Something I plan to do if any of my books ever become profitable, which I expect to happen about the time hell freezes over," he murmurs under his breath.
The car is old, but classic. Finally, its engine rumbles to life, and William turns the heat all the way to high. The radio wells up, a slow blues song. "Strange Love." And I am back in New Orleans, pressing into a dark corner, transfixed, boots sticking to a beer-slick floor, while Slim Harpo seduces the room with his harmonica. I was especially vulnerable in New Orleans. The smoke-drenched bars full of howling horns and whiskey-soaked voices continually lured me out of hiding. All rhythm and blood. Swamp blues and heartache. Music like I had never heard before, roaring, hollering with life. The Big Easy, full of easy kills. I never partook, but many Night Walkers did, slipping through bars and alleys feasting upon drunks and whores. They have always liked New Orleans. Especially Alphas. I didn't want to leave, but I couldn't stay. It was impossible to remain invisible.
William pulls onto the road and drives through town. My chest grows tight. Dawn is eight hours away, and I don't know where he's taking me. To travel without control like this is a ridiculous risk. Yet for some reason I trust him when only earlier tonight I thought I didn't. God, I'm so confused. Emily and Day Walkers and William Hardcastle. It's utterly overwhelming.
"Don't worry," he says. "I'll have you home at a respectable hour." He gives me a reassuring nod. When his eyes catch mine, the knots in my stomach tighten.
"I'm sorry," I say, "for my horrid words earlier."
"I forgive you." He stares out the windshield. "I think I could forgive you anything."
He doesn't know what he's saying. He doesn't know what I've done.
As we drive through Biltmore Village my curiosity grows, and when we turn onto Vanderbilt Drive in Biltmore Forest it begins to rage. Where could he possibly be taking me?
Eventually, William turns onto a narrow dirt road that seems to run along the eight-thousand-acre Biltmore Estate. High, graceful trees hang over the drive, their bare branches in Gothic relief against the sky. I've lived here almost ten years and never seen this particular road before. After a mile or so of driving through dense forest, we arrive before an iron gate, tall and steel grey.
I suddenly grow cold.
William leans over me and pulls a remote out of the glove box, pressing it. The gate glides open. I cast him a look of astonishment as he drives through a back entrance to the Biltmore Estate.
He smiles at me and I am warm again. "Have you ever been here before? Outside of work, I mean. Have you seen the full grounds?"
I shake my head no.
"They were designed by landscape architect, Frederick Olmsted. He designed Central Park as well. Together, he and Vanderbilt reshaped the very earth itself, the swell of hills, the lay of water, yet I find it absolutely astounding how natural and harmonious it all appears. Vanderbilt had quite an artistic instinct."
"Well, he could afford to, couldn't he? You make them sound like gods, fashioning the earth, directing the waters."
"Not gods. Visionaries. Many people have money, but few have any aesthetic vision. Money wasn't Vanderbilt's passion. It was beauty. He drained most of his family fortune creating what you see here. I imagine some of the heirs never quite forgave him."
There is an inviolable sense of sanctity to the land I can't deny. A hush. The trees rise about us, enormous and grand while snow dusts the earth like crushed pearls. Who could not find peace here? In the distance, the chateau looms out of the night like an enchanted castle. All the lights are out. It looks empty and dead.
We circle the house in a wide loop and I lose sight of it behind a hill. William follows a road through never-ending trees and when he slows I see the great house rising once again over the crest of a far hill beyond a lake. Nothing lies before us except more quiet road and swelling hillside. Confused, I look around, wondering why he has stopped, feeling my breath turn shallow.
Again he reaches into the glove compartment and presses a remote. "Last time," he says. To my surprise the very ground before us shifts, then drops away, revealing a broad tunnel lined with thick stone pavers descending deep into the earth. Dim, spectral lights illuminate the way. William pulls the Mercedes forward and we roll into the depths, down and down and down, while the earth rises behind us, sealing us in.
Fear rushes my heart. My vision sharpens and the volume of the world wells up. I can hear everything. The tires turning over the thick pavers, click clack, click clack. William's breath. The sound of Woody's heart beating against my palm.
I do not know this man. This is only the third night of our acquaintance. I am stronger than him, but not infallible. I can be trapped and held. Tricked. What a fool I've been! To follow like a lamb to the slaughter the first man who kisses me. Am I so desperate for affection? All the questions I have never asked come rising up. What is he doing here? Why has he accepted me so readily? Why so few questions as to my strange habits? Waking up with my blood in his mouth.
It hits me like a blow: William Hardcastle is not all he claims to be.
Santos. Afghanistan. For three days, William interrogated the Night Walker. Watched him die. What did he learn?