She stood, a lone figure in the deepening shadows of the cemetery, listening to the night wind playing in the elms. Before her lay the grey headstones, cold and austere in the moonlight. She idled slowly past them, one by one, pausing at intervals to read a name here or there, or a date dimly etched in the age-worn stone. The night's insects never once hushed their singing as she passed. They went on even when her laughter broke the evening quiet and she reached down to touch the rough, worn surface of a stone.

"A Lieutenant and a gentleman," she murmured to the dim inscription. "Nathan Forbes. Dear, sweet, slow-witted Lieutenant Forbes!"

She changed her direction when she moved on, gliding past the names of Harriet, Gabriel, Edith, and Samantha Collins, until she paused again before "Joshua Collins, 1753-18O9."

"Joshua..." The word was a whisper, not even audible above the faint and wandering moan of the wind. "Joshua, I have came to take him back. Away from you.... away from all of you!" She stepped past the grave of Jeremiah Collins to that of Josette Collins and said quietly, "I will have him, Josette." Her words became venomous. "He is mine and I will have him. I shall call him forth from his sleep of the dead, Josette. I shall call him away from you!"

The wind sighed, wisping the golden sheen of her hair, and she did not move on, but stood silent in the moonlight, a luminous phantom before the grave of the long-dead Josette.

In the concealing darkness of the elms, a figure crouched, watching her. Shortly, he crept from shadow into light to approach her, his steps cautious, apprehensive. She turned before he spoke, aware of him the moment he'd moved from his lair.

"Angelique?"

"Aristede..." She breathed the name as though it were a welcome relief from torment. But the tone changed abruptly. "You're late."

Aristede shifted a heavy leather bag from one hand to the other and the dull clank of metal came from the inside. "I had to carry these the last half mile. My horse is down behind Collinwood... lame."

Her eyes flashed in warning and he hurried to explain.

"No one will find it -- if they did they wouldn't know to whom it belonged. What are you afraid of?"

Deliberately, she ignored him, and turned back to Josette' s weathered tombstone, her expression betraying a hint of jealous anger.

"Angelique..." He stooped, aware somehow that she was annoyed with him, unwilling to risk provoking her further. At length, he said simply, "We should go."

She spoke without turning, "Do you know _why_ I asked you to come here?"

Aristede's smile was grim. "When the offer is as generous as yours, I know better than to ask questions. Where' s the tomb?"

He followed her gaze through the darkness until he saw, not far away, the white marble mausoleum with the name "COLLINS" boldly engraved above its proud pillars and stone grey madonnas. He thought at once of the riches she had promised him, the priceless jewels entombed with the Collins dead, lying free and unchallenged for any man who had the will and the courage to take them. He was more than certain of his courage and had no doubts whatsoever of his will. But what Angelique herself desired was a loss to him. He asked no questions, though, for in speaking to her no more than he had, it was plain that she was a woman men admired, but must deal with as an equal, a woman capable of a good deal more than met the eye. And, he presumed, the temper she had already shown him might be nothing less than lethal under full provocation. But the curiosity was eating at him. Why should a woman of her obvious means wish to have him open and rob a tomb laden with riches, and yet require no part of the spoils in return? Something, he felt, was certainly not right in that. But the thought of protecting his impending wealth disallowed the satisfaction of his gnawing curiosity, and he kept his silence.

He was suddenly uncomfortably aware that her eyes were on him, watching him as though they might read his every thought: eyes that were deep and captivating, somehow gentle in their cloud-grey color, yet forceful in their stern, unyielding depth of expression. Her voice was mocking when she spoke, fulfilling his fears.

"Since we first met you've wondered, and you wonder now, Aristede. You wonder what it is I want, if not the jewels, in the tomb of a man dead one hundred years. That is what you wanted to ask me, isn't it?"

He stared at her mutely and dared not reply, fearing that she knew already how he doubted her. Perhaps she knew too that his bag held not only his tools but a weapon as well. Perhaps she knew what he suspected; that she could only desire the jewels and had employed him merely as a means of removing the obstacle of stone from the tomb's mouth; a means that she could easily be rid of and leave to rot -- once the gems were hers -- with the corpses of the Collins ancestors. She was surely not beyond such things. Angelique, he grew more certain by the moment, was no ordinary woman.

Her smile made him uncomfortable, made him feel as though she did indeed know his mind and laughed at him for his precaution.

She said no more, but moved off in the direction of the marble tomb, bidding him, like an obedient animal, to follow.

The rusted lock on the door surrendered effortlessly to his bar, and the wrought iron gate swung in upon the mausoleum's musty anteroom. Three stone biers, empty now, were all the forward room possessed. Not even a solitary spider had dared intrude upon the sleep of these dead.

Aristede brought a hand-held torch from the depths of the black bag, along with a match -- one of his many expensively-obtained commodities from the far corners of the world. He struck the match against the rough stone wall and marvelled at its mysterious ability to burst instantly into flame. As he set the torch alight he felt uncommonly disappointed that Angelique had shown no reaction to his proffered talents as both a thief and a murderer. Perhaps when he had opened the grave for her; perhaps even when he had forced her at gunpoint into the inner crypt and sealed her there, she would see that he was no amateur thief, no common murderer. He was accustomed to praise from those who hired him, accustomed to others envying and appreciating his taste for the finer things in life. Angelique's deliberate dismissal of this, her sense of overwhelming superiority and power, both distressed and infuriated him.

He held the torch aloft and read, on the far wall, three inscriptions in the slick, polished stone. His voice echoed when he spoke. "Which one?"

"The center," Angelique remained near the entrance, still mocking him with her incessant smile. He turned back to the slab, running careful fingers across its surface. It was engraved with the epitaph of Naomi Collins. He frowned at that. "I thought you said it was a man' s tomb?"

Angelique watched him intently from the doorway and did not reply. Perturbed, he began searching for weak areas in the stone, some point where his chisel might enter. Just above the slab loomed the head of a stone lion, a green-encrusted brass ring suspended from its yawning mouth. He reached to inspect it...

Aristede--"

He dropped his hand, turning to look at her.

"You'll forgive me..." She seemed suddenly wary. "But I don' t believe I should remain to watch your operation long. I may be missed."

Aristede looked dubious. "No one misses anyone at Collinwoed."

She ignored the statement. "When you have found the jewels, take them and go. I must ask you to leave only one. That is all I want of this, Aristede. One jewel must be left as you find it."

He was growing impatient. "Which one is that?"

"A ring," she said faintly, and her eyes were bright with a far away memory, "a black onyx ring on his right forefinger. You must not remove that, ever."

He nodded, bending to open the bag. Before she could possibly release the latch upon the gate he would have the gun in hand, would be ready to kill her if she cried out, or, as he'd hoped, to force her to enter the crypt and be sealed there. His hand closed over the weapon in the bottom of the bag...

He heard her laugh then, and the sound enraged him. The gun cane up and out of its concealment to confront her. But in the instant he turned she was no longer there! With her laughter still echoing off the mausoleum walls, she was gone, and the wrought iron gate remained shut, its latch altogether undisturbed..

Shaken, he allowed the pistol to fall from his hand and clatter noisily to the flagstone at his feet. A breeze shot through the iron gate and sighed against the tiny building, disturbing the midnight quiet of the trees outside.

He reached again for the brass ring and pulled at it experimentally. Flakes of green sifted down from the corroded metal... that was all. He pushed it for a moment, then grasped it firmly and twisted to the left. Instantly, the sound of grating stone swept through the chamber; the slab began to slowly recede into the wall.

The reeking, musty odor of a place long devoid of air assaulted him as he stepped forward, and pushing the lighted torch before him, drove back the thick, engulfing blackness of the tomb. He inched into the vault, past the shape of a coffin entwined in heavy chains to the tier of ancient tapers on the far wall. In seconds, his matches convinced their f1ames to light the room. They made macabre, dancing patterns on the walls, and the smoke from their tallow all but overpowered the heavy stench of death. He returned for his tools and make ready to break the chains from the casket, chains that no doubt guarded a fortune in precious gems...
* * *
Outside, the wind sang an eerie greeting to the silent dead, and somewhere in the distance, a dog chorused with a mournful howl. Angelique stood among the headstones, watching the mausoleum, where the dim flicker of candlelight betrayed its intruder. At her feet, an ornate stone bore the name "Valerie Collins" and the death date "1841." She looked down at it a moment, a hint of sadness in her gaze, then lifted her eyes to the moonlight. Her raiment billowed white in the moon's aura, and its mystical glow cast blue in the gold of her hair.

Then her cry was carried on the wind. "Master... Prince of Darkness, Morning Star... Lucifer, hear me! Hear this, thy daughter!!"

The wind, in answer, swept about her. It called in hoarse chants the names of demons born of Hell.

"A soul have I prepared here for thy realm, oh my Father..." Her voice became rhythmic. "Here may ye hold him, Lord: bring forth from thy Hell lieges! Enclose him herein with stone. And release the bonds of he who would dare defy your will!"

The wind's moan died in a flurry of sound. From far overhead the deep rumble of thunder answered. Clouds, dark and menacing, broiled across the face of the pale yellow moon.
* * *
The thunder died away in the ancient crypt. Aristede gave a final heave on his iron bar, and the chain that bound the coffin snapped at last. It was not until the coffin had fallen to the floor that he realized yet another sound was adding to the din -- stone scraping stone as the massive door of the vault was drawn shut with a resounding thud. All but one of the candles went out and the room was plunged into a darkness pervaded only by the small, weak light of that single taper. Too frightened to cry out, he groped for the door, vainly attempting to force it open. For several moments he ran anxious hands over the rough stone, searching and hoping.

Something stirred behind him. He jumped, turning to face the casket in one swift motion. He was trembling in spite of himself. Just a rat, most likely. That was all.

He started to turn back... and it came again, the faint muffled sound of movement... And again, this time louder than before, a movement that came, unmistakably, from within the ancient casket.

Aristede pressed close to the wall, clutching at damp, wet stone, unable to move and too terrified to cry out.

Hinges groaned, and aided by the grip of a pale hand adorned with a ring of black onyx, the lid of the coffin came slowly and deliberately open...
 

- End -