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BORGO PRESS BOOKS BY VICTOR J. BANIS
The Astral: Till the Day I Die
Avalon: An Historical Novel
The C.A.M.P. Cookbook
The C.A.M.P. Guide to Astrology
Charms, Spells, and Curses for the Millions
Color Him Gay: That Man from C.A.M.P.
The Curse of Bloodstone: A Gothic Novel of Terror
Darkwater: A Gothic Novel of Horror
The Daughters of Nightsong: An Historical Novel (Nightsong Saga #2)
The Devil’s Dance: A Novel of Terror
Drag Thing; or, The Strange Tale of Jackle and Hyde
The Earth and All It Holds: An Historical Novel
A Family Affair: A Novel of Terror
Fatal Flowers: A Novel of Horror
Fire on the Moon: A Novel of Terror
The Gay Dogs: That Man from C.A.M.P.
The Gay Haunt
The Glass House: A Novel of Terror
The Glass Painting: A Gothic Tale of Horror
Goodbye, My Lover
The Greek Boy
The Green Rolling Hills: Writings from West Virginia (editor)
Green Willows: A Novel of Terror
Kenny’s Back
Life & Other Passing Moments: A Collection of Short Writings
The Lion’s Gate: A Novel of Terror
Love’s Pawn: A Novel of Romance
Lucifer’s Daughter: A Novel of Horror
Moon Garden: A Novel of Terror
Nightsong: An Historical Novel (Nightsong Saga #1)
The Pot Thickens: Recipes from Writers and Editors (editor)
San Antone: An Historical Novel
The Scent of Heather: A Novel of Terror
The Second House: A Novel of Terror
The Second Tijuana Bible Reader (editor)
The Sins of Nightsong: An Historical Novel (Nightsong Saga #3)
Spine Intact, Some Creases: Remembrances of a Paperback Writer
Stranger at the Door: A Novel of Suspense
Sweet Tormented Love: A Novel of Romance
The Sword and the Rose: An Historical Novel
This Splendid Earth: An Historical Novel
The Tijuana Bible Reader (editor)
Twisted Flames
The WATERCRESS File: That Man from C.A.M.P.
A Westward Love: An Historical Romance
White Jade: A Novel of Terror
The Why Not
The Wine of the Heart: A Novel of Romance
The Wolves of Craywood: A Novel of Terror
COPYRIGHT INFORMATIONmmxii
Copyright © 1971, 2012 by Victor J. Banis
Originally published under the pen name, Jan Alexander
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Published by Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidebooks.com
DEDICATION
I am deeply indebted to my friend, Heather, for all the help she has given me in getting these early works of mine reissued.
And I am grateful as well to Rob Reginald, for all his assistance and support.
CHAPTER ONE
It was five full years since I had last seen Jeffrey Linton—five years since he had held me in his arms and kissed me while my heart pounded and my head went spinning.
I had not gone to his wedding. My broken heart was my own business. I was nineteen at the time and I thought I would die, that my heart could never mend and love would never come to me again.
Now I was twenty-four and if I had never fallen in love again, I could at least say with certainty that I was healed of that first love.
Still, it was a shock to find myself facing him once again, so without warning. Time, which is a sense experience after all and not a matter of so many measured intervals, disappeared in that first moment. All those years vanished. Christmas Channing was a nineteen year old again, her face flushing with delight.
“Chris,” he said, in the soft sweet voice of old.
“Jeff.” I moved instinctively toward him. He had changed very little. He would be twenty seven now, still slim and youthful, his dark hair spilling across his forehead as it always had, his lopsided grin giving my heart a tug.
“Jeff?” Another voice from deep inside the house. A woman’s voice. Suddenly it brought those five years back to me, the intervening years. I glanced past him and stopped in my tracks.
“Forgive me,” he said in a quick, low voice. “I played a trick on you to get you here because I need help badly, and you were the one person in the world I knew I could trust.”
“I don’t understand,” I stammered. This was too sudden, too unexpected, for me to grasp.
He didn’t let me finish. “I’ll explain everything as soon as we’re alone, I promise. But please, go along with whatever I say until then. It’s urgent.”
I pulled my hand from his with a jerk. A growing anger was taking the place of my initial surprise. I had traveled nearly two hundred miles from New York City for what appeared to be some shabby practical joke.
“I don’t know why you brought me here under false pretenses,” I said coldly, “but I don’t think I want to stay.”
“Chris.” There was such an unmistakable note of urgency in his voice, such a look of pleading on his face, that it stopped me. “It means life and death to me. My life and death.”
There
