Fire on the Moon. V. J. Banis
FIRE ON THE MOON
A NOVEL OF TERROR
V. J. BANIS
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 Horror
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 Horror
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 INFORMATION
Copyright © 1973, 2012 by Victor J. Banis
Originally published as Moon Fire under the pen name, Lynn Benedict
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
I suppose the moment I stepped from the plane in the Lisbon airport, I should have had a premonition that I wasn’t going to have the perfect vacation to which I had so long looked forward. Carlotta was not at the airport when I arrived, and the weather was unseasonably gloomy and dismal, the sky ominously dark and threatening rain—an unusual phenomenon, I learned later, for a Portuguese May.
But I had no such premonition. I was too excited to think about dreary weather, and my parents had warned me that Carlotta was prone to absent-mindedness. So the slight disappointments went by me almost unnoticed.
I doubt if anything could have succeeded in dampening my spirits then. I was far too happy. This was my first trip to Europe, my first trip anywhere for that matter, and minor disappointments could not overcome my excitement.
I’d spent most of the flight imagining myself lolling on Carlotta’s terrace, watching the Atlantic wash its beaches in preparation for the swarm of tourists due later in the month. I thought it was to be a dream vacation with Aunt Carlotta.
I joined the rest of the passengers from the plane in boarding the little buses that waited to take us to the customs shed. I kept peering out of the bus window to see if I could catch a glimpse of Carlotta’s face among those waiting on the other side of the fence.
She wasn’t there, but taking the dismal weather into consideration, I couldn’t blame her for not standing out in the cold. She was most likely inside the terminal waiting for me to get through the business of customs. Any sensible person would be, I thought. But of course, I already knew, Carlotta wasn’t always sensible.
I paused in the crush of passengers beside the customs barrier and strained to look over their heads to see if Carlotta was in the terminal beyond. I didn’t see her; but not seeing her still did not disturb me much. I knew my parents were right; Carlotta was a bit scatterbrained—if not downright irresponsible at times—so I guess subconsciously I was prepared for the possibility of her having forgotten my arrival time.
Oh, she would not forget about my arriving, but she just might get the times mixed up. Knowing her, she would—sooner or later—come rushing into the terminal all out of breath, make a simple apology, and that would be that.
She wouldn’t go on and on apologizing until her apology became artificial. There was nothing artificial about Carlotta. She was sometimes thoughtless, flighty, illogical, yet her common sense and sound advice had helped me overcome my despair after Andrew Fuller broke our engagement.
It had also been Carlotta who had cautioned me about the kind of young man who turned out to be more interested in my family’s money than in me. I loved Carlotta for her strengths as well as her weaknesses; I suppose it was because she reminded me a bit of myself.
Never mind her forgetting my arrival, though. Here I was at last in Portugal. I was surrounded by clusters of dark, foreign-looking people all chattering away in languages I couldn’t understand a word of.
I stood in the center of the main terminal for I don’t know how long, and carefully watched for Carlotta. For a while I was content just to stand and wait; then to sit and wait. But I don’t care how exciting a place is, waiting makes me restless, anxious. By the time a half hour had gone by, part of my excitement, I found, had gone with it.
Minute after minute passed by and I found it difficult to ignore the uneasy feeling that started nagging at me. I couldn’t continue just to sit here and do nothing, I told myself. Face facts, Jennifer. Carlotta forgot, or she got tied up. Don’t work yourself into a lather. Go telephone. Do something.
Of course. The telephone. I wondered briefly how and where to call Carlotta, but I quickly shrugged off the thought. After all I wasn’t in the middle of the Sahara Desert; I could easily find out how and where to telephone.
I stood