White Jade. V. J. Banis

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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

      *

      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 was no time to argue the point or for further explanation. He had held me there too long for me to make an easy escape. Now there was a flurry of motion in the hall behind him and a woman appeared at his side.

      I recognized her, although we had never met. At the time of her marriage to Jeffrey, she had appeared fairly often in the society columns. In that first painful year, especially in the weeks after their engagement was announced, I sought her name and picture almost daily, a self-inflicted torture. I had gotten over that, however, and in time ceased to read that section of the paper at all.

      Mary Linton, née Morgan, was beautiful in an austere, chilling way. She held her head imperiously high and looked down upon us lesser mortals with haughty disdain. I could imagine the smile that would grace her elegant lips if she were told I was a druggist’s daughter who had once been in love with her husband.

      That was it, of course—that awful snobbishness and my childish reaction to it. I had suffered from that kind of snobbery all through the early years of school, the private school to which my father sent me, not because he could afford it but because my mother had died giving birth to me and he didn’t have the time to look after me and run the store as well.

      I had suffered that same disdain from a changing army of young women who sneered because I was a druggist’s daughter who, they thought, aspired to their exalted station. It had made me distant in return. I had decided I wanted their friendship even less than they wanted mine. I remained independent