Shadows On the Wall Chapter 48: Awakenings by Nicky (Voiceover by Lara Parker): “Collinwood, in the icy spring of the year 1897 ... a time of terror and intrigue for all the residents of the great estate, in this year as well as a time nearly a century in the future. While one girl has already made an impossible and frightening sojourn into the past, the man who loves her, left behind, has prepared to make that same journey, and now finds himself trapped ... a prisoner in a body that has betrayed him ... a prisoner in a tomb ... a prisoner to the curse that had enslaved him so many years before.” 1 She wiped the wind-swept strands of dark hair out of her eyes and cursed her stylist a century in the future for not suggesting a simple bob when last they’d met; out here, in the frigid darkness of Eagle Hill Cemetery on an evening in late March when the bitter caress of the wind scraped her bare cheek and chapped her hands and little flurries of snow still flew, she could allow herself to miss the twentieth century and all its comforts. She’d only been in the past (and how strange a thought that was, that one could actually live in the past in a very literal sense) for little over two weeks, and it was becoming no easier to put her life — her real life — out of her mind. Help, she thought grimly as she struggled through the screaming gale towards the mausoleum that loomed nearby, a twisted monolith, a crouching gargoyle in the torrent of blackness all around her; I need help. Magda wanted to send Sandor, but I have to do it. I have to find the help myself. What form will it take? How will I know what it is? The door to the Collins family mausoleum was locked, but the padlock was dark with rust, and it fell easily to the side with one twist of her hand. She wished for a flashlight as she stepped into the tomb, but knew that they wouldn’t be available for a few more decades at least; I should’ve had the sense to ask Magda for a candle, she thought. The gypsy woman was most helpful, Vicki reflected ruefully, especially when silver crossed her palm. Fortunately Edward seemed completely besotted with his new fiancee, and didn’t object when she pouted for him engagingly and asked for a little more spending money in town. Jamison had caught her at it once and his face became dark and dangerous, but she had seen very little of him — very little of either of the children, actually — for the past few days. He hates me, Vicki thought each time she saw him, snubbed every time, my own grandfather, and he loathes me. But she supposed it was a sacrifice she had to make. She was determined to unravel the truth behind the monster responsible for the death of everyone she had loved in 1967. There had to be a way to fix everything, to make it all right, and she was going to find it. The blackness of the tomb was stifling. It was cold in this awful place, much colder than it had been outside. Vicki shuddered as she walked towards the wall across from the door, and thought, This is a haunted place. She shivered. She lifted her hand to the wall, and let her fingers run over the stone lion’s head that reared from the wall, its eyes blank and fixed, its terrible mouth curled into a snarl and filled with a ring of stone. She thought of the little poem Magda had found in an old journal on the second floor of the Old House. “This is where you find the missing jewels,” she said, her wicked dark eyes glittering beads of greed, “and where you find the help you need. I know it to be so.” Her olive hand stroked the tiny letters as Vicki read them aloud: The Three Graces spin high above The Lion’s Head watches the Dove And in the womb beneath the hill The secret flame glows bright and still. Of course it was the Collins mausoleum at Eagle Hill. It had to be. Quentin had taken her there one night (a morbid sort of date, Vicki thought, but she thought she was falling in love with him and so it was, for all intents and purposes, wildly romantic), and had pointed out the graces. “Spinning into eternity,” he had said, his blue eyes misty for a moment. “Cutting threads when the whim takes them, without consideration for love or —” And his voice had trailed off. The Three Graces spin high above ... “The Lion’s head watches the Dove,” she whispered, and fingered the ring in the lion’s mouth. She started a little, and squinted into the gloom. Had it been her imagination, or had the ring ... moved ... just a little? She took in a deep breath (the Lion’s Head watches the Dove) and took the ring in her hand (And in the womb beneath the hill) and gave it a sharp tug. The secret flame glows bright and still ... The wall fell away with a sickly, shrieking grinding sound, the sound stones would make if they screamed in pain. Vicki closed her eyes and moaned softly, but the sound went on and on as the wall opened like the toothless mouth of (Edith Collins) an old woman, revealing a deeper darkness beyond. I’m terrified, Vicki thought, I don’t want to go in that place; but her feet were carrying her over the threshold, through the mouth, down the steps, and it was only because the moon (nearly half full) sailed through a tear in the clouds and flooded the mausoleum with silver light that she could see the dark shape that sat in the middle of the room. A coffin. It was a coffin, wrapped in chains, perched in the middle of the room like a crouching beast ready to spring. This is where you find the missing jewels, and the help you need. Magda had said that. I know it to be so. She circled the coffin uneasily. What could be inside that would require such carefulness, such preparation? What could possibly be sealed within the sarcophagus, hidden from prying eyes for so long? The chains looked strong. What did she have to break them? Would she break them? Her eyes searched the room around her, but the floor was bare. Nothing. No heavy rock, no club, nothing helpful. Good, she thought, that’s good. You don’t need to open it. Nothing inside that — that thing could be helpful. Nevertheless, she found herself at the edge of the coffin, her hands raised trepidaciously in the air, inches above the chains. She seemed to hear a whisper of many voices, and she closed her eyes and thought, I don’t want to see them; if there are ghosts in the place, spirits that watch over whatever lies inside this box, I don’t want to see them. If they’ll just let me do what I’m supposed to do — if they don’t make me see them — She took a deep breath, then laid her fingers against the chains. A heavy sigh filled the room, as if unseen things had been holding a collective breath, and now released it in evil anticipation. Her hands thrummed beneath her with an eldritch power, and she threw her head back to voice the scream that was building in her as a flood of images assailed her — — a woman’s eyes, crystalline and blue, and her voice is sharp with hate as she screams, I set a curse on you, Barnabas Collins; a little girl, her face blue and her brown eyes wide and empty, frozen to death, her mouth agape and her tongue like a gray dead worm, held in anguished, loving arms; a woman with dark hair and a sad face swallows a snifter of brandy, and grimaces as something in the brandy burns her heart and her soul; a madwoman with frantic mouth and frenetic blue eyes giggles endlessly as she caresses the twin wounds on her throat; a body with a pale face and flowing chestnut hair tumbles over and over through the air until it is impaled on the craggy rocks below, and a man’s shriek of defeat and agony and dreadful, never-ending loss shakes the very foundations of the universe — — and she drew back, gasping and shaking, and the chains covering the coffin shivered, then fell to stone floor in a heavy heap of metal. “My god,” Vicki whispered, but there was no god in this place. It was damned, it was accursed ... it was haunted. I have to do this, she told herself, stepping over the chains and placing her hands on the coffin, I have no choice. And lifted the lid. 2 Nora Collins was dreaming. She had lain in her bed, exhausted, since nightfall, when she had cried her heart out once again. Miss Winters — Victoria — her new mother — whoever she was, she very nice (Nora knew Jamison had hated her on sight, but she had a soft, kind voice and dark brown eyes, just like Nora did, and she hadn’t tried to ply her with a doll or pretty dresses, and so Nora liked her), but she was nothing like Mummy. Nora dreamed of Mummy. She dreamed of her every night. And every night she dreamed of fire. “Mummy!” Nora screamed through the inferno raging about her. Sweat poured down her face in stinging rivers, and her skin felt too hot, too tight. “Mummy, please! Please, I can’t see you! Help me find you!” I’m here, my darling ... Mother’s here ... Smoke coiled and clawed at her, filling her lungs with smothering blackness. She coughed helplessly; all around her the world was alive with hellfire. “I can’t find you, Mummy!” Nora sobbed. “Where are you?” I’m all around you, Nora. Mummy is here. All around you, my darling, my special one — “No!” Nora screamed. The hem of her dress was smoldering, and as she watched, terrified, it burst into flame. She smacked at the licking tongues of fire, but they scorched her hands, and she sank to her knees, sobbing with her face in her hands. Look at me, Nora. Look your mother in the eye — Terrified, Nora lifted her head ... and screamed. A woman stood before her, and she was made of fire. Her hair was golden, and lived and writhed above the flames that composed her head. She reached for Nora with fingers that were flickering snakes of fire, red and orange. Only her eyes were human, and they glared a cold and icy blue. Her fire mouth was curled into a smile. “Darling,” the thing said, “I’ve brought you something —” — and Nora woke up, smothering a scream. She didn’t want to bring Beth in here, or worse, her father. He had forbidden either of his children to mention their mother (“Your old mother,” he had said, and Nora had noticed how Vicki had frowned) ever again, and Nora didn’t want to risk his wrath. She rolled over, and realized her pillow damp with tears. Cry-baby, cry-baby, she could hear Jamison call, and her face twisted up again. There was something hard on her pillow, something cold pressing against her cheek, and she curled her fingers around it and sat up. The thing in the palm of her hand was carved from gold, and glinted in the light of the half-moon that flooded her room with silver light. It looked like an insect of some sort, and suddenly she knew what it was. “It’s a scarab,” she aloud, and blinked, surprised. How did I know that? she wondered, but then the answer came to her. Because of Mummy. Because Mummy knows. Nora began to smile. “She’s coming back,” she whispered, and held the scarab tight against her chest. “Oh, Mummy’s coming back!” 3 Jamison Collins lay on his side amidst a pile of rubble and dust a hundred years old. His face was ashen, and his eyes, half-lidded, fluttered weakly. He tried to take in great gasps of breath, but his breathing was shallow. His lips had begun to turn blue. The flickering spirit of the woman with blonde ringlets looked over its shoulder, back into the dark chamber wherein it had dwelled for an eternity of nights, and its pale, translucent face twisted into a grimace. Her bones lay against the farthest corner of the wall where Barnabas had dropped her body on the night he had murdered her. How long ago that seemed! But she had watched the Collins family lo these many years with her evil blue eyes, and she had known when the time to emerge was right. That ... lawyer ... Evan Hanley ... had somehow stumbled upon a number of her possessions — a handkerchief, a pencil sketch — and it had been devilishly simple to send Jamison Collins after them, just to establish contact, so that he could lend her a part of his soul. They had been returned, of course — they had to be, for the lawyer’s ceremony to be a success — and soon now, very soon, she would live again. “Ma pauvre petit,” the witch simpered. “Expending such energy to keep me on this plane for just a few moments longer. It’s a service I won’t forget, dear Jamison, I promise you that.” She glanced at her hand, so white, so thin, and saw with a shock that it was already beginning to fade; another glance at Jamison showed that the roses were returning to his cheeks. He was her link, her hold on the physical world, and the spell she had used to materialize was beginning to weaken. “No,” she snarled, but her voice was dim, fading like her body, like dew under the harsh rays of the morning sun. It was almost midnight, and that was the proper time for the lawyer to begin the ceremony. “No, not yet —” Jamison tried to sit up, and groaned a little. He took a deep breath, and the witch saw with horror that she was as unsubstantial as a curtain, a shadow, a reflection. “Mother?” Jamison said in a voice made thick with the accents of sleep. He rubbed his bleary eyes. “Mother, is that you?” No! the witch tried to scream, but she was almost part and parcel with the darkness. Her time had come; it was now or never; soon she would be consigned back to the darkness for the rest of eternity. Downstairs, far from spirit or human ears, the grand clock in the foyer, admired by a warlock many years to come, began to chime twelve. 4 Jenny Collins watched the moon from the tiny room of her prison. She knew it was a prison sometimes, just as she knew who her keepers were, and just as she would decide that the time had come to do something about all this foolishness, the spiders would come, nibbling and gnawing and always biting, biting, biting until there was nothing but red specks left before her eyes. And then the babies would cry. When the babies stopped crying, Jenny couldn’t remember exactly what she’d been about to do. Then she would shrug and sigh and wait for that blond woman — Beth, she always reminded herself, that pretty blonde maid is Beth — to bring her a tray, and maybe a new dress. All her dresses were black. Jenny’s eyes filled with tears. “I had a dress of wintergreen once,” she whispered to the depthless, uncaring sky outside her window. She felt its interest was polite as best. “I really did.” A tear, a tiny diamond, slid down her cheek. “I had a dress that was as blue as his eyes —” She broke off, and her face twisted into a scrawl of black anger. “Then she took it all away from me.” Her teeth were bared and white. “It’s her fault. She keeps me here — takes all my dresses —” She was about to rise, but her eyes strayed across the vast expanse of the sky, and they fixed on the moon. It was half full now, a giant cleaved gem in the sky, and it held her with its bone-white face; it beckoned her. She relaxed against the window. “Quentin,” she said. “Quentin, you are in the moon. Why don’t you come down to me?” She watched the moon all that night long. 5 His fingers had tightened around her throat and pulled her into the yawning maw of the coffin before he could stop them. He had barely a moment to marvel at them — bone-white, they were, and withered, and knobbed and gnarled — before they sank into her soft skin. He couldn’t see her face in the darkness of the tomb, but he could smell her. He could smell the hot blood that boiled in her veins even as her heart quickened with her fear. His fangs ached in his jaw, and he felt them come jutting out of his gums like the tusks of an elephant. Must have blood, he thought (an older mind, a mind of darkness and screaming, scratching things); don’t do this thing, another mind begged him, and he was torn, but the girl was in the coffin with him, and his mouth was inches above the vein he knew pulsed and throbbed with the life that would sustain him. “No,” she whimpered, and wasn’t there something in her voice, something familiar? “No,” she gasped, “no, please —” His fangs brushed against her skin, and she gasped, and then he recoiled, twisting away from her, and the coffin fell over with a crash, spilling both their bodies onto the dusty, icy floor of the secret room. The girl was on her feet in seconds, and stood, swaying, and stared at the thing on the floor warily. Then her eyes widened in recognition. “Barnabas!” she gasped. “Barnabas, how —?” The fangs retracted, and he could only stare back at her, his papery face downcast and ashamed. “Vicki,” he whispered. “How is this possible? What are you doing here?” 6 The fireplace in the Hanley home was alive and blazing with twining curls of crimson and orange flames. Evan’s pretty young wife had been safely ushered out of the house for the evening (the Christian Ladies’ League of Decency or some such claptrap; he didn’t care what, so long as it kept her out of his hair while he practiced his oh-so-questionable rites and ceremonies), and had promised that she’d be home around one, which gave him scarcely an hour. He had donned the black robes that ceremony dictated he wear, and now stood before the fireplace with the potion in a bottle in his hand and the objects of power scattered before him on the table. For there was nothing Evan Hanley liked so much as power. Even if he had remembered his previous incarnation as Nicholas Blair, Evan’s course in life wouldn’t have been swayed by much. His urge to acquire as much power as possible was as much a trait of Nicholas’ life as his own, and falling back on the black arts was the easiest way with which to go about getting it. True, too many times his spells and incantations had no effect, but there were times when things seemed to go his way. And after tonight, he was certain that everything would go his way. There had been rumors circulating in Collinsport for years about a coven of witches, but Evan had never found any evidence to back up those claims ... until he visited the antique shop on the corner of Main Street, across from Brewsters, about a month before, and found what could only be described as artifacts — the belongings and very image of a true witch who had existed in Collinsport a century before. From the moment he laid eyes on the pencil sketch of the unknown woman, he knew her. He knew that her hair was corn-blonde and her eyes as cold and blue as the sky on a winter morning. Her handkerchief, marked only with the tantalizing initials “AC”, was yellowed and brittle, but still something she had held, something that had belonged to her. He had lifted it to his nose and inhaled a trace of ancient perfume, the faint scent of roses, and he had whispered, “Angelique ... Angelique Collins ...” A witch. A true witch. How long he had searched! He had read about her long ago, half-whispered in the empty, twisted halls of the history of Collinsport: a temptress, an enchantress, a woman with the devil’s eyes who had nearly destroyed the Collins family. Her powers were legendary and, he prayed, not exaggerated. She would give him power. He would use this ceremony to summon the powers granted her by the agents of Darkness, and he would make this power his own. Quentin would bully him no more; there would be no more threats, idle or otherwise, about exposing his secret to the world. After the ceremony was finished, he would be able to silence Quentin with a glance. He and his wife would leave Collinsport wealthier than when they had arrived, and soon the world would know the name “Evan Hanley”. “And fear it too,” he swore, grinning his sharp weasel’s grin. He resisted the urge to run his fingers over the witch’s belongings one more time. They hummed beneath his fingers; they sang to him, and it was too easy to become distracted. As the clock began to chime midnight, he raised his arms solemnly above his head, and began the incantation. “I address myself to the Powers of Darkness ... I call upon the flame to summon you ... I call upon the Raven and the Viper and all the dark creatures of nature to draw you like a writhing mist out of the darkness of the earth. Rise and help me! I bring you tokens of the One who’s power I must have ... who’s power I need to survive ... I call upon you to grant me these powers now ... now ... now!” The flames rose at the same moment that the wind outside began to scream, and Evan drew back from the fireplace in horror. The objects on the table burst spontaneously into flames, and for a moment he was blinded ... but when he lowered his arms, the thing in the fireplace became more and more clear. “No!” he choked. “Dear god, what is it? What have I done?” CONTINUED ... 7 Tim Shaw was unable to stop his fingers from picking at the ring that now encircled his finger. It was a ladies' ring, but it had slid onto his finger as smoothly and as easily as if it had been made for him. He had discovered it while covertly exploring the house in the black of night, pressed up against a wall, lost in the shadows by the door to the tower room. It had glittered at him slyly, and he almost seemed to hear an intake of breath, as though something somewhere waited with gleeful anticipation ... waited and watched as he knelt and lifted the ring up to examine it in the dim light. It was valuable, but he wasn't sure what impulse had commanded him to slide it onto his own finger. There was no time to think about it, however, for darkness slid over him like a shroud and he knew no more. Quite convenient, the spirit inside of him thought, these still-remaining powers of mine. Oh, they're not as great as they once were, but I'm nowhere near dead. And my foolish relatives will realize that soon, when I mistress — it stopped, and tittered to itself — when I am master of Collinwood. And Quentin will pay for murdering me, and Judith will pay for bowing and scraping to me, and Edward will pay because ... well ... because forty years of his foolish prigginess would drive anyone to murder. The body of Tim Shaw walked with a quick and careful step down the corridors that led back to the main part of the house. The memories her host afforded her were easily accessible, and led her straight to his room. She had gathered that he was Edward's secretary, which was fine. She could be close enough to him to garner a few of his hairs, or a glove, or a button from his coat, and then she could use Tim Shaw to perform the magic that would put Edward out of the way forever. A young blonde woman was hurrying — scurrying, Edith thought dryly, is more like it — down the hallway, and they almost collided before she raised her eyes. Her nostrils flared like a frightened animal. "Tim!" she said in a breathy voice just above a whisper. "I mean ... Mr. Shaw. I mean —" Charity, a dim voice whispered to her, and Edith said, "Charity. What are you doing up so late?" The girl swallowed. She was clearly uncomfortable. Edith reached out — just a little, though; to use anymore of her energy might mean a separation from her host, and she couldn't have that — and touched the girl's aura a little. Just like a feather, she thought, and then grimaced internally. She reeked of love for this man. No ... no wait. Not love. Edith began to grin. Lust. A pure, base, human emotion. How useful. "I was checking on Nora," Charity said. "She had a nightmare. I sang her back to sleep." "Singing, hmmm," Edith said. "How nice." She tried to step around the silly nit, but the girl blocked her way. Edith felt a momentary twinge of anger, and nearly knocked Charity aside with a bolt of energy. Can't afford to do that, she thought, and the anger subsided. That could knock me right out of this body, and I feel very comfortable here, thank you very much. "I wanted to apologize," Charity said shyly. When Tim's face remained expressionless, she said quickly, "for my reaction to seeing you here the other day. I was just so startled. I had no idea that you would be working here as well." "The Collinses are a wealthy family," Edith said. "Edward is a busy man, fortunately for me. I'm very useful to him." She reached out and touched his arm, then drew back quickly. Her face blazed a fierce crimson. "I'm sorry," she said. "That was forward of me. I keep forgetting that we are no longer engaged." "No," Edith said stiffly, "we're not. Good night, Charity." She stepped around the girl, leaving her dumbfounded in the wake of the man she had once fancied herself in love. When the silly cow was left out in the hall, and Edith was secure behind the door of Tim Shaw's bedroom, she allowed herself an evil cackle. Things were going marvelously. So she had lost the body of that servant girl — so what? She had an even better body now, and it tickled her to finally have the power naturally afforded men. Perhaps Mr. Shaw should become engaged to Judith, Edith thought, she certainly has no problem rutting with men twenty years her junior. Then I could dispatch her easily enough and rule this house myself, just as I have for sixty years. My powers could grow again until I was the witch I once was. She shivered. The temperature of the room had plummeted quickly, and she glanced around uneasily. The curtains of Tim's window fluttered slightly, but further inspection proved that the window was closed. Edith felt a tiny spike of fear pierce her, but smothered it. She was Edith Collins, by hell, and she was scared of nothing. She hadn't even been scared to die, and look how it had all turned out! "Who is in this room?" she called, looking over Tim's shoulder. "I command that you appear before me. In the name of Beelzebub and Belial, alien spirit, appear before me as you were when you lived!" You will not see me, a voice said — not a voice said — and Edith wrinkled Tim's forehead in consternation. Not until the black of some terrible night, when you open your eyes and find my face floating inches from yours ... only then will you see me as I really am, murderous boy ... fiend! "Who are you?" Edith demanded. "Tell me who you are!" Laughter echoed around her, and the room swam before her eyes as if she were gazing up at the surface above the water at the bottom of a pond. The air around her was frozen and pressed close all around her. She had dealt with the dead before, but never with a spirit this pernicious ... or this powerful. The laughter trilled up and down the arms of this strange body, raising a path of goosebumps in its way. Frustration filled her — who was it? Who could it possibly be? She laughed at herself. Of course she didn't know. The spirit, whoever it was, had its beef with Timothy Shaw; she was just along for the ride. If only I knew a little bit more about it, she thought, even if it was male or female — I could do something about it. Begin a banishing spell. Anything! You will pay, the spirit whispered, even as its voice began to fade. Vengeance is mine, thus sayeth the Lord. And I will have satisfaction. Then it was gone. Edith stared through Tim's eyes, darting rapidly about the room, but she saw nothing. She collapsed onto his bed, and closed his eyes and breathed a heavy sigh. Even with the power of the ring, maintaining a hold on this body was draining. She wasn't sure how much longer she could remain, nestled down inside of him like a burr in the thick fur of a dog, but she was loathe to leave this body. It could prove useful, and having an unknown spirit around could foul up her plans. And she wasn't about to put up with that. "No," Edith Collins said through Tim Shaw's mouth, "I'm alive again, and I'm going to stay alive ... and no power on earth will stop me from having what is mine." 8 The skull in the flames was laughing, as impossible and revolting as that seemed. It wasn't fleshless exactly — he could see its eyes, sunken far back into cavernous hollows, and they snapped a ferocious and icy blue — and a cavalcade of blonde ringlets tumbled off the naked bone of its forehead. Its laughter was high, incessant, and maddening, like the shattering of glass, or the screaming of maddened crows. Evan pressed his hands to his ears, but still the laughter rang around him, mocking him. The flames roared upwards again, and he cried out, falling backwards and shielding his eyes. When he lowered them, that dreadful laughter had ceased, and the flames had died down. A woman sat before him on the hearth, her hands folded complacently in her lap, her eyes wide and startling blue. She wore an ancient dress of brown taffeta, with sleeves of the most delicate lace that tumbled from her wrists in a foam. Her hair was spun gold, and twisted into ringlets pulled back from her neck and tied behind her head. Enormous gold hoops adorned her ears. She was smiling, but her lips were curled almost into a sneer, and there was nothing pleasant about the expression on her face. "Who are you?" Evan managed to demand at last. He kept his distance from her, but refused to take his eyes away. She wasn't human, he gathered that much. "Don't be a fool," she said, and her voice was as tinkling and gentle as water running over stones, smoothed by years. "You know very well who I am. I am obviously the one you sent for." He took her all in — the blonde curls, the wicked blue eyes, the curled bow of a mouth — and knew who she was ... the only person she could possibly be. "Angelique!" he gasped. "You're Angelique Collins ... but that's impossible. You're —" "Dead?" the witch tittered. "Quite so. For more than a hundred years now. Trapped behind a wall of darkness, but able to watch and see, to learn. I know quite a lot, Mr. Hanley, as you'll discover soon." "This isn't fair," Evan growled. "That ritual was intended to summon power for my attainment, not to conjure a spirit from the grave." His mouth trembled as he thrust out one hand, forking the ring and pinkie finger, and intoned, "I adjure thee, foul and reprehensible spirit, to return to the darkness wherein you dwell forevermore." The smile faded from Angelique's face. "I am no mere spirit," she hissed, "for you to order around. That ritual went exactly as I intended it to go, and nothing you can do or say will reverse it. I want you to remember that, Mr. Hanley, when you think of me. I'm here — and I'm here to stay." She giggled. "I have at my disposal a variety of mysterious powers that I shall be happy to demonstrate for you, if that's what it takes to humble you into obedience." Evan glared at her. No one talked to him this way, not even Quentin. "No," he said, "I think I've heard all from you that I care to. I'm going to count to three, and when I'm done, you will —" But his words were cut off, as swiftly and expertly as if by surgeon's scalpel. He clutched his hands to his throat, and felt the blood trapped in his face begin to burn. His eyes bulged. And all the while the witch on the hearth sat where she had appeared, without moving a muscle, and watched the grim display with open amusement. I'm choking! he thought, and clawed at his throat. She'll kill me without a second thought! "What is it you were saying, lawyer?" she purred, deliberately accenting the last word mockingly. "I'm afraid I can't understand you. You'll have to come closer to me." He didn't want to be anywhere near her, but there didn't seem to be much choice in the matter. "What — what have you done — to me ...?" he managed to gasp. The light was fading all around him, but he could still see her eyes, so cold and so blue, hanging before him in space. "Only what I do to my friends when they annoy me," she said, then her voice hardened. "With my enemies I can be even more ruthless. Do you believe me?" "Yes," he choked. "Please —" "All right," she said, and waved a hand before his throat with a nonchalance that was startling. Instantly the choking sensation was gone, and he dropped to his knees before her, as if in supplication. "After all, you and I are on the same side, aren't we?" She smiled. "My side." She rose without another glance at him, and glanced around the room, then at the clothes she wore. "What a lovely night," she purred, "for the unquiet dead. But dead no more. I'm alive again, Mr. Hanley, and I'm going to stay alive." "Why?" he gasped. "Why —?" "Why have I returned?" She threw back her head and pealed that cold, hard laughter again. "Because I have dwelled in the empty blackness for too long, and I tire of eternal darkness. And because I have been too long denied the pleasure of the company of the Collins family. It is a pleasure I intend to take to myself once again. I will be one of them again, as it was meant to be." Evan rose shakily to his feet. "What do the Collinses have to do with anything?" "Don't be a fool," she said. "If you knew my name, surely you must know some of my history." He glared at her with sullen eyes. "Frustratingly little," he said. "Had I known more, I never would've attempted the ceremony." She waved away his words with a dismissive hand. "I was meant to be a Collins," she said. "And when they tried to deny me rights, I swore an oath of vengeance. I will be a Collins long after they have gone to dust, and when that has happened, when enough time has gone by to burn away the humanity left in the husk that is his body, I will awaken their Secret and bring him back to me. We will reign over Collinwood, and I will have satisfaction." "I don't know what you're talking about." "It's not important that you know anything," she snapped, the mirth and merriment gone from her voice and eyes as quickly as they had appeared. "You have done your work well, lawyer, and now I have no more use for you." His mouth dropped open. "But — but my powers —" "You have none," Angelique declared, and added mysteriously, "at least, not anymore." "What do you mean by that?" "Never mind. Needless to say, my powers are vast, and I will use them on you without a moment's thought, Mr. Hanley, if I find that you have betrayed me to anyone. And I will find out, Mr. Hanley, and when I do, vengeance will be swift, I promise you. Say nothing about me, and I will say nothing about the ... ceremonies ... you perform here." Her body began to fade, to lose its substance, and he rushed at her. "Where are you going?" he railed, shaking a fist at her departing form, now little more than a haze of colors in the dim, firelit room. "What are you going to do? I only want to avoid trouble, don't you understand that?" "It's too late for that, Evan," the witch's voice promised him, even as her body disappeared. "If you had wanted to avoid trouble, you should never have sent for me." Her laughter rang around him for several long, exhausting moments before it too faded away, leaving him furious and railing impotently. 9 They stopped at the edge of the woods; Collinwood glowed at them from the darkness, just as it had a century in the past and would a century in the future. That is, Vicki thought, if I can make these changes — if I can prevent the destruction wrought before I left. Barnabas' face was still moody and lined, despite the change of clothes a reluctant, suspicious Magda had afforded him when he'd risen from his coffin they had secured in the basement of the Old House that evening. The condition of his birthplace had obviously affected him, and though Vicki tried her best to remind him that when they returned to 1967 it would (hopefully) be just as he'd left it, his face still remained pale and dour. He wants to feed, Vicki thought, and it made her feel a little sick; he wants to feed, but you're preventing him from doing it. Is that a good thing? Look at him, Victoria — do you like what you're doing to him? They had come up with their story on the way back to Collinwood, and it wasn't a bad one, considering that he'd used it before. Fresh off The Pride of Jamestown, Barnabas had sailed from England and arrived just this morning, and was staying at the Collinsport Inn. Vicki prayed that no one would doubt him enough to check out his story, but had they done any differently in the twentieth century? Because of his resemblance to the portrait of his "ancestor" that hung in the foyer even now, no one had thought to question his integrity. We all thought he'd traveled such a great distance, Vicki thought, and had to stifle an hysterical caw of laughter; what fools we were! He never left town to begin with! "You'll have to forgive me, my dear," Barnabas said in a thin, papery voice; she started and turned to look at him. His face was hollow and gaunt, and his eyes burned at her. She couldn't look away. "I know you can sense what I'm struggling with, and I understand how disgusted you must be. You must know what a ... a monster I am." He dropped his eyes, and turned away from her, but she knew that his face was set and grim with loathing ... loathing for himself. She took his hand, and repressed a shudder; it was icy to the touch, but she clutched it regardless. "I don't think you're a monster, Barnabas," she said firmly. He didn't look at her; he didn't dare. "I don't think you're a monster, I said," she said, louder now. His eyes darted to her face, then darted away. He looked utterly miserable, and she felt her heart break a little. "I was told the truth about you before any of this madness began, but I chose not to believe it. It was too horrifying to even comprehend. But then I had thought about it, and Barnabas, I realized that you've been the kindest to me of anyone at Collinwood. The deep caring you have for your family, a family that is separated from you by two hundred years of blood, continues to amaze me. Would a monster risk his life — his sanity — his very soul to try to traverse time in order to save all those lost lives?" She squeezed his hand. "I don't believe that you're a monster, Barnabas." He sighed, and raised his eyes to hers, and didn't look away. "Do you know why I am what I am?" he whispered. Her brow creased. "I ... I thought did. I dreamed it." He stared at her silently. "It was a ... a woman, wasn't it. Something to do with Josette ..." She closed her eyes, and the image from her dream while on the train to Collinsport so long ago returned to her, stronger and more fiercer than before. "Don't you speak her name! Don't you ever speak her name again in this house!" A woman, surely, hissing like a cat. A beautiful woman, though the dream would become hazy and indistinct once Victoria awakened. Why was she so angry, Vicki wondered. What could make a person sound so bitter, so contemptuous, so full of hate? "How can I love you? How can I love someone so evil, so devious, so calculating? You played with us all like dolls. Josette hates me! She will never return to Collinwood, now that Jeremiah is dead. And if she knew who really killed him —" A man this time. Handsome, with great sad eyes and dressed in old-fashioned clothes with lace sleeves emerging from his coat like foam on water. They were talking about Collinwood, the place she was going to work. What a strange dream this was. "Such a strange dream," she whispered, and opened her eyes, and the sudden knowing, like being an empty pitcher suddenly filled with icy water, washed over her in a tide. "It was Cassandra Collins, wasn't it. She's responsible for your curse." She frowned. "But that isn't her name either, is it —" "No," Barnabas said. "Her name was Angelique, and she was the true curse of my existence. She came to Collinwood with Josette — how long ago that all seems now. Josette and I were engaged, but when we met in Martinique, I didn't think she loved me ... so I — I succumbed to Angelique." His face twisted with the pain and embarrassment of his recolletion. "She fell in love with me." He laughed, a jagged, haunted sound. "Love! She never loved me. Not in the end. She used her powers of witchcraft to turn Josette against me. She sent her into the arms of Jeremiah, my uncle, my best friend in all the world. Angelique made him betray me." He bowed his head again. "I shot him down in a gun battle before I knew the truth. Josette screamed out her hatred for me. I thought my world had ended. And still Angelique could not desist. She made my baby sister ill ... my little Sarah. She made me promise to marry her if she could successfully cure Sarah, and I gave into her, fool that I was." He scowled. "Then I learned the truth." Vicki felt bathed in ice. "What did you do?" she whispered. He laughed again, but it wasn't a pleasant sound; there was nothing of mirth or love in that wicked grating noise. "I killed her," he said. "I sealed her body in a room in the West Wing, but she cursed me before she died. A giant bat flew from the shadows and tore open my throat. When I awakened I had become this ... this thing that stands before you. This monster." "But something happened," Vicki said. "In the present. Something happened to change you." "Julia," Barnabas said lowly. "She found a way to burn this infection from my blood. She made me a man again when I had made up my mind to be consigned to the darkness for the rest of eternity. And not even Angelique and all her witchcraft could make me a vampire again. I owed Julia my life, Vicki, and I let her be cut down by this beast in the present ... this thing that is even now masquerading as Quentin." "But don't you see, Barnabas?" Vicki said. Her eyes shone with excitement, and she stopped and place both her hands on his shoulders. He watched her warily. "None of that has to happen. That's why I came to this time. I was sent here, Barnabas. My mother helped me. And now you've come too, and that was prophesied! The gypsy — Magda — she knew that help was coming to me, Barnabas, and she knew where to send me." "Without you," Barnabas said, slowly and thoughtfully, "I would still be trapped in that tomb. Chained in the coffin my father thought would hold me for the rest of time." "We can change things, Barnabas," Vicki said. "We can make them different." "If we can learn the truth behind what happened in this year," Barnabas said. "Things that Quentin couldn't recall, or didn't know about." "Quentin!" Vicki exclaimed. Barnabas cocked his head curiously at the tone in her voice. "What does Quentin have to —" Then she broke off, and closed her eyes. Of course, she thought, what an idiot I am. She thought of the scar on the hand that she had kissed — days ago? years? — and the vicious gash that the Quentin of this time had received a few days ago. "There isn't a Quentin of this time," she said aloud, "and there isn't a Quentin of my time. They're the same man." She lifted her eyes to Barnabas. "Aren't they." "Oh Vicki," Barnabas said, his voice thick, "I thought you knew." "But he's so different! He doesn't seem at all like the Quentin I —" She bit her lip, realizing what she had almost said to a man who's feelings for her couldn't just be considered simple friendship. "— met in 1967," she finished lamely, but the pain that had sparked in those hollow, empty eyes told her a far more revealing story. Barnabas turned away from her, back towards the sprawling mansion that was his home in three separate centuries. "We must be very careful, you and I," he said, and his hands clutched the head of his cane until the knuckles were white. "They are bound to be suspicious of me, Quentin especially. We are changing time, you know. I was never released in the way the events of this year played out originally. We have no idea what the repercussions will be in our time, Vicki. There may be terrible consequences." "Would you rather the alternative?" she said. She understood his despair — it must be agonizing to be trapped back in the body of a vampire — but his pessimism was truly frustrating. They didn't have any choice in the matter. The Collins family was doomed unless they were able to find out what had led to the events of that terrible winter in 1967 ... and change them for the better. "You know the answer to that," Barnabas said. "I have much to atone for, Vicki. I have amassed a great debt that I doubt I will ever truly be able to repay. I would do anything to preserve my family." Vicki found it very difficult to swallow suddenly. "Let's ... let's get back to Collinwood," she said. "The family will just be sitting down to dinner in a few minutes, and I'm certain Edward will be worried about me." She released his hand, and, together, they walked to the front doors of Collinwood and opened them. A pair of crystalline blue eyes tracked their every move; these eyes had stared with shock and disbelief as Barnabas Collins had stepped from the shadows of the trees, then narrowed with suspicion when they focused on the girl beside him — this girl who did not belong. She had been unable to hear their conversation, but she had observed this girl who was the fiancee to the dolt Edward Collins, but ... but still ... she did not belong here. Angelique did not materialize fully; instead, she allowed only a shadow of herself to appear before the windows in the drawing room, and peered inside. She watched the family convene to welcome their new "cousin", he of the dead gray skin and haunted, sunken eyes. She hadn't expected this. The signs were not there, and she would've known had they been. Barnabas was not to be released from his coffin for another half century at least. She was not clairvoyant, but she had a dim sense of the future, and besides, she and Barnabas were much closer than any husband and wife had ever been. They straddled both worlds, living and dead, and not a moment went by when she didn't think of him. But he shouldn't be here now. She hissed in frustration. This was going to change everything. All her plans — all her schemes — they would have to be rethought now, because she didn't just hate Barnabas Collins. She loved him too, and she would never leave him alone. She had made him a vampire so that they could spend eternity together, and that was exactly what she would do. She was adaptable. Her lips pursed in a smile. "Oh, Barnabas," she purred, and saw him stiffen, as if a cold finger of wind had stroke his cheek, "my darling, darling Barnabas ... what a surprise you're in for. What a surprise indeed. Have you forgotten me, my dear? We shall see. You will remember my face. For I am Angelique, and you are in my power, and nothing on this earth can keep us apart!" To Be Continued by Midnite!