Shadows on the Wall

Chapter 54: Unraveling 

by Nicky


(Voiceover by Don Briscoe): “The majestic house of Collinwood stands in 1897
much as it will seventy years in the future, and through a curious trick of
time, four people within its walls find themselves alive in the past and their
own future. Plotting and scheming has always been an inherent way of life for
the Collins family, and their counterparts in the dwindling years of the
nineteenth century are no different. But an end is already nearing for several
unfortunates lingering on the great estate, and a wave of new darkness will
come crashing down around them.” 

1 

The change had happened again that night, sucking his soul out of his body,
dragging him down a long, twisted corridor of nightmare as his flesh and bone
underwent a hellish transformation. Quentin Collins technically did not exist
under the light of that night’s full moon, the last, until next month; the
beast that caught a young deputy out on his beat by the docks and tore him to
pieces that fell and floated and then sank beneath the brine was nothing human,
nothing of this earth. And when he awoke that morning, disheveled and covered
in a sticky crimson paste that stained his fingers and his mouth, he thought he
might go insane. He truly thought he might. 

My son, Quentin thought now, as he made his way through the woods towards a
house where the key to his probable salvation dwelled; I am doing this for my
son. I have to go to here, to this house, to find this man that I don’t even
known, overcoming any differences we may have had, swallowing my pride ... 

He grinned now, humorlessly, and his teeth glinted in the early morning sun,
fresh and white and brushed. I have no pride left, he thought. It’s been torn
out of me by the silver light of the full moon. 

Beth had wept again, even as she helped him into the bath, washing away the
traces of blood and gore, and god help him — god help them both — she had
kissed him, and he had allowed her to do it, had even kissed her back. But it
was wrong, because it wasn’t Beth he saw when his eyes were closed and her
mouth pressed tightly against his. 

Instead he saw his brother’s future bride. 

He saw Victoria Winters. 

A groan escaped his lips. You are truly a fool, he thought, a vain, stupid
fool. Look at the destruction you have wrought, and you know you can’t blame
Magda. You left your wife a drooling lunatic, saw that children you didn’t even
know you had were doomed before they left their diapers, allowed Beth to
believe that you love her, and now intend on stealing another of your brother’s
wives. Why don’t you end it now, Quentin? Why don’t you just kill yourself? 

And the horror was simple. He didn’t want to die. He wanted to live. Miranda
DuVal’s spell had brought him back from the endless depths of eternity, and
there had been a fearsome price ... but he still wanted to live. He was Quentin
Collins, by god, and he wasn’t a coward. 

His grin resurfaced. I guess that old Collins pride isn’t gone after all. Or at
least a trace remains, enough that I have to come crawling to an enemy for
sanctuary, for the possibility of a cure. Barnabas Collins isn’t human, and he
may be able to help me. He may know something about my curse. 

Or he may tear my throat out with his teeth. I think it’s a win-win situation. 

He was still grinning when he knocked briskly on the front door of the Old
House three times. The house seemed less foreboding in the crystalline light of
day, and for a moment he could almost imagine it as it must have been when it
was built a century ago: a white, glittering masterpiece of architectural
design, now sadly plunged into ruin. He might cry for it if he had any tears
left. 

The front door opened a suspicious crack, and Magda Rakosi’s dark face peered
out at him sullenly. “Get out of here, Quentin,” she snarled. “I already took
the trash out for today.” 

He said nothing, merely pushed past her and breezed into the house, then looked
around. Whatever else Barnabas might be, he had excellent taste. Magda and
Sandor had restored the house to a pristine condition. The furniture was new
and spotless, and new rugs of bright blue and green sat on the hardwood floor.
The portrait of a woman with dark hair and wide, suffering eyes dominated the
wall above the fireplace, and Quentin found himself entranced by her beauty.
She reminded him of someone, and after awhile he realized who. Victoria, he
thought; she has Victoria’s innocence, and a great deal of her charm. But her
eyes are haunted. By what? Something that was done to her, something that was
to come? I wonder who she was. I wonder how she died. 

“Get out of here, Quentin,” Magda said from behind him, dangerously. 

“I’m here to see your master,” he said, and turned to face her. Her eyes were
black and furious, like hard flecks of obsidian. “Though it just occurred to me
that he isn’t in yet. That’s all right, Magda; I’ll wait.” 

“Mr. Barnabas has gone into town,” Magda said. 

“I doubt that.” 

Her brow furrowed. “Don’t mock me, Quentin. You know what I done to you, but
you don’t know what I still can do. I ain’t a witch like that blonde chiovanni
with skin like a fish you’re so hungry for, but I got powers. Oh yes. Never
forget that. Magda Rakosi got powers.” 

“I am acquainted with your powers, Madam Gypsy,” Quentin said, “but the fact
remains that I’m going to wait for your master until he ... returns.” He smiled
enigmatically, and knew it infuriated her. 

Magda squinted at him. “What you smiling ‘bout, eh? What you look so smug for?”


“Because I know that Barnabas Collins isn’t in town at all. He’s right here.
Right here with us.” 

“You’re a fool.” 

“So I’ve told myself already,” he said. “Repeatedly. But Magda, I know the
Secret. I know all about Barnabas Collins.” 

Her face paled if that was possible, and she began to pluck nervously at the
garish jewelry that dangled from her neck. “What do you mean? What do you know
‘bout any ‘secret’?” 

“I know that Barnabas isn’t just a secret,” Quentin said. “He’s the Secret,
Magda. Grandmama’s Secret that nearly died with her. Everyone comments on the
portrait of the original cousin Barnabas that glowers so dour in the foyer at
Collinwood. Only we both know that there is no ‘original cousin Barnabas’,
don’t we Magda.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she hissed. 

“Barnabas Collins never sailed for England. He stayed right here, in
Collinsport. Chained in his coffin in the secret room for all eternity. Except
it wasn’t eternity. That’s what the Secret meant. In case he ever got out, we
were to be told. And he did get out. Do you know how he was able to survive the
past century in a coffin, Magda? I’ll bet you do, you clever Gypsy lady. It’s
because Barnabas Collins is a vampire, isn’t he.” His smile disappeared, and
his voice grew into a roar. “Isn’t he?” he screamed, and Magda recoiled. 

“Get out of this house, Quentin Collins,” she spat. “You’re insane.” 

“I’m not leaving, Magda, I told you,” Quentin said. “He’s the only one who can
help me. He has powers too, I know he does. He must. And he will help me.” 

Magda laughed. “Help you? What makes you think Mr. Barnabas can help? What
makes you think he will?” Her face darkened. “What makes you think I’ll let
him?” 

“Oh, I think you’ll reconsider,” Quentin said, and his voice was soft and
purring. “It seems there’s a few things about your sister you didn’t know
either. Judith kept the truth hidden well, damn her.” 

“What truth?” 

Quentin threw back his head and laughed. “What a witch you are, Magda. What an
all-knowing sorceress. And you called me a fool?” His laughter grew louder and
more mocking, and echoed about the room, tinged with despair. “Do you know what
you’ve done? Do you have any concept?” 

“Don’t you laugh at me,” she cried, panic beating her voice like the wings of a
bird. 

“You’ve doomed them, Magda, just like you doomed me, with your curse, your
nasty, selfish blood-curse.” 

Magda’s eyes were very wide, and she froze. When she spoke, her voice was
hushed, a whisper. “Who are you talking about, Quentin? Who have I doomed?” 

“Don’t you know?” he hissed. “Don’t you see? Your sister had children, Magda.
Twins. A boy and a girl.” Magda’s mouth opened and closed, and she drew her
hands to her mouth in horror. “You’ve cursed your own niece and nephew, Magda,
do you hear me? You’ve cursed us all!” He gripped her by the arm and pulled her
into his face, and she stared up at him in terror, and tears burned in her
eyes. “Now you will let me see Barnabas, do you understand?” 

“Yes, Quentin,” she cried, defeated, and he allowed her to press her face
against his chest and sob, “oh dear god, I’m so sorry ... so very sorry ...
god, god, god —” 

“Don’t cry to god,” Quentin whispered, moved beyond any power he could ever
imagine, and a voice inside him whispered, You earned her rage, you know; you
earned her wrath and her enmity; you’ve earned your curse, and if she is
capable of removing it, realize that she wouldn’t remove it for you. Realize
that ... and forgive her anyway. Can you do that, Quentin? 

He thought he could. 

She drew back, her eyes streaming and red, and snuffled a little. “I will fix
this,” she said, and her voice was fierce and proud. “See if I don’t.
Everything will be all right again. I swear it. I swear it on my very own
name.” 

“I’m afraid,” he said, and his own voice was husky, “that may not be enough
this time.” 

2 

“You’re not going away!” Nora Collins voice was high and shrill with
indignation, and her little hands were balled into fists and planted firmly on
her hips. Her rosebud mouth quivered and her eyes were round and wet with fury.
“You just got back! How can you leave me again?” 

Laura Collins sank onto the bed in the indecently tiny bed of the caretaker’s
cottage she had occupied since the unfortunate disappearance of Dirk Wilkins.
She placed a weary, trembling hand against her forehead and closed her eyes.
She swallowed, and took a deep breath. The pains had begun after midnight, as
she sat before the fireplace and stared fixedly into the flickering tongues of
flame. She never slept anymore because her body was dead, and it would return
to death again soon, very soon. And she would never have the chance to live
again if her body died before she could take it into the fire — and bring her
children with her. 

“No darling,” she said at last, and wouldn’t allow herself to gasp. Nora
mustn't know anything was wrong. She might mention it to Edward ... and she
couldn’t afford his questions. Not that he’d ever have the consideration to
send for a doctor, she thought sourly, then decided it might be in her best
interest that a doctor not see her. He wouldn’t find a pulse, after all, and
her flesh was cold. Always so cold, and she, a creature of the sun! “No,” she
said again, “I’m not going away.” She patted the bed. “Come to me. Sit beside
your mother.” 

Nora obeyed, but a frown still marred her cherubic features. “I was in my room
at Collinwood,” she said petulantly, “playing with the doll you got me for
Christmas before you went away —” Laura nodded, surprised by the depth of
feeling that this casual, unconscious accusation sparked within her. “— and I
just had this feeling that something was going to happen to you ... something
... something bad.” Her lip began to tremble again, and her voice quavered.
“And I thought you were going to go away without telling us, just like you did
before, and I came to stop you!” 

Laura enfolded her daughter in her arms, soothing her and shushing her until
finally Nora’s sobs subsided. “Oh, my darling, my darling,” she cooed, “I’m not
going to leave you. Not ever again. Mummy’s going to stay right here until the
time is right ...” Her voice faded away, and Nora drew back and peered up at
her mother with wide eyes. 

“Til the time is right for what?” she asked. 

Laura nearly smiled. Nora was so inquisitive, so forthright. Her smile faded.
Just like her father. No matter. Soon, very soon, all of this would cease to
matter, and she could sleep. For eternity. 

“You were right, Nora,” Laura said, and her voice was even and maintained and
honey-sweet, just as it always was when she dealt with one of her children.
“I’m not going to leave you ... but I am going away.” Nora’s eyes widened, and
her mouth began to pucker with fear. “And you’re coming with me.” 

“Where are we going, Mummy?” Nora whispered. 

“To a far off place,” Laura replied, and her voice was even more hushed and
singsong. “To a land many miles away from here, Nora.” 

“Are we going by ourselves? Just you and me?” 

“No, my darling. Jamison will come with us.” Her lips quirked into a smile.
“And maybe someone else ... someone special. He just doesn’t know it yet.” 

“Who?” 

“You’ll find out in time.” 

“Can you tell me where we’ll go?” 

“Yes, darling, but you must swear not to tell anyone.” Nora nodded wordlessly.
“That scarab I sent to you was a promise, Nora, and it will be kept. We’ll go
to a land where it’s sunny and warm all the time, where there are tall, tall
trees that reach into the flawless blue sky and bear the sweetest fruit you’ve
ever tasted. It melts on your tongue, and you never go hungry, but you always
want more, and there will always be more for you to eat. Your skin will bronze,
and you’ll run barefoot in the sand and collect shells, and you’ll dance in
golden finery ...” Her voice trailed away into a sigh, and Nora laid her head
on her mother’s shoulder. 

“I love you, Mummy,” she said. 

“I love you too, my darling.” Quentin, Laura thought, and stroked her
daughter’s hair. Why do I feel this way for you? Why, after all this time, do I
have these useless, human emotions? The pain stabbed at her again, vicious
needles darting in and out of her breast, between her eyes, in the soles of her
feet. Her mouth felt full of broken glass and wet autumn leaves. 

Ignore the pain, she told herself fiercely. Ignore it. Ignore it. And,
“Darling,” Laura said carefully, “have I ever told you the legend of the
Phoenix?” 

3 

The sun vanished beneath the horizon. The last lingering golden rays traced
their way lovingly along the cold gray stones of the lighthouse wall, stroking
them almost tenderly, and then vanished completely. 

The body of Tim Shaw sat in a corner. His eyes stared forward blankly; his arms
were wrapped around his knees. The fabric of the fine clothes Miss Judith
Collins had bestowed upon him were now torn and muddied. His face was pale and
hectic, and his eyes were too wide and too white, and the pockets beneath them
looked bruised and purple. The twin wounds on his throat stood out starkly
against the too-white flesh, spotted with black specks of stubble. 

And inside of him, the spirit of Edith Collins raved. 

A fine witch was she, all right; wasn’t that the pretty truth? Bound, trapped
in this meatsack, this treacherous bag of flesh and bone, unable to leave of
her own volition, to find another body or even to just throw up her spirit
hands in defeat and return to the darkness that was her ultimate reward. She
had fallen under the spell of the creature that had appeared to her so
unexpectedly (and so familiar she was, and for the life of her Edith wasn’t
sure why), and it had all been too easy, damn it all to hell, too blasted easy!

And to make matters worse, the vampire she was now slave to had summoned her,
and Edith was certain that the witch “controlling” the former Miss Trask had no
idea. Edith had awakened on Tim’s bed; she felt weak, and when she tried to
stand Tim’s muscles betrayed her and dropped her unceremoniously on the floor.
She had crawled back to the foot of the bed, and after a half hour had managed
to reach the summit and flopped, slick with sweat and nauseated with her head
spinning in looping circles, back onto the flat and rather austere mattress.
She had lain that way all day, and had sent away anyone (including Judith) who
had come to check on Tim, and was annoyed with herself when she found herself
stroking the marks on her neck and wishing for nightfall. 

Then, a half hour before, she heard Charity summoning her, heard the hunger and
greed in her mind’s voice, and heard also the fear should she be caught by
Miranda and punished. 

This gave Edith pause. Perhaps she could allow the other witch to know that her
pet vampire was being disobedient. Perhaps — 

A shadow fell over her, and she groaned. Charity Trask was beautiful now in the
rays of the rising moon, two days past full. Her red lips were stretched into a
grin, and her sharp teeth lay curved over them like porcelain. Her eyes were
red and depthless, and Edith was helpless to look away. 

“You can do nothing to fight me,” Charity said. Her breasts beneath the
billowing white nightgown she wore did not heave, nor did they rise or fall;
Edith was horrified to find that Charity didn’t breathe at all. Her hair fell
unfettered down her back in a shimmering golden tide. “You are mine, Timothy,
completely and utterly mine.” 

“I am not ... Timothy,” Edith managed to wheeze. 

Charity shrugged. “Perhaps not right now. But someday you will be again. I know
there is a demon inside of you — an insect that does not belong — and I’ll rid
myself of it soon. Crush it beneath my heel. Then Timothy will be free. We’re
going to be in a world very different from the one we live in now. A world
without end.” She opened her arms, and Edith was on his feet before she
realized that she was even bending his knees. She closed her eyes and
swallowed, loathing that dreadful sense of anticipation that shivered in her
stomach, loathing the erection that pressed into her host’s tattered knickers,
and loathing herself most of all, for allowing this most humbling humiliation
to come to pass. 

She felt Charity’s teeth sink into the familiar wounds on Tim’s throat, and
then everything was lost in a red whirling haze that led her down into a deeper
darkness. 

4 

Barnabas’ face was gaunt in the light cast by the flickering blue candles that
rose like ghostly fingers from the ancient candelabra. Quentin watched him with
impatience and fear and awe all mingling together on his face. Barnabas
steepled his fingers and drew in a sharp breath. Behind them, Magda leaned
against the wall, her face blank and unreadable. 

“Oh for god’s sakes,” Quentin exploded at last, “isn’t someone going to say
anything?” 

Barnabas didn’t move. “I’m a fool,” Barnabas said at last. 

Quentin dropped his head. “You’ve said that already,” he murmured. “Barnabas,
please. If anyone is a fool in this game, shouldn’t it be me? Shouldn’t I have
been the one to confide in you more, to let you know how this monstrousness all
began?” Barnabas’ admission that he came from a time seventy years in the
future had proven quite a shock, but not as shocking as if he’d revealed it,
say, two days before. “I could’ve told you the events that led up to ...” His
voice trailed off. He still found it very difficult to say the words aloud. 

“Yes, but I knew that Magda was responsible somehow,” Barnabas said, and the
Gypsy flinched behind him, but neither of them noticed. “I was going to wait,
and watch, and try to do as little to change these events as possible.” He
wheeled around, and the skin of his face was like paper and his eyes glowed a
savage, lupine red. “I should’ve strangled you the moment I heard your wretched
name!” he roared, and Magda wrapped her arms around herself protectively, but
she did not look away. Her eyes were black and miserable and defiant. 

“No, Barnabas,” Quentin said, and laid a hand on his cousin’s trembling arm.
“There is only one person to blame in all this mess. Me. Magda’s vengeance was
deserved.” 

“But has she the right to doom all your descendants to the same madness?” 

Quentin shook his head. “The sin of ignorance. She didn’t know, just as I
didn’t know about Jenny, and in my stupidity, my foolish lust for revenge, I
slit her throat.” Magda ground her teeth together, but said nothing. “Besides,
you wouldn’t want to change what happened.” He smiled. “I rather like the idea
of immortality.” 

“But we don’t know at what price,” Barnabas said. “You — the future you —
didn’t elaborate much. We know that a Count Petofi engineered a cure for you,
but you never told us why, or who he was, or what his price was.” 

“Suppose my absence in the future undoes everything you’re trying to save?”
Quentin asked. “What if I have to be there? Changing the past is a tricky
business, Barnabas, but you and ... and your amazing companion seem bound and
determined to save us all, god knows why.” 

Barnabas bowed his head. “I owe this family a great debt, Quentin,” he said.
“You have no idea.” 

“I think maybe I’m beginning to.” He threw back his head and laughed. Barnabas
and Magda blinked at him. “I’m sorry,” he said, and wiped a tiny tear from the
corner of his eye, “but this is very amusing. Here I thought you’d have the
mystical, magical solution to my problem, and you’re as in the dark as I am.
Even seventy years from now, you’ll still be in the dark.” The laughter dried
up almost immediately. “Come to think of it,” he said, “that’s rather
depressing.” 

“I may be unable to help you,” Barnabas said, “but I may know someone who can.”
He walked slowly to the ivy-covered window that peered out into the black,
starless night. Ghostly illumination began to glow emerald around his face, and
he called in a soft, halting voce, “Angelique! Hear my call ... hear my summons
... and appear to us ... we have need of you, Angelique ... desperate need ...
appear to me ... now!” 

Quentin frowned, and exchanged confused glances. “Angelique?” he mouthed
silently, but Magda only shrugged. 

His questions were answered a moment later. 

Crystalline, shattering laughter began to echo mockingly around the room, until
all three pressed their fingers against their ears. Darkness coalesced in the
center of the room, and within a green phosphoresce flared, and a woman’s shape
began to take form. A moment later a beautiful blonde woman stepped into
reality. The mauve and blue dress she wore clung snugly to her figure, and the
high collar gave her a stately, almost regal appearance. Her eyes flashed a
wicked blue. “You have summoned me, Barnabas,” she said, and her voice was rife
with fury, “and you are very fortunate that I have consented to appear.” 

“Angelique —” 

“Miranda,” she hissed, and cast a hooded glance to Quentin and Magda. “How many
times must I tell you, Barnabas? My name is Miranda here, and you will call me
that. You understand what I can do if —” 

Barnabas sighed. “Miranda, then,” he said, and she relaxed. Her smile
reappeared, and she brushed her golden ringlets back over one shoulder, and
batted her eyelashes flirtatiously at Quentin. “I must ask a favor of you,
Miranda. A very great favor indeed.” 

“Of course, Barnabas,” she purred. “Why else would you summon me? Surely it
couldn’t be because you want to spend time with me.” 

“You two know each other?” Quentin asked, startled. 

“For several generations,” Miranda said. “Barnabas and I go way, way back.” She
turned back to Barnabas, and folded her arms expectantly across her breasts.
“All right then, Barnabas, what is it? What is of such great importance that
you have to make me such an impassioned plea to appear?” 

“It is not for myself that I have summoned you,” Barnabas growled. Miranda
raised her eyebrows, then turned, following his gaze. 

“Quentin?” she asked. “Again? Surely not. It seems like only a few days ago
that I last helped him.” 

“It was a few days ago,” Quentin said, his voice testy indeed, “and I’m not
sure I would call what you did ‘help’.” 

“You’re alive, aren’t you?” she asked, bored, and examined one immaculately
shaped fingernail. “What more can you ask?” 

“A lot more,” Quentin said, and explained the events of the past few days. When
he finished, Miranda eyed him with one raised eyebrow and a mocking smile
curled on her lips. 

“My,” she said, and her eyes flashed from Quentin to Magda, “you two have been
busy, haven’t you.” She tossed her curls. “What makes you think I can do
anything to help you?” 

“Because I think you’re responsible for part of what has happened here,” Magda
said, startling them all. Her sparkling dark eyes never left Miranda’s, and her
lined mouth curled into a sneer. “You did something to him, didn’t you,
sorceress? There was a stain on your magic, and it left a trace ... and
something else.” 

Miranda’s eyes had narrowed dangerously. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said
firmly, but her lips quivered ever-so-slightly, and Barnabas and Quentin
noticed, and exchanged knowing glances. “I doubt you do either. Amateurs,” she
said, disgusted, and shook her head. 

“Something came back with me,” Quentin said icily. “A demon, a ghost, I don’t
know what it was. It wanted something. Demanded something. A price. It said a
die for a die wasn’t enough.” 

“Oh, is that all?” Miranda said, and laughed musically. “Quentin, you needn’t
look so apprehensive. It’s common enough. The magic I performed was difficult
to say the very least, never to be attempted by amateurs, and is ever only
successfully worked by the most powerful of practicioners.” She smoothed the
hem of her skirts delicately and smiled a tiny cat smile to herself. Magda
rolled her eyes. “It required that a sacrifice be made, which I was more than
willing to make. Ordinarily it must be hand-picked by he who will be
resurrected, but your dearly departed wife didn’t give you much of an
opportunity, did she.” 

“Why, you —” Magda snarled, but Barnabas silenced her with a glare. 

“So you’ve become a werewolf,” Miranda said. “That’s a particularly ironic
curse, don’t you agree, Magda?” 

“I wasn’t that specific,” she spat. 

Miranda raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean what I say. I didn’t ask for Quentin to become a werewolf. I used the
Vessel of Anubis to punish him, to bring out what was inside.” 

“Fascinating,” Miranda said. She stroked her chin, and stared at Quentin
fixedly until at last he dropped his eyes and shuffled his feet. She glided
towards him, and he flinched away as she reached out one pale hand towards him.
She laughed coldly. “I need you to hold very still, Quentin, if I’m to help you
at all. You must do everything I tell you.” 

“What are you going to do to him?” Barnabas’ voice was sharp and grated with
barely constrained fear. 

“I’m going to look inside,” Miranda whispered. Her fingertips brushed against
Quentin’s forehead, and both closed their eyes. Their mouths dropped open in
silent screams of what could be agony or ecstasy as white light bloomed around
them in twining, swirling streams. 

*She was in the forest, in a glade, but she wasn’t alone. She looked to her
right and Quentin was there, and he saw her, and was afraid. The moon rode
through the sky above them, full and white like bone. They both turned, and
found that they were facing a clearing. A man stood in the center, his eyes
closed, his face raised to the mother moon. He had just finished disrobing, and
his clothes were piled in the center of the clearing in a tidy pile. As the
moonlight splashed over his skin, it erupted with burst and springs of shaggy
black hair. He dropped his head, and a tortured scream fell from his lips, and
they both saw through the bestial mask his face had become the features of the
man who had once been Dirk Wilkins. Teeth the size of piano keys pressed at
crooked angles from his jaw, and his nose and mouth twisted and were forced out
into a wet, snuffling snout. He raised his hands to the blackened sky, and they
were hooked and snaggled paws. The monster tried to scream again, but only a
howl emerged, a tortured cry of a creature that was damned. She turned to
Quentin —* 

— and released him. They both fell apart, gasping, and Miranda wiped the sheen
of sweat from her forehead. Her cheeks were ruddy, and her eyes glowed a fierce
blue. 

“What did you see?” Barnabas demanded. 

“Of course,” Miranda breathed, still winded. “Of course!” 

“I don’t understand,” Quentin said. “What ... what was that?” 

“Wilkins was a werewolf,” Miranda said. “I should’ve guessed.” 

“Wilkins?” Barnabas asked. 

“No, it makes sense,” Quentin said. “The night of the moon ... he always
disappeared. Grandmama always assumed he went off into town to get drunk, and
Judith didn’t seem to care at all. Edward never gave him the time of day. And
there was a girl a few years ago — she was found on the rocks at Widow’s Hill.
Everyone thought she jumped, but her throat was torn in such a way ...” He
pounded his hand into his fist. “Of course! That was the around the time
Wilkins came to work for us.” 

“A werewolf is unable to be killed by natural means,” Miranda said. “The spell
I used to bring Quentin back to life killed Wilkins’ mortal body, but the
werewolf spirit lived on.” 

“Inside of me,” Quentin said, and glowered at her darkly. 

“That was what the demon meant,” Barnabas said. “It wasn’t enough. He — it —
wanted to torture you.” 

“Either I accept the wolf completely,” Quentin said slowly, “or I would have
had to go back with it.” 

“And Magda’s curse released it,” Miranda said, and almost sounded delighted.
“It left your subconscious where it would’ve continued to torture you with
Dirk’s thoughts, Dirk’s savage wolfen desires, and set up shop in your body.
Congratulations, Gypsy. Perhaps I was wrong in calling you an amateur.” Magda
turned away, her head low. 

“So this is your fault after all,” Barnabas said, and Miranda spun to glare at
him. “You fool. Your magics have destroyed another member of this family. Well
I won’t have it, do you hear me?” He raised his cane threateningly. “I won’t
have it!” 

Miranda’s hand flashed out, quicksilver, and the cane trembled in Barnabas’
hand, then clattered to the floor. He stared at it, his mouth fixed and grim,
then glared at her. His nostrils flared. But he said nothing. Her eyes burned
into him. “You will never raise your hand to me again, Barnabas Collins. Not
unless you want everyone in this family to die, because that is what will
happen if I will it to be so.” 

“You don’t have that kind of power.” 

“Don’t I?” Her smile was beatific, her words smug. Both stung him like hornets.
“Shall we ask dear Josette? I could conjure her up for you right now. It would
be dreadfully easy, you know. How would you like to see her now, mon amour? Her
rotten, black flesh, the wedding dress tattered and filthy, her face shattered
and torn?” 

“Witch,” Barnabas snarled, and turned away, shaking uncontrollably. 

“Besides,” Miranda continued brightly, “it isn’t my fault at all. Magda’s curse
is the true culprit. I could’ve dispelled the demon easily, and Quentin would
be free.” 

Quentin’s eyes shone with hope. “Is it that simple?” he said, and took her
hand. “Could you release me from this curse?” 

Miranda hesitated. “No,” she said softly. “It won’t be easy, Quentin. It’s
inside of you now. A part of you.” Her eyes darted to Magda. “And not just you.
Your son and daughter both carry the curse, and will pass it on to all their
male heirs. I will have to free you and free them, and I don’t know exactly how
to do that.” She smiled. “But have faith in me, Quentin. My powers are vast. I
will find a way to cure you of this beast, I promise you that.” 

5 

The big man adjusted his glasses and sipped gingerly from the tea cup he had
been handed, then set it carefully back into its saucer and dabbed at his mouth
with the embroidered linen napkin with a hand hidden behind a black glove. Dear
me, he thought, how extremely bourgious. How in the world have I managed to
stoop so low? 

Evan Hanley rubbed his palms together briskly and grinned his nervous,
weasel-toothed grin. “There is a great deal of mystical energy in Collinsport,
as you may know,” he said. “It draws a certain type of ... individual to our
little part of the coast. I myself am the head of Collinsport’s only coven.” 

“Indeed,” the big man said in his husky voice. “How charming.” 

Evan’s smile faltered. His eyes glanced to the sandy-haired man in the blue
smock leaning against his mantle, but that man’s eyes were fixed on the flames
flickering like snake tongues in the fireplace. “We are honored to have you
here, Excellency,” he said. “Honored. We’ve never known anyone so esteemed, so
... so powerful.” His tongue flickered out and skated across his lips quickly
before it disappeared. The movement was not lost on the big man, and he rolled
his eyes, huge and swimming beneath the thick polished lenses of his
spectacles. 

“I trust I have not been summoned here for foolish reasons,” he said. “Your
flattery is most unbecoming, my dear Evan. I know very well that I am the most
powerful man you have ever met; I don’t need another lapdog to tell me that.”
He paused, and his eyes rested briefly on the nervous man by the fireplace, and
his huge fleshy lips split into a grin. “Or perhaps I do. Charles is not so
forthright with his compliments.” 

“Forthright,” the man by the fireplace chuckled. The big man thought it might
be a chuckle, though it sounded suspiciously like a sob. “Compliment,” he
added, and shook his head. His wet eyes never left the fire. 

“Your Excellency,” Evan began, struggling to sound humble, “I promise you, you
have not been summoned without great accord. I know what you are seeking, and I
think I may be able to help you.” 

The big man was on his feet in an instant, and the ungloved hand seized the
lawyer’s collar and drew him close against the swell of his belly. His foul
breath seared Evan’s nostrils, and his grin was huge and leering. “You’ve found
the Hand, Evan? Is that it? Found it and not told me until now?” 

“No,” Evan gurgled, and tried to bat the big man’s hand away. “Not ... not the
Hand. Something ... something else —” 

The big man released him, and Evan sagged, gagging, against the fireplace. He
rubbed his throat and glared at the big man. “There is nothing else,” the big
man said dismissively. His smile vanished. “I shall have to kill you now, you
know. I do so hate to be disappointed.” 

“It isn’t nothing!” Evan squeaked. His cheeks were very pale, and his mustache
twitched above his upper lip like something alive. “I swear to you, Excellency
—” 

“Don’t swear to him,” the sandy-haired man said. His eyes were huge and round,
like blue marbles. “Swear on your own name, but never his.” 

“That’ll be quite enough, Charles,” the big man said. “Dear Evan’s rantings
begin to intrigue me. Tell me, friend lawyer, what could you possibly have that
would help me?” He grinned humorlessly, and his teeth below the wool of his
mustache were square and stained. 

“The Vessel of Anubis,” Evan managed. His forehead shone with sweat, and he
mopped his face vigorously with his handkerchief. 

The big man’s eyes lit up. “Really? How exquisite. Yes, I do believe that could
help me, Evan. I believe it could help me very much.” He waved a hand
imperiously. “Go fetch it, that’s a laddie.” 

Evan paled. “I don’t have it just at the moment,” he said. The big man’s brow
began to crease, and Evan added hastily, “But I know who has it, and I think I
can get it from her.” 

“Her?” the big man asked, and his voice was low and purring and dangerous.
“Whom do you mean?” 

“The woman’s name is Magda,” Evan replied. “She’s a Gypsy who lives at the —” 

The big man was on his feet in a moment. “A Gypsy?” he said, his eyes wide with
incredulous horror, and when Evan didn’t answer, he roared, “A Gypsy? There are
Gypsies in this place?” He thrust out a hand, and Evan was sent sprawling by a
bolt of energy. The big man towered above him, his face working like a nest of
snakes lay beneath it. “Answer me,” he said in a voice of thunder. “Answer me
now, boy. I grow impatient. And when I grow impatient, people have a nasty
tendency to die.” 

“Two that I know,” Evan wheezed. His voice trembled. “They live on the Collins
estate, in the Old House. I think they’re the servants of a man named Barnabas
Collins.” 

The big man stroked his chin. “Barnabas Collins,” he said, as if tasting the
name. In a moment he had seized his coat and hat, and gestured towards his
companion. The other man stared at him as though waking from a dream. “Come
along, Charles,” he said. “We have a long walk ahead of us.” 

“Where are you going?” Evan cried as he rose to his feet. 

“Why, to Collinwood of course,” the big man said. “I don’t believe I can trust
you to procure for me what I desire very much, what I need, what I must have to
survive. No, I shall have to find it myself, and wrest it from the hands of
this ... Gypsy woman.” His mouth wrinkled up with istaste. “The Vessel of
Anubis will lead me to the Hand, I know it. And once I have the Hand ...” His
voice trailed off, and his eyes gleaming wickedly, he and his companion
disappeared into the night. 

His laughter haunted Evan’s dreams long after he slept. 

And dreamed of a man with one hand and all the power in the world. 

TO BE CONTINUED BY MADAME MIDNITE