Shadows on the Wall

Chapter 59: Sins of the Flesh 

by Nicky


Previously on “Shadows on the Wall”: Laura Collins, the immortal Phoenix, is
gone, but not forgotten.  Her vengeful spirit has possessed Beth Chavez, now
intent on murdering Edward Collins.  Miranda DuVal, the 1897 incarnation of the
wicked Angelique, is determined that her Master will possess Quentin’s soul. 
And Barnabas and Vicki, interlopers from 1967 in this time, must find and
confront Count Petofi before he can re-attach his Hand ...  if they do not,
everyone they love in the future may be lost. 


Voiceover by Humbert Allan Astredo: “On this night, a balmy summer evening in
1897, it is the beginning of the end for the Collins family ...  for the evil
Count Petofi desires ultimate power, and his quest will form a chain of
darkness that will reverberate into 
1967.” 

1 

“Angelique!  Angelique!” 

The words that issued from the vampire’s icy lips were sibilant, and
reverberated through the rooms of the Old House, echoing through the ancient
walls, chiming through the stratosphere.  His eyes, hollowed and shadowed,
glared into the flame flaring from the wick of one of the ancient blue candles
that had been there in 1795 and would be there again in 1967.  How he hated
them.  And how he needed them at this moment, this very precious moment in
time, when everything that had been done could be undone ... if only his old
enemy would lend him her aid again. 

A chill colder than the grave had fallen over Barnabas’ entire being when the
Gypsy woman Magda had uttered Petofi’s name.  Petofi — the man (warlock?) who
was destined to be responsible for Quentin’s cure, an evil being, according to
Quentin.  They had spent all this time waiting for the appearance of the
diabolical entity that would decimate the family a hundred years in the future,
and it wasn’t until Barnabas recalled something else Quentin had told him, a
long time ago that the pieces began to come together. 

Quentin had a dream shortly after Laura Collins had first appeared at
Collinwood in 1967 and tried to destroy him.  Magda came to him in the dream
and told him that Petofi had returned, like a hound seeking scraps, and was
alive at Collinwood somehow.  But how was that possible?  Wouldn’t they have
known?  Wouldn’t he have shown himself?  These were the questions Barnabas
grappled with ...  until Victoria had come to him with terrible news.  Edward’s
new guest at Collinwood was a man named Victor Fenn-Gibbon ...  the name of the
creature Elizabeth had killed. 

Victoria’s father. 

“I do not know what he calls himself now ...” 

Magda had said that.  She would know Petofi.  Magda had told him that he feared
and hated the gypsies above all other creatures on earth.  They had severed his
Hand long ago, the Hand that contained most of his mystical powers, and now it
circled the globe, seemingly of its own volition, working evil for and against
others, sometimes at the same time.  And now Magda herself possessed the Hand. 
She and Sandor had acquired it on a long trek to their Gypsy camp in the wilds
of Canada, had procured it with the blessing of King Johnny Romano, King of the
Kalderash clan.  She was going to attempt to use the Hand to end Quentin’s
curse ...  but now Petofi was here, seeking his Hand. Magda had assured
Barnabas that all the powers of hell wouldn’t be able to stop him if the Hand
was reattached.  She also swore that Petofi was the one Barnabas sought, the
one who could change the future. 

Petofi. 

Fenn-Gibbon. 

They were one and the same. 

Vicki would have to be told. 

Their adventures in this time — indeed, her very presence there — had proved to
Barnabas that she was stronger than ever he would have suspected.  To have such
a creature for a father ...  Barnabas shuddered.  She was an amazing woman, was
Victoria Winters. Barnabas loved her madly. 

And if Magda was right, and Petofi was as powerful as he sounded, there was
only one person — one being — strong enough to even think of coming up against
him. 

“Angelique,” he intoned, and his hands trembled as they clutched his cane,
“Angelique, hear my voice ...  hear me, wherever you are, and come to me ... 
come to me ...  come, I command you ...  come to me!” 

2 

“I know it is insanity, Judith,” Edward thundered at his sister, standing near
the fireplace with her hands folded and a distinctly irritated scowl settled on
her brow, “but I know what I saw.  And I know what the children claim to have
seen.  Laura is dead.  We found her bones.  Blackened.  Ashy.  But I tell you,
I know what I saw!” 

“You saw Beth.” Judith’s voice was calm but icy, and no tremble betrayed the
great fury she felt.  She was head of the Collins family now, and these ... 
these abominations were not to be tolerated.  Dirk’s death had pained her in an
odd distant way, far more than she would ever have credited herself, and far
more than than Grandmama’s death, but she’d been so busy as of late.  That fool
of a governess Miss Trask and her own secretary had disappeared together,
undoubtedly trysting somewhere, while Edward’s future bride spent most of her
time with their erstwhile cousin, and Quentin spent most of his time in a
drunken stupor.  In addition there were more attacks in the village — three
strangulations in the past month alone, though one girl had survived but,
maddeningly, could recall nothing — and another murder at the last full moon. 
Coupled with the reappearance of her hated (HATED) sister-in-law and her
subsequent fiery (and much deserved) death, Judith found she could not tolerate
Edward’s inane prattling any longer. 

“I saw Beth,” Edward said mockingly, and Judith felt more spears of anger begin
to nettle her, “but she wasn’t JUST Beth, Judith.  She was Laura too.  Somehow,
and I don’t know how, but SOMEHOW Laura has returned.  She used Beth to try to
kill me, and she could use you next.” His voice softened somewhat, but Judith
pretended not to hear.  “Don’t you see?  I’m concerned for all of us, Judith,
not just myself.  She could ...  she could hurt you too.” 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” Judith snapped.  “Who stands to inherit
Collinwood in the advent of my death?  It isn’t Jamison!” 

Edward blinked at her, and his mustache twitched a little.  “That isn’t very
fair, Judith,” he said quietly. 

Judith’s eyes narrowed into cat-like slits, and she hissed, “Since when does
fairness matter to you?  Or to Quentin?  I’m just your little sister, aren’t I?
 Someone to be petted and shushed and tolerated and told all her life that good
little girls are seen and not heard.” She stood in his face now, and he found
that he was suddenly quite terrified of her for the first time, and his own
fury was ignited by this sudden cowardice.  “That’s not how we play the game
anymore, Edward.  I am not your little sister any longer.  I am Judith Collins,
and Grandmama willed everything to ME.  I am both seen and heard, and you had
best get used to the idea, because I’m not going anywhere.” She whirled around,
her candy-pink skirts flaring wildly. 

“We have to do something about Beth!” Edward cried.  “She’s been locked in her
room for nearly two days, hysterical.  She doesn’t remember anything.” 

Judith drew herself up stiffly.  “Undoubtedly the creature was drunk,” she
said, “and trying to revenge herself for some imagined wrong given her by you
or someone else in this family.  It is also possible that she is quite mad.  I
intend to release her into the custody of the constable as soon as I leave this
room.” 

“I don’t think that is at all wise,” Edward said.  “Judith, we need to talk to
her, to find out what happened to her.  If Laura is capable of returning
somehow —” 

“You’re as mad as she is,” Judith sneered.  Her eyes flicked to the decanter of
brandy that sat on the table, a snifter half-full.  “Have some more brandy.”
And she was gone. 

He watched her go, then balled his hands into fists and nearly launched himself
after her ...  then settled back onto his heels and folded his hands behind his
back.  He glanced miserably at the bottle of brandy, and then slowly, slowly,
meandered back over to it.  He lifted the snifter into the air, studied it,
lifted it, cocked his arm, aimed for the fireplace ... then lowered it.  He
studied it for a few more seconds then, calmly, resignedly, he filled it to the
brim with brandy and settled into an armchair to study the flames in the
fireplace. 

And unknowingly consigned his only sister to her fate. 

3 

Magda Rakosi had never really faced death before.  When it finally came for
her, it was exactly in the form she expected: the corpulent, runny, gasping,
and still frustratingly glowing with power Count Petofi. 

He had backed her up against the withered bowl of an old oak tree struck by
lightning untold years before, and glared at her now, his eyes huge saucers
beneath his spectacles.  They had never been introduced, but she knew him well.
All her people did. He was ancient, and had been the terror of them for years
before they turned the tables on him and ran him like a dog. 

“What are you grinning at, Gypsy?” He spat the words at her through teeth
square and stained, but his breathing was labored and the words did not come
easy. 

“Just a private joke, ‘Excellency’,” she said mockingly.  Her smile faded a
moment later. The stench that rose off him was nauseating; gaseous, the smell
of charnel houses, of rot, of decay. 

The Count was not at his best.  His skin was yellow and waxy, and what Magda
had first assumed to be sweat but now thought was perhaps his actual skin was
running down his forehead and flabby neck in rivers like tallow.  His body,
ordinarily huge, seemed now to contract and expand on its own, as though
several sets of lungs inhaled and exhaled all over beneath his skin.  His hair
had tightened up into a nest of curls on his scalp like steel wool, but seemed
ready at any moment to simply slide off to the ground like a dead animal. 

“Keep your jokes to yourself,” Petofi snarled.  “I have not come here to trade
barbs with you.  I will tear your fool head from your shoulders and lap up the
fluid that pours from your severed spine if you so much as smirk at me again. 
Doubt me not, Gypsy, I warn you.  Tread carefully.” 

Magda thrust out her chin.  “Who are you to threaten me?” she said.  “What are
you anymore anyway, eh?” She put her hands on her hips and drew herself up
proudly.  “I am Magda Rakosi.  I am of the Kalderash clan.  We have fought your
for generations, Petofi. We have driven you, screaming like a woman, from your
chosen home time after time, hounding you, torturing you, and we will do it
again.  And again.  And again, until you are nothing, do you hear me? 
Nothing!” And she spat upon him, and watched his eyes flare behind he
spectacles. 

“VERMIN!” Petofi shrieked, and his voice echoed throughout the forest.  He drew
back his one hand and slapped Magda across the face, sending her flying across
the glade to lie in a crumpled heap several feet away from him.  Gasping,
breathing hard from the exertion and the fury inside him like molten lava,
Petofi stumbled across the forest and loomed over her. 

Incredibly, she was smiling up at him.  A tiny trickle of blood ran from the
corner of her mouth.  She wiped it away with the back of her hand, looked at
the rusty smear, then grimaced.  “Where are your great powers now, eh?  Isn’t
something so human as striking a helpless woman below you, ‘Excellency’?” 

“Clever witch,” Petofi said, and grinned back at her.  “You would love it if I
killed you now, wouldn’t you.  You know where the Hand is hidden, and if I kill
you, you won’t be able to tell me.” 

“You’re a fool,” she said.  “I don’t know where the Hand is.” 

His eyes narrowed.  “You brought it here, Gypsy,” he said.  “I know.  And I
know you have it still.” 

“Then you know nothing.  I ain’t got the Hand, Petofi.” 

“Then who does?” 

She laughed mirthlessly.  “Would I tell you that?  It’s hidden.  Safely hidden
away.  And I don’t know where.” She smiled up at him triumphantly. 

“You will tell me where it is.” 

“You’ll have to kill me first.” 

He stood back.  “Will I?” he said musingly.  “Will I really?  I wonder.” He
rummaged about in one of the pockets of his black wool coat for a moment, and
when it withdrew, he held a small earthen jar in his hand, inscribed with
ancient runes and sigils.  Magda’s eyes went wide at the sight of it, and
despair and defeat assailed her at once.  “You recognize this, I see.” 

“Yes,” Magda spat.  “The Vessel of Anubis.” 

“My faithful servant procured it for me,” Petofi grinned, and one of his
eyeballs slid effortlessly from its socket and ran down his cheek.  He pushed
it back absent-mindedly, never losing his grin.  Magda felt her stomach
flip-flop.  “You can see why it is so urgent that my Hand be restored to me. 
Soon I’ll be quite literally beside myself, if you’ll pardon the expression.” 

“You’ll never see the Hand,” Magda growled. 

“You sound terribly sure of yourself,” Petofi said.  “I wouldn’t be, if I were
you.  You see, now that I have the Vessel, I’ll be able to find the Hand ... 
and re-attach it.  Then I’ll restore myself, and set about destroying
everything you’ve ever loved.” He chuckled, a loathsome, bottomless sound. 
Skin ran off him in liquid rivers. 

“What are you gonna do to me?” she whispered. 

“Not much,” Petofi said.  “I just want to take ...  a little tour.” He held the
jar out before her, and instantly a red fog rose from it.  She recoiled, but it
was too late.  The fog flowed through her — into her nostrils, her ears, her
eyes, flooding her, suffocating her; she tried to scream, but it was useless. 
She was invaded, utterly and completely.  The old Gypsy thrashed about in the
clearing, until finally the fog retreated back into the jar.  She lay still,
breathing shallowly, her eyes half-open, her mouth agape.  “Now, Gypsy,” Petofi
thundered, “tell me ...  where is my Hand?” 

“I don’t know,” Magda muttered weakly. 

His eyes narrowed behind the spectacles.  “You must,” he hissed.  “Tell me! 
Who has the Hand?” 

“I don’t know,” Magda repeated.  She swallowed weakly.  “I ...  I gave it t-to
...  t-to someone. Someone else.” 

“Tell ...  me ...  who.” He was quaking with fury, and his body had become even
more lumpy and misshapen. 

Magda squirmed on the grass.  “Sandor,” she gasped, as if knives were gouging
her, ripping the answer from her.  “My h-husband!  I gave it to Sandor for safe
keeping!” 

Petofi stood up, and rubbed his remaining palm and his gloved one together. 
“Sandor Rakosi has the Hand,” he said.  “Well, I pity him.  Thank you so much,
Madame Gypsy, for your help.  It grieves me very much to tell you that you’ll
never see your husband again, of course.  Alive, I mean.” Magda, who had tried
to sit up, cried out and fell backwards. Petofi glared at her.  “You’re going
to have to pay for trifling with me.  No one spits on Petofi.  No one.” He
stared into the depths of the Vessel, and began an incantation.  “In the name
of Osiris, master of the dead, I implore thee, take me to —” 

“Get away from her.” 

Petofi started at the strange voice; his face distorted, and his eye dribbled
down his cheek again.  “Who dares to disturb me?” he snarled.  “Show yourself,
I command you!” 

He gasped. 

The shadows parted, and Barnabas Collins stepped into the glen.  He looked the
perfect gentleman in his Inverness cape with the wool-lined lapels and his eyes
glinting brown. His face was white and drawn, but he smiled, and his teeth were
sharp. 

“Count Petofi, I presume,” he said, and bowed.  “How nice to finally meet you
in the flesh. I am Barnabas Collins.” 

4 

You are the only one left.  The only one I could possibly turn to ... 

Judith started.  She was in her bedroom, sorting through her desk drawers.  She
had written a cheque last night for ten thousand dollars, and she planned to
hand it to Quentin tonight.  He was, she was certain, the root of all the evil
that had befallen the family recently.  Hadn’t he always dabbled in the black
arts?  Hadn’t he always disturbed the sanctity of things better left alone? 
Edward’s mindless babbling had only strengthened her resolve.  Quentin would
go, and tomorrow ...  or else. 

Now she was hearing voices.  And not just any voice.  One in particular, and it
sent cold shivers running down the course of her back. 

Judith, I know you can hear me, you stupid sow of a girl. 

“Grandmama,” she breathed, and felt her cheeks flame with fury.  No.  It was
impossible. The old bitch was dead.  Dead!  Contrary to whatever Quentin and
Edward believed, Judith Collins knew the truth.  The dead stayed dead.  You
buried them, and buried they stayed. There was no second chance. 

Mindless slut. 

“Shut up,” she snarled, and clapped her hands to her mouth.  “No,” she
whispered, “no, no, no!” She smote the top of her vanity with her fist, then
stared at it in wonderment.  Her hand throbbed with a sudden pain, and that
made reality come flooding back.  Pain was real.  Ghosts were not.  The
physical — the corporeal — that was what was important.  Vital. 

Vital, yesssssss ...  corporeal, yesssssss ... 

The air shimmered before her, and she felt icy fingers run greedily up and down
her body.  The sudden breeze stirred her hair and rustled her petticoats, and
for only a moment she saw the thin, milky spectre of Edith Collins.  Judith
smothered a scream (I won’t scream, she thought, tubbornly, in a deep part of
herself; I am strong and I will not scream). 

It should be you, Judith.  But I need your help.  You have to allow me inside,
Judith.  You have to invite me in. 

Disgusting, Judith thought, and found she was quite paralyzed.  Disgusting.  To
allow that nauseating old woman to live again, and in such a way ... 
garmenting herself with Judith’s body?  She thought she would retch. 

Look at me, Judith.  Look into my eyes. 

The spectre appeared again, and its eyes were limpid black pools.  Judith saw
herself deep within them, and found she could not tear herself away.  Like
drowning, she thought dimly; so sweet and so soft — 

Yesssssssss ... 

Judith closed her eyes.  There was no reason to struggle, was there?  It was
just so much easier to ...  let go.  She could feel her grandmother’s
eagerness, could almost hear the familiar, shallow gasping that followed any
exertion, and she could feel the tiny spark of power that Edith Collins had
left, had hoarded, like a tiny grain of sand that will one day be a pearl. 

Edith reached — 

— and at that moment was knocked away, sent back into the darkness, into the
insubstantial world, howling soundlessly, as wicked, tinkling laughter filled
the room, like the chiming of bells. 

Judith withdrew, blinking and shaking her head.  What happened?  she thought
dazedly.  I was searching for the money, the money to get rid of Quentin once
and for all, and something ...  someone ... 

But there was no time to think of that. 

Two figures stood before her now, though she was sure she had not seen them
come through the door.  A man and a woman, both holding hands, their faces
white as chalk, their lips crimson.  They were smiling a little.  Judith knew
them both instantly. 

“Mr.  Shaw,” she said, drawing herself up to her full height, “and Miss Trask. 
You do have some nerve to appear before me now, in my own room, after your
disgraceful behavior. You have both seen fit to vacate your positions in this
house with neither a word to me or to Mr.  Edward.  And yet you have the
audacity to return, to confront me here, smiling like the cats that have eaten
the ...” Her words trailed off, and she felt a dreamy kind of terror assail
her.  They were smiling, both of them, smiling still, but their teeth showed
now ...  their teeth ...  their terrible, sharp teeth.  “Oh my god,” she
breathed, and took a shambling step backwards. 

Charity giggled, again that chiming of bells, and covered her mouth with her
hand.  Tim laughed beside her, his voice a deep baritone.  “Edith Collins,” he
called to the air, “we know you are here.  We know what you mean to do, and we
are here to stop it.  Forever.” 

“You will never live on this earth again,” Charity said.  Her white gown
billowed diaphanously about her, swirling like fine tendrils of mist.  “We will
see to that.” She looked to Judith and laughed her horrible laughter, and
Judith’s stomach roiled with nausea. 

“Get out of here,” she tried to say in her most imperious, her most commanding
tone, but the creatures before her advanced nevertheless.  She backed away
despite herself, and it was only when her back connected solidly with the wall
behind her, wrenching from her a miserable cry, that she had any idea she had
moved at all.  But they advanced, and their white hands reached for her, and
she tried to scream as a perfect river of drool ran from the corner of
Charity’s mouth down her chin. 

“It will be quick,” Tim purred, and ran one bone-cold finger down her cheek. 
Judith shuddered helplessly.  He leaned in, and she could smell his breath, the
foulness of it, like charnel pits.  He licked her cheek playfully, and she
cried out.  “I promise you.” 

“No pain,” Charity cooed, and before Judith could move, the vampire lunged
forward and sank her long fangs into the graceful curve of Judith’s spinster’s
throat.  Judith gurgled, tried to scream, but no other sound would emerge, and
then Tim’s teeth sheared delicately into the right side of her neck, and they
were sucking, they were draining, they were drinking her, and it was horrible
and it was lovely at the same time, and darkness was welling up around her, and
they were biting her everywhere, biting her, chewing on her wrists and in the
pit of her stomach, gouging her, goring her, slurping and guzzling, and the
blood flowed in dark black gouts, and she was cut and slashed and still she
lived, and then there was pain, oh yes, pain, in great sizzling amounts. 

Edward, she tried to say, but her throat was in ribbons.  Jamison.  Help me. 

Quentin ...  Quentin, help me ... 

Then the darkness swallowed Judith Collins whole, and there was no one in it
but her. 

And Edith Collins screamed and screamed. 

5 

“Dear Evan,” Miranda DuVal purred, sliding effortlessly from the shadows of his
private parlor where he played with magics as if they were mere toys, “how
lovely it is to see you again.” She smiled as she completely materialized, and
smoothed out her petticoats with hands like white, delicate flowers.  Her hair
was piled high up on her head in an intricate coiffure of white-blonde curls;
she wore a blue dress with white ruffles and large white cuffs.  She is
beautiful, Evan Hanley thought.  How I hate her.  “I was so hoping that you’d
be at home.” 

“What are you doing here?” he asked, unable to keep his voice from sounding
weak and petulant.  She makes me feel like such a child, he thought. 

“I had to see you,” she said simply.  She gestured towards the sofa near the
fireplace where she had emerged months ago, unleashing her shattering,
unnerving aughter. “Come.  Sit down.  We have much to talk about.” 

He folded his arms and turned away from her.  “I don’t think so, my dear
‘Miranda’.” He accented the last word with a particular mocking viciousness. 
“I don’t imagine we have much to say to each other.  So why don’t you just —”
But the words never made it from his throat, which had suddenly closed off
tightly, so that his windpipe seemed the size of a pinhole.  A whistling gasp,
like the scream of a teakettle, emerged from his mouth.  He clutched his
throat, and turned to face her.  She was smiling grimly, and motioned again at
the sofa. 

“Go,” she said, and her eyes flared black for a moment.  “Sit.” He slid
effortlessly across the floor though his legs did not move him, and collapsed
in a heap on the couch.  She stood before him, looming over him, and her eyes
had returned to the crystal blue he knew so well.  “Poor Evan,” she clucked. 
“I do so hate having to remind you of your betters.  I, of course, am one of
them.” 

He rubbed his throat, and glared at her.  “What do you want?” he croaked.  The
choking sensation had dissipated, but his throat was throbbing painfully, and
felt hot and huge. 

“Information, of course,” she said.  “You know something that I don’t.  You’re
going to tell me what I want to know, or I’ll kill you.  Horribly.  Slowly.”
She hrugged.  “It’s very simple.” 

He laughed.  “Kill me and you’ll never find out what you want to know.” 

“Oh, I’ll find out,” she said.  “After you’re dead I’ll summon your spirit from
your grave, and condemn you to the torment of endless loneliness, forever
walking the earth in limbo.  You must learn to trust in me, Evan.” 

He sighed.  “Fine,” he said.  “What do you want to know?” 

“Barnabas is particularly distressed this evening,” Miranda said, “regarding a
sorcerer of particular note.  I have only heard whispers of him, but I know
that his power is great.  I suspect that you know of him as well, Evan.  I
realize that you fancy yourself quite the warlock, though of course you are no
such thing, and I’m willing to bet that you had a hand in arranging the arrival
of the notorious Count Petofi, did you not?” 

“What does Barnabas Collins have to do with any of this?” Evan asked. 

Miranda’s smile and good humor seemed to evaporate instantly, and her eyes
flashed black again for a moment.  Evan quailed; there was something horribly
unnerving about her at moments like that.  Her eyes aren’t human, he thought;
they’re like black, charred pits.  Is that what magic does to a person?  Is
that was true power is like?  He thought he might be sick.  “Don’t attempt to
change the subject,” Miranda said warningly.  “Don’t make me angry, Evan.  Just
answer my question.” 

Evan was sullen.  “I don’t know of whom you speak,” he said. 

Miranda looked at him sympathetically.  “I thought as much,” she said.  “Ah
well.  There’s always the hard way.” He opened his mouth to ask her what she
meant to do, but her hands already shot out and gripped the side of his head,
and he fell back against the sofa, screaming without sound.  He was utterly
galvanized with power, and he had the briefest, fleeting sensation of a
dazzling pain, then white streams of energy flowed about, connecting them,
tearing his apart, ripping him wide, and he saw — she saw — they both saw — 

— an old man with white hair who could be the twin of Edward Collins, and his
name was Amadeus, and he had a lawyer named Nicholas, and this Nicholas was
also Evan Hanley, and he worshipped Chaos and called upon the Powers of
Darkness; and Nicholas screamed in fury as Laura Collins was consumed by flames
in 1692, because he had loved her and wanted her to be free so that he might
taste more of her fiery power; and it was a hundred years later, and Nicholas
had appeared in the rain forests of Martinique to a beautiful young woman with
blonde hair and blue eyes, and her name was Angelique; and it was 1840, and
Nicholas was the one ablaze now, burning at the stake, and the townspeople of
Collinsport chanted and jeered, and the Master, only a hint of a shadow with
massive horns and eyes like orange fireballs, sneered and showed his teeth and
gestured with one horny fingernail, and — 

— Evan moaned and rocked back.  Miranda’s eyes were still closed, and she drank
in more of the information, linked inextricably with the streams of white
energy that connected them, then she released her fingers and stood up and
smiled down on him. He shook his head and looked up at her blearily, only
half-conscious.  Miranda’s eyes were glittering like blue chips of ice, and her
cheeks were crimson.  “How perfectly delightful,” she purred, “and how
unexpected as well.  My dear Nicholas, this is quite the pleasure.” 

“Nicholas?” Evan whispered.  “I don’t ...  I don’t understand —” 

“Of course you don’t,” Miranda said dismissively.  “It doesn’t matter.  I
suspected as much anyway.  So you lost the Mask of Ba’al after all, and I know
how it’s been a pet project of yours for so long.  Tch tch.” She waggled a
finger in his face, and he turned away, disgusted.  “This information may prove
very useful to me yet, Evan ...  but that is not the point at present moment. 
There is something else, much more pressing, going on at Collinwood as we
speak.” 

“Petofi,” Evan said.  “He’ll kill me now.  Because of you.  Because you know —”

“He’ll do nothing of the kind,” Miranda said.  “I told you, Evan, to trust in
me.  My powers are vast.  You knew once, and perhaps that memory of a life that
used to be yours is what drives you on now.  The point is, Count Petofi is here
seeking his Hand, the Hand severed from him by the Gypsies years ago.  It is a
true thing of power, that Hand, and without it Petofi is degenerating. 
Decomposing.  Losing the human form he wears, though that is nothing but a
glamour really.  Without the power from the Hand, Petofi will die.  And if the
Hand is returned to him, there may be no one on this earth who can stop him.”
She smiled.  “Except me.” 

“Don’t underestimate him.  He is ruthless.  Utterly evil.” 

“You know how ruthless I can be.” 

Evan grimaced.  “But you have emotions,” he said.  “You feel.  Petofi does not.
He is utterly inhuman.  He desires one thing, and one thing only.  To go to
the future.  To escape to the future, leaving the Gypsies who threaten him
behind.  To the future, where he can build an empire of the world where he will
rule omnipotent.  The Hand will allow him to do that.” 

“If,” Miranda said, and smiled her secret cat-smile, “if someone doesn’t stop
him first.” 

“If,” Evan said. 

6 

“So,” Petofi said, and when he grinned they could see things squirming in the
seemingly endless maw, like a white, writhing sea, “one of the mighty Collinses
is a vampire.  I wonder how Miss Judith Collins keeps that from the townfolk
she’s so anxious to not offend.” His grin widened, and a spiderweb of tiny
cracks opened at the corners of his mouth, and yellowish fluid began to drip
out. 

“I told you to get away from her,” Barnabas said, and his voice was still
pleasant, still refined. 

“And what if I won’t?” Petofi’s smiled had vanished, and he looked very
dangerous, like a dog with wild, rabid eyes that crouches with the intention of
disembowlment when it pounces.  “Will you punish me?  Do you dare to do that,
vampire?  What army stands behind you?” 

Barnabas’ reply was quiet.  “I have more powers than you think,” he said. 

Petofi cocked his head at a curious angle, and half of his hair fell out, and
it see-sawed to the forest floor in a wiry white drift.  “Do you?” he said.  “I
wonder.” He stroked his dissolving chin with one gloved hand.  “Enough power to
return to your own time if I decide to punish you instead?” 

Barnabas’ eyes narrowed for only a moment, then his face became neutral again. 
“My own time?” he asked politely.  “Count Petofi, I’m afraid I don’t understand
you.  What other time is there than this?” 

“You think yourself very clever, don’t you,” the Count spat suddenly; his rage
was palpable now, and bubbled very close to the surface.  “Don’t play games
with me, Barnabas Collins.  Very shortly now I will be returned to the full
bloom of my power, and I will destroy you without thought or hesitation.” 

From his place in the forest glen, safely hidden, Quentin Collins watched this
exchange with wide, frightened eyes, but he felt a tiny jolt of electricity at
those final words. “Power,” he whispered to himself. He had never been averse
to power before — had actively sought it out, as a matter of fact — but this
man standing before him (or, rather, this thing that looked like a man) was
indeed powerful; he could feel his power coming off him in waves, and if that
was only a hint of it ... 

Quentin licked his lips, and thought, Power. 

“Your threats are most idle, Count Petofi,” Barnabas said.  He allowed himself
a tiny smile.  “There isn’t enough of you to fill even a thimble.  You’re
melting as we speak. What power can you possibly have?” 

Petofi sighed, then turned with a sludgy kind of swiftness and seized Magda by
the hair and hauled her up to her feet.  She whimpered, but made no other
sound.  Her face was fierce and shining with determination, but Barnabas and
Quentin could see the disgust that made her tremble all over.  “Tell me your
secrets, vampire,” Petofi snarled, “or I’ll kill this woman in front of you in
the drawing of a breath.  I’ll snap her neck like a willow twig.” 

“Put her down,” Barnabas growled.  His eyes had begun to glow a soft red, and
the fangs that protruded over his lip were sharp and dangerous. 

Petofi was stroking her neck slowly and carefully; his one good eye glowered
balefully. Magda swallowed, and her chin jutted out defiantly.  “Kill me,
then,” she narled.  “Pig!  Dog! Murderer!  You’ll never have the Hand.” 

“Poor Gypsy bitch,” Petofi said, and gripped her neck in hands like a vice.  He
would twist until her neck broke, and suddenly Barnabas remembered the noise
that Julia’s neck made when the thing masquerading as Quentin broke it, that
awful sound like a pencil breaking, and he knew without a doubt that the
monster before him was the same terrible creature. 

“Stop!” he cried, and Petofi looked up, and his melting, waxy face was ripe
with glee. Barnabas swallowed.  “I’ll tell you what you want to know. 
Anything.  Let her go.” 

“No, Barnabas!” Magda cried.  “Tell him nothing!” 

“What do you want to know?” Barnabas asked, gritting his fangs. 

“You come from the future,” Petofi said, and Barnabas nodded.  Petofi grinned.
“Excellent,” he purred.  “And the year?  Is it 1967?” he asked without waiting
for an answer. 

“1967,” Barnabas croaked.  “Yes.  That is the year.” 

“How did you come here?” Petofi growled.  “How did you transcend time?  Tell
me, vampire, or the Gypsy bitch dies now.” He twisted her head suddenly, and
Magda made a tiny hissing noise, but didn’t scream. 

“I used the I Ching!” Barnabas cried.  “Now let her go!” 

“The I Ching?” Petofi purred.  “But that’s used for divination, not time
travel.  You lie, bloodsucker.” 

“No,” Barnabas said.  “No, I do not.  I used the I Ching to try to contact a
...  a friend, and found myself here instead.” 

“Impossible,” Petofi growled.  He still held Magda at that terrible angle, and
though she was biting her lip, her cheeks flamed crimson, and Barnabas saw a
tiny tear slip from the corner of one eye. 

“It isn’t,” Barnabas said with haste.  “I am two hundred years old, Count
Petofi.  I became a vampire in the year 1796.  My essence was able to journey
from the past and occupy the body that was waiting in this time.” 

Petofi stared, and a tiny flicker of greed flamed in his one eye.  Without
warning he shoved Magda forward, and she landed on the grass palms first,
coughing and gasping. “Fascinating,” he said.  “Just fascinating.  Thank you,
Mr.  Collins.  Perhaps, when my Hand is restored, your death will be a quick
one.” He raised a foot to kick Magda.  “And as for you, low cur —” 

“Touch her, and I’ll kill you now,” Barnabas said dangerously, “no matter what
the cost.” 

Petofi froze, and looked at him, that same strange look glittering in his eyes.
“Would you indeed?” he said.  “Yes, I believe you.  I do indeed.” He lowered
his foot, then bowed low to the vampire and Gypsy before him.  Magda regained
her feet and brushed herself off, rubbing her neck and glaring.  “It has been a
great pleasure to meet you, Mr.  Collins, and an honor.  And we shall meet
again.  Have no doubt of that.” He turned around and ambled off into the deeper
shadows of the forest and was lost in them. 

Barnabas turned to Magda and laid a hand on her shoulder.  “Are you all right?”
he asked, searching her eyes with his. 

Even a month ago she would have shrugged of his hand with a snarl and a curse
in her native tongue, but tonight she only tensed a little ...  and then
relaxed, accepting him. “Yes,” she said, nodding a little.  “But thank you,
Barnabas.  He didn’t hurt old Magda much, but I don’t know what he would’ve
done if you hadn’t come when you did.  You saved my life.  I’ll never forget
it.” Her voice quavered, and her eyes flickered with fear. “But Barnabas ... 
my Sandor!  Sandor has the Hand, and now that Petofi knows —” 

Barnabas smiled grimly.  “Petofi will never reclaim his Hand,” he said.  “I
have seen to that.” 

Magda’s eyes narrowed.  “What do you mean?” she asked suspicious. 

“Wait and see,” Barnabas said with that same infuriating, enigmatic smile,
“wait and see.” 

7 

“Come out, boy,” Petofi said.  His voice had become hoarse and bubbly, and he
shambled more than walked.  Only his powers were keeping him alive at all, and
they were rapidly deserting him.  If he could manage one last spell, the Vessel
of Anubis would bring him to the Hand, and then he would reclaim it, as it was
meant to be.  Now, however, his senses were still keen enough to feel that a
cowering mortal was nearby. “Come out, I say.” He grinned, revealing his few
teeth.  “I can smell you.” 

He expected a man — early thirties, dark-haired, maybe blue eyes, maybe green —
but the vision that stepped out of the bushes, trembling a little, his breath
coming in short, hot pants, was more besotting than anything he could have
conjured up himself, Charles Delaware Tate included.  If I were capable, Petofi
thought, amused, and not rotting away before my own eye, I think I would be in
love now. 

“I’m ...  I’m sorry,” the man said.  His voice quavered.  He looked absolutely
terrified, and Petofi was quite enchanted.  Lovely boy, he thought.  Just
lovely.  Wonderful physique. And such beautiful blue eyes, and they are quite,
quite blue.  “I had to meet you for myself, Count Petofi.” 

“Clever, brave boy,” Petofi smirked.  “What is your name, lad?” 

“I am Quentin Collins,” he said, drawing himself up to his full — good
gracious!  — height. Perhaps he was trying to look imposing.  Perhaps the “boy”
and “lad” had irked him. Perhaps Petofi wanted to ravage him right there
amongst the ash trees and the saplings. 

“A Collins, no less,” he said.  “You know who I am?” 

“Yes,” Quentin said.  He was still trembling, but his voice was strong and
firm. 

“And are you afraid?” 

Quentin opened his mouth — to lie, Petofi was amused to find — but then seemed
to change his mind.  “Yes,” he said, but did not look away.  His bravery in
admitting this was equally as enchanting as his oh-so-handsome-physique. 

“You are wise,” Petofi said.  “Why must you see me?  I’m afraid I’m not at my
best, dear Quentin.” Why don’t we just skip the formalities, he thought. 

Quentin licked his lips.  Petofi would’ve licked his, if he weren’t afraid his
tongue would fall out of his mouth and ooze all over the ground.  “You have
power,” Quentin said haltingly.  “I can ...  I can feel it.” 

“Yes?” Petofi purred.  An idea had just occurred to him.  A marvelous,
wonderful, evil idea. A body, he thought, a gorgeous, handsome, young body
that’s not — let’s face it — corpulent and old, woolly-headed and bleary-eyed,
a body that will make men and women fan themselves and faint.  A nice new body
just for me, my very own ... 

...  and one I can take to the future. 

“You have power,” Quentin said, and licked his lips again.  “And I ...  I want
you to help me.” 

Petofi raised an eyebrow.  It promptly fell off his face.  “Why should I help
you?” 

“I don’t know,” Quentin said miserably, “but I know you will.” 

He snorted laughter.  “Do you!  How presumptuous.” 

“I don’t know why,” Quentin said, “but please.  Let me explain.  Then you can
make up your mind.” 

And as Quentin talked, growing more and more anxious with each syllable, of
full moons and murdered wives and lycanthropy and of immortality yet to come,
Petofi grew more and more intrigued. 

His idea continued to blossom, like poisonous fruit. 

8 

Vicki’s face was ashen, and Barnabas and Magda exchanged frightened glances.
“Dead?” Barnabas repeated, and Vicki nodded.  “Judith ...  Judith is dead?” 

They stood in the drawing room, lit only by the flickering glow in the
fireplace.  Barnabas and Magda had been unable to locate Quentin after the
confrontation with Petofi, but Barnabas felt that he was in great danger.  They
had come straightaway to Collinwood, only to find the place in turmoil.  The
police had left only moments after they had arrived, and Edward, pale and
trembling, had locked himself in his room. 

“She was murdered in her bedroom,” Vicki said.  “She was ...  oh god, Barnabas,
I saw her body, even though Edward tried to keep me out.  She was torn apart. 
To pieces!” 

“It was not a werewolf,” Magda said, her voice firm and pragmatic.  “There is
no full moon.” 

“Barnabas, this isn’t how it happened originally,” Vicki said.  “I don’t
remember the exact details, but I know Judith wasn’t murdered like this.  The
books said ...  they said ...” Tears began to run down her face, and she cried,
“I can’t remember what they said!  I can’t remember ...  anything —” She flung
herself into Barnabas’ arms and sobbed. 

“It’s all right, Vicki,” Barnabas said, but his own voice was uneasy.  “There
was nothing you could do.” 

She drew her face away, and wiped the streaks of tears away hastily.  “Did you
find him?” she said.  “Petofi?” She shuddered.  “I can hardly bring myself to
say his name.” 

“Yes,” Barnabas said, “and ...  and Vicki.  There is something you should
know.” 

“It is him, isn’t it?” Vicki said.  “You’re certain?  The monster responsible
for all that death in the future?” 

“I’m sure,” Barnabas said, “but ...  but Vicki ...” His voice trailed off, and
he looked away, his face gray and tortured. 

“Barnabas,” Vicki said, and there was fear in her voice, “Barnabas, what is
it?” 

“I don’t know quite how to say this,” Barnabas said brokenly.  “It ...  it will
come as a shock.  A complete shock, devestating, and I ...  I don’t know how —”

“Barnabas, please!” Vicki cried.  “Tell me!  Please!” 

“Petofi is also Victor Fenn-Gibbon,” he said quietly, and looked up at her with
his sad eyes, so like a tortured little boy that her heart hurt.  “And Victor
Fenn-Gibbon was —” 

All the color drained from her face.  “My god,” she said.  “Elizabeth’s
journals.  The journals you told me about, where she wrote about all those
people she killed for ...  for him.” She closed her eyes.  Her voice was faint
and far away.  “Then Count Petofi was ... was my father.” 

9 

Finding Sandor Rakosi had been easy.  Killing him was even easier.  How his
eyes had bulged out, popping like little grapes in his skull, as the magical
flames of hell had consumed him, even as he gave over the Hand. 

Ah, the Hand ... 

Petofi held the Hand above the Vessel of Anubis, and felt its eldritch power
course through him.  The Vessel would seek out what was lost, and restore it. 
That was it’s power, its true essence.  “Anubis, Jackel-Headed One,” Petofi
intoned, “Keeper of Darkness, hear my call.  Know my power.  Grant me this boon
as I command.” The urn trembled before him, and he removed the glove from his
false hand for the first time in over a century.  The wooden creation before
him he removed with a tiny moue of distaste, and allowed it to drop to the
ground beside him.  The air around him was thick, and he focused on the
incantation.  He could feel the energy dancing on his skin; all it required now
was focus.  “I invoke you, Anubis,” he continued, “do not ignore me.  In the
name of the ancient unnamable spawn who ruled this earth when man was not, who
danced with you when the stars were new, who have long ago gone underground, I
command you!  Restore me, as is my privilege and my right!  Restore me! 
Restore!” 

Energy flashed before him in a searing red blaze, and he was engulfed in it. 
It swam around him, humming and buzzing; its power roiled over him in a tide. 
Petofi was almost lost in it, and might have drifted away into oblivion, but
for the Hand, which glowed before him like a beacon summoning him home.  The
power from the Vessel must be channeled through the Hand and back to him, and
then the Hand would be restored.  And then nothing on earth could stop him from
doing whatever he must. 

“Anubis!” he cried, and the energy around him sang.  “Restore me!  Restore me
now!  Now! NOW!” 

Then the energy was gone, and he stumbled forward.  His right leg buckled under
him as the flesh gave way like wax, and a long spear of bone jutted upward. 
“No,” he wheezed, “no!” 

“Yes,” the beautiful vision before him said.  She stood before him, and held
the Vessel in her hand, then tossed it into her other, and back again.  Her
smile was malefic and beautiful at the same time.  “I’m afraid I arrived just
in time, Count Petofi.  Allowing your little ritual to continue any longer
would’ve been a grave mistake.” 

His voice bubbled and wheezed in the back of his throat.  “Who ...  who are
you?” he gurgled.  He was drowning, and the woman before him only batted her
long black lashes and tilted her head with a coquettish flair. 

“My name is Miranda,” she said, “and I wary of being asked that question.  It
won’t matter to you, ‘Excellency’, for in only a moment you’re going to cease
to exist.  It’s been a wonderful ride, I’m sure, but after two hundred years,
your time, I assure you, is quite up.” 

Petofi rose shakily to his feet; with a gesture from his good hand, the bone
retreated into his leg and allowed him to stand ...  but barely.  He was
weakening, and this ...  this Miranda, whoever — or whatever — she was was
going to prove something of a challenge, it seemed.  “What interest do you have
in this?  Why have you interfered?” 

“Because you plan to meddle with me,” Miranda said carefully.  “I have a prior
claim to the soul of Quentin Collins, and as I told the last fool who dared to
cross me, it will be your undoing, ‘Excellency.’” 

“Do not mock me, woman,” he managed to snarl, but suddenly he was afraid.  This
woman was a witch, he gathered, and a powerful with too; he could feel it. 
Suddenly he was infuriated.  No one made Count Petofi tremble.  No one. 
Especially not some pretty slip of a girl, no matter how powerful a witch she
was. 

“I don’t believe you’re in any position to tell me what to do,” she said with a
haughty toss of her head.  “You’re about to fall apart, Count Petofi, and good
riddance to you.  Your exploits are legendary, I’ll admit, but you aren’t
looking your best.  Tsk tsk.  I expected better of you.” 

“Perhaps I am not at my best,” Petofi said, “but I am strong enough to deal
with you.  Give me the Vessel,” he demanded, and held out his good hand. 

Miranda threw back her head and issued her chilling, headthrobbing laughter. 
“Really!” she tittered.  “How melodramatic.  I don’t suppose you’ve been around
since the Greeks, ‘Excellency’?  Your style is most reminiscent of their
particular flavor of performance.” 

“Bah,” Petofi snarled, and flung out his hand.  The bolt of energy whickered
through the air, but Miranda deflected it with her free hand, which she
nonchalantly waved across the air.  “Tego,” she said, and the energy
dissipated.  She gestured again and hissed, “Excudo,” and Petofi flew backwards
as if struck.  He bounced of the wall, leaving a yellowish smear of goo in his
wake.  Miranda grimaced.  “Count Petofi, you disgust me,” she said, and brushed
off her skirts daintily.  “I hate to touch you, even with magic.” 

Petofi managed to rise to his feet.  “I don’t need your kind of magic,” he
snarled.  “I don’t need incantations and Latin commands.  I just need —” 

“You are mute,” Miranda said calmly.  “You cannot speak.” 

Petofi gurgled, and clutched his throat with one hand.  His one eye blazed at
her; his few remaining teeth were bared in a snarl.  He shook his fist at her
and screamed silently. 

“I could almost feel pity for you,” she said serenely, “save that you have set
your eyes on the prize I will claim in this place.  My Master is destined to
have Quentin’s soul, and that will free me, Petofi, for I am still bound to
this place, like it or not.  My link to Jamison Collins will hold me here for
awhile longer, but my Master grows impatient, and —” 

But while she was speaking with such assurance, Petofi was gathering his power,
and lashed out at her with a silent spell.  The energy struck Miranda and
carried her bodily backwards; she struck the wall so hard that it cracked, then
sank to the ground, eyes fluttering.  She still clutched the urn in one hand,
and lay there for a moment, gasping, until she clambered back to her feet. 

“Tricky,” she growled.  “Tricky, tricky, tricky.” 

“The Vessel,” Petofi demanded, his voice returned once the witch’s
concentration was broken.  “Give it to me.” 

“No,” she said, and wiped the blood that trickled from one nostril away with
the back of her hand.  She managed to smile.  “Come and get it.” 

He struck at her with another barrage of spells, and knocked her down again,
but she was back up with feline speed, and hissed, “Incurso.” Her eyes flared
that depthless, polished obsidian, and the spell struck Petofi and knocked him
away.  The bare flesh of his head split, revealing his skull.  His face was
almost fleshless, and his good eye glared at her from a sunken pit; the other
was but a gaping hole in his face.  They stood, face to face, evenly matched,
save that Miranda was rapidly gaining the upper hand. Energy bolts flew back
and forth, sometimes striking, sometimes missing by a mile, but she never lost
her grip on the ancient Vessel in her hand. 

Finally Petofi lay on the floor, a quivering mass, and Miranda stood over him,
smiling triumphantly.  “Poor Petofi,” she clucked.  “So sad to see such a great
man fall from so lofty a height.  Whatever hell awaits you in your next
existence, I want you to remember my face.  Remember me as the one who defeated
you.  Remember —” A pair of hands snaked around from behind and clamped down on
her neck, cutting off whatever else she was about to say.  She tried to cry
out, but the hands were insistent, and in the moment she dropped the urn as she
tried to swing around to learn the identity of her attacker, Petofi reached out
and clutched it in his good hand before it could strike the ground and shatter.
He glanced at it blearily, and clawed his way to his feet. 

Miranda managed to disengage herself from her attacker, a man she recognized as
Petofi’s little lapdog, that insane artist, Charles Delaware Tate.  He was
grinning at her like a dog, and his eyes were vacant and crazed.  “Obruro,” she
commanded, and he flew away from her across the room, and landed in a heap. 
She whirled around to confront Petofi, but it was too late.  She was blinded by
the spell he cast, and frozen in place as her entire body began to turn to
stone.  It was an easy enough spell to reverse, but was there time? 

The red energy began to swirl around Petofi again, emanating from the Vessel. 
He was continuing his incantation, and Miranda saw the energy spill over to the
Hand and increase in intensity a hundred fold, and she knew that she had lost. 

Petofi’s howl of success met her ears as the last of the stone fell away.  He
stood before her, a shambling, nearly rotted horror, holding aloft his newly
attached Hand.  It glowed white.  “I am triumphant, my dear Miranda,” he said,
“and I want you to look now upon my face.  Mark me well, woman, and revel in
your defeat, knowing that you will be the one to restore me completely.”
Understanding dawned over too late, and there was nothing she could do as
Petofi lashed out.  The Hand struck her above her chest, and she was galvanized
by the power that flowed over her, through her, and the Hand was inside her,
draining her, sucking her dry. 

Before the darkness overcame her, Miranda could see her own magic flowing over
him, flesh and bone restored, two eyes glaring down at her, a woolly mane
encasing the hole in his skull, and he was restored.  Petofi was whole again,
and there was nothing she could do. 

Then she was gone, drowning in oblivion. 

Petofi stood over the body of the witch, and looked down upon her coldly.  She
was far from dead, he could sense that, but her magical supply was much
diminished.  It would take her a long time — years, perhaps, if she had fallen
out of favor with her master — to recover.  I am fortunate indeed, Petofi
thought with a sinister grin.  I have but one god, and his name is Petofi.  And
I have my own worshippers to worry about, don’t I. 

But there was much to do.  With a disgusted glance backward at the unconscious
woman behind him, crumpled senselessly on the floor with her blonde curls
spilled around her like dancing sunlight, he walked out of the cottage and
slammed the door.  Then, with a grin resurfacing on his restored and shining
face, he began to walk towards Collinwood. 

I will rule them all, he thought, and heaven help anyone who gets in my way. 

TO BE CONTINUED BY MIDNITE ...