Shadows On the Wall

Chapter 64: Home Again 

by Nicky


(Voiceover by Alexandra Moltke): “It is January in the year 1968, and Victoria
Winters has returned to her own time after the tumultuous events in the year
1897.  Everything that was wrong was now right ...  or so she thinks.  In
reality Collinwood is still beset by a number of dark forces and evil beings,
and Victoria has to ask herself if she even has the strength left to fight them
...  or if she is destined to join them herself.” 

1 

Victoria Winters opened her eyes, and found that she was sitting up in her bed.
Her hair was tousled and wild, and her eyes, seen across the near-dawn dimness
of her bedroom reflected in the mirror above her bureau, were wild and circled
with dark rings.  Her throat pained her, and she wondered if she had screamed
aloud again.  

When the door to her room slowly opened a crack, and the slim body of an older
woman glided inside, she knew that her supposition was correct.  

“Vicki?” Julia Hoffman’s voice was hushed and low, and reminded Vicki for a
moment, with a pang, of Magda.  It had been a week since her return from the
past, and she was still surprised — and gratified — to find Julia alive,
untouched, as if her neck had never been snapped by the monster that
masqueraded as Quentin.  But of course, Vicki told herself wearily as she had
for the past seven days, none of that ever happened.  “Vicki, are you awake?” 

“Yes, Julia,” Vicki said.  “I’m sorry if I woke you.” 

“Do you mind if I sit down?” 

Vicki shook her head, and a moment later she felt Julia’s comfortable weight
settle at the edge of her bed, and the older woman’s fingers stroked her hair
gently.  Vicki closed her eyes and smiled a little.  

“Was it the same nightmare?” 

“I think so,” Vicki said.  “I don’t really remember.” She laughed a little.  “I
suppose that’s a relief.” The dreams that had haunted her every night since
return had initially been shocking in their intensity.  She could see Petofi
standing triumphant at foot of the stairs at Collinwood, standing in a lake of
blood up to his knees.  In one hand he held the severed head of Elizabeth
Stoddard, and Quentin’s in the other.  The blood roiled and foamed, and she
could see reflected in its depths terrible things: monsters with writhing,
sluggish bodies and great black wings that flicked and crawled with parasites,
and eyes that flared orange, and endless mouths lined with butcher knives, and
they capered with glee and what she realized with a sickening shock was
triumph.  And she always awoke with Petofi’s choked, barking laughter ringing
in her ears.  

The ring that contained his essence was tucked away in her dresser.  She
couldn’t force herself to get rid of it.  

But she hadn’t told anybody that yet.  

I will, she thought now, uncomfortably, I just need ...  I just need more time.

“I could prescribe you a sedative,” Julia offered, and Vicki smiled.  

“They’ll go away,” she said.  “I just need time.  To heal.” She laughed a
little.  “I can’t believe that it’s already the eighth of January, 1968.  The
past six months have just flown, which is funny when you consider that I also
lived another six months in the past.” 

“I understand,” Julia said, and recalled, briefly, her only jaunt to 1796.  How
long ago it all seemed!  For a moment neither woman said a word, but sat in
companionable silence.  Finally, after a long moment, Julia said, “I still
can’t believe it.  Everything that happened.  Everything you went through.  And
how different everything would’ve been if you hadn’t ....” Her voice trailed
off.  

Vicki shuddered.  “You don’t want to know what it was like, Julia,” Vicki said.

“As far as I can remember, it’s been a fairly peaceful winter,” she said. 
“Except for Nicholas Blair and Maggie Evans shacking up in Seaview, and all of
us concentrating our efforts on finding some way to keep Chris Jennings’
lycanthropy at bay, there hasn’t been much going on.” 

“I’d say that’s enough,” Vicki said.  

“I can’t begin to imagine what it was like.  It’s difficult enough to believe
that Elizabeth was basically a serial killer for the past twenty years, all the
time I’ve known her, picking two victims a year and stacking their bodies in
the West Wing like cordwood.  Or that I became possessed by Petofi and tried to
kill Barnabas.  Or that David pushed Roger off Widow’s Hill.” 

“But none of that ever happened,” Vicki said.  “Elizabeth is fine.  Roger is
alive.  The children aren’t possessed.” 

“But there’s Eliot, of course,” Julia said softly.  

“Have you been to see him?” Vicki asked.  

Julia nodded.  “Yesterday,” she said.  “There’s been no change.  The cuts have
almost healed, but —” 

“Cuts?” Vicki asked, frowning.  

“I keep forgetting,” Julia said, “that you don’t remember everything the way I
do.” 

“I’m starting to,” Vicki said.  “But it’s strange.  It’s as if there are two
different sets of memories in my head, and I can see both clearly.  It’s been
...  very confusing.” 

“I imagine so.” Julia sighed softly.  “Someone — some maniac, and the police
haven’t a clue who, because no one saw anyone go in or out of his room —
entered Eliot’s hospital room while he was alone and tried to kill him. 
Torture him, I think.  They made several shallow cuts with what I’ve been told
was a scalpel.  He would’ve bled to death if a nurse hadn’t entered at just the
right time.” 

“How terrible.” 

“It is,” Julia said, and before she could stop herself, added, “I wish Barnabas
were here.” 

Vicki couldn’t think of anything to say.  Barnabas’ disappearance marred the
happiness of her return to her own time more than anything else.  Julia told
her that she had come to the Old House on New Year’s Eve, and he simply ... 
wasn’t there.  He had left behind everything ...  except for his Inverness
cloak and the silver wolf’s head cane.  Julia had no idea where he could’ve
gone; he didn’t know anyone in this time, after all, and all his “contacts”
were invented.  

“I do too,” Vicki said at last.  “I’m terrified that, whatever Petofi did to
him in 1897, it’s affected him here.  That he’s ...” She let her voice trail
off, afraid to voice her thoughts.  

But Julia was shaking her head.  “I don’t think so, Vicki.  If Petofi had
destroyed Barnabas in 1897, then technically there would be no body for Willie
Loomis to release in this time.  And I wouldn’t have any memories of him.  Do
you see?” 

“Yes,” she said reluctantly.  “I don’t know, Julia.  I can’t explain, but I
have the most terrible feeling that something has happened to him.” She bowed
her head and closed her eyes for a moment.  “I just wish we could find him.” 

2 

The sun would rise in a few moments; Barnabas could sense this instinctively. 
He could actually feel the nearness of the sun, despite the fact that it
wouldn’t rise for another half hour or so.  But he had come all this way,
across land and sea, and he wasn’t about to turn back now.  This business
couldn’t wait another day.  I can’t stay like this, he thought, and felt the
fangs aching in his jaw.  I must have blood, and I can’t ...  I won’t ...  just
take it.  Not again.  Not ever again.  

For the temptation to find Victoria Winters and sink his teeth into her throat
and suckle, drinking her fresh, sweet blood, was nearly overwhelming.  Just
like Vicki, Barnabas’ memories were split, and he remembered both Decembers
equally ...  and he knew that Vicki had returned from the past, even if one
part of him knew that she had never gone there.  

I must have blood, he thought again, and swallowed, then shook his head as if
to clear it, and began to walk up the stony, wind-swept path that led to the
mansion that loomed out of the darkness before him, set atop a hill, dark and
silent in the eerie dimness of early morning.  

But one light burned, and he knew that he was successful in his quest.  

He knocked on the door a moment later, and waited for a sleepy servant to open
it and blink at him blearily before dismissing him.  If this was the case, he
would use his hypnotic powers to send them off to fetch the person who could
make this all right again.  

He wasn’t exactly sure what had happened.  In one set of memories, he had been
standing in the glade with Vicki and Quentin, prepared to rush off after Petofi
and stop him before he could regain his strength.  A shock had struck him then,
an utter lack of sensation, followed by darkness and a feeling of tumbling over
and over into nothingness, and after what felt like an eternity he had opened
his eyes, and discovered the horrible truth.  In another set of memories, he
and Julia had planned to visit Chris Jennings again with an experimental serum
Julia had developed, but before she had arrived, he had been stricken with a
sudden pain that dashed him to the floor.  When he opened his eyes, the blood
that trickled into his mouth caused the animal fangs to erupt like knives from
his gums, and he knew that he had become a vampire again.  Inexplicably.  

Except that he thought there was an explanation.  

Someone disturbed the I Ching wands, he thought, though there had been no sign
of any I Ching wands, because he wasn’t at Professor Stokes’ house when he
awoke, because he had never gone there to find the I Ching wands, because of
course he never needed them.  Nevertheless, his mind nagged him, someone did
disturb them, and that must have knocked me right out of the past ...  and
somehow, my body at the time came too.  

It didn’t really matter though, did it, the how or the why.  He was a creature
of darkness again, and the urge for blood was overpowering, and he had to leave
Collinwood before he hurt someone; he knew that instinctively too.  No one was
safe, not Julia, not Carolyn, and especially not Vicki.  

Especially her.  

He shivered, though he felt no cold, and glowered into the darkness before he
cast an uneasy glance over his shoulder in the direction of the horizon, which
was not glowing a rosy pink just yet, though he knew it would soon.  

Dammit, he hissed to himself, and was about to knock again when the door swung
open.  

He spoke before she could.  “I knew it was you.  I knew that it could only be
you.  It has taken quite a lot to track you down, but I had to.  I want you to
understand that right away.  I need you, now more than ever.  I need your
help.” 

3 

Christopher Jennings was tired of running.  He had run in high school —
literally; he was on the track team, earning medals right up until graduation —
and continued running after the nightmarish discovery of his hereditary
affliction, this curse that turned him into an animal on nights when the moon
beamed full and silver in the sky.  He had killed pigs — slaughtered wasn’t
even the right word — and eaten them, and he had killed a young girl as she
hitch-hiked along the road to Bedford, but not even that was the worst.  

The worst was waking up in bed with the first man he had ever made love to ... 
and finding that the man had no face.  

Because I chewed it off, Chris thought now, and felt his stomach flip over.  I
chewed his face off and I ate it.  

So he ran.  Tom understood.  Good ol’ Tom, taking over the farm, taking over
Amy’s guardianship.  Good ol’ Tom, dead now.  Good ol’ Tom ...  and why did
Chris think that Joe wanted Tom instead of him?  That he wanted Chris to be
Tom?  He’d never said anything like that.  Never intimated or hinted in anyway.
But still, the thought lingered, the suspicion remained.  He doesn’t seem to
want me the way I am, Chris thought; he wants someone else inside of me.  Who
else could it be but Tom?  

Running away, he thought as he threw a pair of faded jeans into his battered
old duffel bag, would make everything okay.  Julia wasn’t going to find a cure.
Stokes was never going to wake from his coma; he was an old man, and he would
slip away soon.  Quentin, Chris was sure, would never understand the truth.  

He removed the top drawer of his dresser and turned it over, and dumped all his
white socks and jockey shorts into the bag.  

“Leaving so soon?  Baby, I just got here.” 

He froze.  

“I don’t want to see you,” Chris said after a minute, and didn’t turn around. 
“Please go.” 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Nathan Forbes said, “and neither are you.” A moment
later, and Chris felt Joe’s strong arms encircle him, draw him closer against
that barrel chest, and felt tingles of electricity dance up and down his body
as Joe’s teeth nipped delicately at his earlobe.  

“Don’t do this,” Chris whispered.  

“Mmmhmm,” Nathan breathed, and his teeth found their way insistently to Chris’
throat.  

“I said, don’t!” Chris roared, and broke away.  He didn’t turn to face his
lover, afraid that Joe would see the tears shining in his bright eyes and laugh
at him.  I couldn’t bear to be laughed at, Chris thought, and his chest heaved
for a moment as he struggled with his sobs.  

“Don’t be such a baby,” Nathan said sulkily.  He didn’t understand Todd. 
Honestly, they’d been screwing now for almost three months, and Todd was still
such a pissy little bitch.  He would scream when he came, holding tightly onto
Nathan, drawing deep scratches down his back, writhing and moaning and calling
“Joe!” over and over, and then he would slink out of bed and shower alone for
almost an hour at a time.  It was increasingly frustrating.  Nathan hadn’t
heard a word from Nicholas Blair about the warlock’s fabulous plan to take over
Collinwood, and he wasn’t at all certain about his role in destroying Barnabas
Collins.  Blair had gone to all that trouble to conjure Nathan back from the
dead after his brutal neck-snapping at the hands of Barnabas Collins in early
1796, and now he was just sitting around on his ass, forgotten.  Letting that
mouse of a governess in on the Collins family Secret was all fun and games, but
nothing had happened since then.  And now Toddy was looking to scamper out of
town and ...  well, that just couldn’t be allowed.  

“I hate when you say things like that to me,” Chris said, struggling for
control of his emotions.  

“Like what?” Nathan asked slyly.  “Chrissy-Sissy?” Chris flinched.  “Oh come
on.  Don’t be such a little girl.” Nathan flopped on the bed.  He was wearing a
pair of Chris’ boxer shorts and nothing else, and he rolled over on his back
and exposed his defined chest, and idly toyed with one of his small brown
nipples.  He watched Chris watching him, and smiled like a cat.  “Does it
really bother you that much?” 

“God, do you even care?” 

“Of course I care!” Nathan said, sounding wounded.  “I love you, Christopher.” 

“You keep saying that, but —” 

“But you don’t believe me.” 

Chris turned to face him, and Nathan saw that one tear had already rolled down
his cheek.  He resisted the urge to roll his eyes.  “No,” Chris said, and at
least his voice is steady, Nathan thought.  “I don’t.” 

“You should,” Nathan said.  The hand that had played with his nipples strayed
to the patch of golden hair that ran down his chest to his stomach, and
disappeared beneath the band of the boxer shorts.  Chris’ eyes were locked on
Nathan’s hand as it moved lower ...  and lower ...  

“Don’t,” he said finally, and turned away.  

“I wish you’d stop saying that.” 

“And I wish you’d go away!” 

“I’ll never leave you, Christopher,” Nathan said.  He put his arms around Chris
and spun him around, then ground his lips against the other man’s.  He
struggled at first ...  but then he responded, and their tongues dueled like
ferocious serpents.  

When Chris broke away his face was flushed, and he was panting, and Nathan
could feel his responding hardness through his jeans, but still he whispered,
“Get out, Joe.  I have to leave ...  now.” 

“The sun hasn’t even come up yet,” Nathan said.  “Can’t you wait until
tonight?” 

“NO,” Chris said, and pushed him away.  Nathan let himself fall back onto the
bed, and groaned.  

“I think you really are a sissy,” Nathan remarked.  “A big girly crybaby,
always running away.  Running out.  Isn’t that what you did, Chrissy-Sissy? 
Ran out on your brother?  On your little sister?  Hey, maybe if you hadn’t run
so much, Tom would still be alive right —” 

With a bestial roar Chris sprang at him and knocked him off the bed.  They
rolled about on the floor, and Chris rained a series of blows on this man that
he had once thought he loved, and Joe took them and, incredibly, was laughing. 
“There’s my boy,” he purred, and then his mouth was on Christopher’s again, his
hands were inside his shirt, tugging at his jeans, tugging them open, tugging
them down, and maybe Toddy was protesting, but it didn’t matter, because he
loved it and he knew he did, and even when Chris cried out in pain and lashed
out, knocking Nathan upside the head so hard that stars bloomed in black
nightbursts across his vision, he still didn’t stop, still didn’t stop,
couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop, until — 

“GET THE HELL OFF HIM!” 

Nathan froze and looked up, then bared his teeth in a canine snarl.  

Quentin Collins was in the room.  

4 

Maggie Evans threw her head back and cried out in orgasmic pleasure and thrust
out her hands.  The energy that crackled between her fingers was a serpentine
emerald, and flared as is twisted and twined into the strange patterns and
sigils printed on the yellowing, crumbling pages of the ancient spellbook that
lay spread open before her.  When she opened her eyes they glowed a dull
obsidian, utterly swallowed by the black magic that now consumed her.  

“I call upon Baron Samedi, Lord of the Dead,” she incanted, and felt the words
hang heavy in the air around her; across from her, Nicholas Blair smiled his
weasel-smile and nodded encouragingly.  “Hear my words in the dark places, in
the graveyards, in the charnel houses.  Do my will, Baron, and earn my
obeisance to you!” The energy that crackled between her fingers grew before her
into an emerald ball of light.  “Open the gates that lie between worlds! 
Release a spirit who will tell us what has gone before us!  Send us a spirit
who can reveal what has passed by our eyes unseen!  Give us a guide who can
separate what is false from what is true!  I ask this in the name of Great
Dambhalla, who is your master, and the master of all the worlds!  So mote it
be!” 

“Very good, my dear,” Nicholas said, and clapped his gloved hands.  Maggie’s
studies in the art of black magic had proven that she was an adept talented
beyond his wildest imaginings.  He wanted to bed her right here and now, but
that would disturb the spell.  

The energy flared up in a series of hissing sparks, then resolved itself
briefly into the visage of what must have been an enormous black man; his eyes
were white and pupiless, and his dark lips split open to reveal huge teeth like
tombstone.  The face hung before them for a moment, grinning, then dissolved as
the magic fell away, and for a moment the room was dark.  Maggie began to
shiver as the temperature in the secret alter room of Seaview plummeted, but
her eyes remained black and her resolve did not weaken.  She is a true witch,
Nicholas thought, or she will be when I’m through with her.  If only I hadn’t
stricken Angelique of her powers and sent her off into the night as a helpless
mortal all those months ago, I could hold Maggie up to her as an example.  

“I am here,” a toneless voice spoke from the shadows before her, but made no
attempt to materialize.  

“Who are you, spirit?” Maggie demanded.  “Tell us your name!” 

“I have no name,” it said.  “I exist in no realm.  I know no world.  I see.  I
know.  That is all.” 

“There has been a disturbance in this world,” Maggie said.  “Things are not how
they were, or not how they should be.  Someone has changed something; we feel
this instinctively.  Tell us what has gone before, and what has changed in this
world.” 

“Someone had to go back,” the spirit intoned.  “Someone had to change things. 
To make them different.” 

“What things?” Maggie said.  “Who had to go back?  Where did they go?” 

“A girl with no real name.  A false woman.  Her destiny is clouded, and she
knows it now.  She braved the mists of time to make a transformation in this
place.  She thinks things are better now.” 

“Tell us what you mean,” Maggie said through gritted teeth.  Her black eyes
gleamed like the opalescent ebony shell of a beetle.  “What was changed?” 

“You were changed, Margaret Evans,” the bodiless spirit said.  “As was your
companion.” Nicholas was not surprised.  He rarely dreamed, but he had been
plagued the past week with incredibly interesting — and perplexing — visions,
as had Maggie.  

“How were we changed?” 

“You were sacrificed to feed a ghost, to bring him power and draw him into this
world.  The lifeforce and magic that sustained the warlock were drained and
allowed the spirit to materialize in this plane and possess a man you know as
Quentin Collins.” 

“What was this spirit’s name?” Nicholas demanded, and Maggie shot him an
irritated glance.  He shrugged at her, uncaring.  

“What was the spirit’s name?” Maggie echoed.  

“The spirit had many names, just as the warlock does.  The warlock knew him
once as ‘Excellency’.” 

“Petofi,” Nicholas swore under his breath.  

“Why was I sacrificed?” Maggie asked, shooting Nicholas a curious look.  

“The spirit was trapped in the house known as Collinwood.  His body had been
murdered by Elizabeth Collins Stoddard in the year 1944, and then burned in the
woods.  But the power in his Hand allowed him to remain on this earth.  He
existed this way for twenty-three years, while Elizabeth Collins Stoddard was
forced to sacrifice two victims a year, on the eve of both solstices.” The
spirit’s voice paused, and Maggie thought she heard a tone of amusement in what
it said next.  “She particularly enjoyed feeding you to him.” 

“This is madness,” Maggie snarled.  

“You know that I am incapable of lying.” 

“But I’m alive!” 

“You are alive because the past was changed.  That is an impossible thing to
do, but she did it.  She made a hole.  She made a tear.  She created a new
world when she disappeared into the past, and it lies over the old one.  You
are part of the new world.  In this new world you did not die at the hands of
Elizabeth Collins Stoddard and the spirit with the powerful Hand.” 

“Tell me the name of the woman who went back.  Tell me who changed things!” 

“You owe her your life.” 

“Tell me her name!” 

“Victoria Winters,” the spirit said, then its voice faded away utterly.  The
temperature of the room returned to normal, and Maggie sank to the floor,
exhausted.  Nicholas was at her side in an instant, and when she blinked up at
him, her eyes were brown and human.  

“Congratulations, my dear,” Nicholas said, and helped her to her feet.  She
dusted off the violet vinyl mini and shrugged away from him.  

“I could’ve handled that myself, you know,” she said icily.  

“You did very well,” Nicholas said, and couldn’t resist adding, “for a novice.”

She spun to face him, eyes blazing.  “I summoned a spirit from beyond!” she
cried, voice shrill with indignance.  “I conjured an emissary from the nether
realms!  You told me yourself how extraordinarily advanced that was for someone
at my level!” 

“I know, my darling, I know,” he said, and patted her arm soothingly, then drew
it around her waist.  She let him pull her closer, then leaned her head against
his shoulder.  When he bent to kiss her she met his lips greedily.  When at
last they parted, she looked up at him with unadulterated lust smoldering in
her eyes.  

“So I did well?” 

“Exceptionally well,” he agreed.  “It all makes sense now.” 

“Who is Petofi?” 

Nicholas frowned.  “A man — a creature — I knew in the past, when I lived in
1897 as a lawyer called Evan Hanley.  I summoned Petofi for the good of my
coven, not realizing just how powerful he was.  He couldn’t rightfully be
called a warlock, Maggie, because I don’t think he was ever human.  I’m not
sure what he was, but his power was in his Hand, which had been severed by the
gypsies long ago, but the Hand was re-attached when he found it again at
Collinwood.  It might interest you to know that Petofi is responsible for
Quentin’s continued existence in this time.” 

“I’ll send him my regards,” Maggie said dryly, and tossed her ebony hair.  

“Impossible,” Nicholas said.  “He no longer exists in this world that I know
of.  Which is unfortunate, because I have a score to settle with him.  He was
also responsible for my death in that time, you see, and I would love nothing
better than to pay him back for that.” 

“So we died,” Maggie marveled.  “And Vicki saved us.” 

“Unwittingly, I’m certain,” Nicholas said.  “I doubt that Miss Winters would
find joy in the knowledge that she has contributed to my continuing efforts to
subjugate the Collins family to my will and take over Collinwood for my own.” 

“Not quickly enough, you’re not,” Maggie grumbled.  

Nicholas seized her by the wrist and ground the bones together.  She glared at
him ferociously, and wouldn’t cry out.  He admired her for that, and so kissed
her again, and she kissed him back with the same dark passion that burned
inside him.  Finally he broke away from her, and purred into her ear, “Your
interest in this is personal.  I enjoy that.” 

“I want to make Quentin Collins suffer,” Maggie said, “and any Collins that
gets in my way.” 

“You will,” Nicholas promised.  “Now that neither of us are dead.” They laughed
together.  Outside, the first pink fingers of dawn began to grip the horizon. 
“And just in time, too,” Nicholas said.  “That spirit can only be summoned at
night, you know.” 

“But it told us nothing of Barnabas Collins,” Maggie said.  

Nicholas frowned.  “I was so certain that he played a part in whatever happened
to change things,” he said.  “Miss Winters’ trip into the past and all that.” 

“Perhaps that’s why he’s disappeared,” Maggie suggested.  “Maybe Vicki changed
the wrong thing, and ...  poof!” 

“I don’t think so,” Nicholas said.  “Barnabas Collins is around somewhere ... 
and we’ll find him.  He’ll be dangerous to our plan, and nothing can get in our
way.  Nothing.” 

“Nothing,” Maggie echoed, and growled deep in her throat as he lunged for her,
buried himself in her, and took her again and again.  

5 

Danielle Roget was confused.  

She had inhabited the very effectual body of Carolyn Stoddard for just over
four months, ever since the silly cow became entranced after the mirror that
had held Danielle’s essence for decades was broken in the fight against a
vampire, and in that time she had managed to slice her way through quite a few
of Collinsport’s citizens, including Carolyn’s one-time flame Dr.  Tony Trask
and Mr.  Wells at the Inn.  She had managed to scare that fat, screaming Mrs. 
Pettibone into a fatal heart attack, and had scored Professor Stokes with her
stiletto.  But her greatest triumph had been the decapitation of Quentin
Collins ...  except she hadn’t really done that.  The dueling memories
exasperated her, because chopping off the head of a man as handsome and
powerful as Quentin had been at the time, possessed as he was by Le Comte, was
so extremely satisfying: the spray of dark arterial blood, the glint of spine,
a hint of sinew.  She shivered now with the wholesomeness of the memory.  

But it faded a moment later, and she was left with the blunt fact that she had
bade Quentin goodnight only a few hours ago.  

I celebrated the coming of the New Year by slicing his head from his shoulders,
she told herself now; I remember how the knife sheared through his throat as if
he were butter; I can taste his blood on my tongue.  Why is he alive?  

Someone had changed something, that was why.  She understood this only dimly
through her dabbling in the black arts back when she actually possessed her own
body, but that was over two centuries ago.  Time travel was beyond her.  Le
Comte had tried to explain it to her — hadn’t he?  He had said time was fluid. 
But he hadn’t, because she hadn’t seen or spoken to him in centuries.  And yet,
one part of her mind insisted that he had holed himself up in Collinwood like
some kind of dark spider, waiting all those years for someone to release him. 
He had possessed Quentin’s highly attractive body (though she realized,
belatedly, that he did look better with his head attached to his shoulders) and
set out to take over the world, but she had put an end to that ridiculous
notion quickly enough.  

“Je ne comprende pas,” she whispered in the darkness of Carolyn’s bedroom.  She
was confused and aggravated, and wanted to spill blood so badly that it hurt, a
deep throb in the center of her forehead and in her heart.  

She sat up in bed, and her face tightened with resolve.  Consequences be
damned, she thought.  I’ll do it now ...  tonight.  

Tonight, she determined, settling back under the covers, tonight someone at
Collinwood will die.  

She smiled in the darkness with Carolyn’s prim, pretty mouth.  

6 

Quentin held out a hand to his great-grandson, but Chris dropped his head and
covered his face in shame.  His shirt was torn open, his face was scratched and
bleeding, and his pants were pulled down around his knees.  He curled into a
fetal position, and struggled vainly to reclaim some measure of dignity. 
Nathan, meanwhile, stood up, and crossed his fairly impressive arms across his
bare chest and stared at the raging man across from him with one eyebrow raised
coolly.  “This doesn’t concern you,” Nathan said at last.  “I think you should
leave now, Mr.  Collins.” 

Quentin ignored him.  “Did he hurt you, Chris?” he asked, and his hand was
still extended.  Chris couldn’t see; his eyes were pressed tightly shut, but
tears escaped anyway.  

“This is a private affair,” Nathan said, “and is none of your —” 

Quentin wasted no time with words.  Instead he lashed out with a beast’s
ferocity and sent Nathan sprawling with a hard fist to his jaw.  Nathan made no
sound as he fell, but when he looked up his eyes were slitted and baleful.  

He rubbed his jaw, and snarled, “You’ll pay for that.” 

“Get out of here,” Quentin said quietly.  “Now.” 

Nathan opened his mouth to retort, but saw the steel in Quentin’s icy blue
eyes, and shut his mouth tightly.  He shook his head, and set his mouth in a
sneer, but deep down he trembled, and Quentin knew it.  And Nathan knew that he
knew.  He slunk out of the room to retrieve his clothes, and a few moments
later they heard the door slam behind him.  

For another minute neither of them said a word.  

Finally Quentin knelt at Chris’ side, and put a hand on his shoulder.  “Let me
help you up,” he said tenderly, and it was the tenderness in his voice that
Chris responded to.  He opened his eyes and looked up at Quentin wonderingly. 
He was smiling, and said, “You’re kind of a mess.” 

Chris snuffled, and wiped his nose and eyes with the back of his hand, and
pulled his pants up as quickly as he could, wincing as he did so.  

Quentin’s eyes narrowed.  “He did hurt you, didn’t he,” he said.  “That son of
a bitch.  I’ll —” 

“No,” Chris said quietly.  “No, you can’t.  You can’t do anything.” 

Quentin raised an eyebrow.  “But Chris, he —” 

“I know what he did,” Chris said.  His eyes were dull and fixed on the floor. 
“I let him.” 

Quentin’s mouth opened, and then closed, and then opened again.  “Christopher,”
he said, then again, helplessly, “Christopher —” 

“You don’t have to say anything,” Chris said, and returned to his suitcase,
which had been flung to the floor in the savagery and heat of Nathan’s attack. 
He began to listlessly refold the clothes knocked out before he shoved them
back into the bag.  “I don’t think there’s much to say.” 

“You’re leaving?” Quentin asked, frowning.  

“I think it best, don’t you?” 

“No,” Quentin said.  “I don’t.  What do you mean, you let him?” 

“Not this time,” Chris said as he slipped into a clean, untorn tee shirt.  “But
before.  Lots of times.  For months.” His mouth trembled slightly.  “I ...  I
love him.” 

“You love Joe Haskell,” Quentin said, mystified.  

“Is it really so hard to understand?” Chris growled.  “You’ve been around for
almost a hundred years, Quentin.  Surely you’ve seen freaks of nature like
yours truly before.” 

“You’re not a freak of nature, Christopher,” Quentin growled right back.  “Not
because of ...  of this.” 

“This,” Chris said, and shook his head sadly.  “This.” He thumped his chest. 
“It’s one thing to be a Collins and not be able to tell anyone.  It’s another
to be a monster, an animal, a wolf under the light of the full moon.” He turned
to face Quentin, and his eyes were wet and furious at the same time.  “But I’m
a faggot too.  Isn’t that the word for me?  Faggot?  Isn’t that what I am? 
Isn’t that worse than all the vampires and werewolves in the world?” 

They stood, face to face, and Chris suddenly realized that he’d been shouting,
but he didn’t back down.  

“Isn’t that what I am?” he whispered.  “To you and to everyone else?  Just
another faggot?” 

“No,” Quentin said.  “You’re Christopher Jennings.  You’re me.  You’re a part
of me, and no matter who you are — no matter what you ever do — I will always
be there for you.  I love you, Christopher.” He put his arms around the smaller
man and crushed him to his chest, and suddenly Chris was sobbing and clinging
to Quentin with all his might, and Quentin rocked him and held him until the
sobs began to subside, and Chris looked up at him with bleary red eyes.  

“I’m a monster,” he said miserably.  

“You’re not,” Quentin said patiently.  “The werewolf thing isn’t your fault. 
Besides, hasn’t Julia given you her ‘it’s okay to be gay’ schpiel?” 

Chris’ eyes widened.  “Did she tell you about —” 

“No,” Quentin said gently.  “Not about you.  Not specifically.  And I’m so
damned thick-headed I never put two and two together until tonight.  No, Julia
told me about her brother Raymond.  How he killed himself because of the
persecution that was mostly in his head.  She feels very strongly on the
subject, Christopher, and I know she feels strongly for you, strongly enough
that she doesn’t want to see what happened to her brother to happen to you.  I
think she was prepping me for the moment I found out, but she didn’t really
need to.  I’m here for you no matter what.  I love you.” 

“I wish you would stop saying that,” Chris said.  

“I never will,” Quentin said.  “You’re my family.  See?” 

Chris looked at him, and finally smiled.  “Yes,” he said.  “I think I do.” 

“It’s not really that big of a deal anyway,” Quentin said, smiling back.  “I’ve
been around the block a time or two.  I’m not an idiot.  And I have had gay
friends before.  I was big into debauchery in the nineteenth century,
remember?” Before Chris could say anything, Quentin held up one hand and smiled
mysteriously, and said, “Which is all I will ever say on the subject again,
just so you know.” His smile faded.  “Are you going to be all right?  Do you
want Julia to look at you?” 

“I’ll be fine,” Chris said.  “He didn’t hurt me, not really.  Not on the
outside anyway.” He shook his head, and his face threatened to crumple again. 
“I don’t understand him, Quentin.  I had a crush on him in high school, sure,
just like all the cheerleaders did, but I swear to you that he was straight as
an arrow.  Joe Haskell, red-blooded all American boy.” 

“People can be pretty easily fooled, Christopher,” Quentin said.  

“I guess,” Chris sighed.  “But he just doesn’t seem like the same guy I
remember.  Not at all.  I mean, he and Tom were pretty chummy, and I guess I
used to get jealous, because even though we were twins, Joe never passed more
than two words with me.  And all of a sudden he shows up on my door one night a
few months ago, and the next thing you know he’s giving me a back rub, and then
kissing me, and —” Chris broke off, and his cheeks flushed a little.  “Anyway. 
I fell in love with him.  Stupid, I know, but —” 

“Love is never stupid,” Quentin said quietly.  “Never.  But the choices you
make because of it can be.” 

“I thought he was in love with me, but then I changed my mind.  I just don’t
get him.” He frowned.  “And he called me by another name tonight, when he was
...  when we were ...” Chris shuddered.  “He called me ‘Toddy’.  He’s never
called me that before.  At first I thought he was saying ‘Tom’, but that wasn’t
it.  He was saying ‘Todd’, and then ‘Toddy’.” 

“Someone he was with before?” Quentin suggested.  

“Maybe,” Chris said, “I don’t know.” 

“Would you like me to break his legs for you?” 

Chris smiled weakly.  “I can handle myself, Gramps, thanks.  But I appreciate
the offer.” 

“Anytime.” Quentin indicated the bag on the bed.  “Does this mean you’re
staying?” 

“I suppose so,” Chris said, and laughed bitterly.  “I’ve heard of gay youth
hostels in big cities, but who’s going to take in a stray queerwolf?” 

Quentin blinked at him, and Chris shrugged.  

“Rhetorical question,” he said.  

7 

She turned away quickly, but not quickly enough.  Barnabas saw the complex web
of emotions spin across her face before she could hide it: fear, awe, terror,
an aching sort of love, and a black flash of hatred, and this wounded him more
than he could have possibly guessed.  She stood for a moment, her back to him,
her shoulders trembling as she buried her face in her hands, then, incredibly,
she began to laugh.  The sound chilled him to the bone.  It seemed as if he had
just heard it, tinkling, devastating.  But that was a different woman, he told
himself, younger than the one you know now.  

“Angelique,” he said, “I’m sorry.  I can’t tell you how sorry I am.  I didn’t
want to come here.  I know you never wanted to see me again.  And I would give
anything not to hurt you.  But I had to come.  I had to.” 

“You had to come,” she said, and he knew that the laughter had been as angry
and bitter as he figured.  Her voice was brittle, and her words muffled through
her fingers, but he could still read her all the same.  My god, he thought,
it’s as if we never left off.  We’ve just picked up the same old string to tug
between us just as we always have, and just as we always will.  How did we come
to this place?  How did we come to be these people?  “Of course.  Of course you
did.” 

“Angelique, please.  May I come inside?” 

“No,” she hissed, and spun to face him.  Her eyes were too bright, and he
realized with a start that they were wet with tears.  But they burned just the
same, and just as furiously.  “No you can’t.  You can’t come into my house,
Barnabas, and you can’t come into my life.  Not again.  Go away.” Her voice
softened for just a moment, and she looked tired.  “Please.  Just ...  just go
away and leave me alone.” 

She was beautiful.  Her hair had grown long and flowed down her back in a
white-blonde tide; she wore a long black dressing gown that seemed to be made
of crushed velvet, and it pooled in delicate folds at her feet.  He had
forgotten just how breathtaking she was.  

“I had to come to you,” Barnabas said.  “Things have changed at Collinwood. 
They’ve —” 

“I know they’ve changed,” Angelique whispered, and her voice was soft and
filled with anguish.  He saw that her hands had clenched into tight fists.  She
looked up at him, and her eyes glinted like shards of broken glass.  “So many
things have.  You went back in time, didn’t you.  Back to 1897.” He said
nothing for a moment, and she shook her head in disgust.  “You and that ... 
that Miss Winters.  I knew her when I returned to Collinwood as Cassandra, but
at the same time I’d never seen her before in my life.  I have two perfect sets
of memories, Barnabas, and do you know what that’s like?  Can you have any
idea?” She laughed bitterly.  “No, of course you can’t.  Because you went back.
You did the impossible.  You changed the past.” She glanced down at her
beautiful soft gown.  “I even sensed that you would come to me tonight.  I
didn’t go to bed.  I waited up all night long and prayed that I was wrong. 
That you wouldn’t come at all.  But I think, deep down inside, I knew better.” 

“What do you remember?” 

“Many things,” she said.  “I remember a Collinwood without you, where I
furthered my plan to sell the soul of Quentin Collins to my master.” She looked
at herself in disgust.  “And I remember that you were there with Miss Winters,
and you weren’t supposed to be.  I could feel it instinctively, but I couldn’t
figure it out at the time.  So many things happened the same way.  Laura
Collins, Count Petofi ...  all of that happened without you.  But you made me
feel, Barnabas.  Before I died — before I went back into the wall — I felt
pain.  And fear.  And the knowledge that my own death was imminent, and that it
might be permanent this time.  And years later, when Nicholas Blair took away
all my powers and turned me into a human being again and sent me away from
Collinwood, that time came flooding back.  All those same awful feelings.”
There was no anger in her voice, no threat of recrimination.  She sounded
melancholy, and her eyes stared off into the darkness, where the sun on the
horizon would shortly bud like a rose.  “I came to you at the Old House, didn’t
I.  For help.  I came to you because Petofi had drained my magic away, and I
wanted you to help me battle him.  You told me I was better off without the
magic.” Her smile became cynical, and she looked him in the eye.  “Well you
were right, Barnabas.” 

“What do you mean?” 

She held up one hand, and after a moment he could see the simple silver band
that encased one finger.  “I’m married, Barnabas,” Angelique said quietly.  

His breath was taken away, quite literally, as the meaning sank home. 
“Married?” he whispered.  

“You needn’t sound so surprised.” 

“How ...  who ...?” 

“A man,” she said, and her voice was far away and dreamy.  “An ordinary man ...
well, not ordinary per se.  Strong, handsome, wealthy.  All the qualities I
like in a man.” She laughed at herself with careful derision.  “His name is
Schuyler Rumson, and he owns this island.” 

“I know who he is,” Barnabas said.  “He owns Rumson Enterprises in New York.” 

“After I left Collinwood that night,” Angelique said, “I came to New York.  I
didn’t know where else to go.  Sky saw me in an art gallery and asked if I was
a model.  I told him that of course I was, and he asked me if I wanted to be on
the cover of the next issue of his magazine.  It was so easy.” Her smile faded
a little.  “Too easy, perhaps.” She shook her head as if to clear it.  “We were
married last month, Barnabas.  A whirlwind romance.  He took me to the tropics
for a honeymoon.  We even went to Martinique.  His idea.” She laughed again.  

Barnabas raised an eyebrow.  “But he doesn’t know about ...” His voice trailed
off.  

“About my past?  Of course not, don’t be a fool.  I don’t really believe that
Sky needs to know that his brand new blushing bride is really two hundred years
old.  He thinks that I ran away from my wealthy family in Maine to be an
actress, and that they want nothing more to do with me, and I have never
disabused him of that notion.  I suppose in a way that it’s true.” 

“But the magic,” Barnabas said, and the disquiet blooming inside of him
threatened to become panic, “all your powers —” 

“I have no powers,” Angelique declared, “and I like it that way.” 

“You can’t mean that.” 

“How can you say that?” Angelique asked, aghast.  “What kind of hypocrisy is
that?  I’m happier without them, Barnabas.  I mean that.” He continued to stare
at her.  “You’re a threat to me, Barnabas, to me and my happiness.  If I really
had my powers, I could wipe this memory from your mind and send you back to
Collinwood completely ignorant of my existence on Little Windward.  They’re
gone.  Nicholas was granted an indulgence from the Master, and he was able to
change me from a vampire into a human being.  I was no longer a witch at all. 
What Petofi did to me merely drained me of the magical energy I possessed;
given enough time, that energy would have been replenished.  Nicholas turned me
into a human being.  I’m not capable of doing spells or magic even if I wanted
to, Barnabas.  I am human.  For the first time in two hundred years, I am a
human woman.  That’s all I want to be.” She stared at him, breathing heavily,
and her eyes flashed as if daring him to argue with her.  “Now please, go away.
For my sake.  For the sake of my new life.  Sky can’t see you, Barnabas. 
Please.” 

Barnabas swallowed.  “Angelique, I need your help.” He glanced desperately over
his shoulder.  The sky had begun to glow a dull pink.  “There’s so little time
—” 

Her eyes narrowed.  “What’s going on?  Why do you keep looking at the sky?” 

“Surely you of all people should be able to see what’s happened to me.” His
eyes began to glow a dull, sullen crimson, and he bared his fangs for her to
see.  

She recoiled, and a wave of desperate unhappiness passed across her face.  “How
did it happen?” she moaned.  “Why?” 

“I don’t know,” Barnabas said.  “I use the I Ching, a form of divination —” 

“I know what the I Ching is,” she said impatiently.  

“— to travel into the past, back to 1897.  But something must have happened to
the wands while I was in a trance here in the present.  Quentin and Vicki and I
were preparing to follow Petofi and defeat him, and then ...  then suddenly I
wasn’t with them anymore.  I was in the Old House, and the wands were scattered
on the floor.  Someone disturbed the wands, Angelique, and that action must
have dragged me out of the past.  But when I returned, I was still a vampire. 
I don’t understand how or why, Angelique.  I just need you to help me.” 

Her eyes widened.  “What do you expect me to do?” 

“I came all this way to beg your help,” he said.  “You placed this curse on me
originally.  You can lift it.  You must!” 

“Barnabas, I wouldn’t be able to lift your curse even if I still had all my
powers,” she said.  “The curse changed you.  You died, and became a demon.” 

“Julia Hoffman was able to —” 

“I don’t understand science,” Angelique said.  “I don’t know what she did, or
how she did it.  My curse was fueled by my hatred for you at the moment of my
death, and my rage and desperation gave it a power that made it work, far
better than even I could have conceived.  But I have never come across a
counterspell, or anything that could turn a vampire back into a person.” 

“But Nicholas —” 

“I was different,” Angelique explained with straining patience.  “I was a witch
when I became a vampire, Barnabas, not a human being.  And the Master has
powers beyond anything I have ever known or experienced.  But he would never
allow the curse to be broken.  Not unless there was some terrible condition
attached.” She bared her teeth, and the next words gritted out from between
them.  “And there are always conditions attached.” 

“I don’t dare go to Julia,” Barnabas said, and Angelique could still see the
fearsome glint of his fangs.  “I’m so afraid that I’ll hurt her.” 

“Or your precious Miss Winters?” she said, taunting him suddenly.  

“Yes,” he admitted reluctantly.  “I feel like I’m on the verge of losing myself
all the time.  I’m not in control.  I feel like a wild animal.” 

She stared at him incredulously.  “And yet you come to me and put my life in
danger?” She threw back her head and trilled her evil laughter.  “Isn’t that
rich, and so like you, Mr.  Collins.  Always so concerned for everyone else but
me.” The laughter died away.  “You come to me, begging for help.  How am I to
know that you won’t attack me?  How could you know that you wouldn’t?” 

He looked confused.  “I ...  I would never — I mean, I couldn’t ever —” 

“Of course not,” she hissed.  “Get out of here, Barnabas, and don’t come back. 
Ever.  I can’t help you.  And,” she added savagely, “I don’t think I would even
if I could.” 

“Angelique, the sun —” 

“I know all about your powers,” Angelique spat.  “I was a vampire too,
remember?  I know you can dematerialize and rematerialize somewhere else.  Do
it, Barnabas.  If you don’t have a coffin nearby, there’s a cave on the beach. 
But I suggest you hurry.  The sun will rise in about five minutes.” 

He glowered at her.  “Angelique for the last time, please.  I beg of you.  Help
me.” 

“Why should I?  After all I’ve done to you — after all you’ve done to me — do
you really think we can fit into each other’s lives anymore?  Go away,
Barnabas.  For the last time.  Get out of my life for good.  I never want to
see you again.” She turned away from him and quietly closed the door.  

He stared at the door for a long moment in shock and disbelief and a growing
anger, then turned back to the eastern sky, which was now ablaze with streams
of rose and gold and crimson.  In a few moments the sun itself would be
visible, and then this nightmare would be over.  It was a tempting proposition.

No, he thought.  No, I have things to do ...  too many things ...  Vicki ... 
Quentin ...  Julia ...  Chris ...  

A moment later and he was gone from the doorstep of the Rumson House on Little
Windward Island.  

Angelique stood by the door for another few minutes, her body wracked with
sobs, scalding tears leaking from her eyes.  She had hoped to never see him
again, and now she couldn’t fathom the pain that he had caused her just by his
brief intrusion into her life.  I love him, she thought wonderingly, and
endured a fresh bout of tears, I love him still.  God, god, help me ...  please
help me ...  

It was a long time before she joined her new husband in bed, and even with his
strong around around her, her head nestled against his barrel chest, she never
really fell asleep.  She stared into the darkness, and her eyes were wide with
fear.  

8 

Elizabeth Collins Stoddard, who had never hit a man named Victor Fenn-Gibbon
over the head to protect her sister and the rest of her family and who,
subsequently, had never murdered over forty people to keep the demon at bay,
was not really a substantially different woman than Vicki had known before her
transcendence into another time.  The Elizabeth Vicki had known rarely left
Collinwood; the Elizabeth Vicki had returned to was well-known for her
charitable donations, especially during the holidays, and for her work on
various committees in Collinsport in an effort, Vicki had gleaned, to help
dissipate the image of the Collinses as distant lords ruling over a fifedom. 
There had been a shadow over the older woman’s face that Vicki had never
noticed before, until it was gone.  

She stood now on the doorstep of Collinwood, and dropped her head and shook it
as if it were terribly heavy.  I should have banished him forever, she told
herself, and found that she was thinking of that man Fenn-Gibbon again, who had
disappeared so strangely on Halloween in the year 1944 without any explanation,
and she hadn’t really stopped to think of him since.  Not since Louise’s death
a few months later.  It was his fault, Elizabeth thought now, and lifted her
head to stare angrily at the man on her doorstep, his fault all alone; he
brought Fenn-Gibbon here, and then disappeared again, leaving Carolyn alone and
fatherless.  The occasional postcard or Christmas card or birthday card, but
they stopped soon enough, didn’t they.  

“Paul,” she forced herself to say.  “I’m can’t really bring myself to say that
it’s good to see you again.” 

“Elizabeth,” Paul Stoddard said, still handsome with a head full of white hair
and a devilish mustache above his lip, and his eyes sparkling and wicked and
Irish blue.  “Look at you.  A raving beauty after all this time.” He held a
suitcase in one hand, and she felt her heart sink, because she knew exactly
what he was going to say before he said it, and how could she refuse him?  It
had been impossible in the past.  “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” 

TO BE CONTINUED ...