Shadows on the Wall

Chapter 69: Angelique (The Devil Need Not Own You) 

by Nicky


(Voiceover by Lara Parker): “Darkness has held reign over the little town of
Collinsport since its inception three hundred years ago, and its foothold is
perhaps stronger now than it has ever been.  Something is rising, something
from the sea and from a world beyond the one we know.  And while the Collins
family struggles to understand the darkness they are only now beginning to
realize has lurked around them time out mind, one woman who has lived with that
same darkness inside of her for just as long as the town makes her return ... 
and she knows that the darkness that has been within her for three centuries
may yet consume her.” 

1 (Angelique Rumson — Now) 

No snow tonight, just rain pounding on the windshield with a million tiny
fists, and the damnable wipers streaking them into unbreachable blurs, and she
was crying, and the tears were hot rivers in her eyes, burning in her eyes, but
it was nothing compared to the fire that raged in her breast.  She had pulled
over after crossing over the bridge that led from Little Windward to the
mainland, and had slumped across the wheel and allowed her face to burn hot and
wet against the cold flesh of her arms.  She hadn’t even stopped to grab a coat
after fleeing from her new house.  Just her purse.  Her stupid purse, but it
held the keys to the Lexis, and she needed that now.  Badly.  

Angelique Rumson sniffled once, miserably.  This isn’t possible, she told
herself for the millionth time, it simply isn’t possible.  Sky loves me, he’s
human, he isn’t what Nicholas said, not possible, not possible, not POSSIBLE
GOD DAMMIT — 

The money.  The business.  The house.  Everything.  Everything he’d given her. 

She felt all her miserable defenses collapse, and she began to cry again.  Was
it all magic?  Was none of it real?  

Was his love for her unreal?  

Of course it isn’t, she thought, and for the first time felt that tiny spark of
anger that she hadn’t felt in such a long time, but was oh-so-familiar, that
tiny spark like a flame in the dark emptiness inside her.  You heard Nicholas,
she thought.  The most powerful and deadly warlock he’d ever known — inventive,
depraved, evil ...  how could you have ever loved someone like that?  How could
you have ever thought he loved you?  

The anger disappeared, and she only felt tired.  The porcine squealing of the
windshield wipers sounded only dimly in her ears.  This is how it has to be,
she thought.  How it’s always been, across three centuries and several
incarnations.  Why did I become a witch to begin with?  Why didn’t I just
ignore these powers inside me?  

Because, she thought, and smiled thinly, I thought they could bring me love. 
But they have nothing to do with love.  These powers are only capable of
corruption, of twisting real human feeling into nothing, or worse, a darkness
that could destroy so easily.  I don’t deserve real love, Angelique thought,
after all I’ve done.  All the destruction I’ve courted and caused.  How could I
think that anyone could possibly love me?  What I am?  The loathsome thing I’ve
become?  

Miranda DuVal.  As far back as Miranda DuVal.  

On my way to the Old House to see Barnabas.  On her way to the Old House to see
Barnabas.  Only it wasn’t called the Old House then, and his name wasn’t
Barnabas.  

And it wasn’t raining, it was — 

2 (Miranda DuVal — 1692) 

— bright.  Blindingly bright; the spears of sunlight, even filtered as they
were through the emerald foliage surrounding her, still pierced at her
crystalline eyes.  

Miranda DuVal had a spark within her (“There’s good and bad in everything,”
Mama had told her, time and again, “good and bad, like dark and light.  Strive
for the light, my baby.  Shun the darkness.  There’s something in thy breast
and in thine eyes that has a power.  ‘Tis thy choice, Miranda, how you use it. 
For helping ...  or otherwise,” and Miranda had never forgotten it).  Her long
hair, uncurled and unfettered by cap or ribbon, flowed down her back in
white-blonde wave, so brilliant beneath the spring sun that glowed cheerily
above the small Massachusetts town of Collinsport that it was nearly blinding
in its intensity.  But it was nothing compared to her eyes.  They sparkled with
a vitality and exuberance that had been sadly lacking ever since her final
encounter with Nicholas Blair.  

Miranda paused for a moment on her journey up the walk to Collins House and
placed a hand to her forehead.  

“Don’t just stand there, Miranda,” Nicholas Blair had snarled (not so long ago;
only a few days; but Lord and Savior bear witness, it felt like years); the
wide brim of his hat nearly obscured his features in the near darkness of the
abandoned fishing shack.  Only the flickering black candles, nearly guttered
out yet expelling thick plumes of thick, greasy smoke, cast enough light so
that he was recognizable.  “Tell me why you have come to this place!” 

If she thought about that time almost two months ago strongly enough, the
corrupt, pervasive odor of charred and stinking flesh would return in full
force until she gagged with the nausea that roiled within her stomach.  His
screams danced in her ears, as did the flames that consumed him until all that
remained of Nicholas Blair was a rapidly disintegrating pile of ash.  

Miranda opened her crystalline eyes, icy blue highlighted with tints of
green-gray, like the placid surface of the Atlantic Ocean that lapped gently at
the shores of the small fishing village barely three years old.  She
straightened the dark gray fabric of the dress she wore at the waste firmly and
soundly.  “That’s all over now,” she breathed.  “Nicholas Blair will never harm
me again.” 

Birds twittered deeper in the environs of the woods surrounding Collins House,
the home that Isaac Collins, eldest son of old Amadeus, had chosen as his home.
He had been joined there by Aidan Collins, and it was Aidan whom Miranda
wished to see more than anything on earth.  

She found it nearly impossible to believe that it had been almost three years
since she had first crossed the threshold of his father’s house and first set
eyes on him, handsome, debonair, with deepset hazel eyes that seemed to spark
with youth, vibrance, and a simple humanity that she found deeply touching even
on first glance.  His dark chestnut hair, casually swept over his forehead,
gleamed with an inner fire, and even now she longed to run her fingers through
it.  She craved it.  She NEEDED it.  He had taken her hand in his enormous paw
and brought it delicately to his lips, his eyes on hers all along, and
delicately brushed his lips against the skin, sending tingles of sensation
running up and down her body until goosebumps danced in sheets along the skin
of her arms.  

“Miss DuVal,” he had murmured in his rumbling baritone.  “So we meet at last.”
His eyes sparkled with mirth.  “Or is it mademoiselle?” 

She had blushed, dropping her eyes.  This was not how servants were generally
treated.  She’d been born in England to a wealthy shipbuilder, but his
unexpected death of a stroke at age forty-three had forced her mother to
abandon the London townhouse and everything she knew and loved and make her
way, with eight year old Miranda in tow, to the foreign, barren shores of
Massachusetts.  She recalled how depressed she’d been upon first glimpsing the
rocky, jagged coast on a fog-shrouded morning in late September.  This is where
they want me to LIVE, she had thought incredulously; this is where they want me
to GROW.  But since her father’s money had run out shortly after they’d
departed for the colonies, Miranda had been forced to become a chambermaid. 
Her mother, a tired, shriveled woman by the age of fifty, had moved them both
to Bedford in November of 1691, and only three months later Miranda was servant
to the Collins family, the most influential dynasty in Massachusetts.  Paid
handsomely, as was accorded a member of her station serving the rich and
influential, she had been content with her mother’s intentions ...  until that
first day, and her first meeting with Aidan.  

“Just miss,” she had murmured, the blush staining her porcelain cheeks crimson.
“I’m English, really.” 

“What a coincidence,” Aidan had chuckled.  “So are we.” He shrugged.  “For the
most part.  My father’s brother is Irish, and in Ireland he remains to this
day.” His smile was pleasant and open.  “I am his namesake.” 

“An unusual name, ‘tis true,” Miranda had remarked carelessly.  Her blush
deepened when she realized what she’d said, and added quickly, “but a fair one
as well.  A ring there is to it, and it rolls so easily off the tongue.” 

He pealed merry laughter then, and took her hand.  “I hope you enjoy serving
us, Miss DuVal.  It will be a pleasure to have you.” 

She smiled and nodded, her confusion deepening, like the tiny, diverting cracks
that appear in the icy surface of a pond one late January afternoon after a day
of unusual sun and a night of plunging temperatures.  I don’t understand, she’d
thought; I have served in over five households, and never have I been treated
in such a pleasant, accommodating fashion.  What manner of people are these
Collinses?  A smug smile crossed her features, distorting the beauty and
simplicity in the lines of her face.  Perhaps I shall stay here for awhile, she
thought, if all the family are as pleasant as this.  

But she was proven incorrect almost immediately.  Judge Amadeus Collins was a
harsh, unforgiving man, with a snowfall of powder-white hair, and fierce,
glaring blue eyes that gleamed at her from lined pockets of flesh.  His mouth
seemed set in a permanent sneer.  “You’ll do, Miss DuVal,” he had said curtly,
then gestured towards the kitchen with one finger gnarled by arthritis.  “You
can start your duties in the kitchen.” He’d dismissed her then with a nod, and
she felt something akin to anger rise in her breast.  From one extreme to
another, she’d thought; the father is nothing like the son.  

Yet there was nothing she could DO, and this powerless, helpless feeling would
creep over her late at night, as she lay in her narrow servant’s bed in
quarters far separated from the main house.  She loathed it, rising in her
throat like blackest bile, coloring her every thought the dark maroon of
depression.  Sometimes she found herself alarmingly close to tears, and that
was bad, very bad indeed.  What would old Amadeus think if he found her weeping
into her apron when she had been ordered to wipe the spots from the windows
near to the piano?  

The lack of a Mrs.  Collins was also a point of contention in the household. 
Though nearing sixty, Amadeus was determined to marry again, and Miranda
eavesdropped on many a heated argument between Aidan, his brother Isaac, and
their stubborn, iron-willed father.  “I will find myself a bride worthy of the
name Collins,” Amadeus had roared one early morning just after the stroke of
one, “and God help those who stand in my way.” Less than two months after
Miranda came to work for the Collinses, Amadeus took a bride.  

Her name had been Laura Pendleton, and it was rumored in the village that she
was the daughter of a wealthy merchant from London, but no one knew for sure. 
It didn’t matter in the long run; Amadeus was happy, his sons seemed to
tolerate the new bride (at least they did in the beginning), and few tongues
wagged.  

For the first few weeks.  

But in early January 1692 the Reverend Bale, new to Bedford even after two
years, died suddenly and tragically in his home.  He was severely burned, so
badly in fact that his parishioners were unable to recognize him.  He was
buried, and the talk began.  People recalled the reluctance and disdain Laura
Collins had shown for the church in Bedford, and although she and Amadeus
visited at least once a month, everyone knew she wasn’t REALLY a part of the
congregation, and never would be.  Bale had raised a few eyebrows when he had
casually, anonymously mentioned her during the course of a sermon.  Two days
later he was dead.  Two days after that and the village was buzzing, and one
word graced every pair of lips, whether with scorn or honest fear.  

And that word, naturally enough, was “witch”.  

It was a word that Miranda was acquainted with.  A diversion, she had been told
as a girl, for bored women of the aristocracy.  Of course the Church frowned on
it (and no one forgot the millions of women scorched and tortured in the flames
in the dark centuries thankfully now past), but what the Church didn’t know
didn’t hurt them.  Miranda herself had never bore witness to any true acts of
witchery, although she and her girlhood friends had enjoyed divining with an
egg in a cup simple questions about love and luck.  Games, really, but
dangerous ones should they be caught.  Which, of course, they never were.  

Word of the witch-craze in Salem had reached the village around the time of the
Reverend Bale’s mysterious death.  Miranda was intrigued, albeit disgusted, by
the simple ignorance of the country folk who populated both villages.  The
women on trial weren’t real witches, even she knew that ...  but of Laura
Collins she wasn’t completely certain.  It wasn’t difficult to snoop through
the belongings of the Collins family, and yet had found nothing incriminating
in the bedroom Laura shared with Amadeus.  Laura was a cold, proud beauty, with
a full head of goldenrod hair that she refused to cover with a cap, and eyes of
the palest cornflower.  Her cheeks were high and proud, and her lips, more
often than not, were wreathed in an arrogant sneer.  She did not love her
husband, and for this Miranda did not blame her.  But was it true what the
villagers were whispering near the chimney on cold nights?  Was Laura Collins a
witch?  

Miranda could find no evidence.  But still, she could not deny ...  there was
something strange about her.  

But it ceased to matter than cold February night, with the wind wailing and
gibbering outside the eaves of her narrow servant’s bedroom and snow piled high
on her windowsill, when the door had opened a crack, sending a thin ray of
light to cross the thick quilt her mother sewed her only child before her
death.  Miranda had known instantly who it was, wearing only a nightshirt,
despite his features hidden in silhouette.  But his voice — his strong, husky
voice, now made low with passion — was utterly unmistakable.  “I’ve come to
you,” he whispered, as though ashamed.  “I came as you knew I would.” 

And she had opened her arms as he lowered himself into them, into her, his lips
on her lips, so fierce and strong, and he was fumbling with the ribbons that
laced her gown tight ‘round her throat, and his scent was everywhere, hot and
coppery and so heavy, and he was straining against her and a moment later his
nightshirt was gone and her gown was gone and they were together in her bed,
and she was sated and happy.  

Love in the dark, love to spite the scream of the wind without the house, but
too short a time, alas, too short.  He was gone when she opened her eyes to the
harsh, white light of morning, a day when no sun would shine.  She had groaned
aloud and pressed her palms against her eyes until purple stars bloomed in the
blackness that now enveloped her.  

But it was love, not as pure as the poets proclaimed, she thought, but love
nevertheless.  She saw it in his eyes as well, when he passed her in the hall
that day and brushed his hand lightly against her arm.  And perhaps she would
have reciprocated if she dared, but she did not.  

For she knew her master was watching her.  

Miranda hadn’t been well acquainted with witchcraft until she came to Bedford,
but the possibilities fascinated her.  She loathed her status, just as she
loathed the woman to whom her Aidan was betrothed.  Samantha Good was a tall,
willowy creature with a fall of chestnut hair and huge, round brown eyes that
exemplified — glorified!  — innocence.  

Miranda hated her.  

She was impossibly wealthy, as were the Collinses, and a perfect match for
Aidan.  

Save that he didn’t love her in return.  

“They want me to marry her,” Aidan murmured one night, his bare arms supporting
her and his lips pressed against the hollow between her shoulder and neck.  She
smiled, cat-like, as tiny arrows of sensation trilled up and down her spine. 
“How can I?  She means nothing to me.” 

“You don’t love her,” Miranda had whispered, and her smile grew as she felt him
nod against her.  “You love me,” she said, and it wasn’t a question.  Just as I
don’t love Nicholas Blair, she wanted to add, but forced herself to be still. 
True, she knew that Amadeus’ lawyer wished her to warm his bed, but even he
couldn’t see the cold, appraising way with which she watched his face grimace
like a weasel when he visited the house, nor did he know about the rumors of
witchery and enchantment she had heard from his own servants.  

Aidan had nodded in answer to her statement, and she was satisfied.  

Unfortunately, Judge Collins didn’t see it her way.  Aidan was to marry this
wretch and that was all there was to it.  “Have some sense, boy,” he’d snarled
more than once.  “The Good’s are one of the most prosperous families in the
territories.  And Samantha is far from homely.” His shining old eyes had
gleamed slyly.  “You can stop trifling with mere servant girls, boy,” he said,
then nodded happily as the color had drained from Aidan’s face.  His
stepmother, prim and perfect with hands folded placidly in her lap, had beamed
at him from the settee where she rested, watching the exchange between father
and son.  Aidan felt a black hate envelop him and, from her hiding place
outside the door, Miranda felt the same.  “Didn’t realize your old father was
so clever, did you, boy,” Amadeus continued.  “I’m not blind, you know.  I see
things ...  hear things ...” His smile became huge and filthy.  “Marry Samantha
Good, Aidan.  Don’t be a fool.  Don’t throw your life away like your brother
Isaac.” 

No answer to that, and no answer and no answer and no answer.  Instead, a wall
of hurt and angry silences, and outside the great house the trouble in the
village grew.  Goodman Sibber, the baker in Bedford, had died in an explosion
in his kitchen early one afternoon, shortly after a visit from Laura Collins,
and his hysterical wife was certain that she was utterly responsible.  Miranda,
meanwhile, had her own fish to fry.  

It was an easy enough feat to conjure Samantha Good away from Bedford in the
middle of the night, taking with her only the bare necessities and her father’s
horse.  Where she had gone was a mystery to all, including Miranda, and she
somehow felt more at ease that way.  I didn’t need to make Aidan love me with
tricks and spells, she would think with a great deal of satisfaction as he lay
in her arms after love, all I needed to do was erase the competition.  

Shortly after the departure of Samantha Good, three things happened to disrupt
the Collins household, and Miranda’s life.  

The first happened the night old Amadeus snuck into Miranda’s bedchamber, just
as his son had, and forced himself upon her, forced himself into her, invading
her body, ripping into her, staining her.  Hurting her.  

The second was the arrest of Laura Collins by a mob composed of the angry
citizens of Bedford.  

The third was the disappearance of Aidan.  

It had crushed her, especially since he left no note or any form of goodbye. 
She made no connection to the disappearance of Samantha Good, and so was
perplexed and heartsick.  He hadn’t even told his father where he’d gone. 
There was no one to hold her, no one she could cry to.  She was alone, refused
even by Nicholas Blair, who denied her his help tp conjure up enough power to
blast Amadeus into oblivion.  

So, despondent and depressed, Miranda had made her way down to the pavilion in
the center of the village.  She had made no connection between her own spell on
Samantha and the disappearance of her beloved, but she had realized that there
was another strange creature in the household, and one that might be put to
death for the supernatural murders of two men in the village.  But what motive,
Miranda agonized as she pawed her way through the crowd, could Laura have for
sending Aidan away from me?  What?  

The Bedford mob had burned Laura that night, their suspected witch, and Amadeus
along with her.  Miranda had been most satisfied.  She had learned just before
their twin deaths that it had been Amadeus all along who had sent Aidan away. 
He had told her so earlier in the day.  “Why have you spoken out again my
wife?” he had hissed at her, shaking his arthritic claws in her strangely
impassive face.  “After I offered you safe passage from this country, and yet
you continue to wreak your misery upon my family.” 

“She is a witch,” Miranda declared, “and responsible for sending Aidan away.” 

His face had cramped and twisted until it was nothing but ugly, ugly and cruel
and vicious.  “Aidan never loved you,” he spat.  “He never loved any of those
servant girls, and he knew many.” 

“You lie!” she had cried.  

“Do I?” he chortled.  “You don’t sound so certain.” 

She had thrust out her chin, her lips quivering with fury.  “I am,” she
declared.  

“Perhaps you are at that,” he had murmured.  “I had to send him away from you. 
It was the only way.  I couldn’t chance the fact that he may have after all —” 

Her eyes had widened until they threatened to consume her face.  “YOU sent
Aidan away?” she had whispered.  “YOU were responsible?” 

“Of course,” he said querulously.  “Who else would hold that much power over
him?” 

“Tell me where you sent him,” Miranda screamed, her fists clenched into
quivering knots of rage.  Twin hectic spots of rouge stained her cheeks, and
her eyes blazed with icy blue rage.  

“Never,” Amadeus said nonchalantly.  

“You refuse to tell me?” 

He nodded, his fine, baby-white hair drifting across his lined forehead like
sheaves of straw.  

“Then you can rot in the hell that awaits you this night!” Miranda cried, and,
spinning on her heel, left the cell in which he was bound.  She didn’t wait
around to see him burned.  She had, instead, an appointment with Nicholas
Blair.  

It had never occurred to her that Aidan’s best friend was having an affair with
the wife of Judge Collins, or that he blamed her specifically for her death,
but indeed he did.  

“What’s the matter, girl?” Nicholas had sneered at her as she stood before him,
speechless.  “Come to me for another spell?  Another petty attempt at revenge?”


Miranda bowed her head.  “I have renounced the powers of darkness,” she said. 
“I am no longer bound to Satan.” 

Nicholas threw back his head and roared laughter.  “Oh, my dear Miranda,” he
tittered after the blaring gouts of laughter had subsided, “you amuse me.  I
have only been a novice for a short time by his standards, but in that time I
have realized that when the Devil owns you, he owns you for eternity.” His
smile vanished utterly, leaving only his cold, glittering eyes to sparkle at
her venomously from across the darkened room.  The alter in the center of the
room, draped as it was in a sheath of black cloth, seemed to point at her like
an accusing finger.  “There is no reneging, my dear.” 

She tossed her head defiantly.  “That remains to be seen,” she declared, then
raised an amused eyebrow and indicated towards the alter with one outraised
hand.  “And what little ritual are we conducting tonight, my dear apprentice?” 

“I don’t think it really concerns you, Miranda,” Nicholas said with one eyebrow
raised slyly, then rubbed his bare palms together briskly.  “But because it
pleases me so much, I do believe I will tell you anyway.” He smiled sublimely. 
“It is brilliant.” 

“I’m certain that it is,” she said, bored.  

“But first you tell me why you’ve come to here tonight.” 

“You are the last person in Bedford who would know,” Miranda said, trying to
shake away the vestiges of darkness that still clung to her like fine grains of
dirt, the scarred remnants of her psyche even after the small spells she had
woven to send away her competition.  “Where has Amadeus Collins sent Aidan? 
Where, Nicholas, you must tell me!” 

Nicholas stared disdainfully at the fingernails on one outstretched hand, long
and thin, like a spider.  “I don’t think I should tell you,” he said finally.  

“You will,” Miranda replied, fury sending tremors into her voice, “or I will go
into Bedford and turn you over to the authorities myself.” 

“And will they believe you?” he shot back.  “Will they believe your wild tales
about the most respected lawyer in Bedford, dear Miranda?  Conducting heathen
ceremonies by the edge of the sea?” He chuckled infernally again, then stroked
the beginnings of his mustache.  “No, my dear, I think you are wrong.” 

She glared icicles at him.  “But you are afraid to find out,” she said, “and
you will — when they bring their dogs after you ...  when they force you from
the woods, screaming, disheveled and dirty, and burn you right here on the
beach.” She smiled almost pleasantly.  “And it will happen Nicholas.  I can
MAKE it happen.” 

His smile faltered.  “You — you don’t have that kind of power,” he said
trepidaciously.  

“You know that I do!” she retorted.  “You will tell me where Aidan Collins has
been sent, and I will be reunited with him.” 

“It would be so easy just to use your powers,” Nicholas purred, his voice
crushed velvet.  “You could find him yourself, Miranda.” He lifted one of the
candles from the alter and held it up to his face.  The shadows highlighted the
contours and canyons of his features, transforming him into a ghastly demon. 
“Go on my dear.  Give it a try.” 

“I will destroy you if you don’t tell me what I want to know!” Miranda
shrieked.  

Nicholas waved a hand at her.  “All right, Miranda, all right,” he sighed.  “I
grow weary of our constant bickering.” He beamed broadly.  “Aidan is where I
told you he would be all those weeks ago.  His father sent him to Boston ... 
but he traveled instead to Collinsport, the fishing village his brother Isaac
founded.  He is there right now.” 

“And does he know of your ‘hobby’?” Miranda hissed.  

Nicholas shook his head.  “Sadly, no,” he said, then gripped her arm fiercely
and snarled, “And you’re not going to tell him.” 

She jerked away and slapped him across the face, at the same moment crying,
“And what’s to stop me?  YOU?  You are nothing, Nicholas Blair.  Nothing but a
puny, puling excuse for a magician.” 

“You will pay for that,” Nicholas whispered, bringing a startled hand to his
cheek, which now glowed a dull, angry red.  

“I most sincerely doubt that,” Miranda gloated.  Giving him a slight bow, she
said, “Now if you don’t mind, Mr.  Blair, I’ll be departing these premises. 
Your secret is safe with me.  Good —” 

“Wait!” Nicholas exclaimed, momentarily forgetting his battle scar.  “You
haven’t heard my plans yet, darling Miranda, for they involve you most
thoroughly.” 

She paused, one hand frozen on the door of the shack, and a shudder ran down
the length of her spine before she whirled back around to face him.  “And what
do you mean by that?” she hissed.  

He leered at her craftily.  “Because of you, my beloved Laura was burned,”
Nicholas said, “sent to a world of darkness for the rest of time.  But I have
discovered a ceremony that will resurrect her.” 

“Impossible,” Miranda declared.  “Laura Collins is dead.  She will never return
to this earth.” 

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong,” Nicholas said.  “She will not return to
this earth in the form by which we knew her.  Oh no ...” He rubbed his palms
together again, greedily.  “She needs a body to inhabit.  A body in which to
survive.” His eyebrows arched above his head; his teeth seemed sharp and ferret
like, and his eyes impaled her.  “That, my dear,” he said, “is where you come
in.” 

“No!” Miranda whispered.  I don’t have any powers, her mind gibbered, not
really, not anything, not enough to stop him, not enough to save myself — 

“Oh, yes,” he purred, stepping towards her, the candle still clutched in one
hand.  “I was going to recruit a pretty girl from the village, but you’ll do
nicely.” He had her backed against the wall now, and, reaching out with one
loathsome hand, idly twirled one of her golden curls.  “I’ve always held a
certain fondness for you, Miranda,” he purred in her ear.  “You’ve always been
such a pretty little thing.  And once the ceremony is over, you will become my
bride.  Through you, Laura Collins will live again.” He raised one hand and
chanted, “I call upon the Powers of Darkness to do my bidding.  Grant me a soul
from the outer darkness ...  draw into this world —” 

“NO!” Miranda screamed, and with one deft movement knocked the candle from
Nicholas’ hand.  The flame immediately caught on the lapel of the long, gray
coat he wore and spread eagerly, the flames crackling and popping with a hunger
utterly unknown to humans.  

“This cannot be!” he roared, slapping at the flames even as they spread. 
Miranda watched, horrified, and yet she was filled with a surge of exhilaration
that bloomed within her, causing her to gasp for breath, as Nicholas reared
backwards and plunged into the alter.  The bowl of whatever dreadful substance
had sat upon its ebony surface splashed onto him, and the flames from the other
candles licked at it eagerly.  His shrieks had become indistinguishable from
the rest of the crackling of the flames as they spread throughout the shack.  

Miranda forced herself to look away, and threw open the door of the shack and
flung herself into the chill of the late winter eve.  Fascinated, she watched
as the shack was quickly consumed in flames, taking with it whatever dark
powers Nicholas Blair possessed.  

“Good riddance,” she had whispered then, and she said it again into the
darkness, smart with satisfaction.  

She wiped the thin sheet of sweat from her brow, blinking rapidly in the bright
light from the sun, and continued her trek up the path.  Just ahead she could
see the bone-white glint of the Collins Manor through the trees, dappled with
the sun and painted with the cool green shadows of the forest.  Excitement
bloomed in her chest, hot and heavy, and she hastened her steps.  

She brought her fist to the door, then paused, her heart lodged in her throat. 
I’ll never use my powers again, Miranda thought firmly, then rapped soundly
against the door, three times, a magic number.  

I swear it.  

“Aidan!” she exclaimed as the door swung open and her beloved was facing her,
but there was something wrong after all.  “Aidan?” she asked again.  “Why don’t
you —” 

She stopped short, the words choking and dying in her throat.  Aidan wasn’t
alone in the doorway.  

There was someone beside him after all.  A woman.  

She tossed her dark hair and her cow eyes narrowed suspiciously.  “So,”
Samantha Good Collins hissed, “you have found us after all.” 

Miranda’s drilling shriek of horror echoed through the forest — 
	
3 (Angelique Rumson — Now) 

— but she bit down on it now until she thought her lower lip would bleed. 
Angelique licked them a moment later; they were dry and cracked, and she could
taste copper blooming on her tongue.  They were bleeding after all, dammit. 
The rose lipstick she’d pressed against them briefly had worn off long ago; her
eyes were treaked black with smeared mascara.  The rain had turned her hair
into a tangled rat’s nest.  He’ll never help me, she thought, disgusted with
herself; he’ll never even look at me.  And why should he?  The last time I saw
him in this room, I threatened to kill him.  It’s not likely he’s forgotten
that little exchange.  

I begged him to kill me.  

That was true too.  The soul Nicholas had restored to her had sent up tremors —
more than mere tremors, more than mere rumblings, more than an earthquake or an
explosion — of feeling in her, the first time she’d felt things in ...  oh,
more time than she could remember.  And the memories — oh god, the horrible
things she’d done, the horrible thing she’d become — 

Don’t think about that now.  Knock on the goddamned door.  

She licked her lips again, but obeyed.  Her hand trembled, but she forced it
into a fist, and knocked timidly against the door.  A crash of thunder drowned
it out, and she ylped in sudden terror.  

Don’t be such a wimp.  

Sound advice.  She tried again, more forcefully this time.  

Footsteps inside, approaching the door, and she was suddenly swept by a cold
terror and sense of deja vu so potent that she nearly turned and ran.  But fear
held her a frozen prisoner, locked in place.  She could only wait.  

Then the door opened, and the face inside went white and blank with shock, then
the emerald eyes narrowed with an unconcealed hatred.  

“You!” Julia Hoffman cried, then spat, “What are you doing here?” 

4 (Angelique Bouchard — 1794) 

There is darkness in this world, Angelique Bouchard reminded herself; a kind of
chasm lurking beneath what the world sees, a vast black hole that no one ever
really knows about.  They can only sense it.  And here it is, opening before
me.  A door into the underworld, into that places that lies beneath us all.  A
door into hell.  

And it’s going to swallow me whole.  

The man beside her was a man she had only just met, but a man, nevertheless,
who held her rapt, with a face so familiar — and so hated — that she must have
met him before.  The humidity of the island, even this close to midnight, had
condensed on his face, and streaming rivers trickled over his forehead and
veered dangerously near to his eyes, which were, at this moment anyway, closed.
That was a relief.  The eyes of Nicholas Blair filled her with an inexplicable
dread, and a loathing so deep it seemed to chill in her bones or to circulate
in her blood.  

The night around them pressed close and hot, even under the thick, leafy canopy
of trees that broke only a little so Angelique could see the round white face
of the moon floating in the black above them.  It seemed a giant eye to her, a
huge glowing eye that had opened and found her and marked her forever.  

Nicholas was chanting something quietly under his breath.  As she watched, he
opened one gloved fist and sprinkled a combination of herbs into the empty air
before him.  They floated and circled as they flitted down to the earth and
entered the charmed circle he had drawn in the earth before them.  This same
earth was already stained black with the blood of the goat Angelique had stolen
from the slave quarters.  The goat was black as well.  That was important,
Nicholas had impressed upon her, and Angelique had questioned nothing.  

She was quite used to asking no questions.  She had been indentured to the
DuPres family on the island of Martinique since her sixteenth birthday, when
her beloved Maman had died of a fever which she had never recovered from.  Poor
Maman, convinced until the end that it was a spell put upon her, and that
Angelique must make certain that she was never exposed to such virulent magics,
that she must learn to defend herself.  “Someone will come for you soon,” Maman
had sworn; her eyes had been large and unfocused and more than a little crazy,
but Angelique had listened raptly, and a serpent of fear had wound its way down
her spine until she was shivering uncontrollably.  Maman was dead before
Angelique could inquire about this mysterious “someone”.  She knew what they
whispered on the island, how Angelique’s Maman was a priestess of something
even darker than the Vodou, that she had never been able to conceive, and so
had called upon an entire roster of fiends and demons to bring her a baby.  And
what of the girl-child she bore nine months later?  What of the changeling
being?  What would it become?  

But I can do nothing, Angelique always told herself, whispering essential
truths like prayers in the empty black of the morning while she lay in her
narrow servant’s bed in the house of the DuPres.  I don’t have Maman’s powers. 
I can’t snap my fingers and make flowers sprout from the earth fully grown, or
call to the sky for rain to come, or heal a wound by running my fingers over
the cut even as it gushes a torrent of blood.  I can’t do any of the things
that she was so good at — 

— except she could.  She knew it, had sensed it all along.  I am Angelique, she
thought now, and I am more than the fools on this island, more than mortal.  I
know it.  I feel it.  I have power.  

She had known after she met Barnabas Collins and knew that she could never have
him.  She knew the night she had called out to the universe for help, for the
ability to change things.  She had known when Nicholas Blair had appeared to
her in the dark of the night, in the secret and still of the night, and he had
shown her what she could already do, even without his help.  

So she had reached her mind into the darkness outside and felt an entire world
at her fingertips, a vast reservoir of energy — of power — that she could tap. 
It wasn’t such a new thing; it had always been there, always available to her,
if only she had known ...  if only Maman had shown her.  

But maybe Maman hadn’t known.  Maybe not even Maman had suspected that there
was something like this, something outside of all of us.  Power all around us,
just waiting.  Waiting for someone like me.  

She had plunged into it without hesitation.  She explored the power, allowing
it to bloom inside her like the flowers Maman had plucked from the earth,
blooming like black night-roses; it hummed inside her in a kind of golden thrum
that rose in the pit of her stomach and glowed in her sex; it sang in her
fingers and in her eyes until she was suffused, consumed with the power inside
her.  But it lacked a focus.  

“And that’s not all,” Nicholas had promised her, and offered her his hand, and
despite the twinge of nausea she felt at the thought of touching (and thank god
he wears gloves, thank god his skin is covered) this man before her, she had
taken his hand.  

And so here she was.  

In the so secret and so still of the night.  

“We will help you, Angelique,” Nicholas had told her.  His smile was like steel
shavings, and his sharp teeth glittered at her under the moonlight.  “We have
heard your call.  But know that this is to be a bargain.  Everything comes with
a price, and yours will come, we promise you.  Can you accept that?” 

The power, blossoming inside her, twining inside her, golden, silver, hot red
and hot black — 

A price.  Always a price.  

The face of Barnabas Collins; his eyes, so deep and so sad, always so sad, and
the curve of his mouth, the spill of his hair, wild over his forehead, his hand
in the sweet, tiny hand of Ma’amselle — 

“Yes,” Angelique had said, and now there was a steel in her as well, like wet
iron in her mouth, new and exciting.  “I can accept that.  Anything.” 

Now the moon glowed above them and spilled silver through the cracks in the
trees, and Nicholas was chanting (Latin, Angelique thought, it must be the
Latin he told me about, Latin, a tongue of power), and as his hands passed
through the air, her eyes widened.  They left in their wake trails of what
seemed to be fire, but it glowed a deep venomous emerald that fell into
complicated patterns before fading away completely.  (Witchfire, a voice
whispered deep in her mind, and you’ve seen it before.) 

“As the worm slithered fresh from the mud,” Nicholas intoned, his eyes closed
tight and his hand burning through the air, “as the serpent wise called forth
like a clarion from the bowels of the earth, as the charred and blackened stars
rained over this world at your beginning, let that call be heard again.  Let
the fire come.  Hear us, Dark One, and be here now.  We have consecrated a
place for thee.  In your name and in the name of the Nameless Ones you serve,
appear to us ...  now!” 

When Nicholas opened his eyes, Angelique bit back a scream.  They were flawless
and obsidian, like the black eyes of a serpent.  Emerald fire crackled between
his outstretched hands.  

His eyes, she thought sickly, oh dear god in heaven, look at his eyes — 

Her breath caught in her throat.  

Something was coming.  

The air reeked of ozone, split open by the magic Nicholas had invoked; the
world was aflame around her, and she could feel the power brewing inside her,
turbulent storm clouds ready to split and release.  

Fire erupted all around the perimeter of the charmed circle, red and alive and
crackling with hunger, and then ...  

...  oh, and then ...  

She saw something.  Something inside the circle.  

Only a hint, just a suggestion, but there was a great shaggy head, and eyes the
size of footballs, enormous sparks that glowed a hot orange, and a cruel mouth
twisted in a smile — 

My darling.  My angel.  You have come home at last.  

“Who are you?” she whispered.  “What are you?” 

You know me.  You have heard my voice before, whispering to you.  You have seen
me, walked with me, in your dreams.  You are my child, my most beloved, the
most beautiful one of all.  I have been with you through oceans of time,
guiding your hand, your steps, my will intertwined with your life, with all
your lives — 

“My lives?” Horror caught in her throat like black water.  

Those great orange eyes glared into her, pierced her, and knew her. 
Intimately.  It was a look beyond recognition.  The gaze of the thing in the
circle of fire glowed hot inside her.  Into her soul.  

Dance with me, angel.  Join the dance.  

The fire flared up, and she felt something respond inside her, like a caged
animal straining in her breast for freedom.  The power danced around in her the
air, and she felt the fine blonde hair on her arms stir and rise.  

Dance — 

“Dark One,” Angelique breathed, and Nicholas glanced at her, annoyed.  

“That is who we’re trying to contact, yes,” he snipped.  

She felt as if all the breath were sucked from her body.  

Nicholas, beaming at the circle, as the witchfire glowed between his fingers
...  but he didn’t hear.  And he didn’t see.  

He couldn’t see the Dark One at all.  

What did that mean?  

It means that he is a fool, my darling one.  He is a tool.  A convenience. 
Through him you have come to me.  

“Because I called to you,” she whispered.  

Words.  Trifling.  None of it matters.  You are here now.  Blair has served me
well, but you — you will give me form and substance.  

“Form,” she repeated.  The power crackled in the air around her.  There was a
heat in her breast, and when she held out her hands, the power answered her,
and the witchfire — red now instead of emerald — crackled minutely between her
fingers.  “Substance,” she said, pleased.  

You matter now, my angelic one.  Great things are in store for you.  I can see
them.  The world will tremble at your feet.  And that is how it should be.  

“The power,” Angelique said.  “I have the power inside me.” 

But do you have enough?  

“Help me,” she said.  “I beg of you.  Grant me your power.  I can be what you
want me to be.  I’ll prove it to you, for all eternity.” 

I will come to you when you need me the most, angel.  

“Show me your power!” she cried out, and thrust her hands into the circle of
fire.  

She was galvanized instantly as a black tide swept over her, into her, through
her, and filled her utterly.  Her eyes flew open, and they were jet black and
crackled with dark energy.  The pool of energy around her — emitted from every
being in nature, from the earth itself — turned black as she drew it into her
body.  The being in the fire was a conduit for that energy, and it was as black
as the secret night whispering around them.  She was lost in a luxurious
garden, an ebony paradise where the power roared and sang around her, and she
was the power, she was the magic, and she was the entire world.  

And oh, but that world was a vast chasm, and it was all dark, dark, darkness.  

And, nearly a year later, as she lay dying, her eyes burning into the murderous
bastard before her, the man she would have given up everything for, even her
powers, she was also in the garden, in the secret and still garden, and she
felt its power nourishing her.  And she wasn’t alone.  The Dark One had come to
her, as he had promised her he would.  

You think you are dying, my angel.  You are wrong.  You can never die.  You
will exist throughout eternity at my side, like a shadow beside me.  You will
ride the night with me.  

Join the dance.  

“You think I’m dying,” she spat at Barnabas, and her teeth were flecked with
bloody foam, “but a true witch can never die.  The Master protects his
handmaidens well.  But mark well my face, for you will see it again.” 

The power was around her, and hung over her in a shroud.  It was hard to
breathe.  The world was dark because she was dark, and it was so very, very
cold.  

“I set a curse on you, Barnabas Collins,” Angelique said, and in that moment
she was a witch as she had never been a witch before.  The power flared up
around her, as black as her heart, as cold as the soul that flitted away as her
heart pumped out her lifeblood all over the floor of her old room in the
servants’ quarters; it flared up, and it answered her call.  With her spectral
eyes, from the tomb where her body lay but her essence could leave at will, she
watched as the bat conjured from the dark garden tore at her husband’s throat. 

She had lost her soul (forever, she thought, and good riddance), and the Dark
One was there with her, his paw in hers, his eyes hers, black and cold and
evil, and she would haunt this house and this estate and this family for two
hundred years until she was torn from the garden, torn from the Dark One, and
he didn’t whisper to her anymore, and she was just another mortal human being. 
Until the day she would die.  For real.  

5 (Angelique Rumson — Now) 

She didn’t wait for an invitation, but instead swept — or tried to sweep — into
the room as if she owned it.  I was the mistress of this house once, she
thought petulantly; that gives me a right to come here, doesn’t it?  Then she
remembered how her fangs had slid so easily through the layers of skin on Julia
Hoffman’s tender throat like paper, and how her blood, hot and sweet, had
spurted into her mouth and ran in a scalding river down her throat, and how
their minds had been instantly linked, master and slave.  Hot shame burst over
her like a caesura.  

“Get out,” Julia said flatly.  

Angelique turned to face her.  “Why Julia,” she tried to purr, trying to
capture that old tone, that old fire again, “is that any way to greet an old
friend?” 

“You are no friend of mine,” Julia hissed.  “Get out of this house this
instant.” 

“I can’t do that, Julia,” Angelique said, and shrugged simply.  “There’s
nowhere else for me to.” 

“A pity.  It’s also a pity that I can’t quite bring myself to care.  Get out,
Angelique.  Now.” 

“I need to see Barnabas.” I must have patience, she told herself, and tried to
quash the irritation with her old rival that was rising in her like bile.  I
enslaved her; I nearly killed her; she had to burn herself with crucifix beads
to cleanse my mark from her throat; I took her body; I turned her boyfriend
into a vampire; I ...  I ...  

Oh, screw it, Angelique thought.  She narrowed her eyes.  “I mean it, Julia.  I
need to see Barnabas.  This minute.” 

Julia barked harsh laughter, and Angelique’s eyes widened.  “Or what?” she
said.  “You’ll turn me into a doormat?  Send me back in time two hundred years?
Sic a vampire bat on me?  What can you possibly do to me that you’ve never
done before?” 

Angelique said nothing.  

“I think we both know the answer to that,” Julia continued, and now her smile
was positively venomous.  Angelique began to be nervous again.  “You can’t do
anything to me.  You don’t have your powers anymore.  You’re a mortal woman,
and I don’t think I care to be threatened by something as pathetic as what
you’ve become.” Her nose wrinkled.  “And you’re dripping all over the rug.  Get
out of this house, Angelique.  Get out of this town.  There’s nothing for you
here, and there never will be.  Leave.  Now.  And forever.” 

Angelique felt impotent tears of rage and shame and utter despair burn her eyes
again.  She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.  

“How nice,” Julia said dryly, “to see you speechless for once.  I never thought
I’d live to see the day.  Neither, I suppose, did you.” 

“Julia —” Angelique began, but tears choked her off.  

And then she heard his voice.  Only it wasn’t his voice at all.  

“Angelique,” Barnabas Collins said in a voice like the dry whisper of leaves
against concrete, but the man before her wasn’t Barnabas Collins.  Couldn’t be
Barnabas Collins.  This man was ancient, so withered and lined that he couldn’t
possibly be alive.  His eyes had sunk far back into his skull, and glared like
sullen red coals at her.  His mouth was crosshatched with a million wrinkles,
and the teeth revealed when he spoke were jagged and yellow.  His hair was a
white drift scarcely covering his scalp, which she could see was speckled with
brown spots.  

“Oh, Barnabas,” she whispered.  Her horror would allow her say nothing else.  

“Angelique,” he said again.  “Are you a witch again?  Have you used yours
powers to bring this upon me?  This curse again, and with it, the hunger that
has eaten me away?  Turned me into something more loathsome than the monster I
have already become?” He was advancing on her, and his hands were opening and
closing, opening and closing, withered monkey paws, and they were reaching for
her, and she couldn’t move.  “Have you done this to me, witch?” he roared. 
“Have you?  HAVE YOU?” 
	
6 (Cassandra Collins — 1967) 

She smoothed out the wrinkles in the gorgeous caftan Roger had purchased for
her in Brewster’s that afternoon, the one strewn across with a delightful
pattern of circling purple butterflies, and smiled a tiny feline smile to
herself.  It was the end of her second day at Collinwood, and she was quite
enjoying her role as the new bride.  And, she told herself as she patted her
helmet of bobbed black hair and beamed at her reflection in the mirror, it is
rather agreeable possessing a body once again.  She wrinkled her nose.  She
wasn’t wild about her new hairstyle, but keeping up appearances was important,
and she knew that damned portrait Nicholas commissioned was floating around
somewhere.  I’ll have to find that as soon as possible, she promised herself as
she ran lipstick over her mouth, then smacked her lips appreciatively.  

A pair of hands settled on her shoulders, and she stiffened, then forced
herself to relax.  Roger was nibbling on her neck, and she made herself purr
aloud with contrived happiness, and patted him on the hand.  “Darling,” she
said.  

“Darling yourself,” he told her, and smiled at her.  The simpleton.  “It’s a
gorgeous summer evening, Cassandra.  Would you care for a walk around the
estate?  The horizon is still golden and shades of red and pink.  It’s
breathtaking, and I ...” He paused uncertainly.  “I want to share it all with
you,” he finished, and smiled at her proudly.  

“Darling Roger,” she said, and tried in vain to catch his gaze with her own
venomous stare, but he was nuzzling her neck again.  “I’m afraid I’m a little
worn out.  Your sister has been so kind as to show me about the estate, and
then I helped David with his homework —” 

Roger raised an eyebrow.  “You did?” 

“I was going to be a teacher,” Cassandra explained, and willed her patience not
to fray with more effort than she thought was necessary.  “I figured it would
...  I don’t know.  Put him more at ease with me.” She shrugged.  “That’s all.”

“It was a brilliant idea.  The more time you two spend together, the better.” 

“That’s what I thought.  Why, I was telling myself that only —” But Roger’s
hand had suddenly and quite inconveniently dropped directly onto her left
breast, and she gasped, a quick, sharp intake of breath that he mistook for a
moan of passion.  

That, she thought, rips it.  

“Roger,” she said through gritted teeth, “darling — look into my eyes.” 

He squeezed her breast playfully.  How Laura ever put up with this, Cassandra
told herself, and for three centuries at least, I’ll never understand. 
“Certainly, darling,” he said.  “Your eyes are the most fascinating I think
I’ve ever seen.  They’re so blue — like water.  Like icy water you can ...” He
swallowed, and Cassandra saw his pupils contract minutely.  “...  you can drown
in.  Almost ...  almost lose yourself in —” He swallowed again, and his mouth
hung slack.  “...  f-forever.” 

“Excellent,” Cassandra purred, and turned away from her vanity to face him. 
She stroked his cheek with one finger.  His hand fell away from her breast and
hung limply at his side.  “You want to take a walk Roger.  You want to enjoy
the sunset.  But I have a fearful headache, you see, so you’re going to take it
by yourself.” 

“You have a fearful headache,” Roger intoned.  He didn’t blink, and he didn’t
move again.  “I want to take a way.  I want to enjoy the sunset.” 

“By yourself.” 

“By myself.” 

“Lovely.” Cassandra waved a hand in the direction of the bedroom door.  “You
may leave me now.  And when you walk outside, you’ll forget that you ever came
here.  I have a headache.  I told you after dinner.  That’s all you remember.” 

“That’s all I remember,” Roger said, and nodded eagerly.  He turned to the
door, and shuffled towards it, zombie-like, until he disappeared outside,
leaving it ajar.  Cassandra sighed, then made a small but intricate gesture
with her hand, and the door closed of its own accord.  She twisted her index
finger in the air, and it locked with a satisfying click.  

Alone at last, she thought, and breathed a sigh of relief.  

Which escaped her mouth in a twining white plume.  

Her eyes widened.  The temperature of the room had plummeted nearly twenty
degrees in the two or three seconds since she had magically locked the door.  

She was not alone in the room.  

As Angelique, and then again as Miranda DuVal in 1897, she had been exposed to
hauntings or spectral activity.  The air around her was deadly calm, but
Cassandra felt sheathed in a shell of glass.  Yes, she decided with a shake of
her newly darkened head, this indeed had all the earmarks of a spiritual
visitation.  

“Who is in this room?” she called bravely, not expecting an answer, and not
receiving one.  The wisest course of action, she had learned the hard way, was
to deal with ghosts without even a modicum of fear.  Ghosts could sense it, and
a witch could lose the most minute control of a spirit if she expressed even a
tiny sliver of apprehension.  “I demand that you show yourself to me,” she
continued, and felt color rise high and red in her cheeks.  “ Appear to me! 
Now!” 

Mocking laughter was her only response, and cold fury welled up inside her.  I
am in control, she thought angrily; I am in control.  

“Appear to me,” she snarled, “or I will constrain you, tie you to the earth,
and you will wander this world for an eternity in an agony of loneliness if I
will it to be so!” 

The face of the spirit as it materialized wore a smile as mocking as its
laughter, and for a moment she thought the lined and sunken face belonged to
her nascent husband.  No such luck, she thought gloomily; at least I can handle
Roger.  

Joshua Collins — or, rather, the ghost of Joshua Collins — was wreathed in a
green, spectral light, and Cassandra was aware that the light in her boudoir
had grown dim, and was all but extinguished.  “If it isn’t my dear
daughter-in-law,” he sneered.  “My dear, even if I can’t say it’s good to see
you, I can say it certainly has been a long time.  And how well you look.” 

“I don’t know you,” Cassandra said patiently.  “Leave this place — now.” 

The smirk faded from the spirit’s face.  “How banal,” he growled.  “Did you
really think that you could fool me?  I remember you so well, Angelique.” She
stiffened as he pronounced her name, and then railed at herself because it was
certain that he had noticed.  “I remember that first day you came into my
house.  I dismissed you then as a simple servant girl.  How much tragedy I
could have averted if I knew then what I know now.  You aren’t simple at all,
are you.” 

“Leave this place,” she hissed.  

He ignored her.  “And yet you’re a servant still, aren’t you.” She rose to her
feet, her mouth open in a silent snarl of fury.  “I see I’ve touched you,
Angelique.  Isn’t it true?  Aren’t you bound to these powers that have restored
you to life?  Given you a new body?  Aren’t you indebted to the Dark One for
all eternity?” The spirit shrugged.  “Perhaps you’ve traded classes — risen
above the station you inhabited when you first came to my house — but you’re
nothing more than a servant.  A slave to whoever wields the power, and for one
simple reason.  You have no power for yourself.” 

“That isn’t true!” 

“And I’ve touched you again.  How exquisite.  I do wish I could have said these
things to you the day the Countess brought that foul portrait of you into the
Old House for an exorcism.” His voice grew bitter and melancholy by turns. 
“You destroyed her that day.  Sent her up in a column of flames.  I often asked
myself why you didn’t kill me when you had the chance.” 

“Because,” Cassandra said, her face suddenly wreathed in a bilious, poisonous
smirk, “I knew that your punishment would be more fitting if I allowed you to
live, knowing that you were alone in this world, and that you had condemned
your son to an eternity of night, of starvation in the coffin wherein you
imprisoned him.” 

The air before her grew hazy, and Joshua Collins shimmered like heat ...  and
wasn’t Joshua Collins anymore.  Cassandra withdrew with a cheated scream, and
placed a hand to her cheek as if she’d been slapped.  

The doelike visage of Josette Collins (Samantha Good, an unknown voice
whispered in her mind, but she didn’t understand, didn’t have time to
understand) blinked at her with dewy eyes from behind a gauzy wedding veil. 
Her pouting lips trembled.  “But Barnabas is free,” Josette said reprovingly,
and Cassandra could almost believe she saw the hint of tears in her former
mistresses’ eyes, and felt that old hatred well up inside her again, cold and
biting.  “And you had a hand in that, didn’t you.  You brought him back.  Like
you brought him back before.  It was you.  It was all you.” 

“What do you want?” Cassandra whispered through gritted teeth.  

“I wanted Barnabas,” Josette said, and there was no recrimination in her voice,
just the statement of fact.  She didn’t seem angry or hateful at all, and this
infuriated Cassandra unutterably.  “I loved him.  From the moment our eyes met,
from the moment I felt a heat inside of me rise to answer his — he was the only
man in the world I saw.  The only man I could ever truly desire.” 

“But I wanted him too,” Cassandra said, and, horribly, felt tears begin to
settle on her eyelashes, poised there, waiting to fall.  She bit them back with
a snarl.  

“Of course you did,” Josette said gently.  “I understand that now.” She nodded,
and smiled, and said, “But he didn’t want you back, did he?  Not really.”
Cassandra gaped at her.  “Not in the way you wanted him too.” 

“You shut your mouth,” she whispered.  

Josette appeared not to hear.  “You were my friend,” she said and, horribly, a
tear slipped down her cheek and ran, leaving a glittering trail in its wake. 
“Ma petit Angelique.  My friend, my friend, and you killed me.  How could you
do that, Angelique?  How could you hurt me like that?” 

“I was your servant!” Cassandra shrieked.  “I was never — never — your friend,
I was your servant!” 

But Josette was gone.  

Cassandra felt all the blood fall from her head, and in a tide of numb
wooziness she thought she would faint.  

Jeremiah Collins stood before her, the rotted corpse with his head swathed in
bandages, one eye dislodged from its socket and staring crazily at some space
about a foot above her head; the other glared at her balefully.  The bullet
wound that had struck him in the face, the bullet that Barnabas had fired, was
black with gore and pus.  

“Your fault,” the horror said in a wheezing, bubbling voice.  “All your fault. 
Witch.  Sorceress.  Demon.  All ...  your ...  fault.” 

Cassandra rose to her feet as if shot, and thrust out one hand in a warding off
gesture.  She could recall, though two centuries had passed, the ice of his
arms, the rotten stench of the grave that hung over him in a cloud; she could
taste the sour earth in her mouth as he had buried her alive in his grave. 
Fear rose in her like a tide of midnight black water.  “In the name of every
evil spirit,” she intoned, and her voice wavered and cracked,“in the name of
Beelzebub who will consume you in righteous fire, in the name of the earth of
which you are a part, Jeremiah Collins, I command that you return to your
grave.” The spirit blinked at her.  Her voice rose another octave, and warbled
hysterically.  “With every power at my command, I order you to return!  In
excilium mitto, pello, relego!” 

The witchfire crackled in emerald streaks before her hands, and the ghost of
Jeremiah Collins winked out like a candle flame.  

Cassandra sagged against her vanity, and placed one hand to her breast, where
her heart fluttered about like a crazed, chittering bat.  Impossible, she told
herself, not possible at all.  Why did they appear?  Why did they appear to me
like that?  Her eyes narrowed with suspicion.  Someone, she thought, someone
summoned them here — but who?  And why?  Her eyes scanned the room.  

“Looking for someone?” That voice, so mocking, so hateful now in her ears, rang
out from the window, and she spun around.  

“Mr.  Collins!” she exclaimed, and tried to keep her voice neutral, to wipe
away the fear the specters had roused inside her.  “How did you get in here?  I
...  I didn’t see you standing there.” 

Barnabas Collins stared at her with burning, red-rimmed eyes.  His skin was
like paper, and Cassandra thought she could see blue veins just below the
surface.  A witch is powerless against a vampire, she recalled.  That sliver of
fear pierced at her again, and she took a shambling step away from him before
she even realized she had moved.  

He grinned.  “I have been told I am the possessor of a very silent step,” he
said, and grinned at her wolfishly.  His teeth were very, very ...  sharp.  

Cassandra’s hands fluttered before her breasts.  “I ...  I ...  uh —” She
swallowed.  The power, she told herself, it’s all around you, like dark water —
use it!  She closed her eyes for a moment to concentrate, and felt it fill her
like a vessel, that blessed, unholy coldness, and willed with all her might
that Barnabas Collins would disappear.  She didn’t care where she teleported
him too, or if her cover would be blown.  Her life was in danger.  And if she
was interested in nothing else, Angelique — Cassandra, that is — cared about
her own well being.  

So she opened her eyes.  

Barnabas Collins grinned his feral grin.  And he was closer to her than he had
been a moment ago.  

Gulp.  

“You ...  ah ...  you shouldn’t be here,” she faltered.  “With me.  Here. 
Alone.” 

“And why not?” He took another step forward, and Cassandra realized that he was
right.  She couldn’t hear his tread on the carpet at all.  He was like a big
jungle cat.  And she knew what he wanted.  What he could do to her.  Her blood
would sheath the walls of her room in scarlet splashes, he would tear her
throat to ribbons, and there was nothing she could do.  

“It’s not ...” She groped for the word.  “Not proprietous!” 

He stared at her, and then chuckled dryly.  “No,” he grinned, “I suppose it
isn’t.” His hands closed into fists, then opened.  And then closed.  And then
opened.  She stared at them as if fascinated.  “But then again, you never
really have been all that interested in propriety ...  Angelique.” 

Her head whipped up so that her eyes could glare into his, and her nostrils
flared.  “Why did you call me that?” 

“It is a name that you used once.  Long, long ago.” 

“No.” Her voice cracked.  “It isn’t.” 

“You needn’t lie to me.  I knew you from the moment you first set foot in this
house again.” He sneered at her.  “Wife of Roger Collins.  Bah.  You’re playing
Roger for a fool.  You put a spell on him, didn’t you?  Using David.  I
overheard Miss Winters and Quentin Collins discussing your portrait,
Angelique.” 

“Stop calling me that!” 

He ignored her.  “They found it in the graveyard, where David had arranged a
circle of items belonging to certain members of this family.” He snarled at her
now like an animal, and she flinched.  “You sent him to do that, didn’t you! 
You’ve worked your magics on this family again, haven’t you!  You sent David
Collins to make a witches’ circle so you could return from the dead to torment
me once again!” 

“You’re insane!” Terror nearly strangled the words in her throat.  

He pressed up against her now, his face scant inches from her own, his foul,
dead breath icy in her face.  His red eyes scanned hers, and she knew he could
smell her terror.  He grinned and grinned, and his teeth were long fangs. 
“Perhaps,” he purred.  “Insane enough to deal with you.” 

She bared her own teeth in one final token attempt at defiance.  “Don’t try,”
she snarled.  

His icy fingers caressed the tender skin of her throat, and a parade of
goosebumps swathed her arms, her back, her breasts.  She shuddered with horror,
with fear ...  and with something like desire.  

Oh god, she thought, oh Dark One, help your maidservant in her hour of — 

Barnabas’ fingers closed around her throat ...  and squeezed.  

And all she could do in the world was stare into those hate-filled, animal
eyes.  

7 (Angelique Rumson — Now) 

“No, Barnabas!” Julia’s cry startled them both, and Barnabas froze, his hands
locked around Angelique’s throat.  Julia’s face was red and hectic with fear
and a wrath that Angelique saw wasn’t for her.  At least not this time.  “Let
her go, Barnabas,” Julia commanded, and the vampire was so startled that his
hands loosened, and Angelique slipped from his grasp and sank to the floor. 
She tried to sit up, and the world swam before her.  Black dots swarmed like a
cloud of flies before her, darkening her vision.  

“Is she real, Julia?” Barnabas’ voice, as if heard from the end of a long
tunnel, was weak and querulous.  “I feel that she must be an illusion.” 

“Oh, she’s real enough, Barnabas.” Julia’s voice was grim.  

“Why has she come here?” 

“I don’t really know,” Julia said, then, to Angelique, “Suppose she tells us.” 

“Danger,” Angelique managed, rubbing her throat.  She opened her eyes, then
turned them away instantly.  She couldn’t stand to see Barnabas like that, in
such a condition.  Her stomach roiled with nausea.  “Terrible ...  terrible
danger.” 

“Mm-hm,” Julia said.  “We gathered as much.  But from whom?” 

“Nicholas,” Angelique said, and managed to stand to her feet.  The world swam
before her, and Julia surprised her yet again by offering her a hand to steady
her.  “Nicholas Blair.  He came to my house on Little Windward.  To talk to my
...  my husband.” Angelique hung her head; the memory of Sky’s conversation
with Nicholas dug at her like shards of glass.  

“You’re married?” Julia said, surprised.  

“Yes,” Angelique said forlornly.  “But for how long, I’m not sure.” 

“Your marriage,” Barnabas growled.  “Am I in danger from Sky Rumson?” 

“I don’t know,” Angelique said.  “Nicholas came to the island tonight.  Sky is
a friend of his.  A warlock, Nicholas said.  I didn’t know, Barnabas, I swear I
didn’t know.  When I married him, I thought he was a normal man.  A mortal.  I
thought ...” Bitterness welled up inside of her, like almonds, like vomit.  “I
thought he loved me,” she whispered.  

“Karma,” Julia said, and nodded wisely.  Angelique could have cheerfully shot
her.  

“Nicholas came to see Sky,” Barnabas pressed.  “Did they do this to me?” He
held out one claw and shook it at her balefully.  “Did they turn me into this
...  this monster?” 

“I don’t know,” she said again.  “Nicholas asked for Sky’s help.  That was the
last thing I heard before I ...  before I left.” 

“Before you ran,” Julia said.  

“All right then,” Angelique snapped at the doctor, “yes.  Before I ran.  I
couldn’t believe it.  But when I heard Nicholas ...  I knew it had to be true. 
Sky has been lying to me the entire time we’ve been married.” 

“And of course you’ve been open and forthright with him,” Julia said.  

“I couldn’t,” Angelique said.  Julia laughed.  “How could I?  He wouldn’t
believe the truth, and even if he did, he’d hate me.” 

“And no one would blame him,” Julia said.  

“Julia,” Barnabas growled.  Julia shot him a dark look that Angelique didn’t
miss.  

“Barnabas, I need your help,” Angelique said.  “And I want to help you too. 
Whatever I can do.  Something terrible is happening here, and whether Nicholas
is responsible or not, I still want to help.  Please.  I ...  I need to do
something.  To help.” 

“You can do nothing,” Julia said.  

“Look,” Angelique flared, “this has nothing to do with —” 

“You can stay,” Barnabas said quietly.  

Both women stared at him in shock.  

“You can stay here,” he reiterated.  His voice was soft now, barely audible,
but the madness and the rage had faded out of it like morning dew.  

“Oh, Barnabas, no,” Julia whispered.  “No.” 

“She’s human now, Julia,” Barnabas said.  His voice trembled and shook.  “And
she has a soul.  I think she can help us.” 

“She’s powerless!” Julia cried.  Her rage both sharpened her voice and raised
it several decibels.  “Even if we needed magic — which we do not — we wouldn’t
ask her for help.  Her powers are evil, Barnabas.  Harmful.  Nothing good can
come from them.  Nothing good can come from her.” Her voice rose even higher. 
“She destroys everything she touches!” 

“She has helped me in the past,” Barnabas said, and his yellow eyes locked on
Angelique’s.  Angelique nodded fervently, weak with relief.  “I believe she can
do good here.  Her knowledge of the occult is extensive, even without her
powers.  She is going to stay, Julia.” 

Julia shook her head, wordless with fury.  Her face blazed, and Angelique
realized she was practically choking now.  Finally she dropped her head, but
her hands remained in tightly clenched fists.  “All right, Barnabas,” Julia
said.  “All right.  But I warn you.  Nothing good will come of this.” Her eyes
flashed with anger.  “And whatever happens after this — if she hurts anyone,
kills anyone, or turns anyone else into a vampire — then it’s going to be on
your head.  It will be your responsibility.” Julia Hoffman didn’t say another
word.  She stalked to the open door, her head held high, and whipped her coat
from the hanger by the door and shrugged herself into it, then tied a bright
blue scarf over her titian hair.  The door slammed in her wake.  

Barnabas slumped.  “I don’t understand any of this,” he whispered, and stumbled
over to the chair by the fire, then sank into it.  She was at his side in an
instant.  

“Oh, Barnabas,” she said, and sniffled as her tears spattered against the arm
of the chair.  “I’m so sorry.  About everything.” 

“You don’t have to say it,” he wheezed.  

“This is all my fault,” she said.  “Everything.  All of this.” She couldn’t
quite bring herself to touch the withered skin of his hand.  “Even this.  What
you’ve become.  All my fault.” 

“Stop it, Angelique,” he said.  She looked up at him, pain sharp and fresh in
her breast.  “This isn’t your fault.  Not this time.  I don’t know why I’ve
become a vampire again, but it wasn’t you.  As for my ...  condition ...  that
remains to be seen.  But we’ll find out.  And we’ll stop it.” 

“Is there anything I can do?” 

“You can leave me alone.” Her mouth fell open, but he turned and pierced her
with his stare.  “The hunger is overwhelming, Angelique.  I am able to restrain
its malignancy at this moment, but I don’t know how long I’ll be capable of
such restraint.  I want to attack you right now.” His eyes flashed a momentary
crimson, and she rose to her feet in a hurry and scuttled away from him.  “Go
to Josette’s room,” he said.  “Lock the door.  I am too weak right now to
attempt any transformations, including dematerialization.  You’ll be safe.  Go
to her room, and lock the door.  Talk to Julia tomorrow.  Maybe you can help
her.  I’m ...  I’m afraid that I’ve been rather cruel to her in recent days.” 

“I’ll try,” Angelique said.  “Barnabas, I’ll try anything.  I want to help you.
 I’m going to help you.  I swear it.” 

“Good night, Angelique.” Barnabas sounded exhausted.  

She opened her mouth to reply, but found that tears threatened to overwhelm
her.  She turned and ran up the stairs without another word.  

8 (Miranda DuVal — 1897) 

She was bloodied, but far from beaten.  

Petofi had taken her power, stolen her lifeforce, and forced her to watch as
the magical energy flowed from her body and into his, disgusting and corpulent,
renewing flesh and bone that had already begun to slough off his body.  That
energy had come from her master a entury ago, and was what held her aloft in
this world now, since she had been condemned to darkness in 1796, and had
remained there until Jamison Collins released her from her prison, and that
imbecile Evan Hanley gave her form.  

There was, of course, a price.  

She shambled through the forest, tears of indignation and rage burning in her
eyes.  She had just left the Old House and Barnabas behind, and his words
remained with her, hauntingly gentle for a man who’s life she had attempted to
destroy time and time again.  “Be careful,” he had told her as she stared at
him stone-faced and miserable with those frustratingly human tears streaking
her face.  “Please don’t go up against Petofi again alone.  You’re ...  you’re
not strong enough.” 

Was that true?  She had told him that she would get her powers back at any
cost.  I need them, she had told him.  “I’m nothing without them.” 

Was that true?  

Think back.  

Even when she had been Miranda the first time, a slave, or as good as a slave,
to the Collins family of Bedford, wasn’t it power that she craved?  

Think back.  

No, she thought, and the idea dawned on her like sunrise.  It wasn’t power. 
Not at first.  No, at first, all I craved was the love of Aidan Collins. 
Before he became Barnabas and before I became Angelique, I wanted his love. 
That was all I asked for.  

The power came later.  

“That was then,” she said to the air.  “This is now.  I need the power.  I need
the magic.” Her tongue felt huge and swollen in her mouth.  “I ...  I need it.”

“Do you?  Do you indeed?” 

The air shimmered before her, and a cloud sailed over the moon, and the shadows
of the trees grew longer around her ...  and it was in those shadows that he
dwelled, her true and only lover, the rider of the night and the black.  The
Dark One.  Mysterious, savage and sweet, and the source of her power.  

The source of my power is me.  

She had believed this all along ...  but if that were true, why did she rely on
him ...  on it?  

“Ah, my darling one,” the voice spoke to her, a sibilant hissing, like the
escaping of steam from a teakettle, “you disappoint me so.” 

“I need your help,” she said, and hated the desperation in her voice.  I am
nothing but a slave, she thought, and if she hadn’t been so weak, blood would
have rushed with hot shame to her cheeks.  “Desperately.” 

The being before her, almost unseen, fluttered like the ebony wings of a
million bats, yet remained as insubstantial as a black tail of smoke.  “Why?”
it said.  

She stared for a moment, completely confounded.  No, she moaned to herself, I
can’t defend myself now, I don’t have the time.  “Because,” and she said the
first words to come into her head, “I need to find Petofi now, and destroy
him.” 

“Petofi,” that voice mused.  “Such an ...  eager creature.  So independent.  He
has no need of someone like me, you know.  Not like you, angel.  You do need
me.  You always have.  I feel you calling me, you know.  I feel you singing out
to me, strong as anything I’ve ever felt before.  You need me, angel.  You
always need me.” 

“I need you,” she said hoarsely, and hung her head.  

“As I need you.” The voice of the being before her became harsh as metal
filings.  “I need Quentin Collins.  He is promised to me — you promised him to
me — and I need him.  I need the Collins family.” 

Her head flashed up.  “Why?” she asked, throwing its question back.  

The blackness in the air before her lashed about like the midnight tail of an
angry fish.  “I need them,” it hissed, and the air about her roiled, but it was
cold, always so, so cold.  “Quentin Collins is a tool.  I have felt him in this
world for a great while, but he ...  he wavers.  You will steady him, and with
your hand guide his to mine.  Keep him away from the Petofi creature.  Bring
Quentin Collins to me ...  and the rest of the family will follow.” 

“I cannot,” Miranda said, then added hastily, “not as I am now.  Petofi has —” 

“I know what he has done.  He has taken your power.” 

“It will come back, I just need time —” 

“And you’ve almost run out.” The voice was soft now, purring.  “And you want my
help.” 

“I need you.” Her eyes flashed.  

“Always.” The blackness paused before her, as if weighing its options,
considering.  She waited patiently, but she clutched her hands together so
tightly that tiny droplets of blood began to patter against the floor of the
forest.  

At last it spoke.  

“I will help you,” it said, empty as desolate, but not without humor.  If
nothing else, the Dark One knew humor, vicious and sadistic as it was.  “I will
restore a portion of your powers.” Hope flared within her chest.  “Enough for
you to deal with Petofi.  After that, the full restoration will be up to you. 
They will return naturally, of course, given time, but if you can destroy
Petofi ...  well, we’ll just have to see.” 

“I won’t fail you.” 

“You can’t afford to, my angel.” 

It reached for her then with its icy not-hands, and she was consumed again as
she had been back on Martinique all those years ago, consumed by the darkness;
it was inside her, burning inside her, cold but so hot, filling her, and when
she opened her eyes the Dark One was gone, and she was alone.  

Full of purpose.  

She charged off in Petofi’s direction.  Scarlet witchfire blazed between her
outstretched fingers, and her eyes crackled black.  

I don’t need love, she told herself as the tree branches bent back for her and
the darkness blazed inside of her, quenching the light, sucking it away into
nothing.  I don’t need love at all.  

The power is enough for me.  

9 (Angelique Rumson — Now) 

She awoke an incomprehensible amount of time later.  She sat up and stared
around wildly, but she could see no one in the dimness of Josette’s room. 
Blackness pressed heavily against the glass of the window, and she could still
hear the dull pounding of the rain.  But there was something, she thought
blearily, some noise — 

The door.  The door downstairs.  Opening and closing.  Barnabas going out ... 
or someone coming in?  

She climbed out of bed.  She had fallen asleep in the dress she was wearing
when she had fled Little Windward.  It was still damp, and clung to her
unpleasantly.  She scowled, and crept to the door of her — of Josette’s — room,
and listened.  Voices, she thought ...  a woman?  

She pulled the door open a crack.  

“Cousin Barnabas?  Are you at home?” 

Definitely a woman.  Carolyn Stoddard?  What in the hell was she doing here
just before dawn?  

Angelique figured it would be in everyone’s best interest if she found out.  

When she reached the first floor of the Old House, dread filled her like ice
water.  The door to the cellar was standing open, and a light burned below. 
Maybe they’ve moved his coffin, Angelique thought, maybe he’s gone out, maybe
he’s hiding somewhere else — 

Carolyn’s gasp, audible even from where Angelique stood at the head of the
stairs, was enough to dissolve even that tentative hope.  

When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she saw the other blonde woman
standing next to Barnabas’ grotesquely over-sized coffin, her hands between her
breasts, warring with each other.  Then she turned, and cried out when she saw
Angelique.  “Who are you?” she whimpered.  

“Never mind,” Angelique said gruffly.  “What are you doing here?” 

“I’m here to see C-cousin Barnabas,” she said.  The girl was too pale, and had
lost several pounds since Angelique had last set eyes on her.  But she couldn’t
concern herself with Carolyn Stoddard just now.  

“Barnabas isn’t here,” Angelique said.  “You have to leave.  Now.” 

“I have to see him,” Carolyn said.  Color had come back into her cheeks, and
her voice sounded stronger.  “Who are you?  What are you doing here?” 

“My name is Angelique Rumson,” she said wearily.  Terror had ignited within
her; if Barnabas wasn’t in his coffin, she asked herself, where was he?  “I’m a
friend of Mr.  Collins, and I arrived very late last night in the middle of the
storm.  Mr.  Collins had to ...  had to go out.  I’m not sure when he’ll be
back.” 

“I’ll wait for him,” Carolyn said.  Her own terror seemed to have evaporated. 
She tossed her blonde flip haughtily.  “I think you’re lying to me.  I don’t
know who you are or what you want here, but I am very curious about the fact
that you apparently have no reaction at all to this coffin, which is sitting
for some reason I can’t understand in the middle of Cousin Barnabas’ basement. 
Very curious indeed.” 

“I do not have time for this!” Angelique nearly shrieked.  “You need to leave,
Carolyn, before it’s too late!” 

Carolyn’s face filled with a terrible suspicion, and with a sinking sensation,
Angelique realized her mistake.  “How did you know my —” the blonde began, but
then her voice was cut off.  

“It is already too late.” 

Both women whipped their heads around, but Angelique already knew who she would
see.  

Barnabas Collins had aged an impossible amount of years, more than Angelique
could have guessed.  He was barely human now; hunched, his arms dangled between
his knees, and his hands had lengthened into monstrous, yellow-tipped claws. 
His scalp was almost completely bald, and only a few strands of snow-white hair
stood up in wiry twists.  His eyes were blood-red orbs, and they seemed to emit
their own crimson light.  “Carolyn,” he croaked, “what are you doing here?” 

Carolyn’s eyes, cornflower blue, were wide with disbelief and the beginnings of
fear.  “I came to see Cousin Barnabas,” she whispered.  She stared at him as if
hypnotized.  

“And now you see him.” 

“But ...  but you c-can’t be Barnabas!” 

“But I am.” He was nearly upon her now, and Angelique could do nothing ... 
absolutely nothing.  For the first time she realized just how human — just how
helpless — she really was.  

“But your face,” Carolyn breathed, and reached out to brush the withered,
sunken countenance with her fingetips, as if that would make him more real. 
“It’s so ...  so old.” 

“It won’t be old much longer,” he snarled suddenly, as human as a rabid dog,
and seized her.  She shrieked, and he spun her around and crushed her against
him, and began to instantly knead her shoulders with those hideous claws.  She
was trembling uncontrollably in his arms, nearly mad with fear.  

Angelique felt her gorge rise.  “Barnabas —” she tried to say, but the word
stuck in her throat.  

Barnabas ignored her.  He was stroking Carolyn’s hair now, pulling it away from
her throat, leaving it long, white, and exposed.  “You mustn’t be afraid of me,
my dear,” he said, his non-existent lips very close her earlobe.  She was
shuddering now, and her eyes had rolled back in her head.  She was swallowing
over and over in a dreadful sort of anticipation.  “I wouldn’t do anything to
hurt you.  I would never do anything to hurt my own flesh and blood —” And then
his mouth opened wide, hideously wide, so wide it seemed to swallow his entire
face, and his face was all mouth, lined and sharp with the animal fangs that
had grown as large as butcher knives, and Angelique heard herself screaming,
heard Carolyn screaming, and they were both screaming as Barnabas lunged
forward and buried those massive, dripping fangs into Carolyn’s throat.  

(“There’s good and bad in everything,” Mama had told her, time and again, “good
and bad, like dark and light.  Strive for the light, my baby.  Shun the
darkness.  There’s something in thy breast and in thine eyes that has a power. 
‘Tis thy choice, Miranda, how you use it.  For helping ...  or otherwise,” and
Miranda had never forgotten it).