Shadows on the Wall Chapter 70

Chapter 70: I Fear

by Nicky

Voiceover by Alexandra Moltke: “Another night fall over Collinwood, and in this

accursed place the residents of the great house tremble, for something has come

among them ...  something dark, something great and terrible ...  and the fear

that haunts their dreams will soon fill all the days and nights of their

tomorrows.”

1

“They are the voices of serpents, Julia,” Stokes said, and the tone of his

voice — dry, flat, and almost completely without the gentle wit she had become

so accustomed to — told Julia Hoffman that, not only was the Professor

completely sober, but he was terrified as well.  “I hear them almost constantly

now.  Hissing at me with forked tongues.” He shuddered, and then looked at her

with ghosted, darkened eyes.  “I hear them right now.”

Ia ia Shub-Niggurath.  The words, spoken from Eliot’s throat but most assuredly

not in his voice, echoed in her mind.  His eyes, blackened and shining as

Vicki’s were blackened and shining, a glittering obsidian.  Hastur tuatha

gub-na shan!  Urdulak hastur danu, en cantua shub-yog ia ia cantu shub-rogth! 

She could say nothing.  His eyes narrowed. 

“And so do you.”

She swallowed, and her hands knotted themselves into a frenzy before her own

throat, which felt horribly full, as if it were about to overflow with buzzing,

clacking insects.  Bees, perhaps. 

“Don’t you.” It was not, she noted a question. 

Sweat broke out on her brow in icy droplets. 

“Answer me, Julia!”

She gritted her teeth.  I saw something, Eliot, she wanted to tell him.  I saw

something inside that dark pillar Vicki conjured up as she woke you from your

coma.  I saw something inside of it, and it haunts my dreams now ...  and my

thoughts. 

How?  How is that possible? 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” There.  A flat refusal.  And a lie.

She relaxed into the numbness that had begun to knit itself around her since

Barnabas’ disappearance.  The numbness was nice.  Nice nothingness with no

hissing voices, no nasty pictures, no shades of gray.  Everything nice.  And

dull.  And numb. 

Eliot shook his large head sadly.  “You’ve never been an exquisite liar,

Julia.” Then he shocked her out of her torpor as he seized her by the meat of

her upper arms and shook her until her head snapped back and her teeth clicked

together painfully.  “This is no time for games!” he roared into her face, and

she recoiled as tears stung her eyes.  “There are voices in my mind, Julia, and

they belong to something decidedly inhuman, and while they tell me an entire

catalog of disgusting things I refuse to name to you now, they also tell me

who else they whisper to.  They have named two people.  One was Roger Collins.”

He released her, and glared at her beneath furry brows.  “The other was you.”

She turned away from him, a sob constricting her throat.  “Eliot, please —”

 

“Don’t ‘Eliot, please’ me, Julia.  I told you once that there is no time.

There is something rising in the world, and I fear that it has been rising for

a very long time, and it is only now that we have begun to sense it.  Something

dark that has spread its blot across this town and the Collins family like a

shadow, and now I am involved, and so are you.  We can stop this, Julia, I know

it, but I cannot do it alone.  I need your help.” His voice softened.  “And you

cannot help me if you lie as they want you to lie.”

She dropped her eyes and snuffled once, miserably.  “I’m afraid,” she

whispered. 

He dropped an arm around her shoulders.  “So am I,” he said. 

2

I’m afraid, Vicki whispered to herself, and twirled the lock of white hair she

had so recently acquired around her finger.  It was quite shocking amidst the

rest of the chestnut fall, and stood out.  Mrs.  Stoddard had commented on it

at breakfast, and Vicki could only shrug, but that minute gesture was only a

cover for her fear.  Despite the luxury she had felt while the power coursed

through her and she banished the Roget beast into her own private hell for the

rest of eternity, the luxury and the thrill, she was still afraid. 

Afraid of the power ...  and afraid of herself as well. 

Something happens to me, Vicki thought, and found that she was shivering

despite the light green sweater she had buttoned only a few moments ago, just

as the sun was setting.  I find the power, tap into it, and it changes me

somehow.  It makes me feel invincible, completely unafraid, able to face

anything because I know that I am powerful enough so that nothing can hurt me.

I don’t feel.  I don’t ever feel, and I don’t even care that I don’t feel. 

Nothing matters anymore. 

Ah, but the thrill ... 

How often was she allowed thrills into her life?  How often in the past

twenty-one years had Victoria Winters — pardon, and let’s call a spade a spade

— had Victoria Collins been allowed one simple thrill? 

Tell me, my dear.  Does your sanctimonious, self-righteous moralizing ever

become the least bit tired? 

Petofi.  Her father, gone but not forgotten, his essence locked away, hidden in

her drawer.  Trapped in a ring.  A ring of power. 

Why should you want to help any of them?  They abandoned you, Miss Winters,

left you to your fate.  Your real family deserted you, and then rehired you as

a servant, a menial tutor to the little monster.  Leave them all to die.  It’s

what you want.  Or what you should want, anyway. 

That was the buzzing voice of the dead as spoken through the lips of Miranda

DuVal, and didn’t they have a point? 

“No,” Vicki murmured, and buried her pale face in her hands.  “It hurts, it

hurts, please, make it stop hurting —”

The crash of breaking glass in the hall outside her room electrified her to her

feet, and she dashed into the hall just in time to catch little David Collins

by the arm before he could wriggle away to safety.  There’s the little monster

now, she thought coldly, and then banished the voice with only the slightest

blush of shame.  “David!” she cried, and her eyes took in the shattered

remnants of an antique blue vase that Mrs.  Johnson had discovered in the East

Wing a few days before and set on a rosewood table that had once belonged to

Felicity Collins in the late 19th century.  David’s eyes darted to the remnants

of the vase, and then to his governess’ face, where a thundercloud had begun to

swirl.  “David,” she growled, “what did you do?”

“Nothing!” he exclaimed, then yelped as she dragged him into her room and

slammed the door. 

 

“You’re not telling me the truth,” she said.  “I heard that vase shatter,

David.  Tell me what happened.”

His face was flushed with guilt.  “I guess I was ...  um ...  running,” he

said.  “In the hall.  And I ...  um.  I bumped it.” His lower lip trembled.

“Didn’t know you were in your room,” he muttered. 

“I’ve warned you about running in the halls, David,” she said.  “I’m afraid I’m

going to have to tell your Aunt Elizabeth.”

His nostrils flared, and David’s face crumpled, then reddened with fury.  “You

can’t,” he said in a deadly voice just above a whisper.  “You can’t tell her.”

“I don’t want to,” Vicki said.  In truth she felt relieved to have this

responsibility to tend to.  It took her away — momentarily at least — from the

crushing fear that had a hold around her heart and the thoughts flitting,

birdlike, through her head.  “But I have warned you before.  Your Aunt

Elizabeth will decide what your punishment should be.” And truth to tell —

spade a spade — wasn’t she enjoying this?  Just the teeniest, tiniest bit? 

“What are you going to tell her?”

Vicki blinked.  The nastiness in his voice was beyond anything she’d ever heard

there before.  He was glaring up at her with eyes that were almost feral, and

she felt a spark of fear, then quickly quashed it.  I am through being afraid,

Vicki thought in that cold voice.  Through.  “The truth,” she said.  “That you

were rough housing, and —”

“No,” David said in that queer, flat tone.  His eyes flashed.  “If you tell her

anything, I’ll tell her about you.”

Fear leaped into her throat like bile, and guilt, and burned there.  “What are

you talking about?”

He was grinning now like a little weasel.  “I’ll tell her ALL about you,” he

sneered.  “About what you let Cousin Quentin do to you.  About what you let

Cousin Barnabas do to you.  And all about the powers you have.”

She felt all the blood drain out of her head, and wondered if she might faint.

“David —” she said, and could say no more.  Her voice seemed to come from a

great distance away. 

“I’ll tell her that you hurt me,” David said.  “I’ll tell her that you use your

powers to hurt me, to pinch me, and that you’ve done all kinds of terrible

things to me.  I’ll tell her that you touch me, in the dark, like that, and

that you —”

The fear.  Icy.  Inside of her.  An inferno of cold and darkness. 

No.  Not fear. 

The power. 

I am done with fear, Victoria Winters thought concretely, and closed her eyes.

And let the power wash over her in a dark, ferocious tide. 

3

“You don’t have to be afraid with me.” Safe, secure, his arms wrapped around my

shoulders, stroking the flesh, caressing me, his tongue lapping at the lobe of

my ear, sending little shivers of electricity dancing down my bare skin and

leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. 

“I can’t help it.” I keep my voice gruff, but he sees through my silly

posturing.  He always does.  I hate him for it, but I succumb to him anyway.

His fingers are nice, stroking my shoulder. 

“Fear is stupid,” he says.  His voice is rich and manly.  I like manly.  Always

have.  I snuggle against him.  I’ve hated myself for doing this before, but now

I don’t care.  “It’s this primal instinct that isn’t even necessary anymore.

Gets the heart beating and the adrenaline pumping, and that’s about it.  Makes

you run.  Makes you hard.” His hand dips below the covers, and I’m not entirely

startled to find that I am hard.  I reciprocate.  So is he.  Like always. 

“How do you know so much?” My voice is dreamy and far away. 

He shrugs.  And tugs.  Nicely.  Nice, nice, nice.  Nice nothingness, and the

moon far away. 

God, let the moon be far away. 

 

 “That’s nice,” he moans into the curve of my neck.  “So nice.”

“Joe?”

“Mm?”

“Why are you here?  Why do you stay?”

He’s grinning.  I can feel his teeth against the skin of my throat, and he’s

grinning.  I shiver a little.  I don’t like that grin.  It’s sharp.  “Why are

you asking now?”

“I have to know.  I have to know why you want me.  Why you keep ...  why you

keep coming back.”

“Because I love you.”

I relax.  He’s lying, I think, but I relax.  Time doesn’t mean anything. 

“You’re still afraid.”

“I can’t help it.”

“Of what?”

I don’t want to admit it, but I can’t help it, and I mean it.  It’s the way I

feel now, I guess, in his arms.  In the dark, with no one watching but the

moon, swimming in the heavens, soon to be full, but I don’t care.  Julia’s

treatments have worked so far —

“I’m afraid,” I say, and I hesitate and he hears it and I hate that he hears

it, and I say, “I’m afraid of hurting you.”

He laughs.  It’s not a nice sound, and I pull away, but he pulls me right back.

His hands are all over me, all over, and he’s smooth and he’s hard, and he

says, “Don’t worry about me.  Never worry about me.  I’ll be all right.  I’m

like a cat.  Always land on my feet.”

He nudges my mouth open with his, and his tongue is inside me, then gone, and I

feel empty, lost, like a starless, darkened, lightless sky, and I say, “Who are

you?  Really?”

And I see his eyes for the first time, and they are a brilliant, amused blue,

but cold, like stone, and he says, all simple, so natural, “I’m inside you,

Christopher.” He’s cold.  He’s holding me, and he’s cold.  I shiver helplessly.

“I am you.”

 

4

He held her, and when she was all cried out, and her eyes were puffy and red,

she removed a tissue from her purse and blew her nose, then blotted her ruined

mascara until the paper was smeared with streaks of black.  “I must look a

mess,” she snuffled. 

Eliot laughed heartily.  “Just a little,” he said.  His eyes sparkled with a

hint of that old laughter, but then he sobered, and grew serious.  “I think

you’re listening to me now, Julia, and it’s terribly important that you do.  We

may have to fight this thing, whatever it is, and I’ll need as much of the old

Julia Hoffman as I can get.”

Indignation cracked her voice.  “The old Julia Hoffman?  Eliot, don’t be

absurd.  I —”

He glowered at her, and the words died in her throat.  “You haven’t been

yourself lately, Julia.  I’m not in a coma anymore.  I have eyes.  I know that

something is up.”

“I’ve been busy lately,” she said with more than a touch of defensiveness.  “I

have to completely rework the injections for Barnabas’ cure, and —”

“Barnabas’ cure is one thing I wanted to talk to you about,” Eliot said.  “I’ve

been thinking about his recent relapse, and I wonder if it has to do with the

voices that I’ve been hearing.  That we’ve been hearing,” he amended.  “Unless

you’d like to recant?”

“No,” Julia said with a stab of reluctance.  “I told you, Eliot, that I don’t

hear the voices as clearly as you do.  But the dreams are there.  The snake

dreams, and the feeling that I’m being pushed along, that my will isn’t always

my will.”

“That’s exactly what I mean.  We are being manipulated, Julia, by some force

that I can’t quite comprehend.  I need to begin to research it, but I can’t

until I have an idea of exactly what we’re dealing with.” His voice lowered

conspiratorially.  “Plus I have a feeling that whatever is pulling our strings

has access to our thoughts.”

She frowned.  “Which would make any planning useless.”

“Exactly.  But you know me.  I’m a fighter, and I’m not going to just give up.”

He slammed one fist into the other with a growl of frustration.  “If only there

were a way to explore our subconsciouses — to root out whatever has been

planted there and rip it out, whole and screaming.” His eyes sparkled

hopefully.  “Perhaps Angelique could be —”

Julia shook her head dolefully.  “I don’t even want her involved,” she said.

“Besides, she’s lost her powers.  For good, she claims.  And she doesn’t want

them back.”

“I can quite understand that, if the effect these powers seem to have on Miss

Winters is any indication, then —” His voice broke off, and his eyes widened.

“Oh my god,” he murmured. 

“Eliot, what is it?”

“Miss Winters,” he said.  “Of course.  Miss Winters!” His face was wide and red

with something like fright and excitement mingled together.  “It’s Miss

Winters!”

“I don’t understand.” Except that she was beginning to, and the picture that

was coming together from the few puzzle pieces was looking less and less

appetizing by the second. 

“Miss Winters has used those powers to cure the three of us,” Stokes said, and

listed off on his pudgy fingers, “you, me, and Roger Collins.”

“Yes?”

“Julia, don’t you see?  She is Petofi’s daughter, and the powers that she has

inherited, whether they can be used for healing or not, are obviously rooted in

darkness.  Vicki herself knows that, and admitted that she was afraid to use

them, that she was afraid that she would become lost in them.”

“And I pushed her,” Julia moaned.  “It really is all my fault.  I’m the one

that encouraged her to use them to cure you, Eliot, and again to banish

Danielle Roget from Carolyn’s body.  It is all my fault.”

“I don’t think so.  Not entirely.  I think you were led to do it, Julia, by the

same malevolent force that’s been hissing in my brain ever since I came out of

the coma.”

“What do we do, Eliot?” Fear quavered in Julia’s voice.  She hated the sound of

it, like a mewling kitten. 

“I don’t think we dare confront Miss Winters yet,” Eliot said thoughtfully.

“She may not even be aware that anything is amiss.  But perhaps ...  perhaps

she can give us a clue about these recent unpleasant events.  Barnabas’ return

to vampirism, for instance.  And maybe — just maybe she can undo whatever she

did to us.”

Julia’s brow furrowed.  “I think we run a terrible risk asking her to use her

powers for anything.  What if she does undo what she did ...  and you fall back

into a coma and I become a vampire?”

“It’s a risk we will have to take.  It’s that simple.” He rubbed his palms

together briskly.  “I have always longed for my very own dragon to face, Julia.

It seems now that my waiting days are over.” He hurried to his desk, buried

beneath an unsteady pile of ancient, moldering books, some of which had pages

falling from the binding that had spilled in a flood over the others.  

Julia glanced at her watch.  “Oh damn,” she hissed.  “I’m late.”

Stokes glanced up.  “For what?”

“I’m supposed to meet Chris Jennings to administer another injection of the

anti-lycanthropy serum.” She smiled a little.  “I suppose I should call first.

These days he seems a trifle occupied.”

“Is he seeing someone?”

“A very handsome someone.  I’ve only met him once or twice, but I’m not really

sure how I feel about him.  He’s gorgeous, but rather ...  rather unpleasant.

Surly, almost.  I know that Quentin despises him.”

“Chris is a big boy,” Eliot said absently, and set to re-inserting the

delinquent pages back into their bindings. 

“Quentin thinks that Joe is a bad influence or something,” Julia said, unaware

that Stokes had frozen at his desk, one hand hovering above a shredded

manuscript.  “But I know that there isn’t a lot to choose from in Collinsport,

and if Chris is happy, why —” Then she noticed, and said, “Eliot, what’s the

matter?”

He was trembling, and his face was papery and gray when he said, “What is the

name of Chris’ friend, Julia?  Joe what?”

Julia frowned.  “Joe Haskell, I think,” she said, then cried, “Eliot!  Eliot

...  what’s the matter?”

His face was ashen, and his mouth parted so that he could take large gasps of

air, and he clutched at the corner of the desk to steady himself.

“Impossible,” he wheezed.  “Im ...  impossible.”

Julia flew to his side.  “Eliot, tell me what’s wrong!”

 He looked at her with terrified, marble eyes.  “My daughter Alexis died more

than a year ago,” Eliot said.  “She was driving a car with her fiance in the

passenger seat.  A drunk driver hit their car on the passenger side.  Alexis

was knocked out, but her fiance died immediately.  They took Alexis to the

Collinsport hospital, but she ...  she didn’t last the night.” Large tears

balanced on the Professor’s eyelids, then tumbled down his cheeks. 

Foreboding sat heavily in the pit of Julia’s stomach, and when she swallowed

she tasted chalk and dried twigs.  “Who ...  who was her fiance?” But she

already knew. 

“It’s impossible,” Stokes said, and took a deep breath.  “His name ...  his

name was Joe Haskell.”

5

David Collins howled in pain and thrashed, and when he did his head struck the

wall of Vicki's room.  His dangling feet lashed out as he kicked them.  The

energy encircling him that held him up nearly three feet off the floor was a

fiery crimson, and crackled and snapped.  And the woman whom David knew as

Victoria Winters, his very young, very naive, and very innocent governess, come

from nowhere and going the same place, stood before him, placid, a beatific

smile across her delicate, gentile features.  The energy that held him pinned

in place like a moth on a card exuded from her outstretched hands in twining

vermilion streams. 

Her eyes were black and fathomless, and somehow hideously serpentine. 

David thought he might vomit.  Or die.  Or both.  And that wouldn't be good, or

right, because then his masters ("his people" was actually closer to what the

voices in his mind whispered) wouldn't bear their plan to fruition, wouldn't

over run the earth, wouldn't call down a new and cleansing destruction upon the

heads of humankind, and David Collins (or the thing that David Collins had

become) wanted to be there to see it. 

"David," Vicki said, and it was her same old voice, the voice of milquetoast

Vicki, governess at large.  She sounded bright and cheerful and plastic.  Her

head was cocked, and she was still smiling.  His stomach knotted and felt full

of ice.  "Poor, poor David." She pronounced his name as if it were a new,

interesting species of insect. 

"Help ...  me," he said through blue lips.  The fire surrounding him wasn't hot

by any means; it was cold, icy as death ...  and strong.  It held him in a grip

he knew he could never break. 

"Help you?" Vicki's voice was pleasant, as if she were asking him to please

clear the table, or to finish his geometry homework.  "Is that what you really

want?  Help?  From me?"

"Please," David whispered.  Tears ran from his eyes and froze on his cheeks. 

Vicki exhaled, and David saw a frosty plume slip from her mouth and vanish into

the air.  Her black eyes were wide and unblinking.  "Oh gee, David," she said.

"I don't know.  You seemed terribly concerned for your own safety a few seconds

ago.  I actually had the impression that you thought you might be in danger."

Her smile widened.  "From me."

He swallowed.  "I didn't mean it," he whispered, and bowed his head, but the

crackling red fire forced it up so that he was staring straight into Vicki's

inhuman eyes.  They were round and horrible, like ebony marbles protruding from

her shadowed sockets.  She had somehow crossed the room in less than an

instant, and now her face was inches from his. 

"I know you didn't," Vicki cooed.  Then her eyes crackled with black fire, and

she held up one hand.  The fire around him squeezed, and David shrieked.  "The

vase, David," Vicki growled, and her voice was thick and grating, like scraped

stones.  "You broke it on purpose.  Tell me why."

He howled as the fire squeezed him; she was hurting him, Vicki, Vicki was

hurting him, and it wasn't fair, it wasn't fair!  "It's just a vase!" he

wheezed.  "Honest!  Just a vase!  I broke it on accident!"

Her eyes flashed a malevolent black, and she drew back her lips in a canine

snarl.  "You're lying," she said simply, and the fire whip-cracked again.  He

wailed this time.  The pain was excruciating.  "Tell me the truth."

 

"Just a ...  just a vase," he panted, then shrieked again, the fire crackling

in his eyes, and it had fingers, living fingers, and they cracked his ribs and

reached deep inside him to tweak his heart. 

"Lies," Vicki hissed.  "Lies!"

He was crying now, the tears flowing freely down his face, and as he wept the

words poured out of him like buckets and buckets of salt.  "Not ...  not a

vase," he whimpered.  "Something more.  Something ...  something ...  something

not of the dark."

Her inhuman eyes gleamed, and her smile was full of menace.  "Tell me," she

said.  The fire squeezed him again; he choked back a scream.  "Now!"

"It ...  it came from Egypt," David sobbed.  "It's ...  it's an urn.  An

ancient Egyptian urn."

"How did it come here?  When?"

"Edward Collins told the family that Felicity Collins brought it with her from

Egypt.  She was a cousin or something that came here in 1897 and then died, but

it was a lie, because it was here before she came, but hidden.  Edward found it

and hid it away because his brother Quentin brought it back from Egypt after he

ran off with Edward's wife.  She gave it to him as a present."

"Laura," Vicki breathed.  She grinned at him, and her teeth were sharp, like

fishbones.  "Tell me what it does, David.  Tell me why it's so important that

you had to shatter it."

"It held the vital organs of a powerful pharaoh of Egypt, and was said to house

his power as well.  It traveled with another Egyptian jar for centuries, but

the two were separated —"

"The Vessel of Anubis," Vicki said. 

David nodded miserably.  "But they were different.  The Vessel of Anubis could

restore evil to its whole form, but the Urn of Isis could only be used to best

it.  To drive back the forces of darkness.  Laura gave it to Quentin as a form

of insurance, to make sure he could be protected if something should happen to

her.  He had it shipped back to Collinwood with some other of his possessions

and then forgot about it.  Everyone did, until Mrs.  Johnson found it in the

East Wing last week."

Vicki's blackened eyes narrowed.  "And you destroyed it on purpose."

"I had to," David said in a quavering, servile voice.  He broke down into tears

again, and would have covered his face if the crimson ropes of fire holding

them at his side would have allowed it.  "Please, Miss Winters, don't hurt me,

I had to, I had to ...  they made me!"

"Tell me who made you do it, David."

He shook his head.  "I can't," he sobbed, "because I don't know who they are.

They whisper to me ...  like snakes, they whisper, and they tell me ...  they

t-tell me —" He broke off, sobbing hysterically.  Vicki scowled, and then

gestured with her hand.  David sank to the floor, and instantly curled into a

fetal ball, hugging his knees to his chest. 

Vicki was completely immersed in the power that roiled inside her like living

black lightning.  It ignited her blood and flowed inside her heart and crackled

in her eyes.  God, the feeling, she had thought when the fear inside her had

fled and she had opened herself up again to the darkness within her, that

intoxicating darkness, just as she had when she faced down Petofi in 1897, and

again when she had cured Professor Stokes, and again when she had bested

Danielle Roget.  And each time the exhilaration increased, and the feeling —

the knowledge — that she could do anything she wanted to anyone titillated her

beyond words. 

But now ... 

David Collins mewled before her, demoralized, weakened, completely terrorized.

Because of her. 

And she liked it. 

Disgust for herself rose like a ghost inside her, and she took a shuddering

step away from him. 

I didn't mean to, she thought like the child she had once been, I didn't mean

to ...  I just wanted to ...  wanted to scare him a little ... 

But it wasn't all for nothing.  She had learned that David was in the power of

something greater than himself (but not greater than me, she thought with an

internal shark's grin), something that had been threatened by the Urn of Isis

Mrs.  Johnson had unknowingly placed in the hall. 

It could be a danger to me as well. 

She waved the thought away.  That was ludicrous.  Nothing could hurt her now;

couldn't she feel it?  The power inside her was stronger than any threat. 

But I have to be cautious, she thought.  I nearly went over the line with

David, and I really only wanted to scare him a little.  Teach him a lesson.

But now —

She bent over his tiny, shuddering form, and bent back the collar sheltering

his throat.  She frowned a little.  There was a mark there, one she was

reasonably sure had never been there before.  She knelt closer to examine it,

then jumped back as if shocked. 

It was almost like a tattoo, and depicted, in what she thought must be green

ink, a serpent with two heads twined together.  A mark.  A sign.  A sigil. 

The Sign of the Naga. 

How she knew that, she wasn't certain, but she didn't question the hissing

voice in her mind.  It's dangerous, she thought, puzzled, dangerous indeed ...

but so am I.  And I nearly hurt David.  Hurt him badly. 

Shame buzzed inside her, and she made up her mind. 

She would help him.  Save him, perhaps, as she had saved the entire Collins

family in the past, and she would mock the forces of darkness that sought to

enslave him.  If the Urn of Isis couldn't save him, then she would.  A

mini-amends, perhaps. 

She placed her hand above the mark on David's throat and willed the power to

rise inside her.  It did as commanded, easily now, so easy that she didn't

really have to focus or concentrate anymore; it was just there, at her

fingertips, but easier than even that, rising like a faithful hound to do her

bidding. 

She closed her eyes, and whispered, "Heal," and ran her hands over the mark. 

When she opened them again, the mark was gone. 

"David," she said, and shook his shoulder a little, relieved to hear that her

voice sounded normal in her ears, and he stirred a little, and moaned, just the

tiniest little noise, and she said, "David!" and shook him again. 

He sat up, blinking, and yawned.  "What happened?" he said, and looked around

the room.  "Golly!" he exclaimed.  "I ...  I must have fallen asleep in here."

"We were studying," Vicki said, and the lie came easily to her lips.  "A little

too hard, I guess.  You decided to just take a nap where you were sitting."

"I'm sorry, Miss Winters," David said with what she thought was honest

contriteness.  "I really didn't mean to."

"That's all right, David," she said with a warm smile.  "It must be almost

supper time.  Why don't you go wash up and I'll meet you downstairs, all

right?"

He flashed her his million dollar smile, and nodded.  "Sure, Miss Winters," and

was out her door like a flash. 

She turned away from him and walked with deliberate slowness to the vanity,

then sat down before it and stared into her mirror's polished depths.  That

disquieting stripe of silver hair — it wasn't bigger, was it?  Surely not.

That ...  that was impossible. 

Except she was rapidly beginning to realize that she was going to have to

broaden her definition of the word. 

Everything's going to be fine, Victoria Winters told herself as she studied her

reflection in the mirror.  I can fix any problem that arises now.  It'll be

easy.  Very easy. 

And everything ...  everything will be just fine. 

I'll make sure of it. 

6

Julia was almost completely out of breath by the time she reached the portico

of the Old House and dashed up the steps.  Something terribly wrong was

happening, and she had to tell Barnabas, despite the ex-witch he harbored.  But

maybe she can help after all, Julia thought grudgingly.  It had been Eliot's

idea to consult Angelique about possible entities that were snake-related and

harbored long-term plans for world domination.  Easy for him to say, Julia

thought now as her hand turned the knob of the door; Angelique never tried to

kill him before. 

She stepped into the drawing room, and froze.  Angelique stood before her, head

bowed, hands folded contritely before her.  Dread spiked through Julia like a

deadly blade, and her lips felt numb as she asked, "What's happened?  What's

going on?" Because something was, and she could feel it.  The air of the house

was stale and icy, and heavy with shadows. 

"I wanted to get ahold of you all day," Angelique said in a weak, quavering

voice full of hesitation that Julia wasn't accustomed to, and that alone was

disconcerting enough.  "But the house has no electricity, and no phone either.

And I didn't ..." She bit her lower lip.  "I didn't want to leave her alone."

 

A terrible suspicion had formed in Julia's mind, and she moved swiftly and with

determination toward the blonde cause of so many of her problems.  "What

happened?" she demanded. 

Angelique said nothing, but beckoned her towards the staircase, and led her to

the second floor of the Old House.  Julia followed the former sorceress into

Josette's old room.  They paused outside the door.  "I didn't know where else

to bring her," Angelique admitted.  Her large blue eyes were wide and full of

terror.  "I was so afraid —" Then she swallowed, bit off her fear, and opened

the door of the bedroom. 

Carolyn Stoddard lay on the bed.  Her eyes were open, and stared blankly at the

ceiling.  Her hands were folded across her stomach.  Angelique, Julia observed,

had tried to cover her throat with a scarf, but Carolyn must have pulled it

aside, and now Julia could see the wounds, dried and crusted with blood.  Two

puncture wounds just over the jugular vein. 

 Nausea pounded in her stomach. 

"It was Barnabas," Angelique said in a low voice.  "Carolyn came here early

this morning while I was still sleeping and found Barnabas' coffin.  He ...  he

had become hideous, Julia, a creature so ancient that you can't even imagine."

She put her fingers over her face.  "He attacked her, Julia, and drank her

blood right in front of me.  I ...  I didn't know what to do.  I was terrified

—" She stopped, and took a deep breath.  "Have you got a cigarette, Julia?"

Surprised, Julia nodded, and fumbled in her purse, then handed one of her Pal

Mals to Angelique, along with a lighter. 

After a drag and an exhale of blue smoke, Angelique continued.  "I wanted to

run, but I couldn't, and when I finally forced myself to look again, he was

gone.  But he had left Carolyn behind.  I think he almost killed her, Julia,

and so I brought her up here and tried to stop the bleeding as best I could."

She bowed her head.  "I tried a healing incantation my mother taught me, but it

...  it just didn't work.  I really am powerless, Julia."

An unexpected stab of sympathy surprised Julia into nearly embracing the other

woman, but she held herself back, and reminded herself of what the witch was

capable of, and what she had done in the past. 

"You did all right," Julia said gruffly, and brushed past Angelique.  She

examined Carolyn as best she could, but despite the fact that her eyes were

open, she didn't blink, and there were no other signs of recognition. 

Angelique hovered nearby.  "Will she be all right, Julia?  Is she going to

become ...  to become ..."

"No," Julia said.  "No, I don't think so.  She isn't going to die; the blood

loss wasn't that severe.  But I've never seen one of Barnabas' victims like

this before.  I have no idea if she'll wake up ...  and if she does, there's no

guarantee how she will behave."

"She will behave as I command her to behave," a booming voice said from behind

them, and both women jumped and whirled around. 

Barnabas Collins stood before them, as young and handsome as the man they both

had fallen in love with ...  but now a hideous smile crossed his lips, and

twisted it into something dark and unwholesome. 

"Barnabas," Julia said haltingly, "Barnabas, you're ...  you're all right

again."

The cool look of disdain he flashed her wounded her more than she could have

ever said. 

"Barnabas!" Angelique exclaimed.  "Oh, Barnabas, what have you done?"

"Nothing so shocking as that, my dear Angelique," he sneered, and glided past

them both as if neither existed.  Evil pulsed off of him in waves; it was

disgusting, and turned Julia's already fragile stomach. 

"Barnabas, what's happened to you?" Julia hissed in frustration. 

He ignored her, and sat at Carolyn's side.  "Carolyn," he called.  He ran his

fingers along the length of her cheek, and only then did she respond.  Her eyes

rolled in their sockets and met his ...  and locked.  One hand rose like a

limp, white ghost and folded over his.  She sat up, her eyes still held by his.

"Carolyn," he breathed.  He grinned his wicked grin, and before Angelique and

Julia's horrified eyes, he leaned in, and their lips met in a soft, delicate

kiss. 

You ...  bastard, Julia thought, and felt hot rage burn before her eyes.

Barnabas was fortunate in that moment that the good doctor did not possess

Angelique's former powers; vampire or not, he would have been flashfried in an

instant. 

"Carolyn," Barnabas said softly as he broke the kiss, "do you hear me?"

"Oh yes," she whispered, her eyes on his adoringly. 

"Flesh of my flesh.  You will come when I call," he said, and wound a

white-gold strand of her hair around his fingers; the onyx ring glowed with a

dull black light.  "You will be my eyes and my ears, and will walk with me as

my partner in the night.  For all eternity, as is promised."

He turned to face the two formerly most important women in his life, and his

eyes glowed a hot crimson.  When he smiled, his teeth were jagged fangs. 

"For all eternity," he said, and Julia felt the world fall away beneath her

feet. 

 

TO BE CONTINUED ...