Shadows on the Wall Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter 22: And the Blood Will Flow

by Nicky

"A night of blessed reprieve at the Old House nestled at the edge of the

twisted, tangled woods that sprawl across the Collinwood estate ...  a night

where one woman's soul became her own again, free from a curse centuries old.

But for three other women the horror is just beginning ...  for Elizabeth

Collins Stoddard has become the victim of a fledgling vampire ...  while her

daughter has succumbed to something much more intricately deadly ...  something 

that will camouflage itself in a suit of human skin ..." (Nancy Barrett)

1

Carolyn Stoddard never quite fancied herself a detective, but she was rather

pleased with herself after discovering Julia Hoffman's journal.  None of it

made particular sense — the good doctor had devised a sort of code that even

Carolyn's exceptional skills had been unable to crack — but it was interesting

reading.  The names of her patients were not encoded, and the only one that

truly raised her interest, mentioned so very frequently, was cousin Barnabas.

Such a fascinating man, what with those deep-sunken eyes, lined with red, and

his high cheekbones and aristocratic nose. Much more attractive than everyday

Tony Trask.

She glanced at her watch and hissed.  Whoops.  Looks like she missed another

date with the good doctor.  She shrugged.  Tough titty said the kitty.  She

wondered how much longer this particular liaison of hers would last, and

decided it didn't matter.  Pursuing Barnabas Collins would make life

interesting for awhile, and if it shook up Collinwood with its dusty old

skeletons in dusty old closets — if it caused her mother to finally seek out

therapy or politely ask Carolyn to find quarters anywhere else than her

ancestral home — so much the better.  He was a challenge, that much was

certain.

It was this particular challenge that had brought her this night to the Old

House where Barnabas had taken up living two months ago.  The night was

unusually warm for early September, but she had worn a light black sweater

nevertheless.  Helped her blend into the shadows in case she was discovered.

Spying was a casual habit she had discovered years ago in the boarding school

her mother had sent her to in Boston for awhile; sometimes it paid off, and

sometimes it didn't. Tonight she wasn't certain which was the case.  She'd come

to the Old House tonight to see Cousin Barnabas, who seemed as if he were

recovering nicely from whatever ailment it was he claimed to suffer under, and

instead found that quite a brouhaha was getting under way on the upper story of

the house.  The lights in one of the upstairs bedrooms blazed brightly, and

Carolyn could see flickering silhouettes, and at one point heard an

ear-piercing scream.

Of course she couldn't resist, and, quiet as a mouse, she slipped in through

the front door and tip-toed up the staircase.  She recognized Josette's room as

the source of the trouble, and managed to conceal herself in the darkness of

the hallway.  The door stood half-open, and she could see Professor Stokes and

Quentin and Barnabas bending over a semi-conscious Julia Hoffman.  She looks

ghastly, Carolyn thought; what in the hell happened to her?  Her skin was

chalky-white and strangely loose, as though it only hung onto her bones by a

thread.

"But however could you have know that the backing of that mirror was made of

pure silver?" she heard Professor Stokes' jolly, booming voice.  She noticed

that shards of glass littered the room; a particularly large, deadly spear lay

next to the bed, and it was slathered in blood so dark that it was almost

black.  She felt her stomach do a slow, nauseated flip.  Had Julia cut herself?

Was that why she looked so ...  so drained?

She missed Barnabas' reply, but heard Julia jump in, "You know that Barnabas

knows a great deal about antiques, Professor.  And lucky for me that he does."

She smiled at Barnabas with obvious, glowing affection, and Carolyn felt a

small twinge of envy.  Of course she's in love with him, Carolyn thought

darkly; that's been disgustingly apparent since the moment he first came to

Collinwood.  I'll have to do something about that soon ...

Quentin was looking at something beyond Carolyn's sight, and his face was pale

and apprehensive.  "What are we going to do about…Tom?" he asked, and that

piqued Carolyn's interest as well.  Tom Jennings?  What did he have to do with

all this?  He was dead, after all ...  but hadn't he been Julia's boyfriend?  A

nasty smile flickered across Carolyn's face.  This was just starting to get

interesting.

Stokes spoke again, his voice dry and authoritative, but his words chilled

Carolyn to her marrow: "His body must be properly disposed of so that he can

never return.  It will take a bit of work, and it won't be pleasant, but it

must be done and done tonight.  We had best get to it, gentlemen.  And I'm sure

Julia would welcome the rest."

Disposed of?  But hadn't he been buried?  And what did he mean, "so he can

never return"?  The dead don't return ...  do they?  This gave her pause as

well.  She knew that the villagers referred to Collinwood as haunted — Maggie

Evans had been calling it a kooky place for years — but she had never really

thought about the prospect seriously before.  What had happened to Tom

Jennings?  How had he died?  And more importantly ...  how had he returned?

"Eliot, he's gone!  Tom's body is gone!  It was just here…" Carolyn started.

Quentin had cried out while she was thinking.  Somehow Tom's body had ended up

at the Old House, but it had vanished again.  What did it all mean?  She smiled

again.  You'll find out, Carolyn my girl, she thought to herself, on your own

time, in your own way.

She was distracted suddenly by a twinkling, a hint of phosphorescence near the

window, a sparkle that caught her eye and refused to let it go.  Her mouth

dropped open.  It was the creepiest thing she'd ever seen, but strangely

fascinating as well.  Tiny spirals of blue, yellow, green and red light – the

red was dominant – issued languidly from the shards of mirror scattered around

the floor.  She couldn't take her eyes off them.  The red glared at her,

pulsing like the eyes of a savage wolf caught in moonlight, and then honed in

on her.  She was assaulted before she could scream, and the light — a living

thing, a writhing horror alive in some monstrous, alien way — invaded her

through her open mouth, through her eyes, through her ears.  She fell to the

floor, thrashing and spasming as an image of a time long gone by overwhelmed

all her senses:

The room was the same, but everything old was new, and a beautiful woman —

Maggie Evans? — sat at the vanity.  Her skin was porcelain, her lips full and

pouty but not petulant, her eyes round and dark, lashes black as ash, and her

mane of chestnut hair flowed down her back in auburn waves as she brushed it

with calm, repeated strokes.  Her eyes, doll's eyes, were fixed on her

reflection, and seemed not to see the woman behind her.

The other woman (Cassandra, Carolyn thought dazedly, it must be!) was equally

as beautiful but in a different way, not as appealing; hers was a cold beauty

that could burn.  Eyes like sapphires, and her hair, spun into a million

ringlets, hung like gold around her shoulders.  She wore a simple dress,

empire-wasted, the color of rusty gold.  A plain mop-cap sat upon her curls,

and Carolyn knew her for a servant.  The eyes of the pretty girl did not see

the other woman, the hate that blazed in her crystalline eyes, the way her

mouth trembled with fury as she set a silver tea service on the bureau across

the room.

"Your tea is ready, Ma'amselle," the other woman said in a quiet, subservient

voice, betrayed only by the hatred that radiated from her in streams.

"Thank you, Angelique," the other woman said absently, and Carolyn recognized

her suddenly. It's the woman from the portrait, she thought, Josette Collins

...  it must be!  "You may leave it on the bureau."

"Of course, Ma'amselle," Angelique said, and curtsied prettily.  She paused

uncertainly, and finally Josette lifted her eyes to her servant's reflection.

"Yes?" she asked.  "Is there anything else?"

"Nothing ...  terribly important," Angelique said reluctantly.  She wrung her

hands nervously.  "Just a feeling, that's all.  You must forget it." She turned

to the door, but a concerned Josette turned around in her chair and motioned

for her to stay.

"You look so pale, Angelique," Josette said.  "Please, tell me what the matter

is!"

"I'm afraid for you, Ma'amselle," Angelique bleated suddenly, and tears began

to flow from her eyes.  "I have had a terrible premonition of danger — I think

we should leave this country immediately!"

Josette laughed daintily.  "How silly you can be," she said, mildly reproving.

"We've only been here for two days, Angelique.  How can you think of leaving?"

She giggled.  "Surely you haven't found some handsome young man, have you,

someone who has threatened to steal you away from me?" Angelique lowered her

head, and the mirth in Josette's eyes faded as real concern replaced it.

"Angelique?" she asked tentatively.  "What is really the matter?"

"I have had nightmares ever since we arrived," Angelique sniffed, "nightmares

that tell me we will all die if we stay in this country.  Ma'amselle, for your

sake as well as mine, we must leave this house at once!"

"Nonsense," Josette said firmly.

"It isn't nonsense!" Angelique cried, her frustration suddenly very apparent.

"Oh, yes it is.  Angelique, this is no time for indulging silly superstitions.

My wedding to Barnabas is less than a week away, and I cannot —" She realized

that Angelique was trying to hold back sobs, and she rose from her chair and

embraced her childhood friend.  "Angelique, what is the matter?  Why are you

crying?"

In a little voice, almost to tiny to hear, Angelique whimpered, "Because you

are angry with me."

"No!" Josette protested, her arm around Angelique's shoulders, "I'm not angry

with you."

"Look into my eyes," Angelique sniffed, "and tell me that you are not.  I can't

believe you unless you do." Josette did as she was bade, and was instantly

lost.  Her gaze became dim and far away, and a devious smirk, much akin to the

one Carolyn had worn in her own time only a few moments before, curled across

Angelique's pretty lips.  "Very good, Josette," Angelique said, and her voice

was deeper, servile no more.  "You always succumb to my spells so easily, just

as you did in Martinique." The smile vanished, and her voice was cold with

fury.  "I thought I wouldn't have to resort to witchcraft tonight.  I had hoped

to deal with you in a less suspicious manner, in a mortal way, but you laughed

at me.  You won't laugh at me anymore, dear Josette, I promise you that."

Josette stared blankly, and Angelique flung out her hand.  "Return to your

vanity, 'Ma'amselle'," she said mockingly, and Josette obeyed.

Angelique followed her across the room as her mistress sat at the vanity and

stared mechanically into the mirror.  "Everything is always so beautiful for

the little ma'amselle," she smirked.  "We must change that, mustn't we.  I'm

going to punish you, Josette, for resisting my will." Josette stiffened a

little, and her mouth twitched, as though she were trying to protest.  "Oh,

don't worry," Angelique said soothingly, and stroked her hair.  "It won't be

anything too terrible — not until I can think of a more fitting way to make

Barnabas mine." Her eyes lit on the pretty hand mirror that had been a present

to Josette from Barnabas before he left Martinique for Collinsport last summer.

She smiled.  "How appropriate," she purred.  "Your lover — our lover — will be

as responsible for what will happen to you as if he had cast the spell

himself."

She lifted the mirror from the bureau and examined it.  "Vanity, thy name is

woman," she whispered, and ran her hand slowly over the surface of the mirror.

Instantly the reflection vanished, leaving only a roiling, greasy surface of

utter blackness.  "I invoke the Powers of Darkness," Angelique incanted, "by

the blood of the Raven and the Bat.  Astaroth and Belial, hear

my call!  In the name of the charred and blackened stars that rained at my

beginnings, cast your power into the glass of this mirror.  May its powers of

reflection catch a spirit from beyond the black borderline of death ...  may an

evil entity more powerful than the grave be cast into its depths, that she who

peers within may be terrified by a vision of her own death!  Hear me, O Powers

of Darkness, and let it be so!" A stream of vivid colors, crimson and blue and

a sickly yellow and emerald green, began to swirl around her hands and hung in

mid-air above the mirror.

At that moment there came a knocking on Josette's room, and Angelique cried out

and nearly dropped the mirror.  "Josette?" It was the shrill, nasal voice of

the Countess, Josette's aunt, and she opened the door and stepped into the

room.  Angelique saw with dismay that the magic had dissipated, and felt a dull

disappointment in her breast.  The spell had failed, obviously — but that

didn't mean there weren't more spells she could cast in the future.

Josette sat up, blinking, and smiled radiantly at her aunt.  "Natalie!" she

exclaimed. "How lovely to see you.  I'm afraid I must have been daydreaming."

"Angelique," Natalie said sharply, "what are you doing with Josette's mirror?"

The color drained from Angelique's face.  "I was holding it for Ma'amselle,"

she tried to say smoothly, but she knew that her voice was high and unsteady,

and that the Countess noticed.  "I was helping her brush her hair."

"Angelique has been so helpful since we arrived in this country," Josette said

pleasantly.  "Why don't you leave me alone now, Angelique?" she said with a

dismissive wave of her hand.  "I'd like to be alone with Aunt Natalie."

Angelique bowed her head.  "As you wish, Ma'amselle," and set the mirror on the

vanity next to her.  With a reluctant glance backwards at it, she left the

room.

The scene began to fade before Carolyn's eyes until all she could see was the

mirror, hanging in mid-air before her face.  It was truly beautiful, with a

long silver handle engraved with leaves and vines, and reflected back her own

face.  But the reflection began to change almost instantly; the skin of

Carolyn's face began to twitch and slough down off her bones until her face had

become a ragged, frayed mass of scarlet and white bone.  Her eyeballs,

conspicuously bare of lids, bulged helplessly from dark sockets, and as she

watched, one slipped easily from its hole and slithered down her cheek, now

bare of skin.  Something somewhere began to chuckle, a booming, distorted laugh

that rang in her ears until she thought she would go mad.  Not even her own

screams could drown it out.

They found her seconds later in the hallway, screaming and writhing, and

thrashing on the carpet. Blood poured in a crimson gout from both her nostrils.

 "My god!" Quentin cried.  "What's wrong with her?  What's happening?" Julia

was finally able to sedate her a half hour later, and soon she was sleeping

fitfully in a room down the hall from Josette's room.  Barnabas, Quentin,

Stokes, and a wan Julia gathered in the drawing room.

"What was she doing here?" Barnabas asked dolefully.

"I think a more important question," Stokes said dryly, "would be what did she

overhear ...  and how much does she know?"

"We won't be able to ascertain that until she wakes up," Julia said.  "Until

then, we'll just have to wait."

2

She had to secret her coffin in one of the abandoned rooms in the East Wing

(though why both these wings of the house were closed off was a mystery to her,

but helpful nevertheless), and enjoyed every second as she watched the regal

Elizabeth Collins Stoddard, sweaty hair hanging in her dust-streaked face, lug

the coffin up the stairs and down the myriad hallways and corridors until

Cassandra ordered her to stop.  "You may leave it there, Elizabeth," she said

calmly, and the Collins matriarch collapsed upon the coffin in a near-stupor.

Cassandra beamed.  She had decided that the butterfly peignoir was beyond

repair, and reluctantly discarded in favor of her new beautiful trapeze dress,

crimson with four huge gold buttons that left her arms, marble-white, bare. I'm

beautiful, Cassandra thought giddily, despite everything that Nicholas has done

to me, I am still beautiful.

And quite unable to appreciate your own beauty, a cynical voice within her

whispered, seeing as you have no reflection in a mirror.

Her smile vanished.  "Dammit," she growled, recalling why exactly vampirism was

considered a curse and not a fountain of youth.  And of course Nicholas must be

very much aware of my condition, she thought ruefully; I'll have to see that my

coffin remains hidden.  He could take it into his head to destroy me some sunny

morning, and I refuse to allow that to happen — not after all my careful

planning and scheming.

Elizabeth groaned and stirred.  Cassandra glided over towards her, and held out

one icy hand. Elizabeth cringed at first, then took it and rose to her feet.

Her face was a dull mask, utterly devoid of life; even her eyes were

lusterless, doll's eyes, black and empty.  Cassandra teasingly stroked her

cheek with one freezing finger, and Elizabeth moaned softly.  "You have done

well, Elizabeth," she crooned, "but I'm afraid that I am not through with you

tonight." Elizabeth choked and brushed a hand against the two tiny wounds on

her throat, covered by a delicate green scarf. Cassandra laughed harshly.

"No," she said.  "I won't take anymore of your blood now.  I have a task for

you, my dear." Her eyes blazed a cold, sinister blue and her mouth trembled

with a diabolical smile.  "Nicholas is only using you, dear sister-in-law.  He

should pay for that, wouldn't you agree?"

Elizabeth's mouth dropped open in shock.  "What — what do you mean?" she

managed to gasp.

"Oh come now," Cassandra mewed.  "Surely you realize that he is more than human

... just as I am.  You must know of my powers by now, Mrs.  Stoddard.  Nicholas

possesses them too, and he's using them to trick you into thinking that he

loves you."

"Loves me?" Elizabeth whimpered.  Her eyes, fixed on Cassandra's, had grown dim

and far away.

"Of course," she cooed.  "He plans to marry you and then dispose of you just as

easily, so that Collinwood can be all his." Cassandra's voice was thick with

fury.  "But I plan to stop him ... forever.  And you are going to help me."

Entranced, Elizabeth murmured, "What do you want me to do?"

Cassandra's smile grew, revealing her fangs that glinted in the dim light of

the room.

3

I never should have come back to this town, he thought mournfully, and sat with

his chin in his hand, his elbow on the windowsill, gazing out at the town and

the vast spread of sea beyond.  The moon, now half-full, glinted on the waves,

placid with no wind to stir them.  The water was black and bottomless.  I know

how it feels, he thought ruefully, and rose from his seat.  He stretched,

grimacing as his back popped loudly, then shuffled aimlessly around the sparse

room that Mr. Wells had afforded him.  "Short notice," the balding proprietor

of the Collinsport Inn had informed him when he'd checked in shortly before

midnight.  "This is the best I could do.  You here for the funeral?" He had

nodded, upset to hear that he had missed it, but had conceded to take the room.

And here he now sat, unable to sleep, only able to pace.

What could this town possibly hold for me?  he thought, and collapsed on the

bed. Sprawled comfortably with his linked hands behind his head, he stared up

at the ceiling.  There's no real reason to stay around ...  except that there

was.  She was his responsibility now.  There was no one else to take care of

her.  Without him, she'd pine away in the sanitarium she'd been committed to

after ...

The thought trailed off.  What good would he be to her now anyway?  What could

he possibly offer her?  He had run away at the age of eighteen, the day after

he learned what he was doomed to become for some unknown, unfathomable reason.

His stomach twisted into a knot at the thought, and he closed his eyes, but

still he could see them, the fruit of his first nightly, forgotten labor: nine

slaughtered pigs, their eyes wide and glassy, their insides already drawing

flies under the hot morning sun.  "At least it was only pigs," Tom had told

him, his face pale and sick, as if that was reassuring, but he had skipped out

anyway.  Slipped out of town on a midnight train, taking with him one duffel

bag of clothes and a picture of the three of them before their parents had

died.  Too chicken to stay around, too chicken to kill himself.

That was a laugh.  He doubted suicide was possible.  Something about his very

nature denied him the option.  Not that he'd made any serious attempts.

Silver, he thought, inspired, but didn't the legends say that his kind could

only be struck down — made to lie down and play dead, he thought with a twisted

smile — only by someone who loved them?

"Stupid," he hissed under his breath, and rose to his feet.  He fumbled in his

closet for a shirt and slipped it over his bare chest, buttoning it with smooth

dexterity.  His fingers had always been nimble; it was a talent he and Tom

shared, among other things.  But his talents ran more towards design than

execution; Tom was always the master carpenter.  At least, he used to be ...

Tears filled his eyes.  He hadn't allowed himself to cry yet, even when he

finally received the telegram, well aware that he had missed the funeral but

wanting to be in Collinsport anyway.  He had denied his homesickness just as he

had denied the tears for his fallen brother, and they both came hot and heavy

now.  He sobbed hoarsely for about five minutes, the fire in his chest leaking

from his eyes and exploding from his mouth until he found himself hunched over

on the floor in a fetal position, rocking, his face soaked with tears.  "Oh

Tom," he whispered.  "What happened to you?  What happened?"

I'll find out, he thought, resolved, and wiped the tears away with the back of

his sleeve. Sniffling, he made his way down the deserted corridor and down the

stairs.  Upon reaching the lobby, similarly deserted (even Mr.  Wells must've

gone to bed, he thought), he slid quietly through the lobby doors and into the

blackness of the Collinsport night.

Shadows clung heavily to every building and every street despite the light of

the moon that rode the heavens above him, harmless now, but its power would

grow for the next two weeks, and then —

But he cut that thought off quickly enough.

Collinsport was dead; no doxies prowled the wharf, no barflies stumbled

drunkenly from the Blue Whale.  There was only him, alone, half-heartedly

strolling around the docks.  It was a fairly warm night, beautiful for

September, and he appreciated it as he inhaled the salt-smell of the sea, a

rich and heavy scent that he'd forgotten these past few years in seclusion,

always on the move, always on the hunt.  Sometimes I'm the hunted, he thought,

and recalled a man he'd thought about a lot recently.  He had encountered this

mystery man less than a year before, when he had ventured as close to

Collinsport as he dared come, renting a small apartment in Bangor.  It had been

a night utterly unlike this one — rainy and windblown — and yet he had ventured

out for a walk regardless.  He realized that the man had been following him for

almost twenty minutes when he turned around to confront him.  He was a handsome

guy, familiar in some vague way, with a tangled mop of chestnut hair and vivid

blue eyes.  This mystery man had smiled crookedly and held out one hand and

said, "I can help you," but then he had fled from him, whoever he was. By

morning he'd left his apartment behind, and the next day he was moving into an

unfurnished cabin in the Rocky Mountains somewhere in Montana.  The man

troubled him, because there had been something familiar about him, and he knew

instinctively that the man recognized him — knew him, even.  That was

unsettling, to say the least.

So what are you doing back here now?  he asked himself, pausing for a moment.

There was a vaguely man-like shadow near the edge of the dock, but he was too

engrossed in his thoughts to wonder much about it.  You're only torturing

yourself, you know.  This can't do anybody any good, much less you.  You'd be

better off to pack up all your stuff tomorrow, get on that train, and take

yourself as far from this place as you can go.  Somewhere where you can't hurt

anybody and no one can hurt you, and that's how it's going to be and nothing is

ever going to change that. Because of what you are.  Because of what you

become.

The shadow before him was a man, and he was jolted out of his reverie with

something akin to terror, because not only was it A man, it was THE man.  The

same blue eyes, the same curly hair, and the man was staring at him with an

equal amount of open-mouthed surprise.

"You!" the man whispered; the sound carried through the night and reached his

ears easily.  "How ...  why ...?"

"You don't know me," he cried, panicked, and backed away.  "You can't know me.

Leave me alone, do you hear?" He was running now, pelting down the streets

towards the hotel, crying, "Just leave me alone ...  leave me alone!"

He didn't sleep until dawn, and then his dreams were tortured and uneasy, full

of images of his identical twin, but Tom was dead in every dream, and in every

dream he whispered through blue, cracked lips, "And you're dead Chris.  Just

like me.  You're dead too."

4

"It was him, Eliot," Quentin exploded, "you have to believe me." He paced

furiously around the drawing room of Collinwood, oblivious to the sun that was

only now beginning to peek its head above the horizon.

"I have no reason to doubt you, Quentin," Stokes said wearily; he hadn't been

to bed for nearly twenty-four hours, and the events of the past night had worn

him out considerably. Carolyn, still sedated, was now firmly tucked into her

own bed at Collinwood; Julia had agreed to call him later in the afternoon so

that they could question her together.  But he hadn't had a chance to leave the

great house yet, not since Quentin had burst in with this newest development.

"I only question you because I want you to be sure." He paused.  "You do

understand that what you saw could have been a mirage, don't you?  Brought on

by your recent grief and bereavement?"

Quentin showed his teeth in a savage mockery of a grin.  "It was no mirage,

Eliot," he growled.  "It was Christopher.  He must've found out about Tom's

death somehow, and decided to come back." He shook his head furiously.  "And

like an idiot I scared him away.  He doesn't have any idea who I am, or why I

should care about him." His brow was furrowed and his eyebrows drew together in

a fine point.  "That time I saw him in Bangor —" He shook his shaggy head.

"Doesn't it stand to reason that, if he came all this way for Tom's funeral,

that he would at least stop and see Amy?"

Quentin shook his head dolefully.  "I don't think so," he said.  "He was

literally running from me when he saw me on the docks, and I have an idea he's

going to run from Collinsport as fast as his legs can carry him." His face had

become a thundercloud, and he began to absently fix himself another scotch.

"All my fault," he hissed.

"Don't be so hard on yourself, my boy," Stokes said.  "He can't have left town

yet, at any rate. The next train doesn't go out until this evening." He rose

shakily to his feet, dismayed at the rebellious ache he felt in his knees and

every other joint in his body.  Old, old, he thought, too damned old.  "That's

assuming he'll take a train, of course, but give me a chance to rest up, and I

think we could pay him a visit.  Stands to reason he's staying at the

Collinsport Inn —"

"Quentin." Both men started at the low, decidedly feminine voice, and turned

with utter surprise to find Maggie Evans in the doorway.  Or a woman that

looked like Maggie Evans, Quentin thought, confounded, because at first he

didn't recognize her.  Her hair, auburn up until recently, was now jet black,

and cascaded down her neck into a graceful flip.  Her eyes were lined with

black and embellished with violet eyeshadow; her lips were crimson and queenly

and full.  Even her fingernails were decorated, shimmering with a silky ebony

polish.  She wore a tight purple miniskirt and matching pumps, and everything

about her seemed pale and somehow regal.  Her eyebrows were raised in a haughty

manner that Quentin immediately recognized, and he felt his heart sink.  She

was furious.  At him.  Oh, boy.

"Maggie —" Quentin began, aware that Stokes was making his way hastily to the

door, and tried to make some kind of fumbling excuse.

"Never mind, dear boy," Stokes was saying, patting Maggie (with an unconscious

moue of distaste puckering his lips for a bare second, as though he had touched

something ripe and rotting) on the arm as he did so.  "I can show myself out.

Good morning, Miss Evans."

Maggie ignored him.  Her eyes were fixed on Quentin's, and they were almost

baleful in their intensity.  She stood where she was, a statue amidst the ruin

of a life that had previously been her own, and this room had been a part of it

for the past six months.  But that was all over now.  For the moment.  Nicholas

had revealed a great many things to her over the past few days, and she knew

that someday she would walk the halls of Collinwood, not as the hapless

girlfriend of a distant cousin, a local country bumpkin waitress with no

college education, but as the mistress of the manor.  That had been promised

with his oh-so-sweet burning kisses.

Quentin approached her, and she was amused to find that he didn't dare touch

her. Good, she thought sourly; you'll burn if you do.  Oh, how you'd burn, and

I'd watch you sizzle as you screamed and your bones turned black.  A part of

her, dim and already distant and beginning to die, cried out miserably, Who are

you?  Why are you thinking terrible things like that? You loved this man,

remember?  No matter what you saw or Nicholas told you, you loved him, and you

can't throw it all away for a silver-tongued man who promises you the world.

There are prices, Margaret Evans; men like that ALWAYS demand a price.  Are you

sure you want to pay it?  Are you sure you CAN pay it?

Shut up, she hissed to herself, and the voice obeyed.  She was a New Person,

and nothing — let alone the fading revenant of her former life — was going to

prevent her from staying that way.

"I have to talk to you, Quentin," she said, choosing each word with careful

precision. "There are a few things you need to know."

"Maggie," Quentin said again, "if this is about something you saw — something

you think you saw ..." He licked his lips.  "Baby, we can work it out.  I know

how stupid that sounds, but honestly —"

"You don't want to 'work it out', Quentin," Maggie said, her voice neutral and

deliberately calm, "and to be completely truthful, neither do I." She sighed

languorously, then strolled casually over to the couch and sank delicately into

its comfortable confines.  She crossed her legs slowly, and knew that he was

watching her.  No matter what he feels for Vicki, she thought to herself, he

still has feelings for me; and this thought pleased her very much.

Quentin stared at her, his face blank and miserable.  "What are you talking

about?"

She laughed harshly, and it was acid, almost as visible as cigarette smoke

curling into the air like dragon claws.  "I'm not a fool, Quentin," she said.

"I know that something has been building between you and Vicki Winters since

the first night she came here." HE showed me, she thought to herself; he has

shown me so many things, but she did not say this out loud.  "And I did see you

two.  Together," she added, enjoying the misery that twisted in his face like a

knife.

He bowed his head, and he positively quivered with shame.  "I was afraid of

that," he said lowly, and when he lifted his head again, she was amused to see

that tears glittered like precious stones in his so-blue eyes.  "Maggie, I am

so sorry," he said, and actually knelt down before her, but he still didn't

touch her, and she was glad.  "I never wanted to hurt you, and I would give the

world for you not to have seen us together, but —"

She held up one hand, and he was silenced.  "You don't have to explain

yourself, Quentin," she said.  "It simply isn't necessary.  I hope you two will

be very happy together."

He stared at her, confused.  "Us two?" he asked.  "But Maggie, there isn't any

'us'." Not yet, he thought, and was ashamed all over again, and added, "I don't

even know if there ever will be."

"You see?" she tittered.  "You don't know your own mind, Quentin, and that has

driven me insane the entire time we've spent together.  You drag your guilt

around with you like a chain, and your secrets weight the chain to the ground.

You could never share your pain with me, or your secrets; can't you understand

how frustrating that is to me?." Her voice was rising now, though she had

promised herself she wouldn't get angry, and she sure as hell wasn't going to

cry, but the tears were pricking at the corners of her eyes nevertheless, and

she suddenly felt very warm. "So you can have precious Vicki Winters, and I

wish you the joy of your bargain." She rose to her feet, and THAT was when he

touched her, tried to force her to stay in the room, and he DID draw his hands

away almost instantly, staring at them with bewilderment as though they had

been scalded.

"I don't understand," Quentin said, and Maggie wanted to laugh as she thought,

Oh Quentin, that's MY line!  "What's happened to you?" he asked.  "Your hair

...  your clothes ...  why have you changed so suddenly?"

"Maybe I haven't changed at all," she snapped.  "Maybe you've just been so

caught up in all your private misery that you haven't bothered to notice me at

all."

"I can't believe that," Quentin said, and suddenly he sounded angry as well.

Maggie paused for a moment, struck by a wave of confusion.  He's not supposed

to be angry, she thought; he's the one who's done the bad things, the wrong

things; I deserve my pain and my anger; what does he deserve?  She knew the

answer to that.  Nicholas had told her that as well.

"You'd better believe it," she hissed.  "I'm through with this dull life from

now on, Quentin, and part of that life is you.  We are over — finished!"

"Something's happened to you," Quentin said grimly, and clutched her by the

shoulders, "and you're going to tell me what it is."

"You take your hands off me," Maggie said in a quiet voice, but it was so thick

with rage that Quentin's hands were at his sides before he even realized he'd

taken them away from her.  She stalked towards the door and paused there,

smiling at him mockingly.  "I suppose I should tell you right now.  You're

going to find out soon enough anyway."

"What?" he growled, glaring at her.

"I'm seeing someone else," she said primly, and patted her jet-black hair.  "He

lives in this house as a matter of fact." Quentin's eyes began to widen, and

Maggie felt another wave of satisfaction wash warmly over her, and she basked

in it.  "That's right, Quentin," she said.  "Nicholas Blair is the man I love."

All the color drained from Quentin's face.  "Love?" he whispered, then roared,

"LOVE?"

"Shhh," Maggie giggled, "you'll wake your family, and you don't want to subject

them to this humiliation, do you?  I mean, I'm sure you thought you'd break it

off with me, real gentle like. Don't want to break the poor kid's heart, after

all." With sudden savagery, she jeered, "But I certainly showed you, didn't I,

big man, didn't I!  And I don't want you and I don't love you and I don't need

you anymore, because I have the man I want, and he'll take me places you never

even thought to show me." She wheeled out of the room and slammed the doors

behind her, then stood against them, panting.

Dry applause greeted her ears.  "Bravisse, my dear," Nicholas Blair crooned,

and Maggie was in his arms in a moment, aware but unaware of the sobbing wreck

she'd left behind in the drawing room.

5

Vicki was dreaming.  It was early afternoon, roughly two o'clock, and she was

due to be released by five o'clock, but until then the nurses let her sleep.

She and Willie and David had recovered rapidly from Tom's attack (though none

of them would remember any details, which would prove maddeningly frustrating

to the police who would question them about the maniac responsible for the

death of the mortician as well as their own attacks and the disappearance of

Tom Jennings' body), but she still needed rest.  And while she rested, she

dreamed.

A woman stood before her, and at first she thought that the woman was Mrs.

Stoddard, but this was more of a girl, a pale slip of a girl younger than

Elizabeth, with her dark hair and eyes but a different mouth and nose.  A

sister, Vicki thought dreamily; did Roger and Elizabeth have a sister? The girl

was smiling at her shyly, and beckoning.

"What's your name?" Vicki asked the apparition, and the air was suddenly ablaze

with the scent of mimosa, heavy but not cloying.

"Louise," she replied, and Vicki suddenly felt as though she were looking into

a mirror.

"Are you my sister?" Vicki asked foolishly, and, smiling, Louise shook her head

and beckoned again.  Curious, and because she knew that she had to, Vicki

followed the girl, and suddenly they were in a long hallway lined with doors as

far as the eye could see.  "Where are we?" Vicki asked.

"No man's land," Louise said.  "It isn't pretty.  You must never come here

again, Victoria. It has teeth, and no matter what they tell you, it can bite.

Fiercely." She never dropped her eyes.  "You will be hurt, I'm afraid, and

those you love.  They will be hurt too, and I'm afraid that you may be the one

to hurt them."

"I don't understand," Vicki said, and was suddenly afraid.  I'm so cold, she

thought, and saw that plumes of vapor were emerging from her mouth.  "What's

happening?" she cried out, stricken with an awful icy blade of terror.

"It is here that he crouches," Louise said ominously.  "When the snow falls, he

will be loosed." She smiled serenely as a gale of screaming wind tousled her

hair.  Her face was very pale, china-doll, with eyes that were dark and

fathomless.

Vicki was clutching her hair in an ecstasy of fear.  "Who will be loosed?" she

screamed. "None of this makes any sense!" The door before her began to bulge

obscenely, grotesquely, and a face pushed at the wood as though it were a thin

coating of rubber.  It's BREATHING, Vicki thought sickly; it's ALIVE, and it

wants me ...  god, the room wants me ...  the thing wants all of me, and it

will take me anyway it can ...

"He waits, because he is evil," Louise said, "and he waits because he is

patient.  But his patience is growing thin.  He has tried to come into this

world and has failed, and many have died for him." Louise came close to her,

and Vicki felt colder still, because Louise was dead, she was pretty and dead,

and Vicki thought she recognized her from somewhere.  Her eyes were dark and

sad, and when she placed a hand on Vicki's shoulder she began to shudder

helplessly.  "I want to help you," Louise said, and her face was filled with a

terrible compassion.  "I watch over you, as I always have."

"Who are you?" Vicki sobbed.

"You know," Louise said, not unkindly.  "You must watch Elizabeth.  She is

doomed this moment unless the future can be changed.  Someone will have to go

back, I fear."

"Go back?" Vicki whispered, eyes wide.

"To change things," Louise explained.  "To make them different.  To trap him

forever between times.  To keep him out of this world.  What's done cannot be

undone, but he can be removed. Like a poisonous, bloated spider, he can be

crushed.  Not killed, but maintained.  Not in this world or the next.  You must

find a medium.  A middle ground."

"A medium," Vicki repeated.

"Will you be the one to go back, Victoria?" Louise asked, and her voice was

fading with her form, becoming milky and indistinct.  "Will it be you?  Can you

handle the responsibility?"

Darkness washed over her, and when Vicki woke only remnants of the dream

remained, but her first words upon waking her, "To change things ...  to make

them different." But she forgot them as soon as they left her mouth.

6

"Don't let anyone see you," Nicholas whispered, and nuzzled the nape of

Maggie's neck.  She opened her mouth with a silent cry of pleasure; his touch

opened volcanoes within her, and an inferno had already begun to itch and blaze

inside and around her.  The air felt hot and heavy.  "You know why," he added,

and his teeth grazed her earlobe.

"Yes," she replied, and kissed him fully on the mouth.  "I understand,

Nicholas.  I won't fail you." Her dark eyes searched his, but they were darker.

 "I'll never fail you."

He was grinning at her, and that, of all the dark, mysterious things about him,

disturbed her the most.  It was a hot grin, and sharp, never meant for human

conversation or kissing or love.  He looked like a vicious, biting weasel when

he grinned like that, and Maggie wanted to moan, but she didn't because she

knew it would displease him.  "I know you won't," he said.  "You must go now,

before it gets too late."

She placed one hand on the doorknob, then turned to him, one eyebrow raised and

a question in her eyes.  "Do you want me to start today?" she asked.

"Oh yes," Nicholas said, and the grin never left his face.  "I'm sure you'll

find the perfect place."

"There are a lot of houses that the Collinses own," Maggie said.  "I ought to

be able to find something —"

Nicholas silenced her with a kiss.  "Fantastic," he purred.  "You'll do fine,

Maggie.  I have complete faith in you.  And I don't put faith in much of

anything these days." He giggled as she reached to open the doors once again,

but stopped her when he called, "Oh, Maggie!" She stopped again, and turned to

look at him inquisitively.  "Quit your job at the coffee shop today, my

darling.  You won't be needing it anymore, and really, it is SUCH a low, tacky

job.  Not fit for a creature of your station, you understand?" She nodded,

pleased, and disappeared out the door.

He sighed, and jauntily strolled into the drawing room, empty now of that hulk

Quentin, who must have by now retired to his own chambers to brood or sob or

sleep, Hecate knew which.  It was quite a shock, Nicholas had to admit, living

under the same roof with Quentin, even more of a shock to be living in the same

CENTURY as Quentin again, after all these years.  They hadn't actually spoken —

nothing more had passed between them than a rudimentary handshake when Roger

had introduced them — but Nicholas had seen that flicker of recognition in

Quentin's eyes. He knows who I am, Nicholas had thought, uncharacteristically

afraid for a moment, then he had squashed it.  So what if Quentin knew who —

knew what — he was?  If it came down to some kind of showdown, Nicholas had the

goods on Quentin as well.  It was a little inconveniencing that Quentin had

known Nicholas under the unfortunate guise of Evan Hanley, but there was little

he could do about that.

He frowned.  He didn't like to think of his tenure in the late nineteenth

century.  That had been a punishment, administered by his Master for failing to

procure the Mask of Ba'al in the year 1840. The fall of that year had seen

Nicholas unmasked, his secret discovered by the townfolk, and they had joyously

burned him at the stake.  He had found himself, naked and shivering, cast

before the throne of his Master, little more than a half-glimpsed shape,

looming and black, with enormous orange sparks for eyes, the size of footballs.

 His punishment was carried out swiftly, and he was reborn as Evan Hanley in

the year 1860 with no memories of any previous lives.  He became a lawyer, just

as he had as Nicholas Blair in 1692 Bedford, and he began to practice the Black

Arts alongside a young ne'er-do-well by the name of Quentin Collins.  Oh, the

things they had conjured; oh, the things they had seen together!  Nicholas

supposed he could have reminded Quentin of all this, but what purpose would it

serve?  He was not in Collinsport to toy with an old friend.

He was shaken from his reverie by the sound of the drawing room doors opening.

"Elizabeth!" he cried cordially, and rose to greet her.  She looks terrible

this morning, Nicholas thought with disgust; her face was pale and wan, and her

hair had been hastily pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck.  It took

a great deal of effort to keep his composure, but Nicholas was, if nothing

else, a skilled and thorough liar.  She smiled at him, and kept both her hands

behind her back as she traipsed into the room.  "What a lovely afternoon,

wouldn't you say?"

"Yes," she said in a small, quiet voice.  "But I think it's rather cold in

here." She stood by the fireplace, hands still behind her back, he was

irritated to notice.  "It was so thoughtful of you to start a fire."

"You have your cousin Quentin and the admirable Professor Stokes to thank for

that, my dear," Nicholas said.  "I have a ..." He chuckled.  "I suppose I have

what you might call a particular aversion to fire."

"I see," Elizabeth said colorlessly.  Her eyes never left the flames.  They

danced in her eyes, casting them in a sullen, sultry light.

"Are you feeling better this morning?" Nicholas asked.

"Yes," Elizabeth said.  "Much."

"Not troubled by any thoughts of ...  death?" Nicholas wanted to be very

careful. Something was very wrong here, it didn't take a novice to realize

that, but if by some miracle she had been freed from Cassandra's foolish curse,

he didn't want to upset her again.

"No," Elizabeth said.  "My mind is free and clear.  I don't understand what

came over me, Nicholas.  It must have been a reaction to what happened to Vicki

and David."

"And because they've recovered, so have you," Nicholas said, but knew that

wasn't the case. Perhaps all of Cassandra's spells have been broken by her

unfortunate passing, Nicholas thought, and permitted himself a tiny, pleased

smile.  "Just lovely, my dear.  Perhaps you and I might take a stroll along the

beach this afternoon.  It's shaping up to be a lovely day —"

"I don't think so," Elizabeth said, and revealed what had been behind her back,

and with a shock, Nicholas saw that it was a torch of some kind, and even now

she was stoking the fire with it, worrying the blazing wood as though coaxing

it to lend its precious property to her.  She stood a moment later, the torch

ablaze, and watched his reaction carefully.  All the blood had drained from his

face, and he back away from her, hands outstretched placatingly.

"Elizabeth, put that down!" he cried, and fear crawled and clawed inside of him

like a living thing. It filled his throat and his mouth with ice water, and he

began to shiver despite himself. "You don't know what you're doing —"

"Oh yes I do," Elizabeth said complacently, and began to stalk toward him until

she had him backed into a corner.  "I know everything about you, Nicholas, and

I'm going to do something about it." As his features twisted into a paroxysm of

terror, Elizabeth shoved the burning torch into his face and screamed, "Burn,

burn, burn!"

7

"I'm sorry, Julia," Carolyn said with a sigh and a shake of her pretty blonde

hair.  "I don't even remember how I got to the Old House.  The last thing I

remember is coming down the stairs at Collinwood.  Then everything is blank

until I woke up here this morning." Early afternoon sunshine, muted by the pall

of clouds approaching from the sea, flooded her room and bathed her in a golden

glow.  She and Julia were alone in her room; Eliot had deigned to return to

Collinwood; having left so late, he hadn't retired to his own bedroom until

well after eight-thirty, and he was too exhausted to leave the house again.

"You gave us quite a scare, Carolyn," Julia said.  She felt worlds better — as

much as she hated to admit it, Tom's "treatment" to cure the damage he had

wrought upon her had healed her completely, and she was in better health than

she had been in years — but still looked rather wan. Fortunately, Carolyn had

no idea why.

"You said I had a seizure of some sort?" she asked, and Julia nodded.  Carolyn

shivered. "Creepy," she said.  "It's so weird that I can't remember anything.

Why do you suppose I went to the Old House?"

Julia eyed her a bit coldly.  "I don't know, Carolyn," she said, and wanted to

add, Could it be because you've been snooping where you have no right to snoop?

 Julia had discovered the secret compartment behind her mirror in a complete

disarray — she hadn't even been careful enough to hide the traces of her

breaking and entering — and knew instantly who had been at it.  The long blonde

hair caught in the gap hadn't belonged to Angelique.

Carolyn touched a trembling hand to her forehead.  "I have such a headache,"

she lied. "Julia, would you do me a favor?"

Julia regarded her with honest surprise.  "What's that?" she asked.

"Could you call Tony for me?" she said.  "Tell him I'd like to see him this

afternoon. Maybe he has some kind of idea of what's been bugging me." She

smiled coyly.  "And besides, I really haven't been spending all the time with

him that I should.  Would you mind terribly?"

"Not at all," Julia said, and left her alone in the room.  Smiling, Carolyn lay

back on her bed and regarded her ceiling, and her eyes flashed and laughter

boiled inside of her, and she thought of what the evening would bring.

8

The flames seared him to his core, withering him, devouring flesh and

blackening bone, and Nicholas threw back his head and howled, "Master, do not

desert me now!  Don't leave me to burn here!  Cast away these flames and

preserve thy most obedient of servants!" He held out one gloved hand, relieved

to see that the flesh had not yet burned completely away, and felt a familiar

spark begin to glow within him.  Power, he thought to himself, and felt it

gathering in his stomach and chest, and spread until his fingers tingled.

Green witchfire crackled between his outstretched hands and with a whispered

word, an unintelligible command, they began to spread. Soon the flames that

surrounded him burned a fierce emerald green, and instead of consuming him,

they restored his flesh and bones until he was whole again, unsinged.

He collapsed onto the sofa, panting and unscorched, and lifted his eyes to a

shocked Elizabeth, who promptly fainted.  The torch, harmless now, guttered out

completely upon impact. Merciless but exhausted, Nicholas was at her side in a

minute.  His hands were wrapped her throat before he could stop himself, and he

snarled to her unconscious body, "I should throttle the life out of you, kill

you right now for what you did to me —"

A tinkling laugh, the shattering of glass, of ice crystals shimmering in a late

winter breeze, echoed about the room, and his face twisted with fury, dull and

purple.  "Angelique," he swore, and the air before him began to sway and twine,

as though the fabric of reality itself was being torn apart and re-knitted.  A

swirl of dustmotes writhed before him, and in the space of a few seconds began

to take a very familiar form.

"Thank Hecate the drapes are drawn," Cassandra leered at him.  Her face was

chalky white now, and her eyes blazed an icy blue.  Not a hair was out of

place, and her lips were scarlet and full. "Sunlight just doesn't do a thing

for my complexion these days."

"You are responsible for this," Nicholas snarled, and gestured furiously at the

crumpled woman on the floor.

"Of course," Cassandra said with a cocky shake of her head.  "A trick worthy of

you, Nicholas. And a pity it failed.  Maggie Evans would have looked so lovely

in mourning black —"

"You leave her out of this," Nicholas hissed.  "What have you done to

Elizabeth?"

Hands behind her back, hips swaying, Cassandra sauntered about the room.  "Only

what you would expect of a baby vampire," she cooed innocently, batting her

long coal eyelashes. "Her blood had the most marvelous flavor, Nicholas.  I had

absolutely no idea how empowering life as a vampire could be, but Elizabeth was

kind enough to ...  lend me her assistance." The smile faded from her face and

voice.  "She responds to my will now, you know.  She is completely under my

control.  And she'll force you out of Collinwood if I will it to be so."

Nicholas drew near to her until his face was very close to her own, but this

time she didn't cringe from him as she had ever since his arrival in this house

a few months before.  "You forget the powers that I wield, my dear," he

growled, and seized her arm, which was icy cold.  Even through the safe padding

of his gloves the cold burned at him, and he dropped it hastily, dully aware

that her smile had grown.  "And I promise you, Cassandra, that I will invoke

every power at my command to destroy you."

Her smile grew until it seemed to fill her snowy white face, then she drew back

one hand and slapped him squarely across the face.  Her preternatural strength

knocked him to the ground, and he lay shuddering for a long moment as she

loomed over him, her face mocking and wicked.  "And you forget," she hissed,

"that I am no longer a witch, and thus I am no longer indebted to you.  As I

learned two evenings ago, a witch has no power over a vampire.  That was why

Tom Jennings was able to drain me until I had become the loathsome thing he

made me." She was gloating, and enjoying every moment of it.  "You may be able

to destroy me by mortal means, Nicholas, but your powers are useless against

me, as I'm sure you'll discover." Her laughter, chilling, reverberated around

the room as she gradually faded away.  Nicholas rose to his feet and strode

around the room.  His face twitched with hate, and he shook his fist at the

empty air.

"This isn't over, Cassandra!" he screamed.  "Not yet!  Not yet!"

A half-muffled groan drew him back to Elizabeth, who had rolled over and was

blearily blinking her eyes.  He was at her side in a second, and waved a hand

across her face.  Instantly her expression became dazed, and he focused all of

his power at her core.  "Can you hear me, Elizabeth?" he purred, and she

nodded.  "Excellent." He drew back the scarf around her neck and hissed to

himself.  The wounds were tiny but obvious, ringed with red.  A single drop of

blood ran from the right hole and seeped through the glove of his index finger.

 He drew it back, shaking it and hissing.  "Elizabeth," he whispered, "I want

you to hear my voice.  Do you know who I am?"

"Nicholas," she whimpered.  "Nicholas Blair."

"And do you know what I am?"

Miserably, she shook her head.  "You're like HIM," she cried.  "Just like HIM

...  but I have him locked in the West Wing ...  I have him contained ...  and

he can't get out ...  he can't ..."

Nicholas was intrigued by this new twist, but decided that ultimately there was

no time to pursue it. "You must forget what you know about me, Elizabeth,"

Nicholas said, his voice low and soporific. "Forget what Cassandra has told

you.  Forget everything she has done to you.  I release you from her spell,

Elizabeth.  I release you from the power of the vampire.  Avagdu stracht ...

and you will forget all." He waved one hand over her throat.  She gasped,

choking, and her eyes flew open like windowshades.

"What's — what's happened to me?" she gasped, and struggled into a sitting

position. Color flooded back into her cheeks and bloomed like spring roses.

"Nicholas!  Nicholas, how did I come to be in this room?"

"You ...  don't remember?" Nicholas asked suavely, and Elizabeth shook her

head, terrified.  "You must have fainted," he said.  "You've been so worn out

worrying about Vicki and David." He helped her to her feet.  "Come on, dear.

I'll put you to bed and you can take a nice, refreshing nap."

"Yes," she whispered, "I think I'll do just that." Arm in arm, they left the

room, and before they mounted the staircase Nicholas was satisfied to find that

the marks on her throat had disappeared completely.

9

Carolyn and Tony could not enjoy the sunset from his tiny apartment, for the

simple fact that it had no windows.  This was an architectural oddity that Tony

had no explanation for, and that his landlord had long ago given up discussing

with potential tenants.  But a lack of natural light had never bothered Tony,

and he had spent three comfortable years there since returning to Collinsport

from medical school in Boston.  "I'm the first doctor in the Trask family," he

had beamingly told Carolyn on their first date more than six months before.

"For some reason almost all the men in my family — and one woman too, sometime

during the Civil War — have all been involved in the church." He had shrugged.

"Beats me.  I'm an atheist, myself."

"I miss you, Carolyn," he told her now.  The dishes, soiled from the spaghetti

dinner he had prepared for her an hour before, were all washed and dried, and

they were sitting together on the ultra-ordinary brown couch he had purchased

from the Todd's antique shop when he had moved back to Collinsport to practice.

 He held one hand in hers, and squeezed it occasionally. "I feel like we're

drifting apart."

Carolyn stared at him soberly.  Her eyes seemed a paler blue than he

remembered, faded, washed out.  Just a trick of the light, he thought uneasily.

 "I'm sorry you feel that way," she said simply, after a moment's pause.  "But

things at Collinwood have been so hectic recently." She shrugged. "What with

Uncle Roger getting married, and Laura coming back, and David acting so

strangely — and now that Vicki has been attacked by some kind of wild animal —"

"She's better, I hope?" Tony asked.  "Not my patient, of course, but I did go

to see David and Vicki yesterday."

"They're recovering," Carolyn said absently, and picked at the lint balls

eternally growing on Tony's couch.  "But about us —"

Tony dropped his eyes; his hands warred constantly with themselves.  I feel

like a kid, he thought sourly, and all the spit in my mouth has dried up.  "I

think I know what you're going to say," he whispered.

She forced him to look at her.  "Do you?" she asked coyly, then laughed

teasingly and shook her fall of blonde hair.  "No, I really don't think you

do."

"Let's quit tap-dancing around the issue and get to the point," he growled

suddenly.  "Are you seeing another man?"

Carolyn threw back her head and laughed with honest, surprised laughter.  "Oh

Tony!" she crowed.  "Not at all!  Is that what's been worrying you?" She

tweaked his cheek with her index finger affectionately.  "Poor baby!  No wonder

you're so uptight!"

He stared at her, and love and worry and anger danced across his features with

all the grace of bumbling hippos.  "Then what is it?"

"It's really very simple, Tony," Carolyn said, and her voice was low and husky,

not like her own voice at all.  "I'm going to kill you."

His eyes seemed to pop from his head as he sat up rapidly, his mouth hanging

open. "What?" he cried.  "Is this your idea of a joke?"

"No," she said, and stuck the knife she'd hidden in her hand deeply into his

chest.  It made a very satisfying sound, she decided, and was impressed by the

huge gout of blood, nearly black, that spattered against the hideous brown

couch and green shag carpet in an awe-inspiring stream. Tony stumbled away from

her, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, his eyes round and bulging in

his head, and then struck the table and sank to his knees.  A trail of blood

followed him from the couch in an hysterical, nonsensical pattern of red

droplets.

"I'm sorry it has to end like this," she said mincingly, and skipped gaily over

to him, brandishing the tiny scalpel she had snitched from his bag while he'd

been preparing dinner.  It glinted blindingly in the harsh light from the

unglobed bulb above them.  Tony began to thrash on the floor; the pain was

overwhelming, sizzling, and god there was so much blood, but one thought beat

over and over in his mind: not Carolyn, not Carolyn, not Carolyn —

"Gaaah," he whimpered, and grimaced as pain lanced through him again.  "Not —

gah —"

Carolyn cocked her head curiously, and the voice that emerged from her throat

was not her own: deeper, lustier, harsher ...  and accented.  "What are you

trying to tell me, ma petit? Mmm? Something terribly important, I am sure." She

leaned closer to him, smiling mockingly. "Tell me, mmm?"

"Who —" he tried to ask; a bloody foam had collected at the corner of his

mouth, and he coughed, spattering droplets of blood across the carpet.  "Who

are you?" he finally managed.

Carolyn threw her head back and tinkled maddening laughter.  "My clever, clever

doctor," she tittered.  "How truly beautiful you are.  So smart.  You saw

through me in an instant, non?" She leaned closer to him, her eyes dancing with

mirth.  "Then I shall reward you.  I'll tell you my secret." She grinned.  "I

adore the sight of blood." His eyes widened as she brought the scalpel down and

laid open his throat.  His head fell back, nearly severed from his neck, and

his body collapsed limply on the floor.  She continued to hack and cut at him

until he was quite unrecognizable, a gory, slashed mess on the kitchen floor.

Finally, after several minutes she stopped, and regarded her work

indifferently.  "Bon," she whispered.

After composing herself, she rose to her feet, and walked slowly towards the

mirror by the front door.  Carolyn's face was spattered with blood, and so was

that of the reflection in the mirror, but it in no way bore any resemblance to

the spoiled little rich girl who had grown up in the shadowed confines of

Collinwood.  This face was rounder, paler; the cheekbones were higher and the

eyes were dark and feral.  A rich fall of shining auburn hair spilled in a

copper sheaf down her creamy shoulders.  She wiped daintily at the blood that

marred her beauty, and whispered, "I am alive again, and I'm going to stay

alive ...  and no one on this earth will stop my reign of terror. Not this

time.  And the blood will flow.  Oh, how the blood will flow."

And the spirit of Danielle Roget, bound by an interrupted spell for two

centuries in a lady's hand mirror, smiled malefically with Carolyn Stoddard's

prim, pretty, bloodstained mouth.

TO BE CONTINUED ...