Chapter 48: Awakenings
by Nicky
(Voiceover by Lara Parker): “Collinwood, in the icy spring of the year 1897 ...
a time of terror and intrigue for all the residents of the great estate, in
this year as well as a time nearly a century in the future. While one girl has
already made an impossible and frightening sojourn into the past, the man who
loves her, left behind, has prepared to make that same journey, and now finds
himself trapped ... a prisoner in a body that has betrayed him ... a prisoner
in a tomb ... a prisoner to the curse that had enslaved him so many years
before.”
1
She wiped the wind-swept strands of dark hair out of her eyes and cursed her
stylist a century in the future for not suggesting a simple bob when last
they’d met; out here, in the frigid darkness of Eagle Hill Cemetery on an
evening in late March when the bitter caress of the wind scraped her bare cheek
and chapped her hands and little flurries of snow still flew, she could allow
herself to miss the twentieth century and all its comforts. She’d only been in
the past (and how strange a thought that was, that one could actually live in
the past in a very literal sense) for little over two weeks, and it was
becoming no easier to put her life — her real life — out of her mind. Help,
she thought grimly as she struggled through the screaming gale towards the
mausoleum that loomed nearby, a twisted monolith, a crouching gargoyle in the
torrent of blackness all around her; I need help. Magda wanted to send Sandor,
but I have to do it. I have to find the help myself. What form will it take?
How will I know what it is?
The door to the Collins family mausoleum was locked, but the padlock was dark
with rust, and it fell easily to the side with one twist of her hand. She
wished for a flashlight as she stepped into the tomb, but knew that they
wouldn’t be available for a few more decades at least; I should’ve had the
sense to ask Magda for a candle, she thought. The gypsy woman was most
helpful, Vicki reflected ruefully, especially when silver crossed her palm.
Fortunately Edward seemed completely besotted with his new fiancee, and didn’t
object when she pouted for him engagingly and asked for a little more spending
money in town. Jamison had caught her at it once and his face became dark and
dangerous, but she had seen very little of him — very little of either of the
children, actually — for the past few days. He hates me, Vicki thought each
time she saw him, snubbed every time, my own grandfather, and he loathes me.
But she supposed it was a sacrifice she had to make. She was determined to
unravel the truth behind the monster responsible for the death of everyone she
had loved in 1967. There had to be a way to fix everything, to make it all
right, and she was going to find it.
The blackness of the tomb was stifling. It was cold in this awful place, much
colder than it had been outside. Vicki shuddered as she walked towards the
wall across from the door, and thought, This is a haunted place.
She shivered.
She lifted her hand to the wall, and let her fingers run over the stone lion’s
head that reared from the wall, its eyes blank and fixed, its terrible mouth
curled into a snarl and filled with a ring of stone. She thought of the little
poem Magda had found in an old journal on the second floor of the Old House.
“This is where you find the missing jewels,” she said, her wicked dark eyes
glittering beads of greed, “and where you find the help you need. I know it to
be so.” Her olive hand stroked the tiny letters as Vicki read them aloud:
The Three Graces spin high above The Lion’s Head watches the Dove And in the
womb beneath the hill The secret flame glows bright and still.
Of course it was the Collins mausoleum at Eagle Hill. It had to be. Quentin
had taken her there one night (a morbid sort of date, Vicki thought, but she
thought she was falling in love with him and so it was, for all intents and
purposes, wildly romantic), and had pointed out the graces. “Spinning into
eternity,” he had said, his blue eyes misty for a moment. “Cutting threads
when the whim takes them, without consideration for love or —” And his voice
had trailed off.
The Three Graces spin high above ...
“The Lion’s head watches the Dove,” she whispered, and fingered the ring in the
lion’s mouth. She started a little, and squinted into the gloom. Had it been
her imagination, or had the ring ... moved ... just a little?
She took in a deep breath (the Lion’s Head watches the Dove) and took the ring
in her hand (And in the womb beneath the hill) and gave it a sharp tug.
The secret flame glows bright and still ...
The wall fell away with a sickly, shrieking grinding sound, the sound stones
would make if they screamed in pain. Vicki closed her eyes and moaned softly,
but the sound went on and on as the wall opened like the toothless mouth of
(Edith Collins)
an old woman, revealing a deeper darkness beyond.
I’m terrified, Vicki thought, I don’t want to go in that place; but her feet
were carrying her over the threshold, through the mouth, down the steps, and it
was only because the moon (nearly half full) sailed through a tear in the
clouds and flooded the mausoleum with silver light that she could see the dark
shape that sat in the middle of the room.
A coffin. It was a coffin, wrapped in chains, perched in the middle of the
room like a crouching beast ready to spring.
This is where you find the missing jewels, and the help you need.
Magda had said that.
I know it to be so.
She circled the coffin uneasily. What could be inside that would require such
carefulness, such preparation? What could possibly be sealed within the
sarcophagus, hidden from prying eyes for so long? The chains looked strong.
What did she have to break them?
Would she break them?
Her eyes searched the room around her, but the floor was bare. Nothing. No
heavy rock, no club, nothing helpful.
Good, she thought, that’s good. You don’t need to open it. Nothing inside
that — that thing could be helpful. Nevertheless, she found herself at the
edge of the coffin, her hands raised trepidaciously in the air, inches above
the chains. She seemed to hear a whisper of many voices, and she closed her
eyes and thought, I don’t want to see them; if there are ghosts in the place,
spirits that watch over whatever lies inside this box, I don’t want to see
them. If they’ll just let me do what I’m supposed to do — if they don’t make
me see them —
She took a deep breath, then laid her fingers against the chains.
A heavy sigh filled the room, as if unseen things had been holding a collective
breath, and now released it in evil anticipation.
Her hands thrummed beneath her with an eldritch power, and she threw her head
back to voice the scream that was building in her as a flood of images assailed
her —
— a woman’s eyes, crystalline and blue, and her voice is sharp with hate as she
screams, I set a curse on you, Barnabas Collins; a little girl, her face blue
and her brown eyes wide and empty, frozen to death, her mouth agape and her
tongue like a gray dead worm, held in anguished, loving arms; a woman with dark
hair and a sad face swallows a snifter of brandy, and grimaces as something in
the brandy burns her heart and her soul; a madwoman with frantic mouth and
frenetic blue eyes giggles endlessly as she caresses the twin wounds on her
throat; a body with a pale face and flowing chestnut hair tumbles over and over
through the air until it is impaled on the craggy rocks below, and a man’s
shriek of defeat and agony and dreadful, never-ending loss shakes the very
foundations of the universe —
— and she drew back, gasping and shaking, and the chains covering the coffin
shivered, then fell to stone floor in a heavy heap of metal.
“My god,” Vicki whispered, but there was no god in this place. It was damned,
it was accursed ... it was haunted.
I have to do this, she told herself, stepping over the chains and placing her
hands on the coffin, I have no choice.
And lifted the lid.
2
Nora Collins was dreaming.
She had lain in her bed, exhausted, since nightfall, when she had cried her
heart out once again. Miss Winters — Victoria — her new mother — whoever she
was, she very nice (Nora knew Jamison had hated her on sight, but she had a
soft, kind voice and dark brown eyes, just like Nora did, and she hadn’t tried
to ply her with a doll or pretty dresses, and so Nora liked her), but she was
nothing like Mummy.
Nora dreamed of Mummy. She dreamed of her every night.
And every night she dreamed of fire.
“Mummy!” Nora screamed through the inferno raging about her. Sweat poured down
her face in stinging rivers, and her skin felt too hot, too tight. “Mummy,
please! Please, I can’t see you! Help me find you!”
I’m here, my darling ... Mother’s here ...
Smoke coiled and clawed at her, filling her lungs with smothering blackness.
She coughed helplessly; all around her the world was alive with hellfire.
“I can’t find you, Mummy!” Nora sobbed. “Where are you?”
I’m all around you, Nora. Mummy is here. All around you, my darling, my
special one —
“No!” Nora screamed. The hem of her dress was smoldering, and as she watched,
terrified, it burst into flame. She smacked at the licking tongues of fire,
but they scorched her hands, and she sank to her knees, sobbing with her face
in her hands.
Look at me, Nora. Look your mother in the eye —
Terrified, Nora lifted her head ... and screamed.
A woman stood before her, and she was made of fire. Her hair was golden, and
lived and writhed above the flames that composed her head. She reached for
Nora with fingers that were flickering snakes of fire, red and orange. Only
her eyes were human, and they glared a cold and icy blue. Her fire mouth was
curled into a smile. “Darling,” the thing said, “I’ve brought you something —”
— and Nora woke up, smothering a scream. She didn’t want to bring Beth in
here, or worse, her father. He had forbidden either of his children to mention
their mother (“Your old mother,” he had said, and Nora had noticed how Vicki
had frowned) ever again, and Nora didn’t want to risk his wrath.
She rolled over, and realized her pillow damp with tears. Cry-baby, cry-baby,
she could hear Jamison call, and her face twisted up again.
There was something hard on her pillow, something cold pressing against her
cheek, and she curled her fingers around it and sat up.
The thing in the palm of her hand was carved from gold, and glinted in the
light of the half-moon that flooded her room with silver light. It looked like
an insect of some sort, and suddenly she knew what it was. “It’s a scarab,”
she aloud, and blinked, surprised. How did I know that? she wondered, but then
the answer came to her.
Because of Mummy. Because Mummy knows.
Nora began to smile. “She’s coming back,” she whispered, and held the scarab
tight against her chest. “Oh, Mummy’s coming back!”
3
Jamison Collins lay on his side amidst a pile of rubble and dust a hundred
years old. His face was ashen, and his eyes, half-lidded, fluttered weakly. He
tried to take in great gasps of breath, but his breathing was shallow. His
lips had begun to turn blue.
The flickering spirit of the woman with blonde ringlets looked over its
shoulder, back into the dark chamber wherein it had dwelled for an eternity of
nights, and its pale, translucent face twisted into a grimace. Her bones lay
against the farthest corner of the wall where Barnabas had dropped her body on
the night he had murdered her. How long ago that seemed! But she had watched
the Collins family lo these many years with her evil blue eyes, and she had
known when the time to emerge was right. That ... lawyer ... Evan Hanley ...
had somehow stumbled upon a number of her possessions — a handkerchief, a
pencil sketch — and it had been devilishly simple to send Jamison Collins after
them, just to establish contact, so that he could lend her a part of his soul.
They had been returned, of course — they had to be, for the lawyer’s ceremony
to be a success — and soon now, very soon, she would live again.
“Ma pauvre petit,” the witch simpered. “Expending such energy to keep me on
this plane for just a few moments longer. It’s a service I won’t forget, dear
Jamison, I promise you that.”
She glanced at her hand, so white, so thin, and saw with a shock that it was
already beginning to fade; another glance at Jamison showed that the roses were
returning to his cheeks. He was her link, her hold on the physical world, and
the spell she had used to materialize was beginning to weaken.
“No,” she snarled, but her voice was dim, fading like her body, like dew under
the harsh rays of the morning sun. It was almost midnight, and that was the
proper time for the lawyer to begin the ceremony. “No, not yet —”
Jamison tried to sit up, and groaned a little. He took a deep breath, and the
witch saw with horror that she was as unsubstantial as a curtain, a shadow, a
reflection. “Mother?” Jamison said in a voice made thick with the accents of
sleep. He rubbed his bleary eyes. “Mother, is that you?”
No! the witch tried to scream, but she was almost part and parcel with the
darkness. Her time had come; it was now or never; soon she would be consigned
back to the darkness for the rest of eternity.
Downstairs, far from spirit or human ears, the grand clock in the foyer,
admired by a warlock many years to come, began to chime twelve.
4
Jenny Collins watched the moon from the tiny room of her prison. She knew it
was a prison sometimes, just as she knew who her keepers were, and just as she
would decide that the time had come to do something about all this foolishness,
the spiders would come, nibbling and gnawing and always biting, biting, biting
until there was nothing but red specks left before her eyes.
And then the babies would cry.
When the babies stopped crying, Jenny couldn’t remember exactly what she’d been
about to do. Then she would shrug and sigh and wait for that blond woman —
Beth, she always reminded herself, that pretty blonde maid is Beth — to bring
her a tray, and maybe a new dress.
All her dresses were black.
Jenny’s eyes filled with tears.
“I had a dress of wintergreen once,” she whispered to the depthless, uncaring
sky outside her window. She felt its interest was polite as best. “I really
did.” A tear, a tiny diamond, slid down her cheek. “I had a dress that was as
blue as his eyes —” She broke off, and her face twisted into a scrawl of black
anger. “Then she took it all away from me.” Her teeth were bared and white.
“It’s her fault. She keeps me here — takes all my dresses —”
She was about to rise, but her eyes strayed across the vast expanse of the sky,
and they fixed on the moon. It was half full now, a giant cleaved gem in the
sky, and it held her with its bone-white face; it beckoned her.
She relaxed against the window.
“Quentin,” she said. “Quentin, you are in the moon. Why don’t you come down
to me?”
She watched the moon all that night long.
5
His fingers had tightened around her throat and pulled her into the yawning maw
of the coffin before he could stop them. He had barely a moment to marvel at
them — bone-white, they were, and withered, and knobbed and gnarled — before
they sank into her soft skin. He couldn’t see her face in the darkness of the
tomb, but he could smell her. He could smell the hot blood that boiled in her
veins even as her heart quickened with her fear. His fangs ached in his jaw,
and he felt them come jutting out of his gums like the tusks of an elephant.
Must have blood, he thought (an older mind, a mind of darkness and screaming,
scratching things); don’t do this thing, another mind begged him, and he was
torn, but the girl was in the coffin with him, and his mouth was inches above
the vein he knew pulsed and throbbed with the life that would sustain him.
“No,” she whimpered, and wasn’t there something in her voice, something
familiar? “No,” she gasped, “no, please —”
His fangs brushed against her skin, and she gasped, and then he recoiled,
twisting away from her, and the coffin fell over with a crash, spilling both
their bodies onto the dusty, icy floor of the secret room.
The girl was on her feet in seconds, and stood, swaying, and stared at the
thing on the floor warily. Then her eyes widened in recognition.
“Barnabas!” she gasped. “Barnabas, how —?”
The fangs retracted, and he could only stare back at her, his papery face
downcast and ashamed. “Vicki,” he whispered. “How is this possible? What are
you doing here?”
6
The fireplace in the Hanley home was alive and blazing with twining curls of
crimson and orange flames. Evan’s pretty young wife had been safely ushered
out of the house for the evening (the Christian Ladies’ League of Decency or
some such claptrap; he didn’t care what, so long as it kept her out of his hair
while he practiced his oh-so-questionable rites and ceremonies), and had
promised that she’d be home around one, which gave him scarcely an hour.
He had donned the black robes that ceremony dictated he wear, and now stood
before the fireplace with the potion in a bottle in his hand and the objects of
power scattered before him on the table.
For there was nothing Evan Hanley liked so much as power.
Even if he had remembered his previous incarnation as Nicholas Blair, Evan’s
course in life wouldn’t have been swayed by much. His urge to acquire as much
power as possible was as much a trait of Nicholas’ life as his own, and falling
back on the black arts was the easiest way with which to go about getting it.
True, too many times his spells and incantations had no effect, but there were
times when things seemed to go his way.
And after tonight, he was certain that everything would go his way.
There had been rumors circulating in Collinsport for years about a coven of
witches, but Evan had never found any evidence to back up those claims ...
until he visited the antique shop on the corner of Main Street, across from
Brewsters, about a month before, and found what could only be described as
artifacts — the belongings and very image of a true witch who had existed in
Collinsport a century before. From the moment he laid eyes on the pencil
sketch of the unknown woman, he knew her. He knew that her hair was
corn-blonde and her eyes as cold and blue as the sky on a winter morning. Her
handkerchief, marked only with the tantalizing initials “AC”, was yellowed and
brittle, but still something she had held, something that had belonged to her.
He had lifted it to his nose and inhaled a trace of ancient perfume, the faint
scent of roses, and he had whispered, “Angelique ... Angelique Collins ...” A
witch. A true witch. How long he had searched!
He had read about her long ago, half-whispered in the empty, twisted halls of
the history of Collinsport: a temptress, an enchantress, a woman with the
devil’s eyes who had nearly destroyed the Collins family. Her powers were
legendary and, he prayed, not exaggerated.
She would give him power. He would use this ceremony to summon the powers
granted her by the agents of Darkness, and he would make this power his own.
Quentin would bully him no more; there would be no more threats, idle or
otherwise, about exposing his secret to the world. After the ceremony was
finished, he would be able to silence Quentin with a glance. He and his wife
would leave Collinsport wealthier than when they had arrived, and soon the
world would know the name “Evan Hanley”.
“And fear it too,” he swore, grinning his sharp weasel’s grin. He resisted the
urge to run his fingers over the witch’s belongings one more time. They hummed
beneath his fingers; they sang to him, and it was too easy to become
distracted.
As the clock began to chime midnight, he raised his arms solemnly above his
head, and began the incantation.
“I address myself to the Powers of Darkness ... I call upon the flame to
summon you ... I call upon the Raven and the Viper and all the dark creatures
of nature to draw you like a writhing mist out of the darkness of the earth.
Rise and help me! I bring you tokens of the One who’s power I must have ...
who’s power I need to survive ... I call upon you to grant me these powers now
... now ... now!”
The flames rose at the same moment that the wind outside began to scream, and
Evan drew back from the fireplace in horror. The objects on the table burst
spontaneously into flames, and for a moment he was blinded ... but when he
lowered his arms, the thing in the fireplace became more and more clear.
“No!” he choked. “Dear god, what is it? What have I done?”
7
Tim Shaw was unable to stop his fingers from picking at the ring that now
encircled his finger. It was a ladies' ring, but it had slid onto his finger
as smoothly and as easily as if it had been made for him. He had discovered it
while covertly exploring the house in the black of night, pressed up against a
wall, lost in the shadows by the door to the tower room. It had glittered at
him slyly, and he almost seemed to hear an intake of breath, as though
something somewhere waited with gleeful anticipation ... waited and watched as
he knelt and lifted the ring up to examine it in the dim light.
It was valuable, but he wasn't sure what impulse had commanded him to slide it
onto his own finger. There was no time to think about it, however, for
darkness slid over him like a shroud and he knew no more.
Quite convenient, the spirit inside of him thought, these still-remaining
powers of mine. Oh, they're not as great as they once were, but I'm nowhere
near dead. And my foolish relatives will realize that soon, when I mistress —
it stopped, and tittered to itself — when I am master of Collinwood. And
Quentin will pay for murdering me, and Judith will pay for bowing and scraping
to me, and Edward will pay because ... well ... because forty years of his
foolish prigginess would drive anyone to murder.
The body of Tim Shaw walked with a quick and careful step down the corridors
that led back to the main part of the house. The memories her host afforded
her were easily accessible, and led her straight to his room. She had gathered
that he was Edward's secretary, which was fine. She could be close enough to
him to garner a few of his hairs, or a glove, or a button from his coat, and
then she could use Tim Shaw to perform the magic that would put Edward out of
the way forever.
A young blonde woman was hurrying — scurrying, Edith thought dryly, is more
like it — down the hallway, and they almost collided before she raised her
eyes. Her nostrils flared like a frightened animal. "Tim!" she said in a
breathy voice just above a whisper. "I mean ... Mr. Shaw. I mean —"
Charity, a dim voice whispered to her, and Edith said, "Charity. What are you
doing up so late?"
The girl swallowed. She was clearly uncomfortable. Edith reached out — just a
little, though; to use anymore of her energy might mean a separation from her
host, and she couldn't have that — and touched the girl's aura a little. Just
like a feather, she thought, and then grimaced internally. She reeked of love
for this man. No ... no wait. Not love. Edith began to grin. Lust. A pure,
base, human emotion. How useful.
"I was checking on Nora," Charity said. "She had a nightmare. I sang her back
to sleep."
"Singing, hmmm," Edith said. "How nice." She tried to step around the silly
nit, but the girl blocked her way. Edith felt a momentary twinge of anger, and
nearly knocked Charity aside with a bolt of energy. Can't afford to do that,
she thought, and the anger subsided. That could knock me right out of this
body, and I feel very comfortable here, thank you very much.
"I wanted to apologize," Charity said shyly. When Tim's face remained
expressionless, she said quickly, "for my reaction to seeing you here the other
day. I was just so startled. I had no idea that you would be working here as
well."
"The Collinses are a wealthy family," Edith said. "Edward is a busy man,
fortunately for me. I'm very useful to him."
She reached out and touched his arm, then drew back quickly. Her face blazed a
fierce crimson. "I'm sorry," she said. "That was forward of me. I keep
forgetting that we are no longer engaged."
"No," Edith said stiffly, "we're not. Good night, Charity." She stepped around
the girl, leaving her dumbfounded in the wake of the man she had once fancied
herself in love.
When the silly cow was left out in the hall, and Edith was secure behind the
door of Tim Shaw's bedroom, she allowed herself an evil cackle. Things were
going marvelously. So she had lost the body of that servant girl — so what?
She had an even better body now, and it tickled her to finally have the power
naturally afforded men. Perhaps Mr. Shaw should become engaged to Judith,
Edith thought, she certainly has no problem rutting with men twenty years her
junior. Then I could dispatch her easily enough and rule this house myself,
just as I have for sixty years. My powers could grow again until I was the
witch I once was.
She shivered. The temperature of the room had plummeted quickly, and she
glanced around uneasily. The curtains of Tim's window fluttered slightly, but
further inspection proved that the window was closed. Edith felt a tiny spike
of fear pierce her, but smothered it. She was Edith Collins, by hell, and she
was scared of nothing. She hadn't even been scared to die, and look how it had
all turned out!
"Who is in this room?" she called, looking over Tim's shoulder. "I command
that you appear before me. In the name of Beelzebub and Belial, alien spirit,
appear before me as you were when you lived!"
You will not see me, a voice said — not a voice said — and Edith wrinkled Tim's
forehead in consternation. Not until the black of some terrible night, when
you open your eyes and find my face floating inches from yours ... only then
will you see me as I really am, murderous boy ... fiend!
"Who are you?" Edith demanded. "Tell me who you are!"
Laughter echoed around her, and the room swam before her eyes as if she were
gazing up at the surface above the water at the bottom of a pond. The air
around her was frozen and pressed close all around her. She had dealt with the
dead before, but never with a spirit this pernicious ... or this powerful.
The laughter trilled up and down the arms of this strange body, raising a path
of goosebumps in its way. Frustration filled her — who was it? Who could it
possibly be? She laughed at herself. Of course she didn't know. The spirit,
whoever it was, had its beef with Timothy Shaw; she was just along for the
ride. If only I knew a little bit more about it, she thought, even if it was
male or female — I could do something about it. Begin a banishing spell.
Anything!
You will pay, the spirit whispered, even as its voice began to fade. Vengeance
is mine, thus sayeth the Lord. And I will have satisfaction.
Then it was gone.
Edith stared through Tim's eyes, darting rapidly about the room, but she saw
nothing. She collapsed onto his bed, and closed his eyes and breathed a heavy
sigh. Even with the power of the ring, maintaining a hold on this body was
draining. She wasn't sure how much longer she could remain, nestled down
inside of him like a burr in the thick fur of a dog, but she was loathe to
leave this body. It could prove useful, and having an unknown spirit around
could foul up her plans. And she wasn't about to put up with that.
"No," Edith Collins said through Tim Shaw's mouth, "I'm alive again, and I'm
going to stay alive ... and no power on earth will stop me from having what is
mine."
8
The skull in the flames was laughing, as impossible and revolting as that
seemed. It wasn't fleshless exactly — he could see its eyes, sunken far back
into cavernous hollows, and they snapped a ferocious and icy blue — and a
cavalcade of blonde ringlets tumbled off the naked bone of its forehead. Its
laughter was high, incessant, and maddening, like the shattering of glass, or
the screaming of maddened crows. Evan pressed his hands to his ears, but still
the laughter rang around him, mocking him.
The flames roared upwards again, and he cried out, falling backwards and
shielding his eyes. When he lowered them, that dreadful laughter had ceased,
and the flames had died down.
A woman sat before him on the hearth, her hands folded complacently in her lap,
her eyes wide and startling blue. She wore an ancient dress of brown taffeta,
with sleeves of the most delicate lace that tumbled from her wrists in a foam.
Her hair was spun gold, and twisted into ringlets pulled back from her neck and
tied behind her head. Enormous gold hoops adorned her ears. She was smiling,
but her lips were curled almost into a sneer, and there was nothing pleasant
about the expression on her face.
"Who are you?" Evan managed to demand at last. He kept his distance from her,
but refused to take his eyes away. She wasn't human, he gathered that much.
"Don't be a fool," she said, and her voice was as tinkling and gentle as water
running over stones, smoothed by years. "You know very well who I am. I am
obviously the one you sent for."
He took her all in — the blonde curls, the wicked blue eyes, the curled bow of
a mouth — and knew who she was ... the only person she could possibly be.
"Angelique!" he gasped. "You're Angelique Collins ... but that's impossible.
You're —"
"Dead?" the witch tittered. "Quite so. For more than a hundred years now.
Trapped behind a wall of darkness, but able to watch and see, to learn. I know
quite a lot, Mr. Hanley, as you'll discover soon."
"This isn't fair," Evan growled. "That ritual was intended to summon power for
my attainment, not to conjure a spirit from the grave." His mouth trembled as
he thrust out one hand, forking the ring and pinkie finger, and intoned, "I
adjure thee, foul and reprehensible spirit, to return to the darkness wherein
you dwell forevermore."
The smile faded from Angelique's face. "I am no mere spirit," she hissed, "for
you to order around. That ritual went exactly as I intended it to go, and
nothing you can do or say will reverse it. I want you to remember that, Mr.
Hanley, when you think of me. I'm here — and I'm here to stay." She giggled.
"I have at my disposal a variety of mysterious powers that I shall be happy to
demonstrate for you, if that's what it takes to humble you into obedience."
Evan glared at her. No one talked to him this way, not even Quentin. "No," he
said, "I think I've heard all from you that I care to. I'm going to count to
three, and when I'm done, you will —" But his words were cut off, as swiftly
and expertly as if by surgeon's scalpel. He clutched his hands to his throat,
and felt the blood trapped in his face begin to burn. His eyes bulged. And
all the while the witch on the hearth sat where she had appeared, without
moving a muscle, and watched the grim display with open amusement. I'm
choking! he thought, and clawed at his throat. She'll kill me without a
second thought!
"What is it you were saying, lawyer?" she purred, deliberately accenting the
last word mockingly. "I'm afraid I can't understand you. You'll have to come
closer to me."
He didn't want to be anywhere near her, but there didn't seem to be much choice
in the matter. "What — what have you done — to me ...?" he managed to gasp.
The light was fading all around him, but he could still see her eyes, so cold
and so blue, hanging before him in space.
"Only what I do to my friends when they annoy me," she said, then her voice
hardened. "With my enemies I can be even more ruthless. Do you believe me?"
"Yes," he choked. "Please —"
"All right," she said, and waved a hand before his throat with a nonchalance
that was startling. Instantly the choking sensation was gone, and he dropped
to his knees before her, as if in supplication. "After all, you and I are on
the same side, aren't we?" She smiled. "My side." She rose without another
glance at him, and glanced around the room, then at the clothes she wore.
"What a lovely night," she purred, "for the unquiet dead. But dead no more.
I'm alive again, Mr. Hanley, and I'm going to stay alive."
"Why?" he gasped. "Why —?"
"Why have I returned?" She threw back her head and pealed that cold, hard
laughter again. "Because I have dwelt in the empty blackness for too long,
and I tire of eternal darkness. And because I have been too long denied the
pleasure of the company of the Collins family. It is a pleasure I intend to
take to myself once again. I will be one of them again, as it was meant to
be."
Evan rose shakily to his feet. "What do the Collinses have to do with
anything?"
"Don't be a fool," she said. "If you knew my name, surely you must know some
of my history."
He glared at her with sullen eyes. "Frustratingly little," he said. "Had I
known more, I never would've attempted the ceremony."
She waved away his words with a dismissive hand. "I was meant to be a
Collins," she said. "And when they tried to deny me rights, I swore an oath of
vengeance. I will be a Collins long after they have gone to dust, and when
that has happened, when enough time has gone by to burn away the humanity left
in the husk that is his body, I will awaken their Secret and bring him back to
me. We will reign over Collinwood, and I will have satisfaction."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"It's not important that you know anything," she snapped, the mirth and
merriment gone from her voice and eyes as quickly as they had appeared. "You
have done your work well, lawyer, and now I have no more use for you."
His mouth dropped open. "But — but my powers —"
"You have none," Angelique declared, and added mysteriously, "at least, not
anymore."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Never mind. Needless to say, my powers are vast, and I will use them on you
without a moment's thought, Mr. Hanley, if I find that you have betrayed me to
anyone. And I will find out, Mr. Hanley, and when I do, vengeance will be
swift, I promise you. Say nothing about me, and I will say nothing about the
... ceremonies ... you perform here." Her body began to fade, to lose its
substance, and he rushed at her.
"Where are you going?" he railed, shaking a fist at her departing form, now
little more than a haze of colors in the dim, firelit room. "What are you
going to do? I only want to avoid trouble, don't you understand that?"
"It's too late for that, Evan," the witch's voice promised him, even as her
body disappeared. "If you had wanted to avoid trouble, you should never have
sent for me." Her laughter rang around him for several long, exhausting moments
before it too faded away, leaving him furious and railing impotently.
9
They stopped at the edge of the woods; Collinwood glowed at them from the
darkness, just as it had a century in the past and would a century in the
future. That is, Vicki thought, if I can make these changes — if I can prevent
the destruction wrought before I left.
Barnabas' face was still moody and lined, despite the change of clothes a
reluctant, suspicious Magda had afforded him when he'd risen from his coffin
they had secured in the basement of the Old House that evening. The condition
of his birthplace had obviously affected him, and though Vicki tried her best
to remind him that when they returned to 1967 it would (hopefully) be just as
he'd left it, his face still remained pale and dour. He wants to feed, Vicki
thought, and it made her feel a little sick; he wants to feed, but you're
preventing him from doing it. Is that a good thing? Look at him, Victoria —
do you like what you're doing to him?
They had come up with their story on the way back to Collinwood, and it wasn't
a bad one, considering that he'd used it before. Fresh off The Pride of
Jamestown, Barnabas had sailed from England and arrived just this morning, and
was staying at the Collinsport Inn. Vicki prayed that no one would doubt him
enough to check out his story, but had they done any differently in the
twentieth century? Because of his resemblance to the portrait of his
"ancestor" that hung in the foyer even now, no one had thought to question his
integrity. We all thought he'd traveled such a great distance, Vicki thought,
and had to stifle an hysterical caw of laughter; what fools we were! He never
left town to begin with!
"You'll have to forgive me, my dear," Barnabas said in a thin, papery voice;
she started and turned to look at him. His face was hollow and gaunt, and his
eyes burned at her. She couldn't look away. "I know you can sense what I'm
struggling with, and I understand how disgusted you must be. You must know
what a ... a monster I am." He dropped his eyes, and turned away from her, but
she knew that his face was set and grim with loathing ... loathing for
himself.
She took his hand, and repressed a shudder; it was icy to the touch, but she
clutched it regardless. "I don't think you're a monster, Barnabas," she said
firmly. He didn't look at her; he didn't dare. "I don't think you're a
monster, I said," she said, louder now. His eyes darted to her face, then
darted away. He looked utterly miserable, and she felt her heart break a
little. "I was told the truth about you before any of this madness began, but
I chose not to believe it. It was too horrifying to even comprehend. But then
I had thought about it, and Barnabas, I realized that you've been the kindest
to me of anyone at Collinwood. The deep caring you have for your family, a
family that is separated from you by two hundred years of blood, continues to
amaze me. Would a monster risk his life — his sanity — his very soul to try to
traverse time in order to save all those lost lives?" She squeezed his hand.
"I don't believe that you're a monster, Barnabas."
He sighed, and raised his eyes to hers, and didn't look away. "Do you know why
I am what I am?" he whispered.
Her brow creased. "I ... I thought did. I dreamed it." He stared at her
silently. "It was a ... a woman, wasn't it. Something to do with Josette
..." She closed her eyes, and the image from her dream while on the train to
Collinsport so long ago returned to her, stronger and more fiercer than before.
"Don't you speak her name! Don't you ever speak her name again in this house!"
A woman, surely, hissing like a cat. A beautiful woman, though the dream would
become hazy and indistinct once Victoria awakened. Why was she so angry, Vicki
wondered. What could make a person sound so bitter, so contemptuous, so full of
hate?
"How can I love you? How can I love someone so evil, so devious, so
calculating? You played with us all like dolls. Josette hates me! She will
never return to Collinwood, now that Jeremiah is dead. And if she knew who
really killed him —" A man this time. Handsome, with great sad eyes and dressed
in old-fashioned clothes with lace sleeves emerging from his coat like foam on
water. They were talking about Collinwood, the place she was going to work.
What a strange dream this was.
"Such a strange dream," she whispered, and opened her eyes, and the sudden
knowing, like being an empty pitcher suddenly filled with icy water, washed
over her in a tide. "It was Cassandra Collins, wasn't it. She's responsible
for your curse." She frowned. "But that isn't her name either, is it —"
"No," Barnabas said. "Her name was Angelique, and she was the true curse of my
existence. She came to Collinwood with Josette — how long ago that all seems
now. Josette and I were engaged, but when we met in Martinique, I didn't think
she loved me ... so I — I succumbed to Angelique." His face twisted with the
pain and embarrassment of his recollection. "She fell in love with me." He
laughed, a jagged, haunted sound. "Love! She never loved me. Not in the end.
She used her powers of witchcraft to turn Josette against me. She sent her
into the arms of Jeremiah, my uncle, my best friend in all the world.
Angelique made him betray me." He bowed his head again. "I shot him down in a
gun battle before I knew the truth. Josette screamed out her hatred for me. I
thought my world had ended. And still Angelique could not desist. She made my
baby sister ill ... my little Sarah. She made me promise to marry her if she
could successfully cure Sarah, and I gave into her, fool that I was." He
scowled. "Then I learned the truth."
Vicki felt bathed in ice. "What did you do?" she whispered.
He laughed again, but it wasn't a pleasant sound; there was nothing of mirth or
love in that wicked grating noise. "I killed her," he said. "I sealed her
body in a room in the West Wing, but she cursed me before she died. A giant
bat flew from the shadows and tore open my throat. When I awakened I had
become this ... this thing that stands before you. This monster."
"But something happened," Vicki said. "In the present. Something happened to
change you."
"Julia," Barnabas said lowly. "She found a way to burn this infection from my
blood. She made me a man again when I had made up my mind to be consigned to
the darkness for the rest of eternity. And not even Angelique and all her
witchcraft could make me a vampire again. I owed Julia my life, Vicki, and I
let her be cut down by this beast in the present ... this thing that is even
now masquerading as Quentin."
"But don't you see, Barnabas?" Vicki said. Her eyes shone with excitement, and
she stopped and place both her hands on his shoulders. He watched her warily.
"None of that has to happen. That's why I came to this time. I was sent here,
Barnabas. My mother helped me. And now you've come too, and that was
prophesied! The gypsy — Magda — she knew that help was coming to me, Barnabas,
and she knew where to send me."
"Without you," Barnabas said, slowly and thoughtfully, "I would still be
trapped in that tomb. Chained in the coffin my father thought would hold me
for the rest of time."
"We can change things, Barnabas," Vicki said. "We can make them different."
"If we can learn the truth behind what happened in this year," Barnabas said.
"Things that Quentin couldn't recall, or didn't know about."
"Quentin!" Vicki exclaimed. Barnabas cocked his head curiously at the tone in
her voice. "What does Quentin have to —" Then she broke off, and closed her
eyes. Of course, she thought, what an idiot I am. She thought of the scar on
the hand that she had kissed — days ago? years? — and the vicious gash that
the Quentin of this time had received a few days ago. "There isn't a Quentin
of this time," she said aloud, "and there isn't a Quentin of my time. They're
the same man." She lifted her eyes to Barnabas. "Aren't they."
"Oh Vicki," Barnabas said, his voice thick, "I thought you knew."
"But he's so different! He doesn't seem at all like the Quentin I —" She bit
her lip, realizing what she had almost said to a man who's feelings for her
couldn't just be considered simple friendship. "— met in 1967," she finished
lamely, but the pain that had sparked in those hollow, empty eyes told her a
far more revealing story.
Barnabas turned away from her, back towards the sprawling mansion that was his
home in three separate centuries. "We must be very careful, you and I," he
said, and his hands clutched the head of his cane until the knuckles were
white. "They are bound to be suspicious of me, Quentin especially. We are
changing time, you know. I was never released in the way the events of this
year played out originally. We have no idea what the repercussions will be in
our time, Vicki. There may be terrible consequences."
"Would you rather the alternative?" she said. She understood his despair — it
must be agonizing to be trapped back in the body of a vampire — but his
pessimism was truly frustrating. They didn't have any choice in the matter.
The Collins family was doomed unless they were able to find out what had led to
the events of that terrible winter in 1967 ... and change them for the better.
"You know the answer to that," Barnabas said. "I have much to atone for,
Vicki. I have amassed a great debt that I doubt I will ever truly be able to
repay. I would do anything to preserve my family."
Vicki found it very difficult to swallow suddenly. "Let's ... let's get back
to Collinwood," she said. "The family will just be sitting down to dinner in a
few minutes, and I'm certain Edward will be worried about me." She released his
hand, and, together, they walked to the front doors of Collinwood and opened
them.
A pair of crystalline blue eyes tracked their every move; these eyes had stared
with shock and disbelief as Barnabas Collins had stepped from the shadows of
the trees, then narrowed with suspicion when they focused on the girl beside
him — this girl who did not belong. She had been unable to hear their
conversation, but she had observed this girl who was the fiancee to the dolt
Edward Collins, but ... but still ... she did not belong here.
Angelique did not materialize fully; instead, she allowed only a shadow of
herself to appear before the windows in the drawing room, and peered inside.
She watched the family convene to welcome their new "cousin", he of the dead
gray skin and haunted, sunken eyes.
She hadn't expected this. The signs were not there, and she would've known had
they been. Barnabas was not to be released from his coffin for another half
century at least. She was not clairvoyant, but she had a dim sense of the
future, and besides, she and Barnabas were much closer than any husband and
wife had ever been. They straddled both worlds, living and dead, and not a
moment went by when she didn't think of him.
But he shouldn't be here now. She hissed in frustration. This was going to
change everything. All her plans — all her schemes — they would have to be
rethought now, because she didn't just hate Barnabas Collins. She loved him
too, and she would never leave him alone. She had made him a vampire so that
they could spend eternity together, and that was exactly what she would do.
She was adaptable.
Her lips pursed in a smile. "Oh, Barnabas," she purred, and saw him stiffen,
as if a cold finger of wind had stroke his cheek, "my darling, darling Barnabas
... what a surprise you're in for. What a surprise indeed. Have you
forgotten me, my dear? We shall see. You will remember my face. For I am
Angelique, and you are in my power, and nothing on this earth can keep us
apart!"
TO BE CONTINUED ...
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