Dark Shadows 2012 DVD and Blu-Ray

Urgh ... looks like DVD player owners (like yours truly) are gonna be rather screwed when it comes to extras (like the deleted scenes) that will only be available on the Blu-Ray versions.  Sigh.  Anyway, here are the front and back cover art of the DVD version as well as the back of the Blu-Ray.

Back Covers for DVD HODS and NODS

Some interesting new photos on the back of NODS I've never seen before, particularly the one of Angelique looking melancholic as she peers out the window.  And according to reports from the Fest, we may someday see the Night of Dark Shadows restoration after all!

Dark Shadows Comes to Blu-Ray

No word on the DVD yet, but here is the cover art and some of the special features for the Blu-Ray:

Bonus Features:

• Becoming Barnabas
• Welcome To Collinsport!
• The Collinses: Every Family Has Its Demons
• Reliving a Decade
• Angelique: A Witch Scorned
• Alice Cooper Rocks Collinsport!
• Dark Shadowy Secrets
• A Melee of Monstrous Proportions
• Dark Shadows: The Legend Bites Back

Deleted Scenes:

• Dr Hoffman and Elizabeth discuss Barnabas
• David and Barnabas discuss Dinosaurs
• Carolyn and Victoria
• Girl talk
• Police warn Willie and Barnabas
• Dr Hoffman offers Victoria help 

And here is the cover art:

http://www.thehdroom.com/news/Dark-Shadows-with-Johnny-Depp-Blu-ray-Release-Date-Details-and-Cover-Art/10994

Courtesy of The Dark Shadows Boards.

Shadows on the Wall Chapter Fifty-Five

Shadows on the Wall Chapter 55

by Midnite

"Conflicted"

(Diana Millay)  "The days are becoming longer, yet a gloom continues to hang

over Collinwood as its residents struggle with jumbled feelings, both lovers

and enemies are reunited, and an evil presence looms above them all."

Charles Delaware Tate made broad strides through the woods, then hesitated on

approaching a clearance; there had been something.  He remembered his basic

task:  to act as the eyes and ears of the Count in an effort to learn what he

could about the residents of the house.  But there was another, more important

purpose that he repeated over and over to himself up to this point, but now

that the thicket of trees was behind him he had forgotten what it was.  Yet he

knew that if he didn't recall it, there'd be hell to pay.

He hadn't always been forgetful.  In the past, he managed to eke out a decent

living in New York City as a portrait artist, his female clients flocking to

him by word of mouth.  But he felt increasing dissatisfaction because what Tate

wanted most wasn't money or companionship; it was recognition.  Then he made

the Count's acquaintance at a party and his prayers were answered, or so it

seemed.  Andreas Petofi, the name he called himself at the time, was a

self-proclaimed patron of the arts, and he offered Tate his greatest desire--

fame-- his only price that he be given complete control of the painter's

career.  "I'm a great admirer," the Count had told him, and though he knew what

that really meant, Tate was never one to be above flattery, and so he gave

himself to the man in order to advance his own career.  And it was with that

single decision, made four years ago, that Tate doomed himself.  Though his

talent began to flourish in ways he never knew possible, his so-called life in

service of the Count killed any natural ecstasy he once felt toward his craft.

Looking back, it was as if the Count had reached inside his skull and begun to

slowly gnaw on his brains.  His hopes and dreams already dead, the day he

witnessed the Count's true form-- a rust colored, bloated thing-- also marked

the end of his sanity.

He was sweating profusely now.  What was it he was supposed to do?  WHAT?!  "I

wish I could kill you," he said to no one.  "If only..." he added, "if only you

weren't already dead."  And then it came to him!  What his powerful master

wants most is to remain human, but accomplishing this would require the Vessel

of Anubis.  And if the gypsies have it and Tate could wrestle it from them,

perhaps the Count would finally grant him his freedom.

~*~

Vicki wished for electricity in the Old House.  Midway up the cement steps she

passed the candle off to her other hand and winced when a waxy finger spilled

onto her thumb.  A strange sound had sent her investigating, but a lamp was

nowhere to be found and the Rakosi's weren't expected until tomorrow.  There

was an hour left until sunset, and Vicki took the responsibility of guarding

the coffin very seriously.

She turned to regard the cellar one more time.  The noise had probably been the

settling of an old house, she told herself as candlelight danced on the wall

beside her.  Then two hands grasped her shoulders and she screamed.

~*~

When the house was in view, Tate's eyes began darting like fish in an aquarium.

The bone white structure seemed luminescent in the setting sun.  But he

recalled once seeing something very similar to the mansion-- originally, it was

a vision in his mind's eye, an image he eventually transferred onto canvas.

But the Count had stumbled upon the oil painting before its completion and

admonished Tate for his foolish dream.  Cackling devilishly, the Count told

him, "You're mad if you think you'll ever live in a house like this."  And then

Tate was forced to watch the painting burn until there was nothing left of it,

then resumed his assignation as a portrait artist and never thought about his

ideal house again...  until now.

He shook his head to dispel the memory, then started up the steps.  There was a

columned portico on his left that led him to the main entrance.  A nearby

picture window provided a view of an unoccupied sitting room.  He checked the

two massive doors and was surprised to find them unlocked, and so he slipped

into the dingy entryway.  Tate scanned his surroundings, then approached the

fireplace to regard the portrait over the mantle, but his attitude of extreme

concentration was soon broken by the sound of voices nearby.  Tate moved

quickly through a small doorway near the fireplace and crouched behind the thin

door.

~*~

"You shouldn't be down here!" Quentin shouted.  He coaxed her to the top of the

stairs by pressing with a broad hand on the center of her back.  Once the steel

door was pushed open, Vicki could see that his cheeks were a bright crimson.

"You nearly scared me to death," she told him, and was surprised to see fear

behind his melting anger.  "Promise me," he replied, his face close to hers,

"that you'll never go down there again."

Instinctively she put her hands on his chest and felt his heart pounding like a

cornered rabbit.  "I'm all right," she assured him.  "I heard something, or at

least I thought..."

"Where's Magda?  And Sandor?" he interrupted.  "One of them is supposed to be

here so this sort of thing doesn't happen."

"They left," she explained, "and won't be back until tomorrow.  All I know is

they had some personal business to take care of out of town.  So they asked me

to watch over...  to keep an eye on the cellar."

He licked his lips as if tasting what he'd heard.  "You know, then."

"Yes."  She winced, feeling the need to be anywhere but there.  "I need to

stand by the fire for a few minutes," she said before starting for the drawing

room, the sound of his footsteps close behind.  She faced the fireplace and

wrapped her arms around herself.

"I'm sorry I scared you," he told her, sounding insincere.  "When I found you

down there, all I could think..."  His voice trailed off.

"I understand," she said, suddenly feeling very tired.  His hand brushed her

neck, and she shivered a little despite the fire.  It wasn't long ago that they

shared a twin passion, she considered before realizing that wasn't quite right.

The Quentin that had been privy to all her secrets... that knew every part of

her intimately and could read her every mood didn't yet exist.  They were one

and the same, and yet the man she loved-- yes, it was about time she admitted

her feelings, if only to herself-- the man that won her heart in her own time

had, in a sense, not yet been born.  She felt his lips on her neck and closed

her eyes, her nerves turned on.  Caught in a moral mousetrap, a voice inside

her repeated, "Cheater, cheater," and she jerked away.

"I burn for you, Victoria," he whispered.

My God, Vicki thought, he's wrapped up in himself like a spool.  "I don't want

this," she scolded.  "And I don't want you."

He grabbed her, spinning her around.  There was an intensity in his eyes and it

scared her.  "I have feelings for you Victoria.  Despite everything you've

heard to the contrary, I AM capable of caring about someone else.  Because I've

been to hell and back, and I've changed."

"I believe you, Quentin.  And I admire you, I really do.  But I can't get

involved with you.  You already have more to deal with right now than most men

face in a lifetime.  I know what happened to your wife, and...  and that you

just found out about your children.  And I know what Magda has done to you and

to them.  Every time I looked at the moon the last two nights..."  She dropped

her eyes.  "I can't imagine what that was like for you," she said sadly.  "But

how can a man profess love with so much weighing on his conscience?"  When she

dared to look up again she saw that he had pulled back emotionally even before

he retreated for the brandy decanter.  She had wounded him deeply, she

realized, and "I'm sorry" was all she could think to say.  After a first taste,

he spoke while facing the wall.  "I don't care that Barnabas chooses to confide

his darkest secrets to you," he said, "but I object to his telling you all of

mine."

He was silent after that and she found it unbearable.  Vicki glanced at the

bundle next to him, hastily wrapped in one of Magda's scarves, but forgot about

it just as quickly.  "You must feel terribly lost," she said, "but you WILL

find happiness." She wanted to stop there, and in fact her inner voice was

screaming "shut up shut up shut up," but just as the past few days had felt

like a long train ride on which there was no getting off, Vicki continued.

"And you'll give and receive love again.  I know it."

He regarded her intently.  "You sound awfully sure."  Vicki looked down as if

regarding her shiny black shoe.  After a brief pause, he added, "I just

realized that you know a great deal more about me than I do about you.  You

haven't forgotten that you're about to marry into my family," he said bitterly,

"or do you only concern yourself with other people's futures?"

"Of course I haven't forgotten," she answered, ignoring the rest.

"Well then," he said in a low voice, "you'll have to tell me about yourself."

She forced a smile and felt grateful for the apparent change in his mood.

"What would you like to know?"  She noticed he was refilling his glass; at

least one thing would remain the same despite the passage of time.

"The past seems like a good place to start," he answered while seating himself

in a tall chair, and he motioned for her to do the same.  "So tell me, Victoria

Winters, when were you born?"

"1876." She sat on a nearby divan.

"A drink, then, to 1876."  He raised his glass a little before emptying it,

adding, "It was obviously a very good year."  She hated his tone and secretly

wished she could hate him too.  "Ulysses S.  Grant was President," he said.

"Yes."  She smiled a little.

He rose to pour another drink, this time not even bothering to stopper the

decanter.  "Alcohol has a tendency to blur details for me.  After a few more, I

won't even be able to tell you who's President now."  Vicki remained frozen in

place.

Quentin grinned enormously.  "The future mother of my nephew and niece would

easily know who our President is, right?"

"Stop it," she demanded.

"Then humor me," Quentin told her, "by telling me the name of our esteemed

President."

She wanted to strike out at him-- to slap him, scratch him, anything but sit

there and take more of this.  But instead, Vicki thought hard.  Her favorite

lessons at the Foundling Home had always involved History.  She could even

picture the heavy, worn book on U.S.  History with the Presidential timeline

inside the front cover and squinted as if that would make it come into focus.

"Grover Cleveland," she blurted.

He stopped smiling and said, "No, that's not right."  Vicki looked as if she

might cry, so he added in a low voice, "You weren't really born in

1876, were you?"

"No, I wasn't."  She matched his stare for the first time.  Barnabas trusts

him, she reminded herself, just as she had come to trust the man Quentin would

eventually become, and right now she had no choice but to do the same.

"Barnabas didn't travel from the future alone," she told him.  "He followed me

here."

It sounded unbelievable, but its impact paled in light of other recent

revelations.  So Quentin didn't doubt what he'd just heard, and actually he

seemed fascinated by it.  "You implied that you know something about my

future," he told her.  "So we'll know each other?-- you and my future self?"

Vicki shook her head, her long hair whipping back and forth dramatically.  "I

shouldn't have said anything at all about your future."

He was next to her now and caressing a handful of the dark strands.  "Come on,

Victoria, don't clam up on me now."  He flashed a reassuring smile.  "The love

that I'll share with someone...  I have to know...  Will you be that someone?"

"I can't say anymore," she said, frowning.  "Ever since I got here, I've been

worried that what I do or say will affect the future.  I know I'm here to make

a difference, but I don't understand what it is yet, and I'm scared of doing

something I'm not supposed to."  She buried her face in his neck.  "Quentin,

I'm so afraid!"

~*~

A voice in the flames had told Laura to go immediately to the Great House, and

instinct had led her to the West Wing.  And now she was creeping through a

sitting room toward an open bedroom door.  Peeking in, she saw that its

occupant was oblivious to her arrival, his back toward her.  The dead move

silently.

The dull blue flames of two pitch-black candles burned on either side of him,

and smoke curled from herbs burning in a silver censer.  She stepped to the

edge of a crudely drawn pentagram on the bare floor as the clock began to

strike midnight.  Quentin lifted his left hand and with the other ran a knife

along the meat of its palm, blood spreading out from it like petals.  He tilted

it to let the pool of his life-energy drain into a shiny chalice, an object she

immediately recognized.  He spoke, saying, "I sell myself to be his own bodily

son..."

"Quentin, no!" she screamed.  He stood hurriedly in a futile attempt to hide

evidence of the black sacrament.

"Idiot!" she added, then, "You fool!"

"What the hell are you dong here?!" he shouted as she scrambled for a clean

towel.

"Interesting choice of words," she said as she worked quickly on his hand, the

cloth immediately staining with his blood.  "You're lucky I got here when I

did."

"I'd never use luck and any mention of you in the same sentence, Laura.  Isn't

there a pile of dry sticks somewhere with your name on them?"

Her eyes were burning darts.  "When are you going to realize that you need me,

Quentin?"  Her gaze wandered to the cup, and she asked, "Do you even know what

that is?"  Before he could answer, she added, "It has powers you could never

hope to understand."

"I had everything under control until you barged in and ruined everything.

You'd think I'd be used to THAT by now."

She continued unwavered.  "How does someone like you get their hands on the

Vessel of Anubis anyway?"

"I- I borrowed it.  From gypsy friends."

"Knowing you, you probably stole it." Quentin winced, a reaction that didn't go

unnoticed.  She wondered if its absence had already been detected by the local

gypsies, and imagined they were already on their way to retrieve their

property.  "If it's power you crave," she told him, "then you need look no

further than me.  Together, you and I..."

"When are you going to get it through your head that there's NO 'you and I'?"

She fought to hide her pain.  Feeling too much was, she knew, her one

vulnerability.  She sighed audibly, then explained, "All right, I'll leave.

But not without the Vessel."

~*~

The fire cast a welcoming glow on the walls of the cottage.  In her haste to

return to it, she paused only to set the vessel down quickly, then seated

herself on the hearth before untying her cape.  The walk from the main house

during the coldest part of the night would have seemed foolish if not for the

fact she'd prevented Quentin from surrendering himself, body and soul, to the

black powers.  And so Laura congratulated herself.

Yet she couldn't help but think about the voice in the fire:  the masculine

voice, mocking and powerful, that had mysteriously dispatched her to

Collinwood.  At first she attributed it to the maternal intuition that prompts

a woman to check on her children-- the sort of phenomenon that would inspire a

mother to awaken in the middle of the night to replace a blanket that had been

kicked away, or the inner voice that prevents her from sleeping too deeply, no

matter how tired she might be, while her infant lies ill in its crib.  Yet she

dismissed that possibility because she never once felt compelled to look in on

Jamison or Nora as they slept, nor had she given them a moment's consideration

while in the house.  All she had wanted to do, once inside the mansion, was go

to the West Wing despite having no clue as to what awaited her there.

Obviously, someone else that night-- another supernatural creature, perhaps--

was interested in Quentin's fate, but who?  The source of the raspy voice was a

mystery that she knew she had to solve in order to rid herself of this new

threat.

"Who?" she repeated, unaware she had spoken it aloud or of the old enemy that

lurked in a shadowy corner.  Always one to enjoy her entrances, the other woman

said, "Who indeed?"

Laura stared into her icy blue eyes.  "You!"

"I knew you wouldn't stray from the fire for very long, Laura Collins," she

answered, moving closer.  "It would appear that your time here has nearly run

out."

Laura smiled a little.  "I have plenty of time to finish what I started."

"To gather your children?"

"My children are not your concern," Laura snapped.

Miranda's eyes flashed angrily.  "But Quentin Collins is."

Laura swallowed.  "Oh?  Well I have no interest in him."

Miranda began to pace, her blonde curls bouncing as she walked.  "And yet

tonight, your interference prevented him from fulfilling his destiny."

Laura's eyes widened.  "I stopped him from surrendering to the dark powers."

"So you could keep him for yourself," Miranda purred.

"No," Laura answered smugly.  "Merely to deprive your Master of his soul."  So

the witch wanted to see his ritual to its end, she considered, yet she herself

had been used by someone far more powerful to insure the opposite.  The

competition was mounting with Quentin as the prize, and Laura privately

fantasized that while the others fought over him, she would emerge as the

victor.

"I think you did it because you want him for yourself," Miranda said with a

giggle.  "But I promise you," she added harshly, "that if you meddle in my

plans for him again, I'll be paying you one last visit, and that will be to

destroy you."

"It would be very foolish of you to try," Laura hissed.

Miranda's mouth curled into a smile.  "You're the one that's being foolish."

"You think your brews and incantations can harm me?"  Laura's eyes burned, and

a roar sounded from the fireplace as its flames spilled onto the floor and

circled the hem of Miranda's dress.  "I'm not without powers," Laura announced,

"and it's good to see you are without yours, witch!"

TO BE CONTINUED ...

Video Watchdog 169: Featuring Dark Shadows!

The new issue of Video Watchdog features a fantastic thirty page article about Dark Shadows.  I'm particularly enamored of this cartoony version of Angelique and Quentin:

http://www.videowatchdog.com/home/HTM/Coming.htm

Barnabas Pin-Up

From the Dark Shadows Gold Key comic series.

Shadows on the Wall Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter 54: Unraveling

by Nicky

(Voiceover by Don Briscoe): “The majestic house of Collinwood stands in 1897

much as it will seventy years in the future, and through a curious trick of

time, four people within its walls find themselves alive in the past and their

own future. Plotting and scheming has always been an inherent way of life for

the Collins family, and their counterparts in the dwindling years of the

nineteenth century are no different. But an end is already nearing for several

unfortunates lingering on the great estate, and a wave of new darkness will

come crashing down around them.”

1

The change had happened again that night, sucking his soul out of his body,

dragging him down a long, twisted corridor of nightmare as his flesh and bone

underwent a hellish transformation. Quentin Collins technically did not exist

under the light of that night’s full moon, the last, until next month; the

beast that caught a young deputy out on his beat by the docks and tore him to

pieces that fell and floated and then sank beneath the brine was nothing human,

nothing of this earth. And when he awoke that morning, disheveled and covered

in a sticky crimson paste that stained his fingers and his mouth, he thought he

might go insane. He truly thought he might.

My son, Quentin thought now, as he made his way through the woods towards a

house where the key to his probable salvation dwelled; I am doing this for my

son. I have to go to here, to this house, to find this man that I don’t even

known, overcoming any differences we may have had, swallowing my pride ...

He grinned now, humorlessly, and his teeth glinted in the early morning sun,

fresh and white and brushed. I have no pride left, he thought. It’s been torn

out of me by the silver light of the full moon.

Beth had wept again, even as she helped him into the bath, washing away the

traces of blood and gore, and god help him — god help them both — she had

kissed him, and he had allowed her to do it, had even kissed her back. But it

was wrong, because it wasn’t Beth he saw when his eyes were closed and her

mouth pressed tightly against his.

Instead he saw his brother’s future bride.

He saw Victoria Winters.

A groan escaped his lips. You are truly a fool, he thought, a vain, stupid

fool. Look at the destruction you have wrought, and you know you can’t blame

Magda. You left your wife a drooling lunatic, saw that children you didn’t even

know you had were doomed before they left their diapers, allowed Beth to

believe that you love her, and now intend on stealing another of your brother’s

wives. Why don’t you end it now, Quentin? Why don’t you just kill yourself?

And the horror was simple. He didn’t want to die. He wanted to live. Miranda

DuVal’s spell had brought him back from the endless depths of eternity, and

there had been a fearsome price ... but he still wanted to live. He was Quentin

Collins, by god, and he wasn’t a coward.

His grin resurfaced. I guess that old Collins pride isn’t gone after all. Or at

least a trace remains, enough that I have to come crawling to an enemy for

sanctuary, for the possibility of a cure. Barnabas Collins isn’t human, and he

may be able to help me. He may know something about my curse.

Or he may tear my throat out with his teeth. I think it’s a win-win situation.

He was still grinning when he knocked briskly on the front door of the Old

House three times. The house seemed less foreboding in the crystalline light of

day, and for a moment he could almost imagine it as it must have been when it

was built a century ago: a white, glittering masterpiece of architectural

design, now sadly plunged into ruin. He might cry for it if he had any tears

left.

The front door opened a suspicious crack, and Magda Rakosi’s dark face peered

out at him sullenly. “Get out of here, Quentin,” she snarled. “I already took

the trash out for today.”

He said nothing, merely pushed past her and breezed into the house, then looked

around. Whatever else Barnabas might be, he had excellent taste. Magda and

Sandor had restored the house to a pristine condition. The furniture was new

and spotless, and new rugs of bright blue and green sat on the hardwood floor.

The portrait of a woman with dark hair and wide, suffering eyes dominated the

wall above the fireplace, and Quentin found himself entranced by her beauty.

She reminded him of someone, and after awhile he realized who. Victoria, he

thought; she has Victoria’s innocence, and a great deal of her charm. But her

eyes are haunted. By what? Something that was done to her, something that was

to come? I wonder who she was. I wonder how she died.

“Get out of here, Quentin,” Magda said from behind him, dangerously.

“I’m here to see your master,” he said, and turned to face her. Her eyes were

black and furious, like hard flecks of obsidian. “Though it just occurred to me

that he isn’t in yet. That’s all right, Magda; I’ll wait.”

“Mr. Barnabas has gone into town,” Magda said.

“I doubt that.”

Her brow furrowed. “Don’t mock me, Quentin. You know what I done to you, but

you don’t know what I still can do. I ain’t a witch like that blonde chiovanni

with skin like a fish you’re so hungry for, but I got powers. Oh yes. Never

forget that. Magda Rakosi got powers.”

“I am acquainted with your powers, Madam Gypsy,” Quentin said, “but the fact

remains that I’m going to wait for your master until he ... returns.” He smiled

enigmatically, and knew it infuriated her.

Magda squinted at him. “What you smiling ‘bout, eh? What you look so smug for?”

 “Because I know that Barnabas Collins isn’t in town at all. He’s right here.

Right here with us.”

“You’re a fool.”

“So I’ve told myself already,” he said. “Repeatedly. But Magda, I know the

Secret. I know all about Barnabas Collins.”

Her face paled if that was possible, and she began to pluck nervously at the

garish jewelry that dangled from her neck. “What do you mean? What do you know

‘bout any ‘secret’?”

“I know that Barnabas isn’t just a secret,” Quentin said. “He’s the Secret,

Magda. Grandmama’s Secret that nearly died with her. Everyone comments on the

portrait of the original cousin Barnabas that glowers so dour in the foyer at

Collinwood. Only we both know that there is no ‘original cousin Barnabas’,

don’t we Magda.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she hissed.

“Barnabas Collins never sailed for England. He stayed right here, in

Collinsport. Chained in his coffin in the secret room for all eternity. Except

it wasn’t eternity. That’s what the Secret meant. In case he ever got out, we

were to be told. And he did get out. Do you know how he was able to survive the

past century in a coffin, Magda? I’ll bet you do, you clever Gypsy lady. It’s

because Barnabas Collins is a vampire, isn’t he.” His smile disappeared, and

his voice grew into a roar. “Isn’t he?” he screamed, and Magda recoiled.

“Get out of this house, Quentin Collins,” she spat. “You’re insane.”

“I’m not leaving, Magda, I told you,” Quentin said. “He’s the only one who can

help me. He has powers too, I know he does. He must. And he will help me.”

Magda laughed. “Help you? What makes you think Mr. Barnabas can help? What

makes you think he will?” Her face darkened. “What makes you think I’ll let

him?”

“Oh, I think you’ll reconsider,” Quentin said, and his voice was soft and

purring. “It seems there’s a few things about your sister you didn’t know

either. Judith kept the truth hidden well, damn her.”

“What truth?”

Quentin threw back his head and laughed. “What a witch you are, Magda. What an

all-knowing sorceress. And you called me a fool?” His laughter grew louder and

more mocking, and echoed about the room, tinged with despair. “Do you know what

you’ve done? Do you have any concept?”

“Don’t you laugh at me,” she cried, panic beating her voice like the wings of a

bird.

“You’ve doomed them, Magda, just like you doomed me, with your curse, your

nasty, selfish blood-curse.”

Magda’s eyes were very wide, and she froze. When she spoke, her voice was

hushed, a whisper. “Who are you talking about, Quentin? Who have I doomed?”

“Don’t you know?” he hissed. “Don’t you see? Your sister had children, Magda.

Twins. A boy and a girl.” Magda’s mouth opened and closed, and she drew her

hands to her mouth in horror. “You’ve cursed your own niece and nephew, Magda,

do you hear me? You’ve cursed us all!” He gripped her by the arm and pulled her

into his face, and she stared up at him in terror, and tears burned in her

eyes. “Now you will let me see Barnabas, do you understand?”

“Yes, Quentin,” she cried, defeated, and he allowed her to press her face

against his chest and sob, “oh dear god, I’m so sorry ... so very sorry ...

god, god, god —”

“Don’t cry to god,” Quentin whispered, moved beyond any power he could ever

imagine, and a voice inside him whispered, You earned her rage, you know; you

earned her wrath and her enmity; you’ve earned your curse, and if she is

capable of removing it, realize that she wouldn’t remove it for you. Realize

that ... and forgive her anyway. Can you do that, Quentin?

He thought he could.

She drew back, her eyes streaming and red, and snuffled a little. “I will fix

this,” she said, and her voice was fierce and proud. “See if I don’t.

Everything will be all right again. I swear it. I swear it on my very own

name.”

“I’m afraid,” he said, and his own voice was husky, “that may not be enough

this time.”

2

“You’re not going away!” Nora Collins voice was high and shrill with

indignation, and her little hands were balled into fists and planted firmly on

her hips. Her rosebud mouth quivered and her eyes were round and wet with fury.

“You just got back! How can you leave me again?”

Laura Collins sank onto the bed in the indecently tiny bed of the caretaker’s

cottage she had occupied since the unfortunate disappearance of Dirk Wilkins.

She placed a weary, trembling hand against her forehead and closed her eyes.

She swallowed, and took a deep breath. The pains had begun after midnight, as

she sat before the fireplace and stared fixedly into the flickering tongues of

flame. She never slept anymore because her body was dead, and it would return

to death again soon, very soon. And she would never have the chance to live

again if her body died before she could take it into the fire — and bring her

children with her.

“No darling,” she said at last, and wouldn’t allow herself to gasp. Nora

mustn't know anything was wrong. She might mention it to Edward ... and she

couldn’t afford his questions. Not that he’d ever have the consideration to

send for a doctor, she thought sourly, then decided it might be in her best

interest that a doctor not see her. He wouldn’t find a pulse, after all, and

her flesh was cold. Always so cold, and she, a creature of the sun! “No,” she

said again, “I’m not going away.” She patted the bed. “Come to me. Sit beside

your mother.”

Nora obeyed, but a frown still marred her cherubic features. “I was in my room

at Collinwood,” she said petulantly, “playing with the doll you got me for

Christmas before you went away —” Laura nodded, surprised by the depth of

feeling that this casual, unconscious accusation sparked within her. “— and I

just had this feeling that something was going to happen to you ... something

... something bad.” Her lip began to tremble again, and her voice quavered.

“And I thought you were going to go away without telling us, just like you did

before, and I came to stop you!”

Laura enfolded her daughter in her arms, soothing her and shushing her until

finally Nora’s sobs subsided. “Oh, my darling, my darling,” she cooed, “I’m not

going to leave you. Not ever again. Mummy’s going to stay right here until the

time is right ...” Her voice faded away, and Nora drew back and peered up at

her mother with wide eyes.

“Til the time is right for what?” she asked.

Laura nearly smiled. Nora was so inquisitive, so forthright. Her smile faded.

Just like her father. No matter. Soon, very soon, all of this would cease to

matter, and she could sleep. For eternity.

“You were right, Nora,” Laura said, and her voice was even and maintained and

honey-sweet, just as it always was when she dealt with one of her children.

“I’m not going to leave you ... but I am going away.” Nora’s eyes widened, and

her mouth began to pucker with fear. “And you’re coming with me.”

“Where are we going, Mummy?” Nora whispered.

“To a far off place,” Laura replied, and her voice was even more hushed and

singsong. “To a land many miles away from here, Nora.”

“Are we going by ourselves? Just you and me?”

“No, my darling. Jamison will come with us.” Her lips quirked into a smile.

“And maybe someone else ... someone special. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

“Who?”

“You’ll find out in time.”

“Can you tell me where we’ll go?”

“Yes, darling, but you must swear not to tell anyone.” Nora nodded wordlessly.

“That scarab I sent to you was a promise, Nora, and it will be kept. We’ll go

to a land where it’s sunny and warm all the time, where there are tall, tall

trees that reach into the flawless blue sky and bear the sweetest fruit you’ve

ever tasted. It melts on your tongue, and you never go hungry, but you always

want more, and there will always be more for you to eat. Your skin will bronze,

and you’ll run barefoot in the sand and collect shells, and you’ll dance in

golden finery ...” Her voice trailed away into a sigh, and Nora laid her head

on her mother’s shoulder.

“I love you, Mummy,” she said.

“I love you too, my darling.” Quentin, Laura thought, and stroked her

daughter’s hair. Why do I feel this way for you? Why, after all this time, do I

have these useless, human emotions? The pain stabbed at her again, vicious

needles darting in and out of her breast, between her eyes, in the soles of her

feet. Her mouth felt full of broken glass and wet autumn leaves.

Ignore the pain, she told herself fiercely. Ignore it. Ignore it. And,

“Darling,” Laura said carefully, “have I ever told you the legend of the

Phoenix?”

3

The sun vanished beneath the horizon. The last lingering golden rays traced

their way lovingly along the cold gray stones of the lighthouse wall, stroking

them almost tenderly, and then vanished completely.

The body of Tim Shaw sat in a corner. His eyes stared forward blankly; his arms

were wrapped around his knees. The fabric of the fine clothes Miss Judith

Collins had bestowed upon him were now torn and muddied. His face was pale and

hectic, and his eyes were too wide and too white, and the pockets beneath them

looked bruised and purple. The twin wounds on his throat stood out starkly

against the too-white flesh, spotted with black specks of stubble.

And inside of him, the spirit of Edith Collins raved.

A fine witch was she, all right; wasn’t that the pretty truth? Bound, trapped

in this meatsack, this treacherous bag of flesh and bone, unable to leave of

her own volition, to find another body or even to just throw up her spirit

hands in defeat and return to the darkness that was her ultimate reward. She

had fallen under the spell of the creature that had appeared to her so

unexpectedly (and so familiar she was, and for the life of her Edith wasn’t

sure why), and it had all been too easy, damn it all to hell, too blasted easy!

And to make matters worse, the vampire she was now slave to had summoned her,

and Edith was certain that the witch “controlling” the former Miss Trask had no

idea. Edith had awakened on Tim’s bed; she felt weak, and when she tried to

stand Tim’s muscles betrayed her and dropped her unceremoniously on the floor.

She had crawled back to the foot of the bed, and after a half hour had managed

to reach the summit and flopped, slick with sweat and nauseated with her head

spinning in looping circles, back onto the flat and rather austere mattress.

She had lain that way all day, and had sent away anyone (including Judith) who

had come to check on Tim, and was annoyed with herself when she found herself

stroking the marks on her neck and wishing for nightfall.

Then, a half hour before, she heard Charity summoning her, heard the hunger and

greed in her mind’s voice, and heard also the fear should she be caught by

Miranda and punished.

This gave Edith pause. Perhaps she could allow the other witch to know that her

pet vampire was being disobedient. Perhaps —

A shadow fell over her, and she groaned. Charity Trask was beautiful now in the

rays of the rising moon, two days past full. Her red lips were stretched into a

grin, and her sharp teeth lay curved over them like porcelain. Her eyes were

red and depthless, and Edith was helpless to look away.

“You can do nothing to fight me,” Charity said. Her breasts beneath the

billowing white nightgown she wore did not heave, nor did they rise or fall;

Edith was horrified to find that Charity didn’t breathe at all. Her hair fell

unfettered down her back in a shimmering golden tide. “You are mine, Timothy,

completely and utterly mine.”

“I am not ... Timothy,” Edith managed to wheeze.

Charity shrugged. “Perhaps not right now. But someday you will be again. I know

there is a demon inside of you — an insect that does not belong — and I’ll rid

myself of it soon. Crush it beneath my heel. Then Timothy will be free. We’re

going to be in a world very different from the one we live in now. A world

without end.” She opened her arms, and Edith was on his feet before she

realized that she was even bending his knees. She closed her eyes and

swallowed, loathing that dreadful sense of anticipation that shivered in her

stomach, loathing the erection that pressed into her host’s tattered knickers,

and loathing herself most of all, for allowing this most humbling humiliation

to come to pass.

She felt Charity’s teeth sink into the familiar wounds on Tim’s throat, and

then everything was lost in a red whirling haze that led her down into a deeper

darkness.

4

Barnabas’ face was gaunt in the light cast by the flickering blue candles that

rose like ghostly fingers from the ancient candelabra. Quentin watched him with

impatience and fear and awe all mingling together on his face. Barnabas

steepled his fingers and drew in a sharp breath. Behind them, Magda leaned

against the wall, her face blank and unreadable.

“Oh for god’s sakes,” Quentin exploded at last, “isn’t someone going to say

anything?”

Barnabas didn’t move. “I’m a fool,” Barnabas said at last.

Quentin dropped his head. “You’ve said that already,” he murmured. “Barnabas,

please. If anyone is a fool in this game, shouldn’t it be me? Shouldn’t I have

been the one to confide in you more, to let you know how this monstrousness all

began?” Barnabas’ admission that he came from a time seventy years in the

future had proven quite a shock, but not as shocking as if he’d revealed it,

say, two days before. “I could’ve told you the events that led up to ...” His

voice trailed off. He still found it very difficult to say the words aloud.

“Yes, but I knew that Magda was responsible somehow,” Barnabas said, and the

Gypsy flinched behind him, but neither of them noticed. “I was going to wait,

and watch, and try to do as little to change these events as possible.” He

wheeled around, and the skin of his face was like paper and his eyes glowed a

savage, lupine red. “I should’ve strangled you the moment I heard your wretched

name!” he roared, and Magda wrapped her arms around herself protectively, but

she did not look away. Her eyes were black and miserable and defiant.

“No, Barnabas,” Quentin said, and laid a hand on his cousin’s trembling arm.

“There is only one person to blame in all this mess. Me. Magda’s vengeance was

deserved.”

“But has she the right to doom all your descendants to the same madness?”

Quentin shook his head. “The sin of ignorance. She didn’t know, just as I

didn’t know about Jenny, and in my stupidity, my foolish lust for revenge, I

slit her throat.” Magda ground her teeth together, but said nothing. “Besides,

you wouldn’t want to change what happened.” He smiled. “I rather like the idea

of immortality.”

“But we don’t know at what price,” Barnabas said. “You — the future you —

didn’t elaborate much. We know that a Count Petofi engineered a cure for you,

but you never told us why, or who he was, or what his price was.”

“Suppose my absence in the future undoes everything you’re trying to save?”

Quentin asked. “What if I have to be there? Changing the past is a tricky

business, Barnabas, but you and ... and your amazing companion seem bound and

determined to save us all, god knows why.”

Barnabas bowed his head. “I owe this family a great debt, Quentin,” he said.

“You have no idea.”

“I think maybe I’m beginning to.” He threw back his head and laughed. Barnabas

and Magda blinked at him. “I’m sorry,” he said, and wiped a tiny tear from the

corner of his eye, “but this is very amusing. Here I thought you’d have the

mystical, magical solution to my problem, and you’re as in the dark as I am.

Even seventy years from now, you’ll still be in the dark.” The laughter dried

up almost immediately. “Come to think of it,” he said, “that’s rather

depressing.”

“I may be unable to help you,” Barnabas said, “but I may know someone who can.”

He walked slowly to the ivy-covered window that peered out into the black,

starless night. Ghostly illumination began to glow emerald around his face, and

he called in a soft, halting voce, “Angelique! Hear my call ... hear my summons

... and appear to us ... we have need of you, Angelique ... desperate need ...

appear to me ... now!”

Quentin frowned, and exchanged confused glances. “Angelique?” he mouthed

silently, but Magda only shrugged.

His questions were answered a moment later.

Crystalline, shattering laughter began to echo mockingly around the room, until

all three pressed their fingers against their ears. Darkness coalesced in the

center of the room, and within a green phosphorescence flared, and a woman’s shape

began to take form. A moment later a beautiful blonde woman stepped into

reality. The mauve and blue dress she wore clung snugly to her figure, and the

high collar gave her a stately, almost regal appearance. Her eyes flashed a

wicked blue. “You have summoned me, Barnabas,” she said, and her voice was rife

with fury, “and you are very fortunate that I have consented to appear.”

“Angelique —”

“Miranda,” she hissed, and cast a hooded glance to Quentin and Magda. “How many

times must I tell you, Barnabas? My name is Miranda here, and you will call me

that. You understand what I can do if —”

Barnabas sighed. “Miranda, then,” he said, and she relaxed. Her smile

reappeared, and she brushed her golden ringlets back over one shoulder, and

batted her eyelashes flirtatiously at Quentin. “I must ask a favor of you,

Miranda. A very great favor indeed.”

“Of course, Barnabas,” she purred. “Why else would you summon me? Surely it

couldn’t be because you want to spend time with me.”

“You two know each other?” Quentin asked, startled.

“For several generations,” Miranda said. “Barnabas and I go way, way back.” She

turned back to Barnabas, and folded her arms expectantly across her breasts.

“All right then, Barnabas, what is it? What is of such great importance that

you have to make me such an impassioned plea to appear?”

“It is not for myself that I have summoned you,” Barnabas growled. Miranda

raised her eyebrows, then turned, following his gaze.

“Quentin?” she asked. “Again? Surely not. It seems like only a few days ago

that I last helped him.”

“It was a few days ago,” Quentin said, his voice testy indeed, “and I’m not

sure I would call what you did ‘help’.”

“You’re alive, aren’t you?” she asked, bored, and examined one immaculately

shaped fingernail. “What more can you ask?”

“A lot more,” Quentin said, and explained the events of the past few days. When

he finished, Miranda eyed him with one raised eyebrow and a mocking smile

curled on her lips.

“My,” she said, and her eyes flashed from Quentin to Magda, “you two have been

busy, haven’t you.” She tossed her curls. “What makes you think I can do

anything to help you?”

“Because I think you’re responsible for part of what has happened here,” Magda

said, startling them all. Her sparkling dark eyes never left Miranda’s, and her

lined mouth curled into a sneer. “You did something to him, didn’t you,

sorceress? There was a stain on your magic, and it left a trace ... and

something else.”

Miranda’s eyes had narrowed dangerously. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said

firmly, but her lips quivered ever-so-slightly, and Barnabas and Quentin

noticed, and exchanged knowing glances. “I doubt you do either. Amateurs,” she

said, disgusted, and shook her head.

“Something came back with me,” Quentin said icily. “A demon, a ghost, I don’t

know what it was. It wanted something. Demanded something. A price. It said a

die for a die wasn’t enough.”

“Oh, is that all?” Miranda said, and laughed musically. “Quentin, you needn’t

look so apprehensive. It’s common enough. The magic I performed was difficult

to say the very least, never to be attempted by amateurs, and is ever only

successfully worked by the most powerful of practitioners.” She smoothed the

hem of her skirts delicately and smiled a tiny cat smile to herself. Magda

rolled her eyes. “It required that a sacrifice be made, which I was more than

willing to make. Ordinarily it must be hand-picked by he who will be

resurrected, but your dearly departed wife didn’t give you much of an

opportunity, did she.”

“Why, you —” Magda snarled, but Barnabas silenced her with a glare.

“So you’ve become a werewolf,” Miranda said. “That’s a particularly ironic

curse, don’t you agree, Magda?”

“I wasn’t that specific,” she spat.

Miranda raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean what I say. I didn’t ask for Quentin to become a werewolf. I used the

Vessel of Anubis to punish him, to bring out what was inside.”

“Fascinating,” Miranda said. She stroked her chin, and stared at Quentin

fixedly until at last he dropped his eyes and shuffled his feet. She glided

towards him, and he flinched away as she reached out one pale hand towards him.

She laughed coldly. “I need you to hold very still, Quentin, if I’m to help you

at all. You must do everything I tell you.”

“What are you going to do to him?” Barnabas’ voice was sharp and grated with

barely constrained fear.

“I’m going to look inside,” Miranda whispered. Her fingertips brushed against

Quentin’s forehead, and both closed their eyes. Their mouths dropped open in

silent screams of what could be agony or ecstasy as white light bloomed around

them in twining, swirling streams.

*She was in the forest, in a glade, but she wasn’t alone. She looked to her

right and Quentin was there, and he saw her, and was afraid. The moon rode

through the sky above them, full and white like bone. They both turned, and

found that they were facing a clearing. A man stood in the center, his eyes

closed, his face raised to the mother moon. He had just finished disrobing, and

his clothes were piled in the center of the clearing in a tidy pile. As the

moonlight splashed over his skin, it erupted with burst and springs of shaggy

black hair. He dropped his head, and a tortured scream fell from his lips, and

they both saw through the bestial mask his face had become the features of the

man who had once been Dirk Wilkins. Teeth the size of piano keys pressed at

crooked angles from his jaw, and his nose and mouth twisted and were forced out

into a wet, snuffling snout. He raised his hands to the blackened sky, and they

were hooked and snaggled paws. The monster tried to scream again, but only a

howl emerged, a tortured cry of a creature that was damned. She turned to

Quentin —*

— and released him. They both fell apart, gasping, and Miranda wiped the sheen

of sweat from her forehead. Her cheeks were ruddy, and her eyes glowed a fierce

blue.

“What did you see?” Barnabas demanded.

“Of course,” Miranda breathed, still winded. “Of course!”

“I don’t understand,” Quentin said. “What ... what was that?”

“Wilkins was a werewolf,” Miranda said. “I should’ve guessed.”

“Wilkins?” Barnabas asked.

“No, it makes sense,” Quentin said. “The night of the moon ... he always

disappeared. Grandmama always assumed he went off into town to get drunk, and

Judith didn’t seem to care at all. Edward never gave him the time of day. And

there was a girl a few years ago — she was found on the rocks at Widow’s Hill.

Everyone thought she jumped, but her throat was torn in such a way ...” He

pounded his hand into his fist. “Of course! That was the around the time

Wilkins came to work for us.”

“A werewolf is unable to be killed by natural means,” Miranda said. “The spell

I used to bring Quentin back to life killed Wilkins’ mortal body, but the

werewolf spirit lived on.”

“Inside of me,” Quentin said, and glowered at her darkly.

“That was what the demon meant,” Barnabas said. “It wasn’t enough. He — it —

wanted to torture you.”

“Either I accept the wolf completely,” Quentin said slowly, “or I would have

had to go back with it.”

“And Magda’s curse released it,” Miranda said, and almost sounded delighted.

“It left your subconscious where it would’ve continued to torture you with

Dirk’s thoughts, Dirk’s savage wolfen desires, and set up shop in your body.

Congratulations, Gypsy. Perhaps I was wrong in calling you an amateur.” Magda

turned away, her head low.

“So this is your fault after all,” Barnabas said, and Miranda spun to glare at

him. “You fool. Your magics have destroyed another member of this family. Well

I won’t have it, do you hear me?” He raised his cane threateningly. “I won’t

have it!”

Miranda’s hand flashed out, quicksilver, and the cane trembled in Barnabas’

hand, then clattered to the floor. He stared at it, his mouth fixed and grim,

then glared at her. His nostrils flared. But he said nothing. Her eyes burned

into him. “You will never raise your hand to me again, Barnabas Collins. Not

unless you want everyone in this family to die, because that is what will

happen if I will it to be so.”

“You don’t have that kind of power.”

“Don’t I?” Her smile was beatific, her words smug. Both stung him like hornets.

“Shall we ask dear Josette? I could conjure her up for you right now. It would

be dreadfully easy, you know. How would you like to see her now, mon amour? Her

rotten, black flesh, the wedding dress tattered and filthy, her face shattered

and torn?”

“Witch,” Barnabas snarled, and turned away, shaking uncontrollably.

“Besides,” Miranda continued brightly, “it isn’t my fault at all. Magda’s curse

is the true culprit. I could’ve dispelled the demon easily, and Quentin would

be free.”

Quentin’s eyes shone with hope. “Is it that simple?” he said, and took her

hand. “Could you release me from this curse?”

Miranda hesitated. “No,” she said softly. “It won’t be easy, Quentin. It’s

inside of you now. A part of you.” Her eyes darted to Magda. “And not just you.

Your son and daughter both carry the curse, and will pass it on to all their

male heirs. I will have to free you and free them, and I don’t know exactly how

to do that.” She smiled. “But have faith in me, Quentin. My powers are vast. I

will find a way to cure you of this beast, I promise you that.”

5

The big man adjusted his glasses and sipped gingerly from the tea cup he had

been handed, then set it carefully back into its saucer and dabbed at his mouth

with the embroidered linen napkin with a hand hidden behind a black glove. Dear

me, he thought, how extremely bourgeois. How in the world have I managed to

stoop so low?

Evan Hanley rubbed his palms together briskly and grinned his nervous,

weasel-toothed grin. “There is a great deal of mystical energy in Collinsport,

as you may know,” he said. “It draws a certain type of ... individual to our

little part of the coast. I myself am the head of Collinsport’s only coven.”

“Indeed,” the big man said in his husky voice. “How charming.”

Evan’s smile faltered. His eyes glanced to the sandy-haired man in the blue

smock leaning against his mantle, but that man’s eyes were fixed on the flames

flickering like snake tongues in the fireplace. “We are honored to have you

here, Excellency,” he said. “Honored. We’ve never known anyone so esteemed, so

... so powerful.” His tongue flickered out and skated across his lips quickly

before it disappeared. The movement was not lost on the big man, and he rolled

his eyes, huge and swimming beneath the thick polished lenses of his

spectacles.

“I trust I have not been summoned here for foolish reasons,” he said. “Your

flattery is most unbecoming, my dear Evan. I know very well that I am the most

powerful man you have ever met; I don’t need another lapdog to tell me that.”

He paused, and his eyes rested briefly on the nervous man by the fireplace, and

his huge fleshy lips split into a grin. “Or perhaps I do. Charles is not so

forthright with his compliments.”

“Forthright,” the man by the fireplace chuckled. The big man thought it might

be a chuckle, though it sounded suspiciously like a sob. “Compliment,” he

added, and shook his head. His wet eyes never left the fire.

“Your Excellency,” Evan began, struggling to sound humble, “I promise you, you

have not been summoned without great accord. I know what you are seeking, and I

think I may be able to help you.”

The big man was on his feet in an instant, and the ungloved hand seized the

lawyer’s collar and drew him close against the swell of his belly. His foul

breath seared Evan’s nostrils, and his grin was huge and leering. “You’ve found

the Hand, Evan? Is that it? Found it and not told me until now?”

“No,” Evan gurgled, and tried to bat the big man’s hand away. “Not ... not the

Hand. Something ... something else —”

The big man released him, and Evan sagged, gagging, against the fireplace. He

rubbed his throat and glared at the big man. “There is nothing else,” the big

man said dismissively. His smile vanished. “I shall have to kill you now, you

know. I do so hate to be disappointed.”

“It isn’t nothing!” Evan squeaked. His cheeks were very pale, and his mustache

twitched above his upper lip like something alive. “I swear to you, Excellency

—”

“Don’t swear to him,” the sandy-haired man said. His eyes were huge and round,

like blue marbles. “Swear on your own name, but never his.”

“That’ll be quite enough, Charles,” the big man said. “Dear Evan’s rantings

begin to intrigue me. Tell me, friend lawyer, what could you possibly have that

would help me?” He grinned humorlessly, and his teeth below the wool of his

mustache were square and stained.

“The Vessel of Anubis,” Evan managed. His forehead shone with sweat, and he

mopped his face vigorously with his handkerchief.

The big man’s eyes lit up. “Really? How exquisite. Yes, I do believe that could

help me, Evan. I believe it could help me very much.” He waved a hand

imperiously. “Go fetch it, that’s a laddie.”

Evan paled. “I don’t have it just at the moment,” he said. The big man’s brow

began to crease, and Evan added hastily, “But I know who has it, and I think I

can get it from her.”

“Her?” the big man asked, and his voice was low and purring and dangerous.

“Whom do you mean?”

“The woman’s name is Magda,” Evan replied. “She’s a Gypsy who lives at the —”

The big man was on his feet in a moment. “A Gypsy?” he said, his eyes wide with

incredulous horror, and when Evan didn’t answer, he roared, “A Gypsy? There are

Gypsies in this place?” He thrust out a hand, and Evan was sent sprawling by a

bolt of energy. The big man towered above him, his face working like a nest of

snakes lay beneath it. “Answer me,” he said in a voice of thunder. “Answer me

now, boy. I grow impatient. And when I grow impatient, people have a nasty

tendency to die.”

“Two that I know,” Evan wheezed. His voice trembled. “They live on the Collins

estate, in the Old House. I think they’re the servants of a man named Barnabas

Collins.”

The big man stroked his chin. “Barnabas Collins,” he said, as if tasting the

name. In a moment he had seized his coat and hat, and gestured towards his

companion. The other man stared at him as though waking from a dream. “Come

along, Charles,” he said. “We have a long walk ahead of us.”

“Where are you going?” Evan cried as he rose to his feet.

“Why, to Collinwood of course,” the big man said. “I don’t believe I can trust

you to procure for me what I desire very much, what I need, what I must have to

survive. No, I shall have to find it myself, and wrest it from the hands of

this ... Gypsy woman.” His mouth wrinkled up with distaste. “The Vessel of

Anubis will lead me to the Hand, I know it. And once I have the Hand ...” His

voice trailed off, and his eyes gleaming wickedly, he and his companion

disappeared into the night.

His laughter haunted Evan’s dreams long after he slept.

And dreamed of a man with one hand and all the power in the world. 

TO BE CONTINUED ...