Shadows on the Wall Chapter Sixty

Chapter 60: Mortality

by Nicky

This chapter contains adult content.

Previously on “Shadows on the Wall”: Barnabas and Magda tried their best to

defeat Petofi, who secured the knowledge of the whereabouts of his Hand;

Quentin came to Petofi and made him a proposition; Miranda and Petofi had a

sort of wizard’s duel, with Miranda on the losing end ...  and her defeat

provided Petofi with enough magic to reattach his hand and regain all his

power.

Voiceover by Lara Parker: “It is a night of defeat for Barnabas Collins and his

friends, for the notorious Count Petofi has his Hand again, and the destruction

he will wreak will ring down through time and into the present.  Petofi’s plans

for the Collins family extend like a shadow over the modern day family, and

unless Barnabas can somehow stop time again, everyone he has ever loved will

die.  And time is running out.”

1 — Miranda

Miranda DuVal shambled blearily up the portico steps that led, inevitably, to

the door of the Old House, and for a moment she stumbled and nearly fell.  She

reached out one trembling hand and grasped clumsily at one of the enormous,

chipped pillars that had held up the aging structure for nearly two hundred

years.  She was gasping, out of breath, and had been unable to regain it since

she her consciousness had been restored, and she awakened, every inch of her

body throbbing with pain, on the floor of the cottage.  It had taken her nearly

half an hour to clamber her way to her feet, and her head had pounded and her

chest ached, and she had screamed her misery and her fury in one shattering,

splintering cry as the memories of her failed battle with Petofi and what he

had done to her returned.

Violated, she thought now; I feel so dirty, so damned filthy, like I’m covered

...  covered with him ...  covered in him ...  oh god ...

She sank to her knees and began to shudder helplessly.  He had done something

to her in those last few seconds.  The Hand restored with the dark power of the

Vessel of Anubis, he had used it to suck the magical energy from her body in

order to restore himself, leaving her drained, in pain ...  and mortal.  Or as

good as a mortal.  Without her powers to sustain her she would return to the

Underworld.  Such was her pact with her master.  She was to ensnare a mortal

man, lure him onto the path of darkness, and then hand him over to the master.

Someone with power and ability.  Someone like Quentin Collins.  She had used

Jamison to bring her out of the darkness, and the foolish lawyer’s ceremony had

given her form, but without the magic she was nothing.  She was ordinary. And

she would fade away forever if she didn’t act quickly.

Who am I?  she wondered vaguely.  Once upon a time I was a human girl, and then

I died, and then I was human again ...  wasn’t I?  Wasn’t Angelique human at

first, before Nicholas, before the master’s tricks and temptations?  Before

Barnabas Collins ever appeared in my life, wasn’t Angelique — wasn’t I — a

human?

And why does it matter so much to me now?

Because he’ll help me, she thought, and rose shakily to her feet.  He has to

help me.  I can stop Petofi once and for all if he’ll just give me a chance.

Her trembling hands grasped the doorknob, but the door itself was flung open,

and she stumbled inside and fell again with a low moan, but strong arms reached

out to catch her and held her tight.

“You,” she heard Barnabas Collins say, and turned over to look up into his

face.  “What happened?  What are you doing here now?”

2 — Charles

Petofi’s hands were magical.

Charles lay on his stomach as those hands — both hands now, not one hand and a

gloved facsimile — massaged his body from head to foot.  Ordinarily he loathed

when Petofi would demand the sexual favors that had always been a part of their

bargain; the sandpaper rasp of his tongue dueling with Charles’ own, the waxy

feel of his corpulent body pressed against Charles’ naked flesh, the unhealthy

white tinge to his skin, and the knowledge that the man — that the thing —

thrusting exhuberantly away inside of him wasn’t a man at all ...  all of it so

disgusting.  And so unnerving.  Petofi was some kind of monster.  Nothing

human.

But tonight that didn’t matter.  Tonight was magical.  As those hands pressed

against him, kneading the muscles of his back and his legs and his buttocks, he

felt everything melt away.  His eyes were closed and he was humming a little.

He even had an erection. Would wonders never cease.

“You’re dreaming, dear boy,” Petofi purred in his ears.  Charles didn’t even

blink.  “Sweet dreams?”

“Sweet,” Charles agreed.  His voice buzzed, and he was reminded cheerfully of

bees.  And honey.  How he loved honey.  “Sweet, sweet, sweet.”

“I’m glad.” Petofi chuckled.  “Tonight I’m glad for the whole world.  I would

deny anyone nothing now.” His hand ...  no, his Hand ...  snaked underneath

Charles’ belly and found a very special place, and Charles moaned

appreciatively.  He would rather be curled up with a pretty girl in a dark loft

somewhere, but this ...  this was nice too.  Not as bad as he remembered.  It

felt ...  it felt good.

“You’re whole again,” Charles murmured.

“Indeed,” Petofi said with mock gravity.  That seductive hand continued its

seductive maneuver, and Charles resonded as Petofi hoped he would.  “I learned

quite a spectacular thing this evening, Charles.  Would you care to know?”

“Yes,” Charles purred.

“I learned that time travel is possible,” he said.  His magnified eyes gleamed

behind ridiculousy thick lenses.  “One only has to have a vessel in the past or

the present to fill, and with that vessel, it is possible to walk freely around

in a world utterly incomprehensible to us now.”

“The future,” Charles said.  “You want to go to the future.”

“I will go to the future,” Petofi said.  “I must.”

“Why?  You have your Hand again.  Aren’t you all powerful?”

Petofi’s brow furrowed, and his ministrations stopped.  Charles moaned again,

with disappointment this time.  “I have a great deal of power, Charles,” he

said, and his voice was stone.  “A great deal indeed.  And it would behoove you

immensely not to mock me ever again.” His grip tightened, and Charles’ eyes

flew open and he cried out miserably.

“I’m not mocking you, Excellency!” he cried.  “Please ...  oh god, please —”

The grip loosened, and Charles fell back, gasping.  Petofi began his steady,

gentle tugging again, and Charles’ eyes closed.  “I thought not,” he said,

pacified.  “I must escape, dear Charles, because the gypsies know me.  That pig

who brought the Hand here lost her husband this eve, and she will seek to bring

vengeance down upon me, just as her ancestors did so long ago.  Never

underestimate the gypsies, Charles.  They have their own charms and talismans

to stop me, though I know not how or why.  They severed the Hand from my body

long ago, and they could do it again ...” His mouth grew into a broad smile,

baring his square, stained teeth.  “If they can catch me.  And they won’t be

able to catch me if they can’t recognize me.”

“Why wouldn’t they recognize you?”

“That is where you come in, dearest, dearest Charles.” He sped up, and Charles’

breath came in quick, hard pants.  “I have need of your services, dear boy,

more than I ever have before.” The Hand began to glow as it continued to pull

on Charles’ erection.  “You are going to help me.  I am going to give you a

gift so that you can help me.” Charles’ entire body glowed with white fire, and

he threw back his head and began to cry out, so exquisite was his pleasure.

“I’m giving you the gift to paint miracles, Charles,” Petofi said, and grinned.

“You will be able to grant new life ...  now.” Charles’ mind grew and grew and

twisted until it snapped completely, and he was lost in a swirling void of

pleasure and magic, and his orgasm whip-cracked through his entire body,

leaving him spent, limp ...  and completely suffused with the magic of Petofi’s

gift.

“Immortality,” he heard Petofi whisper before he drifted off into the darkness.

3 — Barnabas

While Miranda was battling with Petofi, and losing quite badly, Barnabas was

receiving a visitor at the Old House.  Unbeknownst to him, a few leagues away

in the cottage that Laura had inhabited, Miranda’s magic was being drained

away.  At the moment that Petofi stood, completely restored, Barnabas was

comforting a grieving Magda.  The gypsy’s eyes were red and puffy, and she

rubbed at them constantly.  Barnabas wasn’t exactly sure what to say to her,

and he was afraid to touch her.  He could only watch and listen helplessly.

“I am alone,” Magda said, her face stony, her voice like granite.  The tears

had dried up, and her eyes were dark and stormy.  “Completely alone.”

“Not completely,” Barnabas said.  “I’m so sorry, Magda.  More than I can say.

More than you know.  But I’m here for you, I swear to you.”

She turned to look at him, and at first her gaze was dead, but then she smiled

a little, and patted his shoulder.  “I know, Barnabas,” she said.  “I know what

kind of a man you are.  You saved my life tonight, you know.”

“And I would’ve saved Sandor if I could,” he said bitterly.

“I know that too.  But you couldn’t.  There was nothing you could do.  And he

murdered my Sandor for that Hand.” She laughed, a jagged, grating sound.  “And

that is my fault too, Barnabas.  Why did I get the Hand in the first place?  To

try to cure Quentin, huh?  And why does he need curing?  Because of Magda and

her foolish curse.  Petofi never woulda come here if I hadn’t got the Hand from

King Johnny, and now my Sandor is dead.  He ain’t never coming back, Barnabas.

Never.”

“I’m sorry,” Barnabas whispered.

“So am I,” she said quietly.  “But I ain’t done here yet.  I promise you that.

I’m gonna revenge my Sandor, Barnabas, with the blood of the bastard that

killed him.”

“I wish we knew what was happening,” Barnabas said.  “I wish we knew where

Petofi was, and if Miranda was able to stop him in time.”

“I know how to find out,” Magda said, eyes shining.  She threw on her shawl and

started for the door.

“Where are you going?” Barnabas called.

She turned to face him.  “To Collinwood,” she said.  “To get Miss Winters.  She

knows things, Barnabas.  You’ve seen it yourself in the past.  She found out

that Laura Collins knew Miranda way back in the past, and she knows other

things as well.  She’ll know about Petofi.  They’re ...  they’re closer than

other people, aren’t they.”

“You’ll hurt her,” Barnabas said.  It was not a reproach, but a simple fact.

Magda faltered.  “That may be,” she said.  “Maybe you’re right.” She opened the

door, and then turned.  “Barnabas,” she said slowly, “how do you think all this

happened ... originally?”

He frowned at her.  “How do you mean?”

She thumped her foot impatiently.  “Before you and Miss Winters came back

here,” she said.  “You told me that you weren’t here at first.  But Petofi was.

Barnabas ...” She was trembling, and swallowed once.  He could see she was on

the verge of tears again. “Barnabas, do you think Petofi killed my Sandor?  Or

...  or did ...”

“Or did our coming here change things?” Barnabas asked, then shook his head.

“I can’t tell you that, Magda.  I just know that some things happen for a

reason, and if Sandor was fated to die, then ...”

“I don’t understand that,” Magda said blackly.  “’Fated to die’.  All those

people in the future you care about ...  they all died.  Why do they get

another chance?”

“There’s nothing I can tell you, Magda,” Barnabas said.  “I would help Sandor

if I could.”

She slumped against the door, and bowed her head.  “I know,” she whispered,

then added gruffly, “I’ll be back soon.  Maybe Miss Winters will be with me.”

And she was gone.

Barnabas stood for a moment by the fireplace, and stared into the flickering

tongues of flame.  He crossed his hands behind his back.  Magda’s question had

disturbed him greatly.  How much had his presence in this time changed things?

Obviously, in the original timescape, Laura Collins had failed in her mission

to take Jamison and Nora into the flames, but what of Judith Collins?  Her

violent death was still unsolved, though Barnabas had his suspisions.

“Brooding over past wrongs?” The voice was tart and almost smug, but Barnabas

was too tired to jump or show any signs of how startled he felt.  The voice was

feminine surely, but strange, almost familiar, as though he’d heard it before,

but under different circumstances.  There was steel in the voice, something

buzzing and ...  inhuman.  A vampire, Barnabas thought, of course.

He turned around and found himself face to face with Charity Trask, but how

changed. Her long blonde hair fell down around her shoulders in a drift of

gold, and her face seem sculpted from the finest marble.  He had never noticed

her cheekbones before, how high they were, almost Nordic, and how her eyes were

the clearest sky-blue.  She was smiling at him, and he could see her fangs, and

how they glittered like tiny needles in the light of the fire.  “Oh Charity,”

he said sadly, brokenly, “I had hoped ...  had hoped that —”

“That what?” The coldness was still in her voice, a complete lack of warmth.

“That you hadn’t infected me?  That your kiss hadn’t turned me into a monster?”

She laughed, but it was hollow and mirthless.  “Well I am a monster.  And I

feel free for the first time in my life, Barnabas Collins.” The laughter died

away, and she stared at him with eyes like rock-chips.  “But I don’t owe you

any favors either.  You used me, Barnabas.  You stole my blood.  You made me

think that you loved me ...  that I loved you!” She was furious now, ranting,

and her eyes had begun to glow red, throbbing like pools of blood.  “You made

me your slave!  Nothing but your low, common slave!”

“I’m so sorry,” he said.  What else was there to say?  “I didn’t mean for this

to happen.”

“I know,” she said, and her voice was instantly calm and quiet again.  “But

that doesn’t mean a thing to me now.”

“You killed Judith Collins,” he said.  He just knew, somehow.  It made sense.

But it had been so horrible, so savage ...

“Yes,” she said.  “For reasons that I shan’t bother to explain to you.  But it

was necessary, Barnabas.” She licked her lips.  “She was so sweet.  Like

honey.”

“How did this happen?” he whispered.  “I didn’t ...  I mean, I couldn’t —”

Her crimson lips twitched.  “No,” she said.  “You didn’t.  But a witch did.

She stopped me from staking you —” Barnabas’ eyes widened.  “— and opened the

wounds on my neck.  I bled to death, and when I woke up I was in her power.”

“Angelique,” he moaned.

“She told me her name was Miranda,” Charity said, “but it doesn’t matter now.

I will settle with her later.  I am leaving Collinsport tonight, Barnabas.”

“That is for the best,” Barnabas said.  “They’ll destroy you if they find you.”

“No one will find me.  No one will find us.”

Barnabas frowned.  “Who do you mean?”

Charity smiled mysteriously.  “Never mind.  Just know that I am leaving this

place for a long time.  Until I’ve been forgotten by absolutely everyone.  Only

then will I return.  I’m going to make you pay, Barnabas Collins, have no doubt

of that.  You, and the entire Collins family.”

Barnabas strode forward and seized her by her thin wrist, and crushed it in his

hand.  He felt the bones grate together.  But Charity made no sound, and only

stared up at him, smiling her triumphant, demonic little smile.  How could I

know, Barnabas thought wearily to himself, that mousy Charity Trask would make

such a ruthless vampire?  “You will make no threats against me or this family,”

he growled, “or so help me, I’ll destroy you right now.  I am older and far

more powerful than you, Charity, trust me.  I will not hesitate to destroy

you.”

“Try,” she said, and giggled, a horrible porcine sound that rent the air, “see

if you can.” She began to fade away, until Barnabas held only tendrils of mist

in his hands, and then they were gone, evaporated into the air.  He looked

wildly about the room, but only a whisper of her voice remained.  “You will see

my face again, Barnabas Collins.  And you will know my vengeance.  I swear it.”

He glared around the room, and roared, “Charity!  Charity Trask!” But there was

no answer.  She was gone.

At that moment he heard a thump at the door.  Foreboding filled his mind.  Had

she hurt someone, left him a victim as some kind of grotesque calling card,

like a cat will discard a dead bird at its master’s door?  It was a repulsive

thought, but he knew instinctively that the creature he had just faced would be

perfectly capable of such a feat.

But when he opened the door it was Miranda that he caught, and he stared down

at her with a mixture of horror and relief.  Something’s happened to her, he

thought, she looks ...  she looks different somehow.  Wasted.  Fading away.

She opened her eyes and peered up at him blearily, then smiled a little.

“Barnabas,” she whispered.  “Oh Barnabas, you have to help me.  Help me,

please!”

4 — Vicki

“I still can’t believe it,” Vicki said desolately.  She was sitting on the

comfortable blue sofa facing the fireplace in the drawing room and staring down

at her hands.  Magda stood beside her, absently stroking her fall of dark hair

that swept down her back like a tide of shadow.  The drawing room doors were

locked; Magda had come in by way of the French windows.  “That ...  that

monster is ...  is my ...” She still couldn’t bring herself to say it.

“You know him,” Magda said.  It was not a question.

“He was at Collinwood the entire time I was there,” Vicki said.  “Lurking in

the West Wing like a spider, crouched down and waiting.  Waiting for me to come

back to set him free. He used Mrs.  Stoddard for twenty years.  He turned her

into a monster just like him.  He destroys everything he touches.”

“I know something of his destructiveness,” Magda said.

Vicki turned her puffy eyes up to the gypsy.  “Oh Magda,” she said quietly, “I

am sorry.”

Magda waved her hand.  “No need,” she said.  “I will see Petofi destroyed.  No

matter how long it takes — no matter what I gotta do — I’ll be there at the

moment of his destruction.  I have sworn it.  I never meant anything more in my

life.”

“Something has to be done,” Vicki said.  “But I don’t know what to do, Magda, I

just don’t.  I can’t hurt him here, don’t you see?  Because —”

Magda’s eyes widened.  “My god,” she whispered.  “Of course.  If Petofi dies

here, then you won’t have nowhere to go back to.  You’ll ...  you’ll cease to

exist.”

“He was —” Her face wrinkled with disgust.  “—is my father.  But he won’t be

until more than forty years from now.  Not until 1945.” She rose from the chair

and began to pace around the room with the agitation of a caged tiger.  “But

Magda, I just don’t understand!  I thought I was sent back here to stop Petofi.

But that isn’t possible.  I can’t stop him from doing anything, because one

little mistake can change the future forever.  I may not have a Collins family

to go back to.”

“You ain’t got one to go back to now,” Magda said.

“I don’t know what to do,” Vicki said, close to tears again.  “I just don’t

know what’s going to happen.”

“Let’s try to find out,” Magda said.

Vicki stared at her.  “What do you mean?”

“You got powers,” Magda said impatiently, “and now I think we both know why.”

Vicki dropped her head again.  “Petofi,” she whispered.  “I ...  I inherited

something from him.  Oh god —”

“Look up at me, girl,” Magda said sharply, and Vicki, startled, obeyed.  “Wipe

those tears away.  This ain’t the time for tears, nor for self pity either.

You gotta be strong, Vicki, you understandin’ me?  You gotta stand.  We don’t

know what’s gonna happen.  So what? When do we ever?  You just gotta live,

girl, and keep on livin’ until this beast is licked.  I think you can do it,

but you gotta stand up, and be strong.  That’s the only way.  And I think you

know it too.”

Vicki took a deep breath.  “Yes,” she said at last.  “Yes, Magda, I think

you’re right.” She looked at the older woman and smiled a little, and Magda

relaxed.  “What do we do?”

Magda led her back to the chair and sat her down.  “I want you to close your

eyes,” Magda said.  “Just lie back and relax.  Close your eyes and concentrate

on Petofi.  Let whatever images come to you come.  Understand?”

Vicki’s eyes were closed.  “I think so,” she said.  Her breathing was slow and

rhythmic and Magda watched her intensely.  Gradually her breathing rate

increased, and her hands began to knead the arms of the chair until she was

clutching at it.

“What do you see?” Magda whispered.

“Darkness,” Vicki said promptly.  “Emptiness.  It’s the world.”

Magda frowned.  “The world?” she said.

“Yes,” Vicki replied.  Her voice was sleepy, somnolent.  She was deep inside

her trance. “The world.  Before man.  Before anything.  There are ...  there

are things.” Her face wrinkled up.  “Oh, such horrible things.  I can hardly

bear to look at them.”

“What do they look like?”

“Hard to tell.  It’s so dark.  But they have eyes ...  and wings, great big

wings ...  and their breathing is heavy.  Slobbery.  Like old men about to die.

That awful death rattle.” Vicki shuddered.

“What does this have to do with Petofi?”

“Don’t know,” Vicki said.  “They’re gone now.” Vicki smiled.  “Everything is

lovely.  The sun is shining, and I can hear birds, and water gurgling over

stones.” The smile vanished. “But they’re not gone completely.  They still

watch.  And they wait.  They’re waiting to be let back in.  They’re waiting to

regain a foothold in this world.”

“Vicki, who are ‘they’?”

“Not sure,” Vicki said.  “Something old.  Something powerful.  Petofi knows

them.  He’s not one of them, exactly, but something ...  something like that.

He was never human.  Ever. That’s why he values this body he has, because it

was hard earned and hard won, and he won’t let it go no matter what.  He’s

jealous of human feelings because he hasn’t got any.  But he mocks us for them

all the same.” She shook her head sadly.  “He hates us, and so do they.  Petofi

will guide them into a glorious new life.  They are his followers too. They’ve

been waiting for his restoration, because it means their restoration as well.”

“What else do you see?”

“A serpent.  A double-headed serpent.  It’s on a book.  There’s a book, hidden,

but soon to be discovered, but I don’t know when.  It will help, and there

mustn’t be help, because it will usher in the new age, and there mustn’t be a

new age ...” Vicki’s words were coming faster and faster, but there was nothing

Magda could do to help.  “But they’ve been waiting so long, and when they come,

their power will be a thousandfold.  It will swallow the earth, and anyone left

standing.  That musn’t happen.  It mustn’t!” Her eyes flew open, and she was

panting, and her brow was wet with sweat.  Magda didn’t think; she reached out

and embraced the girl, and Vicki shuddered helplessly against her.  “I don’t

want this gift, Magda,” she sobbed, “I don’t, I don’t.  Take it away.  Please.”

“Ain’t no way to do that,” Magda said, stroking her hair again.  “It’s a part

of you, just like he is.  But it ain’t the whole part.  You can use your powers

to do good, just as he chooses to do evil.”

Vicki looked up at her, blinking with large brown eyes.  “But I’m so afraid

that I’m evil too,” she whispered.  “I’ve never admitted that to anyone.”

“You got a choice, Vicki,” Magda said.  “You always got a choice.  Sometimes

you make the wrong one.” She smiled bitterly.  “Like me.  I know, I’m a great

one to be givin’ advice, huh?”

“You’re right,” Vicki said.  She wiped the tears away.  “I don’t know what any

of this means, Magda.  I feel so small.  So ...  so human.  So easily broken.”

She smiled.  “But I won’t be.  You’ll see.  I’ll face Petofi when the time

comes.  And I’ll win.  I won’t let him destroy this family.”

“I think you mean that,” Magda said, and her voice was proud.  “Now you just

gotta prove it.”

5 — Quentin

There was nothing left to do.  Nothing else he could do.  Vicki and Barnabas

had kept him pretty much in the dark about the future, but Quentin was certain

that he played some sort of part.  He was sure that neither of his time

travelling friends knew exactly how he had become immortal, but it had to do

with Petofi and that creepy artist who hung around him like a dog waiting for

scraps.  Quentin wasn’t going to rely on fate this time to carry out the events

that would direct his future; instead he would direct them himself.

So he had told Petofi everything.

Absolutely everything.

And Petofi had promised a cure in exchange for ...  something else.  He wasn’t

specific. Quentin didn’t care what it was.  It couldn’t be too terrible, he

told himself; according to Vicki, he survived into 1967 quite intact.  I just

can’t be a werewolf anymore, he thought, and maybe that was a cowardly thing to

think, but it was true.  He couldn’t kill again.  And he had to live ...  had

to live to help his children.  And their children.  Because Magda’s curse

wouldn’t just stop with him.

This was what he told himself.  How he reassured himself for selling out his

friends.

So now he was waiting in his room in the West Wing, where Petofi had promised

to meet him.  “I will help you, my boy,” he had rasped in that unpleasant,

almost canine voice, “you can be sure of that.  When I’m through with you,

you’ll be right as rain.  Shipshape. You’ll see, my boy, you’ll see.” Then he

had laughed, and his laughter was somehow worse.  Like hollow barking in the

dark emptiness of night.  And his eyes — the way they seemed to roll and spin

behind those ridiculously thick glasses, how they pinned him, looked him up and

down, undressed him —

Quentin shook his head to clear it.  That was a decidedly unpleasant thought.

Where on earth had it come from?

“Sorry to keep you waiting, my dear Quentin,” Petofi said.  Quentin gasped and

spun around.  Petofi stood in the corner of his room, the hint of a smile

playing on his grotesquely oversized rubbery lips.  “But Charles and I had some

business to attend to before we could meet you here.  You’ll understand, I’m

sure.” Tate stood beside him, weaving a little.  His eyes were glazed, and his

mouth hung slack.  His shirt was open to his navel, and Quentin was shocked —

and a little scandalized — to see large purple bruises like winged butterflies

all over his chest.  Those are love marks, he thought, and his eyes darted

inadvertantly to Petofi.  Oh, he thought, and felt sickened, oh my god.

“Of course I understand,” Quentin said, and forced himself to smile.  I think I

have new sympathy for poor Tate, he thought.  “I’m just ...  curious, that’s

all.” Petofi had been completely restored since the last time Quentin had seen

him.  Remarkable.

“Let your curiosity be satisfied,” Petofi said, and offered that same, sly

smile.  “Just remember, it killed the cat.”

“The cat came back, as I recall,” Quentin said.

“So it did,” Petofi said, and that smile split into a grin.  “So it did indeed.

A much more satisfied feline.”

“Poor kitty,” Charles whispered.  Both men ignored him.

“Your knowledge of the future — that is, Miss Winters and Mr.  Collins’

knowledge — was quite fascinating indeed.  So I took your suggestion with

regards to a painting and ... ahem ...  applied my own special treatment to the

invaluable Mr.  Tate, and now I believe he is prepared to carry out the key to

your cure.”

“My cure,” Quentin whispered.

“Quite so,” Petofi laughed.  “I assume, my dear Quentin, that you are familiar

with Mr. Wilde’s rather amusing tale of a certain Dorian Gray?”

6 — Angelique

“Miranda,” Barnabas said, and she could almost believe his voice was tender,

“what happened to you?  Why are you here now?”

“Call me Angelique,” she whispered as she collapsed against the pouf.  Her lips

felt cracked and dry; her throat slivered like broken glass.  “The time for

that foolishness is done.”

“What foolishness?” Barnabas growled.  “What are you talking about?”

“Petofi won,” Angelique said simply.  Her body was trembling as with fever, and

hectic red patches had broken out on her cheeks.  She coughed weakly.  “We

battled, and for awhile I thought that I could defeat him.  Foolish of me.

Pride cometh before the fall, isn’t that what they say?” She smiled, but it

faded quickly.  “He used the Vessel of Anubis to restore his Hand —” Barnabas’

eyes widened in horror.  “— and then he used the Hand to suck out my powers to

heal himself.”

“Your powers?” Barnabas said.  “I don’t understand.”

“My magic,” Angelique said.  “He ...  he took it somehow.  Funneled it out of

me, and used it on himself.  The last piece to the Petofi puzzle.  The finale.

Grand.” She shook her head wearily.  “So I lost.  And now I’m ...  I’m human.”

Barnabas recoiled.  “I don’t believe you,” he snarled.  “You can’t be human.”

“Maybe not a human,” Angelique relented, “but I might as well be.  I have no

powers left at all, Barnabas.  I’m completely drained.  I ...  I evem had to

walk from the carriage house. All the way.” Tears sprang to her eyes.  “With my

own legs!”

“So Petofi has all his powers again,” Barnabas mused.  “Which means he has the

ability to destroy us all.”

“I tried, Barnabas,” Angelique said.  “I did everything I could.”

“But it wasn’t enough.”

“My powers will return,” Angelique said, not without a hint of desperation, “I

know it, and when they do —”

“I don’t care about your powers,” Barnabas spat.  “What good would they be now?

You put far too much stock in your magics, Angelique.  You always have.  You

have used them to control and manipulate those around you when they wouldn’t

play your little games, including me.  Perhaps if you had abandoned them long

ago ...” His voice trailed off.

Angelique clambered to her feet.  “I need them, Barnabas,” she said, trembling

before him.  “Don’t you understand?  I need them.” Her voice became small, the

voice of a very small girl.  “I’m ...  I’m nothing without them, can’t you see

that?”

“Angelique,” Barnabas said, nearly strangled with sudden pity for the creature

before him.  He had hated her for so long, but though it had hadn’t happened

for her yet, he remembered a day — only a few months ago, he thought, but it’s

more than seventy years in the future — when Angelique’s powers had been

stripped from her, and she had come to him to convince him to kill her because

she couldn’t live as a mortal.  How different was that woman from the one

facing him now?  Had she learned anything in seventy years?  How would this

change her, should they ever meet again in the future?  Would she even exist at

all?

She brushed past him, her face twisted with fury.  “Fine,” she snarled.  “If

you won’t help me, I’ll find someone who will.” She seemed a little stronger

now, but he knew that she was still struggling with tears.  He hadn’t known her

to cry during their tenure together in

1897; perhaps the magic changed her somehow, and without it ...

It didn’t matter.  She was still a witch, the same diabolical creature who had

murdered him and half his family, including Josette.  How could I forgive her

for that?  he wondered. “Angelique!” he called.

She stopped in the doorway and turned to face him.  Her face was a frozen,

miserable mask.  “What?” she said coldly.

“Be careful,” he said, as gently as he could.  “Please don’t go up against

Petofi again alone.  You’re ...  you’re not strong enough.” Why do you care?  a

voice whispered in his mind.  Let him destroy her just like Julia wanted.

Maybe then you’ll be rid of her forever.

“I’m not a fool, Barnabas,” she said, and her voice was as icy and unforgiving

as a January wind, and just as cutting.  “But Petofi will not elude me.  I will

have my revenge.” But the threat sounded hollow, unconvincing.  She swallowed,

then grimaced, as if something deep inside of her was twisted, tearing at her.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She stepped out the door, and slammed it in her

wake.

He watched her go.  She’ll do anything to survive, you know, that same voice

whispered in his mind.  She’s been dead for a hundred years; how do you think

she’ll continue living without the magic to sustain her?

He didn’t know.  And he didn’t think he wanted to know.

Because right now there was a more pressing issue.  Petofi ...  and Vicki.  He

had to get to her before Petofi did.

He stopped cold at the door.

If he hadn’t already.

A moment later the room was empty, and the only sound in the night sky was the

squealing, despairing call of the vampire bat.

7 — Quentin and Vicki

Vicki was in the room before Quentin could stop her, and the words, “I’m sorry,

Quentin, but I had to see —” died on her lips before she could finish the

sentence.

Petofi grinned at her, and waved a little.  She could see his hand ...  and his

Hand.  It glowed somehow with a silver, elven light.  But it was tinged with

black, rippling, like a tiny shimmer of onyx in the air.  She moaned a little.

“Good evening, my dear Miss Winters,” Petofi said.  “I must say, we didn’t

expect to see you tonight.”

“Winter garden,” Tate said, studying her with his cocked, canine head, “dies in

the spring.”

“What are you doing here?” Vicki demanded.  She sounded much braver than she

felt.

“Lending a hand,” Petofi said, and then burst out his machine-gun laughter.

“Oh come, my dear.  You needn’t look so offended.  Someone was bound to say it.

I would rather it were me.”

“Why is he here, Quentin?” Vicki asked.  Quentin shook his head and looked at

the floor, his face that of a very small, very naughty boy.

“I think you should answer her, Quentin,” Petofi said.  Quentin said nothing,

but scuffed his foot against the floor.  Petofi’s smile disappeared.  “Go on,

Quentin,” he said, and his voice was cold and steely with command.  “Show Miss

Winters how very completely you belong to me.”

“Belong to him!” Vicki’s voice was strangled with horror.

“Yes,” Quentin said, and his voiced hissed sibilantly.

“What does he mean?” Vicki cried.

“Only this, my dear,” Petofi said.  “Do you know what tonight is?”

Her eyes widened.  “The full moon,” she said.  She turned to Quentin, but his

eyes were still on the floor.  They were cold and dark, as if they had never

known love or laughter or light, and never would have the chance.  “Quentin,

you haven’t changed!”

“Obviously,” Tate muttered, “the girl is obvious.  Anyone can see through her.

Like window glass.  But streaked a little.  Raindrops for tears.”

“No,” Petofi said, his voice monstrous with good cheer, “he hasn’t changed.” He

stepped aside, and gestured madly at the painting before them.  “And here is

why.”

“Oh my god,” Vicki moaned.

The portrait depicted Quentin Collins, his lips curled into a snide smile.  His

blue eyes flashed handsomly.  But as Vicki watched, helpless, stricken with

horror, the painting began to change.  The ink swirled and melted until the

features of Quentin Collins blurred and then were gone.  And in his place was

the monstrous head of a wolf, shaggy and gray, its eyes a shimmering emerald,

and its lupine grin studded with curved, yellow teeth.

“There is no god here,” Petofi announced.  “There is only Petofi.”

And they all knew it.

TO BE CONTINUED ...