Shadows on the Wall Chapter 63

Ch. 63: Not With A Bang, But A Whimper

by Nicky

Voiceover by Alexandra Moltke: “The past and the present have merged as one on

the haunted estate called Collinwood, where time has ceased to exist.  A battle

is being waged, back and forth, now and then, and more than a century’s

collection of darkness will either be expelled on this night ...  or will claim

any survivor of the battle for its own. And for one woman, who’s journey began

on a train that led her to this horror-shrouded estate, her own voyage of

discovery is far from over.  For now that she has gone back, she must go

forward ...  and what she discovers could destroy her utterly.”

1 — The Present (Barnabas In Stasis)

   

The wands of the I Ching lay spread before the inert figure at the table.  He

had flung them maybe ten minutes ago, just after the luminous spirit of his

friend and confidante, Eliot Stokes, had disappeared, pulled back to the

useless, stricken body at the Collinsport Hospital.

Things at Collinwood were insane.

Quentin was possessed by Petofi.  Roger Collins was dead.  The children had

become monsters.  Elizabeth Collins Stoddard had been strangled.  And Julia ...

Of course it had been Julia who had ultimately guided him in using the I Ching

after he had slipped through the shadows and back alleys of Collinsport to the

Professor’s house, stuffed with charms and amulets and, blessedly, these tools

of divination that had proved so much more.

It was the snapping of Julia’s neck like a dry willow twig that had hastened

his actions; he had flung the wands out and then watched anxiously for the

hexagram that Julia had described.

Nothing.

And nothing, and nothing.

He was almost ready to give up, almost ready to rock back in despair, when the

wands fell perfectly into place.  There before him was the 49th hexagram, the

Ko Hexagram.  The Hexagram of Change.

That resonated with him, made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, made

his skin break into goosebumps.  But he couldn’t fail now.  Victoria Winters

was depending on him.  The entire Collins family was depending on him.  Julia

was depending on him, and he could not — would not — fail her.

“Close your eyes and concentrate until you see the door with the hexagram

painted on it.”

Julia’s wise words again.  Always there for me, Barnabas thought dimly, always

willing to help me, even if I ...  even if I never —

He closed his eyes and concentrated.  It wasn’t difficult, and after a long

moment the door appeared before him.

“Open,” he whispered, and —

— open —

— and it was, and he was through it, but there were a multitude of doors, not

just the one, and he was through it, and then another, and another, and

another, and —

The body at the table was perfectly still.  The eyes were closed, and the mouth

hung slack.  Barnabas Collins — or his astral body, his essence, perhaps his

soul — were gone, and only the sack of meat he had occupied for nearly two

hundred years was left behind. It did not move.  It barely breathed.  Every few

moments its skin would tic or twitch.

For nearly an hour he sat there, alone, while his essence lived seventy years

in the past, working desperately to change things, while days and weeks and

even months flew by, and still his body sat, on December 31st, 1967, nearing

midnight, alone.

But not for long.

“So,” Quentin Collins said as his blonde companion closed the door behind them

and knocked snow from her boots with an irritated scowl.  “Here we are at

last.”

2 — The Past (Is There No Hope for Our Heroes?)

This is the way the world ends, Victoria Winters thought crazily as she watched

Barnabas pace across the drawing room of the Old House, lit only by those

tapered blue candles that seemed to exist in every century.  He had appeared at

dusk, as she figured he would, and she and Magda had filled him in on the

Count’s latest devastating move. His reaction had been less than serene.

“The Count plans to destroy the Collins family here and now,” Barnabas said

grimly, “before using the I Ching to travel to the present.” He shook his head.

“That is insane.  He will have to leave his body — Quentin’s body — here in

order to travel through time, and that will leave him vulnerable.

Defenseless.”

“I don’t believe that Petofi is thinking clearly,” Vicki said.  “He’s insane,

Barnabas. Completely mad.”

“That makes him more dangerous,” Magda said.  “All that power —”

“That’s what I don’t understand,” Barnabas said, gnawing on one knuckle and

staring into the dancing flames in the fireplace.  “The power was transferred

along with his essence into Quentin’s body, leaving Quentin trapped in Petofi’s

body.” He turned to the miserable wretch collapsed and breathing weakly against

the pouf.  “Isn’t that right?”

The body of Count Andreas Petofi nodded, and it was with a great effort.  His

skin was pasty and gray, and his eyes, magnified behind those glasses, were

watery and almost blind.  “Yes,” he said.  “He took the magic with him.  It was

what was keeping him together, what kept this disgusting sack of flesh

upright.” He blinked, and his voice trembled as he said, “I’m dying.  He left

me to die in this filthy body.”

“You’re not going to die,” Barnabas said fiercely.  “Something happened in the

past to prevent that, but not even that matters, because we’re going to stop

Petofi.  Somehow we’ll stop the bastard once and for all.”

“You must be careful, Barnabas,” Magda said.  Her fear and anxiety had

thickened her gypsy accent so that the others had to strain to understand her,

which deepened her own frustration.  “Never forget that some things have to

play out as they did originally.” Barnabas stared at her blankly, and she

kicked the pouf, sending out a little cloud of purple tinged dust.  “Think,

Barnabas!” she snarled.  “If you kill Petofi good and dead here and now, and

that wooly pig ain’t around in a few years to see that Vicki is born ...”

“I’ll cease to exist,” Vicki whispered.

“Then there is no answer,” Barnabas said, and his voice was tired and dead.

“This is all for nothing.  We have lost.”

“We ain’t lost yet,” Magda said ferociously.  “We can’t think like that,

otherwise we ain’t got a chance.  I want Petofi to pay as much as you do — I

ain’t forgot my Sandor just yet — but we have to think things through

carefully.  What we got to do now is get Quentin back in his own body.”

“I think there’s something I can do,” Vicki said in a small voice.  They all

three turned to look at her, and she stared at her hands, clasped in her lap

but twining around nervously, like tiny, chased animals.  “But I’m afraid.”

3 — The Past (Edward Collins Sees His Doom)

“Get out of this house right this second,” Edward boomed.  “Judith is dead,

little brother, I’ll have you remember, and that makes me the active head of

the household.  As it was meant to be,” he added smugly.

The man at the foot of the stairs below him looked up at him and grinned, and

there was as much humanity in that smile as in the face of a wolf, and it

stopped Edward cold in his tracks.  That isn’t Quentin, was his first thought,

and though he wanted to dismiss it, he found he couldn’t.  He had experienced

too much, seen too many things to turn away his intuition, newly awakened.

That isn’t my brother at all, he thought again, and knew it to be true.

“Poor Edward,” Quentin smirked.  “I almost wish I’d come to know you better.

It might have made your destruction something to savor.” He shrugged.  “Oh

well.”

And flung out his Hand.

The energy of his spell seared across the room in a flash of crimson, in a

vague shape that tattooed the image of a vulture on the back of Edward’s

eyelids.  He ducked, and where the magic struck the banister and the wall it

left nothing behind but smoking rubble.  Edward dropped to his knees and

cowered, and tried to shield himself with his arms.

“Come now, Edward!” Quentin called from below.  “You’re only going to draw out

your misery!  Think of how frightened you are now.  I can feel your distress,

you know; I can feel your little heart racing like a terrified rabbit’s, and I

can hold it in the palm of my hand.  I could end your life right now, Edward,

such is my power.” He smiled as he began to ascend the staircase.  “But I don’t

think you deserve my mercy.  I think I’ll kill you slowly.”

“Please!” Edward cried, and began to crawl down the hallway towards the

potential safety of the depths of the house.  His knees were trembling, and he

was desperately afraid that he had soiled himself.

Quentin reached the landing and smiled down on the man who had been his

brother. “Can you feel my power, Edward?” he simpered, and gestured a little

with one finger of the Hand.  Edward clutched his stomach and whimpered in

pain.  Knives, he thought blearily, like a thousand knives —

Quentin took another step closer.  “I said, can you feel it?” he asked, and

Edward felt consumed by fire, but it wasn’t fire, oh no, nothing that simple.

He felt as though a thousand, a hundred thousand, a million ants crawled over

his skin, biting and biting and biting —

Quentin was laughing, a hoarse, diabolical laughter that wasn’t his at all.

He knelt beside the suffering Edward Collins and winked conspiratorially.

“When I’m through with you,” he said, “I’m going to kill your children.  I

think I’ll lop off their heads and parade them through town.  On pikes,

perhaps.  Are there even pikes available anymore?  Parading around with the

heads of one’s enemies is nowhere near as enjoyable if there aren’t pikes

available.”

“Who are you?” Edward whispered through the pain.

“I am God,” Quentin whispered.  “Feel my wrath.” He raised his Hand again, and

the very foundations of Collinwood trembled; Edward could hear wood screaming

and metal tearing, and the house quaked with fear.

4 — The Past (Able to Leap Tall Buildings In A Single Bound)

“It’s too risky,” Barnabas said, kneeling beside Vicki on the sofa.  “I cannot

allow you to do this.”

“You don’t really have a say, Barnabas,” Magda said from behind him, and he

spun around to face her, eyes flashing crimson, fangs bared, but she flashed

the sign of the cross at him and he shied away, snarling miserably.  “Victoria

knows what she’s gotta do.  She’s strong, Barnabas, stronger than anyone knows.

Maybe if you stupid men would stop running around willy nilly trying to

protect us weaker women all the time, none of these damn messes would happen,

and there’d be a helluva lot less to fix in this sorry old world.”

He lifted his trembling face back to Vicki’s, and it was human again, and his

eyes filled with tears.  “Is that true, my dear?” he whispered.

“I think I can do it, Barnabas,” Vicki said.  “There’s something inside of me

that I don’t understand, and can’t explain, and it frightens me terribly.

Because it comes from him.” Her face hardened.  “But I think I can use it

against him, do you see?  I think I can fight fire with fire.”

“It’s too dangerous,” Barnabas said.  “If you open yourself up to that kind of

power ...” His voice trailed off.  “I’m thinking of Angelique.  Petofi took her

powers away, and she thought she was nothing, but she was strong nevertheless.

But they corrupted her, Victoria.  They changed her so much that she thought

she was worthless without them.” He licked his lips.  “I’m just terrified to

think what will happen to you if you let that kind of darkness inside.”

“I think it’s worth the risk, Barnabas,” Vicki said.  “I think it’s the only

way left.” She stood up.  “I am not Angelique.  And I am strong.  I can fight

this ...  this thing.  I know it.” Her eyes shone with purpose.

“Are we going now?” Barnabas asked.

“Yes,” Vicki said.  She reached out her hand to Petofi, who took it with some

trembling, and with a little effort she hauled him to his feet.  He stood

before her swaying.  “Are you going to be okay to walk?” she asked him

tenderly.  She could see some of the man she loved inside the ragged, ancient

face; underneath that mask of curly hair and sagging flesh, Quentin Collins

struggled to live.  She burned for him.

“I think so,” he wheezed.  “If you help me.”

Supported by Barnabas and Victoria, the little band left the Old House and made

their way into the woods.  A storm was brewing in the blackness above them,

nothing out of the ordinary for a sultry August evening in Collinsport.

Lightning crackled above them, followed instantly by thunder, a deep, hideous

growl, as if the gods themselves were restless.

5 — The Present (Julia Hoffman Vs.  the Ghouls)

Carolyn leaned over the table and waved her hand in front of Barnabas’ face,

then snapped her fingers three times in quick succession.  Nothing.  No

reaction whatsoever, not a blink, not a frown.  She turned back to Le Comte and

shrugged.  “I don’t understand,” she said.  “What’s wrong with him?”

Quentin laughed.  “Poor Danielle,” he simpered.  “So worldly in some of the

ways of magic, so naive in others.” She tried to hide the blackness that

flashed for a moment in her eyes and twisted in the corner of her mouth, but he

saw it anyway, and laughed heartily.  “I am afraid Mr.  Collins has employed a

rather drastic form of divination for the purposes of ...” He shrugged.  “Who

knows?  Time travel, I’m going to wager.  Perhaps he thinks he’ll be able to

find me somewhere in the past and destroy me ...” He waggled his fingers before

his face.  “...  before it’s too late.”

“Too late,” Carolyn said, and eyed Barnabas hungrily.  “Time travel?” she said

suddenly, and looked back to Le Comte.

“I believe so,” Quentin said.  “Something I tried once, though it didn’t quite

work as I had expected.  Time is an interesting thing, Danielle.  It’s fluid,

you see.  In theory it’s impossible.  Why, think of the damage one person could

do, simply by coughing in the wrong place or infecting the wrong person with

this or that disease.  The entire fabric of history would be restitched; wars

could be undone, epidemics prevented, and all sorts of other unpleasantness

averted.  Too bad, really.” He scowled.  “Yet somehow, she’s managed to do it.”

Carolyn raised an eyebrow.  “She?”

“Victoria Winters,” Quentin said.  “Dearest to my heart.  She’s gone back in

time, and there’s really nothing I can do about it, except hope that she fails

somehow.” He began to grin again.  “Except that it really doesn’t matter if she

fails or succeeds.  She is my daughter, you see.”

Carolyn nodded calmly.  “I did not know that,” she said, and sighed a little.

She was getting bored.  She began to fumble in her purse.

Quentin didn’t notice.  “She has a bit of my lifeforce in her, Danielle, and

that makes her dangerous.  Not just to me, should she ever use her powers

against me, as improbable as that sounds, but dangerous to herself and those

she loves.  She’s like a loaded pistol wielded by a child, you see?”

“No,” Carolyn said.  She took the stiletto from her purse and began to finger

it.

Quentin smiled indulgently.  “You’re eager to get to work, I see.”

She returned his smile.  “My prey has constantly eluded me over the past few

months,” she said.  “Even that fat Professor in the hospital still lives.  I

want to spill blood, Comte.  I want to drink it.”

“So you shall,” Quentin promised, and leveled a finger at Barnabas’ staring,

unseeing figure.  He might have been wax.  “Go to it.  Have fun.”

Carolyn crept forward, and her tongue slipped from the corner of her mouth.

She was like a great cat slipping forward, all her attention on the frozen man

before her, ready to pounce.

“Stop,” a voice said, and Carolyn froze.

“Merde,” she whispered.

A figure was already shimmering into view.  Quentin groaned, and Carolyn shook

her stiletto at it.  It glinted and threw off spectral shards of light, but it

was slowly coalescing into a human — a female — form.  Familiar red hair flared

with fire, and the skin was marble and shone with an inner light.  Enormous

emerald eyes seemed to throw off luminous green sparks.  “Back away from him,”

the ghost of Julia Hoffman thundered.

“This I don’t need,” Quentin groaned.  “Didn’t I kill you this afternoon?”

“Time means nothing to me,” the spirit said.  “I have come to stop you.”

Quentin nodded.  “I figured as much,” he said.  “Interfering on your own

behalf, or are you still at the beck and call of your precious, ridiculous

Barnabas?”

The glowering spirit threw back its head.  “You know nothing of love,” it said.

“You are inhuman.  A murdering beast.”

“I’ve heard all this before, you know,” Quentin said dryly.

“Leave this place,” the ghost of Julia Hoffman boomed.  “Return to Collinwood

to wait for your final judgment.”

“Perhaps I was wrong,” Quentin said.  “I do believe you’re the ridiculous one.”

He placed a hand over his heart.  “My dear dead doctor, I am the most powerful

individual on the planet.  I will be revered as a god very shortly.  There will

be no judgment for me.”

“Leave Barnabas Collins alone,” the ghost intoned.  “This is your final

warning.”

“Blah blah blah,” Quentin said, and raised his Hand.  It crackled with crimson

power.  “I think I’ll do more than banish you, dear doctor.  I believe I’ll

reserve a special place in hell for you, and send you there air mail.”

The spirit before him recoiled.

Quentin smiled.  “Give my felicitations to —”

But then he said no more.

The spirit’s eyes widened in horror as an amazing spray of red-black blood flew

in a gush from the gaping mouth in Quentin’s throat.  His body collapsed,

shuddering, to his knees, and his severed head fell from his neck and thudded

to the floor.  The body jittered for a moment longer, the neck still gushed

blood, the hands curled and uncurled spasmodically, then it fell over.

Carolyn stood behind him, still brandishing her stiletto.  She was smiling, and

as the ghost of Julia Hoffman watched, she lifted the knife to her mouth and

licked the blood from the blade.

“Bon,” she said.

 

6 — The Past (The Nick of Time)

“Leave him alone.”

Quentin froze, and the crackling red energy surrounding his Hand dissipated at

once. His sensual lips curled into a snarl, and he spun around, only to face

Victoria Winters, who had somehow managed to sneak into the house and up the

stairs before he noticed her.  The audacity, he thought, and said, “Miss

Winters.  I didn’t hear you knock.”

“Get away from him,” Vicki said.  Edward was quivering, and gasping now that

the pain had been relieved, temporarily at least.  She looked down at him, and

felt pity pierce her heart, despite the disgust she’d been carrying around for

him the past few months.  “Are you all right, Edward?” she asked softly.  “Did

he hurt you?”

“Not as much as I’m going to hurt you,” Quentin said, still smiling pleasantly.

“Did you really think you could just come sauntering back in here to interfere

with my plans, little girl?”

“I’m not a little girl,” she said.  “You don’t have the slightest idea what I

am.”

“A meddling fool,” Quentin said, “would be my guess.”

“Victoria,” Edward gasped, “you have to get out of here, right this minute!

You don’t know what he can do ...  the things he’s capable of ...”

“I think she may have an idea,” Quentin grinned.

Vicki’s eyes were like stone as she stared into the crystalline blue eyes of

the man she loved.  Just as she had seen Quentin alive inside the shell of

Petofi’s body, she could see Petofi inside Quentin, capering, gibbering, a

dangerous spirit mad with power.  All those years, she thought, he hid up there

all those years, waiting, planning, using Elizabeth like a scullery maid.

Draining her dry, using her to kill, building up his power like a poisonous

pearl.  She felt disgust wash over her in a wave, but it only strengthened her

resolve.  Help me Mother, she whispered to herself; if you can hear me

somewhere outside of time, lend me your strength, please!

“Penny for your thoughts, my dear?” Quentin purred.  They faced each other now,

and from below them, Quentin caught a glimpse of Barnabas and Magda, their

faces white and drawn.  “And you brought company,” Quentin said, rubbing his

hands together briskly.  Vicki caught a glimpse of that ridiculously oversized

ruby ring she had seen on Petofi earlier, and in that moment she remembered

where she had seen it before.

It was on Quentin’s hand, she thought, just before I left for the past, just

after Petofi took over his body —

Her eyes widened.  So that was how he did it, she thought.  A simple, stupid

trick like that.

She looked back up at him, and began to smile, and for just a moment he

faltered, then his eyebrows drew together, narrowed with suspicion.  “I’m going

to destroy you,” she said clearly, then turned around and dashed down the

stairs.

With a bestial roar he followed her, and though his legs were long, she was

swifter, and she was out the door and onto the front lawn in just under fifteen

seconds.  She could hear him coming after her, and after a few more sprints,

she turned to face him.

“Out of breath already?” he said, slinking towards her and grinning.  “I was

just warming up.”

“So am I,” she said, and closed her eyes.  Though she was plunged into

darkness, she realized with a start that she could see everything, could feel

everything — Barnabas and Magda, slowly, cautiously following her, Petofi,

cowering in the bushes to her right, just where she had told him to hide, and

Quentin himself, except in her mind’s eye he wasn’t Quentin at all, but a

shapeless, horrible thing, slumped and reddish-brown, with his skin running

like tallow and two great eyes that glared like orange fog-lamps.

“What are you doing?” She heard Quentin’s voice as if from an endless tunnel,

but she ignored him, and instead reached inside of herself.  Find the darkness,

she whispered to herself, touch the black, live inside it, send him back.

Instantly she was freezing, awash in a tide of evil and hate that she had no

idea existed inside herself, but it was appealing in a horrible sort of way,

intoxicating really, seductive, spiraling up inside of her, cold, and colder

still, freezing away everything, every feeling, every emotion, and it wasn’t

just darkness, but power, SHE was powerful, and it roiled inside of her,

slippery, elusive, like a writhing black eel, but she clutched it tightly,

greedily, and opened herself up.

When Vicki opened her eyes they were as smooth and obsidian as polished

marbles. When she smiled her teeth were sharp as needles, and her gums were

black and pitted.

“Petofi,” she rumbled in a voice that was not her own, and Barnabas and Magda

both recoiled.

So did Quentin.

“What are you?” he whispered, and in that moment she lashed out.  Her right

hand sank deeply into Quentin’s head with a bright flash of white non-light,

and the other disappeared into the bushes and into Petofi’s wooly skull.  She

cried out in ecstasy as the tide of life and soul flowed through her, over her,

inside her, and the world shuddered and trembled, and then she was thrown

backwards, as were Quentin and Petofi.

 She lay for a moment in the grass, panting, as the energy died away.  Barnabas

and Magda rushed to her side, and stood over her, afraid to touch her.

“Victoria?” Barnabas murmured.  “Are you ...  all right?”

She opened her eyes and gasped for breath, and her eyes were brown again, like

the eyes of a gentle doe, but her skin was pale as cream.  “What happened?” she

whispered.

“Help me,” a voice wheezed.  It was bubbly and horrible and sounded as if it

came from the throat of a dying man.  They looked, and it was Petofi, stumbling

to his feet, and swaying as if he couldn’t stand for long.

“Jesus,” Quentin Collins spat, “get this damned thing off me.” He too rose to

his true height, and shook his hand rapidly, disgust marring his handsome

features, until the ungodly ring of Petofi slid off his finger and disappeared

into the grass.  Instantly the sorcerer was on his hands and knees, pawing in

the grass for it, panting and gasping as he scrabbled with intense desperation.

 

“Quentin,” Vicki breathed, clutching his shoulder, “are you all right?” She

peered into his eyes, and breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

“I think so,” he said, and rubbed his temples.  “My head is killing me,

though.”

Barnabas stood a distance apart, pain and suspicion warring on his face, but no

one noticed.  He was terrified by what he had seen inside of Vicki, that

glimpse of darkness; had anyone expected that?  Was she herself even aware she

had such darkness inside her?  And how would it change her in the future?

“You fools,” Petofi said, but he was gasping, and his face was milk-white.  The

ring was nowhere to be found.  “Stupid, human fools.  Do you think you have

bested Petofi?  I am eternal, I am a God, I am the Great and —”

“Shut up,” Magda said, stepping forward.  “You ain’t nothing, Petofi, but a

scrap-seeking dog.  You been defeated now.  Go before we decide to wipe you off

this miserable planet for good.”

“Gypsy bitch,” Petofi snarled, and Magda spat in his face.

“That,” she announced grandly, “is for Sandor.”

He froze as the spittle dribbled down his face.  He began to tremble, and color

flooded into his cheeks; his eyes, beneath the ridiculous spectacles, glared

with rage.

“You ...  spit ...  on ...  me,” he whispered.

“I done it before,” she said, “and I’ll do it again.  You’ll get no apology

from me, ‘Excellency.’”

His eyes narrowed, and he nodded as if this was the only answer he could

expect; he drew back his rubbery lips and snarled, “Then die.”

And thrust out his Hand.

Time seemed to stop, and Vicki screamed and fell back against Quentin, as

everything that covered the skeleton of Magda Rakosi was torn away.  The

clothes flew off first and were incinerated, followed swiftly by her skin and

hair; the muscles began to smolder and were burned away in seconds, and only

the skeleton stood, proud and haughty in death, until the bones gave way and

fell, clattering, into a pile on the ground.

“NOOOOOOOOOO!” Vicki screamed.

Barnabas stared, transfixed with horror and disgust, while Quentin turned away

and retched.

Petofi stood, gasping, before them.  It was obvious that the spell had taken a

heavy toll on him.  He was nearly doubled over, gasping, but when he lifted his

face to them he was grinning.  “So much,” he panted, “for your gypsy bitch.”

Barnabas’ eyes turned red, and he bared his fangs, hissing, while Quentin took

a trembling step forward and growled, “You murderer!”

“Yes, Mr.  Collins,” Petofi said, “a murderer indeed.  And as soon as I regain

my breath, I’ll deal with you all accordingly.” But his face twisted up as if

something inside were goring him, paining him dreadfully, and he held up one

hand.  “I’ll murder you momentarily.  I just need ...  I just ...  need ...”

Then he turned around and began to stumble off into the depths of the forest.

“We can’t just let him get away!” Quentin cried, anguish twisting his voice.

Barnabas’ face was grim.  “He won’t,” Barnabas said.  “We just need to —”

7 — The Present (The Revenge of Danielle Roget)

 

“What did you do?” the spirit of Julia Hoffman whispered; she had seen much

since her pilgrimage into the oblivion of death, but nothing quite so horrible

as the sight of Quentin Collins’ head rolling off his destroyed neck.

Carolyn Stoddard — or the thing wearing her skin — beamed at the ghost, and

waved the bloody stiletto in the air.  “Pauvre Le Comte,” she simpered

horribly; her lips were smeared with Quentin’s blood, and it was black, like

warpaint, in the shifting, lunatic light of Stokes’ house.  “The bastard dares

to say that I am out of touch?” She sneered, and her teeth were stained with

crimson froth.  “He was weak and stupid.” She spat on the corpse.  Quentin’s

eyes, wide and blue and staring fixedly, were glazed and empty.  “Let us see

you return to life now, eh, Comte?”

Julia Hoffman watched impassively.  There was nothing more to be done, then.

She was aware that Barnabas and Vicki were still struggling with something

hideous in the past, though she wasn’t quite sure of what.  She had been able

to materialize in 1897 only through sheer force of will and her love for

Barnabas Collins, and the guilt she felt for the part she had played in this

nightmare.  If only I can help to make amends, she had told herself, then

everything will be very different.  None of this will have happened.

Carolyn looked back to the ghost flickering before her.  “And you,” she hissed.

“Thinking you can stop me?  Fool.  Imbecile.”

“You are the fool,” Julia’s ghost intoned.  “You are nothing.  You’re a low

beast.  You will die as you have lived, I promise you that.”

“I’ll kill him before your eyes!” Carolyn shrieked, and made a mad dash for

Barnabas.

 

In that moment Julia struck, and Carolyn was enveloped in a cloud of glowing

white spectral energy.  She shrieked, and pulled at her hair and gouged her

eyes, and dropped the stiletto to the floor where it lay, forgotten.  The

energy writhed around her, sucking at her, tugging and pulling, until she fell

away from Barnabas, gasping and clutching at her throat.  Her face was very

pale, save for her cheeks, which glowed with dull red roses.

Carolyn stared hatefully at the spirit as it rematerialized, its face still

glowing and holy and impassive.  “You will pay for this,” she spat.  “See if

you don’t.”

And before Julia had time to react, Carolyn had lashed out ...

...  and swept the I Ching wands from the table.

8 — The Past (Into Thin Air)

“— regroup —”

The word still hung in the air even after Barnabas had vanished.

Vicki and Quentin stared after him, wide-eyed.

For a moment, neither said a word.

Then, “Damn,” Quentin breathed

9 — The Present (Flash Forward)

Barnabas jolted upright; for a moment every vein, every muscle, every cord in

his body was flexed and tightened with strain; his eyes bulged in their

sockets, then rolled up to their whites.

Then he collapsed, and his heavy body rolled from the chair and crashed to the

floor.

He sat up a moment later, blinking, and rubbed at his mouth, which was bleeding

from the right corner.  He eyed the room dazedly, then horror overcame him as

the blood bloomed copper on his tongue.

“No,” he whispered, then a cry built up in him, a wail of horror, of torment,

of fear, of utter, numbing devastation.

Because he could feel the fangs that still protruded from his aching jaw.

 

10 — The Past (Always Darkest)

“I can’t do this, Quentin,” Vicki sobbed.  She pressed her head against his

breast and let him hold her, let him rock her, let him soothe her and stroke

her long, dark hair, like a wild current of black river water.  “If everything

gets stripped away — if I have to lose everything that I love, everything I’ve

ever touched — then I just don’t see the point.” She looked up at him with

bleary, red-rimmed eyes.  “I can’t live in a world where terrible things like

this are allowed to happen.”

“You’ll live,” Quentin whispered, and stroked her hair, her soft, baby-fine

hair.  “You’re a survivor.  Would you be here if you weren’t?”

“I don’t know who I am,” she said.  A fat tear slid down her cheek and bloomed

darkly on his vest.  She snuffled once.

“That isn’t true,” he said.  “You know who your parents are now.”

She snorted derisive laughter.  “My ‘parents’,” she said, and the bitterness in

her voice stung.  “My mother is your great-niece, and my father is a monster in

the shape of a man. And what am I?  What kind of horrible thing could I

possibly be to bring such destruction on those I love?”

He pulled her back sharply and looked into her eyes.  “This is not your fault,”

he said. “Without you, the Collins family in the future doesn’t stand a

chance.”

“They don’t stand a chance now,” she said.  “They’re all doomed, aren’t they?

Every one. There’s nothing I can do, Quentin.  Now that Barnabas is ...  is

...” She shook her head as her voice dissolved into a sob again.

Lightning flashed above their heads, followed instantly by that ominous grumble

of thunder.

“We don’t know where Barnabas is,” Quentin said.  “Magda is dead, and that’s

horrible, and it’s sad, and I can’t feel anything right now, but we have to

keep moving, Victoria. Petofi needs to pay, and I think you’re the only one

strong enough to stop him.” She stared at him, frowning, and opened her mouth

to protest, but he placed a finger against her mouth and she was shushed.  “I

don’t think you realize exactly what you accomplished back there.  The

monumentousness of it.” She frowned.  “You didn’t just stop Petofi, Victoria,

you hurt him.  You undid his magic, and you did it all by yourself.  No one’s

help.  He could hardly defend himself.”

“If I’d been more powerful,” Vicki said quietly, “Magda wouldn’t be dead now.”

“Well maybe Magda shouldn’t have provoked him,” Quentin said harshly, “did you

ever think of that?” She blinked at him, startled, but he couldn’t stop now.

She needs to hear this, Quentin thought, and said, “You need to be strong

Victoria.  Maybe Magda had a reason for doing what she did.  Who knows?  I have

no idea how this played out originally.  None at all.” He smiled a little.

“But I don’t think Magda’s done yet.  Give her some credit.”

“What about Barnabas?” she whispered.  “Petofi must have destroyed him too.”

Quentin shook his head.  “That I don’t know,” he said.  “But I don’t think so.

It doesn’t feel right to me.  What about you?  Can you sense him?”

Vicki began to protest, but then closed her eyes, and allowed her mind to reach

out.  It was easier this time, and she sensed that greedy, grasping hand of the

Dark inside of her, and flinched away from it.  Her eyes flew open like

windowshades, and she found that she was gasping and leaning against a tree,

and when he bent over her, concerned, she batted him away and said, “I can’t

try it like that, not right now.  Not just yet.  I ...  I think I need time to

recover from ...  from before.”

“It’ll be all right, Victoria,” Quentin said.  “Barnabas can take care of

himself.”

Tears welled up in her eyes again.  “I just wish I knew what happened to him,”

she said.

“We’ll find out,” Quentin said tenderly, and brushed the hair from her face.

Then he laughed, a jagged sound, and she frowned up at him as he broke away

from her and turned away to face the blackened sky, heavy with storm clouds.

His face was a study, a rich tapestry of emotion: fear, pain, panic, loathing,

for everything but mostly for himself. “I’m a great one to preach the values of

strength,” he said.  “If it weren’t for me, none of this would have happened.”

“Quentin, that’s not —”

He wouldn’t look at her.  “It’s true enough,” he said.  “Magda punished me as

she saw fit for what I did to her sister, and in her attempt to rectify matters

she got hold of the Hand, which is how Petofi fits into this delightful little

mess.  And if I hadn’t destroyed Jenny in the first place, Magda never would

have had to punish me, see?”

“Don’t,” Vicki said.  “Please, Quentin.  That’s all past.”

“Isn’t that what this is about, though?  Really?  Changing the past?  Isn’t

that your grand mission?” His voice was not confrontational or accusatory.  It

was empty.  Desolate. Defeated.  “I lost someone last night that I dearly loved

once,” he said.

“Beth,” Vicki guessed.  She slid her hand effortlessly into his, and he let

her.  “Quentin, I didn’t know.”

“It’s all right,” he said, then added reflectively, “well, that’s an enormous

lie.  It’s not all right, and it will never be all right.  But I have to deal

with her dying, don’t I, and the fact that it’s my fault as well.  I want to

accept the responsibility.  For the first time in my life, I want to be a man.

I want to be strong.” He turned to her at last, and kissed her, and said, “Will

you help me?  I can’t do this without you, Victoria.”

She kissed him back.  “Yes,” she said at last.  “I want everything to be

right.”

“I’ll find you again, Victoria Winters,” Quentin said.  “I’ll know your face

when next we meet, though you won’t know me at all.”

“Assuming I don’t screw up the past and the future anymore than I already

have,” she said wryly.

He kissed the tip of her nose.  “Doesn’t matter,” he said.  “I love you.  I

know that I’m going to lose you tonight, and it will hurt more than anything

has ever hurt me before.  Edward will probably banish me again, but that’s just

fine.  I want to travel the world again.  See if I can do some good for my

descendants.” He grinned.  “Even if they haven’t been born yet, at least I can

get a head start.”

“I knew there was a noble human being buried way deep in there somewhere,”

Vicki laughed.

“Glad you dug him up,” Quentin said, and squeezed her hand.  “What do you go

say we find Petofi and send him back to hell?”

“All good things in time,” Vicki said.  “There’s a certain something he’s got

to do first, remember?” She paused, and then added, “Besides, do you know where

he is?”

Quentin raised an eyebrow.  “I may have an idea,” he said.

11 — The Past (Villains)

 

Evan Hanley was afraid, and he hated to be afraid.  He stood at the far end of

the little hovel that Charles Delaware Tate had claimed upon his arrival in

Collinsport, and kept his eye warily on the door.  He didn’t like the way the

Count had summoned him, particularly the fact that he had been transported via

magic from his cozy alter by the fire and deposited without warning into this

miserable, falling down little shack.  He could hear the crashing of the shore

outside, and wondered where exactly he was.

The Count himself stood before a tiny fireplace in the corner of the room,

staring fixedly into the flames.  His miserable little lackey, Mr.  C.D.  Tate

himself, was hunched in a corner with his arms around his knees, hugging them

to his chest, and rocking while he sang softly to himself.

“Your Excellency —” Evan began, but felt the words die in his throat as Petofi

held up the Hand, now miraculously restored, Evan saw with a bolt of fear.

“Be quiet, cur,” Petofi wheezed.  He was trembling, Evan could tell, but with

fear, or exhaustion, or a combination of the two he couldn’t be certain.  “I

didn’t bring you here to listen to the distinctly rodentish sound of your

voice.”

Tate giggled madly, and rock back and forth, and back and forth.

Petofi turned around, and Evan gasped.  The man’s face was paper white, and his

eyes behind the magnified spectacle lenses bulged grotesquely.  His lips were

gray, the color of old liver, and his hair was no longer curly, but hung, lank

and silver, in lifeless strands on his scalp.  He grinned, and Evan could see

empty gaps where his teeth should have been.  “How do you like it, Evan?”

Petofi grated.  “How do you like to look upon the face of your betters?”

Evan wisely decided this question was rhetorical, and so said nothing.

Petofi chuckled.  “My powers are rapidly fading, Evan,” he said, and added

swiftly, “but not so quickly that I am still not capable of feats of magic that

will forever dwarf your own, or even those of the lovely Miranda, sadly

dispatched.” Evan blinked wildly at this. “What I took from her has sustained

me quite nicely, but I am afraid my little battle with Miss Winters has drained

my supply considerably.” He grinned unpleasantly.  “Which is where you come in,

my dear Evan.”

Evan felt a tide of cold fear sweep across him, and he blanched and cried, “Me?

What do you need me for?” He was dimly aware of the thunder that reverberated

across the blackened midnight sky outside, and the bestial hissing of the

ocean, very nearby.

“You are a puny, puling excuse for a warlock,” Petofi said as he slowly crossed

the room, and menace crackled in his eyes, “but you’ll do for a start, yes

indeed you will. Dear boy, your sacrifice will be of the noblest sort, for it

will harken the beginning of a new world order, more shining and brilliant than

ever before.” He paused, and madness flashed in his bulging eyes.  “And when

the Leviathan people return to full power, I will rule them all.  And no power

on this earth can stop me then.”

“I beg to differ, ‘Excellency’.”

Petofi froze, and a spasm of black hate passed across his face.  He spun

around, snarling like a dog, but he already knew who he would find.

Victoria Winters faced him, and the smile on her face was one of triumph.

Quentin stood behind her, almost uncertainly.

“Oh Quentin,” Evan cried, “thank god, oh thank god that you’re here, he’s

crazy, he’s absolutely insane, I don’t know what he’s going to —”

“Sit down, Mr.  Hanley,” Petofi growled, and struck out with the Hand, and Evan

was knocked across the room.  He struck a wall and skittered down it, then lay

where he fell, blinking dazedly.

“Enough, Petofi,” Vicki said.  Power and determination hung around her in an

aura, and her mouth was set and defiant.  “This has to end, and it has to end

now.  I’m not going to let you hurt anyone else.”

“That would be quite a trick, wouldn’t it, Miss Winters,” Petofi smirked.

“Going to call upon dark forces again?  Can that really be healthy for you, my

dear?  As my former adversary, the always delightful Miranda learned, some

magics cannot be wielded easily.  They always leave a mark, and there are

always consequences.  Remember that, my dear if you remember nothing else.” The

humor faded from his voice.  “There are always consequences.”

“So be it,” Vicki said, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in her face.

And at that moment, Petofi truck.

The bolt of energy missed Vicki by scant inches, and blew a hole the size of a

water melon through the flimsy wood that held the little shack together.

Instantly wind and a gale of rain howled through the hole, stinging Vicki’s

skin as they struck.

“Leave her alone, Petofi!” Quentin cried, and Petofi’s eyes fell on the younger

man, and he smiled craftily.

“Such a manly defender,” Petofi purred.  “Have you forgotten that you are under

obligation to me, Mr.  Collins?  Or shall I simply revoke the spell that my

dear friend Charles has woven for you so nicely in that painting?  Would you

like to run wild beneath the silver rays of the moon again with your lupine

brethren?  It would be very easy, you know.  Very —”

“My god!” Quentin groaned.  “Do you ever shut up?”

Petofi’s eyes narrowed furiously, and he snarled incoherently, and crimson

bolts of energy flew from the Hand’s fingertips.  Quentin was struck and thrown

across the room, where he tried to rise, but sank back to his hands and knees.

“Deal with me, Petofi,” Vicki cried.  “I’m the one with the power to stop you.

Why don’t you destroy me now?”

Petofi’s rubbery lips drew back in a grimace, and he gritted, “Gladly,” and

struck.

The energy from the Hand flew ...  and then dissipated the moment it reached

her.  It simply fell away, reduced to nothing but a series of supernatural

sparks, like the aftermath-fallout of a firework explosion.

“Impossible,” Petofi whispered, and tried again, with similar results.

“Impossible!” he raged, and stamped his foot against the slats of the floor,

and the entire building gave a hitch.  Tate began to howl.

Vicki stared back at Petofi in astonishment, and then helped Quentin clamber to

his feet.

“My powers,” Petofi wheezed, clutching at his chest, “my powers must be ...

must be fading.” He whirled around to face Evan, who cowered back against the

wall, and began to grin hugely.  “I just need a little refreshment, I believe.”

He loomed over the quivering, whimpering man, and stroked his hair for just a

moment.  “This won’t hurt,” he purred, and added, “Much.” Then, as he had done

with Miranda, he pressed the Hand against Evan’s chest.

Vicki cried out in alarm as white streams of energy flowed from Evan, and

quickly began to glow red as they imbued Petofi with the magical power that

Evan possessed.  Had possessed, Vicki thought miserably, until Petofi sucked it

out of him.  A moment later and Petofi reared back up, and allowed the corpse

of Evan Hanley to thud harmlessly to the ground.  The former would-be magician

was little more than a dried up husk, a mummy, with wrinkled skin and empty eye

sockets and a mouth that stood open in a silent scream.

Petofi was glowing with power; it radiated off him in shining waves, and he

grinned.

“Not much,” he said, and cast a glance back at Evan’s corpse.  “Of course dear

Miranda had so much more to offer.  The fact that she was a true witch kept her

alive, at least, to fight another day.  This poor fool never stood a chance.”

His eyes flashed, and he added, “Not that it matters to either of you.  I’m

going to kill you both right now, and damn the future, and damn the gypsies.  I

will have satisfaction.”

“You’ll have nothing,” Vicki promised him, “but the justice you deserve.”

“Tell me, my dear,” Petofi asked, eyes twinkling, “does your sanctimonious,

self-righteous moralizing ever become the least bit tired?”

“You don’t know me,” Vicki said.  Tears glittered in her eyes like stars.  “You

don’t know anything about me.” Then, she spat, “You’re a murderer.  People are

dead because of you ...  people I love!”

Excitement flashed in the glittering eyes of the thing that now called itself

Andreas Petofi.  “The dead?” he purred, and stroked his wooly chin.  “How

novel.  Yes, quite an excellent idea.” He clapped his hands.  “I think I like

it very much.”

“Vicki —” Quentin whispered.

“You care so much for the dead?” Petofi purred carresingly.  “Then why don’t

you join them.” In that next moment the spell was cast ...  and Vicki was

thrust into darkness.

12 — Oblivion (Between Here and There)

Victoria Winters was lost.

She stood in a vast plain of darkness that stretched for miles and miles

beneath an uncaring, ebony sky that did not sparkle with stars.

“Where ...” she whispered, but even that was an effort.  Her mind was a jumble

—

— why couldn’t Petofi harm me what did he do why aren’t I dead right now what

happened to Quentin —

— of conflicting and confusing thoughts, and to focus on them caused her head

to throb.

“Am I?” she whispered again.

“Why,” a voice, jolly and depraved, rose from the blackness around her, “you’re

in the Land of the Dead, my dear Miss Winters.  Isn’t it a lovely place?”

Vicki gasped as Judith Collins stepped from the shadows and stood before her,

appraising her with the same cold and haughty stare that she’d employed when

Vicki had first come to Collinwood, months ago now.  Her hair was drawn up

behind her head and pinned with a pretty pink bow, and her throat was in

ribbons.  Crimson spatters of blood stained the front of her matching pink

dress.  “Judith,” Vicki moaned, and felt her stomach slowly flip-flop.

“Yes, dear Judith,” Judith sneered.  “Aren’t you simply thrilled to see me, my

sister-in-law-never?  I know that I’ve been awaiting your arrival most

anxiously, although I would have much preferred your own dis-embarkment to have

occurred prior to my own.  Ah, well.” And she shrugged.

“Why am I here?” Vicki asked, and realized how cold she felt, as though a pair

of icy lips had clamped themselves over her mouth and were sucking all her life

— all her joy and vitality and warmth — out of her.

“Because you deserve to be,” Judith said.

“Why?” Vicki cried.

“Because you failed,” another woman said, and this was Beth Chavez, her corpse

wet and dripping; one eye had fallen from her socket and slid half-way down her

cheek, and her once pretty blonde hair was matted with seaweed.

“I’m so sorry, Beth,” Vicki choked.  “I ...  I never meant —”

“You had to come back,” Beth glowered.  “You had to change things.  Well, this

is what you changed!”

“Nothing for the better,” Dirk Wilkins intoned.  His body was shifting

constantly as Vicki watched; one moment his face was furry and ruined, with two

glowing yellow eyes and a mouth full of razors, and the next moment he was a

blue-faced corpse.  “Our lives were ruined because of you.”

“That isn’t true,” Vicki sobbed.

“Oh, but it is,” Charity Trask said.  She skipped in circles around Vicki, and

her teeth were fangs and her eyes were rubies.  “We’re all dead, Miss Victoria

Winters —”

“— and we all died because of you,” Tim Shaw said, and he leered at her, and

ran his pointed tongue across his own devilishly pointed teeth.

“I didn’t even know you!” Vicki cried.  “Please, what happened to you wasn’t my

fault!”

“The spiders in your brain know the truth,” Jenny Collins simpered.  Her face

was chalky white, and the cut in her throat gaped at Vicki like an idiot’s

grin.  “They whisper to me, pst pst pst, and they tell me oh so many awful

little truths.”

“But you don’t want to hear the truth,” Edith Collins said.  “You’ve never

wanted to, until now, until it was too late, because it is too late, you know,

it’s far too late —”

“— to change anything,” Evan Hanley chortled.  “Even I know that, and I just

got here!”

“You failed,” Laura Collins said, and smiled her wicked little bird’s smile,

but her voice was soothing and deceptively gentle, “and you’ll go on failing.

There’s nothing you can do, Miss Winters —”

“— and why should you want to?” Miranda DuVal asked.  “Why should you want to

help any of them?  They abandoned you, Miss Winters, left you to your fate.

Your real family deserted you, and then rehired you as a servant, a menial

tutor to the little monster. Leave them all to die.  It’s what you want.  Or

what you should want, anyway.”

“No,” Vicki whimpered.  Tears streamed down her face.  “No, it’s not.”

“But can’t you see that you failed?” Judith said.  They had drawn around her in

a circle, tight, tight, tight.  She sank to her knees, and they all looked down

at her, peering at her with corpses’ eyes.  “Most of the people you met in this

time are dead, and isn’t it really your fault?  Shouldn’t you have tried harder

to save us?”

“I have to change things,” Vicki said, and looked up into the circle of white

faces above her.  “I have to ...  I have to ...”

“You can do —”

“— nothing —”

“— to change —”

“— anything —”

“— and you have —”

“—failed,” Judith Collins said, and grinned with crimson teeth.  “Don’t you

think it’s better that you come with us, my dear?” She held out one hand, and

it was white and stained with blood.  Vicki stared at is as though hypnotized.

“Much better.  For you.  For everyone. You’ll just leave them all behind, and

you can be with us.  It’s what you deserve after your failure.”

“My failure,” Vicki whispered, and dropped her head.

“So come with us, Miss Winters,” Judith said.  “Take my hand.”

Sobbing, helpless and ashamed, Vicki reached —

“NO,” a voice thundered, and she turned to look —

13 — The Past (Vicki In Stasis)

“What have you done to her?” Quentin cried, and his voice cracked with his fear

and outrage.

Petofi examined the woman frozen in place before him.  Mystical energy —

crimson, but infected with crawling lines of black — crackled around her in a

virtual prison, encasing Victoria Winters as if she were a bug in a belljar.

Her eyes were locked open, and they saw nothing.  “I sent her where she wished

to go,” Petofi said simply.  “To meet those she wished to meet.”

“Make it stop,” Quentin said, panicking.  He tried to touch her, and then drew

his hand back and yelped.  The energy surrounding Vicki glowed sullenly.

“You’d best leave her be,” Petofi rasped, “or she’ll die right now, burned to a

crisp before your eyes.  The energy will consume her, dear boy, and it will be

an agonizing death beyond all imagining.”

“Let her go!” Quentin begged.

“No,” Petofi said.  “I don’t believe that I will.  I don’t know why Miss

Winters proved impervious to my spells earlier, but this one will be her

undoing, I promise you.  Why, just look —” Then his eyes widened, and the words

died in his throat.

The energy surrounding her began to dissipate before their eyes.  Vicki moaned,

and her eyelids fluttered.

“No,” Petofi whispered, and his voice rose as he roared, “This is imposSIBLE

...”

14 — Oblivion (My Hero)

“Get away from her!” the ghost of Magda Rakosi raged, and the specters

surrounding Vicki with greedy fingers fell away, howling, and covering their

eyes.  “Shoo!  Begone!  Get away!” She turned to Vicki, and her face was kind,

and Vicki did not cringe as Magda offered her her bony, wrinkled brown hand.

“My poor child,” Magda crooned, “so badly mistreated.” Vicki took her hand, and

Magda hauled her to her feet.

Vicki brushed the tears away from her eyes.  “Aren’t you going to admonish me?”

she whispered.  “Tell me how badly I failed?  Scorn me?  Humiliate me?”

“Ha!” Magda crowed.  “Maybe on an ordinary day.  But this ain’t no ordinary

day, little girl. This is something like that Judgment Day I heard so much

about.” Her eyes were shining with amusement, and her lips quirked into a

smile.  “But we got to hurry, you get me? There ain’t much time left.”

“I haven’t failed?” Vicki whispered.

“Not yet,” Magda said, “but you sure as hell will if you don’t get a move on.

Petofi’s with your man right now, and he thinks you’re out of the picture.  We

have to show him how wrong he is, right?”

Vicki began to echo Magda’s grin.  “Right,” she said, but then her grin

faltered.  “How?”

“I got something that might help you,” Magda said.  “You remember that binding

spell I taught you last night?” Vicki nodded.  “Good,” Magda said.  “You’re

gonna need it, I think. I’m gonna give you a boost, girl, and try to aim you in

the right direction.  This is it.  This is the end.  This is what you was meant

to do all along.”

“Now?” Vicki said, and her face was pale, but shone with determination.

“Yeah,” Magda said.  “This should do it.  For Sandor.  For me.  And for all the

other poor bastards that son-of-a-misbegotten-jackal has murdered over the

centuries.  Let it be done.  Make it be done, Victoria.” She reached out.  “Off

you go —”

15 — The Past (And the Future)

“By hell, I will destroy you if I have to destroy myself in the process,”

Petofi snarled. Charles Delaware Tate began to laugh in high, whooping cycles,

and his laughter was jagged and sobbing and insane.

Vicki opened her eyes.

“Vicki?” Quentin whispered, but his voice was drowned out by Petofi’s

hysterical howl, and the shrieking, dying sound of the air screaming as a tide

of pure black magical energy flew from the Hand’s fingertips, aimed squarely at

Victoria Winters.

She smiled a little, and as the energy struck her, it paused in a shell around

her, as if thinking.

Thunder rumbled outside, but they could all hear her very clearly as she spoke

one word.

“Petofi,” she said.

And then she disappeared.

The energy flew backwards, and as it did, all the windows in the shack

exploded, and a bolt of white lightning slammed through the roof and impaled

the magic, charging it, changing it, and it swirled about in a bright white

cloud, illuminating Petofi’s terrified face.  He thrust out the Hand, and

reached out , groping for anything to help him.  Quentin had the barest

impression that something had happened — he could never tell exactly what,

though he guessed later on, and all he could hear were Tate’s mindless screams

— but then Petofi was struck by the blast of power he had created.

Immolation was instant.

Quentin was thrown backwards by the blast, and suddenly found himself face down

in the mud, blinded by the relentless torrents of rain.

The shack exploded into flames at that moment, flames that seemed to defy the

deluge surrounding them; if anything the rain seemed to feed the fire, for the

flames reached higher and higher with clutching fingers of yellow and crimson.

“Vicki,” Quentin muttered, “oh god, Vicki.”

He clambered to his feet and then stood, swaying a little, and stared at the

burning hovel before him.  Burn, he thought, burn to the ground, and take that

hell-bastard with you. Leave nothing behind, not even his secrets.  Spare the

world the secrets of Count Petofi, whatever the hell he was.

A flash of movement caught his eye, and he turned to his right, heart sinking.

Charles Delaware Tate stood a few yards away from him, glaring.  His eyes were

wide and wiped free of insanity.  He smiled then, and in a flash of lightning,

Quentin had the strangest impression that Tate wasn’t really there — that

something was standing before him that wasn’t human, had never been human.

Something slumped and runny and inhuman, with glaring orange eyes like

foglamps.

When the lightning flashed again he was gone, and Quentin was alone.

He rubbed his lips with the back of his hand, and thought, Dear god, let it be

the end of him.  Please god, let that be the end, the end, the end.

He turned around and began to walk warily back towards Collinwood, and then

paused, and looked up at the sky.  The clouds had begun to part as the rained

slacked off, and he caught a glimpse of a star, far away in the heavens,

blinking at him blissfully.

“I’ll find you again,” he swore at the blackened sky, “I swear it.  I swear

it.”

And he was right. 

16 — The Future (Showdown)

It was Collinwood.  She was standing in Collinwood, and she was a ghost.

Magda stood beside her, and a smile crossed briefly, like a shadow, across her

pursed lips.

“Magda,” Vicki whispered, “Magda, am I dead?”

“’Course not,” Magda said impatiently, “and you don’t need to whisper either.

They can’t hear you ...  ‘least, not yet.”

Vicki turned to look in the direction Magda was glaring, and she felt icy fear

prickle her back.  A man and a woman stood before her, and the woman was

Elizabeth Stoddard, but an Elizabeth some twenty years younger.

The man was Count Petofi.

He and Elizabeth faced each other like gunslingers before the fireplace in the

drawing room.  Vicki felt a wave of dizziness sweep over her; it was so like

she had just left it, back in 1897, but so different at the same time.  The

hideous green couch that she had never understood squatted behind them, and it

was new, Vicki felt that instinctively.  A different portrait hung over the

fireplace, and there were different rugs, Persian perhaps, and different vases,

and —

“Don’t allow it to overwhelm you,” Magda said.  “This is the end, Miss Victoria

Winters. Your time for standing has come.  This is your time.  Yours.”

“My time,” Vicki said dazedly.  “Mine.”

“She’s too young,” Elizabeth said, and Vicki recognized that haughty, icy tone.

She had heard it only a few moments before, from the charnel, blood-flecked

lips of Judith Collins.  She felt an icy chill snake down her spine.

But it hasn’t happened yet!  Elizabeth isn’t a murderer yet!  There’s still

time!

“Too young?” Petofi asked politely.  “I don’t know what you mean, Mrs.

Stoddard.  You’ll have to elucidate, please.”

“Don’t play the fool, Mr.  Fenn-Gibbon.”

“Victor, please.  I’ve already asked you —”

“I know what you’ve asked,” Elizabeth said, and her voice trembled with barely

concealed fury and something Vicki recognized as hysteria.  “And I don’t care.

I want you to leave Collinwood immediately.  Tonight.”

“Are you the head of the household, my dear?” Petofi asked, still smiling.  “Or

has your father sadly passed in the night while your sister and I were

unaware?”

“Father is quite alive,” Elizabeth said, her voice icy.  “He doesn’t know about

Louise, but he’ll have you put out when he does find out, mark me.  He’ll

protect her with more determination and devotion than even I.”

“So fierce,” Petofi said, and his voice was a dangerous purr.  “Does your

sister know how much you love her, Mrs.  Stoddard?  Somehow I wonder.”

“You don’t know me,” Elizabeth said, “or anything about me.” Vicki gasped —

those words, she thought, those ...  those are the same ...

“Don’t I?”

“I love my sister more than anything,” Elizabeth said through gritted teeth,

“and I’ll do anything to protect her.  Anything.”

“I’d love to see that.”

“You aren’t human!” Elizabeth spat.  “I saw that ...  that thing in the road.”

She shuddered. “That awful thing that appeared when Louise called for you ...

it was horrible.”

“Be ready, Victoria,” Magda said.  She was holding an object in each of her

hands, and Vicki gasped when she saw them.  Magda smiled, and held them out to

her.  “They are what you think they are,” she smiled.

“The Vessel of Anubis,” Vicki breathed, awed, and then recoiled at the sight of

the other ... the other thing.  It winked at her hideously, grotesquely red,

like a blooming pearl of blood, and over-sized.  “And Petofi’s ring.  I can’t

even bear to look at it.”

“He never discovered it after it was lost,” Magda said, and her smile was

crafty.  “And so I recovered it for you.” She dropped it into Vicki’s open

palm; it was icy cold, and burned ...  but there was something appealing about

that burning, wasn’t there?  Something almost ...  familiar?  “You’ll need it,

Victoria.  He can’t be killed, you know.  He isn’t human. Petofi is truly

immortal ...  but he can be contained.  His power can be drained, and he can be

trapped.” She slid the ring over Vicki’s finger, and Vicki looked up into her

kind, fierce, terrifying black Gypsy eyes.  “You’ll know what to do,” she

promised.

She turned to look, and Mrs.  Stoddard was holding a poker, fingering it

delicately, running her index finger over its deadly sharp point.  “Louise

won’t have an abortion,” Elizabeth said softly.  “She intends to have your

baby.”

“Of course she does,” Petofi said.  “She’s completely under my spell.  Easy

enough, and such an impressionable little thing.  The baby will be a wonder to

behold, Mrs.  Stoddard. I wish you could be around to see her grow up.  She’ll

be lovely, and so powerful.” He sighed happily.

“You’ll never see her,” Elizabeth said.

Petofi roared his bellowing laughter.  “There is nothing you can do, my dear.

She is mine. Collinwood is mine.”

“No,” Elizabeth said.  “I don’t accept that.”

And swung the poker.

“NOW!” Magda shrieked, and Vicki reached ...

...  into reality.

Elizabeth cried out in an agony born of frustration, but she couldn’t move.

Vicki held the poker tightly, and Elizabeth twisted in her grip.  She spun

around a moment later, her teeth bared in a defiant snarl ...  and then her

eyes locked on Vicki’s and widened.

“You ...” she whispered.  “Louise?” And then slumped to the floor in a dead

faint.

Vicki glanced up, and Petofi was staring at her, with something like horror and

triumph and fear all written on his face.  In a moment it was all gone, and he

was smirking at her.

“Miss Winters,” he said, and bowed formally.  “My dear, it is indeed a pleasure

to see you again.  I should’ve known that forty years wouldn’t keep you away

from me.  Time traveling now, are we?  And tell me, my dear, how on this earth

did you accomplish such a ...  spectacular feat?”

“I might ask you the same question, ‘Excellency,’,” Vicki said.  “The last time

I saw you, you were falling apart.  Literally.”

He shook his head and clucked his pointed tongue.  “Such gall,” he said.

“Someone should have taught you manners long ago, little girl, or at the very

least to respect your elders.”

“None of this matters,” Vicki said.  “I’m here to stop you.  Forever.”

Petofi seemed impressed.  His chest puffed out, and he patted his immense

stomach. That must have been one powerful spell, Vicki thought, to get a

teenage girl like Louise into bed with this ...  this monster.  “You do have

power though, don’t you,” Petofi said.  “I can feel it.  It’s coming off you in

waves, like heat in the summer.” His eyes behind those terrible spectacles

narrowed.  “And, as I recall, my powers seemed to fail whenever they came into

contact with you.  Why is that, little girl?”

He mustn’t know, Vicki thought, and fear fluttered about in her head like a

little bird, he mustn't find out.  She licked her lips and said, “Obviously I

am the one who is here to put an end to you.”

“Is that the reason?” He was closer to her, suddenly, and she hadn’t seen him

cross the room.

Be careful, girl.  Beware the Greeks bearing gifts.

Magda, Vicki thought, Magda, oh Magda, help me ...

You gotta stand, girl.  You gotta be brave.  I done for you all I can.

“Yes,” Vicki said.  Her breath was coming in short pants now; she felt hot and

cold and terrified and exhilarated all at the same time, because she could feel

his power, his strength, and it was strange and seductive, and wrapped around

her like a cobra.

“Really,” he said.  His breath in her face wasn’t foul at all, but sweet

somehow, like lemons, or drops of honey.  What’s happening to me?  she

wondered, and a part of herself tried to cry out a warning, or maybe it was

Magda, but she seemed incapable of hearing anything except this man, this man

of such power before her.

“Stay away from me,” she whispered.

“Can’t do that,” Petofi said, and his lips tickled her ears, and she thrilled

despite herself, despite the deep disgust and loathing that writhed like a

thick worm inside her gut.  “I’ve post-poned this for too long, my dear Miss

Winters.  You see, I have to know.  What you are.  What you’re going to become.

And why I can feel such darkness in you ...  such a darkness that could,

perhaps, rival my own ...”

He had pressed his fingertips of his hand and his Hand against her forehead

before she had time to react, and she was galvanized.

And she saw ...

...  she saw everything.  Her entire life, spread before her like a picture

book, and someone (something) was fumbling through, flipping back page after

page, thumbing through everything, smearing, trembling, lifting and turning,

and the pages flew like the wind, and there she was, a little girl in knee

socks and her hair in her face, and she had back the doll that beastly little

Jennifer Connel had stolen from her, and Jennifer Connel cowered, terrified, in

a corner, and her eyes were dazed and empty; and there she was at Collinwood,

an unconscious Roger and Julia spread before her, their throats burned and

bloody, and white fire glowed from her fingers as she restored them both to

life; and she was seeing Miranda DuVal and Laura Collins battle it out in 1692;

and then back and then back, to this room, to this place, where Louise Collins

pushed and screamed, and a little red face emerged into the world, and its eyes

...  oh my god, my eyes ...

....  and they broke apart, and Petofi was gasping, and staring at her in

abject terror.

 

“Impossible,” he whispered, and held out his fingers in a warding off gesture.

“You ...  you can’t be her ...  I saw the resemblance, of course, but ...  but

...  you can’t be ...  it’s ...  it’s impossible ...”

Now, Victoria ...  now is the time ...

There was something in her hand, and when she looked down, she saw the Vessel

of Anubis, and the surface of the clay crawled beneath her hand like skin, but

it felt familiar. It felt strong.

Petofi saw it, and blanched.

“You can’t do this to me,” he said in the voice of a small, lost little boy.

“Oh?” she said, and held it out.  “Now is the time,” she chanted, recalling the

words that Magda had drilled into her, “now is the hour, by crush of earth and

tide of power; like the river into the sea doth run, like gold from the thread

of life is spun, the burning time is over and done.  So mote it be.”

Petofi threw back his head and screamed, and a tide of crimson energy crackled

in his eyes and from his hands and over his heart, and then poured in a flood

out of him, a red swirl, like a cloud of angry vermilion bees, like living,

swarming blood, and it hovered for a moment in the air, then it poured

relentlessly back into the urn she held in her hands.

Petofi stood for a moment, swaying, and Vicki saw with a thrill of triumph that

he was milky, not just pale, but almost transparent, and his eyes were blank

and empty, and his mouth slack and dull.  Then she felt the ring on her finger

twitch and burn, and Petofi was screaming without sound, and shaking his thick

head back and forth and back and forth, and slobber grew into a froth on his

enormous mouth and flew in wet strings that disappeared before they reached the

ground.  The ring flashed on her finger, calling to him, singing to him, and he

was pulled forward, still howling.  His flesh began to stretch, and it wasn’t

flesh anymore, it wasn’t anything anymore; Petofi began to transform, to shift,

to melt into streams of energy in the air, and they formed a cloud that wound

sinuously in the air and hung for a moment, suspended over Vicki, and then it

dropped as if weighted.  The ring caught at it, snatched at it, and the stream

of energy evaporated, and the ring began to glow with a white-hot power, and

then fell still.

Vicki collapsed against the wall, sobbing; her face was wet with tears before

she realized that she was even crying.  The tears burned in her eyes and ran in

hot rivers down her face, and she couldn’t control them, and she closed her

eyes and sank to the floor, and the urn slipped from her fingers and

disappeared into the air, and she held her knees and rocked herself, and cried

and cried.  In her mind she saw them all: Quentin, his eyes blue and his mouth

bowed with a rogue’s smile; Barnabas, so pale, so handsome, and so tortured,

and his eyes were like kisses in autumn; and Magda, laughing that raucous

laughter of hers, holding out her palm for silver, waiting on the beach in the

moonlight and the cold for a stranger from another world; and all the rest, all

the faces of the dead that she had known and loved and feared, and finally the

face of her father, whom she could never — must never — forget.

It was over.

And she felt so lost.  So very, very lost.

And she wondered if she would ever be whole again.

 

TO BE CONTINUED (in 1968!)