Shadows on the Wall Chapter 71

Chapter 71: At the End of the Day

by Nicky

Voiceover by Nancy Barrett: “Collinwood, in a time when darkness has risen and

overtaken the Collins family.  Dark power threatens everyone within the great

house, and has stretched out its shadow over the town as well.  Friends and

enemies ...  who to trust?  Who are they behind the masks they wear?  And at

the end of the day, can anyone really stay who they are ...  who they’ve always

been?”

1

 

Must have blood ...  must ...  must have blood ... 

The hair at his temples was silver.  He had seen himself, reflected in

Carolyn’s inner eye as he fed upon her after rising earlier this evening; saw

the animal fangs, the sunken, sullen eyes, red-rimmed, and the silver hair that

adorned his temples.  It had never been there before, and on anyone else it

would have been deemed distinguished, but on Barnabas Collins — the new

Barnabas Collins, he mused — it looked demonic.  Unnatural.  But that’s what I

am, Barnabas thought now, as the fog swirled about his ankles in winding

eddies; the air was redolent with the tang of salt and rotten fish, but it

didn’t sear his nostrils.  Nor was he affected by the nearly below zero

temperatures or the stinging snow that scoured the midnight sky on this, the

first day of February, 1968.  I am utterly inhuman, Barnabas told himself, and

wrapped himself in the fur-lined Inverness cloak he had worn throughout his

tenure in 1897, and had re-discovered in a trunk in the basement of the Old

House. 

The only thing that did affect him was the hunger that snarled and snapped

within him like a vicious, rending animal. 

I am an animal, he thought.  That’s exactly what I am.  A beast.  A beast that

must feed ...  or be destroyed. 

I cannot be destroyed.  I cannot allow that. 

Blood.  Must have ...  must have blood —

The dock was deserted.  The ancient wood beneath his feet creaked and groaned.

Perhaps it would be better if the whole structure collapsed beneath me, he

thought forlornly, and the sea swept me away to a permanent grave.  Buried

beneath ice and snow.  Away from the world.  Away from the people I love, the

people I can only hurt now, as I am ... 

As I am ... 

He had given up trying to understand why the curse had followed him back to the

present after he and Julia had done so much to battle it, to stave it off.

He’d given up on everything, as a matter of fact, because it was easy.  Just

too easy.  To not feel.  To not care.  Easier just to be, to exist, to roam the

night as this ...  this thing he had become, this monster, this ...  this

beast. 

I must have blood —

No one about.  No girls — “doxies”, they’d called them in his time, whatever

that meant anymore — no girls about, shuddering in the cold, holding out hope

that someone would come along, someone tall and dark, someone —

Slipping through the dark and the cold, in and out of the shadows, a face

burning white against the blank vastness of the snow, skulking in the darkness

with a face like a death’s head, a grim mask, the skin taut against the bone,

the eyes glaring like embers, the teeth —

He groaned like a wolf, and gnashed his fangs helplessly. 

So much simpler to give in, to just be ...  to feed and feed and feed —

He couldn’t summon Carolyn out here.  She was already too weak, and he couldn’t

kill her ...  yet.  But the thing inside him, the vampire, the beast, demanded

her death, as it had never demanded before.  The little voice inside him that

whispered like a snake, urging him on and on to blacker, more vile deeds, and

turning his pretty cousin Carolyn into a vampire was top of the list. 

But not tonight.  Tonight ...  tonight there was another choice. 

And then he remembered.  A girl, dead but then, miraculously, not dead anymore.

A girl he had fed on the night Quentin Collins learned that he was free from

his chains, a warm summer night in June, and how long ago it seemed now!  A

girl that, in a different world set with different circumstances, had been

taken by Elizabeth Collins Stoddard, deranged after twenty years of forced

homicide, and fed to the revenant Petofi, locked away in the West Wing. 

Only that had never happened. 

And Sabrina had to be alive. 

Could he summon her now?  Exert his will over her, bring to life cells gone

dormant months before?  Could he drag her out of her warm bed and through the

shadows of the February night, force her to come to him, bring her warmth to

him, her life? 

Could he? 

He closed his eyes, and saw her as he had seen her that night; a beautiful girl

with a fall of auburn hair and expressive brown eyes that had widened in shock

and fear as he had stepped from the shadows and seized her; those same eyes had

closed as she had writhed in the ecstasy of the vampire’s kiss. 

“Sabrina,” he whispered, “hear me ...  I’m cold, Sabrina.  Remember me ...

remember Barnabas ...  remember me, and come ...”

2

“This is lunacy,” Quentin grumbled, and wrapped the blue wool scarf Vicki had

given him a few days before (and why the guilt in her eyes?  he wondered still;

why a flash of guilt to accompany a simple gift?) tighter around his neck and

crammed his gloved hands into the pocket of his peacoat.  “Complete lunacy.” 

 

  

 

“I realize that,” Julia responded, and squinted.  The darkness ahead of her

refused to part, and the swirl of biting snowflakes further obscured her

vision.  The whine of the February wind and the crashing of the ocean,

somewhere off to her left, lost in the darkness, mocked her.  “But we have to

find him, Quentin.  This has gone too far.  Attacking Carolyn like that — using

her — and those things he said ...” She shuddered. 

“But this is still Barnabas,” Quentin said uneasily.  “Isn’t he?” She said

nothing.  The sensible heels of her blue pumps clicking against the exposed

wood of the docks was her only response.  “I mean, he wouldn’t hurt Carolyn.”

“He’s already hurt her, Quentin.  How much further he continues to abuse her

remains to be seen.”

“But he wouldn’t,” Quentin pressed.  “He wouldn’t ...  wouldn’t turn her.  Like

that.  He just wouldn’t.”

“This isn’t the same Barnabas you know,” she said.  “He’s different now,

Quentin.”

“But I don’t understand why he’s different.  I knew him in 1897, Julia, and he

was a vampire then too, and he was just like the Barnabas I knew now.”

“I knew him when he first came from his coffin last summer,” Julia said, grimly

pressing through the blackness, “and he wasn’t anything like this.  He’s like

an animal now, but worse.  Vicious.  It’s almost as if ...” She closed her eyes

for a moment, and allowed the Barnabas she had fallen in love with to bloom

before her, smiling, gentle, his cheeks flushed and his hair scattered in an

autumnal drift across his forehead.  Then that Barnabas vanished, the Barnabas

she loved so dearly and held so close to her heart, and the monster replaced

him, the sunken cheeks, the sallow skin, and the animal fangs.  “...  as if

he’s given up.”

“Given up?”

“Even after Angelique’s curse, he fought against it — fought against her.  He

struggled with the demon inside him, and he won.  There were bumps along the

way —” She thought of Tom Jennings, and decided not to remind Quentin of

Barnabas’ involvement in Tom’s death and resurrection.  “— but he triumphed in

the end.  He tried to become a good man, because that’s what he is at the end

of the day.  A good man.” Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked them away with

irritation before they fell down her cheeks and froze there.  Her nose burned

insufferably. 

Quentin dropped his enormous hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently.  She

turned and smiled at him with more than a little affection.  “And you believe

that he’s still a good man,” he said.  “That underneath the vampire there’s

some semblance of the Barnabas you know struggling to re-emerge.”

“I know there is,” she said with sudden ferocity.  “Barnabas will come back to

us, Quentin.  I have to believe that.  Not just for my sake, but for the sake

of the Collins family.  For all our sakes.” She shook her titian head; the snow

that settled there sparkled in a stray shaft of moonlight that broke

momentarily through the sheath of midnight clouds, and just as suddenly as it

had come, it was gone.  It would be full in a few days, but Julia couldn’t

think about that now.  “Something is coming, Quentin.  Something is rising.

Something ...  something terrible.”

“What you and Eliot were talking about.”

“Yes.  Eliot is researching these dreams we’ve all had, but he’s been

unsuccessful.  And Angelique is equally as useful.  And I just can’t help but

feel that every moment we fail to find some pertinent fact that will lead us to

the creatures responsible brings us closer to our own destruction.”

Quentin narrowed his eyes.  “You haven’t asked Vicki for help yet, have you?”

Julia stared at him.  “No.  Not ...  not yet.  To be honest, Quentin, Eliot and

I aren’t certain that Vicki’s involvement would be beneficial.  For her, or for

anyone else.”

He relaxed.  “Good,” he said.  “I’m worried about her, Julia.  She’s not ...

not herself.”

Julia lowered her gaze.  “I know,” she said. 

“I don’t want her involved in this business anymore than is necessary.”

Julia opened her mouth to respond, then her eyes widened, and she pressed one

finger against her lips with one hand, and seized Quentin’s arm with the other.

He followed her gaze, and saw a dark figure slipping along through the shreds

of fog, moving quietly as a cat along the docks.  It was a woman, and Quentin

gasped.  “I ...  I know her,” he whispered.  His face darkened.  “Oh my god,”

he said.  “That’s the girl that Barnabas attacked the first night.  She

recovered after he was cured, but he must’ve been able to summon her again.

Sabrina Stuart ...” he said. 

“Come on,” Julia said, eyes flashing, and dragged him off in the girl’s

direction. 

3

“I know him.”

“Are you sure?  Can you be positive?”

“It’s him.  Unmistakably.  Even his scent hasn’t changed.  After all these

years.”

“Strong magic?”

“Something.  Something has preserved him.  Something powerful.”

“Mmmmm.”

“I want it.  Whatever it is, I want in.  I think we could use a little power

right about now, don’t you, sweet?”

“Power.  At the full of the moon.”

“The best time.  The only time, really.  And then ...  then ...  oh, how this

town will burn.”

4

The pentagram writhed beneath her, and the crimson fire that hung just below

her outstretched fingers blazed a sudden serpentine.  Maggie recoiled, and bit

back a cry.  Her obsidian eyes flashed.  “Oboedio,” she incanted, and the

pentagram, chalked on the concrete floor in the basement of Seaview, groaned

audibly. 

Beside her, arms crossed across his chest, one eyebrow raised, Nicholas watched

patiently.  She was beautiful, his black goddess, with hair and eyes to match,

and the magic she wielded would put even that traitor Sky Rumson to shame.  It

was another test, one he wasn’t certain she was ready for, but she had

insisted, and he could deny her so few things these days.  And she was being

terribly understanding when it came to his “relationship” with Elizabeth

Stoddard, which now seemed to be progressing at a snail’s pace, ever since

their discovery of the mangled body of her erstwhile husband, the now very much

defunct Paul Stoddard.  So he allowed her this, using the very blackest of

magics to raise a spirit to deal with Julia Hoffman. 

“Rise,” Maggie said, abandoning Latin.  “Hear me, Spirits of Darkness.  Bring

me a soul from the outer darkness.” She held out one hand and turned it palm

up; a slit opened and stretched across the palm, and a crimson trickle of blood

streamed suddenly and fell through the fire and spattered over the pentagram.

“My warm blood for the blood denied you so long.” The pentagram hissed

balefully.  “Rise.  Hear my voice in the lone places and appear to me to do my

bidding.  Hear me, Spirits of Darkness, and obey!”

The air grew cold, and colder still, and suddenly Maggie threw back her head

and screamed.  The fire flared up around her, but it was black now, and the air

darkened around her.  Nicholas had no time to react.  Maggie was lifted bodily

by an unseen force and hurled across the room.  The concrete beneath the

pentagram groaned again, then the ground itself heaved up, and the concrete was

shot across with cracks that revealed the rotten black earth beneath the evil

house Gregory Collins had built. 

Then the flames died away, and the temperature rose, and Nicholas rushed to

Maggie’s side.  She was gasping, and as he helped her to her feet, he realized

that she was smiling.  Her eyes were still black as Nicholas’ heart, and her

skin was deadly pale.  “Oh my god, Nicholas,” she panted, and one hand slid

beneath his shirt and fondled his right nipple.  She studied him with those

inhuman eyes; he could see that black veins had stretched across her face in

ugly patterns, like spiderwebs, and that her lips were blue and cracked.  “I

have never ...  never ...  felt anything like that before.”

He glanced uneasily at the ruins of the pentagram behind them, then mentally

berated himself for his weakness.  Fear, as he had lectured Cassandra often

enough, was for mortals. 

But Maggie’s hand was doing something even more seductive farther south.  Her

black eyes flickered. 

“I thought ...” He swallowed, and licked his lips.  “I thought it hurt you.”

She shook her head and grinned slyly.  “Not me.  Not me, Nicholas.  Others

maybe.” She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.  She pressed her body

closer to his, and brushed her arid lips against his earlobe.  “I felt

something, Nicholas.  Something is rising.  Something older than the Old Ones.”

He closed his eyes.  “Tell me.”

She swayed in his arms.  “A power.  Black and exciting.  It ...  it whispered

to me.  Spoke to me.  It’s nearby.  Nearby ...  but hidden.”

“What is it?”

“Glory.  A new coming.  But hidden.  Hidden, because it’s a power that’s

dangerous.  Something that could ...  could hurt.  Them.”

“Them?  Who?”

She shook her head.  “Don’t know.  Doesn’t matter.  Not now.  Only this.

Special.  Hot.  And cold.” She shuddered with pleasure, and leaned against him.

“The Mask.”

He drew away from her in shock, and peered into her face, white as salt, marred

only by the ugly black veins.  “The Mask?” he cried, and shook her.  “The Mask

of Ba’al?  Is that what you felt?  What you sensed?”

She sagged suddenly, and opened her eyes, and they were brown and human again;

as he watched, color returned to her cheeks, and the veins faded away.  She was

breathing normally now; whatever had possessed her, it was gone now.  “It was

glorious, Nicholas.  Like nothing I’ve ever felt before.”

“So you said.” His voice was crisp and dry as autumn leaves.  “But this power

you tapped into — was it the Mask of Ba’al?”

She yawned.  “What’s the Mask of Ba’al?”

His face twitched with greed at the thought of it.  “I sought it long ago.  It

was in my grasp — and then it was snatched away.” His features darkened.

“Foolish villagers.  Sheep.  They caught me before I could don it, and burned

me at the stake.” She was watching him, interested, and he waved a dismissive

hand at her.  “That was a long time ago, when I was much younger, and far less

a warlock than I am now.  I never repeat a mistake, Maggie.”

“But what is it?  This Mask.  What is it?”

“Absolute power.  The most powerful tool known to us.  The key to magic.  To

all the magic.  Whoever dons the Mask of Ba’al is gifted with the true essence

of magic.  If they’re the right person, and know how to use it, their rests

within them the potential to become the most powerful being in the universe.

It was thought mythical once, thought lost later on, but I found it ...  and

lost it again.” His gloved hand clenched into a fist; his face shone with

purpose.  “But I’ll find it.  I promise you that, Maggie Evans.  I will find

the Mask of Ba’al ...  and we will rule this world as one.  All the worlds.”

“Yes,” Maggie said, and turned away from him so that he couldn’t see her eyes

as they flashed obsidian again.  Absolute power, she thought, and examined him

coldly.  Absolute power indeed. 

For me. 

 

5

“Oh god,” Julia said; they had lost her in the fog, lost her despite the steady

click-click-click of her heels on the rotting boards of the dock; lost her in

the darkness and the blinding, sly swirl of snow; lost her, and now it was too

late.  Too late.  God damn it, too late. 

They heard her gasp.  They heard her scream. 

And they heard her body as it struck the dock as Barnabas released her from his

grasp. 

“Barnabas,” Julia whispered, and felt Quentin’s enormous hand in hers.  Tears,

traitors, stung her eyes like nettles, and she had to allow them to fall or

endure the pain as they flared up and seared her eyes into empty craters.  “Oh,

Barnabas.”

The fog parted into delicate shreds for just a moment, and they both saw the

hunched figure of a man before them.  His eyes gleamed red, and his mouth was

stained with blood.  He snarled like an animal, and then he was gone, as if the

fog had swallowed him up.  But they both heard the flapping of immense dry

wings above them, and they knew that he had gone. 

Julia reached the girl first.  Her skin was ghastly, chalkily pale; even her

lips were blue, and her hands had curled into raddled claws.  Her hair was the

only lustrous thing about her, and spread in a dark corona about her head.  The

marks on her throat bled dully. 

 

“No pulse,” Julia said, and her usual clinical tone cracked into splinters. 

“You know what this means,” Quentin said. 

Julia nodded.  She rummaged in her bag and removed the slim stake of wood, and

held it before them.  It was crude, roughly hewn, but the point was sharp and

deadly.  “I was so hoping we wouldn’t have to use this,” she said. 

“It’ll be all right.”

“No,” she said, and her voice was only a ghost, like a husk.  “I don’t think it

will ever be all right again.”

The girl’s eyes flew open, and they were red and wild.  Quentin recoiled, and

Julia drew back without a sound.  Those monster eyes flicked about in their

sockets, and her mouth yawned revealing the long fangs of a wolf.  She hissed,

a drawn-out sound, cheated and enraged.  She was on her feet in an instant, and

circled them, growling like a big cat.  Her hands were still curled into claws,

and the nails had become long and black.  She bared her fangs at them, and the

sounds that came from her mouth were indescribable, so full of choked, glottal

hissing were they. 

“The stake, Julia!” Quentin cried.  “The stake!”

Julia felt as if she moved through water hip-deep; the vampire-woman was

already diving at Quentin, shaking her claws in his face, wheeling them about

crazily, all the while making that obscene feline squalling noise.  Her red

eyes never left his face.  Her fangs snapped, clicking as they did so,

dangerously near to his throat. 

“JULIA!”

She thrust out her arm, aiming the stake for the woman’s chest, but she darted

away with a cheated howl.  Her face was alabaster white, and her eyes were like

crimson holes, twin cigarettes, burning amidst all that white.  Julia jabbed

the stake forward again like a lance, and the woman who had been Sabrina Stuart

screamed like a panther; her arms pinwheeled, and she fell backwards.  And then

she was gone, as if the fog had swallowed her up.  The dim splash that met

their ears less than a second later sent them both creeping towards the edge of

the pier. 

They could just see her below them, splashing in the icy Atlantic water.  The

noise she made now was unspeakable; surely nothing like that could come from a

human woman.  Her cries of pain were so intense that Julia dropped the stake

and slammed both hands against her ears.  It did no good.  The vampire woman’s

screams echoed in her ears. 

“Jesus,” Quentin moaned. 

The skin had begun to bubble and boil on her face, and now ran down the skull

in long winding rivers, like tallow melting from a candle.  The red eyes were

suddenly extinguished, and all the wet hair cascaded off like slithering snakes

and disappeared into the black water.  The bare skull twitched and snapped, and

the mouth gaped hideously, wider and wider, until it had swallowed the girl’s

head entirely.  A bare moment later, all that remained of Sabrina Stuart were

the clothes she had worn, a blue sweater and a plaid skirt, and these floated

serenely on the surface of the ocean for another few seconds, and then vanished

into the deep. 

Julia fell back against Quentin, sobbing as if she would never stop, and he

held her.  He was crying too, but would never mention it. 

Finally Julia sat up, and wiped clumsily at her face.  “Something has to be

done, Quentin,” she said at last, her voice choked and nasal.  “This can’t go

on any longer.  I’m sworn to protect Barnabas Collins, but if he won’t even

help himself — if he won’t struggle against his curse any longer —”

“We have to find him.  We have to find him and make him listen to us.  It ...

it isn’t too late.”

“Oh Quentin,” Julia said, “I hope you’re right.  I hope to god you’re right.”

6

Barnabas crossed the darkened bedroom with the stealthiness of a jungle

panther, and peered down at his sleeping cousin with flinty eyes.  No mercy, he

thought now, and the voice in his mind was the gravely, greedy voice of the

vampire.  There is no need to separate them any longer, he thought.  We are

one.  We are the same.  There is no difference, and there never has been. 

The vampire is there all the time. 

The vampire has always been there.  All the time. 

Must have blood. 

Killing the Stuart girl had not satisfied his craving, even when he felt her

heart stop beating and the blood flowing into his mouth turned black and sour.

Warm, living blood, that's what he needed. 

He reached out and stroked back the blood hair that fell like straw across her

sleeping face.  She stirred uneasily.  "Carolyn," he murmured.  "Wake up, my

dear.  I have need of your services once more."

Her blue eyes flew opened, wide and guileless.  "Barnabas," she breathed, and

sat up slowly, languidly.  Her breasts beneath her nightgown were very full; he

could see their ghosts beneath the thin, gauzy material, and felt his mouth

begin to water helplessly. 

Barnabas Collins is dead.  I am a vampire.  I have always been a vampire. 

 

Her eyes never left his as she drew back the straps of the gown, and it puddled

on the sheets around her.  Her skin was very pale, and her breathing came short

and quick. 

He bent over her without another word, and sank his fangs deeply into her

throat.  Her mingled gasp of pain and pleasure was lost as she twined her

fingers in his hair and tugged. 

She loved it, the kiss of the vampire.  She was a troubled young woman, was his

cousin Carolyn.  She was a murderess, unofficially, haunted by the memories of

what Danielle Roget did in her body.  She could feel her boyfriend's blood,

slick and hot on her fingers.  She could taste the coppery, writhing essence of

her father on her tongue.  The dead thump of Mr.  Wells' head striking his desk

at the Collinsport Inn echoed in her ears.  When Barnabas entered her, draining

her, merging with her, all those terrible thoughts and memories flew away, and

there was only him, the only man for her, forever and ever.  He made the pain

and the badness go away. 

She thought she loved him. 

She was a fool. 

But as he drank, and drank deeply, the stream of her thoughts and memories

became known to him; he could read them as easily as the Collinsport Star.  And

they weren't only her thoughts, no; those of the Roget creature were plain to

him as well.  He drank of her confusion upon the changing of the past; he

learned how she remembered aligning herself with Petofi-in-Quentin's body, and

how she decapitated Quentin, and the frustration she felt when all that was

undone.  He saw the shimmering spectre of Julia Hoffman, and denied the pang

this vision caused him, and buried it deep and far and away. 

And he saw Petofi.  The true Petofi, as Danielle had seen him two centuries

ago.  A hideous creature, shapeless, a mass of twitching, writhing ropes and

rusty flesh, and two glaring orange eyes.  A powerful being, surely, but one

jealous of humanity.  He wanted to wear the skin of mortality at the same time

he wanted to end it forever. 

"The Leviathans, Danielle." That hated voice echoed in Barnabas' ears.  "A very

deadly, very important race of creatures.  They detest mankind, because man

forced them out of this world a long time ago.  They are the enemy of all that

is human — and they are my people.  I am their god."

"But you wear a human body, Comte."

"A costume.  I can shrug it off whenever I feel the need.  You don't

understand, pretty Danielle.  These beings worship me.  I, and only I, have the

power to bring them back into this world."

"And what of me?"

"Darling.  Stay on the side of your Comte, and you'll never have to worry about

anything again."

The Leviathans, Barnabas thought as Carolyn's blood flowed hot and coppery into

his mouth.  The name sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place it, or

begin to fathom the way it filled him with dread, of a feeling of dirtiness

deep and unscourable. 

Petofi.  His powers, his evil, his lust for vengeance. 

Could he have done this to me? 

Carolyn fell back against the bed, gasping.  Twin streams of crimson ran

between her bare breasts, and she tried to cover herself with her nightgown.

"Barnabas," she gasped, "what was that?  I ...  I saw —"

"It is of no consequence," Barnabas said brusquely.  "I am a vampire again.

How or why does not matter.  I have been freed, Carolyn, freed upon the night."

He ran a winding finger down her face.  His eyes bored into hers, red-rimmed

and powerful.  "And soon you shall join me."

"Oh yes," she moaned.  "Oh, yes."

And he fell upon her again. 

And tried so hard not to hate himself. 

7

"Oh no," Angelique whispered, and dropped her face into her hands.  She was

shaking, and Julia watched her without moving.  Her face was stone.  Don't, she

thought to herself, and felt her hands clenching and unclenching; don't move to

help her, don't touch her; she's evil; people don't change; she drank your

blood and tried to murder you; people like her don't change.  They just don't.

"Oh my god," Angelique said, and when she lifted her face, Julia saw that her

big blue eyes were wet with tears.  "Julia, how ...  how horrible.  I almost

can't believe it."

"Believe it," Julia said.  "It was disgusting.  One of the most horrible sights

I've ever seen in my life."

"Running water," Angelique said.  "Of course.  Deadly to vampires."

"She disintegrated before our eyes.  And Barnabas ..." Julia's voice tightened

with barely restrained fury.  "He just left her there, Angelique.  Left her

there for Quentin and I to find.  He knew we were there.  Left her there to

become ...  to become like him."

Angelique shuddered.  "It doesn't sound like Barnabas at all."

"No," Julia said.  "It doesn't."

"He's changed since his return from the past.  Even when he was a vampire

before — even a new vampire, a baby — he was never this vicious."

"He's cut all of us out of his life.  His coffin is no longer in the basement."

Angelique sighed wearily.  "I wish I could help somehow.  A locator spell or

something.  But I'm afraid to even try magic anymore."

Julia raised an eyebrow.  "I thought you couldn't do it at all."

Angelique dropped her eyes, and her hands warred restlessly.  Julia's eyebrow

ascended new heights.  "Everyone is capable of some magic, Julia.  It's energy,

that's all, a special kind of energy.  You just have to tap it, that's all.  On

Martinique, before the Dark One possessed me and I gave him my soul, I had

magic within me.  I just didn't understand it, or how to use it properly.  The

Dark One ..." She shook her blonde head.  "He's like ...  like the living

essence of magic, of dark magic.  Magic that's aware, that can think, and

speak, and seduce."

"The Dark One ...  Satan?  The Devil?"

"Something like that.  Satan is a myth, a Christian answer to a very ancient

pagan tradition.  No, the Dark One is not the devil.  Just a devil.  But a

clever one, and capable.  He's hungry for power.  Nicholas has allied himself

with the Dark One for centuries in his own quest for power.  The Dark One wants

Nicholas to become the master of Collinwood, but I'm not certain why.  There

could be something in the house he — it — needs, and hopes that Nicholas can

procure it for him.  I'm not certain." Angelique laughed ruefully.  "When I

knew Nicholas before, he was on an eternal quest for the Mask of Ba'al."

"Wasn't Ba'al a fertility deity?"

"When you study magic, Julia, you discover that most 'deities' can become

anything they want to be.  The Mask of Ba'al is a tool, nothing more ...  but

it is more than that at the same time.  I've never seen it, only heard

whispers, tales in the Underworld.  It has a power beyond anything even the

Dark One can perform, and has been lost for centuries.  Maybe even millennia.

Nicholas thought he had it tracked here, to Collinsport, but the villagers of

Collinsport burned him at the stake before he could find it."

"Maybe we should take a cue from them."

The two women laughed together easily. 

"If Nicholas is able to find the Mask of Ba'al and tap into its power, he could

easily destroy us all.  It would not be an exaggeration to say he could rule

the world.  The power in the mask is corruptive, as most power is.  It drains

all the humanity from whoever dons it.  They become the power.  It's ruthless.

But so is Nicholas.  I just don't know if he's ruthless enough."

"You hinted that you could still do magic if you wanted to."

Angelique bit her lip.  "I tried the healing spell, as I told you, Julia, and

it failed.  I'm afraid that it failed because I didn't try hard enough."

Julia stared at her.  "And a locator spell?"

"Julia, I'm afraid."

"Of the magic?"

"Of myself!" Angelique rose from the chair by the fire and paced before the

flickering flames.  "Magic changes me.  Barnabas knew it, and told me in 1897,

but I didn't want to listen to him.  It wasn't until Nicholas made me human

again after ...  after I had been a vampire —" She flashed Julia a guilty look.

"It wasn't until then that I fully realized what it was like to be human.  To

be without my powers.  There was a time when I could melt someone to ichor with

just a glance, or travel through time and space with a snap of my fingers.  I

even turned Barnabas' father into a cat, and I was still just a novice at the

time." She smiled fondly.  "And look at me now.  Human.  Powerless.  And Julia

...  I like it that way.  I like being human.  When I married Sky ..." Pain

flashed across her face like a thundercloud, but she shook it away

determinedly, and started again.  Her voice only quivered a little bit.  "When

I married Sky, I found out what it was like to be a mortal woman.  I liked

doing little things for him.  Giving the maid a night off so I could cook for

him myself.  Buying him presents, and enjoying myself when he bought things for

me.  He brought me a little statuette one time because I had seen it when we

were in a gallery in Boston and casually mentioned liking it."

"He sounds wonderful."

"I thought that he was." Her face hardened.  "But it's the magic, Julia.  If I

use it — if I really give in to it again — I stand a chance at losing myself in

it, like I always have.  If the Dark One comes whispering to me, I don't know

if I'll be able to resist him.  I didn't even know I missed my soul until I had

it back again." Angelique took Julia's hand in hers before the other woman

could react, and squeezed it, and stared into her eyes.  "I'm sorry for

everything I ever did to you, Julia.  For the wickedness and the cruelty.  For

the pain.  For ...  for hurting you like that.  I can't blame it all on the

magic, you see.  I hurt you because I was jealous of you.  Because you wanted

to help Barnabas.  Because ...  because you love him." Julia opened her mouth

to protest, but Angelique over-rode her.  "My whole life, I've lashed out when

I felt threatened.  I had nothing when I grew up in Bedford, and I had nothing

again in Martinique.  Nothing ...  and no one." Her laugh was bittersweet.  "It

sounds so cliched, doesn't it?  I just wanted someone to love me.  I struggled

so hard to hold onto Barnabas, but I think I knew.  Deep down inside, I knew.

All the time.  That he didn't really love me." A tear escaped her right eyes

and traveled slowly and thoughtfully down her cheek.  Julia marveled at it.

She hadn't even been aware that she doubted everything Angelique had said,

mistrusted her completely, until she saw that tear.  I feel sorry for her,

Julia thought, amazed.  By god, I really, really do. 

Julia squeezed her hand back. 

To err is human, she thought.  To forgive ... 

"You have no idea how it feels to finally admit that, how freeing it all

feels," Angelique said through her tears, then her mouth fell open in

amazement.  "Julia ...  Julia, are you all right?"

I'm crying, Julia thought, and stared at the tear that clung like a diamond to

the end of her finger.  How 'bout that. 

The two women embraced without speaking. 

When they parted, they both wiped the tears from their faces and chuckled, both

a little embarrassed.  "I've never felt this way before," Angelique said.  "I

feel as if ...  as if we're friends.  Or we could be," she added swiftly. 

Julia shrugged.  "You did try to kill me a few times," she said.  "I suppose

I'll get over it."

"I really am sorry."

"You should be."

They laughed. 

"I only just realized," Julia said, "how much I completely understand what you

just said.  I love Barnabas more than anything before, in all my life.  I've

done so much for him — given up so much — and I just don't think he realizes

it.  That's hard.  Hard to admit." She shook her head.  "But I think that's

part of loving him.  Not giving up."

"I had to.  My love for him was destroying me.  And everybody around me.

Melodramatic, I know, but true.  I don't even want to think of the things I did

because I told myself that it was okay, because I was in love, because I'd been

hurt.  That I deserved to do these things, and that the people I hurt deserved

it too."

"Maybe that's what he's feeling now.  I think he's lost himself, somehow, in

the dark and the pain.  He won't let me help him.  He's setting out to destroy

himself, I think."

"And he'll take all of us with him."

Julia nodded.  "If it comes to that.  But I think that he's in there,

somewhere.  Waiting for us to find him.  To help him out."

"Because he's still Barnabas."

"Somewhere.  He's always Barnabas.  The vampire is capable of being vanquished,

no matter what he's telling himself now."

"Sometimes ...  sometimes I wish I had my powers.  Just so I could fix this, or

at least try."

"Don't think like that.  If I can make him listen to reason I can start the

injections again.  I've altered my formula, updated it.  But I won't know what

the results are unless he's here to take it.  And right now, we have no idea

where he is.  And even if we did find him, why would he listen to us now?"

Angelique's eyes widened; her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. 

Julia examined her carefully.  "What?" she asked.  "What's the matter."

"Oh, Julia!" Angelique exclaimed, her eyes feverish with the beginning glow of

excitement.  "I believe that's it."

"What's it?"

"And I wouldn't even have to really try magic, at least not alone, and it's so

simple, anyone can do it, really —"

"What are you talking about?"

Angelique gripped her hand so hard it hurt, but Julia didn't pull away.

"You're right, Julia.  Why would Barnabas listen to us?  But if it wasn't one

of us who approached him —"

"I don't understand."

Her eyes shone bright, like flaming stars.  "Julia.  Have you ever been to a

seance?"

 

8

"That girl.  Did you see her?"

He shrugged.  "Not very well."

Her eyes narrowed, blue, tinged with tiny crimson veins.  "I did.  And it's

disturbing." Her lower lip trembled petulantly.  "More than disturbing."

"She look familiar?"

"More than that.  He's draining her — drinking her.  Just like me.  And that's

what she looks.  Just like me."

"Her name is Carolyn Stoddard.  I got that from the housekeeper."

"Did you kill her?"

He grimaced.  "Would you?"

"Could've been fun.  Plucking strings of muscle from her spine.  Drinking from

the stem of her brain.  Chewing her eyeballs like great wads of gum.  Need I

continue?"

"Please do." His hands roamed over her body, and clamped down on her jean-clad

buttocks.  She moved closer to him, her lover and her child, sire to sired.

Their lips met, their tongues duel, their fangs clashed.  They sank to the

floor of the cave where their coffins lay, and as they joined they snarled and

slashed, and the wounds each inflicted upon the other healed almost instantly.

Her fangs sank into his throat greedily, and he moaned and thrust away

exuberantly inside her, just like old times. 

When it was over, and they lay side by side, she smiled at him, lazily running

her fingers up and down his chest.  His nipples were like blue flecks of ice.

"I'm glad we came back here."

"Are you really?"

"Oh yes.  It's been forever.  But that's what I promised him."

"Barnabas Collins?"

"Barnabas Collins," she agreed.  "I told him that I would return only when

everyone in this miserable place had forgotten me.  And now they have." Her

eyes flashed crimson.  "I swore I would make him pay — make them all pay.  And

I will.  Him ...  and the other one."

"The witch."

"She isn't a witch any longer.  She'll be mine.  And so will Victoria Winters.

After I've forced Barnabas to watch as I kill both his women, I'll destroy the

rest of the Collins family before his eyes.  Elizabeth and Roger and little

David.  The whole works." Her fangs glittered in the dim light.  "And then I'll

drive that stake through Barnabas' heart myself."

"You've never changed," he said fondly.  "Even after all this time.  Still the

same.  Still my angry, vicious girl."

She rose and stood, naked, at the entrance to the cave.  Her vampire eyes saw

far beyond the trees, to the Old House, where lights still gleamed in the

windows.  She held out one pale hand, as if to cup it, and clenched it into a

fist.  After a moment, drops of blood fell from her hand and pattered to the

floor of the cave. 

"You will see my face again, Barnabas Collins," Charity Trask whispered.  "And

you will know my vengeance.  I swear it." 

TO BE CONTINUED ....