Chapter 75: How to Make Amends
by Nicky
Voiceover by Thayer David: “Collinwood, in the year
1968, besieged by a force
from the dawn of time, something so darkly malevolent,
something so
reprehensible, that it corrupts everything it
touches. And it is a force
wielded with expert efficiency by one young woman in
the great house of
Collinwood ...
a woman who may hold the key to the destruction of everyone she
loves.”
ACT I
1
Her eyes glittered like polished black stones, and her
lips were drawn back in
a leering, toothy smile. “I am the Queen,” she announced grandly, and
waved
her hand. As if
in answer to a silent summons, the ebony sky over her head was
split by several waves of crimson streaks, as if the
stars were hurling
themselves at her, shredding the sky, burning up
before her. Globes of fiery
beauty. All for
her.
In her black garden.
The woman that had been Victoria Winters was the
Queen, and she was attended,
as a queen should be.
A shifting emerald carpet of twisting, hissing
serpents writhed around her
ankles and rubbed smooth and silky over her feet and
up around her calves.
Their ministrations were strangely soothing.
A hand fell on her shoulder. She stiffened at first; who would dare to
touch
her now?
Here? In her own palace, her own
world?
The hand was white and heavy, and the nails were
black. She shrugged, a tiny
token gesture of disgust, and the hand fell away.
“You are our Queen,” a voice said. She felt a tiny sliver of fear when she
heard it — buzzing, insectile, as inhuman as if a
roach had learned to speak in
human words — but quickly shook the fear away. This was her place, dammit, the
place where didn’t have to feel fear. Or anything else, if she didn’t want to.
“We worship you.” It hesitated. “But —”
“I am powerful,” Vicki said. “You will never touch me again.”
“And where,” that voice said, and it was sly suddenly,
and she didn’t like it,
“where do you suppose that power comes from?”
“Leave this place,” Vicki said. The snakes around her hissed reprovingly.
“Leave me alone.
I don’t need you. I don’t need
anyone.”
“You don’t really believe that.”
“Of course I do.”
The carpet of serpents parted, and a tiny form rose up
from beneath them, and
stared up at Vicki with wide brown eyes.
Vicki felt that nasty quaver of fear again, and tried
to shrug it off. “Amy?”
she said. “Amy,
what are you doing here?”
“I belong here,” Amy said. “This is my place too.”
Vicki’s head throbbed, and she brushed a trembling
hand against her forehead.
“No,” she said, and began to shiver, “no, that’s not —
I mean, that isn’t —”
The little girl held out her arms imploringly, and
Vicki saw a tiny mark on her
wrist. Her hand
lashed out before she could stop it and seized Amy’s arm, then
pulled her close.
The girl remained eerily silent, and she didn’t flinch.
“What is this?” Vicki hissed, but she knew
already. She recognized the mark,
like a tattoo, because she had seen it a few weeks ago
on David. I erased it,
Vicki thought dazedly, I used my powers to erase it,
because he wasn’t himself,
he was being ...
he was being controlled ...
Amy gently removed her arm from Vicki’s numb fingers,
and with a dainty gesture
stepped back and looked up at her governess. “The time is coming,” Amy said.
“You’ll know it soon.
The time of the Leviathan people is at hand.”
According to Eliot, they are a race that ruled the
earth long before our kind
ever made an appearance. They were evil, the purest of evil
apparently, and
incredibly powerful.
But at some point, mankind made a stand against them, and
they were banished, although no one knows to
where.
Quentin’s voice (dear and sweet, no, not, not sweet,
just a, just a VOICE —) in
her ears, and she pressed her hands against them but
it didn’t help, didn’t
make his voice go away.
“The Leviathans,” she whimpered, and looked behind
her, but whoever — whatever
— had stood there was gone now.
Amy took her hand.
It was tiny and cold, like the belly of a fish. “They’re
coming,” she said, and her voice was chiming and
sweet, and her smile was
innocent.
“They’ll be here soon.”
Vicki gasped and sat up. Her head throbbed for a miserable moment, and
she
reached out and groped at her hair, her beautiful fall
of thick auburn hair
that had, until recently, remained unmarred. Now, she realized, it was
streaked with a shock of white that seemed to grow
daily.
Not daily, she thought grimly; every time I use my
powers.
She glanced around her, and realized that she was
sitting in a chair in the
drawing room at Collinwood. The double doors were closed, and a fire
crackled
in the fireplace.
How did I get here? she wondered;
I don’t remember anything
after —
A scream rose on her lips, and then died away as she
pressed her hands against
her mouth to squelch it, force it away, force it not
to exist.
Quentin Collins, the man she loved more than anyone
else on earth, was sprawled
out on the hideous green couch before her. His eyes stared blankly ahead of
him, and they were dim and dazed and glassy, like
marbles; his mouth gaped
open, and a runner of saliva ran in a silver stream
down his chin. The slight
rising and falling of his chest was the only
indication that he still lived.
“Oh Quentin,” Vicki murmured, and then she
remembered. He knows, she thought
with a cold shock of horror, he knows about me, he saw
— he saw —
He didn’t see anything, a cold, small voice said
within her mind. How could
he? He doesn’t
remember anything either, because you wiped it all away. You
know. With
those powers you’re so fond of.
She remembered now, oh yes she did. The emptiness inside him. Alive ...
but
not alive. Dead
... but not dead. Something horribly in-between.
I might as well have killed him, she thought
dimly. Oh my god, oh my dear
sweet god —
She sat up. “I
can make it better,” she said aloud, not caring that the room
was empty (more or less, she thought, and sobbed), “I
can make it right,
there’s still time, I can fix it and no one has to
know —” She was across the
room in a literal blink of an eye, and found herself
kneeling beside him. But
he didn’t move, or give any sign of recognition that
there was someone else in
the room with him, or that he was even in a room at
all.
The power rose inside her like an obedient serpent, a
familiar feeling, dark
and terrible and seductive and consuming, and she felt
it spread inside her
like a stain, and she said, “Quentin Collins —” and
her voice rumbled low and
throaty with power —
“It won’t help him.”
The power dissipated, and Vicki collapsed into a heap
next to the couch as an
exhausted sigh left her lips. She managed to lift her head, and watched the
approaching figure kneel beside her, and gently take
her hand. And it was
cold, dear lord, so cold.
“You can’t do anything for him,” Amy Jennings
said. “He’s gone. Gone for
good, see. And
you did that. That thing. See?” She blinked. Horror had
strangled Vicki’s words in her throat, and she could
only watch. Amy nodded
sympathetically.
“I know. But this is the way it
has to be. Like I told
David, when David still remembered.” The child’s eyes
grew hard and flinty.
“You did that too.”
“I had to,” Vicki said throatily. “I had to because — b-because —”
“Doesn’t matter,” Amy said with a strangely adult
gesture of dismissal. “Now
is all that matters.
What we have to do. Now. Do you want him back?”
“Yes,” Vicki wheezed.
“God.”
“There is no god here,” Amy said, and grinned. “There is only you ... and
me.” She cocked her head to the darkness pressing
eagerly against the window
behind them.
“And ... them.”
“I won’t play this game.”
“You don’t have any choice.” Her voice, sweet and
melodic. Her eyes glinting,
flashing, devil’s eyes, snake’s eyes —
You are strong now, Victoria Winters. No one can tell you what to do.
“Yes,” Vicki hissed, and felt the power inside her
expand of its own accord.
For a second Amy flinched back, and a shadow, a brief
spasm of fear, crossed
over her face.
“I do what I want to do. Tell
them that. Your masters.” She
stood up, and at her full height she towered above the
girl. Black skeins of
electricity began to crackle between Vicki’s fingers;
a spark flew from her
hands and scorched Amy’s cheek, and the girl scuttled
backwards on her hands
and knees like a crab, keening, a high desolate
wail. “I’ll find a way to save
him myself,” Vicki said, and her voice was deep and
throaty with power and
confidence. I
know what I’m doing, she thought, I am absolutely in control.
“Now get out of here,” Vicki said, and more black fire
flew from her hands.
Screaming, Amy clambered to her feet and fled, and
slammed the drawing room
doors behind her.
Satisfied, Vicki brushed her hands against her skirts,
and turned back to
Quentin. She
stroked her chin thoughtfully as she stared into his vacant blue
eyes. “I’ll
make it right,” she said. “I’ll make it
better. I promise you
that, my love.
I’ll make everything okay.”
2
“Get out of here, Sky,” Angelique hissed. She had never felt more vulnerable
in her life, even after her most recent brush with
death at the hands of two of
the most sadistic (and now, she thought with a
momentary inner smile of
triumph, regrettably immolated), most vicious vampires
she’d ever encountered.
The nightgown she wore was blue and filmy, and she
crossed her arms over her
breasts before she realized she had. “Go on, leave!”
The man she had once imagined she loved stood before
her, and his head was
bowed slightly, and a lock of his chestnut hair fell
across one eye in a tiny
curl. She
remembered running her fingers through his hair on their wedding
night (how long ago that now seemed, how foolish),
tugging it in the heat of
passion, groaning in his ear, the night she had felt
like a woman again, a real
woman, for the first time in centuries. His hands were clasped before him
almost reverently, and she felt a spark of hatred
flare within her, ignited by
the betrayal she had received at those hands.
He’s just like you, Angelique, a mocking voice
whispered in her ear. Just the
same. How
typically female; you overlook your own deception, but you’re
furious at his.
It whispered to her in the snide tones of Nicholas Blair, but
it was her own voice.
Dammit.
“I can’t leave, Angelique,” Sky said, and was that
tenderness in his voice?
She’d be damned if — “I came all this way to find
you.”
Her face hardened.
“Did your friend Nicholas Blair tell you about me? Is that
it? So you
think you know the awful truth?” She drew herself up fiercely.
“Well I know a few things about you too, Sky. It’s frightening enough to know
that you know Nicholas Blair — and even more
frightening that he should come to
you for a favor.
Evil? Depraved? Isn’t that what he said you were?”
Sky’s hands were clenched into fists, and Angelique
drew back, suddenly a
little frightened.
If Sky were as powerful as Nicholas had hinted — or perhaps
even more powerful — then he could destroy her right
now, without a thought or
without even any effort expended. “Angelique,” Sky said through gritted teeth,
“you don’t understand.”
“Oh, I think I understand all too well,” she said. She was nearly screaming
now; anger and fear made her voice shrill. If only I had asked Professor
Stokes for some anti-witchcraft charms, she thought,
and could only appreciate
the grim irony in that suggestion. “You’re a warlock. A powerful, evil
warlock. What
did Nicholas want from you, Sky? What
has he done for you in
the past? And
how much will it cost you?”
“You’re right,” Sky said, and suddenly he sounded weak
and defeated. He
collapsed in a heap beside the bed, and dropped his
head and then covered it
with his arms.
He began to rock back and forth, and she could only stare at
him in shock.
Crying? Was Schuylar Rumson, one
of the most powerful business
magnates in the Western hemisphere — Sky Rumson, the
man who, laughing, had
swung her around in his powerful arms so that she
could place the star on the
top of the highest tree in the forest he had cut down
himself only a few weeks
ago — could Sky Rumson be crying? Now?
“You’re right,” he said again. “I
never wanted you to find out. I was so afraid that you would hate me, run
away
from me ...
just like you did. And I can’t
blame you. I came to find you so
I could try to explain. I wanted to make you see that I’ve
changed. Your love
changed me, Angelique.” He looked up at her, face streaming. “Your love made
me a real man again.”
“What are you talking about?” Suspicious hissed within
her like a nest of
snakes.
“I was a warlock.
I have been for — god, a hundred years.
I was born in
England in 1855, and came to America with my mother
when she remarried just
after the Civil War.
My stepfather lived on a plantation in Virginia. His
housekeeper was a woman named Zimba, an old
woman he had brought back
with him from the West Indies. She was an Obeah woman, like a priestess, and
she taught me all about dark magic. I’ve learned a lot since then. About
immortality.
About power. Oh, I wanted power
more than anything in the world.
I sought it out.
"I’ve been to so many places, places I don’t even want to
think about now.
I’ve done terrible things. All in
the name of power.” He
wiped his face, and stared at his hands. His voice was feather-light, barely
more than a husky-leaf whisper. “So much power. I built my empire with the
witchcraft. And
still, it wasn’t enough. I would lie in
my bed at night and
send out my spirit to the farthest reaches of the
cosmos, farther and farther,
away from earth, away from the netherworld, into
worlds no one else has ever
visited, ever.
I met demons and spirits and offered them anything they wanted.
So long as they gave me power.
“Still, not enough.” He sighed, and looked into her
face. “Even before I met
Nicholas, I was reconsidering. Everything.
I was scaring myself, see. I had
never felt fear before in all my long life, but suddenly
...” He shivered.
“This wasn’t even a year ago. I was casting a spell with my coven. Three
witches and another warlock. Paltry.
Weak. But still ... magic is magic.
And I took it from them. They offered it to me freely, and I sucked it
out of
them and added it to my own. There was a mirror. I was going to tap into
their power and use it to open a portal to yet another
dimension. I thought I
could find a demon there who could increase my own
powers a hundred-fold. In
exchange I planned to offer him the world. This world.
Our world. All of it.
All dark.
Forever.
“And then I caught a glimpse of my face in the
mirror. Mid-incantation. And I
stopped. My
face was white, like a corpse, like salt.
There were veins
stretching all across it, purple, ugly, like
bruises. Not purple. Black.
Like the blood that pumped through me was ichor. And my eyes ...” He wiped
sweat from his forehead. “They were black too. Not just black, but empty.
Christ. I don’t
know if I believe in a soul, and I probably haven’t had one
for a long time, but suddenly I was afraid for
it. I was ugly. Inhuman.
I
realized what I was about to do. I was going to end the world, and for what?
For power? The
power to do what exactly? I didn’t
know. Couldn’t answer. So
I stopped the ceremony and I broke the mirror, and I
ran from that place and I
never looked back.
I swore that I would stop using my powers. For good.
And
for awhile it was hard. Falling back on old habits. Teleporting to the
office, rematerializing at home. Conjuring up fire to light a cigarette. I
swore them off again and again. But it never took.
“Until I met you.”
He gazed at her solemnly. She couldn’t move. She was uncertain. Her body was
heavy, then light, heavy, then light. She couldn’t take her eyes away from
his.
“Angelique, you make me human. I have never felt for anyone the way I feel
for
you. I love
you. I never thought I would know what
that meant, but I do. I
do. God,
Angelique, I’ve been nothing without you.
An animal. I ... I
nearly destroyed the house when I found out you had
gone.” Shame burned in his
eyes and in the curl of his lips. “And I knew why. I knew you must have
overheard Nicholas.
The power came back, and it was strong.
So strong — but
not strong enough.
Because I’m stronger. But I’m
only strong because of you.
Please, Angelique.” He reached out his hand for
hers. It hung in the air,
suspended between them. “Please,” he said. “Don’t leave me again.”
She looked at it wordlessly, then up to his face.
“Sky,” she said.
And closed her fingers around his.
“Can you ever forgive me?” he whispered. He was in her arms; she was in his
arms; his face was pressed against her breasts; his
face was hot and wet with
his tears.
“I don’t know,” she said, over and over, “I don’t
know, I don’t know, but I
love you, Sky.
I can’t help it. And I
understand. I do.”
He looked up at her.
“You do?”
She cradled his face tenderly in her hands. “Don’t you know? Didn’t Nicholas
tell you?” He shook his head. She took a breath and didn’t take her eyes
from
his. “I was a
witch, Sky. For far longer than you’ve
been. Since 1692, maybe
even before.
Maybe a million incarnations, and I’ve always been a witch.” She
grimaced.
“Except for now. I have no
powers. None. And I’ve never been
happier.”
He was staring at her in shock. “Angelique?” he whispered. “Angelique ...
Collins?”
She recoiled a little at that name. “You’ve ...
you’ve heard of me?”
“Who hasn’t!” he exclaimed. “Angelique Collins, the most fearsome, most
diabolical witch this world has ever known!”
“Sky —”
“I had no idea,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard her,
“none at all! I never
would’ve connected it.” He stood up; he was pacing
now, across the length of
the room, like a tiger, and running his fingers over
and over through his
chestnut hair.
Angelique watched, and a sick feeling grew in the pit of her
stomach. “And I
checked! I can tell if someone uses
magic or has any magical
powers; you know, you know how you can sense that?”
She nodded slowly. “But
you didn’t.
None! Or no more than any other
human I’d met. And that’s just
it. You were
human, just like I wanted, just like I thought I needed —”
“I am human.
Now.” He blinked at her.
“Nicholas,” she said. “Nicholas
made
me human. About
five months ago. I left this place, and
I never wanted to
come back here again.”
“Barnabas Collins!” Sky said, and snapped his
fingers. “You turned Barnabas
Collins into a vampire!”
She shrugged.
“Among many others things I did —”
“Nicholas told me about you once. He’s not very fond of you.”
“The feeling,” she said, eyes flashing, “is mutual.”
He stopped pacing.
“Is it really true,” he said, his voice a conspiratorial
whisper, hushed with awe, “that you were walled up for
two hundred years?”
She stared at him silently, one eyebrow arched.
“Did you come here to see Barnabas?” There was no
jealousy in his voice, she
was relieved to discover, just honest curiosity, and
maybe something else —
“Yes,” she said.
“We’ve ... we’re overcoming our
differences. I came here
for help. And
there’s another woman, a friend of Barnabas’ who’s helping me,
Julia —”
“Julia Hoffman,” Sky said, “yes, I know her. Well, I’ve heard of her, I mean.”
Angelique stared at him incredulously.
He sighed.
“Elizabeth Collins Stoddard and I are old friends,” he said, then
amended, “or business partners, really. Long time ago. She owns stock in my
magazine. I
can’t believe her name never came up.”
“No reason it should’ve,” Angelique said with a trace
of bitterness. “I was
trying so hard to avoid the subject of Maine at
all. I never wanted to bring
up the Collins family.
I never wanted to see them again.”
“But the Collins family is why I’m here,” Sky
said. “Just because I haven’t
used magic in about a year doesn’t mean I’m not
attuned to it. I can feel when
something dark is rising. Time was I’d have been drawn to it. I’d have come
to this place to suck up all the dark juice that I
could possibly take. But
that’s over now.
I can feel it, though. Something
bad is coming here ... and
I sensed you, Angelique. I sensed that you had come to this place, and
I came
to save you, even if you wouldn’t listen to me.”
“You’re right, Sky,” Angelique said, and climbed out
of bed. Her arms were
still folded across her troubled breast. Lightning flashed outside and
illuminated her features; her eyes flashed in the
silver light. “Something
terrible is coming, but we don’t know what it is. Barnabas is a part of it,
maybe other people.
But Sky —” She grasped at his arms, looked into his face,
searched it with those same intoxicating blue
eyes. “We may have no other
choice.
Whatever is coming, whatever this menace is, its power stretches far
beyond me or anything I’m capable of doing now. If you’re as powerful as you
say, we may need you.”
He looked away, disgust marring for a moment his
handsome, carved features.
“Angelique —”
“I mean it,” she said, and took his hands in her own,
suddenly icy. “I mean
it, Sky. If
worse comes to worse, you may have no choice.
None. You may be
forced to fight Sky, and you may be forced to use your
powers ... or we will
all be lost.”
3
It was sobbing, Julia thought with amazement. Whatever it was, it was sobbing
away as if its heart was broken, and long, silver
tears in streams ran down its
twisted, inhuman features. Its eyes were flat and yellow now, and a
twisted
snout filled with razors jutting from black gums
snuffled at the air; its face
was plated with armor that gleamed an opalescent black
in the light of the
moon.
It’s still human, Julia thought. Somehow, underneath it all, that thing is
still human.
Still Chris Jennings.
The tinkling music continued to pour from the music
box Julia held in one
outstretched hand.
She had regained consciousness a few moments after she
passed out, and Barnabas had handed it to her
wordlessly. When she opened her
eyes, she saw that the monster had scuttled away from
her and was curled up in
the corner of the room, making choked baying sounds
and rocking. It was huge,
she realized; even curled up on the floor with its
long arms wrapped around its
knees, it was still as tall as Barnabas.
It was staring at her with its strange eyes, flat yet
strangely compelling,
with a sort of wonder that was almost childlike in
that deformed face. As she
watched it shifted again; hair sprouted from between
the plates which receded
and disappeared back into the skin; the eyes glowed
emerald, and the snout
became a horn that bristled with thousands of tiny
teeth. It blinked once, and
swallowed, and another cascade of tears poured from
its eyes. It held out what
had once been hands, then paws, and now resembled the
pincers of a lobster.
“Oh Chris,” Julia whispered, “what have I done to
you?”
“Julia, what do you mean?” Barnabas spoke in a low
voice, but his eyes flashed
dangerously.
“This really is all my fault,” Julia said. The chiming minuet began again, and
the creature before them uttered a low, heartbreaking
moan. “I’ve been
administering injections to Chris for the past few
months, Barnabas. I thought
they were making an improvement, maybe paving the way
for a total cure. A
release from his curse.” She sniffled; her eyes
burned; she would have killed
for a cigarette.
“But I guess it ... um ... backfired.
Made him something
even more monstrous than he already was. Oh god —”
“G-gar -d —”
Julia gasped.
The monster had spoken, or tried to speak. The horn had become
a vast hole in its head still lined with teeth like
butcher knives. Its eyes
rolled madly in their sockets.
“He-ep meh — gard — hep meh —” A pointed pink tongue
lapped briefly at its
swollen black lips.
“Oh Christopher,” Julia said, and began to cry.
“It’s all right, Julia,” Barnabas said, and laid a
comforting arm across her
shoulder. “You
didn’t mean for this to happen. We can
fix it. We can make it
right again, I promise you.”
“I don’t know, Barnabas,” Julia whispered. “I just don’t —”
The creature before them gave a convulsive moan, and
began to thrash in its
corner.
“Chris!” Julia exclaimed, but Barnabas held her back. Black fur
sprouted all over the creature’s body and just as
suddenly receded, and melted
away; the body began to shrink and reform itself, and
in only moments Chris
Jennings lay before them, shivering, his naked body
beaded with sweat.
“I’ll get a blanket,” Barnabas said, and left Julia
alone with him.
She knelt at his side, and tried to smile down at
him. He blinked up at her
with dazed eyes that were filled with an unbearable
pain. “Chris,” Julia said,
“Chris, we’re here for you. I’m here for you now.”
“Julia,” he groaned, and tried to cover his face with
his hands. She stroked
his hair, and then he clung to her, his body rocking
with the convulsive sobs
that wracked him.
“It’s gonna be okay,” she whispered, “I promise,
Chris, it’s gonna be —”
“No,” he groaned, and sat up. He stared at her with his eyes, glittering
with
pain like broken shards of glass. “I remember, Julia. I remember it all.”
She recoiled, suddenly stricken with horror, and as
more pain passed over his
face, she cursed herself for her clumsiness.
“It’s never happened before,” he said in a voice like
a child, “never, never.
I’ve never remembered — and then Joe was here, but he
wasn’t Joe at all, he was
never Joe, and he was saying these things, these crazy
things, and the things
he was doing, like he does, the way he was touching me
—” Chris swallowed, and
another tear slid like a traitor down his face. “And then I was different.
Hot, and it hurt, and I was different, I wasn’t
me. It was like I was watching
myself from far away, and I couldn’t stop, I couldn’t
stop, and I hurt him,
Julia, I hurt Not-Joe, but I didn’t just hurt him, I
killed him and I ate him,
I ATE him, oh god Julia, oh GOD, and nothing will ever
be all right again.”
He collapsed against her again, and she held him and
rocked him, and she tried
to smile at Barnabas as he draped a blanket over the
young man’s vulnerable
body, but she knew, somewhere deep down inside, that
Christopher was right.
Nothing would ever be all right again.
TO BE CONTINUED ...
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