Shadows on the Wall Chapter 75 Act Three

Shadows on the Wall Chapter 75

by Nicky

ACT THREE

1

 

Vicki fell back on her knees with a keening wail of desperation and

frustration.  The power that crackled obsidian fire between her fingers

dissipated and fell away, and she felt it all begin to cool and fade away

inside her.  The black in her eyes faded to brown.  She slammed a fist against

the carpet, and felt hot tears begin to course down her cheeks.  She wiped them

away with the back of her arm, but more fell in their place. 

She didn't understand, she didn't understand at all, and that was the most

frustrating.  She was powerful.  She knew it, could feel it; everytime she

opened that door within herself she knew it grew a little wider, a little more

difficult to close, but it was worth it, because the power inside was like a

great furnace.  It came from her; she was the power, and it had always been

enough before.  She had undone Count Petofi's mind switch with Quentin, trapped

the Count within his own ring, brought Professor Stokes back from the darkness

of his coma, freed Carolyn from the grip of the Roget-thing and banished said

thing to a dimension of unspeakable torment, saved David from the Leviathans,

and fried two threatening vampires to a crisp.  She wasn't just powerful; she

was the power itself.  So why couldn't she bring her lover back from the abyss?

"I can't give up," she thought, and tottered back to her feet.  She stood

before him, swaying a little, and stared down at him ...  and for just a moment

felt a bolt of something so pure, so vile, swim through her that at first she

couldn't identify it.  And when she did, her mouth fell open and she shook her

head in vehement denial. 

Hatred.  A hatred so black and consuming that it had threatened, momentarily,

to overwhelm her, and she had almost —

Almost what?  Given up? 

And not just that. 

Bile rose in her throat in a burning tide, and she covered her face with her

hands and sobbed helplessly. 

I almost gave up, she thought, and that means nothing more than letting the

power take over, a living tide, a thing of blackness; I almost let it take over

...  and I almost burned my lover to a crisp.  And I could do it.  With little

effort.  With no effort.  Just ...  give up. 

"No," she snarled.  "There has to be a way.  I can fix this.  I can do it."

She raised her hands and willed the power to rise in her again, and felt the

door spring open and a tide of something, roiling and black and awesome, build

inside her, huge and leaping like fire like love like a tide hot fearsome

ferocious insatiable hot hot and cold nothing like cold ice ice ice —

"NO!" And someone slammed against her and knocked her to the ground, and the

power fell apart into invisible shards, and she cried out, a cheated, wounded

wail. 

There were people in the door, three faces, pale and chalky, like sheep, and

the man before her, the man rising to his feet and staring at her like some new

specimen of monster, this was someone new, someone she'd never seen before in

her life, and how dare he —

"I'm sorry," the stranger said sheepishly, and offered her her his hand.

Dazed, she took it, and allowed him to pull her to her feet.  "I didn't mean to

do it like that.  But the air — I mean, I've seen things like that before I

guess, but never so black.  And I've never heard it scream like that, the air

...  like something alive.  Like something was killing it.  And I didn't want

you to be hurt."

"Vicki —" one of the doorway people said, and it was Barnabas, and his face was

like paper.  Barnabas is back!  some distant part of her thought, and then she

saw him — really saw him — and she knew what had happened to him.  Again.

Somehow.  And it all began to make a lot of sense. 

"Who are you?" she asked the man who had tackled her like a linebacker.  He was

handsome in a dull sort of way; lantern jaw, tousled brown hair, dark eyes.

And then she felt him, without even intending to do so, felt inside him, and

she recoiled.  There was a darkness there, like a seed planted deep inside,

like a tree, but stunted and dead, cut off and away, but a darkness

nonetheless.  A power.  Potent.  And tappable.  She licked her lips. 

 And he saw her do it. 

"My name is Schuylar Rumson," he said.  "And you're Victoria Winters."

"Now that's hardly fair," she said, and tossed her head coquettishly.  "You

know me, and I don't know a thing about you."

He scowled at her, and she felt that pang of fear again, distantly, and she

hated it, because he did know — he could see inside her just as well as she

could see in him, and it made her afraid.  Afraid and ashamed.  "I don't think

that's true now, do you?" he said, and smiled, but his eyes were flinty and

watchful. 

She opened her mouth to reply, and then saw the others in the doorway, lurking

beside the vampire-man-then- vampire-again, and her the words died in her

throat.  Dark, bitter amusement replaced them, and she couldn't help but laugh.

"Well, well, well," she chuckled.  "If it isn't Cassandra Collins.  Or is it

Miranda tonight?  It's so hard to keep up with you."

Angelique quailed, and Vicki laughed again.  She could smell the fear coming

off of her in waves; it was a terrible smell, an irritating smell, like iron

shavings, like spoiled tomato sauce, like curdled milk.  It made her want to

darken, to reach inside herself and —

 

Sky Rumson dropped a hand over hers, and Vicki bared her teeth, but froze under

his forcible — and yet somehow deeply patient and ...  and god, caring — stare,

and found that she couldn't move at all.  "Don't," he said simply.  "You don't

want to hurt anybody else, do you?"

Her eyes narrowed.  "I don't know what you mean," she said icily. 

"Quentin!" Julia cried, and knelt beside him.  Vicki had to quash the urge to

knock her aside with an energy bolt.  Besides, she thought, annoyed, Mr.

Schuylar Rumson would probably just get in the way.  Whoever — or whatever —

the hell he is. 

Julia pressed her fingers against Quentin's limp wrist, and then against his

throat.  "He's alive," she said, brow furrowed.  "His pulse is steady.  I don't

understand —"

Vicki rolled her eyes. 

Sky joined Julia next to Quentin, and placed his fingers against the other

man's temples, then closed his eyes.  "He's gone," he said after a moment.

"Quentin Collins is not at home."

Angelique rushed to his side.  "What does that mean?" she cried.  "Sky?  What's

the matter with him?"

"I was trying to help," Vicki said, "when Mr.  Rumson knocked me down."

Sky raised an eyebrow.  "Tried to help him?  Miss Winters, you're responsible

for his condition."

Vicki felt blood rushing crimson to her cheeks, and railed at herself that she

was unable to stop herself from something so simple — so human — as blushing. 

Barnabas was staring at her with something like horror, and for a moment (and

only a moment) she felt the blush in her cheeks again.  From shame.  But that

ice inside her rose again, and she returned his gaze levelly until he looked

away, his eyes low with guilt. 

"The power," Sky said quietly.  "There's a lot of it inside you, isn't there."

Vicki said nothing. 

Sky shrugged.  "Must be important to you.  Has to be, if you were willing to do

whatever it was you did to him." He jerked a thumb in Quentin's direction. 

"You don't know anything," Vicki said. 

"Sure I do," Sky said.  He stood beside her now, and something was rising in

him.  Vicki could feel all the hair on her body beginning to stand up, and a

tiny spark of terror broke through the sheath of ice inside her.  "I know you.

I can feel you, Victoria Collins."

Vicki gasped and tried to move away, but she couldn't.  She was bound to the

floor, and Sky was very near to her. 

"Who are you?" she whispered.  There were tears in her eyes, and they hurt,

they burned and they dug at her, but she couldn't blink them away. 

"That's who you are, isn't it?  A Collins?  You know it, but it doesn't matter.

 All that matters is now.  I can feel the power inside you, Victoria.  I had a

lot of power once too.  Might be that I still do.  I'm not really sure.  To be

honest, I'm a little afraid to test it out." His eyes were glowing now, the

pupils dilating and contracting, dilating and contracting; red lightning

flashed inside them, and crackled between his fingers. 

"Sky —" Angelique said, her voice tense with worry. 

"So much power," Sky said, his voice soft and caressing, and his eyes were

totally black now.  "It's dangerous.  Alluring, but difficult.  Such a burden.

Why don't you just let me —" And suddenly, quick as a cat, quick as lightning,

quicker than time and in the taking of a breath, he slammed one hand against

Vicki's breast.  She arched backwards and tried to scream; her eyes flew open

and glowed a dark, hellish obsidian; a surge of power, black, always black,

flowed out of her and into Sky Rumson; he stumbled backwards but was held aloft

by the energy around him that now began to glow a feverish red.  With that same

devil's speed he spun around and placed both his hands on the temples of

Quentin Collins.  The power around him faded to a soft pink; Sky's breathing

came in huge, snuffling gasps; "Suscito!" he commanded, and "Sentio!  Cogito!"

And Quentin sat up with a surge of power; his eyes bulged, and he opened his

mouth to suck in a huge gasp of air.  Sky fell backwards, drained, exhausted,

and the power around him snapped and popped, then finally dissipated. 

"Quentin!" Julia cried, and scrambled forward to examine him. 

 

He blinked at her with wide blue eyes, but still dull and dazed.  "V-Vicki?" he

whispered.  His voice was harsh and his breathing labored; he placed a hand to

his forehead and winced.  He shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts, and

then let his eyes scan the people before him.  Sky Rumson had sank to his knees

with his head down, breathing deeply and then exhaling slowly and carefully;

Angelique sat at his side, one hand on his shoulder, but her face was shadowed

with trouble; Barnabas cradled Vicki in his arms, and held her as her head

drooped backwards and her eyes fluttered. 

"What happened?" Quentin asked, then clutched his head again.  "Ow," he

murmured. 

"You don't remember?" Julia monitored him carefully. 

"I don't ...  it's hard to remember," he said.  "Or to think at all." His eyes

fell on Barnabas and Vicki, and he tried to sit up, then fell backwards onto

the sofa.  "Vicki," he groaned.  "How is she?  What happened to her?"

Sky lifted his head.  "That's what we're trying to figure out, Mr.  Collins."

Quentin scowled at him.  "Who the hell are you?"

"Schuylar Rumson." Quentin's eyes darted to Angelique, and widened as she

nodded.  "I brought you back, Mr.  Collins.  Don't ask me from where; I'm not

sure I could tell you even if I did know.  A dark place.  Cold.  Not ...  not

somewhere I'd want to be."

"And Barnabas ..." Quentin said in a near whisper. 

 

Julia squeezed his hand.  "We have a lot to discuss, Quentin," she said, and

her voice was thin, like paper. 

Vicki groaned and opened her eyes, and they were brown and lucid.  She blinked,

and rubbed her forehead.  "Hurts," she whispered.  She looked into Barnabas'

eyes, then scuttled away from him, shaking her head and whimpering. 

"Sky?" Angelique whispered.  Her hand trembled in his. 

"I'm fine," he said, but his face was pale and his hands were shaking like

little birds.  "Miss Winters ...  Victoria ...?"

Vicki opened her mouth, then closed it, and dropped her head.  "Oh," she said,

and then, "Oh ..." and covered her face with her hands.  Her shoulders shook,

and her hair, now more than half a fall of snowy white, fell about her like a

shroud.  They watched her silently, unsure, all of them, their faces white and

their eyes wide and their mouths tightly closed.  Finally she lifted her head

and blinked at them, and her face was strained and wet with tears.  "I'm

sorry," she said; her voice grated and cracked, and her eyes were wide with

misery.  "I'm so ...  sorry."

No one said a word. 

 

They're afraid of me, Vicki thought, and looked at her hands.  They were small

and nicely shaped, even though one of her nails was chipped.  Nice hands, she

thought, pretty little hands.  That could end the world right now, if I wished

it to be so. 

She wanted to cover her face again and moan. 

Instead, she said, "I don't know what you did, Mr.  Rumson ...  but thank you.

So ...  so much."

Sky nodded.  He still looked drained, but the color was returning to his

cheeks.  Vicki watched the two of them, Angelique and Schuylar Rumson, and

thought how much in love they seemed, their hands linked, their eyes returning

to each other every few seconds.  She felt a stab of jealousy, then willed it

away.  It went, easily, like leaves drifting away in a gentle wind.  She looked

to Quentin, then looked away.  I can't ever have him, she thought remotely,

never touch him.  Ever again.  Not after ... 

She swallowed.  It felt like glass in her throat. 

"Sorry," she said, and watched her hands.  "God."

2

Later, Julia watched the moon sailing through the sky, and puffed distractedly

on her cigarette.  It's not a man, she thought, and shivered a little; at

least, not a living man.  It's like a skull in the sky.  Always watching us.

Always aware ...  but dead just the same.  Just ...  dead. 

Barnabas put a hand on her shoulder, and she jumped a little.  His fingers were

cold and hard, like marble, like a statue.  He tried to smile, but it didn't

fit his face very well; it was hard too, and mask-like.  "I'm sorry for

everything I've ever put you through," he said, and though his face was cold

and watchful, his voice was warm.  Tender.  "Julia," he said, as if tasting her

name. 

 

She shrugged.  "Occupational hazard," she said.  It was mid-March, and the wind

sailing over and across her was still jagged with a hint of ice and redolent of

the salt of the sea.  Not usually an unpleasant odor, but tonight ...  tonight,

the associations were just a little too ... 

She didn't know. 

"You're going to be fine," Barnabas said.  "So is Vicki.  So is everyone at

Collinwood.  We will fight these things; we'll beat them back.  Humankind has

done it before.  We will prevail."

"I'm afraid, Barnabas," she said softly.  He put his arm around her shoulder

and drew her close.  "I can feel them all the time now.  Watching ...

listening.  Waiting.  They're like ...  like snakes in my brain."

"Professor Stokes can help."

"He's a part of it too."

"But he's fighting.  So can you."

She closed her eyes.  "Oh Barnabas," she whispered, "Barnabas, I want to.  So

badly.  These creatures are responsible for so much pain and suffering.  Vicki

..." Her voice trailed off, and for a moment she seemed to go deep inside

herself.  She returned with a tiny start.  He watched her questioningly.  "I've

seen her like that before," she said at last.  "When she brought Eliot back

from his coma.  I was scared then, but she was nothing like she was tonight.

The air — the air around her was screaming, Barnabas, like it was in pain.

Like it was dying.  And it was all black."

"She's afraid now.  She's promised to stop."

"I don't think it's that easy," Julia said, and worried her lower lip.  "Her

power comes from Petofi, and Petofi is a part of the Leviathans somehow."

"She told us.  She's fighting too.  She has been, it sounds like, for awhile.

She cured David —"

"And she nearly killed Quentin.  Her powers are dangerous and uncontrollable,

Barnabas, and who knows how long this ...  this abstinence will last?  She has

a taste for it now; it's in her blood.  Like an addiction."

"You forget," Barnabas said.  "I know how that feels."

She touched his hand, his cold, dead hand, and did not shudder or tremble.  "Oh

Barnabas," she said.  "I could never forget.  But look at you.  You've

conquered your demons, and these were the literal kind.  You could have chosen

to continue down that path, that darkness, but you didn't.  You came back."

"I have so much to make up for," Barnabas said.  "Sabrina Stuart —" His voice

choked off. 

 

"We're going to make it better," Julia said, and squeezed his hand.  "I

promise."

He broke away from her, pulling his fingers from hers, and she frowned, but

forced her forehead to smooth again.  She followed him to the door of Chris'

cottage.  No lights burned, but Julia figured that he was sleeping it off.

They had disposed of Nathan Forbes' body after Julia had given Chris a sedative

and put him to bed.  It's really very sad, Julia had thought at the time,

helping Barnabas drag the tarp-covered body while ducking branches, that we

have to plan where to bury the bodies now.  The forest near Collinwood is full

of 'em. 

Barnabas didn't bother knocking; he simply faded through the door.  Julia

frowned again, and wondered if he even realized that he had done it.  The

vampire inside him is stronger than he thinks, she told herself; we have to be

careful.  Not out of the woods quite yet. 

"Julia!" Barnabas cried, and the alarm in his voice spurred her to running.

She dashed through the door, her long green coat flapping behind her like

wings, and she nearly stumbled before she came to a complete stop.  He was

standing next to the kitchen table, a note held tight in his hands.  "It's from

Chris," he said, and handed it to her. 

B AND J, it read, I'M SORRY.  DIDN'T TAKE THE SEDATIVE.  HAVE TO GET AWAY.

FROM HERE.  FROM THIS TOWN.  FROM JOE AND FROM EVERYONE.  THE ANIMAL IS THERE ALL THE TIME NOW, AND I DON'T KNOW WHAT THE MEANS ANYMORE.  I DON'T WANT TO HURT ANYBODY ELSE.  I'LL CALL.  TAKE CARY OF AMY.  PLEASE DON'T TRY TO FIND ME. I'M SORRY. 

She let the note sail from her fingers and see-saw lazily down to the floor.

They stared at each other wordlessly for a moment.  "He's gone," she said at

last.  A tear ran from one eye down her cheek, and she made no move to brush it

away.  Her chest felt heavy and hot.  Her fingers itched.  "He's really gone."

"Dammit," Barnabas growled. 

"My fault," Julia said.  "All my fault."

"You were trying to help him."

"Some help I turned out to be.  He's even worse off than he was before." Her

eyes widened with terror.  "Barnabas," she said, clutching at his arm,

"Barnabas, you don't suppose he went off to ...  to ..." She couldn't even say

it. 

Barnabas shook his head slowly.  "I can sense him," he admitted at last.

"Things are different now, Julia.  For me.  For Vicki.  Even for Sky Rumson.

The Leviathans are a power of darkness none of us have ever encountered before,

and somehow they're heightening our powers as well.  It frightens me ...  but I

can still sense Christopher Jennings.  He's far from here by now — I couldn't

follow him if my life depended on it, or his, or yours — but still alive.  And

powerful.  He'll go far from here, I'm sure ...  but I think he'll be back."

"Poor Amy," Julia said.  "I'll have to tell her tomorrow."

"If she is as Vicki says, you may not have to worry.  I don't think the real

Amy Jennings is in there anymore."

"Oh god," Julia said, and she couldn't stop crying, even as she folded herself

into his arms, "oh god, Barnabas, what are we going to do?  What can we do?"

He held her out before him and stared into her eyes.  "What we always do,

Julia.  What we will continue to do.  What we have to. 

"We'll survive."

 

3

And this is the way that awful night, that dreadful night, that long and

terrible (and miles to go before they sleep) night, finally, irrevocably ends:

 Chris Jennings places his chin in the palm of his hand, and watches the scenery

speed by him, now gently bathed in the rose of the early morning sun.  He has

never felt so alive in his life, and this terrifies him.  He can feel the

darkness pulsing like a heartbeat as he leaves Collinsport behind.  He needs to

be away from humans, any humans, all humans.  Somewhere quiet, with trees,

maybe mountains.  A place he can think.  And sleep.  Sleep with no dreams.  He

closes his eyes.  God, what he would give to not dream. 

 

Angelique Rumson lies in the arms of the man she loves, and places her head on

Sky's barrel chest.  Their lovemaking was fierce at first, frantic in its

intensity and the heat of their desire, but ended quietly, gently, less a bang

but never a whimper.  I'm afraid, she tells him now, I can't help it; it's

silly I know but I'm afraid.  Of me?  he asks.  She nods.  She has to.  She can

never lie to him again.  I saw you, Sky, she says, and a tear slips unbidden

from her eye.  I saw what it did to you, and I'm sorry I ever — No, he says,

and touches her lips with one fingertip.  He is serious, but his love for her

bathes her in warmth, and it's okay.  She feels that; everything is going to be

okay.  You were right, Sky says, and strokes her hair.  I have to help.  It'll

be hard, but I have to.  I don't have any other choice.  This is something I

have to do.  To make it all right again.  And you will, she whispers in his

ear, and she loves him again, as she has never loved him before, but deep down,

she is still afraid. 

 

Maggie Evans whispers one word under her breath as she approaches the House by

the Sea: infusco, she says, and can feel the magic work as her hair changes

from a dark copper to a fathomless, shiny obsidian.  Nicholas mustn't know what

has happened this night.  He's a fool really, a victim of his own vanity.

Easily disposed of.  And she told Professor Stokes the truth.  She can't stop,

and she doesn't think she ever will.  A door has opened inside her, and it's

far too late to close it now.  But she's moved beyond Nicholas, beyond evil,

beyond feeling.  This might have frightened her once.  It doesn't now.  She

slips through the door like a shadow, and glides up the stairs.  He's in bed.

Waiting for her.  Smirking.  His face is a weasel's.  She can't even hate him.

He doesn't speak; he slips inside her, but she is already occupied.  She is

Maggie Evans.  She is darkness. 

 Julia Hoffman administers an injection of her newly developed serum into

Barnabas' arm.  She'll prepare one for Carolyn later in the afternoon, after

she allows herself a long nap.  It won't do any good.  She'll dream.  She

doesn't want to; she fears the dreams; she fears the voices; she fears herself.

The needle slides into Barnabas' skin like a fang, and he doesn't wince.  She

wonders if he even feels it.  When it's all over he squeezes her hand.  I don't

know what I'd do without you, he says.  She looks at him.  Looks at the

syringe.  Catches a glimpse of her reflection in a beaker.  Alone.  Talking to

herself.  Talking to a ghost.  She looks at the syringe.  She looks at him.

Let's hope we never find out, she says. 

 Victoria Winters (never Collins, she thinks darkly, and then wills the darkness

away) watches the sea rage beneath her from where she stands near the edge of

Widow's Hill.  The ledge should crumble away beneath me, she thinks; it would

be an easy death, the one I deserve.  I don't think I can do this.  I don't

think I can stop.  I don't know if I can leave the black garden, oh god, oh god

I just don't know.  When Quentin appears behind her she can sense him, and is

disturbed by the fact that she can sense him, but she doesn't protest when he

slides his arms around her and pulls her to him.  He nuzzles her gently.  You

could never hurt me, he says, and breathes deeply into her hair.  There's more

white than dark now.  He pretends not to notice.  We can watch the sunrise from

here, he whispers into her ear.  It's a beautiful spot.  You're beautiful.  I

love you, Victoria.  I have always loved you.  She turns to kiss him, without

words, without tears, and though she knows she can never touch him she is

touching him, because his love for her is pure and white and it will redeem

her, and god and everyone, she wants to be redeemed.  I just hope it isn't too

late, she thinks, but while she's in the arms of Quentin Collins, she knows

that everything is going to be all right. 

And the sea continues to sing its ancient song. 

TO BE CONTINUED ...