Shadows on the Wall Chapter 103

SHADOWS ON THE WALL

CHAPTER 103:  Attack

 by Nicky

Voiceover by Joan Bennett:  “Dark forces are rising in Collinsport … for one woman, alive more than a hundred years, plans to raise an army of the damned … while, on the great estate, two more women, once fierce enemies, will try to reconcile their differences … but there is one Enemy who has a plan all its own.”

1

 

            Elizabeth Collins Stoddard was not, she finally decided, afraid of anything.  Not after the events of the past few years – the past few months. 

            She had, in a moment of inspiration only that morning, struck by the lovely way that the late October sunlight played off the leaves accumulating along the drive, given Mrs. Johnson the first holiday the poor woman had enjoyed in years.  “But Mrs. Stoddard,” the housekeeper continued to say, flustered, all the way down the stairs, through the foyer, and out the front doors, “I don’t need a vacation, I’m telling you; I’m fit as a fiddle, I promise, and you all need me so!”

            And yet, in the end, Elizabeth triumphed, as she usually did.  She was a Collins, after all, and accustomed to having her way. 

            She wasn’t afraid of a little light housework, or enjoying the house all to herself this afternoon.  David was playing on the beach, Carolyn had taken a trip to Bangor with Eliot Stokes, Barnabas and Julia were working on their book, and Cassandra was … well, Elizabeth didn’t want to think too much where her brother’s widow and the newest Collins houseguest had taken herself off to.  She simply didn’t like Cassandra, and when she tried to analyze exactly why, it was as if her mind drifted away for a time.  Very disquieting.

            Well, she wouldn’t dwell on it now.  Now she would enjoy her house, all quiet and all to herself.  It had been a long time since she had been allowed any time to herself.  The attentions of Nicholas Blair, before his mysterious disappearance, had begun to prove exhausting; she wasn’t used to the company of a man anymore, not since Paul abandoned her, only to return to Collinwood just in time to be murdered.  And, frankly, most men made her uncomfortable. 

            “Mrs. Stoddard?”

            Elizabeth froze, then forced herself to relax.  Why should the sound of Cassandra’s voice cause every muscle in her body to contract, her bones to lock into place?  Surely it couldn’t just be the fact that she had abandoned Roger in the middle of one black night last autumn, with nary a word of explanation, leaving only her brother behind to offer lame, half-baked excuses.  “Yes?” she said, turning to face the other woman.

 

            Cassandra looked good, Elizabeth had to admit.  She had cut her hair short again so that it framed her face in two ebony curves, each one the wing of a raven.  And those eyes – so enormous, so compelling … making everything feel distant … so far away …

            This same woman, her face like salt, acrawl with strange symbols etched across every visible inch of her body, and moving somehow, raises her arm, and Victoria Winters screamed –

            “Mrs. Stoddard?”  The sound of genuine concern in her voice; but was it? 

            Elizabeth placed a trembling hand to her forehead. 

            Cassandra’s face looming over her so that it filled the entire world, and her eyes were sunken and glowing like those of a wolf, and her Barbie Doll pink lips split to reveal two enormous fangs, and her face lowered and came closer, and closer, and closer –

            “Mrs. Stoddard, let me get you something.  A glass of water, perhaps.”  Cassandra was at her elbow, had somehow managed to cross the room without Elizabeth noticing. 

She pulled away from her with a jerk. “No!” she cried, then saw the look of pain cross the other woman’s face, and was instantly sorry.  She was a Collins if nothing else, and a Collins kept face.  Her father had taught her that, and she had respected Jamison Collins more than anyone else on earth.  Even when he decided to take in baby Louise – and that was a secret no one else knew; even Roger never suspected that their baby sister was adopted – Jamison Collins was still the stiff-lipped patriarch of the family.  Perhaps that was why Louise was always such a free spirit, Elizabeth mused, then shook away the past with a literal movement of her head.  “I’m sorry, Cassandra,” she said, and forced a smile.  “I haven’t been sleeping well, ever since we returned to Collinwood.  I suppose I’m just … on edge.”

Cassandra returned her smile.  “Perfectly understandable, Mrs. Stoddard.  I think all our nerves have been jangling the past few days.”

She felt softer.  “I was about to prepare some coffee.  Would you like some?”

Cassandra hesitated, then composed herself, prettily smoothing out wrinkles in the Mary Quant red trapeze dress she wore to such effect.  “That would be lovely,” she said.  “But you must let me do it.”  As Elizabeth began to protest, Cassandra said, “No, please!  You’ve been so kind, letting me stay here with you.  It’s the least I can do.”

           

            “All right,” Elizabeth said at last.  “Thank you.”

            “Cream?  Sugar?”

            “Black,” Elizabeth said, and added, “Strong.”  Cassandra chuckled, nodded, then walked purposefully out of the drawing room.  Elizabeth watched after her, chewing her lower lip.  Finally she sank into one of the antique chairs that had been in the family god knew how long, and drummed her fingers against the arm.  Why on earth should this woman have such a strong effect on her?  She was perfect, or nearly so, and yet, Elizabeth felt consumed by such a strong sense of dislike every time they occupied the same space together.  It wasn’t like her.

 

            She looked up at the sound of cloth rustling, and said, “Back already?” even as she thought, Why, it’s too soon for the coffee to be done percolating; something must have happened to her along the way –

            But it wasn’t Cassandra that stood before her.

            Jamison Collins had been an old man when he finally died in his bedroom; Elizabeth, numb, frozen, could recall that smell with absolute clarity:  the sick room smell, old man smell, medicine, pungent, and something sour and darkly, thickly black, the smell of death, of course.  The smell, she knew, was in her mind, but the air around her, that was something tangible, or close enough; frigid, as if someone had opened the front doors of Collinwood during a blizzard.  Her teeth were chattering and she couldn’t stop them, couldn’t stop her heart from racing in her chest like a rabbit.

            But Jamison wasn’t an old man now as he stood before her; he was young, in his early twenties, perhaps, and handsome, smiling slightly at her.  “Darling,” he said.

            “F-father,” Elizabeth managed, but she couldn’t rise out of the chair; she was frozen in place, helpless.  “F-f-father, how…?”

            “I haven’t much time,” Jamison said, which was odd, because his mouth was closed, still smiling.  His hands were together primly, but Elizabeth could see through him, the portrait of Benjamin Collins on the wall behind him, the portrait of Jeremiah.  “I’ve come to warn you, darling,” he said through lips that didn’t move, then, horribly, they did move, as if she were watching a poorly dubbed film, a talkie with the soundtrack a fraction of a second off.

            “Warn me?” she whispered.

            “You must beware that … that creature,” Jamison said.  “You dislike her, isn’t that true?  Weren’t you just thinking how much you dislike her?”

            “Yes …”  Barely a whisper.  How could he know her thoughts?  This wasn’t real; this couldn’t be happening.

            But it is happening, Elizabeth.  And it’s happening to you.

            “I knew her,” Jamison said, and his face darkened, his eyes shadowed.  “When I was a boy, she lived in this house.”

            “N-not possible –”

           

            “What isn’t possible?  My dear girl, you must open your mind in ways that I never could in life.  The impossible is possible, and you must face it.”

            “Face it …”

            “Yes.”  His voice was soothing, and the words he spoke matched the movements of his mouth now.  That was comforting.  She had to sit back and begin to believe:  the ghost of her dead father was standing before her, had appeared to her to warn her of some dread danger that Cassandra was some part of, and she must believe.  “She called herself ‘Miranda’ when I knew her, but it’s the same woman, Elizabeth.  She’s a witch.”

            “Cassandra … a witch?”

            “Doesn’t it make sense, darling?  Why else would your brother marry her?  She bewitched him to infiltrate this family … to destroy it once and for all.  And that’s why she’s returned.”

            Elizabeth frowned.  “No,” she said.  “That’s not right.  Cassandra … Cassandra has been …”  But she couldn’t think of how to finish that sentence.  She had another flash of memory, sharper now:  Vicki, dripping with snakes and ravenous insects as Cassandra watched patiently; Cassandra lifting her head from Elizabeth’s throat, her mouth dripping with rubies; and she moaned and clutched at her head. 

 

            Jamison was relentless.  “As Miranda DuVal, she used me to return to life when I was just a boy.  A helpless child.  Drained my lifeforce to supplement her own.  She uses people, Elizabeth.  You.  Your family.  And she will repay you with death.”

            “Death …”

            “You must act quickly, my darling.  My strength is fading.  I have only a moment to help you.  A moment to make sure that the witch never bothers you again …”

            He was grinning now.  And he held something in his hand.

            “That she is taken care of once and for all …”

            A torch.

2

            Audrey sucked greedily at the bag of blood, then snarled, revealing her fangs as Julia plucked the bag out of her clutching hands.  “I’m not done,” she growled, and her eyes flashed crimson.

            “You are,” the doctor said firmly.  The new cross she had purchased at Brewster’s in downtown Collinsport glittered in the firelight as Julia moved away from the baby vampire and toward her black bag.  She had also purchased a cross for Willie, and now he was on the same injection regime as Barnabas and Audrey.  The cross proved incredibly effective, but even with its reassuring nearness, the new vampire wiping her mouth only a few feet away made Julia just the slightest bit nervous.  What if the injections caused Audrey to lose her fear of the cross before her vampire’s appetite – and powers – went with it?

            “Julia,” Audrey whined, “I told you.  I didn’t find anything out about this woman.  Only that she has red hair.”

            “That doesn’t give us much to go on.”  She slid the point of the needle into the ampoule containing the serum. 

           

            “And she was strong,” Audrey sighed.  “And old.  I could just tell.”

 

            Julia raised an eyebrow.  That was new information.  Ever since she had returned to the Old House, shuffling her feet and staring at the ground like a child, Audrey had been trying to recover Julia’s good graces.  With Barnabas it had been easy; he understood what she was going through, he explained to Julia, and besides, it was his fault she was the way she was, wasn’t it?  When Audrey brought news of another vampire in town, she seemed under the impression that all would be forgotten.  But Julia was taking her time thawing. 

            Now she turned to face Audrey, holding the needle aloft.  “How old would you say?”

            Audrey shrugged.

            “Guess,” Julia said.  Somehow, no matter what kind exchange they shared, this woman always managed to pluck at the strings of her patience until they frayed to near snapping.  She forced herself to breathe. 

            “She looks like she’s my age,” Audrey said.  “But I’m thinking she’s way older than that.  Like, at least a hundred.”

            “And she didn’t say anything else to you?  Besides threatening you, I mean?”

            Audrey shook her head.  “I didn’t give her much of a chance.  I just …”  She shrugged, embarrassed, and lowered her eyes.  “…vanished,” she finished.

            Julia drew in a shaky breath.  “That was the right thing to do,” she said.  Audrey lifted her head, but watched the other woman suspiciously.  “An older vampire could have destroyed you.”

            “And we wouldn’t want that.”  The little nosferatu sounded, impractically, peevish.

            Julia felt her irritation beginning to rise again, but she quashed it.  “Audrey,” she said, “give me your arm.”  She did as she was told, but carefully, like a cat, never taking her eyes off Julia.  The needle slid into her arm but she made no sound, not of pain or shock or fear.  Julia released the contents of the syringe to flow freely through the undead veins, then took the needle back.  “Now,” Julia said briskly, “would I waste my time helping you like this if I wanted you dead?”

 

            “You think I’m a science experiment.  Something you can inject and dissect.”  Julia suddenly saw that Audrey’s eyes were filled with tears, that her lower lip was quivering.  She looked like a tired little girl, but she wasn’t a little girl.  She had been, up until a few weeks ago, an ordinary young woman about to start a new life in Collinsport.  A foolish plan, obviously, but it didn’t matter:  if Audrey was displaying human characteristics like tears, then the experiment was succeeding.

            Julia felt a sudden flash of guilt.  Audrey was right.  I look at her like a lab rat, she thought, and was miserable.  “I’m sorry if I’ve given you that impression,” Julia said.  “I want to help you, Audrey, just like I want to help Willie and Barnabas.  I want you to have your life back.”

            “I don’t want to hurt people,” she said darkly.  “I have to.”

           “You don’t.  You can fight against those urges.”

            “How would you know?” Audrey said, swirling away, stabbing her arms into her blue wool coat, sweeping her hair back, all the while glaring ruby daggers in Julia’s general direction.  “You’ve never been one of us.  You don’t know what the hunger is like.  You don’t know how it feels.”

            “I was the victim of a vampire,” Julia said quietly, and Audrey paused.  Julia’s lips twitched slightly in an exhausted smile, and she added, “It’s true.  My ex-boyfriend, Tom Jennings.  He wanted me to become his vampire bride …”  Her smile faded.  Her lips pursed.  “… for all eternity.”

            Audrey was fascinated.  “What happened?” she asked.

            “What used to happen when a vampire was dangerous, or prowling around, threatening the general populace, I suppose.  He was killed.”

            “Killed,” Audrey whispered.  “Who killed him?”

            Now Julia was uncomfortable, felt the discomfort at the memory creeping like icy, walking fingers up the back of her neck only to stop and tousle her hair.  “Barnabas,” she admitted at last, “Professor Stokes.  I was near death.  Almost transformed.  They … they saved me.”

 

            “Why didn’t you capture him?” Audrey asked.  “Why not try to save him?”

            “There was no reasoning with him,” Julia sighed.  “He was too powerful.”  Was this true?  Quentin had never pummeled her with questions like this, and with his intense interest in saving Christopher, his other great-grandson, she had once thought he might.  But he hadn’t, and so she had never prepared.

            But Audrey was, as always, persistent.  “But why?” she said, pressing.  “What made him so different?  He was your boyfriend?”  Julia nodded.  “As a human?”

            “Yes …”  She swallowed painfully.

            “So who made him a vampire?”

            Oh, this was fun, Julia thought sourly.  Though the events following Victoria Winters’ arrival at Collinwood and Barnabas’ escape from the coffin and everything that followed were more than a year in the past, everyone involved had changed – or seemed to have changed – so very much that Julia had to wonder, honestly, what good it was to dredge up these old memories, these old hurts. 

            But Audrey was staring at her so fixedly, and her eyes …

            Julia broke her gaze and fumbled with the cross.  “There’s so much you don’t know,” Julia said lamely, and walked over to the fireplace where she looked up at the portrait of Barnabas hanging there, the one Sam Evans painted before his untimely death.  “There’s so much you don’t understand.”

            “Barnabas has told me things,” Audrey insisted.  “He told me that he’s been cured before.  That he became a vampire because of a witch’s curse.  That Cassandra is the witch.”

            “He has told you a lot.”

            “We’re very close,” Audrey said, simpering.

            “That could be dangerous.”

            “Why?”

            Julia didn’t answer.  Could it, though?  Really?  What more could happen to her?  “Angelique’s curse,” she said at last.  “Cassandra, I mean.  Even though she claims not to bear Barnabas any more malice, curses are tricky things.  She said that anyone who loves him would die.”

            “So why haven’t you?”

           

            Julia froze.  She wanted to whirl around, to stride across the drawing room and slap the little harlot across the face.  But she couldn’t.  She froze instead, her hands gnurling into tight fists, and she saw with some sorrow the blue veins crisscrossing her hands, her hands that were becoming an old woman’s at last.  No, she thought, feeling some of the old fire, the old Julia Hoffman, beginning to return.  She wasn’t an old woman, some dried up old maid.  And if thoughts of the vampire Tom Jennings could unsettle and deflate her, then surely memories of the human Tom who had loved her and stroked her and made amazing love to her could revive her as well. 

            She turned around slowly.  “I don’t know,” she said at last, brightly, perhaps too brightly.  Perhaps she looked and sounded insane now.  Was that her part in this melodrama?  To add a mad scientist to the menagerie of monsters already stalking the great estate?  But she couldn’t help it.  “I am a scientist, not a sorceress.  I have never understood how magic works.  But I know one thing:  spells can be broken.  Curses can be lifted.”

            Audrey thought about this.  “True love?” she said at last, but she wasn’t laughing.  “True love,” she said again, thoughtfully.  “You think that you are strong enough to break the curse once and for all.”

            Julia’s chin lanced the air; her mouth grew smaller, the lips tighter.  “I’d like to think so.”

            “Even if the witch is on your side.  She did it to your boyfriend, didn’t she.  Tom?  Turned him into a vampire.”

            Tightness in her throat, like trying to swallow a boulder.  “Yes,” Julia croaked.

            “And … you haven’t destroyed her.”  It was not a question.

            “People change.”  It was too easy of an answer, but she didn’t have another.  “Perhaps Cassandra did.  You can too.  That’s why I want to help you.”

            “I want to change,” Audrey said.  She sounded sincere, Julia thought … but there was that flicker of mistrust, that feeling that the lizard-brain part of her that was the vampire-mind could change at any second, betraying her, knocking her down, sliding those fangs into her throat, stealing her blood –

 

            “I mean it, Julia,” Audrey said firmly.  “And … I want to help.  I know that something is rising – Barnabas told me a little, but I can feel it – something bad.  Gerard Stiles is a part of it.”  Her face darkened at the mention of her attacker’s name.  “But it’s worse than that.  And a part of me knows that I have a choice to make.”

            “There’s always a choice to make.”

            Audrey smiled serenely.  “I’m figuring that out.  I can join the darkness, that same bullshit my mama and my grandmamma wanted to protect me from, or I can fight it.  I can help you all beat it back.  And that’s what I want to do.”

            Julia said nothing.

            When Audrey’s lips split into a toothy smile, Julia saw no hint of fang there.  Only two rows of straight, white, beautifully human teeth.  “If it’s gonna hit us?  We are gonna hit back.  And hard.”

            Julia couldn’t help it.  She began to smile too.

3

            “Oh,” the man in her arms said, “oh man, oh Jesus,” and Roxanne released him so he could fall without her support, so he could stutter to his knees.  He was young and handsome, which was why she had chosen him when she saw him strolling home from the Blue Whale last night.  It had been easy; she took the form of a bat – a large bat, an impossible bat – and swooped down and stole him.  No one had seen his handsome face twisted with fear as she flew with him over the ocean and back to the house by the sea, and that was best.  Roxanne liked beautiful people, always had, and preferred to surround herself with a harem of gorgeous slaves.  That wasn’t on the docket for this fine specimen, she thought as she licked the last drops of his blood from her fangs, and strode away from him.  He sat where he had fallen, quivering with feeling, the after effects of the feeding. 

 

The coffin she approached was sheathed with the dust of more than a year.  She ran her finger though it idly, but she did not disturb the dust, just as she cast no reflection, left no footprint in the snow.  The coffin had been difficult to find, hidden away by a foolish warlock for some purpose now largely forgotten.  Perhaps, Roxanne considered, when I get around to bringing him back, I can ask him what he was thinking.

She lifted the lid.  The body inside was decayed, and her nose wrinkled at the smell. 

“Take me again,” the man said behind her.  His breathing was labored, still aroused.  “Roxanne, please.”

            She ignored him.  The body in the coffin had been nearly decapitated; the silver shard of mirror remained lodged in its throat, with another splitting its chest, cleaving the heart.  She shook her head sadly.  Such a waste. 

            “I’m afraid I won’t be taking you anywhere,” Roxanne said sadly, and turned to face her conquest, who was looking up at her with confusion and longing on his puppyish face.  “I didn’t bring you here for me.”

            “I worship you,” the man said.  “I adore you.  I’ll do anything for you, please, just tell me, tell me what you want –”

            The shadows behind the man thickened as he spoke, and now solidified into a hulking, shambling mass.  The man froze, and his face contorted as he heard the sounds of the thing’s approach, the liquid squelching. 

            “I am here, my dear,” the shape said.  “Is everything at a ready?”  He was even stronger now after his last feeding, even though the flesh she procured for him was beef and not human.  Still, his powers had grown sufficiently for what now must be done.

            Roxanne bowed her head.  “Thank you, Count Petofi,” she said.  “All is prepared.”

 

            The man’s head turned slowly – oh, so slowly – and his eyes grew wider … and wider … and wider as they saw what approached him, what shambled toward him, one Hand reaching … reaching …

            “No!” he shrieked, and tried to rise, “No!  No!  No!”

            But the power of the Hand caught him and held him and lifted him from the ground.  He twisted in mid-air, writhing and kicking. 

            Petofi grinned at her.  His face was still not fully-formed, and the flesh continued to run and shiver like melting wax.  “He’s a pretty one,” the Count said.  “I always did appreciate a pretty face.”

            “That’s so gratifying to hear,” a new voice said, and all three – including the anonymous victim who remained suspended in Petofi’s spell – turned toward the head of the stairs to see the interloper in the macabre drama unfolding below.  “You see, I’ve never been much of a wallflower.”

            And as she began her descent into that pit of hell, Petofi’s bulging eyes grew wide with horror and fear.  “It can’t be you,” he grated.  “You’re dead … dead … dead!”

4

 

            Cassandra balanced the coffee on a tray with no problem.  Even though the Enemy was right – and it killed her, it really did, to admit that – that thoughts of her days in servitude continued to chew at her with memory’s fangs, it seemed she had lost none of her skill.  She would delicately pour for her sister-in-law, like a lady did, and after that they would talk about nothing of any consequence.  No plans, no schemes.  Oh sure, there was planning and scheming yet to do, but not now.  For now, all Cassandra truly wanted was to sit in the drawing room of Collinwood and sip coffee with the lady of the manor. 

            She smiled.  Just a brief moment to catch my breath, she thought.  Then I’ll collect the Amulet of Caldys and the next step of my plan can begin …

            She paused beside the doors to the drawing room.  Her forehead creased into a frown.  Elizabeth wasn’t alone in there.  She was talking to someone.

            Cassandra leaned closer to the door.  A man’s voice, and somehow … familiar.

            “Snooping, my dear?  How characteristic of you.  Skulking in doorways.  Like the old days.”

            She stiffened and nearly dropped the coffee tray.  Her eyes widened, first with shock, then with fury.

            “Show yourself,” she said, glancing around the foyer.  But no one stood there save for herself.  That means nothing, she thought furiously.  Not when it comes to him.

            Yet the mocking voice continued to issue from … nowhere.  “Dearest Cassandra,” it said, snide, weasel-like, and so hatefully mocking, “you can look and look and look and you’ll never find me.  My bride-to-be made certain of that.”

            She allowed herself the tiniest hint of a smile.  “Poor Nicholas,” she simpered.  “I was truly, truly crushed that I never had the opportunity to tell you to your face how very sorry I was that your witch-bitch girlfriend set you on fire.  And just when you were so close to achieving your goal.”  Now the smile bloomed full force.  She tsked for him.  “Well, I did what you never could.  I donned the Mask of Ba’al, and now all that power is mine.”

 

            “True, my dear,” the bodiless spirit of Nicholas Blair continued to whisper.  “And what have you done with that power?  Absolutely nothing.  You are a worthless witch, Angelique, and you always will be.  But you’re an even sorrier human, and that is what amuses me the most.”

            The coffee cups began to jitter and clatter together as her hands gripped the tray that held them even tighter.  “You’ll be sorry you said that,” she grated.

            Nicholas’ spirit sounded diabolical laughter.  “Will I indeed?  What more can you do to me than has already been done?  I have no body, as you must know by now.  Otherwise you could have forced me to materialize.  This is the Master’s great joke.  I am forced to remain trapped in this house forever, able to witness all that transpires around me but not able to actually, shall we say, participate.”

            “And yet you are able to speak to me now.”

            She could hear the grin in his voice.  “Only for a moment, my dear.  And a moment is all it will take.”

            She opened her mouth to demand answers of him, to threaten him, perhaps, but before she could the doors to the drawing room flew open.

            Cassandra spun around, dropping the dray of coffee in the process.  The cups shattered, and scalding coffee sprayed her ankles.  She cried out, then brought a hand to her mouth to try to stifle the smoke that choked her.  It wound through the air in a hazy gray wreath, trailing from the torch that the mistress of Collinwood brandished.  The flame in Cassandra’s face crackled with merriment.

            Elizabeth grinned at her crazily.  “I know what you are,” she cried, and her voice was warped and warbling, the voice of a fairy tale witch.  “I know what you did to me, Cassandra Collins, and now … now you will burn for it!”

 

            Cassandra tried to move away, but something held her, something had captured her, and Nicholas’ laughter was loud in her ears as Elizabeth struck her with the torch, battered her with the torch, and the screams deafening her were her own, and the flames licked at her and tasted her and found her good.

5

            The woman who, to the terrified eyes of Count Petofi, was Victoria Winters, finished her descent into the basement of the house by the sea and stood before them, smiling, one hand on her hip.  The other held a leather satchel that dangled near the floor.  “Dead?” she purred.  “Hardly.  I think the only dead person here –” and she nodded her head in the direction of Roxanne Drew – “isn’t quite as dead as she ought to be.”

             “Who are you?” Roxanne demanded.  Her eyes flicked to the hulking horror at her side, still gaping at the new arrival.  “You know this woman?”  Petofi nodded, almost imperceptibly. “I don’t care who she is,” Roxanne said.  “Destroy her.”

            “I … I cannot,” he grated.

            “Know me?” the woman said, cocking her head.  “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure, whatever you are.”  She looked back at Roxanne.  Her eyes narrowed.  “But you I do know.  I’ve been tracking you for quite awhile, Ms. Drew, keeping a close watch on your activities.  Which will, as of now, come to an end.”

            “I don’t know who you are,” Roxanne snarled, revealing her fangs, “but if he won’t do it, I’ll destroy you myself.”

            “No, you can’t!”  Petofi stared at the woman whom he knew to be his daughter, but she stared at him with disgust, disdain, and absolutely no recognition. 

            But still … he couldn’t allow the Drew woman to harm her.

            Not … not with all that power coursing through her.

           

            Because he could feel it.  He could feel it still.

            “I won’t allow you to harm this man,” Alexandra March declared.  “Whether I destroy you or not, he’s coming with me.”

            “Impossible,” Roxanne smiled.  “I have an important job to do, and he is a part of it.”

            “I have a job too,” Alex said.  “It involves saving the world from … from creatures like you.”  Her eyes darted back to Petofi, then just as quickly skipped away again, disgust wrinkling her forehead and her mouth.  “And him.”

            Roxanne snarled, leaped forward, and as she came, she changed.  Her hair silvered, lengthened, flew backward from her head, and ran riot across her body as she shifted forms.  Her arms spread, and each fingernail lengthened and joined by way of a thin, pink-grey membrane that beat the air and became wings.  Her nose and mouth fused together into a snout that writhed on the air, chewing with needle-sharp teeth.  Her eyes bulged in alien sockets and glowed a fiery red.

            Alex struck out with her fist, which caught the Roxanne-bat under its chin and knocked it to the floor.  It was up again in a moment, squealing its outrage and slamming its immense wings through the air.  Dust roiled around them and the stench of the desiccated mummy in the coffin.  Roxanne feinted again, and Alex kicked out this time.  The heel of her boot struck Roxanne in the chest and sent her a blow so strong that she flew back and slammed against the wall.  Dazed, she slid against the slimy stones down to the dirt floor of the basement, and as she went she lost hold on her night-shape.  The creature that curled into itself before lifting a head with bleary eyes appeared fully human.

            Alex, meanwhile, was rummaging in her bag.

            “How?” Roxanne croaked.  “I am a hundred and thirty years old.  I have faced innumerable human foes, and I have always triumphed.  What powers do you have?”

            Alex lifted a wooden stake from the bag and held it aloft.  “Enough,” she said, and grinned.

 

TO BE CONTINUED ...