CHAPTER
107: Gathered
by Nicky
Voiceover by Kathryn Leigh Scott: “Night
falls on Collinsport, a town besieged by dark forces. A dark place, on a dark evening … where those
seeking information will attempt to make important discoveries … and those
discoveries may destroy them.”
1
The
darkness parted for a moment, and in that moment Barnabas remembered his
name. Foolish, he thought, that he
should ever forget; and yet, somehow, he had.
Forgotten many things, it seemed, pertinent, relevant details, such as: what time is it? Where am I?
And how did I come to be here?
He
tried to open his eyes, but spears of light pierced them.
“Your
spells are potent, witch.”
“I’m
a little out of practice.”
“And
yet.”
Women’s
voices, and one familiar, a voice he had heard recently, and yet, he couldn’t
quite place it.
“He’s
waking up.”
“Let
it happen. It will eventually, anyway.”
“Are
we ready?”
“I
think so. As ready as we’ll ever be.”
The
light, he wanted to snarl, the light, the light! But the words refused to come. The pain did, though; like fire burning
inside every branch of vein within his body, boiling, it seemed, within his
very blood. He felt as if his skin were
dissolving, breaking up, under an onslaught of chewing ants. He thought his mouth might be open, but the
only sound that emerged was a feeble gurgling sound.
How did I come to be here?
“Are
you with us, Mr. Collins?” That voice …
so familiar, goddamnit! But who …? “You disappoint me,” she said, whoever she
was, her voice soft and low. “Surely you
recognize me. Weren’t we conversing only
a bit ago in that fabled land from which you’ve just returned … what does your
Professor Stokes call it? Parallel
Time?”
He
tried to make another sound, tried to say her name as it just occurred to him,
but all he could say was, “Rrrrrr …”
“Close
enough,” she said. “Roxanne, darling,
that’s right! And good for you for remembering! It’s truly unfortunate that you were
acquainted only with that … that other version of myself, especially since
she’s so dead and all. I wouldn’t want
you thinking that our goals were anywhere nearly
related, she and I.”
His
eyes were able to open now, and he could see … begin to see … the two pale
faces that loomed over him, squinting down at him. Roxanne Drew he recognized, appearing exactly
as she had that last dreadful night in Parallel Time, but the other … she
vaguely resembled, he thought, Beth Chavez, but this woman’s face was colder,
the cheekbones higher, and her expression was one of aristocratic
haughtiness.
“Oh,
pardon me,” Roxanne tittered. “You must
excuse me. I’m afraid I have failed to
introduce my companion, and she so
wants to meet you. Or re-meet you, I
should say. Your paths have crossed
before, after all.” Roxanne nodded her
head in the blonde woman’s direction.
She was holding a dagger, Barnabas saw, covered with intricately carved
runes … and disturbingly rusty stains.
“Edith
Collins,” the blonde woman said.
“Restored to my prime, despite everything your –” and she spat the name
“— everything your Miranda tried to
do to stand in my way. If it were up to
her, I’d still be boiling in hell’s fire, consigned to the flames with the
demons and the filth and the –”
“Edith,”
Roxanne said in a low, reproving tone, and placed a hand with fingers that,
Barnabas perceived, dug like bits of iron into the other woman’s arm, startling
her and cutting off the torrent of words that was swiftly growing into a howl,
“Edith, darling. There is time. Remember, there is time.”
“Why,”
Barnabas managed to growl, “why have you … you brought me here?” He glanced around his surroundings, but could
make out little through the darkness.
There were, he thought with dismay, other shapes moving about; they
weren’t alone after all.
“We
have much to discuss,” Roxanne purred, “and you have much to tell us. Though honestly, I hope you resist.” Her hand moved swiftly through the darkness
and took the knife from Edith’s hand before the other woman could resist; it
danced before Barnabas’ eyes, what little light there was in this place
flashing off the blade, which was wickedly sharp. “Honestly, I do. Because I really – desperately – want to cut the information out of you myself.” And she grinned, and when she grinned,
Barnabas saw how the light that danced on the blade she held danced with equal
beauty on the twin fangs that protruded from between her pretty pink lips.
2
“We
were friends once,” Chris said; beside him, on the comfortable, and, he
thought, very, very expensive couch,
Professor Stokes was shooting him encouraging looks. He’s confident, Chris thought, and he
understood that the confidence the Professor felt must be bolstered by the
amulet he carried. “It proved very
successful in saving my hide in the past,” Stokes had assured him before they
set out on this mission, his eyes twinkling with mirth, “but let’s hope we
needn’t use it this time.”
Across
from them, pouring tea calmly, Maggie Evans didn’t meet his gaze. “I suppose,” she said at last. “Though I have to tell you, Chris, I don’t
have many friends who just up and leave town without so much as a goodbye,
abandoning their family – especially their very little sisters – and leaving
everyone to fend for themselves. Leaving
them to pick up the pieces. Nope, I don’t have many friends that do
things like that.”
“I
know,” Chris said. He was beginning to
sweat, as he usually did when he was nervous or felt especially guilty, two
emotions he thought he would someday come to live with, to hand with some
measure of success, but that day, he thought ruefully, was apparently not
today. “I know, Maggie. But you understand the circumstances now.”
“Circumstances,”
Maggie said thoughtfully, delicately, and handed Chris his cup of tea. “Lemon, Professor?”
“Please,”
Stokes said, smiling graciously. Maggie
smiled back with equal graciousness.
“We’re
all in danger,” Chris said. He tried to
force the desperation he felt down and away because he could hear it in his
voice, how shrill he sounded, how afraid.
And how angry. And it didn’t help
that this was not the Maggie Evans
Chris remembered from his youth. That
girl had been everyone’s pal, but no one’s friend, as Tom had described her to
him once. They’d dated for a brief time
– just as Maggie had dated Joe Haskell, Chris thought belatedly – and Tom told
him how unreachable she really was beneath that friendly and sometimes hard-bitten
exterior. She had always reminded Chris
of a young Eve Arden, quick with a comeback, sharp, funny, witty in the way
that small-town waitresses were supposed to be witty, but there were times that
Chris remembered looking into her eyes – and finding them shadowed. Haunted.
This
woman was refined, her auburn hair pulled back and held by a silk band studded
with diamonds; the dress she wore was vaguely Asian, also silk, watered, and
painted, Chris understood, by hand:
cranes and beautiful golden fish.
But her eyes were the same.
Haunted. Shadowed. She could destroy me right now if she wanted
to, Chris thought, and the interior of his throat went dry. She wouldn’t even have to bat an eye or lift
a finger.
“We’re
always in danger,” Maggie said. “We live
in Collinsport.” She sipped her tea and
grimaced. “Hot,” she said.
“We’re
beginning to put the pieces together,” Stokes said. “Julia Hoffman’s experiences in the future
have given us a direction to begin our search, but clues are frustratingly
few.”
“You
have your own witch,” Maggie said, sipping.
Her large brown eyes regarded them somberly over the edge of her
teacup. “Why come to me?”
“Cassandra
is … otherwise engaged,” Stokes said. To
be honest, he wasn’t at all certain what Cassandra was up to, only that Julia
Hoffman insisted that her intentions were honorable. Seemed
to be honorable. But time
consuming. And dangerous, of
course. It was, Julia assured him, best
not to interrupt her. And since Stokes
wasn’t even sure if Cassandra currently resided on this plane of existence,
that was a very reasonable request to make.
“Things
are happening fast now, Maggie,” Chris said.
“And it isn’t just this Enemy thing anymore.”
“Do
tell.” Was she amused? He wasn't sure.
“Julia
and Barnabas saw my brother the other night.”
And
for the first time, a flicker of emotion played on Maggie’s face, though Chris
couldn’t tell exactly what it was.
“Tom,” she said softly. Her eyes
moved back to Stokes and narrowed slightly, accusingly. “You know,” she whispered.
“I
know that Nicholas Blair took his body, yes,” Stokes said calmly. But Chris saw the way his hand moved slowly
to the pocket of his coat where the amulet resided, waiting, just waiting. “Or I suspected. It vanished after our … encounter with Mr.
Jennings at the Old House. The night he
tried to make Julia Hoffman his eternal bride.”
“Melodramatics
don’t become you, Professor,” Maggie said lightly, but weren’t the pupils of
her eyes beginning to expand, to grow bit by bit, as if draining all the light
in the room? Chris thought they might
be. “So what? Yes. I
knew Nicholas took the body. But he
never showed me where he put it, or what his intentions were.”
“So
Nicholas didn’t bring Tom back,” Chris said slowly. Even saying his brother’s name cut at
him. (And exactly how did Tom become a vampire? Was it Barnabas? Angelique?
Or someone else? Everyone he
talked to was incredibly reticent to address the subject of Tom’s vampirism,
its origins, anything related to it … or his death. A subject for another time, he thought,
gritting his teeth.)
“Nicholas,”
Maggie said, her lips tightening into a moue of disdain, “is dead. I should know. I killed him.”
“And
yet Tom has returned,” Stokes said.
“Are
you checking up on me? Is that what this
is?” Maggie’s voice was sweet, but her
eyes were darkening, Chris saw with
sudden dismay that bordered on terror, were becoming smoldering black
pits. “Some sort of half-assed
intervention?” Stokes’ hand moved, and
Maggie snapped, “And I know what you have in your pocket, Professor. If you want to
keep your hand attached to your wrist, I suggest you leave it at your side.”
“I
don’t know if I care to take that chance,” Stokes said dryly. “And I think we have some reasons to ‘check
up’ on you, if that’s the phrase you want to employ. Don’t you, Miss Evans?”
Those
eyes, coal-black and devoid of anything resembling humanity, held the
Professor’s for an endless moment.
Chris, fascinated, like a rabbit before a cobra, could only watch.
At
last the darkness faded away as quickly as it had come, and Maggie dropped her
eyes, ashamed. “What do you want from
me?” she whispered.
“There
are other forces at work in Collinsport,” Chris said gently. “Someone attacked my … my friend Sebastian
the other night. A woman. She very nearly killed him.”
“Another
werewolf,” Maggie said, and Chris nodded.
“And you want me to find the woman who attacked him?”
“I’d
like you to try,” Chris said. “Please,
Maggie. You’re the only one who can.”
She
lifted her eyes then and held his.
Another endless moment passed.
“All right,” she said at last, and took the teacup from his fingers
before he even realized it was gone.
“All right, I’ll do it.” She
stared into the cup, then lifted her eyes to Chris’ one more time. “Damn you,” she added, and placed the tip of
one finger into the tea.
3
Julia
shivered, then rose from the easy chair where she’d sat, reading, for the past
few hours, and walked to the fireplace.
She added another log to the fire, then watched as the flames, which,
ignored, had begun to fade and fall away, now begin to devour the fuel
eagerly. Her back cracked as she
stretched, and she thought clearly, I would kill
for a cigarette. But she was denying
herself the luxury; not quitting cold turkey, she assured herself, but tapering
off. She smoked too much, and she knew
it.
She
glanced around the drawing room of the Old House and frowned. She was alone in the house, and that was
alternately agreeable and terrifying at turns.
Willie and Audrey were somewhere else, which worried her, Eliot and
Chris had gone to see Maggie Evans to ask a favor, and Barnabas was …
But
she wouldn’t allow herself to think about Barnabas.
Well,
she thought suddenly, why the hell not?
It
wasn’t healthy, she understood long ago, this fixation with Barnabas
Collins. She had seen in Angelique the
results of obsession with a man who wouldn’t – couldn’t – love you back the way you wanted, and she had seen it
firsthand with Tom as well. No, to spend
so much time focusing on someone who didn’t share the same feelings for you was
a dead end road.
So
why did she seemingly still insist on following it?
Because
he’ll change, she told herself – had been telling herself – for the past two
years. Because maybe if I can just wait
long enough, prove myself to him, he’ll see … he’ll see and he’ll know that I …
how much I …
But
no. Because, as she had learned the
other night, he’d rather be with someone he hates than be with me.
The
cigarettes were the pocket of her cardigan.
It would be easy to pull one out.
Light it with the Bic she also kept in the same pocket. Take a drag.
Exhale the smoke, watch it wreath around her head. Enjoy the burning in her lungs. So easy …
“I’m
done,” she said suddenly, louder than she had intended, startling even herself
so that she jumped and glanced over her shoulder, but she was alone in the
house, alone, alone.
“Done,”
she said again, testing the word. She
smiled slightly. Something inside her twisted
then, something old and rusty, and fell apart, and in the breaking it fell
away, disappearing into nothingness.
I
still love him, she thought, and maybe I always will.
But:
“I’m
done,” she whispered.
Which
was when she heard the sobbing sound.
Prickles
of gooseflesh spread in patches across her arms, and she could feel the hair on
the back of her neck begin to stand up.
It was a woman, she thought, looking around the room with quick, jerking
movements of her head; whoever it is crying, it’s a woman.
The
sound grew louder, more desperate. “Who
is in this room?” Julia cried, more bravely than she really felt. “Appear to me!”
Barnabas … ooooooooh, oooooooh
Baaaaaaarnabassssss …
“Barnabas,”
Julia whispered. Hell. Of course; whoever she was, this unknown
spirit would have to be crying about friggin Barnabas Collins. “Who are you?
Show yourself!”
The
air began to shimmer and flicker beside the fireplace, and as Julia watched,
astonished, the figure of a woman in a glowing white wedding gown began to draw
itself into existence.
“Josette,”
Julia breathed. She had spent some time
with the dead woman weeping spectrally before
her when she transcended time and inhabited the body of the Countess Natalie
DuPres, Josette’s aunt, and in that brief time, she had come to feel warmly and
affectionately for the woman Barnabas Collins had loved once upon a time – the
woman who had killed herself because of him.
She
looked much as she had in life, only her face was ghastly white behind the veil
she wore, the eyes bruised and shadowed and somehow broken and desperate, her
hands held outstretched before her bruised and bloodied. The fall from the cliffs, Julia thought, and
felt a pang in her chest.
“Baaaaaaarnabasssss,”
the ghost whispered. “Oh, oh, oh
Baaaaaaarnabassssssss …”
“Where
is he, Josette?” Julia cried. To her
knowledge, Josette had never appeared to Barnabas, or anyone else at
Collinwood, only to David when he was small and used the Old House as his
personal playground. “Please, you must
tell me! Where is Barnabas?
“Going,
going, going,” the ghost chanted. Her
dark eyes burrowed into Julia’s. “Help
him, help him, please, help him. He will
die … die …”
“I
can’t help him unless you tell me,” Julia said, her impatience giving way to
exasperation: why couldn’t ghosts just
come out and say what they knew? “Where
is he, Josette?”
“He
needs your help,” the ghost said.
“I
gathered that much,” Julia grumbled.
“The
woman … the dead woman … all the dead … alive, alive, alive …” The ghost of Josette covered her face with
her destroyed hands and sobbed, shaking all over. “And they’ll destroy him. Oh save him, please, save him! Someone must help him now!”
“Damn
it,” Julia growled. Josette was
beginning to fade away, to lose her substance.
Only her eyes remained clear:
enormous, full of pain and fear.
“Don’t go!” Julia cried and rushed forward, but she met only a warm wall
and an intense flood of scent in her nostrils:
jasmine, of course, the cologne with which Josette perfumed herself
every morning, Julia remembered. Now it
was all that was left of her; even those famous doe-eyes had utterly vanished.
Barnabas
was in trouble. What, Julia thought
wryly, a surprise.
She
really, really wanted a smoke.
She
took a deep breath instead, then began to move toward the front door. She grabbed her trusty blue wool coat on the
way; it was freezing out, and she had no idea how she was going to find
Barnabas.
But
she would do it alone. She didn’t need
Angelique’s help, or anyone else’s. And
she was saving Barnabas because he was her friend, and he had saved her life
often enough. He had, she reminded
herself, even transcended time to bring her back to life after
Petofi-in-Quentin had snapped her neck.
She couldn’t forget that, wouldn’t allow herself.
I’ll
find him, she thought grimly as she stepped out into the frigid November
night.
And
I’ll save him.
By
myself.
4
Maggie’s
eyes were closed, which was a relief, Chris thought, because they had darkened once
again to that fathomless obsidian as she had begun her spell. Something like tea leaves, Chris thought, or
scrying, or maybe both. I’m just a
werewolf, he thought; what do I know?
For awhile – a long while – she had peered into the depths of Chris’
teacup until her eyes were good and black and scribbles of magical emerald
energy sparkled above the liquid in the cup.
Stokes had watched without saying a word; the hand he placed tightly on
Chris’ arm suggested that he should do the same, so they sat together and
watched.
Suddenly
Maggie’s eyes opened, utterly black, as Chris expected. “You know her,” she said in a voice
absolutely unlike her own, without the snark, the wit, the desperation masked
by her good humor. “This woman. Your attacker. You know her.
Or … you think you do.”
“Who
is she?” Chris said, but felt again Eliot’s fingers digging warningly into his
arm.
“She
wears a familiar face,” Maggie said. “You
know it well. But the woman inside – she
is a mystery. She is both of the light
and the dark. She will kill. But she believes the killing is necessary.”
“Where
is she,” Chris growled, “and how can I stop her?”
“You
can’t,” Maggie – or the thing speaking through Maggie – said immediately. “She is built to destroy you. All your kind.”
“My
kind?” Chris said indignantly.
“The
undead. Eldritch creatures. Creatures of the old world. The vestiges, the magicks. She seeks to destroy them
indiscriminately. She will end you if
she has the chance.”
“But
who is she?” Stokes said unexpectedly.
“You must tell us! Give us her
name!”
“She
has no name, not really. Her name will do you no good.”
“Tell
us!” they cried together.
“She
is the daughter of Petofi,” Maggie said, “and that is all you shall know.” The lights flickered above their heads, and
one burst in a shower of sparks. Chris
cried out as the teacup before her exploded, sending ceramic shards in all
directions.
Maggie
held up one hand calmly and the broken shards of the teacup paused midflight,
then fell harmlessly to the floor.
“That,”
she said, yawning, “was dramatic. Did
you learn what you wanted to know?”
Chris
and Stokes exchanged mutually wide-eyed looks.
“I
… don’t know,” Chris said at last.
“Hmph,”
Maggie said. “I hope it wasn’t a total
waste of my talents, blah blah blah.
Now,” and she rose briskly, “which one of you strapping men wants to
help me mop up all this tea?”
5
“You
… you don’t have to do this,” Barnabas gasped.
The smell of his own blood, leaking from more than a dozen minor and
not-so-minor wounds Roxanne had gleefully inflicted upon him over the past hour
or so, maddened him, and brought out his own fangs, which also seemed to amuse
her. For some reason, and Barnabas
supposed it had something to do with the mystical nature of the blade she used,
the cuts didn’t close and heal as they would have under other
circumstances. And they burned; Jesus,
how they burned!
“Oh,
I know,” Roxanne said. “But it’s more
fun this way, don’t you agree? No,” she
said, mock-pouting, “I suppose you
wouldn’t. You pretend to be so tortured,
so much better than the rest of us, so … so holier-than-thou
… but underneath …” And she slashed at
him again, across the face this time, and he threw back his head and bared his
fangs and roared. She smiled with grim
satisfaction. “Underneath, you’re just
another vampire. Aren’t you.”
“What
do you want, Roxanne?” Barnabas snarled.
“For
you to admit it,” Roxanne said immediately.
“I’m just like you. Cursed, just
like you. Not bitten by another vampire. I was no one’s slave. The bastard Gerard Stiles made me this way,
and it took me a long time, but I finally accepted what I should have always
known, and what you’ll understand too, Barnabas Collins: the vampire is strong. I
am strong. Because this isn’t a curse at
all, not at all.
“It’s
a gift.”
“You’re
wrong,” Barnabas growled.
“No,
I’m not,” Roxanne said, shaking her head quickly, “no I’m not, no I’m not.
And must I continue to torture you?
No, I suppose not. But I like it.”
“You’re
mad.”
“Possibly. Living for almost two hundred years … that’s
asking a lot of a person. But once I
accepted myself for the way I am, I learned to use my powers. They make me stronger. Better.
Because that’s what we are, Barnabas … better.”
“We
are monsters.”
“Perspectives,”
Roxanne said, and, idly, carved a runic symbol into Barnabas’ cheek. “It’s all about perspectives. Right and wrong, good and evil, light and
dark. It all depends on the eyes you’re
looking through. Perhaps I’m evil. But I think not.”
“You’re
a killer.”
“Who
isn’t? Your precious Vicki? Cassandra Collins? Chris Jennings? Cousin Carolyn? All killers, Barnabas. Don’t be a fool. This isn’t about who is or who isn’t
something or something else. It’s about
balance. Keeping the balance.”
He
stared at her with crimson eyes. “I
don’t understand.”
“I
know you don’t,” Roxanne sighed. “Which
is why I had the witch bring you here.
Which is why I’ve been cutting you up for the past hour. Which is why,” and she smiled again,
revealing her fangs, “I’ve gathered together all my very best friends. Just for you.
So you’ll begin to understand the game.”
“Tell
me what you want,” Barnabas said, “or kill me, or both. But just get on with it.”
“So
impatient,” Roxanne said. “Tsk tsk. I would think someone who spent nearly two
centuries locked in a box would have learned a thing or two about the art of waiting.” She tittered.
“Well, just for you darling, I’ll do the super-villain thing and tell
you aaaaaaaall about my master plan. Because
it involves you and your little friends.
Now, ordinarily, I’d want to kill them all, and I think my friends would
agree. Mostly because they’ve all tried
at one time or another and been beaten back.
But as I told you, this is about balance. Keeping it.
Or restoring it if need be. But
there must be balance, Barnabas Collins, and you –” and she jabbed him in the chest with the tip of her goddamn
enchanted dagger or whatever it was “— you
are going to help us keep it.”
“I
won’t do anything to help a creature like you,” Barnabas spat.
“I
think you’ll change your mind,” Roxanne purred.
“You see, we want the same things, Barnabas, you and I. You want to save the world, and so do I.”
Barnabas
gaped at her, then he began to laugh.
Her
expression darkened until at last she slashed out at him with the knife
again. “Don’t you ever laugh at me,”
Roxanne growled. “At others, maybe, but
never – never – at me.”
“Then
you mustn’t go around being so amusing,
Miss Drew,” Barnabas chuckled, despite the pain walking and talking all over
his body.
She
bared her fangs, closed her eyes, then took a deep – and, considering the fact
that she didn’t require oxygen to live – unnecessary breath. Finally she opened her eyes and smiled. “Ah, ah, ah,” she said, and shook a pointed
finger in his face. “I see what you’re
doing. And you needn’t bother. I need you too much to kill you in such a
stupid fashion. You see, you know
something that we don’t. And we require
your knowledge if the game is going to commence.” Her smile faded. “And I care far more about that than I do
about you understanding or not understanding your true nature.”
Suddenly
weary, nearly overwhelmed with pain, Barnabas dropped his head. “Tell me what you want to say and then be
done with it,” he whispered.
“Don’t
be a spoil-sport,” Roxanne laughed.
“First I want to introduce you to my friends.” She gripped the back of his head and jerked
it up; his eyes flew open and he nearly sank his fangs into her hand, but this,
he thought, would only serve to amuse her more.
“Look!” she chimed gleefully as they stepped from the shadows, her
friends, and Barnabas gaped, stricken with horror and dismay.
First
came Tom Jennings, capering and grinning and giggling; followed by Edith and
Danielle Roget, though Barnabas had only seen her in a history book Eliot
Stokes showed him once; and then the worst of all, Count Andreas Petofi, not
yet completely restored, still mostly melted and rotted away, but the power in
his Hand was undeniable, as it glowed silver and red by turns. “Mr. Collins,” Petofi grated. “I cannot say it is a pleasure to see you
again, though I must admit,” and he chuckled wolfishly, “that if our paths were
destined to cross again, I do so love it that you are in a position like this.”
“Impossible,”
Barnabas whispered. “Impossible.”
But
Roxanne seemed not hear him. She was
frowning, looking over the assembled fiends before her. “Where is he?”
she cried, hands on her hips.
“Oh,
who knows?” Danielle growled. “He does
what he wants. Imbecile. He cares little
for the cause, Madam Le Vampir. Only for
his precious cher.”
“Idiots,”
Roxanne growled, her clawed hands clenched into fists. “Find him,” she said. “Find him and bring him back.” Her eyes flickered to Barnabas and then
narrowed. “We have business to take care
of with Mr. Collins. And I want to make
sure that the gang’s all here when we do.”
6
Chris
stepped out of the Professor’s ancient Oldsmobile and glanced up at the leaden
sky above them. Snow had begun to drop
in thin, icy flakes when they left Maggie Evans’ cottage, and now it flew
thicker, fiercer. The wind was beginning
to howl off the ocean, and Chris knew from experience that it would sear his
skin until he wished it would drop off just to stop the pain. And, as he exited the car, he found he was
right, and pulled the collar of his peacoat up, sinking down into it as far as
he could go.
He
was back in the cottage at Mrs. Stoddard’s insistence, but he knew he had
forgotten something when he and Stokes left for a visit to the not-so-friendly
neighborhood witch, and now he remembered:
the fire in the hearth was now cold and dead, and the cottage would be
freezing. I could call Sebastian, Chris
thought with an interior smile; we could keep each other warm.
“I’ll
call as soon as I have more word,” Stokes called from the window. “But until then, keep your head low. Perhaps,” and he smiled, “you should call
upon Mr. Shaw for company. Safer
together and all that.”
“You
read my mind, Professor,” Chris said, smiling back. “Good night.”
“Good
night, Christopher,” Stokes said, and drove away into the snow, swirling
darkness.
Still
smiling, Chris turned the doorknob and entered the cottage.
He
knew instantly that he was not alone.
Someone
sat in the shadows. The fire flickered,
not yet out, tiny tongues of flame doing nothing to illuminate the features of
his visitor.
But
Chris recognized him. Recognized his
scent. He felt all the world fall away
beneath him.
“Baby,”
the man on the couch said, and stood up, and now Chris could see him as well.
The
firelight played, impossibly, off the handsome features of Nathan Forbes.
“Welcome
home,” he said.
TO BE CONTINUED ...
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