Disclaimer: Dark Shadows is owned by Dan Curtis. You get the gist.

Chapter One: Resurrection and Realization

He remembered Angelique lying on the floor of the parlor, bleeding out her last, cursing him with it. He remembered the bite. That much, he remembered.

After that, his memories grew dim. He had been very ill—ill as he had never been before. The fever, the thrashing about in the tangled bed sheets. He also, for some strange reason, remembered Angelique offering him her aid, nervously watching over his bedside, although why she would do this was beyond him. He remembered his father standing also by his bedside, speaking kind and comforting words—no, that couldn't be right. And Josette, she was there. Barnabas smiled at the memory, although that was a mystery, too. Why would she stand at his deathbed if she had so cruelly torn his heart to pieces?

And then it all came rushing back to him. Angelique's witchcraft. The duel. His marriage to Angelique. A rush of anger flooded his heart just as another realization hit him.

It wasn't his deathbed, otherwise he wouldn't be thinking such thoughts right now. He was alive.

It was that thought that brought him to the present and opened his senses to his environment. He felt soft linen blanketing his back. Around him was a deafening silence, broken only by the quiet scratching of a rodent. His mouth tasted stale. He cracked his eyelids open—that small action took an incredible amount of effort, as if he were prying open a door that had been locked for centuries.

Darkness. So, it was nighttime. Was he in the Old House? He felt the sudden urge to get up—he had no way of knowing the amount of time that had passed since he had fallen ill. Perhaps it had been a week or two. And he felt well enough to arise—other than the lingering lassitude that laced his limbs, he felt good. Alive with the feeling that one always has after recovering from a particularly trying illness. Slowly, he moved his arms outward to find purchase on the sheets in order to lift himself upwards—and hit something.

It was hard. Wooden. With one hand, he felt upwards, to a corner. He was in a box. What the devil?

Once again, a realization struck him. He was in a coffin. Immediately, a panic seized him. How far was he underground? How would he get out? Would he die of asphyxiation or starvation first?

He forced himself to calm down. As yet, he had experienced no trouble breathing. And he wouldn't have been buried underground, he would have been buried in the family mausoleum. The reason for his burial was simple enough—his family had thought him dead during one of his deeper stupors, and had buried him, still alive. It happened often enough. And, fortunately for him, he would be able to get out of this situation fairly easily, unlike many other poor souls that found themselves buried alive under mounds of soil. That was it, he would arise, leave the mausoleum, return to Collinwood. His family would rejoice in his well-being. All would be well.

He threw the lid of the coffin open to see Ben's terrified face.

"Ben?" Barnabas asked in confusion. But that was not what came out of his mouth. Instead, a squeak rasped from between his lips. Probably from long days of disuse, he told himself.

Ben, however, seemed to understand. He stuttered, "A-Angelique told me to come here and—"

"Angelique?!" Barnabas roared at the name, but again, it came out only as a frenzied rasp.

"M-Master Barnabas, d-don't be angry with me, she said—she said that I had to come here, because you'd be risin' soon, and, and—" His eyes glanced nervously at an object in his hand. Barnabas followed the movement to see a long wooden stake in his hand. In his other hand was a hammer. His anger once again gave way to confusion.

He focused on taking a deep breath this time, then asked, "Ben, please. Recount what has passed since I have been lucid. Please. Why I am I here? Did my family mistake me for dead?"

At this, Ben went stony-faced. His expression held a hint of fear, probably due to Angelique. The witch had coerced him in some way yet again. Barnabas forced patience into his panicked mind as the family servant opened his mouth to speak. "Well, no one knew where ya was at first, and then Miss Josette and the Countess Dupres discovered ya at the Old House. You was as sick as a dog. Your family did everything they could to help ya, but in the end ya passed away."

Barnabas refrained from commenting on this ridiculous statement. His servant was obviously too distraught to focus on particulars.

Ben continued, "They put ya in the mausoleum 'cuz they was afraid of scarin' the townsfolk with rumors of a plague an' all. But then Angelique comes to me, and she says she needs me, see? She says I hafta find where you're buried. And, you know with Angelique, ya can't go against her. So I find out, and she says I need to make a stake outa holly and go to the mausoleum."

Barnabas drew in another breath. "Did she give any hint as to why?" He had a rising feeling of foreboding. Angelique had been up to more witchcraft. That, combined with him waking up in a coffin, could not bode well. What had the curse been again? You will never be able to love again, for everyone who loves you shall die. That is your curse, and you shall live with it for all eternity. Barnabas had no idea how that curse would manifest itself, but he had a feeling he was going to find out.

"Well, I don't know, but she asked me…she asked me…"

"Yes, Ben?"

"She asked me if I knew the word 'vampire'."

Barnabas felt as if his stomach had just dropped down to his feet. Vampire. He had woken up in a coffin. It had been hard to move. He hadn't been able to breath at first.

Of course he wouldn't have been able to. Ben hadn't just been panicked. He'd been right.

Barnabas was dead.

His mind reeled. Of course he knew what vampires were. Perhaps not the most well-known mythological creature, but, with the arrival of gypsies, the myth of the bloodsucking corpses had taken definite hold in the Americas. No one called them vampires here, but Barnabas knew enough of Slavic folklore to know the term.

It couldn't be true. Vampires weren't real.

But then, several months ago, he would have said that witches weren't real, either.

He couldn't breathe because he was dead. He had felt stiff upon waking because he was a corpse.

A corpse.

The words rang in his head like a sonorous knell of doom. Hardly knowing what he was doing, he lifted a hand to his mouth in an expression of disbelief—then stopped short when he felt the cool of his own skin, flaxen and drawn against his skull like a piece of meat that has been in the cellar too long. He suddenly felt nauseous. He clenched his jaw, then abruptly drew in a sharp breath of pain. Running a bleeding tongue over his teeth, he felt the sharp prick of fangs—was that part of the folklore? He'd never heard of it. But it didn't matter. He was dead. He was dead. His mind couldn't accept the fact, and yet intuition told him it was so. Why would Angelique lie about such a thing?

And you shall live with it for all eternity.

Finally, the revulsion took hold and Barnabas launched himself awkwardly out of the casket. With a trembling hand he grabbed onto Ben's arm. The servant pulled away with a look of sheer terror on his face. The expression only made Barnabas more desperate. "Tell me it isn't so!" he rasped. "It can't be! It can't be!"

"I'm sorry, Master Barnabas!" Ben spluttered fearfully. "She said I had to end it! She said I had to stake ya! But I couldn't. I'm a thief, but I'm no murderer. I didn't know what to do, so I just waited by the coffin, waitin' for ya to rise."

But Barnabas barely heard him. Instead, he stumbled awkwardly to the door of the mausoleum. He needed fresh air.

And then he remembered. He didn't need to breathe.

With a despairing howl, he flung himself into the night.

The cool wind whipped against Barnabas as he sat on the edge of the pier, his legs dangling into the water. He was numb all over. What did he do next? That was the one question that ran through his mind. And it wasn't, what do I do first, speak to my father? Find shelter? No. It was more as if the rest of his existence stretched before him, frighteningly blank, a terrifying abyss. His mind was so empty it was full. He didn't even know what to think next. He tried to run over all that he knew about vampires, and every piece of remembered information was more horrifying than the next—they were corpses that rose animated from their coffins every night. They fed on human blood. They could be killed by a stake through the heart. They fed on human blood. The symbol of the cross caused them pain—or was that holy water? They fed on human blood.

Well, he didn't find himself fighting an overwhelming urge for blood. So maybe it wasn't true. Besides, would he drink blood even if he felt…hungry for it? He couldn't imagine it. He couldn't imagine making the decision. The thought revolted him. He didn't thirst for blood.

Yet, the nagging voice in his mind told him.

How could he deny it? He sat on the pier, in the same spot where he had perched often in his youth. He found it helped him to think. But this time, it felt different. This time, there was no internal fire to draw into against the cold wind. He was freezing, and not just from the wind. The chill seemed to come from within him. The wind was also fraught with an overwhelming onslaught of smells. Beneath the scent of salt and cooking food from nearby pubs (the smell of which turned Barnabas's stomach) was an entire world he had never noticed before. The old wood of ships, horses, the strong scent of human waste—and the humans themselves. Hundreds of humans, each with an individual scent. Sweat, hormones, and another smell—tangy, metallic, burning just underneath the surface. As if in response to the olfactory overload, Barnabas's stomach grumbled. He was starving. Of course he would be starving—he had likely been in that coffin for a few days. So perhaps he would return to Collinwood after all, since it would not do to show up at a low-life pub for his first meal since "death" in the clothes in which he had been buried. He would return home, celebrate his return with his family, and immediately beg for a square meal. Prove to Ben and himself that Angelique had been lying.

He lifted himself from the damp wood of the pier with a stiff groan and made his way back in the direction of Collinwood. He was halfway to the woods that marked the edge of the town proper when he noticed a man lying on the side of the road, his head pillowed with a couple of flour sacks. An empty bottle lay incriminatingly at his side. He smelled alive—the warm heat still emanated from him, and the smell of sweat was overpowering. But Barnabas could also smell the alcohol on him. Not on him, no. In him. The sharp smell seeped from his body, entangled with that powerful, metallic smell. This was why his father had balked at the idea of him coming down here as a boy; had, in fact, given him a round beating many a time for doing so. The streets were full of inebriated men such as these, especially at this time of night. Barnabas wasn't sure why this particular one had caught his attention—he was accustomed enough to the sight. Perhaps it had been the smell. Such a potent smell—Barnabas had never been able to smell the foul scent of a drunkard from such a distance. But it was something else. And that something else—that metallic scent that seemed to travel straight from the nose to the inner recesses of the mind—was drawing Barnabas in. His stomach growled again—why? Why at this scent? But all thought processes flew from his brain as he greedily drew in another breath and the scent once again rammed into his sinuses. Whatever it was, he wanted it. He needed it.

Instinctively, hardly realizing he was doing it, Barnabas walked stealthily towards the snoring creature, softly, silently. He came to a crouch beside him. The smell was overpowering now, cutting neatly through the wafts of alcohol. Curiosity, that was what it was. He had to know what was making that intoxicating scent. It emanated from within the man himself, sharp and dangerous, just underneath the surface of his skin, gathering most strongly and most noticeably at the crook of the neck, wrists, and elbows. It smelled warm and reminded him of the cold all at the same time, like a fire on a winter's night. His stomach gave yet another protest as if in response to his hesitation. His face was so close to the jugular now, close enough he could almost taste the scent…His gums tingled in anticipation. He could feel the saliva building up in the hollows behind his tongue. His lip curled back across his teeth, revealing deadly points—

They sank into the man's throat.

Blood was often compared to wine—in all kinds of literature, even the Bible. Perhaps due to its dangerous color. Its allure and effect on human nature were often entwined together. But blood was nothing like wine. Wine burned down the throat with a chemical fire, while blood warmed the tongue with the safe warmth of the mammalian body. Wine had a sultry, seducing taste, while there was nothing subtle about the taste of blood. Blood slammed into the roof of the mouth with a sharp taste that stung the nose, like liquid metal pouring down the throat. No, blood was not at all like wine. Its taste was more obvious and insistent, making it seem less dangerous, less immoral, less stealthy. But at the same time, it was everything Barnabas needed, and as it slid down his throat the demon that rose within him gasped greedily for more, not with the desperation of an addict, but rather, the innocent pleading of a starving man. He chugged with all of the ferocity of a man in the desert who has come upon a small pool of water. And even when the source ran out, he continued to move his mouth desperately against the wound, as if by force of will he could produce more of the needed substance.

But no more appeared, and finally, the creature forced itself to pull away from the remains of its meal. The world spun around Barnabas for several moments with the sudden intake of sustenance, as if he had drawn in too much oxygen and his body was trying to make sense of it. He clutched weakly at the flagstones around him, trying not to collapse. When the buildings stopped rocking violently around him and his vision cleared, he took in the horrifying scene before him.

The inebriated man was nothing but a corpse now, an empty husk. His skin was perhaps even paler than that of Barnabas. His eyes stared blankly in terror up at the starry sky above, and his limbs stretched out in the odd angles of a final struggle. And, worst of all, the punctures on his neck—raw and bleeding, staring incriminatingly at Barnabas.

He had remembered the man, the smell, he remembered approaching him. He even remembered that awful moment when his fangs drove into the flesh—but he had no recollection of choosing to do so. It was not him, it could not have been him that wrought such destruction. His mind refused to accept it. It was revolting. It was obscene. He clamped his jaw down to keep from vomiting at the thought—and, running his tongue over teeth, tasted the film of blood there.

It had been him.

So it was true.

He was a vampire.

The thought collided with the sides of his skull but provoked no response from his body, still in shock from both the feeding and the final proof needed to drive home the terrible fact. Vaguely, some instinct, whether human or demonic he did not know, told him that he needed to get out of there, he needed to be long gone when the body was found. Seemingly without prompting from his brain, his legs forced him stiffly upright and propelled him away towards the tree line that was now within view. As soon as he was safely within the forest's depths, however, he gave way to the turmoil that now gripped his heart. A fist pounded into the solid trunk of an oak, frightening away several small rodents and birds. A despairing sound, that sound that is somehow a howl, a sob, and a moan all at the same time without being any of these things, wrenched its way from Barnabas's throat.

After what seemed an eternity crumpled by that oak, ranting inconsolably at the sky, the heavens, Angelique, anyone who could possibly be a target for his despair and anger, Barnabas finally subsided into that quiet stillness that serves as a bridge from a violent display of grief to something approaching functionality. He waited in this deceptively calm moment for the small inspiration that would urge him to get on his feet again, if only to escape his thoughts with movement. He would go back to the mausoleum. Perhaps Ben would still be waiting for him there. Doubtful, but one could hope. Seeing as returning to Collinwood or the Old House was out of the question, and there was nothing else Barnabas could think of to do, it seemed like the best plan.

When he finally approached that terrible hole where he had first awoken to death, Barnabas saw the dim but solid outline of Ben. The sight of him made Barnabas's oddly still heart flutter abruptly in relief, although Barnabas noted almost apathetically that the feeling was not as strong as it should have been—all of the physical manifestations of strong emotion Barnabas had been accustomed to were but shadows in this cold, lifeless body. He no longer felt the rush of blood in a moment of fear, nor the quick beating of the heart. Perhaps he would learn to live with it. But now the lack of sensation only threw him deeper into the sense of hopelessness that pervaded his thoughts.

He was almost on top of Ben before the servant noticed him. Ben started in surprise, even though he had been staring into the darkness in the direction of Barnabas the entire time. He stared at Barnabas as though he had appeared out of thin air. The hand that seemed to encircle Barnabas's heart tightened a bit more. Stealth was a characteristic usually attributed to predatory creatures—which, Barnabas supposed, would also describe him now.

"Mr. Barnabas?" Ben asked in trepidation.

With just a little hurt, Barnabas realized now what Ben was doing—leaving the mausoleum. He tried not to betray his emotion in his voice, but to no avail. "Where are you going, Ben?"

"I-I was going back to the mausoleum. Where did you come from?"

Barnabas bit back a sigh, knowing it was not worth commenting on Ben's poorly executed lie. Dryly, he responded, "In my new life, I have been discovering that I have some strange and…remarkable powers."

"What kind of powers?" The fear in Ben's voice was very apparent now.

"You will find out soon enough," Barnabas said, still with that humorless tone. A faint wind filled with the smells of animals near wakefulness and the approaching sun drew Barnabas's attention. "It will be dawn soon," he muttered. He was not sure why this mattered, only that it did, and that the drowsiness that was falling upon him would soon render him incapable of making any decisions about his short-term future, much less his long-term one. "We must go into the mausoleum."

It was only a matter of minutes before they were entering the intimidating edifice, looming over them in the nighttime sky. Ben entered first, lantern held out in front of him. Barnabas followed, head bowed to pass under the low entrance. He carefully locked the iron door behind them. He turned to face Ben, then stopped at Ben's look of concern and anxiety.

"Barnabas, ya been hurt?"

Barnabas paused for a moment, confused. And then it dawned on him. Remnants of his earlier meal must have remained on his face. He bowed his head once more, this time in overwhelming shame and guilt. "No."

"There's blood on ya."

He couldn't take this. Not now. The urge to turn his face away, to hide the proof of his revolting nature, was so powerful it was physically painful. So he did.

"What happened to ya?" Ben said more quietly, almost consolingly. Which somehow made it worse.

He could remain quiet no longer. "To me, nothing. But to some unfortunate villager…" His voice nearly broke. He took a ragged, unnatural breath and tried again. "You see, I learned something else about my new existence tonight. I learned that…I cannot survive without blood." The last few words seemed to be wrenched unwillingly from him.

"Without what?" Ben said, disbelievingly.

"Without blood, Ben, without other people's blood." His voice was rising now. He could not stem the quell of grief that was beginning to take hold of him again. "You will begin to hear talk tomorrow about an attack that took place in the village tonight. They will probably think by the marks on the man's throat that it was done by some wild animal, but it wasn't. I'm the guilty one."

Ben's head was shaking before Barnabas had even finished speaking. "But why, why?" His voice was trembling.

At this, Barnabas burst with all the emotion of the night's events. "Because I have need for blood!" He stormed to the small window at the opposite side of the room. "Don't you understand it?!"

Ben pressed his hands to his face. "No, don't say it's true!" he groaned.

Ben's disgust tore through Barnabas like a knife. "You should have gone through with it Ben. You should have killed me."

"Mr. Barnabas, you mustn't talk like that!"

Barnabas ignored him, lost in the widening maw of his own despair. "I would rather be dead than go through eternity…as what I am. What I have become."

Several minutes passed as the two men sat together in silence. The sky began to gray ever so slightly with the first signs of dawn. Barnabas had a growing sensation of discomfort, a cramping in his stomach as well as a feeling of faintness. Some small part of his mind told him that the feeling was due to the coming dawn, but he ignored it. He knew, from folklore, that vampires were most active at nighttime, but he wanted desperately to see the sun rise. He wanted to know that the world still turned, even though his life had been torn to pieces. Besides that, he wanted to stay away from the coffin as long as possible.

Soon, he found himself biting back a moan of pain. The ache was only getting worse as the sky became lighter. Ben's head shot up, Barnabas could see from the corner of his eye. The servant looked at him with a measure of concern peppered with fear. The expression only made it worse.

And then the sunlight streamed through the small window of the mausoleum.

A searing pain shot through Barnabas and he stumbled off of his perch by the window. He vaguely heard himself whimper and hiss as he contracted in on himself, trying to will the agony away. Ben was by his side in an instant. Good, loyal Ben. The servant's mouth was moving, but Barnabas could not make out the words through the haze of pain. What had happened? What had gone wrong now?

He felt Ben support him to his feet. He attempted to stand, but ended up throwing most of his weight on Ben's sturdy shoulder and allowing himself to be dragged back to his coffin. His coffin. He closed his eyes and waited to feel the sting of tears that never came. Or maybe the feeling of them was just swallowed up by the burning sensation along his arms and face. As Ben opened the coffin and proffered him in, two disjointed thoughts pieced themselves together in Barnabas's mind. The folklore doesn't say anything about this. Is sunshine poison to me now?

Notes: Some scenes are taken directly from Dark Shadows, but it is an AU, so not all of them. Then again, a lot of it's just whether I could get my hands on that episode or not, so...yeah.