Disclaimer: Dark Shadows belongs to Dan Curtis.

Chapter Nine: Homecoming and Hunger

The week of their return trip was surprisingly lacking in stress. Ben drove the carriage through the daytime, while Barnabas lay inside, spread out across the length of one side while Joshua made sure the curtains were firmly closed. They would stop after sundown, while Barnabas made the painful transition to consciousness; Ben and Joshua would rest for the night, while Barnabas stayed in his quarters. Or, at least, that was the plan—Joshua found himself awake through most of the night, continually checking on Barnabas. Fortunately, his bloody meal of the gang of men they had happened upon had seemed to hold him over for the return trip, so he did not seem to be sneaking out during the night. But Joshua felt the need to reassure himself anyways…more for Barnabas's sake than the villagers'.

When they finally reached the gates of Collinwood, the sun was spreading a lurid red smear across the Western sky. Joshua felt the carriage halt. He hopped out of the carriage immediately, taking care to shed as little of the dim dusky light onto his son as he could. "Ben, Mrs. Collins will not know we are here. Go in and find her. Warn her. See to it she is not in hysterics when she comes out. And make sure she takes her time. I don't want her to see Barnabas rise."

Ben gave him a dubious look. Joshua pretended to ignore it. Ben turned and walked to the house.

Joshua looked at the dimming sky. For God's sake, just set already.

As if his the sun had heard his wish, the heavy rays draping themselves through the winter clouds sank behind the large silhouette of the mansion, turning the area around the carriage completely gray. The inside of the carriage creaked immediately in response as Barnabas shifted his weight inside. Joshua flung open the door and, without a word, supported Barnabas as he pushed himself upright.

"What-? Where-?" Barnabas looked around, blinking. Joshua had found that he was always slightly disoriented after rising from the dead every evening. How terribly exhausting it must be, dying every morning.

"We're home."

"Oh." Barnabas seemed to suddenly come to full attention. "Father…"

"You're ready for it," Joshua answered his unspoken question. "Your mother and sister will be overjoyed."

Barnabas shot a dismal look in his direction.

"No matter what you've done," Joshua amended. "Or what's happened to you." He helped Barnabas to his feet. Barnabas set boots in the drifting snow and began to shiver violently. No body heat. Joshua sighed. He supposed they would be spending a lot on firewood in the years to come.

Barnabas, however, squared his shoulders, and made his way up to the door. Joshua followed at his heels.


Naomi sat in the parlor, bent over a book. It was Mary Wollstonecraft's recently published novel, Mary: A Fiction. At least with her husband gone, she was able to get some reading done. He would always scoff when she read what he considered the outrageous social perversions of that particular philosophe. Of course, he never did anything about it—there wasn't much he could do—but it was less stressful with him out of the house.

Sarah was also bent—over her stitching. And it was a horrible mess. Thread crossed every which way over what Naomi thought was supposed to be the front side of her project (she wasn't even sure what it was supposed to turn out to be). But it was something. Something to do, to keep their minds off of the strange happenings of the last several months. With Joshua gone, Sarah had had the audacity to climb into their bed almost every night, cuddling up to her mother. She would cry often, over Barnabas, dampening Naomi's pillow with crocodile tears. Naomi had held her, spoke soothing words. She wondered when someone would speak soothing words to her.

A soft knock on the door startled her, and she realized she had been reading the last couple of pages without actually comprehending them. She sighed and threw the book on the end table. Probably a servant asking some household question because they didn't want to come up with a solution without consulting the mistress of the house. Honestly. "Come."

"Ma'am, it's me, B—" Ben began from the doorway. But Naomi didn't wait to hear anymore. Leaping to her feet, she catapulted out of the room with a speed she didn't know she was still capable of. Barnabas was home. Out of the parlor. Into the foyer. Through the front doors. Down the steps.

He was there.

She flung herself at him. "Oh, God, Barnabas, you're back! You're back! Oh, I've missed you so! Please tell me you're all right!"

Barnabas staggered backwards into Joshua, and Naomi immediately straightened. "Oh, are you all right? Have I hurt you? Oh, I'm so sorry! Come inside, come inside!"

"Mother, I—"

But Naomi didn't wait to hear anymore. She grabbed a hand—it was shockingly cold. She almost started. No, she willed herself. You prepared yourself for this. She tugged him into the home.

In the foyer, she finally stopped and turned to face Barnabas. He looked incredibly ill, especially in the low light of the dozen candelabras that filled the hall. Pale, emaciated, exhausted—her heart leapt out to him with the instinctive worry of a parent. Her first thought was Food, he needs food, but then she remembered just what that entailed. So she moved on to the next priority. "Into the parlor, there's a fire going."

But Barnabas stood rooted to the spot. His wide eyes were gliding around the foyer, pausing on every portrait, every candle, every imperfection in the wood and tiles. The hint of a smile, shy and reluctant, caught the corners of his mouth.

Naomi smiled at him smiling. "Come," she said. Barnabas followed.

As soon as they passed through the parlor, a shriek of "Barnabas!" came from the fireplace, and a blur of pink rushed passed Naomi. She thought of warning Sarah away—she wasn't sure how prepared Barnabas was to handle the little ball of energy—but she turned to see Barnabas squatted on the ground, arms fully outstretched, a huge smile spreading across his face. For the first time since he had walked through the door, he looked certain. "Sarah!" he cried. And then, when she finally reached him, throwing herself into his arms, he actually did begin to cry. His face buried in her mousy hair, he showered her with kisses and breathed into her, crushing her to him as if he could pull her any closer. He muttered something into her hair, something that sounded like words of endearment, adoration, with various I-love-yous thrown in. Sarah responded in kind. "I love you, Barnabas."

And then everything changed. Barnabas froze. "No," he whispered. "No." This time more loudly. Naomi was confused. The scene was so remarkably happy. What could possibly have gone wrong?

But then Joshua took hold of the situation, stepping up quietly to Barnabas. He cleared his throat. "Calm, son. I didn't tell you, because I never seemed to find the right time. The only reason we were able to find you was because…Angelique…came to us and lifted the curse from you. You are free, Barnabas. And we are free to…love you."

Barnabas turned to face his father, eyes wide with shock. "Angelique? But…But how can that be? Then why am I still…? For the briefest, most painful of moments, there was a glint of hope in his tired eyes.

Joshua immediately backtracked. "No, son. That…that is beyond her abilities. In regards to your…condition…the damage is done. But no one will die out of love for you."

"Ah." The word was small, hopeless. Still with his hands on Sarah's shoulders, Barnabas stared at the floor, seemingly battling his emotions. Finally, he sighed. But it was not a sigh of despair. It was a sigh of conviction, of resignation. He clutched Sarah still tighter to his chest. "Well, then," he said, haltingly, "I suppose I will…have to learn to…exist with it."

Naomi's heart fell slightly, even in the midst of such a joyous reunion. No, it would never be the same. But she would try her damndest to make it work.


Barnabas allowed his mother to guide him over to a chair by the fireside. As he sat down, he swore he could feel each individual muscle relax in a warmth he hadn't felt since he had first been turned. It was incredible just how much humankind took their own body heat for granted. Barnabas felt as though he had been frozen for months, and he was only now just going through the painful process of thawing. He watched as his hands shook uncontrollably in the dim glow of the fire.

His family, including Ben, gathered around him. Sarah clambered onto his lap and clutched her arms around his neck. Barnabas wrapped his arms around her and looked up at his mother, father, and best friend. He found he had not the faintest idea of what to say, especially looking into his mother's warm, brown eyes. I'm home? Sorry for being a murderer? After so many months of living minute to minute, Barnabas wasn't sure he remembered what it was to live like a human. Looking around the place he had come to call home, with its familiar furniture, rugs, and wood paneling—Barnabas suddenly felt very out of place. Just a week ago he had brutally slaughtered four men, had fed from them, and had barely retained the memory of it. He didn't belong here anymore—he wasn't the same person as the boy who had been raised in these halls.

His mother, always so perceptive, sat down in a chair next to him. "Barnabas…it's alright. It's going to be alright." Again, Barnabas didn't know how to answer. Tentatively, his mother asked, "What…what exactly happened? Please, tell me. I want to know what happened in the last few months."

Out of the corner of his eye, Barnabas saw his father shift uncomfortably. Barnabas shook his head. "I…I don't really remember that much. I travelled from town to town…"

"And moved on when your presence became too obvious…" Naomi mused. Barnabas felt relief that he didn't have to explain that to her. Naomi continued, haltingly, "And…and how did you avoid the sun?"

"Ben…Ben lent me a blanket before I left. Honestly, I'm not sure how I did it." Barnabas's thoughts were disjointed. He had only been having conversations for the last week, and those had mostly been of a very emotional and distraught nature with his father.

His mother seemed to understand this, and laid a hand on his shoulder. Barnabas tensed instinctually…even now, even after several months of living with the curse, he did not feel at all comfortable with his own body. It was still too cold, too stiff, too…lifeless. And, despite the fact that he was now stronger and faster than the average man, he still had very debilitating physical weaknesses. It made him feel frighteningly vulnerable, as well as disgusted him.

Without a further word on the subject, his mother began to talk. About their life since he had left…about how Sarah was coming along quite well on the piano, how his father had secured a deal with some European cloth manufacturer. And Barnabas found that it calmed him. He didn't want to talk about the horrific last few months of his life; he wanted to be reminded of what normalcy was. And, after several minutes, as he listened to his mother ramble on about an entertaining incident when one of Joshua's bloodhounds had somehow gotten into the house, he realized that that was exactly what his mother had intended to do.

They spent a good three or four hours like that, and gradually the entire party loosened their tongues. Both Sarah and Ben added to the stories. Even Joshua relaxed slightly, although he did not join in their conversation. The conversation came to an abrupt halt, however, when Sarah asked the hitherto unspoken question. "Barnabas, why did you leave? Ever since you married Miss Angelique everything's been very strange here. You keep leaving and showing up again. At one point I thought you were dead. And then I saw you with blood on your face. And Mother and Father won't talk about it. They won't explain anything."

Every adult in the room froze. After a few moments, Naomi said, quietly, "Because it's your brother's story to tell, Sarah. It's a very personal subject."

Finally, Barnabas spoke. "I think I'd rather it if you explain, Mother."

"Here?" his mother said dubiously.

Barnabas shrugged.

Naomi sighed. "Sarah, have you ever heard of vampires?"

Barnabas clammed up. Despite his appearance of nonchalance, he watched Sarah intently. What would she say? Would she accept it? If she did, would she be able to accept him as her loving brother? The thought, that after all these trials, his sister might still remain horrified of him, trapped his heart in fear.

Slowly, Sarah nodded. "I think so. Daniel tried to scare me with a story about one once. He said a vampire would come into my room at night to drink my blood. But they're not real. Father said so."

Barnabas looked down at his lap. He couldn't bear to watch this scene any longer. The faint blush of humiliation rose into his cheeks.

"Sweetheart, they are. And they are not all wicked, Sarah. They just need blood. It's through no fault of their own. And every vampire was once a normal person, just like you are."

Despite the way that their parents sometimes treated her, Barnabas knew his little sister was actually quite clever. By this time, she had pieced two and two together. "Did Barnabas…? Is that why he got so sick?"

"Yes."

The single word resounded in Barnabas's head as he waited for the verdict of the person he loved most in the world. More than his parents, more than Ben. Sometimes, he even thought, perhaps more than Josette. His love of Josette had been romantic, mutual. For Sarah, he held nothing but pure adoration. And if she ever stopped loving him, it would in no way mar his feelings for her in the slightest.

"Oh." The word was full of confusion, of the shock that only a young child can have. Then, to Barnabas's complete astonishment, Sarah said, "Does he have fangs?"

"What?" Apparently that was not what Naomi had expected either.

"Daniel said vampires have sharp teeth, like dogs and cats. Do you have fangs, now?"

Barnabas lifted his head to look at Sarah. What he saw was not an expression of horror, hatred, or, God forbid, fear. Sarah's face only held curiosity now, with a hint of childish excitement. Barnabas had prepared himself for a number of responses (most of them bad), but nothing had prepared him for this. "Um…yes. Yes, I do."

"Can I see them?"

Barnabas paused, avoiding his parents' gazes. "Sarah, I'm not so sure if that's…"

"Just…go ahead," Naomi said, and made a show of getting up and walking into the other room. She certainly had no desire to see them, Barnabas was sure. And he certainly didn't want her to either. It would be the final proof for her.

Turning back to Sarah, who was looking up at him with a demanding expression, he curled back his upper lip in a grimace. He shifted uncomfortably as his little sister studied his altered appearance. Finally, she said, "Does it hurt even more than normal when you bite your tongue?"

Barnabas used this as an excuse to shut his mouth. "Um…I'm not sure I've done that yet. I…don't have the habit of eating with my mouth full like you do." Suddenly, he smiled. This was all so ludicrous. Here their mother had just told Sarah that her brother was a cannibalistic monster, and all she could think about was how much it hurt to bite your tongue with fangs. Oh, Sarah. Sarah, Sarah, Sarah. I should have known you, of all people, would have accepted me.

Joshua, still sitting awkwardly in an adjacent armchair, cleared his throat. "Barnabas, it's—" he glanced at his pocket watch, "—four in the morning. Go put that little girl to bed."

"I'm eleven!" Sarah said indignantly.

"Most sane adults don't stay up this late, Sarah."

"But I want to talk to Barnabas!"

"He'll be here next evening to talk to you. Now go to bed."

Before Sarah could say another word in protest, Barnabas swept her up in his arms and carried her up the familiar route to her bedroom. This time, there would be no sneaking around. No lies. This time, he would tuck her in, light her night candle, and leave out the normal door. Barnabas almost couldn't comprehend how much of a relief that was. Yes, he was a monster. But an accepted one. A loved one. And he could kiss his little sister good night.

As he pushed the covers firmly beneath the sides of her body, Sarah looked up at him with eyes that made Barnabas's heart melt in his lifeless chest. "Barnabas?" she said in a small voice, deliberately youthful. "You're going to stay this time, aren't you? You're not going to leave again?"

Barnabas gave her an adoring smile. "No, Sarah. I'm not leaving. I'll be here." He bent down and planted a kiss on her forehead.

Sarah giggled and rolled over. "Good night!"

Barnabas chuckled. "Good night, love."

And with that, he backed quietly out of the room.


Joshua, however, did not go to sleep. Instead, he sat by the fireplace, staring into the flickering flames. What now? Right now the coffin was still in the tower room—that would be where Barnabas would stay for the next few days. But he could always move it to one of the guest rooms—perhaps that would be more comfortable. Homely. He would shutter the windows. Yes, that was it. He sighed and looked at his pocket watch. Half past four. He had the feeling his sleeping patterns would be severely changed over the next few months. After all, he couldn't just leave Barnabas to while away the hours in a house that was completely asleep every night. He returned to be with his family.

At that moment, Barnabas came slowly down the stairs into the parlor. Joshua was immediately aware of his odd gait. Weary. Weak, almost. Finally, Barnabas approached the chair across from him and flopped into it with a loud sigh. His eyes were slightly glazed as he hunched over and looked into the fire. And then it struck Joshua.

"You're hungry," he stated blandly.

Barnabas's head snapped up to look into Joshua's eyes. Finally, in a measured tone, he said, "Yes. I suppose I didn't notice it the last few hours with all the commotion."

Joshua leaned toward him. To his surprise, Barnabas leaned even farther back in his chair and even went so far as to cover his nose and mouth with a hand. "Please, Father," he said, his voice muffled. "I can…can smell it from here."

"Ah," Joshua said awkwardly, and likewise leaned back in his chair. After a few moments of silence, he said, quietly, "You realize, Barnabas, that you are going to have to feed sooner or later." When Barnabas didn't answer, didn't even meet his gaze, Joshua said, "There aren't many options as to how you're going to accomplish that. You know I won't let you go to the village—and I believe you'd rather not, either." Barnabas's abashed expression told him he was correct. "I cannot foist you on a servant. The only person's blood I can offer is my own." Joshua raised a hand before Barnabas could protest. "I recall your words from a week ago. But it is either that, or I destroy you. And I refuse to accept the latter option. The truth of the matter is, Barnabas, that you are sickly. And I am your primary caregiver. I realize that I will most likely not be able to produce all that you need. We will cross that bridge when we come to it. For now, while we think of a better solution, I will feed you." For the second time in a week, Joshua began unbuttoning the lace cuff around his left wrist.

"No, Father. No." Barnabas's voice was not hysterical this time, simply flooded with emotion and, frighteningly, unshed tears. Joshua forced himself to look up from his task. Barnabas continued in a quavering voice, "I—I can't. I can't. Even more so because you are willing. I can't."

Joshua lifted himself out of the chair and came to sit beside Barnabas. Barnabas didn't meet his eyes, just continued to stare at his hands. "Barnabas. Barnabas, look at me." Reluctantly, Barnabas dragged his face up to look at Joshua. Joshua sighed. "I am fortunate. My body produces blood on a daily basis. Yours, apparently, does not. Please, let me give you what you cannot give yourself. I am your father, Barnabas. Let me be one, now." Awkwardly, he thrust his wrist in front of Barnabas. Barnabas turned away, his eyes squeezed shut. He gave a noisy, upset swallow. Then he nodded.

Joshua froze. Of course, ever since a week ago, he had been perfectly willing, intellectually, to give his son what he needed. But actually doing it was a fully different matter. Now that he had jumped the first hurdle, convincing his son to feed from him, now he would have to follow through. Not that that bothered him, no. He had managed to leaf through enough of that book that he knew it wouldn't turn him, at least. But his body and the small, primal recesses of his mind were an entirely different matter. He had just given a natural predator permission to feed off of him, to drive fangs into his flesh. His own son. He hadn't allowed himself to think of what it would actually be like. And suddenly, it seemed like the most perverse idea in the world, especially considering the fact that it was his own son. What if he hadn't really accepted him? What if this experience would never allow him to think of his son as anything but a monster? He was about to bite him, and drink his blood for heaven's sakes. It was horrific.

But he would not display such fears to his son. Seeing that fear and horror on his face would only hurt him more. So he forced himself to watch as Barnabas gently, carefully, perhaps shakily, took Joshua's hand in his and brought the wrist up slowly to his mouth. Of course he could feel the tension, the fear running though Joshua's body right now. Joshua swallowed dryly as Barnabas's fangs—God, he had fangs—became visible, just slightly.

Pinpricks. Nothing really. In fact, the only reason Joshua was sure Barnabas had bit him was because he felt the suctioning motion afterwards, the drinking. The sensation was unnerving, but it wasn't entirely painful. It wasn't really much of anything, except strange. Joshua forced himself to calm down as he watched his son bent over his wrist. And Barnabas—Barnabas seemed to become more comfortable as well, beginning to drink with the simple, content manner of someone incredibly thirsty who has just been offered a glass of water. And Joshua supposed that was all it was. Once the supernatural, the personal nature of the beverage of choice was taken away—that was all it was. He was thirsty.

Finally, after only a minute or two, Joshua felt himself growing woozy. "Barnabas. Barnabas, I think that's enough for today." At first, he didn't think Barnabas was going to respond, but finally the boy lifted his head just slightly, licked the tiny wounds once. Joshua somehow recognized this as form of closing them up—or at least cleaning them up. Barnabas then leaned away from him, returning to his former manner of self-consciousness.

Joshua brought his arm back to his body and, checking to make sure he wasn't going to stain his clothing, laced his cuffs again. "There, that wasn't so bad, was it?" he said, more to comfort himself than to comfort Barnabas.

Barnabas made no reply for some time. Finally, he launched himself out of the chair. "I'll go get you some food and water."

Joshua made no reply. Let him do that, if it made him feel better. Joshua himself was content. For the first time, he felt as though he had actually done something to help remedy his son's situation.

After several minutes, Barnabas finally came back with a glass of water and some biscuits. "Here." He laid them down on the table in front of Joshua. As Joshua started in on them, Barnabas looked awkwardly at his hands. "Thank you," he muttered. "I feel much better now."

Despite himself, Joshua found himself smiling at his son. "I'm glad I could help."

Notes: Alright, here's the next one! I hope the reactions and actions of the characters were realistic enough. Thank you all reviewers for your kind comments!