In Darkness
A Dark Shadows 1970/1840 Fanfiction
Chapter Four
Still staring at her, Gerard stepped aside. The pretty blonde woman swept into the room. She plunked her enormous bag down on the bed and then sat on the bed herself, swinging her legs which looked so amazingly long beneath the hemline of that miniscule dress.
Still grinning at him, she teasingly remarked, "You've still got that look on your face, love. Why don't you close that door, come over 'ere, and let's get to know each other again. After all, it 'as been an 'undred and thirty years."
He obeyed her to the extent of shutting the door, but he kept his distance from the tempting vision on the bed.
She was not quite identical to Leticia, he decided. Something about the shape of this young woman's nose was different—although her nose was certainly adorable. And possibly there was some difference in her eyes. But the two women with over a century between them were indeed nearly identical, and the effect astonished him. It was as flabbergasting as the resemblance which the two modern children bore to Carrie and Tad.
Gerard observed grimly, "So he's compelled you to possess this girl."
Leticia gave an airy reply, "Oh, yes, I'll admit, it wasn't my idea. But I'm not sorry he made me do it. And between you an' me, I don't think she's sorry about it, neither. The poor duck 'asn't led an 'appy life, lately. 'Er 'usband recently died, and she ain't got over that, yet. So I reckon she's just as glad to 'ide in the background a bit and let me call the shots most o' the time. Of course she's still 'ere when I need 'er to be, which is a good thing, too. Otherwise, I wouldn't 'ave the first clue as to 'ow to drive 'er bloomin' car!"
"Why has he sent you here?" Gerard bitterly demanded of her. "Were you sent to bring me to Collinwood so he can possess me again?"
She opened her blue eyes wide. "Lord love you, ducks, nothin' like that. He don't even know I'm 'ere. Frankly, I think he's pretty much forgotten about me. He thought it'd be funny to make me possess Mrs. Carolyn Collins Stoddard 'Awkes, but he's got so many other fish to fry, he don't really care what I'm up to, most 'o' the time, so long as I don't bother 'im. As soon as I learned you were 'ere, I just 'ad to see you! And," she went on, her grin becoming more teasing, "I reckoned you'd need somebody to give you some pointers about livin' in 1970. Figured Julia an' all those men wouldn't think about it, an' I was right, wasn't I! So 'ere I am, to save the day, as usual."
The young woman who was mostly Leticia stood up and stepped disturbingly close to him. He grated out a tension-filled question, "What are you talking about?"
She wrinkled up her adorable nose and declared, "Well, for a start, you need to 'ave yourself a shower this blinkin' minute! Not to say you smell bad for a man from 1840, but the fact is, in an 'undred an' thirty years we've made some big strides in the fields of shampoo, soap an' deodorant."
While he contemplated her remarks and wondered how offended he ought to feel, she began pulling items out of the bag she had dropped on the bed. "I brought you some things of Uncle Roger's," she announced. She took out a pale yellow shirt and a pair of sand-colored trousers and fluttered them around. "You two are about the same size, I reckon, or at least close enough as'll make no never mind." Tossing those two items of clothing down on the bed, she next pulled out some shiny parcel and threw it at Gerard. He bemusedly caught it. "I even brought you some brand new boxer shorts, untouched by 'uman nether regions. Uncle Roger always buys more than 'e needs; 'e's probably got enough unopened packages of clothes an' toilet things to outfit a small army. Like you always used to say, 'Ah, the very rich.'"
He tossed what was apparently a package of untouched boxer shorts onto the bed to join the other items, and inquired, "And what does Uncle Roger think about you raiding his supplies?"
"Oh, bless you, love, 'e'll never know about it. 'E's on a sales trip to London. Convincin' the Brits that Collins sardines'll make the perfect finishin' touch to their breakfasts." Turning to produce more wonders out of the bag, she went on, "I got everything you'll need 'ere, courtesy of Uncle Roger. Soap, anti-perspirant, shaver, toothbrush, toothpaste—all of 'em brand new, mind you. Only thing that isn't Roger's is the shampoo; I figured you'd be better off usin' Carolyn's. I wouldn't dream of entrusting your lovely locks to Uncle Roger's shampoo."
Feeling more than slightly overwhelmed and striving to re-introduce some sense into the proceedings, Gerard snapped, "Leticia, this is ridiculous. He did send you; it's obvious that he did. Your mission is to distract me with all of this tomfoolery, so that he can possess me while you have me bamboozled with your shampoo and anti-perspirant!"
"I tell you, love, he don't even know about me bein' 'ere, an' if he did, I don't think he'd care. I'm just 'ere on an errand of mercy. You an' me got too much of an 'istory together for me not to 'elp you out when you need me. 'Ow could I leave you flounderin' about without the benefit of my groomin' an' fashion advice? If you're going to live in this day an' age, Gerard, then you 'as to learn 'ow to fit in, an' I'm 'ere to 'elp you do that."
"Very much obliged to you, I am sure," he grated.
"Oh, now, don't be such a stick-in-the-mud." She flung the various parcels and toiletry items back into the bag, draped the trousers and the shirt on top of it, and thrust the bulging bag at Gerard. "Off you go into that bathroom, and don't forget, I'm right out 'ere if you need 'elp with anythin'."
In a jolt of desperation, he asked himself what he should do. It still seemed all too probable that she was here at the warlock's bidding. For all he knew, the warlock might have sent her to make him socially acceptable for 1970, in preparation for taking Gerard's body as his own.
When he thought about it, though, that did sound a bit unlikely. The warlock, after all, was a man of the 17th century, when their notion of personal hygiene was probably to take a bath once a month, if that, and to carry around with them a dried orange studded with cloves. Come to think of it, it was very likely that back in 1840, Charles Dawson had needed to give the warlock tips on modern cleanliness and grooming, just as this odd hybrid of Leticia Faye and some modern Collins girl was doing now for Gerard.
It was true that if he succeeded in remaining alive in 1970, he would need to adapt himself to modern expectations. And he could certainly do without further comments on the topic of what he smelled like.
Feeling aggravated, harassed, and more than half convinced that he was doomed, he carried Leticia's absurd bag into the bathroom.
He hung the shirt and trousers from a hook on the bathroom door and gingerly began pulling forth the other contents of the bag. Most of them he either recognized or could figure out from the writing on their labels, but there was one item which left him utterly bewildered. He held the thing out at arm's length, examining it from all angles, before he finally called plaintively, "Leticia, what the devil is this?"
"What's what, love?" she called back, following him into the bathroom. On seeing the object he was contemplating, she flung back her head and laughed.
"You goose, Gerard, that's a shaver, not a torture device."
"It's a what?"
"An electric shaver, ducks. A razor. Oh, 'ere. Why don't you sit yourself down and let me do that for you."
More or less obediently, he sat himself down on the lid to the necessary convenience while Leticia set to work with the bizarre contraption. As he watched her with perhaps a degree of awe, she deftly produced a cord from the bag, attached the cord to the device, and then stuck the pronged end of the cord into a hole in the wall. At the flick of a switch, the thing started whirring, and the three metal disks on the end of it began to spin.
When Leticia moved to bring the device toward his face, he flinched backward. "Won't you need to use some soap?" he asked worriedly.
"Not a bit of it, love; it's a dry shaver. This thing does use electricity, you know; if you got too much water in your shavin' soap you'd probably get yourself electrocuted."
"And you're telling me this is an improvement on our technology?"
"Ah, just 'old your 'ush an' sit still."
The resultant experience was not precisely unpleasant. The whirring noise of the thing did set his teeth on edge, and the odd way in which it vibrated against his face, while not painful as such, was still not necessarily something he would deliberately inflict on himself. But the fact that Leticia had to stand quite close in order to accomplish shaving him was definitely no drawback. She was also, presumably, concentrating on the task at hand, to the extent that she did not bother making additional comments about his smell.
"There you are, love," she declared at last, giving his face a proprietary pat. "Not a trace of stubble left; once again your visage is as smooth as a baby's bottom." She winked at him and added, "Or as smooth as your bottom, for the matter of that."
It had been such an exceedingly long time since any woman had made a salacious remark at him, that he found himself annoyingly at a loss for any answering repartee. Leticia stashed the "electric shaver" and its cord back in the enormous bag, and inquired, "Think you can 'andle the rest of this on your own, or do you want me to stick around and 'elp?"
Gritting his teeth, he answered, "If I find I require further assistance, I'll be certain to let you know."
She blew him a kiss and betook her mocking, bare-legged and thoroughly desirable self out into the other room.
The shower, he found, was a technological development far more to his liking than the electric shaver. As he set to work with soap and shampoo, appreciating the water's impressive heat and intensity, he asked himself if he should accept the young woman's very obvious invitations.
He was, in fact, slightly surprised that she did not join him in the shower. The Leticia he had known of old—at least during the times when the two of them had been speaking to each other—would never have passed up the opportunity to disport herself with his naked and hot-water-stimulated person. Speaking of stimulation, his bodily response to these thoughts provided comforting assurance that the relevant portions of his physiology had survived the many traumas of possession, disembodiment, death, 130 years of ghostliness, and resurrection.
He supposed Leticia's surprising restraint could likely be traced to the fact that the other young woman with whom she was sharing a body was less than comfortable with the notion of walking in on a more-or-less strange man in the shower.
Gerard was of a good mind to interrupt his ablutions and go avail himself of the opportunities supplied by Leticia's presence and the remarkably un-lumpy modern mattress. He had always thought of himself as a man who seized his opportunities. And this time, significantly more than the usual attractions were involved. What with the warlock aiming to re-take his body, it seemed painfully likely to Gerard that if he did not seize this chance for carnal adventuring, he might never have a chance again.
But he had not forgotten his concerns from the night before, when he had worried that Roxanne might have been sent by the warlock in order to distract Gerard long enough to accomplish his re-possession. It seemed even more likely that Leticia was here for that purpose, considering that her own possession was the result of the warlock's machinations.
His imaginings were now weaving their way along far less pleasurable pathways. There was the possibility, for instance, that he and Leticia might be entertaining themselves on that lump-free, resilient mattress, and that the warlock might steal his body while they were in flagrante delicto. Contemplating that likelihood made him feel rather ill. And even if that stomach-turning possibility didn't become reality, time spent in such adventuring with Leticia would be time in which he wasn't striving to figure out how not to be possessed again.
Uncle Roger's soap and Carolyn's shampoo had pungent but contrasting scents which both made him want to sneeze, but if this modern version of Leticia preferred those smells to a man's natural odors, he wasn't going to quibble with her. By the time he had finished his shower (and had encountered the oddly-textured modern towel), had brushed his teeth with a paste that tasted strong enough to dissolve the lining of his mouth, and had figured out how to operate the peculiar canister which stated that it held Right Guard anti-perspirant, he thought that he was now sporting so many different scents, he must smell like the entire contents of an apothecary's shop.
Leticia called from the other room, "You gettin' dressed in there, yet, love?"
"I'm just about to," he called back, resisting the urge to inquire if she wanted to come in and help him.
"A word to the wise about them trousers," she continued. "You want to be careful about the fastening-thingy. They're called 'zippers,' an' they can be the very devil. You get yourself caught in that when you're puttin' the trousers on, it'll give you the shock of both of your lives."
"Thank you," he said warily, lifting down the trousers from the hook on the door and examining the offending fastener. He remarked, "I see what you mean. What was wrong with buttons that made anyone think a 'zipper' needed inventing?"
"Oh, well, that's people for you, ducks. Always changin' things just for the sake of changin' 'em."
Forewarned about the zipper, he encountered no significant difficulties with dressing in Uncle Roger's clothing. The one somewhat larger challenge lay in maneuvering the trouser-legs over his own boots, since Leticia had not brought him any alternate foot-wear. The trousers were wide enough at their cuffs, but they swiftly grew more form-fitting as they proceeded up the leg, making their juxtaposition with his boots a near-run thing.
When he emerged from the bathroom, Leticia clapped her hands and cried out in delight. "Well done, love!" she exclaimed. "You do clean up nice. I would've brought you jeans, I think jeans'd suit you, but Uncle Roger's such an old fuddy-duddy 'e doesn't 'ave a single pair o' jeans to 'is name. Now," she went on, after that less-than-comprehensible comment, "there's just one more finishin' touch." She bustled into the bathroom and re-emerged clutching the bag once more.
Gerard could barely restrain himself from groaning. "Leticia, what is it now?"
She produced some items from the bottom of the bag, where they had apparently lain unseen beneath several packages of boxer shorts: a comb, a brush, and a pale pink object resembling an oversized pistol, except that it had a cord attached to it.
Eyeing this last item, Gerard stated, "I don't think I want to know what that is."
"You silly, it's only an 'air dryer."
"A hair dryer? I already used the towel."
"Yes, but this does a better job." She pointed to the desk-chair and commanded him, "Now, you just sit down there and let me get to work on you."
Get to work on him she did, after sticking the metal prongs of the cord into their corresponding holes in the wall. Gerard sat at the desk feeling relatively ill-used, while Leticia attacked his hair with comb, brush, and her hot-air-blowing device which he thought had a fairly strong likelihood of either setting his hair on fire, inflicting burns on his scalp, or both.
"All these bits an' bobs are Carolyn's," she chattered while she worked, "Uncle Roger barely 'as left the 'air that 'e was born with, poor ducks, so it weren't any use nickin' 'air-care supplies from 'im. Come to think of it," she added, when she stepped back and examined the results of her ministrations, "I shoulda brought you some 'air spray, but I suppose this'll do for now. You do look a bit like a dandelion-puff, but that'll be all right; dandelion-puff 'air is a popular look these days."
"I'm so relieved to learn that," Gerard said flatly. "Is this nonsense finally finished?"
"Finally finished, love," she confirmed. "Now let's go out and get some lunch."
His angered frustration must have appeared on his face, for she immediately justified herself with, "Well, why shouldn't we? You're alive again, remember; you do need to eat. Where's the 'arm in getting' a bit o' lunch?"
He seized one of her hands and tried a pleading look, since his more threatening expressions didn't seem to be doing him any good. "Leticia, please," he said quietly. "Tell me the truth. The warlock did send you to me, didn't he? Why did he send you? Is it merely to keep me occupied until he can instruct his other tools in performing his next spell against me?"
Her gaze shied uneasily away from him, which he thought was about as good as an admission that he was right. "Whether he did send me or whether he didn't, love," she murmured, looking suddenly close to tears, "is there any reason you shouldn't 'ave somethin' to eat?" Her expression changed again with almost dizzying rapidity: her eyes sparkled with excitement, she cast him a little grin, and she put a finger to her lips. "An' I've got something I want to tell you," she went on in a whisper, "something important, but I want to tell you outside, where it's busier, noisier, where there's a lot o' people … you know, where maybe it'll be 'arder for someone to over'ear us."
Considering that if the "someone" were currently listening to them, he had almost certainly just heard her make that last remark, Gerard did not feel certain there was much point to all of this skullduggery. However, she had succeeded in intriguing him with her hints of "something important." And it was true enough that another meal would be welcome.
"Very well," he said, "but I trust you aren't expecting me to pay for this lunch. As I seem to keep on remarking, in bringing me back to life the warlock was not thoughtful enough to provide me with any pocket-money."
"Don't you worry about that, love; Carolyn's got plenty o' money. An' I remember 'ow you always loved gettin' women to buy things for you."
He smiled at that, kissed her hand, and agreed, "A man's got to make his living somehow."
It was only when they were outside and strolling arm-in-arm toward the waterfront that he recalled he'd promised Dr. Hoffman and the professor to remain at the hotel in case they needed to consult with him.
Surely that hadn't been the warlock's purpose in sending Leticia to him—merely getting him away from the hotel in order to stop the doctoress from consulting him?
He hoped it wouldn't prove much of a problem, at any event. On the way out of the hotel he'd mentioned to Joe Haskell, at the front desk, that he and "Carolyn" were going out to lunch and he would be back soon. There wouldn't be anything too crucial that Dr. Hoffman would need to consult with him upon, would there? And Professor Stokes wouldn't be back to consult with him anytime soon, because he was already off on this thoroughly implausible-sounding trip to Europe.
Their lunch destination, it transpired, was a small wooden building on the waterfront a couple of blocks west from the Collins Enterprises buildings. It was painted in red, white and blue stripes and bore a sign announcing it as Ray's Lobster Shack. Above this sign perched a four-foot-tall wooden cut-out of a lobster, painted in a caricature style and sporting a jolly smile, spectacles and curly brown hair.
The interesting appearance of the lobster was explained as soon as Gerard saw the man working inside the lobster shack. Since this man was also distinguished by brown curls, spectacles, and a cheerful countenance, Gerard reached the logical conclusion that the painted lobster was a depiction of Ray himself.
Some gangly youths and a mother with three small children were in line in front of them. While they waited, Leticia informed Gerard, "This place is Carolyn's suggestion. She recommends this as part of the quintessential modern Maine experience."
The quintessential modern Maine lunch, according to Leticia's alter-ego, proved to be a sandwich involving a small-ish, soft baguette stuffed with lobster-meat salad, which Leticia (or perhaps Carolyn) informed him was called a lobster roll. Each armed with a lobster roll wrapped in red-and-white checked paper, and with a bottle each of a brown drink which apparently was Moxie, Leticia and Gerard made their way to a small park slightly farther along the waterfront. A sign proclaimed this to be the Jamison Collins Waterfront Park. Gerard briefly wondered who Jamison Collins was, before acknowledging to himself that he really didn't care.
The park consisted of neatly trimmed lawn, curving paths, some decoratively arranged clumps of trees along with some equally artistic rock outcroppings, and a cannon. On the cannon, the rocks and in few of the trees, numerous children were clambering like goats. Scattered about here and there was also a selection of benches, the backs of which were painted to represent scenes of historic Collinsport.
Leticia chose for them a bench on which the painted scene showed two brigantines riding at anchor in Collinsport Harbor. Gerard looked more closely at the painting before they sat down, and saw that the painted vessels each bore a legible name: the Java Queen and the China Sea. Unexpectedly, he felt a lump in his throat.
On the topic of similar emotional reactions, it was with relief that he noticed he did not feel like crying as he started in on his sandwich. He wasn't certain whether that betokened increasing emotional stability on his part, or if it simply meant he did not find the lobster roll to be as sublime an experience as his steak dinner or the blueberry pancakes and bacon.
As for the Moxie, although it briefly caused his eyes to water, he felt sure that was due to the unexpected kick of the spicy-sweet beverage's carbonation, rather than to any emotional impact. The bottle's label trumpeted "Since 1884" and invited Gerard to "Enjoy a Lift—The Healthful Way." Reflectively he swilled some of it around in his mouth, musing on the strange thought that if he'd managed to survive until then, this drink would have been invented when he was 71 years old.
Leticia did not seem in any great haste to tell him her "something important." Finally, when both of them had finished their sandwiches, he inquired of her, "Are the kids around here making enough noise that you feel you can tell me this important something?"
She glanced at him with seeming hesitation before managing a faint smile. "Yes," she said quietly, her gaze shying away from him again to focus on her one-quarter-full Moxie bottle.
Leticia hurried through much of the story that followed without looking at him. It was as though she hoped that if she did not have Gerard in her sights, the warlock might be less likely to notice their conversation.
She began, "You know 'ow the Collinses keep on 'aving trouble with witches."
"I've heard something about that," he said. "Our warlock is the only one I know about, but I gather there have been some others."
"Yes. Uncle Roger married one of them a couple of years ago. A witch named Cassandra." Leticia sneaked a brief glance up at Gerard again, adding, "I know about her from Carolyn. I really do mean she was a witch; it's not just that Carolyn's being rude about her."
"So I presumed. And you're telling me about Cassandra because …?"
"Cousin Barnabas managed to get 'old of an anti-witchcraft amulet. Supposedly it protected one family against witchcraft for five 'undred years."
Gerard queried skeptically, "Then why did this family part with it? One would think if it did so well at protecting them from witchcraft, it would be in their interest to hang on to the thing."
"I don't know, love. Maybe something other than witchcraft managed to wipe them out. Any'ow … Cousin Barnabas got it and gave it to a friend of 'is that Cassandra was trying to kill through magic. An' apparently it worked! She cast a spell to kill this man, an' thanks to the amulet, 'e survived!"
Although he hated permitting himself to hope, Gerard did find that this tale was becoming interesting. He said, "So are you suggesting I should steal this amulet from Barnabas Collins' friend?"
"No, because that poor fellow didn't manage to keep it very long. Turns out Cassandra had some servant of 'ers steal it from 'im an' bring it to 'er, or at least that's what I've been told. An' as soon as 'e didn't 'ave the amulet no more: Bob's yer uncle, she was able to witch the man to death with no problem at all."
"Then … where is this anti-witchcraft amulet now?"
"That's the point I'm gettin' to, love! A few months after that, Cassandra 'erself disappeared thanks to some mysterious circumstances …"
Gerard made the suggestion, "Mysterious circumstances which go by the name of Barnabas Collins?"
"Well, I wouldn't be surprised if that was the case, any'ow. Anyway, once she was gone, all Cassandra's things got packed up and shoved into storage in Collinwood's attic. They're still there now. An' I'm almost sure the amulet's in there with them. Don't you see, Gerard?" she whispered urgently, casting a supplicating look at him and seizing his hand. "If you can get that amulet, an' keep it on you, you-know-'oo wouldn't be able to do a thing to you! He could order people to cast spells on you till he's blue in the face, but for all the spells they cast, he still wouldn't be able to possess you again."
Tempting hope warred within his mind against his conviction that all of their efforts would do no good. Keeping hold of her hand, and enjoying the simple sensation of contact as he rubbed his thumb over her palm, he said cautiously, "All right, then, Leticia. Can you get this amulet and bring it to me?"
Her face and her voice were troubled, but she didn't pull her hand away. "I don't think I ought to do that, love," she told him. "I know I said he doesn't pay much attention to me, but he might, if I'm doing something he doesn't expect. If he sees me rummagin' around in the attic, he might pop up there to learn what I'm up to. An' if he finds out about the amulet, that'll ruin everything."
Now it was he who took his hand away from her. "So—what?" he asked, feeling clammy with fear. "You want me to go up to Collinwood again? Don't you think he'd notice me 'rummaging around in the attic' too?"
She gazed up at him with an innocent expression. He asked himself if perhaps her expression was too innocent.
"I really don't think he cares what you do," Leticia answered, "because he doesn't think anything you do can 'urt 'im. If he realizes you're trying to fight 'im, he'll probably just think it's funny, because he believes it's so useless."
He had to admit, that did sound precisely like what the warlock would think. Bitterly Gerard reflected, My God, how I hate that man.
"Still," he argued then, "if he sees me pawing through trunks in the attic, he's liable to wonder what I'm doing, and then he's liable to notice the amulet. And then that chance will be lost."
"But ain't it worth tryin' to take that chance?"
"Leticia," he said heavily, "you're trying to make me go up there so he can possess me."
She looked shocked. "No, I ain't, love, I swear to you! Think about it: all the spells he's worked recently 'ave been done at nighttime, 'aven't they? So it stands to reason the spell against you will be worked at night, too. As long as you get away from Collinwood again before sunset, it ought to be all right. An' we've got plenty hours o' daylight left."
God, he wondered, why am I even allowing myself to think about this? Telling himself that he was not committing to anything, he said, "All right; what does this amulet look like?"
"Like a big gold coin, about so big," she told him, forming a circle with her fingers.
"Does this coin have any markings on it?"
"Well, not any markings as such, I don't think. I can't really figure it out. It's … fuzzy in my 'ead when I try to get a picture of it. I think they're just … sort of lumps on its surface, like it was made out of clay instead of gold."
"A lumpy gold coin."
"I know it don't sound like much, but it could save you, Gerard! If it can do that, does it matter what it looks like?"
"No, of course it doesn't."
What should I do? He demanded of himself.
He knew that he ought to stay the hell away from Collinwood. Every instinct he possessed told him he should keep away with both feet from that damned great house.
But the possible chance to gain a talisman which might save him was painfully alluring. Might it not be worth taking the risk, if he could achieve that?
What was the alternative, anyhow? Simply cooling his heels at the Collinsport Inn, waiting for the warlock to possess him?
It was true that the spell he'd heard Daphne and the children conducting last night had something to do with stars. Hadn't they kept on talking about "the star that guides the destiny of Gerard Stiles"?
So it did seem probable that the next spell, too, would not be performed until the stars were out.
You know, he thought angrily, the stars are out there all the time, whether people see them or not.
Still, he knew that was not the sort of thinking which generally accompanies magic spells.
"All right," he sighed. "Which attic are these trunks of Cassandra's in?"
"They're not trunks, they're boxes. Five of 'em or so, all marked with 'er name. They're in the attic over the center part of the 'ouse; you know, where they used to 'ave the servants' dormitories—back when they 'ad more than one servant." Leticia shook her head at that, remarking, "The Collins family sure 'ave fallen on 'ard times since our day."
Gerard gave a quiet snort. He said, "The Collins family fell on hard times when one of them condemned a warlock to decapitation. That was the point at which they all ought to have packed their bags and absquatulated back to England."
"Well, be that as it may, love, they didn't, an' 'ere we all are."
"Yes," Gerard muttered bitterly. "Here we are."
Almost completely certain that this was a terrible mistake, he said again, "All right. I'll try to find that amulet. As long as I can get away from there again before sunset."
"All right, then, love!" Leticia exclaimed, springing to her feet. "Then let's go. I've got Carolyn's car parked at the inn."
That reminded him of another reason why this was a dreadful idea. It would mean yet another ride in one of those monstrosities known as cars.
He soon learned that this time he could be thankful for one small mercy. Carolyn's vehicle was an open-topped one, like that of the fortune-teller Shaw. At least when he rode in the open-topped horseless carriages, he was not compelled to hang his head out the window to prevent himself being sick.
He tried not to think at all during this ride up to Collinwood. Any thoughts which crept into his mind were on the topic of his current actions being irretrievably stupid.
At the top of the hill, Leticia did not drive to the front of the house, as the fortune-teller and Dr. Hoffman had done. Instead, she drove around to the right, to the complex of carriage-house, stables, barns, and groundskeepers' houses. She parked Carolyn's car outside one of the many bays of the carriage-house. Then, linking her arm through Gerard's, she compelled him to walk along with her in something approximating a casual stroll. Their stroll took them through the arched gate of the carriage-house complex and along the gravel drive toward the great house of Collinwood.
In an undertone, Leticia said, "I'll go in the front, but I don't think you'd better be with me. You know, in case somebody might be watchin'. You can get in the back, through the little door beside the tower, remember it? That'll put you right near Uncle Roger's study, an' from there it's only an 'op an' a jump to the stairs that go up to that attic."
"Yes," Gerard said tersely. "I remember."
As they reached the end of the west wing, where their paths must diverge, Leticia slid her arm out from his. Then she squeezed his hand. She whispered, "If I see any sign of you-know-'oo, I'll, you know, I'll do my best to district 'im for a bit. Good luck, Gerard."
"Thank you," he muttered. "I've no doubt that I will need it."
She hesitated. Then she suddenly reached up to pull him down toward her, twisting her fingers in his dandelion-puffed hair. The kiss she planted upon his surprised mouth was chaste, hasty and perhaps apologetic, and when she pulled away again he thought he might have glimpsed tears escaping from her eyes.
"Ta ta for now, then, love," Leticia murmured. She turned and hurried toward the house.
Contemplatively putting a finger up to touch his lips, Gerard asked himself the grim question, Was that a kiss of Judas?
Whether it had been a kiss of Judas or had not, he was here now, and he had an amulet to search for.
Gerard strode across the lawn toward the terraces and the tower, all the while feeling painfully exposed. That was the worst thing about sneaking around outside Collinwood, at least during the daytime. The hundreds of windows all functioned as so many unblinking eyes. One always needed to work with the assumption that one's every move was being observed by someone.
Of course, these days such a tiny number of residents were rattling around in this great house that most of the windows were almost certainly innocent of observers. Only one potential observer truly frightened Gerard, at any rate. Unfortunately, he had no way of knowing where that potential observer might be.
Leticia's statement that she would attempt to distract you-know-who was disturbing to him, although that in no way differentiated it from most of the other prospects he was facing.
How would that distraction work, Gerard wondered, presuming that it took the sort of form he was imagining for it? Could that type of distraction get much of anywhere between a living person and a being who had no physical substance?
He supposed all of this was not any more bizarre than most of the things which happened around Collinwood. Still, it did seem odd to him to contemplate the prospect that this afternoon, the great house would play host to two beings who bore identical forms. One of those two was a newly-resurrected man in purloined modern clothing, searching for an anti-witchcraft amulet. The other was the vengeful spirit of a three-hundred-year-old warlock, who might just be fortunate enough to find himself on the receiving end of some intimate favors bestowed by the incomparable Miss Leticia Faye.
Gerard hurried along the west terrace, feeling particularly exposed as he sped past the sizeable drawing room window. Then there he was, sheltered by the bulk of the main tower and standing outside that little door. His momentary fear that he would find the door locked turned out to be unfounded. Once inside the shadowy dimness of Collinwood's foyer, its electric lamps unlighted on this sunlit afternoon, it was the work of only moments for him to race past the door to the study and reach the servants' staircase which would lead him straight to the attics he was seeking.
Back in the days when the masters of Collinwood had employed small armies of servants, the two attic rooms for which he was heading had been the dormitories for the underservants. It hadn't occurred to him to ask Leticia which of the two dormitories now held the witch's boxes: that which had formerly domiciled the housemaids, or its equivalent that had housed the footmen and suchlike persons. But perhaps she did not know the answer to that question herself, if all she had to go on was a potentially vague report from her alter-ego Carolyn on where the witch's belongings had been stashed.
As he reached the pitch-black third floor hallway he realized he should have helped himself to one of those electric torch-things that Dr. Hoffman had shown him how to operate last night. Although that would have entailed searching around in the drawing room for them, which in turn would probably lead to all manner of awkward encounters or near-encounters with Collinwood's residents, few though they currently were.
Then a thin wisp of something hit him in the face, causing him to utter a muttered imprecation. Feeling around for whatever-it-was, he found it to be a string, hanging straight downward. When he considered this fact, he thought he remembered seeing strings which were used to operate electric light fixtures. Mentally shrugging, he pulled down on the string.
In a minor re-enactment of the Almighty's "Let there be light," a blindingly bright pear-shaped glass object blazed out light from the hallway's low ceiling.
Choosing one of the two dormitories at random, Gerard opened the door of the room to his left.
Here another string enabled him to operate another bare light fixture in the ceiling, and the room was also lit by three small dormer windows. He grimaced at the sheer volume of stuff that met his eyes, telling himself he simply needed to keep focused. He was looking for five or so boxes marked with the name "Cassandra," not for any other thing amidst the hundreds of years of Collins family detritus.
Anyhow, those boxes had to be somewhere near the surface of all this clutter, if they had been placed up here only two years ago.
A quick tour through the place—or as quick a tour as he could manage, considering his need to avoid tripping over things—revealed nothing like the stash of boxes he was seeking. He only found three collections of boxes made from the modern brown cardboard, amidst all of the older trunks, suitcases, crates, and the random assemblage of framed artworks, moth-eaten taxidermied creatures, piles of books, and general God-knows-what. One of these collections of boxes was inscribed with the inked notation "Christmas ornaments," one was "Liz and Roger's toys" and the third was "Wedding gifts, Elizabeth and Paul."
Irritatedly thinking that of course he had chosen the wrong room, he forayed into the dormitory on the other side of the hallway.
He didn't recognize any clear difference between the type of stuff which was stored here and the things in the opposite dormitory. But he did see, nearly at once, a modest stack of boxes which looked to him almost as though it might hold the Holy Grail.
There were five of the boxes, and each was labelled in neat block capitals, the black-inked letters so large he thought they might have been inscribed using a paint brush instead of a pen, "Cassandra Blair, August 1968."
With a painfully pounding heart, and with trickles of sweat which proved that "Right Guard anti-perspirant" was not infallible, he commenced digging through the contents of the boxes.
He completed this process without finding anything like the amulet that had been described to him.
He was surrounded now by several hillocks of modern women's clothing: dresses both long and eye-poppingly short, skirts, blouses, even a few sets of trousers and matching jackets. Most of these items were of colors so bright that he believed looking at them for any stretch of time would give him a headache. There were also numerous daring and lace-bedecked nightdresses and under-things, and a miscellany of hats, coats, scarves and gloves. The bottom of one of the boxes was lined with multiple pairs of shoes, most of them also boasting virulently vivid colors.
His hopes kindled briefly when he found two jewelry boxes, but those hopes were swiftly doused again. The boxes were crammed with a plethora of adornments, most of them of the large, clunky modern style which he found relatively ugly, but there was nothing that could conceivably be described as a lumpy, large gold coin.
In one box, sandwiched in between two coats, he found three books, titled The Golden Bough, Ozark Folklore and Magic, and Witchcraft: The Sixth Sense. Along with these was a notebook bound by a spiraling metal wire. Gerard opened this on the pathetically unlikely off-chance that it contained some note revealing the location of a certain amulet. Instead, it was about one-third filled with notes in a delicate, elegant handwriting, which seemed to have been taken during a series of lectures. This supposition was confirmed by the notation inside the front cover: "Anthropology 303, Spring Semester 1968, 'Witchcraft and Magic: A Cross-Cultural Examination,' Professor T. Elliott Stokes."
Gerard thought bemusedly, This Cassandra was studying comparative witchcraft as taught by Professor Stokes? If so, she hardly sounds like a witch who would be strong enough that she could bespell a man to death.
But he did not actually give a damn about who Cassandra had been or what she had been up to. What he gave plenty of damns about was the fact that he saw no sign of that miserable amulet.
It's not here, he thought in despair.
No, that can't be true; I'm not going to believe that. I have got to find it!
He turned the boxes upside-down and shook them, one by one; he ran his hands into every corner of the boxes and under the flaps of their cardboard. He took every item out of the jewel boxes and he ran his fingers over their satin linings, feeling for anything hidden under the cloth or for evidence of secret compartments. He picked up each piece of clothing and shook it, and he felt through each and every garment that had pockets. He even looked through all three books, just in case one of them should turn out to be a book-shaped secret box.
There is no help for it, Gerard thought at last. That thrice-damned amulet isn't here.
The next question was, what did that mean?
Had the entire story been a lie from start to finish? Had the warlock sent Letitia to spin Gerard a yarn about the amulet in order to lure him here?
Or was the truth more complex than that? Had the amulet indeed once been here with the rest of these things, but someone had found it and spirited it away?
Since his return to life, Gerard had made no focused effort to use his clairvoyance. He believed it likely that, as in his life before, many of the intuitive feelings he had been experiencing were traceable to that gift. But he had not yet, in this new life, attempted to concentrate this power and put it to specific use.
Well, now he would try. He would make a last-ditch effort to learn if that bloody amulet was any place where he could find it.
Of course all of the objects from these boxes were connected with Cassandra. It was somewhat arbitrary to choose one item out of them as being more closely linked with her than any other. But he thought that writing which had come from her hand seemed more likely to bear a true connection to her than some garment she had simply worn.
So he picked up her notebook and held it loosely in his two hands, only keeping tight enough hold of the notebook not to drop it. He had folded it open to a page with writing, and he brought several of his fingers in contact with the words that she had written.
While he kept that contact unbroken, Gerard closed his eyes. He willed his spirit into calmness, in spite of the fears surging through him which threatened to negate any feeling of calm.
In his mind he built up a picture of the amulet as he imagined it from Letitia's description. The amulet gleamed before the eyes of his thoughts like a bumpy, metallic sun.
He channeled all of his thought and his will into the question, Where is the amulet?
Show me where the amulet is.
The vision in his mind gradually changed, but he knew soon enough this was not a vision which would do him any good. He saw a white-haired man, wearing spectacles and a white coat, seated at a desk and consulting a book of hand-written notes. He saw terror and pain suddenly swamp the man's face. He saw the man clutch at his chest, his hand convulsing and clawing as though he were attempting to dig out his own heart.
With his other hand, the man yanked open the drawer to his desk, fumbled within it, and pulled forth an object: an object that looked like a large, gleaming golden coin. He pressed the amulet to his chest, and Gerard saw his anguished expression gradually fade into a look of astonishment and relief.
Where is it? Show me where the amulet is now!
Again the vision changed, and again it was not what he sought. Now he only saw a woman, a young woman with short black hair who was clad in a painfully bright green dress. He thought that dress was one of the many which lay piled on the attic floor around him now. The woman was beautiful, her deep blue eyes contrasting strangely with her raven-black hair. And she was smiling, a calm little smile of mockery and power.
Where is it, Cassandra? His thoughts begged. Tell me where the amulet is! Help me understand how to find the amulet now!
But the woman in his vision gave him no answer. And then she, also, was gone.
In place of her, Gerard saw the face of a man.
He knew the face, of course, because it was the face he saw every time he looked in a mirror. Instead of feeling familiar to him, the sight of his own face now sent terror washing over him. That terror pounded down on him like a gigantic, deadly wave.
Gerard felt that he was once again on the deck of the China Sea, in that tempest at Tierra del Fuego. This time, he knew, the waves would wash him off the deck of the ship, instead of hitting either Quentin or Tad. And this time the waves were composed not of water, but of his own fear.
The face that had once been Gerard's smiled at him. He could not believe that any expression so evil could be formed by human features.
That smiling face seemed aglow with a deadly green light, the green of absinthe and arsenic. The warlock with Gerard's face went on smiling, and Gerard heard the words he had heard so many years ago in his nightmare, I am to become you and you are to become nothing.
With jolting suddenness, the vision vanished. Gerard blinked himself slowly back into reality. He found that he was still kneeling on the attic floor, holding Cassandra's notebook in his hands.
Distantly at first, and then with growing shock, he realized that only darkness was now visible outside the dormer windows.
He could see his surroundings, thanks to the electric light fixture overhead. But when last he had seen those windows, they had illumined the attic room with dusty rays of afternoon sunshine. Now he saw nothing through them but the blackness of night.
Gerard dropped Cassandra's notebook and numbly staggered to his feet.
It was a trap, after all!
The warlock had lured him here with the tale of the amulet. Then he had trapped Gerard in his own vision. He had trapped Gerard and held him, unresisting, long enough for the night to fall. The warlock had held him until the time had come to perform his next spell.
Gerard ran through the door, down the brief stretch of corridor, and started at a neck-breaking pace down the stairs.
He had made it only a few steps down the staircase when he heard the voices in his mind.
He heard the voice of Daphne Harridge, murmuring in her soft, gentle tones, Feel the earth turning through eternal space.
Gerard's steps slowed and dragged almost to a stop. He was still moving, still faintly struggling to force his way down those stairs, like a doomed, helpless fly caught in a puddle of treacle.
The voice of a boy answered Daphne's voice. But the boy's tones were wandering and weak, almost as weak as Gerard's own steps. The boy whispered, Let it turn itself now toward the stars that guide the destinies of us all.
Daphne spoke again, and her voice sounded with increasing strength. Let the light of the stars that guide the destinies of Gerard Stiles and Judah Zachary touch the flames of these candles we have lighted in their names. Let their lights join. Let the lights of these stars, the lights of these candles, let all four of them come together. Let all four shine as one.
Let Judah Zachary live again.
The voices drifted away from Gerard's mind. They seemed to relinquish their hold over him, but that was only to give way to a different sound.
He heard distant music: a faint, brittle tune which seemed as if it were formed from the noise of breaking glass.
Slow and inexorable, the tune played in his mind. The thought came to him that a very long time ago he had heard that tune played, over and over again.
Oh, God, Gerard realized.
God! It's the carousel music. It's the tune from that carousel music box in Tad's old playroom!
He remembered the painted metal horses circling to the strains of that tune, endlessly following each other's tails. He remembered watching Samantha Collins' face as she watched the painted horses. He remembered Samantha whispering the names her son had given to those horses, years before. Somehow he even remembered those names, after all of this time: Charger, Dapple, Jewel, Gunpowder and Gringolet.
Maybe he still remembered them because he'd heard Samantha whisper them so often, when grief had left her too empty even to weep for her loss.
Whatever craftsman built that carousel had doubtless intended its music as a cheerful tune. But Gerard could not hear it now without recalling the bleakness of Samantha Collins' despair: the despair that was born on the day when she first understood she would never see her son again.
Now, as he heard that music again, Gerard, too, felt despair—not Samantha's despair, but his own.
He felt the despair of knowing that he might as well be riding on one of those painted metal horses.
He was trapped. He was caged. He could never escape, no more than Charger, Gunpowder and the rest of them could tear themselves loose from that carousel and run free.
God damn it, Gerard Stiles thought, God damn it, I knew I should have bedded Leticia when I had the chance!
He vaguely noticed that he was falling. His body that would soon belong to someone else collapsed onto the steps, in the tiny dark confines of the servants' staircase.
Gerard had lost his last ability to resist, as Daphne's voice once more crept into his mind. He listened to Daphne whispering, Let their lights become one.
Let Judah Zachary live again.
