Disclaimer: Dark Shadows is a Dan Curtis Production and not mine
CHAPTER 20: THE WARLOCKS' STRIKES
"Victor." Burke regarded the visitor with no real enthusiasm.
"You look rather displeased," Fenn-Gibbon observed. "Did you have another unfortunate encounter with the spirits of the West Wing?"
"We've been having an eventful morning," Vicki told the old stranger narrowly. "Now is not really the time to discuss the West Wing."
"We have a visitor?" Elizabeth joined Vicki and Burke at the front doors. She got an eyeful of the shabby looking man at the threshold.
"Well, hello." Fenn-Gibbon greeted the matriarch with a grin. "You must be the lovely Mrs. Stoddard."
"Who are you?" Elizabeth asked bluntly, obviously put-off by his distorted voice.
"This is Victor Fenn-Gibbon," Burke introduced them. "He's the man I was telling you about."
"Oh, yes." Elizabeth addressed Fenn-Gibbon. "I've been rather curious about you. Burke tells me that you have some knowledge about our West Wing."
"Yes." Fenn-Gibbon nodded. "I'm acquainted with the spirits haunting the area."
"You think you can help us?" Elizabeth pressed.
"Yes, of course, that is why I am here," Fenn-Gibbon spoke silkily. "I'd like to avail myself to you and your family."
Elizabeth took in his words, her face expressionless. "Please, come in," she decided. "You must be cold."
Burke and Vicki shared a look. They themselves were more uncertain of Fenn-Gibbon's character than anyone.
"Why, thank you, Mrs. Stoddard," Fenn-Gibbon said graciously, as he crossed the threshold.
"The drawing room is just over there." Elizabeth indicated the large, paneled double doors.
"Yes, I know," Fenn-Gibbon replied as he headed toward them, passing by David in the foyer.
As Elizabeth shut the large front doors, Burke moved closer to her, whispering urgently, "Liz, we don't know if we can trust this guy. He might have some insidious angle."
"I am well aware." Elizabeth curtly nodded, her lips barely moving. "If he's our enemy, I would know it now, rather than later."
"Like keep your friends close, but your enemies closer," Vicki surmised in a whisper.
"You know our family well."
"I'd really like to know what he's after," Burke whispered.
In the foyer, David was openly staring at the stranger, who was admiring the drawing room with just as much interest. "He's the most goofiest man I've ever seen," the boy whispered, loud enough to be heard. "But kinda scary goofy, I guess."
"David, maybe we should go upstairs and start with your lessons." Vicki came up to him from behind, placing her hand on his shoulder.
"What!" David protested. "I thought I wasn't going to have any lessons today!"
"That's a great idea, Vicki," Elizabeth approved, looking rather protective.
Maggie creaked out of the side door, carrying a warm coffee mug. "One piping hot coffee with cream. Hold the sugar." Upon stumbling into the crowd, the maid instantly picked up the tension. "What's going on?" Maggie followed Vicki's eyes as they darted into the open drawing room.
Inside, Fenn-Gibbon waved at her. "Hello, Miss Evans. Charmed to see you again."
"Hello, Mr. Fenn-Gibbon," Maggie replied distantly.
She threw her questioning eyes at Vicki and Burke. Her look plainly reading What-is-he-doing-here?
"Please make some tea for our guest, Maggie," Elizabeth instructed.
As Maggie handed Vicki her coffee, she awkwardly replied, "All right, Mrs. Stoddard. I boiled some water in the kitchen."
As the maid hurriedly disappeared back behind the side door, Vicki corralled a frustrated David up the staircase.
"Are we actually going to do lessons?" David complained.
"Yes," Vicki said strictly.
"Oh, come on! Even you don't want to do this!" David was almost stuttering in indignation.
At that moment, Vicki was mighty glad that Maggie brewed her some coffee. She was clearly going to need it.
Elizabeth and Burke were the only ones left in the foyer. (The ones that were visible and had a pulse anyway.)
"I'm coming with you," Burke offered quietly.
"No, he'll be more forthcoming alone with a solitary woman," Elizabeth replied.
"I'll be right out here just in case," Burke assured her.
In the drawing room, Fenn-Gibbon allowed the group to strategize behind his back. He was not offended in the least by their mistrust of him. By all accounts they should be even more wary.
But the old man was confident he would dispel their uncertainties.
At the moment, he was simply reveling in his triumph. Finally being invited back into this incredible home. Especially after his comical failure on his first attempt. However, what he found most amusing was the growing sense of hysteric fury, radiating off the house's many spirits. The ancestors that infested the house like roaches. He felt their displeasure swirling around him in a private maelstrom.
He was surprised when he felt the presence of someone who was not even a Collins. But he knew him quite well.
"Why, hello, Tim."
"I beg your pardon?"
Fenn-Gibbon heard Mrs. Stoddard stepping into the drawing room. She shut the dramatically large double doors.
"Oh, I was merely lost in my memories," Fenn-Gibbon said politely. "I'm so in awe of this house. I have admired it from afar for so long."
"Why don't you have a seat, Mr. Fenn-Gibbon." Elizabeth's tone was no-nonsense.
Fenn-Gibbon flopped heavily on the couch. Elizabeth perched herself on the armchair near the fireplace.
"To reiterate, Burke Devlin has informed me that you claim to have known one of our late ancestors."
"Yes, Quentin Collins," Fenn-Gibbon replied. "I believe it is his spirit that is responsible for the hauntings in the West Wing."
"To be frank, Mr. Fenn-Gibbon, I don't believe you," Elizabeth said firmly.
"I understand your skepticism," Fenn-Gibbon allowed civilly. "If I were a lady of your standing, I'd surely feel the same."
"Keep your eyes open, Liz," Bill Malloy's voice whispered in Elizabeth's ear. "Everything about him is shifty. From his strange voice, to his shabby looks. How would this fat hobo know your dead kin?"
Just then, Fenn-Gibbon let out a slight chuckle for no reason, causing Bill's invisible ghost to balk.
Could this man possibly hear him?
Elizabeth remained cool and collected.
"I don't think you could have known Quentin Collins. It doesn't seem mathematically possible."
"Mrs. Stoddard, you flatter me. I assure you I am much older than I seem." Fenn-Gibbon smiled, a sight Elizabeth found unseemly. "I have known Quentin Collins."
"Can you prove it?" Elizabeth asked.
"Not at the moment," Fenn-Gibbon said, undaunted. "But if you would provide me a chance to gather the evidence, I could prove it irrefutably."
"I don't know." Elizabeth was indecisive. "You are certain you'll be able to find this evidence?"
"Certainly."
"In a pig's eye!" Bill's gruff voice barked into her ear.
"Allow me to think it over," Elizabeth said steadily.
"Of course." Fenn-Gibbon nodded. He hoisted himself off the couch. "And on that uncertain note, I'll make my departure. I hope that once I am permitted to present my evidence, we will grow to be good friends."
Elizabeth didn't respond. She didn't even make eye contact.
"Farewell for now, Mrs. Stoddard." Fenn-Gibbon headed for the doors.
But as he opened them, he nearly crashed into Maggie, who was carrying a sterling silver tea tray.
"Ah, Miss Evans," the old man mused. "I'm afraid I must leave. But since you graciously troubled yourself over me, I'd be delighted to take a little sip of your tea."
Fenn-Gibbon selected a floral china tea cup off the tray, and poured his own tea. Delicately setting the little silver kettle back on the tray, he took a sip, extending a sausagey pinky finger as he did so.
"Peppermint," he stated, the minty taste coated his tongue. "Not my personal preference, but most mere mortals seem to prefer simple, childish fare this time of year."
Returning the tea cup back to the tray, the old man excused himself, leaving Maggie at the doors. He acknowledged Burke's presence as he strolled by. "Mr. Devlin."
Elizabeth, Maggie and Burke silently watched as Fenn-Gibbon made his departure.
The bushy stranger shut the doors and stepped out onto the frosted estate. He was rather bemused overall. The Collins matriarch of this era – Elizabeth Collins Stoddard – was so unlike the legal head of the family in that magical year of 1897.
Even though they obviously shared the same countenance, Judith Collins was so foolishly trusting of strange men. Elizabeth Collins Stoddard was much more guarded.
Fenn-Gibbon did not allow this to discourage him. Far from it. He was pleased. Her abundant caution would ironically provide him with ample social opportunities, despite herself. Luckily, he knew how to be a charming gentleman when he needed to be. He would cast those charms on the Collins family. It was far from resolved, but Fenn-Gibbon still had other pawns on the board to play.
When he set off to leave, he came nose-to-nose with another man. A fellow who virtually appeared out of nowhere. Or in this case, materialized out of thin air.
Fenn-Gibbon was face-to-face with Tim Shaw.
Before Fenn-Gibbon could properly respond to the near collision with the dead man, he was interrupted by a panicked female voice shrieking in the air, "Tim, no!"
The old warlock stretched out a broad grin. "Well, well, Tim Shaw! It is you! It's been a long time."
"Tim, get away!" the disembodied female voice pleaded desperately. "He'll vanquish you!"
At this, Fenn-Gibbon chuckled delightedly. "Oh, I'd never even consider vanquishing you, Tim Shaw. We're dear friends. We go many years back, my boy."
"What are you doing here?" Tim demanded evenly, his form flickering slightly.
"Visiting Collinwood," Fenn-Gibbon replied glibly.
"What are you plotting?" Tim demanded in the same even tone.
"I'm not plotting anything." Fenn-Gibbon smiled coyly. "I simply want to catch up with an old friend."
"You'll never see Quentin again," Tim said bluntly. "As wretched as he was, he at least had the decency to die."
"I believe I will see him again," Fenn-Gibbon said loyally. "I have faith in that."
The old man stepped through the ghost. He didn't flinch from the chilling jolt at the ghost's touch.
"Farewell. I hope we meet again."
Tim watched the heavy man trudge his way through the snow.
"He is plotting something, Tim," Rachel's voice declared. "His coy demeanor is a facade."
"Yes, Rachel," Tim agreed. "He was always a liar. Just peculiarly direct about it."
"But how could he possibly intend to bring Quentin back?" Rachel wondered, aghast.
"I don't know," said Tim. "But what scares me more is that he's not hiding it."
At the rustic, snowy cabin secluded on the Collins grounds, Tom and Amy came through the front door, bundled in their coats. Amy happily carried in the old phone David allowed her to keep.
They were returning from a little hamburger lunch at the diner in the Collinsport Inn. A meal that Tom decided to sneak away to, needing a break from the exhausting shoveling. And to get Amy away from the grounds for a short while.
Once they clambered inside, Tom shut out the winter chill. Amy immediately resumed admiring the neat old phone.
"So, David Collins really gave you that?" Tom bent down to her.
"Yes, he did," Amy replied happily.
"So, tell me, kiddo," Tom prodded. "What's David Collins like? How does he strike you?"
"I don't think he's spooky as the kids at school say," Amy opined. "But I definitely think he's grumpy."
"I'm glad he didn't scare you, at least," said Tom. "I still don't know what to make of him. I thought he looked pretty – spooky – when I saw him in the foyer this morning."
"But it was nice of him to let me have this old phone," Amy pointed out.
"I suppose," Tom relented.
As he helped her out of her bulky coat, Amy asked, "Do you still have to shovel?"
"I need to finish shoveling up to the terrace," Tom told her. "Would you like to help me?" He wiggled his eyebrows.
Amy giggled. "No. I was going to play with my new phone."
"I don't like you here by yourself." Tom sighed.
"But you won't be gone long," Amy brightly insisted. "I promise I'll be good. I won't open the door if a stranger knocks. I won't even open it for David."
"I know, Amy... I just worry."
"I promise I'll stay here and be good." Amy gave her big brother an honest look.
Staring into her promising eyes, Tom heaved a gigantic sigh. "Once I'm more established here, I'm looking into finding you a sitter. I thought Joe would be a little more helpful than this."
"I give you my word," Amy vowed.
"Don't think I'll leave you alone here often," Tom was faux stern.
"I'll be good." Amy gave him a little salute, but was clearly tiring of the reassurances.
"I won't be long." Tom sounded royally hesitant.
"Be back soon." Amy was opening the door.
"You can count on it."
Tom quickly threw Amy's coat on the armrest of the couch. He gave his kid sister a quick hug, then (reluctantly) stepped out of the cabin.
Finally alone, a giddy Amy seated herself on the couch, the phone resting on her lap. Examining it closely, Amy carefully removed the candlestick phone from its cradle.
"You mustn't speak into it!"
The abrupt voice caused Amy to flinch and gasp. Her shocked gaze flew to its source. The little red-head was utterly startled to find another little girl sitting right beside her. A weird looking kid, in a white old-fashioned dress and hat.
After several seconds of shocked gaping, Amy managed to blurt out, "Who are you?"
"Sarah."
"How did you get in here?" Amy demanded. "The door was locked. I made sure of that."
"I didn't come in through the door," Sarah told her.
"But – how?" Amy spluttered. "Everyone has to come in through the door. Didja climb in through a window?"
"No," Sarah answered.
"Then how did you get in?" Amy demanded, still a little startled.
"I shimmer," Sarah claimed.
"Huh?" Amy frowned, even more lost.
"Listen, this is important," Sarah said direly. "Never speak to the man in that item. He will make you do things you really don't want."
"What are you talking about?" Amy asked bewildered. "This phone doesn't even work. Did David put you up to this? Are you trying to pull some prank?"
"No, there is a evil Collins ghost that cast spells with this device," Sarah said seriously. "He wants David. He could still cast his spell on you."
"You're crazy!" Amy glared at Sarah disbelievingly. "This phone is very old. It doesn't work! It's just a pretty antique, like my Mom used to have."
"But the evil ghost uses it to cast his spells!" Sarah warned desperately.
"No!" Amy cried petulantly. "This is my home and my phone! You can tell David that the kids at school are right about him! He's a creep!"
"Please," Sarah tried again.
"Oh, come on! This phone is deader than a real ghost," Amy countered nastily.
She placed the phone against her ear.
"No, don't!" Sarah cried.
Amy rolled her eyes. "Look, I'll prove that there's no one in here. That's impossible."
"But – he knows how to use it!"
Amy ignored her. She spoke sarcastically into the mouthpiece. "Hello? Is anyone in here?"
"Hello." A strange man's velvety voice spoke back to Amy.
The little red-head shrieked violently. She nearly dropped the phone, and would have if her hands hadn't locked up at the sound of his voice.
"Who am I speaking to?" asked the man inside the phone.
"Who's this?!" Amy spat, shocked by this bizarre prank. "This phone isn't suppose to work! It's not even connected!"
"My name is Quentin Collins," the man replied politely. "Now, may I ask, who I am speaking with?"
Amy slid her perturbed gaze to the weird girl beside her. Sarah gave her a stern I-told-you-so look. Amy's own face was draining of color.
"Do you want me to guess?" Quentin prodded charmingly. "Why, listening to your sweet, little voice – you remind me of someone I used to know. Someone in my family."
Amy felt instinctual terror well up inside her. "Um – I'm not suppose to talk to strangers," she stammered, slamming the phone back to its cradle. Her frightened eyes were now glued on the strange girl Sarah. "How was that possible? Is this phone magic?" She shakily glance down to the phone on her lap.
"Never speak with that man again," Sarah said firmly. "You do not want him to cast his spell on you."
"Does he cast evil spells?" Amy asked in a squeaky voice.
"Yes." Sarah nodded. "Look how hollowed he left David!"
Stuck in a small classroom at the local collage, Joe numbly sat at a bland desk next to Carolyn, trying to tune out the jabbering of an insane man named Prof. Stokes.
The middle-aged, portly man was enthusiastically droning about spirit possessions. Or – more accurately – a determined, wayward spirit forcefully suppressing the will of a living subject, using that host's body in any way the spirit saw fit.
Normally, Joe would view Prof. Stokes as a crackpot that obsessed over morbid subjects. He should be securely locked out of any classroom. But on the other hand, Joe knew he had no right to judge. He himself could hardly be describe as normal.
Instead, Joe could only humor Carolyn.
This was what his mistress wanted. Whatever it took to get closer to the Collinses. In truth, he didn't think his mistress had a real plan for him. She clearly had greater concerns. It was up to him to find the best way to enact her will.
"Why aren't you paying attention to the mad man, Sailor?" the ghost of Nathan Forbes privately spoke. "You know he speaks the truth about your circumstance. You saw my Millicent possessing your lady friend. It is just as mundane as that vampire whisking away your other lady. Or as common as a witch stealing away your soul."
Joe ignored him. The only voice that mattered belonged to his mistress.
"There is something about this plumb scholar that is quite wickedly striking and intelligent. Notice how he commands the room. When he speaks, others listen. This is a real man. He could possibly help you, boy. I just cannot believe that your lovely, golden-haired companion actually thought to lead you to him."
"Now, as a reminder, this very class bore witness to a similar, voluntary possession," Joe heard Prof. Stokes lecture. "When Miss Carolyn Stoddard was used to channel the voice of her ancestor Leticia Collins during our impromptu séance."
Joe decided he should pay closer attention.
"And I am delighted to see her back," the professor preened.
"Are we throwing another séance?" Carolyn's friend Donna asked from her desk, plainly liking the idea.
Carolyn, on the other hand, was clearly less eager to serve as an intercom for a long forgotten dead person.
Sensing Carolyn's discomfort, Prof. Stokes told the class, " Another time, perhaps. Today we will continue to delve into the fascinating mysteries of deja vu, and how it relates to parallel time theory."
Joe was relieved when the class was finally dismissed. Unfortunately, he couldn't leave. He was supposed to meet this professor.
What Joe wanted to do was work a little magic of his own. It was his only hope of getting his mistress' portrait out of Barnabas Collins' house. He couldn't just physically break in and steal it. The old Collins ghosts put up some kind of an invisible wall. They knew he was the witch's servant.
Joe had been stumped until Carolyn dragged him into this classroom. The professor seemed to be using it as a store house for random, mystical knick-knacks. That was what drove him to the idea of magic. Since it turned out magic was real, Joe decided to make it work for him. What he needed was some time alone in this classroom.
Somewhere among all the clutter, there very well could be exactly what he needed. But he was on Carolyn's leash.
"My sympathies, Sailor. It can't be easy being pecked by two hens at the same time."
Once the last student filed out of the classroom, Carolyn and Joe finally had the professor all to themselves. Carolyn lead Joe to his desk.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of having you back in my classroom, Miss Stoddard?" the professor asked pleasantly.
Joe randomly noticed that he had a plate of four different cheese slices resting on a leather-bound tome on his desk. Funnily enough, Joe had smelt cheese during the class. He thought he'd only imagine it.
"I brought a special case for you, professor." Carolyn gestured toward her companion. "My friend Joe is bewitched."
"Really? Honestly?" The professor was obviously intrigued. "Did an actual witch place you under an enchantment?"
"A very wicked witch," said Carolyn.
"How interesting," said Prof. Stokes. "I've never encountered a wicked witch." He glanced straight-up at Joe. "Now, tell me young man, what is your full name?"
"Joe Haskell."
"Oh, yes, I remember disciplining two of my students for gossiping about your relationship during class," the professor faintly recalled.
Joe and Carolyn could only stand side-by-side stiffly.
"So – tell me, Joe Haskell," the professor probed. "You are bewitched. Does that mean your individual will has been suppressed by a third party?"
Joe hesitated, sweat beading on his forehead.
"Answer the man, Sailor," Nathan's dry voice hounded.
But over Joe's perspiring hesitation, Prof. Stokes nodded solemnly to himself, as though he'd inwardly concluded something. "Yes, your silence is telling. As is your gaunt face and tired eyes. You are under a thrall."
"Do you think you can help him, professor?" Carolyn asked hopefully.
"I'd like to try," the professor offered modestly. "But I have never freed anyone's will from supernatural forces. Most of what we do here is entirely theoretical. Many of my students aren't even believers in the supernatural."
Carolyn nodded dejectedly.
"Do you by any chance know who Joe's enchantress is?" the professor asked.
"Yeah, my soon-to-be-ex-step-aunt Cassandra," Carolyn replied.
"Really?" Prof. Stokes lifted a mild brow. "The woman Roger Collins impulsively married?"
"I'm afraid so," Carolyn muttered.
"Fascinating," was the professor's noncommittal comment. "Your family certainly attracts the most irregular people."
"Don't I know it," Carolyn quipped dryly. "But since we know who the witch is, do we have a better chance of getting Joe off her spell?"
"It is a helpful advantage." Prof. Stokes nodded. "But we need to be careful - as you put it - getting Joe off her spell."
"Look what we have here, Sailor," Nathan's voice mused. "A man choosing to help you that isn't I."
"Now, Miss Stoddard," Prof. Stokes pressed Carolyn. "I think it would be a wise precaution that we place our own enchantment on Mr. Haskell."
"Our own spell?" Carolyn canted her head.
"Yes, something to prevent him from betraying us to the witch," the professor explained. "He is under her thrall, and is likely loyal only to her."
"Yes, you are right." Carolyn trailed her blue eyes to Joe.
Deep inside, Joe highly doubted that whatever spell this strange professor could cast on him, would counteract his mistress' iron clad hold over his soul.
But the professor had a determined, confident look on his face. An intellectual excitement that he was about to embark on something new, and was anxious to attempt it.
Joe couldn't decide if he should pity the professor or fear for himself.
The winter evening fell upon Collinwood. As the freezing, darkening skies filtered its last waning light through the old windows, the caterers shuffled out of the Great Hall, their day of work ended.
Maggie watched them filing out from down the corridor.
She was particularly glad to see the back of that bald guy, the one that hassled Willie.
Once the herd of caterers rounded the corner and disappeared from sight, Maggie creaked down to the Great Hall's double doors. She found that Willie was still inside, taking in the decorations that adorned nearly every surface of the room.
All the arched windows had their Christmas wreaths hung with uniform precision. The windowsills were decked out in golden garland wrapped in intricate patterns. Silver streamers hung high on the ceilings, wafting like a glittering canopy from the drafty rafters.
Maggie thought it looked out of place. It didn't match with the gothic mood of the room. Or the whole house for that matter.
Maggie came up to Willie in the center of the ballroom. "Hey, you."
"Hey," Willie greeted. "Ya done workin'?"
"Yeah," Maggie replied. "I just got dismissed for the day."
Willie blew out a breath. "Baldy was dismissive all day, but I had to stick around."
"Has anything happened here today?" Maggie asked.
"Other than the boy witch winkin' at ya?" Willie muttered.
Maggie stared at him worryingly.
"Nah, nothin' terrifying. I've been keepin' a look out for those shadows. I thought I saw somethin' slithering around a while ago, but I don't know if it was the attack shadows, or if my mind is foolin' me."
"I know what you mean," Maggie said heavily. "I've been keeping an eye out for them, too. But this house is filled with shadows. I can't tell which are the dreary normal ones, and which ones are evil."
Willie nodded silently.
"Mr. Fenn-Gibbon stopped by earlier," Maggie added. "His visit was strange. I'd like to hurry home and check in on Pop. He said he was going to talk with him about Quentin's portrait. I want to be home if that happens."
"Okay."
As the two turned to leave, they noticed a portly transparent figure, waiting a respectable distance away, between them and the doors. The couple loudly started. The man was a ghost. A Collins servant from the past, Ben Stokes.
"Mr. Barnabas wishes to see ya both. Make haste."
The ghost instantly faded away, tingling their spines in the customary way. Willie and Maggie were alone in the party room again.
The couple groaned in unison.
"Well – I guess this is the most terrifying moment of our day in Collinwood," Maggie said disappointed.
"Yeah," Willie agreed. "More work. Great."
Maggie groaned again.
Returning from an evening stroll, Sam stepped inside his cottage, closing the door. He shrugged off his brown winter coat, and hung it and his fishing hat on the coat rack. He was half-way to his favorite chair, when a knock echoed from his front door. Sam wasted no time in answering it.
As it turned out, his visitor was the very person he wanted to see. Victor Fenn-Gibbon stood outside his threshold.
"Victor," Sam said in greeting, though his tone was curt. "I've been meaning to have a word with you."
"And I would very much like to take a look at your creative process," Fenn-Gibbon said, his distorted voice sounding a little forceful.
Sam allowed Fenn-Gibbon in and shut the door.
Fenn-Gibbon glanced at the numerous painted canvases cluttering the living room. He eyed the easel, closely peering through his spectacles, but it held nothing but blank canvas.
"Where is my portrait?"
"That's the thing, Victor," Sam said from behind his guest. "The man you want me to paint. He's a dangerous ghost haunting Collinwood. He's attacked my daughter and my friends."
Fenn-Gibbon stilled as he quietly listened to the artist.
"Who was Quentin Collins? And why the hell do you want me to paint a portrait of him?"
"Quentin Collins is a very old friend of mine," Fenn-Gibbon said softly. "I need you to graciously hold to our bargain. Paint his portrait so I can rectify a terrible mistake."
"How will that rectify anything?" Sam demanded, flummoxed. "He's dead, isn't he?"
With a soft sigh, Fenn-Gibbon produced a black talisman from his front coat pocket. He waved it in front of Sam's face.
"This is not my prefer method," Fenn-Gibbon told him. "But I must make do with what I have available at the moment."
Sam's eyes were riveted to the dangling talisman that swung inches from his bearded face.
"The portrait must be completed, Mr. Evans," Fenn-Gibbon rasped evenly.
Sam gasped sharply. He felt something like a tidal wave crashing through his brain, washing away his own natural thoughts. Forced imagery swam through his mind's eye. A bold vision highlighting the completion of Quentin Collins' portrait.
Sam felt a powerful urge to resume the project. An urge that became a compulsion.
"Now, make haste, Sam Evans," Fenn-Gibbon whispered. "Finish the portrait. That is the very least I owe Quentin Collins."
Sam didn't have the nerve – the will power to object. To even protest.
This was frighteningly like Laura Collins' portrait all over again.
Absolutely without question, Sam started to gather his paint supplies.
With the winter skies darkening, Willie drove his rusty junker mobile through the woods, his destination the Old House.
Maggie, with her arms folded into her coat to keep warm, sat on the passenger side. "I wonder what Barnabas wants this time. We have nothing to report to him, other than Nicholas Blair winking at me."
"He wants me to spend the night stalkin' those witches up at their house," Willie predicted.
"What good would that do?" Maggie sniped. "We already know where they live. Does he expect them to be throwing victims into their cauldrons on the front porch?"
"Sometimes, Barnabas wants me to do his stalkin'," Willie murmured, keeping his attention on his driving. "Remember when I told you 'bout him forcin' me to follow Vicki and Devlin."
"Not if I have anything to say about it," Maggie said heatedly. "I'm not letting him put you in danger for nothing."
"I'm used to it." Willie shrugged.
"Well, I've grown used to the danger, too," Maggie countered. "But that doesn't mean that Barnabas can strut around, abusing the privilege."
They rode up to the Old House. The jalopy's engine gave its characteristic sickly wheeze as Willie switched it off.
"I hope this doesn't take long," said Maggie. "I'd really like to get back home before Pop goes to bed."
They clambered out of the truck and hurried to the front doors. The doors swung themselves open invitingly, but the couple paid no mind to the ghostly courtesy. Once they passed through them, Willie simply shut the doors.
He and Maggie found Barnabas and Julia in the parlor. They'd set up a little round table in the center of the room.
"Good, you two are finally here," Julia said seriously. She glanced at Barnabas. "We can get started."
"What are we starting?" Maggie asked.
"We are gathering tonight to summon a dark warlock from the netherworld," Barnabas filled in. "We must compel him to help us to destroy Angelique."
Willie and Maggie's faces turned chalk white.
Why couldn't Barnabas just order them to camp out at the witches' house?
Next Chapter: A New Ally