Disclaimer: Dark Shadows is a Dan Curtis Production and not mine
CHAPTER 26: THE UNDERCOVER COMMAND
Tom sat frozen stiff on the couch, the antique receiver pressed to his ear. His face was stark white.
The mysterious caller waited patiently before finally asking, "To whom am I speaking?"
"Wa – jus – just wait," Tom stammered. "Who are you?"
"There is no need for me to reiterate. I am not the one who has trouble introducing himself." The cultured voice was amused but smugly superior.
"All right, Quentin." Tom hardened his voice, sounding a little confrontational. "How are you using this phone? Did you rig it with a radio?"
"How are you using my telephone?" Quentin countered unperturbed. "I don't remember giving it to you."
"Are you a friend of David's?" Tom accused.
"I most certainly am," said Quentin. "As well as the girl. I am even starting to warm up to you."
Tom clenched his jaw. This guy Quentin sounded unhinged.
But yet, somehow, Tom could tell he was sincere.
It's eerie in these woods at night. Guess I'd forgotten.
Driving his red pickup truck up Widows Hill, Chris Jennings took it all in. After a handful of years in exile, he'd finally returned to his hometown.
Collinsport hadn't changed at all in the years since he'd been away. Not that he expected it to. A town like Collinsport never changed. Even for the holidays. The town's people put up the same old decorations year after year.
Quaint, he supposed. Maybe a bit drab after a while.
For Chris, Collinsport was a picturesque place to grow up. Not to spend the rest of his life.
When he was younger, he dreamed of becoming an architect. He would waste hours fantasizing about dazzling skyscrapers and impractical suspension bridges.
But that was in the past. A faded, nearly forgotten dream.
No, it wasn't a budding career, or even higher education, that caused Chris to flee Collinsport.
When he came of age, he was struck by some kind of supernatural... deformity.
In the end it forced him to abandon his life.
Chris could never figure out how it happened. Or even why it happened. One night a monster just woke up inside of him. He didn't understand it. Thought he was just sleepwalking. He even tried to ignore the symptoms.
It wasn't until... Sabrina... that he finally had to face up to it.
On nights of a full moon, a vicious, ravenous beast would seize control of his body. A monster that had become his curse.
Chris was forced to live as a hermit, isolated from civilization and even his family.
A lonely existence, but it was the only way to protect himself – and everyone else, really.
The memory of Sabrina still felt like a icy blade in his heart. He was going to propose to her. Start a family, even.
Chris would never forgive himself – the monster - for what happened to her.
Because of this, Chris never wanted to be anywhere near his little sister. Even Tom wasn't safe.
But then, their parents... after the accident, he'd talked himself into and out of attending their service at least a dozen times. Of course, the service had been scheduled disturbingly close to the monthly full moon cycle. Chris couldn't risk it.
He was disgusted with himself. Just like an animal he could only mourn alone in the woods.
It wasn't right leaving Tom to bring up Amy by himself.
But Chris couldn't help him raise her.
However, the sad little rain cloud that was the Jennings family Christmas did have one silver lining. The December full moon cycle had already passed.
Chris could not be a prominent fixture in Amy's life. But he could make her first Christmas without their parents bearable. This visit wouldn't last till New Year's. But it would give Chris a chance to say farewell to his parents, and maybe give Amy a few good memories of her oldest brother.
Through the blazing headlights of his pickup, Chris made out a hunched figure on the side of the road.
He slowed his truck.
As he pulled up closer, he found the figure to be a dark-haired man.
He rolled down his window. "You need any help?"
It was the dead of night in winter in Maine. It was almost a death sentence to be stranded out in the elements alone. The dark-haired figure flinched at his voice, raising his haggard face. His skin was pale with hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes. But Chris recognized him.
"Joe?"
Both Joe and the truck came to a halt.
"What are you doing out here?"
Joe barely glanced up at him. "It's nothing, Tom."
As he went on his way, Chris got out of his truck.
"I'm not Tom, Joe. I'm Chris. Not that you ever had the good taste to tell us apart."
Joe was still walking away from him, unresponsive to his teasing.
"Hey, need me to drive you somewhere?" Chris offered.
Joe darted off the side of the road, into the trees. Carrying himself further away from his bewildered cousin.
As he stood on the dark lonely road, concerned and confused, Chris couldn't help but notice Joe hiding something under his coat. It was easy if you knew where to look. Joe had always snuck his comic books into Sunday school by stuffing them under his arm and hiding them in his coat.
"Wh – What are you trying to say?" Tom spluttered into the phone's mouthpiece. "Whatever this is about, leave Amy out of it if you want to stay alive."
"You shouldn't make bargains you can't keep. Believe me."
"I will do whatever it takes to protect my little sister," Tom gritted. "Believe that, creep!"
"Well, now, I guess I really will have to start liking you," Quentin said warmly. "Nice to know that one of you is not a complete embarrassment."
Tom noticed the stranger's voice sounded a little bitter near the end of his sentence.
But somehow, Tom was intrigued by this claim.
"Who are..."
"Soon, the game will begin," Quentin cut Tom off.
Before Tom could consider that strange promise, the bathroom door creaked open.
In an instant, knee-jerk reaction, Tom hung up the phone and hastily plopped it down on the coffee table.
"Hey, you finished brushing your teeth?" Tom asked Amy a little too quickly.
His hasty diversion hadn't gone unnoticed by her. "Yeah," she replied. "Is there something wrong?"
Her query went unanswered.
A sturdy knock from the front door drowned her out.
Tom lifted himself off the couch. He crossed to the door and answered it. To his utter surprise, he was face to face with his wayward twin.
"Chris!" Amy excitedly ran to the front door, wrapping her arms around his waist.
"Whoa, Amy." Chris patted the top of her head.
"I'm so happy you're here." With her arms still tightly wrapped around his waist, Amy gazed up at him with adoring eyes. "I miss you."
"I've missed you, too," Chris said affectionately.
Her enthusiasm left him feeling both touched and guilty. He remembered his sister standing about half a foot shorter. Considering how tightly she could squeeze, she'd gotten stronger, too.
"Come inside, it's cold." Tom opened the door wider in invitation.
Chris picked Amy up, balancing her on his hip as he stepped inside.
Tom shut the door.
Chris moved to the couch, where he plopped the giggling Amy down. Tom joined in by learning forward over the back of the couch. "When did you get back?"
"Just now," said Chris.
He shifted his attention to Amy. "How have you been, moppet?"
"I've been taking care of Tom," Amy replied. "And he's been taking care of me."
"Good kid." Chris smiled wanly.
"How have you been, Chris?" Amy asked.
"I've been hanging in there." Chris sighed. "I really miss you guys."
"Are you here for good?" Amy asked hopefully.
Chris guiltily averted his eyes from her. He noticed the spindly brass phone sitting on the coffee table. "That's a neat old phone." He diverted his sister. "It reminds me of the antiques Mom used to collect."
"Nah, this phone is nothing like Mom's beautiful antiques!"
Chris was thrown by Amy's harsh dismissal.
"Kiddo, I'd like to speak with Chris alone," Tom interjected.
"But he just got here," Amy pouted. "And I haven't seen him in forever."
"You'll spend plenty of time with him," Tom promised. "We're going to have a little grown up talk."
Amy was plainly dismayed. But she got up from the couch.
"Okay," she grumbled.
"I'll come and say good night," Chris promised with a wink.
"Okay." Amy leaned forward and planted a kiss on his cheek. She scurried into her room.
Chris watched her go with a furrowed brow.
Once she shut her door, Chris asked Tom, "What's up with her?"
Tom shot a furious glance at his brother. "You thought she was going to be back to normal already? Maybe spend Christmas with your cute little sister now that the hard part is over?"
Chris stared at the floor. There were no words in the English language to explain his circumstances. At least not rationally. He looked up when his brother sighed heavily.
Now Tom was staring at the floor. "Look, I guess it's a lot, okay. I had to sell off most of their stuff and move out here. Of course, that just makes her miss them even more. And it's not like we were ever that close to begin with. I was almost in high school when Mom and Dad had Amy."
(When she was a baby, Chris was the more dotting of Amy's brothers, at least until he came of age.)
"Has the money I've been sending helped?" Chris asked.
Tom actually looked a little sheepish. Like he didn't want to talk about this.
"What's wrong?" Chris asked.
"It's nothing to feel bad about, Chris – I was shocked when I found out how much kids costs, too."
Chris deflated. "So, not helping that much then."
"It's something," Tom hedged.
The room fell silent for a moment.
Chris circled back to his original point. "So what's up with Amy and that old phone anyway?"
Instinctively, Tom glanced at the antique. But somehow, he couldn't bring himself to talk about it.
"You know how kids are," was all he said.
That left Chris even more flummoxed.
Tom's conversation with the mysterious Quentin Collins shadowed his thoughts. Impulsively, Tom changed the subject.
"So, how long are you sticking around?"
"I'm heading out after Christmas."
"You can stick around longer than that." Tom sounded frustrated. "Amy would love it. And I could use your help with her. At least until school starts back up next year."
Weighted down by his own demons, it was Chris' turn to impulsively change the subject. "Um, I saw Joe sort of aimlessly wandering near the road on the way here. He looked really out of it. I tried to give him a lift, but he ran off. And I do mean literally ran."
"Joe's definitely going through something," Tom said darkly. "Except for Carolyn, he avoids everybody."
That statement filled Chris with dread. It was an open secret that his cousin had always been infatuated with the Collins heiress. And girls like her could get into some pretty freaky scenes.
Has Joe dropped out? Maybe it was drugs he was hiding in his coat earlier. The thought shook Chris. Joe was one of the most upstanding guys he knew. If any of them had a chance of making something out of themselves it was Joe.
As the oldest, Chris' instinct was to take charge and drag Joe away from that tramp. Yeah, and then he'd make him quit all of his drugs cold turkey. Amy would be thrilled because Joe would be around to play with her again. And Tom, Tom would respect him the way a little brother should. But, back in reality, Chris had to accept the fact that he was in no position to save anybody. Maybe he didn't even have the right to try.
It was breaking his heart, but Chris couldn't be there for them. He would only put them in danger.
Damn the wolf.
Up at Collinwood, the séance team, now finished in the lounge of the West Wing, came descending down the staircase in the foyer.
Elizabeth and Prof. Stokes lead the group, stepping down side by side. Vicki and Burke followed, Carolyn tailed behind them, with Willie and Maggie bringing up the rear.
"With your permission, Mrs. Stoddard, I would like to return to Collinwood to more closely study your family's history albums. Desmond and Leticia Collins are our best leads. We should thoroughly research the time period from which they originated."
"I don't mind, professor," Elizabeth consented.
"Splendid, I'll come up here tomorrow after my lectures." Prof. Stokes couldn't help beaming.
The evening had unfolded quite favorably.
"I'd like to help in your research, professor," Vicki volunteered. "After all of my amateur snooping, I'd love to see what a real academic can make of the Collins family history."
"I am sure your insights will be most helpful, Miss Winters," Prof. Stokes replied.
The group stepped down into the foyer.
"Mrs. Stoddard, can me and Willie be excused for the night?" Maggie requested.
"Yes, Maggie," Elizabeth allowed. "You and Willie have gone above and beyond the call of duty tonight. You may go with my gratitude."
Mrs. Stoddard discreetly slipped Maggie a white envelope containing a hundred dollar bill. Which Maggie was not too proud to accept.
"Thank you, Mrs. Stoddard," Maggie replied emptily.
She and Willie wasted no time retrieving their coats.
"Good night, everyone," Maggie told the group from the front doors.
"Good night," Elizabeth replied.
The rest of the group mirrored her sentiment.
Only Carolyn watched from afar with folded arms. They're probably running off to see Barnabas.
The couple made their departure.
"What time will you be up here tomorrow?" Burke questioned Prof. Stokes.
"I suppose as fast as my car will carry me after I finish my lectures," Prof. Stokes replied. "That is to say around late afternoon."
"That will be fine," Elizabeth granted.
Internally, Elizabeth was already scheming to use the professor's investigation as an excuse to abandon Roger's party. Should the forced socialization become unbearable. With the caterers, Collinsport's socialites, Roger's sycophants, and now violent specters all crowding into the Great House, Elizabeth needed to think ahead.
"Thank you, Mrs. Stoddard," Prof. Stokes said graciously.
During this interaction, Vicki faintly remembered a portrait she may have seen in the West Wing. There were countless portraits of past Collinses stuffed into almost every corner of the Great House. But the West Wing seemed to have gotten the worst of it. With so many paintings from so many generations, it was only natural for some of them to start blending together. However, she thought she'd seen Leticia and Desmond's portrait. Or at least a portrait of a couple that could have been Desmond and Leticia. She hoped she could collect some clues for the professor.
But there were two problems.
One: She really couldn't remember where in the West Wing she had seen the portrait.
Two: She wasn't sure if she had moved it to her private collection or just left it where she found it. Was it worth treading through the haunted Wing for some painting she wasn't sure she was remembering correctly?
"Miss Stoddard, should I expect to see you and Mr. Haskell tomorrow?" Prof. Stokes addressed Carolyn.
She gave him a somber look, taken off guard by his sudden question.
"I'd like that."
Arm-in-arm, Maggie lead Willie to the Junker Mobile.
"I'll drive, Willie. I don't think you should be behind the wheel after a ghost took a drive in your body. Especially with the roads as icy as they are."
"Awright, Maggie," Willie agreed. "Guess I'm a little woozy." He lightly soothed his throbbing temple.
Maggie fished the keys out of his pocket. She unlocked the driver's side door and slid inside, leaning over to unlock the passenger door for Willie.
As Maggie stuck the key into the ignition, Willie reminded, "We hafta see Barnabas. It's late, but he'll be expectin' us. Besides, I wanna see if that ghoul turned 'em into tadpoles or somethin'."
Maggie heaved a frustrated sigh, irritably placing a hand to her forehead.
"I forgot about that. I've been trying to reach home all day. I'm worried about Pop."
"I know," Willie comforted. "He ain't been himself. But he's got Josette's necklace."
"Maybe," was all Maggie could bring herself to say.
"We could leave off the Old House tonight," Willie offered. "Barnabas won't like it none. But that kinda works for you, right?"
Maggie heaved another sigh. "Noooo, we told Josette we'd help out."
"Okay, we won't stay at the Old House long," Willie promised.
Maggie turned the ignition. Twenty short minutes later, the noisy jalopy was rumbling through the dark, wintry woods, the headlights guiding her down the lonesome icy road.
Maggie normally didn't drive Willie's truck. She was more comfortable in the passenger seat. The violently jolting brake peddle made her uneasy. And the stick shift didn't seem to be influencing the truck's engine at all. Maggie could only hope she was piloting the rusty junk heap to her boyfriend's standards.
She was actually glad when the Old House's silhouette finally came into view through the icy mist.
The haunted property didn't have the facilities to accommodate automobiles. So she just parked in the front.
The couple slowly pulled themselves out of the truck. The eventful séance, on top of a full day's work, had left them both exhausted. The grounds of the Old House were buried in nearly two feet of accumulated snow. Apparently, without Willie around to do the chores, no one had bothered to shovel.
Willie lead the way, trampling down the snow as best he could for Maggie, who, (of course) was wearing a skirt.
As they climbed the porch steps, the front double doors flung open.
A welcoming from the ghosts.
Willie and Maggie gratefully crossed the threshold, doors shutting behind them to seal out the night.
Candle light illuminated the foyer and parlor. Maggie wished someone would have remembered to start a fire in the hearth.
Reading her mind, Willie quipped, "Barnabas never cared much how cold it was 'round here. Thought it was 'cause he was dead an' all. But maybe he likes looking at his own breath or somethin'."
Maggie smiled impishly. "Maybe he wants an excuse to wear his embroidered silk smoking jacket."
"It's way prettier than anything you own," Willie cheekily retorted.
They waited in the foyer for a moment longer. However, neither of the house's two living inhabitants materialized. With a shrug, they checked the parlor, finding no one in there.
"Barnabas? Julia?" Willie called, searching the foyer.
"Barnabas?" Maggie called.
The imposing basement door, with its iron bars, creaked open. Barnabas emerged from the shadows.
"Willie, Maggie, you're late. Has anything happened at Collinwood?"
Before Maggie could reply, she felt a dull icy pressure well up from deep in her bones. A detached alien awareness she couldn't identify. Instinctively, her head turned to the painting hung over the mantle. Josette's portrait waited there, her eyes boring into Maggie. Her painted expression forever frozen, but aware.
Maggie was forced to remember her and Willie's promise to Josette. To conceal from Barnabas any information about the supernatural drama in the West Wing.
Josette wanted Barnabas to focus on overcoming his own demons. Not on defending the family. Or worse, opening a new can of worms.
Maggie held her tongue about the séance. As did Willie. Maggie figured Josette's spooky portrait trick got to him as well.
Barnabas grew visibly concerned at their silence. "What the devil happened!"
"Nothin' serious," Willie reassured Barnabas. "We were just wonderin' how your new friend is doin'."
"Julia is analyzing the results of his tests as we speak," Barnabas supplied. "She's with him in the basement."
Willie and Maggie took that in quietly.
"Nothing of note happened at Collinwood today?" Barnabas pressed.
"Nicholas Blair visited," Maggie reported.
At Barnabas' alarmed expression, Maggie quickly assured, "He called me out to the terrace. We just talked. He didn't come inside the house."
"What did he want?"
"He... asked me out on a date," Maggie relayed. "He likes me, I guess."
"Did you accept?" Barnabas asked, all business.
"Not really," Maggie answered. "But he thinks the door is open for it."
"You absolutely must meet with him," Barnabas declared.
"But Barnabas -"
The dark man interjected. "Maggie, I understand not wanting to associate with a man like Nicholas Blair. Believe me, I do. I would give anything to undo my liaison with Angelique. But the die is cast, and the witches are upon us. They are after us all, my family included. If this Nicholas is besotted with you, we need to exploit it."
"I'm no femme fatale, Barnabas," Maggie stammered.
The former vampire flashed a rueful little smile. "Don't be so sure."
"I agree that we need to be ahead of them," Maggie said, sounding deflated. "But how do you know Nicholas isn't planning on playing me for information?"
"You must always consider your strategy carefully Maggie, when socializing with an enemy," advised Barnabas.
"So you have no idea how to flirt information out of a man," Maggie surmised.
Barnabas shook his head.
Maggie continued on, expressing another concern. "My father isn't well. I've been calling him all day with no answer. I think he's under a spell."
"Maggie!" Barnabas sounded taken aback. "How long have you harbored these suspicions about your father?"
Now Maggie was taken aback. Barnabas honestly sounded concerned.
"For a couple of days, I guess."
Barnabas thought back to his father. How his vampirism affected the man. How it wore him down, eroding his spirit. "If he is the witches target, offense is our only defense. None of us can psychically stop Angelique. The best we can do for your father is to enrage the witches and pull their attention to ourselves. Angelique is capricious. She is easily goaded."
"I – I just want to see if he's okay," Maggie said brokenly.
Willie wrapped a arm around her, pulling her to his side.
What was really galling to Maggie was that Barnabas' feud with Angelique wasn't really the problem here. The wild card Victor Fenn-Gibbon was the likely adversary.
"It'll be okay, Maggie," Willie consoled. "You gave him Josette's necklace. It did a world of good for us. I'll bet witches are the last thing on your Pop's mind."
Barnabas raised an intrigued brow. "Josette gifted you with something?"
"Yes," Maggie said lowly, accepting Willie's comfort.
"If she has taken an interest in your father, I have faith he is in good hands," Barnabas said earnestly.
Maggie only stared at him silently.
"Maggie, if you truly believe your father is in immediate danger, then you have my leave to go," said Barnabas.
From Willie's side, Maggie released a relenting sigh. "I'll go meet with Nicholas at the Blue Whale."
"You will?" asked Barnabas.
"Yes, and I'm bringing Willie along." Maggie put a little brassiness in her dry tone, wrapping her own arm around Willie. "I even told Nicholas I would."
Barnabas regarded his manservant. "Watch her."
"Damn right," Willie said gruffly.
"We'll see you tomorrow," Maggie told Barnabas.
The Old House's imprisoned man regarded the young couple.
With his arm still around Maggie's shoulder, Willie lead her to the front doors.
Barnabas watched them depart.
Shortly after they left, the iron basement door creaked open. Julia stepped out, a look of wonderment on her face.
At her expression, Barnabas asked, "What?"
"You were gentle with Maggie just now," Julia observed. "Well, gentle by your standards. But you were sympathetic about her father."
"We were merely commiserating," Barnabas insisted.
"No, I saw it," Julia stubbornly persisted. "I've never seen you act that way with them before."
"What are you insinuating?" Barnabas was a little affronted.
"You're becoming more human," said Julia. "The vampire side of yourself is receding faster than I had hoped."
Barnabas dropped his dark eyes in contemplation. "Let us hope this softness brought on by your cure does not become its own curse."
Millicent trailed behind Joe as he hiked across the grounds. He'd been wandering through the mist, muttering incoherently to himself.
"It was right in my face. No hands? What about pear trees?!"
Millicent wanted desperately to seek out the Countess du Pres, but she couldn't in good conscious leave Joe in this state. She supposed she was plagued by her own thoughts as well.
I have never seen a living soul behave in such a unconventional manner. Leaving his body and then returning as easily as a ship returns to harbor. How does he do it?
She caught a whiff of Josette's jasmine. Her ghost was nearby.
"Josette should certainly know of this!"
Millicent glanced at Joe's fuzzy outline through the mist. He still muttered and wandered.
"Do not stray far, Joe. I shall return to you."
Millicent drifted in the mist, tracking the perfume to its source. She found Josette haunting near Widows Hill. Millicent was pleased to find her. But she, Josette and the wailing widows were not the only spirits haunting the forlorn cliff.
Millicent paused, keeping her distance, when that jester Carl Collins abruptly materialized in front of the ghostly matriarch. A blonde wench accompanied him. Millicent didn't know who she was. She'd never seen her before. If at all possible, Millicent would rather avoid making the acquaintance of any of Carl's friends.
"Josette," Carl reported urgently. "A strange séance occurred in Collinwood tonight."
"Your gypsy friend has informed me of the living trespassers in the West Wing," Josette confirmed. "I presume the séance was eventful, Monsieur?"
"The ghosts who spoke to the Collinses and their mates are su'pose ta be Collinses 'emselves, but they are very queer," the blonde cockney filled in. "One of me ol' aunts was married to a Collins. Ain't that daffy!?"
"We were wondering if you knew anything about it," Carl added tactfully.
Josette considered her words carefully before she spoke. "Since becoming matriarch, I have begun to harbor suspicions about these grounds. And possibly you Collinses as well."
"Suspicious of what?" Carl sounded abashed.
"Nothing lurid, at least regarding you," Josette replied. "There are places on these grounds shrouded from us. Perhaps there is a barrier. Or perhaps they lay beyond our perception."
"Or maybe hidin' in shadows," the wench guessed.
"Yes," said Josette.
From the far off distance, Millicent was stunned to hear this.
Millicent knew that witches could vanquish a ghost. But she had never thought that curses were so frightful.
No wonder Cousin Joshua and dear Brother Daniel want me away from the witches.
In the secret basement laboratory of the Old House, Julia and Barnabas continued their experiments. Julia read through her notes, while her latest serum brewed in the cauldron.
With a soft huff, she gently plopped her notes down on the table. Julia retrieved a small vial from a rack next to her microscope, eyeing the amber colored serum inside.
Barnabas was peering through the bars of the iron door of the basement cell containing Gerard Stiles. Their case study sat in the shadows on a cot. As far as Barnabas could tell he had not made a sound for some time.
"It seems that your concoction has sedated him, Julia," Barnabas observed.
"I'm half convinced he's faking." Julia looked across to him from the table, where her electrical equipment was set up. "I've tried everything from nitrous oxide to formaldehyde and nothing effects him for more than two hours."
Julia glanced down at her vial. "It's not hard to find something that will hurt him. Whatever else he may be, he is still made of flesh and blood. You could walk into his cell right now, bash him with a rock and he would die. Problem is, it wouldn't stick. God makes people mortal. But when the devil brings someone into the world it seems to work differently."
"Learning what does not work at least helps us narrow down our options," Barnabas insisted.
Inside his cell, Judah tried not to wretched at their wide-eyed optimism. He would be damned – metaphorically speaking – if he allowed that absurd woman to prick him even once more.
He would relish seizing the upper hand. This farce would soon conclude. By sundown tomorrow chaos would reign. And then the era of Judah would rise.
In the meantime, the poison had worn off. He suspected the sow who was torturing him was running out of ideas. This body had already adjusted to most of the exotic toxins the vile woman could throw at it.
Through it all, Gerard Stiles was held at bay.
Judah remained in control of the lecher's oh-so-appealing body. The fool seemed to be shying away from his own flesh. Likely put off by the torture Judah suffered in his stead. Pathetic. Compared to the hospitality of hell, Hoffman was nothing special.
As he savored these comforting thoughts, a sweet aroma began overpowering the smell of stale mildew. Judah scrunched up his stolen face. It was a strange smell, somehow familiar. Realization slowly dawned on the addled warlock. Judah used to know this fragrance well. He associated it with loss and desire.
Him and Gerard both.
He even remembered the source of the sweet smell. Lilacs. The most cherished flower of an unbearably beautiful woman.
She couldn't be in this decrepit dungeon, could she? Where was it coming from? Judah closed his eyes.
No, I'm simply delirious.
White illumination glimmered through the cracks of his eyelids. It was, however, Gerard who forced his eyes to open, finding the most beautiful sight they'd ever laid eyes upon.
Daphne Harridge.
She wore a flowing burgundy gown with long sleeves. Her long, straight dark hair was swept over her shoulders. Her dark eyes gazed through the warlock. Not registering his appearance, or even searching for it.
The warlock tried shouting for her attention. But when he opened his mouth, quite to his surprise, two separate voices came out. One belonging to himself. The other Gerard.
In unison they cried, "Daphne!"
The instant they spoke her name, she vanished, so completely, Judah would later wonder if she'd ever been there at all.
"NO!" he growled.
Daphne? One of my greatest failures manifest in this vulgar age? Impossible!
Judah sat fuming. He felt Gerard. Hopeful and confused.
The wretch! I cannot allow him to reclaim this body! He shan't!
Outside the door, through the bars, Barnabas and Julia observed the warlock from hell. They didn't smell any lilacs. They saw no light. Nor a dark-haired girl. They only saw the warlock muttering and growling at himself.
"Barnabas, I think isolation and sensory deprivation may have a more harmful, long term effect on his psyche than a chemical lobotomy," Julia whispered.
"Fascinating," Barnabas replied.
Steeling herself for what was to come, Maggie opened the door to the Blue Whale. She was greeted by the usual catchy guitar chords jamming out of the jukebox.
A small selection of patrons were scattered throughout the tavern, enjoying their meals and drinks at their respective tables.
Conspicuous among the small crowd of regulars was Nicholas Blair. He'd perched himself on a bar stool, over dressed and alone. He was absently puffing on a long slim cigarette.
Maggie thought even the way he smoked looked smarmy.
Flicking some ashes off his cigarette, Nicholas sat on his stool, drinking in the décor, or rather the nautical brick-a-brack, decked out in tacky Christmas decorations. He was so indifferently offended by his surroundings, he hadn't even notice Maggie's entrance.
As she drew closer, Maggie flashed the brightest, fakest smile she could muster.
Nicholas glanced over at her. When he saw Maggie, his glassy black eyes sparked to life.
"Good evening, Mr. Blair," Maggie said politely.
"Maggie," Nicholas said happily. "I'm so glad you could make it."
"Had a long day." Maggie shrugged. "Thought some drinks couldn't hurt."
She took the stool next to his.
"I quite agree," Nicholas said smoothly. He scanned her long winter coat, almost completely obscuring the short blue dress underneath. "Oh, I see you haven't changed."
"I just got off work," Maggie explained.
She hadn't bothered to freshen her makeup and her hair was undone.
"I understand completely," Nicholas soothed. "Please allow me to take care of everything. I'll show you the night of a lifetime."
"How about you order me a drink," Maggie said flatly.
"That goes without saying." The warlock didn't skip a beat. "Do you like scotch?"
"Not especially," Maggie answered.
"Oh, but scotch is humanity's great mirror," Nicholas insisted coyly. "Its dark amber ripples show us inner truths."
Maggie repressed the urge to scoff at his pretentious come-ons. Instead, she asked, "How so?"
"Lend me your hand."
Maggie hesitated, prompting Nicholas to add, "Please."
She finally obliged. Nicholas placed a quick gallant kiss on the back of her hand. Maggie tried not to grimace. This stirred up some uncomfortable reminders of Barnabas.
"But, seriously," Nicholas said flirtatiously. "I'll show you how a few drops of scotch reveal the inner most mysteries of the universe."
He swirled his finger in his glass and dripped a small drop on the back of Maggie's hand.
"Is it like fortunetelling?" Maggie guessed.
"You might say that," Nicholas replied vaguely.
He feigned interest as the tiny drop slid down the back of her hand. "Hmm, it seems as though your hands are warm and soft as satin. But no sane man needs liquor to tell him that." He winked.
Bob the bartender slid Maggie a frothy mug of plain simple beer. "For you."
Nicholas was flummoxed. "I didn't order this."
"He did." Bob nodded his head toward Willie at the end of the bar.
He strolled over, casually interrupting Nicholas' insightful demonstration.
"Spilled a little, didn' ya, Nicky," Willie drawled.
"Hello, sweetheart," said Maggie.
He leaned over and licked the dribble from his girlfriend's wrist. Nicholas averted his revolted eyes.
"Finally found a parking spot?" Maggie asked Willie. (Playing along in their per-planned scenario.)
"Yeah," Willie replied.
"Maybe Billy should keep the engine running," Nicholas offered cheerfully. "Considering he owns such a well – ah – seasoned automobile?"
"The name's Willie, Nicky," Willie sounded just as cheerful.
Maggie took a sip of her beer. "How are you liking the Blue Whale, Mr. Blair?"
"Oh, it's charming in a rustic sort of way." Nicholas was blasé. "This tune playing. Would you say it's dancable?"
"People tend to dance to it," Bob said from behind the bar. He hadn't strayed far after serving Maggie her drink.
"May I have this dance?" Nicholas asked Maggie.
Willie was plainly displeased at this. Maggie gave Willie's hand a reassuring squeeze, signaling she was fine with it.
"All right." Maggie accepted.
Gripping Maggie's slightly moist hand eagerly, Nicholas lead her to the dance floor.
Willie slumped on his stool fuming.
"Are you actually going to stand for this?" Bob whispered, disinterested in his typically concerned way.
Willie just took a swig of Nicholas' scotch.
On the dance floor, Maggie and Nicholas bounced along with the up-tempo music. Nicholas would have preferred something slower and more intimate. But the young people of today seemed to enjoy making fools of themselves. Maggie tried not to squirm away from his touch. Scant as they were. Nicholas didn't seem to get modern dancing and was mostly just bumping into her.
"How's your sister feeling?" Maggie asked casually.
"She's my sister," Nicholas said distractedly. He had no idea what to do with his feet. He tried veering to a new subject. "So, I hear the Collinses are throwing a holiday soiree."
"Yes," Maggie confirmed.
She knew it was pointless to deny it. Everyone in town was talking about it.
"Have you been invited?" Nicholas asked.
"I'll be around," said Maggie. "Serving drinks and such."
"What? A gorgeous creature like you relegated to serving drinks?" Nicholas looked honestly offended. "You should be the belle of the ball, not shoveling hors d'oeuvres for well-to-do shipwrights and cannery magnates."
They want to go to the Collins party, Maggie thought. Maybe to get at Roger? Or put a curse on all of their wealthy friends? Or, maybe when you're evil, celebrating Christmas at Collinwood actually sounds fun?
Dr. Woodard entered the tavern, frantically looking around. He spotted Willie sulking at the bar. His eyes trailed to Maggie dancing with a dark-haired stranger. Without hesitation, he hurried to them, tapping Maggie's back shoulder.
"Um, pardon me. I hate to interrupt, Maggie. I need to speak with you alone."
Willie watched with growing concern from the bar.
"It's serious." Dr. Woodard looked grim.
Instant dread shot through Maggie. "Excuse me, Mr. Blair."
She followed Dr. Woodard out of the tavern. Willie actually paid for Nicholas' drink before rushing after them.
Out in the frigid night, Dr. Woodard took Maggie's hand and lead her down the dock, putting distance between them and the tavern.
Willie hung back a little but stayed close.
Dr. Woodard and Maggie stood silently by the railing, looking out to the foggy sea.
It was obvious neither wanted to start speaking, leaving Willie to awkwardly break the ice. "Uh – what's goin' on?"
"Maggie, it's Sam." Dr. Woodard sighed bracingly. "He's missing."
Perched triumphantly on a tattered armchair in a forgotten, secluded cottage, Fenn-Gibbon gazed deeply at the mesmerizing portrait of one Quentin Collins. It still rested on the easel it was created on.
The portrait almost seemed to glow in the firelight. Of course, that was down to some of the paint still being wet.
But Fenn-Gibbon appreciated the aesthetic all the same.
Sam Evans had done it. He'd completed the portrait. A master work, really.
It was at the expense of the poor fellow's life.
But Fenn-Gibbon knew it was a small price to pay. After all, true art was priceless.
Next Chapter: Quentin and Sam