Disclaimer: Dark Shadows is a Dan Curtis Production and not mine
CHAPTER 38: MACABRE MAYHEM
Gawking eyes were glued on Cassandra as she stood triumphantly at the entrance of the Great Hall. Her estranged husband Roger stood wearily by her side.
The dark-haired woman vainly tried to convey an air of confidence in her stature. But her desperation was plain on her face. She tried to keep both her terror and disdain hidden in the presence of Judah's handsome disguise.
He stood right beside Barnabas and his red-headed scarecrow.
The witch did not know how or why he had wound up here tonight of all times.
Knowing him it was likely some form of petty unnecessary vengeance.
But no one, not even that ancient soothsayer, could deter her from her goal.
This might be advantageous. While my dear old mentor creates his havoc, I will stand by and kill whoever survives.
Looking at the apprehension on Barnabas' face spiked the witch's confidence.
"Good evening, everyone," she addressed the party guests. "I hope you are all having a splendid evening. You may be wondering why I'm here. Roger and I decided to let bygones be bygones and enjoy the Christmas season."
The guests still gawked at her, looking stupefied. Most of them didn't even register what she was saying. They were so transfixed by the blood dripping down the side of her face.
"In the spirit of peace and love," Cassandra continued after glancing at the ceiling. "We should leave all of that ugliness in the past."
The witch adored the stone-cold look Barnabas flung at her, while barely acknowledging the venom oozing out of Elizabeth.
A cold chill swept through the air, causing Cassandra to raise her eyes in defiance; hazy green smoke gathered at the ceiling as loud cracks of something that sounded like thunder rumbled through the room. Just as the guests began to panic, gnarled black skeletons in crimson surcoats and white britches descended from the green smoke.
There were at least twenty of them, all marching in the air in a straight line. The sounds of drums and trumpets accompanied them, though none carried musical instruments. Every last specter was armed with a long musket. And every musket was trained on the party guests, who screamed in terror.
One of the skeletal horrors drew a saber from its belt, pointing its tip at the crowd below. Just then the horde fired - more green smoke flared around them. But instead of musket balls, severed skeletal heads rained down on the terrified and panicking guests.
Most of them crashed to the floor without incident. But a few of the skull missiles impacted the guests, exploding into more rancid smelling green smoke.
Josette watched Carl and Pansy from her chandelier as the couple conjured their impish magic.
The skeletons continued to fire on party guests from the air, while one waved a charred black regiment flag in the witch's face.
Beside her, Roger was petrified.
Cassandra glowered at the bony red-coat.
Barnabas and Julia looked on in bewilderment as pandemonium broke out, while their demonic plus one was visibly delighted.
Prof. Stokes looked as happy as a child on Christmas morning, while Dr. Woodard looked like he might actually have a heart attack.
" Must we use Rev. Trask?" the ghost of Naomi Collins asked Josette at the chandelier.
"I know it is deplorable," Josette admitted. "But Angelique has declared war, and I would rather risk someone deplorable than someone I love."
At Naomi's reticence, Josette continued. "He is both willing and able to do battle with a witch. And while I would not choose to set him free, the fact of the matter is he was set free."
Naomi nodded in resigned acceptance.
"Besides, wouldn't you rather he attacked real witches as opposed to villagers and fishermen?"
"I'll send for him." Joshua hurried on his way.
Bill Malloy's ghost swiped at any skull missiles heading for Elizabeth. Thankfully, no one but Elizabeth could see him do it.
She was now thankful that David and her daughters had left the party. The younger Collinses would hopefully be spared this ghastly horror.
In Collinwood's maze of paneled corridors, Vicki faced no other than Jason McGuire at a door to some random room. The Irishman glowered at the governess with bleary, unfocused eyes, looking more haggard than she'd ever seen him.
His clothes smelled smoky, and his coat even looked to have been scorched.
Vicki refused to let this deter her.
"What are you doing here?"
"I s'pose you'd rather I freeze to death," Jason said bitingly.
"You have a room at the Collinsport Inn," Vicki countered evenly. "Are you here to cause trouble for Moth – Mrs. Stoddard?" She quickly corrected herself.
Jason didn't notice her flub.
"That shrew makes her own trouble," he said in a bitter guttural voice.
"She was doing just fine actually before you showed up to blackmail and exploit her," Vicki reminded pointedly.
At his pitiful tipsy state, Vicki softened her gaze on him. "Are you here to talk to her?"
"Talk to her?" Jason said affronted.
"Yes, I know you have a history with her," Vicki said sensibly.
"Don't remind me," Jason growled.
Vicki hardened her glare, slightly hurt by the remark.
A sharp icy chill swept by her in the corridor, sending a jolt up her spine. The inconspicuous draft quickly blew past.
"One of the family's skeletons is creepin' 'bout," Jason stumbled backwards in a near panic.
Vicki looked at him with hard eyes. "I think you should come with me."
Joe and Carolyn stood in another of the house's passages, haunted by ghosts; Millicent and Nathan to be precise.
"Pleasure seeing you again, Miss," Nathan's smarmy voice said to Carolyn.
The heiress blinked, trying to conceal her discomfort. "Have we met?"
"She would not remember you, Nathan Forbes," Millicent's visible ghost cut in haughtily. "I was possessing her body and she fainted."
Carolyn felt her blood heat. "I know you. We met already. You've been helping out Joe."
"Yes, I have been," Millicent said while raising a dainty transparent hand to her chest. "We have faced many dangers together."
Without even a sound, Nathan materialized, appearing before Carolyn.
"I have been quite valiant as well. I even took it upon myself to mentor your poor besotted sailor."
Carolyn balked at the ghost – he looked exactly like Joe! (Except for his pants, which were so tight as to be almost obscene.)
"Oh, stop flirting Nathan! She would never lose her heart to a no-account scoundrel such as yourself," Millicent glared at the cad.
"Yeah, but I do admit he is handsome," Carolyn cut in cheekily, sliding her eyes to Joe, who took in her comment sheepishly.
"They bicker like this all the time," he whispered to her.
"How do you keep your sanity?" Carolyn whispered.
"Who has time for sanity?" Joe remarked.
A sharp chill gripped the air; Joe and Carolyn felt something swooshing down the corridor. An invisible presence.
"Joe, I need your help!"
Joe and Carolyn's faces paled at the familiarity of the voice. A voice they both remembered.
"Mr. Evans!" Carolyn gasped. "Is that you?"
"I don't suppose either of you can see me?" Sam guessed.
"You are still a fledgling, Mr. Evans," Millicent said, her spirit brightening. "It takes tremendous energy for the living to see you in material form."
"Big loss for the rest of you, I'm sure, but I still need Joe's help," Sam said imperatively.
"You were with me when I found her portrait," Joe said thoughtfully. "I guess that really did happen."
"Yeah, I need your help with another portrait," Sam said urgently. "One of my own this time."
"This is absolutely mad!" Carloyn interjected.
The heiress tried to keep it light, but she was on the edge of panic. Dead ancestors were one thing, but she knew Sam Evans in life.
"Believe me, I understand." The disembodied voice of Sam sympathized. "But the fact is that my last painting was cursed, and I need Joe's magic powers to fix it."
"You are zee the one zeeking to destroy Count Petofi?" a thick foreign voice of a woman cut in.
Sam's invisible ghost took a moment to respond to the voice.
"You're from that meeting on the roof. You have it out for Quentin Collins, right?"
"Yez," the woman confirmed. "You are zeeking to confront Petofi?"
"That's the idea," Sam said bitingly.
"Zis young man." Even though she was invisible, Joe could see the faint outline of a thin woman examining him. "He haz zee flicker of magic about him."
"I figured that out for myself, thank you," said Sam. "That's why I'm asking him for help with the portrait."
Joe blinked. "Is this portrait like – hers?"
"Yes, but instead of some blonde knock out, I painted a Victorian jackass who was tied up with the occult," said Sam. "Now his old warlock buddy is stirring up havoc in our town, making trouble for the Collinses, and, of yeah, he killed me."
Joe and Carolyn could only balk at the voice's explanation.
"Anyway, I can tell you have other things going on right now. But I could really use some help with another portrait. And it should help the Collinses, too," the painter hastily added.
"You cannot affect zee portrait," said the gypsy woman. "Petofi's power wardz it, none of uz have the strength to break zee spell. My clan has warred wiz him for generations wiz little success. Zee only tactic we've ever zlowed him down with was a direct attack to zee body. Up cloze and personal"
"Personal?" Sam's voice sounded wary.
"A dangerous task," the gypsy warned. "Petofi knows how to vanquish ghosts."
"Then Mr. Evans shan't confront this Petofi," Millicent objected. "I do not know who he is, but if he has the power to vanquish ghosts, then fledglings have no business trifling with him."
"But he iz in Collinwood now, child," the gypsy said soberly. "Zeeking the imprisoned ghost of a damned Collins. Everyone here iz in danger, be zey living or dead."
"Wait," Carolyn cut in. "This guy – is he a witch?"
"A warlock," the gypsy corrected.
"And he's in my family's house looking for a jailed ghost? And we're all in danger, including you ghosts?"
"Yez."
"How do you think I'm going to fight this monster?" Sam asked gruffly. "Fledglings like me can't even make ourselves visible."
"Ziz young man could azzist you."
Joe got that feeling he was being eyed again.
"That's not the plan!" Sam balked. "Joe is still alive and I want him to stay that way."
"He haz zome magic of his own," the gypsy reminded. "Though he iz not az powerful az Petofi. But you have powerz, too, painter. And I can help az well."
"I forbid it!" Millicent cried. "Joe shan't be placed in any more danger!"
"I think it's a good idea," Joe spoke up.
Millicent and Carolyn balked.
"Joe – why?" Carolyn stammered.
"My mistress wants me dead," Joe said roughly. "Even if I am free, there's no guarantee I'll live long enough to enjoy it."
"Joe," Carolyn said softly.
"Joe," Millicent spoke in unison with Carolyn.
Joe gave a tender look to Carolyn and her spectral double. "Even though I was a slave to someone trying to destroy your family, both of you carried my weight. Lord knows it would have been smarter to just cast me off."
Joe hardened his eyes, looking more like the self-possessed young man that Carolyn remembered. "But now I can finally choose what to do. After hating myself for so long, even if I wind up dead tonight, it would still be a relief."
Joe, no!" Millicent pleaded. "I've been trying to protect you. You are not responsible for the wit -"
"I need you by my side, Millicent," Joe spoke over her. "I'll need all the help I can get. If I'm going to survive, I'll need a guardian angel."
Millicent glowed in a rosy blush. "If you wish for me to be by your side, Joe Haskell, then I shall."
"Which ghost is this Tofi warlock searching for?" Carolyn pressed.
"Pa-tofi iz hiz name," answered the gypsy ghost. "And Quentin Collins iz who he zearches for."
Carolyn nodded. "Yeah, Quentin has been causing us trouble, too."
Joe frowned.
I wonder if that weirdo who gave us the portrait is Petofi, Carolyn thought.
"Quentin's ghost was supposedly the one that stopped Vicki and Burke's West Wing renovations," Carolyn spoke up. "We should probably look there."
"Sounds perfect," said Joe.
"I'll come as well," Nathan smirked. "After all, someone has to inspire Millicent's tadpole to greatness."
Chris and Fenn-Gibbon arrived at the door to the West Wing.
"So, this is where Quentin is hiding," Chris drawled.
"Most likely," said Fenn-Gibbon. "Is there something wrong, Mr. Jennings?"
"The West Wing is usually closed off." Chris recalled various childhood visits to Collinwood. The kids were always told to stay away from the West Wing. But that never stopped Chris from exploring the area with Tom, Joe and Carolyn. The Wing had always been abandoned. No one lived in there.
"Tom told me it was under renovation," Chris verbally continued. "But it's being put on hold at the moment. I bet they locked it up, especially with such a big party going on."
"Tell me young man," asked Fenn-Gibbon. "Have you ever questioned why there is only one entrance to this Wing?"
"Sure." Chris shrugged. "I wanted to be an architect, but I could never make heads or tails of it."
"Hmm - and why were the renovations put on hold?" Fenn-Gibbon asked.
"Tom told me there were some unexplained occurrences that gummed up the works," said Chris.
Fenn-Gibbon looked bemused. "Sounds like something Quentin would get up to. I am most certain we will find him here."
"It would be a good hiding place," Chris said rationally.
Fenn-Gibbon merely placed his gloved hand on the doorknob and turned. The usually locked door swung open.
Chris stared at the unexpected sight in surprise.
"Do you still wish to accompany me?" Fenn-Gibbon asked in a strangely formal manner.
Chris hardened his features. "Yeah, I do."
As the two men journeyed into the mysterious dark corridor, Amy watched from behind a corner.
"Chris, don't go in there," she murmured to herself. "He's bad and he wants to do bad things."
"You must not follow them any further," Sarah's urgent voice cried. "Find a grown up you can trust."
"Yeah," Amy said breathlessly.
Throughout the main floor corridors, the party guests fled in terror from Carl and Pansy's skeletal revolutionary reenactment, cannon fire and calvary charges storming overhead.
The event looked more like an illegal speakeasy being raided by a graveyard rather than a Christmas party.
During this ordeal, not all of the ghosts were quite so impish.
The invisible ghosts of Tim Shaw and Rachel Drummond supernaturally led Frank Garner and his girlfriend safely out to the terrace.
Joshua and Naomi Collins led Richard Garner, James Blair and Amos Fitch out the front doors.
In the midst of this confusion, Vicki and Jason had to dodge into a random room to avoid getting trampled. Willie and Maggie went through a similar experience. But Tom was more successful in eluding the stampede.
While the guests fearfully stumbled into the foyer, Tom dragged David into the drawing room. The two watched the frightened guests hurry out of Collinwood.
As the herd of scared socialites shoved their way out of the spook mansion, David gazed defensively up at Tom.
"What are you on about now!?"
"Tell me where Quentin Collins is," Tom patiently demanded.
"I told you he's dead!" David snapped exasperatedly.
"Don't try that line on me," Tom said evenly. "This Quentin guy only contacts us through the phone you gave Amy. Not some Ouija board or a voodoo doll."
David tried to speak up, but Tom kept going.
"Now, you mentioned something about Quentin being in the walls. Is he like some crazy cousin you never let out of the house? I won't tell anyone how I found out, just tell me where he is."
Tom tried sprinkling in a little flattery. "You obviously know more than you're letting on."
"I know where all the secrets are," David boasted. "But even I don't go looking for Quentin."
"You're a smart kid," Tom gritted. "I'm sure you have some idea where he's hiding. Once I find him, I'll leave you alone."
"I can tell you where Quentin is," a voice cut in.
Tom and David shot their eyes to the drawing room's doors, finding Burke Devlin.
"You know about Quentin Collins?" Tom asked Burke.
"Yes, he's right over there in fact." Burke pointed.
Tom switched his attention to a portrait resting on an easel in front of the fireplace. It showed a man with mutton chops, wearing a dark period suit. Given the style, Tom guessed that he lived during the turn of the century.
"That's Quentin Collins?" Tom gawked.
"Yeah, he was the fly in the ointment, at least concerning our renovations," Burke said bluntly.
That left Tom flummoxed. "But how? Is he even still alive?"
"I keep telling you he's dead," David haughtily reminded.
"How do you know about Quentin Collins, Tom?" Burke pressed.
"He keeps calling us from that museum piece of a phone that David gave to Amy," Tom snappishly informed.
"Damn." Burke's face fell. "I'm sorry."
"What's that about Quentin Collins?" Vicki stepped up beside Burke, who was surprised by his fiancée's sudden presence.
"He's been calling me and Amy," Tom drawled.
"With that antique phone Davy gave to Amy," Burke helpfully added.
"What?" Vicki's eyes widened.
Out in the foyer, Amy scampered down the staircase, spotting David with a group of adults in the drawing room. Her other big brother among them.
"Tom – oh – Tom!" The girl frantically dashed into the drawing room. "Chris went with that man Mr. Fenn-Gibbon to see Quentin!"
"What!" Tom turned as his sister ran in.
"Yeah, remember that strange man with the shaggy hair and the owl glasses?" Amy pressed breathlessly. "And the creepy voice – he came to our cottage."
"Yes, I remember him, kiddo," Tom assured her.
"Wait," Burke cut in. "Victor Fenn-Gibbon visited you at your cottage?"
"Yeah, he needed to make a phone call," Tom answered. "Weird guy, but he was polite enough."
"He claims to have known Quentin," Burke said gruffly.
"What – the one in the painting?" Tom pointed at the portrait.
"The very one," Burke said seriously.
"But how can that be?" Tom studied the portrait. "Clearly he's from another century."
"Funnily enough, Fenn-Gibbon recently gave us proof that he is older than dirt," Burke said darkly.
"What do you mean?" Tom frowned.
"Mr. Fenn-Gibbon showed us a photograph of himself with Quentin that was taken half a century ago," Vicki explained politely. "He seems obsessed with him, and we do not know why. It's clear that Quentin Collins is dead. His ghost has been haunting us."
Tom was speechless.
"Quentin has been haunting us, too," Amy chimed in, unzipping her backpack and pulling out the antique telephone. "He calls us with this."
"Wait, David, didn't you find this old phone in the West Wing?" Vicki shifted her attention to her charge.
"Yes." David hung his head.
"And he gave it to me!" Amy added pointedly.
"But there's more," said Tom. "Quentin has been chatting with David on the phone, too."
Vicki and Burke looked down at the boy.
"Davy, is that true?" Burke pressed.
David couldn't lift up his eyes. "Yes," he admitted in a low voice.
"David, why didn't you tell us?" Vicki demanded worriedly.
"Because it's crazy." David looked up at her defensively. "No one would believe that a ghost talked to me on an old broken phone. Not even you and Burke. Everyone would just think I was playing a prank."
"Oh, David." Vicki let out a small sigh.
"Why did you give the phone to Amy?" Tom cut in.
David nervously gazed up at him. "Quentin was getting scarier. I wanted to get rid of it, but I just couldn't. I thought since Amy liked the phone; she could take it. I didn't think Quentin would care about her. I just couldn't bear to throw it away."
"Clearly, you were wrong, David," Tom said evenly. "Not only did he scare Amy with this phone, but he also called me up too."
"He did?" Vicki was surprised.
"Yes, he wants us to find him," said Tom. "He says that me, Amy and David are connected to him."
Burke gazed at the antique phone in Amy's grasp. "How does this phone work?"
"It rings," David said helpfully. "Even though it's not connected to anything."
"But you can speak into it and Quentin answers," Amy added.
"Is that so?" Burke took the phone from Amy.
He placed the receiver against his ear and spoke into the mouthpiece.
"Quentin Collins, are you there?" he demanded defiantly. "You better speak up, you bastard."
"Who is this belligerent ass addressing me?" said a suave voice speaking through the receiver. An affluent voice.
Burke flinched. Despite believing Tom, Amy, and David, a part of him still didn't expect to hear a voice come out of this broken piece of junk.
But he kept his nerve.
"So, you're the infamous Quentin Collins," he said boldly. "Glad to finally make your acquaintance. My name is Burke Devlin. I'm one of the people you've been haunting."
"Why would I associate with you, good sir?" Quentin asked silkily. "You are not a Collins."
"Maybe not, but you haunted a couple of people I care about," Burke said stonily. "Including a boy I love as a son."
David gazed up at Burke with glimmering eyes, while Vicki looked at him gleaming.
"My boy," Quentin said with venom in his smooth voice. "You love him like a son?"
"I may not have Collins in my name, but you better believe I'll do whatever it takes to protect the people I care about," Burke said boldly. "I may not be a phantom either. But I'm far from defenseless. You have not heard the last from me."
Burke ended the call, placing the phone back to its cradle.
"Burke," David uttered, his voice small but filled with admiration.
"Wait, are you sure you want to pick a fight?" Tom asked nervously.
"He's already fighting," Burke said testily. "Maybe now he'll pick on me and leave the kids alone."
Sill tightly gripping the old phone, Burke turned to Vicki. "Come on, darling, let's find Prof. Stokes."
"Professor?" Tom squinted, placing a protective hand on Amy's shoulder. "Why do you want a professor of all things? I think a priest makes a little more sense."
"He's no ordinary professor," Burke said hurriedly, moving toward the foyer with Vicki and David. "He has a degree in spooks, and he might just be the only person safe to leave this phone with."
Once they stepped out into the foyer, Vicki stared around puzzled. It just occurred to her that Jason was nowhere to be seen.
When did he slip away without her noticing?
"Is there something wrong, darling?" Burke asked gently.
Vicki heaved a sigh. "No."
In the drawing room, Amy tugged on Tom's hand. "We hafta to go to the West Wing and get Chris out of there, Tom!"
"Yeah, we should get him away from Quentin," Tom agreed. "How did he find out about Quentin, anyway?"
"Chris talked to him on the phone, too," Amy replied breathlessly.
"Regular party line we have going here," Tom said wryly.
Spectral skeletons still marched around the ceiling of the Great Hall. Most – but not all – of the party guests had fled.
Elizabeth and Roger stood in the center of the Great Hall, doing their best to ignore a cheeky skeleton circling around them, blowing a bugle.
They both stared at Prof. Stokes and his pupil Donna Friedlander, the only guests that did not run in fear of the specters.
In fact, they both stared at the bony red-coats in wonder.
"Liz, who is that strange man?" Roger drawled. "I do not recall inviting him."
"He's from the collage," Elizabeth explained. "He's looking into our ghost situation."
Their tormentor was silenced when a clump of seaweed somehow lodged itself into his bugle. (Bill's handy work of course.)
Burke, Vicki and David ran through the entrance of the Great Hall but froze as they gawked at the carnage.
"Professor!" Burke hollered over the madness. "We need your help!"
"Should I come, too?" Donna asked her professor hopefully.
"No..." Prof Stokes decided after a moment of consideration. "Now that the danger has made itself apparent, it would be irresponsible to involve you any further."
In the maze of corridors, Desmond and Leticia floated down one of the passages. The gothic décor brought floods of memories to Desmond. The Great House hadn't changed all that drastically since his time.
The spectral couple were following Judah, who was in the company of three others.
Leticia warily eyed the creeping shadows high on the ceilings.
"That ain't natural up there, love," she whispered.
"I am not certain how long we can stay here, darling," Desmond whispered. "I'm trying to resist this pull of the curse."
"So am I, love," Leticia said quietly. "But Judah is bustlin' 'bout right in front of our noses!"
"I wonder if he knows we are here," Desmond whispered.
Down below, Judah smirked at the dead love birds mutterings. Why, of course he knew they were there. But they were of no great concern. They were not even a nuisance.
His dark shadows were active – their energy growing stronger.
The pair of chattering ghosts were already under his power.
Barnabas and Julia forced Cassandra – Angelique – Miranda – into a random room that seemed to be used solely to showcase portraits of the more obscure members of the Collins family.
As Julia shut the door, the witch tore away from Barnabas, darkly glaring at the pair.
"Aren't you growing bored of killing me at this point, Barnabas? You were always so moronically stubborn!"
"You know better than to expect me to stand by while you attack my family." Barnabas scowled, not even remotely intimidated by her.
"You have the impenitent to show yourself here," Julia added with dark eyes.
The witch scoffed at the doctor. "I don't have to explain myself to Barnabas' delusional would-be suitor."
"You will explain yourself to me," Barnabas cut in curtly. "I know Josette banished you from this house. How can you possibly step foot here?"
"Oh, Barnabas," the witch said silkily. "Haven't you realized by now? Josette's stupid. It's easy side-stepping her will."
"There is a change in you," Barnabas said, unruffled. "I noticed it when I encountered you in the woods. You seemed somehow – softer."
Angelique widened her vivid eyes.
"I do not know what could cause such a thing," Barnabas continued, but was then interrupted.
"Ah, so this is your wicked woman in the flesh."
His presence up close mortified Angelique. Her once mentor in his handsome new flesh suit.
"Barnabas, what are you doing with that?"
"I suppose you ought to know," Julia cut in clinically. "As you are damned, you likely recognize that he is summoned from hell."
"You actually summoned him?" The witch was breathless. "You asked hell to send you a warlock of all things!"
"To be rid of you," Barnabas said coldly.
"But how – why?"
"With science." Julia carefully produced a wrapped syringe from her purse, unwrapping it to reveal the yellowish orange liquid inside.
"Ah, poison, again." The witch was unimpressed.
The doctor nodded mechanically. "Yes, ricin this time. Only with a slight difference."
"Garlic?" Angelique suggested condescendingly.
"Warlock blood," Julia continued. "You see, I discovered an interesting quirk of your arcane healing power. It works automatically and it isn't particularly bright."
Angelique looked like she was growing bored. But that didn't deter Julia.
"Once your magic does its job, it doesn't really care what happens next."
Angelique snickered. "Immortality is what happens, dear."
Julia nodded again. "That is obviously the intention. But no system is perfect. Apparently, not even the devil's. Remember what I said about your healing power working automatically? Well, it only works once. And the warlock blood I added to this ricin has already protected itself from ricin."
Angelique was starting to look uncomfortable now. Julia took grim satisfaction from that.
"Unless I am very wrong, witch, when this blood enters your veins, your healing power will be convinced that you are already protected from the poison."
"This finally ends tonight, Angelique," Barnabas said darkly. "Your curse on me and my family ends now."
Realization dawning, Angelique gave Barnabas a strangely resigned look, a sly little grin tugging on her bottom lip.
"No, Barnabas, our curse is eternal. It lives in our hearts. You may be rid of me for now, but we will meet again... and again..."
Barnabas gave a nod to Julia – he was in no mood to listen to her nonsense.
Unfeelingly, Julia gave the witch the injection. Then stepped back beside Barnabas, waiting for the poison to take hold.
Shockingly, Angelique's body began burning from within. Pain seared through her bloodstream. Then flames licked right out of her flesh. She was consumed by her greatest fear. But she kept her head high, her eyes never leaving Barnabas. Her gaze locked to his with inflamed passion.
The fire scorched her body and reduced her to ash with unnatural speed. Through the agony, she didn't scream or let out a single cry.
Then she was gone.
Staring down at the ashes spreading on the tile floor, Barnabas felt uncertain.
The ghoul, however, was delighted. "I must admit the festivities this evening have been far more entertaining than I imagined."
"Barnabas." Julia looked at him more than a little shaken. "Nothing in that compound was even remotely flammable. Unless..." The doctor eyed the warlock suspiciously.
But Barnabas was even more alarmed. "Julia, something is not right."
An ear-splitting wail sounded from every direction. To Barnabas' disbelief – and frustration – a ghost tore through the wall - knocking down a portrait as he came.
This specter, however, was not a Colonial solider. It was probably the most shocking ghost Barnabas had ever seen.
"Trask!"
"You wretched charlatan!" Trask raged. "Who are you to steal my sacred duty? A defiled sinner like you has no business serving the will of God!"
"Barnabas, what is this?" Julia was startled by the raving ghost.
Trask dived, intending to smite Barnabas – but Josette shimmered protectively in front of her beloved, the scent of jasmine powerfully flowing around her. Her presence alone blocked Trask's assault.
Julia watched wide-eyed.
"This was not part of our bargain," Josette warned the fanatic.
"I was promised vengeance upon the wicked!" Trask roared.
"Then you are in luck, good reverend," Josette said calmly. "For this house all but teems with the wicked."
"Such as whom?" Trask demanded.
"That man over there in the blue suit comes to mind." Josette gestured toward the ghoul. "He is from hell. Perhaps you can spare poor Barnabas and purify his corrupted soul."
"Hmm?" Trask leered at the ghoul, who was observing the exchange as though it were a scene from an amusing play.
"Oh, it is quite true," the ghoul said, spreading a dashing smile. "I am afraid I am the most wretched sinner of all."
"You?" Trask narrowed his dark eyes at him.
"And proud of it," the ghoul said in a charming voice.
"Then allow me to shepherd you to hell, sinner," Trask insisted.
"I shall spare you the trouble," said the ghoul with indifference. "Instead, I think I will bring hell to you."
As soon as he finished his sentence, sweeping shadows spread through the room, swallowing the living and the ghosts in swirling darkness.
Judah was finally free from his jailers, especially that revolting doctor.
Unfortunately, he was not alone: Two ghosts snuck up on him, Desmond and Leticia.
Lurking in a corner of one of the endless paneled corridors, Nicholas tutted to himself. He felt the tenuous link between him and his "sister" fizzle away.
That meant one of two things; she was hiding and thus had given up her quest. Or, more likely, she had been vanquished. She failed to become Collinwood's mistress.
How pathetic, he thought unfeelingly. For all the power and favor our Master heaps upon her, she will always think and feel like a mortal.
"Mr. Blair?" A sweet voice came around the corner. "Is that you?"
To Nicholas' delight, the voice belonged to Maggie Evans. She was looking at him with doe eyes.
"Maggie." Nicholas grinned. "I must confess that I crashed. But, given my brother-in-law's generous and forgiving nature, I was sure he just forgot to invite me."
The warlock was pleased when Maggie nodded her acceptance of his version of reality.
"Only thing is, I'm not quite sure what is going on. I had to dodge out of the way when the guests stampeded. And all these apparitions of skeletons started swooshing about. What more, I seemed to have gotten myself turned around."
"I'm lost, too," Maggie breathed, a worried look haunting her face. "And I can't find Willie anywhere. Can you help me?"
"I'd be glad to, my dear." Nicholas grinned.
Down the corridor, Willie hid behind a corner. A mixture of emotions surging through him, anger, anticipation, fear.
Willie tried vainly to brush it all aside.
He couldn't let his hands shake – not if he was going to clock Nicky Blair.
Next Chapter: Barnabas and the Other Cursed Collins