Dark Shadows 2: The Salem Branch

by Lara Parker

  “I am certain. As long as I am here to care for you.”

  “And if you are mistaken? Would you relish being wedded to a monster?” He was suddenly ashamed of what he had found in the Old House basement, of his kinship with its killer. The urge to tell her his secret evaporated.

  She looked up at him quickly, her bronze eyes widening. “I love you, Barnabas. And I’m not afraid.”

  After she had administered the injection, he sank back on the bed. He closed his eyes and waited. Bright shards of light danced behind his eyelids. His fingertips tingled as though electricity radiated through them, and he groaned. He could feel Julia’s hand on his arm.

  “I know it’s painful,” she said, “but each time it will get easier, I promise you that.” She rose, and he could hear her rinsing the vial in the bathroom and replacing it in her valise while he followed the fiery journey of the medication through his veins. This time, more quickly than he had expected, the heat began in his core, like a pile of radiant coals urged into flame by pulsing bellows, and flowed rapidly through his body. His breath came in gasps, his throat swelled shut, and stabs of pain pierced his muscles, wrapped themselves like white-hot brands around his bones, until he was coiled like the springs of his bed, as new blood bloomed.

  THE FAMILY HAD WITHDRAWN to the drawing room at Collinwood to enjoy an after-dinner liqueur, but Roger Collins’s Shakespearean rant was disrupting any pretense of tranquility. As the family patriarch, responsible for the preservation of the estate, Roger had become more irritable of late. Often Barnabas suspected that the aggravation was aimed in his direction. At first Barnabas had been treated with high regard, as he had been perceived to be a cousin from England with a fortune who would restore the Old House and the woods nearby. Welcomed into the fold, as was the tradition in fine old families—he was, after all, a Collins—he had sensed that, in recent months, he had fallen into disfavor. He strove to remain composed in spite of Roger’s sharp staccato echoing in his skull.

  “It’s your responsibility, dammit, not mine. I want them out of my woods! And the sooner the better.” His silver blond hair lay perfectly combed over his bald spot, but his aristocratic face was flushed with annoyance. While his sister Elizabeth poured his sherry, Carolyn, her daughter, golden hair shining in the firelight, sat curled on the stool beside the grate, blue eyes focused on a large jigsaw puzzle spread out on the coffee table. Opposite her on the floor, Roger’s son, David, was also concentrating on the reproduction of an impossible Manet, all leaves and dappled sunlight. Together they ignored their parents’ bickering and gave all their attention to the puzzle.

  “Roger, dear, you must try and keep your temper.” Elizabeth Collins Stoddard’s patrician tones were soothing as she handed him a cordial. “What possible good can it do to become so distressed?”

  Barnabas was keenly aware that this time the tempest was for his benefit. “Why is it my responsibility, Roger?” Barnabas asked. “I wasn’t the one who left the gate open for this particular invasion you find so distasteful.” The remark was pointed, and Roger chose to acknowledge it with a sniff of his brandy before he answered.

  “Because, Barnabas, you seem to forget the Old House was under your care.”

  Quentin Collins entered the room and quickly searched the liquor cabinet for a bottle of whiskey. Supposedly another distant relation, but of suspect genealogy, he had been enjoying the family’s hospitality for several months, taking full advantage. Finding a label to his liking, he turned towards Roger. “Oh, what harm do they do?” Quentin’s heavy sideburns framed an angular face, and the twist of a smile played upon his lips, as usual. “They call themselves ‘flower children,’ and their makeshift commune they call ‘Paradise.’ I think it’s all rather innocent.”

  “Paradise!” Roger sputtered. Barnabas was surprised to hear Quentin, whose opinions of others often bordered on the contemptuous, defending the campers in the woods. Was it that he was tempted to antagonize Roger for amusement, to prick his bubble of self-satisfaction?

  “Look, David,” cried Carolyn. “I’ve found that piece. Now the whole corner is finished.”

  “Yes, but we will never figure out all these trees,” David said, as he stared down at dozens of speckled green shapes.

  Roger’s upper lip quivered. “You call them innocent? Using the forest floor for a latrine, bathing naked in the river, coupling incessantly and . . . indiscriminately—probably with the dogs as well as one another.”

  “Roger!” Elizabeth’s hand flew to her mouth and she frowned, nodding in the direction of the children. But Roger ignored her. His chiseled features abandoned for the moment their finely hewn perfection, and he grimaced with indignation. “I want them off the property!” With that he drained his glass and set it down on the mantel with such vehemence that they all heard the crystal stem crack.

  “But it’s not your property anymore, Uncle Roger,” said Carolyn, teasing him in an attempt to lighten his mood. Her amethyst eyes hinted of mischief and glowed in a delicate heart-shaped face.

  “Well, get rid of them nevertheless!”

  “How exactly do you expect me to do that?” Barnabas asked patiently.

  “I suggest you go over there and tell them in no uncertain terms that they are to pack up and leave. Without question, they are a disgrace to the neighborhood: undermining property values, polluting the stream, risking a conflagration with their cooking fires. They are the talk of Collinsport. Filthy, long, tangled hair—Good God! Perverts and degenerates—disgusting. They have absolutely no right to be taking up residence in an area of historic homes. Think about the tourists!”

  David chimed in. “It’s only a camp in the woods, Father, and they can’t even be seen from the road.”

  “You stay away from there, young man!”

  “They make a lot of music. Some of them play the guitar and sing. I’ve heard them.”

  Roger turned to Barnabas. “You see? They set a horrible example for the young people in the town.” He glowered at David. “I forbid you to go anywhere near that area.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they are the worst sort.” Roger drew himself up, shoulders rigid, and his stern jaw quivered when he spoke. “The worst sort.”

  Barnabas felt a glow of warmth for his young nephew, who shrugged, but did not seem resigned. David was fifteen years old now, and a bright, articulate youth with a curious mind. His nut brown hair was a gleaming cap that curved around his ears, and his freckled cheeks were smooth and honest. At this moment, his hazel eyes glowed with defiance. “Well I certainly intend to visit them if I like. And you can’t stop me, Father. Even if they are so objectionable, why wouldn’t it enlighten me to see them for myself? I should be allowed to draw my own conclusions about them, shouldn’t I?”

  Barnabas realized with a start that David had already been to the camp. Right under their noses the boy had been making friends with their new neighbors.

  Carolyn sighed. “David, I think Uncle Roger’s just mad at himself for selling the Old House, and he doesn’t know how that lady talked him into it.”

  Roger turned to his son with an attempt at forbearance which cost him a great deal of effort.

  “David, they are consuming drugs. And drugs are illegal. Marijuana and heroin and . . . and—what is it—mushrooms! Anything they can get their hands on. It is against the law. Do you understand me?” He drew in a breath and turned to Barnabas. “I have no idea why you care about them one whit, but if you do have your reasons—”

  “I have no desire to protect them.”

  “Then perhaps you should take these matters into your own hands and convince them it is in their best interest to leave. Otherwise, I intend to call the sheriff and have them forcibly removed.” With that he turned and marched out of the room.

  “Well, that was an uncalled for display of bad humor,” said Quentin, pouring himself another drink. “Roger’s contempt for the peasant classes knows no bounds. As for myself, I must say, I think t
he Harpignies woman is rather attractive.”

  “I don’t think she is a peasant,” said Barnabas. He watched the movements of Quentin’s lean body as he moved to a chair by the fire, and grudgingly admired the French tailoring of his dove-colored suit. Quentin raised his glass, peering at the color of the liqueur.

  “No, she is not. She seems to have resources. I would say a trust, or access to a large bank account.”

  “You would say? Have you become acquainted with her?”

  Quentin tipped his head forward and glowered at Barnabas from beneath dark brows and a mass of curly black hair. “I’ve taken her to dinner,” he said, and then added after a pause, “several times.”

  Barnabas was surprised by the irritation that swept through him. Quentin resided at Collinwood when he was between adventures. An inveterate bachelor, he was the sort of philanderer whose façade, Barnabas knew, hid the soul of a man who secretly feared and despised women. He charmed them with ease, and abandoned them just as quickly once he became bored with them. And he made no apologies for his behavior. A sinister and elegant exterior hid an empty shell, callous and compassionless.

  “I happen to know that she is not to be trusted,” said Barnabas.

  Quentin’s eyes lit with interest. “Really? How do you know that?”

  “Because I . . . I have done some investigating.”

  “And you have discovered exactly what?”

  “Why . . .” He hesitated, searching for words. “I’ve heard that she has a shady past, that she was once involved in the occult, and that she is rather promiscuous.”

  “Sounds like my type.”

  Their conversation was particularly irritating to Barnabas because it was a sham. Quentin and Barnabas both knew of one another’s secret. But the charade was necessary while the rest of the family were present. What’s more, Quentin had been acquainted with Angelique in another life. Surely he had noticed the uncanny resemblance.

  “Quentin, I am quite serious. I don’t think she is of the caliber of women who would be welcome at Collinwood.”

  “What bloody foolishness.”

  “I’m merely trying to warn you, for your own benefit, that I believe a relationship with her would be ill-advised.”

  “And I think I am old enough to take care of myself,” said Quentin, chuckling, and drained his glass.

  Elizabeth sighed and murmured her disapproval. She had dressed, as was her habit, for dinner. Her gown of black silk was well cut over her trim bust line and complimented her dark hair, which was beautifully coifed and pinned with bright clasps. Her face, though lined, was still lovely, with large emerald green eyes. Her great-grandmother’s diamonds glittered at her ears, but Barnabas noticed with dismay that her carefully-applied lipstick had run a bit into the tiny crevices around her mouth. How sad it was to age, inevitably, against all efforts at preservation, and Elizabeth had access to the finest creams and facials. Yet there it was, time’s caress.

  “Roger is overwrought,” she said. “You’re right, Carolyn. He is horribly upset with himself that he sold the property to that woman.”

  “Elizabeth, she is completing the restoration as she promised,” Quentin said in his nonchalant tone.

  “But she is one of those hippies.” Elizabeth mouthed the word as if she were describing a creature from another species. To Barnabas it was strange to hear something that hinted at bigotry coming from a matriarch whose family hid unspeakable secrets within a deteriorating mansion and who had very little contact with the people of the village. Even members of the social register had not been entertained for decades. However, financial straits had encouraged the Collinses to open the house for monthly tours through the summer when other fine homes of the area were on public display.

  Carolyn looked up. “What do you think a hippie is, Mother? Some kind of a monster?”

  “Darling, don’t you realize who they are? They are spoiled young people who have made up their minds to sneer at social conventions and reject all our moral standards. They refuse to work.”

  “What work do we do, Mother?”

  Elizabeth sipped her sherry. “Flippancy does not become you,” she said with a sigh. “You know perfectly well Roger manages our affairs at the Cannery, and he and I maintain both Collins Enterprises and our other investments.” After a slight pause, during which she adjusted her position on the settee, she spoke again. “The point is, these hippies assume that anyone who has earned an income is a greedy materialist. At the same time, most of them come from fairly good families and are supported by their parents. They are simply silly adolescents who only rebel because they have nothing better to do.”

  Carolyn pulled her knees up under her arms. “I thought they believed that all we need is love?”

  Elizabeth’s face took on a melancholy expression, and she turned and looked into the fire.

  “There,” cried David. “There’s the crooked piece that fits that branch together.”

  FOUR

  ALTHOUGH HE DID NOT RELISH a long conversation, Barnabas could not go to his own room before he had knocked on Julia’s door. Her response was quick, but her voice was softer than he expected. “Come in.”

  Her room was dark, with only one light by the desk where she was reading. She looked up without smiling, and a mouth with no lipstick was lost in her pale face. He was surprised to find her room untidy, as he knew her to be a disciplined person. The comforter was crumpled on the unmade bed, and books and papers were strewn over the carpet. She had not joined the family for dinner, and Barnabas assumed it was because she was embarrassed to intrude too often until she legally became a Collins. She had come to Collinwood five years earlier to research a book she was writing, and had never left, becoming, over time, a true companion to all the family members, and devoting herself to helping them in various medical and personal matters. As the family doctor, she had been given lodging in payment for her physician’s duties; and when she had discovered his abnormality, she had dedicated herself to its cure.

  “How are you feeling tonight?” she asked.

  “Well.”

  “And dinner? Were you able to stomach it?”

  “A little.”

  Her hands were shaking and her face was drawn. The high cheekbones, which had given her the haughty look he once admired, now, to his distress, were protruding, and her temples were blue as bruises.

  “Julia, you are the one I am worried about. You must be ill.”

  “I’m just very tired.”

  “I’m so sorry. Have you taken cold?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  He strove for compassion. “How can I be of help?”

  She did not respond for a moment, only gazed at him with liquid eyes, then said, almost as an afterthought, “Barnabas you must try to eat.”

  “I had some cake. I only seem to be able to stomach sweets.”

  She nodded, sighing. “I know it’s difficult, but you must make the effort if you expect your system to adjust. The transformation is not complete, and—”

  “Julia, I beg of you, don’t scold.” He was sorry the moment he said it, because she looked at him with such an expression of reproach that he was flooded with guilt.

  She came and stood beside him, and he considered, with a growing sense of helplessness, her anemic complexion and her thinning frame. How much she had changed. As she leaned close to him, a stale odor rose from her hair, and he realized she must not have washed it for days.

  “Will you hold me, Barnabas?”

  He hesitated a moment, then reached for her and pressed her body to his. She was stronger than he had expected and seemed to gain energy from his embrace. She responded in her jerky way, encircling him with her arms, and he was unable to pull back for fear of insulting her. She lifted her face to look at him and he knew she wanted to be kissed. Overcoming an awkward feeling of aversion, he brushed her cold lips and tasted her thin mouth with his own. Finally he withdrew, all the while wondering how much of his reluctance sh
e had sensed. Then, in an attempt to distract her, he blurted out, “I have some rather unsettling news.”

  “Oh?” Her eyes flickered with worry.

  “You must try not to let it upset you, but I think you should know.”

  “What is it?”

  He hesitated, then turned away from her. “I have reason to believe there is another vampire. In Collinsport.”

  She made a faint, whimpering sound. “Another . . .?” She sucked in her breath. “How do you know?”

  He walked to the window and stared out into the night. A melon moon stared back at him through dark branches. “I found its victim.”

  “Where?”

  He realized he had led himself into a trap. He had not meant to divulge the fact that he had gone to the Old House. Julia had insisted that it could have a dire influence on the success of the cure. Nevertheless, he was now compelled to admit his folly.

  “Where did you see it?” she insisted.

  “I . . . at least Willie and I . . . were looking over the Old House . . .” He turned back to her, but he could not meet her gaze. Instead he stared at her hands, which were twitching together. “I know . . . I know you don’t approve, but Willie insisted on showing me the restoration. Which is very impressive, by the way.” He forced himself to look at her. “And in the basement—”

  Her mouth gaped. He saw her stiffen and clutch the collar of her blouse. “You went to the basement of the Old House?”

  He nodded, feeling suddenly ashamed.

  “And there you found . . .?”

  “A slain worker, with the telltale marks on his neck.”

  “You are a fool,” she said. Her eyes glowed with renewed fire. “Don’t you realize that nothing would be worse for you than an encounter with . . .”

  “Julia, be calm. You forget that only I would recognize the signs, and only I have the skill to track—”