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Chapter Seven
As Julia stepped over the threshold into her apartment, she felt the chill, then a warmth. She wasn't certain if she were more frightened, or more annoyed. When she had left Collinsport 4 years ago, she was very deliberately leaving behind her the supernatural, the paranormal, and Barnabas Collins. Now, they were all back. Of course, she had to concede, to herself only, as she put away her coat and theirs, it was good to see him again. It was good to have an ally who understood. And, it was more than that, too. "We all know the drill, I suppose?" She seated herself at the head of her dining room table and waited for the two men to take their seats, facing each other, Barnabas on her right, Jamison on her left. When they were seated, Julia laid her hands on the table. The others were about to follow suit, when they heard it, they all heard it: a laugh, deep, hearty, loud. Who? Where? In the mirror, over the credenza, facing Julia, there he appeared, hands on hips, head back: it was Nicholas Blair, without his mustache, made up like some drag queen on Halloween. Jamison stood, called out to him: "Rosa. Not now. Not yet." Barnabas stood then, puzzled. Rosa Chilblain - Nicholas Blair, they were one and the same. But, why? And what did Patrick Jamison know about him/her? Suddenly, he felt the room turn cold, very cold. He went to put his hand on Julia's. He couldn't move. Rather, it was as if his hands, his feet, were being held down. "Julia!" The anguished cry barely escaped his lips, as he realized, she either could not hear him or she could not respond. Julia ignored both Patrick and Barnabas. She had to. She didn't want to, but she was being drawn, pulled, toward the mirror. Blair beckoned to her, and she could not speak, could not protest. He held his hand out to her. She reached, in to the mirror. Their hands clasped, hers and Blair's, and Julia disappeared, into the mirror. And then, both were gone. The mirror now reflected back only the dining room, and the two men, standing there, across the table from each other. Barnabas ran to the mirror, ran his hands over it, searched for some mechanism, secret passage, some way in or through. He found none. He returned to the table, stood, facing Jamison, furious. He gripped the table, as if he were about to turn it over on top of Jamison. If anything happened to Julia, harmed her... When he addressed Jamison, there was menace in his voice: "Who are you? And where has Blair taken Julia?" Julia found herself at a party. Bessie Smith sang the blues from an old-fashioned Victrola. Men and women dressed in '20's garb gathered in small groups, smoking cigarettes in outlandish holders, smoking...other things, waving about delicate stemware. Blair had vanished. Disoriented, still chilled, Julia looked about for something familiar. It was her apartment, but it wasn't. The furniture was nouveau, the accent colors gaudy purples and crimsons and gold. She was fighting panic when a hand came from behind, gripped her arm, and a familiar voice whispered: "Follow me. Quietly." Julia was startled by the sudden hand; she was not surprised by the voice: "Valerie ...Blair, is it?" She turned to face the petite blonde, kept her voice low, although none of the guests seemed to have taken any notice of her. Was she really even there? Julia was certain of nothing, except that she was not in her own dining room and they had not gotten to conduct the séance: "Angelique, what are you doing here? What am I doing here? What do you want from me, now?" In reply, Angelique/Valerie picked up a cocktail from a tray held by a passing waiter and strolled off into what was, or would be, Julia's bedroom. Julia, seeing no logical reason not to follow, followed her in to the bed room, shut the door behind her. Two women, entwined together on the bedroom floor, looked up, unhappy at the interruption, stood, rearranged their apparel, and marched themselves out. Julia again shut the door. "Relax, Julia." Angelique smiled, insincerely. "You're stuck here....for now." "How ...Valerie Blair and Rosa Chilblain were found dead, here; but you, he...didn't die." "Of course not." Valerie's little laugh, her evident amusement, were carefully calculated to upset Julia, keep her off balance. She was succeeding. The smell of marijuana lingered in the room, sweet, heavy. That, too, was starting to work on Julia, her control. Confident that Julia was in no position, no condition, to interfere, Valerie could not resist: it was too rich, too rare a treat, to be able to taunt this Dr. Hoffman: "Nicholas, Rosa here, finds Patrick rather attractive. Don't you? Yes, he decided Patrick would be a fine recruit; but he needed my help. The man is helplessly hetero. Of course, I was pleased to help, so long as Rosa would meet my price." Julia stared, not comprehending. The air, the drug, what was it about this room? She couldn't focus. Valerie had no objection to providing clarification. If Julia didn't understand what was happening, it would not be nearly so satisfying. "You were my price, my dear. So long as you are there, Barnabas can't begin to consider anyone else." Julia shook her head. She heard; but she could not have heard correctly. "Don't look at me that way, my dear; you know it as well as I do. Oh, he hasn't told you. He won't. He's still afraid of me. And he has cause, of course. But it's you. Always you. Never without you. Keeping watch over you. Well, you'll be gone. And if he comes too close to finding his way to you, you'll be dead; and he'll be the one to have destroyed you. Isn't that choice?" Valerie started to laugh; but stopped. It was no fun, if Julia couldn't hear her. What had she heard? There would be time to find out. There would be lots of time. For now, Julia Hoffman lay sprawled out on the bed, passed out cold.
"I don't know where Julia has gone, Collins." Jamison would not take a defensive tone. "Why would you say such a thing?" "You know about this apartment, you know about Blair and Chilblain, and you obviously recognized Blair just now." "Blair? That was Rosa Chilblain." "Nicholas Blair, Jamison, a warlock, and a powerful one." "Maybe, I should be questioning you." Patrick Jamison retrieved his coat. "I'm going back to my apartment. Then, I'm going back to the library to see what I can learn about the deaths in this apartment. And maybe I'll see what I can learn about you, Mr. Collins." And he left, with no further word, without looking back, into the mirror. If he had, he would have seen appear, in the lower left hand corner, the image of Julia, as she crossed over, into a time fifty years before. Patrick Jamison had thought he understood what was happening, what his role was. Now, he wasn't sure. Rosa, he knew, she couldn't be a person named Nicholas. And Blair, that was her companion. Valerie Blair. No sooner had he thought of her than he and she were there, in his apartment. She was smiling. Her soft blonde hair, her pert, upturned nose, the light, intoxicating scent she wore, all and always thrilled him: "Valerie, come to me." He held out his arms, and she let Patrick take her in a lovers' embrace.
Barnabas sat heavily back down at the dining room table. He let his head rest on his folded arms. Think. He had to think where, how to begin, to find Julia. Angelique and Nicholas, would they never leave him alone; would they always strive to destroy those he loved? He heard...what was it? A voice, high-pitched, wavering, like an old recording, insinuated itself in his consciousness. It seemed to be coming from the mirror. Investigating, Barnabas saw it. It hadn't been there before. There it was, in the corner, Julia's image. As he watched, the image turned, and he saw her, She was saying something. He leaned in closer. The music grew louder. It seemed as if she were shouting, although he could barely hear her. But he did here her, too clearly: "Leave. You're in danger. Get out. Please. Go!" And, as he watched, the image...vanished. Again, he searched the mirror, tapped across the surface, took it down this time and examined the back of it. Nothing. It was quiet. Where could he go to find answers? Who could help him? Jamison, the library, it was at least a place to start. He retrieved his coat from the closet. As he started to put it on, he heard it, thought he did, Ben, Ben's voice. It was a wassailing song, one Ben had taught him, sung with him, many years ago. Another voice, a woman's, one he did not recognize, joined the song as a round. Barnabas called out, imploring: "Ben, help me. Please. I know you mean to protect me. But it's Julia we must help. Please. Appear to me. Tell me what I have to do to save her from Angelique and Blair." For a moment, the singing stopped. All was again quiet. There was no point in searching the room. Barnabas knew that. So he just stood, in the middle of the room, trying to open himself up, to hear any message Ben might convey, try to convey. And then there was singing. Ben, the woman, and one more voice, one he did recognize: his sister's voice. It was another round.
Dona nobis pacem, pacem The harmony, like Ben's voice, was rough. But the meaning, it was clear to him. He had the key, knew what they had to do. His only fear: what if Jamison would not cooperate? It would take three of them, working together, to defeat Angelique and Blair, to bring Julia back, safe. |