by Laramie Carlsen

And this was what her dream was about.

"Do you really hate me that much?"

Her own words, echoing and re-echoing around her, spoken with a trembling voice one snowy night in 1796. But it wasn't that night in her dream; Barnabas wasn't standing before her, his haunting eyes flashing with anger and passion, a dagger clutched in one trembling fist, and she wasn't clad only in a thin blue nightgown, her chest heaving with fury, betrayal, and a terrible crushing sadness. But she could hear the wind howling outside the eaves and the cheerful crackling and snapping of flames in the fireplace. She glanced down, startled to see that she was wearing the first dress she had ever purchased as Mrs. Barnabas Collins, the orange velvet with the empire waist, the dress she had worn the night she sent Victoria Winters into the waiting arms of the Reverend Trask with one simple spell that had proved to be her undoing. But it wasn't that night either, she could sense that somehow.

She glanced in the mirror that hung on the wall next to the portrait of Barnabas, and realized that she was at Collinwood. She primped delicately for a moment, realizing full well that she looked perfect, like a golden flower opening its supple petals to the first light of the dawn. Her hair was curled into a hundred ringlets piled high atop her head, with two or three curls coiled slyly at the curve of her neck. Her eyes gleamed an icy blue, and her lips parted into a mischievous smile. This was how she had looked the three or four times her ghost had appeared to the various denizens of Collinwood in 1968. Perhaps that meant something.

She was waiting for Barnabas. That knowledge came readily enough, and not a moment later the front doors of Collinwood opened, and he stepped inside.

He was dressed as she knew he'd be, in a grey Inverness cape, with snow melting in his dark hair, brushed carelessly, as always, in spikes across his forehead. He hadn't seen her yet, and she covered a smile with her hand as he unbuttoned the cape and hung it gently on the coatrack. She saw that he was dressed as he was the last time she'd seen him in 1970, before she'd been banished to the 18th century to live out her sentence without memories of the future until her "death" in 1840 at the hands of Lamar Trask. He looked practical and sensible, as he did in every century, clad in a charcoal suit with a dark mauve tie. The silver wolf's head cane he was never without he held in his right hand.

Then he turned and looked at her, and his eyes widened.

"Angelique!" he exclaimed, as she knew he would. "But - but you'd gone!"

"Yes," she purred, batting her eyes demurely. "I had gone. The last time you saw me -"

"You were dying," he said, and his adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "You died in my arms. Lamar Trask shot you!" His eyes were wide with fear. "They buried you in the ground. Julia and I found your gravestone!"

She stepped towards him, her arms extended, and irritation stabbed at her as he took a shambling step away from her, shaking his head the entire time. "I have returned to you before," she said, "why did you think that this time was eternal? Don't you know that I will always return when you need me? I love you, Barnabas," she said, her eyes shining with the hint of tears. "I will always love you. Don't you know that yet?"

"Why have you come back?" he cried, his voice shrill with fear. "You're - you're a ghost!"

"No, Barnabas," she insisted, "I'm not a ghost. I - I -" She glanced down at the 18th century dress she was wearing, at her own pale hands, like carved marble. Panic flooded her. How had she come back? She wasn't a ghost ... was she? "Barnabas," she said slowly, "I knew that you needed me, so I came back to Collinwood." "How did you know?" Barnabas said, the fear in his voice ebbing for the first time. He stopped retreating but continued to stare at her warily. "How did you come back?" he asked again.

"I know that you are human," she said. "I know that the curse I lifted is gone forever." She swallowed. "But that was my curse, Barnabas. It isn't that simple. I have to protect you."

"From what?" he cried. "I'm a human. I live at Collinwood, now, with Maggie. She's my wife. When I returned from 1840 I found that we'd all changed time. Without Roxanne, Sebastian Shaw never came here, and Maggie never became her victim. I married her two months after Julia and Stokes and I returned from the past. We're very much in love. I want you to understand that, Angelique."

Pain lanced at her, taking away her breath, and the old jealousy flared up in her again. "You want me to understand that you are casting me aside again?" she cried, her lower lip trembling with her rage. "That I have crossed centuries, overcoming even death itself to be with you, and you mean to tell me that you've married Maggie Evans?" Pain colored her words, jealousy underscored them, and they flew from her mouth tainted with rage. She crossed her arms and turned away from him. "You will never change, Barnabas," she spat. "Why do I always think that you will?"

"I think you should leave, Angelique," Barnabas said icily. "Return to whatever hell you have come from."

She whirled to face him, twin roses blooming in her cheeks, her mouth opening and closing and opening again. No words emerged at first, so great was her rage. "Whatever hell I came from?" she finally managed to choke, then bowed her head, willing away the bilious curses that curled on her lips. "Barnabas, you don't understand. I have to -"

"I am afraid that it is you who fails to understand, Angelique," Barnabas said coldly. "I'm happy in this time, and I know you better than you know yourself. I know what you did to Maggie the last time you felt she was a threat. Get out of this house now, Angelique."

"I have to stay," she said miserably, tears streaking her cheeks. "I made you human, Barnabas, and therefore you are vulnerable. You are a human and you can die. Finally. At last." Her eyes searched his face miserably, his face carved from stone, from cold granite. "Don't you understand? I can't lose you, Barnabas. I can't ever lose you to anything. I have come back to protect you. I can't let anything harm you. I'd rather die first!"

"Then die," Barnabas said, and as his face split into a hideous grin like the rotted flesh of a blackened pumpkin she realized that he was holding a torch, and even as fear caused her to back away from him with her hands held out in a warding-off gesture, it burst into flames. "You are a threat to me, Angelique. I'm going to do to you what I should have done two centuries ago."

"No," she whispered. This couldn't be happening. It simply couldn't! "No, Barnabas. You can't -"

"Burn, witch ... burn!" he shrieked, his voice high and insane, as he thrust the torch at her. The flames licked at the ancient fabric of her dress and found it to their liking. They spread quickly, feeding off her flesh, and she opened her mouth to scream but nothing came out. As she sank to her knees, the flesh dropping from her bones in burning chunks, she could hear his laughter, shrieking, growing louder in volume, louder and louder and -

- louder and higher and louder -

Angelique awoke with a muffled scream, her body damp with sweat, her eyes wide and darting around in their sockets. She sank back against the sheets with a great sigh of relief, then closed her eyes. She could still smell that awful charred stink as the flames burned her. Such a familiar smell. After all, she'd endured it before, centuries ago.

Outside, the crow that had nested in the tree near her window continued to scream and caw.

She rose from her bed, clad only in her nightgown, and knelt beside the dresser that had once belonged to her most hated rival. It was 6:30 a.m.; the funeral was at 9:00. She'd overslept. She waved gratefully once at the crow outside, thankful that he had woken her from that terrible nightmare.

She paused once on her way to the bathtub. It was a dream, nothing more, surely nothing that had ever happened to her. She had not returned to Barnabas after the events of 1840, although she had been allowed to enter the world of humans again after the terrible events of that year and her own betrayal by destroying Judah Zachery. But the Master had an unusual sense of humor; by his own reasoning, it was Judah Zachery's fault that he had been destroyed by an inferior, and therefore deserved his fate. He would never be allowed to live again. Angelique, on the other hand, was given another chance on earth. But the Devil's one stipulation had been that she could go wherever she wanted, become whatever she wanted to be ... but she was never to see Barnabas Collins again.

It hurt, of course. It hurt a whole hell of a lot (pun fully intended, she had thought wryly at the time), but it hadn't been impossible. She'd gone years without seeing him before, the entire seventy years between 1897 and 1969, for instance, when she'd wandered the earth before settling down with Sky Rumson and the insanity that her marriage to him had become. But this was different somehow, and she knew it ... because this was her last chance. She'd always been close to the Master, ever since he had first whispered in her ear those long ago golden days as a child in Martinique, and thus she had always been a favorite of his. Nicholas could never understand it: why, after all her mistakes and betrayals, she was always being given a second chance.

But she had upheld her end of the bargain. She hadn't married again; instead, she returned to earth the moment she'd left it, in April of 1970, and had continued her reign as Mrs. Sky Rumson, the rich man's lovely widow. No one wondered why she never aged, or why she had become such a recluse in her "declining days". She was in Collinsport now under the guise of "Angela DuVal". There was, after all, no one left to recognize her who could pose a threat. Elizabeth Collins Stoddard had died in 1990, Roger two years after that. Carolyn was the mistress of Collinwood now, but Angelique didn't worry about her. One tiny spell the afternoon she'd returned had assured that Carolyn would never connect Angela DuVal with Cassandra Blair or Angelique Rumson. Or David either, for that matter; he'd just returned to his home town for the first time in fifteen years, especially for the funeral. No wife and no family, and he was as unhappy as his father and his father before him, but he tried not to show it. Besides, Carolyn was glad to have him back.

So was Julia. It was Julia who was able to provide the explanation that Angela DuVal was the daughter of an old friend of her's and Barnabas', and no one batted an eye. David had examined her carefully - TOO carefully in Angelique's humble estimation - and she knew that he was trying to place her. If she hadn't caused all the known photographs of Cassandra to crumble simulatenously into dust, he may have made the connection, and then would have been forced to deal with him. But, as it happened, he had not.

After she towled off and stepped into the black dress and blouse that seemed appropriate for mourning, another voice from the past struck her. "How charming you look, Angelique. Black suits you well." Had that been Nicholas? Cold, snide, condescending ... of course it had. She remembered now. That had been the very end of the Leviathan takeover, just before she'd destroyed Nicholas by way of that fool Jeb Hawkes. But Nicholas himself was dust now; she'd incinerated the body at the morgue herself the night he died. In fact, it was at the morgue that she'd confronted the ghost of Nicholas and had been banished to 1796 to live out her sentence without her memories of the future to comfort her.

She decided on the way to the cemetery that it wasn't healthy to dwell on the past. The windshield wipers protested with every swipe, squealing mildly as they washed away the huge cumbersome snowflakes that drifted awkwardly from the slate-grey sky that lay overhead, like cotton soaked in dirty water. Black sunglasses covered her sparkling eyes, and her hands were encased in black lace gloves. Very appropriate for a funeral. No, she decided, the past is over. It's dead. As dead as -

She almost had to pull over the car then. The world swam before her as tears filled her eyes and slipped in tiny rivers down her cheeks. She shook her head and violently wiped away the tears. She wasn't going to give into emotion now. Not now. Not after all she'd been through. There would be a time for that later.

Julia met her at the cemetery gate. Her hair, all snowy white, was pushed back and tied in a bun at the nape of her neck. Her face was a map of sprawled wrinkles, but her eyes were still as avid and bright as they had been thirty years before. Her head shook slightly and her hands were the least bit palsied, and Angelique was surprised to find that a nostalgic pang for the old days struck her ... and along with it came a pang of sympathy for this woman. No, Angelique decided, she doesn't need my sympathy. She's been blissfully happy for these past three decades. She doesn't need my sympathy at all. She needs my friendship again.

Although the Devil had specified that Angelique could have no contact with Barnabas, he had said nothing about the rest of the Collinses ... or their friends. She had received a letter from Julia Hoffman in the spring of 1973. Juliad had read about Angelique's success in the stock market in some financial magazine, and spent the three months before writing the letter in shock that she hadn't approached Barnabas as soon as she'd returned. At first Angelique had been hesitant about answering her. After all, this was the woman who had sworn that she wouldn't reveal Angelique's marriage to Sky Rumson to Barnabas, but look how THAT had turned out. But curiosity overcame her and she returned her letter, haltingly, hesitantly. It had been very short. Almost instantly another came, and it was as if a dam had broken.

More letters passed between the two women before Angelique had tentatively and with much trepidation actually called Julia on the telephone. Terribly brash of her, but they were never caught. Julia was an understanding woman, and although she had assured Angelique that she bore her no malice for the terrible events of 1840, Angelique couldn't apologize enough for nearly having her turned into a vampire at the hands of Roxanne Drew. They discussed Angelique's latest pact with the Devil - something Julia took remarkably well, and with very little glee present in her voice - and the ramifications that held for the Collins family. They talked about Julia's upcoming marriage to Barnabas, and Angelique found herself confessing things to the older woman (well, older physically, Angelique thought) that she'd never admitted to herself. The all consuming jealousy for Josette that she'd felt all those centuries ago, and some of the stipulations in the bargain she'd made with Nicholas Blair in Martinique when he'd inducted her into his coven, and the agony she'd felt when Barnabas cast her away for her mistress. It was here that Angelique found that she and Julia shared the most common ground; not only had they both been rejected at various times in the history each shared with Barnabas, but each had claimed him in her own way: Angelique only briefly, Julia for the rest of his life. They had argued surprisingly little. Angelique found that she enjoyed sparring with Julia less and less, and although the old Angelique would have been consumed with jealousy everytime Julia brought up the wedding, she suprised herself by suggesting what kind of flowers to buy, or where to hold the ceremony. She and Julia had even met in secret and the pair had picked out Julia's dress.

They embraced immediately, and Julia's bony hand thumped Angelique's back once, twice, three times. "I was afraid that you weren't going to come," she confessed, her eyes red. But her head was still held highly, and her chin thrust out in that deliberate way that Angelique found she quite adored. It was surprising to have such human feelings, even now, after all they had shared, all the times they had battled for the love of this one man.

"I think something else, too. I think that you're -" Her own voice, echoing through the corridors of time, from a foolish era in her life when she thought she could hold a claim on the soul of a man who would never really give her the love she needed.

"I'm not in the least bit interested in what you think."

" - in love with him."

Then Julia's reply, haughty and graceful at the same time. "Not nearly as much as you are."

"The pursuit of Barnabas Collins can lead to nothing but misery. He is a cold, unresponsive man." She'd thought herself so brilliant with that comment, although she had learned only too well that she could never stay away from him for too long.

"Who made him that way?"

I parry, you thrust, Angelique thought, and the tears threatened again. "I had to come," she said simply, and Julia nodded.

"I know," Julia said, and her voice was strained with exhaustion. She hooked her arm through Angelique's. "Come on," she said. "The service is about to begin."

"Julia," she said, and a tear slipped down her cheek. The other woman paused, one eyebrow cocked curiously. "I couldn't protect him," she said, her voice trembled. "All these powers I possess - all my tricks, all my spells - they don't mean anything. Because he's gone, and there's nothing I can do about it. Nothing."

"Do you think I don't know that?" Julia said, and her voice quavered as well. "I thought I could save him, that I could keep him with me always. Near the end, as he lay in that damned hospital bed and I held his hand in mine, he didn't recognize me. He opened his mouth moment before he died," Julia said, "and I was so sure he was going to call out a name." She paused for a moment. Angelique waited patiently until she began again. "Can you understand the fear that pierced me as I contemplated exactly which name he would call? I think you can." They both chuckled. "Josette, I thought, although he could easily have called for Vicki or Maggie or Roxanne. But he didn't call a name. He looked at me - really looked at me - and smiled. He squeezed my hand, and then caressed my cheek oh-so-gently, and then he died. A gentleman. A true gentleman to the end." Julia smiled at Angelique, her old rheumy eyes wet with tears. She thumped her chest just once. "There's a hole here," she said, "and it can never be filled. Not by anybody or anything. And I think you can understand that too."

Angelique swallowed the pain, like shards of glass grating against her throat, and she embraced Julia again, pressing her fragile old frame against her body "Yes," she whispered, and her voice sent tiny shivers of not unpleasant sensation down the old woman's back. "I think I can."

They held each other for a moment, two women from different eras and different backgrounds and who had, at several times in their lives, held a mutual burning hatred for the other, although that hatred had been known to be tempered with a grudging respect. But as they stood back from each other now, this old woman who could still stand tall and the gorgeous blonde creature, eternally young, they realized that the one thing that had separated them all those years had brought them together, as friends at last, and that nothing could keep them apart again. Ever.

"Come on," Julia said in her throaty voice, so full of command despite her age and her grief, "let's get inside."

And so through the gates they walked, shoulder to shoulder, bound together by one common thread that could never fray and could never be cut. Each knew what lay in the other's heart and mind as the cold January snow flew from the sky, each with her own pain and her own aching void that could never again be filled, but they knew that the dark, unimaginable future that lay before them could be faced. And face it they would. Together.

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