A Mother and Child Reunion Is Only a Motion Away

Collinsport. Tony Peterson, a private investigator, who works almost exclusively for Evan Hanley (the Legal Wizard of Collinsport) is well aware that he should be investigating the enigmatic doctor from Arkham, who has so recently captured the sharp attorney’s attention. Only he now finds himself in the Collins Family Cemetery anxiously awaiting someone he knows he should resist – but that he can not.

There was something very reminiscent now of the panoramic view from the cemetery. It had this very old Hammer Film-like quality to it, the framing, almost the quality of the colour, he thought as he stood behind the tree and watched as the old, blue 1965 Pontiac GTO made its way up the long, and winding road, past the yellowing grass and the tress, whose bare, black limbs had once been slowly shedding their ocher, red, and golden leaves to look now so forlorn, as if they had been all but washed clean by last night’s heavy rain. He squinted against the cigarette smoke that wafted back against him in the wind, as he slipped a hand into his jacket pocket. Yes, it was definitely a Hammer Film – one of those with Peter Cushing starring in it. Odd, he thinks, how even the sound of the wind in the baring tree branches, the chirp of an occasionally bird, the sound of the Pontiac, had that certain crisp all too British sound-track quality to them.

His fingers, inside his jacket pocket, curled reassuringly around the gun metal of the small automatic pistol.

He adjusted his shoulders, Bogart-like, and brought the cigarette to his lips and took another long drag. The woman had caused him enough trouble, once before – almost got him accused of murder. One that he had attempted on her behalf—although, now of course she remained entirely adamant that she had absolutely no recollection of every having been at Collinwood . . . or at least not when he said she had been . . . she had claimed to have been in Berlin at the time . . . which she knew could be easily checked and he was still working on it . . .. And yet, if true? It was troubling. Her lack of memory of ever having assumed the disguise of Cassandra Collins . . . of having marrying Roger Collins or, he had to admit, worst of all the lack of memory of them having had an affair. Oh, she had truly bewitched him – body and soul.

And rightly so.

He took a long drag off the cigarette and continued watching the Pontiac as it approached the Collins Family Cemetery.

Whatever her game was this time – he was totally lost. Parts of it he could not fathom. And she was never the most forth coming – but now, she was seemingly double-dealing even more than he had known her to do. The idea of f**king around with Hanley was dangerous – the man was a wizard—and not just a legal one.

The car took the sharp curve and slowed down as it approached the small gravel parking area.

He took a calming pull off the cigarette knowing he should not be here. But he could not help himself. One look at that smile, those eyes . . . yes those eyes – once more he found himself hopelessly falling for those too seductive green eyes. They looked deep into you and you found yourself lost . . . hypnotic, even without her casting a spell.

David Collins’ antique 1965 Pontiac GTO pulls slowly up the gravel drive. Tires crunching loudly as the Pontiac pulls to a stop just outside the stone pillar of the iron gate that proudly proclaims the name of COLLINS.

The motor shuts off.

The door opens.

And Victoria Wren steps out as the wind lifts her blonde hair.

She smiles, and takes off her sunglasses, dropping them on the driver’s seat.

And she closes the door.

Slowly she walks around the front of the car and is careful to make certain to step on the gravel path and not in the thick soft earth that has turned into mud from the previous night’s rain.

She walks toward the main gates.

Her black leather gloves reach out and with an aching creak the black iron gates with the name COLLINS embossed upon them swing back reluctantly – as if the dead were not overjoyed with the prospect of her visit.

There is a fog swirling about the tombstones.

She walks among them, her eyes scanning the worn names on the tombstones and occasionally a smile comes to her lips, as if remembering someone – before, the smile quickly fades. As she moved along the narrow cemetery pathway, absently tugging at the hem of her black gloves, she felt the vague fragments now of her memory, the scattered recollections: a piece of a shattered scene, the broken snatches of a conversation, as they swirled within her like the jagged shards of a kaleidoscope of time. For various reasons – the manipulations of time done by Barnabas and Julia Hoffman, the disruptions in time and space caused by Quentin Collins’ great-great uncle, Quentin Collins, Esquire, and the contamination, perhaps, of having touching the “Pearl” back in 1897, when she had held it briefly, stolen it in the hopes of finally bartering her freedom back from The Cruel One and her misbegotten signature in his Book – she now found herself somehow fractured throughout time, so that there were pieces of her that she at once did not recognize or even remember. Shards of her that she found she had no sure recollection of, only some vague impressions. And yet, there were those she could not forget – her love for Barnabas, their first kiss, their first night together in Martinique, the window open, the wind flickering the candlelight upon their bodies; and then her curse upon him; her inability to stop it; their several seemingly endless battles, horrid words and scenes; and then, seeing him again, walking in the heavy snow fall in Leningrad, after being so long apart, his lips as he spoke his declaration of love, of how he had longed for her since 1840; their remarriage; their London townhouse and their life there together; the moment she discovered she was pregnant, seeing her daughter for the first time . . . and then, there was the black memory of her . . . And she was all her fault. She could have so easily prevented it, ended her existence. The memory of Báthory was like sharp, broken crystal – and yet there was a part of it that was missing, as to how or even why she was in Collinwood in 1969—when she had memories of being in Berlin—which still eluded her, and yet she knew she was there with Simon, and for some reason, which she could not recall, but he had at the time given her the false illusion that she was a vampire, and in so doing he had tied her to his will and she had done his bidding, almost as if a slave, as she had done with Judah so very long ago, until she was able to escape his spell, but during that time he had, as Nicholas Blair, moved easily among those in Collinsport and more importantly those at Collinwood, seeking access to Doctor Lang’s experiments and in so doing he had brilliantly summoned the Bloody Countess. He had pulled her through the curves and angles of time in the grand hopes of having her align to his cause – only she arrived more dead than undead . . . for he had intervened and summoned just at the catastrophic conclusion of her raging battle with her Carpathian cousin, which she had lost. If only she had refused Simon’s directive to go out and find him two hapless victims, whose blood he had used to bath the Countess in order to hasten Báthory’s regenerate, the bitch would have been dead. There would have been no future experiment. There would have been no deceptions.

Only, she would not have had Nicole.

And The Cruel One, the Crawling Chaos of Darkness already had designs upon her. The things he had already done to her, she had discovered. With two mothers under his sway, he now apparently longed for the daughter.

As she walked along the path among the dead, she knew no matter the personal cost, she had to protect her.

The grey halo of cigarette smoke dissipating into the chill breeze of the cool fall morning, Tony Peterson steps out from behind a tree, “So—see anyone you know?”

Angelique Collins turns at the sound of his voice and watches him step out from behind the ancient oak, “Ah, Tony, there you are.”

“At least you are on time.”

“Yes, well, time it is of the upmost importance.”

He looks around and tosses the remains of his cigarette in a dying comet rush to the muddy earth just beyond a tombstone. He watches her with interest as she proceeds purposefully toward the large Collins Family Mausoleum.

He slips his hands into his suit jacket pockets, his right one seeking to comfort of the revolver as he looks around the lonely, foggy cemetery, “I’m taking a big risk come out here you know, if Hanley finds out – ”

Angelique Collins turns her head to speak back to him over her shoulder, “Hanley? You let me worry about Hanley. You just remember you are working for me Tony.”

“Look Cassandra – working for you once before didn’t turn out all that well – for me.”

She stops and turns to look at him, “Tony, I assure you I have no memory of any of that, what I may have done to you – and the least of all, have no memory having been here in Collinsport as this Cassandra Collins of whom you speak.”

“Which is all pretty convenient for you, seeing as how you almost got me arrested for murder.”

“Tony we have been over this before—.“

“Right – fractures in time and splinters of chronology.” He says stepping up closer to her, looking now at the grim black mausoleum before them.

She nods and turns to continue toward the mausoleum, ‘Too many people have disturbed the stream of time, and the epicenter of that is here in Collinsport.”

“And as always, it would seem to center about you.” He takes out a black box of John Player Special KS cigarettes that he has imported, and shakes out one which he removes and puts between his lips.

“I have been too close to too many times to the machinations and manipulations of time, and I have had to make a deal with an ancient entity, for whom all time is concomitant, in order to pass back through the Second Ether via means of his Black Metaphysics, in order to return to this time, to this reality in the multiverse.” She says as she moves ever closer to the Mausoleum.

“The Second Ether?’ He mutters as he lights the John Player Special. “You are crazy Angelique.”

The scent of cigarette smoking now wafting on the breeze.

A deal with an ancient entity? He thinks, “So, why are you here?”

She turns with that very wicked smile of her, ”Here in this cemetery – or here in this time and place?”

“Let’s deal with the easy one, here, in this cemetery.”

“Based on your information. She has what I am looking for.”

“You daughter?”

“Yes—My daughter.” She replies, her voice strained, “You said she took it from Sam Evans.”

“Right – Samantha Collins.”

“Yes, Quentin’s daughter . . . with that crazy Maggie Evans.”

“You people drove her crazy.”

Angelique pushes open the gate that leads to the Collins Family Mausoleum, which groans on hinges that need oiling, “She was always a bit high-strung for Collinwood.”

He takes a drag of his cigarette, “Collinwood is a little too much for anyone.”

“Be that as it may.’ Angelique says entering the gate and moving toward the great doors of the family crypt. “Nicole has the orb now.”

“Thought you didn’t remember much?”

“I remember what I need to,” She tells him,

“So, yes, Samantha Collins said she gave it to her for safe keeping.”

“And where in all of Collinsport is there a place for safe keeping.”

“No where – you should know that.”

“Well, Tony, allow me to enlighten you.” And Angelique Collins steps up to the thick, high stone doors and with a strange folding motion of her hands, what Peterson still compares to someone folding invisible origami paper, he watches as the doors open before her.

He looks around nervously. The one thing he has come to know – is to never, never underestimate Angelique Collins.

“In here? In a cemetery? In this crypt?”

She smiles, and steps into the darkness of the family mausoleum.

Tony Peterson frowns and follows.

He instinctively jumps, his hand tightening on the revolver as her hands move in small waves and the old sconces inset along the stonewalls burst into flame, so that the burial chamber is lit in an eerie flicker of light.

“You don’t need the Smith & Wesson, Tony.” She said with a knowing smile as she walks over to the wall and looks up at an ornate, ornamental lion’s head mounted high between two of the wall crypts. Joshua and Naomi Collins. She reaches up and pulls on the golden ring clenched in the teeth of the lions.

Peterson hears now a slow grinding as old metal gears begin to move into the rusted teeth of more ancient gears, the grate of stone on stone, as a section of the wall of the mausoleum moves inwards revealing a darken room beyond.

Angelique takes down a flaming torch from one of the sconces and steps inside. Carefully, her blac high heels testing the old stone steps she descends down three into the damp, chill room. The sound of a slow watery drip can be heard.

Tony reluctantly follows, his hand still on his gun – no matter her reassurances. He was folliwng Angelique Collins after all.

She whips the torch out and the flames fan to illuminate the room revealing an old coffin sitting on a lone dais.

“And that—whose is that? Her?”

“No, it was my husbands.” Angelique says and steps over to it.

Toney Peterson takes the torch from her as she places her gloved palms on the edge of the coffin lid and begins to open it as she has so many times in the past – the tight hinges now popping and screaming as it rises. Inside, on the worn velvet upholstery, she gasps at the sight of a rather mysterious old book. It is black and appears to be made of metal. Tony reaches in to touch it and she pushes his hand back –“No! It is even worse than I feared.” She mutters.

He looks at her and sees an odd look of fear in her eyes. Fear in Angelique’s eyes. ‘What is it?”

“The Cruel One – he is communicating with her. He is tempting my beloved Nicole. He has given here his bible!”

“The Cruel One? Bible?””

“Evil Tony, Evil of a magnitude beyond comprehension, because it has absolutely no concept of evil. An evil that devoured me and is now after – ” She lets the coffin lid close.

“The orb?” He asks turning to look at her in the flickering flames of the torch he holds.

“It’s not there.” She says as she steps away in deep thought.

“What’s wrong?”

“His Book! It cannot be – no! She is not the ]i]one[/i] at the top of Widow’s Hill who calls down . . .” She says talking to herself as she moves around the base of the coffin, her gloved fingers touching it as if seeking some guidance from her husband, who is not lying within, “This is all wrong – so terribly wrong. What? Have I missed something?”

“Angelique you are not making any sense.”

She looks at him, and he is suddenly fearful as he sees confusion and distress for the first time in her green eyes.

“She is the one. She is the one who is to stop . . . “

“Angelique. What? What is it?”

“Stop! Stop Tony, I have to think!” She paces a bit in the damp, dank crypt, “He’s playing? Yes. He’s playing in Barnabas and Randolph’s game – but why? Why would he? He is their messenger, he is the one who, of all would want . . . “

Tony Peterson stands now uncertain.

Has he again yet made another mistake in siding with her – rather than with Hanley. Angelique—this Angelique was not how he remembered her. His Angelique, his Cassandra was never uncertain . . . she knew what she wanted—and she took it.

“I have to have the orb. Now! There can be no delay.” She turns to him her green eyes bright once again – as if she had formulated a plan in response to whatever that book meant.

“Well, if it is not here – then that means . . .”

“She has it. Yes. And she must give it to me.”

“Which means you are going to have to see her and you going to have to tell her a whole h**l of a lot more than you have been telling me. And, it most likely means you are finally going to have to tell who you are. Drop the pretense. The disguise.” He tells her, “Which, I don’t understand anyway, I mean why you have been so reticent about seeing her – telling her who you are? I would have thought a Mother and Daughter reunion would have only been a step away.”

“Don’t be cute Tony.” She says and wipes the cobwebs from her gloves, “It does not become you.”

“So why are you afraid of seeing her?”

“I am not – afraid.”

“Really?” He asks, “You have been intentionally avoiding her every since you got here – while at the same time wanting to know everything you can about her.”

“We do what we have to do Tony. Not what we want to do.” She replies, her voice full of regret, “There are rules.”

“Rules—there is a rule that says you can’t tell your own daughter.”

“She can not be influenced, she has to be at a certain place at a certain time –“

“Or what?”

She says standing and rubbing her upper arm with her right hand, “You do not want to know.”

“So—what is it about this orb? Why do you and Hanley want it so much.”

“It is a device that allows one to travel to a time and a place of the heart’s desire.”

“Oh, God! More time travel. As if you’re not already half crazy from all this Second Ether s**t you talk about – you are what? Going to travel around in it again?”

“There is a train that I have to be on.”

“A Train?”

“There is something I have to get.”

“And it’s on this Train?”

“Yes, well, at least this this is last place I know to have been known to be. The Orient Express, 1933.”

“And you know that because.”

“It is in a book, Tony.”

“A book?”

“The Relics of the Anti-Saints.”

He looks at her in utter amazement, “A book that knows something is on a Train in 1933 when it was written – what in the 19th century?”

She smiles, “1834, to be exact. A book that just keeps on being written.”

He closes his eyes, “Why god did I ever get involved with you?”

“Yes, Tony, why?”

He raises an eyebrow and looks at her.

She smiles.

“So what is it that is on this train?”

“A pearl, a simple little pearl. A red one. A Crimson Pearl.”

“A Crimson Pearl?”

“A blood red. Some say it looks as if Lucifer plucked out one of his own eyes.”

He looks confused, “So, what has that got to do with anything, I thought you and Hanley were after this Mask of Ba’al.”

She laughs, and he shudders, he has heard that witches laugh before.

“Joseph is the one looking for the Mask – and he can have it, as long as I get what I want.”

“The Pearl?”

“Would you believe that all of this,” she motions to the cemetery, and he knows she means to the land beyond, “All of everything the Collins’ have built began with that one little pearl. Isaac Collins found it in the midst of a sudden snowstorm on his passage from England, fleeing from the Severn River Valley to the misguided safety of America. Little knowing to where he sailed. That was when the Collins family was chosen.”

“Chosen?”

“They are not cursed because of nothing Tony.”

Cue Music End of Episode