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Chapter Text

Chapter One: 1502
The Cursed Fate of Colette

In the year 1502, amid the lavish court of England, a stunning young woman named Colette captivated all who laid eyes on her.
Her fiery red hair cascaded down her back like autumn leaves, and her turquoise eyes sparkled with innocent wonder.

Born into humble beginnings, Colette’s beauty and charm quickly elevated her from tavern maid to coveted companion among the aristocracy.
Her swift ascent was aided by Godfrey Kempt, a charismatic lutenist with connections to the royal court.

Unbeknownst to her, Godfrey’s influence reached far beyond courtly favor. His ties extended to the mysterious and powerful Judah Zachary — a shadowed confidant of King Henry VIII, a man who moved through the web of policy, politics… and something darker still.
Judah’s fascination with Colette grew as he watched her enchant the nobles.
He saw beyond her beauty, sensing a latent power waiting to be awakened.

As Colette’s star rose, Judah manipulated her, introducing her to the glittering lattice of wealth and status.
One fateful night, he invited her to a private gathering, promising her a glimpse into the elite’s hidden inner circle.

The evening was one of length and seduction, clouding Colette’s judgment beneath a haze of masked balls and whispered promises.
There, Judah presented her with a leather-bound book, adorned with strange symbols.

“Sign your name, dear Colette,” he whispered, his voice dripping with persuasion.
“And claim your rightful place among the powerful.”

Colette’s hesitation dissolved, drawn in by Judah’s spell and the aching promise of belonging.
She signed the book—and as the quill touched the parchment, a crisp sting cut her finger.
Blood spilled, dark and delicate, mingling with the ink.

The room spun. Her vision blurred.

Judah offered her a chalice filled with rich red liquid.

“Drink, Colette… and seal your destiny.”

The taste of copper and roses filled her mouth as she drained the cup.
And in that moment, she became bound to Judah’s darkness.

But Judah’s true intentions soon revealed themselves.

He desired Colette—not only as a pawn, but as his own.

His declarations of love and devotion twisted her heart with fear. She refused him.
And her rejection ignited a fury in his soul.

“You will burn for eternity,” he cursed, his voice venomous.
“Your beauty will be your damnation. You will be a witch—feared and reviled.
Your powers will consume you… and your soul will forever be mine.”

As he spoke, the shadows around them began to twist.
The chamber vanished, replaced by a forest of darkness.

Colette stumbled, her world shattered.

She was now a vessel of corruption, forever bound to Judah’s curse.

Her spiked red hair streamed behind her like a banner of defiance,
a stark contrast to the eternal white gown billowing around her legs.
The fabric shimmered faintly, as if infused with otherworldly light.

She ran.

Her turquoise eyes darted behind her—
fear and determination carved into her face.

Her gaze met the shadows,
where ghostly larks stirred…
their presence hinted only by whispering silhouettes behind the trees.

Dry leaves crunched beneath her feet,
the brittle sound echoing through the forest.
The air was thick—
perfumed with the scent of decay and damp earth

A crooked tree loomed ahead, its branches twisted into a mocking grin.
Its gnarled trunk reached toward her like clawed fingers—
grasping, hungry, ready to snare.

The forest path vanished into shadow. No sound. No wind.
Only the pounding of Colette’s heart and the evil that pursued her.

Her only hope lay in outpacing the curse—
the darkness that now embodied Judah’s wrath.

Oh God… I must escape. Judah… his curse consumes me…

She stumbled forward, breath ragged.

I remember my mother’s stories… about Grandmother Alarice…
about her beach house in Martinique.
A sanctuary. A haven. If only… I could reach it.

She focused on the image of the house—its warmth, its safety—
and unknowingly stirred something deeper.
Something ancient.

A power buried in her blood.

I must leave 1502 behind. Judah’s darkness will find me here.

Her grandmother’s tales flooded her mind—of a family legacy tied to healing,
of women who once tended the sacred gardens of Monique,
protectors of life… guardians of ancient knowledge.

Desperation ignited her gift.
And in one searing flash of light—
Colette was torn from the cursed soil of 1502…

…and hurled through time and space.

She collapsed, gasping, on the doorstep of a seaside cottage.
Sunlight filtered through palm trees. Waves crashed nearby.

It was 1772.
Martinique.

Colette rose slowly, dazed and barefoot on foreign ground.
And yet—something was familiar.

How can this be? I was born in 1502… I fled Judah’s curse…

Her turquoise eyes widened.

I’ve traveled through time…
Grandma’s stories were true.
Our family’s healing legacy… the ancient magic… it’s within me.

Steeling herself, Colette pushed open the cottage door.

I won’t let Judah crucify me. I’ll use my powers for good.
I will honor my family’s blood…
and heal the wounds of the past.

The years passed gently.

Colette settled into her new life, surrounded by lush greenery,
the scent of saltwater, and the soothing lull of the sea.

As a healer, she tended to the locals—earning their trust, their respect,
and their admiration.

Then, one day, a dignified man in his forties appeared at her door.

His name was André DuPré—
a wealthy plantation owner and businessman.

His blond hair, flecked with silver, framed a round, intelligent face.
His blue eyes sparkled with warmth… and something deeper.
“Please, Mademoiselle Colette,” André pleaded.
“My wife… Margarita suffers from a mysterious illness.
Our physicians are baffled. I beg you—use your gift to heal her.”

Colette, moved by André’s desperation and sincerity, agreed to come.

Upon arriving at the DuPré estate, she met Margarita—
a frail but strikingly beautiful woman with porcelain skin and raven hair.
Her sunken eyes still glinted with kindness as Colette approached.

Moments later, André’s sister swept into the room like a tempest.

“I am the Comtesse Natalie DuPré,” she declared, her tone sharp.
“You will address me accordingly.”

Colette remained composed, her voice gentle but firm,
her professional demeanor easing the tension in the room.

André hovered anxiously.

“Tell me, Mademoiselle Colette,” the Comtesse sneered.
“What makes you think you can succeed where our physicians have failed?”

Colette’s confidence did not waver.
Her touch was light, her smile calm, her tone full of grace.

“I will do everything in my power to help your sister-in-law, Monsieur DuPré,” she said.
“And I thank you for your trust.”

André’s gratitude softened his face.

“Thank you, Colette. You are our last hope.”

⸻

As Colette worked tirelessly to heal Margarita,
she began to sense something deeper:
the unwavering devotion André held for his wife,
and the burdens he carried alone.

Their connection grew, slowly and inevitably—
until one fateful evening beneath the stars,
they walked along the shoreline in silence.

Their hands touched.
Their eyes met.

And in that charged, moonlit moment…
passion overtook them.

They surrendered to desire,
and Angelique was conceived
on the breath of the sea.

⸻

But far beyond the dunes, in the shadows, the Comtesse watched.

Natalie DuPré wasted no time.
She stormed into André’s study the next morning, venom in her voice.

“You’ve betrayed Margarita,” she spat,
“and with a common healer beneath your station—
especially now that she’s with child.”

André’s eyes widened in shock.

“What did you say…?”

“Margarita confided in me last night,” the Comtesse snapped.
“I’ll expose Colette and ruin her unless she leaves this island immediately.”

⸻

Colette, sensing the storm that was coming, made her decision.

She would not destroy Margarita’s peace,
nor stay where shame would stain her unborn child.

But André stood firm, his voice a mix of pain and passion.

“No, Natalie. I won’t let her go.
She’s carrying my child—and I will care for them both.
I’ll provide for them. Protect them.
You will not drive her out.”

He turned to Colette, reaching for her hand.

“Don’t listen to her.
Stay, Colette. Stay in Martinique.
I’ll be a good father to our child.”

Colette’s heart swelled with emotion—
but she knew she couldn’t stay.

“I appreciate your words,” she said softly,
“but I won’t ruin Margarita’s happiness.
She’s carrying your child… and I won’t come between you.”

André’s voice cracked with desperation.

“You’re not just a mistress to me, Colette.
You’re the love of my life.
I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you—and our child—safe.”

Her resolve wavered.
But she stood firm.

“I won’t hurt Margarita, André.
She’s innocent in this.”

A heavy silence fell.

Then—
she whispered her goodbye.

“I must leave… for your sake, and hers.
Take care of them, André.”

As Colette turned away, André’s desperate cry echoed through the night.

“Colette, don’t go! Our child needs me… I need you!”

⸻

She paused at the threshold of the beach house—
the one she had inherited from her mother… and her grandmother before her.
The only home she had ever known.

Her gaze swept across the moonlit waves.
Tears slipped silently down her cheeks.

She placed a trembling hand on her belly,
feeling the tiny heartbeat within.

Closing her eyes, she saw her baby…
not in dream, but in vision:

A radiant girl
with golden-blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes—
her laughter like bells dancing on the wind.

Angelique, Colette whispered,
her voice trembling.
My child…

“I’m leaving this place—our ancestral home.
It was filled with love once.
I hope you return here someday,
and that your life is filled with the same joy mine once knew…
but without the pain.”

Her vision shifted—
to André’s loving face.
His smile, etched now in memory.

“Don’t worry, little one,” she whispered.
“I’ll take you to another time.
We won’t go hungry.
I’ll care for you, and I’ll love you with all my heart.”

Then, slowly, she lifted her arms toward the heavens.

The wind whipped her hair.
The stars shimmered.
And her world spun.

The landscape of Martinique faded away—
replaced by jagged cliffs and gray skies…

She had arrived.

Collinsport, Maine.
1692.

Welcome, Angelique, Colette whispered.
To our new beginning…

⸻

Massachusetts Colony
1672–1690

I am Angelique Dubois.

I carry the name of a kind man—my stepfather, William Dubois—
whose warm smile and gentle hands are etched forever in my heart.

After my mother, Colette, fled the island of Martinique
to escape the pain of her past,
William became her rock… and mine.

He was a kindhearted healer, a man with a passion for plants and potions.
He married my pregnant mother without hesitation,
gave her his name, his devotion,
and gave me a life filled with laughter.

⸻

William’s herbal shop, Dubois Remedies,
became a haven for the sick and afflicted.

People came from far and wide
to seek the man whose hands worked with reverence
and whose eyes sparkled when he spoke of healing herbs.

I watched him tend to his plants,
his fingers dancing like music over the leaves,
his voice a steady rhythm of compassion.

My mother, though still grieving the loss of André DuPré—
the great love she had left behind—
found solace in the shop they built together.

Her knowledge of healing was unparalleled.
Together, she and William created a sanctuary
for the broken and the burdened.

⸻

As I grew, William nurtured my curiosity.

He taught me the secrets of the herbal kingdom.
I devoured books on science, philosophy, and astronomy,
inspired by his gentle guidance.

Every time I brought home excellent marks from my studies,
his face would light with pride.

But joy has its limits.

⸻

The plague came… and took him from us.

William’s death left our household cloaked in silence.
My mother’s grief filled every corner—
as thick as the scent of damp earth and dried rosemary.

I heard her cry out in sleep.
I heard her whisper names in the dark.

I knew she mourned not just William,
but André…
and all that might have been.

⸻

Our shop, once a beacon of hope,
gathered dust.
The jars sat empty.
The light dimmed.

And still, my mother tried to rise.

⸻

One fateful day, while walking through the market,
she turned a corner… and collided with Judah.

His eyes locked onto hers—piercing, malevolent.

“Colette,” he said,
his voice like venom laced with silk.
“I’ve been searching for you.”

Something primal stirred in her.
But she stood frozen.

“Did you truly think you could escape me?” Judah sneered.
“The signature in the Devil’s book…
the blood you drank…
you are mine.”

Judah’s influence spread fast—
swift as a serpent’s strike and just as silent.
With no more than a whisper,
the authorities arrived.

Colette was arrested.
Accused of witchcraft.

In the dim light of a jail cell,
Judah came to her.
His smile twisted like old rope.

“You thought you could shun me,” he hissed,
“leave me behind?
You will die, Colette—
by fire.
There is no place for you in hell…
you’re not even worthy of that.”

⸻

The day of her execution
dawned cold and gray.

I stood in the crowd gathered in the town square,
my heart pounding with terror.
A wooden stake loomed before us,
flames licking at its base.

My mother—once radiant, strong, and alive—
now looked sunken and pale.
Her eyes, hollow with grief.

“Mother!” I screamed,
struggling against the guards holding me back.
“No! Please—no!”

Tears streamed down my cheeks
as her gaze lifted… and found mine.

For one final time,
she spoke.

“Angelique…”
Her voice barely more than breath.
“Stay in the light.”

The guards tightened their grip.
I screamed as the flames caught.

And I watched, helpless,
as fire devoured my mother’s fragile form.

Her cries echoed through the square—
searing through my soul.

“Mother, no…!”
I sobbed,
my voice drowned in the chaos,
as smoke swallowed her.

And then—
she was gone.

Her spirit rose,
leaving behind only ash
and the hollow husk of the woman who had once held me
through every storm.

⸻

The crowd began to murmur.
Some looked away in shame.
Others stared with faces twisted by
fascination…
revulsion.

My world shattered.

Grief turned to rage.

Hatred burned beneath my skin
like a second fire—
this time, my own.

⸻

And then…
a voice.

Low.
Soothing.
Curling around me like smoke.

“Leave the sorrow behind…”

“I’ll take you away from here.”

I turned.

And there he was.

Judah.

His eyes glinted with unholy light.
I felt the darkness radiating from him—
cold, commanding, seductive.

“I’ll show you wonders,” he whispered.
“Powers beyond your wildest dreams…”

A slow smile curled across his lips,
revealing teeth too perfect.

“My name,” he said,
“is Judah Zachary.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 2 – The Devil’s Recruiter
1502.

The rustling of fallen leaves whispered beneath Judah Zachary’s boots as he moved through the forest, as if nature itself carried secrets for his ears alone. His eyes, once bright with mischief, had grown dull, trapped in a strange haze. The trees—ablaze with autumn colors—blurred together as he walked, their branches grasping like skeletal fingers.

Judah’s mind drifted in fragments, caught between dreams and reality. King Henry’s booming laughter. The soft brush of a courtier’s hand. The thrill of winning a wager. Yet something—an unseen force—pulled him forward. His legs moved of their own accord, driven by a power older than kingdoms.

What sorcery is this? he muttered, voice barely louder than the crunch of leaves beneath him.

The forest grew darker, the air thick with a nameless dread. Shadows twisted and writhed along the path like living things. Then, without warning, Judah stumbled. His vision sharpened. He stood before a decrepit, ancient mansion, its walls tangled in vines.

The door creaked open.

“Who calls?” Judah demanded, his voice firm yet tinged with unease.

A low, marvelous chuckle rolled from the darkness.
“One who recognizes your potential… Judah Zachary.”

With each step inside, the darkness swallowed him whole until the forest was gone. Somewhere unseen, the Devil watched, his eyes gleaming with calculation.
“Your thirst for wealth and power makes you the perfect vessel,” the voice purred. “Together, we shall reap souls. Your name will be synonymous with darkness.”

The shadows closed in until Judah stood before a colossal, twisted throne. The Devil emerged in all his terrible glory—horns curling from his brow, eyes blazing with molten intent, skin black as coal and drinking in what little candlelight dared flicker here.

“Judah Zachary,” the Devil’s voice boomed, “you seek wealth, influence, immortality. I shall grant you these—and more.”

A clawed hand extended, razor-sharp.
“You will become my warlock. My recruiter. Together, we will harvest souls.”

Judah met his gaze without flinching.
“I accept.”

The Devil’s grin spread wide. With a swift slash, he opened his wrist. Black, viscous blood dripped onto Judah’s lips. Judah hesitated only a moment before letting it mix with his own.

Next came the black-leather tome.
“Sign your name.”

His hand moved with new, unnatural certainty.
Judah Zachary – 1502

“Now,” the Devil said, “receive the Mark of the Beast.”

A searing pain tore through Judah’s wrist as the brand burned into his flesh.
“This mark grants you immortality,” the Devil declared. “With it, reality itself will bend to your will.”

Judah’s eyes glittered.
“I am yours.”

The Devil’s laughter thundered through Hell, shaking the very foundations until the damned themselves quailed. “But remember, Judah Zachary—bearing the Mark comes with a price. You shall never know true love. Your heart belongs to me.”

Judah’s brow furrowed. “I can still… indulge in pleasures of the flesh?”

“Oh, Judah…” The Devil’s grin turned cold. “You will crave those delights, but genuine love—the kind that touches the soul—is forbidden. Love is weakness. Your loyalty will be mine alone.”

A flicker of doubt passed through Judah’s mind, but the weight of power and immortality crushed it.
“I accept.”

The Devil’s smile returned.
“Excellent. Go forth. Recruit souls. Bring me power. Love is a luxury you can no longer afford.”

The words followed Judah even after he awoke. For a moment, he wondered if it had been only a dream—until his eyes fell on the Mark seared into his wrist.

A shiver ran through him. His senses felt sharper, his vision keener. And still, in the depths of his mind, the Devil whispered:
You are mine, Judah Zachary… forevermore.

⸻

Judah returned to King Henry VIII’s court, finding the King in the midst of a lavish gathering. Henry’s gaze wandered over the women in the hall, lingering anywhere but on his current wife. Judah leaned in.

“Your Majesty… you desire change, don’t you? Freedom to follow your heart. To reshape the church.”

The King’s eyes narrowed. “You speak of treason, Judah… yet I sense you have a plan.”

“The law can be altered. The church tamed. Imagine, Your Majesty—a Church of England, free from Rome’s grasp, with you as its supreme head.”

Henry’s laughter boomed. “By the Lord above, you’re a genius.”

Through subtle whispers and careful spells, Judah bent the King’s desires into alignment with his own. History began to shift beneath their feet. Soon Judah was not only a favorite at court but an object of fascination—admired by men, desired by women.

⸻

One evening, strolling in the gardens, Judah felt a shadow beside him. Nicholas Blair, the court’s quick-witted jester, had noticed the mark on Judah’s wrist.

“What’s that, then?” Nicholas asked, curiosity sparking in his eyes.

“A token of my… good fortune,” Judah said smoothly.

“I want one,” Nicholas declared at once. “I want to be like you—respected, powerful.”

“You’ll have to drink blood, sacrifice your morals, and sign the book,” Judah warned. “And you can never—ever—fall in love.”

Nicholas laughed. “Perfect! I’ve never fallen in love with anyone. Not man, woman, cat, or rat. Where do I sign?”

With a firm grip, Judah pulled Nicholas into shadow—and together they descended into Hell.

The Devil’s eyes gleamed at the sight. “Judah Zachary… and Nicholas, the King’s jester. So you wish to join my court as well?”

Nicholas glanced around at the writhing souls. “Well, this is certainly lively. Do you have a Hell HR department?”

The Devil roared with laughter, then extended the book.
Nicholas Blair – 1502

A claw sliced Nicholas’s wrist, blood smearing across his face before he drank. The Mark of the Beast burned into his skin, and dark power flooded his veins.

“Welcome, jester,” the Devil said, patting his shoulder. “We will have eternal laughter.”

With a wave of his hand, he cast them back into the mortal realm. Nicholas stumbled, still reeling.
“Well… that was enlightening.”

Judah’s smile was edged with shadow.
“You’ll grow accustomed to our Lord’s hospitality.”

From below, the Devil’s voice echoed into eternity:
Eternal loyalty, my servants… or eternal suffering.

Chapter Text

The moon cast its silver glow through the twisted canopy above us, the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves heavy in the air. Each step crunched softly on the moss-strewn forest floor, the skeletal fingers of the trees weaving together as though to hide us from the world.
Judah’s voice wrapped around me like silk:
“Angelique… my love, my heart beats solely for you. In the moonlight, your radiance transcends mortal beauty. Your hair falls like golden silk, and your turquoise eyes hold a fire that melts my darkness.”
He called me strong, resilient, unafraid of his shadows. He told me I was his redemption. His salvation.
And yet… beneath his words, the Devil whispered:
“Do not subscribe to weakness, Judah. Love is a fleeting illusion.”
Judah had drawn me into a life far removed from my humble beginnings — exquisite gowns from Paris, diamonds that glittered on my fingers, the laughter of grand theaters and music in candlelit halls. But shadows clung to the edges of this life. My family’s lineage was one of healers and herbalists, women who lived in harmony with the earth. Our cottage had always been filled with the scent of rosemary and thyme, with kindness given freely. Judah’s world, for all its splendor, was built on darker foundations.
And I was beginning to understand the cost.

The Gathering Storm
Long before the trial, two men of power and cunning had already marked Judah Zachary for destruction.
One was Reverend Eli Trask — a name feared in more than one colony — a man who had hunted witches in England with a zeal that burned hotter than scripture. The other was a tall, gaunt figure with piercing eyes and a presence that seemed to stretch beyond his frame: Silas Thorne.
But “Thorne” was not his only name. In England, it had carried weight in certain aristocratic circles. In the New World, he had shed it like a snake skin and adopted the respectable surname Collins — a change whispered to conceal both scandal and bloodline. Some said he was distant kin to the great Collins family of Maine; others claimed the truth was darker still.
In England, Trask and Thorne had once stood side by side, united in purpose — not only to expose witches, but to profit from their trials. Gold, land, influence… all were ripe for the taking when fear took hold. But greed is a fire that consumes its own, and the partnership had ended in a bitter rupture.
Years later, in the harsh winter of the Massachusetts Bay Colony, Silas Collins and Reverend Trask met again. The old grudge was swallowed in favor of a shared opportunity: to strip Judah Zachary of his wealth, his power, and his life.
Silas brought calculation. Trask brought the authority of the pulpit. Together, they began whispering into the ears of the fearful — about strange happenings, about unexplained fortune, about the whispers of the Devil’s mark. And soon, the net began to tighten.

The Devil’s Ceremony
The memory still claws at me — the baby lamb’s innocent eyes fixed on mine, the pearl dagger heavy and cold in my palm. The coven chanted, the torches flared. Judah’s voice urged me:
“Sign the book, Angelique. Seal your fate with us.”
But my soul revolted.
I feigned illness, slipped from the circle as the ritual reached its climax. I did not kill the lamb. I did not drink its blood. I did not sign the Devil’s book.
Yet now, standing in the town square, with Silas Collins’s calculating gaze burning into me, I wondered — had my mere presence already damned me?

The Trial
Reverend Trask’s voice thundered over the gathered crowd:
“The Devil’s angels walk among us — hiding in plain sight!”
Hands seized Judah. Shackles bit into his wrists. The people’s eyes — once warm — now flung stones and curses.
And then his eyes found mine.
“I love you,” his lips formed silently.
Nicholas Blair’s breath was suddenly at my ear, his voice coiled like a serpent.
“Betray him, Angelique, and you will be free. You never truly loved him — you loved the power, the protection. Break from him, and you’ll be reborn.”
My heart pounded.
Freedom. Survival.
The dagger trembled in my hand.
“I’ll do it,” I whispered.
The sound of the pearl dagger slamming onto the judge’s table cracked through the courtroom.
“This is the dagger He used to kill the lamb.”
Chaos erupted. Judah’s face twisted in fury and heartbreak.
“You betrayed me, Angelique… you betrayed our love!”
Judge Hathorne’s gavel fell.
I was banished.
Judah was sentenced to death.

The Curse
The guillotine’s blade fell. The Devil caught Judah’s head in a basket, grinning.
“Oh, what a pity, Judah… you lost your head over a woman.”
He turned to Nicholas:
“Congratulations on your promotion.”
Judah’s voice echoed from the darkness:
“May you walk the earth forever searching for love… and when you find it, may you be betrayed as I was.”
And thus, the curse took root.
An angel appeared, her hands warm upon my head.
“Your mother’s spirit will guide you. You are forgiven — but the curse remains. Every choice will shape your eternity. Use your powers for evil, and the darkness will consume you. Resist, and you will suffer — but in kindness, you will find strength.”
I swore to resist.
I swore to choose the light.

Epilogue
Years passed. I sought love across continents, only to see it dissolve like mist. My curse was not to be broken easily — but still, in the darkness, I found a spark of light.
Redemption would not be a destination.
It would be a journey.
And I would walk it.
One choice at a time.

Disclaimer — Dan Curtis Rights
This work is a transformative fanfiction inspired by the characters and world created by Dan Curtis for the television series Dark Shadows. All original characters, plots, and scenes not part of the original series are the intellectual property of the author, Tina Lize. This story is created for non-commercial, entertainment purposes only, with deep respect and admiration for the original work.

🩸 Blood Drop Disclaimer — Author’s Rights
All original writing, including plot, dialogue, and unique character development, is © Tina Lize. No part of this work may be reproduced, copied, or used in any form without the author’s permission. Stealing from this page will be met with swift and poetic justice. 🩸

Chapter Text

I’m home.

The sea had barely swallowed the ship when my bare feet sank into the warm sand. I didn’t look back. I didn’t need to. The past had been carried out with the tide, and the wind that now wrapped around me was Montique’s breath—familiar, fragrant, free.

I kicked off my shoes and ran.

The wind caught my hair like it had missed me, like it remembered every curl, every strand that once danced through its fingers. My laughter lifted with the breeze, wild and full of relief. Every step across the dunes felt like an offering returned. The path remembered me. The island sang to me. The salt air, the song of gulls, the scent of coconut oil and hibiscus—the whole world shimmered in welcome.

And there it was.

Tucked between palms, vines spilling down its sides like old secrets, stood my family’s beach house.

My mother’s house. My grandmother’s house. And now—mine.

The shutters hung crooked, and the white paint peeled like sunburnt skin. But it breathed. It was waiting. My hands trembled as I reached for the door.

I didn’t open it right away. My palm rested against the wood, and for a moment, the air shifted. Thinned.

And then—it happened.

The veil parted.

Time shimmered like heat rising from stone, and in the doorway of memory, I saw her. My mother, Colette. Young. Laughing. Grinding herbs in a bowl at the kitchen table, her hair blazing red in the light. Beside her, my great-grandmother stirred something sacred on the stove, her movements as fluid as prayer.

I stood in the present, watching the past.

An ancestral imprint. Not imagination. Not memory. Magic. Pure and ancient.

The light kissed their faces, and my mother turned, her eyes—my eyes—locking with mine across the decades. For a heartbeat, I thought she saw me.

She reached out.

And just like that—it vanished.

Tears welled up, but I let them fall. I whispered into the still air, “I’m home.”

When I stepped inside, the house greeted me with the creak of old wood and the scent of sea salt and dust. I opened every window and let the sunlight pour through like absolution. I swept the floors, shook out the curtains, burned sage until smoke curled into every corner like a prayer.

The house remembered me.

And I remembered who I was.

The Montique marketplace pulsed like a living heart. Music and salt hung in the air. Ripe fruit and fish caught in the morning’s net shimmered on wooden tables. Bright fabrics snapped in the breeze like flags of a hundred forgotten kingdoms.

I moved through it like a daughter of the island—not a stranger.

My skirts brushed baskets of yams and guava. My eyes scanned faces and colors. This was not just commerce—it was rhythm. Culture. Survival.

At a stall piled with mahi-mahi, I stopped.

“That one,” I said, pointing to the thickest cut. “But not for that price.”

The old vendor grinned, sun-browned and gold-toothed. “Sharp tongue for such soft skin.”

I tilted my head, smiled. “Then let’s make it fair.”

We bartered like old dancers—back and forth until he threw up his hands in mock defeat. “You sure you not from here?”

“Maybe I am,” I said, my eyes catching the light like the sea.

That’s when I felt him watching me.

“You negotiate like a native.”

I turned—and found myself facing a man of quiet power. Late fifties. Portly. Elegant. Sea-blue eyes. His gaze held something deeper than interest. Recognition.

“I’m sorry to intrude,” he said, voice rich like well-aged cognac. “But you look familiar.”

“I’ve just returned to Montique,” I said. “Perhaps I remind you of someone.”

His eyes lingered. You do. I felt it in him. You remind me of someone I loved.

“I am André Dupree,” he said. “My daughter needs a companion. Not a servant—someone with spirit. With freedom. Would you consider it?”

I nodded. “That would be perfect.”

The carriage ride to his estate was a lullaby of sugarcane and birdsong. The Dupree mansion rose like a white crown on a green hill—pillars wrapped in ivy, balconies like lace, windows shining like eyes that never slept.

“You speak French?” he asked as we rode.

I smiled. “My mother’s tongue.”

He smiled back. “Alors, vous êtes chez vous ici.”
Then you are home here.

Before I could respond, the front door burst open.

“Papa!”

A girl in linen, auburn curls flying, bounded down the stairs with a tiny white poodle yipping at her heels.

“This is Josette,” André said. “And Josette, this is Angelique.”

She threw her arms around me like we were old friends. “You’re beautiful! I know we’re going to be best friends.”

The poodle circled my ankles.

I knelt. Hello, little one.

FiFi’s voice chirped in my mind. You smell like rosemary and starlight. I like you.

We’re going to be friends, aren’t we?

We already are.

Josette beamed. “She likes you! She usually hates everyone.”

Then came the cold.

Tall. Violet-draped. Steel-eyed.

“André,” she said sharply. “You finally hired someone for the girl?”

“Countess Natalie Dupree,” Josette whispered. “Try to be kind.”

Natalie’s eyes landed on me like frost. “I’ll be watching you,” she said, turning like a blade.

And as she vanished into shadow, something deep in my bones flinched.

A dabbler, I thought. She wants power, but doesn’t know its cost. She’s no true witch. But she’s dangerous.

Later, Josette led me to a hidden room.

“My father has a secret,” she whispered. “A painting. He keeps it hidden.”

She pulled it out gently.

The woman in the frame had red hair like fire and sapphire eyes.

“My mother,” I breathed.

Josette handed me a mirror. “You see it, don’t you?”

I looked.

My face. Her face. The bloodline unveiled.

If Colette had once been André’s love… then Josette was my sister.

But I said nothing.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

Two weeks passed.

The beach house came back to life beneath my hands. I swept the floors, hung herbs in the windows, stirred teas with moonwater and memory. I walked the shoreline barefoot at dawn, letting the sea anoint my ankles. The island opened to me again like a patient mother. The vines relaxed their grip on the house. The wood exhaled. Even the shadows softened.

Then, one morning, Fermé appeared at my door, sweat on his brow.

“Monsieur Dupree needs you. It’s urgent.”

I found André pacing in his study, hands wringing, eyes wild with worry.

“One of my ships,” he said. “It returned this morning. With new… cargo. But they’re ill. Fevered. Dying. The captain said they won’t last another day.”

He looked at me, almost pleading.

“I’ve heard what you can do.”

I nodded. “I’ll go. But I’ll need time to prepare.”

Back at the house, I filled my satchel with tinctures—fever balm, scurvy root, breath blossom. I added three drops of moonlight elixir, kissed the vial for strength, and wrapped it in cloth.

The dock smelled of salt and dread.

The ship loomed like a broken creature—its sails tattered, its planks moaning. The crew was pale, silent, haunted.

“Get below,” the captain muttered.

I descended into the belly of the ship—and hell opened around me.

The air was thick with rot, sweat, blood. Chains clinked like dying bells. Dozens of men and women slumped along the walls—burning with fever, shivering in silence. A child whimpered. Two little ones didn’t move.

I dropped to my knees, closed their small eyes with trembling fingers, and whispered a prayer of release.

Then I felt her.

Not with sight—but soul.

Help us, the voice came, not through sound—but through every breath I’d ever taken.

My head turned before my body did.

She sat upright despite the sickness—an old woman, her skin as dark as night, her eyes milky white and glowing.

“I know you,” she said without her lips. “Moon-daughter.”

“I am Angelique,” I answered aloud, tears rising.

“I am Mama YA,” she said into my bones. “And this—” she gestured with her spirit to a young woman, lying barely breathing, “is Zuri. Daughter of King Kofi. Last of her tribe. She must not die.”

Zuri.

Her skin shimmered with sweat. Her hair braided with the threads of royalty. Even in her weakness, she radiated strength.

I knelt beside her and lifted her head gently. Her lips parted, dry and cracked.

“Drink,” I whispered, holding the glowing vial to her mouth. “You’re not alone anymore.”

Zuri drank.

Her eyes fluttered open—deep and brown and full of sorrow.

“Beautiful spirit,” she whispered. “Please save my people.”

Then sleep took her again.

I turned. In the shadows, a man sat bound—powerful, bloodied, watching me. His presence was like thunder waiting to break.

Our eyes met.

He did not speak, but in his silence, I felt the vow:

I will fight for them if you free us.

“I will return,” I told him softly. “You will be free.”

When I climbed back to the deck, the captain asked nothing. He could feel it—something had already shifted.

“Treat them with care,” I told him. “Or the sea will claim more than your ship.”

He only nodded, eyes vacant.

That night, the blood moon rose over Montique.

Heavy. Low. Pulsing red like a wound in the sky.

I stood at the shoreline, naked beneath the stars, the sand soft beneath my feet, the sea murmuring like a priest in prayer. There was no wind. No sound. Only the island’s breath held tight in its chest, waiting for what would come next.

I raised my arms.

And I began to move.

The chant slipped from my lips, low and ancient, a language older than names. My body swayed, slow at first—then faster, spinning, bending, reaching. My feet drew symbols in the sand. My arms became branches, waves, smoke.

The wind answered me. My hair lifted, gold turning silver strand by strand until it shimmered like starlight. My turquoise eyes burned, then burst into gold, alight with the moon’s fire.

And then the vision came.

The ship.

Silent. Glowing. Suspended between sea and sky.

The captain stepped forward, eyes blank, arms outstretched. In his hand—keys. Kwame took them, expression solemn and noble. He moved fast, unfastening every lock, every chain, until the metal fell like thunder on the planks.

Zuri lay in his arms, weak but glowing. Mama YA rose behind them like prophecy fulfilled.

The crew—their old masters—wandered from the ship, dazed, broken, collapsing on the beach like dogs too tired to beg.

And then—the drums began.

Low at first. Then rising.

Boom.
Boom-boom.
Boom.

A rhythm born of heartbeat, of hunger, of home.

Voices followed—deep, strong, weaving chants in tongues the earth had never forgotten. The freed moved in rhythm—bare feet pounding sand, hips rolling, arms raised to the sky. They built a fire and circled it, flames leaping high into the blood-soaked moonlight.

And I—

I was no longer watching.

I stepped into the vision.

My feet hit the sand beside theirs. My voice joined their chant. My body found their rhythm. I spun, twirled, danced—not as their savior, not as their leader, but as their sister in spirit. The silver of my hair caught the firelight. My golden eyes met theirs. We did not speak, but we understood.

They had been freed.

And I had been found.

Our bodies were a symphony. Our spirits a constellation.

Black and white, moonlit and firelit, past and future—we moved as one.

And the moon, red and wide and watching, smiled upon us.

I awoke at sunrise, curled in the sand like a woman reborn.

My body ached. My mouth was dry. My limbs trembled with the echo of magic.

Beside me, a black cat sat quietly with a mouse in his mouth.

He dropped it gently into my hand.

“Are you hungry?” he asked in my mind, his voice smooth and male.

I smiled weakly. “Not for that, sweet cat.”

He cocked his head. “May I stay with you?”

“Do you want a home?”

“I want love,” he said.

I reached out and stroked his sleek fur.

“Then you have both.”

I named him Onyx.

Three days passed.

I healed.

My silver hair faded back to gold. My eyes returned to turquoise.

Onyx stayed close, his voice a soft echo in my thoughts.

And then came the knock.

“Miss Angelique,” Fermé said. “Monsieur Dupree summons you.”

The estate was thick with tension.

Countess Natalie Dupree met me at the door, lips tight.

“Where have you been?” she hissed. “Josette won’t stop asking for you. Much has happened.”

From the study came raised voices.

Through the door, I heard André’s fury.

“The ship is gone! And the slaves—vanished! Do you understand what we’ve lost?”

Another voice—his accountant, nervous. “What will you do?”

“Send word to Joshua Collins,” André barked. “We’ll align our families. His sons are of age. Josette will marry. We’ll seal it—with blood if we must.”

I stood frozen in the corridor, heart pounding.

So that was the plan.

Natalie turned to me with a hollow smile.

“Josette awaits. Go tend to her.”

“I’ll have your tea and cognac sent up,” I replied evenly.

She retreated into her chambers, pulling her tarot deck from its velvet pouch.

She drew a card.

The Tower.

Collapse. Upheaval. Reckoning.

She took a long drink.

I climbed the staircase slowly, each step echoing with prophecy.

The storm had arrived.

And I would meet it—barefoot, awake, and unafraid.

⸻

Disclaimer:
Dark Shadows and its characters are creations of Dan Curtis Productions. This work is a transformative fanfiction by Tina Lize, written with love and respect for the original. No copyright infringement intended.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER FIVE
All Hallows Homecoming
Heartcut Edition — AO3 Polished
I am Barnabas Collins. The year is 1792.
The wind whistled low through the crimson trees as I rode north from the shipyards, the October chill settling deep into my bones. My horse’s hooves struck the dry, leaf-littered trail that wound toward the Collins estate — a place more prison than home.
The sun was bleeding into the horizon, casting amber and rust across the path ahead. Autumn in Massachusetts had always stirred something restless in me — something old and broken. Something I’ve never been able to name without flinching.
Behind me lay the weight of ledgers, contracts, and crates — the burden of a life carved by other men’s expectations. Joshua Collins had chosen my place the moment I was born: obedient, measured, a son built to tally profits and tighten screws. His numbers man.
But once, I dreamed of something else.
Law. Latin. Argument. I had imagined myself beneath vaulted ceilings and within the walls of reason — not bloodlines. I had walked the marble halls of Harvard, where words were weapons and logic the only master. And for a time, I believed I could forge a life of my own.
Until my father summoned me home.
He said war would make a man of me.
So I fought.
Beneath banners of liberty, with Jeremiah at my side, I rode into fire for a country barely breathing. We followed Washington’s orders. We marched into Saratoga. We bled into the snow. And we buried too many brothers to count.
But it was Robert I buried last.
Robert, my friend. My laughter. My better half. With that crooked grin and a poet’s soul, he wasn’t meant for war. We were ambushed in the woods — redcoats hiding behind birch trunks like phantoms. The volley came fast. I shielded him with everything I had. It wasn’t enough.
He died gasping in my arms, calling for a mother already dead.
His blood soaked my coat. I haven’t worn it since.
The trail narrowed beneath a canopy of gold and scarlet, branches arching overhead like cathedral vaults. A twig cracked in the brush. My hand went straight to my pistol.
Two shots rang out — loud, final — and echoed into silence.
A white-tailed deer bounded into the distance, untouched.
I lowered the weapon, shame crawling up my spine. My heart thundered in my throat, and the acrid tang of powder clung to the air.
Get a hold of yourself, Barnabas.
But the ghosts don’t ask permission.
Not in these woods.
Not in this season.
And certainly not in the house I now approached — the one built on silence, legacy, and rot.
The iron gates creaked open as I rode into the estate. Collinwood loomed against the dying light — stone and shadow, tall columns like gravemarkers. It watched me return like a beast that never forgot my scent.
And yet—
for a moment, that shadow lifted.
“Barnabas!”
Her voice rang out like music.
Sarah.
My little sister came bounding down the front steps, skirts flying, curls bouncing, her laughter warming the chill in my chest. She was no more than ten, all sunshine and freckles and joy that had not yet been stolen.
I jumped off my horse and caught her as she ran full tilt into my arms. I lifted her up, spinning her in a circle as she squealed with delight.
“I’m so glad you’re home!” she said, clutching my shoulders. “Mother and I are making soul cakes. You have to try one. Come in, come in!”
“You’ve convinced me,” I grinned, setting her down gently.
Still holding her hand, I led the horse around the side path to the stable. The scent of hay and cedar filled the air, familiar and grounding. Sarah skipped beside me, practically glowing.
“Do you remember what we do on All Hallows’ Eve?” she asked eagerly. “We light lanterns and leave cakes on the windowsill for wandering souls — and we sing songs for the dead so they don’t feel forgotten.”
I smiled as I unbuckled the saddle. “Of course I remember.”
She stepped closer, eyes shining. “But this year, I want you to take me. I want to walk the candle-lit path with you, and wear my little cloak and give cakes to the poor.”
In her voice was pure belief.
“I wait every day for you to come home,” she added softly. “When you’re not here, I talk to the birds and pretend you can hear me. But it’s not the same.”
I turned to her then, swallowing the knot rising in my throat.
“You are the joy of my life, Sarah,” I said, my voice low. “You know that, don’t you?”
She nodded solemnly, as if accepting a sacred truth.
We walked hand in hand back toward the house, her arm swinging gently with mine. And for a moment, just one, I forgot the war. Forgot the death. Forgot the man my father wanted me to become.
Because in her eyes, I was still whole.
But the moment ended the second the front door creaked open and Joshua’s voice pierced the hall.
“Barnabas,” he called from the shadows of the drawing room. “Come in. We need to talk.”
I exhaled slowly, the warmth draining from my chest like water from cupped hands.
Sarah looked up at me, her hand still in mine. “Will you come taste the cakes after?”
“I will,” I said gently. I knelt to her level, brushing a curl from her cheek. “Go up to Mother now. Help her with the glazing. I’ll be along soon, I promise.”
“You always say that,” she whispered.
“This time,” I said, pressing a kiss to her forehead, “I mean it.”
She gave me one last squeeze before turning toward the stairs, her little shoes tapping softly against the hardwood.
Only then did I straighten and turn toward the drawing room—toward the cold voice waiting in the dark.
The scent of old brandy and fresh cigar smoke curled thick in the air, coating the walls like another layer of authority. Joshua Collins stood near the hearth, hands clasped behind his back, his posture stiff and imperial. He didn’t look at me at first—just stared into the flames like they’d dared to disobey him.
Jeremiah was already seated by the decanter, one leg lazily crossed over the other, swirling a crystal glass in slow, practiced circles. He looked every inch the gentleman soldier: polished boots, loosened cravat, smirk hiding something sharp underneath.
“Come on in, Nephew,” he said, lifting his glass without standing. “We’re in for a whirlwind of surprises.”
I said nothing, only crossed the room in silence.
Joshua turned at last. His eyes locked onto mine like twin musket barrels. “We’ve received correspondence,” he began, voice clipped and composed, “from His Lordship André Dupre. Merchant. Magistrate. A man of substantial influence on Martinique.”
He paused, as if expecting a bow.
I didn’t offer one.
“He has requested use of The Collins Lady.”
My brow lifted. “Our flagship?”
“Our finest ship,” he corrected sharply. “And she will sail under Captain Matthews, with a fully armed crew. You, Barnabas, will oversee the mission.”
Jeremiah raised an eyebrow. “Pirates,” he muttered, flicking ash from his cigar. “It’s always pirates these days.”
“Indeed,” Joshua said. “There have been attacks. Seized goods. Lost cargo. Dupre’s holdings have been targeted. He’s requested protection—and in return, offered opportunity.”
Here it came.
“He has a daughter,” Joshua said, voice cooling. “Josette Dupre. Twenty-seven. Educated. Unmarried. A beauty, I’m told.”
Jeremiah snorted softly. “Do you hear that, Barnabas? A real beauty. That’s rare praise coming from him.”
I ignored the bait. “How long is this voyage?”
“Several months,” Joshua replied. “You’ll depart by week’s end. There’s no time to delay.”
“And the girl?” I asked. “What does she want?”
Joshua’s jaw twitched.
“She wants what all women want,” he said with disdain. “Security. Legacy. Your name.”
“She doesn’t even know me.”
“She will. You will meet her. You will court her. And when the time comes, you will marry her.”
I stared at him.
“You’re not asking me,” I said. “You’re commanding me.”
He straightened further. “I am your father.”
“And I am not a pawn on your board.”
The silence after that hung like a blade in the air.
Jeremiah rose slowly, glass in hand. “Easy, brother,” he said, voice calm, almost amused. “We’re all trapped in one way or another. He’s just trying to make the best of the cage.”
I glanced at him.
There it was—in his eyes. That quiet surrender. Not weakness, but a kind of resignation. Like a man who had learned how to smile through his own leash.
I turned back to Joshua.
“I will sail the ship,” I said. “But I will not be sold.”
Joshua stepped forward until we were nearly nose to nose. “You will do as I say, because this family has been built brick by obedient brick. You are a Collins. That name means something. And if you shame it—”
He didn’t finish.
He didn’t have to.
He turned his back and poured another drink, dismissing me with the shift of his shoulders.
I stood still, burning.
Jeremiah set his glass down with a soft clink. “He means well,” he said under his breath. “He just never learned how to show it.”
I didn’t answer.
Because I didn’t believe it.
I retreated upstairs to gather my things, but my mother was waiting in the shadows. She stepped forward, into the soft light of the hall, and gently pushed open the door to her chambers.
“Barnabas,” she whispered, drawing me inside. Her voice was softer than I remembered — like the hush of a tide receding.
“I heard,” she said, closing the door behind us. “Your father wants you to marry for money. Just like he married me.”
Her eyes searched mine. So much sorrow lived there—quiet, ancient sorrow.
“But I don’t want that for you, my son. I want you to follow your heart. Promise me that, no matter what he says.”
I swallowed hard and nodded slowly. “I’ll try.”
She turned toward the drawer of her vanity and retrieved a small, velvet-wrapped object. “This has been in our family for generations. Black onyx. Your great-grandmother wore it when she married for love — not title.”
She pressed it into my hand. The stone was cool and heavy, the silver chain tangled like fate.
“Give it to the woman you love,” she said. “Not the one chosen for you. Give it when you know.”
“Mother…”
But before I could finish, the door creaked open again.
“Where are you going?” Sarah asked, eyes wide with worry. “What about All Hallows’ Eve? You promised!”
Her little hands clutched the edge of my coat. I knelt to her, heart aching.
“I hate to disappoint you, Sarah. Truly,” I said, brushing a tear from her cheek. “But Father has sent me on a mission. When I come back, I’ll tell you stories of the sea — of great winds and islands and brave things. Will you wait for me?”
She sniffed. “You promise?”
“I promise.”
I stood slowly and turned to my mother. “Take care of her,” I said, voice cracking. “I don’t know what else to do. Jeremiah and I… we’re trapped.”
She nodded, the pain unspoken but understood.
I kissed Sarah’s brow and squeezed her hand one last time. Then I left the room.
Downstairs, Jeremiah stood near the front door, coat already on, a cocky smile softening his face.
“Come on, Barnabas,” he said. “Cheer up. You’ll be all right. You’ve always been behind a desk — now it’s time to get your sea legs.”
I tried to return the smile, but it faltered.
I stepped outside, boots crunching gravel. My horse waited, already saddled. As I mounted, I turned back for one last look.
There they were — my mother and Sarah standing in the doorway, side by side, watching me with soft eyes and sorrowful hearts.
But then…
Joshua stepped out behind them.
He placed a hand on Sarah’s shoulder. The other around Naomi’s back. His eyes never left mine.
No words were spoken — but the message was clear.
Do what I say. Do it exactly as I’ve told you.
The warmth vanished. The farewell soured.
I turned away and rode down the path beside Jeremiah, the house growing smaller behind me.
The night was quiet. Too quiet. The trees no longer glowed.
And for the first time since the war, I felt like a soldier again — riding toward a future that was not my own.

Disclaimer:
Dark Shadows and its characters are creations of Dan Curtis Productions. This work is a transformative fanfiction by Tina Lize, written with love and respect for the original. No copyright infringement intended.

Chapter Text

The Voyage Begins
The harbor air was thick with salt and brine as we approached the docks of Salem. The cries of gulls echoed overhead, wings slicing through the early morning mist. Seaweed clung to the ropes, and barnacles laced the pilings like ancient armor. The tang of fish and tar filled my nostrils, grounding me in the reality of the voyage ahead.
There she was — The Naomi. Her sails were furled, her deck freshly scrubbed, the dark wood glistening with dew. She looked proud. Powerful. Like she had stories carved into every plank.
I stood beside Jeremiah, boots planted on the worn dock, my stomach already unsettled by the pitch of the waves. I’d never been to sea. Not truly. That had always been Jeremiah’s world. My place, until now, had been behind the ledger, in the shadows of books and broken dreams.
Captain Matthews emerged from the quarterdeck with a booming voice and a stride like thunder. He was every inch the old sailor — grizzled beard streaked with gray, eyes sharp and weathered as the sails he commanded.
“Ah! Barnabas, Jeremiah — welcome aboard!” he called, his voice rolling like the tide. “We’re honored to have you with us. She’s a good ship, and she’ll carry you far.”
Jeremiah gave him a firm handshake and nodded. “It’s been too long, Captain.”
Matthews turned to me, clapping a heavy hand on my shoulder. “You look like your mother, boy. But I hear you’re sharp with numbers. Wish your father would let me keep you aboard — I could use a man who can read and write worth a damn.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “Thank you, sir. I’ll do my best not to disappoint.”
He introduced us to the crew — gruff men, weatherworn, but respectful. One caught my eye in particular: a cabin boy no older than fourteen, with curly brown hair and bright, curious eyes. He stood at attention, trying to look braver than he was.
“This here’s Peter,” Matthews said. “Quick as a whip and already knows his knots.”
Peter gave a shy nod. “Pleased to meet you, sirs.”
Jeremiah tousled his hair. “You’ll be our navigator in no time.”
We set sail by noon. As the shore fell away behind us, the wind picked up and filled the sails like a song. The ship creaked and groaned as it cut through the waves. I gripped the railing, breathing deep, trying to calm the churn in my stomach. I felt every tilt of the sea in my bones.
“You all right there?” Jeremiah smirked beside me.
“Just… adjusting,” I muttered.
“You’ll find your legs soon enough,” he said, handing me a bit of ginger root. “Chew on that. Works wonders.”
I nodded and did as told.
Day by day, the ship became less foreign. The creak of the mast, the rhythm of the waves, the salt in my hair — it began to feel like freedom. No ledgers. No father. Just wind, water, and possibility.
I spent time with Matthews learning the ropes — literally — and he gave me space to breathe. “You’re not half bad, Collins,” he said one evening as I helped chart a course. “Could be this life suits you better than land ever did.”
That night, the fog rolled in thick and silent, swallowing the moon and muffling the sea.
I took the wheel for the midnight watch, the lantern burning soft beside me. Peter sat slouched over a cannon nearby, his legs dangling, half-asleep but listening.
“You ever heard the story of Captain Brady?” I asked.
Peter blinked, perking up. “No, sir.”
“Long ago,” I began, “there was a sea captain with a jet-black cat. They went everywhere together — through hurricanes, ghost waters, even mutiny. The cat would sit right here,” I tapped the wood beside me, “always watching.”
I leaned in, my voice low. “One night, the fog was so thick they couldn’t see the stars. The charts were soaked, the compass broken. They sailed blind.”
Peter leaned closer.
“They hit the Craighaven Rocks. The ship went down. The men went down. All except the cat.”
“What happened to it?” Peter whispered.
“They say… on foggy nights like this, he still walks the deck, looking for his master. Crying, wailing, howling through the mist.”
Peter’s eyes went wide.
Just then, a high screech rang out behind him — and Jeremiah leapt from the shadows, grabbing Peter under the arms and lifting him into the air.
“Mrrrrrrow! Where’s my captain?!” he wailed.
Peter screamed. Then all three of us burst into laughter.
“That wasn’t funny!” Peter gasped, breathless.
“That was very funny,” Jeremiah corrected, setting him down. “Go on, off to bed with you. Before the ghost cat gets hungry.”
Peter ran off laughing, and I leaned on the wheel, still chuckling. I caught Jeremiah watching me.
“You’re starting to enjoy this,” he said.
I nodded. “For the first time… in a long time.”
We shared a quiet look. For all our differences, in that moment, we were brothers.
A few days later, the fog lifted, and the nights turned calm. I slept better. Ate more. My hands grew stronger. My heart lighter.
Then came the dream.
She stood at the prow of a great black ship — a woman with braided hair and skin like burnished gold, wind in her cloak. Her arms were outstretched, reaching for me. Her eyes were fire and ocean. I stepped toward her, but I couldn’t reach. The waves rose. The world blurred.
And then I awoke — heart pounding — to the sound of thunder.
The wind shifted at dusk.
It came suddenly — a sharp, guttural howl across the water that turned the sea to glass and the sky to iron.
The first cry rang out from above.
“Stormfront! On the portside!”
The ship jolted. The deck groaned like a beast awakened. I ran topside, Peter just behind me, the two of us emerging into chaos. The sky was black. The air tasted electric. Rain began to fall in furious, icy sheets.
Men scrambled up the rigging, pulling at sails that snapped like whips in the wind. Barrels rolled loose, crashing into the railing. The Naomi lurched hard to starboard, and I staggered toward the mainmast, searching for Jeremiah.
Then I saw it.
A wall of water — a tidal wave building like a mountain, towering and alive.
“Hold fast!” Captain Matthews bellowed. “Get down!”
But it was too late.
The ship climbed, pitched — then crashed downward into the trough.
I saw Peter lose his grip. His small frame slammed into the railing. He screamed as he tumbled overboard —
“Peter!” I shouted.
Without thinking, without fear, I jumped.
The cold hit me like fire. The sea swallowed me whole.
I dove, arms slicing through the darkness, until I found him — flailing, gasping, eyes wild. I wrapped my arms around his chest and kicked hard, dragging him upward. We broke the surface together, choking and coughing. The ship was far behind now — a blur of shadows and lightning.
A barrel floated by. I reached for it, wrapped Peter’s arms around it, and held on tight. The waves battered us, dragged us under, spat us back. We were drifting — just two specks in the vast fury of the sea.
From the deck, Jeremiah clung to the rigging, eyes searching the waves.
“Barnabas! Peter!”
But all he could see was the top of a barrel, a flailing hand — and then nothing.
We vanished beneath the waves.

Disclaimer:
Nocturne of the Heart is a work of transformative fiction inspired by the world and characters of Dark Shadows, created by Dan Curtis. All original characters, plotlines, and interpretations are the sole creation of Tina Lize. This chapter is shared for the enjoyment of fans and is not intended for commercial use.

Chapter Text

Barnabas clung to the slick curve of a barrel with one arm and Peter with the other, their bodies tossed and toyed with by a gray, merciless ocean. The sun beat down. Salt cracked their lips. Time unraveled into breath and wave and prayer.
“What do we do now, Barnabas?” Peter’s voice was small and shaking.
“We hang on,” he said, forcing calm into his tone. “We let the sea spend itself before it spends us.”
Peter nodded, but his lip trembled. Barnabas lifted his face to the pale blaze of sky.
“If anyone’s listening—God, stars, sea—help us.”
Hours collapsed. Peter drifted into a thin, fearful doze. For a heartbeat, Barnabas’s eyes closed, and the sea tried to take him. He slipped under, coughed hard, and surfaced, knuckles whitening on the barrel’s rim.
“I’m here,” he rasped. “I’m still here.”
“Barnabas.” Peter’s hand jerked, pointing. “There!”
Far in the mist: a black silhouette, sleek and purposeful. Blood-red sails shouldered the wind. A prow carved in signs older than chart or compass cleaved the water.
On the deck of The Queen’s Revenge, a brass spyglass flashed. A woman’s golden eyes narrowed as she cut the horizon and found them, two specks clinging to the edge of death.
“Kwame,” she said, her accented English lilting through the spray, “we have strays.”
Beside her stood a man carved from power—Kwame, more than seven feet tall, skin like polished mahogany, sinew like coiled rope, a sentinel’s stance. He did not look at the drowning men; he watched only her.
From behind came the soft rustle of wraps and the faint perfume of burning herbs. Mama Ya shuffled forward, gray braids bound in cloth, leaning on a carved stick, her clouded eyes turned inward.
“Mmm-hmm,” she hummed, bones speaking before her tongue. “Captain, dem two bring storm. Leave ’em to de deep, or trouble climb aboard.”
Kwame snorted. “Mama Ya’s bones always say trouble.”
“’Cause trouble follows white men like flies on fruit,” she shot back, unblinking.
The woman with the spyglass—Princess Zuri—did not smile, though amusement touched her mouth. Her gaze returned to the sea, to Barnabas’s upraised arm and the boy crushed close to his chest. Something in that desperate grip tugged, not at her memory, but at her mercy.
“Drop hooks,” she said. “Throw lines. Bring them in.”
Ropes hissed into the water. Hands leaned over the rails. A brutal, blessed drag upward, and then timber under their backs—varnished, warm, and real. The deck thrummed with the ship’s living heart.
Barnabas blinked water from his lashes and looked up—straight into a pair of golden eyes.
She was tall, braided hair snapping in the sea wind, skin burnished by sun and salt, sovereignty resting on her shoulders like a mantle. Not only a captain. A queen.
“Welcome aboard The Queen’s Revenge,” said Princess Zuri, voice clear as a bell in fog. “Mercy is no berth for idlers. You will earn your keep.”
“We will,” Barnabas managed, raw-voiced. “Thank you.”
Kwame stepped forward until his shadow covered them both. The deck seemed to narrow around his breadth.
“I don’t trust you,” he rumbled, thunder held on a tight leash. “If you betray us, I will break you.”
Peter flinched; Barnabas held his ground. Zuri’s gaze softened for a single heartbeat, then hardened again.
“Take them below, Kwame. Food and rest. At first light, work.”
Mama Ya, already turning away, muttered to the wind, “Storm, storm, storm.”
As Kwame guided them toward the hatch, the order rang over the deck, bright and implacable:
“Make sail for Africa!”
The words struck Barnabas colder than the sea had. Africa. His course had been Martinique. He glanced at Peter—pale, shaking, alive—and leaned close.
“Somehow,” he whispered, “we’ll find a way.”
And the ship drove on.

Far across the heave of water, The Naomi rode a dull swell under a sky bruised with cloud.
“Lad… it’s been a day,” Captain Matthews said, a careful hand on Jeremiah’s shoulder. “No food. No raft. The sea don’t spare many.”
“They’re not gone,” Jeremiah said. His voice was a glass about to crack. “They can’t be.”
“Even if they lived—where would they drift to?”
“I can’t tell Naomi,” Jeremiah whispered, gripping the spyglass until the brass bit. “I can’t tell Sarah. I won’t.”
Memory struck like surf against rock.
Naomi, already drowning in bottles, her son the last light she held. Little Sarah, love bright as a lantern, her brother her whole heart. And Barnabas himself—nephew, yes, but in truth a brother. How do you live in a house where the laughter has gone?
The past rose, unbidden: woods and wet leaves; a musket too large for a boy’s hands; Joshua’s voice, iron and ice. “Take the shot, Barnabas.”
“He’s only a fawn…”
“Weak things die. Kill or be killed.”
Barnabas, trembling, tears hot as shame. Jeremiah stepping between them, a wall made of tenderness. Don’t be so hard on him.
Joshua’s answer: Mind your own business, Jeremiah. He’s my son.
The hurt of it lived in Jeremiah’s ribs still, old bruise, never faded.
“Ship!” the cry came down from the mast.
Jeremiah lifted the glass. First: sails—black and red, cutting clean. Then the name in gold leaf, bright even under a sullen sky:
The Queen’s Revenge.
A pirate ship.
He swept the deck—but distance and spray blurred faces into shadows. He raised the glass higher, seeking the heart of the vessel.
And found her.
Torchlight—or was it sun—caught on her skin. Golden eyes turned toward the horizon, toward him, as if the miles were nothing but breath held between two names.
His mouth shaped it before his mind could brace. “Zuri…”
Across the water, he saw the smallest tilt of her head—recognition answering recognition. The years between them collapsed, and with them, every lie he’d told himself about who he was and what he’d done.
The glass trembled in his hand.
“My God,” Jeremiah breathed, the words smoking out of an old wound. “I killed her father. King Kofi.”
The sea went on breathing. The reckoning had found its ship.

Disclaimer:
Nocturne of the Heart is a work of transformative fiction inspired by Dark Shadows, created by Dan Curtis. All original characters, plotlines, and interpretations are the sole creation of Tina Lize. Shared for the enjoyment of fans; no commercial use intended.

Chapter Text

The horizon erupted in thunder.
Smoke boiled from the mouths of cannons, echoing across the waves like the voice of God. Black sails strained in the wind, red flags snapping as the Queen’s Revenge swung broadside, her deck alive with fury.
Princess Zuri’s golden eyes cut to the east. Through the haze she saw it—the Naomi. Jeremiah’s ship.
Her hand closed on the hilt of her blade.
“Kwame! Quick—man the guns! Battle stations!”
Kwame’s voice rumbled like storm surf. “We’re in for a fight, Captain.”
“You’re damn right we are.” Her voice burned. “Jeremiah will never take us. I will not be a slave again. We sail for Africa—we sail for home!”
The ship erupted. Men swarmed to the cannons, ropes snapping taut, powder horns spilling black dust into eager hands. The drums of war rolled beneath their feet, a rhythm older than the sea.
⸻
Barnabas pressed Peter back against the damp planks, thrusting a piece of bread into his hands. “Eat. Drink. Keep your strength.”
Above them, the roar of iron on iron rattled the beams. A blast shook the walls, and water sifted down from the seams.
Barnabas crawled to the porthole, eyes straining through smoke. His chest seized. The Naomi—Jeremiah’s sails, white and worn, charging into the fray.
“Peter,” he whispered, “it’s Jeremiah. It’s our ship.”
The boy’s eyes widened, hope flickering like a flame in wind. Then another roar, closer, louder. The deck shuddered as cannons locked into place.
Barnabas spun, catching a pirate racing past with powder. His foot hooked, his elbow slammed, and the man went down. Barnabas seized the saber from his belt and drove it home—steel through flesh. Hot blood sprayed across his arm.
“Go!” he barked to Peter. “Hide. Do not follow me. Promise me.”
But Peter only stared, lips parted.
Barnabas gripped the boy’s shoulder once, then turned and charged for the deck.
⸻
Hell itself had risen from the water.
Cannon fire ripped the sky, splinters stung like hornets, and men screamed as iron balls tore them apart. The Naomi and the Queen’s Revenge circled, broadside to broadside, trading fire until smoke smothered the world.
“Ready the hooks!” Jeremiah roared. His clean-shaven face gleamed with sweat, his handsomeness cruel as steel. His men hurled ropes like serpents across the gap.
On the Queen’s Revenge, Zuri was fire incarnate. Her braids whipped like banners, her blade flashed in arcs of silver. She leapt across the chaos straight toward Jeremiah.
Their swords met with a shriek of steel, sparks flying like stars torn from heaven.
“You fight like a cornered animal,” Jeremiah spat, pressing hard. “Your father’s blood rots in the sand—I’ll see yours join it.”
Zuri’s saber snapped upward—click, clack, hiss—and the edge kissed his chin. A thin red line opened on that perfect face. Jeremiah staggered, his hand flying to the wound.
Zuri’s golden eyes flared. “Ah, Jeremiah… now your pretty face belongs to me. Let’s see what the world says when its golden boy wears my scar.”
Jeremiah’s vanity stung deeper than the blade. “You—witch!” he roared, lunging with renewed fury.
But Zuri only laughed, flipping backward like a panther. Her heels struck the rail, her body arced high, and she caught a rope. In an instant she was aloft, swinging above the carnage like an acrobat. She landed lightly on the stern rail of his ship, sword flashing in the firelight.
Jeremiah snarled, unable to follow—his blade locked against rebels surging from every side. Above him, Zuri dangled like some wild goddess, striking down at his men, then swung back across the smoke to the Queen’s Revenge.
“She cut deeper than flesh—she cut his pride.”
Men swarmed her, but Kwame was there. Hercules, storm given flesh, he smashed them aside. One punch sent a man sprawling over the rail into the sea. Another he lifted like a doll, hurling him into the waves.
Then—a cannon blast split the world. The mast cracked and screamed, toppling straight toward Zuri.
Kwame roared, surging forward. His massive arms wrapped the beam, shoving Zuri clear. The timber crashed down upon him. Yet still he held it, feet braced, muscles bursting, cracks splintering the deck beneath him. He strained like Atlas, bearing the world on his back.
“Go, my queen!” he thundered. “I was born to carry mountains—let me carry this!”
Zuri’s heart broke, but the battle raged on.
Through the smoke, Barnabas burst onto the deck, saber drawn. He turned once more to Peter in the shadows.
“Stay hidden! Do not follow me. Run to the Naomi when you can!”
Then he was gone, fighting through the blood and fire. Jeremiah found him, and for a moment uncle and nephew stood back-to-back, blades striking, cutting down enemies in unison.
“Fall back!” Captain Matthews bellowed. “We’re losing ground—fall back, damn you!”
Hooks tore loose. The ships scraped apart.
But fate had not yet spoken.
Peter darted from the shadows, sword in hand, his young face pale with reckless fire. He rushed Zuri from behind.
Her instincts flared. She spun, saber thrusting before thought caught up.
Steel pierced flesh.
Peter gasped, his eyes wide—child, not soldier—before life slipped away.
“Peter!” Barnabas’s cry tore the sky.
Zuri froze, the fury falling from her face. She pulled the blade free, her hand shaking, horror burning through her. Then the roar of men swallowed her again.
Barnabas dropped his blade, caught Peter’s body, and staggered toward the Naomi. Jeremiah covered him, slashing a path clear as Matthews screamed the retreat.
The ships drifted apart, the smoke thick with blood and ash.
⸻
On the Naomi, dawn found them hollow-eyed. They consigned Peter to the sea. The waves swallowed him—unmarked, not unmourned. Barnabas’s heart sank with him.
⸻
On the Queen’s Revenge, silence pressed heavy as chains.
Zuri sat with her saber across her knees, her eyes hollow. “Mama… I struck him down. A boy. A child. At what cost?”
Mama Ya pressed a steaming bowl into her hands, rocking her gently.
“Ti chè mwen, eat,” she murmured, Creole soft as the sea. “Don’ let the fire eat you alive. The sea take enough today. You must live.”
But Zuri pushed the bowl away. “All I want is to go home. To Africa. To see who lives, who remains. To carry my father’s dream, to set my people free. Mama, is there anything left?”
Her voice broke. “I remember Adora, my tiger. She tried to warn me of soldiers. I told her to run, to run free. That was the last I saw—her stripes vanishing into the jungle. Do you think she still runs, Mama? Or did the chains take her too?”
Mama Ya gathered Zuri close, humming. “The jungle remember, child. Tigers remember too. But freedom… eh, freedom is a long road. Longer than our lives. Longer than your father’s dream. It stretch across generations.”
Zuri’s tears fell hot. “Mama… will we ever be free?”
Mama Ya’s eyes shone with faraway fire. “One day, Zuri. Yes. Not for us, maybe not for our children. But one day. After war, after centuries of tears, the chains will break. Our children’s children will stand tall, and the world will see them.”
She cupped Zuri’s face. “But tonight, ma précieuse, we live. We remember. We fight again tomorrow.”
Zuri bowed her head against her hands. Around them the ship sighed, the wounded groaned, and the sea carried the dead. But Mama’s voice, soft and unbreakable, planted a seed of pride that would outlive them all.

Disclaimer
This story is a work of fanfiction inspired by Dark Shadows (created by Dan Curtis). No copyright infringement is intended.
FiFi the ghost dog is the sole property of Tina Lize.

Chapter Text

Chapter Summary

The sea was quiet, but Barnabas was not.
He leaned against the rail of the Naomi, the salt wind tugging at his hair, his chest heavy with the weight of Peter’s absence. He had not wept before the others—not Jeremiah, not Matthews, not Henry. But alone, staring into the black horizon, he let the ache hollow him out. A boy’s laughter, silenced. A promise broken. His hands gripped the wood until the grain bit into his palms.
Then his eyes lifted—and stopped.
Above him the moon bled red, swollen and strange, its light staining the water in molten ribbons. He had seen many moons over New England: pale, cold, distant. But this was different. This was alive.
“I have never seen such a moon,” he whispered. “Not even above Collinsport. Is this what the heavens are like in Monique? Or is it… something more?”
Behind him Henry’s voice broke the spell.
“Jeremiah’s below with Captain Matthews,” he said easily, “talking repairs and trade. Let’s take the dinghy ashore. I’ve been hearing the drums for a while now… magic in the air, Barnabas. Might do your soul some good.”
Barnabas turned slightly, the red glow still painted across his face. “Is that why the moon burns so?”
Henry grinned, lantern light flickering in his eyes. “Could be. Or maybe it’s just the rum talking.” He held out a flask. “Here—drink. Let the island loosen you.”
Barnabas hesitated, then tipped the flask. The rum scorched down his throat, hot enough to crack the ice grief had set inside him.
Henry clapped his shoulder, guiding him toward the ropes. “There’s an old tale here. They say when the Blood Moon rises, you may ask it for what you desire most. But beware, eh? The moon gives true, but never gentle.”
Barnabas looked back at the burning sky. I only want to be loved, he thought. Truly loved. To be seen. To be consumed.
The drums rolled across the water, answering.

The dinghy slid ashore on silver-black waves, the scent of hibiscus and smoke thick in the air. The boom of drums grew louder with each step inland—boom, boom, boom—until Barnabas felt it in his ribs. The trees broke open to firelight, and suddenly he was in another world.
Men with bare chests glistening in the heat beat drums in a wide circle. Women spun with skirts flaring, hair flying, arms lifted toward the swollen Blood Moon. Smoke and spice wrapped the night like a spell. Desire was not whispered behind doors here—it was sung in the open, pressed mouth to mouth, hand to thigh.
Barnabas had never seen such freedom.
Hands caught him, pulling him into the circle. Rum was pressed to his lips, flowers draped across his shoulders, laughter urging him on. He stumbled at first, heavy boots clumsy in the sand, and the women laughed—not unkind, but delighted. One slapped the ground and pointed at his feet.
“Take them off, rich man! You cannot dance with stones on your feet!”
Barnabas hesitated—then laughed, strange and freeing in his throat. He kicked his boots into the shadows. The sand was cool and alive beneath his toes. For the first time since Peter’s death, since the blood and cannon smoke, he felt… weightless.
The drums caught him then—boom, boom, boom—like hands on his hips, guiding him. His body moved, awkward at first, then freer, rum and fire loosening his limbs. His coat slipped off. His shirt followed. Sweat slicked his skin as the circle cheered.
And then—the drums changed.
The beat slowed. The fire leaned higher. The women’s laughter softened into hush.
She appeared.
Angelique stepped into the circle, golden hair shimmering in flame and moonlight, skin gleaming with heat, ribbons of white and gold clinging to her hips. Her sisters’ voices rose like a chorus:
“Eh, see how he looks at her!”
“She already has him on his knees!”
“Dance, sister, dance—make him burn!”
Barnabas was still kneeling, breathless from rum and rhythm, and when her leg brushed his cheek he inhaled, dizzy, drunk on her scent. Smoke and jasmine clung to her skin. His eyes climbed her body in awe.
“God… you’re beautiful,” he groaned.
Her sisters were merciless. One tipped a jug to Angelique’s mouth until rum spilled down her chin, bead by bead over her throat. She laughed and licked it from her lips as they shoved her toward him.
“Eh! Give it to him, Angelique—make him drink from your lips!”
Angelique leaned close, mouth glistening. She tipped forward and the taste of rum and fire slid between them; the crowd roared. Her sisters seized her hands, spun her until her hair flew, then pushed her back into Barnabas. She collided with his chest, laughing, dizzy with drink and heat.
Now they were both high, both free, both foolish. She twirled away, skirts flaring, then darted back, seizing his hands and spinning him hard. He staggered, almost falling into the sand, and laughed—a boy’s laugh he barely remembered as his own. The circle howled with delight.
“Teach him, Angelique!” someone cried.
“He has no hips, sister!” another teased.
Angelique caught his wrists and set his palms on her hips. “Here,” she breathed, smiling. “Follow.”
She rolled her body slow, hips drawing the beat into him. He tried to mimic, stiff at first, then looser when her laughter—light and merciful—broke him open. She circled him like a flame, hair whipping his chest, then slid behind him, hands down his shoulders, pressing herself to his back and rocking him into the rhythm until he groaned. She spun again, skirts brushing his thighs, eyes wicked with delight.
A sister shouted over the drums, voice bright with mischief:
“Turn him wild, Angelique—make him forget his name!”
Angelique’s grin flashed; Barnabas’s head fell back. He wasn’t the brooding young master now—barefoot, shirtless, dizzy, he was only a man laughing in the firelight with a woman who moved like the moon.
Angelique slipped fingers through his hair and drew his forehead to hers. The world steadied into her gaze.
“I see it,” he whispered, trembling. “I see the magic in your eyes. You’ve possessed me—body and soul. You want to be seen… and I see you.”
Her breath caught. For a heartbeat she felt naked—not in flesh but in spirit—because no man had spoken to her like that.
He pulled her closer, mouth grazing her ear. “Tell me—are you casting a spell on me, my witch? If so… don’t stop. Do with me what you will.”
Laughter rippled around them, bright as sparks, but Angelique heard only his voice, rough with surrender. Desire rose in her like a tide; she almost said yes to all of it, right there, in the sand.
“Brûle avec moi…” she whispered. Burn with me…
Their mouths met.
The kiss was lightning—so fierce it nearly knocked them down. The laughter broke, the dizziness turned to heat, the rum became fire. He tasted of salt and smoke; she tasted of sugarcane and danger. Sparks leapt through them both until she thought she might die of it.
He seized her face, voice breaking. “Let me love you. Not take, not use. Let me love you like no man ever has. Come inside of me—see my soul.”
She gasped, nails biting his shoulders. From that kiss she believed. He had asked the Moon, and the Moon had given him her. He saw her. Truly saw her. And she wanted to give everything.
She pressed closer, kissing him until the crowd blurred and the drums were only thunder beneath their skin. He laughed into her mouth, helpless; she moaned into his, shaking. For one wild instant she thought she would pull him down into the sand and be his, utterly, forever.
Then Judah’s voice curled cold through her mind.
Do not love. Any man you love will betray you… as you betrayed me.
Angelique trembled—still kissing him, still burning—her breath breaking in his ear. He felt her shiver and mistook it for desire; she was already slipping away.
Her mouth brushed his ear, a last whisper cracked with tears:
“Jamais assez…” (Never enough…)
She tore herself free, wrenching away though it nearly killed her, spinning into smoke and shadow as his hands closed on nothing.
Barnabas staggered forward, chest heaving, lips wet with rum and her. The circle surged again—laughter, drums, hands, heat—but it all sounded far away.
“Eh, Barnabas!” Henry called from beyond the flames, laughing. “She is beautiful, man! Come, drink more, find another—”
Barnabas did not hear. He stood alone while the world went on without him. Above, the Blood Moon burned red and merciless.
And though she was gone, its fire consumed them both.

Author’s Note:
In the original 1971 Dark Shadows series, Angelique herself reminded Barnabas of their “nights in Monique,” and it was said to be the one true kiss they ever shared on screen. This chapter is my way of giving breath to that memory—letting the drums, the rum, and the Blood Moon show what could never be filmed.

Disclaimer
Dark Shadows and its characters are the creation of Dan Curtis.
This work is a transformative fanfiction created for entertainment and tribute purposes only.
✨ FiFi the ghost dog is the sole property of Tina Lize.

Chapter Text

The sea was calm. Too calm.
Only the oars disturbed it—slicing the black water into foam as Henry rowed with one arm, the other braced around Barnabas’s shoulders.
Barnabas was dead weight, slumped in the dinghy like a discarded doll, shirt half-open, hair matted with sweat. Twice already he had leaned over the side, vomiting bitter rum and bile into the Atlantic. The sea took it greedily, like a confessor hungry for sins.
“Damn it, Barnabas,” Henry muttered, sweat shining on his brow, “you’ll have Jeremiah’s wrath on both our heads if you don’t pull yourself together.”
Barnabas shivered violently, lips pale, voice breaking.
“Did you see her, Henry? Her hair… her smile… God, she vanished! She left me—why did she leave me?”
Henry pulled harder at the oars, lips tightening. “She was a girl. A flame, gone out. Let it go.”
But Barnabas clutched the gunwale as though he could hold the vision in his hands, whispering hoarsely, “Never. Not her.”

By the time the dinghy struck the hull of the Naomi, dawn had smeared gray across the horizon.
Jeremiah was waiting. Arms crossed. Face stone.
Henry looked up, breathless. “Mr. Collins—I—”
Jeremiah’s eyes were colder than the ocean. “What have you done?”
Henry stammered. “Only a bit of fun—”
“Fun?” Jeremiah’s voice cracked like a whip. “Fun, when André Dupré awaits our presence tomorrow? Fun, when my brother’s honor hangs in the balance? You think a merchant’s table is set for boys?”
Barnabas staggered on the rope ladder, eyes glassy. “Uncle—”
“Silence.” Jeremiah cut the air with the word. “Get him below. Scrub him. Sleep him off. If he vomits again, make him choke on it.”
Henry winced, pulling Barnabas toward the stairs. Barnabas mumbled through fevered lips, “She was there… and she left me.”
Jeremiah turned away, hiding something softer beneath his iron mask.

The morning came merciless.
Light stabbed through the shutters, splitting Barnabas’s skull, each ray a blade that would not let him rest. His stomach rolled, bitter as ash, his mouth heavy with the copper taste of iron and rum. Sweat clung to his chest like shackles, his skin fever-hot.
He stumbled to the basin, gripping its edge as though it were the rail of a sinking ship. The water shivered as he leaned over it, breath ragged, and when he splashed it across his face the chill did not free him. Her kiss clung still—salt and jasmine and fire. He scrubbed at his lips with the back of his hand, desperate to wash her away. But the more he wiped, the more he felt her.
“God help me,” he whispered hoarsely, “it burns…”
He forced his gaze upward. The mirror threw back his own reflection—disheveled, hollow-eyed, undone. But behind the wreck of his face, she stared back at him. Angelique. Her hair wild with firelight, her mouth shining with rum, her eyes vast as the Blood Moon. His reflection blurred and rippled, as though the glass itself remembered her better than it remembered him.
Barnabas reached for it, fingers trembling against the cold silver. “Don’t leave me,” he begged the phantom. “If I was mad last night, let me stay mad forever. If you are curse, then curse me whole. Only… do not vanish.”
The surface quivered—and for one breathless heartbeat, she leaned close in the glass, laughing, lips wet, whispering. He heard it as clearly as if she were at his ear.
Brûle avec moi… Burn with me.
His knees buckled. He pressed both hands flat to the glass, forehead bowed. The words slid into his blood, hotter than any rum, and his body shook with a hunger no basin of water could quench. He whispered back, desperate, as if the mirror itself might carry his plea to her:
“Jamais assez… Never enough. Say it again. Say it until I burn away.”
The image shivered—then shattered. Only his own ravaged face remained, and the cold emptiness mocked him.
Barnabas tore himself back, chest heaving, knuckles white against the wood. His lips curved into a bitter, broken smile. “I wished upon the Blood Moon for love… and she came. She gave me everything in one kiss. And then—God damn me—she fled.” His voice cracked, torn with fury and despair. “Why did she run? Why did she stop, when I would have given her all?”
The cabin echoed with silence, heavy and merciless.

When Jeremiah entered, Barnabas was pale but polished, his fever hidden beneath starch and restraint.
Jeremiah studied him. “What happened last night? I have seen you weary, even wounded. I have never seen you undone.”
Barnabas lifted his chin. “A folly. It is finished.”
Jeremiah’s eyes narrowed. “Folly is for men with no name to carry. You are a Collins. Tomorrow, we sit at Dupré’s table. You will be a man. You will court his daughter.”
Barnabas’s laugh was sharp, bitter. “Do I not look the part already? Handsome Collins, polished boots, proper bow? Shall I woo Josette Dupré and live happily ever after?” His smile twisted. “Isn’t that what the stories promised us as children? That the maid would rise from ashes, the prince would take her hand, and all would be well?”
Jeremiah’s jaw hardened. “Stories are for children. Life is duty. Family. And the price we pay to keep both.” He pressed a French volume into Barnabas’s hands. “Polish your tongue. You will not sound a fool before Dupré.”
At the door, his voice softened—rare as rain in drought. “Be your best, Barnabas. Whatever fever has bitten you—kill it. Or it will kill us.”
Then he was gone.

Barnabas opened the book. The cabin tilted. Not words—her.
Brûle avec moi… Burn with me…
Jamais assez… Never enough.
The French licked like flame. The book fell from his hands, striking the floor with a crack.
“Damn her,” he whispered. “Damn her to hell.”
He seized his coat and stormed for the deck, fury sharpening into steel.

The cabin did not empty.
The book smoldered, a black line creeping across its spine. Pages curled like petals in flame.
A boot ground down upon it, smothering fire into ash.
Nicholas Blair lifted his gaze, the glow of embers dancing in his smile.
“There is no love in hell,” he murmured, voice smooth as velvet, cruel as coals. “Even if the hell is of your own making.”
And when he turned, silence tasted of smoke.

To Be Continued…
Author’s Note
In the original Dark Shadows television series, Barnabas and Angelique shared only one true kiss across seven years. My daughter once reminded me of this when she tried to make a video of them: “Mom, there was only one kiss.” That kiss lingered in memory, a rare moment of passion that defined them.
Here, in this story, I’ve given that kiss the honor it deserved—letting it breathe, linger, and burn with the freedom that AO3 allows.
Disclaimer
Dark Shadows and its characters are the creation of Dan Curtis.
This work is a transformative fanfiction created for entertainment and tribute purposes only.
✨ FiFi the ghost dog is the sole property of Tina Lize.

Chapter Text

The Duprés carriage waited at the Naomi to carry Jeremiah and me to the great house. Inside, I sat stiffly, my thoughts weighted with grief.
Jeremiah studied me. “Barnabas, I expect this to go perfectly. You know, and I know, that your father—my brother—has given most of our money to Washington and the cause of freedom. We are nearly broke. We need this alliance. We need DuPrés’ fortune. And you must marry his daughter. Do you understand?”
I drew a long breath. “I understand, Uncle. I am willing to do my duty.”
Still, my mind strayed. I remembered Peter’s death — Captain Zuri’s sword driven through his heart. That cut still lived in me. If ever I had the chance, I swore I would return the stroke.
I shook the thought away. Duty first.
The carriage wheels climbed toward torchlight. For a fleeting moment, I thought of laughter in the moonlight, a flash of gold, a smile that had once disarmed me. The memory tugged my lips upward.
Jeremiah noticed. “That’s better,” he said, satisfied.

The gates of DuPrés opened wide. Servants guided us across marble where candles floated in bowls of water, constellations trembling beneath our feet. Perfume hung in the air, heavy as heat.
André DuPrés himself came to greet us — short, stout, cheerful, speaking in booming French. “Messieurs Collins! Bienvenue! Come, come to my humble home!” Humble it was not; the house glittered with wealth.
At his side stood the Countess DuPrés, fan snapping shut with a sharp click. Her eyes measured us like pieces for her board.
Then Josette appeared. Dark hair like velvet, her blue silk dress catching every flame. Porcelain-shy, delicate hands already promising music before they touched the keys.
Jeremiah’s smile came quick and gallant. Mine was more reserved.
A flash of white fur broke the moment — FiFi scampered across the floor, barking at Jeremiah’s bootlaces until he bent laughing. Josette scooped the poodle into her arms. “She likes you. That is rare. FiFi doesn’t care for men.”
Her eyes lifted to me, thoughtful. He is handsome, she thought. We would have handsome children.
But her heart softened at Jeremiah’s laughter, the way he bent to pet her dog without pride or hesitation. A man who loves my dog must surely love me.
Jeremiah, catching the thought in her smile, felt a pang of envy. Barnabas, how lucky you are, he mused silently. If only…
The Countess’s fan clicked once. “Come in, gentlemen. We have much to discuss.”

Inside, André urged Josette to the piano. She obeyed, fingers settling over the keys. Music filled the air, delicate as water. Jeremiah leaned close, smiling in delight. I admired her grace, but my heart was not stirred.
Heat pressed down like a hand. Angelique worked among the servants, though she was free. The Countess swept in, her presence slicing the air.
“Angelique,” she said sharply. “This night must go perfectly. Our guests have arrived. You will see to it.”
Angelique inclined her head. “Yes, Countess. But remember, my holiday is due. I will see to all tonight, but afterward I take my day.”
The fan snapped shut. “Very well. But you will remain through this night. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, Countess.”
The door closed behind her, and Angelique slammed the ladle into the pot. “Perfect, she says! As if we are not already breaking our backs.” She hurled the dishcloth into the basin, water splashing.
“Angelique,” Madeleine soothed, laying a steady hand on her arm. “If she hears that temper, she’ll have your hide — and ours besides.”
“I know,” Angelique muttered. “But every order burns me like a chain.”
“Chains break easier if you live to strike at them,” Madeleine murmured.
Madeleine reached for a pan from the coals, chestnuts snapping and hissing.
“Here — something to lighten our hands.”
Then Madeleine pulled a pan from the coals, chestnuts snapping and hissing. “Here, something to lighten our hands.”
She tossed one into her apron, then flicked it toward Angelique. Angelique caught it, laughing, juggling the hot nut quickly between her palms before tossing it to Missy.
Missy squealed, spinning once, but caught it clumsily. “It burns,” she whispered, breathless, “but like fire from heaven.”
Angelique’s laugh softened. “See there? Even in your fear, you make poetry.”
Missy blushed, ducking her head. Angelique brushed her cheek with tender fingers. “You’ve a gift, child. Words are sparks. Keep them.”
Only then did Missy creep closer, clutching a tureen.
“Angelique, I’m afraid. What if I spill? These men — they’re so important—”
“You’ll do fine,” Angelique said firmly, cupping her cheek. “I’m here with you. Smile, hold it steady. I won’t let you fall.”
Missy drew a deep breath, steadier now, took up the crystal glass and tray, and turned toward the door —
The door slammed.
The Countess swept in, her fan snapping like thunder. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of play, as if joy itself were a crime.
Missy startled, the crystal glass in her hand slipping, shattering on the stones.
Natalie’s fan slashed upward, sharp as a blade. “Careless girl! Do you dare ruin André’s table?!”
Missy froze, trembling, tears rising.
Angelique stepped forward, chest lifted, shoulders squared. For a single breath her eyes flared gold—feral, unyielding.
“Don’t you dare.”
The Countess faltered. Her fan lowered. Her laugh was too loud, too brittle. “Too much cognac… I must’ve seen it wrong.” She swept away, but her steps were quickened, uneven.
Angelique exhaled hard, her pulse ragged. She closed her eyes. I mustn’t… not like that again.

Far below, deeper than root or stone, a pool shivered. Not water, but smoke and light caught in eternal whirl. A ripple spread across its surface, echo of a defiance that had no business reaching Hell.
Sasha stirred.
She rose out of the pool, skin gleaming like molten emerald, hair slick with smoke. Once, she had been heaven’s daughter. Now she was the Devil’s torment, draped in desire like a serpent wears scales.
“The witch flares again,” she purred, crawling across the stone rim. “Do you feel it?”
Nicholas stirred, brushing ash from his sleeve. Behind him, the Devil snored, each breath rattling the abyss.
“The house above trembles,” Sasha whispered, lips curling. “Her fire leaks even here.”
Nicholas smirked, leaning toward the pool. The echo of Angelique’s glare shimmered faintly. “Ah, Angelique. Judah admired you. Lucifer covets you. And me? I’ll happily fan the flames until they burn the world.”
“Shall we wake him?” Sasha cooed, nodding at the Devil’s hulking form.
Nicholas shook his head, jester’s smile cruel. “Let him snore. The fun is always better when the fire has spread.”
Sasha slid back into her pool, her laughter vanishing with the smoke.
And above, Angelique pressed a hand to her chest, shaken, as if the fire she had loosed might consume her from within.

The dining room glittered with porcelain and silver, voices carrying over roast pheasant and sugared fruits. Candlelight gleamed on glass, and the air was warm with spice and music.
Josette sat straight-backed at the table, FiFi nestled in her lap like a small queen. The little dog’s bell jingled as she pawed at the feast, catching a sugared almond between her teeth before Josette could stop her. Jeremiah laughed heartily, nearly choking on his wine.
“A bold creature!” he declared. “She has more spirit than many men I know.”
Josette flushed, both embarrassed and pleased. “FiFi!” she whispered, but her eyes softened as Jeremiah bent to tickle the pup beneath her chin. FiFi licked his finger with sudden devotion.
Josette’s heart flickered. A man who loves my dog must surely love me.
Barnabas offered only a faint smile, courteous but distant. His eyes lingered elsewhere—on the movement of servants, on the edge of a shadow where Angelique passed with lowered head. Josette glanced at him, handsome and solemn, but cold. Handsome children, yes, but not warmth. With Jeremiah, warmth was easy, playful, alive.
The Countess’s fan snapped once. A servant hurried to her side and refilled her glass with cognac. She drank with relish, her eyes sharp though her cheeks glowed faintly.
“Your niece plays beautifully,” Jeremiah said warmly, nodding toward Josette, who had returned to the piano between courses. “It is rare to hear music with such feeling.”
André puffed with pride, clapping Jeremiah’s shoulder. “Ah, oui! She has her mother’s gift. My Josette will bring harmony wherever she goes.”
The Countess tilted her glass toward Jeremiah, her smile loosening as the cognac warmed her tongue. “And what harmony you would make, Monsieur Collins, if you were to keep company with our family.”
Her fan tapped his hand, playful, almost girlish despite the lines of authority carved in her face. Jeremiah blushed, laughing lightly, unsure how to answer.
André laughed louder. “Countess, you will embarrass the poor man!”
But she only lifted her glass again, her eyes shining with something too sharp to be play.
FiFi, sensing the shift, leapt down and tugged at Jeremiah’s bootlaces with triumphant barks. The table erupted in laughter once more. Even André slapped the table, wheezing with mirth.
Josette covered her smile behind delicate fingers, but her gaze lingered on Jeremiah. Yes, he made even FiFi adore him.
The Countess clinked her glass again. Another servant rushed to refill it.
“Cards!” she declared brightly. “Let us read the cards. I am very apt at it, you know. Very apt.”
André chuckled. “Ah, Natalie and her cards. She would read the stars themselves if they’d hold still long enough.”
The Countess flushed, half-pride, half-cognac. “Do not mock, André. I see things.” She shuffled the worn deck with dramatic flair. “Jeremiah, shall I read for you?”
Jeremiah, eager to play along, leaned forward. “By all means, Countess. If you see my fortune, tell me it is a good one.”
She spread the cards, turned one, then another. Her laughter faltered. The Devil stared up at her from the painted card, horned and chained. A muscle twitched in her cheek.
She forced a smile. “Danger and wonder lie ahead for you, monsieur. But your life will be… full.”
Jeremiah grinned. “I will take full over empty any day.”
The Countess swept the card back quickly, clinking her glass again for courage.
“Barnabas,” she said suddenly, her voice lowering. “Shall I read for you as well? To see if Josette will indeed be your match?”
All eyes turned to me. I inclined my head politely. “If it pleases you, Countess.”
Her hands trembled slightly as she spread the cards once more. This time the Devil glared up again, joined by the Hanged Man. Her fan snapped shut over them with a sharp crack.
She laughed too loudly, her voice a shade too bright. “Ah, I see harmony. A very fine match indeed. Josette will be blessed with a husband of stature.”
André nodded firmly, satisfied.
But Josette looked at Barnabas’s solemn face, and then at Jeremiah’s laughing eyes. And something inside her whispered doubt.
FiFi pawed at her dress again, whining for attention. Josette bent to gather her up, kissing the pup’s head, grateful for her comfort.
The Countess drained her glass.

The men’s laughter swelled as wine was poured, Jeremiah’s voice rising above the rest. That laugh—too full, too eager—slashed across Angelique’s chest like a blade.
Silas.
Once, Silas Collins had laughed like that. A minister then, his voice bright as a hymn, words sharp with fire that drew followers like moths. She had known that laugh before it soured to judgment, before it damned her to the stake.
Her hands shook as she steadied the tray. Collins. These are Collins.
She longed to lift her eyes, to search their faces for the resemblance—forehead, brow, mouth. Does his blood carry Silas’s fire? But she dared not. Her head stayed low. Invisible. I must be invisible. If they see me, if they know me…
The chamber glowed with firelight, cigar smoke curling thick in the air. Angelique stepped forward, linen brushing the floor. She poured first for André, who chuckled; then Jeremiah, who winked, still grinning from some joke.
Then Barnabas.
Her gaze flickered to his hand, resting on the chair. A black onyx ring caught the firelight, gleaming dark as midnight. The sight pierced her like lightning.
She remembered it—not here, not now, but in another moment. His hand lifting her chin, the onyx cold against her skin, his voice low, unshaken: “I see you.”
No one had ever said it so simply. No one had ever meant it.
The memory burned in her chest, searing and tender. To be seen—truly seen—was the one thing she craved and the one thing she feared.
Her breath faltered. The cup tipped. Wine spilled, sudden and scarlet, into his lap.
Jeremiah roared with laughter. “Ha! Nearly drowned him before he can drink!”
André scowled, his cigar jerking. “Angelique! Imbécile!”
Her face flamed. She bowed quickly, voice low. “Pardon, messieurs. I am so sorry.” She seized the silk cloth, bent swiftly to blot the spill.
Barnabas’s hand closed over hers.
She froze.
Their eyes met—blue into brown.
The spark was instant. Recognition. Desire. Fate. The sound of Jeremiah’s laughter faded, André’s bark blurred, the whole world narrowing to the sear of that touch.
My witch, his mind whispered.
Her chest constricted. Collins. Never. Silas Collins—never.
She ripped her hand free, bowing low. “Forgive me.” Then she fled, linen skirts trailing like smoke behind her.
Barnabas sat stricken, Jeremiah’s laughter still ringing in his ears. His chest burned with anger at the mockery, with confusion at his own pounding heart.
One vow throbbed in him, undeniable as blood.
I will find her tonight. No matter the risk.

🌹 Disclaimer
Dark Shadows and its characters are the creation of Dan Curtis. This work is a transformative fanfiction, written with love and respect for the original.
FiFi the ghost poodle is the sole property of Tina Lize.

Chapter Text

Barnabas left the men’s chamber with a bow, but his steps struck hard against the floor. André’s booming voice and Jeremiah’s laughter followed him like ghosts. He did not go to his room. Not yet. His hands curled into fists at his sides.
She has been avoiding me since the moment we arrived.
She dares to spill wine, dares to glare at me as though I had wronged her — and yet, under the blood moon, when the drums called, I saw no hatred in her. Only fire. Only light.
He stopped in the hallway, chest rising, jaw tight.
If she is truly a witch, if she has power enough to torment me from a distance, then let her use it now. Or—
His heart slammed once, hard.
No. Do not take it away. I would be possessed by her a thousand times over. I will not let her hide in the shadows any longer.
The sconces along the corridor flickered like judgmental eyes, and the air pressed thick and hot as if the house itself were watching.
Then—
A flash of gold at the far end.
Angelique. Barefoot. Skirts whispering. Hair loose, falling in a wild halo over her shoulders.
“Angelique.”
She froze at her chamber door, fumbling with the latch.
Before she could escape, Barnabas’s hand pressed flat against the wood, forcing it shut.
She turned, eyes blazing. “Monsieur Collins — what are you doing up here?”
“I am looking for you.” His voice was low, dangerous.
Her chin lifted like a challenge. “Why? I apologized for the spill.”
“No. Not for that. I want answers. Why do you keep fleeing me? Why do you look at me as though I’ve wronged you, when you know…” His voice roughened, “…you know you felt it too.”
She drew herself tall, though her pulse throbbed at her throat. “I felt nothing.”
“You lie.” His fingers closed around her wrist — not cruelly, but with a grip that said he would not let her run again.
“Let me go!”
“Not until you tell me why my name burns you like a curse.”
“Because you are a Collins. Collins — Silas Collins.”
Barnabas stilled. “Silas Collins was my great-grandfather. Long dead.” His eyes narrowed. “How in God’s name do you know him?”
She flinched. She had not meant to speak the name aloud.
“There were stories,” she said, breath quickening. “Tales from Martinique of witch hunters, of men who condemned innocents. Your name was whispered among them. I want no part of it. I want no part of you.”
His chest heaved. “You do not know me.”
“I know enough.”
“No.” His grip softened, but he did not release her. “I am Barnabas Collins. I am not Silas. I am not that man.” His hand rose, cupping her chin, tilting her face toward him. “Look at me. See me. See my heart.”
Something in his tone — not command but plea — pierced her.
Her breath caught — and her witch’s sight flared.
She saw him — not just as he stood before her, but as he had always been.
First he was a boy, chasing a butterfly through the orchard, hair falling in his eyes. Then a teenager behind the barn, kissing a dark-haired girl in the shadows, hands awkward and eager.
Then — college. He sat at a desk, earnest and studious, until three young men burst in laughing, throwing his books aside.
“Collins! Enough studying! There are girls waiting — come to the tavern!”
Barnabas hesitated — then smiled.
The vision spun faster now: a tavern’s firelight, a redhead in his lap, kissing him until his collar came undone. A brunette pulling him outside under the stars. A silver-haired girl leaning in to whisper at a card table.
Angelique’s breath came faster.
“Mon Dieu… how many women have there been?”
Barnabas blinked, startled. “What are you talking about?”
“I see them — all of them! One after another!” Her mouth curved, sharp with jealousy and reluctant admiration. “You, monsieur, are not as pious as you pretend.”
He stared at her, torn between pride and exasperation.
“You are… spying on me?”
“Do I look like a witch?”
“Yes.” His voice was soft. Almost reverent.
Her pulse stumbled. “Well, I am not. I am simply…” She smirked. “…intuitive.”
And then more visions came — too many, too fast — Jeremiah sparring with him on the ship deck, Sarah’s laughter, Naomi’s tears, Joshua’s raised voice, Peter’s death in the storm, and Barnabas under the blood moon, whispering a prayer not for power but for love.
Her throat ached. “Stop,” she whispered. “Stop showing me who you are.”
“No,” he said, voice breaking. “See it all. And then decide.”
He pulled her against him — and kissed her.
It was not a plea, not yet a surrender, but a battle.
She shoved him back, fire in her eyes — and kissed him harder.
“You make me mad,” she hissed against his mouth.
“Then be mad.” His mouth crushed hers again, driving her backward until she struck the door.
They kissed like enemies and lovers both — his coat rasping against her dress, her nails clawing at his shoulders.
When her back hit the bedpost, he half-lifted her, pinning her there with the weight of everything he’d never said.
For one wild moment she yielded, clutching his hair, pulling him down to her.
Then — a jingle.
FiFi’s bell on the stairs.
“FiFi!” Josette’s voice floated up, laughing. “You always wait until the last moment! Come, little one.”
The sound snapped them both back to earth.
Barnabas froze, forehead pressed to Angelique’s, breath shuddering.
She shoved him toward the door. “Go. Before we both do something neither of us can take back.”
His hand caught her wrist one last time. “When can I see you?”
Her chest heaved. “Tomorrow. The marketplace. At dawn.”
She slammed the door in his face.
Barnabas staggered to his room like a man half-drunk, tore off his cravat, and dropped into bed, but sleep would not come.
At last, near the witching hour, the air shifted. Jasmine and candle-smoke curled in the dark.
Angelique stood at the foot of his bed, barefoot, hair falling like moonlight.
She leaned over him, her whisper in French curling hot against his ear:
“Je veux que tu me trouves. Demain… ne me fais pas attendre.”
(I want you to find me. Tomorrow… do not make me wait.)
And then she was gone — but her perfume lingered.
Barnabas clutched the sheets, eyes burning.
“Forgive me, Jeremiah. Forgive me, Josette. But I will go to her.”

🕯️ Disclaimer:
Dark Shadows and its characters are the creation of Dan Curtis Productions.
This work is a transformative fanfiction, written with love and respect for the original.
FiFi the ghost poodle is the sole property of Tina Lize.
🕯️ Written in the flame by Tina Lize | Nocturne of the Heart

Chapter Text

The morning was already too hot.
Barnabas strode past the sleeping houses, coat unbuttoned, the last words from the night before still ringing in his head: “And she had better be there.”
The stables were waking — grooms yawning, buckets clanging, the heavy smell of hay and leather and horse. Barnabas walked the line until he found the one that stopped him cold.
The horse stood apart — white as moonlight, ears forward, one hind foot cocked as if he were deciding whether Barnabas was worthy. Barnabas stepped closer, slow and sure, and laid his hand against the warm curve of the stallion’s neck.
For a moment they simply breathed together. Then the horse lowered his great head and brushed his muzzle against Barnabas’s sleeve, and something in Barnabas’s chest loosened.
“Yes,” he said quietly.
The groom named a price. Barnabas paid without bargaining. When the halter was passed over, he led the stallion out into the sunlight. The animal’s shadow stretched long beside his own.
He should have taken him straight back. Instead, he turned toward the market.

The square was alive now — stalls open, smoke curling from cooking fires, voices rising in three languages. Barnabas tied the horse just outside and stepped into the press of bodies.
He found her by accident.
Angelique stood at a coconut seller’s cart, sunlight turning her hair flame-kissed — gold with a hint of fire. She was laughing, head tipped back, bargaining in Creole.
Barnabas stopped where he was, as if the whole market had gone still.
When she saw him, the laughter softened into something sharper, more dangerous.
“Monsieur Collins,” she said, half-tease, half-greeting. “I see you found me.”
“How could I miss you?” he said, stepping closer. “Your hair catches the sun like lightning.”
The seller split the coconut, and Angelique drank deep, a line of water running down her chin.
She held it out to him, eyes gleaming.
“Taste.”
He took it, fingers brushing hers. The water was sweet, cold — but it was her mouth he thought of.
“It is marvelous,” he said, voice lower than he intended.
She smiled. “Do you need a tour guide, Monsieur? Will you be mine?”
“Guide me,” he said, meaning far more than the market.
She glanced toward the white stallion tied just beyond.
“Then we will need a horse.”
“I have one,” Barnabas said.
Angelique’s face lit — she ran to Bolt, pressed her face against his neck, her hands smoothing down his gleaming coat.
“You are mine now,” she whispered to him.
Barnabas heard her, smiled faintly, and said, “So he is yours?”
She glanced back over her shoulder, eyes bright. “Everything I touch is mine — but only if it lets me keep it.”
Barnabas’s chest warmed strangely at that, as if she were speaking to him too.

The whip cracked.
The sound split the market. For a breath, no one moved.
Then Angelique was running, hair flying, skirts flashing white.
The boy was on his knees, shirt torn, back raw and bleeding.
Angelique dropped to him, cradling his head, tipping water to his mouth.
“Drink,” she whispered, tears running down her own face.
The driver raised the whip again.
Barnabas caught it mid-air, yanked until the man stumbled forward.
“You will not strike him again,” he said, voice like iron.
The square went still — only the boy’s breath, ragged and wet.
Barnabas pressed a pouch of coins into his hand.
“Go. Find the Naomi. Tell Captain Matthews Barnabas Collins sent you. He will give you work, food, a place to sleep.”
The boy bolted.
The tavern door banged open.
Sailors spilled into the square, loud, laughing, reeking of rum. At the back of them stood Nicholas — too still, smiling as if he had been waiting for this.
He said something low to the nearest man. The sailor turned, saw Angelique, and grinned.
He grabbed her arm.
Barnabas’s sword was at his ribs before he could blink.
“Release her,” Barnabas said, voice low, deadly.
The sailor sneered — and the square exploded.
Barnabas parried, drove the pommel into one man’s gut, sent another sprawling.
Angelique hurled a basket of mangoes, pulp flying, rolled and came up with a bottle, smashed it on a post so the neck gleamed jagged in her hand.
“Witch!” someone shouted.
Nicholas only laughed. “Yes. Let them see you.”
Another sailor lunged from behind — Angelique leapt onto his back, clawed at his face until he flung her off.
She landed on her feet, breath wild, eyes burning.
And then —
Bolt.
The stallion charged through the square like a storm, mane flying, hooves striking sparks.
Angelique caught the saddle and swung up in one motion, skirts flying.
“Barnabas!”
He vaulted up behind her, sword still in hand.
Bolt reared, screamed, and then they were gone, scattering men and barrels, the market falling away behind them.

The forest swallowed them whole.
Bolt’s hooves struck the earth like a drumbeat, faster, harder, until Barnabas could feel the rhythm in his bones.
Angelique’s back was warm against his chest, her hair whipping against his face.
Only when Bolt slowed did the sound of their hearts catch up.
Angelique slid down first, landing barefoot in the ferns, her chest still heaving.
Bolt stood quivering, ears pricked, waiting.
“You nearly got yourself killed!” Barnabas said, swinging down after her.
“I saved you!” she shot back. “You think I will stand aside and watch you cut down?”
Her hands went to her dress ties, yanked them loose. The bodice slipped, the gown falling until she stood bare, breath heaving.
For a moment the forest held its breath.
Barnabas’s sword slipped from his hand.
“You are…” His voice caught. “…bewitching me.”
She turned and dove into the pool.
The water hissed, white with spray. When she surfaced, she swam to Bolt first, not him, pressing her body along his wet flank, whispering until the stallion stilled.
Only then did she turn, hair plastered to her cheeks, and look at Barnabas.
He stripped off coat, boots, shirt, and stepped into the water.
The cold climbed him like a living thing, but he did not stop until he was near her.
Angelique circled him slowly, her hair streaming, her eyes bright.
Barnabas turned with her, watching every movement, every gleam of water on her skin.
“Do I look like a witch to you now?” she asked softly.
“No,” he said. His voice was rough. “You look like a siren. A goddess.”
She smiled, glided toward him until she floated against his chest.
He caught her by the waist, holding her as she let herself drift in his arms.
When they kissed, it was slow, deep, the kind of kiss that left the world far behind.
She was the one who pulled away first, mischief flashing in her eyes.
She slipped from his arms with a laugh, swam for the bank, caught her dress and his trousers, whistled for Bolt, and mounted in one smooth swing.
“Come and get it, Monsieur,” she called, grinning.
Barnabas lunged, almost caught the fabric — she wheeled Bolt back, laughing until he couldn’t help but laugh with her.
For a moment, there was nothing but them — man, woman, horse — alive in the falling light.

By the time they reached the beach house, the sky was violet, the sea dark.
Angelique swung down first, hair dripping, dress clinging to her legs.
“He’s yours now,” she said.
“Take him. Feed him. Wash him down. Then come to me.”
Barnabas obeyed, brushed Bolt until the coat shone, gave him water until the stallion stood quiet.
When it was done, Barnabas laid his hand on Bolt’s neck and looked once at the moon — white tonight, but it made him think of the Blood Moon, and how it had turned red, and how he had prayed.
Inside, the house smelled of garlic and peppers. Angelique was barefoot at the fire, hair loose, turning the fish in the pan.
“This is how it should be eaten,” she said, nodding toward the table.
Barnabas sat. She glanced over her shoulder once, caught him watching her, and smiled faintly before turning back to the pan.
When she set the plate before him, he ate in silence until she spoke.
“You are quiet,” she said softly.
“I was thinking,” he said slowly, “that I would give you the world if I could. Make you a queen.”
The words struck her like a bell.
For a heartbeat she went still. Then the room dissolved — velvet halls, jeweled crowns, the cold marble floors of another life.
Her back straight, her smile perfect, her every word measured beside Judas’s throne.
The weight of silks, the whisper of courtiers, the eyes that judged her.
Her shoulders went rigid. Her hand trembled once before she stilled it.
She blinked, pulling the walls back around her.
Barnabas saw it — felt it — though he did not understand.
He let the silence stay, respecting whatever had just passed between her and her memory.
She smiled faintly then, as though nothing had happened.
“Eat,” she said softly.
Barnabas obeyed, but his thoughts stayed with her.
What have you seen, my Angelique?

Later, Angelique poured the wine, handed him a cup, and lifted her own.
“To holidays,” she said. “I have two weeks — and I mean to enjoy them.”
They drank. The fire snapped softly.
Then she said, “You should leave now. It is the proper thing to do.”
Barnabas looked at her, set his cup down.
“I am doing the proper thing,” he said quietly. “Being here — with you — is the right thing.”
For a moment, her mouth curved — not mocking, but tender.
“Then do one more right thing,” she said.
“Sleep in the barn tonight. And if you still think so tomorrow, come back to me.”
She blew out the lamp, leaving the room golden.
“Goodnight, Monsieur Collins.”
Barnabas bowed slightly and stepped into the night.

The barn was warm and quiet. Bolt shifted, blowing softly, as if welcoming him back.
Barnabas sank down into the straw, leaning against the stallion’s shoulder, and looked toward the silver moon.
This was the answer to his prayer.
Not the moon turning red, not the fire in the circle — but this.
The heat in his chest, the sound of her laughter still in the night air, the stallion’s heart steady beside his own.
Let me love. Let me feel alive again.
Now he did.
He closed his eyes, letting it fill him like wine, and for the first time in years, Barnabas Collins smiled in the dark.

Inside, Angelique curled into her bed, Onyx leaping onto the blanket.
She stroked the cat’s fur and laughed softly to herself.
“Let him think on it, little one. If that is the only thing I do on this holiday, I will make him smile.”
Her hand stilled for a moment, resting against Onyx’s back.
“Perhaps,” she whispered, almost to herself, “I will let him make me smile too.”
Onyx purred, and Angelique closed her eyes, still smiling.
For the first time in centuries, she allowed herself to fall asleep with hope in her chest.

🕯️ Disclaimer
Dark Shadows belongs to Dan Curtis Productions. This is a transformative work written with love and respect for the original series.
Bolt the stallion and Onyx the cat are original characters and are the sole property of Tina Lize.
🕯️ Written in the flame by Tina Lize | Nocturne of the Heart

Chapter Text

The morning light draped across the Montique sky like a silk shawl, golden and pale blue, soft as the breath of heaven. But inside the carriage, Jeremiah Collins sat stiffly, his jaw tight, his gloved hands folded in his lap. The wheels rattled over the crushed shells of the duPrés drive, and all he could think was—where in the hell is Barnabas?
His nephew hadn’t returned to the Naomi. He hadn’t left a note. No word. No farewell. Nothing.
Worse still, Jeremiah had heard from Captain Matthews what Barnabas had done the night before: handed coin to a runaway slave boy, called him “free,” and placed him aboard the Naomi as a cabin boy.
What madness was this? Jeremiah’s jaw flexed. They were Collinses. Their profit was built on the flesh trade. Slaves were commodities, assets, not charity cases. What Barnabas had squandered could have been sold, could have strengthened their standing with men like André duPrés. Instead his nephew played liberator, undermining the very business that gave them power.
Jeremiah had spent his life on ledgers, battles, and profit. Joshua’s right hand. Washington’s soldier. A man of muskets, blood, and coin. He’d given no space to softness, never wasted breath on romance. And yet here he was, carrying his nephew’s sins on his shoulders, forced to make excuses as if he were the one who had failed.
The palm-lined road curved, and the duPrés estate rose before him in its full splendor. Grand pillars stretched skyward, white as bone, their fluted crowns draped with bougainvillea in fierce bloom. Ivy crawled the stone, a living reminder that old families sank their roots deep.
The carriage slowed, then stopped. The footman hurried to open the door. Jeremiah stepped down with the quiet precision of a soldier, velvet coat falling neatly into place, the Collins crest gleaming on his clasp.
And at the top of the marble stairs, cane in hand, stood André duPrés. Navy morning coat, embroidery glinting like threads of gold, his posture radiating pride.
Their eyes locked — Collins steel meeting duPrés fire. Jeremiah bowed, deep and measured.
“Sir. Good morning to you.”
André’s lips were tight. “Venez. Come into my office.”
Jeremiah followed, his boots echoing against marble until they entered the study, the air thick with leather and tobacco. André shut the door with a crack that shook the glass panes.
André’s fury came at once, in English and French, his voice like thunder wrapped in silk.
“How dare you — comment osez-vous — how dare your family insult me! Your nephew humiliated my daughter. Where is Barnabas Collins? Où est-il?”
Jeremiah stood unflinching as every word struck like a whip.
“Your nephew did not show up. He left last night like a thief in the dark! He asked for a carriage — j’ai dit, fais attention — he swore he would return. My footman tells me he was left at the marketplace at dawn and never came back. And now he is not with you. Non. I am finished. C’est fini! No one insults me or my family.”
André spun, pointing toward the door. “Go, sir. Leave Montique. The arrangement is over.”
Jeremiah’s voice cut through, low and steady. “No, sir. Please. Let me speak.”
“I am not here to excuse my nephew,” Jeremiah said firmly. “There is no excuse to give. I am here to salvage what remains. We came to Montique with honor, to unite two families. Yes, Barnabas has failed you, and I am ashamed to bear his name in this moment. But I am not Barnabas Collins. I am Jeremiah Collins. I am a man of business. Joshua’s right hand. The empire he built — I built beside him. The boy you were promised is a dreamer, a bookkeeper, a youth who does not understand men’s matters. But I do.”
André’s fury cooled to calculation. Jeremiah laid a heavy ledger on the desk, maps and ciphered notes spread open. Business became their language: sugar, cane, coffee, slaves. Routes hidden by flags, silence bought with gold. André had the plantations, Jeremiah had the ships. Together, they saw power.
Outside the door, three figures pressed close. Natalie, skirts rustling. Josette, cheeks pale. And FiFi, perfectly still, her black eyes fixed on the crack of light.
When André flung the door open, all three jumped back. Josette’s flush betrayed her guilt, Natalie smoothed her skirts with false calm, and FiFi gave a sharp bark that startled the silence.
André’s voice boomed again, but Jeremiah’s eyes found only Josette. Grace incarnate, trembling yet unbroken, eyes wide with awe.
Natalie cut the tension with a sweet, pointed suggestion. “Perhaps Josette might take Monsieur Collins to the gardens. The air will do us all good.”
They walked beneath arching palms, gravel crunching underfoot. Josette at last found her voice, though it trembled. “Monsieur Collins… you are a brave man to stand before my father’s wrath. I have never seen anyone endure it.”
Jeremiah’s lips curved, faint but certain. “For you, mademoiselle, I would stand before worse. I would fight a dragon and not falter, if it meant this walk with you.”
Her cheeks burned with a blush she could not hide.
By the lake, Josette paused. “It is hot, monsieur. Would you care for a ride upon the water?”
“A boat,” Jeremiah said, his voice warmed with rare amusement. “Yes. Let us go.”
He rowed with easy strength. Josette watched him, her heart full of unspoken questions. Why had Barnabas left her? Was she not enough? She glanced down at FiFi curled at her knee, her mother’s old words whispering in her mind: A great man loves children, loves animals, and loves your mother.
“Mother,” she whispered softly, “you would love him.”
“What was that?” Jeremiah asked.
She blushed, shaking her head. “Only a memory.”
Before he could ask again, a fish leapt at the side of the boat. FiFi barked, sprang up, and dove into the water with a splash.
“FiFi!” Josette cried.
Jeremiah was already moving — coat cast aside, boots forgotten, he plunged into the water. Moments later, he surfaced, the little poodle clutched safe in his arms.
Josette’s hands trembled as she gathered FiFi against her chest. “My precious girl — oh, monsieur, you saved her!”
Jeremiah heaved himself back into the boat, water pouring from his hair and shirt. His chest rose and fell with steady breath as he leaned against the boards, his eyes locked on Josette cradling her dog.
“You saved my dog,” she whispered.
His lips curved. “I aim to please.”
They reached the shore, laughter chasing away Josette’s panic. FiFi rolled happily in the grass, drying herself, while Jeremiah wrung water from his shirt.
“You’re soaked through!” Josette exclaimed, half-apologetic, half in awe.
Jeremiah stripped the heavy linen from his chest, the sun striking every line of muscle hardened by battle. Josette froze, her breath catching at the sight. He bent toward her, and before she could think, their lips met — soft, trembling, sweet.
Her first kiss. His first real longing.
When they returned to the mansion, Natalie was waiting, eyes sharp. André soon followed, cane tapping, suspicion cutting. His gaze fell on Jeremiah, bare-chested, shirt in hand.
“First, sir,” André said coldly, “you will cover yourself in proper attire.”
Jeremiah bowed. “Of course, monsieur. But your own coat would hang like a sail on me.”
André snapped his fingers at a servant. “Fetch him a shirt. At once.”
Only once Jeremiah dressed did André give the slightest nod. “Now then. You wished to speak?”
Jeremiah drew himself tall. “Yes. I would request permission to take your daughter on a carriage ride. To show her the Naomi — the ship I command.”
A beat passed. Then André, grudgingly: “Très bien. Be back before supper.”
The carriage gleamed beneath the arch, the horses restless in the golden afternoon. Jeremiah offered his hand; Josette placed hers into it, trembling. FiFi bounded in after them, claiming her place on the velvet seat opposite.
They sat close. At last, Jeremiah’s hand found Josette’s, fingers locking with hers. She did not pull away. Their eyes met, and for the first time, she smiled as though her heart were lighter.
FiFi watched them, head tilted. Then she gave a sharp little bark and lay her chin on her paws — as though approving.
Josette laughed, bright and surprised. Jeremiah’s grip on her hand tightened, his smile breaking through his iron composure.
The carriage rolled on toward the Naomi, sunlight spilling over them, and in the distance FiFi’s bark of pleasure echoed again — not protest, not warning, but pure delight.

Disclaimer
Dark Shadows and its characters are the creation of Dan Curtis. This is a transformative work of fiction written for enjoyment, not profit.
FiFi the poodle is the sole property of Tina Lize.
🕯️ Written in the flame by Tina Lize | Nocturne of the Heart

Chapter Text

The sun sank behind Mount Pelée, pouring molten gold across the sea. In the volcano’s shadow the Queen’s Revenge lay hidden—her sails drawn, her guns asleep, her colors struck. No flag, no name. Only silence, and waiting.
At the prow stood Captain Zuri, still as carved obsidian, eyes tracking the island that had once been her kingdom. Behind her, the deck stirred softly. Freed men, escaped serfs, the castoffs of empire—they moved with quiet purpose, their loyalty to her carved deep as bone. None spoke. They knew she was listening to ghosts.
Kwame joined her, tall, scarred, and steadfast. “The Naomi sleeps in the harbor,” he said. “Only Captain Matthews aboard. The rest are in town—rum and women.”
Zuri’s gaze did not move. “And André’s cargo?”
“Loaded and ready. Dyes. Spices. Dried meats. He calls it trade.” His jaw tightened. “It’s our food.”
Her voice chilled. “And what does he bring back from Africa?”
Kwame met her eyes. “Slaves.”
She turned toward the horizon, the sky bleeding orange over the dark. “Then the Naomi still carries my father’s shadow.”
From behind came the rustle of shells. Mama Ya shuffled forward, skirts whispering against the deck. “Zuri, chile,” she murmured, eyes pale with the sight. “I feel it in my bones. Dark fire comin’. Not man, somethin’ worse. Magic dat don’ belong to de earth.”
Zuri’s mouth curved faintly. “Then let it come. I’ll meet it on the water.”
Mama Ya frowned. “You can’t fight every ghost with a blade.”
“Watch me.”
A sound cut through the dusk—a low croak. All three looked up. A lone crow circled the mast. Its left eye caught the sun and flashed green, an unnatural gleam that burned and was gone.
Mama Ya stiffened. “Dat not a bird,” she whispered. “Dat a window.”
“A what?” Zuri asked, but the old woman crossed herself and spat into the sea.
“Somethin’ watchin’, chile,” Mama Ya said. “Somethin’ wit’ hunger an’ perfume on its breath.”
Zuri’s smile held no fear. “Then let it watch.”
High above, the crow tilted its head once and vanished into the mountain’s shadow. And somewhere far below the world of men, laughter rippled through smoke—soft, feminine, and impatient—as though something in the dark had just been noticed.

Africa — Before the Fire
The sun spilled over the jungle like poured copper. Birds sang, the air thick with fruit and river wind. The hills of Koffi shimmered green and alive, breathing like one vast heart.
Zoé Koffi ran barefoot through tall grass, laughter tumbling from her lips. She was twelve—bold, fierce, radiant. Beads glittered in her braids; a slingshot hung from her sash. Behind her padded her lioness, Adowa, golden eyes lazy with affection.
“Come on, lazy girl!” Zoé cried, spinning. “Race me, Adowa!”
The lioness sprang. They rolled together in the moss, Zoé laughing until her cheeks were wet with joy. She pressed her face into the lioness’s mane. “The spirits gave me you,” she whispered. “I’ll never leave you behind.”
By the stream they rested, Adowa’s tail flicking across Zoé’s legs. From the village came the scent of roasting yam and palm oil. Her mother called from the hut doorway, smiling.
“Zoé! Where you goin’, girl?”
“To the jungle!” she answered. “To see Adowa!”
Her father, King Koffi, laughed and clapped Kwame’s shoulder. “Go with her, but don’t let her see you. She needs freedom—but she needs you too.”
“Yes, Majesty,” Kwame said.
He followed, silent as her shadow.
Then the wind changed. Smoke drifted from the sea. The drums faltered.
A single crack split the air. Not thunder—guns.
Screams rose. Adowa roared and ran. Zoé followed.
They broke from the trees, and the world ended.
The village burned. Huts collapsed in fire. Women screamed; children clung to ash. Strangers in long coats moved through the chaos, muskets flaring. The invaders laughed.
Zoé saw her mother lying in the dirt, eyes open to nothing, her shawl on fire.
“Mama!” she screamed.
A hand caught her wrist—Kwame, blood on his face. “No!”
She tore free.
Her father knelt in chains. Jeremiah Collins stood before him, musket raised. He looked young, frightened, a man following orders he did not understand.
“Fire!” barked a voice behind him.
Jeremiah hesitated only a breath. Then the musket thundered.
The bullet struck the King in the chest.
Zoé screamed and ran. Jeremiah caught her, slammed her to the dirt, held her there. “Let me go!” she sobbed. “Let me go, you devil!”
Kwame fought until the rifle butts dropped him. Iron closed around their wrists. Around Zoé’s neck.
Adowa roared, hurling herself from the trees—but a shot cracked, and the lioness fell. For a heartbeat she moved, dragging herself toward the forest’s edge.
“Adowa!” Zoé cried.
Smoke swallowed the gold shape; then it was gone.
They dragged Zoé toward the ship. The air smelled of blood and salt.
“You killed my father,” she whispered to Jeremiah.
His face broke, guilt flickering—but he said nothing.
That night the chains closed, and the girl named Zoé Koffi died.
Something else was born.
Not grief.
Not sorrow.
Fire.

Return to the Present
The roar of guns faded into the rhythm of waves. The crack of chains became the groan of a ship’s hull.
Zuri opened her eyes.
She was no longer the girl in the jungle. She was the woman the fire left behind.
Kwame stood near, reading her silence. “You went away again,” he said.
“I went home,” she answered. “And watched it burn.”
“Then let this be the night it ends.”
She turned toward the harbor. The Naomi waited, serene and unsuspecting. Her fingers brushed the dagger at her hip—the same blade that once severed rope from wrist.
“Mama Ya was right,” she murmured. “Fire follows me.”
Kwame smiled. “Then let it find them instead.”
The moon climbed, whitening the deck. The men felt the change in her, the command before she spoke.
“Loose the sails,” Zuri said. “Keep to shadow.
Tonight, the sea will remember my name.”
Lanterns dimmed. Oars dipped. The Queen’s Revenge moved as one living thing, silent and sure.
Far above, a crow circled once, one eye glinting green before it vanished into the clouds. The night itself seemed to lean closer, listening.
Zuri looked toward the ship that had once carried her in chains. The wind caught her hair.
“For my father,” she whispered. “For my people. For Adowa.”
The horizon burned gold one last time before darkness took it.
And the hunt began.

🕯️ Disclaimer:
Dark Shadows characters and storylines are the property of Dan Curtis Productions. Original characters — Captain Zuri Koffi, Mama Ya, and Adowa — are the sole creation and property of Tina Lize.
🕯️ Written in the flame by Tina Lize | Nocturne of the Heart

Chapter Text

Blange. Blange. Blange.
The siren moved through the dark like a slow bell, shaking stone and shadow. In a chamber where flames burned without heat, a pool glowed green, the color of grass seen through water. Sasha rose from its surface, hair dark as wet bark, drops clinging to her shoulders. A black crow skimmed the rim and landed, claws tangling in her hair.
“Grim,” she hissed, half laugh, half pain. “You scratched me.”
The crow tilted his head; one eye shone the same green as the pool. She stroked him with webbed fingers, gentle now. “Once you were sky, little fool. You thought my hair was a tree.”
A heavy shape stirred on the throne beyond the light. The Devil opened his eyes as if it cost him years. When he looked at the bird, his voice lowered to something almost human. “Your pet still glows green for the world you lost, my flame. And you touch him as though you could warm him back to life.” His gaze found her face. “You were never meant to live without the sun.”
“Nor you, my heart flame,” Sasha said, the corners of her mouth trembling. “Come to the pool. Let me show you.”
“You know I cannot.” The words were gentle and ruined. Then, softer, as if the syllables remembered an older music: “Ah, Sasha… my ember, my sweet sin.”
Footsteps, a velvet voice sliding through the chamber like perfume and poison. “My king,” Nicholas Blair said, bowing with a smile, “something above has your name threaded through it.”
Sasha’s fingers touched the pool. Water deepened to an image: a captain’s lantern, parchment veined with seas, the slow spill of Captain Matthews’s life across the map of the Naomi. A woman’s eyes—gold, steady—watching him fall.
“Zuri,” the Devil murmured, tasting the word. He stood with sparks falling from his shoulders. “Hers is not petty hate. Hers is a memory. Where she walks, chains remember.”
“Collins,” Sasha whispered, the name coiling out of the water like smoke.
The Devil listened to the faraway hum of the bell and nodded once, as though agreeing with time. “Wake,” he said—not a command, but a longing. “Wake, world.”

The sea held its breath—purple bruising into bronze along the harbor. The Queen’s Revenge rocked softly beyond, a dark heart waiting. A single rowboat slid out of the night.
Captain Zuri Koffi sat at the helm, eyes fixed on the silhouette of the Naomi. Patient. Poised. A blade wrapped in silk. Behind her crouched Kwame—tower-tall, shoulders like carved stone, a long scar drawn from his shoulder down beneath his chest, the story of a blade he had survived. Ten loyal crew moved with him in quiet rhythm. The oars whispered. Rope hissed. Moonlight kissed the curve of Zuri’s knife as if it knew what was coming.
The Naomi’s gangplanks were up. Half her men were in town, dissolving wages into rum and dice. Only Captain Matthews bent over his orders, a tired spider in a web of paper and oil.
Ropes dropped like vines. Boots touched wood with ghost care. By the time the last man swung the rail, the ship belonged to her.
Matthews did not hear them. The first thing he felt was steel, whispering at his throat. The last thing he saw was her eyes.
“That’s for my mother,” Zuri breathed—and pressed the dagger in. The map seemed to drink him, as if it had waited all its days to be red.
A sound from the corner. A thin chain. A thinner voice.
She turned, lantern-light along her cheek. “Out,” she said, and the boy crept from under a crate—bare feet, wrists in iron, eyes too old for twelve.
“Please, miss. Don’t kill me.”
“What’s your name?” Zuri asked.
“They call me ‘boy.’ The Collins men said my name was their property. Said I’d serve till I was grown.”
“That is not a name.” She took the keys from the dead man’s belt, found the bite that fit, turned it. Iron fell to the floor. She touched his shoulder. “Stand.”
He stood, breathing like he was learning how.
“You are not a shadow. You are not a number.” Her voice stayed steady. “Your name.”
“Jabari,” he whispered.
Warmth softened her eyes for a heartbeat. “Brave one. Go to the deck. Find Queen’s Revenge. Tell them you sail free. Tell them Captain Zuri said so. Do you understand?”
He hesitated, as if the door of freedom was too bright to step through. Then he bolted toward Kwame and pressed himself into the great man’s side, as if the world lived there. Kwame lowered a broad, scarred hand over the boy’s hair.
“It’s over now,” he said, voice deep as earth. “You’re under my sky.”
Jabari clung—no triumph, only attachment. Then he nodded and moved where Kwame guided him, small shoulders learning how to square. Kwame watched him go, and heat lifted from the past: a king falling, smoke, the crack he could not stop. He had been chained then; he was not chained now. His palm flexed once, quiet promise.

Far down the dock a black carriage stopped. Lamps threw moth-gold in the wind. Jeremiah Collins stepped down with old-world grace and offered his hand to Josette DuPrés. FiFi tucked beneath her arm like a small white duchess.
“Welcome aboard,” he said softly. “My queen of the keys—may I show you the Naomi?”
“She’s beautiful,” Josette answered, eyes on the mast.
“Not half as beautiful as you against her.”
FiFi trotted ahead, nose quick, ears sharp. She sniffed a coil of rope, sneezed, and the hair along her back rose.
“She smells something,” Josette murmured.
“She always does,” Jeremiah said, but his smile thinned. “Strange. It’s too quiet.”
“Where is the crew?”
“Spending wages, I expect.” He kissed her knuckles. “Wait here. I won’t be long.”
Below, a door stood ajar, lanterns guttering the color of old bruises. Jeremiah pushed it open and stopped. Matthews’s cheek lay on the map. The dark around his head did not move.
“God,” he whispered.
A board sighed behind him. He turned and met her eyes.
Zuri stepped from shadow, half-lit, not smiling. In her gaze the road peeled backward—twelve years to dust and fire; thorn-birds crying in a red sky; a lioness fading into trees; a man’s voice breaking on a king’s name; a girl’s scream cutting the world; his rifle answering. King Koffi fell. He had grabbed the girl and slammed her into dirt. Let me go. Her rage had struck him like a curse.
“Zuri,” he breathed.
This was her revenge, and he would wear it.

Boots pounded above. FiFi barked—high and fierce.
Daylight, and judgment. Jeremiah surged onto the deck into Kwame’s path. The great hand rose like a verdict and fell with the weight of a broken decade. Blood beaded his lip. His wrists were yanked behind him. He lifted his chin anyway. Kwame did not smile when he struck him again. He did not enjoy it. He corrected the sum.
“Jeremiah!” Josette cried, running toward them.
“Don’t be afraid,” he managed.
Zuri crossed the deck with the knife at her hip like a promise. “Jeremiah Collins. You wear chains well.” Her glance touched Josette. “And you’ve brought a pretty bird.”
“What do you want?” Josette asked, voice steady though fear made her breath small.
“Him,” Zuri said, eyes never leaving Jeremiah. “And everything he stole.”
“I stole nothing,” he spat, because pride is the last coin a Collins will spend.
“That is not how I remember it,” she answered, close enough to taste iron in his breath.
“Take me,” Jeremiah said quietly. “Let her go.” He looked at Josette—lightning of guilt. “I’m sorry. I never meant—”
Zuri lifted her hand. Two men lunged.
Josette gasped and dropped FiFi. The little dog flashed like a spark, teeth finding an ankle. The sailor shouted; Josette tore free.
“FiFi—run! Get Papa! Save me!”
FiFi ran—white paws beating the planks like drumfire—under a swinging yard, over a coil of rope, straight between the ankles of a man who should not have been there. Slender, smirking, cloak catching smoke.
“Well now,” said Nicholas Blair, catching Josette as she collided with him, “a little bird in a very big hurry.”
“Who are you?” she gasped.
He smiled.
FiFi whirled and sank her teeth into his hand.
“Damn dog,” he hissed, shaking her off with a breath of cold that didn’t belong to weather.
Zuri’s eyes narrowed. “And where in the hell did you crawl from?”
“Below,” Nicholas said, grin tipping like a blade.
“I don’t give a damn where in the hell you came from,” Zuri said evenly.
“You will,” he murmured, tightening his hold on Josette, “eventually.”
“Go!” Josette cried to FiFi. “Go—get Papa!”
Nicholas dragged her back up the plank without effort. Zuri measured him—dock stray, dangerous, useful—and turned away.
“You brought me something I need,” she told the air, and lifted her voice for the only order that mattered. “Take what’s useful. Burn the rest.”
Barrels. Sacks. Crates. Gold. Then the fire—flames tasting the deck like an old curse. The Naomi groaned in her ribs. For one breath the blaze painted Zuri in gold—queen, sinner, survivor—and even the sea seemed to bow to her heat.

Far from the smoke, a white blur tore the night. FiFi ran until her chest hurt and the stars were salt scattered over dark silk. She ran by scent and memory—tar and rope, river and road, the warm stone of the DuPrés steps at noon, André’s hands, the lemon oil on piano keys. She dodged boots and skirts and fog. She did not look back.
She had one mission: Get help. Get Papa. Save Josette.
Light breathed behind lace at the edge of the estate. She clawed the door—scratched, barked, begged. It opened to the housekeeper, startled and soft with sleep. “Mon Dieu—la petite!”
FiFi streaked past like wind.
André DuPrés sat at his desk with a glass of wine and a melody that wouldn’t resolve. The window rattled. Then the dog struck his chest like a thrown star—soot-streaked, eyes wild, paws drumming his heart.
“FiFi?” André gasped, French climbing with fear. “Qu’est-ce qu’il y a, petite?”
“Mon frère?” Countess Natalie DuPrés stood in the doorway, hair unpinned, face pale.
“She’s trying to tell me—Josette—” André’s voice broke. He met FiFi’s eyes—and saw Josette there. “Natalie, the cards. Now. Read the sky, read me, read the bones if you must.”
The old deck slid from velvet into Natalie’s hands. She spread the arc upon the desk. FiFi placed a trembling paw on the top card and dragged.
The Empress.
Candlelight deepened, heart-red.
“She’s alive,” Natalie whispered. “Your daughter is alive.”
FiFi’s other paw struck out, urgent, another card leaping free, its edge nicking André’s wrist.
The Tower.
Smoke curled off the wick. “The tower falls,” Natalie breathed. “Everything breaks at once.”
“Then we move before it does,” André said, gathering FiFi close. “Harness. Lanterns. Men.”
“Go,” Natalie told him, her hand hovering over the spread as if listening to a tide. “There’s still time—but not much.”
At the harbor’s edge, Nicholas stood at the Naomi’s rail with a sailor’s coat thrown over silk, watching flame climb the rigging like a lit prayer. He smiled—patient as the tide. Behind him, Zuri did not look away from the crown of fire she had made. Kwame set his scarred hand on Jabari’s head. Somewhere under all of it, a bell still trembled in the deep, as if the world itself were learning how to wake.

Disclaimer:
Dark Shadows characters and storylines are the creation and property of Dan Curtis Productions.
Original characters — Captain Zuri Koffi, Kwame, Jabari, Sasha, Grim — are creations of the author.
FiFi is the sole property of Tina Lize.
🕯️ Written in the flame by Tina Lize | Nocturne of the Heart

Chapter Text

The morning sun poured a soft, gilded hush through the windows of Angelique’s beach house. Dust shimmered in the slant of light, warming her bare shoulders as she stood at the open shutters, hair unpinned and wild, eyes fixed on the turquoise sweep of sea.
Her thoughts drifted backward—old words returning like a sting of salt.
May thou fall deeply in love only to have it unrequited.
May thou search far and wide for that love, only to be betrayed in the end…
Just as thou hast betrayed me.
Judah Zachary’s curse—still clinging like a spider’s web across her heart.
And yet—below in the sunlight—Barnabas emerged from the barn, laughter bright and easy, shirtless and unguarded. With a careless whoop he dove, his body cleaving the water clean. Joy rolled off him like light, and the ache inside her loosened, if only for a breath.
Angelique smiled, the kind that starts in the soul and rises to the mouth. She let the linen fall, stepped barefoot across warm stone, and walked into the day.
Without hesitation—she dove.
The sea welcomed her like silk. Bubbles climbed past her cheeks. Barnabas swam ahead, strong and sure. She glided to him under the blue, fingers brushing his shoulder; he turned in surprise, and she grinned—a secret shared by water and light.
“Come with me,” she said when they surfaced, voice bubbling like laughter. “I want to show you something.”
His eyes met hers, open, glowing. “Anywhere.”
They cut through sunlit shallows past schools of silver that broke like falling stars. Turtles drifted beneath as if time itself wore a quiet shell. Angelique dove toward the reef, revealing a narrow cleft glittering with quartz. She slipped through. He followed.
The tunnel opened into a hidden grotto—a vaulted amphitheater of stone where the sea held its breath. From a fissure high above, a single shaft of light fell like a blessing, pouring gold into the turquoise pool.
A crescent of moss rose from the water, soft as a prayer.
Barnabas surfaced, blinking at the miracle. “You brought me to heaven.”
She smiled, soft and knowing. “Non, mon cœur. I brought you to me.”
He swam to the ledge and lifted her—gentle, almost reverent. Water threaded from her hair across his forearms in shining rivulets. The air between them filled with damp moss, salt, and sun.
“Angelique…” His hand rose to her cheek. “You are—” his voice thinned, then warmed—“I have never seen anything so beautiful.”
She leaned into his touch. “I want to give myself to you. Not because I am afraid… but because with you, I remember joy. You make me want to feel again.”
He searched her face as though memorizing the soul behind her eyes. “I did not believe I could be touched like this—not after what I have seen. Not after what I have done.”
She drew him down into the moss.
Their mouths met—slow, reverent, aching.
His hands traced the music of her ribs, her waist, her thighs. Her breath caught as he kissed the hollow at her collarbone, his fingers trembling with wonder. She answered with the map of her nails along his back, promising there would be no more wandering.
He entered her carefully, and they moved as sea and breath—no storm, but sunrise. Every stroke a promise; every kiss a vow. The grotto held their quiet sounds as if the world itself had chosen stillness to hear them. He cupped her face, his forehead against hers.
“Look at me,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Look at me. I love you.”
Her eyes opened—wide, shining. “I love you,” she breathed, and the hush crested through them, a tide that rose and rose and then let go.
—
The grotto fell utterly still.
Only their breathing remained, soft and uneven at first, then slowing until two hearts found the same rhythm. The sea did not lap, the air did not stir. It was as if the world itself had stopped to listen.
Angelique lay in the crook of his arm, the moss cool beneath her, his heartbeat steady against her ear. For a long moment they only looked at one another—eyes open, unblinking, a silent vow passing between them.
“I have never truly been in love,” she said at last, her voice barely more than breath. “I thought I knew love through Judah, but I see now… that was hunger and fear. This—” her hand moved to his chest “—this is peace. In this space, I am in love with you, Barnabas.”
He smiled, brushing a strand of wet hair from her cheek. “Angelique, I feel that space too. Only with you. It is new to me… and yet it feels like something I have been seeking all my life.”
Their mouths met again—slow, tender, grateful. When they parted, the hush returned, deeper than before.
She tilted her head. “Barnabas… do you hear that?”
He frowned, listening. “Only our hearts.”
But she heard something else. A faint swish beneath the surface, a sound like silk drawn through water. The pool shimmered—green light coiling, breaking.
From the depths, eyes opened—pale, luminous. A face lifted just beyond the ripple. A girl’s face, young, beautiful, her hair floating about her like sea grass. Sasha.
She watched them quietly, wonder softening the sharpness of her features. In that breathless space between the living and the drowned, she felt something she had almost forgotten—memory of warmth, of wings, of a heaven that once called her its own.
Angelique turned her head toward the sound. “Who’s there?” she whispered.
Only the faint trace of bubbles answered. The water stilled. Far below, Sasha descended again into the dark, her heart echoing with a feeling she could not name. She carried it with her, that shimmer of love, as though it were a forbidden light she might one day dare to touch.
Barnabas drew Angelique closer. “It’s nothing,” he murmured.
But she was not so certain. Somewhere beneath them, the world had begun to stir.
She sat up, her skin gleaming in the fractured light. “Come with me,” she said suddenly, laughter catching like sunlight in her voice. “The day is young. I want to show you my jungle.”
He smiled faintly, eyes half-closed. “Angelique, I could lie here forever, in this stillness, in you.”
She tugged his hand, playful now. “Ah, but I am full of energy and light. Come, mon amour—play with me.”
He laughed, weary but enchanted. “You tireless creature… you move like the wind itself.”
“Then rise, slow one,” she teased, tracing a wet finger down his chest. “Before I leave you behind.”
He sighed, surrendering to her joy. “If I must…”
“You must.” She leaned close, lips brushing his ear. “Or I’ll enchant you where you lie.”
Barnabas laughed again, that rare unguarded sound belonging only to her. He took her hand, and together they stepped toward the tunnel where sunlight spilled like liquid gold—the world outside waiting, alive, and unknowingly bewitched by her every breath.
—
They emerged into the blaze of morning. The jungle exhaled around them—wet earth, orchids, the hiss of unseen wings. Sunlight spilled through leaves like molten glass.
Angelique breathed it in with parted lips. “Can you hear it?” she whispered.
“Hear what?” he asked.
“The flower,” she said, plucking a crimson bloom. She pressed it to his nose. “It hums. Listen.”
He laughed softly. “You are a woman of energy, Angelique. You find music in everything.”
She closed her eyes, smiling. “Because everything is alive.”
She tilted her head as though listening to an invisible choir—the rustle of vines, the pulse inside the petals. The air seemed to shimmer. He watched, half-amused, half-uneasy; she was quicksilver—every sound an invitation, every step a spark.
Then, with a flicker, she was gone.
“Angelique?”
A whisper of laughter behind him. Arms around his waist, lips at his shoulder.
“Too slow, mon amour.”
He turned, startled, dizzy. “How—? You were—”
“Here,” she teased, eyes glinting. “And everywhere.”
Heat and scent spun his senses. “You move so quickly… the forest itself helps you.”
“It loves me,” she said simply, and darted ahead through the trees.
He followed, breath ragged, vines brushing his arms. “Angelique—wait—slow down!”
But she was already calling into the green, “Come, Mont Pelée! Show me your heart!”
From the canopy, a doe stepped delicately onto the path as though answering her. Birds shrieked in chorus; color scattered like sparks.
Barnabas could only stare as she ran laughing up the slope, hair flying, bare feet flashing between roots. She seemed less woman than wind, and he—human, earth-bound—could only chase.
By the time he reached the ridge he was breathless. Angelique stood at the crest, sunlight breaking around her like a halo. A parrot circled, feathers catching fire in the light.
She raised her arm. “Come down, precious one.”
The bird swooped and landed, talons light against her wrist. “What do you see?” she asked softly.
The parrot cocked its head and cried, voice shrill across the valley, “A ship in the cove! A black flag with bones that cross!”
Angelique’s eyes widened. “Crossbones?” She shaded her gaze, squinting toward the blue below. “Pirates…”
Barnabas climbed beside her, catching his breath. “You’re talking to the bird again?” he said with a tired laugh.
“Yes, mon amour,” she answered, calm and intent. “He sees what we cannot.”
The parrot flapped its wings, feathers flashing scarlet and gold. “I see a name upon the stern!”
“What name?” Angelique asked, lifting her arm.
“The Queen’s Revenge!”
Barnabas froze. The words hit like thunder. “The Queen’s Revenge…” his voice went hollow. “I’ve been aboard that ship.”
“You have?” Angelique startled at the tremor in his tone.
He nodded once, memory darkening his eyes. “Captain Zuri Koffi commands her.”
The parrot shrieked, urgent now. “Two prisoners below! A man and a woman! Bound in the hold!”
Angelique’s blood chilled. “Jeremiah Collins and Josette du Prés…” she breathed. “They’re alive!”
Barnabas seized her shoulders. “You’re certain?”
“I saw them through his eyes,” she whispered. “We must save them.”
His face went pale. “I must reach them before it’s too late.” He scanned the slope for a path to the sea; the parrot kept crying prisoners, as though time itself were running out.
Angelique caught his arm. “Wait—Barnabas, I can help you. Don’t you see? I have power. The forest listens to me. I can stop the tide, I can—”
He turned sharply, gripping her wrists. “You are a woman.” His voice shook—raw, urgent. “And the woman I love. That is enough. Go—now.”
She stared, disbelief flashing to hurt. “You command me?”
He swallowed. “If I must. Angelique, if anything happened to you—” The words broke. “Please. I beg you. Go to André. Tell him what you’ve seen. Bring men, bring powder. I will not risk your life.”
“You would risk your own and not mine? You would face Zuri Koffi alone?”
“I have faced worse,” he said, though his voice trembled. “My uncle’s life… Josette’s life… they depend on this.”
“Et moi?” she whispered. “Do I not matter?”
He cupped her face, desperate and tender at once. “You matter most of all. That is why you must go.”
For a heartbeat they stood in the wind, love and pride burning together. She drew a ragged breath, fury bright in her tears. “Très bien. I will do as you ask. But by all that I am—by every star that knows my name—I am coming back for you.”
He nodded once, unable to speak.
She turned, whistled sharply. From the shadowed trees came the thunder of hooves—Bolt, white and wild, gleaming as if carved from stormlight.
Angelique swung into the saddle, bare feet pressing his flanks. “Cours, Bolt—comme le vent!” (Run, Bolt—like the wind!)
The stallion reared, then leapt forward. Leaves burst into light around them as they vanished into the green.
—
The hoofbeats struck the cobblestones like thunder.
Angelique rode bareback through the torchlit gates of the DuPrés estate, hair streaming like a banner in the wind. The guards scattered as Bolt skidded to a halt, nostrils flaring smoke. She leapt from his back and burst into the marble hall.
“André!” she cried. “André—vite!”
The Count appeared at the landing, robe half-fastened, fury blazing. “Mon Dieu, Angelique—où étais-tu? Where have you been?” he thundered, descending two steps at a time. “Do you know what you’ve done? The Naomi is gone—burned to the keel! Josette is lost—Matthew dead! The men returned with nothing but ashes and madness!”
“I know!” she gasped, breathless, eyes wild. “But Josette lives—Jeremiah too. They’re captives in the caldera!”
He froze. “What did you say?”
“There is a pirate ship hidden in the cove,” she said, words tumbling. “A black flag with crossbones—its name The Queen’s Revenge!”
André gripped the banister, knuckles white. “A pirate ship…” He looked to the doorway where servants gathered, pale with dread. “They told me it was Captain Zuri—the devil woman from the western coast. She took the cargo, burned the Naomi, left the crew to drift. But Josette—” his voice broke. “Are you certain she’s alive?”
“I saw it through another’s eyes,” Angelique whispered. “They are bound in the hold. But we can save them—if we act now!”
He spun, barking orders in French. “Aux armes ! Rassemblez-vous !” A dozen voices answered; the house erupted into motion.
From the east corridor came Natalie DuPrés, silk robe trailing, her tarot clutched in one trembling hand. “Sainte Mère de Dieu! Angelique—where have you been? Why weren’t you with her? Why weren’t you protecting Josette?”
Angelique turned, chest heaving. “I am not her keeper!”
“You dare speak to me like that?” Natalie’s eyes flashed, cold and imperious.
Angelique’s tone softened, but not her truth. “I’ve been with Barnabas.”
Natalie froze, scandal rising like color in her cheeks. “Barnabas—Collins?”
“Yes.” Her chin lifted. “And I’m going back to him.”
André wheeled, fury rekindled. “Back to him? The boy meant to marry my daughter? Have you lost your senses, girl?”
“I don’t have time to argue!” she cried. “Every heartbeat lost is one closer to their death. Ready your ship, André! Ready your men!”
“Je n’ai qu’un seul navire,” he growled. “It is no warship—no cannon, no steel!”
“Then make it one,” she said. “You have able men. You have courage. That will do.”
“Barnabas will face pirates alone,” he said, despair leaking through rage. “He’ll be slaughtered.”
“Then I’ll die with him,” she answered simply.
André slammed a hand on the console. “You will do as I command!”
Angelique’s eyes shone, twin stars of defiance. “I have heard enough commands for one lifetime, Monsieur. From mistresses, from masters, and now from men who think love makes them kings.”
A sharp bark cracked the air. FiFi planted herself at Natalie’s slippers, silver ears high, bright eyes fixed on Angelique—as if to say go.
Angelique glanced down, a faint smile breaking through the storm. “Oui, ma belle… j’y vais.”
She turned toward the doors. Natalie’s voice followed, trembling. “Angelique—come back! You don’t know what you’re walking into!”
Without answering, she swept through the threshold. Bolt waited in the moonlight, tossing his mane as if he’d heard every word.
She stroked his neck, her voice falling to a prayer. “My brave one… he’s waiting. Take me to my love.”
Bolt snorted, eyes bright with knowing. The night wind lifted her hair; the stars sharpened, silver and cold.
“Fly with me,” she breathed. “Fly, mon chéri… fly like the wind.”
He reared, hooves striking sparks from stone—
and together they surged into the night, one creature, one heartbeat, white against the dark.
The wind howled her name across the mountains: “Angelique… Angelique…”
—End of Chapter 17.

🕯️ Disclaimer:
Dark Shadows characters and storylines are the property of Dan Curtis Productions. Original characters—Captain Zuri Koffi, Sasha, Grim, Bolt, and related new mythic elements—are the sole creation and property of Tina Lize. FiFi (Phoebe) is the sole property of Tina Lize.
🕯️ Written in the flame by Tina Lize | Nocturne of the Heart
🔥✨ Nocturne of the Heart ✨🔥
🕯️ Written in the flame by Tina Lize
Where shadows live, love lingers, and sorrow becomes light.
#WrittenInTheFlame

Chapter Text

The cell was damp and dark, its walls slick with salt and moss. A single torch in the corridor guttered and breathed, smearing light through the bars.
In the corner, Josette DuPrés and Jeremiah Collins pressed close, shivering against the stone.
Her voice was a fragile thread.
“I’m scared, Jeremiah… I don’t want to die.”
He drew her into his arms, steady, protective.
“Dry your dress as best you can, Josette. I’m here. I won’t let them touch you.”
She rested her cheek against his shoulder.
“I held my mother’s hand when it went cold. My father—he screamed until his voice broke. I thought freedom would cure the fear, but now… I only want to live.”
Jeremiah’s jaw tightened.
“I know the weight of fear. And guilt.”
He spoke low, the words heavy.
“My brother dealt in chains. He taught me to count profit where a soul should be. I followed him. Once, I struck down a king who begged for his daughter. I’ve carried his eyes ever since.”
Josette lifted a trembling hand and brushed his hair from his brow.
“You are not that man now. I see better in you.”
He lowered his forehead to hers.
“If there’s any redemption left in me, it’s because of you.”
The sea murmured beyond the hull. The torch hissed. Time slowed.
Josette swallowed.
“I’ve never… been with anyone. I always thought I would wait—until I wasn’t afraid. But fear doesn’t leave, does it? Maybe we only learn something stronger.”
His voice softened.
“You never have to do what you don’t choose.”
“I choose you,” she whispered. “If you’ll… show me how to feel alive.”
He cupped her face—gentle, reverent.
“You’re beautiful, Josette. A treasure. I’ll be careful. I’ll listen to every breath.”
Her smile shook.
“Then stay. Stay with me.”
Their kiss was slow. He guided her the way a good man unlearns violence—hands tender, words quiet. She was nervous and brave; he was steady and awed. The torch dipped; the world narrowed to breath, to warmth, to the soft vow of trust given and kept.
They did not hurry. They learned each other. The darkness eased.
When stillness returned, they lay close, fingers laced.
“I’m yours,” she breathed. “And you’re mine.”
“Together,” he murmured, kissing her brow.
Far above, The Queen’s Revenge creaked—alive, listening.

The sandbar had opened as Angelique Dubois promised, narrow as a blade. Where the bar sank into black water, Zuri’s ship waited, lanterns low.
Barnabas Collins came like shadow. He slid from the last swell, caught a trailing line, and climbed—hand over hand, patient and silent. He paused beneath the rail, listening: boots crossing, a laugh, the scrape of a tin cup. He eased himself up, a knife between his teeth.
The first sailor leaned out over the dark, bored, humming.
Barnabas’s hand covered the man’s mouth; the knife flashed once—clean, quiet. The body folded without a cry. Barnabas caught the falling saber, tested its weight, and melted into shadow.
Two paces. Breath steady.
A second man—broad, greasy-fingered—turned down the companionway with a crust in hand. Barnabas stepped in smoothly, steel across the throat, lowering him to the planks. No thud. No alarm.
He wiped the blade. Listened. Moved.
Down into the hold. Down toward iron.
From the cell, Jeremiah looked up, relief breaking across his face.
“By God… you made it.”
Barnabas’s voice was low.
“Good things come to those who wait, Uncle.”
Jeremiah caught the saber tossed through the bars.
“You’ve your mother’s timing.”
Josette pressed a hand to her mouth.
“Barnabas… you came.”
“I’m getting you out,” he said, working the lock. “Quietly.”
The shackle slid free. Josette’s fingers trembled in his for half a heartbeat—then he placed her hand into Jeremiah’s.
“Stay behind him,” he murmured. “Keep low.”
They moved like breath in a chapel—soft-footed, listening, alive.

On the open deck, Captain Zuri Koffi stood at the rail, gaze steady, shoulders squared to the dark water. Her ship was calm beneath her, as if it knew her pulse.
“Mama,” she said without turning, “you feel it too?”
Mama Ya stepped into the lantern-glow, shawl tugged close.
“Oui, Capitaine. Sea talk tonight. Somethin’ wrong on de wind.”
Zuri’s eyes flicked toward the quarterdeck.
“Nicholas Blair?”
Mama Ya spat delicately over the side.
“Dat man… he smoke an’ shadow. He smile sweet, but no light in he. Keep you eye sharp, ma fille.”
Zuri’s mouth curved—a humorless line.
“No man plays me twice.”
“Bon.” Mama Ya’s bracelets chimed. “I see trouble come quick. Hold tight to you name, Capitaine.”
From the mast’s shadow, Nicholas Blair strolled into view, all silk and teeth.
“Talking of me again, my dears?” He tipped an invisible hat. “Small matter: we seem to have a prison break.”
Zuri didn’t blink.
“Find them,” she said. “Bring them—alive or bleeding.”
Mama Ya’s eyes slid past Nicholas toward the companionway.
“De smoke done talk. Now fire go walk.”

Below, the hold bristled awake.
A guard rounded the corner; Jeremiah’s saber met his with a clang, once—twice—then Barnabas’s borrowed blade took the man behind the knee and ended it with a quiet thrust. Josette kept to the shadows as told—eyes sharp, breathing thin.
They reached the stair.
“Go,” Barnabas breathed. “Now. To the starboard rail—”
“What about you?” Jeremiah hissed.
“I’m two steps behind.”
They started up.
The door burst wide.
Kwame filled the frame like a storm you could touch—broad-shouldered, fast. Barnabas pivoted, steel already rising—
Kwame’s hand clamped his wrist. A twist—bone ground. The saber spun from Barnabas’s fingers and clattered across the planks. In the same motion, Kwame turned, trapped Barnabas’s arm, and drove him down hard to one knee.
Mama Ya appeared at the top of the stair, gaze steady as a tidepool.
“Dis one too proud to bend,” she said softly. “We bend him.”
Captain Zuri came forward, calm as a queen. Lanternlight traced gold through her braids.
“You trespass on my deck, monsieur,” she said, voice even. “All debts are paid on this wood.”
Barnabas glared up at her, breath heaving, rope biting his wrists as Kwame pinned him fast.
From the distance—already hauled aboard André DuPrés’s ship—Jeremiah saw it. His nephew forced to one knee beneath Kwame’s grip, Zuri standing before him like a verdict.
Josette clutched Jeremiah’s sleeve, tears bright.
“Jeremiah… they’ve taken him.”
Jeremiah’s hand covered hers, helpless and burning.
Out on the water, The Queen’s Revenge did not flee; she turned with deliberate grace, her lanterns steady, her captain in command.

On André’s deck, father and daughter finally collided.
André DuPrés crushed Josette to his chest, shaking, kissing her hair, her hands, her wet cheeks.
“Ma fille ! Mon ange ! Ma petite Josette ! Dieu merci… tu es vivante.”
He looked past her to Jeremiah—sodden, scraped, eyes raw.
“You brought her home.”
Jeremiah bowed his head.
“She saved me first, Monsieur… in every way that matters.”
But his eyes never left the other ship.
Barnabas Collins was still aboard The Queen’s Revenge—and Zuri held all the cards.

Disclaimer
Dark Shadows and its canonical characters belong to Dan Curtis Productions. This is a transformative, non-commercial fan work.
Original characters and lore in the 803 Martinique arc—including Captain Zuri Koffi, Mama Ya, and Kwame—are creations of Tina Lize.
🕯️ Written in the flame by Tina Lize | Nocturne of the Heart

Chapter Text

The sky held its breath.
From the rim of Mount Pelée, Angelique stood barefoot, her white gown snapping in the wind. The night pressed against her skin, thick with heat and silence. Her hair whipped wild, streaks of silver catching the moonlight as though the mountain itself marked her as its own.
Below, in the dark cradle of the caldera, The Queen’s Revenge drifted like a waiting gallows. Lanterns swung, their light trembling across the deck where a man in chains was being dragged toward the sea.
Angelique lifted her arms. For too long she had hidden what she was. The wind tore at her words as she cried out to the sleeping mountain, voice raw with love and fury.
“Écouté mwen! Listen to me!” she shouted. “Mòn ki dòmi, leve! Ban mwen nonm mwen!”
(Sleeping mountain, rise! Give me back my man!)
The earth answered with a low, rolling tremor.
Lightning cracked along the ridge, stitching fire across the sky.
Angelique’s eyes turned gold.
Her hair, pale as ash, lifted in the rising wind.
“Si lanmè pa ban mwen li, m’a kraze syèl la!”
(If the sea will not give him to me, I will break the sky!)
And the storm woke.
The roar of the wind came first.
Then the sea began to move.
On the deck of The Queen’s Revenge, sailors froze as the waves rolled higher than the masts. Lightning forked above them, white and blinding.
“Hold her steady!” Captain Zuri shouted, planting her boots wide, hands on the wheel. “Reef those sails before they tear clean off!”
Chains rattled.
Two men dragged Barnabas Collins across the slick boards. His wrists were bound raw, his back striped from the lash, salt burning in every cut.
He didn’t resist; his eyes were fixed on the black cliffs ahead, where the mountain glowed faintly around its crown.
“Walk, Collins,” sneered Kwame, pressing the tip of his saber between Barnabas’s shoulders. “Time for your dance with the sea.”
At the helm, Nicholas Blair lifted his hand, trying to summon control over the storm. A blue shimmer sparked around his fingers—then vanished, like breath on glass.
He frowned, tried again. The air refused him.
“This isn’t mine,” he muttered. “Someone else is moving the wind.”
“Not someone,” Mama Ya said from the stern, her voice rising over the gale. Her shawl snapped around her shoulders, beads clattering like bones. “Dis no storm magic, chile. Dis love gone wrong. Dis woman cryin’ for her man—an’ de mountain listen.”
Nicholas turned sharply, rain streaming down his face. “You mean her,” he said. “The witch.”
Mama Ya crossed herself quick and low. “Oui. De witch o’ de mountain. You best pray she stop cryin’, boy. Sky gon’ break if she don’t.”
“Enough!” Zuri barked. “Tie that prisoner. He goes over!”
Kwame shoved Barnabas forward until his toes met the edge of the plank. The wind tore his shirt open; the sea waited below, black as oil.
“Any last words?” Kwame jeered.
Barnabas lifted his head. Through the storm he thought he saw her—a pale figure on the cliffs, hair flying wild, lightning crowning her shoulders.
He closed his eyes, whispering her name. “Angelique.”
Kwame pushed.
The plank tilted—
and Barnabas fell.
The ocean swallowed him whole.
The first wave struck before anyone could breathe.
It didn’t rise—it appeared, a black wall that hit broadside and lifted The Queen’s Revenge like a toy. Men screamed; the deck heaved; ropes snapped and whipped through the rain.
“Hold fast!” Zuri’s shout broke across the thunder. She caught the wheel, shoulders shaking with effort. “Cut the fore line—now!”
Kwame wrapped both arms around the mast. “Cap’n, she’s breakin’!”
The sky split open. Lightning came in sheets, blinding white. Every strike showed a new ruin—rigging gone, sails torn to ribbons, the sea boiling against the hull.
Nicholas staggered to his knees, water slapping his face. He raised his hand again, forced a circle of blue fire—then cried out when it burst in his palm and died.
“Impossible,” he hissed. “That’s her. She’s calling the storm.”
Mama Ya crouched beside a coil of rope, muttering fast in a language older than the ship itself. Ash and salt washed from her fingers as quickly as she could lay them.
“Lawd, she weepin’ through de clouds,” she said, voice breaking. “An’ heaven cry wid her. Dis love—too strong, too wild. It don’ know mercy.”
A second wave hit. The mast groaned, split clean through, and toppled into the sea.
Nicholas looked up into the lightning and, for one heartbeat, saw her—small against the mountain’s edge, hair burning white, arms lifted like wings.
“She’ll drown us all,” he whispered.
And the mountain woke, just as she had begged it to.
Far across the raging channel, André DuPrés’s ship pitched hard to starboard.
“Where did this come from?” he yelled above the wind.
“The sky was clear ten minutes ago!” one of his sailors shouted back.
Josette clung to the rail until her fingers bled. The storm howled through the rigging; waves crashed so high she couldn’t tell sea from sky. Then she heard it—a frantic bark, sharp and close.
“FiFi!”
Out of the darkness, a small white poodle scrambled across the deck, soaked to the skin, eyes bright with terror and loyalty. Josette dropped to her knees as FiFi leapt straight into her arms.
“Oh, ma petite! Mon ange!” Josette pressed her face into the wet fur. “You found me—you saved me!”
FiFi barked again, ears flat, body trembling. She turned her little head toward the volcano and whined, as though she sensed who had called the storm.
André caught the look, his own eyes widening. “That’s no natural tempest,” he said hoarsely. “Something’s risen out of the mountain itself.”
No one answered. The wind roared so loud it swallowed every prayer.

🕯️ Dark Shadows and its characters belong to Dan Curtis Productions.
This is a transformative fan work created with love and respect for the original.
FiFi, Mama Ya, and Captain Zuri are the sole creations of Tina Lize.
No infringement intended.
🕯️ Written in the flame by Tina Lize | Nocturne of the Heart

Chapter Text

Barnabas hit the water like stone. The chains yanked him down before he could scream. Salt burned his throat; the cold bit deep. He fought upward, but the weight owned him. Light vanished. Angelique… forgive me.
In a cavern of glass and ash, Grim collapsed, wings torn. He dropped a shard of green fire into a pool. Sasha leaned over it. “Look, my flame—you have to see this.”
The Dark One stirred. “Who disturbs me?”
“Angelique,” she whispered. “She’s calling the mountain.”
He frowned. “She’s never used that power.”
“She does it for him—the one they threw to the sea.”
The pool widened. Angelique stood on the rim of Mount Pelée, hair silver, eyes gold, screaming at the heavens. Lightning obeyed her.
“She’ll burn herself out,” the Dark One muttered.
“Then let her,” Sasha said softly. “She’s beautiful.”
Rain slashed the deck of The Queen’s Revenge. Captain Zuri fought the wheel, boots slipping on the slick boards. “Cut the line before she drags us under!” she shouted.
Nicholas Blair threw up his hands—blue sparks hissed and died in the rain. Zuri snarled, “Your tricks are worthless!”
Mama Ya clutched the rail, eyes wide and bright. “He no sailor, Cap’n—he devil’s pet!”
“I’ve got no time for riddles!” Zuri barked. “Kwame! Hold the wheel!”
Mama Ya shook her head. “No, child. You look at me now.” She raised her arms to the black sky. Rain poured over her as she began to move—slow circles, bare feet slapping the deck, voice rising above the thunder.
Bondyé écouté mwen!
Fè li sove lanmou li!
Fè fèy mòn louvri pou li desann nan lanmè!
(God, hear me! Let her save her love! Let the mountain open its leaves and send her down into the sea!)
Zuri stared, bewildered, while Nicholas backed away, sparks dying in his palms. Mama Ya spun faster, skirts clinging, tears mingling with rain. “She cry for her man,” she shouted. “So I cry too! Go witch—go save him! Let love win!”
Lightning cracked overhead. Then—silence. The wind broke mid-howl. The sea flattened to a long sigh.
Zuri gripped the rail, stunned. “What in God’s name…”
Kwame crossed himself. “It stop.”
Mama Ya lifted her arms, laughing through tears. “My prayer work!” she cried. “My Bondyé hear me! My prayer stronger than devil magic!”
Nicholas glared at her, rain dripping from his face, his power useless.
And far above them, the mountain answered—a distant roar as Angelique leapt from the rim into the storm below.
Beneath the surface, Angelique plunged through black water. Cold crushed her chest. “Barnabas!” Her cry broke into bubbles. She saw him—chained, still. “No… not you.” She seized the links, pulled till her shoulders screamed. Nothing. She shouted an old word; the metal split with a sharp crack. She wrapped her arm around him and kicked toward the surface.
They broke through in a roar of foam. “Barnabas!” She struck his chest. “Wake up! Dammit, breathe!” Nothing. “Don’t leave me. I won’t be alone again!” She gave him her breath. Again. And again.
A cough—then a rush of seawater. He gasped, eyes dazed. “Are you… an angel?”
“Oh, how I wish I were,” she whispered. “I’m Angelique.”
Relief stole her strength. She held him close, shaking. “Bolt!” she cried. “Bolt, I need you! Come quickly!”
Hooves thundered from mist. The white stallion broke through the waves, mane gold, eyes fierce. “Come, my magnificent one,” she whispered. “Help me.”
Bolt knelt. Angelique dragged Barnabas across his back, climbed up, clutching her side. “Go!” He lunged forward, hooves pounding a narrow sandbar glowing beneath the water. The sea clawed at them, the path breaking apart. “Hold on,” she whispered, arms around Barnabas.
Bolt raced the collapsing bar, leaping the last breath of land before it vanished. He staggered onto solid sand, sides heaving. Angelique slid down, nearly falling. She turned to Barnabas. His lips trembled. “You saved me,” he whispered. She brushed his cheek. “Don’t you ever make me do that again.” He managed a faint smile. “You owe me a warning next time.”
Her knees gave. “Cold… so cold.” Bolt lowered his head beside her. Barnabas lifted her, carried her inside the cliffside cottage, and laid her near the hearth. His hands shook striking flint until flame caught.
“Your hair… it’s silver.”
“It happens when I spend too much,” she said weakly. “Silver means empty.”
“Rest. You’re safe.”
“I don’t feel safe. Not from what I saw down there.”
“What did you see?”
She pointed at the fire. “Build it higher. Look into it.”
He stared into the fire. For a moment all he saw was light—orange, breathing, alive. Then the flame deepened to red, and the cottage fell away.
He stood in a field of smoke and noise. A stake burned in the center. A woman screamed, her hair catching the wind before the fire claimed it. “Burn the witch!” the crowd cried.
Through the smoke, a small girl watched—no more than twelve. A tall man bent beside her, his hand on her shoulder. “Come, Angelique,” the man said softly. “Come away. I will protect you.” Barnabas didn’t know the name, only the voice—smooth, coaxing, heavy with command. Somewhere behind them the air shimmered with unnatural heat. The child shivered. “Mama…” “Forget her,” the man murmured. “I will make you strong.”
The smoke folded over them.
When it cleared, she was eighteen, radiant, laughing as Judah Zachary fastened a ruby at her throat. “This kind of beauty deserves a beautiful stone,” he said. Angelique twirled before the mirror. “Oh Judah, it’s so beautiful!” She threw her arms around him. “You always make everything seem possible.” He smiled. “Tonight we go to the theatre, my darling. Let them see what perfection looks like.”
Music swelled—then thunder cracked.
The theatre dissolved into a courtroom. Torches guttered against stone. Angelique stood at the bar, trembling. Across from her was Silas, his preacher’s collar gleaming. “Testify,” he ordered. “Testify, or you will burn next.”
Judah stood bound, fury in his eyes. In the shadows, an old man leaned toward Angelique—stooped, gray-bearded, brown eyes glinting. Nicholas Blair, disguised. “Use this,” he whispered, slipping a knife into her hand. “Proof—the Devil’s mark still bleeds upon it.”
Angelique, desperate, slammed the knife onto the magistrate’s desk. “Here! This is what he used—there’s blood on it still!”
The judge recoiled as blackish blood steamed against the wood. “Guilty,” the magistrate declared. “Judah Zachary shall die by guillotine.”
Judah’s roar shook the hall. “You betray me, child!” Angelique covered her face, trembling. Silas only smiled.
Rain fell on Paris stone. The guillotine loomed. Barnabas felt the crush of bodies, the stench of iron and fear. Silas held Angelique’s arm. “Watch. He will lose his head—and I will take all he ever owned, including you.” He tore the ruby from her throat.
Above them a crow circled—black wings slick with rain, one green eye glinting like fire. It landed on the beam above the blade, head cocked, watching. Judah looked up and gave a bitter laugh. “Even the carrion wait for me.”
He turned his gaze on Silas. “Damn you, preacher! Walk forever in darkness. Feed on blood, never sleep, never die—let the hunger eat your soul!” Then he looked to Angelique—rage and love twined. “And you, my betrayer—carry my power, more than any mortal heart can bear. You will love, and you will be betrayed, again and again!”
The blade fell. The crowd screamed. But the head never reached the basket. It plunged through smoke and light—down into flame. From the depths, a clawed hand wreathed in fire shot upward and caught it. A face rose beneath the blaze—perfect, terrible, eyes like burning coal.
“I have him,” the voice thundered. “And soon… I will have her.”
The sound ripped through Barnabas. The world shattered.
He was back in the cottage, falling to his knees before the hearth. The fire crackled innocently. “Oh God… oh God, protect me,” he gasped. Then he saw her—Angelique, shaking beneath the blankets, lips white, eyes half-closed. He gathered her into his arms. “Protect her too,” he whispered. “Please… protect her too. I love her.”
Outside, the wind sighed. Inside, only two hearts beat, and the storm began to fade.
Disclaimer:
🕯️ Dark Shadows and its characters belong to Dan Curtis Productions. This is a transformative fan work created with love and respect for the original. FiFi, Bolt, Sasha, Mama Ya, and Captain Zuri are the sole creations of Tina Lize. No infringement intended.
🕯️ Written in the flame by Tina Lize | Nocturne of the Heart