Am I the greatest storyteller of my generation?  Never.  However, I may be the most prolific and harried and perplexed.  When Roxanne’s ghost was summoned, and when she put the blame of her vampirism onto Angelique (which is not entirely false), I began to lie at a rate that I could have only learned from Willie Loomis.  As far as they know, Angelique’s name caused me to start because “she was my mother.”  Which, if I am my own son, is vaguely true.

But why?  Why not let her accept the blame for her witchcraft and let a town in a theological blood-frenzy do the rest?  Certainly, I want her to be careful so that she remains a resource to detect the real witch for whom Quentin stands trial.  And I want to know what is truly wrong with her.  How can she care so much, and yet so vindictive?  Which side is dominant?  If she does go on to heal me in 1897, will that be the real Angelique or is this dark angel of malice?

I am a man consumed by the unknown because I feel that so much of the unknown has consumed me.  That all begins and ends with Angelique.  As much as the Collins in me wants to know the secret of “Quentin’s witch,” I, Barnabas, am far more driven by this question of Angelique.  Why does she follow me through the centuries?  She is a dark goddess.  I am just an afflicted man.  How can I be of interest when she still hates me so?  Where does evil in her end and love begin?  I may bellow to the skies over her, but she has equal measures of each.  The agony she inflicts is no lie.  But neither was the love I knew in Martinique.

I have answered each riddle hurled at me through the ages.  Except for this.  And it is the one I am never allowed to forget.




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