Chapter 9: Passion and Deceit
by Stephen Shutt
Voiceover (Donald Briscoe): "Collinwood in the year
1967--and a late evening mist shrouds the Great House in a chill
canopy, seemingly spun of spiderwebs and suspicion. Suspicion is in
the air at Collinwood, for a new bride has come to the estate, bearing
in her breast an ancient hatred known only to herself--and to one
other, himself the harbinger of many secrets."
"How do I let him talk me into these things?" she mused sleepily to
herself, as she lit a cigarette. His warm, slightly rough hands
(surprising how soft they were, really, given how hard he worked with
them) massaged her back with just those slow steady strokes that
were perhaps the purest physical pleasure she'd ever known. In the
back of her mind lurked the now unregarded, yet still anciently
cherished memory of Daddy gently scrubbing her back in a kitchen
tub on a Saturday night at some dim point in her babyhood, in a Philly
suburb. Early Bronze Age.
"Julia," that rich masculine voice drawled erotically into her ear, and
she shivered involuntarily.
"Tom," she said as coolly as she knew how, yet found herself turning
to him the way a leaf turns towards the sun. He pressed into her, still
half soft, and she smiled drowsily at the pleasure the feeling of him
within her body always gave. The smell of him was intoxicating--the
feel of his warm flesh, all soft yet strong deliciousness, was still more
so. A harsh note sounded within the symphony of his hands on her
breasts and his tongue in her mouth as she found the part of herself
that always seemed to stand by watching the two of them make love
asking cynically: "Really, Julia, aren't you a little old for this schoolgirl
routine?"
"Tom ... please, sweetie ..."
"Oh, God, I love you, Julia ..."
"Tom ... please!"
At the sharp, strident note in her voice he pulled back abruptly, and
his eyes flew open, alarmed. "What is it, honey? Was I getting too
rough with you?"
She smiled, and sighed, taking a long pull on that cigarette. "No, dear.
Not at all. I just--have to get--going ..." She bounced out of bed and
started fumbling for her bra and panties where they lay discarded by
the chair.
He couldn't help sighing as he fell back into bed, then raised himself
up on an elbow to watch her, a little lewdly, as she dressed with that
slightly awkward, rough, no-nonsense way she did everything--except
for making love. "Wham, bam, thank you Mister--eh?" he drawled,
only half joking.
Her giggle rolled radiantly around the room. "Oh, Tom, really!" She
came over to the bed in her bra and slip and sat down and held him.
She tousled his hair and he pulled her down for a slow, thoughtful kiss
that should have pierced the core of her--but didn't.
"How come you always have time for everybody except me?" He
was trying hard to sound playful--too hard. She could hear the
wheedling note of desperation in his voice. She paused, at a loss as to
what to say.
"Tom--"
"Okay, forget I said that," he offered manfully. "I'm being pushy again,
aren't I? Asking for too much? Y'know, being Dr. Julia Hoffman's
boyfriend just may be the toughest gig in town."
She laughed at that, and hugged him. "Honestly, Tom, I never did
know what you saw in me. Skinny old harridan--no boobs, no
bottom--"
He rang a finger along her lips, silencing her with a playful, romantic
smile. "No boobs? That's not what I heard." He touched her, softly
and secretively, in a VERY private place, and grinned with boyish
enthusiasm. She yielded then to his kisses, his passion, his renewed
vitality, but even as she threw her head back and linked her legs
around his waist, in her heart she knew it wasn't going to last much
longer.
And she didn't mean this particular bout of lovemaking, either.
~ ~ ~
Cassandra was perfect, Roger Collins reflected--perfect in every
way. Her porcelain cheeks blushed with peachbloom restraint, her
pale pink lips curved in a strangely alluring smile, and her great eyes
were like lakes of crystal in which a man might happily lose himself.
Lose himself ...
"Oh darling, we're going to be so happy," he murmured fervently,
leaning down to clasp her around the waist where she sat at the
vanity, fiddling with her hairbrush. He buried his face with romantic
ardor in her hair, inhaling the odors of cologne, rosewater, and a
strange, rank, bitter smell like the reek of a long unopened grave.
Shocked, he let go of her, and stood up abruptly.
"Yes, we are," she said distantly, not really paying attention, her mind
seething with plans and schemes. "Roger, dearest, pour me a drink,
will you? There's some champagne left over there, I'm sure."
He moved slowly over to the bureau, where Mrs. Johnson had left the
bottle and the two elegant glasses of Lalique crystal. He stared slowly
around the familiar furnishings of his room. A fog seemed to be
lifting--or was it falling? He hadn't a clue. "I ... I can't believe it," he
stuttered most uncharacteristically aloud.
"What did you say, darling?" Cassandra asked, her voice suddenly
sharp and focused upon him.
"I ... must've been out of my mind ..."
Swiftly as a cobra, she was at his side, her sharply nailed hands
pinning his arms, her face inches before his. "Roger ... look at me. I'm
your wife, Cassandra. You love me ... remember?"
"Love ... you?" He felt suddenly confused, but there was no denying
the power--the COMPELLING power--of those eyes, that
shimmered with a mad, dreadful radiance.
"Yes ... darling," she snapped, unable to keep an irritable edge out of
the endearment. Diabolos take him, what's the matter? The spell
should have taken firm hold upon him by now.
She watched him shuffle shakily over to the window, throwing open
the casement and inhaling deeply. He needed air--he needed to
breathe--he needed to remember where he was--WHO he was.
It was the work of but a moment for her to shake the aconite powder
into his drink. Not enough to kill him, or even make him ill--just a
special decoction to weaken his will--and subjugate it fully to hers.
"Roger--dear," she cooed, "please drink your champagne. And then
let's sit down and discuss this like civilised people. I couldn't bear
tears tonight ... my wedding night ... my first night as Mrs. Roger
Collins?"
He looked down at her then, at her shining tender eyes, and didn't
even see the cruelty in those quirking, trembling lips. "Of course,
darling," he managed, gulping down his champagne, wishing it were
something stronger. Perhaps some of Grandfather Edward's special
Irish whiskey--something with a kick to it. He remembered being
around the old man as a kid, when he was in his cups. The stories
he'd heard...
God, his head was swimming. He looked at Cassandra, and suddenly
saw her for what she was--a refuge. In this world, with all its
changing, confusing, inconsistent idiocies, only Cassandra was real.
"Only you are real," he murmured, not even aware that she was
cooing the words along with him. "I exist to serve you. To worship
you. To ... love ... you ..."
He didn't even feel the fall when he toppled into bed, fully clothed.
Inscrutably she watched him for a moment, her eyes flecks of wintry
ice. "Fool," she hissed, and then was gone.
~ ~ ~
The flames in Laura Collins' eyes mirrored those in the fireplace as
she stared malevolently at the image of the sleeping Roger Collins.
"Oh great god Ra," she murmured, "why have you failed me? Why
have you allowed Roger Collins to live? You know that he stands
between me and my son, whom you have commanded me to bring
before you, to partake of your glory and splendor. Let your eternal
fire reach out to him now. Let it take him, and burn him, and destroy
him! Amen-Ra, astu aa!" She stared deeply into the flames, holding
up the divine scarab Ra had sent her, to aid her in concentrating her
will. "Amen-Ra, astu aa!" she crooned again, imperiously. "Let the
flames rise! Let them come forth! Let Roger Collins be destroyed!"
An explosion of unstoppable force slammed into her, as a violent gust
of wind blew open the cottage door, extinguishing the flames.
Knocked backwards, Laura screamed, as the scarab flew out of her
hands and shattered on the hearth tiles before her very eyes. Chill air
enfolded her, and she stretched out her hands to rekindle the flames in
the fireplace. Still more chilling peals of laughter echoed and rang all
around her, and she wheeled to face the slim, strangely familiar
woman with the dark hair who stepped forth from the shadows, from
the night, her teeth bared in an unpleasant smile. "You!" she gasped,
disbelieving the evidence of her own eyes. "But it can't be! It isn't
possible! You're--"
"Dead?" Cassandra cooed coyly. "But, my dear, couldn't the same be
said of you? Laura Stockbridge Murdoch Collins--one of the
legendary beauties of the Collins family. How could I not recognize
you? The grave has not tarnished your perfection, my dear. I must
congratulate you on that. And I must warn you to leave
Collinwood--now--or face your own destruction!"
Laura's chin came up, and she faced her adversary with a coldly
disdainful smile. "Miranda DuVal!" she hissed venomously, as if the
name were poison upon her tongue. "I might have known that I hadn't
seen the last of you. The last time we met, you thwarted my plans. But
this time I have an ally ... one that could move even you to step
aside!"
"Oh, really!" Cassandra snarled, her face contorting. "I doubt that.
And I will not warn you a second time. Return to your grave, Laura
Collins--or allow me the pleasure of helping you back
there--permanently!"
Laura's laughter was low and mocking. "You think you can dispose of
me that easily, Miranda? I'm not like those pathetic fools you whisk
into submission by just batting your eyelashes at them. And I am
armed this time, with a force even you have reason to fear!" She held
up one slender, pale hand, and snatched a huge torch out of the
empty air. Its flames burnt with a merry orange ebullience as
Cassandra stared at it in horror. "By royal Bast's command, this night
you WILL be burnt to the uttermost cinder of your being, and your
ashes will be scattered to the winds, never to rise again! Prepare for
eternity, WITCH!" And she flung the torch, as Cassandra's screams
cut through the night air like a harrowing scythe ...
To Be Continued ...
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