by CollinsKid
and jamaica
do you know do you know what i have done
mary m. weaving
said what you want is in the blood, senators
said what you want is in the blood, senators...
- tori amos, 'talula'
walk like an egyptian.
- the bangles, ‘walk like an egyptian’
you got a tornado that sets me on fire...
you got a tornado that sets me on fire...
you got a tornado that sets me on fire...
- garbage, 'tornado'
Voiceover (Alexandra Moltke): "My name is Victoria Winters. The
darkest portents slide over the moon on this black night, and the
psyche of this barren land atrophies in catatonic horror , as two
thrice-damned malefic harridans do bloody battle. For in the
energy-choked air surrounding their dance of death hangs the final tip
to the scale of a vicious balance -- an unholy measure of the power of
the damned and the dead that awards to the victor a horrifying
spoils:the fates of the Collins family."
*/*/*
cottage (burn witch)
The torch landed with a crackle at her feet, and then the air around
Cassandra Collins exploded into fire.
The room instantly transformed into a charnel pit, but all Laura Collins
could do was smile, her lips glossed with venom. Red and orange light
flooded the walls, the paint peeled and bled, pink smoke roiled and
ash and sparks hisssed and crackled, and at the epicenter of it all, the
raging bonfire that was Cassandra screamed and screamed like
something far below human. The new Mrs. Roger Collins was a
writhing, twisting, burning thing in a smoldering minidress -- Laura
could smell that silly black hair -- and no matter how those
perfectly-manicured hands struggled to beat away the flames it was
simply too far gone. Laura inhaled the burning flesh, the festering pox,
and watched that fool-woman scourge away.
But just then, the flames begin to not sizzle so, and the burning embers
started to die, and Cassandra started to stop thrashing. Laura at first
thought the witch was expiring, but then she realized with shock and
disbelief that the fire was actually SUBSIDING -- impossible! -- and
Cassandra was being restored before her eyes. Third, first,
second-degree burns faded; burning blood recongealed and slipped
back under the skins; gore and flesh merged and settled down;
mushed sinew reknitted. Cassandra was re-assembling , and the fire
was fading away like a mirage more every second.
Then, with a puff of smoke, it was all gone, the room was restored,
and the unsinged Cassandra lifted her Manson-Grrl emerald eyes to
her stunned prey.
And "that," she said, "was a mistake."
A scent of brimstone and a pounding of cloven hooves in her ears,
and then Cassandra was on her, slamming Laura back against the
fireplace, nails to jugular, hand round her neck. Her hair was all over
the place, her furious eyes scythed into Laura's soulless own, and she
hissed wetly into the other woman's face:
"Poor Laura. Do you honestly think I haven't been putting out pyres
like yours for CENTURIES?! Did you forget our last meeting so
quickly? Your master is an inferior imp; he is no match for the
resources at my disposal. And neither are you, his pretty little acolyte,
lashed to your cycle like a dead-end job. I thought we'd done the job
well enough all those years ago; obviously, I was wrong. And I will
not err where you are concerned again."
The faint shriek of a far-off bird, and Cassandra was shoved away
from Laura, unfazed and blazing. "Oh, you have no choice in the
matter, my dear Miranda," she spat. "My mission is eternal; you
can't stop it. Even your 'Prince' knows that; that's why he has done
NOTHING. The underworld knows the way of the Phoenix. Long
after you have cast your last pathetic spell, I will still be ascending in
2027, bringing the fire."
"And tossing your offspring into it like kittens in a burning house, yes,
I know," Cassandra smirked. "Oh, what a mother you are, Laura.
What a mother you truly are."
“You know nothing about it,” Laura growled. “I could kill you now –
“
“— Could you? You’ve failed twice now. And you’ll keep failing.
That’s your cycle, Laura – not any ritual sacrifice of the petit; failing,
over and over and over again.”
"You survived on luck once, Miranda," Laura hissed. "I will ensure
that does not re-occur. They'll smell you burning for miles."
"And yet you stand there talking. Ever the chatty one, Laura," said
Cassandra, "but, as usual, there is no 'apocalyptic fire.' Somehow I'm
disappointed. Though I suppose I really shouldn't be, given your
record. I do wonder how it was rutting with your own grandson." She
tittered evilly. "Are you quite sure Ra condones all that -- ?"
The scent of burning carpet filled the room, and Laura's eyes
smoldered. "Would you prefer to start from the top, Miranda? I'm
ready when you are."
Cassandra looked faintly amused, and tutted. "I'll have to take a rain
check, Laura dear," she said, heading for the door. "That is, if you
don't mind. A few pawns are still yet to fall into this place for this
lovely little game, and I have yet to claim the king. But when I do --
oh, my -- what a surprise you really will be in for." She opened the
door, and glanced back at Laura, eyes razors. "Your play is up,
Laura Collins, before it was ever even used. And in the name of all
the damned, I will see you fail again."
And with a hiss of hellfire, somewhere in the ether, she was gone.
*/*/*
miss winters dreams
‘this is no dream, this is really happening.’
- ‘rosemary’s baby’
(and then there was a flapping of great wings, a noise that made the
world shake, and suddenly vicki was not in her room, not in her quite
comfortable bed, but elsewhere. she found herself in a dark, dank old
storage room, a cluttered little nook full of cobwebs and dust and
boxes and knick-knacks; a tomb. a mounted deer’s head lay off to
one side, crooked and half-hanging from the wall. pink and blue
smoke flooded the eaves, and a tinkling of bells sounded somewhere
far, far off – and the entire room seemed to tip and sway, like the
wing, the room, all of it was…swimming, or flying…she couldn’t
decide which was more appropriate -- )
(and there was quentin, in a dark corner, admiring his lovely face in a
hand mirror. she rushed to him.)
(vicki: quentin? quentin. where is this, where am i?)
(quentin (staring into the mirror) : a masterpiece, isn’t it? so perfect.)
(vicki: i don’t understand.)
(quentin (laughing) : yes. i know. (suddenly serious) you’re in the belly.
best to leave while you can.)
(quentin turns and walks back into the mist, without another word.)
(vicki: quentin? quentin! wait! come back! don’t leave me here
alone…)
(julia (o.s.) : you’re not alone.)
(the smoke lifted in another corner of the dark little room, and vicki
whirled around to see julia hoffman – mrs. stoddard’s dear friend –
and another young man, with fall-colored hair and beard stubble.)
(vicki: doctor.)
(julia: don’t call me that. don’t call me that ever again. (pause) i believe
he can be helped. i believe someone can love him as he is. you
understand that, don’t you?)
(vicki: i don’t know what you’re talking about!)
(tom: i’m with her on borrowed time.)
(vicki: none of you make any sense!)
(david (o.s.) : who needs sense?)
(vicki: david?)
(vicki turned around to face another lit corner of the dark room –
there stood david, placid and swaddled in the arms of his mother, a
venus-statue sentinel, blonde hair perfect and slinky black dress
clinging to her every curve, eyes blazing with – oh, god, were they
really? – small trails of fire.)
(david: i have fifty cents.)
(vicki: david, we have to get out of here. (horrified) oh, mrs. collins!
your eyes!)
(david (giggling; falsetto) : ’what have you done to it? what have you
done to its eyes?’)
(laura: don’t be silly. my eyes are perfectly normal.)
(just then, the ground quivered again, and that noise of beating wings
returned – it was deafening, like a jet engine, and it flooded vicki’s
aching ears. vicki reeled, and as the noise waxed and waned, a giant
silhouette passed over mother and child over and over, bathing them
in light and dark – the shadow of some giant flying animal.)
(david: i’ve never been to arizona.)
(vicki: my god, what is that? what is that?!)
(laura (to vicki) : this is not for the child’s ears. i have a mission.)
(vicki: mission? what ‘mission?’ oh, what are all of you talking
about?!)
(david: when the butcher work’s done, i’m going to blossom.)
(vicki: what?)
(laura: he listens to his blood. it boils.)
(david (simpering) : i’m a mother’s boy.)
(laura (to vicki) : don’t be a fool. this is a vicious and undying cycle.
don’t involve yourself.)
(david: astua. amen ra. )
(vicki: david, what language are you speaking? (to laura) what do you
mean, ‘cycle?’ (to room) listen, all of you, i’ve had my fill of this! i
want to know what’s going on, and i want to know right now! do you
hear me?)
(laura: oh, yes. i hear you.)
(a flash of light, and the corner exploded with incandescent fire, taking
all signs of david and laura with it. vicki screamed in horror, knocked
off her feet and scrabbling away. that sound of beating wings roared
in her ears, and an inhuman, shrieking cry – a bird’s furious call –
shook the entire room like jelly. then, the noise was gone, and the
room was dark once more. vicki shakily picked herself up, dusting
herself off, quivering violently.)
(vicki: my god…quentin? doctor hoffman? david?!)
(liz (o.s.) : be quiet. they’ll hear.)
(and that was when elizabeth stepped out of the shadows, wringing
her hands rapidly. vicki realized with horror that that was a young
woman named sabrina stuart’s tattered coat in her arms, and that mrs.
stoddard’s hands were drenched in blood and gore.)
(vicki: mrs. stoddard? mrs. stoddard! what’s happened?! should
i…should i call the doctor?)
(liz: help me, won’t you? i’m afraid there’s been a horrible mess.)
(behind liz, a crooked, ancient door slowly slid into light. it was huge,
jangled, and utterly foreboding.)
(vicki :mrs. stoddard, what is beyond that door?)
(liz (ignoring her) : ’her name is victoria. i can no longer care for her.’)
(vicki froze stock-still, shocked to the bone.)
(vicki (softly) : what did you say?)
(liz: it wasn’t my fault. he had to be stopped, locked away.)
(and then, an insidious, alien noise hissed out from behind the door –
a murky, insane, choked breathing, giggly and sinister, mixed with the
noises of a thousand barking mad dogs and the growls of a thousand
crazed beasts. vicki and elizabeth both turned to stare at it; vicki’s
face was painted with terror.)
(liz: he has to be contained.)
(vicki :dear god, what’s in there?!)
(liz: only the gypsies can stop him. when the snow falls, he will be
loosed.)
(vicki: who will, mrs. stoddard?)
(just then, darkness blanketed the corner, and elizabeth collins
stoddard and the door fell away from view. the room was enveloped
in full darkness again, and vicki found herself alone, trapped in the
wide-open void.)
(vicki: i know someone is here! i know someone’s behind this! show
your face!)
(a woman’s malevolent laughter filled the air like disease, and vicki
trembled, spinning towards the direction of the sound.)
(vicki: i know you’re there! come out!)
(then, with a parting of the darkness, cassandra collins stepped into
the light.)
(cassandra: miss winters.)
(vicki: mrs. collins? you are cassandra collins?)
(cassandra: oh, yes. i’m cassandra collins.)
(vicki: thank goodness. you must be lost in this little room as well. we
must find a way out of here.)
(cassandra: it’s just a dream, miss winters.)
(vicki: what?)
(cassandra: i’m not really here, and neither are you.)
(vicki: what are you talking about?)
(cassandra: i can’t speak it any plainer. do calm down, miss winters.
your hysteria ill-befits a responsible governess.)
(vicki: why, yes, i suppose you’re right…)
(suddenly, the light in the room begin to flicker, beginning to flash
intermittently, becoming strobe-like. as vicki watched in horror,
cassandra changed as the light flashed – one moment she was
cassandra collins, modern wife, and the next she was a stunning
blonde woman in a cream maid’s dress, the style of which was
centuries-old. back and forth, back and forth, the two figures
interchanged as the light flashed. Somewhere in the eaves, a
ferociously-loud alien wind begin to howl and shriek.)
(cassandra/angelique (distorted) : do you know my name?)
(vicki :c-cassandra collins…)
(cassandra/angelique (distorted) : do you know my name?)
(vicki: what is happening to you? has the whole world gone mad?!)
(cassandra/angelique (distorted) : no. just me. he didn’t do the job well
enough. he can have his pretty mademoiselle, but not in the way he
would have chosen.)
(vicki :who? who are you talking about?)
(cassandra/angelique (distorted) : he didn’t do the job well enough and neither will you.
i will have satisfaction.)
(vicki: who is it you speak of?)
(cassandra/angelique (distorted) : he’s from cadogan square. it’s lovely
this time of year. do you know how he sleeps? do you know how he
survives?)
(as the wind howled, a dark figure emerged from beside cassandra.
vicki could not make its identity, and she stepped forward, trying to
discern the face.)
(vicki: who is that there? who are you? who are you?)
(cassandra/angelique (distorted) : don’t go near him, miss winters.
leave his pain alone. whoever loves him will die.)
(julia (o.s.) : i believe someone can love him as he is. you understand
that, don’t you?)
(cassandra/angelique (distorted; laughing) : what a fool. do you want
to see him, miss winters? do you want to see what he’s made of
himself?)
(vicki: no!)
(the dark figure shambled towards vicki, who scrambled backwards,
terrified.)
(vicki: stay away from me! no! no!)
(cassandra/angelique laughed insanely, long and loud. the dark figure
backed vicki against a wall, and grabbed her roughly.)
(vicki: no! no, please, god!)
(the figure shoved vicki’s head to one side, exposing her bare neck.
Then, his mouth dove for the jugular, his jaws stretching wide.)
(vicki: oh my god, no!)
…And it was through a blood-red haze and a shrieking, mad laughter
that Victoria Winters awoke shrieking, the memories of what she’d
seen exploding, and splintering into a thousand hazy pieces…
*/*/*
liz/pawn (out out damned spot)
who'd've thought the old man would have so much blood in him?
- lady macbeth, 'macbeth'
'every drop of blood you spill puts more flesh on my bones.'
- 'hellraiser'
...and a place where she could wash...
& wash....
& wash....
- pj harvey, 'catherine'
'i want you to kill that bitch! kill that american bitch!'
- joan bennett, 'suspiria'
Both taps ran full and loud, red hot and ice cold mixing together in a
thick fusion, and Elizabeth's bone-white hands shivered and shivered
as she scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed and rinsed and rinsed
and rinsed...
The sink was an abattoir. She couldn't let anyone see it, see anything
in this dark, dirty little bathroom in the run-down West Wing. There
had been so much blood and mess when it had fed on that poor, poor
girl – Liz had felt the urge to retch, stronger than usual, but somehow
managed to keep her composure. See this mistress of the manse, eyes
forward, graceful and delicate; on the inside, she’s going utterly mad.
Liz couldn’t very well cry about it anymore. She’d cried so much
already that sometimes she wondered if she had perhaps cried every
last tear afforded her.
She had been a firm, upright woman in her beliefs; the supernatural
was just that, the supernatural, and all a thing of myths and fairy tales.
She had had a very solid, reliable reality. Then he had come to their
house. Her eyes welled still – but did not pour – as she thought of
poor old Louise, baby sister, the little girl that bounced off the walls,
the apple of poor old Father’s eye. She preferred to think of that
capering, happy child than of the haggard, paranoid madwoman that
had died in childbirth. He had drove her mad; she knew that. Him and
his evil – there was a word she had never believed in, either. She
believed in mad men and sick criminals, but she hadn’t known any
‘evil.’ She had believed, like most, that it was a concept obsolete to
this modern century of cars and dishwashers. Oh what fools these
mortals be.
It was his hand – little more than a claw, now. It was the source of his
power. She knew this. A band of gypsies had ripped it from his wrist
centuries ago, but he had retrieved it. He had polluted their doorstep
and contaminated every inch of this great house. She should have
turned him away the instant she saw that look in his eye – the look of
what, in these later years, she know was convinced was a lesser god.
The gore and blood sluiced down the bone-white sink, staining it
more and more, swirling in rivers of scarlet. Liz again resisted the urge
to lose her dinner. It had gone on like this for years, and it would for
the foreseeable future. He was a monster, and he was for all intents
and purposes unstoppable. And she realized, dimly and with growing,
gnawing fear, that he was preparing – building, fortifying himself,
preparing for something.
She began to tremble violently. If he got loose, he’d once said, the
streets would flow with rivers of their blood. Liz could barely keep
herself from falling apart as she thought of David coming face-to-face
with that thing, that monster –
Liz finished scrubbing, then pulled the dishtowel from a fold in her
dress and wiped the sink clean, first red, then pink, then, finally, after
many minutes, white once more – but stained, as it always gone, its
luster gone, marked forever by innocent blood. It was bloody, bloody
butcher work, horrible and ghastly – and she was his servant. The
Mistress of Collinwood, reduced to a pawn to satiate the evil whim of
a monstrous force beyond her comprehension. She played the part
and ruled the family and the business – but he ruled them all. He
had from the very instant he had met Louise. And he was preparing to
perhaps kill every last one of them.
You have to stop it, a voice whispered in her ear. You cannot let this
continue. You are a human being, and you have become an
accomplice to his massacring and butchering. You must stop this. You
must let someone know.
But she couldn’t. Liz knew that. If she did, her nephew would be the
first to die – he’d said as much once before, when he did speak,
which was not so much speaking as speaking into her mind; she was
fairly sure he’d lost the ability to use his mouth years ago during his
descension. If she spoke up at all, he’d wipe them out and stand on a
mountain of their bones. She had to go on playing the pawn, she had
to go on helping him kill -- though her immortal soul (yes, another
thing she now believed in) screamed with every fiber of her being at
this horrific conspiracy, she – had – no – choice. She’d had none for
what seemed like ever.
And they wonder why I never go out, she thought, pocketing the
dishtowel and turning to the door. I’m afraid I’ll get it on someone –
the stench of a murderess. You are damned, Elizabeth.
She was dimly aware of a thought:
(i’m quite sure i’m going mad.)
And then, as the tears fell after all and she quickly left the tiny little
bathroom, Liz heard it again:
damned.
*/*/*
blossom (amen ra)
excuse me
but i just have to explode…
- bjork, ‘pluto’
i am the firestarter
terrific firestarter.
- prodigy, ‘firestarter’
you’ve got
you’ve got
you’ve got to swirl.
- tori amos, ‘raspberry swirl’
David Collins’ room was low-lit by this time, and the young Collins
heir was curled up in a tiny brunet ball in his bed, toys and books still
scattered around the ramshackle room. The unusually warm night air
had created dew, and little droplets pitter-pattered against the
stained-glass windows. David had fallen asleep with his cheek
smooshed against the pillow, his mouth half-open. He slept soundly,
breathing slow and steadily, as the animals of the night twittered and
hummed softly outside.
Then, an alien wind slowly slithered into the room – the elders of the
house would later conclude it seemingly came from nowhere, as all
exits and entrances were shut tight. The room’s temperature fell
dramatically, and the room cooled rapidly, making David’s breath
visible. As goosebumps covered his flesh, the boy moaned softly in
his sleep and unconsciously wriggled further under the blankets. The
wind whistled and hissed softly, not sounding like any normal wind at
all; it hissed and stopped, hissed and stopped, and whirled around
young David Collins and his bed, a mini-draft, flowing around the
child and enveloping his space.
A crackle of cinders, and then the bulb in the nearby nightlight begin
to smolder and smoke. Its glass shell cracked, then popped loudly,
and began to melt into white-hot shards, a drippy, searing mess. It
was from this that a small, barely-visible spark formed – and a small
tongue of fire began to travel across the appliance.
Smoke began to billow around the bed. David made some mumbled
noise but otherwise did not stir. As the lamp burned, it began to take
the bureau with it, tongues of flames licking up and down the wood
chest. Toys began to melt and spark up like little incendiaries; a
book’s pages blackened and peeled, its frame no more than burning
gelatin. Then, the flame traveled to the floor.
From out of nowhere, the bedsheets began to smolder and burn. Fire
licked up and down on either side of David’s bed, and the sheets and
blankets began to blaze furiously, hissing and crackling. The boy did
not stir one inch, and instead remained perfectly still, dead to the
world. At the same time, the wind seemed to pick David up and carry
him, as he levitated from his bed, rising high above the burning room
and floating in slumber. By now, most of the room’s floor had caught
fire, and the walls rained cinders and flame. The bed had been utterly
consumed, an incandescent altar to a lesser god.
Below their fast-closed lids, young David Collins’ eyes were moving
rapidly.
The room exploded with fire.
Within minutes, the hallway was catching fire. The whole house
seemed to rumble and shake, smoke everywhere. Quentin was the
first out, rushing from his room half-clad. “David!”
Mrs. Johnson was next, fluttering in, as always, on the verge of
hysteria. “Mr. Quentin! My God – “
“Call the fire department!” Quentin hollered. Mrs. Johnson exited at
faster-than-light speed. The immortal werewolf then spun around to
face the burning door, and his eyes went wide as he realized what
was occurring – he should’ve known the instant he smelled the smoke.
(amen ra. astua.)
“Quentin!” Vicki yelled, racing from her room in her nightgown. She
rushed over to David’s door, and her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh,
God!”
Julia was next, robe drawn around her nightclothes, hurrying down the
hallway. “Quentin, Miss Winters, what’s – “ She stopped short,
seeing the source of their horror and with a dry gasp her hand
clutched at her throat.
It was all moving so damned fast. “Get back!” Quentin commanded,
and then, with a yell, he slammed against the door to David’s room.
The old wooden door gave way with a ripping creak, and then
Quentin nearly fell into the burning inferno that was his little cousin’s
bedroom. Vicki pulled him back, and the three watched in abject
horror.
The room was a horror; fire was everywhere. The bed was a melting,
blackened mess; the desk and bureaus were little more than cinders;
the floor was a deathtrap of licking flame. But what really made the
trio’s hearts stop was David – through the smoke and the haze, they
could swear the boy was floating above the ground –
Julia raced to get her bag, and Quentin, as usual without a second
thought, dove into the room, over Vicki’s screaming protests. He
immediately felt himself catching fire, and stamped out his pant leg and
shoes quick. He could feel his pores clamming up and his skin sizzling,
but he knew in the end none of this could kill him.
(well, except maybe the copious amounts of smoke in your lungs. do
watch out for that, old boy.)
It was a firestorm. David was floating, alright. Vicki and Julia hadn’t
been able to see it as well as he had, but he knew now. And if his
inkling about this was correct, then David and everyone was in a
whole lot of trouble. Quentin dashed through the flames, through the
cinders and flying brimstone, and with a flying leap lunged for his
(jamison)
little cousin. He connected, and the two slammed down against the
ground. Quentin quickly scooped David up again, wobbled to his feet
– he was coughing hard now, and spots danced in front of his eyes –
was this what old Tate’s studio had been like? – and ran for salvation,
and the hallway…and Vicki…like a madman.
“Quentin! Oh, Quentin, thank God!” Vicki took the still-slumbering
(but kicking in his sleep) David from the weak Collins’ arms as
Quentin slumped against the wall, and examined the boy, trying to
wake him up. Then, she turned to Quentin, and gasped. “Quentin,
you’re on fire!”
Quentin blinked woozily, and looked down at his pant leg. “Oh? Oh,
right. Yes.” He stamped it out absently, and with crazy, lumbering
steps, he ushered Vicki and the sleeping David – could the boy have
slept through the Battle of the Bulge? – down the hall, away from the
fire.
Vicki checked David’s pulse, and satisfied, gave a quavering sigh.
“Quentin, thank God,” she said as they continued down the hallway,
double-time. “I was so afraid – “
Quentin wanted to tell her not to worry, and that they really must be
leaving now, but then he felt his legs giving way and his mouth tasted
like gunpowder and the last thing he saw was Julia, Mrs. Johnson,
and Carolyn and Liz and Roger rushing down the hall, yelling but their
voices were muted…
*/*/*
cinders
David Collins lay in his bed – now remarkably restored – pale and
shivering, sweat glistening on his brow and cheeks. Victoria Winters
sat by his side on a very-unburnt chair, hands in her lap, face ashen. It
had been a hour and a half since the fire, and now it was all gone. The
instant they’d left the house and roused David, so it seemed, the ‘fire’
had all but disappeared, and all traces of it with it. David’s room, the
hallway, all of the damaged area had been restored. The fire
department had almost thought they had issued a crank call, but they
knew that Elizabeth Collins Stoddard would brook no such pranks.
So the firemen had left dumbfounded, and the residents of
Collinwood warily returned to the house, shaking their heads over
their bizarre twist of fate.
But the worst had been yet to come. Almost immediately upon
awakening, David had fallen again into a deep delirium-ridden sleep,
his body burning with fever. Dr. Hoffman had said that any normal
human being with David’s temperature should be dead – but he
wasn’t, though he seemed to be hanging by a thread. “It’s like nothing
I’ve ever seen before,” Dr. Hoffman had whispered, mouth half-open
in awe. Vicki’s eyes watered as she watched this poor little boy –
who she had yet to know very well, but prayed God she got a chance
to – fight for his life.
Dr. Hoffman and the others had rushed to the hospital for the
necessary medicine, though it was likely they were going to come
back to take David in and admit him anyway. Vicki rubbed her head,
still clogged and throbbing from the smoke inhalation – the smoke that
had disappeared – and tried to piece this all together. None of it
made any sense; the fire, David’s illness…but they simply had to be
connected.
She didn’t know how it had happened. She only knew she’d give
anything to help him now.
There was a footstep behind her, and Vicki turned to see Quentin.
She smiled wanly. “Mr. Collins – Quentin – I thought you’d gone with
the others.”
Quentin shook his head, taking a seat next to her. “No,” he said
softly, “I’m no help to them. They wanted me to stay here, help you,
any way you needed it.”
“There’s not much to be done.”
“I suppose not. Not yet, anyway.” Quentin took her hand, patted it.
“He will be well, Vicki, I promise you.”
Vicki bit her lip. “Do you really think so? I saw a girl contract and die
of scarlet fever in under 24 hours when I was at the Foundling Home.
It was horrible. I couldn’t bear to see that happen again, not to
another child.”
“You have a great love for all living things, don’t you?” Quentin
asked.
Vicki shrugged, mouth a thin white line. “I suppose I simply believe in
everyone’s right to live a good, full life. It’s an awful lot of naivete for
a New York orphan, but it’s one of the few things I can count to my
name.”
“Winters,” Quentin said, chewing on the word.
“Yes. Named such for the season I arrived,” Vicki parroted back.
“Or so I was told.” She looked at him. “Are you feeling better?”
“Yes, yes,” Quentin said, waving a hand. “Julia wanted to have me
treated, but I just needed a few minutes to collect myself. I’m fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. The only thing singed is my hair.” Quentin smiled softly. “You
are such a caring soul. You’ve barely gotten to know David and you
sit here by his side.”
“I feel like I know him,” Vicki said. “I can’t explain it. Maybe I’m
drawing parallels. His life and mine – but I imagine that’s
presumptuous.”
Maybe not, Quentin thought. Broken home to broken home – not
presumptuous at all, Vicki.
Just then, David moaned loudly, and Vicki rose. “He needs a new
cold compress. I’ll go get it. Can you watch him for a moment?”
“Of course,” Quentin said.
Vicki smiled. “Thank you,” she said softly, and padded out of the
room. Quentin watched her go, his gaze lingering a minute too long,
an inch too high – and then turned away.
Within seconds, he had sprung into action. He was pretty sure he had
it in his head what had happened and he thought he knew what to do.
He hoped he had the incantation right. I got this trick off you, Laura, it
better not disappoint.
David’s face was gray, fish-white pale, and he shuddered and shook
in his fever-sleep as Quentin kneeled by his side, shushing him. Then,
Quentin lifted his head to the heavens. “Astua, amen ra. Ra, god of
fire, master of the everlasting sands of Egypt, king of the desert, hear
my prayer. In your name, I offer this tribute – of immortal blood.”
Quentin withdrew a knife from his pocket, and slit it across his palm.
He hissed, felt the sharp pain – but his palm remained baby-smooth.
Quentin raised his palm to the heavens. “Take this, O Ra, an offering
from your humble servant – and grant me my wish. Lift this deathly
fever from this child, your fledgling, born from the white-hot womb of
the eternal Phoenix, so he may grow to be strong and powerful. Let
the child live; use your might to quell his inner blaze. Grant me this
wish, O Ra, god of the blinding heavens, and show me the force of
your will! Astua, amen ra!”
When Vicki returned a few minutes later, Quentin was kneeling by
David’s side, combing wet hair away from the boy’s soaking brow.
He turned to Vicki, who watched quizzically with the tray of
compresses in her arms, and grinned. “I think his fever’s broken.”
Vicki’s hand went to her mouth, and this time she did start to cry,
relief flowing like a well-spring.
It was the most beautiful thing Quentin had ever seen.
*/*/*
stokes
“Curious,” Professor T. Eliot Stokes said, stroking his chin and
smoking his pipe. “Exceptionally curious.”
“I should have expected this,” Quentin growled, pacing about Stokes’
stately living room. “It makes perfect sense that a Phoenix’s offspring
could carry some of its latent powers. But why not Jamison, or Nora,
or all the children that came before?”
“We can’t say for sure that they didn’t have these powers,” Stokes
said. “But if they didn’t, it makes young David’s affliction all the more
mysterious.” Stokes’ brow furrowed. “You say that immediately after
the blaze ended, David lapsed into an intense fever, and that you
cured it with an ancient Egyptian chant from the Book of the
Dead…?”
“Yes,” Quentin said. “I had used it before – the last time Laura came
back.”
“1897,” Stokes marveled. “What a year that must have been indeed.”
“You have no idea. Oh, wait, you do,” Quentin said, correcting
himself, then sighed. “The point is, we both think that David has
inherited Laura’s powers, and tonight they began to manifest
themselves.” He pounded his fist into a palm. “The fire stopped
tonight, but what about tomorrow night? Or the night after that? How
many times will David have to suffer? How many times will these
powers put him in danger?”
“Like it or not, Quentin, David Collins is a Phoenix – a lesser entity
than Laura, but a Phoenix nonetheless,” Stokes said. “The only way
we can help the boy is to make him adapt, or to bury these powers
outright. Neither option prevents an easy solution. For now, I’m
afraid I would opt for prudence – we observe, and watch.”
“And let David burn with fever every night?” Quentin growled. “I
don’t think so, Eliot.”
“We haven’t much choice.”
“Don’t we?” Quentin shook his head, a vicious smile forming. “I’m
going to go to Laura, tonight. I’m going to make her tell me her
arcane secrets, and help David.”
“That, my immortal friend, is a thunderously stupid idea,” Stokes said,
smoking his pipe. “You have already told me of how Laura can harm
you – even you, the immortal werewolf. She will not simply roll out
the red carpet for you should you come calling full of sound and fury;
rather, she will do her best to roast you alive.”
“Let her try,” Quentin sneered. “Oh, just let her try. I’d love to see
the look on her face – “
“You do not know what she can do to you anymore,” Stokes
countered. “Quentin, to go to Laura would be foolhardy and
dangerous. We must bide our time, and see what we can do for
David from the outside.”
“That’s just it, Eliot,” Quentin said, “we can do nothing for David
from the outside! I’m going to the cottage tonight. I’m sorry, but we
don’t agree. I cannot stand by and wait.”
With that, Quentin stormed out, leaving Eliot Stokes very, very
concerned…
*/*/*
pyre (egypt)
Laura Collins was sitting by the fire, holding her bejewelled scarab to
the roaring flames, when the door flew open and a hulking, furious
Quentin Collins stomped in.
Laura spun around. There was a moment of vicious silence, a
rushing-back of all those years ago, and their last savage battle.
Then, it was pierced: “Quentin, how nice of you to drop by,” Laura
breathed, voice quivering with disbelief and venomous.
“I always hoped you’d stay dead,” Quentin snarled. “But no; we
would all be far too fortunate.”
“I’m surprised you’re not spitting up peas by now, Quentin. Whatever
do you use to look so young? Playing lapdog to the lower forces
now, are you? You always were so vain.”
“Nevermind that. I’m here for a reason; then I’ll go. David,” Quentin
said. “It’s about David.”
Laura beamed, a tinge of flame in one eye. “Oh? You know David?
What about my darling boy?”
“Your darling boy nearly burned Collinwood to the ground in his
sleep tonight,” Quentin hissed. “He’s like you, Laura – a Phoenix.”
Laura’s eyes flickered, and she bristled. “Impossible,” she said,
looking away – a hint of shock hiding at the edges of her voice.
“Not at all. You should’ve seen the place, Laura; it was enveloped in
fire, and he was floating above it, sound asleep. He nearly died from
one of your wild fevers, had I not prayed to your master for his
salvation.”
“It must be something else,” Laura said. “I think you’ve got it wrong,
Quentin; there is only one Phoenix.”
“But you’re not sure yourself,” Quentin said, grinning evilly. “You’ve
always wondered, haven’t you, whether some of your children might
carry the same powers within them. And now David does. Oh, what
a look to go on your face: slackjawed idiocy. It suits you well, Laura.”
“You know nothing about my powers,” Laura hissed. “That is an
impossibility! I know it!” But she was quivering, and she was no
longer so sure of yourself.
“Just as sure as you were in Egypt that you’d destroy me,” Quentin
said, laughing. “And here I am now. Here I am now!”
“Oh, yes, I remember, Egypt,” Laura snapped, her face twisted into a
poisonous little smile. “I remember all of it – the priests, the altar, the
torches. Do you, Quentin? Did you enjoy selling yourself to those silly
little men in their silly little robes, because you hadn’t the spine to take
me on yourself?”
“I’m right here, Laura,” Quentin purred with a dangerous smile.
“Yes, you are,” Laura said. “All the better to make you experience
the fiery hell I experienced on that burning pyre that day. And you
will, Quentin. I swear it!” And with a whip of her arm, she flung her
scarab across the room, and the cottage was flooded with a blinding
light –
When Quentin next opened his eyes, he was in an endless Egyptian
desert – exactly the one he and Laura had been to. The sun was
white-hot, and beat down mercilessly. The sky was pure white and
blazing. Quentin realized that he was tied up, and looked down – to
his horror, he saw that he was lashed to a stone pyre. All around the
towering rock, robed priests were bustling back and forth, torches in
hands. Quentin was seized with horror, and he swung his head
around.
“Looking for someone, Quentin?” There she was; Laura, in that same
flimsy desert dress she’d worn that day, standing beside his old white
horse. “This time, I’m down here, and you’re up there. The priests
think you to be the phoenix of the ages, Quentin; you’re quite evil in
their eyes. Lucky for them this scared white woman tipped them off to
your true nature.”
“This is impossible,” Quentin hissed. “Impossible!”
“You’re right,” she said. “It is. I created this little…pocket play, but I
assure you, it’s real enough for you. Real enough for you to burn in
it. And burn you will, Quentin. Burn you will.” She leaned forward,
eyes pools of fire. “I’m going to make sure they do everything to you
I should have done sixty years ago.”
The priests begin to toss torches onto the pyre, and fire began
blooming up around Quentin’s feet, burning his flesh. “You’ll pay for
this, Laura,” Quentin howled. “I’ll kill you!”
“No, you won’t, Quentin,” Laura said. “You’re just going to die.”
And then, the torches flew, and the pyre began to burst into flames…
TO BE CONTINUED
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