Shadows on the Wall Chapter Fifty-Five

Shadows on the Wall Chapter 55

by Midnite

"Conflicted"

(Diana Millay)  "The days are becoming longer, yet a gloom continues to hang

over Collinwood as its residents struggle with jumbled feelings, both lovers

and enemies are reunited, and an evil presence looms above them all."

Charles Delaware Tate made broad strides through the woods, then hesitated on

approaching a clearance; there had been something.  He remembered his basic

task:  to act as the eyes and ears of the Count in an effort to learn what he

could about the residents of the house.  But there was another, more important

purpose that he repeated over and over to himself up to this point, but now

that the thicket of trees was behind him he had forgotten what it was.  Yet he

knew that if he didn't recall it, there'd be hell to pay.

He hadn't always been forgetful.  In the past, he managed to eke out a decent

living in New York City as a portrait artist, his female clients flocking to

him by word of mouth.  But he felt increasing dissatisfaction because what Tate

wanted most wasn't money or companionship; it was recognition.  Then he made

the Count's acquaintance at a party and his prayers were answered, or so it

seemed.  Andreas Petofi, the name he called himself at the time, was a

self-proclaimed patron of the arts, and he offered Tate his greatest desire--

fame-- his only price that he be given complete control of the painter's

career.  "I'm a great admirer," the Count had told him, and though he knew what

that really meant, Tate was never one to be above flattery, and so he gave

himself to the man in order to advance his own career.  And it was with that

single decision, made four years ago, that Tate doomed himself.  Though his

talent began to flourish in ways he never knew possible, his so-called life in

service of the Count killed any natural ecstasy he once felt toward his craft.

Looking back, it was as if the Count had reached inside his skull and begun to

slowly gnaw on his brains.  His hopes and dreams already dead, the day he

witnessed the Count's true form-- a rust colored, bloated thing-- also marked

the end of his sanity.

He was sweating profusely now.  What was it he was supposed to do?  WHAT?!  "I

wish I could kill you," he said to no one.  "If only..." he added, "if only you

weren't already dead."  And then it came to him!  What his powerful master

wants most is to remain human, but accomplishing this would require the Vessel

of Anubis.  And if the gypsies have it and Tate could wrestle it from them,

perhaps the Count would finally grant him his freedom.

~*~

Vicki wished for electricity in the Old House.  Midway up the cement steps she

passed the candle off to her other hand and winced when a waxy finger spilled

onto her thumb.  A strange sound had sent her investigating, but a lamp was

nowhere to be found and the Rakosi's weren't expected until tomorrow.  There

was an hour left until sunset, and Vicki took the responsibility of guarding

the coffin very seriously.

She turned to regard the cellar one more time.  The noise had probably been the

settling of an old house, she told herself as candlelight danced on the wall

beside her.  Then two hands grasped her shoulders and she screamed.

~*~

When the house was in view, Tate's eyes began darting like fish in an aquarium.

The bone white structure seemed luminescent in the setting sun.  But he

recalled once seeing something very similar to the mansion-- originally, it was

a vision in his mind's eye, an image he eventually transferred onto canvas.

But the Count had stumbled upon the oil painting before its completion and

admonished Tate for his foolish dream.  Cackling devilishly, the Count told

him, "You're mad if you think you'll ever live in a house like this."  And then

Tate was forced to watch the painting burn until there was nothing left of it,

then resumed his assignation as a portrait artist and never thought about his

ideal house again...  until now.

He shook his head to dispel the memory, then started up the steps.  There was a

columned portico on his left that led him to the main entrance.  A nearby

picture window provided a view of an unoccupied sitting room.  He checked the

two massive doors and was surprised to find them unlocked, and so he slipped

into the dingy entryway.  Tate scanned his surroundings, then approached the

fireplace to regard the portrait over the mantle, but his attitude of extreme

concentration was soon broken by the sound of voices nearby.  Tate moved

quickly through a small doorway near the fireplace and crouched behind the thin

door.

~*~

"You shouldn't be down here!" Quentin shouted.  He coaxed her to the top of the

stairs by pressing with a broad hand on the center of her back.  Once the steel

door was pushed open, Vicki could see that his cheeks were a bright crimson.

"You nearly scared me to death," she told him, and was surprised to see fear

behind his melting anger.  "Promise me," he replied, his face close to hers,

"that you'll never go down there again."

Instinctively she put her hands on his chest and felt his heart pounding like a

cornered rabbit.  "I'm all right," she assured him.  "I heard something, or at

least I thought..."

"Where's Magda?  And Sandor?" he interrupted.  "One of them is supposed to be

here so this sort of thing doesn't happen."

"They left," she explained, "and won't be back until tomorrow.  All I know is

they had some personal business to take care of out of town.  So they asked me

to watch over...  to keep an eye on the cellar."

He licked his lips as if tasting what he'd heard.  "You know, then."

"Yes."  She winced, feeling the need to be anywhere but there.  "I need to

stand by the fire for a few minutes," she said before starting for the drawing

room, the sound of his footsteps close behind.  She faced the fireplace and

wrapped her arms around herself.

"I'm sorry I scared you," he told her, sounding insincere.  "When I found you

down there, all I could think..."  His voice trailed off.

"I understand," she said, suddenly feeling very tired.  His hand brushed her

neck, and she shivered a little despite the fire.  It wasn't long ago that they

shared a twin passion, she considered before realizing that wasn't quite right.

The Quentin that had been privy to all her secrets... that knew every part of

her intimately and could read her every mood didn't yet exist.  They were one

and the same, and yet the man she loved-- yes, it was about time she admitted

her feelings, if only to herself-- the man that won her heart in her own time

had, in a sense, not yet been born.  She felt his lips on her neck and closed

her eyes, her nerves turned on.  Caught in a moral mousetrap, a voice inside

her repeated, "Cheater, cheater," and she jerked away.

"I burn for you, Victoria," he whispered.

My God, Vicki thought, he's wrapped up in himself like a spool.  "I don't want

this," she scolded.  "And I don't want you."

He grabbed her, spinning her around.  There was an intensity in his eyes and it

scared her.  "I have feelings for you Victoria.  Despite everything you've

heard to the contrary, I AM capable of caring about someone else.  Because I've

been to hell and back, and I've changed."

"I believe you, Quentin.  And I admire you, I really do.  But I can't get

involved with you.  You already have more to deal with right now than most men

face in a lifetime.  I know what happened to your wife, and...  and that you

just found out about your children.  And I know what Magda has done to you and

to them.  Every time I looked at the moon the last two nights..."  She dropped

her eyes.  "I can't imagine what that was like for you," she said sadly.  "But

how can a man profess love with so much weighing on his conscience?"  When she

dared to look up again she saw that he had pulled back emotionally even before

he retreated for the brandy decanter.  She had wounded him deeply, she

realized, and "I'm sorry" was all she could think to say.  After a first taste,

he spoke while facing the wall.  "I don't care that Barnabas chooses to confide

his darkest secrets to you," he said, "but I object to his telling you all of

mine."

He was silent after that and she found it unbearable.  Vicki glanced at the

bundle next to him, hastily wrapped in one of Magda's scarves, but forgot about

it just as quickly.  "You must feel terribly lost," she said, "but you WILL

find happiness." She wanted to stop there, and in fact her inner voice was

screaming "shut up shut up shut up," but just as the past few days had felt

like a long train ride on which there was no getting off, Vicki continued.

"And you'll give and receive love again.  I know it."

He regarded her intently.  "You sound awfully sure."  Vicki looked down as if

regarding her shiny black shoe.  After a brief pause, he added, "I just

realized that you know a great deal more about me than I do about you.  You

haven't forgotten that you're about to marry into my family," he said bitterly,

"or do you only concern yourself with other people's futures?"

"Of course I haven't forgotten," she answered, ignoring the rest.

"Well then," he said in a low voice, "you'll have to tell me about yourself."

She forced a smile and felt grateful for the apparent change in his mood.

"What would you like to know?"  She noticed he was refilling his glass; at

least one thing would remain the same despite the passage of time.

"The past seems like a good place to start," he answered while seating himself

in a tall chair, and he motioned for her to do the same.  "So tell me, Victoria

Winters, when were you born?"

"1876." She sat on a nearby divan.

"A drink, then, to 1876."  He raised his glass a little before emptying it,

adding, "It was obviously a very good year."  She hated his tone and secretly

wished she could hate him too.  "Ulysses S.  Grant was President," he said.

"Yes."  She smiled a little.

He rose to pour another drink, this time not even bothering to stopper the

decanter.  "Alcohol has a tendency to blur details for me.  After a few more, I

won't even be able to tell you who's President now."  Vicki remained frozen in

place.

Quentin grinned enormously.  "The future mother of my nephew and niece would

easily know who our President is, right?"

"Stop it," she demanded.

"Then humor me," Quentin told her, "by telling me the name of our esteemed

President."

She wanted to strike out at him-- to slap him, scratch him, anything but sit

there and take more of this.  But instead, Vicki thought hard.  Her favorite

lessons at the Foundling Home had always involved History.  She could even

picture the heavy, worn book on U.S.  History with the Presidential timeline

inside the front cover and squinted as if that would make it come into focus.

"Grover Cleveland," she blurted.

He stopped smiling and said, "No, that's not right."  Vicki looked as if she

might cry, so he added in a low voice, "You weren't really born in

1876, were you?"

"No, I wasn't."  She matched his stare for the first time.  Barnabas trusts

him, she reminded herself, just as she had come to trust the man Quentin would

eventually become, and right now she had no choice but to do the same.

"Barnabas didn't travel from the future alone," she told him.  "He followed me

here."

It sounded unbelievable, but its impact paled in light of other recent

revelations.  So Quentin didn't doubt what he'd just heard, and actually he

seemed fascinated by it.  "You implied that you know something about my

future," he told her.  "So we'll know each other?-- you and my future self?"

Vicki shook her head, her long hair whipping back and forth dramatically.  "I

shouldn't have said anything at all about your future."

He was next to her now and caressing a handful of the dark strands.  "Come on,

Victoria, don't clam up on me now."  He flashed a reassuring smile.  "The love

that I'll share with someone...  I have to know...  Will you be that someone?"

"I can't say anymore," she said, frowning.  "Ever since I got here, I've been

worried that what I do or say will affect the future.  I know I'm here to make

a difference, but I don't understand what it is yet, and I'm scared of doing

something I'm not supposed to."  She buried her face in his neck.  "Quentin,

I'm so afraid!"

~*~

A voice in the flames had told Laura to go immediately to the Great House, and

instinct had led her to the West Wing.  And now she was creeping through a

sitting room toward an open bedroom door.  Peeking in, she saw that its

occupant was oblivious to her arrival, his back toward her.  The dead move

silently.

The dull blue flames of two pitch-black candles burned on either side of him,

and smoke curled from herbs burning in a silver censer.  She stepped to the

edge of a crudely drawn pentagram on the bare floor as the clock began to

strike midnight.  Quentin lifted his left hand and with the other ran a knife

along the meat of its palm, blood spreading out from it like petals.  He tilted

it to let the pool of his life-energy drain into a shiny chalice, an object she

immediately recognized.  He spoke, saying, "I sell myself to be his own bodily

son..."

"Quentin, no!" she screamed.  He stood hurriedly in a futile attempt to hide

evidence of the black sacrament.

"Idiot!" she added, then, "You fool!"

"What the hell are you dong here?!" he shouted as she scrambled for a clean

towel.

"Interesting choice of words," she said as she worked quickly on his hand, the

cloth immediately staining with his blood.  "You're lucky I got here when I

did."

"I'd never use luck and any mention of you in the same sentence, Laura.  Isn't

there a pile of dry sticks somewhere with your name on them?"

Her eyes were burning darts.  "When are you going to realize that you need me,

Quentin?"  Her gaze wandered to the cup, and she asked, "Do you even know what

that is?"  Before he could answer, she added, "It has powers you could never

hope to understand."

"I had everything under control until you barged in and ruined everything.

You'd think I'd be used to THAT by now."

She continued unwavered.  "How does someone like you get their hands on the

Vessel of Anubis anyway?"

"I- I borrowed it.  From gypsy friends."

"Knowing you, you probably stole it." Quentin winced, a reaction that didn't go

unnoticed.  She wondered if its absence had already been detected by the local

gypsies, and imagined they were already on their way to retrieve their

property.  "If it's power you crave," she told him, "then you need look no

further than me.  Together, you and I..."

"When are you going to get it through your head that there's NO 'you and I'?"

She fought to hide her pain.  Feeling too much was, she knew, her one

vulnerability.  She sighed audibly, then explained, "All right, I'll leave.

But not without the Vessel."

~*~

The fire cast a welcoming glow on the walls of the cottage.  In her haste to

return to it, she paused only to set the vessel down quickly, then seated

herself on the hearth before untying her cape.  The walk from the main house

during the coldest part of the night would have seemed foolish if not for the

fact she'd prevented Quentin from surrendering himself, body and soul, to the

black powers.  And so Laura congratulated herself.

Yet she couldn't help but think about the voice in the fire:  the masculine

voice, mocking and powerful, that had mysteriously dispatched her to

Collinwood.  At first she attributed it to the maternal intuition that prompts

a woman to check on her children-- the sort of phenomenon that would inspire a

mother to awaken in the middle of the night to replace a blanket that had been

kicked away, or the inner voice that prevents her from sleeping too deeply, no

matter how tired she might be, while her infant lies ill in its crib.  Yet she

dismissed that possibility because she never once felt compelled to look in on

Jamison or Nora as they slept, nor had she given them a moment's consideration

while in the house.  All she had wanted to do, once inside the mansion, was go

to the West Wing despite having no clue as to what awaited her there.

Obviously, someone else that night-- another supernatural creature, perhaps--

was interested in Quentin's fate, but who?  The source of the raspy voice was a

mystery that she knew she had to solve in order to rid herself of this new

threat.

"Who?" she repeated, unaware she had spoken it aloud or of the old enemy that

lurked in a shadowy corner.  Always one to enjoy her entrances, the other woman

said, "Who indeed?"

Laura stared into her icy blue eyes.  "You!"

"I knew you wouldn't stray from the fire for very long, Laura Collins," she

answered, moving closer.  "It would appear that your time here has nearly run

out."

Laura smiled a little.  "I have plenty of time to finish what I started."

"To gather your children?"

"My children are not your concern," Laura snapped.

Miranda's eyes flashed angrily.  "But Quentin Collins is."

Laura swallowed.  "Oh?  Well I have no interest in him."

Miranda began to pace, her blonde curls bouncing as she walked.  "And yet

tonight, your interference prevented him from fulfilling his destiny."

Laura's eyes widened.  "I stopped him from surrendering to the dark powers."

"So you could keep him for yourself," Miranda purred.

"No," Laura answered smugly.  "Merely to deprive your Master of his soul."  So

the witch wanted to see his ritual to its end, she considered, yet she herself

had been used by someone far more powerful to insure the opposite.  The

competition was mounting with Quentin as the prize, and Laura privately

fantasized that while the others fought over him, she would emerge as the

victor.

"I think you did it because you want him for yourself," Miranda said with a

giggle.  "But I promise you," she added harshly, "that if you meddle in my

plans for him again, I'll be paying you one last visit, and that will be to

destroy you."

"It would be very foolish of you to try," Laura hissed.

Miranda's mouth curled into a smile.  "You're the one that's being foolish."

"You think your brews and incantations can harm me?"  Laura's eyes burned, and

a roar sounded from the fireplace as its flames spilled onto the floor and

circled the hem of Miranda's dress.  "I'm not without powers," Laura announced,

"and it's good to see you are without yours, witch!"

TO BE CONTINUED ...