Consequences of Falling ch. 17
From: Nicole
Date: Thu, 12 Jul 2001 20:09:24

Widow's Hill, 8:00 PM

Constance sat at the ledge.  She had no clue why she had gone to Widow's Hill.  The moment she sat, the traces of the dead jumped at her, begging her to hear their stories.  She was patient for awhile, but soon grew tired of them, and turned her mind off of them.  But the sounds of the rambling dead were better company than those at the cottage.  She felt so ashamed to be as she was at the moment.  She hated herself and wanted nothing more than to drop off the face of the earth.  She thought she was alone until she felt a hand enclose her shoulder.  She looked up to see Quentin towering stoically above her.  "Are you here to crucify me?"

"I'm here to be beside you."  Quentin took a seat beside Constance, demurely placing his hands in his lap and staring into the open palms.  He slowly looked back to her and said, "I don't hate you."

"Why not?  I've killed for sport for millennia."

"I can't hate you for doing what you've been conditioned to do."  Quentin looked back into his hands and asked, "When was the last time you did it?"

"About six months ago.  I've not been with anyone since you."  Constance looked back to Quentin.  He seemed distant and forlorn.  "I wasn't lying about the water."

"Huh?"

"About the ocean.  It was the first memory I ever had: waking up covered in sand and just staring out onto the beauty that is the sea.  I'm still grateful that my first vision was the water.  It made the misery seem as truly out of place as it is in the world."

"The world isn't all misery," he whispered.

"I just don't know.  I'm sorry for everything, Quentin.  You don't have to stick around."

"I want to.  Now come."  Quentin jumped to his feet and extended a hand to Constance.  "Come with me.  I have something to show you."

Constance hesitantly took his hand.  As they walked, she was surprised by the silence that pervaded the grounds.  It was peaceful but eerie, leading Constance to cling closer to Quentin.  As they approached the Great House, Constance fully grasped the scope of the mansion.  She had known much larger homes, but Collinwood seemed to impose itself upon the landscape, staking its claim against nature's and winning.  "Why are we here?" she asked quietly.

"I have something to show you."  When Quentin looked back, she was surprised to see him smiling.  "No one will be in the house but you and I.  There's no one there to stare at you or say horrible things.  You're safe with me."

Constance nodded and they carefully entered Collinwood.  The house, like the grounds, was cold and quiet, giving it the feel a death chamber.  That's all this place is: a giant mausoleum.

Constance had only been in the main portion of the house, making the trip to the west wing an experience.  There were so many doors, so many portals into the lives of others that it baffled her.  She wondered how many people had lived there, how many people who had never had the chance to tell their stories.  She could feel their spirits all at once, creating a jumble of messages that made no sense.  It was sensory overload.  All Constance wanted was to sleep and forget, but that was out of the question.

Constance had not known what to expect of Quentin's room.  Filled with both antique and modern furnishings, it too seemed to overload Constance.  She took a seat on his bed while Quentin fumbled through an armoire.  He returned with a plain looking frame covered by a white sheet.  He set it up in a chair adjacent Constance and walked away.  "What is this?"

Quentin did not answer.  He walked back, ripped away the sheet, and retreated to a chair sitting next to a gramophone.  After the initial shock, Constance approached the painting.  The picture was grotesque: it was an old man, white hair wildly splayed around an age and disease riddled face.  The man struck a formal pose, as if someone would actually want to paint such a deteriorating terror.  Constance wondered why Quentin, who reclined obliviously in the chair as a waltz eerily wafted through the room, wanted her to see such a monstrosity.  On a whim, she stroked the face of the decrepit portrait, eliciting a moan from the closed-eyed Quentin.  Constance yelled as she stumbled back to the bed.

"So you know my secret."  Quentin walked languidly to the portrait and knelt beside it.  "Handsome fellow, isn't he?  Can you see the resemblance?" he asked sarcastically.

"Why?  I mean...what the hell is this?"

"It's me!  At least it's me as I actually am," explained Quentin.  "That is how I am supposed to be now, that is if I'm even supposed to be alive at 102."

Constance swallowed her disgust and approached the portrait again.  This time she actively searched for the vibrations it emitted.  She could detect sickness, rage, and something more potent.  "Lycanthrope!"

"Another remnant of a bygone era...although I haven't changed in seventy-five years," he explained, seemingly anticipating her questions before she asked.  "It somehow siphons the curse from me to itself."

"So Angelique was right: I apparently do have an affinity of werewolves.  Anyway, who did this for you, Dorian?" she asked, pleased to hear Quentin's nervous laughter ringing through the room.

"The 'gift' was courtesy of Count Petofi.  He had his own plans for me, although they never really reached fruition."

"I'm, for one, am thankful for that."  Constance backed away and took a seat on the bed.  "You might be interested to know that a friend--and I use the term loosely--of mine stole the hand of Count Petofi from the gypsies in 1801.  We poked at it, tossed it around, threw it in the nastiest substances we could find, and performed other unsavory acts on it before the gypsies stole it back.  They wanted to curse us until they realized that we were succubi and could destroy every man in their tribe.  We laughed--much like you are right now--at that ugly thing: 'Oh, beware the hand of Count Petofi!  HA!'  If we had only known...?"

"You have no idea," said Quentin between snickers.  He took a seat next to Constance, laying his head childishly on her shoulder.  "I have outlived the man who gave me immortality.  It's so strange to contemplate constantly outliving almost everyone you meet.  How many people get to meet their adult great-grandson?"

"Christopher Jennings?"

"How did you know?"

"I felt his vibes in the cottage and Angelique told me a little about him.  Does he know it's your fault that he's a werewolf?" asked Constance.

"Yes.  We have a tepid relationship at best."

"I suppose that's to be expected.  Oh, I'm so sorry."  Constance kissed his forehead and checked her watch.  "It's nine."

"Do you want to leave tonight?" asked Quentin.

"Do you really want to leave with me?"  He nodded.  Constance kissed him again, wrapping her arms around him as she showed her approval.  "Oh thank you!  But it's probably best we wait until morning.  You should sleep."

"And what will you do?"

"Lay awake.  I can't sleep.  Well, I CAN sleep but it's not in my best interest to do so," said Constance.  "If I fall asleep, I'd leave myself open to attack."

"What are you saying?" asked Quentin, pulling Constance into his chest.  "I didn't think anyone could hurt  you."

"I can't be hurt, but I can be violated.  You see, some of the things they say about incubi and succubi are true.  Incubi do like to impregnate human women with human seed.  Some chose to gather it by shape shifting and posing as women while others chose to take it from the succubi who don't shape shift--like me.  At first, I'd give them what they wanted.  Eventually, I grew tired of doing their dirty work and began refusing those who asked me."

"God, Constance," he whispered, pressing his lips tenderly to the top of her head, "please don't say what I think you will."

"I can't read your mind, Quentin.  I have to tell the truth.  Anyway, an incubus will not take no for an answer, be it from a human or a succubus.  When I told one no, he and a group of his 'friends' held me down and he would scoop the semen out with his fingers.  Eventually they grew tired of openly violating me and took to taking it as I slept."

"When was the last time you slept?"

"1563."  Constance noticed the awkward look on Quentin's face and said, "I don't need to sleep to survive, obviously.  Sleep just cleanses out my senses."

"Then sleep," whispered Quentin.

"But we had sex last night.  I have what some spirit deviant wants."

Quentin kissed Constance and rose from the bed.  He started the gramophone and replaced the portrait.  "You sleep while I keep guard."

"You can't beat an incubus," warned Constance.

"And he can't beat me."  Quentin returned to Constance, laying her onto the bed and wrapping her in his arms.  "Does this help?"

"Yes."  Constance fell into his embrace and closed her eyes.  As the waltz and the smell of his skin overtook her senses, Constance lost consciousness for the first time in a long while.

Dark Shadows is a Dan Curtis Production.