Subj: Consequences of Falling ch. 38
Date: 7/30/01 7:34:07 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Nicole

Six days before the next full moon, Spring 1976

In retrospect, their first night on the island should have been taken as an omen. At least Quentin thought so. It began raining heavily the moment they entered the house. For the first hour, they stood on the veranda and watched the waves lap at the cliff and the lightening dance through the clouds. The lightening eventually struck something, sending it briefly into flames before the rain snuffed it out, and Quentin immediately wanted to go inside. Constance, in pleas that sounded streaked with laughter, attempted to keep him outside, but he was not listening. He knew that he would not die if struck; it was the pain of healing that bothered him. It could have also been the knowledge that he would have to face his burned angry portrait when he returned home that sent him inside. Quentin knew he was being irrational but he knew rationality had never been his strong suit.

Once inside, Constance took to unpacking, happily running between the two stories with things she had not really needed to take. Quentin had offered to help her but she had shooed him away, preferring to do it all on her own. He let her and chose to wander through the house, a normally airy expanse made humid from the weather. He knew he would have to become re-accustomed to the massive living expanse. Although they lived in an inordinately large apartment, it did not compare to this house. It was possible that the numerous windows gave it the atmosphere, making the house seem open to the world. Of course it was not. The house gazed down omnipotently from the cliff, palms and various other types of flora shading it from the world.

Quentin fell asleep on the antique sofa, surprisingly lulled into oblivion by the crashing waves. When he awoke, he was surprised by the soft glow of candlelight. Constance stood a few feet away, match in hand as she lit a candelabra. She noticed that he had awaken and approached him, silver candelabra in tow. "We lost power an hour ago," she explained.

"And you went candle crazy?"

"You could say that." Constance sat the candelabra beside the sofa and slipped in beside him, threading her legs through his and laying her head against his chest. She did not say much, only murmuring a few clipped words before falling into a steady sleep. Out of fear of burning the house down, Quentin eased out from under her and blew out all the candles save the three-pronged candelabra. As best he could, he picked up Constance, balancing her in both arm, and grabbed the candelabra to guide his way. With surprisingly little effort, he was able to safely carry both to the upstairs bedroom. Although the room was cool now, Quentin knew it would be warmer by morning. In good faith he stripped her bare before slipping her underneath the crisp sheets, knowing that this is how she normally slept. He knew that she had probably expected more on their first night; so had he. No one could really be blamed. He decided to slip in beside her and sleep, ready to make it up to her the next day. He did not know how wrong he was.

The day started with promise, though. Quentin awoke to a cool breeze rushing over his body. He sat up, his eyes running over the simple white walls until he saw Constance sitting in the open picture window. All he could see was her hair falling down her back. She turned to him and smiled. Slowly, she rose from her perch and approached the bed. Quentin could not help but stare at her, musing quietly on the fluid movement of her limbs. She crawled onto the bed, lacing her legs through his and bracing herself on locked arms. She kissed him, her lips barely brushing against his before retreating. He could swear it was getting warmer. She wiped a bead of sweat from his brow and smiled, whispering, "Do you do this for all the girls?"

What was he supposed to do? Quentin took her into his arms and kissed her, finding her ready, hungry for him. They made love, consecrating the room for all they would be doing for the next month. Constance seemed much more giving than usual, as if the tropical air had loosened her already free spirit. But she was always more than sex to him, always more than the sum of her parts. She could be divinely smpathetic. She always seemed to know exactly how to soothe min when he wanted to give in. Whether she knew it or not, Constance was one of the few things keeping him sane. She was the strange bedrock that seemed ready to weather the storm as long or longer than he could. H could not push her away, not now when he needed her most.

After an hour of after sex sleep, Constance pulled Quentin from bed and took him wandering through the overgrown garden. The overhanging limbs blocked most of the sunlight, giving the garden a cool, dense atmosphere. Although it was well past noon, morning dew still dripped form the leaves and sparkled ornately on the large flowers. Constance loved picking them, deep red, yellow, and blue flowers that spat water once snapped from their stems. She placed them anywhere she could and soon mounds of flowers had accumulated in her hair and dress, some of which were quickly transported onto Quentin. He did not mind. This was the most childlike, spontaneous behavior Constance had exhibited in some time. If she was able to find herself here, Quentin thought it was a sign or hope for him.

Later that evening, they decided to go out. Neither was willing to spend the entire evening in town. It was an excuse to meet with past acquaintances and to digest the city culture. Both he and Constance were tiring of America's homogeneity. He hungered for the town, which, although no virgin to modern convenience, was drenched in the uniqueness brought about by the contrast between the free spirited natives and their European conquerors. Merely walking the streets brought back memories of the lovely carmel skinned dancers twirling in their rainbow skirts, of the music billowing throughout the city until it was all one could hear, and of Constance wandering barely clothed down those streets only three years earlier. "Nothing's really changed," he mused softly, his eyes following the flow of Constance's skirt.

Quentin had been lost in his own world when he felt a finger penetrate his side. He spun around angrily but soon cooled when he recognized the intruder. "Angelique! I didn't expect to find you here."

"I didn't expect to come." Angelique turned to Constance and said, "I'm with a friend of yours."

"Of mine?" laughed Constance. "You do remember how you're talking to, don't you?"

"Yes, but I insist that you have friends other than Quentin and i. Listen, I think you both should have dinner with us."

"Yes...right?" asked Constance, her eyes shifting shyly up to Quentin.

"Of course." They were ready to follow Angelique when a small boy ran up and grabbed Quentin's arm. The boy handed him a note and ran off before anyone could ask him any questions. Quentin did not bother following him, simply reading the not before either woman could look.

"Go into 'Sans Reserve' and wait for me."

"What it it?" asked Constance.

"Nothing," murmured Quentin, crumbling the note into his pocket. He placed his hands on her shoulders and said, "You should run along with Angelique and I'll catch up to you in awhile."

"Why?"

"Nothing darling, nothing." He leaned in and kissed her cheek, afraid to kiss her mouth because he knew that she would taste his fear. "I promise that I'll catch up to you in awhile."

Constance looked into his eyes, searching him for what he would not say. She soon gave in and hugged Quentin, whispering their destination in a soft monotone. He kissed her again and watched as she and Angelique walked into a restaurant only a few feet away. Only when they were completely out of sight did he run into "Sans Reserve."

Quentin took a seat at the bar, not quite willing to face his destiny yet. He had immediately recognized the handwriting. No one needed to remind him. It had only been a matter of time. "It seems you've done well for yourself."

Quentin turned and then turned away. A hand closed in on his shoulder and forced Quentin to look at him, to look into eyes hidden beneath thick gray brows and obscenely thick eyeglasses. It was Count Petofi. The man had not changed since they met...except for "the hand." It had never seemed quite real to Quentin, always seeming to be some petrified piece of the past that should not continue to live. Now it was a repulsive ball of rotting flesh and putrefied muscle. And this disgusting thing was groping his shoulder! "What am I supposed to say?"

"What about hello?" Petofi pointed towards a table and Quentin reluctantly rose and took a seat. A lanky young waiter walked up to them, cautiously eyeing the two men as he readied himself for their order. "I'll have Chartreuse and Mr. Collins shall have...brandy? But of course, he'll have a brandy." The boy ran away quickly, leaving Quentin and Petofi virtually alone. "You haven't changed...but that was the way I planned it."

"What do you want?" asked Quentin, the words straining in his throat.

"You know damn well what I want! I want what you owe me."

"I gave you what you wanted!"

"No, I gave you a cure and immortality in exchange for you services. As I remember it, you fought me all the way," countered Petofi.

"You have to understand that I didn't realize that my services meant forfeiting my body so that you could time travel. It seemed a bit much to me."

"It was what I demanded."

The drinks arrived and Quentin inhaled his quickly, ordering another before the waiter could leave. He would gladly be drunk if it make this seem unreal. But drunkenness could not make this go away. It would only make it more real, more threatening. Besides, his answer was ready-made. "You know I can't work for you."

"Can't?"

"Won't."

"That's too bad, my boy. Really it is," laughed Petofi. He leaned in towards Quentin, his acrid breath battering his cheek. "Have you thought of all the consequences?"

"You'll take away the cure and I'll turn into the wolf every full moon." Quentin bit his lower lip and mumbled, "I can deal with that."

"What about the girl?"

"Leave Constance out of this!"

"You brought her into this." He leaned in even closer, his lips lightly grazing Quentin's earlobe. "Think of her, Quentin. Think of her silken black hair, her porcelain skin, her delicately beautiful body and then think of what the wolf would do to her, how it would rip hr limb from graceful limb and leave her drying carcass for you to discover when you awakened the next morning. Think of her Quentin because she is one of the only things you have left!"

Quentin knew that the wolf could not kill Constance, but that knowledge did not relieve him of the mental pictures of her broken and bloodied on the ground. He could not divorce those images from his mind no matter how hard he tried. Neither he nor Constance knew of a way for her to die, but that did not mean that one did not exist. Quentin knew that if anyone knew of a way to kill her, it would be Petofi. Petofi would think nothing of hurting Constance if doing so helped him obtain what he wanted. If Constance were gone, Quentin knew he would have little support through his troubles. He would end up like Corrin, only Quentin would have to suffer his torture alone.

"What are you thinking?"

"What do I have to do?" murmured Quentin, still attempting to toss the images from his mind.

"Speak up, Quentin," growled Petofi. "I can't hear you."

Quentin glared angrily at Petofi, his eyes instantly narrowing to thin blue slits. Through tightly clenched teeth, he snarled, "What do I have to do?"

Dark Shadows is a Dan Curtis Production.