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