Shadows on the Wall Chapter 9 Passion and Deceit by Gothick Prologue (read by Donald Briscoe): "Collinwood in the year 1967--and a late evening mist shrouds the Great House in a chill canopy, seemingly spun of spiderwebs and suspicion. Suspicion is in the air at Collinwood, for a new bride has come to the estate, bearing in her breast an ancient hatred known only to herself--and to one other, himself the harbinger of many secrets." ******************************************** "How do I let him talk me into these things?" she mused sleepily to herself, as she lit a cigarette. His warm, slightly rough hands (surprising how soft they were, really, given how hard he worked with them) massaged her back with just those slow steady strokes that were perhaps the purest physical pleasure she'd ever known. In the back of her mind lurked the now unregarded, yet still anciently cherished memory of Daddy gently scrubbing her back in a kitchen tub on a Saturday night at some dim point in her babyhood, in a Philly suburb. Early Bronze Age. "Julia," that rich masculine voice drawled erotically into her ear, and she shivered involuntarily. "Tom," she said as coolly as she knew how, yet found herself turning to him the way a leaf turns towards the sun. He pressed into her, still half soft, and she smiled drowsily at the pleasure the feeling of him within her body always gave. The smell of him was intoxicating--the feel of his warm flesh, all soft yet strong deliciousness, was still more so. A harsh note sounded within the symphony of his hands on her breasts and his tongue in her mouth as she found the part of herself that always seemed to stand by watching the two of them make love asking cynically: "Really, Julia, aren't you a little old for this schoolgirl routine?" "Tom ... please, sweetie ..." "Oh, God, I love you, Julia ..." "Tom ... please!" At the sharp, strident note in her voice he pulled back abruptly, and his eyes flew open, alarmed. "What is it, honey? Was I getting too rough with you?" She smiled, and sighed, taking a long pull on that cigarette. "No, dear. Not at all. I just--have to get--going ..." She bounced out of bed and started fumbling for her bra and panties where they lay discarded by the chair. He couldn't help sighing as he fell back into bed, then raised himself up on an elbow to watch her, a little lewdly, as she dressed with that slightly awkward, rough, no-nonsense way she did everything--except for making love. "Wham, bam, thank you Mister--eh?" he drawled, only half joking. Her giggle rolled radiantly around the room. "Oh, Tom, really!" She came over to the bed in her bra and slip and sat down and held him. She tousled his hair and he pulled her down for a slow, thoughtful kiss that should have pierced the core of her--but didn't. "How come you always have time for everybody except me?" He was trying hard to sound playful--too hard. She could hear the wheedling note of desperation in his voice. She paused, at a loss as to what to say. "Tom--" "Okay, forget I said that," he offered manfully. "I'm being pushy again, aren't I? Asking for too much? Y'know, being Dr. Julia Hoffman's boyfriend just may be the toughest gig in town." She laughed at that, and hugged him. "Honestly, Tom, I never did know what you saw in me. Skinny old harridan--no boobs, no bottom--" He rang a finger along her lips, silencing her with a playful, romantic smile. "No boobs? That's not what I heard." He touched her, softly and secretively, in a VERY private place, and grinned with boyish enthusiasm. She yielded then to his kisses, his passion, his renewed vitality, but even as she threw her head back and linked her legs around his waist, in her heart she knew it wasn't going to last much longer. And she didn't mean this particular bout of lovemaking, either. ************************************** Cassandra was perfect, Roger Collins reflected--perfect in every way. Her porcelain cheeks blushed with peachbloom restraint, her pale pink lips curved in a strangely alluring smile, and her great eyes were like lakes of crystal in which a man might happily lose himself. Lose himself ... "Oh darling, we're going to be so happy," he murmured fervently, leaning down to clasp her around the waist where she sat at the vanity, fiddling with her hairbrush. He buried his face with romantic ardor in her hair, inhaling the odors of cologne, rosewater, and a strange, rank, bitter smell like the reek of a long unopened grave. Shocked, he let go of her, and stood up abruptly. "Yes, we are," she said distantly, not really paying attention, her mind seething with plans and schemes. "Roger, dearest, pour me a drink, will you? There's some champagne left over there, I'm sure." He moved slowly over to the bureau, where Mrs. Johnson had left the bottle and the two elegant glasses of Lalique crystal. He stared slowly around the familiar furnishings of his room. A fog seemed to be lifting--or was it falling? He hadn't a clue. "I ... I can't believe it," he stuttered most uncharacteristically aloud. "What did you say, darling?" Cassandra asked, her voice suddenly sharp and focused upon him. "I ... must've been out of my mind ..." Swiftly as a cobra, she was at his side, her sharply nailed hands pinning his arms, her face inches before his. "Roger ... look at me. I'm your wife, Cassandra. You love me ... remember?" "Love ... you?" He felt suddenly confused, but there was no denying the power--the COMPELLING power--of those eyes, that shimmered with a mad, dreadful radiance. "Yes ... darling," she snapped, unable to keep an irritable edge out of the endearment. *Diabolos take him, what's the matter? The spell should have taken firm hold upon him by now.* She watched him shuffle shakily over to the window, throwing open the casement and inhaling deeply. He needed air--he needed to breathe--he needed to remember where he was--WHO he was. It was the work of but a moment for her to shake the aconite powder into his drink. Not enough to kill him, or even make him ill--just a special decoction to weaken his will--and subjugate it fully to hers. "Roger--dear," she cooed, "please drink your champagne. And then let's sit down and discuss this like civilised people. I couldn't bear tears tonight ... my wedding night ... my first night as Mrs. Roger Collins?" He looked down at her then, at her shining tender eyes, and didn't even see the cruelty in those quirking, trembling lips. "Of course, darling," he managed, gulping down his champagne, wishing it were something stronger. Perhaps some of Grandpapa Jamison's special Irish whiskey--something with a kick to it. He remembered being around the old man as a kid, when he was in his cups. The stories he'd heard... God, his head was swimming. He looked at Cassandra, and suddenly saw her for what she was--a refuge. In this world, with all its changing, confusing, inconsistent idiocies, only Cassandra was real. "Only you are real," he murmured, not even aware that she was cooing the words along with him. "I exist to serve you. To worship you. To ... love ... you ..." He didn't even feel the fall when he toppled into bed, fully clothed. Inscrutably she watched him for a moment, her eyes flecks of wintry ice. "Fool," she hissed, and then was gone. ************************************ The flames in Laura Collins' eyes mirrored those in the fireplace as she stared malevolently at the image of the sleeping Roger Collins. "Oh great god Ra," she murmured, "why have you failed me? Why have you allowed Roger Collins to live? You know that he stands between me and my son, whom you have commanded me to bring before you, to partake of your glory and splendor. Let your eternal fire reach out to him now. Let it take him, and burn him, and destroy him! Amen-Ra, astu aa!" She stared deeply into the flames, holding up the divine scarab Ra had sent her, to aid her in concentrating her will. "Amen-Ra, astu aa!" she crooned again, imperiously. "Let the flames rise! Let them come forth! Let Roger Collins be destroyed!" An explosion of unstoppable force slammed into her, as a violent gust of wind blew open the cottage door, extinguishing the flames. Knocked backwards, Laura screamed, as the scarab flew out of her hands and shattered on the hearth tiles before her very eyes. Chill air enfolded her, and she stretched out her hands to rekindle the flames in the fireplace. Still more chilling peals of laughter echoed and rang all around her, and she wheeled to face the slim, strangely familiar woman with the dark hair who stepped forth from the shadows, from the night, her teeth bared in an unpleasant smile. "You!" she gasped, disbelieving the evidence of her own eyes. "But it can't be! It isn't possible! You're--" "Dead?" Cassandra cooed coyly. "But, my dear, couldn't the same be said of you? Laura Stockbridge Murdoch Collins--one of the legendary beauties of the Collins family. How could I not recognize you? The grave has not tarnished your perfection, my dear. I must congratulate you on that. And I must warn you to leave Collinwood--now--or face your own destruction!" Laura's chin came up, and she faced her adversary with a coldly disdainful smile. "Miranda DuVal!" she hissed venomously, as if the name were poison upon her tongue. "I might have known that I hadn't seen the last of you. The last time we met, you thwarted my plans. But this time I have an ally ... one that could move even you to step aside!" "Oh, really!" Cassandra snarled, her face contorting. "I doubt that. And I will not warn you a second time. Return to your grave, Laura Collins--or allow me the pleasure of helping you back there--permanently!" Laura's laughter was low and mocking. "You think you can dispose of me that easily, Miranda? I'm not like those pathetic fools you whisk into submission by just batting your eyelashes at them. And I am armed this time, with a force even you have reason to fear!" She held up one slender, pale hand, and snatched a huge torch out of the empty air. Its flames burnt with a merry orange ebullience as Cassandra stared at it in horror. "By royal Bast's command, this night you WILL be burnt to the uttermost cinder of your being, and your ashes will be scattered to the winds, never to rise again! Prepare for eternity, WITCH!" And she flung the torch, as Cassandra's screams cut through the night air like a harrowing scythe ... TO BE CONTINUED BY JASON THE MAGNIFICENT!