The Consequences of Falling
By Nicole Pruitt

Rating: MA | Status: Completed | Genre: Drama/Romance | Series: None
Summary: Original Series. Who will be there to catch you when you fall?

Warnings: This fic contains sexually explicit themes and is for adult audiences only. Do not read if you are under 18 years of age.

Go to: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Part 1

She stood outside the door, unconsciously smoothing her blue silk dress in impatience. She knew that the most fashionable styles were much more whimsical, much flirtier. She still preferred the classics. Besides, the dress appeared young…at least on her. Most everything did.

Maybe this will catch his eye. She did not know if she wanted to obtain his attention, though. She was being set up on a blind date with her landlady’s "handsome" distant cousin. If he’s so handsome, why does he need to be set up? She knew that she should not meet this guy because nothing good would possibly come of it. Yet, these people did not know anything about her past or her dubious history with men. If they had the slightest inkling as to what she was, they would have never wanted her to meet their cousin.

She swallowed her fears and knocked at the large door. A lovely young blonde woman answered, her face exhibiting a mixture of amusement and jealousy. "Hello…um…Mrs. Stoddard is expecting me. I’m…"

"Of course Ms. DuVane," answered the young woman curtly. "Please come in."

She entered cautiously, slightly frightened to enter the old mansion. But the place had a certain charm, a certain je ne sais quoi that struck her as delightful. Maybe I should have tried to get a room here. Her concentration was ultimately broken when Mrs. Stoddard appeared from behind double doors, followed closely by a redheaded woman with sharp features. Mrs. Stoddard made sure the doors were firmly shut before approaching her, studying her features for the anxiety she refused to show. "Ms. DuVane, I’m please you came," she said warmly. "You look lovely."

"Thank you. You’re too kind."

Mrs. Stoddard smiled and brought the blonde woman to her side. "This is my daughter Carolyn and this," she said motioning to the other woman, " is Julia Hoffman."

She attempted to offer greetings but the other women chilled her. Both seemed outrageously suspicious of her, as if she had something to hide. Maybe they can see through me? Maybe they know what I am? She eventually shook off their negativity, knowing it best not to let them get the best of her. "I don’t mean to seem rude, but I think it’s best we get to the heart of the matter."

"Yes! You must be ready to meet him," said Mrs. Stoddard. "He’s just as excited to meet you. You see, our cousin has had a rough streak of luck in all matters over the last two years."

"Oh, what happened?"

"I don’t think you would believe it if we told you," said Julia.

"I don’t mean to pry," she insisted, "but I wouldn’t want to accidentally hit a touchy subject."

"I don’t believe this will come up."

She ignored her. Directing her attention to Mrs. Stoddard, she said, "I’d love to meet him now."

Mrs. Stoddard nodded and went to open the door. She crept up behind the woman, anxious as ever to meet her mystery man. Once the door was opened, she slipped in and saw him before he turned to her. Tall, thin, and dressed in black. Not bad, not bad at all. She thought his hair could stand to be cut, but the thick chestnut locks seemed at place on him. He seemed as she had expected.

She had not expected the shock she felt when he turned to her. His handsome face seemed familiar to her although she could not place it to a name. It was his eyes that quickly gave him away. How could I forget? She had often thought of those eyes, large cerulean pools that one could easily, and happily, drown in. That was so long ago. To her surprise, he seemed to notice her as well, his eyes widening to breathe her in. She cautiously stepped forward, her hand extended in what could be a tumultuous meeting. "Hello Mr. Stoddard, I…"

"No, I’m afraid you’re mistaken," he said softly. "My name is Collins. Quentin Collins."

This is highly unexpected. She hoped her apprehension did not show as she shook his hand. "I apologize Mr. Collins. I am Constance. Constance DuVane."

"Constance…DuVane?"

"Yes."

Quentin nodded and turned to the onlookers. "Can you please leave us?" he asked, brandishing the priceless smile Constance knew too well. "I would like to speak with Ms. DuVane in private."

The three relented, if somewhat suspiciously, and returned to the foyer. As soon as they left, Quentin locked the doors. Constance watched as he ran around the room, frantically searching for invisible stragglers. Once he convinced himself that they were alone, he fixed himself a drink. He could only sneak a sip before Constance confiscated it, knowing well what the drill would be if she did not. Quentin seemed angry at first but quickly cooled. "Constance?" he asked again.

"Quentin! Long time, no see, huh?" she asked whimsically.

"Long time indeed. I had almost forgotten."

"How?" Constance raised the snifter in a faux toast, saying, "Happy New Year, Quentin: may 1901 be brighter than 1900."

"Seventy-one years," he whispered, sounding as if the weight of those years had hit him for the first time. "I can’t believe we met seventy-one years ago."

"And you’ve not changed a bit."

"Neither have you." Quentin fixed another drink, guzzling it down before she could stop him. "You can’t imagine how odd it is to see a familiar face."

"Try me." Constance suddenly remembered what Mrs. Stoddard had said, realizing she could easily hit a sore spot if she was not careful. She took one of his hands into both of hers and asked, "What’s wrong?"

"Wrong? Nothing’s wrong. Who said something was wrong?"

Constance could see the heartbreak streaming from his eyes. It made her want to cry. "Mrs. Stoddard told me that you’ve had a rough couple of years. Why don’t you tell me what happened? On second thought, why don’t you tell me who she was?"

Quentin chuckled softly and patted her hand. "Am I really so predictable? Yes, it was a woman, more a memory than anything else."

"A strong memory?"

"Yes. Sometimes good and sometimes bad but always overpowering."

"They’re just memories, Quentin. They can’t hurt you."

"I’m not so sure," he mumbled. "You never quite know what can hurt you at Collinwood."

"Why don’t you leave?"

"I don’t know. I suppose I’m a glutton for punishment."

Constance smiled and nestled her head into his shoulder. She had forgotten how warm he was, how much she had enjoyed being so close to him even if their relationship had always been completely platonic. Platonic female friend of Quentin Collins! Isn’t that a contradiction of terms? "So you still live here?"

"In the same room I’ve always been in."

Constance wanted to scream and pull his hair, try to break the haze as she had years before. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and said, "I’ve never seen you as a stay-put guy. You need to leave."

"And follow you to God-knows-where?"

"No because I’m living on the estate."

Constance was shocked by how quickly his jaw dropped, an exasperated "ugh" creeping out before he began to laugh. "You’re living on the estate? I had no idea! Where are you staying and how long have you been there? I need to know how inattentive I’ve been."

"I’m living in the cottage. I’ve been there for the past…um…month and a half."

"You’ve hidden yourself well," chided Quentin playfully. "Don’t you think it’s time you crawled into town?"

"Probably. Is there anything to do in town?"

"No but we could grab a bite to eat, catch a movie, come back and maybe…no, I’m sorry Constance. I didn’t mean for that to sound the way it did."

"I hope not." Constance punched his shoulder mischievously and moved towards the locked doors. "Besides, I’m not that easy. You won’t have me that quickly."

"That’s not what Jack Andrews was flying off at the mouth about last time I saw him."

"Jack Andrews is an idiot, Quentin. Never believe a word he says."

"I don’t see the problem, Julia," complained Barnabas, angry to be drawn away from his book. "Quentin has been struggling for the past two years. If this date is a sign of recovery, I welcome it."

"But you didn’t see this woman," insisted Julia. "Just to look at her, you get the feeling that she isn't all she appears to be."

"What does that mean?"

"She’s more than she claims to be."

"Well, who is she claiming to be?" demanded Barnabas.

"She says her name is Constance DuVane," answered Julia coldly. "Elizabeth says that she’s a novelist/photographer who came to Collinsport to get away from her hectic life. I went into the village to find some of her work. Apparently, she actually is a writer and a photographer."

Barnabas winced as Julia unloaded a pile of books into his lap. He first flipped through the worn paperbacks, the wear and tear a statement to how well loved they had been. The biographies on the back flap always said the same thing:

Constance DuVane is the author of numerous books, the best known from the Corin Elder Saga. Ms. DuVane is also a respected photographer whose work has appeared in numerous publications and in the compilations she has compiled. Ms. DuVane resides in Manhattan.

He separated the Corin Elder novels from the others before tackling the photography. Barnabas was extremely impressed with her work. She seemed able to find the humanity in almost any situation, making her subjects surreally beautiful. "She is a great talent."

"I quite agree." Julia placed a magazine in his lap, the relevant pages marked with a slip of white paper. It was a recent magazine. When he turned to the marked pages, Barnabas was immediately arrested by a pair of large brown eyes. Their owner was beautiful. Her exquisite face was framed by mid-length raven hair that refused to remain straight, stubbornly forming languid waves in the back. A close-up showed her naturally long black lashes caressing the flesh just below sculpted black brows as she stared at some unseen object. Another picture showed her head to toe, showing her to be a trim, well-proportioned woman of average height with delicate hands and a smile that could melt steel. "I take it that this is Constance DuVane?"

"The one and only."

"So let me get this straight: you are worried about Quentin because after overcoming depression, he has decided to go out with a talented, beautiful young woman with her own money. Are you sure you’re looking at this from the correct perspective?"

"You should have seen the way he looked at her," insisted Julia. "I’d swear he recognized her."

"Who’s to say he doesn’t know her?" demanded Barnabas, irritation clearly beginning to infect his voice. "You’re underestimating the number of people Quentin knows. This girl could be one of the thousands."

"You didn’t meet this girl!"

"Maybe I should!"

"You probably will," sighed Julia. "She’s taken up residence in the cottage now that Chris has left."

"And you’re convinced she planned it this way?"

"I don’t know, but, I swear to you, if you had met her, you would have been suspicious of her too."

Barnabas laughed in spite of Julia’s intensity. It had been quite some time since she had become so worked up over a situation, especially one that seemed so innocuous. Yet, he would make a point of meeting this girl, if only to appease Julia. "I’ll visit her tomorrow."

"No, you should visit her tonight!" insisted Julia. "They returned to the estate. I saw them go into the cottage. See her there."

"I won’t go to the cottage tonight! I refuse to walk in on them...doing whatever it is they are doing!"

"Maybe you ought to. Maybe you’ll learn something."

Consequences of Falling: Part 1-Chapter 3

Cottage, 1:00 AM

"Maybe I am that easy," cooed Constance, twisting a glass of Merlot between her fingers as she watched strong fingers stroke her naked knee. She sat with Quentin atop a fleece blanket spread along the floor, her back pressed into his chest and her cheek against his. Constance had not planned on making love to Quentin, but, once the opportunity arose, she made no effort to stop. She had thought nothing of bringing him back to the cottage. It had been her idea to spread the blanket out and she had brought out the wine. Constance did not protest when he moved closer to her and even began to move in herself. Yet, when he kissed her, something within her snapped and she pulled back. She knew what it would lead to and knew it would be dangerous, even with this oddly immortal man. But when she looked into his eyes, Constance knew she had drowned and that she could not turn back. She gave in and let him take her.

Constance had been pleasantly surprised by the rhythm of their lovemaking, a slow deep throb that had none of the mechanization of almost anyone else she had ever taken into her. But those men had been there to ease a hunger, to sate a violent nature she had known most of her existence. Even the times she had chosen a partner for her own pleasure, the act would end as the others had. It was disheartening.

That track record was what brought the fear out in Constance after she came. Unlike the others, she carefully checked Quentin's vital signs. She found him safe, healthy. He had fallen into a light slumber, but seemed fine. She slipped out of his arms and paced around him, making sure that everything was fine. Once she was certain that he was well, Constance woke him, ready to do things she had not done in years. They made love four more times before easing into their upright position. They did not speak, only occasionally offering silent, winsome toasts and nuzzling playfully into one another's necks.

Constance loved the experience, relishing the intimacy as she had nothing else in years. She knew that the last person she ought to find comfort with was Quentin Collins. She knew his track record as well as anyone. Constance could still remember cold January nights at sea when all she could hear were the the vibrations of bedsprings from the room next to hers. She would later peak out the door to see some anonymous beauty sneak out into the night, oblivious to the fact that someone was watching her, thinking only of the man who she had just left. Even after that fateful voyage, Constance continued to keep a running tally of his conquests. After two months she quit, refusing to waste much more time with such ridiculous numbers. She did not hold those liaisons against Quentin. She had been far more active than him and with worse consequences. Still, she did not want to become attached. But God, I could get used to this! It was best to let this be a one-time situation, an experience to cherish but not to repeat.

"What are you doing tomorrow?" asked Quentin seductively.

"I...um...I'm working tomorrow."

"What do you do?"

"I write. You know that." By the look on his face, Constance could tell that Quentin had either forgotten or the alcohol had begun to dull his mind. "Remember because you, I, and Jack Andrews had been talking and he asked where I found my money, seeing that I wasn't married and he was a pig. I told him that I wrote novels and he said that I shouldn't write because writing was 'man's work.' You told him that someone had to do it and that he was one to talk about 'man's work' because, and I quote, 'Jack, you wouldn't know man's work if it bit you on the ass.'"

"I remember that," he squealed, pulling Constance further into him before kissing her cheek. "Jack had been so angry with me, as if I had broken some secret male covenant. He accused me of just wanting to work my way under your skirt."

"And after seventy-one years, you can claim mission accomplished." Constance laid Quentin back onto the blanket and slipped on top of him, planting slow passionate kisses across his face and working her way down. She had flowed to his navel when she was jolted from her trance by knocks at the door. "I have to get that."

"No you don't," insisted Quentin. He rose up and kissed her, joyously probing her mouth as his hands caressed her body. He pulled off and said, "It's one in the morning. Anyone out now isn't worth talking to."

"But it could be an emergency." Constance kissed him brusquely on the cheek and fled to her bedroom. She fumbled through piles of clothing until she found her long blue robe. She ran back out to be met by Quentin's sad dog stare. "Please don't look at me like that."

"Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?"

"And?" asked Constance. "Try harder."

"Remember that I tried." Quentin rose and walked to her, lacing his arms around her waist and kissing her forehead. "Listen," he whispered, "the knocking stopped."

Constance realized that he was correct: the knocking had stopped. As they began to kiss, the knocking began anew, this time more fervent than before. "You jinxed it," she joked.

"You're going to answer it, aren't you?"

"Yes. I can't foresee this lasting long so why don't you go back to the blanket and look pretty for me when I get back?"

Constance shooed Quentin back to the blanket and answered the door. At first, she only peeked out, but, on finding no one waiting, slipped into the frozen night air. "Who's there?" she screamed. "Come out and show yourself or leave me alone!"

"Excuse me Ms. DuVane, but I didn't know if you were home."

Constance turned around, startled by the man staring down on her. He made her uncomfortable, his hypnotic brown eyes glaring down behind thick brown brows, unnerving her so completely that she felt like should run back into the cottage and hide in Quentin's arms. Wait a minute: I'm stronger than both of them. I can take this man with my hands tied behind my back. "How do you know my name?"

"I'm sorry to startle you, but I want to know if I could use your telephone."

"How do you know me?"

"We live on the estate. I live in the Old House," he said, his voice attempting to appease Constance's obvious frustration.

Constance had vaguely noticed the Old House when touring the property with Maggie Evans-Loomis. She thought that the house had once been beautiful and apparently the interior continued to sparkle. The exterior was a different story. In its present state, the house seemed a deteriorating mess. "Who are you?"

"I am Barnabas Collins."

"And you're related the Great House family?"

"I'm a distant relation." He paused a moment, seeming to think of another way to get to Constance. "Can I please use your telephone? There is an emergency at the Old House and there are no phones there."

"If it's an emergency...yeah sure. Wait one moment." Constance opened the door a notch, just enough so that sound could filter inside. "OF COURSE! IF IT'S AN EMERGENCY, YOU CAN USE MY PHONE!" With much hesitation, she led him into the cottage.

Constance was relieved to find Quentin sitting in a chair, his shirt carefully buttoned and the blanket covering his bare legs. He was not pristine, but at least he was not laying naked on the floor. Quentin looked back and forth from Constance to the man, his face showing a bit of confusion. "Barnabas? What are you doing here?"

"I need to make a call. There's an emergency at the house."

"But didn't you have the phones installed last week?"

"No, the will be installed next week."

"But I thought I saw the vans at the house last Monday."

Constance listened as the men argued ten minutes over whether or not the telephones had been installed at the Old House. She had been around long enough to know whom to believe. She could not understand why she had not seen it before. Constance normally could sense when someone was lying and was ashamed to have missed a lie so blatant. Yet this was not all Constance felt. She had felt bizarre vibrations from the cottage the moment she stepped inside: death, fire, and continual transformation had left it's mark in every nook and cranny. When she had met Quentin, she had felt an intermingling of vibes that, though muted and tangled, seemed to be no longer a threat.

The same went for the vibrations she felt from Barnabas Collins. It had been years since she had encountered a creature such as he. She had no antipathy towards vampires, or recovering bloodsuckers as the weakened vibes indicated. She thought them peculiar, if not somewhat egotistical beings, highly conscious of the heightened supernatural notoriety. But what creature was not? She had no problem with vampires. However, she did not like this one's emergence into her life. She could not figure out his motive, making him either a dangerous enemy or a sorely needed ally. "Okay fellas!" she announced as she took a seat on Quentin's lap. "I doesn't matter when the phones were installed. Phones mess up. I've always found modern wiring to be so unreliable. Haven't you, Mr. Collins?"

Constance almost enjoyed the thick glaze that crept into the eyes Barnabas Collins, although it quickly faded. He was as composed as ever when he said, "It is an old house."

"You'd know, wouldn't you?" Constance drained the remainder of her Merlot and pointed languidly towards the telephone on the table. "Make your call. I wouldn't want to be responsible for an emergency growing out of hand."

Barnabas nodded an awkward "thank you" and began to make his call. Constance had no intention of listening to his conversation. She already knew that he was not calling for assistance. She turned her attention to Quentin, whose baffled gaze still centered on Barnabas. Constance turned his face back to hers and he smiled a charming, if slightly intoxicated, smile. He shouldn't me this pretty! "Is he kin to you?" she asked quietly.

"Yes...well...um..yes, we are related," he slurred.

"You're 'cousins,' right?"

For a moment, Quentin's drunkenness seemed to lift, making him look contemplative. "So you've figured out my little secret?" he asked slyly.

"Of course I did."

"You won't tell anyone will you?" asked Quentin, his mouth slowly finding its way to hers.

"Mum's the word." Constance kissed him again, relishing the wine that lingered inside his mouth. "Tell me, what is your 'cousin' up to?"

"He wanted to see the most beautiful woman ever."

"So I've been upgraded? It doesn't matter. I just hope you'll feel the same when you sober up." Constance averted her attention back to Barnabas, who had just finished his call. "Things will be all right, won't they Mr. Collins?"

"Yes they will. I'm sorry to inconvenience you." Barnabas quickly fled, his demeanor showing obvious shame. "Goodnight Ms. DuVane. I hope we meet again under more favorable circumstances. Goodnight Quentin. I'm sorry to interrupt you."

Barnabas left before either one could reply. Quentin and Constance cast each other odd looks before falling into one another in laughter. Once they calmed, Quentin rose and grabbed for his pants. "I should be going home," he announced slowly.

"No you shouldn't." Constance grabbed his arm and pulled him to her. "You should stay the night."

"What if they worry about me?"

"Since when did Quentin Collins give a damn if anyone worried about him? Has old age tempered you?"

"That's not funny." Quentin's countenance softened, making him seem sadder than she had expected. "What has time done to you Constance?"

"It's left me brittle. I shouldn't want you here but I do. I'm tired of being brittle."

"I don't think I can help you," he mumbled softly. "You seem as you did when I last saw you."

"I've been brittle a long time. Listen, just lay with me tonight." Constance pulled him to her chest and began to knead her hands through his hair, wanting to take all the warmth she could from him if he was going to leave. "Besides, you need to get out of the house."

"Okay. I'll stay." Quentin rose to his feet and swept Constance from the chair. "You're right. I need a change and you're, well, a change. I want to stay."

"Good, good, good." Constance realized that she had sounded too eager. "You can only stay tonight," she added, hoping to undo any damage.

"That's fine." Quentin carried Constance into her bedroom, removing her robe and laid beside her. Constance slipped off his shirt and curled around him, conforming her body to his contours. The moment he drifted into sleep, Constance hopped out of bed. She walked around to the other side and looked at him. She was amazed by how peaceful he looked while he slept. I suppose they all look like angels. She began to whisper into his ear, thinking of the sweetest things she could to tell him. She had done this with the men she could not bond with, hoping her words would bring sweet dreams. In the morning, she would find that they had.

It was the least she could do for Quentin, considering that she had no intention of going to sleep. Constance had not slept in over four hundred years.

Consequences of Falling: Part 1-Chapter 4

"You never told me what you thought of her," said Julia.

Barnabas groaned. Julia had been nagging him since he had returned from the cottage, begging him for his impressions of Constance DuVane. Now that they had seen her with David and Hallie at the beach, Julia became more insistent for his opinion. Barnabas was not willing to admit to anything. He quickly tired of Julia and left her, soon starting a conversation with Maggie. Although she was no longer the governess at Collinwood, she had driven them to the beach, seeing that David was no longer trusted with the car after a rather heinous accident. He could not believe that he had lost her to Willie. I suppose you lose touch with people during time travel. He still had Julia.

At any rate, Maggie thought Constance DuVane was wonderful. "She's a charming woman. How can you not like her?"

"I don't know," mumbled Barnabas. "But do you think she's right for Quentin?"

"I'd hope so, especially since I saw him wander out of the cottage this morning." Maggie leaned in and whispered, "Don't tell Constance but I invited Quentin to come. He said that he had some business in town but that he would find his way here eventually."

"Why shouldn't I tell Constance?"

"He wants to surprise her. Isn't it exciting!"

"Very." Barnabas lightly grabbed Maggie's arm, breaking her attention from the teenagers. "Are you happy with Willie?"

"Very."

Barnabas nodded and wandered back to Julia, feeling as defeated as he had so many times before. "What does Maggie think about her?" asked Julia the moment he returned.

"She likes her," grumbled Barnabas.

"How well do you think the children like her?"

Barnabas glanced out to the sand to receive his answer. As she watched Constance DuVane run and flip (all too careful to avoid the rocks) with the teenagers, he knew that they probably loved her. She looked so graceful waltzing down the coast, the legs of her long pants covered in damp sand and her hair forming tangled dreds. She looked like a ragamuffin fairy. When she looked in their direction, she smiled broadly. The smile soon rescinded, however, and she looked down the beach to the children. Barnabas looked to his side to see Julia scowling harshly at Constance. "Must you be rude to her?"

"I don't like that girl," insisted Julia.

"Well, since we don't know all about her, I'd suggest you not make an enemy of her!"

For a moment, Barnabas was convinced that Constance would approach him when something down the beach caught her eye. The smile returned to her lips as she sauntered down the sand. Constance eased into Quentin's arms the moment she reached him, planting a curiously chaste kiss on his forehead before pulling away. "I'm sure you even had a problem with that," mumbled Barnabas.

"Whore," snarled Julia.

"She's no more a whore than Quentin is. And you have to admit that they are an attractive couple."

There was a charm to the duo. Constance had somehow convinced Quentin to join her in her barefoot revelry, damning his beautiful blue suit to a permanent seat at the back of the closet. Quentin was not as successful as the others, landing flat on his back. David and Hallie rolled to the ground in laughter as Constance helped her fallen lover to his feet. Quentin seemed embarrassed until Constance whispered something to him, kissed his cheek and walked away, moving slowly enough for him to think about her words and catch up to her. They disappeared quickly. "She has a way," said Barnabas.

"She has a problem," said Julia.

"I don't think she's human."

"What do you mean 'i don't think she's human?'" screamed Julia. "How did you come up with that?"

"Look at her. Her skill is uncommon. She charms everyone with a wave of her hand. Very few humans can do that," explained Barnabas. "And if she knew Quentin before this time, that seals the deal."

"Don't you think you should tell Quentin about your little theory?"

"Quentin isn't completely human either, Julia. Besides, I don't think she means anyone any harm," said Barnabas. He kissed Julia's cheek and said, "You don't have to deal with Constance DuVane. Quentin does and he seems more than willing to take on the challenge."

"Quentin's up for many challenges that he shouldn't be up for," sighed Julia.

"This is different! She's perfectly harmless. She doesn't know anything about us, any of us. Quentin may be infatuated with her but he won't spill any secrets. Even if she were up to something, she has nothing to really hold against us and she'll never have anything. Julia, just let this go!"

Consequences of Falling: Part 1-Chapter 5

April 16, 1972, Cottage, 3:00 PM

Constance kept the shades pulled in the cottage, only a sprinkling of candles giving off the ethereal glow to light her way. She had been working--as she had intended the month before, but had finished very little. After she had unwillingly kicked Quentin from her bed two days before, she attempted to write, pouring over hundreds of research pages and plot notes to no avail. Quentin called once each day, and each time she explained that she was working. He would apologize and hang up. He would probably call again tomorrow. Tomorrow she would claim that she could not work and would go out with him. She would probably bring him back to the cottage so that they could have their way with one another again. You can't do that! You can't become too attached.

But Constance knew that she had gone too far. She was trying to work but all she could think of was Quentin. When he called, Constance would detain him long enough to internalize his voice before letting him go. She knew she was moving into uncharted territory and she did not like it. He's only a man. There are millions of others out there just like him. What makes him so different?

It did not matter. The interference had ruined her plans. Instead of work, Constance began to filter through the boxes she had recently had sent to Collinsport, slowly unraveling their contents to reveal pieces of the past. She fumbled through bundles of letters, crumbling telegrams, ancient photographs, and odd souvenirs from past victims. The hardest relics to pilfer through were her sketchbooks. Inside, pictures of "friends," victims, and nameless others stared back at her, their images given immortality through her charcoal pencils. It killed her to touch them.

"Then don't touch them, dear. Some things are best left in the past."

Constance looked up to see a shadow slowly expand across the floor as a form materialized in the corner. She knew who had decided to make an appearance. She could not be happier. "Angelique! I didn't expect you. Then again, I never do." She grabbed the bottle at the foot of her chair and poured its contents in the nearest glass. "Chablis?"

"Why not?" Angelique accepted the glass and bent of the sketchbook. "Did you ever attempt to draw me?"

Constance pulled a fragile portfolio from the stack and flipped through the yellowed pages. The sketch in question was the bust of a woman, her long blonde hair covering her bare shoulders in innocent ringlets as her large eyes and smile foreshadowed mischief. The caption read: Angelique circa 1804. "I believe I have another from early 1900s," murmured Constance.

"I like this one. Can I have it?"

"Once I make a copy." Constance placed the book to the side and began to look through another. "Why did you come here?"

"I feel like I should ask the same of you." Angelique walked to the table and examined the tapestry of empty wine bottles that encircled the telephone. "I can tell that you've not done your deed in quite awhile."

"Why do you say that?"

"Please Constance! You either dine on your delicate delicacy or drink like a wino. That would explain why you're on the Collins Estate. They could always nip away at the sherry."

"I don't drink sherry."

"A minor complication." Angelique wandered back to Constance and knelt before her, her face exhibiting the concern she rarely showed. "Why are you here?"

"I thought I could write here. It's peaceful," explained Constance weakly.

"Peaceful! I thought you would go insane living in a place with such toxic vibrations." Angelique examined Constance further and said, "There's something else."

"There's nothing else!" screamed Constance.

Angelique grabbed Constance by the shoulders and shook her brusquely. "Tell me! You know no one else will understand." She stopped shaking her and backed away, almost breaking the wine bottle tapestry. "I apologize but I can't understand your behavior. We have been friends since 1798. Now, I admit that I've not told you everything but I have always been honest with you about the things you asked of me."

Constance did not know what to say. She had no intention of admitting to Angelique that she could be falling for a man she had maintained a ten-year friendship with before they both lost touch only to find him a half century later. Constance knew she would sound weak, and, during the entirety of her existence, she knew that weakness left one open to attack, even from a friend. Before she could speak, Constance was saved by a knock at the door. She ran to it and asked, "Who is it?"

"It's Barnabas Collins."

Constance turned to speak to Angelique only to find her gone. She chalked her disappearance up to caprice and opened the door. "Hello Mr. Collins," she cooed as she ushered him inside. "I didn't expect to see you so soon."

"I came to offer a more adequate explanation for what happened a few nights ago."

"No need, Mr. Collins. No harm done."

"I'm not so sure," said Barnabas, obviously embarrassed by the situation. "I don't believe my cousin would agree with you."

"Then you should apologize to Quentin, not to me."

"Maybe so." Barnabas glanced furtively around the room, his eyes momentarily landing on the bottles before facing Constance again. "I should leave."

"Then good day, Mr. Collins."

"Good day, Ms. DuVane. Maybe you and Quentin should have dinner with my wife and I."

"Your wife?"

"Yes. Julia Hoffman. Do you know her?"

I should have guessed! "We met briefly at Collinwood," said Constance calmly. "And you're right. Maybe we should get together."

Barnabas smiled and fled the cottage. Constance immediately locked the door and peaked through the shades to see if he had left. She spun around to see Angelique standing before her, eyes wide with shock although the devious grin grew across her face. "Constance! You were with Quentin Collins?"

"Yes."

"Biblically?"

"Yes," murmured Constance.

"And he's still alive?"

"Yes!"

"But of course," whispered Angelique. "It has saved him before and has now saved him once more."

"What saved him?" asked Constance.

"You don't know? No, he wouldn't tell you," sighed Angelique. "How long have you actually known him?"

Constance sighed and took a seat in the chair, folding her head into her hands for safety. "I met Quentin seventy-one years ago on a ship heading to France. There were many difficulties on the ship and we were stranded for a about a week off and on throughout the entire trip. Quentin and I became fast friends and we kept in touch ten years before drifting apart."

"Did you come to the estate to see him?"

"I wasn't supposed to come here! There was an artist's colony in Canada. I was in Collinsport when I received word the it had been shut down because of massive illegal drug use and some rather unsavory sexual abuse charges. Apparently I have a fan in Elizabeth Stoddard because, when she found at that I was stranded, she offered to rent me this cottage."

"So Quentin didn't factor into this?"

"Why would he? I thought he would be dead by now," explained Constance. "Besides, I wasn't thinking. I didn't connect his name with the town or the estate. I am such an idiot! When I saw him, I thought that he could be some distant relation of Quentin's but not the real thing."

"That's one way of putting it," snickered Angelique.

"And you know this because...?"

"Well, we've all had some intriguing times at this old estate."

Constance sat up with a start before quickly falling back in laughter. She and Angelique had shared so much. And now they've shared a lover. "Are you here to fight me for the love of Quentin Collins?"

"If I ever loved Quentin I still wouldn't be fool enough to fight you for him," laughed Angelique. "I could never win against someone like you. I'd be signing my passport back to Hell."

"How many times do I have to tell you that there is no Hell?" asked Constance. "You know that if there really was a Hell they would never let you or Nicholas out."

"And you know all of this because...?"

"Because I've been around long enough to know." Constance calmed and poured herself another drink. This was easier than she thought it would be. "But what I know doesn't matter right now. I want to know what you know about Quentin."

Angelique sighed and took a seat across from Constance. "Quentin should tell you about his past."

"That's no fair! Give me a little clue," begged Constance.

Angelique pointed to the fireplace and asked, "Tell me what you feel when you're around it."

Constance shrugged and walked to the fireplace. The vibrations had always been strongest at the fireplace and she had avoided it, only feeling comfortable there while she had lain in front of it with Quentin. Constance ran her hands along the mantle and sighed, feeling the intense pain of the person who had stood there. "Poor thing?"

"Who is the 'poor thing?'"

"The lycanthrope. He was recently here. The vibrations are so strong."

Angelique laughed slowly. "You've always had an affinity for werewolves, haven't you? It doesn't matter. If you'd like to know, you have just felt the sadness of Christopher Jennings. He lived here once but left close to two years ago with his sister and fiancée. Now tell me, what else do you feel?"

Constance sat in front of the fireplace and stared into the dormant pit. The moment she felt the rage, she recoiled instantly. "Phoenix," she hissed.

"They are a nuisance, aren't they? Never mind her and find something else."

Constance hesitantly walked back to the fireplace but stopped short of it, standing in the clearing. She knelt down and ran each hand across two horizontals. "Someone died here," she said, "and someone almost died here."

Angelique walked behind Constance and placed her hand on her shoulder. "Both fields are from the same man. I was there. I know."

"It's Quentin, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"What happened?" asked Constance.

"Let him tell you." Angelique walked to the fireplace and lit the kindling, stoking the embers until they raged. "What else do you feel?"

"I feel the lycanthrope, but only barely. Why?"

"No reason." Angelique retook her seat and turned to Constance, wine glass in hand. "What do you actually feel for Quentin."

"I like him," mumbled Constance. She drained her glass and poured another, attempting to build a haze before finishing her answer. "He's interesting."

"Really? Is that all?"

"Yes."

"I'll believe you...for now."

Constance groaned as she slumped into her seat. You're not going to get any work done. Just call Quentin later and ease some stress. "I don't see why this is so important to you."

"It's not. It just seems strange that you accidentally meet and then make love to an old friend."

"Stranger things have happened."

"True." Angelique leaned foreword and smiled, the gleam twinkling in her eyes. "Do you believe in fate?"

"I wouldn't call this fate," laughed Constance. She did not like her questioning, although it amused her. Their roles had once been reversed, Constance attempting to find Angelique's feelings for their 'traveling companion.' But those too were times Constance would rather leave behind. "But lets drop this. Tell me, where will you be staying?"

"What if I told you I had a reserved room in Collinwood?"

"I'd say that you were lying," chided Constance, "but I'd want to know why you thought so."

"And that I'd tell you," said Angelique proudly. "I'd tell you everything."

"Really? Do I know any of the players besides you?"

"What about Barnabas Collins?"

"Okay, you have my attention," purred Constance. "I want to know everything you have to tell me."

Consequences of Falling: Part 1-Chapter 6

April 19, 1972, Collinwood, 3:00 PM

Barnabas had expected to find more signs of life than he found. He would be leaving in a day and had wanted to tell everyone goodbye. The only people he found were Hallie and Quentin, neither of whom where paying him any attention. Quentin seemed fully engrossed by whatever he was writing and Hallie watched him intently, one foot tapping in impatient expectation. The only acknowledgement he received from Quentin was a curt nod as he rose to through a piece of paper into the fire. Hallie offered a pleasant hello. "What are you doing?"

"Writing to Constance," answered Quentin, his eyes never leaving the tablet.

"Why don't you visit her? Isn't she still living in the cottage?"

Quentin did not answer. Hallie turned to Barnabas and said, "Constance won't let him inside the cottage."

"So I take it that there's trouble in paradise?"

"Very funny," snarled Quentin. He carefully tore the sheet from the tablet and folded it into the envelope. He handed it to Hallie and asked, "Will you wait for her to respond?"

"I was planning to."

"Thanks." Quentin seemed to calm once Hallie left. He lay back into the chair, snifter in hand as a smile smoothly spread across his lips. "What brings you here, Barnabas?"

"I'm leaving tomorrow. Is Elizabeth in? I'd like to speak to her?"

"No. She's gone into town with Carolyn. She'll return by five." Quentin handed him the tablet and pen, saying, "Leave a message if you like."

"Thank you." As Barnabas wrote his note, he would take the occasional glance at Quentin, who smiled confidently as he sipped away at the brandy. "Are you really so confident that your little note will bring Constance around?"

"No. I'm just relieved to get it all off my chest." Quentin rose to replenish his glass. After a moment of hesitation, he took the container with him to the seat. "I can't figure her out."

"Didn't you know her before?"

"Yes. We met on the way to France in December 1900. Her room was next to mine," explained Quentin. "I hated that trip. The only fun was to be had with Constance, who didn't hide behind false pretenses or upright morals. She was a bit outrageous and a bit of a drunk. I thought she was wonderful. We kept in contact afterwards, meeting up whenever and wherever we could. I quit responding to her about ten years later. I didn't want to lose our friendship but I couldn't have her find out the truth. I can't believe she's still alive, still looks the same. But God, she's changed so much."

Barnabas noticed the sadness creeping into his cousin's stare. He took the seat across from Quentin and fixed himself a drink. "Why have you been barred from the cottage?"

"That's just it: I don't know. I thought everything was going well. Three days ago I woke up with her and she seemed perfectly fine. But as we were talking, this strange glaze crept into her eyes. She kicked me out of bed, told me to dress, and demanded that I leave. I asked her for an explanation the entire time I was searching for my clothes. She wouldn't answer and kicked me out before I could finish dressing. I think I left a boot over there. Anyway, I went back to talk to her but she wouldn't answer the door. She's not answering her phone anymore."

"So she's moody," said Barnabas.

"Yes but she was never this moody. I don't know what I did to her. Normally, I can make an educated guess as to what I've done wrong but I'm completely clueless as to what I've done to offend her."

Barnabas would have offered words of encouragement had Hallie not returned. She was carrying a well-polished black boot. She handed it to Quentin and said, "The note is inside."

He hesitantly withdrew the note. "'Dear Quentin. I'm sorry for being so rude. I didn't know what to do. You wouldn't understand. I'm sorry I can't explain it to you. I'm not sure when I will have it all sorted out. I'll call you in a few days. Constance.'" Quentin wadded the note and crammed it into the boot. "At least she polished it," he said in monotone. "You'll have to excuse me."

Neither Barnabas nor Hallie said anything when Quentin left the room. They waited until his footsteps failed to echo to begin talking. "How did Constance act?" asked Barnabas.

"She seemed sad. She kept mumbling something I couldn't understand. I thought she was going to cry." Hallie paused, pursing her lips as she tried to concentrate. "Constance really likes Quentin. She just needs some time to sort her feelings."

"I hope so. Few people ever reject Quentin. After the recent bad times he's lived through, I don't think he needs this kind of refusal."

Consequences of Falling: Part-Chapter 7

April 20, 1972, Collinwood, 4:55 PM

It's almost five. Where is she? Constance stood impatiently in the Collinwood foyer. Angelique had sent her a note saying to meet her in the foyer at five. She obviously had forgotten that Constance was hiding from Quentin. Constance did not want to ignore him but could not let him come to close. She did not want him to learn too much, to know the truth she tried her best to hide. Just standing here is too close for comfort.

Constance was surprised to see that no one was wandering through the house. Normally, the place crawled with anxious, moving bodies. This day it was eerily bare. She wondered if Angelique had shown up yet. If she had, it could explain the quiet. If Angelique's story were true, her reappearance would send the family screaming to the wine cellar.

At 4:59 she heard a door open and close. She hoped it was Angelique. She looked up to see Quentin walking down the stairs. He seemed shocked to see her although his face soon eased into a pleasant smile. "Constance," he cooed, "I didn't expect to see you so soon."

"I know." She glanced at her watch, distressed to see that it had already struck five. Where is she? Constance carefully looked up into his eager face, hoping her emotions were not seeping through. She retrieved Angelique's note and said, "I'm supposed to meet someone."

Quentin took the note from Constance. After quietly reading it over, he burst into mischievous laughter. "This is highly unexpected," he giggled. He pulled a note from his jacket and handed it to her. "Someone told me to give this to you."

Constance read the note. It was from Angelique.

Constance could not help but laugh as she shoved both notes in her pants pocket. This is the last time I tell her anything! It was almost easier to look into Quentin's laughing eyes, almost glad to be near him. "Did you read this?" He shook his head. "Well, I've been duped."

"You should expect no less from Angelique. Besides, was it so horrible?" he asked wickedly.

"Of course not."

"But I assume you still want to return to the cottage."

"Yes."

Quentin sighed. He slipped closer to her and asked, "Can I walk you back?"

"I...um...yes, I think I'd like that. I'd like that very much." Constance was slightly apprehensive when Quentin offered her his arm, but she accepted it nonetheless. Just being close to him again sent warm friction through her body. Her best instincts told her to fight the feelings. She did not follow them. She laid her head against his arm and increased her grip. "So I take it that Angelique has returned?

"Oh yes, she's regailing the family with her tragic story of life and death. They're treating her better than she deserves."

"I take it you don't believe her?"

"Of course not. But I hadn't returned to Collinwood at the time Angelique had spred her little bit of magic. I'm not expected to believe."

"Ah, I see." Constance looked up at him, his face expressing a bit more frustration than she was used to seeing in him. "Do you not like Angelique?" she asked softly.

"It's not that. I'm just not sure how much you can trust her. How long have you known her?"

"I've known her since 1798."

"Do you know what...?"

"What she did to Barnabas?" asked Constance. "Yes. I know what happened to him. It's hard for me to feel sorry for him when he slept with her, broke it off abruptly, and then flaunted a relationship with her mistress in her face. It's tragic but it could have been so much worse."

"That's not how Barnabas feels about it," said Quentin.

"That's to be expected. It doesn't matter, not now. Everyone's happy and no one's saddled with such arcane annoyances." She looked up at Quentin to see that he looked distressed. This was such a bad idea. "You don't have to walk me back."

"Yes I do. I've been worried about you."

"Why?"

"I never remember you acting this distant before," explained Quentin. "I know that I have done worse things around you in the early 1900s than I have now. I can't figure out what I did to you."

"You didn't do anything. It's all my problem."

"Really? What did Angelique tell you about me?" he asked quietly.

"Actually, she didn't tell me anything."

"Nothing?" asked Quentin. "She didn't say anything."

"No. Are you surprised?"

"A little."

"You shouldn't be," murmured Constance. She increased her grip on his arm and said, "It's my problem. It has nothing to do with you."

"Then what is it? You said in your letter that you were having problems but couldn't tell me about them. Can you tell me now?" Constance pulled away silently. "Now Constance, if you have anything to tell me, you should tell me now."

Constance sighed and walked farther away. I want to tell him but I can't. He can't know. She casually looked up to see gray clouds spilling into the sky that had been perfectly clear moments before. "It's going to rain."

"You're dodging the question." The moment he spoke the rain began to pelt them. Without being asked, Quentin took off his jacket and draped it over Constance's head. She grabbed his hand and together they ran the rest of the way to the cottage. She dropped her keys twice before unlocking the door. Constance slipped the wet coat on the rack and walked away. She turned to see Quentin standing on the mat, shivering as he clutched his soaked body. He smiled as he weakly snarled, "It's refreshingly freezing."

"Strip and I'll get you a towel and a blanket." She escaped to her bedroom to take the warm blanket from her bed before taking a towel from the clean pile in front of the bathroom. When she returned she saw that Quentin was still standing by the door, trembling more as the air hit his bare skin. Constance handed him the towel and turned. She had seen him naked many times before, but, for some reason, she gave him this bit of privacy. Once he finished, she took his hand and guided him to the sofa. Constance started a fire as Quentin wrapped himself in the blanket. "Is this better?"

"Much better," murmured Quentin. "Thank you."

Constance picked up the towel and took a seat at the opposite end of the sofa. She could not help but stare at Quentin no matter how much she tried not to. There was something lovely about the way his damp hair stuck to his forehead, the way droplets clung weakly to his dark lashes. Against her better judgment, she reached across the sofa and wiped a lock of hair from his eyes. The moment their eyes locked Constance eased to Quentin's side of the sofa, wrapping her hands in his hair as she kissed him. It was Quentin who pulled away. "I don't want to do this if you're going to kick me out tomorrow," he insisted. "I'm sick of it! If you don't really want me, I'll pick up my clothes and tremble the entire way back to Collinwood."

"I want you," she maintained, her hands wandering from his hair to his shoulders. "I've been wrong. I want you to stay."

"What's changed your mind so quickly?"

Think of something quick! "I've been afraid," she said. "I know you too well. I know what you've done to others. I could take it when I was just an observer, but if we go further, I don't think I could. I won't be one of the girls you use and toss the side when you've finished with them."

"I wouldn't do that to you, Constance. I've changed. So have you."

"I know. I thought you'd use that against me. I thought it would be easier for you to cut the lines with what you know of my past, that you'd toss me aside and call me a whore. If I didn't care, I could've easily gotten over it. But I know you want. I really want you to stay."

"Are you serious?" asked Quentin.

"More than ever." Constance silently watched as Quentin took one of her hands into his and brought it to his lips. "Please stay. It'll rain the rest of the day if not throughout the night. Stay the night and stay the next one too. I don't want you to leave until they come to drag you away."

Quentin smiled and took Constance into his arms, cradling her close and tight. "I can see that. I can see it in your eyes. I've not seen that look in such a long time."

"I know. I've not felt it in so long."

"Neither have I, not really. I didn't realize how much I missed it."

Constance looked into his eyes and saw the look Quentin spoke of: eyes full of passion, longing, desire. It was not a lie to say that she felt it. It had been years since she had longed for another's touch and missed it more than anything. But she could not think of that now. That relationship had ended disastrously, more for her lover than for her, and it pained her to think of it. She believed that all relationships would end the same. But she knew that Quentin would be different. After all, they were living in a different time, a different place, a different set of rules. "I know," she whispered, her mouth searching for his, "but that can be eased. We just need to forget the past."

"I'll try. Can you?"

Constance could not help but smile, her mouth only inches from his. Oh god let this work! I want this more than I've wanted anything. "I've already begun to."

Consequences of Falling: Part 1-Chapter 8

Barnabas bypassed the Old House and went directly to Collinwood. He had been away in England for two months, abrupt business drawing him from home. The work only lasted a week so he brought Julia with him, hoping to make up for their lack of a honeymoon. They had married quickly after returning from the past, but their work had left little time for any celebration. Now the family seemed to be at peace. They were no longer needed to fix everyone's problems, giving them time to relax and enjoy one another. But he could not completely enjoy himself. He admired Julia, but he did not love her the way she wanted to be loved. He was still lamenting the loss of his other loves, the precious girls he had led to ruin. For them, he had nothing but love, sympathy, compassion. As hard as he tried, he found there was none left over in his heart for poor Julia.

He was pleased when they were given a reason to return to Collinsport. A patient had recently been shipped to Windcliffe, this one so tragic that they wanted Julia's expertise with him. Barnabas only knew that it was a disease that was both physically and psychologically degenerative. He honestly did not care. He was ready to return home, ready to face reality once more. Besides, he was curious as to how Quentin's little problem had been resolved. If they ended their relationship, Constance DuVane surely had to leave. After all, she was only working on her book and could do that anywhere. If they continued it, she might be living in Collinwood at this point. Barnabas hoped passionately for the former. Constance spooked Barnabas in a way he could not describe. He could not say that he did not like her; he could only admit that he did not trust her. Because of this, he wanted to know if she had become entrenched in his beloved family.

The moment he stepped into he foyer his question was answered. Constance DuVane stood at the foot of the stairwell, her eyes focused with intense anticipation at the door at the top. She jumped when he slammed the door, but she soon calmed, her mouth settling into a devious, knowing grin. "Welcome back, Mr. Collins," she purred. "I see that England agrees with you."

"I suppose it does. Thank you." Barnabas paced around Constance, eyeing the unnatural beauty for any changes. She had changed: she seemed happier although the oddly angelic glow had dissipated from her face. She was still beautiful, but it was a cooler, mature kind of beauty. Barnabas pushed these thoughts from his mind when he addressed her again, not wanting to sound too suspicious of someone with unknown powers. "I take it that you're waiting for Quentin?"

"Yes and no. Quentin went into town but he'll be back shortly. He told me to meet him here."

"So you still live in the cottage?"

"Oh yes," sang Constance. "Why would I leave?"

"I suppose you're right. Who else are you waiting for?"

Her smile seemed to dissolve as she leaning in, whispering, "I'm waiting for Mrs. Collins."

"Mrs. Collins."

"Yes, Roger's wife Cassandra returned about six weeks ago. You should hear her story. It's horrific! It's a wonder she make it out alive."

Barnabas barely heard anything after "Cassandra." It can't be! Angelique alive again? She died in my arms in 1841. It can't be Angelique. "Are you positive that she is Cassandra."

"Everyone who knew her recognized her as Cassandra Blair Collins." Constance's expression morphed into one of observational awe, looking him over like he was a store front mannequin. "Barnabas, you're turned green! Do you need to lie down? Do you need a drink? Do you need...?"

"He'll be all right, Constance. There's no need for you to worry about Barnabas."

Both Barnabas and Constance looked up to watch er descend the stairs. Except for the short black wig, the woman looked exactly like Angelique. She was Angelique. It could be no one else. "I didn't expect to see you Cassandra."

"Nor I you, Mr. Collins." Angelique turned to Constance and said, "You'll have to excuse Mr. Collins a moment. He and I will be talking in the drawing room."

"Of course," cooed Constance, the grin on slightly returning to her lips. "You have so much to talk about."

Angelique smiled and took Barnabas by the arm, gently leading him into the drawing room. She locked the doors after making sure they were completely alone. "So we meet again," she said slyly. "How quickly you've forgotten me?"

"How could I ever forget you?" demanded Barnabas. "After all we've been through, after all the torture we've inflicted upon each other, how could I forget you?"

"That's what I'm asking you!"

Barnabas groaned and took a seat. This was the last thing he needed in his life. "You're not supposed to be alive! How did you come back?"

"I can't believe you expected to remain dead, Barnabas," laughed Angelique. She paced around his seat, emitting a few well placed giggles when he looked at her. "I thought I was dead too. I remember coming to in a wonderfully decadent room with a familiar, beautiful face leaning over my bed. I asked him if I was dead. He laughed and said that he had found me, that he was afraid for me and took me in. He told me that my powers had never really left. I had believed that they had left, and my frustration hampered my ability, a sort of self-fulfilling prophesy. To make a long story short, I left him after a day's rest and have been traveling ever since."

"Why did you decide to return to Collinwood?" asked Barnabas.

"Why not? I wanted to know if you mourned me the way you did the others." She stood directly in front of him, the fire filling her beautiful blue eyes until they seemed to turn red. "In 1841, you said you loved me, that I was the one you loved all along. It seems that the moment you returned to 1971 you forgot all about me."

"That's a lie!" bellowed Barnabas. "What has happened in this time does not reflect my feelings for you."

"Don't feed me that line!" screamed Angelique. "How long did you pine for Josette? For Victoria Williams? For Roxanne Drew? And, oh, what you must think of Maggie Evan's marriage to Willie! You mourn them all much more than you did me."

"Why do you think any of that is a statement to how much I did or did not love you?"

Angelique grinned deviously, taking a seat in front of the fireplace, the fire kindling the moment she sat. "Maybe it doesn't. At least it seems that you've given up. I see that you've married Julia, who obviously loved you all those years, because you felt you had no one else."

"Why do you say such things?"

"Because I am speaking the truth. Tell me Barnabas, do you love her?"

"Of course," stuttered Barnabas, turning from her so not to meet her gaze.

Angelique's laughter soon filled the room. Barnabas was sure one could hear it throughout the house. She walked over to him, kneeling so that he lips grazed his earlobe. "Don't be shy," she purred. "You know you can tell me."

"Leave me be, Angelique!"

"You know I can never do that, Barnabas. So tell me, do you turn to her in the middle of the night? Do you take her like you did me, like you did the others? Do you scream her name during sex or do you recite the roll call you've acquired over the centuries?"

"I don't have to take this!" Barnabas stormed from the room to be met by the wide-eyed stares of Constance and Quentin. "What are you looking at?"

"Nothing," whispered Quentin.

"Are you all right?" asked Constance quietly.

"I will be once I get out of here." Barnabas raged toward the door but turned around the face them once more. Angelique stood beside Constance, her smile overtaking her face. Constance only glared angrily at Angelique, her eyes slit to pure black. She only turned away when Quentin pulled her into his side and kissed the top of her head, causing her to turn into him, burying her head into his arm. Barnabas wondered how much of the conversation they had heard. He wondered if they cared. "We have much more to talk about Cassandra."

"Of course we do," said Angelique. "I'll be waiting."

Consequences of Falling: Part 1-Chapter 9

June 29, 1972, Cottage, some time after midnight

"I didn't expect him to act the way he did," murmured Constance, her hands resting on Quentin's bare knees.

Quentin laughed and leaned forward, kissing Constance sweetly on the lips. "Don't talk about Barnabas," he whispered slyly. "The last person we need in this bed is Barnabas Collins."

There was nothing that Constance wanted more, but she could not stop thinking about what had happened earlier. Nothing was going the way she had planned. She had listened patiently days before when Angelique told her about the history between her and Barnabas Collins. It all seemed so perfect to Constance. Angelique would be the perfect diversion for her, shifting Barnabas's glance permanently from Constance and giving her the chance to completely win Quentin over. She knew that Barnabas did not like her, and she knew that he did not approve of her relationship with his cousin. If she could keep him occupied, she could get what she wanted. But Angelique had gone too far too quickly and Barnabas was angry. Constance knew that rage was an excellent motivator, and she knew that he would soon figure out her connection to his former wife. Why did I set the stage for this? There was probably an easier way!. "I don't think he likes me."

"He probably doesn't." Quentin kissed her lips again, his mouth soon easing down her throat. "I adore you. Isn't that enough?"

"It's more than enough," sighed Constance, attempting to catch her breath as his lips trailed over her right breast, lingering as he lapped at her hardening nipple. "I just don't like the idea of living around someone who doesn't like me."

Quentin groaned and fell into the bed, the downy mattress buffering his thin frame. "I don't know what to tell you. Do you want me to talk to him about this?"

"No, I suppose not. I don't want to get you into trouble."

"You won't get me into trouble," insisted Quentin. "If it bothers you, I want it to end. I want you to be happy here."

"Really?" Constance rolled atop him, hoping her face suppressed the ultimate delight she felt. "You love me, don't you?"

"I love you more than anything," he said, placing calm, rhythmic kissed across her lips and neck. "Nothing will change that."

I hope you feel that way after you find out. Constance did not want to think about it. She let him kiss her, throwing herself into it as she eased down his body. If he actually loved her, she was going to use every move within her power to reward him for it. But even that didn't seem to be enough. She stared at him once she was done, his eyes lidded as lingering moans of pleasure escaped his lips. For the first time, she realized how much she wanted Quentin, how much she did not want to let him go. She would be leaving the cottage in a few weeks. She couldn't fathom leaving without him. "What are you doing this summer?"

"Um...more of this?"

"With who?" asked Constance. "I'm leaving soon."

Quentin sat up in bed immediately, his face stripped in confusion. "When were you planning to tell me this?"

"Soon. Anyway, what would you say if I asked you to come with me, you know, a little vacation."

"To where?"

"Well, every summer I go to this island. I have a house there that overlooks the ocean." She fell back into the bed and began to laugh, unable to stop no matter how hard she tried. "You don't know this, but the first memories I have are of the ocean, of the night dark waves crashing of my sand encrusted feet. It was so beautiful. I don't think I've seen anything to match it yet."

"Neither have I," cooed Quentin, his lips nibbling at her neck.

"The ocean?"

"No, you staring out onto the ocean." Quentin slipped on top of her, and kissed her, careful not to rest his weight atop her as he leaned in. "I'll go with you. It could be fun."

"Good! We can work out the details..."

"Tomorrow." Quentin gently spread her legs with his knees, making sure that he held her gaze as he did so. "We can work out the details tomorrow. I'm not going anywhere and neither are you. There will be time."

"Yes," she whispered, her eyes remaining locked on his. For all she knew, she was already at the ocean, his eyes being the only portals she needed to get there. Once they got there, Constance knew that she could persuade him to stay with her, to live with her as long as he could. All she needed was the correct environment, one without interference. She had been fool to think Angelique would get Barnabas off her hands, never thinking that she would push him too far on their first encounter since returning from the past. Constance only hoped that they could keep him off her heels just a few weeks longer. After that, she would have exactly what she wanted. She knew she could make him happy, all she needed was the chance.

Consequences of Falling: Part 1- Chapter 10

"You have to see this," insisted Julia, swiftly leading her husband down the sterile sanitarium halls. "This will answer many of our questions about Constance DuVane."

"Constance DuVane is the least of our worries," said Barnabas, his voice strained from his lack of sleep. "Do you realize who has returned? Really, in comparison Constance is perfectly harmless."

"I thought you said that she wasn't human."

"She's not human, but she means us no harm. Constance DuVane is merely out to have a good time with Quentin. Admittedly, I don't like her but she's not that bad. She won't do anything to us if we leave her be."

Julia stopped mid-step and pushed Barnabas into the wall. "Now listen!" she hissed. "Once you see this man you will not see Constance DuVane as harmless and you will want Quentin to stay miles away from her!"

Barnabas swallowed hard and followed her. Julia stopped at the end of the hall and unlocked the large white door. This room was set far away from the others, placed there for those with severe mental and physical problems. When Barnabas entered he was immediately taken by the abnormal darkness, only the outline of a bed visible in the diminished daylight. Julia flipped the lights and Barnabas recoiled, repressing the urge to either scream or run away. In bed lay a deteriorating man. His frizzled white hair had fallen out in clumps, revealing the flaking veiny flesh beneath. The rest of his skin was rotting, the wear and tear being so bad that muscle and bone showed through in frequently used places. His lips and nose had fallen away and his eyes were covered by sagging tissue. "God man! What happened to you?"

The man raised a skeletal finger and pointed into clear air. "They did it to me," he barked through a snaggle-toothed snarl. "More that bitch than that bastard but they did it!"

"Who are they?" asked Barnabas.

"Oh, I admit that I taunted them both for years and I admit that I wanted girl but I had not idea that it would come to this!"

Julia kneeled next to the man and said, "Tell him who did this."

"Constance Aberle. Or is it Newberry? Or Grace? I know it's DuVane now. I don't see how that bitch stays young," moaned the man. "Every time I see her she looks the same. I'm wilting and she and that idiot remain untarnished!"

"Who?" asked Barnabas.

"Collins. I forget his first name. He's tall with dark hair and blue eyes. It's been seventy-one years and that idiot looks the same!"

Quentin. "Are you sure that 'they' did this to you?" asked Barnabas, finally finding the nerve to approach the bed.

"I was with the girl. I nagged her until she said, 'If you want this, I'll give it to you. Don't say I didn't warn you!' It was..." he murmured before trailing off into sleep.

Julia checked the man's pulse. "He's dead. I don't see how he lasted this long. According to his file, he has been like this for forty years."

Barnabas walked closer and examined the corpse. The man's body still flaked, pieces of flesh falling to the mattress like snow. "What was his name?"

"Jack Andrews." She glance up angrily at Barnabas, the tears obviously stinging behind her worried eyes. "Do you see why I brought you here. You need to go talk to Quentin, the sooner the better."

"Yes, I'll see him today." Then Barnabas remembered the events of the day before, of how Angelique and Constance freely interacted and how Constance blatantly showed her anger to one she should not know well enough to do so. "I have to see one other person before him. I think there's someone who might know more about Constance DuVane than we can fathom."

Consequences of Falling: Part 1- Chapter 11

"Don't taunt him," murmured Constance, trying her best to hold back her anger. She had began to cement her plan. Angelique was one of the last pieces she needed to have aligned to her will. She knew she might be up for a fight, but she was up for it.

Angelique paced around Constance, her eyes angry as she met with Constance's demanding glare. "Barnabas is mine to torture. I'll do with him as I please!"

"Maybe so but can you cool it down a bit. Listen, I can understand why you'd say such things, and, hell, I condone it. But it's interfering with our agreement: You keep Barnabas Collins off my ass and I tell you where Josef is."

"Where is Josef?" demanded Angelique.

"Morocco. I think he's shacking up with someone. I don't know what he's doing but I know that's where he is." Constance moved in closer, careful not to break their gaze. "I told you were the bastard is. Now you have to occupy Barnabas Collins' time. I don't need him in my personal business!"

"Isn't your personal business known to everyone?" asked Angelique.

"It's deeper than that and you know it! Besides, I've not told Quentin yet."

"What are you waiting for? It's not fair to him, not with you actually wanting a real relationship with him. You're all about honesty. Where is that quality now, Constance?"

Constance closed her eyes, repressing her tears as she thought of the words to say. "I have two weeks left here. Two weeks! I've already told Elizabeth Stoddard of my intentions to leave once those two weeks are out. What I've not told anyone except you is that Quentin might come with me. We're working out the details tonight."

Angelique shook her head, hesitating amount before taking Constance into her arms. "You've got this planned out in your head," she whispered, her hand sympathetically stroking her friend's back. "You know that I will help you anyway I can."

"Then keep Barnabas off my case," sobbed Constance, pulling away and moving back into her former position. "He's suspicious of me. He won't let me have Quentin if he knew."

"And he doesn't know!" insisted Angelique. "No one knows but you and I."

"Are you sure."

"I've told no one. Have you?" Constance shook her head. "Then only we know." Angelique moved away, taking a seat only a few feet away from her. "When were you planning to tell Quentin?"

"I'll tell him once we're settled on the island. I want to be in an environment conducive to him accepting me."

"Well, you're right to leave if that's what you're looking for. But what if he doesn't accept you? What will you do?"

"I'll let him leave. I won't hold him against his will." Constance took the seat across from Angelique, still unsure if she had her friend on board. "I won't like it, but I don't want him to stay if won't be able to love me after learning the truth."

"Would you still want Quentin if you knew the truth about him?"

"Of course. It can't be that bad."

"Do you know?" asked Angelique. Constance shook her head. "You're saying that you can't figure it out on your own. You knew what I was the first time you saw me."

"You weren't trying to hide your power," laughed Constance, her voice breaking as she spoke. The strain is already beginning to show. Oh, I just want all of this to end! "There's something in the way. I can feel something strange about him but I don't know what it is. Something is blocking me."

"Why don't you just ask him?"

"Because that would give him just cause to 'just ask' about my past."

"Wouldn't that be easier than your elaborate plan?"

"No! I want Quentin to think it over and make an educated decision about our relationship but I want him to think it over on his own. If he were here when I told him, he'd confer with Barnabas and Barnabas would tell Quentin to leave me."

Angelique nodded and fell back into her seat, her smile vanishing as she rose her hand to her temple. "You're right about that. Barnabas would turn Quentin against you faster than you can throw the case of Josette in his face. You might be right to take him away."

"I know I am." Constance began to straighten out. Her plan might actually work. All she needed was to formalize her plans with Quentin and keep Barnabas away for two weeks. It might work. "We're going to be all right."

"I still don't understand how you can say that," insisted Angelique. "What about his health. You've been with him for two months and he still doesn't know that you're a..."

Constance quickly crossed over and slammed her hand over Angelique's mouth. "Shhh!" she warned. "This house has ears. And there is no problem with his health. If something was going to happen to him, it would've happened the first night."

"Even so, I think you should err on the side of caution." Angelique would have said more, but the phone began ringing, sending her running to answer. "Yes? I don't know what you're talking about Barnabas. No, I"m sure she'll have no idea as to what you're talking about. I know as much about her as you do. Then come over! You'll learn nothing more."

Constance watched wide eyed as Angelique replaced the receiver and returned to her seat. She could tell that the news was not going to be well received. "What does he want?"

"Do you know a Jack Andrews?" asked Angelique wearily.

"Why?"

"Because he died this morning in Windcliffe. He didn't die before having a small conversation with Barnabas and Julia about his illness and who brought it to him. He mentioned two names quite often: yours and Quentin's, yours most often. He blamed you."

Constance shot out of her chair, slowly but surely moving towards the drawing room doors as she spoke. "No! He couldn't have done this. It can't be over, not when I'm so close. He can't know!"

Angelique grabbed her shoulders and pulled her further back into the room. She tried to have Constance sit, but once she refused to move, gave up, letting her stand a few feet from the doorway. "He doesn't know why he died," said Angelique said reassuringly. "You're safe for now. You won't last two weeks but you do have a little time."

"But how long? He'll snoop around until he finds out the truth and then he'll...he'll tell Quentin!" Constance broke free and ran from the drawing room, grabbing her jacket and bounding straight for the door. "I'm leaving!"

"You can't run away this time!" screamed Angelique as she pulled Constance back into the drawing room. "What do you, of all creatures, have to fear?"

"I can't let him find out like this. I'd rather he never knew than have Barnabas tell him my secret to smear me!"

Angelique released her and Constance ran into the foyer. "You love him, don't you? You've broken your own rule and you've fallen for Quentin."

"What do you want me to say?" wailed Constance as she turned back towards Angelique. "Do you want me to break down and confess, to look the fool in front of you for once? Well, I love him. Are you satisfied? Good because you're going to have to excuse me. I need to start packing if I want to be out of here by tonight."

Consequences of Falling: Part 1-Chapter 12

Barnabas knew Angelique was hiding information. When wasn't she? But she was acting surprisingly kind to him, telling him things from their past, telling him things that he had always wanted to know. Almost any subject seemed open to debate. The only subject that seemed completely unbroachable was Constance DuVane. "I can't believe that you've never known her!"

"Why do you insist on thinking that I should? And why should such a kind girl as Constance be able to do such a horrible thing?" asked Angelique. "In all honesty, even I have never heard of such a creature. How can anyone make a human rot to death as if from disease?"

"If anyone would know of such a thing, you would."

"I don't."

"Well, what if Roger was to find out what you are?"

"And what if you were to become as you once were?" warned Angelique. "Remember who you're attempting to threaten. Even the most powerful witch you or I have ever seen could not completely rid me of my power. I could make your life a living Hell!"

Barnabas backed away, unlocking the drawing room doors and opening them so that all could see inside. For a moment, he had forgotten whom he was dealing with. Angelique Bouchard in any incarnation was a force to be reckoned with. If something were to go wrong, he wanted the others to hear him scream, to see her dirty work. "What is Constance DuVane to you?"

"Constance is merely someone who has been very kind to me since I have returned. I know her only as my friend and Quentin's lover. I know nothing else!"

"Oh God, Quentin! I must see him." Barnabas looked through the doors just to see Quentin entering the house. "Come here. Tell me, have you ever heard of a Constance Aberle?"

At first, Quentin seemed to register shock, although it soon passed and he appeared calm once more. "I've never heard of her," he answered slowly. "Why?"

"Oh, I ran across a few of her novels from the late Nineteenth century. Strangely enough, she writes and physically resembles your Constance in many ways."

"You ran across these books by accident?"

Barnabas looked back to Angelique, surprised to see her attempting to repress a growing smile. He had not expected Quentin to question him. "Well, no. I was looking for things on Constance DuVane and I..."

"You mean you were researching her like you did Gerard or myself when we were haunting this house," said Quentin, he face seeming to turn red as he spoke. "You were checking up on her."

"I was only curious," said Barnabas, hoping to salvage his argument. "I had never heard of her before. I wanted to know about her without seeming obtrusive."

"I'm sure," sniped Quentin before leaving the room.

Angelique shut the doors behind him, locking them quickly before returning to Barnabas. Now she made no attempt to hide her delight, the smile beaming deviously from ear to ear. "He's on to you," she warned playfully.

"On to what?"

"He know's that you're trying to ruin his girlfriend. Quentin is in love with Constance and she's in love with him. If you ruin this, he'll never forgive you."

"I"m trying to save his life!" insisted Barnabas.

"Quentin is a big boy. Let him save himself."

Consequences of Falling: Part 1- Chapter 13

Constance had been packing most of the day. She was shocked by how much she had acquired in the last four months. She was surprised by how many things she would have to leave behind. She had grown so used to the cottage. It had become just as much her home as her apartment in Manhattan. Now she would be returning to that old home without a finished book, a few new tokens, or her lover.

Constance was only fulling beginning to realize how much she would miss Quentin. The relationship had begun so sudden, as if it had been added on as an afterthought but soon took over her whole being. She had not expected to see someone she had known from her past; she had not expected for them to develop any intimacy that had been unknown to them before; and she certainly did not expect to fall in love with him. She had only been in love once before and that had ended as diastrously as she predicted it would. This would not end as badly, but it might be worse in it's own special way. Unlike the other, this one could have worked: Quentin was interested and seemed to be living the bizarrely extended lifespan perfectly suited to her. She could have been good for him. She could have saved him from whatever drew him back to Collinwood, back to his past. "Ha!" she mumbled. "I can't save myself, let alone Quentin."

When she heard knocks at the door, Constance hoped it would be Quentin. She wanted him to burst through the door, claim that he would love her no matter what the others said, and would be willing to follow her to New York. But Constance knew better. When opening the door only revealed Julia Hoffman, she was not disappointed. "I'm leaving," she announced proudly. "Are you satisfied?"

"Actually no," said Julia. She stepped into the cottage, seemingly surprised by the stacks of boxes that crowded the living area. "I didn't expect you to pack up so quickly."

"I didn't expect to either, but, once the urge to move on hits, you have to go."

"So you're willing to leave everything behind."

"No, I'm not! But I have to go. I have to leave this place."

"What about Quentin?"

"I'll be another notch on his belt," sniped Constance. "Why does it matter to you?"

"It doesn't. You just seemed attached to him from what I've heard," said Julia casually.

"Attachment means different things to different people."

"What did it mean to Jack Andrews?"

"Who gives a damn what it meant to him?" said Constance, her voice finding a timbre between anger and impatience. She composed herself and said, "I think you should leave."

"I don't think so," countered Julia, moving closer to Constance as she spoke. "I came here for answers and I intend to get them."

"You won't like it. You'll regret it. Leave now and it will all be all right," warned Constance tearfully. "I don't care. Just leave me be!"

"After what you've done do you deserve it?"

"Who are you to judge me!" screamed Constance. "You don't know me and you have no right to say such things. Get out of this place!"

"Tell me what you are and I'll leave!"

Constance threw the object nearest her--a small antique vase--at Julia's head. "You nosey bitch! I have received nothing but bad vibrations from you and I did not deserve them! I have never meant you any harm. But you send your husband to check up on me and do your best to discover my past. Now, for the coup de grace, you insist on rubbing salt in my wounds as I limb away defeated. Whatever I may be, I do feel pain and I am seeped in it!" Constance paused and began to laugh, nearly falling to the floor as the hysterics over took her body. "And you want to know what I am? Well, this is your lucky day Julia Hoffman because I'll tell you. But mark my words, if you tell anyone--especially Quentin--I will make pay dearly!"

Consequences of Falling: Part 1-Chapter 14

"This interrogation has gone on long enough!" insisted Angelique.

"I can't understand why you are hiding her secret!" screamed Barnabas.

"Why have I hidden your secret? Or Quentin's? Secrets are meant to be hidden and if anyone is supposed to understand it's supposed to be you!"

Barnabas was exasperated. As much as he had prodded Angelique, she had barely budged in her silence. She had all but admitted to having known Constance DuVane before returning to Collinwood. She just refused to tell him when, how, or under what circumstances the two had met. He could not understand her loyalty. "You have no reason to protect Constance DuVane!"

"And you have no reason to persecute her!" Barnabas turned to see Quentin standing in the doorway, the drawing room key gripped in a tightly clenched fist. His anger was obvious although it did not register on his face. It seemed to emanate from his body. "You have no right to know her secrets."

"Maybe we should lock the doors," murmured Barnabas.

"Why?" snarled Quentin. "The only ones here this evening are you, I, and Angelique. No one else will be back for hours. So tell me, why are you so obsessed with Constance"

"I ask the same of you."

"I love her and care deeply for her well being. You, on the other hand, seem determined to cull some horrible secret from her past and hang it over her head."

"I'm trying to save you," insisted Barnabas.

"You don't get it: she saved me!" countered Quentin angrily. "Constance saved me from myself. You can't imagine how many times I've thought of shredding the damned portrait, of just ending it all. Have either of you really contemplated your immortality? Well, I have and it never fails to blow my mind! In so many years, almost everyone i know today will either be dead or dying. How many generations have passed before me that I am allowed to witness another's disintegration? And who will be left? Me, of course. And Angelique; you'll never go away, will you darling?"

"Don't," insisted Angelique as she approached him.

Quentin pulled away from her and moved towards the window. "Let me finish," he said calmly. "I want to get this off my chest." When he was convinced he could continue, Quentin took a seat nearer the two of them. "You'll be there too Barnabas. You don't think so, but you'll relapse soon enough. You always do. But what does any of this mean to me? It means I'll be looking forward to a lifetime of Josette reincarnations and hearing about how she must be forced to realize her 'true self' and join you in eternal damnation. But then that will be countered by how that unfortunate woman must be stopped because she she could never love Barnabas as much as you do."

"You're talking nonsense!" bellowed Barnabas.

"But this nonsense hits too close to home, doesn't it? No matter. Let's talk about what other pleasure lurk in the future of Quentin Collins! Maybe I'll be haunted my some past love i unceremoniously ruined and have now forgotten. After that lovely piece of hell there will be the joy of meeting the son of either Chris and/or Amy. It'll be just another reminder of a sinful, dubious past! I hope the poor fool tries to take me out."

"What about Constance?" asked Angelique.

"Constance," he said slowly, a smile quickly spreading across his face. "Constance DuVane is the only bright spot. Her connection to my past is transient, yet bright. There's something about her that still seems pure although she is no saint. I can't let that go. I won't let her go and I'll be leaving with her when she leaves next month."

"And you choice her because you believe you have no other alternative?" asked Barnabas.

"You mean like the way you've done to Julia?" asked Quentin. "No. I don't think I can ever be that cruel again. You know, I think we've all seen what you've done and we feel for Julia. I'm sure even Constance feels for Julia, although she probably wouldn't care much for either of you now." Quentin's glance suddenly shifted to the doorway and he asked, "How do you feel about it?"

Barnabas turned to see Julia standing in the doorway, her eyes narrowing to thin slits the longer she stared at him. She soon looked away from him and walked towards Quentin. "Constance is leaving," she announced.

"No. You have to be mistaken."

"I'm not. Constance DuVane will be leaving the estate as quickly as she can. She has everything packed."

"She can't leave!" Quentin ran past Julia and out of the building.

Julia turned abruptly to Barnabas, the anger once again streaming from her eyes. He could tell that she had heard the entire conversation. "I can explain," he whimpered.

"You can explain later." Julia turned to Angelique and contemptuously asked, "Can't you leave us alone?"

"Not forever, but I can for a moment," answered Angelique, grinning deviously as she left the room, closing the doors behind her.

"Is Constance really leaving?" asked Barnabas.

Julia did not answer immediately. She fixed herself a brandy and took a seat next to the fireplace. "She's leaving," said Julia sadly.

"And...?"

"And I'm going to tell you something you have no right to know. Be grateful that at least I love you. One day that will be all you have left."

Consequences of Falling: Part 1: Chapter 15

Constance had not expected to hear another knock at the door. By now, she was too interested in her bottle of Chartreuse to care. However, the increasing intensity of the knocks forced her to answer. "Quentin!" she squealed. "What are you doing here?"

"You can't leave," he said as he took her into her arms. "Constance, you can't leave this way."

This was what Constance had wanted. Why was she feeling guilty? She pulled away from him but took his face into her hands. "Quentin, I can't stay. This place is no good for me."

"Is it this place of me?"

"It's Collinwood! You are...you are the best thing to happen to me in a long while."

"Then why are you willing to leave me like this?" asked Quentin tearfully.

"Because you won't leave this damn estate!" Constance pulled away and returned to her bottle, taking long, heavy swings before tossing it to the side. She was afraid to turn back to Quentin, afraid one glance into those ice blue eyes would keep her at Collinwood. She could easily deal with those eyes; she would not be able to stand the stare of Julia Hoffman, especially knowing that she knew her secret. "You don't know what it's like to have them stare at you like you're some kind of freak! I hate it. I can't take it anymore."

"Constance, I know better than you can understand." Quentin walked up behind her and tenderly stroked her cheek. "I know what they can be like. I know the things they'll say and do to get their way. I'm ashamed to admit that I've played those games myself. But I'm not that person anymore and I can't foresee anything you have done or could possibly do that could make me love you less. I want you to stay."

Constance did not know what to say. She had wanted him to say these things. He was falling perfectly in line with what she had wanted. But she was guilty for it now. She knew that she could not stay. "Quentin," she whispered upon gaining her composure, "why don't you come with me? I'm not talking about what we had planned. I want you to leave with me and never return."

"What?"

"Yes!" Constance turned back to Quentin, overjoyed as the plan blossomed in her mind. "Leave with me! We can go to Manhattan first and then travel until our senses overload. You know you don't need to stay here. You've admitted that Collinwood is a dangerous place and it will only grow worse with time. I'm not saying that there's no danger with me, but it's much different than this. Besides, we'll be together. What do you say?"

Quentin paused only a moment before saying, "Yes! I'll go with you. You're right: I can't stay here any long. I'd be a fool to stay on."

"Great! We can leave tonight. I could just leave this junk here. None of it matters. I don't need it to survive."

Quentin seemed slightly troubled as he pulled Constance into him. "I need to bring one thing."

"Fine. It doesn't matter. I'm just so excited to have you coming with me! Bring what you want."

"It's jus this one thing. I could go back to Collinwood to get it and then we could just drive away. Just drive far away."

"Yes," whispered Constance, leaning into his embrace. "I don't care as long as I'm with you." Constance glanced back to the door to see Barnabas standing in the doorway. Couldn't she have given me just ten more minutes? She clung tighter to Quentin, waiting for the verbal assault to begin.

Consequences of Falling: Part 1- Chapter 16

Barnabas could not believe that he had once seen Constance DuVane as harmless. After hearing the truth from Julia, he could only see her for the demon he now believed her to be. He had to save Quentin from the fate that surely awaited him. He walked towards them and uttered the word Constance had no yearning to hear: "Succubus." Barnabas had expected Quentin to immediately drop Constance, but he did no such thing. In fact, he seemed to pull her in closer as she turned her face into his chest. Barnabas retrieved a silver cross from his coat and held it before him, repeating the word with stronger frequency. Constance quietly looked up and began to snicker. "Do you always laugh at symbols of virtue?" asked Barnabas.

"Only when the person who's holding one's fingertips are smoking from the contact."

Barnabas looked down to see that, indeed, his fingers were burning from contact with the holy object. He quickly dropped the cross to the floor. He was stunned to see Constance pull away from Quentin and pick it up with her bare hands. She wiped it off and putt into Barnabas' pocket. "How...I mean...how could you...?"

"I'm surprised you did that, being a recovering vampire. It seems you still have a ways to go." She took a deep breath and looked away, seeming to stare at nothing at all. "If Hell is powerless against pagans, then so certainly is Heaven."

"But you told Julia that...," stammered Barnabas, rubbing his sore fingertips in shock.

"I am." Constance turned to Quentin and said, "He's right. I am a succubus. I was going to leave tonight so that you wouldn't have found out. I would've told you before we left. I wanted to tell yu at my own pace but fate has been working against me lately. You see, Jack Andrews recently died and I...I killed him."

"How?" asked Quentin.

"I...well, I fucked him to death! I was only with him once, and quite a few years ago at that, but that was all it took. He followed me after I left you, harassing and threatening me because I wouldn't help him with his nefarious ventures. He asked for sex and I gave him exactly what he wanted. I stole his soul and his vitality and refused to release it into the world for a few decades. I let him flounder without spiritual sustenance until his body broke down. Usually, death is instantaneous and not as messy. I wanted him to suffer. I'm not ashamed to say I'm glad that he did."

"What do you mean that you took his soul?" asked Barnabas.

Constance turned angrily to Barnabas, unable to contain her contempt as she stared at him. "I'm a succubus. I can usually steal the souls and kill those I sleep with. Admittedly, it's a bit more complicated than it sounds but that's it!"

"How...I mean, why do you do this?" asked Quentin, rubbing his temples in extreme frustration.

"Don't ask her? Why let the demon explain herself?" sniped Barnabas.

"And all your victims sent you 'thank you cards,' didn't they?" she asked angrily. "You're no better than me! Who gave you the right to call me a demon? I'm not a fallen angel. I don't assist Lilith in murdering infants or men who sleep alone. I don't know any higher power and I don't think one exists. You don't know me and you stand there and condemn me in your sanctimonious purity. I can't stand it!"

Quentin took Constance by the arm and turned her back to him. "Don't pay him any mind," he said calmly. "I want to know what happened. Just tell me. Pretend he's not here and it's only you and I." Constance nodded slowly, seemingly unable to take her eyes off of Quentin. "Good. Now tell me, why do you do this?"

"I was never human," she whispered, the tears beginning to run down her face as she spoke. "At my first moment of consciousness, I had this form. I don't shape shift: I can, I have, but I've done it once and it didn't feel right. I prefer being a woman, being the succubus I suppose. When I was naive, human men would have their way with me and the other spirits in female form. That's probably why there are more incubi than succubi. No one wants their bodies to be used for someone else's pleasure. Anyway, they liked us because they thought we couldn't bare them children. I've heard some horror stories, but I've been lucky...well, I've never been pregnant. They thought we were infertile because and incubus can't breed with a succubus. We don't reproduce but then again, we can't die. But I'm digressing...

"When we began to learn about ourselves, about having our own choices, we began to refuse the human me and, in turn, they raped us. I remember the first time I stole a soul. This hirsute man had taken man, writhing above me. I felt only the purest contempt for him. And I began to think about killing him, of taking more from him than just seed. And then I could feel a tingle spread over me, growing and enveloping my body as he came. It wasn't quite an orgasm but it was powerful. I could feel the most intoxicating energy come over me, but as soon as it came, it was gone. When I turned to him, I saw that he was dead."

"So each time you kill it's voluntary?" asked Quentin.

"The first few times it was. After a few months, it became automatic. I thought that I was a lone case until I began talking with others, and they were finding that they too could kill this way. We found that it was our defense, although we soon found out we couldn't have sex with humans we liked and not kill them. Soon the humans found out about this and began to fear us, and rightfully so. They, of course, didn't see us as protecting our territory. We were evil, nightmares. They would still have sex with us, but we were, and are I suppose, considered cruel mistresses." Constance pulled away from Quentin and said, "I've never wanted to hurt you but I have. You won't die but I've brought you to me when I knew we could never be together. I'm so sorry."

"You were cruel not to tell him everything," snapped Barnabas.

"Oh yeah and you were an open book for Josette," snapped Constance.

"How did you know about Josette?"

Constance turned to him and, for the first time, Barnabas could see how distraught she was. He face was colored in red, tear tributaries streaking her fragile face. "Angelique told me everything. And, honestly, I don't care. I just can't believe you thought I wanted to hurt him. I've known him for years. I liked him! I've been lonely for so many years, Barnabas. I just wanted a companion. I didn't mean anyone any harm."

"I just can't believe that," mumbled Barnabas.

"I suppose you can't." Constance turned back to Quentin and said, "Goodbye, love. I wanted this to be more but I'm afraid it can't be."

Barnabas was surprised to see her run for the door. He had not expected her to seem so broken, so fragile. He was more shocked to see Angelique standing by the door, now casting off the Cassandra facade to stand in her full glory. She caught Constance by the arm and asked, "What's happened?"

"He knows," she cried quietly. "Just let me go."

Angelique let her go and Constance fled the cottage. Quentin quickly began after her only to have Angelique stop him at the door. "Do you understand what she has told you?"

"Yes."

"So now you know what you must show her, don't you?"

"Yes," he whispered.

Angelique nodded and Quentin ran into the night. Angelique turned back to Barnabas and asked, "Do you realize what you've done?"

"I've attempted to save my friend's life."

"He was never in any danger!"

"What about Jack Andrews?" asked Barnabas.

"What about him? He was a bad man who needed to be exterminated. Listen, she can't find Quentin's soul, she never will, and she doesn't want to find it. She's in love with him."

"What does love mean to a creature like her?"

"It means you're as vulnerable as everything else in this world. You heard her story. You have to understand that vulnerability is not a highly prized succubus trait. But what do you know of love?" Angelique began to laugh sadly as she turned to leave. "And you think you're alone! She has lived longer than us and has been under more duress than either of us will ever know. Think of the pain of one who seems to only bring death but can't die."

"But why does she need Quentin?"

"Why not? I find it really funny: the man Collinsport prayed wouldn't do their daughters wrong has found his challenge in a sexual predator!"

Consequences of Falling: Part 1-Chapter 17

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.

Go to: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

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