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 3

Most people spend most time and energy in going around problems than in trying to solve them.
-Henry Ford

-or-

Marge, it takes two to lie.  One to lie and one to listen.
-Homer Simpson

Four days until the next full moon, Spring 1976

They crawled into their apartment around 2 AM although neither Constance nor Quentin was particularly tired.  They talked whimsically about the events of the night as they undressed.  Constance had not wanted to go to the party but had felt compelled to attend.  In turn, she felt just as compelled to drag Quentin along with her.  For the last 18 months, she had been wary of going anywhere without him, cautiously eyeing him for any signs of change.

Constance hated this new awareness.  She hated fearing for Quentin, hated being afraid that someone would hurt him.  She wondered if Quentin noticed her anxiety, if he could sense it every time she reached for him out of fear.  Constance often wondered if he knew that danger was immanent.  He never showed any concern and that occasionally eased her.  Still, the prophecy had been cast almost 2 years ago and nothing had happened...at least not yet.

"Constance?"  She glanced in the direction of her name.  Quentin stood in the bathroom doorway, already stripped to his pants and staring at her oddly.  He looked a bit worried, possibly confused.  She realized that he had probably asked her a question and that she had ignored him.  Constance mumbled a vague apology and asked him to repeat the question.  "I only wanted to ask if you had finished."

"Have you finished your project?"  Quentin smiled sheepishly as he approached her, seemingly embarrassed by the situation.  "I realize that this is an odd time to ask, but I just remembered that you were trying to organize something big.  I've been so wrapped up in my own business that I've pushed you aside.  Can you forgive me?"

Constance had not felt neglected, but she had been so absorbed by her concerns to notice.  Still, an apology is an apology, especially when one manages to wrangle one from Quentin Collins without trying to do so.  "I'm not finished," she said, "and I forgive you.  Why wouldn't I?"

"I don't know, but thank you."  Quentin wrapped Constance in his arms and kissed her, starting very chastely but steadily increasing in intensity before he reluctantly pulled away.  "Thank you."

"No problem," purred Constance, wondering what he had done and if he could do it more often if it brought on this kind of reaction.  "It's the least I can do."

"I'm so sorry."

"Stop apologizing."

"Your wish is my command."  The sheepishness left Quentin's smile, reverting back to the disarming smile that seemed to captivate all and focused it solely on Constance.  He pointed languidly towards the bathroom and said, "I'll just..."

"Fine go," said Constance, pushing him towards the door, "but do come back."

"Of course I'll come back.  I can barely let you out of my sight."  With that, Quentin kissed her full on the mouth and abruptly turned and walked into the bathroom, leaving Constance slightly bemused and fully aroused.

Constance watched him as he walked away, almost shocked by his brazenness.  She knew that Quentin had a more than healthy sense of self-worth, much of which was not unfounded.  But he was just a mercurial as sound, easily fluctuating between playful giddiness to despondent gloom to raging anger to heartfelt sincerity in a moments notice.  In the last few years, his moodiness had stabilized somewhat and Constance was glad to witness the happier side of her lover emerge more often than his darker twin.  For all she cared, he could play with her libido as often as he wanted...just so long as he put out at the right moment.

Constance fought the urge to sneak into the bathroom to watch him shower, choosing to finish undressing and wait.  When he found her gray silk robe, she rediscovered her tattered pack of tarot cards.  Constance did not consider her precognition talent to be grand, although most humans seemed to think her gifted.  Against her better judgment, she picked up the weathered cards and took them to the bed, patiently shuffling them as she walked.  She had never favored doing elaborate layouts, preferring to merely ask questions and divine the truth for the card she pulled up first.  "Hmm...Will Quentin always love me?"  She laid down The Lovers.  Constance usually hated asking trite, silly questions, but on this night she wanted to waste time.  "What is coming for us in the next months?"  She laid down The Moon.  It seemed self explanatory.  Constance wanted clarification.  "What do you see for Quentin?"  She pulled up a reversed King of Swords, invoking an evil man or one with evil intent, the perversion of authority.  "What do you see for me?"  She laid down the Queen of Swords, invoking either betrayal from a close friend or sadness and separation.

Constance knew this could not be good.  While repressing her tears, Constance put the cards back into the deck and reshuffled.  She asked her questions and laid out the cards, finding the same cards she had found before.  Constance shuffled once again, but, this time, fanned the cards along the bed.  She closed her eyes and removed 4 cards.  She opened her eyes to see The Lovers, The Moon, The King of Swords, and The Queen of Swords.  She would have tried again had she not heard the water turn off.  Constance gathered the cards and put them in her nightstand.  She did not want Quentin to catch her and question her about what she was doing.  She would not be able to explain it to him; she could not explain it to herself.   She should not have looked to the cards for their future.  What right did she have to delve further?

Constance did not know if the cards were correct.  She did not want to think about it.  She knew that his time was running out and that the details mattered more now than ever.  Yet Constance could not face herself, let alone Quentin, if she knew more.  In an attempt to block it out, she slipped beneath the sheets, closing her eyes tightly to all she had seen although it was still pictured in the back of her mind.

Meanwhile

Quentin stood in the doorway, his eyes plastered onto Constance. He had had a problem turning away from her the moment he saw her first, her pale elegant body clothed in a shockingly deep crimson confection and looking oblivious to the mores she had been turning against. He had not choice but to be drawn to her. Even now as she slumbered in the loose gray robe, Quentin found himself just as drawn to her. Constance brought out his protective streak. She always looked so fragile, as if someone could easily snap her in two. But Quentin knew that it was ridiculous to think so. No one could destroy her.

Except possibly him. Quentin knew the sway he held over Constance. He had watched her swing from verbal violence to quiet anger the moment he had walked into the room. The moment she left, the object of her anger came to him and thanked him for calming her down. "She would've skinned me alive had you not come in." Quentin did not bother asking what had happened. He would have finished the job had he known. And that was what bothered him. His temper was as explosive, if not more so, as Constance's. To top it off, she was much more sensitive than she often appeared. He feared that he would hurt her, break her love in two and send her away. He had worked hard to obtain her. He would not lose her now.

Quentin would not give Constance a reason to flee. He wanted to shelter her from what might come. He knew that he ought to share the note from Petofi with her, but he could not bring himself to do it. Barnabas was right: there was no need to worry Constance if he could not authenticate the note. Besides, he had received the note almost 18 months earlier. If something were going to happen, it would've happened earlier.

But now wasn't the time to worry about Petofi. Quentin knew that now was the time to fall into oblivion. If he could not forget on his own, he knew that Constance would be more than willing to help him. He slipped quietly into their bedroom and laid beside her, slipping his hand beneath the slick silk to her smooth warm flesh. He moved the robe from one shoulder, kissing her from the bare shoulder, up the curve of her neck to her ear. "Are you awake?" he asked, tugging playfully at her earlobe as his finger drew languid circles around her navel.

Constance giggled. "Yes, I'm awake." She turned onto her back, forcing Quentin to brace himself on his elbows, their legs as interlocked as physically possible. Smoothly, she slipped on hand around his neck and the other on his back, the look in her eyes beaming passion. But that expression soon changed and she sighed before she asked, "What's wrong?"

Quentin took a moment to answer her, his body responding more to her touch than to her words at the moment. "Nothing," he whispered, his voice suddenly gruff.

"Please, Quentin. You're not happy. I can tell. Now, what's wrong?"

Quentin swallowed hard but maintained his composure. "I'm all right," he insisted. "Why do you ask?"

"I can see it on your face," she explained, running her finger along the contour of his jaw. "I know you, darling. I know when you're troubled."

"I see the same in you."

Constance scowled slightly and tightened the grip on the back of his neck. "You'd be right, but that doesn't matter. I'll be all right. I want to know what's bothering you."

Quentin could barely repress the grin that attempted to spread across his face. "Whatever was bothering me isn't bothering me anymore."

Constance seemed apprehensive, but her grip on his neck soon eased and she lowered him to her chest. "If you say so," she murmured. "I just want you to be happy."

"And I am. You don't have to worry about me." Quentin kissed her gently lifting her off the bed and cradling her in his arms. Her anxiety was potent, almost bitter to the taste. He laid her back down, falling in beside her although their legs remained entangled. "You don't ever have to worry about me."

"But sometimes I can't..."

"No!" he insisted, pressing his finger to her lips before replacing it with his own. "Nothing is ever going to happen to me. I promise you that."

Full Moon, Spring 1976

It was the happiest Constance had seen Quentin be in some time. His mood seemed especially strange for a full moon. Usually, he would awaken sullen, choosing the drink the day away until nightfall, which he watched from the window. Once the moon was high and he was convinced he would not change, he would drink some more and sleep away the next day. On this morning Constance awoke to find Quentin smiling at her. "I was wondering if you were going to wake up," he cooed. She was surprised by how quickly his mouth descended over hers, by how he seemed to want to devour her. She was ready for it. She hungered for his mouth, his hands, his body like she had little else in her life. Unlike most of her other relationships, her relationship with Quentin was based more on love than power. Mutual pleasure was a must. If he wasn't going to mope on his horrible days, Constance was going to encourage him as best she could.

They had lazed the day away, alternating between making love and reminiscing. Constance loved the way Quentin would tell his stories, throwing himself so completely into his tales that he seemed to forget that it was all in the past. She admired it, and was often unable to stop laughing until he kissed her. After a two hour nap, they decided to leave an hour before the moon would rise. She had been frightened that he would disintegrate in public, his fear of the full moon noticeable to all who saw him. Yet he surprised her once more as he calmly walked the streets, looking up at the moon with a sort of wishful smile. "The world has been kind to us."

"Really, Quentin? Spread your wisdom because I just don't see it."

"Of course it has, Constance," he murmured, his mouth only inches from hers. "We have one another."

Constance kissed him full on the mouth, unafraid of the staring onlookers. They coasted arm-in-arm down the street, so enraptured with one another that they often bumped into bystanders as they talked. In Constance's mind, this was perfect. Quentin seemed to beam with joy, her poor girl soul soared to the highest peak, and they appeared to have all under control. Life could never be better.

Constance did not worry when Quentin seemed to trip. When his swaying increased, she leaned him next to the nearest wall. His face had blanched and was covered in a warm, sticky sweat. His hands felt warmer than usual. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he murmured hoarsely. "I'm fine."

Reluctantly, Constance accepted his explanation. She let go his hand and walked on. She turned back to see that Quentin had not moved an inch. "Are you coming?"

Quentin swayed and stepped forward, almost falling flat on his face. Constance ran beneath him and pushed him into the wall. "God Quentin! What's wrong?" she asked as she sympathetically stroked his face. She could not understand what was wrong with him. She could not see how a man could be fine one moment and ill the next. "What happened?"

"It hurts so much," he whimpered.

"Where?"

"Everywhere. It aches everywhere." He looked sadly into her eyes and asked, "Can we please go home?"

"Oh yes! We'll go home. Can you walk?" Quentin shook his head. "Poor darling! I'll help you...all right?" He nodded. Constance kissed his forehead and wrapped his arm across her shoulders. It was hard for her to brace his weight against hers but she managed to drag him to the curb and hail a cab. Constance climbed in first and pulled Quentin in after, letting him lay his head in her lap in the hope that he would relax. Every few moments he would flinch as if someone were poking him. He was mumbling unintelligibly. She did her best to listen but it soon proved impossible. The temperature of Quentin's skin began to rise drastically, and, with each rise, he would begin to speak softer. He soon became completely silent and his skin burned to the touch. Constance could not understand it.

Taking her unconscious lover into their building proved to be the biggest obstacle once they arrived. Constance knew that she could probably pay the driver a little extra to help her, but she did not want to. She hated to look of pure pity that the man had in his eyes. She knew that the man thought Quentin was drunk. She wanted to defend Quentin but knew that her words would fall on deaf ears. Strangely, few people actually knew when Quentin was drunk and it seemed bizarre that this behavior would be viewed as the benchmark of intoxication. Luckily or not, the doorman approached and helped Constance carry Quentin to the elevator. She did not know if this was better. She knew she would have to face this new man each day and each day he would give her the same pitying, pathetic look that the driver gave her. In any case, she paid both men liberally and told them she could handle things on her own. She shut the elevator doors before the man could protest.

Constance, once the elevator stopped on their floor, dragged Quentin into their apartment and left him in the living room. She ran into the bathroom and filled the tub with cold water. She proceeded to appropriate every piece of ice in the apartment and tossed it into the tub. She dragged Quentin into the bedroom and began to strip him. Normally, this act had a different connotation, but normally, her partner was not unconscious and he was taking off her clothes. As best she could, Constance put Quentin into the tub. He showed no reaction to the temperature change.

After making sure that his head would not fall into the water, Constance ran into the bedroom and tore off her dress. She filtered through piles of clothes before deciding to walk around in her underwear. She walked back into the bathroom and checked Quentin's temperature. It read as normal although she could tell by the feel of his skin that nothing had changed.

Constance wet a washcloth and sat in the tub, letting her legs straddle Quentin's body. She began to wash his face with the cold water, hoping that this would help ease the heat. It had no affect. She quickly tossed the cloth away and slipped down into the water. As she lay against Quentin's chest, the heat of his skin brought back memories of the other one. She was thinking of Corrin, who was so like Quentin yet not. His pain had been so real to her. She could still remember his tears in the back of her mind. She could not let that happen to Quentin. She knew that she would not be able to take it.

After an hour of lying in the tub, Constance realized that the cold water would not work. She drained the tub, dried Quentin off, and dragged him back into the bedroom. Without bothering to clothe him, she eased him into the bed. She removed her wet underwear and put on the closest clothing she could grab. Constance took a seat at the foot of the bed. She knew that it was pointless to attempt to sleep. She was too frazzled to try. Besides, she would have to be awake once Quentin came to. She would have to tell him about a night she was certain he would not remember.

The morning after, Spring 1976

Quentin felt as if he had been run down by a mac truck. The night before was a blue to him. He could not remember images, only sensations. He remembered the numbness keenly, his body fist under his control but then going lank without notice. Then came the pricks. It felt as if heated needles were attempting to escape the inside his body via his skin. The heat soon followed, coming as angry waves of Hell crashing against his skin. The heat soon became all that remained, never leaving and intensify by the second. Once the pain become unbearable, he lost consciousness. He was only now coming to.

As he awoke, he saw Constance sitting at the foot of the bed, wearing only a white dress shirt and black lace panties. She looked worried, looked as if she had cried for most of the night. He wanted to ask her what had happened but he felt ashamed. He knew that he should remember but he could not. Hell, the sensations that had once seemed so vivid were beginning to fade into oblivion.

"You had a bad night," she whispered.

"I don't want to sound stupid, but what happened last night?"

"You don't remember?"

"No," he sulked. "Why? Should I?"

"I'd think so...or maybe not. We were walking and suddenly you seemed troubled. You said it was nothing, but it soon grew worse and I hailed a cab. Somewhere along the way back home you passed out. Your skin was scorching! The odd thing was that, when I took your temperature, it registered as normal. I let you sit in ice water for an hour, but it didn't help. I took you out and have watched you ever since. Your skin only began to cool when the sun rose."

Quentin could not believe it. This had to be the beginning of what was to come. It disturbed Quentin but he tried not to show it. There was no need to worry Constance more at this point, no need to push her away. She already looked so troubled, her face crumbling by the second. He wanted to hold her and forget, make her forget. Constance, however, seemed comfortable keeping her distance. "What's wrong, Constance?"

"I...I can't tell you," she stammered.

"Yes you can! If I'm here for nothing else, I'm here for you to confide in."

Constance began crying, the tears falling fast and furious into her palms. "You don't understand. I don't want to tell you."

"Why not?"

"Because it won't help you to hear it."

"It's about him, isn't it?" asked Quentin. "You're thinking of the man in France, the one Josef had destroyed."

Constance only cried more, eventually falling face first into the bed. Quentin grabbed her arms and carefully pulled her to him, cradling her to his chest as he stroked her hair. "I'm so sorry to be crying like this," she whimpered. "You're feeling horrible and I shouldn't be thinking about me. I've so often succeeded at forgetting, of pretending that those years never happened. But last night...last night brought it all flooding back! Oh God, I hate all of this! But his pain--from transformation to grave--was so deep."

"Corrin was a werewolf?"

"Yeah. He wasn't the first wolf I've known, but Corrin was different. The others were never in pain. They were like big fluffy puppies. I don't think they were ever human. But Corrin was different. He didn't feel like the others. I didn't know what to think of him at first but I wasn't going to leave him. He was just so interesting, this handsome 19-year-old boy who lived by himself in the forest. I had to know him and he was as interested in me."

"Did he know what you are?" asked Quentin.

"Yes. I didn't volunteer the information, but he figured it out. I think it all began the night he caught me after bathing. I think most men are a bit stunned when they realize that I'm this pale hairless thing. They, of course, tend to get over it. I didn't think anything of it. The truth came out the night we almost had sex--well, regulation vaginal sex. It was extremely late at night, and, as we sat by the fire, Corrin kissed me. I told him to stop and he did for awhile, but he eventually kissed me again. I didn't push him away this time. I suppose I wanted him more than I had led myself to believe. We kissed a while, but it quickly spun out of control. Before I could realize what was happening, he was hard and ready for penetration. I grabbed his cock and told him that he couldn't have me. He asked why and I reluctantly told him everything.

"He didn't say anything. He was still hard, and, since I wasn't going to leave the boy blue-balled, I blew him. It sounds stupid but I thought I was doing the right thing. When I finished, he carefully pushed me onto my back. To my astonishment, I watched his head sink between my knees and he began to kiss my thighs and fondle me. After what seemed like a moment of hesitation, he performed cunnilingus on me. I thought the boy had to be stupid or lacking in any religious training. No one in his right mind would eat out a succubus, considering all the dripping rumors. But he was really good at what he did so I wasn't about to stop him."

In spite of the severity he knew would come in Constance's story, Quentin wanted to laugh. The story seemed like her, "his" Constance, a girl who would by-pass nature and God to have a good time. But he was slightly piqued by the anecdote. He knew well that she had been with many--many, many, many--men, but she had loved Corrin. To top it off, he was also a werewolf. It seemed she attracted them. "What happened?"

"He said that he like me no matter what I happened to be. He said that his family had inexplicably thrown him out. If I hadn't come along, he was convinced he would've died alone. I highly doubt it. He was such a sweet, beautiful boy. He was only 19 and had yet to go through his first transformation."

"When did that happen?"

"Corrin changed the first full moon after his 21st birthday. The day seemed like any other until sunset. At first, he only complained of a slight pain. The pain soon grew worse, and he fell screaming to the ground, writhing under the severe trauma being inflicted on his body. He suddenly became still and that was when he changed. I had never seen anything like it before! It was grotesque, just sticky and gross as he changed into the wolf. Had it been anyone else, it would have been interesting, but it was my lover and I was afraid for him. Once the walking wolf began to rampage through the forest, I followed him to make sure nothing would happen. Fortunately, nothing did happen and he changed back into a man with only a few cuts and bruises. When he came to, I explained to him what had happened. He could only cry. Neither of us could understand what was happening. To this day, I still don't understand what happened to Corrin. It's never been something that I've accepted."

"No doubt," mumbled Quentin. "What did you do for the next full moon?"

"We followed the pattern set by the first," said Constance. "I followed the wolf every full moon for 18 years. I would've done it much longer had they not caught Corrin the year he turned 39."

Quentin could not imagine what she had been through, prowling the French forest every full moon to protect her lover. He could hear the pain in her voice and it broke his heart. It made him think of Beth and how she had done similar things for him, how she had lied to the others and cared for him as soon as she found him. And that poor boy! Corrin had to live a life cowering from something that he did not understand. Corrin did not deserve his fate, probably being punished for the sins of an ancestor he never knew. Quentin realized that he had gotten off easy. Now was the time to see what his fate might have been. "Do you want to tell me what happened?" he asked, cradling her closer for comfort.

"I'll tell you." Constance wrapped her arms around his neck and laid her head against his chest and did her best not to look into his eyes. "I had lived with Corrin for 20 years. I had never spent 20 years in one place, let alone 20 years with a mortal man. But I loved Corrin and I could not imagine my life without him. I knew that he would one day die, but I didn't smell death on him at 39. Except for a few gray hairs and a few extra lines on his face, he had not changed in 20 years. He could have easily lived another 20 years had the hunters not found him."

"How did they find him?"

"Josef found me first. I was following Corrin and Josef grabbed me from behind and pulled me away. He took me to a place where three mortal men awaited us. They held me down as Josef stripped me bare to expose my identity. They were going to prod me but I broke away and immediately began searching for Corrin. I can still remember finding him, seeing him being beaten with sticks with pieces of silver tied to them. When Corrin changed back the next day, he had large welts down his back. They never healed."

Quentin did not know what to say. Corrin's torture already seemed to have eclipsed any pain he went through as a werewolf. "When did they begin the trial?"

"The trial began once the moon cycled through. Josef was the prosecutor," snarled Constance. "He accused Corrin of crimes he had never committed. I had watched over Corrin and I had made sure that he had killed no one! But I couldn't stand in his defense. I was a mark against Corrin. He had lain with a succubus and sex with me was considered bestiality. They were torturing and killing innocent people but I was the fucking animal! No matter because Corrin was the one in trouble. I had to watch as Josef--of all people!--was given moral authority over Corrin's fate."

"They knew what you were but not what Josef was?" Constance nodded. "That's ridiculous! How could they be so stupid?"

"Men are given the benefit of the doubt. If you say the right thing you can get away with murder. And Josef said all the right things! Corrin was convicted and was sentenced to burn at the stake. The night before Corrin was supposed to die. I snuck into his cell. They had beaten him more and the welts trailed down his back and legs. He was emaciated. As a final indignity, they had shaved every black-gray hair from his body. He barely looked like himself. But he was still Corrin and I could not let him burn. I offered to make love to him, end his life before they could kill him. God, we argued because he wasn't willing. He wanted to show the village it's crimes. As Corrin saw it, he was going to die anyway. He was going to be a martyr for the mistreated. I honestly didn't care because I wanted to be with him one last time before he was gone. I knew I could've gotten him to agree had Josef not arrived. Corrin held me until Josef and his lackeys pulled me away. We kissed once and that was our last physical contact before they burned him."

"You watched it, didn't you?"

"I couldn't leave him," cried Constance. "They put him in the town square, strapping him to a large stake set high above the crowd. Josef held me back and I watched the men light the pyre. During the time he maintained consciousness, Corrin refused to utter a sound. I don't think I've ever been prouder of anyone than I was of him at that moment. But the crowd was frantic! They wanted to degrade Corrin and make him scream. I'm so glad he didn't.

"The fire burned out on it's own. Josef released me and I jumped onto the platform." Constance looked into Quentin's eyes and gently tightened her grip on his neck. "There was nothing left of Corrin but ash and bone fragments. I had lain with that man for 20 years, loving him every moment of it, and those pathetic examples of humanity destroyed him with their hatred in an afternoon. And they had the audacity to laugh at my tears. I smeared a bit of the ash across my forehead and turned to the crowd. I said, 'You killed an honest man! Say what you will of me, but he was a good person. You have betrayed your humanity and your god. I damn every spectator here today to suffer. I want this village to topple to the ground for what you've done to him!' They didn't stop me as I gathered Corrin's ashes in my skirt and they didn't follow me when I washed him into the stream."

Quentin could not believe that Constance had withstood such an experience and maintained her sanity. He could not understand why she bothered remaining civil with Josef. He would have had the asshole hunted down and tortured wherever he went. But Constance knew what she was doing. It was her past, her pain. "And what happened last night reminded you of something that would have happened to Corrin?"

"It was an incomplete transformation," she cried. "He hurt so badly. He had the same problem that you can potentially have. I don't want you to hurt that way again."

"And I won't, Constance." Quentin checked the clock behind her and said, "It's 7:00. You're so obviously tired. Why don't we sleep until noon?"

"I'm worried, Quentin! I can't sleep because I'm afraid for you."

"I'm all right."

"What about last night?"

"What about it?" demanded Quentin.

"You went from feeling perfectly well to passing out. Explain it!"

"I was ill. Isn't that good enough?"

Constance groaned and turned away. She turned back quickly and said, "Tell me that you're well. If you say it and mean it, I'll believe you! You wouldn't lie to me, would you Quentin?"

And that was the million dollar question. Quentin knew he could not win a truth telling contest if his life depended on it. He had scaled down his wide scale confabulations of his youth, wanting to have a clean slate with Constance. There was no reason to begin now, but there was also no need to worry Constance if this turned out to be nothing. "I am perfectly well, darling?"

Constance sighed and fell into Quentin's chest. She soon fell into a deep sleep. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her guiltily. He had not wanted to lie to her. But Constance was a worrier and he could not let her destroy herself over a problem that was out of her control. Quentin wanted to protect her from what might happen as long as he possibly could.

Seven days before the next full moon, Spring 1976

Constance wanted to know when the plane would take off. She could not believe how ready she was to leave her home. It felt strange because she loved the city, devouring the culture and the anonymity as only she could. But she did not trust it now, at least not after Quentin's episode. Constance felt that whatever was after him had found him in the city. It was taunting him, attempting to make a fool of him in front of everyone. Constance had watched as Corrin had been abused. She would not sit back and let the same thing happen to Quentin.

Constance had survived losing Corrin but it hadn't been pleasant. This had been the time she stopped sleeping. She had also gone on a particularly brutal killing spree, doing her best to destroy as many people as possible so that she could avenge Corrin. During the 18th century Constance eased up, pleased to have the Enlightenment casting doubt on the superstitions that had ruined her life with Corrin. Constance moved with ease in society but formed few lasting bonds. Falling for Quentin had been a pleasant surprise. She had loved Corrin the duration of the 20 year union, but she had shared more with Quentin during the last 4 years. She could not say the she loved Quentin more than Corrin. For the most part, her relationship with Corrin had been beautiful. He relationship with Quentin was no less beautiful but different and exquisitely strange. The only true variation in the relationships was the toll of lycanthropy, although she knew that the parallels were more numerous than she wanted to admit.

She was not willing to let the parallels increase. Constance knew various pseudo-cures she was not willing to turn to yet. She knew that the portrait continued to work. She had checked on it, half relieved/half horrified to find it as hideous as ever. "God Connie! Why are you looking at that thing?" he had asked her.

"Curiosity," murmured Constance, hoping to sound indifferent. "Do you ever visit your better half?"

"Not hardly. I only look at that atrocity when I have to."

Constance could see through the facade. She knew that Quentin checked the portrait with regularity. She had watched once as he witnessed the hideous man change into the frail gray wolf that was incapable of scaring, let alone hurting, anyone. She knew that it disturbed him to see the dark side of his heart illustrated for him to see. But he did not have to like it. The portrait was a necessary evil. Yet his increased skittishness worried her. There was one easy way to find out what he felt but she could not broach the subject with him.

As frightened as Constance was of talking about the prophecy with Quentin, she had no problem attempting to get him out of town. She waited until he was near sleep, hoping the disorientation would lead him to agree with anything she said, to broach the subject. "Wouldn't it be nice to get away from all of this?" she asked slyly.

"And what do you propose we do?" asked Quentin, turning lazily on his side to face her.

"Well, there are tons of places to go." Constance hoisted herself onto her elbows, hoping the shadows would shade her eyes from him, hoping he wouldn't see through her. "Spain is wonderful, especially since no one living remembers me. Italy is beautiful, especially Venice in spring. We could trek through Asia. But more than this, I think we should--and I know how you'll take this--go back to the island."

"You love that place, don't you?" murmured Quentin as he sleepily eased himself next to her elbow. "But it does sound brilliant."

"Of course it does! How could you have a problem with lots of sun, sand, and privacy? And we were married there. Isn't that good enough reason to return?"

"Yes...but what if we run into the justice who performed the ceremony?"

"True," whispered Constance, attempting to repress the giggles rising in her throat as best she could. "He was a bit much."

"A bit much! He stared at your breasts for most of the ceremony. I don't see how you could take it!"

"You sure didn't. 'If you don't stop gawking at her, I'm going to knock your lights out!' I could barely keep from laughing. I thought he'd have a stroke."

"I don't think I'll ever be able to stop apologizing for that."

"Why?" asked Constance. "He stopped looking at me and he didn't press charges. I don't see the problem. You were being protective. I, for one, don't hold it against you."

Quentin looked up at her oddly, silently questioning her response. He soon looked down, nuzzling again into her arm. "And you want to return?"

"I want to return with you." Constance turned onto her side and began to run her hands through his hair, twisting the longest strands into languid curls. She could tell that he wanted to go. She could see it in the way he smiled. He was only holding out to get a rise out of her. "But I could always leave without you if you REALLY didn't want to go. I'd be lonely...for awhile."

"Now, I think you should reconsider. I didn't say I didn't want to go with you," murmured Quentin.

"Of course not! Why would you want to be alone in a large apartment while I lay on the beach being fanned by pretty naked island boys? On second thought...you have things to do. I'll leave you to do those things while I suffer with the boys."

"Truce, truce okay. I'll go."

Constance was excited to have him on board. The only problem she had was arranging her trip, which took a solid week of registering, canceling, and favor-calling before Constance was pleased. They world arrive on the island a week before the next full moon. She hoped the change in environment would buy Quentin some time, giving her time to work out an adequate plan. Hopefully, the trip would disorient any force that was against him. More than anything, Constance wanted Quentin to herself, social and familiar obligations be damned.

The day the were set to leave, Constance's worries began to reappear. She began to doubt her logic, thinking that changing locale would not help anyone. She began to believe that she could do nothing for him, and that he would face a fate similar to Corrin's. Quentin noticed her anxiety and questioned her on it, forcing Constance to lie about pre-trip jitters. "You worry too much," he said sympathetically. "You need to relax and you'll see that everything will be all right."

Constance decided to follow his advice. She began to believe that Quentin was right. Constance recognized that she had the propensity to blow situations out of proportion. As dangerous as the prophecy was, the time lapse ld her to believe that things would be fine. She saw the incident on the full moon as being a slight relapse. She thought it could have been brought about by some illness. It did not have to be his curse.

As they boarded the plane, the anxiety once again struck Constance. It came on strong, battering her from all sides. She had never felt anything as overpoweringly evil in her life. It was like nothing she had ever known. She glanced around the crowd, searching frantically for the source of the bad vibrations. She found nothing. Then, just as quickly as they hit her, the bad vibrations began to ebb and soon disappeared. Constance knew that she ought to take it as a warning, but she decided against it. She saw it as a false alarm, a outgrowth of her own anxiety. Quentin touched her hand, effectively breaking her trance. She took his hand and followed him inside.

Six days before the next full moon, Spring 1976

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

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

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

"And you went candle crazy?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What is it?" asked Constance.

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

"Why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I gave you what you wanted!"

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

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

"It was what I demanded."

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

"Can't?"

"Won't."

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

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

"What about the girl?"

"Leave Constance out of this!"

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

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

"What are you thinking?"

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

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

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

Meanwhile

"You can't believe how surprised I am to see you!" said Constance.

Constance could recognize this man anywhere, even in this form. Anyone with a shoulder length lion's mane is hard to forget. His face had a definite charms, beautiful in an androgynous, sly way. His eyes were the same dark brown that characterized their kind as his body was also the same svelte build as every incubus/succubus she had known. Unlike most, she had a grudging respect for Avery, one of the few of their kind who existed easily as either an incubus or a succubus. She thought he made a better woman than man but Constance would not argue. They did not always get along, but she had a grudging respect for Avery. "Why are you with Angelique?"

"Am I not good enough for Avery?"

"I didn't mean it that way! I was thinking about..."

"Don't," warned Angelique. "We'll talk about that later."

Constance nodded as she finished her glass of wine. If Angelique was not willing to talk about Josef, she was not willing to push the subject. She glanced back to Avery and asked, "What's brought you here?"

"I'm not quite," he murmured, his raspy voice raising the hair on the back of her neck. He glanced to Angelique and then back to Constance, the twinkle flickering back into his eyes. "I've seen the oddest thing."

"And this interests me because...?"

"Well, it has to deal with that little bit of mischief you and Arianne inflicted on the gypsies a few years back."

"You mean about 'the hand?'"

"Yes, 'the hand,'" mimed Avery, his face neither serious nor amused.

Constance leaned in quickly, meeting him nose to nose. "What have you seen?"

"Well, you know that it was reattached to the Count in 1897 and that he died soon after in a fire."

"That's the story I've always heard."

"It turns out that he's not deal," whispered Avery.

Constance glanced quickly between Avery and Angelique. "That's ridiculous!" Both Avery and Angelique shook their heads. Constance sank back into the chair, her face buried in her hands. She wanted to cry but would not, unwilling to look foolish in public. She shifted back to the front of her seat and asked, "How do you know?"

"I've seen him. I was in Milan and I noticed him...or at least I noticed the hand." Avery moved closer to Constance, meeting her eye-to-eye to calm her. "What am I missing, Constance? I mean, you like playing with the damn thing but you didn't really care about the ugly thing. What's brought about the change?"

"Quentin Collins."

"Why? Your husband will be so...oh, so I see. I take it the man we all thought was dead and your beloved are one in the same."

"Nothing gets past you, does it?" asked Angelique.

"He's in so much trouble," mumbled Constance.

"Then explain it to me. You can't mope like this without letting me know the story."

Constance explained the story to Avery, carefully whispering every detail with as little emotion as possible. With an incubus, it was best to stick to the facts and save the subjectivity for a mortal. Gross displays of emotion tended to disturb incubi, scattering their thoughts and leaving them unable to comprehend the story. Avery was better than most, though, and he understood Constance in spite of her frequent vocal ticks. He fell back into his chair, his face stunned and nervous. "As you see, I'm more than a little worried."

"I don't know what to tell you. Normally, I'd run down all known lycanthropy cures and we'd see what worked."

"Does Petofi change you plan?" asked Angelique.

"He's a wild card," murmured Avery. "If he wants Quentin to revert, he'll be furry on the full moon."

"This is so unfair!" Constance slunk back into her chair, hoping the shadows hid the growing crimson in her face. She hated to feel that she could not control a situation, especially when it came to Quentin. "Speak of the devil," she murmured, her eyes following Quentin as he walked to their table. She took him in her arms the moment he reached her, kissing him deeply in spite of the people who began to stare at them. She could taste the alcohol. She wanted to ask where he had been but she did not. Constance sat close to Quentin throughout the dinner, both of them throwing up a false front of contentment. At the moment, it seemed all they had.

The day before the full moon, Spring 1976

Quentin hated anticipating Petofi's orders. He had not wanted to go back to Petofi, but he felt that he had no choice. Petofi would have hurt Constance had Quentin not returned to the fold. Of course she would be angry with him for returning to Petofi's service, but he would have to make her understand that he was protecting her. Quentin felt that Constance suspected that something was amiss. She rarely let him out of her sight, only letting him be when she and Avery would go rummage through her books.

Angelique would come with Avery. She often chose to sit with Quentin, seemingly willing to do whatever he wanted. He knew that she was keeping on eye on him. He would have rather walked alone, but he knew that she would be watching him with or without his permission. It was best to allow her to come along. Nothing much was said between them. There was nothing to be said. Their relationship had initially been a dance between attraction and revulsion, alternating between one oft denied night of passion to their more frequent fights over his relationship with Amanda Harris. Now they merely got along, their common bond being a highly knowledgeable Constance. Her knowledge of Quentin's past and her following trust always shocked him, but he had to remember that she was not one of the innocents he often attracted. She had a past and little of it was reputable.

Angelique eventually broke the silence. She quietly moved to him on the beach, moving not chose enough to touch but close enough to talk softly. "Why won't you tell her what is bothering you?"

Quentin wanted to ignore her. He stared out onto the ocean a few more moments before realizing that he could not. "Who said that something was bothering me?" he asked.

"No one. I just know."

"What if you're wrong?"

"How often am I wrong?"

"Shall I count the instances? We do have an eternity," snapped Quentin.

"And once you finish, I could count all the times you've acted without thinking. How long do you think that would take?" demanded Angelique.

"Touché."

Angelique nodded and stepped in front of Quentin. She caught his gaze, holding it firmly as she spoke. "Do you love Constance?"

"Yes, I love her! I would do nothing to harm her."

"So you have to realize that, for some bizarre reason, Constance worships the ground you walk on. Constance would do anything to protect your undeserving hide. Tell her your problem and she will help you as best she can, which is more than you can ask for."

Quentin did not want to listen. There was nothing he wanted more than to tell all to Constance and have her say that all would end well. But he knew of her failure with Corrin. How could she help him, especially with Petofi's involvement? Besides, if she knew and she could not help him, she would be forced to stand aside and watch his downward spiral brought on by either Petofi's degradation or the wolf's. Quentin wanted to stall her pain as long as possible.

Quentin could only protect her until the night before the full moon. Constance had hesitantly gone into town with Angelique and Avery. He had urged her to go. Quentin had had a feeling that trouble would arrive tonight and he wanted Constance as far away as possible when it happened. Once the trio left, Quentin ran through the house opening all the doors and turning on all the lights. He would not be surprised by any sudden arrivals. Yet he was frightened by a knock at the front door. After pacing the living room a minute, he reluctantly answered the door. Petofi stood there, a distorted smile plastered across his lips. "I've seen her, my boy. You are very lucky. She's so very beautiful."

"It was my understanding that if I helped you, you would leave my wife out of this. Why were you around Constance?" demanded Quentin.

"I didn't harm a hair on her pretty head." Petofi invited himself inside, quietly pushing past Quentin as he walked into the living room. He glanced around the room, mumbling lush affirmations before taking a seat on a plush sofa. "This place has her fingerprint, but I'm digressing. My visit has nothing to do with your lovely lover or her taste. But you already knew that."

"Yes." Quentin walked sluggishly into the living room, taking a seat in the ornate high back chair in front of Petofi. He attempted to size Petofi up but could not. But he had never been good about that anyway. "What do you want me to do?"

"Oh, I have a dangerous mission for you Quentin. This is a harrowing job, but I think you can do it."

"What do I have to do?"

"I want you to kill. You haven't forgotten how to kill, have you Quentin?"

"I need a little more information. Who am I supposed to kill?" asked Quentin anxiously.

"Angelique Bouchard."

Although Quentin knew Petofi was serious, it did not stop him from bursting into laughter and nearly falling from his chair. "I won't kill Angelique! She'll never let me rest."

"Your wife?" asked Petofi.

"And Angelique. You can't honestly believe that someone as powerless as I could completely destroy someone as powerful as Angelique. Why do you want her dead?"

"The moment I met Angelique she became a thorn in my side. She has friendly relations with your wife and that makes her dangerous once again. There are two distinct solutions to this problem: kill your wife or kill Angelique. Killing Constance would be pointless. To kill Angelique would help prove your loyalty. If you're clever, you're beloved will never know what you did, allowing you to console her and serve me simultaneously. Besides, an associate of mine agrees that she must die."

"An associate? Since when did you make friends and why are you leasing me out to them?"

"Does it matter? Will you do it?"

"No!" Quentin bolted from the chair and charged into Petofi's face. "I won't kill for you, not like this. And how dare you use me to avenge your friend's vendettas!"

Petofi rose from his seat, ruefully shaking his head as he walked toward the door. Before leaving, he turned back to Quentin. "You know that you'll transform into the wolf tomorrow night, don't you?"

"Yes. It will be easier to deal with that than deal with the consequences of my actions."

"Let's see how you feel after the full moon." With that, Petofi tipped his hat and left the house.

"All of this anxiety, this pain...and for nothing!" screamed Quentin once he was sure Petofi was far away. He wanted to wail, to break every object in sight until his frustration ease. But he did not, choosing to flee the house. He did not want to be home when Constance returned. Quentin stopped once he hit the sea. He stared out onto the night black water as he threw the dead shells into the sea, finding this act surprisingly comforting. He also knew that this simple act would be impossible for the next night or two, knowing that the wolf would find n release at the ocean unless it was attempting to end it all.

And now Quentin would have to tell Constance about the relapse. She would have to forgive him. Quentin had lost his cure because he had refused to kill her friend. It was a statement to the power she held over him. But she seemed to have power over almost everyone. Even Petofi seemed to like her. Then again, he always found the particulars of Quentin's life of some interest. As if struck by lightening, it all began to make sense to Quentin. "Oh God, not again!" Quentin knew that Petofi was once again trying to wear him down so that he might steal his body. "But why? If he survived the fire in Tate's studio, he should be able to survive anything." Suddenly, Quentin remembered his new impressions of the hand. He had always thought that it looked strange, but now it appeared hideous, as if it were rotting. "He's dying," he whispered. "His body is failing him and he wants mine so that he might continue to live." Quentin realized that he was trapped. If he refused Petofi, he would be forced to once again fear the full moon. If he returned to Petofi, he would once again lose his freedom and would eventually die in the deteriorating body. He was caught.

Quentin went back to the house two hours later, hoping that Constance had returned. He ran through the house calling her name, only finding his echo to answer him. He eventually make his way to their bedroom and there she stood, her forehead pressed to the window as moonlight fell over her naked shoulders. Constance only wore a white translucent sheet that she held wrapped around her waist. She seemed to beam, to glow with an inner light. All he wanted to do was to hold her, to never let her go until forced to. Once she saw him, Constance pulled away from the window, sucking in her breath as she backed away. "Constance," he whispered, "I'm so sorry. I didn't..."

"Shh," she warned, extending her hand as if to stop him. "You don't have to apologize. If you want to go out and do as you please, I don't care."

"No! Constance, I was sitting on the beach. I wasn't with anyone else. There's no one else," he said as he approached her. "There never will be."

Constance ran into his arms, allowing him to envelop her in his arms. Quentin had never realized how fragile she could become, how vulnerable this creature could actually feel. He pulled her away slightly and tilted her chin towards his face. "Constance, I have to tell you..."

"No," she whispered, pressing her finger to his lips. She soon replaced it with her lips, wrapping her hands around him so that the sheet slipped from her hips and hung on the leg she had entwined between his. "It's late," she explained quietly. "You can't do anything tonight. I'm going to bed. Are you?"

Quentin said nothing as Constance released him and pulled away, dragging the sheet behind her as she slipped into their bed. She was right: there was nothing he could do this night. And he was not going to let her get away. She had felt so warm, so gentle in his arms when he had kissed her. Something had been different but he could not figure out what it was. He liked it nonetheless. Quentin decided that if he would have to face Hell tomorrow, he would find oblivion in Constance's arms before he went.

The full moon, Spring 1976

It was coming and there was nothing Constance could do about it. She had spent days arguing lycanthropy cures with Avery, each one seeming hopeful at first but all seeming worthless in the end. And now she could smell it on Quentin, a smell that was heavy, feral, and uncontrollable. Nothing remotely human could even sense it, but any member of her species could differentiate a werewolf from the plethora of supernatural creatures. Constance could tell the difference better than most. She found herself attracted to lycanthropes for this vulnerability, their impermanence and tempers never factoring into her decision. She was beginning to wish it would.

Constance knew that this day would not go well. She had awakened early with the express goal of hiding every ounce of alcohol in the house. Since both she and Quentin could be extremely heavy drinkers, she knew this would be no easy task. In spite of her best intentions, she woke to find that Quentin had beaten her to the punch, hiding two and a half bottles of brandy in his bloodstream. If she had caught his before he had started, Constance might have been able to convince him to remain sober. Since she had not, there was no hope of convincing Quentin to let up on the drinking. He would not die from the alcohol poisoning, but he would not be spared from his curse because of it.

Since she had failed at her initial goal for the day, Constance did her best to stay out of Quentin's path. True drunkenness was not a state that worked well with him. She knew that the moment they spoke to one another that they would begin to fight, a surprisingly well matched verbal brawl that would break before they came to blows. Constance looked the underdog but Quentin knew better than to touch her. In 1907, she had lain him out with a quick left, bruising his pride and teaching him a valuable lesson: don't mess with Constance when she's angry. She only hoped he could remember it.

"Can you stop pacing?" asked Quentin angrily.

"Can you stop drinking?" countered Constance, attempting not to meet his hazing stare as she walked. "Stop it, if only for today."

"So I can start again tonight? No, dear Constance, there is not point in stopping now," murmured Quentin as he raised the glass to his lips. "You wouldn't understand."

"Try me." Constance took the glass from Quentin's hands and tossed it across the room. When he rose to confront her, she pushed him back into the seat. "Cut the bullshit, Quentin. You're not helping anyone by this show. Chill out! Just tell me what's wrong."

"So you can help me?" asked Quentin bitterly, a smile oddly smearing across the lips. "You can't help me. No one can. People have wasted lifetimes attempting to help me. They say, 'He's so beautiful. He's so charming. He's so interesting. Let's help him!' Do you know what they find, darling? They find that I am a cold, callous son of a bitch who is incapable of being saved. Why should you be any different? What power do you have? Are you gonna fuck it out of me?"

Constance could tell by the look on his face that Quentin had realized what he had said. She was too angry to care. "Why should I bother? You're expert at fucking yourself!" When he rose to explain, she raised her hand as if she would hit him, causing him to sit back down. "I don't want to see you for the rest of the day. If you're going to ruin yourself, I won't stand by to witness." With that, Constance grabbed the fullest bottle of brandy she saw and retreated to their bedroom.

Constance poured herself a glass but could only stare at it. Part of her wanted to drink it but another part of her seemed to scream for her not to. She poured the brandy back into the bottle and grabbed the telephone. She called Avery, hoping he could tell her what to do. "There's nothing you can do," he told her. "You can smell it on him. It's over."

"There has to be something!"

Avery took a deep breath and asked, "Do you still have what I gave you?"

"Yeah," whispered Constance. "It's in my dresser."

"If you're desperate, you should use it. It might buy you some time."

Constance thanked Avery and rang off. She searched through her dresser and retrieved a paper bag. Inside were enough animal tranquilizers to kill a normal man. They would only knock Quentin out. She looked out the window to see night quickly falling. Soon, the moon would rise. Constance fixed a syringe, capped it, and hid it away in the dresser before Quentin entered the room. He looked tired, as if the pull of night had already begun to weigh him down. "I...I want to apologize," he said.

"Don't. It's all right."

"No it's not. I have to tell you something. I...I...I," he stammered before falling forward, barely able to brace himself against the bedpost.

Constance ran towards Quentin and helped him onto the bed. The tremors had began, staring as jerking ticks in his arms and legs. These ticks would soon progress into quaking convulsions that would only end with his transformation. She knew that he had yet to lose consciousness and that Quentin felt his renewed pain acutely. Constance rushed back to the dresser and retrieved the syringe. Without thinking, she jammed the needle into his arm and released the clear fluid into his body. The tremors quickly ceased and Quentin calmed.

Constance knew that this quick fix would not stop Quentin's transformation. She fished into her pockets and found Beth's pentagram. She draped it around Quentin's neck, hoping it would have the affect she wanted. Constance could still remember the small boys forced to wear the stars and their mother's explanations for why they wore them: "If they never remove the pentagram, they will never change." Constance went to the window to see that the moon had risen. She turned back and felt relief to see that Quentin had not changed.

Constance called Avery, sparing little detail or emotion as she recounted what had happened. "You bought him a reprieve, at least for tonight. But some wolves go through nights of transformations. If he makes it through tomorrow night, you'll both finally be able to sit down and think up a legitimate plan."

"He won't make it tomorrow night," whispered Constance.

"What?"

"This is just a warning shot, just firing into the air to get our attention," explained Constance.

"And you think tomorrow will be the actual battle?" asked Avery.

"It has to be. It can't be this easy to stop a transformation."

Avery sighed. "Come to me tomorrow and we'll talk this one out. You didn't use all the tranquilizers, did you?"

"No."

"Good. They might still be useful tomorrow. And Constance," he added, "I know you don't want to hear this hand I know you'll call me a callous bastard for saying this, but get some sleep. You'll need all of your faculties if you want to be of any use to Quentin. All right?"

"All right. And thank you." Avery moaned a farewell and hung up. Constance paced the room for over an hour, carefully watching over Quentin for any changes. She knew that nothing would happen but she wanted to be sure. She eventually crawled into bed, curling her body around Quentin's inanimate form. As much as she wanted, Constance knew she could not sleep. She could not rest as her world fell down around her ears.

The morning after

When Quentin awoke, he felt sluggish, lazy. He could barely move, only able to loll his head from side to side. From what he could see, he had not created too much havoc. Had he created any? The room--and himself, for that matter--seemed pristine. He wondered how he had made it to the bed. Usually, the wolf would fall out in some horribly conspicuous place. The last thing he remembered was speaking to Constance. It was then that he realized that she was not in the room.

Quentin shot up from the bed and began frantically searching the house, looking desperately from some sign of a struggle. All he found were the remnants of the previous day's booze binge, a sea of bottles surrounding the sofa. The only sign of life throughout the house was him. But he knew Constance could not be dead. Unless the brandy had completely blurred his memories, Quentin had not seen the mark on her forehead. The wolf would not attack those that were not marked for death. He reasoned that she must have left early. She had feelings to sort through, some new and some long dormant. For a moment, Quentin considered searching further for Constance but quickly decided against it. He only wanted her to return soon so that he could explain what had happened.

As Quentin returned to their bedroom, he could hear someone rummaging through their things. As much as he wanted it to be Constance, he knew that it was not her. He knew that she had not gotten past him. He would not have let her do so. He carefully walked in to find the intruder going through Constance's things. As the man pulled a paper bag from her drawer he noticed Quentin and pulled away, his dark brown eyes at first terrified but then calm. "It's lovely to see you again Quentin. Where's the little lady?"

"What the hell are you doing here, Josef?"

Josef ignored Quentin, choosing to pilfer through the bag until he pulled out a wad of tissues. He carefully unwrapped the flimsy papers to revel an empty syringe. Josef looked slowly up at Quentin, joyously waving the needle as a smile spread across his face. "I'm surprised to see that you're still standing."

"What are you talking about?"

"This bag is full of tranquilizers and quite a few of these bottles are empty." Josef carefully walked up to Quentin and touched his shirt. "And look what he have here! Could this be a pentagram? Indeed it is. I've learned from my mistakes and I can sense a full fledged werewolf."

Quentin felt the chain, following it to the familiar pointed star. He instantly knew that Constance had left it with him. She had saved him from the wolf. Now she was gone and the only one around the offer clarification was Josef. She could not have wanted it this way...could she? "Leave now!"

"It's too much to digest all at once. I know." Josef put the bag back into the drawer and took a seat on the bed. "You're making a mistake."

"I thought I told you to leave!"

"And I told you that you were making a mistake. See, they cancel one another out. Anyway, you need to follow Petofi."

"I'd rather be the wolf," mumbled Quentin.

"Because Constance loves the hairy bugger that much? What will she think of this new monthly occurrence?" asked Josef in faux innocence.

"She is already aware."

"And by the looks of things, I can see that she's delighted! Think about it Quentin: do you really think she wants to repeat the whole Corrin thing with you?"

"Didn't you have more than a hand in that?" asked Quentin.

Josef stiffened, his face taking on the hardness of marble. "I did it for her own good," he answered. "You didn't have to watch that elegantly beautiful creature desperately follow a man-sized ball of fur! It degraded her. Above all things, I don't want to see that repeated."

"What's in it for you?"

"Nothing."

Quentin began laughing, starting softly but soon becoming hysterical. "You never do anything without wondering what you'll get in return!" He turned to the door to see Angelique standing in the walkway, her eyes focused on Josef. He calmed instantly and asked, "Did Constance send you?"

"Yes," she whispered, her eyes never wavering from Josef. "She's all right. She's with Avery."

Josef snorted and rose from the bed, walking steadily towards Angelique. "You say that you love Constance but you leave her with Avery. Do you know what you've done?"

"Should I have left her with you?" asked Angelique, moving in on Josef until they were touching. "You care nothing for Constance."

"But I wouldn't do what Avery would," countered Josef. "You think you know him but you don't. He'll be your friend and help for awhile, but if he sense 'the problem,' he will do anything to correct it and it's never pretty."

"What are you talking about?" asked Quentin.

Josef turned to Quentin, and, for what was sure to be the only time, there was a trace of pity in his glare. "This concerns you too. I don't like you and I don't tell you this to help you. This is about Constance. You tell her never to go back to Avery and to run from him every time she sees him from this point out."

"Don't listen to him," insisted Angelique. "He's only trying to get a rise out of you."

"He's succeeded. What are you talking about?"

"I don't know you well enough to say if you'll like it but it is what it is. Don't let Avery near her."

"He's lying," said Angelique. "You've never said anything worth believing."

"That's not what you said a year ago."

Quentin backed away from the arguing duo. In their eyes, he was no longer there. He laid on the bed, closing his eyes in an attempt to shut out their arguing. He could not understand why Josef had concerned himself with his marriage. Josef had no real say in his twin's life. When did Josef care about anything that did not...directly...affect...him? "You bastard!" screamed Quentin as he sat up. "You were the one he was talking about."

Josef's eyes grew wide as he stared at Quentin. He attempted to hide his fear but failed miserably. "What are you talking about?"

"You work for Petofi." Quentin turned to Angelique and said, "Petofi wanted me to kill you. He said an 'associate' of his asked for it."

Angelique glared at Josef but soon turned her glare to Quentin. "Can you prove this?"

"Why do you think he's here?"

"He's lying," insisted Josef. "Can you really believe Quentin Collins?"

"Can I believe you?"

"Of course. Why would I want you dead?"

"Because you exist. The list of people who want me dead is quite lengthy. Why shouldn't you be on it?"

Josef closed his eyes tightly as he backed away. "Why are you choosing him over me?"

"I'm choosing him over Petofi. God Josef! I always knew that you were unscrupulous but even this is out of you league. You've gone too far."

"How can you tell the difference?" demanded Josef. "Quentin is no better than the worst of us. Bad is bad is bad: that's the way it always has been that's the way it always will be. You can't make any distinctions between evils, Angelique. Bad is nonnegotiable."

"But I've made the distinction," said Angelique. "I've made my choice. You knew that if anyone would make the distinction it would be me."

"This is ridiculous!" mumbled Josef.

"What's ridiculous is your notion that I could actually kill Angelique," said Quentin. "What were you hoping for?"

"Actually," murmured Josef deviously, "I had expected her to kill you. I know what Petofi has in mind for you Quentin. Your body doesn't have to be alive for him to take you over. As long as he lives, he can reanimate the body and use it as his own. You'd be out of my way. I've longed for my little unholy triumvirate for quite awhile. All that stands in my way is you. With you out of the way, I could talk Constance back into the fold and it would be as it once was."

"But that's out of the question. I'm here to stay."

"We'll see about that." As Josef spoke, his face turned a fierce crimson, his eyes seeming to burn from within. "You've ruined my plans and you'll pay for it. When you least expect it, I'll extract my pound of flesh. I might not take it from you, but there's always Chris, his bastard, or whatever else may be in the line-up. You're line will pay."

"They've been paying for my mistakes for quite awhile. What can you do that I can't?" asked Quentin.

Josef huffed and stormed for the door. Quentin fought to repress his laughter as Josef left the house. He did not believe that Josef would hurt anyone. Once he fell out of Petofi's favor, he would be begging for forgiveness. Quentin eased back into bed, still sitting up although he could easily fall asleep in that position. "What happened to you a year ago?"

"None of your business." Angelique took a seat at the foot of the bed, appearing weary as she braced herself against the bedpost. "How do you feel?"

"Groggy. I suppose the drugs have yet to completely wear off."

"Constance hates that she had to drug you, but she did not want you to feel any pain."

Quentin nodded and fell back into the mattress. "Is she coming back."

"Yes," said Angelique. "She'll be back before nightfall."

Meanwhile

"Did you prick him? Did he bleed? Remember the magic number is three," said Avery.

Constance poured another cup of coffee, watching the steam rise as she stared into the thick black liquid. Her hands shook violently as she picked up the mug. It took all her power not to drop it. "He dripped two drops and the wound closed."

"What about making the sign of the cross over his body?"

"First things first, I always thought that was a stupid cure. Secondly, I'm an atheist. What good would it do?" Constance dropped the ceramic mug and it shattered, spraying coffee over the hardwood floor. She carefully picked up the pieces while Avery wiped up the mess. "What good would it do if a holy man performed it. Nothing will work!"

Avery picked Constance up and led her into the living room. Constance thought that he looked at her strangely, as if he were trying to see inside her. She soon realized that this was probably the product of an overworked imagination and let it pass. "There are other ways."

"It's been well over 9 years since he tasted human flesh...well, since he ate it. Is he supposed to kneel in one spot for one hundred years? Be struck thrice on the forehead with a knife? Maybe we should try the moon poppy? I don't know. You tell me!"

"You wanted my help and I've done all I could!"

"I know! I'm sorry but I...I can't accept this."

"Then don't," said Avery sternly. Constance hated the look in his eyes. He seemed to see something she could not. She could not understand him. "Go home," he murmured. "Go back to Quentin and talk to him."

"I suppose I must." Constance murmured a quick farewell and left Avery's building. The drive home was long. For the first time, Constance was truly glad that they were living so far from a major city. The fewer people the wolf had the chance to injure, the better Quentin's chances of not being caught. She knew that if she could protect him throughout the night, his chances for survival were excellent.

While driving, Constance noticed a hitch hiker. She recognized him immediately and swerved her car to hit to him, running him down until he was caught between her bumper and a tree. Josef smiled as he walked from between them, moving casually towards the driver's side door. Constance attempted to make an escape from the other side but Josef grabbed her arm and dragged her out of the car. "Where do you think you're going?"

Constance turned and spat in his face. "I should have known you were involved!"

"Hey! I didn't do anything!" said Josef. "All I did was suggest to 'someone' that I might be able to set up a contact point at say...a wedding in Collinsport. Once he knew exactly where Quentin was, he could always track him."

"Carolyn's wedding was a trap. Why?" she whispered. "Why do you care?"

"Why don't you? I want our triumvirate back and Petofi wanted a body that would fail him. It was a good exchange. I need you and Angelique. It was good before, you can't deny it. We can have it again!"

"We could have remain with the master but you ruined that. You ruined our relationship with Angelique. Why do you want to fail again?"

"Because I actually care for her!"

"I care for Quentin!"

"You won't care for him once you find out what's wrong with you," snorted Josef. He let Constance go and looked her over coldly. "And you went to Avery! Listen, if you really love yourself or Quentin, don't go back to Avery!"

"Oh shut up! You've sacrificed my lover for your failed dreams of grandeur. Leave me alone!" screamed Constance.

Josef watched her as she ran back to her car. "Fine!" he wailed. "Go back to your wolf. You have hardly any time left anyway!"

Constance did just that, zooming back to their home. As she entered the house, the silence hit her. The click of her heels resounded across the thick wooden floors, filling each room as she looked for Quentin. She found him in the living room lying on the sofa and staring up at the ceiling. It relieved her to know that he could move after the injection. Constance was hesitant to approach him until Quentin looked at her. She began to approach but stopped dead in her tracks. Quentin sat up and dangled the chain with the pentagram in front of his face. She could not believe that she had forgotten it. "We...we need to talk," she stammered.

Meanwhile

Quentin had never seen Constance so terrified. She had gone stark white and the tremors had began in her hands. He had not wanted to scare her. She had tried to help him. She could not be blamed for his damnation. Quentin slipped the pentagram into his pocket and asked Constance to sit on the sofa. She staggered toward the sofa, scooting into the corner and curling her knees to her chest. "I don't know what to say," he murmured softly. Constance gave no reply, only curling tighter into her ball as she stared at him. "How seriously do you take this!"

"How seriously do you think?" wailed Constance. "I take this more seriously than you think!"

"Then why didn't you tell me that you knew this would happen?" demanded Quentin.

"I didn't know when, where, or under what circumstances it would happen. I only knew that it would happen."

"How did you know?"

"She told me," said Constance, her face crumbling under the emotional strain. "She told me that you would relapse and she gave me a pentagram."

"She?"

"Yeah. Beth Chavez told me while we were at Collinwood in 1974."

Quentin felt like he could sink into the sofa. He could not believe that his dead lover had warned his wife of his relapse. And neither had bothered to tell him! But he could easily see why Beth had not told him. Why would anyone want to face their murderer, even if they had claimed to forgive them? But she had attempted to save him. "She just came to you."

"Yes and no." Constance began to calm down, loosening up and shifting her legs to the floor. "At first she would just leave the pentagram for me and I would get rid of it. I eventually told Julia and she, Josef, and I held a séance. That's how we learned about your relapse and about Chris' baby. That was my only real contact with her. Oh Quentin, I'm so sorry."

Constance flew into his lap and began to cry. Quentin held her tightly, unsure of what to say. She would not have been able to help him. He carefully peeled Constance from his chest and began to wipe away her tears, whispering softly to her in hopes of soothing her. Once she calmed, Quentin said, "You have no need to apologize. This isn't your fault." He swallowed deeply and said, "I've known too."

"You...you knew," she whispered. "How?"

"I received a note from Petofi. He threatened both you and I if I didn't follow him again. At first, I didn't believe it was him, but he came to me at the beginning of the week. He wanted me to work for him, threatening to hurt you and take away the cure if I didn't comply. I decided that I would but he wanted me to kill Angelique and refused. That was when he removed the cure."

Constance took Quentin's face into her hands. "You should have never followed Petofi. Why did you consider it?"

"I was thinking of you," he whispered. "I remembered your story about Corrin and I didn't want you to go through that again."

"I wouldn't have cared. Do you know why I followed Corrin? I followed him because I loved him enough to want to protect him. I would have followed you, Quentin. Why wouldn't I?"

Quentin broke down, tumbling into Constance's open arms and bursting into tears. He had not expected to cry, but he had not expected her to understand. It could have been easier if he had only told her. They might not have saved him, but he would not have been alone. Quentin pulled away, composing himself quickly as he sat up. "What do we need to do?"

"We'll go outside near nightfall. I'll need to know exactly where you are so I can track you efficiently." Constance wrapped her arms around Quentin's neck and pulled herself closer, placing her mouth only inches from his. "I'm going to keep you safe, love. I won't let anyone hurt you."

Quentin kissed her, glad to fin her willing to be caressed. He did not know when he would have her this close again, when he would be able to hold her again and never let her go. Constance was the one who ended the kiss, but she did not pull away, instead clinging tighter to his neck. Quentin turned to see Petofi standing before them, a grotesque smile plastered across his lips. "This is beautiful," he snarled, "truly it is. Too bad it won't last the night."

Meanwhile

Constance could not stand the way Petofi was staring at them, gawking at them as if they were an exhibit at the zoo. She wanted to kill him, to rip his bloated body limb from limb. But she did no t budge, only increasing her hold on Quentin to keep her in her seat. She had no intention of letting Petofi sink his claws into Quentin. "Why are you here?" she asked, her voice finding a strong, steely timbre.

"I came to offer Quentin a last chance." Petofi laughed as he took a seat across from Constance and Quentin. "Come back into the fold and you'll never revert to the wolf again."

"So you can have the chance to manipulate me with my guilt? So you can once again rule my life?" Quentin laughed softly, saying, "No, I'd rather be enslaved to the demon inside me than to you."

Petofi shrugged as he moved toward the sofa. "Have it your way. You can run the chance of hurting this delicate flower."

Petofi reached out to touch Constance. If he touched her, she was convinced she would bite his hand. She would not do something so blatant, but she had no intention of turning to Quentin and hiding like a frightened kitten. Constance only stared at him, her eyes meeting his as thin slits. "You'd be wise not to copy your husband's insolence. I can hurt you in ways you can't imagine."

"I don't fear for myself and I'm not afraid of you," she snarled, her cheek firmly pressed against Quentin's. "You can't frighten me. I won't let you."

Petofi laughed as he returned to his seat, his eyes never wavering from Constance. "You have spirit, too much spirit for a child."

Constance did not answer immediately, knowing her anger would not help Quentin. If Petofi called her a child once more, she would hurt him. She understood his motives. He wanted to demean her, make her feel foolish. She was not alien to this tactic. Constance was used to it. Constance could pass for anywhere from 21 to 25 years old. The moment she angered someone, that person would throw words like "child" or "girl" (the worst of all) around like epithets. It never failed to fire her passions and make arguments last longer than they should. And now Count Petofi had decided to use this tactic. He had no idea what he was doing. "My spirit is not in question, Count Petofi."

"And what is?"

"Your motives. Why would someone as powerful as you need me?" asked Quentin angrily.

Constance only looked at him. Quentin's anger rightfully outreached her own. She knew his temper better than her own. If he lost control, he would lose all hope. There was no way for her to calm him without either one of them looking weak. She fell back into Quentin and whispered, "Please."

"No!" he insisted. "I need to know if I'm right. I'm of no use to you, not really. What do you want?"

"I want what is mine."

"And what is that?" Quentin leapt from the sofa and stormed into Petofi's face. "Is my life up for grabs? What do you want? The money? The fame? My lover? I need a fucking answer!"

Petofi stared at Quentin, his face quietly pleased. "For what I gave you, I deserve it!"

"I didn't ask for it. I would have gladly died. I deserve to die."

"Yet you didn't. You not only lived but you thrived. You don't deserve the money or this girl."

Constance did not react immediately. She quickly came to a breathtaking conclusion: Petofi did not know what she was. She swiftly formulated her plan, hoping against all her bad luck that he would fall for it. Constance took a deep breath and stood, moving between Quentin and Petofi. "Can I speak?"

Quentin attempted to voice protest but stepped aside. Petofi sat and she knelt before him, placing both hands on his knees but failing to look in his eyes. He revolted her, but she knew what she had to do. "We should work out a deal."

AS Petofi reached out to touch her hair, Constance repressed her gag reflex. He touched her with "the hand.' She only stared at it, watching as the ugly thing approached her. She noticed the large ring on his hand. It was the only thing that seemed completely solid. "You'll do as I tell you if I save Quentin?" asked Petofi deviously.

"Constance no!" screamed Quentin.

Constance ignored him, attempting to shut his broken image from her mind. "You can have me when you want if you save Quentin," she said, trying her best to sound sincere.

Petofi began to laugh, his hand never leaving Constance's hair. "You'll have to make me before I save him."

"I'm okay with that. There's a bedroom down the hall."

Petofi continued to laugh as he rose from his seat. His laugh became stronger once his eyes landed on Quentin and faded as he walked away. Constance took her time rising, waiting until Petofi had left to make it to her feet. When she saw Quentin, she instantly noticed the anger in his gaze, the wounded pride and broken trust oozing from his eyes. She repressed her tears as she whispered, "Forgive me, please."

Quentin softened immediately. He ran to her, taking her into his arms and kissing the top of her head. "Don't do this," he cried. "This isn't your problem."

"He wants me and he'll get EVERYTHING I have to give." Quentin nodded, seeming to understand but still uneasy. Constance kissed him deeply, wanting to have his taste in her mouth before she went to Petofi. "Will you forgive me?"

"Of course," he whispered.

"Again," she moaned, pressing her mouth against his and letting her hands ease down his torso. They kissed over and over again, neither one willing to let the other go. But Constance pulled away, kissing Quentin's cheek before walking toward the bedroom. She could barely look at Quentin. He looked so broken. As she walked to the bedroom, she stripped, unwilling to give Petofi a strip tease. When she entered the bedroom, she was that he was ready fro her. She quietly sucked in her breath and closed the door. Petofi's staring unnerved her, made her feel conspicuous. "What is it?" she hissed.

"You're unearthly," he whispered. "You're unlike any woman I've ever seen."

"Unlike any woman." Constance glanced at the bed, judging it good enough for her plan. "I'm on top," said Constance firmly.

"I won't complain." Petofi went to the bed, lying down as Constance waited. "Hurry! You needn't keep Quentin waiting."

Constance repressed grumbles as she mounted him. She was drier than the Sahara so his cock scraped her cavity like sandpaper. It was easy after that point: all she had to do was close her eyes and thrust. Soon, she could feel the vaginal contractions become stronger, pulling more from this man than his seed. It was power in it's purest form. She had full control over his life. She was stealing this man's vitality and he believed he was getting free tail. It made her want to laugh.

Once he came, Constance faked her orgasm and crawled away. The power surged through her body, making her nauseous. But this soon passed, meaning that the act had worked and his soul was in her possession. She turned to see if he had moved. To her delight, he had not budged an inch. "What's wrong?"

Petofi shifted his gaze to her, his eyes completely filled with terror. "What have you done to me?"

"What could I do? I'm just a child, remember?"

Petofi's eyes grew wider as she approached him, his bottom lip trembling as he tried to speak. "Succubus!" he finally whispered.

"Yeah."

"But it's not supposed to end this way!"

"But it will!" laughed Constance. "You are going to die."

To Constance's surprise, Petofi began to laugh. "I may die but Quentin's will still become the wolf in a few moments. His cure leaves this earth with me."

"No, I'll get that from you before this ends."

"How will you, little one? My power only follows my will and I certainly wouldn't help Quentin Collins."

Constance screamed, the sound so deafening that the windows rattled. She grabbed a metal bookend and bashed his face, turning it to a bloody stump. She only stopped when she noticed the ring on her finger. She remembered seeing the ring on Petofi. She checked his hand to find the ring gone. "What does this mean? Do I have the power?"

Constance had little time to contemplate it. She soon heard wild screams from the living room. She slipped in Petofi's blood as she ran, not bothering to throw on clothes as she hurried to the source. Quentin lay on the floor, wailing and convulsing uncontrollably. Memories of Corrin instantly flooded her mind and she wanted to turn away. But she could not turn from Quentin. She ran to him, and, after much struggling, restrained him. Without thinking it through thoroughly, she placed the ringed hand over Quentin's heart. Nothing happened. "I command you to rip the curse off of the heart of Quentin Collins," she said. Nothing happened. "I command you to rip the curse of the werewolf from the heart of Quentin
Collins." Nothing happened. Constance repeated the phrase until she lost patience. She screamed, "No one has been avenged by this worthless curse! I demand you rip it from his heart!" Almost instantly, she felt a force come beneath her hand and knock her away from Quentin, sending her flying across the room to be knocked unconscious from her impact with a desk.

Night had fallen when Constance came to. The stench of Petofi's rotting corpse had already filled the house. Constance ached but nothing broken would not soon be healed. She checked for Petofi's ring to find it missing. She did not care. She grabbed a blanket to shield her from the wind as she searched for Quentin. To her surprise, he lay on the floor unchanged. Constance began to say his name, at first softly but increasing in intensity when he failed to answer. She touched his arm to find it limp and luke warm. She checked his pulse and his breathing. She felt nothing. Constance staggered away, her tremors beginning in earnest. She felt a hand touch her shoulder. She looked up to see Angelique. Constance pointed towards Quentin and urged her to touch him. Angelique checked the body and gasped. She ran back to Constance and let her cry, both of them oblivious to the moonlight pouring over them from the window.

A week later, Spring 1976

Constance lived the next week in a daze. She had not let the authorities take Quentin's body, and she had been quietly surprised that no one had been foolish enough to question her or her money. She had no intention of letting them cut him apart and pump his full of noxious fluids. She knew that the body would not decompose. She merely had him dressed in his best suit and laid him out in a heavy coffin. He looked as if he were sleeping. Had he had a pulse, Constance would have believed him asleep.

Constance seemed to be in shock. She rarely spoke or moved, usually choosing to sit in front of Quentin's coffin. Angelique would attempt to talk to her but Constance would shoo her away. Avery was convinced that she should be sedated and let to sleep her grief away. The thought of drugs and needles made her cringe. She would decline and pull away each time he brought up drugs. Josef did not bother to show his face. It was just as well. Had he shown up, Constance would have broken her trance and pummeled him until he could not breathe. She could at least find "joy" in the fact that his plan had failed, but this would be tempered by the fact that Quentin would not be able to celebrate with her.

Both Avery and Angelique kept vigil over her, one obviously out of loyalty and the other out of some deep seated necessity. They would sigh as they watched her watch the coffin. "What's wrong his her?" asked Angelique.

"She's in emotional shock."

"Will she recover?"

"In time," murmured Avery.

"Can you help her?"

Avery nodded and walked toward Constance. He grabbed her arm and jerked her from her seat. Constance knew what would happen and tried to pull away. She would not look at him. "I wouldn't do that to you, Constance. Don't you know me?" Constance hesitantly looked up and realized quickly that it was a mistake. Avery hit her hard, sending her falling hard to the floor.

Angelique sprung from her seat and rushed toward them. "That was cruel! Why did you hit her?" she demanded.

"I smacked it out of her," explained Avery. "Watch."

Constance looked around the room until her eyes landed on the coffin. For the first time, she truly realized that Quentin had died. His body might not decompose but his bodily functions had ceased. Her lover was dead and she was to be blamed. Had she talked to him after the séance, they might have been able to think of an actual plan. But she had failed to talk to him and he suffered because of her fear. She knew that this tragedy might have been averted had she expressed her fears to him. This realization sent her running to Quentin's coffin, weeping uncontrollably as she groped at the wood.

"Look at what you've done to her! What are we going to do for her?" asked Angelique.

"If you can hold her, I'll give her a sedative."

Constance heard them and tried to scramble away. Her lethargy had left her weak, however, and Angelique caught her easily and brought her back to the living room. Avery waited for them, syringe in hand. "Don't," sobbed Constance. "I deserve my tears. Let me have them!"

"I'm doing this for your own good." Avery grabbed her arm and injected the clear fluid into her wrist. "It should take affect in a few moments."

Constance calmed but she knew that the sedative had not worked. She usually felt some sort of buzz from any sort of intoxicant she took. She felt nothing except a slight discomfort. "Is my tolerance too high for this stuff to work?"

"Well, it's not a sedative," answered Avery calmly.

"Then what the hell did you inject into me?" demanded Constance.

"An oxytonic."

Constance looked awkwardly at Angelique, who only shrugged her own confusion. She glanced back up at Avery and asked, "Why don't you clarify that for me?"

"Specifically, it was an abortificient," said Avery. "It will produce uterine contractions will force the expulsion of the embryo."

"Then why did you inject me...," began Constance before the pain ripped through her abdomen. She did not bother to ask anymore questions. She tore away from Angelique and ran into the bathroom down the hall. Constance locked the door and crawled into the corner neared the toilet, wrapping her arms tightly around her body in some misguided attempt to ease the pain. She could not believe that Josef had been right about Avery. She could not believe that Avery had betrayed her. And if they knew that she was pregnant, why didn't they inform her. She had seen no difference in herself, although it was probably nearing the time at which she would. No one had ever bothered to tell her what it felt like to be pregnant, although she had often heard from others that such things happened. It did not really matter at this point. Her lover was dead and their child was soon to meet him.

Constance felt between her legs once the pain ended. She felt a small gelatinous glob lying on her dress. Avery burst through the door just in time to see her do so. "I'm sorry but I had to do it," he whispered.

"Fuck off."

"I meant it."

"So did I." Constance removed her hand to see that it was covered in both her clear blood and the deep pink of her child. She turned her hand to Avery and screamed, "This was mine! You had no right to take it away from me!"

"Do you know what you were carrying?" demanded Avery. "That child was not natural. It would have been something that no one could understand. Every mix that I've ever seen has been extremely powerful psychics or pyros that make phoenixes seem like fire fighters. No one in their right mind could let that into the world."

"So you became the world's bodyguard? Avery, you call it a mix, but it was most definitely part me. It was one of us. You killed one of us. And this was all I had left of Quentin. You took all of that away from me?"

"I did it for us all."

"Leave!" groaned Constance.

"I..."

"Leave," said Angelique as she crept up behind him. Avery sighed and let her lead him out. Constance started to lay back, but the feel of the slick between her legs forced her to sit up. When Angelique returned, she was carrying Constance's robe. She lay it across the counter and started the bath. Angelique walked back to Constance and unzipped her dress. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know."

"I never said that you did." Constance slipped her arm through one of the sleeves before looking back into Angelique's sad face. "Can you give me some privacy. I just need some time alone." Angelique nodded and left. Constance crept out of the dress and pushed it to the side. She would have to destroy it later. She slipped inside the scorching water, yelping from the first impact but soon adjusted. She let the water was over her, let it soothe the muscles it could reach. Although she knew it would do her some good, she felt too depressed to care.

Constance, at first, was surprised to feel hands kneading her shoulders, but it felt to good for her to question. "God, Angie," she groaned, "I didn't know you could do this."

"Darling, you've forgotten me already," purred a familiar voice.

Constance turned but could not believe her eyes. It was Quentin--not the flesh and blood man but the clear spiritual self given form by condensed steam. She reached out to touch his face, feeling both the water and the smoothness of spectral flesh. "Wh...what's going on?"

"I need your help Constance. I can't find it."

"Find what?" asked Constance.

"My body."

"It's...it's in the coffin."

"No it's not," said Quentin.

"It has to be! I've seen it there," whispered Constance. "The body is dead. It can't walk away."

Spectral Quentin smiled. Even in this state, he was beautiful. "Do you really think me dead?"

"But...oh God, I forgot about the portrait!" squealed Constance. "It's spontaneous astral projection, isn't it? You're not dead!"

"Of course not, Constance." Spectral Quentin leaned in and kissed Constance's lips, just a gentle brush but enough to send Constance into tears. "Don't cry, darling. We'll find the body and we will be together again."

Constance began to speak but could not. She closed her eyes. Upon opening them, she found that Quentin was gone. She grabbed her robe and ran out of the bathroom. Angelique tried to stop her as she moved toward the living room, urging her to rest before going back to her post. "His body's not in it's coffin, is it?" asked Constance.

"How did you know?"

"Quentin told me."

"Oh God," whispered Angelique. "Quentin recently appeared to me and told me to check. Constance, what does this mean?"

"Quentin's alive. He's not whole but he exists in both the physical and astral whelms." Constance walked into the living room and saw the empty coffin. "We have to reunite him with his body."

"How?"

Constance began to speak but pain again ripped through her body. She knelt until it passed and it relieved her to find that she had not passed more tissues. It was just residual pain. "I don't know yet. We just have to find the body."

"That could take some time," warned Angelique.

"That's fine," sighed Constance. "I can be surprisingly patient."

A year later, Spring 1977

Barnabas flipped through the paper, his eyes stopping immediately on a provocative headline:

"CONSTANCE DUVANE FOUND DEAD IN APARTMENT AT AGE OF 29"

"Julia!" he wailed. "Come now. You must see this."

Julia ran into the drawing room. She examined the headline silently before saying, "You know she's not dead."

"I realize this, but why has she done this?"

"I was getting too old to be 'Constance.'" Barnabas turned to see Constance DuVane standing only feet away. She walked to Julia and hugged her, their embrace reminding him of that of old friends. "Guess what? Avery has been imprisoned for impregnating the Princess of Mokwai."

"How could they prove it?" asked Julia.

"A run of the mill paternity test."

"How?" asked Barnabas. "I was under the impression that an incubus could not impregnate a woman with it's own seed. How was Avery's material proven positive?"

"Well, that's what happens when an angry succubus pays to have the samples switched." Constance laughed as she pulled away, choosing to take a seat across from Barnabas. "He will be imprisoned for life. It means so much more than it seems to. You see, once the notice that Avery does not age, they will want to test him. Once this happens, my kind will take over. Avery is responsible for the death of my child, who would have been part of our kind and would have been protected. He will be tortured until I say his torture will end. I have this by the word of Daniel Colbert, who's mistress was burned as a witch because of Avery's testimony. Daniel was lucky to save her son from a past relationship. The boy had only known Daniel as a father. Daniel now plays guardian angel to the boy's descendents. It's really rather lovely."

Barnabas could see the heartache in her eyes, noticing the broken dreams passing through as she looked away. "What about Josef?"

"I can't find him," sighed Constance, "but he will pay. He placed Quentin into Petofi's hands by setting up a way to make direct contact with him."

"The note?"

"Yeah. Once Quentin touched the note, Petofi could always see where he was."

"Have you had any luck in actually finding Quentin's body?" asked Julia.

"No. Angelique is following up a lead now, but it will probably prove as fruitless as the others." Constance turned to Julia and asked, "Have you found Chris?"

"I've had no luck with that," answered Julia. "It seems like he's fallen from the face of the earth."

Constance nodded. "What about Sabrina?"

"She refuses to speak with us...particularly me," answered Barnabas.

"Why?"

Barnabas was not about to tell Constance how he had bitten the woman in question. "It's a long story."

Constance did not press him further. "We have to save them."

"How?" asked Julia.

"I'm not sure, but I think I can tie it to what happened to Quentin. If I can figure out what went wrong with him, maybe I can correct it and save them all."

"That's quite ambitious," said Barnabas.

"Maybe but I'm up to the challenge. I will find Quentin. If I cannot have our child, I will have him," stated Constance. "He is the only thing I want anymore and nothing will stop me from finding him!"

Barnabas could only stare at her. He had never seen anyone so determined in his life. If she could pull it off, it would be amazing. Only time would tell if she actually could.

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

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