Peice of Sky - Part 3 (A Dark Shadows Story)

[lovesrain44]

Willie didn't say anything in response to this benign statement, only rolled back a little to look up at him, his hair curling moist against his forehead.

 

"Did-did she take it?"

 

He didn't need to question what Willie meant, but he was somewhat surprised that his servant would ask. Surely he didn't care?

 

"Yes," he said, finally, "in the end."

 

"H-how—"

 

"I made a bargain with her, an ungentlemanly thing to agree to with a lady, but I had no alternative."

 

And he didn't, not if he wanted to repair the damage that Willie had wrought, and bring closer to fruition the success of his plans. He shrugged, then looked at Willie. Beneath the hard line of his brow, Willie's eyes flickered, lacing the pewter blue with something dark and ragged. His hands were fists and he held himself taut, almost as if he meant to spring out of bed at any moment, some inner tension holding him there.

 

He could surmise that Willie might be castigating himself for some time to come, but this was so distant from him, with the chasm of night and the endless horror of time that never stopped standing between him and the concerns of his servant, that he could not bring himself to care. Instead, he bent to pull the sheet and blanket over Willie. Then he blew out all the candles in the room, leaving the courting candle burning, and gathered up the basin and cloths.

 

He opened the door.

 

"Rest now," he said. "You may return to work in the morning if you are able." Which was more consideration than servants in his day had received, though he doubted that Willie would appreciate that fact.

 

"Barnabas?" asked Willie suddenly.

 

"Yes?"

 

"W-what did you bargain with?"

 

Ben, for all the earnest hard work he had given his master, would never in his ordinary life have thought to ask a question like this. When one made a bargain, one made it with something, or for something, but this complicated wrangling had been beyond Ben. Not so Willie, who was intelligent enough, so much so that in another time, another life, would have been a man of good standing, perhaps even a man of letters. Yet by the grace or curse of God each man was only given one chance, and Willie was as he was, firmly planted in this life, yoked to the fate decreed at the beginning of time. And so as he walked this solitary path, Willie walked another, equally alone.

 

He tilted his head to one side as the air in the hallway carried away with it a current of heat from the fire in Willie's room. "You," he said, finally. Then he closed the door behind him.

 

*

 

The rain let up in the small hours of dawn, leaving only moisture to drip from the eaves and to soak into the floorboards as the clouds began to thin. The candle on the table in the sitting room burned low and he stared at it for a moment, watching as the slight turn of his head moved the air to twist the flame. He tucked the scrap of ribbon he was using as a bookmark between two chapters and placed the book down on the chair as he got up. Going to the fireplace, he banked the coals in the hearth and then wiped the grit from his hands.

 

The Old House, suffused with a supreme silence, seemed to be waiting, but whether it was for the breaking of the sun over the horizon or for the quarter moon to slip into darkness he did not now.

Only that in this silence that lay heavy and still in the air all around he was the only thing that moved. Or thought. Or wondered. Even Willie, as he lay in his bed on the second floor, was part of the silence. Going up the steps was not an afterthought, thought it felt like one as his feet began climbing the risers long after his thoughts reminded him that he should check on his manservant. As he opened the door to Willie's room, the air was cast with the dampness that comes from a fire long out in rainy weather. And from an occupant who has barely stirred. Willie's form was completely buried beneath a pile of woolen blankets. Only a shock of sandy hair splayed across one corner of the pillow and the tips of the fingers of one hand curled around the edge of the sheet gave any indication that he was there at all.

 

Barnabas walked over to stand beside the bed, looking down at his sleeping manservant. Like scattered thoughts, the creases in the pillow indicated where Willie's head must lie, and he pulled back the heft of the covers. The flesh of Willie's shoulder was white in contrast to the angry redness along his back, bare from waist to neck, welted but healing. His manservant stirred as the cold air reached him, and he twisted away, burrowing down, hands coming up to cover his face, pale now still, but with faint color pushing to the surface. He did not awaken, but his lashes stirred as if he were lost in a dream, some vast and twisted inner landscape, purple circles looping over the soft flesh below his eyes. Barnabas let the covers fall back, watching as Willie's form tucked itself low, felt the faint heat that stirred the air and allowed his eyes to fall on the courting candle on the nightstand.

 

It was guttering, not from any breath of air, but from burning low, the flame just soaking up the last of the wax in the shallow basin at the bottom. He found his fingers reaching on the shelf below the candle for the other stubs that Willie kept there. Replaced the burned out candle with a new one, and lit it with the old. Willie could not sleep without it, he knew, and there was some span of darkness to go before it would be truly light out; Willie needed his rest if he were to recover and return to work. The candle would help him do this.

 

The waxy feel of the stub coated his hand and he looked at it, the ever present scent of burning paraffin so familiar a memory that it often ceased to be of notice to him. Until there came a moment like this, and he was standing there, tending to his manservant with no other thoughts to occupy his mind. No other thought but that of another bedside, another candle, so long ago that the memory of that candle somehow melded with the memory of this, until the two were almost one. The first memory was of Sarah, somehow sure that the darkness would harm her, and he had taken to sitting with her, unable to cushion himself against her tears and crying in the night. He would put her to bed, and then read by the candle on her nightstand until he was sure sleep had taken her to the other side of her fears. It had always been peaceful sitting there, in the quiet of her breathing, like air whispering across a lake. No one came to disturb him, for the most part, as other members of the household were beyond caring about the insignificant worries of a small girl child. He'd gotten a lot of reading done.

 

At one point, many weeks into sitting at her bedside, he'd had to leave for a moment. To get a book or to tend to something father wanted, he couldn't quite recall which. When he'd left, Sarah had been awake, gazing at him through the glow of the candle. He'd told her he'd return directly, but it had taken him some time longer than he'd planned. When he came back to her side, to his surprise she'd fallen asleep, face still turned towards the light, lashes long shadows on her cheeks. From thence onward, a lit candle had seen her peacefully through the darkness to the dawn, though sometimes he sat with her anyway, book on his lap, reading. Sometimes in silence, sometimes aloud, the steady rumble of his voice sending her into sleep faster than any lullaby.

 

The second memory was that of Willie himself. He'd come up to Willie's room to ask him about some delivery that had not arrived that day and found Willie fast asleep with the candle still burning. Thinking it had been an oversight, for surely Willie knew in a wooden structure such as the Old House that an untended flame was a runaway catastrophe waiting to happen, he'd doused the flame between his thumb and forefinger and had departed, thinking to ask on the morrow about the delivery.

 

When he'd chanced by Willie's room in the hours before dawn, he'd seen the light from beneath Willie's door and went in, sure that he was now awake to ask him the question from before. Again, the candle was lit, and again, Willie was fast asleep, rolled over on his side, facing the candle, hands tucked beneath his pillow. For several nights running, he walked past, and always came the glow from beneath the closed door that spoke of at least one candle, if not several, burning.

 

At first Barnabas had thought he was mistaken, because a man of Willie's experience would not be, could not be, afraid of the dark. And he'd seen Willie walk from attic to cellar in pitch darkness with nary a pause. But it was the constant litter of candle stubs on the nightstand had decided him. That and the slight, wide-eyed start Willie would make when a candle would suddenly go out. Willie, it seemed, could be in darkness without a qualm, but he was incapable of going into the darkness of sleep without a light to guide him.

 

As Sarah had been.

 

It was his memory of her that kept him from bringing his servant to task over the issue. Dear, sweet Sarah had been a good child, and so the weakness of her fear became imbued with gentleness that had somehow transferred itself to Willie. He did not understand it exactly, but it was as if there were this tender spot inside of him that would allow this tolerance. Provide for it even. And never say a word.

 

The only consideration that saved him from having to acknowledge this was the fact that Willie himself never brought it up. Even when Barnabas had provided a courting candle of ambered and beveled glass to keep the night-guarding candle from going out in the drafts of the Old House, Willie had not said anything. Not even that first morning when he must have awoken with some surprise to find the stubs all swept away and the courting candle in its place.

 

It remained an unacknowledged point of truce between them. And he imagined that as long as he didn't point out Willie's fear of the dark and his need for the candle, Willie would never point out Barnabas' leniency about the matter. Which, if he were to be confronted about it, he was most likely to do, in his fierce, modern way, flinging a kindness into his master's face. And so the matter went unspoken.

 

The candle now lit and burning strongly, Barnabas turned away from the sleeping form and went to the window. With one hand tucked around his waist and the other propped on his arm to fold beneath his chin, he watched as the northern sky, still shrouded in grey clouds, began to glow, backlit from the sun, somewhere beyond the sea, pushing its inexorable way upward, breaking through waves and sky, ending another night of a life he would not have chosen.

 

*

 

It was the stars that awoke him, somehow it was as if he could hear them through the bare, night sky, now trimmed of clouds and bursting with the fabrication of distant lights. He pushed open the coffin lid and got out, noting that the pillar candles were lit, as they ought to be, and that Willie was nowhere in sight. That meant that there was no unusual news to be passed on, at least in Willie's mind, and that Barnabas could concentrate on his own plans for the evening. He walked up the flight of stairs, absently noting the lack of annoying humming in his head, pulling his cuffs into place as he went, hearing the faraway tap-tap-tap of a hammer as he arrived in the kitchen.

 

One glance told him how Willie had spent part of his day. The floor was as spotless as it ever got, the mud cleared away, and the pieces of brown paper as well. A small fire glowed from the belly of the cast iron stove, the bright color from between the grating indicating that the ashes had been cleared away beforehand. In the sink rested a pot and a spoon, and the tart smell indicated that Willie had eaten something of a highly spiced nature. The tap-tap-tap was a little louder now, and then came a bang as something fell, and the low, grinding sound of something being dragged, a ladder perhaps, or a large box. He would go out soon, but first—

 

His eyes caught the collection of papers on the kitchen table, and he went over to them and picked them up. Obviously they were for him, as Willie didn't have any papers and, if he did, he would know better than to leave them lying about.

 

On the top of the first sheet was a company logo that said Brewster's Quarry in solid blue type. Below that was a short paragraph about the excellent quality of work offered. The following sheets contained a printed invoice with descriptions of services and their prices. For a moment he clutched the papers tight, thinking that Willie had gone ahead and had the gravel laid on the road without permission, when his eye fell on the word written in big letters: estimate.

 

He stared at it for a moment, the paper between his fingers of a tissue quality that never could have been fabricated in his day, thinking that this was another way that Willie was unlike Ben. Ben would never have taken this initiative, would never have conducted this much business on his master's behalf without specific instructions. Once given, he would have followed them to the letter, and though this memory wove strains of pleasure through him, he realized that the benefit of having a servant of independent nature sometimes outweighed having one that was completely obedient. Sometimes.

 

The darkness outside the window had turned from blue to black, bringing closer the sounds of the sea. And from upstairs, an unholy series of crashes that had him down the hallway like a shot, and just starting up the stairs when he saw Willie at the top landing. In his arms were long strips of wood that looked chewed on around the edges and, along one side, long strips of white paint were curling away.

 

"What is that you have there?" he demanded, wondering if Willie had taken a task too far and destroyed something he should not have.

 

For a moment, Willie just stood there, the muscles in his arms curving around the weight of the wood.

 

"I-I—" began Willie in the way he had that indicated he either didn't understand the question or was stalling because he didn't have a ready answer.

 

Barnabas began walking up the stairs, one hand on the railing, the other clenched at his side. As he reached the top, Willie had backed up, or tried to as the strips of wood kept him from backing up far enough to get away. He reached out, and as he did so, Willie jerked back, wincing as his body apparently caught him off guard, and dropping the entire load of wood at Barnabas' feet. Dust rose in an explosive crash, swirling around them with flecks of paint and something shiny he could not identify.

 

"Well?" he asked, more patiently than was deserved, seeing as the load of wood had missed his feet by mere inches.

 

Willie was holding his arm where the wood had scraped it bright pink and looking up with his mouth open and the flesh around his eyes taut. "Th-there was this room," he began, then he stopped to swallow and try again. "A room at the end of the hall, all covered in this cheap plywood paneling, an' I knew, you see, that they never had no paneling like that, so I started taking it down, an' then—"

 

"And then?" he asked, feeling his eyebrows go up in expectation.

 

The boy looked down at this point as if trying to find the next part of his hard-told story on the floor.

 

"I asked you a question Willie, and I expect an answer."

 

Nodding, Willie tried to look up, though his eyes did not quite meet those of his master's, and Barnabas caught the stain on his cheeks. Willie's mouth was just opening as if he were about to speak, somehow lush as it trembled, and Barnabas pulled his mind away sharply. The problem with his servant was quite clear. The issue with the room, however, was still a mystery.

 

"Take me there," he said now, allowing Willie to turn away, still clutching his arm, and lead the way down the hall. He had to walk around the strips of wood, but he kept pace with Willie's hurried steps until his servant led him to a small room at the end of the hall. Half the white-painted paneling was down, as was a great bit of the plaster, now in a tumbled, white and grey flecked heap on the floor.

 

"Part of the wall came down," said Willie, looking hard at the pile.

 

"So I see."

 

"L-looks like bits of shell or somethin' in there," said Willie now, rubbing his arm, "it's all flaky."

 

"Horsehair and clamshell," Barnabas replied, his voice faint in the dusty air. A combination of ingredients for plaster meant to last for years, brought down by the pounding of an isolated hammer. But was Willie really to blame? The plaster was old, after all.

 

He looked around the room, at the parts of recently exposed wall that had not collapsed, and recognized the pale blue paint and the hand painted trim of yellow flowers and ivy. This small room at the end of the house had been his mother's private sitting room, where she'd often gone to do her sewing, or to write letters, or have small glasses of sherry on the sly. He'd forgotten about it, and had Willie not decided to start working on this room, it would have gone unnoticed for a long time.

 

"This was my mother's private sitting room," he said, moving forward, his hand reaching out to touch the curve of a tiny purple iris. Now from behind him he heard Willie's gasp of breath and the almost silent footsteps as his servant began backing out of the room. There was enough of a pattern still in existence that it could be repeated, and Willie was skilled enough that he could make a template. First he could replaster the walls with whatever passed for plaster in these times, and then paint them pale blue, and redo the trim—

 

"How did it come down?" he asked now, thinking that perhaps it had something to do with the noises he'd heard earlier.

 

"It, well, you see," began Willie faintly, "I was pulling away just a little bit and it came away okay, and so I got on the ladder there, and then tugged, and it just, well, it just—"

 

He whirled around just as Willie reached the threshold, and one look at the expression on his face must have told Willie that leaving was the worst thing he could do, as he froze as he was, one hand reaching back to find the doorjamb so that he wouldn't bump into it. One step forward and that hand was reaching out to him now, like a shield of flesh, the other across his heart, though Willie must know that if he wanted to grab him, he would, and barrier be damned.

 

"I—d-don't be mad, Barnabas," said Willie, his words tumbling over each other, "you see, I didn't know, an' I thought, I mean, an' I'll put it back, good as it was an'—"

 

Just then another section of the wall crashed to the floor behind him, sending up a cloud of white dust, revealing the criss-cross of lathes underneath, and leaving only one section of one wall with its blue paint and yellow and green trim intact. He looked at Willie, covered in dust and trembling, hair slipping over his forehead, blue eyes narrowed as if waiting for the blow to fall.

 

Ben—

 

Ben, had his servant from so long ago enough sense to tell good paneling from bad, would have been frothing over with apologies by now, begging Barnabas to understand. Groveling, really, in his simple, grateful way, wanting the approval of his master above all else.

 

But Willie—

 

Willie was not like that. Any number of thoughts could be flickering behind those watchful eyes, and any number of requested utterances could be ordered forth, I'm sorry chief among them. But he would not say anything, not at this point, not even to save his own hide. It was not as if he were without feeling, his agitated state, as evidenced by the fact that he was now chewing on his lower lip, told Barnabas that he did care. In his own way. If not about what his master thought, then about the house itself. Or maybe he only cared that once again he'd landed himself in a disastrous situation of his own making. If he'd taken more care with the wall, if he'd gone slower, if he'd—

 

Barnabas flicked his eyes away to rest again on the wall.

 

"Shore up the plaster before it comes entirely away, Willie, and then come downstairs to the kitchen."

 

"But, Barnabas—" began Willie, snapping his mouth shut only when Barnabas looked at him again, feeling the simmer of temper building.

 

"Just do as you are told, Willie. I will stand for no nonsense, not with my mother's private room in ruins."

 

Willie moved aside, but only barely, Barnabas walked quickly past, glad to be out of the haze of dust, glad to be walking away from the faded memory, that last daylight memory he had of his mother. There in the sitting room, sunlight whispering through the curtains, her skirts of dark plum silk spread about her chair, a slender book in her hands, the pages fanned out, and she looking at him as if she were talking. He couldn't for the life of him remember what she had been saying. Perhaps something about the upcoming wedding, or maybe, hopefully, something more mundane, like the sherry and biscuits she wanted him to fetch for her. Yes, let that be the memory. That one and no other. Nothing about Josette. Or Jeremiah. Or her.

 

By the time he reached the kitchen he realized he was shaking, fists clenched at his sides. He went to the fireplace and built a fire in the hearth. Laid the tinder down and built the logs above that, lighting the edges with a single match. It gave him something to do as he turned the logs with his bare hands, something to focus on while he waited for Willie. Waited for the memory of that last day to fade away. Then, when the flames were leaping about in a pleasantly distracting way, he picked up the estimate from the table and read through it again.

 

He could afford it, of course he could. The question was, would they be giving him the services due him as a Collins? He didn't want the road ruined by poor labor, nor the grounds run amok with villagers, insensible with their curiosity. Willie would have to be on extra guard to watch the place during the day, to make sure that no one got in.

 

The door to the kitchen opened slowly, and Willie appeared, looking around the edge of the door as if expecting, or perhaps hoping, that no one would be there. Seeing that Barnabas was indeed present, he opened the door all the way and stepped fully into the kitchen. He had wiped some of the plaster dust from himself, but only haphazardly, leaving darker streaks of white through his hair and across his apron. But beneath that, his skin was the color of ash, and from the jaggedness of his movements it looked like he was having trouble breathing. Certainly the pupils of his eyes were dilated so far as to obscure most of the color there, though again he could not quite meet his master's eyes.

 

Willie was looking at the white dust on the dark wool of Barnabas' suit jacket, that much was obvious as his eyes trailed over the damage. Then his eyes flicked away, body tensing as he stared at some far spot along the wall above the stove and waited.

 

"Come here, Willie," Barnabas said.

 

Hesitation. Never a reaction as simple as instant obedience. "I said, come here," he said now, fighting the rise of irritation that surged like black flies trapped in a bottle.

 

Small footsteps, as if Willie were creeping across the floor, brought his manservant close enough to converse in a normal fashion.

 

"And I suppose you can explain to me about this?" He held the paper out, low enough so that

 

Willie could see instantly what it was. A tiny nod of the head passed for affirmation.

 

"Well?"

 

"They—" he started, then his voice caught in his throat and he had to clear it before he could start again. "The tow truck guy, Wesley Dale?"

 

"What tow truck? And who is Wesley Dale?"

 

"Th-the tow truck that came and pulled the truck out of the mud, he—"

 

"So you had the truck towed out of the mud, is that it? And how much was the tow?"

 

Willie's mouth gaped open, lips dry. "He, that is, Roger—"

 

"Mister Collins."

 

"Mister Collins has an account with this c-company, 'swhy I called them. It's on account, and Roger, I mean, Mister Collins will pay at the end of the month."

 

"I pay my own debts, you know that, Willie."

 

"B-but this Wesley guy, he said he'd talked to R-Mister Collins, and everything was okay."

 

"Ah, I see." He nodded his head, making a mental note to go up to the Great House later to straighten this matter out. Obviously Roger had thought he was doing his cousin a favor, but he did not like being in debt to anyone, even a relative.

 

"Go on."

 

"Wesley has a brother-in-law, he owns Brewster Quarry, and Wesley said they could gravel the road, an' I told him to come out for an estimate, and so—"

 

Barnabas held up his hand and Willie stopped talking, voice breaking off, eyes on the hand, almost flinching, body jerking as if it wanted to step backward but didn't dare. Pausing, Barnabas considered the matter. The welts were still fresh across Willie's back, and the marks still new along the curve of his neck. And yet he'd been working. Hard at work, attempting repairs on the Old House, arranging for those improvements that were beyond his abilities. The damage to Naomi's sitting room might have been done out of haste, but it had not occurred out of inattentiveness. And certainly not from sloth.

 

"I would consider," he began slowly, "that the repair of the road would be an important asset to the improvements I plan for the grounds." He looked at Willie and waited for his words to sink in. Still looking at Barnabas' hand as he lowered it, Willie nodded. "Y-yes, it would be, an' easier for hauling things from town and all?" His voice rose in a question, exhibiting one of the few indications that he was asking for agreement, let alone approval. He was looking at Barnabas out of the corner of his eyes, dark in the flicker of firelight, shoulders hunched together, hands clasped tightly. Waiting.

 

"And as for my mother's sitting room—" Barnabas began. Willie's head jerked up, and at that moment, Willie looked at him fully for the first time that evening.

 

The boy was wide-eyed, teeth sunk into his lip, echoes of a quiver along his jaw. Hands clenching together, as if he were begging, though he didn't say a word. And looking at him, Barnabas saw the memory of the previous night's encounter shimmering in Willie's face, flashing red across his cheeks. And sparks of the memory, the bold heat of that body pressed against him, the sweet tang of blood pulsing from newly broken flesh, rose up in Barnabas' mind as well. He quelled it instantly, pulling himself up to his full height, looking down at Willie, feeling the dark anger string him taut as a bow.

 

Willie stepped back, casting his face to one side, a small, choked sound escaping him. But he didn't move away, still within arm's reach as if he knew that punishment was coming and that he deserved it. Another way he was different than Ben. He might not scream and bellow, but he did not shirk what was due him. Or at least mostly he didn't. He wasn't now, now that Naomi's room was a pile of lumps and chucks of plaster.

 

Barnabas watched as a tremor moved through Willie's body, though he obviously tried to contain it, like a wave, small patterns of shifting heat that brought the scent of salt and sweat through the air. Head still tucked down, hands clenching each other still, letting Barnabas know that even though Willie might not grovel and placate, he was entirely aware that his situation depended entirely upon his master's good graces. That alone he did know, even if the remainder of the details of his position sometimes seemed to escape him.

 

"You will repair the plaster in my mother's sitting room," he said, at last, watching the start of Willie's body as he began. "And then you will recreate the color of the walls and the pattern of flowers until they become as they were. Do you understand?"

 

A short pause, while Willie's throat worked and a small bead of sweat began its passage along the side of his forehead. Then he nodded, swallowing, his eyes wide and open now, focused on the floor.

 

"S-sure, Barnabas, I can do that, I'll start right away."

 

"Tomorrow," he said. "Tomorrow will be soon enough." Willie looked worn enough to drop where he stood, and he didn't want the remainder of the plaster ruined by careless hands.

 

He began by stepping away, considering the matter done with, but Willie stopped him by looking up.

 

"What is it, Willie?"

 

"An-an' the road? Should I tell them to go ahead?"

 

He looked at Willie, who only met his gaze out of the corner of his eyes. Somehow the issue of the road was important to his manservant, though it probably had to do more with convenience of travel rather than adding to the value of the property. Such were the small thoughts of those who served. He nodded.

 

"Yes," he replied, walking away. He stopped at the door as he opened it, and turned. "Make sure that you guard the house well while they are here. I will not have any unwanted visitors, do you hear? If there are any, I will hold you responsible."

 

"Okay, B-Barnabas, okay."

 

He walked through the doorway, shutting the door behind him, and made his way to the library. Where the air was clean and still, and the shelves of books glowed soft in the darkness, and the scent of the sea mixed with the scent of leather. The memories crowded in one after another as he reached up his hand to pull down a book. Any book, it didn't matter. Just one that would carry him beyond this moment, this place. This life.

~fin

Master Fic Post

 

Comments

[sheafleur.livejournal.com]

That was excuisite, painfully excuisite, so lovingly written and steeped with dark details. The aftercare, oh the aftercare made me feel funny in my tummy. Willie's shame was as palatable as his pleasure.

[lovesrain44.livejournal.com]

Heck, aftercare is almost as much fun as doing damage in the first place. Especially when it's not so much comfort as a putting back together so that the torture can continue!

And thank you for giving my Dark Shadows stuff a try! Willie was fun to mess with, that's for sure.

[nessa5.livejournal.com]

wow, I've stayed up past my bed time to finish this

thank

[lovesrain44.livejournal.com]

Excellent! That's what I love to hear! Thanks for letting me know. : D

[slashread01-ps.livejournal.com]

Hi,
wow i really liked this.
i am new to this fandom and this is my first dark shadows fic.
I really enjoyed it, i have since watch the dvds and wow you have the characters down, good ploting and nice slashyness.
I hope you continue to write.
hum i need to find a good dark shadows icon.

[lovesrain44.livejournal.com]

Your first? I am honored! And I'm glad you enjoyed it, becuase there's plenty more where that came from on my LJ. And I'll be posting some more, to add to what's already there. As for icons, enter dark shadows icons in Google and see what you come up with! That's how I found mine. And good luck!