Chapter Thirty




Wake up, sweetheart. You’ve been dreaming.

William struggled into wakefulness, pulled by the soft voice that was speaking to him. A voice even warmer than the sunshine that beat down from overhead, the glaring light of which was making him squint. He rubbed at his eyes with his fists, and somehow, he felt surprised to feel his spectacles there, perched near the end of his nose. He couldn’t quite remember why, but he thought that he did not wear spectacles anymore.

He was lying in a meadow, stretched out on his back in the warm, dry grass. There was a deep blue sky overhead, and among the grass, yellow dandelions bobbed in what felt like a gentle summer breeze. He had no idea how he’d gotten there, and he didn’t care. It all felt so pleasant.

He started to pull himself up slowly, but when he saw what was waiting for him, his movements became much more rapid. “God,” he whispered. “Oh, God—thank God—”

She was wearing a white dress, streaming with blue ribbons. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, shiny as corn silk in the bright summer sunshine. She was smiling at him.

“Sorry to wake you,” she said. “But you were making a lot of noise. Was it a nightmare?”

A nightmare…

He pulled her into his arms, dragging her across the grass with a force that almost hurt them both. But he couldn’t help it. It seemed like a century since he’d last held her. Now, he couldn’t stop touching her. Her face—her hair—the gentle curve of her bottom lip—all of it was so beautiful, so soft, beneath his fingertips. Unable to bear even the miniscule space between them, William pushed her down into the grass—but very gently, with his right hand pillowing the back of her head. He lay on top of her, held her. He covered her face with hungry kisses.

She was laughing.

“What’s gotten into you? Usually, you’re not all about the physical affection…that’s where I come in.”

“Can’t help it,” he breathed. “Can’t help—”

She tangled her fingers through his unruly hair; she pulled his mouth onto hers. Her kiss was deep and ravenous, but still so gentle, so full of love. He gasped into it, returned it with all the passion that was in him. He pleaded with her: “Touch me. Show me that you’re real…Show me…”

One of her legs came up, hooking across the backs of his and pulling him deeper in between her thighs. He could feel her hands move to his chest and begin to unbutton his shirt. He could hardly get his breath between kisses, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care if he died from lack of oxygen. He was unwilling to draw away from her, even for a second. She said:

“I’m real. You know I’m real…you know I’m yours.”

And he could have cried from relief.

Mine.

“Never leave me—”

“You know I’ll never—”

WHO ARE YOU?!

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




William bolted upright on the sofa, coming out of his dream with such violence that it was almost like having his soul ripped from him a second time. There was a woman standing in the doorway, a proud-looking woman with blond hair. She smirked down at him, lying there on the couch, and he stood quickly, hurrying to straighten his disheveled clothing. He knew who she was even without an introduction. After weeks of absence, the infamous Darla had returned.

His eyes rapidly flitted over her before he turned his head aside; she didn’t look like a woman who cared to be stared at. What he did see, in those few seconds, was a slim woman of small stature but great presence, carefully powdered and painted, and expensively dressed. After the warmth and happiness of his dream, the arrogant smile on the woman’s face chilled his heart. Already, he could tell that he would not like this Darla person, and he wished she had never returned.

Yet she had returned, and there she was, standing in the middle of the suite’s front room. She pulled off her gloves and looked around, obviously seeking a familiar face.

“Where is Angelus?” she asked. “And who, exactly, are you?”

“Angelus…” William’s brow furrowed as he tried to remember exactly where Angelus was. “He’s out in Regent’s Park. Still hunting, I suppose.”

“Hmm. Well, isn’t that interesting. And you tell it so well. So, would you mind telling me exactly who you are?”

“William.”

“William. Nice, common name, that. And tell me, William. How did you come to us? Certainly, not by Angelus. You aren’t his style at all. So, I’m assuming that Drusilla…”

“Yes.”

“Well, insane people do things like that, I’ve heard. Where is Drusilla?” Her voice was a challenge.

“Asleep.”

He left it at that, hoping she would not pursue the subject. However, a cruel light came into her eyes, and she purred: “Is that so? Asleep in her bed, while you lay on the sofa. Is there some trouble in paradise, William? Seems quite early on for that.”

“No,” he snapped. However, the fact of the matter was that Darla had come closer to the truth than he was willing to admit. His feelings for Dru were as variable as the weather and quite often as stormy. He needed her. At times, he genuinely cared for her. At other times, she seemed little more than a walking reminder of what he had become, of how far he was from where he had started. Although, he was growing accustomed to his life as a vampire—growing to enjoy it immensely—the thought still rankled in his mind. During these times, he found it hard to be with her, even briefly.

No. That was not entirely honest. And once Darla had departed (ostensibly, to find Angelus in the park) William sat down to face the truth. The reality of it was that he cared for Drusilla. She was so fragile, at times, and he wanted to take care of her. He was so fragile at times, and she always took care of him. Sometimes, during his moments of vulnerability, he even loved her. But despite the frequent—and growing steadily more intense—acts of sex between them, his love for her was little more than that of a brother. He was protective of her, not passionate.

That, he still reserved for Elizabeth.

In all honesty, it was this and not any feelings of resentment, that drove him from the room he shared with Dru. Most days, he could block Elizabeth from his mind, if he gave it much effort. However, sometimes, after a night of hunting and debauchery, he found himself wanting her so badly that he ached inside. During those times, he could not even consider making his bed with Dru. The sofa was where he spent agonized hours of sleeplessness…ecstatic hours of dreaming of her. Hours where he was not evil, and she was not dead. Hours when she was warm and soft, hours when she was in his arms, the way she was meant to be. Hours when he could not understand how it had all gone so terribly wrong.

He rubbed his hand over his face. This last one had done a number on him, all right. If that bitch hadn’t woken him up, then perhaps he could have had a few more minutes…just a few more…so that he could tell her he loved her.

Angry, now, he glanced to the window. Outside, it was still dark, but it was the kind of darkness you knew would not last long, a darkness that came right before dawn. Would he have time for another go? If he were quick…if he were very lucky…would he have time?

He did not allow himself to consider the matter, but stood from the sofa and hastily slid into his shoes and coat. The hunt. The hunt. The hunt. It was all he could think about, now. It was the only thing that made him feel fully alive…that took away the pain. Angelus was right: killing someone slowly…killing them while they were pleading for you not to…it was a feeling unlike any other. For him, it was a merciless feeling of satisfaction, knowing that these people would hurt as much as he did. For him, it was better than sex…better than Drusilla.

But it was light years away from Elizabeth.

Elizabeth was on his mind as he jogged down the stairs and then out into the street. No soft thoughts now, however. Only a killing rage. His. She was his. And they took her—

A small blond woman was just emerging from a house not far ahead. She was strictly working class—plain clothes, a shopping-basket on her arm. Apparently about to take the long walk to market to bring back breakfast.

Well, she would not make it that far.

Stealthily, he followed her, matching his footsteps to her own, so that she would not hear his approach. The sky was fading from inky black to navy blue, when he snatched her. He would have liked to have done it Angelus’ way—now, his way, also. However, dawn was rapidly approaching, and such was the depth of his anger, that it would not allow him to wait any longer. He dragged her into an alley, stifling her screams with a hand against her throat. He tore her open with far more violence than necessary; he beat her head against a brick wall when he was finished feeding. It was with deep satisfaction that he hurried out of the alley and down the street towards home.

He had a penchant for killing blondes, now. Not because he was angry with her…but because they were not her.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




He was lying on the sofa, stretched out and bloodstained, when Angelus returned. Naturally, Darla was in tow. However, if Darla looked at William with distaste, then Angelus’ eyes held a certain fatherly pride. He smirked at William’s stained shirt, at the wet blood still around his mouth…the flecks of it drying on his forehead.

“Have a good night, did we?”

William grinned back at him. “Rather.”

Darla sniffed. “Mm. Good for you. Angelus…aren’t we…?”

She motioned to the large master bedroom, and Angelus gave William a wink. “You know the ladies…insatiable.”

“In more ways than one,” agreed William jocularly.

He waited for the door to close behind them before letting his face fall. The kill was good, but it had been only a momentary release. Now, he found himself back in the same position as before. The same, only worse, because now he felt fully charged, and sleep was an impossibility, after the adrenaline rush of the kill. And awake meant pain. Jesus, it hurt so much. It made him want to kill and kill, until the whole world felt as bad as he did.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the ring box. Already, the velvet covering was becoming worn by the action of his pocket rubbing against it. He turned it over in his hands, for a moment examining it as if he had never seen it before. Then, he opened it and pulled out the ring.

It was so small it wouldn’t even fit on his last finger.

He stroked the band with the pad of his index finger, tracing over the jewels like a blind man exploring something he couldn’t see.

“You were mine,” he whispered to it. He closed his eyes, summoned her image as easily as if he were looking at a photograph. He told her: “You were mine.”

As if on some cue, Drusilla suddenly called to him from the bedroom.

He fumbled the ring back into its box, the box into his pocket. Her voice had been plaintive; she sometimes had nightmares. He could not refuse her. He hurried into the room.

Dru was sitting up in bed, wearing some silky thing; he supposed it was a nightdress. Not the fragile, chaste garment that once encased his sweetheart, but something scant and almost vulgar. Something similar to what a prostitute would wear. She smiled at him with blank eyes and a sensual smile; also, in the manner of a prostitute. Of course, he had never actually seen a prostitute in action. Still, he could imagine.

William crawled into bed with her, and he felt lackluster at the thought of what must come ahead. Yet he welcomed the feeling. When the choices were numbness and pain, he would choose numbness any day of the week.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




“What the bloody fuck are you doing, eating that thing?”

William looked up. He was sitting on the front stoop, quartering an apple with his pocketknife. He was waiting for Drusilla to join him, so that they could go hunting. No harm in a little snack in the meantime, he thought.

Obviously, Angelus disagreed.

“You do know that you’re a vampire, now. Don’t you, my lad? You do know that a bloody apple isn’t going to prolong your life.”

“Tastes good, though.”

Angelus knocked the apple out of his hand. It bounced down the steps and spattered against the cobblestone street. William scowled at him.

“What’s the meaning of that?”

“The meaning of it is that I’m growing bloody sick of your moping. The same pointless kills, night after night. Have I taught you nothing?”

“I’m chasing them, now!” said William defensively. But inside, he shuddered. Had Angelus found out the details of last night’s (rather, this morning’s) killing of the blonde? He hadn’t exactly made that into a challenge…

“You’re chasing them,” mimicked Angelus. “Damn it, I haven’t taught you anything. Have I?”

He grabbed William by the upper arm and yanked him off the steps. When Darla appeared in the doorway, he pissed her off thoroughly by saying, “Not tonight. For once, you can go with Dru.”

She stormed off, and Angelus turned back to William, his lips drawing back into an uncanny smile. He leaned in so close that William could feel his breath, when he whispered, “Tonight, it’s just the boys.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




“It’s time to put some intimacy into this, William.”

William looked sidelong at Angelus as they walked down the foggy street. Whatever intimacy Angelus was talking about, he was fairly certain he did not want to be part of it. He was having a hard enough time mustering enthusiasm for Dru.

He was very relieved, then, when Angelus added, “Haven’t you ever wanted to do one that you’ve known personally? Some little bastard who’s wronged you…some bitch who wouldn’t give it up when you asked? Don’t you have a bloody enemy?”

An enemy…

He does come up with some of the most inventive verses…

Take that home to bed with you, and take your whore as well. Then, you tell me where the integrity lies.

(Whore! His sweetheart a—)

One can certainly be judged by the company he keeps, and I daresay this—

(Wanton creature—he called her a wanton creature)

—you consort with is rubbing off on you.

“I have an enemy,” he said hoarsely. His eyes darkened and his fists clenched. He narrowed his eyes at Angelus and said again, “I have an enemy.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




The Gentleman’s Literary Guild meeting let out at nine o’clock, but they arrived at eight-thirty, and it was a good thing they did, for Archer slipped away early. He stood at the carriage block, slapping his gloved hands together and smiling to himself in an arrogant way. No doubt, inwardly congratulating himself for making another poor bastard’s life into pure hell. William’s blood boiled, just looking at him.

“That’s him?” asked Angelus, as they stood a few hundred yards away, staring.

“That’s him.”

“Go on and get him, then.”

William didn’t need the little push to the shoulder that Angelus gave him; he was already more than willing. Archer had called her wanton creature—her!

And whore. Don’t forget he called her a whore.

A whore! The son-of-a-bitch bastard!

He was very close before Archer even noticed him. When he did, his eyes were filled with anything but fear.

“Well, Hartley. Good to see you, man. Good to see that you have no lasting damage from our little spat.”

“Oh, but I do,” said William.

Archer laughed. “I should think most of your damage came later. Gossip about town is that your mistress left you for another…that she rode away on horseback and never returned. Or, perhaps, we have it all wrong. Did you send her away? Couldn’t afford her anymore?”

“I did not send her away.” William’s teeth were clenched; likewise, his fists. Archer noticed it and smirked.

“Ahh…so she did leave you. Well, one can hardly blame her. If I had to spend a lifetime listening to your poetry…well…I hardly think I could bear it! Truly, I would rather have a railroad spike in my head than—”

William thrust out his hand, strong fingers closing around the man’s throat and bringing his words to an abrupt halt.

“That,” he whispered to Archer, “can be arranged.”

One sharp blow to the head was all it took to knock Archer unconscious. William hefted the dead weight of the man’s body onto his shoulders and returned to where Angelus was waiting for him, hidden, in the shadows.

“Nicely handled,” Angelus complimented him. “Now what do you plan?”

William didn’t even pause to think about it.

“A quick stop by the railway station,” he replied. “I have some…poetic justice…I should like to dispense.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




When they arrived home, morning was just beginning to dim the blackness of the sky. Darla, indifferent to the proceedings and still angry with Angelus, had gone to bed. But Drusilla was still awake and stood by, avid. Even Angelus was vaguely interested. Every now and then, he would glance up from his own victim (a tramp found near the railway), to cast a critical eye on William’s work.

Archer was still unconscious when William dumped him on top of a decorative table near the door. He studied the man with a certain amount of analytical curiosity, before finally deciding on a course of action. He looked to Angelus briefly and, hoping for some sign of approval, said, “I think we need some wall adornment to complete the décor.”

However, Angelus only answered mildly, “You’d best find the studs first, or he’ll be coming right back out.”

This was good advice. William rapped the walls with his knuckles to locate the beams on each side of the table. They were roughly four feet apart on either side, which worked well for what he had planned. Drusilla picked up the body and held it for him. She lifted it high from the surface of the table and pulled one arm taut while he picked up his mallet and a spike, and considered the best strategy. After some experimentation, it became obvious that driving the spike through the palm, as he had first planned to do, would not work. The bones were too delicate, and the weight of Archer pulling on it would certainly pull off his hands. Instead, he felt around the wrists, and, locating the radius and the ulna, he drove the spike in between them. These bones were stronger, and when he gave the arm an experimental tug, they seemed to hold well to the pressure. He repeated the process on Archer’s right arm, and then Drusilla dropped the man, and William kicked the table away.

His calculations were correct in that without the support of the table, Archer’s body hung about three feet from the floor. His feet were free and dangling, and for the moment, William left them so. He stood back and watched with a mixture of amusement and immense satisfaction as Archer came awake with a sudden, agonized scream.

“What do you consider?” he asked Angelus, as the other vampire drew up behind him.

“A bit clichéd, but I like it” was the answer. And William felt himself swell with pride.

Then, because Darla was shouting through the walls that she could not sleep through such an uproar, he got a knitting needle out of the workbasket and poked it into his throat. Without vocal chords, Archer made a very nice addition to the room.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




Archer’s body hung in the parlor for four days. William’s anger only lasted three. After this, his innate curiosity kept him from killing the man. He tormented that gentleman in any number of ways and always felt fascinated by the results. The endurance of the human body was amazing, and he pushed Archer’s to the limit.

On the evening of the fourth day, just when Archer was going into intermittent seizures from the pressure placed on his diaphragm, William came out of the bedroom to find Drusilla playing with the man in a way he did not like. That was the day he killed him. He did so by—quite appropriately, he thought—driving a railroad spike through Archer’s head. Angelus wanted him to leave the corpse on the wall for a bit, like a decoration, but William waited until sunset, and then he dragged it into Mayfair, dumping it unceremoniously into David Havisham’s front garden.

There was, after all, something to be said for personal feeling.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~