Chapter Thirty-Two




He had stepped through the looking glass; that much he knew. On the other side, there was no reflection of him, no way to find out just what he had become. He only knew that he was different from before. A thing that looked like William, but was decidedly not William. Yet, knowing the difference did not help him to understand it. And if he were not William any longer, then he was not certain who he was, exactly. Perhaps, in this state of transition, he was little more than a chrysalis, waiting to be reborn—

Something.

—but he wasn’t quite sure what.

There would be no more torture; that much was certain. Unlike Angelus, who employed the method quite often, torture was something William reserved only for those who deserved it. Although there were many members of London society who had hurt him (and quite a few of them he did away with in a more traditional manner), he did not feel them deserving of such brutal attention. Death, perhaps. But not torture.

The loss of his book was a cockle-burr in his heart, one that would never leave him entirely. Yet, the disappointment faded somewhat over time—faded not because it was forgotten, but because he made a point to push it away. Back into the black recesses of his memory did it go, to be pulled out only in moments of great quiet, or of terrible despair. Likewise, the ring that rarely left his pocket these days. Rarely looked at (for it hurt almost as much as the book that no longer existed), but still carefully guarded. Drusilla would never come to know about it, or, if she did, she was wise enough to hold her peace in the matter. For, if his heart was a jewel with a dead spot, then she resided well outside that spot, and it was for this reason that it never entirely lost its value. Had Drusilla tried to take that last bit of brightness from him, it was entirely possible that not even his demon instinct would save her. It was not that his life was completely without joy. Day by day, he came to enjoy the challenge of the hunt a little more. Still, there was a certain restlessness, the feeling that it was not quite enough. He wanted something more, something apart from his love (that he still wanted, more than anything else), something that could define him for what he had become—for what he was becoming. Something that could distinguish him.

Perhaps, this was why the attention of the press interested him so much. He had not realized before that there were so many articles devoted to him. In the days that followed Angelus’ admonishments of him, he perused the ragged newspapers almost daily. Bold headlines on front pages were committed to him, cramped text that recorded each of his crimes (not always accurately; occasionally, he was blamed for Drusilla’s kills, particularly when it came to the servants’ murders), and odd, interesting monikers that were occasionally flanked by grainy photographs of his human self.

He kept his promise to Angelus, as far as it went. After the first reprimand, he did not allow himself to be seen as he made his rounds in London. However, he made no attempt to hide his presence there. In fact, he went out of his way to garner the attention of both the residents and the press. Although his nights of torturing his victims were over, still he used the railway spikes to distinguish his kills from Darla’s, Angelus’ and Drusilla’s—as well as the various other and lesser vampires that hunted the dark streets of the city. After his feed, he always drove a spike into his empty vessel. The placement of these spikes varied, largely dependent upon his mood. He did not again mutilate that particular bit of anatomy. Since he mostly drank of women (there seemed something sexual and inherently wrong about drawing life’s blood from his own gender), he rarely encountered anyone who possessed it, and he had no such neurosis about its feminine equivalent. Mostly, he focused on the head and upper torso and, an unwavering student of Angelus, he always tried to be his most artistic about it.

Although he eased his conscience by telling himself that he was—technically, at least—following his grandsire’s orders, William knew that when Angelus found out about his escapades, he would be furious. Yet knowing this did not lessen the appeal at all. He was a celebrity in London…a man feared. He had never been so important before, not to anyone.

Well, almost no one. But in connection to this new life, he could not allow himself to think of them. One of them was sullied, now, and he thought of her not at all. The other was pure…so pure it seemed almost a crime to conjure her image in the now-twisted recesses his brain. She belonged to the man who no longer existed. He was a different man, now. There was nothing poetic or gentle in him. His name was William the Bloody; his name was the Railway Killer; his name was Spike. The papers coined these epithets, and he struggled to create a persona worthy of them.

Truly, he had no idea what trouble this would bring him in the future.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




It had been a particularly good night for him. Three kills, and one a delightfully tricky catch that involved a gallop on a stolen mount, a skilled grab from the horse’s back, and the body of a young woman thrown over the pommel of the saddle. There had been no wasted movement, no error in calculation, and for this, he felt especially proud. It marked his progress, his development from a timid fledgling (timid, of course, only by vampire standards) to a bold and cunning killer.

Once home, he deposited himself on his usual throne: the brocade sofa that, by now, had grown so shabby and dirty from the abuse of his muddy shoes that no one cared to sit on it, save for himself. There was a boy on the corner near the hotel, who sold boxes of homemade cigarettes for a penny. William had secured himself several boxes of them by way of nimble fingers and sharp fangs. Now, he drew one out of its battered box with his teeth, while at the same time scraping a match head along the floorboards. Angelus thought that cigarettes were cheap and without class, but something in their very classlessness appealed to William. He still wore his gentleman’s shirt and trousers, but he wore them with neither waistcoat nor jacket. A tie or cravat had not noosed him since his death and subsequent rebirth. One by one, he began to shed the burdens of his old life, and the outer vestments of it were among the first things to go.

He had even begun to ape Drusilla’s Cockney accent. However, he did so privately, where none of them could hear him. He didn’t know why he did it; certainly, it was not for love of Dru. His feelings for her were no more than possessively affectionate, his attentions primarily fraternal or sexual, depending on the situation. Yet, there was something appealing about hearing his own voice become so hard, so common, and so far removed from where he had begun. He sneered at the empty mirror; he shook his now-lank hair from his forehead and threw his features into that of a killer, a demon. And, although he could not see the results of this, he could feel them, and he was pleased.

But he did it all where Angelus could not see him.

Now, he stretched out comfortably on his sofa, propping his feet on the battered arm and admiring the scuffed boots he had stolen from one of Drusilla’s dead men. Of course, they did not match his expensive wool trousers and linen shirt, but he felt quite proud of them anyway. In them, his feet looked large and predatory, and they made a pleasantly ominous thumping sound when he walked.

Blue smoke rose lazily from the tip of his cigarette. When he exhaled, William tried blowing smoke rings as he had seen other men do (dockworkers and coal carters, mostly; but he had a growing affinity for the working class). However, even after three cigarettes worth of trying, most of his “rings” resembled nothing more than foggy blobs. He was just about to light his fourth when Angelus arrived.

Actually, “stormed in” might have been better description of it, for Angelus flung open the door with a force that almost knocked it from its hinges. He did not bother to close it after him, but it did not matter; the door struck the wall so violently that it bounced back and shut of its own accord.

“Bad night?” William asked him blandly.

“You little son of a bitch!”

Angelus lunged forward, but even as shocked as he was, William still had plenty of time to react before the other vampire reached him. He rolled off the sofa and darted some distance away. He extended both arms, palms out, as if to ward off his grandsire’s wrath.

“What in the bloody hell did I—”

With an agility that William had no idea he was capable of, Angelus bounded across the space separating them, jumping over a Windsor chair so that, in a remarkably short period of time, he was right in front of William. He backed him into a corner and shoved a crumpled newspaper into his face.

“See that?” he growled. “Do you see that? You lying little bastard—”

William got a brief glimpse of the headline before Angelus ground the paper into his face: William the Bloody Strikes Again.

Stupid as it was, given the situation, William felt a certain rush of pride, reading that. Front page, too. His conceit made him reckless, and he pushed the paper away coolly. “Jealous?”

Angelus gritted his teeth, but for the moment, he let the comment pass. Instead, he read aloud a portion of the article. His tone was harsh, derisive, as he quoted: “Nicknamed ‘Spike’ in certain circles of law enforcement, William Hartley has claimed the lives of at least four new victims. His handiwork is said to be easily distinguished by his propensity for railway spikes—”

At this point, Angelus threw down the newspaper. He looked enraged. “Railway spikes?” he demanded. “You stupid—you fucking little—do you even realize what you’ve done?”

“Gained some recognition, I should think,” answered William boldly. He wasn’t at all afraid of Angelus’ tirade, and the knowledge of his own bravery made him giddy.

Angelus grabbed a bottle of liquor from the table next to him, and he hit William on the side of the head with it. “You’ve left them a trail to follow!”

“A trail to where?” argued William, spitting out glass and ignoring the blood and whiskey that trickled down his temple. “The railway station? It isn’t as if I’ve brought them home—”

“You dumped that Havisham person in a manure pile outside a livery less than a block from here!”

William had forgotten about that.

“Well, I’m willing to admit that one was rather reckless—”

“Reckless!” Angelus shook him by his shirtfront, and then slammed him against the wall. “I warned you never to be reckless!”

William tried to squirm away from him, but Angelus’ body blocked him in. He leaned close, and for a moment, all William could see was two sparkling dark eyes. Angelus’ voice dropped to a poisonous whisper that almost had the lilt of a purr. “You think you’re something, now. Don’t you, Willy? Think you’re ready to play with the big boys. Yet, you can’t even manage to keep a woman satisfied—”

William blanched at that. He knew, of course, that Angelus and Dru slept together; he could see as well as hear the evidence of their passion. He didn’t like it, but there seemed little he could do about it, given that it had been occurring long before his arrival to the clan. The way he dealt with the unpleasantness was to ignore it. Now, to have it shoved into his face…

He opened his mouth, but before he could offer some angry retort, Angelus was overriding him in a loud, laughing tone. “Do you know what Dru’s told me, young William? She says that you call out for another, when you sleep. That you mumble that name over and over…that you plead with her not to go. ‘Don’t go, Eliza—”

Her name. He had no right to say her name!

Anger flared and, with it, strength. William threw off Angelus’ hands and his body. He struck out with both fists, and his left one connected. Because Angelus was already in an unbalanced position, the force of the blow knocked him over. He stumbled backward against the arm of the Windsor chair, and tumbled over it onto the floor.

William watched all this in shock. Angelus. He had struck Angelus. His own sire’s sire. Not some godlike being, after all, but fallible, as the rest of them were. And he—William—had struck him down—

Before he could fully grasp the enormity of this, Angelus rose to his feet. Yellow eyes and twisted features; there was blood at the corner of his mouth. William felt his own features shift at the changes in Angelus.’ He bared his fangs and did not back away from the other vampire’s approach.

This, as it turned out, was a mistake.

Angelus circled just a few feet to the outside; William had to keep turning to keep his back from being exposed. He thought—quite wrongly—that as long as Angelus was a distance away, as long as he continued to face him, he was safe. It wasn’t until a second after Angelus knocked him down that he realized the error of his ways.

It came from the front, a leap forward with one leg extended. His leather-shod foot caught William in the throat and sent him crashing to the floor. Then, he raised said-same foot in preparation to stomp his unfortunate adversary in his stomach. William rolled away a second before it struck, and Angelus’ foot came down on the empty floorboards with a force that made the windows rattle.

In the instant it took for Angelus to regroup, William scrambled to his feet. He tipped over a decorative table with his heel and snapped off one leg, held it before him not as a stake but as a club.

Undaunted, Angelus kicked his way through the splintered ruins of the table. William swung the weapon at him, but with a rapid and almost graceful swipe of one forearm, Angelus pushed the club into William’s own gut, causing him to grunt in pain. He recovered in a second, but in a space of time half that length, Angelus was upon him.

He grabbed William’s left arm and twisted it behind his back, spinning him so that he faced the wall. Angelus savagely smashed his face into the plaster, and William saw stars, his demon visage faltering and ultimately dying in the advent of his shock. He could feel the hard, wide wall of his grandsire’s chest against his back, and he bucked, trying to throw off that hateful weight. Exercise had made his muscles hard and sharply defined; he was sinewy as a jungle cat, and twice as strong. However, Angelus was stronger, heavier; he had the advantage of a century’s experience. Once in that ironclad grip, William didn’t stand a chance of escaping it, regardless of how violently he resisted.

Angelus pressed into him, his back slightly bent and his mouth against William’s ear. Tepid breath passed over his flesh as his grandsire whispered, “You think you can take me on, do you, William? I made you, same as I made Drusilla. She may have sired you—but I taught you. Seems like you weren’t paying much attention, that first time. So, I think we’ll have us another lesson, now.”

A rough hand snaked between William’s crotch and the wall; there was a hard knot pressing insistently—almost painfully—into his lower back. Even before Angelus began undoing his buttons, William read his intent. He panicked—Oh, bollocks. This is really going to hurt—but there seemed to be very little he could do to prevent it. His desperate struggling got him nowhere fast. One of his arms Angelus still held twisted behind his back; William’s other palm pressed flat against the wall before him. His fingers grappled helplessly at the scrolled paper as the other man drove in.

He might have howled from the pain of it, but he did not. He didn’t want to give Angelus the satisfaction. Still, it hurt dreadfully. William pushed the side of his head against that stout, unforgiving plaster, and he bit his bottom lip until the blood came, counting the thrusts until it was over.

It took quite a while.

When, finally, he finished, Angelus took William by the shoulders and threw him to the floor. Onto his stomach, he threw him and then kicked him savagely in the ribs.

“Get up,” he snarled afterward. “You look ludicrous.”

William raised his head and forced himself up onto his elbows, but his lower body hurt too much to bear thinking about. He dropped back down.

Darla was perched on the arm of the Windsor chair, only a few feet away from them. William hadn’t heard her enter, but judging from the smug expression on her face, she had borne witness to at least some of the assault. She looked amused, but when Angelus approached her, she pushed him away with both hands.

“Not until you wash yourself clean of that.” She indicated William’s still-prone body with a jerk of her chin, and added, “After all, this is a new dress.”

He chuckled good-naturedly and, a moment later, both of them moved off. The click of the bedroom door closing after them sounded like a gunshot.

William did not move. For some length of time (he had no way of knowing how long, but it felt like hours), he lay on his stomach with his jawbone pressed against smooth, cold wood floor. His gums were bleeding, and he sucked his teeth idly, as a way to pass the time.

When, finally, the throbbing pain became somewhat bearable, he pushed himself up. When he got to his feet, he could feel cool blood trickling down the backs of his legs; he could smell it, heavy, on the air. His body felt debased: the smell and feel of something alien inside him, the torn flesh and stretched walls where something had invaded.

He felt violated in more ways than one, but perhaps worst of all was the feeling that this had not been some sporadic act of violence and dominance—had it been, then perhaps he could have borne it with some equanimity. Yet there was the sense—the odd and indescribable suspicion—that this had not been only some brief and unintentional interlude in their everyday, but that it had been…

Not planned.

No, not planned. But anticipated. As if for months now, the other vampire had been waiting for an opportunity, an excuse. William could remember the way the dark eyes followed him, the uncanny way he would sometimes look up or wake up to find Angelus staring at him. There was no sense of attraction in the other vampire’s manner…certainly no sense of any sort of bond, other than that of blood and of family. But it was the desire for—

Violation.

—corruption. Corruption and control. That was what he wanted. Forced sex was merely the means by which to achieve it.

He had never hated anyone the way he now hated Angelus.

Gingerly, William walked the twenty or so steps it took to reach his bedroom. To his shock, Drusilla was sitting on their bed. She was holding a pillow on her lap and her expression was one of utmost sympathy; she, too, had seen something of his defilement.

“Poor William,” she murmured gently. “Daddy was quite cross with you.”

“Daddy is a goddamned psychopath,” William snapped. He limped his way over to the washstand and poured some water out of the pitcher into the bowl. He could feel Drusilla’s eyes on him as he cleaned himself off, but he didn’t look over his shoulder at her.

Instead, he focused his eyes on the china bowl, the water now tinged as pink as the soiled cloth he dipped into it. He cradled his hatred to him like a foundling, and in his mind was the searing, singular thought—

I don’t have to do what you say, anymore.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~