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A single raindrop falling on you doesn’t hurt. But if you caught all the raindrops from a single storm and dropped them on you all at once, you’d probably be nothing more than a smear on the roadside. That is what having a soul shoved inside of you feels like.
It’s not a novel of crimes and sins recited to you line by line so you can feel the guilt build into a crescendo. No, it’s a smothering of memories, cries, noises, scents, bodily fluids, posed bodies, humans young and old, all of them thrust upon you in a cacophony of instances all amalgamated into one. A burst. A cannonball. A wildfire. It rakes through him, engulfs him from fingertip to heel, every inch of skin engulfed by the sweltering guilt from within. Though it may not be a tangible thing, the weight of it all clings to his nerves, and drags its nails down each one until he is screaming. Vampires aren’t meant to become feverish, but the sweat drenches him anyway, and pulls him down to drown in an echo of all he’s done.
Is it any wonder that Darla had cast him aside? To himself it seems the obvious thing to do, he’s so ridden with pain and agony over it all, drenched in so much innocent blood, and it had not only been to feed, not only to sustain himself, not only akin to any predator hunting their food source. No it was for pleasure, for the sheer fun of it all, the ability and want to lord his strength and power over the more pitiful species roaming the planet. She should stake him, put him out of his misery, strike a match and leave him to char into a pile of ashes.
And yet, despite it all, he clings to her. A beggar on his knees, clutching at her skirts like a lost child, begging for forgiveness, for guidance, for her. Always for her. Despite the logic that she made him this beast, he still wants her, needs her, and trusts that she will be able to put things right. When has she not been able to bring him to heel and solve all problems?
But there is nothing to be done. He is cast out, left, not killed. Sometimes Angelus wonders if she wants him to suffer, to feel every ounce of the heat burning through his chest, he wonders if it matches her rage sometimes. A small part of himself thinks she just couldn’t be the one to end him. A wretch such as himself doesn’t deserve such a death anyway, no, climax in the arms of his love, but to waste away as nothing in the dirt.
For weeks he tries. Or doesn’t try, but it happens anyway. Romania is a shithole, he doesn’t know how she convinced them to come here, so another vagrant to add to the pile goes unnoticed. Lurking comes naturally, sticking to shadows and abandoned places, instinct takes over when his mind is lost, and the passage of time is lost to him.
Places merge. A rundown shack with threads of sunlight piercing through the slats of the boards. An old stone structure with floors that bite into him. Some sort of basement with barrels and stock that he merges into. Angelus withers. Once a name to be feared, becoming barely even a thought. The shadows consume him, dust gathers upon his shoulders, sometimes he doesn’t move for days, nights, he’s unsure, but the dust gathers. The faces haunt him, gathering in the shadows to mock him, to jeer, to snarl and cast judgement upon him. The voices reverberate around his skull, and sometimes even slip free from his own lips as his own body merges with them. They are him, he is them, the eternal loss of everyone he’s ever harmed clawing at his insides to be free once again. His own fingers rake at his skin, clawing at his chest in motions unfelt, to rip and tear and try to allow the molten guilt that resides in his chest to fall free and give him some relief.
There is no relief.
The damned are to reside in hell eternally, but he is such a vile creature, that hell itself lodged its way into his mortal shell and is hollowing him out from the inside. It burns so much. He thinks he screams through some of it. No one comes to check. Wild animals often get snared and howl their way into their death throes. Shadows envelop him.
Never has he been more grateful to not be able to see himself in reflections. The sight alone would possibly blind him. He’d gouge out his own eyes if he had to. Angelus scrapes, at his flesh, at time, at hoarse throats, and the sickening need to feed feed feed. If he weren’t hollowed by the flames already, the hunger would surely have done it anyway. It aches, a companion to the throbbing in his head. His own blood from beneath his nails sates nothing, and leaves him sobbing in shame of how desperation has taken him so completely. The stones in the floor are cold, his ribs are prominent, and there is nothing left to give, surely.
To succumb to hunger, to not die entirely, but become nothing more than a dried out husk, would be suitable. Not half as interesting as the mummies from the museums, but fitting none the less. Let he who gorged in his own greed and gluttony, become nothing more than a hollow frame of guilt. No posing like his victims. No blood decorated upon the walls for all to see. Nothing so dramatic or filled with flair for the no longer great Angelus. Just a whisper, a memory, forgotten to be swept aside once someone somewhere drags him into the sunlight to take a gander. It would be fitting. So fitting.
The blood of the vagrant falls down his throat like ambrosia, not like tar as he was hoping.
Time passes, he has no use for remaining in one place. The beast within won’t let him die. Each time he believes he is hollow enough, the instinct takes over, and he is sated once more to endure another nightfall. It’s not enough, it will never be enough to sate his hunger, but it’s enough to bring some semblance of blinking through the fog. Angelus stumbles through it all, languages change as he works his way around places that have no meaning, clothes become tatters, shacks and cellars sometimes become caves and shadowed nooks. The voices still scream, echoing about his ears, but they mostly come when his eyes are closed and the world is warm. The burning becomes known, now his body is used to the constant pain, it just becomes background grit from the edge of a cylinder on a phonograph. Not manageable, not tolerable, but just there.
Angelus doesn’t surface into anything like how he was before, but the world comes into focus to be manageable. The humans are overwhelming to be around, but he has the ability to avoid them for the most part, the world continues turning, and it becomes painfully obvious that he’s been lost for the better part of a year to his agony. It’s not healing. He can never heal. It’s dragging himself through it anyway.
For a while he doesn’t know why. Why bother at all? Starving himself didn’t work once instinct took over. But there are other options available. Still it scratches at him internally, and whenever he attempts to remain out close to sunrise, the tell tale warning on the back of his neck sometimes says not yet. The screams don’t drown it out fully.
To exist in this state is a haze. Looking through marbled glass at the world, steering through fog, and scraping by. It’s not living. It’s barely anything. He doesn’t know why he does it, but he does.
The world is vast, his feet continue moving, and the next time he surfaces it’s to cobbled streets and the scent of roasting meat. Food doesn’t do anything for him, he doesn’t need it, and the niggling thoughts that are becoming constant companions tell him to eat the food would be to deprive someone in need of it instead. Sometimes the guilt takes frivolous shapes, but he heeds it anyway. What else is there to do but listen to his internal guide?
Aimless. That’s how it feels. He’s aimless. Just moving through time, not living, not enjoying, just existing. Maybe this is how wild animals feel. No responsibilities, and just thinking so far ahead as the next step of your feet. Eat for sustenance, seek out shelter, and do it all over again. The niggling thoughts remind him that even animals seek out mates, partners, companions, aim to breed and build their own succession. He tries to starve himself again after that thought. It doesn’t work.
Angelus does not seek out companionship. It’s better to be unseen, unnoticed. Just a shadow moving through it all. Head down, focus on the next step. Then the next. Ignore the hunger in your belly. Take the next step. There is no edge of the world, he will just keep going. The humans are noisy around him, a cacophony of words he doesn’t understand, some language from some land he is apparently in, it’s not company, he doesn’t wish for that. The streets all feel the same, and he takes the next step.
Something happens to his left. Footsteps, fast paced, someone is running, there is shouting, screams from women, the clatter of people being pushed aside. Someone tears past him, knocking his elbow, Angelus barely looks up, simply notes the form of someone bolting past like their arse is on fire, and the clamour of others getting out of their way. He doesn’t manage to focus on the event until the scent of fresh blood hits him.
It’s like a haze of smoke, he’s seen it before, when those who know the fumes of opium can scent it out like a hound. Their eyes go glassy, they lose all interest in whatever they were doing, and then the begging begins. Broken nails scratching at skin, clawing at whoever has the hidden treasure, bartering with anything and everything they have, even themselves. He’s not like them. He’s not. But it’s been a few days since his last feed, there is a yearning ache in his gut, and even as he stands frozen on the street, he can feel the nubs of his fangs itching to be released.
Angelus doesn’t recall moving, but he must have. There are still calls and yells from the streets surrounding him, but they’re muffled, far away from the shadows of the back alley he pads down. The scent of blood is thicker here, he can hear the thrum of a heartbeat pounding away, they always beat so fast when they’ve been running. It’s second nature to creep closer, footfalls soft, silent, close enough that he can reach behind the pile of crates and snag his prey by the neck. There is no scream of terror, but a bray of outrage, a language he doesn’t know is spat at him, and the blade of a knife slashes at his face.
It’s appallingly sloppy. Nothing artistic or planned about it. His own blood paints his face in a mockery of his lack of skill, and he has to break the neck of the man first to stop the sounds of a struggle. Weak. Pathetic. Unsubtle. Angelus feeds quickly, shame and the pleasure of a warm feed mixing in his belly like acid. The knife falls to the ground, stained with a mix of his own blood and someone else’s. Young, female, healthy, and far too much of it there to be an accident. He doesn’t care, how can he? The body falls to the ground at his feet, limp, disappointing, and dead.
For a moment he stands there stupidly. A body at his feet, blood in his mouth, a cut on his face, and a weapon nearby. Sloppy. Subtlety is an art form he used to be perfect at, there is no thrill in this sort of kill. It’s sated his hunger yes, but it curdles inside of him all the same. He recalls multiple instances of scolding Drusilla and William for being so blatant with their kills, daring to possibly draw attention to their presence. Right now he can barely seem to care.
Even when the voices and shouting draws nearer he doesn’t move. This is the first kill in so long that felt more than driven by starvation. When that happens he can almost ignore it, that’s instinct taking over, just a pure feral need to survive ensuring it happens. But this…he wasn’t delirious. He wanted this. He was mentally present for the kill. This was a choice. Maybe it’s why he remains, so he can be caught, can be punished, can be brought in front of judge, jury, and executioner for his multiple crimes and someone else can swing the blade for him.
Words he doesn’t understand are spoken around him, a fluster of movement, someone yanks him back, his wrists are caught up behind him, and still he stares at the body on the ground. Of all his sins, this is the one that ends it all. Voices call and shout over each other, there is an argument, the body language around him is tense, heightened, there may be a fight, he may be executed here and now. He thinks he’d be okay with that.
It all builds and builds, until his wrists are released. He staggers a little, finally able to look away from the drained corpse on the floor and gaze upon the wary crowd surrounding him. Humans, all of them with their hearts beating in their chest, looking at him but not in disgust. Cornered, he remains in place, waiting for whatever is apparently happening to become clear, but there are no stakes, he cannot feel the warm presence of any holy items nearby, and no one is shouting at him. The corpse watches him with cold dead eyes, neck broken at an odd angle where it’s slumped on the floor, covering the holes in his neck. The knife looks almost black with blood on the ground.
“Hallot.” The word is said by a gentleman as his foot nudges the body, a scoff of scorn snorted out over it. Angelus does not speak the language, but he has a feeling this isn’t some sort of blessing or right for the dead being spoken. “Megérdemelt.”
The crowd murmurs, some nods are scattered about, no one closes the dead man’s eyes. Someone smelling of salt and tears steps forward, a smaller woman, clutching at her chest and heaving with sobs, clinging to another less fraught female. “Megölt…megölt nővér!” There is anger, he can smell it in the air, but it’s not directed towards him. The woman stoops to her knees, falling from her companion’s grip as she begins beating upon the chest of the deceased. This is not the scene of a woman howling in agony over her lover’s death, he’s seen that more time than he can count. This is a woman screaming in satisfied rage that justice has been done. Angelus doesn’t think he’s ever caused such a thing before.
Taking a step back he tries to move away from the crowd. There are hands upon him, not grabbing, but patting, hands upon his back, words spoken to him, some nodding, a hand is offered for him to shake. He takes the next step, and then runs.
He runs until he can hole away in a basement, one that smells of hops and grain, dirty floored and damp with age. A rat scurries into hiding as he throws himself into a darkened corner, curling into himself, a wretch, a creature lost, awaiting for the guilt to consume him whole as it does after every unwanted feed. And come it does. Deep and writhing, filling him with shame, self loathing, the seeping cowardice that he can’t even remove himself from this world and leave it better for his absence. It burns in his chest, the pain almost familiar in its scorching, hollowing him out further and further each time he takes a life.
But this time, something is different. It’s a small thing, a seed trying to root, but he’s not consumed. Despite the overhaul of guilt making his shoulders slump, he also remembers the crowd. Looking at him, and not with disgust. That look was reserved for the body of the man at his feet. The contempt was given to the corpse, the one wielding the knife, the one who had clearly done something utterly unforgivable by human standards. So unforgivable, that they had not held anger towards his killer. The knife was coated in the blood of another, the man had lashed out with the weapon as if he’d skill with the blade, and had been prepared to strike first to protect himself and get away.
Curling onto the damp stone floor, Angelus frowns as he stares into the shadows. The tang of blood is still on his tongue, each swallow brings more of the rich flavour into his throat. He has killed again, a monster, a murderer, a beast unable to be sated. But he killed the same. A monster. A murderer from the looks of it. Someone who could not be sated.
The guilt still coats him like oil. Clinging, unable to be washed away easily, and even when you think you’re clean there is a sheen left. He sobs to himself in silence, tears mingling with the blood upon his face from the cut. It still stains him, inside and out, that will never change he doesn’t think. But it’s different all the same. A subtle, almost unnoticeable difference in things, but still a new step.
It goes on. The world continues to turn. Angelus moves on. Each step is difficult, things don’t necessarily get easier, but they continue all the same. Sometimes he doesn’t hold off feeding until he’s crazed, every so often it’s easier to lurk in the shadier parts of whatever town or city he’s in, and the ones that make it burn a little less practically fall into his lap. It’s not living, but it’s not surviving either. He gets by. The population of the monsters falls a little lower, and he moves on. He consumes their sins as if they are his own, it doesn’t help stop the guilt or the burning, but it sates his hunger, and leaves him a little less hazy.
Time continues to pass alongside him. Hiding in the wrong sides of humanity feels like being at home, but he still can’t encroach upon their world yet. It’s better like this. Being an unknown shadow, feeding like the rats do on the worst of the worst. There is no joy in the feed or the kill anymore. It’s just for survival, but he is selective now. It builds. The guilt still burns, but it’s a low smoulder constantly upon him, not a burning fire scorching his insides. It’s not much, but he can get by like this.
Until he’s not just getting by.
There are so many humans, born with souls, that do soulless things. It’s not even hard to find them. Men who force themselves upon women. Women who drug and steal from their victims. Murderers. Petty theft he finds only stokes the flames, but the larger level criminals satisfy him better. Angelus doesn’t push the limits, only remaining in one place for a week or so at best lest the papers get a hold of his crimes, but he’s more stable. Feeding regularly gets him feeling at least a little more capable. Capable enough that on an evening of feeling particularly maudlin, he dares to attempt getting a drink.
Drinking was always a pastime he was decent at, and though he has no intention of becoming a raucous mess as he used to when he had a pulse, a beer or two wouldn’t go amiss. Not to drown his sorrows, but to at least dampen the flames for a moment or two. It’s been over a year. If this is to be his existence, then the changing of the times dictates that he needs to at least be able to interact with those others existing within it.
From the corner he sits in, he already knows it’s not going to work. It used to be so easy to slip in amongst the sheep, draped in the finest garb for the times, walking as if he owned the place. It was decidedly easier to have confidence when you knew everyone surrounding you was mere morsels. He could still kill them, and maybe that’s the worst part of the whole thing, he could still do it. And sometimes he feels an itch to do so. The demonic nature of himself claws through and wants to be violent, cause chaos, and revel in the savagery of it all. But he can’t, he won’t, he doesn’t want to want it. He’s no longer a wolf among the sheep, nor even a cat amongst the pigeons. He’s an immortal being, locked into suffering mortal guilt on a level they could never comprehend.
Now the humans surround him in a flurry of life. Such short lives for them, and they pack so much into it. The ones in the inn are loud, each drinking, gentlemen of good fortune laughing about their successes and sharing the joy with others. The barmaids sit upon their laps, eagerly allowing their bodies to be fondled should it mean an extra coin or two coming their way. Money is being placed upon a hand of cards. Drinks are shared, drank, ordered and shared again. Some smoke, sharing the tobacco between them, enjoying the time to relax after a hard day of work. And through it all, their hearts beat.
Angelus feels more aware than ever that he cannot be one of them. He steps outside and heads back to the hotel room he managed to scrounge, leaving his beer untouched, and not a word spoken to any other being.
Head above the water, fire smouldering down to bearable licks of flame inside of him, Angelus makes a choice.
Now the world is more steady about him, it isn’t too hard to slowly begin finding his footing again. Each criminal he kills gets looted, and he figures the guilt from the kill really outweighs the guilt from that. His purse grows larger, not anything as it used to be, but enough to get somewhere. A room here. New clothing there. A shave and a haircut he manages to somehow ensure looks decent without the help of a mirror or confidant. It takes time. There are some days lost to melancholy and strife. But with each step he slowly begins to put himself back together. He’s not the same, but he’s a reasonable imitation for the most part. He moves throughout Europe, actively present in the moment when he can bear it, and checking the newspapers. Even if you can’t speak the language, some things transcend beyond it. Chaos sells papers.
It’s not a fresh trail. A town here that came down with a sudden case of rabid dogs. A village set upon by wild animals. Plague seemingly darting about countries and taking down seemingly healthy individuals from nowhere. A light bit of arson here and there. The usual chaos he knows so well, but not quite as refined as it used to be. It doesn’t surprise him that each centre of tragedy is around the trainline. The ticket costs most of everything he has, but he has no care to return to this again.
Angelus follows the trail step by step. East. They’re heading east. It’s easy to follow not only his own instincts, but the droves of soldiers being sent to head off the uprising. Hatred of other nations brings a want for war, and Darla always loved a good war. It’s beyond rumblings and into full blown rebellion, which means those on the outside want in to claim victory over the heathens and their incorrect way of thinking. He’s seen it before, so many times, and it always ends the same. With death, destruction, and enough blood spilled to keep any vampire happy for a while.
Finding food isn’t difficult when there is chaos the further into the country he goes. Humans can be criminals no matter where they are from, and Angelus finds it almost too easy to be well fed, and stinking of human blood and death as he begins to draw in on the epicentre. Like a kill on the savanna draws in all sorts of opportunistic predators, war lures in every creature looking to enjoy some dark delights. Some people think war is about heroes and fighting the good fight to protect the good in the world, the truth is, it’s just every dark desire allowed to come to the surface and run riot. And riots there are.
It’s not hard to get himself to where he needs to be. The innocent and weak flee in one direction, and the soldiers go the other. Men choose the military to be permitted to kill, to be allowed to commit atrocities because someone with more stripes said it is allowed. Humans can be as dark as any demon, and Angelus uses it to his advantage. All it takes is roaming the shadows behind the train station, finding a group wanting to take more than the innocent lady fleeing wants to give, and he has a selection of clothing to choose from and a belly full for the journey. It’s easier to take up residence in the cargo carriage, shadowed and hidden, surrounded by the scent of gunpowder, and damp wood. Should anyone ask, he’s simply ensuring nothing gets stolen, and that’s enough.
Unfortunately it also gives him time. Time he is now focussed, alert, and with a direct mission to complete. Which means he has time to think. If he’s completely honest with himself, Angelus has spent the better part of the past two years actively not thinking about them. Or trying not to. Any time they would cross his mind, he’d force the face of a victim to the forefront and wallow in the guilt it brought. Because it hurt less. It was easier for him to remember the colour of the beard of a man he slowly dissected over the course of a week, than it was to recall the curl of Darla’s hair. The guilt is like fire coursing through him, but to think of them, he knows it would be explosive. To remember them would be the most excruciating pain he could imagine. So he has done his best not to. But now as he draws closer, he must. Because there is guilt of course, that he and the three of them wreaked havoc as a family, killing and playing with lives like cards. But the thing that causes the worst guilt of all, is that he doesn’t regret it all.
Sometimes there are fond memories tied to his own familiar lot of killers. He recalls books read together, tales by the fire, dances across rugs, and all of it comforting and bringing a sense of longing. If he’s truly honest, he even fondly recalls murders together, filling his belly with companions by his side, sharing in the high of the kill. Now it brings shame, a deep quivering ache in his belly, and the knowledge that he has brought so much pain. And still the want persists.
But he shouldn’t long for it, though he does. He longs for them, and to rip the distinction of them being demons from them being his, it can’t be done as easily as bisecting a human male. He has spent the past few years hating what he is, and though he spends most of his time with bile at the back of his throat almost constantly at the memories of what he’s done, he cannot regret them. They are what they are because of him, and he is responsible for bringing that chaos into the world, but still, they are his.
It’s so much more complex than he ever thought it would be. Maybe that’s the worst part of this soul after all. That it’s not so black and white as it appears. He is not a decent being because he has a soul now, he simply hates all that he did without one. He is a demon with a human soul. Just because his family are demons not plagued by a soul does not make them intrinsically despicable to him. Beyond the ethics of how they find joy, they are still his.
In the darkest of moments he yearns for them, and the worst part is the guilt he feels for wanting them.
No creature was made to roam the earth alone, let alone one cursed with immortality. He’d found his wanted companions, found his needed half in Darla, and created a family unit with Drusilla and William. Ready to do as they wished and enjoy every moment. But now he is alone, and miserable for it.
He’s wallowed for long enough. There is always going to be the hollow guilt inside of him, no matter how much time passes. Angelus will always be a demon, will always have the want to kill and feed, violence is inherent within himself. So why not return to the one place he can have half a chance of some solace from the guilt? Comfort is a want for all creatures, and he has been without for long enough. Why should he be cursed with more of this gut wrenching guilt, for seeking out something that makes him feel comforted? Even the most rabid of dogs are loved by their owners.
If he is to exist, to be cursed, then he’d rather suffer alongside those who know him. Those who he hopes still want him. The ones he chose to be with forever, will be the most likely to choose him back. He cannot walk the earth alone. He can’t. It’s not like before. Angelus is no longer a babbling mess, bathed in tears and tearing at the burning in his chest. It’s not gone, it will never be gone, but it’s lessened to something more tolerable. Maybe he’s just gotten used to it, but he can overcome it. He has. He feeds, he’s found the way to counteract it, and though there is still guilt, it’s not a wave, merely raindrops each time. They don’t need to know why he’s selective of his kills now, they just need to know he can. And he will. For them. Anything for them.
The train rocks beneath him as he steadily encroaches upon their destination. Each stop makes him prick up his ears and check the lay of the land. Sometimes it’s neglected towns they stop in, gathering more men, more supplies, before moving on. Other times it’s so destroyed that they stop for mere moments before passing through. But it’s getting worse, they’re drawing nearer to the epicentre, and he knows that’s exactly where they will be.
All demons love chaos. So when the screech of the train’s wheels grinding to a halt mingle with the screams of the innocent, he knows they’ve reached their destination. The scent of blood is mixed in the air, and there is a flurry of yells and movement from the other carriages. The eye of the storm isn’t calm in war, it’s a typhoon of panic, stress, fear, a cocktail of delights for a vampire’s nose. Chaos, the perfect camouflage. It’s so easy to slide into the shadows, await the door to be slid open, and simply gather a crate to toss into the mass of humans clamouring at the exit. They yell, a mix of languages, words he doesn’t care for, but if he picks another crate, points a bit, gestures a bit, and begins stalking out of the carriage with the cargo as if he has purpose, well no one stops him. Confidence is key, if you look like you know what you’re doing, people get out of your way.
He takes the next step, and doesn’t look back.
China is burning around him. Some buildings smoulder in the distance, others have war stricken humans clustered about trying to save items that mean nothing. The night is young, the inky blackness of it hidden by flames and smoke obscuring the air. Already he can feel the presence of many other opportunistic demons, some beneath the earth tasting the blood already spilled, others hidden in shadows and awaiting the perfect moment. But none he seeks are here. They’re close, the back of his neck has begun tingling for the first time in over two years. Shedding himself of the weight of his cargo and uniform, Angelus begins his hunt. It’s not opportune to not have a complete plan, but beggars can’t be choosers, and right now he’s just hoping for a chance.
Clasping a hand over the nape of his neck, Angelus moves through it all. The feeling is intense to him. It used to be a constant presence, something that becomes so normal you barely notice it, like the burning in his chest nowadays. There always used to be family close by before, but finally feeling the sensation again after its absence, is like coming home. It throbs, warm and pleasant, like a calling to him. Perhaps it’s pathetic like the rest of his current predicament, but it brings tears to his eyes to feel it again.
There are no stalls to barter from, no shops to raid, but plenty of houses have had their valuables taken. It leaves plenty of clothing deemed not necessary to pilfer through. It’s reasonable, more akin to his previous garb, not a drop of vagrant about it. Darla wouldn’t accept a ragamuffin, and he wouldn’t dare present her with one. It’s awkward to find something so tailored after years of whatever he could find. Pressed, clean as it can be, falling in lines and emphasising that he does have a form beneath the guilt. But he must look the part.
Angelus has always enjoyed the arts. Not only limited to fine art, or those found in the gallery. Going to the theatre was always a family event, and sometimes they didn’t even finish off with an audience member as dessert. It was for the pleasure of going, of getting to see the performers on stage, and losing yourself in the act. Forgetting they were playing a part, immersing yourself in it all until you were there too. They used to play themselves, no vampire gets anywhere in life by not hiding themselves. From fitting in with the human society they were infiltrating, to playing dress up and reciting scripts in the comfort of the lair, acting is a part of it all. That’s all this is. Just another act, and one he has to sell to those who know him the best.
It’s not even that he has to. He wants to. The need for them burns brighter than the guilt eating away at his insides. He is still himself, still Angelus, the light is burning, it’s just maybe a little dimmed. Merely a dip. You can’t live for centuries and not have times of less momentum. But for them, he can be who he was. The demon is still inside of him, the taste for violence hasn’t lessened, the thirst for blood hasn’t faltered, there just happens to be a sickening deep seated guilt that swirls in his belly. Well he can swallow it down. For them.
No mirror can show him the picture he presents, and there is no one else to make any tweaks for him, but it will be enough. There is a war on, if he’s lucky Darla may be lenient. Hell maybe she will take it as a good sign that he hasn’t been dallying with anyone else. It will work. The step out of the building is sure footed, a heavy pace, each foot placed solidly, with meaning. Angelus doesn’t cower, nor hide, he strides through the chaos and gives no shits to any screams he hears that aren’t of his own making. The back of his neck aches beneath the warm satisfaction of family being near, months of stooping and cowering taking its toll. But now he walks, head held high, shoulders straight, arms relaxed at his side, for he has no concerns other than the family he is making his way back to. To be himself fits like the suit, he may not be the intended owner, but it’s all he has.
Around him are riots, smaller clusters of screams and looters, he takes the next step. The occasional burst of gunfire stifles some screams before they can end naturally, he takes the next step. Flames lick at buildings until they crumble, he takes the next step. That’s all it is, a matter of steps and not pausing in them for any cause but his own.
Following the feeling on the nape of his neck only takes him further into the tragedy. The air is thick with smoke, blood stains the streets, it’s difficult to tell the difference between the innocent and the perpetrators. They all look alike sometimes. It’s easier to simply step around them, attempt not to get too much mess on his clothing, and steer around any bodies that are scattered in the way. It takes time, as all good hunts do, and it’s only when he gets further into the massacres that he smells it. Hidden beneath the acrid smoke and stale blood and bodily fluids, is a scent so known to him.
All three of them, mixed, fluid with each other. Not fresh from their bodies, but lingering. Not stale, but infiltrated into the area. Humming a little to himself, Angelus coasts down the paved road, keeping his ears pricked for anything beyond the usual violence, and lifting his nose subtly to follow where it all leads. The throb isn’t spiking into anything relevant, so it isn’t his family members themselves, but it’s theirs all the same.
Looking up at the building, he finds it reasonably stable, stonework not even ashen, abandoned of course as are most of them around the area, but sturdy. Right in the epicentre, and with a good view. The lintel has their scent, a dab of blood from each of them warding off any roaming vampires from entering another’s territory. Well he doesn’t count.
Entering the lair he finds it nowhere near as put together as he would have it back in the day. For a start there are no minions, no perimeter defences, and it seems they must have packed light. No personal knick knacks surrounding the lower levels, merely scattered furniture barely used. Well they aren’t settling for good, so he supposes it’s just a vacation home for the war. The real piece out of place is the presence of a heartbeat.
A heartbeat that isn’t slowed with blood loss from a body stored for later. This pulse is strong, thudding along diligently, a little frantic with panic but he knows there are no other vampires in this place aside from himself. A looter perhaps? Someone come to try their luck? Well it wouldn’t do to allow pests into the family lair, even if it is temporary.
As he ascends the stairs, Angelus rubs over the back of his neck. The warmth of family isn’t persistent yet so he has no risk of being interrupted. He’ll just find the looter, take back any items they’ve pilfered, and send them on their way. No performance needed. Then he can make himself at home and be quite the surprise. A real homecoming. Of course the master bedroom is the centre of any good lair, a place of rest, protection, a lot of sex, family bonding really. The heartbeat thunders along beyond the door and Angelus sighs a little as he pushes it open, wanting rid of the nuisance before there can be any potential cock up to his plan.
Human. Male. Stocky. Middle aged. He spins on his heel immediately at being caught, and Angelus has always been quick to assess a situation. The gentleman isn’t of asian descent, he holds himself braced and ready for a confrontation, and his suit smells of damp tweed. Whatever calm presence Angelus was ready to defer to in order to deescalate the situation recedes immediately when the man wrenches a crucifix free from his inner pocket and holds it in front of him like a shield. Watcher. There is grim determination in the tight lips of the man, and a look of confusion around the eyes. It tells Angelus that this isn’t luck on the watcher’s part, he’s been observing his family long enough to know when the lair would be unattended, and did not expect to see him at all.
They remain frozen for a moment, both watching the other, a few strides all that separates them as they both take in the situation. Angelus’ mind is racing. This isn’t someone he can toss out on the street and know they won’t be able to understand what they’ve escaped. A watcher with knowledge of a vampire lair doesn’t mean anything good, and any information he has gathered cannot be allowed to leave this room. The only way to keep his silence is to remove his ability to ever speak again. And if he has a Slayer in the area, he knows there really is only one option. He has to kill him. Now. Before the others return. This risks everything. He shouldn’t care that this is a man with a life dedicated to protecting the world from demons. He shouldn’t care that he probably loves his Slayer. He shouldn’t care that he does not know of any crimes this man has committed. He shouldn’t care that he is an innocent, just like the others, so many countless, hundreds of thousands of others that scream and cry and beg and plead for their lives every single time he closes his eyes until it burns in his chest like an inferno and he just wants it all to end please make it end make it stop spare him spare him spare him-
“Angelus.” The human’s heartbeat is rushing blood around his body. Ready to run, ready to fight, survival instincts all turned to maximum. There is a stake in his other hand. To fight then. It wouldn’t be a worthy death. “You’ve returned.”
He’d thought the choice had already been made, he’s done this, he’s already made his decision dammit and here is a watcher of all things come to fuck it up. “I should kill you.” It’s possibly the first real sentence he’s spoken and wanted someone to hear in so damned long, and he’s not sure if he’s talking to the watcher or trying to goad himself into action. Still his fists clench, and the heat sears behind his ribs.
“The feeling is mutual.” The watcher nods, his own fingers gripped tightly around two stems of wood, there is a slight tremble to his hands, fear, the want, the man is probably thinking of all the accolades that shall decorate his name should he be the man to slay the great Angelus. “You haven’t been seen with the Whirlwind in almost two years.” Watchers cannot be stopped from trying to gain information it seems, even when on the precipice of death.
Angelus has killed many a watcher over the years. Not so many slayers, they’re a rarity, but watchers sometimes seem to spawn like flies, particularly in England. It was almost a sport, to add another to the tally, taking down the enemy forces one by one just for a laugh. So why can’t he do it? What would be so different about whipping forth and snapping his neck? Because he’s innocent, because the guilt will eat you alive, because how can you condemn a man to death just for the crime of wanting to protect the innocents of the world from demonic entities? The man has committed his life to training a slayer and keeping bay the fires of hell itself from corrupting the world and here he stands trying to convince his hands to reach out and snap his neck like a twig but he can hear the screams, from outside, from his memory, can feel the pop of vertebrae between his palms, can remember how loose a head can get from a swift turn, can remember the cold glassy eyes that stare at him for endless hours begging and yearning for him to stop to stop to stop-
“You’re too late.” The watcher glares, brow furrowed, feet set, a look of grim determination on his face. “I was sent to gather any information left, but my Slayer has already staked all three of them.”
It’s an act. Step into the shoes. They fit before and they shall fit again. Act. Take the next step.
Angelus’ fingers curl about the Watcher’s neck easily, like they were always meant to be there. Fitting as snugly as a noose. The wooden weapons clatter to the ground, and it’s so easy to remember just the angle to lift a human from the floor by the neck without completely cutting off their airway.
“Did you know,” he begins, panting softly, trying to remember how to bring a grin to the surface, “that when you lie, your heartbeat goes like the clappers?” The watcher isn’t thrashing yet, but his foot does lash out to knock at Angelus’ shin annoyingly. It’s an act. So act. If you can’t fool a Watcher, what chance do you have with those you adore? “You think me a fool? To believe some silly little girl could harm one of mine?” She could, they’re not infallible, but it’s not true, he would have felt it. The tingle on his neck feels warmer, and he mentally thanks the Watcher for the practice he’s getting in. “I could say we’ll be kind and give her a quick death, but unlike you, I’m not a liar.”
Trembling fingers try to reach for him, to scratch maybe, as if they could harm him. It would be so easy to just flex his own fingers, clench and twist, pop the skull right from its fixture. But the thought of it brings bile to his throat. It’s infuriating and sickening all at once. He can’t fall at the first hurdle. It’s just another step. If he wants them to take him back he has to, what kind of man would ask his family to take back a weaker form of the original?
So he doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t let the watcher hang and gag for too long on the lack of air. Instead he moves. More steps forward, enough to toss the body at the base of the bed, and whip an arm back to throw a punch to the temple. A tactical move. Not enough to crack bone, nor enough to completely flummox the man, just enough speed and pressure to confound him for a while. It works, the watcher staggers, slumps, cradles his head and gives Angelus time to figure out his next move. The act doesn’t stop for prompting of lines, and he knows he must persevere.
“You know, really, I should thank you.” If he doesn’t listen to the thudding heartbeat, or look at the crumpled form it’s easier. Chains. Of course there are chains near the bed, taught and strong, perfect. “I’ve had some time to myself you see, to reflect, it’s all well and good having a family, but sometimes a man has to have some time alone to enjoy his own company. You may not know that, being a watcher, married to the job and all.” There isn’t even a struggle as he snags the man’s wrists, looping the manacles around them and binding them shut.
The sickness twists inside of him, but Angelus ignores it. This is how it has to be, and it will be worth it. It will all be worth it once he gets to see their faces again. Once he gets to hold them again. Once they’re all back to being together as they are meant to be. A soft groan makes him move, and it’s all muscle memory to bind the chains to the bedposts at the end of the bed. Splayed wide open, unable to shield himself, all those vital organs just presented so easily to be torn out. Drusilla will like that.
Stepping back a little he looks at his work, and finds no sense of pride within the view. Art. This used to be art, but even if the drapes fall softly around the form like a curtain upon a stage, the act feels frail. It angers him. This used to be so easy, it should be easy, and yet it’s stoking a fire inside his chest. Still the act continues. It must.
“But really this is a fortunate meeting.” Voice firm, calm, collected. There is nothing that can surprise you. Always appear to be in control and no one will think you weak. For the moment the Watcher has strength in his legs to hold himself up, it seems he’s shaken the daze free enough to tug at his chains and take in the situation fully. Good. It’s better this way. His awaiting audience won’t permit him to slip up, he needs to always be on form. Angelus’ fingers twitch to release the chains and he has to fight them into fists to be still.
“Release me.” The watcher snarls, eyes bright with anger, fear, and a wonderful array of emotions any vampire would revel in seeing. It makes Angelus recoil a little. “Release me you foul demon. I won’t tell you anything, my Slayer is going to rip through you and your kin, she’s going to-”
This isn’t the sort of show for hecklers, and he knows the next step.
Stepping closer he backhands the man, sneering a little when he catches his tongue and a dribble of blood runs free down his chin. The scent beckons him and disgusts him all at once. His stomach rolls.They deserve better than this. Snatching a silk stocking from the nightstand, he knows it’s Darla’s from scent alone, and ties it around the man’s head, gagging him effectively. He just needs to focus, that’s all. Just close his eyes, breathe, and take the next step.
“You see in my haste to return back to where I belong, it completely slipped my mind to bring a gift, and you don’t want to know how snippy Darla can be if I don’t bring her a gift, and the children can sulk for days.” He tuts, pacing a little in front of the man and wondering if he should move some items about to create a better tableau. The problem is, he doesn’t want to. It used to be a desire, a want, to stand out above the rest and be different, but now the thought of extending this longer than he has to makes him want to cower. He can’t afford to slip.
“So I truly thank you for being here.” Practice makes perfect, and it’s been so long since he’s had to perform in front of others. The scenery shall do as it is, but the theatrics must continue. “We’ll be sure that your slayer knows about your death of course, send her a gift of her own maybe.” They used to delight in that game. Ripping various body parts from watchers and leaving them in a good game of finders keepers throughout London. Swallowing back the bile, Angelus stands before his victim and feels hollow inside.
It’s not as easy as it used to be. No matter how hard he tries, the feeling behind it can’t be imitated. A fear kindles in the back of his mind. They’re going to know, they’re going to see, they’re going to snap and claw at the sheep in wolf’s clothing and cast him aside again.
“But I feel it’s all a bit unfair.” Angelus tells the watcher, cradling the man’s face in his palms and seeing utter terror in his eyes. The prey doesn’t know the difference. Lion, tiger, bear, or hawk, the manner of death means nothing, they are programmed to fear it all.
The blood lingering on the man’s chin taunts him. A siren’s call, a want. Looking at the smear Angelus wonders if this is the precipice. This moment right here. They haven’t seen him yet, they’ll know he was here of course, but hiding within a war is easy enough, and they won’t chase him. They didn’t before. He could run. Disappear again. Become nothing. But to do so, would be to lose them completely. This took enough effort and willpower, and he doesn’t know if he’d be able to do this again. If it is to be, it is to be now. This is the moment, and he needs to stop thinking of choices already made. Swiping a thumb over the man’s chin, he scoops up a drop of blood and laps at it, enjoying the taste of delight, and ignoring the swell of disgust for himself. The watcher grimaces, but seems aware that his fate is sealed.
“Tell you what, I’ll speak the truth to you.” As much truth as he can bear parting with. “Man to man. It may bring you some comfort, though it’s unlikely.” A tear rolls down the man’s cheek and gets absorbed into the gag.
“I’m not a liar, so hear this.” Just another step. Continue the act. He wants them, and they are worth every single ounce of heat behind his ribs. He told Darla he would fight through the very flames of hell to be by her side, and it has often felt that way. But here is a man, an innocent, with ripe blood, at his mercy, and the final step feels too far. So he’ll settle for the run up to the finish line. “I’m not going to kill you. I’m not even going to lay a finger on you. I can promise you that.”
And he won’t. Because despite it all, he can’t. However, Angelus can pat the man’s cheek and step away, leaving him chained, in the lair of the most dangerous of vampires, as a gift to be enjoyed. It won’t be his kill, but he knows the guilt will crush him all the same, just maybe a little less if he’s lucky. He never is.
“Chin up, just hang there and think of England. They won’t keep you waiting long.” The throb at the back of his neck is tingling, family is closing in, and he is grateful for it. He knows there is only so long he can sit and wait with an innocent life hanging beside him. It’s a test, and one he intends to pass no matter what.
Setting a chair before the victim, he ensures his back is to the struggling watcher. The clank and rattle of chains is nothing new, and easy to ignore when he can’t see the reason why it’s happening. The muffled yells and calls for help simply mix with the ones inside his mind as he waits and sits. The smell of smoke surrounding the entire city is just a part of the background, or his guilt burning through his ribs to spill into the world. Angelus can be patient, so he ignores it all and watches the door.
They’re coming. To rise and pace would betray his nerves, to be anything other than what they’re expecting would send them on high alert. Maybe not the children, he has a feeling they will be too excited to think too hard about it. But then they didn’t see him before. Not like she did. Wailing, fingers tangled in his hair, begging and crying for her to save him once again as she did before. He had no right to ask that of her, he knows that now. Angelus had to save himself, and he’s done it as well as he can. There is no other life for him but the one they can give him. All he has to do is play his part. Soon it won’t be an act, it will just be as it was, he’s sure of it. The watcher behind him struggles, but he ignores the whimpers and whines. All trapped animals make noises for pity, but predators do not hear them.
Instead he waits. Until the tremble upon the back of his neck is aflame with want and desire. Angelus can feel them. Their scents bloom upon their arrival, he knows the sharp clap of Darla’s heels, the cackling laughter of Drusilla, the rolling drawl of Spike’s new found voice. It hits him like a wave, and he has to steady himself. To sob would shatter any illusion he’s holding. There is a pause in the voices, and he knows Darla at least has felt him properly, and knows it’s not false. They embark towards him, and Angelus braces himself in the chair, trying to seem as relaxed and at home as he should feel.
The door swings open, and three faces he knows so well stare at him in disbelief. With a smile on his face, Angelus rises from his seat, hoping his legs don’t give away his nerves by staggering. He wants to drop to his knees and howl in ecstasy, gather them all into his arms and smother himself in their scents, bite and taste and take them all into himself in every way possible.
But that is not the act. The next step is perilous, but he’ll be damned all over again if he doesn’t take it. For them. For him. Forever.
“Missed me?”