Author's note: The song cited in this chapter is Vedi! Le fosche notturne (otherwise known as the Anvil Chorus). For those of you not familiar with the piece, I've provided a link to it.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=RXFZckzjcKw








Chapter Thirty-One




“Chi del gitano i giorni abbella…”

William tapped the head of his railway spike with his mallet, so that a pleasant ringing sound hit at counterpoint to his singing. He had a nice voice, a good ear. He had drunk the better part of a bottle of liquor (rotgut, he had discovered, was a great balm for a wounded heart), and his mood had been greatly improved because of it. In his alcohol-soaked mind, he sang to the accompaniment of a full orchestra. He thought the music made an already pleasurable experience downright delightful.

Most likely, David Havisham would not have agreed.

William had let Havisham dangle on the line for a few weeks. He knew the man had called the police to remove Archer’s body; he knew, also, that afterward Havisham slept with a revolver underneath his pillow. A revolver! It was laughable. You almost had to feel sorry for the man.

Almost.

Still, William gave him a few weeks to bask in the light of his terror. It wouldn’t be much fun otherwise. Then, just when he felt the man’s guard might be dropping, he took him. He might have just snatched Havisham off the street; it would have been easier. However, Angelus’ lessons were still strong in his mind, so he decided to test himself a bit. He learned, from listening to servants’ gossip (he spent a goodly amount of time at Havisham’s cellar window, during those last few nights), that there was a ball coming up. Someone’s daughter was coming out, or getting married, or some such thing, and it was expected to be quite an affair. It was upon hearing this that William’s plan began to form.

Half the men in the city left a ball drunk, and Havisham was no exception. As William knew firsthand, Havisham usually couldn’t tell you his own name once he left a society gathering, let alone remember yours. William was counting on this. He waited outside the opulent house of Havisham’s host…waited quite late, until he could be sure of not being discovered by late arrivals. Then, when the time was right, he walked around back to the stable yard. Normally, guests’ coaches did not stay for the duration of the ball; they would drop off their masters and then return later to pick them up. However, as the host was Havisham’s own cousin…or sister-in-law…or, well, whatever she was, he’d had his driver pull around to the rear of the house and wait there for him. This meant he could leave at any time he chose, also that he would not have to wait in an endless line for his carriage after the party ended.

William disposed of the elderly coachman with ease. Then, he took the man’s coat and hat—as well as his place on the box—and waited for his target to appear. When Havisham arrived, he noticed nothing unusual about his driver; William had pulled his hat well down his forehead to obscure his face, and Havisham was too intoxicated to recognize him, even if he had not. He staggered into the coach without fear. William drove him to a secluded area near to the hotel, and then he performed the same efficient little clout to the head that he’d used on Archer. Afterward, carrying him home was quite easy.

He didn’t want to hang Havisham on the wall; that would be redundant. So, after a little thought (and a great deal of whiskey) he carried the man into the bedroom, laid him out on the floor, and bound and gagged him. Then, while Drusilla sat on the bed and watched, he dropped down beside his victim and tortured him. This was what he was doing at present, as he sang his own accompaniment to the ringing of the hammer on the metal spike.

Naturally, had he used his full strength, the spike would have been driven in completely on the first blow. But that seemed too easy, not to mention boring. Instead, he tempered his movements, so that it went in little by little to the tempo of his song. He began with the right leg, finished with it quickly, and now labored over the left one.

When the tip of the spike finally broke through Havisham’s thighbone (and the poor man’s muffled screaming would have let them know this, even if the small crunching sound did not), Drusilla started giggling. William looked up at her briefly, winked, and then raised his voice with drunken cheerfulness.

“Chi del gitano i giorni abbella…chi…chi i giorni abbella…”

“What the fuck are you doing in here?”

William turned quickly in the direction of the voice. It was Angelus, and he wasn’t smiling. He might have known to quiet down by the look on his face alone. However, Angelus had not paid him any notice in days, and intoxication and the sudden desire for the older vampire’s attention made him act out in a way he might not have otherwise. He bellowed the ending—

“La zingarella, la zingarella…La zingarella!”

—while at the same time plunging the spike into Havisham’s hip, causing him to scream around the cloth of his gag.

Angelus crossed the room in a moment. One fist closed around William’s shirtfront, and he hauled him to his feet with no effort whatsoever.

“You little bastard. I asked you a question!”

“I like to sing at my work.”

“Well, stop it! You’re giving Darla a headache.”

Oh. Darla. William hated Darla.

I’ll show her a headache when I use her forehead for a pincushion, he thought.

Still, he couldn’t exactly say that to Angelus. But he did something almost as bad. He laughed at him and then said brashly, “If you don’t like this melody, I am open to suggestions.”

“My suggestion is that you’d best keep a civil tongue in you, before I cut it off and make you eat it.”

William pulled away from him, then. “You certainly are in a poor mood tonight,” he said sullenly. This was one of the few things that made him feel truly alive, truly connected with the world around him. Now, it seemed Angelus was trying to take it from him. Yet, he had never minded it before; in fact, he had encouraged it. So, why now—?

“If I’m in a poor mood it’s because of this.” Angelus pulled a rolled-up newspaper from his jacket pocket and thrust it at William. “Read it.”

William unfolded the paper. It was crumpled and yellow, difficult to read. They fished their newspapers out of the trash, rather than buying them or going to the greater trouble of killing a newsboy every time they wished to read one. The text on this one was blurred and water-spotted. William had to squint to make out the article.




Man Found Mutilated in Mayfair
Police say possible connection to at least eight other murders


The mutilated corpse of one Mr. Charles Archer was found Thursday last, on the lawn of a close friend who wishes to keep his name anonymous. While officially listed as head trauma, the detectives at Scotland Yard are not releasing any more details about the cause of death. Witness accounts, however, state that the body suffered multiple stab wounds, burns, and blunt-force trauma. Police refuse to verify these accounts. However, word has it that the detectives have discovered a possible link between this murder and eight others that took place five weeks ago at the residence of one Mr. William Hartley. Eight servants of Mr. Hartley were found dead in their quarters, the victims of severe lacerations to the throat. Mr. Hartley and his mother, Mrs. Anne Hartley, have been missing ever since. Originally, it was suspected that the two were abducted and held for ransom. However, as no one came forward with demands of money, this theory was quickly abandoned. The connection between the two incidences was evidenced when an attendant of the meeting where Mr. Archer was last seen alive came forward with further information. While Mr. Archer never made it to his coach that night, he was seen near the carriage block some moments before it arrived, talking to none other than the missing Mr. Hartley. Police refuse to comment on this matter.




William read the article twice. He couldn’t understand why Angelus was upset. It wasn’t as if being in the newspaper was something unusual for him; his disappearance and the details of the murders had already been well documented. Moreover, this particular article was not even a new one. It was already two or three weeks old. He looked up at Angelus with puzzlement.

“My disappearance has already been in the newspapers.”

“Not that, you stupid caffler. The other. The connection between you and that Archer fellow. They’re going to come looking for you, now.”

“Well…it isn’t as if they can put me into lockup if they find me.”

Angelus grabbed the newspaper from William and hit him upside the head with it. “Our purpose is not to gain publicity or notoriety. We are the creatures of the night; we are the silent hunters, the mysterious artists of death. Don’t you see you’re cheapening it?”

Part of William wanted to laugh at that—and they call me, the Bloody Awful Poet?—but another, more sensible, part of him realized that if he did laugh, then Angelus would grow even angrier. Already, he had learned it didn’t do to make Angelus angry.

Instead, he said, in the most insincere and placating of tones, “All right. I understand. I shall endeavor to be more careful not to be seen in the future.”

Angelus shoved the paper into William’s stomach. “Do that,” he said. “I’m enjoying London far too much for you to spoil it for me.” He glanced at Havisham and added, “And get that thing out of here. You’ve played with him enough, and Darla is trying to sleep.”

William waited for Angelus to return to his own room, then, regretfully, he turned back to Havisham. “I suppose I must put an end to him, then,” he sighed.

But Drusilla grabbed the hand that clutched the spike and held it back. “May I?” she asked. “He’s so…vivid. I should like to put him away.”

Tilting his head at her, William considered the question. Finally, he raised his weapon and drove it home—not into Havisham’s head but into his crotch, blotting out that which might have distracted Dru from her task.

“Now, you may,” he said.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~



The night following Havisham’s death, William didn’t feel like hunting. Not at all. He was hungry for blood, but playing with Havisham had abated his lust for violence, if only temporarily. For now, he preferred to sit alone in the dimly lit hotel suite, rather than accompany the rest of the happy family out into the city. Only Darla felt pleased by his reluctance to join them. Since her return, the four of them had been traveling together to hunt. Likely, this change in routine had to do with Angelus’ pride in how well William had taken to his torture lesson with Archer. He recognized that his fledgling was becoming something worthy of accompanying them. Since someone must look to Drusilla’s wellbeing, she went with them, as well. Predictably, Darla was not thrilled by this turn of events. And, although his motives might have been entirely selfish, this evening William was happy to oblige her.

In truth, the foremost reason he did not feel like accompanying them that night was that he was still drunk. Having discovered the merits of cheap whisky, he was now guilty of indulging in it often. It was offensive to the palate, to say the least, but it was far more plentiful than the expensive fair that he had once been accustomed to drinking. It also seemed to intoxicate much more quickly; thus the basis of its appeal. He found it to be a wonderful balm for his wounds…particularly the one that festered in the middle of his heart. Tonight, he wanted to revel in the glory of its wonderful numbing properties.

And he wanted to do it alone.

Angelus seemed annoyed by the younger vampire’s reluctance to join them. He snapped: “And how, dearest William, do you plan to spend your night? Moping about in the damned dark until you’re ready to make the newspapers with another insipid kill, or sitting here all night long, getting bolloxed?”

“The latter,” answered William. He took a long swig from his bottle and added, with a smirk, “Well, perhaps both. I suppose it shall depend on just how intoxicated I become.”

Angelus kicked him in the leg. “You’d better watch yourself, William. I’m warning you.”

Drusilla, meanwhile, was pouting at him. “You’re in a tree William, all amongst the clouds. Why do you not come down and join us?”

To which William replied stubbornly, “Because I like the tree. The tree is bloody brilliant.”

“And since when did you start drinking like a fishwife?” Angelus demanded, with a look of disgust that William could barely see through his alcohol-induced haze.

He rolled his shoulders carelessly, reluctant to answer the question. Because it was about her, as it always was, and she was his and not to be shared with the likes of them. She was purity and light; he refused to allow them to sully her name with their bloodstained lips. At any rate, Angelus did not seem to be seeking an answer as much as a reason to kick William again, which he did. William barely felt it. Whether that was from alcohol or indifference, he really couldn’t say.

He waited until the three of them left, and then rolled over onto his stomach, groping underneath the couch with one hand. There was a hole in the upholstery there, and inside it, he had hidden his book. He’d placed it there some weeks before, when one night, he had discovered Drusilla pulling clothing and personal effects out of everyone’s bags and closets, and dancing about, scattering them around the suite as if they were confetti. After that, he grew concerned that his original hiding place (an otherwise empty drawer in the nightstand) was no longer safe. Drusilla did not know about the book. No one knew about it, and he intended to keep it that way.

Although, he had promised himself that he would not spend yet another night brooding over love lost, he pulled the book from its hiding place. He threw himself back down on the sofa; and, with his bottle of whiskey as an audience, he opened the book and began to read.

When thou art not pleased, beloved,
Then my heart is sad and darkened,
As the shining river darkens
When the clouds drop shadows on it…

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




He didn’t remember falling asleep, but he must have, for the next thing he knew he was waking up, and it was nearly dawn. The sky was slate, and the three of them had returned. He might not have known this (the suite was quiet, and Darla and Dru were noticeably absent from it) had it not been for Angelus, standing there by the window. His face was half in shadow, his eyes trained steadily on—

Him.

William sat up, uneasy with the intensity of the other man’s stare—the type of intensity usually accompanied by abuse for some real or imagined error in behavior. He brushed back his rumpled curls and yawned. “Good hunting, was it?” He might as well keep the conversation light, if he could.

“Fair. The girls have gone to take their rest.”

“Well…good. That’s good, then.”

“Mm,” answered Angelus noncommittally. His eyes shifted to the windowpane, and, inwardly, William sighed with relief. He searched the sofa cushions for his book, wanting hide it away while the other vampire’s back was turned.

But his book was not there.

Thinking it had fallen to the floor he lay on his stomach and stuck his hand beneath the sofa, blindly exploring the dusty, dark space with his fingertips. When he didn’t find what he was looking for, he leapt to his feet with an abruptness that startled even Angelus.

“Where is it? Have you seen—?”

His eyes darted around the room in agitation, but he didn’t see it anywhere. He threw over the sofa to make certain he had not missed it. He would have overturned the rest of the furniture as well, had Angelus’ firm hand not stopped him.

“What in the holy hell is wrong with you?” Angelus demanded.

William wrenched himself from his grandsire’s grasp. “My book, you son of a bitch. What did you do with it? Where is it? Where—”

He shoved Angelus, who shoved him back, twice as hard. So hard, in fact, that William went flying across the room into a curio cabinet. The glass shattered against his back, slicing his shirt and cutting him in dozens of different places. He hardly even noticed. He picked himself back up, refusing to cower under Angelus’ dominating stance. He brushed past him and headed into the bedroom that he shared with Drusilla.

She was kneeling on the middle of their bed, holding a pair of embroidery scissors, and happily slashing at something that lay on her lap. William didn’t have to draw closer to know that it was the book. She had ripped the pages of it from their bindings and scattered them about the room; some were torn, some were crumpled. Virtually all were unsalvageable. What Drusilla held on her lap, now, was merely the empty cover. One quick and close glance showed him that it was already beyond recognition, nothing more than fringe of dark leather.

For a second, he was so stunned he couldn’t even move. His book. The only thing she had ever given him…the only thing he truly had left of her. He had been so careful to protect it from them, to hide it away. Now, in one fucking drunken night, he had been careless, and Drusilla had taken it away.

Dru looked up from her work to see him standing there in the doorway. She smiled at him in a simple and almost childlike way, and said, “She told me you loved her more than me, so I took her away.”

The spell broke, then. William lunged across the room to her. He grabbed her by her shoulders and threw her into the wall. “You bleeding bitch! Do you realize what you—?”

His throat closed, and he could not finish. It was almost as if Elizabeth had been killed a second time, taken from him a second time—

Drusilla was laughing.

There was a rack of fireplace tools on the hearth near to where they stood. William snatched up the small, iron shovel. But as much as he wanted to, he could not bring himself to beat her. That same something that had compelled him to follow her from the graveyard on that first night would not let him. Not love but something darker, something instinctual. She was his sire, and although he often hurt her in other ways, it was only because she asked him to do so. He could not bring himself to hurt her out of anger. He dropped the tool to the floor, and Drusilla looked almost as surprised as he felt. In fact, she looked almost…

Disappointed.

William didn’t notice her expression. He couldn’t look at her, couldn’t even bear to be in the same room with her now. He stormed out without a word and slammed the door behind him.

Angelus was standing in the middle of the adjoining room, staring towards the door as if waiting for him.

“I ought to kill you for a fool,” he said.

William didn’t answer. He knew Angelus was talking about his refusal to submit—a crime far greater than the angry shove that had come before it. He fully expected to receive some sort of cruel punishment for it, yet he didn’t fear it. He knew if Angelus came at him now, he would put up a fight. He was that angry. If he were a god, he would have crushed them all beneath his heel.

However, instead of coming at him, Angelus returned the sofa to its upright position and sat down on it. He slouched comfortably into the cushions and sighed. “What’d she do?”

William flopped down beside him. Suddenly, he felt very, very tired.

“She destroyed it.” He said it without emotion.

“Ah. That book was something you had when you were human?”

William could see by the twist in Angelus’ mouth that he would not approve of the answer. Nonetheless, he gave it honestly. “Yes.”

“Some little article from your past gave it to you, no doubt.”

“She wasn’t—it was more than that.”

“Sure it was. She was the love of young Willy’s life. And, like the gobshite that you are, you decided to keep it, once young Willy became a vampire. And for what? Sentimental value?”

“It was mine. She had no right—”

Angelus chuckled. “Oh, you can’t hide anything from Drusilla, best not even to try.” He glanced over at William and, seeing the expression on his face, sighed. “Ah, why are you getting yourself so upset over this? It was just a book, given to you by a lass who probably doesn’t think of you at all, now you’re gone.”

“She’s dead.”

“You do her?” Angelus looked impressed.

“No.”

“She died before you, then?”

“Yes. Just prior. In an accident.”

“Hm.” Angelus snickered. “And you’ve kept it this long. Why?”

“I already told you—”

“Oh, Jaysus, William. Don’t you get it, even now? You are a vampire. The girl didn’t give that damned book to you; she gave it to a man who doesn’t even exist anymore.”

“That isn’t—”

“Oh, yes?” Angelus smirked. “Then tell me this, my lad. If your girl saw you now…if she saw what you’ve done in her absence…would she still love you?”

William opened his mouth to answer, but almost immediately, he closed it again. He knew the truth, of course. He just couldn’t bear to say it.

Angelus gave him a slap on the back, as if to express some sort of camaraderie in their evil, and then he stood up. “You’re doing well, as you are,” he added in a friendlier tone. “I suggest you don’t arse it all up.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




…a man that doesn’t exist anymore.

Much later, after he had made his peace with Drusilla and joined her in their bed, Angelus’ words came back to him. He sat up in the mid-afternoon light dimmed by drapes, and his eyes drifted over to the ornate, gold-framed mirror that hung on the wall opposite him. His face was not there, of course. He didn’t expect it to be. Still, he wondered.

Just who am I, now? Who am I, really?

But he didn’t have a reflection to look upon, and without it, he really couldn’t say.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~