A/N: Thanks again for following! Because the show always does an awesome job of using music I've been starting each part with lyrics from a song from my cd library that I envision playing during one of the scenes in the chapter. Google any you don't recognize and maybe it will introduce you to a song or band you hadn't previously heard.
So boy, Welcome to sleep
I'm gonna make you, make you, make you bleed
~Gary Numan~
McCallan's lilting tone made Mitchell's skin crawl. "Don't do this," Mitchell said, in a tight voice. "You don't have to do this. There're other ways. I-I'll go with you. I'll take the guy out for you; just tell me where to find him."
"Oh," Sheldon said, ignoring Mitchell, "from the wrist, McCallan, if you don't mind. No offence intended but I can't risk you getting too full and sleepy." He dropped his top hand away from George's head but kept the left arm secure across the throat. He dug a set of tiny keys from his coat pocket and passed them to McCallan.
A nearly imperceptible click preceded the sound of metal clinking against metal. McCallan unlocked the steel ring from George's left wrist but immediately relocked it around the pipe.
McCallan tossed the keys back with one hand while extending his victim's freed arm. Sheldon had again secured the neck-break hold on George, and Mitchell could hear the pounding of his heart and smell the terror radiating off him.
"Oh God," George whispered. His gaze was locked on the ceiling and Mitchell couldn't tell if the tremors shaking his friend's body were from cold or fear. Mitchell's jacket had slipped from George's shoulders and lay in a useless heap behind him.
"I'll kill you," Mitchell hissed. The pistol pressed to his throat meant nothing; the wound at his side was ignored. The fury had taken control. His eyes were black and his fangs had dropped. He stared at McCallan but the pure darkness in his voice brought all eyes to him. "I swear to all that is holy and all that is evil, I will kill you."
Despite the facts indicating the threat to be an impossibility, McCallan wavered with his teeth hovering above George's forearm. His eyes showed trepidation and flicked to Sheldon. However, Sheldon turned his attention to Mitchell.
"A bullet can be put in your skull right now. You do realize that?"
Ian thumbed back the pistol's hammer and the click seemed to fill the room.
"Stop. Mitchell…."
The voice was shaky but had enough composure to be the only thing that could have reached the human part of the vampire. Mitchell blinked away the blackness in his vision and felt his fangs recede. He could sense George's eyes on him but he didn't feel the strength to return the gaze. He'd failed his friend.
"Mitchell." It came out as a half-whisper but it commanded the vampire's attention. George's eyes glistened with moisture, his lips were pressed tight in an obvious attempt to stifle his emotion, yet he managed to display a ghost of a smile. "It's okay." Despite the restraining hold, George nodded to his friend. "It's okay."
The sound of fangs puncturing flesh ripped through Mitchell's brain and pierced his heart. He slammed his eyes shut, as if that could block out the sound of his friend's scream.
Beside him, he heard Ian gag in reaction to an act considered beyond taboo in most of the vampire world. Andy, also, made a muffled retching sound.
Mitchell's hearing engulfed his other senses. The wet smack of McCallan feeding, George's pounding heartbeat and hyperventilating breath all swelled in his ears. He heard a whisper, repeating the same words over and over, "That'senoughThat'senoughThat'senough" until the voice rose to a fevered pitch. He forced his eyes open and realized it was his own voice. "THAT'S ENOUGH!"
The roar seized the attention of each vampire in the room. Ian jerked back, frightened. McCallan dropped George's arm and took a drunken half-step away but his eyes were glassy and he proceeded to lick at the blood smeared about his mouth. Sheldon had released his hold and seemed to consider George to be of no consequence.
Mitchell made a move to stand but Ian put a hand on his chest to stop him. The older vampire fixed his guard with an unblinking gaze.
"You'd best get permission to shoot me now, because I am getting up to tend to my friend."
Ian didn't move his hand but didn't apply pressure or use the gun when Mitchell pushed himself up with support from the wall and limped toward the hunched figure seated on the concrete ridge.
Just as Mitchell reached him, George turned away and vomited. With his wounded left arm wrapped tight against his stomach and his cuffed right arm extended back toward the pipe he looked like a Bouffonical actor in deep bow.
When the sick splashed toward Sheldon's shiny black shoes and caused the man to step away Mitchell couldn't help but let a tiny smile show. With a hand on his friend's back, Mitchell spoke soft words of reassurance and waited till the shudders passed before attempting to turn George toward him.
He didn't say anything as he pulled off his flannel button-up and crouched in front of George, who still clutched his punctured wrist to his body and hadn't looked up. Mitchell ripped one sleeve off the shirt and gingerly extended George's arm.
"Let's get this taken care of," he murmured.
George didn't answer but did straighten a bit and wiped his mouth on the shoulder of his t-shirt. Mitchell pressed the fabric against the wound, holding it in place with the heel of one hand whilst he unstrapped George's watch to get it out of the way. The leather band was slick and warm and Mitchell tucked it into the pocket of his jeans, anxious to rid his fingertips of his friend's blood.
He tried to detach himself from the process, telling himself this was a routine bandage wrap, but seeing the puncture wounds in his best friend's arm made his stomach twist.
George misinterpreted the look of revulsion. "It probably reeks to you…sorry, I'm sor-"
Mitchell clamped his hand across the bandage to help stop the bleeding and stared solidly into his friend's eyes. "No. George, this room is full of things that make me sick, but this," he gently shook the arm in his grip, "is not one of them."
He focused back on securing the makeshift bandage and added lightly. "That shirt you're wearing, on the other hand, we're gonna have to be burning that thing."
"That's all right," George answered hoarsely, "I'm pretty sure it's one of yours."
As Mitchell tied off the bandage he noticed something else. "Hey, what's this about?" With one fingertip, he lightly brushed the area on his friend's wrist where fighting against the handcuffs had left the skin raw and swollen. "Now what'd ya go and do a thing like this for?"
George replied with a small shrug. "Suppose I could have chewed it off to free myself."
Mitchell looked up with a smile and felt his stress level fade just a bit when he saw the same expression reflected back. "A little wolf humour there? Is that what that was?"
"Yeah, maybe a little."
"Don't make me laugh. It still hurts like the Devil."
George's eyes widened and several thoughts tried to come out at once. "Oh God, you got shot. I didn't mean to…Jesus, are you…?" His eyes fell to the small hole in Mitchell's black t-shirt where the fabric was stiff with drying blood.
Mitchell lifted the shirt just enough to expose massive blue and purple bruising that surrounded two ugly puckering in-and-out holes that had already closed. "Just a flesh wound, I've had worse."
"That's not funny," George replied.
"It was when John Cleese said it." He dropped the shirt back into place and showed a tired smile. "Just need a bit of time to let the innards recover."
From behind them McCallan's voice, thick from the feed, interrupted with a chuckle. "Take a drink while you're down there. It'll give you a grand kick…get you back on your feet."
Mitchell tilted his head slightly toward McCallan and replied in a subdued tone. "You'd do best to step back."
"Or what?" The words slurred together and Mitchell sensed it was the effects of the werewolf blood—the ferocity of the wolf merging into the arrogance of the vampire. The chartered accountant was a belligerent drunk.
McCallan's shoes scraped the concrete as he shifted toward Sheldon. "Who's this little piss to get such leeway, Mr. Wallace?"
Mitchell stood and turned to face the room; his head was low and his hair fell about his face as he stared at each of the vampires in turn.
"The name is John Mitchell. And I'm guessing any of you outside of fledgling age most likely recognize it. The Great War is when I was recruited…1917, by William Herrick. This is his town, by the way. So if you mean to engage in your little cockfight here I suggest you take care of it quick and leave this city by sunrise."
By the time Mitchell mentioned the war Sheldon wore a sober expression, Ian had paled, and McCallan's broad-shouldered stance had dipped. Definitely creatures outside of fledgling age.
"Then," Sheldon said, "let's get on with business…oh, but I've decided to take you up on your earlier offer, Mr. Mitchell. You're coming with."
George and Mitchell's answers overlapped.
"What?"
"Like hell."
Sheldon seemed unfazed. "Insurance policy. Andy is useless to me at the moment."
"I'm not useless," whinged the youth, who was now on his feet but still cradled his broken arm to his chest.
"Shut up, Andrew," Sheldon casually said. "So Ian will be here with Andy and my collateral," he waved a hand toward George, "until Edward Addington has a stake through his heart and I've pissed on his ashes. Then we all go our separate ways. 'course, the other option, Mitchell, is we kill you now and I let McCallan drain your friend's body dry right before we leave for home."
McCallan's bravado returned. "Or maybe I'll give him a taste and see if we can turn him into something good."
George moved at the same time as Mitchell. He just managed to get his free arm over the vampire's shoulder and clamped across his chest with a fistful of t-shirt in an attempt to hold him. Mitchell's mind flamed with a single thought—smash McCallan's fangs from his mouth with a chunk of concrete; however, George's voice cut through the rage and Mitchell allowed himself to be pulled back.
"Mitchell! No! No. Listen to me. Listen!"
The vampire heard the voice booming in his left ear but his eyes remained locked on McCallan in a deadly gaze. George breathed heavily from the exertion and tried to turn his friend toward him. "Look at me. Mitchell. Look. At. Me."
The words got through and Mitchell turned, focusing on the pale, sweat-peppered face inches from his own. George's free arm draped across Mitchell's left shoulder. Despite the bandage, the smell of werewolf blood was pungent in his nostrils and he could feel the sweat-slick palm that rested against the nape of his neck.
"Our box of options isn't exactly full right now," George said. "And as someone who I'm pretty sure has had the shittiest night here and, I'd say, has the most to lose, I'm asking you to keep it together. I need you to keep it together," he swallowed hard and tightened his grip on Mitchell's neck, "because you're all I've got."
George's eyes held a mixture of pleading, anger, fear and strength. Mitchell hated this. He should be able to protect his friends. They shouldn't be forced to suffer at the whims of 'his kind'. He set his mouth in a tight line but nodded in acquiescence. George visibly relaxed and Mitchell lightly gripped his sides to support his friend as he guided him back to the concrete seat.
Mitchell stretched out his arm behind him toward where he knew Sheldon stood. "Give me the keys." Two seconds of silence were enough to cause Mitchell to turn and fix the other vampire with a hard look. "You may not care if he goes hypothermic but I do. The keys. Please."
It was only one word but it contained the force of a man who'd lived for over a century, slaughtered others for not only need but sport, and had reveled in those things which many considered nightmares.
Sheldon dipped in his pocket for the keys and tossed them to Mitchell. "Contrary to popular belief, I'm not a total monster."
Mitchell detached the cuffs, slipped the key into his jeans pocket and dropped the handcuffs next to George on the concrete ledge. He picked up the torn flannel shirt and leather jacket. "C'mon," he said softly, "get these on. Ya gotta stay warm."
He helped his friend manoeuvre into the clothes. George managed the shirt buttons but his attempt to secure the ones on the jacket tightened the muscles of his wounded wrist, causing him to gasp and flinch. Wordlessly, Mitchell took over and closed the leather over his friend's body.
He started to peel off his fingerless gloves but George stopped him with a hand on Mitchell's. "Wouldn't seem right. Like taking the claws off Wolverine."
Mitchell showed a hint of a grin. "You're a gianourmous geek, you know that, don't you?"
George's face reflected the smile and he shrugged as if half-dismissing and half-acknowledging the statement.
"And anyway," Mitchell added, pulling the jacket's lapels closer together before popping the collar around his friend's neck, "it should be Batman."
George made a face. "Batman didn't have claws."
"Then what were those things on the outsides of his gloves? Ya know, all curved and pointy."
George's expression was still disapproving. "I dunno. Hooks? They weren't claws."
In the midst of the exchange, Mitchell reached into one of the jacket pockets and pulled out a cigarette pack. "I know how you are; you'll smoke 'em all as soon as my back is turned." He couldn't count the amount of times his friend had criticized him for smoking, usually because of the smell—one of the very few drawbacks of living with a werewolf. He tucked the pack in the front pocket of his jeans.
George rolled his eyes, feigning guilt. "Yeah, well, I've been trying to quit," he said, going along with the joke. "Thinking about taking up heroin as a distraction but there's the whole sharp things in the arm bit." He paused and the small bubble that had momentarily formed around them during the banter popped, exposing them to the surrounding dark reality. "That probably wasn't very funny, was it?"
George swallowed as his eyes watered and Mitchell felt his do the same. He tried for a smile but felt it came out as more of a wince.
"Yeah, George, no, not so much." He rubbed a hand quickly across his eyes and down his face. "I'll be back for the jacket in a bit."
From the door, Sheldon spoke. "Mr. Mitchell."
Ian stepped forward, grabbed George's injured arm and attempted to bend it back behind the pipe they'd secured him to earlier.
"Hey!" Mitchell spun on Ian, pushing him back.
Ian held his hands up in a placating gesture. "Either now or when you're gone."
Mitchell held Ian's gaze until the other vampire blinked and turned away. He held his stance for a second longer, then turned and picked up the handcuffs. It required all his will to take up George's uninjured wrist and slip one of the steel rings around it. He pressed his eyes closed as he locked down the cuff and each click was like a kick to Mitchell's chest.
He felt George move his arm close to the pipe and opened his eyes in time to see his friend reach over with his free hand and place his own fingers over Mitchell's, guiding them to close the other end of the cuff around the pipe. The action made Mitchell feel sick and he couldn't look George in the face.
A whisper, however, helped ease the tight fist that held his stomach. "Keep it-"
"Together," Mitchell finished, nodding. "Consider it being kept." He still couldn't meet George's eyes but he clapped a hand to the back of his friend's neck for reassurance.
Sheldon and McCallan waited in the hall for him; he crossed to follow but stopped in the doorway to address Ian and Andy. "If anything…anything happens to him you can be assured I'll find your homes and the homes of anyone you associate with and when I'm finished it'll make the Cornwall Tavern look like a fuckin' Easter parade."
He turned his back to the room and pulled the door shut behind him.
()()
The three vampires were barely out of the room before Andy's demeanor changed and George saw a return of the mouthy youth.
"What a fuckin' prat. I can't believe Sheldon made a deal with him."
"Shut up, Andy," Ian said, with the same casual tone used earlier by Sheldon. He was examining Andy's forearm which, from what George could see, had a distinctly disturbing bend above the wrist.
'Probably closed compound ulnar fracture,' thought George. 'Open would have been better. Little prick deserves some bone poking through the skin.'
"Don't touch it!" Andy blurted. "I need a doctor."
Ian appeared as if he was trying to maintain his patience. "You're a bloody vampire, Andy. That Mitchell bloke took a bullet through-and-through and you didn't hear him with the piss an' moan. Hold still."
The sound of bones grinding together preceded Andy shouting and cursing.
"What the hell was that about?" Andy squealed.
"It's back in place. Your body had already started healing. Much longer and it would have fused out of sorts. This way it'll mend proper."
Andy turned his frustration toward George, who was losing the battle to suppress a grin in reaction to the young man's pain.
"You think it's funny? Maybe I should break yours."
"You might want to watch it with that kind of talk," George said. He had a brief thought that the only emotion he had left in his body was an untouched store of sarcasm. "Cornwall Tavern…very sure he was serious. Very." In actuality, George had no idea what that reference was about but at this point he was delighted to have any kind of ammunition to use against his captors.
"Lay off, Andy," Ian said.
The younger vampire looked at his friend. "What's all that rubbish, anyway? Cornwall Tavern?"
Ian dug into his jacket pocket for a pack of cigarettes and from the tension on his face, George figured Ian to be craving a little stress relief. "Long before my time, and I've heard variations on the story but the facts are always the same.
"Summer of '32, a couple of vampires set up shop in Exeter down in Cornwall. Other vamps could pass through for a night but it was clear they weren't welcome for more than a day or so. Nothing rum about that; keeping things quiet is how we stay out of the pitchfork-and-torch carrying public's eye. One night a group of about thirty or forty fledglings—not sure where from, have heard both North and West Country—who'd been stirring things up a fair amount, end up in Exeter, and after one night decide they want to stay longer."
The lit cigarette tip flared as Ian took a long drag. "The local two said no, the fledglings said piss off and decided to lay out a little ambush for the two at The Cornwall Tavern after closing time. Except, in the morning, the whole lot was dead...but not by stake; more things like multiple limbs missing and throats torn open."
After a few seconds of silence, Andy tossed out a weak laugh. "C'mon, that's gotta be a fairy story. Two vamps against thirty or forty?"
Ian's face was unreadable as he took another long pull and let the smoke curl hypnotically from between his lips. "The first time I heard the story was from a vamp who claimed to be one of five of a clean-up group sent to the tavern the morning after. They were from just north of there, Stoke Hill, and had been tipped off by one of those two locals—a young, dark-haired mick—who told them Exeter had just become a free town but they'd have to tidy up a bit first. That was the first time I heard the names William Herrick and John Mitchell."
Ian dug in his pocket and pulled out a few notes, passing them to Andy. "Here, go up and get us a bottle of something and anything from the kitchen if it's still open."
Andy nodded and took the cash. "Yeah, sure. Hey, you got an extra," he asked, pointing at the cigarette. Ian complied with two and lit one for the youth before he left.
George thought Andy looked like he too was craving a little stress relief.
A/N: Liking it? Tell your friends or leave a review. =o) Thanks again to my brilliant beta Annie for tweak suggestions.
