Disclaimer: see prologue
Author's notes: hmmm, Angelus being around always helps make these things darker. Rating adjusted accordingly.
The Breton – chapter 3: The Bosom of the Family, 1883
The fog was rolling in waves over the river, and Luc leaned out of the cab to better see the city. All around him there was activity, despite the hour; people calling, people walking, people fighting … He took a deep, unnecessary breath and smiled. London, at last.
The cab drew to a halt outside a tall, elegant town house with steps up to the door. There was no courtyard, and the stone was a blackened grey, but it was nevertheless a nice building and Luc nodded. This seemed right. He climbed out of the cab, had his trunk hoisted off the roof, and paid the cab driver before ascending the steps and knocking on the door.
He waited only a few seconds before it was opened, by a pale young woman with bags under her eyes and wisps of blonde hair escaping from under her cap.
"Luc Tarpeau," said Luc, listening to her heartbeat. "I believe I am expected?"
"Yes, sir." The maid bobbed a courtesy. "Please, sir, I invite you in."
Luc smiled wryly at the ploy, and as he passed the girl glanced to see if she had the same scar on her neck that he had once had on his. She put a hand up to the spot, nervously, as he looked.
"Thank you …?" he said, in his new, limited English.
"Moira, sir," the girl replied. "Please, sir, I am to take you to your room and then the master asks you to join the family in the drawing room."
Luc nodded, and picking up his trunk followed the girl up two flights of stairs and into a comfortable room with the trademark deep velvet curtains and a red bedspread. The room smelt intoxicatingly of Angelus, and as the maid bobbed her way out, he put the trunk down and inhaled, closing his eyes, remembering.
He unpacked, and washed his face in the basin provided, changing into a nice suit and brushing his hair by feel, putting a ribbon in it that matched the suit before leaving the room and following his senses downstairs.
Outside the drawing room door he paused. There were voices from inside: the high, excited giggle of a girl, and a light, mocking Englishman. Luc squared his shoulders, adjusted his cravat, and pushed open the door.
The drawing room was lit by candles and was decorated in blue; Luc thought he recognised Darla's touch. The furnishings were opulent and comfortable. He took all this in in a glance, even as he turned to the figure reclining in an armchair by the fire, who looked up from his book, and laid it down with a smile.
"Luc."
"Sire," Luc said.
Angelus stood up with the same easy grace Luc remembered, and came to survey him. "You look wonderful," he said in French. "Was the journey dreadful?"
"I enjoyed it," Luc returned. "I like sailors. And there was a perfectly delicious tavern wench in Dover."
"Sailors are salty," remarked Darla, from the chaise-longue. "Welcome to London."
Luc crossed to her and bent to kiss her hand, and Darla smiled warmly at him. "See, William, this is how you treat your elders."
"It's Spike," the arrogant English voice Luc had heard from outside the door said, and Luc turned to see the third occupant of the room scowl at Darla. He was dressed in clean but scruffy clothes, something nondescript hanging off his lean form under a shock of sandy hair.
"Luc," said Angelus wearily, "this is Spike. Unfortunately my grandchilde. Formerly and more properly known as William the Bloody. Spike," he said, "Luc, who is worth a hundred of you."
Luc and Spike eyed each other warily.
"I am pleased to meet you," Luc said in careful English.
"Yeah, whatever." Spike shrugged. "Dru, you want to go and get somethin' to eat?"
The high, girlish laugh came again, and Luc looked from Spike to its source, and then glanced at Angelus for an explanation of the dark-haired beauty at Spike's feet, occupied in carefully mutilating a porcelain doll. Angelus smiled, and crossed the room to help the girl up with clear adoration in his eyes.
"Drusilla, my love, this is Luc."
"My brother?" the girl said, her voice light. "The brother you promised me, Daddy?"
"The very same," Angelus reassured her, stroking her cheek with a finger.
Luc forced a smile on to his face, translating 'brother' into French and realising that this brunette beauty was also his sire's childe; and presumably Spike's sire in turn.
"Enchanté," he said, sweeping Drusilla a bow. She laughed again.
"I like this one, Daddy," she whispered. "I can see years in him. So innocent, and so evil."
"Drusilla has the Sight," Angelus said.
"But no foresight, or she wouldn't have turned that pathetic creature," Darla said cuttingly. "She's completely mad, Luc," she added.
Drusilla whimpered and turned back to her dolls. Angelus shrugged.
"An hour before sunrise. Care for a stroll?"
"I would love a walk," Luc said, and together they left the room and after pausing to call for coats, they were out on the streets.
"So what do you think of London?" Angelus asked, slipping back into French.
"What I've seen, I've liked," Luc replied, glancing round at the people nearby. At this time they were mostly drunk. One or two beggars looked hopefully at the two vampires as they walked past, but neither Luc nor Angelus spared them any attention. "I expect I shall come to like it more."
"It does well enough," Angelus said. "I'm glad to be back after our unscheduled trip around Britain."
"Why was that?" Luc asked, remembering the occasional letters sent from York, from Edinburgh, from Liverpool.
"Spike. The boy got a little carried away and left damn great trails all over the place."
"I can't say I like him," Luc admitted.
Angelus glanced sideways and smiled. "I didn't think you would, my Luc. You're worth ten of him."
Luc returned the smile, feeling contentment sweep over him. He was home.
They walked a little further, exchanging tales, and Angelus took Luc down a side-street and up a flight of stairs. "Call this a welcome home present, Luc. Don't drain her, just a few sips." He knocked sharply on a plain wooden door which opened after a moment to reveal a pretty, but thin and pale girl who visibly recoiled from the doorway on seeing her visitors.
Angelus smiled one of his most charming smiles and moved through the door, bending to give her a deep kiss. "Invite my friend in," he said softly.
She nodded. "Come in."
Luc came through the door and closed it behind him.
"Catherine, my sweet," Angelus said, taking the girl by the arm and steering her along the short, dark passageway into an equally dark bedroom, "you're looking thin. Business bad?"
"It's fine," the girl said hoarsely. She twisted her arm out of his grip and unbuttoned the collar of her blouse, weariness on her face. "In fact I've got a client coming in half an hour. So you and your friend want to get on with it?"
"The client can wait, if he comes before we're finished," Angelus said calmly. "Luc. Neck or elsewhere? Your choice, my dear boy."
Luc examined the girl professionally. "I'll take the neck, sire."
"A good choice. Remember, no killing."
The girl, Catherine, lay back on the filthy bed with a resigned sigh, and Luc let the change come over him, bent down and drank. Beside him he could feel Angelus following his example. The girl lay quiet and still as they drank. Luc broke off quickly, taking out a handkerchief and wiping his lips as he let his features switch back to human. His sire was bent over the girl's thigh, but as Luc watched he sat up, smiling.
"Better leave you some strength for that client, hadn't we?" Angelus felt in a pocket and pulled out a note, folding it and tucking it into the girl's corset, before leaning over and kissing her again, hard, and evidently drawing blood. She pushed him off. "I'll see you next week, sometime," he said.
"One of these days," Catherine said, low and venomous, "I'm going to work out how to stop you from getting in here."
"And are you indeed?" Angelus said. "Well, I'll look forward to that day. We'll see ourselves out."
The dawn was approaching as they made their way back to the houses, their pace languorous.
"Where did you find her?" Luc asked.
"Oh, she propositioned me," Angelus said, grinning. "And that was all very sweet and nice, until she realised what I really wanted. Not that I wasn't averse to the former, mind. I'm never averse to that. But I like her; she's feisty. One day I might kill her. Till then I'll have my fun."
They reached the house, and safely inside hung up their coats.
"It's good to have you here," Angelus said. "Reminds me of those glorious days in Paris." He took Luc by the shoulders and kissed him on the forehead. "You've done well, my boy. I'm proud of you." He let go and turned for the stairs, but paused before heading upwards. In the same conversational tone he added, "and of course you'll have realised: Dru and Darla are mine. Keep away from them."
Luc, his euphoria dissipating slightly, bowed his head. "Yes, sire. Sleep well."
Author's notes: hmmm, Angelus being around always helps make these things darker. Rating adjusted accordingly.
The Breton – chapter 3: The Bosom of the Family, 1883
The fog was rolling in waves over the river, and Luc leaned out of the cab to better see the city. All around him there was activity, despite the hour; people calling, people walking, people fighting … He took a deep, unnecessary breath and smiled. London, at last.
The cab drew to a halt outside a tall, elegant town house with steps up to the door. There was no courtyard, and the stone was a blackened grey, but it was nevertheless a nice building and Luc nodded. This seemed right. He climbed out of the cab, had his trunk hoisted off the roof, and paid the cab driver before ascending the steps and knocking on the door.
He waited only a few seconds before it was opened, by a pale young woman with bags under her eyes and wisps of blonde hair escaping from under her cap.
"Luc Tarpeau," said Luc, listening to her heartbeat. "I believe I am expected?"
"Yes, sir." The maid bobbed a courtesy. "Please, sir, I invite you in."
Luc smiled wryly at the ploy, and as he passed the girl glanced to see if she had the same scar on her neck that he had once had on his. She put a hand up to the spot, nervously, as he looked.
"Thank you …?" he said, in his new, limited English.
"Moira, sir," the girl replied. "Please, sir, I am to take you to your room and then the master asks you to join the family in the drawing room."
Luc nodded, and picking up his trunk followed the girl up two flights of stairs and into a comfortable room with the trademark deep velvet curtains and a red bedspread. The room smelt intoxicatingly of Angelus, and as the maid bobbed her way out, he put the trunk down and inhaled, closing his eyes, remembering.
He unpacked, and washed his face in the basin provided, changing into a nice suit and brushing his hair by feel, putting a ribbon in it that matched the suit before leaving the room and following his senses downstairs.
Outside the drawing room door he paused. There were voices from inside: the high, excited giggle of a girl, and a light, mocking Englishman. Luc squared his shoulders, adjusted his cravat, and pushed open the door.
The drawing room was lit by candles and was decorated in blue; Luc thought he recognised Darla's touch. The furnishings were opulent and comfortable. He took all this in in a glance, even as he turned to the figure reclining in an armchair by the fire, who looked up from his book, and laid it down with a smile.
"Luc."
"Sire," Luc said.
Angelus stood up with the same easy grace Luc remembered, and came to survey him. "You look wonderful," he said in French. "Was the journey dreadful?"
"I enjoyed it," Luc returned. "I like sailors. And there was a perfectly delicious tavern wench in Dover."
"Sailors are salty," remarked Darla, from the chaise-longue. "Welcome to London."
Luc crossed to her and bent to kiss her hand, and Darla smiled warmly at him. "See, William, this is how you treat your elders."
"It's Spike," the arrogant English voice Luc had heard from outside the door said, and Luc turned to see the third occupant of the room scowl at Darla. He was dressed in clean but scruffy clothes, something nondescript hanging off his lean form under a shock of sandy hair.
"Luc," said Angelus wearily, "this is Spike. Unfortunately my grandchilde. Formerly and more properly known as William the Bloody. Spike," he said, "Luc, who is worth a hundred of you."
Luc and Spike eyed each other warily.
"I am pleased to meet you," Luc said in careful English.
"Yeah, whatever." Spike shrugged. "Dru, you want to go and get somethin' to eat?"
The high, girlish laugh came again, and Luc looked from Spike to its source, and then glanced at Angelus for an explanation of the dark-haired beauty at Spike's feet, occupied in carefully mutilating a porcelain doll. Angelus smiled, and crossed the room to help the girl up with clear adoration in his eyes.
"Drusilla, my love, this is Luc."
"My brother?" the girl said, her voice light. "The brother you promised me, Daddy?"
"The very same," Angelus reassured her, stroking her cheek with a finger.
Luc forced a smile on to his face, translating 'brother' into French and realising that this brunette beauty was also his sire's childe; and presumably Spike's sire in turn.
"Enchanté," he said, sweeping Drusilla a bow. She laughed again.
"I like this one, Daddy," she whispered. "I can see years in him. So innocent, and so evil."
"Drusilla has the Sight," Angelus said.
"But no foresight, or she wouldn't have turned that pathetic creature," Darla said cuttingly. "She's completely mad, Luc," she added.
Drusilla whimpered and turned back to her dolls. Angelus shrugged.
"An hour before sunrise. Care for a stroll?"
"I would love a walk," Luc said, and together they left the room and after pausing to call for coats, they were out on the streets.
"So what do you think of London?" Angelus asked, slipping back into French.
"What I've seen, I've liked," Luc replied, glancing round at the people nearby. At this time they were mostly drunk. One or two beggars looked hopefully at the two vampires as they walked past, but neither Luc nor Angelus spared them any attention. "I expect I shall come to like it more."
"It does well enough," Angelus said. "I'm glad to be back after our unscheduled trip around Britain."
"Why was that?" Luc asked, remembering the occasional letters sent from York, from Edinburgh, from Liverpool.
"Spike. The boy got a little carried away and left damn great trails all over the place."
"I can't say I like him," Luc admitted.
Angelus glanced sideways and smiled. "I didn't think you would, my Luc. You're worth ten of him."
Luc returned the smile, feeling contentment sweep over him. He was home.
They walked a little further, exchanging tales, and Angelus took Luc down a side-street and up a flight of stairs. "Call this a welcome home present, Luc. Don't drain her, just a few sips." He knocked sharply on a plain wooden door which opened after a moment to reveal a pretty, but thin and pale girl who visibly recoiled from the doorway on seeing her visitors.
Angelus smiled one of his most charming smiles and moved through the door, bending to give her a deep kiss. "Invite my friend in," he said softly.
She nodded. "Come in."
Luc came through the door and closed it behind him.
"Catherine, my sweet," Angelus said, taking the girl by the arm and steering her along the short, dark passageway into an equally dark bedroom, "you're looking thin. Business bad?"
"It's fine," the girl said hoarsely. She twisted her arm out of his grip and unbuttoned the collar of her blouse, weariness on her face. "In fact I've got a client coming in half an hour. So you and your friend want to get on with it?"
"The client can wait, if he comes before we're finished," Angelus said calmly. "Luc. Neck or elsewhere? Your choice, my dear boy."
Luc examined the girl professionally. "I'll take the neck, sire."
"A good choice. Remember, no killing."
The girl, Catherine, lay back on the filthy bed with a resigned sigh, and Luc let the change come over him, bent down and drank. Beside him he could feel Angelus following his example. The girl lay quiet and still as they drank. Luc broke off quickly, taking out a handkerchief and wiping his lips as he let his features switch back to human. His sire was bent over the girl's thigh, but as Luc watched he sat up, smiling.
"Better leave you some strength for that client, hadn't we?" Angelus felt in a pocket and pulled out a note, folding it and tucking it into the girl's corset, before leaning over and kissing her again, hard, and evidently drawing blood. She pushed him off. "I'll see you next week, sometime," he said.
"One of these days," Catherine said, low and venomous, "I'm going to work out how to stop you from getting in here."
"And are you indeed?" Angelus said. "Well, I'll look forward to that day. We'll see ourselves out."
The dawn was approaching as they made their way back to the houses, their pace languorous.
"Where did you find her?" Luc asked.
"Oh, she propositioned me," Angelus said, grinning. "And that was all very sweet and nice, until she realised what I really wanted. Not that I wasn't averse to the former, mind. I'm never averse to that. But I like her; she's feisty. One day I might kill her. Till then I'll have my fun."
They reached the house, and safely inside hung up their coats.
"It's good to have you here," Angelus said. "Reminds me of those glorious days in Paris." He took Luc by the shoulders and kissed him on the forehead. "You've done well, my boy. I'm proud of you." He let go and turned for the stairs, but paused before heading upwards. In the same conversational tone he added, "and of course you'll have realised: Dru and Darla are mine. Keep away from them."
Luc, his euphoria dissipating slightly, bowed his head. "Yes, sire. Sleep well."