Chapter Fourteen: Origin Story
Stiles opened his eyes.
He couldn't remember having fallen asleep, and awoke disorientated and dazed, unsure of where he was. He blinked several times, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness surrounding him. Black shapes loomed around him, tall and foreboding. Trees with gnarled branches reaching out to the cloudy sky. The ground was cold and damp against his bare feet. His arms were stretched above his head. He tried to pull them down, but they were held fast, coarse rope digging into his skin. He looked up and realized that he was secured to a high branch above his head.
Where the hell was he?
To his right, a blazing fire suddenly roared to life, illuminating the clearing. Stiles glanced around the wooded area, taking in the firepit and horizontal logs, the tree-line and the creek. There was something oddly familiar about the spot – and then he remembered.
He'd visited this spot a hundred times in his nightmares.
"Oh good, you're up," the voice was smooth and silky. Its owner appeared from around the campfire. His eyes two distant silver stars in the night. "Unfortunately, I had to knock you out. You would not stop freaking out about that redheaded girl."
"Lydia. Her name is Lydia."
"Ah, a pretty name to suit a pretty girl. Come now, don't look at me like that. I had to have Matteo kill her. I couldn't leave any loose ends. Besides," Marshall smiled his fanged grin, "it's in my nature. Had to be done. You understand. You can never trust the snake. Just forget about her. It's you I've come all this way for. Doesn't that make you feel special?"
"All this attention for me? I'm one lucky guy."
"Still as sarcastic and charming as ever I see. We'll see how long you can keep it up when I'm devouring your intestines." Marshal stepped closer, and Stiles tried not to shudder as the vampire pressed his nose to Stiles' neck and inhaled deeply. "You smell incredible. I haven't met another to rival your equal. Everything about you is absolutely tantalizing." He caressed Stiles' jaw. "Two years is a long time to sit rotting in a prison cell. I thought about you everyday, about your eyes, your face, these moles on your neck. Longing for the day we would be reunited and could finish what we had started. Oou," Marshall shivered in delight, "just thinking about it gives me chills."
"I'm glad someone is enjoying himself."
"You'll have fun too, I promise." Somehow Stiles doubted that. "But I'm getting ahead of myself. There's plenty of time. No need to rush pleasure." Marshall inhaled his scent again. "What's this?" The vampire's nose wrinkled as he continued to sniff down the length of Stiles' body, like some demented bloodhound. Stiles tried to take a step back and nearly tripped, but his suspended hands kept him in place. Marshall paused at Stiles' hips and shoved his hand into the boy's front left pocket. He withdrew a satin drawstring bag. Stiles had been carrying it around with him since he had found it, a kind of good luck charm – evil in the possession of the Good to ward off greater Evil.
Marshall dumped its contents into his hand and smiled at the locket. "I wondered where this had gotten to. I figured I must have lost it during one of my little soirees. How perfect that you were the one to find it."
"You lost it?"
"What are you implying? That I couldn't own such an exquisite piece of jewelry?" Marshall held the necklace up to his collarbone. "No, I suppose you're right. Gold really isn't my color. Silver perhaps, or a nice platinum. Much better with my complexion."
"I thought the locket belonged to Countess Alissa von Montfort."
"Oh, it did. It did." Marshall smiled and circled around behind Stiles. His bonds kept him from being able to twist around and see behind him. Stiles felt Marshall push up against his back, and he squirmed away from him. "Seems someone did their homework. I'm impressed. You really are such a remarkable boy. What a shame, you've broken the clasp. This is an antique, you know." The locket was placed around Stiles' throat. Marshall's fingers ghosted against the back of his neck as he tied the chain together, keeping the necklace in place. Marshall returned to the front and admire his handiwork. "Very fine. It suits you beautifully. A token of eternal passion from the lover to his beloved. Poor dear, sweet Alissa. Eternity wasn't nearly long enough."
The locket was cold and heavy against Stiles' skin; he felt it was a noose choking him. He would have liked nothing better than to have reached down and ripped it from his neck. But he couldn't. He was Marshall's plaything, a slave to his games of dress-up and banter, a victim of his ceaseless stream of conversation. "You sure like the sound of your own voice," Stiles grumbled.
"Oh, hush," Marshall laughed. "You'd find this all rather dull if I wasn't delightfully talkative and only given over to my basest instincts. Besides, when you've been oppressed as much as I have, you learn the power that comes with speech. Come now, be honest," Marshall leaned toward him and Stiles couldn't keep himself from flinching. "Aren't you the least bit curious about Alissa?"
Stiles was curious, very much so, but he didn't want Marshall to know that. "What happened to her?"
Marshall smiled knowingly and ignored the question. Frustratingly, he changed the topic. "You should be proud of me, Stiles. I ascended from the rank of mere reprobate to super-villain!" He swung his arms wide in a grand gesture of his own magnificence.
"I hardly think 'reprobate' is the correct term," Stiles scoffed. Maybe if he could keep up this steady cynical commentary he could keep his utter terror and panic at bay.
"'Low-life scum?'"
"Offensive to the ranks of low-lives everywhere."
"Well then, what would you have called me, Stiles?"
"Psycho?"
"Very Norman Bates-esque, I love it. How'd you know I had a thing for Anthony Perkins? He has that wonderful boyish charm." Stiles groaned. God, he just couldn't win. "But that's not the point. You told me that super-villains always have tells: grotesque characteristics, ominous names, horrific back-stories. My name doesn't exactly strike fear in the hearts of men, but it's wonderfully ironic isn't it, Marshall Landry, equal to the ranks of someone like, say, Sheriff Stilinksi."
"You're nothing like my father."
"Ouch, that hurt."
"Leave him out of this."
"You know I can't do that, but we'll get back to him later. You're trying to change the subject. I wouldn't say I'm exactly a physically grotesque person either – no mutilated body parts or disfiguring scars. In fact, I look better than I ever have." Marshall turned on the spot, admiring his own physique. "But you know all about my terrible sob story. Daddy issues, abuse, that kind of thing." Marshall chuckled. "Any psychologist would point at my childhood and claim it as the source of my overwhelming desire to inflict pain for my own gratification. Nut jobs, the lot of them. Does power create the corrupted, or are the corrupted the ones with all the power? What do you think, Stiles?"
"I think you're insane."
"You're being too banal. Look at it more closely. Am I really any different than I was as a human – intrinsically, I mean? No, I'm not. Whatever's inside me hasn't changed, only grown stronger. And now I have the power, those world-destroying capabilities to match the hunger inside. But like every classic comic-book villain, I have a back-story and I have an origin story. That, my friend, is where Alissa comes in. Come, you must have something to say now."
Stiles knew Marshall was baiting him, that each word was an attempt to draw him into his sick, twisted little game. It wasn't just that Marshall liked hearing himself talk; this was all part of the fun for him. And Stiles had proven himself a worthy sparring partner. He realized, with a sinking and sickening feeling, that not only was he the one that got away, he was by far Marshall's favorite victim, his favorite conquest. Marshall was loving toying with him.
"Your silence doesn't fool me. I know you're interested. Two years ago, our villain was your average criminal, living on the run, driving across the country to find his kicks, preying on unsuspecting small-town boys, when he met our handsome hero and his slightly less attractive but no less brave and appealing father, the sheriff. Through their combined efforts and a couple suits from Washington, our charming and dashing rogue was thrown into prison, where he spent everyday getting his ass kicked by guys twice his size with the IQs of kumquats. Sometimes he was put into solitary confinement for his own safety, where he spent lonely after lonely hour yearning for our young hero.
"Most of his prison time was passed in the infirmary, where he met a lovely nurse named Alissa. She was beautiful; one of those rare beauties who was actually painful to look at. Inmates had been known to purposefully injured themselves in hopes of getting a look at her. Our villain came to her, bruised and broken, and she took pity on him. He reminded her of an old lover, she claimed. She patched him up and started to take care of him, smuggling him cigarettes and alcohol to use as currency, bringing him chocolate and magazines. She was able to get his work detail transferred, so he could help her out in the infirmary.
"But our villain started to notice she was a little strange. The death ratio on her shifts was astronomical, and when she wasn't looking he began checking the bodies and finds two little holes hidden in each of the victims. He wonders if maybe it's a fetish or some bizarre medical experiment. He asked her about her otherworldly silver eyes, and she claimed she had a thing for absurd contact lenses. He also noticed she was able to lift objects more than twice her own body weight. They become good friends, very good friends, and he begged to know her secrets.
"She told him: she's a vampire, and she opened up for him this entire new world. If a few inmates died now and then, who cared, right? She had a steady, inconspicuous food source that allowed her to hide among humans in one place for a long time. When he demanded to be transformed, she denied him, claiming the time wasn't right. If she knew of our villain's crimes, she never mentioned them. But one night, a name of one of our villain's victims was circulated through the yard, and it got back to this particular gang leader, who happened to be the boy's second-cousin, or some ludicrous coincidence like that. So this thug and this minions beat our tragic villain within an inch of his life, and when he was taken to the infirmary, the staff – quite happily – wrote him off as dead. But he didn't die, because pretty Alissa saved him. She gave him the Bite, and when his heart stopped beating, he awoke to the gift of immortality.
"She taught him everything he needed to know. His first kill was the gangbanger, followed by several members of his crew. Fear of him spread among inmates and guards alike. Alissa warned him to slow down, or he'd draw attention to himself. He questioned why his eyes were red, while hers remained silver.
"Did you know, Stiles, there are two ways to become a Head vampire? The first is through a natural accumulation of power – when you're centuries old, you kill a few thousand people, and absorbing their life energy into yourself makes you stronger. That's how you get old vamps, like our Countess Alissa. Then there's the second method: you steal that power. You go to the source. You behead the Head." Marshall dissolved into a fit of snorts and chuckles. Stiles knew where this was going and felt the revulsion and fear in his stomach building.
"But she took pity on you!"
Marshall shrugged. "Her mistake. Sentimentality makes you weak. I chopped off her head with a dull scalpel. Wasn't easy. She fought back, of course, bitched and whined about my betrayal. But I've always been a one-man act. I wasn't ready to be a part of some ancient whore's coven. Getting through her spinal cord was the worst. It took a lot of force." Marshall mimed a hacking action, clasping his fists together and swinging his arms wide. Stiles cringed, imagining the scene. "The locket slid right off without a neck to hold it in place. I pocketed it, ripped her into pieces, and set her on fire. Then I bided my time and here we are. What do you think, Stiles? Sound like a good origin story?"
"You are one sick bastard."
"Aw, thank you," Marshall purred. "That locket may not have done anything for Alissa, but it sure is working for you. What's say we do something about that?" Marshall's hands started at Stiles' neck and worked their way downwards, slow and unhurried, savouring every touch of him. "My, feels like someone certainly has been doing some growing up."
Stiles refused to cry, refused to let his emotions get the better of him, but as his body protested Marshall's ice-cold touch, all his memories of that night crashed upon him. Wake up, Stiles! Wake up! He wanted to scream, but he knew he wasn't dreaming. He attempted to twist away from Marshall, using his feet to uselessly kick out. His right foot connected with the vampire's leg, and it was like kicking a concrete wall. Pain shot through his foot, and he knew he had broken a couple toes.
Marshall tsked him. "Don't go hurting yourself before the real fun starts. That's my job. But enough chatter, let's get this party started. I'm going to give you a choice, Stiles, so listen carefully. You can accept the Bite, and be my vampire bitch for all eternity-"
"I'll never join you."
"Let me finish. You can either become my devoted vampire flunkie, or you can die a slow, agonizing death."
"I'd rather die," Stiles spat.
Marshall grinned. "I had a feeling you'd say that. I will dearly miss our playful banter, but I must admit I'm glad you chose the second option. It'll be a lot more fun." He stepped forward menacingly, then stopped. "Oh wait, I almost forgot."
A bright flood-light Stiles hadn't noticed was turned on and trained on him, temporarily blinding him. As his vision struggled to adjust, he heard Marshall fiddling with something just off to the side. In the bleary darkness, Stiles could make out a small blinking red light. He hoped that wasn't what he thought it was.
"What is that?"
"I thought we'd record our time together. A little home movie for Sheriff Daddy so that he doesn't miss a moment of this. Maybe I'll Fed-ex it along with your corpse right to his front door – whatever is left of you anyways. I'll make a copy for myself of course. Something to remember you by as the years pass." Stiles blanched. Marshall bent over the tripod, his face illuminated by the light from the LED screen. He adjusted the angle slightly. "The camera loves you. You're exceptionally photogenic. Good, I want to capture every last moment of this for your father. He'll love it. We're all set!" Marshall clapped his hands and rubbed them together. "I want him to witness every second of this. And when he's finished watching his little boy being utterly annihilated, when he's so haunted and shattered by the images, reduced to shadow of his former self, I'll swoop in and rip the broken, bloody heart right from his chest.
"But enough discussion. Let's get started!"