A/N: Thanks for the reviews, guys. I promised angst, and here it comes!
"Damn you, Evans," Anise cursed under her breath, which came in rapid bursts. She did not want to proceed. She wanted to stay firmly rooted in place here. But she knew that if she did not move, Tom Sawyer would be killed brutally by Jacques.
With a final curse of the Englishman, she took off to her preordained destination.
Jacques looked over his shoulder, his vision impeccable in the failing light, and sniffed the air briefly. Good, the American was following him.
Growling deep in his throat, perhaps in satisfaction, or maybe in anger or pain, Jacques pushed on to where he had been instructed. His senses worked in overdrive, keeping him aware of the young man's position and distance.
He didn't want him to get too close. Then again, he didn't want to leave him behind either.
Panting with the strain of running to keep up with the creature, Tom dare not let his eyes waver for even a moment. He scrambled over fallen trash containers, and dodged stray animals, some hissing and others scampering away in fright and shock.
His Winchester was still in his hand, and confident again with the animal's back to him, he paused and took a shot, hearing it ricochet. He had missed. Cursing quietly, he pressed on in pursuit, wondering where it was planning on going exactly.
When he rounded the corner, he heard the clatter of a door. The monster had taken its retreat inside of a rundown building to Tom's left, one that he ran his eyes up in consideration before choosing to follow with caution.
Tom felt his heart beating violently against his chest with anxiety and anticipation as he made his way through the house. The smell of mould and dust lingered and made him want to cough. He choked it back, not wishing to reveal his position to the lurking predator.
What I wouldn't give for Quatermain right now, his mind chattered. He made a point of ignoring his thoughts, concentrating on everything around him, taking it all in and cataloguing it in his memory should he need to make a quick exit.
He listened intently for small sounds that could be the skulking Jacques, and he heard the creak of a step up ahead, then the rushing as something clambered up them.
Tom would not give in to the sudden fear that chewed away inside of his gut, telling him to turn and leave the building, even fire the flare. His pride made him come to the foot of the somewhat dilapidated stairs, where an old umbrella at their top fell noisily down one step at a time, clattering around Tom's feet after what seemed like an eternity.
Tom stared at it, and then remembered his need for vigilance. Swallowing against his apprehension, he climbed the steps slowly, his rifle aimed up at the next level. There was a shuffling from up there, and then a thud as if something fell to the floor.
Get out, Tom's mind told him pointedly, get out now... something's wrong.
Steeling his resolve, Tom completed his mounting of the stairs, and turned quickly, gun ready. He was holding his breath without realising it. Something terrible lingered up here, waiting for him, amidst the ruined furniture and the dust and bad memories, and he didn't know where it was, and how intent it was on ending his life.
Forcing his feet to move on their way down the hall, filled with saddened portraits and creaky floorboards, Tom whirled at the slightest noise, his imagination playing on him when he was convinced he saw the flash of bestial eyes at the end of the corridor. He fired in panic, noticing afterwards that it was merely the face of a clock that had caught the light from the street outside. The glass tinkled to the floor, and he cursed his behaviour.
The room up ahead... there was another noise, like something moving about, yet trying to be quiet. The floorboards made this very difficult for even the stealthiest of creatures. Skinner would have had a tough time with sneaking about in this haunting fortress of mystery and imminent danger.
Tom used his foot to shunt the door so that it swung slowly on its dilapidated hinges to reveal a room half revealed in musty lamplight.
Lamplight?
Against his subconscious voice warning him away from such action, Tom stepped into the room a little, frightened to find it empty. Or so he thought.
When a tight grip latched around his trigger hand, his only instinct was to squeeze, letting off an explosive shot that shattered a table across the room. The grip tightened like a vice, and he felt the circulation to his wrist cut off, causing him to loosen it. Another hand came round and wrenched the rifle from his hold, throwing it far across the room with a clatter.
Before Tom could turn to face his attacker, the left arm that had been recently gripped was forced behind his back so hard he thought it was going to break under the strain. He gasped and winced at the pain, and felt his right hand released, even as something was clamped over his mouth and nose, something he soon realised to be a damp thick cloth.
His released throbbing right hand shot up to the attacker's wrist holding the cloth, when he comprehended that its sweet smell could be nothing innocent.
He struggled as best he could against the iron grip, and tried to cry out through the cloth, its odour now making him want to gag. His vision blurred, and he kicked out against a bookcase next to him, slamming himself and his attacker backward into the wall and a mantelpiece above a burned-out fire in the wall. Something fell to the floor and smashed loudly.
Tom felt his strength failing him fast, and he tugged as hard as he could on the hand holding the cloth, his senses numbing, his mind fogging over almost completely now.
Even as the last of his strength failed him, he thought he heard a voice speak to him softly as the comforting black of unconsciousness claimed him completely.
"I'm sorry, Tom."
Blinking back the tears she wished to shed, she felt his struggles stop ultimately, and his body go limp. All tension from his limbs was gone, and his head lolled against her arm. She removed the cloth from his face at once, and in shock as to what she had done, she released her hold of him entirely. His unconscious form fell to the ground, and he did not move.
Her brown eyes stared down at him in horror, and she looked at the damp cloth she still held in her left hand, her breath coming in short, gasping bursts. A tear tumbled from her eye.
Maybe she could hide him before they arrived, before-
"Ah," came a mysterious French voice from the doorway, their form shrouded in shadow, "I see we have succeeded in our little performance."
Anise Delacroix looked up at Jacques Beauvais in a contained rage, and her form shook before her eyes flitted down to Tom Sawyer's still body again as he lay unaware on the floor in front of her.
"Oh, do not worry yourself with his health, Anise," Jacques chided as he stepped into the room. His shirt and trousers were torn in places from his transformation, and there was blood showing from bullet wounds that would heal in time. Beneath could be seen the scars that were already quickly healing from when Tom had shot him several times before.
"How do we know this will not harm him?" Anise whispered back in her native tongue, tossing the cloth at him, watching with irritation as he caught it with alarming ease.
Jacques sniffed the cloth and grimaced, wrinkling his nose with distaste. "Did you use the amount Evans advised?"
Anise suddenly remembered the stinging in her back from when Tom had struggled, slamming her against the unstable mantelpiece. She eyed the broken glass container, or what remained of it and its contents, on the floor.
Jacques raised a thick dark eyebrow in curiousity.
"He put up quite a fight, I see," he murmured in only minimal interest.
Anise nodded, and crouched down beside the shallow-breathing form of Tom. She had been assured he would wake, no doubt groggy, but perfectly unharmed by the substance. He seemed only to be sleeping peacefully as she stroked back some of the hair that had tumbled across his brow as he lay on his stomach on the floor.
Jacques sighed loudly in impatient disgust, and sneered, "Your affection for the boy is most unprofessional, Anise."
"He is not a boy," she retorted, suddenly unafraid to show her anger with him for agreeing to go along with this plan.
Jacques came to loom over her and Tom's body. "He is young, and that is all that concerns me. What concerns Evans is that we are not late. We must be going, Anise..." he chuckled as he said, "Do you think you can manage to carry him?"
She was far from ashamed to admit that she growled at his mocking, and she stood, her fingers twining in the back of Tom's jacket and shirt collar. She effortlessly lifted him one-handed from the floor... at first. After a while, she was forced to use both hands.
Jacques rolled his dark eyes, and moved over to her, taking a rough grip on Tom and throwing him over his broad shoulder, now partially exposed due to the change he had undergone as part of their lure.
Anise walked behind Jacques out of the rundown building, trying not to look at Tom's unconscious form as they moved, trying to think of anything else but her betrayal of his trust.