Title: It Brings Back Memories

Author: Amanda (xFreakx)

Email: xfreakx@hotmail.com

Rating: R (in later chapters at least ;)

Archive: Ask first. If I don't give you my permission... tough. (Oh, who am I kidding? No one's gonna want to archive it anyway. ;)

Disclaimer: I own no characters in this (at least so far.) Hm. Everything belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc. Also, the song "Bleed for Me" is by the Dead Kennedys. I have no rights to it at all.

Feedback: Pleeeease?

********************
Bleed for me.
-Dead Kennedys

Chapter Three: Vengeance
"So where do we go now, Dru?" William asked as they strolled idly down the street. "We've been wandering around London for three nights, and while it's very nice and all, I still think-"

"Shh!" she said, putting a finger up to his mouth. "We're going to see them now."

"Them? Angelus and Darla?"

"Yes. We are going there now."

"And where would 'there' be located?"

"Shh-shh," she said, "Mustn't ask questions."

William sighed and followed after her without complaint. She led him down the streets of the seedier Whitechapel area, but no one bothered them. Perhaps, though William did not realize it, the lack of trouble came from the air of menace surrounding the pair of otherwise innocuous young people. "Here we are!" Drusilla said. "We even have our own room all to ourselves, because Angelus scared the man inside."

He said nothing and instead turned a jaundiced eye on the tavern before him. It was anachronistic in the worst sort of way, one of those grimy pubs that would have been at home in the Middle Ages, Tudor times, of the present Victorian era. It was sandwiched between other such disreputable and dirty buildings, and the façade was dirt caked and time weathered. A sign hung down from the second floor, swaying restlessly in the wind. It said, "The Cock and Bull." Beneath the words a faded picture of a rooster and a bull faced each other.

Drusilla took his hand and led him into the chaos inside. Although the outside looked old, the inside was about as modern as someone down on their money and luck could make it. The people inside it were killing themselves slowly, for the most part, in a frenetic haste to make their lives a little bit easier. In the process they melted their brains and scarred their bodies, but in the constant momentary swirl it was all just a softer burden.

Of course there were people who were killed quickly, quietly, and disposed of in the same manner. The management didn't like police inquiries.

A drunken woman in a low cut dress stumbled up to them and fell against William. "Oi, guv'nor, 'ow 'bout a poke, then? Rates'r cheap."

Drusilla calmly backhanded the woman across the face, and she fell to the ground in a jellied heap. "We have no time for your foolishness," she said, sounding surprisingly sane, for once. "Come, William."

She picked up her skirts in her hands and swept gracefully through the filth of the room, going up the stairs with a confidant look upon her face. William followed, less sure of himself. Dru walked down a long hallway and to a numbered door, which said '7B' on it. She put her hand on the doorknob, making a disgusted noise in her throat at the sticky substance gummed over it, and opened it, walking into the room.

Two people were seated at a table set for three. One was a fairly large man in a conservative suit, with long hair pulled carefully away from his face, and a permanent brooding scowl. The other one was a petite blonde woman in a dress as low cut and daring as that worn by the prostitute downstairs. Both of them looked up when Drusilla answered; first the man's, then the woman's eyes flicked to William. "Drusilla," the man said softly, "What is the meaning of this? Who is this boy?" The last word was disparaging.

"You didn't tell them?" William demanded, his disbelief evident in his voice.

Drusilla looked down at the floor like a guilty child. "Well," she said, and then looked up at the man, defiance in her voice. "I wanted someone to play with. You have Darla, and it isn't fair that me and Miss Edith are all by our lonesome."

"You made him one of -us-?" Darla exclaimed.

"Yes," Dru said, lifting her head up and raising her chin. "Say hello to William."

William smiled nervously and glanced at the two seated vampires. "Good eve."

Angelus (William guessed that was the identity of the dark haired vampire) didn't even bother to look in his direction. He was angry, although he had control of his face. "Drusilla. That was stupid."

Drusilla's face had become vacant. She took a step back and shut the door, and then looked at William. "I am sorry, William. Our Angelus is preoccupied with his own pleasures."

William coughed and bit at his lip. "Hm, well, if I'm interrupting, no need to stay-"

"You picked -him-?" Angelus snorted, as Darla watched the two thoughtfully, "He's a babbling idiot."

"There's poetry in his heart," Drusilla said defensively, "Yours is dry and dull."

"He's not bad looking, either," Darla addressed this remark to Dru, who giggled appreciatively. "Oh, Angelus, he followed her home, why not let her keep him?"

Angelus growled low under his breath, faced with the identical looks from the two women. "I don't like this. You," he snarled at William, "If you do something stupid, I will kill you."

"I feel like I'm meeting a pair of particularly nasty in-laws," William commented to Dru, and then turned back to Angelus. "You will try. You will -try-."

"No," said Angelus, "I -will-."

"When you're done the male posturing," Darla interrupted, "Call the barman up. I think that we could all use a drink... Or possibly a snack. Welcome to our family, William."

"Thank you, ma'am," William said impertinently.

+

"We'll be in London for a month," Angelus had said.

"Fine," William had replied, "There are still a few loose ends I need to tie up."

+

He went first to the railway tracks, in purposeful strides. He knew what he had to do and how to go about it. First, William skirted around the train station and down to the tracks, where the careful lines trailed off into the distance. Then he knelt next to them, spat on his hands, and pulled. There was a groan of bending metal as he took the spike up out of the ground. And then another. Four in all, and these went into the brown leather suitcase he had taken from a victim.

"Rather have a railroad spike through the head than listen to it, eh?" he growled to himself, "Well, that can be arranged."

+

The railroad spikes were a comforting weight in the case as he walked jauntily down the street, whistling a tune to himself. He had hailed a cab from Whitechapel, because his destination was rather further away, in one of the more upscale neighborhoods. He did not pay the cabbie, but put the fear of God into the man - or possibly, as the poor cabbie thought later on, fear of the devil.

Both of the people he was going to be visiting had bureaucratic jobs that often required men with suitcases entering their homes to deliver papers, so one more wouldn't be amiss. The last one would take more finesse, but William was prepared to spend time and effort on it. It would be worth it in the end. In the meantime, however, there was the three-story house in the fashionable districts of London.

He waited outside the door until a man in an official looking suit showed up. Before he could knock, William pulled him to the side and into an alley, fangs ready. The man screamed at the sight of his face, but with a careless gesture, William snapped his neck and let the body drop to the ground. He knelt and rooted around in its pockets and took the certification of identity from the man's office. William dragged the man further into the alley, hiding the body from sight.

Reemerging onto the street, he knocked on the door. A servant answered it, and glanced at the suitcase, and the slip of paper as William held it up. "You've brought the papers for Master David, then?"

"Yes," William said smoothly, "I'm from the office. May I come in?"

"Certainly," the servant said, "He's in the study. I'll show you up."

William padded noiselessly through the halls behind the servant, a fat man who tried to compensate for advancing age by growing his hair extremely long. There were art and mirrors on the walls, and William amused himself by glancing at the nonexistent reflection every time he passed by the slivers of polished glass. The servant, walking in front of him, did not notice.

"Through that door, sir," the butler said, bowed, and went on his way.

David was seated at an expensive mahogany desk, elaborate and old fashioned, writing a paper with his head down. "Ah, Jamison," he said, without looking up, "You've brought the plans, then? You're a little late."

"No," William said, grinning, "I'm right on time."

"You're not-" David began, and looked up. "You! What are -you-­ doing here? Where's Jamison?"

"Jamison," said William, nudging the door shut, "Is dead."

David stared at him in disbelief. "I don't understand-"

"David, David," William said, clicking his tongue sadly, "You always were stupid. You don't understand? Nothing's changed, at all."

"Oh god," David said, standing up so abruptly that he knocked his chair over, backing away, "What are you- don't touch me!"

William set the suitcase on the desk, and opened it. "What am I going to do?" William asked, grinning nastily, "Do you remember, at Cecily's party?"

David's mouth opened and closed, rather like a fish's. "N-no."

"You said that you'd rather have a railroad spike through the head than listen to my poetry. I'm here to oblige."

"I didn't- Christ, Cooper, it was a joke!"

William shrugged. "It's really too late for pleading, my good man." He took one of the spikes from the suitcase, and gestured with it. "Don't worry, it won't hurt for too long, mm?" He stepped forward, grabbed David by the shirt color, and dragged the sharp end of the spike along the man's face.

David whimpered and shrank away. William shoved him against the wall, so hard that his breath was pushed from his chest. "Please! Please, I'll do anything just- just, just don't hurt me!"

"Tsk, tsk, you've brought it all on yourself."

The blood that spattered on the ground, thought William, made quite a pretty pattern.

+

When the servant finally pounded down the door, he found David sprawled on the floor in the corner. To call the mangled pile of flesh bone and cloth by a name was stretching the truth. There was a railroad spike impaling the head to the wall, and he didn't see much beyond that because the sight and miasma were so repulsive that he knelt by the broken door and vomited again and again.

When the bobbies came they stepped over the pool of bile, and some of them vomited, too. They had to break into the drywall in order to pull the spike out, so deeply had it been driven in. There was a window open, where the killer had escaped, but the servant was unable to tell them anything except that the man had been around twenty-five and that he had the proper identification. The town buzzed with news and rumors about the brutal murder.

When they found the second body hidden in the alleyway, mouths wagged even faster.

And then, it happened again.

+

Marie Fontaine, the Clayworth's French maid, went about her duties with a new spring in her step. She had started working there fairly recently, and her duties were to keep Cecily's bedroom in order. She had met a charming young man, who brought her flowers every night and left them at the doorstep, with her name tied to a little card around them. He was handsome, tall, and blond, with unruly hair and a lovely lanky body.

Once, when they went walking, he had kissed her lightly on the mouth, and then apologized for his rudeness, stammering endearingly. The only odd thing about him was that she only saw him at night, but that did not matter. Soon, he had promised, he would visit her at the Clayworths' house, and bring a surprise for her.

It made Marie very happy to think of that, because her life was dull and boring. It wasn't that the Clayworths were cruel to her, but Marie had the distinct feeling that they saw her as a piece of useful furniture, unable to think for itself. The work of polishing and straightening and tucking sheets was monotonous. Her new suitor saw her for herself, she felt, and he appreciated her for who she was.

He also wrote her poetry, quaint things in a mixture of French and English. She exclaimed in delight over the show of his affection, and saved all of them in a little book upon which she had drawn a heart. He loved her, she thought.

And soon, perhaps, there would be more than kisses stolen in the dark...

+

They found the fourth body a day after the third was discovered, a young woman named Margaret Moriarty. She was seated on the floor of her bedroom and her face was an endless silent scream of pain and terror, and her body was mangled and torn, the hands tied together behind it. The spike had been driven through her head so that she faced the door of the room, like a pinned butterfly on the wall.

+

Cecily Clayworth read the newspaper every day, even though her father did not like that she did so. She was frightened by the savagery of the murders, and also by the fact that it had been Douglas and David and Margaret. She remembered the night she had twisted a knife in the heart of a young aspiring poet... And then she smiled to herself for being so silly. William could not have been capable of the murders any more than her mother would have.

She was safe, of course, and the fact that his other three accusers had been killed was a mere coincidence.

There was no need yet to be so frightened. She would go on living her life as if nothing had changed.

+

Marie Fontaine giggled and batted ineffectually at her suitor's chest as he leaned closer to her, his mouth hovering over hers. "Ah, mon cher, non, pas ici, pas ic--"

He kissed her, cutting off any reply that she might have made; she responded, shy but passionate. "Then let's go somewhere else, love, somewhere more - appropriate--" he murmured to her, breath buzzing in her ear, now. She wondered idly to herself why he had brought a suitcase with him, but his questing mouth took her mind off of that inconsequential thing.

"Oui," she whispered, "Oui, entré..."

She fumbled for the door, for he still had his arms around her waist. They stumbled backwards into the servants' common room, with the fire burning fitfully into the hearth. He trailed little kisses down her neck until they were inside. Then, with a sudden ferocity of movement that expelled the breath from her throat, he threw her against the door, his face changed. She moaned in terror when she saw what he had become. "Mon Dieu," she sobbed, "Ne me blessez pas..."

"Your god?" the man said cheerfully, running his tongue over those wickedly sharp fangs. "God, no. Probably closer to a devil."

"Le diable?" she whispered. Just looking at the face, she could almost believe it true.

"Well, no," he said, still sounding oddly amused, "But since I like you, and you've complimented my poetry, I'll let you live. This shouldn't hurt much."

He brought his hand down hard and the last thing she felt was a blinding pain in her head.

"Terribly sorry."

+

He made his way lazily through the house, taking his time to examine the little things that made it a personalized place. There were not many of them. The Clayworths preferred quality names and expensive things to anything worth keeping, and their home was covered in expensive, ugly baubles. He made his way upstairs, glad that the parents were out at a ball and the servants, except for Marie, had that night off, for it would make his job much easier.

"Here, kitty, kitty," he whispered.

A voice sounded from one of the rooms, imperious. "Father? Is that you? Are you back so soon?"

William smiled and padded towards the door from which her voice had emerged. He stood in silence for a second, watching the shock grow on her face. "No. It's me."

"How did you get in here?" she demanded, "No one but the servants have the keys."

He smiled reassuringly at her, strolled into the room with the confidence of a wolf, placing the suitcase on the bed. "Marie let me in. She's a sweet thing, but not very bright. Certainly not very tough."

"What have you done to her?" Cecily demanded, eyes blazing, "You--"

He spread his hands wide in denial of the accusation. "Oh, no. She's not too badly injured. She won't wake up for a little while, however."

"What are - why are you here?"

"Here? My darling Cecily, I'm merely here to knot my loose ends together."

"I'm not your darling Cecily," she growled, "And get out of my house, this instant! I shall have you arrested!"

He clicked his tongue. "That's no way to treat a friend, is it?"

"You're not my friend. You ruined any chance with those ridiculous poems."

William made a face, looking hurt. He didn't feel hurt at all, however, only felt a predatory sort of anticipation. "Ah, yes. That was another thing with which I desired to speak with you. My poems... Was it really necessary to say the things you did?"

"Yes! Yes it was! You... You're a simpering, cringing dog!"

"Am I?" he stepped forward quickly, dragged her from the chair and pinned her arms against the wall.

"Let go of me, now," she demanded icily.

He smiled cheerfully. "Thank you, Cecily."

"Why?" Her voice did not falter.

"You're braver than the others. David begged. Douglas shit his pants. Margaret dissolved into tears."

Realization, and fear, dawned in her eyes, gradually. "Oh god," she said, "Oh my god. It was you! You... You did that? Oh god, I was a fool!"

"You were," he agreed. "A particularly noxious brand of fool, as well."

"So you're going to kill me?" she said, and this time there was a quaver in her words.

"Yes," William said, "But first, I'm going to have some fun."

Cecily had been frightened before, but the angelic smile upon his face scared her more than anything that had happened so far this night. She kicked out desperately with one slippered foot, attempting to hit him in the groin. William pivoted to the side, and caught the blow on his thigh.

"Naughty, naughty," he admonished her. Her right hand was caught in his left, and, keeping his eyes fixed on her face, he twisted it, snapping her wrist as if it were little more than a stick. Tears swelled in her eyes, but she continued to struggle.

"Don't make it worse, darling," he said, and went over to the bed. Cecily collapsed onto the floor, cradling her injured arm. William opened the suitcase and took out the last remaining spike, and returned to where his prey was huddled. He hauled her to her feet with one hand, the sharp length of metal held in the other. He drew it softly across her neck, a whisper of steel against skin.

"Cecily, Cecily. You never learned, did you?" he asked.

"William," she said urgently, "William, why are you doing this? You don't want to hurt me. You don't - you were never like this before? What happened? God, don't do this, you'll regret it, I swear you will!"

"What happened?" he asked lazily, taking the spike and pushing it gradually harder into her stomach, "I changed. Why do none of you understand? I've -changed-! I'm not your nancy boy swooning in your shadow. I can take what I want now, without a qualm."

She winced and tried to wriggle away as the weapon pressed deeper into her navel, drawing blood. Pain. Cecily finally gave in and screamed, a ragged expression of her pain and fear. "Oh, good," William said cheerfully, "It's so much more fun when you do that."

When he looked into her eyes, he saw that the pupils were dilated in terror, in agony, and he let his face change. "Now, my love," he whispered into her ear, "Bleed for me."

+

The maid, Marie Fontaine, was inconsolable when the police tried to interview her the next day. She told them everything eventually, but it was in a very haphazard way, confused by her grief and pain. Also, the doctor said, she had a concussion, which made her incoherent. The way they gathered the facts, however, a man who had been courting her for a week had attacked her, but he was a monster, a monster! A vampire! His face had been warped, bumpy like, and there were fangs!

When they went upstairs to find the body, they were surprised to find that it was not as bloody as the last three, Douglas, David, and Margaret. The coroner noted with astonishment that there were two marks on her neck, evenly spaced in a line, about consistent with the bite of a human mouth, and that her body was quite bloodless, a dry husk.

There were also the tell tale marks that had identified the other bodies, in what people were beginning to call the rail-spike murders.

The policemen exchanged gruff comments and dog-eared cigarettes. "This'll be hell on our reputations, lads," one of them complained.

"Wait'll the papers get a hold of -this-," another grunted, "It's going to be a bloody field day, it is."

But with hardly any clues to go upon, and no eyewitnesses alive besides the butler and the maid, neither of whom were reliable spectators; there was little chance of the murders being solved. Oh, there was the crazy woman whose son had disappeared weeks ago, who claimed that her missing child had been the culprit, and that he was a vampire, but they all knew that she was just as her description said, crazy.

Marie Fontaine joined a convent, later, because of her irrational fear of intimacy and close contact with men. The abbess said that she was a model nun.

Somewhere, William the Bloody appreciated the irony of the whole situation.

+

"Stupid!" Angelus said, pinning William against the wall, "You haven't even been sired an entire month, and already you're getting us into trouble!"

William smiled in what he thought was a disarming expression. He raised his hands upward. "And you're going to tell me that you haven't killed during your stay here?"

"I have," said the older vampire, tightening his hold, "But they are clean kills, murders no one notices. A thief. A prostitute."

Darla smiled sardonically from the corner.

Angelus went on. "I didn't bloody massacre four society aristocrats!"

"They deserved it," was all William said.

"We're going to have to leave London early, now, because of you," Angelus said, letting William go. He slid to the floor, grateful for the release in pressure. "You do anything like this again, I'll stake you myself."

"I'm scared," William mocked, "I'm going to be -staked-!"

"Drusilla," Angelus asked, exasperated, "Couldn't you have picked an -easier- one to get along with?"

Drusilla merely smiled enigmatically at him. "My William is a romantic."

"Oh, yes," Darla agreed sarcastically, "He's practically an -artist- with a spike."