Disclaimer: see chapter 1
Author's notes: a warning before this chapter starts - it ain't going to be particularly pretty. If your stomach is sufficiently turned, let me know! (Let me know if it's not, too. Please?)
Death Awaits: chapter 9 - Interrogation
When I wake again, I am greeted with a brilliant smile and a calm, "You took your time."
I try and rub the back of my head, which is sore and painful - I must have been slumped against the wall. I am still chained to it, and I think I have cramp in my legs.
Luc Tarpeau stands up from the chair where he has been sitting reading and comes to join me, sliding down to a sitting position against the wall. "You knew who I was the moment you saw me, in that club, n'est-ce pas?" he says.
There seems no point in dissembling any longer, at least not on this point. I try and calculate - the fewer times I get hit, or bitten, the longer I might last. I shrug, as best I can with the chains on. "Yes."
"You hid it remarkably well," the Breton congratulates me. "I was most impressed."
"So did you know who I was?" I ask, peering at the chains that attach my wrists together.
"I guessed you'd be Council," Luc Tarpeau says, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. "No Englishman would come here if they weren't." I keep silent. I am not going to admit to being from the Council unless I have to. The Breton watches me closely. "Say nothing, then."
Giving the chains another experimental tug, I glance around the room. It is still gloomy in here, naturally, though I suppose it is probably day by now. There are velvet drapes hung across doorways, and a few weapons leaning against or hung on the walls. I wonder where I am and if Buffy will be able to work it out.
"What do you think of the place?" the Breton asks. "Not the usual Californian style?"
"It's . strange," I manage. He puts his head on one side and considers this.
"Oui, I suppose it is. I don't believe we'd stay here if there was anything better. Darla complains about the dust. And there's no view."
"A view?" The words are out before I stop to think.
The vampire nods. "Darla's always enjoyed a view. Me, I don't really care." A pause. "Gunn thinks it smells musty."
I can't think of anything to say to this, and tip my head back so it is resting on the wall, and close my eyes. I am trapped in a nightmare, discussing views with a vampire, waiting for . I try not to think about waiting for anything.
Silence falls, save for the sound of the Breton humming a tune to himself. I want to tell him to shut up, but restrain myself. It isn't difficult to do. Time passes, time in which I try to envisage various escape routes and fail. Then I turn to wondering if Buffy and the others will come and rescue me, or if they think I have given up and gone back to England.
Footsteps sound, soft but with a certain weight about them, and close beside me I hear a rustle as Luc Tarpeau stands up. A clunk, of a wooden case being placed on a table, and the click of a catch being opened. The air whispers around me and I freeze as the cold edge of some sort of knife is placed against my throat - not hard enough to draw blood, but firmly, the pressure cutting into my skin.
"Open your eyes."
I obey. With my head at this odd angle, my neck tilted back, I can just see that Angelus is the one holding the knife to my throat. That lopsided smile seems to be playing across his lips again, he's enjoying this.
"Do I cut or do I not?" he asks. I think the question must be rhetorical, and continue breathing as shallowly as I can, trying not to move a muscle. We had a very brief two-day session on torture at Headquarters, the SAS man speaking shortly about control and only telling your torturer absolutely necessary information. But one of the things he did say was that when someone is holding a knife to you, don't move - movement can cause the knife to slip, and that could be that.
Still keeping the blade where it is, Angelus shifts and settles into a seated position, too close to me for comfort. "Admirable control," he comments. "It's that Watcher training - Rupert was the same. Did he mention that, Mr Fletcher - can I call you Mike? Thank you. It was here in this very building. A fun evening, until the Slayer arrived." He pauses. "Is he still denying being from the council, Luc?"
Luc Tarpeau moves into my peripheral vision. "Oui. Enfin, he didn't say he was, but he didn't say he wasn't."
"Would you believe me if I said I wasn't from this Council?" I manage.
Angelus shrugs, and the blade bites just enough to graze my skin. "I do apologise," he says, as a very thin trickle of blood cools my neck. He removes the blade, and I can move my head again. I turn it to look at him. "Probably not. I've seen enough Council men to know one when I see one, to recognise the training. Admit it or don't admit it, as you will." He examines the blade of the dagger that was against my throat, and runs a finger along it before licking the finger thoughtfully. "Mmm. Sometimes, you know, I miss European blood. Americans are so - well, they taste different."
He stands up, one graceful, flowing movement, and picks up my jacket from a chair where it must have been thrown when they brought me here. Coming back to me, he tips it upside down and the contents of my pockets fall on to the floor. A stake, my wallet, my mobile phone, a handkerchief, a ten pence piece. Angelus tosses the coat to the Breton, who looks at it critically before putting it aside.
My wallet gets the first attention. Angelus rifles through it, glancing at my credit and debit cards, my supermarket store card, my driver's licence, the picture of my little niece - will she remember her uncle? He takes out the money and puts it on the coffee table, thus confirming the Council's theory that vampires got rich on their victims' possessions. The stake goes into the fire after a brief examination. Angelus frowns at the ten pence piece and puts it with the American dollars. The handkerchief follows the stake.
Next, Angelus picks up my phone, frowning at it. "I hate these things."
"Let me, sire," the Breton says. Angelus smiles affectionately.
"I'd forgotten I had the perfect modern vampire here. See what you can get from it, Luc."
In my mind I run through the numbers stored in the phone - coded, of course. Headquarters is down under 'Helen', and I put Giles in as the 'Library'. But the codes are too simple. I hope my PIN number will fox them, and watch anxiously as the Breton flips the phone open and turns it on. It bleeps.
"I need a PIN number," Luc Tarpeau says, looking up. Angelus smiles again, seemingly pleased.
"And now for some persuasion," he says, and picks up my joined hands in their manacle. I notice, somewhat abstractly, that he has very long fingers, very large hands. He frowns, thinking, and takes my right forefinger in his right hand. I begin to feel a cold sweat, and try to prepare myself for whatever pain is to come. "The number?" he asks, but before I have a chance to give it, he snaps my finger. I hear the bone crack and instantly a throbbing pain runs up into my arm. Angelus picks up the next finger and pauses.
"9574," I say, quickly, horrified at myself for giving in so easily. But I cannot fight at all with a useless hand. They know I am from the Council - better, maybe, to let people know where I am, if they test the numbers?
Angelus breaks the next finger casually as Luc Tarpeau is inputting the number, and I just manage not to scream. This is not calculated torture, it seems. He won't stop when he has an answer.
"It's right," the Breton says, pressing buttons on my phone. "Aha. 'Helen'. A petite-amie?" he asks.
"Just a friend," I manage, gritting my teeth against the throbbing in my hand. More button-pressing.
"'Library'?" the Breton says.
"Try that," Angelus orders, standing up again. "No, wait. Pass me it."
He holds the telephone to his ear, and waits. There is silence. Then, someone must have answered it, because Angelus smiles, and throws the phone back to the Breton. "That'll do."
Luc Tarpeau ends the call.
"That was Rupert," Angelus says. "He sounded extremely concerned."
Relief floods through me. Maybe Willow can trace the call? Maybe they heard Angelus' voice before the call was cut off? Suddenly I don't mind what is going to happen, because I am sure they will do something. They have to do something.
Author's notes: a warning before this chapter starts - it ain't going to be particularly pretty. If your stomach is sufficiently turned, let me know! (Let me know if it's not, too. Please?)
Death Awaits: chapter 9 - Interrogation
When I wake again, I am greeted with a brilliant smile and a calm, "You took your time."
I try and rub the back of my head, which is sore and painful - I must have been slumped against the wall. I am still chained to it, and I think I have cramp in my legs.
Luc Tarpeau stands up from the chair where he has been sitting reading and comes to join me, sliding down to a sitting position against the wall. "You knew who I was the moment you saw me, in that club, n'est-ce pas?" he says.
There seems no point in dissembling any longer, at least not on this point. I try and calculate - the fewer times I get hit, or bitten, the longer I might last. I shrug, as best I can with the chains on. "Yes."
"You hid it remarkably well," the Breton congratulates me. "I was most impressed."
"So did you know who I was?" I ask, peering at the chains that attach my wrists together.
"I guessed you'd be Council," Luc Tarpeau says, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. "No Englishman would come here if they weren't." I keep silent. I am not going to admit to being from the Council unless I have to. The Breton watches me closely. "Say nothing, then."
Giving the chains another experimental tug, I glance around the room. It is still gloomy in here, naturally, though I suppose it is probably day by now. There are velvet drapes hung across doorways, and a few weapons leaning against or hung on the walls. I wonder where I am and if Buffy will be able to work it out.
"What do you think of the place?" the Breton asks. "Not the usual Californian style?"
"It's . strange," I manage. He puts his head on one side and considers this.
"Oui, I suppose it is. I don't believe we'd stay here if there was anything better. Darla complains about the dust. And there's no view."
"A view?" The words are out before I stop to think.
The vampire nods. "Darla's always enjoyed a view. Me, I don't really care." A pause. "Gunn thinks it smells musty."
I can't think of anything to say to this, and tip my head back so it is resting on the wall, and close my eyes. I am trapped in a nightmare, discussing views with a vampire, waiting for . I try not to think about waiting for anything.
Silence falls, save for the sound of the Breton humming a tune to himself. I want to tell him to shut up, but restrain myself. It isn't difficult to do. Time passes, time in which I try to envisage various escape routes and fail. Then I turn to wondering if Buffy and the others will come and rescue me, or if they think I have given up and gone back to England.
Footsteps sound, soft but with a certain weight about them, and close beside me I hear a rustle as Luc Tarpeau stands up. A clunk, of a wooden case being placed on a table, and the click of a catch being opened. The air whispers around me and I freeze as the cold edge of some sort of knife is placed against my throat - not hard enough to draw blood, but firmly, the pressure cutting into my skin.
"Open your eyes."
I obey. With my head at this odd angle, my neck tilted back, I can just see that Angelus is the one holding the knife to my throat. That lopsided smile seems to be playing across his lips again, he's enjoying this.
"Do I cut or do I not?" he asks. I think the question must be rhetorical, and continue breathing as shallowly as I can, trying not to move a muscle. We had a very brief two-day session on torture at Headquarters, the SAS man speaking shortly about control and only telling your torturer absolutely necessary information. But one of the things he did say was that when someone is holding a knife to you, don't move - movement can cause the knife to slip, and that could be that.
Still keeping the blade where it is, Angelus shifts and settles into a seated position, too close to me for comfort. "Admirable control," he comments. "It's that Watcher training - Rupert was the same. Did he mention that, Mr Fletcher - can I call you Mike? Thank you. It was here in this very building. A fun evening, until the Slayer arrived." He pauses. "Is he still denying being from the council, Luc?"
Luc Tarpeau moves into my peripheral vision. "Oui. Enfin, he didn't say he was, but he didn't say he wasn't."
"Would you believe me if I said I wasn't from this Council?" I manage.
Angelus shrugs, and the blade bites just enough to graze my skin. "I do apologise," he says, as a very thin trickle of blood cools my neck. He removes the blade, and I can move my head again. I turn it to look at him. "Probably not. I've seen enough Council men to know one when I see one, to recognise the training. Admit it or don't admit it, as you will." He examines the blade of the dagger that was against my throat, and runs a finger along it before licking the finger thoughtfully. "Mmm. Sometimes, you know, I miss European blood. Americans are so - well, they taste different."
He stands up, one graceful, flowing movement, and picks up my jacket from a chair where it must have been thrown when they brought me here. Coming back to me, he tips it upside down and the contents of my pockets fall on to the floor. A stake, my wallet, my mobile phone, a handkerchief, a ten pence piece. Angelus tosses the coat to the Breton, who looks at it critically before putting it aside.
My wallet gets the first attention. Angelus rifles through it, glancing at my credit and debit cards, my supermarket store card, my driver's licence, the picture of my little niece - will she remember her uncle? He takes out the money and puts it on the coffee table, thus confirming the Council's theory that vampires got rich on their victims' possessions. The stake goes into the fire after a brief examination. Angelus frowns at the ten pence piece and puts it with the American dollars. The handkerchief follows the stake.
Next, Angelus picks up my phone, frowning at it. "I hate these things."
"Let me, sire," the Breton says. Angelus smiles affectionately.
"I'd forgotten I had the perfect modern vampire here. See what you can get from it, Luc."
In my mind I run through the numbers stored in the phone - coded, of course. Headquarters is down under 'Helen', and I put Giles in as the 'Library'. But the codes are too simple. I hope my PIN number will fox them, and watch anxiously as the Breton flips the phone open and turns it on. It bleeps.
"I need a PIN number," Luc Tarpeau says, looking up. Angelus smiles again, seemingly pleased.
"And now for some persuasion," he says, and picks up my joined hands in their manacle. I notice, somewhat abstractly, that he has very long fingers, very large hands. He frowns, thinking, and takes my right forefinger in his right hand. I begin to feel a cold sweat, and try to prepare myself for whatever pain is to come. "The number?" he asks, but before I have a chance to give it, he snaps my finger. I hear the bone crack and instantly a throbbing pain runs up into my arm. Angelus picks up the next finger and pauses.
"9574," I say, quickly, horrified at myself for giving in so easily. But I cannot fight at all with a useless hand. They know I am from the Council - better, maybe, to let people know where I am, if they test the numbers?
Angelus breaks the next finger casually as Luc Tarpeau is inputting the number, and I just manage not to scream. This is not calculated torture, it seems. He won't stop when he has an answer.
"It's right," the Breton says, pressing buttons on my phone. "Aha. 'Helen'. A petite-amie?" he asks.
"Just a friend," I manage, gritting my teeth against the throbbing in my hand. More button-pressing.
"'Library'?" the Breton says.
"Try that," Angelus orders, standing up again. "No, wait. Pass me it."
He holds the telephone to his ear, and waits. There is silence. Then, someone must have answered it, because Angelus smiles, and throws the phone back to the Breton. "That'll do."
Luc Tarpeau ends the call.
"That was Rupert," Angelus says. "He sounded extremely concerned."
Relief floods through me. Maybe Willow can trace the call? Maybe they heard Angelus' voice before the call was cut off? Suddenly I don't mind what is going to happen, because I am sure they will do something. They have to do something.