Outside the night-air was cold, and a light fog descended upon them. The
world moved along as it did before, despite the bloody carnage that had
occurred only moments before in an obscure little house tucked away in a
street pocket near the Thames. For what were they - men in their wool coats
and dark hats, respectable women in layers of petticoats and warm gloves -
going to do on the account of two dead whores? But Angelus had been
careless in the past, as he was now, and the public's fascination with
degutted prostitutes in pre-Jack the Ripper days kept much of this
carelessness out of any kind of cumbersome scrutiny. Blood could have
flowed through the cobbled streets of the West End and as long as it didn't
soil the hems of any lacy garments then no one would pay any mind.
Rested but restless, Angelus waved down a cab. More fun was to be had, and William stepped along with him, in fearful alacrity. The night was theirs, and theirs to defile.
They crossed over the silvery Thames on a narrow bridge, the rooftops bright against the full moon, and the patrons of the Kensington Opera House, having just witnessed the patricide of "Don Giovanni," have been filing out onto the streets talking excitedly amongst themselves. Ladies waving their fans to cool their faces and necks despite the chilly night, some of them taking in long breaths and waving scented handkerchiefs near their turned-up, delicate noses. It was in an alley around the corner they stood there and waited, but it was Angelus who decided when it was time to pounce, if it came to that.
Angelus slipped his arm around his waist, looked William in the eyes, which were similar to Darla's, though his eyes hinted at disparity, and seemed bottomless for want of hope, though Angelus had none to give. He was never one to be so kind.
"You know that they would do to lads in my day if they were ever caught doing what we do?"
William didn't think answering would help him stop Angelus from saying what he was about to say.
"I'm not talking about what judges would do, or anything to do with locking you up in stinkin' gaols, or public hanging. Not anything like that. I'm talking about what men'll do. Common men. Your neighbors. Know what I speak of, boy?"
William looks at him bewildered, a look he uses constantly because Angelus could interpret it in any way he likes.
Angelus then pulls out a silver cigarette case with an anagrammed "A" decorated in spiky wreaths. Inside it held five hand-rolled fags, as thin as toothpicks. He lights one, then continues:
"They strip you. Naked. Out on the street, in the pub, doesn't matter where they'll get you 'cause they will." He unbuttons William shirt so part of his chest is exposed. "Then they'll come at you - stick'in! - with hot pokers, lash you with them, until they welt you and leave you half-crippled and dead to the world."
"Did they do that to you?"
Angelus grabs his chin and forces him to look up at him - how superior he feels that he's much taller than this skinny boy! - and breathes smoke into his mouth and kissed him gently, which was always surprising when it happened even though it actually occurred often. Surprising because it emulated tenderness though it was never quite real enough to completely give oneself over to. The façade crumbles quickly when Angelus burns him by digging into his chest with his lit cigarette butt making sure to make it as impressive as the cross-shaped scar that was beginning to form on William's left palm.
Angelus stopped kissing him. Looked at him squarely, and says plainly:
"Liked to be fucked then by men with their big cocks, or better yet, sucked. But they never got me. Father -" and this was pronounced, as if by accident, "fayther" - was too important then. As far as I knew, no one could stick it to me and not get what's comin' to them."
He rubs his thumb over the cigarette mark. William gasps, dares to place his hand on master's thigh, which master lets him keep. He pretends not to take notice. Angelus was feeling strangely benevolent tonight.
A faint coughing sound near the entrance of the Opera House makes them turn their heads toward that direction. A lovely brunette with a curvy figure and her companion - (her husband?) a tall, lanky man with a fashionably curly moustache - were walking toward their carriage arm-in-arm excitedly talking about the many loves of Don Giovanni. More accurately, the woman was making conversation while the husband gave off an air of indifferent stupidity, curling the tip of his moustache with his fingers while he licked his lips in anticipation of a more interesting activity - cards, or even whores, perhaps - to indulge in later on this night.
As the woman walked on and chattered away she ignored the street urchins begging for money, the fruit-sellers walking about in desperation, the rapacious thieves lurking in the shadows. Her white dress, made of the finest satin, tailored to show off her endowments and to emphasize her pretty neck made her greatly desirable to many but unapproachable to most. William knew the kind: the ones who were seemingly affable at first, who smiled as if they were charmed or taken in by your presence but were secretly shallow as a puddle on Baker Street, and respectably whored their way out of a shabby genteel existence to a nobler one of which was a bored, achromatic housewife.
"That's Cecily Addams," William gawks, annoyed that he's still enraptured by her mere presence.
"Who is she?" "I knew her when I was alive. She spurned me, then Drusilla found me."
"Perhaps because she knew you liked to be buggered by boys."
"Was buggered by no one while I was alive. You've solely had the honor of fucking my virginal cadaver, quite honestly." Angelus smirks at this, and lights another cigarette.
"You're still in love with her."
"I'm not."
"Let's see if you still are," and Angelus starts to walk toward Cecily's carriage. Curious and hungry, but terrified, William follows. If it was a game he wanted then, by all means, William was ready for it. On the way Angelus had dropped his cigarette on the ground and William has made sure to snuff it out with a quick step of his boot.
Rested but restless, Angelus waved down a cab. More fun was to be had, and William stepped along with him, in fearful alacrity. The night was theirs, and theirs to defile.
They crossed over the silvery Thames on a narrow bridge, the rooftops bright against the full moon, and the patrons of the Kensington Opera House, having just witnessed the patricide of "Don Giovanni," have been filing out onto the streets talking excitedly amongst themselves. Ladies waving their fans to cool their faces and necks despite the chilly night, some of them taking in long breaths and waving scented handkerchiefs near their turned-up, delicate noses. It was in an alley around the corner they stood there and waited, but it was Angelus who decided when it was time to pounce, if it came to that.
Angelus slipped his arm around his waist, looked William in the eyes, which were similar to Darla's, though his eyes hinted at disparity, and seemed bottomless for want of hope, though Angelus had none to give. He was never one to be so kind.
"You know that they would do to lads in my day if they were ever caught doing what we do?"
William didn't think answering would help him stop Angelus from saying what he was about to say.
"I'm not talking about what judges would do, or anything to do with locking you up in stinkin' gaols, or public hanging. Not anything like that. I'm talking about what men'll do. Common men. Your neighbors. Know what I speak of, boy?"
William looks at him bewildered, a look he uses constantly because Angelus could interpret it in any way he likes.
Angelus then pulls out a silver cigarette case with an anagrammed "A" decorated in spiky wreaths. Inside it held five hand-rolled fags, as thin as toothpicks. He lights one, then continues:
"They strip you. Naked. Out on the street, in the pub, doesn't matter where they'll get you 'cause they will." He unbuttons William shirt so part of his chest is exposed. "Then they'll come at you - stick'in! - with hot pokers, lash you with them, until they welt you and leave you half-crippled and dead to the world."
"Did they do that to you?"
Angelus grabs his chin and forces him to look up at him - how superior he feels that he's much taller than this skinny boy! - and breathes smoke into his mouth and kissed him gently, which was always surprising when it happened even though it actually occurred often. Surprising because it emulated tenderness though it was never quite real enough to completely give oneself over to. The façade crumbles quickly when Angelus burns him by digging into his chest with his lit cigarette butt making sure to make it as impressive as the cross-shaped scar that was beginning to form on William's left palm.
Angelus stopped kissing him. Looked at him squarely, and says plainly:
"Liked to be fucked then by men with their big cocks, or better yet, sucked. But they never got me. Father -" and this was pronounced, as if by accident, "fayther" - was too important then. As far as I knew, no one could stick it to me and not get what's comin' to them."
He rubs his thumb over the cigarette mark. William gasps, dares to place his hand on master's thigh, which master lets him keep. He pretends not to take notice. Angelus was feeling strangely benevolent tonight.
A faint coughing sound near the entrance of the Opera House makes them turn their heads toward that direction. A lovely brunette with a curvy figure and her companion - (her husband?) a tall, lanky man with a fashionably curly moustache - were walking toward their carriage arm-in-arm excitedly talking about the many loves of Don Giovanni. More accurately, the woman was making conversation while the husband gave off an air of indifferent stupidity, curling the tip of his moustache with his fingers while he licked his lips in anticipation of a more interesting activity - cards, or even whores, perhaps - to indulge in later on this night.
As the woman walked on and chattered away she ignored the street urchins begging for money, the fruit-sellers walking about in desperation, the rapacious thieves lurking in the shadows. Her white dress, made of the finest satin, tailored to show off her endowments and to emphasize her pretty neck made her greatly desirable to many but unapproachable to most. William knew the kind: the ones who were seemingly affable at first, who smiled as if they were charmed or taken in by your presence but were secretly shallow as a puddle on Baker Street, and respectably whored their way out of a shabby genteel existence to a nobler one of which was a bored, achromatic housewife.
"That's Cecily Addams," William gawks, annoyed that he's still enraptured by her mere presence.
"Who is she?" "I knew her when I was alive. She spurned me, then Drusilla found me."
"Perhaps because she knew you liked to be buggered by boys."
"Was buggered by no one while I was alive. You've solely had the honor of fucking my virginal cadaver, quite honestly." Angelus smirks at this, and lights another cigarette.
"You're still in love with her."
"I'm not."
"Let's see if you still are," and Angelus starts to walk toward Cecily's carriage. Curious and hungry, but terrified, William follows. If it was a game he wanted then, by all means, William was ready for it. On the way Angelus had dropped his cigarette on the ground and William has made sure to snuff it out with a quick step of his boot.
