A/N: Pathetically late, I know. But I've been updating other Sweeney fics, so what can I say? I'm an addict. I'll post again this week to make up for it!
~All In Masks~
"They're havin' this ball all in masks, you see."
Judge Turpin's masked balls. The talk of the twisted town. Home to the wicked, the depraved, the malignant. Those bored, rich folk who had nothing left to do but torture the innocent and sink themselves down deeper and deeper into the devil's pit.
"We'll get him," Sweeney muttered, feeling for the razors in his pockets. His faithful friends.
The balls were held every fortnight, at the Judge's house, or one of his rich associates. Sweeney had spent every night in the opium dens of London for an entire week, waiting for the Beadle to shop up. When he did, the barber watched, and listened. Eventually, the Beadle got high enough to begin babbling to one of the other opium induced customers, and was inviting him to come to the masked ball. This time, apparently, it wasn't at the Judge's house.
Sweeney had copied down the address, and disappeared. He was almost lucky, in a way, that Mrs Lovett had told him of the masked ball months earlier. It had served him well to pay attention, at least some of the time, to the things she'd said when she was alive.
Not that the past mattered anymore.
"Come along, my pet," Sweeney cooed to the beggar-woman, guiding her past a hazy opium den, a fortune teller, and a man on the corner selling shrivelled up bits of meat that looked suspiciously like dead rats.
"Sweetie, sweetie, sweetie!"
"No Lucy," he corrected, grasping the woman's arms to stop her from slapping him again. "Sweeney. Say it."
"Swee-tie," the near toothless woman bellowed.
"Hush now, my dove," said the barber gently, folding her crumpled lips beneath his in a kiss that made him sick. The beggar smelt of fried cat and rotten fruit and piss. Even in the ball gown he'd purchased for her to wear, the stench of unwashed flesh was unmistakable.
Sweeney quickly loosened himself. Barely two months had passed. He could still call up the caress of the baker's lips. So cracked and needy. But she was dead to him now, and if he'd been offered the chance again, he would not have hesitated to spin and twirl and toss her higher into those glorious flames.
"Ball, Sweetie." The beggar-woman grinned, clutching and swinging onto his arm like a child.
"Yes, my love. We're going to the ball," Sweeney droned, weaving through well-dressed people on the street, and stepping over less well-dressed ones lying stone cold, probably drunk, or dead, on the pavement.
They stopped four houses away from the address. Sweeney pulled the poor broken creature into an alleyway. At certain times, the light hit her hair in the right direction, and it reminded him of how Lucy had looked when she was young.
"Wear this, my angel," the barber commanded, lifting his cloak to reveal two masks. One was narrow and grey, and cut off just below the eyes. It reminded Sweeney of a rat, or a mouse, and would suit "Lucy's" pale-pink dress.
"Monsta!" the woman screamed, when Sweeney slipped on his own mask. "Monsta killed Sweetie!"
Sweeney smiled through the mask. He was a monster, of sorts.
The beggar-woman was twirling, shrinking back. The sight of the black fur, the sharp snout, and the gleaming fangs was too much for her.
"Come here Lucy," he growled playfully, snatching her into his arms. "I am a friendly wolf."
She whimpered, and eventually fell limp in his arms.
He took off the mask briefly, and her yellow eyes lit up when she saw his hollow face again.
How odd, Sweeney thought. She fears a mask, but the real demon beneath does not frighten her.
A whistle blew down the street. A policeman paraded up and down its lengths, fiercely clanging a bell. "The Demon Barber is at large! Lock your doors and keep clear of strangers! No one loiter on the streets!"
"Sweetie!" The beggar shrieked happily.
She wanted to go after the bell. Sweeney clenched her hand, and stopped her before the grey-brick house on the corner.
They had reached the address.
He knocked furiously. The policeman was less than fifty paces away, and Sweeney did not wish to answer questions.
"Welcome," gargled a short, stocky, rat-like man dressed in green velvet and a pig's mask. The giant snout protruded from his face and dripped with melted candle wax. He opened the large doors an inch and blinking suspiciously. It was none other than the Beadle himself.
He stopped blinking when he saw their costumes. "Oooh love the wolf mask, whoeva you are. Come in, hurry, things are well under way."
He ushered them in, took one look at the policeman down the road, and slammed the doors shut.
No one, it seemed, cared that two more strangers were entering into the depths of hell.
The two misfits, barber and beggar, paused by the entrance.
Before them, revelry and sin went hand in hand.
A chandelier as big as the ceiling in Mrs Lovett's pie-shop hung over the ball-room. An orchestra played continuously at the far end of the room. Even the musicians wore masks. Someone had stuck up flame-coloured canvases over all the walls. There was no real theme – simply a series of frightening faces with bulging eyes and grinning teeth, some gorging themselves with food, others laughing silently, others screaming.
To Sweeney, the faces could have been any of his dead customers, coming out of the paintings to haunt him.
"Sweetie, me dance!"
Lucy was getting excited, copying the other women and spinning awkwardly in her pink gown.
"Soon," Sweeney promised, clasping her hand so she would not run loose. He scanned the crowd.
There was only one throat he wished to spill tonight.
The sinners ran and tumbled and bellowed and laughed. Across the floor, the men lifted, twirled and tossed the women. Their dresses, wild and frilled and brilliant, went with them, spinning in maelstrom circles like whirling dervishes.
Only they were not men and women. There were crocodiles and peacocks and donkeys and tigers and goats and monkeys and gargoyles. A man in a ghoul mast whirled past them, lifting his partner, a woman in a leopard mask and dress. She laughed raucously as they passed.
Another woman glided by them wordlessly, partnerless and dressed in a white gown streaked with blood-red fabric. She turned, and looked directly at them. Her face was hidden by a pale death mask. Her red lips and dark eyes reminded him immediately of Mrs Lovett.
Beyond the swirling dancers were two long tables laden with mountains of food. Manners didn't seem to apply here. Men and women alike stuffed themselves greedily, snatching at fruit and cakes and pies and roasts as if they'd never known food.
Sweeney stared, briefly tempted by a pyramid of fresh green grapes. He'd never had fine food in all his days…not since. He fastened his mask. Demons did not require food, he reminded himself. Blood-lust will be my sustenance.
"Come, my dove," he prodded, linking arms with the beggar woman. They strolled up and down the tables twice, but there was no sign of the Judge. Even in disguise, Sweeney was certain he could discover him.
He did not have long to search.
There! Sweeney's heart soared. There in the crowd, smirking and whispering intimately to his dance partner, an amber-gowned woman in a cat mask.
The Judge.
The trussed-up pervert in the garnet suit and white plague doctor's mask. It was him.
Now was his chance. Now, while the Beadle was sitting down at the feast, oblivious and gorging himself to the point of explosion.
Now was the time.
"Time to dance, my love," he crooned soothingly to the beggar-woman. He caught her in a vice-like grip, and moved steadily around the floor, as if he were steering a ship through a storm.
There was no wild abandon in Sweeney's movements. No lust or drunkenness. But there was no need.
He was the wolf among the lambs.
"Are you a werewolf?" one smiling woman asked as she and her partner spun by him in fast rotation.
Sweeney inclined his head, and growled.
The woman gave a little shriek, and moved on.
"Soon now, my sweet," Sweeney whispered in the beggar-woman's ears.
"Judge!" she squeaked back, though it was doubtful she knew what she was saying.
They danced perilously close to the Judge.
The music changed abruptly, and the mad dervish altered to a slow tempo. The sinners began to waltz.
Barber and beggar waltzed closer and closer to the man of the law. The dancers grew dangerously squashed as more partners joined on the floor.
"Now," Sweeney whispered, "do as I've told you."
They turned one time closer to the Judge. Sweeney released the woman from his arms, and Lucy went tumbling forward. She landed in one pink mess on the floor.
Predictably, Judge Turpin came to the rescue. "Really," he scolded, stopping in mid-waltz to help the woman in pink to her feet, "can't your partner keep a closer watch on you?"
Sweeney was just behind them, ready to step forward and claim his prize. He waited.
It would only take a moment. One moment, and he would have the Judge in his trap.
"S-sorry, sir," the beggar woman stammered, staring hard at the ground.
The Judge was a fool for pretty women. He liked the way the pretty pink gown gathered round her shoulders. He liked the way she hid most of her face under her hair, which under the yellow candle-light seemed almost….well, yellow. He liked that even beneath the mask, she kept her eyes downcast on the floor, much, much too afraid to meet the eminent gaze of the Law.
"No need for apologies, my lady," said the Judge tenderly, kissing the woman's gloved hand.
Fortunately, the Judge could not see the cracked, addled face beneath that mask.
"What is your name, child?"
The beggar-woman seemed to think this was hilarious. She didn't answer, but instead kept her eyes on the ground, and began to giggle.
The Judge thought it was charming.
The woman in red didn't. "Sir," she protested.
"Hold your tongue, Celeste," the Judge scolded.
"Her name is Lucille," said the man behind him.
The Judge span, coming face to face with wolf. Or rather, a man in a wolf mask. It was the lighting, but nevertheless, the man's sharp dark eyes unnerved him. "Ah, Lucille. What a charming name."
Of course, both men were reminded of Lucy.
"Might I steal her away for a few dances?" the Judge was busy hungrily eyeing "Lucille."
"You may do more than that," said the masked man, "if I have the opportunity to dance with your charming partner in red."
Both men nodded. It was a fair exchange.
"However," Sweeney said, "Lucille is shy. She prefers some privacy, if you follow, sir."
"I follow." The Judge's mouth was dry. "Where should we…"
"This way, sir," said Sweeney, taking Lucy firmly by the arm. The Judge followed them through the crowd. "In here, my dove," he said to Lucy, lifting a curtain and leading her down a dark corridor. "Wait," he commanded, and returned to the ballroom.
"Where is she?" The Judge peered through the curtain but could see nothing but darkness.
"Straight down, sir, if you'll only step inside."
The Judge drew the curtain, eager to commence.
The woman in red was coming over. "I don't agree to this –"
"Fetch us some punch," Sweeney said roughly, clutching at the razors in his pockets.
The woman shook her head, and stalked off angrily.
At the same time the woman disappeared, there was a commotion in the hall.
The doors burst open, and a messenger ran toward the Beadle stuffing himself at the table.
Words were spoken, and the Beadle nearly choked on his own bile.
"Sir!" He was running now, heaving with the weight of a three-course meal in his gut. "Sir!"
"What is it?" the Judge snapped. He was almost inside the corridor.
And Sweeney would follow, and spill his blood.
"Emergency, my lord!" The Beadle came to a stop, heavy and wheezing, as if he were about to hurl on the Judge's velvet shoes.
"Speak!"
"It's…it's the lady, my lord. She's taken a turn for the worst."
The Judge turned his hawk-gaze on the beadle. "The worst?"
"The worst, sir."
The Beadle fetched his coat and cane.
The Judge turned to the masked man. "I am sorry sir, but Lucille will have to wait. I have more pressing engagements. Good night."
Down the corridor, Lucy whimpered, as if she knew Sweeney were about to lose everything. Twice.
The Judge was leaving, parting the crowd and disappearing into the night.
* * *
Sweeney remembered the woman in red. Perhaps she would tell him. If not, there were other ways of extracting information. All he knew was if he could find out the name of the 'lady' who'd taken the 'turn for the worst', he could track down the Judge.
He could not wait another two weeks for a ball, and that was simple. He wanted his rivers of blood now.
Eventually, he found her drowning her sorrows by the punch.
"Lousy man," she hiccupped, staring blankly into the swirling green bowl. "Leaves me for a shrivelled up invalid."
"I gather you mean the Judge?" Sweeney interrupted.
The woman looked up. The wolf mask didn't seem to bother her. "What's it to you?"
"Ain't no secret," she hissed, tearing off her crow's mask.
"To some. I would like to know," said the wolf, baring its fangs. In the glowering candlelight, the fangs looked alive.
"Don't see why you should care to know," said the woman viciously, "you being a stranger and all, but since you asked I'll tell ya. The whole world'll know soon enough, I shouldn't wonder. Can you believe it, sir? There's talk of him marrying that hunchback! Marrying it, when I could give him all that he needs, and more, since I'm a hundred times prettier. If there's any man deserves a hanging, it's Judge Turpin."
"I couldn't agree more," said the stranger soothingly. "I couldn't imagine a more beautiful woman than yourself."
"Yeah well, lot of good it did me," the woman snorted, tossing her red curls. "He ain't marrying me. It's that Eleanor Lovett he's got his eye on!"
The stranger didn't speak for a long time. "Mrs Lovett….is dead."
"That's what you think. Ain't you hear nothing of gossip?"
"You're lying, you filthy harlot!" The wolf clutched the woman's wrists, and twisted them toward the punch bowl. He increased the pressure.
"Please sir," the woman howled.
If he pressed any further, they would have snapped as easily as bread-sticks.
"I don't lie on things like that! She should be dead, after what that monster did to her, but she ain't! She lives! Are you satisfied, sir?"
He dropped her wrists into the punch bowl. He ran through the crowd, but saw no sign of Lucy.
At last, he found her outside, playing hop-scotch with stones in the mud.
"Come!"
She came.
"Sweetie!" she gurgled, throwing her arms about his neck.
This changed everything, thought Sweeney in the darkness.
Mrs Lovett was still alive.
* * *
Uh-oh. Sweeney's not gonna like this one bit, methinks…