Disclaimer: I own nothing. Incredibly thankful beyond words for the world that Toby Whithouse has created and for the character of Hal that Damien Molony has brought to life. All mistakes are my own.
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Ch 14 Monster at Bay
"Sylvie, listen. You're safe. Sylvie." Hal tries to reassure her but Sylvie continues to scream in his arms and struggles to get away, scratching at him. She is not hearing him. Or is afraid of him. He lets her go before she can draw blood. Not that it would make an impact considering the aroma already saturating the room, but best not aggravate the situation further. He places her as gently as he can on the ground and then bolts away to the opposite side of the room.
He sees her cower against the wall, grasping in blind panic at the chains that hold her captive. He knows that high blood loss brings on uncharacteristic behaviour; he doesn't dare hope that is the only reason she is behaving this way. Her fierce reaction is no more than he deserves. He crouches down and waits silently until he finally hears her hitched breathing even out and her racing heart calm.
When he thinks she will listen to him he says quietly, "Sylvie, there are no words to tell you how sorry I am that they've hurt you. That you had to see the cruelty they are capable of, that I am capable of." He pauses, swallowing thickly as his throat wants to constrict with emotion. "I know the image you have of me has been shattered, that your conviction in me has been obliterated." He waits for her to confirm his words, but she stares in his direction unfocused. He has no knowledge if she's understood his words, if her silence is a form of acquiescence. Now that she is awake, easing his worry about her survival, a new ache settles in his belly, a new worry takes root. He shakily asserts, " I promise you I will not harm you. I will not allow more harm come to you."
He rubs his face, exhaustion suddenly hitting him. Then he tenses as a fresh wave of awareness hits him. It drowns out all other sensations as suddenly the heartbeat in the room becomes louder. He holds his trembling fingers up in front of him, his mouth watering, his lips parting automatically. He hadn't realized he'd gotten blood on his hands; some must have seeped through his jacket from her wounds. He stares at the dark stains with minute intensity. The single taste of blood from earler remains. The memory of the drop of sweet nectar sits on the tip of his tongue; it tingles with promise. With a cry, he scrabbles for the waistcoat he'd thrown hastily on the floor and rubs the blood off his face, off his hands. He discovers more on his torso and scrubs at it. Finally satisfied, he flings the garment away.
Closing his eyes to the temptation - and the hurt - across the room, he retreats, pressing himself against the wall beside the door. He rubs his hands nervously on his thighs then starts tapping his fingers as he counts prime numbers in his head.
He needs to keep busy. Two days.
Jacob stares at the glass of blood on his desk. He is hungry, and the blood is fresh, still deliciously warm, but the disassociated liquid holds no draw for him, not after the past couple of days.
Damn Harry. Or Hal. Whatever he wished to be called. The devil himself.
And damn his own sense of loyalty, his ambition. If he hadn't made that promise he wouldn't be here. He had hated Harry from the moment, two decades prior, when he'd strolled in to take over the operations that Snow had entrusted to Jacob. It was my first post, mine! And yet... there was something about Harry that got under your skin, that made you want to curry his favour. Harry could charm the habit off a nun. He had, in fact. On a bet. That was the last time Jacob had bet against Lord Harry.
Harry had come to him, had confided that he could feel a change taking hold. When Harry had asked Jacob to help him break the cycle, Jacob had readily - stupidly - agreed. He might have been drunk at the time: on alcohol, on women, on blood, on power; Harry sure did know how to throw a fiesta. Jacob would have promised Harry his own soul at that moment, if he hadn't already given it up when he became a vampire.
Regus's information had come as a shock, and he'd briefly debated ignoring that morsel. But he'd made the promise, and Jacob was a man of his word. Besides, the rewards were too great to ignore. Harry's ambition burned just as bright as Jacob's; Harry's resolve surpassed his. Jacob knew they would make a formidable team. But he needs to fulfill his promise first, needs to bring the mighty Lord Harry back. And his current lover makes the perfect lure. He'd quickly settled on the method best suited to maximize the possibility of Harry changing back to himself.
What he hadn't expected was how the girl would affect him. Pretty girls came ten a penny.
But this one - there is something about her. She is spirited. But even that didn't account for the attraction completely. She is his. The proverbial forbidden fruit. One always wants what one cannot have.
Jacob touches his ear; everything has healed up just nicely, thanks to her blood. Jacob licks his lips and glances again at the unappetizing cooling blood. He'd tried to be gentle when he visited her, he truly wanted to be, but there had been a few times he almost forgot his purpose, almost given in to the bloodlust. He didn't have the same proclivities for violence as Harry, but he is still a vampire, still has a predator's instincts and reactions. It had been intoxicating, feeding on her little by little. It had only whetted his appetite for more, for her. But she is his.
Jacob pounds his fist on the desk. Perhaps he should go see if there are other pretty girls down below. Or go out on a proper hunt...
I should go check on the progress...
Before slipping back into unconsciousness, Sylvie had been awake for a while, silent and staring. He hadn't tried to talk to her, had waited for her sure words of condemnation, of revulsion and rage, but she had remained uncharacteristically silent. The fear and hurt he saw in her eyes struck him to his core. He would have welcomed one of her loquacious tirades. It pained him to see her vulnerable and broken. He longed to comfort her, but dared not go near. He could offer her no comfort; he is a monster.
Hal sits on the floor, eyes closed, leaning against the wall. He is cycling through mind exercises to keep his attention off the blood - counting, reciting passages from favourite novels, remembering all the infuriating things Sylvie got up to - but he is suddenly interrupted by a knock.
Jacob's voice comes tauntingly from the other side of the thick metal door. "By the sound of the human heart in there, I take it that guilt-ridden Hal is still in residence?" There is a pause.
Hal remains silent.
"Come out Lord Harry. You know you want this. You told me the means. I found your anchor and made a certain... impression... on her. There will be no point in fighting your true nature if she will not have you, if you have no one to buttress your efforts. I know you're in there Harry, itching to be set free again, to drop the shackles of your conscience."
Hal remains silent. He doesn't want to lend credence to Jacobs words. He can't let his hope die. But oh how easy it would be to surrender...
He hears Jacob sigh, and his tone changes as he says more quietly, "Hal, her death will make our deal that much sweeter, but it doesn't have to be inevitable. I cannot let her go, she knows too much. You of all people know this, it is protocol. But, if you cooperate... I'll make sure she doesn't die. I can recruit her myself..."
Hal opens his eyes and looks at Sylvie's unconscious form across the room. He considers for a moment. Would that make matters any better?
Hal breaks his silence, "I can resist."
"Hal, I know you. Women are your Achilles heel. The thrill of the chase brings on a certain excitement, you have postponed the inevitable for a short while before, but that is all it was - a postponement. You will succumb. You will leap, you will tear her apart and drain her dry, just as you have done to a thousand women before her.
A denial springs to his lips but he says instead, "I will find a way."
"What way Hal?"
Hal closes his eyes again. He doesn't have the answer to that. He just has the will to fight it, to fight for her. Still. No matter how she may despise him. Until he hears it from her lips, his hope will not be crushed.
Minutes of silence pass before Hal hears a whispered, "so be it," and footsteps retreating.
All is quiet, save her heartbeat. It pulls at him.
Hal starts reciting Dante's Divine Comedy. A trip through hell into redemption seems a fitting metaphor for his current situation.
Jacob has been trying to concentrate on some business reports, unsuccessfully. The first glass of blood had sat untouched, cooled and congealed. He'd finally had someone pour him a fresh glass, but that one has now taken the first's place in its vigil. Jacob is still lost in his thoughts...
Charles rushes in; he is a welcome/unwelcome interruption.
"What is it?" Jacob snarls.
"We've caught ourselves a dog. He attacked at the south entrance, but the doubled-up guards you ordered were able to stop him without too much trouble."
Jacob leans back in his chair, considering. "So, it is as I thought. Hal is in league with one of those filthy beasts. A rescue attempt perhaps?" Charles shrugs indifferently. Jacob considers questioning the prisoner, but there really is no need. The wolf's been captured. If he was Hal's blood supplier, his cohort - it was still difficult to believe the Harry he knew would stoop down to working with a hound - he is now incapacitated. If he is one of the werewolves that had been periodically attacking and evading them, well, once again the attack was thwarted. As he had told Hal, these werewolves are a nuisance, nothing more. Jacob is confident they are well prepared for any sort of assault.
"Throw him in one of the cells." He almost dismisses Charles but then muses, "Tonight is a full moon. I've been thinking, it would be fitting to throw a party in celebration of Harry's return, which I expect won't be long now. This new arrival might provide the perfect entertainment. A fight; we haven't had a proper one in months. Those two pups we caught aren't ferocious enough. A mature werewolf is just what we need. Have letters of invitation prepared for me to sign. We shall throw a good reception for Lord Harry." Charles leaves to comply.
Jacob sits silently for some moments, his mind drifting back to his earlier thoughts. Then he grabs the glass and downs its contents. He must put Sylvie out of his mind and be practical, keep his eye on the real prize. Eternity is a long time; a human girl is insignificant in comparison. He is an Old One, he'd done what had to be done to reach that status and can't afford to have anything interfere with his ambitions. Harry is part and parcel to his plans.
Plus, there is always the chance Harry will recruit her...
Hal's recitation has started to slip into a cadence in time to Sylvie's heartbeat. He realizes this and tries to change to something else, but regardless, he keeps aligning to the sound.
It is a relief when he's interrupted by Jacob at the door once again. "I fear I must be the bearer of bad news Hal. I've come to inform you that we've caught ourselves a hound. He was skulking around one of our entrances. I presume your friend coming to your rescue?" Jacob waits for a confirmation that does not come. "Well the pathetic cavalry charge has been quelled, he is now a resident down here as well. I'm sure Harry would agree he will be fun to play with tonight." Another pause. "Might want to get on with it. We don't want the guest of honour to miss the party."
When the other vampire departs, Hal breathes out a shaky sigh and prepares to switch from mental exercises to physical ones. He needs something more to distract him from the omnipresent alluring scent. As he kneels forward, he recalls the conversation in the carriage...
"And yourself?" Federico had detailed the plans for the werewolf attack on the vampire's lair, but his involvement had been curiously absent.
Federico answers,"I need to be inside to ensure the plan works. I will let myself be captured early in the day -"
"What? How will that help the situation?"
"I told you how I escaped before. The vampires will think me subdued, imprisoned and chained. But I will break the bones in my hands and when they bring me out to fight I will be ready to drop my shackles. I can attack the ones entrenched at the centre of the building, making sure they can't organize against the wolves coming at them from the exits."
"What if Jacob decides to wait? Not put you in a fight, having captured you mere hours beforehand?"
"You tell me Hal. You are better informed. Will they wait?"
Hal concedes, "No. They will want the fresh sport you'll provide immediately."
"And your vampires, they will bring me out just before the full moon, sí?"
Hal nods. They are nothing if not predictable.
"Then see, all will go as planned..."
All will go as planned.
Federico has just been captured. That means it's early morning. A full day of waiting until nightfall, until the full moon; a full night of waiting until wolves become men again, until sunrise when he and Sylvie will be set free.
Hal simply needs to continue to resist. He plants his palms against the hard cold floor.
"One... Two... Three... Four..."
Sylvie's eyes flutter open as she's still caught in her dreamworld.
She'd been standing in the doorway of their bedroom, watching Hal do press-ups, watching the warm afternoon sun highlight the pleasing contours of his muscles as they tightened and smoothed over the bones of his shoulders and back. He disliked it when she intruded on his routines, but she'd been too impatient to wait elsewhere. She longed for his count to reach its usual conclusion. He had jumped up and surprisingly had turned to her not in exasperation, but with a look that flooded her with warmth, her toes curling and her belly clenching with delicious anticipation. When he had prowled towards her she'd smiled and opened her arms in welcome.
That smile is still with her as the dream disperses and her senses catch up to her. Dark. Cold. Pain. The smile turns to alarm as memory floods in and she hears breathy counting.
"Two hundred ninety-six... Two hundred ninety-seven...Two hundred ninety-eight..."
She tenses as he nears three hundred, but mercifully he doesn't stop. She can hear the whoosh of the air as he continues doing press-ups, can make out, just barely, his pale form rhythmically rising and falling on the floor a mere 10 or so paces from her.
Lying on her side parallel to him, she instinctively presses herself closer to the wall, the hardness of it against her back falsely reassuring. She tries to ignore the burn of the bites and her aching body. She tries to remain immobile, to still her breath, to quiet her pounding heart.
And she prays.
"Santa Virgen, Bajo tu amparo nos acogemos, Santa Madre de Dios, no desprecies nuestras súplicas en las necesidades, antes bien líbranos de todo peligro, oh Virgen gloriosa y bendita. Amén... Santa Virgen, Bajo tu amparo nos acogemos..."
Federico prays continually as he waits in the dank cell. Hours have passed; hours more still yet to come. He would have preferred to delay his capture, but he'd wanted the vampires to have ample time to organize a fight, to invite many of the chupasangres. Plus this would give Hal a signal.
He doesn't know what happened to Hal or Sylvie, can't make out their particular scents within the reek of this place of torment. If Hal had somehow given in and returned to the vampires, Federico is sure he would have come down to taunt him. That left two options: Hal is either a fellow prisoner or he is dead. Federico is surprised that the second scenario actually bothers him. Not as much as the thought of Sylvie being hurt or killed of course, but still... considering Hal had been the one to imprison him the first time, any feelings of goodwill marked a change in him.
It is remarkable how quickly he'd felt the mantle of imprisonment engulf him, how the memories from before came flooding in despite this being part of his plan. It had taken much restraint not to fight the vampires, to put up only enough resistance to ensure there were no suspicions, to let himself be chained and dragged into this tiny dark place filled with the stench of the hundreds of humans and werewolves and vampires held here before.
The shackles chafe; there is a restlessness in him that seeks release. He wants to be pacing, running, but instead he continues to wait and pray.
"Four hundred eighty-two... four hundred eighty-three... four hun..."
Hal pauses on shaky arms, before finally collapsing. This is not the first time he'd reached this count; he'd done several long rounds of press-ups, alternating them with pacing and grasping at any type of distraction that formulated in his mind in an effort to keep occupied, to keep himself sane enough to resist the feast only steps away. He had pushed his body beyond it's considerable limits, had willed his muscles to continue in a daze of burn and pain and numbers. But will alone cannot power a body indefinitely, even one transformed as his.
Hell. Hal imagines this is what Dante had in mind with his 7th circle of Hell.
But fix thine eyes beneath: the river of blood
Approaches, in which all those are steep'd,
Who have by violence injured. O blind lust!
O foolish wrath! wo so dost goad us on
In the brief like, and in the eternal then
Thus miserably o'erwhelm us.
Yes, this certainly is Hal's own personal Hell. A bloody human, trussed up and chained for his whims, yet unattainable. No, not unattainable but... His wife. He has to keep reminding himself of that fact. He does not want to hurt her. He has to keep reminding himself of that as well.
He scuttles backward to the wall, it's hardness against his back giving him the illusion of safety. He draws up his knees and lets his head slump upon them. He finds it hard to concentrate on any particular subject but keeps up a chant in a vain attempt to drown out the impossibly loud thudding of her heart.
He had attempted to hold his breath for some time, but it had proven futile; impossible to convince a body accustomed to breathing for over 300 years that it isn't necessary. Besides, the scent of her blood permeates everything in the cell, an almost tangible red haze surrounding him in the gloom. The aroma clings to him inside and out, coating his lungs with each breath, coating his mouth and throat with each swallow.
Hun-ger, each heartbeat says,
Hun-ger,
Hun-ger,
Hun-ger...
The thought pounds in his head in time to the wet, tantalizing heartbeat. It overpowers all other sounds, threatens to drown all other thoughts. Impossible to tune out the siren call of the blood.
The perpetual hunger gnaws in his belly, voracious, relentless.
The monster prowls.
Hal hangs on to his sanity by a thread.
Jacob smiles at the milling crowd that has moved on from the party upstairs down to the fight room, but the smile is brittle. He clenches his fists with frustration. He's just come from checking on Hal and was disappointed to hear a heartbeat behind the door and the sounds of strangled chanting. He'd been tempted to open the door, but had decided against it. Hal had shown remarkable restraint but it is only a matter of time. Jacob has all the time in the world. Whether Hal kills the girl, or she dies from starvation or infection of her wounds, the same outcome is sure to follow. Lord Harry will emerge from that room.
Sometimes, it doesn't matter how hard you try.
Hal sobs as his thoughts spiral out of control. The hunger is too much. What doesn't transmit light creates its own darkness. He is darkness. For centuries he has been the angel of death; there's no reason to believe he won't be for centuries to come. Jacob is correct, he really is only putting off the inevitable. Why continue to put himself through this torture? I asked him to do this. That girl is the only link to this incarnation of himself. With her gone there would be no point in holding on any longer. He could give up this pointless exercise in control, he could be free once again.
No! Try harder. He snakes one arm tight across his cramping stomach, his other arm up over his ears. It's no use. He shakes with hunger. His nerves sing with need; his mouth throbs with the primal urge to feed. He whispers desperately in the darkness, "I can't. The bloodlust is too strong."
Hun-ger,
Hun-ger
Hun-ger...
Through the red fog and thundering heartbeat, something snatches his attention back from the abyss. He hears a soft, scratchy, "Hal. Come here."
He blinks, the veil slowly dispersing as normal sight and sound rush back. As his head clears, he finds himself kneeling forward in a crouch, his arms no longer forming a cage around himself. He hadn't been conscious of his movement. And he's sure he just imagined her faint voice. "Sorry what?"
He hears her voice again, louder, stronger, "Come here."
His heart tries to skip a beat at hearing her words. She's giving him an invitation to the release he craves. "I don't... I don't think that is advisable." The monster he's been holding at bay batters against his reluctance.
"Hal, you need to come near me."
Hun-ger... The thought of approaching her makes the muscles of his belly tighten with anticipation, makes his mouth water. He stands before he can help it, but is able to hold himself still.
"Have you gone mad? Do you have a death wish?"
She sighs. "Actually the opposite."
"You do understand that I'm a vampire and you are covered in blood. Right now you are like a bottle of spirits to an alcoholic, like a tray of sweets to a child. Irresistible. A glass of water held out to a man dying of thirst would be less tempting. I can't go anywhere near you."
Sylvie snorts. "Have you listened to yourself? You've been talking, chanting, raving. For hours. This whole room is a temptation. Being near me will not be any more tempting."
"Who is the vampire in this room?"
"You need to trust me. Come here."
Hal wants to keep denying her, but the decision is unconsciously made, the promise held in her words too enticing to ignore. He takes one shaky step at a time, testing his resolve. He fights the instincts that tell him to pounce.
Once in front of her he looks down expectantly. She appears remarkably calm considering her earlier behaviour. And she'd been awake for hours? How had he missed that?
"Come, lay your head on my lap," Sylvie says.
"What?" Hal frowns.
"Just do it you stupid man."
Hal sighs. Perhaps there is something to her reasoning. He is already feeling something else lapping at the edges of the hunger. Irritation. He kneels down to look directly in her eyes, but they are unreadable. He wants to hope that her request means she doesn't see him as a monster, but the proof of what was done to her sits squarely in front of him.
Holding his breath, he slowly complies with her request. He sits on the floor and leans back, his neck and bare shoulders coming in direct contact with the skin of her bite-ridden thighs as he settles his head down. He tries to be gentle in his movements, but there is still a sharp intake of breath from her. He winces, lifting his head slightly to bolt away, but her hands go to his hair gingerly. He can feel her hands trembling, but they firmly keep him in place. He holds very still and tense, staring up at the ceiling, expecting any second to leap up and tear her throat out just as Jacob predicted.
But as her fingers start combing through his hair, her touch allows him to relax, in minute increments; his body had been contracted for so long his muscles have almost forgotten how. The relief is so great that it helps him quell the murderous thoughts. The hunger still rages on, but he is able to ignore it better.
Finally he trusts himself to breathe. He tilts his head to look at her and ventures, "Sylvie, I... there is nothing I can say that can ever mitigate what's happened."
She continues to stare ahead into the darkness. "No. There is nothing you can say, so just hush."
Her tone is flat; he can't read anything in her voice or her words.
"I am so sorry."
She glances briefly down at him. "What I wouldn't give for something I could knock you unconscious with."
Hal breathes a chuckle.
They are quiet for a while, Sylvie stroking her fingers gently but increasingly steadily through his hair. Finally she asks, "I heard you mumbling 'the werewolf is captured.' Is that Federico?"
"Yes. But it's part of a larger plan." Hal tells her the details.
"How long?" She says without elaboration.
He understands implicitly. "I think the full moon is not far off now. We'll know. There are three werewolves down here now; they aren't exactly quiet when they transform. Then we will have to wait for morning."
Sylvie is quiet as she absorbs his words. Then she says, "You need to sleep. It would give you some respite. And it will make you stronger. It is the best chance I have."
Hal huffs. "Of course, that's it. Why didn't I think of that?"
She meets his eyes, but doesn't reply directly to his sarcasm. She just starts humming. He recognizes the tune and his lips lift in a small smile. Her touch, her voice - they are an instant comfort, a balm to the battle that has been raging inside him for hours. They hold the promise of peace, of home. Perhaps she is right after all.
For the first time in days Hal allows himself to hope that all will be well.
Federico can feel the wolf inside him stirring, wanting to be released. He can feel the pull of the moon coming, the power inside him getting stronger with each passing minute. He harnesses it. Federico extends his hands forward as far as the chains holding him allow, inhales deeply, then with a guttural growl he slams his hands backward into the wall behind him. Bones crunch and snap. He lets his arms go limp again, hanging beside his head. Then gritting against the pain - he'd told Hal it was nothing compared to the transformation, but broken bones hurt no matter how they become that way - he pulls his arms down and wiggles his wrists to see if he can get his hands through the shackles. One hand slips halfway out easily and he pushes it back up. He repeats the wall pounding with the other hand. This time that one wants to slip out as well. Finally he settles himself back into his prisoner's position, ignoring the pain.
A short while later he hears someone at his door, undoing the latch. The wolf itches to tear into his enemies. Federico smiles.
The time has come.
In a warehouse district in London, on a frigid autumn evening darkening with the oncoming twilight, a motley group of men approaches a large brick building. Several empty carriages and lone horses surround the building; two guards can be seen at the main entrance. The group, which ranges in ages from 19 to almost 60, splits up. Three crouch near the front entrance, being careful to stay downwind; three stick to the shadows and make their way around to the back; two go down an alley between neighbouring buildings to a secret entrance they've been informed about. Once in position they begin to undress, carefully folding their garments and hiding them within the heaps of rubbish prevalent throughout the streets.
Ignoring the cold they take up the flasks and vials they carried with them and wait for the pull of the full moon before striding forward.
For this chapter, and actually the previous one and next one, I've borrowed two inspiration songs from the Being Human Series 3 soundtrack, "You Made Me Human" and "It Hurts". They've been interweaving in my head back and forth for weeks, setting the tone and pace. So many of the songs Richard Wells composed for Being Human are absolutely sublime! I long for him to release the Series 4 and 5 soundtracks as well.