State of Grace - Part 3 (A Dark Shadows Story)

[lovesrain44]

There was protest in Willie's eyes, a small flicker that he took no pains to hide. He was even shaking his head no as his eyes closed slowly shut. Barnabas grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and jerked him forward, ignoring the sharp sound of Willie's breath as it caught in his throat.

"If you do not give me your belt, I will get my cane and tear you apart with it," he said, low, feeling the darkness rise. It was so much easier to use physical force with Willie than the powers that came with his curse, so much less effort required, but sometimes it was necessary to give his orders extra weight. "I will teach you the consequences of theft in this household."

With a small twitch of his fingers, he released Willie, who stumbled back, collar askew, and reached for his belt. Obedient, head down, hands shaking as he undid the buckle. He seemed to pause then, as the last of it was undone, just before he slid the belt from its loops. Then he looked up, hands at his waist, eyes wide, hope glittering there like fragile stars.

"B-Barnabas-" he began.

"Willie," Barnabas snapped, not wanting to deal with any pleas for mercy. His servant dropped his head, trembling, one hand pulling the belt from his trousers while the other guided it through. He folded the belt over slowly in his hand. Then, with a small catch in his throat, he placed it on the table.

It was now beyond reasonable trepidation, it had now become out and out defiance.

"Hand it to me. Now."

Willie was backing away slowly, as if through deep water, his hands rising to his head, mouth open, a flush rising in his face. As if he were hot, as if a furnace had been lit at dawn and were only now coming to high heat. The remains of the daylight's sun glinted in Willie's hair as he neared the wall. Blue eyes, almost dark in the candlelight, not catching on anything, but hanging unfocused, took on an ocean-bright haze. An ocean in the daytime, fully shimmered by the midday sun. The tang of salt, the perspiration of Willie's fear, came at him like a breeze across late-afternoon sand dunes.

Barnabas felt the humming inside of him burst to an overwhelming pitch, and, zeroing in on the source of the heat, his eyes tracked the rapid pulse there on the curve of Willie's neck. Knowing that if he had fed more, he would not be needing this, that if his anger over the spoiled evening with Miss Winters had been less draining, he would not be wanting this. But there it was, the warmth of living flesh, the rumpled collar parted to reveal the slant of skin as if for him alone. In his house. Under his roof.

His.

Willie had backed up as far as the wall would let him, pressing himself to it, trapped between the wall and the corner of the table that jutted out. He could go no further, it was obvious to see, yet something in his stance told Barnabas that he would not have taken flight even if he were able. It wasn't the table keeping him there, nor even the thrall of a vampire's gaze. No, it was himself doing this, legs taut like cabled wire, arms stiffly at his sides, hands pressed against the wall. Head thrown back, eyes now locked on Barnabas and nothing else, his entire body frozen in one place, his whole frame shaking like a mast-line in a high wind. Barnabas moved quickly forward, gathering the boy in his arms, hearing the single gasp. A sound, not of protest but, more, of recognition. Of acceptance. Surrender.

As he pulled Willie close, he felt the boy's hands grasping the shoulders of his suit jacket, the body curve into his. Saw the neck tilt away in offering. He cupped his hand around the base of the boy's skull, the flesh there simmering with heat and dampness.

I will not waste this.

Willie shifted then, moving closer, legs wide and braced, the hardness of his sex now fully against Barnabas' thigh, hot even through layers of cloth. His whole body like braided cord, pulled tight, and thrumming with a heart pushed to beat past normal limits.

Barnabas sifted in close. Caught the faded scent of soap, and the echo of woodsmoke, and behind that, the faint sweetness of Willie's sweat. And, moving past the tang of fear, bent near to linger over the dusk of pure, driven desire. But in his throat, as though from deep within his soul, Willie made a small sound, like the yelp of a pup too tightly grabbed by the scruff of the neck. Or the faint, faraway echo of a small child lost deep within a cave.

Stay. I will find you.

From within him, beyond the source of darkness, beneath the iron core of the curse placed upon him so long ago, came something that he'd lost so long it had been forgotten. Born in daytime and fed by crystalline light, blue shadows and the sleepy, golden furze of wheat fields at harvest time. Grapes grown and gathered, shielded hayracks, and silver nets tossed over sapphire blue water. And all around, the air, shimmering, mid-autumn air, blue and white, and the far off distant, smoky haze of the horizon. From daylight, it came.

With both hands, he clasped Willie's head, his fingers woven through strands of skylit hair, bringing the pewter-blue eyes up to meet his gaze. Willie blinked as though he were seeing something he could not bear to look at, his chest rising and falling in sudden short gasps. Mouth open, skin moist and tempting, dark brows drawn together.

"Easy, Willie," he said, keeping his voice low, sweeping the boy's forelock back with the edge of one hand. "It will be alright."

The body stilled against him, and the eyes, glazed, unfocused, caught in the net of gentle words. Heart slowing, breath coming easier now. And still hot against him, braided cord less taut, still heated by the day. Still ready.

Still.

Lifting his hand away, he tucked his head close in the curve of Willie's neck, lips skimming the surface of silkened skin, over the cord of muscle, angled like a lance. A whisper kiss, and then he let his fangs descend. In a brief, sharp arc, Willie tightened against him, jerking as Barnabas pulled his fangs out, hands clenching tighter and then letting go. Letting his whole body fall into wool-clad arms. A human body, warm and long against him, pressed fully to his own from chest to thigh, and breathing slow, as though asleep.

Now relaxed, the spill of blood released, and Barnabas swept down, letting his lips linger over the raw, punctured edges of flesh. And, sealing his mouth around the new wound, allowed the pump of blood to flow into him.

Fire and sweet and hot. Always hot, it seemed, as if within him, Willie burned with a neverending flame, banked with diamond-hard coals. The arms reached up to encircle the breadth of his shoulders, and the body within the curve of his arms began a slow tremor, as if he were being shaken by a raging fire some distance off. A fire that came suddenly, inexplicably closer, fed by invisible winds and an unstoppable heart. Then, as if the braided cord were pulled end to end as the flames hit it, Willie jackknifed forward, breaking the seal of the vampire's mouth, sending a loop of blood spraying across Willie's collar and the vampire's white shirt cuff. Sending the boy forward in a hard-boned tumble. Stiff while he shook as the pleasure lanced through him. Breath gasping in Barnabas' ear, one, small, deep, guttural sigh as his orgasm reached its highest peak. The spill of sweat as Willie collapsed against his neck, the cadence of his breathing harsh and aged as he grasped for purchase to steady himself.

"Stay. I have you."

Relaxed now. Damp spill of hair brushing Barnabas' cheek as the vampire circled the boy in his arms, supported him as he rocked slowly on unsteady feet. With one hand, he stroked the boy's back, long, slow movements as one would use to calm a troubled beast shaken by thunder.

The human heart, pressed against his chest, slowed its pounding. Bit by bit, Willie's breathing calmed. The shoulders stopped shaking. And then the moment came.

Like a little piece of daylight shining through a sudden and inexplicable break in the clouds. Stillness. Warmth moving through him, breaking the clench of ice-hardness within. And a sigh, whether Willie's or his own, he did not know, echoing through the blackness of the kitchen until it faded softly away. Tension eased away under the mists of fire that surrounded them. Cold melted. Darkness abated. The silence. And the stillness, like the grace of heaven descended.

He looked down. Willie's hands were two tight fists, clenched against his own chest. There was a smear of drying blood across the back of one of them, layered across the sleeve of his shirt. And they were trembling. Slightly.

"Steady now."

It did not work. The moment was gone, and Willie began struggling, his feet stumbling over themselves, over the uneven floorboards, to get away. Barnabas held him tight for a second, feeling the clutch of Willie's hands as he looped them over the vampire's forearms, as if trying to find leverage. Like a wolverine's claws they were, and sharp, digging in, though Willie only managed to thump himself into the wall, the wood making a solid snapping sound as he hit it. His head landed with a hard thunk as Willie slipped out of Barnabas' grasp to land fully against it. He was shaking. Hovering against the wall, saying something to himself, over and over. Barnabas bent close to catch the rising cadence.

"No . . . no . . . no . . . no. . . ."

The vampire, the pure spark of dismay within him flattened by a flash of anger, grabbed the boy by both shoulders. Whatever was the matter now? The exchange of blood had been a mutual thing; he'd not even had to ask. He'd barely raised his voice to Willie. What's more, there had been no consequences, not even for something as serious as theft. Willie had taken, ultimately, no punishment, and yet here he was, falling apart as if he had, the dampness of tears dappling the white skin over his cheekbones. And then he caught Willie's eyes alight on the playing piece on the table, as if he'd been searching for it. And the question from before rose in his head.

"Why would you take such a thing, Willie?" he asked. Quietly, at first. And then, as Willie shuddered and tried to pull away, he gripped harder till he could feel the solid bone through flesh. "Why?"

"N-no-"

Barnabas shook him, mindful of the blood still oozing from the wound on Willie's neck, the dark bruise his mouth had left rising to the surface in mottled purple. But Willie, blind, mouth open, whipped his head back, managed to free one hand and jerked it back so fast he knocked it against the wall. Hard enough to tear skin. Barnabas could see the newly torn flesh, even as Willie cupped the back of his hand to his mouth, as if to instinctively ease the sting. Lips trembling almost as much as his hand, he could barely make contact between the two, and Barnabas grasped the hand and pulled it away.

"You will tell me," he said, feeling the last flush of pleasure fade away, even as the blood from Willie's veins melded with his own.

"No," said Willie, almost clearly, but as if to himself and not to his master. He shook his head, chin dropping, hair falling forward, strands of it damply clinging to his forehead. Pressing forward, Barnabas dropped his hands and moved in until he was standing close to Willie. Close enough so that the boy had nowhere to go. All escape routes blocked off, either by the table, the wall, or Barnabas himself.

"You will tell me," he repeated. "And you will tell me now." The piece had no value on its own. In connection with its kind, it was quite valuable. Alone it was worth nothing, other than its mild beauty, certainly holding no attraction for someone like Willie. And yet he had taken it. Carried it around with him, though he must have known its discovery upon his person to carry the most dire of consequences.

"Now, Willie," he said, feeling the dark timbre rise in his voice. Servants had no secrets in his day, and were they unlucky enough to chance upon one, they would be enjoined to keep it only for their master's sake.

At this, Willie's lashes flickered across his cheeks, as if he were now coming awake from some faraway thought. His head lifted up, and Barnabas could see his eyes, greyed from blood loss and fatigue. He seemed, at last, to realize that Barnabas was standing close enough for his human shoulder to nudge the vampire's chest. A slight tremor flashed through him.

Barnabas moved forward and closed his hands around Willie's face, blood smearing beneath his fingertips across the pallid cheeks as he looked directly into Willie's eyes.

"Tell me," he said, feeling the weight of darkness in his voice. "Tell me."

Struggling, mouth working, Willie could not break his gaze away. Could not keep his mouth from opening and the words from tumbling forth. "To k-keep me from w-wanting it," Willie managed, the harsh cadence of a sob in his voice.

"Wanting it? It?"

A pause. Breath like stumbled steps, eyes the color of the sea at the churn of mid-winter's daybreak.

"You," he whispered.

Utterly confused, it was as if someone had stolen the daylight away. Frozen, locked in place, Barnabas let the weight of Willie's body slip from his fingers and he could barely sense the tumble of bones as his servant crumpled up and fell to the floor. His mind reeled and he felt as if he'd taken a giant step backward off a cliff's edge.

He could hardly bear the brightness of the kitchen, the scent of Willie's fear rising like tainted salt over the dusky pulse of spent passion. With one motion he picked up the playing piece from the table and stepped over Willie's form, curled up on the floor. Quick strides took him from the kitchen and up the stairs. Down the hall to his mother's room, lit in darkness by only the flickering of stars through the window.

If he waited, if he stood absolutely still, he could imagine that all was as it had been. That his mother waited in the quietness for her son to speak, as she had done so many times. Sitting in her comfortable chair, with needlepoint in her hand or perhaps a bit of lace that she was mending, the skirts of her day dress spread like petals over her feet. Waiting while the glow of sunlight moved its way across the floor, with the patience he'd seen in so few women but that his mother, who never failed to move him with her love for him, possessed in abundance.

He moved the playing piece like a worry stone between his fingers. Felt the caution of the growing stillness as the play of light and shadow, through narrowed eyes, began to feel more and more as if she were present. Waiting. Listening. As if the thoughts in his head could be heard by her. He'd known his servant had guilt over his body's own desire. Known that Willie could not quite face the fact that he wanted the vampire to take him, wanted the release that the bite would give him, no, Willie had never been able to reconcile himself to this. Perhaps he'd felt vulnerable and exposed, or even shy about having pulsed his seed into nothingness.

But Willie had not refused him, especially not this time. His servant had stayed close and allowed himself to be taken. A blatant offering in return for pleasure, an open exchange if a man looked at it one way. But Willie, his trusted servant, had taken something that did not belong to him in order to keep from wanting it. Looked at that way, it was entirely different, showing instead a picture of resistance and fear. Resistance of Barnabas and fear of his own desires.

You. To keep me from wanting you, Willie had said.

His servant had kept the playing piece like a talisman against the darkness. Surely he had realized how great the chances of discovery would have been, but perhaps that had been part of his own plan to keep himself on the alert. He had wanted it.

But.

He didn't want to want it. And unlike a coquette playing with fire who realizes too late the price of the game, Willie had fought his own desires with the desperation of a man hanging from a cliff. When forced to reveal the machinations of his heart, there had been a tightness in Willie's face, and unfallen tears, like mournful rain in an unpromised sky. Barnabas he'd always looked down his nose at those who boasted of taking every maid in a household, and had always believed that with an elevated rank came elevated responsibilities. And that included resisting the weakness of one's own impulses. Barnabas' taking Willie, in this way that they had between them, when his servant wasn't completely willing, was tantamount to rape. Whatever else he had done, whatever else he was, he was above that.

He held out hand in front of him, the playing piece glowing softly in the darkness. Cautioning himself to remember that there would be no answer to his question, he asked it just the same. "Mother, what shall I do?"

*

The ache in Willie's neck, head dipping low enough to knock the floorboards, did not even begin to compete with the ache in his heart. If indeed, he still had one. That it hadn't been swallowed whole by the bottomless pull of its own desire.

You let him. You let him do it.

It.

Take him down, plunge the vest of his soul, set to fly the dream, where the moment had come like sparkling light, and another after it, and a thousand more after that until he was only light himself, weightless, and streaming through every pore the pleasure, with gentle and constant hands, had carried him away. The vampire had given him this. A kiss to gentle him, and then succor afterwards, stroking his back with all the tenderness of a father to a beloved child. And then the softness had turned to bitter steel when Barnabas had forced from him the secret he'd sworn to keep. Leaving an odd expression on the vampire's face in that bare second before the vampire had dropped him. Unclenched his iron-cold fist, and let go. Barnabas' face had gone blank. Simply blank, as if a thought had occurred to him that he could not understand. Or if he could understand, could not believe.

Shuddering, Willie drew his knees underneath himself and pushed with his elbows against the floor. An instant ringing in his ears, like a frantic alarm bell, stopped him. He paused, concentrating on breathing, on not buckling, of sitting upright until at last his back was pressed against the cool wall and his head lolled to one side. There were no weals of heat pressed close by the weight of his body. No tight muscles to protest any movement. The blessing of that was countered by the isolated throbbing along the muscles of his neck. With no competition, save the stabbing anguish in his heart, the wounds there stood out, with the clarity of a sudden dash of hot water in a cold tub.

He made me.

No, the truth.

You made yourself.

Hadn't he?

Did that matter? He'd screwed up just the same, albeit inadvertently, giving Barnabas the gaming piece. And after promising himself to keep it a secret forever, it was almost too much to imagine that he'd given himself up like that. A mistake, right? Handing that piece over, knowing what the result would be. Or rather imagining what the result would be. Never in a million years would he have thought that Barnabas would have foregone the very, in the vampire's mind, deserved beating, and gone straight for the kill.

An excuse. The gaming piece had been an excuse for the vampire. And Willie knew he himself had been careless. Yes, that was it. Had to be. You couldn't plan something like that. Could you? Had he actually done it on purpose?

Head ringing, mouth dry, he bent to one side and pushed himself till he was kneeling on all fours. Head like weighted lead, the floorboards doing a small dance until the second he snapped his eyes shut. He was okay, he was going to make it. Just had to get up. Wash away the blood. Change his shirt. Go on as if nothing had happened. Though that was proving to be somewhat difficult as he got to his feet and felt the slight ache of muscles that had been pulled in two directions at once, and the faint, faraway pulse in his groin. Any attempt at denial would carry him no further than the sink. Even as he stumbled over to it and used both hands to move the pump, his own words came up to slap him in the face.

To keep me from wanting it.

It?

You.

With shaking hands, he splashed water into his mouth, lifted the pump again and stuck his mouth under the stream. Swallowed as it ended, ice cold water slipping down his chin. Knowing he'd wanted it so bad that when Barnabas had asked him for his belt, he'd been distracted enough to put it on the table instead of handing it over. The vampire had been predictably furious, but in the midst of his fury, the dangerous glitter in his eyes had shifted, and they had become full of such promises-

Why didn't you just get on your knees and beg him? Please, Barnabas, please, please. . . .

No, he was not going to throw up, he refused to do it, even as his stomach churned, head spinning as he folded his arms along the metal edge of the sink and buried his head against them. The flannel of his shirt wicked up the water as he breathed in the slick dampness, becoming sodden as the water slid down his chest, where he could smell his own sweat and the lingering dusky odor of sex.

The door opened with a sudden snap.

"Willie."

Barnabas. Voice like woven metal, clenched tight like a fist, and Willie bolted upright and tried to back away, bumping into the stove lid handle that popped out of its slot and clattered to the floor. Scrabbling, he pushed the air away, as if to stop Barnabas' slow approach, the blood from his neck now thinned with water and slipping down his chest. Soaking into his shirt in a fast cooling sheet. Then Barnabas stopped in the center of the room. So still, the face impassive, eyes hard flat specs against white skin, containing not even a hint of gentleness.

"Come here, Willie."

A slow stream of denial, more a whimper than a moan, worked its way free. But frozen now, water dripping from his hands to land almost silently on the floor in small, silver dots. The chilled blood on his neck, thickening into an itchy swatch across his skin. No time now for a fresh shirt or even a washup. No way to pretend that nothing had occurred. Not now. Not with the vampire only feet away. Eyes locked on Willie's so hard that he could not break away to look at anything else.

"I said, come here." Voice low, clipped edges, hard as diamonds. And Willie, riveted, began to walk forward. Slow steps that echoed in his ears and in the room like a ricochet, the wood snapping under his feet like rifle shots. Startling him with every move until at last he was close to the vampire. Close enough for a back handed smack. Or anything else.

"Hold out your hand."

Still pinned by the vampire's gaze, Willie opened his mouth as if a small protest insisted on being expressed. But he squelched it, swallowing, his mouth suddenly dry. Catching the fire in Barnabas' eyes, and knowing he could do nothing but obey. He lifted his hand, shaking as if under the strain of a great weight, until his arm was level with the floor, hoping that was what Barnabas wanted. Barnabas lifted his own hand, strikingly fast in the dark air, and with a small gesture, dropped something that flickered as it fell.

Willie almost jerked his hand back as the gaming piece rattled in his palm, but he was stilled at once as Barnabas grabbed him by the wrist with icy fingers still stained with blood, a dark brown swath of it marring the white cuff of his shirt, and pulled him close.

"You will return this to Miss Winters, and you will explain that it's just now been found." Barnabas paused as if making sure he had Willie's full attention. "Without troubling her with where it was and why it was missing."

Willie could not even nod at this, could only curl his fingers around the piece in a familiar clasp, his arm going numb from Barnabas' iron-hard hold. "You will, of course, no longer have need of it."

He could feel his brows knitting together, the question forming on his face, though he dared not express it and bring the vampire's total wrath down to tear him in two.

"You will no longer have need of it," explained the vampire, as if he understood his servant's confusion, "because a gentleman does not use his manservant. What's more, only a fool uses up his winter stores in summer."

As the words rocked in Willie's head, Barnabas let him go, the blood instantly rushing through the cramped muscles of his wrist. The only indication as to the meaning of this pronouncement was in the way that Barnabas spat out the word use, as if it were something filthy and beneath him. Willie rubbed his wrist, feeling the furrow deepen between his eyes, the room icy still as he looked at Barnabas.

"I won't n-need it?"

The muscles beneath Barnabas' eyes flexed as he shook his head, once, in negation, and the full comprehension of the meaning of that movement became clear. The piece had been meant to keep him from wanting the dark dance, and now he would need it no longer. Barnabas had said so. But along with the chill-laced tension of being considered winter stores, inside him was forming a wide, empty place, where so late his body pulsed with pleasure and the sadness had found a dark, unwanted corner where it could be absorbed, even for only a moment, until it no longer existed.

Willie took a step backwards, legs quivering beneath him. Looking down at the piece in his hands, the day he'd found it coming back to him with ramrod speed. A promise had been made and then broken, and the one person he'd sworn he'd never tell was standing in front of him. Now. Knowing every turn, every pulse of his soul, every caged silence. Barnabas knew everything, and Willie was left with nothing.

The bleak despair, rising like a storm-swell, threatened to overtake him, but Barnabas moved, and Willie looked up to see him picking up the belt, and, doubling it over in his hand, gesture to the table.

"Thievery is still a punishable offence in this household," the vampire said in icy tones. "Or had you thought I'd forgotten?"

No, he had not thought it, not really. Maybe hoping, briefly. But whatever had gone between them, it was over now, and any remnants of mercy's strain was now an unknown thing.

With slow feet, Willie moved to the table, head ducked down, the piece still clasped in his hand. Within arm's reach, and the vampire grabbed him by the back of the neck and bent him, with force, over the table. The fingers of the cold hand dug into the not-yet-healed punctures along the side of his neck, sending a sharp, hard lance of pain straight up the back of his skull, and Willie yelped, dropping the playing piece on the table, his hands flying up to dig at the cord of Barnabas' wrist.

The iron cords of the vampire's wrist twitched, and then there was a pause. The vampire lifted his hand, and the pain, with one last black trumpet blast, ebbed away.

"You will remain on the table," Barnabas said, making it almost, but not quite, a question.

"Y-yes, yes, I'll stay."

He would stay. He would tough it out, for his stupidity he deserved this, and for his weakness. And waited while the moment strung itself out and the edge of the table bit into his hips. Then the hairs on the back of his neck began to stand straight up as he realized that the beating had not yet begun. That Barnabas was standing behind him, still and utterly silent. He circled his hands around his head and waited.

"Tell me what you are being punished for."

The voice was cold and calm, and Willie knew that it wasn't that Barnabas didn't already know. The vampire wanted a contrite listing, and as he lay with his head tucked into his arms, Willie realized he had to give it.

"For stealing," he said, his voice muffled by the wood of the table.

"And?"

"For lying."

"And?"

And for what? What was the other thing? His mind raced, and just as the belt whistled down to make its mark across the back of his thighs, he remembered.

"For taking ch-" he began, breath stolen as the slash of the belt sizzled like a burn. "Charity," he managed.

"You are being punished also," continued Barnabas, without hesitation, "for your inattentiveness to my mother's room. I told you it was of the utmost importance and you neglected to attend to it, deciding instead upon your own course of action during the day."

He heard the vampire step back and the belt being slipped through hands and refolded. "I am the master here, and I will chart your course."

The beating began, and Willie's body remembered what it was like to have the pain without the pleasure, without the promise of sweet surrender at the end. Without the harbor of oblivion and the vampire's winter kiss. The belt slammed into him, crisp, the edge like a sharpened blade, rocking him forward with each blow. It wrapped around the front of his thighs, bit into the soft skin over his hips. And Barnabas did not let up, not even when the whimpers began to escape him as the heat built deep within in him to blaze like a forest of trees on fire. Whipped by winds as surely as the belt was swung in the air by a tireless arm, wielded with a vampire's eye to land precisely where he thought it should go.

And then it ended with a surge of three blows in exactly the same spot across the top of his thighs, sending Willie to rise from the table, his hands now gripping the edge of it, his hips bruising as he pushed against it. Barnabas grabbed the back of his collar and jerked up upright, tossing the belt on the table. Willie's thighs shook beneath him as he stood, waiting, breath shuddering in and out.

"This is one lesson I do not want to have to repeat," said Barnabas, his tone cold. Willie stared at the table, the tips of his fingers splayed along its edge, his eyes on the playing piece and the belt, coiled around it. A cuff to the side of the head rocked him forward on this toes, making the wounds on his neck throb as his muscles jerked beneath the skin. "You will answer me when I speak to you."

"Y-yes, Barnabas," he said, voice barely more than a whisper, a sob rising like a black bubble in his throat.

A breath, and then the vampire took a step back. Out of the corner of his eye, Willie could see him tug at his shirt cuffs as if straightening them.

"Very well," he said. "Tomorrow I expect that you will have met with your contact in Bangor as to the repair of the plaster walls in my mother's room. I will check on your progress at sunset." The click of Barnabas' shoes on the wooden floorboards seemed empty and far away. The metal snick of the door into the hallway being opened seemed equally as mute, as though from a remote distance Barnabas was walking through the door and down the hall.

Willie remained, staring at the table, his eyes focusing only on the tips of his fingers as they rested there, quivering as if from a great strain. He listened for the motions in the front hall of a greatcoat being lifted and put on. Of the front door opening and closing. And then he waited while the silence drew itself out, and one of the candles over the mantelpiece flickered and died, the scent of burnt wax sifting through a current of air. It caught him, sending a line of smoky air into his lungs, making him realize that he was swaying slightly as he stood there.

Go to bed, Loomis.

He could not sleep, he knew that. But he would try.

Going down the main hall of the Old House to the foot of the stairs was a vague, half-forgotten memory by the time he'd reached the top of the landing. It was as if he'd been walking toward his room for days now, the darkness of the passage to his room somehow edged with a sliding, white fog. He could make it there, he knew he could, if he just kept moving. If he forgot the throbbing in his legs and hips, if he ignored the sharp jab that came alive in his neck when he moved it the wrong way. Feeling the whisper of the white shroud as he continued moving. Continued breathing, slowly, in and out, ignoring the jerky rise and fall of his chest. He opened the door to his room, wondering vaguely how he'd gotten there so quickly, when he could not recall any of the risers of the stair beneath his feet, nor the turn at the bottom of the landing, nor even leaving the kitchen. He shook his head slightly, the grey numbness dancing at the edge of his vision, the room darkened, except for the reflected light from the clouds outside the window. It was cold, and there was no fire, but he could not bear to build one. Nor light the candles to push away the darkness, no. Not that. Let it be dark. Let the darkness take him, let it rise and surround him so he could tumble into the forgetfulness of its arms.

Without knowing it, he'd moved forward, and now he found himself standing next to the bed, his thighs bumping against the edge of the mattress. He should get dressed for bed and get into it. Sleep. Rest. Rise to work again tomorrow. Be obedient and tied forever to the Old House.

No.

He backed away. Kept backing up until his shoulder hit the mantelpiece and he slid along it till he hit the edge and pushed back until he felt the wall with his shoulder blades. Then he slid down, knees bending, arms encircling them, till he was on the floor, heels tucking in close, head buried in his arms. The darkness gathered him inside of it and in the stillness, the throbbing of the muscles of his backside became overdrawn with the stinging pulse of healing flesh along his neck. And beyond that, the racket of his heart as it pounded. And the steady, cold reality of what Barnabas had said. What it meant.

No more, the vampire had decided. No more between master and servant. No more using him. No more dalliance with the lower orders, Willie was safe now. Safe as a child in its mother's arms, safer, even, than a nun in a chapel. He was as safe as he ever could be in the Old House, from the one thing, the only thing, however infrequent his encounters with it might have been, that had made life bearable. The exquisite, silvery world of the vampire's embrace, the racing tension that always felt as if he'd been swung toward death and then jerked away again at the last second, the pleasure that had seemed to burst inside of every part of him, as if his very atoms had exploded all at once, they were to be no more.

He could live with that, he knew, if it weren't for the fact that it had been Barnabas who had stopped it. Barnabas who had the fortitude to deny himself the easy victory his servant, so ready at hand, offered. And ultimately deny himself the added power over Willie to give and to take when he and he alone decided it. For he had enjoyed it, Willie had known that he must have done. Otherwise, why the long moment in the aftermath, where the vampire had stroked him, and calmed him, and held him. Barnabas would deny himself all of this, showing an inner strength of conviction that Willie could not hope to match.

He'd tried every way he knew how, from the memory of Maggie, to the stealing of a talisman, to keep him from wanting it. And yet Barnabas, without any apparent effort at all, had ended it. Simply. Utterly. Succeeded where Willie had failed, because he knew he wanted it still.

His shoulders slumped as his arms fell from his knees, knuckles hitting the floor with a slight clunk. His body ached to move, but he could not bear it, not with the darkness all around. And he could not let himself sleep, for if he did, the memories would ease into his dreams, and he would be forced to relive the event, knowing that he was forever barred from that ultimate, pulsing moment.

Wanting the night to lengthen into forever around him, he became aware that along the floorboards there shone a golden glow. He blinked at it, barely hearing the steps in the hall, and the doorway open. Eyes so long in darkness squinted at the cloud of candlelight that moved across the room, and the shimmer of Barnabas' dark hair as he walked to Willie's bed. Willie saw him pause, and then turn, the hollow shadow of the vampire's face hidden behind the candle's flames.

"What are you doing there, it's almost dawn." Shivering, Willie drew his arms around his knees, feeling the shrug start before he realized that Barnabas would not accept a silent answer. He opened his mouth to speak, but the vampire spoke first.

"You forgot your belt and the playing piece. I have placed them on your nightstand." Willie looked up, catching the spark of dark eyes, and then he had to look away. Into the darkness along the floorboards. He felt the weight of the vampire's gaze, sinking beneath it as it pressed down, but there was not anything he could think of to say that Barnabas didn't already know, not about him, anyway.

The vampire stood there, almost as if waiting for Willie to speak. But Willie could not. He ducked his head, the thickness in his throat pressing hard enough to keep him from trying, and though his eyes watered from the brightness of the light, he had no tears left. Not for Barnabas, not even for himself. There was a pause and a rustle of cloth. And then, along the top of his head, he felt the lightest of touches, a slight weight as Barnabas' fingertips rested there. A single gesture, gentle, almost still, as if it were meant to soothe and not to hurt.

"I am a man of my word, Willie," came the quiet words, surprising him. "You know that." Willie could not answer this. Could not respond as Barnabas took his hand away. Remembering the gentleness and the promise of kindness that had existed, even if only for a moment, in the vampire's eyes, he clutched at his forearms till he felt the bruises begin to form. The muscles of his neck tightened and he struggled against the whirlwind inside, as the knowledge that Barnabas would protect him from himself sliced through him like black glass shards and the tears, like acid ribbons, formed behind closed eyelids and sparked halfway down his cheeks to fall like silver drops in the darkness.

He took a breath against a sob. Swallowed as it caught in his throat. "Y-yeah, I know." And he did know, if nothing else, that when Barnabas said something was, it was. And when he said it wasn't, it wasn't. Simple as that.

"Go to bed, Willie," said Barnabas.

Willie nodded, eyes shut, hoping that Barnabas wouldn't request a spoken answer. He did not think he could give one. But the vampire did not, instead turning away, taking the candlelight with him, and, walking through the doorway, closed it behind him. Leaving Willie in the silent darkness, with only his tears and the deepest glow of false dawn to light his way.

*

The morning came, jerking him awake with a sudden start, still tucked against the fireplace, still fully dressed. Outside, the rain tapped against the window and the gusts pushed through the cracks in the frame, testing them. Getting through more often than not, sending the chill, whispery wind across the floorboards. Willie's muscles ached from shivering. Trying to lift his head was a different matter, the muscles there had frozen in place, and he had to grit his teeth and pull against the stiffness, using his hand to rub hard along the back of his neck. His feet had fallen asleep and his shoes felt like they were made of lead instead of leather.

And with the morning's daylight greyness came the black weight of the night before.

I am a man of my word.

The words echoed inside of his headache, even as he concentrated on getting to his feet, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, rubbing his arms to get the blood moving there. He had too many things to do to allow himself even a moment of wallowing in self-pity. A list longer than his arm, at this point, Naomi's room being the most important, and the one he knew he was least equipped to handle. Though he would rather that, rather the complexities of walls falling apart than the spiraling confusion of his own scattered and dark thoughts of what had been lost and what had been the price for having it.

Standing by the bed, he took off his shirt, caked through in large patches with blood that had been watered and dried. And his pants, speckled with blood as well, he took those off, noticing a tear along the back where the belt had bit through, leaving a sharp red streak across the back of one thigh. He moved his hand along the welt, bare skin shivering in the morning drafts. It stung, the muscles stiff beneath it, the cool air circling around it.

Clean clothes without a real shower was not a pleasant prospect, but the daylight behind the rain clouds told him that it was well past sunrise, and if he didn't give a move on, when sunset came and Barnabas came for his inspection, he knew that the vampire would be showing no mercy if things hadn't progressed as he thought they ought. The lack of mercy which would, this time, not be followed by anything remotely resembling pleasure.

Leave it, Loomis. It's over and done and that's that, got it?

He threw on the least dirty clothes he could find, and went downstairs to the pump in the kitchen for a quick washup and a shave with the ice cold water. Dabbing the punctures on his neck with a washrag brought the muscles in his neck screaming to life and loosened the scabs enough to make them sting. At least he could get the blood off his neck, at least he could clean up enough not to attract unwanted attention.

Then he went upstairs to put on his belt and finish dressing, putting the playing piece in his pocket for the last time. And, grabbing the five dollars from the kitchen table and Barnabas' bank book from the drawer in the desk, he made his way out to the truck and drove up to Collinwood. It was raining, not hard but enough to make the wipers a necessity by the time he parked in the circle drive. A knock on the door and then he waited.

The door opened, and Mrs. Johnson answered, and presently Victoria Winters was sent for. She arrived, as she always did, briskly and with purpose, simply dressed and as tidy as if she'd just stepped out of a bandbox.

"Hello, Willie," she said, gesturing him into the foyer from the doorway. "You're lucky David and I were taking a break, otherwise I would not have been able to see you. What can I do for you?"

Looking at her was like looking at a still pond at sunset, calm and unruffled by wind. Reflecting the glow of the sun, melting with sweet smoothness beneath the bend of willow trees. Part of him wanted to tell her the truth, to announce to her exact y who and what Barnabas was, to give her the identity of the monster so long sought by the villagers of Collinsport. To show her his back and his neck and say see, this is what he's like, this is the truth. So much for his otherworldly charm, huh?

"Well?"

He snapped himself to the moment, the two of them in the foyer, and knew that even if the walls did not have ears, he could never, ever tell her. Barnabas might tell her, in his own time, in his own way, but if he caught his servant revealing secrets that were not his own, Willie's life would be over in that instant.

"Here," he said, pulling the playing piece out of his pocket and holding it out to her. "I-I found this in the kitchen and Barnabas said I should bring it back to you."

She took it, the softness of her fingers brushing against his, her mouth opening as if with surprise. "Thank you, Willie," she said, then after a pause looked up at him, eyebrows drawing together. "We went all over that kitchen, Mr. Collins and I, and we didn't see it. Where did you find it?" Her eyes were upon him like dark searchlights.

"Well, I-I found it a few days ago, and kept meaning to give it back, you see, but with the house and all? I kinda forgot."

The intensity of her gaze increased, as if the searchlights had found their mark, and he found himself ducking his head down. Not sure if he'd gotten all the blood off, not sure that there wasn't a bruise on the side of his face from the cuff Barnabas had given him the night before.

"And he was very angry with you, wasn't he." She didn't ask this, she already knew it, and Willie felt suddenly as if he were naked and standing before her with every mark, every welt, even the wounds on his neck as clear to her as if she were reading a book.

Backing up, he shrugged, hearing the loud echo of his feet in the stillness of the foyer. "I dunno, Vicki, he-"

State of Grace - Part 4