Title: Prisoners Author: kindred Disclaimer: BtVS characters are the property of Joss Whedon Rating: R Feedback: Yes, please Summary: Historical fic. 1880. An evening's adventure in the country brings an unexpected encounter. In life, William practiced moderation in thought and deed but death's kiss had been a dizzying revelation. After his rebirth as a vampire each night opened like a jewel box of glistening, liquid possibility, all thirsts could be satisfied, and all hungers sated; nothing existed beyond the reach of his senses. Angelus was an arrogant, demanding bastard, but his ideas weren't all rot. This one, Spike thought, could prove a lark. An evening's adventure in the country seemed a splendid idea. Transporting four restless vampires was another matter. Darla had no patience for rural idylls or witless conversation. Drusilla pouted until Angelus relented and let her sing to the fairies. Spike twitched with anticipation. Angelus promised a feast the likes of which Spike had not yet seen. Simply being outside London was a treat. Spike hadn't traveled to many places yet and was easily impressed, and Angelus never tired of Spike's exuberant responses. * The room swelled with muffled voices. Screams. Yelps. Whispers. Bargains. Prayers. Curses. Angelus promised a banquet of such potent delights they'd be drunk on it for a week. He was as good as his word. It wasn't a hunt but pure slaughter. Something decadent to impress Darla, now newly returned from the bed chamber of The Master. The floor of a great stone room lay littered with corpses and the bodies of those not yet dead. All were destined for God's mercies, for they'd found none in this realm. They were the inmates of this country asylum, a stone fortress forgotten on a ragged hillside. The indigent, the insane, the insatiable and the inconvenient all were imprisoned here, behind these ancient walls; a buffet of bloodied hedonism for four dark spirits. Spike's head swam dipping and surfacing in cadence to the sounds. They held him. They hardened him. About him bubbled the squishing, slurping surfeit of liquid flesh flowing. Angelus stood greedy and ravenous, blood dripping from his mouth. Darla turned keening, her eyes two orange coals. Drusilla crawled under Angelus taking his seconds. Kneeling for his favor. Reaching for him. The first scent of blood and Angelus' goading encouragement sent Spike into a spiral of seemingly endless carnage. The din held a ransom over him. It was difficult to think or walk. His head was dizzy, too crowded from gorging. Too much. It was too much. More. He wanted more. As if in heavy waters Spike moved slowly. A door, a corridor, soon he left the inferno behind. When his fever quieted curiosity took over. Even as a boy he could never resist the pull of a maze of corridors. Seeking the Minotaur had long been a fantasy, but here in this labyrinth of broken minds and bodies he was the beast. Each step took him further from Angelus' aria. Being the understudy was becoming tiresome. It made Spike headstrong and rebellious. He began to yearn for his own direction and for his own song. Spike broke the latch of an unremarkable door and peered inside. It was a small cell partially illuminated by moonlight that poured through a vertical slit near the ceiling. The slim figure of a girl no more than sixteen sat at the edge of a cot. She stood when the door opened. "Matron? I apologize for being awake. I heard a sound." Spike's upper lip bristled and lust stirred in his body. Such a sweet vision she was, and waiting so patiently for him, too. He licked his lips and chuckled. "Bet you've heard plenty, love." "Who is there?" In this forgotten place night visitors were not unheard of. Spike looked into her face and stilled. Her eyes were thick and milky. Her left temple bore the scarred evidence of sustained brutality. He curled his tongue, savoring this sight. This one knew suffering. This one knew God was a lie. Spike stepped forward and took her trembling shoulders in his hands. He could crush her like talc. "Let me see what they've done to you," he said, surprised by the softness in his voice. A gentle sweep of his fingers stroked aside her dirty hair, revealing more damage. Other scars peeked out from her ghost of a child's face. A thin disrupted line of scar tissue encircled her neck. This girl knew what it was to be a dog, a thing. A whipping post. To be someone's toy. Spike turned an ear and listened for Angelus. He was still howling, still busy at the rut, still somewhere else. Good. A small hand touched his arm. "Is it time? Are we being judged?" "Yes," he chuckled darkly and then stilled. Something moved in her face, behind her skin. Her small hand rose higher, searching for his face. The girl caught her breath. She felt the strong planes and forehead of the beast. She turned her head to try to make out his image in the blurred corners of her ruined eyes. "Have you come to make a path for Him? To cleanse us?" "No. I cannot cleanse you." Spike's hands traced down the back of her thin nightgown. She swallowed but did not flinch or fold in his embrace. Spike balked slightly at her piercing blind gaze. "You have another face," she whispered. "You know how to smile." Spike snarled and grabbed her narrow shoulders. "You came to take something," her weak voice wavered. "You don't need to be a thief. You don't need to be afraid." There was compassion in that voice. Spike had forgotten what that sounded like. He gripped her gown and the fabric disintegrated beneath his fingers. It fell from her slight form. More scars appeared. Long tracings flowed from her shoulders, down over her breasts and belly and down her legs. "I have never known fear, girl," he snarled. "I can't say the same for you." It was true. Kindness was a scarce commodity in this prison. His hands moved roughly over her trembling form. Her heart pounded fiercely in her near transparent chest. She forced herself to calm. "I only meant you do not need to steal. You can have what you want." There was no trace of fear in her squashed voice. This one knew how to submit. "Are you not afraid of me? Of death?" His husky tones tickled her ear. An odd bearing of teeth was the closest approximation of a smile she could manage. Her face glowed like a celestial being. "I have been waiting, praying even, for you..." "Your God is feeble indeed if I am the answer to any prayer." "The father says I am wicked and must be punished but he is not God. God has answered my prayer." An answer to a prayer? Not bloody likely. "Please sir, take me from this place, outside the gates. I have not felt the sun for so long." Spike gripped her possessively, stared into her open neck and paused. Her simple words touched him in a way he thought no longer possible. I have not felt the sun for so long. * Spike tossed the ragged bedclothes in the corner over her curled body. "Stay quiet. No one will harm you this night. You can leave by morning. None shall stop you." He left the room and walked backed toward his companions. As he turned a corner Spike heard a familiar lilting voice from down the corridor. "What's down there then?" Darla sang with a curious smile on her bloodied lips. "Sod all...a bunch of empty rooms. I was just stretching my legs, love. What have you been up to?" Spike quirked his lips into a smirk. "William, come here. Shall we see what those two are up to? They can't have all the fun now, can they?" Darla ripped open the neck of Spike's shirt and licked up his sternum to his throat. She teased his fangs with a practiced tongue curl and giggled with coquettish delight. Darla in a playful mood? That was something to celebrate. Her hand flew like a viper strike to Spike's crotch and gripped him painfully to renewed arousal. "You choose, William. Who shall punish you for leaving our dinner party early? Me?" Darla eased her grip to a more enticing movement. "Or my Angelus?" Her eyes twinkled at the prospect of after dinner party games. "Choose William," she ordered. "You do know how to choose, don't you?"