by Kallysten
"I'm so glad you're here,” she said, her voice muffled against him. “I wasn't sure you'd get my message. And I never expected you'd come so fast."
Marc's right hand stilled, his fingers tangled in the hair that was still as short as she had cut it the day after they had lost Blake. It barely reached her shoulders. “What message?"
She pulled back and looked at him with puzzlement. “You didn't... Then how did you know he was back?"
A flash of pure heat coursed through Marc, making him lightheaded. He stared at her and had to wet his lips before he could ask, “Blake? It's Blake?"
She frowned at him. “If you didn't get my message,” she said slowly, “and if you didn't know he was back... How did you know you had to come here?"
He touched his chest, palm flat above his heart. “He called me.” He was all but choking on the words. “Vampire thing."
Her eyebrows rose high, and he could tell that she had questions, but only one thing mattered at that moment.
"Where is he?” he asked, pushing the words past his dry throat. “I need to see him."
She grabbed the hand still pressed over his chest and squeezed it as she said very formally, “Come in.” The invitation allowed him to step inside the apartment, and he followed her into the living room. She picked up a piece of paper from a cabinet and handed it to him with a trembling hand. “Here. It's addressed to you. It came with the box."
Marc took the paper but didn't unfold it yet, instead asking even though he was afraid he already knew the answer, “What box?"
Kate's eyes were shining wetly as she answered. “The box in which we found him."
Marc's eyes narrowed and he could only stare hard at her. “What?"
She hiccupped and closed her eyes tight, rubbing at them with fingers that came away wet with tears. Before she could get a grip on herself to explain, the sound of an opening door drew Marc's eyes to the hallway on his right. He turned in time to see Simon come out of a room in the back. He closed the door behind him and walked over to the living room. Marc's eyes were still glued to the door behind him. He had tuned out the tug of the bloodline in the past few minutes, but now he could feel it more strongly than ever.
"He's in there, isn't he?"
From the corner of his eye, he saw Kate nod. “He is, but...” She sighed. “You've got to understand. It's Blake, but at the same time..."
When she didn't finish, Marc turned to her. Her eyes, full of tears, were staring at the piece of paper in his hand.
"Like this says, he's broken."
With anticipation gnawing at him, Marc finally read the note. When he was done, his hand clenched around it until the paper was crumpled into a tight ball. He dropped it to the floor and, without another word, started toward the closed door at the end of the hallway. Toward the source of the cry for help he had been following for a week. Toward his Childe.
As soon as his Master walked in, Blake knew he would be punished. Of course he was going to be punished. Wasn't he always? He shouldn't have let himself be convinced to climb onto the bed. He should have known better than to let them convince him. The bed was a trap. It was always a trap. Presented as a reward, offered as a gift, dangled in front of him as the proof that he was unworthy, but always a trap.
A trap that ended with his blood spilled in punishment. If he was lucky, it would only be his blood.
As he kneeled in front of his Master, head low and hands behind him, Blake could only think of the many infractions he had committed since they had let him out of the box. Too many. His Master had to know. That was why he had come back. That was why he would punish Blake now.
Closing his eyes tightly, Blake tried to stop his body from shaking. Showing fear never helped. Showing fear always made things worse. But not showing fear always caused others to get hurt instead of him.
He wished he could still have hoped for death, but he had learned long ago that it was useless. As harshly as he was punished, he wouldn't die. He'd just live to stumble again, disappoint his Master again, and be punished again.
Over and over and over.
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Chapter 10
For long, unending moments, Marc remained frozen in front of a kneeling Blake, trying to process what was going on but unable to do so because of the impossibly fast heartbeat that filled his mind, echoing loudly and leaving room for nothing else.
Blake was human again.
Human.
It was impossible. He had reached toward Marc through the bloodline, the contact so strong it had almost seemed physical, and no human could have done so.
Yet his heartbeat was undeniable, as was his ragged breathing. Slowly, Marc squatted in front of Blake, his fingers briefly fleeting to dark curls that looked like they had been cut recently.
"Blake? Look at me."
The shiver that shook Blake's body when Marc spoke was enough to ascertain that he had heard, and yet he seemed to hesitate; it was only after Marc repeated the words that he looked up, his reluctance all too apparent. There was nothing in his eyes save fear.
"Any reason why you're down there?” Marc asked, trying to keep his voice non-threatening.
There was no response, not even a blink.
"I spent so much time trying to get you to shut up and show some respect, so why don't I feel any happier now that you finally do both?"
The teasing fell flat, and again there was no answer. Raking a hand through his hair, Marc stood up. And noticed—how could he have missed the scent?—the growing stains of blood on the back of Blake's white t-shirt.
"You're hurt,” he said as calmly as he could. “Why don't you get back on the bed rather than make things worse?"
Predictably, Blake didn't react, and he merely kept looking up at Marc, straining his neck to do so. Marc sighed.
"Get on the bed,” he said, his voice stronger, and wasn't surprised when Blake hurriedly stood. What he hadn't expected, however, was the renewed shaking, and the way Blake fumbled with his clothes, clumsily getting rid of the bloodied t-shirt, loose sweat pants, and boxers before scrambling onto the bed on his hands and knees.
Marc took a step back at the sight offered to him. With the t-shirt gone, he could see what had caused the blood stains. Innumerable lines crisscrossed Blake's back, old scars that had completely healed but were covered by fresher ones that had reopened with Blake's movements. The marks covered him from his shoulders to the back of his thighs; someone had taken their task very much to heart. What twisted Marc's gut the most, though, was the assumed posture, clearly submissive, clearly sexual, clearly proof that flogging wasn't the only thing Blake had endured.
"Don't,” he managed to say, pushing the words out despite the tightening in his throat. “Just... Just lie down, OK? Rest."
No reaction, no movement.
Gritting his teeth, Marc approached the bed and took hold of Blake's arm. He pushed him until Blake fell on his side, revealing tightly closed eyes and a hard, painful-looking cock. Marc averted his eyes, tried not to think for the moment about all the implications of what he was witnessing, choosing to focus instead on the black tattoo at the very top of Blake's right thigh, a diamond with a different symbol drawn above each line.
Blake's eyes fluttered open as Marc took in the tattoo, the state of arousal, and the marks that crisscrossed his torso in a mirror image of his back. For the first time, something other than fear appeared in his gaze. Fear was still there, but mixed with it so intricately that Marc might not have noticed if not for the matching scent now coming from Blake, lust was undeniable.
Marc thought he was going to be sick.
"Rest,” he repeated as he stepped back, knowing enough not to expect an answer by now and nonetheless hoping that Blake's voice was finally going to fill the room. Blake simply watched him go without moving or opening his mouth to speak. Marc felt almost relieved when he closed the door, and he took a few seconds to compose himself before going after answers. He had known what
he would find at the end of the bloodline beacon wouldn't be good; he could never have imagined this. This was not the Blake he knew, and he could only begin to guess what had been done to Blake to change him so.
Feeling mentally exhausted, he headed back to the living room; Kate was on the sofa, legs raised in front of her and her arms wrapped around them. Simon waved a greeting from his seat in an armchair. Marc remained standing, but he leaned against the wall for much-needed support.
Kate raised her head from where it rested on her knees. “How did he react to you?"
Marc hesitated about how to reply. He doubted that ‘he offered himself to me' would make it any easier to get answers.
"He was... calm,” he said after a few seconds. “But scared. How does he react to you?"
Kate sighed and hid her face against her legs again. “He panics whenever he sees me, and usually finds a corner and bangs his head on a wall. If I try to stop him, he curls down on the floor and cries."
"So I've been taking care of him,” Simon piped in. “He doesn't get upset when he sees me. Not scared either."
The touch of smugness and pride did nothing to comfort Marc. Had Blake offered himself to Simon as he had to him? The idea of it was very disturbing, but somehow Marc doubted that Simon could have talked about taking care of Blake so casually if that had been the case.
"Did he say anything?” he asked, his eyes questioning the two of them in turn. “Has he said anything at all since he arrived here? Did he explain—"
"He can't talk,” Kate interrupted him. “His throat..."
She reached out to touch her own throat and her voice died with the gesture.
"We think they poured something down his throat and damaged his vocal chords,” Simon supplied when Kate faltered. “It looks fairly recent, too. Like they did it just before sending him to us."
Marc took a few instants to process this. It explained why Blake hadn't said a word to him, but it created more questions. Why return him to them but without his voice? Was it a warning? Sheer cruelty?
"That's not all they did,” Simon continued. “They gave him a tattoo, and that looks fairly recent, too. I've been researching it, but I haven't found much so far. The symbols have different meanings in different languages, but no two of them are from the same language."
Marc nodded absently. “Jen had a similar tattoo. On her thigh, too. Maybe it's the demons’ way to mark their prisoners."
He let his gaze wander to the closed door behind which Blake lay. Closed, but not locked, he realized, and was about to ask whether Blake had tried to leave the room at all when Simon asked, frowning: “How did you know it's on his thigh? Did he undress?"
After a flickering glance at Kate, Marc turned to Simon. “He did. You don't sound very surprised about it."
Simon let out a long-suffering sigh as he rose from his seat. “It's been a pain to keep clothes on him. I'd better go and help him get clothed again."
Marc's brow furrowed as he watched Simon go. He remembered, almost two years earlier, pushing Simon toward Blake as part of their game. Blake had then been more than capable of refusing unwanted attentions, but that wasn't the case anymore. Rather, it was Marc's responsibility to make sure Blake was safe.
"You trust him?” he asked out of blue, indicating the direction Simon had disappeared with a tilt of his head.
Kate gave him a puzzled look.
"Why wouldn't I? He's been a big help with Blake, seeing how I can't even get in the same room with him.” Pain bled through her words. “He's been taking care of his wounds and clothing him and calming him down when he's agitated. I don't know what I would've done without him."
Marc bit back his doubts, although a bad feeling continued to nag him, like an itch at the back of his neck he couldn't quite reach.
"What about feeding? What has he been eating? He's little more than bones."
Kate sighed tiredly.
"He refuses any food or drink. He hasn't taken in anything since he arrived, not even water, and it's been a week now. He should be dead, or dying."
"But he's not,” Marc muttered to himself, thinking about what it all could mean.
"Wait a minute,” Kate started, sitting up, then shook her head. “No, that can't be it."
"What?"
She frowned as she looked at him.
"You said he... called you? Some vampire thing? But he's human now. Or at least, he has a heartbeat. How could he call you, then?"
Marc shrugged, at a loss as to what to answer. He knew he had been led to this apartment by a cry for help made by a vampire from his line; he also had heard Blake's beating heart with his own ears. The fact that these two things contradicted each other did not make either any less true.
"Maybe he's not completely human,” Kate finished her thought. “Maybe he doesn't need food but blood!” She jumped to her feet, and there was a fire in her voice and eyes that had been missing only an instant earlier. Marc at last recognized the woman he had first met in the foggy streets of the City. Defeat didn't suit her.
"I can get blood from the vampire supplies. Or just give him some of mine, it'll—"
Whatever else she said was lost to Marc as all of his attention shifted to Simon, who had just come out of Blake's room. There was a small, satisfied smile dancing on his lips, but more than that it was his scent that caught Marc's interest. Before even being aware of what he was doing, he had intercepted Simon's path and thrown him against a wall. He held him in place with a hand at his throat and snarled.
"What. Did. You. Do. To. Him?"
The last word had barely passed his lips when Kate was pulling at Marc's arm, trying to let him let go.
"Marc! Stop it! What—"
"He reeks of Blake's come,” Marc growled, never looking away from the trembling human in his grip but aware that Kate's hands on his arm were stilling. “I'm giving him one chance to explain how that happened before—"
"Before I deal with him,” she cut in, the anger in her voice matching Marc's. “One chance, Simon. Better make it count."
Stuttering and stumbling over words, Simon explained in a breathless voice that he had noticed in the past couple of weeks that Blake never touched himself if he got an erection—and didn't seem to lose it, either.
"It... it lasted three days... the first time. And he... he hurt. He looked like he hurt. A lot. So I helped him."
Whether it was because of Marc's grip on his neck or the words he was saying, Simon was now crimson.
"You fucked him?” Marc shook him for emphasis. Simon's immediate indignation was more telling than his words as far as Marc was concerned, and he slowly let go of the man.
"No! Of course not! I... I touched him. That's all. Just touched him so he wouldn't hurt and..."
Marc tuned the whiny boy's voice out and stepped back, for the first time realizing that he had been ready to kill a human because he had thought he had been hurting Blake. It had been a very long time since his impulses had taken him over so completely. It seemed that by answering Blake's silent cry for help he had opened the door to instincts he had rarely followed before. Blake had been hurt. Tortured. Marc wouldn't let it happen again.
And judging by the invectives Kate was unleashing at Simon, neither would she.
* * * *.
His Master was shouting.
The words meant nothing to Blake. Only the tone mattered, and the level of his Master's voice. He was angry. He was very angry. That was never good. Angry meant pain, and blood, and more pain. Very angry meant that he would look for new ways to hurt Blake. Crueler ways. He'd hurt him in such a way that Blake would be begging to be punished, begging with his eyes and hands and mouth and words, let it be over already, punish Blake instead, it was his fault, always his fault, forever his fault.
Scrambling off the bed, he curled his body in a corner, hiding his head in his arms, hoping not to hear—
Too late. He was always too late.
She started shouting, too.
&nb
sp; [Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 11
"What happened to you?"
Marc had not expected an answer, but the vacant look in Blake's eyes as he stared at him made him wince nonetheless. He could still hear Simon pleading with Kate in the other room, repeatedly pointing out that she needed him to take care of Blake and she couldn't just send him away like that. Any second now she would throw him out, Marc was ready to bet on it. And if she didn't, Marc would. Simon might have meant well, but his actions were hardly a solution.
When Marc entered the room, Blake was already on the floor. He shuffled forward on his knees, head bowed, hands hesitating at the hem of his t-shirt.
"Keep your clothes on,” Marc quickly told him. “And stand. Or sit on the bed. No reason for you to be on the floor."
He needed to repeat the words more forcefully, making them an order, before Blake hesitantly obeyed, a questioning, wary flame in his eyes as he briefly glanced at Marc. It was almost as though Marc had given him two conflicting orders, and he wasn't sure which to obey. As before, his hands came up to start tugging at his clothes, but this time Marc expected the response and stopped Blake before he could take anything off and made him sit on the edge of the bed.
"Are you hungry?” Marc asked, another question that aimed more at filling the heavy silence than at getting a reaction from Blake. “I'm sure you must be famished. You look like a bag of bones. Not that you've ever had much flesh on..."
Under Marc's curious gaze, Blake looked down at himself, a crooked finger poking lightly at his thigh before he hugged himself with both arms. He realized, then, that Marc was observing him, and his eyes slid down to the floor, filled with an emotion Marc wasn't sure he recognized. Shame? More fear? At least, this proved that Blake understood everything Marc was saying and not only a few words, which Marc had started to suspect since the simple mention of ‘bed’ seemed to mean ‘strip and get in position.'
"How about a little blood?” Marc continued, very attentive now to how Blake might respond to what he was saying. Disappointingly, Blake remained impassible at the mention of blood. “Kate said...” A definite flinch there, and Blake's eyes flew to the door for an instant, as though he expected Kate to enter. “She said she could get you animal blood, but I'm thinking you might need something stronger to start healing properly. You want to try?"