On Parliament Hill. Part 4.

So, we did the 'stuff', and I survived a weekend of family parties, and now I have the house to myself again.

Bliss.

Anyway, the next little snapshot on the Hill.

Previous:
1862
1879
Autumn 1880



Winter 1880

He ran, arms pumping in time to the pounding of his feet on the frozen earth, body-memory of a need gasping ice-cold air into lungs that no longer needed it. His redundant breath steamed in the night, blood-warmed, its heat stolen from the sweet young life he’d drained.

He could hear them clearly; shouts and curses, the bark of a dog. Bloody hell! They’d brought a dog! He hated dogs; useless brutes, vacillating between sickening, fawning servitude and blind, animal viciousness. The dog barked again, deep and ferocious in the darkness, eager for the chase. Seemed this was one of the blind, animal viciousness variety, then.

Keep running.

The inexorable power of his limbs still filled him with exaltation; strength sang in his muscles, drove him across the hard ground effortlessly.

Getting closer.

The ground steepened and the heath became more open, exposing him clearly in the winter moonlight, raising a shout from his pursuers, and still he ran on.

Not long now.

At the top of the hill he stopped and narrowed his eyes, peering into the night. Ahead of him, the spluttering light of burning brands and the steadier light of lanterns picked out a second band of men closing on the hill. They’d come across from the other side of the Heath. He glanced behind him, picked up the shapes of the group with the dog lit by more torches. He was surrounded.

Trapped then, was it?

They approached him cautiously, formed a wary circle, suddenly silent, unsure, the sight of the slight, tousle-haired man at odds with the monster of their imagination. One man moved a reluctant step closer and his dog, a huge black brute, snarled at the end of its heavy leash, hackles raised.

Dog knows me.

He smiled at their hesitation, dropped his head and bent forward, hands on thighs, as if gasping for breath.

Always loved a good hunt.

A low murmur of uncertainty began in the mob, and they shuffled uncomfortably.

But the best bit?

He looked up again, smiling ferociously, demon full to the fore.

Getting caught.

As the men looked on in stunned horror, he lifted the gore-stained railway spike clutched in his hand and twirled the heavy iron effortlessly. The dog whimpered and cowered back against its master’s legs. He grinned at it. Good dog. He looked around at his hunters – eight to one, not counting the dog; my kind of odds – assessing, waiting for the one who’d be first to make the move, the one braver or stupider than the rest. It was the man with the dog. With a yell of unholy glee, he launched himself into the fight.

The dog fled.

He’d brought the hunters where he’d wanted them. Here, where he knew they’d be. He knew he was watching, him and his women… my woman…Don't touch her!... she’s my… he bit back the black rage, turned it against the nameless man, shattered his skull with a single blow from the spike, kept on beating the pulped head into a bloody mass, snarling with anger. Grabbed from behind, he swung around with a roar, caught another man a stunning blow that left him crumpled and bleeding next to his fallen friend. The rest of the men hesitated, eyed the spike warily. He looked down at the lump of iron, shrugged and dropped it on the ground, raised his hands to show they were empty. Liked it better this way, as it happened - nothing but fists and fangs, way it should be. Emboldened by their greater number, the remaining six men rushed toward him.

Playtime.

A whirlwind of fists and feet and rending fangs, demon-driven, shattering bone and tearing flesh, blood spraying the night-greyed ground with drops of darkness, screams of pain and despair, a final desperate plea for life, the green-stick crack of a snapped neck…

And then it was over. Silence. Eight broken bodies lay on Parliament Hill and blood, black in the bitter moonlight, steamed gently in the crisp, cold air. The frozen ground was churned and broken, glinting with dark gore. He stood in the midst of the mayhem and waited.

A shadowy figure detached itself from the tree line, made its way toward him, looming darkly through the darkness. He watched him come, grinning triumphantly, tongue pressed against teeth, eyebrow raised in challenge.

The punch sent him reeling, flat on his back amongst the havoc he’d wrought, staring up at the bright, dancing stars. He shook his head to clear the red mist that blurred his vision and looked up into brown eyes colder than death, a sneer rigid with contempt. He tasted blood and touched his split lip with his tongue. For a moment he stared up at the looming figure, jaw tensed, anger vying with a sudden surge of childish hurt. Then he threw back his head, lay back among the devastation and laughed. And from the shadows she laughed with him, his dark queen, and clapped her hands with childlike joy.

He kept his eyes fixed on the figure standing over him, cocked his head with a grin. Then the railway spike was swinging powerfully towards his skull, glinting duly in the cold light of the moon. His smile flinched, but he forced it back, hiding the sudden rush of fear, tried not to recoil as the metal bar buried itself in the ground next to his ear. His grandsire held his gaze, anger working the muscles of his jaw, then turned away without a word, back to where the women waited. The older woman glanced back briefly, placed a placating hand on his arm and reached up to whisper something in his ear. He stopped, shrugged the tension from his shoulders, turned and stalked angrily back, reached down to pull the smaller man up by his collar like a whelp, raised a hand to strike him, and paused.

In the distance, the raw sound of anger made harsher by fear, the rabid sound of a mob on the move, intent on revenge. The hand dropped. They stood, eyes locked. He flinched, gaze sliding away from the scorn and derision, the deep, dark anger in those hard brown eyes. The grip on his collar tightened.

“We leave. Now. We’ll deal with this later.” The words were no more than a growl, menacing with intent, and he staggered as he was thrust backwards contemptuously.

He watched them walk away, saw his dark lady stop and turn to blow him a kiss before drifting back to her sire’s side. The others didn’t look back. He looked down and kicked moodily at a bloodied corpse, sharp-boned features marred by a scowling pout. He’d show him. One day he’d do something he’d never even dreamed of. He looked up and glared after the retreating figures. He wasn't going to spend the rest of eternity skulking around in the shadows, fighting fights he knew he was going to win, taking the easy route to evil. He was bloody well going to live this unlife.

Wiping the blood from his nose, he followed them off the Hill.



A bit of a jump in time now... Part 5... 1967

ETA - by pure coincidence, sueworld2003 put up one of her glorious manips today that just fits this chapter perfectly. Go here. It's absolutely gorgeous.