The Price - Part 2 (A Dark Shadows Story)

[lovesrain44]

And it wouldn't matter if in the end she did accept it and take the gift home with her. Barnabas' evening had been ruined. Not only had the spell cast by the books he'd been reading been broken, but his thoughts of Victoria Winters and her pleasure in his gift to her had been dashed to pieces. And there was, in the vampire's mind, only one person to blame.

Willie didn't hurry as he walked up the stairs to his room, but neither did he tarry. There was nowhere else he could go, nowhere he would dare to go. Dashing into the rainy night would only grant him a slight delay of the inevitable, besides the fact that Barnabas had given him specific instructions. If the vampire were to come upstairs and discover that Willie was not where he had been told to be, then there would be no hole deep enough to hide in.

So he walked down the hallway, dark and long and cold, and though he couldn't quite see his hand in front of his face, and his shivering rattled his teeth, he began to feel it just didn't matter. He made it to his room and lit a few of the candles on the mantelpiece. In the hearth, he poked up the coals and laid some logs on, sensing vaguely the ease with which he moved, the way his hand held the poker, the way his thighs allowed him to bend slightly forward. Not for much longer. Barnabas was going to tear him to pieces.

A numbness took over him, sifting through him like overdue sleep and making him rock back on his heels. He put the poker down and managed to change out of his muddy clothes, leaving his wet shoes to dry by the fire and hanging his damp shirt over the back of a chair. The pants were done for though, the mud gone in too deep for even one more wearing. He balled those up and threw them in the bottom of the armoire where a pile of dirty clothes was accumulating.

Putting on a clean t-shirt and his flannel pajama bottoms, he sat on the edge of the bed and waited. His feet, hooked off the edge of the iron bedstead, began to go numb within minutes, but he did not move them. The only comfort he allowed himself was lighting the courting candle by his bedside. It glowed soft and amber, and he looked at it, resting his head sideways on his clasped fists. And told himself, while his heart raced in his chest, beating against his ribs so hard it almost hurt, that he wasn't scared.

It wasn't long before he heard the front door being shut and the faraway creak of steps in the front hallway. And then silence. He couldn't imagine where Barnabas had been, as he hadn't been gone long enough to walk Vicki home. Maybe he had taken time to assay the truck, up to its hubcaps in mud, or maybe he had been searching the kitchen floor for yet another lost gaming piece. Willie's eyes closed, lit through by the flicker of the candle, the skin on his bare arms warmed by the flames in the hearth. After a moment, he looked away from the candle and rested his head squarely on the heels of his hands, looking at the floor but not seeing it, feeling the rapid pulse of blood behind his eyes.

And then the door opened. The vampire walked in, bringing the scent of rain and of the sea, hanging salt-washed and invisible in the newly stirred air.

Willie didn't look up, but could see instantly what Barnabas carried in his hands, and his heart, still hammering, leaped up in his throat, exploding like sharp knives. The switch shimmered white against the darkness of the vampire's wool suit, and its long thin end danced even though the hand that held it was quite still. The vampire closed the door behind him and the air in the room grew quite cold, the sudden chill damp sucking every bit of warmth from Willie's skin.

Willie allowed his eyes to flick upward for just a second to let Barnabas know he knew the vampire was there but that's all he wanted to do about it. Everything else, from that moment on, was out of his control, and though his anger from earlier in the evening still simmered inside of him, his fear reminded him of the futility of any fight or resistance on his part, a knowledge he'd learned at great cost.

The vampire walked up to him, quite close, standing right next to the bed, the hand that held the freshly cut switch almost brushing Willie's knee. The odd silence lengthened, and the fist around the switch tightened, and Willie couldn't help himself. He looked up to see the vampire's face, stalked pale with rage, eyes blazing, the mouth working as if the vampire were actually holding himself back, and

Willie realized suddenly that it was probably true. The vampire was on the verge of killing him, but something, some inner prohibition, was keeping Barnabas from doing what he wanted. But instead of giving Willie any comfort, the knowledge plunged cold ice into his stomach, and he found himself shrinking back as if he'd already been struck. It was going to hurt. Barnabas' whippings always hurt.

His eyes caught the vampire's then, unwillingly, and the fury that was there grew like an explosion and broke through, bringing Barnabas' arm up and down in a sudden quick movement, the air sliced through as the switch cut through the thin fabric of Willie's t-shirt. He jerked his body away, clasping his hand to his arm, but for a brief second he didn't feel anything, just the slight movement of air that Barnabas had created with his stroke. And then, suddenly, it was as if Willie's arm had been cut through with a razor, the thin skin there cut through, the angry heat digging deep as the blood seeped through his clasped fingers.

It hurt so bad he couldn't even make a sound, only managing to breathe by keeping it shallow, by gulping in only the smallest amounts of air. Breathed shallow and waited for the fire in his arm to abate, waited for Barnabas to order him to the kitchen, waited for it to start so that it would be over.

"On your knees," said the vampire, his voice more growl than human.

On my knees?

"I said, on your KNEES," Barnabas roared, his cold hand coming forward to grab Willie by the arm, his fingers digging in where the switch had cut, squeezing the pain to life as he dragged Willie to the floor. "You will do as I say!"

With a clunk, both of Willie's kneecaps met the floorboards, and he fell, his shoulder scraping against the rigid edge of the mattress. He thought that perhaps Barnabas wanted him there to humiliate him, to force from him the apologies that he was quite prepared to give, however insincerely. Instead, Barnabas' hand cupped the bare skin on the back of his neck and pushed him up until he was half-kneeling, half-spread on the bed. His hand, clasped to his arm, was knocked away, and the blood from his palm made a bright stain on the white sheets. The sight of it seemed to infuriate the vampire; he slashed down hard across Willie's back, the switch slicing open the t-shirt and the skin beneath. Instant fire gave way to a scalding blaze deep inside of him, live raging coals eating through muscle and bone, and he felt the hurt sound escape him before he heard it, though no relief came with it, no lessening of the fire. Already trembling, he pressed himself down against the mattress to stop it, his thighs on the verge of aching.

"You realize, don't you," began the vampire, his voice sounding almost calm," that Miss Winters left quite unhappy with me. And that she did not take with her the gift I offered."

Willie nodded, clutching at the blankets, the relatively soft sheet dangerously gentle under his cheek. The wood was cool beneath his knees, and the hard, cloth-bound edge of the mattress dug into his chest. His hands were forward, almost as if he were preparing to pray, but he doubted that any prayers he might happen to utter would be answered. Even if someone did hear him, Barnabas would be at the ready, stopping the answer, turning away any comfort that might be offered. Blocking the hand of God, if need be, in his determination that Willie should get what Barnabas thought he deserved.

"In effect, Willie, you have thwarted my courtship of Miss Winters. Why would you do that, I wonder."

Barnabas didn't really wonder anything, Willie knew that already. Nor did he care to hear any answer that Willie might offer, too many painful lessons had taught Willie the futility of trying. He would keep his mouth shut and let Barnabas decide on his own, without his servant's input, as to how severe the beating would be.

The switch came down, biting into his shoulders like an angry wire, alive and on fire, swishing through the air, the sound seeming to come after the stroke, and Willie felt all of the air leave his lungs in a rush, his body gasping, ribs shuddering against the mattress. Sweat laced the back of his neck.

"I believe I asked you a question. It was not rhetorical."

Rhetorical?

Never mind that, just answer him. Before he kills you.

"I-I didn't," he gasped between breaths. "I w-wouldn't-"

"Then why did you reveal the cost of my gift to her?" came the demand. "When you knew full and well that a lady of good standing would not permit herself to accept anything of such great expense from any of her suitors?"

Dark heat still buzzed up his spine, and the length of the question swam in his head. He tucked his head down, letting his forehead bury itself in the sheet, and with a gasp and a swallow, tried to answer.

"I did-didn't know, it j-just-"

"And you also called me a liar."

There was a long pause. Willie was without an answer, because while he'd not really said that, Barnabas was taking it that way. And that was all that mattered.

With a sharp, high keen the switch whistled through the air, his body hearing it before his brain registered the sound, his back hunching up, his shoulders bracing against it as it looped around his ribs. As if that would help. As if that would shield him from the sudden swamp of dark, red heat that tore through him, hazing his brain into a stupefied numbness while the rest of him fought against the onslaught.

"Answer me!"

Shivering, his whole body shivered as his eyes watered up, and his mouth opened, but there was no air to spare for an answer. He gulped, swallowing the dryness in his mouth, trying to force himself to speak.

"You. Will. Answer. Me." Barnabas spoke slowly, each word punctuated with a tense, hard blow.

Willie felt as if he could curl up and die at that moment, if allowed, curl up and lay there until death came to claim him. As he forced his skin to move past the electric fire that continued to vibrate deeper and deeper within him, he found that his fingers had dug themselves into the sheets, hard enough to tear through, and he unclenched them as he breathed. Answering Barnabas was a priority, he knew that, even as his thighs trembled beneath him, and the hardness of the floor slowly pressed into his sense of reality. He took a deep breath and tried again.

"I-I-I only meant that you-"

Another blow of the switch cut him off, slicing through cloth and skin, plied with all the strength of the vampire's furious arm. He heard a sound, a cry, and realized it was his own. All the anger of earlier was eaten away, replaced now by the scattered thoughts of a rabbit on the run. Only here was no place for him to go, with the unyielding mattress on one side, and the vampire on the other, who, with his plans thwarted, held his undeniable sense of right and justice in his hand, cut fresh from a tree in the yard. Willie's heart was beating so fast he thought it would burst as his chest pressed itself into the mattress and the sweat broke out on his forehead. His hair fell across his eyes, a dark veil, and he realized he was warm all over. Too warm, even with the shards of his sliced through t-shirt leaving him exposed to the chill of falling night.

"A single utterance from you, Willie, has ruined my plans," said the vampire, utterly cold. "This will not happen again."

Before Willie had a second to blink, the whipping started in earnest, as if the previous blows had only been a warm-up. The switch, wielded by the angry arm of a vampire, never lessened, never faltered it seemed, each blow as vigorous as the first, cutting through his skin with a slice that sent energy deep within him, expanding into darker pain that increased with each second. Every new blow pressed him into the mattress, the give of which was no improvement over the table. The softness only served to choke him, cloth dampened as the unwilling tears scattered from his eyes, and the rumpled folds of sheets seemed to layer themselves over any presence of air. He was crying out now, each sound almost a scream, and he could not control it. And the echo of each scream was swallowed whole by the stillness and emptiness of the Old House.

The whipping ended, suddenly and without warning, though the vibrations continued like hot teeth, eating him alive from the inside, and he realized he was clenching and unclenching his fists around torn handfuls of sheet as he rode out the waves of heat, like coals, that ravaged along his spine. Sobbing, throat raw, he gulped down choked breaths, fought against the press of his ribs, the ragged heat in his thighs, and moved his face across the sheet as if to wipe away the dampness there.

Suddenly Barnabas was on him, pulling him up, throwing him on the bed, and Willie realized only a second after he landed, almost thunking his head on the wall, what the vampire was about. The pain in his back vanished as he saw, in the firelight's glow, the two points of teeth sparking behind drawn lips, and he scrambled backwards on his knees, stopping when the wall stopped him, his back almost flat against it, pushing against the bed with his fists, smearing the newly lain blood on the sheets with his hands. He was hot, his skin warmed up, the scent of him lingering in the air along with the coppery strain of drawn blood. And he alone with the vampire and no one to hear his screams.

"N-n-n-no, no, Barnabas, please, no, don't, please-"

Oh, God, not this, please not this.

But neither God nor Barnabas appeared to hear him. There was no reply, only two cold hands reaching out for him, and the dip of the mattress as Barnabas knelt on it, one knee coming forward to knock against Willie's thigh, and the vampire's face, close and white against dark hair. And hard, his expression like stone, eyes as readable as black iron. Willie shrank back, but the hands grabbed him easily, moving around him to pull him close, the bare skin of
Willie's arms scratched by the dark, fine wool, and the lines of his neck feeling open and rare.

New flesh, under the gaze of the vampire, and tender with salt, and Willie could look right in the vampire's eyes as Barnabas pulled him even closer, the weight of both their bodies now on the bed, dipping the mattress, causing Willie to fall unwillingly against the vampire. Now it would come, and his body, mindless of the angry heat along his back as a pair of arms moved across the torn flesh, began to respond. His spine began to replace the dark pain with something else, turning it to pleasure, the intensity becoming so hard it folded over into softness. A wordless, openmouthed welcoming, and he lifted himself up to it.

His mouth parting, Barnabas bent his head down, one hand coming up to cup the back of Willie's neck, fingers lacing through Willie's hair. Easing the dampness away, holding him steady, and Willie saw him lick his lips. Just once. Then the vampire lifted his eyes, and Willie looked deep into them, like he so seldom wanted to, and he couldn't help but lean forward and tip his neck away. Felt himself turn his jaw so that Barnabas could go there, exactly there, where the tendons in his neck felt like taut wire, and he closed his eyes. And waited.

He felt Barnabas become still, the muscles in that cold body tighten and begin to pull back, and Willie found himself shaking. He took a breath.

"For the love of God, Barnabas," he said, his voice trembling, a fluttering in the pit of his gut.

An unexpected pause, and he felt the vampire looking at him, knew the expression of puzzlement that would be there as the dark brows lowered and the hard eyes appraised him. A tight, broken sound escaped him as he realized what he'd just said, what he'd just asked for, and his body, still in betrayal, tightened up, the flesh between his legs hardening, laying hard and hot against him.

He opened his eyes, and through the glaze saw Barnabas' eyes flick over him, and the hard knowing there sent him instantly pushing away, but it was too late. Fangs exposed, the vampire descended, and Willie closed his eyes again, feeling the start of his body as the sharpness slid into him and then out again, as he imagined he could feel the blood rise to the surface of his skin, even as the nerves along his spine gathered together as if they were coming to a boil, and then Barnabas' cold, hard mouth pressed against him and began sucking.

His orgasm happened almost instantly, like a collection of tiny glass shards that had woven together forever and waited, just for this moment. But not waiting until the point of pressure was too hard to bear, no, his body had been wanting this since the moment Barnabas had kneeled on the bed, and he found his arms sliding around Barnabas' neck, mindless of the prickle of wool on his bare skin, heat building deep within him, his groin twisting wickedly sweet. And Barnabas' mouth, still there, hurting as it drew forth blood, became, for a moment, warm and gentle against him. A brilliant sparking of lights behind his closed eyes, and his body shuddered as pleasure swamped through him, and he felt as if he had been warm forever. One moment pressing close
as Barnabas held him, as his body rocked with it, heat spilling from him in sharp waves, and the next moment, falling back, his arms dropping away, sighing as the undersurge carried him into a gentle darkness, and then, as his head rolled forward on the vampire's shoulder, collapsing, slumped in Barnabas' arms.

There was silence cut through only by hard, ragged breathing that, as he opened his eyes, he knew to be his own. Beneath his cheek was wool-clad stone, rising and falling with slow, even breaths, and he realized that Barnabas held him so that his knees barely grazed the surface of the bed. A single moment of quiet and stillness, of sweat drying and the lassitude sinking him down to darkness, and then, in the next instant, the vampire drew away, letting Willie go, dropping him to the bed, and Willie lay there, amidst the tangle of torn sheet and dampened cloth, feeling Barnabas move down from the bed and step away, the sound of his feet on the carpet loud and startling Willie in that part of his mind that could still think.

There was a voice speaking now, but his old friend, the white shroud, had chosen that moment to come and hover overhead, and so Willie couldn't hear what Barnabas was saying. Nor take any note of the tone in the vampire's voice and so perhaps to discern the meaning and temperament of the message. It was no use anyway, his body was melting with heat along the surface of his skin, even though deep inside him he knew he was shivering. His hair was stuck with sweat to the side of his face, and his feet were freezing, and the weight of the back of his head was too much to lift. And along the length of his neck was a small dense spot that, even as a damp coolness spread across his groin, overrode everything else, sizzling like hot coals had been lit and laid there.

Something shoved him roughly to one side, and he found himself with his head tucked in the rumpled sheets, looking up, and seeing Barnabas' face in the golden glow of the courting candle, flushed and bright, almost human. The vampire was talking again, and though his lips were moving, Willie could not hear what he was saying. His eyelids felt lined with lead and it was all he could do to keep them open, watching as Barnabas stopped talking, seeing the gesture that he made with one white hand as it sliced through the air, not understanding any of it. Allowing his eyes to close only as Barnabas opened the door and walked out into the dark hallway, closing the door behind him. Then and only then, could his head sink back solidly on the mattress, only then could he take a deep, lungdeep breath of air and allow the white shroud to make its presence fully known.

*

Teeth chattering, he awoke curled up on his side, realizing that he lay clutching his hands to his chest, his knees drawn up as close to his body as he could get them. His feet were ice. Why was he so cold? It must be that the fire was bare coals because there wasn't enough light to really see by, and though the candles on the mantel burned still, they sputtered low in their holders. The blankets were on the floor somewhere, he knew that, but as he reached for them, the nerves along his back began to instantly scream, and he froze, the entire memory of the evening coming back to him all at once.

For love of God, Barnabas.

It was like a blow to the face from an invisible hand that brought up the image so smartly that he could not help but see it for all that it was. See himself for what he was becoming. Himself in
Barnabas' arms, wanting to be there, wanting to stay there. To float away on the billowing dark until nothing, and no one, could hurt him.

Give in.

Oh, Maggie, you would never have danced so willingly.

But he, Willie, would. And he knew it. Tonight had proved just how weak he was.

His teeth chattered so hard his whole body shook with it, and he had to shut his eyes against the light, so bright that he began to see sparking halos around each candle. Rib muscles quivering, thighs aching as he clamped his body together in one, tight line.

Please help me, I'm cold, I'm so cold.

But there was no one to hear him, nor would there be, and the light pressed on him, and the cold, and the weight of the Old House all around. He tucked his head to his chin, sobs jerking through him like hot fire, clasping his arms across his chest, gripping his shoulders with claw fingers. It had never been so hard to bear before, not till now, this moment, with the memory of Barnabas' sweet kiss lacing through every breath and the jagged tears spilling down his cheeks.

He took a hitched breath, and then something flickered behind his closed eyes, like silent lightning, and his eyes flew open with a start, his body frozen, every muscle listening. There was nothing in the room, save the dying candles, and the courting candle, glimmering behind its beveled glass. The light of the flame moving as if there were a breeze.

Slight and small, yes, but flickering the light just the same, even if that was impossible. No wind could ever get at that light, at yet it had, sending, just for a moment, fine, golden sparks in the air. This stayed him, and he locked his eyes on it, watching the flame quiver to a standstill as if the unknown breeze were slowly dying away. And then it at last burned as it always had, steady and pure.

He allowed himself to look at the small light and breathe, waiting till his heart slowed down and his shoulders could unhunch. When at last he could look away, his chin fell back down, and he was able to use the heel of his hand to wipe the wetness from his face.

You givin' up, Loomis?

It was another voice, one from deep within. One that belonged to part of himself that had not yet succumbed. Would never succumb. He answered it.

No…right?

He pushed the thought of the events of the night far back in his head and made himself reach for one of the blankets then, though it hurt like blazes.

The newly formed welts twisted, and he could imagine the skin splitting just a little bit, but he grit his teeth and tugged the blanket from the floor to lay over him. One blanket and a low fire wasn't much but it was better than only a torn sheet.

The light of the courting candle burned faithfully. He looked down and could see the blood under the nails of his right hand, and as he wiped at his neck, his left hand came away with fragments of dried blood. It hurt too, there, he must have dislodged the scab, could feel something leaking down the side of his neck.

That was stupid. Now you're going to get blood everywhere.

Not as stupid, in retrospect, as his defiance earlier in the evening. Why not just tell Barnabas about the truck and be done with it? He'd known the vampire had been in a mood, but he'd felt the sense of being in the right about something.

You wanted to make a stand. You idiot.

He'd taken stands in the past, and successfully too, but it was almost as if he'd been more clever about it then, like not doing it when Barnabas had been reading, or when he'd planned a present for Vicki Winters.

And then he'd blundered, as Barnabas liked to say, in letting the cat out of the bag about the price of the gaming box. That in itself would have earned him a beating, and he knew that it had been wrong. Women, especially classy ones like Vicki, thought it was vulgar to know the price of a gift. Not that he'd had much opportunity to give gifts to high class girls. And he was sorry he'd done it, Vicki deserved to have a nice gaming box like that, now she would never have it. That was his fault.

Both indiscretions had earned him a whipping that would leave him stiff for days. The welts would take longer than a week to heal, and where Barnabas had broken the skin it would take more time than that.

But it's not that, is it.

No. It wasn't. It wasn't the smack across the face, or his words blurted in error. Even the whipping wasn't even the worst of it, it was what had come after.

Don't think about that. Don't.

But he couldn't help it, the memory was broad and powerful, pushing its way up again from where he'd shoved it, from the depths, clawing its way up from his soul.

Why did you do it?

He didn't know, he didn't know, he would never know, and as he covered his face with his hands, he made a small sound in his throat. His body had been drawn into the vampire's spell even before
Willie himself knew what was happening.

Admit it. You wanted it.

God, yes.

He turned over, resting on one hip, cocking his knee to one side, making his legs uncurl, clenching his jaw as he eased them as they cramped up in protest, and buried his head in his arms. The cloth on the front of his pajama bottoms, slightly stiff, pressed against him, he could feel that now, making the memory all the more real, all the more present.

Yes, he'd wanted it, from that first moment Barnabas had taken him in his cold arms, but he'd wanted it even worse when it looked like Barnabas was going to stop. The vampire was supremely good at self-control, when he chose to be, and he'd apparently decided that taking blood from his faithful servant was not the way he'd planned things to go that evening. The vampire had had other game sighted out; pulling Willie close had been an impulse. One he'd been prepared to deny himself.

For the love of God, Barnabas.

You practically begged him to do it.

Yes, he had.

And Barnabas had heard his plea. Had obviously seen it in his servant's eyes, felt it as he'd pressed Willie's body to his own. Had decided, for inexplicable reasons, that the answer was yes.

It was like sleeping with the enemy, asking for it. Wanting it. Wanting that vortex of pleasure to sweep him up, never mind what the source, because the source brought with it the intensity strong enough to lift him up and shove him straight into it. And just as he couldn't fight the pain with Barnabas, the pain always won, Barnabas always won, so was it with the pleasure. The shimmering warmth that started from inside of him, melting all the coldness away, sparking through every nerve, every fingertip, was an unstoppable force, making him shudder, and leaving him absolutely relaxed.

But really, really, it wasn't that, it wasn't how he felt after that he liked, it was what happened just before.

He twisted his head against the pillow, as if he were arguing with someone who was there, trying to convince them that it wasn't true.

But it was.

What his body would not be denied was that tiny second before the pleasure built and exploded, when Barnabas' mouth became warm and moved against his skin, so soft, so gentle. Moved his lips in a small, upward sweep, just hard enough, just right, setting everything in motion. That was the moment. He shifted his hip against the mattress, pressing down on his sudden erection and tore his mind away from the direction his body wanted it to go.

The last time this had happened, it had been all unexpected. Barnabas had whipped him, hard, and had become aroused as Willie's hot skin scented the air. What had he done to deserve a whipping that time? He couldn't remember, only that there had been the smell of blood and it had been too much for Barnabas, just out of his coffin, to resist. The vampire had pulled Willie against him and bit him, and the silver sweet pleasure had been a shock to his system, building with the pain and bursting beyond it.

He'd been sure that Barnabas could recognize his arousal, but the vampire had not spoken of it directly, only alluded to it, leaving Willie to struggle on his own with the knowledge that he'd succumbed to the vampire's mastery.

He'd sworn then that it wouldn't happen again, that Barnabas would never find out how it had affected him. Sworn to never let it take him, resist like Maggie had resisted. Yet here he was, his mind still reeling from his body's reaction, his clothes stiffened with the traces of it. And Barnabas, oh, he had found out all right. The easy way. He'd not had to ask, or even threaten, Willie had told him what he needed to know. Willie had given up his own secret without an ounce of effort on Barnabas' part.

A board in the hallway creaked as weight was put on it and lifted off, and the millions of thoughts in Willie's head scurried away to hide. It was Barnabas approaching, and Willie tucked his head deeper in his arms, not caring that he could barely breathe, only wanting Barnabas to think he was asleep so that he would go away and leave his servant in peace. The door opened and closed, and without a word, Barnabas moved about the room, putting something on the desk, adding wood to the fire. Willie felt the blaze warm the room almost immediately, his mind churning as he heard a chair being lifted and carried to be set down next to his bed. And then something carried from the desk and placed on the chair.

"Willie."

Willie kept his head down, heart thumping so hard he knew Barnabas could feel it.

"Willie look at me, I know you're awake."

The tone of the vampire's voice was calm and even, but Willie didn't trust it. He waited, inwardly flinching at the thought of looking at Barnabas, of actually meeting those eyes, seeing the knowledge there, the reflection of himself there.

"I said, look at me." A bit of irritation now, the edges sharp and cutting.

He felt the pushing of Barnabas hand, felt the hard coldness as it rolled him on his side and he looked up, feeling the heat crawl up his neck. The glow from the candles made almost a halo around the vampire's head, the sturdy light from the courting candle setting a gentle haze to one side of his near white face. A face that, without expression, looked at him, eyes catching the traces of tears on Willie's cheeks, the streak of blood on his neck, the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Of course the vampire saw it, how could he not?

Then Willie looked down, casting his eyes away in desperation. His gaze caught the chair sitting next to the bed, the basin of hot salt water on it, steam was even rising up from it, and the clean cloth draped over a rung of the chair.

He never knew why Barnabas was this way, why he would come sometimes to Willie's bedside and take care of him. Or how the vampire managed to deal with the contradiction of whipping his servant into a standstill with one hand, and wiping away the blood with the other. And he found that he was tired of wondering.

"Get out," he snapped, his voice breaking, not caring that it had.

"I beg your pardon?" Barnabas was visibly shocked, his eyebrows rising.

The Price - Part 3