Thralls

Title: Thralls, chapter 21
Author: ne'ichan
Beta: Bryt
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Balthazar lowered the cup to rest it, and it's matching saucer, on his knee. He shuddered once, twice, his eyes closed in apparent reverence. Like a man having a religious experience. They all were caught in his expression; the thralls watched with understanding, they had tasted Angel's blood. They knew what a potent draught it was. Xander's eyes narrowed, suspiciously. His lip curling.

Doyle felt a frisson of alarm run over his skin, and the wave of red that preceded his demon form, followed by a wave of spiky green shooting out over his skin...he forced the change down and away, more distraction wasn't what this situation needed.

He could sense Angel. He realized he had been able to for a few days now, but he had not been paying attention, hadn't figured out what the odd 'awareness' in the back of his brain was. Angel. He knew that was it. He also knew it made him nervous. Hell, hadn't a single command almost had him sitting in the middle of the hallway like some rube? Doyle wasn't a vampire. Angel should not be able to affect him like this. It was..insidious. Irresistible. Scary.

Balthazar, while remaining perfectly proper and unruffled, still conveyed a picture of a man in the throes of bliss. He opened his bottomless, black eyes to reveal golden orbs, burning with swirling vampire light. He licked his lips, running the tip of his tongue over their ripe fullness. Wesley swallowed so loudly that all heads turned in his direction. All but Angel's. Doyle stared at the Englishman. He almost reeked of guilty arousal. So, so *not* good.

Doyle turned back to look at Balthazar. With his short cropped hair, and creamy, coffee skin, spare and elegant lines, he was lovely. And he was totally fixated on Angel. The two vampires were looking deep into each other's eyes. Angel was smirking faintly, and Balthazar...he looked pole-axed. Dazed.

He dropped his gaze to the tea cup he held in his lap, clutched in trembling fingers, seeming puzzled at first as to what he was holding, then he appeared to recall himself, and gently set Wesley's prized cup aside, carefully. Wesley's exhaled breath of relief made it to Doyle's hearing. And the half-demon had to grin, Wesley fussed like a grandmother over his heirloom tea service, treating it like a favored child. Doyle imagined he could actually feel the lessening of tension once the cup and saucer were safe, out of the way. Though he also imagined Wesley would give them a more than normal scrubbing after this blood-and-tea event.

Xander stirred restlessly, impatient with the inaction. He stretched his neck and looked up at Angel, his large brown eyes begging for.... Huh. Well, Doyle thought, he looks like a pup asking it's master for a scratch behind the ear...and then Doyle's eyes went wide as Angel reached out...and scratched Xander behind first one ear, then the other. And Xander practically purred, his eyes drifting closed in ecstasy, while Angel smiled indulgently, the edges of his lips quirking up.

Graham sat still, watchful, snugged up to the vampire, seated on the floor between Riley and Angel's feet. Riley, Doyle noted, was barefoot. As were Graham and Xander. Riley looked the most uncomfortable of the three, sitting with his hands, one on each thigh, feet together, not at all relaxed. Graham was impassive, not taking his eyes from the visitor, projecting a sense of preparation and readiness. Xander, now that he was having a good scratch, seemed happily, blissfully content.

Balthazar cleared his throat. Then again, obviously struggling with something. He raised his eyes. Bleeding back to the deep wells of black. His gaze met Angel's. They stared at each other. Then Balthazar moved forward, out of his chair, pure, fluid grace, onto his knees in front of Angel. He bent forward laying his palms flat on the carpeting, all twisted grey, blue and brown, a pattern from the hotel's hey-day, and lowered his face to the floor. Their eyes held contact until the last possible instant, when it would be impossible to keep the contact and put his forehead to the floor.

Angel watched. Regal. A king. An emperor. A general. A master. Balthazar's master. He bent forward, over Graham's shoulder, reaching, and lay his hand with surprising care on the back of the prostrated vampire's neck.

At the touch, Balthazar trembled.

Doyle sat perfectly still, the hair at the back of his own neck tight, raised, and shocks of unease rippling over his skin, more red and green waves, like a kaleidoscope. Oh, no. This was not the Angel he knew. This Angel scared the freaking hell out of him.

Doyle met Wesley's eyes. They were also filled with trepidation.

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Spike opened his eyes. Focusing on the damned whiteness. He had hoped to wake up today to find this was nothing but a very bad dream. Too much caffeine, alcohol, nicotine, and bad blood... As usual, he was disappointed. Oz lay curled up next to him, sound asleep. That part wasn't so disappointing. Huh. Spike could have sworn he'd heard some sound that roused him to consciousness. He looked around.

"Bloody Hell!" He spat out, not jumping out of his skin only because he didn't want to wake Oz. The young, Asian soldier he'd sunk fangs into a couple of days back, was now sprawled on his back, on the patch of white padded floor that Spike and Oz weren't on. Not much room at all in these sodding lock-boxes. And, lucky man, he too was wearing one of the white coveralls.

Spandex. Nice and stretchy and tight. And white. The dark hair at the man's crotch showed through easily, as well as the lumpier bits. Spike smiled. What was it with the Walsh-bitch? She had to love to see them like this, in revealing clothing, hands cupping genitals to try and hide them. Grown men, fully dressed, but still shy as girls. She must think it was a riot. Well, fuck-all if Spike was going to play her game. She wanted to look at his bits, well he didn't care. If she tried to put a nasty, old, unwelcome claw on him, then they'd have words. Loud words.

He shuddered. He'd learned to make do in his past, to take what he had to, but he really hated this cow. All this talk about him being evil and all, not that he minded that perception, but who was she to talk? Experimenting on perfectly nice, reasonably innocent, harmless demons like she did. Eeeeee.

The Asian guy looked to be knocked out, not much chance of waking up for a while. He smelled like the knock out drug. Spike hated that smell. Unfortunately Spike could also smell another odor. Not unpleasant at all. Thrall scent. Where did this bitch get off playing with him, and with the sacred vampire tradition? She had no idea what she was messing with. Spike might call himself the Big Bad, but he knew his place in the world. There was no way he should have thralls. He wasn't anywhere near big enough or bad enough.

Thralls belonged to the strongest of the vampires. The ones who scared the fucking crap out of him. He hadn't met any vamp on American soil who was strong enough, with the ridiculous exception of his poofty Sire, to make thralls. And angel would never do something so...vampire-y.

If you weren't strong enough to make them, then you sure as hell shouldn't have them. Certainly not as a gift from some human who liked digging around in your head and fucking with things that shouldn't be fucked with. But, here he was, because of one mad doctor's meddling, with two. What the hell was he supposed to do?

Not a heck of a lot, he decided. It was out of his hands until he could get out. He had Oz, no choice there, and really he was happy with it. The werewolf was calm, could think for himself, and stay quiet. Not much to put one off a man like that was there?

He'd fed off the little guy, otherwise they'd both be dead, 'cause the bastards hadn't given him any choice of what to eat, and now...this other one, the soldier, was just laying there, smelling like another little part of heaven if he'd just reach out and take a bite. Spike could smell that they'd been bonded. None of his doing, but they were all stuck, now. So feed on the git, or let the kid die. Listen to the man die, watch it as it happened, right next to them in the cell. Very messy that. Add to that, he was cute as a bug's ear. But, he was also a soldier, and probably, with the way Spike's luck was, still loyal to the Initiative. He'd probably fight to protect his virtue. Tiresome fact. Spike sighed.

Spike had heard of and seen thralls back in Europe. They'd been loyal to their masters to the point of death, laying back and letting themselves be killed if it was their master's will. But. Spike wasn't sure if he was strong enough to foster that kind of loyalty. He didn't know if it was purely a blood thing, or if it was a power thing, too. If he couldn't tie the man to him with blood, then he would have to kill him eventually. No matter what value a thrall had, if the creature wasn't loyal, it couldn't be allowed to survive. Maybe Spike should just...but it made him cringe and the gorge rose in his belly when he thought of killing the man. Bleeding hell, he was already stuck in it too deep to get out.

Having Oz increased Spike's strength. He felt it, and had taken pains to hide the fact from anyone who was, undoubtedly, watching them. What else did these sick fucks have to do with their time? He didn't do anything exciting, or that he had not done before. He forced himself to act exactly the same. To rant about the lack of cigarettes. To ask for frosted flakes and blood. To rail and yell periodically. All in all, to act like a silly, clueless, easily manipulated and easily controlled git. One that threw temper tantrums but who eventually obeyed, sulking. It was an act that had served him well over the years. And saved his life more than once. It was useful, being underestimated.

He settled more comfortably around Oz, being sure to place himself between the two thralls. Who knew what the one would do once he awakened in a cell with a vampire he knew only as Hostile 17? Especially when the soldier figured out that he'd been put here as a buffet for the said Hostile. Yep, sparks would fly.

Oz stirred. Spike petted the damp, strawberry blond fluff of hair away from his thrall's forehead. They could use a bit more ventilation in this place. Oz sweated every time he fell asleep. He waited to see if the man would wake or if he was just resettling himself. There wasn't a hell of a lot to do here, besides eat and sleep. They didn't talk much, Spike was adamant at not taking the risk the Initiative might have listening devices planted capable of picking up the softest whispers. Giving these sadists any more ammunition was not in Spike's plan.

That brought to mind one urge he had not given into. One that was growing stronger. The urge to mate. He wanted to fuck Oz. He didn't lie to himself. Hardly mattered that he preferred lovely, sweet smelling girls. He'd made do in the past with a bloke or two. No shame in it.

But this was different. This was master and thrall. He would lose control and *fuck*. Rut. Drill Oz into the mattress...uh, padded floor, if they didn't get out soon. Cameras rolling he'd bet. Probably a row of clipboard-carrying scientists standing just on the other side of the Plexiglas, staring and taking notes. That would go over well with Oz. Didn't matter how much self confidence a bloke had, he didn't want to be watched by strangers while he was taking it up the bum.

"You OK with this homosexual stuff?" Oz asked sleepily, a mere puff of air, barely words to hear. Spike grinned. He didn't know how Oz did it, but he seemed to be able to read Spike's thoughts. Spike rolled his face so his lips were brushing along the outer rim of the werewolf's ear. Hoping they wouldn't be overheard.

"Sure. I was young once. I used to subscribe to every young man's theory of flirting. If they're holding still, not running for the hills, they are flirting with me. And why waste good flirting? Man, woman, never mattered so much." Spike replied, with a wry grin. Oz nodded. Calm. Spike liked his style. It was almost enough to make him believe in ghod. This kid was perfect for him, despite all the bizarre shit that had happened in order to get them together.

A foot away, the Asian man woke up, blinked, and looked around. Then he jerked upright, grabbed his head, turned grey, then green and puked all over Spike's feet.

"Fuuuuck-aaaaallll." Spike howled. "Get the man a bleeding bucket!" There was no response from outside the cell.

ne'ichan
neichan22@gmail.com