The Penny Series

Ch 25) Penny Drops
Summary: Four tasks sound simple enough right?

“How the hell did I get here?” he muttered scathingly under his breath, clenching his jaw to ward off a grimace of pain.

The sunlight shone down from the sky, beating him with blistering heat as he huddled beneath a black tarp. After seven months of traveling from California to China and the Philippines as well as to India and Yemen he was finally dropped off on the forsaken isles of Seychelles. They made up a remote African island nation in the middle of the Indian Ocean, which made it all that much more appealing.

He scowled and knocked harder on the door of the half cave half wood structure.

“Open up, you perverted, sick, twisted bastards!” he raged, raising his voice slightly.

All he wanted was a razor, a bath, and blood. Rich blood. And not necessarily in that order. He smelled, his beard was sticky with collected sweat, and his stomach rumbled threateningly.

Just as hesed sed his fist again to knock impatienfor for the umpteenth time in five minutes, a small square hole opened near eye level. Relieved at the response to his frantic pounding, he huddled closer to the door, trying to scrap another sliver of shadow to protect himself from the deathly rays of the sun.

“Who. Are. You.”

At the high pitched, slowly spoken words he nearly fell over with shock. Before him stood the worst joke ever to be played upon him. There, looking down at him, with the haughtiest expression on the small upturned face, was a… sock puppet.

“I said, who are you?” It spoke again, pronouncing every syllable with the dry impatience of a person putting up with a slow five year old who can’t grasp the concept of tying his own shoelaces properly.

“Who the hell are you!?”

“Well, Mr. Who-the-hell-are-you, I’m waiting for a vampire by the name of Angel to show up, and if you’re not him… well good day then,” said the snippy sock puppet turning to leave.

“I’m Angel,”growgrowled in frustration, agitatedly dragging a hand through his unruly hair.

He’d come all this way, and he wasn’t about to be stopped by some sock with goggly eyes. God, why a sock in the first place! This was ridiculous; maybe he should turn back now and cut his losses.

“Well then, why didn’t you say so?” the sock puppet groused, as if he were the one put out.
The door swung open silently on well-greased hinges, and he cautiously made his way into the high wooden cturcture. Sunlight lit the whole of the room except where he was standing, which for some reason was shrouded in darkness. The glowering sock stood as tall as it could for being footwear and rudely stared at him in a long perusal.

“I can’t believe I am actually doing this for someone so unworthy as you,” sneered the goggle-eyed puppet.

Irritated, he shot back, “Then why are you doin?”
?”

Squeakily, the sock puppet gloated. “For what those white hats offered just to let you have the chance to prove yourself… well who could pass that up?”

“Great, now how would I go about doing that?”

“I am yourde,”de,” said the sock puppet haughtily. “There are four tasks you must complete to win the prize that you most seek at the end. The first is in this room.”

He looked about the sunlit antechamber and, perplexed, he turned back to his guide only to find ad dad disappeared. “Well what is the task!” he yelled, hearing his voice echo in the vacant hall.

Clinging to his spot of shadow, he gave the room another examination, this time noticing four great mirrors situated in such a way as to light up the whole space between them. Confident, he assumed that the four mirrors must be redirected to light something up that was currently eluding his sight.

The question that remained was how to get to the mirrors. If he so much as took a step out of his sliver of shadow, he’d start smoking and end up a crispy critter in no time at all. The black tarp was still in his grip; he could use that to make it to one of the mirrors, but it didn’t provide a lot of protection. He certainly couldn’t risk a limb outside its protective barrier, so he needed to figure out how to hold it and still have the use of his hands.

There wasn’t anything around that could help him, and having just spent many months stationary onboard a seafaring vessel, he knew he didn’t have anything that could help him. He was going to have to do without and pray he didn’t burn his hand clear off his wrist. Taking a leap of faith, he flung theer oer over elf elf and dashed out towards the first of the mirrors on his left.

Elaborately gilded with gold, it proved impossibly heavy. It was ornately designed, and it took him a few moments to figure out its workings and angle the mirror up away from the room.

Immediately the opposite side of the room fell into gloom, much to his relief. He looked back at the center of the room and discerned something on the floor. Taking the mirror in both hands he swung it around to the marking. It didn’t help, but he left the light focused where it was and hurried to the next mirror on the same side of the room.

Hastily he turned it, yelping when his hand fell into sunlight and started smoking. He took an unneeded but calming breath and decided to think of the sun not as an obstacle but as the sheen of firelight on Buffy’s hair. He smiled whimsically for an instant, knowing in that moment that he’d finish the tasks and earn the right to own his soul, happiness and all.

Refocusing on the mirror, he gingerly tilted it onto the pattern again and this time made out a long line leading somewhere. Determined to see it through, he threw off his tarp, gladdened that the room was now in cloaked in heavy shadows. On the other side, he grabbed the mirror on the left closest to the design and hurriedly whisked it into place, angling the light onto the floor.

A dash bisected the line, and with a sinking sensation, he reluctantly moved to the final mirror and twisted it to join the others shining on the cross. When the light slid over the final part of the mosaic a loud click resonated in the chamber. He gulped as the sinking sensation formed a tight ball of dread in the pit of his stomach…

He was going to have to walk the sunlit cross to the door.

“Jesus Christ,”breabreathed in apprehension. “They can’t be serious about this.”

With his end goal flitting through his mind, he retraced his steps to where he had thrown the tarp and picked it up. With a casual shrug, he threw it over his head and shoulders and began to approach the mosaic cross. Peering up from under the black stiff cloth, he wished it were white so it would reflect the rays of light instead of absorb them.

The cross was at least 100 yards long. Maybe if he went the first 75 yards along the side of the cross, he wouldn’t have to burn the soles of his shoes right off his feet. As he approached, a sixth sense told him to ease slowly onto the first tile to the right of the cross. When his foot touched the surface, the floor lurched and tumbled away.

A strangled yelp escaped him as he fell backwards, and he watched with horror as the whole ground dropped away revealing a gaping chasm surrounding the cross.

“Damn it,” he roared.

Jerkily he got to his feet and began stomping down the standing pathway to the end. It was several steps before his grim prediction came true. The soles of hises bes began to smolder, causing him to race toward the end. But it didn’t matter how fast he thought he went; the end was approaching as slowly as if he had been walking instead of running.

Immediately he stopped attempting to get there faster, slowing to a more sedate pace. The pain grew stronger. It felt as if the rubber was burning into his feet. He clenched his jaw so tightly it felt as if he’d jam it locked.

He made it to the end many minutes later, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Cursing softly, he plopped onto the floor, examined his feet, and saw them blistering with the rubber like hot wax floating above the skin. Thankful for the first small good turn, he peeled his shoes off, and stood tentatively, bouncing his weight lightly from foot to foot.

With a sigh, he kept a death grip on the tarp and walked to the door. Automatically the doors opened, sliding outward into nex next room.

“I see that your dismal brain power has allowed you to get through the first task. Without accounting for your resistance to pain, you exerted little energy or strength,” sniffed the sock disdainfully.

“Walking on melting shoes isn’t a showing of great resistance to pain?” he asked incredulously.

“Men walk on burning coals all the time,” the sock said with a shrug.

“And people swallow swords, real intelligent,” he mocked scornfully.

His evil socide ide suddenly stopped before a wide set of double doors. “In there is your second task. Good luck, you’ll need it.”

The doors swung open to a dismally dim interior. He stepped across the threshold and peered into the gloomy shadows for any sign of what he was supposed to do. Gasping in pain, he stumbled back to the doors, only to land on a large ornate cross.

“My God, they’re everywhere,” he breathed, the pain in his chest nearly exploding from the close proximity of the hundreds of crosses.

Crack!

Mortar beside his head crumbled, and he looked up into the eyes of the nastiest looking brute he’d ever seen in his entire existence, and that included William. Abruptly pushing away from the doorframe, he kicked back blindly and came in contact with his unknown assailant.

The demon looked back from beady green eyes that glowed menacingly with hatred. They hurt to look into, making his own water and burn. Instead he focused on the scaly rot that coated the demon like a protective exoskeleton, so grotesquely that he barely noticed the rippling muscle and bone lying so near the top, just under the surface. If he could place a well-aimed kick, he might crack the protective shell and reach the soft internal organs below.

But his foe didn’t let him have the advantage of time, and he was left trying to defend himself against a volley of brutal punches. A guttural groan escaped his lips in a spurt of blood. His chest heaved without breath as he was slammed back into a wall. A strangled cry of pain tore from him, and he flopped to the ground, the cross-induced burns on his back a fresh torment.

“Get up,” the demon sna, ya, yanking him up by the hair.

He blearily looked into the burning green eyes, trying to focus. But he kept seeing four eyes, which he knew wasn’t right at all.

“Come on, you filthy human half breed, show me a good fight. It‘s been too long.”

The words echoed maddeningly in his ears, taking several moments to emerge from the jumble of noise and connect in his mind. Dizziness edged his vision, and he feared blacking out. The effect of thndrendreds of crosses was making every part of him crawl, desperate to escape.

“You think you deserve what you came here for?” the monster sneered disparagingly. “You’re unworthy to kiss the ground she walks on.”

“She loves me,” he argued vehemently, striking out blindly.

“Loves you? Ha!” his foe crowed, grabbing his fist tightly and stopping the punch. “Love. Bah.”

A vein of fury burst suddenly beneath his eyes, and he saw red. In a flurry of movement he was up on his feet and attacking without thought, without planning, just instinct and raw passion driving him. When the crimson veil lifted, he stared down with mixed disbelief and triumph. His second task was over. It was dead.

Triumphantly, he walked over to the set of double doors opposite where he’d red,red, expecting them to automatically open like the last ones. When they didn’t, he stared at them in confusion and wondered how on earth he was going to open them when they were covered in crosses.

One minute he was standing there and the next his skin was burning black from contact with the very crosses he’d been contemplating. An agonized shout ripped from his throat. Shocked, he spun around and there he faced his assailant for the second time.

“What the h-”

The demon that was supposed to be dead was pummeling hith ith more strength than before- attacking with more brute force and malice than ever.

“Stupid vampire. I wouldn’t expect such a lower being to know the difference between an impure immortal and a pure immortal. Let me define them for you.”

The exoskeleton stretched to the point of breaking over the demon’s cheekbones. “You. Are. Impure. I. Am. The. Pure. Immortal.” he growled lowly, every word emphasized with a punch to the nose until it almost burst at the end of the volley of attacks.

“You’re just as capable of dying as I am,” he retorted weakly, cupping his nose as he wrenched himself free of his jailor’s grip. The dizziness was back, swarming faster to cover his vision. He blinked it away, righted himself, and kicked out.

The kick landed solidly, and he had his first opening to move in up close and personal. Every uppercut sent the demon back further into the room. Hard pieces of broken exoskeleton splintered off the demon’s face, leaving it bare and gelatinous looking before the blood started to ooze in orange rivers down his chin.

It was sickening to fix his gaze onto, making him feel violently ill. He got right up next to the stunned demon and locked his arms around his head and neck and with a mighty wrench snapped the spine. Huffing slightly louder than prudent, he pulled the demon’s head right off his shoulders and tossed it to the other side of the room.

A smug grin broke out over his face as he wiped his hands on his pants. The orange blood stuck like a thick layer of Elmer’s Glue on the back of his hands, breaking off in gooey clumps. Immediately he returned his attention to the doors. It had to have been a best two out of three, and since he killed the moron twice now-

His smile vanished when the demon reappeared before his eyes, directly in front of the doors. “Damn,” he growled, pushing up to his feet.

The exoskeleton without a brain plunged head long into a running attack. Bracing himself for the hit, he held his hands out to add a little bit of deflection to the impact. The demon collided into him, strong arms encircling and lifting him into the air. Defensively curling up into a ball, he pushed his feet out in a vicious kick to the demon’s solar plexus when his back hit the floor. His resurrected foe soared over his head and landed with a satisfying crunch into the cross-covered walls.

Flipping up onto his feet, he pivoted quickly to his his second task rise to his feet and brush off flakes of his protective shell. Quickly he focused on the demon’s face and saw to his amazement that the exoskeleton hadn’t grown back there when the demon had been brought back to life.

If only he had a broadsword! he thought, his fingers gripping an imaginary hilt.

“Why do you bother to fight, Angel?” the demon leered, stretching his abused shoulder muscles. “You can’t kill me, and your death is a foregone conclusion. I promise to make it quick if you give up now.”

Sketching a small bow, he lifted a mocking eyebrow. “Sorry, but I think winning means the third time’s the charm. You might as well come over here and kill me because I’m not giving up.”

“You won’t get the best of me this time, vampire,” the demon threatened.

He yawned, “Child’s play.”

An angry roar echoed around the chamber as the fiend charged once again at him. He shifted into his vampiric features, grabbed his attacker, and swiftly bit into his neck, drawing out the orange sludge that had the nerve to call itself blood. When it reached his tongue he shuddered. It tasted like spoiled, rancid milk and burned down his throat like acid.

“Yuck!” he spluttered, tossing the demon aside, spitting and wiping at his tongue. “Your taste is foul.”

He sniffed in disdain as he watched his victim rise woozily to his feet, hand over neck. He hadn’t taken that much. A human could have walked away in a straight line despite the pitiful amount of blood he had taken, and this demon couldn’t.

The demon looked shocked. Furious, he shouted, “You bit me!”

“No shit, Sherlock,” he muttered scathingly, making another swipe at his tongue. “A decision I’ve come to regret.”

With slow, determined, deliberate steps, he padded over to the tipsy demon and snapped his neck once more. This time he also grabbed the fallen stake along the edge of the wall. White spots burst in front of his eyes, but he managed to stumble back and grope his way to his fallen assailant. One quick stab to the center of the chest, and he knew it had to finally be over.

He had killed it thrice in three different fashions and he sincerely hoped the guy wasn’t part cat. Nine lives might be a little too much- just a little.

A rumbling, creaking noise echoed about him, and his body relaxed its stiff pose, discharging the excess tension. He climbed numbly to his feet and stumbled forward out of the chamber of crosses. Wobbly limbs guided him through the doors, and it was like a wave of clean fresh air collided with him. The pressure in his chest dissipated as the invisible weight of the crosses vanished, instantly making him feel both physically and mentally better.

That was until his demonic sock puppet friend came up to him with a loud, derisive sniff. Glumly, he visibly deflated as all his immediate glory trickled away. Couldn’t he get even a bit of rest before being summarily tossed into the next task?

“Well,” the puppet drawled, his voice dripping with disdain. “I suppose you feel like you’ve won that task. Unfortunately, a rule check says you have, though personally I think you should have fought until you got our Immortal to stay dead. However,” he sighed, “formality must be retained after all. Come, your next task I guess you could say will be a walk in the park; you just have to have a leap of faith.”

“I’m glad then that you’re not the one making damndamn rules,” he bit out, equaling the puppet’s scorn. “I’ll be along when I’m ready, and not a moment sooner.”

“Sorry, buddy, no can do,” the sock gloated. “You got to come along right now or forfeit your prize.”

“You horrible little shit!” he bellowed, taking a menacing step toward the leering cloth dummy.

“Sticks and stones,” the aforementioned dummy taunted, turning and leading the way.

He followed a couple of steps behind, itching to lay his hands on his demonic tour guide and wring its little neck. They wandered down gentle slopes for many minutes, traversing along the corridors u he he thought they must be at least three hundred feet down under the ground of the cave. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about sunlight now. First good thing to happen so far.

“In there,” the sniveling sock puppet motioned, indicating a tiny door.

“You must be joking! I’d have to wedge through that!” he exclaimed with a wave of his hands.

“Your clothes might get you stuck,” the puppet concurred, “but that’s not my problem.”

“What?”

“My, my, the great Scourge of Europe, rumored to have pleasured the three furies for days on end without stopping to rest, suddenly shy! Couldn’t be!”

Mirth bubbled up inside of him, so that he almost doubled over in glee before straightening up and looking directly into the goggly eyes of the demonically possessed sock. “Let me get this straight, you want me to go through that sliver you call a doorway for my third task.”

“Looks like it, doesn’t it?” the sock said with a slight lifting at the corner of his mouth.

Shoving an errant lock of hair out of his eyes, he huffed, “Great, just great.”

After a few minutes assessing his choices, he realized that the irritating dummy was still standing patiently beside him.

“What?” he barked out.

“I’m waiting for you to hand over your clothes. They’ll be awaiting you at the end of the fourth task.”

“What, you’re not going to be leading me to the task after this one?” he asked hopefully.

“Won’t have to; it’s connected to the door in the third task.” With a pointed look the sock continued, “Your clothes, Angelus.”

Five swift agitated movements later, he was divested of all but his boxers. He stood up with his fingers dipped into the waistband of the silk cloth and glared. The sock took the hint and turned around, full of himself by the telltale bouncing of his goggly eyes. With a smirk, he tossed the boxers on top of the evil troll’s head, ambled over to the doorway, and pondered it for a moment. The damn thing wasn’t even as wide as the breadth of his shoulders.

Visibly disturbed at the notion of cramming himself into such a tight space, he swallowed thickly before muttering weakly, “Here goes nothing.”

He pulled the door open quickly and took a step back. Darkness greeted him, and the sound of trickling water. Perplexed at what sort of task this might be, he stood still and silent at the threshold, waiting… a few seconds later he laughed quietly about his foolishness and twisted his body sideways, preparing to enter the hallway.

Then he noticed a clear substance dripping slowly along the frame beside him. Gingerly touching it, he gasped and shook his hand wildly before staring at his fingers, which were now a bright, irritated red. Holy water. Shit. Without a bardsards glance he shuffled into the hallway and gritted his teeth.

The holy water trickled along the walls and coated the ground below his feet. It was painful, but he didn’t make any complaint. He was doing this to get his soul, to be the man Buffy needed. With a prize like that there was no room for grumbling and bemoaning. But God how he wanted to let out a wordless scream right now, so he tipped his head back against the wall and opened his mouth in silent agony instead.

He shuffled hastily along, scrambling as fast as he could to what he hoped would soon be the end of the passageway. The corridor however seemed to go on forever. The dark obscured his sense of time and distance traveled. His enhanced sight was just as useless as a human’s because he could detect nothing with his eyes but solid opaqueness to the left and right of him.

The hallway loomed grotesquely in both directions and the water burned trails in his skin. He wanted out, he wanted it to end, he wanted this task over. It was Chinese water torture come to life in a new and horrible fashion. His sanity was holding on by a thread, and he didn’t know if he could go on any longer.

His thoughts focused on something that made the pain dim and leave him. He thought of Buffy, and his love for her. He wondered if she was crying in the mansion worried sick over what had happened to him… to them… he thought perhaps she was full of the self-righteous anger he so richly deserved and out hunting and staking all vampires with a vengeance, pretending each one was him… maybe she was laughing with Willow about something that Giles did in his weird British ways…

He could see her doing a myriad of things, from sitting curled up in his overstuffed leather highback chair reading one of his many books on Irish folklore by firelight, to staking the newest threat in Sunnydale with a gleam of satisfaction lighting up her eyes, to complaining about her day to him while she grabbed something to eat from their fridge. But how he really saw her when he thought of her was a young woman who knew what life held in store for her, and she had taken that and more.

He saw her in his mind’s eye sprawled out before him, her legs wrapped around his neck as he pleasured her, her little mewls and moans of delight reaching his ears as he brought her closer to orgasm. He could picture every naked limb, every curve and plane. He loved her breasts, those dusky rose tipped nipples, the crowning perfection of her areoles. He loved how they would tighten just from the weight of his gaze, and pucker up with the slightest touch from the pad of his thumb. She was so responsive to him, loving so freely and thoroughly.

He wanted, no, needed to hear her breathe his name with that questioning lilt and slight hitch between the syllables. He wanted, needed to taste her kiss again and hear from her sweet lips how much she loved him. He wanted to tell her the same.

He was jarred from his thoughts by a sudden collision with a solid barrier. Groping with trembling hands, he touched the door and tumbled through, thankful beyond anything to be free of that dark hell. He almost wished he could undergo another month or so in the sphere of eternal agony rather than face one more task. What did they have left to throw at him--- what horror was coming next?

Buffy. Sweet, beloved, innocent Buffy. He wanted to be with her, loving her, holding her, kissing her… he wanted free of this place and tucked safely back where he belonged- in her arms.

The cool tile beneath his face was sweetly soothing to his abused skin. All it would take was a glass of good blood and his skin would mend without a scar. It wouldn’t need to be hot, though he would kill to have that be what was scalding his body and not holy water. His skin felt several sizes too small; it itched and burned with a ruthlessness akin only to the single-mindedness of Angelus absorbed in the task of delivering pain.

Struggling to lift his head and look around, he was dimly aware of his surroundings. There was a red door straight ahead standing ominously before him. The floor had a large compass on it, north pointing directly at the entrance. He stared blankly at the looming entryway before it clicked. An agonized groan left him as he reflected on how screwed he truly was.

T tas tasks in, and the fourth one would surely kill him.

The Blessed Sacrament Room.

There was no way he was getting out alive from this one. If he could crawl out in mostly one piece he’d be the luckiest son of a bitch on the face of the planet.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he muttered dejectedly unhis his breath, his head falling back onto the tile.

The task before him was nigh impossible because unlike the ones before it, it would not test physical endurance but faith. Faith he didn’t have.

Carefully, he snuck past the open offices of Father Maolomhnaigh and Father Fitzpatrick to the back of the church. His mother was always telling him about a secret room within St. Catherine's where God rested, and he wanted to see for himself. He had to ask Him for a favor bordering on the miraculous; he wouldn’t let Kathy get married off to that cruel man who would surely beat and rape her into submission.

He finally found what had to be the door leading into this most holy of rooms. It was red to ward away evil, and he crossed himself before steeling his nerves. Nerves made his palms sweaty as he approached the door and gingerly tested the doorknob. Jubilation filled him as he cracked the unlocked door open and pushed it in slowly, afraid to disturb the Lord. A firm hand gripped his shoulder and yanked him backwards.

Father Maolomhnaigh stood over him, glaring and teeming with anger. “You dimwitted O’Connor bratling!” he spat. “The Lord would never let someone like you see Him face to face. What in damnation were you thinking, boy, to darken the Almighty’s threshold?”

Thirty humiliating minutes later both Father Maolomhnaigh and Father Fitzpatrick tossed him out of the church with stern warnings that God would disown his soul for being prideful, presumptuous, and impertinent. Glumly, he turned away, rubbing his sore backside, and trudged home. Within a block his heart had filled with icy fury towards God and the Church, and he vowed to show them that both piety and morals were subjective, groundless, and utterly pointless.

But that night he prayed fervently for the Lord and Christ to save his sister from her impending marriage to the Earl of Beaumont. The next day proved his prayers inadequate, for his father and the earl had moved the wedding date up so far that instead of marrying at the reasonable age of 16, Kathy would wed by the end of the year, before her 13th birthday. Beaumont was a cad, a sadist, and a goddamn pedophile.

The God that the Church advertised did not exist. For the pure in heart and intentions did not see God, and He Himself damned the innocent for a couple of jollies. Faith had failed, and he would be damned to let it conquer his quest in freeing his sister from the hell of Beaumont.

Shaking off the memory, he glanced at the red door once more. A curl of disgust graced his lips for a moment before he calmed his anger at the absent omnipotent being.

“Why should it hurt?” he asked nobody in particular as he picked elf elf up off the floor. “You don’t exist to me. You have no power here or over me.”

Confident with that statement, he eased over to the door and noted dryly that it was still red. Well the color red itself had never blocked Angelus from entering a church before, or anyplace for that matter. The whole idea of the color was kind of pointless then and therefore not a reason to be fearful of opening a damn door.

He opened the door and pushed it inward and stood at the threshold looking in for a moment. With stiff movements he crossed the invisible line aearlearly choked on the blood that burst thickly in his throat. His veins were rupturing all throughout his body like hundreds of hot pokers. Senses dimmed and went berserk: his ears popped, crackling with noise so loud it hurt; his sight faded and erupted in colorful sunbursts that made him feel like he was hallucinating; touch, smell, and taste all skittered dangerously off kilter.

Close to collapsing, he pried his eyes opened and forced himself to see the room again, and there opposite the door was something shining. He hoped it was truly there and was not appearing because of his out of control vision. Racing over to it, he ran full out until he collided with what it stood on, and he nearly wept when his fingers at first grasped nothing.

By some miracle, the golden disc touched the tips of his fingers, and he clutched it to his breast before falling. It was over. He’d lost. He could feel his body shriveling and breaking as it ripped itself to dust. He would never see Buffy again--- she wouldn’t know he was dead and would wait hopelessly for him.

Please let her be happy- help her find a way to be happy always- she deserves so much- I love her- he thought tiredly, the metal in his palm burning holes through skin and bone, until he blissfully fell into the cool, dark abyss.

*****

Cold. Very cold.

Shivering he opened his eyes to see the cotton puppet staring grouchily down at him, its unibroerhaerhanging its goggly eyes. He yelped and scrambled backwards across the cool tile until his back hit the wall.

“Why am I not dead?” he asked in bewilderment, his voice thick and hoarse.

“Why are you alive is more like it,” groused the puppet with a put out sigh. “You won.”

He leaned cautiously forward, grimacing as his abused flesh made itself known to him, rasping against the roughness of his clothes. “How? I was breaking into dust!”

“Your prize came at the end of the fourth task.”

“My prize?” he started, then smiled readily. “Great! I want my-”

“Not so fast, Angelus,” the puppet tsked, interrupting him.

Angered, he shouted, standing up laboriously. “Not so fast? Not so fast! What the hell are you trying to pull here, you sadistic little-”

The possessed sock glowered. “You wished for her happiness, blah, blah, blah. You got what you wanted.”

“She’s happy?” he asked, his chest tight all of a sudden.

“Well she will be, once we send you back to the mansion.”

“Wait, is that all I get? An instant trip back home?” he queried, feeling deflated.

“Sadly, you’re the only smart one to have made it through the tasks. No, you get your soul as well. The clause is gone. Her happiness, remember?” the sock pouted. “Anyway it’s time to send you back.”

“But wait, I still have quest-” his words cut off as he was thrown backwards, before he had time to gain a penny drop.

-The End of Chapter 25.-