Sadistic trio

Victor Creed sat down in the chair heavily, cold eyes fixed on the young man in front of him. Scratching his broad chin with fingernails that were closer to claws, thick and yellowed, he blinked slowly. Once. “What’s your name?” he asked his newest lawyer. “I don’t pay Wolfram and Hart as much as I do to get some wet behind the ears puppy they’re bringing up.” He stabbed one thick finger down into the table, leaning over and glaring at the pretty boy lawyer they’d sent him. “What’s your name, punk, spit it out.”

“Lindsey McDonald,” he introduced himself smoothly, and that hint of Southern twang hit memories in Creed’s mind. He grinned slightly, baring yellowing and evil looking teeth as he slumped back into his chair and lit a cigarette, gesturing slightly for the cocksucking lawyer to go on. At least a whore made you feel good for a while; lawyers couldn’t even manage that. He picked up his briefcase and fussed with the papers inside for a moment as he found the ones he wanted and laid them on the table. “The United States is pressing for your extradition, as is Canada. At the moment, Canada is ahead because it is your country of origin and the citizenship you claim.” He laced his fingers together, looking at Creed.

“So?” the killer grunted. “One or the other, they’ll win. Britain doesn’t want to hold me. It’s fucking piss scared of me. I’m not what they’re used to dealing with.” Rubbing his hand over his heavy golden stubble, he considered the situation for a moment. “Press for Canada. I can break out there easier then the US. You got some cash for me, runt?”

“Of course. Two thousand pounds,” Lindsey said, sliding several thick bankrolls of notes across the table. “And a few hundred grams of heroin, some LSD, a bit of crystal meth, a few bags of marijuana, some ecstasy and a few other types of designer drugs. And the case of cigars you wanted.” He put a box in front of Creed, picking up his papers again and putting them away. “Would that be enough until our next meeting in about a month?”

“Should be plenty,” Creed said, picking everything up and hiding it on his person. No one was crazy enough to try and suggest a search. Not with him. “Try and get me some sort of fucking weapon next time, would ya? I can make one, but it won’t be the same quality as something from outside.” He grinned at Lindsey as he stood, knowing he would tower over the younger man and relishing it. “Probably need another thou’ when you come next...need to buy my way into a hell of a lot of pockets to make my stay here cozy. But hell, if anyone can afford it, it’s me.” He hummed tunelessly under his breath as the guard opened the door from the outside and left, shackles between his feet clinking and letting them put the handcuffs back on him when he got outside, headed back into the main prison. A gloating smile passed over his face quickly, and then was gone. Subsumed into the bored blank look of a caged lion. Dangerous, but idle.

Lindsey sighed, rubbing the aching pain under his heart before he finished packing up. He hated doing the prisons. But being assigned the Creed file...meant he’d probably never see another one with this man in it, anyway. Either Wolfram and Hart tidied up any evidence Creed had forgotten...it didn’t happen very often, the man was a consummate professional...or they fixed things so it didn’t go to trial. But there hadn’t been a way to fudge this one. Which was why he now had the case – the other man had been ‘let go’. He didn’t really want to think about that. Creed would be extradited, and somewhere between here and there, he would vanish, and once more go about his bloody business. And that would be that. Lindsey would check up on his accounts, organize hits and so on, but he’d probably never see Victor Creed inside a gaol again. Not if he did his work correctly. “I’m ready to go now, officer,” he told the guard at the door and then turned the opposite way up the corridor from Creed, glad he was walking back into sunlight and free air.

Kyle whistled in warning, a low sweet sound through his teeth as Creed walked back into the prison, flipping a card over to Jonothon. The drawing back from the looming giant was noticeable, and the man didn’t really seem to care. Crazy as all fuck, that one. “Ante up, laddie. How you finding prison?”

Jonothon studied his cards, picking up the one he’d asked the Scot for and gave him a scathing look. His voice when he spoke was harsh and rough, a raven’s hoarse croak. “Oh, it’s all aces, mate. Wot the *fuck* do you think?”

“Easy, easy, lad,” Kyle soothed. “You got some dosh for cigarettes yet?” The withering look Jonothon turned on him made him smile sheepishly, before starting to roll two cigarettes. “I’d say hit up Spike for some but...”

“Sod that,” Jonothon said determinedly, picking up the cigarette Kyle handed to him and waiting for the other man to light it. Dragging in the smoke through his mouth and down into his lungs, he sighed, exhaling grey and closing his eyes briefly. Felt too damn good to be true, really. “Is that Canadian bastard still staring at me?”

“Aye,” Kyle said, lighting his own cigarette. “I wouldn’t worry none about it. Spike and Angel could tear him into pieces between the two of them.”

“Fuck.” The London-born teen inhaled again, looking dispirited and shifted slightly on the hard seat. “Why me, god damn it? I’m not even that good looking. What the *fuck* is it that I do that apparently has every burly con panting after my arse?”

“You sorta...” Kyle made a wiggling gesture with his hand. “Sway. Were you a performer or something before you came in here?”

“Musician.” At Kyle’s raised eyebrow, he continued. “Played lead guitar and sang. Fuck it. I’m going crazy without my guitar.”

“Cozy up to Angel and Spike, they’ll put in a good word with the guards and who knows? You’ll get to use your guitar under supervision. For fuck’s sake, you loony,” Kyle said in exasperation at the stubborn look in Jonothon’s eyes. “Deal. Move on. And then take all the bloody advantage you can. If you really want to play guitar, you’ll work for it.” He tapped ash from the end of his cigarette, and commented thoughtfully, “shouldn’t take that much anyway. Not at the moment. Spike’s besotted with you for some reason.”

“Bloody *freak*,” Jonothon spat. “Acts like he’s some sort of vampire. I’ve got so many fucking bitemarks, I could double as a chewtoy for a Doberman.” He put down his cards with a disgusted snort. “Can’t get my luck to run well in anything these days.”

“You need to work the luck you’ve got,” the blond said in a Zen-like voice, picking up the cards and reshuffling.

“Well, fuck you. You’re not in the godawful situation I’m in.” Jonothon snarled, and pushed back from the table as he stood up. “I’m going up to the cell...might take a nap. Or something. Read.”

“See you later then,” Kyle said, dealing out a hand of solitaire. Wasn’t anything bad could happen to the kid while he walked up the stairs and along the walkway to the cell. There really shouldn’t be anything that would happen.

Creed grabbed Jonothon by the back of the neck as he walked up the stairs, jerking him off balance and slamming him into the wall.

“Get the hell of me!” Jonothon growled, pushing back at Creed with his open hands. The cigarette he was holding hit the other man’s shoulder, and the cloth started smouldering. Creed just leant in and let it burn, yellowed teeth bared in a lion-like grin. Jonothon twisted and the bigger man controlled it easily. “Piss off!”

“Easy there, punk,” Creed said, laughing a little deep down in his throat. “Just wanted to tell you something.”

“Well, then tell me and fuck *off*, yer yeller bastard!”

“I’m going to fuck you,” Creed whispered, one hand grabbing Jonothon’s hair and twisting his head around and to the side to expose his throat. The teen grunted slightly in pain, baring his teeth and breathing heavily through his nose, one eye trying to follow what the Canadian was doing. He leaned in slightly, harsh breath rasping in the brunette’s ear. Jonothon twisted again, trying to throw him off, holding the cigarette in and grinding it into Creed’s clothes. Spirals of smoke were going up. “I’m going to spread your legs and fuck you like a whore, little boy. Bend you over a table, chair, whatever. Use you up against a wall if I feel like it. You tell those two assholes who think they own your ass that I’ll be coming for you. Won’t be long I’m in this hellhole, and I’ll be gone. If they really want to tangle with Sabretooth, they can try it and I’ll chew them up into itty bitty pieces.”

“Fuck. You,” Jonothon gritted out, feeling the harsh scrape of concrete against his cheek as Creed ground his face into the wall.

“I think I’ll be the one fucking you,” Creed rasped into his ear, and Jonothon could smell the rancid, rotten meat smell of his breath. Like something had crawled down his mouth into his belly and died there. “You tell this...Angel. Spike. I think someone told me that’s what their names were, the ones who laid claim to a good little piece of ass like you. Tell them I will fuck them up beyond repair if they don’t turn you over to me until the time I leave this prison. I’ll pay ‘em for it too. Much as they like. I’ve got cash to burn.” Jonothon made a small, sharp sound of pain as Creed bit down on his exposed throat, leaving a deep purple bitemark that rivalled any of Spike’s. “Remember to tell them now, bitch.” He dropped Jonothon and walked away, leaving the teen sprawled on the ground with one hand covering the bleeding bitemark at his throat.

“Fuck,” Jonothon whispered, shaking his head slightly. “Jesus fuck.”

“He said what?” Spike asked, tapping his fingers in a rapid tattoo against his thigh as he leaned back in his chair. “And where the *fuck* was Gibney?”

“Downstairs, main room,” Jonothon said, taking the handkerchief from Angel and holding it against the wound on his throat. He didn’t know what else to do, where else to go. For some reason, this hulking bastard was fixated on him and even Spike and Angel seemed safer then him. Better the devil you know then the one you don’t. Sometimes. “I was just...” he gulped in a breath, feeling shaky and dazed. “Doesn’t matter, does it really? Told you wot he said.” He could feel the blood running warm and wet to soak the cloth he was holding to the wound. “Hand me over, or he’d do something to both of you. Pay you for me, if that’s what you wanted. But...he intends to have things his way, that’s pretty damn obvious.”

“Bugger him,” Spike said flatly. He looked at Angel, and raised his eyebrows slightly. “Don’t even think about giving in on this, China. Or else we’ll be fighting off wankers who think they’re just as tough as M’sieu Creed until we’re old and grey.” He rubbed a hand through his hair, feeling the crisp dry feeling of the strands, and shrugged slightly. “Guess we’ll just have to tell him no.”

“Spike...” Jonothon said quietly, then shook his head. “Wotever.”

“I need more info,” Angel murmured, steepling his fingers and putting them thoughtfully against his lips. “Spike, you don’t let him out of your sight. Looks bad if someone roughs what’s ours over, especially if he’s gone straight up to the line and pissed all over it beforehand.” He tilted his head slightly and looked at Jonothon with deadly eyes. “Essex wants you as well. If he wasn’t someone I could afford to piss off, I might have said yes. Play nice, Brat, or I will turn you over to the wolves for a turn or two. Could be a real party. Out. I need to think.”

“C’mon, up,” Spike grumbled, grabbing Jonothon’s shoulder and ushering him out. “Don’t mind him all that much, he’s just ticked off at the big bastard’s balls to even think about touching you. Let alone biting you. He wouldn’t. Not if he didn’t want to settle with me first.” Jonothon listened, just breathing and trying to quell the surge of fear roiling in his stomach.

“He fucking tries to pimp me and I swear to God, I will find some way to kill him.” Jonothon looked away and stared across the hall to where his eyes fell on Creed. The blond was talking to a shorter man...but everyone was basically shorter then Creed...with black hair and an arrogant stance. “Spike?”

“Yes, pet?”

“You wouldn’t really let him...do that...would you?”

Spike reached over and flicked the fringe out of Jonothon’s eyes, before sliding his fingers down the back of his skull and tilting his head for a quick kiss. His mouth tasted like cigarette smoke and peppermint toothpaste, a little odd but not off putting. “Not in a million years, luv. Don’t fret yerself about it. Up for a game of cards or summat?”

“Yeah, sure,” Jonthon said hesitantly and followed Spike down the stairs, hearing his footsteps echo slightly. Crazy merry-go-round, this place was turning out to be. But he was pretty sure he was starting to get some sort of understanding of it now, and he wasn’t going to die. Hopefully. Not soon, anyway.

Not any time soon.