The Tides of Change

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Chapter Seven
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Xander trembled, leaning back against the cold, damp wall. He didn't know how long he'd been down here, but he thought it was about three days -- though it seemed more like forever. He still didn't know what had happened to the others, his last memory before waking here was of Buffy killing one of the demons and sprinting towards him.

The room dark, him bound hand and foot, sounds he couldn't -- and wasn't sure he wanted to -- identify preventing any reasonable amount of sleep, he was uncomfortable at the best of times.

The room, if he could really call it that, wasn't large enough to lay down comfortably without cng ung up. The floor, as well as the wall, was damp. Not badly wet, not soaked or anything; it was just enough that it had long since seeped through his clothing, so he was constantly cold and clammy. He couldn't see much -- vague shapes at most, and he'd spent most of his time wishing he could -- at least a little more. Light was of the good as far as he was concerned. He might even take to sleeping with the light on, if--

**No!** Xander silently shouted. **Not if, when, *when* I get out of here!**

Every once in awhile, however; the times when he could hear the blood curtling screams sound from beyond the opening to his tiny little room, he was absolutely certain -- well, relatively certain -- he was glad he couldn't.

He'd already tried loosening the ropes that bound his wrists and ankles, but hadn't had any luck. They were as tight as ever, and beginning to cut into his skin. He couldn't see it, but he could feel it. Everywhere the rough rope rubbed with each movement he made was raw and tender.

He hadn't had much to eat. When they actually remembered to bring him anything it was so close to inedible that he had to choke it down despite his ravenous hunger. That was alright, though; he was getting used to that. It was the thirst that was killing him. They brought him water, but not nearly enough. Usually it was just enough to remind him how thirsty he was.

The fact that there was water everywhere, was like salt in an open wound. He'd gotten desperate enough yesterday -- what felt like yesterday -- to try licking the walls for the miniscule moisture he knew damn well was there. It hadn't helped. Whatever *else* coated the wall had burned blisters in his tongue, the taste immediately making him lose what precious little he actually had in his stomach. The eventual dry heaves had felt like they were ripping his stomach into shreds. He hadn't tried a second time.

He supposed he should be grateful he *had* heaved. Whatever it was, was probably poisonous. **Well, duh, Harris!** He *was* glad that it seemed to only affect him *inside*, considering he was covered in it -- that and only God knew what else.

Frankly, he stank. He had spent his time since his capture alternating between sweating and shivering. It seemed his body couldn't make up its mind whether it was hot or cold, and bathing prisoners was, apparently, not a consideration wherever here was.

He groaned, reluctantly closing his eyes. Sleep was the only thing that allowed him to escape the misery of his current existence. The problem was, when he did manage that elusive state, the dreams began, dreams in which his vivid imagination painted all too clear pictures of what kinds of tortures caused each scream -- and there were many *different* screams.

His dreams assigned a different fear to each distinct type of scream, his fears growing daily as, in his more hopeless moments, he tried to decide which fate he would prefer. Well, prefer just *might* be too strong a word. Maybe, which fate he would hate least would be more appropriate.

Still, he closed his eyes, hoping that *this* time would be different. Maybe this time he would dream of rescue. Even better, maybe this time he would wake from that dream only to find dream becoming reality.

Unfortunately, as usually happened here, as soon as he tried, his mind refused to shut down, instead it turned back in time, rehashing everything that had happened that fateful night, trying to see if there was anything he'd done wrong, if, maybe, just maybe, there was something he could have done that would have saved his own ass.

Until *he* had shown up, it had almost been like old times. The only thing missing had been one pain-in-the-ass vampire -- namely Spike -- and Xander couldn't really say he actually missed that. Of course, the fact that they'd argued about him was pretty much old hat too.

Xander sighed. Then, of course, Buffy had uttered those evil, *evil* words. He would be willing to swear the hand that reached up out of the ground and grabbed him had scared at least a decade off his life -- which he *really* resented, cuz, hey, let's face it, living on a hellmouth didn't exactly equate to a long *healthy* lifespan in the first place.

A sudden scrapping noise just outside 'r 'room' jerked Xander from his thoughts, and he stifled a startled yelp. He cursed inwardly as his movements rubbed the ropes against his raw skin. A shadow filled the doorway, blocking off what little light bled-- **And can we think of a different term for that?** --into the room.

Xander gulped. As far as he could tell the . . . thing wasn't carrying anything this time, so he didn't think it was feeding time at the zoo. He *really* didn't want to think about what that might mean. As it reached out, Xander scooted as far away as he was able. It wasn't far, but it made him feel a *little* better.

The monstrous demon laughed -- at least Xander *thought* that was a laugh -- as it simply took a small additional step forward and grabbed his arm anyway. Xander stifled a scream, but didn't manage to stop all the sound. He was just glad it didn't come out sounding all girly. Scared as he was, he *would* like to keep his manly dignity intact -- even if he was the only one who would ever know about it.

Gagging as he was roughly pulled up off the floor and into the air. Xander didn't even have time to take advantage of his chains coming off before he landed on the thing's shoulder with a loud, 'Oomph'. Desperately trying not to breathe, he struggled futilely. He groaned. As bad as *he* smelled, this thing was a hundred times worse. He didn't let it stop him, however; gagging in lung-fulls of the acrid stench he continued fighting his captor. If he could just get free, he *might* be able to run fast enough to get out of this.

**

Lacroix paced restlessly, fury not even coming *close* to describing his mental state. Not since the Spanish Inquisition had he been so . . . foully treated. Incarcerated -- *him*! A metal collar locked around his neck and attached him to the wall via a thick, heavy chain. He'd tried to break it, eyes widening in surprise when the metal not only held, but didn't even give at all -- not even when he'd applied every bit of strength he possessed.

His hands were similarly restrained, to a chain that wrapped tightly around his abdomen. That, irritatingly, kept him from trying to pry off the collar itself. He'd managed to sleep a little, hours after the sun had risen that first night, but it had been fitful, restless, every sound jerking him fully awake and ready to fight.

The opening of the solid, steel reinforced door about half way through that day had sent him flying to his feet, fangs descended. The woman they'd thrown inside, stumbling into him, and he'd caught her by reflex alone, most of his attention on the jailors. They'd shut the door almost as soon as the woman was inside however, leaving him no options for escape.

He'd almost thrust her away, the stench of her unwashed body sending nausea through him. Born a Roman, at the height of their civilization, he'd always been fastidiously clean. It had been something he had insisted on in all of his children as well. Cleanliness may, or may not, be next to godliness -- as Nicholas' religion preached -- but to Lacroix it was a necessity rooted in the very basics of his being.

Common sense had won out in the end, and he had drained her. He didn't know when his next meal was coming -- or if it would at all -- and he couldn't afford to be . . . picky. That alone, aside from every other reason, was enough to make Lacroix hate his jailors.

That had been 36 hours ago, and except for a brief visit when they'd removed the woman's body -- thank everything he held dear -- he hadn't seen a single trace of his jailors. He *had* heard plenty, however. The sounds emanating from beyond his prison filled him with both excitement and dread. He could recall ages past and the screams of his own victims as they realized they were going to die, the pleas for mercy when they realized he would use, abuse, and then discard their lifeless bodies.

Not all of the screams here were human, that much was obvious to Lacroix. He wouldn't have believed it before Divia's revenge, but a week in this hell dimension had opened his eyes to things he hadn't previously thought possible. It all left him wondering just what they had planned for him, and it was an unsettling question at best.

The sound of his cell door scraping open froze Lacroix in place as he stared malevolently at who -- or what -- ever was coming. He was startled as a body was thrust through, the door slamming shut just as quickly as it had the first day. Again, he caught by reflex alone, rearing back and clenching tightly as the overpowering -- and familiar -- scent hit his nostrils.

The boy stank, no doubt about that, but it was *Alexander*. Terror widening the mortal's eyes when he looked up and saw just *who* he'd been caged with, Alexander scrambled backward, desperately trying to wrench himself out of Lacroix' grasp. Surprising both himself and the boy, he let go.

Alexander stumbled backward, his look of terror instantly turning to one of rage. "So, *you're* the asshole responsible for this!" he spat, then frowned, eyeing Lacroix oddly.

Lacroix smirked, finding humor in this situation for the very first time, glancing down at himself ruefully before responding. "Does it *look*e I\e I'm responsible?"

"N-no," Alexander replied uncertainly, his fear and hatred of Lacroix so very obviously warring with that of his jailors.

"Oh, come now," Lacroix chastised quietly, dropping his voice to the low soothing tones of his Nightcrawler persona, "did I really hurt you all that badly?" he asked. "You *are* still alive, and reasonably healthy."

"You *bit* me!" Alexander exclaimed angrily, and Lacroix chuckled.

"Of course, I did, boy," he replied evenly. "I *am* a vampire."

Alexander blinked, Lacroix' matter of fact statement throwing him off balance. "You . . . you took my memories!"

Lacroix hid his grin. Alexander was grasping at straws now. "You didn't really expect me to just send you on your way with your memories of what had happened intact, did you?"

"Well," Alexander began hotly, then paused before continuing stubbornly, "yeah."

This was just *too* exquisite, Lacroix thought, grinning. all all the boy's terror, he wasn't a gibbering mess. Kidnapped by monsters straight out of a child's nightmare, held for three days, then thrown in -- obviously as food -- with a vampire, the boy was managing to hold his own. The grin turned into a smirk as Alexander's eyes widened and he stumbled backward, stopping only when he bumped into the far wall.

"You do realize, do you not," Lacroix said speculatively, "that you're going to have to come over here, sooner or later?"

Alexander frowned, his fear once again over-ridden as outrage took it's place. "Oh, I *so* don't think so!"

"How do you expect to get out of here, then, if we don't work together?"

Alexander snorted. "And you think I'm dumb enough to fall for that?"

"No, Alexander," Lacroix denied quietly, but firmly, "I do not think you are dumb at all."

Frowning, Alexander eyed him warily. "Right," he drawled drily, disbelief pouring off him.

"I suppose you consider *me* stupid?" Lacroix asked then, changing tactics.

"What?"

"Or perhaps you think I'm so lacking in self-control that I would attack the one person who might be able to help me get out?"

"N-no. I mean, hey," Alexander back-pedalled quickly, stammering, "I d-don't even know you."

Lacroix listened to Alexander's heart as it beat a steady rhythm inside the mortal's chest, the rapid thumping almost hypnotising. Hunger stirred within him, warring with his control. Part of him did indeed wish to simply drain the boy, savor his essence. He waited, letting nothing of his turmoil show in his stance or expression.

"Hey!" Alexander exclaimed suddenly, outrage returning. "You were going to turn me," he accused with shakily pointed finger.

**Turn? oh!** "If by that you mean, bring you across, why, yes, I was."

"Ha! See! Like I should trust you after *that*!"

"Do you know what drew me to you, made me want *more* than to just drain you?"

"No!" Alexander shouted, scooting further away from him.

Lacroix controlled his growing urge to smirk. Somehow, he thought it might be counterproductive. The boy's words said no, but he could feel the curiosity pouring off the mortal in intense waves. Waiting just until Alexander seemed ready to burst -- though he suspected the boy would *never* actually ask -- Lacroix spoke. "It was your loyalty."

"Huh?"

"Yes, I felt your loyalty to your friends. It was incredible . . . intoxicating, actually. I wanted that loyalty."

Alexander blinked, but didn't move, didn't say a word, obviously stunned.

"Imagine turning that loyalty onto someone who would treat you the way you deserve, someone who wouldn't ignore you, wouldn't push you aside."

Alexander gasped, his eyes protesting Lacroix' words.

"Oh, yes, I saw that too, how your friends pushed you aside time and time again, how it hurt when the did."

"T-they don't mean to, they just--"

"I'm sure they don't," Lacroix agreed smoothly, not wishing to rouse the very loyalty he wished to cultivate. "Come, Alexander, trust me," he urged. His voice low, wafting across the air like brushed velvet, he allowed just the merest hint of the mesmerism power to enter it. He didn't want to hypnotise, he wanted to seduce.

Alexander swallowed, shaking his head.

"I would teach you everything you need to know. I would lavish you with the attention you so richly deserve."

Eyes widening, Alexander tensed. "No," he replied hoarsely. "No, you would turn me. I don't *want* to be a vampire. *I'd* still be dead, and a demon would be wrecking havoc in my place," he continued then shrugged, brightening his tone. "Besides, you wouldn't get what you want anyway, cuz it wouldn't be *me* anymore. So why don't we play nice, and just forget the whole thing. What do you say?"

Lacroix frowned, surprise disrupting his focus. He couldn't believe someone who fought vampires actually bought the 'demon' myth. "What do you mean it wouldn't be you? Of course it would be you."

"Ha! I knew it!" Alexander shouted, his tone once again accusing. "Vampires *so* cannot be trusted! It *wouldn't* be me. Everyone knows that. Well," he amended sheepishly, "everyone who's really in the know about vams ins in the first place knows that."

Lacroix blinked, a rueful smile curving the corners of his mouth upward despite his continued confusion. "You really do babble whenever you're nervous, don't you?"


TBC
Kiristeen
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