The barn in which Angelus and company had been trapped lay in ashy ruins; singed support beams jutted from the rubble askew. Some parts of the barn – particularly those with arrows stuck to them – were still smoldering from Cervantes’ brutal assault.
Cervantes and his elite hunters had already set out for the city bearing great news, but just for precautionary measures, he left a few drunken watchmen to catch any stragglers at the burn site. Of course, ‘watching’ the rubble was perhaps the last thing on their minds, as they were singing and dancing to heart’s end.
From a quiet corner of the debris, a few wooden planks began to shift. It was subtle at first, and after a few moments it seemed whatever force was beneath it had given up. But the rubble suddenly hurtled several yards as a trap door in the base of the barn had opened, and under it was Spike holding a giggling Drusilla. The drunken watchmen turned their heads.
“Sorry to make a mess of things, mate, but my lady here didn’t fancy starving to death,” Spike said.
“The beasts! They’ve survived!” a hunter slurred. As the men scrambled to gather their weapons, Spike gently placed Drusilla on her feet, then picked up a wrought-iron shaft and launched straight through the torso of one of the men. The others froze for a second as the skewered man’s life left his eyes.
“William – you’ve gone and spiked the good man. His organs scream at the bad spike,” Drusilla chimed dreamily.
Without another moment’s hesitation, all but one of the hunters fled the scene.
“And right I was to do the old bastard in! Did you see what they’ve done here? How they’ve tried to hurt you?” Spike then approached the lone hunter, who was feebly trying to load his crossbow.
“Don’t hurt me, vile beast!” The man dropped his crossbow and unsheathed a cross as a last resort, holding it inches from Spike’s face. Spike rolled his eyes.
“A tip, mate,” Spike said. He then knocked the cross out of the hunter’s hand and grabbed him by the neck. “When begging for your life, I’d leave out the ‘vile beast’ part and the cross in my face business. It’s really unsatisfactory.”
“Torture him, Willy! Torture him! Make his innards scream!”
“I’ve got a better idea, love,” Spike told her as he maintained a fixed stare at the hunter. “I’d like this chum here to give his leader a message.”
“A – a message? I can do that! Please, anything!” the hunter wailed.
“Only problem is, it’s not exactly the type of message you tell. It’s more of a visual. Can you work with that?” The hunter’s face slowly faded into even more horror. “Dru, baby, would you kindly take that iron rod out of the dead man’s stomach?”
Drusilla pranced over to the dead body with a mischievous look in her eye. “This is going to be fun,” she giggled, wrenching the rod from the corpse. She then handed it to Spike.
“Right then…to begin, let’s do something with that dumbfounded look on your face. I never did like a victim who wore their fear on their sleeve like an idiot.”
Drusilla stood behind Spike, putting her arms over his shoulders and gently biting his ear. “William….will you torture me too?”
“Of course, baby,” he said, kissing her cheek. Their sensual moment, however, was ruined by the incessant whimpering of the captured hunter.
“Hold on, lemme just kill this guy.”
*
“Angelus has been killed! Let this day mark the triumph of man against the dark!” Cervantes’ voice echoed throughout the Venice market square. The once angry mobs had become loud, lewd, and complacent; mugs of beer were passed around compliments of local breweries.
“On this, the eve of August the 17th, we celebrate not the victory of one man, nor even the conquest of one nation – it is feat of mankind! Hark the Angels sing above!”
The crowds echoed the last line, raising their mugs in approval. As Cervantes was preparing to congregate with the rest of them, a lone horse galloped into the center of the square. The crowds slowly parted to allow passage, whispering among themselves as they caught sight of what the horse was dragging.
Cervantes approached the steed, which stopped when it reached the edge of the speaking platform. He stared at what it had in tow. For a long, breathless moment, no one spoke. Then, finally – as more people became aware of what horror lay before them - a woman screamed.
The body of the hunter lay mangled on the cobblestone clearing, its neck tied with a noose to the horse’s saddle. Carved sloppily into the man’s chest was the word “Spike.” Cervantes remained stone-faced as panic struck the townspeople.
“Sire! Cervantes! Two vampires escaped the wreckage!” The hunters who had fled paced down the street towards the hovering crowd, a look of dignified importance on their faces. Only when they saw their fallen, mangled comrade did they become quieter. “Sir…William the Bloody emerged from the wreckage. The dark-haired woman, as well.”
Cervantes waited for a long moment before responding. “But no sign of Angelus?”
“Nay, sir, but there are suspicions he, too, survived.”
“…gather a strike team. I will appease the townspeople for now.”
“Aye, sir.” The hunter nodded, then turned and left to follow orders.
Cervantes then turned to his right-hand apprentice, Zealot, who was burdened by more armor and weapons in his hands than thought possible. “Tell the local bars to keep these people drunk. I don’t want them to wise-up to anything we’re doing. A bawdy crowd is an inactive one….and have someone decapitate this body.”
“Yessir. And what will you do?”
“…I’m going to see my wife.”
Zealot hestitated at Cervantes’ last few words, but quickly gathered himself and set off in search of the bartenders in the crowds. Meanwhile, Cervantes approached the podium again for a closing statement.
“It appears that a marginal number of soulless ones have survived our righteous attempts at purgatory. There is no need for public alarm, however. The Lord has spoken to me, personally, and He has shown me the light at the end of this road…and it is not far off. So please – enjoy another round, drink till your heart’s delight – but do not fear these creatures.” Cervantes left the podium at the sounds of drunken men demanding more whiskey.
From atop one of the roofs, Angelus and Darla sat sharing a helpless girl’s blood. “Well, at least we know he’s alive. Good show, William. Honestly, I didn’t think he was the torturing type,” Angelus spoke lewdly.
“Well, a creature must do what he or she must in this situation,” Darla replied.
“And what, exactly, did ol’ Willy need to do?”
“Make a name for himself, of course. Cervantes had obviously thought victory was his, so what better way to shatter his world that to strike fear into those around him.”
“I suppose,” Angelus said, though obviously not interested in deep thinking. “Why’d you think Cerv chalked up his own child just to smite us? Are we really that bad? Here I thought we were kind vampires. Compassionate vampire.”
“Again, dear, a matter of what a man must do when set to an objective. Obviously he cares more about us than his son,” Darla said. She then bit into the neck of the girl they’ve been sharing.
“Hokey religious types – they really piss me off.” Angelus then put his arm around Darla as a light bulb went off in his head. “Hey, I’ve got me an idea – what do ya say we kill his wife?”
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