WEBSITE: http://members.fortunecity.com/medealives/index.html
PAIRING: Willow/Spike (William)
RATING: R
SPOILERS: None
ARCHIVE: Please do.
DISCLAIMER: All BtVS and AtS characters belong to Joss Whedon and crew. I'm just taking them for a spin.
FEEDBACK: Please, although your tact and diplomacy will be greatly appreciated.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: An Alternate Reality/Historical Fiction set in London in the 1870s. My first attempt at historical fiction, which should prove highly amusing to those who know me.
SUMMARY: Establishing a medical practice was an uphill battle for Dr. Willow Rosenberg. But late one evening, Dr. Rosenberg was summoned to the residence of a wealthy, eccentric client to deal with a bizarre medical emergency...
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
~Part: 1~
Skilled, delicate hands soaked in a large, porcelain bowl of water. The water slowly took on a deep ruby hue as blood rinsed clean, scrubbed away by soap and a stiff-bristled brush. Meticulous attention was paid to the fingernails. The ritual concluded with a liberal dousing of carbolic acid.
Dr. Willow Rosenberg dried her hands on a clean, linen towel and crossed to the table where she'd left her notes. She dipped her fountain pen in the ink well and recorded the conclusions of her autopsy.
Patient died, age 37, pulmonary lesions consistent with tuberculosis. Criminal inquest not required.
She glanced once more at the dissecting table, draped in a heavy canvas sheet, and reflected on the sad fate of the anonymous man upon whose body she'd performed an autopsy. He'd been found down near the docks, yet none of the sailors or dockworkers could identify him. Most likely a vagabond, his corpse had been conveyed to the hospital by the police with instructions to determine whether death had resulted from a criminal act. He'd died unknown. His passing would be marked not by a funeral attended by family and friends, but only in a few cursory remarks in the police records -- or, even worse, the mystery of his death would be distorted beyond all recognition in one of those lurid, Newgate Calendars.
Fetching her cloak, she wrapped it around her shoulders and made her way out through the wards and to the street. As on so many other days, she had worked from dawn until dusk. She'd missed the sun's rays yet again.
Willow sometimes wondered if she would end up looking as pale as her cadavers.
Her cadavers. She sighed in weary bemusement. Originally, it hadn't been by choice that she'd developed a career around autopsies. But establishing a practice hadn't been easy. The days weren't long past that male medical students had resorted to flinging mud at the women who dared trespass in the hallowed Royal Infirmary, in the hopes of barring women from the arena of learned medicine. Willow herself had faced an uphill battle to earn her medical degree, had encountered further headaches when she'd applied to be listed on the Medical Register, and had finally lost heart when confronted with patient prejudices.
Few clients were willing to retain the services of a female physician.
Oh, she saw the occasional respectable woman who was fearful of having contracted a "shameful" disease and couldn't bring herself to consult her regular family physician. But in the end, it always came down to the same thing.
In the discriminating eyes of society, her sex disqualified her.
So she found work where she could: attending to the medical needs of the poor, who were grateful that she charged far less than most physicians, and performing autopsies at the hospital whenever her skills were needed.
Which was to say, whenever the male residents and interns were too busy to handle it.
Gazing wistfully at the fading, pale indigo of daylight's end, Willow quickened her pace toward home. If she were lucky, she might make it to the butcher shop before it closed. Otherwise, it would be bread and cheese for supper again.
It was at times like this that she wished she could dine at the pub as the men did, without worrying that she would be mistaken for a prostitute.
*****
Skilled, lethal hands soaked in a large, porcelain bowl of water. The water slowly took on a deep ruby hue as blood rinsed clean, however traces remained on pale skin as the hands were withdrawn.
William Royce shook droplets from his hands, then raised his right hand to his mouth and licked a stray smear of blood from his knuckles. As he savored the taste, an appreciative smile flickered briefly on his face, only to be replaced by a concerned frown.
He glanced down at the unconscious man on the bed, whose blood continued to soak through the rags that had been wrapped around his leg.
"It's no use," William observed. He turned to one of his minions, elegantly attired as a gentleman's valet, and instructed, "Bring me a human surgeon, Charles. It appears Mr. Bancroft was more delicate than I'd anticipated."
Charles bowed and moved to carry out his master's orders but halted when William spoke again. "Be discreet. I need someone who won't speak of this to his colleagues. The fewer connections, the better. Someone...vulnerable...to persuasion, should it be necessary."
"Yes, Sire," Charles acknowledged.
William removed the stopper from the crystal decanter of blood wine on a nearby table and poured himself a glass. Sipping it, he sank down onto a richly upholstered armchair from which he could monitor the injured human. Ordinarily, he wouldn't play nursemaid himself. Menial tasks were for minions. Besides, if it were any ordinary human, he would simply have killed the wretch.
However, this human was useful -- too useful to discard, although if he ever disobeyed again, William *would* kill him, no matter how skillfully he managed the legal affairs.
A sly grin tugged at William's lips. He doubted that Mr. Bancroft would need any further reminders of his place or his obligations. If the man survived, he should have vivid, *painful* reminders of the reason that one did not trifle with a vampire.
*****
Willow followed the severe, dark-haired servant up a grand staircase, wondering briefly what the interior of this mansion looked like in the daylight. She guessed it must be magnificent, although it really was difficult to tell since she could see little in the shadows beyond the oil lamp that the taciturn valet who preceded her had lit. Unconsciously, she clutched her black, leather satchel a little more tightly.
The odd thought occurred to her that this gloomy atmosphere seemed to suit him.
They continued down a hallway in silence, their footsteps muffled by a plush, burgundy carpet that spanned the length of the floor, until they reached a set of massive oak doors.
A deferential rap at the door met with a muted answer from within. "Enter."
The servant stepped inside and announced, "The surgeon, sir."
Right on his heels, Willow entered what looked like a spacious bedroom, but the details of the room and its furnishings were lost on her as she came face-to-face with a gentleman of almost unearthly beauty.
Her breath hitched as she gazed into stunningly blue eyes, framed by lashes that many women would envy.
However, the man's handsome features held her bewitched for only a moment. She was here to attend to a patient. Willow opened her mouth to introduce herself and inquire about the injured man, when suddenly the blue-eyed gentleman pivoted toward his servant and snapped tersely, "I sent you to fetch a surgeon, not a nurse."
And with that, the enchantment was indeed broken.
Willow set her jaw and squared her shoulders, preparing to defend herself against the same prejudices she always faced. For all his beauty, this man was just like everyone else.
"If you will permit me to introduce myself," Willow began, relying on polite formalities to help keep her temper in check. "I am Dr. Rosenberg. I assure you, sir, that I am a qualified surgeon. If you wish, you may confirm this by consulting the Medical Register tomorrow. However, I believe you have a patient who requires attention now."
Blue eyes narrowed as the fair-haired gentleman scrutinized her. He arched an eyebrow. "A woman surgeon?"
"A *qualified* surgeon," Willow answered evenly. "If, however, my services are not desired, I will not trouble you with my presence any further."
She tried not to feel her heart sinking. It was more than a question of losing a fee -- and quite a handsome fee, no doubt, if the gentleman's rich furnishings were indicative of his fortune. Even worse would be the humiliation of being sent away without so much as a chance to demonstrate her skill. To think that she'd interrupted her supper for this.
Willow saw something flare in those blue eyes. Surprise, perhaps, at her outspoken remark. Maybe irritation. Fortunately, approval swiftly followed. She was aware of being reappraised, and while she was glad that the gentleman seemed to be more favorably disposed toward her as a surgeon, she was uncomfortable with the hint of masculine interest also present in his gaze.
"Your patient is on the bed," the gentleman said at last, his demeanor suddenly civil. He gestured toward a huge, four-poster bed and explained as he led her toward it. "It was a terrible accident. He was run down in the street by a hansom cab."
"And the police removed him here rather than to a clinic?" Willow asked. She examined the unconscious man stretched out on the bed. There were numerous contusions on his face and upper body that would be consistent with having been trampled by horses. Her gaze traveled down to his leg, which was wrapped in bloodied rags. Silently, she thought, why hadn't it been the police to summon her? And why her, when she knew of at least four other surgeons who resided closer to this neighborhood than she?
"At my request," the gentleman explained. "Mr. Bancroft is my solicitor. I take care of my own."
Willow nodded and set down her satchel. She loosened the rags around Mr. Bancroft's leg and examined it as closely as she could manage, given the fact that the flow of blood hadn't been stopped completely. There was a hideous wound at mid-thigh. Willow's eyes narrowed in realization.
"This was produced by a compound fracture," she murmured, frowning. "What manner of surgeon would set the bone without stitching the wound?"
"Mr. Bancroft's services are valuable to me because above all else, he appreciates the importance of *discretion* where my private affairs are concerned," the gentleman answered, the terse edge having returned to his voice. His stern manner startled Willow and she raised her eyes to his. Although she couldn't place it exactly, something in his expression frightened her. Icy blue depths seemed to promise violence worse than any Willow had seen through her experience in the morgue. "Can you help him or no?"
Mutely, Willow nodded and decided that her wisest course of action would be to treat the patient and leave as quickly as possible.
She opened her satchel and went to work.
*****
William leaned against the bedpost, enjoying the rapid thrum of Dr. Rosenberg's pulse as he watched her clean Mr. Bancroft's wound and proceed to stitch it closed. He'd had no patience for her questions, and certainly wasn't about to disclose that he'd been the one to snap the bone back in place. Any experienced vampire could map the layout of veins and arteries just beneath the skin and possessed the strength to realign a broken limb. But as alluring as her curiosity made her, William didn't want the young lady asking too many questions.
Alluring. Yes, she certainly was that, wasn't she?
Although he didn't care for the scent of disinfectant that lingered on her.
Still, now that he had a chance to observe her, he found her quite fetching. Red hair framed her face, radiant and warm like a candle's flame. And those eyes. They'd flashed with spirit before he'd put some fear into her. She'd gone quiet now, but when she'd first spoken, her voice and her bearing had alluded to a strength and a willfulness that he found...entertaining. Quite different from the society ladies he encountered at London's soirees and balls, and who had begun to bore him enough that it was becoming harder and harder to feign interest in their prattle before whisking them away and draining them.
When the pretty surgeon finished tending to Mr. Bancroft and asked for a basin in which to wash the blood from her hands, William had to fight the temptation to lick her fingers clean. Instead, he instructed Charles to fetch her some water.
She made a lovely picture as she stood beside the bed, blood glistening on her hands, her eyes darting to the ceiling, the windows, the floor -- everywhere but at him. Outwardly, she gave the appearance of clinical detachment, but William had sensed the increase in her heart rate the minute Charles had left them alone together in the room.
He couldn't resist. He wanted to see that deceptively serene face rosy and flushed. He moved behind her with a predator's silent stealth.
"Quite admirable work," he commented softly in her ear.
As expected, she jumped and let out an audible gasp, not having perceived his movement. Her heart thundered in her chest, calling out to his demon to give chase, and her cheeks were indeed flushed.
"I owe you an apology for having doubted you. Forgive me. I was sorely lacking in courtesy when you arrived. Come to think of it, I didn't even introduce myself," William continued smoothly as Dr. Rosenberg turned to face him. "Please permit me. I am William Royce, and I am in your debt."
Dr. Rosenberg remained deliciously unsettled for a moment, glancing awkwardly at her blood-reddened hands, then regained her composure and offered him a gracious smile.
"The circumstances of our meeting were quite trying, as is always the case where suffering is involved. I assure you, Mr. Royce, no apologies are necessary. And there is no question of debt whatsoever, sir, aside from the customary fees for such an operation."
Charles returned with soap and water. Dr. Rosenberg moved to the table where he set the basin and pitcher and began washing her hands. William followed her, dismissing his minion with a single glance.
"A fee would hardly seem adequate compensation, given the inconvenient hour. I imagine that my summons interrupted your supper," William insisted, deliberately drawing closer to her than was proper for client and surgeon. He relished the feeling of power when she tensed.
"Delayed meals are an occupational hazard, Mr. Royce," Dr. Rosenberg countered a little too lightly. Her eyes focused on her hands, which she rubbed dry with a towel. "The choice of profession was mine."
As she discarded the towel, William caught her free hand and raised it to his lips. He held her gaze, savoring the rapt confusion and fleeting desire he glimpsed in her eyes as he placed a lingering kiss on the back of her hand. Her pulse beat against his fingertips where they brushed against her bare wrist.
A heartbeat later, her eyes narrowed in indignation. It was all William could do not to burst out laughing at her obvious frustration at his gesture, which might be a proper greeting for a *lady* but wasn't really proper between physician and client.
Oh, she was a rare treat.
Without allowing her the chance to protest, William said, "Now that we have had a proper introduction, there is the matter to consider of Mr. Bancroft's future care. You *will* be able to return and administer any treatment he needs until he is fully recovered?"
It was less a question than a command, but one that was within the norm of medical practice.
Dr. Rosenberg, however, took a moment to answer. She fixed him with a stubborn, critical eye and pressed her lips together tightly. To William's delight, it looked like she was just barely restraining the urge to hit him.
Finally, she demurred, "Naturally, Mr. Royce. I shall return tomorrow to examine Mr. Bancroft and make sure that no infection has set in. Now, if you have no further need of my services..."
William bowed his head and said, "I'll have Charles summon my carriage for you."
"Thank you, sir."
After Dr. Rosenberg had gathered up her satchel and donned her cloak, William observed admiringly as she followed Charles down the stairs. Concealed in shadow, William smiled when he caught her furtive glance to the top of the stairwell.
Tomorrow was already looking interesting.
But for the moment, he still needed to feed.
He called for one of his other minions to bring his cloak. As he draped it over his shoulders, he said, "Don't let anyone eat Bancroft while I'm out," then strode out of the mansion in search of his evening meal.
~Part: 2~
Willow set the bread and cheese she'd fetched from her pantry on the table, then put some water to boil for tea on her small, coal stove. While she waited for the water to heat, she sliced an apple and thought about the evening's strange events.
Something wasn't quite right.
A wealthy gentleman residing at Regent Street could have had any of London's most prominent surgeons at his disposal, yet he'd sent his servant to find *her*, all the way over near London Bridge. No, that wasn't exactly right either. Mr. Royce had obviously been surprised when she'd arrived. He hadn't requested *her*, specifically. For some reason, he'd left the choice of surgeon up to his valet when he could easily have had his choice of the most renowned men in the profession.
And then there was the patient.
It was certainly plausible that his injuries had resulted from an accident such as Mr. Royce had described. Yet something seemed off. That Mr. Bancroft's bone had been set without the wound being properly tended suggested amateur, albeit skilled, intervention. If so, why had Mr. Royce discouraged her questions? It left Willow with the disconcerting impression that something was being concealed.
Which brought Willow to Mr. Royce himself.
Willow hated to admit it, but he had a certain magnetism about him. It was more than the fact that he was handsome. Although he was. Very handsome, indeed. But there was his comportment. He seemed to be a man of strong moods. Despite his ill-mannered greeting, he had accepted her services and made none of the pompous, blustering comments she usually had to deal with when she embarrassed men of his station by proving herself more competent than they had assumed. Apparently, it was enough that she had gotten the job done.
She liked that. It was a refreshing change from what she was used to.
Moreover, when it had finally pleased him to be civil toward her, he'd actually been quite charming, and completely lacking in the usual condescension she encountered. Although perhaps a bit...predatory...
In spite of the warm flush that flooded her, Willow shivered. How did he move so quickly? He'd slipped up behind her like a ghost. And the way he watched her...
Willow felt the heat spread from her cheeks all along her scalp and down her neck. She couldn't believe that she was blushing, alone in her flat, simply from thinking about him, about his expressive eyes as they'd studied her. True, she'd been admired by men before, but there was something different about the way he'd regarded her. It was almost as if...as if...his very presence lingered on her.
Lost in thought about the enigmatic Mr. Royce, Willow's hand slipped and she cut herself with the knife she'd been using to slice her apple. She hissed sharply at the pain but saw that the cut wasn't deep. Rising from the table, she retrieved her satchel and began tending to the slight wound.
As she cleaned away the drops of blood that welled up on her thumb, she silently chided herself. She'd done quite enough fretting for one evening. This was simply another sign that she'd been spending too much time on autopsies lately. Here she was, dissecting a client's character as readily as she would a corpse. Perhaps it was a good thing that Guy's had no need of her tomorrow. A reprieve from the morgue would do her well.
She was perhaps becoming a little too comfortable among the dead.
*****
William reclined on the richly upholstered settee in his spacious drawing room, comfortably full from the pickpocket he'd drained an hour ago. Firelight illumined the dark, walnut paneling of the walls and reflected in his glass of scotch. He may have earned a formidable reputation as William the Bloody, but that didn't mean he hadn't acquired a taste for some of the finer comforts.
It was for the sake of those comforts that he'd invested so much time and energy in grooming Bancroft as his human agent in the world. Rotten luck that Bancroft had bungled that last transaction, but he'd either learn to follow orders or he'd die.
Pity. It would be a nuisance to have to train another solicitor all over again. For a human, Bancroft at least had half a brain.
And speaking of potentially useful, intelligent humans...
He rose from the settee, crossed to the doorway and shouted for Charles. An instant later, his minion appeared. William settled himself back down and while Charles stood before him, waiting expectantly.
"Tell me what you know about Dr. Rosenberg," William commanded.
"She lives on Cannon Street, not far from London Bridge. Her circumstances are less comfortable than usual for a physician. No sign of any servants: she answered the door herself when I called," Charles answered smoothly. The dark-haired minion had been turned nearly a decade ago, and in that time he'd learned to observe details. He'd achieved a solid position for himself in William the Bloody's lair and had learned very early on that his sire and Master maintained his powerful status by knowing as much as possible about everything that went on in London.
William's lips pursed thoughtfully. "So, financially vulnerable. Most likely can't get enough clients who can afford to pay her."
Charles nodded. "I'd heard of her from some of the other minions who hunt down on the docks. She's known among the sailors: treats the poor, works at Guy's Hospital."
"And lives alone," William deduced. His eyes narrowed as a slow, calculating smile stretched across his face. "No servants, so chances are no husband...or family, for that matter. Or, if she has family, they're not in London." He caught his minion's knowing smirk and snapped, "What? Speak up before I stake you."
"Well, she *is* rather more beautiful than most physicians, isn't she?" Charles observed.
"Noticed that, did you?" William chuckled and took another sip of scotch.
"Master, you've always held me to be as observant as possible of any details that you might find...of interest," Charles answered, grinning in response to his sire's obvious appreciation for the red-haired surgeon.
"Too bloody right!" William agreed. His brow furrowed slightly after a thoughtful pause and he remarked, "No servants...You didn't catch any supperly smells when you collected her, did you?"
Charles shook his head. "Not from her flat. Elsewhere in the building, yes."
William leaned an elbow on the arm of the settee, rested his chin on his knuckles and stared into the fire, a diversion forming in his mind. He smiled as he warmed to the idea. He certainly wasn't opposed to mixing business with pleasure. Looking to Charles, he instructed, "Make arrangements for a human meal here tomorrow night. Nothing too elaborate; a bachelor's supper. Simple, but appetizing."
A conspiratorial gleam danced in Charles' eyes as he inclined his head deferentially and replied, "Yes, sire."
With that, William dismissed him and returned to his scotch. This tiresome business with Bancroft might prove entertaining after all.
*****
Willow bustled in through her front door, relieved to have the chance to return home for tea after an unusually busy morning. When she had awakened at dawn, she had been looking forward to an opportunity to read one or two of the letters she had received in the past few days, but which she'd been obliged to set aside because of the hospital's demands on her time. However, no sooner had she cleaned up after breakfast than a girl, no more than eight and in frayed clothing she'd obviously outgrown, had rapped urgently at her door and begged her to come help her mother who was doing very poorly.
Upon arrival at a cramped, attic room, Willow had found the mother in bed, sweating with fever and very clearly in pain. A little boy, no more than an infant, sat crying on the floor. The girl had explained that they'd had nothing to eat in over a day because their mother had been too sick to work. While she'd quieted her brother, Willow had examined the mother.
She'd had to fight to keep her breakfast down.
A foul-smelling, fetid pus slowly drained from abscesses in the woman's jaw, which was horribly deformed. Willow had recognized the poor mother's symptoms and was not surprised when she'd asked the girl about her mother's occupation and had learned that, yes, mama worked at the match factory.
Willow had done what she could to relieve the woman's pain, chiefly by administering a sizeable dose of opium, but it had been with a heavy heart that she'd told the little girl that her mother would need to go to the hospital. She'd hated to place such a burden on such a young child, but there was little she herself could do for the woman, who was most likely suffering from white-phosphorous poisoning, a common hazard among London's matchgirls.
And that little girl had looked at her with such age and sadness and fear in her eyes, knowing that Willow had as much as told her that her mother was going to die.
Now back home, Willow sat quietly for several moments in a chair by the window, fully able to appreciate her modest comforts after the misery she'd seen that morning.
Sighing, she reached out to the lace-covered table beside her chair and picked up one of her unopened letters. A brief examination revealed that it was an invitation. Willow broke the wax seal and withdrew an elegant, embossed card announcing a banquet at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Reginald Wimsey.
Willow slumped in her seat and let out an exasperated sigh.
Oh *no*.
What grave sin had she committed to deserve an invitation to dine in the company of Mrs. Wimsey, whom Willow had known at boarding school as the insufferable Miss Cordelia Chase?
Sighing again, Willow set the invitation aside, already composing her reply ("Regrets, unable to attend") in her mind. She opened the next letter.
It was from her aunt.
As she read, her face fell.
There was her answer about what had possessed Mrs. Wimsey to invite her to a banquet.
"Oooh!" Willow exclaimed in barely restrained fury. "That...meddlesome...harpy!"
Her aunt was renewing her schemes to see that Willow was married off, whether Willow liked it or not.
*****
William observed Dr. Rosenberg as she examined Mr. Bancroft. Although she wasn't negligent -- certainly, she took great care in scrutinizing the stitches for any sign of infection -- it was clear that she was preoccupied. There was a stiffness to her jaw, a slight knit to her brow that a typically unobservant *human* would likely miss, but which told him much about her mood.
And when she raised her eyes to speak to him...
"I'm pleased to give you good news, Mr. Royce. Mr. Bancroft appears to be on the mend. With rest, he should be healed within several weeks."
...her tone was so subdued.
Granted, William didn't mind seeing a woman enshrouded in the aura of quiet suffering. But he liked it better when *he'd* been the cause of suffering. Besides, he enjoyed the pretty doctor when she was strong-willed.
"Thank you. That is good news indeed," said William. He frowned in annoyance when Dr. Rosenberg averted her gaze and set about packing her satchel, as if she couldn't leave quickly enough. That wouldn't do, not when he had plans for her. "Surely it is due to your exemplary care. To think that this is the second evening that you have sacrificed your nightly repast for Mr. Bancroft's sake."
A flicker of emotion crossed Dr. Rosenberg's face, hinting at barely suppressed frustration. Then it was gone, artfully masked by a polite but noncommittal smile.
"Please be at ease, Mr. Royce. Foregoing the opportunity to dine is not always a hardship," she assured him. As she turned to don her cloak, William heard her mutter under her breath, "In some cases, it's the commutation of a prison sentence."
William arched an eyebrow in mild amusement. Well, well...apparently, there was something worth coaxing out of her.
And he'd never been one to pass up a challenge.
"You are the spirit of charity to say so," William countered, easing toward her. He deftly whisked the cloak away from her, and at her questioning expression he said, "Would you consent to dine with me this evening?" Her eyes widened and a blush crept across her cheeks, but he forestalled any protest. "Please, I insist. I would be grateful for the opportunity to return some small measure of the benefit that your surgical skills have bestowed on my household."
"Really, I couldn't--" Dr. Rosenberg insisted, but William merely strode to the doorway of the sickroom and called for Charles. His minion appeared promptly and the games began.
"Mr. Royce, while I appreciate the kindness of your offer--" the flustered Dr. Rosenberg made another attempt to decline.
"Charles, what has the cook prepared for supper tonight?" William asked, amiably ignoring his lovely, albeit increasingly vexed, intended dinner companion.
"--it really isn't necessary--"
"Cornish hens, sir, with a currant stuffing and vegetables," Charles announced smoothly, his eyes twinkling as he played along.
"Excellent!" William declared, gracing Dr. Rosenberg with a solicitous smile.
"--nor would it be proper for me--"
"Proper?" William interrupted her. He fixed her with a bemused, challenging stare. "Surely, *doctor*, you won't allow propriety to dissuade you?"
It was all William could do not to laugh at the perplexed grimace on Dr. Rosenberg's face. Apparently, his subtle gibe had hit the mark. His lovely surgeon was evidently having trouble using propriety as an excuse to decline his invitation when standards of proper female conduct certainly hadn't kept her out of medical school.
"Well...but I'm really not that hungry," came a final, feeble protest.
William's demon growled inwardly in triumph.
"But I insist." He drew near, smiling at how *trapped* she looked when she consented to place her hand on his proffered arm. "Where a good meal is concerned, it goes against my principles to let someone walk away."
He escorted Dr. Rosenberg out into the hallway. As they followed behind Charles, William noted the almost imperceptible twitch in his cheek and knew that it was taking every ounce of the minion's discipline not to laugh at his Master's dark humor.
Author's Note: The disease described in this chapter was an actual disease called phossy jaw, a form of bone cancer that was caused by exposure towhite phosphorus. The most common victims were workers in match factories,most of whom were women. The incidence of disease was exacerbated by analmost total lack of safeguards for industrial hygiene prior to thetwentieth century. It took a strike in 1888 by the "matchgirls" of theBryant & May match factory in London, together with the outspoken activismof Fabian Socialist Annie Besant, to end the use of white phosphorus in thematch industry. Chalk up another one for grrl power. March is Women'sHistory Month.
~Part: 3~
Willow found herself reluctantly seated at a table across from Mr. Royce in his stately dining hall. Their place settings -- gilt-edged china, crystal goblets, and delicate silverware -- had been arrayed at one end of a long table. Thus, despite the fact that the table could easily have seated twenty people for a lavish banquet, the mood was exceedingly intimate.
Right down to the slender candles in silver candlesticks, which cast a soft, golden glow over the table but veiled the surrounding room in shadow.
Inwardly, Willow wondered whether it was an unwritten rule or some cruel twist of fate that twice today she'd found herself coerced into dinner engagements.
She had long realized that maneuvering and being maneuvered through society's rules of etiquette gave her a headache. It was suffocating.
Her moody introspection dissipated as a savory aroma flooded her senses. All thoughts about unwanted supper invitations vanished when Willow inhaled the enticing scent of game hens. She felt her mouth watering as a servant approached the table and proceeded to set an appetizing meal before her. For all her reservations about the propriety of dining with Mr. Royce while she was engaged to treat a patient in his household, Willow had to admit that this supper was in fact very *much* wanted.
William studied Dr. Rosenberg with interest as she took in her surroundings while trying not to appear too indiscreet in her assessment. He smirked at her curiosity. He found it rather fetching. Her eyes were quick and discerning. They also glinted like emeralds in the candlelight.
Although he had detected a slight increase in her pulse rate when she had been seated across from him, William noted with admiration that she was able to give the outward impression of being completely at ease. It was a level of self-control worthy of a vampire, and piqued his interest in learning what sort of past experiences had led her to develop it.
As the servant withdrew, Willow was conscious of Mr. Royce's gaze lingering on her the way her own gaze devoured the sumptuous food on the table. Not one to shrink away from anything, Willow raised her eyes to his.
It took considerable resolve not to blush and glance away at the intensity of his stare. However, she'd been in far more uncomfortable situations before, and she wasn't going to let the scrutiny of a man, no matter how handsome and charming he was, jeopardize a very valuable professional opportunity. After all, if she brought her patient to a satisfactory recovery, Mr. Royce might recommend her favorably to his acquaintances.
Nonetheless, she couldn't help admiring the symmetry of his features, marred only by a mysterious scar on one eyebrow. Willow wondered if he had acquired it in a duel, but tried not to let her curiosity get the better of her. After all, it would be impolite to ask.
When he smiled at her, the effect was breathtaking. The play of candlelight and shadow across his face left his cheekbones even more pronounced, his lips more sculpted than when she'd first seen him. He looked truly ethereal.
"The menu is to your satisfaction, I hope?" he asked.
"It looks wonderful. I trust it shall taste so as well," Willow concurred graciously.
She offered him a polite smile, although inwardly her stomach was clenching in mild dread. Social occasions had always been awkward for her, at least outside the company of her own family. Her fascination with the more morbid conditions of human existence had given her a tendency to make odd remarks which were often received with curious stares and awkward silences in fashionable circles. And with men...well, when she'd been younger, it was all she could do to manage a few vowel sounds, let alone anything coherent! Eventually, Willow had learned how to practice the conventional art of conversation, but this resulted in her being bored to tears at most social gatherings.
And so she avoided them like the plague.
However, she was now a guest at dinner and she resolved to make the best of it.
To Willow's surprise, it was easier than she expected. In spite of herself, she warmed to Mr. Royce's sly wit and forthright opinions. He expressed genuine interest in her career choice and she soon eased into an amiable conversation with him.
"So it was your father who first taught you the art of dissection?"
"Yes, although my mother nearly had a fit when she found us in the kitchen, bent over a hedgehog with scalpels at the ready," Willow recalled fondly. "She was very upset indeed. It took quite some time for my father to persuade her that a daughter could amuse herself with something other than dolls."
William pursed his lips in bemusement at the mischievous twinkle in Dr. Rosenberg's enchanting eyes as she described her early experiments with cutting things up. Now *that* was a childhood worth hearing about -- a far sight better than the tedious details that most humans droned on about when they were trying to impress each other at dinner parties.
A perfectly guileless, endearing wrinkle formed on her brow and she commented, "Forgive me, Mr. Royce. It occurs to me that dissection is a rather unseemly topic of conversation at the dinner table."
For a moment, as she fidgeted and grimaced self-consciously, William could almost imagine what she'd looked like as a shy, inquisitive little girl.
"On the contrary, I find it fascinating. You might say I have an affinity for the subject," William countered with a devilish smile, chuckling inwardly at how surprised she would be if she knew how much experience he had with cutting people open. "But please, call me William."
To his delight, his suggestion of a more familiar form of address caused a lovely blush to redden Dr. Rosenberg's cheeks.
Clearing her throat softly, she said, "Your admission doesn't surprise me, Mr. Royce. I must confess, I've noticed how you eat." She gestured toward him with her fork. "You slice gracefully, but you seem more inclined to dissect your food than eat it. Not unlike some of the surgeons I've known."
William let his knife and fork clatter to his plate as he threw back his head and laughed.
Oh, she was a sharp one, and too bloody observant. He'd have to be careful around her. As a doctor, she was bound to notice he was missing quite a few of the standard vital signs. No matter, that made the game all the more enticing.
"You've discovered my secret," William chuckled, narrowing his eyes at her. "I have a penchant for playing with my food. I suppose it could sully my reputation."
Or make me one of the most feared demons in Europe, he thought with a wry grin.
"Your secret is safe with me, Mr. Royce," came her relaxed, amused assurance. William found himself drinking in the playful twinkle in her eyes, and resolved to end her stubborn insistence on formal address.
"William," he chided, his voice soft yet stern.
Willow's throat tightened and she hesitated in her response. She didn't want to be rude, but at the same time, she had spent years fighting to be respected for her abilities rather than just admired as a woman. And she suspected that Mr. Royce wouldn't have been so insistent that they address each other by their given names if, like the majority of her colleagues, her name were Thomas, Richard, or James. She had more than earned the title of doctor.
Absently wetting her lips and inclining her head, Willow said, "Mr. Royce, please do not think me ungrateful or ill-mannered if I prefer not to adopt a more familiar address. It is merely..." she paused, then fixed him with an unwavering gaze. "I shall be honest with you. It has been no easy matter for me to move freely, out in the world. Though it vexes me, my status rests precariously on an ability to maintain certain appearances. Society is still reluctant to accept a woman as both a woman and a physician. She can be one or the other, but not both. So...William...Mr. Royce...please understand that my reluctance stems only from a desire to preserve what I have worked so hard to attain."
She swallowed and, feeling how dry her throat was, reached for her glass of wine. The smooth, red wine easily slipped down her throat and soothed her unlike any wine ever had. Willow guessed that Mr. Royce's cellar was stocked with only the most superb vintages. That would explain the exquisitely pleasant response she was feeling.
"Rest assured, doctor, I hold you in higher esteem than I do most people," Mr. Royce answered, a curious gleam in his eyes. Willow acknowledged his assurance with a slight smile as he continued. "It might surprise you to know how well I appreciate your situation. Even I am obliged to maintain certain outward appearances if I wish to enjoy the existence to which I have become accustomed. I had only meant to..."
He trailed off and sighed in frustration. At the sight of his troubled expression, Willow's curiosity overtook her and she prompted, "Meant to...?"
Piercing, resolute blue eyes snapped back to hers as Mr. Royce declared, "Dr. Rosenberg, you have had the generosity to speak candidly with me, so I will do you the same courtesy. You are not alone in feeling estranged from your peers. Most of the people I have occasion to meet in society bore me to death."
Willow had just taken a bite of chicken and nearly choked at his forthright confession. Tears of surprised amusement came to her eyes as she coughed. A grin twitched at Mr. Royce's lips as he poured her more wine.
"There are few whom I deign to call friend," he continued while Willow silenced her coughing with several sips of wine. "Yet in you I have felt...or at least I thought I have felt...a kindred spirit. It was not my intention to offend you by suggesting that you were anything other than a skilled physician. My suggestion of more cordial terms of address was meant as a sign of my esteem, not a lack thereof, Dr. Rosenberg."
Something about his words resonated with Willow in the deepest level of her being. Although she had been acquainted with Mr. Royce for no more than a day, she could not help but feel that he was speaking to her with a rare candor and honesty that he did not usually share with others. Perhaps it was this, or perhaps it was merely the wine that spurred her to murmur, "Willow."
And with that, with her softly voiced name, she granted her consent to more familiar, cordial relations between them.
Her decision was rewarded with a gentle smile. "Willow," her name rolled off Mr. Royce's -- William's -- tongue like a sigh. "So, have you ever sat sighing by a sycamore tree, Willow, Willow, Willow?"
Willow closed her eyes, shook her head, and chuckled, "No, but I *have* had that particular reference from Othello quoted to me more times than I can count."
William shared an amused chuckle with her, "Forgive me, Willow. I may be able to quote verse like any other educated person, but at heart I make a bloody awful poet."
They both laughed and fell back into easy, relaxed conversation. They spoke of literature and art, of life in London, and even of Willow's work at Guy's Hospital. When the subject turned to family, both confessed that their parents were dead -- although Willow was somewhat more truthful in explaining that her mother and father had died in Calcutta during a cholera epidemic after her father had accepted a medical post in the colonial administration. William, on the other hand, elected not to tell Willow that he had slaughtered his entire family not long after his sire, Angelus, had turned him.
"Have you no family at all?" William asked her, his tone carefully sympathetic.
Willow's expression darkened in annoyance. "I have an aunt. My mother's sister."
With visible distaste, Willow set down her knife and fork, as though the mere mention of her aunt had spoiled her appetite. Almost instinctively, she reached for the comforting, enticing wine.
His curiosity piqued, William arched an eyebrow and remarked, "Relations a bit strained, are they?"
Willow let out an impatient snort and once again found herself confessing things that she normally wouldn't have dreamed telling any but her most intimate confidant. The problem was, however, she didn't really have any friends whom she considered intimate confidants.
"My aunt is decidedly conventional in her thinking. She has always disapproved of the way my father raised me, and takes every opportunity to..." Willow paused, searching for the right word, "...to *direct* me toward the kind of life she deems proper for a young lady."
William smirked. "Ahh, let me guess. Marriage?"
Willow rolled her eyes and chirped in glib mimicry of her aunt's voice, "The only *respectable* occupation for a woman."
With a sympathetic shake of his head, William asked, "And what subtle form does your aunt's *direction* take?"
"Most recently, an unwanted invitation to a dinner party, which will no doubt be attended by several eligible bachelors." By now, Willow was scowling openly.
William found it utterly endearing.
"And a refusal to attend would undoubtedly sour your relations with her further still," he deduced. However, the playful, conspiratorial twinkle faded from his eyes as he witnessed Willow's abrupt withdrawal into somber introspection.
A tense silence descended over the table for a few moments as Willow's expression grew pained and distant. William studied her intently. Her abrupt change in mood hinted at a very private rage.
"Unfortunately, refusal is not an option. It's...complicated," Willow murmured, so softly that, if he'd been human, William might never have heard her. Then, shaking herself out of her momentary gloom, Willow smiled apologetically and said, "I shan't burden you with such mundane concerns. It is simply that I am much like you, William. Society affairs bore me to no end. Given the choice, I would much rather spend time with a corpse than with most of the dinner guests who are usually invited to such banquets."
As Willow spoke, she was taken aback by the intensity that burned in William's eyes. He stared at her, lips parted but unspeaking, until finally he said in an oddly strained voice, "Willow, I believe you have your answer there."
She regarded him quizzically. "What, dine with a corpse?"
He continued to look at her with the oddest expression, as if she'd said something amusing. "Stranger things have happened," he murmured. "However, you yourself have said it. You and I are much alike. Might I be so bold as to offer to accompany you to dinner?"
Willow was speechless. She knew she was blushing furiously.
After several moments, she found her voice, although she was unable to manage more than a few, shaky words. "I...I don't know..."
"Just dinner, Willow, nothing more," William assured her, his tone low and comforting. All of a sudden, Willow felt her eyes drooping and she regretted having drunk so much wine with her meal.
"I need to think..." Willow began, but trailed off as her mind grew cloudy and unfocused.
Seeing Willow begin to drift, William rose from his seat and circled around the table to kneel beside her. The bloodwine, infused with his blood, had begun to take effect. As she swayed, her muscles so relaxed that she was unable to hold herself up any longer, William supported her against his chest and nuzzled her warm neck. Her breath was steady and even, signaling that she had slipped into a deep sleep.
"Sleep on your decision, Willow," he whispered in her ear. "I'll persuade you when next we meet."
Brushing a few stray wisps of hair away from her neck, William let his demon come to the fore. Then, he bent his head and sank his fangs ever so slightly into her flesh, piercing the skin just enough to swallow a few mouthfuls of her blood. By morning, the mark would be almost imperceptible, easily dismissed as harmless insect bites. But it would serve, temporarily at least, to announce his claim to other vampires.
As would his next action.
Cradling her in his right arm, he bit into his left wrist, pressed the wound against her lips, and let his blood drip into her mouth for several seconds. As he'd done when he'd groomed his first human servant, Bancroft, he fed Willow a minute quantity of his blood to flood her with his scent. Not enough to exert any real control over her mind; no, he'd decided that he wanted her alert and able to draw on that sharp mind she'd so amply demonstrated. She'd be more use to him that way. Besides, he liked her with her wits about her.
Settling her back against the chair, William crossed toward the dining room's closed doors, opened one and summoned Charles. The minion appeared a moment later.
"Prepare the carriage. When I've written a note to clear up any doubts Dr. Rosenberg will have tomorrow about what transpired here, you'll take her home," William instructed. "Has she invited you in?"
"Yes, sire," Charles answered. His gaze flicked briefly to Willow's neck and, seeing the claim there, he squared his shoulders and added, "I will see that no harm comes to her."
"Not tonight, nor any night hereafter, unless it is by *my* hand," William nodded, acknowledging that his minion had judged the claim correctly.
A scarce quarter of an hour later, William had tucked his note in Willow's surgical satchel and told Charles to put it in the carriage. As for Willow herself, William lifted her into his arms, carried her out to the darkened street, and tucked her into the seat. He paused for a moment, then climbed in and settled himself beside her.
"Show me where she lives, Charles," he commanded his minion.
With a deep nod, Charles closed the carriage door, then climbed up top and flicked his whip at the horses, urging them forward.
A/N: 'The Willow Song', quoted by William at dinner, is from The Tragedy ofOthello, Moor of Venice (Act IV, Scene 3) by William Shakespeare.
~Part: 4~
The following morning, Willow awoke to the pale rays of dawn streaming through the white lace curtains in her bedroom window. She squinted in discomfort and turned away. For some reason, although the light that dappled her cheeks through the lace was faint, it hurt her eyes.
After a few moments more cocooned in her bed, Willow brushed aside the warm blankets and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Blinking, she looked down at her nightgown. She had vague memories of William's valet, Charles, nudging her awake in the carriage and seeing her to her door; and even dimmer memories of changing her clothes for bed. However, she was appalled that she seemed to have no memory of the end of dinner or her departure from the Royce mansion.
Willow groaned and dropped her head in her hands. Surely she hadn't drunk that much?
Her fears were alleviated somewhat when she found a note in her satchel right before leaving for Guy's Hospital. A mild queasiness in her stomach prompted Willow to search for some sodium bicarbonate, and as she did, she came across a pristine, cream-colored envelope sealed with red wax. Willow noted the insignia pressed into the wax -- what looked like two crossed swords, although they were short enough that almost would have mistaken them for railroad ties -- before she broke the seal and withdrew the letter inside.
The handwriting was simple and direct, with clean strokes rather than excessive flourishes. The message was much like the writing. Forgoing elaborate pleasantries, it went straight to the point. As Willow read, she felt herself relax.
'Dear Willow,
My sincerest thanks for the pleasure of your company at dinner, as well as for your admirable care of Mr. Bancroft. I regret that in my thoughtlessness, I may have kept you out far too late for a surgeon with a schedule as strenuous as your own. Please accept my apologies.
If it is convenient, I shall be grateful if you would return to examine Mr. Bancroft three days hence. Until then, I am
Very sincerely yours, William Royce'
It was a tremendous relief and allowed Willow to go about her work relatively untroubled for the rest of the day. Well, at least with respect to her fears about having fallen asleep at dinner.
However, as the day wore on, certain peculiar physical symptoms began to give her pause. At first, she had attributed her sensitivity to light and queasiness to the after-effects of too much wine and rich food. By now, her stomach was unaccustomed to more extravagant fare, so used was she to dining on bread, cheese, and occasionally some vegetable stew or fruit.
However, Willow grew curious when she checked her thumb to see if the small cut she'd accidentally given herself needed any attention. To her surprise, it was completely healed. Indeed, more than just healed. Her flesh was astonishingly smooth and whole, without so much as a thin, white scar to suggest that she'd ever cut herself.
She sat on a wooden bench just outside the morgue, staring at her hand in fascination, when suddenly a powerful smell assaulted her senses. Frowning and flaring her nostrils, Willow glanced up and down the corridor, trying to discern the source of the smell. A moment later, two of the hospital's brawny orderlies rounded the corner, bearing the body of a young man on a stretcher. The disturbing scent grew stronger as they approached.
"Mother of mercy," Willow breathed in horror when they were close enough for her to see the state of the corpse.
The unfortunate man's throat had been horribly abused. Dark bruises suggested strangulation, yet even more alarming were the deep puncture wounds covered in congealed blood.
Willow followed the orderlies into the morgue, prepared to begin her examination of the body, but was surprised when the men deposited it on one of the tables used for anatomy lectures rather than autopsies.
"John," she said to one of the men, "is there to be no inquest?"
The older of the two men answered, "Nay, miss. Inspector said weren't no need fer it, it bein' most likely a mad dog what got 'im. Poor lad."
Willow's brow furrowed deeply as she went over for a closer look at the corpse. What manner of dog could leave bruises that resembled a human grip on a dead man's neck?
Highly skeptical that the man had been killed by a dog, even a mad one, Willow resolved to do an autopsy anyway. As she peered down at the vicious gashes on the corpse's neck, though, a peculiar sensation washed over her. The strong smell that had overwhelmed her earlier was now strangely appealing. Her earlier queasiness had vanished and all her senses were riveted to red, fatal wounds. Almost in a daze, Willow found herself brushing a fingertip against the bite marks, smearing the blood on her fingers and raising it toward her face.
With a sudden, horrified jolt, Willow froze in the realization that she'd been about to taste the blood.
Appalled, she fell back two steps, then rushed to the sink area to clean the blood and whatever microbes or bacteria it may have contained off of her fingers. Then she splashed some water on her face. After a few moments, Willow decided that she needed some fresh air. She retrieved her cloak, having resolved to take a therapeutic promenade along the Thames.
As she passed through the wards, Willow was troubled to realize how sensitive she was to the myriad of smells emanating from the sick and dying.
Was she ill? Deep in thought, Willow proceeded out to the street, hoping that a little exercise would quell her strange symptoms.
*****
"Good. You're awake. About bloody time."
Seated in a chair at the bedside, William stared coldly at Bancroft as the man stirred and blinked in the dim light. He knew the instant that his solicitor became fully aware of his situation by the sudden thundering of his heart and sharp, painful intake of breath.
Capitalizing on Bancroft's fear, William remarked, "You're lucky to be alive. If you weren't still useful to me, I might have consigned you to the cellar with the other provisions."
With a preternatural, menacing stillness he sat, hands steepled before him, and watched as the blood drained from Bancroft's panicked face.
"Learn from your mistake, because next time you won't be disciplined, you'll be dead."
Wide-eyed, Bancroft managed a weak nod.
Satisfied that he'd sufficiently terrorized his human servant, William rose from his seat and started toward the door. Halfway there, he paused and turned back toward Bancroft, who shrank back against the pillows.
"When the surgeon returns, you will speak as little as possible," William instructed sternly. "She thinks you were run down by a hansom cab." A low chuckle. "Might've been better for you if you had. But if she asks you, that's what happened. Do I make myself clear?"
Once again, the battered solicitor could do no more than nod weakly.
"Good. Tomorrow, I expect you to be recovered enough to manage some transactions for me. I'll summon one of your notaries."
With that, William left him and returned to his own chambers to sleep through the remains of the day. As he drew the heavy curtains around his four-poster bed and sank into welcome darkness, he wondered briefly how Willow's system was responding to her first dose of his blood.
*****
Two days later, Mr. Clive Bancroft, Esquire, found himself staring in silent desperation at an enchanting, red-haired woman, who was apparently the surgeon retained by his diabolical employer. He had to bite his tongue to suppress the urge to scream at her to run for her life, to flee this accursed mansion and even London itself. A single glance at Mr. Royce told him that this young beauty was in grave danger.
The fiend watched her with lethal interest. And Bancroft knew all too well that once William the Bloody took an interest in you, your life became a prison.
He couldn't prevent himself from shaking with barely suppressed anguish. However, the lovely doctor merely interpreted it as pain.
"Your leg is definitely on the mend, but you must be in considerable pain. I'll administer a dose of opium," she said.
Bancroft roused himself to decline but held his tongue at the cold, warning glare he received from his employer. Trapped, the poor man could only watch helplessly as the needle pierced a vein in his arm.
Soon, he was swooning in blissful oblivion.
*****
Willow re-packed her surgical satchel as her patient slowly sank beneath the effects of the opium.
"That should ease his distress for a while," she explained to William, who stood at the foot of the bed.
"Your skills are admirable," he acknowledged with a slight smile. "Yet once again, I fear that I have inconvenience you by summoning you at the dinner hour. May I persuade you to join me for another meal?"
Grimacing self-consciously, Willow hesitated. Now was the perfect moment to broach the subject of her invitation to Mr. and Mrs. Wimsey's banquet, but she felt painfully awkward at doing something so forward. Her shyness vexed her to no end. She had weathered the hostility of all the male students in medical school, and there wasn't any part of the male body she hadn't seen in the course of her practice. She had always been proud of the fact that she didn't bow to social niceties.
So why was she so nervous at the prospect of accepting what William had already offered?
"Is anything wrong?" William inquired, approaching her with concern etched across his features.
Willow took a deep breath and forced herself to smile at him. "No. Please be at ease. It is only that I haven't found food very appetizing for the past few days."
William had to fight back the satisfied grin that threatened to burst forth at her admission. Well, well...she was more susceptible to his blood than he'd anticipated. Schooling his features to project sympathy, he asked, "Are you ill?"
Willow sighed and offered an apologetic smile. "I must confess, at first I worried that I had indulged in too rich a meal the other night. But I'm sure now that it wasn't the food," she hastened to add, fearful of offending him by insinuating that his hospitality had been responsible for her symptoms. "For a few days I have experienced a peculiar sensitivity to light and certain potent smells. Undoubtedly I have simply been overtaxing myself."
"Indeed? Then I must insist that you stay for dinner," said William. Before Willow could protest, he stepped closer and, to her shock, cupped her face in his hands and gently stroked her cheeks with his thumbs. "I can easily believe that your demanding schedule prevents you from eating properly, and you should know very well, doctor, that a poor diet is one of the greatest enemies of health. And you do look a little pale."
An instant later, the overly intimate caress had ceased and William stood a more respectable distance away from her, his hand proffered in invitation. Before she realized what she was doing, Willow felt her hand slipping into his. As he clasped his fingers over her palm, Willow was struck by how comforting it felt, despite his unusually cool skin. For some reason, the gentle pressure of his hand restored to her a sense of well-being that she hadn't felt since the onset of her strange symptoms.
Willingly, she let him conduct her out of the sick room and toward his grand dining hall.
Strangely, when she found herself seated once again at the candlelit table, she had less difficulty in seeing the surrounding room. Her eyes seemed better accustomed to the low light and in the shadows she could discern a polished, marble floor, tastefully framed landscapes on the wall, and French doors that opened onto a balcony.
In no time, Charles appeared with a sizzling, aromatic roast. He set it before them on the table and as he sliced it, Willow saw how rare the meat was. She found herself mesmerized by the red, bloody juices that seeped out as he carved. As soon as he withdrew, she finally mustered her resolve to mention the Wimseys's dinner.
"William, do you...remember what I mentioned about the banquet that I'm obliged to attend?"
A pleased smile teased at the vampire's lips. *Finally.* Fixing Willow with a warm gaze that hinted at slightly more than friendly regard, William answered, "If I recall, you were looking forward to that particular soiree with all the enthusiasm one might reserve for a bout of dysentery." He knew he'd gauged his reply correctly when Willow was unable to contain her mirth and laughed openly. "Is there any way I might be of service?"
Green eyes shining with merriment, Willow nodded and asked, "Would you...that is, are you still willing to accompany me? Might I...accept the gracious offer you made earlier in the week?"
Inclining his head in a slight bow, William acknowledged, "Willow, it would be an honor and a distinct pleasure to deliver you from unbearable tedium."
They smiled warmly at each other. For one, timeless moment, their eyes remained locked in a penetrating gaze as they were slowly drawn into each other. Then Willow glanced away, reached for her glass of wine, and the moment was broken.
The remainder of the meal was passed in pleasant, easy conversation, until finally, not too late at night, William escorted Willow out to his carriage with instructions to Charles to conduct her home.
Before heading out in search of his *real* meal for the evening, William went to his room, sat down at the spacious, mahogany writing desk, and withdrew a black, velvet case from the center drawer. He raised the lid and admired the exquisite choker nestled within. An ornate, silver garland was intricately woven with rubies that cascaded down like tendrils from a vine. At the center was suspended a teardrop medallion imprinted with his insignia: two crossed spikes. The tools that had made him a legend among vampires and the few humans who knew of his kind.
Soon.
Soon his sigil would encircle Willow's lovely neck. Only four more days until the night of the banquet.
~Part: 5~
Willow surveyed the posh sitting room, furnished to suit the most discriminating taste, and yearned inwardly to be anywhere else. The docks, the slums of the Borough, even the morgue would be preferable.
But she had no choice. Willow could easily imagine the chain of events that had led to this meeting: Cordelia had received her reply indicating that she would be bringing a guest, and had promptly conveyed the news to Willow's aunt. And so here Willow sat, in her aunt's parlour, drawing upon every ounce of patience she possessed in order to withstand Aunt Jane's inquisition.
For Mrs. Jane Ashton was a woman who took great pride in her ability to *arrange* things and was easily displeased when someone meddled with her arrangements. And Willow knew that as much as her overbearing aunt wanted to see her married off, the formidable matriarch had no doubt intended to introduce Willow to men *she* had selected and did not take kindly to the news that Willow had so grievously inconvenienced her by selecting a dinner companion of her own.
"My dear, how is it that you became acquainted with a man like Mr. Royce?" Mrs. Ashton inquired, maintaining a haughty, imperious pose in her seat.
Mustering the mildest expression she could manage, Willow replied, "He has engaged my services as a surgeon for a patient in his household."
For the span of several heartbeats, Mrs. Ashton merely blinked at her. A slight parting of her lips was the only sign that Willow's frank explanation had shocked and disappointed her.
"Do you mean to tell me that you were not properly introduced?" Mrs. Ashton finally demanded, her voice icy with disapproval.
"I fail to see why the manner of our introduction is of any consequence. Mr. Royce has always conducted himself as a perfect gentleman," Willow countered stubbornly.
Already, her patience with her aunt was wearing thin.
Mrs. Ashton folded her hands primly in her lap, straightened herself almost to the point of rigor mortis, and pursed her lips in obvious contempt. "You mind your impudence, my niece," came her stern rebuke. "It is precisely because of your poor judgment in matters of social propriety that your dear parents left your future in my care."
Bitter memories of the drama that had unfolded after the reading of her father's will sent a rush of heat to Willow's cheeks. Before she could contain her emotions, Willow snapped, "My parents never intended to give you control over my trust fund. That was granted to you by the courts because our society's laws still refuse to acknowledge that a single woman is competent to manage her own finances!"
"And you have grown far too used to taking liberties with your behavior and your speech," Mrs. Ashton fired back coldly. The elder woman glared at Willow for a moment longer, then regained her composure. "Your ingratitude is particularly blameworthy given that I have only your best interests at heart. There will be several respectable young gentlemen at the Wimseys' banquet, gentlemen who would make a fortunate match. In your foolish desire to defy me, you are spoiling your opportunity with them by bringing a wholly unsuitable person as your guest."
The sharp, steady sting of her fingernails digging into her clenched palms helped Willow temper her desire to lash out at her insufferably domineering aunt. Keeping her voice steady, Willow asked, "On what grounds do you deem Mr. Royce unsuitable?"
Condescendingly, Mrs. Ashton looked down the bridge of her nose and replied, "My dear, that question shows how little you understand society. Mr. Royce is an oddity, a highly eccentric individual. He has never been known to call on anyone. He is not received in any circles. Yet he manages to know all too much about other people. Most of the men in Mr. Ashton's club have remarked that he is a disturbingly secretive person; he actually makes them uncomfortable. That alone makes him unsuitable."
Willow could stand it no longer.
She rose to her feet and offered a half-hearted, dismissive curtsey to her aunt.
"I'm afraid I must be going, Aunt Jane. My responsibilities at the hospital oblige me to forego the *pleasure* of your company for the moment," Willow excused herself, her voice laden with sarcasm. "But please, do not concern yourself any further about Mr. Royce. After all, you have always told me that *I* am an oddity. Perhaps he and I are suited."
As she stalked angrily from the parlour, not waiting for the servant to help her with her cloak, Willow heard her aunt exclaim, "The audacity!"
With an exasperated frown, Willow thought to herself, "Audacity? Indeed! To hear Aunt Jane tell it, one would think I had invoked the Dark Prince himself."
How much misery was produced in the world not by the black, naughty evil of unseen forces, but because of ignorant prejudices held by people exactly like her aunt, Willow wondered.
*****
Early evening at the London docks, and the air creaked and groaned with the buoyant rocking of ships. Gay music and sounds of drunken carousing filtered out from nearby pubs. Silently, two dark figures emerged from one of the ships and made their way down the gangplank. They seemed to blend effortlessly into the cloying fog.
Their path took them along the river, further from the lively pubs and brothels. As they continued down a seemingly deserted street, a man leaped out at them from an alley.
The coarse, unkempt ruffian seized one of the travelers -- a pale, dark-haired beauty of a woman -- and pressed his knife to her throat.
"Yer purse, an' be quick about it," the thief snarled, his threat laced with the stale onion perfume of his breath.
Too late, the thief noticed the wild, distracted gleam in the woman's eyes.
"Haven't got a purse," she mused laughingly, bobbing her head at him as if she were speaking to a small child.
Swift as a viper she struck. The astonished thief found himself not only disarmed but choking desperately as the deceptively fragile "waif" held him aloft, her delicate hand gripping his throat as forcefully as might the strongest, brawniest farm hand or dock worker.
Her companion, a tall, powerfully built man, peered at the thief in disdain and said, "Don't play with your food, Drusilla. We must be getting to William's place before long."
"Yes, Angelus," the lady replied, although to his horror, the thief discovered that this was no 'lady'. Feminine, doe-like eyes transformed into the stuff of nightmares, burning bright as the flames of hell. Soft facial features contorted in a grotesque, beast-like mask.
The last thing the thief ever saw were deadly fangs as his ill-chosen target for the evening instead made him into her victim.
*****
William lounged by the fire, his feet propped lazily on the arm of his settee despite the tingle that ran along his spine, summoning an instinctive desire to seek out his approaching sire. He hardly needed Charles to herald his family's arrival.
"Master Angelus and Mistress Drusilla, sire," the minion announced as he stepped inside the salon and ushered the two, powerful vampires past him.
William cocked his head to the side and smirked at his sire. "About bloody time! What kept you? Stop to eat at every orphanage along the way?"
Angelus arched a disapproving eyebrow at his insolent tone of voice but was unable to mask the smoldering anticipation in his eyes as he appraised his favored childe. "Is that any way to greet your elder, boy?"
Swinging his legs off the settee, William rose to his feet and sauntered toward Angelus. He drew close, until his lithe form was pressed against the darker vampire's body. They held each other's gaze for several long moments. Then, William sank slowly to his knees, bringing his mouth directly over his sire's groin.
"Of course, you're right, Angelus," William teased, murmuring so that his lips brushed against the rapidly stiffening flesh in the elder vampire's trousers. "A childe should greet his sire on his knees. Is this..." he brushed his nose teasingly against the straining bulge for effect "...an improvement?"
With a deep growl of pleasure, Angelus seized William and drew him up for a fierce, claiming kiss. Sire and childe devoured each other's mouths, relishing the contact after several months' absence.
Drusilla, who had paused to watch the firelight dance in the many diamond panels of the leaded-glass windows, swayed to herself and crooned, "What a happy reunion...and daddy has brought such lovely presents..."
Long experience had taught William how to distinguish when his mad sister was merely prattling nonsense and when she had something interesting to say. Reluctantly breaking the ardent kiss with Angelus, he peered into crafty, sable eyes and prompted, "Presents? Are you trying to seduce me?"
"Always," the low growl rumbled in Angelus's throat. He and William grinned wickedly and exchanged another fleeting kiss. Then, the elder vampire said, "First, show me to that miserable manservant of yours. A present I have, but 'tis for his eyes. For you, sweet William, I have the gift of his pain."
*****
There really was nothing quite so satisfying as seeing a grown man cry.
Well, all right, there was sex. And blood. And a good, dirty brawl, all fists and fangs. But William did so love watching a stoic human male crumble under just the right torture and break down in tears.
How freely they ran down Bancroft's cheeks as the sorry sod stared in horror at the 'present' that Angelus had brought.
A grotesque, severed hand.
More precisely, the bloody, partially decomposed hand of one Miss Gwendolyn Honeychurch, who, until her untimely demise, had been the object of Bancroft's affections, and might one day have become his fiancée.
William smirked. His sire did indeed have a flair for showmanship. The younger vampire relaxed in a chair, languidly stroking his hands over Drusilla as she sat on his lap. Both of them watched raptly as Angelus paced along Bancroft's bedside and continued his mental torment of the human.
"You'll recognize that, I expect," Angelus observed, his casual tone belied by the sinister threat inherent in the dead woman's hand. "Oh, not the fact that the hand is your lady love's...or at least, it used to be. No, a smart man like you should recognize what a kind gesture it is. You see, if you were completely useless, that'd be your hand there, and it'd be piled atop the other parts I'd ripped off your body. But you still serve a purpose, so I've given you the gift of a lesson. Now, man, listen close--" Angelus leaned directly in Bancroft's face, smiling politely even as his cold eyes warned of unspeakable horrors. "You, and all that you hold dear, belong to us. Question your master's judgment or depart from his instructions again, and the consequences will be even worse than this."
Throughout the menacing soliloquy, Bancroft merely sobbed quietly, his eyes downcast, looking away from the gruesome trophy in his lap.
Angelus straightened up, towering above the broken man, and asked, "Do you understand now, or do you need another lesson? William has told me that you have a sister in Hastings..."
Trembling, Bancroft raised sorrow-reddened eyes to his tormentor, offered a weak shake of the head, and whispered hoarsely, "N-no."
Smiling broadly in cruel triumph, Angelus boomed, "Good!" He turned to William and said, "Now that this has been settled, have your minion break out the blood wine and you can tell me what new mischief ye've been up to."
*****
/*Like as not he was up to no good; probably met a thief more wicked than he who cut his throat. More's the better then!*/
The words haunted Willow. Each time they echoed in her mind, her throat tightened.
In her profession, she had to develop a certain clinical detachment, lest the constant exposure to suffering and misery drive her mad. However, that didn't mean that she cut herself from all human compassion, and it galled her to hear such callous disregard for a life, even that of a thief.
/* Like as not he was up to no good; probably met a thief more wicked than he who cut his throat. More's the better then!*/
The chief of the hospital had responded with a peevishness that Willow had found disgraceful when she'd requested permission to perform an autopsy on this man's corpse. With an administrator's stubbornness, he'd pointed out that she was depriving the medical students of a specimen for their anatomy lesson. As if this were the only cadaver available in the entire hospital!
And as if this man's life meant so little that he didn't merit the posthumous courtesy of an inquiry into certain, visible injuries on his person that Willow found highly suspicious.
/* Like as not he was up to no good; probably met a thief more wicked than he who cut his throat. More's the better then!*/
However, Willow had held firm to her resolve -- her stubborn, fierce resolve that had been legendary among the medical students at Edinburgh. The hospital's director had finally relented, so now she stood over the unfortunate, once and former thief, gazing down at the wounds that had caught her attention in the first place.
Two, deep puncture wounds in his neck, positioned directly over the carotid artery. They were strikingly similar to the odd bite marks she had noticed on a cadaver a few days ago, when she'd succumbed to that peculiar sensitivity to light and smell. Willow could hardly believe this was coincidence. If it *was* nothing more than a mad dog, as the police had suggested in the previous case, the beast obviously still posed a threat to the public welfare.
However, Willow's critical eye soon confirmed her uneasy suspicion: this was not the work of any ordinary animal.
Bruises, spaced in a pattern consonant with what would be made by a human hand, mottled the dead man's throat. Upon closer scrutiny, Willow noted the extreme pallor of the skin, which was far whiter than normal, even for a corpse.
Frowning in concentration, Willow gripped her scalpel and made an incision to the chest cavity. As she peeled away the skin and began to explore, her findings grew more and more disturbing. Everything pointed to a thorough exsanguination, yet she knew of no animal common to London that so utterly drained its kill of blood. Not even a mad dog.
Willow set down her scalpel and went to sit at the writing desk near the entrance to the morgue. She stared blankly at the floor as her mind turned inward to ponder this disturbing case.
What should she do?
There was no doubt in her mind that this man had been killed by something more closely resembling another man than an animal. The bruises were a clue, but even more sobering for Willow was the fact that man was the one creature who willfully drained his fellow beings of blood without also consuming the flesh. Even today, she knew of physicians and surgeons who clung to old theories and bled their patients as a cure for everything from fevers to mania.
But how willingly would anyone believe her, especially given that she had no plausible theory as to what *had* killed this man? Worse still, would anyone even care?
/* Like as not he was up to no good; probably met a thief more wicked than he who cut his throat. More's the better then!*/
She sighed.
Sadly, she feared that the hospital director's indifference was the norm. Far too many people found it easier to dismiss some lives as worthless -- the lives of thieves, for example -- rather than question why some were so poor or desperate that they were driven to thievery in the first place.
A bitter lump rose in her throat as she recalled her aunt's opinion of William Royce, who was certainly no common thief. Yes, there were those like her aunt who were quite comfortable dismissing the lives of others.
And so Willow resigned herself to the painful truth, that she would need more tangible evidence before alerting the authorities.
Besides, she had an altogether different trial to face.
Tomorrow night was the banquet.