Title: Penance
Author: Michael K. Donovan
Email: mike@vmp-canada.com
Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all the characters that appear on the show are the exclusive property of Joss Whedon, the WB and Mutant Enemy, Inc.

Two days later, John sat down on the edge of his bed with a tired sigh. Absently, he rubbed at the soot marring his fingertips, succeeding only in smearing it instead of removing it. He'd had a good day at the forge. Searching for peace, he had worked relentlessly, pounding steel to chase all extraneous thoughts from his mind. He had wanted to think of nothing but hammer, fire and steel, but his respite had proved to be intermittent, as best.

Always, his thoughts returned to Drusilla and the terrible tragedies that had overtaken her family recently. He wondered how she was doing, locked behind the walls of the abbey. It would be improper for him to visit her now that she was destined to take her vows and word was that her mother had not left the house since her son had died so she would be unable to offer him any news.

So much pain and sorrow had plagued them, he doubted even the favor of the good Lord would be enough to protect Drusilla. Rising, he went to the wall where a crude metal crucifix hung on the wall. Little more than two pieces of iron stock welded together in the middle, it had been the result of John's very first turn at the forge when he had only been a boy. Brimming with pride, he had begged the deacon to say a prayer over the icon and bless it.

He took the cross down and considered it silently. It was like his faith, he realized, battered and rough-hewn. After all that had happened, how could he be expected to keep stalwart belief in a god that would allow so much horror to occur to one family?

A quiet knock sounded from the main room, originating from the outside of the main door. Frowning to himself, he shoved the metal cross into his pocket and hurried to answer the door. His father had gone into the city proper a while ago, perhaps he had accidentally locked himself out?

Pulling the door open partway, he braced it against his body and looked out. When he saw who had come calling, all blood instantly drained from his face and terrible dread choked him.

The shapely form of Anne Guthrie peered innocently up at him in her burial gown, seeming as small and harmless as a kitten.

"Hello, John," she smiled shyly, "May I come in?"

John's mouth worked soundlessly and he shook his head to clear the hallucination from his eyes, but the apparition remained.

"Y-you're n-not supposed ta be here." He gasped fearfully.

"I know." She nodded agreeably, "It's very late, but I needed to speak with you."

John swallowed uncomfortably. He was not a strong believer in the supernatural, yet he could not deny the evidence right in front of him. This ghost, or whatever it was, looked, sounded and acted exactly like the late Anne Guthrie.

"How?" he asked, still too stunned to think coherently.

"I don't know." Anne shrugged slightly, shivering suddenly from the cold, "Can I please come inside?"

John hesitated, holding the edge of the door. Good conduct dictated that he invite the girl in, but something inside him warned him not to. He pulled the door open a little more, but remained standing so that his impressive bulk blocked the entrance.

"Have ya spoken to yer parents yet?" he asked, tensely. There was an air of quiet desperation around the girl that made him uneasy.

"No." She shook her head, staring at the ground between her feet, "He was supposed to take me away from all this but instead he abandoned me. Please, let me inside, John, I'm so cold. A-and hungry."

John reached across the threshold and took the girl's hand in his own. She was right, the flesh was chilled and pale, like a small chunk of ice in his hand.

"We should get you to the surgeon." He suggested in concern, stepping halfway toward her.

In a burst of action, Anne lashed out, raking long, hard nails across his arm.

"Invite me in!" she shrieked, "Invite me!"

John fell back into the room, clutching his wounded limb close to his body, and the door drifted open. Anne thrashed angrily, just outside the edge of the doorway, trapped by an invisible barrier. Her face twisted with rage, demonic ridges risen from the flesh and sharp fangs filling her mouth. He understood now how she had returned. Clearly, her body was possessed by the Devil.

Drawing forth his small metal cross, he gripped it tightly and lunged forward, pressing it against the pale skin of her forehead. Flesh seared and smoked at the point of contact and Anne wailed in pain, pawing wildly at the wound. She stumbled and fell to one knee, hissing and spitting blindly.

"I don't know who ya are," he shouted, brandishing the cross with a straight arm, "but ye're not Anne Guthrie!"

Anne snarled at him, circling but unable to come within range of the holy symbol in his hand. John kept it aimed at her, fear quaking in his knees. Circling twice more, she spat at him and turned, fleeing into the night with a shriek of hatred.

John held the cross out for long minutes after she had disappeared from sight, so frightened that he wasn't sure he could move. Finally calming himself enough to come back inside, he collapsed into a seated position on the floor.

His mind still raced with shock and he was only beginning to comprehend what had just occurred. He had just witnessed something that was beyond anything he had ever experienced before in his life. Life from death. Or perhaps death from life, he wasn't entirely sure. One thing he did know, however, he planned to keep the information to himself. A demon on the loose would only become that much more of a danger if the only man who knew about it was locked up in the sanitarium.

Cradling the small cross he had made as a child, he stood up and took a chair. There was no point in going back to bed, he doubted he would be able to sleep until the sun rose again and by then he would have other things to do. Eyeing the rifle he had taken into the hills only days ago, he settled in and watched the door with a cautious eye. Yes, tomorrow would be a full day, indeed.

Mother Constance stood sternly over Drusilla as the young girl toiled on her hands and knees, scrubbing industriously at the base of the Virgin Mary's shrine. Another girl, a recently inducted sister named Genevieve, hovered nearby, curiously aware of the new arrival.

"Prayer is the first step on the path to forgiveness, daughter." The old woman instructed, "You must always be diligent in prayer if you seek the favor of our Lord."

Drusilla nodded dutifully as she scoured away at the base of the smooth stone statue. Her shoulders were burning from overuse and her knees ached against the cold, hard floor. Mother Constance had been drilling her for hours, quoting biblical passages and neatly phrased personal mantras. For her own sake, Drusilla was doing her best to pay attention, but it was not an easy task.

"Toil is the second step." Mother Constance continued, eyeing the girl's work with a critical eye, "Drusilla dear, make sure you get all the way in between the tiles. Cleanliness is, after all, next to Godliness."

Drusilla slumped tiredly, her fingers feeling raw and sore. She had already gone between the tiles three times. A fresh, spring rain wasn't as clean as those tiles.

"Come with me, daughter." Constance gripped her arms with bony, impossibly strong hands and hauled her to her feet, "I have something to show you."

She led the girl down a long, empty hallway. Light shone in dusty beams on the polished floor tiles from stained glass windows set high on the walls. Each window depicted a different saint and the four largest housed images of the major archangels. The constructs of colored glass seemed to watch her as she walked, staring down at her with accusatory eyes.

Evil, the saints seemed to say to her, You're a spawn of Satan. The Lord will use you and smite you down.

Dropping her gaze, she quickened her steps and hurried down the hallway after Mother Constance.

They turned into a high archway and entered a small room, barely larger than her sleeping quarters. A painted and laquered wooden statue of Christ hanging from the cross dominated the close chamber, filling the wall between two high, narrow windows. The light from the windows formed the ends of a rectangle at the base of the statue.

Inwardly, Drusilla groaned softly. Another statue? How much more cleaning could she possibly be expected to do?

"Kneel daughter." Mother Constance commanded levelly, pressing down on the girl's shoulder until her knees were positioned directly between the twin beams of light, "And tell me what you see."

"Whu-Well, Sister," Drusilla stammered, mildly confused by the simple question, "It's the crucifixion of our Lord."

Constance nodded in agreement, going to a long, shallow box on the wall, opening it and withdrawing a slender rod of black leather. Drusilla observed the item curiously. It looked like a riding crop, the kind the noblemen often carried with them. But what would Mother Constance want with a crop? She had no horse.

"And what does it represent?" the older woman paced a slow, steady circle around her.

"Our Lord died for our sins. The cross is a symbol of that redemption." Drusilla did not have to think about her answer. The lesson had been one of the earliest she had learned.

"Hmm, yes." Mother Constance nodded again, "But does it mean anything else? Anything to you personally?"

Drusilla shifted uneasily, uncomfortable with the tone of the woman's voice.

"I don't know." She whispered as Mother Constance circled behind her, "I've never really-"

The crop came down with lightning swiftness and cracked deafening along the tender skin of her shoulders. Drusilla cried out, falling forward and throwing her hands over her head to shield herself.

"Christ suffered for three days on the cross to become pure enough to return to Heaven!" Constance shouted in a steely voice, "I know of the evil that afflicts you, Drusilla. If you are ever to be inducted into the Sisterhood, you must be purified."

She snapped the crop down again across Drusilla's back and the girl yelped in pain. She curled fearfully against the cold stone floor and held back her tears as Constance stood, towering over her.

"You already know the first steps to forgiveness, daughter. This is the last." The Sister slapped the crop sharply across her opposite palm, "Penance."

Drusilla curled into a ball and held her breath, covering her head with her arms as the crop rose again.

Returning to the small, cubical chamber that served as her quarters at the abbey, Drusilla thankfully closed the door behind her. A thin, rickety bed sat against the back wall, pushed into the corner across from a compact bureau she had been allowed to bring with her from home. Her father had made that bureau for her when she was just a girl, setting the drawers and mounting the mirror with his own two hands.

She walked past it and went to the window, habitually trying to block out the sadness that always accompanied thoughts of the man. Every day it seemed more and more distant to her, like her life before the abbey had belonged to someone else entirely. It had only been two weeks, but terrible homesickness filled her heart.

Pulling aside the heavy drapes, she winced as the movement put stress on the tender skin across her shoulders. Raw, red stripes marked her soft skin, the legacy of Mother Constance's most recent lesson. Penance was a long and arduous process and, according to the mother, diligence in its execution was of utmost importance. She had even gone so far as to give Drusilla a crop of her own to use, but the girl had distastefully set it aside in her room, much to the old woman's dismay.

As the drapes moved aside, a small, black-bodied spider fell onto the sill. Drusilla squeaked in fright and shrank back, disgusted by the arachnid. The horrible thing reminded her of the one she had found in her family's coal box so long ago, all crawly legs and glittering eyes. Grasping the stub of one of her study candles, she made a face and flicked at the spider with it until she had chased it out the window.

Leaning out over the sill to make sure the dreadful creature was gone, she froze in horror, staring, gaping at the terrible sight that greeted her. The corpse of a beautiful, white dove was spread, bloodied and broken, over a rough framework that resembled Christ's cross. Someone had captured the poor unfortunate animal and carved it up with careful cruelty, arranging it like a gruesome offering to her directly beneath her window. Who would do such a blasphemous thing? And on the abbey's sacred ground, as well. Her thoughts turned endlessly on themselves as she attempted to understand the inconceivable act and a tiny headache blossomed inside her skull.

Blinding sensation roared through her head, filling her brain with more input than a human was meant to interpret. It became night suddenly and the air in her room turned muggy and warm. She found herself dancing, whirling in graceful circles in the arms of a man who towered over her. John Coleman's large, gentle hands guided her movements with surprising skill, carrying her small form with him. Tilting her head back, she looked up into his face with a smile. The expression died quickly, though, when she saw him.

His head hung listlessly to one side, the flesh of his face pale and wasted. Dark circles surrounded his vacant eyes and a sharp gash had been rent in the side of his neck, spilling a trail of dark, half-congealed blood onto his shirt.

Pushing violently away from him, she fell back and pressed her hand to her mouth, sick with horror. The vision receded as quickly as it had come, dropping her abruptly back into reality.

Weak and upset, she pulled her bible in her lap and opened it. Prayers. Prayers were the only way to clear the evil from her head. Mummy had said so.

Mumbling the words to the Lord's prayer under her breath, she flipped through the pages in search of a passage with which to purify herself. An answer had to lay somewhere within the book, she refused to believe otherwise. If she was wrong, then there would certainly be no hope for the redemption of her wretched soul.

John clutched his rifle tightly in his fists, stalking as quietly as he could through the woods. A small, hooded lantern hung from the weapon's barrel, shedding light down onto the ground in a weak circle around him. The sun had dropped below the horizon an hour ago and he had slipped out of the house without his father knowing. He could never have explained why he had taken his gun out at night, or why he had waited until after dark to head for the woods. No one would have believed him if he told the truth.

She was out here, he knew, lurking amid the trees and he was the only one who could stop her.

His huge foot came down on a small branch and it snapped deafeningly against the spongy forest floor. A bolt of terror shot through him and he froze instantly, the skin over his ears tightening as he strained to hear if anything responded to the sound.

He heard nothing, only the thudding of his own fear-stricken heart in his ears. Allowing himself to move again, he started slowly, easing back to a steady, marching pace. She could be anywhere, he realized, trying not to imagine Anne's feral face as it had been on the night she had come to him. The forest was her domain now, it welcomed the savage creature that she had become. His chances of finding her unaware were almost none. Although apprehensive, he carried on. Only the crude, metal cross under his coat lent a measure of comfort to him as he continued the hunt.

Unbeknownst to the giant of a man, a small, blonde figure in a tattered maiden's dress crouched beneath the fallen trunk of a thick tree, her hands and feet planted like those of a wild animal, watching him with feral, yellow-irised eyes.




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