Childe of my Heart - Chapter Ten

The gash across his right-hand knuckles was a thin pink line. He didn’t try to figure out the overnight healing because all he could think was that he’d been put on the market for a carton of cigarettes. Sitting in the airless Amphitheatre, that’s all he could think; Spike had pawned him for cigarettes.

The bump on his temple hurt, his body throbbed with bruises and he ground his molars as Spike bellyached about Tresten’s long introductory spiel. Spike had sweet fuck-all to complain about. He had his cigarettes and may he choke on them.

“A Bid for the strapping Grang’al to set the night of entertainment in motion,” Tresten concluded, sweeping his arm at the cages in the pit. “Any Bids for the Gang’ral?”

“Here,” Spike said, standing up, “before you start all that, I’d like to put in a bid for something you’ve got of mine.”

Fiddling with his earrings, Tresten came to the pit wall and looked up at Spike. “Tresten does not possess anything belonging to the vampire.”

“I’m missing a black, leather-bound book and I reckon you borrowed it for a read. I want to earn it back.”

Xander couldn’t believe Spike negotiating for something that belonged to them. He tapped his foot against his backpack and run a finger under his collar, hot and losing patience with Spike’s softly-softly approach. Before sun-up this morning, he’d given Spike a chance to explain why he’d taken him back then as good as traded him in for a carton of fucking cigarettes.

“By substantiate you mean?” All friendly like Spike was asking if he could buy Tresten a cup of coffee.

Spike hadn’t explained or tried the softly approach before sun-up. He had rolled onto him and shut him up with the kind of kiss where teeth clashed and clothes got ripped. The two reasons why he’d pushed Spike off were sitting between him and Spike now. He was pathetic, would have let Spike fuck him if Dawn and Fred hadn’t been in the room.

Spike paused then asked, “Say again Amo Tresten? Can’t hear with the noisy people.”

The crowd wasn’t all that noisy, but the pressure in Xander’s head was. He couldn’t hack it. Couldn’t take another night of sleeping alongside Spike or another day of calling him ‘My Master’ or another hour of wearing the wristband that bonded him to The Asshole. Had to get out tonight.

Something went snap inside Xander. His chest so tight it felt like his ribs would snap too, he jerked to his feet and raved down at Tresten.

The boy was pissy. Rubbed the lump on his temple, tapped his foot and made it bloody difficult to bargain with Tresten.

This had started last night. Got in from the gaming pits, showered, went to bed. Slept, woke up before dawn like usual. The boy was already awake, looking at him with black eyes – nearly gave him a fright those eyes. Nearly. It’s a cold bastard who can’t see he’s hurt someone and being a bastard but not cold, he’d picked up the gashed hand, licked the boy’s wounds so to speak.

How had Harris thanked him? Only went and scalped him, the sod. Fisted his hair, dragged him onto the broad chest and lined their lips up.

You told me that I belong; I blink and find I’m cash for your habit. What’s that about, Spike?

Didn’t get the chance. Harris kissed him, nicked his lips he was that vigorous. And not being the shy sort, he gave it right back. Broke off while the boy breathed, couldn’t stop his own breath as Xander’s mouth slanted onto his again. Deep this time, thrusting tongues and aching groans; taste of sunrays and peppermint. None of it was enough, he was burning with need and Xander’s pulse was helter-skelter with it. Got so that gold could’ve melted between their grinding bellies. Yeah, got to that point where a bloke puts his hands down the back of your trousers to let you know you’ll be wiggling on his Viking in the next minute or two.

Couldn’t have that now could he? One: Nibblet was innocently asleep three feet away. Two: Buffy. Three: he didn’t bottom anymore and certainly not for human boys. Four: he didn’t bottom full-stop.

What he did was tell the boy time and place; have no time and no place for you in my unlife, mate.

It worked. Harris shoved him off, turned his back on him and played possum well into the afternoon.

Earning the book was what he was bothered about right now and it would be a damn sight easier to do if Xander didn’t keep drumming his foot on the floor and…

“Say again Amo Tresten? Can’t hear with the noisy people,” he said, looking away from Xander’s tapping boot.

Harris lunged out of his seat. Ape-shit; absolutely, fucking furious. He wasn’t being a possum now. Semi-vamp, with his corrugated forehead, his canines unsheathed in a snarl and his eyes blazing. Naïve child, gob frothing with reckless truth.

“You’re gonna quit laughing you lying, mother-fucking son of a bitch. Strutting like the great I am while people are…they are dying because you spend money on pretentious crap when what they need is food and health care. I mean Roman Baths in a frigging cave - dude, reality sailed on by you. I don’t care about gold-plated mixer taps,” gulp of crazy laughter, “I care about getting out of this hell-hole tonight so hand the book over, Tresten.”

Tresten’s shaggy mane puffed out, the crowd went quiet, Nibblet and Fred shrunk in their seats.

“That’s enough Harris,” he said, feeling for Xander’s distress despite not wanting to.

“Xander that is enough. You’re in his house and you’ll watch what you say to him,” god. The boy didn’t know when to fold.

“Did I ask to be in his house? No I didn’t. He kidnapped me and if you were any kind of master you’d try kicking instead of kissing his ass.”

Demon on the outside and red mist on the inside, he sprung for Harris and Harris came towards him. The girls scrambled between him and Xander, but he couldn’t stop in time and collided into them, stumbling as Xander’s six-foot frame hit into them from the other direction.

You never saw a sadder pair of wankers than him and Harris shuffling back from the shaken girls.

Tresten’s smile was a warped baring of teeth and in his eye twinkled extreme devilment. “Please, this is unpleasant,” he swayed in the gangway. “Come vampire, if it is a book the boy wants, it is a book he shall have. Tresten has reading rooms full of books on the Fifth and Six Rankings.” Tresten bowed at Xander, “Which Ranking does Xander choose?”

Bad sign for a Master to call another’s boy by name and disastrous when he bowed to the boy. Seemed the four-person body slam had knocked the rage out of the boy in question and he edged back from Tresten without choosing a Ranking. Maybe gobsmacked by how bulky the giant was up close.

“Pick Fifth Ranking and say thank you,” he told Le Garçon Terrible, that little catch in his voice the clutch of fear.

“Certainly, Master Xander,” Tresten’s boom was followed by a few titters in the audience.

Spike took the scorn with a thin smirk. “You going to tell me who I’m fighting, Amo?”

“You need not call me Amo, we are equals, you and I. Xander heaps contempt on both our heads equally,” Tresten briskly descended the steps. “Follow me. Tresten wishes to play with Spike and his people.”

They picked up their luggage and gripping Dawn’s hand, Spike led his troop into the pit.

A film of sweat on his brow, Xander looked at the weapons and touched a heavy mace studded with sharp spikes.

Tresten inclined his head at Dawn, “select a cutting implement…no, that one is unwieldy. Choose another.” Dawn pointed at a serrated blade. “Good.” Tresten smiled, standing back.

Spike was pleading, knew he was and toned down to an even meeker timbre, “You’re out of their league, Tresten. They can’t fight you.”

“Does nothing but the thought of combat fill your mind, Vampire?” Tresten scolded, “The boy has named his pleasure, you will indulge him, Tresten will play and his good people will cheer. There will be no fighting.” Tresten then barked at one of his henchmen, “bring the rack.”

While the rack was being fetched, Tresten launched into a one-sided conversation with Xander.

“You have your ways and we have ours. Since you are in our dimension, you will live as we do. Ah, the rack is here. Remove your coat and tunic, vampire.”

Set on wheels, the rack was a square, metal podium with rusty poles welded to two of its sides. Another pole ran across the top, its ends fused to the each of the vertical poles. Metal rings were soldered where the top pole intersected with the upright poles and each of the upright poles was decorated with rings at intervals.

“You buck at every rule, take pride in your unscented state, refuse to conform. You freely choose to sojourn in Dyulin and expect that the beings found here will bend to your concept of civilization? Not so, Monsieur.” Tresten pulled four chains off the trolley and threaded two of them through the rings on the rack’s horizontal pole. The other two, he passed through a ring on each of the upright poles. “You are at fault, but your Amo bears double the blame for failing to tutor you. Take the platform, Spike. Spread your arms and legs.”

Tresten slipped hinged manacles onto his forearms, tightened them and hooked the manacles to the chains. The guards pulled on the ends of the chains, raising Spike’s arms to shoulder level. He counter-pulled on the chains, gaining a little comfort from the metallic groan they gave – he could break them.

Tresten repeated the procedure with Spike’s legs, securing wide manacles around his calves. “The next time your impudence goes unpunished by your Master, the woman will take the stand. Apply your mind, learn quickly, for the child awaits her turn if you are unable to conform even after the woman has been on the stand.”

He gave Spike’s chest a solid jab and the rack wobbled. There was enough give in the chains for Spike’s arms to shake with the movement. “Shall we play, Spike?”

Smiling, Tresten hulked over him, “Lesson number one: your Earner is always right and is addressed as Mi Amo. He is addressed as ‘My Master’,” Tresten lifted and swung the mace.

The blow landed on Spike’s right kneecap. A microsecond lapsed between Spike hearing his bone shatter and him feeling the pain. He breathed spontaneously when the pain came, exhaling through clenched teeth.

Tresten grunted, swaying with the mace, “Lesson number two: you will submit to your Master’s will. You will obey him without question.”

His left elbow gave under the force of Tresten’s blow. Bone scraping on bone, bone gouging into flesh and tendons, the rack shuddered and agony melted his human face, bringing on fangs, ridges and sub-vocal growls.

“Lesson number three,” Tresten continued, in charge and grinning about it. “Your mouth exists to kiss, suck and tease your Amo. It exists to whisper your devotion to him. Otherwise keep it shut, no-one is interested in hearing your vulgar ranting.”

The mace mutilated his right shoulder blade, propelling him forward. His foot skidded on the blood-coated platform, the slack chains let him pitch forward and the guards hauled him up.

He couldn’t bear the punishment, it was much too much. He wanted to apologize, say whatever to stop the mace from falling on him again. But his arrogant Aurelius demon forbade surrender; he, Spike forbade surrender. He bore the mace and provoked Tresten with big talk.

He told Tresten what he thought of him, sniggered it at him. Lost his thread when his wrists and fingers were snapped, picked up the threats when the pain dimmed a little.

Tresten punched him in the mouth. “Your eyes are there to cherish your Master and not to tempt other Earners. Keep them cast to the floor,” he told Xander.

“…your body was made for your Amo’s pleasure, he may do with it as he pleases. Your gratification stems from his delight. You will be appreciative and welcoming of his overtures. You may not let any another touch you without your Master’s agreement.”

“You will be mindful that you live because your Amo permits it,” Tresten drove his elbow into the arch of Spike’s nose. “And being mindful of this, you will show him that there is not a single thing you would not do for him.”

He bashed Spike’s intact kneecap, twirled the mace like a bandleader’s baton and went for Spike’s thighbone.

Spike screamed, Tresten bent so his face was level with Spike’s and screamed back, “You will teach the boy, you will scent him. If you do not desire him, let one who can desire him have him.”

Dawn covered hear ears, Fred hugged her close, “Don’t look…don’t look,”

“She must,” He used the bloodied mace to lift Dawn’s chin, caressing with a spike. “Dawn must look in order that she may avoid Xander’s pitfalls. Would you wish Tresten to repeat himself?”

Dawn hurriedly shook her head, Tresten curtly nodded his, turned, swung his arm and the mace caved Spike’s left side in. It got snarled in Spike’s ribs and Tresten twisted it, yanking on it to release it. The mace came away with slivers of spongy tissue skewered on the spikes.

Spike expelled a breath, pink foam bubbled on his lips. His game face left and his head slumped forward. A broken puppet on Tresten’s strings.

“No more Mi Amo,” Fred knelt where she’d stood, forcing Dawn down with her and glancing at Xander before bowing her head, “Please, no more.”

Xander dropped to his knees, but didn’t speak. He didn’t tempt Tresten with his eyes, or try touch him with hands that belonged to Spike. He waited to feel something other than the acute shortness of breath.

Tresten exchanged the mace for the blade, walked round behind Spike and hacked at his hair, “teach your boy, for Tresten grows weary of this game.”

When the platinum was gone and uneven dark-blond clusters were left, Tresten started on Fred’s hair. She stayed with head bowed as her thick, dark braid slithered into her lap.

Dawn arched her neck under Tresten’s callous sawing and gulped back a sob at Tresten’s vicious tug. Xander laced his fingers together to stop his hands shaking before they started. Expecting the same hair treatment, he tipped his head back, but Tresten walked passed him and replaced the blade on the trolley.

“A guard will see you to the Fifth Ranking,” Tresten told Fred as he pocketed Dawn’s braid.

“Please…his bones…setting, I m-mean we need a doctor to set…” she looked at the rack and didn’t say anymore.

“Tresten will send a physician to your Master,” he climbed the steps and once on his chair, wiped his hands fastidiously on a hand towel a guard held out. “I am certain Xander is pleased to hear that Tresten provides health care for his Fifth Rankers.”

His good people took up Tresten’s clap. “Jouez le jeu, play the game,” they cheered.

* * * *

Extract from Tom Mcrae’s track, You Cut Her Hair.