Prayers to broken stone
by Te
October 2000

Disclaimers: If they were mine, I'd never tell a soul.

Spoilers: The Lost Boys.

Ratings Note: NC-17 for sex, violence, and sexualized violence. Beware,
kids, this way lies blood.

Summary: You know... being staked through the heart with an
animal horn is very different from being staked through the heart with
something made of wood.

Author's Note: Jessica asked me for a Halloween story...

Acknowledgments: To my Debba, who deserves all kinds of love, and to
my Spike who's also with the deserving, and, of course, to Jessica.
Also with the such. *smoochies*

Feedback: Give it to me, baby.


Michael likes to believe he knew how it would all fall out. The day after
the fight and cleanup had included removing whatever was left of the
vampires, and he had volunteered to get David.

The heaviest, yes, but also by far the least gruesome. At that point,
Michael had had enough of grue.

Michael likes to believe that when he entered his grandfather's
workshop, when he saw nothing on the horn save something dark,
like ichor, that he knew it would all come down to this:

Michael, and David, crouched on the roof of what had once been
Michael's home, and was now barred to him. David smiling his secret
smile, scenting the hints of smoke on the air. Michael so. Hungry.

Though he'd made a point of feeding well before coming here. He'd
wanted to have some measure of control.

He feels it crumbling.

So many sure things gone, and horn is not wood and still is not
necessarily dead, and Sammy is loving a ghost, and not Michael
himself. It's wrong, deeply so, and he knows that part of David's
smile is about him. About his *obsession*.

Easy enough to take his mother some lost night after David had
simply yanked Michael through a window, to put his grandfather in
the hospital, earning a permanent cross-burn on his arm. But

All alone with the frog *brother*. Allen. Edgar is in the process
of dying, buried alive beneath dirt stained with Marco's blood. A
Halloween treat for the little one, wherever he burned.

But Sammy.

Is his, always promised, and forever, and it's *wrong* for brothers
to be apart from each other. Brothers take care of each other,
find the best of everything for their blood-kin. Brothers love,
and protect, and cherish, and Sammy won't let him in.

Came back to the house after leaving his grandfather for dead to
find everything, absolutely everything, splashed with Holy Water.
Crosses hanging from everywhere, lining the walkway. Even the roof
had been impossible at first, though some night-time god had brought
just enough rain to wash the Holy Water away.

Thanks and praise be.

David crouches easily beside him, twirling a cigarette between his
fingers. He'd repainted his nails black earlier, and they have a plastic
gleam in the moonlight. David's body is a collection of muscle and

David *believes*.

There's a purpose to everything, he says. There's a reason for it
to be only them now. The rest... they are missed, but gone forever.
Past hope, past grief.

David says his name like a prayer, broad and full. Invisible hint of
a question -- Who is like unto God?

That first night, oxygen mostly cut off by David's iron grip. The
unmistakable sensation of flying, being carried away, and away. He'd
regained consciousness to find himself in a strange home, pristine
and somehow *vast* in its emptiness. There was something missing,
and it wasn't just an environment more suited to David's style.

David, crouched over him on plush white carpeting. Hard against him
and moving, stroking and stroking Michael's throat, chest. Bright
pain in his nipples, and David's almost soft human face. Sweet, sweet
smile as Michael had responded.


David whispering: "You knew I wasn't dead, Michael. You knew this
would happen."

Weak, and tired, and yes, he remembers and admits to -- relieved.
Relieved, because now he would never, ever have to look at his
family again, who had so recently been meat.

"Just kill me, David, please...." Remembers flushing all over at the
way his body had chosen to punctuate please: rolling, grinding
wave up into David, whose eyelids had fluttered briefly. Whose
grin became just as wide and predatory as it should've always

"I told you, Michael. You're one of us, now."

Turned away and found himself looking into the sad eyes of an albino
German Shepherd, and felt the first pangs. Sammy. How long it
had been since he'd hugged him for no reason, told him he loved him,
took him for a night out at the arcade, or whatever. Kid stuff. Boy
stuff. Sammy stuff, and that vague, vague unfinished feeling. Im-
possible to catch, but cutting deep.

Made him need, made him angry. "Oh, but David, there is no *us*
anymore, is there? Just you. All alone."

Crushing pressure on his throat, suddenly removed. David's laughter.

"You know, the best part of this is that you're going to feel so
*foolish* once it's all said and done."

Flash of the demon and the bite came too fast to catalog. Silver shocking
pain at his throat once, then again, and then on his chest, and the awful,
awful pull of it and David's hand in his jeans and whipping his head and
the splash bright droplets of blood on the floor and his cock, oh his cock
had been. So hard.

And it had struck, one tiny flash of insight just before everything
changed -- there was nothing that could stop him from coming, nothing that
could stop David from killing him a little, and nothing. Nothing he *would*
do to stop it because it was inevitable.

Hard-veined wrist at his mouth, leaking cool and thick and salt-metal,
fucking his mouth with itself, spreading and coating and yes, he sucked.
Hard and long, and one tiny flick of David's thumbnail over the head of his
cock and he'd sucked harder. Much harder, take and take and take while he
spilled over David's hand.

And then that night, into the morning when David became as slow and
liquid as Michael felt. Poison in his veins, swimming acid feel of the world,
the *ground* as something optional and David's cock as something
necessary. Had only done it once before. His father's immediate superior.

Younger than his Dad, receding hairline. Soft blond curls leading under
silk boxers. On his knees in the garage.

On his back on the damp, delicious-smelling carpet. Dog off to the side,
lapping at the evidence and David kneeling above him, guiding a thick
too-pale cock right into Michael's mouth. Again, and again, until Michael
learned. The fuck then, fast enough, hard enough. Made him feel open all
over. Maybe the blood-loss.

Moaning around David's cock, swallowing convulsively and hard as a
fucking rock *again*.

No surprise to hear David moaning blasphemous pleas and curses, to be
flipped over on his belly, ass yanked up and spat on and smeared with what
Michael knew to be his own blood and impaled. Pinned like a bug on a board,
with all the burning and all the need and David slapping his hand away
from his cock and.


In and in and in, slipping in and out of consciousness, cold and shivery
and nipples chafed into the carpet and it's like surfacing. Tiny gasps for
air and light and white-hot pleasure and then down into the deep again.
Where it was warm and quiet and David's cock had always been inside him
and Michael's blood had always been so scattered.

On and on and coming sends him under for real, still with the impossible
feel of being filled, over and over.


The clank of metal woke him, and so it had really begun. Chained in the
cool dark of Max's old bedroom, watched faithfully by the dog alone
until whenever David chose to visit.

With a victim.

And the last, unspoken choice was ripped away before Michael had
even fully formed it in his mind -- eventually, he would feed, and forever
become a vampire. There was nothing he could do but prowl his limited
space in the rapidly souring room and wait for it to happen. Think his
thoughts, and watch the way David fed.

Ruthless and fast at first. Slower and more (merciful) cruel as the
days passed and Michael started to strain, just a little, at his chains.
Trying to tell himself it was only to get away. And then David would
come closer. Pin them down, maybe make them come. Stink of sex and
need on the air with all the stale blood and everything Michael's still
mostly-human body could provide.

Bring them closer, just out of reach before killing, and letting the
blood seep into the carpeting, spread to where Michael strained
and strained and lapped at it. Sucked on the nap of the carpet and
humped the floor and then David dragged a boy into the room. Young.
Brown-hair cut short. Eyes wide and... knowing.

"Laddie." And Michael hadn't recognized his own voice but it hadn't
mattered because. Because this was the boy who had kept a hold
on Star who had kept a hold on him and this *boy* now only, purely,
wonderfully *meat*.

And Michael had torn his own chains out of the wall, shifting into the
demon within and torn the boy apart.

And demanded more.

Michael shakes himself out of it, looks down on their little trick.
David, encased in leather, had been strong enough and armored
enough to kick the crosses into a pile just to the left of the door
without being seen.

Fast enough to light the fire that would finally bring the boys out, one
way or another.

The fire is still building. Still slow and small, but there's something
in Michael now that *knows* fire. Deep, old enemy, just on the edge of
flaring. The roof is not the smartest place to be.

Brief flight to the trees just outside the property line, to the box
stashed in the crotch of a few branches. Molotov cocktails and some
fireworks, too. Just for the hell of it.

And when the fire blooms it's something magnificent. Huge and unreal,
the boogieman come to life and working for *them* and the boys come
out armed and terrified and angry and *hurt*. Wave of emotion stink
coming at him, making him need. Stand-off.


That *voice* and he shivers. "Yes, David?"

"Sometimes you just have to *take* it." And immediately swoops down
on Allen and there's nothing to do but follow. Terrible pain in his
leg as one of the arrows hits home, splash on his chest that would have
burned him hollow had he not had his jacket zipped and, oh, God.

*Sammy* --

Driving him to the ground, the consecrated ground sending waves of
nausea and hate through him and ripping away the water guns, and the
wafers, and the stakes, and the arrows and the clothes and the --

Paused just above Sammy's throat, fangs tickling out a trickle of
blood. Yes.

Oh, yes.

One cuff to the head and Michael takes them up into the trees again.
To rest for a minute. Heal. Hold his brother so close, so limp and
quiet on the outside, flooded with life on the inside. David returns to
his side, briefly hovering, soaked with blood and grinning.

"I told you, Michael. One of *us*."

Runs one stained finger over the line of Sammy's cheek and Michael
moans because yes, he'd said, and this is what and this is. Bends
down and laps away the blood, the salt-sweat and fear from Sammy's
sweet soft skin.

"So beautiful..."

Hard, and so, so hungry and they needed. A new place? No. Back to
the caves, since there was no one who could hunt them there any
more. Quiet, and dim, and familiar to all of them.

A place where Sammy can learn.

"I love you, little brother."

And David's laughter is contagious, and Michael joins in, head back
and throat bared, howling at the sky.


"...In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer--
Not that final meeting
In that twilight kingdom
This is the dead land
This is the cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplications of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.
Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Walking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone..."

   -- from "The Hollow Men" by T.S. Eliot