LIfe in an Alien Land 3: Minor Household Gods

Thanks to Jilliane for her hard work in red-mousing this chapter.

Life 3 MHG ch 3

Gods and Monsters

Giuseppe Sanguini, or as he was known in his days as a London street urchin, Joseph Reddy, was tired of being the mysterious, vampiric antihero, a.k.a. the world’s gothic wet dream. There had been a time when his kind had been feared, respected, desired. Those were the good old days however, before Sanguini’s sire had sold out and gone to America to advise a Hollywood film-maker. One who wanted a real vampire’s input on a television show, about a vampire slayer, of all things. It was also before Sanguini had outlived almost everyone he knew, most killed by the church, a few put to death by the Ministry, and more than a few killed during the wolf’s siege on London. But what Sanguini missed most about the old days was the fresh feed, a mode of gustative pleasure now denied his kind in this land of brie and garlic, and in most lands, if he were honest about it. In this new land, his kind was forced to feed out of bags as if they were those Muggle astronauts with their powdered orange-drink and their tubes of processed meat-product. Sanguini longed for the more feudal days of old, when a good blood slave could be had for a pittance, and the practice was not frowned on because of the rights of the individual. Rousseau had not been very good for the French aristocracy, or native vampires, the damned poncy poof. Sanguini should have killed him when he had the chance, before he wrote his wine-addled manifestoes.

And, these foppish French vampires still enforced the laws enacted under the false flag of liberté, égalité, fraternité. Citizen Robespierre, the architect of the French Vampire Accord, had been more vicious than any of the creatures he attempted to rule. Was it any wonder that he was a victim of his own mistress, Madame Guillotine? Sanguini’s mind turned to his more free wheeling English vampires. They had clashed with the gendarmerie du sang, one of Citizen Robespierre’s innovations, on several occasions, and each time the groups met the fights had become more violent. Sanguini feared they would need to flee once again, or be crushed.

He stirred from his reverie as a young, hard-eyed blonde girl passed his hiding spot in the alleyway. She shivered slightly, and Sanguini caught her intoxicating live scent under the layers of funk, spunk, and cheap cologne. She was one of the many sex industry workers who found her nightly employment on the alleyways of La Place Pigalle; a common street whore who would willingly rent her sexual organs for a quick fuck, but not her blood. Sanguini licked the air in front of him, his teeth lengthening as the Jacobson’s organ reacted to her delicious heat. She strode out of his line of sight, leaving him to the painful task of retracting the blasted canines without blood and flesh to grease the way.

Sanguini still could not fathom how his three hundred years of cunning had culminated in this bloodless emasculation. Worse yet, now he had to put up with stupid Muggle children in their white face paint, black garb, and plastic teeth. All of that paraphernalia was worn in an effort to emulate their favourite fanged literary character who, incidentally, resembled no vampire who had survived their infancy. Flamboyance, in the old days, meant death. Idiots.

Having had enough pointless mental manipulation for one evening, and seeing none of his tribe out catching a midnight snack, Sanguini sighed. It was not an easy feat when he did not actually draw breath, and an activity in which he took particular pride. He faded into mist, recollecting himself in the Coven’s warehouse. They had rented it from a Salvadoran expat who was attempting to become the controlling source of cocaine in Paris. In that special tit-for-tat relationship that all fringe elements seemed to utilise, Sanguini had received the loft for a song and no questions, in exchange for certain compulsions on el jefe's future partners which only vampires could provide.

Sweet Jesu’s blistering balls! These younger generations of vamps were a noisome herd of swine, Sanguini thought as he dodged the empty blood bags, the used syringes rimed with both blood and their deadly contents, and the occasional, mostly desiccated, guanine-smelling faecal matter of his tribe.

Sanguni shouted to the more than likely empty building, “We have toilets and rubbish bins for a reason, people! Use them!”

He fucking hated his sodding life. The bloom had faded from the rose long before he had take charge of the Coven. His life before the last war had been a fucking industry, with book tours, wireless spots, and the occasional party, before that had been long years of solitude. Sanguini, in his previous incarnation as Joseph Reddy, had been one of a throng of street children in a city teeming with both life and death, with both valued cheaply. It was in that quiet, almost monk-like existence, that Sanguini had been born.

When he had taken over the Coven in the late sixties, he had battled the trend towards overpopulation that still affected the Muggle world so much. Sanguini, during his travels, had learned the relationship of predator and prey, and had brought his messages to the masses. Not that this current batch of wastrels was any indication, but then he had never failed them so utterly before. He needed the one that had been prophesied. He would become a rallying point for them all.

He kicked a pile of rags out of his path, sending rats and other vermin scurrying and squeaking. Fucking hell. He would blast all of these cankerous whores with a Lumos that held the strength of the sun and be done with the lot...

“Bad night, Darling?” Sanguini’s latest paramour seemed to appear from the night, her form leaning gracefully against an indecorously graffitoed wall. Her black hair and pale skin were a perfect complement to his golden looks, or at least he thought they were, from what he remembered of himself. He had not been able to see himself since the late 1680’s.

Sanguini lifted his eyes to her. Her flawless features held her usual ironically lifted brow and a quirking humour around her mouth. She was Sanguini’s most promising progeny, and his latest. She had, unlike the slatterns he commanded, lived her life with grace and met her death with dignity. She was a pureblood witch from an outstanding background, with a barbed wit that suited Sanguini’s taste. He did not deserve her.

Perhaps if the others in the Coven had been more mature before they were Made, they would not feel the need to seek whatever it was they did in the drugs. Perhaps, but Sanguini knew better. He had been turned as a youth. He had been suckled on the rum-soaked tit of his mother, and his father’s equally inebriated hand had beaten him, until he escaped to the quick oblivion of the street. His magic he had picked up from street mages and Squibs, and his wand had been purchased for him after his death. During his life, he had been illiterate, uncouth, unwashed, and headed for the gallows. The night he was Made, the veil had been torn from his eyes and he had seen himself for what he was. The niggling voice in his head, the one that urged him to curb his more vicious nature, the one that had made him a monk for almost a century...that one!... whispered that Joseph Reddy had been little more than a feral animal in his infancy.

He really should do something about that annoying voice.

“Andromeda, call the Coven for me. I fear I would harm them if I did it,” he commanded. His tone was modulated, calculated and cold, laced with calmness that he did not feel. His emotions had been all over the place since the prophetic dreams had begun a few months ago. Vampires never dreamed. He watched as she closed her eyes, and made the Call. She was so lovely, so fresh. She could do better than a jaded, expatriate Coven leader who could not control his tribe.

She glided to him, inclining her head in that way she had that made him want to fuck her and stake her all at once. She was such an exasperating thing. She kissed his lips, a mere ghosting of skin against skin, before she announced, “They have been Called. Do you want dinner?”

“Yes, but heat it with magic. I hate the taste of those microwaves. They are vile.” He heard her low chuckle as he retreated to his throne, the only piece he had carried under the channel, the symbol of his life.

He watched her progress as she went to the walk-in cooler and returned with a bag, wand drawn. “You know you can’t taste microwaves anymore than you can taste radio waves or magic. You simply enjoy having me fuss over you,” she chided.

She sat on the ornate arm of the chair as she handed him the warmed bag. He bit into it, hating the taste of the anticoagulant agents and the chemical preservatives, but glad that she had remembered to bring his favourite type, O positive. His name may have changed, but Sanguini’s appetites had remained disgustingly plebeian.

“How is the boy this evening?” Sanguini asked after a long moment.

Andromeda stiffened. “Why do you ask if you don’t care what my answer is? He needs his mother...”

“Ah, yes, our usual argument. How many times do I have to explain this to you, my dear? We need the boy as leverage. His mother, your daughter, married the head bloody Death Eater!” Sanguini attempted to keep the buzzing irritation out of his voice. He could almost see the wheels turning in her mind, the one that would argue that all they needed was to ask, that wizards (even Malfoy!) were honourable, that the person in question would willingly sacrifice his humanity for the greater good. Bollocks! He tested the strength of the Compulsion she felt because he was her sire. It held, and would for a few more years, but it was weakening. He might have to bolster it with a few charms. It would not do for his headstrong sorceress to form plans of her own.

“We cannot trust humans, my love. The sooner you learn this, the better,” he finally hissed in frustration. The first of the Coven arrived in a swirl of mist. Sanguini said, “Take yourself to my chambers. I will have need of you after this meeting.”
She complied, but with a show of hauteur so like her whore of a sister’s that he was momentarily unsettled. Yes, Sanguini had known Bellatrix Black. She had been gifted to him by little Tommy Riddle during the first war, to sweeten the pot when the
self-proclaimed Dark Lord had been actively courting the Vampire clan. Bellatrix’s had had the taint of madness already, and her body had been showing the depredations of syphilis even then. Sanguini had sent her back untouched. He would have done better renting a thousand back alley whores than bedding the Dark Lord’s gift.

&*&*&

The day had started out as it had intended to stay. Ron had woken up late, barely had time to run a brush over his teeth and a comb through his shaggy, unwashed hair, then catch a quick breakfast of the dog that had bitten him the night before. He could shake neither the hangover nor the dream he'd had just before he woke. Ron returned to his bed and kicked it to rouse the Muggle he had brought home from the pub. He couldn’t remember much of what happened between them. From the bloke’s state of undress, the bruises dotting his hips, and the red bum he sported, Ron could guess. The bloke stirred, his voice slurring as he answered, “Whut, love. You want more?”

“You need to leave,” Ron said over the pounding of his head. He could have been nicer, he supposed.

The bloke sat up, his state of readiness becoming apparent as he did. He stroked his hand over his cock and pouted, “That’s no way to speak to a lady. Come back and make it up to me.”

Ron gathered the Muggle clothes that had been strewn about the room the evening before and thrust them into the bloke’s chest. “Get the fuck out before I throw you out bare arsed.”

“Fine.” The bloke slammed his feet down on the floor and began donning his clothes, mostly black and leather. “You weren’t that good anyway. I wouldn’t have gotten off if I hadn’t handled it myself.”

Ron remained impassive as he kneaded the pain in his gut, his hand under his shirt The bloke stalked to the door, his waistcoat open and his feet bare. “You’re just like everyone said you were. You’re dead inside!”

“Yeah, mate, I am,” Ron answered as the door slammed shut, knocking a picture of Harry, Ron and Hermione off the wall. The glass on the picture had broken, rending the image in two pieces; Harry and Hermione on one side, Ron on the other. It was apt. He stared down at it for a moment before placing it on a rickety table and scooting the shards out of the way with his booted foot. He’d take care of the glass later.

He made his way to the street, where he lifted his wand to catch the Knight Bus. He didn’t trust his Apparation skills anymore, not since he had almost splinched himself a few weeks prior. The more he drank, the more unstable his magic became.

The bus ride, and to be honest, Stan Shunpike’s spotty face, made him nauseous. He couldn’t remember a time when it ever had before, but he had never been less than half-pissed when he had taken it, and he'd never had a hangover. He’d have to take care of it when he reached the shop. Fred was known to overindulge himself, and Ron knew where his stash of Hangover Cure was. He felt in his back pocket for the flask he usually carried, and cursed as he realised he had slipped it into the wrong trousers that morning. He’d have to buy some Firewhisky at the Leaky Cauldron before he went to work.

The bus lurched to a stop, letting off a hag and her familiar, as a bloke with a stick so far up his arse he probably spat splinters, climbed on. The man went to the top of the bus after he sneered at Ron’s unkempt appearance. Well, he could sod off for all that Ron cared. Ron pulled a face as the bus rocketed to a start, and then just as suddenly stopped as it pulled up to the blackened façade of the Leaky Cauldron.

Ron rose unsteadily, the nausea turning once again to the strange burning pain he was getting used to. He made it to the doorway before he vomited, bringing up mostly yellow bile with a bit of black granules in the centre. Once inside, he purchased his fifth of whisky from Tom’s daughter and made it to the secret entryway to Diagon Alley before he took a sip to ease the pain in his belly.

Fred was working in the shop, going over the ledger, his mouth set in a grim line. Without looking up he said, “You’re late. You were supposed to open up today. There were customers waiting when I got here.”

“Yeah, wasn’t feeling well this morning,” Ron mumbled. “It won’t happen again.”

“That’s what you said last time, little brother, and the time before that.” Fred blew on the ink of the register before shutting it with a resounding clap. “We’re worried about you, Ron. This isn’t like you...”

“Just leave off, Fred. I said it wouldn’t happen again, and it won’t,” Ron answered through clenched teeth as he stalked to the store room. He was supposed to complete the inventory today, and he damned well would. He’d show Fred that he could pull his own weight.

&*&*&

Lunch couldn't come soon enough for Ron. How in bloody hell could he have forgotten that it was the 31st of August and that all the little brats would be clamouring for their last minute contraband to take on the train? He hadn't had time to sit down, much less nip off to the back room for a little fortification. When he'd noticed the time, at half two, Fred waved him on as he moved to wait on a frazzled witch and her two holy terrors, cautioning him absently to come back on the hour.

The first stop Ron made was to a little pub in Knockturn Ally, one he was intimately acquainted with, where he could get anything he wanted, with discretion, for a price. He sat back in the booth with his bottle of Firewisky and a pint in front of him. A slouching bar maid, who looked to be about half hag, eyed him, no doubt wondering how hard up he was for company. He closed his eyes as he slammed back the whisky, deciding that the pint was just for show. Images from the dream he'd had the night before flitted across the black screen of his mind. The man was there, searching for something that only Ron could provide. Ron backed away from him, at once dreading what he offered, and longing for the cool comfort of that oblivion. The man had, at one point, backed him against the wall, his pale skin glowing with health, his blue eyes darkened with desire. The man began talking, putting into words unspeakable horrors and delights. Ron fought, but didn't know if it was to reject the man, or pull him to him. He wanted to be both devourer and consumer as the man spun his twisted tales. Then the dream had ended, as they all did, with the man taking him in the way he had been raped in the Colony; breached with fingers and cock. Ron's reaction was shameful as he bucked with abandon against the man who violated him, his own cock impossibly hard.

Ron had awoken in a sweat, reaching out to the body in the bed next to him, ploughing into him with no preparation but the leavings of the last time he had taken him. The flavour of the evening had squirmed underneath him and had begged for more than what Ron could ever give. Ron had finished with a grunt and rolled over, listening to his conquest fall back into slumber, jealous that he could not achieve the same state of oblivion.

The clock in the bar struck the time and Ron rose, sliding a few Knuts onto the table as he left. He made his way unsteadily back to the shop, only to be arrested by the sight of a ghost.

Draco Malfoy's ghost was leaning against a building. He had changed in the time since he'd died. Ron always thought that ghosts remained the same. Hadn't the Bloody Baron worn the blood of the Grey Lady after he killed her and joined her in death? Didn't Sir Nicholas still wear what he was executed in, even four centuries later? Malfoy's ghost had aged, was leaner and his hair wasn't long like his cursed father's. The spectre finally looked at him out of the corner of his eye, a cautious kind of look from the undead.

Ron said, in dry-mouthed terror, "You're a ghost. You're not really here, just a bit of light and spirit."

"Move along. You're causing a scene." Malfoy's ghost still had that posh tone, still rankled Ron with his high and mighty ways. He was the reason Ron could not have Hermione. He was the reason his sister was with Snape. Ron wanted to smash the man's ghost, rough him up and then show him who was the better man.

Fred touched Ron on his back, saying, "Ron, let's go back to the shop. You can sleep it off and I'll send you to the Burrow later."

"Naw, 's' Malfoy's ghost," Ron slurred as he pulled away from his brother. "M'I t'only one that sees him?"

An old woman answered, "It is young Malfoy, he looks just like his father, but he's no ghost."

"I don't know what you're talking about. My name is Avery. Drew Avery," Malfoy lied. Ron pushed forward, wanting to do some damage to the bastard to stop this nightmare visitation from happening.

"Malfoy..." Fred said as a stout woman hurried to Malfoy/not Malfoy's side.

She barked, "Move along, all of you. Drew, we're ready to leave if you are."

Ron watched them leave, weaving as Fred placed a steadying hand on his back. Ron growled, "Leave off, Fred. Just don't touch me."

The rest of the day went by in a haze of swirling colours and alcoholic fear.


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