Thirteen Steps -8- The Package
by Valyssia
Transference
[reviews]
Description: Season 8 - I watched an interview some time ago where Joss Whedon refers to this sort of plot line as PWIP. Of course he laughed... Put Willow In Peril - not - Plot What Plot - or even better - Porn Without Plot. The point of the exercise for me though was ultimately to discuss comfort. What does it take to find it? And how the hell do we keep it? And yes, my Buffy kicks ass...
Author's Note: I changed the rating to NC-17 so as not to offend, but the bulk of this story is really more like 15. There are minor bits of nudity and a small amount of violence up until the part that's clearly labeled as NC-17. As I note in the text at the end of the final chapter. I pulled the sex scene because the story plainly worked better without it. I added it in here as an after thought, because...well...it's a pretty hot scene and some folks like that. ;)
Disclaimer: Buffy, Willow and all things Slayer belong to Joss Whedon and the good folks at Mutant Enemy.
Feedback: Any and all reviews will be welcomed. Feel absolutely free to tell me just how much you think I...ummm...errr...inhale sharply.
1623 Nova Scotia
Sunset was drawing the day to a close as the crew of a merchant ship Hadrin made ready to sail. There was a calm breeze blowing off the Atlantic as the feverishly tried to load the remainder of their cargo.
"Funny little men come to me shores..." Witiko growled from his perch in the shadows near the base of a great oak tree. "They not see Witiko... he see dem... he watch... Oh... Him...dere...so pretty...stinks of death...perfect one..." He was intoxicated by the perfume, fixed on his prey. "That one is mine..." He began to skirt the edge of the forest, moving closer to where the ship was moored, tracking the scent of blood on the young man. "The sun does burn Witiko...worth the price he is... Witiko hides..." he shuddered and recoiled as his body met the daylight and began to sear.
"De Capin be wantin' to make sail in de hour. Best ye get movin' dat freight!" called out the voice of First Mate, Edward Calder.
"Aye... We be doin' da bes' we might," replied Cullen McCoy in a harsh voice as he hoisted a crate onto a skiff with a fellow crewman.
"Cullen me pretty... Cullen ...ye will soon be with me... Me good, beautiful son," he cooed as he slipped easily into a crate through the cracks in the boards. "Witiko hides... He waits... You not see..."
Witiko felt himself being lifted onto a skiff and fell into a deep sleep to the gentle rocking of the waves.
Waking many hours later in the dead of night Witiko stretched. Slipping from the crate, he cried, "Cullen ... Oh, Cullen..." His voice, barely above a whisper; sounded with the wind. Witiko moved from the hold to the deck of the great ship, taking care to stay in the shadows, repeating the sound of the name.
"Eh?" Cullen stirred, "Who dere be callin' me name?" he asked in a whisper rising from his bunk. At a hurried pace, but careful not to wake his mates, he made ready to go investigate the strange sound. He crept to the main deck reckoning that that was where the noise was at its loudest. On deck he saw movement from the corner of his eye. He recoiled as he turned his gaze toward the shadows.
"What be...?" Cullen queried as he stood dumbstruck momentarily by the vision of death. Me eyes must be playin' tricks, he thought, squinting to clear them. Still faced with the same image, he was captivated by the grizzly appearance of the thing he saw. The profile was of a naked man, long dead of starvation, black hair hung in great matted locks from the creature's head, partially covering the large yellow eyes that seemed to protrude and glisten in the moonlight. Its gray pockmarked skin draped from bones like parent's clothing on the body of a child. Its nose was mashed nearly flat against its skull, which jutted out forming a great, gaping maw full of jagged, misshapen teeth. Saliva strung from its short lower jaw and ran onto the creature's dirty, bare chest. The long fingers of its hands were hooked into great claws. As the thing turned to face him, it disappeared.
By the time he managed to command his legs to run, it was too late. He felt a vicious bite and he fell to the ground paralyzed, trying to scream.
"Be still me son... Witiko takes you... We hides..." whispered the windy, detached voice.
Cullen felt himself moving, but there was nothing he could do. He was dying. He knew it through every fiber of his being. He was too parched to cry out; his voice wouldn't work. Like a rag doll, he was sliding into the shadows of the hold. As far as he could reason in his altered state, the thing that was pulling him was nothing. He was damned and going to hell for his crimes.
Repenting...pleading... Oh, God! I be a simple man... A man who be wronged... Please be forgivin' me fer failin' ye... Cullen prayed as he became increasingly aware of the hunger...a hunger that he knew would consume him. His senses sharpened. He could smell the crew of the great ship: They smelled like food.
"That's right me son... Ye will understand... We'll be t'gether forever, soon enough..." Witiko cooed.
The Hadrin ran ashore several weeks later north of Glasgow. There was no sign of her crew.