Actions

Work Header

Family Resemblances: Devils in New York

Summary:

After a near brush with a fate worse than death, John Blaylock finds himself ensconced with other creatures of the night.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Chapter 1: Survival

Chapter Text

He was slumped against the wall, hands trembling, truly afraid for the first time in two centuries. The pinstripe suit that had fit him perfectly less than two days ago hung from his frame like a cloak.

When Miriam finally revealed the cruelest truth of all, the one she had hidden from him from the very beginning, John realized his fate: his body decaying before his fading sight, he would be entombed in a coffin in the attic, helpless, immobile, forgotten--but alive and still cognizant for all eternity.

He had begged her to kill him, and the blood tears she had shed in confessing the truth that she could not, that there was no escape for him, wrung his heart, the heart that, despite her lies, still clove to Miriam. She moved towards him, intent on carrying him to his fate.

Somehow, he rose, his breath short, his body in torment.

"Miriam," he rasped.

Her hand touched his cheek, her surprising gentleness stirring his heart.

"So brave, my darling," she shook her head in sympathy, but with resolution. She moved toward him.

"I read Sarah's report, Miriam."

"Did you? I haven't yet."

"She writes that your blood dominates and destroys normal blood--in a chimp or in a human, at least theoretically."

"I don't understand, John, how does that matter?"

"You never did have time for science, did you, Miriam? It means that the reason I am being devoured from within is that your blood in my system has faded; it's run its course and is no longer motile." A flash of his old grin shone through the cracked lips, the bleak eyes.

She shook her head, perturbed, but not seeing the point he was laboring toward.

"It means that if we exchanged blood again, I might have a second chance, Miriam."

"No," she flinched. John caught her meaning immediately; if he was right, then all of her previous companions had gone into their boxes for naught.

"You weren't to know, my love," he comforted her, taking her hand in his feeble, desiccated one. "But if you act now, you will know!"

"But John, it's a guess--clever, possibly even right--but if you are wrong--who knows what could happen to you?"

"Could it be worse than eternal life without eternal youth? The unending nightmare of the struldbrugs in Swift? True death would be far better, Miriam!"

She mused, even as his heart lurched, and his balance grew more precarious. Finally, she reached a decision.

"Very well, John. We will try."

She helped him resume his seat, and knelt down beside him. She pulled the ankh from between her breasts, removed the jeweled capstone, and cut him, just enough to allow her to press her lips to the wound, and taste the spoiled blood in his veins.

Miriam drew the blade across her left breast, and pulled the ruined man's lips to feed. She cradled him gently, unsure of his fate, but holding him as he drank. When he could drink no more from her, he slumped beside her, and she guided his head to her lap to wait.

Her hands caressed his weathered, barely human-seeming face, as he wept. He murmured his thanks to her, kissed the hands that stroked him, until he suddenly spasmed in obvious agony. As he contorted in her arms, she held him tightly--a fall to the stone floor could shatter his bones--and so Miriam stood vigil over her broken consort, as he twitched, and cried in pain.

The night dragged on, with Miriam preventing him from damaging his already weakened and desiccating frame. She kept vigil over him, waiting for either true death, or the further shattering of his body. Her mind was tormented by the knowledge that Sarah Roberts, whom she had chosen to succeed John, might flee from her, and might be lost to her forever. As the dawn came, John quieted, hiding his face against her skirt, and the white pale flesh beneath. His breathing was stertorous, but consistent. By full daylight, the cries and shuddering had ceased. Unable to know what John's silence meant, Miriam stayed with him, expecting the worst even as the noonday came and went.

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, Miriam felt her thighs held tightly by a pair of arms that had, just last night, seemed fragile as glass. This grip, while not painful to Miriam (as if any of her companions could harm her) alarmed her. Some kind of crisis was clearly at hand.

A sound like a death-rattle echoed from the lips of her consort, and then she felt a familiar sensation, his lips kissing her thigh.

"John?" In all their years together, she had never spoken with such anxiety. In her astonishment, she saw that the hair that had deserted him in his fall had returned, thick and wavy, but the gold was now dulled, mixed with plentiful gray.

The body in her lap turned back to her, and carefully reared up.

The face that met her was one she had never seen. It was clearly John, but older, more fleshy, no longer the chiseled, slim perfection she had loved all these years. But the glint in his eye, the delighted smile, reconciled her to the man he had become.

"It worked," he breathed, "you saved me, Miriam."

"What are you feeling?" She asked.

"Almost normal," he grinned. "Do I--do I have my hair back?"

"You do," she could not help but match his bantering tone. "You look rather like your father," she clarified.

"Gray, paunchy, arrogant?"

"A fair amount of gray, dear," she acknowledged, "and a bit heavier, but alive and well."

He took her in his arms--or she took him--and they kissed.

When the kiss broke, Miriam met his eyes with her firmest gaze.

"Sarah Roberts is more vital to us than ever, John."

"Aye," he replied, a touch of his old accent asserting itself, "We've no idea how long this--grace period--will last. We need her, Miriam."

"And we shall have her John--and soon."

Chapter 2: The Baronet

Summary:

John begins to reestablish himself.

Chapter Text

The door rapped, the bell rang. Neither of these irritants was ceasing, and so John rose from the bed, kissing the still-sleeping Miriam. His own Sleep had been sublime, and he was reassured once again. He quickly wrapped a dressing gown that had always billowed about his torso, only to find that it fit just right--probably the only thing in his closets that would. As he readied himself to answer the door, he spotted another change in himself in the glass--his face was smooth, but the hair above his upper lip had formed a brush mustache rather like his old father's.

He went the door, and opened it, only to find a frenetic Alice still knocking. He breathed a sigh of relief--just yesterday, he had planned to feed on her, but she had not chosen that day to join Miriam and he to practice their newest piece. Not that he could have then--only the day before, she had taken pity on him as an ailing old man.

"Are *you* John's father?" The stress on "you" alerted him; Alice had thought that he was his father, even as his apparent age must have been far more than he looked now.

"Sir John Blaylock," he offered her hand, which she took, and led her into the music room. "You must be Alice Cavender."

"How did you--"

"My son is taking my father for medical treatment. The poor old man's health began to fail him recently. He described you to me--told me what a talented violinist you are."

"*Did* he? He seemed very nice."

"He is, Alice. Of course, John the younger has more musical talent than either of us, though that cello of his was mine when I used to play at Oxford."

"Would you play with me? I want to get it better before Miriam comes down."

John's smile was spontaneous, and he sat down by the antique instrument. The feeling of renewal, of redemption, almost, lit his eyes, as he gently tuned the cello. "Bach's solo cello sonata in G? A nice piece." When he had the cello just so, his eyes met Alice's, he nodded, and they began playing.

In their bedroom, Miriam rose, with her preternatural hearing, she recognized the instruments, and let the music flow over her as she dressed. Violin and cello in counterpoint, each instrument confiding in the other, warmed Miriam's chilly soul. She smiled gently, the return of her lover's musical prowess was a delight.

But, Miriam considered, had she obtained perhaps a superfluity of delights? Though Miriam had chosen Alice to succeed John, and Sarah also to be her consort, to uncover the secrets of Miriam's gifts, and what her blood gave, as well as what it withheld. She needed Sarah, wanted John, and Alice? Had her slow conditioning reached the point when she could be dangerous? Surely not. Perhaps Alice's approaching maturity would still be fresh for her to enjoy--or was it necessary to drop the girl, expel her from Miriam's palace?

Or should Alice remain, served up to serve their need for blood? Her thoughts brought Miriam to a standstill, and only as the last notes softly died, did she enter the music room, gently clapping her hands.

"How was it, Miriam?” Alice jumped up, placed her violin in its stand and ran toward her mentor. "Sir John says I'm very good! Do you think I'm improving?"

"Mais oui," Miriam smiled, and looked closely at the budding girl.

The timing is wrong, she thought. John's reprieve meant that Alice was no longer the right person to join Miriam in the pact of blood. Though Miriam had already moulded the girl to meet her mistress's desires and needs, she might have to let her go...

Alice turned to her partner in the duet, "Thank you, Sir John; I think I understand the bridge better than before."

"Glad to help, Alice."

"You know, your voice really sounds like your son's?"

Miriam's lips tightened, just the slightest bit. Perhaps Alice would have to die, after all. If she realized that John was in fact the man who had only recently been at the point of death, the slightest hint to her parents could be the beginning of her danger--she knew full well that the attic could be mistaken for a morgue, and that the furnace--well, the furnace had enough calcined bones for a large butcher's shop. Respectability, unquestioned, and not infallibility, was their greatest protection.

As the clock chimed the hour, Alice cried out, "Oh, CRUMBS!," seized the violin, snapped it into its case, waved to "Sir John" quickly embraced Miriam, and charged out of the room, and into the streets of New York.

John, laughing gently, met Miriam's eyes, only to lose his smile.

"It's not necessary, Miriam. Truly. We can just let her go, if you don't want her to be with us, my love."

"How can you be sure, John? How many John Blaylocks are there now, Sir John? You, your poor father, and your son? What do we do about so many?"

John snorted, for once impatient with his Goddess. "We'll say they went home," was his laconic answer.

"And Alice?"

"And Alice will never know where they are, all here before you."

He knelt to her, his arms circling her waist. His desire evoked an equal desire in her, and she allowed her own voluminous dressing gown to swirl around him, as he worshipped. Like a statue, she stood above him, savoring his ministrations, while yet being somehow superior, almost inimical, to all around her.

Chapter 3: First Blood

Summary:

Miriam does not tolerate dissent.

Chapter Text

The concert that evening had been one of their best. John's cello was again an extension of his soul. His playing was technically better than it had ever been, as he celebrated and mourned in the wake of ...the thing that had happened.

No, the *things* that had happened.

For the first time since Miriam had shared her dark gift with him, he had angered her.

He had never experienced her cold, inhuman anger before, and he was shocked at the cause; he had tried to spare Alice's life.

But Miriam had reached a contrary decision, without telling him, and when she had thrown the poor child to the floor, and pulled out the blade from her ankh, John had cried out in horror, "Miriam, no!"

Too late. The blade bit deep into the girl's throat, and, when Miriam commanded him to feed, he hesitated.

"You must feed, John, or you will revert," her words brought him to his knees beside her, and he began to lap her blood, even as she moaned "Please help me, Sir John."

There was no help for her, and, for the first time, he wept as he fed.

Miriam and John slaked their red thirst, and John's trembling irritated her mightily. When they had finished, she rose gracefully, and ordered him to strip.

He obeyed, of course, and when he was naked, she walked him to the leather couch, pushing his head until he was bent over.

"Do not move, John," she said tonelessly, "Do not rise from the couch until I give you permission. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Miriam," he answered.

She removed his belt from his discarded trousers, and doubled it into a shorter, heavier strap.

"Be grateful I don't get some of the more traditional implements, John. I may not be so merciful another time."

"Y-yes, Miriam," he stuttered.

"And be silent."

From the very first lash, she was determined to punish, and she lay on with a will, bruising his buttocks, his thighs, and his back.

Miriam's strength was far more than her slim, curved body hinted at; she was stronger than any human, and, for once, her tolerance toward her pet had worn thin. John was strong, of course, but nothing like as strong as his Creatrix, his Goddess, as he so often thought of her. He bore the pain and the humiliation well, until she increased the severity of her blows, striping him anew with each cut of the belt.

He struggled to contain his reaction, as the blows increased, the welts carved in his flesh, even a few cuts almost to blood. He clutched the arm of the sofa desperately, and as she unleashed another fusillade of strikes, he finally groaned in his agony.

Suddenly, she dropped the belt, and threw him to the floor.

"Thank me," she commanded, and, crawling to her, he kissed her feet and ankles, his cheeks caressing her flesh and bone. He found himself sincerely thanking her, groveling and even licking her shoes. She towered over him, silently accepting his veneration, his worship, his submission. When his tears touched her feet, her gaze lost its implacability, and her usual warmth returned. She pushed him away from her with her foot, and ordered him to clean up the mess.

The collection, wrapping, and disposal of poor Alice took some time.

When John returned from the catacomb--still naked--he found her seated on the very couch that had been his pillory. He knelt before her, and she cupped his face in her hands.

"Never, ever dispute with me over prey, John, or companions. I have lived since the time before the pharaohs, and I know what must be done for our good, and those we choose to be with us. You. Must. Obey," she rapped out the last three words in a harsh staccato he had never heard from her. His subdued "yes, Miriam," was accompanied by a kiss to each foot. To his surprise, she ruffled his hair affectionately.

"You're forgiven." He met her eyes, and saw she was smiling. "I must beat you more often, John. I'd forgotten how good it is for us."

"Thank you, Miriam."

"Go dress, and join me in the music room."

He cocked his head in curiosity.

"We must grieve for Alice, my dear. I hated having to take her so, but, she was recognizing you as the man she knew as someone very different. And she needed more years before we could turn her. We will do better with Sarah, John. But tonight we have fed, but must mourn."

He obeyed.

Their concert--two handed now, with Alice--gone--was one of lament and of love. As the sun rose, they finished with Albinoni's Adagio, and retired to bed, and to Sleep.
.

Chapter 4: "Have We At Last A Worthy Opponent?"

Summary:

Miranda and Andy make the scene--it's Fashion Week!

Chapter Text

Miranda Priestly, once blonde but now with ample, snow-white hair, and luminous eyes belying the more rebarbative facets of her character, might be deemed cynical, but a few things could bring her long smothered girlish side to the fore. Fashion Week was one such; the other was tormenting her current assistant, Andrea Sachs. Andy, as she liked people to call her, was a hard worker. A formidably hard worker. So, of course, Miranda loaded her down with more and more tasks until Andy made a mistake.

The first time that happened, it was at the office, so Miranda had limited herself to dressing down Andy verbally, lecturing her on her poor taste in suits and shoes, how they took a potentially impressive young woman and made her look dowdy--and worse, cheap! (Those shoes, Miranda knew immediately, came from Payless. Andy wasn't the only one to have been raked over the coals over cheap footwear in her youth.)

By the time Miranda's tirade had ended, Andy was almost running to the door of Miranda's office.

"Stop," Miranda commanded.

Andy, holding back tears, stopped.

"Turn around," Miranda intoned. Andy, in what she would normally call a cataleptic state, obeyed like an automaton.

Miranda breathed a weary sigh, but the flaring of her nostrils would have alerted Nate to the fact that Ms. Priestly was enjoying herself.

"Come here." Andy did as she was told, a single tear coursing down her cheek. As she approached the sofa on which Miranda gracefully lay, Miranda ordered her to take off her "little girl shoes" and sit with her. As Miranda took up the entire sofa, Andy knelt by her boss.

Miranda took in the younger woman's dark good looks, and stroked her cheek gently, and then guided Andy's head to lay against Miranda's shoulder.

"Shhhhhhhh," Miranda exhaled, bringing Andy in closer to her. "No cheap tears, and no cheap shoes, my girl. You can have a rummage through my extras cabinet and take ...oh, what the hell--take three pairs--two heeled, one flat. And I'll have a few things delivered for you."

Andy was still only semi-recovered from her fright and Miranda's skillful verbal abuse.

"It's all training, sweet girl," Miranda said in her nicest voice, "I want to make something of you, so that your talents will be fully developed."

As Fashion Week drew near this year, Andy remembered that dressing-down from Miranda, and several since then. Miranda knew just how hard to push Andy, and her greatest success was in having Andy move into Miranda's palatial apartment. After two weeks, they shared the bed every night, the younger woman worshipfully pampering Miranda, and organizing her home for her, while Andy received a surprisingly sincere kindness from her boss-cum-lover. Miranda reserved for herself the prerogative of punishing Andy, and set aside one night a week to discipline her lover. Andy had come to relish the discipline, and basked in Miranda's approval at the office, and, most of the time, at home. She had come to realize that Miranda's cruelties were mixed with her kindnesses, and that Miranda loved her, even while enjoying her occasional humiliations.

But it was Fashion Week again, and all of the designers, the old houses and new, all the models--this year's beauties--traipsing around the studio at Varick Street, while more traditionalist attendees grieved for the loss of the Park. The atmosphere of the first day had been curated by Runway itself, and under Miranda's supervision, Andy had transmuted the cobblestones street into a perfect Old World Square, complete with gaslight and horse drawn carriages bringing the myriads of guests.

As Miranda drifted through the guests, receiving their plaudits, and their admiration (or fear--Miranda would occasionally break a promising career, "for the benefit of the others" as she liked to say), she held court, occasionally sipping a bit from her flute glass.

Then her eye landed on an extraordinary woman. Her flawless, almost chiseled, features were severe, almost icy; even her cornflower blue eyes raked over the crowd with an almost contemptuous insolence. The older, slightly heavyset gentleman with her carried himself with the bearing of a nobleman. Miranda cut through the crowd, and approached the couple.

"It's--Miriam, isn't it?"

Miriam Blaylock met her eyes, an enigmatic smile flitted across her features. "Dear Miranda," she greeted the white haired dompteuse of New York, "You've done so well for yourself; You are the reigning monarch of this year." The gentleman, politely, nodded his head to Miranda.

"My husband, Sir John Blaylock," Miriam introduced John, who raised Miranda's hand to his lips, and gently kissed the back of it.

A few sentences were exchanged; Sir John produced a card, bearing the address of the great building Miranda had spent a long-ago, but very memorable night with Miriam. As the Blaylocks continued their course through the crowd, a suddenly protective Andy clasped Miranda's hand, receiving a quick squeeze, and then the almost imperceptible withdrawal of Miranda's hand. Miranda steered Andy in the opposite direction from that the Blaylocks had taken. So shaken was she that she whispered into Andy's ear, "She's dangerous, Andy; I slept with that woman almost thirty years ago--and she hasn't changed a bit."

Andy, out of her league, tried to talk Miranda off her strange opinion about the charming couple, only to surrender when she met the bleakest of Miranda's stares--the one Nate had called her "Abe Vigoda look."

Perhaps more importantly, neither Miriam nor John were limited to the dim spectrum of sounds normal humans are bound to. They heard Miranda quite distinctly. Miriam's icy smile stretched just a little further and John caught her eye. "Have we at last a worthy opponent?" he mused, and Miriam's smile grew icier still.

Chapter 5: Memory

Chapter Text

Miranda Priestly did not scare easily. But her memory of her one night with Miriam raised the fine white hairs at the back of her neck. That Miriam had only toyed with her was the only reason that she was still alive--the older woman's sharp ankh had cut her, not at her throat, as Miriam had initially feigned, but at her left nipple, easily bisecting it. She still remembered Miriam lapping at the wound, biting, even chewing the torn, peaked flesh. Miranda's submission to Miriam had been an admixture of fear--no, terror--and desire. The golden goddess had brought Miranda to her knees, and for the one and only time, the ambitious designer surrendered helplessly, allowing Miriam to cut her right nipple as well.

Her Conqueror alternated slurping the blood from each of her abused breasts, while Miranda shuddered in obedience to Miriam's every desire; she had received a taste of her own blood from her Mistress, cruelly drawn from each breast, savored by Miriam, and released into her own mouth, diluted with Miriam's saliva.

Miranda's back had arched with desperate need, her moans and pleas for Miriam to use her had pleased the vampiress, even as Miriam caressed her cunny, bringing the younger woman to an incredibly obscene--a degrading--orgasm, one that communicated absolute power on Miriam's part, and demanded abject submission from Miranda.

Even in her younger days, Miranda was not one to submit readily. But Miriam used her as though she were her slave, and Miranda obeyed. When, after a long time, they uncoupled, Miriam's wordless smile communicated her expectation. Her mind completely under Miriam's spell, she followed her owner's silent command, knelt down before the Golden Goddess standing before her, and humbly kissed, and then licked, her ankles. In her surrender, she had helplessly groveled to Miriam, and begged for her to use her again. But Miriam had ordered her to dress, to kneel before her again, and to kiss her hand. Miranda's lips obediently kissing Miriam's hand was the end of the matter.

She had been dismissed.

Her sliced nipples had never healed; the bleeding stopped, but the wounds were perpetually visible.

Now, she remembered Miriam's incredible ability to control her thoughts, to know her thoughts, and to bend them to her will. She was, for the first time in decades, truly afraid.

As much as she feared Miriam's power to control her, Miranda's darkest fear was for Andy.

She vowed to protect her girl, whatever the cost.

Chapter 6: Defending Your Queen

Summary:

Miriam desires Andy

Chapter Text

The Night was drawing slowly to an end. It had been a complete success fou for Miranda, and Andy had been singled out for notice by Miranda. The fear that had chilled Miranda to the bone, despite the warm evening had diminished as Miriam and John departed. As Miranda and Andy began to make their way home, Andy cuddled up against Miranda's they took the steps to Miranda's brownstone. Miranda steered her girl into the bedroom, and kissed her with a level of passion that was more than she usually displayed. Andy clung to her boss/Mistress/Lover, and then she screamed.

"Miranda," Miriam drawled, "Where did you find this *adorable* little guttersnipe? She's delicious!"

Before Miranda could do anything, Miriam's lover--Sir John, he'd called himself--was barring the exit.

"Good evening, Miss Priestly," he greeted the shocked woman.

"Don't be afraid," Miriam smiled, "We're not here to hurt you. Well, perhaps a bit."

Miranda Priestly was not easily shaken.

"Why Miriam, what a pleasant surprise. Can I offer you both some wine?"

Miriam, still youthful and forever beautiful, gave Andy a stare that called her, terrified her. In Miriam's eyes, Andy saw her death.

"We never drink," the man said, archly, "wine."

Sir John flicked his eyes to his Mistress--he had learned his lesson in obedience the other day, but his expression was a simulacrum of good manners, not the real thing.

Miriam gazed at Andy, her eyes compelling the young woman to come nearer.

Andy shook her head, but could not release her eyes from Miriam's.

Miranda watched helplessly as Andy took the first step towards Miriam.

"Andy," Miranda calmly intoned. Stay by me, dear." The younger woman's face showed puzzlement, and fear. But she didn't take a second step.

"Sir John," Miranda addressed the less frightening member of this macabre home invasion, "I think you should both go now."

Miriam's smile was cruel, she took a step toward Andy, only to be met by Miranda, blocking Andy's ability to see Miriam.

"And why is that, dear?" Miriam asked.

"You tripped our alarm, Miriam, dear. The police are less than five minutes away." Miranda smiled smugly.

"That's really not like us, Miranda, darling," Miriam began to speak, but John threw her a look, jerked his head, and the sirens were screaming and flashing all around the brownstone.

"Another time, then, Miranda."

John bowed his head, with just the slightest touch of irony. They left the building, and when the police arrived, Miranda, not unlike Miriam and John, had to decide what story to give, and how to survive the night.

Notes:

A tribute to Spelledink, whose kindness and support of my scribblings is deeply appreciated. So, a little visit to their patch of haute couture and menace....