Otherworlds: Chapter Five

Pairing(s): George/ Nina, possible Mitchell/ Annie later.
Rating: M for swearing and violence. If you can watch the show, you can read this.
Disclaimer: All I own is the story. The characters belong to BBC Three and Toby Whithouse.
Summary: Mitchell, George and Nina know that getting Annie won't be easy, but when confronted by their own feelings, their own secrets and the strange wonders of the world, they aren't so sure if Annie should come back.
Author's notes: This is still a work in progress. More chapters to come.

Chapter Five: Mitchell II.

As Mitchell walked in, brushing water off himself, he saw Nina sitting at the table, hunched over a newspaper. She looked angry and upset. He had been about to shut himself in his room for the rest of the night, but he remembered his earlier resolution of trying to put her at ease. Perhaps she'd had a fight with George? Reluctantly, he stopped, waiting to see if she'd give him an explanation.

When Nina spoke, her voice was tight with barely controlled anger.

"Apparently Herrick is back," she said and looked up, holding Mitchell's gaze. "Did you know anything about that?"

So it had worked. Daisy and Cara had succeeded. Mitchell kept his face blank and didn't reply.

Nina nodded, clearly disgusted, as the condemning silence stretched on. He eventually broke it. "How did you find out?"

Nina scowled at him. "I saw Sarah today. She does work for the London vampires. Apparently two female vampires turned up with Herrick. Seems Herrick is a bit mental."

That wasn't much of a surprise. He'd told Daisy to expect that and manage it as best she could until he met up with her. Of course, since George had hidden them, he hadn't gone to the designated spot. For some stupid reason, she'd obviously thought that going to London would be a good idea. The London vampires. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"One of them said they had a hand in the train killings," Nina added icily and threw the newspaper at him.

He blinked, drawing back slightly as it glanced off his face. He looked down at the pages. There was a memorial article for the 'Box Tunnel Twenty'. He stared down at the faces, remembering their screams of terror, and his mouth watered as he remembered how their fear had sharpened the taste of their blood.

"Did you even know their names?" she demanded furiously. "Did you even bother to find out afterwards?"

For some perverse reason, Mitchell decided to answer her.

"No. I didn't."

Nina stared at him with disbelieving eyes and Mitchell felt sorry for her. She had no idea what vampires were really like. Granted with the realisation that he'd committed these murders and the butchery he'd committed at the facility had given her a frightening insight, but that was different. That was out of anger. A vampire was much stealthier, more cunning, and far crueller, when it was circling its prey. Few predators made their prey trust them before going in for the kill.

"I don't care if she is connected to you somehow," she snarled, tears beginning to roll down her cheeks. "Annie deserves better than you."

Mitchell didn't know what she was talking about, but he agreed wholeheartedly with the latter part of her statement.

Nina sniffled, swiping furiously at her eyes. He felt the fire in his chest begin to rage and he gritted his teeth against the pain.

After a few minutes, Nina had calmed herself. She drew a breath and looked up at him.

"I'm not going to tell George," she said firmly. "But I think you should. After all he's done for you, I think you at least owe him the truth."

Nina went upstairs. He turned around and walked outside again. He could smell Lucy's dried blood in the pavement cracks.

George was just getting out of the car. Mitchell was about to bolt when George looked up and saw him.

"Where you off to Mitchell?" he said cheerily. He'd been shopping, bags of groceries were in the passenger seat. "I thought I might make lasagne for dinner."

"Sounds good," Mitchell said, not terribly interested in food at the moment. "Nina saw Sarah today."

"Oh good, maybe she mentioned what sort of roast we're having." George pulled out a bottle of wine. "Red wine goes well with a roast doesn't it?"

Mitchell forced a smile. "Sure. Why not?" He reached for a bag. "Here. I'll get that."

George relinquished a few bags to Mitchell and headed towards the kitchen, Mitchell trailing behind him miserably.

Inside, George unpacked groceries and began to organise the ingredients for the lasagne. Mitchell watched him set water on the stove to boil and groaned inwardly when George ordered him to make sure it didn't spill over when it boiled. If he stayed now, he'd be made to chop vegetables or stir sauce or something and then be expected to sit and eat it.

"Right, when it boils, put the pasta in. Make sure it doesn't go soggy," George instructed sternly. "I'm going up to find Nina. Now keep an eye on it!"

Mitchell obeyed, glaring at the pot of water. Weren't you meant to put salt in boiling water when making pasta? Did George expect him to do that? Was he meant to? He hadn't seen George put any salt in, but his back had been turned for a minute while he'd put the milk away. He scanned the bench top. When cooking, George always lined up the ingredients in the order they were to be used. The salt was beside the flour. Did that mean he'd already used it?

Mitchell was perfectly aware that he was using this stupid pasta literary to keep his mind off what he should say to George. It was working.

He decided that if there was salt in the water, a tiny bit more would hurt. He put the lasagne noodle sheets in, taking care not to break them. When was the last time he'd cooked? Probably months ago. He was more of a take-out food guy, pizza being the preference. Initially, George had tried to have a cooking roster, but after several take-away meals on Mitchell's 'cooking nights', he gave up and cooked for both of them.

Probably for the best. Despite enjoying many cooking shows over the decades, particularly Nigella Lawson, Mitchell wasn't a great cook. Whenever this was pointed out to him, he got defensive, insisting that he could indeed cook, he was just too lazy to do so.

George came back into the kitchen. "Mitchell!"

He looked up. Had Nina said something after all?

George made a beeline for the pot on the stove. "I told you to make sure the pasta didn't go soggy!"

Mitchell glanced down at the pot. "Looks fine to me."

George sighed and shook his head, pushing Mitchell out of the way.

Mitchell hung around while George prepared the lasagne. While George rattled on about his day, Mitchell tried to work up the nerve to come clean about his actions.

A part of him wanted to tell George everything. In the few years they'd been friends, George had overlooked Mitchell's various fuckups because he'd thought that Mitchell had been trying to control himself. Had being the operative word.

Why haven't you asked me?

Asked you what?

About what happened before I left the house. About what I did in the facility.

I don't want to know. Um, I don't want to look at you and think... I can't be your confessor Mitchell, I can't, not now. I need you too much.

George might be able to overlook the people Mitchell had killed at the facility, justifying it somehow, maybe thinking of them as the bad guys. But he would not be able to overlook the people who had died on the train. He would not overlook the people that would be killed when Herrick broke free.

"Nina says that Sarah is going to try and contact a water spirit tomorrow. She might be able to help us get Annie back," George said, a big smile on his face. That got Mitchell's attention.

"Do you think it will work?"

George considered. "I hope so." Then he frowned. "Sarah said that Annie is probably in limbo and needs to let go so she can move on."

Mitchell stared at the countertop. He didn't want to talk about this. If Annie was in limbo, then she was gone. Nothing could bring her back.

Mitchell suddenly wondered what it was about George and Annie that made him want to keep them around so badly. He wanted George's approval and respect. He wanted Annie's love and infectious happiness. In all his long years, he'd seldom had friends that he could tolerate for long. He could probably count them on one hand.

"Do you think Annie should move on?"

No. I want her to stay with me, Mitchell thought miserably, but he didn't say anything. He shrugged.

George glanced at him. "I guess it's important for us to remember that she's dead. She's meant to... move on."

"I'm dead."

"You're a vampire."

Mitchell fiddled with a knife. "Maybe not everyone is meant to move on." He glanced at his wrist, studying the pale blue vein just below the skin. God, he was so hungry. Probably a good thing he was living with two werewolves. The scent of their blood wasn't particularly appetising. After such a blood filled frenzy, it was agonising not being able to feed.

George reached over and took the knife off him, giving him a look that was both wary and disapproving.

Maybe I can get away without having to tell George what I did. I'll just say I want to leave. He'll be a bit hurt, but he won't protest. Then I can sort Herrick and the London crew out. Won't upset George that way.

"Mitchell?"

His head snapped up. "What?"

"I said, did you want to come tomorrow?"

He didn't particularly want to go. When he'd set foot in that stupid magic shop, he'd known that Sarah had a touch of the supernatural about her. He hadn't cared to figure out what, just tried to see what books might be useful. But it was mostly general new age crap.

Then George had bounded in last night, declaring that Sarah was telekinetic and spoke with spirits, Mitchell had felt a flicker of alarm. Spirit Conduits had once been widely prized by vampire groups; they were incredibly useful allies. Foes could be stealthily dealt with, suitable locations for feeding revealed. But as times changed, they weren't used as much, though the more traditionalist vampires still kept them on the books.

Spirits. He'd spent enough time with the Old Ones to learn something about how the spirit world worked. Dangerous, helpful, caring, mischievous, evil, good; it was near impossible to control them. But he'd told Cara and Daisy how to attract them.

"I guess so," he said reluctantly. "But I'm not hoping for much."

"Well, it's better for you to get out and stop moping around here," George said briskly, putting the lasagne in the oven. He had to kick the oven door a few times to make it close. Having conquered the oven door, he immediately began cleaning up the small mess he'd created.

Mitchell felt a little irritated. Despite knowing that it was difficult, George clearly had no idea just how hard it was for him to do this. George might only be a predator once a month, but he was one all the time. Not drinking, not killing...

Nina came into the kitchen, rubbing her hair dry with a towel. Mitchell pulled away from the bench, uneasy, but she didn't look at him. She was smiling up at George, who smiled back, drawing her close to kiss her. Mitchell felt a fierce pang of jealousy.

Was there anything you said to me, anything you did, that wasn't a lie?

I had to win your confidence.

We had sex.

I had to win your confidence.

How ironic that the woman he'd thought he could be with had been the one that tipped him, no, threw him, over the edge of sanity. His toes were constantly hanging over, true, but her insidiousness had sent him spiralling down into a blood filled hell. He reached for an empty coffee mug without even realising it, drawing comfort from the feel of the ceramic in his hands.

It suddenly hit Mitchell that George actually seemed happy tonight. Was it because of this lunch tomorrow? He paid closer attention to what George was saying to Nina. He was babbling on about Sarah. Like she was a friend already.

For one treacherous second, he thought that George might be latching on to Sarah as a sort of replacement for Annie.

He knew better though, having long figured this out when he'd first met George. George was more at ease with other supernatural creatures than he was with humans because they already knew. He didn't have to hide with them. It was why he and Mitchell had bonded in the first place.

He set the cup down. "I'm going out."

"But... don't you want any dinner?" George said, a little hurt.

He paused by the door, glancing over his shoulder. "Uh... leave some in the fridge for me. I'll heat it up when I get back."

George nodded grudgingly, turning away. Nina rubbed his arm, comforting him over the latest rebuff. Mitchell felt the smallest pang of regret, but it passed quickly. He strode out into the night.

The forest was dark, the tall trees nearly blotting out the pale moonlight, only a few scarce patches managed to break through. Not that it mattered; he could see just fine. How he had missed the heightened vision that came with blood drinking! The effects still lingered in Mitchell's system, despite having not fed in over three weeks.

He could hear the scurrying of smaller animals, hedgehogs, moles, weasels, squirrels, mice. A rabbit broke the stillness of the forest with a frightened shriek. Mitchell paused, listening. He could hear a fox wrestling with its new prize. Another benefit he missed when he didn't drink.

Face it. You miss it all. Having human level senses... where's the fun? The increased strength, the incredible sense of smell... all it takes is a single sip and you're stronger than any human.

He continued walking, weaving through the trees. He wouldn't get lost. He could smell the trail. The sodden leaves squished underneath his boots and a sudden gust of wind shook leaves down on him. Nearly two hours later, he stopped and sat down, ignoring the wet ground.

This was where he had buried Lucy, just three days ago. Despite the six feet of soil that separated them, Mitchell could smell Lucy's rotting body.

He closed his eyes, trying not to remember how she'd felt in his arms. Didn't work. Everything about her had been hot. Her skin, her tongue, the inside of her mouth, he drowned in her heat.

It had been so hard not to bite her, drink from her. Blood was entwined with lust for a vampire, but he'd fought it back. Thought that with her at his side, he would always be able to control the ever present hunger.

Was there anything you said to me, anything you did, that wasn't a lie?

I had to win your confidence.

We had sex.

I had to win your confidence.

Whenever he replayed this conversation in his head, Mitchell always marvelled over his hypocrisy. He'd had audacity to lecture Lucy over using him – after how many decades of using people to feed from? Charming women, smiling while they batted their lashes coquettishly at him, crooning compliments into their ears, all just so he could sink his fangs into their necks and drink.

Despite his fury at her betrayal, he couldn't help but grieve for what might have been.

I might have plans in the future.

Do these future plans include Lucy?

I really hope so. Yeah...

Mitchell would have preferred some happier memory, as he did for all the people he'd cared about at one point or another, but the stunning realisation that an ordinary human had sought him out, befriended him, slept with him, was capable of destroying his friends... that was what he would forever associate with her.

Unlike his grief for Annie, he could not bring himself to cry for Lucy. Though he had cared for her, the sadness he felt over her death was brief. She had played a part in the death of many of his friends - he used that word reluctantly – because she saw them as killers. Yet he had seen them as people trying to change for the better.

Mitchell did not blame Lucy for what he'd done on the train. He had made that choice. Retaliation, eye for an eye, all that crap, he'd wanted innocent people to suffer just as his friends had. A train full of people suited that chilling need just nicely.

In typical vampire fashion, he didn't feel overly sorry for killing them. He knew he should regret it, it was what a real human would have felt, but it was something a vampire could never do. Even now, thinking of what had happened on the train made his mouth water. His eyes went black.

Mitchell had never known that he was capable of such wrath. Herrick would have been ever so proud.

Herrick. Fuck. Going to London was not an idea he relished.

What the hell had Daisy been thinking, taking him to fucking London? Now he would have to deal with Lester. Even Herrick was cautious around Lester. Fuck. Tomorrow or the next day, he would have to leave.

If he left in the middle of the night, then he wouldn't have to say goodbye to George. Wouldn't have to see George's pain as he abandoned him. Wouldn't have to explain why he had to leave, what he'd done. Yes, leaving during the night would be best. Easiest.

He winced, his fingers digging into the dirt as he tried to ride out a wave of blistering pain. He didn't understand where this pain was coming from. Granted, he'd been staked, but that had been months ago and he'd felt fine afterwards. This was something that had appeared when Annie vanished. She was connected to it somehow, though he had no idea why. What the hell had the reverend done to her, to him?

Maybe it was just stress. Mitchell snickered.

His thoughts drifted back to London. The vampires there did not appreciate chaos; they were very strict about avoiding attention. If Herrick had been serious about his Final Solution idea, he would have had a tough time convincing the London vampires.

Mitchell didn't know too much about Lester, the head vampire of London, other than he'd reigned over London for over sixty years. He had fearsome reputation, but was well respected. He worked well with the other vampire leaders and kept vampire trouble in the United Kingdom to a minimum. They'd met briefly, and Mitchell had been rather in awe of Lester's 'don't fuck with me' presence.

He had a grim suspicion that if he went to London, he wouldn't return. If that was the case, then he really ought to bite the bullet and say goodbye to George.

The pain in his chest eased slightly and he relaxed just a little.

Would Lester have me killed for murdering all those people in the train? And the chief constable? Oh, and the people at the facility. Maybe it would just be easier if I gave up on this ridiculous idea of being 'clean'.

It wasn't the first time he'd had that thought. His reasons for stopping... there were fewer and fewer of them now. Sure, he could do it to please George, but what would he do when George left?

I think it's under control, but it's just sleeping, this rage, this, this hunger, it's in my bones and I want to stop. I've gone clean before, it's possible, if the conditions are right and everything is in the right place. I can do it, I know I can!

What conditions?

What a joke. Conditions? There weren't conditions, it was just self control and he lacked it in fucking spades. If he'd really, really, really wanted to stop, then he could have. But that was the whole thing, wasn't it? Deep, deep down, there was a part of him that didn't want to stop. A part of him that craved blood beyond all reason.

The part of him that had brought him back from the dead, robbed him of his reflection, made religious objects painful to look at, increased his strength and senses, made it near impossible to kill him, made his eyes go black with hunger. The part of him that was a vampire.

Someone to help me. Someone to change my life for... That's what I've been missing all this time someone to ... someone like you. I can do this, one more chance, that's all I need, I want this so much, but I can't do it alone. Please. Please, I'm begging you. Save me.

Musing over his desperate words, Mitchell realised he had been very wrong.

He didn't need saving. It was everyone around him that needed saving, in case he lost control. And he would. He could hope for the best, try his hardest, but he would end up killing someone again.

Look at Carl. He'd gone how long and when he lost control, he'd killed the person he loved the most, Mitchell thought sadly.

He remembered pleading with Josie to let him change her while she was still young, horrified at the prospect of living without her. But she'd firmly said no.

One night he'd come dangerously close to biting her, turning her against her will. The only thing that had kept his fangs in place was the fact that she would hate him for it. Josie loved being human.

The next day, he had confessed what he had almost done to her. They'd shared a final kiss, tears streaming down their faces, and he'd left, knowing that if he stayed, Josie would die.

Ivan had loved Daisy. Wanting to be with her, he had changed her. They'd always been happy together.

You should have said it was about love. Go in there. We all lead long, appalling lives but I have my Daisy. Everyone deserves a Daisy.

Of course, neither of them tried to abstain from drinking blood.

In Mitchell's experience, a long term relationship for a vampire only worked with another vampire. It had worked for him until they'd grown tired of each other and parted ways. With humans, relationships were brief, dangerous and full of secrets.

Mitchell didn't claim to be an expert on love, but he was pretty certain that keeping big secrets – such as hiding the fact that you had a passion for slaughtering people – wasn't the way to build the foundations of a lasting relationship.

Enough of this self pitying bullshit. I have lasagne to eat.

He hadn't gone five steps when he realised that he'd buried Lucy in unconsecrated earth. Even if her belief in science troubled her, Lucy Jaggat still believed in God. If she'd had a proper funeral, there would have been a priest, a church, her family and friends crying for her. There would be prayers said for her. Instead there was just a vampire.

Despite her betrayal, despite the pain she'd caused him, for the first time in decades, Mitchell felt he ought to say something to mark the death of a human. He struggled to remember the prayers his mother had taught him as a child. After a few minutes he recalled one.

"Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord; and let perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen."

Saying the holy words made him wince in pain, but he said them anyway.

***

I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Chapter Six: George II will be posted soon.