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There were three hundred and seventy eight bricks in the wall. But each time Will counted them he got a different number. Chipped, broken, a few near the top were slimy with some sort of dark green mold, and the rest were coated with thick dark grime. The mortar had worn away leaving gaps for ghost fingers of cold wind to pierce through. Cobwebs fluttered and a spider web in the far left corner near the ceiling was cluttered with husks of dead insects.
Blood trailed down Will’s arms from the manacles that held him stretched upright. Blood flowed down his back where flayed skin hung in curled ribbons, slid over and between his naked buttocks, and dripped down the torn skin of his legs. Dark, thick blood pooled beneath his feet, and disappeared into the soft earthen floor.
Behind him, Angelus was doing something to Dru, something that made no noise beyond small cries that escaped from her lips in crystal gasps like shattered porcelain.
Miss Edith had been hungry, that's what had started it all. Her tummy had growled and Drucilla had crumpled to the floor, holding her stomach, moaning, crying. She shook off his hand when he tried to comfort her, screamed when he explained that Angelus would be back soon. Scratched at his face with her sharp nails and called him a coward when he reminded her that they had been instructed to stay inside.
That was why he had done it, snuck out the window and dropped the few feet to the dirt alley. Sniffed the fog coated tendrils of burning lamp oil, coal fumes. and pungent unwashed humans. Ignoring the sounds of horse hoofs clomping, carriage rattling over cobblestone streets, he hunted for something small and scared to bring back to his princess.
The newsboy was undersized and thin, his face and hands grey with city grime, his dark eyes shadowed with exhaustion. He looked like a hundred other boys on a hundred other corners, calling out to strangers in a rough voice gone soft with overuse. It was the work of a moment to grab the child, turn his back to the indifferent stragglers hurrying home, and break his thin neck. Then Will lifted the child and carried him back to the house.
Only a few minutes later his hungry princess had drained the still warm body, smiled beatifically and called Will her dark prince. He carried the body outside and carefully propped the child against the wall of a haberdashery, tilting his head so he looked like he had sprawled out to nap. His canvas sack, still half filled with unsold newspapers, Will tucked against the boy’s chest to hid the fresh bloodstains spreading along his tattered shirt.
Angelus was waiting for him when he climbed back in through the bedroom window.
There were three hundred and seventy eight bricks in the wall. But each time Will counted them he got a different number. Still, it helped. Inside the numbers he could almost escape the sound of Drucilla’s moans as they eased from madness into gasping pleasure. Pain washed over him, thrust into him, and once more he began to count.