Ties Stronger Than Blood

Title: Ties Stronger Than Blood
Author: Scribe
Fandom: The Lost Boys
Summary: How Marko joined the Lost Boys. An exploited young gospel singer finds a dark connection with the Lost Boys.
Rating: Fan rated adults only
Pairings: David/Marko, Paul/Dwayne
Characters: Marko, David, Paul, Dwayne, Max, OMC, OFC
Betas: None
Author's notes: Third in my Non-Traditional Families Series. Let me state clearly at the offset that Ruth Tallmadge is not a representative of any particular denomination, sect, or individual, or indeed most Christians. She is a created character, who professes Christianity, but embodies the worst traits I have seen in some of the fringe elements of the religion. In my opinions, her views and actions are a perversion of true belief, and such a person will find themselves very surprised when they finally stand before the Throne of Judgment. I have nothing but respect for people who follow the true spirit of Christ's teachings--love, tolerance, grace, and forgiveness.
Disclaimer: I did not create, and do not own the rights to, the recognizable media characters that appear in this story.
I have no legal or bindingagreement with the creators, or owners.
I do not seek, and would not accept,profit from this fiction.
I have nothing but affection and respect for the creators, and the actors and actresses who portrayed these characters.
This story is in no way meant to reflect on the actual lives or life styles of the actors and actresses who portrayed the characters
All original characters are copyrighted by the author. Do NOT use without specific permission





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Ties Stronger Than Blood
by ScribeChapter One
The music was turned up loud, since it had to compete with the rumble of the bus engines, and the whine of tires on asphalt. It was simple music, just piano, but there was a vigor to its cadence that made the casual listener nod their head and tap their feet.

After the brief introduction, a clear tenor voice rose in song.

"Have you been to Jesus for the cleansing power? Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?" The tone was true, the timing perfect. "Are you fully trusting in his grace this hour? Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb? Are you washed?"

Two more voices, a female alto and a bass, chimed in on the harmony, a beat after he sang the same words. "Are you washed?"

"In the blood..."

"In the blood..."

"Are you washed in the soul cleansing blood of the Lamb?"

All three voices blended. "Are your garments spotless? Are they white as snow? Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?"

Once again the tenor voice rose alone. "When the bridegroom cometh, will your robes be white? Pure and white in the blood..."

"No!" The woman's voice rapped out, sharp and angry. "Luther, turn off that noise, right now!" A small, slender man punched the STOP button on the cassette player he held on his lap, and his eyes went toward the young man who was sitting in the seat across the aisle from him, his gaze sympathetic.

The old bus had been gutted, then refurbished into a touring vehicle. There was a tiny partitioned area in the back with a double bed and barely enough extra room to turn around, and an equally miniscule traveling toilet. There were six pairs of seats, three on each side, facing each other, so that travelers might be able to converse more easily. A woman, who had been sitting several seats back, stood up and made her way toward where they were sitting, her every motion radiating irritation. She glared down at the teenage boy, then crossed her arms and said ominously, "Well?"

His eyes, warm brown, flicked up toward her, but skittered away quickly. She was considered a handsome woman, but right now her features were set into hard lines of disapproval. "I'm sorry, Mother Ruth."

"What are you sorry for, Mark?"

He studied his hands. "I was off key."

Her hand flicked out, slapping him briskly on the back of the head. Several of the other passengers winced, and turned away. This was a common occurrence, and they'd learned long ago to turn a blind eye. There wasn't really anything they could do about it, and protest could mean that you were without a job and hitchhiking back home. Mother Ruth Tallmadge didn't brook any interference with how she raised her grandson. "Your pitch was fine."

"I... I was off the beat?"

Another slap. "Don't own up to sin that isn't yours, boy," she said warningly. "You have plenty enough on your soul. The verse, Mark, the verse! What happened to verse two?"

Understanding dawned in his expression. "Yes, you're right, Mother Ruth. I'm sorry."

"I don't understand you, boy, really I don't. A song as simple and basic as Washed in the Blood, and you forget a whole verse?" She slapped his head again. "Do you have any idea how foolish that would make us look if you did it during a performance?"

"I'm..."

"You're sorry."

"I'm tired, Mother Ruth. It took me longer than usual to memorize the Bible verses, and then I couldn't get to sleep, and..."

Slap. "Are you complaining about doing the Lord's work, boy?"

"No ma'am! I... I'm just so tired I can't think straight. If I could sleep..."

"You're not going to be back there snoozing away when you should be practicing, Mark. And if you'd just pray and cleanse your heart of all impurity, God would let you sleep like a lamb." Her eyes narrowed. "Is it filthy thoughts that are keeping you up?"

A blush swept over his cheeks, making him look very young. "Grandma!"

The slap this time was hard enough to snap his head forward. "What have I told you about that?"

"I'm sorry, Mother Ruth."

"Tell me, have you been thinking about those filthy Jezebels, is that what's been troubling your rest? I saw them gathering round you at that last fellowship. Indecent hussies. I don't know why they let them into the sanctuary, all painted up and dressed like street women."

Marko blinked in bewilderment. There had been a few shy girls who had come over to talk to him at the church fellowship after their last performance. A couple of them had been wearing a little face powder and lip-gloss, and one had been wearing a top with little string straps. He'd noticed Mother Ruth watching this girl, her mouth tight with disapproval as the girl rubbed her arms, fighting the goose bumps that the air conditioning had raised. Marko had moved over to talk to the youth minister as soon as he politely could, knowing that talking with the girl could bring more trouble than the momentary pleasure of simple companionship would be worth.

"I'm waiting, Mark."

He suddenly realized that he'd better respond. "No ma'am," he said firmly. What sort of excuse would she accept? "I've been having nightmares again."

At this, his grandfather, seated opposite Luther, leaned over, his eyes concerned. "Was it the same one, son?" Marko nodded. "Your parents," he said sadly. He reached over and took the boy's hand, squeezing it sympathetically. Marko's parents, John Paul Tallmadge's daughter and son-in-law, had been killed in a horrible car wreck when Marko was nine. The little boy had been belted in the back seat and had survived with only bruises and cuts, but he had been trapped for over an hour with the bloody, crushed corpses of his mother and father. For more than a year there wasn't a night that went by that didn't see the child waking up with night terrors. It had gradually gotten better, but the bad dreams never completely went away. John had suggested a couple of times that Marko might benefit from therapy, and his wife had told him firmly that God-fearing people did not need mumbo-jumbo head doctors. If the boy would just pray hard enough, and meditate on how lucky he was to have survived and landed with decent, caring people, he'd be fine.

If it had been left up to Ruth, Marko would have been put to bed with tape over his mouth, so that no one would be bothered by his scream. John had defied her on this, pointing out that if anyone ever heard of it, the child welfare people might think twice about her custody claim. Every night for over a year he'd gone into Marko's room at the first sound of distress. He'd held the trembling boy, his big, solid body giving the grieving child a fragile sense of security. He hadn't known his grandparents before he'd been thrown into their care, but he quickly came to love his grandfather.

Ruth snorted, but some of the disturbing accusation died out of her expression. "You need to grow up, Mark. They've been gone for almost nine years now. Time you forgot and moved on."

He gave her a flat look. "I'm not going to forget my parents."

She waved dismissively. "That isn't what I meant. I just mean that God has a plan for your life, and if you keep hauling around all that excess baggage, it's going to slow you down. I suppose," she said grudgingly, "that's enough practice for now. After all, our next performance won't be for another three days. Plenty of time to rest and practice before then." She yawned, putting the back of her hand over her mouth. "Come to think of it, I'm a little weary myself." She gave Luther a stern look. "Don't go playing that noise while I'm trying to rest."

"No, Mother Ruth."

She was walking back toward the bed space. "But don't go wasting your time, either."

"Luther and I can go over some new arrangements," called John.

He got no reply, as the door was already shutting. There were a few moments of tense silence, everyone staring at the flimsy door. Then, gradually, the atmosphere in the bus relaxed. People began to talk more freely, though they were still careful to keep their voices low. There were even occasional ripples of laughter.

John examined his grandson. "You do look a little peaked, Marko."

Marko smiled. His grandfather practiced an occasional small defiance against his grandmother, but never in her presence. One of those rebellions was calling Marko by his given name. When he'd come to live with the Tallmadges, Ruth had declared that Marko was a foreign corruption of a good Christian name, and that he would henceforth be Mark Tallmadge. Marko had protested. Marko was the name his parents had wanted him to have, and, "My last name is Blackman."

"I'm not going to have my grandson known by a name that might as well be Negro." Ruth Tallmadge had spoken, and so it mote be. No paperwork was drawn up, no legal changes made, but from that day on he'd been presented to the world as Mark Tallmadge instead of Marko Blackman. Only his grandfather and Luther dared call him by his true name--and they didn't dare do it within earshot of Ruth.

"Yeah, Granddad." John didn't require Marko to call him Father John when they were alone. He'd even made a joke about it, saying that as rabidly anti-Catholic as Ruth was, he was surprised she'd insisted on him taking that title. "I'm half tempted to get me one of those turned around collars--just to see the look on her face."

"I have something that might help you sleep," said Luther. "Do you have your Walkman?"

"Sure." Marko watched as Luther sorted through the tapes that were slotted into a padded carrier. Luther was the Tallmadge Traveling Glory Singers' pianist. He was a slight man in his mid-thirties, and had been with the group for almost five years now. Marko liked Luther. He was a shy, gentle, creative soul, who occasionally thanked Marko for letting him share in presenting his gift to the world. The main reason Marko liked Luther, though, was because he was go good for Granddad.

Marko remembered how Granddad had been when he'd first gone to live with the Tallmadges. He'd been so quiet, scarcely uttering a word when Ruth was around, aside from quiet responses to direct comments or questions. And there's been an empty, far away look in his eyes that Marko didn't like. Then when he was twelve, Luther had been hired as a pianist. The change in John had been almost immediate. Now the big man smiled often. Before he had been silent at the performances, aside from a few short, stilted words of testimony, and the hymns. Now he would spend time after each performance with the congregations, usually with Luther at his elbow, speaking easily, sharing anecdotes about life on the road with a gospel singing troupe. Yes, Luther was good for Granddad. It was clear that the friendship went both ways. The little musician watched the big singer with eyes that held more than a little hero worship.

Luther held out a cassette. It had a pasted on label that said NATURE SOUNDS--RAIN, WAVES, FOREST. "Here. This might help you sleep." Marko took it, smiling his thanks, but unable to keep the resignation out of his eyes. At least it wasn't spirituals. "Marko? Make sure that you have your earphones on and the volume down to a reasonable level when you play that," Luther cautioned.

Marko nodded, fitting his earphones over his ears, then plugging the cassette into the player. He turned the volume down to 2, then punched PLAY. His eyes flew open at the first pounding of percussion, and the thrum of electric guitars, then a saxophone wailed. He looked over at Luther and his grandfather, astonished, as a man began to sing. "Live, baby, live. Now that the day is over. I got a new sensation, in perfect moments--impossible to refuse..." They both smiled back at him, and Granddad lifted a finger to his lips, eyes twinkling as he tilted his head toward the back of the bus.

Marko smiled his gratitude. He'd heard this sort of music before, blasting from the speakers of cars, or from the 'boom boxes' held by the sort of youths his grandmother castigated on sight. He'd never, of course, dared try to listen to it in his spare time, much less own it. No, his radio was always carefully tuned to Christian or public broadcasting stations. He only got this sort of 'devil music' in brief, stolen snatches. Now he turned the volume up a notch, setting in with pleasure, and not feeling quite so tired. As the man sang, he gazed out at the landscape that rolled by under the deep golden early evening sun.

"Sleep, baby, sleep. Now that the night is over. And the sun comes like a god into our room, all perfect light and promises..."

He could see the sun, a fiery disk, touching the horizon ahead. *Funny. I've never really bought into that bit about the dawn and the sun bringing hope. I have to deal with Ruth during the days, and I'm pretty much free of her at night. Yeah, seems to me that it's the night that's full of promises, dude. Sorry. It's a good song, though.*

He sang along softly with the chorus, lips barely moving, so softly that no real sound escaped him, only a brush of air. "Gotta hold on you. A new sensation, a new sensation. Right now--gonna take you over..."

The sign flashed past too quickly to be read, but Marko knew where they were going. He didn't glance back as it faded into the distance.

SANTA CARLA

20 MILES