To be honest, Spike didn't blame the rank and file for turning so quickly on Lafitte. An order from Angelus tended to have the same effect on most vampires that the burning bush had had on Moses. He overwhelmed you, with that face and those eyes and the ruthless cruelty behind them. You kind of knew, even in that first meeting, that you either went along, or you died.
Not that Spike missed Angelus – by any means. He had an awful tendency of seducing your girl and wearing Bowie-esque leather pants. Still, you couldn't deny that Angelus had charisma, a charisma that Angel lacked. Sure, he got the job done. It didn't matter how long it took or how badass his opponents thought that they had become. He was Angel. He beat the bad guys. He just didn't have as much fun with it.
But now, standing shoulder to shoulder with Captain Forehead, shoving the giant bronze cathedral doors open so that they crashed against the granite walls of the entry, Spike had to admit that sometimes even the Great Brooder had style.
"Louie, I'm home," called Angel at the top of his lungs, glancing at the gaping hole in the cathedral roof. Puddles of muddy water littered the floor, tiled with black and white diamonds. The nave stank, like mildew and mold and mice. He took a moment to appreciate the acrid odor. Perhaps, once upon a time, a very long time ago, this pervading decay would have bothered him. Now, it smelled like an old friend.
After catching a glimpse of the cloudy night sky, far above the peaked roof, his gaze closed in on the group of figures a hundred feet away, arranged dramatically about the chancel at the opposite end of the nave.
"They're pulling out all the stops for us," muttered Spike. He looked behind them for their new flunkies, but the six vampires had vanished into the dimness of the aisles. Figured. He hadn't taken them for having much in the way of backbone anyway.
"Mmm." Angel rubbed his hands together excitedly, a gesture more for Spike's entertainment than anything else. "Showtime."
The two vampires stalked down the central aisle of the nave, wishing that their private security uniforms had been flexible enough to allow for their preferred dusters. A good duster gave a certain melodrama to a stalk, swishing about one's legs and adding gravitas. Regardless, they presented a menacing picture, ridged foreheads and ivory fangs denoting their undead status. Two pairs of yellow eyes swept the cathedral, just in case Jean Pierre Lafitte was impetuous enough to try and stop them.
In less than a minute, they reached the chancel, the raised dais where the altar and the bishop normally sat. The church's regalia had been knocked aside, and broken tables and chairs lay abandoned beside the dais. Blood was smeared everywhere – on the wooden altarpiece, the brass pipes of the grand pipe organ, and on the polychrome statues of Peter and John the Evangelist guarding the altar. Cat by the smell, Angel judged. Probably black cat, at that, given the melodramatic desecration and the occult symbols scrawled in the blood.
The altar itself had been replaced by a large, throne-like chair with gilded arms and upholstery of red and gold damask. On the chair, resplendent in crisp white linen trousers and a jacket of crimson velvet with a starched, lacy white collar and delicate gold buttons, sat a young boy of ten. Raven curls surrounded a long, pale face, remarkable for its hollowed, rosy cheeks and heavy eyebrows that slanted in towards the bridge of his nose. Several henchmen surrounded the throne, all of them hulking bruisers with their fangs on display.
"Frak this," grumbled Spike, forcing away flashbacks of the Annoying One. For an instant, his mind darted to Drusilla, and he missed her, passionately. When they finished all this, perhaps it was time to find her again, see if they could patch things up. She was insane, and he had a soul now, but other couples made do with worse.
Angel merely folded his arms across his chest and stared, impervious, at the child. He knew how this game was played. It all came down to power. When push came to shove, everything was all about power. The child wanted him to speak, wanted him to lose his temper or plead or do something rash. It was evident from the set up, the brazen throne upon the chancel, the dozen disposable henchvamps sent to bring Spike and Angel to him. Whoever he was, really, Jean Pierre Lafitte wanted power. He wanted to control them.
Hmph. The more fool he. Even taking the child's claims as fact, Angelus had been playing the game for over half a century before this upstart's father ever sailed a ship or sacked a town.
Finally, the child spoke, his mouth turning downwards in a petulant frown. "William the Bloody . . . and Angelus . . . you killed my men." He paused between words, his voice high, cold, and grating. "I should be most displeased with you." Jean Pierre Lafitte rose from his throne. Dispassionately, Angel calculated him to be just over four feet tall and to weigh ninety pounds, at most. Imposing, he was not.
"And yet," the boy trilled, "I find myself willing to overlook your . . . hubris. For, indeed, brothers, I am quite content that you have come to join our little endeavor. We are building a new world. Soon we will see New Orleans as she once was, restored to her fame and honor, a queen amongst slaves. Night by night, we shall purge New Orleans of her undesirables, until blood runs through the gutters and none of the impure remain to trouble my beloved city. Will you fight alongside me?"
Spike and Angel kept quiet. They knew from experience that, given enough silence, most vampires would hang themselves with it.
"What say you?" The boy began pacing the dais with a frenetic energy, like a wild animal barely held in check by the rein. He glanced, wide-eyed, about the chapel, his face burning with passion. "Will you join with me? Together, we can cleanse this city of the human filth."
The veritable image of insouciance, Spike shrugged. "Hate to admit this, mate, but honestly, me an' Angelus here, we aren't so much fans of your work. Eating animals, providing the Slayer with plenty of targets . . . doesn't seem like you're doing anything impressive."
Jean Pierre scoffed. "As if you could do better. If the rumors floating from California have any merit, you have been dallying with mortals – the both of you, dishonoring your demon heritage and betraying your own kind with . . . a Slayer."
This last came out in a hiss, and a scuffling sound echoed above them. Following the source of the noise, Spike saw the balconies lining the second floor gallery of the nave, bristling with bodies. He counted nearly fifty vampires. Aha. So this was where everyone liked to hole up. Fifty was a bit much for two to take on, even when one of those two was as ferocious and fearsome as he was. Perhaps they shouldn't antagonize the princeling too much just yet.
Unfortunately, Angel missed that memo. "I'm afraid you're going to have to do better than that," he snickered. "Slept with the Slayer? Of course we did. They don't call her Slutty the Vampire Slayer for nothing. And it makes her destruction so much sweeter when you can break her heart first. You looking for lessons in technique? I'm surprised. Wouldn't have expected you to ever reach puberty." The brunette vampire gave the immortal child a long, thorough once over. "Pity," he remarked conversationally. "I only really like children when I'm eating them."
His taunt hit a chord in the pirate prince. "I don't need lessons from you – in anything! We do not need your help to fully destroy the Slayer. We have already begun. Her mongrel is dead. Soon, her lover will be as well. And then, only then, will we destroy her. We will not stop until she is drained dry as a skeleton in the Sahara, and her body lies in pieces too small for the worms to make a decent meal of."
Angel refrained from informing him that he had missed the mark. Perfect destruction required a perfect understanding of your prey. A long, slow, sticky torment, now that would be the way to handle Buffy. Make her watch all of her little friends and family die horribly and convince her that it was all her fault before snuffing the life out of her – like a candle. Wait until she reached the uttermost depths of despair, and then snap her neck. Like a twig. Like it meant nothing. Like the easiest thing in the world. The darker side of his nature purred with the mere thought.
But Faith, on the other hand, was a different story. Faith the nihilist, who welcomed death like a friend. She didn't love, not the way Buffy loved. You couldn't get off trying to torture her like that. No, with Faith, you hurt her by denying her chance at death. To change her into something even more monstrous and outcast than she already was, and then never allow her to feel the freedom of that monstrosity. His body thrummed at the mental image of sinking his fangs back into that tender neck, of drinking scalding Slayer blood so dark, so bitter, so heady with despair.
For a moment, the vampire was lost in a reverie. He had not thought about this – not consciously, and not in years. And yet, the ideas came surging into his mind the moment they found an opening. No matter how angelic his face, no matter his advances on the path to redemption, the demon never ceased its struggle to escape.
"I suppose you could do that," he drawled at length, when the bloodlust faded and it became clear that everyone from Jean Pierre Lafitte to Spike to the two and a half score of vampires in the upper galleries were waiting for him to speak. "But, really, I think you'd miss out on the fun. You speak of destiny, of purity, of your demonic heritage. You act like this is all part of some grand mission." He twisted his voice into a mockery of Lafitte's childish trill. "Clear New Orleans of the dregs of humanity. Restore our beloved city to her beloved status."
Angel's tone returned to its normal deep pitch. "You make me laugh. Foolish. Childish. You're a vampire, not some politician trying to gentrify the world. Show some teeth, you bumbling buffoon." His calm drawl shifted into a petrifying snarl. Smirking on the inside, Angel borrowed some words from one of Spike's few useful outbursts. "Being a vampire isn't brains, you imbecilic infant, it's blood. Blood screaming inside you to work its will. Blood," he repeated for emphasis, tilting his head back so that all of the peanut gallery could see his face.
Returning his focus to Lafitte, Angel continued, matter-of-fact, "Sad thing is, you probably don't even understand what I'm talking about, do you? You've never really tasted blood. You prefer to drink pets, like the pathetic ratcatcher that you are. You don't have the stones to go after anything human, let alone the Slayer. But, you know what, I'm in a good mood. So how's this – I'll bring her to you. Tonight at midnight. Spike here and I, we'll show all of you what you're missing.
"After all," he spread his arms, lifting them away from his sides, and gazed longingly at the dark sky overhead, "tonight's the new moon. There's no better time for a Slayer to die."
October 19th, 2005, Camp Premiere, St. Bernard Parish, Louisiana, 9:30 p.m.
"Unnnnggghhh." Faith opened bleary eyes and reached for her ringing cell phone. Noticing the time, she made a second disgruntled noise. Dang it. She hadn't intended to sleep for so long, not with all the fighting evil that she needed to be doing. The army cot and sleeping bag must have seduced her with their Spartan comfort. Was that the proper use of the word Spartan? Seven years since she had first encountered the word, and Faith still wasn't sure.
"Hello," she mumbled into the phone, keeping her voice down. If the large, man-sized lump pressed against her left side was anything to go by, Dean was still sleeping. Huh. They'd taken a nap together. She'd make sure to keep that on the down-low.
"I've got good news, and I've got bad news." Angel's voice was familiar, comforting, level. Faith snuggled down deeper into her sleeping bag.
"You gonna tell me a story, Big Guy?"
He chuckled into the phone. "Did you just wake up?"
"Something like that."
"You ever think about not keeping vampire hours?"
The Slayer forced herself to sit up. "Speaking of vampires, you got anything for me?" G-d, did she feel disgusting. Her mouth tasted like something had died and rotted in it. She rubbed the crusties out of the corners of her eyes. That did it. Before they mounted any operations tonight, she was definitely taking a shower.
"Actually, I do." Angel gave her a quick summary of everything that had happened that day, beginning with the alligator attack after last night's goose egg and closing with meeting Lafitte in the St. Louis Cathedral. While he spoke, Faith listened intently. She saved her questions for the end.
"So. Fifty of them, you say?"
"Spike thinks so. He got a better look than I did."
"That's because Angelcakes here was too busy 'aving a manly staring contest with the little wanker."
Ahh. There was her favorite bottle blond. She'd wondered when he was going to join the conversation. "Hey, Spike. I take it I'm on speaker? Hmm. Fifty's kind of a lot, don't you think? I mean, it sounds like a full on Texas hoedown, but that's like twelve to one odds…. We're gonna need to plan this one."
"Already working on that, pet. Lafitte doesn't trust our bona fides, not quite yet – "
"Oh, he trusts them," added Angel darkly. "He just knows he can't trust us."
Covering the mouthpiece of the phone, Faith shook Dean's shoulder. "Dean. Deeee-annnnn. Wake up."
The hunter groaned and pushed at her hand. Undeterred, the Slayer continued to shake him until he lifted his head from the cot. Dean blinked heavily. For the first time in days, he had been lost in deep in the land of Nod. "Whaaaa's goin' on?" he slurred.
Faith removed her hand from the phone and tapped the speaker button. "Mischief, mayhem, murder. Take your pick."
"I always knew there was a reason I liked her," Spike commented in an audible aside. "Girl knows how to have a good time."
"Angel, want to give Dean the spiel?"
"Sure." Despite being on speaker, Angel's voice still retained its mellifluous timbre. He explained the bare bones of what they were working with, concluding, "The odds are a bit high, but Spike and I have already thought of how we can manage that."
"I wanted to blow up the church."
"And I told him no. Architecture that elegant should be preserved. Besides, I think the pipe organ is still salvageable."
Dean looked at Faith questioningly. He mouthed, "Who is this guy?" The Slayer had to stifle an unprofessional giggle. This was serious plotting time. Even if Dean had a point and Angel's tangents were a little out there, she needed to focus.
"Besides," Angel continued, "an explosion leaves too much room for error. We want to be certain that they're all ash and dust. Now here's an idea that we think might just do the trick . . ."
October 19th, 2005, Gates of Prayer 1, New Orleans, Louisiana, 11:00 p.m.
"I still can't believe we're doing this," said Dean, closing the driver's side door of the Impala and locking his Baby. Blowtorch in hand, he turned to watch Faith as she bent over to tie the laces on her boot. "You think this will actually work?" He wasn't usually this chatty before a job, but relying on vampires set his teeth on edge. Angel and Spike were the linchpins to this plan, and that made him incredibly nervous.
Faith noted the unease in his voice. Straightening up, she walked around the trunk of the Impala and came to stand close to the hunter. She kept her tone light. "I think it's got as much of a chance as anything else. And, Dean, just so you know, there's no one I'd rather have at my back than you, Angel, and Spike. I trust you guys – all of you."
"I don't trust vampires." It was said with flat honesty, not defiance.
"That's mighty smart of you," observed a Cockney voice.
Fifteen figures melted out of the darkness around the cemetery gate. Fifteen vampires taking no pains to hide their true faces. Spike and Angel led the pack. They had abandoned their private security schtick for their normal clothing – fifty shades of black. Black trousers, black t-shirts, and long black dusters that whispered when they moved. Somehow in the last two hours, Angel had found himself a pair of skintight leather pants. Or perhaps he had simply brought them along in his suitcase, anticipating their use.
Dean's fingers clenched tightly around the hilt of his machete. His heart pounded. A trickle of sweat traced its way down his spine. Fifteen vampires at one time . . . it was a little much. He moved closer to Faith, who was grinning wolfishly. Her free hand reached out for his.
"Angelus. It's been a while."
"Slayer," purred Angel.
"I'm liking the leather. New look? Bit extreme. Screams bondage."
"Wore them just for you, Faithy."
Intellectually, Faith knew that this was merely Angel pretending to be Angelus, but he did too damn good of a job. The hair on her arms stood on end, and she fought back a shiver. Why did he have to be so creepy?
"I remember putting you down like the dog you are," she continued. Try as she might to sound unfazed, a hint of fear found its way in.
Angel narrowed in on the fear like a shark scenting blood. He exchanged a quick look with Spike.
The younger vampire moved to the side, making a space for the other vampires to pass him. "Step right on up, lads," he crowed. "Don't want to miss this, do you?"
"But not too close. Slayer here's mine. Aren't you, lover?"
Faith dropped Dean's hand and stepped forward to meet Angel. She removed a stake from her jacket pocket. Tossing it easily from hand to hand, the Slayer tossed her head. Neck bare, she took another step forward. "Come 'n' get it, you piece of sh-t."
This was it. The moment of attack. Now, while the baker's dozen of hench vampires were pressed into a tight pack, their faces bright with anticipation. Faith snapped her wrist out, sending her stake flying fifteen feet across the parking lot. The stake embedded itself in some vampire's ribcage, and he exploded in a cloud of dust. At that exact moment, Spike surreptitiously staked another vampire in the back of the crowd. No one noticed.
The other eleven vampires charged forwards, racing towards the Slayer, heedless of Angel. As they passed him, the older vampire flicked his arms. Stakes dropped into his hands from the sleeves of his duster. Angel drove the stakes into two more vampires, blinking fiercely against the dust.
Dean and Faith did not wait for the vampires to reach them. Faith launched herself into the melee. She downed one fang with a roundhouse kick to the throat. Someone leapt at her, and the Slayer ducked into a crouch. Her assailant went flying over her head. He slammed face-first into the gravel parking lot. Dean was on both fallen vampires in an instant, staking them before they could regain their bearings.
While Faith buried another vamp in a deluge of punches, the hunter raised his blowtorch. Taking a can of hairspray that they'd borrowed from Lana and Dana, he sprayed a thick aerosol jet at the three vampires attempting to flank him. Dean spun in a quick circle and lit the torch.
The flames devoured the aerosol. A wheel of bright, angry fire surrounded the hunter. He dropped to the ground as the tongues of flame licked hungrily at the vampires. Distracted by their burning clothing and limbs, they made easy targets. The hunter unsheathed the machete at his hip and decapitated the three of them.
That left four antagonists, two of which were closed in with Spike, exchanging a flurry of blows. Angel and Faith each battled single opponents.
"You screwed us over!" bellowed the vamp fighting Angel. His right hook failed to land, and the older vampire took advantage of his momentary distraction. Angel reached out, grabbed his adversary behind his ears, and twisted. The vampire's neck snapped in two. Before he could recover or even form a coherent thought, Angel's stake buried itself deep within the vampire's ribs.
Angel brushed ash from his leather pants. Making eye contact with Dean, he nodded once and turned to observe Spike running both of his opponents through with a single tree limb as Faith knocked hers to the ground and staked him neatly. The Slayer scrabbled back up to her feet, sweat pouring down her forehead. Spike clapped her on the arm.
"And that, boys, is why you don't tangle with a Slayer," he announced to the dusty parking lot. "Nice fire trick, Dean."
"Thanks." The hunter rubbed the dust clear from the back of his neck, feeling awkward.
Heedless of her audience, Faith yanked her tee shirt over her head and shook it vigorously to get the worst of the vamp-ash out. Pulling it down again, she saw to her amusement that all three males were pointedly not staring in her direction. "How many was that?" she asked, canvassing the ground for stakes. There was no point in discarding weapons.
"Thirteen," replied Angel as he joined her in the search.
"Which leaves us thirty-seven." The Slayer shoved extra stakes into her boots. Felt like they continued more stakes than leg, at this point. She rolled her shoulders backwards to loosen them up. "I don't know if I can do thirty-seven more tonight. That'd be three more dust-ups this size. And if we make just one stupid mistake . . . "
"What about Spike's plan to burn the castle? Anyway we could make that work?" wondered the hunter.
"Maybe," Angel hesitated. If Faith was feeling the strain already, then their original plan might not be the best option. And yet . . . it had been so poetic. "I think . . ." A fresh idea struck, and the vampire smiled. "Okay," he said excitedly, turning to the other three. "How about this. . ."
They adjourned to the Cornstalk Hotel, all piling into the Impala. As he drove, the hunter kept glancing up into his rearview mirror to watch his passengers. Vampires in the backseat. Who would ever have thought that he, Dean Winchester, would have vampires in his car? Unliving, talking, plotting vampires, no less.
If the imperative to finish this job and get the hell out of New Orleans had not been so strong, he might have found the whole thing unbearable. It went against every lesson his father had ever taught him. You killed monsters, you didn't chauffeur them. A part of Dean's psyche railed impotently at his current circumstances, screaming at him to stop the car and behead those fanged bastards. The rest of him, caught up by the urgent need to eliminated Lafitte, placed its trust in the brunette woman sitting shotgun. And so, instead of doing anything drastically violent, he followed Angel's terse directions back towards the center of the city.
As the four adventurers neared the Quarter, Spike broke into song, his voice surprisingly pleasant. "There is a house in New Orleans they call the Rising Sun."
Faith joined in on the tune, "And it's been the ruin of many a poor child, and God, I know I'm one."
They continued, voices climbing with the melody. "My mother was a tailor. She sewed my new blue jeans. My father was a gamblin' man, down in New Orleans."
"Come on, Peaches," commanded Spike.
Shocked and a little horrified, Dean listened as the older vampire took the next verse. "Now the only thing a gambler needs is a suitcase and a trunk. And the only time he's satisfied is when he's on a drunk."
"Your turn, Dean," laughed Faith as Spike massacred the organ solo, slamming imaginary piano keys.
"No thanks."
"Aw, give a try. Or do you not sing?" challenged Spike.
Well. When you asked him like that. Rolling his eyes, Dean threw his head back. "Oh mother, tell your children not to do what I have done. Spend your lives in sin and misery in the House of the Rising Sun."
All four sang together for the final two stanzas. Had there been any living dogs in the area, Dean knew they would have howled along. "Well, I got one foot on the platform, the other foot on the train. I'm going back to New Orleans to wear that ball and chain. There is a house in New Orleans they call the Rising Sun. And it's been the ruin of many a poor child. And God, I know I'm one."
"I think that answers your question, Peaches," announced Spike after the final note had died away.
"What question?" asked Dean suspiciously. He made the final turn into the Cornstalk's driveway and shifted into park. His vampiric passengers climbed out and led the way to the broken back door of the hotel.
"I have a new idea," Angel replied once they were all safely inside the lair. The vampire ran a hand through his spiky coiffed hair. "How comfortable are you with arson?"
"We are going with desecration?" Spike's excitement was close to indecent. "Bloody brilliant." He left the other three standing in the main hallway and rushed upstairs to grab a few supplies.
The hunter ignored him. "What do you need?" he said, giving Angel his full attention. "I've got three or four things of lighter fluid in the trunk and a half gallon of gasoline. Wasn't sure how much we'd need 'em on this trip. Plus a handful of lighters and a giant box of camping matches."
Impressed, Angel nodded. "That should help."
Faith, who had been eyeing the ornate chaise lounge in the hallway, interrupted. "Dude. Why is there blood all over this thing?"
The vampire sighed. "I told you. We got into a tangle with an alligator."
"You didn't tell me you bled this badly." Glowering, the Slayer crossed her arms across her chest. "Show me. Now."
Knowing when to admit defeat, Angel hooked his fingers beneath the hem of his black shirt and tugged it up and over his head, displaying a distinctive griffin tattoo that covered his right shoulder blade, its front paws enclosing a large letter 'A'. "You happy?"
She didn't say anything for a moment, merely stepped closer to investigate the sutured wounds. "You or Spike?"
"That would be me." The blond vampire came hurrying back down the grand staircase, laden with two bags of blood. He handed one to Angel and then started slurping away at his own.
Dean turned his head away, grossed out. "Seriously?"
Ignoring him, Faith commented, "Nice stitching." She eyed the blood in their hands. "Guys. Save a bit for the plan, remember?"
It took less than a minute for the vampires to finish their snack, until only an inch of blood remained in each of the bags. Licking his lips, his teeth momentarily stained pink, Angel dipped his finger in the leftover blood. "Close your eyes," he warned Faith.
Eyes shut tight, lips pursed, Faith stood frozen while Spike and Angel smeared blood all over her forehead and neck, creating the illusion of multiple cuts and bites. It was cool and sticky, congealing quickly on her skin. The Slayer locked her knees, which gave her something to focus on besides Dean's snort of disgust and the liquid trickling over her collarbone and down into her shirt.
"Want a gut wound, too?" Spike offered cheerfully.
"When was the last time you actually bit someone in the gut?"
The younger vampire's mouth formed a moue of distaste. "Well . . . . most people have too much fat to let you get down to any of the big arteries in the abdomen."
"Oh, G-d, stop." Faith held up a hand. "I'm sorry I asked."
"There." Angel spread the final drops of blood at the junction where the Slayer's neck met her left shoulder.
Faith opened her eyes, grateful that the vampires had been conscientious enough to avoid her eyebrows and that there was no thick, red liquid currently dripping through her eyelashes. She spun in a quick circle. "How do I look, Dean?"
"Mutilated," replied the hunter shortly, looking away. He was becoming less and less a fan of the vampires' plan as the seconds ticked by.
"Mutilated works." She turned to Angel. "Okay. I think I'm ready."
