TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn
49 "Fight"
AUTHOR: Nmissi
PART: 49/50
DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing
and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,
what makes you think I'd
share him with you?
DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just
credit me and let me know where it's
going.
Feedback: Please.
Nmissi@aol.com
SUMMARY: The way the world
would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.
"All right. How many more have you got?"
Spike was rolling homemade bombs, from Xander's chemical
stash. Beside him, Buffy added fuses. Angel was trying to get his shoulder back
in the socket; he'd forced their way in on the second floor.
"Here. Just two bottles. And we're all out of ammonia,
now."
That was okay, though, thought Spike. They had a decent
number of small "grenades" to throw. They wouldn't cause much in the way of
explosion, but the smell they'd leave should be god-awful, and the smoke
positively blinding.
Angel sighed and wished for a better weapon. All he had
on him right now was Spike's handgun, liberated from his stolen clothing on the
way to the hospital the other day. That and a half empty box of ammo seemed
like a pitiful arsenal with which to take on a goddess.
He had no idea how he was expected to get the girls out
of this.
"Here. I'm out of rags now." Said Buffy.
He watched them covertly, his ex girlfriend and his
childe. They worked in tandem, with a natural ease born of experience. They
were partners, these two, in ways he and Buffy had never been.
He realized with some surprise that it didn't hurt
anymore to acknowledge that.
Buffy straightened up, and went to the door of the room
they were using to base their operations. She peered out carefully into the
hall.
"Too quiet out there," she commented.
Angel strode over beside Spike.
"I'm sorry I brought you into this mess," he apologized.
He meant he was sorry for dragging him here to L.A., for
getting him into the fix with Wolfram and Hart. But moreover, he was sorry he'd
let it all begin, back in 1880. He was sorry for the mortal lives he'd stolen,
sorry for the blackness he'd brought into what had been an innocent life.
Spike rolled his eyes at him.
"Come off it, you wanker. Do I look like I'm holding a
grudge, here?"
His words were harsh, but his gaze was loving. Angel
spoke softly to him.
"I guess its just that I feel bad for getting you beat
up, Spike. I mean, you went through all that hell, and we didn't even learn
anything. We still don't know what the prophecy refers to. I wasted your time,
and nearly got you killed for nothing."
Spike sputtered.
"Angel, I DID get the prophecy. Shit."
He gestured wildly with his hands.
"With everything that's been going on, I haven't really
had an opportunity to tell you."
Angel stood stock still.
"Well? I'm waiting, William."
He didn't sound too pleased, and Spike castigated himself
mentally. Yeah, perhaps it might have been a good idea to bring this up
sometime before now.
"Angel, they were holding Dru in that building. She's
their prophet."
He gave a disgusted snort.
"Guess they figured out that if you keep her hungry and
frightened, she'll have all the visions you can ask for. They'd gone and made a
regular Pythia out of her."
Angel nodded. He knew lots of ugly ways to induce Dru's
power. And he shouldn't be surprised that the lawyers would stoop to such tactics.
But somehow it made him angry anyway; that someone should abuse his children.
Angelus always preferred to do that sort of thing
himself.
"But what IS her prophecy then, Spike? And how did you
get away from her then?"
Spike shook his head.
"I'll explain the escape later. But she's out now, I
freed her."
He smiled grimly.
"I hope she ate a goodly number of the staff on her way,"
he added.
Then he started explaining.
"There is no hard copy of the millennium prophecy, Angel.
They didn't want it committed to record, I suppose. And its not some easily repeatable bit of poetic nonsense
such as she likes so well. Leastways, not that I gathered."
"Spike, Spit it out." Angel was getting testy.
"I am, Angel. I'm getting there."
Buffy walked back over to them.
"No one's in the hall, but there are police lining the
front of the building."
Xander looked up.
"I just wonder if they're real cops, or if they're her
cops," he speculated.
She shrugged.
Spike looked away from their interaction, back to his
sire. He began anew.
"Anyway…I think the prophecy has to do with the timing of
this whole thing. Millenium just means it happens to coincide with the new
millennium. But its really about you, and the Wondertwins, and maybe even Dru,
and me. Maybe even Darla."
Angel nodded. When would he get to the Fucking Point?
"Go on."
Spike took a deep breath.
"She told me that Immortal
Souls infect Immortal flesh, and we are hated in the eyes of our kine. Humanity
creeps into the bloodline. We are cursed."
"That would refer to the creation of Lindsay, and Lilah.
Go on."
He shook his head.
"It refers to more than just them, Angel. Think about it.
' Humanity creeps into the bloodline'- that's me, and maybe you, later, if the
whole Shanshu gig is still on. But maybe it means them too- All the rest of our
line. Drusilla was not like herself, Angel. She was, I don't know- Not
innocent. You know what I mean. She was more Lucid, and more disturbed. She
cried on me, told me she didn't want an immortal soul."
He looked Angel straight in the eye.
"I think the prophecy means souls all 'round, one to a
customer for the line of Aurelius."
Angel took a minute to examine the theory. It made some
sort of sense. It would explain the strangeness of Harmony, the odd humanity of
the reborn Darla. She'd been different this time.
If Spike was right, it meant he was not alone, not
unique. It wasn't just his curse, it was his fate- to be the father of a line
of more human demons.
And the idea crept in, that that there was divine providence
behind this. After all, Evil had been corrupting the agents of Good for
eternity… Could the Forces of Good corrupt the agents of Darkness?
He could see why an old and respected group of Demonic
Families would want to quash this sort of change, why they would work so hard
to defeat it, and then, failing that, to contain all knowledge of it.
And he was entitled to a seat at that table, he
reflected. He had a seat on the board of directors of Hell, if he chose to
claim it.
That was why they worked overtime to take him out of the
picture. The way Lilah explained it, They operated by their own rules at the
firm- But they abided by them as well. If he showed up, they'd have to accept
him. Oh, they might try to assassinate him. But they'd let him vote first.
It was rich. Maybe God was infiltrating the opposition.
They stopped on
the ground floor, in front of a long line of armed police officers demanding
they lie down and put their hands behind their backs, that the armed guards
drop their weapons.
But Glory'd had enough of this nonsense. Her time was
nearly up; soon the key would lock into its new state; immalleable. She gave
the order and her men fired upon the officers. A number fell, and She moved
into the throng, breaking necks and draining heads.
She'd never felt this good before, not since being
confined in this wretched mortal prison.
Willow and Anya hunkered down behind the receptionist's
desk, forgotton for the moment. Anya worked frantically at the knot around the
witch's neck. She'd known the rope for what it was the minute she'd seen it; a
binding cord. It was intended to restrain the witches gifts, to make her
cooperative and manageable. It must be a very powerful item, she thought,
taking in Willow's zombielike state.
But she didn't know the words of unbinding, not anymore.
It was too long, and she was too powerless. There was a time she'd have dropped
the thing off Willow without having to so much as look at it, but that time was
gone. She was human now, a poor human girl with a human boyfriend and very
ordinary human hopes and fears.
She feared for her friend. And it pleased her that she
could call the witch that. It had been a long time coming, this trust between
them.
She had to get her free, somehow.
Spike, Xander, and Angel crept silently down the
stairwell, deeper into the hospital. Xander said there was a freight elevator
that went from the basement to the ground floor. Angel thought it was their
best bet for an unimpeded progress.
Behind them, Buffy crept carefully. She was ready to
fight, wanting to fight. But she was feeling the fear again, the cool certainty
that the situation she was heading into was Not Good For The Baby.
She passed a hand unconsciously over her middle, and said
a silent prayer for the tiny sleeping life inside her, that it not be harmed in
the coming battle.
They spilled out into the basement, and crept towards the
mortuary. Beyond it, some fifty feet from the door, was the freight elevator.
Angel punched "L", and the doors slid open.
He stepped back as men in chainmail with broadswords
moved into view.
Spike shoved Buffy behind him.
"Hide," he hissed. But she ignored him. These guys were
human, and she'd fought them before.
She could take them.
Willow felt her mind clear, as the rope fell from around
her neck. Beside her, Anya held a pair of nail scissors triumphantly.
"Who knew you could just cut it off?" she asked.
But now memory returned to the witch. She remembered
waking to the feel of hands on her throat, a sick fear that she was being
smothered. Then the fog began; she could remember bits of what had happened,
but not very clearly.
Police officers. Glory. Doctors shot in the head at
point-blank range.
She gagged at the images in her head.
Tara. Where was Tara?
Then she remembered, and her hands began to shake. Tara,
seized sleeping just as she was. But instead of binding her, the goddess had
plunged fingers into her beautiful head, on either side of her lovely face. The
light had been blinding, but Willow had been too dazed to close her eyes to it.
She'd seen the look on Glory's face as she drained Tara's mind, a look of
nearly orgasmic pleasure.
And afterwards, when Tara had slumped away babbling, the
look of satiety in the bitch's face.
Willow's heart hardened. She wanted the evil thing Dead.
Not banished, not restrained… But painfully, horribly dead.
She vowed to see her suffer.
Buffy had two of the knights, and Angel and Spike were
surrounded by a group of them, dodging downstrokes and feints. Xander, already
bleeding from two small wounds in his arm and shoulder, produced a bottle of
air freshener and sprayed it into the face of his attacker, moving towards the
throng around the other men.
Inside the circle, Spike got in several good kicks at
knees, causing two of the knights to falter. As they stumbled, he kicked their
heads and stepped on them. The line, he had to break the line. The knights
stood between their group and the elevator door.
Buffy slammed one man into the wall, hard enough to
crumble the plaster. The other one charged her, but she stepped out of his
reach and watched as he lodged his weapon into the wallboard. It stuck, and his
attempts to free it gave her the time she needed to knock him out.
As he slid to the floor, she pulled his sword free. It
felt better to have a weapon in her hand. She noted the fine weight of it, the
excellent balance. It had a cross emblazoned in the handle, and as she ran back
to the fighting she heard Angel's hiss.
"Buffy! Get that thing away from me! It's blessed."
She moved away, cutting at their opponents. It was messy
work, and she'd been told correctly. These knights did not stop. They did not
fall back. They just kept on advancing as she cut them down. One fell, and
another took his place. And another. And another.
Spike stood in the doorway of the elevator now, bleeding
from his lip and nose. He held one of the swords as well; glistening red tinged
the glint of its steel length.
"Come ON! We haven't got all bleedin' day, you know!"
He was keyed up and turned on from the fighting, shifting
on the balls of his feet. One of the knights came at him, sword raised,
charging into the elevator. Spike spitted him on the blade, and kicked his body
out the doorway.
Angel's knuckles were bruised and bloody, his game face
on. He just kept grabbing heads and slamming them together. He noticed Spike's
brutality as he ran into the elevator.
"Why do you hate them so much?" he asked, as he kicked
the legs out from beneath one coming at them.
"They tried to nab little bit at Revco last week. It was
a slaughter."
Since they didn't value human lives, Spike didn't feel
particularly obligated to value theirs. Whereas Buffy and Angel had been
actively trying to disarm without fatalities, Spike was intent on skewering
every knight in his way.
Buffy seized Xander up from
where he'd fallen. He was stabbed through the shoulder, and bleeding profusely.
"Come on. We're out of here."
She ran for the elevator, and pulled him in after her.
The door closed on the scene of their carnage, and they
went up to face the real challenge.
Willow needed materials, she needed time. But the
gunshots whizzed over her head occasionally, and she knew the bitchgoddess was
out there, doing her thing. Periodically she heard the crack of a broken neck
and knew someone else had died.
It had to stop.
The elevator door dinged, and something whizzed through
the air, landing off to their left with a bang.
Smoke and stink filled the air. Anya choked and tried to
see over the desktop.
Spike and Angel emerged amid the cloud, bloody and
terrifying. Spike was armed with a long sword, which he ran through a chanting
demon minion. Beside him, Angel picked one up and broke his spine.
Behind them, Buffy came out.
"Xander!" shouted Anya.
She got to her feet and tried to run to them, but lost
them in the smoke.
Suddenly she felt her feet give way, and she fell to the
floor. She'd slipped in blood, near one of the downed minions. But down here
she could see better. She could make out feet, not two feet away.
And she'd know those nikes anywhere. She crept towards
her loved ones.
Behind the desk, Willow grew gradually more frightened.
She wasn't safe here. The bitch might come back, and she already knew she was
excellent in the role of the hostage.
So she took a chance, and darted the direction of her
friends.
Spike looked over in time to see the witch running
straight at him, in terror. Behind her,
a man raised his gun and aimed.
"Red! Drop!" he cried.
Amazingly enough, she did, and he felt the bullet meant
for her imbed itself in the firm flesh of his upper arm.
He dropped the sword, unable to maintain its weight. It
skittered forward, clattering to a stop just in front of Willow.
Red heels came into view, as the girl looked up. It was
her, it was the goddess. Willow felt around for the sword; she knew it was
there, just above her head….
Her hands connected as the bitch grabbed her by the hair,
pulling her upwards.
"Not leaving so soon?" she crooned apologetically. She
raised her other hand and slapped Willow across the cheek, hard.
With both hands behind her head, Willow brought the sword
up in an arc, with all the force she could muster. But she didn't know how to
hold it. Instead of plunging into the woman's midsection, it continued its
cutting stroke, pulled down by gravity.
It was with no small sense of satisfaction that Willow
took in the sight of the blood spraying.
Warm, wet blood, dripping onto her face, showering her
like rain.
The goddess staggered back, and Willow saw that her aim
had been true after all, true and horribly appropriate. Her arms were severed
midway to the wrist, both of them. The blood sprayed out, and she screamed in
agony.
Willow spied the hands, white and harmless now. She
picked them up, and stuffed them furtively into her dress pockets. Then she
crawled backwards, as another round of explosives shook the room.
She felt strong arms hauling her upward, and looked
gratefully into the face of a vampire.
"You okay?" Angel asked.
She nodded. Behind him, she saw Buffy dragging Xander,
and Anya trying to help. Spike was suddenly at her back.
"We ready to get out of here then?"
Angel nodded, and they moved away from the front of the
building, heading towards the parking garage.
Dead cops littered the path. Angel ignored them, moving
them out of the way like cordwood.
They spied one poor man hiding behind a coke machine, his
service revolver clutched in a shaking pair of hands.
Angel took the weapon gently
out of the officer's hands, his face reverting to normal.
"Call for backup. Now."
For some reason the man scurried to do his bidding,
moving on his belly towards the phones.
Angel moved his group farther into the parking garage.
He slowed for a minute, and Buffy looked up at him
worriedly.
"What? What is it? Do you hear something?"
He shook his head.
"No. I just don't remember where I parked the
surveillance van."