The Devil's Workshop
By iyaorisha
Timing: AU S7 BtVS and AU S4 AtS
Pairings: Buffy/Spike, Angel/Cordy, Xander/Anya, Willow/other and Wesley/other.
Summary: Buffy and Spike's fragile new relationship is tested when Angel returns to Sunnydale, bringing with him a mysterious young woman from Spike's dark past. (Revised, with chapter titles!)
(This fic is part one of a yet-untitled series in progress. It can be read on its own or after my "Unmoved" series -four linked fics that chronicle my take on reensouled Spike's return to Sunnydale)
Rating/Warnings: R for violence, language, M/F sexual situations, and self-mutiliation.
Spoilers: None if you've seen S6 of BtVS and up through "Deep Down" in Ats S4. Spoilers for my "Unmoved" fanfic series. References to FFL, the trade novels "Pretty Maids All in a Row" and "Little Things", and my fanfic "Relating to a Psychopath.
Disclaimer: None of the BtVS or AtS characters or the world they inhabit belong to me. They belong to Joss and I promise to put them back when I'm done playing with them.
Author's Note: Reading (and for me, writing) Buffyverse fanfiction is a great form of escapism. Unfortunately, "cutting" or self-mutilation is a very real and terribly serious disorder that affects as many as one out of every 200 adolescent girls in the U.S. If you or someone that you know practices "cutting", please seek help from your local medical/mental health expert.
Feedback: My first BtVs/AtS crossover fanfic! Brutal honesty is best (I enjoy floggings, I really do), but warm fuzzies are accepted as well. You can post a review here or email me at fanfic_by_iyaorisha@yahoo.com
***
Chapter 4: Deliverance
The desert at night.
There were few trees to screen the harsh moonlight that bleached out color and pared away all features into blocky shapes and rough textures. Sketched out in light and shadow like a black&white photograph, the landscape was both bleakly beautiful and utterly uninviting. To the casual observer, the scenery passing by the SUV's windows was cold, lifeless.
Wesley Wyndham-Price was not a casual observer.
He sensed the movement before it was fully recognizable --an owl swooping down on some small creature. He turned his head to watch it strike.
The bird was young and still a bit ungainly in flight. At the last minute, the owlet braked its descent too sharply. Razor talons ghosted over fear-stiffened fur, then closed on air. There was a hoot of outrage at the miss and the prey's paralysis broke at last. Its frantic scurrying across the sand sent up tiny puffs of dust like alien mushrooms.
The scene was soon lost to distance, but Wes did not turn from the window. He always hated sitting in the passenger seat. It was especially galling now because he was riding in his own vehicle. Now that the pain in his arm had settled into a low throb, he was perfectly capable of driving. However, Angel had taken the keys, insisting that he try to sleep.
It was impossible, of course. Still too much adrenaline in his system to relax. So, Wes stared out the window. His posture gave the impression that his gaze never left the passing landscape. In reality, he was spending more time staring at the window than out of it. The darkness outside made the tinted glass cast a shadowy image of the girl in the backseat. He assumed that the reflection was the first of many surprises the damphyr held. The temptation to surreptitiously study her was too strong to resist.
He hadn't gotten a good look at the girl since Molinero's ranch. She had been so skittish as Angel freed her from the wreckage of Neelson's humvee, that the vampire had advised Wes to steer clear. Grudgingly, he sat in the SUV while Angel tried to convince the damphyr to come with him. Even without the smell of fresh blood to make her half-wild, it had taken quite a bit of cajoling to get her into their vehicle. Now, belted into the backseat, she didn't even resemble the young woman who'd stood on a spot lit dais hours earlier
The damphyr's hair had been cut badly in the short time between the auction and her rescue. Before, her dark curls had been a tangled waist-length mass. Now, they were chopped to skim her shoulder at the back and sides. An attempt had been made at bangs, but the result was simply an uneven row of short spirals. The entire effect was that of a home perm gone terribly wrong. Wes had the impression that she had been the victim of some well-meaning person used to trimming the bone-straight locks of the native population. Yes, it was a close approximation of the modified Dutch boy cut worn by most of the Indians in this area. Only a colorful woven headband was missing to complete the look
Wes suspected that, even well done, the haircut wouldn't have suited the damphyr. The style squared her jaw, adding to the androgynous effect of her shapeless tunic and trousers. The garments were clean, but very badly frayed. And too small. The tattered hem of the pants skimmed her shins. The tunic revealed an inch of flat belly and her wrists poked far from the raggedy cuffs.
He estimated the girl was about 5'5". Average height for an American woman, but almost a half foot taller than most of the Tamaupilans. She had been dwarfed by the Kailiff guards, but must have looked like a gangly giantess beside her human handlers.
A more classically beautiful young woman might have shone through the butchered hair and baggy apparel. The damphyr didn't. She seemed ordinary, almost drab. She looked like a slave.
She reminded him of Fred when he first saw her in Pylea.
Later, he would be ashamed of the thought. But, right then, speeding along the road to Maramoros, he knew only that it cracked something inside him. And, he hurt.
Oh, God, he hurt.
The pain was so fresh that it all might as well have happened a fortnight ago. In his whole life, nothing -not his father's insults, not even Fred falling for Gunn- had hurt as much as the look on Fred's face that night in the hospital. He hadn't thought it possible for someone to feel pity and loathing at the same time. But, the woman he loved had looked at him like he was a broken-winged insect as she revealed that the prophecies were false and told him to stay away.
As a wave of heartache swept over him, Wesley closed his eyes and slumped in his seat. The movement accidentally jolted his right arm against the door handle. There was a flare of pain, followed by a sudden sensation of wetness that told him he'd reopened the wound. It didn't matter, at that moment he welcomed the physical distraction from his emotional torment. As both pains faded, he opened his eyes into wide grey ones. Or more accurately, the damphyr's reflection.
She was leaning forward, staring at him with great interest. He watched her bite her lower lip apprehensively. It was as if she sensed his suffering. He blinked, chiding himself. Probably she just caught of whiff of the new flow of blood and was wondering if she could get at him. Whatever the emotion animating her face, it restored some of the allure she held during the opening minutes of the auction.
She caught him staring back at her and the blank expression reappeared. For some reason he wasn't content to let her lapse back into solitude. "What shall we call you?"
The girl didn't look up as she answered. "Molinero and his witches called me tlahuelpuchi." She pronounced the Nahuatl term adeptly. At his raised eyebrow, she volunteered, "That's a kind of daywalking vampire in Mexico. Others use the term damphyr. Different languages, same deal."
Angel shook his head. "He means what's your name."
She stared at him blankly.
Wes decided to try a different tack. "I'm Wesley Wyndham-Price. This is Angel.
"Angel what?"
The corners of Wesley's mouth jerked upward briefly. The vampire ignored him. "It's just Angel. I haven't had a last name in a long, long time."
She accepted this without comment.
The ex-Watcher continued. "And you are..."
The damphyr's eyes dropped. "I don't have a name."
Angel and Wes both turned to stare at her. The vampire's brow was furrowed. "You must have a name."
"Why? You don't have a last name." The young woman folded her arms across her chest defiantly.
Wes couldn't hold back the smile at this point. It was a mistake.
Her grey eyes turned on him. "Why are you grinning? You've got enough names for two people."
Angel didn't just smile, he laughed. It earned him two unfriendly stares. He turned around and stared at the road.
Wes sighed. "I suppose we could give you a name. Angel, what do you think of Aglaia. After one of the Graces of ancient Greek mythology."
The vampire kept a straight face. "Actually she looks more like a Bertilda to me."
"Chrysanthemi"
Wesley thought for a minute. "Derwinna."
"Nah," Angel shot her a quick glance. "How about Enigma?"
"Enigma isn't a name!" The damphyr protested.
Wes agreed, then added. "But it does describe you rather well. Now where were we?"
"The Fs." Angel replied. " 'Fuensanta' has a noble ring to it. It means 'holy fountain'."
The girl shuddered.
"Grisandole?" Wes offered. "It's a medieval English name meaning a princess who dresses like a warrior."
She glared.
"Don't worry, we'll find a proper one eventually." Wes assured her. He gave her a roguish grin, making it obvious that they were prepared to go through the entire alphabet.
She rolled her eyes. "Enough, it's Lark."
"Just Lark?" Angel said teasingly.
"One name's good enough for you," she shot back.
Just up ahead, Angel spotted the exit for Matamoros and concentrated on slowing the SUV's speed, almost missing Lark's next words.
"Sorry, I just haven't had a name in a long, long time."
****
Wes directed Angel through the streets of the border town until they got to El Buho, the little bar where Gunn waited. The young man got out of the convertible and walked over to the SUV, stretching and yawning. Angel rolled down the driver's side window and the two partners exchanged an elaborate handshake. As the vampire gave a brief explanation of the damphyr's rescue, Gunn peered curiously at the young woman. He kept giving her sidelong glances through the window as Angel outline the plan to cross the border and spend the night in Brownsville.
Angel decided to put him out of his misery. "Gunn, this is Lark. Lark, this is Charles Gunn."
They nodded at each other. "Pleased to meet you, Lark." Gunn said politely. Then he waited.
Wesley cleared his throat. Lark looked sheepish. "Pleased to meet you, too Charles."
Gunn laughed. "Just call me Gunn. Only my girlfriend calls me Charles." Out of habit, his eyes flicked at Wes at the mention of Fred. To his surprise, the ex-Watcher didn't seem to notice the reference. He was too busy staring at Lark. So, Gunn thought, English has a thing for the damphyr. Good, maybe he'll leave my woman alone.
***
The border crossing was uneventful. Given the late hour, few vehicles were headed into the U.S. However, many Americans were crossing the bridges over the Rio Grande on foot. One inebriated man grew resentful at the wait and began walking through. His equally drunk friends called him to come back. When he ignored their pleas, they ran after him. The group's movement sent all but one guard in each lane sprinting across the bridge. The man put up quite a struggle and distracted the remaining border agents.
As a result, both the SUV and the convertible were given perfunctory searches. The female border guard in their lane barely glanced at their identification. Nonetheless, Wesley gave a sigh of relief as they were passed through. As part of the damphyr's purchase, Molinero had provided Neelson with a U.S. passport for Lark which Angel had retrieved from the wreckage of the humvee. The photo on the document was clearly Lark, but her name was given as Laura Jones. He wondered if it was her real name. He turned around to ask her. To his surprise, the young woman had unbuckled herself and was curled up on the backseat fast asleep.
In repose, Lark's expression was neither cold or guarded. Instead, her face had a tomboyish air that made her seem very young and almost wholesome. He watched her wonderingly. Tonight he's seen her in so many different lights: an alluring curiosity available to the highest bidder, the traumatized slave, and a sullen teenager. Now, she looked like Hollywood's idea of the girl next door. Wearing that expression, one could easily imagine Lark playing on the local college's women's football...er soccer team. He did just that, picturing her driving the ball across the field. She'd have her wild mane restrained in a tight ponytail secured with one of those little colored elastic bands. The fantasy worked until he imagined her celebrating her goal by draining a member of the opposing team dry.
For the first time, Wesley allowed himself to think about the dilemma of what to do with the damphyr now that they had rescued her. Lark clearly was not in any psychological state to go off on her own. She had been reluctant to accompany them. Wes suspected that she would have stayed there in the wreckage of the caravan if he and Angel had simply driven away. It wasn't clear if she was fearful of them as strangers or simply worried that Neelson or Molinero would recapture and punish her. Either way, it was a bad sign that she hadn't ventured to ask where they were taking her. Lark might have a name now, but on some level she still thought of herself as someone's possession, something they could do with as they pleased.
It hit him then that the easy part had been the physical rescue. Yes, he'd been shot, but otherwise the three of them and the girl were okay. And they'd pulled the mission off without killing Neelson or his bodyguards.
The damphyr's psychological liberation was another matter. Lark believed that she would never be safe. Until they could prove her wrong, she'd be too vulnerable to go her own way.
Moreover, as long as she was in their custody, there was the problem of managing her behavior. The analytical part of Wesley's mind reminded him that Lark was a monster masquerading as a human young woman. His wounded arm had roused her demon. What would happen when her bloodthirst returned? So far, Lark seemed relatively docile, but she undoubtedly had preternatural strength to some degree. Otherwise the Kailiff guards and restraints would not have been necessary. They had seen that traditional weapons against vampires seemed to have no effect on her. Angel would be fine, but Wesley made a note to warn Gunn not to let his guard down around the girl.
As he gazed at Lark's sleeping face, Wes had the sinking feeling that it might be too late for him to take his own warning to heart.
***
The neon sign said "No Vacancy", but the motel's parking lot was nearly empty. Angel decided they should take a chance. He flashed the headlights to signal Gunn to follow them into the parking lot.
The check-in office was the first bad sign. Poorly lit. Hot as Hades despite the rumbling AC wall unit. There were multiple small holes in the plastic barrier around the night clerk's desk. Their scattered distribution and the surrounding cracks suggested they weren't the type purposely drilled for ventilation.
When they approach the counter, the clerk didn't both to look up. He was a ferret-faced teenager engrossed in a porn flick playing on a 20-inch TV. The picture was riddled with lines. Pirated cable in a motel? Bad sign number two.
Angel rapped on the plastic. The youth resentfully turned from the screen and then gave them a hostile stare. As his watery blue eyes slid over the four strangers, they paused at the sight of the dark-haired girl.
The clerk moved aside so to ensure a better view of the tv screen. The silicone beauty being violated pouted out at them. She wasn't a natural redhead. The youth ran the heel of his hand over his bulging crotch as he watched the damphyr's reaction. To her credit and his disappointment, Lark kept her face emotionless.
"We'd like rooms." Wesley said.
"I got one." The youth said curtly. "They just checked out and it ain't been cleaned yet. Maid's not in till seven. If she lays off the crank tonight." His tone said that was doubtful.
Gunn looked around the office. The maid's crystal meth habit was at least a couple months old. There were faded lottery tickets and desiccated insects mixed in with the dust bunnies at the foot of the counter. "Uh, guys. I think I saw a sign for a Super 8 just up the highway."
The clerk laughed. "It's full. There's a convention in town. Everyone's full 'cept me and like I said I only got the one room."
Angel sighed. "How much?"
"$60 for the night." The clerk licked his thin lips as he stared at the damphyr. "$25 for the hour." He laughed. The sound died in his throat at the expression on Wesley's face. The teen looked suddenly grateful for the plastic barrier, even as flimsy as he knew it to be. "Um, sixty plus tax and we charge extra if there's more than two guests in a double." He consulted a little chart that had been Xeroxed and scotchtaped to the grimy counter. "That'll be seventy-nine fifty."
Angel dug in his back pocket for his wallet. He withdrew a credit card.
"Cash." The youth smirked.
The vampire's fingers tightened on the little plastic rectangle. He suspected that the clerk was going to pocket the money. After all, the room had already been rented out for the night. He wouldn't even have to enter this transaction in the ledger.
Angel didn't have any cash. Gunn's own billfold held a faded twenty and some change, plus his driver's license and a little plastic accordion folder of wallet-sized photos. After turning out his jeans and jacket pockets, the young man was able to come up with a total of about thirty dollars in crumpled bills. He reluctantly handed them over. Wes shook his head. "Keep it Charles."
Gunn didn't refuse. They weren't going to be paid for this job and business back in LA had been slow lately with the boss so distracted. He crammed the money back into his pockets as Wes counted out four crisp new twenty-dollar bills. "Keep the change." The Englishman said sarcastically.
The clerk gave him a sour look, but he was growing bored with needling them by this point. He set the key on the little lazy susan, spun it through the opening wordlessly, and turned back to his porn. The carrot top's raucous cries of feigned pleasure seemed to mock them as they walked out of the office.
On their drive in, Gunn thought that the air was foul, rife with odors from the maquiladoras. It had been sweet compared to that inside the check-in office. Still, even that malodorous place hadn't prepared him for the reek that emanated from their motel room even before Angel turned the key.
Someone had partied hard in room 2E. On the single small night table, there were several half-filled takeout containers. Their contents were unrecognizable, covered in a thick carpeting of gray furze. Draped over the remains of a wooden chair, a slice of pizza was mold free, but rapidly fossilizing. The far wall provided support for a massive pyramid of Coors' cans. A trio of smashed bottles indicated that at some point the revelers had switched from beer to tequila. The double beds were not only unmade, but actually disassembled -mattresses taken off the boxsprings and thrown on the floor where they had been...used. Lark stared at the unmistakable stains.
"Damn." Gunn mumbled. His voice was oddly distorted because he was pinching his nose.
"Sorry," Angel told the girl. "Don't touch anything. We'll clean up."
"Don't bother. We're not staying." Wes turned on his heel and was halfway to the manager's office before Angel could stop him. The vampire made the mistake of grabbing his former partner's right arm. Wesley shook off the restraining hand and swung with his left fist. Angel reared back and the blow missed his chin by only millimeters. "Hey! It's just me." He moved out of range and held up his hands to show he didn't mean any harm.
The Englishman's posture remained tense, but he gave a single nod of acknowledgement.
"Did I grab your wounded arm?"
"Yes."
"Did I hurt you? Is it bleeding again?"
"No."
Angel wasn't sure which question Wes was answering and he could tell the other man didn't care to discuss his wound. He deeply regretted touching Wes at all. "Sorry, I grabbed you. I didn't think. I just wanted to stop you before you throttled the clerk."
From the gleam in the ex-Watcher's eyes it was obvious that was exactly what he was planning.
"I know the room's disgusting," Angel paused as Wes gave him a look. "Okay, disgusting is a gross understatement. But it's 2 AM and we're all exhausted. We can push all the mess to one side, bed down for four of five hours. Once we're rested, we'll hit the road again." The vampire raked a hand through his hair. "There's sleeping bags in the trunk of the convertible. You're welcome to borrow one, but if I know you, you've got a bedroll of your own."
"You don't." Wes said.
Angel was confused. "I don't what?"
"Know me."
For one long moment they stared at each other and Angel knew that it was true. He didn't know this hard, wary Wesley any more than he knew the desperate, secretive Wesley who helped Holtz kidnap his infant son. Worse, he wasn't sure he wanted to know this man. The vampire was suddenly aware that among the losses of the past year was the loyal, mild-manner Wesley who had become his friend. Right then, Angel felt not just tired, but in the grip of a deep emotionally fatigue that four or five hours of sleep in a filthy hotel wasn't going to help. And the last thing he wanted to do was to have a confrontation with Wesley.
"You're right," He conceded. "I don't know you. Not like I used to at least." Angel paused. "But I know that you're well-prepared for any contingency -so I bet you've got camping supplies somewhere in your truck."
Wes nodded.
"I also know you well enough that I can see that you're ignoring how much your arm hurts. You won't even take a painkiller because it might make you drowsy and you can't afford to not be alert."
There was a perceptible stiffening of the other man's spine. The movement made pain flit across Wesley's face.
"Fine. Don't admit it." Angel said appeasingly. Then his voice turned hard. "Just don't put the rest of us in jeopardy because you want to be macho. The hero can't save the girl if he passes out from pain and exhaustion."
Something not quite a smile twitched the corners of Wesley's mouth. "You'll take the first watch?"
Angel nodded.
Wes seemed to relax a bit. His left hand drifted halfway up to the wounded bicep on the opposite arm. Then he caught the vampire staring. His dark-stubbled chin rose. "I won't take any narcotics."
"That's fine. We don't have any."
"I do." Wes said. "Morphine."
Angel tried to hide his shock.
"Well-prepared." Wes explained.
"Any contingency," Angel mused, then his eyes narrowed. "What if the morphine had been found when we were searched at the border crossing? There were dogs."
Wes shrugged. "It can't be detected where it's stored."
The vampire started to protest, but Wes held up his left hand. "The man who modified my SUV used to work for a major drug cartel. He's reformed now, but he still knows how to fool the DEA." He gave a twisted little smile. "Besides, I have the proper papers for it."
Angel wasn't sure what sort of papers were needed for an ordinary citizen to carry morphine around, but he was too tired to persist. "Well, I agree that you shouldn't be under a narcotic right now. But, take some Ibuprofen. And I bet you have supplies to properly clean and rebandage the wound."
They walked over to the SUV. Angel watched as Wes reached into the left rear wheelwell. He pressed some hidden lever or button and an eighteen-inch section of metal along the truck bed popped out slightly. Pain shadowed Wesley's eyes as he used both hands to pull the panel out further. Just when Angel was ready to step in and help, the hidden compartment opened fully. It revealed a large first aid kit. A revolver and a throwing knife sat on top of the box.
Angel didn't say anything about the gun or knife as he removed the first aid kit. He was torn between mourning for the old Wesley who didn't feel so driven to protect himself and awe for this new one who had hidden caches of first aid supplies and weapons.
The latter feeling was increased when he saw how truly well stocked Wes was. He had a military quality first aid kit. In addition to the typical large assortment of bandages, ointments, and sterile gloves, there were several unexpected items. Rehydration salts. Inflatable leg and arm splints. Prepared surgical sutures. Syringes. A straight 5.5" hemostat and its curved counterpart. The vampire picked up the packet labeled QuikClot, feeling the grainy contents through the plastic. "Blood-clotting factor." Angel whistled. "What contingency are you preparing for?"
Wesley's voice was low, emotionless. "After one survives a slit throat, it seems wise to prepare for every possible situation."
Angel put the packet back. He spotted, but did not touch the tiny bottle of morphine. Beside it, there was another larger vial, unlabeled and filled with a thick, straw-colored fluid. "What's that?"
A real smile lit up Wesley's face. "Bacteriophages." At Angel's blank look, he explained. "Bacteria eating viruses. Better than conventional battlefield antibiotics for preventing staphylococcus infections in wounds. They destroy only the specific pathogens and leave the good bacteria alone. It's a pity the U.S. medical establishment is neglecting research into phage therapy. Annually, the Russians and Georgians are avoiding thousands of unnecessary amputations in patients with vancomycin-resistant staph."
With those excited words, he almost sounded like the old Wesley Wyndam-Price, more scholar and scientist than soldier. But, then, many a battle hardened field medic would have envied him the kit.
Angel carefully handed back the vial and stared at the two weapons in the hidden compartment. Every possible contingency. The vampire could imagine Wes grimly preparing for the occasion when he would have to pause in treating his own wounds to fire the revolver or send the knife soaring into the center of someone's chest.
He closed the lid and picked up the heavy kit. Wes leaned against the panel, which noiselessly slid back into place, concealing the weapons. No matter how hard he stared at the side of the vehicle, Angel couldn't detect the seams of the panel. He didn't bother to hide how impressed he was, but he chose not to comment either.
If Wes was expecting a compliment, he didn't show his disappointment. He walked to the back of the SUV and opened the hatch. There was a black dufflebag inside. "Clean clothing and a bedroll," he explained to Angel.
"I suppose there's a weapon or two in there as well." The vampire said. He didn't wait for Wesley's answer, just reached to pull the bag out. The Englishman stepped forward and blocked his way. Angel shook his head, "Would it kill you to let me carry that?"
The former Watcher didn't reply. He stubbornly took the bag and slung it over his own left shoulder. Silently, the former partners walked back to the room.
***
Gunn was fairly pissed when Angel explained that they were staying at the motel. He accepted Angel's offer for the vampire to tackle cleaning up if he would treat Wesley's wound. However, he was hardly mollified. The young man kept up a steady stream of grumbling as he rummaged through the first aid kit for Benzalkonium chloride antiseptic and sterile gauze. A slender hand darted in and snatched the EMT shears. The damphyr moved too fast for Gunn to catch her, but she couldn't evade Angel.
He seized her arms. Lark didn't struggle, but she didn't release the scissors either. In fact, her grip grew even tighter. It was a standoff of sorts. Angel couldn't make her drop them unless he broke her wrist. She couldn't break free.
Wesley approached the two cautiously. He didn't try to wrest the scissors from Lark's hand. Instead he calmly asked, "Why do you want the shears?"
She didn't turn her head from Angel, but gazed out of the corner of one eye. "I want to cut my hair."
"Seems a wise idea," Wes replied.
For a second, the damphyr looked hurt and he regretted his words. But then, she gave him a grim little smile. "I knew it was awful. They wouldn't let me have a mirror afterwards, but later on, I could tell it was bad from the look on Neelson's face. I though he was going to tell Molinero that the deal was off."
Angel let go of Lark and took a step back. She rubbed the wrist of the hand that held the shears, looking at him suspiciously. "You're fast."
The vampire nodded. "You, too."
"Humans don't move that fast." The girl tilted her head back to see him better. "What are you?"
It was his turn to be skeptical. "You really can't tell?" The look on her face was sufficient answer. The damphyr was scared now. Her grip on the shears shifted so that she now held them like a weapon.
Angel sighed. "Lark, I'm a vampire."
Her grey eyes narrowed. "It won't work, you know. The guy before Molinero tried and the woman before that."
"What won't work?"
She looked away. "Breeding me to make more."
There was an awful silence in the room. Gunn felt physically ill. Lark really had been a slave. And she'd been treated like his Mama Susanna. Little more than a child herself and someone wanted to wrest life from her womb.
Angel was too aghast to say anything, but Wesley spoke softly. "Lark, we have no intention of that sort. Or of doing anything else to exploit you. Angel isn't going to hurt you. None of us are."
Both Angel and Gunn nodded. Wes continued, "I know that it's hard to believe right now, but all we want to do is help you. Perhaps you'd like us to take you to your family or friends."
Her expression suddenly went from wary to carefully blank and he knew he'd hit some nerve. "Or," he quickly continued, "if you'd like to be on your own, we can help with that, too. We can find you a job, an apartment." He paused. "There's a third alternative. You can come stay with us. Angel has a hotel. There's another young woman living there. Her name is Fred and, like you, she used to be a slave. We rescued her from a terrible place. She came back to LA with us and now she helps save other people."
Gunn moved slowly and carefully, but the damphyr startled at the movement. She wheeled around and fixed him with a hard stare. "Easy," he told her. "I just want to show you this." He drew his wallet from his back pocket and pulled out a photo. He held it out at arms length. "That's Fred. She's my girl."
Lark sidled a foot closer and peered at the picture. A thin young woman with long brown hair smiled up at her. "It's just a picture. You could have taken it from a dollar-store frame."
"Okay, here's another one." Gunn hesitated, shooting slightly guilty looks at Angel and Wesley. "It's all of us together."
The snapshot showed grinning adults clustered around an infant. Lark easily recognized the three men she was traveling with and the girl Fred. However, there was a fifth person, a pretty young woman with dark blonde hair and darker roots. She held the sleeping baby close and her hazel-eyes were focused on Angel.
Lark looked at the vampire. "Is that your wife and baby?"
He swallowed. "Not my wife. A very good friend. Cordelia."
"But the baby is yours?"
"Yes. My son, Connor. Only he's not a baby anymore."
She looked at the photo again. "He's what...two or three now."
"More like seventeen." Angel couldn't help but smile at her look of disbelief. "It's a long story."
"Too long for tonight." Wes said gently. "We still have more than a day's drive back to Los Angeles. There will be plenty of time to hear all about Connor and anything else you want to know."
She opened her mouth and then shut it.
"What?"
"Um, are you two...? You know..."
Gunn started laughing. "Are we part of the allergic to sunlight crowd?"
Angel rolled his eyes. "They're human. Look behind you."
Lark turned and saw that the cracked wall mirror showed three reflections. She shrugged. "That doesn't mean anything. I have a reflection and I'm not exactly human."
Gunn yawned. "As interested as I am in exactly what you are, Wesley's right. This can wait for tomorrow."
The girl assented. "I'm going to cut my hair first though." She disappeared into the bathroom. When the door closed behind her, the three men exhaled.
Gunn shook his head as he stuck the photos back in his wallet. He walked back over to the first aid kit, motioning to Wes to follow. The ex-Watcher slipped off his leather jacket. Without it, he was bare-chested, having sacrificed his t-shirt for makeshift bandages. Those cotton strips were soaked through with blood now. Since Lark had the shears, Gunn drew a knife from his boot sheath. He sterilized it with liberal amounts of rubbing alcohol, then carefully slid it between the cloth and Wesley's arm. A quick slice upward and the fabric parted before the razor sharp blade.
The inch-long wound had reopened. After cleaning away the blood and trimming the edges, Gunn decided a few stitches were in order. He sprayed a local anesthetic on the area around the wound and then quickly sutured it closed. A small smear of antibiotic ointment and half a roll of gauze completed the treatment.
Wes moved the arm cautiously and thanked Gunn before dry-swallowing two Ibuprofen. Then, he took a holstered gun and a small pile of clean clothing from his duffle bag. He put on a new t-shirt, wincing slightly as the fabric pulled against the bulky bandage on his bicep. After some consideration, he tossed the clean jeans back into the bag. That left a long-sleeved v-neck Henley. He started to put it on, but then refolded it. The shirt would be a little big, but Lark might find it preferable to the rough peasant tunic she currently wore.
Meanwhile, Angel had managed to clear the detritus of the party from about half of the room. Even after throwing away the trash, the room didn't smell any better, but at least there was room to move around freely. On his return from the dumpster, Angel brought a canvas tarp and three sleeping bags from his car. He was in the process of laying them out when Lark emerged from the bathroom.
All three men turned at the sound of the door opening. She seemed disconcerted by the attention. One hand flew up to her newly cropped head. She'd cut her hair very short. Maybe less than an inch. Damp and without the weight of length, it was curlier than ever. The style was very boyish, but it actually made her face seem more feminine than the earlier haircut. Her jaw didn't look so square now that her cheekbones were revealed. And, free of the awful bangs, her eyes looked larger than before. The clear dark grey irises thinly outlined in black were really her best feature.
Such a changeling, Wes thought. He started to complement her hair, but was interrupted by a knock at the door.
The four turned to the door in unison. According to the clock on the nightstand, it was almost 3 AM. There was a second knock. "Gunn, take Lark into the bathroom." Wes said in a quiet, cold voice. He retrieved the gun as Angel moved toward the door.
"Who is it?" The vampire called. Beside him, Wes grimly drew the pistol from the holster.
After a second's hesitation, someone replied. "It's me, Doug. The clerk."
"What do you want?"
"Uh, I felt bad about giving you this room. Look, there's two clean adjoining rooms on the ground floor. I'll let you have them without any extra charge."
Angel and Wes looked at each other. Wes gave a short, hard shake of his head.
"Thanks, but we're not interested."
"Are you sure? That room was rented by the Jimenez brothers and some whores from the other side of the river. It's gotta be pretty nasty."
Nasty didn't begin to describe it, but that didn't justify the clerk's sudden concern for their comfort.
"Don't worry about us, Doug. I've already cleaned up in here. We're fine for the night."
There was no reply, but they didn't hear footsteps walking away either. There was a different more sinister sound that only Angel could hear. "Down!" he yelled and pulled Wesley to the floor just as the cheap door splintered under a hail of bullets.
Wes rolled clear of the door and then returned fire. He emptied the clip, cursing himself for leaving the spare in the duffle bag. With bullets still flying across the room, he doubted he could reach it now. Still, he took the chance, crawling towards the bag as the remains of the door were kicked in.
Three armed men strode into the room. One had a pistol pointed at Doug's temple. The others aimed their weapons at Wes and Angel. "Freeze."
They were hauled to their feet and watched in dismay as Neelson entered the room. The Texan wore clean clothing, but nose remained swollen and his face was further disfigured with heavy bruising on one side where Angel had struck him. His eyes narrowed at the sight of the two men who had attacked his caravan.
"Where's the damphyr?" he demanded in an evil echo of Wes's own words mere hours ago.
***
TBC in Chapter 5
By iyaorisha
Timing: AU S7 BtVS and AU S4 AtS
Pairings: Buffy/Spike, Angel/Cordy, Xander/Anya, Willow/other and Wesley/other.
Summary: Buffy and Spike's fragile new relationship is tested when Angel returns to Sunnydale, bringing with him a mysterious young woman from Spike's dark past. (Revised, with chapter titles!)
(This fic is part one of a yet-untitled series in progress. It can be read on its own or after my "Unmoved" series -four linked fics that chronicle my take on reensouled Spike's return to Sunnydale)
Rating/Warnings: R for violence, language, M/F sexual situations, and self-mutiliation.
Spoilers: None if you've seen S6 of BtVS and up through "Deep Down" in Ats S4. Spoilers for my "Unmoved" fanfic series. References to FFL, the trade novels "Pretty Maids All in a Row" and "Little Things", and my fanfic "Relating to a Psychopath.
Disclaimer: None of the BtVS or AtS characters or the world they inhabit belong to me. They belong to Joss and I promise to put them back when I'm done playing with them.
Author's Note: Reading (and for me, writing) Buffyverse fanfiction is a great form of escapism. Unfortunately, "cutting" or self-mutilation is a very real and terribly serious disorder that affects as many as one out of every 200 adolescent girls in the U.S. If you or someone that you know practices "cutting", please seek help from your local medical/mental health expert.
Feedback: My first BtVs/AtS crossover fanfic! Brutal honesty is best (I enjoy floggings, I really do), but warm fuzzies are accepted as well. You can post a review here or email me at fanfic_by_iyaorisha@yahoo.com
***
Chapter 4: Deliverance
The desert at night.
There were few trees to screen the harsh moonlight that bleached out color and pared away all features into blocky shapes and rough textures. Sketched out in light and shadow like a black&white photograph, the landscape was both bleakly beautiful and utterly uninviting. To the casual observer, the scenery passing by the SUV's windows was cold, lifeless.
Wesley Wyndham-Price was not a casual observer.
He sensed the movement before it was fully recognizable --an owl swooping down on some small creature. He turned his head to watch it strike.
The bird was young and still a bit ungainly in flight. At the last minute, the owlet braked its descent too sharply. Razor talons ghosted over fear-stiffened fur, then closed on air. There was a hoot of outrage at the miss and the prey's paralysis broke at last. Its frantic scurrying across the sand sent up tiny puffs of dust like alien mushrooms.
The scene was soon lost to distance, but Wes did not turn from the window. He always hated sitting in the passenger seat. It was especially galling now because he was riding in his own vehicle. Now that the pain in his arm had settled into a low throb, he was perfectly capable of driving. However, Angel had taken the keys, insisting that he try to sleep.
It was impossible, of course. Still too much adrenaline in his system to relax. So, Wes stared out the window. His posture gave the impression that his gaze never left the passing landscape. In reality, he was spending more time staring at the window than out of it. The darkness outside made the tinted glass cast a shadowy image of the girl in the backseat. He assumed that the reflection was the first of many surprises the damphyr held. The temptation to surreptitiously study her was too strong to resist.
He hadn't gotten a good look at the girl since Molinero's ranch. She had been so skittish as Angel freed her from the wreckage of Neelson's humvee, that the vampire had advised Wes to steer clear. Grudgingly, he sat in the SUV while Angel tried to convince the damphyr to come with him. Even without the smell of fresh blood to make her half-wild, it had taken quite a bit of cajoling to get her into their vehicle. Now, belted into the backseat, she didn't even resemble the young woman who'd stood on a spot lit dais hours earlier
The damphyr's hair had been cut badly in the short time between the auction and her rescue. Before, her dark curls had been a tangled waist-length mass. Now, they were chopped to skim her shoulder at the back and sides. An attempt had been made at bangs, but the result was simply an uneven row of short spirals. The entire effect was that of a home perm gone terribly wrong. Wes had the impression that she had been the victim of some well-meaning person used to trimming the bone-straight locks of the native population. Yes, it was a close approximation of the modified Dutch boy cut worn by most of the Indians in this area. Only a colorful woven headband was missing to complete the look
Wes suspected that, even well done, the haircut wouldn't have suited the damphyr. The style squared her jaw, adding to the androgynous effect of her shapeless tunic and trousers. The garments were clean, but very badly frayed. And too small. The tattered hem of the pants skimmed her shins. The tunic revealed an inch of flat belly and her wrists poked far from the raggedy cuffs.
He estimated the girl was about 5'5". Average height for an American woman, but almost a half foot taller than most of the Tamaupilans. She had been dwarfed by the Kailiff guards, but must have looked like a gangly giantess beside her human handlers.
A more classically beautiful young woman might have shone through the butchered hair and baggy apparel. The damphyr didn't. She seemed ordinary, almost drab. She looked like a slave.
She reminded him of Fred when he first saw her in Pylea.
Later, he would be ashamed of the thought. But, right then, speeding along the road to Maramoros, he knew only that it cracked something inside him. And, he hurt.
Oh, God, he hurt.
The pain was so fresh that it all might as well have happened a fortnight ago. In his whole life, nothing -not his father's insults, not even Fred falling for Gunn- had hurt as much as the look on Fred's face that night in the hospital. He hadn't thought it possible for someone to feel pity and loathing at the same time. But, the woman he loved had looked at him like he was a broken-winged insect as she revealed that the prophecies were false and told him to stay away.
As a wave of heartache swept over him, Wesley closed his eyes and slumped in his seat. The movement accidentally jolted his right arm against the door handle. There was a flare of pain, followed by a sudden sensation of wetness that told him he'd reopened the wound. It didn't matter, at that moment he welcomed the physical distraction from his emotional torment. As both pains faded, he opened his eyes into wide grey ones. Or more accurately, the damphyr's reflection.
She was leaning forward, staring at him with great interest. He watched her bite her lower lip apprehensively. It was as if she sensed his suffering. He blinked, chiding himself. Probably she just caught of whiff of the new flow of blood and was wondering if she could get at him. Whatever the emotion animating her face, it restored some of the allure she held during the opening minutes of the auction.
She caught him staring back at her and the blank expression reappeared. For some reason he wasn't content to let her lapse back into solitude. "What shall we call you?"
The girl didn't look up as she answered. "Molinero and his witches called me tlahuelpuchi." She pronounced the Nahuatl term adeptly. At his raised eyebrow, she volunteered, "That's a kind of daywalking vampire in Mexico. Others use the term damphyr. Different languages, same deal."
Angel shook his head. "He means what's your name."
She stared at him blankly.
Wes decided to try a different tack. "I'm Wesley Wyndham-Price. This is Angel.
"Angel what?"
The corners of Wesley's mouth jerked upward briefly. The vampire ignored him. "It's just Angel. I haven't had a last name in a long, long time."
She accepted this without comment.
The ex-Watcher continued. "And you are..."
The damphyr's eyes dropped. "I don't have a name."
Angel and Wes both turned to stare at her. The vampire's brow was furrowed. "You must have a name."
"Why? You don't have a last name." The young woman folded her arms across her chest defiantly.
Wes couldn't hold back the smile at this point. It was a mistake.
Her grey eyes turned on him. "Why are you grinning? You've got enough names for two people."
Angel didn't just smile, he laughed. It earned him two unfriendly stares. He turned around and stared at the road.
Wes sighed. "I suppose we could give you a name. Angel, what do you think of Aglaia. After one of the Graces of ancient Greek mythology."
The vampire kept a straight face. "Actually she looks more like a Bertilda to me."
"Chrysanthemi"
Wesley thought for a minute. "Derwinna."
"Nah," Angel shot her a quick glance. "How about Enigma?"
"Enigma isn't a name!" The damphyr protested.
Wes agreed, then added. "But it does describe you rather well. Now where were we?"
"The Fs." Angel replied. " 'Fuensanta' has a noble ring to it. It means 'holy fountain'."
The girl shuddered.
"Grisandole?" Wes offered. "It's a medieval English name meaning a princess who dresses like a warrior."
She glared.
"Don't worry, we'll find a proper one eventually." Wes assured her. He gave her a roguish grin, making it obvious that they were prepared to go through the entire alphabet.
She rolled her eyes. "Enough, it's Lark."
"Just Lark?" Angel said teasingly.
"One name's good enough for you," she shot back.
Just up ahead, Angel spotted the exit for Matamoros and concentrated on slowing the SUV's speed, almost missing Lark's next words.
"Sorry, I just haven't had a name in a long, long time."
****
Wes directed Angel through the streets of the border town until they got to El Buho, the little bar where Gunn waited. The young man got out of the convertible and walked over to the SUV, stretching and yawning. Angel rolled down the driver's side window and the two partners exchanged an elaborate handshake. As the vampire gave a brief explanation of the damphyr's rescue, Gunn peered curiously at the young woman. He kept giving her sidelong glances through the window as Angel outline the plan to cross the border and spend the night in Brownsville.
Angel decided to put him out of his misery. "Gunn, this is Lark. Lark, this is Charles Gunn."
They nodded at each other. "Pleased to meet you, Lark." Gunn said politely. Then he waited.
Wesley cleared his throat. Lark looked sheepish. "Pleased to meet you, too Charles."
Gunn laughed. "Just call me Gunn. Only my girlfriend calls me Charles." Out of habit, his eyes flicked at Wes at the mention of Fred. To his surprise, the ex-Watcher didn't seem to notice the reference. He was too busy staring at Lark. So, Gunn thought, English has a thing for the damphyr. Good, maybe he'll leave my woman alone.
***
The border crossing was uneventful. Given the late hour, few vehicles were headed into the U.S. However, many Americans were crossing the bridges over the Rio Grande on foot. One inebriated man grew resentful at the wait and began walking through. His equally drunk friends called him to come back. When he ignored their pleas, they ran after him. The group's movement sent all but one guard in each lane sprinting across the bridge. The man put up quite a struggle and distracted the remaining border agents.
As a result, both the SUV and the convertible were given perfunctory searches. The female border guard in their lane barely glanced at their identification. Nonetheless, Wesley gave a sigh of relief as they were passed through. As part of the damphyr's purchase, Molinero had provided Neelson with a U.S. passport for Lark which Angel had retrieved from the wreckage of the humvee. The photo on the document was clearly Lark, but her name was given as Laura Jones. He wondered if it was her real name. He turned around to ask her. To his surprise, the young woman had unbuckled herself and was curled up on the backseat fast asleep.
In repose, Lark's expression was neither cold or guarded. Instead, her face had a tomboyish air that made her seem very young and almost wholesome. He watched her wonderingly. Tonight he's seen her in so many different lights: an alluring curiosity available to the highest bidder, the traumatized slave, and a sullen teenager. Now, she looked like Hollywood's idea of the girl next door. Wearing that expression, one could easily imagine Lark playing on the local college's women's football...er soccer team. He did just that, picturing her driving the ball across the field. She'd have her wild mane restrained in a tight ponytail secured with one of those little colored elastic bands. The fantasy worked until he imagined her celebrating her goal by draining a member of the opposing team dry.
For the first time, Wesley allowed himself to think about the dilemma of what to do with the damphyr now that they had rescued her. Lark clearly was not in any psychological state to go off on her own. She had been reluctant to accompany them. Wes suspected that she would have stayed there in the wreckage of the caravan if he and Angel had simply driven away. It wasn't clear if she was fearful of them as strangers or simply worried that Neelson or Molinero would recapture and punish her. Either way, it was a bad sign that she hadn't ventured to ask where they were taking her. Lark might have a name now, but on some level she still thought of herself as someone's possession, something they could do with as they pleased.
It hit him then that the easy part had been the physical rescue. Yes, he'd been shot, but otherwise the three of them and the girl were okay. And they'd pulled the mission off without killing Neelson or his bodyguards.
The damphyr's psychological liberation was another matter. Lark believed that she would never be safe. Until they could prove her wrong, she'd be too vulnerable to go her own way.
Moreover, as long as she was in their custody, there was the problem of managing her behavior. The analytical part of Wesley's mind reminded him that Lark was a monster masquerading as a human young woman. His wounded arm had roused her demon. What would happen when her bloodthirst returned? So far, Lark seemed relatively docile, but she undoubtedly had preternatural strength to some degree. Otherwise the Kailiff guards and restraints would not have been necessary. They had seen that traditional weapons against vampires seemed to have no effect on her. Angel would be fine, but Wesley made a note to warn Gunn not to let his guard down around the girl.
As he gazed at Lark's sleeping face, Wes had the sinking feeling that it might be too late for him to take his own warning to heart.
***
The neon sign said "No Vacancy", but the motel's parking lot was nearly empty. Angel decided they should take a chance. He flashed the headlights to signal Gunn to follow them into the parking lot.
The check-in office was the first bad sign. Poorly lit. Hot as Hades despite the rumbling AC wall unit. There were multiple small holes in the plastic barrier around the night clerk's desk. Their scattered distribution and the surrounding cracks suggested they weren't the type purposely drilled for ventilation.
When they approach the counter, the clerk didn't both to look up. He was a ferret-faced teenager engrossed in a porn flick playing on a 20-inch TV. The picture was riddled with lines. Pirated cable in a motel? Bad sign number two.
Angel rapped on the plastic. The youth resentfully turned from the screen and then gave them a hostile stare. As his watery blue eyes slid over the four strangers, they paused at the sight of the dark-haired girl.
The clerk moved aside so to ensure a better view of the tv screen. The silicone beauty being violated pouted out at them. She wasn't a natural redhead. The youth ran the heel of his hand over his bulging crotch as he watched the damphyr's reaction. To her credit and his disappointment, Lark kept her face emotionless.
"We'd like rooms." Wesley said.
"I got one." The youth said curtly. "They just checked out and it ain't been cleaned yet. Maid's not in till seven. If she lays off the crank tonight." His tone said that was doubtful.
Gunn looked around the office. The maid's crystal meth habit was at least a couple months old. There were faded lottery tickets and desiccated insects mixed in with the dust bunnies at the foot of the counter. "Uh, guys. I think I saw a sign for a Super 8 just up the highway."
The clerk laughed. "It's full. There's a convention in town. Everyone's full 'cept me and like I said I only got the one room."
Angel sighed. "How much?"
"$60 for the night." The clerk licked his thin lips as he stared at the damphyr. "$25 for the hour." He laughed. The sound died in his throat at the expression on Wesley's face. The teen looked suddenly grateful for the plastic barrier, even as flimsy as he knew it to be. "Um, sixty plus tax and we charge extra if there's more than two guests in a double." He consulted a little chart that had been Xeroxed and scotchtaped to the grimy counter. "That'll be seventy-nine fifty."
Angel dug in his back pocket for his wallet. He withdrew a credit card.
"Cash." The youth smirked.
The vampire's fingers tightened on the little plastic rectangle. He suspected that the clerk was going to pocket the money. After all, the room had already been rented out for the night. He wouldn't even have to enter this transaction in the ledger.
Angel didn't have any cash. Gunn's own billfold held a faded twenty and some change, plus his driver's license and a little plastic accordion folder of wallet-sized photos. After turning out his jeans and jacket pockets, the young man was able to come up with a total of about thirty dollars in crumpled bills. He reluctantly handed them over. Wes shook his head. "Keep it Charles."
Gunn didn't refuse. They weren't going to be paid for this job and business back in LA had been slow lately with the boss so distracted. He crammed the money back into his pockets as Wes counted out four crisp new twenty-dollar bills. "Keep the change." The Englishman said sarcastically.
The clerk gave him a sour look, but he was growing bored with needling them by this point. He set the key on the little lazy susan, spun it through the opening wordlessly, and turned back to his porn. The carrot top's raucous cries of feigned pleasure seemed to mock them as they walked out of the office.
On their drive in, Gunn thought that the air was foul, rife with odors from the maquiladoras. It had been sweet compared to that inside the check-in office. Still, even that malodorous place hadn't prepared him for the reek that emanated from their motel room even before Angel turned the key.
Someone had partied hard in room 2E. On the single small night table, there were several half-filled takeout containers. Their contents were unrecognizable, covered in a thick carpeting of gray furze. Draped over the remains of a wooden chair, a slice of pizza was mold free, but rapidly fossilizing. The far wall provided support for a massive pyramid of Coors' cans. A trio of smashed bottles indicated that at some point the revelers had switched from beer to tequila. The double beds were not only unmade, but actually disassembled -mattresses taken off the boxsprings and thrown on the floor where they had been...used. Lark stared at the unmistakable stains.
"Damn." Gunn mumbled. His voice was oddly distorted because he was pinching his nose.
"Sorry," Angel told the girl. "Don't touch anything. We'll clean up."
"Don't bother. We're not staying." Wes turned on his heel and was halfway to the manager's office before Angel could stop him. The vampire made the mistake of grabbing his former partner's right arm. Wesley shook off the restraining hand and swung with his left fist. Angel reared back and the blow missed his chin by only millimeters. "Hey! It's just me." He moved out of range and held up his hands to show he didn't mean any harm.
The Englishman's posture remained tense, but he gave a single nod of acknowledgement.
"Did I grab your wounded arm?"
"Yes."
"Did I hurt you? Is it bleeding again?"
"No."
Angel wasn't sure which question Wes was answering and he could tell the other man didn't care to discuss his wound. He deeply regretted touching Wes at all. "Sorry, I grabbed you. I didn't think. I just wanted to stop you before you throttled the clerk."
From the gleam in the ex-Watcher's eyes it was obvious that was exactly what he was planning.
"I know the room's disgusting," Angel paused as Wes gave him a look. "Okay, disgusting is a gross understatement. But it's 2 AM and we're all exhausted. We can push all the mess to one side, bed down for four of five hours. Once we're rested, we'll hit the road again." The vampire raked a hand through his hair. "There's sleeping bags in the trunk of the convertible. You're welcome to borrow one, but if I know you, you've got a bedroll of your own."
"You don't." Wes said.
Angel was confused. "I don't what?"
"Know me."
For one long moment they stared at each other and Angel knew that it was true. He didn't know this hard, wary Wesley any more than he knew the desperate, secretive Wesley who helped Holtz kidnap his infant son. Worse, he wasn't sure he wanted to know this man. The vampire was suddenly aware that among the losses of the past year was the loyal, mild-manner Wesley who had become his friend. Right then, Angel felt not just tired, but in the grip of a deep emotionally fatigue that four or five hours of sleep in a filthy hotel wasn't going to help. And the last thing he wanted to do was to have a confrontation with Wesley.
"You're right," He conceded. "I don't know you. Not like I used to at least." Angel paused. "But I know that you're well-prepared for any contingency -so I bet you've got camping supplies somewhere in your truck."
Wes nodded.
"I also know you well enough that I can see that you're ignoring how much your arm hurts. You won't even take a painkiller because it might make you drowsy and you can't afford to not be alert."
There was a perceptible stiffening of the other man's spine. The movement made pain flit across Wesley's face.
"Fine. Don't admit it." Angel said appeasingly. Then his voice turned hard. "Just don't put the rest of us in jeopardy because you want to be macho. The hero can't save the girl if he passes out from pain and exhaustion."
Something not quite a smile twitched the corners of Wesley's mouth. "You'll take the first watch?"
Angel nodded.
Wes seemed to relax a bit. His left hand drifted halfway up to the wounded bicep on the opposite arm. Then he caught the vampire staring. His dark-stubbled chin rose. "I won't take any narcotics."
"That's fine. We don't have any."
"I do." Wes said. "Morphine."
Angel tried to hide his shock.
"Well-prepared." Wes explained.
"Any contingency," Angel mused, then his eyes narrowed. "What if the morphine had been found when we were searched at the border crossing? There were dogs."
Wes shrugged. "It can't be detected where it's stored."
The vampire started to protest, but Wes held up his left hand. "The man who modified my SUV used to work for a major drug cartel. He's reformed now, but he still knows how to fool the DEA." He gave a twisted little smile. "Besides, I have the proper papers for it."
Angel wasn't sure what sort of papers were needed for an ordinary citizen to carry morphine around, but he was too tired to persist. "Well, I agree that you shouldn't be under a narcotic right now. But, take some Ibuprofen. And I bet you have supplies to properly clean and rebandage the wound."
They walked over to the SUV. Angel watched as Wes reached into the left rear wheelwell. He pressed some hidden lever or button and an eighteen-inch section of metal along the truck bed popped out slightly. Pain shadowed Wesley's eyes as he used both hands to pull the panel out further. Just when Angel was ready to step in and help, the hidden compartment opened fully. It revealed a large first aid kit. A revolver and a throwing knife sat on top of the box.
Angel didn't say anything about the gun or knife as he removed the first aid kit. He was torn between mourning for the old Wesley who didn't feel so driven to protect himself and awe for this new one who had hidden caches of first aid supplies and weapons.
The latter feeling was increased when he saw how truly well stocked Wes was. He had a military quality first aid kit. In addition to the typical large assortment of bandages, ointments, and sterile gloves, there were several unexpected items. Rehydration salts. Inflatable leg and arm splints. Prepared surgical sutures. Syringes. A straight 5.5" hemostat and its curved counterpart. The vampire picked up the packet labeled QuikClot, feeling the grainy contents through the plastic. "Blood-clotting factor." Angel whistled. "What contingency are you preparing for?"
Wesley's voice was low, emotionless. "After one survives a slit throat, it seems wise to prepare for every possible situation."
Angel put the packet back. He spotted, but did not touch the tiny bottle of morphine. Beside it, there was another larger vial, unlabeled and filled with a thick, straw-colored fluid. "What's that?"
A real smile lit up Wesley's face. "Bacteriophages." At Angel's blank look, he explained. "Bacteria eating viruses. Better than conventional battlefield antibiotics for preventing staphylococcus infections in wounds. They destroy only the specific pathogens and leave the good bacteria alone. It's a pity the U.S. medical establishment is neglecting research into phage therapy. Annually, the Russians and Georgians are avoiding thousands of unnecessary amputations in patients with vancomycin-resistant staph."
With those excited words, he almost sounded like the old Wesley Wyndam-Price, more scholar and scientist than soldier. But, then, many a battle hardened field medic would have envied him the kit.
Angel carefully handed back the vial and stared at the two weapons in the hidden compartment. Every possible contingency. The vampire could imagine Wes grimly preparing for the occasion when he would have to pause in treating his own wounds to fire the revolver or send the knife soaring into the center of someone's chest.
He closed the lid and picked up the heavy kit. Wes leaned against the panel, which noiselessly slid back into place, concealing the weapons. No matter how hard he stared at the side of the vehicle, Angel couldn't detect the seams of the panel. He didn't bother to hide how impressed he was, but he chose not to comment either.
If Wes was expecting a compliment, he didn't show his disappointment. He walked to the back of the SUV and opened the hatch. There was a black dufflebag inside. "Clean clothing and a bedroll," he explained to Angel.
"I suppose there's a weapon or two in there as well." The vampire said. He didn't wait for Wesley's answer, just reached to pull the bag out. The Englishman stepped forward and blocked his way. Angel shook his head, "Would it kill you to let me carry that?"
The former Watcher didn't reply. He stubbornly took the bag and slung it over his own left shoulder. Silently, the former partners walked back to the room.
***
Gunn was fairly pissed when Angel explained that they were staying at the motel. He accepted Angel's offer for the vampire to tackle cleaning up if he would treat Wesley's wound. However, he was hardly mollified. The young man kept up a steady stream of grumbling as he rummaged through the first aid kit for Benzalkonium chloride antiseptic and sterile gauze. A slender hand darted in and snatched the EMT shears. The damphyr moved too fast for Gunn to catch her, but she couldn't evade Angel.
He seized her arms. Lark didn't struggle, but she didn't release the scissors either. In fact, her grip grew even tighter. It was a standoff of sorts. Angel couldn't make her drop them unless he broke her wrist. She couldn't break free.
Wesley approached the two cautiously. He didn't try to wrest the scissors from Lark's hand. Instead he calmly asked, "Why do you want the shears?"
She didn't turn her head from Angel, but gazed out of the corner of one eye. "I want to cut my hair."
"Seems a wise idea," Wes replied.
For a second, the damphyr looked hurt and he regretted his words. But then, she gave him a grim little smile. "I knew it was awful. They wouldn't let me have a mirror afterwards, but later on, I could tell it was bad from the look on Neelson's face. I though he was going to tell Molinero that the deal was off."
Angel let go of Lark and took a step back. She rubbed the wrist of the hand that held the shears, looking at him suspiciously. "You're fast."
The vampire nodded. "You, too."
"Humans don't move that fast." The girl tilted her head back to see him better. "What are you?"
It was his turn to be skeptical. "You really can't tell?" The look on her face was sufficient answer. The damphyr was scared now. Her grip on the shears shifted so that she now held them like a weapon.
Angel sighed. "Lark, I'm a vampire."
Her grey eyes narrowed. "It won't work, you know. The guy before Molinero tried and the woman before that."
"What won't work?"
She looked away. "Breeding me to make more."
There was an awful silence in the room. Gunn felt physically ill. Lark really had been a slave. And she'd been treated like his Mama Susanna. Little more than a child herself and someone wanted to wrest life from her womb.
Angel was too aghast to say anything, but Wesley spoke softly. "Lark, we have no intention of that sort. Or of doing anything else to exploit you. Angel isn't going to hurt you. None of us are."
Both Angel and Gunn nodded. Wes continued, "I know that it's hard to believe right now, but all we want to do is help you. Perhaps you'd like us to take you to your family or friends."
Her expression suddenly went from wary to carefully blank and he knew he'd hit some nerve. "Or," he quickly continued, "if you'd like to be on your own, we can help with that, too. We can find you a job, an apartment." He paused. "There's a third alternative. You can come stay with us. Angel has a hotel. There's another young woman living there. Her name is Fred and, like you, she used to be a slave. We rescued her from a terrible place. She came back to LA with us and now she helps save other people."
Gunn moved slowly and carefully, but the damphyr startled at the movement. She wheeled around and fixed him with a hard stare. "Easy," he told her. "I just want to show you this." He drew his wallet from his back pocket and pulled out a photo. He held it out at arms length. "That's Fred. She's my girl."
Lark sidled a foot closer and peered at the picture. A thin young woman with long brown hair smiled up at her. "It's just a picture. You could have taken it from a dollar-store frame."
"Okay, here's another one." Gunn hesitated, shooting slightly guilty looks at Angel and Wesley. "It's all of us together."
The snapshot showed grinning adults clustered around an infant. Lark easily recognized the three men she was traveling with and the girl Fred. However, there was a fifth person, a pretty young woman with dark blonde hair and darker roots. She held the sleeping baby close and her hazel-eyes were focused on Angel.
Lark looked at the vampire. "Is that your wife and baby?"
He swallowed. "Not my wife. A very good friend. Cordelia."
"But the baby is yours?"
"Yes. My son, Connor. Only he's not a baby anymore."
She looked at the photo again. "He's what...two or three now."
"More like seventeen." Angel couldn't help but smile at her look of disbelief. "It's a long story."
"Too long for tonight." Wes said gently. "We still have more than a day's drive back to Los Angeles. There will be plenty of time to hear all about Connor and anything else you want to know."
She opened her mouth and then shut it.
"What?"
"Um, are you two...? You know..."
Gunn started laughing. "Are we part of the allergic to sunlight crowd?"
Angel rolled his eyes. "They're human. Look behind you."
Lark turned and saw that the cracked wall mirror showed three reflections. She shrugged. "That doesn't mean anything. I have a reflection and I'm not exactly human."
Gunn yawned. "As interested as I am in exactly what you are, Wesley's right. This can wait for tomorrow."
The girl assented. "I'm going to cut my hair first though." She disappeared into the bathroom. When the door closed behind her, the three men exhaled.
Gunn shook his head as he stuck the photos back in his wallet. He walked back over to the first aid kit, motioning to Wes to follow. The ex-Watcher slipped off his leather jacket. Without it, he was bare-chested, having sacrificed his t-shirt for makeshift bandages. Those cotton strips were soaked through with blood now. Since Lark had the shears, Gunn drew a knife from his boot sheath. He sterilized it with liberal amounts of rubbing alcohol, then carefully slid it between the cloth and Wesley's arm. A quick slice upward and the fabric parted before the razor sharp blade.
The inch-long wound had reopened. After cleaning away the blood and trimming the edges, Gunn decided a few stitches were in order. He sprayed a local anesthetic on the area around the wound and then quickly sutured it closed. A small smear of antibiotic ointment and half a roll of gauze completed the treatment.
Wes moved the arm cautiously and thanked Gunn before dry-swallowing two Ibuprofen. Then, he took a holstered gun and a small pile of clean clothing from his duffle bag. He put on a new t-shirt, wincing slightly as the fabric pulled against the bulky bandage on his bicep. After some consideration, he tossed the clean jeans back into the bag. That left a long-sleeved v-neck Henley. He started to put it on, but then refolded it. The shirt would be a little big, but Lark might find it preferable to the rough peasant tunic she currently wore.
Meanwhile, Angel had managed to clear the detritus of the party from about half of the room. Even after throwing away the trash, the room didn't smell any better, but at least there was room to move around freely. On his return from the dumpster, Angel brought a canvas tarp and three sleeping bags from his car. He was in the process of laying them out when Lark emerged from the bathroom.
All three men turned at the sound of the door opening. She seemed disconcerted by the attention. One hand flew up to her newly cropped head. She'd cut her hair very short. Maybe less than an inch. Damp and without the weight of length, it was curlier than ever. The style was very boyish, but it actually made her face seem more feminine than the earlier haircut. Her jaw didn't look so square now that her cheekbones were revealed. And, free of the awful bangs, her eyes looked larger than before. The clear dark grey irises thinly outlined in black were really her best feature.
Such a changeling, Wes thought. He started to complement her hair, but was interrupted by a knock at the door.
The four turned to the door in unison. According to the clock on the nightstand, it was almost 3 AM. There was a second knock. "Gunn, take Lark into the bathroom." Wes said in a quiet, cold voice. He retrieved the gun as Angel moved toward the door.
"Who is it?" The vampire called. Beside him, Wes grimly drew the pistol from the holster.
After a second's hesitation, someone replied. "It's me, Doug. The clerk."
"What do you want?"
"Uh, I felt bad about giving you this room. Look, there's two clean adjoining rooms on the ground floor. I'll let you have them without any extra charge."
Angel and Wes looked at each other. Wes gave a short, hard shake of his head.
"Thanks, but we're not interested."
"Are you sure? That room was rented by the Jimenez brothers and some whores from the other side of the river. It's gotta be pretty nasty."
Nasty didn't begin to describe it, but that didn't justify the clerk's sudden concern for their comfort.
"Don't worry about us, Doug. I've already cleaned up in here. We're fine for the night."
There was no reply, but they didn't hear footsteps walking away either. There was a different more sinister sound that only Angel could hear. "Down!" he yelled and pulled Wesley to the floor just as the cheap door splintered under a hail of bullets.
Wes rolled clear of the door and then returned fire. He emptied the clip, cursing himself for leaving the spare in the duffle bag. With bullets still flying across the room, he doubted he could reach it now. Still, he took the chance, crawling towards the bag as the remains of the door were kicked in.
Three armed men strode into the room. One had a pistol pointed at Doug's temple. The others aimed their weapons at Wes and Angel. "Freeze."
They were hauled to their feet and watched in dismay as Neelson entered the room. The Texan wore clean clothing, but nose remained swollen and his face was further disfigured with heavy bruising on one side where Angel had struck him. His eyes narrowed at the sight of the two men who had attacked his caravan.
"Where's the damphyr?" he demanded in an evil echo of Wes's own words mere hours ago.
***
TBC in Chapter 5