DARK TIDES
by SajChapter 4 Retribution
The mirror is made of stone and the stone now is shadow,
there are two eyes the color of anger,
a ring of cold, a belt of blood,
there is a wind that scatters the reflections
of Alice, dismembered in the pond.
Central Park
Octavio Paz
Bugger, why couldn't he just say no?
The deadness of his body was cold and complete as if he were encased in ice, unable to move, melting into the earth. All awareness of his extremities was fading, his arms and legs disappearing, dissolving, no longer extending from his will. Only his mind and emotions were seemingly intact, and they were on a path of their own.
A part of him watched, detached, with keen attention as memories surfaced, only to disappear into soft fragments, like shavings of faded photos. Panic, grief, joy, love, greed, lust—the whole bloody emotional bag—swirled through him.
Reminded him of the 60's at Haight Ashbury. He and Dru had spent several memorable months on a continuous high thanks to the passions of idealistic children. The whole lot of them in search of mystical poetic voices. And Dru had obliged, seducing them with her quirky dance of prophetic words. No lack of tender morsels there, and the taking had required no finesse whatsoever. "Oi, Spike. The Fool's drowning in cherry Kool Aid, he is, and they're all following him for the black sweetness of it."
A recollection began to form of Dru laughing, dancing semi-nude at People's Park, motioning for him to join her, when a methodic drumbeat pulled him back into the morphing present, making him think for a moment that he had a heartbeat again, a soft rhythmic thud batting lightly against his chest like a trapped bird. It was an oddly comforting feeling, reeling him into a soft, fleshy darkness. An unexpected chanting of female voices suddenly rippled around him in a soft embrace, causing him more puzzlement. He tried to cock his head in order to study the phenomena more closely, but it was lost, swallowed by the ether and floating away, released from the tether of his thoughts.
A sharp realization pierced through the shifting and swirling of his senses. I have my bloody soul back. Holy hell. The thought immediately twisted into a question. Why?
Her lips, rough and biting, finding every soft spot on him. Groaning, leaning into her hunger. His hands searching each part of her for the place where she hid her love for him.
He had found where she hid her passion, where she stashed her hesitations, but her love was not forthcoming. When he was hard inside her, that was the closest. She would wind herself around him as if to never release him, sometimes crying like a child against his shoulder as she came. In those moments his heart would open like a rose bud and he'd pull her to him, whispering, "I've got you, love". Then it would pass, that place of raw need, and she was gone. He could watch the iron railings drop, see himself in the mirror of her eyes as he became what she most feared.
From slayer in heat, to frightened child, to a woman terrified of the darkness. She played it all out on him. And he would've let her forever.
Having a soul will not make her love you, vampire. You cannot manipulate a Slayer's love.
He opened his eyes to locate the source of the voice. There was nothing. All seeing was internal. The external, non-existent. He closed his eyes against the bleak nothingness and tried to speak, but his cold lips were frozen in time and all desperate sounds were trapped in silence.
His mind drifted back to thoughts of Buffy, remembering the times he had been inside her, how she had melted open, taking him in, deeper, deeper. A small fire of love had smoldered for him there, as certain as her need for him to fill her completely.
As they had stood across from each other under the glare of the white tiles that final, terrible night, he had hardly been able to look at her while she closed off all access to him with an iron armor of impatient determination. The horrifying icy emptiness crawling through him had quickly turned into a white hot rage. He had begun to think in circles, all leading back to one thing: he had to make her feel it again.
With a quick flashing of filtered light taking him across time, he was on top of her, pushing her down against the bathroom tiles, feeling a desperation as urgent and terrifying as death.
He ripped her light robe away from her breasts and off her hips, forcing his leg between her thighs. He would take her right here, shove it into her, fuck her till she's begging him not to stop, till she's moaning her love for him, her need. He'd teach the bitch to play with him. She couldn't just walk away, tossing over her shoulder, "I don't love you." He pinned her wrists down while reaching to undo his pants, his erection hard and ready. He'd slam it in, pound her into the floor, till she feels…
You tried killing her, making love to her, raping her, and now, poor lovesick vampire, you are going to try soul enticement? Have you forgotten what a soul is?
Before he could make another effort to speak, just to say something like, fuck off, bitch, he was overcome with a bittersweet golden red pain.
A river of molten agony poured into him. My god, bloody hell. The pain of the whole sodding world was letting down anchor in the middle of his chest. Big mistake, this was. The wailing and deadening of countless broken hearts and spirits spiraled through him, disembodied grief and rage piercing him like spears of lightning. Hate of all kinds played through him. The hot kind that maims, kills and rapes in moments of unleashed passion. The cold kind that gets off on slow methodic tortures. The other kind that turns in on itself, tearing souls apart with self-loathing. All of it bleeding into him, saturating every pore. Suffering was endless and eternal, and it was taking up residence, right here, in his lifeless heart.
A souless demon is…well…you know. Human beings are messy little things--fearful and passionate, quite capable of horrible cruelty.
Cecily stood before him, her mouth curling in a quiver of revulsion. "You're beneath me, William."
First, his heart broke with a relentless shattering pain, and he yearned to disappear, to dissolve into nonexistence, anything to escape the burning shame that was devouring him. Then the rage took over, boiling up from a churning river of humiliation. He began running through the streets and alleys, his vision a tearful blur, wishing upon her a brutal, slow death.
Dru appeared, calling him to her. Looking into his volcanic eyes, she asked him if he wanted it. "Yes, God yes." Without hesitation, he had surrendered his soul in exchange for the power of retribution.
How many throats had he sliced, slayers had he killed, all the time doing Cecily in over and over? Her rejection of his love had released a rage that spent itself in a rampant killing spree that lasted for over a century. Becoming a vampire was not what had made him so brilliantly cruel. Dru had only opened the valve, releasing his bitter hate on to the world. He had been burying angers and resentments under carefully controlled behaviors for years. Layer upon layer, hurt over hurt. The entering demon reveled in a readymade ripeness and thirst for gruesome killing.
Spike watched as his rage performed innumerable acts of brutality. His desire for power and recognition was driven by the humiliation and shame of William.
The sun shone warmly on his skin. Flickering shadows played around them, as the sunlight caressed the trees. He was feeling cocky, liberated, ready. They circled each other, eyes locked, each moving in counter step to the other. The energy between them was charged, hot with the possibility of finality. And this one, this tricky bitch—she'd made a fool of him for the last time. He wasn't going to take her down quickly--no, a little whittling away first. The kind Angelus had made into an art form.
"So, you let Parker take a poke, eh? Didn't seem like you knew each other that well. What did it take to pry apart the Slayer's dimpled knees?" Kicking her head on, she tumbled backwards. "Did he play the sensitive lad and get you to seduce him? That's a good trick if the girl's thick enough to buy it." He hit her with the full force of his strength. "I wonder what went wrong. Were you too strong? Did you bruise the boy? Come to think of it, seems like someone told me that. Who was it? Oh, yeah. Angel."
Spike cringed as he recalled the pleasure he had taken in the wounded look that had come over Buffy's face. Course, she had quick got pissed and had him by the balls again. He and the Slayer had been good at that, cutting each other to the quick with words. Sometimes, it seemed the more he had loved her, the more he had cut into her, zeroing in with calculated barbs. It wasn't the demon in him who had verbally stripped and humiliated her that sunny day, or who had tried to rape her. It was the human in him. Whiny, powerless, lovesick, rageful William.
He could forgive the cruelty of the monster in him, after all that's the nature of being a demon and all. But it wasn't always clear where William left off and the demon began. He knew, could see with certainty, the hunger he had to hurt others the way he had been hurt. Demons aren't particularly sensitive that way, or very adept at taunting—that's more of a human thing. And William was one literate and pissed off nitwit.
Vampires, as a rule, didn't care much how they killed, as long as it was bloody and thrilling. It was William who sought out the railroad spikes, who wanted a tool as poetically just as it was lethal.
Do you believe in retribution, vampire? What do you think a fair compensation for the acts of one such as yourself?
With each syllable softly and succinctly spoken, a piercing agony spun through him. His muscular, taut body was stretched against rough bark within a field littered with screaming splayed beings. His white blood-stained form pulled against itself in unbearable pain as the force of gravity and karma tore at him. One after another, place after place, railroad spikes pierced him, each hit coming closer and closer to his heart, and then through the center. Flames burst from his chest, threatening to consume him until only his heart remained burning, turning black with fiery embers, like a coal lit from inside. Time ceased with only searing pain marking the seconds.
His mouth was wide open, everything in him straining to scream, when he heard a soft familiar voice. "Gaosu wo ma, wo hen bao chien." In that moment he understood Chinese as if he was born to it. "Tell my mother I am sorry." The torturous agony began to dissolve, his pinned bleeding palms were now free and buried within soft black hair, twisting dark handfuls, pulling her head back as his fangs sliced into her neck, her young face yielding with acceptance. Her glistening lips whispered, "Ni shr wo de," as she stared into his eyes. Her blood pooled in his mouth, his gut, and surged through his veins carrying her life, into his. Images of an older Chinese woman watching the door for her daughter, a young girl laughing, emotions of deep love and joy, and bottomless grief flashed through him in the space of a heartbeat, merging with his own feelings of demonic satisfaction. A strange power ran through him that was completely new and different, draining as much strength as it gave. Sorrow washed through the river of mysterious energy, a quiet wailing rose like steam from the flow of her blood. Spike snapped her neck in an act of defiant awe and terror.
His senses were aquiver with an awareness that something strange and unworldly was happening to him. A power foreign to his nature was inhabiting him, changing what he was in a way he couldn't grasp. His heart ached, swelling with a bitter pain and an insistent pressure, such that he could hardly stand. A knowing without words and beyond understanding ate through him: he was caught in a trap, bound to this slayer for as long as his vampiric life continued. The horror and truth of it made him gasp with nausea.
Did you think taking a Slayer's life and blood was without consequence? There are different kinds of payback. Yours began the day you tasted of Sang-Ling.
Well, isn't this lovely. A life review, with a touch of irony and torture. Bugger. Spike tried again to move his body, to find his ground. It was like trying to manipulate thin air.
There had been the dreams. Almost 100 years of bloody tormenting dreams. The first was a month to the day after he killed the Chinese slayer.
It was dawn and the sky was flushed with a purplish haze. The call of a nightingale fell upon the morning air, floating through the temple where he held her to him with a gentle passion, his fangs embedded in her neck, drinking, savoring the feel of her warm body yielding into his and the exquisite taste of slayer blood. As he drank, a gathering of whispers and low wailing began to rise up from the earth below their feet. The deepest possible sadness and yearning welled up within his heart. He longed for a wholeness he could not name. As he looked into her dark eyes, she murmured, "Ni shr wo de. You belong to me." Unexplainable tears fell down his face. Out of anguish and habit, he broke her neck, and she fell at his feet.
The dreams had recurred regularly, and were especially vivid at the time of year he had killed her. In each, she would come to him making both an offer and a claim, whispering, "Ni shr wo de," and he would kill her. Again and again. And each time he was overcome with a hideous grief, weeping like a motherless child.
At first, Dru had tried to comfort him. But she soon had taken to sleeping elsewhere, leaving him a prisoner of his nightmares. The dreams had frightened and repelled her. He had told her that they were about him losing her, or having to claw his way out of his grave again, or something that would make his moaning and sobbing seem less strange. But she had seen through his lies. The truth of his dreams had played out before her like a tarot spread.
"The Chinese Slayer has torn out your heart, Spike; she holds it, and is waiting for you. There is no where for you to go but to her."
Then there had been Nikki, 77 years after he had killed the Chinese slayer. She had been standing against a graffiti covered concrete wall, almost in the shadows, watching him. He had felt her presence before their eyes met. Dru had spotted her an instant after that.
"Spike," Dru had whispered, "you mustn't. The last one left a curse on you, as surely as the burning baby fish that like to swim around your head." She had tugged at him to leave.
Ah, Dru. They were a pair. She had been dressed in an ankle length, modest Victorian lace bit and he had perfected his punk look, complete with spiked leather accessories. He hadn't told her about the recent dreams, where a shadow slayer had begun appearing behind the Chinese one. But then, he had led her to believe that the dreams had stopped. Of course, you couldn't really fool Dru.
As they had stood there, he had felt the slayer's energy pulsing through him, pulling at him. He hadn't been sure if he wanted to kill her or fuck her, or both. He usually experienced a certain amount of arousal when approaching a fight, but this had been different. He had felt a yearning to ease in closer, to touch his lips to her hair, along with a furious desire to beat her to death, to bludgeon those fucking dreams out of existence.
Dru had pulled at him again. "Spike, not this one. She's wearing the coat of the Queen of Hearts, and there's a trap in it. Come on Spike, let her go."
The slayer's eyes had bored through him as if connecting to his nervous system, one nerve at a time. His entire body had buzzed with arousal, longing, and rage. Then he had gently taken Dru's arm and disappeared with her into the crowd.
She had followed him, and found her way into his dreams that afternoon.
She stood before him naked, wearing only the leather duster. A wind was lifting the coat away from her body like angelic black wings. She stepped closer, her dark eyes solemn and piercingly clear. Her body, black and sinewy. Her nipples were an earthy rose color and erect. Her left bud was pierced with a small gold hoop, suspended delicately in space. He stepped into the path of the soft wind, feeling the warmth of it brush against his cool skin. He wore jeans, hanging loose from his hips. His chest was bare, his shoeless feet quiet against the ground. He moved towards her, his right hand reaching tentatively to touch her breast. The heat between them seemed to cause ripples in the air, creating a shimmering mirage quality to her form. "You are the marked one. You belong to me," she said as a stake appeared in her right hand. They kept moving towards each other. "I will smear the red dust of your heart across my breast and mourn you like a mad woman." He felt his cock pushing against the worn denim, hard and full. "Not likely, love. But, you know, it's the thought that counts." He tenderly touched the pierced nipple. Their bodies hungrily stepped into each other. As their lips touched and explored, his fingers entwined into her hair and twisted until he felt her neck surrender to his strength. She fell near his feet, the last of her warm breath floating over his skin. Blood smearing his fingers, he pulled her stake out of his chest with a sharp gasp of pain. He dropped next to her, taking her dark corpse into his arms, kissing her face while weeping with unbearable sorrow--the black leather coat swirling around them like a shroud.
When he had awakened, he had been filled with the intensity of the dream. The confusion had quickly congealed into a determined fury. One more slayer to whimper at him in his dreams. Bitches. Let them haunt him, tease him, pull his heart out and play with it. He'd still kill'em.
After he had done Nikki in, the dreams had continued, only now it was two slayers tormenting him. The Chinese slayer would come to him sometimes as herself, and sometimes as Nikki. Or the both of them would be there--tender, fierce, and shining—saying that he belonged to them. "Ni shr wo de, You are mine." And he would break their necks, weep and wake up pissed.
In recent years it was Buffy. Sometimes she was the Chinese Slayer, sometimes Nikki, sometimes herself. He always killed her. Then he would beg her to forgive him, offer his life for hers, as if that would bring her back. He would weep and feel as forlorn and hollow as if he had lost his soul, as if he had had one.
One of the things Dru had said when they were last together was, "Spike, your soul, it's floating around you, like a purple net of dragonfly wings. It drifts upon your aura mocking you, you and the Slayer. Oi, Spike, this can't be good."
Then the dreams had stopped. It was right after he had almost had his teeth in the Slayer's neck, preparing to revel in the taste of victory, when the goddamed chip kicked in. He had ended up running off like a whipped pup. He had felt a sense of defeat so bleak and hollow that he could hardly move. Harmony had tried to cheer him up with a blow job, but he was so depressed he had hardly known or cared what his cock was up to. He had despondently fallen into bed to have the dream that changed him forever.
She was there, knocking the door open with her usual grace, her hair shining and wild, wearing a t-shirt that clung to her soft breasts, walking towards him, a stake in her hand. She fiercely looked into his eyes, "Spike, you're a killer. And I shoulda done this years ago." He couldn't take his eyes off of her. A feeling of absolute resignation and fatigue came over him, quickly followed by angry disgust. "You know what? Do it. Bloody, just do it. End. My. Torment. Seeing you, every day, everywhere I go, every time I turn around. Take me. Out of a world. That has you in it." In a flurry of frustration he ripped off his shirt, presenting his bare chest to her. "Just kill me." Buffy moved to bring the stake down and through his heart, but stopped just as it touched his skin. He stared into her eyes and then grabbed her by her arms, pulling her to him and kissed her passionately. Her mouth surrendered to his, and then she stood back, shocked, for a moment, before stepping to him and grabbing his head, pulling him down to her, kissing him hungrily. He could feel the heat and desire pulsing through her. "Spike, I want you." He desperately held her to him, kissing her neck, "Buffy, I love you." Suddenly, he understood. He held her away from him and really looked at her, into her. "God, I love you so much."
After getting over the surprise and horror of it all, it had come to him. What he had been yearning for--the wholeness that had been calling to him. It was her. The Slayer. He did belong to her. All of him, heart and, well, soul, if he had one. Where it wasn't, was hers. All the spaces and all the pieces of him, hers.
Groaning, Spike tried to make a fist. Nothing. Bloody hell. How long is the fucking disembodied witch going to drag him through memory lane? What happened to the little hag that said he needed to find his innocence? That was a definite mislead. He'd take those crunchy bugs crawling up his ass any day over this.
Could be worse, William. You could be made to suffer through a recitation of your poetry...Sorry, one of those tasteless Goddess jokes. And we know how sensitive you are.
Crying, sobbing, his little face wet and slippery with snot. His shoulders shaking and bent. The pain in his chest flashing, his breath caught in between sobs. His head churning with confusion and rage. Lying across his fathers knees, his bottom stinging from the slaps of the leather belt. "How many times William, how many times? This is the last, I say." Another slash of pain across his bare butt. He is trying not to scream or cry, to be strong like his father wants, but the anguish bursts forth in tiny howls. "No more reports of you daydreaming in class, do you hear me? No more writing girly stuff, do you hear?" Another hard swipe of the belt.
But what was he to do with the feelings that came over him? When the beauty of the pinkish orange sky bathed the Thames, what was he to do? He could only express the indescribable in silly poems, dancing words. So he did. He hid them in secret places, and pulled them out to read by candlelight when he needed the comfort of them. They were like little psalms, reminding him of the light and lushness of the world, and of his heart.
He loved his mum. He would bravely leave her a love poem now and then, in a place where he prayed only she would find it. She would smile at him--sometimes her eyes were all moist, looking soft and sparkly. Spike wondered where his mother hid them, where her secret place was.
He had been small in size, somewhat frail. His heart seemed to always be fluttering in the breeze, catching the songs of birds and the howls of beaten dogs. The loveliness and brutality of God's world seemed caught within his heart, making it feel like it would burst. Then he would write. The words would fly out like little birds, landing in surprising ways, releasing the pressure of watery longings.
When he was older, he had become more brazen. Poetry, after all, was taught in college. His greatest ambition was to be a poet. He found himself writing whenever he could, sometimes ignoring his studies. Then he saw Cecily. That was the end of him. Literally. The poetry was like a river undamned, flowing up from his heart incessantly. And he became careless. So caught up was he in the passion of trying to express his love for her, he forgot the cruelty of God's creatures.
"Have you heard? They call him William the Bloody because of his bloody awful poetry!"
" It suits him. I'd rather have a railroad spike through my head than listen to that awful stuff!"
Spike smiled to himself. Well, they got that right. Careful what you wish for, you idiots. He took a few minutes to recall and savor the dull crunching sound and shrill screams of agony as a blunt railroad stake had made it's way through one git's forehead, and then the other's. Wankers. Guess it takes awhile to feel remorse about some things.
Then he saw himself, as he foolishly extended his heart to Cecily. Such sincerity, hope, and blindness.
"They're about how I feel... please, if they're no good, they're only words but... the feeling behind them... I love you, Cecily. I know I'm a bad poet but I'm a good man and all I ask is that... that you try to see me-"
Tears burned behind his eyes. It still hurt. Effulgent. It all turned on that word. Shining, radiant, brilliant. That was the world he had wanted, what he wanted to be. He had wanted his love to be a shining thing.
His love for Druscilla had had its radiance. She had been a poem dancing in a dream, a child with the sight for more than God ever meant a human, or vampire, to know. They had clung to each other with childlike need and faith. Dru had immediately known him--his violated innocence and shunned poetic nature, a reflection of her own. She had loved the poet in him almost as much as she loved the killer.
Driscila stood close to him, pointing to his heart and head, "Your wealth lies here...and here. In the spirit and... imagination. You walk in worlds the others can't begin to imagine." Gently opening the starched white collar of his shirt, she said, "I see what you want. Something glowing and glistening. Something... effulgent. Do you want it?"
That's all he had ever wanted.
Spike began to drift off into nothingness, as a sadness welled up around the innocence lost deep inside of him. The place where his poems lay crumpled and thrown away, the dark corner where William's soul slept, taking root.
Sleep, poet. Fields of burning nights and misty days lay before you. A dark journey has ended. The sun will rise within you, casting shadows to mark your path.
Right. What a bunch of mystical crap. Talk about bad poetry. I'm the fuck out of here as soon as I can find the rest of my body. Bloody hell.
Then a dark quiet came over him, sweeping him into a field of nothingness.
Spike glared at her as he drank the cup of blood she had brought him. Trust me, poet. Right. Deceiving old bat. He sat on the bedroll, his shirt off, fingering a new scar in the shape of a crescent over his heart, rose colored, as if it had been delicately knit out of his parched skin.
Ralph sat across from him, cross-legged, silent, every now and then letting out a sigh. She had a brilliant shiner spread across her right cheek bone and eye. It was a lovely mix of turquoise and lime green that coordinated nicely with the tropical coloring of Dracula, who sat on her bare shoulder, head plopped forward, snoring.
The witch searched around in her pockets, mumbling to herself. Leaning forward, she quietly asked, "Care for a fag?" as she offered him a cigarette across the tense space between them.
He continued to glare at her, turning it up a few hundred volts, and took the cigarette. As he put it to his mouth, she held a candle in front of him to light it. He glanced up at her through his thick dark lashes while she lit his cig. Taking a long drag, he leaned back against the wall and blew smoke up towards the ceiling, his angry eyes following the trail it made.
Drac sputtered a little cough as a string of smoke passed his way.
"You're not shaking," she said in a matter-of-fact tone of voice.
True enough. Since he had regained consciousness an hour or so ago, not a twitter or twitch. He continued to look at her with a cold stare, not saying anything.
Ralph leaned back on her hands, released another sigh, and said, "I did all I could to prepare you. It wasn't just to ease your shakes that I had been working on you every chance I got. I was pouring into you the strength you would need to face Her. And yourself." Ralph stood up abruptly, losing Drac in the upswing. The parrot landed in a heap between them, too shocked to squawk. She spoke with a note of impatience in her voice, "You don't need to act as if you've been drawn and quartered. The drugs and spell should be about worn off. In fact, the way you're spitting bullets at me with your looks, I'd guess you're feeling pretty much yourself as it is." She turned her back to him and walked out of the hut.
He transferred his angry stare onto the fat bird that was standing in front of him, blinking like a little butler waiting to take his order. "What are you gaping at?" Spike snarled and began leaning in closer, slightly shifting into game face, while Drac slowly kept backing up, hissing with each inch surrendered. Spike reached to grab the obnoxious bag of feathers by its neck, but Drac was just a tad quicker and viciously bit down on his hand, not letting go, holding on with the grip of a pit bull, his beady little eyes sparkling red with gleeful satisfaction.
A blood curdling screech came from inside the hut, echoing as far as the village. When the witch came running in she saw Spike holding his right hand, blood pouring down his arm. He gritted his teeth and rolled his eyes, yelling, "Holy Christ, you bloodthirsty little bugger!" The next thing he felt was a solid punch across his left jaw as Ralph let loose with a powerful right hook, knocking him across the room.
Shocked, he looked up from the floor at her, "Bloody hell, Ralph, what was that for?"
Her face was contorted in rage, crimson and fluorescent orange sparks flickering all around her. "You evil creature! Even with a soul you remain a monster! Not even my power is a match for the darkness in your heart." She moved in to hit him again when she saw Drac tucked away in a corner looking no worse for wear, basking in a definite glow of smugness. She dashed to him, scooping the fat slug into her arms. "Oh, precious, what did he do to you? " She began inspecting him closely, while Drac practically purred, glancing over at Spike through hooded lids.
"I didn't do nothing to him. Not that I didn't give it some thought, mind you. It's him that has the itch for violence. He tore a chunk of flesh outta my hand!"
She looked over at Spike, a frown on her weathered face, "He does have a weakness for raw meat and a little blood now and then." Her face transformed into a scowl as she glowered at him. "But I'd be willing to bet that his little nibble wasn't unprovoked."
Spike had wrapped a cloth around his hand and was tugging on his t-shirt. As he pulled the black cotton over his head, he said, "Okay, Ralph, let's call a truce, shall we?" He tucked the ends of the shirt into his jeans and began gathering together the few things he had—cigs, lighter, silver flask, wallet, fake passport, comb, toothbrush—and tucked them in his pockets. He thoughtfully fingered one last item for a second, a gold locket, before pushing it to the bottom of a side pocket.
He then crossed his arms and turned to her. His voice was as hard and clear as the mirror on the wall next to him when he said, "So tell me, Ralph, what was the bit about finding my innocence? Why didn't you let on that the little trip you had in mind was to hell and back with a goddess adept in the arts of torture as my guide?" He let his arms fall to his sides and gazed at the flickering candlelight, his face softening before looking back at her, the blue of his eyes simmering. "You didn't think I was experiencing enough torment on my own?" He looked up and rolled his eyes, his hands clenching into fists. He faced her squarely, stepping closer. "Bloody hell, Ralph--what was that?"
She stood tall, an air of royalty in her posture, with Drac perched on her shoulder like a loyal servant, both of them looking into his blazing blue eyes with the stubborn blackness of their own. Drac spoke first, taking on a British accent. "Not a sodding tea party, that's for sure." Ralph continued to look at Spike steadily, taking her time to answer.
"Well, aren't you the whiner. I didn't say it would be easy. This ritual is not done very often and it never unfolds in the same way. I couldn't hand you a program to follow. I trusted that you were made of the stuff that would survive it. And you did, perfectly." She looked him up and down. "You returned in better shape than most. The last vampire I did this on had a permanent limp and a tendency to cross his eyes involuntarily for years. Yet, did he complain? No. He knew to be grateful." She was really brewing now, her hair standing on end and glowing as if lit from behind.
"What? I could've come out of it worse off than I was?" He had stepped closer to her, looking down at her, so angry that slight ridges were starting to take shape on his forehead.
Ralph held her ground and looked Spike in the eye. "I didn't say that. You wouldn't have come back worse. What's a little limp compared to a century of torment and possible insanity? This wasn't an easy trick, you know. Very few witches can pull it off. A little gratitude would be in order."
She started to walk away, but Spike grabbed her by her arm. He felt a burning pain travel through his hand and up his arm as if he were on fire, but he kept his hold. Ralph looked up at him quizzically, increasing the energy into the hand wrapped around her bicep. Spike's fingers shook and a grimace came over his face, but he didn't let go. Continuing to look at her, he said through his teeth, "Last time I'm asking, love. What did you do?" He strengthened his grip on her arm to the point that he would have broken a bone if he applied any more pressure.
She smiled and relaxed, releasing the electric pain she had been sending through him. She glanced down at where he was holding her arm and back up at him. Spike slowly let go of her and stood back, waiting.
Ralph rubbed her arm gently while she looked at him, amused. She began to talk, a softness to her voice. "Basically, it was a ritual intended to bind your soul, to ground it within your nature and being. Such a process of integration could take years on its own. Maybe a hundred, or more. A hundred years of torment and floundering. I called upon Her, the source of our power and existence, to take on your pain and allow your soul to strengthen and grow." She touched her eye and winced. "You weren't thrilled with the drug induction phase. If I ever attempt this again, I'll remember to use restraints."
He didn't recall hitting her. Last thing he remembered was drinking the slayer's blood riddled with drugs. "Guess I shoulda mentioned that I have a thing about slayers' blood. Makes me want to barf and kill things."
Suddenly a cold terror ran through him. He knew the blood wasn't Buffy's. Could she have died, causing a new slayer to pop out near here? No, Giles said the next slayer would come after Faith's death. Nevertheless, he found himself trembling as he registered the possible meanings hidden in the cup of slayer blood he had drank.
"Tell me this, witch. And I want it straight. Where did you get the blood of a slayer?" He felt a low blaze of anxiety twisting through his gut.
She read him like a book. "Your slayer is alive and well. More than that, I can't say."
"You pompous old crow! You drag me into your den, ply me with drugs, and torture me for hours, and that's all I get? You can't say?" Spike felt his hands shaking with rage and a desire to tear things apart, a feeling he hadn't had since Lurky graced him with his soul. He felt … violent, dangerous, pissed. And … it felt good.
He lowered his head, a growl rumbling through his chest, and sneered at the witch as he closed in on her. "I have a few questions, Ralph, and I want answers. Starting with where the slayer blood came from. Next, a little more explanation about the trip to hell and back. That's a gentle-sounding term, "soul binding". Wasn't so gentle, love. And not like I made an informed choice to participate. You could have said a bit more beforehand, like "Spike, this will feel like your guts are being torn out, like your heart is being chopped to pieces and set on fire, and you'll be in such anguish that you'll wish you were dust…..but, you know, it'll be good for you."
Her voice was as soft as a feather boa, and as seductive. "Why are you so angry, my pet? You are a warrior. You know there are no easy paths worth taking." Then her tone became more challenging, not unlike that of a drill sergeant. "Did you think I was handing you a nice little cup of magic that would kiss away the horrors of your existence? Did you think I was giving you a bit of potion that would make your heart's fantasies come true? Tell me, vampire, what did you think I was offering you? A trip to Disneyland?"
The sharpness of her words stung like a thousand bees cleaning out any rationalized blame that had been spinning in his head. The rage dissolved back into him like blood soaking into the earth. His words became precise and gentle, "Don't know that I thought about it, love. Just trusted you. Somehow didn't think it could hurt any more than it was." He looked down a minute, then back into her face, searchingly.
Ralph closed her eyes. When she opened them again they were sparkling black pools. "I have not betrayed your trust. I didn't lead you to believe I could or would end your pain. To have a soul is to know the anguish of existence. To be a vampire with a new soul is to experience horrific knowledge. Even though at the moment it may not feel like it, you received a huge gift. Your pain, though not gone, has been transformed. Do you not feel it?"
Spike thought about how he felt, pausing a minute to take inventory. His body was grounded, alive, strong. The tremors that had been persistently rooted just below the surface seemed to be gone. But his chest was criss-crossed with shooting pain, his heart afire.
"Pain is pain, love. Didn't expect you to take it from me. Know it's mine to bear. Just wasn't prepared for…hell, I don't know. It was a Mother of a drug trip, and I'm just a bit pissed. Haven't gotten to the point of appreciating the afterglow."
The witch had moved to an old rocking chair in a dark corner of the room. She spoke in a low voice bordering on a coarse whisper, "Did you not see and touch your innocence, Spike?"
"And just what would that be, love?" he answered quietly. "You know what I am. The only innocence I've seen in the last century has been in the eyes of those I've murdered."
The witch rocked back and forth, softly humming as she looked at him. She began twisting a lock of her Brillo-textured fuzz around one of her long fingers, studying him. Drac began chewing on strands of her hair as she said, "I know what you are." She paused, resting her face on the palm of her hand as she continued to look at him. "There were three of us on your strange journey. You, Her, and…me." She paused to make sure he understood. "Your innocence called out to you like a lost child. But maybe you were too busy feeling sorry for yourself to notice, or too involved in the pleasures and thrills of being a vampire to care. Personally, I especially enjoyed Druscilla. A deliciously evil and talented girl. No wonder you loved her so. No doubt part of the reason the slayer's spell took so long to grab hold."
A fearful nausea churned in his gut as he thought of her witnessing the gruesome intimacies of his existence. He spoke to her in a low growl, "Ralph, I think I'm feeling violated here. Jerked around a bit. And I'm not liking it."
Ralph kept looking at him, and rocking. "Poor Spike. Have I hurt your feelings? Well, sorry for that, but it's perhaps time to get to the point. I am not your fairy godmother come to look after you. I'm a creature older than you can imagine, so connected to the earth and stars that we exist in each other, so rooted in the forces of evil and light that death has no hold on this battered shell of a body. I have watched you for a long time and waited even longer for the opportunity you now present."
He could feel her power crawling through him, letting him know she was inside his mind and could be whenever she chose. Rot, come for a soul, and end up with the Queen of Darkness slithering around inside looking for what she can use. And what would that be? "I get your drift, pet. But tell me, just what opportunity are you going on about?"
The leathery ancient creature stopped rocking and brought her gnarled, but amazingly strong hands to her lap. "It would not be wise of me to lay it all out for you. But a few tidbits might catch your attention. You were called. You were called because you are needed. Shan-Ling, the Chinese slayer whose lovely neck you gorged yourself on, set the spell in motion. When you drank her blood, you were changed. I had about given up on the spell's ability to capture you, when the American military, bless their hearts, unexpectedly helped out a little. Karma spins around in strange ways." She stopped and laughed.
His muscles were quivering. He felt as if he were watching an aberration of Ralph sitting in the chair, throwing out words dripping with his blood.
Spike had begun slowly walking back and forth as the witch talked. Something wasn't right here. "Glad it worked out for you, Ralph. But I'm still not getting it. What was I "called" for? What do you want from me? And I'm a little confused here, so help me out, whose side are you on?"
"It's not a matter of sides. It's a matter of balance. I've been known to work both sides when it was needed. As to why you were tagged, there is tremendous power available when the energies of a slayer and a vampire can be aligned. And as you know, that is no easy task. The mechanics of the spell worked to enhance the preexisting biological kinship between you, as a vampire, and the slayer. Unfortunately, the spell is tricky and has had a success rate not worth bragging about." Ralph shrugged, and laughed. "But what's a slayer to do when she sees her death before her? It is at least one last act of possibility. And when it works, when the vampire accepts the calling, the whole world shakes a little."
As she spoke, Spike thought about his dreams of the slayers he had killed, of Buffy. He watched as the pieces started to fit with what Ralph was saying.
The witch continued, "In your case, the spell sort of worked ass-backwards. The chip provided just enough behavior modification for the spell to take hold, luring you into the Slayer's lair. Your attraction to each other then manifested in displaced tension, resulting in a continual power struggle, undermining the momentum of the spell. And then, just when I'm thinking the spell couldn't be working any worse, the two of you begin sullying your potential for synchronized power by boinking like crazed demons. Anyway, the spell unwound itself all wrong, and I was about to give up in disgust and have you dusted, when, WHAM, BAM, you progressed beyond my wildest expectations. Who would have thought you'd dash off after a soul? I have to tell you, that's a first. And, not only that, you came shopping for it in my neck of the woods. Suddenly, there you were whining at my doorstep about wanting to be what the Slayer deserves. Now tell me there isn't a God." She rocked back in the chair and laughed, clapping her hands. Drac moved his head in a complete circle, then said, "A vamp mooning over a slayer, makes my head spin." He then moved down to the witch's lap and settled in to groom himself, while watching Spike out of the corner of his eye.
"I wasn't exactly at your doorstep, love. As I recall, you had me dragged to your little palace of pleasures." A lit cigarette hung from his fingers loosely as he stood casually in front of her. "But, here I am, in the flesh. And it's crossing my mind that I may not be as free and footloose as I had thought. That possibility aside, I still want to know where the slayer blood came from."
Spike noticed that her energy had withdrawn from poking around inside of him and that she seemed more like herself again. Dangerous, powerful, perhaps even evil, but not the menacing apparition that snaked before him a bit ago. He made a note to not forget that particular scary potential she had.
The witch closed her eyes and spoke. "You, and only you, have the strength and devotion your slayer needs. If you could just keep your mouth shut half the time, you could be of incredible help to her in the time to come. There is an ancient and unimaginably destructive force building. She will need you by her side. But you are not ready. That is why you need to stay and learn from us for a while longer."
He stopped and looked at her, his thumbs hooked into his jean pockets, leaning into his left hip. "It's one question and you're not answering. The blood, whose was it?"
"She opened her eyes and looked at him like he was a fool. " I have answers to questions you haven't even thought of yet."
"I'm only asking one at the moment."
"Would you have it in you to trust me once more?" Her voice wound through him, loosening forgotten hopes and intimacies, melting the sharp edges of discernment.
Spike tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, "I'm picking up on a touch of thrall weaving its way about the room, especially right here." And he pointed to his head and chest. "I'd say that's not a trust-building maneuver, pet."
Ralph smiled. "No. It's outright manipulation. My limited psychic abilities tell me you may not agree to what I need from you." She laughed, her eyes crackling with amusement. "So, what's a witch to do?" She looked away for a moment, and when she looked back to him her face was serious and direct. "What if I make a you proposition?"
"What game are you playing at here, Ralph?"
She sighed. "Follow me." She swished Drac off her lap and walked out of the hut to the side of the rocky slope her cave hut was carved into. She touched the rocky side of the small hill, her fingers caressing the rough surface, creating purple and red light trailings as she dragged her nails across the rocks and clay. She removed her hand and reached out, touching his arm. He felt a current run through him and images flashed across his mind. He swayed and started to buckle at the knees, holding his head as a force like a dark hurricane rushed through him, leaving fragments of images—the earth in flames, humankind gathered like livestock, vampires and demons battling among each other within a state of bloodshed and chaos. He felt torn in two: the demon in him surfaced with a bloodlust and excitement at the chaos and downfall of humanity; the soul cringed in horror at the possibility that all beauty and human potential could be lost forever.
He felt her hand touch him again and a strength and peace coursed through him, clearing away the Dante-like images. He looked at her incredulously, numb with shock.
She said, "I'll tell you this. There is more than one hellmouth, and more than one slayer. If you stay here, say for three months, I'll teach you what you will need to know and answer all your questions."
He dropped down, sitting on his heels, and lit another cigarette. He was quiet for a few minutes, then said, "I need to think on this, Ralph. At the moment, I'm feeling the need for a little distance between you and me." He let his eyes settle on her, taking in the pearly-beetle black of her eyes, the messy mass of her hair, her ageless, lean, muscular form, and the buzz of power flickering around her in a blue aura.
He came to his feet and said, "Haven't thanked you though. Can't say your motives were unselfish, but you took care of me." He smiled at her and then said, "Think I'll move on a bit and mull over what you said." He lit a cigarette, nodded at her, and headed down the same path that had brought him to her a month ago, prepared with each step for the arm of her power wrap around him and drag him back into her grasp.