Chapter Two: Lessons
This was getting to be a bad habit, Spike thought to himself as he swam back to consciousness. Someone had considerately bandaged the antler wound in his shoulder and returned his t-shirt--and he wasn't restrained. He opened his eyes and found himself lying on a couch in a living room, the Slayer sprawled in a recliner and smoking a cigarette across the coffee table from him. He sat up.
"You put on quite a show out there," she said to him.
"Did I?" He reached for the mug of blood on the coffee table. "You should give me a refund then, ducks. I didn't pay to be the entertainment, after all." He sniffed the blood, then sipped from it.
"Sorry, William. No refunds."
"I was afraid of that. You got a name, pet? Can't keep callin' you 'Slayer' all the time."
"Alicia." Spike gave a snort of laughter at that. She was offended. "What?"
"I used to be a poet, luv. Words were my business. 'Alicia' means 'honest'...and I don't think it fits you very well."
"This coming from someone who got his nickname from torturing people with railroad spikes," she said disdainfully, flicking the tip of her cigarette toward the ashtray. "Ever hear the proverb about stones and glass houses?"
He put the cup back down. "Things change."
She tilted her head at him. "Do they?"
"Apparently. Here you are, the Slayer...working with demons, instead of killin' us like you ought to be doing. And here I am, a vampire, fighting the good fight and protecting mankind from the likes of, well, you. How many people have you killed, luv? An estimate?" He snagged the pack of cigarettes off the table and lit one, blowing the smoke in her direction.
Her gaze slid away from him. "I do what I have to do. They protect me."
He snorted again. "From what? Each other? You're the bloody Slayer. You should be having them for breakfast. Er, not literally. But you know what I mean."
She was puzzled. "But they told me I was supposed to work with them. I'm a weapon in their army. They're battling, in the arena, for the honor of having me fight for their clan."
Spike put his head in his hand for a second. The Council of Wankers had been an outdated, stuffy organization, but it had been useful from time to time. This girl had no idea what her purpose was supposed to be, and the company she was keeping wasn't helping. He looked up at her, his expression resolved. "Is that what they told you? Well. We need to get you out of here, right the bloody hell now. You're not some sodding prize in a gladiatorial game," he said with some heat. "Your destiny is to kill demons, not fight for them."
"What, you think they'll just let us walk out of here? I have a little freedom. But not that much." She stubbed her cigarette out furiously.
He gave her a sideways glance. "Freedom enough to get me into your inner sanctum, anyway. I suppose that's something."
She looked away from him again. "They think..."
"I know what they think. But if they really believe I'm walking down that road again, they're completely sack of hammers. Last time I had a relationship with a Slayer, it was a bloody disaster. I'm not willing to play another round of that."
She was a little insulted. "What, am I not pretty enough?"
Startled, he said, "Cor, pet, it's not that at all. You're what, sixteen?"
"Seventeen."
"Too bloody young to be in any kind of relationship with the likes of me, then. Or I'm too old to be in a relationship with you. Either way. Not happening. But..."
"But?"
He sighed. "You can't stay here and be demon fodder. We have to get you out. Until we come up with some kind of plan, I'll train you."
"Train me? I'm the Slayer. I have natural ability."
"Yeah? You think that 'natural ability' will keep you alive for longer than five minutes in a bona fide battle?"
She dismissed him with a wave of her hand. "I could lick you in a fair fight without thinking twice about it."
He was across the room in a heartbeat, pinning her wrists to the chair back, his teeth at her throat. "Could you, now, pet?" he whispered against her rapidly fluttering pulse. "And what makes you think I'd fight fair? Ever been in a real fight, with something that was serious about killing you?"
Alicia gulped a little. "No," she mumbled.
"I could have had you drained and turned in less time than it took to tell it, just now. Never forget that. And I'm by no means the fastest demon out there." He released her and sat back down on the couch.
"So...you'll train me..." She leaped over the coffee table, a stake in her hand, only to be met in midair by Spike, who spun her around, pinned her wrists, and had his teeth at her throat again. "I guess I do need it," she said, deflated.
"Lesson the First: Natural ability is no match for science. The sooner you learn that, the better off you'll be."
They had a certain amount of independence around the compound. Demons followed, but at a discreet distance, and always watching. Spike took the opportunity to work with her everywhere, from small, low-ceilinged storage rooms, to long, narrow hallways. Cramped, confined places forced her to concentrate on where her weapons were, and to orient herself and use the space she had to her advantage.
He used bigger rooms and the arena to go over the basics, such as tumbling moves, swordplay, and martial arts. Taking a breather after one such session, they sat against the wall of an auditorium, smoking. Spike looked at Alicia sideways. "Those things'll kill you, you know," he said, idly playing with a knife.
She snorted and took another drag. "I'll worry about lung cancer if I live that long."
"Here, now, none of that. I'm doing everything I can to make sure you live a nice long life."
"Yeah?" She gave him that appraising stare again. "Why?"
"'Cause it's the right thing to do, pet. And I guess I'm trying to make up for being the death of a pair of Slayers, and not doing a very good job of protecting another." He punctuated that statement by sending the knife into the wood parquet floor with a "thunk," point-first.
"But...how do you know what the right thing to do is?" She seemed honestly curious.
The question brought him up short, and he had to think about it for a minute while he worked the blade loose. "Well. I know what the wrong thing to do would be. Now that I have this soul, this moral compass, it generally steers me on the straight and narrow. It sure sets up a ruckus if I go astray, that's for bloody sure."
"Hm," Alicia said pensively. "You sound like my parents. They were always, 'let your conscience be your guide' and crap like that."
His turn for the appraising stare. "What happened to your parents? Aren't they worried about you?"
Her lip curled a little. "They were too busy making sure I never had any fun to worry about me. Do this, do that, be in by ten, don't do such and such. I finally got sick of it and bailed."
"Yeah, they sound like heartless bastards, all right." Spike's voice was dry as paper as he stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. "Ready for another round?"
Lying on the couch later that night, Spike contemplated his predicament. This girl had no bloody clue about right and wrong, about what her destiny was supposed to be, about anything, really. His thoughts turned to the Watcher's Council again. They may have been a group of right prats, but Spike had to admit that they had served the purpose of finding the Slayers and getting them trained. He wished they'd had something in place to insure their succession, because he was in a brand new situation, and he had no idea how to deal with it.
He growled to himself and sat up, hunting his cigarettes. He should get out now, before the whole thing came crashing down around his head. But, dammit...he couldn't. Lighting up and pulling the smoke deeply into his lungs, he pondered just what the soddin' hell it was about Slayers that got inside him and wouldn't let him go. Kill them or protect them, two sides of the same passionate coin. And he wondered if part of him wanted to help this one because he'd failed Buffy all those years ago.
And that was the crux of his problem. Two decades, and he still couldn't get her out of his head. Intellectually, he knew that aiding Alicia wouldn't make up for Buffy's death, but emotionally it still felt like the right thing to do.
He had a week and a half to work on her before the Finals of the Glads. He'd better make the most of it.
In the bedroom, Alicia wrestled with her own dilemma. How could he be so sure about what was right and what was wrong? People who had strong opinions made her uncomfortable. Her parents had always taught her--when she bothered to listen--that people with strong opinions were closed-minded, that keeping an open mind about everything was a virtue. That the only sin was judging people.
What she'd told Spike had been true; they had always murmured platitudes like "Let your conscience be your guide." They'd just never given her a moral compass for her conscience to be guided by. And now she was confused. Confronted by a man--well, vampire--who was so damned sure that she was "wrong" for working with the demons, she didn't know how to deal with him, or with his judgement.
Not that he had openly condemned her, in so many words. But she could practically feel the disapproval rolling off of him in waves.
She rolled over and frowned at the wall. Like he had anything to talk about. Mr. High and Mighty had killed his share of people. So what if he didn't do that anymore? He had in the past, and it was hypocritical of him to judge her when he'd done worse. She owed these demons; they'd saved her life when she was first Chosen as the Slayer and had no idea what was going on or why monsters all of a sudden seemed interested in killing her.
At least, that's what she kept telling herself as she drifted off to sleep.
Dust and smoke. Tired muscles swinging a battleaxe. Slayer at his back. Blood smell, sharp and coppery. Slayer's frantic voice: "Spike!" Spin around, she's bleeding, falling. Try to catch her. Blow to his head. Bright stars. Can't stand. Legs collapse. Darkness--
Spike woke, gasping. Just a dream--it was just a dream. "Bloody hell." He sat up and ran his fingers through his hair, hunting his cigarettes, lighting one with a jittery hand.
He was so shaken that it took him a minute to notice the two Odobenus demons in the room with him. "Come with us, vampire," one said gutturally.
Spike dragged smoke deep into his lungs. "Give us a second, all right?" A couple more quick puffs, and he stubbed it out and got to his feet. "Where we going, then?"
"Cain wants to see you."
"Cain? Can't these big bads come up with more original names?"
The demon cuffed him on the head. "Show respect to your betters, leech."
Spike snorted but kept further comments to himself. They traversed several hallways and went outside to another building at one point, entering another halfway across the compound. Finally they stopped outside a doorway and knocked. "Come!" The voice from the other side of the door was deeper and raspier than those of Spike's companions, and when they entered, he saw that the Odobenus demon behind the desk was larger, toothier, and hairier than any he'd seen so far. "Leave us," it said to the minions.
After glaring at Spike and giving him a little shove, they did. Spike sprawled himself insolently in the seat in front of the desk, hooking his leg over the chair arm and crossing his arms over his chest. "Right then. What in bloody hell is going on around here?"
Cain tented his fingers and gazed at Spike, his red hair ridge rising just a little. "I believe I'm the one asking the questions."
"Haven't heard one yet."
"What's your game? Why are you training the Slayer?"
Spike shrugged. "It's what I do. God knows she needs help, and I don't see any of your lackeys jumpin' in. You do want her to be of some use to you, don't you?"
"There is that," Cain allowed. "I'm still left with the question of why you're helping her help us. Aren't you all 'good' and soul-having now? Why help us in our clan wars?"
"'m not helping you. I'm helping her. If I help you in the process, then that's the way the cookie crumbles." Spike cocked an eyebrow. "Clan wars? Is that what all this is about?" For the first time, he realized that the demons' ridge hair came in different colors, and that different colors denoted different clans. "And, since I'm helping you and all, let me reiterate: you mind tellin' me just what in soddin' hell is going on?"
"We captured her in San Antonio. She doesn't know any Slayer history--in fact, as far as she knows, Slayers have always helped demons."
"Remember the Alamo," Spike muttered. Then his head came up. "San Antonio? Was it seven months ago? I thought you wankers smelled familiar. Bloody hell." Wheels turning, he started thinking aloud. "So, you captured her, brought her here, told her a bunch of lies about Slayerness...Nice plan."
"Yes, well. You seem to have thrown a monkey wrench into that." Cain tilted his head at Spike. "It will be interesting to see which side she chooses."
"You willin' to gamble on that?" Spike asked warily.
Cain grinned around his tusks. "Yes. I have confidence in this girl. She's ours." The grin became feral. "We had to kill a few squatters to make this place suitable for our purposes. She participated."
Alicia leaped to her feet from the sofa when he walked back into her apartment. "I thought they'd taken you," she said awkwardly.
"They did. Brought me back, though." Spike lifted an eyebrow. "Nice of you to be all concerned over my welfare."
She crossed her arms defensively over her chest. "So what did Cain want?"
"Wanted to know what I'm playing at. Why I'm helping them."
"Why are you?"
He gave her an enigmatic stare and lit a cigarette, sitting the on the arm of the recliner. "I'm not. I'm helping you get in touch with your inner Slayer."
"Well, what the hell does that mean, Spike?"
"Do you have dreams? Dreams that you're someone else, in another time and place?"
Alicia didn't uncross her arms. "Sure, doesn't everyone?" Then she frowned. "Wait a minute...I've dreamed about you."
Spike's mouth twitched, and he slid into the seat of the chair, putting his smoke out and lacing his fingers behind his head. "Nice to know I've made an impression."
She sank slowly back down onto the couch. "No. Before we even met. I was a Chinese girl. And an African-American girl. And a blonde girl. The Boxer Rebellion, a subway car, and the California Hellmouth. Acathla." Her eyes widened. "How do I know all that?"
"All Slayers have a mystical connection. They usually get snippets, in dreams. Sounds like that's what's been happening to you, pet. Nothing to be worried about. All that being said--" He pulled the lever and reclined the chair back. "I've not been sleeping too well myself these last few nights, so if you'll excuse me..."
Alicia huffed at him. "See you in the morning, then."
A/N: TBC. Reviews rock my world.