CrossingShadowRiver 5

He doesn't remember how he got here. It's dark and rainy here and it smells fishy sometimes, but not like home. Or maybe it does, an older home than the brightly lit picture that's foremost in his mind. The searing blue sky, the dry heat and the golden perfumed presence he can't visualize but only remembers as a sweet caress on his skin, that's the place he calls home, the place which gives him comfort. Only sometimes, he almost remembers walking these streets before, and it evokes dreaded memories; pain, humiliation and the dark woman, and also gory joy and the thrill of the chase.

He doesn't know that thrill anymore. His hands and eyes don't work so well, and he's lucky if he can catch one of the smelly furry ones, usually a wounded or sick one. They come to him if he asks hard enough. Sometimes he gnaws at his own fingers, he's that hungry. He longs with all his heart for that place where everything was better, and he searches for it every night. He wishes he could recall more clearly what his golden goddess looked like, or her name.  His name is Ike, he knows that. It tears through his brain on a long ragged scream, don't... please, please Ike, please don't do this, please don't do this...

Because of that, he knows he's bad. He's evil, which is good, but he came back wrong. There is something that belongs to him, and if he has it back, everything will be right. It was taken from him by another. He can almost put his finger on the identity of that other, but he's sure he'll know him when he sees him. The betrayer, he calls him in his mind. The evil sorcerer who witched her away. She'll make everything better, he knows it.

He often stands in the deep shade of a doorway, where the modest lighting of the bigger thoroughfares doesn't penetrate, and stares at those who walk there. They smell so good, almost like his lost treasure, but he daren't step up to them, because he's weak and afraid. He listens to their words, because sometimes he hears one he knows and then he can play with it in his mind, turn it over and taste it on his tongue. He used to know words once. Bright, shiny words to lay at the feet of his beloved. Of course, she was grateful for his gifts and allowed him what he desired most, to drink from her slender neck. It's the only boon he can imagine.

Then one night he's lucky. Two glittering creatures hung with stars and other shiny baubles, trailing a special kind of scent that means something to him. They talk softly amongst themselves and utter a word he thought was lost.

Amidst a string of incomprehensible syllables, the word "Buffy" drops into his mind like a stone. The waters of his brain aren't still anymore. Ever widening circles spread out from that one word and softly lap at the edges of his brain, uncovering and washing clean new old memories.

He's in London. Buffy is his treasure and she is here, too. He tries to follow the girls but he has to admit defeat when they enter an underground entrance. Too busy, too brightly lit, with trains storming at him from all directions when he tries to catch one of the black mice. He's gotten lost in the deep tunnels before, and it took a long time to get back out. He doesn't like to be away from the river for too long. He's found fish there, that he doesn't seem to like eating anymore, but the smell gives him comfort. His eyes fall on a sign near the underground entrance and he realizes it means something. It says "Charlotte Street". He remembers reading and again, more words well up in his brain. He's healing.   The big black ones hurt him before they spit him out here. It's a good thing. Charlotte must live here, and although she too must be a girl, he doesn't want her. He needs to find Buffy Street.

He closes his eyes. It's then that he remembers her scent and touch best, those good moments when they were strong all around him, when she was gently rocking on his hips and making him feel like the happiest man in the world. The memory is disturbingly pale. It lacks something. It lacks blood.

If only he had blood, he would be stronger. He needs to be strong to find her, because he doesn't think she will find him. All the new words he remembers give him new ideas. There comes one he lusts for, a young plump one, fearful and lonely. He's not afraid of her. He steps out of his hiding place and wills hard at her, trying to catch her eyes, so his hand can grab her before she runs away screaming. He hasn't counted on what happens. The fluttering scared gaze looks up at him and snags on something in his eyes. Her face relaxes and with a longing smile she tumbles into his arms.

"Yes," she sighs and offers him her soft throat.

He doesn't remember taking a decision, but his fangs descend and he drinks until he can no longer. He lies on his back in the filthy alley, covered by his cooling prey and even the stars have names now. He didn't know his head was so full of thoughts and memories, going back much further than he knew was possible. He's Spike, a centuries old vampire, who died twice, won a soul and became a champion. Lost his world and turned human, shanshued. Found his love and lost everything for her once more. That makes, how many times has he died now? Last time he was killed by vampires, again.

He pushes off the dead meat and stands for a moment, looking down on it. Something's missing. He should feel something, perhaps, but he can't think what. Well, never mind, it'll come to him. He heaves the carcass behind a couple of trash bins and walks off. His body doesn't move the way he's accustomed to. He shakes his arm experimentally and it still feels as if the flesh will fall off his bones if he goes on. Peculiar. He pulls at a strand of his longish hair and shakes his head. Tsk. He'll really have to bleach it before surprising Buffy. He needs to be pretty for her.

He walks up to a phone booth and rips out the directory. And whaddya know, there is a B. Summers in there. Islington address. Terrible neighborhood, but then, it's been a while since he was in London. These things change. He saunters off and grins when he sees the reactions of the passers-by. He's the Big Bad, alright, striking terror in the hearts of the bleating buggering sheep.

TBC