Chapter 7
Consciousness tugged at the corners of his brain...there was movement in the room. Spike woke to find himself tangled, half sitting/half lying, in an uncomfortable wad, Fred a soggy ball wedged up against him. The movement came from the seer, Wight, who was quietly closing the windowblinds.
"It's almost dawn," he explained in a whisper, "These east windows get full sun." He looked down at Fred. "How is she?"
"Pretty ripped up...had to tell her one of our friends was dead."
"Oh, my," Wight said sadly, "I'm so sorry." He indicated a paper sack on top of the dresser. "I've brought some clothes for her to change into; I don't imagine she'll be very comfortable in what she's got on now. We've got one of the cabins reserved for you to use, too. You're welcome to stay as long as you like, and I think it'd be a good idea for us to watch her for a few days, at least - I haven't been able to locate Illyria, and there's still a lot we don't know about this situation."
"Take you up on that; thanks."
"You're welcome. The cabin's got a minifrig and a microwave, and it's the one next to the office so you should be able to move back and forth during the day - I think the trees will provide enough shade. Paloma can pick up some blood for you this afternoon. It'll have to be chicken; I'm afraid the poultry processing plant is the only available blood source in this area."
"Yeah, chicken'll be fine." He'd never even tasted chicken blood before.
"Well, sleep as long as you like; we'll be right out here." Wight closed the door softly behind him.
Spike rested his chin on top of the dozing girl's head and stroked her blue-brown locks absently. Fred's hair felt rough and brittle under his hand; he wasn't sure what toiletries Illyria had performed during her visits to the Phoenix apartment bathroom but they apparently hadn't included conditioner, unless she ate the goddamn stuff.
He shifted slightly, and his muscles cramped with discomfort. Buggar this, he thought to himself, and sat up. Fred remained in a deep sleep and tumbled limply away from him. Illyria's catsuit suddenly looked obscene on her. He could hardly strip her out of it right now, but the smaller bits could be jettisoned. Carefully, he straightened her out on the bed. Trying not to wake her, he tugged off the heavy boots and the gloves. The material had an odd texture; smooth and almost oily to the touch, although it left no residue on his hands. He dropped the items off the side of the bed, stretched out beside Fred, and draped an arm over her body. Within minutes he fell back asleep.
Awake again. There's LIGHT
Fred's eyelids flew open. Light and color and furniture and weight and the smell of eucalyptus.
She flexed her fingers cautiously; the cloth underneath them remained. Wesley is dead rose up and kicked her in the gut, and she mashed her fist against her mouth and drew a ragged breath.
As the pain ebbed somewhat, she became aware that a man's body was spooning hers. She turned under his arm and looked into Spike's sleeping face. In repose it wore none of the cocky mischievousness that so often graced it when awake. It was calm; peaceful, even. The cocoon he formed around her felt safe and comforting and she burrowed into it, loath to leave. Handsome man saves me from...the Nothingness.
At length she sat up, unintentionally waking him, and grogginess momentarily seized her.
"Fred?" Spike was now upright too, touching her arm. She looked up at him and nodded mutely. He swung off the bed and she attempted to follow, her legs at first feeling like stilts. The pressure of solid surface beneath her feet was strange but good.
At the closet door mirror she halted and gazed soundlessly at her new appearance: the startling turquoise streaks in her hair; the matching smears on her face and neck; the inhuman blue eyes with their pindot pupils. She knew, he'd told her about the changes the thing had made to her body, but seeing it...
Spike stepped in front of her, purposely blocking the image. "The loo's in here. Why don't you go put these on; likely feel more comfortable." He placed the bag of clothes in her hands and guided her into the bathroom, leaving the door slightly ajar, then leaned against the bureau and crossed his arms nervously. God, but he could use a fag right now. And a shot of-
"Can you help me?" Her voice from inside the bathroom was small. "I can't..."
She was struggling with the clasps of the catsuit's bodice. They were small and tight, barely visible; her fingers evidentally didn't possess the strength to manipulate them. Spike unfastened them for her. As the last one gave way, the stiff leather fell open of its own weight. Fred flushed miserably and pulled the sides back together, but not before they'd both seen that the blue streaks continued across her breasts and down her torso, disappearing beneath the waistline of her pants. Spike hurridly loosened those as well, discreetly averting his eyes, and stepped outside again as Fred slowly pulled on the T-shirt and jeans and sneakers borrowed from Paloma's laundry.
Wight and Singh were immersed in a game of Crazy Eights when they emerged from the little bedroom. Fred smiled wanly as they introduced themselves, and Spike eased her into an empty kitchen chair.
"Spike told me what you did," she said to them. "Thank you. Both of you."
"We're glad to have you here," Wight replied. "Why don't I fix you something to eat. It'll only take a minute." He began to clatter around in the little kitchen, and soon set a spoon and a bowl of Campbell's Chicken & Stars soup in front of her. After offering the same to Spike, who declined, he settled back into his own spot at the table and gathered up the cards from the now defunct game.
"We've been puzzling over your case all morning," he commented, "And frankly, we're stumped. What transported you folks from Los Angeles to Phoenix, why your pursuers seem to have lost your trail...Illyria may have been a key in some way; if we knew more about her kind- "
His words died off as he and the others at the table simultaneously turned their gazes on Fred. Fred, who had been eating slow bites of her soup, then begun to scoop the spoon to her lips with increasing speed and was now holding the bowl to her mouth and gulping from it directly with enormous swallows. Finally she sat the container down and sat gasping, eyes half closed in blissful satiation, broth dripping from her chin.
It began to dawn on her that her companions had fallen silent, and she suddenly broke out of her trance, stared down at the emptied bowl, and looked up at the others guiltily.
"Oh my god, I'm acting like a pig," she whispered, turning red with embarrassment. "It's just been so long since I tasted anything..." She trailed off and dropped her eyes to her lap.
I know the feeling, Spike thought to himself, and a flood of shame washed over him. Her behavior upon reentering the world had been nothing to his - grabbing the nearest skirt and humping it like a rutting hog, then continuing to ride the high from one insane act to another, culminating in a drinking bender that had lasted a solid week. Hadn't given a damn at the time, either: no remorse for taking advantage of the village idiot and using her like a slab of meat; no looking up Fred, who'd knocked herself out to help him, to tell her Thank You or I'm Solid Again or Kiss My Arse. Only days later, after the buzz had finally worn off, had he felt like an absolute jackass. He'd humiliated himself and even now was unable to explain exactly why.
"You're a damn sight more decent than I was, Win," he said aloud.
The color - all but that ungodly blue - drained from Fred's face. She gripped the table edge unsteadily, clamped her hand over her mouth, and lurched to the sink. Leaning into it, she began to retch, vomiting so hard that she seemed to be trying to throw up her own toenails. Spike caught her forehead and held her hair as she coughed and sputtered and finally sagged weakly against the counter.
"I'm sorry...I'm sorry." Tears and snot dripped from her face.
"It's all right; the Cream of Celery tastes like ass, too." He turned on the tap and mopped her face, scooped water to her mouth, had her rinse and spit. She began to tremble, and as he picked her up to carry her to the couch, Wight startled him by exclaiming, "How could I be so careless! We have no idea what kind of digestive system she has now; our food could be poisonous to her. Did Illyria ever tell you what type of diet she required?"
"No...she picked around in the kitchen some, tasted stuff...I never really noticed what she ate."
Wight's face tightened with worry. "She ought to have a thorough medical exam; see what kind of condition her body's in now. I'm going to call the local clinic - It's all right, they know about the demon world; a few of their patients are non-human. I think we should take her there immediately."
Toward the end of an afternoon that felt like a week, Paloma poked her head into the parlor where Spike sat trapped and sick with worry.
"Still not back yet, huh? I'm gonna stash most of this blood in the deep freeze. It's actually not too bad if you doctor it up with some basil." She spotted Illyria's clothing through the bedroom doorway. "Hey, want me to store her rompers someplace? I've got room in my closet."
"Yeah, thanks. If I never see them again it'll be too soon." Spike wanted the Saga Of Illyria put behind them now; wished that he'd listened to his instincts months ago when they'd told him to get Fred out of that place, convince her to quit Wolfram & Hart and go back to Texas, to move in with him, to do anything but keep entering that unholy building day after day. Oddly, he no longer held a grudge against Illyria herself; the big PopTart had merely acted in the only way she knew how.
Paloma brought the clothing into the room with a puzzled expression. "Have you felt this stuff?" She sniffed the alien material; touched it to her tongue. "It's organic."
"Yeah, leather, ain't it?"
"No, I mean it's alive. Dormant, but it's living tissue." She studied the clothes for another moment, then shook her head and left with whatever storage plans she had in mind.
The wait was becoming unbearable.
First chance I get, Spike vowed to himself, I'm blacking out that sodding truck's windows. No, I'm gettin' a better truck. Fuck it, I'm gonna find a TANK and drive wherever the hell I-
The sound of Wight's little diesel car coming up the driveway brought him to his feet. He shot to the office's front door, past the vacationing couple who chattered enthusiastically at the owner/manager/desk clerk, "This is just the greatest Old West place we've ever seen! We've always wanted to sleep in a wigwam. What tribe do you belong to?"
Dilip blinked. "I'm from New Delhi."
Wight gave Spike an It's-Not-Quite-As-Bad-As-We-Feared smile as he escorted Fred into the office. He handed Spike several plastic shopping bags. "We bought some supplies for her on the way back: pajamas, toothbrush, extra clothes, that sort of thing. Let's go to the back and we'll talk." They passed into the manager's apartment while behind them the voices of the vacationers continued happily, "Do the Nudellies have a reservation around here that we could visit?"
Once seated in the parlor, Wight began: "Luckily, the doctors weren't able to detect any allergies or toxic reactions to any of the basic human food catagories; this morning's nausea was due solely to stress. Fred's body does have a functioning alimentary system, although there are other organs present that we don't yet know the purpose of. The extraordinary powers you described - the superhuman strength, the impenetrable skin - seem to be tied to Illyria's consciousness; Fred wasn't able to produce them. And in that same respect, we aren't sure how Illyria's absence will affect Fred's unusual pigmentation in the long run."
"Plus the next time I puke, we know it won't be due to morning sickness," Fred quipped with a sad little smile. At Spike's baffled look, Wight explained quietly, "Her reproductive organs are missing."
A cold, furious rage gripped Spike; he suddenly wished Knox was still alive so that he could beat the living shit out of the little bastard. Hope you're roasting in Hell, you fawning, cock-sucking prick. With a nailgun firing rounds up your ass.
The diffused light from the western windows was dimming. Singh's cat rose from its nap on the bookcase and began to bat about a crumpled bit of paper, cavorting like a kitten. The other occupants of the room continued to sit in silence, wrapped in their own melancholy thoughts.
That night in Cabin #1, Fred was unable to fall asleep without the TV and several lamps left on. She slept fitfully, awakening every half hour or so, and finally left her own bed and crept into Spike's. He found her there the next morning, with her cheek and one small hand resting on his arm.