Chapter 14.
The air was crisp and crackling with an electricity unique to London. The moon hung high in the sky, radiating a cool glow onto the city, bringing out the townspeople to enjoy the late theatre shows, markets, and street musicians. They called it easy pickings.
The noise of chatter, laughter, and music drifted through the night air on a breeze that smelled of the froth of the ocean. The occasional clatter of horse steps and loud carriages would disrupt the magical ambiance, but faded away quickly, leaving the phony sense of fairy tale security in tact.
As he was directed, he sat on his haunches behind a carriage, waiting for Angelus and Darla to return from reconnaissance. They inconspicuously followed a young couple of which they fancied, posing as newlyweds out for a night on the town, wining and dining beside the unknowing victims as if death was not sitting two feet away.
He did not get to partake in the foreplay. According to Angelus, he was "too foolish and daft to have the talent and poise needed to be an adequate vampire." He said that in his upper-class snob accent, meaning to be particularly condescending, but only ended up sounding like a drunken Irish buffoon with a horrible Swedish accent. Although, he wouldn't dare laugh at his posturing, not after the last time. Took him three weeks to fully heal from that beating.
He peeked around the wooden edge, pushing his sandy colored hair from his eyes and searched for his elders. They were supposed to be at the table on the far right, next to the flower box of lilies, but they were nowhere to be found. Neither was their potential prey. A twinge of panic seized his un-beating heart at the thought of the trouble he would be in if he lost them.
He scanned the area one last time to assure himself that they had left, and then tried to calmly assess the situation. Either go off and search for them, go to Dru, or stay put like a good boy. Before he had decided, a muffled scream from the alley behind him alerted him of their whereabouts and he quickly ran over to them, nonchalantly as if nothing had gone awry.
Angelus had a young girl, hardly sixteen years of age pinned against the wall. Her cheek was pressed against the cool brick, her crystal green eyes squeezing tears down the side of her face and trailing onto the wall. Her breath came in sporadic gasps, paralyzed by fear.
Darla had the boy, already drained and lying broken on top of a sack of potatoes and wine. She grinned and blotted away the blood that trickled from her lips on her satin white handkerchief.
Spike watched none of this, however, but was fascinated by the young girl's locket that was squeezed tightly in the palm of her hand. So tightly, he could imagine blood dribbling from between her fingers, dripping from her delicate red painted fingernails and staining the soil at her feet. It looked familiar and brought a feeling of remembrance with it, capturing his gaze and holding it long enough to miss his sire giving him a command.
A sharp slap across his cheek and he quickly snapped his attention back to Angelus' hard eyes. The body of the girl was thrown at him and he held her close. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her trembling arms, his stare drifting away from the terror he found deep in her emerald teary eyes, and he was ordered to kill her.
With one last swift glance at the golden locket, he buried his fangs into her neck. She did not scream, did not cry out, not even a whimper. The blood flowed easily down his throat and he moaned in pleasure at the sweet ecstasy of the kill. Not able to obtain blood from fresh humans under his sire's strict watch, it was a reward, one he would not expect to receive again within the next month or two.
Angelus' sharp tongue would soon drag him from the warm body, warning him of eating too much and becoming ill. But when he was sure the blood would run dry and no reprimand came, he pulled away, puzzled.
To Spike's horror, it was not the dead face of the Victorian girl he was met with, but Dawn's. Her lifeless blue eyes stared back him, relentless and accusing, and her dry lips parted slightly, as if to speak, but he knew she couldn't. The wound where he had bitten her was fresh, skin torn and blood leaking, dribbling down her neck and gathering around her collarbone.
He shoved her away and tried to scream, but nothing happened. The body fell listlessly to the floor, her head bouncing on the hard metallic floor that had appeared, chestnut hair pooling around her shoulders. The sound echoed off surfaces he could not see, like a pin dropping in a silent classroom.
He tried to run but found it impossible to stir. No matter how hard he willed his feet to move, one foot in front of the other, nothing would budge.
A slight metal clink unwillingly drew his attention back to the corpse. As he focused on the golden object, the sound grew louder, resonating millions of time over, as if the action had been repeated numerous times. The locket that had belonged to the bint in the alley, shiny and radiant, he now recognized as Dawn's, settled on the dark floor, sparkling and twinkling tauntingly in an invisible light.
Suddenly, Dawn, the dark room, the locket, all disappeared and he was sitting in the center of a vast field. The sun shone warmly on his alabaster skin, but he did not flinch or feel the urge to hide, instead he lifted his face towards it, soaking in a warmth that felt too familiar for absolute serenity.
"...and then we went on those little boats, you know," he focused his gaze to the left, at the newly arrived Buffy, picnic blanket, and array of food, not at all surprised by her appearance."...the ones with the covered tops and the soprano guys that sing. Dad said it was the best time he'd had in years..."
Her hair shone brilliantly in the afternoon sun, glistening waves tumbling over her shoulders. She popped another grape past her soft pink lips and giggled in memory.
He laughed along with her, placing his hand ever so smoothly on her knee and fingering the citrus and strawberry-checkered fabric of her dress. He remembered seeing her wear it on her 27th birthday, after the surprise party they had successfully thrown her. She had had no suspicion of what they were up to until it was too late. Her smile sparkled brighter than he had ever seen before on that day, causing everyone around her to grin a bit stronger.
A bird flew overhead, chirping and singing about the warm weather, not distracting him from staring deeply into her bright green eyes. He whispered sweet nothings to her, not aware of what he said or why, but feeling the affection inside him intensify at her blushing smile. She preened, distracting herself with straightening the hem of her dress and brushing off invisible dirt.
Looking up again, he met her beautiful eyes, not able or willing to pull himself away from the trance he held himself in. Without thinking, almost automatically, he picked a strawberry from one of the containers she brought and offered it to her. Her eyes danced with not lust, but devotion and tenderness.
The fruit was taken without hesitation or question, complete trust bestowed upon him like this had been repeated dozens of instances before. The warm touch of her lips lingered even as he brought his hand back to retrieve another berry.
Before the next fruit had made it's journey, a loud roar and crash from above sent rain hurling towards them. Sinister gloomy clouds quickly appeared, filling any clear sky and spitting out gallons of water, huge droplets that battered the pink daisies and purple daffodils that dotted the field.
Buffy shrieked playfully and covered her head with her hands in an attempt to stay dry. She giggled and so did he. They hastily gathered what was left of their lunch and dashed for the cover of some oak trees silhouetted in the distance.
Glancing back, he saw her sprinting along within an arms reach behind him, beaming and eyes laughing merrily. Turning his attention forward again, he saw the trees and shelter were less than twenty feet away. The cluster of large oaks swayed furiously in the wind that had kicked up. Leaves showered down, carpeting the slick grass and being matted down with the weight of the rain.
In curiosity, noting the absence of her footfalls and laughter, he looked back again. There was no sign of her. He spun, searching for the melon and strawberry colored dress, waiting to see her vivid green eyes pop out from behind one of the shrubs outlining the area, but nothing happened.
Spike frowned, starting to become increasingly concerned. He strode over to the oak cluster, thinking she might be hiding behind the bulky trunks, lying in wait to startle him. But within three strides, the trees were gone too, replaced by an enormous metal structure that towered into the sky, past the layer of cloud cover and sheets of rain.
A deep feeling of dread overwhelmed him as recognition fell into place. This was not a field he stood in, but an asphalt hell, littered with bodies, moaning and groping blindly for hope. No longer did he hold a blanket in his hands, now it was an axe, dripping with blood and gore. The compulsion to throw it down and flee did not come to him; he just stared at the weapon in wonderment.
A distant scream traveled to his ears and tugged at his unbeating heart to follow, to save the unlucky soul whose throat it ripped from, however there was no one in sight. The field of corpses seemed infinite, stretching out as far as his enhanced sight could see.
The metal tower that loomed above him quivered and shuddered in the wind, looking as if the shotty metal bolts holding it together were coming loose and popping out, the tower nearly falling apart before his eyes.
Spike gave a lurch when a body entered his vision, plummeting towards the earth at an inhuman speed, one that he instantly recognized as Buffy. Her golden hair was dirtied, dress sullied and soiled, body ravaged, not unlike the corpses obscuring the ground.
The wind howled past his ears, humming a sad song of the pathetic that was heard all too frequently. No matter how much he detested and feared looking at the scene that lay before him, his body was rooted to the ground, held by some invisible force that was determined to make him suffer.
The axe in his hands weighed heavier as her limp body plunged closer and closer to the earth. Without warning, the world around him warped, twisting and bending before his eyes. The axe became increasingly heavy, eventually too heavy to hold, pulling his body to the ground along with it.
Spike struggled to pull himself up off his hands and knees, determined to save Buffy from smacking into the hard earth at 100 miles per hour.
A hard thrash across his back sent him sprawling on his stomach, he attempted to cry out in pain, but found no voice. The cold cement no longer underneath him was replaced by an old-fashioned oak wood floor, spattered with blood. His throat was scratched raw from the other times. Sire never appreciated his sense of humor.
The room was warm, a blaze burning in the brick fireplace across the room, creating an ambience that was incredibly misleading. From the kitchen wafted the scent of gingerbread and cinnamon, Darla's favorite smells. His mouth watered at the prospect of actual human food. Course, that was not allowed in Angelus Manor. "Humans are weak and pathetic," he said, "they have no spines. No real passion. You are demon, boy, yet the human still presides. We'll have to change that."
That's when the manacles and blades came in. Tore at his skin mercilessly, especially the dull ones. Angelus never liked razor-sharp instruments, said they were too forgiving, said he liked dull ones because it causes much more pain. He was right. He always is.
The whips came next. Flayed across his body, slashing even deeper into the cuts from the earlier round of torture. He set his hands by his shoulders and attempted to sit up again, tensing for the next lash that was sure to come. It did, right on time, and thrashed against the already tender skin of his buttocks.
He concentrated on a blue glass bead that sat silently less than three feet from his face, hiding behind the leg of a giant red posh chair. Always helped to zone out, to find a focus point and leave until Angelus' sessions ceased. More hard whips followed, but he ignored them as best he could, still struggling to sit between lashes.
A cold hand grabbed onto the hair near the back of his neck, violently yanking his body back and tearing him from the small peace he had found.
"Pay attention to me, boy. Wouldn't want Darla to hear of this, would ya?" The rancid breath tickled against his neck, sending a shiver through his body, and he hated that his sire noticed it.
"Not cold, are we boy? Or is that just fear I smell? Are you scared of me, Will?"
What little pride he had retained would not permit an answer to escape from his lips, but nevertheless the demon presided and obediently responded, "No, sire."
The sadistic smile he just knew spread across Angelus' face made him grit his teeth, wishing to be somewhere else, anywhere else. Even Dru was better than the systematic, agonizingly deliberate torture of his sire.
The fingers wound in his hair relaxed, satisfied with his response, and he let a premature flood of relief pass by. Of course, it was shattered when he was shoved back down, head cracking against the hard oak floor painfully loud.
Angelus' vindictive laughter filled the room, making it so small it seemed claustrophobic. Heavy footfalls crossed the room, causing the floorboards to vibrate under his cheek, and his sire could be heard opening one of those foul Irish beers he loved so much and chugging it down.
Spike gingerly felt the bump on his forehead, checking for blood, but found none. Luckily, it would only be a purple bruise for a few hours. Probably have a splitting headache as well. He forced his eyes open, searching for the lonely glass bead by the chair, but the bead was not there. Neither was the chair. Nor the fireplace and the warm smells.
Confused, Spike pushed himself up to his knees and searched his surroundings. Not the mansion in Italy at all. He was still in that bloody hotel of Angel's. Must've been dreaming then. And fallen off the bed, covered in cold sweat, caught in the throes of some horrible dream he did not care to remember, but knew would be seared into his mind's eye for years.
With a stiff groan, he forced himself to his feet and pulled on his dirty pants that were crumpled in a pile on the armoire. According to his internal clock, it was about T-minus three hours until daylight. Amazing how many nightmares can be crammed into such a short amount of time.
Out of cigarettes, beer, and too nervous to do much else, he tried to go back to sleep, or at least pretend like it. He was more of a nocturnal creature anyway. The bed was in shambles from his midnight escapades, but Spike honestly did not care. A bed was a bed, whether it is a granite sarcophagus or a luxurious Victorian divan.
He laid back on the purple clad bed, hands under his head and tried to relax. The next day was going to be filled with chaos and adventure, both of which he was rather fond of, but still found himself wary. An underlying insecurity, most likely soul based, kept telling him that he would fuck it up. That he would fail like he did Buffy, and the world would come to an end.
It was uncharacteristic for him to feel so disheartened, and he was aware of it, which made the doubt that much more compelling.
A string of loud crashes just outside his door startled him from his thoughts. Spike jumped up and rushed to see what was going on, already on the offence. The first thoughts were for Willow and Fred, knowing that it was his responsibility to protect them.
But before he even made it to the door, something shot threw his window in a flurry of black. Moving too fast, it overtook him and quickly had his cheek flattened against the wall, all without even getting a chance to defend himself.
At last check, they had been fighting for damn near thirty minutes, throwing punches, insults and sometimes each other throughout the hotel. The arena ranged from Spike's room to the hall to the lobby and once in a while the elevator.
Willow and the others were busy fighting groups of vampire minions that had attacked as well, also spread out in the hotel. They all had weapons, so he wasn't too concerned and he knew they could hold their own.
The battle had shifted from room number 153 back into the hall, leaving the room in shambles with busted chairs, lamps, and a nice hunk of missing plaster. The hall was not unscathed either: vases shattered on the floor, ash in neat little piles, a few scattered unconscious vampires, and an axe was stuck in the wall.
Swords clashing could be heard in the background, along with the occasional battle cry and feral growl. A surge of magic could also be felt rolling through the air, which must have been Willow, considering the strawberry smell that accompanied it.
Blood spattered the olive green carpet as Spike's fist crashed into Angel's jaw. He grinned; fangs extended to full length, and wiped his own blood from dripping down his chin onto his bare chest. Angel was down on one knee, trying to recuperate and fight back, but Spike was determined to win this war.
"Getting tired already, grandpa? 'Cuz I'm just getting started." He smirked and made to kick in his face, but Angel caught his foot with surprising skill.
"Respect your elders, boy." He twisted his foot sharply, a sickening pop resounding over the background noises. Spike yelped and fell back on his ass, clutching his ankle close.
Angel staggered slightly before righting himself and approaching him menacingly. The arrogant smirk plastered on his sire's bloodied face incited a murderous rage he hadn't felt in years. The bastard always knew he was going to win. Always knew how much better he was. And made sure everyone else knew the same.
"I could kill you right now. Chop you into little bits and no one would care. Look around you, Will. You're all alone."
He was seething, but not ready to give up, tried to stand. The blinding pain from his foot made him stumble back into the wall, depending on it to stay standing. Angel laughed at his effort, making it painfully obvious that he had plenty of time to waste before he drove a stake through his heart.
"The mouse fighting the big bad lion. Refusing to give up, even when reduced to nothing but a blemish on the carpet. Insolent child. Your attempts are in vain, you can never beat me."
"Oh, Fuck off. In a fair fight, I'd beat your ass and you know it. 'S why you always have to cheat, you spineless wanker."
He cuffed him ruthlessly across his left cheek. "Watch your mouth!"
"Fuck you." Spike sneered defiantly and lobbed a wad of spit and blood at Angel, who reeled back, disgusted. It landed square in the center of his forehead, dangling proudly. Looks like all the punk concerts in the 70s paid off.
Once the offending saliva/blood/mucus was removed, Angel advanced threateningly, his cold eyes calculating how he would systematically eviscerate him.
"You're going to hurt for that."
Spike had been fingering the small switchblade he'd found on the floor, waiting for Angel to get close enough to use it. He was unaware that he was armed, probably thought that he was still a defenseless little mouse, trapped by the big bad lion.
It didn't take long for Angel to cross the four feet that was the width of the hallway, especially with his livid hasty gait. He pulled back his arm, ready to knock his head from his shoulders, but Spike tackled him, driving the small blade into his torso and tearing along his side. Honestly, he didn't want to hurt Angel more than necessary, but he had to realize that he would be dust within seconds if his sire had things his way.
Angel stumbled and cried out in surprise, clutching an arm to his stomach. The blade couldn't have done much damage, it was dull as hell and not much longer than his thumb. He was just being a drama queen as usual.
Even with a broken ankle, he managed to clobber his sire with a few punches and a spinning kick to his temple. Angel fell to all fours, languidly trying to stand, which gave him some time to recuperate himself.
The hall was silent, except for the somewhat distant noises of an ensuing battle and a strange hum that reverberated through the walls. Spike glanced around, searching for the annoying sound, and concluded that it must be the elevator. But who would be coming down?
The edges of the lift lit up as it approached and finally stopped, a small bell ringing as the doors slid open. He was wary of who or what would emerge, but it revealed only Willow. Her clothes were askew and she had a slight bruise on her cheek, but otherwise appeared unharmed.
The thought to not announce his presence crossed his mind, but she could probably sense him anyway. Angelus would love to get his hands on her, and he was frankly surprised his sire hadn't attacked her yet, so he hesitated about dragging her into their rivalry.
"Spike? Are you okay?"
"Here, love. 'M fine." His voice was weary and husky compared to her strong voice, full of concern.
She picked her way carefully through the wreckage, following the shine of his platinum blonde—yet slightly red—hair, illuminated by the sliver of light from the lobby. Spike had turned the lights off in the hallway, hoping to use it to his advantage.
"More are coming, I saw them from the window. He has a whole army, Spike. I'm not sure we can last much longer." She paused, most likely noticing he wasn't paying attention. For some reason, He couldn't seem to find Angel. He was right there when she came but...
"Hello, Spike? Are you in there?"
"Yeah, yeah...it's just...." He looked around the corridor frenetically, moving her to the side so he could get a full view. "Bollocks."
"Bollocks? What does that mean? Is that bad? Is there badness around?" She spun anxiously, also searching for any danger.
"Shh, pet." Spike pulled her to his side and leaned heavily on her shoulder. "He's around here somewhere. Be quiet."
Tracking him from his blood scent would work, but without use of his leg, that was out of the question. Willow would not be able to sense him because of the unbalance between demon and soul and he definitely was not anywhere in sight.
Maybe with enough luck, his sire would slip up and miss-step or bump into a chair. Spike closed his eyes and focused on erasing any thoughts from his mind, tuning into the world and every little sound in it. Mice in the walls, five clocks all ticking, a body falling to the floor overhead, and glass shattering, but no Angel.
"I can't sense him."
"You shouldn't be able to. He's not Angel anymore, remember? Come on, let's get out of here."
"Good idea. Is your leg hurt?" He nodded. "Put your arm around me."
They half hopped, half stumbled into the elevator and pressed the button to go down. Surprisingly, Angel was not to be seen and the doors closed without incident.
"That was too easy."
"Maybe he ran away?"
"Not bloody likely. Angel doesn't run away."
"Well, you said it yourself, he's not Angel anymore. Maybe this version would run."
Spike shook his head, not verbally responding. She wouldn't understand.
The 'bing' sounded and doors opened into the lobby. Wes was reloading a crossbow while a group of at least seven vampires piled through the front doors.
Willow helped him from the lift and sat him down on an overturned chair at the far end of the room, by the stairs. She hastily unlaced his boot and pulled it off, grimacing at his purple tinged ankle.
"Can you hold them back?"
"For the time." Wes responded to her, putting down another of the vamps as it charged.
He ignored the throbbing of his ankle and Willow's prodding fingers. She muttered some incomprehensible Latin and the pulsating pain decreased, a cool net spreading across the area.
"There you go. That should help for a few hours, but it's gonna wear off, especially if you keep walking on it."
"Thanks Red."
He stood, put on his shoe and cautiously conducted a trial step, glad when the region remained numb.
The recovery was just in time for a bombardment of vampires that crashed through the doors and various windows. How many minions could the Pères de Tomes have?
They swiftly overtook Wes, knocking him to the floor and piling on top of him. Spike rushed over and started staking whatever moved, pulling them from the stack until the ex-watcher was visible. Together they began to dispatch the extras, working as a team as he restrained them and Wes staked them.
"Spike!" Willow cried. She was struggling in Angel's grasp at the bottom of the stairs.
Forgetting about Wes and the army that was filtering into the building, Spike slowly approached the situation, hoping to negotiate with his sire.
"Let her go, Angel. She had nothing to do with this."
"Oh, I disagree. She has everything to do with this. Someone here is trying to ruin my plans to take over the world, and we can't have that, can we?"
"I wasn't going to do anything, I swear! I didn't even know you had a plan. See, so in the dark here."
His sire's eyes were wild and conniving, dancing with joy that he was in control again. "You would taste so good, little girl. Sweet, like candy." He chuckled disturbingly and ran his tongue along her jugular. "So, decision time, Spikey. Do I drain her dry, or do you surrender to me and she goes free?"
Spike had been inching his way closer and was within three feet of the pair, completely dumbfounded on what to do. He couldn't let Willow die, but if he surrendered, the world would meet it's certain doom.
A warm hand rested on his shoulder and Wes came to stand beside him, face grim. "Angel, you don't want to do this."
"Says the boy scout of the year. Thanks for the concern, but I've been on many killing sprees before and have a vague understanding of what I'm doing."
"Spike..."
"What?" He answered aloud, not realizing it was Willow in his head.
"Shh. Gunn is going to turn off the lights, be ready."
He glanced around, seeing if anyone had noticed his mistake, but Angel was busy smelling Willow's hair, laughing at her squirming.
"Yeah, okay. Are you alright?"
He didn't get an answer because milliseconds later, the lights flickered off collectively. At that time, there was a flash of electricity where Angel was standing and a grunt as his body was thrown back.
Willow ran free, coming by his side and holding onto his arm a tad too tightly.
"How are you?"
"I'll be fine, but that isn't going to keep him down long."
"What should we do?" Wes asked.
"Kick some ass." Spike picked up two swords that laid at his feet and approached Angel, waiting for him to stand. He tossed one to him and they both circled each other.