*
The new high school wasn't cool at all, Spike decided.
Some effort had been put into it architecturally, he supposed. A mix of Ivy League and open-plan campus had resulted in a nifty gothic feel that he could really appreciate, but after breaking into the basement and wandering the halls for an hour or so, he had to say it sucked.
The interior was much more cramped than he remembered, probably bowing to population pressures. Each classroom was identical, with stark white walls and annoying writing-desks. Cookie-cutter classrooms that would bore the students to tears. The few windows usually looked out into other classrooms, and very few of those windows opened more than a few inches. Looks like a damn institution, he thought to himself as he prowled. Not to mention it was unbelievably complicated; he got lost three times before making it to his final destination.
The library.
His memories of it weren't vivid by any means; most of them were taken at a run, or when distracted by something else. A few blurry impressions of old wood and dark corners, the brief thought that this was what a library should be like, the slightly dazed admission that this was the perfect stomping ground for a Watcher. Of course, overlying the memory of that night was the deep humiliation of being bested by the Slayer's axe-wielding mother. But he remembered noting the smell of old books, the wooly scent of dust burning on the old-fashioned lamps. It had smelled old, mysterious, wise. Good.
It was pitch-black when he entered. After a couple of moments groping the walls, he located a switch and was suddenly blasted with light. Harsh fluorescence that practically blinded him, and worse, illuminated what they'd done to the place.
A circulation desk, smack in the center of the room. Bookshelves lining the walls in an orderly fashion, split up by couches and cheap tables. The harsh yellow light bounced off everything, making the light blue carpet glow like neon, causing the light beech of the room's woodwork to seem orange. Probably someone's idea of "modern", Spike thought. More like his idea of "hospital waiting room". Or possibly a megastore in a bookseller's chain, where you could sip a latte as you read. He was tempted to look around for the cappuccino maker; don't rule anything out in California.
The dimensions had changed, too. No more interesting architectural quirks, where you could hide and think… or launch an attack, he reminded himself. Everything was on one level, easily monitored by whoever manned the central desk. High ceilings, but in a way that just made the place feel empty and soulless. Giles would roll over in his grave, he thought disgustedly. Well, he would if he were dead, but that's nitpicking.
The morons had gone and rebuilt in the same site, right on top of the Hellmouth, he knew. But looking around at the almost sterile nature of the library, he doubted anything would have the strength to face this new hell on earth. Something caught his eye, and he wandered over to find a huge display rack, full of teen magazines. He groaned, spun and left, letting the lights blaze on. Hopefully one of the lights would explode and burn the whole thing down.
He was glad that Dawn wasn't at that school anymore, he decided as he walked back to Clem's. Suck the imagination right out of her, probably. No wonder she'd been so eager to shoplift – after Sunnydale High, prison would seem just like school, and you wouldn't have to do homework. He chuckled a little at the thought.
He was so concerned with redesigning the high school that he didn't even notice the figures shadowing him as he walked through town. He had already turned into the alley, obliviously pondering the merits of a two-level library, when he felt someone step in behind him.
Wouldn't be anyone but Buffy, he thought briefly. But that made no sense – he turned quickly, planning to slide back against the wall, pull Dawn's switchblade from his pocket…
Until he caught sight of his attacker.
Bleach-blonde and grinning, hair slicked back close to his head. A long black duster over t-shirt and jeans and boots. Black on black on black on black on a rangy frame, and all of it looking at him expectantly.
But the eyes were brown, the voice unmistakably southern as his doppelganger spoke.
"Welcome home, Spike."
And then something slammed into him from behind, many somethings, wielding heavy objects that slammed into his skull painfully, battered him down through a confusing sea of thought. Then he couldn't think much of anything anymore.
The smell is what woke him.
He'd been left on the concrete next to a corpse, face-to-face. Or what used to be a face; truthfully, if it hadn't been for the dangling earrings, Spike would have been hard-pressed to guess at the sex of the long-dead human. From what he could see, she hadn't died an easy death.
He tried to shift away from the mess of decomposed flesh, and that's when he discovered the rope. High-quality, extra-thick twine binding him from shoulders to hip, pinning his arms to his sides, his own elbows jamming uncomfortably into his ribs.
"You're awake."
Spike reacted to the voice by immediately rolling and swiveling into a sitting position, ignoring the cracking sounds his body made as it contorted. It was worth it to be able to regard his captor calmly, regain some control in this thoroughly screwed situation. He eased himself against the wall, letting his body relax in a nonchalant pose.
The vampire across from him twitched at the movements, his hand tightening inexpertly on a stake. He was little more than a boy, thought Spike. Blonde and muscular, in a streamlined way that reminded Spike of a swimmer or cross-country runner. But certainly not the leader in this situation, and also not too sure of Spike. Spike bared his teeth.
"I'm awake, and now I'm pissed off, too," he purred, all feral insinuation. "Now, do you want to stake yourself, or shall I come over there and do it for you?"
The boy stiffened in panic. "No!"
Spike began to laugh, and the boy recovered, scowling. He stalked to the basement staircase and hollered up. "Spike's awake!"
The response was almost immediate. "We'll be down in a sec- lemme get the boss."
The swimmer/runner returned to his seat, watching Spike warily.
"Boss?" Spike put as much distaste as he could into the word. He was surprised when the boy blanched.
"Spike, seriously – watch out." The kid was shaking his head, eyes wide. He was frightened, Spike realized. And not of him.
"Yeah, sure." Feet began to pound on the floor above them, and Spike gathered what dignity he could for the coming encounter.
In better light, the resemblance wasn't as striking. Where Spike's hair bleached to a platinum-white, his opponent's was wiry, stubbornly clinging to a pigment that tinted his hair with copper tones. He was heavier, too, some of his bulk hidden under the flowing coat. And the face.
None of Spike's aquiline features, no sculpted quality. This boy was handsome in a thoroughly pedestrian way. A deeply cleft chin, Spike noticed, and a sprinkling of freckles. And a sleepy look on his face that didn't seem to go away. Heavy-lidded eyes, a hovering smile, drowsy gaze, slow movements… No, not like Spike at all.
But bound at the boy's feet, Spike wasn't in the mood for introspection. This was the time to be blunt.
"Right," he said casually. "You look alarming."
"Yeah, you have bad taste, but what's a vamp to do?" The boy didn't seem concerned at all by the insult. Well, at least he admitted to mimicking Spike's clothing. That would save some time.
"And I've got to say, the peroxide does nothing for you boys with the high complexion," Spike added. He ran his eyes over the rest of the motley crew, about seven in all, each boy looking fresh out of high school. One or two of the boys laughed nervously, huffing noises designed to be inoffensive. They all kept glancing at the leader, their expressions wary. Out of this group of minions, what made the doppelganger so fearsome, wondered Spike. He would do well to find out.
"Yeah," shrugged the boy. He came closer to Spike, crouching gracefully before him. "But you want to know what the nifty thing is?"
"It brings out your eyes?" Spike asked mockingly.
The boy just smiled. "Your little whore won't come near me dressed like this," he said softly.
Spike snarled, but the boy ignored him and went on.
"She'll take one look at me and walk away, Spike. Just walks away. Don't know what you did to her, but it's turned her all pathetic. She's been falling down on the job, pal." The words were silky, purred. The boy was enjoying himself. "It's a sweet deal, Spike – no Slayer to worry about, and all it took was a little makeover."
Buffy had let him go? Seen him from a distance and walked away? Spike shoved the thought away, promising to sort it out later. Right now, the boy was leaning in too close, drinking in his every expression. Parasite.
"You're mighty pleased with yourself," Spike spat. "All for being a bleeding, mimicking prat."
The boy smiled again. "I think the phrase you're looking for is 'opportunistic prat'. You'd've done the same in my place; don't even bother denying it."
Spike didn't reply. Something about this sleepy kid made him feel a little sick, a little nervous. He shifted, masking his discomfort. No use in letting the kid know he got to him.
"Uh, Kane – why is he moving? Are those tight?" One of the other vamps craned nervously, trying to see what Spike was doing.
Spike heard and laughed. "CAIN? Oh, please tell me you had that name BEFORE you were turned – it's just too sad, otherwise."
The boy sneered at him, for once showing emotion beyond his sleepy façade. "Yeah, like I'd name myself after some washed-up wrestler? Only pasty boys watch that crap." He pursed his lips. "Should've known you'd be a fan." His pals laughed at the joke.
Oh, of all the bleeding idiots… "I meant Cain as in the Bible, you poof," Spike groaned. "Wrestler… Try the root of all evil, the fratricide? Illiterate generation." This was just embarrassing now, like getting trapped by a vicious gang of preschoolers.
Though they weren't quite sure of the insult, the kids stopped laughing. Some of them shifted nervously, but Kane held his ground, smiling sarcastically. "Yeah, Spike. 'Cause the Bible helped you out so much, back in your day. Let's all follow your example."
"Was someone else who damned me, friend," Spike growled. Then he added a wolfish grin. "I've just done a good job working my way down through the circles of Hell." He was pleased with himself for just a moment, until he realized none of the boys caught the reference. He rolled his eyes. "And that would be Dante. Now let me the fuck up."
"No can do, but thanks for asking," Kane drawled. He stood up smoothly, the smile back in place. He tilted his head, regarding Spike through those sleepy eyes. Suddenly, Spike realized that Kane was copying the angle of his own head.
He resisted the urge to fidget. "What," he said flatly, sarcastically. Kane jolted a little, as though startled out of a reverie, but slid right back into his languid pose.
"Nothing," he sighed. "Just wish I could keep you around a little longer, study a bit more." His forehead creased. "If you managed to become a master vampire, it won't be that hard for me to."
"Bite me," Spike snapped. Idiot child, playing in things he could never understand.
Kane smiled. "If I thought it would help, I would." It was said almost ruefully. But the younger vamp merely shrugged and headed towards the stairs. "I'll be back – just need to make a couple of adjustments," he called over his shoulder.
The rest of the clan filed out, leaving the swimmer behind again. Spike watched the boy edge around him carefully, crouching by the stairs with the stake clutched tight. Spike sighed in disgust and closed his eyes.
Trapped by a gang of fledglings. Master vampire, indeed.
"So did you really kill two Slayers?"
The question came out of nowhere. He was impressed the boy had guts to speak, actually. Spike opened his eyes and picked the fledgling out of the darkness.
"Yeah," he answered tiredly. "One in China, one in New York. Why?"
The boy edged a little closer. "Why didn't you kill this one?"
Spike groaned out loud. This was the last thing he needed. "Right, if I'm going to tell you, you're going to have to come over here. No way I'm shouting across the blasted basement." The boy hesitated. Spike sighed and wriggled his fingers. "Look, no hands – I'm totally tied. Stop being a ninny."
"Sorry." The kid gingerly stepped over the decomposing woman, probably the former homeowner, Spike realized. The distaste was evident on the boy's face as he crossed, unable to tear his eyes away from the maggots that writhed on the body. A squeamish one, eh? Useful to know.
"Name?"
"Hunh? Oh, Rick." He settled down a couple feet away from Spike, leaning against one of the foundation posts. Spike nodded companionably. Might be able to turn this one to his advantage.
"Right, then, Rick. I didn't kill her because she's too good." Too good at fighting, and that's the way Rick would take it. But also too good in so many other ways… "Tried to kill her a couple of times, it didn't take. Death doesn't take to that girl as a rule, actually."
"Yeah, we kinda noticed that," Rick admitted. "We don't have to worry about her because of Kane, but we're not going after her, either."
"Wise," Spike intoned. He fidgeted, testing his bonds. "So, what are you lot going to do with me? Use me as bait?"
He asked hopefully more than anything; it didn't surprise him when Rick shook his head regretfully.
"No, I think he's gonna dust you somehow."
Spike pressed his lips together firmly. Time for a little force. "Well then, Rick – you'll be getting a taste of the Slayer sooner than you think."
Rick stared. "What? Why?"
"If your pillock of a leader manages to kill me – and that's a big 'if', boy – then the Slayer will come down on you like a ton of bricks. Probably sweep you all in one night," he breezed. "The girl and her family like me, what can I say? And you know how she gets when someone hurts her friends…"
Rick scoffed. "Yeah, like you're her friend."
Spike just looked at him. "You must be new or heartbreakingly stupid. The girl owes me." Not completely true, but in this situation? Some liberties could be taken with the truth.
And now for the final touch…
"Untie me and I'll get us out of here. It's the only way."
"Are you fucking nuts?" Rick recoiled with a horrified expression.
"It's the only way you're going to survive this, idiot; I'm a master. I'll get us out, and then you can go. But you've got to do it now."
But he'd underestimated the thrall with which Kane held his crew. Rick pulled away, waving his hands helplessly.
"Look, man, I'm sorry – if I let you go, he'll kill me."
"And if you don't let me go, I'LL kill you. Later, maybe, but I'll still kill you. Slowly."
Rick looked at him appraisingly for a moment, and Spike wondered if he'd managed to get through. But no luck – the boy was shaking his head.
"Dude, I know you're old and experienced and everything, but he's insane." Rick glanced over to the stairs and shivered. Whatever Kane was about to do, it had the boy terrified. There wasn't going to be much time, either.
He tried Rick again. "So you're just going to let him stake me? The Slayer'll be after you in hours. Not a good plan. Untie me."
"You don't get it." Rick's voice was flat, and he turned to stare at Spike. "He's crazy, but in a really scary way. He'll mark someone, and they won't even know it. Days, weeks, MONTHS later, he'll kill them in some bizarre way." He shuddered. "I think it's what he does in his spare time – just thinks of fancy ways to kill people. And vamps. Anything, really."
"You're saying he's a psychopath?" Big word, not completely sure of the psychological terminology, but it seemed to fit the bill.
"I guess," Rick shrugged. "I'm saying he likes to kill things. He also likes to dissect things. Sometimes, he does it in reverse order."
"Right. Sounds pleasant." Shit.
"Yeah, he's not someone you want to cross." Rick shrugged apologetically. "I guess you just got in the way?"
"Guess so," Spike agreed. "Now let me go."
Rick stood up, agitated. "I told you! I CAN'T." But something was beginning to get through to the boy, and he shuffled where he stood. Suddenly, decisively, he leaned closer.
"Look, if I can do something for you, I will. But I can't do anything if I'll get dusted. Okay?"
"Right," Spike said, disgusted. Rick's face fell as he turned away, signaling the end of the conversation. The boy retreated back to the foot of the stairs, dejectedly playing with the stake, and Spike ignored him.
Two years to get this far, he thought, and to get staked by some upstart. Insane upstart, fine, but still a stupid way to go. At the hands of someone who'd haunted Buffy, who'd kept him fresh in her mind… No, he wasn't done here.
He'd expected them to come in the same way they'd filed out, so the sudden flood of bodies rushing down the stairs startled him. There wasn't much he could do as so many hands grabbed him, yanked him to the center of the basement, thrust him out to Kane like some sacrificial offering.
Which he was, in a way.
"Piss off," he managed to spit before fingers twisted in his hair, pulled his head back so far his neck hurt. Kane chuckled and said something he couldn't quite make out. The pressure on his scalp eased, and he found himself facing the smiling youngster.
"I'll remember that, too," Kane said easily. He gestured to Spike's jacket. "And this, I'll just be taking. Don't know when you decided to go all L.L. Bean, but at least I won't have to dye my hair anymore." He smirked.
"Don't bother, you'll be dead by then."
"Fighting to the end – appropriate," Kane drawled. He reached into a pocket and, unexpectedly, pulled out a syringe.
Spike laughed. "Planning to sedate me, then in with the stake? Very nice, quite macho. Prat."
Kane smiled again, sleepily. Spike was beginning to catch onto this; a drowsy-looking Kane was not a good thing.
Especially when he slipped the needle into the back of Spike's exposed hand.
At first, the pain from the needle was nothing. Like a splinter, or getting sliced with glass. Certainly nothing in comparison to the gradual burning sensation that paralyzed him as Kane pushed the syringe's plunger.
"Fucking hell!" breathed Spike. It was a small admission, considering his whole arm felt like it was in flames. Whatever had been in that tiny vial was now bubbling through his blood, boiling, ripping him apart. It was like a sunburn from the inside out, and only getting worse at every moment.
Spike didn't feel Kane withdraw the needle, tossing it into a corner.
"Feels bad, doesn't it?" The younger vampire's face twisted into an expression of sympathy as he waved for Spike to be set down. Spike immediately lay out flat, desperate to stop twitching, hoping that he could stay still. Delay the poison, whatever it was.
Kane didn't seem concerned with Spike's stoic silence. He crouched down next to his victim as Spike went into a series of spasms.
"It's something I've been working on – bunch of stuff that kills vampires, but in certain ratios. You know: holy water, garlic essence, that sort of thing." He chuckled. "If I could get splinters in the syringe, I'd do that too!"
Spike shut his eyes, barely focusing on the boy's words. His veins were eating him. Every one of them screaming, dying, probably crumbling into ash. He'd never been more aware of each part of his body in his life. To have them all burning at once was almost unbearable.
"I've only tried this twice before," Kane's voice continued, low and whispered. His expression was dreamy, a smile lingering on his lips. "The first one wasn't anywhere near as old as you, though, so I don't know how you'll take to it. I made it stronger for you, just in case. Right around now, those tiny little particles are creeping through your body, dusting you from the inside out." His fingers wriggled, as though miming the poison's journey. "And the last girl? It ate her. Ate her until she was just a shell, and I found her days later, just where I'd left her, practically a husk. I even brought her home, to see if she'd grow back… but she never did. She wasn't there at all – it was just a shell, like a snake that's shed its skin. Hollowed out completely."
Kane sighed. "So that's what I see in your future, master-man. And it could take you a while – she was way further gone than you are by this point. But she screamed a lot." His brow creased, and for a moment he looked like a frustrated child. "Why don't you scream?"
Spike clenched his teeth tight, refused to look Kane in the face. He certainly wouldn't let the boy know that his throat had spasmed so tightly that he literally couldn't make a sound, that his jaw had locked. That he was helpless to defend himself, even with words.
"Sorry it has to be this way, Spike. I really am," Kane continued. He stood, squinting down at his victim. "But there can't be two of us – there can only be me."
He seemed to realize that Spike was beyond words at that point, turning to his cadre.
"Okay, let's get out of here. He's going to take a while – I upped the dose, but I'm thinking he'll take the rest of the day." Kane half-smiled, leaned back down to Spike.
"We'll be back tonight, though, when this you're good and hollow. After all," he murmured, brushing Spike's lapel almost lovingly. "I need your clothes." He sighed and straightened, then made his way to the stairs.
"We should throw him in the corner – you know, in case someone looks in the window," Spike heard one of the minions grumble.
"Yeah, whatever."
He felt himself lifted roughly, then unceremoniously dumped in a cluttered pile of folders and boxes, the dead woman's files. He heard them leave, heavy boots clumping up the wooden stairs, the door shutting loudly and with certain finality.
Dying like this was bitter, Spike realized. Abandoned in a basement with a rotting corpse, wasting away, allowing a group of dumb fledglings to get the upper hand and end one hundred years of greatness. Briefly, he wondered about his soul; he'd only just acquired it. Would it rise because of its newness, or sink under the weight of a century of sins? Would it even find its way out of this godforsaken basement?
He pried his eyes open, though the light stung and every vessel and nerve felt afire. Might as well get a last look, before his eyeballs crumbled into dust.
Depressing view. Spare odds and ends of furniture, bare lightbulbs dangling from the rafters, the dead paperwork of a dead woman pressing in against him from all angles…
…and at his feet, tucked so close to his boot that even he almost didn't see it: Dawn's little black switchblade.
TBC
