Chapter 6
... I am Jack's smirking revenge...
Fight Club
Despite all his talk Spike stepped gingerly over the splintered wood piled in the tomb doorway and vamped out to cautiously sniff the air. Her. Right off that spice flooded his nostrils and his lips peeled back. Slayer scent. Nothing more intoxicating, except maybe Slayer blood... None of that here though. Just Slayer sweat and adrenaline and the burning echo of something violent. He inhaled again and grimaced. There was a tinge of magic there, a powerful spell that had singed the air not long ago. There was something else as well: something dark in the undercurrents that caressed his bumps and tickled the tips of his bared fangs. And not in a good way.
And it was fucking dark too. He blinked rapidly but it did no good, he was almost blind and that was disturbing. Resonances of the inside of Willy's industrial fridges tickled ice along his spine and he shivered, and then shrugged his shoulders in irritation. Well, if those fucking spooks were back they would find more than a happy snack this time around. William the Bloody had a score to settle that no amount of fear was going to rob him of again.
Still it was extremely dark...
Spike turned back to the doorway and was relieved to see the bright stars were still where they should be, burning like icy dew in their mantle. He held out a hand and took Dawn's small one to help her over the ruined doorway. She didn't stumble, but skipped lightly across it to land softly by his side. Had the Summers' blood in there all right. Nimble and quick just like big sis.
"It's so dark in here." Dawn's voice was dull in the stone room.
"Had noticed that 'Bit." His own voice was not much better. Spike turned from the starlit sky and back into the blackness. "Slayer's not here though. Not anymore."
"Maybe she's gone back outside?"
"Nope." He swept his nearly blind eyes around the room, just making out the faint smudge that was the far wall. "She's in here alright. Just not here."
"It stinks." Dawn said. He felt her shiver through his leathers.
"Yeah." He agreed. The sudden image of a rotting corpse heaving and slithering itself around the room popped into his head. Mummies? Zombies? A leper that some fucking sick brother or sister had Turned for a joke? "Like something that should be long dead." He mused out loud. The odour was not the usual dead things stink though. He squinted. "Can't see anything creeping about though. Can't hear anything, either."
"You can see? In here?"
"'Course." He said confidently, only exaggerating a little, after all he could see well enough to swat any beasties that came charging couldn't he. He stepped deeper into the tomb and his living, breathing shadow followed. "Its dark but its not that dark- Wait a minute."
"What is it?"
"A door." Yeah, that was where she, where they, had gone all right. He padded across the floor, his boots a soft whisper against the dusty stone. Dawn clumped along behind him, pressed into his coat.
As he moved, strange air currents swirled around Spike's legs, his arms, his chest, his face. Delicate and sharp, like slivers of glass, they stroked at his skin with unkind intent and left tiny, transient lines of ice in their wakes. Curious. The little eddies flowed over his ears and he listened intently to their whispers, but there was no sense to be made of them. It was just wind, flowing out of the dark doorway ahead, on its way back out into the starlight.
Spike pushed Dawn further behind him as they came to the opening in the far wall, but no sounds emerged from the blackness. Nothing tried to lunge out - it was quiet and still - which only served to raise his hackles. He paused a moment to inhale again. And yes, once more, there they were: the Watcher, pencil man, the oddly familiar fellow and the woman. Strange, strange woman. Her scent, smothered in lavender and roses, was tainted with something he had never smelled before. Its dull stain was an ugly squat bulging thing amidst the flower scent. More curious...
And the Slayer. She was there. She had been there. Her scent flooded his nostrils, his lungs and penetrated into his guts and he felt himself fill up with her glow. What was she up to down here? He would find out. He would get it out of her. And then he would have his way with her. Oh yeah. The memory: lying there in the battle dust, eye to eye, and her all ablaze with her want of him and terrified of that want, was so hot in his mouth he almost had to pant. Revenge was going to be so so sweet.
Oh, he just had to find her.
"Come on." He forced his thickened tongue to form the words and stepped into the gloom. Time to hunt.
Running.
Feet like flint against the tinder dry floor, striking fast and hard.
"... Odisse..."
Running.
"... Slayer..."
Running.
"Dawn! DAWN!"
... Yon. Alexandra. Zina. Asako. Isabel. Nikita. Cassandra. Meiying. Ebba. Aishah. Polly. Pania. Kaiya. Bethany. Babette. Kirsty. Zola. Kalska. Merpati. Katerina. Nikki. Shawna. Peta. Buffy...
It was a soothing chant. A ritual that always calmed him; that never failed to harden his resolve. Edward's lips moved silently as he scurried through the darkness. Ahead of him, there were the dim forms of his companions walking in a ragged line, one after the other, down the slowly descending corridor.
The corridor, as far as Edward could tell, had been hewn straight out of the earth and the faint scent of soil filled the air. The ceiling was low enough that Giles, the tallest of them all, was forced to hunch his shoulders; and its breadth narrow enough that they could not comfortably walk any other way but single file. It was a frightening confinement - one made all the more so by his allocation to last place.
The strange breezy air smelled cold too, and made the tunnel feel chilly and windswept, but also oddly smothered. He reached out a tentative finger and touched the wall. He let it trail over the surface as he walked and the rough sandpaper texture chafed his skin and vibrated unpleasantly through his flesh. He shivered and pulled his hand back.
When he had requested this assignment, standing stubbornly in Councillor Knightly's plush office and refusing to leave it, he had not really thought about the actuality of the mission. At the time he had been utterly consumed with the idea of it. The very concept of taking his place in the Council journals, of knowing that his name would be inscribed forever in parchment and compact disc, had aborted any projections about what it may actually entail - particularly any less than glorious possibilities. Then, once Councillor Knightly had yielded to his superior brand of intractability and announced him, he had been too fevered in his preparations: reading the mission profile, organizing his equipment and attending last minute physical skills classes.
The latter were usually the bane of his existence. He lacked the superior strength and co-ordination of those whose destiny lay in the direction of Watcher, and he lacked any interest to struggle against this deficiency. He could see no use in a future Council historian and records keeper learning the finer points of rope climbing or wrestling or running aimlessly for miles and miles through snow, gale and burning sun. But not anymore.
"You will be accompanying the Slayer young Frost!" Councillor Bryant's voice was more clipped than usual. The professor of his torment on any normal day, the man had insisted that he personally take Edward through his final days of instruction. He was convinced, no doubt, that nothing short of his own attention could lift his worst student to a satisfactory standard. If that could ever be achieved without resorting to the dark arts...
Though it must have galled him no end that his most inept pupil was going where he himself had never had the privilege to go, Bryant was not overt in displaying his disgust. Despite that fact, Edward was sure the tutor was going to make him pay for his new mission with sweat, for certain, and tears and blood if it became necessary.
"The Slayer!" He had continued as he paced feverishly up and down in front of Edward in the Council gymnasium. He had both hands clasped together and held tight at the small of his back. "The Slayer! The epitome of physical endurance and strength. Not to mention her Watcher." He stopped abruptly and faced the younger man. "Rupert Giles was a very capable student young Edward, dedicated and gifted, and I am told, he has only improved with time."
Rupert Giles. Councillor Bryant never stopped talking about the one that made it. Though Edward knew the truth, Bryant's version had grown to the point where most of his current students were beginning to believe that Giles was a male version of the Slayer herself. Edward had not corrected them, enjoying the little buzz that his secret knowledge brought him, though he knew the real story from his extracurricular studies. The records were very clear: whilst Rupert Giles was an above average student in the physical arts he was by no means brilliant. Bryant's own precise, terse assessments recorded time after time that the young Watcher-to-be was sound of movement and quick to master each new lesson, but he was stubborn and difficult. He was polite; he was capable; but he would not follow instruction to Bryant's satisfaction.
Edward thought about that as the Councillor sent him up the rope, again.
"Grip it properly! Put some effort into it!" Bryant bellowed from somewhere far too far below Edward's rope entwined feet. "Do it properly, like I showed you, you buffoon. Do you want to slip? Well, do you?"
"No sir." Edward gasped, struggling to comply. His entire upper body was on fire.
"I should think not! You'll be accompanying the Slayer! And Rupert Giles. I will not have their report stating that any student of mine slipped!" Now, that was a truly horrifying thought. That his name might be forever inscribed in the records alongside a description of his stumbling and bumbling millstone presence was too terrible to contemplate. Edward redoubled his efforts.
Then he was there!
He made it to the ceiling and exalted being only a nose away from its smooth surface. He grinned tightly at his faint, distorted reflection. Sweat was slick over his hot skin, and his arms seemed to have cramped into place, bent tight against his chest, but he had made it! For the first time in his life he had made it. A short time later as his feet touched down on the matting he could not help the smile that burst across his face.
"Alright." Bryant made a very, very small mark on his file folder and looked blandly at him. "Again."
As he lay in bed that night, listening to his roommate's snoring, aching in every muscle and with both palms burning, Edward finally understood Giles' reportedly poor attitude. His secret knowledge suddenly became more than a private pleasure because he finally understood it: Bryant was an unreasonable, miserable old bastard who was impossible to please. Edward had climbed that bloody rope for hours and hours until Bryant had been absolutely convinced that each and every finger was in its correct position. That Edward had collapsed into a jelly by the end of this pedantic and excessive exercise, quite unable to use any of his limbs, did not rate a blip on the Councilor's radar.
The only remaining part of Giles' record that remained a mystery now was that he had remained polite for all those years. He must have taken lecture after scolding after insult, but he never once forgot his manners. Edward had found himself filled with a new and even greater admiration for the Watcher and he had resolved to make himself a fit companion no matter what. Returning to the gymnasium in the following days he had fiercely tackled every order and every criticism as a personal challenge, pushing himself until he collapsed again and again. And never once was he anything less than perfectly polite.
Now, he was filling with a sick trepidation that he was going to fall disastrously short in his resolution. Already he had proved himself a useless appendage when he had failed to do anything more than save his own skin back in the tomb gallery. He wasn't even able to make a running journal record, having lost his only readily accessible pencil, and the shame of it built into a lump in his throat.
Suddenly there was a mumble up ahead and the torch light, that was illuminating nothing more than tunnel, guttered alarmingly. The little party stopped abruptly and Edward stumbled into Ethan Rayne's back. Rayne turned briefly and Edward could all too easily imagine the withering stare on that shadowed face.
"Dammit!" Giles' voice was harsh, and dulled by the earth. There was a rattling sound and a sharp slap of flesh on plastic. Another slap. It echoed strangely, coming faintly, a beat later, from behind them. Then the light was back and Edward exhaled with relief. They started moving again, faster this time.
"Dawn!" A sudden, faint scream froze the party again. Somewhere close the Slayer was still chasing this Dawn. And still being swept along by the same false visions her Watcher had succumbed to. "Dawn!"
"Did everyone hear that? It wasn't just me?" Giles barked over his shoulder.
"Oh yes." Anita answered.
"Clear as crystal." Ethan.
"GILES!" The Slayer called out again, voice raw with strain.
"Oh thank the - BUFFY!" Giles yelled back and the next thing Edward knew, he was sprinting as fast as he could not to be left behind.
... Yon. Alexandra. Zina. Asako. Isabel. Nikita. Cassandra. Meiying. Ebba. Aishah. Polly...
Dawn had a handful of Spike's coat again, this time the tails, as he hurried them into the darkness of the underground tomb. Ergh. Gross tomb. The blackened tunnels were as stinky as the entrance and just as freaky. It wouldn't be so bad though, she guessed, if she could just see something - anything! She couldn't even see the coat she was holding and the only indication that it was attached to anything was the tugging that went with Spike's determined footsteps. He wasn't even breathing like he usually did, so she didn't even have the comfort of a companion's respiration.
For Spike not to breathe he must be really keyed up. It was very weird. Then again Spike was very weird (in a sexy way of course), because like: dead thing and breathing, not so mixy, and yet Spike did it all the time. He breathed his cigarette smoke, he crooned to himself (when he thought no one was eavesdropping), he sighed and huffed, he panted like a steam engine after a really hard fight and he seemed to spend a huge amount of his time sniffing the air - most times for no reason Dawn could see. The only times she had seen him not breathing was when he was concentrating hard or when he was sleeping, and then she hadn't really cared because, well, Spike slept naked...
...
...
... Yeah, uh well, so awake-not-breathing-Spike meant that he was not all that fun to be around. Spike concentrating was Spike being quiet and totally focussed and oh so dull. For once though, she was kind of hoping for dull.
Spike suddenly surged forward and she almost fell.
She stopped thinking and concentrated on keeping her feet. When Spike had first charged through the tomb doorway and into this tunnel she had been terrified that she would trip or slip on something rubbl-y and be lost forever in the dark. She wasn't entirely sold on the concept that Spike would stop for her. Despite his slip of the tongue earlier, she wasn't totally convinced that being one of Spike's princesses was really a 100% safe place to be. Sure, he had been sweet on Drusilla for over 100 years, but she was, like, a vampire and tough in all the ways that a human wasn't. There was no real guarantee that Spike recalled anything about being human enough to remember that they needed a lot more consideration than someone who was one half demon and one half already dead person. It was lucky for her that the sandy tunnel floor was free from rocks and stuff. Now all she had to do was hold on...
Giles sprinted down the tunnel toward the sounds of his Slayer's distress. Again she called for him and again he surged forward. It was instinctive, reactive. He could do nothing but respond.
"BUFFY WHERE ARE YOU?" No answer. Dammit. The tunnel seemed to go on and on: twisting and turning, but leading him no closer to his charge. It didn't make sense. She sounded closer than this. Was this another twisted characteristic of the Hellmouth? Was it playing them all for fools?
"GILES?" She was closer. Finally. Chest and legs burning the Watcher forced his pace to the limit. "I'M HERE! GILES WHERE ARE YOU?"
"BUFFY, I'M COMING-" And the tunnel hooked abruptly to the right. He tried to correct his trajectory but his feet slid on the sandy floor and he flailed for a moment, torch waving wildly. Contact. He slammed into the wall unable to stop himself. Pain exploded across his right shoulder, ribs and arm. "SHIT!" His body ricocheted and he hit the opposite wall before spinning out of control into a dark open high-vaulted space. He fell and dropped his torch. The flashlight skittered away, light strobing as it spun across the floor.
"GILES!" The Slayer's voice was suddenly right on top of him, then so was she, grabbing onto his prone form so ferociously he was trapped where he was. The sharp point of her stake stabbed into his ribs. And the Hellmouth slid along his skin, spreading out from wherever Buffy was touching him. God, not again. He felt the small eddies of cold gritty wind begin to wind themselves through his hair, across his skin, through the gaps in his clothing. "Giles, oh thank god, thank god, thankgodthankgod."
"Buffy, are you alright." He tried to twist around to sit up but it was impossible.
"I can't find Dawn. She's in here but I can't find her."
"Its alright. Dawn isn't down here." He struggled to sit up. The wind tugged at him and strange dislocated whispers tickled along his mind.
"What?" She demanded and Giles twisted his head to follow the voice to its source. Shadows. That was all that was there. For a moment he wondered if this wasn't yet another Hellmouth trick, sending him a false shade in place of his charge. A wraith. A flat collage of shadow that only superficially resembled Buffy. He blinked. Frowned. Then he remembered and felt a surge of distress: this was Buffy. Where he expected to see the rich suggestion of soul and spirit, revealed to him (even in the darkest of places) in jewel-like light and colour, now he saw only the surface. That incantation of Ethan's, or maybe the Hellmouth, had blinded him and it looked like it wasn't going to release his gifted sight anytime soon. He swallowed. Was this how Ethan saw the world? Xander? Dawn? And everyone else who called themselves normal? It made the world dim and unreal and alarmingly unreadable. He felt a panicky flutter in his stomach.
The Hellmouth swelled like an ocean wave across his senses.
"Giles?" Buffy asked in a panicky wind-blown voice.
"Its alright Buffy." Giles pushed his own panic down and turned his ear from the illusory. "Dawn isn't here. It's a trick of the Hellmouth. Now, just let me up and we'll see-"
"But I heard her calling me-"
"Buffy - trust me - Dawn is safe and sound at home. Now please, let me up." He surged upward again and Buffy let him, moving off to crouch nearby, one hand twisted into his coat. "Ethan!" He called, and heard the faint scrape of footsteps coming in under the waves of Hellmouth illusion. Buffy's shadowed head swung around blindly, looking for Ethan no doubt. She moved away slightly, but Giles scooped her close again and tried to ignore the touch of Hell that was growing stronger by the second. "Ethan hurry up!"
"Giles-"
"It's alright Buffy, just stay quiet for a moment. Everything is going to be alright." I hope. "Bloody hell Ethan-"
And then it was alright. Just like that. Once again it was quiet and still and dark.
Buffy collapsed against his side with an expletive he was sure she should not know. Spike's influence or his own candy fuelled fugue? He squeezed her shoulders reassuringly. No response. He looked down, alarmed, and was again rewarded with only impotent, implacable shadow. He opened his mouth, but was beaten to the punch by a sudden swell of light.
"M- Mr Giles?" It was Frost and the mislaid torch. Giles turned his back to him and got a good look at Buffy for the first time. And again felt his stomach clench at the sight. With no familiar colours to cast her in her true light, to guide him to his best counsel, she was a figure on a TV screen: dim and two dimensional and distant. If he hadn't been holding her shoulders he might have mistaken her for a well-crafted waxwork. He swallowed. If this was a permanent condition he didn't know what he was going to do.
"Buffy? Are you alright? Are you injured?"
"I'm ok." Her voice was small but he could see her rallying - at least he thought so. He stared hard but it didn't improve matters, he was going to have to take her word for it... Then she was looking at him. "What happened?"
"It's the Hellmouth. It was reaching out to you - "
"So Dawn-" She asked again, unwilling to let the matter rest.
"Not here. Its just us." He waited a moment and watched her take that in, and then peer around him, over his shoulder and then all around them. She swallowed. "Ok?" He asked again.
"Ok." She nodded and let him rise, reaching out to steady herself. But as they rose he realised that it was he who was steadying himself against her – helped upright with that alarmingly casual strength; that same strength that was now flowing through those sleek young hands to clasp his forearms in an uncomfortably steely grip. His bruises were taking on new bruises, and that body slam into the wall was suddenly making itself felt anew. He gritted his teeth. Shoulder, arm, ribs. One mass of hurt that he had to call on his training to suppress. "Where is everyone?" Buffy asked.
Oh hell! He'd forgotten them.
"Anita? Ethan?" He called, looking around the dimly lit 'room'. Frost ran the torch obligingly through the darkness.
"We're over here Rupert." Anita. He exhaled, unaware he had been holding his breath. The three of them followed his lover's voice back the way they had come, and from the shadows the torchlight drew out the forms of their missing teammates. Ethan was sprawled bonelessly on his side and Giles recognized the 'recovery position', slightly twisted to keep the airway free. He was quite unconscious. Anita (dim and lost to him without her golden glow) was kneeling by his head, the fingers of one hand threaded through the short spiky hair. "He passed out right after casting." Anita said. Giles pursed his lips, irritated to find himself alarmed by the sight, and squinted impotently at the prone form.
"He's alright." Anita spoke again, looking straight at Giles, straight through him really. "He's just sleeping, believe it or not." She switched her gaze to Buffy. "Are you alright?" Giles caught Buffy's nod out of the corner of his eye, still unable to take his eyes off Ethan. The stupid prat - then he found his gaze straying from the other man to Anita's fingers. Pale smudges tangled within the dark brown of Ethan's hair. He frowned. It was another point of irritation that this was a sight that could still rankle, even after all these years.
"We can't wait for him to sleep it off. We have to keep moving. We have to regroup above ground."
"A moment Rupert. A moment." Anita frowned at him. "He -"
"What was that?" Frost's thin young voice suddenly erupted from behind Giles. The torchlight was yanked away and Giles followed its rotation with an abrupt swivel.
"What was what?" He demanded of the younger man.
"Th- there was a sound. I heard it earlier but I thought it was just an echo. I heard it again though, just now." Frost continued to make his lighthouse swing around the room. Giles followed it, ears straining against the silence. Beside him Buffy was also alert, staring around silently.
Nothing happened.
"Maybe you -" Giles started. Then he heard it. A sound like a single footstep, but not quite. It came from the far wall. The jittery torch beam flashed across the space toward the noise. Nothing. Giles spared a quick glance back at Anita. He motioned to her dim form, palm pushing the air down and back. She nodded and shrank backward to the wall, pulling Ethan's limp body with her. The sliding sound was jarringly loud in the suddenly pregnant silence.
He felt a tug on his sleeve: Buffy. The Slayer pointed to herself and thumbed over her shoulder into the dark. Giles cocked his head. She pointed at him and the young Councilor's turned back, made a 'talk' sign with her free hand and pointed out into the 'room'. Giles nodded and Buffy slipped away.
"You are hearing things Frost." Giles suddenly spoke. Adrenaline gave only a slight tremor to his voice. "This is the Hellmouth after all and we're all a little bit jumpy."
"But sir, you heard-" Frost objected.
"Nothing." Giles stepped closer to the young man. Frost looked up at him, torch drooping in his hand. He made to object again, but stopped himself. Well-trained young pup, Knightly had not been lying about that anyway, but unfortunately that was not what they needed right at this moment. "Don't trouble yourself about it. This is your first time in the field and I know how unnerving that can be. Why, my first time was with a team that had been sent out to clean out a Nest, and believe me when I tell you that -"
The footstep. Again. Followed by a skittering dozen of them. This time from the left and closer. Frost swung the torch before Giles could stop him and they all saw the flash of their target: a slim quick shadow moving with determination, and coming up fast on their left flank. Giles reached for his belt: no axe. When had he dropped that?
Then there was no time to wonder, the intruder was upon them.
Buffy slipped through the dark, hunting. For the time being the wild illusion she had just thrashed her way through was forgotten and she existed only in the moment. Hunting, leaving Giles and the others behind she quickly padded into the dark, eyes wide and missing nothing. She hoped. Giles started talking, his mellow voice a welcome anchor as she waded through the shadowy sea of the room. She tuned out his words, hearing only the timbre.
Then skittering in the dark. Sandy footsteps.
Buffy smiled and closed in.
Oh yeah...
The thing lunged out of the dark so suddenly that Giles almost recoiled. It was man-like in shape and movement, shorter and slimmer than he, but much faster. The Watcher recovered himself in a split second and charged forward to block it from reaching Anita and Ethan. It dodged him. So fast. So incredibly smooth and ... A vampire? Down here?
Giles fell forward and connected with a wall for the second time that night. Behind him the torch light waved crazily, Anita called out a curse, and the thing snarled: a slavering, sneering sound. Frost's thin young voice bit the air with a hex of his own - one Giles recognized from his Council school days.
Then Buffy, a snatch of movement in the gloom, all but flew past him. Giles twisted around to see the thing looming over Anita and the still slumbering Ethan. His lover was up on her haunches, crossbow raised and empty of its loaded arrow, and spitting out curse after curse but she could not hope to hold her attacker for long. Then the Slayer was upon it and wrenching the thing away. She gave it a hard thrust and it tumbled into the darkness. Buffy sprang after it and the gluttonous shadows of the Hellmouth tomb consumed her once again. The sight pinched Giles' stomach so painfully he found himself teetering on his toes, one lunge from blindly and stupidly following his charge in to the invisible melee. His teeth dug into his lower lip and he tasted blood.
Snarling and gibbering came from somewhere out there in the dark.
With a supreme effort the Watcher forced himself to return to reason and gave his attention to where it had to be. He lunged forward and scooped up Ethan's dropped sword, turning to defend the group, and stare vainly after Buffy. He held his new weapon in a steady hand, facing out to the danger. The ancient weapon was perfectly balanced and felt as light as a switchblade in his hand.
He looked across at Frost. The young man's face was pale and shone in the weak torchlight. Speaking of the torch- Giles reached out and snatched it back. He arced its light into the room and tried to find the warring pair. Nothing.
Then suddenly, out in front, to his right, Buffy grunted and the thing squealed. Both sounds were electrifying and his heart surged in his chest. He jerked the torch across to illuminate them but they were gone again. He strained his ears. Nothing. His eyes... Dammit. The essence of the Slay that Buffy had said she sensed within him was too damned weak. Where he needed her superior vision he was denied it and instead had been crippled further by... whom, Ethan or the Hellmouth?
"Buffy!" He called.
"Be *grunt* right - dammit - back!" She called, voice bright with the battle. A thrill of memory, fighting alongside his Slayer under the star pecked cemetery sky, suddenly erupted with strange intensity into his senses. Side by side, back to back. Waging a righteous battle in amongst the filth. He felt a sneering grin touch his lips: there was nothing like it. Too bad it was only a memory... Adrenaline circled uselessly his veins and a moan of frustration built in his throat. He bounced on his toes and rotated his sword hand, feeling the weight of his weapon. …I should just go on out there -
"Bloody hell, what's all the noise?" Ethan's sleepy, irritated voice. Giles did not turn around. Suddenly a wet gurgling growl sounded in the dark, followed by Buffy's voice: "Come back here! Oh, oh, that was designer you - oh, you are so dead."
"Oh." Ethan said sourly.
There was a flurry of activity somewhere in front of them and then more silence. Giles tensed. Silence. It lingered in the air, poisoning it. The Watcher strained his senses, but there was only the buzz of undisturbed air. It was an ominous crackle in his ears. He swept the torch through the darkness.
"BUFFY!" He took a purposeful stride out. "Buffy, where-"
"Here." She spoke as she stepped free of the gloom. He scanned what he could see and was relieved that it was nothing more than a scratch over one cheekbone and rumpled clothing.
"Are you alright? What happened?"
In answer she heaved with her right arm and the limp body of the Thing landed within reach of the torch light. Giles almost recoiled. In plain view it was more repellent than he had thought possible. Its pale, sun deprived skin, almost corpse like, was pouched and wrinkled over its frame in a manner that, disgustingly, showed its complete lack of elasticity. Like the skin of a putrefied apple, the flesh underneath rotten and soft, it looked thickened and loosely anchored. The stench was vile and Giles covered his mouth and nose with one hand. Edward made a choking sound to his right.
The arrow Anita had fired was still protruding from its chest. Giles inspected the damage with a critical eye. It had been a good shot - had it been a vampire it would have been dust. He looked closer. The broken skin at the point of impact was bloodless and puckered softly around the shaft. Somehow this was more repugnant than a bloody wound and his lips pulled tight, pressed together.
Its face was a grotesque, human, but twisted with a demon taint that was something other than the vampire he had originally supposed. That being said there was a hint of the Undead in its slimy browned fangs, but there was also something vaguely reminiscent of a Grossos demon in the heavy boned forehead and bony occipital supports, and yet there was the definite influence of one of the night dwelling Kang in the enlarged eyes and faint pigment evident across the nasal flaps. Still... He scanned it from its hideous head to its clawed toes and the pale skinny naked torso in between. There was something-
"Gross!" Buffy said, leaning past her Watcher to poke its limp form with the toe of her boot. She had her torch now and the bright white light made stark the horror of the thing at their feet.
"Well, yes-." He responded on automatic pilot, finding his voice rough as he spoke through the thick putrid fumes emanating from the Thing.
"What is it?" Anita almost whispered, horror, not awe, in her tone.
"I don't know." Giles said. "I've never seen anything quite like it."
"E-excuse me." Frost. The boy's voice was whispery as well. "Ah-pardon me, but I think I m-might be able to..." His voice petered out as if the muscles of his mouth had suddenly rebelled.
"Might be able to what? Faint?" Ethan Rayne's voice, at once mocking and coldly biting, pierced the air. Ethan always had been foul tempered after waking.
"Go on Edward-" Anita prompted. "If you know something then-"
"It's a Muttune't." The boy interrupted in a rush of words. "Not much is known about them, but they are believed to be indigenous to the Hellmouths. They live in the upper tunnels, maybe all the way down too but no one knows for sure-" He paused suddenly and Giles caught the white of an eye roll as Frost scanned the group with all the frozen panic of a child who had inadvertently revealed a sworn secret. A hand made an aborted trip to cover his mouth.
"How do you know then?" Giles couldn't suppress the accusation in his tone. "That information is not held within the Council. Where did you learn it?"
"I- I raditsohmwere?"
"I beg your pardon? Speak clearly Frost, this is not prep school!" Giles snapped. "If you have something to say then say it."
"I read it. Sir."
"What else did you read?" Ethan asked.
"Th- the Muttune't are scavengers. They keep the tunnels free of... of detritus." He swallowed. "They don't seem to be overly intelligent, but they are terrific scent hounds and will track food for miles and miles. Tenacious. Very tough too."
"I see." Ethan's voice splintered through the dark. "Marvellous. Anything else we should very much like not to know?"
"Well, they are generally solitary when they are looking for food, but when they find it they usually call for the others - especially when there is more than enough to go around. They have a very distinct call, it sounds rather-"
A scream suddenly erupted from the area around their feet. It pierced the air and sliced at Giles' eardrums until he was forced to clap both hands to his head and reel away. It reverberated thinly inside and sent shrill waves of pain from his bones to his skin, from his guts to his toenails. He staggered. Then it was gone and the relief was as shattering as the wailing had been excruciating.
"-Like that." Frost finished in a shaky voice.
Thud!
Buffy slammed her torch butt into the creature's cranium. The impact made a crater in the baldhead and silenced its cries. Still, she hit it again. The creature's body jerked. She raised the weapon once more and stopped, paused, and then lowered her arm. Odd. Giles looked at her, and then winced as he was forcibly reminded of his new weakness. Helpless, he looked away, instinctively seeking out his lover, but she was still staring at the Muttune't.
"We have to get out of here." Ethan said, climbing stiffly to his feet. "Holding the Hellmouth at bay is one thing, but this... I can't help you deal with this, all its kin, and keep you and Buffy on this side of the divide. I do have limits you know. We have to get out of here and regroup."
"That's what I said when you were napping." Giles snapped. "Let's go-"
"What was that?" Buffy asked suddenly. She cocked her head. "There it is again."
"I can't hear anything?" Giles responded. "Anita?"
"Nothing." She reached out and touched her fingers to Buffy's arm. The Slayer flinched, caught off guard, but then looked back toward the way they had come. "It's not the Hellmouth. Whatever it is she can hear it is not part of the illusion."
"It's like a whisper." The Slayer's voice was hushed as she stared out in to the unrevealing dark. "Something - I can't hear it properly - like voices maybe?" The group stayed silent. "Do these things speak?" She asked Frost.
"N-no." The boy said. "At least, I don't think so. There was nothing in the-"
"Its not voices." The Slayer suddenly looked alarmed and backed up a step, moving to within arms reach of her Watcher. She never stopped staring into the dark. "It's hissing. Giles, its a snake! A huge freakin' SNAKE!"
"What!" Giles barked. His eyes widened in horror. Something moved suddenly, below him. The Hellmouth creature, again! Its eyes were open, and black and muddy in the shadows. It screamed.
"What the hell?" The Slayer yelled over the noise. "How do you kill these things so that they stay dead?"
"Y-you can't." Frost stuttered, voice as terrified as Giles had heard anyone's. "No one ever discovered a method. Tilea -"
The darting quick movement of the Slayer interrupted him. Giles felt the sudden yank of the sword in his hand and he released it to her. Without hesitation she hacked both the creature's arms and legs free and decapitated it. The head continued to scream without pause. Still moving the Slayer inverted the sword stabbed it into the head so hard the clank of sword striking the hard stone ground made everyone jump. The screaming stopped.
"Finally." Buffy raised the sword, head still attached. She made an exasperated sound and shook the sword. The lower jaw flapped obscenely but the head stayed tight to the blade. She frowned at it and wiggled the blade again. The eyes rolled in the head and the loose flesh jiggled. She did it again so that the jaws flapped open and shut, teeth snapping. This time the action was deliberate. Ethan hissed. Giles frowned, whilst beside him Frost made a desperate inarticulate sound and managed to turn aside before losing the remains of his last in-flight meal.
"Buffy." Giles warned, disconcerted.
"Hey, it's stuck!" She protested, not entirely convincingly. "Wait a minute and I'll-"
"Just do-" Giles managed before the head started screaming again. The eyes snapping open with a flick that made them all recoil.
"Bloody hell!" Ethan almost shouted. Beside him Anita's eyes were bugging and sweat made her face shine. She had one hand over Ethan's shoulder, fingers digging in. "Make it stop that!"
"How?" Giles demanded, gaze pinned on that shoulder.
"Smash it. Fucking make it into strawberry jam Ripper. Smash it." The magic user's desperation suddenly leached away and his eyes were hard with challenge. "Like you used to know how to do. Like you still do." Sonavabitch. Giles made to retort but the head fell silent again and in the hugely loud quiet they all heard it. Hissing. Soft and distant, but gaining by the second. Suddenly a loud thud-clang made them all jump.
"Sorry." Buffy looked sheepish and raised the now headless sword blade. Waved it. Pointed at it. Still sheepish.
From the distance the hissing grew louder. Screams, as thin and remote as smoke on the horizon, now floated in its static. Closer and closer.
"Oh we are so fu-" Ethan.
"They're coming." Buffy confirmed, completely unnecessarily. Her voice was brittle, but the sword was now steady in her hand. "We have to get out of here."
"Agreed." Giles played the torch over the room and spotted several tunnels. There was no choice. "We can't go back the way we came, we'll have to try another way."
There was no argument. Anita scooped up the crossbow and moved past Giles' shoulder. Her perfume came to his nose faintly and he inhaled hard. Its honey smoothness filled his soul, replacing the foul stench of the creature, and he stepped up beside her as she inspected their options just to keep within its warm embrace. Its presence dulled the ache that her lovely golden aura was now denied him.
"So, which way?" She asked.
"Who knows-" Giles replied, then looked suspiciously at Frost who stared back, sweaty and pale. "Well, maybe one of us does-"
"O-oh, no sir." Frost shook his head. "I swear, I don't. There was noth-"
"Oh come on!" Ethan pushed between Giles and Frost as he barged ahead. "What the hell does it matter? If we don't move, by morning we'll be mutty-mut shit."
"Muttune't." Frost corrected mindlessly, and flinched.
"What-the-hell-ever. I'm going-" And, snatching Giles' torch, he did. At a dead run.