A Sickness Past Your Cure
a BtVS/Smallville crossover
"I hear
my ill-spirit throb in each blood cell
as if my hand were at its throat..."
-Robert Lowell, 'Skunk Hour'
Spike:
I'm bloody well cursed. I have to be. It's the only explanation for the truly spectacular run of bad luck I've been having since I first set foot in Sunnyhell, a pattern of catastrophe that has cost me Drusilla, the Gem of Amara, and now my sodding car, which is currently making its last gasps on a back road in the middle of flaming Kansas.
I stole this damn car nearly forty years ago, and have never had any trouble with it - well, aside from the time I ran over that Koras demon. Part of his arm got caught under the front bumper, and I didn't notice it right away. After a week, the car smelled so bad I thought I'd accidentally left a body in the trunk. It took me another week to find that sodding arm, and Dru refused to ride in the car for nearly a month after, which kept us grounded in Philadelphia - the most boring city in the world, if you happen to be undead. Still, even that hadn't caused any mechanical problems. Now, the engine is smoking, the engine won't turn over, and the whole thing smells worse than the arm ever did. The only thing that keeps this from being a total disaster - and potentially, me from going up like so much vampiric tinderwood - is that I'm on the outskirts of a town, and the sun's been down for nearly two hours.
It's not a big town - I passed a sign a hundred yards back that welcomed me to Smallville, for fuck's sake - but there's bound to be at least one decent set of wheels that I can pinch. I may be hard up at the moment, but I do have standards, and I won't be seen dead or dusted in anything with the words 'farm use' written on it. Or any kind of pickup truck. Aiming a kick at the corpse of the deSoto, I pick up my nearly empty bottle of whiskey and make my way into downtown Smallville, lighting my last cigarette as I go.
There are still a lot of people around. Sunnyhell tends to be nearly deserted at this hour, and this town is smaller and a lot less urban, but then, a normal human walking about on the Hellmouth after dark is living proof that Darwin was right. It's almost a duty to remove idiots like that from the gene pool, although I doubt the Slayer would agree with me, the self-righteous bitch.
In any case, there's no fear in the air here, not like there is in Sunnydale, just a faint hint of tension running through the general population that prickles at the edges of my awareness. Corn prices are probably down or something. I have got to get out of here. Looking about, I notice a place halfway up the street called the Talon, which might be a bar. After today, the quarter-bottle of whiskey in my pocket isn't going to cut it.
I'm headed towards the door when I see the car. It's a Ferrari, jet black and shiny new, with a leather interior to match, and it stands out from the dusty pickup trucks and family sedans like I would in a church. It's worth two hundred grand easy, and it doesn't belong in Kansas any more than I do. I've never really been into cars. If it looks all right and I can drive it during the day without catching fire, it's good enough for me. But I swear, the death of the deSoto must have been fate, because this car and I were made for each other.
"I'll be back," I assure it, with a pat to its gleaming hood, and go into the Talon.
It's a coffee shop. It's a sodding coffee shop, chock full of corn-fed Midwestern types all trying not to stare too blatantly at me. I'm looking around, considering the mechanics of slaughtering every last one of the ox-like wankers, when I spot the owner of my Ferrari and get distracted. He stands out as much as his car and I do, and not just because he's in his early twenties and completely bald. It's the way he carries himself, with an unconscious, overwhelming arrogance that reminds me of the aristocrats of my mortal years. He's obviously a man accustomed to wealth and privilege - his shirt probably cost as much as anyone else in the room makes in a week, and he's sitting alone at a table for four while some of the customers are standing. He looks up briefly from the laptop in front of him, cool blue eyes meeting my own with an expression of mild speculation. I smirk, raise an eyebrow, and take advantage of one of the local yokels' walking between us to slip out the door and away. It's a trick I learned from Angelus, although I rarely do it - it's too much like that showy gypsy nonsense that wanker Dracula was always playing at. Still, it amuses me sometimes.
But never for very long. I still need to find a liquor store, and I need to find someone to eat, as I'm starting to get hungry. I walk casually down the street, scanning faces as I pass.
Out past the edges of the crowd now, into lone straggler territory, and a flash of blonde hair catches my eye. I look over to see dinner smiling at me as she walks by. I smile back.
"Excuse me." She stops close enough to me that I can hear her heart beating, and she is still smiling.
"Yes?"
"Can you tell me where the liquor store is? I'm new in town, and..." I spread my hands mock-helplessly. That's right, pet. Ignore the hair and the duster and the boots, and the general impression of danger, Will Robinson that's just got to be flashing in your head right now. I'm cute, I'm fluffy, I'm harmless...
Her smile turns slightly artificial, looks as fake as the tiny curved expressions on Drusilla's bloody dolls, and she rattles off directions quickly. I smile at her as she finishes, but this is a different smile, the one I reserve for this moment, the one that says 'I'm going to eat you.' Humans rarely understand it at first, being unused to being prey, but they always recognise the danger in the expression. The first flash of fear widens her eyes, and I'm on her in less than a heartbeat, one hand over her mouth to muffle the screams I can feel welling in her throat. Much as I enjoy the sound, it attracts too much attention. Pulling her close, I slip into gameface, enjoying the deepening terror in her eyes, for a long second before sinking my fangs into her throat.
She struggles at first, trying desperately to get away, but soon enough I can feel her heart slowing as her body goes limp in my arms. She tastes good, sweet, and the mortal fear overwhelming it all just makes it that much better. Her heartbeat falters, then stops completely, and I drop the body to the sidewalk. I'm about to walk away when I reconsider and turn back, picking up the corpse and carrying it into the shadows between the nearest buildings. I'm not in Sunnyhell any more, and stray corpses probably aren't too common around here. There's no need to upset the locals - it might make moving around town a little difficult. Wiping the blood off of my mouth, I head off to find the liquor store that I now have directions for.
It turn out to be fairly close by - not much of a surprise in a town this small, of course. The clerk is the only one in the store, and he watches me suspiciously as I pick up three bottles of vodka and four of bourbon, then take them up to the counter.
"Do you have your I.D.?" the clerk asks.
"What?" I ask disbelievingly. Sunnyhell clerks never ask for identification. It's a self-preservation technique. Violating the liquor laws is a minor consideration when the fourteen year old you're carding might tear your heart out and eat it in front of you.
" I.D. Identification. You know, something with your age and picture on it?"
He's getting on my nerves in a big way, so I reach across the counter and grab him by his collar, twisting it as I pull him across the counter. He tries to say something, but manages only the familiar rasping croak of the half-strangled. I smile cheerfully at him, then break his neck with my free hand. He reminds me a bit of Xander Harris, and I've got better taste than to eat anyone who does that. Hopping over the counter, I help myself to the till, then put my liquor in a paper bag and waltz out the door just as a police car goes tearing by, lights and sirens screaming through the small-town quiet. In the none-too-distant distance, I can hear an ambulance. Guess someone's found my dinner.
The next stop on my route is the hardware store, as the Ferrari won't do me much good without black paint on the windows. The tint might be enough, but the risk isn't worth the experiment. Seeing as it's nearly ten o'clock, the store is most likely closed - not something that concerns me. A spot of breaking and entering - with the emphasis on 'breaking' - will round out my night nicely.
I'm beginning to feel like my old self again. The truly humiliating incident with the Gem of Amara is beginning to fade. And besides, there were some truly sweet moments in that whole affair. Having the undead shit tortured out of Angelus, for instance, will always be enshrined in a special place in my memory. It would have been more satisfying to have done it personally, but I know myself. I'd have gotten pissed off and killed the ponce after an hour or so, and then I wouldn't have gotten my ring - not that I did anyway. I never did have the patience for torture. Killing, however, is a different matter entirely. I've already begun to loathe this quiet little town, and if Dru were with me, we would leave it burning and bleeding and broken in our wake. As she's not, I'll have to manage as best I can by myself.
Author's Notes: I know the timelines don't match; I just couldn't help myself. Besides, Spike wanted to meet Lex.