Chapter 11

The man driving the car was named Caldwell and, even though he had been working with Nestor and Spike for the last seven days, Spike didn't think that the man had said more than three words at once over that time. Part of that was undoubtedly because Nestor spoke more than any four vampires (male or female) that Spike had ever known, but the blonde-haired vampire knew that it was a lot more than Nestor's loquacity that was keeping Caldwell's trap shut. This was the result of loyalty and fear. It was the kind of thing that usually would only come after months of service or days of cruel action. Spike had a good idea about which it was.

"I like the fact that so many of your people know how to keep their mouths closed." Spike said casually to Nestor as they drove uptown.

"Yeah," drawled Nestor, "but it ain't a lot of fun. Shee-it, 'til you showed I didn't think I'd ever be able to have a decent conversation with anyone."

Mores the pity, thought Spike. "So he makes everybody keep quiet so none of his plans get out, right?"

"Nope. Most of the time he doesn't tell us the plan at all until there's only a few hours to go." Nestor tapped the back of Caldwell's chair. "Caldy here only got his instructions 'bout two hours ago and then he comes to get us. Ain't that right?"

Caldwell gave an almost invisible sign of acknowledging that he had heard. Even that, Spike had come to realize, was a big gesture for him.

"And you don't mind the fact that he keeps you in the dark?"

The southern-fried vamp shrugged. "Hell, it's been working so far. Besides, we're supposed to stay in the dark, right?"

Nestor gave a high-pitched cackle and elbowed Spike in the ribs. Even though the poke was hard enough to bruise, Spike gave a sick smile and laughed at a joke so lame the people at Hee-Haw wouldn't have used it.

"Actually," Nestor suddenly turned serious, "most of us got a lesson when somebody spread some information without his permission. "

"Who?"

Nestor shrugged. "Never knew his name. Isn't like I can ask him."

"The Prince killed him."

Nestor shook his head. "Prince found out somehow. He gathered a bunch of us together and told us this is what happens to idle tongues."

"What'd did he do to the guy?"

"Ripped his tongue out of his mouth. "

Spike wasn't sure to whether to sound repelled or amused. He settled for a mixture of the two. "That'll get your point across."

"I'll say," said Nestor. "There hasn't been a leak since."

"So you honestly have no idea what the Prince wants us to do."

Nestor shook his head again. "Don't matter much. He didn't call this kind of meeting just to give a lecture. Whatever he's gonna tell us, it's important."

This was new. "So you mean I'm actually going to meet the Prince tonight?" Spike casually asked.

"Don't know why you're so surprised. You've been doing your job the past couple weeks and you've come through with all your promises. Plus with me vouching for ya, I'd say you've rolled your bones."

"Made my bones," Spike gently corrected.

Nestor shrugged. "Made, rolled, whatever. Point is, you've been a good boy, and it's time you got your present."

He slapped Spike on the back. Though Spike was really getting pissed at Nestor's touchy-feely act, he knew better than to show irritability; not after he was coming close to his goal.

The night after Spike met Nestor, the redneck vampire had taken him to the docks of Gotham city where they had gone to a small, badly-lit roadhouse called The Blue Devil. Seconds after he got there, Spike realized that this bar was chock full of vampires.

"Not to be a nancy-boy, but why aren't there any real people here?"

Nestor had looked at Spike as if he was the idiot. "This place is under our control. Might say we've had a stake in it for some time. " He turned to the bar. "Ain't that right, boys?"

The bar erupted into a low laughter. Spike didn't join in the frivolity, partly because it was a piss-poor joke but mostly because he was reeling from the implications of this. In all the years that he had been a vampire on either side of the fence, he had never known a single vampire controlled public establishment. Vamps had controlled buildings before (he had used two for his headquarters on his first stint in Sunnydale) but they had always been either abandoned or in a part of town away from normal people.

"So who used to own this dump?"

Nestor thought for a few seconds. "Used to be run by one of Maroni's boys. I think it was Joey Rubino."

"When did the Prince take him out?"

Again Nestor had fixed Spike with a shifty look. "Like I told you before the Prince doesn't bother with the small-time shit. He gives an order, someone carries it out--- easy-peasy, it's done."

This had concerned Spike. For one thing, he knew that it took a pretty nasty and menacing vamp to inspire this kind of loyalty. For another, he knew that kind of fealty only occurred after a long time of working. This Prince, whoever he was, had been at this a lot longer than he had thought.

He managed to hide his apprehension. "So I guess I'm not gonna meet the Prince tonight."

"Course not!" one of the vampires at the bar had said. "No one meets the big boss on the first day."

Spike fixed the vampire with a narrowed eye. The vamp who had spoken was big--- six-seven, six-eight easy--- and really bulky. He had bright red hair and ice-cold blue-eyes.

"Hey Thor." Nestor draped his arm around Spike's shoulder. "This here son-bitch is William the Bloody, better known as Spike."

Thor--- if that was his name--- looked Spike up and down. "Heard a lot of things about you Spike," he had said casually. "Heard you iced a couple of Slayers back in the day."

Despite Thor's tone, Spike knew that he was on thin ice with this guy. "That's right."

"Also heard you got neutered twice." Thor spoke evenly. "First by the government and then by a Slayer."

Nestor turned back to Spike so quickly that it might have been comical under other circumstances.

Now was his first big hurdle. Trying to simultaneously sound angry and amused, he looked Thor dead in the face: "Chip's out of my head; Slayer's out of my life," he snapped at Thor. "I'm ready for action."

"How do we know for sure that you're on the low road?" Thor asked quietly.

"I've been a busy boy the last week or so," Spike calmly countered. "Your boys must have noticed it."

"You've got to be kidding. Those penny ante, lame ass stunts that you've been pulling are barely one step above a drunken frat boy."

"Oh, now I get it," Spike replied. "It's not enough that you have to commit criminal acts, they have to be violent criminal acts."

"See these vamps?" Thor gestured around the bar. "They've all killed a lot of people. The past week alone I'm killed thirteen of them." A smile appeared on his face. It was the smile of a boy going off to war. "Some of them were business; some of them were purely for pleasure, but I slaughtered them just the same."

"You killed thirteen people this week? Shit, I once killed eighteen people in a day." Spike had shaken his head. "Being a killer isn't about the number of notches on your belt. It's about being fearsome and cunning. It's about killing the right people at the right time." He lowered his voice. "It's one of the reasons I'm so impressed by your boss. There's a guy who knows how to pick his time and place."

"Like I said, you don't see the Big Guy before he wants to see you."

"Like I said, give me a chance to prove myself."

"And how do you intend to do that?" asked Thor dryly.

Before anyone could react Spike grabbed Nestor by the lapels and placed him a headlock. "Want to see me tear his head off?" he had asked coolly.

Thor considered this. "Wouldn't prove anything if you did," he said just as calmly. "Any shitbird can kill one of his own."

Spike dropped Nestor to the ground. "What'll it take then?"

A serious, pensive look appeared on Thor's face. "You want in?" He made a come hither gesture. "Here's what it'll take."

The next week had been among the most strenuous for Spike in a long time. It became clear very quickly that he was being initiated in the life of a low-level criminal. He was getting a lot of the jobs that flunkies in human and undead mobs do when they're starting out---- coffee runs, shaking people down for protection money, the robbery of several small establishments, etc. He was kept so busy, in fact that he had only been able to make contact with Andrew a couple of times, both by email. He was getting the ins and outs of this, but he couldn't help think that all of this was groundwork for a larger plan.

Then, just before nightfall, Thor had sent a car around to pick up him and Nestor. Even though he hadn't been able to get any information out of Caldwell and Nestor was pleading ignorance, he thought he had an idea what was coming next.

He was about to go to the next level.

"Do you know who else is coming to this meeting?" he asked Nestor.

Nestor thought for a second. "Well, he wants to hear from some of the major players we now have in the crime families. Also he'll want to hear how other things are going with the desperados that have been released on the city."

The day he had begun his undercover work, Spike had learned that the Prince had arranged the equivalent of a prison break at Arkham. Seven high risk felons had managed to escape. Though he hadn't heard any verified information, Spike figured that this had been done to accelerate the spread of chaos and to keep the police and superhero element of Gotham City distracted.

But the Prince had taken this one level further. Somehow--- Spike had no idea how--- the big boss had insisted that certain members of his gang--- monitor some of the escapees activities. This was easy for some of them--- Two-Face and The Penguin were not exactly known for being particularly subtle, but for others who had a certain degree of cunning --- such as Azasz and the Riddler--- it was far trickier. Somehow, the Prince was providing them with data that was proving to be correct. Spike himself had been given information that had led him to the hideout of the Ventriloquist and Scarface mere minutes after the schizophrenic and his demented doll had left before it.

"You really don't know how the fuck is your boss getting all his inside intel."

Nestor shook his head. "Wish I did," he said, "but the guy plays a lot close to the vest."

"And you don't know anybody who knows anything?"

"Best anybody can figure is that he's got a couple of seers working for him." Nestor respobnded thoughtfully. "Who they are and where he got them is beyond me."

So are a lot of things, thought Spike. "Come on. He's got to have some kind of inner circle. Even the Godfather has consigliore."

"There's a chain of command," admitted Nestor. "but it's very restricted. Way I hear it, he's got three or four major advisors. They give the orders to six or seven mid-level guys who give the orders to seven or eight guys further down. Thor, he's one of those guys."

Though his face gave nothing away, this disturbed Spike a good deal. Thor may have been muscle-for-hire but he was smart muscle-for-hire. If he was that low on the totem pole, how tough did that make the men who were directly above him? How tough that did make---

Nestor snapped him out of his reverie. "We're here."

Spike snapped to attention and got out of the car.

Compared to the overall grunginess and filthiness of where Spike had been working out of for the past week, almost anything would have been a step up. The exterior of the building they arrived at was an improvement but only a marginal one. It was one of those housing complexes that the government sometimes builds for its poorer citizens. Gotham City's version of this was perhaps slightly better than those in Chicago or Baltimore but that improvement could only be noted in things like how much of the building was not covered by obscene graffiti or how many of the windows were not broken. About the only real improvement Spike noticed was that the smell of the slum--- that bouquet of urine and rotting garbage that was consistent everywhere from London to Harlem--- was far less potent then it should have been. To someone who had an enhanced sense of smell like Spike, this was no small thing but he doubted the other residents would be grateful. "Who lives here?" he asked.

"Vamp named Robson." Nestor replied as he gingerly stepped around the car in order to avoid the garbage.

"Someone that high up works out of this shithole?" Spike asked doubtfully.

Nestor noticed Spike's look of revulsion. "I know it doesn't seem like great shakes," he said as he walked to the front of the building, "but he has managed to fix the place up a bit."

"How? Did he give the rubbish a good scrubbing?"

By now Nestor had made it to the front door of the place. He rapped on it three times.

"Who is it?" asked a raspy voice on the other side.

"It's me and Spike."

There was a pause. "You're vouching for him?"

Nestor grimaced. "He's paid his dues."

There was another, longer pause. "Not all the way," The voice finally muttered.

"He will tonight."

Spike was getting frustrated with all the bullshit. He didn't like having an idiot like Nestor speaking for him, but he had a hunch that his hold here was still very tenuous. He couldn't afford to piss anyone off so he held his tongue.

There was another long pause. Finally the door swung open. "Come in. Quick."

"Thank you." said Nestor sarcastically as he and Spike entered the building.

"I'm sorry Nestor but protocol is protocol."

"We aren't in the goddamn Marines, Colby." Nestor had now turned to the source of the raspy voice. "And you and I are of the same rank."

Colby stood firm. "I have my orders the same as everyone else."

Spike only peripherally noticed the squabble because he was more than a little astonished at the layout of the place.

For one thing, it was clean. Not eat-off-the floor clean and Spike was pretty sure that he could hear insects scampering about, but the dirt, the grime, and he smell that had been so prevalent in the building that it was hard to believe it was the interior of the building that he had just seen.

For another thing, it didn't look like the interior of a slum. There were all kinds of technology--- a security camera monitor, several computers, an icebox--- that most certainly did not come with the house they were in.

As Spike got a better look at the place, he also saw that there were at least a dozen vamps in the place. They, too, looked out of place. While four or five of them (including the guy at the door) were in street clothes, three of them were in sharp looking suits—tailor- made at that. Two were wearing hats that could only be described as fedoras. All they needed were violin-cases and they could be extras in a '30's gangster film. However that would have been a misnomer--- Spike was pretty sure that these were '30's gangsters.

Nestor noticed his look of incredulity. "Takes a bit of getting used to, doesn't it?" he said as he walked over to Spike.

By now Spike had recovered his equilibrium. "I've seen better," he mentioned casually. "I once spent a couple of weeks in a government facility that was hidden under a bunch of shrubbery, lot more impressive." He gave the place another glance. "Smelled fresher, too."

"When you have limited material you make do with the scraps that you're given." The voice that spoke was cold and hard. It was also the sound of someone with authority.

Spike turned around. At the far side of the room was a large Chippendale writing desk. A vampire with silver hair and cold brown eyes was standing up. He was wearing a black pinstripe suit with what looked like a silk handkerchief in the front pocket. His nails seemed well manicured. The man was so well-groomed Spike almost thought he was a poof, but one look at his eyes gave lie to the idea that there was anything fey or soft about him.

The silver-haired vampire got to his feet and fixed Spike with a glare.

Spike, who was pretty good with fierce looks, matched it. The general noise in the room turned quiet as the two vampires stared at each other. "Let me take a wild guess," said Spike slowly. "You're Robson."

The silver-haired vamp began walking towards Spike but did not lower his gaze. "Right the first time."

"And if I understand the pecking order 'round here, you work for somebody who works for somebody who works for the big boss."

Robson didn't lower his gaze but he became a little fidgety. "I wouldn't put it that way---"

"So I came all the way from California, put in all this time and energy to work here, and now I'm meeting someone who's basically middle management." Spike snorted. "Waste of my bloody time---"

Before Spike even knew what was happening, there were hands on his duster. He began to struggle but before he could even react, he found himself being thrown into one of the walls. He managed to get to his feet but by the time he was standing up, there was a vamp on either side of him.

"If you know what's good for you, stay down." Robson's voice had gotten colder, if such a thing was possible.

A dull red field was beginning to appear around Spike's eyes. "This is how you play ball? This is bloody bush-league."

Suddenly he was grabbed by the lapels and Robson was right in his face. "The rules are set with the ones with power. Let me clue you into a couple of them. First and foremost, you meet the boss if and when we tell you. Until then, you will take orders from who the big man in charge is. Right now that's me."

"So if I---" Before Spike could finished, Robson kneed him in the nads.

"Not finished talking!" said Robson. "Second of all, in order to move up the ladder, you have to earn it."

Now Spike was getting really angry. "How many fucking people do you have to kill the get a goddamn seat at the table?" he said furiously. "I spent the last bloody century wreaking mayhem and destruction everywhere I went."

"That was then; this is now." Robson pulled him in again. "You may have been a horrible murderer back in the day, but wearing the coat of some Slayer bitch you killed in the seventies is not going to cut it anymore. GOT IT?"

Under any other circumstances, soul or no soul, Spike would have torn this bloke a new asshole by now, but right now, he needed a way in and this was it. He was not, however, going to take this attitude lying down.

"All right," he whispered in a tone so low that only a vampire would have been able to hear it. "Now let go of me." There was a long pause and trying to sound shamed, he said, "Please."

Robson released Spike's coat and began to slowly turn away. The second before he did, Spike grabbed the vamp on his left side, picked him up and threw him at Robson. The two vampires collided and both fell to the ground. The vampire on his right side charged but Spike kicked him in the stomach, knocking him into one of the suited vampires that had come over to back him up.

Spike knew that he didn't have a lot of time so he bolted over towards Robson who was still picking himself up and grabbed him by the lapels. He whirled around, keeping a firm grip on Robson, and turned to face the five vamps that were now running towards him.

"Everybody stay back or I rip your boss' head off!!" The vamps stopped running. Spike was more than a little surprised--- he hadn't really expected it to work.

"Dusting me isn't going to get in to see the boss any faster." Robson sounded remarkably calm considering his position.

"This isn't so I can see Mr. Big," Spike spoke with more than a trace of his old self in his tone. "Nobody--- I don't care who the fuck they're working for--- treats me like I'm just somebody who was sired a week ago. I am William-the goddamned Bloody. I have been a killer for over a century, I survived being tortured by the military and I went ten rounds with the First evil and am still here to talk about it. If that weren't enough, I've just gone through your hazing bullshit. You talk to me with respect, goddamn it, 'cause I've bloody well earned it. Are we clear now, asshole?!"

There was a very long pause as this sunk in with everyone. Finally Robson spoke. "Everybody back away." he said very calmly. When there was some hesitation, he continued: "Do it." The other vampires walked back to where they had been very slowly. Robson looked up at Spike. "I've heard a lot of stories about you."

"Yeah." Spike slowly muttered.

"One of them was that the Army brainwashed you so that you would spare humans and kill us."

Spike realized the spot that he was in again. He let go of Robson. "They tried."

Robson made no movement to retaliate. "Last few years we've heard you were fighting for the good guys." he whispered coolly. "Was that a lie?"

Spike gave a very harsh laugh. "Who do you think I am; that pufta Angel? Saving the world's his bloody racket, not mine."

Robson walked a few feet away from Spike. "So you're still on our side?"

"Wouldn't be here if I wasn't." Spike had always been a master of the bald-faced lie.

"Well, there's a job that needs be done--- something that's been a very big problem for us awhile." Slowly the other vamps began to nod at this. "Do this and you'll get in real good with the boss."

"This better not be anymore of that scut work shit."

"No, no, this is right up your alley." Robson slowly walked towards the window. "You see, this city has a huge homeless population. We've been using them for some manpower and, of course, food."

"You must be really desperate to be eating them," said Spike. "I mean, their blood is filled with all kinds of diseases and chemicals . Bloke could get sick on a regular diet of them."

Robson gave a smile. "We think of them as are own McDonald's. They're so easy to find and devour that we're willing to take whatever they've got in the secret sauce." His smile disappeared. "Our only problem is this costumed freak who, for some ungodly reason, has decided that protecting the tired and poor masses is his mission in life."

"The Batman takes time to fight for the homeless?" Spike said doubtfully.

Robson shook his head. "Same colors; different freak, calls himself Nightwing."

Spike rolled his eyes. "So it has come to this. Even the destitute have their own man in tights protecting them?"

"Not only that but he's a real pest. We've sent a dozen vamps to kill the son of a bitch, and he's managed to dust all of them." Robson put his hand on the window ledge. "Starting to really drain our manpower."

"So you want me to kill this arse?"

"No, no, no." Now Robson gave a small smile. "It would be an awful waste to lose such a formidable fighter. Our boss has a better idea."

Spike suddenly realized what they had in mind. "Your boss wants to turn this Nightwing bloke?"

"That is exactly what he wants." Robson's grin had become positively shark-like. "Think you're up to the task?"

And even though this was going to cause him no end of trouble, Spike gave what he hoped was an equally vicious smile in return.

"Just tell me when and where."