Chapter 22

Chapter 22

At its most basic level, Spike understood how dire the situation in Gotham was, and knew that it had reached the point where drastic measures were called for. As someone who wasn't breathing, however, he found it somewhat underhanded and cruel for the forces of good to use what was tantamount to germ warfare.

And, on a purely selfish level, he was appalled that Batman and Faith were asking him to go out on the street after the equivalent of vampiric 'Agent Orange' had been dumped on the streets of Gotham City.

His argument had been futile. For the first time since Batman and Faith had been working in concert, or so it seemed, they had stood as a united front.

"We need someone to take out Nicholae's street-level leaders," Faith had pointed out "…and you are the only one in Gotham who has a clear idea who they are and where they hang out. "

Spike looked at Faith, an eyebrow raised in mock surprise at what she was proposing. "And you and the Big Black Bat can't do this because…" Spike trailed off, waiting for her to complete the thought.

"Uh… we're going to be a little busy taking the fight to Kotaski and Nicholae," Faith had said. "We think there's a chance they'll put up a little bit of a fight."

For the briefest of instants, Spike had considered asking for a trade. Then reality had set in. "Why can't either of the batmen junior take…"

"Shhh!" Faith had cut him off. She had dropped her voice, whispering her response at him. "Don't you know how much Dick hates being called another Batman?" After realizing that Spike had chosen the phrase for exactly that reason, she had continued speaking, ignoring him. "They can't do it because they're going to be busy mopping up whatever vampire leftovers are still on the street."

Spike was silent. He knew when he was in check.

"Look Spike, we've come a long way, and I'm not going to say that even if we win we'll be able to claim Gotham as a victory. But we may have just a chance," Faith looked at him with a penetrating honesty that Spike didn't normally associate with the Slayer. "If we don't hit hard and hit now, Gotham may be lost…" The implication behind her statement was clear. "And I don't want to know what happens next."

Soul or not, Spike was a little curious as to what would happen afterward. Even from the extreme outside it was clear that Nicholae had built a hell of an organization and that the roots were long and deep. You couldn't be a vampire and not admire the craftsmanship of what the Prince had set up. Gotham City was not an island, though, and there could be long-term ramifications beyond any of the Prince's plans. Spike chose to sigh. "The health insurance and hazard pay for this gig really suck."

Faith gave a small smile. "Yeah, they do. The hours are lousy, and no one notices what a good job you do, either."

And with that exchange Spike went once more out into the breach. He did not, however, go out without putting on his leather duster and some skintight gloves he had gotten from Barbara. When asked if he wanted a mask, he had said (well within the range of Tim and Dick's ears) "Traipse about in a bloody costume? What kind of pouf do you think I am?"

He then left via elevator, not even bothering to savor the expression he knew was on their faces. Now, however, he was beginning to wish he had stayed to see their reactions; Lord knew when he'd get another chance to revel in his own malice.

Spike walked cautiously along the street. He wasn't sure where the hell all the newsmen were filming from, but he didn't think it would help his plans for a sneak attack if one of Nicholae's captains saw him on Fox News. G ranted, there was also a chance he could have seen one of them on the telly as well, but right now, being covert ruled the night.

Eventually, he arrived in one of the major centers of traffic between Nicholae's men. It was closer to the middle-class section of Gotham than he had expected a base of covert operations to be. It was a long way from operating out of a semi-slum in the poorest section of town, and Spike wondered how they had managed to get away with doing it. Had they killed and turned a high-level real-estate shark? Or had they merely bribed one? He wasn't sure.

Well, maybe he'd ask one of Nicky's boys when he knocked on their door. Assuming, of course, any of them were still around. Spike was laying odds the place was empty. When faced with a well-planned strategy suddenly gone to hell, most mid-level flunkies-- human or otherwise-- would jump at the opportunity to get the fuck out of Dodge. Granted, his Excellency inspired more loyalty than say, Al Capone, but lackeys were lackeys, whoever it was holding their leash.

Furthermore, while most of Nicholae's men were stronger and smarter than the average, they would be as vulnerable to the poison as any other vampire. Spike had passed at least a score of fallen followers as he ran through the streets. You couldn't miss them now; they were blue-faced and flat on their backs. Spike had killed only half-- it wasn't fun when your prey couldn't put up a fight… and, besides that, he figured he'd leave some of the work for the Batman.

He hadn't passed any familiar faces on his way to mid-town, either high rank or foot soldier. That kind of cheesed him off, as he'd been hoping to kill two birds with one stone. But, in a sense, it just proved one of his rules of living-- high-level people never deign to soil their hands when 'things' are going to hell in a handbasket.

Of course, there was also the possibility that Nicholae had heard about what was going on, blamed the situation on some of his followers, and then slaughtered them. Unfortunately, Spike didn't think his luck would be that good, tonight… but he would find out shortly.

He opted to enter using the window. He had been invited into this building before, and he could just as easily have broken the door down. Tonight, though, he was being as subtle and invisible as possible until he had to break routine.

He gently pried the window open, looked to his left, then to his right, and then gingerly entered the room…

…Where a hulking vampire he had come to know as Brick was waiting.

"Guess being subtle's out for the evening." he muttered before he threw his first punch. Brick intercepted it before it got anywhere.

"Oh grea-- " Brick didn't give him the opportunity to finish the sentence, grabbing Spike by the forearm and flinging him in to the wall next to them. Spike got back to his feet as quickly as he could. He frowned, shaking his head to clear it. "I'm definitely getting to old for this shit."

He picked up what looked like the heaviest wooden chair he could see and nailed Brick in the back of the head. The strike sent Brick to his knees, Spike following him forward with a kick. It took Brick in the gut, knocking him backward off of his feet, and left him off-balance for long enough for Spike to snap off a chair leg and drive it in to his chest.

Poof! Brick was gone with the wind.

"Good help is so hard to find these days."

Spike turned to his left and snapped to attention in a hurry. He knew that voice; it belonged to Ivor, chief lieutenant of the Latinos. The man had a hell of a beer gut and wore a lot of gold chains, but his bad taste belied the fact that he was a very deadly customer. On either side of him were two very muscular looking flunkies he had smiled and nodded at over the past few days and several others Spike had never seen before. He didn't know whether they were lieutenants or foot soldiers, but they looked very formidable.

"Nevertheless…" Ivor said calmly, "Brick did his job well. He laid down his life for the cause."

Spike's eyebrows went up about as high as he thought that they could. "What is with you old style blokes and your penchant for crusades?" he said mock-seriously. "Guy forms a gang, they have a few meetings; all of a sudden you're all ready to start passing out the Kool-Aid and do a Jim Jones?"

"We're not suicidal, Spike," said Ivor huffily.

"Really. In case you haven't noticed, some of your boys are out there turning into Smurfs, writhing in pain, and collapsing on the street to get staked and scooped up. And what are your boys here doing? Running out on to the street to join the bloody parade."

"We're not all on the death march," said a vampire in a torn T-shirt. "In case you hadn't noticed there are a lot of us here." He walked up to Spike. "Enough to dust your sorry ass."

And without any further warning, three thugs leaped at him.

Not again, Spike thought as he prepared to do battle.

In a matter of seconds the situation had turned ugly. Once again, there was a man on either side of him, with another in his face. The only problem was that this time, he didn't have the benefit of either a companion or an electromagnetic pulse. Furthermore, he was an enclosed building, not in the fresh air. Not exactly ideal conditions for victory, he thought.

With no better plan of attack in mind, he leapt at the thug on his right. Unfortunately, the second he moved, the hoodlum pulled a fragment of a lead pipe and socked him in the jaw.

For a few seconds, Spike saw stars. Before they had gone away, the second thug had kicked him in the back, knocking him down. Had Spike's reflexes not been as fast as they were, they would have dusted him right then and there. As it was, he was lucky that he managed to tuck his hand in under him, roll in a ball and jump back to his feet.

"Dirty pool, old man," Spike said as he tried not to make it obvious he was seeing four thugs instead of two. "I like it."

The first opponent--along with his identical twin-- ran at Spike. In a second, Spike guessed and bolted at the one who was starting to spin. He slammed in to the thug with a flying tackle, knocking the man backward in to the window Spike had just come in through himself earlier.

That might have been more effective at stopping Thug Number One if the fight hadn't been taking place on the ground floor. Spike had managed to buy himself a few seconds, at most.

Or at least that was what he thought until the thug began gagging and turning blue in the face.

Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Spike jerked a piece of the window frame open and leapt outside. He managed a vicious grin as he looked back at the thug. "Let me give you something to help with that cough, mate." The frame rammed into the thug's heart less than a moment later.

Spike's tendency towards action before thought had gotten him into trouble a lot of times. Unfortunately, it wasn't until the thug dissolved into dust that Spike realized how blindingly stupid he had been. In his rush to use the toxin to deal with the thug, he had jumped outside. The toxin was in the air outside, and it meant he'd put his own neck on the scaffold.

I think I've just fucked myself, Spike thought. Then he remembered something. The toxin was not fatal in itself – there were very few poisons that were lethal to someone like him, and Andrew had assured him that this was not among them. It would hurt like a sonofabitch if it touched his skin, but it couldn't kill him… and he was in protective gear, so it couldn't touch him….

Hastily Spike pulled up the bandana that he had carried along to protect his face. It wasn't total protection, but it was about as good as it would get, for now.

When Spike turned around, he realized none of Nicholae's troops had jumped after him. On the heels of that insight came the codicil that at the moment, Nicholae's gang was more afraid of the toxin then it was of Nicholae.

After that realization, Spike began to piece together a plan that might enable him to beard the lions in their lair. Problem was, it would be messy, and it would cheese off the Bat something awful… He smirked. Another reason to do it. He took off, heading toward the dumpster he had seen behind the building.

Five minutes later, he was ready for action. He had found a bunch of oily rags in the dumpster along with a small glass bottle. It wasn't exactly a Molotov cocktail, but in this case, it would be more than sufficient. He glanced at it for a moment. Unless, of course, I've underestimated how flammable those rags are and it is explodes on me when I light it.

Spike sighed. Blokes like him weren't supposed to play with fire for exactly that reason. There was way too much of a chance for self-immolation. But Spike had no choice; this was his plan, and he had to carry forward. He couldn't be sure how long their fear of the gas would outweigh their fear of Nicholae. Eventually, they were going to attack him, and he knew it.

So, after swallowing whatever nervousness he felt (and there was quite a lot) he took out his lighter. Holding the bottle as far away from his face as he could, he lit the edge of one of the rags and threw the makeshift firebomb through the window.

The result came almost immediately. It didn't matter whether you were alive or dead; the instinct to run from fire was as closed to inbred as any other primitive impulse. Nicholae's men came racing out the window and door as the firebomb began eating the furniture.

Once they were outside, a lieutenant Spike recognized as Calvin began to direct some of the other gangsters to start looking for him. "I want that motherfucker's head on a plate!" he spat. "Now!" Apparently Calvin was so infuriated at what was happening that he'd left all logic and sense back in the house.

He would not, however, get a chance to correct his error, because a scant few seconds later a bad situation got far worse. A great many of his troops began gagging, coughing and turning blue. A few saw what was happening and ran. They did not get much further. In less than three minutes, almost every (former) occupant of the building was partially incapacitated.

That's my cue, Spike thought. Making sure that his head and hands were covered, he pulled out a large hunk of wood that he had found in the trash and jumped back into the fray.

Normally, Spike didn't like beating his enemies when they were already down. He hadn't always felt that way-- in fact, even in his 'Sunnydale post-chip' experience, he had taken a lot of pleasure in beating down the weak and defenseless. Spike wasn't sure whether his experience with the Summers women or the fact that he'd gotten his soul back that had shifted his attitude towards always having a fair fight.

However, he'd spent the better part of a month gathering this particular group of fiends pace work and dirty laundry, and then he had stood aside while they had committed felony after felony. Now, he'd had his ass kicked by two similar groups in the space of twenty-four hours. Spike had long since passed the point of passivity and he was ready to show these children how real violence was done.

So it was that he didn't give any of the fourteen around him any chance to attack him. He waded in among them, hit each a few times, and then dusted them without a second's thought. The setup was working so well that by the time he reached his fourth target, he was singing as he worked.

"Just stake me once, and stake me twice, and stake me once again…." he sang as we went through soldiers five and six. "…It's been a long, long time."

By the time he got to the ninth, he was having such fun that he had decided to do something he hadn't since the early seventies... something he'd done back at Skid Row in London. (By coincidence, Stanley Kubrick had been in that particular part of town researching a film. When A Clockwork Orange had premiered a few months after, Spike got so pissed at having his trademark usurped that he had put his car through the screen at a drive-in.)

"I'm singing in the snow," Spike sang as he passed his stake through the ninth soldier's chest. "Just singing in the snow…" he continued to sing as he spun around to the next vamp and kicked him in the head. He had nearly reached the end of the chorus by the time he was up to the last. Spike had been about to stake the man when he realized that he might be able to get a little information about Kotaski and Nicholae out of the vamp.

"Well," he said cheerfully as he hoisted the blue-streaked, gagging soldier off the ground by his lapels, "…you seem to have won today's game of 'Survivor'. However, your prize, this time, will not be merry bushels of cash but rather an opportunity to live to fight another day. It all depends on my general benevolence and what you tell me." He gave an unnerving grin. "Let's start with your name."

Several seconds of hacking followed. "O—Oliver".

"All right, Oliver, where would I find Kotaski?"

"I-- I --"

"Before you finish that stammer, I should point out that any answer that contains the words 'I don't know,' Is automatically wrong and will cause another round of righteous pummeling." Spike gave another huge grin. "Bearing that in mind--"

Oliver spent the next couple of minutes gagging and swallowing. Finally, he managed to get a sentence out: "I don't know--where he-- is but I-- know where he's--going to be."

Spike mulled over beating Oliver senseless anyway—he had, after all, use the wrong three words. Instead, he asked politely, "Where would that be, Oliver m'boy?"

"He's heading-- for the roof-- of the-- Gotham--Police-- Station. He's going to-- send out the signal."

Spike had never been privy to any of the meetings involving the Gotham PD-- he knew just by association that Commissioner Gordon would hate his guts-- but he knew what the Bat-Signal meant to the people of Gotham. He also knew how dangerous Kotaski would be in a fight. The Batman might be able to match blows with him, but if Kotaski had anything else available to him, he would have an edge on the Bat.

He looked at Oliver. What he had gotten so far was probably more information than any one flunky should have. There was something not right happening, but Spike couldn't tell why it wasn't right. Not yet. Instead, he decided to try and pluck one more golden egg from this particular goose. "Final question, and then I'll let you go. You've really done me a good turn, but I'm betting that once you get a river running, it's hard to get it to shut up."

Oliver looked confused. "W—W—what are you-- talking about--"

"Your real master, Ollie. Where is his Excellency?"

Almost instantly Spike regretted asking the question. Suddenly the air began to get colder and drier around them. Spike knew most wouldn't be able to notice when a night that already felt below freezing became colder than it was, but he could. There was something disturbing about this particular cold, too. Something that was sucking what little moisture was left in the air right out.

Oliver's face changed a moment later. It wasn't the normal man-to-demon change that Spike had done millions of times in his life. This was something far subtler. His eyes, which had been pleading and penitent only seconds before, now looked malicious. More importantly, they looked very intelligent…

"You dare to ask for me?" Oliver's lips moved-- but it wasn't the wheedling voice of a toady. No. This was the voice of a commander— perhaps a king. "You, you impudent little whelp, dare to call for me?"

Spike wasn't sure what was happening but he could make an educated guess. "Let me just take a shot in the dark, now?" he said as he took his hands off of Oliver. "Nicholae sired you, right?"

"You are correct," the commanding voice allowed.

"And you're using some of your old nosferatu ju-ju to use Ollie here as your own personal mouthpiece?" Oliver/Nicholae nodded. "Man, you really are old school. Darla told me that spooks with that kind of mojo with their sires disappeared when she was a kid. "

"There are few of us remaining," admitted Oliver/Nicholae.

"Not surprised at all," said Spike. "Vampires have been getting a lot harder to influence over the last couple of centuries. While you've been getting older, we've been getting smarter."

"Not all of you," Oliver/Nicholae said in disagreement. "Most of you modern-types are so easily manipulated that it's almost amusing."

Spike abruptly switched gears. "If we're going to have a discussion on the mentality of the undead, I'd appreciate you dropping this whole man-behind- the-curtain bit now."

Oliver/Nicholae laughed heartily. "Nice try, William. You must not think much of me as a creature of the night if you think I would fall for that ruse."

"I don't know," said Spike casually. "I kind-of figured with everything you built falling apart in a matter of hours, you'd be coming apart with it."

"What makes you so sure my schemes have failed, William?" Oliver/Nicholae spoke with the same good humor, although he was no longer smiling.

"I just dusted thirteen of your men." Spike's voice was matter-of-fact. "My good friends Faith and Nightwing have been destroying every soldier of yours they can find. Half of your army's gone, as are most of your commanders. You still think you can win?"

Now all traces of conviviality disappeared from Oliver/Nicholae. When he spoke next, it was as calm as before, although Spike thought he could sense some stress in Nicholae's voice.

"You think you've seen my entire army, William?" He uttered a harsh laugh. "More than a third of my forces are underground getting ready to start all crime in Gotham under my control. It will take you and your friends months to find them, if you ever even find them all. The police in this city have been put in check, and the citizenry are afraid to leave their homes. I control Gotham and my army can stand siege here with no difficulty of any kind. Can you say as much for your soldiers?"

"I would hardly call Batman a soldier."

This time there was genuine amusement in Nicholae's laugh. "My men have been delivering a thousand paper cuts to the so-called Caped Crusader. By the time Kotaski gets to him, he'll have taken so much internal damage that he will never survive."

Spike snorted, incredulous. "You are seriously underestimating the Bat if you think one vampire can stop him."

"Even when that someone was a warrior of the Guard?"

Spike knew Nicholae was right. Batman was a brilliant fighter-- the most impressive human that he had ever meant-- but he was not a Slayer. And even someone of Faith's level might have trouble with a member of the Carpathian Guard. Batman would last a long time, but he would still fall. He would need some kind of support. Spike prepared to stake Nicholae's mouthpiece before running to warn Oracle.

But when he attempted to lift the stake, he found to his shock that his hand wouldn't move. Then he tried to run, and found his feet weren't functioning, either. "What—what have you done?" he gasped out.

"I think you know, William." Oliver/Nicholae looked him in the face. His pupils had gone completely black. Spike had heard that some very old vampires could exercise psychic control through their sires. Now it seemed he was witnessing it firsthand.

"But-- I'm—I'm-- " Spike was having trouble speaking now.

"--young enough and weak enough to be held by my will." Almost all of Oliver's face was gone. He was in the presence of his Excellency now, heaven help him.

"You can't -- make-- me do this." Spike tried to be defiant but he could not tear his face away from those black pupils.

"I can, William, and I shall." Nicholae's voice held genuine sadness. "It's a great pity that we didn't meet earlier. Your strength, your resilience-- we could have done great things together." The sadness disappeared. "As it is, you will do me a grand service before we're through."

"What do-- you-- mean?"

"You are going to help remove the last obstacle from my path." Nicholae smiled like the beast he was. "Then you will see the sky truly fall."