1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20
Nan
AU, continues from The Blood Is the Life. As Spike and Buffy try to
hold onto their partnership and their love, recently unsouled Spike tries to
secure his position as self-proclaimed Master Vampire of Sunnydale...against
the wishes of The Powers That Be and the Slayer's ancient mandate. Magic, new
arrivals, old friends (and enemies), dreams, visions, e-Bay, tribute blood,
and cookies all play a part in the tense give and take between vampire priorities
and human necessities.
Disclaimer: All is Joss's. None is mine. No profit. Just more Spikejoy for everyone.
When Buffy opened the gym door, she gulped: wall-to-wall people.
If Spike didn’t show up, she’d definitely murder him.
As she was releasing the door, she heard the basso purr of the approaching bike. Jerking a sudden, hysterical smile at everybody looking at her expectantly, she spun back outside and fled to the bike, looking over her shoulder as if at a pursuing bear.
“Spike--there’s people in there!”
“Yeah. And?”
“I mean, like, thousands of ‘em! I can’t talk to thousands of people!”
She finally looked and found him regarding her quizzically. “Stage fright? Never would’ve taken you for that, pet. Think as though they were vamps: still think they’re thousands?”
Buffy frowned and probably pouted. “Well, no,” she admitted, replaying the one terrifying glimpse she’d had. “Maybe sixty. If they were vamps.”
“Sixty’s still a lot. We’ll just take it like you’d eat an elephant: cut ‘em up in bite-size pieces.” Sliding spread fingers into her hair, he pulled her down into a lingering, reassuring kiss. Releasing her, he stepped off the opposite side of the bike, remarking, “Reinforcements coming, be here soon. I just been on with Red, they’re fetching something. Meanwhile, you just go on, get them warmed up--”
“Oh, no. Oh, no. No way, Jose. You have to go in too. Now. It’s your fanclub!”
Buffy grabbed his wrist and dragged him, laughing and protesting, to the door. She shoved him in first, for good measure.
When she edged in behind, the gabble of conversation had shut up and Spike, perfectly self-assured and composed, was eating the whole elephant up with his eyes, deciding where to make the first cut.
“Well, hullo again,” he said. “Glad the word’s spread, ‘bout this fine class. For you new folk, this is Miss Elizabeth Anne Summers,” (He dragged her around in front, so she could give them all a glazed, demented grin.) “your instructor in ‘How to Stay Alive in Sunnydale.’ That was the course title, wasn’t it, pet?”
“‘Safety through Fitness,’” Buffy responded, adding hastily, “but I like yours better.”
“That’s fine too. Just so long as you people didn’t show up for macramé, tatting, pet care, ‘cause we don’t do none of that poofter stuff here. Who has a notebook?” About five were wildly waved in the air. “Fine: some folk knew to come prepared. Mindy,” he said, with the barest frowning pause to call up the name, which was grounds for murder all by itself, “you tear out a page and pass it around. And you first-timers sign it, so we’ll know who-all you are. Write so it can be read, please.”
Before he could go on, Buffy rose on her toes to whisper, “That’s the first time I ever heard you say ‘please.’”
He looked around. “Well, have to have my public manners on, don’t I? And don’t say you never heard me beg, because that’s a filthy fib.” Looking back to the crowd, he went on, “An’ I’m William, known to my friends and many enemies as ‘Spike.’ Where’s my two tripping blokes? Andy and…George? Yeah, see you. All right, you know from jumping jacks. Get the group divided in two and lead off. Got some setting up still to do here.” To Buffy, he said quietly, “My lot, and the SITs, they’ll be along momentarily. Divide up the herd in smaller bunches when they get here. Meantime, you figure out what’s next. Got some culling to do.”
Buffy hung onto his elbow, holding him place. “What d’you mean?”
“Vamps,” Spike replied tightly.
“If they behave,” Buffy surprised both of them by saying, “they can stay.”
“Don’t think that’s such a great idea, pet.”
“What are you gonna do: dust ‘em? Right in front of everybody, and the lights on?”
“Nooo…escort ‘em outside. Then dust ‘em. Or give ‘em a boot in the rear if I’m feeling kindly. You don’t want vamps in here, pet.”
“It’s my class. I get to say who can stay and who can’t. Steer ‘em over in some corner and I’ll talk to them.”
“Your call,” responded Spike, with a dubious glance and a shrug, and went off to separate the visiting vamps from the other attendees. About half the nearest group, beginning jumping jacks with their appointed pro-tem instructors, turned heads to watch Spike pass.
And he wasn’t even wearing the flash tonight--just the usual well-worn jeans and black tee. Not even the duster. Didn’t matter. Moving, intent, Spike still looked like raw sex on legs.
No sweep and no patrol tonight, Buffy reflected. Hmmm.
It took Spike very little time to cut out the vamps. A tap and a point toward the rear corner was all it took. Then Spike gave Buffy the high sign and they both closed in on the uneasy little group. Doing something like an impression of Principal Snyder viewing a bunch of boys caught cherry-bombing a toilet (only looking a whole lot better, undead, than Snyder ever looked alive) Spike stood with his arms folded, leaving the call to her.
Buffy looked them over: six vamps, probably all fledges, two of them already lapsed to game face. Buffy didn’t take that as hostility or imminent attack: she knew they couldn’t help it, and they certainly looked miserable and embarrassed, features twitching, trying unsuccessfully to recall a more human appearance.
“All right,” she said coldly, “why are you here? Figure it’d be easy pickings?”
All the heads shook emphatic No’s. One of the human-faced girls said bluntly, “Heard Spike would be here. I’ve been up at the factory every evening this week and he wouldn’t even look at me, much less talk to me. Thought maybe this would give me a chance. Spike,” she said, looking straight at him, “I’m volunteering. I can fight, and I can housekeep. By the look of that place, you need somebody--”
Spike said, “Shut up,” in a tone Buffy’d never heard him use before. The girl vamp volunteer immediately shut up but kept looking at him.
Another vamp, one of the game-faced guys, blurted, “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what’s happened. I was coming home from class, and then bang, something jumped me. And I wanted--”
Spike cut in, saying to the first girl, “You know where Digger’s territory is?”
“Yes. It’s--”
“Him, and the rest like him, you take ‘em there when we’re done here. Tell Digger they’re a present.” When the girl nodded, Spike did a point-point directing those in game face (now three) to go stand to his right.
That left two, both still maintaining human face. When Buffy looked at him, the one on the left flashed a look at Spike, then bent his head and contemplated the floor. He was blond (Buffy forced herself to notice), on the skinny side, and looked in his mid-twenties. “I’m Digger’s. I’m a spy. See what’s going on here. Digger heard what happened Tuesday and told me to say it was none of his doing. I can take those fledges back. If you want.”
“Talk to the lady,” Spike responded, in that flat, curt tone. “She’s in charge here.”
“Slayer,” said the vamp, politely bobbing his head, eyes downcast. “I won’t make any trouble. My orders are to watch and report. I would have cleared it with Spike first, but there wasn’t time.”
Buffy delayed a ruling on that one: she’d never had to deal with an admitted spy before and wanted Spike’s opinion before she decided. So she turned to the one on the right. A woman, maybe thirty; short brown hair and a pleasant expression. The woman offered, “I’m Bea, also of Digger’s district in the new ordering. Not sent, just came. I was curious. I’ve been talking to that new fledge, Suzanne. She says she knows you. Both.”
“How old?” Spike asked her abruptly.
“Coming on six years now. About the same as Mike.” Bea’s glance shifted, and the SITs and three vamps (in the colors) were coming in the door, two of the vamps carrying middle-sized cartons they stacked on the lowest tier of the bleachers. The other vamp and the SITs were tossing down long blue tumbling pads--from the Magic Box annex, Buffy realized.
One vamp was Deuce, and another was a black woman--a surly Amazon Buffy would never confuse with Rona. So the third, Buffy figured, the tall one talking with Amanda, had to be Mike. He looked vaguely familiar. Buffy thought she recollected him from a challenge fight with Spike. Maybe.
Buffy drew Spike a few steps aside, asking, “Is the spy gonna be a problem?”
“Not as such. ‘Less he loses his head and goes for somebody.”
“I’ll risk that. What about Bea?”
“Oh, she’ll be all right. Know her a bit, actually. Gut somebody as soon as look at ‘em, good knife fighter for a vamp.”
Buffy gave him a look. “That’s not much of a recommendation for a social gathering.”
“She can hear us, you know,” Spike mentioned, scratching an eyebrow. “Think I’m gonna insult her, say she’s all fuzzy and safe?”
“Right,” Buffy admitted, and turned back to the pair, asking the spy his name. He claimed to be called “Bud.” “OK, Bud and Bea, you can stay on the condition you behave the same as everybody around you.”
“I planned to,” Bea said, and Bud nodded, commenting, “I already said. Slayer.”
“Next time,” Spike said, “anybody figures to show up, no fledges can’t shed game face for the whole hour, and get themselves fed up first, right? This is a class, not a hot lunch line. And you fledges: who sired you? Who turned you?” Despite the explanation, all Spike got back was blank looks. The one who’d been jumped on his way back from class offered feebly, “It was dark,” and one of the others nodded hard, agreeing nonsensically, “Me, too.” The other two looked too slack-jawed, dim, and frightened for speech, being confronted with a contemptuous Master Vampire wanting answers, and Spike didn’t pursue the matter, waving the off disgustedly with their escort--directing them out through the school rather than back through the class, that just might have noticed something peculiar about them--those not too locked in on Spike.
All right,” he called louder, crossing the floor, holding an arm up straight to get everybody’s attention, as though he needed to. “Andy and George got you all warmed up, right? And all the new folk signed the paper?”
Various voices and pointing hands indicated it was on the lowest bleacher seat, all complete.
“Fine. Gonna do something different now. Sort yourselves into six groups, about even. Started last time with easy throws. Tonight, we’re gonna do ‘em for real. Got pads now to cut down on the breakage. You got something pointy or breakable on you, might want to store it on the bench. Sitting this one out, myself,” Spike said, doing so. “Michael, you go at…Miss Elizabeth. Buffy, here. She’s gonna demonstrate a throw on you.”
And Buffy found herself standing near the end of a long blue pad, facing a brown-haired, hazel-eyed vamp at least a foot taller, and at least double her weight. He didn’t look at all nervous and just stood there…waiting, she realized, for her to take a balanced stance. When she did, he nodded slightly and came at her, vamp-fast, arms wide, ready to bowl her over with sheer weight and momentum. Buffy turned aside, bending with the impact, coming up under him while catching one of his elbows in both hands. She lifted with her back, heaved down on the elbow, and he sailed over, landing flat on his back on the pad. He rolled to his feet, looking around a bit shyly to find his demonstration greeted by wild applause.
Buffy understood: Spike wanted the contrast between her size and the much bigger vamp, to show it could be done. However, two could play at that, and more than size and weight to be factored in. “Mike,” she said, halting the vamp, and turned the sweetest of smiles on Spike. “Throw Spike.”
“All right,” Spike decided, getting up leisurely. “The lady says. Get yourself set, pup.”
Buffy ceded her place at the foot of the pad, and Spike made the predictable big show of loosening his shoulders, getting ready. Then he went at Mike…and cheated: grabbed Mike’s shoulders as he went over, hauling Mike with him. With his legs up and bent as he landed, Spike boosted Mike a good fifteen feet onto bare floor, face-first.
Bouncing up, Spike gave Buffy a pleased smirk, then waggled a hand at Mike, inviting him to come at him. Mike tipped his head a moment, considering, then smiled and came: two long running steps, then a full-out dive at knee-level there was no avoiding…unless Spike kicked him in the face. And it was still a social occasion, a class, with lots of civilian onlookers. Not a challenge fight at Willy’s; not a street brawl. Mike apparently had a nice sense of the occasion: Spike was taken straight down on his back. They slid, Mike on top, all the way into the bottom of the bleachers. Straight-faced, Mike offered Spike a hand in getting up. Spike batted it away, then took it and was lightly pulled to his feet, to the applause and slightly nervous laughter of the class.
“Fun and games,” Spike said sourly, loud enough for everybody to hear. “Everybody has to have their little joke. Let me know when it’s my turn to toss you, Buffy.”
“Some other time, Spike. Like never.”
“We’ll discuss that. Some other time. Looks to me like certain people don’t know when they’re well off. All right, people: everybody sorted? All sharp points and breakables put away? False teeth? All right, then, each group line up at the far end of one of the mats and we’ll work you into the act.”
For awhile, everybody was scattered and busy easing the civilians into the fine art of throwing an attacker over one’s back. Buffy was advising Bea not to hit the humans so hard when she caught sight of Spike backed against a wall by a total blonde menace, hair held in a vertical tuft, groping as much of Spike’s anatomy as she could reach and Spike not doing his utmost to dislodge her, either. “Excuse me,” Buffy said, not recollecting she was talking to a vamp, and made her way extremely quickly to the wall. “Excuse me,” she said again, in a much more menacing tone. “Something you need help with?”
“Hi,” said the girl. “I’m Candy, and you were awesome too!”
“She’s a virgin,” Spike explained.
“I certainly hope so!” The blonde looked barely Dawn’s age, though quite a bit curvier in her shiny purple spandex outfit. Or maybe it was paint.
“One from last night,” Spike clarified further. “Sacrifices? Post? She wanted to say thanks…personally.”
“I can see that.” Buffy also could see Spike was having a really hard time keeping a straight face. “You’re welcome,” Buffy told Candy, with hard-eyed civility. “It’s a service we perform. Sometimes. In our off hours.”
“But you really, really were,” Candy told Spike, obviously continuing the adoring gush Buffy had interrupted. “With the wings and everything. Are you positively certain you’re not an angel?”
Spike sputtered. “Absolutely positively certain. Not a name I’d have anything to do with.”
“Oh,” cried Candy, dismayed, “I didn’t mean-- I mean, if it’s secret or something--”
“You weren’t to know. Now be a pet and don’t let yourself get caught like that again.” Spike turned her around and gave her a firm push toward the nearest group. To her back, he muttered, “Silly cow.” Then he met Buffy’s angry eyes and did a take.
“You’re too old for her.”
“Love, I’m too old for everybody, with the possible exception of Mae West. Not my fault here. Got mugged.”
“Yeah, sure. Do I need to get you a leash?”
“Oh, and there was this collar, studs like the belt, maybe a whip, just a small one, and--”
Spike was smirking again, and Buffy felt her face heating. She bounced him against the wall, still smirking, and stomped back to the group she was supervising.
The class finished out with all participants having been thrower and throwee at least once apiece with no casualties except some bruises and the nose-piece of one set of glasses cracked, and none of the remaining assorted vamps going game-faced where anybody could see them. Good enough, Buffy figured wearily, watching them scatter to collect their jackets and belongings while the vamps and the SITs took up the pads and started carrying them outside.
“One last thing,” Spike called, holding his arm up, and apparently everybody knew that as an order to gather around him in a semicircle in front of the bleachers. “See, this here,” he said, pulling up one flap of a carton, then displaying a plastic bottle about the right size for shampoo, “this is Sunnydale mugger repellant. I have this consultant who’s a witch, and she magicked it for me. And you’re absolutely, positively not to tell anybody else about this, right?” He looked around for all the solemn nodding. “Now we’re testing this out, and the trial samples are free. But only if you’re really gonna use it, see, because these cost us a fair chunk of change, plus the consultant’s fee, to get this first batch out. So if you’re not gonna use it, don’t take any. Right? This is about a year’s supply: don’t want to use much, you’ll stink up the place. Just a dab on the finger, then under the ear, both sides.” He demonstrated: right over both carotid arteries. “Specially at night, when you’re goin’ out--works best then. You try it a week, let me or Miss Elizabeth know if it’s working right: see somebody you think might be a mugger, they should veer right off, not come near you. If that doesn’t happen, we want to know about that too,” he added, like that was likely, a vamp victim coming back afterward to report the attack. Buffy restrained herself from snorting.
“Candy,” Spike said, waving in the blonde, “dramatic moment here: first smell test. So, tell everybody: is it awful, pet?”
Slinky, purple spandex virgin Candy wasn’t at all averse to getting her face right into Spike’s neck and breathing deeply. “No!” she reported happily. “It’s nice! Smells a little like lilies! Mmmm!”
Spike was not quite mobbed and bowled over by civilians eager to get their hands on the free samples…because Buffy dragged him out of the crush with the comment, “Leash.”
“Only if you get the collar, love. And all the trimmings. Might have to go to a different store for that, though.”
“Pig.”
“Not if I wear the collar for you.”
“You wouldn’t,” Buffy challenged.
“Try me,” Spike replied smugly. “All right if we park the leftovers in your office, for when the thundering hordes descend on you tomorrow?”
“But you said they had to keep it secret!”
Spike looked even more smug. “That’s just to guarantee it’ll be all over the school by morning. Children that age, keeping a secret? Never happen. You test, pet: Red still got it too flowery?”
Buffy gave it a good, thorough test. It wasn’t the overwhelming, funereal odor of the previous test batch. She could separate out a trace of vanilla and a tiny bit of lily, but the impression was…darker, somehow. It smelled…like aroused male. It smelled like sex.
Buffy pulled back, wide-eyed. “We’re giving that away to a bunch of high school kids?”
“Have to make it appealing, love, or they won’t use it,” Spike commented quietly. “Which would you sooner have--the occasional wild orgy, or children with their throats ripped out?”
“Whooh!” Buffy said, waving her hand before her face. Most of the civilians were trying out the scent, and the result was pretty overwhelming. Following the departing class, making way for the crew stuffing the pads into the trunk and rear of an ancient, sagging blue Ford sedan, Buffy gulped air scented only with exhaust fumes. Drifting out behind her, Spike lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall, narrow-eyed against the smoke.
“Cousins have had the best part of a month to get acquainted with it,” he remarked, using what Buffy recognized as a common term for vamps, among vamps. “Guess we’ll see how well they remember it. And if they recall what I told ‘em would happen if they don’t.”
“You gonna do a sweep tonight?” Buffy asked, disappointed.
He nodded. “Just me, on my own again. ‘F they leave the smell alone, I’ll leave them alone. Have to begin the way you mean to go on.”
Passing by, the big vamp, Mike, said, “I’ll help. If you want. Be around anyway.” He continued by without waiting for an answer. Spike’s eyes followed him thoughtfully.
Buffy said softly, “He means hunting. Doesn’t he.”
“I expect. Buffy, I called a meeting for after the class. A lot happening now. Time to compare notes, make sure everybody’s got it all straight. Didn’t think you’d mind.”
“No. Meeting’s good, I guess.” Scuffing her foot, Buffy added, “And I noticed how quick you changed the subject.”
“They’re vamps, Buffy. Not gonna change that. Just spread the damage a little different, maybe.”
“I have trouble with that part of it.”
“Know you do. Knew you would. And it’s still to be seen if it’s gonna work anything like I mean it to. But what would you put in its place? Patrol the cemeteries, take out a few fledges each week?”
Buffy shook her head slowly. “At least it’s not a compromise.”
“Not about to argue with you, Slayer. You do what you feel is proper. And so will I.”
“I don’t know, Spike. The idea still bothers me.”
“You don’t have to know about it. Any more than you choose to.”
“That’s part of what bothers me. Not knowing’s not an acceptable choice, either.” Buffy gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, then went back inside. The smell had thinned out considerably. But it was still there. Like a ghost of passion and regret.
**********
Willow and Dawn were a little late for the meeting because Willow had to stop for the munchies and drinks that were traditional at Scooby meetings. Actually, just the drinks: she'd ordered the pastries ahead and picked them up after her last afternoon class, but you couldn't do that with mochas, lattes, and cappuccinos, which were no good, stale and cold. Parking at the school, Willow collected the two pastry boxes--each almost the size of a pizza box because after all, you didn’t want the jelly donuts getting on the bear claws or the donuts covered with confectioner’s sugar getting on the Danish--while Dawn went sedately ahead balancing the first cardboard tray of drinks.
Surprisingly, the gym doors stood open, so kicking on them wasn’t required. Everybody was variously sitting on the floor and perched on the bottom tiers of the bleachers. Dawn set the first tray down a little distance away and turned back for the second while Willow made Anya budge to have a central place to open the boxes and display their contents.
“I got jelly,” Willow announced, “I forgot Giles wasn’t here, but that’s OK, Xander likes the jelly, too, and then there’s the usual….” She started enumerating and pointing until Spike interrupted quietly, “Sit down, Red.”
“Oh,” said Willow, surprised and a bit flustered, because after all, having Spike call a Scooby meeting was a bit flustery, and what was Mike doing here for that?
Before Willow could think of a tactful way to ask, Dawn came back with the second drink tray and Buffy asked sharply, “Dawn, do you have your homework done?”
“As much as it needs to be done,” Dawn responded with a private smile, setting the tray down next to the other one, and everything went chaotic while everybody stirred around collecting the pastry and drink of their choice, and Dawn was taken care of but Willow hadn’t brought anything for Mike, no way she could have known and she didn’t know his preferences anyway, or if he even liked human food, like Spike did, and how could anybody expect her to be responsible for things when they didn’t give her sufficient information. Then she noticed the smell, and stood taking it in, smiling.
Still a little strong: an explanation why the doors were left ajar, to let the gym air out. But pleasant, attractive, and damn sexy, just as she’d intended. Good batch, she decided. They could proceed with that.
“Sit down, Red,” Spike directed again, but she hadn’t collected her drink but that wasn’t hard--the only milkshake, it was the only cup left in the tray--but Mike’s hands were still empty, he hadn’t collected anything for himself--
Interpreting her distressed dithering, Mike told her, “I’m good.”
“Oh,” Willow responded, greatly relieved, and took a seat and tried to look attentive, licking powdered sugar off her fingers.
“Dawnie,” Buffy asked in a slow, thoughtful way that made Willow think she’d crash soon, after being wildly hyper all day, apparently been into Spike’s pep pill stash, and that never lasted, “what are you doing here?”
Willow blurted, “She wanted to come, and, and, I needed help carrying the drinks. Also…something’s happened. With Amy. And maybe Dawn noticed things I didn’t, and it’s pretty awful, actually, and shutting up now until it’s my turn.”
Buffy’s eyes tracked from Dawn to Willow as though she had to push them manually, like a cart on rails. “Willow, have you been into Spike’s pills?”
Willow shook her head hard and emphatically. “Just coffee, honest. Lots and lots of coffee! Hence,” she added, displaying her tall cup as proof, "the milkshake."
“I believe it,” Buffy commented solemnly. “Well, suppose you tell us what happened, then.”
Having inserted her straw through the cap, Willow took a big sip of non-caffeinated chocolaty reassurance and then swallowed a few times. “Well, we went out yesterday afternoon to see if I could get some information out of Amy about the spellcasting on Spike. I tried to get in and out before dark, Halloween and everything, but I couldn’t quite manage that because of, well, you know. Anyway, I took Dawn, she came along, as a power source. That I could draw on, if I needed to. All that latent keyness, you know, and that she’s, well, you know.”
Crosslegged on the floor, as usual, Spike leaned his head back, commenting, “More virgins.”
Willow slid an apologetic glance to Dawn, who showed no sign of minding having her qualifications to be an extra strong power source itemized. “Anyway,” Willow resumed, “I pretty well confirmed Amy had composed the deathwish, so it seems likely she also made the sparkly powder. But I can’t be 100% sure.”
Buffy asked the obvious question: “Why not?”
Willow poked her straw into the cup a few times uncomfortably. “Well, it got dark, I hadn’t noticed, and I suppose I wasted a little time in, you know, bragging and gloating and making threats, it’s traditional--”
“Noun, Will,” prompted Buffy.
“She caught fire, I didn’t mean to, just all of a sudden I had all this power--!” (Willow’s hands sketched its dimension in the air, arm’s length around.) “--and I guess it sort of got away from me some way. And then it stopped, with her all flamey and everything, it just stopped, and some way I’d made a stasis to hold her like that though I don’t even know how to make a stasis, just know one when I see one but what else could it be, after all? I’ve been researching it nearly all day, in the C.O.W. database mostly, it’s really lucky that didn’t get blown up, and I have a call in to the coven, but they haven’t gotten back to me yet, probably the time difference. Or something.”
After a minute of total silence, during which Willow completely wanted to sink into the floor, Buffy asked in an unconvincingly neutral tone, “And you took Dawn. And sucked power out of Dawn, to do all this.”
Staring at her knees, Willow nodded miserably.
“I’m all right,” Dawn volunteered cheerily. “Just fine.”
“And this Amy,” said Spike, “this other witch, hanging there burning all this while.”
“Pretty much,” Willow admitted, chancing a quick glance, and was surprised (and relieved) to find that Spike’s cold eyes weren’t on her, but on Dawn, who seemed to take no notice, busy pulling apart her bear claw with tiny pinches.
“Right,” Spike drawled, finally breaking that intent inspection to light a cigarette.
They were all heavily into displacement activity tonight, Willow noticed. Except for Mike, who sat perfectly still to Spike’s right, quietly watching it all.
“All right,” Spike continued, “so that’s one thing. Buffy and me, we have another. Broke up a Working just before sunrise, out at the mall parking lot. Blokes had five virgin sacrifices to be shed to power it, all lined up, trussed up to poles. Blood magic, it felt like, to me: catching twinges of it clear across town, from about midnight on, though not strong enough for me to home in on. Just twinges. Anyway, these girls, they weren’t gonna shed their lives with knives, the usual way: gonna burn ‘em. Two already gone, and one set alight, when we got there. So, spaced instead of all together, which is not the usual thing, either. And the mages, monks, whatever, were in colors--different colors. Red, green, yellow. No blue. An’ the leader, the Archmage, in black with silver trim. Not usual, for them not to be uniform. Sometimes the leader a different color, or special trim, but not the troops. Victims, they were in the usual white. S’how I knew they were virgins: can’t tell by just looking at ‘em, of course. Buffy,” he asked, turning to her, “how many, all told?”
Jerking, wide-eyed, Buffy responded, “How many what?”
Spike’s face went all shuttered and soft. “No matter, love. Come down here.”
“Why?”
“Come on. You’ll be more comfy down here.” Spike patted his leg.
Like a sleepwalker, Buffy rose from the bleacher seat, stumbled the few yards between, and flopped down across Spike’s lap, head pillowed on a bent arm. Smiling. Spike gathered her in like a whipcord-thin, wrong-gender, peroxided Madonna, solemn and loving.
“Crashed,” Willow stated wisely.
“Seems so,” Spike agreed. “Guess she didn’t catch any rest, after all. Well, I know how that goes…. Anyway. There were about a half dozen of these mages, give or take. Couldn’t say for sure if the number was even or uneven, if that matters. Busy at the time. And like you, Red, I spent a good part of the afternoon poking through the Watchers’ archives. Couldn’t come up with a match for the colors. Figure they had to be fire mages of some sort or other, since they didn’t shed the children direct. Used fire as a weapon, too. Thought if I could get a handle on what they were, I might be able to get an idea of what they were about: what the Working was. Something major, with that many sacrifices…. Haven’t got any farther than that, though. So I thought I’d hand it off to you, Red. See if you could make any more of it than I did.”
“Can’t deal with that now,” Willow responded, and sucked hard at her milkshake. “Have to figure out what to do about Amy. Before the stasis fails.”
“These man-witches,” Xander put in, from the second row of bleachers. “Were they human?”
Spike visibly closed down, and that drew a glance from Mike, as though Spike had said something. What Spike did say was, “Possibly. Slayer, she mostly dealt with them. I was getting the virgins clear, so they didn’t all burn up.”
“Were they human, Spike?” Xander persisted.
“Expect so. Yes.”
“And you killed them.”
“Yes. We did, Slayer and I. You have a problem with that, Harris?”
“I don’t know, Spike,” Xander replied, saying Spike’s name with particular distinctness in response to the Harris. “Maybe. Just wanted to be sure. And was that the same day you threw your soul away? Or was it later?”
“Next night. All yesterday,” Spike confirmed wearily. “Your point?”
“Just that apparently nobody saw fit to tell me you’d had a soul-ectomy until you’d actually thrown it away!”
Willow winced at the anger in Xander’s voice. He was right: somebody should have told him.
“I don’t send out the memos,” Spike said.
“No, but you call Scooby meetings, to which you summon me, and let children in,” (A glance at Dawn, still picking at her pastry.) “and also vamps not of my personal acquaintance. So the question occurs to me, What the hell is going on here?”
“I’m not the one to ask. Just thought enough had been going on, it was time to compare notes, is all. If you don’t approve….” As if automatically, Spike’s hand smoothed Buffy’s hair. “Well, you never have, so no change there, is it.”
“I’m sorry, Xander,” Willow blurted, hoping to deflect an explosion. “My fault. Last time we all got together was the party for Giles, and that didn’t seem like the best time to drop the bombshell that Spike had de-souled himself. And since, well, I didn’t think of it. Spike, you gave out the smell tonight, right? How did it go? How did they react?”
While Xander glowered, Spike seemed more than willing to accept the change of subject. “Well enough, I guess. Can still smell it, can you?”
“Good penetration and endurance,” Willow agreed, nodding. “And the fragrance: not too lily-ee, this time?”
“Seemed fine.” Spike seemed distracted. The next minute, he made clear what he was distracted by: staring straight at Dawn, he demanded, “Who are you, and what have you done to Bit?”
Not looking up, Dawn produced a slow, catlike, and perfectly alien smile that set Willow’s weird receptors going too. “I’m Dawn. Who else could I be?”
Willow focused with other sight and reported to Spike, “No aura. None at all. That’s not Dawn.” Willow was chagrined that Spike had noticed first, when Dawn had been wafting around, nearly under Willow’s nose, all day, except for the time at school. Asking pointed questions. Offering no answers. And it hadn’t been Dawn!
“Fuck, she doesn’t even smell the same,” Spike snapped, and got an agreeing nod from Mike. “Knew since she came in, something was wrong. Anybody ever know Bit to keep her mouth shut this long at a time?”
“I believe I have a name for you,” not-Dawn announced composedly. “For the monks: The Brotherhood of Lucifer.”
Everybody stared at her.
She continued, “They conform to the elements, hence the colors. And you’re correct, Spike: blue was missing. That would have been your Amy, I imagine. Unavoidably detained…. Correlating all the information available to me, I’ve formed a tentative conclusion about the purpose of the Working: they were trying to reopen the Hellmouth. And if that be the case, I’m willing to set aside lesser differences in preventing that. For the time being.”
Spike cut a glance at Willow, demanding, “Where’s her locket?”
“I took it, I had to, to draw on her-- Oh!” Willow nearly collapsed at the realization that, as usual, this disaster was all her fault. Jamming a hand in her bag, she came up with the dangling chain and concealed ward, announcing frantically, “I can give it back!”
“Too late,” said Spike, contemplating the calm expression of whatever wasn’t Dawn, looking right back at him. “Want to talk to Bit.”
Long silence, waiting. Then not-Dawn responded, “Very well.” Then her tone of voice changed utterly. “Oh, Spike!” she cried, springing up, and threw herself into Spike’s arms, practically squashing Buffy, who didn’t wake. “I was so scared nobody would know it wasn’t me, that I’d be gone and never come back and nobody would even notice--!”
“Now, Bit,” said Spike, and tapped his arm. “I’ll always know. You all right? She hurting you any?”
“She who?” demanded Xander, and was ignored.
“No, not really,” Dawn said in a small, unhappy voice. “If it helps to have me out of the way, have her here and helping, I don’t mind, not really. I hear everything, see everything. Just can’t do anything! In case I don’t get another chance to say, I love you. Anyway.”
“Love you too, Bit. And don’t you be scared, you know better than that. Gonna get her gone, get you back, soon as anybody can figure out how. Nothing more important than that. Not to me.”
“Liar,” Dawn accused softly and with certainty. “You know what’s important, what the priorities are and should be. I’m third-ish. I don’t mind….” Then her expression and her voice changed again, and she settled herself fussily on the floor at Spike’s knee, right in front of Mike, whom she ignored. “The priority is the Hellmouth, and what forces are arrayed to reopen it. I know everyone, all the players so far identified. But I suppose you should introduce me.”
“Don’t exactly know how to do that,” Spike said as though he didn’t want to, either.
“Then I’ll introduce myself. Spike and Dawn are accustomed to think of me as ‘Lady Gates.’ I am a sufficient portion of what some call one of the Powers That Be: the ruling powers of the multiverse--this universe and all others. We seek order, harmony; dynamic peace, gradual evolution. Despite what our more stubborn instruments may claim, we are not the enemies of humanity…or of any of our creatures. If this is too difficult a concept, you may regard me…as Dawn’s mother.”
Anya, silent through the whole meeting thus far, put on her biggest, widest smile. “And we’re all so honored by your presence and attention, Lady! I never suspected I’d actually meet one of the Powers in person! Honored, I’m sure! Bye, everybody!” Anya promptly hot-footed it out the door.
**********
Leaving the gym, Mike said, “There any rule we got to do this dry?”
“Guess not,” Spike admitted carelessly. “My credit ought to stretch that far.”
So they mounted their bikes and rolled the short way to Willy’s, where they’d first met. Spike went inside, and Mike continued to consider the new bike, and the stars, and Willy’s, and the night ahead. Not really ahead, though: it was all around, thicker and darker than nights generally seemed to him. Didn’t bother him, not really. He’d thought it through and decided how it should go.
Spike was gonna kill him tonight.
And that was all right, Mike had decided. It was what he’d do in Spike’s place, with a junior who’d never once been able to keep his mouth shut when he was mad, or drunk, or careless, or just ignorant of the stakes. Who’d never once looked past the present to the consequences.
Likely Digger was inside, and Digger knew how to get things out of him. Push at him and wait and push some more, or praise him, or give him another drink--whatever Digger figured would serve best at the moment--and anything Mike knew would come reliably spilling out. And of course Mike would be sorry afterward, but that was no good, didn’t count for anything.
He’d done it a dozen times, and he was sick of it. Bone weary of being played, being dumb, feeling regret. He thought he maybe understood a part of what had driven Spike to get the soul in the first place: vamps weren’t made to regret what they did. Had no way to deal with that sick feeling of desperately wanting the choice back and knowing at the same time they couldn’t have done any different, it was just how things were. How they were.
Here’s Digger, playing around with magic and wizards, witches, and such. And here’s one of the Powers, way beyond magic, stuck itself in Dawn, that power could be drawn from. And here’s some bunch of mages, the Brotherhood of Lucifer, trying to reopen the Hellmouth, that would put the power back into the air, attract and bring in hordes of vamps, strangers, who knew nothing of Spike’s new order and cared less--more than Spike could hope to organize or contain or even dust. And it would all come apart. Exactly what Digger wanted. And here’s big-mouth Mike, who knew it and wished he didn’t because he didn’t think it was in him to hold something like that still within himself.
In at the ear, out at the mouth. Except if he was stopped. And only one sure way to do that. He’d caught Spike’s eye, and he figured they both knew well enough what the answer to that riddle was.
Six years and a little: not a bad run, for somebody who by rights should be dead and not have known any of it. Been some good times--and only better since he’d run into Spike and known what he wanted. To take a side. To understand a little better what this strange unlife was. How to be, how to do. Even if he couldn’t finally be or do it right. Not Spike’s fault, that Mike couldn’t come along faster, see consequences better, and act accordingly. Spike had given him every chance. Claimed him, named him his get even though he wasn’t, given him an independent part of the thing Spike was trying to make out of Sunnydale’s chaos. Tried his best to teach him though most of the time Mike didn’t listen or even recognize the teaching for what it was until he’d messed up some way. Again.
Spike came back with a couple of bottles, one apiece, which was nice of him, considering. Wasn’t Willy’s cheap stuff, neither. Suitable to the occasion. They each had some, waited for the warm to hit and spread out nicely, then started the bikes again, rolling slow, cruising the places where high school aged children were to be found past ten in the evening on a week night. The movie theater; a few tame bars; the big chalk-smelling auditorium on the college campus where there were sometimes concerts and plays. Picking up those with the designated smell, then shadowing them on their way home or to their cars or their next destination. When they spotted a vamp also shadowing the designated protected prey, getting ready to make a move, they left the bikes and pulled the vamp apart in some discreet alley. With the two of them, wasn’t much of a fight, but it served to pass the time.
Only sensible to get the night’s work out of him before taking care of the other agenda, Mike figured. Thrifty.
After they’d accounted for five or six that way and when, by the turning of the star-clock, it was past midnight, the night went quieter. Fewer people abroad, and it was a school day tomorrow for most of those who’d been in the class, gotten first crack at the smell. They’d mostly gone home. Vamps who hadn’t had a chance to hunt the downtown much in four nights were out in force, really hungry. Mike observed some fights breaking out between different district’s vamps, between those whose authorized night this was and others who were poaching, hoping not to get caught. He and Spike stayed out of those: it was the District Masters’ business to keep their own people in line, enforce their own territorial prerogatives.
They’d stopped by the theater, waiting for the last show to let out. A good dozen vamps hovering roundabout, waiting for the same thing. Sitting comfortably sideways on his bike with the kickstand down, Spike had a cigarette lit; Mike was concentrating on drinking: pity to let it go to waste. His head was buzzing pleasantly, and not just with the rattle and vibration of the bike.
Spike was going on about accepting a few more people, maybe even a few fledges, so as to be able to field dusk-to-dawn sweeps in another couple of weeks. Keep a close eye on the fledges, they should do all right, Spike thought. Wasn’t as if they had to be presentable--just fight. And if they got themselves dusted, no great loss. The problem would be keeping them from eating the people they were supposed to be protecting. “No impulse control,” Spike commented sourly.
“Fledges are like that,” Mike agreed.
“Vamps are like that.”
“Yeah. I guess.” Mike turned off his bike and stowed the bottle away: he could hear the last show crowd approaching the doors.
“Need more stakes?”
“Could use some.”
Spike passed over a handful from his saddlebag. Then they stepped down from their bikes and were ready.
The first few came out. Nothing of interest. The humans wandered past, to take their own oblivious chances with the hovering vamps. Then both Mike and Spike locked onto a pair of teenagers, one wearing the smell, one not. And also a woman behind. Spike nodded Mike at the pair, taking the woman himself.
Mike eased up close. They’d made good use of the time and the dark: he could smell them on each other, enough that he wasn’t positive right away which one had the faint but distinct lily reek. Then the girl looked up and he recognized her: Candy, although in street clothes now, not the purple skin-tight get-up. Mike had to concentrate to keep his trueface from emerging: he would have enjoyed eating them both after a little play, scaring them enough to bring out the stronger flavor in the blood. They smelled delicious. But he wasn’t a fledge anymore: he could do this. And it would be awkward, after, to eat the boy and leave the girl. He supposed he had to leave them both breathing.
“Hi…Mike?” said Candy, and the boy with her was annoyed and trying not to show it. Boy was also a bit nervous, since Mike was a lot bigger and looked older. Would really have felt good to scare a scream out of him.
“Hi, Candy,” Mike responded. “Which way you headed?”
“Just over--”
As Candy pointed, a couple of vamps stopped loitering, having chosen their night’s prey. Also a couple, male and female. Mike gave his charges a push in the direction Candy had pointed and turned to intercept the vamps, giving each of them a good shove.
“That’s the smell,” he warned. “You got one chance--”
It had been stupid to try to warn them. The male vamp came up with a stake, and dealing with him let the female get past. She had the boy down and her teeth in his throat in under a second, which was how long it took Mike to stake her. Boy was bleeding considerable, and Candy screeching, but she hadn’t been touched, so that was all right. Mike herded them into what smelled like the boy’s car, Candy behind the wheel and the doors locked, so Mike didn’t have to think anymore about finishing the boy off, though he could have ripped the door off if he’d really tried. It’d been four nights since he’d had a proper feed. He put it out of his mind.
A few vamps had collected their prey and dragged them away from the street lights to feed, so although the small dispersing crowd was uneasy, there was no general panic. Took quite a lot to start a general panic in Sunnydale, Mike had noticed. He spotted Spike ambling along between the two tripping boys, companionably talking and gesturing and having no trouble: vamps might not yet respect the smell or the colors, but most knew Spike by sight and knew enough to stay clear of him. The two boys also had a car, and when they were in it, Spike came back quick and started his bike. They followed the car to one of the frat houses and saw the boys safely inside. Mike passed back the extra stakes and only then noticed that somebody had swiped his unwatched bottle. That was annoying. He should get saddlebags, like Spike’s bike had. Then he realized it didn’t matter and was vaguely amused at himself.
“What?” Spike asked. “Somebody pinched your liquor? Here.” Spike held out his bottle. After a moment’s thought, Mike took it, meanwhile standing to get his hand in his jeans pocket. As good a time as any, he thought, extending the fist to Spike.
“What?” Spike asked again, frowning at the stem-winder gold watch Mike had passed to him.
“Figure I’ll go hunt now, and back to Willy’s, after. Come along if you want.”
“Yeah,” said Spike quietly, putting the watch away. But it wasn’t agreement, unless by way of confirmation of something in Spike’s own head. “Or just Willy’s: make up for the loss of your bottle.”
Mike shook his head at the counter-offer, finishing the last of the liquor. No warmth left in it. Only a stronger sense of the dark--endless and unchanging. He pitched the bottle into the street. “Need to hunt, Spike. Wasn’t time to have anybody brought in, and we’re not that organized yet. Not to worry: I'll stay clear of downtown. And the smell. In my own district and you're invited.”
Someone turned off the outside lights at the frat house. The night went thicker. Constricting. It wasn’t gonna be later, Mike realized. Not in a hunt, not taken with the hot, good blood in his throat. It was gonna be now.
“Always wished I could hunt with you,” Mike said absently. “Share the hunt, share the kill. Would have been good.”
“Wait,” Spike said. “Wait till morning, when Rona brings the tribute blood. I’m fed up fairly good. You can--”
“Doesn’t work like that,” Mike said sadly, tired of the pretext. Hunting was only what they were talking about, not what was. Wasn't about hunting: was about Digger, and what Mike knew. Wasn’t like Spike to be so coy, run on about the edges when they both knew what was at the center, what had to happen. Why not just get on with it? Trust Spike to make even death annoying. “Can’t be but what I am…. Good thing, me and Dawn are on the outs. And with that Lady Gates shouldering her aside, no trouble there. Won’t bother Dawn none, when she comes to know.”
“No.” Spike's voice was harsh, angry. Disappointed in him, Mike supposed: not what Spike had planned or allowed for.
“No blame to you, I see the sense of it well enough.”
“No.” The bike jerked because Spike was strangling the hand grips. Controlling the lurch, he said, “If I’d known what was gonna come out at that meeting--”
“--you wouldn’t have had me there. I know. Can’t look ahead, know what’s gonna come. Just bad luck, things coming together the way they have.” Setting the kickstand and stepping down from his bike, Mike added, “I’ll make a fight of it, if that’s what you want. Come out the same regardless.”
“No. I need you where you are.”
If Mike had still had the bottle, he would have flung it at him. “You need somebody you can depend on! How many times you told me that? So you don’t get what you want. I don’t fit your plan. I ain’t your get, you’re not my sire. So why make a great thing about it?”
“Because you’re an idiot, that’s why! And you haven’t fucking done it yet!”
“You know I will. And you’re the goddamned idiot if you tell yourself different! What’s to keep me from it? I always have, I always will!”
“No! Fuck it to hell, no!” Spike turned the key and came down from his bike, sliding into trueface, glaring golden-eyed. “We don’t have to do it like that. You don’t need to hunt, Michael. I can do for you.” He set his hands on Mike’s shoulders, fingers digging deep, holding hard. “Go ahead.”
“What--?” demanded Mike, bewildered.
“You goddam fucking moron, I said I’d do for you! I’m not your bloody sire, but I still can. Go ahead: do it!”
Mike’s buzzing head rocked to a hard backhand, and there was no mistaking: Spike had tilted his head aside, offering his neck, the rich, strong blood of an elder in the bloodline. Mike lunged, and bit, and fed, drawing in great ravenous gulps.
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20