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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.
“Well,” said Xander, coming into the office with a surly scowl, “what’s this about?”
“Sit.” Spike leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. In the middle stage of headache: he could still attend, make sense. Figured to work till noon, then have a kip till sundown. Audition recruits, then a sweep after to try them out.
Second week of the new order. With the big changes in place and rolling, time to try to get things on some kind of reliable schedule, not be making it up from minute to minute. Too crazy and too exhausting. The factory was fairly secure now: no more lairing up in drains, a different place every night. With a central base and a schedule, time to look to further things, get them delegated and begun.
As Xander pulled up a chair and consented to sit, smelling hostile and what Spike interpreted as suspicious, Spike went on, “We had a good patch there for awhile. Some way, that’s gone. Dunno what I done to put you off me--”
“It’s not what you do, Spike: it’s what you are.”
“That’s as may be. But Red, she values you. So do Buffy and Dawn. So that gives you a free pass from me. I’ll never let hurt come to you if I can stop it. Not from me. Not from anybody. You ask me for something I can do, you got it. No questions or conditions. Can’t be but what I am. Can’t change that, even if I wanted to, which I don’t. That aside, though you annoy the hell out of me sometimes, and I expect I’m never gonna be on your list of favorite people, I want to get on with you. Not be always sniping back and forth, trading threats and bluster. Not that it’s not fun, but it bothers the womenfolk. Our womenfolk. As of now, I quit. You win, if that’s what you want. Declare a victory, have a truce. Hope you’re willing to quit, too.”
Xander stared at him with his big brown puppy eyes for a long minute. “I don’t like it that you can say ‘our womenfolk.’ Like we’d gone partners in a herd of cattle. Don’t like that at all.”
“I withdraw it, then. Not gonna argue words with you. We both want them happy, according to whatever lets them be happy. Us at odds don’t do that. Your claim on them is older than mine, so the call’s yours. Gonna have a truce here, or more pointless bickering? ‘Cause I’m not gonna eat you, and you’re not gonna stake me. That’s fact, and we both know it.”
“You step out of line and I’d stake you in a minute!”
“Trying to mind the line here. As best I can. Trying to give you the respect you’re due for keeping faith, all these years, with Buffy and Willow and Dawn. You can throw it back in my face. Your option. Just don’t see what purpose it would serve, myself. You think about it. By what you do, I’ll know what you decided. Not why I asked you to come up here anyway.”
Xander folded his arms, so as not to show any compromise or give. His scent went more neutral, though: less outright antagonism. “Then what?”
“Got a job of work to be done. Fix up Casa Summers like it was. Better. All the busted, boarded up windows. The holes in the walls. All the doors that creak or don’t fit or close tight. All the sinks that don’t drain right. The water heater that leaks. Whatever else needs doing, that I don’t know enough to notice. Things that need replacing ‘cause they’re too old to serve.” When Xander didn’t say anything, just blinked at him thoughtfully, Spike went on, “I know you been doing what you could. But your time’s limited, and materials cost money. I figure likely you already got a list in your head, what you’d do if you had the dosh. From your work, I figure you know who’s reliable, gives good value, knows their job. I want you to be contractor, deal the parts of the job out to people you have confidence in. Not do, yourself, except as you have the time and the inclination.”
“So you can take all the credit!”
Flash of strong jealousy, outright hatred. No surprise there.
Spike shook his head. “Don’t care nothing about the credit. You say it’s all your doing, if you want. Won’t say otherwise. Say you got a bonus on your job, and this is what you’re doing with it. Don’t care. Just want it done, for them, and done right. You tell me what’s to be done and what the cost is, I’ll see it gets paid. Add on a reasonable percentage for yourself, for your time and professional expertise. Whatever the customary rate would be. I figure you know, or can find out. Won’t dispute none of the charges with you, so long as I get them in writing. Reasonable estimates beforehand, that I can OK. I got some specifications I want met, but except for that, it’s your call, in consultation with Buffy, on account of it’s her house.”
“What specifications?”
Spike pushed a paper across the desk. “There’s some new glass come out. Called ‘necro-tempered.’ Sun through it doesn’t bother me. Want all the windows made of it, starting with the kitchen and Buffy’s bedroom. Won’t need all the windows covered then, living in the dark on my account. Dunno who makes it, where it’s to be found. Kind of a specialized market, I’d expect.” Pointing at the paper, Spike explained, “That number will reach somebody who knows Oz, and Oz speaks well of. She knows where a retro-fit car place is, that used it. Refitted Oz’s whole van with it. From that, you should be able to get back to a supplier.”
“Doable,” Xander conceded. Folding up the paper, he put it in his shirt pocket.
“Next, before you start shopping for materials, I want you to get together with Red. Some materials are more magic-proof than others. And if they’re custom anyway, might be something could be added to make them stronger in that way. Or added before they’re installed. Specially the inside doors. Maybe something could be put into hollow-core, if hollow-core will do. Outside doors should be solid. But there’s a choice of woods, paint. Again, maybe things could be added to paint, to make it magic-repellant. What metal is best, magic-wise, for the window frames, hardware. Passive protection, built in. Go through it all with her, bottom line being to make the house self-sufficient. Not depend on Red renewing the spells every week or so. Make it safe against anything that could reasonably be thrown at it. Including fire. Facing fire mages now, it seems. So an escape tunnel straight into the sewer line would be a good idea, if it can be dug from below, nothing showing.”
Xander was nodding as the points were specified. “All possible. Makes sense. Except you didn’t hear me say that.”
“Like I said, I don’t care to score points with this. Just want it done, the best way it can be done. Execution’s up to you. Parts where simple unskilled labor will do, I’ll provide whatever vamps you think will be enough. Like that escape tunnel, maybe. Can dust ‘em afterwards, so no chance of the word getting out.”
“You’re talking pharaoh’s tomb security here.”
“Something like. It’s disposable labor, and I figure you got no problem with dusting vamps.”
“None whatever. I’ll keep it in mind. I haven’t yet seen the downside of this,” Xander admitted, and his scent confirmed his expression and his words.
“Good. Don’t believe there is any. And one last thing.”
“Here comes the downside.” Wariness, again; and disappointment. So he’d bought into the basic idea.
“No, just a hair personal,” Spike replied. “Down in the basement, there’s a bed. Want it unbolted, disassembled, and moved to the far side of the basement. Set up there, bolted down again. Where the washer and the sink are. Means re-plumbing that part, to move the washer and what’s there now. That part of the basement closed off with a new wall and a door. Soundproofed, like a recording studio. Fixed up nice--carpet and everything. Lights that come on, but you can dial ‘em down to next to nothing, and you can’t see ‘em.”
“Recessed.”
Spike nodded. “’F that’s what you call it. Fitted up so it’s always warm there. And a full bath adjoining. Nice tub, down in the floor. Maybe other stuff I’ll think of, along the way. You don’t consult Buffy on that. That’s mine. Best if it could all be done in a couple of days--a weekend, maybe. Bring everybody in, do the work, and out.”
He and Xander traded stares, both of them likely knowing exactly what that new room was gonna be used for.
“And if Buffy asks?” Xander said finally.
“Then you show her. That part, you’ll have to say it’s my idea. My doing. ‘F you don’t want to explain, I suggest you figure out the best way to do it when she’s not apt to notice. If you need her away for awhile, a day or two, you let me know. I expect that can be arranged.”
“Ahuh. But what if she sees it and says no?”
“That’s not up to you. You tell me, or send her to me, and I’ll deal with it.”
“All right. That seems legitimate, since it’s your money and her house.”
“Till that whole thing can be done, take the bed apart and store it someplace. Out of the way. Out of her sight. Cover it up with something, I don’t care.”
What Spike felt about the bed fiasco, yesterday, was way past disappointment. But he’d shut it away. Made it part of another job, to be dealt with in its turn. By somebody else.
It’d been the shackles, he was certain, that had put Buffy off. Except for that, it would have been OK.
He wouldn't always need the shackles and manacles to feel she was protected when his demon came out to play and got a little overenthusiastic; a little heedless of the necessary care that had to be taken with a human, even the Slayer--not well defended at such times. Not on her guard against him. Vulnerable.
Mostly, when he wasn't stressed out about twenty other things, he could manage his demon well enough. Turn loose the way he needed to and no harm done, both of them well content and at good peace with each other. So this dead end they'd hit wasn't forever. Turn away, take a different direction, and go on. Look toward a later convergence, farther along.
Everything he was doing now was for the long haul. For what, properly put in place and set going, would last. Get through the bad patches however he had to and look to final result.
He told Xander, “The tunnel, though, that comes first. ‘Cause that’s a known danger, right now. ‘F you can use grunt labor, point and say ‘dig,’ you let me know and I’ll see you get it.”
Xander drummed his fingers on the desktop. “You’re talking major money here, you know. Thousands of dollars, even if I donate my time.”
“I know. Have to cost up the parts, do it piecemeal. There’s five thousand, to start. That’s the current kitty. There’ll be more as I can get more. Do the highest priority things first, and the cheapest. Put off whatever’s optional and pricey. Stagger it out. Come back with a schedule, maybe, in a couple days, after you talked it out with Willow, and maybe I can help tick off what needs to be first and what can wait.”
Xander stood up. “All right.” Leveling a finger at Spike’s chest, he added, “Remember, I’m not doing this for you: it’s for Buffy.”
“No argument.”
“And the basement sex pit, that’s last.”
“Agreed. Get the bed gone, though.”
“With pleasure!”
After Xander left, Spike went into the desk drawers for the pain-killers, made sure that was what they were, and swallowed four. Then he lit a cigarette and went back to the translation. Stupid bit about the exact procedure for raising a fire elemental he was having trouble working out. Verb tenses were iffy in Socha, so it was hard to be sure what was done in what order. Wrong order could take out, conservatively, a city block: elementals were vain and touchy, didn't like being bothered, and would take it out on their summoner, given the least flaw in the procedure. Maybe he could find another version of the spell in the C.O.W. archives and cross reference. Sometimes there was more than one way around, instead of beating your head against the blank wall and hoping something would give.
He was content that the Casa Summers project was well begun. It had been on his mind a long time--months. And always had Harris in mind for it, a natural fit. Always good to deal with somebody who knew his job, knew more about it than you did, and was reasonably reliable. Like Willow. Should be making more use of contractors, delegate things off and let them go, only need to check on them from time to time. Not all of it depending on him. Needed infrastructure, needed a proper court, not just the vamp equivalent of a raiding party.
Should be making provision for the education of the fledges he’d been palming off on Digger as he found them. Maybe assign Mike to judge which were promising and which would be a dead loss no matter what anybody did. Good practice for Mike, and Spike would be able to judge the result. Put that on the agenda.
**********
Some while after his conversation with Harris, Spike heard someone approaching, entering.
For the first instant, getting no contrary signals, he thought it was Kennedy, and said, “Get onto Huey. Want to see him before dark. He….”
Something about the silence alerted him. He looked up, frowning to focus, and it was Dawn. She did a little finger wave, smiling. Said, “Hi.”
Pink Saturday corduroy overalls over a yellow top with stitched daisies he’d bought for her at the mall. And a fuzzy pink sweater she was carrying. All matching and proper.
For a second, he hoped. But the smell was off. And the expression of her eyes wasn’t right. And it was all, all wrong in too many ways for him to put names to. He did a quick head-shake, refusing the imposture, and irritably fished out a cigarette.
Without being invited, she sat primly in one of the visitors’ chairs and laid the sweater on the desk like a small dead animal. “You don’t greet me. Yet that’s customary.” She waited a moment, then said, “You don’t respond.”
“None of that was a question, your highnesshood or whatever the hell you like being called.” He lit the cigarette and set the lighter down on the desktop with a precise little click.
“A question was implied, however.”
“I’m a vamp. I don’t do implied. What d’you want? Notice--that’s a question.”
“What makes you think I want anything? Doesn’t Dawn come visit you from time to time?”
Spike drew in smoke, shut his eyes, and held his temper. Wouldn’t do any good to make her mad. And it was pushing toward noon, and he was in bad headache mode now: about ready to chuck it all in for today, let the headache bleed off while he slept. Didn’t matter if he wasted a little time on the bint.
“Not lately. Wouldn’t mind if she could visit now. For instance.”
“That might be permitted,” Lady Gates responded. “If you’re cooperative.”
Eyes still shut, Spike considered that very seriously. Dawn a hostage to his good behavior, released as a reward and bait for more of the same. Hell with it. He’d take anything he could get. He looked at her. “Dawn first, cooperate later. Otherwise, bugger off. ‘M busy here.”
“Rudeness,” Lady Gates mused. “How interesting. So much variety of response. Very well, I have no objection Spike! You got to get me out of this!” She flung herself around the desk at him, banging the monitor and knocking piled papers off the edge, and he didn’t give a damn either, because he was both holding on and holding off, not quite sure this wasn’t another try at imposture.
Pointing at the back of his left hand, he demanded, “What’s this?”
Barely touching, her fingertip traced the beginning of the spiral tattoo, the green verse. “Your promise. But she could know that too, so that’s no good.”
Spike pulled her in against his shoulder, swiveling the chair so she slid up onto his lap. “No, Bit. She could know what it is, but not what it means. That’s ours. May not have much time here. Is she hurting you?”
“No,” Dawn admitted reluctantly, “but I’m hella bored! You should understand that! And she’s wearing my favorite clothes! It’s awful! And why’s Buffy all snappish and weepy and miserable? What have you done now?”
“Been dumb, is all. Like always. Bit, you know anything yet of how I can keep you here?”
She turned around to look at him, her eyes bright and flashing. “Not yet, but I’m on the hunt, promise. It’s open both ways, and there’s a lot to hunt through. She’s never done this before, but I’ve always been me, so that gives me an advantage. I can skinny through better than she can cramp in. When I know, I’ll tell you somehow, promise.” Her look turned sly. “I could do a lot of damage up there if I wanted. No locks, Spike! Except I don’t dare spread too thin, or else…I might forget I’m me.”
“Don’t you do that, then. You sit small and wait. We’ll work it out somehow. Don’t you risk yourself.” He kissed her forehead and took in her good smell, coming off her. Took awhile, he guessed, for it to gather and build. And then saw her eyes and pitched her away, as violently as if he’d found a snake in his lap. The poison couldn’t hurt him, but it was still nothing you wanted to find yourself cozying up to.
“Might give a bloke some warning,” he complained, swiveling away to have a second to control his disappointment, his sense of loss.
“Why are you so attached to the child?” Lady Gates inquired, behind him. “Perhaps she has power, and she’s brought leverage to bear at least once on your behalf. Yet you’ve never attempted to call on that. Why not?”
Spike shrugged, turning back toward her, collecting the cigarette smoldering on the desktop. “Not wearing an amulet. Not blocking you from seeing whatever you please. You want to know, go ahead and look.” He folded his arms.
“Value,” she commented slowly, “is a subjective thing. It’s value in a context. Within parameters. Defined by viewpoint and perspective. I can scan what you see…but the value you put on it is…peculiar.”
Spike shrugged. “Vamps are peculiar. What with being dead an’ all.”
“Don’t be dense: peculiar in the sense of individual. Particular. What an imprecise language this is!” Changing gears abruptly, she demanded, “What are you doing about the Fire Mages?”
“Bugger all. Not my department. You want to talk magic claptrap, you cozy up to Red.”
“But you know magic is real, and effective. You’ve had it used as a weapon against you. And you yourself have used it in the past. How can you afford to be so ignorant and dismissive of it?”
Spike gave her a level look. “I pick my fights. Magic, that’s a knife that cuts in all directions. Goddam buzzsaw. An’ you have to want it. Or the results, anyway. Clear and straight and strong enough to follow all the forms precisely and to the letter. About as much fun as doing income tax. Not been many times I wanted anything that much…or that way. And what I’ve seen tells me you never use magic: it uses you. Not real keen on being used.”
“I’d noticed.”
He let that pass. “’F these mages get sat on, shut up for good an’ all, will you be satisfied? Go back where you came from and let Bit be?”
“That’s not the point. You should be as much opposed to reopening the Hellmouth as we are. After all, your little exercise in kingdom-building would collapse, and quickly, with an influx of demons with no reason to respect your authority. You must know that! But…I see you don’t care. You know it. Yet it means very little to you. Why is that?”
“I deal with the part I can understand. Know how it’s going and which way it’s likely to jump. The rest, that’s somebody else’s to see to. You want to send me dreams, pictures, lay it all out who needs killing to stop this, I’ll maybe see my way to it. Like I did before. But I’m my own. I don’t serve you or circumstances. As best I can, I choose.”
“Yes, yes, yes: non serviam. We’ve had this conversation before.”
“Not my fault we’re havin’ it again, now is it? You hear, but you don’t like it, so you don’t take it in. Like me and magic. Like Buffy an’ vamps, except she’s got a little better about that, seems like. Can hold onto a name, oh, at least a minute and a half before it’s gone again.” Then he was angry, to have said anything critical of Buffy in the hearing of this creature. Mouth in gear, head disengaged. Typical. He stubbed the cigarette out. “Right now, there’s nothing more important to me than getting Dawn back the way she should be. Would let this all go smash, like you wanted, if that’s what it took.”
“Really?” Lady Gates smiled. “If I promise to withdraw, restore Dawn, you’ll abandon being Master of Sunnydale?”
“Not promise: do. Then we’ll see.”
Lady Gates smiled even more broadly. Dawn had a good mouth for that, when it was Dawn running things. Nobody had a better smile. This wasn’t it. “What,” inquired Lady Gates, “became of the promised cooperation?”
“This is it. Haven’t chucked you out, have I? Still talking, aren’t we?”
“I already knew you were annoying. There’s no need to reiterate it.”
“Haven’t begun to be annoying. For instance: here you are, in the body of a child of sixteen. Limited to that. What if I just up and bust both your legs? Get you stuck in bed for a couple months. Casts and bedpans and crutches. Traction, maybe. How would you like that? How long would you put up with it before you bailed?”
“You wouldn’t. You’d be doing it to Dawn.”
“Bit, she’d understand. She’d tell me, ‘Go ahead and do it!’ I know Bit. Right ruthless, she is, when it’s called for. She’d chalk it up to necessary damage, and bitch at me some, but underneath she’d be purely glad to get you gone. An’ if you don’t see that, you don’t see anything at all. I been real patient with you so far. Real polite. You give me reason to be otherwise, I’ll be otherwise. And won’t be me who regrets it. No soul here: remember? So if getting rid of those Fire Mages is the key, I’d be real busy about that if I were you instead of putting me behind in my translation.”
“I could unmake you,” said Lady Gates coldly.
“Not from there, you can’t. You’re playing on my ground now, and I know the rules a hell of a lot better than you do. And so does Bit. You listen to her awhile and see if that’s not true. Now get out before you put me behind schedule.”
“Really? I didn’t realize you ran on clockwork. What’s so important, that’s on your schedule?”
Spike shut off the computer the way you weren’t supposed to, with the switch. Didn’t matter: he had everything saved down. Then he turned out the light, which would leave her blind, except for the little strip of light that came through the gap in the barricade. He pushed the chair back from the desk, rose, and flopped down on the cot, loud enough that she could hear each motion. Then, effortlessly and immediately, with the satisfaction of having set two more things running under adequate supervision, he shut himself down and was asleep.
**********
It was dumb to feel shy. It was dumb to feel blinding, murderous jealousy of Huey, who watched him warily while Spike talked to him and not to Mike. Stood there in the office like the goddam fucking bookkeeper he was, greasy fair hair tied back in a tail like a goddam hippy, face all angular and closed like he’d laugh if he dared. Dumb to feel awkward and oversized, like he couldn’t move and not knock into something, like he’d just bumped a pile of papers onto the floor and admit, yes, had to go down on his knees and pick the fucking things up, paw them into a pile, and set them back on the desk again, Spike not letting on he took any notice like he didn’t know or didn’t care Mike was standing there, glowering, in his T-shirt that read I will so fuck your shit UP! which was probably dumb too, but that was how he’d felt, waking, taking the call, hearing Spike’s voice telling him he was needed. Felt like he could fuck anybody’s shit up, stomp into the ground anybody Spike pointed him at, get the bike and roar over, and here’s fucking Huey practically laughing at him, evidently needed more, wanted more, being told what to do and nodding while Mike stood aside and waited like a goddam fucking moron in a stupid shirt.
Wasn’t Huey’s sire. Never let goddam Huey feed from him, or at least he better not have or Huey was gone, was dust. Sleek beautiful Spike, all silver and quicksilver, who’d made him take the watch back and given him the pocket phone, who Mike would never never betray no matter what Digger did or said, dust Digger first and he’d offered but Spike had said no, Digger was needed for the fledges, so Mike figured he had to let the old lizard be for this while though that was dangerous, dangerous, hell with the fledges, better to have the fucking old spider gone, with his big froggy mouth and his goddam wheedling.
“Michael.” Spike was talking to him. Had taken notice of him, finally. Mike sullenly consented to show he was listening. “Asked Huey, here, to quit over at Willy’s and be up here full time, to run this show.”
“I could do that,” Mike mentioned.
“An’ dress up in a tutu and a tiara, keep the troops amused, and if you tell me you’d do that, too, we’ll all know what a fucking idiot you are, now won’t we?”
“Tell you what I think of that. When he’s not here.”
“Need you for other things,” Spike commented easily, like the whole earth didn’t hang by that, thrummed and resounding like a touched guitar string, the one note, the one focus. Spike glanced up at Huey, the glance a question and Huey’s nod the response, all so fucking intimate like no words needed between them, everything understood when Mike didn’t understand anything except how much he wanted, now that he’d had a taste. Wanted more. Wanted all. Never could be enough that he wouldn’t want more.
As Huey left, sent off about his business, Spike smiled at Mike, still all easy. Collected. Distant. Mike wanted to hit him a good one to make him come out of that distance and truly attend. Didn’t do it because then Spike might not love him anymore, the most terrifying thought there could be. So Mike just stood there like a lump, waiting to be told what he should do so Spike would still love him. Stupid. Who’d ever want to love a dumbass stupid needy lump like he was?
Should be all cool distance, like Spike was. Tried. Failed miserably. Tried to fake it anyway, hold himself still. Spike was contemptuous of whoever couldn’t control their demon. So he’d do that, or at least not let on different, though the demon was begging, groveling for acknowledgement, approval. Didn’t mean Mike had to.
Still smiling, Spike remarked quietly, “You’re still an idiot, Michael,” and it wasn’t so bad with nobody else to hear, and it was Spike noticing him, so it wasn’t really bad at all.
“Yeah,” Mike admitted, hanging his head. “I guess.”
“But you’re my idiot and some of this will ease back for you, once the new wears off. Be easy with yourself, lad.”
Not looking up, Mike asked, “What do I need to do to earn another taste? Not much, just a taste.”
“Nothing whatever. Don’t have to earn it. Whenever you need it. Not for what you do. For what you are. Mine. Claimed and named.”
“Not marked, though.”
Spike chuckled, which at the same time made Mike furious and wildly happy. “Well now, wouldn’t that start talk. Marked you half a dozen times already, feeding from you, you loon.”
“Marks all healed smooth, you know that. Don't last. And it wasn't for me. Just on account of I’d had some of Dawn’s blood and you’d take it that way. Not for me at all.”
“Sometime, maybe. You got to grow into this. Or out of this, I’m not sure which. How’d your date with Lady Power go, tell me?”
Mike muttered, “Need it now.”
“What?”
“Need it now. Just a taste, for remembering.”
“Want’s not need. Give you awhile, you’ll know the difference. At least some of the time. Wake up now, Michael, and report. Tell me how Lady Power liked the movie.”
“Couldn’t make head nor tail of it,” Mike recollected slowly. “Me neither, but I didn’t care. You paid, not me. Popcorn tastes like nothing. No taste at all. Don’t know why anybody pays money for it. Explosions were nice, though grenades don’t go like that, with sparks and everything.”
“Poetic license.”
“No, special effects. It’s how they do because they can’t show the guts, not with that rating. Got to show something, so pretty colors and sparks. Metaphorical. She talked through the whole thing. We had to move to the back, everybody trying to shush her but she wouldn’t take no notice. Asking about the why of everything, not the what. Wondering why nobody didn’t use magic to get out of things, and not a witch in sight. Wasn’t no magic in the movie world, but she wouldn’t believe that, just thought they were dumb. Didn’t do much of a job explaining to her but the best I could. Didn’t even hit her once because you said. And anyway it was partly Dawn, and Dawn would get me after if I did. You said she’d know.”
“Expect so. She was here a little while, this morning. Bit. She’s pissed off, of course, but hopeful. It’s home to her, after all. She’s not like us. Do you begin to see that, a little?”
Mike nodded unhappily. “She didn’t come out for me. All that while. Not even on the bike, and she loves the bike, Dawn does. Why’d she come out for you, and not for me?”
“Lady Gates, she’s still angling for a good handle on me, so she hangs out the bait every now and again. Works, too: hard to see her, then lose her, between one blink and the next…. Still, I expect you had the better evening of it, of the pair of us.”
“Figured.”
Spike shot him a look. “Why?”
“About the first time I can’t smell her on you. Chains, that’s generally a bad idea, except with vamps. Could have told you that. Spooks ‘em.” Waking up, bleary as a fledge, he'd been sent to inspect, see the job was all to specifications. Wondered about it quite a bit, after--how it'd gone. Seemed more than iffy, to him; but not his call. And no chance to check back, afterward, till now. No need to ask: smell was sufficient. Mostly, you always knew who'd been fucking who recently, not that it meant much to anybody but Spike. He was peculiar that way.
“Yeah, well. You know how it is--have to find everything out for yourself, first-hand, or it doesn’t sink in proper. Telling’s no use. Got to learn everything the hard way. Me the same as you. All vamps alike, that way.”
“Just a taste.”
“No, and leave off about it. It’s embarrassing, Michael. And s’not a thing for everyday. Only for special. And the looking forward is a part of it.”
“Don’t like the looking forward. Hell with it.”
“Then you’ll just have to learn to appreciate it, won’t you? Like I'm doing," Spike added sourly, and at once changed the subject. "Got a bunch of volunteers, want to wear the colors, lined up outside.”
“Yeah. Saw ‘em. Scruffy bunch.”
“Kept ‘em waiting a couple hours now, get them up on their toes, those that are worth anything. Want you to sort through ‘em for me--which ones you figure are teachable and which ones are a waste of the space. Sheep and goats. Could use ‘em all if they all suit. Don’t want none that will be more trouble than they’re worth, have to be watching ‘em every second. Don’t want none gonna run from a fight or can’t take punishment without a grudge after. But you sort ‘em however you think is best, for what’s gonna be needed from them. Don’t dust none of the ones you don’t choose. Come back and tell me, and I’ll have a look. See how you done. All right?”
“I can do that!”
“Do it, then. And afterward, gonna take ‘em on a sweep, pass through Digger’s territory.”
Mike went all alert. “He know about this?”
“Not yet, he doesn’t.”
“Might be mistaken. For an attack.”
“Don’t think there’ll be any mistake. None that can’t be handled. Gonna consider the fledges he’s been collecting over there. They’re gonna need teaching, and not just from Digger. He don’t know but to work ‘em to starvation, then shove 'em all out into the morning before he'll let the rest feed, those that can fight their way back in before they dust. Lose a good half of ‘em that way, that might have been useful, fed up and encouraged somewhat. You know how he does: did you that way, except you were one of the lucky ones. Want my pick of the unluckies before shove time comes. You up for that?”
“You know I am.”
“Just giving you the option, is all. Get going then. Let me know when you done the sort, and we’ll go on from there.”
“Taste after, maybe? If I do good?”
Spike laughed and gave him a backhand cuff in the belly, which was what Mike had expected and wanted, and it was nearly as good.
**********
When Mike had divided the prospects, he went back and told Spike, who returned with him to the factory floor to inspect the result: eight, somewhat bruised, to one side, and a glum fourteen to the other--the rejects. Three of the fourteen flat out on the floor but not dusted, because that had been the instructions. And Amanda off to the side, well away from both groups, talking to Huey who was also keeping an eye on her in case somebody got impatient.
The rest of Spike’s crew lounging variously roundabout, in the colors, looking on.
“All right,” Spike said, “tell me how you sorted.”
Confident of his method and in fact quite pleased with himself, Mike explained. First he’d set aside all the hopeful fledges. Well, actually, first he’d called ‘Manda, who’d mostly do what he said, and her being so homely, seemed a good bet she wouldn’t have a date or anything, of a Saturday night.
Spike flashed a look to ‘Manda, sighed and lifted a hand, not exactly a wave. She nodded, all purse-mouthed and annoyed. Mike didn’t know what that was about, figured he didn’t care, and rolled on.
With the fledges set aside and the rest ordered to maintain human face, Mike had sent Amanda strolling past them a fair way off--past striking distance. Any that couldn’t hold and went for her, they were out. Also any that lapsed back to trueface, even if they didn’t budge. Then he sent her past again, closer. Same rules. A few more rejected, same reasons, but a bit more forcefully because three came at her in a bunch and Mike had to hammer them down before they could get at her too bad. And ‘Manda took out a pair with her taser, that Mike had made sure she’d brought with her. All the vamps bare-handed, of course. But no vamp could ever be truly disarmed. Even a fledge was more than a match for most humans.
SITs could be risked, up to what they could be reasonably expected to handle, but not wasted. SITs were valuable, Mike forgot exactly why. But he’d taken good care, all the same.
Spike nodded neutrally, still looking the prospects over. “Then what?”
“Roughed up the rest, told them to stand and take it. Ones that came back at me, I put down. They were out. Then told what was left to come at me. One hung back. She was out, too. So.” Mike waved at the eight, who’d come through the testing in good shape. Though Mike was certain he’d made a good sort, he was more nervous than he hoped he looked, waiting for Spike’s approval.
Spike first went and talked to Huey for a few minutes. Mike watched anxiously, wishing he knew what they were saying. Returning, Spike summoned one of the women fledges, and she came to him promptly, head high, silently waiting. A flip of Spike’s hand sent her to join the eight.
“She was at the class,” Spike explained. “Did what she was told in good order. An’ was up here every night before that, wanting to get in. Willing to do housekeeping, which we’re in sore need of. Worth giving her a try.”
Mike nodded impassively, understanding that his choice wasn’t being criticized, just adjusted on account of different information he hadn’t had.
Spike selected two more rejects, one that Huey’d seen in a fight at Willy’s and thought well of, and the other a woman, the one who’d hung back in the free-for-all. Spike picked her because she knew music and could play blues harmonica, which Mike considered bizarre, though he didn’t say so.
“Starting a court, here,” Spike commented, throwing a glance up at him. “More to that than fucking and fighting.”
“If you say,” responded Mike agreeably.
Then Spike pulled out two of the approved group and sent them to the rejects. One was a whiner, Spike said, and the other was “a mean son of a bitch” and troublemaker Spike didn’t want to have anything to do with. “Now that lot,” Spike said, lighting a cigarette and gesturing at the rejects with it, “you can leave to fend for themselves, masterless. Or you can keep ‘em. For yours. All the districts need bulking up. Fledges, they might be teachable: too soon to tell. An’ the hopeless gits, well, they’re the goats. Let the rest practice on ‘em till they’re used up. Or I might take ‘em off your hands later for a project I got running, not quite to the stage to use ‘em yet. Bit of digging. Anyway, your call.”
Mike got the strong impression Spike wanted him to take them. He wished Spike would just say so, flat out, so he’d know what to do. Putting it as a choice meant he might choose wrong. But then again, taking ‘em didn’t oblige Mike to anything, really: could always turn ‘em out or dust ‘em later. Spike had made plain that District Masters didn’t have to give account to him for internal matters. Could do as they pleased in that respect.
“All right. OK if I send Benny to show them where to go?”
“Benny’s gone.”
“Oh. Deuce, then.” Mike read that answer in Spike’s face and made a point of looking around, to see who actually was left. “Mary?”
“Yeah, all right.”
“Must have been some party,” Mike commented, after giving Mary her marching orders. “Pity I missed it.”
“Yeah.” Spike pitched the butt and stepped on it in a way that let Mike know the subject of the mass culling wasn’t something Spike wanted to talk about. Walking off, he said, “Get them kitted out, so we’ll know who’s ours and who’s not. Huey, show them the spare gear.”
“Women, too?” Mike called after him.
“Everybody. Gonna run a sweep.”
Regulars and recruits, they were twenty-two strong when everybody was set. Too many for the one car they had, the junkheap old Ford sedan that was nobody’s now. One of the newbies, called himself “Bingo,” had to tinker it to get it started, the keys having been lost when the car’s owner got dusted. Lots of subtle reminders, like the smell of the “spare” shirts the newbies were wearing and the way the regulars minded orders immediately and kept well wide of Spike. That last, likely a good thing. Mike kept close. And so was disappointed when Spike detailed him to run the newbies through the pipes to the mark while the regulars rode. Good to get them acquainted with the belowground ways, though, he supposed.
The mark was the parking lot of the Vons supermarket on Beloit, used to be a Safeway but got eaten, at the eastern edge of downtown. By the time Mike got there, the regulars had already been sent on their sweep: checking for the smell, as he and Spike had done, Thursday night. Mike wouldn’t forget that sweep anytime soon….
Spike introduced the newbies to the smell with one of the last of the tiny sample bottles. Then he passed out stakes and divided them into two groups with himself and Mike as the leads, and they made a start at teaching the newbies about lead and second, flanking, and moving together as a loose unit, on opposite sides of the street.
Skirmishers, as Mike thought of it.
A slightly different formation and attention range because they were all vamps and none of them armed with rifles or any distance weapons, so they could see and sense at a much greater range than they could take action. A lot of casting about: more like a pack of hounds seeking a trail than like a squad moving toward a known objective. No need to move from cover to cover, either. All of them right out in the open at an easy lope. Fast enough to cover ground quickly and not miss anything, not a full-out run that would draw attention in a suburban neighborhood.
But the variations were slight and the whole flow of movement and attention so habitual to Mike, from the life before, that he was at once aware of anybody falling behind or going off on their own, any departure from the set parameters, and corrected it with a word or a blow when a word didn’t bring instant obedience. Or on general principles, to enforce his authority.
Vamp dominance games, Mike thought, and smiled. He liked them. Because he mostly won. Except for Spike, and that was as it should be. Some day he’d take Spike, too; but he knew he wouldn’t be fit for another try for some time yet. A few of the deeper bruises from his last try still gave the occasional twinge when he moved wrong or reached too suddenly.
All in its own time, and in good order.
One of the newbies caught the smell and signaled with a lifted hand, like a hound going to point. Mike whistled high, and Spike’s squad veered to follow. Mike sent the newbie ahead to point position, as a scout. The smell took them to a drug store. Point and two flankers went in while the rest waited outside. When it got to five minutes, Spike named a new mark, a gas station, and took his squad on. Point and flankers came out shortly after, locked onto a woman and two teenaged-girls obliviously chatting together. Mike’s squad shadowed them to a new green Plymouth Fury. Took out a vamp who made a move on the trio--quick and clean, dusted before they’d noticed anything, still chatting. Followed the Fury on home--no problem staying with a car doing well under the 35 mph speed limit--and saw them safely inside, no further incident. A couple of vamps on the street, a little way down, but they stayed clear and Mike let them be.
He called the point man aside, asked his name.
“Len. Sir.”
“Military.” Wasn’t a question: Mike already knew.
“Yessir. Nam. Then some freelance.”
“Ahuh. Age?”
“Coming on eighteen. Sir.”
Mike took good note of the vamp’s appearance and smell. Three times Mike’s age, since being turned. Mike supposed that made him something like a baby lieutenant. “Rules are a little different, Len. You call me by my name. But when we’re on a sweep, or on the hunt, I’m God.”
Len smiled comfortably. “Got that, sir. Mike.”
“Naming you second, for tonight. You watch my signs and do well, you’ll stay there. Mess up, and you’re in with the goats, like Spike said. If I don’t get peeved and dust you myself. All clear?”
“Clear, sir.”
“Lead out, then. The mark’s the Exxon station at Grandview.” Looking around at the squad, Mike added, “Anybody catches the smell, make a sign.”
One of the squad, a woman, the fledge from the class, asked, “When do we hunt?”
“When Spike says,” Mike answered shortly. As the squad moved out, Mike moved alongside her, again noting appearance and smell. “How old?”
“Not quite a year. I was in college. Got caught--” She stopped herself, maybe realizing her history was of less than no interest.
“Name?”
“Jenna.”
“You’re on the bubble, Jenna. I culled you out, Spike put you back. You’ll be seen to in due course. Nobody will starve in this crew. Watch your mouth. Won’t tell you twice.”
“Yes. OK. Clear.”
Mike let himself drop back to rearguard position, watching how they moved, attending to his sense of vamps hunting roundabout, the abrupt sunburst flare of bloodsmell as one made a kill. He noted which in the squad reacted to it and which didn’t. Jenna nearly broke formation, then steadied. She’d need to feed tonight. Have to make provision for that. But Spike would know. No need to bother about it himself.
Mike liked sweeps. Better with an all-out fight, but good regardless. Knowing clearly what he was about, what the objective was, how to think and do. All that taken care of. Feeling that he fit, belonged. Everything simple.
Meeting at the mark, Spike asked him where Digger’s newest excavation and shoring were apt to be. Mike told him. Spike named that as the mark and they all went to it. In the open, aboveground, no attempt whatever at stealth.
Digger didn’t put out sentries, as such. But his people were on the hunt throughout the district, his own territory, and seeing a bunch of vamps moving together, in force, they’d send out an alarm. Mike caught the high, warbling signal rise and repeat, close and distant. Not the signal for a lone poacher or two but with the sudden drop-off deeper end-tone that signaled attack. Digger never changed his signals: Mike knew them all.
If he heard it, Spike heard it. Had therefore figured on it. So it must be all right. Even though the signal was repeating from many directions, roundabout.
The entrance here was in a cemetery, Shady Rest--a crypt labeled MORRIS. A bunch of vamps spilled out of it, far more than the crypt could have contained. They mostly had shovels. A few stakes, poles, sharpened baseball bats: weaponry kept by the entrance, to be snatched up at need.
Passing the graveyard entrance, Spike said, “Any with dirty hands, put ‘em down, keep ‘em down. Hurt ‘em, all right. Don’t stake ‘em.”
“Right,” Mike responded. When the squads stayed mum, Mike directed harshly, “If you heard, sing out!”
That roused a muttered, nervous chorus of “Right” from both squads.
Mike knew to take the right and moved through his squad fast to take them that way. The two groups closed. More vamps came in from behind and around but there was no signal to bring them in, so they stayed clear, sensed but not seen for the most part.
The dirty-handed fledges fought frantically. Knew they wouldn’t be allowed back inside if they didn’t. Mike took on the ones with the shovels, that had sharpened edges, could behead a vamp if you didn’t look out for them. Left the squads to deal with the stakes and other miscellaneous weaponry. If you didn’t want ‘em staked, had to get ‘em disarmed or the stakes would be used against them. There were some accidents of that sort--lost harmonica-girl that way: dusted, gone--because the fighting was completely disorganized, a free-for-all brawl, the squad not dividing into fighting units, lead and second, like they should. Hadn’t been taught that yet. Except Mike noticed Len had snagged himself a couple of seconds, was doing the fledges more methodically: take one down, leave the seconds to finish, single out another and do the same, while others were stupidly struggling hand to hand by pairs or random threes, back and forth across the ground.
Numbers had started about even, but with Spike briskly putting fledges down with a baseball bat, an economical swat to the head or face and move on as they fell, Mike doing what he was, and Len effectively putting down another every minute or so, wasn’t long before the remainder of the two squads were the only ones still standing.
“Howdy, Spike.” Digger was leaning in the crypt door, fussing at his nails with his preferred weapon, a wickedly long knife. “To what do we owe this honor?”
“Hullo, Digger,” Spike responded, turning, casually brushing dust off his thighs. “Wanted to have a look at the fledges you been collecting. Sorry lot, I must say.”
“They’re eating me out of house and home, the fuckers. Thought that was the idea, you sending ‘em to me in wholesale bunches, rile up the whole district, feeding ‘em. Presents. Like the sacred elephants get sent to enemies, bankrupt ‘em with the upkeep.”
“Oh, I dunno, we been getting on well enough, last few days, anyhow. How it goes. And I figured you’d have no problem with the upkeep. Always been thrifty about that, I’m told.”
“Howdy, Mike,” said Digger, and Mike nodded inattentively, counting heads, motioning the squads back into something like formation in case Digger called in the vamps roundabout to make a real fight of it.
“You always got a use for fledges,” Spike remarked. “And you’re short-handed. Figured you had the most need of ‘em, of the districts.”
“Not quite so short-handed as I was,” Digger replied pointedly, looking around into the dark. “Been working on that, since you cut me back to cow-tenders and the household help, ‘bout a week back.”
“Good on you, then. Wouldn’t have expected less. Now you got ‘em all broke in, culled the ones needed culling, thought I’d take a few back off your roster. Got a job of work coming up, needs extra hands. I’m not particular. Don’t need ‘em for fighting, which is a good thing, since they made a pretty pathetic show of it. Leave you the best, take the rest.”
“Got no objection to that,” Digger decided slowly, after a moment’s consideration. “Ain’t got that much invested in ‘em, by way of food. Always glad to oblige.”
Spike laughed, then sobered. “You fledges, stand up.”
Mike moved quickly to Sue, that he’d spotted during the fight. He set his hand on her shoulder and leaned hard when she tried to rise against it. She had a dent and a spreading bruise across her forehead: from Spike’s bat, most likely. Figured Spike would have taken her down first and fast, to keep her out of the general fight. Her eyes were strange, and Mike figured she didn’t altogether know what she was doing--just automatically responding to the order, doing what those around her were doing, if they were able.
Mike leaned hard again, forcing her down. Finally, covertly, he popped her one on the chin, which folded her satisfactorily. Hadn’t the sense of a pea.
A little more than half the fledges were able to waver to their feet. Hadn’t done them any severe damage, after all.
“You lot,” said Spike, surveying the standing fledges, “you go on back to what you were doing.” Looking to Digger, he added, “I’ll take the rest,” flipping a hand to indicate those that were still down.
“Fine by me. Do that,” said Digger, turning back into the crypt.
The standing fledges followed him, and the surrounding vamps faded away.
Took about fifteen minutes to get the remainder of the fledges conscious, more or less, and fit to move. Wasn’t so much the damage: most all of them were starved and showed it in their bony, skull-like faces, sticklike limbs, and dull eyes. They went as they were pushed or hauled, just like they’d been pushed into the fight. To delay things, just cannon fodder, until the adult vamps could arrive.
On his own, Len collected Sue, having noted that Mike had made sure she wasn’t in the group delivered back to Digger. A little too quick on the uptake for Mike’s tastes: have to keep an eye on him in particular.
If Spike named a mark, Mike didn’t hear it, just following along, keeping the newbies on track and together as they recovered, detailing them to keep the disoriented fledges going however they had to.
They all felt it together: prey approaching. The fledges burst forward. Uncontrollable, unless they were dusted. Spike stood in the street, calmly watching, as they took the prey down and frantically fed.
Looking around, Mike recognized the location: Mulberry and Sycamore, near the all-night drugstore. One of the preferred meeting places for drug dealers and their customers. Three, that Mike spotted right off, casual and conspicuous on the corners, under the streetlights.
Strolling nearer, Spike directed, “Squads on the fledges, two to one. Spread ‘em out. Take the buyers as they leave. Leave the dealers for bait, until last. If they’re in cars, let the cars move at least a block clear before they’re taken. Fledges feed first, then the handlers can have any left over. Clear?”
“Clear, Spike. Everybody gets well. And high, besides. You do know how to throw a party,” commented Mike, grinning.
“Yeah, well. See to it, then.” Spike moved off, rubbing the back of his neck like he was annoyed about something, Mike couldn’t imagine what, since everything had gone off pretty much without a hitch.
No matter. Just one of Spike’s moods. Mike started pairing up the newbies with the dazed fledges, setting up the ambush points in convenient alleys and behind parked cars at a suitable distance from the bait.
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