Chapter Nine

Till We Run Out Of Road




This was not at all what he anticipated.

The trip thus far had greeted him with several complications. Namely, Angel Investigations had not been where he left it, and no one seemed willing to discuss its new location. It took every connection he had in Los Angeles, and given the notion that his reputation preceded him, it cost him more time than he would have liked.

Things didn’t lighten up when his search ended.

He didn’t know what he had been expecting. A hug. A scream. A frying pan over the head. The Hyperion was impressive, he admitted, but not impenetrable. Given that the last time he visited the City of Angels, the lobby alone looked to be a haven of rats and the upstairs had a reputation that put his factory back in Sunnydale to shame. From the outside looking in, though, a begrudging admittance conceded that his grandsire had done proper for himself. It was most definitely an improvement from the two-bit offices that were in service upon last visit.

Hotels were especially accommodating, and he considered it very thoughtful that the faithful staff had deemed it so for his usage.

There were surface concerns, of course. When Angelus was last loose, the first thing he did was scout out everything that made him reek of humanity. This being the center of operations, he figured it would have been hit first at full blast. However, the scent of blood was nowhere in the vicinity; at least not of the fresh, human variety. The elder vampire might be lacking in his torturing methods come the new century, but there was always blood. Always.

Except there wasn’t. The place was clean. As clean as a very large hotel could be. And yet the address was right. His informant—a lowlife demon by the name of Merle—assured him that this was the center of the Angel Investigations team, and he had no qualm in releasing the coordinates as Angelus would likely come after him next, and he would sleep easier if he knew someone of equal power was here to stop him.

Spike didn’t disclose that his intentions in no way circulated stopping Angelus. He wasn’t going to allow himself to think that far ahead. As long as the Slayer was unharmed, he was just as satisfied with anything else that happened in the city.

At least he told himself.

It was just minutes after sunset when he reached the hotel. After peeking in and confirming that everyone, while most definitely there, were elsewhere, he made to move inward.

And was propelled a good ten feet back at his presumption.

“Bloody fuck!” he roared, more out of surprise than pain. When he raised his head to gauge the invisible barrier, he was honestly surprised that the shield wasn’t sparkling or something equally retarded. The regular rules of vampiric entrance weren’t supposed to apply to public accommodations, and even though he had been fool enough to test out his abilities on invitation hijinxes before, the ending result had never been as powerful.

There was nothing.

In all rationality, it seemed probable that Angel would have cast some sort of invitation spell on the place to keep out all the nasty vamps that were out for his blood because of his treachery. A rush of pride flushed through his system to think he might have inspired the new system. All washed the next second with the realization that the Great Poof would see that as a form of weakness, and soul or not, he couldn’t stand weakness. He had nearly killed himself for appearing weak once—unfortunately stopped by his lady fair who simply couldn’t allow him to die like that.

Why was anyone’s guess.

It occurred to him upon second approach that he might not be the most welcome face to wipe his feet at the door. Well, they bloody well better appreciate it. After all, in a roundabout way he was there to benefit them.

He wondered arbitrarily if the Angel Investigations team had multiplied in employees since his visit last year. Cordelia would be here, he knew. The little halfling was another definite. Both were way too faithful to the poofter to up and leave him because of something as miscellaneous as a squabble in payroll.

These hero-types were the same everywhere he went.

Spike brushed himself off and stepped up to the entryway once more, peering inside. No difference. The lobby was still vacant. The upper hallways, best to his line of visibility, were empty as well. The scents and presentiment that the hotel was inhabited lingered—perhaps even stronger than before.

Back to the sodding basics.

“’Ello!” he shouted, his own Cockney brogue echoing back at him. “Anyone in there?”

A few seconds.

Nothing.

“Oh sod it, I know damn well that everyone’s home. No use playin’ hide an’ go seek. Come out an’ greet your guest right an’ proper.”

Nothing.

It was time to resort to dirty warfare.

“Cordelia! I ‘ave one of your frilly li’l shirts an’ I’m gonna rip it apart yarn by yarn ‘till you come down an’ bloody well let me in!”

At that, someone appeared at the veranda. Someone with much shorter hair than he remembered but eyes that he would know anywhere. A grin, unbidden, rose to his lips and he waved teasingly from the doorway. “Knew you couldn’t resist.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Cordelia Chase replied, rolling her eyes. “I’m just coming down to tell you that 1) You’re so not invited in and 2) You couldn’t possibly have any of my clothing, because of the aforementioned number one. Besides, you don’t even know where I live.”

“This big ambiguous hotel doesn’ leave much to the imagination, luv.”

“Yuck! You think I live at work? Puhlease. Hasn’t Angel told you anything? Or are you just trying to wheedle an invitation over at my digs, ‘cause I gotta tell you, that wouldn’t do you any good, either.” Even from their respective distance, he could tell she was smiling rather proudly. “Dennis would so kick your ass.”

He rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Listen, Cordy, be a dear an’—”

“It’s not gonna happen, Bleach Boy. Deal with it.”

“Oh for cryin’…I’m here to help you!”

Someone else was present now. Someone who wasn’t the little Irish bugger. He took that as an affirmative to his earlier unvoiced query. “I find that rather unlikely,” a very British, twenty-year-younger-sounding-Giles said as a reasonably good-looking bloke took side next to the woman on the terrace. “As we explained to Angelus earlier, we are well aware of what has happened, as well as the objective to—”

“So Angelus did drop by here earlier?” It wasn’t so much a question as an observation. Spike raised a hand to the invisible barrier and lightly skimmed the surface—just enough so that it tickled. “Nice mojo. Your handiwork, Cor?”

“I had some help.”

“From the halfling I take it.” He rolled onto his toes to see further up the corridor, but it was no use. “Guess he’s comin’ down next, eh?”

At that, a very somber beat flushed through the lobby, and he knew he had said something very wrong.

Deathly wrong.

Oh. Best to change the subject.

“But I like it. Very posh.” His hands dropped to his sides and he redirected his gaze to the duo, growing more aggravated. “But highly unneeded. I’m on your side, here!”

“You’re a member of the Order of Aurelius,” the man observed.

Spike’s eyes widened comically and he felt his chest as though needing to verify his realism to satisfy any lingering doubts. “You’re kiddin’. I am? Well, isn’t that neat. You learn somethin’ new every day. Yeh, Dru already gave me the run through. I should say, Darla gave me the run through, then Dru decided to reiterate. But I bloody turned ‘em down. I’m here to help!”

“Out of the goodness of your heart, I suppose?”

“No, actually, for a girl. This jus’ ‘appens to be a side-effect.” He tapped his cranium. “All more besides, even ‘f I did ‘ave evil intentions, I have a cute li’l government chip that gives me a bloody buzzer of a shock ‘f I so much as lift a finger against one of you humanly types. You happy? Now bloody well lemme in!”

Cordelia snickered. “Yes, because we make a habit of trusting vampires based on word of mouth.”

“Wanna come down ‘ere so I can give yeh a demo?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Listen, you daft bint, your fearless leader an’ his tarty li’l sire have Buf…the Slayer an’ they’re doin’ God-knows-what to her. You want a Slayer death on your conscience? Tha’s the only reason I’m here.”

“Oh, to save Buffy?” A snicker. “Yeah, I’m buying that.”

A new voice permeated into the corridor, and the two on the veranda were made complete by the third resident of the hotel. He knew the man was the last on sensory alone; would have bet his smokes on it. The newcomer looked tougher than either Cordelia or the British bloke combined. He glanced down, took in a full glance of the waiting vampire in the doorway, and started with a small laugh. “No wonder I couldn’t concentrate. We’re under attack by Billy Idol.”

Spike rolled his eyes. “For the last bloody time, that git stole my look an’ what the hell do you have to be concentratin’…forget it. Listen, Cordy, I know we’ve had our differences in the past. There was that entire ‘me trying to kill you’ thing, which I take the blame for much as you do. I’ve seen the error of my ways an’ all that rot. ‘F you don’ trust me—which honestly, I wouldn’t either—phone up Rupert. ‘E’ll give it you straight.”

At that, Cordelia’s gaze softened.

The man next to her tapped the British gent and gestured emphatically into the lobby. “Who is this guy?”

“William the Bloody,” the other retorted, surprising him. “Better known as Spike. Grandchilde of Angelus, childe of Drusilla.”

“You mean there’s more to this family tree?” The darker man shook his head. “Man, I was wigged enough as it was.”

Spike was impressed. While he suspected that the Order was being studied, the first man seemed to have his facts down fairly straight. He jutted his chin at him showily and grinned. “’Ey mate, you seem familiar.” It was a lie, but a good icebreaker, nonetheless. “’Ave I threatened you before?”

At that, the man straightened reasonably. “I am Wesley Wyndam-Pryce,” he introduced. “Former Watcher. In fact, I was Buffy—”

“Oh right,” the vampire interrupted, sparks of recollection flying behind his gaze. “You’re the wanker who turned that other Chosen bint all rogue. Right. Buffy’s told me ‘bout you.” He chuckled and presented him with a thumbs-up. “Nice goin’.”

“Hey, we don’t talk about that around here,” Cordelia intervened; waving a dismissive hand as though that didn’t cut just as deeply. Spike had to smother a chuckle. The bird did have stones. He had always respected that about her. “Anyway, what was that you were saying about calling Giles?”

“I owe the bloke a call anyway. Told ‘im I’d keep in contact.” He rolled on his heels and started impatiently. “So are you gonna lemme in or not? Get somethin’ wooden an’ pointy ‘f it’ll make you feel better. But ‘m here to help, okay? Couldn’t not help ‘cause of the chip anyway.”

The woman was considering, gnawing at her lip. As an afterthought, she turned to Wesley. “I suppose we could have him sing for the Host.”

“Or you could have a vision,” the man he hadn’t yet been introduced to suggested. There was a hint of dry subterfuge at the end of his tone, as though he didn’t care one way or another. Spike decided immediately that he liked him as well, that Billy Idol comment notwithstanding. “Come on. What do we have to lose?”

“Tha’s what I’ve been sayin’ since I got here!”

There was a second’s hesitation. Cordelia evidently reached decision and turned to Wesley, keeping her eyes studiously trained on the doorway as though the barrier was going to magically come down of its own accord. “Go get the crossbow.”

Ten minutes later, he was hovered over the front desk, nodding into the phone as he reassured the anxious Watcher once more of his good intentions. After teasing the hotels reluctant caretakers for a few endless seconds, he conceded the receiver to Wesley so the man might verify the same. There was a series of contended ‘ohhs’ and ‘I see’s’ before he nodded to Cordelia and the other man (who had kept the aforementioned crossbow trained on the vampire throughout the entire introduction process) that Spike’s story checked. He also added, slightly surprised, that the Watcher’s Council had arrived in Sunnydale. The Cockney nodded in confirmation that he had been expecting it, and ended on a note promising to call if they obtained any information.

“Okay,” Cordelia said once everything was in the clear. She was shaking her head as though to wake from an increasingly perplexing dream, and all but groaned when the vampire’s image refused to fade from tangibility. “You’ve officially snagged my attention. Why are you here to help? Last time I saw you, you all but tortured Angel to death and—”

“Yeh, yeh, good times an’ all that rot.” Spike was grinning even if he knew it was dangerous. He was, after all, surrounded by a lot of ponces who were loyal to his wanker of a grandsire, but the memory was a happy one, and he would never deny it. “An’, ‘f we wanna be fair, it was more that git Marcus who did the torturin’…an’ got the better end of the deal, ‘f you don’ count bein’ a pile of dust at the end of the day. Let’s jus’ say I’m a changed man. Seen the light an’ all that.”

Wesley cocked his head curiously. “Because of the chip? Vampires do not change, Spike. Without the guidance of—”

“Listen, do you want help or not?”

“I believe what Wes is trying to say is…” Cordelia intervened once more. “Shouldn’t you be crawling over a football field of hot ash to appease your wackaloon of a girlfriend?”

“Dru’s already spoken her piece to me, like I said. I turned her down.” He held up a hand. “Don’ ask me why. ‘S nothin’ that I can explain. Believe me, ‘ve tried. The lot of you are nothin’ compared to a bunch of righteous Scoobies. I’m here for the Slayer, an’ only the Slayer. ‘F she wants to go after your precious boss after I have her back, fine. Bloody fun times all around.” The peroxide vampire shrugged and dug his hands into the pockets of his duster. “I don’ rightly care much, either way.”

“You’re sure going out of your way for some chick you claim to not care too much about,” the man he didn’t know observed.

“I din’t—” Spike began shortly. “By the way, who are you?”

“Call me Gunn.”

“With evidential aspirations of Herman Melville,” Wesley added with an amused grin. His observation merited several blank stares. “Well, I thought it was funny.”

Cordelia shook her head in annoyance, stepping forward as some prime example of belated authority. “Sorry. Didn’t realize we were keeping you in the dark. Charles Gunn, this is Spike. Spike, Charles Gunn. Spike’s the vampire that’s tried to kill us more times than we can count.”

“In all fairness, luv, I never really had a yen for your head on a stick. It was jus’ the Slayer I wanted to do in.”

“And now you’re here to rescue her.” The former Watcher was looking at him with the utmost form of fascination coloring his features. As though the vampire was suddenly glowing with heavenly aura. “My, my. How intriguing.” He glanced up. “I don’t suppose this marks as a study that a creature whose prime directive is to be evil can alter his nature once the laws of science intervene and force him to—”

The looks of dueled irritation were virtually identical on either his colleagues faces. “No,” they answered in unison.

Wesley frowned. “I was merely saying—”

“No.”

“Believe me,” Spike said, grinning in spite of himself. “Rupert already tried that road. ‘S not worth wastin’ a repeat.” He turned as though remembering something, casting an interested eye at the entrance. “I wasn’ welshin’ before, I do fancy the new system. Very handy. Though for the past century, I’ve been under the impression that invitation blocks don’ work in public places, an’ the last time I saw you, you weren’t exactly a witch.” A considerate pause. “Well, in the formal sense of the world.”

She delivered a look that could freeze hell, thaw it, and freeze it again. “We could always disinvite you.”

“But I’m cavalry, an’ you’re the goody-good guys. You wouldn’t leave a poor, defenseless Slayer with only yours truly to come in with the bleedin’ brigade.”

“You could chop off all Buffy’s limbs, and I still don’t think you’d be able to call her helpless.”

“Agreed,” Wesley stated with a nod. “Though she would be in the running for the Black Knight.”

There was a second’s pause before the two British men established eye contact and simultaneously burst into rich chuckles. The occurrence seemed natural enough until neither exhibited the ability to stop with any sort of immediate control. Cordelia glanced helplessly to Gunn, who shrugged his indifference. “Monty Python,” he explained. “It’s funny the first time around.”

“Oh no, mate,” Spike objected, grinning madly. It felt good to have something to grin at. Though not much time had passed, two days’ worth of worrying had his stomach tied in knots that seemed unworkable. Humor was undoubtedly the best medicine. “It’s funny every time around. ‘S especially funny ‘f you mention that part about the rabbit around Anya. Sends her runnin’ in circles.”

“Anya?”

“Harris’s bird.”

“Anya as in the girl he went to prom with? They’re still together?”

Gunn was staring at Cordelia in sheer disbelief. “You remember who went to your prom with who?”

She shrugged. “I went with Wesley…well, sorta.”

He turned to the former Watcher, dumbfound expression intensifying. “You cradle robbing smoothie. I never woulda guessed that.”

Wesley turned back to Spike; deciding the best way to avoid the conversation was to ignore the two participants. “The invitation spell was enhanced by an independent contractor,” he explained after struggling to remember what was being discussed. It was an unusual digression, however welcome. “After Angel went bad, we were called by an…informant at Wolfram and Hart. He was generous enough to warn us about what had transpired, as well as Angel’s plans for us, seeing as we are his link to humanity.”

The peroxide vampire’s brows flexed incredulously. “Oh, ‘s that right? Jus’ a good friend who ‘appens to work for the greatest known evil this side of the Western hemisphere?”

“Someone who’s not as evil as he’d like to think he is.” Cordelia smiled unpleasantly. “But still a continuous pain in the ass. That sound better…or just really familiar?”

He frowned. “Oi! Take that back!”

The image of innocence merely intensified. “What?”

“’m still bad!”

“Please. That’s so twenty minutes ago.”

“You’re this close to—”

“Spike, if you were halfway as bad as you’d like to be, I never would’ve let you in.” She was shaking her head, laughing gently. “Hello! We’ve only been talking for the better part of ten minutes, and I can so tell that you’re over the entire evil thing. The being-here-to-rescue-Buffy ring any bells?”

Gunn chuckled his agreement. “Gotta say, bro, she’s got you there. Riskin’ your hide for the one chick that shouldn’t mean shit to you? Sound real bad to me.”

“Movie of the week complex,” Cordelia offered thoughtfully.

The other man shook his head. “I was thinkin’ a deranged Hallmark card.”

“Forget that. ‘S my business, innit?” A pause, and a better moment toward clearer digression. Spike reckoned that it was time to get back on subject, now that his pride was on the cutting board. “Wha’s to be done about Peaches?”

“I thought you didn’t care,” the woman replied with an amused smile.

“Bollocks. I don’t care. But ‘f I should run into ‘im on the street or what all, it might be good to know how far I can pummel him till it reaches ‘Spike-be-staked’ territory.”

That much made sense. The group exchanged a series of pointed looks.

“We don’t want Angel dead,” Wesley explained after a moment’s thought. “But we understand that getting him back might not be as simple as we’d like. There are forces out there working against us, and not having a champion…well…that’s going to make things all the more difficult.”

Spike snickered and rolled his eyes. “Champion.”

At that, the young woman’s humor abated, and her eyes shone with genuine offense. “Hey,” she snapped. “I don’t care what little issues you have with Angel, but around here, we—”

“Let it go, Cor,” Gunn advised. “You were spokesperson for the ‘We think Angel has lost it’ party for weeks before he went all evil on us.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to take it from Captain Peroxide.”

“Great. Seems no matter where I go, I’m surrounded by hypocritical white-hats.”

“Hey, watch it buddy. You came to us. Remember?”

A sigh rang through the air, and he wasn’t pleasant about it. There would be plenty of time to sit around and have at it with each other once the more important stakes were met. Right now, his only concern rested with the Slayer, and he wasn’t about to go wasting more time. There had been enough of that, already.

It was shameful how easy it was to digress, but these were people he felt he could like. Respect, if only have some shared.

“Not that this isn’t terribly interestin’…well, ‘s not at that, but I came here for one purpose.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Cordelia waved at him dismissively. “We got it. The Slayer and all that. Jeez, Spike. If you had been this dedicated to getting her killed, she wouldn’t be around for you to rescue.”

“And I’m sure some part of that made sense,” Gunn observed with a frown.

Wesley stepped forward with an astute nod as though to verify his stealing of the platform from his coworker. It seemed more likely. For whatever reason, the Watcher had the air of someone who could get things done, and furthermore, manage a business with some reason of effect. “Our best option right now is Caritas,” he suggested. “The Host can read you…well, all of us, really, and point us in the right direction.”

“Cara-what?”

“Caritas. It’s a demon karaoke bar.” Wesley nodded to his colleagues, and instantly, they were gone—hurrying off to complete whatever silent request had been issued. “The Host there can read you when you sing. It’s most useful, really. I’m sure he can prove to be of some service.”

Spike gave him a hard look. “I have to sing?”

“If you want to help Buffy, it would be beneficial.”

A long pause.

“I have to sing?”

Cordelia reappeared out of thin air, fitting into her jacket after handing the former Watcher his. The vampire guessed that she had popped into the office; he hadn’t been paying attention. “Angel did.”

Another long, incredulous look.

Then he finally cracked. A short chuckle at first; before long, he was keeled over, resting his weight on his knees and indulging in his inner tickle demon. “Oh God,” Spike cackled. “Peaches sang? An’ your ears din’t bleed till you died?”

There was an appreciative snigger. “Nearly.”

“’d forgotten how tone deaf the wanker was till three years ago. I caught ‘im on occasion with a song or what all stuck in his head. Think it ‘bout killed all the flowers in his garden.” Spike shook his eyes, eyes twinkling with mirth. “Lemme guess…Barry Manilow?”

The lot of them were grinning now. “The one and only,” Gunn agreed. “It was…oh, I don’t think there are words.”

Cordelia shrugged. “Awful? Horrendous? Kill-me-now?”

“I stand corrected.”

She grinned and turned back to the vampire. “So, Spikey, you’re going to dazzle us with a number. For the sake of humankind, of course.”

“Or in his case, pussy-whipped kind,” Gunn corrected.

Spike glared at him.

“Any hints?”

Just as fluently, he turned back to the young woman and flashed an alluring smile. “Jus’ wait, luv,” he promised softly. “All good things.”

A wry glance but a smile to match it. “We’ll see.”

Spike grinned in turn and pivoted to follow his new associates out the door.

This was an exceptionally good start.



To be continued in Chapter Ten: Absence of Fear…





You must login (register) to review.