To My Someone
By the time they arrived at Caritas, Spike was more than irritated with himself.
Throughout his period of adaptation into the consistencies of human life based on human mandate, the vampire had maintained a consensus on what was and was not accepted according to the limitations of his preset boundaries. He would drink bagged blood, but he would not like it. He would kill other beasties, but not because he wanted to. He would save the innocent if they gave him a reason. At no point in the aforementioned ground rules would he ever develop empathy for those he was saving on a begrudging whim. He would never take pleasure in performing good-doer deeds, and he would certainly never put himself at great personal risk to help another person.
Even if that person was a child.
Tonight, he had broken all those rules.
In all honesty, Spike didn’t know what had come over him, or furthermore why it should strike him now as particularly revolutionary. After all, his very being here had already broken about a thousand vampiric laws. An admittedly unsouled fiend rushing at beck and call (though Buffy had notably done neither of those) of a Slayer, going against others of his own kind who happened to be similarly of his own Order. He was far beyond worrying about the unspoken motives of saving a child.
But it bothered him.
It bothered him a lot.
What was it about that girl? He honestly couldn’t put his finger on it. While it remained true that he hadn’t gone out of his way to kill children as an active vampire, he certainly hadn’t shied from it. There were girls all across the globe that enjoyed hiding in proverbial coal bins. A century’s worth of bodies piled at his feet, and he didn’t care a piss for any of them. For the families that mourned, for the tears that were cried, for the damage he had done. He simply didn’t care.
There were other things that he cared about, though. And it was starting to egg at him in a way that was most unbecoming. The beginnings of a conscience he had never hoped to have.
Being around humans was the most sickening punishment anyone could have conjured for him. Being around them without exacting his only way of dealing with numerous annoying antics. It had taken him too long to forget the strings of his own humanity. Even through the early years at Angelus’s side, punishing those who mocked him with a swift spike through the head, shagging Drusilla in the snow of St. Petersburg while laughing at the dead that encircled them. All the while, far out of the reaches of his admittance, there had harbored a voice that demanded if this was what Mother would want. That demanded what he had become, and if it was too late to make things right.
But he was a demon. Death was what he was made for. What he was supposed to do. And secluding himself from the very eyes of temptation, by trying to be what he was supposed to be, by having a good time and ignoring the conscience that he eventually drowned, he was able to be the vampire. William the Bloody. The menace. The Scourge.
Then his anchor abandoned him and left him for the smut of humanity to dirty as it liked. To have its glorious retribution. By then, he had all but forgotten how to be human. The meaning of guilt had lost its weight. His nerves were burned at the tips and only time away from the new inducement could heal what was wronged.
Only then, he didn’t want to be healed. He was addicted to what he had become. The power. The rush. Everything that life had denied him, he found in death. By the time the world was ready to accept him again, he had turned his back on the world. There was no guilt. No journeyed path to penance. No want of anything except the life that he had been robbed of.
Both times, transition had proven the most difficult fray anyone could ever hope to joust. Guilt, concern, and all of the above were too human for his taste. He thought he had forgotten how to be human. All notions of the like shoved back into a recess that did not wish to be addressed.
He found now that the final barriers were being attacked, and he repelled everything he had against such abomination. It was unheard of. It was unjust. It stole the very meaning of his existence from grasp, dangled it tauntingly just inches from view, and stuffed it away where things went that were not meant to be found.
Being around humans had ruined him. He was starting to care. Loving the Slayer was just the first. He was starting to care about others, as well. He knew he would kill anyone who dared touch Dawn Summers, and not simply because she was the sister of the object of his affections. He liked Red and Tara, he adored Joyce, and when the boy wasn’t talking, Xander Harris was tolerable as well. Anya was a bloody hoot and Rupert…well; Rupert…the Slayer wouldn’t fancy his disappearance. All more besides, he needed someone that appreciated British humor, and the old man had good intentions.
That was just it. Good intentions. A heart of bloody gold. Everything he was supposed to hate.
It didn’t end there. Of course not. He had only been in Los Angeles for a number of hours, and he couldn’t complain about the company. Wesley was an all right bloke, applying for all of the above to concur with the other Watcher. Gunn seemed like someone he could rightly get along with, as long as nothing pointy was within proximity. And Cordelia…well…where to begin?
She was almost exactly like Anya, except more…human. Had the former vengeance demon been born and raised in California, he had no trouble believing they would have been the very best of friends at Sunnydale High. The same as Harmony and the like. People that lived formerly money and fame.
And now with this new lot. Two faces that he would likely never see again. A child and her guardian. Mother, babysitter, older sister; it didn’t matter. The fact that he had noticed them at all, gone to the lengths he had to keep them safe, risked what he had risked, felt what he felt…it was enough to make him nauseous.
But the feeling would not go away.
He was beginning to care. And the prospect terrified him.
If his hosts were at all the humanitarians they claimed to be, they would stake him good and proper based on the display alone. As it was, they were chatting comfortably, addressing him on occasion and describing his newest task best to ability. They were an exceptionally strange group. The valley girl from the Hellmouth, the fired Watcher, and the man he guessed had been raised on the streets. Spike knew enough to identify them as he saw them. Gunn had enough ability to skillfully portray what he was without saying anything at all. A demon hunter. He had been doing this for a long, long time.
The peroxide vampire wondered with a slight grin if the man had nearly killed Angel upon first encounter. He hoped so.
Spike’s thoughts drifted inevitably to Buffy. Seeing her again seemed so far away that he couldn’t reach it within tangibility. One of those things he knew was foreseeable but was blinded to. It turned his stomach in knots to think of what they were doing to her. What sort of playthings Angelus might have developed a liking for, what sort of new toys he would try for kicks. With a prize as robust as the Slayer, he wanted to think that the vampires would keep her around with some measure of reasonability, but he didn’t know. There was no doubt that Angelus and Darla enjoyed a good, long torture session, but that could mean anywhere from hours to days.
There was knowledge there. Knowledge he had resigned himself to the minute he left. Despite whatever he told the members of Angel Investigations (they really needed to change the name of their enterprise), and furthermore what he had told himself, he was going to kill everyone who had touched her. From the lackeys that helped bring her in to the man behind the big desk. Chip be fucking damned.
As for Angelus himself…
There was Darla and Drusilla to consider. Spike didn’t want to consider what was to become of the latter, knowing that it would likely result in a dusty ending for one of them. He similarly wasn’t fool enough to believe he could pull all this off by himself, or execute everything to such perfection that he didn’t end up badly wounded or extremely dead by the end of it.
But he had to try.
If caring didn’t destroy him first.
“So, Spike,” Cordelia said, twisting again in her seat. “Any hints on what you’re going to sing?”
Oh, yeah.
The vampire grinned. “Anyone ever tell you that you ‘ave an impatient streak?”
“I’m sorry? What was that? I couldn’t hear you over the pot calling the kettle black.”
Wesley sniggered.
“You look like a death metal guy to me,” the woman went on. “Or something equally lame. Maybe Jimi Hendrix?”
He nodded. “Bloody genius, that man was.”
Wesley looked at her aghast. “Surely you don’t mean to suggest that Jimi Hendrix is…lame?”
“Oh no. That was me being random.”
“Perish the thought,” Spike muttered, rolling his eyes.
“Are we discounting Billy Idol?” Gunn asked, casting a copious gaze over his shoulder. “I mean—come on! It’d be a hoot!”
“Right. An’ I wouldn’t hear the end of it.”
“Well, do you like Billy Idol?”
“Yeh, actually I do. The boy’s got decent music. I jus’ don’t appreciate the ‘stealing my look’ parts of his gig.” Spike tilted his head speculatively. “Mmm…dunno. ‘F I’m persuaded to do an encore ‘cause the crowd loves my stunnin’ vocals, I might—emphasis on the might —consider it.” A chuckle. “A demon karaoke bar. Still can’t fancy the scene. Rupert’d shit himself.”
Cordelia frowned. “Giles? Why?”
“’Cause he sings.”
“He what?!”
“Sings. Gets li’l odd-job gigs around town.” The Cockney sat back comfortably, gazing off in thought and ignoring the dumbfound look of raw astonishment tied in with near reluctant strands of admiration coloring the woman’s face. “Actually, the bloke sounds decent. Guess every Watcher has to get his kicks off somehow. Your man kills demons, ours sings. ‘Course, he is bloody unemployed right now. Guess I can’t blame ‘im. He was so bored last year ‘e even watched Passions with me.”
Cordelia almost pulled a Regan MacNeil in her seat before remembering that her body was supposed to turn with her. “You watch Passions?!” she demanded.
Spike flinched, looked at her, then turned his gaze to Wesley, who was preoccupied driving. “She always this shrill?”
There was a sigh and nothing more.
“I love that show!” she continued excitedly. “Hey, do you really think they’re going to go through with the wedding? Come on! It’s so a not. And what about Timmy? He—”
Gunn caught Wesley’s eye and they nodded. “Cordelia!”
“What? I’m just—”
“Sit down, please. We’re nearly there. You and Spike can discuss the fundamentals of bad television programming when we are not in a moving vehicle.” The former Watcher grasped her arm with his right hand and jerked her back into her seat. “On the way back to the Hyperion, one of you is riding in the back, or he can come up here. I believe we have established that the vampire is not going to attack.”
Spike rolled his eyes. “Y’just now…’ave you all gone very deaf? I couldn’t bite you ‘f I wanted to.”
“In all fairness,” Gunn observed, “you haven’t proven that.”
“In all fairness,” he retorted in the same brogue, “I ‘aven’t fancied a headache.”
“Still, I think a demo is in order.” The man grinned at him unrepentantly. “Just so we can be sure. Wouldn’t want you to go all bite-happy around a bunch of unsuspecting fleshies.”
“No,” he agreed dryly. “We couldn’t have that, could we?” He sank further into his seat and kicked the back of Wesley’s on a whim, flinching when the chip activated. There was a whoop of victory from Gunn and a brief swerve as the Watcher attempted to regain control of the wheel, and a very deliberate notion to ignore all jokes made on his behalf. “Oi! Mate! Any chance I can call shotgun now?”
“It’s yours.”
It was obviously his on more a note to avoid any other physical harassment than a genuine wanting of his presence in the front seat.
“Hey!” his colleagues protested good-naturedly, but that was the end of that.
“We’re here,” Wesley announced anticlimactically, parallel parking with enviable ease and killing the ignition. “It’s a few blocks down, and I’m suspecting that this is the best place we’re going to find up the strip. All right everyone. Spike.” He regarded the vampire with a nod and an air of anticipation. “I hope you have your number selected. We’re going to be hearing it soon.”
Spike flashed a cheeky grin and quickly made to follow.
The bar was everything and nothing he would expect of a demon karaoke establishment. The gatherings of a thousand species—those that both hated and intermingled with humans. Some that were dangerous beyond reproach. Some that were as harmless as kittens. Very few that he could not identify. In all his years, he had never seen such a gathering of genus—the same that would be battling on the streets sharing a drink over some really bad vocals. As though someone had a right mind to redo the scene from the Star Wars Cantina properly.
The bloke at the mic currently seemed to know what he was doing. Some demon that he couldn’t identify upon first glance, belting out the soulful lyrics of Etta James, proclaiming that his love had come along, at last. It was a tad on the poncy side, but well done. Marvelously done, if he wanted to be completely honest.
Spike had absolutely nothing against the sentimentalists—he rather enjoyed a good number of them—but it was a bit too Hedwig and the Angry Inch for his taste when a guy tried to sing the part of a bird.
Someone tapped him hurriedly on the shoulder. “That’s him,” Cordelia whispered, pointing in the direction of the stage. “That’s the Host.”
The green fellow was the one who read when others sang? The vampire’s brows arched dubiously. “Well, isn’t that interestin’?”
“Isn’t he good?”
“Bloody fantastic, pet.” His gaze drifted to the mélange species of demon once more, fascinated. “Does everyone sign a peace treaty or what all before comin’ in? Half these gits are at war all the time. I know. I’ve seen it.”
“Caritas is a sanctuary,” Wesley explained. “There can be no violence within its boundaries.”
“Oh, so now I can’t hurt humans or my kind? Spectacular.”
“No one can. That’s the beauty of it.” The Watcher stopped shortly and smiled as the Host finished his number, announced some Gnackner demon was about to take the stage, and immediately set off to see them. Evidently, their presence had been anticipated or something of the like. Perhaps this was genuine.
“Evening, kiddos!” the Host proclaimed loudly, sliding an arm around Cordelia and Gunn. “How goes it? Aside from the ugly death and the digression that is your boss, of course. Honestly, I’m surprised you had the stones to show up here in the first place. Someone like woke-up-on-the-wrong-side-of-the-coffin-Angel-cheeks on my tail? Whew! I’d be hiding under the bed.”
A rumble of mirth surged through the platinum vampire at that. Angel-cheeks.
Cordelia was positively beaming at him. “Watch that. I’m going to start believing you’re not glad to see us.”
“Oh, I’m glad. Let me count the ways. Especially to see all of you in three whole-looking pieces.” The Host shuddered lightly and shook his head. “You haven’t had any trouble?”
At that, the young woman seemed to have no answer. The aforementioned three shared a series of sheepish glances.
“Not so much as trouble as the big bad Angelus standing outside the Hyperion, yelling his ass off at us to invite him in from sunset to sunrise two days straight. We haven’t seen him since, but that’s nothing we regret,” Gunn replied. “Your spell worked like a charm, man.”
“As spells are supposed to do,” the Host agreed. “Well, the man himself showed up here last night. Didn’t stay long. Spoke a piece, made some threats, and I think I lost me another bartender, but no harm no foul. He knew enough not to try anything.” He turned swiftly to Cordelia. “You never mentioned that the bad Angel is like a PMSing Martha Stewart. Details are appreciated!”
Spike laughed again, louder this time. Oh yeah. Definitely liked this bloke.
“I thought the ‘nailing of puppies to walls’ sort of covered that territory,” she replied with a grin.
The green fellow shuddered again at that. “Oh thanks, sweetcheeks, for rehashing that image. I had to have Larry the Hashnog demon forcibly remove it last time around. Not exactly an experience I’m looking to suffer through again, but sacrifices must be made.” He turned to Spike suddenly, eyes narrowing. It took only a minute of study to garnish his conclusion. “You’re one of Angel’s!”
The vampire frowned in resentment. “Now wait—”
“No offense, skittles. I just go with the flow.”
“How did—”
“The pout, pumpkin, it’s all about the pout. I’d recognize that glower anywhere.” He turned to Cordelia and leaned over, studying the new arrival diligently. “You think it runs in the family?”
Okay, whether or not he liked the bloke, no one got away with calling him a sodding Angel-model.
“Temper, temper,” the Host said disarmingly before the vampire could object. “It won’t do you any good in here, anyway.” He extended his hand with a friendly. “Hello. I’m Lorne, the owner/operator of this fine establishment.”
At the stage, some horrendous beast was vocalizing the theme to Love Boat.
“Lorne?” Wesley questioned with a frown.
He waved airily. “Yeah, yeah. Proper name and all. What? You thought mummy dearest took a look at me and decided to call me The Host? Trust me, where I come from, there is nothing to Host. Very sad and I’m sure we’ll shed a few tears later. I’m betting you’re here so sugarbritches can grace us with a number.”
“The name’s Spike, mate,” the vampire grumbled. “An’ how the bloody hell—”
“Oh, and he has Angel’s attitude, too!” At the offed look Lorne received in turn, he immediately set forward to pat him reassuringly on the shoulder. “Only you’re much livelier, pardon the pun. And that accent! To die for. There were times when I thought Angel might as well be an animated mannequin for all the moving around he did.”
“And you’ve made several facial expressions tonight,” Cordelia observed. “That’s way non-Angelish.”
The Host laughed richly. “And I knew because the team at Angel Investigations isn’t daft enough to risk a trip here for the drinks while the boss is on his…how shall we put it…holiday? Since they brought you along, I’m guessing you need to be read. Well, step on up! I love fresh blood around here. Again, pardon the pun.”
“Yo, man,” Gunn interceded gruffly. “We’re not gonna cower in some corner just ‘cause Angel’s out there in the not best sense, all right? We’re demon hunters. That’s what we do. The Hyperion’s just—”
“Yeah, yeah,” the Host agreed dismissively. “Bygones. Spike, babe, walk with me, talk with me. We must get you set up for your number. I’m seeing strobe lights, a disco ball, and stylish choreography.”
The vampire stopped in his tracks and stared.
“Kidding,” Lorne reassured with a smile. He was perhaps the first anyone that the Cockney had ever met that could continue to look so genuine without his expression going plastic. That was oddly refreshing. “But I do love the attitude. Tell me, sugar, you play any instruments?”
Another hesitant pause. “Why?”
“Because, as often as possible, I like to get authentic performers on my stage. Lindsey McDonald—oh, talk about a voice to die for. Not to mention that boy could play! Heaven’s chorus couldn’t compete. That was, of course, before Angelkins decided he did wonders for the one-handed look.” The Host paused expectantly. “So, do you play?”
“Uhh…piano. A bit.” Spike shuffled, more self-conscious than he felt he had a right to be, given the circumstances. “’S been a while, mate. An’ really, I’d fancy jus’ gettin’ up there an’ gettin’ this over with without makin’ a big thing outta it. See, there’s this—”
“There’s always some ‘this’, and chances are it’s either a drug bust or a girl. I’m personally leaning more toward the second.” It was positively exhausting watching the man move. “Piano, you say? Well, we have keyboards. Not quite the same, but workable. You say workable? I say workable. It’d be easier to haul those on stage than that honkin’ huge piano. We’ll save that for next time.”
“Listen, mate, I’d really rather—”
There was a pause at that. Lorne sighed and draped an arm over his shoulder. “Spike, babe, you have to do this anyway. Something’s obviously worth the effort. Right?”
No contesting that, no matter how painful this experience was turning out to be. “Right.”
“And you obviously have trouble associating yourself with big daddy, right?”
He arched a brow.
“Angel.”
“I got you. Yeh, the git annoys me. ‘ve never denied it. An’ really, can we please get on with it? I gotta—”
The Host grinned. “The sanctuary spell’s really annoying you, isn’t it? Not used to negotiating with words.”
“More used to it than you’d wager.”
“Well, petals, I think, other than entertaining, outdoing Angelface here’ll be very therapeutic. I take it you’ve heard him. A tune can’t carry him, let alone the other way around. Let us not rehash that night of the singing undead.” Lorne shuddered, and Spike grinned without realizing it. “You have a helluva voice. I can tell.”
“’S that right?”
“Well, hon, I don’t like to toot my own horn, but I do do this for a living.” He shooed him forward. “Roberto will bring your keyboard up. We’ll talk after you’re finished.”
The Host was gone the next instant. He reappeared within seconds on stage, announcing their next performer—a Chaos demon, of all déjà vu’s, to be followed by a British baddie with a Billy Idol complex.
Okay. That joke was old before Gunn made it, and with constant off again/on again phases the Host was going through; Spike wagered it wasn’t the best bet to press his luck. He might like the git, but didn’t mean he wouldn’t rip his throat out as soon as they stepped onto unsanctuarized ground.
Yes it does.
That voice was becoming a real nuisance. Bloody conscience.
The Chaos demon performed a breathtaking rendition of Stand By Your Man that brought the house down. He wasn’t necessarily good, but the movements he decided to randomly choreograph were so hilarious that a mime would laugh aloud. Too soon it was over, and it was his turn on stage.
And he hadn’t the faintest buggering idea what to play.
Inspiration had a funny way of striking at last minute.
If there was one thing that Spike abhorred above all others, it was being labeled predictable. The expanse of his experience had been a continuous effort to outshine the expectations that vampires across the globe had constructed into the accepted norm. The bloody mainstream tedium. He was and always would be a rebel at heart.
And it was the rebel’s duty to do the unexpected.
Thus when he took his seat at the bench, he flashed a smirk to the crowd, and decided spontaneously to surprise them all.
The first notes were soft—he hadn’t played in what seemed like lifetimes, but with him, it had always come naturally. A talent his mother had encouraged him to master. The same that was later enforced by Drusilla, who would on occasion demand to be lulled to sleep by musical poetry. The years had been generous to him in the growth of ability, even if it had been a while since he put the skill to test.
Then his vocals were tickling the air.
“La lune trop blême, pose un diadème, sur tes cheveux roux. La lune trop rousse de gloire éclabousse ton jupon plein d'trous.” He took an unneeded breath, glanced up, and grinned unashamedly at the expression on everyone’s face, particularly Cordelia who looked to keel over at any minute. “La lune trop pâle caresse l'opale de tes yeux blasés. Princesse de la rue soit la bienvenue, dans mon cœur brisé.
“The stairways up to la butte can make the wretched sigh. While windmill wings of a larger world shelter you and I…”
His fingers paused over the keyboard eloquently. Really for this number, a piano would have been preferable, but it wasn’t as bad as all that. Another upward glance confirmed the same. The look on Gunn’s face was priceless, and the Host, unsurprisingly, while seemingly impressed was studying him intently, a look of inspired wonder on his face.
That unnerved the vampire slightly. The prospect of being read like an open book did not rest well with him, even if it was for a cause he believed in.
“Ma p'tite mandigote, je sens ta menotte. Qui cherche ma main, je sens ta poitrine et ta taille fine. J'oublie mon chagrin, je sens sur tes lèvres, une odeur de fièvre, de gosse mal nourri. Et sous ta caresse, je sens une ivresse. Qui m'anéantit.
“The stairways up to la butte can make the wretched sigh. While windmill wings of a larger world shelter you and I.
“Et voilà quelle trotte, la lune qui flotte, la princesse aussi. Mes rêves épanouis. Les escaliers de la butte sont durs aux miséreux, les ailes du moulin protègent les amoureux…”
As the final notes drifted off into their delineation, the bar erupted with fevered applause. Spike rose to his feet, gave a small bow, and bounded off stage before anyone could demand him an encore. There would no further wasted time: it was straight to Lorne, who had abandoned his seat to give him a standing ovation.
“Enough of that,” Spike growled roughly, every façade of gentility having abandoned him. Playtime was effectively over. “What’d you see?”
“Boy oh boy, was I ever right? That was—”
“Stop with the bloody small talk. You snooped around my noggin. I did my bit. Now what did you see?!”
The Host took a prolonged sip of his drink. “The question, honey, is more that I didn’t see. That is one conflicted cranium you’re supporting on your small albeit muscular shoulders! But first you have to answer me an inkling or two. Why Complainte de la Butt? Always a fave, no doubt, but I don’t see you much as a Rufus Wainwright fan.”
Spike glanced down self-consciously. “Wanted to throw everyone off. Figured they’d be expectin’ some…” He caught himself in midst of another digression, paused, clenched his teeth, and shook his head intently. “Okay, enough. We’ll ‘ave plenty of time to chat about this later…not that I will, or anythin’. Now jus’ tell me. What. The. Bloody. Hell. Did. You. See?”
Lorne studied him a beat longer, head cocked curiously. “You’re a strange fella, Spike. Got yourself all in love with a Slayer—the same Angel was so cockamamie crazy about for years, mind you—and now have crossed proverbial oceans to save her from your own kind. All without a soul, mind you. It’s fascinating. Get me a camera crew and a group of talented actors—preferably including Johnny Depp—and I got me an Academy award winning script.” He took another drink, holding up a hand when the vampire looked to interrupt. Silent indication that a point was being approached. “You’re setting your own path. That’s amazing. Most vampires are essentially pathless. At least the ones I get in here. They sing and all I see is whom they had for dinner, or whom they will have for dinner. Except your great-grand pappy—of course—and quite frankly, I’d rather not see what’s in his head right now.” There was a theatrical pause as if an invitation to contest the statement. When none was offered, he shook his head and continued, “It’s so rare to meet an evil creature with purpose. Refreshing, really.”
Spike snickered. “You make it sound like ‘s been all sunshine an’ daffodils.”
“Of course not. Purposes are nasty, grueling things that’ll kill you if you let them.” A curious smile spread across the Host’s lips. “I know this isn’t anything you asked for, pudding. It’s been decaffeinated when you needed your sugar boost and given you one Linda Tripp of a headache instead of energy. Hey—it happens to the best of us.”
A sigh. “So, ‘s there anythin’ you can tell me, aside describin’ me an’ my problem? How’s the Slayer? Did you see her? Have they—”
“Slow down, Tiger. The only way I’d have any four/one/one on little Buffalicious is if Angelkins came in here to sing to me about it. Or the Slayer herself, but no one’s holding their superfluous breath for that one. You sing, I see your path, not hers.”
At that, the irritation that had been flustering since this insane request was made burst into all out anger. It was enough. The line marking his notably overstated patience had been thoroughly crossed, and he was through wasting time. “So I came here for nothin’? For Chrissake, ‘f you can’t—”
“All I can tell you is that you won’t be alone. You can’t.” Lorne seized a napkin from the table’s dispenser and began jotting something down with a pen that materialized from nowhere. “You missed it once, sweetie-pie. Can’t afford to make you oh for two.” He slid his scribblings across the table, appraising the vampire with arched brows. “And for that I really should whack you upside the head, you enormous dolt!”
Spike glared at him, confused but too tired and angry to question him. He turned his eyes to the proffered napkin and arched a brow. “Wha’s this?”
“The address you need to go to.”
“…Why? The Slayer there?”
“No, hon. That’s an alley. Knowing your hunka antihero sire, Buffy’s probably shacked up at good ole Wolfram and Hart. The alley’s your rendezvous point with your guide, so to speak. You’re going to meet someone to help you.”
“What about the Angel Investigation squad team of white hats?”
“Oh, they’ll help. But you need to go to the—”
“Who could I possibly find in a bloody—”
“Listen, I wanna help you. I really do. And I’ve done what I can. You sang, I read, and this is what your path is screaming. In all languages, brother.” He leaned forward seriously. “You want to help your girl, right?”
His girl. Spike softened immediately at the implication. He liked the sound of that.
“More than anythin’, mate.”
“All signs point to the alley.” That was it. The Host backed up in his chair, hands coming up neutrally. “I’ve done my part.”
Spike watched him leave; watched him disappear into a multitude of creatures. Watched for long seconds, then turned his attention to the instructions left on the napkin.
An alley. Help found in an alley?
Flash. Little girl staring calmly at the Kraelek demon. Looking at it as though she had placed it there. Flash. Same girl looking at him with no fear. At his true face. At the neon that could just as easily take her life as it had god-knows-how-many children before her.
An alley. Well, it couldn’t hurt.
Stranger things had happened.
To be continued in Chapter Twelve: His Pleasure Is My Pain…