Thou Art The Man
There was a bloody annoying song stuck in his head, and that was the least of his troubles. For a man who had traveled the world several times over; he was beginning to have the sinking suspicion that he was lost.
Los Angeles was not a town he toured by habit. A trip here or there—usually with several years to supplement the gaps between visits; enough time for the city to grow and develop. Granted, there hadn’t been much to go on since leaving Caritas. He had stopped once at some second-rate novelty shop where a Mahayle demon—in human guise—firstly proclaimed her astonishment that a man would ask for directions, then helpfully pointed him along his way.
Not that it had done a bloody bit of good.
It was easy to see why Angel had relocated here. A dark, ambiguous city that positively swarmed with life and lifelike figures that were attempting to make it on their own just as he. Enough to make any creature of the night feel right at home. An overly dismal and hopelessly dramatic place that had formed the grueling habit of attracting lost souls.
Everywhere he looked, another pity-case waited to be discovered.
What was worse, the inner poet flourished with anticipation, and Spike’s noted marks of discontent were going steadfastly ignored. The annoying inner muse had been acting with more frequency than the past forever. Sprouting off new ideas to fill a thousand hapless sonnets after an ageless drought of creative process. He hated it. Reduced again to what he had thought he had escaped. Such distasteful notions of the prolific touch had been growing evermore persistent since the morn of his realization, and the immediate call thereafter to document the Slayer in all her effulgence.
Another mark in the namesake of his growing humanity.
Bugger all.
The vampire banished all away. He could not consider that now. The city was left to explore, and he had some tune performed by the last wandering buffoon at Caritas running circles in his head. There was also the distant acknowledgement that he should contact Giles soon with word of what had transpired since his arrival, even if it didn’t produce much in the limelight of understanding.
It would be better to know if the Scoobies intended on staying in Sunnydale or not, pending on what the Council had provided.
Better to now. With little progress tailing him and the ever-hazy instructions to meet some nameless whoever in an alley behind an equally nameless bar, it was to his benefit to at least make a little progress in maintaining contacts. Giles could do bugger little to improve their problem right now, but he could prove troublesome if rubbed in the wrong direction. Spike was already on his list of People Most Likely To Be Staked, and in order to avoid an elevation to the next level, contact was better preserved.
There was a nagging now or never feeling tagged onto that fixation. Spike wasn’t completely daft; he knew how simple it could be to lose oneself in the city, and he was that much more determined to remain focused.
Focused as in he had been in Los Angeles for almost thirty-six hours and had thus managed to locate Angel Investigations, save some nameless girls from a nasty monster, and partake in a demon karaoke bar. Giles would be proud.
Spike spied an arbitrary payphone weaned at the corner that separated two virtually identical pubs, and, without realizing it, started digging change out of his pockets. He wasn’t accustomed to carrying money that wasn’t weightless and thus nearly pulled out Wesley’s business card on habit. The former Watcher had passed it on to him before leaving Caritas, just in case he decided he needed help and didn’t know how to reach them.
“Dressed up like a million-dollar trooper,” he sang absently under his nonexistent breath, making a distant note to rip the spine out of whatever unholy creature insisted on singing such an overused oldie. Not that he didn’t appreciate the oldies, mind you. He just didn’t fancy them stuck on repeat in his cranium. “Tryin' hard to look like Gary Cooper—super-bloody-duper. Come let's mix where Rockefellers walk with sticks or um-ber-ellas in their …’ello? Rupert? Yeah, ‘s me.”
The old man seemed eager to speak with him but equally cynical and condescending. As though waiting until this particular juncture to phone with real information was very inconvenient. Spike was nearly tempted to call him on it, but he knew the temperament was more in ode to his delay in calling on the hour as had been wordlessly implicated. Honestly, though, Giles couldn’t expect continuous contact of a similar nature. Not with the promises of what would have to be done in order to get close to Angelus and Darla at all, not to mention their precious amount of leverage.
“I don’t suppose this is a call confirming that you have Buffy in the safety…well, not safety, but—”
“’m callin’ from a dingy alley near midnight in a city where Angelus is king. Do you really want me to answer?”
“Point taken.” There was a sigh. The vampire could nearly hear the old man polishing his glasses. “So, what have you discovered?”
“Right now, a blessed-bloody-little.” It was more than difficult to maintain his bitterness in that regard, though he gave it his best. Giles was already more than suspicious given Spike’s enthusiasm to do something that promised no self-benefit in the least. Perhaps it would have been better if he had required a cash supplement before he left—though that only occurred to him now that he was miles away from the Hellmouth and not in the place, so to speak, to make monetary demands.
Rather, he could, but he knew innately that money was not what he wanted.
Bloody wanker.
“Explain ‘little,’” the Watcher requested.
“Well, Cordy, Wes, an’ Charlie dragged me to some demon bar, an’—”
He nearly dropped the phone with the sudden incursion of Ripper-like rage.
“You’ve been wasting time gallivanting at a bar?!”
Spike swore that the bloke sitting at the stools of the neighborly bar flinched at that. As it was, his vampiric hearing was likely shot to hell, as his ears refused to stop ringing for longer than was customary. That wasn’t the end of it, of course. By the time the initial shock had worn off, Giles was in mid-tangent about how he had foolishly assumed that a vampire could take any project with a regard for seriousness, even if said vampire offered himself for the position. It took several seconds to cut through the embittered ramblings, but finally he had a grasp on the old man’s attention.
And after that first grasp, a blessed hook.
“…a karaoke pub?”
“Right. You sing, this green wanker tells you your fortune or what all, an’ I guess in my case, ‘e sends blokes down random alleys to find their guides.” Spike paused and shook his head. “This ‘s beginnin’ to sound like a very bad Japanese film.”
He had to credit the old man; it didn’t take much to change his tune. From infuriated to intrigued in two seconds flat. “A demon that can patch into one’s providence. How fascinating. I’ve never—”
“Yeh, yeh, yeh. I’m sure you an’ the faithful Scooby patrol will have oodles of fun researchin’ that after we’re through with talkies. The Council still there?”
At that, Giles’s voice grew softer. As though he had forgotten about the presence of twenty tweed-donned people surrounding him for the moment. “Quite. And none too happy with the absence of the Slayer.”
“She’s on bloody sabbatical.”
“If only.” There was a sigh, and without any prompt, the peroxide Cockney knew a very personal, very difficult question was bordering on the horizon. He felt in stirring in his gut. The same that the lot of them had been dancing around since his revelation that Darla and Drusilla were in town and had their marks set on one Buffy Summers. And yet, it needed to be asked. For both their sakes.
They had to make it real.
“Spike,” Giles began softly. “What…you would know better than anyone. What do you think our chances are…of seeing her again?”
The notion that anything else was remotely possible made him want to smash the phone against the nearest wall, but reality was needed in such tidings. He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, teeth clenching. “I wish I could say somethin’ to reassure you, mate,” he replied after a long bode of silence, surprising himself with the truth behind his own words. The inner voice that warned him of all impending wankerish characteristics had been booted for the time being, and he intended to use that to his benefit. “But I really don’ know. As you know, Peaches is one to fuck his food…but I don’ think I’ve ever seen ‘im do it into overkill, ‘f you catch my drift. He likes ‘em fresh. Bloody enough to—”
“That’s enough.”
He was glad the old man had stopped him. The thought alone had his insides raging.
There was a quiet, reflective pause.
“I’ll do my best by her, Rupert.”
Another respective silence. Shorter this time, but no less significant.
“I…” Giles began, fumbling slightly. “I know. Don’t ask me to explain how or why, but I know. It’s the strangest thing.”
You’re tellin’ me, mate.
“Yeh, well, we can talk over the particulars later. I don’ know ‘f whatever I’m meetin’ or findin’ in the alley’s on some sorta schedule.” Spike sighed into the phone. “’ll give you a call come mornin’.”
“I don’t trust you.”
That statement was so abrupt it made him grin. As though to compensate for the odd exchange of human candor. An ode to the bevy of unspoken reassurances that in all other aspects, the vampire was not to be treated like an equal. Not until he produced an honorable result. “I know,” he replied with a short chuckle. Then he hung up.
It was time to get this over with. With as much as he might have liked the Host, the idea of finding what he needed in some abandoned alley seemed a little on the side of crazy. Regardless of how many little girls with captivating eyes might decide to brave the uglies that lurked in the shadows.
He hated it that his thoughts kept going back to her.
Especially when he was being sent on a very ambiguous task of locating an unnamed target that was supposed to help him in an equally ambiguous manner.
There wasn’t much to go on. While notably reeking of the same filth commonly buried in human waste—both the literal and the metaphorical sense—it was nothing that one would not expect from such an ill-reputed part of town. There was nothing particularly remarkable. No scents that struck him as something to purposefully seek out as though it meant something significant in the larger scheme of things.
Though it wasn’t difficult to gauge that he was not alone.
The revelation was hardly groundbreaking, and would have struck him as otherwise extraneous were it not for the immediate acknowledgement that whoever it was did not want to be seen. Even his vampiric eyesight failed to provide additional leeway. Oh no. The alley was inhabited.
Quite.
There was no fear in the air. Another oddity. Spike might have been out of practice, but he knew enough to identify when humanly types were unsettled. His correspondent was not. The prospect brought a smile to his face—stirring feelings birthed on nostalgia that were otherwise irrelevant. He was tempted to allow his bumpies to emerge and see if that prompted a response, but something told him that his presence was no more unapproachable, regardless of what face he wore.
On any other day, Spike would have played this out. Engage in a game of hide-and-go-seek, as it were. But his will forbade it, tugging back irrefutably to the face of a girl that was depending on him whether she knew it or not. Thus as he stepped forward, it was not with an eye for what he had given up craving long ago out of acceptance. It was a man on a mission. A man whose mission ranked higher importance than any endeavor he could dream to embark.
“Right,” he said, surveying the unchanging scene once more. “Give it up. Who’s there?”
A few beats of silence. Nothing.
“Notice how I said, ‘who’s there’, indicatin’ that I know I’m not addressin’ the friendly neighborhood dumpster.” The bleached vampire stalked forward slowly, gesturing to the large navy tin out of instinct rather than a need for specification. On the prowl, regardless of esteem. He could not ignore innate disposition. “No point in hidin’, mate.”
The anonymous presence was not hiding, and he knew it. That didn’t make it any less fun to speculate.
“Come on. ‘m gettin’ bloody bored talkin’ to myself.”
There was a rustling then, and Spike whirled just in time for his eyes to become level with the wrong end of a crossbow.
Then an answering call.
“I find that rather doubtful.”
The arrow dispatched and met its target, soaring with a victorious snare into the vampire’s left shoulder. Spike roared and dropped to his knees, bursting into game face before he could help himself. Pain tingled up and down his back, but not enough to wane away the unburdened rage that flustered within meaningless seconds. It took no time at all to regroup.
“Oi, mate!” he snarled, grasping the end of the projectile. “Tha s’posed to be funny?”
“No.” More shuffling and the crossbow lowered, revealing a pair of very stern chestnut eyes, molded into a face that demanded no sudden movements without having to say a word. “That was your warning shot. You have ten seconds before I fire again. And trust me, the word miss is not in my vocabulary.”
Spike rolled his eyes and clamored to his feet, grip on the arrow tightening before he yanked it free. The scent of dead blood hit the air and prompted an untimely growl from his stomach—he hadn’t eaten since leaving Sunnydale.
“’F this,” he said shortly to no one in particular, “is that green maggot’s idea of a joke, I’m gonna rip his innards out.”
“And yet you’re still standing here. I think the count’s down to three.”
The vampire’s gaze darkened. “Right. Real intimidatin’. You know who I am, boy?”
There was a corresponding tightening of the other’s jaw at the degrading and—frankly—arrogant slander of his station, but he did not offer any further reaction. “Well, the face suggests vampire,” came the retort. “Everything else screams William the Bloody. And I’m willing to bet that even if I am wrong, there isn’t a single person who would care for such a presumptuous mistake.” The man raised his crossbow again, cocking his head to the side. “Okay, time’s up.”
Another arrow flashed in his direction. Spike was prepared. His hands clasped the small projectile before it could penetrate its target, and he consigned it with a distasteful grimace to the pavement.
“Love the attitude,” he snapped. “I take it we’ve met? Lemme guess…Once upon a time, I killed your sister. Or your uncle. Or your missus. Or—”
“Shut up!”
The platinum Cockney arched a brow. Oh. Perhaps he had.
This was not good.
He was really going to kill Lorne.
“Listen, mate,” he said, hands coming up before realizing that leaving himself entirely vulnerable was likely not in his best interest. “Whatever I did, whoever I killed…well, ‘s not like killin’ me’s gonna bring ‘em back. An’ frankly, I have better things to do than rassle this out. So—”
“Lovely to know that a vampire wouldn’t think to forget a face,” the man replied cynically. “As it is, you’re not the one I’m looking for.”
Spike arched a brow and looked pointedly to the crossbow.
“That doesn’t mean,” he continued, “that I’m not going to kill you anyway. Your existence is enough of a crime as far as I’m concerned.”
“An’ yet,” the Cockney retorted. “I’m willin’ to bet that I was here first. Look, I got no quarrel with you, so ‘f you’ll jus’—”
There was an incredulous snicker. “You’re actually trying to barter your way out?”
“What? This not a time for diplomacy?”
“A diplomatic vampire. I thought I’d never see it.” The crossbow lifted a bit, but it was more in gesture than to suggest threat. “You’re not living up to your reputation, William.”
The platinum blonde was impressed. Whoever it was had obviously done his homework. Enough to know demons by appearance, or perhaps it was a part of his trade. The Order, as it was. With as little as the Host had told him, he figured anything was fair game. “The name’s Spike. An’ for someone who seems to know so much ‘bout me, you might look into your more recent chapters.” He steepled two fingers against his head, arching his brows tellingly. “Can’t fight, ‘ave to be tactful. Got me a handicap.”
“Is that a fact?” The man shrugged as if it were of no consequence. “Well, I usually try to refrain from killing a man with glasses. Unfortunately, your vision’s fine and you’re not a man. So, without—”
If killing him was the hunter’s intention, Spike was struck with the radical realization that he could. The bloke was human and had a weapon he had proven more than efficient with at his disposal. And as quick as the vampire might be, he wasn’t quick enough to effectively dodge all further aims at his heart with a hope of synchronicity.
And if he died, Buffy died.
It was better to keep him talking. To try to keep him talking, if anything else.
“Who was it?”
“What?”
“Who was it? You’re sproutin’ off way too much fact an’ not enough fiction, not to mention a li’l testy ‘bout the relatives. You know about the Order of Aurelius, an’ I’m guessin’ have a few clues as to its key members.” There was a slow, reluctant nod in turn. “So, who was it? One of mine? Grand-pappy Angelus?”
“That what?”
“That hurt you.”
A pause. “Why do you care?”
Spike looked pointedly to the crossbow. “Do I really need to clarify?”
The man snickered. “Of course. Self-serving. I forget how petty you creatures can be. You think you have a chance of talking me out of this?”
“Now, there’s a thought.”
“You don’t. Give it up, blondie.”
“Oh, name-callin’, are we?” Spike’s gaze traveled briefly to the hunter’s strands. He had a head of chestnut hair to match his eyes, but even the darkness of the alley could not blind his vampiric eyesight to the bleached tips that starked nicely at the very ends. So, this bloke enjoyed hair-coloring from the bottle, too. That was interesting; it even looked to resemble his own preference. “Doesn’ seem like you have much room to talk.”
“Gave it up. It was a bit too high school for my taste.”
“Look, I don’ wanna—”
“—what, hurt me? First of all, you couldn’t. Second of all, bullshit.”
That was it. Spike grabbed whatever eyeful of bait he had been allowed and pounced, forcing the crossbow’s aim to the ground with one hand and socking its holder as hard as he could with the other. The chip fired before the hit even had chance to connect, but that didn’t stop him from knocking the man off his feet and into the corresponding wall.
“Bloody hell!” he shouted, hand going instinctively to his cranium, even if an external massage did little to alleviate the pain. “See? This is what ‘m sayin’. Jump to conclusions, an’ people get hurt.”
“You’re not people,” the man snarled.
And then lunged.
Where the crossbow had gotten off to, Spike hadn’t the faintest, and he wasn’t exactly sure which he would have preferred. An all-out fists and fangs brawl that he couldn’t participate in; rather hope to dodge without receiving a massive shock to his neurological bug-zapper, or a date with a dusty ending.
For the millionth time, he arrived at the conclusion that the chip had to go.
The face-off quickly became a game of dodge. Spike located the discarded crossbow and quickly consigned it to the dumpster he had seen earlier. He didn’t bother to see if his aim had been satisfactory; but by the absence of a loud clamoring at the ground, he knew it was out of the picture.
Before he could turn around, however, two very masculine hands grasped by the shoulders and he was on the ground the next instant. “Come on, you bastard,” the man snapped. “Drop it.”
“Me?” Spike repeated incredulously. “You’re the one with a sodding attitude problem.”
“I wasn’t aware that there was a Vampire Awareness week. See, by my book, you can’t dust too many.”
That was it. He was tired of playing nice—especially when this was evidently the bloke he had been sent to find. What good was he going to do anyone if he was dead? “All right. That does it. Who the hell are you? Some kinda Slayer wannabe?” The peroxide Cockney rolled to his feet. “Brassed ‘cause have a pair too much to qualifyin’ for the job? You’re in over your head.”
The hunter paused at that, gracing him with a perplexed glance. “What the fuck is a Slayer?”
Oh. Sod. All.
With a huff of frustration, Spike pivoted sharply on his feet, arms outstretched as he raised his voice to no one in particular. Then he was screaming, venting everything he couldn’t through his hands by means of his voice. “What the bloody FUCK am I doin’ out here?!” he shouted. He turned his eyes to the sky—addressing God or the Powers That Be or whatever it was that decided that seeing him chase after an allusion was so amusing. Rage in its purest concentrate coursed through his veins. In all his years, he couldn’t remember being so angry, and there were a lot of spots in the running. “I don’t have time for you to fuck with me! I don’t have time to be pointed in a bunch of novelty directions while you sit on your less-than-holy arses an’ have a bloody good laugh. She’s gonna die if you—”
“Who the hell are you talking to?”
“The filth. The smog. The roaches. Take your bloody pick.”
There was a beat of hesitance. “You’re just trying to distract me. It won’t work.”
Spike rolled his eyes and turned back to his adversary. “’m not tryin’ anythin’, mate. But it looks as though you’re already distracted. ‘F you weren’t, you wouldn’t’ve taken the time to explain how it wouldn’t work.”
The next thing he knew, he had been forced to the ground once more. A field of blue crashed with a wave of brown, understanding layered behind depths of prejudice. Something that another of his kind—perhaps his own Order—had placed there at some point. But that only held the vampire’s attention for a second.
There was a stake in his hand.
Spike’s eyes went wide.
It was time for one of the aforementioned distractions. A purposeful one. A good one. He knew a thing or two about those. Something completely random, wholly unexpected, and the last thing anyone would think to hear from a vampire. His mind raced to an image of Xander playing some insidious James Bond videogame in the days where they had been roommates, and his eyes sparkled with inspiration. Without allotting time to reconsider, he held out a hand and cried: “Stop in the name of the British government!”
Blink.
That had to be the dumbest thing that had ever crossed his lips.
It worked.
The man’s arm faltered and his face fell, utter bewilderment soaring behind his eyes. There was no stopping the same from reaching his voice. “…What?!”
Spike flashed a grin and rolled to his feet. In an instant, he had the hunter stranded without a weapon and was effectively putting his technique of ‘hitting without the intention of hitting’ front to good use. The same he had pulled on the Slayer several weeks ago. A night in the alley outside the Bronze. The technique worked until he mimicked the act that had rendered him on the pavement a minute before—tossing the man to the ground with such unleveled hostility that a sharp shimmer of pain attacked with all the expectancy in the world.
And just like that, it was over. While the vampire recovered from the chip’s activation, the hunter’s attention had momentarily shifted to something that had fallen from his adversary’s pocket in the midst of the scuffle.
A business card.
“Wesley Wyndam-Pryce,” came the soft murmur.
Spike was staring at the man, wide-eyed. “You can read that?” he demanded, gesturing to the darkness that surrounded them. “Bloody hell, I never thought I’d find a human with eyesight better than mine.”
“Years of practice. How do you know Wes?”
“Jus’ an acquaintance, really.” The vampire found he was panting needlessly, as though he had just given his all at a track meet. It had been more than a long time since he had a good brawl with anything. He missed it with such fervor that it nearly broke him on bad days, and had the circumstances been different, he might have taken the time to realize that despite all, this encounter was just what he needed.
For now, it was occurring to him that perhaps Lorne might not have been playing him a fool. He studied the man intently before moving forward. Not close enough to open himself up to an encore, but to gauge his position. An unshaven chin, dark used-to-be-bleached hair, a set jaw, and he knew the eyes. Spike verified silently that his initial estimation had been right. This was someone set into the game as an act of vengeance. Someone that had been wronged in the past. Someone that had a vendetta against vampires—particularly those of his Order—for a good reason.
A reason he was determined to discover.
“Wes would…” the man continued, shaken. “Associate with vampires?”
“Depends on the vamp. ‘E was one of Angel’s for a while.” The look he received was clearly stunned. “Before the wanker went out an’ lost his soul again. The old git might be a ponce, but ‘e doesn’ fancy sidin’ with demons that’re out…well…demonizin’ every night.”
“So he’s one of yours now?”
“No. ‘E’s jus’ helpin’ me.” Spike hazarded another step closer. “Listen, mate. I don’ know who the hell you are or why you wager my head would look better on a stick, other than the obvious. But I’m guessin’ that means bugger all. You know who I am.”
“Yes. I’ve done my research.”
“You a Watcher, then?”
Well, that hardly followed. The peroxide vampire flinched inwardly at the hint of redundancy. If he was a Watcher, he would sure as hell know what a Slayer was. One would think.
And yet, the answer he received surprised him. A telling snicker—one that knew its confines. Nearly conversational. “Hardly.”
Spike arched a brow. “But you know what one is?”
A shrug at that. “Wes was one. That’s all I know.” The man paused a minute and glanced up. “I’m a demon hunter. Well, vampire hunter, but demon hunter’s general. Gives me some leverage.”
“I see. Any particular reason?”
He quieted.
“Okay. We’ll work up to the personals, then.” Spike decided to go for broke. The stake was immaterial at the moment, and there wasn’t much that his opponent could do to harm him without a weapon at the ready. Anything that he might have on his persons was safely stored in some compartment or hidden pocket, and he would have more than enough time to leap out of the way if it came to that. He crouched on his knees beside him. “You have it in for vampires?”
An arched brow. Well, that had been a rather stupid question. “Gee, you think so?”
“The Order’s bein’ reassembled. My own sodding family tree. Angelus, Darla, Dru—the whole bloody works. I take it you’re familiar with them, too.” He didn’t need a reply to confirm that theory. “An’ they happen to—”
“You’re William the Bloody.”
“Well, yeh. As we’ve established.”
“Why aren’t you with them?”
That question had effectively reached its limit. He was tired of people—especially people who didn’t know him particularly well—demanding the status of his nature. “’S complicated, mate,” he replied gruffly. “Let’s jus’ say, there’s this girl.”
“Ah. Always about a girl.”
“Not jus’ any girl. Chosen bird. Slayer. Killer of evil things.”
“And we’re progressing into the ‘sounding like a really bad episode of Passions.’” The man had looked away before Spike’s eyes could brighten in turn. “Let me guess. Classic ‘beauty and the beast’ syndrome. The big bad monster tripping over himself for a chance at the one girl he’s never supposed to have.”
Spike shuffled uncomfortably. “Somethin’ like that.”
An incredulous snort. “And you want me to help you?”
“No. I want you to help her.” He sighed. “This particular Slayer has a bit of bad history with vamps belongin’ to the Aurelius clan. An’ now they ‘ave her. Don’ particularly wanna picture what they’re doin’ to her. What they’re—”
The man held up a hand in ode for a pause. “Wait, wait, wait. Please speak into my good ear. Are you saying you’re in against this? You’re willing to go against your…” He trailed off; evidently finding whatever it was he needed ready in the vampire’s eyes. “Wow. Now there’s something I’d never expected to find in a vampire, even for a girl. She must be a hottie.”
Spike smiled. There was simply nothing to say to that.
“And you want me to help you?” It didn’t sound nearly as incriminating this time. Cautious, yes, and still a bit on the skeptical side, but leaning more toward something that resembled conviction.
The Cockney’s jaw tightened and his eyes stormed over, thoughts wandering when they shouldn’t. “I want her back, mate. Safe an’ sound. Whatever it takes.”
“Whatever it takes?” The hunter paused considerately. “You understand this sounds completely and utterly ridiculous. I know vamps. Vamps aren’t typically the type to pull all this righteous bullshit. I—”
“Well, I’m not one to follow the rules. ‘F you know me so well, you’d’ve quoted that back to me by now.” Spike slowly rose to his feet, steps heavy with finale. “You can keep that card. Look up the white hats ‘f you get around to feelin’ particularly heroic. In the meantime, dreadfully sorry, but I gotta be off. Needin’ to see about a girl.”
It wouldn’t take a phone call. They both knew it before another beat could pass.
The vampire had only taken five steps when he was stopped. The man bid him halt, fished out his crossbow from the dumpster and recollected his stake, mounting all into their security packets and nooks before moving to join him. His steps were slow but deliberate; marking everything that he was. A reluctant accompaniment to something he wasn’t sure he believed in.
“You understand that if I discover this is anything—”
“You’ll stake me good an’ proper.” He rolled his eyes with a treacherous grin. “Somethin’ tells me you’re gonna fit right in.” They walked in silence for a few minutes before it threatened to consume them. Spike was not an advocator of silence; especially when there was an alternative at the ready. “You got a name?”
There was a beat of hesitation, but he complied nonetheless. “Zachary Wright,” he said softly. “…Zack. Just Zack.”
The vampire grinned and decided to proceed for the hell of it. Might as well make something out of an otherwise completely random encounter, even if he hadn’t the faintest idea where it was supposed to lead him. “Zachary Wright, demon hunter extraordinaire, I’m William the Bloody. Or Spike. Jus’ Spike, preferably. Begrudgingly reluctant to make your acquaintance.”
Wright smirked a bit at that, and soon they were chuckling together. The sort of laugh that was disguised as much as possible. Like two children caught giggling in church.
If anything else, it was a start.
To be continued in Chapter Fourteen: Let It Rain…