Chapter Eighteen

Back Door Man



“What?”

“Whaddya mean, ‘what’?”

“I mean, ‘what’? What’s wrong with it?”

“You mean other than this side of everythin’? Bloody hell, an’ I thought you were s’posed to be the professional ‘ere.”

“I am!”

“An’ tha’s the best you can do?” Spike puckered an eyebrow and consigned a thoroughly smoked cigarette to the pavement as the two neared Caritas. From the outside, it looked to be a thoroughly busy night, and he wasn’t for certain if that scored a mark in the good or bad column. All would be revealed in due time.

Right now, though, there were more pressing matters.

For starters, a certain demon hunter who was in way over his head.

“I don’t see what you’re griping about. It seems more than—”

“Peaches isn’t some run of the mill vamp, Zangy. ‘E isn’t liable to fall for the same old that might’ve scratched your tally up from mediocre-wanker to above average.” The peroxide Cockney shook his head heavily, a low, humorless chuckle rumbling from the back of his throat. “’S gonna take more than that to chafe his willy. The stupid git won’ ‘ave an ear for believin’ me as it is.”

“Fine. You handle the ‘more’ and I’ll focus on the ‘that.’ Seems reasonable.” He paused thoughtfully. “And plausible, if you ask me—”

“I did ask you. Remember? The entire reason we’re ‘avin’ this bloody conversation?”

“Well, from what your friends have told me about this Host guy, I think he’d go for it.” Wright regarded him appraisingly. “Doesn’t seem like he’s rallying for the position as Angelus’s number one fan, either. I think as long as we make it look coincidental—”

Spike laughed again. “Tha’s jus’ it, Zangy. Great-Daddy Poofter doesn’ believe in coincidences. Jus’ like the Slayer in that, much as I hate to admit it. ‘F anythin’, it’ll look bloody timely.”

Actually, if he was completely honest dispelling the namesake of pride, it sounded like the best idea that either one of them could come up with. Not to mention the only thing that could pass as credible, even if it did risk more than he cared to risk. There was no better plan, thus he went with what he was granted. But, as always, the peroxide blonde was a capitalist. He needed to milk this one for everything he had.

And, as usual, it didn’t take as long as he originally wagered.

“Look…” Wright sighed and combed a hand through his hair. “I’m good at this. I am. And I know it can work. How about…we do the plan, and to call it even, I’ll buy the first round of drinks?”

The vampire paused speculatively at that, doing his damndest to shadow a grin. The bloke better start watching his step — he was going to end up Spike’s personal version of Xander Harris. “Right mate,” he said genially, thumping him once on the back for good measure. “’m convinced. You got yourself a deal.”

“I walked right into that, didn’t I?”

“What makes you say that?”

“The fact that I walked right into it.”

The Cockney grinned. “My, my. Can’t put anythin’ passed you hunter types.” He held up a hand before Zack could retort, nodding at a break in the sidewalk that led to an underground establishment. “Oh, looky. We’re here.”

“Has Angelus arrived yet? Can you tell?”

The vampire rolled his eyes. “’S not like sensin’ him through the bloody Force, Obi Wan. An’ yeh, while the wanker does ‘ave an intrusively familiar scent, there’s about seventy five lurkin’ down there alone to compete with it.”

Zack feigned astonishment. “You mean the great William the Bloody can’t even sense when his own grandsire is near?”

“What is it with you prats an’ usin’ my full name?”

The man shrugged. “It’s just fun to say. Of all the vamps I’ve known…and by ‘known’ I mean ‘killed’…there’s never been one that’s dependent on two nicknames. If I were you, I’d stick to the first. It has character.” When all he earned was a frown in turn, he gestured emphatically to support his claim. “Come on! There’s ‘William the Bloody’…or…” His voice dropped monotonously, performing a very impromptu and frighteningly accurate impersonation of Ben Stein. “‘Spike.’”

“Are you suggestin’ that Spike doesn’ have character?”

“It sounds like a name that belongs to an overweight biker with way too many tattoos for his own good.” Zack paused thoughtfully. “And as far as suggesting? No. I’m flat out telling you that it lacks in the character department.”

“The wankers I impaled seemed to ‘ave a different opinion.”

“Well, by all means, feel free to persuade me.” Wright stopped with a condescending grin. “Of course, you’d get a headache, and then I’d have to kill you for trying.”

“You’re jus’ lookin’ for an excuse to kill me.”

The other man stopped and graced him with a look that positively screamed, ‘Gasp! You’re kidding!’

Spike smirked. “Well, keep lookin’. ‘Aven’t you heard? I’m a soddin’ white hat now, jus’ like the rest of you. Cordy cleansed me of all my wrong when she invited me in, din’t she?”

Wright snickered. “You make her sound like the Pope.”

“Well, no. I wouldn’t give her that much power right off. ‘Sides, my family wasn’ Catholic.”

“Then you can’t be all that bad,” Zack replied with a grin as they prodded down the outer stairwell and stepped into the atmosphere that was unbeatably Caritas.

It was weird; seeing that face grin with some measure of sincerity. Spike hadn’t known the bloke for long, but enough time had passed that he could tell the man was one with little or no humor in his life. Somewhere along the way, an invisible line had been crossed. They were sinking further into this than either one would care to admit. “Besides,” the hunter continued, voice elevated to be heard over the noise. “I don’t think anyone could ever consider you a white hat.”

“Thank the bloody maker. I’d have to stake myself.”

At that, Zack paused pensively. “Well, now that you mention it…”

“Ha bloody ha.” That wasn’t it; it never was, but Spike’s attention was nearly visibly swiped away. Firstly by the music perturbing the air; secondly by the sight that greeted him on stage.

Lorne was singing again.

He was singing Barry Manilow.

Someone needed to be shot.

“Her name was Lo-la,” the Host vocalized beautifully. “She was a showgirl. But that was thirty years ago, when they used to have a show. Now it’s a disco…but not for Lo-la. Still in that dress she used to wear, faded feathers in her hair. She sits here so re-fined. And drinks herself half blind. She lost her youth, and she lost her Tony, now she’s—” He stopped and randomly directed the microphone to his very attentive audience, who screamed back, “Lost. Her. Mind!”

Zack was staring at the stage with a look of mixed wonder and fear on his face. “What the hell is this?”

“Apparently, ‘s the hottest spot north of Havana.”

A long pause.

“Why is it the hottest spot north of Havana?”

“I don’t know.”

Wright’s brows quirked and he shook his head. “Well,” he decided with a note of defeat. “I guess that if no one expects the Spanish Inquisition, then no one can expect that either.”

Spike’s eyes widened and a smile tickled his lips, unbidden. And before he could stop himself, he had plunged headfirst into a recitation that he had memorized without realizing it. “Our chief weapon is surprise,” he said. “…fear an’ surprise.”

“Two chief weapons,” Zack continued. “Fear, surprise, and ruthless efficiency!”

The vampire was grinning broadly now. He couldn’t help it. “Er, among our chief weapons are fear, surprise, ruthless efficiency, and near fanatical devotion to the Pope!”

It was tempting to continue, but Wright’s eyes alighted with inspiration. “Is that so?” he asked. “I thought you weren’t Catholic.”

“Oh, sod off.” Spike nodded to the stage where Lorne had spotted them, ending his highly annoying number, thanking everyone and announcing that the next routine would be performed by a Fungus demon from the Caribbean. He hopped down and immediately wormed his way through the crowd.

“This bloke,” the vampire continued, pivoting to Wright, “’s the Host. ‘E’s the git that told me to find you.”

“Spikalicious!” Lorne returned in greeting. “So good to see you, too.” He turned to Zack with a cordial smile. “And you must be the demon hunter.”

The man smiled self-consciously. “Hi.”

“Yeh, mate…” Spike shifted forward intently. “We gotta problem.”

“More like a proposition,” Zack corrected.

“Peaches ‘s gonna show at any minute—”

“—and we need him to buy that Spike’s more a bloodsucking fiend than he emanates—”

The vampire glared.

Zack smiled condescendingly.

Lorne blinked. “Huh? You invited Angel here?” Without awaiting a reply, he cast his gaze upward and heaved a sigh. “Leaping Lazaruses with a pogo stick. There goes another bartender.”

“We needed somewhere neutral,” Spike explained with a shrug.

“Yeah. Thanks for the nod, boys. Glad to know I’m in your thoughts.” The Host neared and lowered his voice; it was obvious he wanted to shout, but there was no point in riling the other customers. Yet. “I can’t have Angelkins in here harassing my customers! You have any idea how bad for business that is? It took a week to get back to the normal quote, and that was with the sanctuary spell!”

“Would you do it for a girl?”

Zack arched a brow. “Does he look like you to…you? He doesn’t go all gooey whenever someone mentions—”

The Host rolled his eyes and plowed through his companion’s objection. “Oh, fine. Throw a Slayer in the deal. Twist my arm. Want my liver while you’re at it?” He shook his head in relevance that there were no true harsh feelings. “Yeah, fine.”

Spike beamed and smirked at Wright.

Lorne sighed. “What do you need me to do?”

*~*~*


The plan, however effective, remained hopelessly rudimentary in technique. A passing glance in the spirit that whatever they were trying to emanate would succeed on all levels. The Host was seated at the pub, chatting up his current barkeep while nursing a phony headache. Spike, meanwhile, had perched himself on a stool surrounded by female demons of every breeding and variety, and looked to be having a ball.

Hard to believe it was a façade.

Zack was by the door, watching with awe and wondering where a dead guy got the energy. To his credit, he didn’t seem to be authentically interested in any of the lame come-ons that were being waved in his face, despite the amount of cleavage that managed to worm into the picture. There weren’t many creatures — human or not — that he wagered would be so thoroughly wholesome; especially to a girl that did not reciprocate his feelings.

Wright snickered at that. Wholesome. A wholesome vampire. No such fucking thing.

Not much time had passed; it seemed it, but he had only known Spike for a day or so. A day. Somehow he had gone from wielding a crossbow with every intention of firing to nearly treating a demon as an equal. There was something seriously fucked up with the world.

Trouble was, Spike didn’t act like a conventional vampire. Monsters were difficult to hate when they didn’t behave by society’s standards. Well, at least he reckoned. Before the monster in question, he had never encountered one that refused to conform to its innate nature.

The past few years had been set to a regular schedule. Get up, eat, dress, kill local nasties. That was the way it was. With every demon he slayed, he got that much of his own back. Such to the point where he reckoned he was taking from other’s plates as well. And why shouldn’t he? The world had robbed him of so much. In its sadistic temperament, it had given everything he ever asked for. Ever wanted. Ever needed. Gave it to him and let him enjoy it before ripping it away without permission.

He rued the day he let Darla into his life, even if he could not remember it. She had set the bar. She was the equation to which all others of her kind were measured. And he had never stopped in the past. Never once thought to ask questions before pulling the trigger. Before finalizing the kill. It was not a matter of negotiation. Demons were bad. They ruined lives, destroyed families, and were a disease that the earth needed to be rid of.

There had been so much. Strewn over books that first year, killing whatever nasty ugly that crossed his path. Researching, memorizing, and researching more. Learning everything there was about the Order of Aurelius. Its members, their respected histories, and their bloody trail throughout Europe. Flash. There was Darla and Angelus, terrorizing a demon hunter named Holtz. Another. Murdering a girl in a convent. Making a bloody mess of said convent. Another. Killing Drusilla’s family right in front of her; bathing in their crimson goodness before finishing off with the ultimate insult. Pumping her blood with their darkness. Making her one of them.

History was scattered with her. Every page. Every word. Every syllable. There she was. Darla. Russia, France, Ireland, Germany, Spain, Romania…it never ended. It never halted. Not for her. Wherever she went, she killed. And wherever she killed, she made sure her presence was known.

And she wasn’t even the worst of them. Oh no. The master must ultimately bow to its creation. She had molded herself into her own Pygmalion, passing as much mutated affection to her sculpture as possible. Without a doubt, Angelus took the cake. Hell, he sold out the bakery. There wasn’t a single mention of him that wasn’t drenched in blood. He was the leader of Hell’s armies. He was the reason there wasn’t an atheist in the foxhole. He was practically what had given vampires the reputation they had.

It was a consistency. The Master had made Darla. Darla had made Angelus. Angelus made Drusilla. And Drusilla had made the vampire that was currently his partner. His cohort. His associate. And he was going against those he was bound to in blood to save the one person that shouldn’t matter.

With no thought for himself.

Absolutely amazing.

Wright would have liked to believe it a rouse. He would have liked that more than anything save Amber before him right now, safe and sound, reassuring him that the past seven years had been some awful dream. But things had changed. An entire career built on stone, and it took only a matter of hours for his barriers to come crumbling down. To his credit, he didn’t believe that Spike realized how much he had allowed himself to soften since their haphazard acquaintance. He honestly didn’t remember laughing this much in the past forever for genuine purposes. For free, silly, adult humor.

He was beginning to feel again, and that was never good.

If he felt, it meant he was still human. Still living, still breathing.

And she was still gone.

Zack sighed coarsely, eying Spike again. A large part of him wanted it over with. To simply kiss the last of his compassion goodbye and kill the vampire for what he had been, not what he currently was. To deny such a creature of any form of offered deliverance. He wanted to. He wanted to so badly. Because if Amber hadn’t been given a chance, why should he? Why should this Slayer he was so hung up on? Why should anyone?

Because this — this whatever it was — was true. He hated it, but it was true. The night before served as enough proof. Enough reason. The look in his eyes. That raw emptiness. That utter sadness. That fleeting rage that was overwhelmed only by the most burdened anguish ever felt. Spike’s face. Hearing that Buffy had been killed.

Even if he knew it was likely a fluke.

A true vampire would have ended it there. A true vampire couldn’t love.

Not really.

There hadn’t been anything to suggest monstrosity. The human wave of anger, of course. The rawness aligning his tensed muscles at he, paler than an undead man should ever be, completed the call as best as he could before retreating upstairs in solitude. And even after he knew that after the rain cloud had lifted, his mood hadn’t changed.

He had reveled. Reveled in what he lost in thought. In theory.

What he didn’t have to lose to begin with.

He really loved this woman.

And Zack hated himself for seeing it. Hated himself for breaking, even if it had yet to show. Hated himself for being here, for helping a creature he should have dusted, for doing anything other than what he came here to do.

Darla. He was here to kill Darla.

And fucking yet.

Spike met his eyes suddenly; such that Zack had hardly noticed he had been watching him. They shared a long look of mutual understanding; too much passed in too little time for comfort. Another level to his added corruption.

Corruption by a vampire who was, in turn, being corrupted by vampires.

Irony, thy name is Wright.

There was sudden rustling behind him, and without feeling the obligation to turn; he knew that Angelus had entered the scene. It was nothing if not an innate and sometimes frightening sixth sense. Something developed over the years of building and keeping himself safely guarded from the eye of redemptive humanity. Had he more time for deeper consideration, he might have wondered how he knew it was Angelus, but settled infinitely on the look in his vampiric cohort’s eyes. Some things were better left unexplained.

Now to put on a smile and act like a right loon.

It was time.

Zack pivoted sharply at the heel and would have plowed directly into Angelus had the vampire not already taken the means to push him aside. He didn’t even pay attention to him; his gaze set prematurely on Spike, whose act had raised several notches in ode to the grandsire’s arrival. He was appraising some slutty purple-skinned demon-whore, eyes not once drifting upward.

“What the hell is this?”

Wright cleared his throat and plastered on what had to be dumbest smile of all time. “Isn’t it great?” he asked loudly, earning only a mildly irritated glance for his troubles. “See that guy? Over there? With all the—”

Angelus didn’t even spare him a glance. “Shut up.”

“Unbelievable. And — whew — what a set of pipes! Took one turn at the mic and all those girlies just flocked over to him.” Zack clasped his hands together and rubbed conspiratorially. “And what’s best, he’d promise he’d turn me once he got something worked out with his schedule. Can you imagine it? A vampire! Living for-fucking-ever! Think of how much tail you’d get after a few centuries. Man, wait until I tell the guys downtown about THIS! They’ll shit themselves!”

At that, Angelus’s attention was snagged.

“He what?”

Wright’s countenance dimmed slightly, and he shrugged as though his previous excitement was of no consequence. “Oh, he’s a vampire. Or he says he’s a vampire. If he’s not, he has this really cool trick where his face goes all fangy. Not the prettiest picture, but hey — no reflection, so it’s not like I’d have to see myself or anything.” Then he made a face. “’Course, there is that ‘drinking blood’ thing. Yuck — disgusting. But I guess small prices must be paid, if I’m going to live forever. What do you think?”

There was a definitive snap in the vampire’s pretense, and his bumpies emerged without further prompt. A preemptive struggle to refrain from simply shoving the man against a wall, but he did manage to back Zack into a corner, hand forcefully on his shoulder to hold him in place.

Wright thought he faked fear quite well for a beginner. It had been, after all, a long time since such had been deemed essential. Then his eyes widened and a broad grin tackled his features. “Oh, dude!” he exclaimed. “You’re a vamp, too! Man, this is so my night.”

Just as he reckoned, Angelus was not in the mood for pleasantries. “Better watch it, boy,” he growled, “or I might be persuaded to take you outside. You know what happens when we go outside, right?”

“We hail a cab?”

The demon stared at him incredulously and rolled his eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” he yelled to no one in particular, cutting a brief silence through the noise that surrounded them before the respected clientele returned to their business. “Spike was going to let you live forever? Sheesh, and I thought that boy had standards.” He paused with a small, secretive grin. “Or wait, maybe not.”

“H-he told me th-that he w-was better t-to start somewhere after a f-fa-famine.”

Stuttering was always good. Gave it a feel of realism.

“All right, Polly. Talk.” It was actually rather amusing; Wright could tell that he was dying to do something to measure his words. Slam him against the wall, tighten his grip around his throat, rip his lungs out and lick them clean — the usuals. “What do you know? And the truth, please. You see, I get a little…testy…when I feel I’m being had. You wouldn’t want me to get testy, would you?”

“Look, man!” he cried, clutching the vampire’s wrist tightly in semblance of fear. “All I know is that that dude sang—”

“He sang?”

“Yeah! He totally sang! And then—”

“The Host? He around here?”

Zack frowned ignorantly. “Host? What Host?”

There was a rumbled sigh of exasperation. “I don’t know why I’m surprised. That little ignoramus always did want to sire idiots as useless as him. The Host! A tall, greenish fellow, unspeakably annoying with a tendency to read your dry, meaningless, and rapidly-becoming-shorter future when you pay tribute to your favorite Patsy Cline number?”

“Oh! The green guy!” Wright wriggled free from the vampire’s domineering grasp and nodded, pointing at the bar. “Man, that dude pulled a total wig and has been over there ever since.”

Sure enough, Lorne was perched faithfully on a barstool, brilliantly crimson rag against his forehead as he sipped at a Sea Breeze. He was talking with the server, occasionally throwing irritated, half-frightened glances over his shoulder. When he glanced over to the pair, his eyes widened and he yelped something unintelligible before making a quick break for a section reserved for staff only.

A blaze of confusion and surprise overwhelmed the vampire. Zack had to refrain from the temptation to yelp his success.

Then a soft voice broke the reverie. Soft, but not from bursting with egotistical glory. The peroxide vampire was standing just a few feet away, thumbs hooked through his belt loops, brows raised and the kitschiest smile on his face. “Whatsa matter, Peaches?” he asked contemptuously. “You eat another philanthropist, or aren’ you happy to see me?”

“Spike,” Angelus said in greeting, releasing Wright completely. “I must admit, this is not what I expected. Making with the singing, taking up losers more pathetic than you…well, not quite, but close. What? You trying to impress me?”

“Not for you, mate. Or ‘aven’t you learned that yet?”

“You set this up for my benefit? Really, I’m touched.”

The younger vampire merely shrugged, rocking on his heels a bit. “Jus’ thought you’d appreciate a bit of the old proof. My last debut wasn’ exactly anythin’ I’d brag about.”

“Yeah, I heard. Moping and wailing and throwing yourself on the ground so the poor, dainty Slayer doesn’t get her feet wet.” Angelus shook his head, tsking with a nasty smile on his face. “I gotta say, your taste just gets funnier and funnier.”

Zack’s brows arched, but Spike didn’t look at him.

“Don’ really see where you’re one to talk, mate. You’re the one who popped her cherry, after all.” He shrugged and reached for his cigarettes, glancing upward. “Anyway, ‘m bloody over it. Guess I wanted a li’l taste, but no harm no bloody foul. Bit of the old spot of violence oughta throw me properly back in the game.” He jutted his chin toward Wright, but the elder didn’t follow his gaze. “Even brought me a peace-offerin’ for Dru.”

“You really think she’s gonna forgive you that easily?”

Spike’s brows arched, and he blew out a column of smoke. “Well, no. That bein’ what the peace-offering’s for, you ninny.”

“You got a lot to own up for, and I’m not sure I’m buying this change of heart of your change of heart.” Angelus stepped forward leeringly. “Funny how the last time I saw you, you had decided to take up a place next to the Slayer and her holy brigade of apocalypse-stopping buffoons.”

“Well, the Slayer’s gone now, isn’t she?” the Cockney demanded emphatically. “Shouldn’t be a problem unless you decide to lose your marbles over another one, as far as I’m concerned. ’Sides, my story sticks. I like this world. ‘S got all sorts of bloody potential. An’, truly mate, that was more ‘cause I was tired of listenin’ to you an’ Dru knockin’ boots. Darla’s bein’ back’ll be enough to gimme at leas’ some quality time with my dearest, don’cha think?”

Angelus gave him a long, thoughtful look. “You see, William,” he said. “This is where I’m having my problem. I don’t think we have any use for you…at all. Other than the occasional knack for keeping Dru entertained, you brought nothing to the Order except an unbelievably annoying knack of getting in my way.”

“Well,” the younger retorted, taking another puff of his cigarette. “This is how I see it. This Wolfram an’ Hart gig’s bigger than you, an’ tha’s jus’ killin’ your poor precious, evil-based ego, especially after a career in workin’ to stop the very thing that got you mentioned in all those dull-as-dust anthologies. More over, way I heard it, this was all fixed accordin’ to their likin’. I could always take it up with that Lindsey bloke or someone with a bit more tug. Someone a li’l higher up on the food chain. Or I could let you live in your li’l delusion of grandeur an’ come back on your terms. Which would you prefer?”

There was a long beat of unbridled consideration. Angelus’s eyes narrowed.

“And the whelp?” he asked.

Spike shrugged. “Jus’ a tasty li’l morsel to smooth over my princess. I do owe her an apology.”

Angelus’s brows rose appraisingly. “Morsel got a name?”

“Zack.” Wright’s eyes went wide, and the peroxide vampire must have caught it, for he dove for the first loophole he could find, and succeeded rather admirably. “Morris.”

Or maybe not.

Well, two could play at that game.

“There are some who call me…Tim…” Zack retorted ominously, earning a skeptically quizzical glance from the elder and a quick flash of annoyed amusement from his grandchilde.

Angelus quirked a brow and nodded disinterestedly at Wright, not bothering to mask his cynicism. “You really think Dru’s gonna forgive you if you give her this?”

“Willin’ to try, mate. Got any better ideas?”

The elder smiled conspiratorially. “A few. But this is a decent start.”

“Yeh. ‘Cept I still got me a problem.” The peroxide vampire tapped his cranium; ignoring the pointedly unabashed look of accusation the demon hunter shot him in turn. “Li’l birdie told me that your friends might be able to help me out in that department. Make it so I can chase the other puppies again.”

“Ah, yes. The chip.” Angelus crossed his arms, chuckling richly. “Only you would be incompetent enough to become the lab monkey of some fraternity boys. I—”

“Yeh, yeh. I’ve heard ‘em all, you overgrown ponce. Do your bloody worst, but you’ll be wastin’ your lack of breath. Oh, an’ while you’re at it, feel free to stuff it.”

He earned a string of tsks in turn. “Temper, temper. Why would I stop when it’s so much fun?” The elder demon shook his head and rumbled another long chuckle. “You always did offend easily, Spike. Never took care of that. Gives others the advantage… Not to mention it makes pissing you off just…hilarious.”

The peroxide vampire’s eyes narrowed. “You gonna help me out or not?”

“Oh, I don’t know. You didn’t say please.”

“I could rip your head off. Be jus’ as effective an’ a whole lot funnier.”

Angelus nodded appraisingly. “Big words. Think you could?”

“Guess we could always find out.”

It was boisterous, and the platinum Cockney knew it. Despite his strength — his speed and agility — he had never been able to best the elder in battle. And yet, despite immeasurable odds, therein awaited conviction. Strength. And for the weight of what he was gambling against, Spike felt he could part the Red Sea.

It didn’t take long; the vampire finally cracked a smile and thumped his grandchilde on the back for good measure. “At least you haven’t lost your sense of humor,” he reasoned. “Right. I’ll have Lindsey make the arrangements.” His eyes danced. “Get you…deprogrammed.”

“’m droppin’ in,” Spike retorted, not nearly as cordial. “Tomorrow at sundown. All right? Then we can get to it. Get the sodding procedure over with.”

Angelus smiled; it wasn’t pleasant. “And then…I think I’ll take everyone out on a little field trip. It’s been too long since we went out for a good old-fashioned hunt.”

“Do I get to come?” Zack intervened, struggling to desist from glaring at his companion and even more so to blockade the chorus of I told you so’s! his mind was playing on incessant repeat.

The elder vampire’s gaze remained level. “Sure,” he said, though his voice dripped with falsity. “We’ll bring the whole family.”

At that, Spike froze and his eyes widened. Whole family. Did that include…

He wouldn’t speculate. He couldn’t.

Angelus left shortly thereafter, much to the Host’s vocal relief. He had wormed his way to the stage moments later to assure everyone that the vampire had not been here of his invitation, and that he would be looking into enhanced vampire repellant spells that could designate who was and wasn’t invited in. While the visit had gone considerably better than it could have, the regulars were still shaken.

The guy was a fucking legend. No question about that.

Spike and Zack didn’t linger around that long, either. From the look in the demon hunter’s eyes, he was just itching to get his companion out where a sanctuary spell wouldn’t keep them guarded from each other, though the vampire hadn’t the faintest idea why. The only thing he was certain of was the temperament had, at some point, gone seriously downhill during the trade.

Perhaps he had underestimated his own acting abilities. This was the second time he had fooled Angelus. The previous year had seen an effective scheme-filled screw over of the Scoobies for Adam’s benefit. And now Zack Wright: the demon hunter who wasn’t too keen on believing him in the first place.

“‘Some call me Tim’?” he demanded as soon as they reemerged to street level. “Were you bloody tryin’ to give us away? This is too fucking important to be tryin’ to show up each other with pop culture references. Cor, ‘s a good thing Angelus ‘s such a bloody dolt; stupid wanker never had enough humor in his life to appreciate Monty Python when he was all—”

There was a cautionary smile, despite his noted icy disposition. That was an improvement. At least they were beyond the ‘I’m-staking-you-no-questions-asked’ phase. “Hello! You’re the one who decided that I resembled the star of some inane after-school special.”

Spike shrugged, unable to conceal a grin. “’Ey, you’re lucky I was able to recover that quickly. It was the firs’ thing that came to mind.”

Wright stared at him blankly. “Saved By The Bell was the first thing that came to mind?”

“Rather fittin’, don’cha think?” The peroxide vampire was practically trembling with mirth. “Mate, I don’ think there’s anyone in the whole soddin’ world tha’s watched more telly in the expanse of their sad, empty lives as I have this past year. Let’s face it, ‘e’s the most popular Zack there is out there in syndication.”

“If I’m Zack Morris, does that make you Screech?”

“Oi! Watch it!”

There was a chuckle as they fell into step. Comfortable. Even with the noise and busywork of a city that refused to retire even when the rest of the world was sleeping. Even with everything.

It was a few minutes before either spoke again.

“Are you really going to do it?”

Spike glanced up. “Do what?”

“Get your chip removed?”

A thoughtful pause of understanding at that. So that was the reason the man had frozen inside. It made sense, in retrospect. For a vampire who claimed to be off the good stuff, to immediately leap at the chance to have his handicap removed had to look more than suspicious.

But that didn’t change intent. Yes, Spike wanted the chip out. He wanted it out more now than ever. He knew that his unspoken oath to Buffy would keep from killing — whether or not that lasted. There would be no hurrying to off her friends. There would be no hurrying to off anyone. There would be no offing of anyone. He was on a strict diet of pig’s blood, and he intended to adhere its conditions.

At least for now.

It was more than that. Spike recognized his calling enough to understand that whatever decision he made now was final. The reemergence of his humanity wouldn’t take a break. Wouldn’t stop. Oh no, it kept coming. Kept with every breath he didn’t breathe. A chip didn’t make or break anyone. His had simply offered him a window. A view. And he, being the enormous dolt he was, had looked out.

He had been reminded of the world before he was killed.

The chip was just hampering him. And it was dangerous. It was dangerous for him with people like Zachary Wright out there. Those who had been wronged by vampires or demons. Those on a mission to cleanse the world of her disease — or do enough that they could die with a clear conscience. He needed means of protection. He needed something, or else the legend William the Bloody would meet an ending that was not at all complimentary to his reputation.

“Yeh,” he replied at last. “’m gonna do it.”

There was a sigh, and the joking disposition his companion wore diminished almost immediately. “You hypocritical bastard, I knew—”

“’m not gonna kill anyone, Zangy. Jus’ stop assumin’ before I’m forced to kill another fucking cliché.” Spike sighed and shook his head. “It doesn’ have anythin’ to do with nummy people treats. I give you my sodding word on that, all right? I eat anyone; you’re free to stake me. No questions asked. I won’ even put up a bloody fight. That rest well with you?”

Another breath. The man’s anger dimmed almost instantly. As though his will to believe had been pushed simply by obligatory objection. That notion was warming. They were making progress after all. “All right.”

An understanding. Formed, spoken, and agreed upon.

All right.

*~*~*


Lindsey slammed the phone down, though kept his fist coiled in a steadfast grip for long seconds. Long trembles rumbled through his body, every inch of willpower tingling on its last nerve. He was fighting the urge to yank out the cord and consign the entire thing to the wall with a definitive smash.

So fucking sick of everything going wrong. One thing after another. Darla. Dru. Angelus. The Slayer.

And now Spike. Spike was on board. On board, and he wanted the fucking chip out.

Well, of course he did. Couldn’t torture a Slayer with a zapper in the noggin.

This had gone far enough. It was time for action.

He would be damned before William the Bloody set a foot in this office.

Lindsey chuckled humorlessly, relaxing his grip and bringing the phone to his ear again. Easy enough. He was damned, anyway.

“McDonald here,” he said, voice cutting through the dark silence of his office. A man encased in his self-made shadows. The days had grown longer without his consent. He wondered who to talk to about that. “I need you to assemble a team. We have another ad hoc vampire to take out. Yeah. Right away.”

He might be damned, but there was no way he was adding to his sentence. If he was going down, he was going to take as many with him as possible.

Might as well use power while it was still his.

It was the least he could do.



To be continued in Chapter Nineteen: To The Innocent…





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