The False Prophet
It was a strange feeling.
The streets were populated with people. All sorts of people. Young, old, tall, short, fat, thin, it didn’t matter. They were people. They were humans. They were everything he was supposed to hate. Everything he was supposed to resent; everything he was supposed to discard after having drained them dry. After referring to their vitals for his ever-important meal ticket.
He could have one now. He could have a thousand. The chip was gone. It was gone, and he could have whomever he wanted.
And yet.
The procedure had ended an hour ago—there had, apparently, been a lot of paperwork to go through. Medical releases, completely bogus questionnaires, inquiries to his family’s history. Spike had the nagging suspicion that most had served as more means of distraction while McDonald searched for a loophole that would prevent the surgery altogether. There weren’t many absolutes that the peroxide vampire could be sure of anymore, but he did know that, within the first few minutes, Lindsey McDonald was not his number one fan. He had absolutely no want to have him anywhere near Wolfram and Hart, and while he refrained from shouting that from the rooftops, it remained more than palpable.
Curious.
The position he had assumed was a dangerous one; he didn’t realize how deep he had allowed himself to venture until noting that—quite possibly—from here on out he would be facing the rest alone. While Zack, Cordelia, and the others would remain true to their word, bringing them in now had the potential to jeopardize everything.
Lindsey’s aversion to him was enchanting. Though Spike didn’t usually take to people who refused to find him positively delightful or bloody terrifying, the repugnance he sensed from the man was something different altogether. It wasn’t that he didn’t like him for the sake of crowding the offices or a quibble along that regard; more that he was hesitant to live up to his own contract. To bring the Order together.
The man did not care for the way things were going. That much was obvious.
Angelus had big plans for the evening, and that made Spike nervous. It was a bizarre feeling, despite the year of practice tied in with innate preparation. Temptation at its blessed fullest. It was hard enough resisting the urge to act out the full potential of his demonhood without tangible restriction; flaunting what he craved, and would always crave, while keeping it out of hindsight was as close to bona fide torture as the vampire ever wanted to come.
He had given his word, and that was something he refused to take lightly. Too much depended on restraint. Buffy’s trust, Wright’s friendship, and the continued support from his newfound colleagues at Angel Investigations. So much on the foundation that he would be a good little boy and play by the rules.
It was against his nature.
Every step thus far had been against his nature.
There was also that pesky little voice that warned him of his overly interested conscience. That was also a bother.
It was intimidating—carrying so much weight on shoulders that were not only accustomed to dropping their burden at whatever convenient location, but also rolling around in the carnage such tomfoolery cost. Being responsible was something he had never fancied for himself.
And yet here he was.
Spike discovered quickly that there was little one could do in this city that Wolfram and Hart wouldn’t ultimately know about. There was much he wanted to share with his associates, but he didn’t dare risk the trip across town to relate what the evening according to Angelus would entail. He knew he was going to be expected to kill. He knew he was going to be surveyed like he had never been surveyed before. He knew that whatever he did had to look authentic. Genuine enough to fool one of the most notorious vampires in documented history.
There would be real blood spilt tonight.
The vampire decided the best course of action would be through Caritas. It was the perfect middle-point, and Lorne would be sure that Wright received whatever forwarded message he needed to relay. It was close enough to Wolfram and Hart to mark notes in convenience and elude suspicion, but far enough to range beyond the prying eyes of those who might be interested in leaking his duplicity to the family.
Spike wanted to avoid his unfortunate blood ties as long as possible. While remaining within the boundaries of Wolfram and Hart was something of a given, he couldn’t stand the idea of being confined to a lot that didn’t particularly care for him. He roamed as much as he could, delivered the goods to the Host along with his message, and made several rounds of the law offices. Angelus had yet to mention the Slayer, which failed to surprise. When and if Buffy was ever introduced to the picture, it would be far after he had completely regained their confidence.
However, the peroxide Cockney wasn’t willing to wait that long. He wasn’t willing to wait at all.
There were other things. Drusilla had expressed an interest in renewing their relationship as soon as possible—in the all out physical sense. Daddy and grandmummy hadn’t seen to her as they used to, she claimed. Daddy was once again aspiring to a level where all he saw was Darla. All he saw, touched, and inhaled was Darla. Darla Darla Darla.
Funny. When Spike saw his great grandsire again, he had to fight the urge to stake her. Out of loyalty.
Loyalty.
To a human.
There was more than something wrong with that picture.
The platinum vampire resolved himself to elude his former princess’s advances as long as possible, but he understood that he might become cornered. If he was too forceful in his refusal, suspicions were going to arise. And it wasn’t that Spike hadn’t been known to indulge in the sins of the flesh—rather he was very known for it. There was no clause that suggested he needed to be faithful to Buffy. There was not a relationship there to taint with infidelity. He had used Harmony for more of the same.
He didn’t want to shag Dru. He didn’t want to use the face of a woman he had loved in order to save the one that now held his affections. For whatever reason, it seemed wrong.
Wrong. That was a word that had radically changed definition in his personalized vocabulary over the past year. What was worse, he didn’t know who it would be wrong against. Using Drusilla didn’t bother him, per se. She hadn’t been the picture of faithfulness during their discourse. No, he felt he would be betraying Buffy, even if it made no earthly sense.
Betrayal. Betrayal was virtually palpable with every step indulged within Wolfram and Hart. Betrayal from a thousand different sources. The walls practically bled with it. With every file exchanged, every conversation by proverbial water coolers, every look flashed in every direction, that much more was betrayed. That much more was given away. Sealed. Stamped. Shut. Over with.
He had to find her. He was here now. He had reached his destination, and patience was running on empty.
He had to find her.
It was amazing what a man could find to miss. The past few days—weeks—however long it had been, had schooled him effectively into categorizing everything that he had not experienced since he last saw her. The icy looks. The irritated tones. The empty threats that followed the not-so-empty punches. Romancing the bloody stone. And then, there was the rest. The way she laughed with him when she thought he wouldn’t notice. The way they patrolled and chatted comfortably when no one else was around. The way she could open up just a bit—allow herself to become that much more human.
The scent of her tears against the cold night air. The shiver of her skin beneath his touch. The way he could frighten her without threats, even if she would never admit it. The way she could match him—word for word, move for move, in anything he did. Her butchering of the English language. Her liking for petty clichés. The vanity she had depended on since adolescence; how he enjoyed watching it blossom and fluster within the same respective beat. The hint of her mother’s perfume in the air, even if she used it sparingly. How she dropped her shoulder in battle without realizing it, and never in turn lost the upper hand.
How she could be so cold. So distant. So perfect. So completely not his, and make him not even care.
Much.
It had been too long, and he missed her.
He missed her for all her faults. For all her mistreatments and admittedly numbered failings. For all her Buffyness in the sense that was not always entirely flattering. She could kill with a look and still be glorious. Her warmth could melt the iceman’s heart if he was at the receiving end. The way she cared and tried. The way she simply was.
He missed her.
Before this had happened, they had been on the road to something. Not friendship—not completely. But something beyond the revulsion that mapped everyday existence. It was more than he would have ever expected to grasp without outward acknowledgement. She had saved his life more times than he could count, and he had returned the favor in mutual respect even if she never noticed.
He missed the way she made him human. She had started it, after all. She was the ultimate inspiration for being.
And he missed her.
The lower foundation of Wolfram and Hart upheld the reputation the rest of its stature had maintained. While offices were situated on a level that seemed to personify prestige and elegance, there was always the hidden understanding that skillfully underlined all transactions. It was more blunt. Truthful. The real espionage of human affairs. He had the distinct feeling that his presence rang on the side of unwelcome, perhaps even prohibited, but such tidings had never kept him from exploiting all aspects of human frailty before.
If Angelus or the others knew where he was, he knew they would not like it.
Spike had never doubted the probability of finding Buffy within the Wolfram and Hart offices. He knew while she was still alive, the lawyers contracting her wouldn’t allow their dealings on such a profitable manner to be taken outside the boundaries of comfort. And knowing that she was in the hands of Angelus and his girls singled out the likelihood of finding her anywhere but the lower levels of the edifice. His grandsire had a liking for large, open and assuredly dark spaces. He would want the traditionalism of a good old-fashioned torture. He would want to make it as nineteenth century as possible while incorporating all the luxuries that modern technology had allotted.
He would want it all.
The peroxide vampire had no delusions of heroism. Not now. With his head still aching from the chip’s removal and no feasibility in smuggling the Slayer to safety while the place crawled with personnel and others that were, while not fully behind the recent changes, loyal to the innate chaos that Wolfram and Hart represented. When they got her out, it would assuredly be a team effort. An infiltration that would ensure as much support as possible, even if—by his standards—there could never be enough.
Spike wished it otherwise. The last thing he wanted was to overcrowd her, but there were no other options. Not with the path they had selected for approach.
The bowels of Wolfram and Hart potentially stretched for miles. There was no way to explore to satisfaction without arousing suspicion of the others. Especially with his reemergence so young. So distrusted. So…supervised.
They wouldn’t even tell him about Buffy. That she was alive. How she had allegedly kicked it. Anything. She hadn’t been mentioned, and he would be damned before he jeopardized her and brought up the ordeal himself.
His manhunt would have to be postponed. It was nearing time for departure.
Mustn’t keep an eager audience waiting.
The platinum Cockney was ready to turn and head back to the surface when the scent hit him. It was faint, nearly imperceptible, and so forgone that he originally suspected his overly-anxious mind was playing tricks on him. But no. It was there. Very pale. Nearly nonexistent.
But real. It was real.
An overwhelming sensation. Spike found himself flooded with an unexpected wave of emotion—such that he nearly choked on tears that sprouted from nowhere. Finally. Within the strain of tangibility. Oh God. And there again. The mix of dirt, blood, the salty essence of skin…everything that made her Buffy. His Slayer. What he had and would cross oceans for. The very same that had brought him here—to his personalized inferno. Everything. The vampire choked pitifully, following his footing without realizing it. Following the corridor as far as her scent would carry him.
Followed until he encountered a barrier. A door.
Buffy was on the other side of that door.
And he had run out of time.
The larger part of him wanted to blow it off. Sod the entire plan and all that bloody rot. He had found her—in essence, he had found her. She was on the other side of that door, waiting for him. He wanted to race in, take her into his arms, and get the fuck out of Dodge. Now.
But the smaller, more reasonable voice within forewarned that it could never be that easy. He would be staked dead before reaching the first floor—if not by Angelus or one of his own, then most assuredly by a Wolfram and Hart associate.
Spike sputtered an indignant sob at that, irritated by the hint of tears that still blinded his gaze. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to be here, to be standing with only a door between them. To be drawn back because it was in accordance to some preordained arrangement. He needed her now. He needed to look at her, touch her, feel her…now.
To do so now would risk everything, and not on the kind of odds he liked to wager.
A touch. One. The vampire lifted his hand to caress the rough exterior of the door. The unwanted barrier keeping him from his purpose. His reason for being. His ladylove, even if it remained entirely unrequited for the rest of her days. His eyes drifted shut without realizing it, as though to absorb the promise of heat and life that was concealed from hindsight. It was as damn close to torture as he cared to get when he pulled away, gazing at the obstruction longingly. As long as he could watch it.
“Hang on, luv,” he whispered, his voice echoing with haunting reverberation to the halls around him. “I’ll be back.”
And he would. He would be back. Sooner rather than later.
Spike always kept his word. And nothing short of a stake to the heart could keep him away now.
“Yeah, thanks.”
Cordelia hung up the phone and collapsed tiredly against the front counter, burying her head in her arms. The motion was enough to cause Wesley to glance up from his reading; the slowly-becoming-ritualistic perusal of every convenient newspaper to see if Angelus was indulging in patterned hunting routines. Thus far, all inquiries had resulted in a big negative, but it was always better to keep busy. “Good news?” he asked.
“Oh yeah. The best.” She sighed and shook her head. “We gotta get Zack on this, stat.”
The man in question bounded down the Hyperion staircase as though reacting to a well-timed cue. “Gotta get Zack in on what?”
“The Host just called. Apparently, Spike has to go hunting tonight.”
A perceptible shadow crossed Wright’s face. There was notably nothing about that sentence that he liked. “Hunting?” he demanded.
“Every bit as ‘bite the humans’ as it sounds.”
“So his chip is out?”
“Out, and our resident vampire has himself a new set of teeth that are just hankerin’ for the chomping.” Cordelia sighed again, leveling her gaze with the demon hunter meaningfully. “I don’t think we have anything to worry about,” she reassured him. “I mean, before Wolfram and Hart decided to get soul-happy, he was probably the last person in the world that I would trust, but—”
“Why is that?”
She glanced up again without realizing her gaze had fallen again to the desk. “Oh. Because the last time I saw Spike, he was sticking hot pokers into Angel. Trying to get some gem. The…ring…I think…the…”
“Gem of Amara?” Wesley offered helpfully.
“Yup. That’s the one.”
“It exists? Dear me, I hadn’t thought—”
Zack held up a hand and the former Watcher immediately fell silent. “So,” he ventured, “Spike’s new leaf didn’t turn until…recently, is what you’re saying.”
“Way recently,” Cordelia agreed. “But he’s completely different from the vamp he was in the way back when. I didn’t even know him all that well, to be perfectly honest. Not when he was all ‘kill Buffyish’. I just knew that he was there, had some psycho girlfriend, and now he’s one of us.”
“You trust him.” It was more an observation than anything else.
At that, the young woman paused with a frown as she considered. In all honesty, the thought hadn’t occurred to her. Not in the fullest sense. It wasn’t something that someone randomly shouted from the rooftops. The willful change of everything she had come to accept. That seemed to be happening a lot lately. “Yeah,” she finally said. “I do. I guess it’s a little premature, but since he’s been here, he’s really…well, not been Spike.”
“And you don’t think it’s an act?”
“Honey, I’m an actress. I’d know it if it was an act.”
Wesley coughed something indistinguishable. He wisely ignored the look he earned in turn.
The irritation on the brunette’s face was palpable, but didn’t last long. She was too immersed in studying the reactions playing in glorious conflict behind Wright’s eyes. A thousand different feelings for one simplified being. “You’re not suddenly thinking Spike’s not one of us, are you?”
Zack glanced up. “No,” he said. “No, it’s not that. I’ve…for reasons beyond me, Spike and I…we’ve come to an understanding.”
Cordelia nodded. “You’ve…become friends?”
“I wouldn’t say that,” he hastily amended. “I just—”
“You know, it’s okay if you have. He’s a pretty cool guy, once you get passed the retro ‘Oh dear God, did someone trap me in the 80s’ look.” She smiled affectionately. “You wouldn’t be the first to warm up to a vamp. Trust me. Been there, most definitely done that.”
A still air quieted him. It didn’t last long, but long enough for Cordelia to realize she had brushed a particularly sore spot. “I…” he said softly. “I don’t befriend vamps. Doesn’t matter about the…conditions.”
Wesley made a noise of understanding, even remembrance. That only served to irritate.
“Don’t go getting righteous on me,” Wright snapped at the other man. “You don’t know the half of it.”
The Watcher looked affronted, and his hands came up in semblance of diplomacy. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.” He shook his head and combed pathways through browned hair. “God…the sooner this is over, the better. What did the Host say? Anything he wants us to do in particular?”
“Yeah.” Cordelia glanced down, unwilling to concede defeat that easily. Whatever Wright was hiding would be out eventually; it had to. If not only to satisfy her curiosity, to help put whatever haunted him still behind him. Scars hurt—she knew this as well as anyone else, but picking at the scabs didn’t do a damn thing to help. It just made the wound bleed more while denying it any chance to heal. “Spike’s said that he’s going to have to…well…bite…a few…people.”
A very still beat settled through the Hyperion.
It didn’t last.
“WHAT?!”
“He wants you to follow,” she added, slowly rising to her feet. “Angelus is going to be there…watching him. I guess it’s some sort of initiation. He’s told the Host that he’s not going to kill anyone. That he doesn’t want to, and I think we need to trust him on this. But he’s going to be biting people, and he’ll need you there to help get them medical attention. Stat.”
“Why me?”
“A demon hunter seems logical,” Wesley intervened. “Especially one with a grudge.”
“And if they see me?”
Cordelia shrugged. “You’re just gonna have to be careful.”
Wright wasn’t sold. He had broken into a pace across the lobby, shaking his head and muttering little incomprehensibles to himself. “No,” broke through with some clarity. “No, no, no, no. I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.”
“Neither does he.”
Zack stopped at that, eyes blazing. “How the fuck can we know that? Really? Spike’s—”
“—a vampire. I think we got that by now.” Cordelia sighed and stepped forward diplomatically. “He’s also one of us. He’s in it for her.”
“How do we know he wasn’t in it for the chip? How do we really know?”
“Because he would’ve agreed to Darla’s proposal in Sunnydale,” the former Watcher reminded him rationally. “Cordy’s right. Spike cares far too deeply about Buffy to do anything to endanger her…and that includes hurting others. He knows that our support would falter greatly if word was confirmed that he was feeding again.” He stilled a moment. “You know this, Zack. You were here when McDonald told him that—”
Wright held up a hand, slowly calming. The weight of reason drifted slowly back into his eyes, and he sighed his displacement. “I know. I know. I was arguing this point earlier…I just…” Another long breath. “I don’t like it.”
“Neither does he,” Cordelia said softly. “Apparently, he got really righteous at Caritas. Started ranting about how it was too much pressure for someone who doesn’t know, and, I seriously quote, ‘what the bloody hell’ he’s doing, and where the line is.” She waited for the hunter’s eyes before continuing. “He’s just as afraid of his potential to slip up as we are.”
That seemed to settle it on some unspoken terrain. Wright exhaled deeply and nodded, again shaking his head. “I don’t know how he expects me to help,” he said. “I’ll go. Of course I’ll go…but even…what if we don’t make it in time?”
“You’ll make it.”
“And Darla?”
Cordelia frowned. That was the first direct reference he had given her to any relevance about the vampire that had wounded his past. The past two days had been colored with hints—various squicks that suggested where the curious might look. But Zack was a very private person. He hadn’t always been—that much was obvious from merely looking at him—and it was taking him an admitted while to reestablish the innate need for association.
“He didn’t mention Darla,” she said after a thoughtful minute. “But I’m guessing that you have free reign.”
The shadow affixed against Wright’s stature didn’t agree with him. “I don’t think so,” he decided. “Just yesterday, he was pissed at the idea of…no. For Buffy’s sake.”
“I don’t think it would matter, personally,” Wesley volunteered, just as gravely. “If you’re there and visibly not at Spike’s side. From what I gathered of your agreement last night, he didn’t want you to attack because of your established relationship.”
“No good. Angelus thinks that I’m a vamp groupie.”
Cordelia quirked a humored brow. “You made him think you were a vamp groupie?”
Wright grinned unashamedly. “I did at that,” he retort. “And I’m a damn good actor, if I don’t say so myself.”
“I’ll bet,” she replied with a smirk. Then her gaze turned thoughtful, studying him to the point where he visibly trembled self-consciously. “You know, you should really do that more often.”
“Do what? Act?”
“No, smile. I don’t think I’ve seen you really smile since you got here.”
He shrugged. “Haven’t had much reason to before.”
“I like it. Keep it up.” Before he could offer another reply, she turned sharply to the former Watcher, who was fixated on the transaction with an arched brow. “So, what’s the game plan? You both gonna tackle the ‘patrolling Spike’ front, or—”
“It’s not a good idea to advertise that I’m a demon hunter,” Wright interjected. “Especially not now. As much as it really pains me to admit it, Spike was right last night. If I establish that I’m very much working with you guys, it’ll raise suspicion and get him staked and her killed. There’s no way that’s going to work with any degree of accuracy.”
“You can say that you were using him because you knew who he was.” Cordelia shrugged. “It wouldn’t be too far from the truth, pre-us.”
“I’d already thought about that. Seems most plausible, but still too early.” The hunter shook his head, glancing to Wesley again. “If we follow, I’m gonna have to take you with me. That way any diversion we cause can be at your digression.” He held up a hand before any feasible objection tainted the air. “Don’t worry, old man. I won’t let them—”
“I wasn’t going to say that,” the former Watcher grumbled. Then paused. “Old? Do I look old?” He turned to Cordelia, whose eyes were alight with amusement. “I don’t look old, do I? I certainly don’t think so. Why, I’ve gotten carded at several of the bars Gunn drags me to. Point of fact—”
The young woman cleared her throat, unable to banish the smile from her face. “Earth to Wes. Slightly on the less of the importance-o-meter right now.”
“But—”
Wright cleared his throat. “I take it back. Are you coming or not?”
“Of course.” Wesley sighed and removed his glasses. Amongst all Watchers—current or former—the routine polishing of lenses was a definite must in such tidings. “If it will help. I am prepared to deal with Angelus if I must. Anything right now would be useful. Right now, we at least know that Buffy is all right, and—”
Zack pursed his lips worriedly, disposition altering without the suggestion of any labeled whim. “I don’t understand that,” he said. “Despite everything…from what I’ve read about the Order, particularly Angelus, it seems that he would’ve tired of her by now.”
“If she was anyone else, he likely would have,” the former Watcher agreed. “But Buffy is a Slayer. Not only that, she is a Slayer that he had a lengthy relationship with. And even if the novelty of abusing her now wears off, she might have some higher importance to Wolfram and Hart that is keeping her temporarily protected.”
The demon hunter was complacent for a minute before the frown on his face deepened, and he shook his head. “I don’t see any of them being the type to uphold contracts. Especially where these matters are concerned. From what I’ve read on Angelus—and what I know of Darla—there are too many opportunities opened to them. What’s to stop them from siring her and causing the town that much more damage? I don’t get it.”
Wesley chuckled humorlessly. “I wouldn’t worry about them siring anyone,” he offered. “It would not be beneficial in the slightest.”
“Why not?”
“Because the last time a Slayer was sired, she laid waste to her maker, his childer, and who-knows-how-many-other-vampires before she was finally defeated. That was centuries ago.” When it didn’t appear that Wright was following, he shook his head and leaned forward conspiratorially. “Siring a Slayer is essentially signing a death warrant. They’re damn near impossible to kill, with Slayer strength in addition to demonic attributes, and by the time it’s over, angry as hell with the one who made her. The fact that they maintain humanity is really, in the end, merely a footnote.”
“Angel explained this to us a long time ago,” Cordelia said, nodding. She was munching on an apple that she had seemingly brandished from nowhere. “If Slayers didn’t maintain their souls, then all vampires would wanna turn them. Being a sire already gives you a certain measure of power—if you were the sire of a soulless Slayer, you’d be damn near invincible.”
“Which is why the Powers That Be deemed it impossible,” Wesley concluded. “To even the odds. I suppose they consider it poetic justice. If a vampire is fool enough to sire a Slayer, he’ll most assuredly get what he deserves when she wakes.”
Wright took a long minute, blinking unsurely. “So we don’t have to worry about that.”
“No,” the Watcher replied.
“Nadda,” Cordelia confirmed.
“Zilch,” Gunn said, slamming the door to the lobby shut to gain their attention. The group jumped at random before simultaneously setting into a glower at his haphazard entry. It wasn’t a good idea in times such as these to try to surprise one’s colleagues. He merely grinned unashamedly and shrugged. “Ya’ll are humorless. So, what’d I miss?”
Wright and Wesley’s eyes met, and they broke for the weapons closet in unison. It didn’t take much make an assortment of selections—rather they were on their way for the door in a matter of seconds.
“Come on, Charlie,” Zack said with a grin, patting the other man on the shoulder as they headed out. “We’re goin’ out for a spot.”
“A huh?”
Cordelia just shook her head and gestured after them. “Just go. They’ll explain.”
“Right.” Gunn turned to follow with a frown. It took a few seconds for the demon hunter’s words to sink in—he whapped him upside the head in affirmative relapse. “And don’t call me Charlie. God, you and Spike, I swear…”
Wright merely smiled and shook his head, turning to wink at Cordelia. “Watch the girls for me, would you?”
“Sure.”
“And don’t let them get in trouble.”
She waved dismissively. “Trouble? Around here? Psh. What could…” She stopped with a frown, eyes wide. “God, I almost said it. Right. Big no to trouble. We’ll stay here and watch the very safe television, order some very safe pizza, and play a very safe game of Scrabble.”
“Wouldn’t call that safe,” he advised. “You don’t know how competitive Nikki can get.”
“Nikki?” a thoroughly confused Gunn asked.
“Again, we’ll explain.”
“Bye, Cordy!” Wes called.
“Bye! Don’t get killed!”
Wright grinned. “Words to live by.”
There was a thing to be said for casual camaraderie. A sort of group dynamic that he could definitely grow accustomed to.
Not that he would ever admit it. He was much too proud.
Lousy pride.
Over the expanse of his long life, Spike had never seen himself in this position.
The start of old times combining with new. The feel of déjà vu was too much for him—or nearly, as one might speculate. For an hour, he had followed them. Been one of them. Watched as Angelus slaughtered who he liked—some for food, most for pleasure. Watched him dance with Darla under the falsified starlit night. There was so much blood. Everywhere. It was intoxicating.
Wrong.
He wanted so desperately to ignore that voice, but it was too persistent to be taken lightly. It was wrong, and what’s more, he knew it.
He felt it.
They had made beautiful havoc of downtown Los Angeles. The four—rather three—of them. He had watched from a distance, feigned activity in a manner he very much assumed Angel had once portrayed while attempting to convince Darla of his inherent badness in China. It disgusted him, but that didn’t mean rot for difference. It was simply that. The face of what he had become. Not for anyone. Not even for Buffy: not in the end. Spike. The Slayer of Slayers—William the Fucking Bloody…reduced to this. To caring.
To caring so much that he had to avert his eyes when his grandsire sank his teeth into another hapless victim. He had to clench his fists to stop himself from throwing Darla off the single mother heading to her car after a long night’s shift at some cheap diner. Had to flash Drusilla a smile when she danced over to him with a bloodstained mouth and asked if she had earned a cookie. He hated them for being what they were, and worse, hated himself for hating them in the first place.
He had never felt so thoroughly torn. And he hated them for it.
“My William is not hungry?” Drusilla asked him, pouting as she rubbed his stomach, curled into his side. “I can feel you, pet. Tummy’s growling at me. Think it will feast on my hand lest we find you something better.”
Of-fucking-course.
“Spike!” Angelus exclaimed loudly, thumping him on the back. “M’boy. What’s wrong? Too fresh for you? I’m sure we can make a pit stop at the blood bank if you really find it necessary. Though I must say, I’m disappointed. Nearly a century of famine and I dove right in. You’ve been on your diet for…what? A year?”
“I must say,” Darla cooed, strolling up to him and licking idly at her fingers. “You are quite a picture from the loud, obnoxious thing I remember. Actually, Angelus, I think I prefer our Spike this way. Submissive and influential. Perhaps we—”
“Just levelin’ the playin’ field, mate,” Spike said, though his thoughts were decidedly elsewhere. If it wasn’t bad enough that every turn saw a dampening of his already forbidden conscience, he couldn’t keep himself from thinking of the girl he had left behind. For this.
She was waiting for him, and he was out with those who had wronged her.
The peroxide vampire’s eyes fell shut and blinked to awareness immediately.
He couldn’t afford to sacrifice his footing.
“Leveling the playing field?” Angelus reiterated, arching a brow. “Interesting. And here I thought you were simply sitting on your ass.”
“You must concede, Spike,” Darla added, “that in the past, you’ve been more a leveler, rather than waiting for it to happen.”
“Hush, grandmum,” Drusilla cooed, burying her face in his shoulder. “My dearest is simply working up to his goodies. He’s been all alone for too long. Wandering through the night with no one to answer his call.”
“Aww, poor baby,” his grandsire snickered. “Does somebody need a hug?”
“Always knew you were a poofter,” Spike retorted snidely.
“By all means…” Angelus gestured grandly. “Thrill me with your acumen.”
“’ll do better, you righteous wanker.” In all honesty, he didn’t know what he would do. The idea of taking one of these people…the very same that he shouldn’t care about.
The very same that he did.
These people who had homes and families. Husbands, wives, children, parents, brothers, sisters, friends, lovers…
One li’l nibble won’ hurt anyone.
Spike sighed. When had life become so damn complicated?
Three words. Buffy Anne Summers.
There. He subconsciously selected the best looking of the lot. The healthiest. The one chit that looked like she could stand for a little bloodletting. And from there, it was instinct. He didn’t know how it happened. Any of it. From one minute standing on the sidelines, watching everything pass before him, to pursuing his intended into some dark, forsakenly archetypal alley.
He reverted to game face and inhaled deeply…searching…
The woman was trembling. A wreck. Her eyes were fixated on his face in horror, and she had released a string of burdened pleas and bargains for her life. He wasn’t listening, too entranced by the picture she presented. There was fear. Real fear. He hadn’t smelled true fear in a long time. A man half-starved with self-induced famine, and she was practically begging for it.
God. For that moment, he wanted to. Wanted to bugger it all and sink his fangs in her throat. Remember, remind himself of the taste of blood. Real blood. Direct from the sodding concentrate. Buffy’s image flittered in and out of his mind, but he was too forgone to worry with intangibles. What mattered was there was reason here. There was purpose. And if he neared just a bit more…
“Please!” the girl whimpered, throat scratchy and rumbly with all sorts of mousy squeaks. “P-p-please d-d-don’t hurt m-m-m-me. Take whatever y-y-you need. I have money. Just p-pl-please don’t hurt—”
Something nagging his insides. Spike was too entranced with the scent of raw fear to notice. He had her by the shoulders and pressed flush against some building side. He nuzzled her throat, reveling in the throbbing pulse that beckoned his fangs to her. Intoxicating.
Then something happened.
In later days, he wouldn’t know if the guilt or the smell hit him first. He speculated it was the guilt but there was every chance he was reaching with wishful thinking. Just that at one precise moment, everything came reeling back. Buffy’s face fought through his bloodlust, remind him of his purpose. What he was here doing. What he needed to portray in the face of danger. His reason. His bloody meaning.
He became aware of a familiar scent next. Actually, three familiar scents. His friends from Angel Investigations were close. Close to the point that they were watching him.
Spike reckoned if he actually went through with it, he earned whatever punishment they gave.
He didn’t. It was bad enough that he thought about it.
It was bad enough that he lamented thinking about it.
Life was one vicious fucking cycle.
He didn’t make a move to withdraw. Rather, his mouth neared even further. Such to the point where his bumpies ground against her in effort to avoid the throbbing temptation of her pulse. Then his lips were at her ear, and he was whispering with serenity that directly contradicted the pressure his body was suffering. “Shhh, pet,” he murmured. “’m not gonna hurt you, all right?”
There was a pause at that. She was trying to decipher if he had already killed her and this was the afterlife. That or something equally expected. “Wh…what?”
“’S gonna sting a li’l. But I promise I’m not gonna kill you. I’m not even gonna rob you. Your goods are safe as bloody houses.” The hands that had previously kept her prostrate were now rubbing circular caresses into her shoulder, but at that she seemed to tense more. He frowned until he realized her assumption, and had to fight the temptation to roll his eyes. “An’ no, I’m not gonna sully your virtue. Reckon ‘s not virtuous enough for my taste, anyway. Jus’ close your eyes, an’ it’ll be over before you know it.”
“But—”
“Three blokes’ll be here in a sec. Good guys. You get me? They’ll take care of you. Don’ fight ‘em.”
“I—”
An intrusive scent suddenly perturbed the alleyway.
“Well, Spike,” Angelus drawled, bored. “You actually gonna do it, or have you taken to romancing your dinner before you make the kill?”
Spike tensed but relaxed just as easily. He didn’t move. “Jus’ make it look real, pet,” he whispered, voice degrees lower. “An’ all will be fine. ‘F you don’, this chap’ll do you an’ me in. Y’don’ want that, do you?”
She shook her head rapidly. The hot sting of her tears collided with his cheek and served to make him feel worse than he already did. But they were through with negotiations; he had told her all that he could. The rest was up to her.
At first bite, though, Spike nearly buckled with pleasure. The first taste of human blood from the source in over a year. It felt so damn good. He pressed her against the wall with more intent, ignoring her dying wails and pleas that seemed to melt into nowhere. He drank, and he drank fully. Unabashed. And it was good.
Too good.
When he felt her heartbeat begin to slow, he pulled away and consigned her to the ground without so much as a second glance. He snickered disinterestedly before pivoting back to Angelus, arching a brow. “Right then,” he said, overwhelmed and more than a little buzzed. “Let’s off, shall we?”
For the look on his grandsire’s face, the entire ordeal was almost worth it.
Almost.
It continued like that for what seemed like hours. Watching. Tearing. Destroying. Killing without killing. Confronting many terrified patrons who looked him in the eye and realized that what he said was true—others that refused to listen to reason. Those he let go without a struggle. Well, a struggle in the hindsight of those watching him, but not a real struggle. There were times when he thought Angelus’s eyes narrowed a bit too much for his own good, but his action was never questioned. Drusilla was pleased. Darla was apathetic. And that was, currently, all that mattered.
Only that his thoughts were with someone else, and being so near her without seeing her at all was slowly driving him out of his mind.
He couldn’t stay out here long. He had to get away.
To see her.
If only once.
“Hospital checked,” Gunn reported as he strolled over to Zack and Wesley. They were hovering over the third person that Spike had allegedly killed that night. A small teenager who looked to be much too pale for her own good. “The chick I dropped off should be fine.”
“We better check her in, too,” the former Watcher decided, lifting the girl into his embrace. “I believe he took enough to make it look realistic, but still it was too much to my liking.”
“Everything tonight’s too much to my liking,” Wright muttered irritably.
Wesley nodded at him gravely but did not reply. Instead, he turned back to Gunn and deposited the small bundle into his arms. “Did you see them on your way back?” he asked softly.
“Yeah. And let me tell you, man, not a pretty picture.”
“Where are we gonna be needed next?” Wright demanded.
“I don’t know. Spike wasn’t there.”
“Wasn’t there?”
Gunn shrugged. “Not that I saw. And Angelus was getting pretty pissy about it. Seems he snuck off about a half hour ago. Think our boy’s afraid of a little competition?”
“That or something else.”
Wright frowned. He didn’t like this one bit. “I don’t get it. It’s risking too much to…” he began lowly. “Where would he have gone?”
Someone was nearing.
Buffy realized this dimly, but it failed to click. Somewhere, everything had fallen into a tedium of habit. Habit. Had she been here long enough to form habit? It sure seemed as such. She didn’t know. Her eyes were too tired from trying to keep them open, her arms strained with too much exertion and the innate but denied need to find rest. She had been hanging for what seemed like forever.
There might as well be no skin there, for all they had done.
And more. Always coming back for more. She wondered if she would feel it this time. Last time hadn’t hurt nearly as bad. Perhaps her nerves were wearing away one by one. Perhaps…
Someone was nearing. A vampiric someone. Her Slayer senses were still there, still tingling in her gut. Lately it seemed to be an Angelus alarm. Forewarning her of his impending approach.
Someone was nearing. God, she hoped it didn’t hurt this time.
Someone was there.
There. Breathing. Harshly. And then murmuring her name with such wrought emotion that it nearly stirred her to awareness. Nearly but not quite. Someone was there.
“Oh…God…” That voice! That rough brogue that had lost its cocky tenor. She knew that voice. Knew it to the point where it haunted her dreams, and served as the false idol of her salvation. Some distant point, that thought had come and gone, and she was used to it by now. Used to dreaming up the image of the one person that shouldn’t come. Used to seeing him—though for no reason whatever—only to have him tell her the same.
She was dreaming again. Only she wasn’t. This was real.
“Oh…Buffy…”
And she knew that voice.
That was all it took. She glanced up, and her pained eyes went wide with astonishment. The Slayer had thought all surprise in her weary being to be forfeited. But no. It was there. There, and burning with as much fervor as ever.
Never had she known the ocean could be so blue. It took a minute to realize she wasn’t looking at the ocean. And another to come to a realization she still thought to be of her own design.
It wasn’t Angelus.
To be continued in Chapter Twenty-Two: Sweet Temptation…