The Black Cat
She was sitting in his chair facing the door when he entered the crypt that night.
Time froze in that way he always suspected was too real for the flicks and not corporeal enough for actuality, despite the craziness the world embellished on a regular basis. There were the standard oddities and the things so bug-shagging out of the picture that he reckoned it time for an apocalypse to wipe them away, once and for all. Despite the obscurity that was the realm of noted demons, uglies, and things that go bump in the night—himself and his entire kind respectfully noted—the rules set hence-forth about what is and what is not in the vicinity of accepted were practically embedded in stone.
Vampires, first and foremost, were dust after being staked. The only exception to said rule thus far was Angel, and he hadn’t endured a normal staking. As the story went, the Slayer had run him through with some enchanted sword and Acathla had taken him to Hell instead of the precious Earth. The Powers had then interceded and revived him because he was their almighty champion or some other bloody bollocks to the same nature. He hadn’t met dust; therefore the accepted normality that coincided with his death was overlooked. Odd, yes, but generally overlooked.
Darla, on the other hand, was very much dust. He hadn’t been there to see it firsthand, but news in that regard always travels fast. Especially news concerning other vamps of the same Order. Drusilla had foreseen it, of course. Started wailing and moaning how Daddy had gone to the circus where the lights were too enchanting to turn away, became infatuated with a siren and staked grandmum dead to win the siren over. The siren would kill him eventually, but for now she was content. Because grandmum was dead.
Only she wasn’t. Not completely. Darla, looking quite well and most assuredly still of the undead status, was comfortably lounged in his very own chair, grinning at him expectantly as he entered his sanctuary.
Spike blinked and looked at her for a long, dumbfound moment. “Well,” he said when the silence began to threaten. “There’s somethin’ you don’ see…ever.”
“William. So glad that you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”
“Yeh. Could say the same to you. By the way, what the bleedin’ hell are you doin’ here?”
Darla shrugged, tossing a leg over the arm of the chair and clasping her hands behind her head. “I was just in the neighborhood. Wanted to see how my dear grandchilde was doing. Or are you my brother now? Honestly, the Order has resolved itself into some Arkansas family tree. It’s rather disturbing, when you think about it.”
“Disturbin’. Yeh. Kinda like you bein’ in my crypt when you’re supposed to be floatin’ around in Hell or what all. Wherever the likes of us go when s’all ashes-to-ashes an’ the like.” Spike took a hesitant step inward, reaching for his cigarettes almost as a nervous habit. “You are real, aren’t you?”
“Do I look real?”
“’ve seen quite a few numbers that looked to be real in my time.”
“Well, I can’t blame you for asking. You did spend the better part of a century with a lunatic.”
He arched a brow. “An’ you were with Peaches for how long?”
Darla grinned lightly, and the sight was enough to send even the calmest into frightening retrospect. “Long enough. As a matter of fact, that’s why I’m here. More or less.”
“You don’ say.”
“Ever heard of a little law firm in Los Angeles called Wolfram and Hart?”
“Greatest known evil on the face of the planet, right?” Spike strolled disinterestedly to the sarcophagus, appraising the woman with a quick once over to again verify her tangibility. He half expected her to fade away—the image of some ghastly hangover that he would undoubtedly pay for come morning.
Only he hadn’t drunk himself silly. This was mildly worrisome.
“If you discount census takers and insurance salesmen,” she replied with the same demeanor, arching a brow. “They brought me back.”
Ah, sense was being made. Wolfram and Hart did have the means to extract such potent magic, and certainly didn’t have any reservations concerning the dangers in bending the continuum of everything set in the natural order.
“Good for them.”
“Three guesses why.”
He rolled his eyes. Of bloody course. “King Forehead, I’m presumin’,” Spike replied sardonically. He moved without awaiting a reply to the other side of the crypt, still put off by her presence. “Wha’s the story?”
She shrugged. “They wanted Angelus.”
“An’ they went with you.”
“They also wanted to drive him crazy.”
“Well, by havin’ you revived, I’m guessin’ they played their cards right.” Spike grinned cheekily at the annoyed expression that overwhelmed her features, reaching into the refrigerator to retrieve a bottle of half-consumed bourbon. “Drink?”
“What?”
“Do you wanna drink? Got some cold blood, but somethin’ tells me that you aren’t quite on the same diet I am.” When she failed to acknowledge his offering, he shrugged and took a long swig. “Right then. Suit yourself.”
There was a long silence. Darla finally stood and brushed herself off.
“So, this is what you do now,” she said, glancing around her surroundings. “You’ve nested quite nicely. Conveniently near the Slayer. And yet she’s still alive. Still annoying, still slaying. You disappoint me. Surely this is not the work of the great William the Bloody, renowned Slayer of Slayers. Petulant braggart.” She quirked an eyebrow, grinning nastily. “What’s wrong, Spikey? Waiting to make just the right move?”
Her words cut deep, but he made no effort to show it. There was no way he was willfully conceding the upper hand, even if he knew it wasn’t his to concede. “Why waste a good thing is my bloody motto,” he replied casually. “Got me a sweet li’l set-up. Bunches an’ bunches of tasty towners, a good brawl here an’ there, an’ a Slayer who keeps me on my toes. Finally took a page outta your own bloody book, Darla. Slow deaths are ever so much more fun.”
“Hmmm,” she replied thoughtfully. “Interesting. And here, I could’ve sworn your incompetence was due to the government chip some fraternity boys shoved up your cranium. Really, William, it was an honest mistake.”
Spike’s face fell. Despite however much time had passed, being reminded of that was not on his list of priorities. It was bad enough enduring Xander’s insidious nicknames along with Buffy’s constant line of ridicule. “An’ here,” he spat acidly, “I’d all but forgotten why I was so glad you’d been staked by your honey. Thanks for the reminder. You’re free to see yourself out.”
Darla grinned and spread her arms. “Why would I want to leave,” she retorted, “when I’m so comfortable here?”
“I could escort you out, ‘f you’re havin’ such a hard time of it.”
“You couldn’t.”
“This chip stops me from samplin’ the human goods, pet. You’re fair game.”
Her expression remained the same. “I know that. You couldn’t.”
There was really nothing to say to that. Despite her reanimation into the vampiric world and his current technical advantage in age, she was right. Darla had the goods where it counted, and more experience than any vampire before the Master that he had ever encountered. “Right…” he drawled in defeat, hating the tone in his voice but similarly knowing there was no good way to eradicate it while she was here. “Not to sound bored…or wait, bollocks to etiquette. What brings you to ole SunnyD? Last I checked, Wolfram an’ Hart’s up in LA with Peaches. Practically within a stones throw of each other. You shouldn’t ‘ave taken that left at Albuquerque.”
“Angel and I have already had our heart-to-heart. I thought it better to check up on old acquaintances.”
Spike grinned. “Y’know, you shoulda taken a snap of his face. I woulda paid anythin’ for a glance at that bucket of surprise.”
Darla smiled conspiratorially. “It was rather amusing.”
“Still doesn’ answer my question. You an’ I aren’t exactly fond of each other. Why take time out of your busy Peaches-pesterin’ schedule to visit yours truly?”
“Right to the chase, then?”
“Just the way I fancy it.”
“Very well.” Darla pursed her lips and considered. “I have a proposition for you.”
Spike arched a brow in wordless consent to continue.
“Wolfram and Hart’s modus operandi has changed drastically since they brought me back into the worldly helix. Prior to his…well, I would say untimely death, but it was just too funny at the time—Holland Manners had organized a rather interesting proposal.” She crossed her arms, awaiting a response and frowning lightly when he offered none. As though his silence was a terrific insult to both her and their kind. “Evidently, he had plans to reassemble the Order of Aurelius.”
Spike’s brows perked. “Well now. That is a bit of interestin’. Show Angel the light, so to speak, coax Dru back and bribe me with pretty words and frillies?” He scoffed and shook his head. “Good luck findin’ Dru. Last time I saw her, she—”
“She’s in town.”
Okay. Wasn’t expecting that. “She’s what?”
“When Wolfram and Hart brought me back, there was an unfortunate mortal twist. They sent me to Angel a sniveling, whining, pitifully soul-inflicted squashed cabbage leaf. They also sent me dying of syphilis.” A look of pure hatred manifested in her eyes. “When he refused to sire me because of his poor tortured conscience, they brought in someone who would.”
The peroxide vampire couldn’t help but stare in wonderment. The revelation was enough to paralyze anyone into speechlessness. “So…Dru vamped you?”
“That she did.”
Then he couldn’t help himself. He grinned. “Betcha jus’ can’t stand it. You were never her number one fan.”
“Aside you and Angel, I can’t think of anyone who was.”
He shrugged. “Chaos demons, apparently. So Dru’s on board. Is that your big sellin’ point? Tryin’ to lure ole Spike with—”
Darla smiled sweetly. The same kind of sugar laced with cyanide. “Let’s get one thing very, very clear, Willy.” She leaned forward and her eyes drew to two fine daggers. He would never doubt their edge. Never question the threat behind her words. A hundred years experience had taught him strictly in the opposite interest. “I don’t give a flying fuck if you come with us or stay here, the laughing stock of the Order. The only one of us fool enough to allow himself to become the guinea pig of some boys in white coats. A lab rat. You’re a disgrace to our kind. Always have been. The only reason I see having any benefit to your addition is a potential distraction for Dru while Angelus and I tear the city apart.”
Spike prowled forward intently, eyes sparkling with malevolence. “’S that right?” he asked coldly. “Well, that works out jus’ dandy. Dru’s made it up an’ clear that I don’ hold her interest anymore, an’ I can think of about a thousand other things I’d rather do than watch you an’ the Great Poof engage in a twenty-four hour shag-a-thon. ‘F you ‘aven’t heard, things with me an’ Angelus weren’t exactly rosey when ‘e took his magical mystery tour to Hell.”
“That’s right. You sided with the Slayer.”
“Preferable to sidin’ with the likes of you.” He snickered and shook his head, batting a hand dismissively and nodding in the direction of the door. “Why don’ you sod off? Get Dru, tell her no deal, an’ get the hell outta town before the Slayer—”
“What? Finds out?” Darla arched a brow and crossed her hands primly. “You see, sweetie, that’s another one of the perks. If your lovely former’s following protocol—and trust me, I’m not holding my nonexistent breath on that whim—your dear old Slayer’s night has taken a turn for the interesting.”
Spike froze. “What?”
“Another delightful twist to Holland’s much delayed revelation. Evidently, this little proposal includes a deal concerning your very own heart’s desire. Drusilla, naturally, suggested that we find her and drop something heavy on her head.” Darla shuddered slightly. “You’d think immortality would strengthen my tolerance for such tomfoolery. It hasn’t.”
There wasn’t room for consideration. The brazen Cockney stormed over to his great-grandsire and grasped her by the shoulders, delivering one good, hard shake. It was a breech in the expected, but he wasn’t thinking straight. He wasn’t thinking at all. His foresight was clouded with vats of unbridled, unkempt fury-turned-concern, and he couldn’t have helped himself he tried. “Where is she?!” he demanded. “What’s she doin’ to Buffy?”
Darla didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Merely studied him before throwing her head back with a long cackle. “Oh my God!” she exclaimed in glee. “It’s worse than I thought. Ohhh, how delightfully pathetic.”
“Shut the bloody hell up. Where is she?”
“Do you have so little faith in your precious Slayer that you think Dru poses a threat? After all, she has managed to school you rather effectively.” The blonde vampire shook her head, laughing still. “Of course, you never resorted Rohypnol, did you? No, no. Our Spike must have his fair fight. It’s that sort of thinking that got you all chipped up with no place to go in the first place.”
It was quite possible that he was rendered stationary with absolute fury—or shock, one of the two. “You’re…” He closed his eyes in effort to maintain some semblance of control. “You’re plannin’ to drug the bloody Slayer?”
Darla shrugged. “All a part of Holland’s great vision. He truly was ahead of his time. Angelus will be most pleased.”
“I—”
“Oh yes. He’s already in the game. Fully stocked. Likely tearing that living practical joke of Angel Investigations apart right now.” She grinned winningly and hoisted herself onto the abandoned sarcophagus. “It’s left to you, my dear. Lindsey, my charmingly ignorant personal association, has assured me that finding means to eradicate you of your…condition won’t be very difficult at all, given Wolfram and Hart’s connections. So you see, Spike, it’s a win-win situation. No chip, Drusilla, and even a Slayer to play with on the weekends.”
But he was hardly listening to her—his mind racing. Buffy was still at the Bronze, most likely. On a Friday night with patrol as slow as it had been all week, going home early was not in the vicinity of probable. If he left now, he might be able to stop whatever Drusilla had planned.
Or your arrival might look bloody timely.
He didn’t have time to care with particulars. While Buffy was resilient and more than pertinent in the area of strength, she wouldn’t expect such a stealthy approach. She wouldn’t expect Darla. She wouldn’t expect the technique of advance to center on apprehension rather than death. She wouldn’t expect to be drugged.
Without realizing it, he had set off for the door, strides heavy and intent.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Darla asked coyly.
Spike stopped at the door and glanced over his shoulder without turning. “Go home.”
“You’re really going to do it, aren’t you? Go after your precious Slayer?”
“’F I come back an’ you’re still here, you crazed bint, I’m gonna tear your bloody head off. Understand?”
There was an amused chuckle. “Do you really think you could?”
It was an adventurous boast. Despite his theoretically advanced age, she had experience he could never rival. Strength that could not be banished with death, and newfound power she was only now exploring.
But he was William the Bloody. That could never be discounted.
Thus, he settled for what was known. “Do you really wanna find out?”
There was another chortle and nothing more. He took that as enough of an answer and left.
He was running before the door had closed.
In the face of his return, Spike was amazed that he had so easily disregarded Drusilla’s presence upon his leave. The area around the Bronze stunk of her. Her scent. Her aura. That innate tie he had with his sire, and would always have despite the status of their rather questionable relationship. His skin tingled as he approached the entrance, and the familiar shadow of foreboding that he was growing to loath grasped his nonbeating heart with more authority than he cared to acknowledge.
It was foolish to worry himself about the Slayer. After all, she had powers he had only dreamed of. She was much too advanced for the likes of Drusilla; had been the last time they faced off. The year that his beloved former murdered Kendra. Even then in the face of challenge, he knew Buffy would have overpowered her. She had the strength and the cunning.
She was the best. No bloody doubt.
And yet, that wasn’t even the cause that merited his voiceless concern as preposterous. He was a vampire, goddammit. He wasn’t supposed to worry about the Slayer. There was no helping himself. Worry had prompted him across town in record time. Worry had fueled his frozen insides. Worry had given him reason for being.
Spike took one step inside and felt all melt to the sands of incongruity. Worry had cost him his dignity, and had apparently been for nothing.
Buffy was as he left her, more or less. Hunched over the bar, talking to Willow and Xander, laughing at some inane joke voiced by the latter.
It was odd the way his tensions dissipated the minute he saw her. Giggling, chatting, so wonderfully disinterested in anything he could ever offer. So distant. So detached. Beyond his grasp. Remote and aloof.
Better.
So fucking perfect.
“Oh look,” Xander said in greeting once he spotted him. “It’s Return of the Evil Undead. You do know that you abandoned a perfectly good game of pool…and that I consequentially won by default. And the money you took…I’d like it back.”
Spike ignored him and approached worriedly. There was still no sign of Drusilla, but he knew her well enough to not be put off by the absence of her persons. The signs pointing to her presence were too great to overlook to discount. “Everythin’ here all right?”
Buffy shot him a painfully fake smile. “Well,” she began, “it was until you showed up. Again. You know, I was getting really attached to that thing that happens when you’re not around. The sheer contentment that is me.”
Nope nothing wrong here.
“Slayer, my deep apologies. I din’t realize your cycle was due to start. ‘F I’d’ve known, I woulda hurried over before the bombs dropped.”
“Hey, Spike,” Willow greeted before Buffy could scream at him. “What’s up? Nothing of the evil nature to do tonight?”
“I got a lead,” he replied conversationally. “A li’l birdie dropped by my crypt. Dru’s in town.”
A still beat settled over the group.
“Dru’s in town?” Xander repeated incredulously. He turned to Buffy. “Those vamps that were here earlier didn’t seem to be under the influence of anyone particularly…well…insane, did they?”
“Vamps?”
“Yeah,” he answered airily. “There were a few. No big, though. There was slayage action, then we resumed the typical Bronze-bashing that was us. Exempt your presence, though, which is always welcome.” He held up a hand before the vampire could speak. “And for the record, all attempts made by myself to bury the hatchet became null and void the minute you left our game. That was a one-shot opportunity, buddy. Too bad for you that you missed out.”
“So it would seem,” he answered, distractedly glancing around the Bronze. It was admittedly impossible to decipher if she was in vicinity with so many people lounging about, but he was entirely too self-conscious now to move. As though his very presence endangered them. Of course, Drusilla was the jealous type. If she saw him lounging around the very cause of her initial leave, sparks of the decidedly ungood nature were prone to fly.
“So, back to the big,” Harris intervened again. “Dru’s in town?”
He blinked back to attention, annoyed. “Yes, Special Ed. Need me to repeat that in your good ear?”
“So what are you doing here…with the panicky face and the asking how everyone is?” The boy gestured emphatically. “Shouldn’t you be off somewhere catching up on old times? Or is that too personal a question?”
Oh right. The peroxide vampire’s shoulders fell a bit at that. This had to look a bit awkward.
“Don’t patronize him, Xander,” Buffy intervened, her voice dripping with cynicism. “Now that Spikey’s been neutered, he’s probably a bit shy to be seen around her.” She flashed another venomous smile. “Either that or the sleeping with Harmony.”
The Slayer was out for blood tonight. Extra bitey to compensate for all the unnatural bonding that had been occurring as of the late.
Heinous bitch.
“Whatever,” he said dismissively, turning to leave. “Pardon a bloke for carin’. Though, ‘f she does decide to show, tell her to rip your innards out real good for yours truly. Or to at leas’ drop a line, so I can come an’ bathe in your blood, even ‘f it isn’t me doin’ the spillin’.”
He was gone again before anyone could offer a final word.
Bloody ungrateful wankers.
Definitely the last time he stuck his neck out for the likes of them.
Well, at least this week.
To be continued in Chapter Six: Everybody’s Fool…