[Reviews - 83]
-
Table of Contents [Report This]
Microsoft Word Chapter or Story | ePub eBook Chapter or Story | Printer Chapter or Story

Has been viewed 2605 times

- Text Size +




The Immortal’s guards were waiting for him, but then, his mood hardly made for a subtle entrance. The thick oak of the door was no match for his rage, but the three heavily-built demons waiting for him on the other side were. There was a brief, bloody scuffle - Spike in game face roaring his anger and frustration as the bloodstained and bruised guards finally wrestled him to the floor and chained his arms behind his back. They hustled the snarling vampire along the hall, taking every available opportunity to wreak revenge for their broken noses and torn and bruised flesh. In the dining room, The Immortal was calmly finishing a meal at a table dressed with exquisite china and fine crystal.

“Good evening.” The Immortal reached over to a bowl of fruit and carefully selected a ripe peach. “So good of you to call by. Have you met Count Cagliastro?” He gestured to his table guest. “No? The Count is a very good friend of mine and a very fine warlock.” The elegant, dark-eyed stranger raised a glass in salute, a smile twisting his lips. The Immortal looked up at Spike briefly. ”A very fine and powerful warlock, whom I have known ever since … well, let us say he was the making of me.”

Spike spat a mouthful of blood onto the expensive Persian carpet.“What the bloody hell have you done to her?” His voice was tight with rage.

“To her? Ah, to Buffy? Why, nothing!” The Immortal gave him a surprised look and turned his attention back to his peach. “Oh!” He picked up an ornate silver fruit knife. “Unless you are referring to the removal of some extraneous memories.”

“You wiped her memory?” Spike looked at him in disbelief.

“Good heavens, no!” The Immortal looked up at him, aghast. “That would be inhuman!” He smiled and looked back to the fruit in his hand. “We merely wiped her memory of you. That was an act of humanity.” He began to peel the peach calmly. “It was strangely easy to unravel the thread of your past and re-knit what was left.” He peeled another sliver of skin from the peach. “Remarkably easy. And the result is… seamless.” He rested the knife on his plate and looked up at Spike. “She doesn’t know you. To her you will be just another vampire. Another of the loathsome, evil creatures she has spent so long destroying. She will hate you. Or… no, not even that. You will be nothing to her.” His eyes were hard. “But then, you are nothing. A pathetic excuse for a demon, and a sad apology of a man.”

“I could kill you.” Pain made Spike’s voice rasp in his throat.

“No, actually, you couldn’t. I could, however, kill you. But where’s the fun in that? And besides,” he narrowed his eyes, “It seems you have friends in high places, and really, you’re not worth it. No – much better this way. Buffy gets to be free of her little… peccadillo, you get to spend the rest of your sad unlife remembering how close you got, and how it felt, and thinking about what could have been.” He sliced the peach carefully in half. “I like that much better.”

Spike struggled ineffectively, earning himself a stinging slap to the head from one of the guards. He staggered then pulled himself upright, glaring defiance at his captors.

The Immortal turned to face him. “Desist!” he rasped. “You tried to blackmail me. That, I could understand, and I had a certain respect for you. But you lied to me. You do not know my name. Signora Costa Bianchi assured me that her systems are unbreakable, and I am certain, although she denies it, that you… shall we say… gained access to your information through certain files at Wolfram and Hart. Besides, Count Cagliastro would sense that something was not well should our little secret be known. So, you lie - and although I admire your sheer gall, I will not deal with liars. It is a question of honour.” He stared steadily at Spike. “Oh, and one small thing,” he went on. “You should be aware that in altering Buffy’s memories, things may have become, shall we say, somewhat unstable. Interfering with the spell, or even causing her to try and recall her lost memories, would be… to put it mildly… ill advised.” His eyes slid contemptuously over Spike’s bloodied body. “You are bleeding on my carpet.” He gestured to his guards and turned away dismissively. “Get rid of it.”

A punch to the head sent Spike reeling. Followed by the Count, the guards dragged him semi-conscious to the door and dumped him unceremoniously on the street. Behind him, the warlock quickly placed a warding spell over the doorway. The man smiled down as Spike struggled to his feet, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it. “And this is permanent. No point in bribing the cleaner for an invitation this time. You are… ‘ow do you English say? Oh, yes. You are barred.” He gave a mocking salute and closed the battered door on the shattered vampire.

******

Spike made his painful way back to Wolfram and Hart and managed to get up to the penthouse without arousing too much interest. Clearly people beaten within and inch of their lives were common enough in the back corridors of Wolfram and Hart. He stripped off his bloody clothes and examined the cuts and bruises to his ribs and stomach. He hadn’t noticed how hard he was being kicked at the time, adrenalin and demon-rush he guessed, but now the pain was really setting in and he was bloody sure a few ribs had gone. He limped, wincing, to the shower, letting the jets of hot water pound sore muscles, letting the physical pain blunt the edges of the white-hot agony of his anger and frustration.

He made for the bar next to the bed and poured himself a large measure of Jack Daniels. He downed it in one, wincing as the raw spirit stung his torn lips, and poured himself a second, then a third. His mind reeled, refused to settle, shied from thinking through what had happened. The image of Buffy filled his mind, the lack of recognition in her eyes so much worse than the cold contempt. Hell, he’d seen that often enough before, could deal with that, but... she didn’t know him. After all they’d been through together, after everything they’d shared in the past few days, all their messy, painful, complicated, beautiful past – The Immortal had taken it away. She’d treated him like a man – like her man – and he’d taken that away. He’d made him into nothing more in her eyes than a nameless… fucking… monster! The glass cracked and broke in his hand. He looked down at the dark drops of blood oozing around the shards of glass in his palm, felt the anger recede and a heavy weariness settle on him. He collapsed, still wet and bleeding on to the bed, and let the waves of pain and exhaustion wash over him. His battered body was screaming for rest, his whiskey-numbed mind craved oblivion, and honestly? Didn’t have the will to fight it. Fuck, he thought drowsily. White linen sheets. The housekeeper was going to be chuffed.

******

He came to a little while later to the feel of someone gently cleaning his face with something warm and soft. He opened his one good eye to see Ilona perched on the side of the bed, a blue glass bowl in one hand and a faintly medicinal smelling cloth in the other.

“So, you are back with us.” She smiled grimly and continued to clean the blood from his face.

He winced. “Pardon me if I don’t get up.”

“Keep still.” She frowned. “Look at you! Whatever ‘ave you been doing?”

“Just a scratch.” He closed his eyes wearily. “Should see the other guy.” He sighed. “Had a bit of a run in with one of your clients. See? Really not the sort of bloke you should consider employing.”

“The Immortal.” Ilona shook her head. “I warn you! The Immortal, ‘e is a very bad enemy. You go out there and try to deal with this alone – ‘is no good! And see? Smooshed!” She shook her head. “You play with the fire.”

“And I got burnt. Yeah.” He winced as she moved to the bruises on his chest. “Ouch! What is that stuff?”

“Is nothing. Just a few ‘erbs – a leetle potion. It is my grandmother’s recipe. She was a very accomplished witch.” She frowned in concentration. “I come from a very long line of accomplished witches. Do not be the baby. It will ‘elp with the healing.” She continued to clean his wounds. “You ‘ave two maybe three broken ribs. Merda! What did you do?”

“The usual. Fucked up.”

“Well, certainly picking the most powerful man in Roma as an enemy is very much the fucking up. You know,” she narrowed her eyes in thought, “my grandmother almost certainly has a proverb." She chuckled softly. “But right now it escapes me.” She shook her head. “So, why now? What you do to get like this?”

“I went to see him.” Spike sighed. “Thing is, he knows I couldn’t have opened the file. He knows I couldn’t break the spell.”

“And you went to see him? That seems – how shall I say – less than wise.”

"He…” He swallowed hard. “He fucked with Buffy’s memories. She doesn’t have any memories of me. I don’t exist for her anymore.”

Ilona paused in her ministrations and Spike looked up at her. “Don’t.” The shock and sympathy in her eyes was almost too much to bear. He closed his eyes. “It’s not over,” he said determinedly.

“No. No, for you I think it will never be over.” Ilona hissed as he examined the bruising on his stomach. “Not until you are dust, huh?”

He gave a wry laugh, wincing as it triggered a stab of pain in his chest. “Not necessarily even then, as it turns out.”

“OK.” Ilona put down the cloth and bowl. “Is enough.”

“Got kicked in the groin, too.” Spike gestured to the sheet covering his hips and gave her the best suggestive smirk he could manage under the circumstances. “You wanna tend to that?”

“Ah, si, I would be very happy to attend to that. But maybe when things are a leetle less painful, huh?” She chuckled. “Now. Sit.” She picked up a roll of bandage and began to quickly and professionally bind his ribs.

“Ouch!” He winced. “Not so tight!”

“Oh, why is that? You are afraid you will not be able to breathe perhaps?” She shook her head with a smile. “For the big hero, you make much fussing. Trust Ilona. This needs to be tight. Ecco. Is done.”

Spike shrugged his shoulders carefully. Had to admit his chest felt better. “Where’d you learn to do that? Wait – don’t tell me – your grandmother.”

“No, not my grandmother.” She looked away. “Maybe I tell you about my ex husband sometime.” She said darkly. She shrugged and turned back to him. “So. What you do now?”

He wiped a hand across his mouth, wincing, and looked down at the blood on his bruised hand. “Gonna see a witch about a girl.” He said quietly.





You must login (register) to review.