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Author's Chapter Notes:
sorry its late, my beta got home yesterday
Spike felt like his head wanted to explode; his neck, well he just hoped it wasn’t broken ‘cause it hurt like a bitch and if he was lucky maybe it would explode.

He could feel blood trickling down his face and dribbling into his mouth; he swept his tongue over the blood, mopping up every drop. Spike knew that he would need it to recover from the injuries he could feel on his body, bruising and pulled muscles everywhere. Spike wouldn’t have doubted anyone that had sworn he’d been on a bender the night before but whisky didn’t normally fight back this badly. He remembered being drunk a couple of times as a human, and his head at the moment equalled anything he had ever felt before. He really didn’t want to open his eyes, not wanting the additional headache light would bring about; he had expected to wake up dead, as it were, after his piss poor display the day before - if it had been the day before. There was no clock or window to give him a clue as to the time or even the day. For the first time since he had been turned, Spike couldn’t feel the sun. He also realised he couldn’t feel Dru: for the first time since he’d been turned he couldn’t feel his sire. Spike felt panic-stricken; if he’d been alive his heart would have been racing from the adrenalin overload… HE COULDN’T FEEL HIS SIRE. This was a major problem. Spike felt like he was spinning in the wind without any restraint. He curled up and started crying. He couldn’t feel his sire.

It must have been hours later when he woke again. His body was healing, he could feel it, and the room was flooded with a soft light when he opened his eyes. He slowly took a good look around the room. This room was very different from the one Dru and he had been kept in before. This new room was more like a prison cell. Plain concrete walls, a steel door with a grille for someone to see in and a bare light bulb hanging from a short flex. No window, just a plain steel door. The bed he had been laying on had a thin mattress and an even thinner blanket on it, a world away from the luxury of the room they had been in. He felt alone, totally alone, and knew he was in trouble. Spike brushed his hand across the back of his head: whoever had kicked him had meant it from the pain the action caused. Spike swung his legs off the bed and sat up, looking around the plain prison cell - and prison cell was the only description, the plain concrete walls sort of gave it away. Part of him wished that he hadn’t been so stupid as to try and escape, seeing how it ended. But he had and now he had to face the consequences. And Dru was dead, at least that’s how it felt. The smell of fresh blood from the cup on a small table attracted his attention. It was in a silly smiley mug that made him grimace in disgust; though he knew the cold blood would make him feel even more nauseous, he also knew he would need the nourishment. Sipping the cold blood he shuddered: cow, he hated cow, even pig would be better than this swill.

Spike spent the time in the room either sleeping, pacing, or just laying on the bed staring at the ceiling. He counted the cracks, made up designs in his head. At some point a spider had run across his vision, the highlight of his day, or week, or whatever. They hadn’t even left him any smokes, and he was craving the nicotine more than he was craving blood at the moment.

He’d actually fallen back to sleep for the umpteenth time when the door opened outwards, allowing two guards to enter his prison. ‘Stand up!’ a voice shouted at him, and Spike jumped without realising it; after being in silence for so long, and even with his preternatural senses, he had been startled by the command.

‘Face the wall,’ one of the guards instructed, ‘and place your hands on top of your head, fingers interlocked.’ From that position Spike was unlikely to get the jump on either of his captors. So he did as he was instructed, and waited. The men were armed with water pistols and crossbows, and were very obviously professional. Not only that, but he could hear the heartbeats from about five others in the hallway. He would just get slaughtered if he tried anything at that moment.

So Spike did as he was told, taking his time to languidly move off the bed and face away from the doorway, his hands resting on his bleached hair. He felt the approach of another guard: knowing it wasn’t one of the two who had taken control of the room, he allowed the man to put a set of handcuffs around his wrists, and with his hands secured in the small of his back, he was turned around to face the party in front of him.

‘This way please, Mr Pratt.’ It was Marcus Thynne. The man was being perfectly civilised: no one had threatened him and Spike was almost annoyed by that. He wanted to bite someone, and they were being too careful. He smirked and slipped into game face and growled at the nearest guard. He hoped for at least a raise in pulse, but no, not even a murmur.

‘Please don’t torment my men, you wouldn’t like it if they played with you.’ Thynne seemed almost amused at his attempt. Spike took a good look into the man’s eyes: he could see the sincerity shining out of them. No threats, just promises of retribution. With Dru dead he had little to fight for anyway.

‘What’s going on? Where’s Dru? And why are you still being relatively nice to me after what I pulled?’ he asked slowly, indicating the bite marks on the man’s neck and seriously not wanting to piss him off while he held a stake in his hands.

‘You are very important to us, we have a job for you to do, and one way or another you will do it. And Druscilla is quite safe.’ The man sounded cold and Spike shivered. He had really landed in the mire this time.

‘Not dead? Not Dust? And what sort of job?’ Spike didn’t want to be curious about the work but he was; he needed to know about Dru though, and being nice to the man may get him the answers he sought. The man was still speaking reasonably, still talking as though Spike wasn’t cuffed and controlled, so there was a chance of answers and not stakes.

‘Dru is with Olivia discussing fashion yet again, so I have been volunteered to talk to you. We have a job. One you are uniquely qualified for.’ Thynne answered flatly, watching Spike very carefully. He looked nothing like expected. Thynne had been expecting a larger man, vampire, tall and classically handsome, but the one walking down the corridor was barely 5’ 10’’ and pretty would have been a better description.

‘Why can’t I feel Dru? I’ve always been able to feel my sire and she’s gone.’ Spike sounded broken.

‘She’s not gone, she’s actually traded you. You are now ours, and she gets the help she wanted,’ was the unexpected answer.

‘Sold!!!! What the fuck, in what way? What can I offer you?’ He asked, straining against the cuffs, his shoulders getting stiff from the angle his arms were being held in.

‘She has traded you: it’s taken four days for the magic to work, and you are now one of the few beings who can sense Olivia. She is now your clan leader, your elder. And as for why we needed it, your soul is trapped in your body with your demon and it has come to a relatively peaceful arrangement with that demon. You are a part of one of the most powerful vampire clans: you are an Auralian, descended from the greatest of vampires. And you are fascinated by slayers,’ Thynne explained.

Spike thought about it for a moment or two as they stopped in front of a steel door.
‘Why did she do it? Why sell me? What did I do?’ he asked, his heart breaking at the thought of being abandoned by his dark princess.

‘She did it because it is time for you to move on, and time for her to move on as well.’ Thynne had to feel sympathy for the vampire, he looked almost broken from the news. ‘Your job will be to take any and all necessary training to be a Slayer’s Paladin, a Black Knight sworn by magics to be all that she requires, needs or even wants. It is and always has been a sacred calling - and it is yours.’

‘Have there been others, and how long do I work for the slayer before I rip her bleeding throat out and drink her dry while screwing her into ecstasy?’ he spat out, pulling hard against the cuffs on his wrists.

‘For how long?’ Thynne looked at him. ‘For ever, and as for killing her, you won’t be able to: there will be no reason to. And as for have there been others? Ever heard of Lancelot Du Lac?’

Thynne pushed open the door and Spike was pushed through into a brightly lit classroom.





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