Chapter Thirty-Four




For an instant after Angelus spoke, none of them moved. It was as if they had been hypnotized by the movements of that swiftly moving multitude, each one of them staring, rooted to the spot. Three pairs of eyes were fixed on the noisy, angry crowd, but Angelus was gaping at Spike, disbelief still plain on his face.

After a moment, the spell broke and Darla suddenly clutched Angelus’ arm. “We have to get away from here,” she said urgently. “We cannot possibly fight all of them. There are too many.”

Angelus shook his head slightly—not in opposition to her suggestion, but as if to clear it of some confusion. He was still looking at Spike.

Spike, however, was hardly even aware of the gaze, just as he had hardly been aware of the angry, incredulous words that had come a few minutes before. He was watching the horde of furious men, and there was no fear on his face. There was no fear in his heart. His blue eyes lit up—a little boy on Christmas morning—and he took an eager step forward, as if in preparation to meet his opposition halfway. However, before he could stir more than that single step, Angelus grabbed him by the forearm and threw him into the side of the nearest building.

“You stupid tosser. Have you gone insane?”

Spike yanked his arm from Angelus’ grasp. “Piss off,” he said angrily. “This is my decision, my fight.”

“And your death!”

“Then it’s my death and none of your bloody concern! And while you stand here rabbiting on, they’re coming up on you.”

“Angelus, he’s right,” Darla hissed. “If we stay here any longer, we’re as good as dead. Let’s move on!”

“And what? Leave him here to get himself killed?”

“And why not?” she demanded. “He’s gotten himself into this mess, and now he’s dragging the rest of us along. Do you honestly think we can keep him with us much longer without all of us being staked?”

Still, Angelus hesitated. He looked at Dru, who was beaming at her childe as if overjoyed by his act of defiance, of stupidity. It was the screaming of the crowd—their daunting proximity—that finally made up his mind for him. He staggered backward, his eyes darting briefly between Spike and the mob, before he turned to flee, Darla and Drusilla following close at his heels.

Spike watched them go, and when they were out of sight, he turned to face his adversaries, who were, by now, close upon him. He grinned at them arrogantly, his legs spread and his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He was a small figure, standing there, and not necessarily an intimidating one. He did not, at first, show them his fangs.

By the time he did, it was too late for them.

Truly, he did not expect to win the battle. There were so many of them. Perhaps not quite so many as in London, but these men were rougher and seemed more accustomed to fighting. They had more weapons and better ones. They beat him, stabbed him, and burned him. They were as brutal as animals—as brutal as Spike. Yet he wouldn’t back down from them. He didn’t care if they destroyed him. Perhaps, in that most private recess in the back of his mind, he wanted to be destroyed. Death in the glory of battle and all that. And not only glory, but peace, as well. Peace from the restlessness, peace from the nagging pain in his heart. But even despite the desire for self-destruction, he was unwilling to easily yield to friendly death. He fought because it was honorable to fight, and because he was not a coward.

He did not expect to win, but he won anyway. Those not killed finally fled from him. They left not to escape but to regroup. They had gone, but he understood they had not surrendered, and the thought pleased him. He drank of those left dead, and then, after a quick stop by the ruined pub for some bottles, he ambled down the same path by which Angelus had escaped. His body was battered, each step another stab of pain. Yet there was a strange mixture of disappointment and elation, of swelling pride. He had beaten them down. They would come again and again, yet he could defeat them each time. There would be no welcome death, after all. No release from the hollow ache where something wonderful had resided and then been pulled away. But there was the notoriety and there was the fear. There was the exhilaration of the struggle, of the danger, and, ultimately, of the kill. It was not everything, but it was enough to keep him going.

His keen senses allowed him to find the others without much effort. They were several miles away, hiding inside the musty confines of an abandoned mineshaft. Something in it amused him. The great Angelus was afraid of defeat, afraid of death. His were battles already half-won, the prolonged torment of beings weaker than himself. Darla’s kills were more immediate but no less effortless than those of her lover. And even Drusilla…

He waded into the murky depths of Angelus’ rage fearlessly, knowing, now, that his grandsire was stronger, but that he was more cunning. He was aware of what might be coming, and he was fully prepared to face it.

This time, Angelus was more calculated in his anger. He did not, at first, attack his grandchilde, but instead watched as Spike crossed the limited width of the shaft. The lanterns lining the filthy plank walls were lit, casting a dim glow, and there was a wooden crate upturned onto its side. Spike pulled out his bottles and lined them neatly along the edge of the crate, all the while ignoring the older vampire as if he were someone of little consequence. It was only after he finished the task that he finally turned to the other three with a smirk.

“Miss me, did you?”

Like a spell breaking, Angelus’ forced calm left him. He crossed the space between them in two strides, grabbed Spike by the frayed lapels of his dirty coat, and flung him into the wall. He held him there by the throat, the pressure of his big hand enough to crush an ordinary man.

“Perhaps it’s my advancing years that makes me so forgetful, William. Remind me. Why don’t we kill you?”

Spike choked against the painful crushing weight at his windpipe. Nevertheless, he rasped cockily—almost incoherently—into his grandsire’s angry face.

“Sp—i—ke.”

Angelus raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

He released Spike’s throat abruptly, with a roughness that hurt almost as much as the choking had. Spike gasped and coughed, trying to open the constricted—and completely unneeded—airway. He put a hand to his throbbing Adam’s apple and glared at his persecutor.

“It’s Spike, now. You’d do well to remember it, mate.”

“I’m not your mate,” snapped Angelus as the younger vampire moved past him. “And when did you start talking like that?”

Spike grabbed one of his bottles and uncorked it, took a long drink to sooth his swollen gullet. “Guess Dru must be rubbing off on me,” he said finally, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Angelus gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, as if counting to ten. Finally, he hissed with admirable patience and restraint: “You little blighter. That isn’t even a Cockney accent.”

“Who says it’s not?”

His grandsire snorted derisively. “North London, at best.”

Spike looked to Drusilla, who said almost apologetically, “North London.”

“North London,” echoed Darla smugly.

“Bloody hell,” Spike cursed under his breath. Of course, he had known that his accent was not the same as Drusilla’s; but he had thought he was getting close, at least. Still, he had his pride. He said aloud, “Well, right then. North London. That’s just what I meant it to be. Don't want to sound exactly like Dru, now do I?”

Darla made an impatient noise, clearly growing annoyed with Spike’s arrogance. “We barely got out of London alive because of you,” she bit out angrily. “Everywhere we go, it’s the same story. And now—”

“You’ve got me and my women hiding in the luxury of a mine shaft,” interrupted Angelus. “All because ‘William the Bloody’ likes the attention. This is not a reputation we need!”

Spike watched as the other vampire paced the length of the wall restlessly. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said mockingly. “Did I sully your good name? We’re vampires.”

“All the more reason to use a certain amount of finesse!”

Spike scoffed at that.

“Bollocks! That’s for the frilly cuffs and collars crowd. I’ll take a good brawl any day.”

Angelus stopped his pacing. He stalked nearer to Spike, menace growing in each step he took. “And every time you do, we become the hunted.”

Off to one side, Darla murmured in a singsong sort of way, “I think our boys are going to fight…” But both men ignored her comment, as well as Drusilla’s nonsensical reply. Their attention was locked onto each other.

The intention was clear in Angelus’ dark eyes, but this time Spike didn’t back down from it. Rather, he pushed himself right into the fray, determined not to let himself be dominated by his grandsire. Not physically and not mentally. “Yeah. You know what I prefer to being hunted? Getting caught.”

“Yeah, that’s brilliant strategy, really. Pure cunning.”

Angelus reached out, his fingertips following the edges of Spike’s open coat in a gesture that was half-caress, half-threat. The overwhelming panic that followed it was instinctual, immediate. Spike threw off the offending hands with more agitation than anger. “Sod off!” he snarled.

The shocked and almost uncertain look on Angelus’ face, afterwards, was like an intoxicant to Spike. Daddy wasn’t such a collected one, after all. He jabbed a finger at the older vampire and laughed in his face.

“C’mon, when was the last time you unleashed it?” he asked. Provocative, now, rather than fearful. “All out fight in a mob—back against a wall—nothing but fist and fangs. Don’t you ever get tired of fights you know you’re going to win?”

“No. A real kill, a good kill, it takes pure artistry,” argued Angelus. “Without that, we’re just animals.”

Spike snorted. “Poufter!”

At that, Angelus lunged forward and grabbed him, slinging him onto the floor. There was a shovel leaning against the rotten planks and Angelus snatched it up, breaking it against his knee so that the handle became a long, jagged-ended stake. He shoved it against Spike’s chest.

The sharp point of the splintered wood pressed into him, piercing his shirt and his skin, drawing a thin circlet of blood from the tender flesh above his heart. Spike hardly even felt it. Already teetering on the brink of hysteria, he now fell into it completely. He stared up into his grandsire’s livid face and let loose a burst of rapid-fire giggles.

“What? You think you’re gonna put it to me again? Have another go; get yourself a real knee trembler? Go ahead and try it. Last time is all you’re gonna get out of me.”

“William…” Angelus’ voice held a warning note, but Spike was too far around the bend even to care.

“You should’ve used your thumb last time,” he mocked him. “Would’ve been bigger, you know. L’il bit wider, li’l bit longer…would’ve gone a l’il deeper. Would’ve hurt more—”

The stake pressed tighter against him, pushing through to the muscle. Angelus clenched his teeth, his hands shaking with his fury. Despite the murderous look on his face, Spike felt no fear. Something in him told him that the older vampire would not kill him.

And he was right.

After a moment, Angelus wrenched his hand back, dropping his arm to his side so that the tip of the broken shovel handle tapped against the floor. He chuckled bitterly to himself.

“You can’t keep this up forever,” he said finally. “If I can’t teach you, maybe someday an angry crowd will. That…or the Slayer.”

Spike pushed himself up on his elbows, cocking his head to watch Angelus as he turned away dismissively.

“What’s a Slayer?” he asked.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




Angelus would have nothing more to do with him after that, and Darla never talked to him at all other than to insult him. It was Drusilla who finally explained about Slayers. Spike drank from his bottle and sat cross-legged on the dirty floor, leaning his back against the wall, while Dru perched on the crate and told him the story.

It was an interesting one. One girl, chosen in every generation, one girl in all the world. Spike couldn’t figure it. How could one girl make a difference at all? There must be hundreds—thousands—of other vampires. Maybe even more, maybe even millions of them. Not to mention the various other types of nasties that were wandering about. He hadn’t met any himself, not yet, but Angelus had told him. How could one little girl take them all on? How could she even try?

He said as much to Drusilla, who looked absolutely horrified by the suggestion. Slayers were…well…they were Slayers, she insisted. They were fearfully strong; they were relentless. They were called to the part of the world where they were needed most. Their lives were short and brutal, but not at all meaningless. Hundreds of vampires met their deaths at the hands of one Slayer. Only the strongest, the most cunning, the greatest of them all ever succeeded in killing a Slayer.

The greatest of them all…

Intrigued by the very notion of it, Spike asked, with deceptive nonchalance, “So, where’s the current Slayer call home?”

Drusilla shook her head. She didn’t know. Beyond this, she was growing tired of the subject. She wandered off to find Angelus. But Darla was standing nearby, brushing flecks of coal dust from her skirt. She was staring at Spike with keen interest.

“Italy,” she said softly.

He looked over at her, surprised. Generally, Darla only spoke to him in anger, or derision. Mostly, she avoided speaking to him at all, preferring to use Angelus as a go-between. She considered Spike beneath her.

“What?” he asked her now.

“The current Slayer. She’s in Italy. Rome, if I’m not mistaken.”

Spike’s eyes glazed over, considering it. He mouthed the word to himself, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his lips: “Rome.”

“Lovely city, Rome,” said Darla. Her tone was gently persuasive, her blue eyes calculating. “Full of history.”

“I know,” answered Spike distractedly. “I’ve been there.” In his William days, of course. The grand tour of Europe. All the well-bred boys did it after university.

“Of course, it isn’t something even to be considered,” continued Darla. “Drusilla, surprisingly enough, had a rare moment of lucidity. It’s much too dangerous. Practically no one faces a Slayer without her destroying him …”

“Practically...” echoed Spike.

“…but the ones that do are famous.”

He smiled to himself at that.

Famous.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




He tried to push the thought from his mind. Bleeding stupid was what it was. He was barely more than a fledgling. There was no point in pretending otherwise. He might be cleverer than the average; he might be talented. But he was nothing so exceptional as to assume he could beat a Slayer. Not from what Dru had told him about them. He shouldn’t even bother thinking about it.

The problem was he couldn’t stop thinking about it. The very notion of it…the fight…the fame. The death. Hers or his own; it was all the same to Spike.

He closed his eyes and tried to picture her. Little Italian girl—according to Darla she was no more than sixteen or seventeen. Long dark hair, peasant clothing, eyes like onyx. Lithe and smooth, her skin the color of light coffee. Quick as a viper and twice as dangerous.

Spike lay on his coat spread out on the hard rocky earth. None of them had beds, or even a change of clothing; they had left London in such haste. Darla had been bitching about this since the moment they arrived in Yorkshire. She was so disgusted by the primitive conditions she would have braved the dangers of the townspeople in order to find a featherbed and a hot bath, had she been able to do so. However, the bright noontime sun presented a much greater problem than a group of angry men milling about the town. He heard her tossing fretfully on her own makeshift bedroll and muttering under her breath.

Drusilla was off somewhere, fucking Angelus.

Mindless of the sharp pieces of flint digging into his upper back, Spike smiled to himself. Behind his eyelids was the picture of her, the Slayer, spinning like a top, one slender leg kicking out at him. Fast, but not so quick that he could not dodge it. Her dark eyes widened with surprise at his agility, his resourcefulness. The worthy opponent.

Of course, it was all fantasy. He couldn’t really attempt it.

Could he?

His eyes flew open at the thought. Death didn’t frighten him, or pain. The fight was the thing, and she would give him the best one of his life…of anyone’s life. If she killed him, what of it? He would have had the chance to dance with a legend. Perhaps there was no fame to be had in it. According to Dru and Darla, the girl had probably killed hundreds of his kind by now. But there was an honor to it, death at the hands of the great one. Not just as some idiot caught unawares in a cemetery late at night, but as a warrior seeking her out.

Still, there was the issue of the rest of them. Angelus would never let him go, not willingly. But what did that matter anymore? Angelus couldn’t control him; Angelus couldn’t force him to stay. Darla would be more than happy to see him off. And Dru—

What about Dru?

The thought gave him pause. He didn’t need them anymore, he realized. He was past the point of needing the protection of his family. He was past the point of wanting it. But Drusilla…she wasn’t the same as the rest of them. It wasn’t just that she was his sire. In fact, that had practically nothing to do with it. Fledglings often left their sires, after a time, just as sires frequently abandoned their offspring once they grew tired of playing with them. But Spike genuinely cared for Drusilla. He loved her. She wasn’t his sweetheart, but she was his friend. More than that, she needed him. If he left her, she would be alone again, subject to Angelus’ neglect or his abuse, such as his mood might be. Spike owed her better than that. She had been as good to him as she knew how, and those things she did to hurt him, he knew she did unknowingly. He couldn’t leave her. Better that she be brought down by a Slayer than by Angelus’ cruelty.

Would she go with him? He wasn’t certain. She had a deep connection to her sire, though sometimes Spike had the feeling there was more hate than love between them. It was Angelus who had taken everything from her, Angelus who left her nothing but an empty, confused child. Yet he had also manipulated her and made her need him. Would she leave Angelus if Spike asked her to? And if she wouldn’t…what then?

He pushed himself up off the floor, unwilling to wait any longer to find out. Angelus had Dru up against the wooden wall of a tunnel some distance down from the main part of the shaft. Spike sat down on a rock two or three hundred feet away, his back turned to them. He waited until they had finished, and then grasped Drusilla’s elbow as she was passing by him. When she paused beside him, he stood up.

“Take a trip with me,” he whispered.

She looked bewildered. Angelus did that to her; he confused her poor mind even more. A go with him, and she wasn’t right for hours afterward. Still, she seemed to be struggling to understand.

“A dive into dark seas…”

“Well, not quite. To Rome.” He saw her blank look and added gently, “Italy. Next to France, you know. Little bit to the south of it.”

“All of us are going?”

“Just us, pet. The two of us together, alone. What do you think?”

Slowly, she shook her head. “Angelus…he will be very cross with me if I leave.”

Spike felt a flash of irritation at that. Still, he knew it best to keep his temper in check. His voice dropped low and persuasive.

“You don’t have stay with him, Dru. You don’t have to—to be with him. Not anymore. He’s a bloody liar and a bastard. He uses you.” He gripped her arm a little more tightly and added, “Who takes care of you, kitten? Does he? Does he ever give a damn about any of us except Darla?”

A soft light came into her eyes, and he knew she was finally beginning to come around. “You take care of me. My William…my Spike. My shadowy knight. I knew you would take care of me, and you do.”

“Bloody right, I do. So, will you come with me?”

She raised the arm he was not holding and placed her fingers lightly against the side of his head. Half a second later, her eyes widened. “What have you planned, Spike? What’s that blistering in your thoughts?”

Spike hesitated. Should he tell her? But before he could make up his mind, she guessed. Guessed or used that uncannily sharp perception of hers. She pulled back her hand abruptly, as if scorched by whatever she saw blistering his mind.

“The Slayer!”

“The Slayer,” he whispered back, grinning.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




They left the very next night. Angelus thought they were gone hunting; Spike never told him otherwise. They just walked away, easy as you please. Walked away and began the long journey into destiny.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~