Chapter Four

Spike was nursing his third glass from the bottle of JD that he had, as usual, asked the waitress to leave on the table, when the club’s owner, a green empath demon from Pylea, approached. Without asking permission, Lorne pulled out a chair and sat down, resting his scaly arms on the table and studying the vampire in front of him.

“You’ve put away a lot of that stuff in past several weeks, cutie pie. You want to tell Uncle Lorne all about it?”

“I bloody well do not,” the vampire growled doing his best imitation of a rabid dog.

“Ah, well,” the demon continued, not at all disturbed, “how about if you sing for me, then?”

Spike stared at the large green demon as though he’d suddenly grown another head.

“How about I promise not to rip your entrails out if you get up and leave me alone?”

Lorne sighed and shook his head.

“Can’t do it, gorgeous. One way or another, I’ve got to know what’s going on in that pretty head of yours. It’s club policy. If you become a regular, you have to let old Lorne know what’s what in your life. Woman trouble? Sire problems? Slayer problems? All of the above?” he guessed shrewdly. “Just give me a few bars of something – you don’t have to get up on the stage if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t sing,” Spike growled, the sinking feeling that he might as well be arguing with Joyce or Buffy beginning to penetrate the alcoholic haze he’d been working on preserving since he’d allowed himself to hope briefly that the crystal could get him back to Sunnydale.

“Don’t care,” the demon said cheerfully. “And I’ll bet that’s not true. I’ll just bet you could sing like a choir boy if you wanted to, pumpkin.”

Spike rolled his eyes and gave up. He’d been coming to Caritas long enough to know that when Lorne made up his mind someone was going to sing for him, sooner or later it happened. He had no idea what the empath demon did with the information he garnered from the command performances, but he’d seen tough G’lushma demons leave in tears after a chat with the amiable host. He’d also seen vampires, demons and even the occasional human, leaving with big smiles on their faces.

Without warning, he launched into a couple verses of “I Wanna Be Sedated”, keeping the beat by tapping a heavy thumb ring on the table as he sang. Spike watched the demon’s face go from pleased to shocked to awed before, throwing a “Good job, sweet cheeks,” over his shoulder, Lorne hurried back to the bar and into an intense conversation with what appeared to be a human man leaning against it.

The host made no attempt to pretend he wasn’t talking about Spike as he nodded his head at him and spoke rapidly. The man raised his eyebrows, taking in Spike’s leather coat, bleached hair and lethal glower. The he shrugged, nodded at Lorne and picked up his drink. His slow stroll over to Spike’s table gave him plenty of opportunity to study the puzzled vampire and re-think his initial reaction. Spike never went into game face, in spite of his obvious irritation with the host, indicating a control only to be found in master vampires. Although his attire and the accompanying punk look suggested a vampire that had been turned in the 1980’s, the power Doyle could sense in the compact body said this one was much older than he’d first thought.

(Maybe the powers aren’t as confused as I think they are. This one isn’t what he first seems at all.)

With a nod, he stopped at Spike’s table and gestured at the half-empty bottle sitting there.

“If you’ll share, I’ll spring for the next one,” he said. “It seems that we like the same brand.”

“Not really getting’ a choice here, am I?” Spike kicked a chair out for the man to sit in.

With a grin, Doyle sat and put his glass on the table. “Well, you might have a choice in the short run – but the Powers have a way of getting what they want eventually; so, yeah, giving in early is always a smart move.”

“Powers?”

“Oh, my bad. Didn’t introduce myself.” He held out his hand, dropping it when Spike just glared at him. “I’m Doyle. Part-time demon and full time seer for the Powers That Be. And you are, apparently, their next champion.”

Spike had just taken a large swallow of whiskey when he realized what the man had so casually stated. He spewed liquid all over the table, narrowly missing the quick-moving seer as he dodged out of the way. While he struggled to find words to express exactly how totally wrong that was, Doyle moved his chair closer and rested his elbows on the table. With a casual shrug, he told the sputtering vampire that the Powers considered him, William the Bloody, responsible for the loss of their chosen champion.

“The big poof? Angelus was their chosen champion? The Scourge of Europe? Raper of little girls and nuns? “

“Apparently he was on the road to redemption when the slayer they sent him to assist sidetracked him. They had plans for him and now they need—“

“And now they need another sucker? No thanks, mate. Quite happy bein’ all unredeemed and evil here.”

“Is that so?” Doyle quietly poured himself another glassful of amber liquid as he met Spike’s eyes. “That’s sure not what Lorne read in your aura.”

“Bugger what he saw in my aura. And bugger the Powers That Be too. I’m nobody’s tool.”

“No. But you are the vampire that the slayer has chosen for her mate. The vampire who is trying to change his habits so as to be worthy of her.” The part-demon seer waited quietly for Spike to get over his angry surprise before he continued, “If the Powers send you to her, that ends your concerns about her watcher, the Council of Watchers, and her own worry about having to slay you someday. You can be together. Openly.”

Only the widening of Spike’s eyes gave away that he was still listening. Without saying anything to the grinning half-breed that would indicate he had even heard his words, Spike drained his glass and refilled it, bringing the whiskey to his lips and taking another long swallow. With a shake of his head, he said, “You got the wrong vamp, mate. I like being evil. I kill slayers, I don’t follow around behind them waitin’ for marching orders.”

Grabbing the bottle before Spike could take the last of the liquid left in it, Doyle refilled his own glass and took a large swallow himself.

“Actually, you won’t be taking orders from her; you’ll be taking them from me –er, from the Powers through me,” he added hastily as Spike’s eyes flashed amber and his fangs descended.

“I don’t TAKE orders.”

“If it makes you happier, think of them as…suggestions…from the beings that know what needs to be done to maintain a balance in the world. Trust me,” Doyle continued with a grimace, “most of the time the visions they send me are too confusing to be considered ‘orders’. They’re more like ‘try to figure out what we mean by this one before it jumps up and bites you on the ass’.”

“Can’t think of any reason I’d want to do that to myself.” Spike glared at the now-empty bottle and gestured at the waitress to bring him another. “I’d be a complete outcast if it became known I was helping the slayer. It would be worse than the big poof – at least everyone knew he’d been cursed with a soul. What excuse would I have?”

“That you’re mated to the slayer? That gets around, you’re screwed anyway,” Doyle said cheerfully, reaching for the new bottle and smiling at the waitress.

“I don’t think I like you.” Spike snatched the bottle out of Doyle’s hand and poured himself another full glass.

“You don’t have to like me; you just have to listen to me when it’s important.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Doyle looked around the messy apartment, taking in the empty bottles, crumpled packs of Marlboros and the unmade bed. He shifted into his demon mien briefly and inhaled the scents in the room, stepping back involuntarily when he recognized the combined aroma coming from the rumpled bed.

“You ever going to wash those filthy sheets?” he asked as his human face came back, and with it his less acute senses.

“Depends”

“On what? Whether they can bring tears to the eyes of anybody with a sensitive nose?”

“On whether or not your nose is that sensitive when you’re not bein’ a demon. Don’t want to be grossin’ out any human pretties I might bring home; don’t much care if you don’t like the smell.”

Spike tried for a leer, but found that he was having some difficulty controlling his face. He glared at the empty bottle in his hand and then at the laughing man standing in his living room.

“Yeah,” Doyle scoffed, brushing off a chair and semi-falling into it. He, too, glared accusingly at the bottle in Spike’s hand. “Like you’re going to be cheating on the fuckin’ slayer.”

“We have an open relationship.” Spike waved his hand vaguely in the direction of Sunnydale before falling face down on the bed.

“What? She gets to date college boys and you get to sit in Caritas until you’re drunk enough to stagger home?”

“She’s dating college boys?” Spike’s head flew up and his eyes tried to focus on Doyle’s grin.

“She will be,” Doyle said smugly. “She’s off to college in the fall and if you’re still sitting here…”

“Wanker.” Spike’s head fell back down onto the bed. “I thought you knew somethin’.”

“I know she’s got an Ascension to prevent and no one to help her but a loose cannon of a slayer and whatever they’ve sent in the way of another watcher. The last one tried to kill everybody,” he added casually. “Slayer had to cut off the woman’s arm to save the day.”

“Tha’sh my girl.” Spike’s speech was beginning to slur as the bottle dropped from his hand to the already stained carpet.