Author's Note: The translation to the Italian conversation (and the German song Spike whispers) can be found here, for those who don't want to be bothered looking them up. Much thanks to the wonderful Jo_Potter for the more accurate Italian translations. I really appreciate it. :)

http://unbridled-b.livejournal.com/12745.html#cutid1










Chapter Thirty-Five




He had dreamt of Italy, once. Just dreamed, of course. One dream of many that concerned her. Elizabeth. The very epitome of all he did not have.

Early on in his mother’s illness, the doctor had suggested he bring her to a warmer country that had less rain. Anne always refused to leave England, of course, and he had not pressed the issue. Yet later, after Elizabeth arrived in their lives, and after she—

Well, he couldn’t bear thinking of that.

But he had thought of Italy. So many times, lying in his bed, he had imagined it.

He had fantasized about bringing both women to Italy. He would bring his mother for her health, of course; but he would bring Elizabeth so that he could marry her there. Just the two of them together, alone and exchanging their vows in some small vine-covered church. He would teach her to speak Italian, her pretty head bowed over her primer, her smooth brow furrowed in concentration. He would take her dancing in the marketplace, her bright hair like a patch of sunshine in the sea of dark Italian women. He would live with her in a rented villa with stone floors and enormous windows that looked out onto a bed of roses. In the evening, they would sit on the balcony, dine on spicy chorizo sausage and drink sangiovese wine. At night, he would make love to her on linen sheets.

Now, stretched out in the back of a rickety hay-wagon traveling southward toward the city, Spike closed his eyes, and the dream came back to him. It was a fantasy so intense he could almost feel her beneath him; he could almost taste her mouth, hear his own gentle voice murmuring into it: Il mio amore, la mia vita... tutta mia...

But she was dead, and his voice didn’t know how to be gentle anymore. With a mighty effort, he forced the thought from his mind.

Beside him, also stretched out in the soft hay, was Drusilla. Even before they left England, she had begun to cry. Homesick she was, although for what, he did not know. He couldn’t bear to see her cry, couldn’t bear to see any woman he cared about cry. He would have been willing to take her back to Angelus if it stopped her from crying. But she didn’t want to go back to Angelus, and Spike didn’t know what else to do. In an attempt to cheer her, he had given her a doll to make up for the collection she had been forced to abandon in London. The toy was the spoils gained from killing a shopkeeper expressly for that purpose. It was brown-haired and porcelain-faced, dressed in frilly white. Dru called it Edith, and when she talked to it (as she often did), she always affixed “Miss” to the name, as if suggesting some type of formality to their relationship.

Now, she abruptly sat up in the wagon, clutching her doll to her chest and making a soft whimpering noise. At first, he thought she’d had a nightmare. But when he questioned her, she said pitifully, “I miss England. These people are different; I can’t understand them when they speak.”

“Ah, it’s all right pet.” Spike sat up, too, and pulled her against his chest so that he could stroke her dark hair. “Doesn’t matter if you don’t know their language. Not a lot of talk involved in killing them, anyway.”

She nestled into him, dropping her head back to rest in the hollow of his shoulder. “Do you love me?”

He wrapped both arms around her shoulders, then. “’Course I do, love. You know that.”

“But you love her more. I can feel her in you. You think of her…even now.”

You can’t hide anything from Drusilla, best not even to try.

Angelus’ words echoed in his head, and the lie that had begun to form on his tongue never made it into the open air. He sighed.

“Can’t help it, pet. She was important to me; I can’t just stop thinking of her because I’ve changed. Doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”

It just means that I can’t fall in love with you, he added to himself. He knew Dru felt that, too. He knew she heard the words in his head, just as she always did. But for some reason, she fell silent and did not pursue the matter further.

After a moment of quiet, Spike traced her collarbone with his fingertips and whispered into her ear, “Do you like your new pretty?”

“Like cakes at teatime,” she answered softly, and cradled the doll more closely to her breast. For the first time, he noticed the small strip of silk she had tied across the doll’s face, over its mouth and around its head.

“What’s that for?”

Dru pouted briefly. “She talks to me so I can’t sleep. Sometimes she says things I don’t want to hear. She wishes to tell secrets.”

“What kind of secrets?” he asked her, intrigued. But she refused to tell him.

“The kind that need not be told.”

“But you like her anyway?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Good girl.”

His eyes shifted to the road ahead of him, to the city that had just become visible in the far distance. “Look at that, Dru. Almost there. Not long now.”

“Until you find the Slayer?” she asked.

“Until I find the Slayer.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




Rome had changed, somewhat, since the last time he had been there. Yet despite the differences, and despite the length of time that had passed since then, Spike had little trouble finding his way around. They rolled into the city just before daybreak, and he let their driver go free. He wasn’t sure why he did this, except that the man, who spoke no English, had asked nothing of them in exchange for the transportation.

They found refuge from the impending dawn inside a tiny apartment on the Piazza Navona. The rooms were small and cramped, the décor expensive but in appallingly bad taste. Spike deposited himself on the hideous brown sofa and listened dispassionately while Drusilla did away with the elderly Anglo residents. She was cruel to them, but Spike considered they deserved it. Who papered their walls in white-dotted lilac anyway?

Still, despite its remarkable ugliness, the flat did have two things in its favor: it was central to the city and it had large windows that overlooked the square. Although he had virtually no information on the Slayer, something told him that she would prowl the square at night, searching for her prey. The hoards of people in the piazza would be sure to attract vampires. And where there were vampires…

There were cemeteries around the city, of course. Dozens of them. No doubt, she spent a good deal of time in them, as well. Yet the square appealed to his poetic nature. The beauty of the place, the history of it. It was famous, and so was she. What better place to fight her? He could lay her body out upon the smooth stones beside the Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi. Or, if he lost, his ashes could be carried away across the plaza; they could settle in the clear water of the fountain. Each image was appealing in its own way, and from the moment they entered his consciousness, he determined that the battle should take place in just that manner.

It was daylight, now, and there would be no opportunity to seek out the Slayer until nightfall. Drusilla was asleep in the small bedroom, her doll in her arms and a dead man stretched across the carpet beside her. Spike felt restless, unable to settle down. Sleep was elusive to him at the best of times, and in the advent of his excitement, it had become downright impossible.

He prowled around the narrow confines of the apartment restively, fingering the closed drapes, examining the gaudy knickknacks that lined the mantle. There was a small cabinet piano on one side of the room—the only truly attractive piece of furniture in the place. Almost beyond his own will, Spike found himself standing before it. He stroked the smooth wood, tracing with his fingertips its ornate, beautiful carvings. He lifted the lid to reveal a row of polished keys, the black sharps and flats stark against the ivory naturals. It had been months since he had even seen a piano, let alone played one. Yet his fingers were graceful and supple as ever when he touched the keys with one hand. The notes were coaxed from the instrument with expertise and an intentional slowness, and he accompanied the words with a hoarse whisper.

Leise flehen meine Lieder…durch die Nacht zu dir…

It was like probing a sore tooth, agonizing and irresistible. When he realized what he was doing, Spike grew angry. He slammed the lid shut and kicked the piano savagely. He’d not known her six months before she passed away…would he never recover from her death? Would this pain ever leave him? Bloody hell, if she saw him now she would hate him for all he had done. He wasn’t the same man any longer; he wasn’t a good man. Drusilla was the only one who could love him now. So, why couldn’t he let Elizabeth go? Why couldn’t he forget her?

Furious with himself for his weakness, Spike stormed across the room to the bedroom door. Dru lay curled into a ball in the middle of the large bed, her long hair fanned out across the white pillow. Before they left England, he had replaced her clothing. Her nightdresses were now soft muslin, white and chaste. The sight of her pushed his anger away, leaving him strangely melancholy. He kicked off his shoes and climbed into bed with her, stroking one long sleeve gently. When she opened her eyes, he nuzzled at her neck.

“Be sweet to me, pet. Love me a little while.”

And Drusilla did. But afterward, when sleep finally came, he dreamed of her, and when he woke up, his cheeks were stiff with dried tears.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




He poured all his energies into hunting the Slayer. The task was a distraction for his bewildered mind, his aching heart. It was also an obscene amount of fun: the stalk, the anticipation of the kill. It took Spike ten days before he finally found her, but when he did, she was worth the wait. She was not exactly what he had expected. He had pictured a small girl, almost frail in appearance. Instead, she was quite tall, at least two inches taller than he was, and her body was far from that of a child. Lots of curves, she had, and in all the right places. Her face was mature, as well: her cheekbones well defined, and her eyes long-lashed and very large. There was something world-weary about her expression, and her full lips did not smile.

She was almost stunningly prepossessing, but that wasn’t what interested him. At one o’clock in the morning, he stood in the square and watched her fight a vampire. Not some awkward fledgling, this one; he obviously had the experience of many years behind him. The Slayer wore a long red skirt that flowed loosely around her legs, and no petticoats. Her peasant shirt showed a hint of her breasts, and her narrow waist was free from corsets. The unrestricting clothing meant she could fight easily, and she moved like a dancer, spinning and leaping, limber as a rag. It fascinated him.

The vampire leaped for her, clearly planning to knock her to the ground with the force of his body. Yet she slipped underneath him even as he dropped, and plunged the stake neatly into his heart. There was no wasted movement in her kill, and not a moment’s hesitation. The vampire exploded in a cloud of dust that sifted onto her clothes and hair. She shook her head in disgust, and wiped a hand across her ash-coated mouth.

Spike stepped out of the shadows, smiling a little as she startled at his approached. “Ciao, bellezza,” he greeted her cheerfully.

She rolled her eyes and sighed, muttering under her breath: “Oh, non un altro...”

He couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Ma che maniere!”

“Perchè sprecare buone maniere per la vostra specie?” she retorted. Really, she was quite clever, almost witty. Spike had not expected that. Cunning and strength he had anticipated, but not wit. He felt a sudden desire that she should like him, that she should consider him worthy of her attentions.

“Almeno tentate di essere gentile,” he implored her in a playful—almost mocking—tone. His blue eyes danced at her, and her pretty eyebrows rose in a calculating sort of way.

“Gentile con voi?” she asked incredulously, and raised the hand that held her stake. “Allora dirò una preghiera per voi quando la vostra cenere cadrà.”

Thus began the messy and altogether enjoyable task of fighting her. Spike did not make the first move; he waited for her, as a gentleman should. She whirled suddenly, one skilled foot catching him sharply across the temple. The blow knocked him backwards, and he almost fell into the fountain. He righted himself at the last moment and darted past her. He tried to catch her from behind, but quickly found out that it was impossible. She was a blur of color, evading his attacks easily. The carved wooden stake in her hand almost found his heart several times, and it was by sheer luck that he managed to duck away. She was lithe and lissome, and the movements of her assault were delightfully smooth. It was like dancing, and nothing terrible could happen until the music stopped.

Not that Spike remained unscathed in the course of their combat. Several times that slender leg or those small hands found their mark, and within minutes, he was battered and bleeding. Battered and bleeding, but by no means defeated. For himself, he managed several decent blows. One backhand was particularly well executed, and he sent her reeling against the side of the fountain. Game face on, he lunged for her, his fangs bared and hungry. But at the last moment, she rolled away, flipping herself from her back to her feet with almost no effort at all. They did not speak to each other again, after their first exchange, for they were both panting heavily—she from lack of breath, he from excitement.

Around and around they went, until finally she had him pinned. Flat on his back against the paving stones, her slim body straddling his waist and a stake pressed into his chest. All along, he had thought that if he reached this position, he would not fight it. He would look death squarely in the face; he would meet it without fear. And there was no fear. Yet the acceptance of death had left him. It was the thrill of the battle that did it. In the flush of the fight, he had found something to give meaning to his existence, and he didn’t want to surrender that meaning just yet. He wanted to fight her again. He wanted to fight her until he won and she was his…the trophy to prove his worth.

He bucked beneath her, pulling his knee up underneath her buttocks so that he could throw her off him. She braced her fall with her hands, pushing herself up almost before she touched the ground, back on her feet before he could even climb to his own. He staggered upright just as she jumped in front of him. He managed to knock her stake from her grasp, and it clattered against the stones some distance away. However, there was no opportunity to bite her, for she began beating him with such force that defending himself was almost impossible. Eyes, cheekbones, and chin all received the brutal attention of her fists as she drove him backwards against the fountain. He staggered over the low wall of it, fell arse-over-elbows into the cold water. The spray temporarily blinded him, but he managed to recover himself before she retrieved her stake.

Still, standing knee-deep in that cold pool, he realized that he would not be able to defeat her. Not that night. She had gained the advantage over him, and he knew she would not relinquish it easily. He was injured; he was exhausted. He hardly stood a chance against her. He grabbed hold of one of the fountain’s statues and pulled himself up until he stood on the stone shoulders of a god. He leaped from the top of it and landed on the other side, such a distance away that even as she ran around to meet him, he was far ahead of her. He ran as fast as his legs could carry him, and he did not run a straight path, but instead wove between buildings and pedestrians, food stalls and mule carts. She lost sight of him and fell back, and when he was certain that he was safe, he turned around and began a weary walk back to the flat.

He might have felt disheartened by his defeat, but he did not. He had faced a Slayer and survived; surely, that must mean something. He was not able to kill her yet, but someday he would be. He was prepared to wait until that day, to plan for it. He would face her again and again…and again after that. He would learn at the feet of the master. He would become a true warrior; and when he killed her, he would bow at the altar of her corpse and thank her for teaching him.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




He saw her again after that night. Many times that summer he met her in the Piazza Navona, for he was unwilling that they should battle anywhere else. So frequently did they duel that she eventually began to come to the square for the specific purpose of finding him. They sparred verbally as well as physically, and although she never failed to claim victory in the latter, he could easily hold his own when it came to hurling insults. Her name, as he soon learned from the local nasties, was Emiliana, and she was not quite seventeen years old. She had been a Slayer for almost two years and in that time, she had battled demons far more formidable than Spike. She never failed to drive him away with her expertise, and several times when he showed her his heels in retreat, she might have killed him. Yet she never even tried. At first puzzled by this, he soon came to understand that it was due to her sense of honor that she allowed him to withdraw. She would not kill a fleeing foe. No sword or stake was ever plunged into an adversary’s back at her hands.

He appreciated her principles; moreover, he respected them. He paid her the same courtesy, although that would not always be the case with subsequent opponents. But she was his first and somehow deserving of such deference. Even had the opportunity presented itself (though it never did), he would not have attacked her from behind. Perhaps this, as much as anything, was the root of their impasse.

Spike liked Emiliana, for all that he wanted to kill her. In fact, had his thoughts not been so consumed by Elizabeth, he might have developed a crush on the lovely young Slayer. As it was, he had a healthy admiration for her abilities, and he always looked forward to sparring with her. When she died in late August of that year, he almost grieved for the loss of her.

She had not died in the flush of battle. Instead, she had been come upon by a demon—something ugly and brutal—while she was occupied with fighting a vampire. With a single swipe of a clawed hand, her skull was laid open, and word had it around Rome that she was dead before she hit the ground. The other vampires and demons in the area rejoiced at her ending, but Spike mourned the loss of his own chance at her. And he was angry. It was her birthright that she should die in a fair fight with an equal…not to be done away with by some lesser creature in a moment of distraction. So heartily did he resent this, he later went looking for said demon, fully intent on destroying it. However, despite his best efforts, he never tracked it down.

After that, Rome lost much of its appeal. It ceased to be a battlefield and became, instead, a tormenting bed of fantasies and regret. Without the Slayer and without her, what did he have left? Nothing but Drusilla, and poor Dru seemed an inadequate substitute for glory and passion. He would have left Italy, but he didn’t know where else to go. Presumably, the new Slayer had been called, but he had no idea where she might be. He asked Drusilla, hoping that her second sight might offer some clue, but it did not.

So, it went. And they might have stayed in Italy indefinitely had not something else occurred. One night in the late autumn, after several long hours spent hunting, Spike entered the cramped apartment to find it seemingly empty. It was odd, because Dru had not felt well that night, and he was bringing her dinner. He dropped the still-warm body to the floorboards and made a beeline for the bedroom, wondering if perhaps she was asleep, and did not hear his greeting. He was not halfway across the dark room before something grabbed him from behind. The trespasser pulled him up against its chest. And even though he could not see his assailant, Spike immediately knew who it was. He knew by the muscled arms that wrapped around his torso, their grip vise-like and their weight leaden. He knew by the scent of it and by the long, lank hair that brushed across his cheekbone when the invader tilted its head down to speak to him.

“Hallo, William,” Angelus rasped into his ear. “Daddy’s home.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~