Family Reunion Part 7
Mar. 22nd, 2007 08:48 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shapinglightI'm off sick from work (something that hasn't happened in a long time) so I thought I might as well post another part.
For rating/setting/pairings etc, see Part 1. Previous parts are here.
This part contains some very rough (though non-graphic) sex - not exactly non-con but it has the trappings of it.
Family Reunion Part 7
"Didn't think you'd agree to this." Angel's voice had that familiar roughness to it that, back in the day, had made Spike's breath catch in his throat and his cock thicken against his thigh. Now, it set his teeth on edge. He had his back to Angel, leaning against the concrete wall, which was filmed with dust from the passing trains. It filled his nostrils, smelling of human dirt and sweat.
"You don't get it, do you?" he said, bitterly. "You really don't get it. Forgotten the Master already, have you?"
Suddenly, Angel was right behind him, cold breath stirring the hairs on the nape of his neck. "Not forgotten anything," he said, and a finger ran the length of Spike's spine from the small of his back to his coccyx. "But Darla's not the Master."
"You're still a stupid twat, though." Spike decided not to argue with him. Let the old man believe what he wanted. He hadn't seen what Spike had seen and it made it more likely he'd overreach himself and reveal his true colours. In the meantime, since Spike had – and fuck knew, he hadn't really had a choice – agreed to this, or at least let Darla agree to it for him, he had to find a way to get through it.
But there was one thing he needed to know first.
"Why me? Why me, when you could've had anyone you wanted?"
Angel's whole palm was on Spike's back now, sliding under his t-shirt, the hard pads of fingertips tracing the line of backbone downwards.
"Why should I want anyone?" There was an edge of amusement to Angel's voice. "It looks to me like you're keeping my woman well-satisfied so I'm curious. You must have improved with age."
Bastard, Spike thought, she's not your bloody woman -but he didn't say it. Instead, he tried to empty his mind and concentrate on the feel of that hand undressing him, slowly stripping away his dignity and his pride, making him lesser than his tormentor. He needed to remember that feeling.
He'd known something was up the minute he'd arrived back at the assembly after dumping the kid by the telly. Angel was on his feet, looking pleased with himself and Darla had that smug well-fed cat look on her face – the one Spike had learned to distrust the most. Something had been agreed between them in his absence.
"Got back as quick as I could," he said, and he'd heard the hesitancy in his voice and known they'd heard it too. As one, their eyes swung towards him, making him feel for a moment that the years had fallen away and he was once again in trouble with his elders and so-called betters.
"What?" He glanced aside at Erroll, who wouldn't meet his eyes.
"We've decided to put off the oath-taking until tomorrow," Darla said. "Connor has to be there, of course, and he's way too tired just now."
"Yeah – tired." Spike thought of the rugrat busy stuffing his face with chocolate – not that it would distract him from his jealousy for long. Angel was on a hiding to nothing, what with the kid's massive Oedipus complex, and the sooner the old man realised it the better.
Spike gestured for Erroll to help him escort Angel back to the guest room but Erroll was still busy not looking at him.
Darla was examining her nails. "Just one thing before he goes," she said. "Our guest wanted some company tonight, and since he's our guest and we ought to be hospitable, I said yes of course."
The pang of jealousy Spike felt astonished him. After all, it wasn't as if he'd ever believed he could replace Angelus in her affections. What he and Darla had between them was – well, he still wasn't sure what it was sometimes, except that she depended on him and he adored the evil old bitch.
In spite of that, the very notion of Angel getting his claws on her again was unbearable, and what's more, it was stupid like this whole bloody business. He opened his mouth to tell her so, only for her to smile at him sweetly. "It'll only be for a couple of nights, William, and since I knew you wouldn't like me doing the honours myself, I told him you'd be happy to do it. After all, it's not like you haven't kept in practice."
The edge of vicious amusement in her voice sent an answering ripple through the crowd of watching minions - a collective pricking up of ears and scenting the air for weakness. This was a spectator sport to vampires – this game of cat and mouse. Only Erroll didn't join in.
"Me?" Spike's voice died trying to say the word. He thrust his hands into his duster pockets, aware that Angel's eyes were on him, daring him to say no. Oh, it was one of the old games– the ones that Angelus and Darla had played between them so many times, often at Spike's expense.
He stared at the minions and they stared back, their yellow eyes suddenly hostile. He could almost see Ravinder's eagerness to find him weak – to find him wanting – too afraid to deal with his terrible sire, even at the Mistress's bidding.
Well, he wouldn't give her the satisfaction – no way he was losing face in front of his own children or he was finished for good around here. Besides, even if he risked it – if he refused and told Darla to bugger off - there were too many of them and there was Dru to think of. If Darla wanted Angel to have him – if she needed that to happen and it seemed she did - then Angel would get him.
He thought he might choke on his anger but he wrestled it down with an effort, because it was better to surrender on his terms than hers or Angel's.
"Can't say I'm flattered." He shrugged. "Still – daresay I can put up with it if I have to. Can always lie back and think of England, can't I?"
"Good." Her eyes swung round to Angel at once. "He'll do anything you tell him," she said, "as if it were me ordering it."
"Really?" Angel sounded titillated. "Anything?"
Darla smiled, tightly. "You never did know how to handle him, did you? One thing, though, Angel -"
"Yes?" Angel's eyes were on Spike, his dark gaze smouldering as if already undressing him in his head. Suddenly, there was a hot stink of arousal in the room that made vampire nostrils flare. The minions stirred and muttered, eyeing each other, and Darla frowned. She began to tap with her fingernails on the arms of her chair – an impatient chitinous clicking.
There was silence again at once.
"If you damage him," she said coldly, into that silence, "I shall be very displeased indeed."
Well, that was something, Spike thought, remembering it. His forehead was still pressed to the wall in Angel's cell, eyes closed, not daring to breathe because he knew if he did, he'd betray his fear at once.
Angel had hold of both his hands at the wrist, powerful thumbs pressing into the delicate bones. He teased Spike's clenched fists open and placed them, flat-palmed, against the wall. Then he took a pace back and Spike heard him undoing his belt.
"If you're thinking of using that," he said, trying to sound as if he didn't really care, "you might want to remember what Darla said about not damaging me."
Angel laughed in answer. "Time was, William, you'd have loved every blow and kissed my hand when I'd finished."
"Yeah, well – had to survive somehow, didn't I?"
And suddenly, Angel's powerful body was pressed to his back again and at the same time, Angel's belt was round his neck, looped tightly as a collar. So, it was going to be one of those games, was it?
"That what you call it? Surviving? That's not how I remember it, William." Angel dragged him away from the wall as he spoke, using the belt as a leash and tugging hard on purpose. Spike felt the bones in his neck protest but he went anyway. She wanted him to do this for some reason and he was pretty sure it was nothing as petty as jealousy over Erroll, though what the fuck her thinking was, he still had no idea.
Soon he found himself on his knees in front of Angel, who was sitting on the bed, legs apart with Spike caged between them. For a moment, Spike wondered whether the old man would be stupid enough to entrust his tender parts to him - but it didn't really look like it. Instead, Angel just stared, which was unnerving all on its own.
"You're right," Angel said, at last. "I really, really don't get it. You're not even fighting me - and all because she ordered it. You'd never do that, Spike – never. What has she done to you?"
"Wanted a bit of a tussle, did you?" Spike couldn't keep the sneer out of his voice. "'Course, you always did get off on rape."
Angel's free hand had his face by the jaw and at the word 'rape,' his grip tightened painfully.
"Seem to remember you took to it easily enough yourself."
"Yeah well, I had a good teacher."
There was silence for a moment and then abruptly, Angel's hand dropped away. He unfastened the belt and laid it aside. "Get out," he said.
Spike backed off from him and rose unsteadily to his feet. He stood a moment, unsure what to do with his reprieve, and then Angel said, "God, you're beautiful. I can see why she keeps you around."
"Yeah?" Spike eyed him warily. It wasn't like the old man to give compliments – not even insults veiled as compliments - unless he wanted something in return.
"Thing is, though," Angel went on, "looks will only get you so far, William. She's gonna get tired of you eventually – want to move on, because they all do – Dru did, and so will she."
"Fuck you." Spike had forgotten just how expertly Angel could twist the knife when he wanted. However, he wasn't playing with a naïve little fledgling now. "'Sides, you think I care about that? She gets tired of me – I'll move on first."
"Not you." Angel's smile didn't do his face any favours. "You're like a dog that's too stupid to drop a bone when the meat's all gone. She'll shut the door in your face and you'll be outside snivelling, begging to be let back in."
"Like you, you mean – China - 1900?" Spike had bent to pick up his jeans. Now he paused, straightening, clenching the worn denim in his fists.
"You don't know me any more," he said. "You don't know a sodding thing about me – and what's more, you don't know Darla."
Even as the words escaped his lips, he realised he'd let Angel make him angry -score a point - and that his realisation must have shown on his face, because Angel laughed again. Suddenly, his hand snaked out and grabbed Spike's wrist, hauling him back towards him. A moment later, Spike was face down on the bed with Angel's hand at his neck and Angel's breath in his ear.
"I know she has your balls stuffed and mounted as a trophy." Angel's voice was laced with contempt. "Anyway, I've changed my mind. I want my pound of flesh after all – and very fine flesh it is too, though there's always room for improvement."
There was a sharp crack and pain bloomed out from the centre of Spike's left buttock where Angel had slapped him. He considered struggling for all of five seconds – giving the bastard the fight he obviously craved – but then he went limp; lay still while Angel's dry fingers probed into his crack and Angel's voice – like an echo from the past – told him how worthless he was – nothing but a pretty piece of arse – how Darla would soon see that and desert him like everyone else.
Spike screamed dutifully when he was supposed to scream – it bloody hurt, so it wasn't hard – but he couldn't help smiling to himself to think how completely Angel had it wrong in some ways. After all, it wasn't the first time she'd sent him into battle for her.
*
It had been difficult keeping the vampire cultist going for the remainder of the journey, but somehow Spike had done it. Not that there was much to keep going once Darla was finished with the bloke – just a bag of bloody flesh and bones, minus most of its working parts, in which one yellow eye remained to plead for the release of death. Spike had had to force gouts of blood down the luckless creature's raw gullet just to keep it ticking over.
Still, here they were, on Southampton docks at night, with the cultist's remains strung up from the nearest streetlamp bleeding their signal far and wide. It was raining, of course.
Spike stood where the lamplight would show him up to interested parties, though he was careful to avoid the dripping blood. Darla was behind him, deep in the shelter of one of the containers. She was wearing Spike's duster since she hadn't a coat of her own and he missed the familiar weight of it on his shoulders. Besides, he was getting wet.
"Here they come." He motioned with his head to a patch of moving shadow, going into game face at the same time. Instantly, the night was lit up with lurid scent trails – many of them and coming fast. He felt the usual thrill of anticipation at the promise of a good fight, but at same time, weighed down with responsibilities, which took some of the pleasure out of it. If he failed – if the cultists' leader killed him – Darla would be next on the list and Dru next after her.
"Not gonna happen," Darla said, as if she'd read his mind. Spike turned to look at her, startled. She'd never been prescient before. She was still in human face, the black leather held tight around her. It fitted her of course, because after all it'd been made for a woman – something Spike was happy enough to remember considering what the woman had been.
"If you say so – Mistress." It was hard to get the word out but he managed, because it seemed the right one in the circumstances. For answer, she blew him a kiss.
"Give us the Miracle Child and cut our brother down." The voice was imperious – used to having its own way. Spike turned round lazily and regarded the cultists, who'd formed a semi-circle around him. The tossers were all dressed the same – in black or monochrome - even the leader, though he wore a tacky-looking inverse-pentagram medallion to mark him out from the rest of them. He was a big bloke – impressively so, with a beard and a scar on the left side of his face and he'd been turned quite old for a vampire, his black hair shot through with streaks of grey.
"No." Spike tilted his head on one side and grinned, showing his fangs. He inhaled carefully, tasting the leader's scent, and got no impression of great age. Whatever made the others follow him it wasn't ancient power like the Master's. In fact, Spike was probably his elder.
The leader – potentate, hadn't they called him, and what a stupid title that was – gestured to his followers and they began to close in, tightening the noose.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you." Spike prepared himself, his excitement coiling up like a spring. He let them approach a little nearer and then he lashed out suddenly, catching the nearest full in the midriff with his foot. The woman went down, and Spike went after her, the stake in his hand rising and falling so quickly that he was back at his post under the streetlamp before she'd fully turned to dust.
"Spike!" Darla's voice alerted him to an attack from the rear, but he was ready for it with a Glasgow Kiss, followed by a jab to the solar plexus. This one he kept alive, though, dragging him under the swinging near-corpse so that its blood dripped onto his captive's face. The leader exclaimed in annoyance and gestured the other cultists back, his eyes fixed on Spike's prisoner in a way that was very telling.
"See – what I don't get," Spike addressed the cultists at large, deliberately excluding the leader, "is why you think this old fart should have charge of the Miracle Child over his own mother and family. Who the fuck is he anyway?"
The cultist in Spike's grip tried to struggle, but Spike kept the pressure on his throat and jaw. If the bloke thought he was some kind of spokesman, better if he kept his mouth shut. "You." He fixed his gaze on another woman – quite a young girl, this one – standing at the front of the crowd. "What's so special about him?"
She hesitated, glancing sidelong at the leader. Then she said, "He's our potentate."
"Yeah?" Spike didn't even try to keep the contempt out of his voice. "Brought you good luck, has he?" He glanced above him as he spoke and the girl's eyes followed his gesture. She looked a little green at what she saw.
"Not pretty, is it?" Spike addressed the whole bunch again. "And you think that would've happened to the poor sod if you lot were supposed to have the kid? What kind of justice would there be in that?"
They were all looking at each other now, caught off-guard when faced with questions they'd probably never have thought to ask. Spike met the leader's frustrated gaze and grinned, lifting an inquisitive eyebrow. The leader scowled back, yellow eyes glittering.
"Don't listen to him – the apostate!" he said. "The child is ours. It was foretold."
"Oh, yeah? By who exactly? Mystic sodding Meg?" Spike laughed, then sighed, as if speaking to someone very stupid. "Listen, you lot. Everyone – even vampires – knows kids are meant to be with their families. That's his mother over there – and that's not all she is. I mean – where exactly did you spring from, mate?"
"What?" It took the so-called potentate a moment to realise Spike was talking to him again. When he did, he seemed taken aback by the question. "I'm a vampire," he said, "like you."
"I know that, you twat. I meant, what's your pedigree? Who sired you?"
The leader was scowling harder now. Evidently, he wasn't stupid.
"That doesn't matter," he said.
"Like hell it doesn't." Spike glanced back at Darla, where she stood, veiled in shadows. He hoped the cultists' first impression of her would be the right one.
"See," Spike took on the air of a storyteller along with a firmer grip on his captive's neck, "there was this vampire called Aurelius – very powerful and old – and he sired Draco back in – oh, the Dark Ages or something – and Draco sired Joseph Nest, who you might have heard of – the Master."
"The Master is dead." The leader interrupted him, breaking the mood a little, and Spike wished that Dru was in a fit state to help him. She'd have had this lot eating out of her hand by now, all things being equal.
"But his line lives on." And now Darla stepped forward into the light. She'd gone into game face, the family resemblance all too clear to Spike even if it was lost on their audience. The leader looked startled, though, and Spike realised it wasn't lost on him. The man licked his lips, looking suddenly unsure of himself.
"I am the Master's child – his favourite for four hundred years." Darla spoke simply
but her pride was very evident. "He spent a long time in exile waiting for his Anointed One – his successor - and in the end, he died too soon."
"The Anointed One is also dead." The leader was addressing his followers, not Darla, and well he might, Spike thought, since all their eyes were fixed on her. "In fact, that one – William the Bloody, if I'm not mistaken – killed the child himself."
"Yeah – boring little twat." Spike was about to go on but Darla gave him a warning glance and he subsided. She was the boss after all.
"That child was not the Anointed One," she said. "My sire, in his eagerness, made a mistake. I wish he was here to see the prophecy fulfilled but my grief for him is cold. Instead, I have taken his place as head of the Order he founded, until my child – his scion- is old enough. You will address me as Mistress."
The language was getting a bit portentous for Spike's taste, though it was probably what these tossers needed to hear. He waited, listening to the protest of small bones in the neck of the cultist he held. It would be so, so easy to break them.
There was silence, except for the sound of falling rain and very distant traffic. Far off, a dog barked. Spike licked drops of blood from his lips. He was getting splattered.
At last, one of the cultists – the girl – went down onto her knees. "Mistress," she said, to Darla. Some of the others followed suit but not all of them, and the one Spike was holding began to struggle harder. "Yours?" He grinned at the leader, who must have known what was to follow.
"Mine," he said, briefly, then watched without emotion as Spike did what he'd been wanting to do and broke the captive's neck. There'd be time to dust him later.
The cultists were pretty much evenly divided now – half kneeling and half standing. Spike flexed his arms impatiently. He was tired of the standoff and it was beginning to look as if a fight couldn't be avoided anyway. Then Darla spoke again.
"Maybe it would be better to finish this the old-fashioned way? Single combat – a fight to the death?"
"You?" The leader couldn’t hide his contempt, and truthfully, she was half his size. But then so was he, Spike thought, but even so wasn't surprised to hear her say, "No, not me. Him."
She put her arm through Spike's. "My champion," she said.
The leader was staring at Spike, no doubt weighing his choices, and suddenly Darla said, "If he wins, you die and all your followers take an oath to protect me and my child forever. If he loses, however – "
"Yes?" The leader looked interested now.
"I'm yours – to do whatever you want with – and the child is yours as well."
She hung her head demurely while she spoke, looking up through her lashes, and for a moment, Spike was filled with rage at the thought she'd try to hedge her bets – use sex as a weapon against this tosser the way she always did. But then her hand squeezed his tightly and he understood he was wrong. She trusted him as she'd said back on the ship; trusted him so much she never once believed he could fail. Where that trust had come from, he didn't know except that it had something to do with the kid and his reaction to it.
And oh, she was a clever bitch, Spike thought, as the leader said, "Done."
Darla let go of Spike's arm and stood back and Spike took a minute or two to size up his opponent. The bloke seemed to have heard of him but in spite of that, he still fancied his chances so that told you something. He wasn't to be underestimated. Might as well make a show of it for them then, Spike thought, and he stripped off his t-shirt, baring his torso to the rain which was coming down harder than ever.
"Come on, then, fatso," he said, "let's be having you."
The ring of cultists moved back, leaving them in a semi-circular patch of lamplight spotted with drips of blood. Spike circled to his right – he already had the bloke pegged as right-handed – moving on the balls of his feet, wary as a cat. He knew he had to stay out of the man's reach as much as possible, reduce him down blow by blow until his larger size no longer mattered.
He noticed that the young female cultist was staring at him, her mouth open, dazzled by a bit of prime Aurelian flesh the way women so often were. He winked at her then dodged back, avoiding a blow designed to test his speed. Then he ducked low under the swinging arm and got in a good punch to the kidneys with his left hand followed by an uppercut to the jaw with his right. The leader staggered but he didn't go down. Instead, he shook his head like a bear pestered by flies and struck out again, forcing Spike to duck and roll.
There was a lot of that in the end – ducking to keep out of trouble, using his small size and relative speed to inflict maximum damage for minimum payback. But it was a slow business – a wearing down by inches – a test of who tired first. Spike knew his moment had come though, when he saw that look in the leader's eyes – the realisation dawning that he wasn't going to win. Of course, that only made the bloke redouble his efforts and at one point he even had Spike pressed up against the lamp-post with his hands around his neck. An eye-gouge dealt with that, plus a knee to the delicates followed by a quick one-two that battered the bigger man down.
"Some fucking potentate you are!" Spike grew vicious as he scented victory, punching again and again until his opponent's face became unrecognisable. Finally, he unleashed fangs and began to tear at flesh, reducing it to bloody ribbons, until Darla said, "Enough, Spike. You've done well. Now finish it."
Spike was so into it by then that it was hard for him to even hear her, let alone to stop. But he'd been in these situations a few times in his life and understood when enough was enough, so he caught the stake she tossed him – ironically, the same one he'd nearly been dusted with on the ship - brandished it aloft in front of the watching cultists and brought it down with a flourish. Then he stood up, coughing slightly and wiping at the dust coating his rain-wet torso, before staking the leader's child for an encore.
He grinned at Darla. "Now that," he said, "was fun."
She smiled tightly in answer but her eyes held a warning too. Spike picked up his t-shirt and wiped himself down with it before putting it on again. Then he turned to the cultists to find, with some satisfaction, that they were all on their knees now. "That's better," he said.
"Mistress –"it was one of the men who spoke and Spike made of note of his face, either to be relied upon for having some initiative or to be disposed of for having too much – "how may we serve you?"
"Ooh," Darla sounded smug, "let me count the ways. First of all, you can take us back to your lair – which is my lair now, of course – and give us the best of whatever you have. Then you can all worship my son for a while – I'm sure you'll enjoy that – and then, well, we'll have to see, won't we?"
As leadership speeches went, it was hardly inspiring, Spike thought, but then it didn't need to be now. The cultists had made their choice. "You lot got a car handy?" he asked and when they shook their heads, "Well, go and steal one, you useless tossers – and make sure it's good and roomy. You –" he pointed at the young girl and two of the others- "- we need your help with the Mistress's things. Come with us."
The air was rank inside the refrigerated container. Spike wrinkled his nose in disgust. Of course, that's what happened when you had to keep your food alive for longer than was sensible and had no means of hosing down the resultant human mess. The Altamira harbour master and his family were disposed of quickly now – it was hardly possible to tell the difference between before and after, they were so far gone – and their bodies weighted and thrown into the dock.
He kept the door to the end container – the makeshift bathroom – shut. There was nothing to retrieve in there. In their living quarters, however, there were Dru and the wet nurse to be dealt with, not to mention the brat. Darla went to him at once, snatching him from the wet nurse's arms mid-feed and holding him close against her. She was still in vamp-face so for a moment, it looked like she meant to devour the kid and Spike supposed that in a sense, she was doing exactly that. He'd never seen her look that way – so concentrated, so avid -not even when Angelus had done something particularly vicious and impressive.
He wondered again at her risking everything on his victory considering how she felt about the impossible fruit of her loins and could only suppose that she'd never even thought he might lose because some obscure quirk of fate had decreed he should be the kid's surrogate father. That was – well, it was pleasing in a way that she'd think so highly of him. On the other hand, it was disturbing as well and once again he felt the unaccustomed weight of all those lives on his shoulders- his burden, his responsibility.
Then he shrugged. He'd got past the stage of thinking that any minute he was going to jack this in, take Dru and make off for pastures new. He'd never believed in kidding himself and he didn't intend to start now.
The wet nurse was making that set-your-teeth-on-edge whimpering noise again and Spike went to her and did his best to calm her. It wasn't easy any more – a third madwoman on his hands – but at least with her, he wouldn't have to do it much longer. They could get the kid a proper nanny soon, put him on the bottle maybe, instead of the breast.
"Chin up, love," he said to the woman, though she couldn't understand him. "We're on dry land now and things'll be better soon, you'll see." Then he hauled back his fist and punched her unconscious, gesturing for two of the cultists to pick her up and take her to the car – because there would be a car by now or Spike would want to know the reason why.
"Don't damage her," he told them. "The Miracle Child still needs her, yeah?" and they nodded earnestly, carrying the woman as if she were something precious just because she'd touched the kid.
Spike loaded down the others with what baggage they had, which was little, and then he took a deep breath and went to deal with Dru. She lay where he'd left her, dead to the world, her pale face wasted and thin under its crown of lank black curls. She needed a good wash and brush-up, Spike thought, and once he had some privacy, he'd make sure she got it. Tenderly, he lifted her up, kissing her cold forehead, and turned to find Darla watching him, her own burden still in her arms. They were alone.
"My little Spike," Darla said. "I knew you wouldn't let me down."
"How did you know?" He couldn't help asking it, even while a thrill ran down his spine to hear her call him what Dru had so often called him. "How?"
"The same way my sire knew things," she said, simply. "It took me a while to realise it, but he helped me," and she gestured with her chin towards the baby.
"Clever little tyke, isn't he?" Spike was only half-joking. There was some connection between mother and child sometimes – thought-transference or something like. It gave him the creeps.
"Better get a move on, then," he said. "You've got minions to terrorise, love, in case you've forgotten."
"Oh, you'll be doing all that for me." She spoke with complete confidence. "I rely on your judgement, William."
He almost laughed at that, remembering one time in a Yorkshire mineshaft and the look of sick anticipation on her face when she'd thought Angelus was going to stake him for his idiocy– which of course he had later, if not in the way Darla had been expecting.
"I can do that," he said, "and at least we've got this bunch of tossers off our backs."
"They were a big threat," she agreed, and her tone was sombre now, "but never as much as the other – never as much as him."
It took Spike a moment to realise which 'him' she meant this time, but then he understood.
"You don't have to worry about Angel, love, I guarantee it. No way he'll ever find us."
"We'll see." She sounded uncertain, but then she brightened. "But even if he does, it'll gain him nothing. I have a champion now –" and her eyes shone as she looked at him – "and you'll defeat him for me, just like you did the cultists."
"Bloody hell." Spike put Dru down again carefully. Then he went to Darla and took her in his arms. The baby was between them, blinking up at them sleepily with eyes that still changed colour whenever the light changed. He didn't look like other babies, Spike thought. He looked like he knew it all already. "You really believe that?" he asked.
"I do. If he finds us – when he finds us – he won't walk away from it."
"We don't kill family," Spike blurted out the words before he could stop himself because he couldn't believe what she seemed to be saying.
She smiled. "We won't need to," she said.
Outside, it was still raining. A white van – a Ford Transit – stood under the lamp waiting. Beneath its wheels, the remains of the cultists' potentate was ashy residue in a puddle. Spike escorted Darla to the van and handed her into the front passenger seat, settling the baby carefully into her arms.
"You know what," he said. "He doesn't have a name. You gonna do something about that – er, Mistress – 'cos Miracle Child is a bit of a bloody mouthful."
She looked surprised. "Of course he has a name. It's Connor. I thought I told you."
Well, that was a bolt out of the blue. Spike frowned. Evidently, the old man wasn't quite out of the picture after all since she'd chosen something Irish.
He took Dru round to the rear of the van and settled her as comfortably as he could. "Watch her," he told the young girl, "and guard her with your life. She's an Aurelian too."
That was enough to put a look of awe on the girl's face and Spike was satisfied enough to shut Dru in the back with her. He went back round to the driver's side and stood a moment, staring out to sea. Then he took the stake out of his jeans pocket and flung it with deadly accuracy at the hanging corpse above him, which exploded into a shower of glittering dust.
*
When Spike pushed himself to his feet, trying to ignore the raw pain of his torn anus, Angel said, "That happened to you because of her, William. Don't forget that."
"Sod off." Spike was surprised by how weary he sounded – how broken – but he went with it because he suspected it was what Angel wanted to hear. "This happened to me because of you."
Angel lay on his back, head on his folded arms. His brown eyes glittered like coals.
"Next time I'll bring flowers," he said, unsmiling, "or maybe we could catch a movie first."
Spike bent to pick up his jeans. He was bleeding and had nothing to staunch the blood with so he grabbed Angel's shirt from where it lay tossed onto the bed and used that. It felt like silk – very expensive – but Angel didn't bat an eyelid. "Never washing that again," he said, and now he did smile, or at least his lips tightened.
Spike thought that when he'd told Angel he didn't know him – didn't know Darla – he'd not realised just how little he himself knew Angel. This wasn't the man he'd last seen in Sunnydale, so Slayer-whipped the girl was wearing his balls as a necklace. This was someone new.
This was, in fact, the man who'd set Darla and Dru on fire and then stood back and watched them burn.
Spike pulled his jeans gingerly over the raw abraded flesh - because Angel had used the belt in the end - then bent again for his boots and t-shirt. Angel wolf-whistled mockingly.
"You still have the sweetest, tightest little ass, William," he said. "It's a pleasure to ride. Thought you ought to know that."
Spike thought of Erroll briefly. Erroll said stuff like that to him sometimes when they fucked but then Erroll only said it when Spike wanted him to. He went to the door and knocked loudly on it, hoping Erroll wasn't too far away. "Funny," he said, in answer to Angel, "that's what I say to Darla about hers an' all."
It was pretty pathetic as a come back, and he knew it.
Angel had rolled onto his side to pick up his own jeans, which were in a heap on the floor. He paused for a moment before answering. His gaze flicked across the room and back, eyes narrowing. Then suddenly, he was up and had Spike pinned to the inside of the door and his tongue halfway down Spike's throat. When he finally let go Spike gasped and choked, gulping down air.
"Bet she can't scratch that itch," Angel said. "You still need cock, pretty little William – still wanna play catcher for me. I can see it in your eyes."
Spike heard the key turning in the lock. Suddenly, he brought his knee up as hard as he could into Angel's privates, doubling him up in pain.
"Think your seduction technique leaves a bit to be desired, mate," he said, as he slipped through the open crack of the door, slamming it closed behind him.
Outside, he leaned on it, staring up at the dusty ceiling. There was a cobweb in one corner.
"Bloody hell," he exclaimed, suddenly furious, "doesn't anyone ever clean things properly round here?"
"Sorry, boss." Erroll sounded contrite – as if it was his fault - but Spike ignored him. He set out at a fast walk towards the meat locker then slowed again immediately. He felt half-crippled. He stopped for a moment, leaning against the wall, eyes shut, while he fought down the pain. He hadn't been raped in years.
"Sire –" Erroll reached out one hand then drew it back, unsure what to do. "You doin' all right?"
Spike reflected that when it came to going into battle for Darla, he'd rather fight a dozen self-important cult leaders than go another round with Angel. "The old man hasn't changed," he said, and he looked Erroll straight in the eye. "Still a fucking bastard, soul or not."
Erroll shadowed him down the corridor to the kitchen, where Spike stopped to pour himself a large JD, which he downed in one, the fiery spirit a welcome replacement to the taste of Angel in his mouth. When they got to the door of the meat locker, though, Erroll began to look apologetic again. "Not much in there. Only some old tramp and he really stinks. Ravi's taken some of the boys out hunting across in the park."
Spike leaned against the door. The metal felt cold against his back, in spite of the stuffy after-hours heat of the abandoned station. He was desperate for blood just now and someone else's pain, and he didn't care about the packaging.
"Hose him down," he said to Erroll, "and then you can leave me to it."
*
Darla was sitting up in bed when Spike came into their bedroom. She was reading a book on child psychology. She glanced up at him coolly, as if he'd just come back from a pleasant evening stroll.
"How was it?" she asked.
"How d'you sodding think – bitch!" Spike could hardly believe she'd ask such a stupid question.
"I wasn't sure what course he'd choose." She ignored the 'bitch' comment. "He can be very persuasive, as I'm sure you remember."
"I do." Spike sat down on the edge of the bed with his back to her. He kicked off his unlaced boots, though the movement stretched his torn tissues and forced a hiss of pain through his clenched teeth.
"Did he damage you?" She still sounded more interested than concerned, but her small hand was on his back, rubbing in circles – an attempt at some kind of comfort.
"Depends what you mean by damage. My pride's taken a beating."
"No doubt that was his intention."
He supposed she didn't really need to ask what else Angel had done but he could feel her gearing up to it anyway. Women were always so bloody nosy.
Forestalling her, he said, "S'pose I can't exactly say he raped me since I said I'd do it, but that's what it amounts to."
"Darling boy." Her cool breath tickled his ear. "You're so brave to spare me that."
"What?" He turned to look at her over his shoulder because he could still hardly believe what he'd heard. "For one thing – if it'd been you in that room, he'd never have treated you that way. It'd have been all – 'begorrah me darlin'! Why did you have to go leavin' me when we belong together? Can't you see we're a family?' – the whole Blarney Stone rigmarole."
She laughed at his awful attempt at an Irish accent. "True," she agreed, but he wasn't finished yet.
"But you didn't have to grant his request, did you? What made you come over all Lady-fucking-Bountiful? Anyway, the bastard's gone without all these years except for when he got you up the duff – can't believe that he comes here and suddenly, he can't rein it in. Bloke's got the self-control of a bloody Jesuit."
He swung round to confront her, though again, the movement hurt his sore arse. Her face had gone opaque – a perfect, chilling oval. He wanted to grab her shoulders and shake the secrets out of her.
"Tell me," he said. "Just tell me what the fuck is going on. Why is he here? Why are you letting him have his way? If you want rid of me – if you want him instead - just say so and I'll take Dru and be off."
For answer, she leaned forward and kissed him softly on the lips. He jerked his head back. "I washed my mouth out with Jack. You won’t get a taste of him there."
Her answer was to kiss him more forcefully, pushing him down onto the bed beneath her. A moment later, she was astride him and he felt the wetness between her thighs.
"Gets you off, does it," he asked bitterly, "the thought of him raping my arse with that monster cock of his?"
And now she frowned as if considering, then nodded her head. "Maybe a little – we are vampires, Spike, after all. We thrive on pain."
"Forgot you taught him all he knows." He was uncomfortably aware of his own frustrated cock straining inside his jeans. Angel had ignored it completely. "Bloody stupid of me really."
She kissed him again, her mouth cool and sweet and he couldn't help responding this time, in spite of his anger with her.
"I didn't have to teach Angelus much," she said. "The pupil soon surpassed the teacher. You ought to remember, Spike – I shouldn't have to remind you."
He did remember – the constant battleground that passed for family life back in the day, with Angelus and Darla fighting for control; the endless rounds of one-upmanship in which he and Dru often took a battering. He realised with sudden and absolute clarity that Darla had always loved Angelus – wanted Angelus – more than he wanted her.
"Must burn," he said, "to know it's still not you he wants."
She stared down at him, unspeaking, and for a moment he thought he'd gone too far and she'd go all Mistress of the Vampires on him, but then she put her hand to his face, tracing the line of his cheekbone tenderly.
"It does," she said, at last, "but not the way you might think. You see, William, no matter what nonsense you might choose to believe – no matter what he might want you to believe – I really and truly don't want him back as my lover and I don't want rid of you."
He remembered then she'd said that her feelings about Angel were the last thing that should make him doubt her. He'd lost that somewhere in the last few days, or perhaps he'd never believed it.
"Then why –" he began, but she put her finger to his lips to shush him.
"Remember what I told you on the ship? The best and simplest way to neutralise a threat is to deal with it once and for all. We did that in Southampton with the cultists. They're ours now – they hunt and spy for us - go where we need them - bring us news of the world outside."
He nodded to show he did remember and already he thought he knew what was coming next.
"But they were never the biggest threat – he is. Connor's father." Her green eyes had gone stormy – the familiar troubling look. "He won't rest until he's taken him from me, but he'll never succeed - never."
Spike wanted to ask, "Because we're going to kill him?" but he didn't say it. He remembered that after the fight on the Southampton docks, she'd said they wouldn't have to.
She was staring off into the distance now and her face had gone cold – implacable. "By the time this is over," she said, "he'll have lost once and for all."
For a moment longer, she stared, but then her attention was back on him, small, cold hands sliding under his t-shirt and across his torso, skating over the bruises Angel had left as if her fingertips could sense them.
"You might want to send your Erroll and some of the others away," she said. "Not too many, in case it arouses Angel's suspicions. Tell them to wait somewhere close, where they can get back quickly when they're needed, and tell them to keep an eye on the tunnels."
She bent down towards him, eyes large and liquid. "And send word to our outside agents to gather nearby. I think we're going to need all of them." Now she kissed him softly on the lips. "I'll leave it to you to make the arrangements."
"He's gonna try and take the kid, I know – but when?"
"I'm not sure exactly when but soon - and until we know what his plan is beyond the obvious divide and conquer, we have to keep his hopes up – keep his interest – make him think he's winning."
She was sliding down his body, clever fingers opening his flies to feel where his eager flesh leapt at her touch.
"Until then, my sweet William, let me kiss your hurts better."
TBC
Notes:
Mystic Meg: a sort of joke fortune-teller - first came to public notice when the National Lottery began in the UK. She made weekly predictions (vague of course) about the winning numbers.
For rating/setting/pairings etc, see Part 1. Previous parts are here.
This part contains some very rough (though non-graphic) sex - not exactly non-con but it has the trappings of it.
Family Reunion Part 7
"Didn't think you'd agree to this." Angel's voice had that familiar roughness to it that, back in the day, had made Spike's breath catch in his throat and his cock thicken against his thigh. Now, it set his teeth on edge. He had his back to Angel, leaning against the concrete wall, which was filmed with dust from the passing trains. It filled his nostrils, smelling of human dirt and sweat.
"You don't get it, do you?" he said, bitterly. "You really don't get it. Forgotten the Master already, have you?"
Suddenly, Angel was right behind him, cold breath stirring the hairs on the nape of his neck. "Not forgotten anything," he said, and a finger ran the length of Spike's spine from the small of his back to his coccyx. "But Darla's not the Master."
"You're still a stupid twat, though." Spike decided not to argue with him. Let the old man believe what he wanted. He hadn't seen what Spike had seen and it made it more likely he'd overreach himself and reveal his true colours. In the meantime, since Spike had – and fuck knew, he hadn't really had a choice – agreed to this, or at least let Darla agree to it for him, he had to find a way to get through it.
But there was one thing he needed to know first.
"Why me? Why me, when you could've had anyone you wanted?"
Angel's whole palm was on Spike's back now, sliding under his t-shirt, the hard pads of fingertips tracing the line of backbone downwards.
"Why should I want anyone?" There was an edge of amusement to Angel's voice. "It looks to me like you're keeping my woman well-satisfied so I'm curious. You must have improved with age."
Bastard, Spike thought, she's not your bloody woman -but he didn't say it. Instead, he tried to empty his mind and concentrate on the feel of that hand undressing him, slowly stripping away his dignity and his pride, making him lesser than his tormentor. He needed to remember that feeling.
He'd known something was up the minute he'd arrived back at the assembly after dumping the kid by the telly. Angel was on his feet, looking pleased with himself and Darla had that smug well-fed cat look on her face – the one Spike had learned to distrust the most. Something had been agreed between them in his absence.
"Got back as quick as I could," he said, and he'd heard the hesitancy in his voice and known they'd heard it too. As one, their eyes swung towards him, making him feel for a moment that the years had fallen away and he was once again in trouble with his elders and so-called betters.
"What?" He glanced aside at Erroll, who wouldn't meet his eyes.
"We've decided to put off the oath-taking until tomorrow," Darla said. "Connor has to be there, of course, and he's way too tired just now."
"Yeah – tired." Spike thought of the rugrat busy stuffing his face with chocolate – not that it would distract him from his jealousy for long. Angel was on a hiding to nothing, what with the kid's massive Oedipus complex, and the sooner the old man realised it the better.
Spike gestured for Erroll to help him escort Angel back to the guest room but Erroll was still busy not looking at him.
Darla was examining her nails. "Just one thing before he goes," she said. "Our guest wanted some company tonight, and since he's our guest and we ought to be hospitable, I said yes of course."
The pang of jealousy Spike felt astonished him. After all, it wasn't as if he'd ever believed he could replace Angelus in her affections. What he and Darla had between them was – well, he still wasn't sure what it was sometimes, except that she depended on him and he adored the evil old bitch.
In spite of that, the very notion of Angel getting his claws on her again was unbearable, and what's more, it was stupid like this whole bloody business. He opened his mouth to tell her so, only for her to smile at him sweetly. "It'll only be for a couple of nights, William, and since I knew you wouldn't like me doing the honours myself, I told him you'd be happy to do it. After all, it's not like you haven't kept in practice."
The edge of vicious amusement in her voice sent an answering ripple through the crowd of watching minions - a collective pricking up of ears and scenting the air for weakness. This was a spectator sport to vampires – this game of cat and mouse. Only Erroll didn't join in.
"Me?" Spike's voice died trying to say the word. He thrust his hands into his duster pockets, aware that Angel's eyes were on him, daring him to say no. Oh, it was one of the old games– the ones that Angelus and Darla had played between them so many times, often at Spike's expense.
He stared at the minions and they stared back, their yellow eyes suddenly hostile. He could almost see Ravinder's eagerness to find him weak – to find him wanting – too afraid to deal with his terrible sire, even at the Mistress's bidding.
Well, he wouldn't give her the satisfaction – no way he was losing face in front of his own children or he was finished for good around here. Besides, even if he risked it – if he refused and told Darla to bugger off - there were too many of them and there was Dru to think of. If Darla wanted Angel to have him – if she needed that to happen and it seemed she did - then Angel would get him.
He thought he might choke on his anger but he wrestled it down with an effort, because it was better to surrender on his terms than hers or Angel's.
"Can't say I'm flattered." He shrugged. "Still – daresay I can put up with it if I have to. Can always lie back and think of England, can't I?"
"Good." Her eyes swung round to Angel at once. "He'll do anything you tell him," she said, "as if it were me ordering it."
"Really?" Angel sounded titillated. "Anything?"
Darla smiled, tightly. "You never did know how to handle him, did you? One thing, though, Angel -"
"Yes?" Angel's eyes were on Spike, his dark gaze smouldering as if already undressing him in his head. Suddenly, there was a hot stink of arousal in the room that made vampire nostrils flare. The minions stirred and muttered, eyeing each other, and Darla frowned. She began to tap with her fingernails on the arms of her chair – an impatient chitinous clicking.
There was silence again at once.
"If you damage him," she said coldly, into that silence, "I shall be very displeased indeed."
Well, that was something, Spike thought, remembering it. His forehead was still pressed to the wall in Angel's cell, eyes closed, not daring to breathe because he knew if he did, he'd betray his fear at once.
Angel had hold of both his hands at the wrist, powerful thumbs pressing into the delicate bones. He teased Spike's clenched fists open and placed them, flat-palmed, against the wall. Then he took a pace back and Spike heard him undoing his belt.
"If you're thinking of using that," he said, trying to sound as if he didn't really care, "you might want to remember what Darla said about not damaging me."
Angel laughed in answer. "Time was, William, you'd have loved every blow and kissed my hand when I'd finished."
"Yeah, well – had to survive somehow, didn't I?"
And suddenly, Angel's powerful body was pressed to his back again and at the same time, Angel's belt was round his neck, looped tightly as a collar. So, it was going to be one of those games, was it?
"That what you call it? Surviving? That's not how I remember it, William." Angel dragged him away from the wall as he spoke, using the belt as a leash and tugging hard on purpose. Spike felt the bones in his neck protest but he went anyway. She wanted him to do this for some reason and he was pretty sure it was nothing as petty as jealousy over Erroll, though what the fuck her thinking was, he still had no idea.
Soon he found himself on his knees in front of Angel, who was sitting on the bed, legs apart with Spike caged between them. For a moment, Spike wondered whether the old man would be stupid enough to entrust his tender parts to him - but it didn't really look like it. Instead, Angel just stared, which was unnerving all on its own.
"You're right," Angel said, at last. "I really, really don't get it. You're not even fighting me - and all because she ordered it. You'd never do that, Spike – never. What has she done to you?"
"Wanted a bit of a tussle, did you?" Spike couldn't keep the sneer out of his voice. "'Course, you always did get off on rape."
Angel's free hand had his face by the jaw and at the word 'rape,' his grip tightened painfully.
"Seem to remember you took to it easily enough yourself."
"Yeah well, I had a good teacher."
There was silence for a moment and then abruptly, Angel's hand dropped away. He unfastened the belt and laid it aside. "Get out," he said.
Spike backed off from him and rose unsteadily to his feet. He stood a moment, unsure what to do with his reprieve, and then Angel said, "God, you're beautiful. I can see why she keeps you around."
"Yeah?" Spike eyed him warily. It wasn't like the old man to give compliments – not even insults veiled as compliments - unless he wanted something in return.
"Thing is, though," Angel went on, "looks will only get you so far, William. She's gonna get tired of you eventually – want to move on, because they all do – Dru did, and so will she."
"Fuck you." Spike had forgotten just how expertly Angel could twist the knife when he wanted. However, he wasn't playing with a naïve little fledgling now. "'Sides, you think I care about that? She gets tired of me – I'll move on first."
"Not you." Angel's smile didn't do his face any favours. "You're like a dog that's too stupid to drop a bone when the meat's all gone. She'll shut the door in your face and you'll be outside snivelling, begging to be let back in."
"Like you, you mean – China - 1900?" Spike had bent to pick up his jeans. Now he paused, straightening, clenching the worn denim in his fists.
"You don't know me any more," he said. "You don't know a sodding thing about me – and what's more, you don't know Darla."
Even as the words escaped his lips, he realised he'd let Angel make him angry -score a point - and that his realisation must have shown on his face, because Angel laughed again. Suddenly, his hand snaked out and grabbed Spike's wrist, hauling him back towards him. A moment later, Spike was face down on the bed with Angel's hand at his neck and Angel's breath in his ear.
"I know she has your balls stuffed and mounted as a trophy." Angel's voice was laced with contempt. "Anyway, I've changed my mind. I want my pound of flesh after all – and very fine flesh it is too, though there's always room for improvement."
There was a sharp crack and pain bloomed out from the centre of Spike's left buttock where Angel had slapped him. He considered struggling for all of five seconds – giving the bastard the fight he obviously craved – but then he went limp; lay still while Angel's dry fingers probed into his crack and Angel's voice – like an echo from the past – told him how worthless he was – nothing but a pretty piece of arse – how Darla would soon see that and desert him like everyone else.
Spike screamed dutifully when he was supposed to scream – it bloody hurt, so it wasn't hard – but he couldn't help smiling to himself to think how completely Angel had it wrong in some ways. After all, it wasn't the first time she'd sent him into battle for her.
It had been difficult keeping the vampire cultist going for the remainder of the journey, but somehow Spike had done it. Not that there was much to keep going once Darla was finished with the bloke – just a bag of bloody flesh and bones, minus most of its working parts, in which one yellow eye remained to plead for the release of death. Spike had had to force gouts of blood down the luckless creature's raw gullet just to keep it ticking over.
Still, here they were, on Southampton docks at night, with the cultist's remains strung up from the nearest streetlamp bleeding their signal far and wide. It was raining, of course.
Spike stood where the lamplight would show him up to interested parties, though he was careful to avoid the dripping blood. Darla was behind him, deep in the shelter of one of the containers. She was wearing Spike's duster since she hadn't a coat of her own and he missed the familiar weight of it on his shoulders. Besides, he was getting wet.
"Here they come." He motioned with his head to a patch of moving shadow, going into game face at the same time. Instantly, the night was lit up with lurid scent trails – many of them and coming fast. He felt the usual thrill of anticipation at the promise of a good fight, but at same time, weighed down with responsibilities, which took some of the pleasure out of it. If he failed – if the cultists' leader killed him – Darla would be next on the list and Dru next after her.
"Not gonna happen," Darla said, as if she'd read his mind. Spike turned to look at her, startled. She'd never been prescient before. She was still in human face, the black leather held tight around her. It fitted her of course, because after all it'd been made for a woman – something Spike was happy enough to remember considering what the woman had been.
"If you say so – Mistress." It was hard to get the word out but he managed, because it seemed the right one in the circumstances. For answer, she blew him a kiss.
"Give us the Miracle Child and cut our brother down." The voice was imperious – used to having its own way. Spike turned round lazily and regarded the cultists, who'd formed a semi-circle around him. The tossers were all dressed the same – in black or monochrome - even the leader, though he wore a tacky-looking inverse-pentagram medallion to mark him out from the rest of them. He was a big bloke – impressively so, with a beard and a scar on the left side of his face and he'd been turned quite old for a vampire, his black hair shot through with streaks of grey.
"No." Spike tilted his head on one side and grinned, showing his fangs. He inhaled carefully, tasting the leader's scent, and got no impression of great age. Whatever made the others follow him it wasn't ancient power like the Master's. In fact, Spike was probably his elder.
The leader – potentate, hadn't they called him, and what a stupid title that was – gestured to his followers and they began to close in, tightening the noose.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you." Spike prepared himself, his excitement coiling up like a spring. He let them approach a little nearer and then he lashed out suddenly, catching the nearest full in the midriff with his foot. The woman went down, and Spike went after her, the stake in his hand rising and falling so quickly that he was back at his post under the streetlamp before she'd fully turned to dust.
"Spike!" Darla's voice alerted him to an attack from the rear, but he was ready for it with a Glasgow Kiss, followed by a jab to the solar plexus. This one he kept alive, though, dragging him under the swinging near-corpse so that its blood dripped onto his captive's face. The leader exclaimed in annoyance and gestured the other cultists back, his eyes fixed on Spike's prisoner in a way that was very telling.
"See – what I don't get," Spike addressed the cultists at large, deliberately excluding the leader, "is why you think this old fart should have charge of the Miracle Child over his own mother and family. Who the fuck is he anyway?"
The cultist in Spike's grip tried to struggle, but Spike kept the pressure on his throat and jaw. If the bloke thought he was some kind of spokesman, better if he kept his mouth shut. "You." He fixed his gaze on another woman – quite a young girl, this one – standing at the front of the crowd. "What's so special about him?"
She hesitated, glancing sidelong at the leader. Then she said, "He's our potentate."
"Yeah?" Spike didn't even try to keep the contempt out of his voice. "Brought you good luck, has he?" He glanced above him as he spoke and the girl's eyes followed his gesture. She looked a little green at what she saw.
"Not pretty, is it?" Spike addressed the whole bunch again. "And you think that would've happened to the poor sod if you lot were supposed to have the kid? What kind of justice would there be in that?"
They were all looking at each other now, caught off-guard when faced with questions they'd probably never have thought to ask. Spike met the leader's frustrated gaze and grinned, lifting an inquisitive eyebrow. The leader scowled back, yellow eyes glittering.
"Don't listen to him – the apostate!" he said. "The child is ours. It was foretold."
"Oh, yeah? By who exactly? Mystic sodding Meg?" Spike laughed, then sighed, as if speaking to someone very stupid. "Listen, you lot. Everyone – even vampires – knows kids are meant to be with their families. That's his mother over there – and that's not all she is. I mean – where exactly did you spring from, mate?"
"What?" It took the so-called potentate a moment to realise Spike was talking to him again. When he did, he seemed taken aback by the question. "I'm a vampire," he said, "like you."
"I know that, you twat. I meant, what's your pedigree? Who sired you?"
The leader was scowling harder now. Evidently, he wasn't stupid.
"That doesn't matter," he said.
"Like hell it doesn't." Spike glanced back at Darla, where she stood, veiled in shadows. He hoped the cultists' first impression of her would be the right one.
"See," Spike took on the air of a storyteller along with a firmer grip on his captive's neck, "there was this vampire called Aurelius – very powerful and old – and he sired Draco back in – oh, the Dark Ages or something – and Draco sired Joseph Nest, who you might have heard of – the Master."
"The Master is dead." The leader interrupted him, breaking the mood a little, and Spike wished that Dru was in a fit state to help him. She'd have had this lot eating out of her hand by now, all things being equal.
"But his line lives on." And now Darla stepped forward into the light. She'd gone into game face, the family resemblance all too clear to Spike even if it was lost on their audience. The leader looked startled, though, and Spike realised it wasn't lost on him. The man licked his lips, looking suddenly unsure of himself.
"I am the Master's child – his favourite for four hundred years." Darla spoke simply
but her pride was very evident. "He spent a long time in exile waiting for his Anointed One – his successor - and in the end, he died too soon."
"The Anointed One is also dead." The leader was addressing his followers, not Darla, and well he might, Spike thought, since all their eyes were fixed on her. "In fact, that one – William the Bloody, if I'm not mistaken – killed the child himself."
"Yeah – boring little twat." Spike was about to go on but Darla gave him a warning glance and he subsided. She was the boss after all.
"That child was not the Anointed One," she said. "My sire, in his eagerness, made a mistake. I wish he was here to see the prophecy fulfilled but my grief for him is cold. Instead, I have taken his place as head of the Order he founded, until my child – his scion- is old enough. You will address me as Mistress."
The language was getting a bit portentous for Spike's taste, though it was probably what these tossers needed to hear. He waited, listening to the protest of small bones in the neck of the cultist he held. It would be so, so easy to break them.
There was silence, except for the sound of falling rain and very distant traffic. Far off, a dog barked. Spike licked drops of blood from his lips. He was getting splattered.
At last, one of the cultists – the girl – went down onto her knees. "Mistress," she said, to Darla. Some of the others followed suit but not all of them, and the one Spike was holding began to struggle harder. "Yours?" He grinned at the leader, who must have known what was to follow.
"Mine," he said, briefly, then watched without emotion as Spike did what he'd been wanting to do and broke the captive's neck. There'd be time to dust him later.
The cultists were pretty much evenly divided now – half kneeling and half standing. Spike flexed his arms impatiently. He was tired of the standoff and it was beginning to look as if a fight couldn't be avoided anyway. Then Darla spoke again.
"Maybe it would be better to finish this the old-fashioned way? Single combat – a fight to the death?"
"You?" The leader couldn’t hide his contempt, and truthfully, she was half his size. But then so was he, Spike thought, but even so wasn't surprised to hear her say, "No, not me. Him."
She put her arm through Spike's. "My champion," she said.
The leader was staring at Spike, no doubt weighing his choices, and suddenly Darla said, "If he wins, you die and all your followers take an oath to protect me and my child forever. If he loses, however – "
"Yes?" The leader looked interested now.
"I'm yours – to do whatever you want with – and the child is yours as well."
She hung her head demurely while she spoke, looking up through her lashes, and for a moment, Spike was filled with rage at the thought she'd try to hedge her bets – use sex as a weapon against this tosser the way she always did. But then her hand squeezed his tightly and he understood he was wrong. She trusted him as she'd said back on the ship; trusted him so much she never once believed he could fail. Where that trust had come from, he didn't know except that it had something to do with the kid and his reaction to it.
And oh, she was a clever bitch, Spike thought, as the leader said, "Done."
Darla let go of Spike's arm and stood back and Spike took a minute or two to size up his opponent. The bloke seemed to have heard of him but in spite of that, he still fancied his chances so that told you something. He wasn't to be underestimated. Might as well make a show of it for them then, Spike thought, and he stripped off his t-shirt, baring his torso to the rain which was coming down harder than ever.
"Come on, then, fatso," he said, "let's be having you."
The ring of cultists moved back, leaving them in a semi-circular patch of lamplight spotted with drips of blood. Spike circled to his right – he already had the bloke pegged as right-handed – moving on the balls of his feet, wary as a cat. He knew he had to stay out of the man's reach as much as possible, reduce him down blow by blow until his larger size no longer mattered.
He noticed that the young female cultist was staring at him, her mouth open, dazzled by a bit of prime Aurelian flesh the way women so often were. He winked at her then dodged back, avoiding a blow designed to test his speed. Then he ducked low under the swinging arm and got in a good punch to the kidneys with his left hand followed by an uppercut to the jaw with his right. The leader staggered but he didn't go down. Instead, he shook his head like a bear pestered by flies and struck out again, forcing Spike to duck and roll.
There was a lot of that in the end – ducking to keep out of trouble, using his small size and relative speed to inflict maximum damage for minimum payback. But it was a slow business – a wearing down by inches – a test of who tired first. Spike knew his moment had come though, when he saw that look in the leader's eyes – the realisation dawning that he wasn't going to win. Of course, that only made the bloke redouble his efforts and at one point he even had Spike pressed up against the lamp-post with his hands around his neck. An eye-gouge dealt with that, plus a knee to the delicates followed by a quick one-two that battered the bigger man down.
"Some fucking potentate you are!" Spike grew vicious as he scented victory, punching again and again until his opponent's face became unrecognisable. Finally, he unleashed fangs and began to tear at flesh, reducing it to bloody ribbons, until Darla said, "Enough, Spike. You've done well. Now finish it."
Spike was so into it by then that it was hard for him to even hear her, let alone to stop. But he'd been in these situations a few times in his life and understood when enough was enough, so he caught the stake she tossed him – ironically, the same one he'd nearly been dusted with on the ship - brandished it aloft in front of the watching cultists and brought it down with a flourish. Then he stood up, coughing slightly and wiping at the dust coating his rain-wet torso, before staking the leader's child for an encore.
He grinned at Darla. "Now that," he said, "was fun."
She smiled tightly in answer but her eyes held a warning too. Spike picked up his t-shirt and wiped himself down with it before putting it on again. Then he turned to the cultists to find, with some satisfaction, that they were all on their knees now. "That's better," he said.
"Mistress –"it was one of the men who spoke and Spike made of note of his face, either to be relied upon for having some initiative or to be disposed of for having too much – "how may we serve you?"
"Ooh," Darla sounded smug, "let me count the ways. First of all, you can take us back to your lair – which is my lair now, of course – and give us the best of whatever you have. Then you can all worship my son for a while – I'm sure you'll enjoy that – and then, well, we'll have to see, won't we?"
As leadership speeches went, it was hardly inspiring, Spike thought, but then it didn't need to be now. The cultists had made their choice. "You lot got a car handy?" he asked and when they shook their heads, "Well, go and steal one, you useless tossers – and make sure it's good and roomy. You –" he pointed at the young girl and two of the others- "- we need your help with the Mistress's things. Come with us."
The air was rank inside the refrigerated container. Spike wrinkled his nose in disgust. Of course, that's what happened when you had to keep your food alive for longer than was sensible and had no means of hosing down the resultant human mess. The Altamira harbour master and his family were disposed of quickly now – it was hardly possible to tell the difference between before and after, they were so far gone – and their bodies weighted and thrown into the dock.
He kept the door to the end container – the makeshift bathroom – shut. There was nothing to retrieve in there. In their living quarters, however, there were Dru and the wet nurse to be dealt with, not to mention the brat. Darla went to him at once, snatching him from the wet nurse's arms mid-feed and holding him close against her. She was still in vamp-face so for a moment, it looked like she meant to devour the kid and Spike supposed that in a sense, she was doing exactly that. He'd never seen her look that way – so concentrated, so avid -not even when Angelus had done something particularly vicious and impressive.
He wondered again at her risking everything on his victory considering how she felt about the impossible fruit of her loins and could only suppose that she'd never even thought he might lose because some obscure quirk of fate had decreed he should be the kid's surrogate father. That was – well, it was pleasing in a way that she'd think so highly of him. On the other hand, it was disturbing as well and once again he felt the unaccustomed weight of all those lives on his shoulders- his burden, his responsibility.
Then he shrugged. He'd got past the stage of thinking that any minute he was going to jack this in, take Dru and make off for pastures new. He'd never believed in kidding himself and he didn't intend to start now.
The wet nurse was making that set-your-teeth-on-edge whimpering noise again and Spike went to her and did his best to calm her. It wasn't easy any more – a third madwoman on his hands – but at least with her, he wouldn't have to do it much longer. They could get the kid a proper nanny soon, put him on the bottle maybe, instead of the breast.
"Chin up, love," he said to the woman, though she couldn't understand him. "We're on dry land now and things'll be better soon, you'll see." Then he hauled back his fist and punched her unconscious, gesturing for two of the cultists to pick her up and take her to the car – because there would be a car by now or Spike would want to know the reason why.
"Don't damage her," he told them. "The Miracle Child still needs her, yeah?" and they nodded earnestly, carrying the woman as if she were something precious just because she'd touched the kid.
Spike loaded down the others with what baggage they had, which was little, and then he took a deep breath and went to deal with Dru. She lay where he'd left her, dead to the world, her pale face wasted and thin under its crown of lank black curls. She needed a good wash and brush-up, Spike thought, and once he had some privacy, he'd make sure she got it. Tenderly, he lifted her up, kissing her cold forehead, and turned to find Darla watching him, her own burden still in her arms. They were alone.
"My little Spike," Darla said. "I knew you wouldn't let me down."
"How did you know?" He couldn't help asking it, even while a thrill ran down his spine to hear her call him what Dru had so often called him. "How?"
"The same way my sire knew things," she said, simply. "It took me a while to realise it, but he helped me," and she gestured with her chin towards the baby.
"Clever little tyke, isn't he?" Spike was only half-joking. There was some connection between mother and child sometimes – thought-transference or something like. It gave him the creeps.
"Better get a move on, then," he said. "You've got minions to terrorise, love, in case you've forgotten."
"Oh, you'll be doing all that for me." She spoke with complete confidence. "I rely on your judgement, William."
He almost laughed at that, remembering one time in a Yorkshire mineshaft and the look of sick anticipation on her face when she'd thought Angelus was going to stake him for his idiocy– which of course he had later, if not in the way Darla had been expecting.
"I can do that," he said, "and at least we've got this bunch of tossers off our backs."
"They were a big threat," she agreed, and her tone was sombre now, "but never as much as the other – never as much as him."
It took Spike a moment to realise which 'him' she meant this time, but then he understood.
"You don't have to worry about Angel, love, I guarantee it. No way he'll ever find us."
"We'll see." She sounded uncertain, but then she brightened. "But even if he does, it'll gain him nothing. I have a champion now –" and her eyes shone as she looked at him – "and you'll defeat him for me, just like you did the cultists."
"Bloody hell." Spike put Dru down again carefully. Then he went to Darla and took her in his arms. The baby was between them, blinking up at them sleepily with eyes that still changed colour whenever the light changed. He didn't look like other babies, Spike thought. He looked like he knew it all already. "You really believe that?" he asked.
"I do. If he finds us – when he finds us – he won't walk away from it."
"We don't kill family," Spike blurted out the words before he could stop himself because he couldn't believe what she seemed to be saying.
She smiled. "We won't need to," she said.
Outside, it was still raining. A white van – a Ford Transit – stood under the lamp waiting. Beneath its wheels, the remains of the cultists' potentate was ashy residue in a puddle. Spike escorted Darla to the van and handed her into the front passenger seat, settling the baby carefully into her arms.
"You know what," he said. "He doesn't have a name. You gonna do something about that – er, Mistress – 'cos Miracle Child is a bit of a bloody mouthful."
She looked surprised. "Of course he has a name. It's Connor. I thought I told you."
Well, that was a bolt out of the blue. Spike frowned. Evidently, the old man wasn't quite out of the picture after all since she'd chosen something Irish.
He took Dru round to the rear of the van and settled her as comfortably as he could. "Watch her," he told the young girl, "and guard her with your life. She's an Aurelian too."
That was enough to put a look of awe on the girl's face and Spike was satisfied enough to shut Dru in the back with her. He went back round to the driver's side and stood a moment, staring out to sea. Then he took the stake out of his jeans pocket and flung it with deadly accuracy at the hanging corpse above him, which exploded into a shower of glittering dust.
When Spike pushed himself to his feet, trying to ignore the raw pain of his torn anus, Angel said, "That happened to you because of her, William. Don't forget that."
"Sod off." Spike was surprised by how weary he sounded – how broken – but he went with it because he suspected it was what Angel wanted to hear. "This happened to me because of you."
Angel lay on his back, head on his folded arms. His brown eyes glittered like coals.
"Next time I'll bring flowers," he said, unsmiling, "or maybe we could catch a movie first."
Spike bent to pick up his jeans. He was bleeding and had nothing to staunch the blood with so he grabbed Angel's shirt from where it lay tossed onto the bed and used that. It felt like silk – very expensive – but Angel didn't bat an eyelid. "Never washing that again," he said, and now he did smile, or at least his lips tightened.
Spike thought that when he'd told Angel he didn't know him – didn't know Darla – he'd not realised just how little he himself knew Angel. This wasn't the man he'd last seen in Sunnydale, so Slayer-whipped the girl was wearing his balls as a necklace. This was someone new.
This was, in fact, the man who'd set Darla and Dru on fire and then stood back and watched them burn.
Spike pulled his jeans gingerly over the raw abraded flesh - because Angel had used the belt in the end - then bent again for his boots and t-shirt. Angel wolf-whistled mockingly.
"You still have the sweetest, tightest little ass, William," he said. "It's a pleasure to ride. Thought you ought to know that."
Spike thought of Erroll briefly. Erroll said stuff like that to him sometimes when they fucked but then Erroll only said it when Spike wanted him to. He went to the door and knocked loudly on it, hoping Erroll wasn't too far away. "Funny," he said, in answer to Angel, "that's what I say to Darla about hers an' all."
It was pretty pathetic as a come back, and he knew it.
Angel had rolled onto his side to pick up his own jeans, which were in a heap on the floor. He paused for a moment before answering. His gaze flicked across the room and back, eyes narrowing. Then suddenly, he was up and had Spike pinned to the inside of the door and his tongue halfway down Spike's throat. When he finally let go Spike gasped and choked, gulping down air.
"Bet she can't scratch that itch," Angel said. "You still need cock, pretty little William – still wanna play catcher for me. I can see it in your eyes."
Spike heard the key turning in the lock. Suddenly, he brought his knee up as hard as he could into Angel's privates, doubling him up in pain.
"Think your seduction technique leaves a bit to be desired, mate," he said, as he slipped through the open crack of the door, slamming it closed behind him.
Outside, he leaned on it, staring up at the dusty ceiling. There was a cobweb in one corner.
"Bloody hell," he exclaimed, suddenly furious, "doesn't anyone ever clean things properly round here?"
"Sorry, boss." Erroll sounded contrite – as if it was his fault - but Spike ignored him. He set out at a fast walk towards the meat locker then slowed again immediately. He felt half-crippled. He stopped for a moment, leaning against the wall, eyes shut, while he fought down the pain. He hadn't been raped in years.
"Sire –" Erroll reached out one hand then drew it back, unsure what to do. "You doin' all right?"
Spike reflected that when it came to going into battle for Darla, he'd rather fight a dozen self-important cult leaders than go another round with Angel. "The old man hasn't changed," he said, and he looked Erroll straight in the eye. "Still a fucking bastard, soul or not."
Erroll shadowed him down the corridor to the kitchen, where Spike stopped to pour himself a large JD, which he downed in one, the fiery spirit a welcome replacement to the taste of Angel in his mouth. When they got to the door of the meat locker, though, Erroll began to look apologetic again. "Not much in there. Only some old tramp and he really stinks. Ravi's taken some of the boys out hunting across in the park."
Spike leaned against the door. The metal felt cold against his back, in spite of the stuffy after-hours heat of the abandoned station. He was desperate for blood just now and someone else's pain, and he didn't care about the packaging.
"Hose him down," he said to Erroll, "and then you can leave me to it."
Darla was sitting up in bed when Spike came into their bedroom. She was reading a book on child psychology. She glanced up at him coolly, as if he'd just come back from a pleasant evening stroll.
"How was it?" she asked.
"How d'you sodding think – bitch!" Spike could hardly believe she'd ask such a stupid question.
"I wasn't sure what course he'd choose." She ignored the 'bitch' comment. "He can be very persuasive, as I'm sure you remember."
"I do." Spike sat down on the edge of the bed with his back to her. He kicked off his unlaced boots, though the movement stretched his torn tissues and forced a hiss of pain through his clenched teeth.
"Did he damage you?" She still sounded more interested than concerned, but her small hand was on his back, rubbing in circles – an attempt at some kind of comfort.
"Depends what you mean by damage. My pride's taken a beating."
"No doubt that was his intention."
He supposed she didn't really need to ask what else Angel had done but he could feel her gearing up to it anyway. Women were always so bloody nosy.
Forestalling her, he said, "S'pose I can't exactly say he raped me since I said I'd do it, but that's what it amounts to."
"Darling boy." Her cool breath tickled his ear. "You're so brave to spare me that."
"What?" He turned to look at her over his shoulder because he could still hardly believe what he'd heard. "For one thing – if it'd been you in that room, he'd never have treated you that way. It'd have been all – 'begorrah me darlin'! Why did you have to go leavin' me when we belong together? Can't you see we're a family?' – the whole Blarney Stone rigmarole."
She laughed at his awful attempt at an Irish accent. "True," she agreed, but he wasn't finished yet.
"But you didn't have to grant his request, did you? What made you come over all Lady-fucking-Bountiful? Anyway, the bastard's gone without all these years except for when he got you up the duff – can't believe that he comes here and suddenly, he can't rein it in. Bloke's got the self-control of a bloody Jesuit."
He swung round to confront her, though again, the movement hurt his sore arse. Her face had gone opaque – a perfect, chilling oval. He wanted to grab her shoulders and shake the secrets out of her.
"Tell me," he said. "Just tell me what the fuck is going on. Why is he here? Why are you letting him have his way? If you want rid of me – if you want him instead - just say so and I'll take Dru and be off."
For answer, she leaned forward and kissed him softly on the lips. He jerked his head back. "I washed my mouth out with Jack. You won’t get a taste of him there."
Her answer was to kiss him more forcefully, pushing him down onto the bed beneath her. A moment later, she was astride him and he felt the wetness between her thighs.
"Gets you off, does it," he asked bitterly, "the thought of him raping my arse with that monster cock of his?"
And now she frowned as if considering, then nodded her head. "Maybe a little – we are vampires, Spike, after all. We thrive on pain."
"Forgot you taught him all he knows." He was uncomfortably aware of his own frustrated cock straining inside his jeans. Angel had ignored it completely. "Bloody stupid of me really."
She kissed him again, her mouth cool and sweet and he couldn't help responding this time, in spite of his anger with her.
"I didn't have to teach Angelus much," she said. "The pupil soon surpassed the teacher. You ought to remember, Spike – I shouldn't have to remind you."
He did remember – the constant battleground that passed for family life back in the day, with Angelus and Darla fighting for control; the endless rounds of one-upmanship in which he and Dru often took a battering. He realised with sudden and absolute clarity that Darla had always loved Angelus – wanted Angelus – more than he wanted her.
"Must burn," he said, "to know it's still not you he wants."
She stared down at him, unspeaking, and for a moment he thought he'd gone too far and she'd go all Mistress of the Vampires on him, but then she put her hand to his face, tracing the line of his cheekbone tenderly.
"It does," she said, at last, "but not the way you might think. You see, William, no matter what nonsense you might choose to believe – no matter what he might want you to believe – I really and truly don't want him back as my lover and I don't want rid of you."
He remembered then she'd said that her feelings about Angel were the last thing that should make him doubt her. He'd lost that somewhere in the last few days, or perhaps he'd never believed it.
"Then why –" he began, but she put her finger to his lips to shush him.
"Remember what I told you on the ship? The best and simplest way to neutralise a threat is to deal with it once and for all. We did that in Southampton with the cultists. They're ours now – they hunt and spy for us - go where we need them - bring us news of the world outside."
He nodded to show he did remember and already he thought he knew what was coming next.
"But they were never the biggest threat – he is. Connor's father." Her green eyes had gone stormy – the familiar troubling look. "He won't rest until he's taken him from me, but he'll never succeed - never."
Spike wanted to ask, "Because we're going to kill him?" but he didn't say it. He remembered that after the fight on the Southampton docks, she'd said they wouldn't have to.
She was staring off into the distance now and her face had gone cold – implacable. "By the time this is over," she said, "he'll have lost once and for all."
For a moment longer, she stared, but then her attention was back on him, small, cold hands sliding under his t-shirt and across his torso, skating over the bruises Angel had left as if her fingertips could sense them.
"You might want to send your Erroll and some of the others away," she said. "Not too many, in case it arouses Angel's suspicions. Tell them to wait somewhere close, where they can get back quickly when they're needed, and tell them to keep an eye on the tunnels."
She bent down towards him, eyes large and liquid. "And send word to our outside agents to gather nearby. I think we're going to need all of them." Now she kissed him softly on the lips. "I'll leave it to you to make the arrangements."
"He's gonna try and take the kid, I know – but when?"
"I'm not sure exactly when but soon - and until we know what his plan is beyond the obvious divide and conquer, we have to keep his hopes up – keep his interest – make him think he's winning."
She was sliding down his body, clever fingers opening his flies to feel where his eager flesh leapt at her touch.
"Until then, my sweet William, let me kiss your hurts better."
TBC
Notes:
Mystic Meg: a sort of joke fortune-teller - first came to public notice when the National Lottery began in the UK. She made weekly predictions (vague of course) about the winning numbers.