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shapinglight) wrote2007-03-14 07:52 am
shapinglight) wrote2007-03-14 07:52 am
Family Reunion Part 2
The next part. For rating, setting, pairings etc see Part 1.
In this chapter, we learn there's a little more to Annabelle than might be immediately apparent and Spike reminisces.
Family Reunion Part 2
Darla didn't often call the whole lair together and when she did it was always for something important. Annabelle stood next to Spike behind Darla's chair. Connor was sitting on a cushion at his mother's feet. His knees were bent and he was resting his chin on his hands, staring at the gathered minions. Annabelle knew that he spooked them even more than he spooked her. Most of them wouldn't even look at him. Instead, their eyes went from Spike to Darla and back again, awaiting orders.
Darla glanced up at Spike and nodded. He scowled – he'd been in a bad mood all day – but then he shouted: "All right listen, you lot."
The faces with their ridges and bumps and yellow eyes swung round in his direction with eerie synchronicity. Spike was in vampire-face too, as was Darla, which went oddly with her porcelain-coloured Whistles summer dress. Annabelle could never get over how ugly they both were – as if in inverse ratio to their human physical beauty.
Spike's breath hissed through his fangs but just as he was about to say more, another train went rumbling through the abandoned station and the place shook again. Spike grinned and cocked his head and the minions all laughed. When the noise receded a little, the atmosphere had suddenly lightened.
"We'll be having another visitor," Spike said. "Not such a formal thing this time, like it was with old Dracula, more of a family reunion."
"Who's coming, Spike?" It was Ravinder's voice. She stood at the front of the group next to Erroll. For a moment, her eyes were on Annabelle, full of deadly spite, but when Spike answered her question, her gaze swung round to him again, openly astonished.
"Angelus," Spike said, and when Connor turned round to look at him too, "Yeah, rugrat, your real daddy's coming."
"I don't want him!" Connor's voice was a childish squeal of protest but what else he might have said was drowned out by another passing train. In the meantime, Darla had scooped him up and set him on her knee. She was speaking to him but Annabelle couldn't hear what she said and when the noise faded away, Connor had gone quiet.
Now Darla turned to address the gathered minions herself.
"I believe," she said, "that Angelus's coming here is an important part of the prophecy concerning the Miracle Child. He may be degraded now – cursed with a soul – but he's still a Master vampire, a prince of our kind. Like my cousin Vlad Tepes, he should pay his respects to my son and take an oath of allegiance to protect him."
Annabelle saw the corners of Spike's mouth tighten. He didn't like this sort of thing, she knew – the formality of it – the ritual. He wouldn't even let the minions call him 'sire,' which the ones he'd made were supposed to. She wondered if she dared ask him who Angelus was when the meeting was over. From the look on his face, probably not, but Erroll might tell her.
Spike took over again.
"'Course we can't trust the bastard. He has a soul – he's not one of us any more in all the ways that matter. My guess is he's coming here with some notion of taking Connor away from the Mistress and scarpering back to Yankland. 'S'up to us to make sure he fails."
"Should she be listening to this?" It was Ravinder's voice again, and she was pointing straight at Annabelle. "She's a human. You can't trust her either."
Spike turned to look at Annabelle and he smiled at her. When he was in human form, his smile was incredible, lighting up his whole face. Like this, it just showed her how very sharp his fangs were.
"Belle's okay," he said, "aren't you, Belle?" And she found herself nodding before she quite realised what she was doing. Spike winked one lazy yellow eye at her and then he swung back round to Ravinder again. "Not gonna talk about the plans now anyway," he said, "and for the record, love –" and suddenly, his voice had gone cold, "don't question me like that again or, child of mine or not, you'll end up like Justin."
There was deathly silence then. None of them had forgotten Justin.
"I'm sorry, Spike," Ravinder said, at once, and then she went down on her knees and bowed her head to him. "I'm sorry, sire. Please forgive me."
Darla was smiling, Annabelle saw, and Connor was leaning forward with that avid expression he'd had on his face when he'd heard the strange vampire screaming.
Justin had ended up like the strange vampire – trussed up like a chicken and handed over live to the Gravids. Annabelle had heard afterwards that he'd been stupid enough to kill an Underground maintenance worker and boast about it back at the lair. Darla had overseen the torture personally.
"He put Connor in danger, Belle." It had been Erroll telling her. "Spike's told us an' told us – don't mess with the staff down here. Justin didn't listen an' he paid the price."
Spike's 'arrangement' with London Transport was another of those things that Annabelle didn't want to think about.
"Get up." Spike was talking to Ravinder. "I didn't make you so you could be a mouthy bitch, Ravi, love. I made you because you're clever and mean and a fucking brilliant hunter – just like you were when you were human. Remember that, yeah?"
"I will, Spike, I'm sorry." Ravinder got to her feet and faded back to Erroll's side where he put his arm round her and hugged her against him, his skin dark as cocoa next to her pale café-latte.
She had been a sort-of hunter, Annabelle supposed – or at least a corporate head-hunter, like Annabelle's own father, whatever that was exactly. She couldn't help feeling a little smug at Ravinder's discomfiture, which feeling was soon gone when the female vampire's eyes met hers again. She shivered at the malice she saw in them.
Darla had got up from her chair, which signalled the end of the meeting. All the minions, even Spike, bowed to her and she walked down the stairs back towards platform level, leading Connor by the hand.
Annabelle stood, irresolute, not sure whether to go after them. Spike was talking to Erroll and the other minions were scattering to their various tasks. Vampires always seemed to be hungry and no doubt there were hunting parties to arrange and send out later when it was dark outside. As the room – which was really only a widened corridor – emptied out, Annabelle's eyes strayed in the direction of a spiral stairway. She could just see the bottom of it through a door at the end of the passage. She'd been down it just once when she'd first been brought here and it was the only way out apart from the locked door on the eastbound platform that led onto the train tracks. Up at the top, there lay light and freedom, but it might as well have been a million miles away.
Suddenly, her eyes filled with tears. She was going to die down here, she knew – drained dry by the minions when Darla was finished with her and none of them – not even Spike – would help her.
She wondered if this Angelus person would be any different.
*
Annabelle would have crossed the road if it hadn't been for the Asian girl. Big black men scared her – in fact, all black people scared her. There'd only been two black girls at her school the whole time she'd been there and they hadn't been in her class.
Asian girls, though – there'd been plenty of those. Doctors' daughters – businessmen's daughters – even the daughter of a Q.C. who wore a turban. Her best friend in the lacrosse team had been Asian –a colonel's daughter, though Annabelle was never sure whether it was in the Indian Army or the British. At any rate, Asian girls were familiar to her so seeing this one walking along with the big black man as if they were friends made him seem less threatening.
It was Annabelle's afternoon off and she'd been for a walk in Richmond Park. It was the tail end of a glorious autumn day and the rut was on. She could hear the stags roaring off in the distance, which had reminded her of holidays in Scotland with Daddy and Harry. She'd felt quite homesick - and probably because of that, she'd stayed longer than she should have. Now the sun had set, it was getting dark and there was no one much about. It wouldn't be long before the park gates were closed to traffic for the night.
When she first saw the couple walking towards her she'd stopped, only resuming the fast pace she'd set when the sight of the girl had reassured her it was safe. It was silly to be scared, she told herself – embarrassing. She hoped the black man hadn't noticed her hesitation because she hated to be rude.
She wasn't even going to look at them as she passed them, just duck her head and speed up even more, but the girl said, in a strong London accent that sounded sort-of put on, "Excuse me, miss – you got the time?"
Annabelle stopped automatically and looked at her watch and at once, the black man grabbed her, one hand pinioning her wrists together, the other over her mouth. She tried to scream but he shook her so hard, she began to feel dizzy. He was really strong!
"Watch it, Erroll, she nearly kicked me." It was the Asian girl speaking. "Where the bloody hell is he?"
Annabelle twisted and bucked in the black man's grip and then the Asian girl came right up to her where she hung in his arms and her beautiful, delicate face suddenly went all bumpy and hideous. Her eyes slanted under the bulge of her forehead, yellow as sulphur.
"Keep still, you stupid little cow!" she hissed through enormous and very sharp teeth.
Annabelle did as she was told but only because she was so shocked – so utterly terrified – that suddenly she couldn't even move. Then there was the squeal of tyres and a car – a black BMW – sped up to them, screeching to a halt on the double yellow lines just by the park gatehouse. The car windows were tinted glass so Annabelle couldn't see the driver and she didn't get more than a glimpse of him – a flash of white hair – as she was bundled into the footwell behind the front seats. She felt someone get in beside her – a foot nudged her in the ribs quite hard – and then two doors slammed and they sped away.
"Better gag her." It was a man's voice – deep and lazy-sounding – the driver, it must be. Annabelle felt hard fingers press a piece of sticky tape over her mouth and then the same fingers winding more tape round and round her wrists. She tried to scream, afraid of suffocating, but of course she couldn't. The car jerked as they turned right and the Asian girl said, "Take it easy, boss," to which the driver replied, "Shut it, love – been driving since long before your time."
The Asian girl was sitting at the front, so it must be the black man whose foot was holding Annabelle down. Her nose was full of dust and she felt as if she was choking – even more so when a thick blanket smelling of dogs was dropped over her. All she could think of was that these people must be terrorists and they'd kidnapped her because of Harry or because of Daddy's work, though Annabelle didn't know exactly what it was he did. She didn't want to think about how the Asian girl's face had changed. Maybe she'd imagined it?
They weren't going quite so fast now, as if the driver had taken heed of the Asian girl in spite of what he'd said to her. After a while, he said, "Well done, kids. You've made your old man proud."
The girl said, "Thanks, boss," and then a deep rumbling voice which must be the black man, said, "Yeah, Spike, thanks."
"You two make a good team," the driver went on– and could his name really be Spike? "Knew you would – Beauty and the Beast."
"But which is which, eh?" the black man said and they all three laughed, though Annabelle didn't think it was funny. Now that the initial shock was over and she didn't feel so numb, she couldn't help starting to cry and her whole body shook with sobs.
"She all right?" the driver asked after a short silence. "Wouldn't want to go to all this trouble to please Her Ladyship only to find the new nanny'd bloody suffocated before we even got home."
A corner of the blanket lifted and through her tears Annabelle saw the black man looking at her. His hair was done in short dreadlocks all over his head and his face was sort of – well – She didn't know if it was friendly or not. She didn't understand black faces. He saw her looking and winked at her then dropped the blanket back in place. Dog hairs tickled her nose and made her want to sneeze but somehow that wink had made her feel better. Terrorists didn't give people friendly winks, she was pretty certain. Soon, she felt a lot calmer and the wracking sobs faded to faint little tremors that she couldn't seem to help.
"Yeah, she's doin' fine," the black man said.
The driver put the radio on then and they started arguing about what to listen to. The black man wanted one thing, the Asian girl another. In the end, the driver said, "Bloody kids, who'd have 'em," and he turned it off again.
None of their conversation made any sense to Annabelle. The driver was talking about the others as if they were his children but they couldn't be related, could they? Annabelle wasn't sure but it didn't seem likely. The way they all talked was very similar but more as if the black man and the Asian girl were trying to copy the driver. Maybe it was some sort of disguise? She didn’t know and now her head hurt, probably because of the dust.
"Reckon she knows what we are?" the black man said after a while of just driving with a lot of stopping and starting at traffic lights.
"No way!" The Asian girl laughed nastily. "She almost pissed herself when I changed - didn't you see?"
"Thought she handled it pretty well myself," the black man said," but then you'd expect that, I s'pose?"
"Yeah?" Now the Asian girl was starting to sound hostile. "She smells weird. I don't like her already."
"Fuck, yeah!" It was the driver this time. "That's not a scent you ever forget – like napalm in the morning – I love it."
They all laughed again, to Annabelle's further bewilderment. What did the girl mean – she smelt weird? She was sure she'd used deodorant this morning, same as always. If she ever forgot, the Firbank children would be the first to remind her. She sniffed experimentally but she couldn't smell anything except dust and dog-hair.
The car ground to a halt again and the driver muttered, "Bloody rush hour."
"Least we're goin' the other way," the black man said. He sounded quite calm and peaceable and his foot that rested on Annabelle's back pressed only very lightly. Then he said, "So you think this one'll last a bit longer then, boss?"
"I bloody well hope so," the driver said. "Soon's we can pack the kid off to boarding school the better in my opinion."
"She'll never agree to that – will she?" The Asian girl was sceptical and after a moment the driver sighed. "Nah, no sodding chance – can dream, though, can't I? An' anyway, boarding school never did me any harm – the Empire was won on the playing fields of Eton etcetera, etcetera."
"That was the Battle of Waterloo," the Asian girl said. "And the British bloody Empire wasn't so great looking at it from mine and Erroll's point of view."
"Could've been worse," the driver said. "Without it, we wouldn't be having this interesting conversation, would we, love?"
They all laughed again.
Annabelle was sweating under her blanket now. Her nose was running, her eyes were streaming from the dust and her throat was dry too. She was feeling numb again though, she wasn't sure why. Maybe because it all seemed like a dream and any moment now, she was bound to wake up – or maybe it was just the shock.
The driver switched the radio on again - to the news this time. Annabelle didn't listen to the news much. She wasn't very interested and she didn't usually have the chance because it was on at the Firbank children's bedtime. She listened now though, desperate to hear a story about her own kidnapping, but it was just the usual wars and bombings and goings-on in Parliament. The black man was whistling quietly to himself, which was sort of soothing. He leaned down to check on her again and this time he said, "Don't worry, darlin', we're nearly there."
"What did you call her?" The Asian girl sounded furious suddenly. "She's not your darling, Erroll, she's here to do a job."
"Bloody hell," the driver broke in. "Jealous bitch, aren't you? Erroll's just doin' his job, Ravinder, love. You do yours, yeah?"
There was a momentary silence and then the Asian girl – Ravinder – said, "Sorry, sire," and the driver said, "I should bloody well hope so."
After that exchange, the atmosphere seemed to sour a little. The driver turned the sound up on the radio and no one spoke. The black man's foot rocked backwards and forwards on Annabelle's back, almost like a massage. She shut her eyes. She felt sleepy in spite of everything. Then the driver said, "Home sweet home."
The car stopped, though the engine was still running and Annabelle heard the driver get out. There was a moment's silence and then the Asian girl said, "God, I love you. I fucking hate sharin' you with him."
Annabelle heard the sound of people kissing then the black man's voice said, "You aren't the only one, darlin'. I have to share you too."
"Not nearly as much." The Asian girl sounded bitter. "Maybe I'm not big enough or black enough for him? Besides, you like what he does to you."
"That's stupid talk," the black man said, "and dangerous too, yeah? You know as well as I do the Mistress don't like him goin' with other women."
There was the sound of more kissing and then he went on, "Just face it, Ravi, you'd be jealous of anyone. He's our sire. He can do what the fuck he wants with us."
The Asian girl appeared to accept this because she changed the subject suddenly.
"You gonna dump the car or am I?"
"You," the black man answered at once. "Big black man – stolen BMW – tinted windows - it's askin' to be pulled over by the filth innit?"
"Guess so," the Asian girl agreed. "But you keep your hands off her, hear?"
"Come off it, Ravi," the black man said, "she's off-limits anyway, you know that, or you would if you was thinkin' straight."
"Can't think straight around you." The Asian girl's voice took on a wistful note but then the car door opened and the driver was back. "Right, then, mate," he said, "the coast's clear -let's be having her," and Annabelle felt herself being lifted out of the car, still wrapped in the blanket. Her strange detachment vanished suddenly and she tried to kick with her legs but one of the men had them tucked under his arm and she could hardly move them.
"Pack it in, love," the driver said, "less you wanna start your new job with a spanking."
Annabelle didn't know whether he meant it or not - especially as both he and the black man laughed – but she stopped anyway. They carried her through a door, which slammed behind them, and then they began to go down some stairs.
"Watch her head on the wall," the driver said. At that moment, a blast of hot air hit Annabelle in the face and then there was a horrendous noise – a rattling and roaring that got louder and louder and then passed on sucking the air with it. She knew at once where she'd heard that sound before but it'd never been so loud or gone by so fast.
The stairs seemed to go on forever. Annabelle counted 103. But then they were walking along a flat area before going down more stairs and along again. There was a humming noise, like electric wires, and then a distant rumbling that grew to a deafening roar as another Underground train passed by below, much closer now. When it had gone, the driver muttered, "Bloody rush hour," again and the black man grunted his assent.
At last, they stopped and Annabelle heard someone knocking on a door. A woman's voice answered and the door opened. Beyond was a stuffy, almost airless silence and then Annabelle felt herself being lowered and the blanket was pulled back.
She found herself lying on a bed with three people looking down at her and now the black man was the least frightening of the three. The other two – the driver and the woman – were both white – in fact, they were too white -both blond, both beautiful and neither very tall, and yet they were terrifying. Annabelle wasn't sure what it was exactly – something about the eyes, his blue, hers green, that seemed to pin her to the bed and make her begin to shake with fright.
By contrast, the black man looked big and reassuring and what's more, as her gaze swung round to him, he grinned at her and winked again.
"Is this her?" The woman didn't sound impressed. "She's not very old."
"Wouldn't be, would she?" The driver grinned and tilted his head on one side, and suddenly he looked more beautiful – more dangerous - than ever. "She's got the qualifications, though – all of them. Mark my words, love, this one's got – potential."
*
Spike was smoking a cigarette on the steps of Eros. All around him, the lights and noise of Piccadilly at night – the flashing neon, the traffic, the crowds of people – wove their garish magic while he stood apart from them, a still point at the heart of a dazzling maelstrom. Earlier, he'd picked up a girl in a pub round the corner in Shaftesbury Avenue– some American bint looking for a taste of Eurotrash – and left her with a love-bite she wouldn't forget in a hurry. It had sated his appetite but done nothing for the turmoil of his thoughts. Nicotine helped better with that.
He took another deep drag, then threw the butt down on the pavement and started walking back along Piccadilly in the direction of the lair. With Erroll out hunting – and who knew, all the way up in Cockfosters right this very moment - he couldn’t trust the rest of the minions out of his sight for long. That Ravinder needed watching, for instance. He wouldn't trust the bitch further than he could throw her, though he hadn't yet got to the stage of regretting turning her. She was useful – persuasive – she had the best capture-rate of any of the minions.
She was too ambitious, though, and too jealous around her brother, and that needed watching. It was lucky for him, Spike supposed, that there was no way Darla would accept a woman as her second-in-command or Ravinder might have given him a run for his money.
The thought of Darla and what she'd done made him angry all over again. It didn't help that he was passing St James's Church and churches always put him in a bad mood. He barged deliberately into a group of passing clubbers – big blokes with loud, over-bred voices, just asking to be taught a lesson – and a minute later was kicking some posh bastard's head in while the others lay sprawled on the pavement groaning. When he heard the sirens coming, he ducked down the alley next to the church and climbed up to the nearest roof to get a better look at the fun. From there, he could hear one of the victims telling the filth they'd been set on by a gang – at least eight of them – maybe even ten.
He counted the money in the wallet he'd lifted and smoked another cigarette. He felt better for a little while but once the ambulance had arrived and carted the injured off to hospital, there was nothing to look at and gloom settled over him again.
He still couldn't believe Darla had done what she had. After all, it wasn't as if they were humans just because they had a sort-of human kid, and Angelus didn't have any legal rights of access to Connor, even if he was his real dad. Spike thought of the last time he'd seen the old man – so Slayer-whipped it was hardly even funny – and grinned at the notion of Angelus trying to take Darla to court over visiting rights. He was such a pussy now he'd probably do it if he thought it'd work.
'Course, with his beloved Slayer dead and white hats all round the world in chaos because of the Slayer-succession crisis, he might have toughened up a bit, and Spike had said as much to Darla. Just because the old man had convinced that stupid twat Dracula of his good faith didn't mean he didn't have a plan. Angelus was all about the planning – at least, until he got bored and wandered off, and that was the difference between him and his souled counterpart.
Angel – stupid bloody name! – didn't get bored, not where his self-imposed mission was concerned.
Helping the helpless! Spike remembered laughing when Darla had told him about it back when they'd been hiding out in Mexico, keeping below the radar so Angel and their other pursuers wouldn't find them. Mocking the sad old twat had been the only light relief he'd had during all the endless running and fighting.
All Darla's fault, of course – and yet, he couldn’t leave her then and he couldn’t leave her now. She had him wound round her little finger – in thrall to the glories of her quim. And it wasn't just that of course. There were other reasons too – to do with family and love and other things that made him bloody uncomfortable to think about.
He threw the still-burning cigarette out into the dark then jumped back down into the deserted alley. The shock of the paving stones against the soles of his feet jarred up through his whole body. He set out at an easy lope back towards the lair, past the glossy frontages of Fortnum's and the Ritz then across the road, dodging the traffic, and on along the north side of Piccadilly. He couldn't get Angelus out of his head, though. When he'd last spent any length of time around the old man, it'd been hell – far worse than he'd ever imagined it could be, and with Angelus, he could imagine quite a lot.
God, it made him angry still to remember that he'd actually been pleased when Angel lost his soul – thought he'd got back someone he'd loved once, even though Angelus had been a total bastard too. He'd even thought that maybe – just maybe – that same someone would take care of him for a change – wouldn't forget about him and wander off to feed dead birds in their cages the way Dru did. But it'd been nothing like that. Angelus had ruined everything.
And yet – and yet there was a part of him still that would always yearn towards that dark presence – the power, the physicality of the man. Spike ran faster, remembering long-ago nights of sleeping sated in Angelus's arms and being woken by the trailing of fangs down the curve of his back and his sire's thick cock pushing inexorably into his unprepared body until flesh split and the scent of blood filled the air. It had felt so good to belong to him – to be held caged in that overwhelming grip, one of Angelus's hands holding his neck in position for the bite while the other nursed him to completion.
He'd never felt so owned – so cherished – as he did then. 'Course, the bastard only did it so he could twist the knife harder later.
Spike slowed as he reached the corner of Down Street, feeling in his pocket for the key. The Pay Fair Mini Mart was still open and he needed more fags so he strolled across the road and went inside. Mr Asif was just starting to lock up and he jumped most gratifyingly when he saw Spike coming. He started to sweat almost at once.
"Evenin', Asif old son." Spike spoke cheerfully, in spite of the way he felt. It didn't do to be rude to the neighbours.
"Good evening, Mr Spike. How are you?" Asif's voice trembled slightly and he wiped his hand across his forehead. His sweat smelt of coconut hair oil.
"Not too bad, thanks. You?" Spike ignored Asif's wavering answer and helped himself to cigarettes from behind the counter, along with the Evening Standard and a couple of pints of milk from the fridge. The rugrat might need some for his breakfast. Then in a fit of generosity - because when the neighbours were a known quantity, you had to encourage them to stay, didn't you - he threw down a fiver next to the till and clapped the sweating shopkeeper on the back.
"Missus doing all right" he asked, "and those two lovely girls of yours? Not sent 'em back to Pakistan, have you, because I wouldn't like that – not at all."
"N-no." Asif had gone waxy-pale under his brown skin. "I remembered what you said, Mr Spike, don't worry please." Asif had tried to get his family out of the country when he'd first learned with whom he was sharing the building and Spike had made it pretty plain to him why he shouldn't do it.
"Good man." Spike exited the shop in a swirl of leather, enjoying the stink of fear he left behind him.
He stood still for a moment, looking up and down the deserted street, scenting the air and listening, making sure no one was watching, human or otherwise. Then he unlocked the heavy metal door in the middle of the ox-blood tiled frontage and slipped inside. As always, the blast of air from below of the passing trains roaring through the abandoned station nearly knocked him off his feet. He closed the door with difficulty then made his way down the flight of concrete steps inside to the head of the old spiral staircase further below. The cast-iron structure was still quite beautiful in some ways, with the cream and red tiling on the wall beside it – very Art Deco. It pleased the buried aesthete in him and he was humming to himself as he ran down the steps, round and round the central column of the stairwell.
On the way, he passed the door that led to the generator room, then about half way down, the entrance to a corridor that led past ancient bathrooms with their wartime plumbing still intact to a set of backstairs down into the lair, and finally, at the bottom, the one that led to the old lift-shaft, the brat's favourite spot for a bit of torture practice. The place was a maze all right, and like a maze, it had only one exit – well, two if you counted the door that led out into the tunnels, but that was only safe to use when the trains weren't running.
The toilets and sinks in the bathroom corridor had been broken and stinking when Spike had first come here to recce the place and there'd been no lighting save emergency bulbs in the stairwell, but he'd still been able to see it had potential and if he could only find the right people to help him sort it, it'd make a more than passable lair. Besides, he couldn't say it didn't give him a kick to know he was dossing down somewhere once used as a bolt-hole by Churchill.
The station hadn't had a very long working life – a mere twenty-five years before it was deemed surplus to requirements. Still, Spike had fond memories of the place dating from way back. It was here, maybe in about 1927, that he'd snatched a girl off the deserted platforms late one night and given her to Dru to feed on while he'd slowly strangled her with her long pearl necklace. He wasn't sure which of them had killed her in the end but Dru had been so taken with the girl's little cloche hat that she'd finally agreed to have her hair bobbed.
He wondered what Angelus would make of the place – not that Spike was going to let him see around it. Would part of him be proud to know how well his child's child had chosen? What would he make of Spike's alliances with other interested parties, especially London Transport? He'd sorted out the beggar problem for them once and for all, hadn't he? No one else had ever managed to do that.
No, it was a bloody brilliant set-up, Spike thought, even if he said so himself, and that brought him right back facing the whole problem; which was that Angelus – no, he had to remember to call him Angel! – coming here could spoil everything.
He thought of Darla again. She said she didn't want the old man back, even if he lost his soul again– that Angelus, rather than Angel, would kill Connor like an unwanted puppy, which only seemed too likely. But Spike knew better than to think Darla was as indifferent as she seemed. Even if Angel was on the level – only coming to worship the Miracle Child, like he'd told Cousin Vlad - who was to say that Darla wouldn't beg him to come back to her the minute she set eyes on him? She'd loved him for a hundred and fifty years and that wasn't something that you just forgot.
"Fuck it!" Spike stopped short of the stairway down to track level and lit another cigarette, while he listened to a train going by. In an hour or so, the current would be switched off and the lair would go into silent mode, keeping its secrets from any passing maintenance workers.
He wasn't ready, he thought, to have Angel come and take away everything he'd built – take his woman back – maybe even his kid. The thought was bitter, considering what Spike had given up for their sakes. On the other hand – and he pushed away from the wall as he thought it and went on walking – maybe it wouldn't be that way. Angel wasn't Angelus and he didn't love Darla. Besides, hadn't Connor said he didn't want him?
Spike grinned to himself. The kid had trouble enough sharing his mum with Spike, let alone with his real dad as well. And maybe this needn't be so bad. If nothing else, he'd have the satisfaction of seeing the look on Angel's face when Connor called Spike 'Papa.'
TBC
Notes:
Whistles: a rather up-market dress shop
London Transport: the company that runs London's buses and Underground (or Tube) trains
Q.C.: Queen's Council, a high ranking barrister (trial lawyer)
Richmond: An affluent suburb of south-west London. The park, a royal deer park, is home to two herds of deer, native British species, that roam free within it. The park gates are shut to road traffic every day at sunset.
Eton: A very posh public (which means private and exclusive) school, near Windsor. Princes William and Harry went there.
Eros: A well-known London landmark, the statue of Eros stands in Piccadilly Circus where several major roads diverge, including Piccadilly itself, which heads south-west towards Kensington
Cockfosters: the northern end of the Piccadilly 'tube' line. Down Street is situated on this line, between Piccadilly and Green Park stations.
Fortnum & Mason's: a very up-market department store
The Ritz: pretty obvious, this.
The Evening Standard: London's daily evening newspaper
In this chapter, we learn there's a little more to Annabelle than might be immediately apparent and Spike reminisces.
Family Reunion Part 2
Darla didn't often call the whole lair together and when she did it was always for something important. Annabelle stood next to Spike behind Darla's chair. Connor was sitting on a cushion at his mother's feet. His knees were bent and he was resting his chin on his hands, staring at the gathered minions. Annabelle knew that he spooked them even more than he spooked her. Most of them wouldn't even look at him. Instead, their eyes went from Spike to Darla and back again, awaiting orders.
Darla glanced up at Spike and nodded. He scowled – he'd been in a bad mood all day – but then he shouted: "All right listen, you lot."
The faces with their ridges and bumps and yellow eyes swung round in his direction with eerie synchronicity. Spike was in vampire-face too, as was Darla, which went oddly with her porcelain-coloured Whistles summer dress. Annabelle could never get over how ugly they both were – as if in inverse ratio to their human physical beauty.
Spike's breath hissed through his fangs but just as he was about to say more, another train went rumbling through the abandoned station and the place shook again. Spike grinned and cocked his head and the minions all laughed. When the noise receded a little, the atmosphere had suddenly lightened.
"We'll be having another visitor," Spike said. "Not such a formal thing this time, like it was with old Dracula, more of a family reunion."
"Who's coming, Spike?" It was Ravinder's voice. She stood at the front of the group next to Erroll. For a moment, her eyes were on Annabelle, full of deadly spite, but when Spike answered her question, her gaze swung round to him again, openly astonished.
"Angelus," Spike said, and when Connor turned round to look at him too, "Yeah, rugrat, your real daddy's coming."
"I don't want him!" Connor's voice was a childish squeal of protest but what else he might have said was drowned out by another passing train. In the meantime, Darla had scooped him up and set him on her knee. She was speaking to him but Annabelle couldn't hear what she said and when the noise faded away, Connor had gone quiet.
Now Darla turned to address the gathered minions herself.
"I believe," she said, "that Angelus's coming here is an important part of the prophecy concerning the Miracle Child. He may be degraded now – cursed with a soul – but he's still a Master vampire, a prince of our kind. Like my cousin Vlad Tepes, he should pay his respects to my son and take an oath of allegiance to protect him."
Annabelle saw the corners of Spike's mouth tighten. He didn't like this sort of thing, she knew – the formality of it – the ritual. He wouldn't even let the minions call him 'sire,' which the ones he'd made were supposed to. She wondered if she dared ask him who Angelus was when the meeting was over. From the look on his face, probably not, but Erroll might tell her.
Spike took over again.
"'Course we can't trust the bastard. He has a soul – he's not one of us any more in all the ways that matter. My guess is he's coming here with some notion of taking Connor away from the Mistress and scarpering back to Yankland. 'S'up to us to make sure he fails."
"Should she be listening to this?" It was Ravinder's voice again, and she was pointing straight at Annabelle. "She's a human. You can't trust her either."
Spike turned to look at Annabelle and he smiled at her. When he was in human form, his smile was incredible, lighting up his whole face. Like this, it just showed her how very sharp his fangs were.
"Belle's okay," he said, "aren't you, Belle?" And she found herself nodding before she quite realised what she was doing. Spike winked one lazy yellow eye at her and then he swung back round to Ravinder again. "Not gonna talk about the plans now anyway," he said, "and for the record, love –" and suddenly, his voice had gone cold, "don't question me like that again or, child of mine or not, you'll end up like Justin."
There was deathly silence then. None of them had forgotten Justin.
"I'm sorry, Spike," Ravinder said, at once, and then she went down on her knees and bowed her head to him. "I'm sorry, sire. Please forgive me."
Darla was smiling, Annabelle saw, and Connor was leaning forward with that avid expression he'd had on his face when he'd heard the strange vampire screaming.
Justin had ended up like the strange vampire – trussed up like a chicken and handed over live to the Gravids. Annabelle had heard afterwards that he'd been stupid enough to kill an Underground maintenance worker and boast about it back at the lair. Darla had overseen the torture personally.
"He put Connor in danger, Belle." It had been Erroll telling her. "Spike's told us an' told us – don't mess with the staff down here. Justin didn't listen an' he paid the price."
Spike's 'arrangement' with London Transport was another of those things that Annabelle didn't want to think about.
"Get up." Spike was talking to Ravinder. "I didn't make you so you could be a mouthy bitch, Ravi, love. I made you because you're clever and mean and a fucking brilliant hunter – just like you were when you were human. Remember that, yeah?"
"I will, Spike, I'm sorry." Ravinder got to her feet and faded back to Erroll's side where he put his arm round her and hugged her against him, his skin dark as cocoa next to her pale café-latte.
She had been a sort-of hunter, Annabelle supposed – or at least a corporate head-hunter, like Annabelle's own father, whatever that was exactly. She couldn't help feeling a little smug at Ravinder's discomfiture, which feeling was soon gone when the female vampire's eyes met hers again. She shivered at the malice she saw in them.
Darla had got up from her chair, which signalled the end of the meeting. All the minions, even Spike, bowed to her and she walked down the stairs back towards platform level, leading Connor by the hand.
Annabelle stood, irresolute, not sure whether to go after them. Spike was talking to Erroll and the other minions were scattering to their various tasks. Vampires always seemed to be hungry and no doubt there were hunting parties to arrange and send out later when it was dark outside. As the room – which was really only a widened corridor – emptied out, Annabelle's eyes strayed in the direction of a spiral stairway. She could just see the bottom of it through a door at the end of the passage. She'd been down it just once when she'd first been brought here and it was the only way out apart from the locked door on the eastbound platform that led onto the train tracks. Up at the top, there lay light and freedom, but it might as well have been a million miles away.
Suddenly, her eyes filled with tears. She was going to die down here, she knew – drained dry by the minions when Darla was finished with her and none of them – not even Spike – would help her.
She wondered if this Angelus person would be any different.
Annabelle would have crossed the road if it hadn't been for the Asian girl. Big black men scared her – in fact, all black people scared her. There'd only been two black girls at her school the whole time she'd been there and they hadn't been in her class.
Asian girls, though – there'd been plenty of those. Doctors' daughters – businessmen's daughters – even the daughter of a Q.C. who wore a turban. Her best friend in the lacrosse team had been Asian –a colonel's daughter, though Annabelle was never sure whether it was in the Indian Army or the British. At any rate, Asian girls were familiar to her so seeing this one walking along with the big black man as if they were friends made him seem less threatening.
It was Annabelle's afternoon off and she'd been for a walk in Richmond Park. It was the tail end of a glorious autumn day and the rut was on. She could hear the stags roaring off in the distance, which had reminded her of holidays in Scotland with Daddy and Harry. She'd felt quite homesick - and probably because of that, she'd stayed longer than she should have. Now the sun had set, it was getting dark and there was no one much about. It wouldn't be long before the park gates were closed to traffic for the night.
When she first saw the couple walking towards her she'd stopped, only resuming the fast pace she'd set when the sight of the girl had reassured her it was safe. It was silly to be scared, she told herself – embarrassing. She hoped the black man hadn't noticed her hesitation because she hated to be rude.
She wasn't even going to look at them as she passed them, just duck her head and speed up even more, but the girl said, in a strong London accent that sounded sort-of put on, "Excuse me, miss – you got the time?"
Annabelle stopped automatically and looked at her watch and at once, the black man grabbed her, one hand pinioning her wrists together, the other over her mouth. She tried to scream but he shook her so hard, she began to feel dizzy. He was really strong!
"Watch it, Erroll, she nearly kicked me." It was the Asian girl speaking. "Where the bloody hell is he?"
Annabelle twisted and bucked in the black man's grip and then the Asian girl came right up to her where she hung in his arms and her beautiful, delicate face suddenly went all bumpy and hideous. Her eyes slanted under the bulge of her forehead, yellow as sulphur.
"Keep still, you stupid little cow!" she hissed through enormous and very sharp teeth.
Annabelle did as she was told but only because she was so shocked – so utterly terrified – that suddenly she couldn't even move. Then there was the squeal of tyres and a car – a black BMW – sped up to them, screeching to a halt on the double yellow lines just by the park gatehouse. The car windows were tinted glass so Annabelle couldn't see the driver and she didn't get more than a glimpse of him – a flash of white hair – as she was bundled into the footwell behind the front seats. She felt someone get in beside her – a foot nudged her in the ribs quite hard – and then two doors slammed and they sped away.
"Better gag her." It was a man's voice – deep and lazy-sounding – the driver, it must be. Annabelle felt hard fingers press a piece of sticky tape over her mouth and then the same fingers winding more tape round and round her wrists. She tried to scream, afraid of suffocating, but of course she couldn't. The car jerked as they turned right and the Asian girl said, "Take it easy, boss," to which the driver replied, "Shut it, love – been driving since long before your time."
The Asian girl was sitting at the front, so it must be the black man whose foot was holding Annabelle down. Her nose was full of dust and she felt as if she was choking – even more so when a thick blanket smelling of dogs was dropped over her. All she could think of was that these people must be terrorists and they'd kidnapped her because of Harry or because of Daddy's work, though Annabelle didn't know exactly what it was he did. She didn't want to think about how the Asian girl's face had changed. Maybe she'd imagined it?
They weren't going quite so fast now, as if the driver had taken heed of the Asian girl in spite of what he'd said to her. After a while, he said, "Well done, kids. You've made your old man proud."
The girl said, "Thanks, boss," and then a deep rumbling voice which must be the black man, said, "Yeah, Spike, thanks."
"You two make a good team," the driver went on– and could his name really be Spike? "Knew you would – Beauty and the Beast."
"But which is which, eh?" the black man said and they all three laughed, though Annabelle didn't think it was funny. Now that the initial shock was over and she didn't feel so numb, she couldn't help starting to cry and her whole body shook with sobs.
"She all right?" the driver asked after a short silence. "Wouldn't want to go to all this trouble to please Her Ladyship only to find the new nanny'd bloody suffocated before we even got home."
A corner of the blanket lifted and through her tears Annabelle saw the black man looking at her. His hair was done in short dreadlocks all over his head and his face was sort of – well – She didn't know if it was friendly or not. She didn't understand black faces. He saw her looking and winked at her then dropped the blanket back in place. Dog hairs tickled her nose and made her want to sneeze but somehow that wink had made her feel better. Terrorists didn't give people friendly winks, she was pretty certain. Soon, she felt a lot calmer and the wracking sobs faded to faint little tremors that she couldn't seem to help.
"Yeah, she's doin' fine," the black man said.
The driver put the radio on then and they started arguing about what to listen to. The black man wanted one thing, the Asian girl another. In the end, the driver said, "Bloody kids, who'd have 'em," and he turned it off again.
None of their conversation made any sense to Annabelle. The driver was talking about the others as if they were his children but they couldn't be related, could they? Annabelle wasn't sure but it didn't seem likely. The way they all talked was very similar but more as if the black man and the Asian girl were trying to copy the driver. Maybe it was some sort of disguise? She didn’t know and now her head hurt, probably because of the dust.
"Reckon she knows what we are?" the black man said after a while of just driving with a lot of stopping and starting at traffic lights.
"No way!" The Asian girl laughed nastily. "She almost pissed herself when I changed - didn't you see?"
"Thought she handled it pretty well myself," the black man said," but then you'd expect that, I s'pose?"
"Yeah?" Now the Asian girl was starting to sound hostile. "She smells weird. I don't like her already."
"Fuck, yeah!" It was the driver this time. "That's not a scent you ever forget – like napalm in the morning – I love it."
They all laughed again, to Annabelle's further bewilderment. What did the girl mean – she smelt weird? She was sure she'd used deodorant this morning, same as always. If she ever forgot, the Firbank children would be the first to remind her. She sniffed experimentally but she couldn't smell anything except dust and dog-hair.
The car ground to a halt again and the driver muttered, "Bloody rush hour."
"Least we're goin' the other way," the black man said. He sounded quite calm and peaceable and his foot that rested on Annabelle's back pressed only very lightly. Then he said, "So you think this one'll last a bit longer then, boss?"
"I bloody well hope so," the driver said. "Soon's we can pack the kid off to boarding school the better in my opinion."
"She'll never agree to that – will she?" The Asian girl was sceptical and after a moment the driver sighed. "Nah, no sodding chance – can dream, though, can't I? An' anyway, boarding school never did me any harm – the Empire was won on the playing fields of Eton etcetera, etcetera."
"That was the Battle of Waterloo," the Asian girl said. "And the British bloody Empire wasn't so great looking at it from mine and Erroll's point of view."
"Could've been worse," the driver said. "Without it, we wouldn't be having this interesting conversation, would we, love?"
They all laughed again.
Annabelle was sweating under her blanket now. Her nose was running, her eyes were streaming from the dust and her throat was dry too. She was feeling numb again though, she wasn't sure why. Maybe because it all seemed like a dream and any moment now, she was bound to wake up – or maybe it was just the shock.
The driver switched the radio on again - to the news this time. Annabelle didn't listen to the news much. She wasn't very interested and she didn't usually have the chance because it was on at the Firbank children's bedtime. She listened now though, desperate to hear a story about her own kidnapping, but it was just the usual wars and bombings and goings-on in Parliament. The black man was whistling quietly to himself, which was sort of soothing. He leaned down to check on her again and this time he said, "Don't worry, darlin', we're nearly there."
"What did you call her?" The Asian girl sounded furious suddenly. "She's not your darling, Erroll, she's here to do a job."
"Bloody hell," the driver broke in. "Jealous bitch, aren't you? Erroll's just doin' his job, Ravinder, love. You do yours, yeah?"
There was a momentary silence and then the Asian girl – Ravinder – said, "Sorry, sire," and the driver said, "I should bloody well hope so."
After that exchange, the atmosphere seemed to sour a little. The driver turned the sound up on the radio and no one spoke. The black man's foot rocked backwards and forwards on Annabelle's back, almost like a massage. She shut her eyes. She felt sleepy in spite of everything. Then the driver said, "Home sweet home."
The car stopped, though the engine was still running and Annabelle heard the driver get out. There was a moment's silence and then the Asian girl said, "God, I love you. I fucking hate sharin' you with him."
Annabelle heard the sound of people kissing then the black man's voice said, "You aren't the only one, darlin'. I have to share you too."
"Not nearly as much." The Asian girl sounded bitter. "Maybe I'm not big enough or black enough for him? Besides, you like what he does to you."
"That's stupid talk," the black man said, "and dangerous too, yeah? You know as well as I do the Mistress don't like him goin' with other women."
There was the sound of more kissing and then he went on, "Just face it, Ravi, you'd be jealous of anyone. He's our sire. He can do what the fuck he wants with us."
The Asian girl appeared to accept this because she changed the subject suddenly.
"You gonna dump the car or am I?"
"You," the black man answered at once. "Big black man – stolen BMW – tinted windows - it's askin' to be pulled over by the filth innit?"
"Guess so," the Asian girl agreed. "But you keep your hands off her, hear?"
"Come off it, Ravi," the black man said, "she's off-limits anyway, you know that, or you would if you was thinkin' straight."
"Can't think straight around you." The Asian girl's voice took on a wistful note but then the car door opened and the driver was back. "Right, then, mate," he said, "the coast's clear -let's be having her," and Annabelle felt herself being lifted out of the car, still wrapped in the blanket. Her strange detachment vanished suddenly and she tried to kick with her legs but one of the men had them tucked under his arm and she could hardly move them.
"Pack it in, love," the driver said, "less you wanna start your new job with a spanking."
Annabelle didn't know whether he meant it or not - especially as both he and the black man laughed – but she stopped anyway. They carried her through a door, which slammed behind them, and then they began to go down some stairs.
"Watch her head on the wall," the driver said. At that moment, a blast of hot air hit Annabelle in the face and then there was a horrendous noise – a rattling and roaring that got louder and louder and then passed on sucking the air with it. She knew at once where she'd heard that sound before but it'd never been so loud or gone by so fast.
The stairs seemed to go on forever. Annabelle counted 103. But then they were walking along a flat area before going down more stairs and along again. There was a humming noise, like electric wires, and then a distant rumbling that grew to a deafening roar as another Underground train passed by below, much closer now. When it had gone, the driver muttered, "Bloody rush hour," again and the black man grunted his assent.
At last, they stopped and Annabelle heard someone knocking on a door. A woman's voice answered and the door opened. Beyond was a stuffy, almost airless silence and then Annabelle felt herself being lowered and the blanket was pulled back.
She found herself lying on a bed with three people looking down at her and now the black man was the least frightening of the three. The other two – the driver and the woman – were both white – in fact, they were too white -both blond, both beautiful and neither very tall, and yet they were terrifying. Annabelle wasn't sure what it was exactly – something about the eyes, his blue, hers green, that seemed to pin her to the bed and make her begin to shake with fright.
By contrast, the black man looked big and reassuring and what's more, as her gaze swung round to him, he grinned at her and winked again.
"Is this her?" The woman didn't sound impressed. "She's not very old."
"Wouldn't be, would she?" The driver grinned and tilted his head on one side, and suddenly he looked more beautiful – more dangerous - than ever. "She's got the qualifications, though – all of them. Mark my words, love, this one's got – potential."
Spike was smoking a cigarette on the steps of Eros. All around him, the lights and noise of Piccadilly at night – the flashing neon, the traffic, the crowds of people – wove their garish magic while he stood apart from them, a still point at the heart of a dazzling maelstrom. Earlier, he'd picked up a girl in a pub round the corner in Shaftesbury Avenue– some American bint looking for a taste of Eurotrash – and left her with a love-bite she wouldn't forget in a hurry. It had sated his appetite but done nothing for the turmoil of his thoughts. Nicotine helped better with that.
He took another deep drag, then threw the butt down on the pavement and started walking back along Piccadilly in the direction of the lair. With Erroll out hunting – and who knew, all the way up in Cockfosters right this very moment - he couldn’t trust the rest of the minions out of his sight for long. That Ravinder needed watching, for instance. He wouldn't trust the bitch further than he could throw her, though he hadn't yet got to the stage of regretting turning her. She was useful – persuasive – she had the best capture-rate of any of the minions.
She was too ambitious, though, and too jealous around her brother, and that needed watching. It was lucky for him, Spike supposed, that there was no way Darla would accept a woman as her second-in-command or Ravinder might have given him a run for his money.
The thought of Darla and what she'd done made him angry all over again. It didn't help that he was passing St James's Church and churches always put him in a bad mood. He barged deliberately into a group of passing clubbers – big blokes with loud, over-bred voices, just asking to be taught a lesson – and a minute later was kicking some posh bastard's head in while the others lay sprawled on the pavement groaning. When he heard the sirens coming, he ducked down the alley next to the church and climbed up to the nearest roof to get a better look at the fun. From there, he could hear one of the victims telling the filth they'd been set on by a gang – at least eight of them – maybe even ten.
He counted the money in the wallet he'd lifted and smoked another cigarette. He felt better for a little while but once the ambulance had arrived and carted the injured off to hospital, there was nothing to look at and gloom settled over him again.
He still couldn't believe Darla had done what she had. After all, it wasn't as if they were humans just because they had a sort-of human kid, and Angelus didn't have any legal rights of access to Connor, even if he was his real dad. Spike thought of the last time he'd seen the old man – so Slayer-whipped it was hardly even funny – and grinned at the notion of Angelus trying to take Darla to court over visiting rights. He was such a pussy now he'd probably do it if he thought it'd work.
'Course, with his beloved Slayer dead and white hats all round the world in chaos because of the Slayer-succession crisis, he might have toughened up a bit, and Spike had said as much to Darla. Just because the old man had convinced that stupid twat Dracula of his good faith didn't mean he didn't have a plan. Angelus was all about the planning – at least, until he got bored and wandered off, and that was the difference between him and his souled counterpart.
Angel – stupid bloody name! – didn't get bored, not where his self-imposed mission was concerned.
Helping the helpless! Spike remembered laughing when Darla had told him about it back when they'd been hiding out in Mexico, keeping below the radar so Angel and their other pursuers wouldn't find them. Mocking the sad old twat had been the only light relief he'd had during all the endless running and fighting.
All Darla's fault, of course – and yet, he couldn’t leave her then and he couldn’t leave her now. She had him wound round her little finger – in thrall to the glories of her quim. And it wasn't just that of course. There were other reasons too – to do with family and love and other things that made him bloody uncomfortable to think about.
He threw the still-burning cigarette out into the dark then jumped back down into the deserted alley. The shock of the paving stones against the soles of his feet jarred up through his whole body. He set out at an easy lope back towards the lair, past the glossy frontages of Fortnum's and the Ritz then across the road, dodging the traffic, and on along the north side of Piccadilly. He couldn't get Angelus out of his head, though. When he'd last spent any length of time around the old man, it'd been hell – far worse than he'd ever imagined it could be, and with Angelus, he could imagine quite a lot.
God, it made him angry still to remember that he'd actually been pleased when Angel lost his soul – thought he'd got back someone he'd loved once, even though Angelus had been a total bastard too. He'd even thought that maybe – just maybe – that same someone would take care of him for a change – wouldn't forget about him and wander off to feed dead birds in their cages the way Dru did. But it'd been nothing like that. Angelus had ruined everything.
And yet – and yet there was a part of him still that would always yearn towards that dark presence – the power, the physicality of the man. Spike ran faster, remembering long-ago nights of sleeping sated in Angelus's arms and being woken by the trailing of fangs down the curve of his back and his sire's thick cock pushing inexorably into his unprepared body until flesh split and the scent of blood filled the air. It had felt so good to belong to him – to be held caged in that overwhelming grip, one of Angelus's hands holding his neck in position for the bite while the other nursed him to completion.
He'd never felt so owned – so cherished – as he did then. 'Course, the bastard only did it so he could twist the knife harder later.
Spike slowed as he reached the corner of Down Street, feeling in his pocket for the key. The Pay Fair Mini Mart was still open and he needed more fags so he strolled across the road and went inside. Mr Asif was just starting to lock up and he jumped most gratifyingly when he saw Spike coming. He started to sweat almost at once.
"Evenin', Asif old son." Spike spoke cheerfully, in spite of the way he felt. It didn't do to be rude to the neighbours.
"Good evening, Mr Spike. How are you?" Asif's voice trembled slightly and he wiped his hand across his forehead. His sweat smelt of coconut hair oil.
"Not too bad, thanks. You?" Spike ignored Asif's wavering answer and helped himself to cigarettes from behind the counter, along with the Evening Standard and a couple of pints of milk from the fridge. The rugrat might need some for his breakfast. Then in a fit of generosity - because when the neighbours were a known quantity, you had to encourage them to stay, didn't you - he threw down a fiver next to the till and clapped the sweating shopkeeper on the back.
"Missus doing all right" he asked, "and those two lovely girls of yours? Not sent 'em back to Pakistan, have you, because I wouldn't like that – not at all."
"N-no." Asif had gone waxy-pale under his brown skin. "I remembered what you said, Mr Spike, don't worry please." Asif had tried to get his family out of the country when he'd first learned with whom he was sharing the building and Spike had made it pretty plain to him why he shouldn't do it.
"Good man." Spike exited the shop in a swirl of leather, enjoying the stink of fear he left behind him.
He stood still for a moment, looking up and down the deserted street, scenting the air and listening, making sure no one was watching, human or otherwise. Then he unlocked the heavy metal door in the middle of the ox-blood tiled frontage and slipped inside. As always, the blast of air from below of the passing trains roaring through the abandoned station nearly knocked him off his feet. He closed the door with difficulty then made his way down the flight of concrete steps inside to the head of the old spiral staircase further below. The cast-iron structure was still quite beautiful in some ways, with the cream and red tiling on the wall beside it – very Art Deco. It pleased the buried aesthete in him and he was humming to himself as he ran down the steps, round and round the central column of the stairwell.
On the way, he passed the door that led to the generator room, then about half way down, the entrance to a corridor that led past ancient bathrooms with their wartime plumbing still intact to a set of backstairs down into the lair, and finally, at the bottom, the one that led to the old lift-shaft, the brat's favourite spot for a bit of torture practice. The place was a maze all right, and like a maze, it had only one exit – well, two if you counted the door that led out into the tunnels, but that was only safe to use when the trains weren't running.
The toilets and sinks in the bathroom corridor had been broken and stinking when Spike had first come here to recce the place and there'd been no lighting save emergency bulbs in the stairwell, but he'd still been able to see it had potential and if he could only find the right people to help him sort it, it'd make a more than passable lair. Besides, he couldn't say it didn't give him a kick to know he was dossing down somewhere once used as a bolt-hole by Churchill.
The station hadn't had a very long working life – a mere twenty-five years before it was deemed surplus to requirements. Still, Spike had fond memories of the place dating from way back. It was here, maybe in about 1927, that he'd snatched a girl off the deserted platforms late one night and given her to Dru to feed on while he'd slowly strangled her with her long pearl necklace. He wasn't sure which of them had killed her in the end but Dru had been so taken with the girl's little cloche hat that she'd finally agreed to have her hair bobbed.
He wondered what Angelus would make of the place – not that Spike was going to let him see around it. Would part of him be proud to know how well his child's child had chosen? What would he make of Spike's alliances with other interested parties, especially London Transport? He'd sorted out the beggar problem for them once and for all, hadn't he? No one else had ever managed to do that.
No, it was a bloody brilliant set-up, Spike thought, even if he said so himself, and that brought him right back facing the whole problem; which was that Angelus – no, he had to remember to call him Angel! – coming here could spoil everything.
He thought of Darla again. She said she didn't want the old man back, even if he lost his soul again– that Angelus, rather than Angel, would kill Connor like an unwanted puppy, which only seemed too likely. But Spike knew better than to think Darla was as indifferent as she seemed. Even if Angel was on the level – only coming to worship the Miracle Child, like he'd told Cousin Vlad - who was to say that Darla wouldn't beg him to come back to her the minute she set eyes on him? She'd loved him for a hundred and fifty years and that wasn't something that you just forgot.
"Fuck it!" Spike stopped short of the stairway down to track level and lit another cigarette, while he listened to a train going by. In an hour or so, the current would be switched off and the lair would go into silent mode, keeping its secrets from any passing maintenance workers.
He wasn't ready, he thought, to have Angel come and take away everything he'd built – take his woman back – maybe even his kid. The thought was bitter, considering what Spike had given up for their sakes. On the other hand – and he pushed away from the wall as he thought it and went on walking – maybe it wouldn't be that way. Angel wasn't Angelus and he didn't love Darla. Besides, hadn't Connor said he didn't want him?
Spike grinned to himself. The kid had trouble enough sharing his mum with Spike, let alone with his real dad as well. And maybe this needn't be so bad. If nothing else, he'd have the satisfaction of seeing the look on Angel's face when Connor called Spike 'Papa.'
TBC
Notes:
Whistles: a rather up-market dress shop
London Transport: the company that runs London's buses and Underground (or Tube) trains
Q.C.: Queen's Council, a high ranking barrister (trial lawyer)
Richmond: An affluent suburb of south-west London. The park, a royal deer park, is home to two herds of deer, native British species, that roam free within it. The park gates are shut to road traffic every day at sunset.
Eton: A very posh public (which means private and exclusive) school, near Windsor. Princes William and Harry went there.
Eros: A well-known London landmark, the statue of Eros stands in Piccadilly Circus where several major roads diverge, including Piccadilly itself, which heads south-west towards Kensington
Cockfosters: the northern end of the Piccadilly 'tube' line. Down Street is situated on this line, between Piccadilly and Green Park stations.
Fortnum & Mason's: a very up-market department store
The Ritz: pretty obvious, this.
The Evening Standard: London's daily evening newspaper
no subject
I loved the elucidation of Annabelle's character, and her thoughts about the vampires and her situation: Annabelle could never get over how ugly they both were – as if in inverse ratio to their human physical beauty. i thought this was a really interesting idea. i could imagine that in previous eras, part of the criteria for selection to become a vampire was not only natural viciousness, but also beauty. like they knew the juxtaposition would be more impressive and more aesthetically pleasing if they picked beautiful people to become hideous demons.
and i loved all of the little details with annabelle's abduction. i loved how clearly middle-class she is, with her prejudice and propriety and stoicism. and for some reason, this line tickled me: Annabelle counted 103. i love that she counted the steps, as if that might help her later.
And so, with the comment on her her smell, plus spike's quip about her having potential... and a succession issue in the slayer line... does that mean that she might become the slayer? hee!
They weren't going quite so fast now, as if the driver had taken heed of the Asian girl in spite of what he'd said to her. again, i love how perceptive annabelle is here, and how subtly you're showing flashes of spike's character. this was such an awesome little reinforcement of what we know of spike - soulless or not.
and then, wow, this whole thing:
the Empire was won on the playing fields of Eton etcetera, etcetera."
"That was the Battle of Waterloo," the Asian girl said. "And the British bloody Empire wasn't so great looking at it from mine and Erroll's point of view."
"Could've been worse," the driver said. "Without it, we wouldn't be having this interesting conversation, would we, love?" gah! brilliant. i'm a huge anglophile, and this chapter read like a novel that i'd pick up, but with this genius twist of having spike be a speaking representative of the old guard. i love how you're showing the conflicts of modern Britain through the chracters' interactions.
I love how Spike is both kind of irrepressibly drawn to wonder what Angelus would think of the job he's done and anxious that it could all be taken away. that was so brilliantly done. he totally wants approval but he knows he'll never get it, and yet it's this instinct to want to be noticed that is also what could be his undoing. if angelus so decides, spike could be relegated to third in command again. that was awesome. now i'm wondering, since spike's given so much up for what he's got, how does that tie in with dru being kept down a well?
haha. uh, this is a little long. not like you needed a book report. i'm really loving this story. :)
no subject
Annabelle is terribly middle class (or upper middle), I'm glad that came across. The class system is still very much alive and kicking over here, even though no one talks about it much any more.
Thanks so much for your f/b. Hope you continue to enjoy the story.