Family Reunion Part 8
Mar. 23rd, 2007 08:35 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shapinglightI'm still off sick from work (and feeling pretty yucky, hence the non-answering of comments for the last two days, which I hope to start rectifying today - sorry for the delay) so here's another part of the story.
For rating/setting/pairings etc, see Part 1. Previous parts are here.
Family Reunion Part 8
"Why can't you help her?"
The witch seemed more Women's Institute than Wicca, except for her smell, which was so overpoweringly herbal Spike wanted to roll her into a joint and smoke her. Her clothes were no-nonsense vintage Marks & Spencer, probably dating from some time back in the 70s. She was kneeling next to Dru, who lay curled up like a wounded animal, lost in her drugged sleep.
"I'm sorry." The witch pushed her glasses back up her nose. "There's nothing I can do for her."
"But why not?" Spike was trying to keep his anger in check, although it wasn't easy. He'd given the woman a promise of safe passage and besides, if she belonged to a coven, which she probably did, killing her could bring a whole world of trouble on them.
"She's out of tune," the witch said, which made no bloody sense at all. "I was trying to restore her aura to its natural shape and colour but it just won't go." She dabbed her face with a tissue. There was sweat on her upper lip.
"What's that supposed to mean when it's at home?" Spike couldn't take his eyes off Dru's pale, suffering face. "Anyway, she's bonkers – mad as a hatter. You sure that's not what's disrupting your spell? Maybe you're trying to make her – aura – whatever- into something it isn't?"
"Certainly not." The witch sounded affronted that he'd questioned her professionalism. She climbed to her feet with arthritic slowness – Spike didn't offer to help her - and began to button up her cardigan. "You told me she was mad before she was made a vampire – well then, madness is her natural state now – insofar as vampires are natural – and I allowed for that."
"Yeah, yeah," Spike waved his hand dismissively. "Blood-sucking spawn of Satan, contrary to the laws of nature – I know all that bollocks. You're saying she can't be healed?" He couldn't get his head round the thought.
The witch had picked up her coat, which was covered in cat hair. "I am," she agreed. "Some powerful force has her in its grip – something far stronger than me – something unnatural and not of this earth. I can't fight that. I don't know if anything can."
"But why her?" Spike reined back his vampire features with a supreme effort of self-control. "Why aren't I affected by this whatever-it-is? Why aren't you for that matter?"
The witch eyed him speculatively. "Maybe you are, but you just don't know it yet? As for her, you say she's prescient? Whatever's done this to her doesn't want her blabbing, I would imagine – or maybe –" Her sharp eyes narrowed and suddenly she looked almost afraid.
"Yeah?" Spike found himself hanging on her every word.
"Maybe it needs her for something and this is its way of controlling her until the time comes?"
"Fuck." A shiver went down Spike's spine. He had a feeling he knew what 'it' was. He thought, too, that in retrospect, it was bloody weird how easily Darla had found him and Dru in Juarez.
Then he stuck his hands into his duster pockets. "C'mon, Grandma, I'll see you on your way."
The witch scowled at him and he scowled back. He wasn't going to apologise. However, she followed him without further question back through the lair – and a sorry excuse for one it was too – and up into the daylight. He stopped in the shadows of the warehouse basement steps, blinking a little in the unaccustomed brightness.
"So you're saying, then," he pursued, "that I should take her away from here – far from the influence of this – thing – whatever it is?"
The witch paused, looking back at him, her pale eyes without sympathy in their net of wrinkles. "I doubt it'll make any difference now," she said. "I think she's too far gone. In fact, it was probably too late from the moment this first happened to her."
"Don't say that!" And suddenly Spike's anger got the better of him. He vamped out and reached for her but she jumped back in far sprightlier fashion than he'd been expecting.
"Don't cross me, vampire," she hissed. "You've enough on your plate already." She put her coat on, eyes like cold grey pebbles fixed on him the whole time. "I'm glad I'm old. I won't live to see how this turns out – and a good thing too." Then she walked away into the sunlight and all he could do was stand there and watch her go.
He went back into the lair, closing the door against the treacherous sun. He'd forgotten how chancy the weather was here in England – one moment cloudy enough for a vampire to risk daylight travel and pissing it down as like as not, another all bright and sunny like now.
They'd been here almost a week and the place was still a shambles. The cultists didn't seem concerned about their surroundings. Probably, Spike thought, they'd spent most of their time on their knees kissing their dead potentate's arse while the place went to rack and ruin around them. And it wasn't because they couldn't afford better lodgings. He'd had a look at the books now and this lot were rolling in money, or rather their leader had been – but then, that was cults for you.
He'd had one room cleaned up properly and made nice for Darla and the baby, though Darla didn't much like sharing space with the brat, in spite of how she felt about it. If it so much as whimpered she'd be on her feet prowling up and down, demanding to know what was wrong with it and threatening the wet nurse and it was all Spike could do to keep her from killing the terrified woman.
He was getting tired of it. The kid would have to be weaned onto a bottle and the wet nurse got rid of. If Darla wouldn't look after the kid herself, they'd get a real professional to do it.
He kicked out at an old armchair from which all the stuffing was leaking. Not for the first time, he wondered what the hell he was doing here, waiting on Darla like a servant when common sense said he should take Dru and get out - leave Darla to manage as best she could on her own.
However, if the witch was on the level – and why wouldn't she be? – it was already too late for that. Besides, when they were alone together Darla didn't treat him like a servant. No, she knew how to make a man feel good – how to twist him round her little finger. He'd seen her do it to Angelus enough times to watch cynically – like there was a part of him detached and just observing everything – while she did the exact same thing to him. It was that alone that was preventing him from falling hopelessly, stupidly, in love with her.
That and the kid too, of course. The little scrap was family but it still scared him. He couldn't help thinking – spawn of two vampires, it couldn't lead to anything good. He couldn't help remembering, too, what Dru had said in her ravings – something about a destroyer.
The young female cultist – Melanie – was coming from the direction of Darla's room. She'd taken on the role of unofficial ladies' maid in the past week, always fetching and carrying for the Mistress, a real little brown-noser.
"Mel," Spike beckoned her towards him. "Can I have a word, love?"
"Of course, master," she sing-songed, which put Spike's teeth on edge. He couldn’t stand all this ritual nonsense but the cultists were steeped in it and he doubted they'd ever change – and maybe he shouldn't want them to. As long as they believed in this prophecy bollocks they'd be easy to control – easy to use as a weapon.
"None of that master crap," he said anyway. "Name's Spike and that's always been good enough."
"Sorry, master." The silly little bitch almost fetched him a curtsey and he rolled his eyes.
"Wanna ask you a few questions, yeah? What did your old boss have to say about the Miracle Child? There a prophecy, is there?"
"Oh, yes," the girl said, eagerly. "The Miracle Child will lead us to the Promised Land – Master Uthar taught us that."
Uthar? Spike raised an eyebrow in amusement. That couldn't have been the bloke's real name, could it?
"The Promised Land for vampires this'd be?"
Again, she nodded. "The Old Ones will return," she intoned, "and demons will rule the earth again, like they once did. That's why we wear black -" and she touched her tight black tunic reverently with her hand – "to remind us of the darkness that ruled before the blight of humanity."
"Great." Spike could remember similar garbage being spouted by the Master's former minions in Sunnydale about their so-called Anointed One. He'd thought at the time - and still thought - this demon paradise was very unlikely to be what they were all anticipating. Vampires were the vermin of the demon world and always would be.
"Very important kid, then – the Miracle Child?" He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. Mel was still standing in front of him all bright-eyed and eager. She was in vamp face, which he didn't fancy much, but he'd seen her human one and it wasn't too bad. He'd have her some time, he thought, when the mood took him – maybe knock some sense into her in the process.
"Very important," she agreed emphatically. "There's a scroll somewhere, Master Uthar said. It calls him the Tro-Clon – the Destroyer – come to wreak ruin and destruction on humanity. I can't wait. It's going to be wonderful."
"Yeah?" Well, that made a horrible kind of sense. Spike couldn't see why the girl was so pleased about it. Anything that disrupted the food supply had to be a bad thing, he'd always thought.
"Oh yes," Mel babbled on, happily. "We only live to serve him and maybe one day – when he's fully grown – he'll look on his servants with favour."
"What's she saying to you?" It was Darla's voice. She'd come out of her room, looking particularly wild-eyed and out-of-sorts. "Don't listen to that garbage."
Mel got a scared look on her face. She began to edge round behind Spike, using him as a shield from Darla. "I'm sorry, Mistress," she said. "He asked me – I wouldn't have said anything but I wanted to share the good news of the prophecy."
Spike moved out from between them. It looked like Darla's blood was up and he didn't want to be collateral damage. Besides, Mel wasn't that pretty.
"It seems you people haven't learned your lesson yet." Darla advanced towards them, slow and sinuous as a snake, while Mel backed away across the room. She'd begun to whimper. "I'm the Mistress now and my child is here to be worshipped – not gossiped about like some – some pop-star."
They had an audience by now, the cultists gathering from all over the lair at the sound of raised voices. Spike saw their faces peering out of the gloom, yellow eyes and fangs at odds with their frightened expressions. He leaned back against the wall, exhaling smoke. This was like the old days back at the Master's court, from what little he'd experienced of it. No one was safe – not even the ones who obeyed the Master's orders to the letter. Everyone lived at the mercy of his whims. It wasn't Spike's preferred way of dealing with minions, except on the odd special occasion – bully them of course, but keep them around if they were useful.
In spite of that, he didn't intervene as Darla closed in on the hapless Mel, who subsided at her feet, trembling. He watched with growing disgust as Darla slapped her a few times, open-handed and contemptuous, and then staked her with a broken chair-leg. The pathetic little bitch didn't even try to defend herself. They were better off without that kind of help, he reckoned.
But he realised things were more wrong than he'd thought when Darla didn't move afterwards but stood as if frozen while a choking cloud of Mel's dust rose to envelope her. A quick glance round the assembled cultists showed nostrils flared here and there, obviously scenting for weakness. Spike made of a note of the culprits. It seemed not all of the tossers had bought the whole Miracle Child and his mum thing the way Mel had.
He ground out his cigarette underfoot and pushed away from the wall. Then he went across to Darla and took hold of her arm.
"You're tired, Mistress," he said, carefully. "Maybe you should rest."
She allowed him to steer her back in the direction of her room. She seemed almost dazed – as if she didn't know where she was.
"Get on with it, you lot." Spike scowled at the watching cultists. "Lair's not gonna sodding well feed itself, is it?"
He knew he'd have to throw his weight around a bit later on, but in the meantime, he was more concerned about Darla. And that concern only grew when he'd shut the door behind them and smelt the blood that spattered the walls and floor.
Letting go of Darla's arm, he ran to the wet nurse's body, but it was too late to do anything for her. He prodded the cooling flesh with his finger. "You killed her? What the fuck did you do that for?"
"I don't know!" Her voice came out a wail and when he turned to her, her hands were over her face. "I don't know what's happening to me, Spike. For God's sake, help me!"
He thought that pointing out the irony of a demon invoking the hostile deity was probably not a wise course at the moment. Instead, he went to her, holding her body against him, while she wept and trembled. "I'm afraid," she moaned. "What's happening to me?"
He knew she knew the answer to that. His eyes strayed across the room to where the baby slept in its makeshift cradle. For a moment, he contemplated offering to kill it for her again, but he already knew what would be her reaction. Besides, who knew what effect it would have on Dru if the witch were right? The two of them – child and madwoman - were bound together somehow, and perforce, he was bound to both of them.
"Come on, love," he said, instead. "You and I both know it's the kid, yeah? But you'll get used to it in time."
"I won't!" she insisted, into his chest. "It's all wrong, Spike. I should want to kill him – be free of him - not love him the way I do."
He began to stroke her hair, smoothing down the silken strands with his fingers.
"You don't know that, do you? How can you know what you should feel when this is the first time it's happened? Kid's special – that's certain. Maybe if you look after him yourself – be a real mum – things might improve, who knows?"
"No!" Her voice was emphatic. "I can't do that – it revolts me – and yet –"
Her voice trailed off again and for a while he simply held her. Then she said, muffled, "Oh, God! He'll wake up and be hungry – and I killed her. If he cries, Spike, I don't think I can stand it."
"S'okay, s'okay," he began to back her towards the bed, soothing her. "I'll send one of those cultist tossers out for a bottle and stuff – one of them can deal with the messy bit until we get him a proper nanny." He didn't say that the late-unlamented Mel would have been a perfect choice for the role. Darla probably knew that.
"A nanny?" She'd raised her head at last. A single tear rolled down her cheek, a perfect translucent pearl.
"Yeah." He caught the tear on his finger and wiped it away. "A professional – someone with qualifications."
"That might do," she said, hesitantly. Then, "I already know I won't like her."
He tipped her onto the bed on her back then lay down beside her, sliding delicate fingers up her thigh to rest on the thin silk that covered her privates. Even now, she smelt heavenly. "You don't have to like her – just to not kill her."
She moaned, a faint, animalistic sound, and hearing it, he tore the silk away and dipped his fingers into cool wetness. Soon he had her grinding her clit against his thumb while with his other hand, he pulled up her dress. Her breasts were ripe and inviting and he set his tongue to their lace covering, feeling her nipples grow hard as he swirled wet circles around them and sucked them into his mouth.
"Fuck me," she hissed, and then she kissed him.
He took her from behind, kneeling up with her impaled on his lap. His balls slapped against the sweet curve of her buttocks as he plumbed the depths of her. One hand was lost in her grasping quim and the other teased her nipples to stiff little peaks as he held her against him. Her head was twisted back to look at him, her eyes open and on him the whole time, so he knew it was him she was seeing, not some ghost from the past.
Towards the end she grew molten and soft, shuddering and gasping, allowing him to take control in a way she'd never previously permitted him. He wondered if she'd ever dared let Angelus see her so vulnerable.
Eyes on her face, sliding towards that final edge, he suddenly knew he was lost. He couldn't give this up now, not even for Dru's sake.
He shrugged inwardly. Maybe he just had a thing for crazy women?
Afterwards, replete, they lay in each other's arms, his hand still cupping the full curve of her breast. She seemed calmer now – more like herself – and he saw her wrinkle her nose. The dead woman was beginning to smell already.
"I'll have someone take it away," he offered, gesturing with his head towards the cooling corpse. "Waste not, want not, after all."
"My William." She kissed him sweet and soft and then suddenly she'd gone all practical. "We can't stay here."
He'd known that from the start. "Agreed. We need to find somewhere else fast. This place is rubbish."
"Not just that. He'll find us here far too easily and we're not ready."
"Angel?" He almost sneered as he said the name. There was nothing here for the old man now. "I doubt it. Tosser's probably given up searching anyway – gone running back to his little Slayer."
"No." Suddenly she was frowning. "He'll never give up, don't you see? He's his father, Spike. Don't you think he feels it?"
"Feels what?" But he knew what she meant, even as he said it. And wasn't it foolish of him to think that the kid's influence would only extend to his mother. After all, it wasn't as if he hadn't felt it himself and he was only a distant relation – a sort of half-uncle or something.
"Right – you're right," he conceded. "We need somewhere anonymous – somewhere invisible. I'd better take a trip up to the Smoke and do some scouting around."
"You had."
"Also," he went on, because one thing led to another, "we need to keep this bunch of arseholes close but not too close. We can use them to spy for us – gather information – be backup in a crisis - but there's too many of them. A lair like this can't be sustained in secrecy. Better – more practical – if we make the ones we want near us from scratch – a small inner circle."
"I'll leave that to you," she said, as so often, and she put her head down on his shoulder. He thought about it for a bit. It made sense of course, though he'd never much cared for the training of minions and finding and turning the right people was going to be difficult.
Nothing he couldn't do, though, if he set his mind to it. Maybe he'd even make himself some children of his own to help with the process. He'd been around long enough by now to deal with all that sire/child crap.
He thought of something else then, though it seemed a lot less important in the afterglow.
"You were gonna tell me about this whole Tro-Clon thing, weren't you, love? I do all the donkey work for you, the least you can do is trust me."
She kissed him again. "I do trust you. I've told you that repeatedly. I'd have told you when the time was right." Already her eyes were hooded with secrets.
"Yeah? Why'd you get so narked with Mel, then? She up-stage you or something?"
She ran cool fingers down his cheek, tracing the line of his cheekbone and jaw. "What use are these people," she said, "if they can't keep their damn mouths shut? They have to learn, Spike – and the sooner the better. You make sure they know that."
"I can do that." It might even be fun. He waited but she didn't say anything else. "You aren't going to tell me, are you?"
"What is there to tell? You know I believe in the prophecy and after what you've seen since we met, how could you doubt it yourself?"
That reminded him of yet another thing he'd put out of his mind.
"And Dru?" he asked belatedly. "What'll happen to her? I won't just leave her."
She kissed him a third time, soft and lingering. "I wouldn't expect you to - and I won't harm her if that's what you're worried about, as long as you make sure she's kept safe - where she can't hurt my baby." She smiled as if to reassure him. "She's family, Spike, and we don't kill family, just like you said. Anyway, one day Connor will want to know his dear aunt Drusilla because after all, he wouldn't be here without her."
Her words brought the witch's warning to mind again and he felt a shiver run all through his body. Raising his head, Spike saw the brat was awake in its cradle, staring across the room in a way that seemed very un-babylike. He had the uncomfortable feeling it'd been watching and listening to everything.
*
Annabelle straightened her uniform dress. It fit badly – baggy round the waist and tight on the hips. She was sure it made her bum look huge. Her stomach was a knot of fear and excitement and she'd hardly been able to choke down any food today at all.
"Aren't you ready yet?" Darla's voice from the outer room – and it sounded like her patience, such as it was, was fast disappearing.
"Sorry." Annabelle jammed the brown felt hat on her head, adjusting the tilt of it by feel alone since she wasn't allowed a mirror. Her hand skated over the pair of white gloves, the fingertips slightly grubby from the dust, but she left them where they were and went through to the outer room. Connor and Spike had been playing some kind of car racing game on the PS2 and Spike was in the process of turning the machine off. He was very subdued, Annabelle thought, but since she had some idea why, she wasn't surprised.
Erroll must be pretty upset about it too. He'd gone, Spike had told her – left before the trains started running this morning – which meant Ravinder was in charge of the minions in his absence. The thought of Ravinder unrestrained by Erroll made Annabelle's blood run cold. She remembered the way the female vampire had looked at her yesterday – suspicious – just waiting for a chance to act on those suspicions. It was enough to make her decide to continue her attempt to get Angel's help in spite of what Angel must have done to Spike.
Darla was dressed very carefully again – this time in black, a full-length gown in some kind of clinging satin, with her only adornment her long blonde hair. Not for the first time, Annabelle wondered if the colour was natural. She flinched a little as Darla scowled at her then snapped her fingers and gestured at Connor.
"Hold his hand," she said, "and pay attention."
"Yes, sorry." Annabelle took Connor's small, cold hand in hers. His palm was clammy to the touch and for the very first time, she missed her gloves. She just hoped that Connor would miss them too – but not too quickly.
Darla had put her hand on Spike's crooked elbow for him to escort her, which seemed old-fashioned and yet very natural to both of them, as if they'd done it a thousand times before. They were old, Annabelle knew, especially Darla, but she had no idea how old.
They went out of the room, up the stairs and through the cross tunnel, over the eastbound line to the main part of the station where the others would already be waiting. Annabelle held her breath. When would he notice? She gripped Connor's hand a little tighter and he yelped.
"You're hurting me," he said, and then spitefully, "Mama, Belle isn't wearing her gloves."
"I forgot. I'm sorry." Annabelle let go of Connor's hand, trying to hide the rush of relief she was feeling. "I was in a hurry."
"Never mind, Belle." It was Spike, of course. "Forget the gloves – they aren't important."
"I disagree." Darla reached out and reeled Connor in towards her body, where he leaned against her, a look of smug glee on his face at Annabelle's discomfiture. Darla herself looked furious.
"I'm beginning to wonder if you're worth all this trouble, you stupid girl. You can't remember the simplest instruction and now you're becoming woefully sloppy."
"Sorry." Annabelle tried not to clench her fists but her whole body was tensed up ready for flight. What if she'd gone too far? What if Darla just decided to kill her? It wouldn't be the first time she'd lost patience forever with one of Connor's nannies.
It was Spike who saved her – yet again.
"Take it easy, love," he said to Darla. "She's not that bad. Besides, she has lots of other advantages – told you that. Who else could take this kind of life and not go mad except someone like her?"
Annabelle wondered what he meant. The Gieves-Bowens were tough of course – at least, that's what Daddy always said –come over in 1066 with William the Conqueror - and she'd always felt different – sort-of special – but just now all she felt was scared. Darla's face was rippling oddly, her hideous vampire features straining to emerge.
"She sets my teeth on edge," Darla said, to Spike. "She does the same to all of us – except you, of course. You always were an odd one, Spike."
"Yeah, well – "Spike sounded tired – like he was going through the motions rather than really interested -"I may be odd but I've got a scar and a coat to show for it, don't forget, whereas they're both dead. Can cope with anything - you know that." There was an edge of bitter amusement to those last words.
To Annabelle, he said, "Go and fetch the sodding gloves, Belle, and be quick about it, yeah?"
"I will- sorry." Annabelle turned and hurried back the way they'd come. She felt sick. At the top of the stairs back down to the platforms, she hid just round the corner and watched until the two vampires and their child were out of sight.
She fetched the gloves first because if she was caught and she didn't even have them, she had no idea how she'd explain it. Then she ran back up the platform, through the gap and along the eastbound platform, the sound of her running footsteps muffled by a passing train. After it had gone, the bricked-in space was silent save for the fading hum of the transformers in the tunnel.
The door to Angel's cell was wide open again – no sign of anyone about. Inside the room, Annabelle had to wait a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. Then she hurried over to the grille covering the ventilation shaft. When she saw it, her heart seemed to plummet into her boots. Her note was still there – exactly where she'd left it. He hadn't even seen it. Her disappointment was so great she felt tears starting up in her eyes.
For a moment, she considered giving up – begging Spike to make her a vampire and not just kill her. She didn't want to die and it was life of a sort – better than nothing. But in her heart of hearts, she knew he wouldn't do it, and even if he wanted to, Darla wouldn't let him. Anyway, she knew she had to stop thinking that he cared about her. He wanted her to think it but it couldn't be true, could it? It was just pretend to keep her from causing any trouble.
Distraught, she snatched the folded note out of the grille, stuffed the pencil in the breast pocket of her uniform dress and made for the door. She had to get back before Darla sent someone to look for her and things got even worse. She hurried along the platform towards the stairs, rounded the corner and ran smack into Ravinder coming down them.
"What are you doing here?" Ravinder was in human face but her expression was still hateful.
"Nothing." Annabelle backed away but Ravinder kept on coming, herding her in the direction of the kitchen. "I was hungry, that's all. I came to get something to eat."
"Now? When the ceremony's just about to begin? I don't believe you – and what's that in your hand?"
Ravinder made a grab for the note still tight in Annabelle's grip but Annabelle knew she couldn't risk the woman reading it. She backed up fast, knowing she must look guilty as sin because her face always gave her away, flooding with colour when she felt embarrassed or caught out.
"Leave me alone – I'll tell Spike!" She resorted to the only threat she could think of that might have any power over Ravinder.
Ravinder's eyes flashed gold and she grinned, showing exquisitely white human teeth, tiny as a child's. She was tiny all over, in fact – dainty as a little golden doll – and she always made Annabelle feel like a clumsy carthorse in comparison.
"Oh, you can tell him, you stupid gori. I think I'll have a story of my own to tell him as well – make him finally listen. Give me that note."
Fast as a snake, her black hair whipping out behind her, Ravinder snatched for the note again and Annabelle turned and ran. The trouble was there wasn't really anywhere to run to. Even if she'd had a key to the locked door that led out onto the train tracks, the trains were still running and there was simply nowhere to go.
She retreated into the kitchen, looking round wildly for a weapon. Dim memories came to her from long ago of watching some vampire film on television. She'd been scared and hidden behind the sofa but she could remember that wood killed vampires – a stake to the heart – and fire, but there was nothing in here, not even matches. There was no gas – everything was electric, and the fittings were either plastic or metal.
"Don't make it harder on yourself than it has to be," Ravinder said, gleefully, "or tell you what – do."
She sprang, and now her face changed, the features convulsing into their vampire shape. Annabelle screamed but she was so terrified she couldn’t move and Ravinder was on her, knocking her to the ground. She twisted, trying the keep the hand with the note in it away from the vampire's reach while Ravinder in turn tried to wrestle it from her.
"Get off me! Leave me alone!" Annabelle twisted and bucked. Her little brown hat went flying and so did the pencil in her breast pocket. Ravinder was much heavier than she looked, as if the powerful vampire muscles inside the slight body had more weight than they should have. She had hold of both Annabelle's wrists now but she'd have to let go of one to prise her fingers open and get the note. When she did, Annabelle chose her moment to raise her head and bite Ravinder's hand hard.
"Bitch!" Ravinder stopped trying to get the note off her. Instead, she straddled Annabelle's body, holding her fast between her knees, and then she drew her arm back and slapped her hard across the face. Annabelle screamed again. At the same time, the floor began to vibrate, heralding the arrival of another train. Soon the whole room was shaking.
Ravinder's arm went up and back, ready to deliver another resounding slap. "God, I've been wanting to do this for bloody ages," she said, viciously. "Coming in here – twisting my Erroll round your little finger with your snobby airs and graces – who the bloody hell do you think you are?"
Annabelle's hands were scrabbling wildly on the floor on either side of her, the note balled up in one, the other searching desperately for a weapon. Suddenly, she felt the pencil roll against her fingers and she scrabbled it into her grip. Pencils were wood, weren't they? Above her, Ravinder was lost in her vindictive fury and the open-handed slap had changed into a clenched fist all set to deliver a teeth-shattering blow.
"When Spike's finished with you," Ravinder said – shouted over the noise of the approaching train - "I'm going to hold you down while Erroll rapes you, then I'll feed you to the Gravids myself."
Annabelle was crying – she couldn't help it - but all the same, she knew she couldn't let Ravinder's punch connect. If Spike and the others saw her all battered and bruised, it would all come out – the note – everything.
As Ravinder's tiny fist plummeted towards her, she twisted desperately and jabbed upwards with the pencil, catching the woman right in the chest. At that moment, the train thundered through the station, setting the pots and pans on the cooker rattling. Annabelle stared up at Ravinder and Ravinder stared back, a look of shock and incomprehension on her face. Her mouth framed the words, "What have you done?" and then she screamed and exploded into dust.
Annabelle stared in shock, horrified. The rush of air of the passing train seemed to seize the swirling remains of Ravinder and draw them into its wake. Annabelle waved her hand through the remnants to dissipate them, the pencil falling from her nerveless fingers. After a moment, she scrambled to her feet and threw up in the sink. Her legs were shaking.
"I'm sorry," she said aloud. "I didn't know that would happen. I hope it didn't hurt too much."
Then it struck her how stupid she was being and then she thought of Erroll and how angry he would be - because he'd loved Ravinder, Annabelle knew it, and Ravinder had loved him. They were brother and sister in a way, though they did lots of things together brothers and sisters weren't supposed to do.
And what about Spike? He hadn't been close to Ravinder the way he was to Erroll but she still belonged to him.
Annabelle knew she should tidy herself up and get back to the ceremony but it seemed hopeless now. Maybe she should kill herself before the vampires did it for her? She didn't want to die, but most of all, she didn't want to be eaten alive. There were a couple of knives in the drawer. They weren't very sharp but maybe they'd do?
A coldness settled over her as she made up her mind, along with a sudden urge to leave everything tidy, which must be the Norland College training again. She bent to pick up the note, smoothing the crumpled paper, and that was when she realised there were far more words on it than there'd been before. Angel had seen it.
All thoughts of knives went out of her head at once as she read what he'd written. In fact, she had to read it twice before she really understood it.
Dear Miss Gieves-Bowen,
I'm here to help you. The Watchers' Council and your family sent me. But you have to help me too. I have to take my son out of here. They're turning him into a monster like them. When I give you the signal, you must bring Connor to my room at night after the trains stop running and my friends will come to help us get away. Don't worry. When the time comes, you won't find it difficult. Just bring him.
It was signed Angel, with a curly, old-fashioned flourish to the signature.
Annabelle's heart was beating nineteen-to-the dozen. She read the note again. Then she tore it into tiny pieces and threw it in the bin. She took a broom from the corner and swept the remaining dust, some of which might be Ravinder's, out into the corridor to be carried away by the next passing train. Then she brushed herself down and put her hat back on, pulled on the gloves and started to run.
She'd just have to hope that Spike and Darla hadn't sent Ravinder to look for her in the first place and that she was long gone from here before Erroll came back.
TBC
Notes:
The Women's Institute, a national voluntary organisation for women in the UK, founded in 1915. Traditionally associated with jam and cake-making, and more recently with nude calendars.
Marks & Spencer: British chain store. Its fashions used to be aimed at 'women of a certain age,' though not so much now.
The Smoke: nickname for London - not that it is smoky these days, or foggy either, for that matter (American film-makers take note).
For rating/setting/pairings etc, see Part 1. Previous parts are here.
Family Reunion Part 8
"Why can't you help her?"
The witch seemed more Women's Institute than Wicca, except for her smell, which was so overpoweringly herbal Spike wanted to roll her into a joint and smoke her. Her clothes were no-nonsense vintage Marks & Spencer, probably dating from some time back in the 70s. She was kneeling next to Dru, who lay curled up like a wounded animal, lost in her drugged sleep.
"I'm sorry." The witch pushed her glasses back up her nose. "There's nothing I can do for her."
"But why not?" Spike was trying to keep his anger in check, although it wasn't easy. He'd given the woman a promise of safe passage and besides, if she belonged to a coven, which she probably did, killing her could bring a whole world of trouble on them.
"She's out of tune," the witch said, which made no bloody sense at all. "I was trying to restore her aura to its natural shape and colour but it just won't go." She dabbed her face with a tissue. There was sweat on her upper lip.
"What's that supposed to mean when it's at home?" Spike couldn't take his eyes off Dru's pale, suffering face. "Anyway, she's bonkers – mad as a hatter. You sure that's not what's disrupting your spell? Maybe you're trying to make her – aura – whatever- into something it isn't?"
"Certainly not." The witch sounded affronted that he'd questioned her professionalism. She climbed to her feet with arthritic slowness – Spike didn't offer to help her - and began to button up her cardigan. "You told me she was mad before she was made a vampire – well then, madness is her natural state now – insofar as vampires are natural – and I allowed for that."
"Yeah, yeah," Spike waved his hand dismissively. "Blood-sucking spawn of Satan, contrary to the laws of nature – I know all that bollocks. You're saying she can't be healed?" He couldn't get his head round the thought.
The witch had picked up her coat, which was covered in cat hair. "I am," she agreed. "Some powerful force has her in its grip – something far stronger than me – something unnatural and not of this earth. I can't fight that. I don't know if anything can."
"But why her?" Spike reined back his vampire features with a supreme effort of self-control. "Why aren't I affected by this whatever-it-is? Why aren't you for that matter?"
The witch eyed him speculatively. "Maybe you are, but you just don't know it yet? As for her, you say she's prescient? Whatever's done this to her doesn't want her blabbing, I would imagine – or maybe –" Her sharp eyes narrowed and suddenly she looked almost afraid.
"Yeah?" Spike found himself hanging on her every word.
"Maybe it needs her for something and this is its way of controlling her until the time comes?"
"Fuck." A shiver went down Spike's spine. He had a feeling he knew what 'it' was. He thought, too, that in retrospect, it was bloody weird how easily Darla had found him and Dru in Juarez.
Then he stuck his hands into his duster pockets. "C'mon, Grandma, I'll see you on your way."
The witch scowled at him and he scowled back. He wasn't going to apologise. However, she followed him without further question back through the lair – and a sorry excuse for one it was too – and up into the daylight. He stopped in the shadows of the warehouse basement steps, blinking a little in the unaccustomed brightness.
"So you're saying, then," he pursued, "that I should take her away from here – far from the influence of this – thing – whatever it is?"
The witch paused, looking back at him, her pale eyes without sympathy in their net of wrinkles. "I doubt it'll make any difference now," she said. "I think she's too far gone. In fact, it was probably too late from the moment this first happened to her."
"Don't say that!" And suddenly Spike's anger got the better of him. He vamped out and reached for her but she jumped back in far sprightlier fashion than he'd been expecting.
"Don't cross me, vampire," she hissed. "You've enough on your plate already." She put her coat on, eyes like cold grey pebbles fixed on him the whole time. "I'm glad I'm old. I won't live to see how this turns out – and a good thing too." Then she walked away into the sunlight and all he could do was stand there and watch her go.
He went back into the lair, closing the door against the treacherous sun. He'd forgotten how chancy the weather was here in England – one moment cloudy enough for a vampire to risk daylight travel and pissing it down as like as not, another all bright and sunny like now.
They'd been here almost a week and the place was still a shambles. The cultists didn't seem concerned about their surroundings. Probably, Spike thought, they'd spent most of their time on their knees kissing their dead potentate's arse while the place went to rack and ruin around them. And it wasn't because they couldn't afford better lodgings. He'd had a look at the books now and this lot were rolling in money, or rather their leader had been – but then, that was cults for you.
He'd had one room cleaned up properly and made nice for Darla and the baby, though Darla didn't much like sharing space with the brat, in spite of how she felt about it. If it so much as whimpered she'd be on her feet prowling up and down, demanding to know what was wrong with it and threatening the wet nurse and it was all Spike could do to keep her from killing the terrified woman.
He was getting tired of it. The kid would have to be weaned onto a bottle and the wet nurse got rid of. If Darla wouldn't look after the kid herself, they'd get a real professional to do it.
He kicked out at an old armchair from which all the stuffing was leaking. Not for the first time, he wondered what the hell he was doing here, waiting on Darla like a servant when common sense said he should take Dru and get out - leave Darla to manage as best she could on her own.
However, if the witch was on the level – and why wouldn't she be? – it was already too late for that. Besides, when they were alone together Darla didn't treat him like a servant. No, she knew how to make a man feel good – how to twist him round her little finger. He'd seen her do it to Angelus enough times to watch cynically – like there was a part of him detached and just observing everything – while she did the exact same thing to him. It was that alone that was preventing him from falling hopelessly, stupidly, in love with her.
That and the kid too, of course. The little scrap was family but it still scared him. He couldn't help thinking – spawn of two vampires, it couldn't lead to anything good. He couldn't help remembering, too, what Dru had said in her ravings – something about a destroyer.
The young female cultist – Melanie – was coming from the direction of Darla's room. She'd taken on the role of unofficial ladies' maid in the past week, always fetching and carrying for the Mistress, a real little brown-noser.
"Mel," Spike beckoned her towards him. "Can I have a word, love?"
"Of course, master," she sing-songed, which put Spike's teeth on edge. He couldn’t stand all this ritual nonsense but the cultists were steeped in it and he doubted they'd ever change – and maybe he shouldn't want them to. As long as they believed in this prophecy bollocks they'd be easy to control – easy to use as a weapon.
"None of that master crap," he said anyway. "Name's Spike and that's always been good enough."
"Sorry, master." The silly little bitch almost fetched him a curtsey and he rolled his eyes.
"Wanna ask you a few questions, yeah? What did your old boss have to say about the Miracle Child? There a prophecy, is there?"
"Oh, yes," the girl said, eagerly. "The Miracle Child will lead us to the Promised Land – Master Uthar taught us that."
Uthar? Spike raised an eyebrow in amusement. That couldn't have been the bloke's real name, could it?
"The Promised Land for vampires this'd be?"
Again, she nodded. "The Old Ones will return," she intoned, "and demons will rule the earth again, like they once did. That's why we wear black -" and she touched her tight black tunic reverently with her hand – "to remind us of the darkness that ruled before the blight of humanity."
"Great." Spike could remember similar garbage being spouted by the Master's former minions in Sunnydale about their so-called Anointed One. He'd thought at the time - and still thought - this demon paradise was very unlikely to be what they were all anticipating. Vampires were the vermin of the demon world and always would be.
"Very important kid, then – the Miracle Child?" He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. Mel was still standing in front of him all bright-eyed and eager. She was in vamp face, which he didn't fancy much, but he'd seen her human one and it wasn't too bad. He'd have her some time, he thought, when the mood took him – maybe knock some sense into her in the process.
"Very important," she agreed emphatically. "There's a scroll somewhere, Master Uthar said. It calls him the Tro-Clon – the Destroyer – come to wreak ruin and destruction on humanity. I can't wait. It's going to be wonderful."
"Yeah?" Well, that made a horrible kind of sense. Spike couldn't see why the girl was so pleased about it. Anything that disrupted the food supply had to be a bad thing, he'd always thought.
"Oh yes," Mel babbled on, happily. "We only live to serve him and maybe one day – when he's fully grown – he'll look on his servants with favour."
"What's she saying to you?" It was Darla's voice. She'd come out of her room, looking particularly wild-eyed and out-of-sorts. "Don't listen to that garbage."
Mel got a scared look on her face. She began to edge round behind Spike, using him as a shield from Darla. "I'm sorry, Mistress," she said. "He asked me – I wouldn't have said anything but I wanted to share the good news of the prophecy."
Spike moved out from between them. It looked like Darla's blood was up and he didn't want to be collateral damage. Besides, Mel wasn't that pretty.
"It seems you people haven't learned your lesson yet." Darla advanced towards them, slow and sinuous as a snake, while Mel backed away across the room. She'd begun to whimper. "I'm the Mistress now and my child is here to be worshipped – not gossiped about like some – some pop-star."
They had an audience by now, the cultists gathering from all over the lair at the sound of raised voices. Spike saw their faces peering out of the gloom, yellow eyes and fangs at odds with their frightened expressions. He leaned back against the wall, exhaling smoke. This was like the old days back at the Master's court, from what little he'd experienced of it. No one was safe – not even the ones who obeyed the Master's orders to the letter. Everyone lived at the mercy of his whims. It wasn't Spike's preferred way of dealing with minions, except on the odd special occasion – bully them of course, but keep them around if they were useful.
In spite of that, he didn't intervene as Darla closed in on the hapless Mel, who subsided at her feet, trembling. He watched with growing disgust as Darla slapped her a few times, open-handed and contemptuous, and then staked her with a broken chair-leg. The pathetic little bitch didn't even try to defend herself. They were better off without that kind of help, he reckoned.
But he realised things were more wrong than he'd thought when Darla didn't move afterwards but stood as if frozen while a choking cloud of Mel's dust rose to envelope her. A quick glance round the assembled cultists showed nostrils flared here and there, obviously scenting for weakness. Spike made of a note of the culprits. It seemed not all of the tossers had bought the whole Miracle Child and his mum thing the way Mel had.
He ground out his cigarette underfoot and pushed away from the wall. Then he went across to Darla and took hold of her arm.
"You're tired, Mistress," he said, carefully. "Maybe you should rest."
She allowed him to steer her back in the direction of her room. She seemed almost dazed – as if she didn't know where she was.
"Get on with it, you lot." Spike scowled at the watching cultists. "Lair's not gonna sodding well feed itself, is it?"
He knew he'd have to throw his weight around a bit later on, but in the meantime, he was more concerned about Darla. And that concern only grew when he'd shut the door behind them and smelt the blood that spattered the walls and floor.
Letting go of Darla's arm, he ran to the wet nurse's body, but it was too late to do anything for her. He prodded the cooling flesh with his finger. "You killed her? What the fuck did you do that for?"
"I don't know!" Her voice came out a wail and when he turned to her, her hands were over her face. "I don't know what's happening to me, Spike. For God's sake, help me!"
He thought that pointing out the irony of a demon invoking the hostile deity was probably not a wise course at the moment. Instead, he went to her, holding her body against him, while she wept and trembled. "I'm afraid," she moaned. "What's happening to me?"
He knew she knew the answer to that. His eyes strayed across the room to where the baby slept in its makeshift cradle. For a moment, he contemplated offering to kill it for her again, but he already knew what would be her reaction. Besides, who knew what effect it would have on Dru if the witch were right? The two of them – child and madwoman - were bound together somehow, and perforce, he was bound to both of them.
"Come on, love," he said, instead. "You and I both know it's the kid, yeah? But you'll get used to it in time."
"I won't!" she insisted, into his chest. "It's all wrong, Spike. I should want to kill him – be free of him - not love him the way I do."
He began to stroke her hair, smoothing down the silken strands with his fingers.
"You don't know that, do you? How can you know what you should feel when this is the first time it's happened? Kid's special – that's certain. Maybe if you look after him yourself – be a real mum – things might improve, who knows?"
"No!" Her voice was emphatic. "I can't do that – it revolts me – and yet –"
Her voice trailed off again and for a while he simply held her. Then she said, muffled, "Oh, God! He'll wake up and be hungry – and I killed her. If he cries, Spike, I don't think I can stand it."
"S'okay, s'okay," he began to back her towards the bed, soothing her. "I'll send one of those cultist tossers out for a bottle and stuff – one of them can deal with the messy bit until we get him a proper nanny." He didn't say that the late-unlamented Mel would have been a perfect choice for the role. Darla probably knew that.
"A nanny?" She'd raised her head at last. A single tear rolled down her cheek, a perfect translucent pearl.
"Yeah." He caught the tear on his finger and wiped it away. "A professional – someone with qualifications."
"That might do," she said, hesitantly. Then, "I already know I won't like her."
He tipped her onto the bed on her back then lay down beside her, sliding delicate fingers up her thigh to rest on the thin silk that covered her privates. Even now, she smelt heavenly. "You don't have to like her – just to not kill her."
She moaned, a faint, animalistic sound, and hearing it, he tore the silk away and dipped his fingers into cool wetness. Soon he had her grinding her clit against his thumb while with his other hand, he pulled up her dress. Her breasts were ripe and inviting and he set his tongue to their lace covering, feeling her nipples grow hard as he swirled wet circles around them and sucked them into his mouth.
"Fuck me," she hissed, and then she kissed him.
He took her from behind, kneeling up with her impaled on his lap. His balls slapped against the sweet curve of her buttocks as he plumbed the depths of her. One hand was lost in her grasping quim and the other teased her nipples to stiff little peaks as he held her against him. Her head was twisted back to look at him, her eyes open and on him the whole time, so he knew it was him she was seeing, not some ghost from the past.
Towards the end she grew molten and soft, shuddering and gasping, allowing him to take control in a way she'd never previously permitted him. He wondered if she'd ever dared let Angelus see her so vulnerable.
Eyes on her face, sliding towards that final edge, he suddenly knew he was lost. He couldn't give this up now, not even for Dru's sake.
He shrugged inwardly. Maybe he just had a thing for crazy women?
Afterwards, replete, they lay in each other's arms, his hand still cupping the full curve of her breast. She seemed calmer now – more like herself – and he saw her wrinkle her nose. The dead woman was beginning to smell already.
"I'll have someone take it away," he offered, gesturing with his head towards the cooling corpse. "Waste not, want not, after all."
"My William." She kissed him sweet and soft and then suddenly she'd gone all practical. "We can't stay here."
He'd known that from the start. "Agreed. We need to find somewhere else fast. This place is rubbish."
"Not just that. He'll find us here far too easily and we're not ready."
"Angel?" He almost sneered as he said the name. There was nothing here for the old man now. "I doubt it. Tosser's probably given up searching anyway – gone running back to his little Slayer."
"No." Suddenly she was frowning. "He'll never give up, don't you see? He's his father, Spike. Don't you think he feels it?"
"Feels what?" But he knew what she meant, even as he said it. And wasn't it foolish of him to think that the kid's influence would only extend to his mother. After all, it wasn't as if he hadn't felt it himself and he was only a distant relation – a sort of half-uncle or something.
"Right – you're right," he conceded. "We need somewhere anonymous – somewhere invisible. I'd better take a trip up to the Smoke and do some scouting around."
"You had."
"Also," he went on, because one thing led to another, "we need to keep this bunch of arseholes close but not too close. We can use them to spy for us – gather information – be backup in a crisis - but there's too many of them. A lair like this can't be sustained in secrecy. Better – more practical – if we make the ones we want near us from scratch – a small inner circle."
"I'll leave that to you," she said, as so often, and she put her head down on his shoulder. He thought about it for a bit. It made sense of course, though he'd never much cared for the training of minions and finding and turning the right people was going to be difficult.
Nothing he couldn't do, though, if he set his mind to it. Maybe he'd even make himself some children of his own to help with the process. He'd been around long enough by now to deal with all that sire/child crap.
He thought of something else then, though it seemed a lot less important in the afterglow.
"You were gonna tell me about this whole Tro-Clon thing, weren't you, love? I do all the donkey work for you, the least you can do is trust me."
She kissed him again. "I do trust you. I've told you that repeatedly. I'd have told you when the time was right." Already her eyes were hooded with secrets.
"Yeah? Why'd you get so narked with Mel, then? She up-stage you or something?"
She ran cool fingers down his cheek, tracing the line of his cheekbone and jaw. "What use are these people," she said, "if they can't keep their damn mouths shut? They have to learn, Spike – and the sooner the better. You make sure they know that."
"I can do that." It might even be fun. He waited but she didn't say anything else. "You aren't going to tell me, are you?"
"What is there to tell? You know I believe in the prophecy and after what you've seen since we met, how could you doubt it yourself?"
That reminded him of yet another thing he'd put out of his mind.
"And Dru?" he asked belatedly. "What'll happen to her? I won't just leave her."
She kissed him a third time, soft and lingering. "I wouldn't expect you to - and I won't harm her if that's what you're worried about, as long as you make sure she's kept safe - where she can't hurt my baby." She smiled as if to reassure him. "She's family, Spike, and we don't kill family, just like you said. Anyway, one day Connor will want to know his dear aunt Drusilla because after all, he wouldn't be here without her."
Her words brought the witch's warning to mind again and he felt a shiver run all through his body. Raising his head, Spike saw the brat was awake in its cradle, staring across the room in a way that seemed very un-babylike. He had the uncomfortable feeling it'd been watching and listening to everything.
Annabelle straightened her uniform dress. It fit badly – baggy round the waist and tight on the hips. She was sure it made her bum look huge. Her stomach was a knot of fear and excitement and she'd hardly been able to choke down any food today at all.
"Aren't you ready yet?" Darla's voice from the outer room – and it sounded like her patience, such as it was, was fast disappearing.
"Sorry." Annabelle jammed the brown felt hat on her head, adjusting the tilt of it by feel alone since she wasn't allowed a mirror. Her hand skated over the pair of white gloves, the fingertips slightly grubby from the dust, but she left them where they were and went through to the outer room. Connor and Spike had been playing some kind of car racing game on the PS2 and Spike was in the process of turning the machine off. He was very subdued, Annabelle thought, but since she had some idea why, she wasn't surprised.
Erroll must be pretty upset about it too. He'd gone, Spike had told her – left before the trains started running this morning – which meant Ravinder was in charge of the minions in his absence. The thought of Ravinder unrestrained by Erroll made Annabelle's blood run cold. She remembered the way the female vampire had looked at her yesterday – suspicious – just waiting for a chance to act on those suspicions. It was enough to make her decide to continue her attempt to get Angel's help in spite of what Angel must have done to Spike.
Darla was dressed very carefully again – this time in black, a full-length gown in some kind of clinging satin, with her only adornment her long blonde hair. Not for the first time, Annabelle wondered if the colour was natural. She flinched a little as Darla scowled at her then snapped her fingers and gestured at Connor.
"Hold his hand," she said, "and pay attention."
"Yes, sorry." Annabelle took Connor's small, cold hand in hers. His palm was clammy to the touch and for the very first time, she missed her gloves. She just hoped that Connor would miss them too – but not too quickly.
Darla had put her hand on Spike's crooked elbow for him to escort her, which seemed old-fashioned and yet very natural to both of them, as if they'd done it a thousand times before. They were old, Annabelle knew, especially Darla, but she had no idea how old.
They went out of the room, up the stairs and through the cross tunnel, over the eastbound line to the main part of the station where the others would already be waiting. Annabelle held her breath. When would he notice? She gripped Connor's hand a little tighter and he yelped.
"You're hurting me," he said, and then spitefully, "Mama, Belle isn't wearing her gloves."
"I forgot. I'm sorry." Annabelle let go of Connor's hand, trying to hide the rush of relief she was feeling. "I was in a hurry."
"Never mind, Belle." It was Spike, of course. "Forget the gloves – they aren't important."
"I disagree." Darla reached out and reeled Connor in towards her body, where he leaned against her, a look of smug glee on his face at Annabelle's discomfiture. Darla herself looked furious.
"I'm beginning to wonder if you're worth all this trouble, you stupid girl. You can't remember the simplest instruction and now you're becoming woefully sloppy."
"Sorry." Annabelle tried not to clench her fists but her whole body was tensed up ready for flight. What if she'd gone too far? What if Darla just decided to kill her? It wouldn't be the first time she'd lost patience forever with one of Connor's nannies.
It was Spike who saved her – yet again.
"Take it easy, love," he said to Darla. "She's not that bad. Besides, she has lots of other advantages – told you that. Who else could take this kind of life and not go mad except someone like her?"
Annabelle wondered what he meant. The Gieves-Bowens were tough of course – at least, that's what Daddy always said –come over in 1066 with William the Conqueror - and she'd always felt different – sort-of special – but just now all she felt was scared. Darla's face was rippling oddly, her hideous vampire features straining to emerge.
"She sets my teeth on edge," Darla said, to Spike. "She does the same to all of us – except you, of course. You always were an odd one, Spike."
"Yeah, well – "Spike sounded tired – like he was going through the motions rather than really interested -"I may be odd but I've got a scar and a coat to show for it, don't forget, whereas they're both dead. Can cope with anything - you know that." There was an edge of bitter amusement to those last words.
To Annabelle, he said, "Go and fetch the sodding gloves, Belle, and be quick about it, yeah?"
"I will- sorry." Annabelle turned and hurried back the way they'd come. She felt sick. At the top of the stairs back down to the platforms, she hid just round the corner and watched until the two vampires and their child were out of sight.
She fetched the gloves first because if she was caught and she didn't even have them, she had no idea how she'd explain it. Then she ran back up the platform, through the gap and along the eastbound platform, the sound of her running footsteps muffled by a passing train. After it had gone, the bricked-in space was silent save for the fading hum of the transformers in the tunnel.
The door to Angel's cell was wide open again – no sign of anyone about. Inside the room, Annabelle had to wait a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. Then she hurried over to the grille covering the ventilation shaft. When she saw it, her heart seemed to plummet into her boots. Her note was still there – exactly where she'd left it. He hadn't even seen it. Her disappointment was so great she felt tears starting up in her eyes.
For a moment, she considered giving up – begging Spike to make her a vampire and not just kill her. She didn't want to die and it was life of a sort – better than nothing. But in her heart of hearts, she knew he wouldn't do it, and even if he wanted to, Darla wouldn't let him. Anyway, she knew she had to stop thinking that he cared about her. He wanted her to think it but it couldn't be true, could it? It was just pretend to keep her from causing any trouble.
Distraught, she snatched the folded note out of the grille, stuffed the pencil in the breast pocket of her uniform dress and made for the door. She had to get back before Darla sent someone to look for her and things got even worse. She hurried along the platform towards the stairs, rounded the corner and ran smack into Ravinder coming down them.
"What are you doing here?" Ravinder was in human face but her expression was still hateful.
"Nothing." Annabelle backed away but Ravinder kept on coming, herding her in the direction of the kitchen. "I was hungry, that's all. I came to get something to eat."
"Now? When the ceremony's just about to begin? I don't believe you – and what's that in your hand?"
Ravinder made a grab for the note still tight in Annabelle's grip but Annabelle knew she couldn't risk the woman reading it. She backed up fast, knowing she must look guilty as sin because her face always gave her away, flooding with colour when she felt embarrassed or caught out.
"Leave me alone – I'll tell Spike!" She resorted to the only threat she could think of that might have any power over Ravinder.
Ravinder's eyes flashed gold and she grinned, showing exquisitely white human teeth, tiny as a child's. She was tiny all over, in fact – dainty as a little golden doll – and she always made Annabelle feel like a clumsy carthorse in comparison.
"Oh, you can tell him, you stupid gori. I think I'll have a story of my own to tell him as well – make him finally listen. Give me that note."
Fast as a snake, her black hair whipping out behind her, Ravinder snatched for the note again and Annabelle turned and ran. The trouble was there wasn't really anywhere to run to. Even if she'd had a key to the locked door that led out onto the train tracks, the trains were still running and there was simply nowhere to go.
She retreated into the kitchen, looking round wildly for a weapon. Dim memories came to her from long ago of watching some vampire film on television. She'd been scared and hidden behind the sofa but she could remember that wood killed vampires – a stake to the heart – and fire, but there was nothing in here, not even matches. There was no gas – everything was electric, and the fittings were either plastic or metal.
"Don't make it harder on yourself than it has to be," Ravinder said, gleefully, "or tell you what – do."
She sprang, and now her face changed, the features convulsing into their vampire shape. Annabelle screamed but she was so terrified she couldn’t move and Ravinder was on her, knocking her to the ground. She twisted, trying the keep the hand with the note in it away from the vampire's reach while Ravinder in turn tried to wrestle it from her.
"Get off me! Leave me alone!" Annabelle twisted and bucked. Her little brown hat went flying and so did the pencil in her breast pocket. Ravinder was much heavier than she looked, as if the powerful vampire muscles inside the slight body had more weight than they should have. She had hold of both Annabelle's wrists now but she'd have to let go of one to prise her fingers open and get the note. When she did, Annabelle chose her moment to raise her head and bite Ravinder's hand hard.
"Bitch!" Ravinder stopped trying to get the note off her. Instead, she straddled Annabelle's body, holding her fast between her knees, and then she drew her arm back and slapped her hard across the face. Annabelle screamed again. At the same time, the floor began to vibrate, heralding the arrival of another train. Soon the whole room was shaking.
Ravinder's arm went up and back, ready to deliver another resounding slap. "God, I've been wanting to do this for bloody ages," she said, viciously. "Coming in here – twisting my Erroll round your little finger with your snobby airs and graces – who the bloody hell do you think you are?"
Annabelle's hands were scrabbling wildly on the floor on either side of her, the note balled up in one, the other searching desperately for a weapon. Suddenly, she felt the pencil roll against her fingers and she scrabbled it into her grip. Pencils were wood, weren't they? Above her, Ravinder was lost in her vindictive fury and the open-handed slap had changed into a clenched fist all set to deliver a teeth-shattering blow.
"When Spike's finished with you," Ravinder said – shouted over the noise of the approaching train - "I'm going to hold you down while Erroll rapes you, then I'll feed you to the Gravids myself."
Annabelle was crying – she couldn't help it - but all the same, she knew she couldn't let Ravinder's punch connect. If Spike and the others saw her all battered and bruised, it would all come out – the note – everything.
As Ravinder's tiny fist plummeted towards her, she twisted desperately and jabbed upwards with the pencil, catching the woman right in the chest. At that moment, the train thundered through the station, setting the pots and pans on the cooker rattling. Annabelle stared up at Ravinder and Ravinder stared back, a look of shock and incomprehension on her face. Her mouth framed the words, "What have you done?" and then she screamed and exploded into dust.
Annabelle stared in shock, horrified. The rush of air of the passing train seemed to seize the swirling remains of Ravinder and draw them into its wake. Annabelle waved her hand through the remnants to dissipate them, the pencil falling from her nerveless fingers. After a moment, she scrambled to her feet and threw up in the sink. Her legs were shaking.
"I'm sorry," she said aloud. "I didn't know that would happen. I hope it didn't hurt too much."
Then it struck her how stupid she was being and then she thought of Erroll and how angry he would be - because he'd loved Ravinder, Annabelle knew it, and Ravinder had loved him. They were brother and sister in a way, though they did lots of things together brothers and sisters weren't supposed to do.
And what about Spike? He hadn't been close to Ravinder the way he was to Erroll but she still belonged to him.
Annabelle knew she should tidy herself up and get back to the ceremony but it seemed hopeless now. Maybe she should kill herself before the vampires did it for her? She didn't want to die, but most of all, she didn't want to be eaten alive. There were a couple of knives in the drawer. They weren't very sharp but maybe they'd do?
A coldness settled over her as she made up her mind, along with a sudden urge to leave everything tidy, which must be the Norland College training again. She bent to pick up the note, smoothing the crumpled paper, and that was when she realised there were far more words on it than there'd been before. Angel had seen it.
All thoughts of knives went out of her head at once as she read what he'd written. In fact, she had to read it twice before she really understood it.
Dear Miss Gieves-Bowen,
I'm here to help you. The Watchers' Council and your family sent me. But you have to help me too. I have to take my son out of here. They're turning him into a monster like them. When I give you the signal, you must bring Connor to my room at night after the trains stop running and my friends will come to help us get away. Don't worry. When the time comes, you won't find it difficult. Just bring him.
It was signed Angel, with a curly, old-fashioned flourish to the signature.
Annabelle's heart was beating nineteen-to-the dozen. She read the note again. Then she tore it into tiny pieces and threw it in the bin. She took a broom from the corner and swept the remaining dust, some of which might be Ravinder's, out into the corridor to be carried away by the next passing train. Then she brushed herself down and put her hat back on, pulled on the gloves and started to run.
She'd just have to hope that Spike and Darla hadn't sent Ravinder to look for her in the first place and that she was long gone from here before Erroll came back.
TBC
Notes:
The Women's Institute, a national voluntary organisation for women in the UK, founded in 1915. Traditionally associated with jam and cake-making, and more recently with nude calendars.
Marks & Spencer: British chain store. Its fashions used to be aimed at 'women of a certain age,' though not so much now.
The Smoke: nickname for London - not that it is smoky these days, or foggy either, for that matter (American film-makers take note).
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-03-23 11:52 am (UTC)I'm here to help you. The Watchers' Council and your family sent me. But you have to help me too. I have to take my son out of here. They're turning him into a monster like them. When I give you the signal, you must bring Connor to my room at night after the trains stop running and my friends will come to help us get away. Don't worry. When the time comes, you won't find it difficult. Just bring him.
It was signed Angel,
You won't find it difficult? Boy, someone appears to be quite delusional. And good riddance to Ravinder although I suspect neither Darla nor Spike will be pleased.
no subject
Date: 2007-03-24 10:25 am (UTC)Yeah, it's hard to miss her really, unless you're Erroll. More on Angel's plan in the latest chapter.