The next couple of stories will be dealing with finding the secret to creating the Gem of Amarra. We will be dancing around the land mines of nomenclature for descendants of the people who occupied North America before ‘modern’ Europeans arrived. As we all know from grade school, Columbus mislabeled them ‘Indians’, since he had been searching for a shorter route to the Indies (what we now call Asia), and he’d thought he’d found it.
‘Indian’ has become a politically incorrect term, even though many of the descendants of these people use it to describe themselves even now.
‘Native American’ came into vogue during the 1960s, but there are a few problems with it too:
Technically speaking, anyone born in America is a ‘Native American’, regardless of heritage. Additionally, some archeologists believe the ancestors of the ‘natives’ that met Columbus were immigrants from Europe, Asia, Australasia, and India who migrated using a land bridge between Russia and Alaska, or possibly via boats over the oceans. Genetic evidence also supports the idea of multiple migrations of people coming from distinctly different genetic populations: perhaps as many as four or five different genetic populations.
So, if you want to use ‘Native American’ to mean people that rose from the primordial ooze on what is now North American soil, that doesn’t work.
Russell Means, the Lakota activist and founder of the American Indian Movement (AIM), has strongly rejected Native American in favor of Indian:
“I abhor the term ‘Native American’. It is a generic government term used to describe all the indigenous prisoners of the United States. These are the American Samoans, the Micronesians, the Aleuts, the original Hawaiians, and the erroneously termed Eskimos, who are actually Upiks and Inupiats. And, of course, the American Indian.
“I prefer the term American Indian because I know its origins . . . As an added distinction the American Indian is the only ethnic group in the United States with the American before our ethnicity . . . We were enslaved as American Indians, we were colonized as American Indians, and we will gain our freedom as American Indians, and then we will call ourselves any damn thing we choose.”
A 1995 Census Bureau Survey of preferences for racial and ethnic terminology (there is no more recent survey) indicated that 49% of Native people preferred being called American Indian, 37% preferred Native American, 3.6% preferred "some other term," and 5% had no preference. As The American Heritage Guide to English Usage points out, "the issue has never been particularly divisive between Indians and non-Indians. While generally welcoming the respectful tone of Native American, Indian writers have continued to use the older name at least as often as the newer one."
The 2010 Census uses the terms: “American Indian or Alaska Native” as one choice, allowing a place for the tribe to be written in; “Native Hawaiian” is a separate choice.
So, what is a writer to do? Well, here’s what this writer is going to do: Use all these terms interchangeably. Indian, American Indian, Native American, and First American will be used over the course of the next couple of stories to mean the same thing, with no disrespect intended or implied, and I hope none taken.
Note 2:
The people that are said to have created the Gem of Amarra in my world, the Ramaar Nation, are completely fictional. I will be taking legends and actual events from history and adapting them to this tribe over the course of the next two stories. The story is a work of fiction, of course, but I will strive to use as many real-life situations as I can within that framework. When possible, I will cite the actual event I’ve used as inspiration for events in this work of fiction.
Note 3:
As I understand it, centuries-old Ben Wa balls are suddenly the rage again because of the Shades of Grey erotica novel(s). I didn’t know this when I began this story; I haven’t read the book. In fact, the initial inspiration for my incorporation of them in here was a story by Damperandspoons called ‘Teach Me How’ which I found … {{fans self}} hot. By the time I realized I was on the ‘Grey Bandwagon’, a place I never intended on being, it was too late; my muse’s mind was already made up.
Ok, let's get started ...
**~**
A few days after Troy’s identification of the language of the Gem of Amarra book, Saturday, September 17th, 2011:
Spike finished packing his backpack by laying a stake and a dagger atop the copied pages of the decoded Gem of Amarra book, which sat atop his clothes, and pulled the zipper closed.
“You really think you’ll need weapons?” Buffy asked, eyeing him worriedly.
Spike shrugged. “Kinda like condoms, pet, rather ‘ave ‘em and not need ‘em than not have ‘em and need ‘em,” he replied casually.
Buffy rolled her eyes. "You’re going to see an old … Medicine Man or Shaman or something. I seriously doubt he’s gonna attack you,” she pointed out. “And Troy will be with you.”
Spike snorted. “Boy’s still wet behind the bloody ears,” he scoffed. “And old Shaman-types can conjure things … big, nasty bears and whatnot. If he does know anything ‘bout the Gem, he might know just the thing to conjure that can beat it. Not all Indians ‘ave forgotten who kicked their bloody arses, ya know. Might be lookin’ for a little pay-back or want the damn artifact returned.”
“Not Indians: Native Americans,” Buffy corrected, scowling. “And he’s from the Quechen Tribe, not the Raamar. The Gem wouldn’t be his artifact to claim, according to Troy.”
Spike sighed and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well … maybe I just feel more manly with my … weapons, luv.”
Buffy snorted and shook her head. “Yeah, that’s what we need – you feeling more manly.”
He gave his wife a sexy smirk and stalked around the bed to stand in front her. He pushed her from sitting to lying on her back, her legs dangling off the side of the bed, then pressed his body between her thighs and down against her. He devoured her lips in a desperate kiss that left her gasping and weak-kneed. Buffy’s arms and legs snaked around him automatically, as she responded to his touch and to the feel of his body against hers.
“What … was … that … for?” Buffy panted from beneath him when he finally allowed her to breathe.
“Need ya t’ make me a promise,” he murmured against her neck.
Buffy tilted her head to give him better access and moaned as his lips brushed over her heated skin. “Anything…”
“No pleasurin’ yourself while I’m gone. Don’t cum without me,” he requested, his lips and breath cool against her neck.
“Okaay,” she agreed as she slipped her hands up under his t-shirt and caressed the soft skin and hard muscles of his back.
“Swear to it,” Spike pressed as he nibbled on her earlobe.
“I swear,” Buffy breathed, writhing under his touch, pulling his body against hers harder.
“You remember that night under the moon … that supercali-night?”
“Yeah…” Buffy replied slowly as the memory of it tingled her loins and flushed her whole body with warmth.
“You remember I told ya I’d make ya pay for torturing my dangly-bits?” he continued, his voice a smooth, low timbre against her ear. Spike’s hand grazed down her body, across the swell of a breast, to the curve of her hip, settling against her thigh as he spoke.
“Yeah,” Buffy breathed, her chest heaving now as his fingers delved under her skirt to find the bare skin of her thigh.
“Payback ‘as come, luv,” he whispered as his fingers found the damp fabric of her panties and rubbed against her now tingling flesh with wispy, gentle strokes.
“It has?” Buffy asked, trying to arch into his touch.
“Mmmhmmm,” he rumbled. “Who does this belong to?” he demanded, suddenly grabbing her mound roughly.
Buffy squealed and jerked. “You,” she breathed, willing him to go further.
“Too right. Not yours: Mine,” he agreed, his voice dangerous. He finally raised his face up to look into Buffy’s eyes. She saw wild, lustful, gleeful evil in the blue depths of his gaze, and she shuddered as her heart skittered in her chest like a frightened bird.
“And … what are you gonna do with it?” she wondered tentatively, a thousand erotic ideas dancing through her mind.
Spike smirked. Oh God … that smirk. That ‘I’ve got you now’ smirk that she’d seen leveled at more than one unlucky tosser that dared challenge Big Bad. Buffy felt her heart skip a beat … or three.
His fingers had found the edge of her thong and were sliding between the silken fabric and her glistening skin. His fingertip snuck between her folds and grazed her clit and she jerked under him.
“Nothing,” he whispered against her ear.
His voice was warm and thick like honey pouring over her and, oh God, it sounded sooo good …. Wait. What did he say? Nothing? What did he mean by 'nothing'?
Spike produced a small velvet case from one pocket and held it up for her to see. “Found your toys,” he continued in the same, deep timbre that always sent her senses reeling.
Buffy bit her bottom lip. He was holding the weighted Ben Wa balls that she’d used to make herself even stronger … down there. Hey – after four kids, even the Slayer could use a little help. Maybe she’d taken it a little too far; worked out a little too enthusiastically. She’d never remembered Spike’s eyes actually rolling back in his head before like he had that night in the backyard when she’d tightened around him.
“No fair playing with toys and not tellin’ Daddy,” Spike continued, his voice becoming harder, a warning evident in it.
“I’m sorry, baby – it was a surprise. I only did it for you,” Buffy played her part, a whine in her voice.
Spike cocked a brow at her. “Well, I got a surprise for you now, kitten.”
Buffy bit her bottom lip. Spike’s eyes glittered, absolutely sparkled, with evil glee. What the hell was he talking about? Her heart thudded in her chest, and she wondered how long they had before someone would come looking for them.
Spike shifted to one side of center to give his fingers easy access to her pussy. He continued to trail that one finger up and down under the edge of her panties, caressing her slick, heated flesh beneath.
After a breathless moment, his hand stopped moving beneath her thong. He suddenly jerked down hard, ripping the lace of her panties in two with one hard snatch of his hand.
Buffy’s eyes went wide and she squealed in true surprise; her heart lurched, then sped off at a gallop again.
Spike opened the little case and took out the two gleaming, silver balls. He rolled them around in his hand a moment in front of her, like they were marbles … or maybe eyeballs he’d plucked out of some poor victim.
“’Ere’s what’s gonna happen, Slayer,” Spike began, his voice barely concealing the wicked delight he was feeling. He slid off her and pushed her knees up and apart. “You’re so bloody fond o’ playing with these little baubles without me, you’re gonna wear ‘em … the whole bloody time I’m gone,” he informed her as he pressed the first one into her throbbing hole. “And, while you’re at it, you’re gonna remember the promise you made: no cumming.”
Buffy moaned as his finger entered her and she felt her muscles clench around the little ball, pulling it inside further. “You feel yourself getting close to a climax, you stop whatever you’re doin’ and let the feeling pass. Got me?” he asked as he pressed the other ball in. It grazed over Buffy’s G-spot and she writhed, willing it to stay there, but it had already moved.
Buffy’s chest heaved and she met his eyes. God, he looked so fucking … devilish. And hot. “Y-you want me to keep these in for…”
“As long as I’m gone,” Spike confirmed. “And no touchin’ yourself. This body is mine. You bloody well won’t be pleasuring it while I’m not ‘ere. You promised.”
“I … promised?” she stammered, unable to recall why in the world she would’ve done something so stupid.
Spike smirked that smirk at her. “You did.”
Spike leaned over her so his mouth was next to her ear. “Don’t be breakin’ your promises t’ me, Slayer,” he purred against her, his breath cool on the shell of her ear. “I’ll take it right personal.”
Buffy shivered and nodded. Oh, this was gonna be a long couple of days.
"I’ll make you a promise, too. Keep your word an’ I’ll reward you, just like you done me. A spot o’ torture makes the reward all the sweeter,” Spike whispered against her ear.
Buffy’s whole body shuddered and she swallowed hard. He already had her heated up, longing for release. She was supposed to stay like this the whole time he was gone? That was beyond payback for what she’d done; this was payback with interest.
“I love you, Buffy,” he whispered against her before disentangling himself from her arms and legs and standing up.
She sat up as he picked up his bag, and felt the balls move inside her. She started to tell him she loved him too, even though he was evil, and to be careful, but one of the little balls roamed over her G-spot again when she moved. She felt a bolt of need shoot out from her loins as her muscles spasmed around the little orb. Her eyes closed and whatever had been on the tip of her tongue to say simply vanished. Oh man …
Spike opened the door to their room and turned back over his shoulder to look at her a moment. “Middle name,” he said simply, and gave her a small wink before disappearing through it and pulling it closed.
Buffy flopped back down on the bed. She just had to do something to release the tension he’d built in her. How was she supposed to function like this?
You promised, Spike’s voice reminded her, wafting into her mind through the bond. No touching that sweet body without me.
Buffy let out a small scream of frustration, then began to giggle uncontrollably. At least it was some kind of release, if not the actual one she wanted.
**~**
“Right, then,” Spike began as he stuffed his backpack into one of the saddlebags of the Harley. “You know where we’re goin’, Indy?”
Troy wasn’t sure whether to be happy with the nick-name or if it was a jibe. He decided to just leave it be, at least until he knew. “Yeah,” he replied, tapping a finger on the GPS mounted on his own motorcycle. “Fort Yuma-Quechan Reservation. Just across the Arizona line near Yuma.”
“And this injun’s name is?” Spike continued as he mounted his bike.
Troy winced. “The Native American who may be able to help us is named John Bryant.”
“Don’t sound like a proper injun name, that,” Spike pointed out as he pushed his motorcycle off its kickstand. “Shouldn’t it be somethin’ like … ‘Runs Like a Turtle’ or ‘Pisses in the Wind’?” Spike asked, leveling his gaze on the younger man who was going to be his traveling companion.
Troy drew in a deep, calming breath. “Many Ind… Native Americans took Christian names when the Spanish Missionaries converted and baptized them.”
“Yeah, those that didn’t bloody die from being … converted,” Spike tossed back.
“Yeah … well,” Troy shrugged. There wasn’t much arguing with that. “Anyway,” the younger man continued, “It should only take about four hours to get there.”
“More like three, by my reckonin’,” Spike retorted, kick-starting his bike to life. “Race ya,” he challenged as he toed the bike into gear and gunned the engine. He’d hit Crawford Street and was halfway down the block before Troy got his own bike out of the driveway.
“This should be fun,” the younger man ground out, a sarcastic snarl between clenched teeth, as he raced after Spike, jouncing over a dip in the road. He’d never wished more that Bess could’ve come with them than he did at that moment. Since that little ‘talk’ he and Spike had had last spring, Troy never really felt completely comfortable around Bess’ father, and his nerves made him say and do stupid things while in the man’s company. But Bess couldn’t come; she couldn’t travel in the daytime. That was what they were trying to fix.
He remembered the defeated look on his girlfriend’s face when he told them no one spoke the Raamar language any longer, and felt his stomach twist in renewed pain at the memory. He felt like he just needed to find a way to fix this for her. He sighed heavily as he sped down the quiet neighborhood streets after Spike, traveling double the legal speed limit. What had he gotten himself into?
Since identifying the drawing of the Great Protector Spirit of the Raamar Nation, Aurelius, in the mysterious book, he’d shown it, and other drawings in it, to his professor at UC Sunnydale. She, in turn, had shown them to other friends and colleagues, and they all agreed that the language the mysterious book was written in was most likely that of the extinct Raamar people.
That tribe of the American Southwest had been gone for well over a hundred years. However, one of his professor’s contacts put them in touch with a very old Quechan Shaman whose great-grandfather had been a Raamar. The Raamar had married into the neighboring Quechan tribe and had taught his eldest grandson the language, and he’d passed some of the legends and myths down, as well. It was a real long-shot, this old Quechan, but it was the only lead Troy had been able to dig up through both his own contacts and those of his professor at the college.
**~**
Eastbound on I-8, Spike settled into a steady pace right at ninety miles an hour, just to see if the git could and would keep up. Troy did. Easily. Not finding any fun in that, Spike throttled back to eighty and relaxed – no sense getting an expensive speeding ticket for no good reason.
About an hour out, he got a strange tingling sensation coming to him through the bond with Buffy. What do ya think you’re doin’? he asked her in his best Big Bad voice.
He could almost feel her jump nervously and he smirked. Busted.
Nothing, she shot back. Laundry.
Which is it, pet? Nothing or laundry?
Laundry … Which was not on your … ‘do not do’ list, she replied huffily.
Then quit leaning that sweet quim o’ yours against the bloody washin’ machine. I told ya: no touching – it’s mine. You agreed.
He could feel Buffy’s eyes narrow and her head swivel around the basement, as if looking for a hidden camera or a spy. You’re a creep, she scowled back at him.
Spike laughed, but to her his voice was firm and decisive. Nooo, lord and bloody master. Do as I say and you’ll get your reward.
Tell me about this reward, oh lord and master, Buffy cooed back to him.
The reward, oh little minion o’ mine, is you spread-eagled on the bed with my hard cock buried so deep in your pussy that you’ll think I’m gonna tear you in two.
Buffy moaned a sensuous reply.
You like my cock inside your hot, sweet quim, don’t ya?
God yes… Buffy breathed back. Spike could feel her getting even more aroused.
You like me slamming against your hot flesh, pounding that pussy into submission.
Buffy moaned. Yes.
What about down your throat and up your arse? Tell me you want that, too.
Anywhere. Everywhere, Buffy agreed and Spike could feel the tension in her rising higher. It wouldn’t take much more and he could have her writhing against the soddin’ washin’ machine pledging the hulk of metal her undying love.
You get none of it if you cum one time without me there. I’ll punish you for days if ya break your promise. You got no idea what tortures the Big Bad can lather on your poor, aching body … and not a climax t’ be seen.
Buffy groaned in frustration. Her whole body was tingling with anticipation. Her inner muscles were squeezing the little balls in there, rolling them over her G-spot and swelling her loins with lust beyond all reason. If she wasn’t careful, she’d shoot one of those little things out of her slit like a bullet from a gun; she could put someone’s eye out.
Why are you being so cruel? she asked him in her best damsel-y voice. It wasn’t that hard to conjure; she was feeling sort of whiney and very needy just now.
Payback is hell, Spike replied, smirking. Now keep your promise. Keep your pants on and your pussy away from anything that vibrates. I’ll know if you don’t. I always know, he warned her before closing the bond.
Spike shifted uneasily on the seat of the rumbling Harley. He’d intended this as a fun game of teasing-torture for her, but it was turning into just as much of a torture for him. It was impossible to talk dirty to the Slayer and not get a raging hard-on himself. By the time he got home, they’d both be well overdue for a whole night of Wild Backyard Monkey Sex.
**~**
After driving another hour and a half, the two men stopped at a gas station on the outskirts of a nearly forgotten, swayback town that could’ve just as easily been on the southern side of the Mexican border than the northern. After a quick and dirty assessment of the area, Spike decided he’d stay with the bikes while Troy went in to get them something to drink and use the facilities. Oh, don’t get Spike wrong, it wasn’t the large Hispanic population of the area that worried him. He’d traveled all over the world and found that people were people; with some allowances for diet, they all tasted pretty much the same. Speaking a different language or being a different color didn’t make you automatically good or bad. But, he was a realist, too and this didn’t look like a place frequented by a lot of doting grandmothers or cheerful Polly Annas; there was no sense inviting trouble.
Troy returned and tossed Spike a bottle of Gatorade as he twisted the top off his own and began to chug it down.
“What the bloody hell is this?” Spike demanded. “Asked for a Coke.”
“We’re getting ready to cross the sands, man,” Troy replied. “This is better for you … Keeps you hydrated.”
Spike cocked a brow at the larger man. “It’s … blue,” he stated with obvious scorn. “I don’t drink things that are blue. And I’m a vampire. I don’t dehydrate, you dolt.”
“Oh,” Troy mumbled, dragging his hand and arm over his damp lips. “Uhhh … didn’t think about that. Bess drinks it.”
“Might want t’ make a note: also not your girlfriend,” Spike drawled back, tossing the unopened drink back at Troy and heading into the store. “Stay!” Spike called back over his shoulder as if to a misbehaving dog.
Troy rolled his eyes and sighed as he leaned against his bike. “Nothing right,” he mumbled to himself, blowing out a frustrated breath as he tucked the other Gatorade into his saddlebag. He really wanted to get on Bess’ dad’s good side – if the vamp had a good side. This trip seemed like the perfect opportunity to show Spike that he was capable, smart, willing to work hard, and genuinely cared for Bess. A lot. A whole lot. He wanted Spike to know that he’d do anything for Bess, and that he wanted to be part of the family. So far, it wasn’t really working out.
“Oye! Maricón!” a male voice called from behind Troy. He turned to find a group of young men – younger than him but old enough to be dangerous – walking toward him and the bikes. They all had red bandanas tied around their heads. Troy had seen the look before, on gang members in L.A.
“Shit…” he muttered under his breath, settling his drink into the cup holder on his bike. “Sorry – I don’t speak Spanish,” he said in as calm and friendly a voice as he could muster. “Olelo Hawai’i’oe?” he threw in just for spite. (Do you speak Hawai’ian?)
“I speak Spanish,” Spike said from behind Troy. “They just called you a right poofter.”
Troy turned slightly and eyed Spike. “I don’t speak English either, apparently.”
Spike cocked a brow at him. “Nancy boy? Flamin’ fairy? Gay would be the P.C. version, I reckon.”
“Oh.” Troy rolled his eyes and turned back to the half-dozen young men. “That really hurts,” he told them, holding a hand over his heart as if wounded, and flexing a bulging bicep against his t-shirt in the process.
“No quiero problemas contigo,” Spike told the group calmly, trying to figure out which one was the leader.
They laughed mirthlessly. It was, Spike knew, supposed to sound evil, send chills of terror down his spine, leave him and Troy quaking in fear. He barely contained a laugh of his own. These prats had no idea what evil was.
“No es importa lo que quieras,” the tallest of the group replied, the expression in his dark eyes suddenly serious. The five young men fanned out in a circle, surrounding Spike, Troy, and the bikes.
Spike hazarded a glance at his traveling companion. Troy wasn’t showing any outward signs of fear, which was good, but Spike could hear the younger man’s heart speed up and smell the adrenaline beginning to course through him. Troy was big and he had plenty of muscle, but that didn’t mean he knew how to use it properly.
“How you in a fight, Indy?” Spike asked as he slowly, nonchalantly, set his Coke down on the ground near the Harley.
“I’ve got a scholarship for wrestling,” Troy reminded Spike.
“Watch for guns … knives,” Spike warned. “Don’t reckon they care ‘bout points, stayin’ in the circle, and fair take-downs,” Spike pointed out as he turned and faced the one that appeared to be the leader of the antagonists. If Spike could take him out, chances were at least 50/50 that the others would simply bolt.
With a sneer, the man nearest Troy reached out and plucked the Gatorade out of the cup-holder on Troy’s bike. Before the thief could even start to twist the lid off, Troy hit him with a right hook that dropped the smaller man to the ground in an unconscious heap with one perfect blow to the jaw.
“Neither do I,” Troy shot back at Spike.
When he saw his friend go down, one of the other men near Troy let out a scream of fury. In the next instant, the screaming man launched himself at the wrestler, teeth bared and fists flying wildly.
Spike took the opportunity to spin his body around, building speed, and crack the leader squarely in the teeth with a booted round-house kick. A geyser of blood and broken teeth flew from the leader’s mouth as he sailed backwards through the air. The man’s back hit the wall of the little store with a dull thud and he slid down, landing in a limp, bloody sprawl on the needle-and-condom-strewn sidewalk. A gun fell from the waistband of his pants where it had been hidden under his baggy shirt.
Troy ducked a wild punch of the angry, screaming man that came at him. The attacker had gotten too close for Troy’s long arms to hit effectively, so the wrestler kneed him in the gonads – hard. Adding insult to injury, he stomped his heavy boot down with all his considerable strength and weight on the instep of the man’s foot.
The man’s yell of rage morphed into a screech of agony. He let out a litany of curses in Spanish as he fell and began writhing on the ground, clutching his crushed dangly bits.
“¡Déjame!” Spike snarled at the two remaining young men, letting his demon rise. The two that were still standing were smaller and younger than the others, and had hesitated before wading into the fray. They froze in place, looking wide-eyed around at their fallen friends. One of them eyed the gun that was lying useless on the sidewalk near their unconscious leader, trying to figure if he could get to it in time. Sirens could be heard somewhere in the distance – the store clerk had probably called the police.
“Boo!” Spike spat at them, raising his hands up claw-like in a classic ‘scary monster’ gesture and lurching forward. That pretty much sealed it; all thoughts of retrieving the gun vanished. The two would-be thugs nearly fell over backwards in their attempt to get away, scrambling like frightened rabbits caught in a briar patch with a fox hot on their trail.
Troy retrieved his Gatorade bottle from the ground near the still-unconscious man, and put it back in his bike’s cup-holder. “Ready?” he asked Spike as he swung a leg over his bike and started it up. “Probably don’t need to be here when the cops show up.”
“Too right,” Spike agreed, shaking off the demon as he walked over and picked the gun up off the ground. It was a small .38 revolver – a Saturday Night Special. He opened the cylinder and dumped the bullets out before breaking it completely off the gun. He tossed the now useless weapon into a nearby garbage can before striding back to his own bike.
He paused to pick up his Coke from the ground and take a drink before mounting the Harley. “Not bad for a maricón wrestler,” he told Troy, jerking his head towards the two men on the ground near the younger man.
“I might’ve forgotten to mention that I also play football, box, and hold a second-degree black-belt in Taekwondo,” Troy divulged. “I’ve never been mistaken for Tinker Bell, and my name’s not Nancy.”
Spike kicked his bike down off of its stand and walked it around the prone bodies on the asphalt before kicking it to life. “In that case, I reckon I shouldn’t a’ had to get my best boots bloodied up,” he told Troy flatly before rumbling out of the parking lot and back to the street.
The big man blew out a frustrated breath, shaking his head as he followed. “Still not good enough…”
**~**
John Bryant lived with his eldest son’s family in a modest ranch-style house on a plot of land on the reservation. There were a total of four houses on approximately five acres, all owned by relations. His son worked at the tribe’s Quechan Casino and Resort in nearby Yuma, and was just heading out to work when Troy and Spike arrived that evening.
“His mind’s not that great late in the day,” the younger Bryant told Spike and Troy as he led them into the house. “Better in the morning … with the memory,” he continued, tapping a finger to his temple. “But, since you’re here, you can give it a try.”
“’Preciate it,” Spike replied as he followed the man into the house. After introducing his wife, the younger Bryant showed Spike and Troy into his father’s room and left them alone.
“Mr. Bryant,” Troy began, his voice cajoling and smooth. “I’m Troy Malu and this is Mr. Weckerly – I think your son told you we’d be coming.”
The old man had long, straight, iron-gray hair pulled back into a single braid at his back. He was, in Spike’s estimation, the quintessential, elderly American Indian. Deep wrinkles lined the bronze, leathery skin of his face, arms, and hands from years spent in the desert sun. He had dark brown, nearly black, eyes which scanned over the two visitors, but didn’t seem to focus on them.
“Mr. Bryant?” Troy tried again, moving a little closer. “We wanted to talk to you about what you remember about the Raamar,” he continued, still talking in an even tone so as to not frighten the man. Troy pulled out a copy of the drawing of the Great Spirit Aurelius and handed it to the old man.
Mr. Bryant looked down at it for several moments, then began rocking gently in his chair and murmuring in a language neither Spike nor Troy could understand.
“Mr. Bryant? Do you … recognize that?” Troy tried, crouching down on his haunches in front of the man.
The old man’s eyes seemed to come to life in front of them; from flat, uncomprehending orbs to something with fire and spark in them, as he must’ve had in days long gone.
“The Great Protector,” Mr. Bryant nodded. “Tales of his bravery are legendary.”
“Just who the bloody hell did he protect ya from?” Spike had to know.
The Indian’s eyes flicked up to Spike and locked onto the vamp’s. He held his gaze locked on Spike's for several long moments before answering. “From those that would have our ancestral land, drive us away from our river, starve our women, kill our braves, steal our children. Have you come to take up your great father’s cause?”
Spike’s brows shot up. “Uhhh … hadn’t actually planned on that t’day, no.”
Troy cleared his throat, pulling the man’s attention away from Spike. “We were wondering if you would be able to translate some words for us.”
But it was too late. The old man’s eyes had settled on the drawing of Aurelius, but they were unfocused again, not really seeing it. He began to murmur again under his breath as he rocked gently in his chair, his consciousness lost in some corner of his aged mind.
“Mr. Bryant?” Troy tried again, but the old man didn’t seem to realize he was there.
Spike frowned as Troy stood up, shrugging. “What do you want to do?”
Spike sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Reckon we can come back in the mornin’ and see if his elevator’s going to the top then.”
The two visitors left the old man alone, thanked his daughter-in-law, and asked her if it would be alright to come back the next morning. They agreed on ten o’clock and Spike and Troy headed for the front door.
“I brought camping gear; we could stay in the dunes outside of town,” Troy offered.
“Pfffft,” Spike snorted. “Only Dunes I sleep in is the one on the strip in Vegas. You can do what ya want, but I ain’t freezin’ my arse off out in the desert with the bloody rattlesnakes.”
Troy stopped just before his hand reached the doorknob, and turned around to face Spike. “Is there anything I can do that would make you like me the least little bit?”
Spike considered this a minute, putting on a serious, thinky-face, then shrugged. “Not bloody likely,” Spike told him flatly as he slid by, opened the door, and walked out past the younger man.
Troy threw up his arms in frustration before turning on his heel and following in Spike’s wake. “Why?” Troy demanded when they’d gotten outside. “What the hell have I done or not done to make you dislike me?”
“Don’t dislike you, Indy. Just known more than one like you in my day an’ I don’t rightly like your intentions,” Spike admitted.
“My intentions?” Troy stood there gape-mouthed for a moment, taking that in. “My intentions?” he repeated. “I don’t have any … intentions. I think we covered this once before.”
“Bloody right, we did,” Spike snarled back. “Every git has intentions, Rock-boy. Until I know what yours are, I won’t bloody trust ya.”
“Fine. Ok … fine,” Troy retorted angrily. “You want my intentions?! Ok … let’s see … I intend on graduating from UC Sunnydale with honors. Then, I intend on transferring to UC Berkley to get my graduate degree … and possibly go on to get my PhD. While I’m doing that, I intend to spend as much time as I can with Bess. After that, I intend to get a job doing something that makes a difference in the world. I intend to ask Bess to come with me, wherever my education and job takes me – to marry me if she will.
“I intend on being in charge of my own dig one day. I intend on finding amazing artifacts that no one else has even dreamt of. I had intended on getting my girlfriend’s father to like me or at least not hate me before asking her to marry me, but I’ve pretty much given up on that one because her father is a complete asshole.”
“Her father is also a vampire that could tear your lungs out without breakin’ a sweat,” Spike snarled back at him, his eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.
“Yeah, well whoop-de-fucking-do for you. Apparently you don’t sweat, so that’s not really all that impressive, is it?”
Spike glared daggers at the larger, taller man, hands clenched into fists at his sides. Troy didn’t flinch from Spike’s gaze. He strove to keep his breathing even and calm as he stared Bess’ father down. The two men stood there for several moments, neither giving ground nor advancing.
Troy briefly wondered how long it would take for Spike to tear his lungs out, and what the police and ambulance response time was for the reservation. He didn’t really like his odds on that one. He drew on his martial arts training and kept his gaze steely, not showing any fear. He was no lightweight and he could fight well enough, but he also knew how strong Bess was and had to assume her father would be even stronger. That could be bad.
Suddenly Spike laughed a genuine, hearty chortle, dropped his gaze, and began shaking his head. “Never thought o’ that sweat thing – need t’ change m’ idiom, I reckon.”
Troy let out the breath he hadn’t actually realized he’d been holding and he felt the overwhelming tension flood out of him, along with nearly all his strength. Pure adrenaline had apparently been the only thing keeping him upright.
Spike clapped a hand on the younger man’s shoulder and turned back to the bikes. “Let’s go get some kip; been a long bloody day.”
“I love her, ya know,” Troy offered tentatively to Spike’s back, not yet moving. He was afraid his knees might give out if he tried to take a step.
“Tell ‘er that?” Spike wondered as he swung a leg over his bike and turned back to face the younger man.
“Not yet. She … seems … She changes the subject anytime I get near it,” Troy admitted, finally trusting his legs to actually walk again without buckling.
“Only three words, Indy. Can’t change the bloody subject in the middle a’ three words,” Spike pointed out.
Troy sighed and got on his bike. “Bess can feel it coming – it’s like … radar or something.”
“So, instead o’ a big, lumberin’ hurricane, come in like a soddin’ tornado. Hit ‘er with it, hard and fast – then back the fuck up. Bloody hell, what do they teach you gits at that University?” Spike wondered as he kicked his bike to life.
Troy snorted and rolled his eyes. “There are no classes about dealing with people from Venus. If there were, I’d take them all,” he admitted.
Spike grunted. “Only one problem, Indy: Summers women aren’t from bloody Venus. That’d be right easy. Summers women are from Krypton.”
**~**
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