Chapter 9
*****Flash*****
Buffy found herself looking around a small, bare bedroom. Darla was standing beside an open closet, packing dresses into two large suitcases. A low bed, pieces of blue-glazed pottery her mother would have killed to own, and strings of beads hanging from the doorway gave Buffy the distinct feeling that they were in China. The beads rustled as Spike walked into the room.
He looked a little more disheveled than he had in previous memories. Maybe it was part of his bad boy image back then, like the blonde hair and the jacket were now. What really drew Buffy’s attention was the cut in Spike’s eyebrow. This was the first memory that contained it. It hadn’t turned into a scar yet; it was still raw and reddish, but at least a couple days old. It must have been made with a blessed weapon to leave that kind of mark.
When she’d asked Spike at the Bronze about his slayer kills, he’d said the first one in China had given him that scar. The Spike she was looking at now had recently killed a slayer. She would have thought he’d still be swaggering over the victory. Out getting drunk or having fun with Dru. But right now he looked angry. Distressed.
Darla was deliberately ignoring him. Buffy knew she and Spike had never gotten along, so she wasn’t surprised. She got the impression that Darla had wanted William dusted long ago. After being ignored for a few moments, Spike shoved his hands in his pockets and addressed his grandsire. “Where is he?”
Darla kept her back toward him. “Where’s who, William?”
Spike gritted his teeth, but didn’t rise. “Angelus. Where is he? He came to see you two days ago, and we haven’t seen him since then.”
In a clipped tone, Darla replied, “He’s gone.”
Spike frowned. “Gone where?”
“I couldn’t care less,” was Darla’s flippant reply. “I’ve seen him for the last time, as far as I’m concerned.”
The younger vampire was aghast. “What the soddin’ hell do you mean? He’s your bloody childe. How could you - ”
Darla turned around, tossed a dress on the bed, and put her hands on her hips. “I sent him away. I told him never to come crawling back to me again.”
Because he had his soul. That had to be it, the timing was right. Angel didn’t talk much about his past, but Buffy knew he’d gotten the soul in Romania, and then followed his family to China trying to rejoin them. Darla must have known he still had his soul and told him to get lost. Spike didn’t seem to know anything about it. He was genuinely puzzled as he asked, “Why would you do that?”
Darla practically growled out her answer. “Because he isn’t a vampire anymore. Those idiot gypsies in Romania and their magic castrated him! He’s not the killer I trained. He’s nothing.”
Spike’s mouth fell open in shock. “That’s…that’s why you told Dru and me to kill ‘em.” He looked at the ground for a moment, thinking. “You lied to us. You said he left us in Romania to go see Penn in Italy.”
Darla let loose a harsh laugh. “Yes, well, I’ll not ask you to forgive me for being too embarrassed by my ridiculous childe to own to what really happened.”
Spike shook his head. “How could you leave him? It wasn’t his fault - ”
Darla gave a very impolite snort. “He’s the one that ate that Rom princess! He’s disgraced me. I’m better off without him.”
Spike sneered back at her. “Yeah? Well what about us? What about me and Dru? He wouldn’t leave without telling us. He loves us.”
Buffy shook her head at Spike’s naiveté. Even with a soul, Angel found it very easy to avoid complications by just departing. Darla was openly laughing at what he’d said. “Loves you? He likes to fuck the two of you. Or he did. Now you’re nothing to him.”
Spike’s fists clenched. “Don’t say that!”
“Why not? It’s true. He can’t stand to look at you with that bright shiny soul of his. He told me so. He said he looks at the two of you and wants to vomit.” Darla went back to packing. “He has even less regard for you two fools than I do, now. And that’s quite an achievement.”
Spike’s face flashed with emotion. Buffy could see that he wanted to deny it all. Somehow, in spite of all the beatings and torture, he’d come to love Angelus. Spike had a remarkable ability to love, no matter what. He was angry at Darla for telling him this and mad at himself for asking. Buffy thought for a moment he might try to hit her, but he didn’t. His face became despairing, then resigned, then more or less neutral. His eyes remained haunted.
He let his eyes wander to Darla’s suitcases for the first time. “Where are we going?” He asked with a flat voice.
The vampire opposite him chuckled again. “‘We’ are not going anywhere. I’m going to the Master’s court.”
A sigh escaped Spike. “Fine. When’ll you be back?”
Darla gave him a fierce glare. “I’m not coming back.” Buffy knew she was frustrated that Spike hadn’t realized what was about to happen. She had probably wanted to sneak out without telling him anything. Personally, Buffy wanted to smack her. She was a self-centered bitch who’d thrown away her childe and was about to abandon two young vampires that needed her.
Spike smiled humorlessly. “So you’re leaving us too, then?”
“Finally you get something right.” Darla closed her suitcases, having finished packing.
Spike shook his head, still smiling inanely because there was nothing else he could do. “And you don’t care at all what happens to me and Dru?”
Darla grabbed her hat from the bed and began expertly pinning it to her hair. “You can go to hell for all I care. I wash my hands of you. And what are you worried about?” She said primly. “You’re the new slayer-killer. You’re a brand-new master. Surely two master vampires can survive on their own. And if they can’t, it just goes to show that I was right. You two should have been dusted as fledglings for being so far beneath the standards of Aurelius.”
Buffy saw the anger building again in Spike at those words, so like the ones Cecily had uttered years before. This time there was no stopping the explosion. He darted around the bed and punched Darla in the stomach. He kept up a continuous stream of blows aimed at her. Buffy was impressed. Spike had learned a lot about hand to hand combat, but not quite enough to defeat a vampire more than two hundred years his senior.
Darla managed to toss him off, and he hit his head against the open closet door. Stunned, he lay there, watching as Darla straightened her clothing, grabbed her suitcases, and walked out without another word. She didn’t even look back.
A few minutes later Drusilla came to the doorway. She frowned at the sight of Spike lying on the ground and went over to him. She sat down beside him. Spike rubbed the back of his head gingerly. He seemed to be recovering. He put an arm around Drusilla, pulling her close. She ran her fingers lightly over the side of his face. “Where are Daddy and Grandmummy? Miss Edith says they are not here.”
Spike nodded slowly. “She’s right Dru. They’re not here.”
She looked sad at the news. “When will they come back?”
Spike grimaced, then forced a smile. “Not for a long time Dru. You see, they want to see how the two of us get on alone. They’ll be watching though. Makin’ sure we’re alright.”
Drusilla didn’t look like she believed that anymore than Spike did. “Spike. I’m scared.”
He pulled her into his lap, wrapping both arms tightly around her. “Me too, luv.” He said hoarsely. “Me too.”
They looked as lonesome as Buffy felt some nights after she finished slaying. It was like no one in the world could help you. You were singled out, even when you were surrounded by other people. In the earlier memories, she’d resented her connections to William through his ailing mother and worries about his sisters. Well, that was then. Buffy found she didn’t mind having this in common with Spike. It gave her a feeling of …fellowship.
*****Flash*****
Buffy was more than surprised to be standing in front of Angel, after that last memory. His hair was shorter than it had been and his clothing was a lot more modern. Spike was beside her, wearing a brown leather coat … with a swastika arm band? And with black hair? Hmm. Maybe the peroxide wasn’t so bad.
He sucked his cheeks in irritation as he glared at his grandsire. Then he walked past Angel to a ladder and began climbing it. Buffy guessed they must be in a ship of some kind; the walls were rounded, so maybe it was a submarine.
Spike disappeared from view, then the scene went dark for a moment before Buffy found herself staring at waves. She wasn’t in them, just kind of watching from a far as she had when William climbed out of his grave. She realized she could see Spike in the water. He had lost the coat and some of his clothing. He was swimming, but she couldn’t imagine that he knew where he was going. She couldn’t see land, or a ship, or even the submarine he’d come from.
Or been thrown out of. That must have been why he was so angry with Angel. He’d tossed him out into the water, miles from anywhere. The tiny figure of the vampire was swamped by waves as he continued to swim. The sight of him was jarring. He looked so isolated. So alone. No land in sight, dawn a few hours away, and yet he kept swimming. Buffy wondered if –
Wait. Why the heck were Angel and Spike on a submarine?
*****Flash*****
Buffy found herself in a dark, smoky room. It was filled with little round tables, like the kind in sidewalk cafes. About half the tables were filling with men and women a little older than Buffy, all dressed entirely in black. They looked like those people in old fifties movies that did drugs and played bongo drums. Some of them were smoking; it didn’t smell like cigarette smoke to Buffy.
They were watching a guy on a on a little stage at one end of the room. He was perched on a stool, reciting poetry into a microphone. Buffy wasn’t really paying attention while he finished up his poem, which was something about clouds. She was scanning the audience for Spike.
She spotted him at a shadowy table far from the stage, alone. That surprised her. He was already a master vampire during the fifties, and they usually went around with minions. She figured he would have at least had Drusilla with him. He was wearing a tight black turtle neck that clung to his thin frame and black trousers. His hair was shaggy but not long, and was back to its natural color. He was leaning over the table, looking nervous and drinking.
The crowd applauded Mr. Clouds and he stepped down. An announcer beatnik guy hopped, actually hopped, up on stage. He took hold of the microphone and said, “Well thank you, Reggie, for that groovy composition. Next up we have a stylin’ cat named William, who wants to share some of his stuff.” He gestured toward Spike.
Spike downed the rest of his drink, stood, and strode toward the stage. He looked calm, but Buffy could see the tension in him. She could understand. This was probably the first time his poetry had been heard in public since the night he died. He’d been ridiculed horribly. It took a lot of courage to share it now. That was why Spike hadn’t brought anyone with him. He was still afraid.
He strode up on the stage and took a deep breath as he pulled out a few folded pieces of paper from his back pocket. “Call this one ‘Eternity’. ‘Her hair black like the roads we drive, her nails sharp as a scythe…’”
Buffy winced as the boos and hisses started. She didn’t know what the audience was complaining about. This was soooo much better than his earlier work. Spike kept reciting his poem over the cat-calls, but after a few seconds his voice began to falter. Two minutes in and he bolted. Buffy ran after him. He darted out a side door into the alley behind the building. He stood with his front toward the wall, his jaw clenched, his head down, and a couple tears running down his cheeks.
It was tragic how much time he spent crying in alleys.
*****Flash*****
The next fifty years must have been pretty decent, because the Spike that ran past her looked like the one she’d met three years ago: bleached, gelled hair, long black duster, red over-shirt. She followed him. He was moving incredibly fast down a narrow, stone street, passing old fashioned buildings covered in snow. And he looked incredibly pissed.
Buffy could see light coming from a wide open space, like some kind of town square up ahead. She could see a crowd of people there. Spike slowed down to a walk when he was twenty yards from the end of the street. He edged toward the side of the building on his left, hiding himself in the shadows as he crept toward the people. He reached the corner and peered around. Buffy heard him growl involuntarily at the sight that greeted him. She stepped forward into the crowd to see what had happened.
In the center of a round mob of people stood a tall statue of a man on a horse. She could see a dark-haired woman whose arms were tied to the sculpture, the ropes thrown over the horse’s back. It was Drusilla. Her clothing was torn and she was covered in blood that poured from cuts along her arms and sides. She was barely standing. If it weren’t for the ropes pulling her upright by her wrists, she’d have collapsed long ago. She was crying in obvious pain.
The crowd was whistling and shouting at her in a language Buffy couldn’t recognize. There were about seventy people, both men and women, around the square. Most held torches and stakes, though she saw the occasional flashlight and shotgun. It was a scene from an old fashioned horror movie come to life. Spike watched, aghast. His eyes flashed an angry yellow as he searched the square for a way to rescue his love.
Suddenly a man holding a sword jumped up beside Drusilla. He dropped his weapon and grabbed her hair, wrenching her head back at a painful angle. He shouted at the crowd and they shouted back, applauding in a frenzied way. He turned back to Dru and grabbed the hem of her dress, ripping what remained of the fabric covering her. He grabbed one of her breasts and leered into her face. She tried to recoil but there was nowhere to go. Then she screamed.
Buffy saw the exact instant Spike’s control snapped. His game face surged forward at the same moment he leaped at the fringes of the crowd. It was a stupid move, strategically, but he didn’t care anymore. Buffy saw him snap the necks of four people before anyone realized he’d moved. He didn’t stop even when they did see him. He roared a challenge at the crowd even as his elongated nails slashed throats.
He was beautiful. Fluid, powerful, elegant, and brutal. They tried to burn him with their torches but he didn’t back away. One guy shot at him with both barrels, but he didn’t flinch. Spike was merciless. He left not a single person within reach alive as he cut a trail through the mass toward Drusilla. Buffy tried to feel sympathy for the people he was killing, she really did. But then she remembered what they’d encouraged the leader to do to Drusilla. Even if she was a monster, she didn’t deserve that horror.
These idiots obviously knew what she was. They should have known better than to try this.
Spike was moving faster than she’d ever seen. In their battles together she’d admired his form, speed, and stamina, but this…was indescribable. He’d killed at least twenty people in five minutes of fighting. The ones that witnessed the horror he wreaked scattered, not daring to look back. The mob was reduced by death and more were fleeing. Ten minutes in and only thirty people remained. They were untrained, sure, and Spike was incredibly lucky they hadn’t rushed him, but he was still magnificent.
He killed a few more people before at last reaching Drusilla. He snapped the ropes holding her, lifted her with care, and ran. Buffy followed, but the few people that remained in the square didn’t, having finally realized that William the Bloody wasn’t something they wanted to mess with. He would have been easy to track; Drusilla’s blood ran down his legs and coated the streets.
Spike burst into what must have been their lair, sending minions scurrying away. Buffy didn’t blame them for running from their master when he was covered in blood and shaking with anger. Spike ended up in a bedroom lined with Drusilla’s dolls. He deposited his moaning sire onto the bed and covered her with a blanket. He grabbed a knife from the bedside table, slit open the side of his neck, and pulled her face to the wound.
She drank weakly, clinging to Spike and shivering. He held her tight, murmuring nonsense to calm her. Her bleeding slowed eventually, but she wasn’t healing. Buffy didn’t know much about vampire physiology, but losing that much blood couldn’t have done her any good.
Spike was rocking her now, speaking quietly. “Don’t worry Princess. Spike’s got you. Spike’ll get you well. We’ll see you well. No matter what luv…”
Buffy felt herself nod as she finally understood. This was why Spike came to Sunnydale. Dru had been almost killed in that square. She’d needed the blood of her sire to heal completely, and Spike was determined to provide that.
Finally they were getting to territory Buffy knew. Maybe now she’d have a chance at getting to Spike. Morbidly fascinated as she was by all this, she needed to get Spike out of here. She had no idea how long she’d been in his mind, but Giles must be worried by now.
*****
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