Mastery
by ComedyofErrors
Chapter 7
Nara-ste Morlan James touched up the scratched wall with the paint he'd picked up this morning. The morons that delivered the industrial fridge and freezer yesterday had left a huge scar on one side of the kitchen. This morning he'd taken one of the paint samples left by Chris, and had a gallon mixed up at the hardware store. That was really the only defect he could find. He'd looked, it being within his job description to help see to the upkeep of the home he was to share with six vampires.
He'd been contacted three nights ago by his mother, Bale-ste Nara Kier, and informed that she had a mission for him. An ally of hers who had fallen on hard times, William the Bloody, was splitting from his grandsire's family. More power to him, as far as the B'aste were concerned. Spike had been the Master of Sunnydale for a short time, but he had proved useful to the demon community.
Vampires were an odd group with a strange status. The average vampire was little more than dust, in the accounting of demons. A leech. Mindless half-breed stuck in game face. Not that Morrie had anything against half-breeds; he was one himself, and proud to be of both races. Master vampires and their minions, on the other hand, were strong, resilient, and intelligent. They bargained and did favors. They were ambitious, had held others to standards that were surprisingly fair.
The B'aste had a long history with vampires. B'aste as a race like order. They could fight but were not the greatest of warriors. They could lead, but were not the greatest of promoters. Their primary strength was in securing important positions in between human and demon society. They were a bridge. They ran demon banks, they exchanged kittens for currency, they ran restaurants and demon unions. They were intelligent and idealistic. Nara of the B'aste had held her court here for sixty-seven of her two hundred odd years. Sunnydale, the Hellmouth, was a prime place for the B'aste. Here the human and demon worlds were in constant contact. Mediators were needed. The B'aste came.
Demons of many species came and went, but the B'aste were a constant. Morrie, though only twenty seven, was already an important member in the court. He passed for human even better than the average B'aste, and was unique among them in that vampires required an invitation to enter his home. He had used this unusual talent to hold goods for sale which were under threat. And now he was using it to serve the best possible use for his people. He was cementing the alliance.
It was an ancient practice started during the vampire wars of centuries past. Different clans fought with each other, without a refuge. Intelligent vampires hired human servants to live in the house. Their presence, either knowing or unknowing, often saved their masters' lives.
Morrie's purpose was akin to a butler. Not a minion. He was a servant, and liaison. He would never be tricked into allowing another vampire into the house, because he could since them. He was clever and resourceful about all things domestic; really, he thought himself a perfect choice for the job. His mother had as well. She summoned him immediately when the young, nervous minion's mission was made known to a select few.
When Spike had crashed into town to kill the Slayer, many conjectured that he would succeed. Others thought he would flee with in a few months. No one thought his departure would be a loss. He shocked everyone by being approachable. His minions didn't wreak constant chaos, and were duly punished for infractions. They were not permitted to kill indiscriminately, and were sometimes hired out to do services for the other species.
It was a genius approach to his position as Master. A vampire designated the Master of a town or burrow holds some power over all the demons there in. Vampires are great warriors, and the best able to hold a slayer at bay. Intimidation is the typical method by which they gain favors. Spike used the client system, one the B'aste themselves occasionally employed. If others were in debt to him, they could not oppose him openly.
It had worked beautifully for a short while. Sunnydale's nocturnal population went on with their business as usual. Then Spike was injured. Not so horrible in itself. He could recover. The Judge issue was a sore spot, but nobody's perfect. Most believed he arranged that only because of Drusilla. It could be glazed over, and the Slayer had prevented any major damage. If any demons were tainted with humanity, the B'aste were.
But of course Angelus appeared. Arrogant idiot. He'd either ignored or bullied all the demon species that came to him, asking for assistance or justice from his minions. He'd turned the slayer, for Pete's sake. No one had any illusions about what would happen if they ended up on his bad side. And without the Slayer, the only person that could check him would be Spike, returned to his full strength. That couldn't happen without help.
That was why the B'aste were involved. That was why Morrie was here. To serve. To strengthen. To aid.
He'd spent two nights here now. The first, he'd been introduced to Alexa, who seemed to be the chief minion. She'd asked him if he knew what would happen if Angelus got him. He'd said yes. He did. Alexa and Ryan had hauled him to the house and left him to stay with his sleeping bag, radio, and their thanks. Chris had handed over the keys, and given him his list of tasks to complete. Jacob had stopped by later, and put a large van on one side of the large garage. The second night had been much better, what with the bed and all. He should be considered a resident by whatever magical forces governed such things.
He was ready for the arrival of the family tonight. A bed for the master in the loft, sofas in the living rooms, T.V.s, everything he could think of that would be used immediately. He'd had people in and out of here all yesterday. The minions had described their master's tastes, and he'd done his best. Art and personal touches could wait.
Morrie looked at his watch as he cleaned up the paint. Four hours to sundown. Best get some sleep while he could.
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Xander called Giles as soon as he received the notice of delivery slip. They went with Oz, and loaded the package into the back of the van. Flame-throwers were a great advantage when fighting vampires, so they had been waiting. Now they were ready. They would strike tomorrow. No sleep this night.
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Angelus smiled as he stretched lazily in bed. On clean sheets. The past two nights had been the most fun he'd had in a long time. Simple pleasures were the best.
Two nights ago he'd caught Buffy's attempt to escape. Was she really so blonde as to believe that situation? Apparently. Her face when the chain snaked around her ankle said so. She looked terrified. As though she finally understood exactly what it meant that he, Angelus, had turned her. There was no escape except in death.
He'd taken joy in proving it to her. He'd dragged her by the chain down several hallways to the banquet room. Once there, he had jumped on her. Before, she had always been required to ask for it. It gave her just a little power. Enough to disgust her. Now he showed her just how powerless she had always been. He held her pressed to the ground for several moments, while she struggled uselessly. With one hand, he'd held her arms over her head, while his other unfastened his trousers and tore her skirt. What little covering it had offered her was gone for good now. During the process he'd also managed to rip most of her camisole, and had taken her jacket as a present to Dru. To placate her for the concussion.
After raping her properly, he pulled her up by the hair, and lashed her to the fire place with the chain. Her back was to the room, so that she could hear all that passed, but see nothing. She was suspended slightly, so that the minions that passed by could look up her non-existent skirt and see the goods. He left three to guard her, with express orders not to taunt her too much. She was not for them. He didn't bother to beat her for crying. It wouldn't make her shut up, and it would ease her suffering slightly, so that the next round would still be able to penetrate into her remaining innocence.
Penetrate was a good word, too. The next night, while the minions came and went, Angelus pulled her down and pushed past new boundaries, so to speak. He raped her ass. And how she screamed. She probably thought she was too numb to care, hanging all day, awaiting the death that would come the night after she injured Dru. Silly girl. But as he bruised her hips against the stone floor she got the idea. And as he licked the blood off her bleeding hind cheeks.
He'd chained her to the wall again afterwards, but at ground level and facing forward. He'd sent one of the minions to find him a bottle. The minion returned shortly thereafter with an old beer bottle. Angelus took it. Weighed it in his hand dramatically as he came nearer. Without warning he smashed it against the mantle beside her. Several shards flicked across her forehead, leaving thin scratches that bled down into her yellow eyes.
Grasping the remains of the bottle by the neck, he proceeded to carve into her cheek. She jerked away at first, but his other hand came up to hold her head in a vice-like grip, bruising the temples as he carved an 'A' into her flesh. He repeated the gesture at intervals, over her arms, and on her stomach. He called for Dru. She came, and licked the wounds, getting her fair share of slayer blood.
When he finished, it was near dawn. He left her to stand, and went to his bed, with Dru.
And now tonight was it. His fabulous sixth night, in which he would truly destroy the Slayer. He dressed and went down to the cellar, to make certain that everything was in order. His very own Chosen Ones were there. In cages. The sun was setting. The minions were preparing to move them upstairs. It was time.
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Spike stood looking at the non-existent window once again. Tomorrow he would have a window. He would have his own home. He would have his own family.
Or he'd be dust. Simple as that.
The minions knew their roles. Ryan was to meet them at the house. He was to have conveyed all of their possessions away while no one was watching via Spike's Desoto. Jacob would drive the van. Chris and Alexa would be waiting to help him and Buffy, crossbows in hand. They had not come back to the Mansion this morning, as ordered. If something went wrong, he didn't want them to be here. They could escape, find another town, and another master. They'd served him well; he didn't want these four dust.
He was glad they hadn't been here last night, being busy with the final tasks. He had needed to be alone. Having someone with him while he listened to Buffy's screams would have been too much. He'd managed to take some of his anger out on his now shattered bedside table and lamp, but it wouldn't have taken much for him to turn on one of them.
He hated this powerlessness. He wanted to go out there today and cut her down. Angelus be damned. He could have taken her away without tonight's ordeal. When rape was the worst thing she could conceive of. But Angelus would still have had power over her. One Sire word and she would walk back to him. To be killed, to kill at his command.
It was bleedin' unfair. The girl wasn't supposed to have to suffer like this. She didn't in the movies. The hero rescued her, and they road off into the fucking sunset. 'Course, he wasn't much of a hero.
It was time. He went to his wheelchair and sat down. He pulled the duster into his lap, and folded it casually. From under his blanket he plucked a crossbow, and box of bolts.
As he wheeled himself toward the dining hall, his subconscious began to sing to itself,
"Welcome back my friends to the show that never ends/We're so glad you could attend/ Come inside! Come inside..."
*****
Thanks to my reviewers and readers!
Thanks ever so to Oracleholly for the AWESOME banner. Lyrics at the end are from Emerson, Lake and Palmer
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