Hyperion Hotel, March 31, 2002
It was a mixed group of vampires and humans that were scattered around the Hyperion lobby, watching the proceedings with interest.
“Are you sure you’re up to this?” Angel studied a weary looking Lorne, who was still suffering after effects from their encounter with the Beast.
“I guess if I ever want to see the sun again, I better make myself up to it.” Lorne said with a sigh. Things in LA had gone from bad to worse. The seemingly indestructible Beast was continuing his rampage through the city, killing the entire staff of Wolfram & Hart, along with Mesektet, the ‘young girl’ in the white room. Her murder along with the murder of four powerful companion beings, all of which were linked to an embodiment of the ancient god Ra, enabled the Beast to blot out the sun. LA was now in permanent darkness, and everyone, including the commanding Judelin was helpless to do anything about it.
“Alright then.” Angel, who rarely ever filled his lungs with air, took a deep breath, running the lyrics of a favorite song through his head. Taking a second deep breath, he began to sing, “That's the night that the lights went out in Georgia. That's the night that they hung an innocent man. Don't trust your soul to no backwoods, Southern lawyer. . . .”
All of the occupants in the room cringed at Angel’s rendition and choice of song.
“'Cos the judge in the town's got blood stains on his hands.” Angel continued to warble off-key.
“Blo-ody hell!” Spike resisted the urge to plug his ears. “The Poof has no talent and no taste in music.”
“Yeah,” Nic commented back, expression deadpan, “Lorne is going to regret that he agreed to this. No matter how much he prepares himself, he’ll never be up to Angelus’ singing.”
Nic’s observation drew a couple of snickers from Spike and Eamon, and a dark glare from Damon.
“Be quiet all of you!” The elder vampire hissed. “This is serious business.”
“Okay, okay.” Lorne put his hands up, as if surrendering. “I get the picture.”
“You’ve got something?” Angel asked with relief, as he could now stop humiliating himself.
“Yes, but not anything about the Beast.” Lorne watched as the expectant look on Angel’s face quickly turned to disappointment.
“You sure?”
“Yeah, so sorry Bucko, but I’ve got nothing. Although your choice of ‘The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia’ might have thrown me a wee. I'm personally not huge with the Vicki Lawrence love.”
“This doesn't make sense. I can remember most of the details of my two hundred plus years.” With his back to his family, Angel didn’t see the eye rolls. “I remember every family I butchered, every child I slaughtered, every throat I ripped out.”
“But you don't have any recollections of a giant Magma Demon with ram horns and goat legs?” Damon asked skeptically, as he stepped up to stand beside Angel.
“No! And I wish people would stop asking me that.” Angel spun around to glance around the room, his expression half irritated, half frustrated.
“Well, I think what is needed here is. . . .” Lorne began but was interrupted by a sullen Connor, who was sitting across the room, away from the others.
“It’s a waste of time.” He said, as he gave Angel a hateful look. Recently rescued by Angel and family from a zombie infested Wolfram & Hart, he and Cordelia were now staying at the Hyperion. “You’re a liar and a puppet.” He spit out the accusations.
“Watch what you’re saying, boy.” Angel warned, as he took a couple steps closer to his youngest son. “I’m not in the mood.”
“You’re a puppet, a puppet to the Beast. Probably made a pact with him in order to overthrow the Ventrues.” Connor was not the only one in the room that held that same suspicion. “Everybody thought it was me, who had a connection to the Beast, but it was you. You're the one who's working with the Beast.”
The tension in the room rose, and it was Lorne who quickly spoke up, as he finished his thought. “As I was saying, what is needed here is a psychic.”
“You’re a psychic.” Angel turned back around to Lorne.
“Yes, but my specialty is reading people’s auras, which doesn’t give us the small details. We need someone who can delve into the mind.”
“Delve into the mind?” Angel wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. “What do you mean by delving into the mind?”
“Exploring all the nooks and crannies which could hold forgotten and or repressed memories.”
Lorne’s explanation did nothing to reassure Angel. “I don’t want anyone exploring my. . . .”
“We need to figure this out, Angelus, and soon.” Damon interrupted. “If not, Judelin will think the worst and. . . .”
“So who do you know that is able to delve into people’s minds?” Angel asked Lorne, cutting his brother off. He didn’t need Damon telling him what he already knew.
“A shaman named Wo-Pang from the order of the Kun-Sun-Dai.”
**
April 2, 2002
“More magic.” Connor again sat off by himself, as he and the same mixed group of vampires, humans, and one Anagogic Demon had gathered once again in the hotel lobby. This time the attraction was a dark mystic, who was shrouded in purple. “You people rely way too much on that junk, and it never really works the way it's supposed to.”
“You know.” Spike twisted around briefly to address Nic, Djoser, and Eamon, while he suspiciously watched the shaman, Wo-Pang, who was busily chanting and doing some odd rituals to prepare himself for delving into Angel’s mind. “Maybe crabby twink,” he gestured over at Connor, “has a point. Nine times out of ten, something goes wrong with magically spells and screwing around with a person’s mind. . . .”
“If you have a better idea, William. . . or. . . .” Damon, who had been having a quiet conference with Angel, heard the remarks, and turned to Spike and then Connor. “We’re eager to hear it.”
At the piercing stares of Damon and Angel, both Spike and Connor could only shrug. “I thought not.” Damon commented, just as Wo-Pang stood up and announced.
“I am ready now.” Stepping toward Angel, he motioned to the floor. “Lie down there.” He directed to an area that was marked off by candles.
Giving Damon one last look, a reluctant Angel did what he was instructed.
**
April 3, 2002
Standing around the bed, the five vampires stared at an unconscious Angel. He had been in this condition ever since Wo-Pang had gone into his mind.
“It’s been over eight hours now!” Patience gone, Nic tucked his .50 caliber desert eagle handgun in the waistband of his pants. “That fucking shaman either fucked up, or someone got to him and bought him off, so he deliberately fucked with Angelus. I say, we go find and drag him back here by his balls.”
“Djoser?” Damon, who was always correct in following protocol, looked over at his nephew, the acting Master of the Clan.
Djoser nodded his head in agreement. “The mystic said he would be in a deep sleep for a time, but it’s been too long. Something’s not right. I already talked to Lorne, so I know where the shaman can be found.”
“Where? Because I’m going to be one who goes to get the dime store psychic.” Spike jumped up quickly from the chair he had been sitting in and gave his brother an I-dare-you-to-say-no look.
Frowning, Djoser was getting his first taste of being in command, and he realized that one of the most challenging parts of the job was his brother. “Chinatown, Spring Street between Ord and Alphine, but William, I don’t think. . . .”
“Let him go.” Damon broke in. “He can spend his time doing something useful for once.”
It took Spike a second or two to grasp that he uncle had just insulted him, but before he could come back with an insult of his own, Damon had turned to his own Childe.
“You can go too. The two of you with Nic should be able to handle one mystic.”
“Bloody blindfolded, we can.” Spike muttered. “Give me the gun.” He made a pitch to Nic, as his uncle passed him.
“Over my undead body.” Nic retorted, as he stepped toward the door, but a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. “Angelus?” He stopped and turned toward the bed.
A definite groan came from Angel’s lips, as his family quickly surrounded him.
“Angelus?” Damon bent down to peer down at his brother.
Cracking an eye, the face in front of his was out of focus for a moment. Vision clearing, it took a moment for Angel to recognize the face. “Damon.” He whispered. “What the hell happened to me? I feel like a house fell on top of me.” Sitting up slowly, he took note of the rest of the people in the room. “Damon, who are these people and why the hell are they in my room?”
**
It was a shaky Angel, who with the help of Damon made his way downstairs. “I’m hungry. Have a minion go and fetch me a meal, preferably a virgin, but I’ll settle for anything young.”
“We have no minions.” Walking behind them, a disturbed Nic answered, his face expressing his bafflement and alarm
“No minions!” Angel said with shock, as he looked over his shoulder. “What kind of household do you run here? And who,” he eyed Nic closely, “are you again?”
“He’s our brother.” Damon tightened his hold on Angel as he helped him down the last step.
“Half-brother.” Angel gave Nic a slight sneer. “Your mother was human, wasn’t she?”
“One hundred percent.” Nic ignored Angel’s sneer. He had never cared much for the politics of Pure Blood versus Half Blood, and in fact, being a Half Blood suited him just fine, as he never held any ambition to be a High Master.
“And these others,” Angel eyed Djoser, Spike, and Eamon, “are my Blood-Childer?”
“Djoser and William are yours.” Damon pointed out the two. “Eamon there is mine. Here,” he led Angel over to where Connor and Cordelia were sitting, “is your third Childe. A Pure Blood. His mother was Darla.”
“Darla?” Angel limped over to a chair. “Christ, I do love to live dangerously, don’t I? Made a cuckold of the Old Man right under his. . . .”
“Our Sire is dead, Angelus.” Damon interrupted his expression grimmer than usual. “And so is Darla, Luc, Ant. . . .”
“Just what the hell is going on?” Cordelia demanded. “Why the this-is-your-life replay?”
“It seems that Lorne’s shaman did a little bit more that just delve into my Sire’s mind.” Djoser stated. “He affected his memory.”
“Affected his mem. . . !”
“So I guess I don’t have to send anyone out for food.” Angel interrupted Cordy, his leering gaze studying her from head to toe. “Dinner is right here.”
“Don’t even think about touching her!” Connor made a threatening move toward Angel, but was halted by Cordelia’s raised arm.
“I’m a Higher Being, buster.” She told Angel. “Try eating me, and I’ll turn you into a horned toad.”
“Really?” Spike was intrigued with the idea of Cordelia being able to turn someone into a horned toad. “You can do that?”
“William!” Djoser and Damon spoke together.
“Go and prepare some blood for your Sire.” Damon commanded. A few moments without the distraction of William would be a relief to them all.
“Not the hired help here.” Spike had no intention of leaving the room. He wasn’t about to miss anything.
“What did your uncle tell you to do, boy?” Angel growled, giving Spike a killing glare. He couldn’t believe a Childe of his would speak so to an elder relative.
Staring at Angel for a moment, Spike saw a feral, vicious gleam in his Sire’s eyes. He was well acquainted with Angel’s vicious side, but he had never seen a feral side to him.
“Do what you’re told, boy.” Angel threatened. “Or I’ll have your uncle break both your legs. You can then go and prepare our blood by dragging yourself on the ground.”
A moment of stunned silence, as such harsh punishment to Childer had not been practiced since the death of the Old Master.
“William.” Djoser spoke softly, as he inclined his head toward the kitchen.
“Right, then.” Spike reluctantly agreed, as he slowly turned to leave. Normally defiance would have been his reaction, but Angel’s reversion to his younger, crueler self had him confused and slightly intimidated.
“I’ll help you.” Eamon offered, showing support.
“Yeah.” Too shook up to remember to be grateful to his cousin, Spike headed for the kitchen, casting one last baffled look at Angel.
“So.” Angel turned his attention back to Connor and Cordelia. “You’re my Pure Blood son.” He studied his youngest with a bit of disappointment. He had expected any Pure Blood Childe of his to be physically more imposing. “Not much to look at are you?”
“Like I care what you think of me.” Connor retorted in his usual surly manner.
“What did you say?” Despite the disorientation and weakness, Angel had the sudden urge to start beating someone into the ground, starting with his Childer. “How is it possible,” he turned to Damon, “that I’m hearing such insolence? And from my own Childer?”
“These are different times.” Damon answered quietly.
“Different times?” Angel rose slowly and shakily to his feet. “Our race couldn’t have deteriorated so much that our Childer are allowed to be disrespectful to their Sires and Elders?” He took one menacing step toward Connor, before Cordelia quickly jumped between them.
“Right now there are more important things to think about than your concerns about what your younger generation has come to.” Cordelia said. “We have the Beast to worry about.”
“The Beast?” Mention of an old acquaintance caught Angel by surprise. “The Beast is here. . .here in. . .just where the hell am I?”
“Los Angeles.” Damon answered, poised to grab Angel, since his brother was extremely unsteady on his feet.
“Where?” A dizzy, unreal feeling forced Angel to sit back down.
“Los Angeles, California.” Cordelia enunciated slowly. “The second largest city in the United. . . .” She broke off, as she realized that Angel really had no idea what she was talking about. “Just what do you remember?”
“My, our,” Angel looked over at Damon, “home was Germany, but I traveled around a lot. Mostly Europe, where I was making a name for myself. I was one of three Pure Blood brothers, who were vying for my Sire’s favor. Our Clan was the ruling Clan, but the Ventrues, especially their High Master, Judelin. . . .”
“Alright!” Cordelia broke in. “Old history. What year are you in?”
“Year?” Angel tried to think, but it was hard, as it felt like his brain was wrapped in a fog. “Why, it’s, it’s 1795.”
**
April 4, 2002
The sun was high in the sky, but Spike still sat up, unwilling to find a bed. Sipping a beer, he sat in the lobby, watching, but not seeing the television that was in front of him. Djoser and Nic had been sent to find Wo-Pang but hadn’t returned yet, and an troubled Spike was determined to stay up until they came back, but his body was having other thoughts.
Eyes refusing to stay open, his head began to bob, and the fingers around the bottle of beer began to relax.
“Boy!”
The harsh voice brought Spike up with a start. Head jerked up; beer bottle fell from his hand. “Bloody hell!” The exclamation was said in unison with the sound of glass breaking, as the beer hit the floor.
Reaching the end of the staircase, Angel stepped down into the lobby, surveying the broken glass and spilled beer. “Damned inconvenient not having any minions; no one to clean up.” He observed, as he turned to study Spike. “So, you’re my middle Childe. You’re not much to look at either.”
Tired, cranky, and confused, Spike couldn’t help the comment that slipped out of his mouth. “Better lookin’ than you.”
“Is that so?” One moment, Angel stood in front of Spike, arms crossed over chest, and the next he had Spike by the front of his T-shirt. “Maybe you are better looking than I am in a,” he gave his Childe a contemptuous once over, “female kind of way.”
“He-y.” Angel’s comment outraged Spike, as he tried to get out of his Sire’s grip. “I’m not the ponce around here; I leave that to you.”
Growling with anger, Angel swung Spike around, throwing him into a wall. “I can’t believe that I, Angelus, Blood-Childe of Heinrich Nest, would have sired such a disrespectful Childe. This has got to be some kind of living nightmare.” Grabbing Spike by the neck, he began pounding his son’s head against the wall.
“Fucking hell!” Spike swore, as he kicked out with feet. “I’m not your damned punching bag.”
“You are,” Angel hauled Spike up off the floor, “*mine*, and I can use you in any way I choose. But that concept seems to be forgotten by everyone, including Damon, who should know better. He had been brought up right.”
“Well, news flash.” Shaking the cobwebs out of his head, Spike regained his senses long enough to throw a quick punch in Angel’s face. “I was not brought up right.”
“I see that.” Angel hissed out, as he brought up his left arm to block Spike’s second blow. “And whose fault was that? Mine? Was I so remiss in the upbringing of my Childer?”
“You got it.” Spike jeered, as he jumped over the couch to put some room between him and Angel. “You were a bad daddy, and. . . .” He was cut-off, as Angel flung himself over the couch, tackling him to the floor.
“Well, then I guess I better correct my mistakes.” Using his bigger, heavier body, he pinned Spike down easily. “Tell me, Childe, in what do you serve your Sire?” With one arm, he held Spike’s arms and upper body down. With the other, he began tearing away Spike’s jeans. “I was told my oldest Childe distinguished himself by passing the Trials, something that had never been done by a vampire before. My youngest is a Pure Blood, which makes him a special rarity. Now you,” Angel used his knees to spread Spike’s legs, “what is your particular gift?”
Angel’s question hit a nerve, as Spike stopped struggling. He had no answer.
“Thought so.” Angel smirked, as he shred the last of Spike’s jeans, exposing his Childe’s lower body. “But you are a pretty thing.” He ran his hand down a lean thigh. “Guess I’ll keep you around just for that.” His hand slid to Spike’s groin, fondling and squeezing. “You know, you do bear a slight resemblance to my Maternal Sire. I can think of her, when I’m fucking you.”
Being compared to Darla was the ultimate insult, and being told that he was to be her poor substitute brought back Spike’s natural anger and defiance. “Bugger off. . .Poof.” He spit that in Angel’s face, as he twisted his body, looking for an escape.
A knee pressed hard on his genitals quickly stopped any movement. “Bloody hell!” He swore through gritted teeth. Looking up he once again saw that same savage, feral glimmer in Angel’s eyes. He was dealing with a younger, wilder Angel.
“Go ahead and fight me. Gives me an excuse to inflict more pain.”
The words were hissed in Spike’s ear, and it brought back memories. Memories of his Sire, who in the past so enjoyed dealing out pain. Fighting back had never helped. He let his body go completely limp; only his eyes still burned fire.
“Good boy.” Angel slowly removed his knee. “Now open your legs.” Undoing his pants, he released his erection, stiff and throbbing. Bringing someone to submission, especially a disrespectful Childe was foreplay for him. One stroke to pull his foreskin back, and then lining himself up, he thrust in hard and brutal.
Chest rising and falling, Spike breathed in and out, as Angel pounded mercilessly into him. “Let me see you bleed.” Angel grunted out, as his demon emerged, and he savagely bit into Spike’s neck, making him bleed from the neck and the anus.
Angel lost himself in the tightness and the sweet taste of his Childe. Forgetting himself, he let the blood flow in his mouth, draining Spike to a dangerous point.
Lack of blood was making everything fuzzy to Spike, even the pain of being dry fucked. His vision was wavy, and the sound of people entering the Hyperion was muffled. Faintly he heard footsteps and then voices.
“Angelus! Enough! He’s losing. . . .” And then everything went black.
**
Epilogue
April 5, 2002
Halfway down the steps, Spike had to sit down, or he’d fall down the rest of the staircase. Even after sleeping, and mugs of animal blood (which Djoser and Nic had forced down him), he still felt weak and nauseated. His Sire had all but drained him.
“You okay?” Djoser appeared at the top the stairs.
“No.” Spike leaned his head on the banister, wincing at the pain in his ass.
“Here,” Djoser stepped down behind him, “let me help you.”
“No.” Spike jerked away from his brother’s hands. “I’ll just sit here a minute.”
“All right.” Djoser sat down on the step next to Spike. “Hungry?”
“Maybe.” Shrugging, Spike’s eyes swept the hotel lobby, looking for signs of his Sire. “Where is He?”
“Out.” Djoser answered. “He liked the idea of permanent nighttime. So he went out, and is ‘seeing‘ the town.”
“Bloody hell!” Spike murmured. “Our teenage Sire reminds me of. . .me.”
“Yeah.” Djoser’s mouth curled up into a smile. “We’re seeing our Sire as a young vampire, more reckless and, and. . . .”
“Balmy.” Spike finished his brother’s sentence.
“Two hundred years ago, our younger Sire was controlled somewhat by his Sires, and perhaps even the presence of his older brother, Luc. Now none of them are here.”
“Now I understand why he was called the Scourge of Europe.” Spike closed his eyes, feeling dizzy. He wondered if he was going to have to ask his brother for help down the stairs after all. “And Wo-Pang?”
“Dead. Stabbed in the heart.”
“Someone wants to keep our Sire as a juvenile. Going to some pains to keep him that way.” Spike observed, as bile flowed up his throat, and his arms trembled. He was going to end up sliding down the stairs.
“William.” Djoser noticed the sick look on Spike’s face. He held a wrist out. “Go ahead; you need sustenance.”
Spike turned to look at Djoser. “Nah, I’ll get some pig’s blood from the kitchen, if you would just help me down. . . .”
“Drink!” Djoser moved his wrist up to Spike’s mouth, as he pulled his brother against with his other arm. “You’ll recover faster with familial blood.”
Too tired to protest any more, Spike’s fangs dropped. Before biting into the tempting flesh in front of him, he whispered, “sorry about breaking your dumbbell.”
****
Finis