The Offering
By Esmeralda
Part Twenty SixGraham knew he was functioning like an automaton, carrying out his allotted tasks. Take a demon child? - Sure. Climb an elevator cable? - Why not. When he was told to take point as they set off along the corridor he did. With the creature formerly known as Hostile Seventeen at his side. Meeting Doyle had evidently sparked a slide into madness. What else could explain this? He was taking orders from a Hostile for fucks sake. He was risking his life and disregarding the rules, to rescue creatures that he had been responsible, at least in part, for rounding up. Though he didn't deny there was a kind of perverse logic to it. He had been a soldier long enough to have a sense for when someone, or something, was a threat. And while the blood-drinker by his side set alarm bells ringing, the family of violet-eyed beings walking behind him did not.
They were afraid of him. He could see it in their faces, in those inhuman eyes. A mixture of fear, hate and mistrust. Something that had long been a problem for him, particularly when confronted with it in the younger ones. Weird looking they might be, they were still kids, and it disturbed him to see them sobbing - near mindless with terror - while he herded them into trucks and pens. He'd been living with a growing sense of unease, battling guilt and misgivings over the cause he served. He had been made to believe it was his duty to imprison these creatures, but he hadn't yet been brainwashed to the extent that he could no longer think for himself. The soldier, Agent Miller, might perform his duties without question, but it was the man who was concerned by all he saw going on around him.
Perhaps, he thought wryly, this was penance. He was going to die trying to save these creatures. Following the orders of a Hostile. Except Hostile Seventeen didn't seem particularly hostile right now. Graham could think of any number of adjectives to apply to it - annoyed, irritated, exasperated, riled - but not hostile. In its own abrasive fashion it appeared concerned for the young man Graham remembered as being a friend of the Slayer. It displayed similar inclinations towards Doyle and Angel, and to a lesser extent the remaining guy, who Graham didn't recognize from his time in Sunnydale. The name Wesley didn't trigger any recollection. Graham assumed the guy was human. Other than that, all he knew was this guy clearly didn't trust Hostile Seventeen any more than he did. Graham had observed the way Wesley watched Spike, with a gaze that held both doubt and suspicion. Graham was keeping a close eye on all of them.
The strange reptilian child that had originally latched onto Xander chose to return to its rescuer. Graham glanced back, watching the young man gather it up without batting so much as an eyelid. Graham couldn't help but wonder at the ease with which Xander embraced all of this weirdness. Even now, after months of training and fieldwork, he still encountered things that left his head spinning. He didn't want to think of it as prejudice; he'd been told it was a good soldier's instincts - self-preservation. His units motto was get them before they get you. He didn't want to think that they could have been wrong. But this was the thought that nagged at him as he walked the corridors; alert for possible danger, mind in turmoil. What if they were wrong?
*************
Angel's focus had narrowed to the simple task of putting one foot in front of the other. Every nerve and fiber screamed with pain, a cacophony of dull aches, and sharp, wrenching agony. He couldn't stop the tremors that ran along his limbs; he could only bite his lips to hold in the gasps and moans that clamoured to escape. He could feel Doyle's watchful gaze, and deliberately refused to meet his lover's eyes, knowing his own would betray him. The wounds had been deep. It wasn't the first time he'd felt the slipperiness of his own innards, and vampires did not succumb to shock, but such wounds took time to heal, even with a steady blood supply. The little he'd consumed wasn't enough to quell the hunger that gnawed at him. He could smell blood and fear; the beating hearts a lure that called to his baser instincts. Angel wanted to listen to it, to turn upon his companions and feed until the hunger was silenced. He couldn't, and its cries joined the dissonance.
They stopped suddenly, and Angel looked at Spike, trying to gauge the reason from his Childe's face. Spike looked irritated and slightly uneasy. From the corner of his eye Angel caught the shift in Graham's expression, and guessed the young soldier was about to demand why they were stopping. Angel decided to step in before things had a chance to turn ugly. "Spike?" His voice was scarcely more than a hoarse whisper, but Spike was instantly by side, surprising him. Spike was seldom so obedient. Angel took note of the furrow resting between Spike's unbleached brows and smelt fresh blood; Spike was hurt a lot worse than he was letting on. Angel had to stamp down on the surge of rage that knowledge caused him. Now would not be a good time to unleash his protective instincts.
"You look like shit," said Spike casually.
Angel didn't bother to contradict him. "What's wrong?"
Spike's lip curled in obvious annoyance. "Humans, up ahead. My guess is it's nancy-boy's playmates, keeping an eye-out for any would-be escapees."
Angel grimaced, and turned his head to look back down the corridor. "Is there another way out?"
Spike didn't give Graham the chance to reply. "We haven't got time to waltzing around this dump. We stay here much longer and we're gonna be burnt offerings."
Angel hated it when Spike was right. "Any idea how many?"
Spike shrugged. "Mebbe a couple."
"Marking this exit," Graham cut in. "They'll be more outside, covering the perimeter." He shook his head grimly. "No way can we get past them all."
"Way to go with the never-say-die attitude there, soldier," said Xander snarkily. He thought of the odds he and his friends had faced, time and time again. If they'd thrown in the towel this easily, the world could be a very different place right now.
"We're trained to view situations realistically," Graham snapped back defensively. "You put a group of unarmed civilians against trained soldiers, you're gonna get a blood-bath. That's pretty much a given."
"Don't know about that," said Spike smoothly. "Technically, I'm an unarmed civilian. Wanna give it a go and see whose blood we end up washing in?"
Graham stiffened and took a step forward.
Again Angel intervened. "Will they listen to you if you go out there alone? This place is sitting on a lava stream; when it goes, it's going to take anything close by with it. You need to get them to back off."
"*Way* off," Doyle added.
Graham hesitated.
"They're your men," said Doyle persuasively. "Your friends. You wanna see 'em die?"
"I'll tell them," Graham agreed.
"Will they listen?" Angel asked.
"They'll listen."
"Good. That's all we need them to do. Listen, and back off."
"It's still daylight out there," said Graham. "You're not going to get far."
"Let us worry about that," said Xander. "You take care of your own." The inference was about as subtle as the look in the young man's eyes: Xander didn't identify himself as human any more.
"What about him?" Graham nodded his head toward Wesley. The others turned and looked.
Wesley glanced at the demon at his side, then at Angel, Doyle, Xander, and lastly Spike. "I think I'll stay, if it's all the same. My assistance may be needed." Spike snorted, but Angel gave Wesley an approving smile, and Wesley stood a little straighter.
Graham accepted the other man's decision with a nod. "Well, good luck then." It was clear from his tone that he meant it. Angel extended a slightly shaky, blood-spattered hand. Graham took it without hesitation, and shook it carefully before walking away. He glanced back briefly, as he exited the last set of doors, leaving them open for the others to follow when they could.
"What now?" Doyle asked worriedly. "He's right. You an' Spike can't go out there."
A loud rumbling drowned out Angel's reply. The corridor began to shake violently. Fragments of plaster began to rain down on them as it splintered away from the walls and ceiling, filling the corridor with clouds of choking dust. Tiles flew up from the floor, hissing spouts of steam shooting into the air. A demon screamed and fell back; spidery-limbs clutching at scalded skin. Doyle stumbled onto his hands and knees. Angel fell with him. Searing heat greeted their skin. Amid the groaning and rumbling, gaping holes opened up: deep, jagged cracks that released more steam and fumes. As Angel had predicted, the base was going under, taking all with it in its death throes. The steady grumbling beneath Angel rose to an ear-shattering roar. Then he was moving, as the floor beneath him lifted and tilted. He was sent rolling one-way, and Doyle another. He heard Doyle's fearful shout, and Spike yelling out to Xander above the terrified screams. He lifted his arms to shield himself as part of the ceiling came crashing down, and the voices fell silent.
Part Twenty SevenSpike spat plaster dust out of his mouth and rubbed at his eyes, blinking to try and clear his vision. His throat tightened as he looked for Xander, and he spotted the young man, curled up, motionless, beside the wall. Ignoring the wailing pain of bullet wounds and fresh cuts, Spike dragged himself over to his lover. "Xander?" he called out softly; hesitantly touching Xander's shoulder. He felt seven different kinds of relief when the young man moved and groaned. "Xander," he repeated more urgently. Xander coughed and rolled over; he'd been curled around the demon child, who stared at Spike with wide startled eyes.
"What the fuck?" Xander muttered.
"Language, Pet." Spike's stab at the familiar banter was an attempt to soothe his rattled nerves. He gently sat his lover up against the wall. "You all right?" he asked worriedly. "Everything working okay?" Xander nodded, and winced. His hair was full of greying-plaster dust, making him look like he'd aged fifty years in a minute. Much to Spike's relief, everything seemed to come back online pretty quickly. The dazed, confused look faded from Xander's face, replaced by one of panic.
"Angel? Doyle?!"
Spike put a hand out to stop him when Xander would have risen. "Stay with the kid. I'll find 'em." Spike turned and scanned the corridor, trying to conceal his own mounting alarm. Debris lay scattered everywhere. Great chunks of wall, ceiling and floor, tangled up with wires and pipes, and twisted, mangled bodies. Dark pools of blood were spreading out from beneath some of the piles of wreckage. Spike didn't need to see it. He could smell it, just as he could smell the death around him. He spotted a familiar leg, poking out from beneath a piece of plasterboard. Spike made his way cautiously across the floor, edging around the steam vents, and the cracks and holes. He lifted the plasterboard up and crouched beside the unconscious figure. He could hear the man's heart beating steadily.
"Oi, English. Wake up!" Spike lightly slapped Wesley's cheek. "Watcher!"
"Ughnn?" Wesley opened his eyes. He was pale - though that was as much from the dust as anything - and a thin trickle of blood ran down the side of his face from a cut somewhere above his hairline. Other than that, however, he appeared to be unhurt.
Spike checked to be certain, running his hands lightly over the man's body to see if there were any obvious breaks. His fingers found something in a pocket. Spike withdrew the hip flask with a grunt of appreciation; he took a quick sniff of the contents. "Why, Watcher, you sly dog you," Spike murmured. He slipped the flask into his own pocket. Satisfied Wesley wasn't seriously hurt, he hoisted the man upright, and with a look of mild disgust, hooked an arm under the man's knees and carried him like a child back across the obstacle-strewn corridor. He sat him down beside Xander. "Stay." The order was hardly necessary; Wesley was still out of it.
As Xander tried to bring the older man round, Spike set out again in search of Doyle and Angel. He clambered up a near-vertical segment of floor and looked over it. Nerves rang with fresh alarm when his gaze fell upon Doyle, slumped beside a door. The glass in the door had not withstood the tremor, and the jagged pieces had rained down upon the young man, who had evidently been in no condition to shield his face from them. One small piece was deeply embedded in Doyle's left cheek; another longer shard stuck out obscenely from just beneath his left eye. Spike could see countless other tiny pieces which had bitten into the pale skin like thousands of tiny teeth, leaving it streaked with blood.
Spike balanced precariously on top of the tilted floor, leaping from it to land alongside Doyle. He grimaced in sympathy as he made a quick but careful examination of the unconscious man's injuries. With a steady hand, and a skill born of long practice, Spike plucked the largest of the glass splinters from Doyle's flesh. Then he withdrew his hip flask, muttered a heartfelt: "Sorry, mate" and poured the contents over Doyle's face, avoiding the man's eyes. Spike was ready for Doyle's abrupt return to consciousness. A hoarse scream was dragged from the young man's throat as Spike held Doyle steady and let the whiskey do its work, washing away the smaller slivers of glass, along with the dirt and grime. "Easy, easy," Spike soothed, as Doyle
bucked and twisted in his grasp."Spike?!" a worried Xander called out.
"S'alright, love," Spike answered. "I've got Doyle. He's okay. Just cleaning him up a bit." He looked down at Doyle, who was shivering and blinking as rivulets of blood and whiskey ran down his face. "You back with me yet, mate?"
Green eyes blinked hard several times more before Doyle answered. "What's in that thing? Battery acid?"
Spike adopted an affronted expression. "Oi! That's JD. Only the best for medicinal purposes."
"Medicinal? Christ," Doyle muttered. "I think you burnt my fuckin' face off." He went to put his hands up to said injured face, but Spike grabbed his wrists.
"Now don't you go spoilin' all my hard work. I've just washed all the muck off you, and you wanna go and put your grubby mitts all over it again." Spike shook his head.
It took a few seconds for Doyle's pain-fuddled brain to get Spike's meaning. "Oh. Right. Yeah. " Doyle was letting Spike ease him into a sitting position, when the remainder of his thought-processes evidently kicked in. He stiffened and stared at Spike in horror. "Angel?"
"Working on it," said Spike, worry making his tone brisk. He felt a shudder go through Doyle, and he cursed himself silently, squeezing an arm in reassurance. "Give us a minute, yeah? He'll be lazing about on his fat arse 'ere somewhere."
Doyle nodded jerkily.
"You'll be okay here while I look?" Spike asked. He wasn't sure yet how he was going to get Doyle back over to Xander and Wesley. Most of the floor between here and there was missing. He'd definitely need Doyle to be a bit more copus mentis before they tried. Doyle responded with another nod, and Spike moved off to search for Angel. Plaster dust hung heavily in the air; Spike was thankful he didn't need to breathe; though he could taste it - a dry, chalky grittiness that coated the inside of his mouth and clogged his throat. He could hear survivors coughing and spluttering as they clawed their way back to consciousness. Spike ignored them to concentrate on his goal.
In one part of the corridor a large section of ceiling had come down. From the gaping hole above hung a mass of wires, some crackling and sparking ominously. Spike edged around them uneasily as he tried to look underneath the rubble. A morbid thought had already occurred to him, that with all this dust around, how would he - no, he wasn't going there. Angel was all right. It was just like the big, lumbering pansy to be lounging about, while they all acted stupid over him. Spike's gaze was drawn to a pale hand that he would recognize anywhere, and the knot in his gut began to unravel. He frowned as he eyed the ceiling segment; how was he going to do this?
"Need some help?"
Spike had already placed the voice as he spun around to face the speaker. "Got lost did we?" He sneered. "Can't find your arses without a map and compass." He turned away again.
Graham ignored the jibe and jumped down from the tilted floor piece. He made his way over to Spike. "Can you lift it?"
Spike arched a scarred eyebrow.
"If you can lift it. I can probably slide him out," Graham offered.
"Why are you here?" asked Spike suspiciously.
Graham looked unsettled by the question; though all he said was: "Do you want to talk? Or do you want to rescue your boss? I'm guessing he's under there?"
"He's not my boss," Spike snapped. However, he took hold of the ceiling segment and prepared to lift. He nodded at Graham, who nodded back. Spike gritted his teeth and lifted; shoulder muscles taught with the strain. Graham didn't hesitate; darting forward he dragged Angel's body free. As soon as the pair was clear, Spike let go, and the segment fell back with a dull thud and a thick cloud of dust. Graham put his hand over his face, coughing as the choking particles swirled around him. Spike ignored the young soldier as he examined Angel. Amazingly, Angel appeared to have avoided adding anything serious to his catalogue of injuries. Superficial cuts and grazes, minor stuff. Spike had witnessed Angel receive worse during foreplay.
"Wanker," Spike muttered, his voice laced with rough affection. Heedless of Graham's curious gaze, Spike brushed some of the dust and debris from Angel' s hair. Angel's eyelids fluttered and slowly opened.
"Wi-Will?" Angel frowned, clearly trying to piece events together. His eyes widened. "Doy-"
"Is fine," Spike finished. "So's Xander. I think your hair's a casualty though, mate."
"The others?"
Spike shrugged uneasily, loosening a stubborn chunk of plaster from Angel's hair. "We've lost some. Dunno how many yet."
"Spi-"
"Yeah, yeah. I'm on it." Spike's voice dropped to a sullen mutter. "Pardon me for checking to see if you were in one piece first." Angel caught Spike's wrist as he went to get up. He held onto it, a moment of silent understanding passing between them. Then Angel let go, and Spike moved off again.
*****************************
Angel was left in the company of a subdued Graham. He glanced at the young man, puzzled. "Why did you come back?"
"You'd rather I hadn't?" Graham sniped; he was watching Spike, and seemed uncertain whether he should stay and look after Angel or go and lend a hand.
"I'm grateful," said Angel struggling to sit up. "I'm just wondering why you bothered?"
"Maybe I don't think anyone deserves to die in here."
"Good enough answer." Angel used the wall to push up onto his feet. He swayed a little.
"You should probably hang on a few more minutes," Graham advised.
"There's no time." Angel indicated the gaping holes. "Any moment now, lava's going to start coming up through those. We need to get the survivors out of here."
Graham nodded. He helped an unsteady Angel walk forward. Someone joined them after a few paces. It was Doyle; his face oddly patterned with streaks of semi-washed away dust and blood.
"Hey there," said Doyle softly, reaching for his lover.
Angel smiled in heartfelt relief, and then frowned when he noticed the oozing cuts in Doyle's skin.
Doyle waved his concern away. "I'm good. Better than." He looked about him. "Better than these poor bastards any ways." The survivors were beginning to rouse themselves; the more able bodied assisting those who'd been less fortunate. Now that Doyle and the others were on their feet, they joined in. Between them they worked quickly and efficiently to shift the rubble and debris to free the trapped victims. Spike and Xander manufactured a makeshift rope from cables to aid those who had to jump across the cavernous hole onto the up-tilted section of floor. When they were done they discovered they'd lost less than half their number, which was little short of a miracle considering the damage the corridor had sustained. All the youngest were alive and unharmed - save for Shekaa's brother. He had disappeared into one of the gaping fissures. His family now sat around the hole, wailing and sobbing.
Spike put on his game-face and leaned over the opening. His features changed back as he drew away from the hole with a terse shake of his head. "Nothing living down there," he confirmed. The Quix didn't need to understand his words to grasp the meaning of his grim tone, and they launched into a fresh batch of shrill wails. Spike edged away, uncomfortable with the show of grief.
Angel glanced across at Wesley, who gave a sad nod of comprehension. The ex-Watcher addressed the Quix in a soft, respectful tone; gently explaining that if they didn't leave now, they too would perish. The remaining Quix stumbled to their feet, near blinded by grief. Graham couldn't seem to look at them. The young soldier kept his gaze fixed firmly on the floor, shame and guilt colouring his features. Xander nudged his arm. "Make yourself useful." Graham blinked and held out his arms without thinking as Xander placed a demon child in them. Xander bent down to pick up his own miniature burden. The whole unreal-thing increased for Graham as a frog suddenly dropped from nowhere with an indignant 'chirrup'. The demon Xander held caught it neatly before it could fall to the floor, and this time, instead of trying to devour the poor creature, the demon cradled its charge carefully, eyes watching Xander for some sign of approval. Xander smiled and nodded. "Kermit."
"Kerrr-miiittssss," the demon-child hissed. It snuggled the frog against its scaly chest. Kermit seemed happy enough and made no attempt to get away.
"Come on, kiddies. Time to leave," said Spike.
"Wait," Graham called. Spike and the others looked at him impatiently. "There's a vehicle close to the building. I left it there," Graham explained. "The windows in the back are blacked out."
"Will it hold all of us?" Angel asked.
Graham glanced at the group and nodded. "It should."
"How far from the entrance?" Spike demanded. He scowled when Graham told him. There was nothing fun about the feel and smell of your own smoldering flesh.
"The keys are in the ignition," Graham added. "It's ready to go."
"Good," said Angel. "You can drive." Graham opened his mouth, but didn't say anything. "Unless you want to stay with your 'friends'?" Angel asked as he walked past. The others followed Angel.
Graham had seconds to make a life changing decision. He looked down at the small violet-eyed demon cradled against his chest. She offered him a tremulous smile. He drew in a deep breath and made his choice. "I guess I'm driving," he agreed.
Part Twenty EightThey weren't far from the exit, but as they walked toward it the rumbling started up again. As the corridor shook ominously, plaster bits falling, some of the demons began to cry and whimper. Xander felt like joining in. He was hot, tired, sticky, and dirty. His arms ached from carrying the kid, and Kermit's chirpy, chipper croak was getting on his nerves. He couldn't understand why Angel was inviting soldier-boy to tag along. Xander hated the Initiative for what it had done; the image of his lover writhing in pain was permanently etched into his memory. Having an ex-Watcher on board wasn't bad enough? Now they had to start recruiting from the goon squad? Still, this wasn't the time to discuss membership issues. The stifling temperature seemed to soar suddenly, and Xander didn't need to look back to know that the lava was starting to seep up through the fissures in the floor.
Spike hauled his Duster up over his head in readiness. Wesley shrugged out of his borrowed combat jacket with surprising alacrity, and handed it to Angel. Graham shifted the demon child in his arms as he prepared to run. "The vehicle's parked over on your right," he told them. The doors aren't locked."
"I'll go first an' get the doors open ready," Doyle offered.
Angel started to object. "Doyle-" His lover cut him off.
"You an' Spike can't be messing about out there. And everyone else has their hands full. Besides, running's one thing I'm pretty good at." Doyle grinned.
Angel nodded reluctantly. "Be careful."
"Everyone should have pulled back by now," said Graham. "You shouldn't have any trouble."
They reached the doors just as another powerful tremor hit. They were forced to stop, staggering as they tried to stay on their feet. The groaning, rending sound was getting louder. Angel grabbed Doyle by his collar and pulled him in close, placing a hard kiss upon the young man's mouth. Angel released him. "Go."
Doyle went, flying out of the doors like a greyhound from the trap, racing across the open ground toward the van. It was probably less than forty-feet. To Xander it looked a hell of a long way. He glanced worriedly at Spike. Spike returned the look; arching an eyebrow when Xander stared at his Doc's. Xander responded with a self-conscious shrug. "Just checking your laces are tied."
Spike shook his head in exasperation.
"Do us both a favour, okay? Don't trip," Xander pleaded.
"I think I can manage that," Spike drawled.
Fortunately, Angel was too busy watching Doyle to catch their conversation, and he would have known better than to increase Xander's anxiety by mentioning the time Spike had snagged his foot and was nearly flambéed as a result. Angelus had thrown a horse blanket over him and wrenched his foot free.
Doyle made it to the van without any trouble. He flung open the doors in readiness, before beckoning the others across. Graham went next, leaping into the driver's seat and starting the engine. "Let's go!" he called out of the open window.
"Go! Go!" Spike spurred the frightened huddle into motion, chivvying them out of the door and toward the van. Behind them the building was heaving and groaning. The floor of the corridor had begun to ripple and split, more deep fissures appearing. From them torrents of steam and clouds of billowing smoke emerged.
Even in the open doorway, Xander's eyes were smarting. The air became hard to breathe as it grew thick and heavy with noxious, choking fumes. Despite this, he hesitated, unwilling to leave his lover's side.
"Move it, Pet."
Xander found himself being shoved unceremoniously through the doorway. He shook his head to clear the dizziness, and was reminded of his responsibilities as the demon in his arms tightened its grip, clinging frantically to him with all four limbs. Xander glanced back at Spike and Angel, who were now the only two standing in the doorway. His eyes widened with horror as he realized that the building was literally disintegrating around them - the walls crashing down and disappearing into a cavernous, smoking hole that had opened in the earth. Spike's eyes locked with his briefly; blue threaded with gold. Then Spike drew the duster over his head and charged out of the doorway, Angel only a fraction behind him.
Graham slammed the van into reverse and backed up as far as he dared, trying to bridge the distance between them. There was no road running up to the doorway and there was a very real danger that the van would find itself caught up in the building's fiery descent. Xander jumped into the already crowded vehicle and turned around to look for Spike. Less than two feet from the van, Spike suddenly erupted into flames; followed by Angel. Xander screamed his lover's name, dimly aware of Doyle yelling out for Angel, as he fought Graham to get out of the van.
Xander would have ignored the flames to pull Spike and Angel inside. In the end he didn't need to. Wesley operated the emergency fire extinguisher with surprising expertise. Dampening the flames enough for Spike and Angel to be safely hauled into the dark interior, whereupon the doors were slammed shut, blocking out the deadly rays. Graham stamped on the accelerator and the van tore forward as everything went to hell behind them. The building gave one last defiant rumble before crashing down into the smoking abyss, vivid-orange spurts of lava shooting up into the sky. No one tried to stop them as they left the long, winding driveway and headed out onto the road. Either no one cared to try, or the Initiative had pulled back too far to notice the van speeding away from the scene.
Part Twenty Nine
Angel was vaguely aware that he was laid on top of several demons. More than one of which was silently protesting. Unfortunately for them, he was too exhausted and in too much pain to even think about getting up. The lingering odour of slightly charred vampire hung about unpleasantly inside the van's confined interior. Angel might have been more concerned if the same criteria hadn't applied. Instead, he lay in a semi-conscious state, wondering why he couldn't be totally unconscious so everything might hurt less. He was peripherally aware of Spike's voice, which eased his worries as to the well being of his Childe. If Spike was feeling well enough to bitch and moan about the effect of extinguisher foam on his precious duster, Angel didn't feel the need to be overly concerned. Closing his eyes, Angel let the Bond satisfy the lingering fears he had for his lover. He could sense Doyle's distress, but from what Angel could gather, it was from seeing Angel's fiery display."Angel?"
Xander's voice roused Angel from his stupor. Opening his eyes seemed to take a Herculean amount of effort. He finally met Xander's concerned gaze. The young man was squashed up against Spike, who was poking at a charred patch on his duster, making little sounds of disgust.
"You okay?" Xander asked.
Angel couldn't find the strength to speak, so he settled for nodding. Something underneath him squeaked, and Angel decided perhaps he should move just in case he was cutting off someone's air supply. He sat up, aided by the demons, which pushed at him gingerly. However, he quickly found he lacked the strength to remain sitting upright, and he slumped forward onto the Gunuck, earning himself a mouthful of fur in the process. He was grateful when a very welcome hand pulled him back and supplied some much-needed support. Angel glanced sidelong at his rescuer. "Thanks," he croaked faintly.
"You're quite welcome," said Wesley; his polite tone at odds with his bloodied face and wildly disarrayed hair.
They had slowed down, and Angel took this to mean that they'd left the immediate danger behind and were heading home. He glanced at Spike and Xander, and then looked wistfully toward the front end of the van. The driver's cabin was blocked off. Angel wanted to see his lover. He wanted to hold Doyle. He wanted the physical reassurance that Doyle was all right, and a touch of comforting wouldn't go amiss right now. For now all he could do was close his eyes and concentrate on keeping the pain ay bay. It was a constant, pulsing agony that had Angel gritting his teeth to stop from crying out every time the vehicle's motion knocked someone into him. Each jolt tugged healing skin, and sent shards of pain shooting through his body. Angel tried not to snarl when Wesley began hunting through his pockets - elbows and shoulders unintentionally jabbing Angel's tender flesh.
Wesley abandoned his search with a dismayed sigh - which turned into an indignant squawk when Spike casually lifted the object of Wesley's quest to his lips. "My flask!"
Spike smiled beatifically and ran a tongue over his lips. "Didn't think Watchers went in for the good stuff. Isn't it against the code or something? Thought a nice cup of tea was more your thing?"
"I am not a Watcher," said Wesley stiffly. "Now please hand it over." He held out his hand for the flask.
Spike threw it and Angel gasped as Wesley caught it and an elbow connected with his ribs.
"Oh, I'm most terribly sorry," stammered Wesley. His flushed cheeks took on an angry hue when he discovered the flask was empty, and he glared hotly at Spike.
Spike was unapologetic. "Greater needs, mate. The good of the many and all that." He grinned, eyes glittering. Needling the Watcher was an enjoyable enough way to pass the time.
Wesley angrily thrust the flask back into his pocket, mumbling something about leaving Spike to burn next time.
Xander attempted to smooth things over. "Wesley?" The other man looked up. "Thanks," Xander continued. "We owe you one." His expression was earnest, and Wesley seemed to realize that Xander meant it; as far as he was concerned they were in Wesley's debt.
Wesley nodded, his annoyance fading as he remembered that it had been Spike who had dug him out from the rubble. "I think we're even," he corrected, casting a meaningful glance at the vampire.
Xander grinned, gently nudging Spike with his arm. "Our hero," he teased.
Spike looked distinctly unsettled at being reminded of his actions. "Whatever," he muttered.
Angel wondered if he was going to totally humiliate himself by fainting. Though the notion had an upside, in that at least he wouldn't feel anything. The van came to a jarring stop, there was a pause, and then someone rapped lightly on the door.
"We're home, fellas. Sit tight for a minute, yeah? I'm going for some blankets."
Spike muttered and elbowed demons out of the way as he hoisted his duster back over his head.
Xander glanced at Angel worriedly. "Can you walk?"
It was on the tip of Angel's tongue to snap back that - no, he couldn't. Instead, he nodded weakly. However, thanks to able assistance from Doyle and Graham, it proved to be less of an ordeal than he'd anticipated. Though unfortunately not less painful, and Angel was feeling decidedly light-headed by the time they got inside. The rest of the demons stood about looking dazed and frightened, while a shocked Cordelia retrieved the medical kit. When she first noticed Doyle, she exclaimed in horror. "Oh my God, Doyle. Your face." Then her gaze fell upon Angel. "Oh, God, Angel. Your-" She stopped as she looked him up and down. "What the Hell happened to you?"
Angel just shook his head, too weary and hurting to offer-up explanations. Graham moved to help Cordelia, who glanced uncertainly at him, then offered him a shy smile. Hasty introductions were made. Shekaa was brought into the room and a tearful reunion took place. She burst into loud, semi-hysterical sobs upon hearing of her brother's fate. When Cordelia stared in concern at the crying girl, a grimfaced Wesley explained. "Her brother didn't make it," he told the young woman quietly.
Cordelia's bewildered expression shifted into one of sorrowful sympathy. She went over to Angel's side, mouth tightening as she held back tears. She had become very fond of the little girl during the long hours they'd spent waiting together. Now Cordelia performed her usual trick of masking her emotions behind an indifferent façade."You owe me a manicure, mister," she told Angel.
"I-" Angel blinked and stared at her. "I owe you a what?" he asked.
"A manicure," Cordelia repeated. Holding up her hand for his inspection. "Have you any idea what it's like pacing this floor waiting for you guys to come back? I'm surprised you're not looking at knucklebones here. I must have chewed every last one to the cuticle." Her blasé facade slipped a little as she dressed a deep gash in his side. "God, Angel. What did they do to you?"
"They tried to feed him to a Locksaw," spat Doyle. Green eyes shone with hate. He was slumped on the floor beside Angel, one hand clutching his lover's.
"What?" Cordelia's eyebrows rose up toward her hairline. "Why on earth would they do that?"
"Oh, I don't know. Mebbe because they're murderous bastards?" offered Doyle bitterly.
Graham was applying salve to a K'enta's leg. He glanced across, his expression troubled. "Most of us didn't know," he responded softly.
"Didn't know what?" Xander demanded. He was re-bandaging Spike's torso, ignoring Spike's protestations that he was fine.
"That there are host-." Graham stopped and corrected himself. "That there are demons out there, which aren't a threat." He wetted his lips and met the accusative gazes without flinching. "We're told that they all present a serious danger to the public. That it's our sworn duty to neutralize that danger. We learn not to question orders early on in our training. A soldier can't hesitate out in the field."
"Except," said Wesley quietly, "when you stop asking questions, you also let yourself stop thinking as an individual. You become part of the whole. A cog in a very large and powerful machine." It was clear he was emphasizing, at least on some level, with Graham's position.
"Yeah, well. I'm thinking for myself now," said Graham a touch defensively. "I'm not part of that machine any more." He looked slightly lost as the realization of that sank in.
Doyle remembered something from their earlier conversation "I thought this wasn't the kind of set-up they let you walk away from?"
Graham shrugged awkwardly, unwilling to provide a direct answer.
"They'll come looking for you?" Angel wanted to know.
"Maybe," Graham acknowledged reluctantly. "But with the base gone like that, they'll be a lot of questions to answer. The higher-ups won't be very happy. There's been incidents like this before." He glanced at Xander. "Sunnydale wasn't the first. Chances are, they'll want to lie-low and lick their wounds for a while."
"They'll pull out of L.A.?" Doyle's tone was disbelieving.
Graham nodded. "Probably. At least in the short term. Something like this attracts attention. An operation like the Initiative can't afford any kind of close scrutiny."
Doyle pulled a face that suggested he wasn't convinced. For now Angel was content to let his lover handle the skeptical side of things, while he offered silent thanks to whatever Power had aided them in throwing the Initiative off the playing field; no matter how temporarily the reprieve. Right now, any respite was welcome. One of the demons chose this lull in the conversation to take hold of Angel's free hand, babbling incomprehensibly at him. Angel smiled weakly and glanced at Wesley.
"He says that he doesn't know how they will ever be able to begin to repay you," Wesley translated.
"Money always works," Spike suggested. Angel glared at him.
Cordelia's mercenary gleam was eclipsed by something kinder and gentler as she gazed around the apartment. "Tell them it's what we do." She ignored the startled looks her colleagues directed her way. "We help the helpless."
"Hopeless," Spike muttered.
"Chirrup."
Part Thirty
Xander and Cordelia were in the kitchen, combining research with a much-needed caffeine infusion. Xander glanced up as Doyle wandered through. "How is he?""Complain'," said Doyle happily. "Says he's had enough bed-rest."
There was a distinct lack of Angel in the room, which led Xander to conclude that Doyle must have managed to persuade Angel otherwise. "How'd you get him to stay put?"
"Reminded him I have chains an' I know how to use 'em." Doyle's smile didn't mask his underlying weariness, and his hands trembled as he poured himself a mug of coffee. Xander and Cordelia exchanged worried glances as he liberally laced it with whiskey from a near-empty bottle. He didn't appear to notice and pulled up a chair alongside them. "We makin' any progress?"
Xander decided to shelve his concern for now. He slid an open book in front of Doyle. "Nope. Feel free to dive in any time."
Doyle took a lengthy swig from his mug, grimaced, and began reading.
*******
Three hours later Cordelia was on a snack hunt, Doyle was asleep, and Xander was wondering if his eyesight was going to be permanently affected. He'd stared at the tiny script for so long that he could still read the words when he looked up from the page. Xander would have minded less if he'd discovered something, but he was drawing a big fat blank. There were curses aplenty, almost too many to count. Weird ones, deadly ones, and ones guaranteed to ensure that you would be single for life. There were your fairly standard curses that resulted in boils, buboes, and oozing pustules. Or bits rotting and dropping off. There were excessive curses, which followed long-suffering families down through the generations. And there were curses that transformed the unfortunate recipient into something entirely new. All in all, Xander wasn't exactly encouraged by anything he had read. Kermit was clearly mild as curses went, but reading between the lines, Xander felt a definite presentiment that the little frog might be the calm before the storm. His morose thoughts were interrupted by an exuberant yell, followed by the sound of someone descending the stairwell at speed.
Wesley entered the kitchen wearing a triumphant expression. He dropped an enormous book onto the table, jabbing excitedly at the open page with his finger. "I've found it!" he exclaimed delightedly. "I was right. It was the eastern Lumar regional variation of Elpfargic."
Doyle had woken with a start. He relaxed at once when he saw Wesley; and rubbed his hand tiredly across his face. "Cut to the chase, yeah? You're sayin' you've found a way to break the curse?"
Wesley nodded vigorously, buoyant from his success. "This sentence had me stumped," he explained. "I was trying to decipher it using western Lumar, which is the more common form of Elpfargic. But it just wasn't working, so I tried eastern Lumar and pffft." Wesley snapped his fingers. "Success." He beamed at them.
When Wesley didn't continue, Xander stared at him with an expression of strained patience. "Wesley?"
"Hmm?"
"How do I break the curse?" asked Xander slowly.
"What?" Wesley blinked. "Oh. Of course." He lifted the book back into his arms and checked the page before addressing Xander's question. "Well, according to my translation, the curse was laid down in honour of an Elpfargian deity, a goddess by the name of Duereshaa. To end it requires the recipient of the curse offer the goddess a suitable sacrifice. In this particular case it asks for zeeshn and ide."
"Which means?"
"Blood and life."
Xander took a moment to let that sink in. Then he shook his head vigorously. "No. No way. I'm not gutting someone on an altar to get rid of a frog."
"Xander-" Wesley began gently.
"No." Xander's tone was final. He folded his arms across his chest. "Find another way," he told Wesley.
Wesley shook his head. "There is no other way. However, if you'd just let me finish, I was trying to tell you that you're misinterpreting the words - blood and life. It isn't asking for that kind of a sacrifice. Thankfully," he added.
"Then what is it askin' for?" asked Doyle warily.
"Duereshaa is the Elpfargian goddess of death and rebirth. The jar you broke apparently belonged to a half- Egyptian, half-Elpfargian. It appears he planned to play it safe in the afterlife by honouring the gods of both of his parents. Hence the Egyptian Canopic jars, and the Elpfargian curse used to protect them."
"Can we get back to the blood and life bit, please," said Xander impatiently. "What exactly does this Doeresha want?"
"Duereshaa," Wesley corrected automatically. Xander rolled his eyes, and Wesley went on with his explanation. "Blood is simple enough. Blood is life, without it all things die. So Duereshaa is to be honoured with blood; a small amount should suffice."
"How small? Are we talking a thumb-full? An arm-full? What?" Xander was getting antsy.
"I don't know," Wesley snapped. He was slightly peeved that his efforts weren't being greeted with greater enthusiasm. "Enough to satisfy a goddess. That doesn't necessarily mean the full quota. I would speculate somewhere in the region of a cup full should prove sufficient."
"Okay." Xander could live with that - literally. "What about the other one. You said she wanted a life. How is that not killing someone?"
"Not a life," said Wesley. "Just life. Which translated to its most basic form would mean seed. Male seed." Slightly flustered, Wesley turned his attention back to his book. "This infers that the ritual used to appease Duereshaa involves the participants---ah---coupling on an altar. And in the process spilling blood and seed."
"You're kiddin'?" Doyle got up and peered over Wesley's shoulder to look at the book. "It actually says that?"
"Well, yes," said Wesley.
"Let me get this straight," said Xander. "To get rid of Kermit I have to have sex - on an altar?"
"That doesn't sound so bad."
Xander gave Doyle a sharp look before pinning Wesley with his gaze. "Does it say anything about who I have to do this with?"
Wesley shook his head. "I don't think it specifies that you actually need to ah---perform the deed, with anyone."
Xander thought about that. "So I could-"
"Yes," Wesley finished quickly, a dark flush colouring his cheeks.
Doyle remembered something else. "What about the altar? You say he has to do this on an altar. Where would that be then?"
"That's where we may have a slight problem," Wesley admitted. "This ceremony requires the use of an Elpfargian altar. And unfortunately, I have no idea where we can find one." He looked frustrated. "If only I still had access to the Watcher database. We kept an accurate record of these kinds of things. I'm sure I could have located one straight away."
"Don't sweat it," said Xander, whose spirits had picked up now that it looked like he wouldn't have to kill any one. "We might have access to that data."
"You mean Giles? It was my understanding that he and the Council were on less than favourable terms?"
"Oh, they hate each other," Xander agreed. "But since they've got the books, and Giles has got access to the only bona fide, fully operational Slayer, they sometimes see their way to helping one another out."
"Then let's get to it," said Doyle. "Who's gonna make the call?"
Xander weighed up the prospect of telling Giles that he needed to find an altar so he could jerk-off over it. "You said Angel's feeling better, yeah?"
Doyle nodded.
"Then I think we'll let him handle this one," Xander decided.
Wesley released the breath he'd been holding.
***
Spike put in an appearance just as Angel was getting off the phone. Giles had agreed to call them back within twenty-four hours with the information, if he could get it. Xander filled Spike in on what they'd discovered. It didn't escape Spike's notice that Xander was a little terse with him, and he toyed with the idea that it might be because he'd been making himself scarce of late. He had his reasons. The demons hadn't outstayed their welcome - leaving promptly on the day of their rescue. Soldier boy's AWOL status looked like it was going to be a permanent condition, although they hadn't seen anything of him. Graham was temporarily residing in rooms above the Caritas club. The owner wasn't one hundred percent happy with the arrangement, but Angel had convinced Lorne that it wouldn't result in a visit from the dawn-patrol.
Spike was fine with all of that. What he was less happy with was Wesley's presence in Angel and Doyle's guest room. He had been voted down when they were discussing what to do with the ex-Watcher. His loud protestations had been ignored when Wesley was invited to move in, after it had been deemed unsafe for him to return to his own apartment. The fact that Wesley was clearly not enamored of the plan, gave Spike little satisfaction. He didn't want some nosy Watcher-type bollixing things up between him and Xander, and now he was supposed to be grateful to the badly dressed twerp? Like they couldn't have sorted this themselves. Spike settled for sneering and raiding the fridge for some of Angel's tasteless crap; it was worth it to see the obvious discomfort on Wesley's face as he wiped his bloody mouth.
Spike set his empty mug down on the table. "Let me see if I've got this straight. We need to find some sacred stone and shag on it? And that'll send hoppy back to wherever it came from?"
"Hel-lo," said Xander. "We?" He was clearly trying not to let his embarrassment get the better of him. "I think I can take care of this on my own."
Spike regaled his lover with a look and then turned his attention back to Wesley. "So we find this stone, fuck - and that's it?" Spike was doubtful. Nothing magical was ever that easy.
"Well, I may have skipped one or two salient points when I was summarizing things earlier," Wesley reluctantly conceded.
"Whoa," Xander cut in nervously. "Salient points? Blood and life you said. When and where exactly do these salient points come into it?"
"There are some symbols which need to be painted onto the participant. And in addition, someone needs to recite the necessary chant to pacify the goddess."
"Chant?" Xander echoed. "I have to chant something while I'm-" He stopped, as though suddenly aware of exactly what he would be doing.
Wesley looked equally uncomfortable. "It would probably have been the duty of an officiant to read the script, while the participant made the appropriate---ahm---offering."
"This chant - it would be in Elpfargian, right?" Angel asked.
"Eastern Lumar Elpfargian to be precise," said Wesley.
"My guess is that's not an easy dialect to learn?"
"Well, no," Wesley agreed. "Several of the-"
Angel interrupted him. "And if this chant is performed incorrectly?"
Wesley hesitated.
Angel continued to press him for an answer. "It wouldn't be good, right?"
"No," said Wesley slowly. "In all probability it would be quite bad."
"The you'll have to do it."
"What?"
"No way!"
"Fuck that!"Angel's quiet voice cut through all the objections. "You can speak Elpfargian?" he demanded of Wesley.
Wesley nodded his head unhappily.
"Then that settles it," said Angel firmly. "Unless anyone else here happens to be fluent?" Silence greeted his enquiry, but Xander looked like he wanted to weep, and Spike looked like he wanted to hit something. Wesley looked like he was concerned he might be the 'something' Spike wanted to hit. Angel softened his tone as he addressed Xander. "Try to understand, Xander. We can 't risk anything going wrong. I've seen the results of bad magicks; it's never pretty. We need to do this right. Agreed?" A subdued Wesley and Doyle murmured their assent. Xander eventually gave a terse nod. Spike's
expression was still bordering on homicidal. "Spike? Xander's going to need you onboard with this; can you give him what he needs?"Spike looked at his Sire, and then at his lover. Xander's gaze was fixed on the floor. Spike understood in a sudden rush that this wasn't about him, and that Angel's intent was to make that quite clear. "Anything and everything. Whatever he needs," Spike vowed. Xander looked up, and the flash of gratitude in his face was both a reward and a balm to the rage threatened to overtake Spike. He could sense the Watcher's twitchy gaze as he moved to take Xander into his arms. He ignored it. Relieved when Xander didn't resist, melting against him without a word. Hopefully, this meant that he'd been forgiven for playing hooky, and they could indulge in a little bout of making up before things got moving. It would surely take a while to track that altar-thingy down.
"I'll need to do a little more research," said Wesley quietly. "I want to be certain of these translations."
"Take whatever time you need," Angel told him. "But remember, we need to be doing this sooner rather than later. We've lost enough ground." He glanced back at Spike and Xander. "Why don't you two go home? We can call you when we've got everything set up."
Spike was agreeable, and he led a morose Xander away.