The Task
By Esmeralda
Part Thirteen"Fucking voyeurs," Xander muttered, with uncharacteristic venom. He was stretched out on a cot, and as he spoke he flung up an arm to cover his eyes. He felt the thin mattress dip slightly as Doyle sat down beside him.
"Ssh. Take it easy. Don't let 'em get to you," said Doyle softly.
Xander sighed and dragged himself up. Doyle slung a companionable arm around his shoulders. As Doyle leaned in close, his lips brushed Xander's temple briefly. One corner of Xander's mouth tugged upwards in a reluctant smile. "Are we planning on giving them something to talk about?"
Doyle offered his own slightly rueful smile. "What can I say. You're irresistible." His tone was only partly joking.
Xander shook his head. "You're weird."
Doyle pretended to be affronted. "That's right. Pick on the Irish guy."
"You're only half Irish."
"So I'm only half-insulted."
Xander exhaled a puff of laughter. Then his gaze turned serious. "I'm glad you're here. I mean, I'm not. But I am," he explained awkwardly.
Doyle nodded his understanding. "Yeah, me too."
They both looked up as they heard the lock turn, and the door opened. Two creeps entered, a third stood just outside the door, weapon drawn. Beside him was a new face: a middle-aged man with heavy-set jowls, wearing an ominous white coat. The creeps grabbed Xander, dragging him up off the bed.
"Hey!" Doyle exclaimed. But when he tried to rise, he was pushed roughly back down. The man outside the door entered the room - training his weapon on Doyle.
"It's okay," said Xander. "They probably just want to give me a tour of the facilities. I'll see you later." However, despite the lightness of his words, his stomach felt sick with fear as they led him from the room. He heard the door close and lock behind him, silencing Doyle's yell of protest.
They half-carried him along several stretches of dimly lit, drab grey corridors. Stopping finally outside another door, Mr.White Coat opened it, and he was taken inside. Manhandled into a chair, his hands were cuffed behind him and to it. "Thanks, fellas." Xander smiled sunnily at them. He wasn't about to let them know he was scared shitless. The goon brigade left, and Xander was alone with Mr. White Coat. He gave his restraints an experimental tug, but he was held fast. Even his Consort strength wasn't up to snapping solid metal bracelets.
Mr. White Coat was holding a thick manilla folder. He opened it and casually perused the contents. "You present an interesting case study, Mr. Harris." He held up a sheet and began to read from it. "Alexander LaVelle Harris. Born Sunnydale, April 1981. The only child of Anthony and Jessica Harris. Early known associates: Willow Rosenberg: practicing Wicca. Tara Maclay: practicing Wicca. Anya Jenkins, formerly known as Anyanka: a vengeance demon of some repute. Buffy Anne Summers." Mr. White Coat arched an eyebrow. "-Slayer. Rupert Giles: formerly a school librarian and Miss. Summer's Watcher, and now the owner-manager of a magic shop."
Mr. White Coat paused - apparently for dramatic effect. "Attended Sunnydale High. Graduated June1999." He flipped through several sheets in his folder and then subjected Xander to a mocking smile. "Worked as a labourer, following graduation."
"Hey," Xander interjected. "That's skilled craftsman to you." He muttered the rest under his breath: "I'd like to see you hang a door. Probably couldn't change a light bulb without a manual."
Mr. White Coat continued as if Xander hadn't spoken. "Relocated to LA, December 1999. Currently residing in a former basement nightclub. Shares the afore mentioned residence with one 'William the Bloody'." He drew out a second sheet of paper. "Now there's another interesting case: William the Bloody. Perhaps better known as Spike. Turned by Angelus. Formerly the beau of Drusilla." Mr. White Coat looked Xander up and down with a derisive sneer. "It would appear that his taste in companions has changed."
Xander gritted his teeth and tried to look bored. He'd had no trouble picking up on the intentional slur - for companion, read fuck-buddy. "This is fascinating stuff. But can we get to the point sometime soon. Only my arms are starting to cramp up here." He rattled the cuffs meaningfully.
Mr. White Coat's mouth tightened with displeasure. "The point Mr. Harris is that you are an anomaly. An incongruity. Or, to put in terms that you might more easily understand - a freak." He drew the word out. "We have numerous records of humans serving vampires, worshipping vampires, and generally being in the thrall of the undead. However, there is no recorded precedent of a soulless vampire taking a human 'lover'." He made the term sound like something perverse and obscene.
"And yet not only have you apparently suffered no ill effects from this liaison. You actually appear to be benefiting from it."Xander carefully guarded his expression, schooling his features into a mask of bored indifference. He was intensely relieved by the gap in their knowledge. He was beginning to feel like the victim of a celebrity stalker. It was creeping him out that these guys seemed to know everything from his favourite breakfast cereal to what side of the bed he preferred. However, apparently their extensive records didn't include the topic of Consort Bonds. There again, maybe he shouldn't be surprised. Spike and Angel had both implied that it was pretty much a closed topic in vampire circles. A matter so personal, it was never discussed outside of the pair bonding. Well, he had no intention of being the one to break the code of silence.
"We do, of course, have unsubstantiated accounts of vampires spending time in the company of humans and demons. But the details are sketchy." Mr. White Coat sounded tetchy and frustrated. His eyes gleamed as he closed the folder, and focused his attention on Xander. "Your input will be invaluable to our ongoing study of vampires."
Xander decided to continue to feign ignorance: it had rarely let him down in the past. "Hey, look. I really don't know what you're talking about here. I just hang with these guys. Angel and me, we go way back. Well, as far as back as 10th grade anyway. I just bunk with Spike to save on the bills. And he plays nice cos he doesn't want Angel on his case. That's all. End of story."
"Really? End of story, you say." Mr. White Coat didn't sound convinced. He opened the door, and an assistant wheeled in an expensive looking TV/video unit. The assistant left and Mr. White Coat returned his attention to Xander. "Perhaps then, Mr. Harris. You would be kind enough to clarify this." He pressed a button.
Xander's heart sank as the tape began to play.
"This footage was taken from the security cameras around the lion compound at the City zoo. It provokes some interesting questions, wouldn't you say?"
Xander watched himself effortlessly scale the high mesh fence. The lioness' attack: Spike coming to his aid, then spiriting him to safety. His unnatural athleticism and Spike's tender concern were impossible to miss.
"You show a remarkable talent for the high jump, Mr. Harris. Perhaps you should have considered an athletic scholarship? And I must say that for two people who merely tolerate one another for expediencies sake, you and Mr. Spike seem very…close."
"Yeah, I guess for roomies we're pretty tight." Xander grinned. "He's even been known to lend me his rubber ducky on occasion."
The backhand took him by surprise; and his head snapped back from the force of the blow. For a moment his ears rang, and stars shrouded his vision. Gradually, it cleared, and Xander moved his jaw gingerly. Apparently, Mr. White Coat wanted to play 'good cop, bad cop'. Wonderful. Unable to come up with an alternative plan - especially with his ears still ringing - Xander decided to keep trying for ignorance. "Look, I really don't know what you want from me. I wasn't having much fun at home. My job was a bust. I broke up with my girl, and so I came to LA. I'm hardly the first guy to do that. Okay, so maybe I'm the first guy to move to LA and shack up with a vampire, but hey. This is a crazy city. There's a lot of weirdness going on out there."
"You're trying my patience," Mr. White Coat snapped. "The fact that you now breathe Los Angeles' rarified air does not explain this." He jabbed at the TV/video unit, and replayed the scene of Xander scaling the wire fence.
Xander gave a lopsided shrug. "What can I tell you? I work out. I eat a hearty, healthy breakfast everyday. I'm a young, studly guy under this shapeless sweater."
Mr. White Coat shook his head in disgust. "I had hoped for your co-operation, but no matter. I think we'll begin with blood, skin and hair samples." He uncovered a tray on the shelf beneath the TV/video unit.
"Huh?" Xander watched the man nervously. Swallowing hard against the panic clogging his throat. The uncovered tray revealed an array of vials, microscope slides, and syringes. Uh, oh. Xander tried not to flinch as Mr. White Coat came toward him, carrying a syringe. Rolling up Xander's sleeve, the man thrust the needle home with unnecessary force. Xander inhaled sharply and looked away, fighting a wave of nausea.
"One," Mr. White Coat announced. Withdrawing the full vial, now dark with blood.
Xander was no expert, but even he knew that one needle and a number of vials could suffice for extracting blood samples. So Mr. White Coat's use of a separate syringe for each vial probably had more to do with sadism, than medical professionalism. He counted the vials on the tray. There were twenty. He felt sick. But as Mr. White Coat jabbed in a second needle, he didn't look away again. Instead he fixed the man with a cold stare. //Oh, you're so gonna get yours. Mr. Would-be-Mengele. //
"Two."
A brief pause, then the third needle sank into Xander's vein. The skin around the puncture wounds was already bruising. Xander tried to take a leaf from his lover's book, and attempted to think up inventive ways of making this bastard pay. Unfortunately, it also supplied his brain with some future scenarios of what might be on the schedule for him. //Spike, where are you? // He blinked furiously as he felt the hot prickle of tears behind his eyes. No way, was he going to break down in front of this guy.
Okay. Think of something else. A happy memory. He had a few more to choose from these days. As the fourth needle plunged through his skin, Xander wracked his mind. //Think, Harris. Think. You're gonna lose it here. And Spike doesn't need to be knowing that you're being used to extend some sicko's learning curve.//
Just as he'd begun to despair of his mind containing anything but desolate thoughts, it came to him. An occasion from their 'six-month' anniversary celebrations, a time of much pleasure…and prolonged 'bed-rest'.*************
May 2000Xander sauntered into the bedroom carrying a small white pot with a decorative red and gold label.
Spike, who'd been grinding his teeth waiting for his lover to return, eyed the container suspiciously. "What the fuck is that?"
"Chocolate spread," said Xander; as though the answer should be obvious. He sniffed the contents appreciatively. "Chocolate and praline to be precise. Full of nutty goodness."
Spike narrowed his gaze. "And just what the fuck do you think you're gonna do with that?"
Xander got back onto the bed and moved to straddle Spike's hips. "Relax. I just thought we could use it to spice things up a bit." He grinned and waggled his eyebrows.
"Spice things up a bit?" Spike echoed incredulously. His response was not without some foundation - as he was currently bound to their bed by a set of well-used manacles. In addition he had several deep cuts to his chest and belly, and numerous bloody smears and fingerprints decorated his naked skin: a result of the earlier blood-play. Spatters of candle wax had left patterns around his nipples and groin, and in several places the creamy wax had blended with his blood to make a gory marbled pink.
"Well we don't want to get into a rut." Xander's tone was gently teasing. He dipped a finger into the sticky goo and hooked out a generous dollop. He then sucked it clean with deliberate suggestiveness. Making muffled 'umm, mmm' noises as he slid his glistening finger back and forth through pursed lips.
Spike growled and bucked his hips.
"What?" Xander asked innocently. "You want to try some? Well why didn't you say." He dipped his finger back into the pot and then brought it up to Spike's lips. Barely touching them before taking it away: trailing it down Spike's chest. Drawing dark, chocolaty patterns across his white torso.
Spike's eyes widened. The sauce was hot, almost uncomfortably so against the sensitive skin of his chest. Not as ecstatically painful as the scalding wax, but bloody good all the same. He closed his eyes and purred loudly, writhing upward to meet his lover's touch.
Xander chuckled. "Slut."
Spike opened his eyes, glaring at his lover. "Shut up and fuck me."
"Again?" Xander appeared to be giving the matter some careful consideration. "I don't know. Isn't it getting kind of repetitive?"
Spike decided enough was enough. He used the Bond to channel the full force of his need. Smiling with satisfaction when Xander's eyes widened, the young man's heart quickening and his body rising to the occasion. Yeah. That was more like it.
"Okay," said Xander hurriedly. Setting the pot down beside the bed, he began to scrabble amongst the bed covers. Muttering: "Where is it? Where is it?"
Spike snarled. "Forget the fuckin' lube. Do it."
Xander grinned. "Did I ever mention that I love it when you're masterful."
Spike groaned and thumped his head against the pillow. But his lover was - thankfully - through toying with him. Xander unshackled Spike's wrists and ankles, barely pausing to move the chains out of the way, before lifting his legs up and thrusting back into his body. Spike groaned again, this time for an entirely different reason, as he felt himself being stretched and filled almost beyond bearing. Fuck. The whelp was bloody good at this. His body still contained the oil and cum from their last coupling. Though it was barely enough to ease Xander's entry. Deliciously agonizing friction. Pleasure, riding the sharp edge of pain. The Bond amplified their joining, each feeling the physical and emotional responses of the other.
Xander bit down hard on his lip, trying to delay the inevitable. The sight of Spike stretched out beneath him was almost too much. With the swirls of dark chocolate and blood patterning his skin, Spike looked like an exotically painted warrior. Imagery that intensified when features shifted into jagged teeth and wide golden eyes. Xander thrust harder, delighting in the way Spike's mouth fell open as he began to pant needlessly. God, he loved this. He loved the tight give and clench of Spike's body. The way he had to fight the pull of cool, slick muscle with every rock of his hips. He loved the way Spike's gaze focused on his face. Staring at him through a haze of lust, as if he was the single most important thing in the universe.
Here and now, nothing existed but them. Nothing mattered but this. Xander reached for Spike, wrapping sticky, chocolate-smeared fingers around the hard column of flesh. Spike made a strangled sound and thrust up violently. Xander lost his rhythm for a moment, but quickly found it again, and began to move his hand in rapid, sure strokes. Knowing exactly how to please his lover. The need was hard and urgent, but their bodies had performed this dance several times during the course of the past few hours, and they could draw out the pleasure. However, as they reached a near unbearable high, the need for release became the driving force.
Xander gave up trying to hold back and drove relentlessly into his lover's body. He came first, his near-sob of completion drowned out by Spike's howl, cold seed spilling over his fingers in a slippery rush. Xander reluctantly left the snug fit of Spike's body, clambering up to lay alongside him. He smiled as Spike rolled him onto his back, feeling the haste in his lover's actions. Cold lips skimmed his skin, then the sharp swift pain of fangs piercing his flesh, and the dizzying rush of Spike taking his blood. It ended all too quickly. Spike placed a last loving lick against his throat, and then sat back. Xander watched him snare a razor from the bedside cabinet, and draw a deep, red line across his chest. Then Spike threw the blade aside and cupped a hand behind Xander's head, gently guiding him up to the wound.
Eagerly, Xander fastened his mouth over the cut: the warmth of stolen blood contrasting sharply with Spike's icy skin. But it was nothing compared to the explosion of taste as the rich, coppery fluid filled his mouth. It filled his senses until he was surrounded by it. The scent of it - sharp, metallic, bitter - making him bite down to draw still more…..
*************
Present day…
Xander shivered as he realized the blood he could smell was his own. The essence tainted by the glass vials and steel needles. However, it focused his senses until he thought he could detect something else. The acrid smell of fear. And it wasn't emanating from him. So, Mr. White Coat was afraid - but of what, or of who? Maybe... him? That unlikely, but pleasing possibility, gave Xander's resolve a much-needed boost. He'd get through this. Then he'd get out. Then he'd get even.
Xander clenched his aching jaw and breathed steadily through his nose. Trying to stay calm, as Mr. White Coat reached for a scalpel. Oh yes, he was going to get even all right. And if Spike ever got hold of this guy, there wouldn't be enough left to put on one of those little glass slides. Now that was a happy thought.
Part FourteenBruised and sore, Xander let them take him back to the holding room in a wheel chair. Mr. White Coat had taken more than enough blood to leave a normal man dizzy and disorientated. But Xander was hardly normal, and bloodletting featured fairly heavily in his day-to-day routine. So he acted the part. It was pretty easy, and he didn't have to exaggerate much. He was hurting, bone-deep and weary. The stitches in his shoulder had been pulled during his earlier struggles. Mr. White Coat had come across them during his examination, and had redone the ones so carefully put in place by Spike. In addition to the vials of blood, Mr. White coat had taken snippings from his hair, and skin scraped from his inner arms. Thankfully, the session had ended before Xander was asked to remove all his clothes and pee into a cup. But something told him it was early days yet.
Doyle was in the holding cell, as they wheeled Xander inside and left him on the cot. He was laid out on the other bed with his eyes closed. He opened them when the goon squad left, and turned to face Xander. Xander realized then that Doyle had probably been through a similar ordeal. The shadows had deepened around his friend's eyes, and once grey skin now had a terrifying transparency to it. "Hey," Xander whispered.
"Hey," Doyle greeted back.
Xander smiled wryly. "You got the guided tour too, huh?"
"They wanted to know why The Powers had chosen me as a vessel for their visions."
"What did you tell them?"
"That it wasn't my idea." Doyle sounded irritated. "I mean, I didn't exactly volunteer for this detail."
"I know."
"Not that I'm complain'," Doyle added hastily; looking around him as though The Powers might be listening in. "Mind you, a little leeway on the mind splitting, brain cleaving headaches might be nice." He frowned at Xander. "What did they want from you?"
Xander let his eyes flicker toward the ceiling camera, telling Doyle that he had to be careful what he said next. "Oh, they've got some crazy notion that I'm 'Super Xander'. Scaling high fences in a single bound. Wearing my underwear on the outside of my clothing. You know, that kind of thing. I tried to set them straight. But they seem pretty stuck on the idea."
A smile twitched Doyle's mouth. "Super Xander, huh? I always saw Angel as the tight wearing guy myself. You know he's got pretty good legs."
Xander grinned. "I know."
Doyle tried to sit up, but sank back. "I fuckin' hate this," he moaned. "If they shoot any more volts through me I'll be able to light up bulbs in my mouth."
That got Xander's attention. "They shocked you? Again?"
"Yeah. I wasn't telling 'em what they wanted to hear. These guys are major head cases. I think they've been watching too many bad movies. It's all 'don't try my patience', and 'tell us what we want to know'. I felt like I was in an old B-flick."
Xander dragged himself over to Doyle's cot and tried to examine the other man. Inside the open collar of Doyle's shirt he could just make out little rings of broken veins. The shirt-cloth carried scorch marks. "What the hell did they use on you?" he asked, horrified.
Doyle shrugged. "Not sure. A cattle prod mebbe."
"They could have killed you!"
Doyle shook his head. "No. They might be head cases, but these guys are pros. They've had a lot of practice with these routines. They know just how far to take it. They stopped before I passed out."
"Big of them," said Xander. He looked at Doyle's frighteningly pale face. "Man, you're a mess."
Doyle chuckled weakly. "Hate to break it to you, but have you seen a mirror lately? You don't look so hot yourself."
Xander shook his head dismissively. "Nah. A bit of blood. A bit of skin. I used to get worse wrestling Willow for her Barbies."
Doyle raised an eyebrow.
Xander flushed. "Not to play with. No. I mean I used to steal them off her, and then hide them."
"You ticked off a witch? Not smart."
"She wasn't a witch then. At least, not in the hocus pocus sense."
"Still, she might have some payback in mind," Doyle teased. Using the conversation to take their minds off their miseries.
"Nah. Willow's cool," said Xander. "She's wants to come and stay. I told her she could bring Tara and sleep-over for a few nights."
"Checking up on you, huh?"
"No. She just wants to get to know you guys. I mean, okay, she knows Angel. But she only knows Spike as Big Bad. And she hasn't really had a chance to say more than 'hi' to you."
Doyle remembered the pretty redheaded girl who'd turned scarlet upon encountering him in Angel's bed. "Erm, yeah."
"It'll be great," said Xander enthusiastically. "We can all go out together. Maybe visit that club Spike likes."
"They don't mind cozying up to demons?"
Xander looked slightly doubtful. "Well, they like Angel, but they haven't had much experience with any other good-guy types." He brightened. "You can help. You know, show them there are white-hat demons. Spike's not much good at that kind of stuff. I'll keep him busy on the dance floor."
"Yeah, well. That's always a crowd pleaser." Doyle playfully ribbed his friend. Knowing that when Spike and Xander took to the dance floor they tended to draw crowds. Xander had long since relinquished any lingering shyness, and watching the two move around the floor together was like watching a highly charged, erotic movie. Doyle had joked that they should charge spectator fees.
"Ha. Ha. Just because we know how to dance."
Doyle grinned. "I don't know what I'd call what you two do. But it's not dancing. There are places where those kinda moves could get you arrested"
"You're just jealous," Xander persisted. "Because you have to prise Angel out of his seat with a crow bar."
"So he's a little reserved." Doyle defended his partner loyally. "I'm workin' on it."
"Good luck," Xander retorted. He rubbed his arm, which was aching fiercely.
Doyle peered up into his face. "Hey. Come on. Lie down here, before you pass out."
A grateful Xander curled up beside his friend. The cots were narrow, and it was awkward with two. But Xander really didn't want to be alone right now, and he felt pretty certain that Doyle felt the same. So Doyle remained stretched out on his back, while Xander lay on his side, one arm draped loosely across Doyle's waist. He felt Doyle's fingers find his. Despite being exhausted, they were both too scared and hurt to sleep, but at least lying together like this they were able close their eyes and rest. Confident that one or the other would raise the alarm if anything were to happen.
Part FifteenSpike eyed his surroundings with disdain. They had emerged from the portal on the outskirts of a swamp. Beyond it, stretching upwards, was a high plateau, and atop of that was what looked like a fortified building. Since that seemed a likely destination, they were currently hacking their way through a stinking, murky marsh. Complete with knotted vines, twisted trees, large snakes, inhospitable spiders, and leeches. He plucked one off his hand with a grimace of disgust. Couldn't these little buggers recognize the undead? He wasn't sharing his blood with anyone - least of all a three-inch slug.
Angel was up ahead, chopping away at the vines with his sword. The fucking thing would be blunt when they finally needed it to kill something. "Couldn't you 'ave brought summat useful. Like a machete?"
Angel paused and looked back. "What?"
"A m-a-c-h-e-t-e," Spike repeated. "You must 'ave one in that box of tricks of yours back home."
"Yes, I've got one," said Angel slowly. "At home. I didn't think we'd be needing it."
"I thought you Boy Scout types were always prepared."
Angel turned to face forward again; straightening his shoulders in a manner that suggested he was counting to ten and praying for patience.
Spike grinned. There was nothing like a bit of Angel-baiting to take your mind off your troubles. He looked at the leech in his hand, and very purposefully squished it between his thumb and forefinger. He wiped the resulting sticky mess against the trunk of a tree, and then trudged after his Sire.
Several hours later they were still stumbling through thigh-deep, slimy water. The vine-choked trees and heavy mist made it virtually impossible to make out anything on the horizon. They had to rely upon instinct to guide them. The swamp was eerily quiet. The oppressive silence only broken by the occasional bird(?)-call, and the odd ominous splash. Spike was sodden and miserable. Xander's fear sat like a canker inside him. Normally, he and his lover held sway over their Bond. It was vital for those occasions when one of them was hurt, thereby ensuring that they weren't both incapacitated by an injury. Evidently, Xander was too afraid to exercise that kind of control. The youth's fear leaked through the Bond, leaving Spike feeling wretched and enraged. He wanted something to kill. Leeches just weren't cutting it.
A snake suddenly dropped down in front of him. Eight feet of angry serpent, the tail end of its body coiled around an overhead branch. Spike smacked it aside with barely a glance. Stunned, it unraveled from the tree and plopped into the swamp. Spike kept walking, muttering under his breath as he struggled against the weeds and gunk that clogged the murky water. Eventually, the trees began to thin out, and they emerged on the other side of the swamp. Directly before them was a rocky cliff face. The plateau rose up two hundred feet or so above them. Spike looked at it, and then looked at Angel. "I don't suppose you brought any rope?" Angel's silence was sufficient answer. Spike sighed, spat on his hands, and picked up a little of the dirt from the base of the cliff. He rubbed it over his fingers and stepped up to the rock face.
In sharp contrast to the swamp, the cliff-face was dry and crumbly. Hand and footholds had to be chosen with diligent care. Nevertheless, Spike and Angel made rapid progress. They quickly reached the top, and taking hold of the straggly grass, pulled themselves up over the edge. They stood side by side and surveyed the structure before them. The fortification was constructed from a smooth, dark blue stone. Numerous domed roofs and high-spiraled towers fractured the skyline. There were no windows, and no sign of life…or unlife. It was surrounded by a high castled-wall, which stretched around the plateau as far as the eye could see.
Set into the wall was a pair of huge wooden gates; intricately carved with what could have been a scene from Dante's inferno. The design featured a tangled mass of bodies - presumably human - all holding their arms aloft. Their faces set in an unbearable rigor of suffering as demonic creatures gnawed upon their flesh. Spike cast a bemused eye over it. "Whoever lives 'ere has got your taste in furnishings," he remarked dryly. "Gloom and doom all round."
Angel gave one of the gates an experimental push. It creaked open. Clearly, the gates weren't meant to keep anyone out. Either that, or they were expected. "Keep your eyes open," he told Spike needlessly.
Spike rolled his eyes and followed his Sire.
Beyond the gate was a courtyard. They crossed it warily, eyes scanning the shadows. But apparently they had the place all to themselves, at least for the moment, and they reached the other side without hindrance. The fortress itself had a single door. Crafted from metal and unadorned, it bore neither a visible handle nor lock. And as they stepped up to it, it swung slowly open. Spike growled; Angel held his sword ready. However, the only movement from within came from the flickering torchlight. Still, they entered the building cautiously. Their guarded approach was quickly justified when the door swung shut behind them with a resounding clang.
A thorough search confirmed what they'd already suspected. There was no means of re-opening the door. Spike kicked at it, snarling his annoyance. Angel put a hand on his shoulder and pulled him away.
"Leave it. We've got the second portal spell for when we're ready to leave."
"Think that'll work 'ere?"
Angel shrugged. "Maybe."
Spike decided it wasn't worth worrying about. Either the spell would work, or it wouldn't, and they'd have to find another way home. For now they had a task to focus on: finding the key. "Any idea where we look for this thing?" They were in an entrance hall lit by torches. Shadows thrown up by the flickering flames played across the walls. There were no windows and no furniture. The room's sole feature was an unlit fireplace. Above it was a carved frieze depicting a scene similar to the one on the wall gates. Directly opposite the front door was an open passageway, leading off to the left and the right.
Angel walked over to it. Standing at the junction, he glanced left and right. Then he looked back at Spike and shrugged. "Could be either way. Any preference?"
Spike rolled his shoulders and shifted into his vampiric visage. He joined his Sire, and pointed to the right. They set off along the corridor. Like the entrance hall, the passage was lit with row upon row of torches; the flames lending both heat and light. They flickered, as though caught in a breeze, despite the fact there was no sign of anywhere a draft could stem from. Nor did they show any sign of burning low. However, it was Angel who noticed the torches' most unusual feature.
"They're all the same."
"Huh?"
"They're identical," Angel explained. "Each torch is exactly the same as the other."
Spike looked at the torch on the wall beside him, and then at the one closest to it. Angel was right. The flames were exactly the same size and shape. And the flames fluttered and flickered in precisely the same way. Something suddenly occurred to him, and he thoughtfully raised his hand to the flame.
"Spike!"
Angel grabbed his sleeve and yanked his arm away, but not before Spike had discovered what he wanted to know. The flames didn't burn. "Magics," he muttered. "Could be he wasn't too bothered about makin' 'em look different. Or else he's like you, anally bloody retentive, and he wanted 'em all the same."
Angel had taken hold of Spike's hand, and was turning it to check for signs of injury. Spike watched, bemused. "Sorry, Mother. Did I get your knickers in a knot?"
Angel released Spike's hand, satisfied his Childe was unhurt. He spoke through gritted teeth. "Next time you want to set fire to something - don't use a body part."
"I knew it wasn't gonna burn," Spike insisted. "You said yourself, they're all alike. Had to be magic, didn't it."
"They give off heat," Angel pointed out. "They could have been made to burn."
"Well they don't," Spike snapped back irritably. What was the fucking problem? The flame hadn't burnt. And if it had, he could have pulled his hand back and got away with a singeing. He'd taken a risk; that was his nature.
Except Angel didn't like anyone he cared about taking those kinds of risks. He and Spike had been butting heads over it for more than a century. And it didn't look like things were going to change anytime soon. A hundred years ago, Angel would probably have dragged his Childe off and attempted to beat some sense into him. Or at least, made it clear that he considered Spike in the wrong. Now all he could do was glower, while Spike stared at him truculently. It was an impasse. Not that Angel was incapable of disciplining his Childe; he just exercised a little more restraint these days. He demonstrated some of that restraint now, by backing Spike up against the wall. "Listen very carefully. Either you do exactly as I say from now on, or I'll use that lighter in your pocket and make kindling out of you myself."
Angel decided this occasion merited more than a verbal warning. He didn't want Spike going off on a tangent. Not in this place. His features shifted. Snagging a handful of blond hair, he yanked Spike's head to one side and nipped at the exposed throat. Spike wriggled and hissed. Angel responded by tightening his grip on the short blond strands and biting deeper, tasting Spike's blood on his tongue. Spike went still. Angel held him a moment longer, and then let go and stood back.
Spike's gaze was resentful, but there was also a glimmer of reluctant respect.
"Come on," Angel instructed quietly. He set off again down the corridor.
Spike pushed away from the wall and rubbed at his neck, licking the light smear of blood off his fingertips. He satisfied himself making plans for childish reparation - burning Angel's silk boxers, scratching the paint on the Caddy, punching a hole in a blood bag so it leaked inside the refrigerator; that sort of thing. At the same time his hand reached down to readjust his jeans. It might be fucking annoying when Angel went all alpha on him. It was also fucking hot.
They continued to walk along the corridor undisturbed, until they reached an archway. Walking through it they found themselves in a large chamber some fifty feet in diameter. Through an opposite archway a staircase wound upward out of sight. Spike felt a chill upon entering the room. A quick glance at his Sire confirmed that Angel had felt the same sense of foreboding. Despite all appearances to the contrary, they were not alone. By unspoken agreement they separated, each taking one side of the room. Following the line of the wall they headed toward the stairwell.
Neither had gone more than halfway, when a strange noise began to emanate from the floor and the walls - a low, whispery moaning. They both froze, and as they watched, strange mist-like figures rose up through the stone flag floor. They were vaguely human in form. But they lacked legs or discernable features. Torsos with long reaching arms and exaggerated elongated fingers. Faces had simple holes for mouth and eyes, which seemed to shift and change as they moved..
"Wraiths?" Spike questioned his Sire, slowly stepping across the room toward him. Spike had heard of these creatures, but had never encountered them.
"I think so," Angel hedged cautiously. One of the wraiths suddenly dipped toward him, arms flailing. Angel jumped back out of reach. The creature moaned pitifully and drew away again. There were three of them in all, each indiscernible from the other. They twisted and turned through the air, effectively blocking the stairwell.
"So, how do you wanna do this?" Spike asked. Finally joining Angel on the same side of the room.
"We could try going past them?" Angel suggested.
Spike immediately took a practice step forward. One of the wraiths darted at him with a muted howl. It struck out with a claw-like hand. Spike jerked away, but it was surprisingly fast and long fingers raked across his cheek. He wiped at the row of bleeding lines, smearing crimson across his skin. "Don't think they're gonna go for that, mate."
Angel shot his Childe an exasperated look. "So we'll 'persuade' them to step aside. And you might want to work on that ducking reflex," he added with a smirk.
Spike muttered something unrepeatable under his breath. He shrugged the equipment bag off his shoulder. It dropped heavily to the floor and he kicked it out of the way. He wanted to be free to maneuver around these things. Drawing a large serrated knife from of his boot, Spike closed in on the nearest wraith. It flailed its arms toward him; he swung the blade in a wide arc, which should have gutted it. Except the blade passed through it like it was thin air. Frowning, Spike tried again - with the same result. The wraith swung back at him. Spike avoided the first couple of swings, but the third sliced across his chest. He looked down at the blood seeping through the tears in his t-shirt. "I think we've got a problem."
Angel didn't need to ask what it was. He'd already discovered that his sword was having no impact on the other two wraiths, which had joined forces to drive him back across the room. He was bleeding from gashes to his face and arm; and as the wraiths rushed at him again he tried once more to make his blade connect with something. But the sword simply slipped through them.
A frustrated Spike continued to attack the third wraith, stabbing wildly at it. When its clawed hand caught his throat he growled and threw a blind punch---and hit something. Spike froze for a moment, startled. With a calculating look, he aimed another punch at the creature, and again his fist connected. A savage grin spread across Spike's face. "Oi," he yelled to his Sire. "Forget the fuckin' amoury. Punch the bastard's lights out." He emitted a joyful whoop and launched himself at the creature, using his hands to hit and claw back at it.
It worked. The wraith's moans changed to pained cries. Finally, it gave a muted shriek and soared upward. Then it sank down - disappearing through the floor. Of the remaining two, there was soon only one, as Angel dispatched a second wraith in similar fashion. The third followed it, as Angel and Spike combined their attack and quickly sent the remaining creature packing. Spike eyed the floor warily. "Think they're gone?"
Angel picked up the bag. "I don't know but I suggest we leave before they come back."
They climbed the stairwell: a seemingly endless stretch of narrow, winding steps. "If this keeps up, we'll end up in the other place," Spike complained. "And I don't think ol'Pete would be too fuckin' happy to see either of us."
Eventually, they reached the top. Ahead was an arch, leading out onto a passageway. Angel took a step forward. It was nearly his last. Only a combination of quick reflexes - his and Spike's - saved him, as he jerked back and Spike pulled him out of harms way. They both eyed the pendulum blade as it slowly swung itself to a stop. It would have sliced Angel into two neat halves. Spike wriggled past his stunned Sire and touched the blade with a cautious finger. It drew blood. "Someone keeps their stuff in good nick. This thing could split the hairs on your head." He grinned. "Come to think of it, mate. It nearly did."
They carefully ducked underneath it, emerging into the passageway. It looked deceptively quiet and unassuming. Spike glanced back at the pendulum blade. "Think that was just for openers?"
"I'd watch your step," Angel advised.
"Tell you what," said Spike. "You go first. An' I'll watch yours."
Angel shot his Childe a sour look. "Move it," he ordered.
Spike gave a nonchalant shrug and took a step forward. There was a 'pffft' sound and he dived to the floor, helped by a shove from Angel, who joined him hugging the masonry. Above them a series of tiny darts shot across. They embedded themselves in the opposite wall - burying into the stone. Small but nasty. "He's been a busy bugger, hasn't he," Spike commented as he slowly sat up. "Wonder what other little surprises he's got in store?"
"At least we know we're probably heading in the right direction."
"Mebbe. Or mebbe the whole bloody place is booby-trapped."
"Come on." Angel moved cautiously down the passageway.
Spike got to his feet and followed his Sire, brushing the dust off his coat.
There were no further surprises until they reached the end of the passageway, where it turned and led off to the left. Down one side of this new corridor was a series of holes set into the stonework. Directly parallel to each hole, on the opposing wall, was a large scorch mark. The masonry burnt and blackened as if by exposure to intense heat.
Spike smirked and gestured forward with his arm. "After you."
Angel ignored him and drew his sword. He held the blade out before the closest hole. Both automatically stepped back, shielding their eyes, as a burst of flame shot forth. It stretched clear across the length of the corridor. After ten seconds or so, it stopped. Angel studied the placement of the holes. They wouldn't be able to just crawl down the corridor. The holes' positioning alternated - one at head height, the next knee high, then head height again, and so on. And the flames covered a fair bit of ground. The knee-high ones had left faint scorch marks on the floor. But there was a reasonable amount of space above the head-high holes. The corridor had a high ceiling, and it didn't bear any signs of burning.
Spike followed his Sire's gaze. "You've got to be kiddin'. What are we supposed to do? Turn into fuckin' bats and fly."
Angel was still studying their surroundings. He noted that around each hole was a raised lip, which stood out from the wall by maybe two or three inches. The holes were approximately a foot apart. He turned to Spike. "How's your sense of balance?"
"What?"
Angel took his sword and slid it across the floor with some force; it disappeared into the darkness of the archway beyond. He did the same thing with the bag. Then he sat down and began to remove his shoes and socks.
Spike watched with an incredulous look on his face. "What the-? Have you completely lost it? What the fuck are you doin'?"
Angel pushed his socks into his pockets and very carefully lined up his shoes - hurling them across the floor to join his other belongings. He winced when his left shoe triggered the very last hole, earning itself a mild singeing before it hurtled on to safety. Once that was done, he inspected the brickwork beside him. Unlike the previous smooth, blue walls. This stone was reddish, potted with age and vaguely crumbling. Its uneven surface provided scant handholds, and Angel struggled to lever himself upward.
Spike began to catch on to his Sire's plan. He shook his head. "You are out of your fuckin' tree if you think I'm gonna do this." But he was already tugging off his Docs. He muttered and swore as he peeled off his socks, choosing to tuck them into his boots. He flung them forcefully across the floor; feeling somewhat relieved when they vanished safely into the darkened opening.
Angel was already edging his way past the first hole. Struggling to find a purchase on the narrow stone-surround with his toes. He managed to get his balance on the first one and then sidestepped across to the next. His hands gripped the wall face with fierce determination, as his head grazed the ceiling.
Spike faired better. Being of a slighter build, he found it easier to balance himself on the slender footholds. He kept his cheek pressed flat against the crumbling wall as he followed his Sire. "This is not a plan," he ground out through clenched teeth. "This is fuckin' madness. I should have let that fuckin' blade part your poofy hair. I am never savin' your bleedin neck again."
Angel let his Childe rant. He knew it helped Spike focus. Two-thirds of the way across, Angel nearly met with disaster. The raised border around the hole crumbled away to nothing beneath his toes, and he was obliged to make a hasty sidestep onto the next. He paused for a moment, trying to regain his balance.
Spike's concern quickly turned to annoyance when he realized that Angel was safe---and he was missing his next foothold. "You tosser. That's fuckin' brilliant. You need to lose some fuckin' weight, mate."
Shaken by his near brush with incineration, Angel was no longer in the mood to listen to his Childe's complaints. "Shut up, Spike." He was also worried. Spike was going to have to try for the next foothold. No great distance, but not easy when the footholds were already precarious. "Take it slow," he cautioned.
Spike hadn't planned on rushing. However, he needed to put some impetus into his step to reach the foothold. He made it - wobbled slightly - and finally regained his balance. But the glare he sent Angel spoke volumes. Spike was not having fun. He didn't mind a good fight, but this was not the way he cared to risk his neck.
Finally, they made it across. They stepped through the archway beyond into total darkness. Not a problem for them. Which was fortunate, because as they crossed the threshold there was the click of a switch, and pendulum blades began swinging back and forth across the room. Someone without night vision would have had to rely upon the faint waft of air as they skimmed past to warn them - probably not sufficient to prevent them being sliced and diced. Spike and Angel simply retrieved their belongings and crossed the room with relatively little effort.
"This is a regular little Fun House, ain't it," Spike commented dryly.
Angel didn't bother answering.
Part SixteenXander and Doyle were sat cross-legged on one of the cots, playing 'rock, paper, scissors'.
"Paper."
"Scissors.""You win," said Doyle. "Want 'a go for another round?"
Xander shook his head. They'd been playing for over an hour. He was in danger of succumbing to a repetitive strain injury. Instead he stood and began to pace. He didn't know how much more of this he could take without totally losing it. It wasn't the first time he'd been a player and the bad guys had scored points. But usually he didn't have chance to think about it before the white hats snatched the final victory. The last time he'd had to sit around and wait was when Spike and Angel had gone out alone to hunt for Penn---and look how that had turned out.
It didn't help that he'd been close to the edge for weeks. Tormented by nightmares, ever since Darla had been reduced to an ugly black carpet stain. They were all pretty much the same - an unseen attack that resulted in his lover dissolving into dust before his horrified gaze. Spike was aware of the dreams but Xander had been down playing their effect. Now lack of sleep and fear for Spike left him feeling brittle to the bone, stretched beyond his limits. He unconsciously rubbed at his chest. Layers of wool and cotton covered the scars, but Xander thought he could still feel the tiny ridges from the letters carved into his skin. And with that reminder came Penn's voice, taunting him---'Sweet child…Sweet, sweet child…'
Xander stopped pacing and turned to face Doyle, his voice a dull whisper. "They had a file, about this thick." He held up his thumb and forefinger. "It had everything in it. Who my friends are. When I came to LA. Where I live." Anger choked him and he fell silent.
Doyle nodded. "Yeah. They had one on me too. I wouldn't have minded a look. They probably know more about me Dad than I do." Bitterness laced his words.
Xander didn't know what to say. He knew that Doyle had never met his father, but he could only guess how Doyle felt about it. Personally, he'd have given quite a lot to have never known his own. He sat down and drew his friend into a loose, one-armed hug. Doyle leaned into it, turning his head toward Xander. Then Xander heard Doyle's voice, low and hushed against his ear.
"Listen. I've been thinkin'. We can't just sit here waitin' to be rescued. An' we sure as Hell can't trust them ta let us go when all this is over. We're gonna hafta get ourselves outta here. So I say if we see a chance - we take it. Yeah?"
Xander squeezed Doyle's slender shoulders in silent agreement.
****************
Another painfully long hour shuffled by. Doyle remained stretched out on the cot. Xander alternately sat or paced. They both looked up when the lock clicked, and the door opened to admit two men in white coats, pushing wheelchairs fitted with restraints. Two goons accompanied them. Undoubtedly they were armed, but for whatever reason they hadn't drawn their weapons. Doyle wondered if he and Xander had been downgraded, and were no longer considered to be much of a threat. Or perhaps Wolfram & Hart had relaxed because they had succeeded in forcing Spike and Angel to comply with their demands. Whatever the reason, he was grateful for it. Because Wolfram & Hart's over confidence was about to cost them dearly.
He didn't even need to glance at Xander; he knew the young man was ready. They allowed the white-coated attendants to assist them over to the wheelchairs, both of them overplaying their physical weakness. Doyle shifted suddenly, green skin and blue spines coming to the fore. His demonic-lineage gave him an edge in speed and strength as he threw the closest white-coat across the room and then launched himself at the nearest goon, who was attempting to draw his weapon. Doyle got savage glee from the man's burst of fear as he struck the guy in the chest and sent them both to the floor. He struck out with unrestrained anger, stiffening his spines and using them to unpleasant effect as he head butted the goon in the face.
A few additional punches and the guy was dazed enough for Doyle to skim through his pockets, lifting gun, taser, and a slender chain loop with numerous key-cards attached. Doyle slammed the man's head against the floor a few times for good measure and then turned to see if Xander needed any help. Xander didn't. He'd hit the white-coat hard enough to break the man's jaw and put him out for the count. That done, he'd run No.2 goon over with a wheelchair before launching a flurry of blows that left the man bloody and semi-conscious. Doyle eyed the taser in his hand evilly, as his features slipped back into their usual visage.
"Hey, Xander. Heads up."
Xander spared him a quick glance, saw the taser and grinned. "He's all yours." He stepped away from the swaying goon.
Doyle came forward, holding the taser aloft. "Lights out," he announced, before zapping the guy with enough wattage to make the man's suit smoulder.
Xander picked the man's gun up from the floor and checked the other bodies. No one was up for another round. They didn't waste any more time, bolting from the room with desperate haste they raced through the adjoining room and out into the corridor. It was silent and empty but neither of them harboured any doubts that the alarm claxons were going off somewhere. They need to find the exit and fast. Salvation loomed in the shape of an elevator. Unfortunately, the buttons stubbornly refused to be activated.
Xander spotted the probable cause. "Key card!" he exclaimed excitedly. "We need a key card. There." He pointed to a sliding-slot down the side of the panel.
Doyle juggled the key cards in nervous fingers. Hurriedly trying each, hissing with frustration when they failed. There was the sound of heavy footfalls approaching at speed. With steely-eyed determination, Xander expertly removed the safety from the gun, holding it out in readiness. Doyle spared him a quick wide-eyed look and continued to flip through the key cards.
"Come on. Come on," Xander muttered under his breath. His arm shook slightly.
"Got it!" Doyle jabbed a finger at the control panel as soon as it lit up. There was the hum of an elevator descending. "Hurry, hurry, hurry." Doyle drew the other gun from the waistband of his trousers, discharging the safety with slightly less skill than Xander. Almost simultaneously the elevator doors opened and the goon squad turned the corner of the corridor.
"Go! Go!" Xander shouted wildly, pushing Doyle into the elevator. He fired off several shots at the approaching goons, who ducked and scattered. Xander didn't wait to check out the accuracy of his aim, he leapt after Doyle, who instantly slammed the 'door close' button. They slid shut with gratifying speed. They both eyed the numbered panel with barely checked panic.
"Which was the ground floor?" Doyle asked.
"Erm…One?"
Doyle shook his head. "We're more than one level down." The sound of a goon squad collectively gathering itself decided matters. Doyle stabbed a button in sheer desperation.
"Three?"
"You had a better guess?"
Xander shook his head and sank back against the elevator wall, holding the gun loosely down by his side. His fingers twitched around the handgrip. He straightened when the elevator suddenly ground to an abrupt halt. "Now what?" he moaned.
"Fuck!" Doyle kicked the wall furiously. "They've overridden the controls." Almost as soon as he finished speaking, the elevator began to descend again. Jabbing at the buttons achieved nothing. Wearing twin expressions of fatalistic calm, the pair took aim at the doors. Ready to greet the goon squad the moment they opened. Then Xander grabbed at Doyle's arm, almost making him loose off a shot.
"Hot wire it."
"W-what?" Doyle asked shakily.
"The elevator. Can't we hot wire it?"
There was hardly any time left. Doyle attempted to prise off the elevator panel, but it refused to budge. Xander tugged him aside and fired his remaining rounds into it. Doyle shut his eyes and prayed that the elevator wasn't bulletproof and the resulting ricochets wouldn't kill them both. They were almost back to where they'd started.
The panel was quickly reduced to a piece of twisted metal, hanging by one corner. Doyle slipped nimble fingers past it to snare a handful of wires. He yanked them free, scanning them helplessly before singling out two hopeful contenders. "Here goes nothin'," he muttered as he twisted them together. There was a pause, and then the elevator began to ascend again.
Twin cries of: "Yes!" erupted as they high-fived one another.
Their euphoria dampened slightly when the lift didn't stop at three…or four, but kept ascending.
"Er, just as a point of interest here. Any clue where we're heading?"
Doyle shrugged. "The roof?"
Xander groaned and leaned against the elevator doors with an arm folded across his eyes. "Great. This is just great." He lowered his arm. "What are we gonna do? Send out a bat signal?"
"Hey. Don't blame me. It was your idea to hijack the lift."
"Not to the roof!" Xander's voice rose in panic. He'd more than had his fill of dangling off high-rise buildings.
Doyle stared at the tangled mess of wires. "Want me to try again?"
Xander drew him away from the panel. "No. I'm sorry. I shouldn't be laying into you. This is good. This is greatness." He summoned a smile. "Hey. At least we got out."
"Yeah, it's the temporary nature of that out that has me worried. I don't think they're gonna be too happy when they catch up with us."
"If," Xander corrected. "If they catch up with us."
Doyle's expression was pained. "We're headin' for the roof here. An' you're right. There's not much we can do from up there. Unless this Consort gig includes the ability to fly amongst its list of handy perks." He slowly slid down the wall to sit on the carpeted floor. Leaning back with his head tilted up and his legs outstretched.
Xander released a heavy sigh and joined him. Noticeably favouring his injured shoulder. "How many floors do you think this place has?"
Doyle glanced at the panel. The last number read twenty-three. They both watched the number display as though it was counting off the last few seconds of their lives. When it lit up with the last number and the elevator kept on going, both men frowned and looked at one another in confusion.
"The roof?"
"Your guess is as good as mine, man," Doyle muttered. He had a very unhappy feeling about this.
The elevator continued upwards.
"Maybe we should try pulling one of those wires," said Xander. "Cos this is getting kinda freaky." Then - in the space of an eye blink - everything abruptly disappeared. Or at least the elevator did, and they were left standing in what appeared to be an enormous white room. Xander jumped and grabbed at Doyle. "Woah, whiteout." He turned around. "Aargh!" Xander jumped again as he saw the little girl sitting on a chair.
"Hello."
"Er, hi," said Xander uncertainly. He let go of Doyle, who remained glued to his side. Clearly as unnerved by all this as he was. "So," Xander began. "What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?" He took a step forward; Doyle yanked him back, with a terse shake of his head and a warning look. Chastened, Xander sent his friend an apologetic side-glance. The Xander Harris mouth really did have wild and wacky powers---such as an inability to shut up in near-death situations. Not that this little girl looked particularly dangerous, but she was kind of creepy, and he was getting some decidedly weird vibes from her.
"She's not what she seems," Doyle whispered very softly. Whatever she was, there was nothing wrong with her hearing. She immediately pinned the young Irishman with an unnerving stare.
"Smart boy. But then, you're not quite what you seem either, are you." She smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "How are the headaches? Feeling poorly are we."
Xander stiffened, itching to make a smart comeback in defence of his friend, but for once common sense overrode his mouth. //Bitch.// He thought, wondering if it was wrong to have uncharitable thoughts about something that at least looked like a small child. He was unable to suppress a flinch when she turned that thousand-mile stare onto him.
She tutted. "That's not nice. I might have to punish you." She stood up.
Both men drew back on reflex. Small and harmless she might appear. But this prim little girl radiated power. And not in a good way. As she took a step forward, Doyle stepped in front of Xander, who in turn tried to draw his friend out of the line of fire. The 'girl' seemed to find this amusing. Her cold laughter tinkled emptily around them.
"I've changed my mind. Perhaps I'll help you instead." She leaned forward, adding in a conspiratol tone. They won't like that." The gleam in her eyes implied that she didn't care very much what they liked. Something told them she certainly had nothing to fear from the law firm. "You want to join your friends. Yes?" Warily, Doyle and Xander nodded.
"Er, yeah," said Doyle.
That nasty knowing smile was back. "Are you sure?" she asked.
Xander wanted out of here. He was having a serious case of the wiggins, and he wanted to find Spike. "We're sure. So can you help?"
She regarded him silently for one very unnerving moment. Then she nodded. "I can do lots of things."
//I bet you can.// The thought slipped out before Xander could belatedly remind himself that this creepy little chick could read minds.
She didn't seem offended. Her smile was lightly mocking. "All right. Go then."
She didn't outwardly do anything. But once more Xander had the unpleasant sensation that the world had shifted around him. The stark whiteness replaced by inky blackness, and a stomach-dropping sensation of falling. Slowly. Oh, so slowly. As though he were trapped in a dream, tumbling through the cold vacuum of space. It seemed to go on and on. He tried to call out: for Doyle…for Spike. But his voice wouldn't work and he continued to fall in icy silence. //Oh, God. Oh, God// his mind chanted. Terrified. Wondering if there was any deity who would listen to his cries, to someone who willingly lay with the evil undead. //Oh, God. Help me.//
It ended as abruptly as it began. With a sudden rush of grey and a blur of blue, which solidified into his surroundings as he landed, fairly gently all things considering, on a cold stone floor. Xander groaned and rolled over onto his side, relieved beyond all coherent thought to see Doyle curled up beside him. "Hey." He reached out and managed to touch Doyle's out flung arm without too much effort. "Hey. Are you all right?"
"Ughnn," said Doyle. "Have we stopped?" He hadn't opened his eyes.
Xander looked around him. Stone walls, stone ceiling, stone floor: a long, grim passageway, like something out of a gothic horror. He half expected Vincent Price to pop up and bid them welcome. "Yeah, I'd say so."
Doyle opened his eyes, one at a time, squinting unhappily. "Cheery place."
"Yeah, I can't imagine how the 'good travel guides' missed it."
They got to their feet amidst a chorus of soft groans and heavy sighs, both men tired and hurting. Xander cradled his needle-punctured arm against his chest. It was starting to throb. An unpleasant addition to the hot, itchy ache in his shoulder.
Doyle stood slightly hunched in on himself, as though it simply hurt too much to stand straight. "We should mebbe get moving."
"I'm with you, Kemosabe," said Xander. "But which way?"
Doyle rubbed his forehead and grimaced. "Can't you do that thing? You know."
"Oh, right." Xander felt an idiot for not thinking of it. Of course he could track Spike. If he could just clear his mind enough to get a fix on him. He tried. Closing his eyes and blanking his thoughts. He could hear Doyle's soft, and slightly ragged breath falls. //Spike? Where are you? Where are you?// Xander struggled to push everything out of his mind. And after less than a minute, he opened his eyes and pointed to a door at the bottom left of the corridor. "That way."
Doyle didn't question him. They made their way down the corridor, and cautiously opened the door. It led into an empty room. They passed through it, and opened another door, into yet another deserted room. But part way across this one, there was an ominous creaking, cracking sound. They looked at one another. And then looked down. There was the sound of splintering stone, and a long broken line zigzagged across the floor towards their feet. "Oh, shiiiiiitttttttt!" Xander yelled as the floor suddenly gave way beneath them. He tried to run, but wherever he put his foot, the stone flag beneath it split into useless shards that fell away into nothingness. All around them the floor was disappearing, and in its place was opening up a seemingly bottomless pit. This was so not good.
Doyle had made it to the far side of the room, and was perched on what looked like less than an inch of floor - all that was left connected to the wall. The door they had come through had disappeared. Which should have been impossible. But clearly wasn't. The door they'd been heading for was still there, but now there was no floor with which to reach it. Xander tried. Only to end up hanging by his fingertips from a stone flag that appeared to be suspended from nothing. And it was already displaying cracks. Xander looked down and swallowed hard. The rest of his body dangled over what looked like space, minus the sparkly stars. Just a whole lot of big, black, nothingness.
Feeling sick, Xander quickly looked up again. He tried to drag himself up on top of the stone flag, but his fingers couldn't find any purchase, and he stopped when a piece of the flag broke away and tumbled down…down…down…. until it vanished. "Oh, God," he murmured.
"Xander! Hold on. I'm coming for you, man."
"No!" Xander drew in a shaky breath. "There's no way you can reach me," he continued in a softer voice. "Try for the door."
"I'm not leaving you," Doyle protested.
"Find the others," said Xander. "Find Angel. You can do it."
"Okay," Doyle agreed reluctantly. Not happy at the idea of leaving his friend.
There was a pause. Xander wished he could see what was going on, but he was afraid to move about too much. His fingers were starting to cramp and his arm and shoulder were screaming at him. He hoped that Doyle left before he fell. Because there was no way he was going to be able to hold on until he returned with Spike and Angel. Tears came into his eyes, unbidden. He didn't want to die like this. He didn't want to die. He wanted Spike. He poured all of his longing into that one thought, and tried to hang on.
"Xander?" Doyle's voice, quiet and subdued.
"Yeah."
"There's no way I can get to it. Sorry, man." Doyle sounded wretched.
Great. They were both dead. Xander tried to inject a false lightness into his tone. "Right. I guess I'll just hang about here then."
Silence. Then a weak puff of laughter. "Man, you are crazy. I think mebbe your brain's missing some of that blood you keep giving away."
"Hey!" Xander was indignant. "Not my idea to feed the lions at the zoo. Or to give a donation to Doctor Death back there."
"Yeah. I know." Silence again. Then: "I still can't believe you nearly got taken out by a lion. I mean, man. What are the odds? We fight demons every other day and you nearly end up as cat kibble."
"Just another…day in 'Xander's…World', where the…wackiness never s-stops." Xander was getting short of breath. All the blood was rushing out of his arms.
"Hey." Doyle sounded worried. "Just hang on, okay. We'll get out of this. I just need to think of something. Gimme a minute, yeah."
"Sure," said Xander weakly. "Hanging on here. No problem."