Coming Of Age

By Medea

Chapter Nine

Andrew Murdoch studied the runes at the threshold of the stately hotel as he waited for permission to enter. They must have been a parting gift from Willow, who hadn't been seen in the city for over fifteen years.

Nadia shifted uneasily at his side. He squeezed her hand reassuringly. Although she was no longer a fledgling but a strong, confident master in her own right, he knew that the thought of entering this particular lair frightened her.

Although it was small, the clan that inhabited this lair struck fear into most of the city's vampires.

Now more than ever.

An imposing, dark-haired vampire appeared at the door and stepped out to meet them.

"That was fast," he remarked.

"I called from my car phone," Murdoch explained. "You must be Angelus. As I mentioned on the phone, I am Andrew Murdoch. This is my childe, Nadia."

The dark vampire nodded. "I don't usually have visitors. To what do I owe the honor?"

"Perhaps we should discuss this inside?" Murdoch suggested, gesturing toward the door. When the legendary vampire appraised him mistrustfully, Murdoch clarified, "I come as an unofficial delegate from some of the other clans in the city. As one of the few of our kind with any connections to your clan, they've sent me for information."

This seemed to sway the dark vampire. He waved them toward the door and said, "Come in."

Murdoch escorted Nadia into the spacious lobby and gave it an admiring glance. Angelus indicated a few plush, red lounges in the center of the room. When they were seated, Angelus asked, "What do the clans want of me?"

"Not you -- necessarily. Your childe. News of his rampage has reached every vampire in the city. They're calling him The Reaper. But while the death toll has been impressive, there is greater concern about the obvious pattern. It's clear that he's targeted Claudio Ramirez's clan; what we want to know is why. Is this a bid to establish his own lair?"

As Murdoch explained the reason for his visit, he gauged the dark vampire's reactions. Angelus seemed to relax, yet his face hardened into a cold, grim mask. Murdoch felt Nadia tense beside him; even though Angelus's souled condition was known to all, just one look had the power to intimidate. Few scorned him.

"No. It's vengeance. A branch of the Ramirez clan killed his mate."

It was a possibility that Murdoch had suspected, and he nodded. Angelus continued, "Tell the clans that this isn't a bid for power; we have no interest in making a grab for territory. But the rankings will be affected. Spike intends to take out the entire clan, down to the last minion."

"And anyone who offers even one of them sanctuary," a cold voice announced behind them.

Murdoch caught the quick flash of dread in Nadia's eyes. Maintaining his composure, Murdoch turned to see Spike standing at the entrance. A stake poked out of one of the pockets on his leather duster, and he held a massive axe in his left hand. Blood and ash formed a grisly paste on the blade. His fingers were smeared with dried blood and his black tee shirt was covered with ashes. He had indeed earned his new title.

"I'll spread the word," Murdoch replied, rising to his feet. "Come, Nadia, we have what we came for. Thank you, Angelus, for your candor. The clans will deal accordingly."

When he and Nadia were safely outside, she asked, "Sire, what happens now?"

"Now? Spike will finish off the Ramirez clan and the rest of us will divide their territory. With any luck, our clan will come away with a sizable portion of it."

"You don't think they'll be able to stop him?"

As he ushered Nadia into the waiting limousine, Murdoch took a final glance at the hotel and answered soberly, "No, I don't. From the look of him tonight, all the whispers about The Reaper have been well-deserved. The Ramirez clan is as good as dust."

*****

Angel noted with amusement how quick Murdoch and Nadia were to leave after Spike's arrival. His boy had always known how to make an entrance.

"How many tonight?" Angel asked.

"Six. All I could find. The sods've started hiding."

Saying nothing further, Spike started toward Angel's suite. Although his childe still had his own room, Angel had insisted they share his suite for the time being. He was willing to let Spike exact vengeance on his own, but at all other times wanted his childe where he could keep an eye on him.

This was his childe, blood of his blood, and Angel wasn't going to let him destroy himself. Spike had slipped into a cold, silent shell after the emotional breakdown after Megan's death. He was working through the grief in his own fashion -- slaughter -- but Angel refused to let him spiral too far downward. For the first time in over a century, Angel was going to make certain he was there to pick up the pieces.

"What do you think you're doing, Spike?"

The blond vampire's hand paused on its way to the sink faucet in Angel's kitchen.

"Gonna clean the blade."

"Not like that you're not. That blade is made of carbon spring steel. Hand it over."

Angel took the axe from Spike and opened the refrigerator. He pulled out a box of baking soda, set it on the counter, then reached in for a bag of blood. Handing the blood to Spike, he issued a simple instruction.

"Feed."

While Spike heated the blood, Angel set about cleaning the axe blade with a mild baking soda and water solution. When he had removed the residual blood and ashes of Spike's victims, Angel wiped the blade dry with a cloth towel and set it on the counter. After retrieving a bottle of oil he kept beneath the sink, Angel carried it, the towel and the axe over to the sofa and joined his childe.

Spike looked completely numb. He sipped the blood as he slumped and stared absently at the coffee table.

Angel didn't attempt to force conversation on his grieving childe. The elder vampire poured a few drops of oil on the cloth, then quietly and methodically smoothed it over the blade. After a few moments, he noticed Spike watching his hands as they polished the metal with meticulous care. The younger vampire seemed almost mesmerized by the soothing, rhythmic motions of Angel's fingers.

"Plannin' on showin' it in a museum, ya ponce?" he sighed, barely mustering his usual sarcasm.

Angel arched an eyebrow. "It's a good weapon. With the proper care, it'll be good for centuries." He set the axe down on the coffee table and stood. "Now it's your turn."

Spike didn't protest as Angel ushered him into the bedroom and instructed him to undress. Angel did likewise, then guided him to the shower and told him to get in. After adjusting the water so that it would be just hot enough to soothe his weary childe, Angel stepped in behind him and shut the door.

Rivulets of water streamed down the chiseled curves of Spike's back. Angel heard his childe release a faint sigh as he hung his head forward and let the hot spray pound down on his neck. He looked defeated. Reaching for the soap and a sponge, Angel worked up a good lather and then began attending to Spike's back with the same patient care he had given the blade. He let his hands roam over Spike's shoulders, half scrubbing, half massaging away the tension.

Soon, Angel was fighting to suppress his own desires.

He continued his gentle ministrations, dragging the sponge down Spike's back to his narrow, taut hips, over the firm swell of his buttocks, and down the beautifully sculpted length of each leg. Angel even knelt, an uncharacteristically submissive position for a sire to take with his childe, and gently lifted Spike's left foot, then his right, to caress his tender soles.

When Angel stood up, rather than turning Spike around so he could cleanse his front side, he pressed himself intimately against Spike's back, snaked his arms around and began washing Spike's chest. Purring softly, Spike let his head fall back against Angel's shoulder. As Angel continued down to the sleek plane of Spike's abdomen, he felt the sponge brush up against his childe's erection.

"Angelus," Spike hissed.

It was no more than a soft whisper, but in that whisper, Angel heard the cry of his childe, and felt the full weight of his grief and pain.

The sponge fell to the floor.

Grasping Spike's cock in his hand, Angel traced his thumb in firm circles over the head, eliciting a sharp gasp from the younger vampire. As his fingers gripped the swollen flesh and began to move in slow, firm strokes, Angel glanced at Spike's face. He was trembling. Tears leaked from his closed eyes and mingled with the water droplets on his face.

Still working his childe toward release, Angel raised his free hand up to Spike's mouth and offered his wrist.

"Take me in, William," Angel encouraged him, using the name reserved for their most private, personal moments. "Feel me within you. Let me ease the pain."

With an urgent groan, Spike morphed to his demon face and sank his fangs deep into Angel's flesh. He clung to his sire's wrist fiercely with both hands, desperate for the consoling effects of the rich, red ambrosia that was Sire-blood. He drank greedily until Angel's powerful strokes sent him crashing over the edge. Spike's hips jerked forward and he howled in ecstasy.

Angel held him for several moments afterward, until the gradual cooling of the water obliged him to reach forward and turn off the shower.

Spike turned and kissed Angel with genuine love and gratitude. This was one of the rare moments when they had dropped their usual, gruff posturing; when they had abandoned their antagonism and had been as they were in those first, sweet years at the beginning.

The blond vampire felt a gentle nudge against his thighs and looked down. He looked back up again with a grin.

"I could take care of that for you, y'know."

"Later, perhaps. First, I want to get you into bed."

"That's what you said *that* night," Spike smirked.

Angel, too, remembered his encounter with William, then a living, would-be poet, on a London street in 1874. Despondent at having been scorned by the woman he adored, he had been easily provoked by the dark, handsome stranger who knew just how to coax his anger to the surface. Bitterly resentful of the 'polite society' that had mocked him, William was ripe for seduction. Angelus had swiftly persuaded him to defy the propriety of polite society by indulging in scandalous, carnal abandon. Oh, how sweetly he'd given himself up...

"A hundred and fifty-six years later, and you're as debauched and corrupt as ever," Angel growled affectionately as he led Spike to the bed.

In spite of their gentle flirtation, Angel made no move to satisfy his own needs once they were entwined beneath the covers. He merely wanted to hold Spike, to anchor his childe to him and prevent him from being tossed and churned by the raging storm of his grief.

They lay together silently and Angel had the impression that Spike was drifting off to sleep. However, just as Angel's own eyes began to slip shut, Spike murmured, "I thought she was just a little slip of nothing when I first saw her...just a kid Red was hell-bent on helping..."

Angel wrapped his arms tighter around Spike and nuzzled his ear.

After a few more moments, Spike confessed in a pained whisper, "It hurts."

"I know."

Spike released a shuddering sigh that developed into awkward laughter. "Crikey, look at me. I'm turnin' into a bleedin' poofter."

Angel chuckled deeply. "Don't worry, Spike. If I know you, you'll be wreaking all kinds of virile, manly mayhem in no time."

"You know me well, Sire," Spike agreed smugly. Then, regarding Angel with a thoughtful, serious expression, he added, "You do know me. I never thought I'd say this, but I needed this tonight. Thanks....Oh bloody hell! I *am* goin' soft in my old age."

"It's not age, it's just the mileage, Spike. You've been through the wringer. Welcome to the club. If you can get back up on your feet again, who really gives a damn if you're soft?"

"Oh, sod, just what I need. Fatherly advice. Peaches, shut the fuck up and go to sleep."

*****

Spike's recovery was slow, but eventually he returned to his old self. Certainly, his cocky self-assuredness was enhanced by the feat of having destroyed an entire clan of vampires. And his wry, sardonic sense of humor resurfaced, much to the discomfort of Wesley and Cordelia.

His years with Megan and the trauma of her loss had mellowed him slightly. Angel noted with quiet pride that, although Spike hadn't lost his zest for the hunt, he went out less frequently, and rarely bragged about terrifying or torturing his kills anymore. Although Angel had no first-hand knowledge, he suspected that Spike was killing only what he needed to feed.

On the occasions that Angel passed by his childe's room and saw the sketch of Spike and Megan hanging on the wall, he had to smile and wonder if she wasn't watching over him and keeping him in line.

Just when Angel thought Spike was back on his feet, he was dealt another shocking blow.

It was shortly after dusk when Angel was jolted awake by his childe's screams. Alarmed, Angel scrambled to his knees in full gameface, ready to rip out the throat of whatever had dared to attack his childe. When he saw that they were alone, he resumed his human face, gripped Spike by the shoulders and tried to discern what was wrong.

The blond vampire stared with horror at his wrist.

Angel followed his childe's gaze; when he saw what had left Spike so shaken, Angel froze.

Willow's tattoo, Spike's link to their beloved, had suddenly faded. The previous night, it had been as prominent as ever; now it was so faint Angel almost couldn't see it.

"Oh, God..." Angel whispered, aghast.

*****

<Oh, God -- not like this!>

Willow tried to push her fear aside and concentrate.

She was chained to a massive stone altar, deep inside the Tikal demons' keep. The rest of the brotherhood gathered around her as the leader prepared to harvest her alleged soul. They had grown impatient with their attempts to understand her nature, and decided to subject her to the ritual despite their uncertainties about its success.

The leader wore the same faroe stone amulet that had prevented her from escaping when they had first captured her. Because of it, Willow was unable to conjure herself away from the keep.

And so she would die.

Regardless of the success of their harvest, the Tikal demons planned to stake her at the end of the ritual. All because of their mistaken belief that she had a soul!

What she wouldn't give for Dorothy's ruby slippers right now.

Wait...

That was it!

Willow silently tested the magical restraints that the Harvesters' leader had erected through the faroe stone. Yes! She found the hoped-for loophole. In their obsession with extracting her imaginary soul in its complete form, and believing that it originated from multiple points outside of her, the Harvesters had been unwilling to sever those external connections. The faroe stone wasn't preventing her from working magic through already existing bonds.

She didn't have a pair of ruby slippers, but she had Spike.

The ruse might work. If she could persuade the Harvesters that they had successfully extracted her soul, she knew from having witnessed past rituals that the leader would focus the powers of the faroe stone on dissecting the soul -- giving her an opening to use magic for escape.

As Willow prepared to channel her essence through the bond with Spike, she experienced a moment of clarity and nearly wept over the eighteen years she could have spent with her two lovers.

Why hadn't she seen it?

The name she had 'given' Hypnoi, simply because she had cared to ask.

The fact that not only the Harvesters, but Anubis and Sahu, too, perceived that she was animated by something beyond herself.

It was so simple.

It was the chicken-and-egg paradox: which comes first, identity or connections with others?

Everyone was shaped by giving of themselves and, in turn, by what others gave them. An eternal dance. Which meant that, although it didn't fit into any conventional mold, Willow did indeed have a soul. Not one that could be extracted, for it could never be pinpointed in a single place. It existed only in the space between Willow and those she loved.

Which meant that a soul was something far more intricate than she had ever imagined.

Suddenly, the answer she had been seeking for so many years whispered softly through her mind, like a rustling breeze she had been too distracted to hear. She had been so focused on Angel's soul, she had forgotten the curse.

It was all in the delivery. Given in hate, as retribution for Angelus's own hateful deeds, Angel's soul rested on a shaky foundation.

But as much as her discovery left her in awe, she had no time to ponder the mysteries of the universe. Putting all her power into her spell, she thrust her essence, her consciousness, her entire inner being, back through the bond.

Her awareness of her own body grew faint, and she felt Spike's presence more powerfully than she had in years. She felt his pain -- he was hurting. Instinctively, she radiated sympathy, offering him what brief comfort she could through their mingled essences.

Then, through her dim connection to her own body, she sensed the transition in the ritual. The powers of the faroe stone were no longer blocking her from conjuring herself away from the Harvesters. She shot back through the bond, prepared to initiate a translocation spell as soon as she was fully within her body.

As she sped away, she felt Spike's alarm at her sudden departure.

*****

Spike sprang up from the bed. "I've got to find her!"

"Can you still feel her?" Angel demanded anxiously.

Spike paused, but he was so agitated it was difficult for him to concentrate. "I don't know. It's...I can't tell. Crikey, for years it's been so weak -- but it's been there. Now...fuck! Angel, I can't tell!!"

Angel tried to calm him down, but Spike's impulsive nature had resurfaced. In minutes, he was dressed and headed for the door. Angel, clad only in sweatpants, pursued him out to the lobby.

"Spike, dammit, stop and think for a minute!" Angel protested. "How are you going to know where to start looking?"

The blond vampire spun and held his sire at bay with a frantic, determined stare. "I'm not comin' back until I've got Red with me. I was too late for Megan. I won't lose Red, too!"

Before Angel could restrain him, Spike was gone.

Standing alone in the lobby, for Angel it was a painful flashback to the night Willow left eighteen years ago. Every one of his earlier fears about the disasters that could have befallen her returned in full force. It took every ounce of Angel's willpower not to follow Spike's example and charge forth blindly in search of her.

When Angel calmed down, he called Giles; then Wesley; then Cyrene. He recounted the alarming news about the tattoo, and pleaded with each of them to tap every one of their resources for information about Willow's last whereabouts.

But their efforts were in vain.

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