Fic Update: Soul Searching Chapter 10
Feb. 26th, 2007 10:52 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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gen_storytellerTitle: Chapter 10: No Coward Soul is Mine.
Rating: PG13
Summary: In which Whistler earns his keep and Drusulla takes Spike down Memory Lane.
Chapter 10: No Coward Soul is Mine
The Los Angeles skyline heralded the dawn in its own inimitable way,its signature display of garish pink and gaudy lilac clouds soiled the inky blues of the disappearing night masking ugly reality with pretty colours from a child’s painting box. Invisible tendrils of poisonous intent snaked upwards from the factories, domestic boilers and vehicle exhausts, intertwined with the ostentatious evidence of man’s corruption in the city below. The golden glow of the life-giving sun struggled to break through the thinning cirrus, glinting and dazzling from glass towers, growing in strength and intensity as it drove the darkness from the streets.
"Do you think something went wrong?" Willow peered anxiously through the blinds covering the glass on the Hyperion's entrance door. “They should be back by now.” She turned towards Wesley who sat dozing in an armchair at the foot of the staircase. “Maybe Buffy didn't make it in time?"
"In time for what?" Whistler asked as he entered the lobby, clutching yet another mug of coffee and the last slice of lemon cake.
"Didn't you hear what I told her about Illyria?" Willow frowned at him. "You were right there, doing what you're doing now. “She pursed her lips in disapproval and glared at him. “ Which seems to be the only thing you do 'do' around here."
Whistler brushed the crumbs from his jacket and leaned on the reception desk. He picked up the research papers Wesley had brought down from Fred's room and gestured with them.
"Been thinkin'. This pitch 'bout Illyria bein' the one doin' the deal with the Dark Powers?" He sniffed and pushed the book towards Wesley's end of the counter. "Not her."
Wesley sat up straight and reached for his translation notes. He peered at them, squinting in the dim light. "It must be her," he argued. "The Dark Prince."
Whistler pushed himself away from the counter and squatted down beside Wesley. "Sure, she's evil, but only in a 'want to destroy the whole human race and rule the world again' kinda way. But God-King don't equal Dark Prince. It also don't say she's on the side of 'evil' in the next big fight. In fact," he stood up and walked towards the door, raising the window blind and looking out onto the street, "it don't say she's on any side."
"And just what makes you an expert on all this?" Wesley demanded.
"Because I'm a former fence-sitter who recognises a fellow …," Whistler chuckled and paused for effect, "fence sitter. And I know a thing or two about Gods. Worked for enough of them in my time. Gods aren't big with the alliance makin'. Besides, she ain't one of them any more and she's still learnin' how to go about playin' with others. But one thing for sure, she's on no-one's side but her own. If you ask me …"
“No one’s asking you,” snapped Wesley.
“Figure of speech. Pardon me for speakin’ out of turn. But, as a bettin’ man, my money’s on somebody else teamin’ up with the Forces of Darkness. Someone who’s lookin’ to get what’s theirs back.”
Willow thought for a moment. “Ooh, oooh, I know." She opened her laptop and pulled up the Wolfram and Hart Website. "Here." She turned the screen for Wesley to see. "I found the Wolfram and Hart personnel lists like you asked and see who takes over today as the new CEO."
"Wolfgang Hartram?" Wesley's spine tingled as a wave of fear flushed beneath his skin. "And all the beasts shall be as one and shall rise anew when the darkness sweeps over the realms of the earth."
-----------------------------------------------------
A swathe of sunlight crept along the pavement, slowly closing the gap between the shadow cast by southern face of the office block and its entrance doors. In the shade afforded by the ambulatory, Drusilla faced Buffy, her eyes blazing with hatred and malevolence.
“Foolish girl. You think it’s that easy? You have no idea who you’re dealing with, no understanding of what it is to be a vampire.” She moved deeper into the shadows, inching closer to Spike as she did so but never dropping her gaze from Buffy.
“Lots of merry games we've played. Of them we've had enough. And now I think that we will try. A game of Blind Man's Buff.”
She pulled a handkerchief from her bodice and held it over her eyes for a second, then flicked a challenge with it against Buffy’s cheek. “William is my knight, my Champion, he belongs to me in a way you can never comprehend. You think you were even the love of Angel’s life, the one that brought him true happiness?”
“Don’t you bring Angel into this! It has nothing to do with him.” Buffy slipped her hand into her pocket for the weapon she carried.
“Stupid child! It has everything to do with him. He didn’t need you to fulfil his destiny, Grandmother was the only one who could do that. His humanity always belonged to her.”
Drusilla turned her gaze on Spike. “Don't you tumble over. Catch whom you can. Did you think you'd caught me? Poor blind man!”
She held her hands in front of her face, briefly making a fan with her fingers before snapping them towards Buffy in a gesture of dismissal “ You should have let him kill me when he offered it to you,” she hissed. She held out the handkerchief towards Spike. “Come with me, my love. It’s time for you to claim what is yours.”
Buffy raised her stake and lunged towards Drusilla. “Maybe I did make a mistake. Once! Not gonna repeat it.”
She drove the wood towards Drusilla’s heart in the same instant that Spike stepped into the gap between them. The stake pierced his ribcage, missing his heart by the merest fraction.
“Spike!” cried Buffy, reaching for him.
“Still can’t do it, can you Slayer?” Spike pulled the stake from his side and groaned. “Can still hurt me though, grant you that.” He fell against Drusilla and closed his eyes against the pain.
Drusilla hooked his left arm across her shoulder. . “You had your chance,” she spat at Buffy. “You didn’t play fair. Kept changing the rules. It’s my turn to play again now.” She glanced over Buffy’s shoulder to where Angel was making his way back along the shaded side of the street. “Blindfold Molly, turn her round. Now then, away you go! Angel won’t want you. He’s playing a different game.”
As Angel reached the paved terrace, the main doors of the tower block flew open.
“And one man lay in another's way,
Then laws were made to keep fair play. Ta Ta.” Drusilla trilled.
A whirling maelstrom of darkness surged out, swept her and Spike into its centre and sucked them inside the building, slamming the doors shut again in its wake. Buffy threw herself against them, heaving with her full strength in an attempt to force them open.
“Angel!” she called. “Drusilla’s taken Spike. He’s …”
Angel didn’t wait for her to finish. He threw himself into the glass panel only to ricochet off it perilously close to the sunlit edge of the terrace. “Force field,” he said unnecessarily as Buffy helped him to his feet. “We’ll never get in past that.” He frowned slightly at her. “What are you doing here? I thought you were organising the evacuation to Cleveland.”
Buffy stared morosely past him towards the building that was denying her access. “I was. I mean I have.” She shook herself slightly and refocused on Angel. “We’d better get under cover.”
Angel led the way round to the back to the car pool entrance, which was open in readiness for the early arrivals. “There’s a way to the underground passages from here, “ he explained, “if security doesn’t spot us before we can get to it.” He peeked inside. “All quiet. Now, explain why you’re here.”
Buffy followed him into the parking area, checking warily around her as they made their way cautiously towards the access to the lower level. “Willow wanted to warn you about Illyria. Wesley thinks she might be working for the other side to get her power back.”
Angel folded his arms and smiled slightly. “And you didn’t think of using one of these?” He produced a cell phone from inside his jacket and waved it in front of her eyes. He flipped it open and dialled. “Lorne. Illyria with you?” Angel deliberately kept his voice light, not betraying the anxiety he’d felt at hearing Wesley’s message. “No, I didn’t catch it. She was right about the time thing. It disappeared as soon as it reached Culver.”
Buffy tugged his sleeve and gestured towards a door, with an inquiring glance.
Angel shook his head in response. “No. Literally. Disappeared.” he continued into the phone. “Lorne, where are you headed? Back to the hotel. That’s good.” He stopped, focused on the noises coming from the lift shaft beside them, snapped the phone shut and pushed Buffy into the back of an empty vehicle.
------------------------------------------
Lorne raised his eyes to the sky and grimaced at the sight of the gaudy sunrise. “Don’t they realise what they’re doing?” he asked Illyria.
His companion ignored him and strode on rapidly, forcing him to increase his pace to keep up with her.
“The air.” Lorne waved his arms over his head in demonstration. “It’s killing people.” He stepped out of the way of an old woman busily restraining a small dog from dashing across the busy junction ahead of them. “And animals.”
“I see no weapons of air,” Illyria stopped and scanned the skyline.
“That’s just it,” Lorne complained. “They’re invisible. And strictly speaking they’re not weapons. Not like…” he paused, steeling himself against the anguish of recollecting what he’d done at Angel’s request. “Not like pulling the trigger of a gun on a living human being, no matter how low down and dirty he might be.”
Illyria moved on again, at a slower pace. “How do these invisible weapons kill?” she asked, scrutinising the pigeons attacking the remains of someone’s discarded burger bun. “I see no injuries, no blood.”
“That’s the problem,” Lorne grumbled. “Can’t see the damage until it’s too late. It’s all hidden, festering, destroying from the inside ‘til a body can’t take any more and just gives up.” He pointed at the rose bushes outside the BBQ Restaurant. “They look healthy, don’t they? But they’re fed poisons to keep them looking that way. And next year – there’ll be new ones replacing the ones that got canned.” Lorne wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Everything’s expendable. Everything and everyone.”
Illyria paused for a second and tilted her head towards the shrubbery. “I no longer hear the music.” She repeated the lament she’d uttered on the loss of her powers. “Yet you, a mere minion, have that which was ripped from me. You hear the song of the green.”
Lorne sighed. “I am the song, Evita. That’s why they chose me.” A faint warbling of ‘If I ruled the world’ emanated from within his jacket. He reached inside and pulled out his cell phone. “Angel! We were just talking about you. You catch the car?”
----------------------------------------------------------------
The soft glow from two shell-shaped wall lights shone against the art deco panelling. Beneath them, two tall stemmed glasses stood beside a single red rose, the honey coloured liquid they contained hazily duplicated in the mirrored table top on which they rested. Spike pulled himself to his feet and gazed around the room into which he and Drusilla had been deposited by the sinister whirlwind. The gold plaster bands running up the walls and across the ceiling, the crimson curtains covering the windows and the deep blue carpet decorated with a pattern of red and gold swirls were all familiar; images and textures from another time and place.
The arm of an old fashioned gramophone swung across its turntable with a metallic ‘clunk’ and dropped onto the waiting disc. Drusilla picked one of the champagne flutes from the table and swayed towards Spike as Sinatra’s voice wafted softly from the speaker.
“I’ve got you under my skin.”
Drusilla offered the delicate crystal to Spike, leaned back across his outstretched arm and reached for the second glass.
“I’ve got you deep in the heart of me.”
“Do you remember?” she purred, placing her arms round his neck and moving sensuously against him, grinding her hips on his in time to the rhythm. “Dancing in the dark?”
“So deep in my heart, you’re really a part of me.”
“We feasted on lovers that night.” She pulled him closer, turning him away from the mirror and the lamps.
“I’ve got you under my skin.”
“1936. Chicago. The Lake Theatre. I remember.” Spike murmured, pushing himself out of her embrace. “A bird sang it in the film.”
Drusilla drained her glass, replaced it on the table and held out her arms towards him. “Everything you ever wanted can be yours now, if you’ll dance with me once more.”
“I’ve tried so not to give in.
I’ve said to myself this affair never will go so well.”
Spike looked around the room again. On the surface, it had all the appearance of a typical pre-World War II hotel suite, taking much of its inspiration from cinema decoration and interior design.
“But why should I try to resist, when darling I know so well,
I’ve got you under my skin.“
Yet from the 1920’s Art Deco lighted Coca-Cola mirror, to the onyx clock, the room screamed ‘fake’. Spike examined the glass in his hand and shook his head.
“I’d sacrifice anything come what might
For the sake of having you near...”
“You think I ever wanted any of this?” Spike swept the room with a wave of his arm. “I never wanted this.” He set the glass carefully beside its twin. “Sorry Dru. Guess you don’t know me as well as you thought.”
“Perhaps she doesn’t,” said a voice from the doorway, “but I do.”
“In spite of the warning voice that comes in the night
And repeats and repeats in my ears.”
Spike flinched at the sound of his own voice and turned to face the adversary whose plans had been thwarted with the help of an amulet and an army of slayers.
“I know exactly what you want, and who it is that’s always been in your way, always been your problem.” The First-Spike swaggered into the room, taking up position beside an art deco lamp and addressing the scantily clad bronze figure posed against the fanned glass shade. “You are, ya ponce! You’re my problem. You got it too good. What do I get? Bloody well toasted and ghosted is what I get innit. It’s not fair.” The First-Spike looked into Spike’s shocked face and grinned. “That about sum it up?”
“Toasted and ghosted!” Drusilla laughed and clapped her hands, delighting in the rhyme. “Oh Spike, you always say such pretty things.”
The First-Spike snorted. “Pretty? Pretty dim more like.” His features began to dissolve; the hollows beneath his cheekbones filled out, the eyes darkened. His entire form twisted and grew, re-shaping and morphing into that of Angelus.
“Well, you’re new, and a little dim. There’s no belonging or deserving any more. You can take what you want, have what you want.”
“Don’t you know little fool, you never can win.
Use your mentality, wake up to reality.”
“You’re not him, nor me. You can’t touch me any more,” Spike snarled. “I know what you are. You’re The First.”
“That’s right,” The First-Spike drawled. “And if anyone knows all about you, it’s me. What?” He chuckled at Spike’s scowl. “You thought Slutty the Slayer’s plan got rid of me?” He shook his head. “Just slowed me down a little. Took out some of my boys and killed my main man.” He smirked and gave Drusilla and approving glance. “Got me a new one. Hell, got me a whole new gang all neatly packaged in a fresh body just waitin’ to be filled with nummy badness.”
The lights dimmed, the walls heaving and shuddering like they’d done the night before.
“Just the thought of you
Makes me stop before I begin.”
Spike reeled against Drusilla as the floor undulated to the final bars of the song, the fading music giving way to the less melodious sound of a ringing telephone. He regained his balance, grasping the edge of the reception desk that replaced the mahogany bed in the centre of what had been a bedroom.
“He’s just arrived. Yes sir, I’ll send him through,” said a familiar voice from the other side of the counter.
“Ow!” Spike yelled. The ivory horn of a tiny figurine pierced his hand, impaling itself deep into the flesh.
“Spikey,” Harmony greeted him with a bright smile.
Spike raised his head. “Harmony. You look …” he groped for the appropriate words, swallowing the horrible feeling of déjà vu that assaulted him as he surveyed his surroundings. “Smashing.” He tugged at the unicorn, wrenching the horn from it as he pulled it from his palm. He placed the broken parts on the desk with an apologetic smile. “Sorry about the piece.”
Harmony tilted her head at him and smiled again. “Surprised to see me? I suppose Angel told you he’d fired me? But it didn’t matter, because the references he gave me were the best. Not that he should have fired me because I’d never have betrayed him if he’d had more confidence in me. It wasn’t fair.”
Spike shook his head in disbelief. “I really must be in Hell this time.”
“Not Hell,” The First-Spike whispered in his ear. “That wouldn’t be fair.”
“Well? Hello! What are you waiting for?” said Harmony. “The Boss is waiting.” She pointed at the office door. “I suppose you want her to go with you?” she jerked her head in Drusilla’s direction. “I can’t think why? I told them so, but of course no one listens to me. After all, what do I know? I was only the last real girlfriend you had after she dumped you.”
Harmony’s prattle faded into the background as Spike drew nearer to Angel’s old office. The door looked the same as it always had. Didn’t it? He closed his eyes and concentrated, bringing images from the depths of his memory. He opened them again and stared at the door. There was a difference; a nameplate bearing the words ‘C.E.O. Senior Partner, Wolfgang Hartram’.
Previously on Soul Searching
Rating: PG13
Summary: In which Whistler earns his keep and Drusulla takes Spike down Memory Lane.
The Los Angeles skyline heralded the dawn in its own inimitable way,its signature display of garish pink and gaudy lilac clouds soiled the inky blues of the disappearing night masking ugly reality with pretty colours from a child’s painting box. Invisible tendrils of poisonous intent snaked upwards from the factories, domestic boilers and vehicle exhausts, intertwined with the ostentatious evidence of man’s corruption in the city below. The golden glow of the life-giving sun struggled to break through the thinning cirrus, glinting and dazzling from glass towers, growing in strength and intensity as it drove the darkness from the streets.
"Do you think something went wrong?" Willow peered anxiously through the blinds covering the glass on the Hyperion's entrance door. “They should be back by now.” She turned towards Wesley who sat dozing in an armchair at the foot of the staircase. “Maybe Buffy didn't make it in time?"
"In time for what?" Whistler asked as he entered the lobby, clutching yet another mug of coffee and the last slice of lemon cake.
"Didn't you hear what I told her about Illyria?" Willow frowned at him. "You were right there, doing what you're doing now. “She pursed her lips in disapproval and glared at him. “ Which seems to be the only thing you do 'do' around here."
Whistler brushed the crumbs from his jacket and leaned on the reception desk. He picked up the research papers Wesley had brought down from Fred's room and gestured with them.
"Been thinkin'. This pitch 'bout Illyria bein' the one doin' the deal with the Dark Powers?" He sniffed and pushed the book towards Wesley's end of the counter. "Not her."
Wesley sat up straight and reached for his translation notes. He peered at them, squinting in the dim light. "It must be her," he argued. "The Dark Prince."
Whistler pushed himself away from the counter and squatted down beside Wesley. "Sure, she's evil, but only in a 'want to destroy the whole human race and rule the world again' kinda way. But God-King don't equal Dark Prince. It also don't say she's on the side of 'evil' in the next big fight. In fact," he stood up and walked towards the door, raising the window blind and looking out onto the street, "it don't say she's on any side."
"And just what makes you an expert on all this?" Wesley demanded.
"Because I'm a former fence-sitter who recognises a fellow …," Whistler chuckled and paused for effect, "fence sitter. And I know a thing or two about Gods. Worked for enough of them in my time. Gods aren't big with the alliance makin'. Besides, she ain't one of them any more and she's still learnin' how to go about playin' with others. But one thing for sure, she's on no-one's side but her own. If you ask me …"
“No one’s asking you,” snapped Wesley.
“Figure of speech. Pardon me for speakin’ out of turn. But, as a bettin’ man, my money’s on somebody else teamin’ up with the Forces of Darkness. Someone who’s lookin’ to get what’s theirs back.”
Willow thought for a moment. “Ooh, oooh, I know." She opened her laptop and pulled up the Wolfram and Hart Website. "Here." She turned the screen for Wesley to see. "I found the Wolfram and Hart personnel lists like you asked and see who takes over today as the new CEO."
"Wolfgang Hartram?" Wesley's spine tingled as a wave of fear flushed beneath his skin. "And all the beasts shall be as one and shall rise anew when the darkness sweeps over the realms of the earth."
-----------------------------------------------------
A swathe of sunlight crept along the pavement, slowly closing the gap between the shadow cast by southern face of the office block and its entrance doors. In the shade afforded by the ambulatory, Drusilla faced Buffy, her eyes blazing with hatred and malevolence.
“Foolish girl. You think it’s that easy? You have no idea who you’re dealing with, no understanding of what it is to be a vampire.” She moved deeper into the shadows, inching closer to Spike as she did so but never dropping her gaze from Buffy.
“Lots of merry games we've played. Of them we've had enough. And now I think that we will try. A game of Blind Man's Buff.”
She pulled a handkerchief from her bodice and held it over her eyes for a second, then flicked a challenge with it against Buffy’s cheek. “William is my knight, my Champion, he belongs to me in a way you can never comprehend. You think you were even the love of Angel’s life, the one that brought him true happiness?”
“Don’t you bring Angel into this! It has nothing to do with him.” Buffy slipped her hand into her pocket for the weapon she carried.
“Stupid child! It has everything to do with him. He didn’t need you to fulfil his destiny, Grandmother was the only one who could do that. His humanity always belonged to her.”
Drusilla turned her gaze on Spike. “Don't you tumble over. Catch whom you can. Did you think you'd caught me? Poor blind man!”
She held her hands in front of her face, briefly making a fan with her fingers before snapping them towards Buffy in a gesture of dismissal “ You should have let him kill me when he offered it to you,” she hissed. She held out the handkerchief towards Spike. “Come with me, my love. It’s time for you to claim what is yours.”
Buffy raised her stake and lunged towards Drusilla. “Maybe I did make a mistake. Once! Not gonna repeat it.”
She drove the wood towards Drusilla’s heart in the same instant that Spike stepped into the gap between them. The stake pierced his ribcage, missing his heart by the merest fraction.
“Spike!” cried Buffy, reaching for him.
“Still can’t do it, can you Slayer?” Spike pulled the stake from his side and groaned. “Can still hurt me though, grant you that.” He fell against Drusilla and closed his eyes against the pain.
Drusilla hooked his left arm across her shoulder. . “You had your chance,” she spat at Buffy. “You didn’t play fair. Kept changing the rules. It’s my turn to play again now.” She glanced over Buffy’s shoulder to where Angel was making his way back along the shaded side of the street. “Blindfold Molly, turn her round. Now then, away you go! Angel won’t want you. He’s playing a different game.”
As Angel reached the paved terrace, the main doors of the tower block flew open.
“And one man lay in another's way,
Then laws were made to keep fair play. Ta Ta.” Drusilla trilled.
A whirling maelstrom of darkness surged out, swept her and Spike into its centre and sucked them inside the building, slamming the doors shut again in its wake. Buffy threw herself against them, heaving with her full strength in an attempt to force them open.
“Angel!” she called. “Drusilla’s taken Spike. He’s …”
Angel didn’t wait for her to finish. He threw himself into the glass panel only to ricochet off it perilously close to the sunlit edge of the terrace. “Force field,” he said unnecessarily as Buffy helped him to his feet. “We’ll never get in past that.” He frowned slightly at her. “What are you doing here? I thought you were organising the evacuation to Cleveland.”
Buffy stared morosely past him towards the building that was denying her access. “I was. I mean I have.” She shook herself slightly and refocused on Angel. “We’d better get under cover.”
Angel led the way round to the back to the car pool entrance, which was open in readiness for the early arrivals. “There’s a way to the underground passages from here, “ he explained, “if security doesn’t spot us before we can get to it.” He peeked inside. “All quiet. Now, explain why you’re here.”
Buffy followed him into the parking area, checking warily around her as they made their way cautiously towards the access to the lower level. “Willow wanted to warn you about Illyria. Wesley thinks she might be working for the other side to get her power back.”
Angel folded his arms and smiled slightly. “And you didn’t think of using one of these?” He produced a cell phone from inside his jacket and waved it in front of her eyes. He flipped it open and dialled. “Lorne. Illyria with you?” Angel deliberately kept his voice light, not betraying the anxiety he’d felt at hearing Wesley’s message. “No, I didn’t catch it. She was right about the time thing. It disappeared as soon as it reached Culver.”
Buffy tugged his sleeve and gestured towards a door, with an inquiring glance.
Angel shook his head in response. “No. Literally. Disappeared.” he continued into the phone. “Lorne, where are you headed? Back to the hotel. That’s good.” He stopped, focused on the noises coming from the lift shaft beside them, snapped the phone shut and pushed Buffy into the back of an empty vehicle.
------------------------------------------
Lorne raised his eyes to the sky and grimaced at the sight of the gaudy sunrise. “Don’t they realise what they’re doing?” he asked Illyria.
His companion ignored him and strode on rapidly, forcing him to increase his pace to keep up with her.
“The air.” Lorne waved his arms over his head in demonstration. “It’s killing people.” He stepped out of the way of an old woman busily restraining a small dog from dashing across the busy junction ahead of them. “And animals.”
“I see no weapons of air,” Illyria stopped and scanned the skyline.
“That’s just it,” Lorne complained. “They’re invisible. And strictly speaking they’re not weapons. Not like…” he paused, steeling himself against the anguish of recollecting what he’d done at Angel’s request. “Not like pulling the trigger of a gun on a living human being, no matter how low down and dirty he might be.”
Illyria moved on again, at a slower pace. “How do these invisible weapons kill?” she asked, scrutinising the pigeons attacking the remains of someone’s discarded burger bun. “I see no injuries, no blood.”
“That’s the problem,” Lorne grumbled. “Can’t see the damage until it’s too late. It’s all hidden, festering, destroying from the inside ‘til a body can’t take any more and just gives up.” He pointed at the rose bushes outside the BBQ Restaurant. “They look healthy, don’t they? But they’re fed poisons to keep them looking that way. And next year – there’ll be new ones replacing the ones that got canned.” Lorne wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Everything’s expendable. Everything and everyone.”
Illyria paused for a second and tilted her head towards the shrubbery. “I no longer hear the music.” She repeated the lament she’d uttered on the loss of her powers. “Yet you, a mere minion, have that which was ripped from me. You hear the song of the green.”
Lorne sighed. “I am the song, Evita. That’s why they chose me.” A faint warbling of ‘If I ruled the world’ emanated from within his jacket. He reached inside and pulled out his cell phone. “Angel! We were just talking about you. You catch the car?”
----------------------------------------------------------------
The soft glow from two shell-shaped wall lights shone against the art deco panelling. Beneath them, two tall stemmed glasses stood beside a single red rose, the honey coloured liquid they contained hazily duplicated in the mirrored table top on which they rested. Spike pulled himself to his feet and gazed around the room into which he and Drusilla had been deposited by the sinister whirlwind. The gold plaster bands running up the walls and across the ceiling, the crimson curtains covering the windows and the deep blue carpet decorated with a pattern of red and gold swirls were all familiar; images and textures from another time and place.
The arm of an old fashioned gramophone swung across its turntable with a metallic ‘clunk’ and dropped onto the waiting disc. Drusilla picked one of the champagne flutes from the table and swayed towards Spike as Sinatra’s voice wafted softly from the speaker.
“I’ve got you under my skin.”
Drusilla offered the delicate crystal to Spike, leaned back across his outstretched arm and reached for the second glass.
“I’ve got you deep in the heart of me.”
“Do you remember?” she purred, placing her arms round his neck and moving sensuously against him, grinding her hips on his in time to the rhythm. “Dancing in the dark?”
“So deep in my heart, you’re really a part of me.”
“We feasted on lovers that night.” She pulled him closer, turning him away from the mirror and the lamps.
“I’ve got you under my skin.”
“1936. Chicago. The Lake Theatre. I remember.” Spike murmured, pushing himself out of her embrace. “A bird sang it in the film.”
Drusilla drained her glass, replaced it on the table and held out her arms towards him. “Everything you ever wanted can be yours now, if you’ll dance with me once more.”
“I’ve tried so not to give in.
I’ve said to myself this affair never will go so well.”
Spike looked around the room again. On the surface, it had all the appearance of a typical pre-World War II hotel suite, taking much of its inspiration from cinema decoration and interior design.
“But why should I try to resist, when darling I know so well,
I’ve got you under my skin.“
Yet from the 1920’s Art Deco lighted Coca-Cola mirror, to the onyx clock, the room screamed ‘fake’. Spike examined the glass in his hand and shook his head.
“I’d sacrifice anything come what might
For the sake of having you near...”
“You think I ever wanted any of this?” Spike swept the room with a wave of his arm. “I never wanted this.” He set the glass carefully beside its twin. “Sorry Dru. Guess you don’t know me as well as you thought.”
“Perhaps she doesn’t,” said a voice from the doorway, “but I do.”
“In spite of the warning voice that comes in the night
And repeats and repeats in my ears.”
Spike flinched at the sound of his own voice and turned to face the adversary whose plans had been thwarted with the help of an amulet and an army of slayers.
“I know exactly what you want, and who it is that’s always been in your way, always been your problem.” The First-Spike swaggered into the room, taking up position beside an art deco lamp and addressing the scantily clad bronze figure posed against the fanned glass shade. “You are, ya ponce! You’re my problem. You got it too good. What do I get? Bloody well toasted and ghosted is what I get innit. It’s not fair.” The First-Spike looked into Spike’s shocked face and grinned. “That about sum it up?”
“Toasted and ghosted!” Drusilla laughed and clapped her hands, delighting in the rhyme. “Oh Spike, you always say such pretty things.”
The First-Spike snorted. “Pretty? Pretty dim more like.” His features began to dissolve; the hollows beneath his cheekbones filled out, the eyes darkened. His entire form twisted and grew, re-shaping and morphing into that of Angelus.
“Well, you’re new, and a little dim. There’s no belonging or deserving any more. You can take what you want, have what you want.”
“Don’t you know little fool, you never can win.
Use your mentality, wake up to reality.”
“You’re not him, nor me. You can’t touch me any more,” Spike snarled. “I know what you are. You’re The First.”
“That’s right,” The First-Spike drawled. “And if anyone knows all about you, it’s me. What?” He chuckled at Spike’s scowl. “You thought Slutty the Slayer’s plan got rid of me?” He shook his head. “Just slowed me down a little. Took out some of my boys and killed my main man.” He smirked and gave Drusilla and approving glance. “Got me a new one. Hell, got me a whole new gang all neatly packaged in a fresh body just waitin’ to be filled with nummy badness.”
The lights dimmed, the walls heaving and shuddering like they’d done the night before.
“Just the thought of you
Makes me stop before I begin.”
Spike reeled against Drusilla as the floor undulated to the final bars of the song, the fading music giving way to the less melodious sound of a ringing telephone. He regained his balance, grasping the edge of the reception desk that replaced the mahogany bed in the centre of what had been a bedroom.
“He’s just arrived. Yes sir, I’ll send him through,” said a familiar voice from the other side of the counter.
“Ow!” Spike yelled. The ivory horn of a tiny figurine pierced his hand, impaling itself deep into the flesh.
“Spikey,” Harmony greeted him with a bright smile.
Spike raised his head. “Harmony. You look …” he groped for the appropriate words, swallowing the horrible feeling of déjà vu that assaulted him as he surveyed his surroundings. “Smashing.” He tugged at the unicorn, wrenching the horn from it as he pulled it from his palm. He placed the broken parts on the desk with an apologetic smile. “Sorry about the piece.”
Harmony tilted her head at him and smiled again. “Surprised to see me? I suppose Angel told you he’d fired me? But it didn’t matter, because the references he gave me were the best. Not that he should have fired me because I’d never have betrayed him if he’d had more confidence in me. It wasn’t fair.”
Spike shook his head in disbelief. “I really must be in Hell this time.”
“Not Hell,” The First-Spike whispered in his ear. “That wouldn’t be fair.”
“Well? Hello! What are you waiting for?” said Harmony. “The Boss is waiting.” She pointed at the office door. “I suppose you want her to go with you?” she jerked her head in Drusilla’s direction. “I can’t think why? I told them so, but of course no one listens to me. After all, what do I know? I was only the last real girlfriend you had after she dumped you.”
Harmony’s prattle faded into the background as Spike drew nearer to Angel’s old office. The door looked the same as it always had. Didn’t it? He closed his eyes and concentrated, bringing images from the depths of his memory. He opened them again and stared at the door. There was a difference; a nameplate bearing the words ‘C.E.O. Senior Partner, Wolfgang Hartram’.
Previously on Soul Searching
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