Author: Elsa Frohman
Rating: R
Feedback: elsa@frohman.net
Summary: A trip down memory lane. Just what was Spike up to in 1925, and why did it earn him a curse?
| Note on this chapter's musical accompaniment: The music that goes with this chapter is the title tune for this story: "Dead Man Blues," by Jelly Roll Morton. |
London, the present
Bright sunlight streamed through lace curtains on a leaded glass window. The furnishings in the parlor were antique, lovingly dusted and arranged with care. There were lace doilies and knick-knacks, needlepoint cushions and shelves of leather-bound books interspersed with well-thumbed paperbacks.
Rupert Giles sat down carefully on a delicate wooden chair. Mrs. Morrington-Davies sat on the brocade loveseat opposite him, her head sagging forward as she dozed lightly. She was a tiny, shrunken creature -- the weight of her advanced years bearing down on her. Her hands, fingers gnarled with arthritis, were folded in her lap, the wrinkled parchment skin pale against the dark tweed of her skirt.
Giles cleared his throat. The head snapped up and he found himself looking into eyes that were still bright behind thick spectacles. The face was deeply lined, the eyes almost hidden in the folds of her drooping eyelids, but there was no mistaking the intelligence in the gaze.
"I'm sorry, Rupert. I must have fallen asleep waiting for you." The voice was thin and reedy, but steady. "I seem to spend more and more of my time napping these days."
"No, I'm sorry. I'm a bit late. I wouldn't have kept you waiting, but I ran into a little bit of traffic. With the tube strike ..."
"It doesn't matter," the old woman said with a smile. "You're here now. How have you been, Rupert? It's been so long since you've come by to see me."
"Quite well, thank you, Mrs. ..."
"Please, Rupert, call me Clara. You're a grown man now."
Giles smiled. "Yes. Of course, Clara.
"I've been quite well. I'm settling in to my new flat. It's nice to be back in Bath after such a long posting to America."
"That's what I wanted to talk to you about," the old woman said with a nod of her head. "Your years in America. And I'll warn you now, I'm going to ask you for a favor."
"Anything I can do for you Mrs. ... I mean, Clara, I will be more than pleased to do. I don't think I could ever repay the kindness you showed me when I was growing up."
Clara smiled. "You were a good boy. I always thought you were a good influence on my grandson."
"Brian was a good friend -- and a good Watcher. We all miss him."
The old woman paused, lost for the moment in a memory.
"You wanted to ask me something about America?" Giles prompted.
"Yes, yes... of course. The business at hand. Forgive me. Occasionally, my mind wanders. America. Yes. While you were in America, you had contact with a vampire who calls himself Spike, did you not?"
Giles blinked and removed his glasses to clean them. "Yes, how did you know?"
"I have a great-granddaughter on the Council now," Clara replied, all business now. "She allowed me access to your notes. Do you know where he is currently?"
Giles shook his head in confusion. "Who?"
"Spike, of course. I haven't mentioned anyone else, have I?" the old woman snapped.
"I'm sorry. I'm being obtuse. What possible interest could you have in Spike's whereabouts?"
"That's my business, young man. I'd appreciate an answer. Do you know where he is?"
"Well, yes. I do," Giles replied, stung by her sharp tone. He suddenly felt like a slow student caught without his homework finished. "At least, I believe I do. I don't think he'll leave Sunnydale anytime soon."
"Forgive me, Rupert. I believe I'm becoming a cranky old woman. I didn't mean to snap at you that way."
"No need to apologise, Clara. I was only surprised. May I ask why you want to know where Spike is?"
"No. You may not," she said firmly. "I'm going to ask you to do something for me, Rupert, and I'm going to ask you not to ask me why. It's a personal matter, and I do not wish to explain it to you."
"Very well. What do you want me to do?"
"I would like you to accompany me to America and arrange a private meeting with Spike."
Giles looked at the old woman in mute surprise.
"Will you?"
"It's a very long journey, Clara. More than eleven hours on an aeroplane. Are you certain it's necessary? It would be very difficult for you. Perhaps I could arrange for him to talk to you on the telephone -- if it's so important for you to speak with him."
Clara shook her head. "That won't do. It has to be a face-to-face meeting. It's very important to me, Rupert."
Giles frowned. "The stress of such a long journey ..."
The old woman smiled. "I know -- I'm 97 years old. Too frail for such a long journey. But I think you'll find I'm tougher than I look. My affairs are in order, Rupert. I have this one piece of unfinished business. I give you my word, I will not die on the way."
"Perhaps a member of your family could accompany you ..."
"When we get there, I expect that Spike will refuse to see me. I've tried to contact him several times in the past. It's been about twenty years since my last attempt. He would not see me then. I expect he'll say the same now. It is my hope that you can use your influence to convince him."
"I'm to convince Spike to see you, something you believe he'll resist, without knowing the reason? I'm not certain that I have that kind of influence with him. He tends to follow his own counsel. You're asking a lot, Clara."
"I know I am. But I believe I can rely on you, Rupert."
"I hope this isn't some romantic notion ..."
The old woman laughed. "Romantic? Now? I'm far beyond that sort of thing. Nothing of the kind. Unfinished business. That's all you need to know. Unfinished business that is very important to me."
"Very well. If you would, I'd like your physician's number. Let me see whether he believes you're strong enough ..."
The old woman nodded. "If he says I'm well enough, and he will -- he never stops marvelling at my good health considering my advanced years -- will you do it?"
"If you're certain you want to undertake this ..."
"I'm certain."
"Just one more thing," Giles said carefully. "I accept that you don't want to tell me the exact nature of your business. You're certainly entitled to your privacy. But, can I assume you have met Spike sometime in the past? You know what sort of creature you're dealing with? He's not the sort who," Giles paused trying to think of a tactful way to put it. "He's not the sort who would help someone like you, for lack of a better term, out of the goodness of his heart."
The old woman's eyes looked far away. She didn't answer right away. Giles was about to decide she wasn't going to answer at all when her eyes came back into focus and a tiny smile crossed her face.
"Seventy-seven years ago," was all she said.
London, 1925
She was a work of art. Algernon Pierce never stopped marvelling at Winifred's beauty. She was slender, lanky and elegant. Her chestnut hair fell in thick waves over her bare shoulders and the linen pillowcase behind her head. She smiled at him in that languorous, lust drenched way she had, her eyes glittering in the yellow candlelight.
She lay before him naked, her pale skin only interrupted by the light brown thatch of her mound. He let his gaze slide over the ivory of her legs and trunk. He looked up to her wrists, secured in silver manacles above her head.
"I believe I shall mark you as my own," he hissed as he lowered his face close to hers. "Then all who see you will know you belong to me."
He showed her the stiletto, polished, gleaming in the flickering light, it's point honed to the sharpness of a needle.
A slow smile spread across her lips. "Yes," she breathed. "Cut me."
"Where shall I mark you, my love?"
"Upon my breast."
He brought the point of the knife down and touched the small mound ever so lightly. She raised a shoulder to press harder against the point.
"Do it," she whispered. "I want to feel your blade cutting into my flesh."
"Not yet. You have to beg me," he whispered.
"Please, my love," Winifred pleaded. "Do it now."
"And if I refuse?"
"Please... you must."
Algernon lifted the knife away from her skin. "I don't think you want it bad enough, love."
Winifred frowned. "Badly enough," she said, correcting him like a schoolboy. "Bad is an adjective. Badly is an adverb."
"Oh, please. Not now," Algernon pleaded.
Winifred was unmoved. She glared back at him.
He sighed. "All right. Badly enough. I don't think you want it badly enough, my dearest one," he said, being extra careful of his diction so that none of his natural cockney accent would come through.
Winifred smiled warmly. "That was much better. Now, cut me, sweetheart. I want to feel the cold steel of your dagger. Make me cry out in pain."
Algernon looked down at his Winifred. She was everything he could ask for, everything he dreamed of. She was his lover, his teacher, his demon and his queen. She remade him in her own image. He had been an ignorant, cockney handsome cab driver who smelled of horses and damp wool, who couldn't read or write his name. And she made him a gentleman -- smoothed off his rough edges and polished him to a fine sheen. She had turned him some 40 years ago. And he had thanked whatever powers had sent her to him every day since. Not God, surely. But if it was Satan, then Satan was all right with him.
He would cut her. She revelled in it. He would carve his initials into the soft, cold flesh of her breast as he had done so many times before. The marks always healed within a few days, and then she would want him to cut her again.
This was their ritual. They had fed earlier that night. Now they would play. He would satisfy her craving for pain and she would satisfy his lust until they were both exhausted and then they would sleep entwined in one another's arms to another sundown.
Algernon Pierce was a happy man. He touched the point of his knife to his fingertip to test its sharpness, then lowered it once more toward her breast.
Before he could cut into her, the door burst inward with a shriek of splintering wood. Algernon leapt up and took a defensive stance, his fanged vamprie face emerging, as three heavy-set men rushed into the room. One was grey-haired and bearded -- the other two younger. The older man held out a wooden cross to drive Algernon back into the corner. He had a sharpened stake in his other hand.
"In the name of the Council of Watchers, I slay thee, unclean thing!" the old man shouted as he advanced.
Algernon let him come. Then, when the cross was all but touching his face, he ducked under the old man's guard, spun around and came back up to snap his attacker's wrist. The cross fell harmlessly to the floor as the old man cried out in pain.
Algernon launched himself at the old man, pushing him back and jockeying for position to get at the hand that held the stake. One of the two younger men circled around and tried to get behind him. Algernon kept track of him out of the corner of his eye, as he manoeuvred the old man to keep his own back away from the second stake. He had one hand on the old man's good arm to hold that stake away from himself, and the other hand he clamped around his attacker's throat, squeezing the man's windpipe and cutting off his breath as they danced in a tightening circle.
"Father!" the younger Watcher cried out. He launched himself at the struggling pair from the side, since he couldn't get around to the back. The impact knocked Algernon off balance and he lost his grip on the old man's throat. The old man coughed and gasped for breath.
Algernon recovered quickly, kicking high to catch the old man in the ribs and knock the air out of him. The older Watcher was out of the game now, crumpled to the floor and gasping. Algernon turned on his second attacker and coiled himself to spring. But before he could loose his fury, he saw a flash of motion out of the corner of his eye. The third Watcher was standing over Winifred's naked, helpless form. She was still caught in the manacles. She couldn't move or attack. Before he could protect her, Algernon saw the stake come down and plunge into his lover's chest.
"WINIFRED!" Algernon cried out.
Winifred screamed in agony, then dusted, leaving a brown-grey cloud in the air over the bed.
The vampire spun and sprung at the Watcher who had killed Winifred. His teeth were in the man's throat before he could begin to retreat. Algernon tore at the flesh and felt the man's windpipe crush between his jaws.
He dropped the dead Watcher's limp form and turned toward the father and son, the dead man's blood smeared across his face. He was mad for more blood, more pain, more killing.
Algernon was on the old man before the thought full formed in his brain. The younger man cried out and tried to drag him off with an arm lock around Algernon's neck. The old man was stronger and quicker than Algernon expected, now that he had had a moment to recover from the first attack. Algernon felt a knee in his chest and he was thrown backward -- but not before he got a chunk of flesh out of the old man's throat.
The younger man was advancing on him with a stake now. With lightning speed, Algernon grabbed the younger man's wrist and wrenched it around, hoping to snap the bone. But his opponent was ready. He gave way, offering no resistance, throwing Algernon off balance. By the time he had his footing again, the old man had crawled to the corner where the cross had fallen, and was up threatening to shove it into Algernon's face.
Algernon backed up toward the window.
"Now you die, vampire," the old man rasped. Blood was streaming over his collar from the wound in his neck. The younger Watcher was advancing with the stake.
"No, not me. You! You've signed the death warrant for yourselves and all of your kind. Watchers, hear me," Algernon Pierce shouted. "I will hunt you to the ground. I will drink your blood and rip your flesh from your bones. I will defile your corpses. I will not be satisfied and will not rest until the last Watcher is dead and rotting. Fear me! I am vengeance! I am your doom!"
He turned and lunged through the window, falling to the street outside in a shower of broken glass. Before the Watchers could follow him to the window, he was gone.
The young Watcher turned to his senior.
"Father -- your neck. You're hurt." The son took out his handkerchief to staunch the blood pouring from his father's wound.
"Imbecile! You let the fiend get away! Worthless layabout!" He back-handed his son with his uninjured arm. "You shame me!" With that, the old man crumpled to the floor in a faint.