The sun was breasting the horizon when Darla swept back into the apartment heading directly for her rooms. Lily had been lucky tonight, if the girl wasn’t so important in the overall scheme of things she would be no more than an interestingly coloured smear on the wall paper.
Stomping irritably and blinded by vicious thoughts she nearly tripped over her youngest family member huddled pathetically on the floor opposite his bedroom door. Annoyed and with nary a thought as to why Spike might be where he was, Darla bellowed for her lady’s maid at the top of her voice.
"Madam?" Bethan slipped into the hallway behind her, dropping into a shallow curtsey when Darla gestured irritably at the heap of vampire on the floor. The minion’s quiet lilting voice was full of righteous indignation when she answered. "I told him to move along, madam, but he snarled at me. Showed me his fangs he did and all because I said he was being silly."
For a while Darla simply hovered in the hallway, listening intently to the sounds emanating from the bedroom before heaving a sigh of frustration. "Leave us." She directed and noted with some satisfaction the girl’s respectful bob as she retreated back into her own small chamber.
Finally she addressed the latest source of her annoyance with some small measure of sympathy, "I presume, from the fact you are out here, that Drusilla is with Angelus."
Spike nodded but didn’t speak. That in and of itself was unusual. Normally shutting the fledgling up was the order of the day. More curious still was the fact that, apart from the nod, he hadn’t moved for the entire time she’d been standing there. Not even to blink. Frowning, Darla knelt in front of him and pulled his face round so that he was looking at her rather than the door. His expression was dominated by red rimmed eyes that seemed confused maybe a little haunted. She knew exactly how to cheer him up. "My rooms? Brandy?" If in doubt get William drunk and laid.
Again he nodded and this time it was accompanied by a long slow blink that somehow acted as a screen for his feelings because, when his eyes opened again, all trace of discomposure had vanished. Hands rubbing rhythmically up and down his thighs, Spike took a deep breath and answered, "Yeah. Sounds good."
She stood and offered her hand, an unnecessary act but Darla was feeling generous tonight, towards family at least. He took it and rose, exerting only the slightest pressure and then, with a small bow, gestured for her to lead the way.
Spike studied the extremely seductive arse sashaying away under its taffeta bustle and shook his head. He’d have to be insensate to miss the obvious come on beneath the invitation. And did he care? The answer was no. He didn’t. Dru and Angelus obviously preferred each other’s company to his, leaving him with the far from onerous task of catering to the mistress of the house.
With a slightly lighter heart, he fell in behind her, muttering under his breath, "The king himself has followed her when she has walked before."
Darla glanced back over her shoulder and Spike could see her eyebrows raised in a silent question. He shrugged unrepentantly. It was a complementary enough comment that there was no need to get into the whys and wherefores of quoting verse at her and he certainly wasn’t going to admit that sitting outside Dru’s door had left him maudlin and nostalgic. A few snifters were exactly what he needed to get back in touch with his less milquetoast side and then they could move on to the more enjoyable part of the day’s entertainment.
Half a bottle later he was recovered enough to catch Darla’s hand when she passed him another drink and tug her gently onto his lap. She resisted momentarily and then capitulated under a gentle assault of open-mouthed kisses and licks placed carefully up the soft skin of her inner arm, tracing a path from wrist to elbow. "Taste better than the booze, love. Let me taste more?"
Anyone who calls blue a cold colour has never witnessed it tempered with the gold of demonic passion. The heat in Darla’s eyes at his request outbid the fires of hell and more besides, and without a word she rose from his lap and stood before him, her pale skin glittering gold in the firelight. Their eyes locked, the challenge flying out from one to the other and a jolt of arousal that bordered on painful shot through Spike’s body. With confidence borrowed from the bottom of a bottle he joined her, tentatively running his fingers along her jaw line and up to her ear, brushing aside gossamer strands of loose blonde hair. When she showed no opposition, he cupped her skull and lowered his lips to hers, letting them hardly touch at all, and wondering just how long Darla would let this continue. She responded, equally gently, their mouths ghosting and tasting, opening slightly until their tongues met, touched tip to tip and then danced. It wasn’t quite the penny dreadful scenario he’d conjured for Angelus but it contained equally delicious elements.
She grasped his hand and pulled it to her breast, arching forwards against his touch and giving her tacit consent for this encounter to progress however he may. The velvet of her gown held an artificial warmth, forming the perfect contrast to the cool sleekness of her throat. Lips dancing attendance on her neck, Spike turned her slowly in his arms, nuzzling into her nape and allowing the merest hint of fang to caress the nuggets of her spine. His right hand busily roaming from breast to breast, the buttons securing Darla’s gown succumbed to the devoted attentions of his left and as each luscious inch of milky skin was unveiled he dipped, kissed and tasted. Finally, and with a lover’s sigh, the dress slid from her shoulders and dropped to the floor, a sunlit pool against the grassy hue of the carpet.
Spike followed, falling to his knees and grasping Darla’s hips, pulling them towards him and burying his face in the small of her back. She tensed against him feeling ragged ivory slice through the ribbons and laces that fastened both corset and petticoats securely to her body. They quickly joined her gown creating a moat of fabric around her feet leaving her garbed only in sheer undergarments. Behind her Spike swiftly rose to the challenge, lifting her bodily into the air and depositing her down gently next to the chair. Just as carefully his hands stripped her of the muslin chemise and removed the pins from her hair.
Now he knelt before her, reaching up to undo the bow of one garter and sliding the silk stocking down her leg, his thumbs grazing sensuous circles as he dutifully folded it to prevent any unsightly catches and runs. He returned for the other and Darla raised her leg, resting her foot on his shoulder. Spike froze, and then breathed, leaning forward into her perfume, a hound drawn to the scent. When his cheek rubbed against her inner thigh Darla discovered she was breathing along with him, their synchronised inhalations the only sound in an otherwise silent room. The tension and anticipation twined around her and she found herself already reaching screaming pitch driven there by words unuttered and touches withheld.
"Beautiful."
The puff of air across her sex had Darla’s hands scrambling for his shoulders and Spike couldn’t resist the smirk that spread across his face. She was so ripe this woman, her quim bared before him juicy like forbidden fruit.
"Honeyed dewdrops, they are," he whispered, pausing to blow gently before continuing, "trapped in a web of delicious," - another tiny puff - "tasty," - a chaste kiss to her hip - "tantalising," - his finger traced the air around her lips - "promises." Darla gasped and clutched as his fingertip teased her clit so delicately he felt it twitch.
Then she fell backwards spreading her legs over the arms of the chair and Spike buried his face in her, their brief detour into care and gentleness subsumed by the urgency of lust and immediate gratification. His tongue probed between her folds, exploring from pink rose bud to the hard nubbin of desire that pulsed delightedly at the attention. He flicked lazily at it while his fingers painted complex patterns with her wetness on her inner thighs, occasionally dipping and swirling around her entrance.
Impatiently Darla tried to tug at his hair but he deftly avoided her, rising and pulling her forwards so her buttocks balanced on the edge of the upholstery. Remarkably she submitted when he pushed her thighs violently apart, lifting them high and wide enabling him to plunge in again, fucking her hard and fast with his tongue. His hands slunk up her body, discovering her breasts and filling his palms, fingers kneading and pressing until she was arching into them again, making his skin tingle from the promise of her. The air filled with small keening cries as he used his tongue like a sword, thrusting and parrying, searching her inner walls for her weak spot, that perfect place of pleasure.
He knew precisely when he’d found it because Darla’s moans became loud cries and she ground down harder on his face, her fingers twisting in his hair until he was certain it would be ripped out in handfuls. His fingers responded, plucking her nipples with bruising ferocity. And then her flavour changed. Quickening from the deep musk of female arousal into something stronger, more fluid, and tangy with imminent orgasm. One final stab took her over the edge sobbing his name as she clamped around him and he drank her down, his own lust forgotten in the heady power of granting this gift.
Spike brought her down gently, bathing her luscious quim with his tired tongue, and feeling the tremble in her thighs as her muscles suffered through the aftershocks of pleasure. Their purrs twining as their hands met and grasped, Darla pulling him upward towards her breast. And much as it would have been pleasant to rest a while in her arms, Spike gave her no time to recover. Instead he hoisted her limp form in his arms and carried her the short distance to the bed, laying her carefully on the plump linen-covered pillows before shucking off his clothes and joining her.
Darla came back to the sensation of the bed dipping and someone - Spike? - straddling her chest. Lazily she cracked open her eyes and met his, stormy with contained arousal, edged with dark lashes and softened by a quizzical grin. She could see why. It was a little difficult to miss.
"Return the favour, pet?" He asked teasingly, full of exuberant self-satisfied bravado as he pressed his erection down to brush against her lips.
By all the rules of the game Darla knew she should turn him down and beat him insensible for such presumption. For a youngster such as this to take the dominant role with her was unthinkable. Her eyes narrowed and she could see the confidence drain from the man above her. His Adam’s apple bobbed nervously and doubt skated across his face when she didn’t respond.
On the other hand it had been a long time since Angelus had given her an orgasm of that intensity and there was only the two of them in the room, no one else need ever know. Darla was also willing to lay a substantial bet that Spike had never had anyone with her skills suck him before. It was time to show the boy what a professional could do.
Her tongue darting out to wet her lips followed hard on the heels of a wicked smile, both designed to cause maximum disquiet. It worked and Spike gulped audibly, remembering their previous encounters and started to back away. In one smooth move, Darla leaned up grasped his rump with both hands and engulfed his cock, taking it straight to the back of her throat.
"Holy hell!" Spike yelped, his palm slamming into the wall as he rocked forward, his other hand instinctively going to Darla’s hair. Thankfully some remnant of good sense, or survival, prevailed and, instead of grabbing her and ramming deeper, he gripped the pillow hearing the delicate fabric tear under his fingers.
Darla was good. Not the best he’d had, Nicci still held that prize. Perhaps not even as good as Dru, because she actually seemed to give a damn about who she was doing. The thing about Darla, Spike thought, was that her assault was unrelenting. She fastened to his erection like the proverbial dog with its bone and Spike just knew that she wouldn’t be letting go until he came.
He was wrong. Oh, how he was wrong.
Because the next minute she released him with a wet smack of her lips, flipped him onto his back and then really got down to business. Nothing was sacred under Darla’s hands and mouth, nothing taboo, and somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind - the parts that weren’t reduced to incoherent grunts and whimpers - Spike took it all back. Darla was better than Dru. Better than Nicci. And, as she dragged him along the precipice of orgasm for the umpteenth time in the same number of minutes, he suddenly realised precisely why Angelus had stayed with her for over a century. For the simple reason that Darla sucked dick like a pro. Her tongue and fingers explored all his parts, her teeth nibbled and nipped, sending him reeling between shivers of delight and howls of ecstasy.
And when she finally allowed him to spend only his shoulders and heels retained contact with the linen. His breath, nothing more than juddering heaving, scalded his throat. His fingers carved crescent moons into the palms of his hands and his vocal chords moved beyond screaming and into the realms of voiceless pleading as he arched in pursuit of her mouth. It was a lightening strike coursing through every nerve, the sun he was denied bursting behind his eyes. The petite morte which left him shuddering and uncomprehending in its wake. Wrung out, limp and - he flinched as Darla threw herself down beside him - Christ, overly sensitive to every gust of air that moved over his sluggish sated self. There was not one millimetre of his body that didn’t feel used, plundered and ravaged. And, by god, it felt good.
Smug as a kitten Darla curled into the pillows, congratulating herself on the silence and the dazed expression she’d put on the normally effusive fledgling’s face. When his breathing had settled back to nothing she reached out, running a single finger down his chest. The skin quivered under her touch and she smiled as he began to harden again. Oh yes, this would be an excellent day.
***
"Prince Louis sent you." Lily cast a disparaging eye over the young midshipman, as she played with her necklace, a delicate gold cross Louis had sent her the day before. The lad could be no more than twenty and obviously still uncomfortable in his dress uniform. Potentially his companion demanded more respect. Older and greying at the temples, he had the look of a government official and yet there was something distinctively military about his bearing.
"Yes, madam." Midshipman Bartleby’s head snapped forward in affirmation, sending his dark fringe into his eyes. "He had word that a certain woman has been seen in your company of late."
"A Countess de Chagny, I believe." The older man interjected, his face devoid of expression. "Would it be possible for you to give us a description of the Countess?"
"And you would be?" Perhaps not respect, with manners like that.
Bartleby chimed in with the long delayed introduction. "Mrs. Langtry, may I have the pleasure of introducing Mr. Pryce, an … um…"
"Employee of Her Majesty," Pryce interrupted smoothly, nodding at Lily but not offering his hand. "The description, madam. If you would be so kind."
There was something they were not telling her but as Lily opened her mouth to say as much, something stilled her, a coldness in Pryce’s face that spoke of authority and danger. Lily suddenly understood that whatever it was they were not saying was best left unsaid and that it was in her interest to co-operate.
She watched Pryce thoughtfully as she furnished them with Darla’s description, noting how his steel grey eyes grew harder at the mention of her friend’s name. When she had finished he questioned her carefully, extracting every detail of their relationship including Darla’s payment of her debts in London. By the end he seemed confused, as though he were expecting some snippet of information that had not appeared. His eyes kept returning to the cross at her neck and Lily fought the urge to glance down at it, thinking the necklace must have become tangled or broken under her inattentive fingers.
Eventually the cross-examination ceased and Pryce strode to the window, staring down at the street below where the shadows of late afternoon stretched from building to building. He was muttering to himself, too quietly to be understood though Lily picked up one or two phrases. "It has to be the child," and "Too bad the Slayer is in Greece." After several minutes, he seemed to come to a decision and turned to Lily, saying, "Please, madam, I need you to gather some things for a brief overnight visit. Tomorrow someone will be sent over to pack your remaining belongings."
Lily was aghast. "You expect me to leave? But Prince Louis himself purchased this apartment for my use."
"I understand…" Pryce started but Lily was having none of it.
"You wish me to go with you and this…this boy," she gestured to Bartleby, who cringed at her description. "Whom I hardly know and desert a woman who has become my dearest friend?"
She didn’t get any further. Pryce drew himself up to his full imposing height and announced, "No, Mrs. Langtry. I expect you to leave this place before your ‘dear friend’ returns to murder you and your unborn child in your bed."
***
The sun was long set by the time Darla roused enough to become aware of her surroundings. The room was warm, unusually so, though she didn’t remember telling Bethan to light the fire, and the bed next to her was empty. Spike had left. Without her permission. That may require slight punishment later. Darla’s tongue flicked out in anticipation and she tasted him on her lips. Such a flavoursome boy with all his secrets hidden away in his blood just waiting for her to prize them out. It was a knack, reading the blood, one she had never chosen to share with Angelus, preferring to conceal her true self behind human words. There were too many peccadilloes in her past that would leave her open to his cruel wit.
But it allowed her to know her family. Young William, his gentle sensibilities slowly being concealed by layers of bitterness and volatile anger. Dark and dangerous Drusilla, wrapped up in insanity until her demon sometimes struggled to function. And finally, her dearest darling boy. So ripe for the picking when she originally tasted him. Any doubts about his suitability as her companion vanished with that first burst of him in her mouth. As a human his self-involvement and callous disregard were remarkable, after he was turned he had done and shown her things that made the Master balk.
The door being kicked open jolted her from her reverie, and a human clad in colourful rags spilled into the room.
"Thought you might like breakfast in bed." Spike followed, closing the door behind him and aiming a kick at the motionless figure on the floor. "Sorry it’s nothing fancy," he shrugged apologetically, glaring down at what now looked like an unworthy offering. "But I reckoned after yesterday… I dunno. Something was better than nothing, right?"
Darla bit back a smile at the earnestness in his voice. This was what she found so endearing about him. Despite everything he still held the deep-seated belief that he was the paterfamilias, caring and providing for the women around him. She stretched languorously, bathing in the heat from the roaring fire and commented, "I think ‘something’ would be very welcome."
He didn’t answer and continued to stare morosely at dinner. Obviously there was something on his mind. And it didn’t take a blood reading to know what. "Are they still together?"
"Yeah." Still no eye contact and Spike seemed to shrink slightly under the power of her gaze. "All quiet though."
Sitting up in the bed, Darla wrapped her arms round her knees and rested her chin, looking at him quizzically. He shifted, uncomfortable and fidgety, his fingers unconsciously playing around the pocket of his jacket and beneath the scent of blood and human terror Darla could smell cigarettes.
"Of whom are you more jealous? Him or her?"
Panic gripped Spike’s gut and he knew it showed in his eyes as they flew up to meet hers. Ruthlessly he crushed the emotion back down behind the anger that burned so readily through him these days.
"What d’ya mean?" The harsh jeer a vast over compensation for the enquiry.
"What do you think I mean?"
He opened his mouth to deny everything only to grind to halt as Darla blinked and a familiar expression of exasperation fell over her face. Mutely he stared at her, wondering exactly how much she knew. She’d seen them in the alley, that much was certain, but Spike was fairly sure that Darla had only arrived after he’d gone down on Angelus, so that meant she hadn’t seen… Had she?
Darla huffed and said, "Angelus has declared himself your sire and as such he is bound to use you as he will. Spike, even if I hadn’t seen you that day in London I would have known the minute you arrived in Jersey. You reeked of him then and have done several times since." Through the sour taste of humiliation and embarrassment, Spike did manage to register the irritation in Darla’s voice as if she resented having to explain things - again. "Then of course there was this morning."
"This-this morning?"
"Well, unless Drusilla has started stealing my toys I’m sure you don’t make such preparations for a day with her."
Spike’s stomach lurched and landed in his throat, and apparently knowing you couldn’t blush didn’t stop the uncomfortable itchy feeling that went with it. "I… um… It was…" he havered.
"Spike!" This time Darla actually snapped. "Surprisingly the thought of Angelus fucking you does not shock me. I am neither one of your mother’s bridge partners nor do I need protecting, coddling or…or feeding." She gestured dismissively at his gift, which chose that precise moment to throw up on her precious carpet. Holding her breath, to avoid the sudden stench of regurgitated alcohol and in a probably vain attempt to control her temper, she added, "However I would be extremely grateful if you would remove it from the bedroom."
"Oh, yeah. Right then." Grabbing the human by the ankles Spike proceeded to drag it towards the door. Unfortunately the movement only exacerbated the problem and several extra puddles were deposited before he managed to get as far as the polished wooden floor of the hallway.
Darla slid off the bed, grabbed her robe and picked her way carefully after him. In the doorway she paused briefly watching and then listening to their progress down to street level, complete with accompanying curses and thumps. She only hoped the boy had the sense to stick some chains on the thing and stash it somewhere for later.
And that was a perfect illustration of precisely why Spike drove the entire family up the wall, Darla thought to herself as she called for Bethan to clear up the mess. Despite Angelus’ repeated attempts to get through to him the youngster never considered the implications of his actions. It was a habit they had to break with the greatest urgency or he would bring disaster down on all their heads. Especially with Lily’s baby due so soon and all of Paris under the Master’s watchful eye. They couldn’t afford stupid and unnecessary risks.
On his way back up the stairs Spike lurked outside Dru’s room, pressing his ear to the door in the hopes of hearing something other than silence. There was nothing. Whatever they had been doing together had obviously been enough to make them sleep straight through the call of nightfall.
"I doubt they will emerge for several hours yet."
Darla’s voice next to him made Spike jump and he spun round guiltily, searching for an explanation as to why he had been eavesdropping. "I was… I was just wondering about fetching up some water for Dru. You know. Clean her up a bit before we go out."
A sly smile pulled at the corners of Darla’s mouth and she said, somewhat cryptically, "I dare say it won’t be Drusilla that needs attending tonight."
Spike frowned and glanced at the door as though the wood held the answers to his confusion. "What do you mean?" he asked, but Darla had gone.
He followed her back to her room determined to get a straight answer and found Bethan mopping the floor. The minion gestured to the balcony where the figure of Darla was back-lit by gaslight and Spike nodded a brief thanks before joining her.
Stepping over the threshold he took a deep breath. The Paris air was sweet and fresh in the spring, redolent of new growth and flowers and infinitely more pleasant than London which managed to veer from damp chill to oppressive heat with pitifully few fine nights thrown between them.
Darla was staring out over the city, immersed in thought, her face fraught with worry. It was a curious expression to see and it vanished the moment she sensed Spike standing near her. For a long while they remained silent, Spike wondering how to broach the subject of Angelus and Dru, and Darla considering the implications of her sire discovering her treachery.
Finally Spike built up the nerve and asked, "So you reckon it’ll be Angelus that’ll be wanting the tender loving then."
It took a couple of seconds for his question to sink in but then Darla replied indifferently, "Drusilla will see to his hurts before he leaves the room."
Hurts? Injuries? Angelus? Spike’s head reeled at the implications of Darla’s statement. Did she mean that Dru was…Was what? There wasn’t a scenario Spike could conjure that would account for such a thing.
Darla glanced sideways at the fledgling and smiled wryly at his continued confusion. Sometimes William was such an innocent. "Come," she ordered, leaping easily onto the balustrade and swinging out across the front of the building, her robe a midnight train behind her.
With only the slightest hesitation Spike hurried after her, struggling to maintain her pace as she easily scaled the sheer frontage to the roof five floors above. Once there Darla did not hesitate for a moment, racing across the tiles and gracefully descending the other side until she came to rest next to another window. Spike’s descent was less elegant and he was grateful for the hand that grabbed him as his grip failed at a crucial moment and he nearly plummeted headfirst to the ground. Vampire or no, that would have hurt.
"Look," Darla hissed, pointing with her chin at a chink in the curtains where they had been carelessly drawn.
Spike complied and was immediately thankful that the room faced north and was well sheltered by trees or the occupants would have been ashes by now. Only when that shock had passed did the details of what he was seeing start to penetrate.
The chest in the corner was open and spread around it were various restraints and whips Angelus kept for those occasion when he ‘played’ with Dru. On the nightstand lay the stubs of two candles, scarlet wax spilling in frozen cascades over the light coloured wood. The rug adjacent to the bed harboured its own share of toys including a gag and an exquisite bone handled knife, both smeared in blood. Next to them Drusilla lay curled on the floor, fast asleep, her face and clothing covered in sprays of blood, looking exhausted yet strangely content.
But it was to Angelus that Spike’s senses were drawn, because he was the source of the alluring scent. The older vampire was chained to the bed and presumably naked, although a gore splattered sheet obscured his lower body. Crimson lines, shocking against pale skin, covered his torso and although it should have been obvious it took a while for Spike to connect the marks with the knife on the floor. The knife that lay by Dru’s hand.
Even then his brain refused to make sense of it, because if what he was seeing was true then Dru had tortured Angelus. But why?!
"Because sometimes that is what he wants."
Spike tore his gaze away from the window, realising that he had uttered his question aloud and that Darla was answering. "I…I…" It was no good. There weren’t words to frame the question.
Luckily Darla seemed to understand and she gestured to the sleeping couple. "It has been many years since Angelus could give his demon free rein. Like any master vampire he spends all his time staying guarded and in control. This ‘game’ allows him freedom he cannot find elsewhere."
In that instant Spike made a decision. Whatever the future held, however powerful he became, he would never, ever, put his demon on such a leash. What the hell was the point in being undead if you didn’t live enough to enjoy it?
Darla left him there, deep in thought as he gazed through the window. She returned to her room alone to prepare for another visit to Lily. If what she had read in Spike’s blood was true she would have to be more solicitous of the woman however much she annoyed her. Drusilla’s visions were rarely wrong.
**
Being a sensible sort of a chap who wasn’t enamoured by clambering around on roofs when there were perfectly good doors to use, Spike took the slightly longer but easier route back into the apartment. Having taken the time out to smoke a cigarette on the way, he found Darla’s door firmly shut and took the hint, his presence was no longer required.
The dining room offered up its usual supply of alcohol, regularly replenished from Angelus’ seemingly bottomless supplies of money, and he sank thankfully into a chair with a bottle of red wine and a glass. There were definite advantages to being in Paris and the availability of decent wine was one of them. The other was being able to speak the language. French had been compulsory at school, often heard at university and his mother and sisters had spoken it at home, keeping it fresh in his mind.
As the time passed he quickly grew lost in memories of the family he left behind.
"Go and dress. We’re going to the opera."
Spike’s glass leapt from his hand at the sound of Angelus’ voice from the doorway and he cursed effusively as the wine spilled in his lap. "Christ, you prat. Look at me sodding trousers!"
As expected his little outburst earned him a clip round the ear and then Angelus, quite reasonably, pointed out, "And now you need to change."
"What about Dru?" If Darla was going out and so were they that would leave Dru with no one to do for her, except Bethan and she was useless. "What if she has a vision or something."
Angelus sighed. "Drusilla will be perfectly fine. Currently she is still sleeping."
"Yeah?" Spike leered at the older vampire, surreptitiously searching for any physical evidence of the previous day’s activities. "Surprised it’s not you up there snoozing."
The temperature in the room dropped several degrees and Angelus’ eyes turned obsidian. "Excuse me?"
Their gazes locked for all of two seconds before Spike looked away and mumbled, "Meant Dru. She’s probably knackered. Best leave her sleep."
Angelus didn’t respond and Spike forced himself to remain motionless, eyes fixed on the floor until, painfully slowly, the tension dissipated. In its place grew an uncomfortable silence that Angelus eventually broke by reiterating his order for his charge to dress for an evening at the opera.
As Spike sullenly left the room, swiping ineffectually at his trousers with one hand, Angelus called after him; "Oh, and you can leave the bottle."
***
The apartment lay in total darkness, not even a scrap of light glimmered from inside. Which was strange. Customarily Lily had a lamp lit in every room and numerous candles besides, almost as though she were afraid of the night. Darla smiled, or maybe it was the things that dwelt within it.
Her gloating was short lived as she listened at the door and realised that not only was the apartment dark, it was empty. The lock gave easily under her grip and the vampire took a tentative step forward, somewhat relieved she could still enter. Perhaps Lily had simply gone out for the evening? She scented the air and a growl rose involuntarily in her throat.
Watchers!
She could smell them. Their herbs and holy water permeated the air with a pious stench.
Another step forward and a dull thunk came from down the hall. Darla flung herself sideways just in time to avoid the crossbow bolt that ricocheted off the door and buried itself in the floor showering her dress with small splinters.
The place was booby-trapped and these were designed for hi-jinx of the lethal kind.
Her demon face to the fore and with every sense straining, Darla edged her way further in the direction of Lily’s private rooms. It was there she hoped to find some clue as to why the woman had left at such a crucial time. Surely the word of a Watcher alone would not have been enough and they were typically a reticent bunch when it came to sharing information about the supernatural.
The bedchamber was a shambles, clothing dragged from closets and drawers, jewellery and toiletries spread liberally over the bed. Someone had been in a hurry to leave. But did she go voluntarily?
Lily’s scent flooded the room but only hers, which meant that, unless the Prince of Wales’ whore had taken up less tasteful past times than fucking and embroidery, the room should be safe. Hovering in the doorway, Darla closed her eyes and focused, using her acute sense of smell to reconstruct what had happened.
Fear and panic, sweat smell, heat and hurry. A touch of blood where Lily had torn a fingernail in her haste to pack and dabbed it onto a handkerchief that now lay amid the ruins of her dressing table. There lingered the flavours of hesitancy and guilt. That was what Darla was searching for.
Next to the blood spotted handkerchief lay a sheet of lavender writing paper, which Darla snatched up confidently. As she read the words her face melted slowly back to a smug human smile. The foolish girl. Too polite to move without leaving a forwarding address.
***
Wrapped in a bubble of self-worth, her mellifluous voice soared through aria and teasing arpeggios until the air rang in crystal harmony. One with the music, she became lost in the beauty of it, the profundity of it. Her audience no longer a sucking void but a mirror reflecting the emotions she poured into her performance. She was an angel, haloed in limelight, dancing on wings of pure sound.
And before her, sustaining all, hovered the image of her own personal angel. The Angel of music; golden eyes mesmerising, spinning a web of self-delusion, holding her safe within his thrall.
**
Spike’s jaw dropped the moment Christine walked onstage and when she began to sing he would have gladly sold his soul to possess her - if it hadn’t already been long gone.
The soprano was exquisite. With her low cut gown and golden hair piled high exposing yards of translucent creamy flesh and light blue veins, she was a vampire’s wet dream. Even from the box he could see the pulse beating in her neck, rising and falling in time with her passionate song.
And her voice was… It was incredible. Filling his mind, swelling and throbbing, radiant in its beauty. This shimmering goddess, Aphrodite birthed among us, Your presence fleeting as a summer rose and with equal fragrance, You are… effulgent.
Caught out by the sudden emergence of William’s lousy poetry, Spike snorted loudly and slid down in his seat affecting a determined slouch, his feet thumping against the velvet covered wood. He risked a sly glance at Angelus and was amused to see that the older vampire looked just as bewitched by the woman on the stage.
She was good, there was no doubt about it. But now that he had managed to acquire a little objectivity Spike found he could see the flaws in her performance. The notes were not as pure as he had first thought. Her timing not as accurate, nor her movements as graceful. And, though pretty, she was no Darla or Drusilla.
However he seemed to be the only one in the opera house who thought so.
A rapid perusal of the audience revealed row upon row of ensorcelled men and women, their eyes glazed and staring. It was like magic!
He leaned over and jabbed Angelus hard in the ribs, "Oi! Wake up! There’s something odd going on."
No reaction. The older vampire’s eyes remained firmly fixed on the stage.
Spike humphed and briefly considered leaving Angelus in the box while he went and ripped out a few throats in the unsuspecting audience. He was fairly positive no one would notice. But if someone did there would be screaming and fighting and panic and… Really that wasn’t helping. It sounded too much like fun. Focus on the negative. It would piss Angelus off and there would probably be punishments, blood, and with any luck the shagging… Spike shook his head. Nope, that was no good either.
Luckily for the attendant humans his lucubrations continued until the final notes of Marguerite’s solo died away and, like a Titan stirring in Tartarus, the audience came to its senses, breaking out in spontaneous comment and applause.
Angelus joined them, shifting forward to better see the stage and adjusting his dress to conceal the erection now tenting the front of his trousers. The girl was simply delicious. He had to have her! Now! In his enthusiasm he began to stand, determined to be waiting for Christine at her dressing room door this time. The distinct sound of a snigger rose next to him and he swung round, glaring at the insolent brat who was now laughing uproariously behind his hand.
"Something you find amusing?" Angelus imbued his question with every ounce of displeasure at his disposal and it simply made Spike laugh louder and longer. So much so that he slid off the chair and landed with a thud on the floor, but even that did nothing to counter his now incipient hysterics. With a growl that rivalled the ongoing opera in volume, Angelus waited for an appropriate moment and stamped down hard on his protégé’s solar plexus, driving every scrap of air forcefully from Spike’s lungs. It would have killed a human and it left the younger vampire rolling breathless and gasping for several minutes. Angelus didn’t give a fig because it finally Shut. Him. Up.
Eventually Spike managed to achieve hands and knees, and stayed there for a moment his head hanging as low as a whipped horse. Then he looked up, his hair askew and his eyes burning. "You fucking twat," he panted, every syllable a burning effort as cracked ribs threatened to do further damage.
Angelus peered down, not moving from his seat, quirked an eyebrow in ill-concealed amusement and intoned, "It serves you right," before returning to the performance.
Five minutes later Spike was leaning against his chair, hunched over and holding his chest, the opera forgotten as he fought his lingering instinct to breathe. Angelus had not said a word his gaze fixed on the stage, but he began tapping his fingers against his thigh. A regular beat contrary to the music and becoming increasingly agitated as the minutes ticked past.
"She really isn’t that good."
The comment came apropos nothing and Spike coughed harshly when he tried to answer. Without another word Angelus slid onto the floor, bit into his wrist and offered the bleeding appendage over. Spike grabbed it thankfully, gulping down several mouthfuls and relishing the rich flavour and the healing boost it lent. Stopping before he was told, he nodded his thanks and let his head drop back onto the cushioned upholstery behind him.
There was silence for a few minutes more, or as much as was possible in a theatre that was packed to the gunnels, Fauste was certainly turning out to be a popular show. When Spike was able to take tentative shallow breaths without choking Angelus asked, "What did you see?"
Spike shook his head, unsure of how to describe it but did his best. "It was like she had the whole place under a spell. Everyone just sat there like bloody fish. Mouths flapping open. Then when she stopped singing they woke up. Sort of. Started clapping and stuff."
"Everyone you say?"
"Yeah."
Angelus narrowed his eyes, "So why were you immune?"
Spike tried to sigh, failed and ended up coughing violently and falling forward onto Angelus shoulder. The wrist was offered again and accepted, as much to give Spike a chance to think up a reason that didn’t involve poetry as to feed. He couldn’t think of a thing.
"Hearing her made me feel human and it pissed me off."
That immediately piqued Angelus’ interest. "Human?" he questioned quickly. "How?"
Rubbing his hand across his mouth to conceal his embarrassment, Spike mumbled, "I started making up poetry."
Another quirked eyebrow and a slight twitch of the lips. "Poetry?"
Spike glared at him, rage simmering behind livid blue eyes and hissed, "It’s not bloody funny, Angelus."
"No. You’re right. It’s not." Then Angelus completely lost control, buried a guffaw in his sleeve, and gasped, "Who am I kidding. Yes it is! Poetry! You were a poet?"
Family pride overcoming anger, Spike rose shakily to his feet, yanked his jacket down and said, "No, I was a gentleman. Not that that would mean anything to a peasant like you."
Angelus was far too amused to tackle the insult and continued to chortle loudly at his charge’s expense. "So, did you compare her to a summer’s day?"
Now exasperation sprang to the fore. "Poetry, Angelus. Not plagiarism!" And all the older vampire could do was wipe his eyes and snigger at the outrage written large on Spike’s face.
"Messieurs?" An insistent knocking at the door brought a temporary halt to matters and Angelus took the opportunity to draw the curtains and compose himself while Spike explained to the box-keeper that, despite the complaints, all was well and there was no need to summon the gendarmerie.
When they were alone again, he said, "What I don’t understand is how she does it?"
Spike shrugged, "It seemed like magic. Or mesmerism."
"Or thrall," Angelus murmured, his brows deeply knotted in thought.
"What’s that then?"
"Huh?" Angelus seemed to have forgotten he had company for a moment and he gazed distractedly at Spike before saying, "It’s an old gypsy trick. I’ve seen it before at the Master’s court. And yes, it is a combination of magic and mesmerism."
"Magic!" Spike jeered cynically. "Next thing you’ll be telling me witches are real."
It was Angelus’ turn to be exasperated. "You stand there with no pulse, a demon which craves human blood and you doubt the reality of witchcraft. Will, you are an idiot."
That took the wind right out of Spike’s sails. "So, you’re saying what? That witches are real?"
"Ye-es." Angelus said slowly, as if explaining a difficult concept to a slow child. "Witches, demons other than vampires, gods. In words you may understand, given the poetry, ‘there are more things in heaven and earth, than are dreamt of in our philosophy’. Or at least in human philosophy."
Spike gaped, too stunned to do anything else. A firm tap on his chin accompanied an order for him to, "Close your mouth, William." With some effort he complied but his eyes took up where his mouth had left off, wide and startled. It had never occurred to him that the simple fact of his own existence could mean that other mythological creatures were also real.
"The question," Angelus was looking thoughtful again, "is what to do about it."
Blinking heavily and trying to pull his brain back into the moment, Spike asked, "Why bother? S’not like it’s doing any harm. And the humans were like sitting ducks. Could be fun to go and have a nibble while she’s warbling."
Angelus snarled and shook his head vehemently. "No!" he spat out. "She dies!" The girl had enspelled a master vampire. Her life, by default, was forfeit.
"So… what? We wait till later and have ourselves a bloody little party."
A deadly smirk spread over Angelus’ face and he slung a companionable arm around Spike’s shoulders. "Something like that. William, my boy, you are about to get your first lesson in the fine art of seduction."