“Angelus! Angelus…?” Spike’s voice trailed away into a night cold enough to
make even dead breath steam. Pausing on a street corner, he listened intently
and tasted the frigid breeze but neither sounds of hunting nor trace of Angelus
hung on the air. He’d lost them. Less than a week they’d been in Hamburg, nowhere
near long enough for the family to secure the territory, and enough remnants
of the old Tyran Order remained in parts of the city to pose a serious threat
to any Aurelian stupid enough to get isolated from the pack.
“Flaming idiot,” he berated himself under his breath and peered up and down the tree-hemmed street hoping to spot some clue as to where exactly he was. It was pointless. All the houses had the same slab-fronted regimental look that every other building in the city seemed to boast and there were bridges at both ends of the street. So now he was alone and hopelessly turned around.
There was always the option of taking to the rooftops to locate the town hall, though Spike wasn’t altogether certain that he’d be able to find his way to the lair even then. A distinct itch started on the back of his neck and he peered up at the slowly lightening sky with apprehension, suddenly aware that with dawn only half an hour away, he had to change his priorities from finding family to personal safety.
Humans were already thick on the ground, some wandering aimlessly, others with an obvious sense of purpose as they began their daily chores. All were bundled up in layer upon layer of clothing against the freezing weather, appearing like ranks of Cibuc demons with their too small heads balanced precariously on wide unwieldy bodies. Spike moved against this stinking tide, down toward the docks, hoping to find haven amongst the warehouses well away from the commercial district with its busy thronging masses. As he hurried, head down and shoulders hunched, he clutched one arm around his stomach, which growled with violent hunger. He’d been too concerned with his search for the pack to feed properly during the night and it was starting to catch up with him.
Dawn graced the sky, pink tendrils of light creeping over the grey slate roofs, while he was still on the street searching for a place to spend the day and he hugged the tall buildings, keeping to the shadows and dashing across the odd stretch of sunlit snow between them. Closer and closer to the river, the cobbles of the city streets giving way under his feet to smoother stone as he approached the wharves of the docks proper, the forests of masts punctuated by the squatter forms of steamers belching foul smoke into the winter sky.
Then, just as the sounds of frantic humanity began to fade and the spectral shapes of the Speicherstadt loomed in the distance, he saw it. Hidden in deep shadow, well away from prying eyes and easily forced, the wooden door opened to reveal the interior of a small warehouse stacked from floor to ceiling with mounds of colourful woollen carpets, the perfect daytime lair for a vagabond vampire. He burrowed deep into their rough warmth, pulling them over and around to create a dark nest where the sun’s deadly rays would never find him, and slept an uneasy sleep filled with hungry dreams of hunting and feeding.
**
"Beeilt euch. Ich will dass das Zeug hier verschwunden ist, bevor der Sturm hier ist."
Damn. Humans. Spike shuffled further back into his lair aware that even this small movement could betray his presence to the dock-workers rapidly shifting the contents of the warehouse out onto the wharf. Through the open doors he could see vicious beams of sunlight stabbing down and bouncing up from the frozen, icy ground. He was trapped, stuck in hideous indecision. Was it better to hide until he was discovered and, without a doubt, thrown out of the building, or should he run now and hope he could reach deep enough shadow before he was incinerated?
The decision was taken out of his hands when the cry went up. Someone had spotted him and the hunt was on. There was precious little patience amongst the merchantmen for any they suspected of trying to steal free passage to the Americas; they preferred their passengers to pay in hard currency and there were enough of them for the shippers to be choosy.
Searching frantically for a way out that would by-pass the gang of dockers by the door, Spike leapt from teetering stack to teetering stack, using the roof beams as convenient balancing points, recognising, with the sudden crisp clarity of hindsight, that this safe house with its single small exit was in reality a deadly trap.
Not able to go around, he was left with no option but to go through, so, dodging and twisting to avoid the grasping, snatching hands reaching out for him, Spike made for the door. Only three steps from freedom a billy club slammed into his face leaving him effectively blinded and driving him gasping to his knees. Other weapons joined it and he quickly went down, cowering against the blows and covering his head with his hands both in protection and to avoid showing his true face. There were bound to be people in the know amongst these perennially superstitious seamen and right now Spike’s survival depended on them not realising his true nature. How very easily he could be killed by the daylight lurking just outside the door or one of their wooden weapons rammed through his un-beating heart.
The voices around him took up a rhythmic intonation and, as witness to numerous instances of mob violence, Spike knew when a simple assault had become an articulation of seething resentments that would only be assuaged by a death. He braced himself for further punishment fighting the urge to gasp as each powerful blow landed with practised ease on his shoulders and back, sure that if he could convince them he was already dead the humans would stop and dump the body to conceal their crime.
Then one voice, carrying with it the authority of many years of being instantly obeyed, rose above the others and the beating stopped as quickly as it had started. Rapid staccato footsteps across the floor stopped in front of him and a cruel hand twisted into his hair yanked his head up and back, revealing a hirsute face with steely, dark eyes.
"Wer sind Sie, und was machen Sie hier?"
It was German but for the life of him Spike couldn’t work out what the hell the man was saying. Angelus had tried to give him a rudimentary grasp of the language but none of it had really sunk in. His hair was released and Spike bit back a yelp as his head hit the stone floor with a sickening crunch.
"Bringt ihn her."
Hands pulled and yanked him to his feet and he was led, un-protesting, toward a small table covered in papers and books nestled in a shadowed corner.
"Ich habe Sie gefragt wer Sie sind und was Sie in diesem Lagerhaus verloren haben."
Spike stared at the huge blond human blankly. He really hadn’t the foggiest idea what was being said to him. If he had, he’d have done his best to answer, eager to avoid further injury and gain time to escape. The man frowned at his reaction then turned to a dark bear-like man looming over his left shoulder, they exchanged a few words, shooting odd looks at him, before the Viking type spoke again.
"Sprechen Sie überhaupt Deutsch?"
Nothing.
“O português. Faça-o falar português então?” It could have been Spanish but beyond that, nothing.
“English?” It was like being thrown a life belt.
“Yes, English, I’m English.” Next time he was told to learn something he would, Spike shot a quick thought out into the ether – ‘Promise you, Angelus’.
The men looked relieved and the boss, foreman or whatever he was, called over to the workers who had returned to shifting carpets.
"Frank, komm mal rüber. Du musst mal für uns übersetzen."
A small slight man with whipcord muscles bulging under his striped workman’s shirt glanced over before handing on his burden and joining the small group around the table. There was another short, whispered conversation that Spike didn’t even attempt to listen in to, and then the newcomer turned to him and asked in perfect English,
“The boss here wants to know what you’re doing in his warehouse?”
“Sleeping. I needed somewhere to sleep and…”
There was no point in continuing, the human had already stopped listening and was passing on what he’d said to his boss. Spike rubbed a hand over his face, gently probing at his nose, which was healing up nicely but was still bloody painful. When he saw the curious looks his actions elicited he stopped, dropping the guilty limb back into his lap. Calling any attention to his injuries, or to his lack of serious ones, was probably a mistake.
Another whispered conversation started up between the boss and his hairy friend, punctuated by an occasional mirthless laugh. The English labourer took the opportunity to start haranguing the prisoner.
“We don’t want your sort in here, wherever you’re from. Bloody thieves and scroungers is what you are, messing with decent peoples stuff, expecting handouts and charity. The boss is calling the Polizei and telling them about the damage. A few months in the nick here and you’ll be running back home with your tail between your legs.”
Spike shot a worried look towards the door and unconsciously chewed at his lower lip. Leaving the shelter of the warehouse alone was one thing, he could probably make it under cover without too much difficulty, but with humans escorting him, he’d have to fight them before running. A sharp noise from the dark musclebound man lurking behind the table interrupted Spike’s line of thought and following another quick to-and-fro discussion, Frank spoke again.
“Right then. There’s been a change of plan. He says he knows what you are, vampire.” Frank shot a questioning glance at his boss and was told to continue. To the Englishman’s credit the wary tremor in his voice when he spoke was hardly noticeable. “He’s seen your kind before, and he’s giving you a choice; either you help with shifting this stuff before the bad weather blows in or he stakes you out now. You understand?”
There was a smug grin on the blond German’s face and, despite an almost overwhelming urge to bite the man’s head off, Spike knew he was caught. There were far too many well-armed humans around for him to risk tangling with them again. He nodded his acquiescence and comforted himself with the thought that however demeaning it may be to act as a packhorse for the day, it was infinitely preferable to being thrown out into the sun.
Half the team were dispatched, presumably to other locations and Spike spent the next few hours using his preternatural strength hauling heavy wool carpets from the depths of the warehouse and depositing them as close to the sun as he dare. And if his speed and power were considered strange, no one commented, at least not where he could hear them in a language he understood. The humans simply laboured in silence until the changing weather brought a swift halt to proceedings. By the time the wind had been howling around, and through, the building for over an hour and the snow was forming significant sized drifts both outside and inside the door, most of the crew had been sent packing with orders to return when things improved.
At this point, in Spike’s opinion, circumstances were definitely starting to look better. The sun was gone, obscured behind snow-laden clouds, and only a few labourers remained in the warehouse. He’d be a pretty useless vampire if he left without a decent meal inside him and some warmer clothes. By now the need for blood was becoming urgent. The hunger pangs he’d felt as the sun came up had grown while he worked into a continuous gnawing ache that made him want to chew into his own arm. To that end he kept a low profile until the dregs of the crew left and then lurked in the shadows, studying the boss and Frank as they moved about at their various tasks, waiting for an opportunity to pounce.
“I would not do that if I were you.” The words were guttural, heavily accented and spoken immediately behind him. It took a lot of skill to make a vampire jump and bear-man, despite his size, apparently had that particular talent in spades. Recovering quickly Spike swung round, his hand already fisted, to land his best left hook on the huge man’s jaw, only to find it captured and held easily by a much larger paw.
Their gazes met across the confrontation and Spike abruptly realised the eyes he was staring into were no longer human; they glowed deep emerald green and the pupils were mere slits of black in their luminescent irises.
“You’re not human.”
The demon pulled back his lips in a feral snarl exposing a set of fangs even a tiger would have been proud of, before using his free hand to land a solid punch to the side of the unsuspecting vampire’s head. It was enough to send Spike reeling to his knees and for a moment he thought it would knock him out. Stunned, he shook his head, trying to clear the deafening ringing in his left ear and a feeling of total disorientation from the force of the blow, only for a boot in the kidneys to send him sprawling towards the boss’ corner table.
The same heavy boot stamping down on his windpipe stopped Spike from going any further and he decided to lie doggo and wait for a better chance to escape. It never came and when the sound of fresh voices, again speaking German, came from near the door and the smell of strange vampires reached his nose, Spike knew this time he was in serious trouble. The bastard humans and their demon lackey had sold him out to the Tyrans.
Jamming his hands under the foot pinning him to the floor, Spike heaved upwards, trying to force it away and throw his captor off balance. At the same time he kicked up with both legs in the hopes of making contact with the demon’s body. He was rewarded by a thud and a loud pained grunt, and suddenly the boot was gone leaving him free to roll to his feet and…come face to face with a pack of some six mature vampires.
Frank, the English speaking labourer, was leaning casually on the table, the boss seated behind him speaking to the Tyran leader, and they all glanced over with a look that made Spike’s senses scream at him to run and get as far away from this place as possible. The rest of the gang was between him and the only exit, so escape was not going to be an option, unless he went through them. A fleeting thought never to get trapped in a place with only one way out ever again sped through Spike’s mind before he concentrated on the more immediate problem.
Six to one. The odds were appalling, but he refused to go down without a fight. The element of surprise firmly in his favour, Spike managed to down two of the gang before the others realised he wasn’t the newly risen fledge they’d thought and piled into the fray. Four against one were no better odds than six, and when the gang spread out to surround him Spike realised that the fight would soon be over. A well placed roundhouse kick to the head delivered with stunning force from behind while he was busying battering the face in front of him turned out to be his undoing, and it was enough to bring him to his knees yet again. Still reeling, he was unable to fight back when hard, strong hands twisted both his arms up his back and forced his head to the ground to avoid their slow dislocation. Immobilised in that position it was an easy task for his captors to make use of the manacles they’d brought to secure his legs and hands, leaving him bound and helpless.
At a sharply barked order the pack parted and the leader sauntered through them, an arrogant smirk worthy of Angelus plastered on his gaunt face.
“Aurelian, yes?”
There was no way Spike was going to co-operate in his own drawn-out tortured death, he would rather anger them into killing him quickly, so he hawked and spat wetly as close to the other vampire’s feet as he could reach. The leader laughed mirthlessly and nodded to his minions who hauled Spike to his feet and, while two held him fast between them, another grabbed his head, pulling it to one side and baring his neck.
The fangs were far from gentle as they ripped into his throat and the blood was drained fast enough to drag a whimper from Spike’s chest. When it stopped his head was spinning and lolled uncontrollably; it was more than twenty-four hours since he’d fed and to be drained as well was pushing the boundaries of what his two-year-old constitution could bear. As they pushed and prodded him towards the door to begin the trip back to their lair, Spike tried to focus on the only thing that could possibly save him. Angelus.
***
“Any sign?”
“No, sir, nothing.”
Angelus slammed his fist into the table making Darla grab for the goblet of blood before it tipped its contents all over the city map. “Damn the boy,” he cursed roundly. “I told him to stay close-”
“And he disobeyed, which can hardly come as a surprise.”
When Angelus glared at her, Darla shrugged adding, “You have seen as well as I, Angelus. These past few months have changed him. Is it entirely inconceivable that he has taken the opportunity to leave for a while and strike out on his own?”
The observation was difficult to deny however much Angelus wanted to. It had been a hard fought campaign and he’d noted Spike’s growing confidence as his skills in tactics and hand-to-hand combat improved. Owed his own life to the fledgling even when, more than once, Spike had arrived at the last minute with back-up and managed to swing the balance of power back in favour of the Aurelians. “It is possible,” he admitted grudgingly, “though leaving without a word seems strange.”
“Granted,” Darla agreed and raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Have you asked Drusilla if he said anything to her?”
Angelus leaned heavily on the table, head hanging. “No,” he said and, after flicking his gaze towards the now empty doorway, shared a significant look with his lover before returning to stare at the maps, sliding one across the table so he could study the one underneath. “She hasn’t uttered a word since her vision three nights ago.” And hadn’t that been fun, trying to stop Dru screaming about traitors and treachery in a lair full of vampires loyal to the Master.
Darla’s hand came to rest gently on Angelus’ arm and when he glanced up, she smiled. “Everything will be fine.”
“Of course it will.” After all, how could the Master find out about the baby? Every witness was dead or gone. The only person left who could possibly betray them was Li Hua and, despite her dubious loyalty, she was as implicated as they were in the theft of the child, and so was unlikely to tattle tale.
“Sir?”
“What!”
Ahren stood firm against his master’s temper, biting back the snarl that was the instinctive answer to such disrespect. He dropped his gaze and held out the report that had just been delivered by one of their human spies in the city.
Angelus snatched it and ripped it open, his gaze stripping the page of pertinent information. “Who delivered this?” he asked after a second, waving the letter that Darla immediately plucked from his hand.
“Pieter, sir.”
“Is he still here?”
Staggering slightly as Angelus pushed hurriedly past him, Ahren answered, “No, sir. He left immediately-”
“What… have I told about that?!” Only the speediest of ducks saved Ahren’s face as Angelus’ fist impacted with the wall sending a gout of plaster duster spraying over everything.
“I… I’m sorry, sir.”
“Sorry? Sorry! I’ll show ye sorry!” The banister shattered under a well-placed boot and a hard hand grabbed the head minion’s hair forcing him to his knees, his neck stretched painfully backward. Ahren closed his eyes in pretended submission and prepared to retaliate. If he was going to die he was going to take this jumped up Irish bastard with him.
“Angelus!”
It had been a century since Angelus had last heard Darla use that tone with him and it spoke directly to his body. The makeshift stake, raised high and ready to plunge into the vampire’s chest, dropped to the floor and, with a snarl, he cast Ahren after it, aiming a kick at him for good measure.
“Get out! Get out and don’t let me see you again!”
Ahren scrambled to his feet and dashed away, hating himself for not fighting back. But what choice did he have? When the Master had put his precious Darla in charge of the northward assault, it was inevitable that Angelus would come with her and now Ahren, the one who had done all of the hard work preparing the troops and breaking the ground, was relegated to a mere lackey.
As he reached the kitchen, his own temper surfaced and he grabbed the nearest minion and slammed a fist into his face, relishing the sensation of bones snapping under the force of the blow. It took three others to pull him off before he dusted the fool and he only stopped resisting them when he heard Hannah’s voice.
“That ain’t gonna do you no good, boy.”
He shrugged off the restraining hands and turned angrily to face his sometime lover. “Keep your mouth shut, schlampe. This is a man’s business.”
“Uhuh? That right.” She gave him the cold shoulder and cast an appraising eye around the rest of the room; her expression equal parts challenging and seductive. “Guess y’ll not be wantin’ to hear what ah got to say then?”
Determined not to be drawn back into the tiny mulatta’s web of deceits and seductions, Ahren sneered, “What is it this time? Have you come up with a way of ridding us of this Irish idolater and his whore?”
“Could be,” Hannah flirted back, flipping her skirts and sashaying around the table. When she was safe on the other side, she withdrew a telegram from her bodice and wagged it in Ahren’s direction. It was addressed to him and it was opened. More to the point he would recognise that hand-writing anywhere.
A roar and a lunge saw him across the table with the envelope grasped in his hand. Hannah wailed and attacked with claws and fangs. Ahren evaded her easily, side stepping the initial assault and then holding her at arm’s length by her hair, while she screamed and scratched at him, much to the amusement of the other minions lounging around the room.
“Now, now, my little hell bitch.” Ahren jerked his chin at his lieutenant who obligingly grabbed Hannah from behind and dragged her out of the room. “Maybe I will let you play later if you are a good girl," Ahren called after and joined the chorus of raucous laughter that accompanied her ignominious exit.
With his status reaffirmed, Ahren turned his attention to the telegram.
***
Vienna: three nights previously.
“Some sort of mage, you say?” The Master looked curiously past the minion toward the doorway.
“Yes, Master.” Shooting a quick glance over his shoulder, the senior minion’s voice dropped to conspiratorial levels and he whispered, “So he claims, though he reeks of humans and intrigue.”
The Master leaned forward, his eyes never straying from the odd creature lurking in the shadows. “What is he? Human? Demon?”
“Vampire, sire.”
“Entourage?”
“A single human woman and a baby.”
That earned the visitor a hard stare and a comment that was cynical in the way only a thousand years can achieve. “That’s… interesting.”
The pair glared at the interloper expecting him to blink and quail, but not a muscle twitched. Not thrown in the slightest, the Master relaxed back on his throne. “Come in, come in,” he smiled with teeth reminiscent of a crocodile’s, and waved his hand languidly around the luxuriously appointed room. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
Gathering his velvet robe and his madness around him, Erik strode into the guttering pool of candlelight surrounding the dais. No longer the fawning grovelling fool, he radiated power and assurance, and knew it. Stopping a foot short of the first step, he swept into a low elaborate bow, the fingers of one hand brushing the floor elegantly, the other pressed to his nose securing the mask in place.
“Grieve no more, oh revered one,” he proclaimed, rising up proudly. “For I bring tidings of great import.”
“Really.”
Oblivious to snickers from the minions, Erik withdrew a richly decorated scroll from inside his robe with a flourish. Unrolling it, he displayed the document to eager eyes and began to read.
“It was the time of madness, when sires turned against their get and masters against their servants. It was a time of chaos when enemies were embraced and trusted friends cast out into the abyss, helpless in the eye of the storm.
“And it came to pass in that time, that a child was delivered into the world, a babe of such import that it was decreed by the Powers that should it meet its death at the hands of demons, that death would bring the Order of Aurelius to its knees.”
The sniggers died away replaced by attentive silence and Erik’s words continued uninterrupted.
“Many searched for this child of prophecy in ancient tomes and older visions, and yet only one was destined to find it, the dear one of the Order. And find the babe, she did. Held its living body against her dead breast and felt its sweet breath upon her face.”
Whispers now started up around the room and several minions tossed nervous glances toward their master.
“But the dear one was selfish and desired beauty above fealty to her master. She turned her back on the guardian of the Old Ones and conspired with her lover to send the child away, furnishing a pretender in its place.”
“Pretender!” The Master erupted from his throne, voice verging on a roar. Erik continued on as though nothing had happened, stepping to one side and gesturing to the doorway where a human woman stood holding a bundle in her arms.
“Thus it is,” he concluded, self-importantly, “that this humble servant presents the true child of prophecy to his master.”
Fangs ripped into his neck before Erik had time to register the Master moving and, as huge draughts of blood were pulled from his body, the tattered piece of badly scrawled paper fluttered to the floor from his lax fingers. Reeling with blood loss, he dropped to his knees when the Master released him and his last conscious thought before his head parted from his body, was that at least Angelus would be following him to hell.
Brushing vampire dust carefully from his hands, the Master stood, head bowed,
on the steps of his dais, the room around him echoing nervous silence. Not one
minion dared speak or move, terrified of drawing attention to their existence.
Finally, just when the tension had reached explosive potential, the Master raised
his head and growled, “Send word to Ahren. Bring me the traitorous bitch and
her get. I will see them all kissing daylight for this.”