“Grandmother?”
Darla stirred in the rancid straw. Dru waited for an answer but none came and hadn’t done for the several hours she’d been calling. Without much hope, she tried again. “Grandmother? The worms from my insides are trying to escape and the early birds want to snatch them up.”
Nothing. Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
Drusilla blinked against the darkness and kept her hands pressed tightly to her gaping belly. Quietly she began to recite the Christmas rhyme she remembered her mother reading in front of the nursery fire. Back when she was a real girl and before the monsters came; when the sunlight caressed her skin and God still loved her. She had to wait for Darla. Darla would fix everything. Put Dru’s outsides back on the inside where they belonged and the world would make sense again.
**
Squirrel, Spike decided, tasted foul. Worse than rabbit if that was at all possible, and if he never had to set another trap for the rest of his existence on this godforsaken ball of mud he would be one happy vampire.
He poked the fire cautiously, staying as far back as he could, given the length of his improvised poker, and tossed on another log. The damp wood sputtered and spat as the heat touched it and he backed away further, resuming his perch on a makeshift rock seat. Unconsciously his fingers started picking and poking at the edges of half-healed burns, scratching off flakes of skin and scabs and flicking them into the fire. Beneath, the skin was fresh and white, virginal and untouched by the sun, and it still seemed strange to Spike that it lacked that pink flush he remembered from being William.
Watching gloomily as the fresh fuel caught, he considered whether to collect more. His clothes, draped around the blaze on various branches, were close to dry, or at least as dry as they would get considering the humidity in the air. The dusting of snow earlier in the night had melted leaving the forest floor wet underfoot and rich with the scent of leaf mould and rot. Dawn was several hours away but he wasn’t worried. One advantage of these ancient forests was the equally ancient trees and he’d found a couple nearby whose split trunks would provide adequate cover from the coming sun. In the meantime he had to give serious thought to what he was going to do long term.
Escaping had been instinctive, a matter of self preservation, and that same instinct was now telling him to run, get out of Austria and go somewhere he knew better, like London. Nicci would take him in, Spike was certain of that, but it would mean abandoning Dru, not to mention Angelus and Darla, to whatever punishments the Master had in store for them. He shivered, remembering the promises of pain and torment Ahren had whispered in his ear, and wondered whether Dru was suffering even as her champion loitered here by this small fire.
He couldn’t leave them, it wasn’t in his nature to give up and turn his back. Angelus had come for him when the odds were high Spike was already dust, and if he hadn’t Spike would have died in agony, screaming as his flesh boiled away in that pot in Joshua’s lair.
Spike reached out and snagged his shirt, slipping it over his head as he made his decision. He would go to Vienna, right into the belly of the beast. They’d never think to look for him there. He’d stay clear of the Master’s minions and somehow, somewhere, find a way of rescuing the rest of his family. It was right, it was proper and… His trousers fell from his lax fingers as the enormity of what he was proposing hit home. It was bloody impossible, was what it was.
**
Darla awoke to pain. Every inch of her body screamed with an agony that dragged a whimper from her throat as she rolled over. Somewhere nearby a low muttering rose and fell, and the owner must have gargled glass to achieve that level of hoarseness.
“His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow.”
It took her more than a few moments to recognise firstly the rhyme and then Drusilla’s voice, its sing-song tone unmistakable despite the damaged timbre. She forced her eyes open and blinked slowly, wondering if she had inadvertently forgotten how they worked. No, she hadn’t. It was simply too dark for her to see clearly with human eyes. Allowing her demonic visage to the fore, she groaned aloud as the pain in her limbs faded to a tolerable ache and scanned the small cell once again.
Drusilla sat propped in one corner, her head resting on the wall, eyes closed and hands clasped over her stomach. The scent of old blood and viscera hung in the air and, around the girl’s fingers, Darla could make out the pinkish grey of exposed intestines. That was not good; even a vampire may struggle to heal from such a wound if she received no sustenance.
Struggling to her knees, Darla crawled across the floor, slumping down next to Drusilla and prising the girl’s fingers from her belly. They peeled stickily away from her skin and were followed by a gush of slippery innards that slithered onto the filthy ground. Dru continued to chant, only the tiniest hitch in her breathing indicating that she felt anything untoward. Cursing, Darla scooped the mess up and pressed them back into the wide open wound, using one hand to hold them in place as she ripped the remains of her gown into strips and bound them tightly around the girl’s torso. It was make do and mend, at best. Ideally Drusilla needed to feed, and feed well.
There was nothing in the cell, barring themselves and the soured straw, so Darla made herself stumble to the door, grasp the bars on the window and stare out into the blackness beyond. Inhaling carefully, she tasted the air and picked up the scent of several vampires – minions – presumably the ones who had brought them into this pestilential hole.
“We need to feed,” she called out, her tone managing to maintain the imperious air expected of the Master’s offspring. “Bring us victuals. Now.”
“But answer came there none.”
“Hush, dear,” Darla responded automatically and rattled the door in its frame. “Did you hear me?” she called again. “I said, we need food.”
“Shut your face, whore,” a voice answered from beyond the shadows. The lack of respect in the words made Darla’s blood boil and freeze in equal measure. How dare a mere minion speak to her in such a way? And yet the fact that one had, implied her status was under serious threat.
“I’m sure my sire would be interested to hear what you just called me.”
“Your sire,” the voice came again, “was the one who told us exactly what you were.”
Sudden light flooded the cell accompanied by the sound of wood smashing against brick and for a second Darla was blinded. She covered her eyes, pushing her demonic countenance aside in favour of less sensitive human vision, and found herself staring at familiar twisted features bathed in guttering yellow torchlight.
“Francesco.”
“Darla,” the other vampire acknowledged. “It has been many years.”
“At least a century,” she agreed, her mind working furiously. As one of Luke’s making, Francesco would only be reduced to the role of guard if he had transgressed. Unless, of course, the Master still held Darla close to his heart. “Did I ever thank you for coming to my aid in Rome?”
“You did,” he said and then added with a lascivious leer, “Not that I would complain if you chose to do it again.”
Smiling winsomely, Darla wrapped a single curl around her finger and said, “It could be arranged. Once you’ve brought myself and the girl something to eat.”
Francesco’s gaze flickered toward Drusilla and darkened with hunger. So, the lout would prefer another’s attentions would he? Darla pressed her perceived advantage. “I ask more for her than myself. She was grievous injured and needs blood to heal.”
“I can smell it,” Francesco agreed, flicking his long dark hair from his face and dropping his demonic appearance. “Is she one of yours?”
Tricky question. There was no way for Darla to truly know whether this was someone down on his luck and so open to manipulation, or a spy sent by her sire. She opted to tell the truth. “No. She is one of Angelus’, however he still answers to me. Why do you ask?”
“They say she is a seer. Can read portents and work magics.”
Darla shrugged. “Not magics that I know of, but she does have visions of varying accuracy. Enough to make it useful to keep her around.”
For a few moments Francesco studied Drusilla in silence and then he nodded decisively and turned to Darla. “I will see what I can do,” he said. “It is not impossible to find you blood.”
With that, he left, closing the door behind them and plunging the cell into darkness once more.
**
It may be a capital city packed to the gunnels with historical architecture and dragging itself into the modern era by the bootstraps, but Vienna still had its underbelly. Dark mean streets where beggars starved for want of charity and whores of both sexes sold themselves for small change.
Spike stripped the body and replaced his own thin woollen trousers and torn cotton shirt with the serviceable leather and cord of his victim. The man’s blood had been rich and hot, a veritable feast after an abstemious journey through the countryside. Snatching travellers sounded good in theory but in Spike’s experience humans had a tendency to make for the nearest inn at sundown and not venture out until it was light, hence his almost empty belly and the lingering flavour of squirrel.
Using the knife he’d found in the satchel the man carried, Spike slit the human’s throat; sawing at the flesh and leaving a long jagged wound that covered the marks left by his fangs then tipped the body into the canal. If he was lucky this would be credited to an opportunistic thief, not a vampire, and keep his cover in Vienna intact. Added to that, his new clothing should allow him to wander the streets with impunity; there was so much building work going on in the city right now, one more leather-jerkined labourer would raise no eyebrows wherever he went. Now all he needed was a plan.
Three days later he was still without.
The daylight hours he spent curled in a defensive ball in cellars and lofts surrounded by wine bottles and the scent of mothballs, the places vampires typically avoided as they ran the risk of unwanted human contact. At night he wandered the city, hoping to find some clue as to exactly where the Master’s lair lay and how he may break in. He’d had several close calls with minions, only pure luck enabling him to slip away unnoticed, and they all ran in packs so he couldn’t even catch one and the torture the information out of it.
Crouching high up on the opera house looking down on the Ringstrasse below, Spike scanned the crowds for vampires. This was where Darla had left them last year, when the family had come to court, so in theory this was his best chance of locating the entrance to the Master’s demesne.
“They say everything comes to she who waits,” a voice speaking flawless French piped up behind him. Spike jumped, swung round and grabbed his knife, flashing the blade at the approaching vampire. She stayed back, deep in the shadows, invisible to human eyes and circled warily. Sniffing the air, Spike narrowed his eyes. Young. Younger than him, even. Perhaps no more than weeks from her grave.
“I’m no easy meal, demon,” he threw out. “Find another, eh. Less likely to hack your head off.”
“That is no local accent,” she countered venturing forwards into the light. Her dark hair was swept back from her face, exposing a low cut gown and the long lines of her pale neck. No question as to why this one had been turned.
“No more than yours,” Spike growled, and then added in English, “Bloody French whores getting underfoot.” The moment the words were out of his mouth, he realised his mistake. The girl froze, staring at him and then opened her mouth releasing an animalistic but unmistakable alarm call.
Spike attacked, slashing across her neck with the knife and cutting off the scream in mid-utterance. Blood bubbled from the young vampire’s throat and onto his hand, a slick coating that made the knife impossible to wield. It skittered from his grasp and he resorted to more direct measures, bracing himself and ripping the fledge’s head from her body. The dust had no sooner coated his hands than an answering cry went up from the street and the hunt was on.
There was no time to think about where or why, only to run, so that’s what he did. Taking to the roofs Spike endeavoured to stay ahead, leaping the gaps between buildings and cursing silently whenever a missed footing made it a scramble to stay upright. Shouts and hollers came from way behind but they were meant purely as a distraction. The experienced trackers would be closer, so close Spike could feel them breathing down his neck and the sharp seeds of panic burgeoned in his chest. They were going to catch him. It didn’t matter how far or fast he ran, they would stay on his scent waiting for dawn when he would have to go to ground and find shelter. Then he’d be lost. Somehow he had to shake them.
Angelus’ lessons snapped into sharp focus and, as he allowed his body to do what it needed, Spike could finally think as he ran, his mentor’s voice ringing in his head. “Stay on their scent, boy. Remember it, let it fill you. There’s precious little that will hide it once you have them. Water, maybe a tannery or factory making dyes. If you lose them without I’ll break your legs and leave you out to dry in the sun.”
Factories were out of the question; they all lay beyond the centre of the city, squatting in homage to the magnificence of the architecture within. Water, however, was easier to find. Unfortunately that meant he was heading the wrong way around the Ringstrasse.
Swerving deliberately into the path of one dark figure, Spike knocked the minion clear off the roof and followed him down, landing astride the hulking body and cracking him over the head with a hunk of cornice. It gave him a window of time to get across the boulevard and he took it, dodging through the theatre goers and sophisticates as though the hounds of hell were after him. He headed towards St. Stephen’s. The canal was closer but that would mean backtracking and the sheer number of pursuers made it impossible; they would capture him before he could break through the line.
They were closing in from each side, faster than he was, older and stronger. Ahead the cathedral loomed large, an eternal stone edifice flanked by shadows full of hands waiting to grab and tear if he strayed to close. There was no time for hesitation, no time for indecision and if he couldn’t move the bloody mountain, he’d have to scale it.
Leaping high, Spike swung his body up and up again, scaling the monumental frontage with consummate ease; the best part of a year running with Angelus as they hunted Tyrans through Germany paying off at last. The stone was warm under his hands, holding the heat of the sun until the early morning chill forced every last trace out into the unforgiving air. He slipped only the once, when he inadvertently touched a cross grasped in a saint’s sculpted hand, the burn from the holy shape sending slivers of pain through his body as he continued his climb.
When he finally reached the top he spared a second to glance behind. His hunters were swarming up after him, insect forms traversing the sheer walls as though they were taking the simplest of Sunday strolls. A round dozen at least, too many to take on alone, so he continued to run, crossing the narrow catwalk and scrambling up onto the tiled roof. The gap between his perch and the spire had to be a good twenty feet and he had to make it from a standing start. He landed, scrabbled and slipped, scraping his face and fingers on the harsh stone and leaving a good deal of skin behind before his feet connected with the hood moulding of an arched window. That graced him enough grip to risk swinging down and through, coloured glass spattering out under the impact of his boots and dusting the floor. Only spotting the altar at the last second, Spike twisted catlike in mid-air, pushing against nothingness to avoid a selection of golden crosses, bibles and embroidered cloths.
Staggering to his feet, he reeled, assailed on all sides by Christian iconography and he covered his eyes, trying to sense where he was and where to run. It didn’t work, there was too much, filling his head and pulling him apart from the inside. Dizzy and disorientated he staggered, falling to his knees and a strange sound broke from his throat, a low keening of an animal in distress. How long he remained there, curled on the cruel floor his arms wrapped around his head, he didn’t know but none followed; the hideousness of this place was enough to keep them at bay.
***
“It has been five days, Sire, and still no word.”
The Master glared down at the scrawny minion cowering at his feet. The lowest of the low, this one, obviously sent with the news on the certain belief that it would be ripped apart for its trouble. He flicked a casual finger and it scrambled to its feet, showing itself to be female and, presumably fairly bright.
“Your name,” he asked.
“Suzette,” she answered, gaze fixed firmly on her feet as the Master looked her up and down.
“And why were you chosen to bring this news?”
Risking a glance up, the minion caught her sovereign’s eye and her own expression hardened from resignation to determination. “I was chosen, Sire because they said I was not likely to be missed.”
“Ah,” the Master nodded. “Expendable.”
“Yes, Sire,” she agreed.
“And do you feel expendable, Suzette?”
“No, Sire.” Pushing her shoulders back, the young minion took a deep breath and added, “I believe we should all have a fair chance, and it’s not my fault that Angelus has yet to be found. I have not been permitted to join the hunt.”
“You have listened to rumours, though, about Angelus and the other.”
“I have heard tell that the hunters chased an English vampire matching your description into St Stephen’s last night, where none dared follow after him. It is said he vanished into ashes when his feet came in contact with the holiest ground.” The Master pooh-poohed that idea, gesturing for her to continue, which she did. “I have served those who have scoured the city from top to bottom, and still have no clue as to Angelus’ whereabouts, and I think it unlikely he will now be found,” she answered.
The Master smiled and tapped his finger against his lips. “Tell me, girl,” he said. “If I gave you the chance, what would you do?”
It was a trap that was as likely to kill her as it was save her, so there was no point in being coy. “I would make use of all your assets, Sire.”
“My assets? And what would they be, pray.”
This was the point at which braver minions capitulated, but Suzette refused to be deterred. “I am nothing, Sire,” she began. “Turned to be little more than a pretty face and someone to clean and do for others. They don’t see me; unless they need something I am invisible. But I listen. When the others talk, I listen and I piece together what is said.”
The Master nodded, fascinated despite himself. This could well be the new angle he had been searching for; certainly the others had turned up nothing of use in the past few days.
“I heard Mistress Darla is not your only childe, that you sired another, Joshua, who now resides in London.”
“If you know that, you also know he is exiled from this court and that his name is not to be spoken,” the Master snarled. “I should have your head for such temerity, girl.”
Suzette fell to the floor, prostrating herself at her sovereign’s feet. “Master, if that is what you must do, then do it. But first, let me explain.”
It would cost him nothing, the Master decided. And if the idea turned out to be worthless he could at least garner a few hours of enjoyment by ripping the youngster limb from limb. “Speak,” he said finally.
“London was not taken by the Tyrans. Joshua held it and he did it in the name of Aurelius. Sire, he could be of use to you. He and Angelus have a truce.”
***
Strong arms enfolded him and Spike fought instinctively to get away from the perceived threat.
“Stop it, boy,” a voice growled in his ear and Spike nearly collapsed in relief.
“Angelus!” he answered, squirming around so he faced his mentor, his hands flying up to flutter over Angelus’ face, not able to trust his own eyes. “You’re alive. Thank Christ. I thought you were dead.”
Angelus chuckled tolerantly and grasped Spike’s arms. “Still dead. But not ashes. How are you feeling?”
“Fine. I’m fine…” Suddenly realising he was no longer on the floor of the cathedral, Spike peered around, trying to ascertain precisely where they were. If he didn’t know that Angelus would rather be dust than be found in one, he’d say they were in a coffin. “Where are we?”
“St Stephen’s,” Angelus replied, releasing his hold on Spike and rolling onto his back.
“St. Stephen’s? Is this… Is this a coffin?”
“Sarcophagus.”
“Why - Ow!” Spike had sat up sharply and banged his head on the lid. Rubbing at the offended spot, he flopped back down and twisted so he was half on top of Angelus and could see his face. “What the hell are we doing in a coffin?”
“Marshalling our forces.”
Spike studied Angelus’ carefully neutral expression in silence for a moment and then grinned wickedly. “That a posh way of saying we’re hiding?”
He received a cuff round the head for impudence but it was worth it because the ridiculousness of the whole situation made him laugh, and then laugh some more, until he was holding his stomach and gasping for air, until tears ran down his cheeks and suddenly he wasn’t sure if he was laughing or crying. Everything that had happened, was still happening; the fact that Angelus was alive, that there was no sign of Dru or Darla, that they were being hunted, that they were pariahs, outcasts. That he was still alive, that he hadn’t burned up in the sun, or been ripped apart by the pack. That he had found Angelus and now he was safe. Safe. Finally safe.
Heavy hands stroking his hair brought Spike back to reality and he immediately pushed away from Angelus’ embrace, jamming himself, half sitting and half slumped, back against the side of the sarcophagus. He swiped at his eyes, annoyed and embarrassed that he had cried in front of Angelus. Typically such a display would have earned him untold levels of torment for weakness but, for once, Angelus overlooked it, averting his gaze as Spike scrubbed the hated tears from his cheeks.
“You’re too thin,” Angelus said eventually, indicating Spike’s concave stomach where he had pulled his shirt up to use as a handkerchief.
“Yeah, well. Squirrel’s not much of a meal and the humans weren’t exactly queuing up to be eaten.”
Spike went to tuck his shirt back in but was stopped by Angelus’ hand on his chest. “It’s more than that, Will. What happened in Hamburg? And what are you doing here?”
What to tell him? The shortened less painful story, wherein Spike was merely packed off to Vienna to rejoin the other traitorous members of his family, or the full version, complete with humiliating details about how he’d gotten lost and been taken down so easily.
He rubbed the side of his nose and stared at Angelus’ ear. “Was on my way out of town when Ahren’s boys jumped me. Next thing I know, I’m on my way here. Tucked up nice as you like in the back of a train. Lucky for me, they weren’t paying much attention and I made a break for it. Only came here to pick up a ride back to London. Thought I’d throw my hand in with Nicci, seeing as how they offered sanctuary and such.”
Angelus ceased his insistent rubbing over the slowly fading scars on Spike’s skin and raised a quizzical eyebrow. “And these?” he asked. “Were these part of your grand adventure?”
“T’was daylight when I escaped the train and I had to take a plunge into the river to keep from burning up,” Spike reported matter of factly. His body, on the other hand, betrayed him quite eloquently, shuddering in remembered agony.
“Ah, lad,” Angelus offered. “There’s naught quite so bad as the burning. Eats you up from the inside out, pain-wise. And that was how many days ago?” The bleached out scars attested to a reasonable rate of healing, though Angelus couldn’t help but be a little concerned. If Spike was all he had on his side, the young vampire needed to be fit for a hard fight.
“Five, six. Could be as long as a week. I…” Spike swallowed hard as Angelus began to stroke again, his thumb now rubbing over Spike’s nipple. “I spent a bit of time in the river. Till the skin started coming back.”
“And the rest of you? Is that as well healed?” Angelus’ hand dropped to the top of Spike’s trousers and started to flick open the buttons.
“Y-yes.”
“I want to be sure.”
When the hand slipped inside and enclosed his rapidly hardening length, all Spike could do was roll his head against the rough stone and groan. It had been too long since Angelus had touched him – months in fact. Not since the last time they were in Vienna. During the long war with the Tyrans both males had fallen back on the company of their women, Angelus arguing that it was the safest way to ensure Spike’s standing with the minions. But, god, he’d missed this. Dru’s small hands couldn’t begin to compete with Angelus’ huge ones and the way they made Spike feel; like he was being owned, possessed.
“Like that do you?”
A tighter grip and sharp tug indicated that Spike was actually supposed to answer and he managed to gasp, “Yeah,” before Angelus shifted onto his side and propped himself on one elbow.
“Lose the breeches, Will,” Spike was told, and he struggled to remove them, wriggling like a landed trout to comply in such a restricted space. When they were gone, Angelus heaved him up, turning him round and squashing him into the corner on his knees, nails digging into the stone to steady himself. How the hell Angelus was going to fuck him in the position Spike wasn’t sure, but he was willing to be pleasantly surprised.
Firm hands parted his cheeks and Spike braced himself, knowing that this was likely to be fast and painful. He was so certain that, when a wet tongue laved over his hole, pressing briefly inside, he yelped, bobbed up and banged his head again.
“There have been others,” Angelus growled. “I thought I scented something but the taste…” A heavy hand landed on Spike’s neck and squeezed. “Who, boy? Tell me who.”
Spike shivered in humiliation and answered quietly, “Ahren. The minions. Said it was because of you. A message for you.”
“How many?” Angelus growled again and Spike closed his eyes, forcing himself to focus on the faces without the sensations. There were too many; skipping across his mind’s eye full of sneers and laughter, calling him whore and bitch.
“Ten, maybe. Don’t rightly remember.”
The growl became a snarl and Spike suddenly found his face mashed against the stone with Angelus’ tongue plunging deep inside him once again. Slick with blood and saliva, it pried him open, washing him clean in places he hadn’t been able to reach no matter how many times he had dived into flooding rivers and glacial streams on the journey to Vienna. His fangs ached and dropped as his arousal peaked, his cock pulsing and filling the cramped tomb with the good clean scent of family.
Angelus didn’t stop. Even when Spike spilled a second time and, squirming from over sensitivity, pleaded that ‘No, please. He couldn’t, not again,’ Angelus continued to work him with mouth and hands, and Spike discovered that, yes, actually he could and did.
His was virtually unconscious by the time Angelus pulled him down and covered him, replacing tongue with steel hard cock. But, as he rode yet another climax, beyond anything more than slight twitches and a trickle of come, Spike heard the words, “Mine” and “Family” whispered in his ear, and felt them cleanse his heart as Angelus’ fluids scoured his body.
It was fate, luck and pure coincidence that had brought the boy to St Stephens, Angelus thought as he fucked, straining towards his orgasm. In such a city they could have wandered alone for days without discovering each other. High in the north tower the Pummerin began to toll and shuffling feet entering the cathedral above heralded the start of the evening service. As he shuddered into the lax body beneath him, Angelus could not help but reflect on the delicious irony; nothing topped coming during the Evening Angelus with the sounds of the Ave Maria swelling in his ears.
**
The toddler was hardly enough to whet Darla’s appetite but she allowed Drusilla the most of it, reluctantly resigning herself to devouring the drained carcass, desperate for the drops of blood congealing in its dead muscle and tissue. The girl’s need was greater and, frankly, Darla hoped to use her madness as a way of escaping this mess. If she could just convince her sire that the babe was taken to fulfil a higher purpose and would thus be kept safe from demonic hands, maybe he could be persuaded to let them go. After the appropriate penalties had been paid, of course.
Darla shuddered at the thought of bedding the Master again, at least on his
terms. She’d been top dog in her family for so long it would be an effort to
submit and open her legs for him now, and knowing she would get pleasure from
it at the time was scant comfort. Pushing such depressing thoughts from her
mind, she continued to clean her hands and face, listening with half an ear
to Drusilla’s ramblings, and allowed her mind to plot and plan.