Drusilla’s scream pierced the stagnant air, all but drowning out the final words
of the sentence and, before anyone could react, she threw herself at the Master
clutching his arms and chest and babbling, “The devil will tiptoe in and sweep
us away. Girls like tissue paper and hunger that munches and munches until nothing
is left. Only my Sweet Willie can burn properly to stop the devils.”
Spike went slack in the minions’ grip. Behind him a whispered conversation started up, Angelus and Darla, their voices swelling and receding irrelevantly as his brain refused to process anything beyond disbelief. Mercy, it seemed, was not written large in Aurelian law.
“Sire?” Darla dragged herself to her feet and stood proud. “I would claim a life, my lord,” she said, “and call upon Luke, your seneschal, to provide that life for me.”
Tossing the weeping Drusilla back into Dracula’s arms, the Master looked at his eldest askance. Luke, after a momentary frown of confusion, clarified, “It was in Paris, sire. The claim is valid and I shall honour it.”
“Why waste such a valuable commodity?” The Master felt forced to ask. “Surely this,” he toed Spike distastefully, “contemptible piece of meat is unworthy of any consideration?”
Darla shuffled forwards to the extent of her chains and pinned the Master with a defiant gaze. “I ask not for him, sire,” she answered, “but for us all. The girl is indeed insane and much of what she says is no more than the gibberings of a madwoman, however there is often truth in her words and she has spoken of this before.” Taking a deep breath, Darla bowed her head and said, “My lord, I am willing to stake all on the truth of her words. For the sake of the Order and your own survival, I humbly beg you to grant this boon.” With that she returned to her place at Angelus’ side.
The Master considered the fledgling in silence. Was he really worth saving? It was doubtful, but on the other hand, he could hardly claim Drusilla as a seer for the Order if he disregarded her words when they were inconvenient. In an ideal world, he would have liked to take the time to decide, but expectation was running high in the room and if he failed to satisfy it with some sport, the likelihood for deadly violence was high.
“I cannot reverse the sentence,” he decided finally, and then continued over Drusilla’s renewed wails, “Aurelius himself dictated the punishment when pledges were first taken.”
“Cousin -” Dracula interjected only to be waved to silence as the Master spoke again.
“Also none will convince of this creature’s worth above that of a casual plaything, despite the maunderings of a seer. However…” he paused dramatically.
And Joshua breathed into the silence, “Trial by Ordeal.”
Shouts and denials erupted around the room and amidst the confusion, Spike felt the magic around him fail. He lurched to his feet, smacking a minion in the face with the back of his head and swinging his chained hands to catch another in the gut. Retaliation was immediate and unforgiving and, as random punches landed driving breath from his body, he witnessed Angelus shrugging off Darla’s restraining hand and bellowing, “Never! That’s not a life, tis no more than a filthy cheat!”
“Enough!” the Master roared, the power of his voice bringing stone dust raining down on the crowd’s heads and cowing them to silence. “I have spoken. The boy will face the ordeal and every one of you will comply or kiss daylight! It begins in one hour. Make preparations.”
**
Whatever the ordeal was, preparations consisted mainly of half the minions vanishing and the remainder scurrying around like headless chickens. Spike lay quietly nursing his bruised ribs and watching as Ahren strutted around Angelus, ignoring the yellow eyed snarls and speaking about him like a piece of prime livestock. There was no doubt how Ahren saw his period of mastery, but Spike doubted Angelus would allow it. If Ahren was lucky the stake would be quick.
“Up,” a minion commanded, yanking on the chains. Spike staggered to his feet and shivered as his clothing was cut away with a knife. It seemed the ordeal needed him naked, which didn’t bode well for him retaining his skin.
They chained him to a pillar close to Angelus and Darla’s but too far away to speak to them. Not that Spike wanted to. Their decision to spend a life on him was confusing and if he was going to survive this he couldn’t afford think about anything except himself. He just wished he knew what was coming. Everyone else did and the self-doubt which had plagued William for all his short life was rearing its ugly head again.
“This trial-?” he began, only to be silenced with a stunning backhanded blow across the face. Speaking was forbidden, then. Maybe it would be possible to pick up clues from the preparations.
It appeared to be chaos, with no rhyme nor reason to the goings on. A group of minions were erecting a stone just in front of the dais. It was huge with two holes through the width of it at shoulder height like a primitive set of stocks. Were they going to throw rotten fruit at him? That didn’t seem likely.
It seemed even less likely when the ugly bastard, whom Spike remembered was called Luke, re-entered the chamber swinging what appeared to be horsewhip.
The stone was a whipping post.
By the time the hour was up, Spike had seen enough to last him for eternity. Luke was a dab hand with the whip, cracking it into the air and sending minions diving for the ground as it passed over their heads. One wasn’t fast enough and she came up with a slice across her face that would take days to heal.
Spike shuddered. Angelus had taken the belt to him once or twice and that had been bad enough, but, despite threatening it, he’d never used a whip. Spike couldn’t imagine the level of pain involved in a whipping. He knew sailors and slaves survived it though and told himself that, if humans did, then so could he.
“Do not speak, nor yet move.” A voice, no more than a growl, came from behind him and, despite the instinct to look, Spike sat tight.
“There is little time but I will advise you as I can.”
It was Joshua, Spike realised, and judging by the tugs on the chains, he was using that as a cover for passing on information. Grateful for any attempt to help him, Spike leaned back, pressing into hands that gently stroked his wrists.
“Do not panic, that is most important. You must stay in control. And remember to pay obeisance to the Master. Crawl if you must, but do it or he will never acknowledge you.”
The hands vanished, as did the presence, leaving Spike more confused than before. He felt like there was a rulebook somewhere that he should have read but no one saw fit to tell him about it.
“Tacet!” and the trial convened once more. The Master retook his seat on the dais and, at his gesture, two minions released Spike’s chains and led him over to the whipping post.
Between them, the minions threaded his hands through the holes, pushing him tightly against the rough stone until he was embracing it and then one held his arms together at the wrists and elbows. Spike expected to be chained again, but he wasn’t.
Instead, another minion stepped forward and Spike screamed as she drove a shaft of metal through his forearms. He struggled, trying to pull back, to get away from the pain, but the metal pinned him in place more effectively than any links. Even the slightest movement made the metal shift and grind against bone.
‘Control.’ Joshua’s words were the only thing to get through. And Spike fought to retain it. Joshua knew what Spike could stand, had watched him recover from the agony of the pot, and if he believed, then Spike had to believe as well.
Now his struggles became for control. Mashing his tongue between his fangs, he sought to chase the agony away with a smaller self-inflicted pain. It worked, to a limited extent, though when the first stripe exploded across his back, it was all Spike could do not to rip his own arms apart to get away.
**
It was a dammed filthy trick calling this a life. Angelus wrapped his fingers around the chains securing him to the pillar and yanked in a futile gesture of protest. Only half a dozen vampires had survived the ordeal to his knowledge and they were older, well past their fledgling years. Will didn’t stand a cat in hells’ chance.
Still and all, Angelus couldn’t look away. There was something about the way his boy reacted as each lash fell, the way he twisted his pert backside as though begging to be fucked. The blood wasn’t helping either. Scarlet rivulets now described each cut, running together and forming a stream that disappeared between Will’s buttocks, and Angelus wanted to pry them apart and sup every drop from that table.
His table.
They were destroying his boy. And that was Angelus’ prerogative. Ignoring Darla’s frantic attempts to calm him, Angelus began thrashing in his chains. Free and he would destroy them, rip them apart for daring to trespass against his property. Free and he would make every one of them pay.
The cudgel to the back of his head put a rapid stop to those dreams. As did Joshua’s hissed, “Keep still, you fool. You cannot help him now. Do you wish the Master to rescind his order?”
That oily drop of reality calmed Angelus’ fury. He had agreed to abide by the Master’s judgement and, by god, he would. But he couldn’t abandon his charge completely.
“Bide with him?” he asked Joshua. “Tell him what he needs to know. And I will reward you well.”
Joshua nodded and rose to his feet to return to his place at the Master’s side. As he moved away, Angelus’ view of the whipping post was once more unimpeded.
**
The whipping went on for hours, or seemed to. At fifty lashes he lost count and, somewhere near a hundred, he lost consciousness, only to be brought round by a bucket of water over his head. It started again, and it was at that point that Spike realised the pain was actually subsiding. He could feel blood dripping down his legs, but it was a slow seep now rather than the torrents which followed the first few blows, and the flesh in his mouth lacked even that.
“Enough!” Tinny and far away, the Master’s command came, and there was another jerk to Spike’s arms as the shaft was tugged free. He slid to the floor, rubbery legs unable to hold his weight, and for a second he lay there trying to get his bearings. Dizzily, he recognized the same dreamlike state he had fallen into when being boiled and fought to retain consciousness. If he allowed control to slip away now, he would never manage to reach the Master and beg acknowledgement.
“Take him. The second part of the ordeal will now commence.”
“What?” Spike mumbled, trying and failing to lift his sandbag head from the ground. More? How could there be more? Wasn’t losing his skin enough for these bastards?
Apparently not. None too gentle hands lifted him and, as his head lolled, the world moved in jarring fast paces.
It was night. Outside. The stars glistened, the river stank of the dye factories and Spike couldn’t move.
They dropped him and he rolled – flopped – over on his back and stared up at the sky once more. Right over his head Ursa Major stared back mournfully and he tried to remember how to find the North Star. Some sort of straight line from the bottom, wasn’t it? Or was it the top? He couldn’t remember and it seemed vital that he did.
A gigantic head blocked his view and he muttered in protest. If he couldn’t see the stars then how would he know where he was going?
“Spike?” Something shook his shoulder and this time the sound he made was more like a whimper. “Spike? William? Listen to me!”
The urgency broke through and Spike crossed his eyes as he focused in on the face above him. Lank blond hair, high brow, patrician nose. All that added up to someone familiar. Joshua, that was it. With a manful effort, Spike managed to curl his lacerated lips into a smile.
Joshua smiled back and touched a finger to the end of Spike’s nose. “You are doing well. Just remember, do not feed as you will but kill them all first. You will need the blood for strength, not to heal. Do not waste any. Healing can come later.”
And he was gone. Spike grimaced. He was really starting to hate these cryptic comments. Why couldn’t someone just tell him what was going to happen? Life would be so much easier.
A boot against his shoulder pushed him sideward and he rolled again, this time onto nothing and fell at least six foot to land, thankfully, on something padded. Or at least thankfully until he manoeuvred painfully onto his back and realised where he was. In a coffin. At the bottom of a grave and in a fucking coffin!
No sooner had he got his elbows under him and forced himself upright, than the same two minions who had been pulling him around all night jumped into the grave and shoved him back down.
“Stay,” one growled and stood on Spike’s face to ensure he got the hint.
“Wasn’t planning on going anywhere,” Spike grumbled into the sole.
In an act of gravity defying athleticism, the minion managed to stamp on Spike’s nose and close the coffin lid at the same time. Spike was ready to scream blue bloody murder but there was a hole over his face. Only a small one, granted, but enough to see through and certainly for them to hear him through, and Spike was damned if he’d give anyone upstairs the pleasure of hearing him crack. They could hear the wood crack instead.
He pressed his hands against the lid and shoved, expecting to feel the wood give against his palms. It didn’t. It remained solid and depressingly immovable. The whipping had left him too weak to smash his way out. Was this the second part of the ordeal then? To be buried alive – or undead. Would they dig him up in a month to see if he was as crazy as Dru? Something about that idea didn’t feel right. Why have a window in a coffin? It had to be there for some reason.
Earth pattered against the lid, some splattering onto his face and he tried moving, tried stretching out and flexing his arms. He couldn’t, the walls were too close, pressing his elbows against his bruised ribs and for the first time, Spike was grateful that Dru hadn’t given him a proper burial. If she had, this would have been a thousand times more terrifying, he was sure. As it was, Spike knew he was close to panic, his breath catching in his throat as he fought the claustrophobia that came with the mere thought of being buried alive. Clawing his hands into his thighs, he closed his eyes against the stars and listened to the sound of slowly receding shovels.
It went on longer than the whipping, or seemed to. Yet his window on the world never disappeared nor did the ever present whiff of fresh air and rank sodden grave soil. There had to be something covering the hole, something leading up to the surface. Was that where they would feed him? Was that the test? Or would they leave it open as the sun rose and let him burn.
Christ! He had to stop thinking like that. What had Joshua said? ‘Control’, ‘don’t panic’, and something about eating them all at once. Eat all what at once?
That question was answered by something warm and furry with sharp feet landing on his face, closely followed by a second, third and fourth. The rats screeched and scrabbled, their claws raking scratches over his eyelids and cheeks, but Spike hardly felt them. The scent of hot living blood was too strong, and his demon burst forth desperate to assuage the bloodlust in his drained body.
He managed to grab one and sank his fangs through matted fur to get at the flesh below. The blood was strong, gamy, but tasted like the finest meal Spike could remember eating. It was hot buttered toast on a Sunday afternoon, mulled wine and plum pudding at Christmas. It was chicken soup and Lancashire hotpot. Roast beef and blancmange. And he could feel his injuries starting to heal from the mouthful he’d consumed.
Healing. Healing. Joshua had said something about healing. About not healing now, but later.
It took every ounce of self-control to remove the rat from his mouth, and he lay there panting as he tried to think past the hunger. More rats had joined the first four and they ran over him squeaking and scraping at the coffin sides. One nibbled his toe and he kicked at it, feeling the soft carcass crush under his foot. Tentatively, and avoiding the others as best he could, Spike reached for it, using his knee to push it close enough to grab. It was still warm, but dead. If he ate it now and then tried to catch another then the blood would heal him. But he would still be weak. Was that what Joshua had been saying? He had to kill them all first and then drain them, or he would be trapped, healed and whole but still as weak as a day old chick six feet under the ground. And if any of the rats survived… Christ! It would eat him alive and there would be bugger all he could do to stop it.
Another sharp bite on his knee and Spike decided he had nothing to lose. Using feet, knees, elbows and hands, he set about killing as many rats as he could. Intelligent beasties that they were, they soon cottoned on and started to fight back, biting any parts of him they could reach and scratching great gouges into his belly and chest.
Spike didn’t care, he couldn’t afford to. Whatever damage he suffered now would heal when he reached the surface. All that mattered was killing enough to give him the strength to escape. As each tiny heart beat faster, his demon wanted to feed, wanted to rip the creatures apart and drink until there was nothing left. But Spike controlled it. Fought it back with everything he had. This he could do. This he understood. This was saving the live rabbits for Dru and not eating the baby. This was what he was.
There had to be thirty of them, at least, and the bodies ended up wedged around Spike’s head, jammed against the sides as he twisted and squirmed to get the last few that had retreated down to the far end of the coffin. Finally he tried a different tack, lying still and wriggling his fingers until they came to him thinking he was a tasty meal. Then he grabbed them and snapped their necks, silencing their pathetic screams with one quick flick of his fingers.
Only when they were all dead did he dare feed, draining them one after another and gulping down the cooling blood so fast he hardly tasted it.
It healed him, he could feel it. But it also filled him with vigour. As the last twitching carcass fell from his fingers, Spike pressed his hands against the coffin lid and shoved. This time the wood cracked and splintered. He shoved again, and earth cascaded through the splits. Again and there was a hole. Frantically, he punched at the splintering wood, his knuckles tearing down to the bone. He had to get out. He had to reach the surface before his body used up its feeble supplies on healing and left him trapped in this box under six feet of soil.
Earth poured in on top of him, covering his face and filling his eyes and mouth. Blinded, he continued to pound at the wood and shovel soil down by touch alone. It took forever to make a hole big enough to sit up in, and at least then he could shake the dirt from his face. But he couldn’t afford to rest. Even now, Spike could feel his skin knitting together and with every passing second his body would use more precious energy for the wrong ends.
The next attempt to dig brought the whole lot down of top of him, and suddenly Spike was drowning in earth. It was all around him, top to tail, wrapping him in damp cloying stickiness that dragged against his limbs as he thrashed to get free. No up, no down. No sight, no sound. Just blackness that clung and a body wooden with lethargy and fear. He was trapped. He was going to end caught between madness and freedom, unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to do anything but go insane.
Finally his feet hit something solid, and he was off again; swimming in soil, arms digging like a dogs’, legs frogging to push himself onward. Forever and eternity it took, inches at a time. Panic tightly leashed with iron self control. Determination to survive his only spur.
Then freedom.
The earth birthed him. Like a mud worm he burrowed free, arms first, then – thank all the deities who had ever existed – his head, shoulders, body and legs. Shaking, panting, shocked, he curled around himself, willing the panic gone and trying to convince himself that it was over.
But it wasn’t, was it. The final task still remained and, as the terror receded, Joshua’s words returned. ‘Remember to pay obeisance to the Master.’
Summoning the last of his reserves, Spike heaved to his knees and peered around the predawn graveyard. There, a hundred or so yards away, safe in the entrance to an impressive crypt stood a crowd. That was where he needed to be.
Moving in air seemed easy after struggling through soil and he scrambled the first few yards, swiftly covering the distance. Then his strength failed, the blood exhausted, and he plunged face first into the grass.
‘Crawl if you must, but do it or he will never acknowledge you.’
Crawling it was then. Painful by fucking agonizing inch, Spike wormed over ancient graves and through patches of nettles, clawing into long grass and weed alike as he dragged himself along. He would not fail. Never had, never would.
Finally, bare earth and black boots. And he was there. He’d done it. Survived the ordeal. And if they told him to crawl back and start over, he’d do it with a gleeful laugh. Struggling the extra needed inch, Spike clambered to his knees and placed a kiss on the polished leather. Obeisance paid.
“Congratulations. It seems I underestimated you.”
Head wrenched back, Spike stared up into the Master’s face. The bastard was smiling. He’d be smiling on the other side of his face, Spike decided, once Spike had a decent meal inside him. Show the bastard then.
“Who stands as sire to this one?”
This was Angelus’ cue to intercede and then Spike could leave. They could go to Rome or Paris or… No, Darla was in Paris.
And then Spike remembered. He wasn’t the only one sentenced. Angelus to Hamburg, Darla to Paris and Drusilla, his beautiful deadly sire, to Dracula’s embrace.
“My lord, I will.”
Joshua stepped forward and Spike felt like hugging him. They may have had their ups and downs, what with kidnappings and boilings and such, but Joshua came with Nicci, and Nicci was a good bloke. Maybe Joshua would take him to London? There were much worse fates.
“Childe, you shock me.”
The Master radiated smugness, and something quick and painful stirred in Spike’s belly. The old bat was up to something.
“Is your current pet not enough? Perhaps you should send him to me instead. We could swap and share stories about how well they perform.”
Joshua’s expression set hard and, avoiding Spike’s gaze, he said, “I am sorry, my lord. I was mistaken. I cannot stand sire to this one.”
“What a pity,” the Master said brightly. “Anyone else?”
Silence.
The stars, fading now in the dawning sky, caught Spike’s attention and he found himself searching once again for his polaris. But it was gone. In its place on the horizon pulsed the morning star; Venus, brilliant and bright, and he drank it in, knowing it may be an eternity before he saw her again.
A deep chuckle froze what little remained of the blood in his veins, and then the Master announced, “In that case I will accept the burden myself.” Squatting down, he forced Spike’s head up further and peered at his face. “I can hardly wait to see what makes this one tick,” he continued. “It will be such fun finding out.”
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