Author’s Note: Glad all of you seem to be enjoying this little trip down memory lane. Things are about to get pretty dark, though.

WARNING: This chapter contains scenes of violence.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae and Science

---

---

Credits: This chapter contains dialogue from the episode “Fool For Love” written by Douglas Petrie and Joss Whedon, and “Darla” written by Tim Minear.





Chapter 56

The South Wind



I'm surprised, when I open the door, to find that nothing has changed. Somehow I expected to enter a whole new scene like I did the last time. But no, the bartender is where I left him, and so are the remaining customers. Spike is gone, though, and I follow the tingles through the cafe and into the lobby.

Guess he went up. The elevators don't look all that trustworthy, so instead I take the stairs. They spiral up in a boxy kind of shape, and it takes a couple of floors before I realize that the stairs are changing, widening, less square with landings and more one long spiral. The electric lights on the wall give way to those greeny ones I noticed before, and the air is less smoky and more filled with ... perfume and a sort of weird, vague underlying scent of body odor that makes me wrinkle my nose.

Then I find the people.

And we're back in the Victorian era. I really wish this trip would make up its mind which time period it wants to be.

I can't help but envy the women a little, though. They're all so beautiful and elegant with their intricately done hair and their long evening gowns. I know, I probably would have hated all the weird corsets and petticoats and stuff, but they just look so pretty. I'm kind of glad that I'm all ghosty here, because the leather duster and my heaviest pair of jeans, plus snow boots? So not party attire.

Now I just have to figure out where to find Spike.

I half expect to see him hanging with the boys in the gambling parlor I glimpse off the landing to my left, but the tingles lead me further down the hall to another set of stairs. These are broad, carpeted, and the wood railings are polished until they gleam. From below comes the sound of laughter and talking, glasses clinking and soft music. Down I go.

For a moment I pause on the stairs, wishing that I was in one of those beautiful dresses like the girl next to me. Her hair is a mass of dark curls that must have taken hours to do without the benefits of a curling iron. Unless they had them back then... er... now... er... whatever. It would be wonderful to make a grand entrance like this, looking down at all the men begging for my hand, wondering which of them was the one destined for me.

The tingles tug my attention away from the cluster of men waiting at the bottom of the stairs.

And there he is. Spike. No. William. Sitting across the room, in a light colored suit that stands out amid all the black the guys here are wearing. His hair is a mess of long, tousled golden brown curls and he's wearing glasses. But I can still see his eyes from here and he's looking straight at me, whispering something to himself. Then he looks down at something in his hand and starts writing.

My heart thuds heavily in my chest a few times.

He was meant for you.

I'm not sure how I know, but I'm sure that this William is human, in spite of the tingles. When he gets up and moves toward me, I hurry down the stairs to meet him, almost running into the back of the dark-haired girl who has stopped at the bottom. The crowd here is thick enough that William can't quite get through, and I'm stuck on the stairs. I watch as he circles them for a moment, and then I realize that he's not looking at me.

He's looking at her.

Oh. Right. I'm not really here.

Still, why is he checking her out? She's a total cow.

I finally tune in to what the people are saying. "I mean to point out that it's something of a mystery and the police should keep an open mind," says a slightly older, red-haired woman. She's got a kind of pinchy look to her face that I don't like.

One of the men turns to William, barely concealing a sneer. I frown. Why is he sneering? From what I can see, human William seems like a decent guy. He definitely lacks Spike's arrogance and swagger. And snobby guy's stupid looking mustache. "Ah, William! Favor us with your opinion. What do you make of this rash of disappearances sweeping through our town?" the snooty guy says. "Animals or thieves?"

"I prefer not to think of such dark, ugly business at all," William says. "That's what the police are for. I prefer placing my energies into creating things of beauty."

Okay, so human Spike is... kinda geeky. But, you know, cute geeky. Not... Jonathan geeky.

Of course, bullies the world over being what they are, it doesn't take long before someone sees the walking target in their midst. Snooty guy grabs the paper out of William's hand. "I see," he says. "Well, don't withhold, William."

One of the others laughs. "Yes, rescue us from a dreary topic."

William reaches out a hand, like he's going to stop him, but instead he pulls back. "Careful," he says, a little lamely. "The inks are still wet. Please. It's not finished."

I want to reach out and snatch the paper out of the jerk's hands. Clearly William doesn't want him reading it. But there's nothing I can do.

"Don't be shy," snooty guy smirks, then reads from the paper.

"My heart expands 'tis grown a bulge in'it
inspired by your beauty, effulgent."

"Effulgent?" he laughs, and I really want to punch him. The dark-haired girl looks uncomfortable, too. Maybe she'll stick up for him? But instead she turns and leaves, and after snatching the paper out of the jerk's hands, William goes off after her. I try to edge around the group, but what they say next stops me in my tracks for a second.

"And that's actually one of his better compositions!"

"Have you heard? They call him William the Bloody because of his bloody awful poetry!"

"It suits him. I'd rather have a railroad spike through my head than listen to that awful stuff!"

Oh.

Oh, god. Did he hear?

When I look up, I could swear he meets my eyes for a second. Of course he heard. His jaw clenches, then his eyes squeeze shut in pain. I've seen that look before.

William the Bloody.

Spike.

Poetic Irony.

Several things click in my head at once, and I realize that I have to get to him, like, now.

I push through the crowd. Though they never seem to notice me I somehow manage to get through. Spike is sitting down beside the dark-haired girl who is looking like she'd rather be anywhere but here. I don't really blame her.

"Oh, they're vulgarians," William says, making me wonder what the hell a vulgarian is. "They're not like you and I."

"You and I?" she says, turning to face him, looking... shocked. Then she puts on a determined face that makes Willow's look wishy-washy. "I'm going to ask you a very personal question and I demand an honest answer. Do you understand?"

William nods. God, the way he looks at her...

"Your poetry, it's... they're... not written about me, are they?" the dark-haired girl asks. Is she stupid? Can't she see from the look on his face? His eyes are...

I'd kill to have a man look at me like that.

"They're about how I feel," he says, bravely.

"Yes, but are they about me?" she says, drawing back from him as if she's afraid.

"Every syllable," he says, meaning it.

"Oh, God!" she says, fanning herself like a ninny and turning away from him.

"Oh, I know... it's sudden and... please, if they're no good, they're only words but... the feeling behind them...," William says, and I feel my heart ache for him. I know what's coming. "I love you, Cecily."

"Please stop!" she says, fanning herself harder.

William braces himself, and I want to reach out, touch his shoulder, tell him not to say it. Keep silent. Don't. But I can't, and it's too late. Way, way, way too late.

"I tried, because I was in love, and a bleedin' fool." He pauses and takes a swig of his beer. "She turned me down, of course. I was expecting it, but it still hurt."

"I know I'm a bad poet but I'm a good man and all I ask is that... that you try to see me—"

She turns on him. "I do see you. That's the problem. You're nothing to me, William," she says. His face goes blank as she stands, looking down her nose at him and I want to yell at her. I want to say no, you don't and if you did you wouldn't be such a bitch to him. But I can't. And then she opens her mouth again and says three words that feel like a kick in the chest and a stake through the gut at the same time.

"You're beneath me."

"Come on. I can feel it, Slayer," he says. "You know you want to dance."

And god help me, I do. I want to fight him. I want to kill him. And I want to...

No. Not that. I won't want that.

I have to get out of here.

"Say it's true," I tell him. "Say I do want to."

With a hard shove I push him away. He stumbles, surprised as he hits the ground, staring up at me in shock.

"It wouldn't be you, Spike," I lie. "It would never be you."

I won't give him that satisfaction. Won't let him know he's right. He's a monster, a soulless, evil thing. In his eyes, I can see my own ending-not at the end of my own stake, or the ruthless hands of some slimy demon, not a filthy puddle in a dark cavern. Someday, when I'm done, he'll be there, waiting for me...and I hate that there's a morbid sort of comfort in that.

I dig out the cash I promised him and toss it, uncaring when it scatters. Spike lays there, sprawled at my feet and I suddenly want to hurt him. Hurt him as badly as he hurt me. When the words come, I'm not even sure where they came from, but they seem...appropriate.

"You're beneath me," I tell him, and turn and walk away.

From behind me, I hear him make a noise. A harsh, quick indrawn breath that he lets out like a sob.

I don't turn around.

Oh. God. Why didn't I turn around?

Because I know now that if I had, I'd see what I'm seeing now. Only instead of a sofa, he'd be laying in a filthy alley. Instead of scraps of paper, it would be money. Instead of the light suit and soft hair he'd be wearing black leather and bleach like armor.

This is what Spike protects.

William, who wanted nothing more than for a woman to see him for what he was: a good man who had a problem saying the right thing.

He gets up from the sofa stiffly, then moves toward the stairs. Several people snicker behind their hands as he leaves, noticing the tears that he can't seem to stop from streaking down his face. I swing at them as I go, but my fist passes through them as if I really am a ghost.

Still, it makes me feel better.

I hurry after him up the stairs and through a fancy looking foyer, then out onto the street. Carriages line the street in front of the house, but he ignores them, heading down the sidewalk.

Then time skips slightly and I stagger to a stop, trying to get my bearings. I’m now ahead of him. I can see him coming towards me down the street, but that's not what surprises me.

It's what's coming the other way.

Angel.

No. Not Angel.

Angelus.

Has he always been so big? I mean, he always seemed tall, but this version of him is huge. Maybe it's the long hair, or the great big heavy coat, but he looks about as solid and unyielding as a brick wall. On one arm is Darla, looking blonde and pale and perfect. On the other arm is Drusilla. Ditto, only darker, creepier. Like a pair of porcelain dolls.

"No," Drusilla simpers. "His head's too full of you, grandmother."

Darla looks annoyed, "Stop calling me that." Angelus laughs. It's not a nice laugh.

"Don't be cross," Drusilla says. "I could be your mummy."

How creepy is it that someday she'll be just that, if that little scene in Spike's crypt meant what I think it meant? Angelus just shrugs. "Well, if you're lonely, Dru, why don't you make yourself a playmate?" His accent is really Irish. I guess if Spike can change his accent, it makes sense that Angel might have changed his, too.

Drusilla looks dreamy, like she's going off into her own world again. "I could. I could pick the wisest and bravest knight in all the land - and make him mine forever with a kiss."

And William bumps into Angelus, dropping his papers. He bends and picks them up, then tosses a glance at them over his shoulder. I can see the wet tear marks on his face. "Watch where you're going!" Then he continues on his way. Part of me wants to tell him to go faster. Run harder.

"I ran out," he says, lost in the story now. "Was furious, hurt. Thought my life was over. It was. I just didn't know it yet."

Darla looks over her shoulder at William. "Or you could just take the first drooling idiot that comes along."

Angelus laughs again. Not nice. "You think she'll find a good one?"

"I found you," Darla says as she and Angelus continue on. But Drusilla stays behind, staring after William. Then she follows him.

And, helpless to stop it, I follow her.

***

For some reason time doesn’t ripple now. Instead, one minute I’m walking down the street following Drusilla, and the next we’re in an alleyway somewhere. Mews... isn’t that what Spike called it? William is sitting on some crates, crying, tearing his poems up into tiny little pieces and so upset he never hears Drusilla approach. Not until she starts speaking and I remember that she's totally bonkers.

"And I wonder... what possible catastrophe came crashing down from heaven and brought this dashing stranger to tears?" she murmurs, like it's a line from a play. Oh, please. He's not really going to fall for that, is he?

"Nothing," he says. "I wish to be alone."

"I see you," Drusilla says, and William lifts his head in surprise. "A man surrounded by fools who cannot see his strength, his vision, his glory."

She pauses, then seems to consider. "That and burning baby fish swimming all around your head." Right. Looney Tunes. At least William seems to sense that. He stands up and backs away from her, narrowing his eyes.

"That's quite close enough. I've heard tales of London pickpockets. You'll not be getting my purse, I tell you," he says, but he doesn't look so sure. Maybe he knows what she is, deep down, because this isn't just the fear of a nerdy guy afraid of a girl.

Drusilla smiles at him, then bends down a little so she can look him in the eyes. Which is sort of necessary, since he's trying to look anywhere but at her. "Don't need your purse. Your wealth lies here...," she says, touching his chest, then his head, "and here. In the spirit and... imagination." Her hand drifts down, down to a place where I hope his imagination doesn't live. Only, it's Spike, so, it's entirely possible that it does live in that particular head. Still. How slutty can you get?

"You walk in worlds the others can't begin to imagine," she says softly, and he's totally buying it. Or maybe it's just the way she's feeling him up through his pants.

"Oh, yes!" he says, then seems to catch himself. "I mean, no. I mean... mother's expecting me."

Drusilla stares him in the eyes, almost hypnotizing him as she moves his collar out of the way. She stares at his throat hungrily. "I see what you want. Something glowing and glistening," she murmurs. "Something... effulgent."

Not fair, I want to yell at her. Stupid psychic vampires.

"Effulgent," William whispers, totally caught now. I want to shake him. I want to punch her. I want to break that wooden crate over there into splinters and ram them through her heart.

"Do you want it?" she asks, moving his hand to her chest. Hello? Can we say Victorian ho-bag?

"Oh, yes!" William murmurs. "God, yes."

She looks down at his hand on her breast and smiles, and when she looks back up at him, she's in vamp face.

You know, I thought the Master looked kind of batty, but Drusilla looks like a naked mole rat with a bad wig.

William doesn't scream though. Not yet. Instead he just stares at her, confused, maybe. Surprised. When she bites him, she's not gentle about it and then he yells, but he doesn't push her off. Doesn't even try.

Helpless, I watch her feed. I've never actually watched someone be turned, but I thought they had to be, like, you know, hanging on by their fingernails or something. But William's still pretty with it when she makes him drink from her. Then he collapses back against the wall, his breathing harsh and struggling, his skin pale.

Drusilla waits.

I wait.

And William dies.

And then I'm no longer alone, watching the scene unfold.

When I turn to the person next to me, I expect it to be William. But it's not. Nor is it that dark-haired bitch from the party, though I kinda thought it might be. I mean, she was pretty important, right?

But no, instead I get...

"Hello, sunshine," Drusilla says, beside me. She's wearing a white dress and holding a doll clasped in her arms. She's also, quite clearly, crazy. And very much undead. "Won't this be lovely? We shall be like sisters."

"You?" I ask, horrified, glancing between the new Drusilla and ... the other one who is still watching William's corpse as if it's about to get right up and do a jig.

"It took so long," Dru says, confirming my impression. She's staring at William's body, too, pouting slightly. "I thought if I hurried it, it might not take so long. But it took longer. Like Christmas."

Okay, this is going to get really confusing, really quick if I'm going to be following around two Drusillas. One alone is confusing, but two?

Whistler, I'm so gonna kick your ass when I get back to Sunnydale.

Time skips again, and it's very late. Real Drusilla carries William's body to a cart that's waiting in the street. She tosses it in, then climbs up on the seat and clucks to the horses. They whinny, rolling their eyes at the scent of the vampire behind them, but Dru just hums a little and then they go trotting off. No one comes after them. Probably because the driver is laying in the cart, too, deader even than William.

More wrinkles as we follow, and then we're standing in a graveyard, beside a fresh grave. There's a marker behind it, but it's blank.

Real Dru is sitting on a nearby headstone, her hands folded in her lap. She looks a little disheveled and she's still wearing the same dress.

"How long?" I ask Ghost Dru. "You said it took so long.. how long?"

She frowns down at the grave. "Days and days," she says vaguely. "I slept in a crypt with the nicest corpse. His worms tickled my toes."

"Okay, ew," I say, staring back down at the grave. I remember stoner vamp—god, was that only a couple of nights ago? Although, it's hard to tell how long I've been moving since I stepped through the door in the Magic Box. For all I know it's been weeks. Lifetimes. Still, I remember stoner vamp, and how confused he was when he crawled out of his grave, and for the first time I wonder what that's like, waking up in the dark.

"Do you want to see?" Ghost Dru asks.

I'm not sure what she means, but I nod. Isn't that what this is about? Seeing? Not being blind? Ghost Dru smiles, then looks me in the eyes. "Be in me," she says. "See, through me."

And it's dark.

***

Did I shut the curtains? It's so very dark. Perhaps that streetlight on the corner has gone out. Bother. I shall have to send Thomas out to see.

After breakfast. Good God, I'm hungry. I can't remember the last time I was so hungry, so early in the morning. Perhaps cook will make me...

Ow. Bloody... wait.

This isn't right.

I'm not in bed. Where am I?

Where was I? At... oh. Oh dear.

Cecily.

Beneath me.

Beneath me.

Oh...

I can't breathe. I need... Ow! Ow! Bloody buggering...

Wait. I'm in a... box. Why am I in a box?

It's... Oh. Oh, dear Lord. This isn't a box. I'm in a coffin. I'm in a COFFIN!

But I'm not dead. I'm not! Let me out! Let me OUT!

Think, William. Think.

There should be a string... a ... a string with a bell, right. They still do that, don't they? But...

Oh God I want out I want out IwantoutIwantoutIwantout

Hungry.

Oh, God, hungry. My stomach is cramping. How long have I been down here?

And... dear Lord. Did I just... growl? Or is there something in here with me?

Surely I didn't make that noise.

I have to get out of here. I have to... Ow. Ow. Good God that hurts. No leverage. Tear the lining. Punch. Ow. Bloody...

Harder. Hungry. Push. There. Cracking. Careful of the splinters.

Push.

I need light. God, I need light! Sunlight on my face.

No. That's dirt. Dirt on my face. Can't breathe. Can't. Breathe. Keep breathing. As long as you're breathing you're alive.

Push. Dig. It's not far. Six feet.

No. No time for giggling like a ninny. You can panic later. Right now, out. Dig.

Darkness. Dig. Push. Cough the dirt out of your mouth. It's fine. It'll be fine. Just don't stop. Keep going. Light. Air. Light. Don't stop. Push. Dig. Need light. God. Worry about how later. Dig. Claw if you must. Hungry. So hungry. Dig. Food up there. Air. Sunlight. Blessed, glorious light. Warm and bright. Dig harder. Push. Put your bloody back into it, William, now isn't the time for sitting on your arse like a nancy-boy and crying useless buckets of salt. Dig your way out of your BLOODY GRAVE before you stay there permanently.

I don't want to die.

Don't want to die.

Breathe. Keep breathing and you're not dead.

Dig.

Wait. Air. I'm through. Just a bit farther. Dig, William. Pull yourself out.

There. Air. Breathe.

Just... breathe.

***

I blink, wrenching my gaze away from Drusilla's.

William lays sprawled, half-out of his grave, his clothes and face streaked with dirt. He's staring up at the moon and the stars, gasping for air. His hands are a mess. Blood and dirt cake his knuckles. His fingernails are mostly gone, torn from clawing his way through six feet of dirt. Surprisingly, he's not in vamp face.

Real Dru rises from her gravestone and approaches. William immediately jerks upright, then scrambles the rest of the way out of his grave, backing into his headstone with a frightened yelp.

"Did you sleep well, my prince?" Real Dru asks, kneeling down at his feet.

"You," he says. "I... I remember you. What did you do to me? Did you bury me? Why on earth would you...?"

"I rescued you," she says. "Like a sleeping princess, I kissed you and set you free."

He frowns. "Ah... yes. Well. Not a princess, obviously. And—and burying someone is... well, it's abominably rude. And... wait... you... I remember now. You—you bit me?"

He reaches up, fingering the wound at his throat.

"You bit me," he says, staring at her. She smiles. "What are you?"

"What you are, now, naughty boy," she says. "Come, my William. You're very late, you know."

"Late?" he says, confused. "Yes, I am late. Mother is...What day is it, today?"

Real Dru holds out her hand, to help him up. "It is your birthday, but I have already blown out the candles. Come, and we shall find you some cake."

"My birthday isn't until August," he says. "But... I am rather hungry."

"Of course you are," Drusilla says, hauling him to his feet.

"And you're... strangely strong," he says, then grins. "Not that I don't find that attractive in a lady."

"Do you like to dance?" Drusilla asks him, pulling him after her towards the cemetery gate.

"Oh, yes," William says, allowing her to lead him off, the grave completely forgotten behind them.

"Not forgotten," Ghost Dru says, startling me. She's sitting on his headstone now, playing with her doll's hair. "You don't forget. No matter how much you might try, you don't forget."

"So why do that?" I ask, pointing at the grave. "Why put him down there? That... that was horrible." I shudder, remembering him realizing what he was trapped in. "If you knew he'd never forget it, why do it? I know vampires don't have to be buried."

Ghost Dru ignores me, crooning over her doll. "And the dwarves put her into a glass coffin, that all might see Snow White's beauty and weep for the loss of her. Until one day the prince of the land rode by..." She glances up, smiles a loopy little smile. "The pixies whispered," she says. "Butterflies need their cocoons."

Ugh.

"Has anyone ever told you that the Sybil act is really annoying?" I ask her.

"Silly sunshine," Dru says with a smug little smile. She gets up and comes toward me. I back up. I'm not sure if I can hurt her here, or if she can hurt me. Somehow I get the feeling that killing my guides is a bad idea. "Come," she says, brushing past me without quite touching. "Daddy is waiting."

A chill goes through me.

Angelus.

This is going to be worse than I thought.

It's still hard for me to deal with the memory of Angelus and those dark, awful months when the man I loved became the monster I had to kill. Most of the time I try not to think about it. Really try not to think about how it was my fault. How Miss Calendar would still be alive if I had... I spent a whole summer drowning in that guilt, and my fingers are still kind of pruny from it. Knowing that I'm going to have to face him again, here, even if it's only the ghost of him...

I really don't want to do this.

"Oh, the merry-go-round broke down/ and we went round and round," Ghost Dru sings softly, dancing her doll in front of her. "Do you want to stop, sunshine? We can hide your head behind the clouds and all the dark things will come out to dance."

For a moment, I forget. What am I doing? Why am I here?

The scent of leather and smoke from the coat I'm wearing reminds me.

Spike.

I'm here for Spike. Not Angel.

I've sent two vampires to hell, now. But this time, this one, I'm getting back on my own. It was a mistake, and I'm going to make sure I fix it. Spike didn't deserve this. Not after everything he's been through. Everything he's done.

Focus on Spike.

Although, honestly, getting kind of tired of the whole 'falling in love with Buffy earns you a one way ticket to hell' thing. But, hey, at least loving me didn't turn Spike into a monster. That's progress, right?

"No," I tell Ghost Dru. "I don't want to stop. Let's get this over with, okay?"

She smiles. "Once upon a time," she whispers, and the world seems to lurch around us. Seriously? Why did someone let the crazy woman drive this time?

***

We're standing on a street corner under a light. Horse-drawn carriages clatter past, their hooves echoing over the cobblestones. Fog is creeping out of the alleys like a creepy thing, making stuff in the distance fuzzy and indistinct. Two figures stride through the fog, uncaring.

Angelus looks huge with his long, dark coat billowing behind him and all that shaggy hair. He looks, I think, how I always pictured Mr. Hyde. Kinda like a gentleman Neanderthal, all hulky and evil but dressed perfectly. William, on the other hand, looks like a college boy out on spring break, or whatever passes for it in Victorian England. Or maybe he gets to be Dr. Jekyll. His shirt sleeves are undone, and his vest and jacket hang open. He's not wearing his glasses, and his hair is a mess of curls. There's a lightness in the way he walks, almost a bounce in his step. It looks funny compared to the way Angelus storms through the fog as though even the pavement offends him.

"Tonight, Willy, I'm going to teach you to hunt," Angelus says in that rolling Irish accent.

"William," William corrects. "And I already know how to hunt. It's not exactly difficult. Drusilla taught me weeks ago."

"You might not have noticed," Angelus says, dryly, "But Drusilla is female."

"Oh, I do believe I've noticed," William says, ducking his head and hiding a boyish grin.

"And not altogether there," Angelus continues as if William hasn't spoken. "If you want to hunt like a woman, be my guest, boyo. I just thought you might prefer to learn how a man does it."

William frowns at Angelus warily, and I wonder if he heard what I think I heard in that sentence. I'm not entirely certain that Angelus was talking just about hunting. But he keeps on, ignoring William's looks.

We follow them, Ghost Dru barely paying attention as she drifts down the street, taking it all in with huge eyes.

"Now, a good kill takes artistry," Angelus says. "Timing. Knowing your victim and how to make them scream right up until the end. There are so many ways of tearing someone apart. When you've got them all laid out in pieces before you... it's a thing of real beauty."

"And you—you hunt all your kills this way?" William asks. "Seems like an awful lot of work just to eat."

Angelus shrugs. "There's feeding and then there's killing," he explains. "And then there's hunting. Who did you hate most, when you were alive?"

William doesn't even think about it. "Beasley," he says. "Lord Hugo Beasley. Bullied me all through school, and grew up to be an utter pillock of society."

Angelus' mouth twitches slightly. "Tell me all about Lord Hugo Beasley, then. What he likes, what he loves..."

They move off into the fog and time staggers nauseatingly, pulling me in another direction.

This time we're standing on a corner, watching a building across the street. Carriages arrive, but not many, and it seems like only men get out of them and go inside. Angelus and Spike lean against a wall, watching the building, too.

Well, Angelus does. He looks like he could wait there for hours, propping the building up with one massive shoulder. William is pacing back and forth like a tiger in a cage, restless and bored. I wonder if bored William is as dangerous as bored Spike?

"So is it time yet?" William asks. "Time for the big hurrah?"

"You're too impatient," Angelus comments. "To do this properly, it takes time."

"It's been a week," William complains. "An entire week of killing his fusty old housekeeper, his favorite valet, his bloody accountant, his prize-winning horses and even his little yappy dogs."

"Yes," Angelus says. "And right now he's drowning his sorrows in his club, whinging about the unfairness of life and nervous as a cat in a room full of hungry wolves. The fear and anticipation are what make the hunt worthwhile."

William mutters something that none of us catch. He pulls something out of his pocket and starts fidgeting with it.

"What have you got there?" Angelus asks. William grins and holds it up to the streetlight.

"A railroad spike," he says. "Isn't it lovely? I'd never really seen one before."

Angelus doesn't look all that impressed. "Where did you get a railroad spike? More importantly, why?"

"I got it at the bloody train yards," William says. "Where else? And as for why... let's just call it a burst of inspiration."

Angelus grins evilly. "Now you're starting to get it, I think. Though perhaps next time something with a touch more class to it?"

"Oh," William says, "this has got 'class' all over it. Or, it will, in any case. Soon."

"Soon enough," Angelus says. "Patience, boyo. Tonight we give him a taste of real fear. Tease him a bit."

With his back to him, Angelus can't see William's eyes roll. I try to suppress a giggle that's entirely inappropriate given that they're talking about cold blooded murder. William fingers the railroad spike and then glances up at the building, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. I wonder if Angelus knows yet that bored plus William isn't a good combination?

Once more time staggers, moving us along.

And there's William, blood dripping down his face from his fangy grin. He's standing over a body that, even with the giant metal spike that's been punched through its head, is easy to make out as the snooty guy from the party. The one who said he'd rather have a railroad spike driven through his skull.

Guess you really should be careful what you wish for.

"What the bloody feck happened to teasing him?" Angelus roars, storming into the mouth of the alley we're in. "You were supposed to taunt him, you fool."

"Sorry," William says, clearly not sorry at all. "I just got so bored. Besides, I'm not much for cryptic charades, and he was being an arse."

Angelus grabs William by the shoulder, spins him, then grips the collar of his shirt and backs him into the wall, hard. "You wasted a perfectly good hunt," Angelus growls. "We were two, maybe three days away from utterly destroying him—"

William wrenches out of Angelus' grasp. "Looks bloody well destroyed to me," William says, kicking at the body.

"That's just the flesh," Angelus says. "Destroying someone mentally, emotionally—that takes skill, cunning. Intellect, which you sadly seem to be lacking."

"Guess I just don't understand the point of it," William says, frowning. "Dead is dead, right? And I'm still here, which means I won, end of story."

Angelus growls. "It's the difference between mutton and a fine fillet; between cheap ale and the finest whiskey."

"Between a dockside whore and your mother... oh wait," William says, sarcastically. "I forgot. You're Irish. Your mum was a dockside whore."

Angelus snarls and lunges, swinging a huge fist at William's head. William doesn't have time to duck, not expecting an attack from that quarter. After watching him fight with that Chinese guy, it's something of a shock to see William fight so clumsily, but I have to remember he won't be that good for another twenty years or so. Right now he's still just a newly risen vampire, and Angelus has a good hundred years on him. Not to mention almost a foot in height and about seventy pounds of muscle.

Ghost Dru claps her hands in delight, watching the fight with unconcealed glee.

It's short, brutal, and when it's over, Angelus has William pinned to the wall by his throat. William's nose is broken, one eye is black, and it looks like he's probably broken a rib or two.

"Listen to me carefully, boyo," Angelus says. "I don't care who you were, or where you came from. I don't care if you were shagging the fecking queen of England before you died. You're in my world now, Willy, and I'll kick your arse around for the next hundred years if I feel like it, because I'm older than you, smarter than you, stronger than you, and better than you, and I always will be. You will learn your fecking place, or I will put you in it. Painfully."

He tightens his grip, making William gasp and choke. I've always wondered why grabbing Spike by the throat was usually effective when he doesn't need to breathe, but having taken that little side trip into his head while he was clawing out of his grave... I get it now. It's not just reflexive. William panics if he can't breathe.

It's kind of how I feel in water.

I promise, if I get him out of Louhi's hands, I'll never grab him by the throat again.

"You exist on my sufferance," Angelus continues warningly. "Dru likes you, and she needs a playmate. For one reason or another, she picked you, so I'm not going to stake you right now. But I know ways of making you hurt that you can't even imagine. You think about that, whimpering Willy, the next time you decide to backtalk me. Are we clear?"

William grunts something that might be agreement, and Angelus lets him drop to the ground.

"When you're healed up, we'll try it again," Angelus says. "And the next time, you'd do well to listen to your betters." And with that he whirls and stalks back into the foggy street, leaving William to pick himself up.

It's only once Angelus is safely out of earshot that William snarls, "Wanker." With some effort he stoops and yanks the railroad spike out of the corpse at his feet. "He's a bully, just like you, old chap." He giggles a little hysterically. "You see, now I know what happens to bullies, and someday I will be stronger than him. Better. And I'll kick his arse. See if I don't. I'll get what's mine."

He holds up the spike, studying it.

"Yeah," he says, "I'll get what's mine." Then he limps off down the alley in the opposite direction.

"I guess I know now why Spike hates Angel so much," I say. I can't really say that I blame him. It's easy to separate Angel from Angelus, though. He looks so different now from how he did then. The real Jekyll and Hyde.

"A certain father had two sons," Dru says to her doll, sitting it on top of the dead man's chest as if it were a gruesome table, then sitting beside it to tell her story. "The eldest was quite smart and sensible and could do everything, but the youngest could never learn or understand anything, and where ever he went, trouble followed. Whenever anything needed to be done, the father would send for the eldest to do it. Unless it was in the night-time, or if it needs be done in some dark place. Then the eldest would protest and say 'no, father, I'll not go there, for it gives me the shudders.' But the youngest, hearing this, would wonder and say 'I do not know what it is to shudder. That, too, must be an art of which I understand nothing.'"

"Is there a point to this?" I ask her.

"Shhhh," she says, putting her finger to her lips and narrowing her eyes. "Sunshine should be seen and not heard."

"I don't think so," I tell her. "Look, can we save Storytime for the Damned for later? Spike needs me to find him and I'm so not in the mood to listen to the crazy right now."

"Time means nothing here," she says.

"Getting that, but still, can we hurry it up?"

She stands with a grace I envy, then picks up her doll and clasps it to her chest. "You think you know," she says. "But this isn't the beginning." She smiles in that creepy way that makes me wish I could punch her.

And then we’re moving again.

---

Author’s (Non-Spoilery) Postscript:

A couple of credits for this chapter. Obviously, the first chunk is based on “Fool For Love” (and a glimpse from “Darla”). Most of the rest is fabrication—though there are nods to “Bargaining Part II” and “Lovers Walk.” The song Dru sings earlier is “The Merry Go Round Broke Down” and the story she tells here at the end is the beginning to “The Boy Who Left Home to Learn About the Shudders.”

Dru’s section is a bit long, so it will be continued in the next chapter.