AUTHOR: 1stRab-id, Rabid, Raeann(I go by many names…none of them MINE in RL).
FEEDBACK: Rabid1st@yahoo.com or RabidRaeann@hotmail.com
BETAS: We are down to Mary, Nauti, and Caia but don’t blame them for this part…blame me.
SUBJECT: B/S (primarily) but also B/A, B/R, S/Dru, S/Harmony
RATED: Demonic R…at least I think so…though you may find it more of an NC-17.
WARNING: This story contains a number of perverse scenes of sex and/or violence, they are written NOT to stimulate but to horrify and to illuminate Spike's demonic nature.
SPOILERS: The entire show as it airs is fair game…but mostly this is Season Two through Five…see next entry for explanation…
SUMMARY: This was a challenge from a
co-worker…basically, that I write the back-story for Buffy and Spike love. Backing up what we saw on screen with Spike's
thoughts. This story is a retrospective
of Spike's falling in love. We begin our
story just after Crush and then again…we begin in
DISCLAIMER: Please forgive me for I know not what I do…legally anyway…but I do know that these characters and situations are not mine and belong rightfully to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Fox TV, WB and UPN. I would be honored to have any of the above write me a note to cease and desist my creative blundering because I really only do this for attention.
PART FOUR
“I can’t take anymore of this,” Joyce cried, surging to her feet. “It’s monstrous!”
She towered over Spike, the picture of maternal fury, and he blinked up at her in confusion. Involved in his reminiscence, he had lost touch with his audience. He had almost forgotten Joyce was listening as he spoke. His mind scrambled for some response to her angry outburst but he could think of nothing to say. His past was monstrous. That was sort of his point.
“You raped that little girl,” Joyce continued. “And that boy? He was younger than Dawn. And you killed him. Him and I don’t know how many other people." She waved her hands in a helpless circle as she tried to comprehend the wicked scope of his story. "And now you talk about a woman murdering her own son as if…as if it means nothing!”
“Who has more right than a mother?” Spike asked, softly.
“What?” Joyce gasped. Her mouth dropped open in shock. “WHAT?”
“She gave him his life,” Spike explained, with a tiny shrug. “I let her take it. It seemed only fitting.”
“Fitting?” Joyce shrieked and a night bird fluttered from the oak tree.
Spike hissed a soft warning. He half-rose from his seat on the step. Making a shushing motion with both hands, he leaned out to look over the eaves. He stared fixedly toward the second floor, head angled to listen. The steady sound of Buffy’s breathing came to him and after a tense moment, he sighed into a more relaxed state. Plopping back down onto the porch step, he gave Joyce a reproachful look. The eldest Summers was frozen to the spot, torn between indignation and a juvenile fear of being caught out by her daughter.
She took a deep breath to steady her nerves and realized her hands were shaking. She twisted the fingers together, pressing one thumb into the opposite palm, massaging her corded muscles. Her skin was blotched and felt clammy. Joyce studied her still tembling hands for a moment more and then, with a tiny snort, she impatiently tucked them into her robe pockets.
Her voice was a harsh whisper as she turned her attention back to Spike. “What do you mean 'fitting'?"
"More appropriate,” Spike remarked cheekily. His eyes danced with humor at her reaction. “Would you rather I'd killed the boy outright? Left his mother bereaved for all eternity? Saw that sort of thing with Drusilla. It's not pretty."
"I would rather you let them all live," Joyce spat.
Spike chuckled, shaking his head slightly at the naïveté. "I am sure your cattle feel much the same at the slaughter."
"I’m talking about people not cows," Joyce returned, in exasperation.
“Same difference to me,” he said with a shrug.
“Yes, well…there’s my issue with you and my daughter,” she shot back.
Spike had the decency to look chastened. Joyce paced off a few feet of lawn, her robe swirling like a cape in her wake. It was a struggle to keep her voice down.
"Killing people is different and you know it,” she said, finally. “You were a person once yourself."
Spike’s head snapped up. “I was,” he acknowledged, “and now I'm something more. Just like Buffy is more than your daughter."
"Buffy isn't anything like you," Joyce declared. But Spike could hear the quaver of doubt behind her assertion. He smiled, raising one sly brow.
"Not exactly human, though, is she? The Slayer! You know what that means?"
"She keeps people safe," Joyce said. Her chin had a firm set, Spike recognized as a genetic mannerism. Buffy’s jaw had had much the same cast when she’d told him to sod off earlier in the evening. "Buffy protects us from monsters like you."
"Yeah? ‘Cause I'm a right terror with this soddin' chip in my head."
“You’re a vampire, evil and dangerous.”
The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, Spike thought. He let out an exasperated puff of breath and rolled his eyes heavenward as he collapsed backward to lay on the porch. He stretched both arms over his head so his black t-shirt rode up, offering her a glimpse of amazingly taut stomach muscles. Joyce tried not to stare.
Spike's voice was a childish whine. “I’ve…CHANGED!”
“Humph!” Joyce remarked, drawing his attention again. He propped himself up a bit.
The Slayer's mom glared at him and he glared back. They watched one another warily. Joyce had taken a pose very like an avenging domestic goddess, Ceres in housecoat and fluffy slippers. Spike, still seated on the porch step, was now leaning back on his elbows. His legs were crossed at the ankles and he was stretched out in a lazy-boy recline. He held the woman’s gaze for a long moment before asking the relevant question.
"Why do you suppose she doesn’t kill me, then?"
There it was. The question Joyce had been asking herself since she first heard about this twisted crush. Buffy was the Slayer. She hunted demons. Spike was a vampire, a soulless creature of the night. He had professed his love for her. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to do the math. Spike should be a pile of dust right now. But instead he was camped out on the front porch, trying to plead his case.
Joyce could only offer Buffy's habitual response.
"You're harmless."
Spike snorted. "You got any idea how many harmless demons Little Miss Sunshine's slaughtered in the last four years? Here's a hint: She ain't exactly discriminating."
"But if they're demons…"
"…then they aren’t from around here," Spike finished bitterly. "That's all it means, right? Different, that's what, from another dimension. And sure this is your patch. Guess you humans got a right to defend it. But don't be kidding yourself Joyce. The Slayer? She's your big dog and you set her on the wolves and the rabbits alike."
Joyce's gaze traveled up to Buffy's window. She didn't like to think of her daughter as a cold-blooded killer. She wanted to believe there were good reasons for Slaying, even if Buffy’s victims were demonic in origin. She wanted to believe that’s why Spike was alive, because Buffy wouldn’t hurt a harmless creature. The alternative he was suggesting was almost unthinkable. But what if the Slayer really did have some kind of twisted attachment to this creature or to vampires in general?
She bit her lip. "Does she know? About the…well…about some demons being…less evil?"
Spike took a long moment. He got up without answering and walked out to stand next to Joyce, so he too could look up at Buffy’s window. The familiar gut swirling pain assailed him, like it always did when he thought about his love. The cool liquid that passed for his blood drained to his groin, as he stared upward and his faux breathing took on a more natural rhythm. It was as if she breathed for him.
Fishing out his pack of Morleys, he lit a contemplative cigarette. He took a long drag before looking over at Joyce.
"Doubt she thinks on it,” he said at last. Blue puffs of smoke accompanied his words. “Killin’s second nature to her, just like it is to me.”
The night air seemed suddenly colder. Joyce shivered.
“Buffy’s not…like you…she's not a mindless thing.”
Spike took the cigarette from his mouth and turned it in his hand. He stared at the red coal and ash at the end of the trail of smoke. A sad, almost wistful smile, touched his lips. “You think I’m mindless, Joyce?”
“I…I don’t know what to think about you.”
“You know about the soldier boy?"
“Riley? Wha—what about him?”
“He cheated on her with some vamp whore. Buffy found out. Next day she torched the brothel. I hear tell she did Riley’s suck-tart and her entire family. And the Slayer knew for a fact they weren’t killing the humans.”
Joyce released her long held breath. A fraction of the tension melted out of her shoulders. She wondered absently about her lack of reaction and realized that none of this was really news to her. The signs of change were obvious. Over the past five years, Joyce had watched her daughter turn into a calculating and on occasion frightening stranger. She could clearly recall a time when Buffy had screamed the house down over the sting of Bactineä on her scraped knee. The Slayer set her own broken bones.
Moving mechanically, Joyce returned to the porch and sat down again on the step. Spike took another puff on his cigarette. He was quite fond of Joyce. He didn’t want her working against him. She had moxie and she was in a position to help or hinder his suit. But he wasn’t going to pull his punches. As he watched her huddle up like a little girl, knees drawn to her chest, Spike wondered if he’d given her too much to think on for one night. But when she finally spoke, her voice was matter-of-fact.
"So, if it’s not because you’re harmless, then why hasn’t she killed you…yet?"
Her tone made his ultimate demise at the Slayer’s hands a certainty. Spike snorted out a laugh. He loved the Summers’ women, flat out adored them. They were a bloodthirsty lot.
"Because she knows my story. She knows what I was and what I am now."
"You told her?" Joyce’s eyebrows shot up. She couldn’t envision her daughter listening quietly to even a fraction of his tale. "I don't believe you. If you told Buffy…any of this…she would…she would…"
“Dust me good and proper and scatter my ashes?”
“If you were lucky.”
Spike swayed from foot to foot as he favored her with an impish grin. His head tipped coyly.
"Too right,” He admitted. “But I stand by what I said. She knows my story in a sense. Buffy knows me like I know her. We don’t need to spell it out. What's between us…it goes beyond words anyway. There's something inside her, in her blood, that calls to me. She can deny it all she wants but I feel it.” For a moment Spike’s eyes lost focus as he stared up at the Slayer’s bedroom window again. One hand came up to clutch at his chest. He looked like Romeo waiting for the sun. “When she’s close to me, god, Joyce, it burns. There’s something almost eternal between us. Something glowing and…and…bright. It's drawing us together, changing us."
"Changing you?” Joyce repeated. “Into what?"
Spike sighed. Me, into a man again, he thought and her…into...my lover, my ideal…the one.
His gaze dropped until he was looking squarely at the elder Summers. The fire in his eyes flickered and died out. He couldn’t hold still under her appraising stare. As his glance slid sideways, he coughed nervously and then turned his attention to a study of his half-consumed cigarette. He rolled the lit fag back and forth in his fingers before suddenly flicking it out into the street. He’s like an errant schoolboy, Joyce thought. As she looked on, he scuffed one booted toe in the dirt of an ant hill.
Hands jammed into his jeans pockets, Spike came back to sit beside the Slayer’s mom. Neither of them spoke. They watched the stars together in companionable silence. Spike tried to follow the path of a firefly in the branches of the oak tree. He lost the bright light in the fluttering leaves.
It was a long while before he tried to put his feeling into words. "I wish I knew what was going on with me and Buffy. But I don’t. I only know this feeling…it’s real."
Leaning into the post opposite him, her knee close to his, Joyce studied her daughter’s dark suitor. It was impossible to judge his sincerity. The sharp planes of his face and the soft curve of his mouth denied his demonic nature. He was almost too pretty. It was hard to imagine him a cruel and capricious monster. But Joyce knew first hand how dangerous a vampire suitor could be. She remembered the terror of Angelus, hunting Buffy’s family and friends. And by his own admission, Spike had raped and murdered and terrorized humanity for over a century.
“Is it,” she began. Her voice broke and she paused to clear her throat. Spike leaned his head against the lintel, angling his eyes back at her, skeptically. She took a deep breath and rushed out the words. “This thing you share with Buffy…is it something…evil?”
Seconds ticked into minutes. Joyce started to squirm under the vampire’s hawk-like stare. She felt exposed. Finally, he shifted his weight so his shoulders were squared to hers. His eyes lost their gold-flecked refraction. They were suddenly a clear blue, like the purest, deepest water. There was a candor in his manner when he spoke.
"I love her. Please believe Buffy is everything to me. You don’t have to worry. I won’t go off like Angelus. I won’t. I don't think this is about…evil. This thing, this feeling,” he raised his right hand, touching the tips of his fingers to his chest at a spot just over his dead heart. “It’s not…monstrous."
Joyce Summers searched his face for the truth and found her courage, again.
"So," she said, releasing an unsteady sigh. "The woman killed her own son?"
Spike twinkled at her. He seemed the very picture of the pleased raconteur as he leaned close and confided. "Well…not exactly…"
“Lydie, the mother, had some trouble with the siring. It’s usually not required right off, when your brain's all addled from the grave. Little known fact, we are lucky to make any kill in that condition. Nature takes over though and most of us manage to survive the first few hunts.
“But the siring is another matter. The first time you do it, it’s easy to panic. You can feel the demon leave you and enter your offspring and it feels like birth and death in one gulp. Too often the sire pulls away. When what you need to do is push forward, flow with it.
“Drusilla went off her head when she was siring me, nearly left me in limbo, one of the Half-Turned. Would have if Angel hadn’t come back to check on the hold up and heard her whimpering. Say what you like about the bloody poof, and I won’t correct you, but he helped keep me in this world.”
“Half-turned?” Joyce frowned over the concept.
“No human memory. No higher thought. It’s what happens when the sire isn’t strong enough to control the process. If the incoming demon doesn’t have any guidance, it not only drives out the soul of the victim, it devours all innate personality. Half-turned are just animals in vampire form. You don’t see many of them, especially in a town with a Slayer. They don’t last long, raving about the place, killing indiscriminately.”
“Lydie’s son wasn’t going to end that way though. He would have died outright if I hadn’t been so quick off the mark. She nearly ripped the boy apart in her hunger but I got to them in time. I beat her into something like submission. Then, when I had her attention, I demonstrated the siring technique. I showed her how to gentle him along, touching and coaxing. I even let him feed a bit on me. Once they both had the knack, I latched onto Lydie’s neck and maneuvered them over the rough patch.
I left her rocking the remains in her arms and cooing over him. I figured it for a private moment.
“By the next night, we were one big happy family.
The sun had barely set and Gizela, the hot-tempered one was eager to be out and about. She wanted to kill something. I can’t say I was in the mood to linger. But I’d stayed up late to watch a bit of telly. My murder spree was all over the news. If I was going to find Drusilla with a minimum of fuss, I needed a change of costume.
“Luckily, Gizela thought she knew a lad 'bout my size in her limp-wristed crowd. She called him up and, after stirring a firm interest in his soul for a bit of my company, issued an invite. He agreed to stop by on his way out for the evening. Gizela, as it turned out, had a good eye. Her friend was a little taller than me but other than that he and I were a physical match. Needless to say, we hit it off at first sight. And an hour later I was dressed in something like my usual style, jeans and a navy blue tee. I was lacking only the duster and the Doc Martins. Wanker wore deck shoes, of all things.
"You had sex with him?” Joyce interjected. “In exchange for clothes?"
"I killed him for his clothes," Spike corrected, frowning at the interruption. "Sex was the lure. I had Gizela six different ways before sundown and I wasn’t exactly in the mood by the time the twonk stopped over.”
Joyce’s eyes dilated slightly. Despite her firm resolve not to encourage him in his obsession with her daughter she couldn’t help thinking about Slayer physiology and levels of satisfaction as she gasped, “S-uh-si-ix?”
Spike gave her a ‘my point exactly’ lift of the eyebrow.
“Make no mistake, Joyce, I’ll take what I can get some nights. And it’s been over a century. Adding it up, I’ve had more than a little sexual variety. But that doesn’t mean I don’t give satisfaction. I get my fill of diversity in the natural order of things. Sire someone and they'll do whatever you ask for a time. It has its perks. But, I do okay by my lovers. And for the record, I’m not a shirtlifter most nights. My native appetite runs to…well…” He toasted his hostess with his empty tea cup and, savoring the term, said, “Summers’ women!”
“Oh…” Joyce said in a small voice.
“Bit, Buffy…yourself…all the same…bright, strong-willed…bloodthirsty. Truth to tell, I’d probably have a thing for great grandma if you trotted her out.”
His smile was warm as he paused, head cocked to one side. His gaze held steady on hers, until he was certain his blushing listener was satisfied. Then, he continued his tale.
"So, I took the ponce for 53 dollars,
“Fresh scrubbed and polished we went out on the town.
“It was still early in the evening and the place was crawling with tourists. We blended right in. I tell you, Joyce, if there’s one thing I learned from 20 years with Angelus it’s the better you look, the better you eat. Others of our kind let themselves go but my little tribe lived like men when we could. And we dined the better for it. Though I can't say I ever favored Angel's dandified style, I pleased a fair amount of people with my fashion sense.
“Pretty boys like the leather, that whole punk, biker thing. You know, I picked up this basic look in 1944 from this Nazi chap named Brauer, a natural blond by-the-by. But the look alone doesn’t always do the trick. Some fall for the scar and the muscle, o’course. I take care to keep fit but I don’t overdo it. Dykes and toughs like my small stature and sweet face. And women, all sorts of women, like the fact I pay attention.
“It's a lost art, really…listening.
“Angelus paid attention, too, I suppose, but in a different way. He taught me a lot of what I know. Most of it by negative example. He liked to break people. Always looking for advantage. That's no way to win friends and influence people. Make them cower. Make them beg.
“It’s a bit of fun on occasion, making the little girls cry, but it’s no way to live. Angel loved to drive the ladies mad. I never saw the point. I like a good snivel of terror as much as the next demon but I want to wring one out of an equal. Honestly, we’re vampires! When it comes to inflicting pain, it's not much of a contest. I want to take on people with some fight in ‘em.
“Like our little Miss Buffy. God, can you believe, Angelus tried to break her? The one girl in all the world a vampire has to fear? Course, I’m as big a fool as him when it comes to her.
“Remember that night when you stood me off at the school, with the ax and the attitude? She told me, then, she was going to bring the pain. Said our time together was going to ‘hurt a lot.’ I should have listened but I didn’t. Even with loads of mystical warning signs, I had no idea what she could do to me.
“But this night I’m telling you about was before Buffy was called. Before the bruise of her was under my skin. Before this soddin’ chip short-circuited my brain. This was back when Slayers held no sway over me. I’d killed two…easy. And I had no fear at all. I was in my hunting prime. Guan-yin Tung had foolishly put himself in my path. He'd taken what was mine and I meant to finish him for that bit of insolence.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
With this one goal in mind, I took my new band back to Mala Strana.
We drove into town an hour or two
after sunset. It was a mild night and I
kept the windows down to absorb the character of Prague. The air was heavy with the smog of
industrialized
We had the usual bugger of a time
finding parking.
Like most of the buildings in the
well-lit tourist haunts, the hotel’s cream-colored stonework looked like
The second time we circled through the packed streets, I checked for Tung's men. I spotted them, a mischievous pair, Thing One and Thing Two. One was sitting in a bar on the corner at a diagonal to the hotel. Two was spying out a third floor window in a building across the street. They weren't actively guarding the hotel, merely watching and waiting. I assumed for me.
The St. George, itself, appeared to be deserted. Fragments of broken glass still glittered in the gutters out front. Windows were boarded up. The wide, green, canopy, that usually sheltered the lavishly carved double doors, was in tatters. The doors, themselves, were chained shut. There was a policeman on guard but there was no whiff of sorcery.
It was odd.
Tung had to know I’d be back. He had Dru. There were spies on watch. There should be a trap waiting for me, something nasty and obvious, something with teeth. It was practically pre-ordained. Why take Drusilla and hold her if not to use as bait?
We finally found a parking space within walking distance and headed back on foot. As we approached the bar at the Sign of the Seven Bathers, where Thing One was on duty, I seized Lydie’s arm and tugged her into the establishment. Lojza and Gizela followed us.
The bar was crowded and Tung’s man didn’t look up but I was sure he’d noticed us. I felt his glare on me when I turned my back. I didn’t spare the wanker a glance as I waited in line with my happy little family. I played the role of Holiday traveler until a table came available. Let him think me oblivious. He would head for Tung eventually and when he did, I would follow.
The waitress, a pretty little thing in a tight blue tank-top and mini-skirt, pointed us to a few empty chairs. We pushed our way to the spot. I sat so I could watch the minion and the street. Lojza plopped down next to me. His mother sat opposite. After ordering a round of pivo, the Czech beer, I sent Gizela off to the St. George to scout out any vampire-hostile magicks. I watched her cross the street and sashay along. To my surprise, Thing One tossed a handful of coin down and headed after her.
He lumbered along the street in my offspring's wake like an oversized pup at heel. Gizela surely sensed him behind her but she gave no sign. I felt a paternal rush of pride. My little girl was smart and she moved like she owned the night. Near the hotel door, she tripped, quite naturally, I thought, and bent over to adjust her shoe. Thing One nearly over-ran her and had to duck and cover quick. He dived into the shelter of a darkened archway. I mentally rolled my eyes at the show of stealthyness.
Faking an ankle injury, Gizela hobbled to the remains of the St. George portico. She was wearing a short black slip dress at my insistence. The young officer on guard was quick to offer her his arm. She leaned on him heavily for a few minutes, rubbing parts against parts, before apparently bumming a cigarette.
I drummed my nails on the table while Gizela shimmied her ass up onto the hood of the git’s illegally parked patrol car. The cop found a comfy spot between her thighs and leaned into it. She didn’t seem to mind. He lit her fag and they nattered on for some time. I imagine the copper suggested something further in the way of entertainment but after taking in an earful of scandal, Gizela, limping slightly, came back to me relatively unmolested.
Thing One had become conspicuous by his absence. I decided to investigate. Leaving my seat to Gizela, I took a turn for my health. The street was bustling with tourists. I headed straight for the archway where Thing One was last spotted. Several doors opened off the covered walkway. There was no sign of Tung’s man. I sniffed the air, trying to isolate some trace of Chinese wizardry. There was nothing. Coming out again into the brightly lit street, I casually looked up. Thing Two was still on duty.
I headed off up the street, bold as brass. Stopping at the far end of the block with a good view of all the comings and goings, I looked for a pattern as I bought a balloon on a stick for Lojza.
There was nothing out of the ordinary. No sign of a trap being readied. No clue to Drusilla’s whereabouts. Bugger all! I pocketed my change and headed back, walking straight past the St. George. Despite the red and silver helium beacon bobbing over my head, the guard on the door didn’t even blink and Thing Two remained impassive. Frowning, I returned to the bar.
A broad shouldered blond with a pin through her nose and too much mascara had taken a seat next to Gizela. The two girls had their heads together. I ignored the pair of them and pulled a chair from a nearby table. After handing the balloon to Lojza, I gave him a fatherly pat. Then, I sat down again, straddling the back of my chair. The boy looked slightly insulted by his present. I imagine he felt being undead made him more man than boy. He had a lot to learn.
Leaning across the table, I nicked a fag from the pack at the new girl’s elbow. It was her stash, I reckoned, but she didn’t even glance around. Gizela had her full attention. Which was fine by me, I had my too much on my mind for small talk. I used the stubby white candle in the centerpiece to light up my smoke. It was a gag-inducing mentholated light, definitely not my brand, but I made due. I took a deep drag and then another, letting the nicotine cloud linger in my lungs.
I felt myself relax a bit but the rush of the drug couldn’t offset the sickroom flavor of the delivery. Menthol always puts in mind of my mother’s consumption. After another puff, I ground the hideous thing out and crooked a finger at Lojza. He leaned close for my whispered instructions. I kept it short and to the point. He pulled back with a question in his eyes but one look at my face saw it die away unasked.
Setting aside curiosity, Lojza got up without a word. He wandered off into the crowd, still clutching his balloon. I took a long pull on my warm beer. From the corner of my eye, I followed the boy, tracking the dancing red and silver glitter of his balloon until it disappeared around a corner several blocks along the street. I waited patiently for about ten minutes. At the twenty-minute mark, I ordered another glass of pivo and tried to relax.
Lojza was gone for nearly an hour. About halfway through the vigil, I remembered I hate waiting. My mood deteriorated rapidly after that. Gizela tried to take my mind off my worries. She told dirty jokes and felt me up under the table, while her new friend nibbled on her earlobe. I watched her kiss and cuddle the dinner until my skin started itching.
“Where the hell is that kid?” I snarled at Lydie.
She cowered away from me, simpering about her “good boy” until I threatened to sew her lips shut. Gizela’s ladybird gave me a sharp look and I reined in my temper. Laughing off my comment, I suggested a round of twelve-degree black, the strongest beer in the place. My willingness to pay the tab mollified the bean-flicker’s suspicions. Not that I cared if she suspected me of wife beating or child molesting or tax dodging or what have you. But I knew Gizela had her heart set on making her first kill and I didn’t want to rabbit the woman.
Sighing, I turned most of my
attention back to watching for Lojza’s red and silver
balloon.
My plan for tracking Tung relied on his using magic against me. I planned to use his own enchantment to pinpoint his location. It’s not commonly known but warlocks, wizards, witches and the like put a bit of themselves in every spell they cast. They leave a residual calling card behind so the Powers That Be can collect their toll.
Magic isn't free. It comes at a price. There is always, always a reckoning. I, simply, intended to add my bill to the pound
of flesh Tung was already scheduled to give up for
his sins. But if he had left no spell at
the St. George, if there was no trail to follow, I would be back at square
one. I would need to search the city for
some rumor of his whereabouts. I didn’t fancy going door to door in
Gizela’s fancy piece talked her into a quickie at a nearby flat. The silly slag waggled an eyebrow at me as if asking permission. Like I cared if she got off…got fed…got lost. Drusilla was in dire peril and I was sick to death of wanking off in that bar waiting for the lost boy to surface.
I barely acknowledged Gizela’s departure. She stood over me for a time, pouting at my indifference, before finally huffing off with her sweetmeat. The dinner was banjaxed. As they staggered away, the sway of Gizela’s hips caught my eye and I smiled. She really was a nice bit of skirt and a posh lay, too, all things considered. Plus, I had a sire’s pride in his offspring. I admired her desire to hunt. Some don’t take to it. They end up like Riley’s whore, juicing the jaded tourists. I had my doubts about Lydie’s aptitude, but Gizela struck me as a natural. Despite my mood, I was glad to see her taking the initiative.
A few minutes after Gizela left, I finished off my fifth glass of twelve degree Pivo. My mind was on the absent Lojza. Muttering something about finding her worthless son and skinning him, I stood up a bit too quickly. The room spun for a minute and then stabilized. I ordered Lydie to pay the tab.
Three glasses of twelve degree beer could stagger a human. I was willing to admit to a touch of fuzziness about relevant details after my fifth glass. Still, I was rock steady on my feet as I made my way through the crowd. People seemed happy to get out of my way. I was nearly at the gate leading from the bar’s patio into the street when Lojza appeared on the far curb.
It took me a moment to spot him. His balloon was gone and he looked shaken. I saw he was cradling a dark, heavy bundle of something to his chest. Once he caught my eye, the lad waved a hand. As I started toward him, he scampered into the shelter of a building overhang, one of the many covered walkways in the city.
My head cleared up like magic. I felt a tingle of adrenaline along my spine and I was suddenly as sober as a Methodist. Finally, I had a break. Though I’d only caught a glimpse of the bundle in the boy’s arms, I was dead sure it was my duster. And the last time I saw my duster it was draped around Drusilla’s shoulders.
END THIS PART