ARMAGEDDON HAS BEGUN-AND WE'RE LOSING. -Drake Anders/Weekly World News

.........

Riobamba , Ecuador- Christians were cut down in cold blood in the jungle
here in what terrified holy men and hard-line military investigators are
calling “the first skirmish between the forces of light and forces of
darkness in the Battle of Armageddon.”

Horrified Ecuadorian soldiers on routine patrol discovered the pitiful
remains of more than 60 missionaries and Indian converts in two isolated
camps along the rugged banks of the Rio Pastaza who were wiped out in a ghastly skirmish with a host of demons. The company of Ecuadorian soldiers was
reportedly combing the area near the border with Peru looking for opium
poppies when they stumbled onto the horror.

The nondenominational missionary camp was burned to the ground and skulls
and other bones were scattered where panicked victims had fallen. Most of
the bones showed signs of having been gnawed on by teeth. But chillingly
demons, and not jungle animals inflicted the tooth marks, shocked military
investigators reported,

The Rev, Miguel Castano, a clergyman and exorcist who investigated the
massacre, said he believes Balaam, the 51st most powerful prince of the
monarchy of demons, led the hellish imps.

====================
Riobamba, Ecuador 1995-
====================



He sits there, hands wrapped around the narrow glass neck of the bottle. A
squat shot glass lies neglected to the side, abandoned hours ago as an
unnecessary sign of bullshit civility, hours ago when his hand-eye
coordination was a little smoother. Fuck it all anyway, he doesn’t have to
be a brain surgeon to get drunk, it’s not complex; bottle to lips, open throat. You’re a star, baby.

After three hours, the only thing he’s sure of is the fact that this
god-forsaken jungle is no place for a leather-clad lad from London. Shit.
Booze always frees the poet trapped within, the one he’s tried for a hundred
years to smother. That fucker just won’t die will he? But Grigor Orudjev,
a wizard in Vienna had suggested Ecuador, and Spike had wasted no time,
cajoling his sire into another long journey.

A Hellmouth he’d said. Whole damn place sitting on a Hellmouth, and
Orudjev thought that was the thing Dru needed to regain her strength, a nice
vacation, a touch of mystical energy, a little get away at Satan’s Spa. He
doesn’t bother to repress the jaded laugh that escapes, raises the bottle
and washes it down with a mouthful of whiskey instead. Something inside of
him is fast approaching the realization that there aren’t a lot of options
left, and it’s getting harder to anaesthetize himself to that reality, harder
to face a world without Drusilla.

“Spike?” Breathy syllables rising high above her reedy tones. An exhalation
that twists into a weak singsong at the end, strangely reminiscent of one of
those kittens she insists on befriending. Bits of orange fluff clinging to
piles of bones and bloody fur that used to be their mother’s. Dru’s desire
to adopt orphans never missed an opportunity, and she was often the cause of
their tragic state. Always orange though, said she had one as a child, one
called Sunshine, and forever into eternity they would all be called that.

“Sppiike,” more plaintive now, not used to being alone.

Spike always tries to be there when she wakes. And now he’s cocked that up
too. It’s his fault she’s even in this state. Damn mob. They’d nearly beaten
him unconscious before he could get the two of them out of there. He’d been
lax in his watch, and it had almost cost him Drusilla.

“Coming luv,” he assures her, pushing back from the table. There’s a harsh
scratching whine as battered chair legs scrape against a weathered pine
floor. The pockmarked surface tells the history of squalid lives, lives that
ended with fragmented bones collapsing under a demon’s heavy fist and cries
to a God who dragged them here then abandoned his children.

There’s an army based in this jungle encampment, an army of demons who have
crawled their way out of hell, and they’re just a little pissed. They’re
taking the giddy enjoyment of their freedom out on the missionaries who’ve
tried to convert the natives here since 1924. Unlike the missionaries, the
demons are not interested in assimilating the culture they’re overtaking.

That struggle surrounds him. Many humans were snuffed in this
very room. Spike knows this, not just because he can smell the blood lying
in sticky pools between the crevices of wooden slats, but because every
scream that was uttered has left an indelible psychic aura in this space.
One ash-blackened gouge against the light veneer under his left foot would
just fit the rounded bottom of a human scull. It’s not hard to visualize
that the dark flakes of residue that cling to the indentation are the incinerated remains of said victim.

Usually Dru’s the one attuned to that kind of mystical, mumbo jumbo
shit, but the sheer level of brutality perpetrated here speaks to the
predator’s nature within Spike, and he can no more ignore it than he can the
call of his sire from the next room.

“S-Spike,”

Nine and a half steps carry him to the threshold of the room where Dru lies
prostrate, *voluminous* folds of white cotton night dress, splayed across
*voluminous* masses of white sheeting. Immersed in quilts stitched by fingers of
recently dead preacher’s wives. Nine and a half steps, one for each decade
they’ve huddled together after the sting of Angelus deserting them.

“S-Spike,” It’s a rising wail of panic from a dark Goddess cut off from her
worshippers.

There’s no distance measured on this planet great enough to stop
him from going to her. The less than a dozen meters between them now is no
exception, and Spike’s instantly at her side, pushing apart the mountain of
linen she’s swathed in, draggling her out of the depths of her protective
cocoon, and whispering against her hair, “Ssh, luv. Spike is here. Sshh.”

He hides his face in her, trying to ignore the wiry, dark curls that stream
in a frantic halo around her head and shoulders as she scrabbles, clutching
at him with stiff fingers. Concentrates instead on the scent of honey and
dust that fills his nostrils now that he’s touching her. Like ancient,
crumbling parchment, and he wonders how the fuck in this moist rot hole
anything could ever be dry like that. Even the bodies of the missionaries,
discarded throughout the camp decompose in liquid, glistening masses as
flies buzz around, obsessively touching down on the shiny piles, leaving him
to imagine their tiny tracks slashed across severed arms.

“You need to eat.” Tries hard to keep that edge of desperation out of his
voice, because he wants to think he’s still in charge here, that he has some
power to keep her safe and protect her. Adopts the authoritarian tone that
Angelus used to have as he was ordering them all about, because maybe that
will give him some sense of power over what’s becoming a hopeless situation.

“The sun, we have to find the valley of the sun,” she insists weakly as she
falls back on the bed, in that boneless, apathetic manner she’s developing,
a deliberate rejection of any of his suggestions. She hadn’t wanted to come
to Ecuador, had mumbled some nonsense like now, about The Valley of The Sun. Well, they had a fucking lot of sun here, wasn’t that good enough?

“Dru, we’re here. I’m going to make you better. Won’t you eat something?”
He thinks he’s going to cry when he notices that she’s visibly thinner, skin
stretched across her cheekbones, and wonders if she’s falling apart right
before his eyes.

Her outburst cost her what remaining energy she had left, eyes rolling
back underneath her lids, lips slack, “I’m not hungry.”

Her lips take him back to his father’s funeral. Nine years old, and his
mother makes him go up to the casket to say his farewell. But all he can see
is the dark threads they’ve stitched to keep his father’s mouth from gaping
open in the obscene smile of the dead. It’s not his father, it’s some wax
replica they’ve placed there, and he tries to back away, but his mother
grips his elbow and starts hissing at him to stop embarrassing the family.

That panic hits him here, the frantic desire to ‘do something’ although
rationally he knows Dru’s already dead. “You’ve got to eat,” he states
again, as if that could make it so. He can’t recall the last time she
hunted, killed, and knows that he really does have to act quickly, because
she doesn’t make any movement when he touches her arm.

He looks wildly around the bedroom, eyes lighting on a pile of rags lying in
the corner. Spike leaves the bed, stalks over there, feels the warm gasp as
the adolescent tries to sink into the wall at his back. Mmn, chocolate skin
and still a strong heart, not like those anaemic missionaries. The boy only
has one hand capable of putting up a fight, the other was crushed by an
overzealous minion of their host, eager to impress. It wouldn’t have helped
anyway.

Teeth to the skin of the lad’s neck, pressure just enough to puncture with a
pop, like a ripe plum, and a mouthful of blood that he carries with him back
to the bed. Knee on the mattress, near Dru’s hip. She doesn’t stir at all. He
swings his other knee over to straddle her, hand to the back of her head and
lifts her neck up, tries not to wince as her head flops back hyper extending
her neck. Spike repositions her, cradling her scull in the palm of his right
hand, fingers of the left come up to clear the wisps of hair from her face.
This is the worst she’s ever been. Places his lips tenderly against hers,
still reverent of his Sire in his alarm, and lets the blood dribble from his
mouth through her dry, cracked lips. He’s relieved when the muscles of her
throat move; she still has a swallowing reflex. As her throat moves again in
an effort to clear the thick fluid, he bites his own wrist and holds it up
to her, brushes the blood oozing out of the wound around her mouth hoping
that will entice her. Her dark lashes remain feathered along her cheekbone,
but her lips part, and she begins lapping at the rivulets winding their way
down his forearm.

He suppresses an insane, grateful laugh, and gives silent thanks to whoever
hears the prayers of vampires.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She’s asleep now, tucked safely back into her nest and resting comfortably.
He shuts the door to the room partially, and that’s when he feels it.
Another presence invades the space, one that is patient, hesitant. Spike
glances over to see the visitor-a small twisted little gremlin who waits on
silent cat feet. No attempt at conversation or explanation, just blinking
yellow eyes that watch slowly, but carefully, everything he does with an
expectant air.

Not exactly America’s favorite collie, but with the same nonverbal intensity
and unwavering stare that makes Spike want to scream ‘quit looking at me.’

“You want me to follow you?” //Thank you Captain Obvious//.

The shuffling of deformed feet, one at least three times as large as the
other, is the only answer. Freakishly long, skinny toes that look like
someone tried to graft fingers onto a foot, and Spike can’t help but stare
in horrified fascination as the creature just nods its deformed skull and
turns to skitter out the door.

~~~~

It’s unusual for vampires and demons to work in coordination, each usually
having a healthy disdain for the other, occasionally a reluctant
partnership. The demon population here seems to have an unnatural respect
for Spike’s kind, and he knows why. It’s due to his host. No doubt he’s
beaten respect for vampires into the soldiers of this army.

Spike steps around his guide when the creature stops in front of a centrally
located building, looks over his shoulder as the creepy little bugger lopes
off to parts unknown. Shrugs when he realizes that he doesn’t really give a
fuck where its destination is, turns the knob, and leaves the night air as
he closes the door behind him.

“Oh, there you are.”

His head turns as he locates the speaker, sharp senses immediately drawing
his attention to a figure sprawled in a chair next to a desk, legs elevated,
heels resting on the surface of a low table. He hadn’t known Penn was here,
or about the fact that the vampire held a position of authority, being a
favorite of the demon General Balaam. Both of those pieces of information
were surprises when he and Drusilla had arrived.

He jumps right in. “Did you talk to him? What did he say?” A bit more blunt
than he intends, but Spike doesn’t have a lot of time to shoot the shit. Dru
is definitely getting worse. Penn had promised that the demon knew some
obscure ritual that would cure her, had promised that he would intervene on
their behalf.

Penn tilts back the chair he sits in as he balances on the two rear
legs. Seesawing, rhythmic jerks are controlled by contractions of his
thighs, moving like some hopped up crack head. Spike fights the urge to
kick him over and watch the smug tosser land on his arse. They’ve never
been exactly friends or confidants, or even tolerated each other. Everything
between them had always been a contest to prove they were Angelus Jr, to
attain some fucked up ‘favorite son status’ that The Scourge of Europe
encouraged wholeheartedly. The sick bastard.

Watching Spike intently, Penn rests his elbow on his abdomen, outlines his
bottom lip with a thumbnail. He’s silent, but projects that same arrogant
self-importance that had gotten his ass kicked more than once.


“Cut out your tongue did he?” There’s no need to disguise the snide
question. Spike’s learned that Penn sometimes needs a little prodding to get
over his vastly inflated sense of worth. He’s never let the wanker get away
with that superiority, pissing contest crap, and he’s not about to start
now. This bullshit daddy routine isn’t going to cut it.

Penn stretches his tongue out through the opening of his mouth, pushing it
against his thumbnail until he cuts it, spreads the blood on his lower lip,
and slowly licks it off as he continues to watch Spike. “No, it never got
that far.”

“Pity.” He really doesn’t give a shit about the bedroom habits of Penn, or
the demon general, and doesn’t bother to hide it.

Lowering his hand, Penn twines the fingers of both and rests them across
his midsection. “Balaam is not in the habit of giving something away for
nothing. In fact, the only reason he is even considering your request is as
a personal favor to me.” The chair rocks back and forth in a hard, internal
rhythm that speaks to the fact that Penn isn’t as sure of himself as he
likes to think he is. Either that, of he’s not sure of the reception his
next words will receive.

“I’m certain you put in a good word.” Disbelief is a given, and Spike
reminds himself to keep his emotions in check, at least until he gets the
information that will cure Dru, then he can pound sand up Penn’s ass for
being such a smarmy little git. “So what’s the deal?”

“He wants you to fight with us, just for a week. A payment if you will, for
services rendered.”

There never was something for nothing. That was one of the first lessons that Spike had learned. “So, I stick around for a week, drum
up some mayhem, then poof-presto chango-he gives me some herbs with Latin
names, or a vat of stinky salve, and Dru’s all better?”

“If he likes your work, I might be able to talk him into something. He sets
a high value on my opinions.”

That fucker just wants him to beg. He can feel it. Well, he won’t give him
the satisfaction. Feigning disinterest, Spike pokes around at a fist-sized
rock on a table near the door. Rust colored stains on its surface and bits
of hair with bone shards clinging mark it as some grisly souvenir of
battle. “That’s a neat trick, demon’s usually don’t buddy up with us vampire
types.”

“He was impressed by my mind for strategy, and my ingenious torture
techniques. What can I say? I learned from the best.”

Spike remains with his back to Penn, tries to determine if the blood on the
rock is human or another species. Calls over his shoulder, “Yeah, well.
Sick fucks think alike don’t they?”

He hears a thwang and a rush of air, looking to his left, he sees a six
inch, bone handled knife embedded into the wall quivering with the
vibrations of its sudden halt. He studies it quietly for a few seconds, then
turns to see Penn sporting an amused smirk on his face.

“You should talk,” Penn laughs. “You and your crazy Sire are some of the
most messed up pieces of work I’ve ever seen.”

Spike can feel his anger bristling at the slur. Penn never dared insult
Drusilla openly when Angelus was around. The fact that he does so now
speaks volumes about who he considers to have the upper hand. “So what’s
with the happy, family reunion vibes? Why are you going to help us?”

“I said I *might*.”

Ah, there’s the rub. He should have known Penn would have some ulterior
motive. “You might? I don’t feel like twenty questions. What are you getting
at?”

“You’ll stay for a week. We’ll have fun…like the old days.”

“We never had fun in the old days.”

“Okay, let me spell it out for you. I. Want. To. Fuck. You.” Penn bounces
his weight against the chair, tipping it back with each word of his
statement, pronouncing every syllable slowly and deliberately.

That’s what Spike thought he’d said. He half turns away, like he’s wiping
tears of laughter from his eyes, and picks up the rock he’d been looking at
earlier. He thinks it would look better with some vampire brains smeared
across its surface. He throws it at Penn as hard as he can.

A small oil lamp gets knocked off the desk as the stone grazes Penn’s
shoulder by centimeters. He topples backwards landing flat on his back on
the floor, laughing. Dust from the hole in the wall the rock made floats in
the air, covering him with white, powdery drywall, and he starts laughing
even harder. The sound is cut off into a strangled gurgle when Spike sprints
across the room and plants his foot on Penn’s neck, steps down hard, and
crushes his windpipe slightly. “Who the fuck said I’d lay down for you?”

Penn manages a lascivious grin and rasps out against the pressure on his
throat, “I never asked you to lay down.”

Spike hears the door open behind them, crushes his foot down harder, and
turns to see two Giagnal demons looming in the doorway. 6’6, very muscular
with tusks protruding from their squashed in faces, they ask, “Is everything
all right?” in their language of clicks and grunts. They actually look like
they don’t care, like they’d be glad to be rid of Penn, but they’d probably
be beheaded if they let the newcomer kill the general’s favorite.

“Get the hell out!” Penn gurgles. “If he was going to kill me, you’d be
seeing a pile of dust right now, a lot of fucking help you’ve been. And lock
that goddamn door.” They grumble between them, nothing loud enough for the
vampires to hear, and shut the door with a thump as they leave. He wheezes,
then asks, “Don’t you want to help Dru?”

“Maybe we don’t need you.”

“Come on, I’ve seen her. She’s wasting away. She won’t last much longer.
Balaam might be able to help you, but he won’t unless I ask him to.” Penn
extends his hand. “Help me up.” Spike doesn’t move, and Penn repeats, “Help
me up.”

Spike bends, grips Penn’s hand, but as the other vampire shifts his weight,
using the leverage to rise from the floor, the blonde punches Penn with his
other hand, full in the face. It would stun a human, but Penn just aims a
kick, plants his foot against Spike’s thigh and sends him flying backward
with a violent jab of his boot. Penn’s straddling him in seconds, thighs
clamped down, keeping Spike’s arms pinned while he still has the element of
surprise working for him.

“I don’t know why you’re putting up such a fuss. You’ve done this for
Angelus before.” Penn finishes the statement and stretches his lips into a
rigid “o” as he grinds his pelvis into the vampire trapped underneath him,
tries a few experimental thrusts that crush into Spike’s abdomen.

“You’re no Angelus. Not that it’s any of your business, but a grandsire has
certain privileges.”

“Feudal rights?”

“Something like that.”

“ That’s funny, I would think you would do just about anything for your
sire. That’s all I’m asking you to do…anything.” He lowers his voice,
dipping in closer, a shaggy tendril of dirty blonde hair just brushes the
top of one brow. “She’s not going to make it if you don’t do something…and I
want to help you.”

That softly insistent voice so close is hard to ignore, saying everything
that his heart has known for the last year, “You know there’s no other way.”
Wrapping around his intestines and spine, squeezing every ounce of hope he’s
kept hidden inside and exposing it for the lie it is. He really can’t see
another way. This demon bloke probably has access to some powerful magics,
something that all the blood and rest and denial hasn’t been able to do-cure
Drusilla.

“It’s only for a week.”

It sounds so rational, right in his face like this, when he’s unable to
focus on any argument but hazel eyes blinking lazily down into his own. He’s
done this before to save Dru, to spare her Angelus’ wrath. Penn is right,
there probably isn’t anything he hasn’t done, wouldn’t do for Druscilla.

Penn knows the moment the decision is made, reads it in his eyes before the
words are out to confirm it. He smiles and brings both hands up to Spike’s
face, fingers slide around, squeeze through the short blonde hair, conform
to the bumpy landmarks at the base of Spike’s skull.

Thumbs brush Spike’s earlobes, follow the ridge of bone that makes up his
jaw, catch under the lip of the hinge, and pull forward. Chin juts out, and
neck bows. Penn kisses him hard, and when his tongue pushes its way past his
lips, Spike can taste the blood from his earlier punch. A thin layer of
fluid coating bottom teeth and gums tastes so fucking good as he sucks it
into his own mouth. Drusilla’s been so weak, and he can’t even remember the
last time he kissed someone…someone who wasn’t killed immediately afterward.
There hasn’t been anyone who could take the brunt of his frustration over his
self-imposed exile from Dru’s bed, until now.

Penn rises up on his knees maintaining only the most minimal contact. The
seam of his jeans chafes over Spike’s stomach, dragging the black T up as
Penn rocks forward. Exposes naval and the first stray hairs that disappear
into the waistband. Spike feels that irresistible pull as thigh muscles
bunch on either side of his torso, lifts his hips instinctively to recapture
that friction of body against body.

Penn doesn’t stop kissing him when Spike juts against him, just makes a
vibrating tone of agreement that originates in his throat, hums through the
quick, darting tongue. Knees slide down Spike’s upper body, hands exploring
their way down, fumbles with the button of his jeans, tugs at them.

Spike has a moment to think when Penn sits back, yanks the denim. He can
only think how familiar this seems, can’t help but see Angelus looking down
at him, knows it’s Penn, but almost welcomes the illusion that it’s all out
of his control, that he once again has no power of choice.

There’s nothing to him now but an empty shell and an endless loop of the
past that he can watch from outside himself, hand his problems over to
someone else to solve, like the old days. The errant son living his violent
fantasies out until they push him too far. Until some real trouble comes
that he can’t solve by himself and has to come running back home. But this
time, daddy’s not there to fix it. Angelus is gone, and Spike realizes
that’s been his problem.

Maybe he was stupid to think that he could shoulder the burden of his
responsibilities on his own. Hard to admit failure, but it hasn’t helped
them at all so far. Without the possibility of Angelus’ help stuck in his
back pocket as a last resort, he’s been floating without direction. Dragging
them here and there while he chases every fairytale and old wives myth he
hears.

When all he really had to do was swallow his pride and return to the
welcoming…well, manipulative and controlling arms of his family. Is it too
high of a price? Not really, it seems familiar, comfortable. At least he
knows what to expect.

Penn shrugs out of his shirt, drops it to the side with a wink and a lazy
smile. A thin line of puckered skin runs in a meandering pattern over his
otherwise perfect chest. Angelus had given him that scar when he’d turned
him. Spike touches the hardened welt, and Penn lets him, looks down under half
lowered lashes at the fingers palpating the scar.

“You always were smart. A little stubborn…but you’re a survivor Spike. Don’t
forget that. That’s the one thing Angelus taught us…gave us. It was hell
learning it at the time, but it’s the most important gift he’s ever given
you.”

He knows Penn’s wrong. The most important gift Angelus ever gave him was his
sire…his dark Goddess Drusilla. Those survival skills were just what had
brought him here and kept him other than alive.

Angelus always needed blood spilled during foreplay, couldn’t get off
without it, usually hadn’t minded if it were his own or not. It’s not to far
fetched to guess that Penn’s developed similar tastes.

Splaying his fingers across the pale flesh of the vampire straddling him,
Spike pushes the square edge of his short nails until skin parts and blood
drips. Only a few drops come at first, so he increases the pressure until the
crimson streaks flow freely. He wonders briefly how hard it would be to
shove his fingers in all the way, crack the rib cage and breastbone, grasp
the dead muscle of Penn’s chest in his grip and pull it out, tendons and
gristly bits flopping wetly.

He tries not to visibly shudder with the ecstasy that vision brings.

He continues his organic tattoo. As the fluid covers Penn’s chest, Spike’s
fingertips slide easily over the slippery surface, making crazy loops and
whirls, which Penn seems to enjoy as he undulates his torso, watching
mesmerized as the art unfolds. He doesn’t seem concerned when Spike gets his
other arm free and uses all ten fingers to spread the blood in a crude
butterfly pattern that sports a nipple in the center of each wing.

The harsh punctuation of black varnish is so clear as Spike wiggles the tip
of his index finger into one of the gashes, widens it. Penn grunts and his
thighs tighten reflexively as his pelvic muscles drop, digging a sharp
inseam into the crease between Spike’s inner thigh and scrotum. Penn’s hands
drop, palms falling against his quadriceps, and he flexes, straining
against, and pushing Spike’s fingers deeper into the wound.

“F-fuck.”

Not so farfetched at all.

Spike quivers his nostrils, inhaling appreciatively as the lineage of the
Order of Aurelius drips down them both. He can never forget that sweet,
powerful smell.

//The fragrance of kin.//

“There we go,” Spike says, brings one hand back to his lips and smears the
blood around his own mouth. Penn’s eyes don’t leave his face as he watches
Spike’s tongue flick out, leave a moist smear of pink in the dip between
bottom lip and chin.

“See? We can have fun?” Penn doesn’t move, except for the fingers he digs
into his own leg until the tips leave inch deep depressions. “Aren’t we
having fun?”

“Oh it’s summer camp alright.” Spike paints the areola of his kinsman with
a dollop of blood collected from just above the first rib bone as his other
hand squeezes Penn’s bicep. Pleased with the visual he’s just created, Spike
raises up, fastening his mouth over the sensitive nub, and sucking off the
color.

“Oh, you *have* done this for Angelus. I ‘d recognize his influence
anywhere.” Penn throws his head back, view of the ceiling cancelled by his
eyelids snapping shut as his face contorts in pleasure.

Now that hurts. Spike thought of that, he was the one that tried it out on
Angelus. And he doesn’t even get credit for it? He bites down on Penn’s
nipple, happy to feel Penn jerk in pain.//Recognize *that* influence you candy ass?//

Penn chuckles as he tugs at Spike’s shirt. “Get this off.”

//So much for Penn being a big, Nellie bottom.//

“Lemme up.” Spike says bucking his hips, and using his elbows for leverage.

Penn obliges, walking his arms backward, and sliding down Spike’s shins.
When he sees Spike abdominal muscles tighten as the t-shirt comes over his
head, Penn unzips and frantically wriggles his own jeans over his hips.

“Is this the wisest place for this?” Spike asks, glancing nervously at the
door.

“They won’t come in again. Probably hope you’ll kill me, then they can stalk
around camp as heroes, carrying handfuls of your ashes.”

“As touching a coronation as that sounds, I think I’ll skip it this time.”

”Well wouldn’t Angelus get a kick out of this?” Penn asks, as he runs a hand
down his crimson smeared body. His eyes narrow slyly, knowing what a hot
topic that vampire always is between them. “You know, I never did hear from
him again after I went to Italy. You were there. What happened? What made
him leave?”

It occurs to him that Penn doesn’t know about the curse. He and Dru haven’t
talked to him since, and it’s doubtful that Darla has either. Perversely,
he’s not going to. Let the bastard wonder for another century or two. “Oh,
he just got some bug up his arse and took off. Probably created a nice
little family somewhere, with a picket fence. Daddy’s just don’t stick
around like they used to.”

“No, they don’t.” Penn agrees, shuffling closer in his knees. He reaches out
and wraps a hand around the nape of Spike’s neck, pulling him closer and
grazing his teeth above the skin stretched over a cheekbone before locking
his mouth over Spike’s

Their torsos slide together in the messy aftermath of their foreplay, and
the scent of family is strong again, sending a vibrating hum racing over
every nerve ending in Spike’s body. What’s the incest attraction: That
energy, the attraction of blood seeking its own? He craves that. Needs it.
And Dru’s been ill a long time.

One shove is enough to get his message across to Penn, who yields to the
pressure, leans back until he rests on his elbows, then presses his back
into the ground beneath him as Spike climbs over his prostrate form.

Penn’s laying amidst the pulverized ceramic oil lamp that crashed to the
floor earlier, blue and white shards of shattered clay lying in a puddle of
thick fuel. The smell of herbs is strong, making him wonder what the hell
they’re burning in it. One hand reaches out to touch the spill above Penn’s
right shoulder, and his hand is covered in gooey fluid. When he brings it
closer to his face, he’s assailed by the hint of frankincense and something
else he can’t quite place.

Spike snaps out of his reverie when Penn grasps his cock and pulls gently.
“Focus.”

Spike snorts gently in annoyance, and then reciprocates, reaching behind him
to smear what must be altar oil that the demons are using for fuel on Penn.
He rises up slightly, impales himself. He adjusts slowly to the pressure,
then begins to find a rhythm. He bucks a little more frenetically as Penn
milks him, pleased to hear muttered curses as the vampire inside of him
finally ejaculates.

“I’m all teary eyed and reminiscent.” Penn smirks as Spike pulls off of him.

“Fuck you,” Spike snaps as he gathers his clothes.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“Here sweet. Sit right here.” He takes her hand and helps her over to a
large stump, stamps a path through the overgrown foliage so that she can
easily manoeuvre her way in the long skirt she wears.

“I want to hunt,” she protests weakly, but follows the trail.

With a hand at her back, he bends her, gently nudges her into a sitting
position. This is the first time in two days she’s even been able to stand.
A steady diet of native blood has strengthened her, but he has a suspicion
that it was making her feed off of his own blood that has helped her turn
that corner.

“You said I could hunt. You promised…” Her voice trails away as she notices
an enormous brown beetle that has landed on her sleeve. Fascinated, she
prods it with one long red and white fingernail.

“You don’t have the strength luv.” For some reason the bug disturbs him;
with it’s dung colored shell and spindly legs. He plucks it off of her and
tosses it into the bushes behind them with a grimace of distaste. “Penn will
flush the game this way. I’ll hold it still for you, and you can bite it.
You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You can kill it pet, we’ll just bring it to
you.”

“Oh,” Her voice carries her disappointment as her lips turn down into a
petulant frown. “I wanted to run through the trees like a big cat. With
naughty little whiskers that tickle when you’re trying to sleep…grrhh.” She
holds a pinch of dark curls on either side of her nose, mimicking a feline.

Her crossed eyes make him laugh, but he stifles it when she looks hurt.
She’d being serious. He hurries to soothe her feelings, “You’ll be the most
ferocious cat ever seen here Kitten. They’ll piss themselves with terror
when they see you.”

“Yes,” she breathes as she closes her eyes and smiles, lost in her own
daydream.

He arranges the plants around her in camouflage, green fronds waving all
around her head like the halo of some fairy queen, *his* beautiful, ethereal
queen. Regal, dark, wicked, she’s the reason for everything. “Now you stay
here, you mustn’t move. I want to go and see what’s keeping Penn. You’ll
have your hunt lovey, I promise.”

“We’ll hunt?”

“What did I say?” he prompts. He really wants her to stay put, there’s no
telling what is roaming around, and she can’t protect herself in this state.

“I’m to stay here, and I mustn’t move, and you’ll go and see why Penn is
being such a bad man.” Drusilla lowers her voice, hunches her shoulders down
as if whispering some earth-shattering secret that only they are privy to.

“Perfect my sweet.” He gives her one kiss on the end of her nose. When she
raises her head to face him, he sees a flicker of the old fire in the black
depths of her eyes. The pain in his chest is the answer to why he’s doing
this; he has to swallow before he can smile in response. Everything is for
her, and it always will be.

With one reluctant backward glance, he leaves her sitting there.

If Penn is screwing around, he really is going to beat the shit out of him,
deal be damned. Drusilla is looking forward to this; she’s more excited
than he’s seen her in months. If she’s disappointed, there’s going to be
hell to pay. They’ll be scraping Penn off the jungle floor for weeks.

The smell of blood is clear from 150 meters away…and the fear. When he makes
his way through the trees, he sees that Penn has a hold of one man by the
neck; two others are slumped against a tree, already dead. They’ve obviously
been hiking for several days, with bulging packs discarded a couple of feet
away. The other vampire turns upon hearing Spike approach.

When Penn presents the victim he holds with his left hand, Spike can see the
telltale cross, a crimson icon cut into the side of the human’s cheek. Penn
raises his other hand and starts clicking pictures with the human’s
camera-close ups of the man’s mutilated face. After a half dozen clicks,
Penn raises the lens to the blonde vampire.

“Look scary, this one’s a reporter for a tabloid. He wants to catch the
seamy underbelly of Hell’s army.” Several more clicks follow. “Give us few ridges or something.”

Spike’s not playing. “You were supposed to bring this one for Dru. Did you
forget that?”

“Ooo, yeah I did.” Penn scowls slightly.

“Well get him running, she’s over that way.” Spike points over his left
shoulder. “And get rid of that sodding camera. This is not a snuff film.”

“It could be.” Penn brightens at the idea, but shrugs when he sees the
blonde’s lack of enthusiasm for the suggestion. He flings the camera, and it
bounces off a nearby tree trunk. The machine appears unharmed as it lands in
some foliage, lens pointing up at the sky.

“Quit fucking around,” Spike says, walking over to the bodies and kicking
them with one boot to make sure they’re dead. He doesn’t really need to, he
could sense the lack of life from the minute he walked into the clearing.
Maybe it was just habit. Bending over, he rifles through the pockets, comes
up with a wallet. Flipping open the fold with his thumb, he finds three
hundred Canadian dollars and some credit cards. “Fuck. Canadian? Do you know what the exchange rate is?” He stands up and looks over his shoulder when he realizes he hasn’t heard Penn release the captive. “What are you waiting for?”

Penn licks at a thin trickle of blood that oozes from the gash in the man’s
cheek. When his victim faints, he gives an exasperated snort and drops the
wounded man to the ground. “No, I think I’ll take this one back to the
camp.” Penn surveys the body with a critical eye, “I like him. I think I’m
going to keep him.”

Spike flings a leather bound check book aside, not enthusiastic about the
pain in the ass that forgery entails, then connects the last sentence to its
meaning. “The hell you will!” He takes a few angry steps forward and points
to the unconscious man, “That one is Dru’s, it’s all set up. We have a deal,
no take backs.”

“I’ve changed my mind.” Penn toes the inseam at the man’s crotch, causing
the pleated front of the trousers to reveal the line of the man’s penis. He
looks up with a wicked expression on his face, “Unless you want to convince
me otherwise?”

“What in the hell are you talking about?”

Penn is obviously gloating over his own cleverness. He nods to the body at
his feet. “That’s the last one. Now you could spend another few hours
scouring the area for another, but the pickings are pretty slim. Either way,
your girl’s gonna be disappointed.”

“Son of a bitch. You mother fucking…”

“Oh, no, but damn that’s a good idea. I wish you’d been around when Angelus
turned me, but it’s too late now.”

“Now what do you want?” Spike spits out in frustration. Dru is sitting there
unprotected, expecting him to bring her something to kill. It’s a promise
he’s bloody well going to keep.

“You know what I want.”

“I don’t have time for this!” Spike makes a fist, overcome with the
 urge to shove it right down Penn’s gob. The image of Druscilla
regaining her strength is the only thing that keeps him still.

“Well it won’t take long, I’m half way there already.” Penn looks down at
the body on the ground again. “Or, I could take this one. He could last most
of the night. It’s a shame though; Dru should have her fun. It *would* be
tragic if she didn’t get well though, wouldn’t it?”

The implied threat is too obvious. “Are you saying you’re not going to help
her?”

“No, not at all,” Penn answers defensively.

“You ripe bastard,” Spike grumbles under his breath as he closes the
distance between them. Hard fingers jerk at the Penn’s zipper with no
pretence of tenderness or seduction. When Penn’s cock flops out in an
already semi aroused state, Spike drops to his knees, rolls back the
foreskin and parts his lips, taking the rapidly engorging tip into his
mouth. Tilting his head to the side, he runs his tongue up the side and
flicks the fraenulum. Penn’s zipper scrapes his nose, and he roughly yanks
the material farther down, out of his way.

These cat and mouse games are so reminiscent of Angelus, that there’s no
doubt where Penn learned them. Stifling the urge to bite down, he rings the
circumference of the head with a wet tongue, paying attention to the slit
that dips in the center. That he even has to do this riles him. They have a
deal; he can’t believe that Penn would even joke about reneging on their
agreement. If you can’t trust your own blood, who can you trust?

Penn is right; it only takes a minute or two for him to ejaculate. Spike
spits a mouthful of semen onto the ground and stands up abruptly, an action
not lost on the other vampire. “Well that was romantic,” Penn drawls
sarcastically.

“You’re not paying for romance,” Spike advises him, wiping his mouth, then
rubbing his hand on his pant leg. He’s already moved over to the human, and
with a couple of gentle slaps to the unconscious man’s good cheek, he
arouses him and pushes him off in the direction of where Dru  waits. He
gives one pointed look at Penn, then says, “Don’t pull this kind of shit
again. We have a deal, and I’ve lived up to my end of it. Angelus taught you
two things at least: The importance of family and keeping your word,” and
takes off after the half coherent cameraman.

When Spike reaches the clearing he left Dru in, he finds her standing,
staring bewildered at the once more prostrate body of the human he just sent
to her.

“Oh, baby. That was fast, did you kill him already?”

“No,” she shakes her head in puzzlement. “His heart doesn’t work. He just
fell over when I stood up.”

Spike leans over to check for a pulse and finds none. ”Dammit,” he mutters
under his breath.

“I don’t like this one Spike,” Dru complains. “He’s broken. Find another
one.”

Unfortunately, he knows there probably isn’t any substitute in the immediate
area. And there’s not enough time to properly scout out another victim
before the sun comes up. He feels a wave of rage flushing over his skin.

“Oh, bad luck,” Penn, laughs as he walks into the clearing and leans over
his previous victim. “I knew I should’ve picked that redhead.”

“Ohhhhh,” Druscilla cries out, swaying in place. She nearly loses her
footing, but Spike is instantly there to catch her.

“What is it baby?” He asks in concern.

“He has incredible power, he’s anointed among them.” She whispers, head
lolling back as Spike sweeps her off her unsteady feet and into his arms.
“Great power.”

Who is she talking about? Her words are incomprehensible now, stilted
mutterings that aren’t loud enough to hear. He repositions her weight in his
arms, and heads back to their cabin.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++


The night is closing in. Darkness nestles among the broad-leafed trees and
throws the jungle into a bizarre, shadowed tableau. Normally, only the muted
ramblings of nocturnal foragers would disturb the evening, but that is not
the case this night. Exotic, colorful birds perch in the trees screeching
in loud, frenzied alarm as a demon army consecrates the ground with the
blood of sleeping missionaries.

Spike turns his shoulder and shoves against the locked door in front of
him, a crucifix hangs from a rusty nail at eye level, and he laughs as he
tries to avoid it. He has to dip his shoulder lower than it should be.
Throws his whole balance off, but the flimsy door is no match for a
vampire’s strength. It caves in on the second go round.

Two huddled figures on the bed, the male holds a small silver cross on a
chain at arms length in front of him. But that’s not where the vampire’s
attention is drawn, he can’t help but stare at the young woman…pale skin and
dark hair. He stops for a minute. Her eyes are wild, ringed in white, and in
his mind, the iris’s film over in yellow, pupils slanting in a horizontal
slash. One blink, and his eyes adjust. She’s just another pathetic human.
The revolting injustice of this wretched woman, hale and hearty while his
black Goddess wastes away is too much.

Growling low in his throat, he advances into the room. She falls behind her
companion, and the man thrusts the cross in front of them, praying
feverishly. Maybe English, maybe Latin…Spike doesn’t hear the words. He
doesn’t really give a shit. Grabs the frail arm and snaps it at the elbow.
Hears a grunt of pain and a groaned call, “Jesus.”

“Blasphemer.” He grasps a handful of white button down shirt and flings the
man through the air. The thud of his body hitting the far wall registers for
a second, but doesn’t slow him at all when he turns back to the woman.

She spares a horrified glance at what must have been her husband, then turns
to Spike with obvious fright, trembling as she realizes the futility of her
position.

Quiet. Serious, he tilts his head and widens his eyes, questions, “Do you
love God?” She must have loved him enough to follow her husband here to this
strange land, to preach the word of a patriarchal God and his crucified,
carpenter son, enough to end her life here, fodder in a war between humans
and the races of darkness.

Tiny little whisper, “Yes.”

That’s devotion, the willingness to sacrifice everything for your creator.
He knows something about that. Her dark eyes, so like his sire’s. They close
when he reaches up to brush fingertips across their lids. He gets to see his
Goddess everyday, gets to hold her, even though he’s always shadowed by the
dread that she’ll be taken from him. He’s going to give this one an
opportunity to know that, to feel that connection, to show her the same kind
of love he’s discovered. He’ll send her to her sire, to her God.

He bows his head, touches his forehead to hers, closes his eyes, and
suddenly desperately misses his princess. Maybe he’ll cut short this attack,
lie beside his baby and stare at her. Bring her a fresh liver. She always
loves that.

He can hear the woman praying, “Though I walk through the valley of the
shadow of death…I will fear no evil.”

No, no fear. Living a life in preparation of this moment, it’s the
fulfilment of purpose. “Say hello for me.” The ridges slide out in relief
against the connection between them, a hand comes up to steady her, stretch
her throat taut. Her dark curls wisp across his nose as he nestles in
closer. It’s a slow puncture, gently done. She’ll begin her pilgrimage.

That’s when the illusion falls apart. He stands up and looks down at her,
wonders how he ever could have mistaken this lump of flesh for his wicked
goddess. Probably the fatigue of battle, Penn has kept him busy for the last
three nights…killing…drinking…fucking. No more grandstanding displays or
power struggles, Penn has kept his word and kept the two of them
entertained in a hedonistic whirl of debauchery.

The blood and the booze doesn’t bother Spike. He’s been stretching out next
to Dru, telling her tales of the night’s rampage…everything he saw, smelled,
and tasted. But it’s the sex that he doesn’t share with her, *that* scent he
vigorously scrubs off before coming to their rooms. He’s not sure if she’ll
understand the depths he will go to for her, not sure if *he* does.

Stops on his way out, drains the man lying on the floor. The warmth of his
body seeps out with his blood, and the vampire feels a stab of anger as the
man dies so easily. Snaps his neck with the thought //you should have tried
harder to protect her//. Doesn’t know if it’s the human or himself that he’s
mad at as he continues out the door.

This bloody jungle is starting to depress him, make him unbearably maudlin.
He really needs to get them the hell out of here.

Twenty meters to his left, a Markeesh demon sits banging a child’s severed
head against a rock. Brain eaters the Markeesh are, hairy, grotesque imps
that look kind of like mountain apes, with really big teeth. Sitting
cross-legged, it gleefully batters the head, squealing with delight as it
cracks, picks at the grey matter and sucks it from underneath its long
fingernails. Spike grimaces distastefully, this is the proud venture he’s
bought into. Not wanting to be species-ist, but that’s why vampires are
higher on the evolutionary ladder, they have some class. At least most do.

Arms come around his waist from behind, he can sense Penn as the other
vampire wraps strong forearms around Spike’s midsection, rests his chin on a
shoulder. “You’ve done well this week. Balaam is pleased.”

Spike makes no comment. Leave it to Penn to pretend nothing has
changed, at least he’s honoring his part of the bargain. If the demon
general is pleased, maybe now he’ll be able to go about finding the cure for
Dru. A week’s worth of blackmail will be well worth the price. Dru’s a bit
stronger, but she’s done this before. A relapse is inevitable

Another Markeesh demon hobbles over to the first, makes a gesture
requesting to share the bounty. The first one bares its teeth and starts
snarling, drops the skull and attacks the newcomer.

//Yeah, it’s a proud day.//

“He’s noticed your initiative.”

//Screw initiative, more like his inhibitions// Spike shakes his head, and
answers, “So does he know something that can help Dru?”

Lips to Spike’s neck, tasting what Penn’s become familiar with in the last
six days. “Some twisted little fuck named Dulac or something used to offer
sacrifices to Eligor. Balaam remembers that he might have discovered some of
the ancient rituals. He was last heard of in a place called Sunnydale.”

“The Valley of The Sun,” Spike muses softly to himself. Drusilla was right.

“I guess.” Penn answers, although he obviously has no idea what he’s
agreeing to, he slides his hands down Spike’s biceps, down to his hips,
tucks them underneath his shirt, and pinches Spike’s nipples hard. When the
action evokes little more than an annoyed flinch, Penn repeats it. Bites
down into the neck underneath his lips, draws blood, and happily laps it up.

“So Sunnydale it is,” Spike decides, distracted by plans for packing Dru up
and hitting the road. Hopping from Hellmouth to Hellmouth? He’ll visit
every bloody one in the world; blow every demon with a prick if that’s what
it takes.

The two quarrelling Markeesh increase their frenzy. Stray flecks of blood
land on the two vampires watching, and Penn moves a hand down, slowly
molding his palm along the hard lines of undead flesh. He’s carried out the
same action a thousand times in the last six days but never seems to grow
tired of it. Undoes a button, tucks his hand beneath the denim waistband of
the vampire in front of him. Grabs him right at the base of his cock, holds
it firmly in his hand for a moment. Claiming it. Then moves his hand over
its length in appreciation.

He inhales softly near Spike’s ear. “Smell that frenzy of anger. You can
just taste the undercurrent of fear settling over everything.”

A loud scream drifts over the air from behind a row of small outbuildings, a
terrified wail that’s cut short. Spike’s flesh hardens involuntarily
underneath Penn’s touch as he strokes it. He pumps away with his fist,
pulling Spike against him with each downward stroke.

The sense of fear is overwhelming, coming from so many sources around him as
missionaries are slaughtered. Numerous scenes of violence are displayed before
him to the accompaniment of Penn’s skilled hands. Sensory overload makes his
head spin, and he’s surprised that he can remain on his feet. This seems to
be Penn’s modus operandi, complete and total saturation of every sense-
drugs, booze, violence, blood, sex- everything all at once until his head
starts to spin, and he’s ready to fuck anything…and has.

“This is all ours Spike.”

The voice in his ear doesn’t even sound like Penn’s anymore, it’s a softer,
Irish lilt that impossibly transforms into a girl’s English tones at the end.
He wants to rebel but can’t seem to break through the absurd insanity.
He’s got what he came for, but the pieces aren’t falling into place.
Physical pleasure is overriding intellectual reasoning. And how much of a
whore does that make him?

Everything seems so surreal, and he just can’t fight the sense that his
brain is making all this up. Even his body’s reactions are starting to feel
detached from the hand that slides along his cock. Yes he’s swelling,
growing hard, but there’s the sense that it’s not even a part of him. His
back pounds against the chest blocking him in from behind; a cradle of arms
keeps him confined.

It’s hard to separate this moment from a hundred others, hard to remember
that it’s not Angelus demanding payment this time, just Penn. A poor
substitute, but once again he’s eager to barter himself on unequal ground,
to sign himself over to someone else.

And for all his posturing, and rationalization, he can’t ignore one simple
fact. This isn’t his playground; he’s a guest here. Not quite a prisoner. A
semi reluctant hostage, maybe. Who says you can never go home again? This is all is so frighteningly familiar; he’s played this game before and knows the rules
very well. But he’s never had the clarity before, the sudden insight that
the cocksucking, the buggery, they don’t mean anything. Whatever hoops Penn
can imagine mean nothing. They are only a small bump in the road to what
really matters: his princess.

His skin is tight, ripe fruit ready to pop. He tries to think of *her* face,
that strange little mewling sound she makes when she’s afraid or when she
comes. For the last week, he’s always kept in mind…what he’s giving for her.
Doesn’t think he can tell her, and can’t imagine what she’ll say if she
finds out. When he tries to analyse it, he realizes he’s not ashamed; it’s
just what he’s done. A choice he made. He’s sold his soul for her before. He
probably will again. The only thing that matters is that she gets well, and
that they are together. There is nothing but that.

Penn can’t hurt him. Nothing can hurt him, because he has Dru, and she will
have her cure. Nothing will stop that.

That’s a sweet revelation, the purity of truth. Whatever price he’s paid,
it’s been worth it. There’s one final instalment that needs to be given. He
leans his hips into Penn’s hand, grinds them and fucks that fist in front of
him. This seals their agreement, ends it, and he couldn’t be happier as he
feels that tightening in his balls.

The sounds of the two creatures tearing each other apart are linked to that
pleasure center in his brain. Splatters of his semen mock the drops of blood
that spray over the two vampires, and is it any wonder he’s such a sick
bastard?

Penn ducks around, leer on his face as he licks his own hand. Leans in and
tries to kiss Spike on the mouth. “What’s wrong with you?” he asks when he’s
rebuffed, as Spike turns his head away. “You calling in prude today?”

“I don’t like the jungle. Humid. Fucking a’ hundred degrees.”

“What the hell do you care?”

Spike sighs, “I just wanna get the hell away from here.” He’s really not in
the mood for ‘pillow talk’ tonight. He’s ready to move on again, got what he
came for.

“Away from me?”

“ Especially the hell away from you. I’m thinking of a little vacation…to
Sunnydale.” One hard shove and Penn flies backwards, landing in the midst
of a ball of pissed off Markeesh. Penn looks up in surprise, unsure if this
is another interlude of foreplay. Spike doesn’t hesitate to make it clear.
“*We’re* done. Dru and I leave here now, and I don’t want to see you again.”

He turns his back, and doesn’t look back. Sunnydale? He’s got a good feeling
about this.

[END]

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