Part 6
Scene 1
[first bit from end of Part 5]
Later that morning, Deth heads to Chicago. Spike is a bit concerned for her—she was obviously nervous and a bit conflicted about the trip. She had confessed her trepidation about the whole pig-killing aspect. Still, she was committed to going; felt it was her obligation—perhaps a way of paying them back in some small way for raising her. And she’s curious. She agrees to check in every night she is away, though she’s not much of a phone person. She calls the night of the ritual to tell him that things went surprisingly smoothly—she got to see her “father” and “sister” and some others she remembered. The pig slaughtering wasn’t quite as awful as she had feared, though she still can’t get the sound of the squealing out of her head. He hangs up feeling relieved.
About eight hours later, his phone rings again. It’s Deth. She’s upset, her voice frozen in her throat. Her breathing betrays the state of her hysteria, as only a word or two escapes her lips. He can hear her heart pounding, blood rushing too quickly through the veins. Spike tries to calm her down enough to form the minimum number of words he needs to figure out what’s upsetting her. It’s so hard not being able to see her. He tells her to have a drink of something—something strong.
Deth: [choking out the words] “Afraid. Can’t go out.”
Spike: [for the tenth time] “Relax, love. Tell me what happened.”
Deth: [breathing deeply just like he told her] “I…I think I might have done something awful. I had a dream. He was on the television.”
Spike: “Who was on the television?”
Deth: “A boy. The boy from my dream. In the news.”
Spike: “And why was he on the news?”
Deth: “He’s so young. So small. [losing her brief calm] How could I have not known? How could I not see?”
Spike: “Try to relax. Breathe. Why was the boy on the news?”
Deth: “Missing. Gone. Taken from a playground.”
Spike: “Okay. So maybe you saw him on the news before you went to sleep and that’s why you had a dream about him.”
Deth: “No no no no. My fault. The dream…wasn’t. [pause] I think…I think I killed him.”
Having said the words, she inhales sharply as if to gasp one last breath of air before her throat re-tightens. A calmness follows as the horror of it descends, smothering her. Her eyes find a stain on the wall across the room and she lets her gaze fix there. She loosens her grip on the phone and lets it drop slightly away from her ear.
Spike: [Wishing he could see her—see what she was thinking] “That’s not right. You know it isn’t. You don’t kill people.” [He adds to himself—that’s what I do. Did. Whatever. Getting no response, he says softly] “Deth?”
He perceives the change in her. Her breath is now shallow and steady. There’s something familiar here. He’s afraid she might retreat like he did.
Spike: “Do you want me to come up there? [not waiting for her answer] Yeah, you just sit tight, luv. I’ll come to Chicago and we’ll figure this all out. Could use a bit of a break from all the bloody sunshine anyway. [pause] Can you tell me where you are? Maybe you said before, but…”
He feels a bit guilty for not paying attention when she’d given him the details during a previous conversation. After a moment, he hears some movement on her end of the line—perhaps her bringing the phone closer to her ear again.
Deth: [in the tiniest of voices] “How?”
Spike: “No worries, pet. Be there in a flash. Just read me the number on the phone—I’ll get the rest.”
He waits while she processes this. Her eyes follow the phone cord to the base—she squints her eyes to see the number printed just above the buttons. She swallows and then recites the sequence to Spike.
Spike: “Just sit tight. [pause; He’s worried and wants to say more; he shakes his head in annoyance at himself—why can’t he just bloody say it? They’re only words.] Take care of yourself.”
He hangs up, grabs his duster, puts a pack of cigarettes in his pocket and leaves.
**
A little while later, Spike arrives at Wolfram and Hart. He heads straight for Angel’s office. It is pretty quiet—middle of the night and all. He pounds on the door, but then discovers it’s open. He finds Angel half asleep on the couch, holding a file in his hand. Angel sits up, groggily and seeing that it’s Spike, instantly frowns.
Angel: “What the hell do you want?”
Spike: “Frankly, I’m surprised to find the place in such good shape—when we left the other night, it looked like the party was about to evolve into a serious riot. Was almost sorry to miss all the fun.”
Angel: “Yeah, well, things were headed that way, but we managed to keep it under control.”
Truth is, soon after Spike left, all the guests seemed to just mellow out on their own without any intervention whatsoever. At the time, Angel was so relieved to have escaped such a potentially disastrous situation, he never thought to question why things went from escalating violent chaos to polite socializing over the course of a half hour or so. Come to think of it, maybe it was Spike’s fault (this was his favorite explanation for everything).
Spike: “Well, bully for you then. Go team.”
Angel: [rubbing the sleep out of his eyes; he’s finally awake enough to properly tell Spike off] “By the way, don’t you EVER use my office for your little sexcapades EVER again. I’m beginning to think Harmony’s little memo wasn’t such a bad idea.”
Spike: [smirking] “You’re just jealous.”
Angel: [without thinking] “Get over yourself.”
Spike: [devilish grin] “I meant jealous that my girlfriend’s such a goer, but if you want to make this about me…”
Angel: [looking embarrassed for a second, then covering by rolling his eyes.] “Why are you here?”
Now, normally, he’d like to take an opportunity like this to continue to tease his temporarily off-balance grand-sire, but considering the situation, he decides to stick to the point.
Spike: “I need the jet.”
Angel: “The jet. As in the one we took to Europe.”
Spike: “That’s the one.”
Angel: “Is that all?”
Spike: “And probably a pilot too, while you’re at it.”
Angel: “Why?”
Spike: “I’d rather not say. It’s personal.”
Angel: “Personal. You’re not…”
Spike: “Keep your knickers on; I’m not going to Rome. Just ‘round the corner to Chicago.”
Angel: “Maybe you should take a bus.”
Spike: “In a bit of a hurry, mate. Could you just take those pudgy sausage fingers of yours and dial up whoever needs to be dialed to get me the jet?”
Angel: “Do you honestly think I’m just going to give you the Wolfram and Hart private jet, with no explanation whatsoever about what you plan to do with it?”
Spike: “Not asking you to give it me, just let me borrow it for a few days. Heck, you can just have them drop me off—I’ll make my own way back.”
Angel: “Why Chicago?”
Spike: “I have to do a bit of investigating is all.”
Angel: “Investigating. [beat] Get out.”
Spike: “What? I can’t ask for a favor now and again?”
Angel: “You ask for favors all the time.”
Spike: [a bit more serious] “Come on. I need it. I’ll explain later. [a shrug and a mumbled] Maybe.”
Angel: “I’m not giving you the jet until you tell me why you need it.”
Spike: “I told you. It’s personal.”
Angel: “I hear Greyhound has cut down it’s routes, but maybe there’s a cargo train you can hitch a ride on.”
Spike: [deep breath] “Someone may be in trouble—a girl. It might involve a ritual and maybe a human sacrifice. Now will you just get me the bloody jet?”
Angel: [confused] “I thought you said it was personal.”
Spike: “It is. [dead serious] It’s something I need to take care of.”
Angel: “Does it involve someone we know?”
Spike: [eyes narrowed] “Maybe.”
Something about Spike’s tone makes Angel immediately think of Drusilla. Spike notices Angel’s expression change slightly and takes a guess as to what he is thinking.
Angel: “There’s a hellmouth in Chicago. Draws in certain types. [beat] Is she up to something big?”
Spike: [Happy to play along in order to keep the trail off of Deth. He smiles as if to acknowledge Angel’s “cleverness” at figuring it out.] “Not sure. Just investigating, remember?”
Angel: “You sure you want to do this alone? I could send a team up.”
Spike: “I’d rather be on my own.”
Angel: [real sympathy/empathy in his voice] “Yeah.”
Angel picks up the phone and makes arrangements for the jet. Spike keeps up the act until he strolls out the door, when he smirks, pleased with himself. He shoulda been a bloody actor.
End scene.
Scene 2: Chicago, a motel on the outskirts of the city.
Spike gets out of a taxi, hands the driver some bills and then pulls a folded up piece of paper from his pocket. He strolls up to the appropriate door and knocks. For some reason, he knows not to expect an answer.
Spike: “Hey, it’s me. I’m just going to jimmy the door now—might have to break it a bit if I can’t get the lock.”
He is able to get the lock, but then has to break the chain holding the door. He steps in. Deth is sitting on the floor by the phone. She’s on the side of the bed away from the window and ducked down enough so that she couldn’t be seen if someone were to look in. She’s hugging her knees, her head resting against the wall. When Spike turns the corner from the door, she looks up at him with tired eyes. He kneels down next to her and touches her face with is hand. He guesses she hasn’t moved from this spot since she hung up the phone.
Spike: “You needn’t have taken me so literally when I said ‘sit tight’.”
She unwraps one of her arms to touch his, but doesn’t say anything. He can see the relief on her face. Still, she looks awful. Sunken eyes, pale.
Spike: “Aw luv, you look like dea…[stops himself with a small smile]…you look like hell. ‘told you to take care of yourself.”
There is something different about her; he can’t quite put his finger on. He tries to dismiss it, afraid of what it might mean. Likely just his imagination, anyway. There’s always been a lot of talk out there about vampires being able to sense the difference between innocents and the rest—mostly fueled by the Anne Rice bullshit that’d become so popular. Truth is, he’d heard of those who could tell—who’d taken the time to learn it; Mostly something the old ones were interested in. Not something he’d ever bothered with—never mattered to him either way—a kill was a kill. Dru cared about stuff like that—she always claimed the innocents tasted better; she seemed to know. He’d just smile and nod and follow along, like with the rest of her crazy gibberish spouting. But he wondered.
Spike: [shaking his head] “You’re dehydrated. [another twinge of guilt about how much blood he’d taken from her the other night] I’m going to go and get some supplies before the sun comes up. When I get back, we’ll get you in the shower and put you to bed for a bit. No arguments.”
At first she grips his arm tighter in response, obviously not wanting him to leave her alone again. But after he gently pries her hand loose, she goes back to hugging her knees and lets her head rest against them, staring back off into space as she was doing when he’d arrived. He returns after about 20 minutes. He hands her a very large bottle of Gatorade.
Spike: “Drink this. All of it.”
She unscrews the cap and takes a deep sip. She stops drinking abruptly and makes a disgusted face as she looks up at Spike questioningly.
Spike: “Yeah, it’s whiskey—not exactly an idea mix with Cool Blue Gatorade, but it’s all I had. Drink it—you need to relax, you’re stiff as a board.”
She frowns, but does as she’s told. It had been well over 24 hours since she’d eaten and so the alcohol has an instant effect. She lets her knees collapse and leans her whole body against the wall. Spike picks her up and takes her to the shower. As he starts to help her with her clothes, he frowns slightly.
Spike: “You’ve showered since the ritual, yeah?”
He hadn’t wanted to bring it up—didn’t want to upset her while she was still in this fragile state—but if they were going to figure out what happened that night, he couldn’t risk washing away anything. He could tell the difference between human and pig’s blood. She nods.
Spike: “And the clothes?”
Deth: “Robes. Nothing underneath. They kept them.”
Spike: “Right then. Guess we should get you cleaned up and into bed.”
He would have preferred to let her sit in a warm bath for a bit, but there was only a shower stall. So he guides her tired, passive body out of her clothes, adjusting the temperature of the water before leading her under the stream. She turns to look at him. She says nothing, but her weariness beckons. He quickly pulls off his clothes and steps through the glass door into the steamy stall. She washes herself slowly and meticulously as if in a trance, only leaning on him now and again for balance or support. She’s not helpless, only reluctant. Yet she couldn’t bear to have him separated from her by even a flimsy glass door. Finished in the shower, they dry themselves and climb into bed, under the impossibly soft over-washed sheets without saying another word. He feels her shiver, her body lacking the energy necessary to heat itself properly and his cool body inevitably drawing warmth from her naked skin. He slips out of bed and digs through her travel bag, thrown callously on the floor by the television, pulling out the pajamas he’d once ridiculed. She takes them and dresses herself. Climbing back under the covers, he tries to wrap her like a mummy with the blanket, leaving a barrier between them, but she’ll have none of it and instead clings tightly to his chest. He reaches over and turns out the light, making the room a dull gray—it’s just past sunrise and some light sneaks around the edges of the heavy curtains, preventing complete darkness. Spike’s not particularly tired—he can’t keep his mind from planning out the upcoming evening. He listens to her breathing, hoping the whiskey will wipe her mind enough to let her sleep in peace. But soon after the light is off, he feels her body tense and then release into tiny shivers—her breath is unsteady. He can’t help but frown, knowingly.
Spike: “You still hear it?”
Deth: “It’s crying, not squealing. He’s crying.”
Spike: “You’re mind is playing tricks on you. I’ll put some music on.”
He leans over to the beside table and turns on the clock-radio, tuning it to the first station that approximates rock, cranking the volume up as far as the speakers will handle without buzzing.
Deth: [trying to stop him] “No, I should hear it. It’s right that I should be hearing it.”
He closes his eyes, recognizing the guilt in her voice. It wasn’t so long ago that he’d heard the same—the crying, the screams, the pleading of his victims. And for a while he didn’t fight it either, his soul accepting it as well deserved punishment.
Spike: [desperate to keep this pain from her] “We don’t know anything yet. Just…just let it be drowned out. Listen to the music. Fight it. [beat] We don’t know.”
She gasps for air, maybe trying to calm herself; but now her body has turned rigid again with the spoken acknowledgement of what it is that they don’t know. He can practically hear her mind racing. Dammit. Spike frowns deeply as his mind grapples with how to fix this. After a moment of jaw clenching frustration, he turns to her and lifting her face roughly, kisses her hard on the lips. She doesn’t respond, her mind self-consuming again. But he continues to mash his lips against hers, prying her mouth open with his tongue. She makes a sort of disapproving whimper and starts to pull away from him. He plants his hand firmly behind her head, preventing her retreat, plunging his tongue in deeper, enveloping her mouth with his own, nipping almost callously at her lips. Her passivity is slowly replaced by active resistance—she’s frowning and trying to push him away. This just seems so wrong to her—she’s never been less in the mood. Desperate for air, she bites down hard on one of his lips—this causes him to pull back briefly.
Deth: [weakly] “Spike, stop it.”
Spike: [licking the blood from the bite on his lip] “Sorry, love, not the best deterrent, that.”
He dives in quickly for another forced kiss, not allowing her to respond. Her eyes widen—he has never not listened to her before. He rolls over on top of her and starts tugging at the pajama bottoms he’d just a few minutes before insisted she put on. She continues to squirm against him, not really knowing why, trying to pry his hand away from her clothes.
Deth: [more forceful now] “No. I don’t want…”
But Spike quickly puts his hand over her mouth as he pulls her hand away from the fabric of her underwear.
Spike: “Shhhhhh.”
Her heart is beating hard and fast, pushing blood to her cold extremities; her attention fixed on his every move. She tries to bite his hand, but he whips it away and attacks her mouth again with his. She is too surprised to think clearly—it’s as if she’s just awakening from a dream. Instinctively, feeling him yank her panties down, she clenches her thighs together as tightly as she can. She’s fighting him with more strength now, more defiance. Of course, he can easily overpower her. Instead, he lets her fight him—let’s her struggle.
He thinks: That’s it, love. Come on.
He continues his onslaught—immobilizing her hands first and then prying apart her thighs. She thrashes underneath him and it’s almost too much. Painful, disgusting memories flood into his mind at the sound of her pathetic whimpers and yet he keeps the struggle alive until he’s sure. He releases her mouth briefly.
Deth: [fearful, confused] “What are you doing?”
Her knees now forcibly parted, she can feel his hardness pressed at her opening, ready to dive in.
Spike: [menacing] “What does it feel like? I’m gonna fuck you—hard and dry enough to make you scr…[seeing her eyes widen, exposing the rim of white, his expression, voice and grip softens—he knows he can’t go through with it; the fear in her face is too much. Unless she understands—unless he can get her to understand. He symbolically retightens his grip on her wrists, pushing them into the bed. Staring deep into her eyes, he says in a forceful, yet pleading voice] Let me make you scream.”
She stares back at him, a mixture of fear and defiance. But she hears something in these last words—her distracted isolation temporarily broken. He doesn’t want to hurt her—he’s in pain at the thought of it—he’s battling within. She gets it. She lets her eyelids relax slightly and gives an almost imperceptible nod. At this, he pushes inside her, forcing himself past her un-lubricated entrance with the necessary roughness. She grimaces and lets out a stifled gasp at the ripping pain between her legs. He releases one of her hands, bringing his fingers to his mouth, hoping to ease subsequent thrusts with some saliva. But before he has time to move his hand between her legs, she resumes her struggle against him with her now free hand, pushing him away, but with subtly less force than before—just enough to keep up the illusion—the charade freeing her of guilt. He quickly grabs her free hand and stretches it over her head with some force, while he slides his cock in and out of her now moistening hole. She still grimaces with each thrust, but now the grimace is accompanied by a soft snarl and half closed eyes. Pinned and prone, he continues to pump into her “helpless” body, doing his best to let himself enjoy the game knowing she’s now an active player. Every now and then, she wiggles an extremity out of his grasp and tries to squirm away from him or push and scratch his actively pumping body—that’s his cue to throw her back down and quicken his pace. Now she’s wet and slippery and his cock glides in and out with less effort; it feels fantastic, but he notices she’s stopped fighting and sees in her expression the encroachment of distraction. Ah, so that’s the way it has to be tonight. He roughly hooks his arms around her knees and pushes them up toward her torso, spreading them further apart and proceeds to slam into her with more force, now able to get even deeper. This brings her back and she starts letting out little whimpers with every hard pounding thrust—he’s got hold of her shoulders (her legs still thread through his arms) and so has the leverage to bang her with some serious force. She bites her lip and frowns—the pain, pleasure and helplessness send her mind and body reeling. The escape of it is entrancing. She wants more.
Deth: [breathless] “That all you got? [pant, pant] Still haven’t made me scream.”
He can’t hide his shock—he’d been starting to worry about hurting her too much; he can smell the small amount of blood starting to coat his slick knob. He’d been prepared to tone it down a notch. He hadn’t imagined she’d want more. A part of him wishes this didn’t turn him on so much, but aw god he feels his cock twitch at her words. Guess sometimes, you just gotta give in to the demon, don’t you? He lets out a growl and in one quick motion, pulls out of her and tosses her onto her stomach. He quickly pushes her head down into the pillow, securing her neck (head turned to the side) soundly with one hand, as he lifts her up onto her knees with his other arm. Without missing a beat, he slips his rock-hard erection straight into her red, swollen pussy. She claws at the mattress and lets out a small squeal as he pushes himself in the deepest yet. He continues to pummel her, letting her whimpers and squeals be his guide. She must be close to coming now; he can feel her inner walls start to spasm. He could come any minute, too. But just when he’s sure she’s ready to explode, she jerks her body away from him, effectively struggling against him, dislodging his dick in the process. He smiles a wicked smile as he quickly regains control over her wiggling body, repositioning her.
Deth: [breathless] “Don’t make me come. Make me scream.”
He’s not of a mind to argue, so instead of pushing back into her slippery, beckoning cunt, he moves up a bit and forces his enormous wanger into the puckered hole above. She screams as he groans loudly, the tightness of her virginal ass too much for his already explosive cock—he thrusts just twice more before coming explosively deep inside with a loud wail. Good thing, too, because she’d never felt pain quite like that and wasn’t sure she could take much more, despite the kinky thrill she was getting from the surprise and his obvious pleasure. Ah, but she can’t deny that it was thrilling. Her mind continues to swirl away, fueled by her aching parts. Spike, deciding to ignore her first plea, flips her back over and quickly thrusts his tongue between her wet lips, tasting the luscious drops of blood mixed with her ample juices. This time, she decides not to fight, as she’s quickly overwhelmed by the sensations he’s able to evoke with his dexterous tongue. He pushes two fingers inside her, palm up, expertly locating her g-spot, which he then strokes with his fingers as he teases her clit with his mouth. Soon, she’s screaming again, pushing herself against his face and fingers as her orgasm shakes her entire body. Spike slowly removes his fingers from her pulsing center, taking a moment to lovingly kiss her muff before he climbs up towards the pillow. Her body has gone completely limp and her mind hears only the music still blaring from the radio. Before she drifts off to sleep, she whispers dreamily:
Deth: “Thanks”
Spike smiles and pulls her close to him. Yet as her eyes close and her breathing becomes shallow and regular, Spike’s eyes stay stubbornly open.
**
Scene 3
The same motel room, just after sunset. Spike is up, standing by the window having a cigarette. Deth starts to squirm under the sheets, slowly waking up.
Deth: [sleep voice] “Starfish.”
Spike: [shaking his head] “Got your neighbor to drop in and check the tank—it’ll be fine.”
Deth: [now pointing to the radio, though her head is still resting on the pillow and her eyes half closed] “Starfish.”
He’s just now realized that the radio is still on—he’d tuned it out hours ago. Sure enough, the song playing on the radio is “Starfish and coffee” by Prince.
Spike: “Haven’t you heard that one before? Figured it’d be in your top ten.”
Deth: “Don’t listen to the radio much.”
She blinks her eyes, sits up and turns on the light by the bed. Spying him by the window, she says:
Deth: “It’s a non-smoking room.”
He just gives her a look, like that’s the LEAST of our worries. It takes a moment for her memory to come back. When it hits her, she rubs her eyes and says.
Deth: “I’ll take one.”
Spike smiles, walks over to the bed and gives her the lit cigarette from his mouth before lighting himself another one. She takes a drag like a decently seasoned smoker.
Spike: “Thought you didn’t partake of such life-shortening activities.”
Now it’s her turn to give him a look. She’d tried it in college for a bit—curious to understand the fuss. Never did much for her other than a mild buzz and it never occurred to her to smoke regularly. But tonight, perhaps, is one of those rare occasions when smoking seems the only natural thing to do. She calmly finishes her fag in silence.
Deth: “I’m just going to have a rinse off and then we should go.”
She gets up off the bed. Spike is pleased that she’s regained some control—she appears more like the Deth he’s used to; calm, composed, guided. But just as she’s fully upright, she pulls her hand to her mouth, giving him a look of quick panic before running to the toilet and hurling. Poor girls’ only had a gallon of Gatorade mixed with whiskey and a fag in the past 30 hours or so—s’no wonder her body protests. She emerges after her shower looking a bit green, but still alert. They get dressed, stop at a diner for a quick bite and then head to the location of the ritual, all without saying more than a couple of words.
They arrive at the site (an underground set of stone caverns) to find it has been deserted—no real surprise there, as the Pastuyk are somewhat nomadic and intentionally secretive in their ways. Deth leads Spike down the corridors and steps to the main hall where the sacrifice took place. She is still calm and purposeful. Until they reach the room with the altar. She stops abruptly in the doorway. For some reason, she had expected it to be gone—expected it to be cleared away like everything else from that night. But there it was. The ceremonial blanket had been removed and the candles and inscriptions were wiped away. The blanket had caught most of the spilled blood, the rest having been collected in a sacred carved bowl. But the stone rectangle where the pig had been secured was still there, atop a thick pedicle. And there is still a stain on the stone—she can see it, even from across the room. She turns to Spike with nervous, questioning eyes; obviously afraid knowing she’ll have the answer soon enough; maybe he already knows; maybe he can smell it from here. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. She turns back towards the altar and then releases her grip on Spike’s hand. He strides into the room, heading toward the altar stone. Though in truth, he does already know the answer. But he heads in that direction purposefully, having heard movement near the entrance on the other side of the room and hoping to sneak up on whoever might be lurking there. Sure enough, a demon in a tattered purple robe appears in the doorway behind the altar, carrying a bucket filled with water and a scrub brush. It was obviously his chore to clean the stone. When he sees Spike, he drops the bucket and turns to run in a panic out through the back doorway. Spike is on him in a second and drags the whimpering demon back into the room, thrusting him harshly against one of the stone walls.
Pastuyk Demon (PD): [obviously scared, he speaks in a quick and shaky voice] “What do you want with me, vampire? Pastuyk blood is unpalatable to your kind—I’ve heard it compared to caster oil. Sure to make you sick.”
Spike: “It’s not Pastuyk blood I’m after.”
PD: “Yes, of course, you’ve smelled the sacrifice. [chastizing himself] I should’ve cleaned the stone yesterday—such a fool I am—If only that stupid Munsters marathon on Nickelodean hadn’t caught my eye. [back to Spike] Surely you can tell the blood is stale—the boy is long gone, his body exhumed. There is nothing left for you here now.”
Spike slams him hard against the wall. Deth had been creeping forward, towards them. By now, she is only a few steps from the stone. Spike turns his head, hearing a small whimper from that direction following the demon’s words. The demon turns toward his gaze, seeing Deth for the first time. She is standing there looking pale, desperately trying to hold it together as the truth is revealed.
PD: “Oh dear. Oh no. [trying to calm himself] S’no matter. What’s done is done.”
She continues her walk toward the stone. Spike turns back to the PD.
Spike: “How did you do it? How?”
PD: “No, I can’t possibly…”
Spike roughs him up some more.
PD: “A spell. Just a spell. A temporary illusion.”
Spike: [seething anger] “Why?”
PD: “It was known she would not willingly kill one of her own kind—certainly not an innocent as was required. A pig seemed an obvious substitution—choose carefully and the size is similar, the skin similar, the sounds.”
Spike: “Why on earth was the sacrifice of an innocent necessary for a bloody funeral ritual?”
The demon shrugs.
PD: “It is our way.”
Spike: “That’s bullshit” [He can tell the demon is lying. He punches him hard across the face.] You’re going to be straight with me, or I’ll tear you pieces—starting with the smallest, most sensitive bits.”
PD: “What’s done is done. It’s in the hands of other powers now—no sense fighting it. [beat] It’s beautif…”
But before he can finish, a dagger flies across the room, hitting the demon square in the head, killing him instantly.
Spike: [annoyed] “Bloody hell.”
He drops the dead demon and rushes in the direction opposite the daggers trajectory. Unfortunately, he can’t find anyone or anything and returns to the ritual room after a few minutes of searching. He doesn’t want to leave Deth alone for long. When he returns, he finds her sitting on top of the altar, hugging her knees.
Deth: “I can see it now. As it was. He was crying—so afraid—as I approached. But then he saw me—saw that I was human, that I was a woman and his sobs turned to whimpers and then stopped. Don’t know how old—they said on the news. Maybe 3 or 4? Must’ve thought I was there to save him from the monsters. Maybe I looked like his mom. But instead, I closed my eyes and did as I was shown. [pause, then looking desperately at Spike] How could I have not seen? Not known? [her breathing is starting to shake again] Did I know?” [her eyes widen at the thought]
Spike steps over and gently lifts her off the stone and carries her towards the door.
Spike: “No. It was a spell. They tricked you. It’s not your fault.”
Deth: “Does that matter?”
He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t know the answer. Back when he was under the First’s control and killed all those people, he’d outwardly convinced himself that it wasn’t his fault; that it wouldn’t add to his debt. But he hadn’t really believed it—surely those souls belonged to him just as the thousands before them.
Once they’ve passed the threshold, he sets her down—it’s better for her to walk out of there. But once on her feet, she quickly turns to the side and throws up. She takes a minute to steady herself and then they continue their walk towards the exit. Once outside, they walk in silence for a while, roughly in the direction of the motel.
Spike: “I’ll walk you back to the motel, then I’ll double back and see what I can find out. The buggers can’t be far.”
Deth stops walking abruptly.
Deth: [quiet, deflated] “No. [beat] I want to go home.”
Spike: “I know. And we will. But we need to find out more about what happened.”
Deth: “Doesn’t matter.”
Spike: “It might matter. Don’t think it had anything to do with a burial ritual, that’s for sure.”
Deth: “Should we tell them?”
Spike: [confused] “What?”
Deth walks over to a telephone pole a couple of feet away from them and points at a poster stapled to it. It’s a ‘Missing’ poster with a picture of the boy. She appears to be mesmerized by it and as Spike responds, she slowly/meticulously pulls it off, careful not to tear it.
Spike: [sigh] “You’re not thinking of going to the police, are you?”
He is suddenly getting a feeling of deja-vu.
Deth: [frowning, looking up from the poster a moment] “Police? Why? [looking back at the poster, explaining] Tell them to stop looking.”
Spike: [shrugging] “Dunno. Maybe it’s better for them to have hope.”
Deth: [repeating without emotion] “Hope.”
She starts to fold up the piece of paper so it will fit in her pocket. Spike grabs it out of her hand and rips it up. Deth looks at him, pleadingly.
Deth: “But I should remember.”
Spike: “You won’t forget.”
She nods. He takes her hand and leads her forward. She follows slowly, almost aimlessly.
He ends up giving in to her wish to head straight back to L.A., against his better judgment. She is just so wrecked and to be here, with the news and the posters will only make it worse. He figures once she has calmed down a bit, he will try to convince her to tell Wesley so they can make use of some of Wolfram and Hart’s resources to figure out what’s going on. At the moment, she is desperate in her desire that no one should know what happened. He’ll wait a bit before pressing and he can probably do a bit of research on his own without arousing suspicion in the meantime.