Author ~ Lori ~ website ~ journal
Title ~ Sundowner Wind
Rating ~ R, for language
Timeline ~ Spoilers to end of s3
Author's notes ~ Dedication: to Lesley for Spike-wrangling and armament advice, and to the music of Kane, without which I couldn't have written this piece.
Acknowledgement: The lyrics quoted are from the AtS episode "Dead End."Challenge:
Story written for ~ Marina
Two requirements ~ Lindsey, Spike
Two restrictions (optional) ~ no fluff, no Cordelia
Spoiler level ~ before the end of AtS s3
Rating level ~ unrestricted
SUNDOWNER WIND
SUMMER 2001
"Sky’s gonna open, People gonna pray and sing–" like he always did at this point in the song, Lindsey paused for a crucial second, before the big finish– "And I won’t...feel." Then he closed his eyes and hit that final chord on his six-string. Kinda ironic touch there, indicating great feeling while disavowing it.
The crowd at the Palomino Lounge, one of the finer dives in Flagstaff, Arizona, erupted into drunken cheers, with a couple of ladies in the back screaming as punctuation.
As he bowed his head, lifting one arm to acknowledge his public and wiping his brow with his other sleeve, he thought, yeah, you just gotta sell it. And he always did. He credited his courtroom experience for knowing how to work it.
At least it’d worked over the past two months. He cast a glance under the hair falling into his eyes, and over the cowboys and wannabes, the Wrangler-clad women, and those few patrons so stewed in fine rotgut or shit beer they reminded him of the demons he used to liaise with. He was searching for a specific target, though. Jenny Begay had promised to meet him after his second set.
Sending his replacement hand to push back his hair, letting the air flow on sweat-drenched skin, he smiled at the thought of her. Long, long legs wrapped around his waist, long dark hair wrapped around the rest of him, pulling him in with the sweetest, slickest inner muscles he’d ever felt. He’d been on his way home to Oklahoma when he’d stopped at the Palomino, when he’d bought her a drink, when she’d taken his measure and then taken him out to his truck for a special thank-you. They’d put a dent in the damn truck-bed that night.
What the hell, he thought, as he grinned at a jailbait lovely in a University of Northern Arizona tank-top. He was still on the right interstate for home, after all. Just a little delayed.
He needed Jenny, at least for now. She was summer warmth in the mountains, scent of pines and faraway smoke on a high desert morning. She made a nice change from undead chill – but he stopped that thought. Let Darla go, let ‘em both go, he told himself, before he said into the microphone, "Y’all been great, really. See you tomorrow night."
To the resumed applause and wolf-whistles from a group of girl rodeo-riders in the back, he jumped off the stage, onto beer-stained planks, into the press of bodies still heated from lingering Arizona sun. Outside the bar it would be cooling off. Desert air didn’t hold in the moisture at night, letting it and the heat return to the upper atmosphere soon after sundown. That’s when he needed Jenny most.
Lindsey McDonald hated valley summer days – that’s why he’d gone to the high country – but after L.A., he damn well hated cold at night more.
When he started making his way through the crowd, he saw Don, the bar manager, waving at him, then pointing to the door marked Pr vat in peeling gold letters. "Phone for you! Woman!"
Lindsey nodded, grabbed himself the drink Joe the bartender had poured him, and went into the air-conditioned quiet of Don’s office. He was already thinking of what sweet little nasty he could whisper into the receiver to make her smile and leave her responsibilities. Because it had to be Jenny, calling to say she was busy at that yuppie lawyer hangout down the highway, serving imported gin to the kind of man he’d used to be.
However, enough of that man lingered so that, even with a fresh glass of Jack Black on the rocks in his hand and a couple of good sets behind him, his first and only word into the receiver was "Yes?"
"Hello, Lindsey. You finished your little musical performance yet?"
At her familiar voice, a fresh bead of sweat trailed down his spine, despite the super-charged air blowing on his neck. "Lilah," he said slowly, his mind speeding through at least three scenarios which might have prompted the call, each one more shit and doom than the last. "How are you, darlin’?"
"Never mind that. And don’t call me ‘darlin’‘, darling." He practically could see the smile that would accompany her words. "Much as I’d like to chat, clock’s ticking. I have three things to tell you."
"Uh-huh." He tossed back a healthy mouthful of his drink. "I’m all ears and an evil hand."
Her cool-smoke chuckle was as clear as if she were next to him. "Yes. My ass and I remember that vividly. In a roundabout way, that memory’s the reason for the call." Any trace of humor evaporated from her voice, and she said, "Here’s the deal. First, Wolfram and Hart knows where you are, in case you haven’t figured that out, and they’re not happy with you. Second, I haven’t forgotten what you did for me in that conference room, and I don’t mean the sexual harassment. I owe you, and I don’t like to owe anybody. So, third, I want to offer you a bargain. If you do the job I give you, I can make you disappear in the firm’s eyes – at least for a little while."
His gut clenched, but he managed to speak evenly. "A little while, you say? Not much incentive."
"You aren’t even going to have that if you don’t deal with me. The latest office whiz-kid thinks that having your traitor head on a platter would tickle the Senior Partners’ tastebuds, so he’s got a couple of Muitt Gar demons after you."
"Assassins. Nice." Calm, detached from it all, he watched his replacement hand crack the highball glass. Blood and whiskey dripped down his arm and onto the waitress schedule for next week. Almost without thought he licked at the mingled liquids, cleaning up his mess.
When a hidden sliver of glass cut his inner lip, he tongued a piece of ice from the wreckage to soothe it. Needed that cool again.
"Yes, assassins. And they know you’re in northern Arizona. I haven’t told them where, exactly, and I won’t if you’re willing to work." When he didn’t say anything, she sighed. "Not that I care if you’re served up a la mode."
"Never thought it for a minute." He needed more ice. Fishing around for something that hadn’t already melted, he said as casually as he could manage, "So the real question is, what the hell do you need so badly that you’d call me in, braving the wrath of the Senior Partners if anyone ever caught you?"
"I need your golden touch with vampires. Not literally, of course." A bigger smile in the cool-smoke voice. "But then you didn’t ever really get to touch Darla, did you?"
"Good night, Lilah." When he began to slip the receiver back onto its cradle, he could hear her squawking. He counted to five, then put it back to his ear. "You say something?"
"You get that one. You don’t get any more." Her voice took care of the need for ice.
Despite the blood slicking his mouth, he said calmly, "Lilah. Talk to me."
"There’s a seer. In Studio City, and no jokes about the wrong side of the Hills, okay? The seer did a reading for an apocalyptic sect out of Fyillot–"
"Those dimensional jokers are bad news."
"Yes, and I’m telling you a story here, so listen. In the course of the reading for these Fyillot emissaries, she stumbled into a prophecy about a vampire with a central role – unclear if good or bad – in an end-time not too far away."
"It’s Angel, darlin’. Do I have to go over the mission statement for Special Projects again?"
"It’s not Angel." At her certainty, he tasted more blood. She continued, "It’s of his line, though, I’ve got that much."
He closed his eyes against a vision of Darla, draped oh so blonde and luscious over his sofa, a dark gleam even when the lights were off. Especially when the lights were off. He said, "Who is it, then?"
"I know what you’re thinking, Lindsey. It very well might be your pet, but I’ve got someone else working on her, someone without your complicated history. And Drusilla can’t be found at the moment. So what I need from you, just between us, is an interrogation with William the Bloody, Angel’s most annoying descendant."
"William the Bloody–" He thought back quickly to the Angel files he’d memorized. Mentally flipping through tales and images of carnage and disaster, he stopped at a picture of a small, fine-boned thug in black leather, blond hair (not like her, don’t think of her) and dangling cigarette. And, if he wasn’t mistaken, a government behavior-inhibitor in that bleached head. Gotta love the chip, he thought. "Also known as Spike? You want me to talk to Spike."
"Talk to him, fuck him, beat the hell out of him, I don’t care. I need your expert opinion on anything that sets him apart from other vampires or that ties to the prophecy, and I’d like it fast. He’s in Sunnydale, by the way." A siren wailed somewhere in the background of her call, the high whine close, closer, closest – then gone. A warning for her, maybe a warning for him.
He looked down at his boots, thinking hard. "I need the kit for the second level of interrogation. I need the standard per diem. And I need you to tell me how long this little job buys me."
"First two, no problem. Last one, well–" That voice-smile, more jagged than the broken glass he hadn’t put down yet, stretched out in her last word.
"That’s all right, Lilah. You’ll save that for when I’ve got my report. No information from you, none from me." He said it easily, just as if his heart wasn’t hammering. "You got a drop location for what I need? I’m assuming that L.A. wouldn’t be the safest place for me at the moment."
"Bakersfield. That motel on the–"
"Not fucking Bakersfield. That’s a Wolfram and Hart drop, too easy for me to be spied on." He considered for a few seconds, already calculating strategy. "Make it Barstow, the Mojave Get-and-Go convenience store off Exit 2. Give the goods and any files you got to George behind the counter, and do it by tomorrow at noon."
The telephone line hummed in his ear – with all the things Lilah was restraining herself from saying, he knew. Even with the panic, the sweat, the blood lingering on his tongue, he found himself grinning just like old times. Finally she said, "Tomorrow by noon. Now you’ve been out of the game for a while, Lindsey, so just remember that your life depends on–"
"Bye, darlin’," he said, and hung up the phone.
As his mind began to calculate what he could afford to leave, what he needed to take, his gaze was caught by a calendar on the wall. A cheap bikini-clad blonde perched on a motorcycle, the picture captioned, "Ride me hard! JUNE 2001."
Yeah, June, he thought. Only two months away from Wolfram and Hart, only two months with Jenny. Best he was going to do, he was afraid, best he was going to feel.
With one sweep of his damaged yet already healing hand, he sent the wreckage of his glass and the blood-stained papers off the desk and into the wastepaper basket. He’d leave as soon as he could, drive through the dark.
Lindsey McDonald hated desert chill at night, but if the alternative was a day of Mojave summer hell, he’d take the goddamn cold.
***
He found Spike in the third Sunnydale cemetery he tried. All he had to do was follow the growls.
Sore and tired from last night’s drive, from the little sleep he’d grabbed in that no-tell outside Barstow, and from the afternoon of organizing and planning, Lindsey nevertheless made sure that his target didn’t see him. He withdrew into shadows where moonlight didn’t touch him or the weapon in his hand, and he watched. Gathering information prior to interrogation was always a good first step.
Duster-clad despite the oppressive heat carried by the wind, bleached blond just like in the file-photo, Spike battled three vampires. He was all fists, fangs, and stake – but still in human guise. Interesting.
Lindsey also noted the ease with which Spike twisted the head off one of them, a shower of dust in the moonlight, before smirking at the other two. "Crack of a cricket bat, crack of a neck. Don’t you just bloody love summertime?"
Neither vamp seemed too eager to agree, Lindsey thought, grinning in the dark. But they waded in again nonetheless – fists, fangs, and stakes.
A tall, middle-aged man nearby, English from the sound of the curses he was coming up with, struggled to hold one more vampire’s arms behind his back. "Bloody hell, Anya!" he finally snapped. "Just dust the thing!"
"Stop yelling at me, Giles," the small brunette said, fumbling with her stake. "I knew I should have just stayed home and waited for Xander to return from bowling. I could have unscrambled the Spice channel and made a night of it." But she managed to get a grip on the weapon and, two-fisted, drive it home.
The wind blasted heat and ashes toward Lindsey. He covered his mouth so he wouldn’t breathe it in and backed further into darkness. The man must be Rupert Giles, the Slayer’s Watcher; the woman must be the ex-vengeance demon Anyanka, also mentioned in the files. Lindsey wondered where the hell the Slayer was, and why the fuck she was letting this vampire, chipped or not, patrol with non-super-powered humans. First question for the interrogation, he decided.
Spike kicked one of his vampires against a tree: staking by tree-branch. Lindsey saw the improvisation and speed; this one worked a little different from the big guy, he thought, trying to treat the subject judiciously. Then Spike whirled on his other attacker. "Look at the last vamp standing before I knock him for six–"
"You’re not at Lords, Spike, finish the job without the colour commentary," the live Englishman managed to say, his hands on his knees and sucking in breath. In what likely was meant to be kindness, the woman patted his back so hard that it made him cough.
"You’re a right killjoy, Watcher," Spike said, but staked the remaining vamp anyway.
As Spike dropped his weapon, however, it was as if the cloak of bad attitude slipped down as well. Lindsey knew a vampire brooding when he saw one; this wasn’t supposed to be another one, though. Patrolling, sorrowing – no stink of soul for the leather-boy, was there? That’d be his second question for their little chat.
Giles stood up. "Yes. Well, that should be enough for tonight, I think."
Spike put his hands in his pockets, his shoulders moving in a gesture Lindsey couldn’t read – might be asking for something, might be shrugging something off. "Right, then," he said without moving. "I’ll just bugger off."
"You do that." Giles turned on his heel, Anya falling into step with him. They were heading toward Lindsey’s hiding place, and he shrank back against the tree, where not even an oven-gust of wind could blow in light. Over his shoulder, the Watcher said, "Tomorrow night again?"
"You’ll have my blood and smokes, right?"
"They’ll be ready. Sunset at the Magic Box." Giles lifted a hand in what could have been construed as farewell but looked to Lindsey a fucking lot more like dismissal, and kept walking. Anya mumbled a goodbye, almost tripped over a tree-root, then grabbed onto his arm.
Spike stood, gazing at them for a minute, before he turned in the other direction.
Lindsey needed to follow his target, but first he had to let the Watcher and ex-demon pass. Anya, in what he figured was her idea of a lowered voice, said to Giles, "You know, you should probably say goodbye to Spike. Englishmen are supposed to be polite."
"Perhaps I don’t feel like it," Giles said.
A few more steps, then she burst out, "But he’s working with us. Is it a demon thing? You can’t be courteous to the demon?"
Giles stopped so abruptly that Anya had to grab onto him to maintain her balance. They were so close that Lindsey almost could feel their hearts race; he tried to make himself as still and silent as he could.
The Watcher said, "It has nothing to do with that, Anya. It’s just Spike." She looked at him, asking silently for more, and Lindsey leaned forward to hear the quiet words. "When he was first chipped, I suggested to him that perhaps he had a higher purpose, a chance to prove himself – well, never mind. He laughed at the very idea, told me he was still the evil bastard he always was, not to bother thinking he’d turn hero." He paused, then as if summing it up:"I do him the courtesy of taking him at his word."
"So why does he help us then?"
"Lingering infatuation with Buffy, one assumes. And the free blood and smokes."
"Yes, you’re probably right. Food and tobacco are handy exchanges for labor he enjoys anyway." She tugged on his arm. "Now come on, Giles. You need to take me home."
"Right," he said, and they went past Lindsey’s hiding place. The Englishman hesitated as if he sensed someone’s presence, then kept going. "Thank you for patrolling tonight, Anya, rather than, er, enjoying all that cable television has to offer."
"Well, someone had to help you, since Willow was repairing the Bot again. Besides, I enjoy seeing you and Spike together. You look kind of similar, in a ruggedly handsome fashion. If you two might ever see your way to taking off your shirts for me, maybe rubbing a little sandalwood oil–"
"Not another word," he said, voice fading on the wind, as the two of them walked off.
Lindsey looked around. No Spike in sight. However, the other two had raised a couple of interesting questions he’d have to think about.
Grass cracked behind him. Before he could blink, a cool hand stole around his neck, holding loosely. "Well, what have we here. I spy with my little eye, a sodding fool hanging about graveyards," Spike said in his ear. Fingers tightened, not enough to hurt but enough to warn. "Before I break your neck, tell me what you think you’re doing, watching us like that."
Lindsey’s own replacement hand went back, grabbing hard at the bulge in Spike’s jeans. When Spike doubled over with a curse and a moan, Lindsey spun around, used the taser in his other hand.
A magically enhanced jolt shot through the wires and into the vampire’s undead body. And then again, and then again. Spike dropped hard to earth. Still twitched a little, Lindsey noticed dispassionately.
He put his boot on the vampire’s neck, rested the taser against the tree, then pulled out his cell. Speed-dial, a click on the other end, and he said, "Hey, darlin’. We’re good to go – but I’ve got a quick question for you."
"Lindsey, I’m busy at the moment," Lilah said. He could practically feel the ice coating the phone signal.
"I’m busier. Listen, what do you know about the Slayer? Sunnydale, not the one in prison."
"Buffy Summers?" The pause on the other end was long, thoughtful. "Rumors, mainly. Dimensional opening a month or so ago, unexplained disturbances – and the Slayer was missing for a week or two. Funny, Angel took off for Tibet not long after."
Tibet? What the fuck –
Suppressing his insane, self-destructive urge to ask after Angel, Lindsey said, "Something’s off, don’t know what. I’ll try to get the deal when I interrogate Spike–" he pressed his boot-heel into the vamp’s neck – "but you might want to check it out."
"I’ll do that." Lilah’s voice warmed a fraction. "Good to be working with you again."
"Can’t say the same. Call you when I find out more," he said, smiling, then clicked off the phone.
Goddamn, it was hot in the cemetery at night, he found himself thinking. Must be a sundowner wind: the collision of forces from the ocean and the mountains at nightfall, heating up the air, making it unstable. Fires could start that way, he knew, especially where they were going. He’d have to be careful.
Sighing, he bent down and managed to hoist undead weight onto his shoulders. Just like carryin’ a pig for a 4-H competition, he found himself thinking, laughing a little without breath. Somehow he caught up the taser too, and he stumbled out into the moonlight.
"All right, buddy," he gasped to his unconscious burden. "You ready for a little trip?"
***
Spike dreamed of falling through an electrical storm, searing lightning-strike after lightning-strike, agony and fire into nothingness. In his sleep, in his pain, he smiled. Perhaps he’d really saved her this time.
Waking with a jolt, he remembered more painfully that he hadn’t. But something also told him he wasn’t in Sunnydale any more.
An experimental breath brought him scents of pine trees, heat, dust. He must be somewhere out in the middle of bloody nowhere. A half-fried memory: he hadn’t come here on his own. After a stretch to ease a trace of electricity damage in dead muscle, he hazily recalled a bloke in the shadows, a weapon to his own throat. Yeah, that had fucking burned.
A dry swallow told him he needed to feed. He could feel the itch in the back of his throat, in his veins. He also could smell warm, blood-pumping humanity just a few feet away.
A hand to his aching head reminded him, though, that he couldn’t do a sodding thing about it. At the pain, like a constant low-level chip misfire, he shuddered.
Opening his eyes, he looked around at a one-room cabin: bare planked walls, floor, a couple of ratty cots, a table and chairs. Two lanterns stood on the table, which suggested no electricity out here in the country, but he could hear a small generator humming nearby. The place was a sun-trap too: big uncurtained window on one side, throwing killer sunshine across the pine boards. Early afternoon, by the looks of things. He guessed there’d be six, seven more hours of sunshine, maybe.
He knew one more thing. He had to get the fuck out of here and back to Dawn and the others, back to his bloody job. Promise to a lady, and all that.
Outside, he could hear wood creaking on wood, breaths drawn in and then slowly released. Only one human, sounded like. He pushed himself up – bloody hell, he thought, why wasn’t he chained or tied or anything like a proper kidnapper would have done, what was the world coming to – and fought back dizziness. Could still feel electrical storms and lighting-strikes in his head.
Nevertheless, he managed to dodge sunbeams all the way to the door. Dust rose with every boot-step, so it was lucky he didn’t have to breathe.
"Quiet," said a man’s soft voice from outside, before he even put a hand to the door.
Bollocks to that, he thought. After a quick judgement on where the sun actually was and whether a grand gesture would make him all crispy, Spike slammed open the door. He could see a porch, its overhang saving him from full sunlight, a clearing, and mountain pines. And he began, "Who the bloody hell are–"
A gunshot. He jumped before he realized he hadn’t been hit.
Right. That was slightly disturbing. He stepped out onto the porch anyway. The bloke from last night, all casual in his jeans and boots, sat on a rocking chair. Git had a stonking twelve-gauge shotgun trained on something out in the clearing, by a pile of brush.
Second shot. Bits and blood of what had been a snake flew up into the sky. Spike could hear the rattles shake the air as the tail fell.
"Christ, I hate those sombitches," the bloke said, settling back in his chair. One hand went through the untidy brown hair falling into his eyes, and he grinned at Spike. "How’re you doing, buddy?"
"Not your buddy," Spike said. He shifted his features, felt the ridges and the power. Felt the teeth. With a dark, fanged smile, he took a step forward, careful to stay in shadow. "Do you know what I am?"
Bloke seemed singularly unimpressed, not so much as a minor jump in heart-rate. "I don’t know what, precisely, that’s why we’re here. But I know who." He slipped sideways in his chair, and the shotgun followed, pointing straight at Spike. The man smiled. "William the Bloody, known as Spike. Line of Aurelius. Drusilla’s boy, related to Angelus and Darla. Which makes you a vampire, of course, albeit one with a handy little government chip."
Spike considered this for a second. His head already hurt, he didn’t know where he was, and he needed a drink and a smoke in the worst way. Better part of valour suggested that he step off, make nice, figure out what was going on. That’d be the smart way to get back.
Bugger the smart way. Still could threaten, couldn’t he? Exposing his fangs just a little more, he took another step –
And a blast tore through the air just above his head, shot peppering the wood of the door behind him. He spun back, keeping just this side of the shadows.
"Well, that was sad," he managed to say, face slipping back into human guise. "You didn’t hit me, mate."
"Didn’t mean to. Next time, I will." The man stood, smiled again. "Spike, I have a very low tolerance for vampire shit, and I have several ways to impress that upon you." He kicked at an open bag by his feet; even with blurred vision, Spike could see an array of vamp-unfriendly weapons. "That shot won’t really hurt you, but other things I have can. We clear on that?"
"Not really." Despite the waves of lightning-sickness, he managed a smirk. "Why’s a git with, er, very low tolerance for vampire shit kidnapping me?"
"Oh. Yeah, well, I’ve brought you up here just to have a chat. That’s all, really. Just a little talk, you answer some of my questions, then I take you back to wherever. We can do this easy or hard, your choice," the bloke said. "You can call me Lindsey, by the way."
Spike watched the man walk up to him, smelled sweat and thumping blood and confidence. Stopping just a few inches away, Lindsey smiled at Spike again. He had big bright eyes, blue shading into green in this light – the memory of other big bright eyes, closed forever now, made Spike dizzier for a second. He had to look away.
Out in the clearing, chunks of bloodied snake-meat were scattered all over. Lindsey must have shot more than one of the crawly bastards. More to the point, there wasn’t any sign of a vehicle. Wasn’t any shade to allow him to go look for one, either.
No escape, at least not until sundown.
The bloke put his hand on Spike’s shoulder. "Well, let’s get you back inside. We don’t want a nasty accident, do we? And I have to say, you look a little green around the gills. You cooperate, I’ll even get you some blood. How’s that sound?"
Plenty of blood in your veins, Spike thought, blood to get me the fuck out of here and back to my promise. He found himself breathing in the scent of the man, fighting to keep his human face on. But all he said was, "Sounds fair enough."
Too sodding bad he was going to have to do this the smart way.
***
Lindsey made sure that Spike didn’t see the non-demon-FDA-approved herb he crumbled in the blood he had pulled out of the generator-powered fridge. The flakes were just a little something to take the edge off, to make him talk. Not that this particular vamp had much difficulty talking anyway, according to the files.
Stomping down on the memory of a brooding fanged wonder who redefined taciturnity, he turned around with the doctored blood. "Lunch, man."
Spike had kicked back in one of the chairs by the table, which he’d pulled well out of the sunlight. Still looked sick – well, Lindsey had used the maximum charge in his magic taser, and used it a couple of times. Took a while to drive the back-roads to this cabin in the Los Padres National Forest, after all, and he wanted to control the waking process. It was going well so far.
"What’ve you prepared for me, mate? Something gourmet, maybe with a nice garnish?" A smirk – good effort, but clearly an effort – accompanied the words.
"Human, but it’s just type O. Hope that’s all right with you." Lindsey set the cup down, watched Spike’s eyes widen, his nostrils flare. Even though his tongue flicked out to moisten his lips, he still hesitated. Seemed to be considering the human nature of his foodstuff.
Interesting. Apparently he hadn’t been drinking human blood in a while. Lindsey only knew one other vampire who didn’t drink human blood on a regular basis if he could get it – and Sunnydale would be a place Spike could get it if he chose. He wondered if it was only a question of taking what the Watcher supplied rather than choosing to go out on his own, or if there was some deeper change.
Spike’s shaking hand clutched at the handle, lifted the cup, then halted. "So there is a garnish, yeah? Something smells a little off."
"Goddamn burba suppliers. I must have got a bad batch." He smiled. "You require non-genetically modified weed?"
Spike clearly thought about a couple of replies, but settled on "Doesn’t actually smell like burba at all. Still, unlive and learn." He drank deep, throat working. Lindsey could see his fingers tighten as the drug-laced human blood went down.
If a vamp could purr, that’s what Spike was doing now.
A good time to begin: "So, buddy, let me ask you something. Why are you patrolling, fighting your own kind, and with humans? Humans who haven’t exactly taken you to their bosoms, seems like, even if they give you blood and cigarettes."
Spike finished his drink and set the cup down. Eyes were already sparkling, hunger-edge fading. "Speaking of cigarettes, you bring a fag?" The rough English voice dipped into the innuendo, testing the waters.
Lindsey just smiled. "Answer the question, then maybe I’ll give you a smoke."
Spike tipped his head to one side, surveyed him. "Whatever did you see, spying like that last night?"
"Like I said. You patrolling – the Watcher saying he’d give you blood and smokes, the two of them walking away from you. So. Answer my question."
"Maybe I got my own reasons for going on evening jaunts with the goodie-goods. You say you know about the sodding chip, yeah? Well, working with them is a fucking easy path to killing things. Lots of things." The smile wasn’t fanged, but as close as Spike could get without gameface. He leaned forward, keeping away from the sunlight burning ever hotter. "You should maybe think about that habit of mine."
That fit with what the Watcher had said: obviously this was Spike’s basic pitch. But it was time to change up the game. Lindsey also leaned closer, eyes on Spike’s. "So the Slayer lets you patrol, even without her? Where is she, anyway?"
He was looking for a tell, and he got one: a flicker of blue and yellow and blue, all grief and baffled anger and a weird pride. But Spike tried to outface it. "Don’t know, do I? Slayer’s not stupid. She finds me useful, right, a bit of muscle to back her up and give her an occasional night off. I get my recommended dose of nightly carnage. Everybody’s fucking happy."
Buddy-boy was a very poor liar. Sometimes too much expression could trip up a witness, and it had just tripped up this one. But Lindsey saw no reason to tell him that. He scraped his chair back and said, "Well, you sure answered me. Can’t say fairer than that. One cigarette, coming up."
He could feel Spike’s eyes follow him as he stepped into the sun and went to the bag of supplies. As he crouched down, rummaging for the next stage, he considered his next step. Slayer was obviously gone, dead maybe – grief over the loss of the Buffy-chick could explain Angel’s little Himalayan vacation and Angel Investigations being left to float on its own, but it raised even more questions about the bleached one and his motivations.
He seemed to be mourning, to be doing good without real hope of reward. Yes, that’s one weirdly familiar vampire, Lindsey thought to himself. Seemed like the perfect candidate for the new Fyillot prophecy.
Yet Lindsey knew better to trust his first impression – because hadn’t there been Darla, sweet Darla, Exhibit A through Z for her ability to fool one Lindsey McDonald. Spike needed to be tested a little more.
Lindsey’s replacement hand closed on the next round of tools, his other hand reaching into a second sack. When he stood, glasses clinked against the bottle he’d picked up.
Spike stared at him, a little grin playing around his mouth, shoulders slouching down. Yeah, buddy, too much expression could trip up a witness, Lindsey thought again. He held out the bottle of Jack Daniels for his hostage’s approval and said, "What do you say? Want a shot of Tennessee gold, maybe a couple hands of blackjack?"
"Suppose you’ll keep asking questions too?"
"Of course. Doesn’t mean we can’t have a drink and play some cards, though."
Spike pulled his chair closer to the table, spread his hands on the wood. The grin widened. "Hit me, Lindsey. And don’t forget my bloody smokes."
The whiskey was opened, and shots were poured. Spike tossed back two of them within five minutes; Lindsey wetted his lips, but no more. Spike lit his first cigarette from the pack he was given, took a drag that had to have filled undead lungs, and then sighed, "Only the best from you, mate. I’ll recommend you to all my vampire friends who want to be kidnapped."
"No need. I’m already in the Zagat’s guide."
That got a surprised laugh from Spike, chortles that kept popping up minutes later. Drugs must be taking effect, Lindsey thought.
They argued over who’d be dealer, and then agreed that they’d draw simultaneously from the deck. Lindsey did shuffle the cards, however, since he pointed out that for all intents and purposes he was the house.
For an hour or two the game went well, the slap of the cards on the table the only sound other than breathing and smoke, other than the slosh of whiskey in the tumblers. It followed the same pattern: Lindsey won the first hand on twenty because Spike busted, taking another card even though he was at seventeen. The new card, an eight, put him well over the limit. "You’re not one to think through things, are you," Lindsey said.
Spike looked up from his cards. "That a question?"
"No, an observation."
"Yeah." He started a new pile of cards to one side. "It’s been observed before."
For an hour or two Lindsey observed the level of whiskey sink, as Spike drank fast and faster. He observed the coiled energy, the difficulty Spike had controlling his need to be up and moving. He observed the increasing recklessness. "Give me another card," Spike kept saying. "Bollocks to playing it safe."
Interesting, Lindsey thought. Didn’t seem like a vampire who would stick around even a Hell-mouth if there wasn’t something else at stake. And if the Slayer was gone and yet he still felt connection – well, then, that seemed awfully Angel-like. Noble Champion shit, soul shit.
It would be time for the soul question soon, he reckoned, as he won yet another hand. Which was a fucking ironic expression when he thought about it.
A long stretch of afternoon. Slap of the cards on the table, splash of more whiskey in the glasses. Flare of a match at the end of a cigarette, smoke mingling with the rising dust. Spike slipping bonelessly further and further down in his chair, boots stretched out until they almost touched Lindsey’s. Brush of fingers over the cards. Sweat tracking down Lindsey’s spine, tickling drops underneath his shirt. Slap of the cards on the table.
Yeah, it was getting summer-hell hot in the cabin now, the slanting late afternoon sun intense up even in the high country. Lindsey could feel his eyelids droop in the heat. He hadn’t gotten enough sleep the last couple of days, of course, but he couldn’t afford to lose any edge.
When he forced his eyes wide, Spike was staring at him, with pursed mouth. "You know what, mate? Almost put yourself down for naptime there, despite my brilliant captive presence. You seem dead comfortable with vampire shit, despite what you say. You make a habit of hanging with the undead?"
Lindsey took his first card of this hand, laid it down. A ten. Only then did he say, "Not a habit, exactly. But I’ve done my time with members of your family."
"My family?" Spike drew a seven, snapped it against the wood.
Lindsey took another card. A four. "Angel. Darla. Your elders, I guess you’d say. You respect them?"
Spike’s next card was another seven. They were even, fourteens all round. He tilted his chair back, his palms flat on the table. "Respect them? Why the fuck would I do that?" Then he sat down hard, chair legs smacking on planks like another gunshot. "Darla’s never been my business, although I can’t imagine what the bloody hell you were doing with her and still not gotten a nice necklace of bites. She always thought boys like you were tasty." He gave a leer, took a drink. "But Angel? He’s a pillock, a self-righteous, soul-having arse. Worse -- if you know him, you must have seen his hair. Jesus, what a crime."
"You don’t approve of his soul, then." Lindsey smiled; the second question had slipped out almost too easily.
"Hair and soul are an affront to all that’s wrong and wicked," Spike said. "It’s your turn to draw if you’re going to."
Lindsey looked at the two cards, then at the deck. As he took one more card, he said, "Wrong and wicked, huh?"
"Yeah. Great Poof’s trying to be a man, isn’t he. Thinks a soul will do it. And all the hair gel in the bloody world."
Lindsey put down his card. A six. "Twenty. I’ll hold. What do you mean, trying to be a man?"
Spike drew another card. Another four, which made eighteen. Lindsey could see the vampire’s hand dance over the deck, as if those long fingers could decide for themselves whether to hit or stand. His expression flickered, uneasy and fast; drugs and Jack Black were doing their job. As he hesitated, he said, "Dunno. Trying to be a man, I reckon, without the right equipment."
"Which would be what?"
"Don’t need a soul to act like a man, mate. All you need is a heart, don’t you think? Gotta feel it, and Angel never will. May be a pet of the Powers, but you and I know he’s always a fucking monster, don’t we?" Swooping down, he picked up a card then slammed it onto the table.
A six. As Spike stared at his twenty-four, Lindsey said, "You busted, pal. I win again." In every possible way, he finished silently, flexing his replacement hand under the table, putting aside a memory of Angel slamming doors on a roomful of lawyers and on the smiles of Darla and Drusilla. Spike was a fool to bet against the house, he thought.
Spike stared at the cards. His brows knit together, black against the pale skin, and he slouched further in his chair. Then, surprisingly, he started to laugh. Sounded like the laugh of a tortured man, not a monster: helpless gales of pain, echoing in the dust. "‘s right, I’m done. Lost almost all I sodding have. But not quite everything."
When Spike looked up, laughter gone, Lindsey edged his chair closer to the bag of weapons. An afternoon of drinking and conversation might have been convincing proof that prophecy had found another darling, but the amber flash in the other’s eyes was a useful reminder. Slamming doors and vampire smiles, man. This was a dangerous creature who might have lost all along the way but still made it to the end-game.
Lindsey was going to have to play this hand carefully.
***
What big bright eyes Lindsey had, Spike thought, eyes like others he’d known and lost.
Even while he’d played cards all afternoon, chatted nice and proper though he smelled the sweat and thumping blood and irritating confidence of his captor, Spike had seen those eyes and remembered the dead.
He remembered his living promise, too.
Slowly he got to his feet. It was still an hour or two until sundown; the wind was starting to blow, a mixture of hellfire forces. The Jack Daniels and whatever the bloke had put in his blood was mixing as well. He could feel his demon wanting to slouch out, to rip and tear and drink a little more. In this case his promise to his dead lady gave him license; had to be a monster in order to get back to Dawn, didn’t he.
But the chip still leashed him, and night hung in the distance.
The cabin had darkened, the changing angle of the sun blacking out the window behind Lindsey. The man was looking at him, but also sidling back toward where the weapons were kept. Distraction, that’s what the country boy needed.
Spike had sensed Lindsey’s body humming at the first mention of Darla and Angel. There’d been a flush, a race of warm blood, that unmistakable scent. Man had a thing for members of the Line of Aurelius, Spike decided. It should be enough distraction until dark. Spike could dare the chip then, escape.
Fighting the remnants of electricity damage and the dizziness from tainted blood and whiskey, he paced forward. He kept his eyes on those big light beauties, watched the pupils change. "You won, mate. What’s your prize?" he said, dropping a little sex into it.
"Already have it, buddy." Lindsey’s voice was even.
"And what’s that? Tell old Spike." On Lindsey’s side of the room now. He leaned a hip against the table, put a hand out to bolster himself. Part of it was effect – he knew he looked bloody good like that – but part of it was because he was having trouble standing. So dizzy.
He could let his demon start humming, though. Could get a little jump in heart-rate, not much but enough, from the bloke sitting so still in that chair. Lindsey said, "Well, now, I can’t do that. If I tell you –"
"– I’ll have to kill you?"
"Not the way the saying goes. And no, if I tell you it might not come true. One of those things." Bloke’s voice also dropped, that even control slipping into a growl.
Yeah. Definitely a thing for the line of Aurelius. Balancing carefully, Spike leaned forward into Lindsey’s personal space. He could feel hot breath on his face, smell heat and confidence and sense the thumping blood.
But Lindsey just sat there. Heart-rate jumped higher still – not much but enough.
So Spike kissed him. A brush of lips, tasting the whiskey from both of them, tasting the other’s curiosity. He moved in closer, running his tongue along the other’s lips, trying for entry. He closed his eyes so that he didn’t see blue instead of green, so that he didn’t feel but thought. He didn’t want to feel the warmth.
The man did have a delicious flavor, though. It had been a while. Been too long.
As he kissed, Spike slid one hand down Lindsey’s chest. Go slow, he told himself even as he tasted, do this smart, begin with the cock but work toward the keys he must have in his pocket –
Then Lindsey’s hands clamped hard on his forearms, pushing him away.
When Spike opened his eyes, Lindsey was looking at him with pity. Blue eyes so superior, green eyes, brown, they were fogging together in his head. "Darla and Angelus didn’t teach you one damn thing, did they. Jesus, you poor bastard."
Didn’t teach you one damn thing...you stupid boy, what do I have to do to you...poor bastard...what a drooling idiot. Voices, real and remembered, collided in his head. They made him feel again, feel that old anger unleash the demon and erase thought. Sod the fucking chip.
Ignoring the pain already sparking behind his eyes, Spike leapt.
His fangs were out before he and Lindsey hit the floor.
It wasn’t a pretty struggle. Dust kicked up as they wrestled, arms flailing then landing a punch or two. He was on top. Didn’t teach you one damn thing.... the human tried to get his knee up, but Spike had strength left. Not much, but enough.
Despite the crippling pain, he scraped teeth against the human’s neck, felt that tasty buck underneath him. He was doing this because of the promise, he told himself dizzily, opening wide. He could almost swallow the blood and whiskey already.
Then a hand came out of nowhere, slamming up under his jaw. Spike bit down on his own tongue. The wrong blood and whiskey filled his mouth, and he lost what focus he had.
Lindsey slithered out from under him, went somewhere Spike couldn’t see. He couldn’t see at all now, pain inside and out, the taste of wrong blood and whiskey and failure sliding down his throat. He put his heel of his hand to his forehead, trying to press the pain down.
Then he felt the taser against his neck like fangs. In his dizziness and pain he thought he could hear a rattle, a warning come too late.
"You poor bastard. You got to learn to guard your heart, buddy," came that soft voice, full of unwanted pity.
The taser hit like a gunshot. Spike fell into an electrical storm, searing lightning-strike after lightning-strike, agony and fire into light.
Perhaps this time he’d really save her.
***
The sundowner wind blew hot even in Sunnydale, even after dark.
Wiping his brow with his sleeve, Lindsey backed further into the shadows. He saw the door of the magic shop open, heard the Watcher mutter "Oh, you stupid sod, what have you done now?" The man bent down to do a quick check over the unconscious undead who was crumpled on his doorstep, and then with an odd gentleness began to slide Spike across the threshold.
Good enough. He’d be taken care of, Lindsey thought.
When the door shut behind the two, Lindsey pulled out his cell. "Hello, darlin’," he said when she answered. "Miss me?"
"No. Do you have my answer, Lindsey?" Lilah said, all cool and clear.
"Do you have mine?"
There came a sigh. "I knew you were going to ask me that. Okay, if I like what you tell me, I can promise you a year." The cool-smoke chuckle flowed out of the phone, and she said, "And by the way, you don’t think abandoning that old truck of yours in Barstow is going to keep my trackers from finding you? Because I will find you if I need to."
"You go ahead and think that." Putting aside a brief, useless yearning for his beloved truck, he said, "But I’m going to play the game fair. William the Bloody is definitely your guy, Lilah."
"You sure about that?"
"Yep. Got all the hallmarks of a Powers-fucked Champion. But he’s not going to go easy, and if Wolfram and Hart interferes with him, all bets are off. Like that other brooding son of a bitch, he can be a little unpredictable."
"Locking-lawyers-in-wine-vaults level of unpredictability?"
"Worse. This vamp’s on a hairtrigger, and he has next to no sense." Almost unconsciously he put his hand to the scratches on his neck. They were dry, though they still itched. "He could still screw fate, you know? But he does have a heart, and conscience is already stirring. Yeah, Spike’s your guy for whatever end-time prophecy you got."
She was silent for a few beats. He headed out of the pool of darkness and toward his parked rental car. Moonlight and streetlight poured over him like the wind.
When he glanced over his shoulder, he could see through the Magic Box window. The Watcher had Spike propped up and was dabbing at his mouth with a red cloth. The vampire twitched under the man’s hand. Going to wake up soon, Lindsey thought.
He hurried his steps down the street.
She finally spoke. "Thanks, Lindsey, you’ve got your year. But that’s all."
"Sure, Lilah. And, uh, when you speak to Angel next, when he gets back from Shambala or where-the-hell-ever? Give him my condolences."
"The Slayer? You have confirmation?" The eagerness of a Special Projects vice-president echoed in her voice.
"Goodbye, darlin’. I don’t think I’ll hear from you again." Smiling, he clicked off the phone and kept walking.
At the end of the street, however, he turned for one last look back. It was Spike alone in the window now, bathed in lamplight.
Something Lindsey’s grandmother used to say came into his head. From Proverbs, he thought it was. It seemed appropriate for the poor bastard framed in the window. "‘Keep thy heart with all diligence, for out of it are the issues of life,’" he said to the monster/man behind the glass.
Then he set his boots toward the car. He was going to have a long journey, drive through the dark. Home was out of the question for the moment, but he had thought of a couple of good alternatives and made his plans. Wasn’t going to play their game any more.
He wondered if Jenny Begay would like Carolina mountains.
And as he passed out of light into shadow, he began to sing softly to himself. "Sky’s gonna open, people gonna pray and sing...."