Chapter Six
Spike clutched at the shaking earth beneath him and trembled from
the force of the storm above.
Look at the bright side, mate.
Could be worse, could be sunshine beamin' down on you in a nice, fatal
way.
The thought did nothing to ease his mind. In fact, he peered anxiously up at the sky,
just to make sure his thoughts hadn't been read as an invitation to up the
stakes of the deadly game he was playing with the realm. Spike couldn't bring himself to even think
about it as heaven.
Fortunately, the ground beneath him stopped quaking and he was
able to finally pull himself to his feet, crouching a bit to stay out of the
way of the lightning bolts that were still blazing their righteous fury down on
him. He didn't think he had much time
before something equally hideous was thrown up in his path.
The skin on his hands, neck, and face burned hotly from the
exposure to the steam that was even now reaching out tendrils of scalding
menace toward his exposed flesh. If his
hands were any indication - he could see they were raw, chapped, and seeping -
it was probably a good thing that he couldn't see his face.
Didn't matter though, something told him it would get worse before
it got better, a lot worse.
The only way he could see to get out of the harsh terrain he was
stuck in was to go over the fissures.
It would take too much time and was too risky to try to go around. If the earth started again with the shaking,
he might not be so lucky next time and he might fall in. Plus, a moving target was a difficult target
to hit, and those lightning bolts were getting closer and closer. He was out of options.
With that bleak thought still knocking around in his noggin, Spike
started to move. Really move. He headed in a mostly straight line, leaping
fissures and being blistered by their venomous vapor as he went. When a crack was too wide to jump safely he
veered off slightly, taking the shortest, yet safest possible route to the
other side.
With malicious intent, the storm grew in ferocity, whipping up gales
of strong wind and hurling hailstones the size of golf balls down on him and
the surrounding area. The hailstones
pummeled his body like icy bullets and the wind pushed against him, trying to
slow him down. He couldn't let it.
Over the banshee wail of air and the cracks of thunder and the
drum roll of hailstones hitting the earth, Spike thought he heard an inhuman
howl. A sharp, keening cry of agony
rose above the din of heaven's wrath.
It took him a few minutes to realize the sound was coming from him.
Borne from the depths of his soulless body, he was screaming out
against the furies of fate and circumstance.
Bellowing out his pain and his hatred of the job he was doing and the
reason he was doing it. As he leapt and
swerved and flew and dodged, the sound grew to a mindless snarl. Feral and intense, hot and heavy, it hung in
the air around him.
Never ending torment was in that sound, as was the deeply
passionate desire for things he could never have. The woman he could never have.
Buffy was in that cry.
Billowing out behind him like ink black wings, his leather duster
flapped wildly against the monstrous tempest.
With his face set in a ghastly grimace, teeth bared and jaws clenched
against the pain, he went airborne again.
Flying over another fissure like an avenging angel of misery, he landed
hard and rolled to absorb the shock to his body.
Going with the momentum, he was back on his feet and running again
a mere blink of time after he landed.
Suddenly, silence slammed down on the damaged landscape. At first Spike didn't notice the difference;
he was too busy focusing on trying to cut off the sound coming from his own
throat. When he finally caught on that
he wasn't being pummeled by hailstones or threatened by lightning he jogged to
a stop and looked around. The storm was
gone. Not receding, not lessening, just
gone - as if it never was. A clear,
blood red sky was all he could see. Not
one single cloud. Behind him, the earth
was an unblemished wasteland of hot desert-like compacted sand. The fissures and steam were gone as well.
For some reason, he didn't feel comforted.
"Now, why do I think this may just fall under the category of
not boding well for Spike?"
He was under no illusion that he had succeeded in winning against
this realm, the prickly 'God's got his eye on you' feeling was still
there. And it was stronger than before,
driving him quietly and effectively toward the edge of insanity.
Longing to strip the skin from his own body for relief, he knew
that whatever was on its way was going to be bad. He didn't bother with arrogance.
This was far from over.
Spike figured the brief respite would be better spent on the move.
As he ran, he pictured Buffy in his mind. It comforted him, soothed the prickly
feelings under his skin slightly. The
fire in her eyes when she got her temper up, the way she'd tilt her head in
aggravation with her hands fisted at her hips when he annoyed her. The
gentleness in her caress when she brushed her hand over Niblet's hair, the
sweetness in her smile when she saw Willow and Tara together or Xander and
Anya. It was a sweetness that was
tinged with envy, though she'd stake him if she knew he had seen that. And the way she fought. Oh, the way she moved when she fought. That was poetry in motion. Pure unadulterated poetry.
Fluidity and grace hid the steel beneath the petite frame but
nothing could hide it from Spike. He
had seen it, had been on the receiving end of it more times than he'd like to
remember, and it was one of the things he admired most about her. Because the steel didn't make her hard and
the grace didn't make her soft. It was
balance and it was beautiful. It was
Buffy.
Spike didn't notice, but his game face had melted away for the
first time since entering the realm as he ran, as he thought about the Slayer,
as he smiled at his thoughts.
He was actually surprised when he got to the base of the
mountain. It had looked much farther
away while he was approaching but suddenly it was looming above him. Except there was one tiny problem. It wasn't a mountain, at least not in the
classic sense of the word. It was a
tremendous pile of shale - loose rock - sharp shards of ton upon ton of the
stuff.
His mouth opened slightly and he cursed under his breath. This was going to be a bitch to climb and he
knew it. Looking up to the top of the
pile, he figured it was a good thousand feet high. Not large by mountain standards, little more than a hill, really,
but there would be no firm ground under his feet. And even vampires had limits to their endurance. He cursed again. Someone certainly wasn't making this little trek any easier,
that's for sure.
Sighing deeply for emotions sake he muttered, "It's not likely
to be gettin' any smaller with you standin' at the bottom of it, you sod. Go on, up and over."
Because of the steep slope, he had to use his hands and his feet
to scramble up the surface. After less
than a hundred feet, his hands - already damaged earlier - were cut and
bleeding badly. His grip grew slippery
and less secure. The muscles in his
legs, fighting doubly hard against the soft surface, started to complain at the
workout they were getting but he didn't stop.
He pushed on.
Every once and a while he would slide backwards a little, and he
snarled each time in annoyance. Like
trying to climb out of bloody quicksand.
He kept the picture of Buffy in his head. It wouldn't let him stop. He had to get to her. She had to go back. He knew he wasn't going to be leaving this
realm, and if Buffy didn't go back, there would be no one to protect Dawn. No way was he going to let that happen, even
if he had to kick that firm bottom of hers out of there himself.
The nearly vertical, torturous climb stretched on.
Almost three quarters of the way to the top, Spike had to
rest. His legs were no longer
complaining, they were screaming at him.
And his poor hands were sliced to ribbons. Sitting gingerly on one of the rare level spots, he checked out
the damage to his digits. He used the
corner of his shirt to gently pat them dry.
He didn't want to risk giving in to his nature in this realm. Licking the blood off probably wouldn't be
the brightest of ideas.
He was relieved to see the damage wasn't as bad as he
thought. Mostly superficial with only a
few deep gouges, it was the pain that was the worst of it. They'd heal. Well, they would if he had time for them to heal, anyway.
Leaning back against the shale, staring out into the great expanse
of tortured earth, he wondered what the realm would throw up at him next. He shouldn't have.
Spike didn't notice it at first but it didn't really matter. It noticed him.
Staring off to the right, Spike scratched at his prickly skin
unconsciously. Whatever was affecting
him was growing stronger, but he just didn't have the energy to continue on
quite yet. He leaned over and picked up
a piece of shale and sent it skipping down the side of the mountain. When he bent to pick up another, he noticed
the piece he was reaching for was vibrating slightly against the others. He frowned, not quite getting why it would
be doing that. It wasn't another
earthquake, Spike didn't feel any vibrations coming from below, and on the pile
he was sitting on, he would.
He spun around and looked up at the top of the peak...and breathed
a real sigh of relief. Not a
rockslide. That would be tops on his
list of things not to go through today.
So, no earthquake, no rockslide...what then?
He scanned the horizon from right to left. When he focused his re-emerged game-faced
eyesight across the mountain range of stones off to his left he almost fell off
his perch in shock.
"Oh, BLOODY HELL!"
Unlike the other things he'd faced since entering this realm,
there was nothing even remotely natural about what he saw. Suddenly, whether or not he had the energy
to continue mattered not in the least.
Spike leapt to his feet and started dragging himself frantically up the
last distance to the top.
Quickly gaining on his position was a shimmering wall of some kind
of energy that stretched from the ground to the sky, and it was, well,
bulldozing might be the best way to describe it, its way through each and every
pile of stone on his left and heading his way.
As it came in contact with the large piles, they virtually exploded,
sending razor-sharp, deadly stone projectiles in every direction.
Spike reached the peak and gathered his duster around him. If anything could provide some marginal protection
against what he was going to do next, it would be the leather.
Too afraid of what was coming to think about the plan he had, he
jumped off of the top of the pile of shale and fell. The pitched grade on this side was less severe than the other, so
he hit hard about ten feet from the top.
Sliding in a free fall, the loose stone beneath him gathered momentum as
he slid and he hurtled to the bottom of the hill.
The last thing he remembered was thinking he just might make it
before he was hit with the pyroclastic blast from the displaced air. Unlike the hailstones, the flying shale
missile's that were caught up in the blast of pressure didn't just pummel him,
they sliced into him, embedding themselves into his skin in several
places.
Spike howled briefly in pain and then, blessedly, felt
nothing. Everything went black. He lost consciousness just as the bulldozer
of shimmering energy blasted apart the hill he was on.
~*~*~*~*~*~
"Got anything yet, Willow?" Dawn asked, as she pushed
open the door to the Magic Box and moved to toss her book bag on the table.
For a full week it was the same question every time.
For a full week she got the same answer from the redheaded witch.
"Not yet, Dawnie, but we're still working on it."
Dawn's quest to find and return Spike had become a haunting
obsession, invading her dreams and lurking in the back of her mind - whispering
to her - all day. Not that she had
slipped on her schoolwork. If anything,
it had improved. As had her attendance,
Giles had seen to that.
The Watcher's council had worked their own brand of Gestapo-esque
magic on the US government and plowed through a surprisingly large amount of
red tape like a hot knife through butter to acquire citizenship for Giles. They had gotten the news just two days
ago.
Yesterday the gang had celebrated the official custodial rights of
one Rupert Giles over one Dawn Summers.
The gang had pitched in to get a rather ostentatious bundle of balloons
for the Watcher, several of which proclaimed to God and everyone, "It's a
Girl!"
Even Giles managed to find the amusement in that.
"Any homework today, Dawn?" Giles asked as he came out
from the stockroom with a box of inventory in his hands.
"Of course," Dawn rolled her eyes at Tara. Giles was great, but he was a stickler for
all things studious. And as much as she
groused, she didn't really mind. He
loved her and that was his rather staunchly British way of showing it. But she wouldn't be a teenager if she didn't
complain and generally work to make his life as frantic as possible. She may have found a new maturity and
purpose, but some things NEVER change.
"My English teacher, who I am convinced is a escaped Nazi war
criminal - we should really investigate her - decided we weren't fully
appreciating 'To Kill A Mockingbird', so we have to write a 500 word essay that
summarizes its main theme." Dawn
turned dramatically tragic, pleading eyes to Willow, who grinned at the teen's
ploy. "Willow, tell me you've read
the book and will help me!"
Giles just shook his head at the girl, happy to see that she was
showing signs of bouncing back from the tragedy ten days ago. Now, if he could just get her mind off
Spike.
Giles hadn't discussed his theory with anyone, but he was afraid
that Dawn was transferring the loss of her sister onto the missing vampire, and
if she didn't let it go - or Spike wasn't returned - it would destroy her.
"Hey, guys," Tara's voice pulled Giles' thoughts away
from his ward. "I think I may have
found another one."
At Dawn's insistence, the witches had been pouring through the
extremely extensive collection of Giles' spell books, trying out each and every
locater spell they found in case it got them further than they had before. So far, they always ended up at the same
spot, the spot that Spike's energy trail, or aura trail, whatever you want to
call it, just cut off.
Now they had one more to try.
As soon as Dawn heard Tara, she dropped the teen angst routine like a
bad habit and put on her 'all work, no play' face. As quick as turning on a light, the aggrieved schoolgirl was gone
and in her place, a determined young woman.
"Right. Tara, you get
the supplies. I'll help Willow set up
in the back room. When that's done,
I'll hang out here and start on my paper.
Let me know what you find out."
Willow, still not used to seeing the transformation from carefree
teen to intense leader in Dawn - in Buffy, sure, but in Dawn? - reached out and
touched Dawn's hand with a supportive squeeze.
"We will. You'll be the
first to know...well, okay, small fib.
We'll be the first to know, but you will definitely be
second."
Dawn grinned and led the way into the back room to set up the
circle her friends would need.
~*~*~*~*~*~
"Ow, Christ that hurts!"
Spike tried to move but his body protested violently. He opened his eyes and stared at the sky, it
had changed. No longer the angry blood
red color, it was more of a dark maroon.
Of course, it didn't really matter what color it was, it's not like
Spike knew if that was an indication night was falling - or even if there was a
night in this realm. He couldn't even
tell how long he'd been out.
"Well, surprise, surprise," he muttered to himself. "You're still alive, mate. A little less proper than you were before,
but you know what they say about beggars.
They taste funny and get stuck in your teeth." He tried to laugh at his own sick humor but
was seized by a coughing fit. It felt
like he swallowed the hill of shale instead of just being ripped apart by it
and he was pretty sure several of his ribs were broken.
Very gently, so he didn't hurt something that wouldn't heal so
fast, he turned his head to check out the fallout of his plunge and the blast. There was nothing. No scattered stones, no remnants of hills, just barren,
dessert-like hard packed earth. Same as
the disappearing storm and fissures.
Rolling over slowly, he winced when he felt the bite of several
slashes in his side and down his right leg.
Cautiously feeling his way down, he gasped as his fingers found the
first of what was to be many pieces of shale firmly imbedded in his skin. He plucked them out one by one, biting back
the cry of pain that each removal caused.
When he was finished, there were about twelve bloody pieces scattered
around his body. Solid proof that
whatever was playing mountain lion and mouse with him was real. And Spike didn't feel like playing anymore.
He managed to get to his knees and sheer force of will had him
tottering on his feet soon after.
Bloody, bruised, cut, and exhausted, he staggered on. That soft brush of feeling he had been
counting on to lead him to Buffy was still there, and in the growing darkness
he headed off to follow his instincts.
Hell, he was too damn stubborn to do anything else.
Spike didn't know how long he stumbled through the darkness. He didn't know how far he had come. What he did know was there was something up
ahead of him, he didn't know what exactly, but he was desperately hoping it
wasn't going to be another 'bash the Spike' thing.
As he got within feet of it, he could see it was square and
hanging a few feet off the ground. No,
that's not quite right. It was a
sign. It had posts sticking into the
hard surface of earth. Shuffling
forward, curiosity getting the better of him, he tried to see what it
said.
It was out of place. Since
entering the realm he'd seen absolutely no evidence of any inhabitants, but
signs weren't put up where no one would see it. That didn't make sense.
When he finally got close enough to make out the writing Spike
just stared in dazed amazement.
"You have got to be kiddin' me."
No way. No bloody
way.
He called out in anger to whatever was responsible for the
ever-present feeling of eyes on him.
"What's this all about, eh?
This some kind of soddin' joke?!
Oh yeah, mate, you're real funny, ya know?"
And suddenly, everything he had been through since he got dragged
down into this twisted version of Alice's rabbit hole in the sharp,
talon-tipped grasp of the Dialetylth DID seem funny. Very funny. Riotously
funny. Spike started laughing and he
honestly had no idea if he could stop.
He sunk to his knees and gripped his sides, practically howling in
amusement and giving in to what was fast becoming hysteria.
And every time he started to calm down, he peeked at the sign and
it started all over again.
So, Spike, here you are.
Workin' on savin' the world...again.
What's this, the second? Nope -
the third time. That's got to be some
bleedin' record for a soulless vampire, ya know? Maybe you should tell the little chippy to let Guinness know when
all's said and done. Wonder how
'William the Bloody' would look in that damn book. Or maybe just 'Spike' - well, we'll just let the girl decide for
herself. Then again, maybe not. Wouldn't want it to read 'William the Bloody
pain in the ass' now, would we? Nope,
that wouldn't do at all.
His thoughts did nothing to settle him down. It was all just so tragically amusing. Except for this time, this time to save the
world he had to take away something precious and well deserved from the woman
he loved more than he loved his own undead life. He had to send her back to the
fray. But why?
Why was he here? Why
should he force Buffy to give up her peace?
Spike had seen what would happen without the Chosen One, but so
what? He'd die? Well, it wasn't like he was going to be
getting out of heaven in one undead piece, the Oracles had been bloody well
clear on that. And if he wasn't going
to be there anyway, what did he care if the world and all of its inhabitants -
who he couldn't even feed off of anymore, by the way - went straight to the
fiery gates of Hell?
Well, there was Dawn. She
was one reason. And, if Spike was
really honest to himself, there were also the merry misfits. They were another reason. But they only count as one! I'm not givin' 'em each a reason of their
own!
Strangly, though, those reasons hadn't been why he chose to do
this unthinkable thing. He hadn't
really been thinking of Dawn, or of the Slayerettes, when he had seen the pit
of carnage that the world would become.
With a flash of insight he finally put his finger on it. And suddenly there was nothing amusing about
any of this any more. Spike knew why he
was here. He remembered why he had said
he'd follow through with this abomination.
Because it was the right thing to do.
He got up off his knees and stared at the sign, head tilted
slightly and one eyebrow lifted.
No. There was no funny to be
had. With a cold purpose, he stepped up
to the sign and kicked at the posts to loosen them from the ground, then bent
down and pulled.
It didn't take much. When
he had the sign in his hands, he raised it over his head and yelled at the eyes
under his skin. "I'm doin' what I
bloody well have to do! I'm doin' the
right thing for the right bloody reasons!
This isn't what I want, ya know?
I don't want to take her from here any more than you want to let her
go! There's no other way! I have no choice! And neither do you! You
know why? Because if you don't let her
go, don't let me get to her and let her make her choice, then this is the only
realm every soul left on that miserable rock will have to find any peace at
all. And they will all die gettin'
here!"
With a frustrated grunt of effort, Spike threw the sign away from
him, then headed on in the direction he now knew Buffy to be.
The sign landed with a slap and a thud several feet away from the
retreating back of the vampire. Despite
the unbroken darkness, the letters were lit with a ghostly luminescence for
brief seconds before fading out. Just
long enough for the casual observer to see what was written there, what had set
Spike off on his fit of hysterics and self-discovery.
'Welcome to
Sunnydale'