| After: Weekend of Horror by Shiver |
| Rating: NC-17 Pairing: A/S Spoilers: Everything, including “Not Fade Away” (AtS: S5) Notes: The show is now over, but since I received so many positive comments on the series, I’m going to continue with it as long as the Muse cooperates and there is continued interest. Hell, I probably won’t even need the interest. My Muse is kind of a bitch that way. Thanks, and thanks for reading. - - - - - Spike started awake, disoriented and slightly sick, in the opulent Astaroth Suite above the Palais d’Enfer Casino in La Poche du Diable, Paris’s notorious Hell District. The casino was run by the T’Votth tribe, a family of demons who’d controlled this quarter of La Poche du Diable since the time of the House of Bourbon, and though they’d earned their power preying on those made weak by vice, Spike had to admit they ran a very posh establishment. He didn’t remember much after his arrival at Palais d’Enfer, other than drinking a lot of otter’s-blood cocktails and playing a lot of rondolet, but he surmised he must have won, and won big, to be treated to a suite this size. In fact, the last time he’d been comped a suite by the T’Votths, he and Dru had won the gold rings right out of their opponent’s nose. Of course, he’d lost everything the next night on three bets, and he and Dru’d been out on their firm, shapely bums, but it had been good times, nonetheless. Spike stretched himself out on the luxuriously soft mattress, fully spread-eagled and still not reaching the edge anywhere. Too big, he thought. Angel should be here. - - - - - Gwen led Angel and Illyria into the cathedral, down a narrow stone staircase, deep into the earth. “We’re going to the cells where the priests lived hundreds of years ago,” Gwen said. “Sister Michael lives here. She rarely speaks, and spends nine hours a day in prayer.” They walked down a stone passage so tight Angel found himself turned sideways at points, lit only by votives every twenty feet or so. They came to Sister Michael’s cell, little more than a hollow in the wall. A row of votives flickered on one side, and the nun herself knelt before a primitive altar: a rough olivewood cross and a Madonna of unadorned clay. After Gwen’s description, Angel had expected an ancient ascetic, but a woman no older than twenty-five looked up from her meditations. “Sister, may I present Angel,” Gwen said. Angel stared in barely-hidden horror, every atrocity he’d ever visited upon a bride of the church coming to his mind to torment him. “Come closer,” Sister Michael said, and Angel lowered himself to one knee. The nun reached out one hand to touch his face, and Angel gave a hiss and pulled back. Sister Michael blushed. “I apologize,” she said. “I forgot you weren’t able to touch the absolved. My English is not very good.” She reached out again, took Angel’s hand, but this time there was no pain. “That was a lie,” Gwen explained. “Her English is excellent.” She indicated Illyria. “And this is the old one,” she said. Illyria came closer, her head tilted curiously. “I have never seen such power as yours,” she said. “It is so pure. Uncorrupted.” Sister Michael lowered her eyes demurely. “I am pleased to hear that,” she said. “But come, I have many things to explain.” - - - - - Spike climbed to his feet, looked around the room, and groaned. Six empty champagne bottles were in a neat row on the bar, the bottom of the sunken bathtub was covered with a layer of Euros, and in the middle of the coffee table, under a halogen ceiling spot, was an emerald ring the size of a bottle-cap. Then he remembered the night before. He’d been playing rondolet. He’d been betting boldly, and the cards and wheel had both been in his favor. He’d increased his money thirty-fold, been comped his suite and escorted upstairs by two beautiful women. They’d plied him with the champagne, then offered their own charms. Incredibly drunk, he’d rebuffed them, confessing his love for another, but the house-girls remained cool businesswomen to the last, summoning one of the casino merchants to display a selection of wares so Spike could buy his paramour a gift. Picking up the ring Spike thought, What a stupid waste. Sure, they were fine on money for now, but who knew what tomorrow would bring? He should have stayed sober and saved the money. And yet… and yet, it was a beautiful thing: a deep, true green mounted in gold filigree, woven into a pattern of Celtic knots. Spike sighed, put it back in the velvet box, and stashed it inside his pocket. Then he began to gather up the money in the tub. - - - - - Sister Michael, Angel, Illyria, and Gwen knelt in a circle on the stone floor. Their heads were bent close together, as though they might be overheard, and the nun began to speak. “The paths of the gateways are four-fold,” she said. “Up and down, left and right, to and fro, back and forth. Each direction must be closed individually, at a different point on the wheel, and in each case, there must be an expenditure of energy.” “Tomorrow, we will close up and down,” Gwen explained. “We’ll need you and Spike to retrieve an artifact from an antique dealer in one of the right back galleries. It’s big, but the two of you should be able to handle it.” “How will you supply the energy?” Illyria said. Sister Michael looked at Gwen, who smiled serenely. “My power,” she said. “I’ll give up all of it.” “Gwen…” “I’ll be a normal girl, Angel. It’s what I want. What I’ve always wanted.” Angel looked into her eyes, shining with hope in the candlelight. “Sounds like you have things covered,” he said. “But why are we here?” Sister Michael took Angel’s hand in her own. “When I pray, my mind is open to the holy spirit,” she said. “It reveals what we must do to close the gateways, and banish this evil to its home planes. For many months, I have seen your face, heard your name, and then God brought Gwen to us.” She touched the thief’s face briefly. “I do not know what your part in this will be, Angel, but I know you are meant to be here.” - - - - - Gwen took Angel and Illyria to another part of the cavern beneath Notre Dame, where three narrow cots stood side-by-side, and Angel felt his heart squeeze tight. “I’ll come for you just before sunset,” she said, “so you can meet with Spike above.” Angel nodded his thanks, then said, “how long have you been here, Gwen?” “Since soon after I left L.A. I have an apartment overlooking the Eiffel Tower.” She shrugged. “Ill-gotten gains go pretty far, as it turns out.” “And how long have you been working with Sister Michael?” She shrugged again. “Maybe two months. Some people in the Quadrivium society put me in touch with her.” Angel frowned. “So… God didn’t exactly bring you to her.” Gwen smirked. “That depends on your point-of-view, I guess.” Angel caught her arm, shook it angrily. “And what’s your point-of-view, Gwen? Are we being directed by God?” Crackles of blue electric charge formed around Gwen’s fingers. “Let me go,” she said calmly, and Angel pulled his hand back. “There is a greater power at work,” she said. “Some in the Society call it God, or Allah, or Krishna. A few of the little geeks call it The Force.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder and crossed her arms. “Personally, I think it’s the power of the collective unconscious of all those involved. Just think of all that power stripped of the artifice we put on ourselves just to get through the day. We even pick our own names. Together we have no limits. We’re not seeing the future; we’re making it.” She turned to leave, then looked back over her shoulder. “I’ll see you in about twelve hours,” she said. Angel lay on his back, tucked his hands behind his head. “What do you think it is?” he said. “You’re an ancient god. Tell me where you think all this is coming from.” Illyria frowned. “I do not know,” she said. “The more I see of this world, the stranger it seems to me. When I first awoke in this form, I thought of you as no more than insects.” Angel rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I think you mentioned that at the time.” “You seemed so insignificant. Short, fragile lives filled with suffering and misery. Wesley tried to explain about love, but I did not know what he meant. Now I have seen love for one’s mate, love for one’s child, I have felt the power of it. Now here, in this place, I have felt love so great that humans would risk their lives for the benefit of strangers yet unborn.” “They want to change the world for the better. Is that so surprising?” “A world filled with hate, and pain,” Illyria said. “A world which, if they succeed, will never be aware of their sacrifice.” She waved one hand as if searching the air for the answer. “It is foolish. Suicidal. It should make you weak. By all reason it should make you… nothing. And yet it only brings more and more power to you.” She had worked herself up, now, and Angel watched her pace with frustration. “I have misunderstood everything,” she said. “I must learn why this power is channeled this way.” “It’s not something you can learn,” Angel said. “You have to feel it.” She stopped pacing, sat on her cot and crossed her legs. “I must consider this,” she said, and closed her eyes. Angel took the pillow from the third bed and wrapped it in his arms. Sleep evaded him for some time. - - - - - Angel could not contain his joy at seeing Spike waiting for him at the end of the bridge, and he ran the last fifty yards to gather the younger vampire to him, to kiss his face and hair. “Steady on, you big poof. It was only one day,” Spike said, but his voice was gentle, and he wound his fingers into Angel’s hair. “This is getting long,” he said. Angel twisted one of Spike’s curls around one finger. “Yours, too,” he said. “Where did you stay? I missed you so much.” “Well, that’s a funny story,” Spike said. “Tell me while we walk,” Angel said. “We need to get to this antique shop before they close.” They started walking, their hands unconsciously clasped. “I went to La Poche du Diable, one of the casinos there, Palais d’Enfer.” Angel smiled. “I remember it,” he said. “Old T’Votth-run house. I didn’t think I’d ever taken you there, though.” “You didn’t,” Spike said. “You wouldn’t let me gamble, then, remember? Said I didn’t have the temperament for it.” “As I recall, that was after I ended up paying off 4,500 pounds’ worth of horse-racing and card markers for you,” Angel said. “But seeing as all your limbs are intact, I presume you’ve improved over the years.” “Come out ahead, anyway,” Spike said vaguely. “What about you, though? What’d you find out?” “Not much,” Angel said. “It’s all so cryptic. For starters, closing the gateways is a four-step process; I thought she meant four directions, but one of them is up-down, so who knows.” “It’s probably the four dimensions,” Spike said. “There must be a gateway for each one.” “There are hundreds of dimensions, Spike.” “Not alternate dimensions, you nit. Dimensions in space. Well, plus time. Which might be spatial, according to some theories…” “What are you talking about?” “Okay, think about a cube,” Spike said, trying to suggest one in front of him with his hands. “It exists in three spatial dimensions: height, width, and depth, right?” “Okay.” “But it also exists in time, which is the fourth dimension.” Angel frowned. “Um, okay.” “Now, when we talk about hell dimensions, or alternate dimensions, or whatever,” Spike went on, “what we’re really talking about are parallel planes, where one dimension of it is parallel to ours. So if you can punch through the point where they meet each other, you can go across.” “How do you know all this?” Spike looked embarrassed. “I, uh, watched a lot of the Einstein Channel,” he said. “You know, back in the chip days. Wasn’t much of a leap to apply quantum theory to metaphysics, you know. Ran a few ideas past Rupert Giles, and he thought they were pretty sound.” Angel grinned, and wrapped an arm over Spike’s shoulder. “I had no idea,” he said. “You’re a genius.” “Hardly,” Spike said. “It’s not like I’m writing papers for the Watcher’s Journal. Makes sense, though.” “Okay, so how do the gateways close, then?” Spike smiled. “It’s sort of a work in progress,” he said, then laughed. “I’m dying to find out, though.” - - - - - They received the artifact, already packed and crated, at a shop called Bête Noire, tucked in a quiet corner of the famous shopping arcades. They took it right out the back door and into one of the sewer accesses, headed towards Les Jardins de Tuileries. They emerged not far from the darkened park, spotted the white-clad Sister Michael among a group of flickering candles. Angel and Spike approached her, found her flanked by Illyria and Gwen. Candles in jars outlined a circle on the ground. “Put the box down there,” the nun said, pointing to a patch of grass, and two men came forward out of the darkness with crowbars. Spike moved against Angel’s side. “There are people all around us,” he said. “Quadrivium Society,” Angel said. “They’re guarding the perimeter, making sure we aren’t interrupted.” The crate was opened, paper and straw tossed aside and an elongated diamond-shaped stone revealed. Sister Michael pointed to Angel and Spike. “Lift it up,” she said, “and carry it over into the circle.” The vampires did so, but when they crossed the circle’s perimeter the stone lifted out of their hands, levitating up on its end and moving to the circle’s center, where it began to slowly rotate. Angel and Spike backed away, heard the two crowbar men retreat back into the shadows. Sister Michael approached the stone and spread her arms. The stone began to glow, a soft pink that grew brighter while the rotation increased in speed. “Gwen. Come closer, child,” the nun said, and Gwen nearly bounced to her side. Sister Michael took her hand and began chanting in a language that was clearly ancient. Angel reached out and pulled Spike close to him. The stone spun faster and faster, the glow brightening to a white so blazing it was hard to look at, and Sister Michael’s voice rose to a shout as she concluded her chant. There was a massive crack, and the rock split open, sending forth a bolt of energy. The bolt passed between Sister Michael and Gwen, knocking them both onto their backs, and slammed directly into Illyria’s chest. She was propelled back through the air, bowling over several potted trees as she went, and at last coming to rest across a row of hedges. Angel and Spike ran to her aid. A shouted, “don’t touch me,” stopped them, and Illyria climbed to her feet. Gone was the bob-haired Goth-girl they’d grown used to in the previous weeks. Gone, too, was the blue-haired demigod they’d known in Los Angeles. Instead was the visage of their lost friend, naked, with only her brown hair to cover her. She fluttered her fingers above her breastbone. “Something… something is wrong,” she said. Spike swallowed hard, took a step closer. “Fred?” The girl turned a hateful glare on him. “Fred’s memories are gone. My eyes are clouded, my senses dulled. Something horrible has happened to me.” “The Holy Spirit has chosen you,” Sister Michael said, approaching them. “Your power was used to seal the gateways. You are human, now, child.” With a cry of anguish, Illyria crumpled to the ground, while behind them, Gwen began to sob. - - - - - Angel walked through the church courtyard with Illyria beside him. They walked slowly, as the newly reborn girl was still unsteady on her feet, and Angel held his hands behind him, though he longed to put his arms around her. He reminded himself that Illyria wouldn’t understand that he was trying to comfort her, so he remained still. “Are you sure this is what you want?” Angel said. “It would jeopardize your plan if I were to travel with you,” Illyria said. “And while I am not convinced that Sister Michael’s God has ‘chosen’ me, I must consider there are powerful forces around me. I think this is where I must try to find my place in the world.” Angel stopped and looked down at the seemingly fragile woman beside him. “I’m very proud of you,” he said. Illyria regarded him curiously for several long moments, as though struggling to understand his meaning. “Thank you,” she offered at last. - - - - - Angel and Spike and Gwen rode the elevator to the private suite that was Gwen’s home in Paris. The doors slid open to reveal an opulently decorated salon filled with velvet, satin, and silk. An enormous picture window looked out on the Eiffel Tower and the glittering city beyond. “Wow,” Spike said, and he took a tentative step into the room. “I mean, wow!” Gwen ignored him and crossed to the wet bar, poured herself a tall glass. “Make yourself at home,” she said. “Guest rooms are through the kitchen. I’ll have blood brought in tomorrow.” Spike eagerly retreated, the gleam in his eye making his intentions clear, but Angel lingered. “Are you alright?” he asked Gwen. “I will be,” she said. “But not yet. I need to be alone now.” Angel nodded, understanding the feeling all too well, and headed for the guest rooms himself. Spike had already stripped down and cocooned himself in the large canopy bed, and was watching the door anxiously when Angel entered. Angel began to undress himself, laughing when Spike entreated him to go faster. He slid under the silk coverlet alongside Spike and gathered him into his arms. Spike raised one hand to Angel’s lips, halting him, and ignored Angel’s annoyed frown. “I’ve a surprise,” he said, almost shy, and he pulled the velvet box from beneath the pillow. Angel’s annoyance turned to curiosity, and he watched as Spike revealed the emerald ring. “I know I shouldn’t have wasted the money,” Spike said, “but I wasn’t really thinking clearly…” “It’s beautiful,” Angel said, and Spike’s face broke with relief. “Do you really like it?” “I do,” Angel said, and he took the box to study it more closely. “aren’t you going to put it on me?” he asked after a moment. He didn’t miss the look of stunned happiness before Spike remembered himself and rolled his eyes with a muttered “ponce.” But Spike did take the ring and slip it onto Angel’s left hand. “It was too much…” Spike began, but Angel shushed him. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “We’re still ahead on the money. And I like wearing something you’ve given me.” He pulled Spike back into his arms, kissed him, tangled their legs together, and Spike wrapped his arms around Angel’s body. “And the best part,” Angel whispered into Spike’s ear, a smile in his voice, “I haven’t had a vision since we got to France.” “Shut up,” Spike hissed, unamused. “And fuck me, before they decide it’s time to pull your strings again.” Angel put his hands on Spike’s shoulders, slammed him onto his back. “Gladly,” he growled. “Oh, yeah,” Spike said, and he spread his arms wide and hooked one leg around Angel’s hips. Angel bent down, nuzzled and kissed the soft flesh under Spike’s jaw. Spike’s eyes fell closed, and he sighed. |