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Chapter 14: Put your Ear Down Close to Your Soul and Listen Hard. (Anne Sexton)
The smell of fear and sweat mingled with the metallic undercurrent emanating from the rumpled linen heaped on the single bed in the corner of the sparsely furnished apartment. The last rays of the sun bleeding through threadbare curtains spilled flushed veins of jagged light across dusty floorboards. A mirror on the wall above the bed, danced to the rumble of evening traffic, palpitating the bloody message on the glass. Angel moved closer, his footsteps echoing across the hollow space.
"No sign of life," said Spike, emerging from the bathroom area. He scanned the drab room. "Not exactly Dru's taste in décor. She was always one for the height of fashion - circa 1890."
Angel stared into the mirror, its only reflections those of Buffy, Ilyria and a hand-written note stuck to one corner of its murky surface. He slumped onto the bed and plucked at the dingy blue blanket, inhaling the lingering scent of his son's suffering. "Why did he do it? He must have known it was suicide. Going back to Wolfram and Hart."
"I'd do it. Right person. Someone I loved." Buffy glanced at Spike, then dropped her gaze as his head swung towards her.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Spike frowned.
"Just recalling something someone said to me a lifetime ago." She flinched as Angel's fist smashed the mirror, sending shards flying.
"I was supposed to be the one who died," Angel snarled. He held up his hand and inspected his bleeding knuckles. "He'd be safe if I'd …." He stared unseeingly at Buffy. “If you…”
"You saying this is all my fault?" Buffy stepped closer to Angel. "That I should have listened to Giles and stayed away from that alley?"
“If the cap fits, Blondie …” Spike picked the scrap of paper from the floor, shook it free of splinters, read it and handed it to her. "If it hadn't been for you, there never would have been any 'miracle child' in the first place. “
“What?” Buffy swung round and stared at him.
“Angel would’ve kept the Shanshu for himself, ‘stead of trading it away for…”
"Spike!" Angel silenced him with a glare as he moved towards the door.
"No. Let him finish." Buffy grasped Angel’s arm and swung him to face her.
"You didn't tell her?" Spike shrugged. "Another lost memory. Lot of that going 'round.” He knelt beside the bed and checked underneath. “Thought the dragon cured you of that."
"Now's not the time," Angel muttered.
"And just when will that be?" Buffy held Angel's arm tighter. "Look at me, Angel. We don't do
Angel hung his head, wrapping his bleeding hands in the grimy sheet, his blood darkening the stains already there, merging with Connor's.
"It was a long time ago. An accident," Angel replied. "You don't remember because the Powers That Be turned back time." He averted her eyes. "Just for a day, I was human."
"And you gave it back?" Buffy asked quietly.
Spike came up from underneath the bed and brushed the dust from his hair. "Yup. For you." He raised his eyes to the ceiling. "Can't think why he'd do a thing like that."
"You haven't changed as much as you think, Angel," Buffy said shaking her head. She gazed at Spike as he rummaged in the battered bedside cabinet. "Whereas …" She clenched her jaw. "But none of that matters now."
Angel licked his lips nervously and continued staring at the blood stained sheet.
"Do you think he's dead?" asked Buffy softly.
"She wouldn't make it that easy for me," replied Angel. "I've been a guest at one of Drusilla's 'Birthday Parties' before."
“Nothing here to pick up on,” Spike complained, emerging from the cupboard's innards. “Dru’s getting’ better at this little game.”
Angel got to his feet, folded the sheet neatly and laid it on the grey pillow swatch. "She learned from the best," he said flatly. "Angelus…" He paused. "I taught her the divide and mislead."
"She must have gotten very good to mislead Willow," said Buffy. "And who's she dividing?"
"Don't know yet," replied Spike. "Everyone thinks Dru is just barking. But there's more to her than that. She knows what she wants - and how to get it. Always has."
He led the way from the apartment and out into the Square. Civic Hall glowered in the rapidly falling gloom of evening, casting its oppressive shadow across the three figures following him.
"We should call Willow. Have her get a new fix on Connor." Buffy reached for her mobile.
Spike's head jerked up towards Civic Hall's upper floors. "Dru!" he yelled, sprinting for the entrance.
"Connor!" Angel ran alongside him.
"Huh?" Buffy hesitated, snapped her phone shut and joined the dash for the door.
Illyria remained motionless, staring at the open window on the third floor, listening to the sound of a woman singing a lullaby.
secrets any more. There's too much at stake."
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The boardroom was unrecognisable, altered not only in content and decoration but in size and shape. The corporate need for order and utility metamorphosed to one of stuffy, cluttered antiquity, reeking of a confusion of dark secrets, forbidden pleasure, and claustrophobic propriety. Each surface was swathed in exotic fabric, heavy tapestry curtains shaded the window, antique rugs from the Levant covered every inch of floor. A small side table, flanked by a pair of upholstered armchairs, occupied one corner of the room. At its centre, the conference table displayed all the accoutrements of a Victorian Parlour at teatime. The accessories of formal council gatherings were gone, the crystal decanter replaced by a teapot, gleaming and winking its silver plate in the candlelight. Tiered stands piled high with fingers of shortbread and iced fancies jostled for space beside platters bearing Victoria sponge cake. Delicate china plates, their painted blush roses hidden beneath lace doilies perched alongside matching cups and saucers whose tiny spoons waited for the mistress of the house to begin the ceremony.
Drusilla stood beside the open window, fingering the ribbons of her bonnet with pale, thin hands, gloved once again in black lace. She twitched the curtains aside and gazed into the square below, watching the shadows lengthening as the sun sank behind the towers of Los Angeles. And as she watched, she sang a lullaby.
" Toora, loora, loora
Toora, loora, li
Toora, loora, loora
Hush, now, don't you cry "
On a chair beside the table, Connor strained against the ropes that bound him, gasping into the cloth tied across his mouth.
Drusilla crossed the room and removed the gag, sliding it down to circle his throat, caressing his jawbone with the tip of her finger. "Heard that before, have you? Memory is such a horrid child. She torments us with words and sounds and smells."
She tilted her head at some unheard noise and pulled the chair round to face the door. "They search for her. The one who was present at your first birthing. But she's lost. Just like you were when Daddy…" She turned her head towards the window. "They're coming for you now," she said, beginning to dance, undulating with the melody of the new song she sang. "Born of the dark waters of the daughter of night. Dancing without movement into the pale light.* You're a miracle child. Did you know that? That's why there's blancmange for your tea."
"Stay away from me crazy lady. My folks'll have called the police by now," croaked Connor
"That boy doesn't exist any more. You're already forgotten. Tinkered memories for tinkered souls." Drusilla reached out and smoothed Connor's damp hair.
He flinched and tried to move away from her but the restraints held him tight against the backrest.
"There, there, pretty little brother. No need to be afraid." She loosened the gag from around his neck. "It's them as is afraid of you. Always was. Right from the beginning." Her hand dropped from the silky fabric and gripped her temple. "Always will be as long as you have that nasty thing inside you. That's why they want me to…"
She stopped, turning towards the sound of running feet in the corridor outside. A chill descended on the room, the wind gusting through the open window flinging cards from the side table onto the floor
“I felt you burn at the Hellmouth.”, she said to the figure who appeared at her side. “You said we were forever.”
“And so we are, my sweet,” First Spike purred in her ear.
“Not the same,” pouted Drusilla. “I can’t feel you at all.” She pushed a hand against his chest and wrinkled her nose in disgust.
"But you can, Pet. I'm inside you. Always have been. Making you feel." First Spike's fading form re-materialised as First Drusilla. "Come now, we've neglected our Birthday Boy too long."
Drusilla turned her attention back to Connor. "Yes, tell Mummy what it is that frightens you, and she'll make it all go away…"
The door burst open and Spike crashed through, battling against three burly demons.
"You're not my mother. Go to Hell," spluttered Connor.
"That isn't polite," Drusilla chided. " We have guests for tea. No time for travelling."
Spike careered into the table. Porcelain smashed to the floor and tea spewed through the air as he thrashed and kicked his assailants. Remnants of spongecake smeared from the bottom of his boot across a demon's face.
At the head of the table, Rutherford Sirk slumped against his neighbour, the red slit at his throat dripping gore into the empty teacup wobbling precariously on its rim in the saucer in front of him. Three Wolfram and Hart employees lay dead on the floor, their overturned chairs still warm and sticky with blood.
"Boys and girls come out to play, the moon doth shine as bright as day." Drusilla chanted.
"Ummph." Spike grunted as a demon backhanded him into the wall. "It's still daytime, Dru."
Drusilla moved from Connor's side and shoved Sirk's body from the chair.
"Couldn't have happened to a nicer fella," Spike commented as Sirk's cadaver thudded onto the rug.
Drusilla nudged the corpse with the toe of her high-buttoned boot. "This one wanted manners. Put his napkin back on the table and would leave his fork down on my freshly starched linen. And Mr Hartram was most insistent he be punished for his earlier indiscretions." She sat in Sirk's chair and reached for the overturned teapot. "You're early," she remarked. "The tea is not yet drawn."
"Still playing dollies?" Spike sneered nodding at the other deceased tea party guests. "Thought you'd outgrown all that."
“We don’t grow, Spike. We grow neither old, nor do we change. That is not our fate.”
“I did. ’Sides, don’t hold with fate…”
Three demons attacked in unison, kicking him to the floor.
Drusilla tutted her disapproval and waved the demons away from the fallen vampire. "Cheek. We punish that. How's the boy ever going to learn manners? "
She picked up the first card of four cards strewn at her feet and turned it in her hand. "Three of Swords - reversed. Hmm." Drusilla stared at Spike's prostrate form. "Poor William. A knight there was, and that a worthy man. You can't do it, you know." She stared at the door. "We have to wait for Daddy. He's late."
From outside the room, the sounds of scuffling and thumping grew closer. Buffy's unmistakable grunts of exertion combined with demonic snarls and the crack of bone on bone. Drusilla set her face in a welcoming smile.
Angel and Buffy were dragged into the parlour, each in the secure grip of a group of vampires.
"Illyria!" Spike called to the figure standing watching from the doorway. He struggled groggily to his feet, his temple streaming blood.
"This is not my fight. It suits neither my purpose, nor that of my Wesley."
"Why the Hell did we bring her?" Buffy squirmed in the grasp of her captors whose beefy chests and thick necks strained against the constraints of tight-fitting waistcoats and starched collars as they fought to control her. The demon leading the group glanced at Illyria.
"Same reason we agreed to wear these stupid suits?"
Drusilla looked up from the cards and regarded the former God King curiously. "The Bringer of Chaos," she murmured. "Trapped in time and yet timeless."
Illyria returned her gaze with cool indifference. "I do not acknowledge this fate. There are things I would learn from my Guide that will free me from all constraints." She stepped into the room, ignoring Spike's fight, the desperation in Angel's eyes.
Drusilla picked the other cards from the table and crossed the room, stepping over bodies with a graceful raising of her gown. "The vastest things are those we may not learn.+" She circled Illyria, fixing her eyes on the glacial blue orbs regarding her own dark ones. "We are not taught to die, nor to be born. Nor how to burn with love.+"
Illyria clutched her chest.
"Ah. There she is. Hidden but yet out of reach. " Drusilla smiled. "How pitiful is our enforced return to those small things we are the masters of.+" She held out the first of three cards for Illyria's inspection. On it, a crowned woman held up a sword with one hand and beckoned with the other, as if encouraging one of her subjects to approach. "A woman who has suffered deep sorrow and loss, but has gained wisdom. One who has overcome adversity at the hands of men." Drusilla's gaze remained steady. "But which woman - and which man?" she asked with a sly smile.
"What is that to me? I am no woman though constrained by this puny form." Illyria waved the card aside. "If your power be as Seer, I would have demonstration of its strength."
On the other side of the room, Spike lashed out at the nearest opponent, breaking a heavy dining chair across his head, shattering the wood and dancing out of the trajectory of lethal splinters. He shook the blood from his eyes and scanned the room, grimacing as a pair of vampires peeled themselves away from restraining Buffy and joined the group attacking him.
"You don't want demonstrations," he gasped. "Dru's not working solo." He picked up a broken piece of chair leg. "C'mon boys. Who's first for a spot of gone with the wind?"
The vampires circling Spike hesitated. One adjusted his cravat, bowing slightly. "Awaiting your orders, Miss Drusilla."
First Drusilla sashayed towards Spike, thrusting her hips provocatively. "I've been wearing faces in the strangest places, just to make a dream come true." She turned and grinned maliciously at Buffy. "You see my Sweet William? His flower is the strangest thing I've seen. It's had its share of rain. Now it needs some feeling to light it's fiery flame again."
"He's not yours," said Buffy. "He'll never be yours."
"But one cruel lie and it could die," finished First Dru. She gestured at the demons guarding Spike. "Kill him."
Buffy thrust her elbow into the face of the demon on her left. As he staggered under the blow, she broke his grip swung her arm low and punched the other in the groin. She sprinted away from them, grabbed another chair leg and ran towards Spike.
He was a blur of motion; black leather, white hair, and fangs whirling amid the as the vampires attacked in unison. Spike twirled, coat tails whipping. He executed a low spinning hook kick. One of his assailants flew over the armchair. Spike dived for the gap. The rug slid beneath him, propelling him into the table.
"Free the boy!" he yelled to Buffy before he disappeared under a mound of First-fuelled demons.
"Can't save 'em all, Buffy," First Drusilla jeered morphing back into First Spike. "Who's it gonna be? The vampire or the boy?"
Buffy swerved away from the vampires, concentrating instead on The First's smirking image. "Get. Out. Of. His. Face," she grated.
"Or you'll what?" First Spike leered at her, tongue grazing his bottom teeth. "No Slayer army. No amulet. No white magic." He watched his vampire hoard sweep the remains of the tea party from one end of the table and hoist an unconscious Spike onto the soiled lace.
"Picked the wrong side again. Knew it'd be the death of me one day." First Spike chuckled as he disappeared.
At the other end of the table, a lone tarot card lay face down amid the carnage. Illyria turned it over. An angel, stained with blood, sounded the ending of a life in a single trumpet call.
"There is an angel calling them to judgement," she remarked. "I would know what this means to you and your First Dark Lord."
Drusilla left Illyria's side and stood in front of Angel. " I was your slave, now you are mine. I am Time, I am Time." She opened her eyes wide. "Everyone's here. And the cake's been cut. Now's the proper time to blow out the lights." She grasped Angel's hair and wrenched his head back as he bowed it away from her gaze. "And you shall watch."
"Quantity T is equal to the difference in time – it is the proper time between events, measured by the clock." Fred's quantum reasoning sounded stilted in Illyria's clipped tones.
Drusilla clutched her head and staggered across the room towards Connor. "The wise woman is midwife both to birth and death," she moaned. She raised Connor's head and turned his neck, staring at Angel with the golden eyes of a vampire. "Time runs out for life. Dandelion clock ticking. Souls like seeds drifting”
"No!"
Angel's cry galvanised Buffy into action just as the leading vampire pulled an axe from the weapons sack at his feet and raised it above Spike's head. She picked a broken chair leg from the floor and launched herself at the axe-wielding vampire. She struck hard, deep into his heart, catching his weapon and sweeping the others into oblivion with swift precision. As the last one crumbled into dust, she dropped the axe and gently lifted Spike's head.
He groaned, wincing as she brushed a lock of blood-soaked hair out of his eyes, and grinned at her. "Take it we won then?"
She turned to where Angel knelt at Drusilla's feet; the guards forcing his head up to watch her. "Not yet. Angel needs rescuing."
Spike raised himself into a sitting position, swung his legs over the edge, and slid onto the floor. "In that case…" His knees buckled and Buffy caught him in a tight embrace. "I'm no soddin' use," he finished, throwing an arm across her shoulder. "But give me a bit of time and I will be."
A leather-clad hand touched his wrist. Illyria stared at his watch and then into his eyes. "This is the proper time," she intoned, tapping the watch face. "And I must be within its limitations, for otherwise I shall no longer be." She turned and looked at Connor. "Its measure lies with the vampire's child."
She strode across the room and wrenched Angel away from his guards, smashing the first with a backhanded blow and raising the other by the throat with one hand. Illyria moved through the room like a blue whirlwind, staking vampires and crushing demons beneath her slight form.
Drusilla hissed and released Connor's neck. "Interfering Missy," she snarled.
Angel lunged at her seizing her head between both hands. "I'm sorry," he mouthed at Spike.
He twisted his hands and her neck cracked.
He lay her inert body gently on the ground and embraced Connor. "I thought I was going to lose you again, " he said, untying the ropes from his son's arms.
Connor shook the circulation back into his wrists and beamed at him. "Not that easy to get rid of." He nodded at Drusilla. "Who was she?"
"Someone I should have killed a long time ago," Angel replied. "But it's not for me to do now." He took the stake Buffy handed to him and offered it to Spike. "It's up to you, Spike."
Spike looked from Drusilla to the stake resting in his palm. "She said I couldn't do it. That we had to wait for you." He swallowed and raised tear-filled eyes to Angel's. "It's Drusilla," he choked. "My Dark Princess."
"She's not yours anymore."
Buffy's voice opened the sluice gates on the dam holding back Spike's grief. "What do you know?" he rounded on her, eyes streaming. "All she ever wanted was to be loved. Our love was forever."
"When the beloved one withdraws itself from your soul. Then you have lost your soul." Illyria held out the note Angel had removed from the mirror earlier that evening. "This I know. Wesley demonstrated to me at his death."
Spike stared at her for an instant, then plunged the stake into Drusilla's heart, closing his eyes against the sight of her disintegrating form. He sank to his knees in the dust and wept.