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Chapter 9: Love Bade Me Welcome; Yet My Soul Drew Back.
The security lights in Wesley's office dimmed, flickering on and off for a second before going out. Menacing sounds of gurgling and clanking coming from the heating system grew quieter and the whole building held its breath as if waiting for something. Spike hugged his duster close and narrowed his eyes at the sounds of the elevator doors opening and closing as the power alternated between failure and the back up system. His face was lit by a dull red glow from the PC monitor on the desk beside him. The scarlet background of the Wolfram and Hart Yale screen saver cast an eerie, bloody haze onto his skin, flushing it with an appearance of warmth; a direct contradiction to the ominous chill that had descended on the room.
Angel stepped back into the doorway. "Illyria, we need to move now!"
“You desire to leave and track your son, vampire.” Illyria challenged him, “but I will not leave yet.”
"Why the bloody hell not?" Spike asked, looking anxiously over his shoulder towards the corridor at the sound of approaching voices. He tensed, preparing himself for battle, then frowned as he recognised Wesley's voice coming from just inside the doorway.
" Yes, he is a bit jumpy. He's realised Nina is developing feelings for him," said Wesley, his transparent form emerging from within Angel's solid one. He moved towards his desk, a shaft of light emanating from somewhere high above his head cutting a bright swathe through the glowering luminescence of the secondary lighting.
Spike's eyes widened as he saw another shape pass through his Grandsire and follow Wesley across the room.
"Well, took him long enough." Fred grinned at Wesley.
Spike shook his head in disbelief, closing his eyes to shut out the image of the one woman who had been his friend without asking for anything in return. There was a hole in the world, he remembered. And he still didn't know why, but there was a hole inside him too, and he felt it where his heart hurt.
"He can be rather dense," Wesley agreed returning Fred's smile.
Fred lowered her eyes and smiled at him again, glancing shyly from under her lashes. "Um... by the way, my car is in the shop again, and I was thinking..."
"Of course." Wesley rose from his chair, freezing in place as he offered Fred his arm.
"What the . . .?" Spike spluttered.
"Time is shifting, unravelling, reforming; an occurrence that one such as I would have controlled rather than been at its mercy." Illyria examined Fred curiously. "That such a weak thing should hold mastery of its mystery is unthinkable, and yet my Qwa'ha Xahn chose her knowing her to possess a great power."
Lorne moved closer to the former God-King. "Angel's right about needing to move." He glanced nervously towards the door where the sounds of early morning cleaning staff could be heard clattering their way towards Wesley's office. He gestured at the objects in Illyria’s hand. "My not quite dead sixth sense tells me you're holding what Wes sent you here to find. So unless you're planning to hand it over to someone el. . . . "
His words were cut short as Illyria gripped him by the throat with her free arm and stopped the air to his windpipe. "You dare presume to question my loyalty?" She lifted him into the air. "Have I not said I will stay with my Wesley until he has solved the riddle of the walls?" Illyria cocked her head, listening to the faint sound of a phone ringing from the direction of Harmony's desk as the chaser system began its 'after hours' round robin calling. “The vampire needs something before he leaves.”
As if on cue, Harmony’s phone ceased and the one on Wesley's desk began to ring.
“Is no one goin’ to answer the bleedin’ phone?” Spike complained. He glared at Wesley who remained immobile, oblivious to everything and everyone around him. He peered into Wesley’s eyes. “No one’s home,” he said finally, reaching for the handset.
“This collision of times has served its purpose,” Illyria observed.
Spike rolled his eyes at her and held the receiver out toward Angel. “It’s for you. Some bloke called Reilly.”
Angel moved swiftly to take the phone from Spike’s outstretched hand, carefully avoiding Fred where she was standing motionless and silent, frozen in time, as she turned to leave the office. Angel's voice was cheery but his face remained solemn. “Mr Reilly. What can I do for you?”
All attention focused on him as he stiffened at the response. He turned toward the window, gazing out into the black night, letting Mr Reilly’s words sink in, confirming the fears he’d felt when he first smelled Connor’s blood in the elevator.
“No. I haven’t seen him, not recently.” Angel swung back towards Lorne. “Take this down,”
Lorne pulled a notepad and pencil from his jacket pocket and scribbled the number Angel called to him.
“I’ll contact you as soon as I find him.” Angel spoke reassuringly into the mouthpiece. “You did the right thing in calling me.” He placed the receiver back in its cradle and slumped onto the edge of the desk.
“Well?” Spike was the first to speak.
That was Connor's father."
"His father? Thought you were his fa . . ."
"His adopted family were attacked the same night we fought in the alley," Angel said solemnly, ignoring Spike's interruption. "Connor escaped and drew the demons away from the house. He said he'd try to find me. They've not heard from him since and he's not answering the messages on his cell phone." Angel stared out at the city skyline. "He came back here, in the hopes that I'd survived somehow." He turned back to the others and for once, his face betrayed the agony he felt. "He didn't know where else to look."
Lorne glanced nervously at Illyria. "Uh, Llyri, don't take this personally, but I really think we should go."
"There is nothing further I need here," she replied haughtily.
At her words, Fred and Wesley faded away and the sounds of a vacuum cleaner hummed and whirred its way down the corridor as the cleaning staff clattered towards them. As they reached the CEO's reception area, distant voices called 'Good morning Mr Angel', but there was no one to be seen, the foyer was deserted.
"This too is another time," Illyria commented as they passed Harmony's desk. "It approaches rapidly, catching up with us. Soon it will be in line with ours."
Lorne hurried to keep pace with the former God King. "How do you do that?" he asked hesitantly. "Wes said you'd had all that time altering stuffing knocked out of you."
"That was then," Illyria replied enigmatically. "This is now."
Spike raised his eyebrows and gestured at three figures materialising in the middle of the empty space in front of them. "You sure about that, Blue? Looks like we're about to have another attack of instant replay."
Hamilton, Wolfram and Hart's snappily dressed liaison to the Senior Partners lay crumpled on the floor. He pulled himself to his feet and strode towards Connor, throwing him effortlessly into the elevator doors.
"Connor!" The third figure rushed towards the boy.
"Let me say this as clearly as I can." Hamilton blocked Angel's way to his son. "You cannot beat me. I am a part of them. The Wolf, Ram, and Hart. Their strength flows through my veins. My blood is filled with their ancient power," he sneered condescendingly."
Angel smirked at him. "Can you pick out the one word there you probably shouldn't have said?" He vamped out and threw himself at Hamilton, biting him savagely. He drank deeply, holding on tenaciously as Hamilton struggled hard to free himself from his grip.
"Hey!" yelled Spike. "I take it all back. You do get the poetry."
Finally, Hamilton pulled Angel's head away from his neck, and threw him across the room.
Angel rotated his body in mid air and landed neatly on his feet. "Wow," he said appreciatively, wiping his lips, "you really are full of it."
Hamilton swung at him again, missing as Angel ducked to avoid the blow.
"What was that you were saying about ancient power?" Angel asked.
Hamilton threw another punch but Angel caught his arm and hit him in the ribs. Hamilton swung with his free arm, striking Angel in the face and receiving a whack to his own in return.
"You don't really think you're gonna win this, do you? You don't stand a chance. We are legion. We are forever." Despite the battering he was receiving, Hamilton's arrogance showed little sign of diminishing.
Angel struck him hard in the face. "Then I guess forever . . ." He punctuated his words with another thump. " Just got a hell of a lot shorter."
Lorne closed his eyes as Angel landed one more punch, shutting out the sight but unable to block the sound as Hamilton's neck broke under the onslaught.
Connor staggered over to his father. "Is he dead?"
"Yeah, he's dead."
The windows started to crack and the walls began falling apart as the building shook and rumbled again.
"Uh, that's not good, is it?" asked Connor.
"You said it Bubba," said Lorne, grasping the edge of Harmony's desk for support.
"Wolfram & Hart. Looks like they're taking the gloves off," Angel told Connor.
Connor appeared eager to continue fighting alongside his father. "What do we do?"
"You go home." Angel responded firmly.
“Huh?”
“This is my fight.”
“That's some serious macho…”
"Go home...now."
"They'll destroy you!" Connor yelled over the noise of a falling concrete beam.
"As long as you're OK, they can't… Go."
“Now isn’t that interesting." Spike snorted and pointed an accusing finger at the real Angel. " It was you put ideas in their head.” No sooner had the words left his mouth than Spike regretted them. One look at Angel's face told him he'd already worked out who it was gave Wolfram and Hart the perfect weapon to hurt him. Spike swallowed and stared at his boots. The sounds of falling masonry and shattering glass stopped and the vibrations in the floor stilled. He saw another pair of shoes materialise next to his.
"Naughty Daddy. Tried to keep him away from me. Baby brother needs his sister to take care of him," Drusilla whispered in his ear. "I'm coming for both my pretties. Soon, my sweet."
"Can't hear you," Spike moaned, clamping his hands over his ears. A hand gripped his shoulder and he looked up to see Lorne's worried face peering into his.
"Are you still with us, Champ?" Lorne asked gently. "The big fight's over. Our guy won. Two knock downs and a submission."
Spike looked blankly at him and nodded. They made their way over to where Illyria waited beside Angel who was punching the call button repeatedly on the new control panel on the elevators.
"I may have been mistaken about the violence being over." Lorne observed.
"There's scuff marks and another trail of Connor's blood," Angel retorted. "Looks like he was taken not long ago, while we were in Wes's office. If we get down there fast, we may have a chance, trail's still fresh." He jabbed at the button again. "Come on, come on," he muttered.
"You cannot be sure when it occurred," said Illyria. "This time is not yet ours."
"Gee, you ever considered going into motivational speaking?" Lorne snarled at her. "There's a director's chair for 'pushing people over the edge' with your name on it."
Illyria looked at him uncomprehendingly. "You talk in riddles and confuse me. I wish to return to Wesley." She stepped through the opening doors and turned her face to the wall, staring at her own reflection in the polished surface.
They rode to the ground floor in silence; three comrades in arms, each enclosed within his own mind, separated by uncertainty, guilt and confusion; three comrades in arms and a former God King bereft of power and searching for the meaning and purpose of her continued existence.
Lorne watched Illyria warily, unsure of her motive for helping Wesley, trying to work out where he fitted in the puzzle. Angel studied the signs of a struggle in the compartment and replayed Darla's accusations of neglecting their son. Spike, still shaky from the encounter with both Eve and Drusilla's apparitions, battled with the desolation at having lost part of himself.
As they emerged from the elevator, four vampires hurried out through the entrance doors, dragging an unconscious Connor between them. Angel sprinted across the lobby and out into the street, reaching it just as Connor was thrown into the back of a parked limousine.
"Go back to the hotel," Angel called to Lorne and Illyria. He chased after the car, which squealed away down the road and disappeared in the early morning traffic.
Spike trailed behind the rest of the group. He was so caught up in trying to suppress the images of the spectres that had assaulted him earlier, that he almost fell over Illyria as he left the lobby. She stood on the entrance steps watching Angel racing down the street in pursuit of the car.
"Hey! Watch it Blue," Spike protested.
Illyria slowly turned her ice-cold stare on him. "I have no need to watch anything here," she intoned. "I have need to return to Wesley with the things he bade me find." She strode away in the opposite direction to that taken by Angel, leaving Spike alone on the stairs with Lorne.
"I'll go with Her Iciness." Lorne flashed a worried look in the direction Angel had gone. "Maybe . . ."
Spike sighed. "Yeah, yeah. I'll go - do - whatever it is souled-vampires do for fun these days." He could feel a presence somewhere in the landscaped grounds and he didn't want anyone around when he finally confronted who it was that he knew was there waiting for him. "You go do…," he waved Lorne away. "whatever. I'll be fine." He turned to face the dark as Lorne hurried after Illyria. "Fine if your definition of fine includes not knowing what the buggery's goin' on most of the time," he added under his breath.
"You always look fine to me," Drusilla purred from the within the gloom beyond the streetlights.
He'd known she was there even before he’d seen her silhouette hesitating in the shadows; sensed her even before he caught her scent. His eyes flashed golden as he inhaled the unmistakable corrosive odour of defiled innocence. This was no First-fuelled apparition; this was the real Drusilla, waiting for him, come to claim him again. And his demon rejoiced.
She was as magnificent as he'd remembered, wearing a floor length coat of deepest night. Beneath it was a flame-coloured dress; swathes of silk licking her body as the shades of red and orange shimmered in the glare of halogen. A bunch of Sweet Williams sat in the lacy bodice of the gown, and a choker necklace of jet gleamed at her throat. This was his black beauty, the face of his salvation, the one his soulless self had claimed as his forever, his destiny.
"I dreamed about you; your glory, your destiny, my Sweet William."
"Don't believe in destiny. Make my own," growled Spike, pushing his demon down.
Drusilla walked slowly around him and began to sing.
"What did I dream?
I do not know;
The fragments fly like chaff.
Yet strange my mind
Was tickled so,
I cannot help but laugh."
"You're off your trolley," Spike sneered, backing away from her. "Mad as a bleedin' hatter."
"Don't be cruel, pretty Spike," pouted Drusilla. She giggled and moved closer. "You used to like my little songs." She placed her hand above his heart. "Said they told you things." She stared down the empty street. “Angel. He never liked them. Said they made him sad.” She closed her eyes and hummed to herself. “He was in my dream as well. Hmmm. He was flying ever so high. Flying towards the sun.
There was an old crow
Sat upon a clod;
That's the end of my song,
That's odd,” she crooned.
“What’re you doing here, Dru?” Spike asked gently, his face softening.
"There you are my Sweet William," Drusilla cooed, opening her eyes and pulling the bunch of pinks from her bodice. She held them out to him, smiling. "The life that I have is all that I have. And the life that I have is yours.”
Spike shivered and pulled her into his arms, holding her close against his chest; finishing the rhyme as he did so. "The love that I have of the life that I have, is yours and yours and yours." He drew his head back and gazed solemnly at her. "Why're you here Dru?" he asked again. "Why now?"
"I wanted to see my family again," she murmured softly as she caressed his cheek. "You all left me."
He closed his eyes and rolled his neck, shuddering at the familiar tingle of pleasure at her touch. But something inside grated at the insinuation beneath her words. He flared his nostrils and pushed himself out of the embrace. "You left me!" he stormed, his anger rushing to fill the empty void at the centre of his pain and confusion. "For a chaos demon!"
"But I came back. A girl can only stand so much being alone, Spike. I missed you." She nuzzled his neck, inhaling his scent, drawing a nail along his cheekbone, and opening a thin red gash. She smiled at the sight of the blood seeping from the wound and falling in tiny droplets to the steps. Her eyes flared yellow for a second as she trailed her tongue along the wound, but the instant she tasted his blood she recoiled away from him, clutching her throat, her eyes wide with horror. "It tastes of the dawn!" she gasped, her eyes wide with horror.
Dawn! Spike clenched his jaw against the remorse flooding into the the desolate place beneath his heart, and bit back the tears welling behind his eyes. He felt his soul scream in protest at Drusilla's contact, searing and scorching him as his veins ignited in a fiery reproach at her attempt to reclaim her wayward child.
'The dawn comes sneaking up when it thinks I'm not looking *," Drusilla moaned. "Why did you let them do it, my love? I don't understand," her sorrowful voice broke through his torment.
"Do it?" Spike forced down the pain and struggled to regain his balance.
"Curse you, like they cursed Angelus," she spat. Her distress was rapidly replaced by disgust.
"Nothing like Angel." Spike glanced upward at the lightening sky and frowned. Dawn was
"Then why? Why would you want such a nasty thing?"
"Fought for it. Won it fair and square." Spike muttered. He was no longer listening to her but searching within himself for the memories he'd given away.
Drusilla gave a small whimper. "Sweet William died for me today, I'll die for him tomorrow. Rosemary scents the tomb I've made. Rosemary for remembrance." She crushed the blooms in her hand and let them fall to the ground. "These flowers are all wrong."
"Right thing to do." Spike wiped his hand across his eyes and shook his head, trying to clear the fog of forgetfulness. "Did it for . . ."
"For her. I see it. You did it for her," Drusilla said angrily, realisation flooding in as she watched him. "Your face is a poem. I can read it. " She glided closer, closing her eyes and sweeping her hands round his head in circular motions. “But there now, they've all gone, the burning baby fishes, almost as if they never had been. You’re free of her.” She clasped her hands behind his neck and stroked his cheek. "You belong to me."
A hand grabbed her shoulder, swung her around and threw her away from Spike.
"He belongs to no-one." Buffy snarled. approaching. He looked down the street for signs of the others. "Not a curse."