(no subject)
________________________
When a hand had caught him by the ankle, Herbert had been surprised.
When that same small hand had pulled him - upside down - from the Jacuzzi, where he and William had been pleasantly tangled under the water, he had been more than a little irate.
However, when the scent of the air washed over him, he had no question as to why Illyria had dared to do such a thing. “They are killing one another,” the demon said, dropping him on the floor and reaching into the tub to pull William out by the throat.
Scrambling upright, Herbert skidded across the floor, still-steaming blood-tinted water sluicing down his body. He heard William struggling to his feet to follow and the heavy steps of Illyria’s booted feet.
It was a time like this that made him regret hiding his private pleasure at the far corner of the castle, four levels up one of the towers.
Yet, even so, he flew down the hallways, taking the staircases half a dozen steps at a time. He could smell mortal blood, fresh, hot and still flowing, but more than that, he could smell scorched flesh, could smell his father’s blood spilled, could feel the low growl rising in his throat.
Racing down one flight of stairs, across the middle landing and up the opposite side, he heard the crash of a door, the sound of a blow and something falling, then in the eerie silence that followed, something that was like a wounded whimper.
Half-dreading what he might find when he reached the source, he turned down the hall towards his father’s study.
What he saw made him stop dead.
Just shy of the door of the study, Dawn’s body was sprawled out on the floor, blood splattered over almost every inch of her naked skin. She was motionless and, judging by the ragged gash on her temple, had struck her head.
However, it was the sight of his father that made him recoil in shock.
Half-slumped against the wall, von Krolock was staring down at the girl, a plaintive whimper rising from his throat. If it were possible, he was even more bloodied than the girl who lay half-a-dozen paces from him. A black cross was burned into his face and blood was streaming relentlessly from raw wounds on either side of his throat. That was to say nothing of the scratches covering his torso.
He crept forward slowly, and Herbert found himself holding his breath as his father slowly squatted down, gently touching the girl’s face. Long hands slipped under her shoulders and she was gathered up with gentleness that seemed out of place.
Tenderly, the Graf softly nuzzled her bloody cheek, uttering a strange crooning sound.
“Father...?”
Black eyes flashed at him and the girl was pulled closer, protectively, defensively, fangs savagely bared.
“What’s the...” William barrelled into Herbert’s back, then went rigid. “Oh hell...”
“She’s... she’s still alive...” Herbert whispered. “But they are both bleeding heavily. Father is...”
William’s hand touched his back. “You get your dad to let go of her,” he muttered, though he sounded petrified. “I’ll grab her and get her patched.”
Herbert nodded, but couldn’t bring himself to move.
“Herbert.” He was pulled to face William, found blue eyes dark with worry. “Look, you’re the only one who can get through to him when he’s in that state. We need to get them apart, right? You take care of him.”
Herbert glanced back at his father, who was watching them dangerously. He was startled to realise he was trembling. “How?”
William shook his head. “Dunno...” He chewed on a thumbnail, watching Herbert’s father as he started to softly lap at Dawn’s bloody lips. “Oh... right...” A hand snared Herbert’s and Herbert uttered a sound of shock when William bit into his wrist.
“William!”
“S’all about the blood,” William replied, keeping his voice soft. “Go on. Get him away from her. Look after him, eh?”
Looking at his lover, then at the wound on his wrist, Herbert slowly nodded, taking cautious steps towards his father. Slowly, carefully, ignoring the warning growls, he knelt down and extended his arm to his father, saw the dark eyes - glittering and feral - focus on the wound, then focus on him.
Slipping one arm from Dawn’s body, von Krolock wrapped pale fingers around Herbert’s wrist, the grip almost painful. He was pulled closer, knees scraping on the rough stone of the floor, then felt his father’s breath, lips, fangs.
His eyes squeezing closed, he gasped aloud as Dawn was laid aside and he was pulled hard against his father and Sire’s body. Von Krolock’s arm was tight around his waist, holding him fast and he could feel his father drawing on his blood, his chest heaving with desperate little gasps.
“Father... stop...”
Black eyes blazed when he tried to wrench his wrist free, then the darkness seemed to soften and he saw the recognition, felt the fangs withdraw from his wounded wrist, saw the myriad of dazed emotions.
“Herbert...?”
He nodded, unable to find words, trembling.
They stared at each other, grey eyes warily watching black. Never had he been more aware of his father’s touch, his nails sunk into Herbert’s side, his other hand holding Herbert’s forearm in a grip of iron, their bodies locked against one another.
“You’re hurt,” he finally managed to whisper.
The Graf blinked slowly, dully, as if just waking from a strange dream. “You’re soaking, Herbert,” he said vaguely.
The mundanity of it made Herbert laugh weakly, shrilly, his free hand resting on his father’s shoulder. “I-I am,” he agreed, swallowing and wetting his lips with his tongue. “But you should let me tend your wounds.”
“Wounds...?” His father looked down at his own body, then up at Herbert’s face. As one, they both looked to the point where Dawn had been, but all that remained was a puddle of water seeped with blood. “She... fell.”
“She was bleeding,” Herbert said softly, lifting a hand to touch his father’s face. “William has her.”
“Yes... yes, he will care for her...” As if only realising what he was doing, he gaped at his hands, then released his son, raising his hands to cover both sides of his throat. His palms came away scarlet and he stared at them. “Oh.”
Habitually, Herbert reached for a kerchief, only to encounter bare skin.
“Father, we need to cover your wounds,” he said softly, struggling back to his feet on legs that felt like they had been filled with water. He slid a hand under his father’s arm, trying to draw him upright.
On his father’s other side, blue hands caught his arm and Illyria helped him draw his father into a position that was close to vertical. Never had he been more grateful for the demon. If she had not found him, then who could say what would have happened to his father and the girl?
While at first he had intended to take his father into the study, the sight of it made him stop and stare in shock. His father’s orderly paperwork was thrown across the floor, books scattered about, the furnishings upended, ink and blood spattered across stone and glass.
So, carefully, painstakingly, he guided his father through the halls towards one of the guest chambers on the same level, drawing him into the first chair that was available, making him sit down.
For his part, the Graf seemed to be in something of a daze and Herbert certainly did not wonder why.
Striding across the room, he pulled the cloth from the table, quickly instructing Illyria to fetch him water and then ripping the cloth into narrow strips. By the time she returned, he had drawn his father’s hair back with one of the scraps.
“The Morsel marked him so?”
Herbert nodded, taking the bowl and dipping a piece of cloth into the water, kneeling down to carefully wipe blood from the still-bleeding wounds that were torn so deep into his father’s throat.
Mortal teeth had rendered such damage? They were shocking sights, raw, bloody pits in his father’s neck. They would leave scars for days, even with the supernatural healing their curse gifted them with.
Von Krolock’s eyes had closed and Herbert could feel his father shiver under his careful ministrations. Was it just pain, Herbert wondered, or was it the significance of such marks that was affecting him?
Pressing wads of cloth over each bite, Herbert nodded in silent gratitude when Illyria stepped closer and held the linen patches in place. Collecting a long strip of fabric, he wound it carefully over both, drawing it tight when the demon withdrew her hands.
That done, he turned his attention to the burn that was scored into his father’s cheek.
The child seldom drew weapons upon them, save in self-defence. Whatever had happened in that room before he had arrived, whatever had lead to what looked like a fight to the death with nudity...
“Was she all right?”
His father’s whisper made him jump.
“Father?”
Black eyes opened slowly and Herbert was shocked by the exhaustion in them. “My little one,” he said softly, wearily. “I fear I may have damaged her.”
“You fear you damaged her?” Herbert stared in disbelief.
The Graf’s eyes slipped closed again. “A misunderstanding,” he whispered. “Foolish misunderstanding... nothing more...” His chin dropped forward to rest on his chest, one shaking hand rising to his bandaged throat. He shivered and his eyes flicked open, staring at his son. “Are you all right?”
Herbert tried to force his mouth into a smile, but his lips refused to co-operate. “A little concerned,” he admitted, lifting one hand to smooth his father’s heavy hair back from his cheek. “You have lost a lot of blood, I think.”
His father’s eyes slipped sideways to the bitten wrist, then back to Herbert’s face. He reached up, gently took his son’s arm. “So have you, Herbert,” he said softly, his gaze as keen as a blade.
Wetting his lips, Herbert’s lips twitched weakly in a struggling smile. “You were not yourself, father,” he said softly.
Von Krolock drew a slow breath and released it. “I was more myself than ever,” he said quietly, closing his hand over the layered bite on Herbert’s wrist. His other hand dropped from his throat and he curled his fingers in a beckoning gesture.
Rising on his knees, Herbert leaned close to him, unsurprised when his father slipped an arm around his shoulders, drawing them together, his cheek pressing to Herbert’s hair. Yet that arm lay heavily upon him and he could feel every ounce of fatigue weighing his father down.
“You should rest,” he whispered, his head upon his father’s shoulder. He felt him nod, felt fingertips stroke his shoulders lightly, gently.
“As should you, mein Schatz.” A kiss brushed his temple. “You are shivering.”
A small smile tripped across Herbert’s lips. “You have not called me that for years, father,” he said softly.
He felt the soft breath of a chuckle. “It is still true, regardless,” his father said. He sighed again, tilting his head slightly. “If I do not move now, Kleines, I fear I may not move again.”
With great effort, Herbert rocked back to sit on his heels and after several moments managed to stagger to his feet. Reaching out, he grasped the back of his father’s chair, legs wobbling and dizziness washing through him.
“Damn...”
And yet, as he fell sideways, he was surprised to find that he did not hit the floor.
“Where must your Blood be laid?”
“Illyria?” Herbert blinked at the blue-skinned face close to his own. Her slender arms were around his middle and she was holding him upright with all the grace of a sack of grain.
“Silence,” she said, ignoring him and looking down at his father. “Sorcerer?”
He could hear the quiet amusement in his father’s murmur, “Upon the bed.”
Carried across the room, Herbert grunted as he was unceremoniously tipped onto the bed that stood on the far side of the chamber. Out of half-closed eyes, he could not help but notice his father was carried much more reverently.
And yet, it still did not reduce the incongruity of the sight of a female form so tiny being capable of carrying them so easily.
With the last vestiges of his energy, Herbert tucked himself against his father’s side and smiled faintly as an arm curled around his shoulders. He glanced up at Illyria who was gazing at them, then nodded.
The demon returned the nod and turned, stalking out of the chamber, leaving them to their rest.
__________________________
Sitting on the end of the bed, chin cupped in his hand, his other hand cradling a cup of blood, Spike watched the steady rise and fall of the Niblet’s ribs. He’d been doing the same all night, unable to even catch a bit of kip despite his own sleepiness.
Not like the last few days had been exactly restful, and now this.
Unfolding his legs, he leaned down to put the half-empty mug on the floor and then sat back against one of the posts of the girl’s bed, wrapping his arms over his middle and watching her.
Mind was going a mile a minute, though.
Too much happening.
And before this new mess, he’d said... it. Them. Words he had given to only three other people and even then, they’d been thrown back in his face. He’d never wanted to use them, not with Herbie, not in case it jinxed everything.
Sodding, buggering hell.
Definitely explained why he’d left Herbie getting nibbled on by the Boss and legged it as fast as he could with the Niblet. Given a moment to think, his brain had jumped straight to that and was grabbing onto the thought, wringing every drop of worry out of it that it could.
The Niblet stirred and he scrambled towards her, but looked like it was just another dream disturbing her rest. Her brow creased for a moment, her gashed lips pursing, bruised cheeks tensing, then she was still again.
As if he didn’t have enough to worry about.
Gently, he brushed her cheek with his knuckles, wondering what exactly the Slayer would do if she ever found out about this little saga. Bad enough that Dawn had been blown off for weeks on end, but this? He didn’t even know what this was anymore.
On the level below, he heard the quiet squeal of the door opening and climbed back across the bed, slipping onto the floor and approaching the head of the staircase to peer down. Grey eyes looked back up at him.
“Still here, cheri?” Herbert ascended the staircase slowly, pausing beside William to look over at the bed. “How is she?”
“In and out of consciousness and asleep now, I think,” Spike replied, looking away from Herbert, feigning focus on his patient. He wrapped his arms around his torso, sighing. “Took a nasty knock to the head. Think she might have a bit of concussion.”
Herbert’s hand rubbed his upper arm and he looked up into those grey eyes.
“What... er... what about your dad?”
“Still sound asleep, I am afraid,” Herbert replied. His hand slipped up, over Spike’s shoulder, lifted his chin and Spike felt the brief kiss. “It has been a most eventful night, I think.”
“Yeah...” Spike pulled back, starting back towards the bed, but a hand caught his left hand and he looked around.
“You,” Herbert said, eyes grave. “Are a silly darling.”
And as Spike watched, Herbert lifted his hand and brushed a tender kiss over the gold band that adorned Spike’s ring finger.
“Poofter,” Spike heard himself whisper a moment before he crashed into Herbert’s arms. Lips met lips, hands clutching, fingers twisting into long hair, then mouths were moving, over chin, jaw, throat.
“Always,” Herbert whispered and as fangs touched his throat, Spike’s eyes flared gold and he bit.
When he withdrew his fangs and carefully lapped the blood to keep it from staining Herbert’s shirt, he felt a kiss against his earlobe and grinned sheepishly. Herbert’s fingers squeezed his, then released him to return to Dawn’s bedside.
“So, was it really her that whacked the hell out of your dad, then?” he inquired over his shoulder.
Approaching the bed and leaning against one of the posts, Herbert gazed down at the girl, his expression unreadable. “I think it may have been mutual,” he murmured. His eyes lifted to Spike. “She is intact?”
Drawing down the blanket, Spike nodded to her the skin that was visible, which was various shades from dull purple through to sickly yellow. “Black and blue all over,” he said quietly. “Looks like she took a hell of a beating.” He replaced the blanket over her. “Lots of scratches and knocks as well...”
“But?”
“S’a bit funny,” Spike looked up at his lover. “Not a bite on her, not anywhere.”
Herbert blinked, then stared down at him. “Nowhere?”
“Not even on her usual spot,” Spike replied. He covered Dawn’s hand with his own on the blanket, watching her face for any movement. “But your old man... he did... didn’t he? Or was I imagining things?”
“He did,” Herbert sat down beside him on the edge of the bed, laying a hand at the base of Spike’s back. “I wish I could explain... Illyria presumed they were attempting to kill one another, yet father was afraid he had harmed her...”
“Not usually what your average attempting-to-kill-someone-type says...”
“No, not usually.” Herbert’s fingertips stroked his spine, his gaze lingering on the girl’s bruised face. “Perhaps, we should not have decided that it was the opportune time to be selfish.”
“Oi.” Elbowing Herbert lightly in the ribs, Spike turned a mock-glare on his lover. “I’m meant to be the soulful whiny bugger here, remember? Don’t you start homing in on my territory.”
A faint smile touched Herbert’s lips. “Ah, I apologise, cheri,” he said softly, leaning closer and resting his chin on Spike’s shoulder. The hand on Spike’s back moved, circling his waist.
They were silent for several minutes, lost in thought, watching the Niblet breathe as she slept on. Spike’s fingers idly traced the back of Herbert’s hand on his stomach.
“You all right?” he asked quietly, though he didn’t look back.
He felt the smile, but it was faint. “I think so,” Herbert said softly. “Concerned, I admit. A little perplexed also.” Lips pressed against Spike’s shoulder through his shirt and Spike shivered at the sensation of a sigh. “William, no one has ever bitten father like that. I... do not know what I am meant to think of it.”
“I’d think ‘I’m bloody lucky that wasn’t me’,” Spike offered, giving Herbert’s hand a fond squeeze when Herbert laughed softly. “Herbie, I know the Niblet. She’s been like a sister to me and she wouldn’t... couldn’t do something like that unless there was a bloody good reason.”
“And we have both seen father like that before...”
Spike winced and nodded. “Yeah...” he murmured. “As I recall, I was out for the count for days afterwards.” He looked down at Dawn, frowning. “You think he was going for the full claiming?”
“If he was, he did not mark her.”
There was a hesitation, then Spike tentatively observed, “But she got him...”
“She did.” Herbert sighed heavily. “And I do not think she would even know what it would mean, if that was her intent.”
“Do you even know what it would mean?” Spike asked.
Herbert shook his head, chin dragging against Spike’s shoulder. “No mortal has lasted this long,” he admitted softly. “And no lover has ever dared to touch him as she has touched him. This... it is something new.”
“Blind leading the blind...” Spike murmured, then leaned forward. “Nibs?”
“Is she...”
“Getting there.” Spike moved closer to the girl. Her lashes were shivering with the effort of opening, her lips parting to draw a breath. “Oi, you lazy cow. You thinking of moving your arse any time this century?”
“Such a bedside manner,” Herbert murmured behind him.
Spike threw a grin at him. “Least there aren’t chains this time, eh?” He looked back at Dawn, watching her eyes slowly focus, squinting. “All right, love?”
“S-Spike?” Her voice was hoarse and he reached for the tumbler of water he’d had sitting by the bed all night. Dipping his fingers in it, he dribbled some of it over her lips, saw her lap weakly at it as it splashed onto her tongue.
“Can’t get you drinking til you’re upright, love,” he said. “And don’t wanna do that until we know you’re not bent and broken.”
Despite his intentions, she raised herself onto her elbows, wincing. Her bandaged hands pressed against the blankets as she pushed herself stubbornly upright, her face tense with pain.
“I’m okay,” she whispered dryly, holding out a hand for the tumbler.
Closing his hand around hers on the surface of the glass, feeling her fingers tremble under his, he eyed her doubtfully. “Finding that hard to believe, Nibs,” he said. “What with the unconsciousness and everything.”
“Not unconscious,” she said, grimacing around sips of water. Her lower lip had split open again and was bleeding. “See. All conscious and thirsty...” She flexed the fingers of her other hand on the covers. “And gotta say kinda painy.”
“Not unexpected,” Spike noted, reaching for the bottle of painkillers he had nabbed from her bathroom the night before. Tipping several pills onto the blanket, he looked up at her. “You gonna tell us what the hell happened?”
One shoulder lifted as she awkwardly picked up a pill. “Stuff,” she replied.
“What manner of ‘stuff’?” Herbert’s voice was more of a growl than spoken.
Blood-shot eyes turned to the golden-haired vampire, one so swollen she could barely see out of it. “Is he okay?” she whispered. Spike could feel the glare emanating from his lover. “Herbert, is he okay?”
“He will recover.” The iciness in Herbert’s tone made Spike glance back at him, reaching out to touch his knee lightly. Grey eyes slipped to him and Herbert sighed, his expression softening. “He lost a great deal of blood.” He looked back at Dawn, his features drawn. “He will not see you until he has regained his strength.”
The girl nodded slowly, clumsily picking up another pill with fingers that were swollen to double their normal size. “K.”
“Gimme your hand, pet,” Spike said softly, reaching for the hand that had been cut the night before. She glanced down, then, unresisting, held out the glass to him. Blood was seeping through the pale linen, mingling with the condensation.
Placing her drink aside, he carefully unravelled the make-shift bandage again, his jaw clenching at the sight of fresh blood.
“Herbie, can you get me the cloths from the dresser?” he asked softly, reaching for the fresh basin of water he’d tucked beside the bed, in case of situations like this. He started sponging away the blood with a cotton wool ball, not bothering to check what Herbert was up to.
As the wound was cleaned, he heard the curse from behind him. Didn’t need to ask why. He’d reacted exactly the same way at the sight of the marks left by a crucifix on fingers and palm, the shape unmistakeable.
“He was a bit cranky,” the Niblet said quietly, closing her fingers over her palm.
“You used a crucifix against him?” Herbert’s voice was glacial.
Dawn slowly looked up at him, then reached up with her swollen fingers and tugged her collar awkwardly away from her throat. The marks of a bruising grip were visible on her pale skin.
“Had to breathe,” she said roughly, lowering her eyes.
“Course you did,” Spike said, gently prying her hand open again and snatching a cloth from Herbert’s hand. Winding it around her palm, he knotted it, then reclaimed her glass. “Still thirsty?” She nodded and he held the glass so she could drink.
“Thanks.” Her tongue slipped out, catching a bead of blood from her lip, a shiver running through her, echoed by a shuddering wince. “What... what happened? We were in the hall...”
Spike shrugged. “No idea, love,” he offered, using a discarded bandage to wipe her chin lightly. “Blue hauled us out of our bath and down and you were all swoony-damsel on the floor and Herbie’s old man was...”
“He said you fell,” Herbert said quietly. He had stepped closer again. Spike could feel Herbert’s thigh touching his through his baggy trousers. “It appeared that you had fainted, struck your head.”
Dawn slowly nodded, closing her eyes. “Yeah... remember getting dizzy...” She drew a quivering breath, shifting. “Didn’t think...” Her swollen forefinger touched her bleeding lip gingerly. “Didn’t wanna worry you guys.”
Spike felt Herbert’s hand on his shoulder, fingers biting into his flesh. He knew his lover was stifling an exclamation, reached up and squeezed his hand reassuringly. “I think you failed, love,” he said softly.
Dawn drew a weak smile onto her lips. “Yeah,” she whispered faintly. “Always did suck at that.” She wiped her chin again, drawing a breath. “I...” She looked from one of them to the other. “I think we’re okay...”
“Okay?” Herbert echoed quietly.
“Or I’m on the next bus back to Italy...”
Spike could see she was trying to smile, trying to put on a brave face, and he could also see that Herbert was at a stage of not giving a damn. “We’ll see, eh, pet?” he said, reaching out and patting her hand.
Reluctantly, she nodded. “Until we know, can you kinda knock me out again?” she asked faintly. “I’m kinda... a big lump of ow.”
Spike could almost hear the response taking shape in Herbert’s mind.
“Just lie down and rest, eh?” he said, rising and squeezing Herbert’s hand hard in silent plea. “I’ll see what I can find to help.”
Sinking back down, every movement rife with pain, Dawn closed her eyes and drew a sharp breath between her teeth. “Spike?” she called softly. He looked back at her. “Thanks.”
His mouth crooked up. “Not a problem, Nibs.”
______________________________
Sitting on the parapet of the balcony, one leg dangling over the precipice, Herbert slid the blade of his favoured dagger along the whetstone nestled in his left palm. It was a rhythmic motion, soft, a whisper of sound in the stillness of the night.
His father was still resting.
When the sun had gone down, Herbert had half-carried, half-led the Graf to the crypt, gently lowering him into his sarcophagus. His father had barely aware of him, emotionally and physically drained to the point of sinking into unnatural sleep while still standing.
After smoothing his father’s cloak around his father’s motionless form, Herbert had sat for nearly an hour, just watching him sleep. The wounds on his throat had begun to knit closed, though they still seeped and even then, the fresh bandages had already been stained. The burn on his cheek remained scored deeply, unchanging, unhealed.
It would take more than a single night of rest, he knew, for his father to regain his full strength and to know that a mere mortal, a child, had rendered his beloved father so weak, so... damaged.
His dagger buzzed against the whetstone again.
After he had closed the sarcophagus upon his father he had come here, to the top of the north-most tower, the one furthest from the girl. As much as she had come to be a part of his kin, he could not bear to look at her now.
If it had been another of their kind, bold enough to attempt a claiming, he knew he would have been less uncertain. It had happened. There had been attempts, yet no one had succeeded. He had grown used to that status quo; his father was unbreakable, untameable, wild.
And now...
She had used a crucifix. Not only had she torn her mark into his flesh, but she had scored it upon his face, an unspoken sign of her mortality, of the weapons she would use against them, of what she could still do to them when she chose.
What manner of person carried such an object that could do mortal damage to their beloved?
Laying down the whetstone, he slid the dagger back into the narrow sheath and swung his leg back over the parapet. Sitting on the broad ledge, his hands pressed to the cool stone on either side of him.
Father had not been angered by her, at least not any longer.
Perhaps it had been the fatigue. Perhaps it had been the loss of so much vital fluid. It made no manner of sense. She had burnt him with holy objects, left him bleeding, struck him and yet, it was he who was concerned.
When he heard the quiet scuff of footsteps, he did not need to look up.
“You should not have come here, William,” he said quietly, scooping up the stone and dropping it in his pocket.
“Got worried.” William was standing in the doorway, watching, arms loosely folded across his chest. “Checked the crypt and our room and you weren’t there.”
“Clearly.”
Stepping out onto the balcony, William moved closer. “Herbert...”
Rising sharply, Herbert turned away and glared down at the land before them. “Do you not have a patient to tend to?” he demanded, his voice clipped. “I thought you would be watching over her.”
“Watched her long enough, I think,” William said quietly. “Left you on your own.”
Herbert laughed dryly, though it felt like his body was twisting, tensing inside. “Oh, you need not worry about me, cheri,” he said, turning with a smile that was almost genuine. “I am, as always, quite well.”
Blue eyes watched him. “Herbert, don’t be a stupid sod.” William stepped closer. “I know you’re lying.”
His nostrils flaring, Herbert clenched his jaw. By his sides, his hands balled into fists and he forced down a shiver of anger. “Why did you summon her here?” he asked, his voice quiet, almost deceptively calm. “Could you not have severed old ties?”
“You think I haven’t wondered the same?”
Herbert smiled again, more widely, but less warmly. “Oh, but you adore having her here, cheri,” he said. “And now, you can play nursemaid and tend her as you tended Drusilla, and how happy you will be with your little plaything, for we know that is what you love best.”
William recoiled a step. “That wasn’t called for,” he said and Herbert could see the flash of hurt in those blue eyes.
“Nor was she,” he hissed, turning away from his lover and wrapping his arms tightly around himself. “Get back to her, William! Get back to your precious little patient and tend her with all your soul-touched affection.”
“Herbert...”
“I said go!”
“No. Herbert, I know...” A hand grasped his arm and before he could check himself, he swung round, saw his hand move, a pale blur by the moonlight.
In some part of his mind, amid the confusion, hurt and misery, he felt the pain of the impact, heard William’s muted cry, saw the younger vampire spilled on the flagstones of the balcony, blood streaked on his cheek.
Raising his palm before him, he saw the blood staining his nails and scraps of flesh caught beneath. His William’s.
Shying back, he shook his head.
He did not strike his lovers, not in rage, never.
What had the damned mortal done to them? Why were they all running mad?
Whirling around, he raced towards the door, ignoring William’s voice crying out his name. He took the stairs in great leaps and bounds, patches of the night’s light flashing over him through tall windows as he ran through the castle.
Only when he roared from the garage in one of his automobiles, bloody hand pressing and shaking against his lips, and unsated fury still ripping through him, did he both laugh and sob, trembling so fiercely that he could barely steer.
And he could not give a single reason why. Not a single one, but a thousand.
________________________
It was an hour and a bit until dawn.
Didn’t have to check his watch to know it.
Sitting on the steps just outside the garage, Spike watched the sky, forearms resting on his knees.
Always had liked that half hour just before the sun popped up, when the palest of the colours were just starting to show on the edge of the sky like they were bleeding back onto a monochrome canvas. Had a bit to wait for it yet, but the stars were still out.
Wasn’t a bad night, all things considered.
Yeah, the Graf was dead to the world and Nibs was back unconscious thanks to a handy bottle of chloroform and Herbie had rushed off somewhere in a right state and he had nice new cuts all over his face, but that aside, wasn’t bad.
He tapped the ash from the end of his cigarette.
It had been one of Herbert’s reluctant indulgences, that. He’d been allowed to haul back several cases of cigarettes on the promise that he wouldn’t bring them into the halls of the castle and, most especially, into the bedroom.
Good thing the place had a thousand and one outdoor places on the upper-levels.
Lifting it to his lips again, he drew on it, holding in the warm smoke for a moment, before exhaling it slowly. Around his feet, there was a small pile of butts. It had been growing for nearly four hours, since he’d got here in time to see Herbert speeding out of the grounds.
Well, the daft bugger had to come back some time.
Dropping the glowing stub of the cigarette among its stumpy brethren, he crushed it out with the toe of his boot.
Didn’t plan on having another, but within ten minutes, he’d pulled his lighter out of his pocket and curls of smoke were rising towards the clear sky.
He leaned back against the steps and looked up at the sky, picking out constellations he remembered from his kidlethood. Was always looking for something that he could never touch, back then. He grinned faintly. Something effulgent. Didn’t get much more bloody effulgent than the stars.
Speaking of...
Squinting, he looked down at the drive, where something effulgent had just shone its headlamps right in his eyes.
Sitting up, he shielded his eyes with one hand as the car drew closer. The garage door hissed silently open, but the car stopped outside, engine going dead. He could see Herbert watching him behind the windscreen.
He raised his cigarette-bearing hand in half-salute, one side of his mouth lifting.
The driver’s door opened, bringing with it the scent of Herbert, blood and death.
“What are you doing out here?”
There was a hollowness to Herbert’s voice that made him wince, but he managed to smile faintly. “Having a bit of fresh air,” he replied, taking a drag on his cigarette. Didn’t even get a laugh. Bugger.
One hand resting on the roof of the car, Herbert watched Spike. There was an odd wariness about the older vampire. If he’d been a cat, his hackles would’ve been up and he would have been hissing. His suit was impeccable as always, but a few dark stains spattered it.
Flicking the barely-used cigarette away, a tiny shooting star of an ember, Spike tilted his head, then motioned for Herbert to come closer. “You all right?” he asked softly, as the elder vampire moved, as if weighted down by lead.
When Herbert sagged down on the same step as him, nearly a foot away, he could see the tension in the golden-haired vampire’s body, could see the pallor and the sheer blinding exhaustion on his face.
“Herbie? Love?”
Bloodshot grey eyes turned to him and the emotion in them made him utter a sound of sympathy.
“No,” Herbert whispered.
Without thought, without question, Spike scooted closer and wrapped his arms around Herbert’s shoulders, holding him fast. When Herbert all but collapsed against him, he didn’t pull away, holding him tighter and stroking his hair as Herbert clung to him like a lifeline.
Didn’t need to ask. Didn’t need to be told. Didn’t have to doubt it.
“I’m here, Herbie, I’m here...” he whispered, then kissed the top of Herbert’s bowed head, felt him trembling. Oh, this wasn’t good. Not at all. He nuzzled Herbert’s fine hair softly. “You’ve got me...”
When a hand had caught him by the ankle, Herbert had been surprised.
When that same small hand had pulled him - upside down - from the Jacuzzi, where he and William had been pleasantly tangled under the water, he had been more than a little irate.
However, when the scent of the air washed over him, he had no question as to why Illyria had dared to do such a thing. “They are killing one another,” the demon said, dropping him on the floor and reaching into the tub to pull William out by the throat.
Scrambling upright, Herbert skidded across the floor, still-steaming blood-tinted water sluicing down his body. He heard William struggling to his feet to follow and the heavy steps of Illyria’s booted feet.
It was a time like this that made him regret hiding his private pleasure at the far corner of the castle, four levels up one of the towers.
Yet, even so, he flew down the hallways, taking the staircases half a dozen steps at a time. He could smell mortal blood, fresh, hot and still flowing, but more than that, he could smell scorched flesh, could smell his father’s blood spilled, could feel the low growl rising in his throat.
Racing down one flight of stairs, across the middle landing and up the opposite side, he heard the crash of a door, the sound of a blow and something falling, then in the eerie silence that followed, something that was like a wounded whimper.
Half-dreading what he might find when he reached the source, he turned down the hall towards his father’s study.
What he saw made him stop dead.
Just shy of the door of the study, Dawn’s body was sprawled out on the floor, blood splattered over almost every inch of her naked skin. She was motionless and, judging by the ragged gash on her temple, had struck her head.
However, it was the sight of his father that made him recoil in shock.
Half-slumped against the wall, von Krolock was staring down at the girl, a plaintive whimper rising from his throat. If it were possible, he was even more bloodied than the girl who lay half-a-dozen paces from him. A black cross was burned into his face and blood was streaming relentlessly from raw wounds on either side of his throat. That was to say nothing of the scratches covering his torso.
He crept forward slowly, and Herbert found himself holding his breath as his father slowly squatted down, gently touching the girl’s face. Long hands slipped under her shoulders and she was gathered up with gentleness that seemed out of place.
Tenderly, the Graf softly nuzzled her bloody cheek, uttering a strange crooning sound.
“Father...?”
Black eyes flashed at him and the girl was pulled closer, protectively, defensively, fangs savagely bared.
“What’s the...” William barrelled into Herbert’s back, then went rigid. “Oh hell...”
“She’s... she’s still alive...” Herbert whispered. “But they are both bleeding heavily. Father is...”
William’s hand touched his back. “You get your dad to let go of her,” he muttered, though he sounded petrified. “I’ll grab her and get her patched.”
Herbert nodded, but couldn’t bring himself to move.
“Herbert.” He was pulled to face William, found blue eyes dark with worry. “Look, you’re the only one who can get through to him when he’s in that state. We need to get them apart, right? You take care of him.”
Herbert glanced back at his father, who was watching them dangerously. He was startled to realise he was trembling. “How?”
William shook his head. “Dunno...” He chewed on a thumbnail, watching Herbert’s father as he started to softly lap at Dawn’s bloody lips. “Oh... right...” A hand snared Herbert’s and Herbert uttered a sound of shock when William bit into his wrist.
“William!”
“S’all about the blood,” William replied, keeping his voice soft. “Go on. Get him away from her. Look after him, eh?”
Looking at his lover, then at the wound on his wrist, Herbert slowly nodded, taking cautious steps towards his father. Slowly, carefully, ignoring the warning growls, he knelt down and extended his arm to his father, saw the dark eyes - glittering and feral - focus on the wound, then focus on him.
Slipping one arm from Dawn’s body, von Krolock wrapped pale fingers around Herbert’s wrist, the grip almost painful. He was pulled closer, knees scraping on the rough stone of the floor, then felt his father’s breath, lips, fangs.
His eyes squeezing closed, he gasped aloud as Dawn was laid aside and he was pulled hard against his father and Sire’s body. Von Krolock’s arm was tight around his waist, holding him fast and he could feel his father drawing on his blood, his chest heaving with desperate little gasps.
“Father... stop...”
Black eyes blazed when he tried to wrench his wrist free, then the darkness seemed to soften and he saw the recognition, felt the fangs withdraw from his wounded wrist, saw the myriad of dazed emotions.
“Herbert...?”
He nodded, unable to find words, trembling.
They stared at each other, grey eyes warily watching black. Never had he been more aware of his father’s touch, his nails sunk into Herbert’s side, his other hand holding Herbert’s forearm in a grip of iron, their bodies locked against one another.
“You’re hurt,” he finally managed to whisper.
The Graf blinked slowly, dully, as if just waking from a strange dream. “You’re soaking, Herbert,” he said vaguely.
The mundanity of it made Herbert laugh weakly, shrilly, his free hand resting on his father’s shoulder. “I-I am,” he agreed, swallowing and wetting his lips with his tongue. “But you should let me tend your wounds.”
“Wounds...?” His father looked down at his own body, then up at Herbert’s face. As one, they both looked to the point where Dawn had been, but all that remained was a puddle of water seeped with blood. “She... fell.”
“She was bleeding,” Herbert said softly, lifting a hand to touch his father’s face. “William has her.”
“Yes... yes, he will care for her...” As if only realising what he was doing, he gaped at his hands, then released his son, raising his hands to cover both sides of his throat. His palms came away scarlet and he stared at them. “Oh.”
Habitually, Herbert reached for a kerchief, only to encounter bare skin.
“Father, we need to cover your wounds,” he said softly, struggling back to his feet on legs that felt like they had been filled with water. He slid a hand under his father’s arm, trying to draw him upright.
On his father’s other side, blue hands caught his arm and Illyria helped him draw his father into a position that was close to vertical. Never had he been more grateful for the demon. If she had not found him, then who could say what would have happened to his father and the girl?
While at first he had intended to take his father into the study, the sight of it made him stop and stare in shock. His father’s orderly paperwork was thrown across the floor, books scattered about, the furnishings upended, ink and blood spattered across stone and glass.
So, carefully, painstakingly, he guided his father through the halls towards one of the guest chambers on the same level, drawing him into the first chair that was available, making him sit down.
For his part, the Graf seemed to be in something of a daze and Herbert certainly did not wonder why.
Striding across the room, he pulled the cloth from the table, quickly instructing Illyria to fetch him water and then ripping the cloth into narrow strips. By the time she returned, he had drawn his father’s hair back with one of the scraps.
“The Morsel marked him so?”
Herbert nodded, taking the bowl and dipping a piece of cloth into the water, kneeling down to carefully wipe blood from the still-bleeding wounds that were torn so deep into his father’s throat.
Mortal teeth had rendered such damage? They were shocking sights, raw, bloody pits in his father’s neck. They would leave scars for days, even with the supernatural healing their curse gifted them with.
Von Krolock’s eyes had closed and Herbert could feel his father shiver under his careful ministrations. Was it just pain, Herbert wondered, or was it the significance of such marks that was affecting him?
Pressing wads of cloth over each bite, Herbert nodded in silent gratitude when Illyria stepped closer and held the linen patches in place. Collecting a long strip of fabric, he wound it carefully over both, drawing it tight when the demon withdrew her hands.
That done, he turned his attention to the burn that was scored into his father’s cheek.
The child seldom drew weapons upon them, save in self-defence. Whatever had happened in that room before he had arrived, whatever had lead to what looked like a fight to the death with nudity...
“Was she all right?”
His father’s whisper made him jump.
“Father?”
Black eyes opened slowly and Herbert was shocked by the exhaustion in them. “My little one,” he said softly, wearily. “I fear I may have damaged her.”
“You fear you damaged her?” Herbert stared in disbelief.
The Graf’s eyes slipped closed again. “A misunderstanding,” he whispered. “Foolish misunderstanding... nothing more...” His chin dropped forward to rest on his chest, one shaking hand rising to his bandaged throat. He shivered and his eyes flicked open, staring at his son. “Are you all right?”
Herbert tried to force his mouth into a smile, but his lips refused to co-operate. “A little concerned,” he admitted, lifting one hand to smooth his father’s heavy hair back from his cheek. “You have lost a lot of blood, I think.”
His father’s eyes slipped sideways to the bitten wrist, then back to Herbert’s face. He reached up, gently took his son’s arm. “So have you, Herbert,” he said softly, his gaze as keen as a blade.
Wetting his lips, Herbert’s lips twitched weakly in a struggling smile. “You were not yourself, father,” he said softly.
Von Krolock drew a slow breath and released it. “I was more myself than ever,” he said quietly, closing his hand over the layered bite on Herbert’s wrist. His other hand dropped from his throat and he curled his fingers in a beckoning gesture.
Rising on his knees, Herbert leaned close to him, unsurprised when his father slipped an arm around his shoulders, drawing them together, his cheek pressing to Herbert’s hair. Yet that arm lay heavily upon him and he could feel every ounce of fatigue weighing his father down.
“You should rest,” he whispered, his head upon his father’s shoulder. He felt him nod, felt fingertips stroke his shoulders lightly, gently.
“As should you, mein Schatz.” A kiss brushed his temple. “You are shivering.”
A small smile tripped across Herbert’s lips. “You have not called me that for years, father,” he said softly.
He felt the soft breath of a chuckle. “It is still true, regardless,” his father said. He sighed again, tilting his head slightly. “If I do not move now, Kleines, I fear I may not move again.”
With great effort, Herbert rocked back to sit on his heels and after several moments managed to stagger to his feet. Reaching out, he grasped the back of his father’s chair, legs wobbling and dizziness washing through him.
“Damn...”
And yet, as he fell sideways, he was surprised to find that he did not hit the floor.
“Where must your Blood be laid?”
“Illyria?” Herbert blinked at the blue-skinned face close to his own. Her slender arms were around his middle and she was holding him upright with all the grace of a sack of grain.
“Silence,” she said, ignoring him and looking down at his father. “Sorcerer?”
He could hear the quiet amusement in his father’s murmur, “Upon the bed.”
Carried across the room, Herbert grunted as he was unceremoniously tipped onto the bed that stood on the far side of the chamber. Out of half-closed eyes, he could not help but notice his father was carried much more reverently.
And yet, it still did not reduce the incongruity of the sight of a female form so tiny being capable of carrying them so easily.
With the last vestiges of his energy, Herbert tucked himself against his father’s side and smiled faintly as an arm curled around his shoulders. He glanced up at Illyria who was gazing at them, then nodded.
The demon returned the nod and turned, stalking out of the chamber, leaving them to their rest.
__________________________
Sitting on the end of the bed, chin cupped in his hand, his other hand cradling a cup of blood, Spike watched the steady rise and fall of the Niblet’s ribs. He’d been doing the same all night, unable to even catch a bit of kip despite his own sleepiness.
Not like the last few days had been exactly restful, and now this.
Unfolding his legs, he leaned down to put the half-empty mug on the floor and then sat back against one of the posts of the girl’s bed, wrapping his arms over his middle and watching her.
Mind was going a mile a minute, though.
Too much happening.
And before this new mess, he’d said... it. Them. Words he had given to only three other people and even then, they’d been thrown back in his face. He’d never wanted to use them, not with Herbie, not in case it jinxed everything.
Sodding, buggering hell.
Definitely explained why he’d left Herbie getting nibbled on by the Boss and legged it as fast as he could with the Niblet. Given a moment to think, his brain had jumped straight to that and was grabbing onto the thought, wringing every drop of worry out of it that it could.
The Niblet stirred and he scrambled towards her, but looked like it was just another dream disturbing her rest. Her brow creased for a moment, her gashed lips pursing, bruised cheeks tensing, then she was still again.
As if he didn’t have enough to worry about.
Gently, he brushed her cheek with his knuckles, wondering what exactly the Slayer would do if she ever found out about this little saga. Bad enough that Dawn had been blown off for weeks on end, but this? He didn’t even know what this was anymore.
On the level below, he heard the quiet squeal of the door opening and climbed back across the bed, slipping onto the floor and approaching the head of the staircase to peer down. Grey eyes looked back up at him.
“Still here, cheri?” Herbert ascended the staircase slowly, pausing beside William to look over at the bed. “How is she?”
“In and out of consciousness and asleep now, I think,” Spike replied, looking away from Herbert, feigning focus on his patient. He wrapped his arms around his torso, sighing. “Took a nasty knock to the head. Think she might have a bit of concussion.”
Herbert’s hand rubbed his upper arm and he looked up into those grey eyes.
“What... er... what about your dad?”
“Still sound asleep, I am afraid,” Herbert replied. His hand slipped up, over Spike’s shoulder, lifted his chin and Spike felt the brief kiss. “It has been a most eventful night, I think.”
“Yeah...” Spike pulled back, starting back towards the bed, but a hand caught his left hand and he looked around.
“You,” Herbert said, eyes grave. “Are a silly darling.”
And as Spike watched, Herbert lifted his hand and brushed a tender kiss over the gold band that adorned Spike’s ring finger.
“Poofter,” Spike heard himself whisper a moment before he crashed into Herbert’s arms. Lips met lips, hands clutching, fingers twisting into long hair, then mouths were moving, over chin, jaw, throat.
“Always,” Herbert whispered and as fangs touched his throat, Spike’s eyes flared gold and he bit.
When he withdrew his fangs and carefully lapped the blood to keep it from staining Herbert’s shirt, he felt a kiss against his earlobe and grinned sheepishly. Herbert’s fingers squeezed his, then released him to return to Dawn’s bedside.
“So, was it really her that whacked the hell out of your dad, then?” he inquired over his shoulder.
Approaching the bed and leaning against one of the posts, Herbert gazed down at the girl, his expression unreadable. “I think it may have been mutual,” he murmured. His eyes lifted to Spike. “She is intact?”
Drawing down the blanket, Spike nodded to her the skin that was visible, which was various shades from dull purple through to sickly yellow. “Black and blue all over,” he said quietly. “Looks like she took a hell of a beating.” He replaced the blanket over her. “Lots of scratches and knocks as well...”
“But?”
“S’a bit funny,” Spike looked up at his lover. “Not a bite on her, not anywhere.”
Herbert blinked, then stared down at him. “Nowhere?”
“Not even on her usual spot,” Spike replied. He covered Dawn’s hand with his own on the blanket, watching her face for any movement. “But your old man... he did... didn’t he? Or was I imagining things?”
“He did,” Herbert sat down beside him on the edge of the bed, laying a hand at the base of Spike’s back. “I wish I could explain... Illyria presumed they were attempting to kill one another, yet father was afraid he had harmed her...”
“Not usually what your average attempting-to-kill-someone-type says...”
“No, not usually.” Herbert’s fingertips stroked his spine, his gaze lingering on the girl’s bruised face. “Perhaps, we should not have decided that it was the opportune time to be selfish.”
“Oi.” Elbowing Herbert lightly in the ribs, Spike turned a mock-glare on his lover. “I’m meant to be the soulful whiny bugger here, remember? Don’t you start homing in on my territory.”
A faint smile touched Herbert’s lips. “Ah, I apologise, cheri,” he said softly, leaning closer and resting his chin on Spike’s shoulder. The hand on Spike’s back moved, circling his waist.
They were silent for several minutes, lost in thought, watching the Niblet breathe as she slept on. Spike’s fingers idly traced the back of Herbert’s hand on his stomach.
“You all right?” he asked quietly, though he didn’t look back.
He felt the smile, but it was faint. “I think so,” Herbert said softly. “Concerned, I admit. A little perplexed also.” Lips pressed against Spike’s shoulder through his shirt and Spike shivered at the sensation of a sigh. “William, no one has ever bitten father like that. I... do not know what I am meant to think of it.”
“I’d think ‘I’m bloody lucky that wasn’t me’,” Spike offered, giving Herbert’s hand a fond squeeze when Herbert laughed softly. “Herbie, I know the Niblet. She’s been like a sister to me and she wouldn’t... couldn’t do something like that unless there was a bloody good reason.”
“And we have both seen father like that before...”
Spike winced and nodded. “Yeah...” he murmured. “As I recall, I was out for the count for days afterwards.” He looked down at Dawn, frowning. “You think he was going for the full claiming?”
“If he was, he did not mark her.”
There was a hesitation, then Spike tentatively observed, “But she got him...”
“She did.” Herbert sighed heavily. “And I do not think she would even know what it would mean, if that was her intent.”
“Do you even know what it would mean?” Spike asked.
Herbert shook his head, chin dragging against Spike’s shoulder. “No mortal has lasted this long,” he admitted softly. “And no lover has ever dared to touch him as she has touched him. This... it is something new.”
“Blind leading the blind...” Spike murmured, then leaned forward. “Nibs?”
“Is she...”
“Getting there.” Spike moved closer to the girl. Her lashes were shivering with the effort of opening, her lips parting to draw a breath. “Oi, you lazy cow. You thinking of moving your arse any time this century?”
“Such a bedside manner,” Herbert murmured behind him.
Spike threw a grin at him. “Least there aren’t chains this time, eh?” He looked back at Dawn, watching her eyes slowly focus, squinting. “All right, love?”
“S-Spike?” Her voice was hoarse and he reached for the tumbler of water he’d had sitting by the bed all night. Dipping his fingers in it, he dribbled some of it over her lips, saw her lap weakly at it as it splashed onto her tongue.
“Can’t get you drinking til you’re upright, love,” he said. “And don’t wanna do that until we know you’re not bent and broken.”
Despite his intentions, she raised herself onto her elbows, wincing. Her bandaged hands pressed against the blankets as she pushed herself stubbornly upright, her face tense with pain.
“I’m okay,” she whispered dryly, holding out a hand for the tumbler.
Closing his hand around hers on the surface of the glass, feeling her fingers tremble under his, he eyed her doubtfully. “Finding that hard to believe, Nibs,” he said. “What with the unconsciousness and everything.”
“Not unconscious,” she said, grimacing around sips of water. Her lower lip had split open again and was bleeding. “See. All conscious and thirsty...” She flexed the fingers of her other hand on the covers. “And gotta say kinda painy.”
“Not unexpected,” Spike noted, reaching for the bottle of painkillers he had nabbed from her bathroom the night before. Tipping several pills onto the blanket, he looked up at her. “You gonna tell us what the hell happened?”
One shoulder lifted as she awkwardly picked up a pill. “Stuff,” she replied.
“What manner of ‘stuff’?” Herbert’s voice was more of a growl than spoken.
Blood-shot eyes turned to the golden-haired vampire, one so swollen she could barely see out of it. “Is he okay?” she whispered. Spike could feel the glare emanating from his lover. “Herbert, is he okay?”
“He will recover.” The iciness in Herbert’s tone made Spike glance back at him, reaching out to touch his knee lightly. Grey eyes slipped to him and Herbert sighed, his expression softening. “He lost a great deal of blood.” He looked back at Dawn, his features drawn. “He will not see you until he has regained his strength.”
The girl nodded slowly, clumsily picking up another pill with fingers that were swollen to double their normal size. “K.”
“Gimme your hand, pet,” Spike said softly, reaching for the hand that had been cut the night before. She glanced down, then, unresisting, held out the glass to him. Blood was seeping through the pale linen, mingling with the condensation.
Placing her drink aside, he carefully unravelled the make-shift bandage again, his jaw clenching at the sight of fresh blood.
“Herbie, can you get me the cloths from the dresser?” he asked softly, reaching for the fresh basin of water he’d tucked beside the bed, in case of situations like this. He started sponging away the blood with a cotton wool ball, not bothering to check what Herbert was up to.
As the wound was cleaned, he heard the curse from behind him. Didn’t need to ask why. He’d reacted exactly the same way at the sight of the marks left by a crucifix on fingers and palm, the shape unmistakeable.
“He was a bit cranky,” the Niblet said quietly, closing her fingers over her palm.
“You used a crucifix against him?” Herbert’s voice was glacial.
Dawn slowly looked up at him, then reached up with her swollen fingers and tugged her collar awkwardly away from her throat. The marks of a bruising grip were visible on her pale skin.
“Had to breathe,” she said roughly, lowering her eyes.
“Course you did,” Spike said, gently prying her hand open again and snatching a cloth from Herbert’s hand. Winding it around her palm, he knotted it, then reclaimed her glass. “Still thirsty?” She nodded and he held the glass so she could drink.
“Thanks.” Her tongue slipped out, catching a bead of blood from her lip, a shiver running through her, echoed by a shuddering wince. “What... what happened? We were in the hall...”
Spike shrugged. “No idea, love,” he offered, using a discarded bandage to wipe her chin lightly. “Blue hauled us out of our bath and down and you were all swoony-damsel on the floor and Herbie’s old man was...”
“He said you fell,” Herbert said quietly. He had stepped closer again. Spike could feel Herbert’s thigh touching his through his baggy trousers. “It appeared that you had fainted, struck your head.”
Dawn slowly nodded, closing her eyes. “Yeah... remember getting dizzy...” She drew a quivering breath, shifting. “Didn’t think...” Her swollen forefinger touched her bleeding lip gingerly. “Didn’t wanna worry you guys.”
Spike felt Herbert’s hand on his shoulder, fingers biting into his flesh. He knew his lover was stifling an exclamation, reached up and squeezed his hand reassuringly. “I think you failed, love,” he said softly.
Dawn drew a weak smile onto her lips. “Yeah,” she whispered faintly. “Always did suck at that.” She wiped her chin again, drawing a breath. “I...” She looked from one of them to the other. “I think we’re okay...”
“Okay?” Herbert echoed quietly.
“Or I’m on the next bus back to Italy...”
Spike could see she was trying to smile, trying to put on a brave face, and he could also see that Herbert was at a stage of not giving a damn. “We’ll see, eh, pet?” he said, reaching out and patting her hand.
Reluctantly, she nodded. “Until we know, can you kinda knock me out again?” she asked faintly. “I’m kinda... a big lump of ow.”
Spike could almost hear the response taking shape in Herbert’s mind.
“Just lie down and rest, eh?” he said, rising and squeezing Herbert’s hand hard in silent plea. “I’ll see what I can find to help.”
Sinking back down, every movement rife with pain, Dawn closed her eyes and drew a sharp breath between her teeth. “Spike?” she called softly. He looked back at her. “Thanks.”
His mouth crooked up. “Not a problem, Nibs.”
______________________________
Sitting on the parapet of the balcony, one leg dangling over the precipice, Herbert slid the blade of his favoured dagger along the whetstone nestled in his left palm. It was a rhythmic motion, soft, a whisper of sound in the stillness of the night.
His father was still resting.
When the sun had gone down, Herbert had half-carried, half-led the Graf to the crypt, gently lowering him into his sarcophagus. His father had barely aware of him, emotionally and physically drained to the point of sinking into unnatural sleep while still standing.
After smoothing his father’s cloak around his father’s motionless form, Herbert had sat for nearly an hour, just watching him sleep. The wounds on his throat had begun to knit closed, though they still seeped and even then, the fresh bandages had already been stained. The burn on his cheek remained scored deeply, unchanging, unhealed.
It would take more than a single night of rest, he knew, for his father to regain his full strength and to know that a mere mortal, a child, had rendered his beloved father so weak, so... damaged.
His dagger buzzed against the whetstone again.
After he had closed the sarcophagus upon his father he had come here, to the top of the north-most tower, the one furthest from the girl. As much as she had come to be a part of his kin, he could not bear to look at her now.
If it had been another of their kind, bold enough to attempt a claiming, he knew he would have been less uncertain. It had happened. There had been attempts, yet no one had succeeded. He had grown used to that status quo; his father was unbreakable, untameable, wild.
And now...
She had used a crucifix. Not only had she torn her mark into his flesh, but she had scored it upon his face, an unspoken sign of her mortality, of the weapons she would use against them, of what she could still do to them when she chose.
What manner of person carried such an object that could do mortal damage to their beloved?
Laying down the whetstone, he slid the dagger back into the narrow sheath and swung his leg back over the parapet. Sitting on the broad ledge, his hands pressed to the cool stone on either side of him.
Father had not been angered by her, at least not any longer.
Perhaps it had been the fatigue. Perhaps it had been the loss of so much vital fluid. It made no manner of sense. She had burnt him with holy objects, left him bleeding, struck him and yet, it was he who was concerned.
When he heard the quiet scuff of footsteps, he did not need to look up.
“You should not have come here, William,” he said quietly, scooping up the stone and dropping it in his pocket.
“Got worried.” William was standing in the doorway, watching, arms loosely folded across his chest. “Checked the crypt and our room and you weren’t there.”
“Clearly.”
Stepping out onto the balcony, William moved closer. “Herbert...”
Rising sharply, Herbert turned away and glared down at the land before them. “Do you not have a patient to tend to?” he demanded, his voice clipped. “I thought you would be watching over her.”
“Watched her long enough, I think,” William said quietly. “Left you on your own.”
Herbert laughed dryly, though it felt like his body was twisting, tensing inside. “Oh, you need not worry about me, cheri,” he said, turning with a smile that was almost genuine. “I am, as always, quite well.”
Blue eyes watched him. “Herbert, don’t be a stupid sod.” William stepped closer. “I know you’re lying.”
His nostrils flaring, Herbert clenched his jaw. By his sides, his hands balled into fists and he forced down a shiver of anger. “Why did you summon her here?” he asked, his voice quiet, almost deceptively calm. “Could you not have severed old ties?”
“You think I haven’t wondered the same?”
Herbert smiled again, more widely, but less warmly. “Oh, but you adore having her here, cheri,” he said. “And now, you can play nursemaid and tend her as you tended Drusilla, and how happy you will be with your little plaything, for we know that is what you love best.”
William recoiled a step. “That wasn’t called for,” he said and Herbert could see the flash of hurt in those blue eyes.
“Nor was she,” he hissed, turning away from his lover and wrapping his arms tightly around himself. “Get back to her, William! Get back to your precious little patient and tend her with all your soul-touched affection.”
“Herbert...”
“I said go!”
“No. Herbert, I know...” A hand grasped his arm and before he could check himself, he swung round, saw his hand move, a pale blur by the moonlight.
In some part of his mind, amid the confusion, hurt and misery, he felt the pain of the impact, heard William’s muted cry, saw the younger vampire spilled on the flagstones of the balcony, blood streaked on his cheek.
Raising his palm before him, he saw the blood staining his nails and scraps of flesh caught beneath. His William’s.
Shying back, he shook his head.
He did not strike his lovers, not in rage, never.
What had the damned mortal done to them? Why were they all running mad?
Whirling around, he raced towards the door, ignoring William’s voice crying out his name. He took the stairs in great leaps and bounds, patches of the night’s light flashing over him through tall windows as he ran through the castle.
Only when he roared from the garage in one of his automobiles, bloody hand pressing and shaking against his lips, and unsated fury still ripping through him, did he both laugh and sob, trembling so fiercely that he could barely steer.
And he could not give a single reason why. Not a single one, but a thousand.
________________________
It was an hour and a bit until dawn.
Didn’t have to check his watch to know it.
Sitting on the steps just outside the garage, Spike watched the sky, forearms resting on his knees.
Always had liked that half hour just before the sun popped up, when the palest of the colours were just starting to show on the edge of the sky like they were bleeding back onto a monochrome canvas. Had a bit to wait for it yet, but the stars were still out.
Wasn’t a bad night, all things considered.
Yeah, the Graf was dead to the world and Nibs was back unconscious thanks to a handy bottle of chloroform and Herbie had rushed off somewhere in a right state and he had nice new cuts all over his face, but that aside, wasn’t bad.
He tapped the ash from the end of his cigarette.
It had been one of Herbert’s reluctant indulgences, that. He’d been allowed to haul back several cases of cigarettes on the promise that he wouldn’t bring them into the halls of the castle and, most especially, into the bedroom.
Good thing the place had a thousand and one outdoor places on the upper-levels.
Lifting it to his lips again, he drew on it, holding in the warm smoke for a moment, before exhaling it slowly. Around his feet, there was a small pile of butts. It had been growing for nearly four hours, since he’d got here in time to see Herbert speeding out of the grounds.
Well, the daft bugger had to come back some time.
Dropping the glowing stub of the cigarette among its stumpy brethren, he crushed it out with the toe of his boot.
Didn’t plan on having another, but within ten minutes, he’d pulled his lighter out of his pocket and curls of smoke were rising towards the clear sky.
He leaned back against the steps and looked up at the sky, picking out constellations he remembered from his kidlethood. Was always looking for something that he could never touch, back then. He grinned faintly. Something effulgent. Didn’t get much more bloody effulgent than the stars.
Speaking of...
Squinting, he looked down at the drive, where something effulgent had just shone its headlamps right in his eyes.
Sitting up, he shielded his eyes with one hand as the car drew closer. The garage door hissed silently open, but the car stopped outside, engine going dead. He could see Herbert watching him behind the windscreen.
He raised his cigarette-bearing hand in half-salute, one side of his mouth lifting.
The driver’s door opened, bringing with it the scent of Herbert, blood and death.
“What are you doing out here?”
There was a hollowness to Herbert’s voice that made him wince, but he managed to smile faintly. “Having a bit of fresh air,” he replied, taking a drag on his cigarette. Didn’t even get a laugh. Bugger.
One hand resting on the roof of the car, Herbert watched Spike. There was an odd wariness about the older vampire. If he’d been a cat, his hackles would’ve been up and he would have been hissing. His suit was impeccable as always, but a few dark stains spattered it.
Flicking the barely-used cigarette away, a tiny shooting star of an ember, Spike tilted his head, then motioned for Herbert to come closer. “You all right?” he asked softly, as the elder vampire moved, as if weighted down by lead.
When Herbert sagged down on the same step as him, nearly a foot away, he could see the tension in the golden-haired vampire’s body, could see the pallor and the sheer blinding exhaustion on his face.
“Herbie? Love?”
Bloodshot grey eyes turned to him and the emotion in them made him utter a sound of sympathy.
“No,” Herbert whispered.
Without thought, without question, Spike scooted closer and wrapped his arms around Herbert’s shoulders, holding him fast. When Herbert all but collapsed against him, he didn’t pull away, holding him tighter and stroking his hair as Herbert clung to him like a lifeline.
Didn’t need to ask. Didn’t need to be told. Didn’t have to doubt it.
“I’m here, Herbie, I’m here...” he whispered, then kissed the top of Herbert’s bowed head, felt him trembling. Oh, this wasn’t good. Not at all. He nuzzled Herbert’s fine hair softly. “You’ve got me...”