Update: After the Deluge Chapter Twenty-One
Yes, an update. Don't faint. What is more, certain individuals are getting closer together.
Click on the cut to see.
Chapter Twenty-One: Dusk and Dust
Spike pressed one finger to his own lips and one to Dawn’s, then gestured to her to move back away from the edge of the hayloft. They retreated soundlessly until they had a stack of hay bales to provide screening, then Spike leaned in, his lips almost touching Dawn’s ear, his cool breath causing an odd tickle.
“Don’t want you getting any heroic ideas here, pet. Sounds like something nasty’s down there. Not your problem - I’m the go-to guy for the nasties. No arguments please.”
Dawn’s face was mutinous but she nodded her acceptance, before grasping a tuft of blond curls in a fist and bringing his ear to the level of her own mouth. “I get to watch. And if it looks real bad, I get to scream. Distraction can work in your favour that way. No arguments?”
Spike took care not to sigh. Bloody Summers women. He returned her nod, then grasped her firmly by the shoulders. “Give me three minutes before you so much as move from here. Promise?”
He checked her hands for crossed fingers as she whispered “yes”. Tricksy girl, this. No problem there, though; he could trust her at least half as far as he could throw her on this one. He pushed her gently back against the hay bales and turned to retrace his steps without even a faint susurrus of breeze.
Back at the opening to the floor below he paused. Head on one side, he listened intently. He turned and lowered his feet over the edge, and dropped lightly to the floor. So far, not bad. He stayed in the crouched position in which he had landed, sharpening his brows in order to bring all his senses into play.
Something behind him felt - off. No smell, for one thing. That never came out well. He turned, still keeping low, and dived off to his left as he did so.
In front of him was a short, muscular, blond man of indeterminate age and considerable muscles to his arms, What the hell - was someone taking the piss? Clones were not part of the game, especially without warning and no access to his undead DNA. Not that he had any real idea whether this git looked like he did, though the leather outfit and blinding white hair were clues.
“You really have got to be taking the piss this time.” His opening gambit was hardly original, but he’d given up on that days back. “Is that what I look like now or is it just a big joke to you?”
The stranger leapt back, grunting. Unusual - the First Git was usually all too bloody articulate.
Then it charged. Spike stepped aside, timing it perfectly. It kept on running, predictably enough. Until, that is, its foot met Andrew’s bag. With an astonishingly corporeal clunk the man, for so, it seemed, it was, went flying, skidding along the hay-strewn ground, decorated with a shower of delicate plastic figures. He landed in a cranny, his head between two bales, his torso decorated with figures from one of the more disappointing Star Wars films.
Right, Spike. Corporeal. Rethink. A small, wiry and very angry opponent was picking himself up and wrenching the first thing that came to his hand away from the wall to act as a weapon. It was of course a long, pointed sliver of wood. Bloody marvellous.
The stranger scowled and muttered under his breath. Vampire hearing enabled Spike to recognise it was not language for sharing in polite company. Boy not happy, then. Good.
Spike balanced lightly on the balls of his feet, all his senses fully alert, a total focus on his opponent. He lowered his body to a half-squat, arms open, looking as close as he could get to a figure about to lunge.
A telltale muscle twitch and the young man rushed headlong forward. Neat; sometimes the easy ones worked. As the figure closed in on him, Spike grasped his wrists and threw himself backwards. His opponent was pulled towards him, like it or not, and off-balance, just as Spike liked them. Going with the roll, Spike landed on his back, both feet pulled up and planted directly in the abdomen, then kicked out, throwing his victim into an unwilling somersault which landed him crash on his back behind them both.
In a single practised move Spike flipped to his feet and jumped to face his assailant. You had to give him credit for stamina and determination at least - he was already standing and ready to run again. Deliberately growling, curving his hands into nailed claws and allowing his vampire face to come out, Spike made as if to grab for the neck, then sidestepped at the last moment, hooking the trailing foot round the hurtling young man’s ankle. Not surprisingly, he continued in a low arc and hit the barn floor with his nose, sliding along a yard or two before halting. There was a rather tasty smell from the nosebleed.
Shaken and in all probability stirred, the stranger twisted, but Spike had no desire to give him time or space to react further. In a second he was sitting on his chest, leaning forward, fangs open in a grin intended to disturb, and left hand firmly gripping a wrist. Just a little pressure, a slight twist, and the hand opened, the weapon falling to the floor.
“No need for that, mate. We’re all pals round here. Right?”
Underneath him there was a struggle, but he was in charge, no doubt about that. “Now, pal. Care to tell me what’s the what? Your name, for example? Or is it a guessing game? Goldilocks? Blondie Boy?”
A string of indistinguishable words. Seriously - impossible to recognise. Was this even English? “Speak slowly. If you want me to know what hell you’re planning for me, you have to tell me in a way I can understand, you know?”
More angry grunting. German, perhaps? Dutch? Didn’t feel quite right - some of it was oddly familiar, but old, older than himself by a long way.
He shook the neck lightly. Not gonna feed, but this ape didn’t know that and it might just work. “Come on, mate. Who the hell are you? And why are you here? Looking for me or what? Sheer chance? Not buying that one little tiny bit.”
The stranger spoke, more slowly, an attempt to be clear, perhaps. “Witleof. Ic áhætee Witleof, þú, áglæca!”
Great. Clear as mud. But the word repeated, that might be his name. What next? You Tarzan, me Spike? You throwback, me monster?
The figure beneath him spoke again, at some length and, if the expression meant anything, with some irritation.
Two voices chimed with the stranger’s. Dawn’s: “Spike? You OK there? What did you do with the ladder?”
And from the door, the voice of his dreams and of his nightmares. “Brawling, Spike? Now why am I not surprised?”
As ever, I crave comments and bask in them.
Click on the cut to see.
Chapter Twenty-One: Dusk and Dust
Spike pressed one finger to his own lips and one to Dawn’s, then gestured to her to move back away from the edge of the hayloft. They retreated soundlessly until they had a stack of hay bales to provide screening, then Spike leaned in, his lips almost touching Dawn’s ear, his cool breath causing an odd tickle.
“Don’t want you getting any heroic ideas here, pet. Sounds like something nasty’s down there. Not your problem - I’m the go-to guy for the nasties. No arguments please.”
Dawn’s face was mutinous but she nodded her acceptance, before grasping a tuft of blond curls in a fist and bringing his ear to the level of her own mouth. “I get to watch. And if it looks real bad, I get to scream. Distraction can work in your favour that way. No arguments?”
Spike took care not to sigh. Bloody Summers women. He returned her nod, then grasped her firmly by the shoulders. “Give me three minutes before you so much as move from here. Promise?”
He checked her hands for crossed fingers as she whispered “yes”. Tricksy girl, this. No problem there, though; he could trust her at least half as far as he could throw her on this one. He pushed her gently back against the hay bales and turned to retrace his steps without even a faint susurrus of breeze.
Back at the opening to the floor below he paused. Head on one side, he listened intently. He turned and lowered his feet over the edge, and dropped lightly to the floor. So far, not bad. He stayed in the crouched position in which he had landed, sharpening his brows in order to bring all his senses into play.
Something behind him felt - off. No smell, for one thing. That never came out well. He turned, still keeping low, and dived off to his left as he did so.
In front of him was a short, muscular, blond man of indeterminate age and considerable muscles to his arms, What the hell - was someone taking the piss? Clones were not part of the game, especially without warning and no access to his undead DNA. Not that he had any real idea whether this git looked like he did, though the leather outfit and blinding white hair were clues.
“You really have got to be taking the piss this time.” His opening gambit was hardly original, but he’d given up on that days back. “Is that what I look like now or is it just a big joke to you?”
The stranger leapt back, grunting. Unusual - the First Git was usually all too bloody articulate.
Then it charged. Spike stepped aside, timing it perfectly. It kept on running, predictably enough. Until, that is, its foot met Andrew’s bag. With an astonishingly corporeal clunk the man, for so, it seemed, it was, went flying, skidding along the hay-strewn ground, decorated with a shower of delicate plastic figures. He landed in a cranny, his head between two bales, his torso decorated with figures from one of the more disappointing Star Wars films.
Right, Spike. Corporeal. Rethink. A small, wiry and very angry opponent was picking himself up and wrenching the first thing that came to his hand away from the wall to act as a weapon. It was of course a long, pointed sliver of wood. Bloody marvellous.
The stranger scowled and muttered under his breath. Vampire hearing enabled Spike to recognise it was not language for sharing in polite company. Boy not happy, then. Good.
Spike balanced lightly on the balls of his feet, all his senses fully alert, a total focus on his opponent. He lowered his body to a half-squat, arms open, looking as close as he could get to a figure about to lunge.
A telltale muscle twitch and the young man rushed headlong forward. Neat; sometimes the easy ones worked. As the figure closed in on him, Spike grasped his wrists and threw himself backwards. His opponent was pulled towards him, like it or not, and off-balance, just as Spike liked them. Going with the roll, Spike landed on his back, both feet pulled up and planted directly in the abdomen, then kicked out, throwing his victim into an unwilling somersault which landed him crash on his back behind them both.
In a single practised move Spike flipped to his feet and jumped to face his assailant. You had to give him credit for stamina and determination at least - he was already standing and ready to run again. Deliberately growling, curving his hands into nailed claws and allowing his vampire face to come out, Spike made as if to grab for the neck, then sidestepped at the last moment, hooking the trailing foot round the hurtling young man’s ankle. Not surprisingly, he continued in a low arc and hit the barn floor with his nose, sliding along a yard or two before halting. There was a rather tasty smell from the nosebleed.
Shaken and in all probability stirred, the stranger twisted, but Spike had no desire to give him time or space to react further. In a second he was sitting on his chest, leaning forward, fangs open in a grin intended to disturb, and left hand firmly gripping a wrist. Just a little pressure, a slight twist, and the hand opened, the weapon falling to the floor.
“No need for that, mate. We’re all pals round here. Right?”
Underneath him there was a struggle, but he was in charge, no doubt about that. “Now, pal. Care to tell me what’s the what? Your name, for example? Or is it a guessing game? Goldilocks? Blondie Boy?”
A string of indistinguishable words. Seriously - impossible to recognise. Was this even English? “Speak slowly. If you want me to know what hell you’re planning for me, you have to tell me in a way I can understand, you know?”
More angry grunting. German, perhaps? Dutch? Didn’t feel quite right - some of it was oddly familiar, but old, older than himself by a long way.
He shook the neck lightly. Not gonna feed, but this ape didn’t know that and it might just work. “Come on, mate. Who the hell are you? And why are you here? Looking for me or what? Sheer chance? Not buying that one little tiny bit.”
The stranger spoke, more slowly, an attempt to be clear, perhaps. “Witleof. Ic áhætee Witleof, þú, áglæca!”
Great. Clear as mud. But the word repeated, that might be his name. What next? You Tarzan, me Spike? You throwback, me monster?
The figure beneath him spoke again, at some length and, if the expression meant anything, with some irritation.
Two voices chimed with the stranger’s. Dawn’s: “Spike? You OK there? What did you do with the ladder?”
And from the door, the voice of his dreams and of his nightmares. “Brawling, Spike? Now why am I not surprised?”
As ever, I crave comments and bask in them.