Fic: Thicker Than Water, 1 of 2
I started this two years ago for the Welcome to the Hellmouth Ficathon for the ever patient ladyoneill and finally finished it for the grazieprego Spangel ficathon sponsored by the ever fabulous lynnenne and kita0610 .
Title: Thicker Than Water
Pairing: Angel/Spike
Rating: NC-17. If you're underage, be gone with you!
Summary: There have to be a thousand ways better to die than suicide by inertia.
Notes: Written for ladyoneill with the following requirements: broken characters, angst, and a vamp feeding from another one.
Warning: Pretty damn dark. References to character deaths. Did I mention dark?
Many thanks to ladyoneill for not killing me for taking two years to finish this and to lynnenne and kita0610 for bringing the Spangel love with this ficathon! I love you guys!
Thicker Than Water
By kellyhk
It was December, or at least that's what he thought it was. Didn't matter. Time stopped meaning anything some time last autumn. The snow had been a permanent fixture and would likely continue to blanket the ground for months, covering everything in a lifeless white. The nights had been tolerable when he'd first arrived, crisp and nowhere near freezing. But the money ran out as the days grew shorter. Those brisk, invigorating nights had yielded to something more painful and unforgiving. On a good day, when the sun would peek out for a few hours, it might inch toward the freezing point only to plummet once again when darkness fell.
Spike was stiff everywhere. He thought vamps weren't supposed to feel the cold. Sure that made sense when you had a roof over your head and three squares a day. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had enough blood in his belly to chase the hunger away, and it had been weeks since he'd been able to scrape together enough money to sleep somewhere that had running water or heat.
The sun had been up for an hour or so. He'd been up for three. The abandoned warehouse he'd sought shelter in did little to chase away the bone-aching chill, and the tattered army blanket draped over his shoulders offered little additional warmth. There were a few other transients in the building-drifters and junkies whose names he'd never come to know. Occasionally another vamp would pass through, sometimes to score a meal, other times just to seek shelter from the elusive sun. Didn't matter. He kept to himself, and the others left him alone. No one was there for camaraderie.
The demon population was actually pretty small. But who the hell would live in Siberia if they didn't have a choice, Spike thought to himself as he bundled his blanket back into his rucksack. God knew he hated this run-down river town. It wasn't like he ever planned to visit Irkutsk, let alone live there. Yet there he was, penniless and half-frozen.
On the run for what seemed like forever, he'd fled the chaos of Los Angeles well over a year ago. He had to. The Black Thorn never seemed that far behind. He and Angel had brought those bastards to a screeching halt for nothing more than a moment. And then all hell broke loose. He'd run one way, and Angel gone the other. At one time he'd heard that he and Gramps each had had a million dollar price on his head. Hell, for that price, he'd sell out the grandpoof himself. Only he had no idea where Angel was.
So he'd fled and never looked back. Felt like a bloody coward, but what else was there to do? Wait for them to kill him like they'd snuffed Charlie and Blue? By the time he'd reached Prague, he'd only had enough dosh in his pocket for a forged Russian visa and a one-way ticket on the Trans-Siberian Railway. What the hell, he knew enough phrases of Russian, and it was a big enough landmass that hopefully he could just vanish into the woodwork.
He didn't even like Irkutsk, he reminded himself and he patted down his pockets, his fingers itching to hold a cigarette. Tossing the empty pack he'd found in his coat pocket -something drab and obviously a leftover from the Soviet era - he rifled through the front pocket of his jeans in search of rubles. He found ten, just enough for a pack of the cheap smokes. He didn't have enough for anything else. Yeah, he knew he should save it for blood, or even a mattress in a filthy flophouse. But the nicotine would be enough to chase the hunger away that kept gnawing at his belly.
His boots, a size too large, slapped against the pavement as he headed toward the gastronom on Karl Marx Street. If there had been a bright center of the universe, then Irkutsk was the furthest city from it, he told himself. Sure, there was that pretty lake an hour's drive away that he'd heard about and knew he'd never see. But no matter how many times the locals tried to put lipstick on this dirty pig in attempt to lure tourists and commerce to the area, it was just another eastern European city that stank of diesel and death. Heroin junkies were everywhere. Seemed like everyone was hooked on smack. Those that didn't claim to be junkies were only lying to themselves. And with the drugs came crime and disease. The city was dying. He didn't need to be a doctor to make that diagnosis, and didn't have the energy to care. The north end of town was the worst, filled with the uncaring, the addicts and homeless. A good place as any to hide where everyone else surrounding you felt just as dead inside.
The sky was shrouded in clouds and threatened snow yet again. At least he'd be safe for his walk to the store. His left foot was cold and wet. There must've been a hole in his boot. Yet another thing he couldn't afford to replace. Maybe he could pack it with some newspaper or a plastic bag from the gastronom. Spike wished he had a hat to cover his head. He'd traded his leather coat in Budapest for a ticket to St. Petersburg. By the time he'd reached Moscow, he'd shed the blond hair in favor of a closely-cropped buzz that to help him blend in with the locals. Too bad "blending in" seemed to be synonymous with freezing to death.
The gastronom was nearly empty when he pushed open the door and walked inside. The clerk was putting a loaf of bread and some sausage into a customer's bag. When she finally left, Spike approached the counter. He recognized the clerk. Vadim something. Always had things to sell above and below the counter. He smiled at Spike and waved he closer.
Spike dug in his coat pocket and counted out eight of his ten rubles - literally pennies if he did the exchange in his head. "A pack of Primas," he said in Russian. He hadn't spoken the language in over a century, but been in Irkutsk long enough now that he wasn't struggling with it. He didn't stumble over the words as much as he'd used to. Some nights his dreams were even in Russian.
"Anything else?" Vadim asked, trying out his broken English. Leaning forward he whispered, "I just get small shipment of yak blood from Mongolia. Only liter or two, but I hear it is quite good."
Vadim had known Spike was a vamp from the first time he'd stepped into the gastronom. One of the few blokes he knew that spoke English.
Spike smiled even as his stomach rumbled. With ten rubles to his name, he didn't even have enough dosh to buy the cheap stuff like mutton or pig. "Just the smokes," he answered setting the cash on the counter.
The clerk counted the money before putting it in the register. "I tell you what." The guy was as shrewd as a used car salesman. "I keep for you for few more days. You change mind, you come back. If not, I sell to other."
Spike knew there were other vampires in town but never had any interest meeting one, even less fighting one. If Vadim couldn't hawk his wares today, he was sure there'd be other opportunities if Spike passed. "I'll keep that in mind," Spike answered, tearing open the cellophane wrapper and tossing the garbage on the counter.
He ripped open the pack, the aroma of tobacco was pungent and strong. The Primas were unfiltered, packed in two neat rows of ten and probably the only true bargain in this wasteland. He could stretch a pack to last almost a week. He didn't wait to go outside before he struck a match and inhaled the first puff. Stronger than anything he'd smoked in years, they tasted like shit and the nicotine had stained his fingers yellow.
"I keep blood for you," Vadim offered once again.
"Dasvedanya," Spike answered as he left the shop.
Eddies of smoke swirled around his face. The main drag was awakening for the morning. Storefronts were open for the day, and a city bus belched a cloud of oily exhaust into the air as it sped down the boulevard. University students scurried up the sidewalk before morning classes.
The morning train would be arriving from the west within the hour. As good of time as any to turn a trick. Fresh meat right off the train if he was lucky. For fifty rubles, he could give you a taste of death, that high some craved when the heroin wasn't enough. He still couldn't believe people actually paid to be bit. Was never enough to fill his belly. But it was plenty to push starvation off another day. For a hundred rubles, he'd drop to his knees and suck something else. Everything had a price -a liter of blood, a bed, a shower. Desperate times meant desperate measures.
The train was already in the station by the time he arrived. A handful of backpackers filtered through the station, no doubt in search of one of the few Spartan hostels in town. An armed soldier paraded through the station searching for contraband. The railway station was the hub for everything black market. Counterfeit American cigarettes, liquor, and sex. Heroin from Tajikistan and Afghanistan flooded out of the station every day. No sense even pretending that one soldier could stop it. What wasn't hidden in coffee cans and luggage was smuggled into the city within the human mules that risked their lives for not much more than pocket change and empty promises of a better life. Those who weren't selling were buying.
Spike stamped out his cigarette and made his way toward the men's restroom. The stalls were discrete enough. It's not like he was offering dinner and a movie after all. They served a purpose and didn't have to be romantic. Never had to advertise. They always seemed to find him, and today was no exception
"What are you selling?" a bloke drew near and whispered in his ear. The kid looked all of twenty and was already wasted. Pinpoint pupils and a glassy stare. Another heroin junkie looking for a different sort of rush.
Spike puffed up and tried his best to resuscitate his swagger he'd long lost. "Eternal life," he answered. Seemed to be the buzzword all of the vamps offering suck jobs used. Not that he was ever going to offer an idiot like this a true chance of immortality. He was there for the thrill and the high and nothing more.
They haggled over money for a moment or so. Spike hated lowering his asking price from fifty. Twenty-five rubles bought a lot of jack squat. Couldn't even lick the inside of an empty blood bag for that price. But he was hungry and was quite certain the vamp around the corner would underbid him if he didn't budge. So he settled for thirty-five.
"Are you clean?" the guy asked in Russian. AIDS, everyone was terrified of it these days. Slow and silent killer, it had spread through the junkie population like wildfire in only a matter of years, a reward for shared needles and endless bad choices.
"I'm a night creature," Spike said. Funny, he could dream and curse in Russian, but he'd never learned the phrase for "vampire." Didn't matter. It got his point across. "We don't get sick. Are we going to keep dancing or are you going to pay me?"
Spike pulled away when he saw the soldier looking his way. Sure, the wanker with a machine gun tended to look the other way with just about everything in the station, but he wasn't going to press his luck.
His client said nothing as he pressed seven five ruble notes into Spikes hand. He counted the quickly before folding them over and stuffing them in a pocket. He waited for the old lady to pass before he said, "Follow me."
He led the man into the lavatory. A fat businessman was pissing in one of the urinals, another washed his hands at one of the sinks. Spike waited for them to leave before he shoved his customer toward the last stall. He'd used it many times before. The toilet had long been kicked out, a favorite for those looking for a hit of smack, a fuck or, in his case, a snack.
Spike shoved the guy inside. The he bloke was nervous and fidgety. Spike could hear his heart beat racing. "First time?" Spike asked. Of course it was. The kid nodded anxiously as he bared his neck.
Spike couldn't suppress a laugh. The kid really was green. You never, ever bared your neck to a vamp even if you were paying him. Easiest way to bleed to death. First rule of survival. "No, sweetheart," he said slipping into English for a second. Seemed easier to mock that way without killing the transaction. He pulled the kid's coat off and shoved a sleeve over the elbow. Passive little shit, he thought to himself. Was he going to have to everything? He pointed to the bend in the kid's elbow. It was already riddled with needle tracks. Kid might be green with a vamp, but he was no stranger to chernaya, the local heroin concoction. "I'm going to bite you here," Spike explained in Russian.
The kid nodded and pressed his back to the far wall as Spike cornered him. Spike kicked the door to the stall shut and slid into gameface. No need for romantic pretenses. He took the proffered arm and sunk his teeth into that sweet spot in the crook of the other man's arm. The kid didn't need to worry about catching HIV from a tryst in a toilet. The bastard already had it. Tainted blood had its own distinct flavor. It tasted sick, like it was already dying. Poor sod, if the drugs didn't do him in, then the silent time bomb in his bloodstream certainly would.
Disease or not, Spike kept drinking, his tongue lapping at the fresh wound. It's not like he could catch it anyhow. Oh, how it was so tempting to drain this kid dry and abandon the empty husk. He wasn't sure it was his soul or just common sense that kept him from following through. A murder would accomplish nothing and likely dry up the supply of Happy Meals with legs, only no one ever seemed happy in this armpit of a town.
The kid's heartbeat had begun to quicken, a sure sign that it was time to pull off. It never seemed enough. But at that point, he no longer cared. His tongue was starting to go numb, and that warmth in his belly began to spread through his body. Closest thing to mainlining. The kid must've shot up recently with enough junk to satisfy a rhino. The rush was never this strong. He released the kid and staggered back as step. His vision blurred, and everything moved in slow motion. The bloke rode the bite high and slid to the floor satisfied as Spike joined him on the tiles. His head lolled back against the wall, and he let oblivion take him for a while.
He didn't remember the kid leaving. The hunger returned with a vengeance when the drugs wore off and so did a blinding headache. It had been years since he'd lived with that fucking chip in his head, but his headaches seemed scores worse since it had been removed. Right behind his eyes. An ice pick gouged out his brains. He picked himself off the floor headed to the sink, ignoring the wanker who eyed him suspiciously. Water trickled from the sink on the left. Turning the water on, Spike cupped his hand beneath the tap and took a drink to wash the stale taste of blood from his mouth. He took another sip before splashing some over his face. No seemed to notice - or care-- that he cast no reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he turned the water off and headed out. The day was still young.
***
The pickings were slim at the rail station. Some days would be busy enough to raise enough dosh to survive a week, but today was not one of them. For once people were more interested in scoring dope or young Georgian whores who couldn't be much older than fifteen. Spike managed to scrape out only one more trick before he called uncle and gave up. This time he only got twenty rubles.
Still not enough money in his pocket, but that soldier was starting to give him that look like he'd worn out his welcome. There'd be plenty of opportunities on the north side. Once the sun went down, the population of the warehouse district would triple, and no one would have to worry about a soldier watching your every move. Hell, the north side was one of those run down parts of town no self-respecting idiot-or cop for that matter-would visit if they could avoid it.
The sun was nearly set by the time Spike returned home, the dilapidated remains of an abandoned warehouse. It wasn't pretty, but it was home. Graffiti covered the walls both inside and out. Spent hypodermics lay among the rubble. The silhouette of a rat scampered past the doorway. Maybe he could grab a little kip before the night was in high swing.
Spike headed toward the stairs. He'd decided to sleep on the second floor. "Hello, comrade," a vampire said as he greeted him in Russian. He and his two friends were blocking the stairwell. "We need to have a word with you."
Spike felt himself slip into game face. Seemed like a natural thing to do when three goons you didn't know greeted you. "Is there a problem?" he asked. No sense pretending he couldn't understand them.
"This is our building," the leader explained. Spike hand instinctively went to his belt hoping to find a stake or anything to fight back but came up empty handed. The minions moved in and grabbed his arms. Today just went from bad to extra shitty in two seconds flat.
"Not a problem," Spike answered trying his best to sound nonchalant, as though getting jumped at dusk was an every day occurrence. "I'll move on. The city's big enough for all of us."
"You don't understand, comrade." The boss inched closer. "This is our city, and you are interfering with business." Since when did the Russian Mafia employ thug vamps? Did they have their hands in blood trafficking as well?
Spike held up his hands, trying his best not to look threatening. "Misunderstanding, mate," he said in English. Switching back to the local dialect, he added, "Didn't know I was getting in the way."
The boss nodded, and they dragged Spike into the stairwell. Half of the concrete steps were smashed or missing all together. Definitely Russian Mafia. He wasn't sure if it was the Izmailovskaya or the Tambov Gang. Didn't matter, they had their hooks in everything, even in this hellhole.
This was going to hurt. A lot. He was certain of it.
Spike struggled to break free as the boss leaned back and lit up a cigarette. He wasn't going down without a fight.
"Empty your pockets," Boss man demanded.
"Otyebis," Spike spat, telling them in no uncertain terms to fuck off.
A blow to the head, and Spike saw stars. Two more to the gut, and he wanted to drop to his knees. He was weaker than he'd thought, but wasn't going to let the wankers know otherwise.
The boss patted Spike down, pulling the pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket only to crush them in his fist and toss them to the ground in frustration. He finally hit pay dirt when he rifled though the front pocket of Spike's jeans and found money.
He counted out the bills and wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Only forty-five rubles?" He pocketed the money anyhow.
"What can I say?" Spike answered as he spat a mouthful of blood. "It was a slow day."
The boss moved closer, his fetid breath reeking of vodka mixed with the blood of a fresh kill. "Today is your lucky day. I'm going to let you live." Oh sure, there would probably be strings to this. With goons like this, there were always strings. "You are going to work for us."
Yeah, that was a great proposition, someone else's bitch in that extra circle of hell that nobody wrote about.
"We take seventy percent of everything you make." Head goon took another drag of his cigarette.
"What type of deal is that?" Spike wanted to know. "I can't survive on that. Might as well put a stake in me now!"
His head snapped back again. That bastard packed a punch. "Then you will have to work twice as hard."
"And if I don't pay you?" He wasn't going to go down with out a fight.
The boss pulled out a stake and pressed it against Spike's heart. "I wouldn't cross us, comrade," he warned, the tip pressing firmly against Spike's chest. "There are many ways to kill a vampire." Without warning he pulled the stake away and shoved it deep into Spike's side.
Spike bit back a scream as his vision went black for a moment. He felt his game face melt away as the blood soaked into his jeans below. They let him fall to his knees, and he weakly tried to extricate the weapon from his flank. It clattered to the concrete, sticky with blood as the boss added, "And there are hundreds of ways to make you wish we would kill you."
The thugs stepped over him as he curled into a ball. Everything hurt.
"We will be back Monday to collect," the boss said as he stepped on Spikes hand. "Do not let us down, little one."
Spike nodded to let them know he'd heard them as he pulled his crushed hand close to his body. A kick to the head, and the world went mercifully black.
***
He had no idea how long he'd been out, but could tell the sun was up even before he opened his eyes. Frost clung to his skin, and his eyelashes were frozen together. Must've been one hell of a cold night. No doubt he looked like the corpse he felt like. Spike groaned as he rolled to his back. The skin on his battered cheek burned as it ripped free from the equally frozen floor below. Only then did he realize his jacket and boots were missing, likely scavenged by one of the lowlifes that filled these warehouses at night. His backpack was gone as well, not that he had much in it.
"Son of a bitch," he said to himself. Dead broke, frozen and now the indentured servant of some idiot in the Russian mafia, he wished they'd let him drop a few feet more to the left where the sunlight was peeking through one of the broken windows in the stairwell. Then this goddamn existence would come to an end once and for all.
He slowly sat up. The stake lay on one of the steps and his crushed cigarettes were an arm's reach away. He tried to salvage one from the destroyed pack. Went as far as to pull a broken one out but thought otherwise. Crumpling the pack further, he tossed it against the wall in frustration. Tobacco exploded everywhere.
At least he'd stopped bleeding. That, or he'd simply ran out of reserves to ooze from the wound in his flank. The blood was frozen and congealed against his shirt. So this is what a deathcicle felt like. He pulled his loose sock back over his foot and tried to stand. The world spun around him, and Spike needed to steady himself against the wall. Those vamps demanded money, but he wasn't in the mood to make any today. He'd live with the hunger today. All he wanted to do was head back to his little corner of the world and sleep, maybe lick his wounds and attempt to heal.
By the next night Spike was ready to hit the street again. No avoiding it, he needed to get back in the game. Needed blood to heal right and proper if he didn't want to be on the receiving end of another round of Kick the Spike. And he certain couldn't be empty-handed when the Mafiosos returned. If round one hurt like hell, he didn't want to press his luck with round two.
The other vamps were starting to emerge from the shadows as well. Contraband of every type was for sale. No one had claimed the windowsill that overlooked the sidewalk. He'd have the block free to himself. It seemed like as good of a perch to sit and wait as another.
***
That's when he saw him. Even without the shock of platinum hair or the long leather coat, he'd recognized him right away. He looked thinner than he'd ever seen him. Huddled in a ball, he sat precariously on a window ledge. Not dressed for the harsh elements, Spike tried his best to not look like he was shivering.
Angel didn't know what to expect as he approached him. It was amazing that he'd found him at all. The last thing he wanted was for Spike to bolt, so he approached slowly and asked, "Little cold to be without a coat, don't you think?"
Title: Thicker Than Water
Pairing: Angel/Spike
Rating: NC-17. If you're underage, be gone with you!
Summary: There have to be a thousand ways better to die than suicide by inertia.
Notes: Written for ladyoneill with the following requirements: broken characters, angst, and a vamp feeding from another one.
Warning: Pretty damn dark. References to character deaths. Did I mention dark?
Many thanks to ladyoneill for not killing me for taking two years to finish this and to lynnenne and kita0610 for bringing the Spangel love with this ficathon! I love you guys!
Thicker Than Water
By kellyhk
It was December, or at least that's what he thought it was. Didn't matter. Time stopped meaning anything some time last autumn. The snow had been a permanent fixture and would likely continue to blanket the ground for months, covering everything in a lifeless white. The nights had been tolerable when he'd first arrived, crisp and nowhere near freezing. But the money ran out as the days grew shorter. Those brisk, invigorating nights had yielded to something more painful and unforgiving. On a good day, when the sun would peek out for a few hours, it might inch toward the freezing point only to plummet once again when darkness fell.
Spike was stiff everywhere. He thought vamps weren't supposed to feel the cold. Sure that made sense when you had a roof over your head and three squares a day. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had enough blood in his belly to chase the hunger away, and it had been weeks since he'd been able to scrape together enough money to sleep somewhere that had running water or heat.
The sun had been up for an hour or so. He'd been up for three. The abandoned warehouse he'd sought shelter in did little to chase away the bone-aching chill, and the tattered army blanket draped over his shoulders offered little additional warmth. There were a few other transients in the building-drifters and junkies whose names he'd never come to know. Occasionally another vamp would pass through, sometimes to score a meal, other times just to seek shelter from the elusive sun. Didn't matter. He kept to himself, and the others left him alone. No one was there for camaraderie.
The demon population was actually pretty small. But who the hell would live in Siberia if they didn't have a choice, Spike thought to himself as he bundled his blanket back into his rucksack. God knew he hated this run-down river town. It wasn't like he ever planned to visit Irkutsk, let alone live there. Yet there he was, penniless and half-frozen.
On the run for what seemed like forever, he'd fled the chaos of Los Angeles well over a year ago. He had to. The Black Thorn never seemed that far behind. He and Angel had brought those bastards to a screeching halt for nothing more than a moment. And then all hell broke loose. He'd run one way, and Angel gone the other. At one time he'd heard that he and Gramps each had had a million dollar price on his head. Hell, for that price, he'd sell out the grandpoof himself. Only he had no idea where Angel was.
So he'd fled and never looked back. Felt like a bloody coward, but what else was there to do? Wait for them to kill him like they'd snuffed Charlie and Blue? By the time he'd reached Prague, he'd only had enough dosh in his pocket for a forged Russian visa and a one-way ticket on the Trans-Siberian Railway. What the hell, he knew enough phrases of Russian, and it was a big enough landmass that hopefully he could just vanish into the woodwork.
He didn't even like Irkutsk, he reminded himself and he patted down his pockets, his fingers itching to hold a cigarette. Tossing the empty pack he'd found in his coat pocket -something drab and obviously a leftover from the Soviet era - he rifled through the front pocket of his jeans in search of rubles. He found ten, just enough for a pack of the cheap smokes. He didn't have enough for anything else. Yeah, he knew he should save it for blood, or even a mattress in a filthy flophouse. But the nicotine would be enough to chase the hunger away that kept gnawing at his belly.
His boots, a size too large, slapped against the pavement as he headed toward the gastronom on Karl Marx Street. If there had been a bright center of the universe, then Irkutsk was the furthest city from it, he told himself. Sure, there was that pretty lake an hour's drive away that he'd heard about and knew he'd never see. But no matter how many times the locals tried to put lipstick on this dirty pig in attempt to lure tourists and commerce to the area, it was just another eastern European city that stank of diesel and death. Heroin junkies were everywhere. Seemed like everyone was hooked on smack. Those that didn't claim to be junkies were only lying to themselves. And with the drugs came crime and disease. The city was dying. He didn't need to be a doctor to make that diagnosis, and didn't have the energy to care. The north end of town was the worst, filled with the uncaring, the addicts and homeless. A good place as any to hide where everyone else surrounding you felt just as dead inside.
The sky was shrouded in clouds and threatened snow yet again. At least he'd be safe for his walk to the store. His left foot was cold and wet. There must've been a hole in his boot. Yet another thing he couldn't afford to replace. Maybe he could pack it with some newspaper or a plastic bag from the gastronom. Spike wished he had a hat to cover his head. He'd traded his leather coat in Budapest for a ticket to St. Petersburg. By the time he'd reached Moscow, he'd shed the blond hair in favor of a closely-cropped buzz that to help him blend in with the locals. Too bad "blending in" seemed to be synonymous with freezing to death.
The gastronom was nearly empty when he pushed open the door and walked inside. The clerk was putting a loaf of bread and some sausage into a customer's bag. When she finally left, Spike approached the counter. He recognized the clerk. Vadim something. Always had things to sell above and below the counter. He smiled at Spike and waved he closer.
Spike dug in his coat pocket and counted out eight of his ten rubles - literally pennies if he did the exchange in his head. "A pack of Primas," he said in Russian. He hadn't spoken the language in over a century, but been in Irkutsk long enough now that he wasn't struggling with it. He didn't stumble over the words as much as he'd used to. Some nights his dreams were even in Russian.
"Anything else?" Vadim asked, trying out his broken English. Leaning forward he whispered, "I just get small shipment of yak blood from Mongolia. Only liter or two, but I hear it is quite good."
Vadim had known Spike was a vamp from the first time he'd stepped into the gastronom. One of the few blokes he knew that spoke English.
Spike smiled even as his stomach rumbled. With ten rubles to his name, he didn't even have enough dosh to buy the cheap stuff like mutton or pig. "Just the smokes," he answered setting the cash on the counter.
The clerk counted the money before putting it in the register. "I tell you what." The guy was as shrewd as a used car salesman. "I keep for you for few more days. You change mind, you come back. If not, I sell to other."
Spike knew there were other vampires in town but never had any interest meeting one, even less fighting one. If Vadim couldn't hawk his wares today, he was sure there'd be other opportunities if Spike passed. "I'll keep that in mind," Spike answered, tearing open the cellophane wrapper and tossing the garbage on the counter.
He ripped open the pack, the aroma of tobacco was pungent and strong. The Primas were unfiltered, packed in two neat rows of ten and probably the only true bargain in this wasteland. He could stretch a pack to last almost a week. He didn't wait to go outside before he struck a match and inhaled the first puff. Stronger than anything he'd smoked in years, they tasted like shit and the nicotine had stained his fingers yellow.
"I keep blood for you," Vadim offered once again.
"Dasvedanya," Spike answered as he left the shop.
Eddies of smoke swirled around his face. The main drag was awakening for the morning. Storefronts were open for the day, and a city bus belched a cloud of oily exhaust into the air as it sped down the boulevard. University students scurried up the sidewalk before morning classes.
The morning train would be arriving from the west within the hour. As good of time as any to turn a trick. Fresh meat right off the train if he was lucky. For fifty rubles, he could give you a taste of death, that high some craved when the heroin wasn't enough. He still couldn't believe people actually paid to be bit. Was never enough to fill his belly. But it was plenty to push starvation off another day. For a hundred rubles, he'd drop to his knees and suck something else. Everything had a price -a liter of blood, a bed, a shower. Desperate times meant desperate measures.
The train was already in the station by the time he arrived. A handful of backpackers filtered through the station, no doubt in search of one of the few Spartan hostels in town. An armed soldier paraded through the station searching for contraband. The railway station was the hub for everything black market. Counterfeit American cigarettes, liquor, and sex. Heroin from Tajikistan and Afghanistan flooded out of the station every day. No sense even pretending that one soldier could stop it. What wasn't hidden in coffee cans and luggage was smuggled into the city within the human mules that risked their lives for not much more than pocket change and empty promises of a better life. Those who weren't selling were buying.
Spike stamped out his cigarette and made his way toward the men's restroom. The stalls were discrete enough. It's not like he was offering dinner and a movie after all. They served a purpose and didn't have to be romantic. Never had to advertise. They always seemed to find him, and today was no exception
"What are you selling?" a bloke drew near and whispered in his ear. The kid looked all of twenty and was already wasted. Pinpoint pupils and a glassy stare. Another heroin junkie looking for a different sort of rush.
Spike puffed up and tried his best to resuscitate his swagger he'd long lost. "Eternal life," he answered. Seemed to be the buzzword all of the vamps offering suck jobs used. Not that he was ever going to offer an idiot like this a true chance of immortality. He was there for the thrill and the high and nothing more.
They haggled over money for a moment or so. Spike hated lowering his asking price from fifty. Twenty-five rubles bought a lot of jack squat. Couldn't even lick the inside of an empty blood bag for that price. But he was hungry and was quite certain the vamp around the corner would underbid him if he didn't budge. So he settled for thirty-five.
"Are you clean?" the guy asked in Russian. AIDS, everyone was terrified of it these days. Slow and silent killer, it had spread through the junkie population like wildfire in only a matter of years, a reward for shared needles and endless bad choices.
"I'm a night creature," Spike said. Funny, he could dream and curse in Russian, but he'd never learned the phrase for "vampire." Didn't matter. It got his point across. "We don't get sick. Are we going to keep dancing or are you going to pay me?"
Spike pulled away when he saw the soldier looking his way. Sure, the wanker with a machine gun tended to look the other way with just about everything in the station, but he wasn't going to press his luck.
His client said nothing as he pressed seven five ruble notes into Spikes hand. He counted the quickly before folding them over and stuffing them in a pocket. He waited for the old lady to pass before he said, "Follow me."
He led the man into the lavatory. A fat businessman was pissing in one of the urinals, another washed his hands at one of the sinks. Spike waited for them to leave before he shoved his customer toward the last stall. He'd used it many times before. The toilet had long been kicked out, a favorite for those looking for a hit of smack, a fuck or, in his case, a snack.
Spike shoved the guy inside. The he bloke was nervous and fidgety. Spike could hear his heart beat racing. "First time?" Spike asked. Of course it was. The kid nodded anxiously as he bared his neck.
Spike couldn't suppress a laugh. The kid really was green. You never, ever bared your neck to a vamp even if you were paying him. Easiest way to bleed to death. First rule of survival. "No, sweetheart," he said slipping into English for a second. Seemed easier to mock that way without killing the transaction. He pulled the kid's coat off and shoved a sleeve over the elbow. Passive little shit, he thought to himself. Was he going to have to everything? He pointed to the bend in the kid's elbow. It was already riddled with needle tracks. Kid might be green with a vamp, but he was no stranger to chernaya, the local heroin concoction. "I'm going to bite you here," Spike explained in Russian.
The kid nodded and pressed his back to the far wall as Spike cornered him. Spike kicked the door to the stall shut and slid into gameface. No need for romantic pretenses. He took the proffered arm and sunk his teeth into that sweet spot in the crook of the other man's arm. The kid didn't need to worry about catching HIV from a tryst in a toilet. The bastard already had it. Tainted blood had its own distinct flavor. It tasted sick, like it was already dying. Poor sod, if the drugs didn't do him in, then the silent time bomb in his bloodstream certainly would.
Disease or not, Spike kept drinking, his tongue lapping at the fresh wound. It's not like he could catch it anyhow. Oh, how it was so tempting to drain this kid dry and abandon the empty husk. He wasn't sure it was his soul or just common sense that kept him from following through. A murder would accomplish nothing and likely dry up the supply of Happy Meals with legs, only no one ever seemed happy in this armpit of a town.
The kid's heartbeat had begun to quicken, a sure sign that it was time to pull off. It never seemed enough. But at that point, he no longer cared. His tongue was starting to go numb, and that warmth in his belly began to spread through his body. Closest thing to mainlining. The kid must've shot up recently with enough junk to satisfy a rhino. The rush was never this strong. He released the kid and staggered back as step. His vision blurred, and everything moved in slow motion. The bloke rode the bite high and slid to the floor satisfied as Spike joined him on the tiles. His head lolled back against the wall, and he let oblivion take him for a while.
He didn't remember the kid leaving. The hunger returned with a vengeance when the drugs wore off and so did a blinding headache. It had been years since he'd lived with that fucking chip in his head, but his headaches seemed scores worse since it had been removed. Right behind his eyes. An ice pick gouged out his brains. He picked himself off the floor headed to the sink, ignoring the wanker who eyed him suspiciously. Water trickled from the sink on the left. Turning the water on, Spike cupped his hand beneath the tap and took a drink to wash the stale taste of blood from his mouth. He took another sip before splashing some over his face. No seemed to notice - or care-- that he cast no reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he turned the water off and headed out. The day was still young.
***
The pickings were slim at the rail station. Some days would be busy enough to raise enough dosh to survive a week, but today was not one of them. For once people were more interested in scoring dope or young Georgian whores who couldn't be much older than fifteen. Spike managed to scrape out only one more trick before he called uncle and gave up. This time he only got twenty rubles.
Still not enough money in his pocket, but that soldier was starting to give him that look like he'd worn out his welcome. There'd be plenty of opportunities on the north side. Once the sun went down, the population of the warehouse district would triple, and no one would have to worry about a soldier watching your every move. Hell, the north side was one of those run down parts of town no self-respecting idiot-or cop for that matter-would visit if they could avoid it.
The sun was nearly set by the time Spike returned home, the dilapidated remains of an abandoned warehouse. It wasn't pretty, but it was home. Graffiti covered the walls both inside and out. Spent hypodermics lay among the rubble. The silhouette of a rat scampered past the doorway. Maybe he could grab a little kip before the night was in high swing.
Spike headed toward the stairs. He'd decided to sleep on the second floor. "Hello, comrade," a vampire said as he greeted him in Russian. He and his two friends were blocking the stairwell. "We need to have a word with you."
Spike felt himself slip into game face. Seemed like a natural thing to do when three goons you didn't know greeted you. "Is there a problem?" he asked. No sense pretending he couldn't understand them.
"This is our building," the leader explained. Spike hand instinctively went to his belt hoping to find a stake or anything to fight back but came up empty handed. The minions moved in and grabbed his arms. Today just went from bad to extra shitty in two seconds flat.
"Not a problem," Spike answered trying his best to sound nonchalant, as though getting jumped at dusk was an every day occurrence. "I'll move on. The city's big enough for all of us."
"You don't understand, comrade." The boss inched closer. "This is our city, and you are interfering with business." Since when did the Russian Mafia employ thug vamps? Did they have their hands in blood trafficking as well?
Spike held up his hands, trying his best not to look threatening. "Misunderstanding, mate," he said in English. Switching back to the local dialect, he added, "Didn't know I was getting in the way."
The boss nodded, and they dragged Spike into the stairwell. Half of the concrete steps were smashed or missing all together. Definitely Russian Mafia. He wasn't sure if it was the Izmailovskaya or the Tambov Gang. Didn't matter, they had their hooks in everything, even in this hellhole.
This was going to hurt. A lot. He was certain of it.
Spike struggled to break free as the boss leaned back and lit up a cigarette. He wasn't going down without a fight.
"Empty your pockets," Boss man demanded.
"Otyebis," Spike spat, telling them in no uncertain terms to fuck off.
A blow to the head, and Spike saw stars. Two more to the gut, and he wanted to drop to his knees. He was weaker than he'd thought, but wasn't going to let the wankers know otherwise.
The boss patted Spike down, pulling the pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket only to crush them in his fist and toss them to the ground in frustration. He finally hit pay dirt when he rifled though the front pocket of Spike's jeans and found money.
He counted out the bills and wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Only forty-five rubles?" He pocketed the money anyhow.
"What can I say?" Spike answered as he spat a mouthful of blood. "It was a slow day."
The boss moved closer, his fetid breath reeking of vodka mixed with the blood of a fresh kill. "Today is your lucky day. I'm going to let you live." Oh sure, there would probably be strings to this. With goons like this, there were always strings. "You are going to work for us."
Yeah, that was a great proposition, someone else's bitch in that extra circle of hell that nobody wrote about.
"We take seventy percent of everything you make." Head goon took another drag of his cigarette.
"What type of deal is that?" Spike wanted to know. "I can't survive on that. Might as well put a stake in me now!"
His head snapped back again. That bastard packed a punch. "Then you will have to work twice as hard."
"And if I don't pay you?" He wasn't going to go down with out a fight.
The boss pulled out a stake and pressed it against Spike's heart. "I wouldn't cross us, comrade," he warned, the tip pressing firmly against Spike's chest. "There are many ways to kill a vampire." Without warning he pulled the stake away and shoved it deep into Spike's side.
Spike bit back a scream as his vision went black for a moment. He felt his game face melt away as the blood soaked into his jeans below. They let him fall to his knees, and he weakly tried to extricate the weapon from his flank. It clattered to the concrete, sticky with blood as the boss added, "And there are hundreds of ways to make you wish we would kill you."
The thugs stepped over him as he curled into a ball. Everything hurt.
"We will be back Monday to collect," the boss said as he stepped on Spikes hand. "Do not let us down, little one."
Spike nodded to let them know he'd heard them as he pulled his crushed hand close to his body. A kick to the head, and the world went mercifully black.
***
He had no idea how long he'd been out, but could tell the sun was up even before he opened his eyes. Frost clung to his skin, and his eyelashes were frozen together. Must've been one hell of a cold night. No doubt he looked like the corpse he felt like. Spike groaned as he rolled to his back. The skin on his battered cheek burned as it ripped free from the equally frozen floor below. Only then did he realize his jacket and boots were missing, likely scavenged by one of the lowlifes that filled these warehouses at night. His backpack was gone as well, not that he had much in it.
"Son of a bitch," he said to himself. Dead broke, frozen and now the indentured servant of some idiot in the Russian mafia, he wished they'd let him drop a few feet more to the left where the sunlight was peeking through one of the broken windows in the stairwell. Then this goddamn existence would come to an end once and for all.
He slowly sat up. The stake lay on one of the steps and his crushed cigarettes were an arm's reach away. He tried to salvage one from the destroyed pack. Went as far as to pull a broken one out but thought otherwise. Crumpling the pack further, he tossed it against the wall in frustration. Tobacco exploded everywhere.
At least he'd stopped bleeding. That, or he'd simply ran out of reserves to ooze from the wound in his flank. The blood was frozen and congealed against his shirt. So this is what a deathcicle felt like. He pulled his loose sock back over his foot and tried to stand. The world spun around him, and Spike needed to steady himself against the wall. Those vamps demanded money, but he wasn't in the mood to make any today. He'd live with the hunger today. All he wanted to do was head back to his little corner of the world and sleep, maybe lick his wounds and attempt to heal.
By the next night Spike was ready to hit the street again. No avoiding it, he needed to get back in the game. Needed blood to heal right and proper if he didn't want to be on the receiving end of another round of Kick the Spike. And he certain couldn't be empty-handed when the Mafiosos returned. If round one hurt like hell, he didn't want to press his luck with round two.
The other vamps were starting to emerge from the shadows as well. Contraband of every type was for sale. No one had claimed the windowsill that overlooked the sidewalk. He'd have the block free to himself. It seemed like as good of a perch to sit and wait as another.
***
That's when he saw him. Even without the shock of platinum hair or the long leather coat, he'd recognized him right away. He looked thinner than he'd ever seen him. Huddled in a ball, he sat precariously on a window ledge. Not dressed for the harsh elements, Spike tried his best to not look like he was shivering.
Angel didn't know what to expect as he approached him. It was amazing that he'd found him at all. The last thing he wanted was for Spike to bolt, so he approached slowly and asked, "Little cold to be without a coat, don't you think?"