Chapter 5--Gathering Storm
Sorry about this--I posted the Chapters out of order! I have corrected the chapter titles to reflect this.
Chapter 5 Gathering Storm
Music: Santana, Samba Pa Ti
The past few days had not been good for Spike’s temper or anyone else’s. He’d snarled and snapped at everyone in the bar until Pepe’d pulled out the carving knife and laid it on the bar.
Spike threw the stub of his cigarette over the balcony and strode back inside, a low growl alerting the wary customers of his foul mood. His skin felt raw, like it’d been scoured with sand. He snatched a full bottle of tequila from behind the bar and slouched over to the window for yet another look out over the bay.
Illyria had been scouring the jungle for the past three days with no further luck and not allowing Fred a moment of time to surface; the temperature had soared past a hundred and a sickening brown tide had clogged up the bay with filth and dead seaweed. Doubtless a storm of one type or another was on the horizon.
Disappointed, Spike fell into his booth, a foot propped up on the opposite side, his eyes flickering over the small group of tourists lingering by the jukebox.
Three females, one older male.
It didn’t take a vampire’s nose to tell this was a Watcher with his flock of Slayer-wannabes. The girls kept cutting their eyes at him and he knew there was going to be trouble before long. He was sick of trouble, sick of Watchers and their ever-lasting enmity and occasional sour-faced apologies.
One of the girls, a dark-haired little beauty, dropped a handful of coins in the juke and punched up some loud music. She looked familiar-could she have been in Sunnydale?
The Watcher whispered something to the girls and they moved a little closer to his booth.
“Sorry, old man, but you should be staked through the heart even though you’d got a bloody soul.” He just wasn’t up for it anymore. Too bloody many years of fighting, too bloody memories of some of the best and worst of times in his long un-life. A snarl curled his lips and a resigned sigh followed. He strode toward the small group.
“All right then. Lets take it outside, Watcher.” The screen door slammed open and he stalked toward the beach. Startled, the newcomers stared for a moment then followed him down the steps at a run.
Spike paced across the sand, “Let’s get something straight, now Watcher. You know who I am, right? William the Bloody, recently resurrected yet again from hell. In full possession of a soul, and out to hurt no one unless you bloody well insist…”
“Wait, please sir…” One of the chits twittered, “We’ve come for your help! You’re our only hope!”
An eyebrow quirked north and a sarcastic grin twisted his lip, “Obi-wan, am I now? That right, Watcher?”
“Ahem, Nathan Cadwallader-Timsey at your service, Mr. Bloody. And yes, we’ve come for your help.”
“Spike. My name is Spike.” He gritted his teeth, “I’ve got no use for your fight, ‘m not your Dark Avenger of the Brooding Forehead.”
He turned and made to go back inside to the bar, “Got a good life here. Don’t want to get mixed up in your nonsense anymore.”
“Wait, please,” the blonde chit spoke up again, bravely grabbing his arm, “Please, Spike.” He sighed and stopped walking, feminine wiles ever-working their charms on him yet again, “We need your help.”
“End of the world time again, is it, pet? Seen a few too many of those.”
Cadwallader-Timsey spoke up again, “We’re not sure. There’ve been reports of something out in the water around here, some sort of disturbance. It could be that there is a Hell mouth opening undersea. The portents…”
“Portents? The witches sent you, then?”
“The San Francisco group lead by Miss Rosenberg requested our assistance, yes. She tells us that somewhere due east of Porto Gordo, a great deal of unusual demonic activity is showing up on her etheric maps.”
“Did Willow send you to me in particular?” His eyes were narrowed and dangerous.
As far as he knew, none of the Scoobies had any idea what had gone on the LA after the fall into Hell, nor had they any idea where he was.
He liked it that way.
“Oh no indeed. She located the disturbance, but some of the local people told us about you. You’re quite the local hero.”
He snarled again and shook his head. “No kind of hero, just doing what’s right. I just want a quiet place for me and mine. Away from all of that insanity. Looks like Porto Gordo ain’t it.”
“Spike,” a new voice called from the dimly lit beach, “I require your assistance immediately.”
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, “That’s it for this evening gentleman & ladies.” He strode into the blackness faster than human eyes could see.
Chapter 5 Gathering Storm
Music: Santana, Samba Pa Ti
The past few days had not been good for Spike’s temper or anyone else’s. He’d snarled and snapped at everyone in the bar until Pepe’d pulled out the carving knife and laid it on the bar.
Spike threw the stub of his cigarette over the balcony and strode back inside, a low growl alerting the wary customers of his foul mood. His skin felt raw, like it’d been scoured with sand. He snatched a full bottle of tequila from behind the bar and slouched over to the window for yet another look out over the bay.
Illyria had been scouring the jungle for the past three days with no further luck and not allowing Fred a moment of time to surface; the temperature had soared past a hundred and a sickening brown tide had clogged up the bay with filth and dead seaweed. Doubtless a storm of one type or another was on the horizon.
Disappointed, Spike fell into his booth, a foot propped up on the opposite side, his eyes flickering over the small group of tourists lingering by the jukebox.
Three females, one older male.
It didn’t take a vampire’s nose to tell this was a Watcher with his flock of Slayer-wannabes. The girls kept cutting their eyes at him and he knew there was going to be trouble before long. He was sick of trouble, sick of Watchers and their ever-lasting enmity and occasional sour-faced apologies.
One of the girls, a dark-haired little beauty, dropped a handful of coins in the juke and punched up some loud music. She looked familiar-could she have been in Sunnydale?
The Watcher whispered something to the girls and they moved a little closer to his booth.
“Sorry, old man, but you should be staked through the heart even though you’d got a bloody soul.” He just wasn’t up for it anymore. Too bloody many years of fighting, too bloody memories of some of the best and worst of times in his long un-life. A snarl curled his lips and a resigned sigh followed. He strode toward the small group.
“All right then. Lets take it outside, Watcher.” The screen door slammed open and he stalked toward the beach. Startled, the newcomers stared for a moment then followed him down the steps at a run.
Spike paced across the sand, “Let’s get something straight, now Watcher. You know who I am, right? William the Bloody, recently resurrected yet again from hell. In full possession of a soul, and out to hurt no one unless you bloody well insist…”
“Wait, please sir…” One of the chits twittered, “We’ve come for your help! You’re our only hope!”
An eyebrow quirked north and a sarcastic grin twisted his lip, “Obi-wan, am I now? That right, Watcher?”
“Ahem, Nathan Cadwallader-Timsey at your service, Mr. Bloody. And yes, we’ve come for your help.”
“Spike. My name is Spike.” He gritted his teeth, “I’ve got no use for your fight, ‘m not your Dark Avenger of the Brooding Forehead.”
He turned and made to go back inside to the bar, “Got a good life here. Don’t want to get mixed up in your nonsense anymore.”
“Wait, please,” the blonde chit spoke up again, bravely grabbing his arm, “Please, Spike.” He sighed and stopped walking, feminine wiles ever-working their charms on him yet again, “We need your help.”
“End of the world time again, is it, pet? Seen a few too many of those.”
Cadwallader-Timsey spoke up again, “We’re not sure. There’ve been reports of something out in the water around here, some sort of disturbance. It could be that there is a Hell mouth opening undersea. The portents…”
“Portents? The witches sent you, then?”
“The San Francisco group lead by Miss Rosenberg requested our assistance, yes. She tells us that somewhere due east of Porto Gordo, a great deal of unusual demonic activity is showing up on her etheric maps.”
“Did Willow send you to me in particular?” His eyes were narrowed and dangerous.
As far as he knew, none of the Scoobies had any idea what had gone on the LA after the fall into Hell, nor had they any idea where he was.
He liked it that way.
“Oh no indeed. She located the disturbance, but some of the local people told us about you. You’re quite the local hero.”
He snarled again and shook his head. “No kind of hero, just doing what’s right. I just want a quiet place for me and mine. Away from all of that insanity. Looks like Porto Gordo ain’t it.”
“Spike,” a new voice called from the dimly lit beach, “I require your assistance immediately.”
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, “That’s it for this evening gentleman & ladies.” He strode into the blackness faster than human eyes could see.