Spike lowered his eyes and stared at the floor.
The colonel finished his oath solemnly.
“In seinem Namen,” the other humans repeated.
Dirk took his father’s sword and shoved the blade into a pit of hot coals.
Klaus clasped Koch’s shoulder, welcoming him into the fold. “Sie sind jetzt mit uns.”
Ingrid walked over and slipped a brown robe over Koch’s head.
“Danke.” The colonel clicked his heels together with an abrupt bow. Then he joined the others of his species.
Spike wanted out of the room, out of the castle, and out of Germany, but his ceremonial obligations weren’t over yet. Machida still had to be fed.
Ilse and Frieda lit more candles.
Klaus knelt and slipped off his robe, revealing diamond-shaped scars that had been burned into his chest, arms, and back. Dirk removed the heated sword from the coals and burned a new line on his father’s back. When he was done, Ingrid placed a green robe onto Klaus’s shoulders.
The teenage girls whimpered, too frightened or exhausted to scream.
Klaus walked to a stone altar and shook three stones out of a leather pouch. He washed them with wine, picked up the sword, and held it point down in front of him. “Machida.”
“In seinem Namen,” the others said.
“Wir, die Sie dienen,” Klaus continued.
Otto softly repeated the incantation in English for Spike. “We who serve you, we who receive all that you bestow, call upon you in this holy hour. We have no wealth . . .”
Neither do I, Spike thought. No wealth and no patience for this prattle. The lack of spontaneity and innovation in the ritual was annoying and offensive, an insult to the dark nobility of evil. Machida was a demonic disgrace, content with a monotonous ritual his followers had practiced unchanged for centuries, demanding nothing but a meager repast.
“. . . no possession except what you give us,” Otto went on. “We have no power, no place in the world except that which you give us.”
Fools, Spike thought, wishing the sordid business was done so he could be on his way. No amount of wealth and power was worth his self-respect.
“Accept our offering, Dark Lord,” Otto mumbled, “and bless us with your power.”
“Machida!” Klaus intoned as he dropped each of the three stones onto the altar, before continuing to speak in German to the demon.
The reptilian demon exploded out of the tunnel, rising on his massive tail, his webbed arms outstretched to embrace the maiden offerings. Dark eyes glittered from sunken holes in a humanoid head covered with scales. He roared, revealing white teeth set in bloodred flesh.
Otto swayed as though in a trance, repeating the words he had heard every year for four hundred years. “For he shall rise from the depths, and we will tremble before him. He who is the source of all we inherit and all we possess. Machida.”
The girls screamed. Spike was silent as humans and demons chanted the beast’s name over and over again. Lars and Dirk freed the goat girl and dragged her toward the demon.
Spike blocked the sounds and smells of the voracious slaughter from his senses. He wasn’t squeamish. He had engaged in melees of wanton murder many times, but Machida’s followers had forfeited control of their own destinies, and that repulsed him.
When it was over, Spike tried to slip away. The floor was slick with blood, and the stagnant air was haunted by the whispered shrieks of all who had died within the dungeon walls. He almost didn’t turn when Klaus called him back, speaking in halting English.
“Otto tells me you’re leaving, Spike.”
“I’ve seen enough here,” Spike retorted, cloaking a snide response with innocuous words.
“Not everyone is content to stay in one place,” Klaus said. “I respect that, but I also owe you for the work you’ve done.”
Spike bit back a flippant comment when Klaus reached under his robe and pulled out an envelope.
“My driver will take you to Madrid tomorrow night.” Klaus handed Spike the envelope. “New papers and enough money to take you wherever you want to go from there.”
“Thank you.” As Spike started up the stairs, Klaus called after him again. He paused to look down.
“Since you’ll be in Madrid, you might want to check out the address in the envelope as well.” Klaus smiled. “That is, if you’re interested in a free virgin-blood party.”
Atlantic Ocean
1943
Spike had gone to Madrid and the party. One minute he was asking why all the girls looked like Geobbels, and the next he was waking up on a bloody submarine at the bottom of the deep blue sea.
Spike swore as he forced his arms and legs to move faster in the cold water. Of course, what the Nazis wanted with demons was no longer a mystery. There had been official papers aboard the sub that spelled it all out. The Nazis were experimenting on vampires to “stimulate and control” their brains. Controlled vampires could be conscripted into a formidable, if not unbeatable, army. As long as the ranks don’t get caught in the rising sun, Spike thought.
Angelus had ended up on the sub because the American government was engaged in similar demonic studies. A group called the Human Research Initiative had blackmailed Angelus into mounting a one-vampire rescue mission to get back the stolen German submarine. Spike hadn’t known that until he overheard Angelus talking with Lawson, before Angelus bit the mortally wounded man to save him.
Twenty-four Hours Earlier
Sitting in the captain’s chair entertained Spike for sixty seconds. No one in the crew jumped to get him a drink, and Angelus had gone with Ensign Lawson. Curious, Spike crept toward the forward compartment.
“. . . apparently they’re in the SS,” Lawson said.
Angelus was quick to reply. “Spike’s not in the SS. He just likes wearing the jacket.”
Too bad it isn’t bloody Colonel Koch’s jacket, Spike thought. Klaus had betrayed him as a gesture of good faith to his new pal in the SS. The colonel had been waiting to nab him at the virgin-blood party in Madrid.
“Yeah, that doesn’t help me understand why we’re working with him,” Lawson pressed. “Or keeping him alive for that matter.”
“I’ve got him under control,” Angelus shot back.
“That’s not the point.” Lawson’s temper flared. “He killed my captain, sir.”
“We may be able to use them,” Angelus argued. “We don’t have much of a crew left.”
Sorry about that. Spike frowned, wondering what he had to do to get a drink. Angelus wouldn’t let him kill anyone else until they reached land.
“I don’t think we’ll need them.” Lawson wouldn’t give up.
Neither would Angelus. “They’re extra hands.”
“They’re monsters,” Lawson countered. “And I don’t know why we’re—”
Angelus cut him off. “You don’t need to know why. We’ve got to bring this sub in. Those are our orders.”
So that’s how it is. Spike returned to the captain’s chair to think. He didn’t know why Angelus was working for the Americans or why he wanted to get the sub to the States. He didn’t really care. Angelus had stood up for him against a Yank who wanted him dead.
Atlantic Ocean
1943
Spike crawled up the beach and rolled onto his back to stare at the stars. A few still sparkled in a dark sky slowly fading to gray. He had a few minutes before the killer sun rose, and there were several summer homes within sprinting distance.
He had things to think about. Riddles. Life was filled with too much irony for it to be accidental.
If the Americans hadn’t captured the German sub, he’d be lying on some Nazi scientist’s lab table with his head cut open. Then, although Angelus had been sent to save the Yanks from Spike and his vampire mates, Angelus had taken his side against the ensign.
So I owe Angelus one, Spike thought. Two, actually. His old friend and mentor had also saved him from the Human Research Initiative. He had no doub
t about that. If Angelus hadn’t put him off the boat, the superscience folk would have grabbed him the instant he stepped off the deck. He’d rather swim a lagoon full of man-eating sharks than tangle with the toggle-and-circuit crowd on either side of the Atlantic.
If Angelus was smart, he’d jump ship too—before it reached port.
Spike staggered to his feet and headed for the nearest bungalow. He was anxious to see Dru, but he couldn’t shake a sense of shared destiny with Angelus. Was that it? The ironic reason that explained the inexplicable? Spike didn’t know, but one thing was clear: No matter how long he and Angelus were separated, they were irrevocably bound by the lineage of blood that had made them.
Chapter Nine
Sunnydale
October 1997
Adozen questions swirled in Spike’s mind as he headed back to the factory from the induction ceremony at Delta Zeta Kappa. When had Machida moved from Bavaria to Southern California? Perhaps, since Klaus von Hardt was a Nazi sympathizer, he had been forced to abandon Black Thorn Castle when the Allies arrived. Was Tom Warner, the fraternity man named on the delivery receipt, a descendant of Frieda and Lars Warner? Had Otto and the other castle demons survived, or ended up in a Nazi lab? He wondered, but the past was a matter of curiosity, and irrelevant. The present was critical.
Dru would have to accept a young college man posing as a monk as a substitute for the Slayer’s mom. Spike had too much on his mind to care if she destroyed all her dolls or stopped talking to him for a day or two. Dru would eat whomever he brought home, or go hungry.
“Where is everybody?” Spike strode through the factory toward the Anointed One’s overturned metal tub. The minions were usually lounging about the large room, playing poker for cockroaches, and arm wrestling, among other mindless diversions. It was long after sundown, and the room was empty.
Lucius scurried down the metal stairs from the upper floor. “Did you want something, Spike?”
“Yeah, I’ve got an announcement.” Annoyed, Spike glanced up the stairs. “Are they up there?”
“Everyone except Dorian and Garbo,” Lucius said. “They left at sunset to search for the book.”
“I’m glad to hear they’re taking that job seriously.” Spike nodded, pleased. “But I have something to tell the others.”
“Maybe I should deliver a message,” Lucius suggested with a sheepish shrug. “After what happened to Hank, everyone’s freaked.”
“Whatever.” Spike wasn’t going to coddle the crew. He needed all his coddling energies to placate Dru. “Just get them down here before I get back. Ten minutes. Everyone eats tonight.”
Spike sent Lucius away without disclosing the details. The underlings would hunt, but with restrictions. He didn’t want to kill anyone else because they couldn’t wait five minutes and jumped the gun.
“Where is she?” Dru looked up from Miss Martha’s funeral basket when Spike walked in. “I’ve been rehearsing a lit’le speech about her treacherous Slayer spawn and how you’re going to kill her.”
“The Slayer’s mum is off the menu, Dru,” Spike said. There was no point making excuses or fudging the facts. Dru always knew when he was lying. That was the downside of her erratic prescience.
“A cart is no good without a pony.” Dru’s eyes darkened with rage. “Did Miss Martha die for nothing?”
“No, Dru,” Spike said. “She died because you don’t need her anymore.”
Dru’s brow furrowed as she grasped the meaning of his words. “I’ll be better soon. Then I won’t need the tonic.”
“Very soon, and then you’ll be too busy to bother with dolls.” Spike put his arms around her. He was determined to restore her physical health, but there wasn’t a miracle cure for the vagaries of her deranged mind. “Dorian and Garbo are out now, searching for the book with the recipe to make you right.”
“Are you going to spoil the nasty boys’ party?” Dru asked, changing the subject as she pressed against him.
Spike suspected it was a trick question and groped for the right answer. “Only so I can steal a snake demon’s tidbit girls for you, pet.”
“Girls are nice,” Dru said. “When I’m better, will I be all sugar and spice, like gumdrops?”
Sunnydale
September 2002
“. . . sugar and spice and everything . . .” Warren faltered, his voice steeped in loathing for girls. “. . . useless unless you’re bacon.”
The apparition was making less sense than Dru, Spike realized. He had usually been able to figure out what Drusilla meant. The Other apparently had a problem with women, and Warren—who had used spells and built robots to get a date—was the ideal vehicle for Its anger.
“I’m more than that,” Warren said, seething with indignation. “More than flesh . . .”
The flesh is not what burns, Spike thought. His mind burned with memories of things that never were and couldn’t be because of a nibble on his neck and the taste of blood. He had the spark now, but it didn’t fit right, and he would never have the girl because of flesh . . . and blood.
“. . . more than blood,” Glory continued where Warren left off. “I am—you know, I honestly don’t think there’s a human word fabulous enough for me.”
Even in his delirium, Spike could think of a few. Vile, malevolent, fiendish, conceited, reprehensible, depraved . . .
“Oh, my name will be on everyone’s lips, assuming their lips haven’t been torn off.” Glory smiled. “But not just yet.”
But soon, Spike thought. Something was coming, something big and ugly that blond curls and red silk couldn’t disguise, something from beneath to end it all. This time he knew, expected it. Not the punch line to a cruel joke, not blindsided—
Sunnydale
October 1997
The minions made no sound as they climbed over the cemetery wall. Spike stood on the curved tree trunk, watching as each one vanished into the dark woods. Letting them hunt the Delta Zeta Kappa party would solve two problems: After the hungry vampires were fed, they’d stop moping, complaining, and getting on his nerves. And the fraternity with its resident demon would take the blame for the dead bodies the police found on the grounds.
Machida had changed location, but Spike was certain that no aspect of the reptile’s tedious MO had changed. The snake still bribed ambitious men to kidnap girls, chant his praises, and mutilate themselves with white-hot swords. In return for playing medieval dress-up and performing his inane ritual, Machida’s followers enjoyed excessive wealth and success. The pattern had been repeated without deviation for centuries. No one knew what would happen if Machida missed a meal.
But we’ll find out tonight, Spike thought with a smug smile. He’d kill the parasite Machida for fun. Certainly the snake’s paltry contributions to the accumulated works of evildoers wouldn’t be missed. More important, the bank accounts, businesses, and reputations of the demon’s disciples and their heirs would go down the sodding drain. Easy come, easy go, Spike thought, snagging Lucius as he dropped to the ground.
“Everyone hunts from the woods along the drive and parking area,” Spike told his lieutenant. “Any party people catch a glimpse of a vampire, and someone gets a stake for dessert.”
“Nobody will see us,” Lucius assured him.
“Good. This gala will probably go on a couple more hours, plenty of time for the crew to feed,” Spike said. “Then I want everyone gone, except you and Chain. I’ll be waiting in the trees out front.”
“I’d rather bring Gator,” Lucius said. “He moves faster and doesn’t ask questions.”
“Your call.” Spike had no intention of disappointing Dru twice in one night. He’d needed reliable help to take the three girls from their captors and transport them back to the factory. “We’re going to bust some monk-boy chops and steal a demon’s dinner.”
After Lucius ran into the woods, Spike slipped into stealth mode—not invisible, but unnoticed—as he scouted the house. He had a clear view of the party rooms through severa
l open windows. Loud music blared from multiple speakers mounted inside and out. The hacienda was packed, and the overflow spilled out onto the lawns. Young men and women danced and flirted with drinks in hand. A few odd men out were being rude and obnoxious, a universal behavior when money, position, and birthright gave lesser men power over those who were common-born, smarter, and better looking. He’d be doing the whole bloody world a favor when he killed the golden goose that supported these privileged losers.
“Remember your manners.” A man in a dark blazer admonished two men who were ogling women and making crude comments.
One of the jerks nudged the other. “That’s Tom Warner, the top gun around here. Better do what he says.”
He even looks like Lars, Spike thought as Tom walked into the next room. That didn’t prove the young man was descended from Frieda and Lars, but it was a stretch to think the presence of Machida and the family resemblance was a coincidence.
Since the fraternity wouldn’t begin the ritual to call Machida until the party was over, Spike had time to kill. He wandered over to the driveway to check on the minions.
Cars were parked bumper to bumper on both sides of the wide drive on the west side of the hacienda. The area under the arched portico spanning the road was brightly lit. The street lamps along the drive were spaced too far apart, and circles of light were separated by stretches of darkness. Spike hid in the shadows near the house and scanned for vampire activity.
A red corvette whipped up the drive and parked in front of the portico support. A tall, well-dressed young man in slacks and a blazer got out. The instant he slammed the car door closed, he disappeared. No one else noticed the sounds Spike’s enhanced hearing picked up: the muffled boy trying to scream as his captor dragged him into the trees.
Satisfied that his fearful followers were obeying his orders and keeping a low profile, Spike edged out of the shrubs to find a more private spot to have a smoke. The screech of tires caught his attention, and he flinched when a red sedan plowed into the back of a parked convertible. He realized the gods of irony were toying with him when he saw Cordelia Chase behind the wheel and the Slayer in the passenger seat.
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