Chosen

by Nancy Holder

  “And . . . ?” Giles prodded him.

  “No ‘and.’ That’s it,” Spike shot back. He looked at Buffy. “Shouldn’t you check on Dawn? Clocked the niblet pretty fierce.”

  “She’ll be okay,” Buffy told him. “She’s tough.”

  * * *

  Willow and Anya were taking care of Dawn upstairs. She had a bad gash on her head and as Willow ministered to her, she said, “Ow!”

  “Sorry,” Willow said. “It doesn’t look like anything’s broken.”

  “Did you use a magick X-ray?” Dawn asked.

  “No, it’s just what people usually say,” Willow told her.

  Looking on, Kennedy tried to process what was going on. “So Spike’s trigger’s been active the entire time?”

  Rona was shocked. “How can Buffy take this for granted? He lives in our house! We’ve trained with him!”

  Anya waved a hand. “Don’t waste your time. Spike’s got some sort of ‘get out of jail free’ card that doesn’t apply to the rest of us. I mean, he could slaughter a hundred frat boys . . .” Then, seeing the looks on Xander and Dawn’s faces, she moved to pretend all was well, by saying, “Forgiveness makes us human, blah blah blah blah . . .”

  The phone had rung, and Andrew had gone to get it. He said, “Willow, a call for you from L.A. Somebody named Fred? Guy sounds kind of effeminate.”

  * * *

  Down in the basement, Buffy unchained Spike, to Giles’s dismay. Buffy pulled her former Watcher aside and whispered, “This is pointless, Giles. He doesn’t know anything. Your prophylactic stone didn’t work.”

  “Because he’s not cooperating,” Giles insisted. “This process takes time. He’s blocking whatever’s flooding his consciousness, and as long as he does so, he’s endangering us all.”

  Robin joined the conversation. “So the trigger’s still working?”

  “As much as ever,” Giles replied.

  * * *

  And he was back in his London townhouse, with her, so beautiful in her black lace, her black eyes, her black heart . . . Drusilla, his love, his passion, his sire . . .

  “Oooh, such a pretty house you have, sweet Willy,” she cooed. “Smells of daffodils and viscera.”

  “Don’t get too attached now,” he cautioned her, pleased, “Won’t be here for long now, love.”

  “Well then . . .” She sat on the couch, patted it insistently. “Shall we give it a proper good-bye?”

  “You are a saucy one, aren’t you?” he asked. He grinned at her, plopped down next to her, and pulled her up and over his lap, burning her lips twixt his . . .

  “Oh, Dru, we’ll bring this world to its knees,” he said hotly.

  “It’s ripe and ready, my darling,” she rejoined. “Waiting for us to devour its fruit.”

  “We’ll ravage this city together, my pet,” he vowed. “Lay waste to all of Europe. The three of us will teach these snobs and elitists with the folderol just what—”

  “Three?” she echoed cautiously.

  “You, me, and Mother,” he answered, missing the darkness in her tone. “We’ll open up their veins and bathe in their blood as they scream our names across the . . .” He saw her expression. “What?”

  “You . . . you want to bring your mum with us?” she asked.

  “Well, yeah,” he answered. “You’ll like her.”

  “To eat, you mean?”

  He grinned at her good joke. And then . . .

  “William?”

  His poor mum walked painfully into the parlor. She had gotten worse; she used a walking stick now.

  “Mother!”

  He was a bit abashed to have been caught on the couch with an unmarried woman, but before he could explain, she continued, “Where have you been? I’ve been beside myself for days . . .”

  He puffed up a bit. He had such news about his activities!

  “You needn’t have worried, Mother,” he assured her. “You’ll never have to worry about anything again. Something . . . has happened. I’ve changed.”

  She looked at him with puzzlement; her gaze swept over to Drusilla.

  “Who . . . who is the woman?”

  Drusilla rose and glided toward her. “I’m the other that gave birth to your son.”

  “I beg your pardon?” His mother was astonished.

  “It’s true, Mother,” William said excitedly. “Drusilla . . . she has made me what I am. I’m no longer bound to this mortal coil.” He straightened his shoulders. “I have become a creature of the night. A vampire.”

  His mother was completely bewildered.

  “Are you drunk?”

  “Little bit,” he admitted. He moved to her. “Think of it. No more sickness. No more dying. You’ll never age another day. Let me do this for you.”

  He reached out to touch her, but she drew away from him.

  “What are you talking about?” she asked him. “And why are you acting so strangely?”

  “It’s all right, Mother,” he told her. “It’s only me.” He embraced her tenderly. “We’ll be together forever.”

  Then he changed into a vampire, and as he held her, prepared to bring her into eternal health. “It only hurts for a moment,” he promised her.

  * * *

  Spike jerked out of his memories, aware that Buffy had unchained him. She was watching him closely and would have said something, except that Willow trotted down the stairs, announcing, “Hey, I just got a call. I’m going to have to take off for a little while. Maybe a day or so . . .”

  “Is something wrong?” Buffy asked her anxiously.

  “Nothing you need worry about,” Willow answered. “I’ll give you the full scoop later. Hopefully I’ll bring back some good news.”

  Buffy looked first at her, then at Spike.

  “Could use a little of that.” She shrugged. “Okay. Guess now’s as good a time as we’re likely to see for a while. Just hurry back.”

  As the Wicca went back upstairs, Giles said to Buffy, “Think about what you’re doing.”

  She bit off, “I have unchained Spike.”

  “Buffy . . . ,” he began.

  She turned away from him. “Don’t.”

  She and Spike headed upstairs as well. Giles was just about to follow when Robin Wood said, sotto voce, “Mr. Giles, do you have a moment?”

  Watching Buffy and Spike go on up, Giles turned to the young man.

  “What’s on your mind?” he asked.

  “Same thing that’s on yours,” Robin said. He looked toward the top of the stairs. “We’ve got ourselves a problem.”

  Giles understood.

  “Spike,” he said.

  Robin nodded. “If that trigger’s still working, The First must be waiting for the right time to use it against us. Awhile back it slipped up, told Andrew ‘it wasn’t time yet for Spike.’ Whatever The First’s ultimate plan is, Spike must be an integral part in that.

  “Something needs to be done.”

  They stood looked at each other like two courtiers planning to depose the king—nervous, frightened, building up their resolve.

  “Buffy would never allow it,” Giles murmured.

  “Buffy would listen to her Watcher, wouldn’t she?” Robin asked.

  Giles smiled wryly. “I don’t think you know very much about the Watcher/Slayer dynamic.”

  Wood gave him a look. “As a matter of fact, I was raised by a Watcher.”

  Giles blurted, “You what?”

  “Bernard Crowley,” Robin filled in. “Took me in when I was a young boy. Trained me.”

  Giles processed that. “Crowley . . . I remember the name. New York–based Watcher. Resigned shortly after his Slayer was . . .”

  Giles was stunned. “You’re Nikki Wood’s son.”

  “Yes,” Robin told him.

  And there it was: “Spike killed your mother.” A beat, as the full ramifications hit home. “Does Buffy know this?”

  “She knows my mother was a Slayer,” Robin told him. “She doesn’t
know about Spike.”

  “And this has nothing to do with personal vengeance,” Giles said with supreme understatement.

  “Does it matter?” Robin pressed his advantage. “He’s an instrument of evil. He’s going to prove to be our undoing in this fight. Buffy’s undoing. And she will never, never see it coming.”

  And then he brought home his case.

  “Now, I’m talking about what needs to be done for the greater good. You know I’m right.”

  Giles took his time.

  “What . . . exactly do you propose?”

  “I just need you to keep Buffy away for a few hours.”

  Giles’s silence was his consent.

  . . . whereby we’ll kill a king . . .

  * * *

  It was night, just the two of them, a Slayer grown up, and a Watcher toughened, seasoned . . . and determined. Giles could tell she was ignorant of the true purpose of the mission as they walked together through the graveyard.

  “I dunno, Giles,” she said. “Is this really a primo time for a training mission?”

  “I’m still your teacher, Buffy,” he asserted. “And no matter how adept a Slayer you are, there’ll always be new things to learn. Now more than ever it’s crucial to maintain the focus upon your calling.”

  She gave him a look as they walked along. “You’re talking to me like I’m sixteen again.”

  “Sometimes the most effective way of moving forward is to start at the beginning,” he observed. Words to live by . . . we started together so long ago. Though I knew my calling was vital, I did not want to become a Watcher. Nor did she take on the burden of Slayer with any joy. Now we have young Potentials to protect . . . the only children she . . . and I as well, will have, of that I’ve no doubt. They are our investment.

  They are the power of the Slayer line, and we must do everything we can to protect them.

  They came to a stop near a fresh grave. Buffy turned to him, saying, “In case you haven’t noticed, our plates are kind of full right now. Plus, not sure how I feel about Robin looking after Spike at his place.”

  He said frostily, “For what it’s worth, everyone in your house seemed quite relieved by the arrangement.” Then, “Buffy I may not technically be your Watcher anymore, but the fact that your life is such chaos only underscores the importance of the lessons I can impart to you.”

  She shrugged. “Fine. Impart away.”

  So he began. “We are on the verge of war. It’s time we looked at the big picture.”

  “Hello?” She sounded incredulous. “All I do is look at the big picture. The other day I gave an inspirational speech to the telephone repairman.”

  “It takes more than rousing speeches to lead, Buffy,” he pressed on. “If you’re going to be a general, you need to make the difficult decisions, regardless of the cost.”

  “Have you seen me with those girls? The way I’ve treated my friends and my family? And Andrew? Believe me, I know how to make hard decisions.”

  “Well, that’s what we’re here to find out, while we work on the basics.”

  Behind them, a hand shot from the fresh grave. They both glanced at it: new vampire, about to emerge.

  * * *

  Wood escorted Spike past the door to his apartment and toward the padlocked side door of his garage. Spike was a bit taken aback.

  “Live in a garage?” he asked.

  As Wood started unlocking the padlock, he said, “This is just my work room. Kind of my . . . sanctuary.”

  “Little place to unwind, huh,” Spike ventured, while Wood opened the door and started inside.

  “Hard day principal-ing got you down, you need a place to cut loose, let down your hair. So to speak.”

  They were inside and stood in darkness for a moment. Not a problem for Spike, who, as a vampire, could see in the dark . . . and then the lights went on and he registered the dozens and dozens of crosses, all shapes and sizes, blanketing the walls. It looked like something out of the bloody Omega Man

  “What the bloody hell’s this?” he demanded. He felt as if he had just swallowed ice.

  Wood said affably, “I told you. My sanctuary. It’s the Hellmouth, Spike. You can never be too careful.”

  On a tool bench sat a laptop, surrounded by bookcases filled with books. Wood gestured. “Stay away from the walls. You’ll be all right.”

  Spike looked around the room. “Bit much, in’it?” He scrutinized the principal. “What’s your story, Wood?”

  He turned on the computer. A menu came up and he began to type. Spike’s spider sense was tingling.

  “No story, really,” he said. “Trying to do what’s right, make a difference.” He looked over his shoulder at Spike. “How about you? What kind of man are you, Spike?”

  “Sorry,” Spike said tersely. “Not much for self-reflection.”

  “Yeah,” Wood replied, equally tense. “Makes sense.”

  Whatever the principal had on the screen appeared to satisfy him. Then he pulled open a large drawer in the bench. Spike couldn’t see what was inside, but it had caught the man’s attention.

  “See,” the man said, “you strike me as the type of guy who careens through life completely oblivious to the damage he’s doing to everyone around him.”

  Spike bristled. “That right?”

  “I know more about you than you think, Spike,” Wood continued. “I’ve been searching for you for a very . . . very long time.” He glared at the vampire. “Ever since you killed my mother.”

  Spike’s anxiety level decreased. Oh, is this all that’s about.

  “Killed a lot of people’s mothers,” he said.

  Robin turned back around and said in a dangerous voice, “Oh, you’d remember mine.”

  Then, as Spike looked on, he fastened metal braces onto his arms, one extending down to end in a rack of brass knuckles, bit of gladiator-style studded spike at the base of the elbow. The other brace was smaller, fitting over his hand like a wrist protector.

  “She was a Slayer,” Wood added, with soft, deadly menace.

  Ah. It all came together in one package wrapped in revenge. “So that’s it, is it? Brought me here to kill me?”

  Wood slowly turned around to face him. “No. I don’t want to kill you, Spike. I want to kill the monster who took my mother from me.”

  Then he tapped a key on the laptop, and from the speakers spilled a Scots Joan Baez-like folk version of Spike’s mother’s favorite song:

  “Early one morning, just as the sun was rising . . . ”

  Spike tensed, gaze darting with fear as his face morphed . . . No, no . . .

  “Oh, there he is,” Robin Wood said calmly, staring at the enraged vampire

  Nikki the Vampire Slayer’s son had called out his enemy.

  * * *

  It was night in their London townhouse. Spike had left with Dru to hunt, and now was back to check on his mother. He had no idea how long the transformation should take; he did hope that he had returned in time to see her blossom into eternal life.

  He saw her nowhere—did see, however, the bloodstains on the settee, where he’d reclined her lifeless body. Her walked stick was propped up by the fireplace.

  “Mother?” he called.

  Then her heard her music box, the dulcet tones of their song tinkling over the stillness: “Early one morning . . .”

  His mother walked into the light, radiant with health and smiling brightly at him; in her arms she carried her music box.

  “Hello, William,” she said.

  He was overjoyed. “Look at you,” he murmured delightedly.

  “Mm, yes, all better.” Her eyes were clear. She was truly well.

  “You’re glowing,” he went on happily.

  She focused on the music box almost dreamily. “Am I? I suppose I have you to thank for that, don’t I?” She looked up at him. “How will I ever repay you?”

  “Seeing you like this is payment enough,” he assured her.

  “Oh, William, you’re
so . . . tender,” she said sweetly, smiling up at her boy.

  “Well, this is as it should be, Mother. You and I, together. All of London laid out before us.”

  “Aaah, yes. Us.” Smiling to herself, she set down the music box and closed it.

  “First we’ll feast,” he told her. “And then the night is yours. The theater perhaps. Dancing. Tell me. What’s your pleasure?”

  “Pleasure?” She never lost her enigmatic smile as she said, “To take my leave of you, of course.”

  At his confusion, a cruel smile replaced her sweetness. “The lark hath spake from twixt its week beak,” she mocked. “You honestly thought I could bear an eternity listening to that twaddle?”

  CRACK!

  The memories were forcibly beaten from Spike’s brain as Wood hit him in the face. Feral, instinctual, the vampire snarl and struck back, hard.

  “That’s right, dog,” Wood said, bleeding and filled with hatred. “Bite back.”

  Then the principal’s studded elbow slammed into Spike’s jaw.

  CRACK!

  William’s vampiric mother smiled at him in a way mothers ought not smile at sons.

  “I hate to be cruel . . .” She stopped, thought about that, and started again. “No. I don’t,” she corrected. “I used to hate to be cruel. In life. I find it quite . . . freeing.” She gazed coldly at him and added, “Nothing less will pry your greedy little fingers off my apron strings, will it?”

  He was horrified. “Stop, please.”

  “Ever since the day you first slithered from me, like a parasite. Had I known, I would spared myself a lifetime of tedium and dashed your brains out when I first saw you.”

  CRACK!

  Robin slammed the demonic murderer across the face, ramming him—it—against the cross-laden wall with one arm across the throat, the other pummeling its abdomen. Smoke sizzled as the crosses burned the hellspawn, and it howled.

  CRACK!

  “God, how I prayed you’d find a woman to release me,” William’s mother flung at him, advancing on him. “But you scarcely showed an interest. Who could compare to your doddering, housebound mum? A captive audience for your witless prattle?”

  CRACK!

  The crosses on the wall seared the monster’s face as Robin held it there; then, wild with pain and fury, the demon shoved Robin off him, sending him sailing . . . and shouting in English—almost like a person—“Nooooo!”