| Summer Series 2002: The Journey of the Fool Story the 14th ~ Temperance By Kuzibah |
| Disclaimer: Spike is not mine, more's the pity. Spoilers: For "Grave." Archive- Please email request. Feedback- Absolutely. ******************* ~ Liverpool, England Spike awoke to gentle knocking on the door to his room. �Mr. Conrad,� the landlady called softly, �it�s almost time for tea.� Spike tried not to growl at her. �Thank you, Mrs. Stevens,� he called back. �I�ll be down in a few minutes.� He was in his second day of a four-day stay at an inn called �Storybook Cottage,� a place most tourist guides would have insisted on calling �charming.� Each of the six guest rooms was named for a fairy tale character and decorated accordingly. For instance, the �Sleeping Beauty� room had an elaborate canopied bed, framed prints of fairies, and potted miniature roses, while the �Snow White� room sported an apple motif. Spike had ended up in the �Red Riding Hood� room, which features a bright scarlet duvet and curtains and an antique axe mounted above the fireplace. Spike supposed there were worse places he could have waited for his ship to set sail for America. Still, the stuffed wolf toy hadn�t been unwelcome when he�d awakened from a nightmare, although he�d stake himself before he admitted it. And the landlady had let him park the hearse out front with a �For Sale� sign on the windshield. A local band had bought it the day before to carry equipment to their gigs. But this waiting was making him jumpy, he thought as he pulled on his clothes, picked up his files, and descended the stairs to the parlor. He didn't like playing human; it was too risky. Mrs. Stevens had left the tea, a plate of bacon sandwiches, several different cakes and some clotted cream on the side-board. He had explained his "condition" to her when he'd checked in, and was glad to see the southern windows carefully draped. He was less glad to see the Van Zandts, a Texas couple on holiday. Well, Mr. Van Zandt, Harold, was okay. He was a music fan who had come to Liverpool to "walk in the Beatles' footsteps" and knew enough to respect the history of the place. His wife, Marcelle, on the other hand, seemed to think of the entire country as one big theme park, and Spike was already sick of her telling him how cute his accent was. He put his files on the floor under the side table and poured himself a cup of tea. "Hey, there, William," Marcelle called out chirpily. "Just get out of bed? How did you sleep?" "Very well, thank you," Spike said formally. "Oh, you're just the cutest thing," Marcelle said. "Did you have any plans for tonight? Harold and I found the nicest little restaurant." Actually, Spike had made arrangements to pick up a few pints of blood from the local butcher's, and then he planned to go to the pub and drink until he was gone far enough to numb the bad dreams (he hoped), but he was sure Marcelle didn't want to hear that. On the other hand... "I'm planning to get truly and completely pissed down at the Black Bull," he said, "and then sleep through tea tomorrow. Thanks for asking." He gave her his most winning smile. Harold laughed, earning him an annoyed glare from his wife. "Well, I suppose that's something you young men do over here," she said diplomatically. "I understood it was something young men did everywhere," Spike replied, and Harold laughed again. "You got that right, Will," he said. "Harold, really," Marcelle scolded. The two Texans left a few minutes later, and with a grateful sigh, Spike brought out his folders and spread them on the tea table. He had to admit, it was interesting seeing events from an outsider's perspective. For instance, there was a suspected Angelus sighting in Missoula in 1931. Even with a soul, Spike could not imagine any possible reason for Angel to be in Missoula. For that matter, he had to wonder what a Watcher was doing there. His own folder was far more difficult. These papers were solid reminders of his past. There were police reports, some with photos. There were descriptions of his appearances and movements. And the female Watcher's thesis was there, too, with the amusing title, "William the Bloody: The Aurelius Enigma." Unfortunately, the rest of the thing was dry as dirt. And then there were the sections that were most troubling of all, pages that described events Spike could not recall, some in towns he'd never been to. Yet all the encounters were surprisingly similar. A blond vampire, sometimes in the company of Angelus, sometimes not, but who claimed to be of that line, would come into town, wreak a bit of havoc, and disappear again. A few of the sightings took place at times Spike knew he, himself, was elsewhere. It had to be another in the bloodline, Spike surmised. One of Angelus's offspring, one who had left the nest, so to speak. But why had Angelus never mentioned him? Just one more thing Spike would have to ask about. There were photocopies of old photos in the folder, too, and Spike laid these out in a row. There was a daguerreotype of Angelus and Darla which looked as though it had been done when the procedure was still a novelty. It was dark, and very grainy, but Spike could make out the expression on Angelus's face. Clearly, he was planning to eat the photographer. There were various other portraits, as well, photos and drawings, and a cameo of Darla. Then there were pictures of Drusilla, sometimes alone, sometimes with Angelus, followed by pictures of himself, starting with the memorial portrait, but then going on. There was a family portrait of the four of them that Spike remembered having done. Mostly, he remembered Angelus's hand squeezing the back of his neck and the hissed warning that if he moved, Angelus would see fit to break it. There were later photos, too. One of him and Dru at Coney Island during the war, their faces looking through a wooden cutout of a mermaid and a deep-sea diver. Another, a strip from one of those booths, where he was ravishing Dru's shoulder. Drusilla. His soul had changed his perception of her, too, had clarified and distanced him. Still there was the attachment; she had made him a vampire, after all, and instinct and blood could be suppressed, but not eliminated. "Who are they?" Spike jumped. He hadn't even heard Mrs. Stevens come in, let alone walk up behind him. "I didn't mean to startle you," the landlady said, "but you seem so wrapped up. Who are those people?" "Family," Spike said. "Old family pictures." Mrs. Stevens came around and picked up the memorial portrait. "Yes, I can see the resemblance," she said. She set it down and picked up an early photo of the four of them. "This woman," she said, pointing to Dru. "She looks familiar to me." "Maybe she has one of those common faces," Spike suggested. She put the portrait down. "I'll be right back," she excused herself. Spike gathered the photos back together, not wanting to continue the conversation. "Here, I knew I'd seen her face," the landlady said as she returned, holding a museum exhibit guide. She sat on the couch beside him and opened to the page she had marked with her finger. It was a black-and-white reproduction of a miniature painting. It was unmistakably Drusilla. Beneath was the inscription: unidentified noblewoman, c. 1870. "My great-grandfather was a miniaturist," Mrs. Stevens explained. "The Victoria and Albert Museum had an exhibit of his work, oh, about 15 years ago, now, I should think. This was one of his earlier pieces." She turned back through the pages slowly, showing other paintings. "He started by painting the guests," she went on. "This was an inn, then, too. They've identified a lot of them from his diaries and the inn records." Spike swallowed hard. "You don't have those, do you?" he asked. "No," the landlady laughed. "The museum has them. I don't think it would help you, though." She pointed to the description. "They weren't able to identify her, so there probably wasn't any information about her." Spike took the book and traced the shape of Drusilla's face with his finger. "It must be her," the landlady said. "There couldn't be two so alike." "No. It must be," Spike agreed. "Could I borrow this for a bit? Just run it over to the library to make a photocopy?" "Yes, of course," Mrs. Stevens said. "Especially as she's an ancestor of yours." Just after sunset, Spike did take the book to be copied, then stopped at the butcher's for his order, draining the waxed cardboard containers in the alley behind the shop. But his appetite for drink was gone, and he returned to the inn right after. She might have stayed in this room, he thought later. In fact, considering it was the only one in the inn with a completely northern exposure, she probably did. He curled into the bedding, hoping for the oblivion of sleep, and checking before his eyes closed that the toy wolf was in arm's reach. Go on to the next part - The Devil Main Menu ~ Return to Summer Series 2002 Menu |