Title:  Secret as the Grave, Chapter 4: Elsewhere

Author:  Miss Murchison

Rating:  R

Disclaimer:  All characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc.  Only the lame plots and dialogue herein are mine.

Notes:   This starts after “Showtime” in Season 7 and starts going AU immediately.  Thanks to Devil Piglet, DorothyL and Kes for great feedback and suggestions.

Willow and the rest of Scoobies in the kitchen looked up as Spike came into the room.  Their conversation stopped abruptly.  He cast them an ironic glance as he went to the refrigerator, removed a plastic container, and started scrounging around in the cabinets for a clean coffee cup.  “Don’t stop on my account,” he said.  “Go right on insulting me as if I wasn’t here.  I won’t take any more offense than I usually do.”

“We weren’t—well, we were, but not just now,” said Xander.  “This isn’t about you.”

“Oh?”  Spike had at last unearthed a novelty mug covered with cartoon characters from Charlotte’s Web.  He grimaced at it, poured some pig’s blood from the container into the cup, and began to drink.

“Aren’t you going to heat that up?” asked Anya.

“Microwave’s broken and the Bit gets peeved when I warm blood on the stove.  Tastes foul no matter what I do to it, anyway.”  He set his cup on the counter and sat down opposite Anya.

Willow looked at the vampire’s face closely for the first time.  “You look awful,” she said.

“I knew you’d get over that shyness about insulting me to my face,” said Spike. 

“I mean, you look more tired than when you went upstairs.”

“Funny thing that,” said Spike.  He pulled Xander’s book away from him.  “What’s this?  Researching the D’rak K’var ritual?”  He shoved the volume back across the counter.  “Wasting your time.”

“At least we’re trying to find something out,” said Xander.  “While other people have nap time.”

“Why is it a waste?” asked Anya.  Her brow furrowed and she pulled the book toward her.  “This looks just like the First’s cup of tea.  He could raise an elemental spirit through a human and animal sacrifice.”

“Yeah, but look at the kinds of animals he needs,” said Spike.

“That part of the text is missing,” said Anya.  She shuddered.  “It’s not bunnies, is it?”

Spike’s twisted smile was almost affectionate.  “No, Anya, if it was bunnies, he’d probably be having those blind bastards of his sharpen their knives right now.  This little spell requires a dodo bird.”

“A dodo bird?” asked Xander incredulously.  “Is there such a thing?”

“There used to be,” said Willow.  “They’re extinct.”  It was the sound of her own assured voice that made her doubt her words; over the past few years too many things she had always assumed were true had been proven false.  She looked at Spike.  “Aren’t they?” she asked in a weaker tone.

“As far as I know,” he replied, swirling the blood around in his cup.  “So unless you find a flock of the bloody stupid things thrashing about Madagascar somewhere, you’re flapping up the wrong tree with that one.”

        “You’re sure about that?” asked Xander.  “Not the extinction.  The part about the ritual needing a dodo?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” said Spike.  He looked up then, his expression serious.  “Something I’ve known for a long time.  Pre-soul.”

“So your pre-soul ideas are more reliable than the ones you’ve had since you decided to become a good guy?” asked Dawn.  Willow looked up to see her standing in the doorway.  “Are we supposed to find that reassuring?”

“Not really,” said Spike.  He seemed to take no umbrage at her insulting tone.  “I’ve apparently had Mr. Primary Malevolence lurking in my brain ever since I got my soul back.”  He stared gloomily into the cup of blood.  “I’m not certain about much of anything that’s happened since I got back to Sunnydale.  Since—my soul.”

Even after all this time, William was absolutely certain about only one thing.

He should never have dallied with the Mad Girl.

The Mad Girl—that was how he thought of her, although he would never commit the discourtesy of addressing her in that way, or even of referring to her by that appellation when speaking to one of the others.

She was coming towards him now.  He watched her descend the long staircase into the great hall.  She was very beautiful in her long, white dress.  Her dark hair was elaborately coiffed, and she was the picture of elegance as she floated down, her hand running lightly along the banister.   His heart sank at the sight of her, and he tried to avoid her intent gaze.  He desperately wished she would talk to one of the others instead.

Once, he had sought beauty above all else, and believed it to be the secret to happiness.  Now he was trapped in the most beautiful place he could imagine, and he found himself longing for something of greater substance.  When he looked into the lovely eyes of the Mad Girl, he could find no solace in their vacuous depths.

William and the Mad Girl were far from alone here, in this huge house and its surrounding parkland.  The vast estate was filled with people dressed in various styles ranging from the ordinary to the ancient, and, in the case of the newest arrivals, to the bizarre.  None of the other residents noticed the anachronisms; they were too busy enjoying all the opportunities for entertainment to reflect on anything at all.  Outside, there were gardens and stables inviting them to all types of games and amusements.  Inside, the spacious, comfortable house contained room after room filled with diversions and things of beauty.   There were several libraries, and William never entered one without finding the very book he had been seeking.  There were billiard rooms, card rooms, and many drawing rooms where the residents clustered all hours of the day and night. 

However, day and night did not cycle with the same regularity William recalled from before his arrival here.  When he was tired and sleepy, he would notice the sky growing dark, and the staircases seemed to shift around to put a choice of empty, well-apportioned bedrooms just a few steps away.   When it was dark and he felt a sudden desire to roam the gardens or go riding, the sun would rise with the prompt and patient air of a good butler holding out a coat for a guest.  It never rained, except sometimes when he found himself longing for the sound of raindrops on the roof at night.

William knew that many of the others put the bedrooms to use for more than sleeping and listening to the patter of rainfall.  But fornication seemed to be no more a sin here than going to the main hall and overindulging at the huge buffet table that was always stocked with fresh delicacies.  Certainly, there were no consequences to any of this behavior; no one suffered a hangover or indigestion, caught the pox, or found herself with a baby on the way.  William found he felt no more distaste or curiosity about the sexual games played by the other residents than he did about the excessive amount of food and drink they consumed.  He did not refrain from joining in their revels out of morality; guilt and shame seemed to have been left behind with his earthly existence.  He simply could not bring himself to respond to any of the advances that were made to him, any more than he could feel any compulsion to squander the days gambling, hunting, or indulging in any other pursuits with the members of this strange company. 

He was waiting for something else.  What that might be he could not imagine; every possible comfort was present here.  Only he and the Mad Girl seemed less than content. 

William spent much of his time in a comfortable chair in a corner of the great hall, where he could watch the crowd partying around the buffet table, observe newcomers in outlandish clothing as they entered the foyer, and jot down his musings about this strange existence. 

The Mad Girl spent her days wandering about, starting away from shadows and babbling mindlessly at the residents.  Most of them ignored her, but William could no longer bring himself to do that.  He had avoided her at first, because she was associated in his mind with the confusion, pain, and fear that had preceded his arrival.  But he had quickly realized that the woman who haunted these sunny, handsome rooms was not the same creature who had first intrigued and then terrified him on that dark London night.

The woman in London had been a hunter; this sad, childlike creature who wept and ranted in turns was obviously a victim. And, for some strange reason, the Mad Girl trusted William as she did no one else, coming to him for reassurance.

She was about to do that now. He sighed and put down his notebook, standing up to greet her with automatic courtesy.  She put out her hand, obligating him to brush her fingers.  She sank down in the chair next to him and leaned over to whisper in his ear.

“What do you think they’re doing?” she asked, pointing towards the reception desk at the back of the hall and the plain wooden door beyond it.

The reception desk was the oddest thing about this odd place.

It was staffed at all hours by grim-faced factotums of both sexes, all dressed in severe black, like the attendants undertakers paid to follow the coffins in graveyard processions.  They never spoke to the residents except to call out a name from time to time.  There was no pattern to these summonings; often a long time would pass when no one was called, and at other times several names would be announced at once.  And no one could tell who would be called next; seniority seemed to have little to do with it.  In fact, if one was not called within the first few days after his or her arrival, the chances of being summoned to the desk seemed to diminish sharply.  William had been dismayed when he realized that he had become an old-timer, and that many who had entered the foyer after him had long since vanished through that nondescript doorway.

Because everyone wanted to be called.  Although every earthly pleasure was available in this place, each resident whose name was called reacted with spontaneous joy and rushed to the desk, abandoning whatever companions or games he or she had been indulging in a moment before.  It was not unusual to see someone running in from outside or tearing down the stairs to smile at the receptionist and to be led through the door behind the desk.

No one ever commented on this or asked where the door led.  No one except the Mad Girl.  Now, there was a strange light in her eyes as she asked, “Do you think they’ll ever call your name?”

“Spike?”  Willow bit her lip nervously and repeated his name.  “Spike!”

Finally, the vampire looked up from the dregs of blood in his cup, and blinked at the Scoobies.  “Yeah?” he asked.

“You’ve been staring into your blood for five minutes,” said Dawn nervously.  “We couldn’t get your attention.”

“Yeah, it was major league creepy,” said Xander. He shifted in his chair, putting a bit more distance between himself and Spike.

“Just—thinking,” said Spike.  He looked around the table, and his lips twitched.  “You should see your faces.  I’m tempted to jump up and yell, ‘Boo!’ but you’d probably stake me.  It wasn’t the First.  He and I are close enough now that I could tell if he’d paid me a visit.”

No, thought Willow.  I didn’t sense that the First Evil was here.  But you were gone for a few minutes.  I wish I knew where you went.   She examined his face carefully, looking for signs of the same self-doubt that plagued her.   She could see none.  There was a quiet horror lurking behind his eyes that bespoke the memory of his past crimes; she was familiar with that look from her own mirror, and it presented no mystery to her.

But the bewilderment Spike seemed to feel didn’t appear to be accompanied by the tense fear that he might at any moment jump up and tear out their throats.  Willow thought she would recognize that expression because she had seen it in his face when Buffy brought him back from the cellar where he had buried the corpses.

This was something new; he looked perplexed and unsure of himself in a way that she had never observed in him, not even when he had first learned of the chip’s existence and been horrified by his inability to fight and kill.  Perhaps he didn’t recognize himself anymore.  That wouldn’t be surprising, really.  He wasn’t the old Spike, although the most irritating aspects of his personality seemed to be intact.  Had he reverted to the human he was before he became a vampire?  Probably not, because Buffy had told her years ago that the original William was some kind of thug, and a thug wasn’t what Willow was seeing behind those puzzled blue eyes.  It was entirely possible that this new Spike was a different creature entirely from the man or the vampire.  No wonder he was confused.

Welcome to the world, whoever you are.  You have my sympathies.  You’ve inherited a mass of guilt and a huge measure of trouble.  I wish I could help you out, but I have a few issues of remorse and self-determination to work out myself. 

Before Willow could say anything aloud, the basement door opened and everyone in the room turned to watch Buffy and Giles enter the kitchen.

Willow was relieved to see that although Buffy looked pale, she did not bear that horrible blank expression that had become so familiar to the Scoobies during the months following the Slayer’s resurrection.

But Buffy’s face was obviously anxious enough to upset Spike; his chair grated against the kitchen tiles as he came to his feet.  “What’s wrong, love?”  His gaze moved from Buffy’s face to Giles’.  “What did you tell her, Watcher?”

“Just a fun complication, Spike,” said Buffy, trying and failing to achieve a light tone.  “Another little bit of fine print I forgot to read about my role as the Chosen One.  It seems that my coming back to life is the reason the First has been able to manifest itself in this dimension.  I’m letting it tap into the Slayer power somehow.”

“Yeah,” said Spike, unsurprised by this news.  His jaw tensed and he glared at Giles. “So you had to tell her that, you stupid git?”

“You knew?” said Buffy.  “And you didn’t tell me?”

“I guessed,” said Spike.  “I may have spent the past few months flying over the cuckoo’s nest, but even I can figure something out if I’m given enough time.”

Buffy looked as if she had been struck

Spike saw her face and stepped closer to her, rushing to apologize.  “I didn’t think saying it would do any good, love.  The First is here now, and how this started doesn’t matter anymore.  What’s happened has changed the rules.”  His gaze was intent and his voice became more emphatic.  “You can’t make this thing go away by going away yourself.”

Buffy nodded.  “I do understand that, Spike.  My coming back opened a door for the First, but I know my death won’t shut it.  It’s more complicated than that now.  I’m going to have to stay and fight.”  Her expression was so bleak that the others stared at her in dismay.

All except Willow.  Willow glanced away because her own guilt made it impossible to watch her friend’s grief at that moment.  So only she saw Dawn’s arms reach out to embrace her sister, just as Buffy turned and buried her face in Spike’s shoulder. 

Only Willow saw Dawn’s angry and jealous reaction.

Chapter Five