This fictional work, along with all other rights available under the law, belong to the author and may not be reproduced in any fashion without the author's express permission. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy Inc., and 20th century Fox. No copyright infringement is intended. Copyright May 2002.
Warnings: violence, gore, language, darkfic. Apologies to any descendants of various assorted real people noted in the following story. This is my first Buffyfic, so try to be kind.
Spoilers: "Fool for Love", "School Hard", and whatever episode it was in which Penn was killed. Hmmm, this is post-chip. Nothing else, really. This is all pretty AU, anyway.
Many thanks to Christine and Caitlin for the beta read.
"So, Giles, what are we doing here on a wonderfully sunny California day?" Buffy Summers, also known as the Slayer, looked down at the camcorder that her Watcher had handed her. It had a odd doohickey thing wired into it, making it look like some sort of spaz ray gun from those sci-fi B-movies that Xander liked to watch on late-night TV. "I happen to know that there's a shoe sale going on at the mall today, and my plans really didn't involve home movies."
"This is rather important." Rupert Giles checked over the room for the third time. "I need your help - and Willow's - to make certain that everything goes according to plan."
The redheaded witch looked at the notebook and pen that the former librarian had given to her, and put the pieces together. "This is about the Watcher thing, isn't it? What what's-his-name said about gathering information for the good of all?"
"Quentin Travers." Giles smiled slightly at her. "Yes, precisely." The head of the Watcher Council had recently sent a note to the former Watcher suggesting that reparation could be made - thus providing him with access to the Watcher libraries, something that could be very important to their slaying - with appropriate information gathering regarding certain vampire knowledge and lore.
"So, we're doing an interview with a vampire, huh?" Doubtful, Buffy looked at the equipment in her hand. "And I'm Camera Girl?"
"That is a digital camcorder. Angel will appear in it without difficulty. All you need to do is hold the camera focused on him and the machine will do the rest."
"Angel agreed to this?"
"Oh yes."
Buffy shared a look with her friend, but they really couldn't blame Giles at all. They knew that the Watcher had ... issues with the master vampire, and they also knew how important regaining his status was to him. Since Angel was all-apologetic over what had happened during the Angelus months of their junior year, the slayer had no doubt that the watcher had basically guilted the vampire into agreement. Judging from the resigned expression on the vampire's face as he did that gliding walk into the room, Buffy knew she was right.
"Everyone ready to begin?" No one spoke, so Buffy caught Angel in her camera sight and hit the record button. Giles waited a moment for the red light to flash before he began speaking. "Today is the 8th of June, 2001, and this is a videotaped interview with master vampire Angel, formerly known as Angelus." She saw him flinch slightly at that. "My name is Rupert Giles, and I will be conducting this interview."
No mention of his assistants, Buffy noted. She'd have to needle him about it later.
"Angel, we already know a great deal about your mortal life - when you were Liam O'Reilly - and we know much about your exploits both pre- and post-curse." The vampire nodded unsurprisingly at that news. "We even know a great deal about Drusilla; apparently one of the Watchers during that period was rather smitten with her. Our information regarding Penn is ... relatively small, but - given his recent death - that course of questioning is rather moot. However," Giles caught the vampire's eye, "very little is known regarding Spike's mortal life. What can you tell us regarding the youngest of your line?"
The vampire sighed and fidgeted a bit on his chair. Buffy knew that look; her ex was deeply uncomfortable with the questioning. "Why aren't you asking Spike these questions? They are about him, after all."
"I did. The results are unprintable. Not to mention anatomically impossible."
Angel sighed a second time before answering the question. "His real first name is William, but I know little beyond that as to his mortal life. He was shy and bookish, and well, a bit like a younger version of you." He smiled faintly, remembering. "He was very well-educated, and I think he wrote poetry. He wore glasses with wire-rims." The smile faded suddenly. "That's the official story, and no doubt all of it is perfectly true, as far as it goes."
"What do you mean, 'the official story'?"
"Exactly as I say."
Buffy couldn't stand it any longer. "How come you don't even know his real name," she interrupted. "His age, or any of that other stuff."
"I didn't exactly take a poll," the vampire shot back, raising an eyebrow like a weapon. "I saw him, I watched him for a while, I wanted him, I took him. Just like that." He dismissed the question with a shrug.
"You wanted?" With a sharp glance at his slayer, Giles regained control of the questioning. "I was of the opinion that Drusilla sired him."
Angel shook his head. "No. That was what I wanted people to think. True, Drusilla wanted him, and I wanted him, but it's not true. I sired Spike." His eyes looked far away into the distance, gazing at events long past. "That responsibility is mine."
"Responsibility?" Buffy quizzically looked at her ex-boyfriend. "What do you mean?"
"Yes, do elaborate."
Angel gave another sigh and tried to find the right words to do as Giles asked. "Spike is my childe. I chose him, above all others, because of qualities he showed as a mortal." He shrugged. "He was exceptionally promising."
"Promising? I thought you said he was quiet, and shy ... and, and, well, like Giles?" Willow had stopped taking dictation and now stared in horror at the vampire. "Those are promising?"
Buffy chuckled. "Better watch out, Giles." She glanced at Angel before asking another question. "So you'd go after him if you lost the soul again, huh?"
"No," Angel said quietly. "I wouldn't."
"Who then?"
"Getting back to the issue of Spike," Giles calmly interrupted his slayer, "can you elaborate on any details as to why he was chosen?"
The vampire wasn't sure where to start explaining. "It's complicated. There was so much else going on then, so many distractions." His voice trailed off, remembering those weeks and who else was involved. Unfortunately, Angel remembered all too well.
Angelus tossed aside the body of the London whore he'd fed on, and wondered where the hell Drusilla had gone. She'd been next to him in the alley just a few minutes ago, but now she was gone. Damn crazy vampire. There were nights he wondered exactly what had possessed him to make him have Turned the woman in the first place. Sure, the visions were attractive and useful and something he wanted to keep, but she was so hard to handle. She had to be constantly watched. What had he been thinking? In all truthfulness, Angelus doubted he'd been thinking at all, and walked the length of the alley toward Hanbury Street where he could feel his crazy childe waiting.
Darla, his sire, wasn't hunting with them tonight. She had snared a wealthy lord, who was seeking a pretty young debutante to take as a mistress; he'd taken her to see Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde at the Lyceum Theater. Before leaving, Darla had gushed at length about the American actor in the title roles. The rest of them just had to wait for him to succumb to her charms; he would eventually invite her to his home, and she would in turn invite the rest of her family. The fun would then begin: the screaming, the dying, and the blood.
Mustn't forget the blood.
He found Drusilla standing in front of a pub, watching the passers-by with interest. That was rarely a good sign. "Daddy," she swayed slightly, "the stars say that they buzz buzz buzz and make his head hurt. They don't mean to but they do." Her eyes never moved from her target.
"Who?"
"The pretty one."
Angelus followed her gaze to a man standing next to a short whore with dark wavy hair. Even from here, his vampire senses could detect the gin on her breath and an underlying smell of illness, of approaching death. The older woman, mutton dressed as lamb, was working hard to keep his interest, but he couldn't see much of the man at all. How Dru could call the man pretty he didn't know, what with his back to them. The man was dressed better than most in Spitalfields, but he obviously wasn't a gentleman. He certainly did try, though - black trousers, black Hessian-style boots, and a black frock coat - but the deerstalker was battered with age and the coat was several seasons old.
"Come on, Dru." The vampire could feel dawn approaching, and he wanted to get back to their current lodgings well before then, maybe grab a snack on the way. They approached the couple standing across the street, and Angelus still couldn't catch a glimpse of his face.
His voice, though, drifted softly to him, a gentle Irish lilt that reminded him of home. "Will ye'?"
"Yes." Smiling up at the faceless man as they passed, the whore touched the man on the shoulder with one shaky hand to steady herself. Angelus caught a flash of light off the gaudy rings on her hand, and the middle one was particularly so with bits of colored glass stuck on a dull pewter band. The pair turned away, with the man walking in near darkness, and was swallowed up by the fog.
He hated the filth of the Evil Quarter-Mile, as Londoners called the area, but the whores were plentiful and cheap. Dragging the unprotesting female vampire after him, Angelus hoped to find a hansom cab soon.
Better find that snack first, though.
The dark man glanced down the length of the conservatory and found his quarry hunched over a small bound parcel of stationary, armed with a small inkhorn and glass quill. The younger man sat there, ink dripping onto the paper, while he gazed dreamily out the window at the night. With a sigh, the dark man wove deftly toward his prey, passing through the potted plants lining the walls and tables with chairs, ignoring the heads that turned to admire his striking profile. He studied the man briefly and found nothing out of the ordinary: a spatter of ink on his jacket cuff, and a pair of white gloves flopping awkwardly from a pocket. A scruffy white dog lay sprawled at his feet, and a cup of probably cold tea with a soggy biscuit sat untouched to one side on the table. Dropping lightly into a chair forced the other man to snap out of his hypnotic trance.
"James, please accept my apologies for being so distracted and not greeting you properly."
"Were you communing with the spirits?" teased James Stephen. "Perhaps you should call on Conan Doyle and offer your services as a medium." It was rumored that the author of the Sherlock Holmes serial was a devoted believer in spiritualism. He knew that the younger man had thoroughly enjoyed the serial, even though he personally was less than thrilled.
"Quite amusing." William Cecil peered near-sightedly over his spectacles at his cousin, but his eyes gleamed brightly with excitement. "Please do not share those sentiments with the others." A swallow of tea caused him to grimace - but perhaps it was the thought instead.
James chuckled with an appraising look around the room. The Adams family had been throwing nearly bi-monthly balls in a desperate effort to find husbands for their five daughters, all of whom were out. Truly, the balls were magnificent affairs. Their home was perfectly arranged for such a party: a long large drawing room for dancing with a library at one end for older men to play card games while admiring the young ladies and at the other end a conservatory to which to retreat for a light refreshment. Even though the constant parties and necessary preparations made a tremendous strain on the servants, a good marriage would be worthwhile.
"Particularly," William continued, "do not share it with my brothers. If you do so, I will have no peace in my lifetime." He paused suddenly before dipping his quill in the inkhorn and scrawling his own words across the paper.
This behavior was hardly surprising to the royal tutor, who had witnessed it in his younger cousin many times in the past. There was nothing to be done but to wait patiently. James had no intention of saying anything to either Thomas or George Cecil, both of whom were older and more foolish than their brother.
After a moment, William set down his quill and finished his tea in a gulp. Sparing a glance around the room, the younger man discreetly fed the soggy biscuit to the dog. James hid his own laughter and could see him trying to recall their conversation before his eyes brightened. "Is she here tonight?"
"Yes, she's here." She, of course, was Miss Cecily Gordon; the young lady was considered the most beautiful of all the eligible young ladies, and took great pains to be certain that all around her had knowledge of that fact. "You're completely besotted with her, aren't you?"
"As are nearly all the men in our circle."
James had to admit that was so, but hurriedly changed the subject to avoid the wistful look his cousin was certain to have on his face. "Actually, Will, I came to fetch you to the dance floor. It would only be proper to dance with one of the Adams girls, and there will be a waltz soon."
"You are correct, as always, and a waltz would be nice. Perhaps Miss Dorothea would do me the honor." William gathered his writing materials together and tucked them away in his pockets before the pair headed toward the waiting dance floor. "By the way, James, do you think an everyday frock coat with a fine linen shirt, or," he gestured to his own dress clothes, "a black dress jacket with a fine white waistcoat and gloves would be appropriate for a morning call?"
He watched his cousin carefully pull on the gloves to avoid damaging them before offering up a curious glance. "A call? On whom?"
Wide blue eyes alight with mischief greeted him. "Why, on Conan Doyle, of course."
James groaned, and gently pushed the younger man toward the youngest Adams girl. "Off with you, then, or I'll make a study in scarlet out of you myself." Watching Will cautiously approach the pretty young lady, he hoped his favorite cousin would never change.
Angelus wondered exactly how long it would be before Drusilla told him why she was smiling. She was following him around quietly tonight; she was planning something, and that wouldn't be good for anyone. Granted, he was fairly certain he really didn't want to know - considering the source - but finding out these things was always better than the consequences of not finding out these things. The last time he'd ignored that niggling sense of unease he'd had to leave Paris in a hurry.
Lurking in the filthy streets of the East End, there was plenty of available prey and that was why he had to keep an eye on his childe. Since the killing three weeks ago, the police had mobbed the area, all of them hoping to catch the Whitechapel Murderer in the act. Some of the officers were dressed as women, hoping to draw his attention, but the master vampire could pick them out with ease.
The killer, in all likelihood, could as well. If the newspaper accounts were to be believed, he would be an excellent playmate. For a time.
Thankfully, Darla wasn't with them tonight. She had gained a new admirer, who was taking her out somewhere. He loved his sire, owed her everything, but she could be so difficult. After ten minutes, a vampire couldn't decide whether to stake himself or her. Of course, the rain might be influencing her decision as well; it was rapidly turning the dark earth, ashes, and other materials into an evil mixture that was muddy in appearance with a scent that came from the bowels of Hell.
A soft voice caught his attention - the same lilting tone from three weeks ago - and Angelus tracked it to the Bricklayers' Arms pub on Settles Street where a young man was standing with a short dark-haired whore. Her escort wasn't very tall himself, perhaps 5'10" or thereabouts with a moustache and long dark hair pulled back in the current style. As before, his middle-class clothing proved his lack of proper standing in well-to-do society.
When they left, the vampires followed with care to watch at a discreet distance. They walked and talked about local matters; apparently the whores were scared enough to be cautious with their customers. That must mean the dark man lived in the area, or near enough to be so up to date. He watched them kiss before the man commented, "Ye' would say ennathin' but yer prayers." After purchasing some grapes, they stood there, munching the expensive treat and talking for several minutes before moving to a more secluded area called Dutfield's Yard.
Angelus had just settled down with Dru to watch the action when the attack came in a blur. As soon as the whore turned to face her customer and lifted her skirts, the dark man seized her by the throat with one hand. She grabbed at him and struggled, trying to kick out, but his other hand glinted with a sharp edge. The dark man slashed her throat even as she fought. It wasn't long at all before the whore fell backwards, her eyes wide, opening and closing her mouth, blood spurting out in a silent scream and a joyous splash.
The clip-clop and creaking of a pony cart caught the vampire's attention, and the dark man heard it as well. He picked up his small bag, tucked it under his arm, shoved the corpse towards the wall, and fled south. Tugging his childe along, Angelus followed the sound of the man's breathing, knowing that there would be more blood spilled tonight. He recognized the fierce and furious expression on the dark man's face, and that bloodlust had not yet been fulfilled.
Angelus dragged his childe through the mad streets of Whitechapel, cursing every god he could think of while trailing his quarry straight into Hell. The dark man he sought moved like a man possessed, lithe and savage as the big cats on the African continent. Pacing his quarry's steps, towards the City, the vampire had no patience and did not bother to insist when Drusilla struggled out of his grasp; she was probably hungry.
He continued to follow at a cautious distance, trailing the man to the prostitutes' church. Used like a giant roundabout, the whores used it so they would be always moving and protected from jail as a vagrant. Being within City limits, though just barely, meant there were far more officers than elsewhere. Vampires didn't generally hunt here, not when there was far easier prey to be had elsewhere.
The dark man casually picked another short whore, this one with red hair, and chatted with her at the entrance to Mitre Square like they were old friends. Angelus quietly followed them and hid in the shadows to watch. The pair walked arm in arm to the southwest corner, and he struck as soon as she turned to face him, with her hands bunched in her skirts. The dark man wrapped his hands around her throat and the vampire saw the muscles clench; there was hatred there, in spades, in addition to a killer instinct. Angelus smiled at the unintended pun.
The dark man drew the unconscious woman -- Angelus could still hear her heartbeat though the man's remained calm and steady -- to her feet and pulled her close to him, withdrawing into the shadows. The footsteps coming this way told him why. Obviously, the dark man refused to be cheated of his fun any longer tonight. Angelus stared in near shock at the man's audacity when a City of London policeman strolled out of Church Passage and through Mitre Square. The dark man and his prey, even if the bobby had noticed them, would not have registered as suspicious because whores did business bloody everywhere.
As soon as the officer had left, the dark man got to work without delay. Slashing her throat first, he worked quickly and handled the short-bladed knife with pride in his work. The vampire focused his sight, bringing his demon to the fore, so he wouldn't miss anything. Blood poured from her body, bits removed and wrapped to be take-away, long pink tubing pulled out and tossed with a wet sound over her right shoulder. Finally, the dark man used his blade to cut her face and head with sharp quick jabs in an almost ritualistic manner. Too bad Dru had gotten distracted -- blood and gore made her misty-eyed.
Only a few minutes passed before the dark man completed his art. Sparing a moment to cut off a part of her clothing and to tip his hat at his watcher, he casually strolled the way he came, backtracking towards Spitalfields. Now Angelus was confused. Why return there when he could go further into the City or to the west and safety? Still he followed all the way back to Goulston Street, and watched as the dark man stood nearly face to face with Drusilla, examining her as delicately as rich men examine horses before turning his attention to the wall of the Wentworth Model Dwellings. On the filthy red brick, stained ugly dark, Angelus could see an oddly chalked sentence in Whitechapel vernacular, something about Jews not taking responsibility for things, complete with the poor spelling typical of these unfortunates.
Drusilla beamed at him. "See what I wrote, Daddy."
The dark man smiled with the eyes of a demon and tossed the larger portion of the whore's apron so it landed underneath the message. He looked rather pleased by what Drusilla had done.
Angelus found his voice. "It's perfect, my lovely one." He wanted to speak to the dark man, to find the right words to entice him, words like those Darla had used over a century ago. But the moment had passed.
In a swirl of cloak, the man turned and padded down the street, heading south. Once on Whitechapel High Street, the dark man moved quickly but without obvious hurry. The two vampires followed him to a somberly decorated building with a gated mews attached. In the distance, Angelus could see and hear hordes of policemen, hovering about, looking for the killer. From here, he could pick up that the bodies had been found. Minutes later, the dark man drove a small phaeton through the gates, its single black horse tacked out in shiny black leather and the trappings of death. In that moment, the vampire knew exactly how the dark man would pass unmolested through the crowd.
Angelus laughed. No man would think to stop an undertaker's carriage. These humans simply did not want to consider their own mortality, so distasteful, and the policemen would pass it by as quickly as possible. Further, a little blood or tissue was hardly suspicious. The dark man must work there, hence his skill with a knife and an opportunity to utilize the coach.
The vampire laughed again as the policemen waved the death coach on through, heading towards London Hospital, the City, and an alibi. Yes, he definitely needed to Turn this one.
James Stephen looked around the conservatory, and found whom he sought precisely where he expected. His shy cousin had wedged himself at a corner table with his writing implements and a cup of tea. How Will could write at a party he would never understand. At any rate, it was time to shake him up a bit and crack that shell.
He pulled a brightly colored ottoman - a relic from one of Mr. Adams' trips to America - over to the younger man, and wondered how to pull that attention away from art and into the world. "Will?" He spoke softly in the crowded conservatory in an attempt to keep their conversation private. After all, some topics were not fit to be discussed where ladies were present.
William looked up and smiled. "James, how have you been?" He politely set his work in progress aside, and glanced at the forgotten tea.
"Quite well. How is this lovely Thursday evening treating you?" It was cold outdoors, but clear and actually rather mild for early November. No snow had yet fallen.
The younger man shrugged and smiled faintly. "I am as well as can be expected."
Such an answer was disconcerting, but James hid his frown and instead took a closer look at his cousin. While his clothing and style was fashionable, William appeared to be exhausted but had hidden it so well that only a close family member would have noticed. "Are you ill?" Perhaps it was the ague or even consumption; Will had been a sickly child, and had been hunting grouse on the Yorkshire moors only a fortnight ago. He supposed it could even be typhoid fever, as it was no secret that the Inner Temple could use new drains, being so near the Thames River. Plus, Will had been working so hard at his studies, trying to impress the senior barristers at dinner and win his right to appear in court.
William smiled again. "Sick at heart, perhaps." He looked down into his tea, as if wondering what mysteries it held, then took a delicate sip.
"Ah." James wondered how best to phrase his question. "Is Uncle Robert ill?" The tremendous strain of his position put Lord Salisbury at great risk of illness. As his work was very important to him, the large and stout man with a bushy gray beard tended to overwork quite frequently.
"No."
"Hmm, that's good. What is the problem, then?"
William responded with a vague gesture towards where James could see Miss Gordon holding court. James sighed and discreetly wished for patience. "Will, I know that you adore Cecily, but..." and he trailed off, making a vague gesture of his own to convey the absolute improbability of such a match. He couldn't bring himself to say the words, not to his timid cousin's face, that Miss Cecily Gordon was an evil harpy, an absolute harridan seeking to marry only an inheriting elder son.
That discovery would destroy William.
The younger man chuckled softly in amusement. "This coming from a misogynist of the highest order."
James had to admit his cousin had a point; he had always hated women, had never seen any use for them, and that was no secret. His poor opinion of any particular woman would hardly be a shock. Personally, he preferred to find his fleshly pleasures elsewhere. "True enough." He reached out to grip William's hand. "But trust me that you can do better."
"Doubtful." William smiled again, and this time it was brighter, closer to what it should be. "But I thank you for thinking so."
There seemed to be very little dancing at this party, not entirely surprising given recent events in London. There had been a number of murders and disappearances over the past few months. James was happy to let the silence stretch companionably between them for a time, and he noted that Will's attention had drifted back to his poetry with occasional mutters about proper rhyming.
It seemed others had come to the same conclusion. Martin Aylesbury -- a great bloody mustachioed git, in James' opinion -- was nattering on about the missing people, the poor unfortunates, and the ineffectiveness of the police at great length. He even mentioned the poor unidentified woman whose torso had been found last month by workmen excavating a cellar. Aylesbury found it rather funny that the cellar was to be owned by Scotland Yard. The poor unfortunate had apparently been butchered like an animal, with one arm found washed up on the foreshore of the Thames, in Pimlico. Pity the man's father was a senior barrister, or he'd be tempted to shut Aylesbury's mouth for him. James had no idea why Aylesbury disliked Will so intensely, but he suspected it was one reason why his cousin was having so much difficulty. "I say, Jimmy, are you listening to me?"
James scowled; he hated that nickname, and felt Aylesbury knew that perfectly well. "Sorry, old horse, I was thinking on another matter."
"I asked what you thought of this rash of disappearances around London. Probably related to that butchery in Whitechapel." Several people in the room agreed with him.
James was not one of them, however, as he had no information beyond what the papers printed. Those were hardly reliable. He said as much.
"I don't like to think about such dark things," William offered. His voice was hesitant and soft, but he was contributing to the discussion. Will was slowly recovering his self-respect after a vicious injury during a duel in France last year. The other man's sword had slashed through Will's eyebrow, missing his eye by a fraction. The ghastly wound had bled horrendously, and the family had despaired of his survival. A fight over a woman, of all things, and the slag had not even appreciated William's attempt to save her honor. James shook his head in frustration at the memory; after that, the family still wondered why he disliked women.
William flashed a glance at Cecily before continuing. "I prefer to put my energies into creating things of beauty."
Horrified, James watched as Aylesbury -- the tremendous prat! -- snatched away William's half-written poem and proceeded to read it aloud to the assembled crowd with dramatic flourishes. Though not Shakespearian verse, it wasn't that bad; in fact, James thought it rather agreeably compared to his own works. Although he supposed it likely wasn't only the heart that grew a bulge, but that thought James kept private.
Unfortunately, no one else bothered to do so. The group giggled until Miss Gordon, who apparently knew of his cousin's adoration, left the room in embarrassment. William snatched the poem back and fled after her, but not quickly enough to miss the cruel taunts.
His poor cousin. William the Bloody, indeed. This might very well require a great deal of claret. James might consider asking one of their footmen -- who'd been a navvy before going into service -- to drive a railroad spike into that wag's head just as he requested. Perhaps even while reading some of William's poetry. Hmm, definitely something to think about. Thomas would do it, no questions asked; not only was he loyal to the family, but he had always been exceptionally attentive to Will. His young cousin had such a gentle nature that his politeness was even extended to servants.
James waited a few moments before going in search of his cousin, carrying a bundle of Will's things with him. He caught a glimpse of Cecily exiting the parlor, heading back to the party, her face flushed with anger. This did not bode well for whatever had occurred, although he could certainly guess. When he entered, William was sitting in a daze on the settle, his face ashen and his eyes wide, sniffing in desperation to hide his tears.
Damn the woman!
Gritting his teeth, James Stephen sat next to his cousin and gently took his hand, only to see him flinch away from the contact. They sat there in silence for a few moments before speaking. "She cut me, James." His voice was dull. "She didn't pretend that we'd never met, as if we were complete strangers. That would have been preferable, I think," he mused.
James mentally cursed. What on earth had the wretched woman said?
"She ... she said that ... I was nothing to her." The cracks in Will's voice broke James' heart. "She said that I was beneath her."
Damn, damn, damn the woman! James firmly squeezed his cousin's hand. "Not true, I swear. It is she who is beneath you." He hoped Will would listen and, please Lord, believe. "Forget her. You can do better."
"She said --"
"It doesn't matter what she said. Forget her! She doesn't know you at all, doesn't know the depth of her loss by not knowing you." James was going to strangle that wretched worthless bint. It would take forever for Will to recover from this.
His cousin sighed, and glanced at the clock in the corner of the room. It was nearly half past twelve Friday morning. "I think I should return home."
"That is a fine idea, cousin." He handed over the bundle of writing materials, which were quietly secreted away. "I will make your apologies to our host." On impulse, James gently hugged William, who returned it after a moment of startled surprise. At the questioning look, he replied, "Just to remind you that you're my favorite cousin."
William blushed, and mumbled something like "and you are mine" but James couldn't be certain. He clapped Will on the back, and watched him leave the room before going in search of their host. He wanted to leave as well, even though dinner had not yet been served.
His appetite had decidedly waned.
Angelus couldn't understand it: Darla was patiently chattering with some soon-to-be-drained clerk instead of attacking him in the first dark corner like she typically did. He wondered what his sire was plotting. On the other hand, Drusilla was watching him and humming nursery rhymes to herself. It was rather disturbing, and even the mortals thought so.
It was getting so that he had to do some of Dru's hunting for her. Men were off-put and confused by her madness, and women tended to avoid her outright. Only children would succumb to her charms, but most children were in bed by the time they could exit the safety of their dwelling. Dru had an easier time finding approachable children in the poor areas -- Whitechapel, Spitalfields, St. Giles, and so on -- but many of them were too streetwise to be easily caught.
Between his two women, Angelus was certain he would be quite mad himself. Perhaps he should Turn a suitable companion for Drusilla, a pretty young woman who could take care of her. Pleased with himself, the master vampire settled on his own meal, determined to place an ad tomorrow for a ladies' maid.
"Daddy?" Dropping the corpse in the alley, he turned to face Drusilla, who waited with Darla at the edge of the gaslight. "We have to go, say the stars."
"Go where? Why?"
"The burning baby fishes are swimming all around his head, burning burning burning....” Drusilla spun in a circle, her arms outstretched, like that of a carefree child. "It hurts, he hurts, he wants to make them hurt. So much lovely blood. Miss Edith says so many naughty things."
Angelus glanced at his sire; he could tell from her expression and the stiff line of her back that she was less than pleased with this turn of events. Of course, she had been furious when he had Turned Dru, making her his childe. Turning his attention back to his mad childe, he tried to answer in a way that would encourage more information. "Where," he repeated.
"Miss Edith will show us."
"I am not going to listen to this," Darla snarled. "Can't you control her?"
Ignoring her for the moment, Angelus focused his gaze on Dru again. He wondered if her ravings had anything to do with his pet project; all his attempts to track the mustachioed murderer had failed. If so, it would be worth Darla's wrath. "Is this about our..." he glanced at Darla, "friend?"
"Yes, Daddy."
He smiled. "Let's go, princess." He heard Darla shout decidedly unladylike curses at them both, but by the time they had reached the next block, Angelus could hear his sire stomping along behind them. The vampires walked through the dark streets, a labyrinthine tangle of life and death. They passed Spitalfields Market and entered Millers Court through a dingy narrow passageway where a candle shop stood sentry. Without waiting for permission, Drusilla strode up to the battered door of Number 13 and boldly knocked.
Noting the brightly burning flames beyond the cloth pulled over the windows, Angelus wondered absently what his soon-to-be childe had done. Drusilla knocked a second time, and whispered in entreaty. "There are burning baby fishes swimming all around your head."
A moment later, the door opened. When the three vampires stepped inside, the door quickly closed behind them. No one spoke. Angelus could only stare.
Even in his wildest dreams, Angelus had never seen anything like this. Not even the most enthusiastic vampire made such a scene inside a playroom. The inside of the room looked and smelled like a slaughterhouse. It was magnificent!
The walls were festooned with intestines and other bodily organs, strung like Christmas garland, and blood trailed down to the floor in a cheerful pattern. Blood and viscera coated the floor. The bed was also soaked with blood, but the true masterpiece lay there. The figure was barely recognizable as human, let alone as a woman. Her face had been cut away down to the bone, with part of her scalp hanging off the bed to brush the floor. Vertebrae peeked through what remained of her throat, and her torso had been defleshed.
The woman had been utterly destroyed.
By a mortal!
Angelus whirled to get a closer look at this unique mortal. He stood silent by the fireplace, the merry flames illuminating his features. No moustache, the vampire noted. Dressed like a gentleman, his clothes had been spattered with blood. Blood coated his hands, forearms, and the long-bladed knife in his right hand. His face, all angles with sharp cheekbones, was streaked with blood. All in all, he made a right pretty picture.
"What's your name, lad?"
Blue eyes flashed. "William."
"William, the bloody, eh?" The mortal's face contorted in a snarl, but before he could pounce, Angelus leaped forward to grip the dark mortal around the throat. When he was unconscious, the vampire lifted him into his arms. "Drusilla," he ordered, pulling his childe away from where she was tracing images in the blood, "gather his things. We're going."
"Well," Darla pointed out, "he certainly seems better suited than her." They watched Drusilla wipe the knife, caressing it like a lover, and place it in a small leather case. From where he stood, he could see it held a small package wrapped in twine and rough brown paper. A sniff caused the vampire to smile; he had wondered where the woman's heart was.
Using a hole in the glass to reach through and lock the door from the inside, they left the small flat, led by Angelus and Darla with their prize. Drusilla skipped along behind them, carrying the case and singing a tune that had been popular a few decades earlier. It didn't take long for the group to reach their current home in Mayfair, which had belonged to an unfortunate snack. Even in this well-heeled area of London, no one noticed a thing.
Angelus patiently waited for the man to awaken. On returning home, his sire had wanted to hurry up to bed; she never liked to be awake - even if she was safely inside - when the sun rose. Darla complained that the warning prickles bothered her. He had insisted that she wait, and she did so, in a club chair. Stripped to his thin linen shirt, Angelus waited in a club chair for the mortal to wake. He had set the man on a chaise in the library - apparently the former owner had been quite the bibliophile - and had occupied himself by examining the contents of the small case. It contained the knife, the small parcel, another knife only with a short blade, writing materials, an inkwell, three small books, a small yellow silk bag with its strings tightly tied shut, a few photographs, and a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. Her feet bare, Drusilla sat on the long reading table, still littered with the former owner's correspondence. When the man stirred, all three vampires tensed.
"What's going on?"
Angelus had the man plastered against the wall before he'd finished speaking. "You," he hissed, "belong to me." His demon close, he pushed the man again, standing so near that he could hear the pounding mortal pulse in staccato rhythm. No fear, just blood, maybe a touch of lust, mingled with the must of paper and leather. Closer, wanting, sweeping his hands down the mortal's body, Angelus heard him gasp and push back. Scenting his blood, here at the pulse in his throat, it smelled so sweet. "You," the vampire repeated, "belong to me. Always."
Her satin skirts swishing about her feet, Drusilla joined the pair, snug against the wall and a bookcase stuffed to the brim. Her eyes, delicately lined with kohl, and her ethereal beauty gave her the look of an ancient prophetess, lost from Delphi. "Miss Edith knows your name, but we must hear it again. She wants to write a letter." She clapped her hands in joy. "Won't that be fun?"
"William," the mortal said dreamily, lost in some other where. "William Cecil."
Leaning them into the wall, Angelus sank his teeth in the young man's throat and drank down the heady combination. He was sweet wine, doused in honey, steeped in spices. Memories swam through his mind. Nearly drunk on the taste, he nearly missed the stuttering heartbeat and hurriedly withdrew. Tearing open his shirt, the vampire raked a gash where the throat and collarbone kissed and forced the blood into this mortal's mouth.
"Stop," shouted Darla.
She sounded angry, as usual, so he ignored her. This mortal was too perfect, he would make a magnificent vampire. Angelus leaned closer, forcing more blood from the wound down William's throat. In the space of a mortal heartbeat, William's eyes opened faintly, sleepily, and he fastened his mouth on the gash even as it tried to close, suckling as eager as a newborn babe. The more blood he received, the stronger he would be; this one would be a true childe, rather than a weak minion.
"For the Devil's sake, Angelus!"
Darla was still angry. Pulling his newborn from the wound, Angelus cradled his youngest in his arms before turning to face his sire. He could see Drusilla dancing around the room, singing and clapping her hands in joy, eager 'to play with her baby brother,' as she put it. Now, they just needed to wait for the demon to wake come nightfall.
"Don't you know what you've done!"
Angelus knew he would regret this. Honestly, he loved his sire, respected her, but it was getting rather tiresome. Perhaps it was time for a change of scenery. Darla had been talking about Romania and what she had heard about the villagers there. On the other hand, his oldest childe -- that made him smile -- had always wanted to visit the Far East. Surely there would be plentiful hunting there, and much to see as well.
"Angelus!" She slapped him, causing him to snarl in response. "For the love of Satan, you've Turned the Prime Minister's son!"
No one spoke for several minutes after Angel finished his narrative. Giles cleared his throat, shock written on his face, and began asking questions. "Some loose ends, as it were. How did Darla know?"
Angel chuckled. "She traveled more in that society than I did. Usually, I was too busy looking after Dru. Darla probably recognized his name, his family. Knew the Prime Minister, Lord Salisbury, had three sons, the youngest named William."
"What did you do?"
"What could I do?" Angel kept his gaze directed at the floor. "I had Turned him, he was my responsibility. When I realized what ... who he was, I sent a letter to the Prime Minister, explaining everything. Who I was, what I was, who I had Turned and why, and by the way, he's your son." The smile on the vampire's face at the memory reminded Giles uncomfortably of Angelus. "I reported that I planned to keep William close so there would be no further ... unpleasantness in Whitechapel."
Giles understood immediately. "That would explain why the police presence suddenly dropped, and why there were no more victims."
"Yes."
"Why did he believe you?"
"Because I forced Will to write a letter, detailing everyone he killed and when. Sometimes -- most of the time -- he didn't know their names, but he could provide enough information for police identification. I included his letter in with my own as proof of what I said."
"Did you ever hear anything about it?"
"Of course not." Angel sounded almost disgusted that the Watcher would ask such a thing. "He probably burned the letters right after he acted upon it and confirmed what he could. If he didn't, then it's a family secret."
Willow found her voice for the first time. "If the press got hold of it --"
"It would have ruined his political career," Giles finished, his tone firm. "Possibly destroyed the family financially as well." The Watcher considered his next question for a moment, looking at the calm master vampire. "Were you able to control him, as you had promised?"
Angel sighed and made a steeple of his fingers, again directing his gaze to the floor. "For the most part. He killed a few society types, probably people he'd known socially, in a way I had to punish him for." He caught Buffy's questioning look and answered it. "Because they were too similar to the other killings."
"Oh," she said.
"It was at that point I encouraged him to choose a new weapon, if he absolutely had to carry one. Will chose a railroad spike for some reason." He shrugged. "Maybe it was similar enough to a knife to please him. The following September, I had to punish him again; he just hadn't been able to resist the temptation. He'd killed another woman, using his old knife, mutilated her, and dumped only the torso on Pinchin Street. 'Dark Lane,' it was called." The vampire glanced at Buffy. "It was the one-year anniversary of Annie Chapman's death." He looked back to Giles. "We left London after that."
"And went where?" Giles was determined to complete this interview, no matter how shaken he was. He could imagine all too well what forms the 'encouragement' and 'punishment' had taken.
"Across the Channel to France, heading for the Far East."
"How many victims total in the sequence, that you know of?"
"Seven."
Two more than generally recorded. Shaking his head, Giles caught the vampire's eyes and held them. They sat in silence for a moment before the Watcher spoke. "I had wondered why you didn't react to news of Spike's chipping. As ... head of the line, you should have been angry at such a..." he paused, "violation."
Angel spread his hands in a gesture of appeal. "How could I? As a mortal, he was a murderer, vicious, unremorseful, and probably mad. I made Jack the Ripper a vampire, immortal and fueled by a demon. I made him infinitely more dangerous."
"And by doing nothing," Giles continued the story with a calculating look in his eye, "you gain that much more in redemption."
"I hope so."
"Which makes him hate you that much more."
Angel inclined his head in a gesture of agreement, but his eyes were concerned. "The chip does worry me, though."
"Why?"
"It gives him the potential to be even more dangerous."
Buffy laughed. "You've got to be kidding. Spike can't kill a rabbit." Willow smiled. Giles didn't look convinced either.
"Wait, think a moment." Angel tried to make them understand. "Before, when he was mortal, before he was chipped, Spike was impulsive, disorganized, unable to plan."
The slayer snorted in reply. "Yeah, Parent-Teacher Night ring a bell for anybody here? Feast of St. Vigeous?"
"That's exactly what I mean, Buffy. Don't you see?" He looked at each of them in turn. "The chip is forcing him to learn to be patient."
"Good Lord." Giles now understood what the vampire meant. If Spike had only waited a few more days, until the Feast of St. Vigeous, he would have been unstoppable. Instead, he had barged in, unable to wait any longer, and ruined all his plans. If the chip ever came out, no one would be safe for the revenge that Spike would undoubtedly wreak on Sunnydale and the Scooby Gang. He tried to change the subject. "At least this does away with some of the odder theories about Jack the Ripper, such as the royals' involvement."
"Not directly." Seeing Giles' expression, the vampire hurriedly explained. "Will did say once that his favorite cousin was James Stephen - who was the royal tutor for Prince Albert Victor, son of the Prince of Wales. His father was the Prime Minister and a peer of the realm. William Cecil might not have been royal, but he and his family certainly ran in those society circles."
The witch considered this. "So there is a royal connection to the Ripper murders." Willow's eyes shone with mirth. "The real story of the world's first recorded serial killer. Do you think the Watcher's Council will let us novelize this?"
Before either Angel or Giles could respond, the door slammed open and Dawn barged into the dining room. "Hey, guys, do you want any watermelon?" No one answered. "Heeeello, watermelon. Earth to Scoobies....” She stopped when she saw the expression on Angel's face change. It frightened her; Dawn still had nightmares about a few years ago when her big sister was being stalked by the vampire ... even though she knew those memories weren't real.
"Where did you get that ring?" His voice was hoarse.
"This?" The fourteen-year-old fingered the ring. It was ugly costume jewelry - bright fake jewels set in dull fake silver - but it had been strung on a pretty silvery chain. "Spike gave it to me. He said he'd ask for it back when he left Sunnydale. I hope he never leaves," she added defiantly. "I think he gave Xander one too." Dawn rushed out of the room without waiting for an answer.
"Angel?" Buffy nudged him. "What?"
"I recognize that ring," the vampire said softly. "I saw it on the hand of a Whitechapel whore named Annie Chapman." He looked over to meet the slayer's horrified eyes. "Her rings weren't found on her body; Will must have taken them as trophies."
Her eyes wide, Willow had her hand to her mouth. "But ... but what does it mean?" Her whisper sounded so loud in the room.
Turning around in his chair, Rupert Giles looked toward the kitchen. He could hear Dawn, Xander, and Spike cheerfully cutting apart the helpless watermelon, laughing about how it struggled and bled and died in agony. He could hear Spike teaching his students how to torture the fruit, dipping the tip of the knife just under the skin and sliding along in merriment. He could hear the three of them growling in unison. "I think," he said faintly, "that Spike has already chosen his plan of action. It remains to be seen, however, whether or not he is able to perpetrate it."
For all their sakes, the watcher hoped not.
Also, in case anyone cares, James Stephen was a real person, who really was the royal tutor and companion to the prince. He also was an infamous woman-hater, and wrote notoriously terrible poetry which somehow got published (possibly due to his connections to the palace). So it comes as no shock that he would have liked his cousin's own horrid poems.
In addition, Robert Arthur Talbot Gascoyne Cecil, 3rd Marquess of Salisbury, was the Conservative Prime Minister of Great Britain on three separate occasions: briefly in 1885, from 1886 to 1891, and finally from 1895 to 1902. He died a year later. He had been considered one of the greatest government heads during Victoria's reign, and certainly the most principled. I have no idea regarding his children, so that part, at least, is total fiction.
Just in case you were wondering.
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