[A/N: Is this complicated enough yet? Oh wait, I can make it even more complicated. . . and don’t you just love me for it? I don’t remember where I saw the “knights who say key” first, but I know it was another fanfic, my apologies (for borrowing it without permission) to the witty author who first coined it and a heartfelt thanks because it’s a great Spikism. Another thing – I don’t know if I’m the only one who ever noticed it, because I’ve never seen anyone say this, so anyway, Joss once said that Giles and Spike were very alike – I’m going to throw Wesley into that mix. William, geek Wesley and Giles – Spike, post-Buffy Wesley and Ripper - - tell me they aren’t all the same guy at different points in development and I’ll . . . *thinks* . I’m not sure what I’d do, but I don’t think anyone could prove me wrong. Title is from the Scottish Play, act iv, scene i, and the quotes are as attributed. Disclaimers still in full force and effect; I own nothing.]
Previously: Darla gave birth and while holding his miracle son, Angel found a shining moment of happiness. Willow’s cast a summoning/sending and the effects of that are about to be felt . . .
Book two, chapter 6. A charm of powerful trouble
All things truly wicked start from an innocence.
Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast, ch. 17
Dire combustion and confused events
new hatch’d to the woful time
Macbeth, act ii, scene iii
Wesley hadn’t waited for anything. The minute Angel’s . . . . Angelus’ attention had shifted to Cordelia, he backed into the car, placed the baby on the floor of the front seat and drove off.
He had to put as much distance between father and son as humanly possible as quickly as possible before Angelus had time to start tracking.
Buggering hell.
Bloody buggering fucking hell.
Wesley had no idea where to go. It was after midnight and while he was sure he could at least get diapers, he couldn’t risk it while still in LA. Had to get out – find a safe place to . . . Sunnydale.
Cutting across four lanes of traffic, Wesley turned the car south, toward Sunnydale.
Toward the only two people who could possibly protect this baby from his father.
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The gym was barricaded from the inside. He couldn’t get in by conventional methods, not even through a window. . . unless . . . circling around toward the athletic field, Spike slipped into game face, sniffing out the hostage takers.
Fuck.
Humans. Every last fucking one.
No matter. He could probably still get in, get Dawn and the Sprout to safety and let the authorities clean up this one. Opening an unguarded locker room window, Spike let himself in. On silent feet he prowled through the smelly locker room, freezing when one of the hostage-takers came closer. Bloke was doing his own searching, trying to be all stealthy, but Spike could hear his elevated heartbeat and echoing footfalls. Turning a corner, Spike got a look at him, swearing in his head upon his glance.
Buggering hell.
Bloody fucking buggering hell.
Thought we beat the knights who say key. What the fuck are they back here . . . . Dawn. No fucking way in hell.
Without thought of the chip, hoping if he picked them off one by one it would lessen the effects, Spike reached out and snapped the sentinel’s neck. The pain blinded him momentarily and he tried willing it away by breathing deeply.
It took him longer than he was willing to wait for the pain to subside. Fuck it. Not gonna wait.
Pushing away from the lockers, Spike made his way steadily toward the gym, fully prepared now to do whatever necessary to get Dawn out of there and home.
Laid out flat on the floor, Spike pushed open the door, thankful that the woeful knights had kept the dim lighting scheme. Idiot wankers pro’ly can’t find the bloody switches.
Sliding along the floor, Spike got to his feet behind one of the tall speakers, inhaling deeply, he tried to pinpoint how many people were currently in the room. Ten. . . fifteen . . . twenty-two . . yeah, twenty-two people. . . He had no way of knowing how many were the bloody knights.
Dawn was here.
Not more than a dozen steps away.
Surrounded by other heartbeats.
Risking a look, Spike leaned around the amp. The boy, to his credit, had Dawn firmly by the waist, not letting go. Dawn was hanging onto him also, another good sign. Not so good was the group trying to separate the two. There were four of them.
He had one chance.
No more than that. One opportunity to get them out of here.
Thinking quickly, Spike ripped apart the thin fabric covering the amp. Disconnecting wires and quickly threading them together, Spike soon had two garrottes ready for use. Two down. . . he’d leave it to Dawn to take care of one. . . three down. Figuring he could get one good solid kick in while he was choking the other two, Spike had no choice but to go with the makeshift plan. He waited. . . then, when the Sprout elbowed one of their attackers, Spike struck.
“Nice work Sprout. Up for more?”
Slipping one noose over the elbowed knight, Spike yanked, turned, flinched visibly, then slipped the second noose down around a short knight’s neck, he yanked again. Pain blossomed in his head, worsened at Dawn’s ear and glass shattering shriek of his name, which thankfully enabled him to garrotte the second victim, but unfortunately alerted everyone to his presence.
Grunting through the pain, unable to see, Spike ground out, “quiet sweets, gotta get us outta here.”
Dawn kneed her current attacker in the groin while Casey, quickly catching on, sucker punched the fourth knight in the kidney, then when he arched back in pain, slammed his knee up into the man’s balls.
Holding his head and hunched over from his own pain, Spike pushed them toward the locker room, hobbling behind them. His mouth was running, trying to break through to Dawn, who was babbling and crying. “Niblet . . . Dawn. Shut up, listen. Keys in car. Get home. . Get Buffy.”
Two knights grabbed him from behind and ignoring the pain, Spike threw a left at one, striking out with a kick to the other in a follow up motion. Instead of yelling in pain, Spike howled with fury, diving into the fight.
Casey was pulling her toward the door, while Dawn screamed out Spike’s name.
Grabbing a folding chair, Spike slung it at another knight, yelling at Dawn, “get out! Now!”
Somehow Casey understood this was about keeping Dawn safe and he bodily picked her up and ran for the doors.
“No . . . No! They’ll kill him!!” Dawn’s voice was panicked, real fear lacing her tones. “Spike! SPIKE!!”
He was braced at the doorway, doors to the locker room at his back, four knights ranged in front of him. Pain was cresting in waves through his head and Spike knew he had only a few precious seconds of consciousness left, but every second counted, gave the two time to get away, to get home, so that Buffy could at least avenge his dusting. He knew this was it.
The knights knew what he was; each one of them holding a makeshift stake in hand, but Spike was doing his best to avoid that final plunge, holding them off with a folding chair.
Fucking hell.
Did not wanna die at the hands of Society for Creative Anachronism rejects.
Fuck.
The door swung open behind him, and Spike turned to face this threat when they closed in on all sides. Something hard and metallic slammed into his head, then he took another hard blow to his right and he tried fighting back, praying to a god – any god that he could hold out longer, when a tiny blond blur streaked in under an upraised arm. His blurred vision thought it was Buffy but the stance was different, the figure smaller.
Lifting the chair, Spike mentally shrugged, no time to worry about who or what she was, then slammed it into one of the knights. Together he and his unexpected ally fought, but with each blow Spike struck and landed, he weakened. He was faltering and he knew it.
There was another hard blow to his right from a sword, raking down his entire torso, and he felt and heard bones snap and as he was trying to recover, a whoosh sounded past his ear and everything went black.
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Dawn was screaming his name, fighting against Casey’s hold, trying to get back to Spike somehow. “Dawn. . . Dawn. . . stop! He said get your sister. We have to go.”
Casey just kept repeating the words until finally Dawn understood what he was saying. Gulping in a deep breath she said, “I’m okay. . . I’m okay. . . yeah. We gotta go now.”
Taking off her shoes, Dawn grabbed Casey’s hand, heading for the back of the locker room. Spying an open window, Dawn scrambled up and out, spying the DeSoto while Casey escaped from the school behind her.
“Can you drive?” At his answering nod of yes, Dawn said, “good. Let’s go.”
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He should have been back already. Buffy looked at the clock on the wall, then down at her hands. Could just be Dawnie didn’t want to leave the dance or her date. Could be . . . so then how come she was having these little niggling thoughts about . . . something going wrong?
She threw aside the blanket, searching around for her sneakers. Upstairs. The sense of urgency grew, intensifying the longer it took to find her sneakers and get some weapons.
Buffy stood still, her weapons bag at her feet, staring off into nothing. Was she over-reacting? Was this just her over-active imagination?
Was it?
Her slayer sense was telling her something was wrong about tonight. Something gone wrong. Shaking off the inertia, Buffy slipped a stake into the back of her pants, then grabbed a short sword.
She was running down the steps when an upset and crying Dawn burst through the front door, calling her name.
“Buffy! Spike . . . school . . go!!” Doubling over, trying to catch her breath, she blurted out, “knights came. . . Casey drive. . . go! GO! GO!”
“Stay inside Dawnie. Lock the doors. Call Tara. Don’t let anyone in but us.” Buffy was out the door and staring at Casey who was standing at the door of the DeSoto. “Drive now.”
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Wesley checked the speedometer, then flicked a glance at the gas gauge. His eyes drifted toward the sleeping infant on the floor. He needed to get gas, but couldn’t risk leaving the baby in the car all alone.
His mind was completely blank. Having no idea how the others had gotten away, Wesley only hoped everyone survived, at least through the night. He was staggered from the events of the last couple of hours.
Darla had staked herself so the child could live.
Angelus was returned.
Angelus was back.
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Be alive. Not dust. Just be there. Not dust. Not dust. NOT DUST.
Not dust.
The drive felt endless, Casey trying to stay within the speed limit yet drive fast. Buffy was afraid to even open her mouth, for fear of nothing but screams emerging.
Her hands were clenched in an iron grip, jaw tense and frozen. The two thoughts kept repeating over and over, looping in her head. Be there. Not dust. Not dust. Be there.
She was out the door before they hit the parking lot behind the locker rooms, her only words to Casey, “don’t leave” flung over her shoulder as she ran toward the building.
Unknowingly following Spike’s earlier path, Buffy went in, practically diving through the window. The locker room was eerily quiet, not even her footfalls made a sound. Stepping over a corpse, Buffy wasn’t surprised when she saw the tattoo – but grimly thought, good. He got one.
She ran quickly to the gym doors, not caring about stealth anymore.
Swinging open the door, Buffy quickly surveyed the scene before her. A little blond girl was standing over a huddled bloody mass of black . . . oh god. . .
Spike.
That bloodied mass of black was Spike.
Oh god.
Without another thought, Buffy ploughed into the fight raging around the little girl, knocking out one of the knights and hacking at another’s arm. Grim faced, scared and highly pissed, Buffy set about to free Spike from the warriors.
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The band was almost done with the first set when her phone went off. Glancing down at it, Tara thought about ignoring the call, but when the main house number flashed, followed by the number one, Tara quickly changed her mind. Motioning to Oz, she walked toward the bathrooms and flipped open the phone.
Dawn was crying, that much was clear, but nothing else made sense, until Tara filtered away the tears.
“Dawnie. We’ll be right there. Stay put.”
Turning back toward her companion, Tara sent up a quick plea to the heavens to keep everyone safe. Oz raised his eyebrow at her gentle yet urgent touch. “I have to go. Spike’s been hurt and Buffy’s had to go rescue him. Dawn’s alone. . . the knights are back.”
He didn’t say anything, just left his beer on the table and followed her out the door.
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Three more. Only six now surrounding the three of them. Buffy was afraid to look down, afraid to break her concentration. Afraid – because if she looked, she’d break.
Still here. Not dust.
Not dust.
Unaware she was muttering those words out loud, Buffy was surprised when Spike’s rescuer joined in. Flashing the blond girl a look, Buffy was taken aback when teary blue eyes gazed back at her.
Those eyes were kind of familiar, but Buffy had to fend off a blow aimed at the other girl’s head, nearly decapitating the knight. Jumping over Spike’s inert body, Buffy switched off with the girl, idly noting she fought left-handed, something she was used too.
Her world narrowed, all time for thought gone.
Hack. Lunge. Punch. Kick. Not dust. Punch. Slash. Not dust. Punch. Kick. Not. Slash. Dust. Hack. Not. Stab. Dust.
It was done.
The last knight was bleeding out on the floor. Buffy dropped the sword, crumpling to her knees, facing away from where his battered body lay inert. Blood was pooled everywhere, soaking into the knees of her pants. Stifling a sob, Buffy retched onto the floor, adding to the mess.
A hesitant call of her name brought her attention back to the forms behind her. “Buffy?”
She spun around, responding to her name from the unknown girl. “How do you know me?”
“I know lots of things. I’m Kirsten.”
Somehow that wasn’t a surprise.
There was a groan from the bundle of dark clothes, drawing Buffy’s attention away from the girl, kneeling at her side. “Spike . . . “
Scooting over to him, Buffy searched for an unbloody part of him to touch. “Spike. . . . Spike can you hear me?”
His hair was red, there was so much blood on him. His face was barely recognizable, swollen, battered, bruises all ready forming.
“Oh god. Spike.” Her hand covered her mouth, afraid to again to move. His legs were at odd angles, his lower right arm broken through the skin, the bone bare and exposed. . . this was as bad as Glory’s beating.
“Buffy. We need to get him out of here.” From her position on his other side Kirsten wiped away her own tears.
“Blanket . . . something to lift him. . . “ looking around Buffy spied a small gymnastics mat and was up dragging it over before Kirsten could move. “Help me lift him.”
Together they moved him without jolting him too much. Working remarkably well and in relative silence, the two moved toward the door, Spike’s prone body on the mat between them.
Emerging from the gym doors, Buffy was surprised to find Oz waiting for her instead of Casey. At her questioning look, he said, “sent him to your house. Dawn called Tara.”
As if that made sense Buffy just shrugged. Oz hopped up into the back of the van, grabbing one end of the mat, sliding it in. Buffy hopped up beside Spike, while Kirsten closed the doors.
Climbing in beside Oz, Kirsten said, ‘we should be safe at Buffy’s. Tara’s got stronger wards up now.”
Neither one of the adults thought her comment was strange.
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