Quiver Full Of Arrows

Instantly awake, he rolled out of bed. Toes curling into the furry bedside rug, head cocked; listening to the pounding footsteps on the ledge. They came into his courtyard and stopped outside his door, two sets of footsteps. Two sets of lungs breathing like bellows. He pulled on a pair of jeans, zipped up as he turned the door handle.

 

“What’s the emergency?”

 

Philippe and Salma bobbed their heads. “Good morning Master Spike,” they said.

 

“Not so good by the looks of you.” Their tunics were soaked through at the armpits, their faces pinched and streaked with chalky dust. “Don’t all speak at once,” he said when they carried on admiring the flagstones.

 

They spoke at the same time, panting at high speed. He got none of it. Figuring this was going to take a while, he put a T-shirt on, socks, boots; packet of fags in his pocket. Looked for his lighter, couldn’t find it. Maybe Nibblet had borrowed it. Back to the door, Eliminati looking more like Eliminati and less like spooked kiddies.

 

“Again, and enunciate clearly this time Philippe.”

 

“The Arches have been under attack Mi Amo. We attempted a counter attack, but our arrows were ineffective and…”

 

He turned back into the room, scooped up the quarterstaff and raced out of the courtyard.

 

“We were held captive the night long and came the moment the way was clear…”

 

“Guard the unit,” he snapped at the pair running behind him.

 

Please, please be okay, looped through his mind as he ran the mile and a half to The Arches. The gateway was trashed, proper ruined. Ever curious Fifth Rankers crowded the gaping doorway. He beat a path through, treated them to the bite of his quarterstaff. Splinters, clods of mortar and broken arrows crunched underfoot in the reception hall. Four Select prone on the floor, bleeding into the chalky dust. Drones cleaning up, darting tense glances at the sheet covered body in the corner.

 

“Mi Amo,” a Drone solemnly said, “He was a brave-”

 

“Shut your mouth,” he didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to think it.

 

He crouched beside the body, too fucking scared to pull back the shroud. Feeling sick, was gonna up-chuck his intestines. Please don’t be him. He drew the sheet back. Dark brown eyes, dark brown hair; chin, mouth and cheeks pulped to a mess - but not him. He pulled the sheet back over the lad’s face, did it quickly. Covered the empty eyes and dusty hair. Covered his severe shakiness by throwing orders around as he stomped to the pool garden.

 

“You two, get him buried.”

 

Took a short cut into the cold hall. Running. Calling himself every name under the sun. Tosser, bloody thick idiot; should’ve been here last night. He pushed through the Pool House gates as the guards opened them, in no mood for their good mornings. Automatically scanned the pool and balcony, then stopped dead. Paralysed by relief.

 

His hair shaggy, a cream blanket sliding off one tanned shoulder and a mug cradled in his hands, Xander stood at the balcony wall in front of his room; intact Xander, not bleeding, not pulped to a mess.

 

Spike let out his pent up breath.

 

Xander placed the mug on the balcony wall and the blanket slid off his other shoulder. He stepped sideways once, then again, shuffling for the staircase. Spike dropped the quarterstaff, scaled the stairs, met Xander along the balcony. Chilly arms crushed Spike in a hug, erratic heartbeat thudding on his chest, giving him a pulse by proxy.

 

He brailled his fingers over the flat plain of Xander’s stomach, stroked his arms and cupped his cheek, counted his ribs because only touch could reassure him that his boy wasn’t hurt. Swift on the heels of reassurance came the imperative to Claim Xander. He captured Xander’s lips with his, claimed them. Filled his fist with silky hair and held Xander’s head in place as he swept his tongue into the coffee flavoured mouth, warm mouth. Xander gave as much back and surfaced to ask for his brand of comfort, “hard?” he rasped.

 

*    *    *    *

 

He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed having Xander’s legs draped on his shoulders, feeling Xander’s cock rub pre-cum on their bellies, hearing the sounds his boy made when he sank into him as deep as he could go. He’d missed Xander. He pulled back his hips, held poised with just his cock-head inside Xander. Groaned as Xander clenched and unclenched around him, small motions, impatient. Like the impatience in Xander’s bona fide growl, “All, Spike, want all of you inside me.”

 

Spike’s thrust toyed with the limits of self-control, and he pumped on the edge of nasty. Xander’s mouth opened on a gasp, his hands everywhere, frisking Spike’s hair, scrambling on his shoulders, scoring his back. Could’ve been taken for trying to fend him off if Xander’s eyes weren’t washed black with heat.

  

He dragged out a thread of, “Spike, Spike,” beaded by “yeah, like that…fuck me…hard like that.”

 

He fucked him hard like that, face in the crook of Xander’s neck, shivers stealing into him from Xander’s mouth on his earlobe, sucking and saying how good he made him feel, how “safe.”

 

He nipped Xander’s throat with blunt teeth, big mistake. The demon clamoured for blood. Claim him. Do it now…better still, turn him. He burned with wanting to do it, to Claim Xander. Raised his face from the tempting neck, gasped, “turn pet.”

 

“Huh?” Completely out of it.

 

He slid Xander’s legs off his shoulders. “Turn over.”

 

Clumsy manoeuvring, and Xander was on hands and knees, pushing back to keep them locked together. Spike withdrew and watched Xander take him in on the forward stroke; withdrew and watched himself sink into Xander. Breathed in the smelting copper under Xander’s skin, ran possessive hands over the strong back, tracing long, lean muscles. He picked up the hard rhythm again feeling delirious with passion, and there would be no-one else here, taking, fucking, no-one, only him. Hips snapping, he imprinted into his boy – his boy – he imprinted his cock into his boy’s walls and engraved every tight pull of Xander’s channel over his cock. Hit Xander’s prostate again and again, etched the feel of that hard nub on his cock-head.

 

“Spike, god oh god oh…!” Xander shorted out.

 

He stretched his arms overhead, fingers bunching the sheets. Chest then forehead flat on the mattress, ass high and presented to him, sweat-studded back a downward slope of yielding. Beautiful sight; fierce. Got him all hot-skinned and tight-balled. Had him coming, saying through gritted teeth, “I’m…luv I’m…” not quite there yet.

 

Not there yet, half-way sated, he dragged his tongue down the length of Xander’s spine, tasted the drops of sweat. Rolled him face up and ringed his lips around Xander’s glistening head, flickered his tongue on the weeping slit. Xander’s yell buzzed him, his startled buck gave him a throatful of cock, diamond hard with near release. He held Xander’s hips up to his face, a thumb on each hip bone as he worked his mouth on Xander’s length, drinking the rush of musky-salty come, sucking until there was nothing left to draw out.

 

Last swallow and he slid his mouth off the softening cock, rocked his brow on Xander’s shuddering stomach. There; he was there now.

 

*    *    *    *

 

He batted Xander’s hands away and escaped from the shower stall. Shrugged on a bathrobe and double-knotted the sash as Xander came out after him. Frisky Xander, dripping water onto the white tiles and scrolling his gaze down him.

 

“You’re leering, Harris, stop. It’s making me bashful.”

 

Xander tied a towel around his waist and walked up to him. Practising his predatory prowl it looked like, backed him into the sink and caught hold of his waist when he tried skirting round it. Inward smile, tickled at finding himself Xander’s prey. Outward frown, no time to play. Work to do, interview with a Bookmaker.

 

“After the chinwag with Jude,” he bargained, “you, me and a stash of lube alone in the Pool House. How’s that grab you?”

 

Xander swooped his head in and kissed him. Smooth and drugging, a lover’s kiss that went on and on. Spike’s world tilted off axis. He locked his wrists behind Xander’s neck, clung to him. Let out a needy groan when Xander’s tongue-tip stroked the base of his dormant fang sending pleasure spiralling through him. Let out another mewl when Xander kneaded his ass.

 

Easing off, Xander looked his face over, brushed their lips together as he asked, “Please?” his frustration with their months long deadlock crammed into that one word.   

 

He’d not lie, he throbbed at the thought of Xander pushing into him. Thing of it was he’d never dropped trou for any man bar his Sire, and even then, the bastard had had to exert his strength to take him. And here was Xander asking. You didn’t ask a vampire please. You bent him over the sink and took. If you weren’t strong enough to do that, you didn’t deserve to get.

 

He smacked a kiss on Xander’s forehead, grasped his shoulders and turned him towards the door. “Never happen,” he said.

 

Xander laughed lightly. “Oh it’s gonna, Spike. One fine day,” cocky.

 

“Don’t hold your breath.”

 

“I’ll make it so good you’ll be losing yours,” Xander lead the way up the stairs and along the balcony.

 

“It’s not attractive pet, that outsized ego.” Spike picked up the T-shirt he’d discarded outside the War Room, the belt from farther along the balcony and a sock from the foot of Xander’s bed.

 

“That’s the problem, isn’t it? Your ego?” Xander asked, taking his wristband from the nightstand and strapping it on. “Because I know you want me, Spike.”

 

“Drop it, will you?” Trace of warning in Spike’s tone.

 

Xander pursed his lips, held his hand open and flipped it over, palm facing down. “It’s dropped.”

 

“Good,” he said, a little narked at how quickly it had been dropped. Obvious Harris wasn’t going to exert himself, didn’t want to fuck him badly enough. “How’d the gates get that way?” He asked, rummaging under a pile of floor cushions.

 

Xander wandered to the wardrobe and sifted through the tunics on the hangers. “What are you looking for?”

 

“My jeans.”

 

Xander pointed at the bookcase where Spike’s jeans had landed during the frenzied undressing. “Long story short; I woke up, Al was on the skylight, weirded me out. I came to find you but all of a sudden Jude was there…don’t let his scrawny appearance fool you. Jude’s King Strong and faster than Clark Kent on speed. But Al’s even faster. He…” 

 

“Al is?”

 

Xander pulled on boxers, pants and a tunic. “He’s a skinny albino kitten who shoots white mist outta his butt and shoots El Eliminati arrows back at them.”

 

Jeans on, he zipped and buttoned, preternatural senses tingling. “Explain.”

 

“What can I say, Spike? This cat looks like a cat for months and last night he morphs into…a mutant something.”

 

“Skinny, albino…” man sitting on the window and morphing into Xander. “Not a bleeding cat, Xander!” Spike wrestled his T-Shirt on. “Advisor, yes. Cat, no.”

 

“Logical conclude, Al’s not a cat therefore he has to be an Advisor?” Xander combed his hair at the mirror. “By the way, you might want to remind Philippe that he’s not the man-sitter of me? He dumped me in the Pool House when the arrows started flying, and told the guards he’d roast them if they let me out. I don’t think he was kidding.”

 

Philippe was being promoted to Chief Select the first chance Spike got. “And Greenwarts again?” He tossed his one sock over his shoulder and chose a pair from Xander’s drawer. “Where the flaming hell are my boots?”

 

“One’s under the armchair, the other’s piggy in the blanket,” Xander put on his own steel-capped boots. “Greenwarts brought you that extra delivery of O-Neg you ordered.”

 

“I did not order an extra delivery of O-flippin’Neg! He breaks the gates down the lying twerp and…and...” Spike jammed his foot into a boot, hopped on one foot as he tied his laces. “That son of a bitch is begging for a hiding, letting Advisors in here. Bet he started Nibblet’s eczema.”

 

“Jude didn’t break the doors down, Al did that. Spike? Spike? Listen, breathe and try for the calm ‘cause…”

 

“I don’t breathe and I think I’ll give the calm a miss,” he speed-walked to the War Room, seized cross bow and arrows and marched to the right wing.

 

Banged Giles’ door open. “Rise and bloody shine Watcher!”

 

Giles groaned, twitched, then lay still.

 

“I said…”

 

“Yes I heard you,” Giles reached an arm from under the blankets and patted the Demony Book on the nightstand. “But before we coerce answers from Jude, it’s urgent,” he yawned, “pardon me, extremely urgent that we discuss the book. I believe it’s one in a volume of…”

 

“Discussion over. War Room, grab a sword.”

 

Spike tramped down the Fifth Ranking corridor and rattled his courtyard gate, “Aslaying we shall go, girls. Wakey-wakey!” Quiver of arrows on his back and cross bow in his hands, he stampeded through the spiralling tunnels to Main Floor, Jude on his mind.

 

*    *    *    *

 

The first arrow went through Jude’s left lung, the second pierced his abdomen, the third and fourth staked his thigh to the gaming pit wall. Jude’s Runners deserted him, took cover among the small knot of gamblers. Spike kept coming at the shrieking Bookmaker, loading arrows and firing as he pressed on.

 

“You know about the book, know what it’s doing to Nibblet,” Spike reached over his shoulder for another arrow, found the quiver empty and threw the crossbow into the pit, leaping in after it. “And it’s right uncharitable, keeping your knowings to yourself.”

 

He wrenched out the arrow embedded in Jude’s abdomen and plunged it towards his heart, shifting target at the last possible second. The arrow slid between Jude’s ribs, so close to his heart that the protruding shaft quaked with his heartbeat.

 

Jude screamed. Spike jerked out another arrow, “Talk to me, Jude.”

 

Blood poured from the Runner’s unplugged wounds and sweat oozed out of his green warts. Spike twisted the arrow in Jude’s lung. Jude talked to him, sobbed.

 

“I do not know! I do not. Questioning me is akin to fishing in the dead sea, the black ocean. Please Mi Amo, I have nothing to cede.”

 

Weeping in a cacophony of languages, Jude pulled out the arrow close to his heart. Blood sprayed Spike’s T-shirt. Jude’s chanting ended on a gurgle and his eyes rolled to the back of his head.

 

“What did you do that for?” Spike slammed the passed out demon against the pit-wall. “I was saving it for last.”

 

Out of the gaming pit and in the Town Square where he met Xander, Dawn, Fred, Giles, Salma and Philippe, Spike re-played his exchange with Jude. Niggled by the sobbed intonations, he circled the bench in the centre of the Square and took apart the Runner’s words.

 

I do not know. I do not. Questioning me is akin to fishing in the dead sea, the black ocean. I have nothing to cede.

 

Questioning…fishing in the dead sea, the black ocean…nothing to cede

 

Question…the dead sea…black ocean…nothing…

 

Question the dead black nothing.

 

He circled round to Fred, “What did you chant when we slid…empty darkness?”

 

“Dark void,” Fred said without pause. “Dyulin let these Travellers pass unharmed into your Dark Void.”

 

“Giles, question the Dead Black Nothing equals ask the Dark Void, yes?”

 

“It’s a close interpretation,” Giles said.

 

Spike looked out at The Town Square’s layout. Seven gates flanking the septagon and seven roads leading from the gates to seven tunnel mouths. Six lit up tunnel mouths. One dark tunnel mouth - the one closest to his favourite drinking shack. The one that never had anyone going in or coming out. He strode over to the dark tunnel’s gate.

 

“Did you kill him?” Dawn asked, pained glance on his hands.

 

Spike wiped his bloody hands on his bloody T-shirt. “Should’ve done,” he grimaced at the feel of Jude’s cold, viscous blood and peeled the T-shirt off. “Where’s that tunnel lead?”

 

“My guess? That street ends in the Gothy Withless,” Xander replied.

 

Philippe followed with a more measured response. “The dead of the Trail, be they human, demon or indeterminate are not gone. They people the Void and keep company with She, the Custodian of Naught; for no thing leaves The Trail. Not a hair, nor a soul nor yet a spirit.”

 

Not for Spike to be discouraged by grave parables delivered in equally grave nuance and he wished his people would force a little colour into their pasty faces. He chucked the T-shirt aside and helped himself to a torch and two lamps from the shack.

 

“Fred and Nibblet you’re watching the tunnel with Philippe.”

 

Dawn grabbed his arm. “Are you sure about that, Mi Amo? Look what happened to Xander when he wasn’t with you.”

 

Why not just stab me? Spike thought as he handed her a lamp. He gave Giles the torch, Xander the second lamp and stuck his hand out to Fred. “I’m your eyes,” he said.

 

Giles torched Spike’s T-shirt, saying, “How very thoughtless of you, Master Spike. We are in a place riddled with the dark arts and yet you think nothing of leaving your hair fibres unattended.”

 

“However, Mi Amo must leave his weapons outside the tunnel,” Salma said. “She the Custodian of Naught does not permit arms in her tunnel and for this reason, few descend the Seventh Tunnel voluntarily.”

 

Collecting weapons from Giles, Fred, Dawn and Xander, Spike said, “Come in armed if we’re not out in half an hour.” He shoved the crossbow, empty quiver and swords onto the Eliminati and took Fred’s hand again.

 

“Out of interest, how fast a runner are you, Fred? Scale of one to ten?”