Summary: After deciding that he is no good to the Slayer the way he is, Spike takes a trip into the wild unknown...

Disclaimer et al: see chapter one
 

Chapter Nine - Mister Mfozo

The poet returned just as dusk was making the world a comfortable place for Spike again.

The other demon had let his human disguise slip a little. His grey on black hair, no longer lank and stringy, hung in uncanny writhing strands over his shoulders and his skin seemed bronze, not nut-brown, in the half light. What betrayed his inhumanity even more was the way his eyes were glowing, like burning holes of blue fire on white.

Spike looked up from where he was leaning against the side of the van, taking a long drag from his cigarette, to see the poet striding towards them from the distant slash of colours that composed the sunset. The air was so clear and bright and already the southern sky was starting to teem with stars in the encroaching darkness. He tossed the fag end away and then breathed in the air through his nose, just to smell the clean ozone it was laced with. It was almost as good as the iron tang of blood.

Under half-lidded eyes, he watched the poet draw near. Spike felt an uncanny sensation; he had cheated death for such a long time, maybe the devil was coming to take him at last. But no, the devil wasn't after him, at least not this time, but after the man who was slouched against the fake leather front seat of the taxi and staring across the dashboard at the nothingness ahead of him.

He had no pity for Jake. After all, the dying man was using him for his own ends without remorse. But he wasn't one to judge the man's motives either. Spike knew a little something about death and degradation. Some people did what they could to avoid it, others embraced it. He'd stumbled into that alley as William, a man for whom degradation was a way of life and had been embraced by death herself. He didn't know what Dru was offering at the time, but Spike never doubted that foreknowledge would not have changed anything. Perhaps William would have been horrified but he never would have chosen the Hero's route - the simple, clean death- over eternal damnation.

Not like Buffy.

In a world that was muddy with iniquity, where bad and good were so entwined it was difficult to tell them apart, motives were murky and selflessness gave way to selfishness, she was the one shining, glorious thing in his life. When she loved, it was pure, when she gave, it was without guile and her anger was always righteous.

What right had he, of all hell's creatures, to expect her to love him?

"She can never love you," the poet vocalised Spike's thoughts in front of him and he started.

"Bloody hell! Can't a bloke keep his thoughts to himself?"

"I can read it on your face, vampire. Truth hurts, doesn't it?"
"Don't think I was ever under any illusions," Spike said bitterly and fished for another cigarette. He shoved the item in his mouth and lit it, then took a long, shuddering drag.

Jake had heard the interaction and was climbing out of the van. "Is that why you're here? Because some woman doesn't love you? That's just got to be the most pathetic thing I've ever heard," he snorted.

"Not some woman." Spike breathed smoke out through his nostrils and gazed towards the horizon. There was only a thin band of light left to remind them of the sun. "The Slayer. She who is chosen to kill my kind - there's a whole sodding speech about it but I was never 'au fait' with all the mythology. It's all so bloody ironic. Vampire in love with the Slayer. And yeah, it is pathetic. But that's not why I'm here." A few quick pulls at his smoke and he flicked the remains away, not bothering to put it out. He launched himself from the side of the van and started to walk in the direction the poet had come from, his coat flapping around his legs. "Let's get this show on the road, people."

***

They were taken some distance from where the taxi was parked along the deserted road and into what formed a slight depression in the seemingly flat landscape. Here the ground was cracked and more parched than its surrounds and in the centre of the natural circle was a rough pole with a human skull attached to it.

Under the pole a banked fire shed meagre light over the terrain and the poet drew them into its sphere. With dark all around them and the stars above bright enough to see by without the moon, Spike felt as if he was standing in their own private universe.

They stood in silence.

Jake fidgeted with a big signet ring on his finger, all the while trying not to look the vampire in the eye.

Sighing, Spike ran a hand through his hair and turned to the poet., "So what now? Where's this conniving bugger we're supposed to be having a chat with?"

The poet gestured at the pole. "Right there."

Jake's head shot up. "What the hell you saying, bro? You brought us here to meet the witch doctor!"

"I did," said the poet. "He's there. Or rather, he was there. Meet Mr Mfozo, my friends." He walked over and rapped on the skull with his knuckles.

Spike rolled his eyes. "I should have bloody known," he muttered to himself and swung around, ready to go back to the van. "You coming?" He called to Jake without looking back.

"What? No!" Jake balled up his hands into fists and flashed his eyes at the poet. "You fucking bastard!" He swung a fist at the poet, but connected with air. "You think I'm going to take this kind of shit from someone like you? Do you know who I am? What I'm capable of?" As he rounded on the poet, he stuck a hand into his jacket to pull out his gun. His arms were shaking as he cocked and aimed the weapon.

"You stupid boy," said the poet. "You have no idea what you're dealing with." With flaring eyes, the poet lunged at Jake and had him by the neck. The gun clattered to the ground and went off, the crack reverberating across the land.

Spike stopped at the sound and turned.

"Come here," the poet called to him. "Or I hurt the boy."

"Well, well, well. And here I was thinking that your IQ was into the double digits. Hello, vampire! Why does everybody keep missing that? I don't care if the boy gets it. Go on! Put the little wanker out of his sodding misery." He turned again and continued to walk away.

The smooth voice drifted after him. "If the boy dies here, then you lose your chance to see who you really came here to meet." Without letting go of the struggling Jake, the poet reached for his jacket and drew out the card he'd taken from Spike originally. He flicked it at the vampire and it landed at his feet face down. On the back was the impression of a dragon.

"All right," Spike said, "let the boy go." He retrieved the card from the sand and waved it at the poet. "But I'm about ready to heave if I hear another fucking riddle. Tell me what this means."

Slowly, the poet released Jake who folded to the ground, clutching at this throat. "You were sent here to meet the dragon, William," the poet said.

TBC...