The Sick Rose
by Pandarus

11. Milk and cookies

The girl was awake.

He had been conscious of her scent as soon as he stepped into the hallway. He'd been peripherally aware of the modulated throb of her pulse as Petr Soucek slipped out of life, hamstrung and blinded and bleeding from countless cuts. Even as the pain-quickened patter of his frantic heart grew fainter and fainter and faded into death Spike was still aware of the living girl downstairs. He sensed the sudden syncopation when the sleeping Watcher woke and he heard the quiet fall of her sleepy slippered feet as she rose and made her way down to the kitchen.

Spike paused at the top of the staircase and considered his alternatives, licking Petr's blood fastidiously from fingers white as bread. He glanced down at the book, which had been under nothing more complicated than a simple invisibility spell. Soucek had taken quite a lot of persuading to render it visible, but Spike could be exceptionally persuasive when necessary.

It was an unremarkable looking volume, considering all the fuss that was going into getting it. The leather, as far as he could ascertain, was just ordinary leather; not the flayed skin of a virgin or preserved dragonhide, nothing fancy like that. No gold or iron bindings either. Just a book, when all was said and done, with its fragile pages guarded from deterioration by a standard little cantrip, if the faint stink of civet and sage was any indication. He didn't know and he didn't care what she wanted it for, just so long as she could undo the wretched witches' mojo. On the other hand he really didn't like having her hold all the cards like this, because she was clearly no more trustworthy than he was himself. She'd make a very good vampire, this Gwendolyn Post. He'd take great delight in the look on her face just before she exploded into ashes.

After a little thought he ghosted down the staircase to the first floor, unfastening shirt buttons with one hand. Listened to the hiss of water gushing from a tap downstairs and hitting glass, the quality of the sound shifting as the volume increased. Spike moved silently to Mrs Post's empty room and waited until he heard the girl turn off the tap, then opened the door loudly. Sensed rather than heard her pause downstairs. Strode cheerfully over the polished wood and descended the final flight of stairs with a spring in his step and a lascivious gleam in his eye.

He was yawning a little theatrically as he reached the threshold of the kitchen, the book of magic tucked casually in his armpit, and he made a point of looking thoroughly surprised to find the kitchen inhabited. Even managed a dash of embarrassment, although it was a stretch, when he met Martina Ruzitckova's narrowed grey eyes. Took in the tousled brown bob and the imprint of a crumpled pillow creasing her right cheek; noted the delicate beginnings of crow's feet framing her gaze. A small woman in her late 20s, limbs rounded from the sedentary life of a scholar; the very epitome of unthreatening girlishness in too-large striped blue pyjamas clearly designed for a man. Slippers embroidered with daisies. Her features weren't especially pretty but she was not unattractive, and her eyes positively shone with keen intelligence. Which was fine by Spike: intellectuals were often the easiest ones to manipulate.

She had heard him galumphing down the stairs and the utter lack of concealment, in conjunction with his dishevelled appearance, had already done a lot to allay her qualms. Her expression was quizzical but unafraid as she leaned back against the counter and sipped at the glass of water she'd come seeking; but Spike noticed that this Watcher had pulled a knife from one of the drawers, and was still holding it casually in her other hand. A glint of silver against her collarbone; a cross dangling between her breasts under the cotton, he'd wager. Hardly a great threat to a vampire like Spike, this girl, but he was hoping for a little fun and - more to the point - more information about Mrs Post and these blasted witches. This would take delicate handling.

"Sorry! We didn't wake you, did we?" he exclaimed in English, all roguish charm and chiselled cheekbones. "I mean, uh...prominte? Ahoj...um...mluvite anglicky?" he took a perverse delight in pronouncing the words in an accent thicker than boarding school custard, as his countrymen were wont to do with any tongue but their own, and watched more of the traces of mistrust melt away from her bare face. Let her think him a fool.

"A little. And you are...?"

"Blake," he improvised cheerfully. "I'm a friend of Gwenny's. Mrs Post's."

"A friend," she repeated, glancing at his hastily-mussed hair and half-exposed chest and raising one eyebrow. "I didn't hear you come in. I haven't seen Gwendolyn for days."

"No, she said as much," he agreed with a smile. "She's been slaving away at the research. Once that girl has the bit between her teeth there's simply no stopping her. You must be...?"

"Martina. Martina Ruzickova."

"Yeah, that's right," he agreed breezily. "Gwenny's told me all about you, Martina. You might not realise it, but she thinks the world of you." His eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that made her breathing quicken ever so slightly. "'Scuse me, you don't mind if I just...?" Standing just a hair's breadth too far away to be actually invading her personal space and then he leaned forward; watched an assortment of expressions cross her freckled face before she realised he was just getting himself a glass. Martina dropped the knife back into the drawer and stepped away rather sheepishly as he calmly poured himself some cold water and gulped it down. Oh, but this would be fun - he could smell desire on her already. Hardly surprising, though; she was only human. They were so pathetically easy.

"So you and Mrs Post...?" she asked, with a rather sweet attempt at nonchalance. Spike managed to feign a scandalised expression rather well, all things considered.

"You surely don't mean...? Sweetheart, Gwenny's a married woman. What kind of man do you take me for?"

Adorable the way the blush mounted on her cheeks then - he could smell the blood blossoming just below the skin. Delicious.

"I'm sorry," Martina said, looking genuinely embarrassed. He smiled his most saintly smile and patted her hand forgivingly.

"No, I'm sorry. Really, what else would you think? But we're just good friends. She's helping me with a little problem." Martina was having difficulty taking her eyes off him and he returned her gaze with just the right blend of deference and desire. Spike hadn't seen himself in a mirror for centuries, and certainly back when he had a reflection it had never seemed particularly adequate or dashing; but Drusilla's eyes were the only mirror he needed. She saw that he was beautiful and terrible and wicked as sin and so he knew that it was true. It was all in the eyes.

"Gwenny said you knew a lot about Libushe," he said casually, his eyes still locked on hers. She gave a coquettish little giggle at odds with her evident intelligence; sex was such a great leveller.

"Oh, just what everyone knows," Martina replied, smiling at him.

"I'm sure you're just being modest. And you certainly know far more than me - I'm no expert on witches. Demons are more my line." The timbre of his voice made her think he was just making conversation, was asking about anything in order to draw their dialogue out a little longer. As if anything about her mattered in the slightest. Humans were so painfully predictable.

He missed Drusilla terribly just then. She had never once bored him in all their decades of travel; and he had never taken her or her love for granted. Knew that Angelus could have taken her away from him with one snap of his fingers, the mincing great ponce; and he didn't blame his girl for that, because after all the man was her sire. Bastard. But oh, how he treasured her now that she was his alone. They had their arguments from time to time, to be sure - life wasn't always blood and kisses. But nothing serious; just a little pepper to spice up the banquet of existence.

He would not countenance the possibility of life without Drusilla.

Martina, the poor fool, was blooming under his admiring gaze. Spike marvelled again at the human capacity for self-deception; a Watcher really shouldn't be so painfully easy to fool, but they saw what they expected to see. Seems like they'd grown soft in Prague - a little flattery, a little sleight of hand and Bob's your uncle.

"So tell me about this Libushe, then," he said, casting a soulful look at Martina and watching her pupils dilate further. "She really a goddess?" He was the personification of louche nonchalance.

She made a business of drinking the water; breaking eye contact and lowering her lashes demurely as she gulped it down. Spike watched with his head cocked to one side, his gaze travelling languorously along her bobbing throat as she swallowed. She was making him thirsty. Martina wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and half shivered as she caught sight of the intensity of his focus on her at that moment.

"A goddess?" she repeated, transparently grateful for the distraction. "No, not a goddess - although a lot of the demons take her for one. You know demons, though - the sentient ones are so superstitious and romantic."

Ha. Not a goddess. He'd known it was all just hype.

"So she's a fraud?"

"Not exactly. You're familiar with the legends?"

"Why don't you fill me in?"

"Libushe was the greatest of Czech rulers. 'The Mother of Czechie,' they called her. Her father was a powerful chieftain in the seventh century; a great magician and warrior but also a just and fair ruler. He was like our Solomon, you know?"

Spike nodded.

"When he died, the crown passed to Libushe. All three of his daughters were powerful witches in their own right - Kazi was a great healer and Teta a powerful priestess, but Libushe was the wisest and the fairest of them all. She was chosen as ruler, lawmaker and judge and for many years the Czech people prospered. Then one day she gave judgment on a land dispute and the man who lost the case became very bitter. He said it shamed the country to have a woman ruler."

Spike stifled a yawn, only the slight flaring of his nostrils revealing the onset of ennui. His gaze wandered to the window and he noticed another of the little glass baubles dangling from a cord; there had been one in Petr Soucek's room too, come to think of it. He was sure he'd seen them before somewhere, but couldn't quite place it at the moment. Pretty things. Very Dru. Martina was still rambling on about ancient history and his patience was swiftly wearing thin. Perhaps flaying any useful information out of her would be quicker after all.

"And so Premysl became king instead and he ruled the people with an iron rod."

"My kind of guy," Spike murmured. Martina smiled uncertainly.

"Libushe continued with her witchcraft. We know that she saw prophetic visions which disturbed her greatly." Her voice became steadier as she warmed to her theme; she was clearly the sort who could ramble on about myths and legends and musty texts indefinitely. Watchers - really, could they possibly be any duller? No wonder Gwenny had decided to embrace The Dark Side of the Force.

"Somewhere she found - or perhaps created - a window to another dimension and then she and her sisters passed through the portal. Time passes more slowly in that world; we know this because there have been a number of recorded incidents of Libushe's followers returning through the portal over the centuries. She may still be alive."

Spike had the feeling that she would keep right on talking until sunrise unless he did something about it, so he jumped in as soon as she paused for breath.

"Right - so she was a powerful little witch, but she waltzed off through the looking glass? So what's the big deal about these Prague witches, then?"

His irritation was all too clear. Martina looked startled and he gave her an apologetic grin that seemed to satisfy her for the moment.

"They are the ones who elected to stay and guard this side of the portal - I mean, their descendents. They have had some contact with Libushe herself over the centuries, but their philosophy is very different from hers. Vlasta was her successor on this side of the portal - a warrior-woman, a sort of Amazon, you know? She led an army of women against Premysl. They were defeated, but the remnants formed the Order and their successors carried on their work. The witches are very powerful, especially here in Prague. They cleansed the city of several very aggressive species of demon and they have fought some great battles against hellspawn in the past. The Order of Libushe is a dangerous enemy."

Buggeration.

"So no weaknesses then? They don't melt if you throw a bucket of water over them, for example? 'Cause I always thought that looked like fun..."

"They are mortal women. Individually their power is not great, but together - on their hallowed ground, armed with the power of the portal? They are a force to be reckoned with. The Council leaves them to their own devices, but we have an... understanding. Their enemies are our enemies. They guard many items of power, many objects that could do terrible harm in other hands, and they have never tried to abuse this power. We trust them."

Spike felt a surge of furious helplessness. What the hell did Mrs Post think she could do to these bitches? If she were pulling a fast one, the supercilious cow - if she dared to use him like some idiot dogsbody...

"Of course, they are sworn not to harm women," added Martina, half to herself. "This has always seemed a little naive to me. Gwendolyn thinks that they are idiots to be bound by such a geas - but you will have heard all about it, I suppose. They don't even kill female demons; can't kill them, or their own lives are forfeit. But they can encourage them to kill one another."

His glance fell upon the kitchen clock and he started slightly; it was getting late. He had enough information to be going on with.

"Speaking of killing," he said cheerfully, allowing the curve of his brow to realign itself more comfortably, "I came down here for a drink."