Buffy The Vampire Slayer - Spike And Dru Pretty Maids All In A Row

Prologue

New York City, U.S.A.

March 9th, 1940

New York City. Center of the universe.

He stood on the corner at Sixth Avenue and Thirty-sixth Street and looked

north. Night had long since fallen but the lights of this extraordinary city

still burned. People milled about in fancy dress searching for more of the

nightlife now that the evening's shows had all let out. It was still early in

1940 but the Depression was long since over. Prohibition was over. In Europe a

dark cloud hung over every nation. The German invasion of Poland the previous

September had prompted France and Britain to declare war; but there had been

little action in Europe since then. Still, it was inevitable. War would come.

Its specter loomed ever larger, ever more imminent in Europe. But here in

America there was a pride and a confidence that was unlike anything he had

ever seen.

Were they ignorant, these Americans or simply arrogant?

Whatever the answer one thing was dear to him: with its vibrant color and

electric crackle of life America had become the new empire, and none of the

European nations neither the home of Hitler nor his critics was truly aware of

it yet.

As he watched the people walk past, the men in their striped suits and

bowlers, the women in their expensive dresses and wraps, he wondered if even

these Americans quite understood the shift in the world that had come since

the Great War had devastated Europe twenty years before, With a snicker, he

shook his head. Why go to America? the love of his life had asked. He had led

her to the window and drawn back the curtains to reveal the gray pallor of an

anxious London below.

"Have a look, pet," he had told her. "Do the poor sods down there look like

they're havin' even a bit o' fun? They're so grave and frumpy these days, it's

almost enough to make me pity them before they bleed. Let's have a little fun,

shall we?"

The savage smile that played at the comers of her lips then enticed him, and

he fell upon her there in the wan light from a cloud shrouded moon. They made

love with a furious abandon and she hurt him, tearing at the skin on his back

with her talons. Even now he shivered at the memory of that delicious pain.

New York had been everything they had dreamed. Parties and music and young

debutantes flush with red life and exuberance. A hunter's paradise.

Four months later she was bored.

"You'd think living forever would give the girl a bit of patience," he

whispered to himself as he stood in the cool breeze that swept down Sixth

Avenue, as if someone were there to appreciate the irony in his voice.

The wind blew again. He was exposed where he stood on the comer, and he turned

up his collar to stave off the chill. With a quick tug he set his hat more

firmly on his head; it had once belonged to a gray haired gentleman who had

not wanted to part with it. There were only two small drops of blood staining

the brim.

At that moment the object of his loitering appeared on the opposite comer.

Adrienne Montclaire was a devious old bitch with the face of an

eighteen-year-old and the heart of a killer. He admired her for it but trusted

her not at all. Her blond hair flew behind her, much longer than the

cultivated bob so fashionable among Manhattan's female population. With the

wind pasting her scarlet cloak to her body, Adrienne had a sultry vitality

that their kind so rarely exhibited.

She looked so very alive.

Just a short way down the block she crossed the street and went into a

restaurant and pub called Keen's Chophouse. He watched to be certain she had

not been followed. Their meeting was to be private. No observers.

Well, none other than the humans, who would have no idea what they were

seeing.

Two minutes after Miss Montclaire entered Keen's, he followed. The door swung

open before him and he descended a few steps to the foyer. Smoke billowed

around him. Keen's was famous among New York's elite for its steak, its wood

and brass atmosphere, and for the thousands of corncob pipes that hung from

hooks on the ceiling. Each pipe had a number and each number corresponded to

one of the restaurant's regular patrons. Theodore Roosevelt had dined here and

there was his pipe to prove it. Buffalo Bill Cody had left a pipe behind when

he died.

The roar of men speaking of their fortunes, blathering about their businesses

or their wives or mistresses, about baseball or the tensions in Europe; it

would have been amusing if not for the cloud of smoke.

He was grateful that he did not have the burden of needing to breathe.

The maitre'd snapped to attention as he removed his bowler.

"May I help you, sir?"

"I'm to meet Miss Montclaire for dinner," he replied. The man stood a little

straighter, chin a little higher, though whether the reaction had to do with

respect for Adrienne Montclaire or the dignity he had found most Americans

associated with his accent, he could not say.

"Right this way, sir."

Adrienne's table was at the back of the restaurant against the wall opposite

the entry. A private booth, though not so private that other patrons would not

send curious glances at the young man dining with one of the city's most

notoriously wealthy debutantes.

She smiled as he approached, her teeth perfectly white.

"Hello, William," she said, voice as raspy as he recalled, eyes dancing with

sinister intent.

Miss Montclaire offered her hand and he took it, held it up to be kissed. The

maitre'd hurried away as he sat across from her.

"Adrienne. Lovely to see you. How long has it been?"

"Thirty-five years, William. You're as handsome as ever."

"And you as ravishing, love," he replied. "But let's skip the niceties, eh?

You know bloody well I don't use that name anymore."

A petulant pout reformed her thick red lips. But it was insincere. "You know I

hate that sobriquet of yours. Spike. Wherever did you pick up such a crude

nickname?"

He grinned at that, his thin face appearing almost skeletal in the dim light

and the smoke. "Let's just say I used to work on the railroad."

A silent moment passed between them, and Adrienne's expression was grave. At

length she sat up a bit straighter, but remained silent. A waiter came and

they ordered drinks. He was back swiftly, but when he departed she only looked

at her drink

"Are you going to tell me why you wanted to see me, or am I meant to guess?"

she asked, a bit curt.

Spike sipped from a pint of warm beer. Not quite like home but not bad either.

His gaze darted around, glancing at the other patrons, wondering if anyone

nearby was not what he appeared to be, if there was anyone else there who

would understand what they were speaking of enough to benefit from it.

Eventually he decided there was nothing to be done for it.

"I want to do something for Drusilla," he said

"Are you still with that cow?" Adrienne asked, playful and cruel as a kitten.

Spike narrowed his eyes, gave her a look that told her another such remark

would cost her her life. Adrienne only smiled obtusely, pushed her luxurious

hair away from her face, and tilted her head as she regarded him.

"How can I help, William?"

"She's been a bit, well, bored lately. I've set my heart upon a gift for her,

and I believe that you know where I could find it." Even before he spoke the

words, he could see awareness in her eyes. She knew what he was after.

"Freyja's Strand," he confirmed in a low voice.

She frowned. "You're insane."

"Now come on, love. It's dear old William you're talking to. Don't tell me you

don't know where it is, because I know better. Always been a bit of a hobby

for you, hasn't it, keeping track of such things? I want the necklace of the

Brisings for Dru, and I'll have it, with or without your help."

"A grand quest for your lover, then?" she teased. "How romantic."

"Something like that," Spike snarled.

Adrienne regarded him steadily. "And how am I to benefit from this

information; a bit of knowledge which, as I'm certain you know, could get me

killed?"

"Do you still hold a grudge against the Master?" Spike asked, well aware of

the answer.

She froze. Stared at him with profound suspicion.

"Nest? You're going to tell me where to find Nest if I tell you where to find

Freyja's Strand?"

"Exactly."

He watched her turn the offer over and over in her mind. When the moment of

her decision arrived, he saw that there as well. But he had known from the

start what Adrienne would say. He had made her, after all.

"The demon Skrymir has it," she revealed.

With a grunt, Spike furrowed his brow.

"You know of him, then?"

"Heard of the bloke, yeah. Who hasn't? Wasn't sure if he was real, or still

alive if he was."

"Oh, he's real," Adrienne told him. Her smile was even more condescending than

her tone. "He has been alive since the time the necklace of the Brisings was

forged by the gods of the North country."

"I don't believe in gods. Not of any country." Spike sniffed.

"As you will. Whatever those creatures were, they were as real as the trinket

you seek. I can tell you how to reach Skryrnir, but he will not relinquish it

to you. Your journey will be hard and will gain you nothing."

Satisfied, Spike leaned back into his chair and gazed levelly at Adrienne.

"I'll make a bargain with you, girl. You tell me how to find the crusty old

bastard, and I'll worry about getting the bloody necklace from him."

Her eyes grew stormy a moment, but then the storm passed The lineage behind

Spike was long, but the Master was a part of it. Adrienne had tried, once upon

a time, to use that bloodline to become a part of the Master's circle, the

Brethren of Aurelius. He had spurned her. Hurt her. Left her to die in the

sun.

But she had escaped, and she had been hunting him ever since. It would not be

long, Spike knew, before Adrienne discovered the Master's whereabouts on her

own. For now though he turned her ignorance to his advantage. She told him how

to find Skrymir's lair. Though they had no map between them, her instructions

were very precise. He committed them to memory. As she spoke, he watched those

lovely full lips move, remembering why he had turned her in the first place.

Not for love, of course. He loved no one but Drusilla. But those lips had

their attractions.

"Now, where do I find Nest?" she demanded.

Spike smiled. "All right then, pet. I'm a bit parched yet. Just give us a

moment."

He held up a hand to gesture to the waiter, who had been keeping a respectful

distance. The waiter noticed and began to approach, unaware that the signal

had not truly been meant for him.

In the foyer of the restaurant a woman screamed and began to faint, her skirts

flying up in revelatory fashion. Her black tresses cascaded across her pale

features and she convulsed on the floor, tearing obscenely at her breast.

"Dear God, she's having a fit!" the maitre'd shouted, and ran to kneel by her.

Every single patron turned from their dining partners and their red and bloody

meat to stare in fascination at the scene unfolding near the entry way.

All save Spike.

Adrienne glanced away only for a moment Long enough for Spike to withdraw the

long, thin, tapered wooden stake from inside his sleeve. She began to turn

back toward him just as he thrust it across the table. Her perfect lips formed

a stunned little 0 as it plunged into her chest and punctured her heart

She exploded in a cloud of ash and dust. It smelled of damp wood and spices.

He paid for their drinks, stood, and walked up to the foyer. The maitre'd

nearly fell backward, so shocked was he when the contorting woman simply sat

up, grinning madly.

"There were bleeding children in my wine," she said, her smile impossibly

wide; the smile of a hungry tiger. "I was choking on them. But I'm better

now."

Spike bent to help her to her feet, dusted her off, and kissed her full on the

mouth. "Off we go, then, love."

They went out together, all the patrons of Keens staring after them.

Outside, with the cold wind still blowing, they ran together, laughing wildly.

"She told you, didn't she?" Drusilla asked. "The birdy whispered in your ear?"

"That she did, love. That she did. We're off to Norway?

Drusilla paused on the sidewalk, an almost comical expression of concern on

her features. "Ooh, Spike, are you sure it's safe? There will be war, you

know. A real one, not all this posturing and chest beating. Any day now. I had

a vision of tin soldiers on fire, and the sky was raining babies. I told you,

remember?"

"Don't give it another thought, poodle: Spike said happily. He pressed his

face to her cheek, then nuzzled into the nape of her neck, nipping her there

with his teeth. "You're the cream in my tea, Dru. Always. My sweet one is

going to have her heart's desire, and that is simply that.

"If it's to be war, all right then. Let's go to war."

Chapter One

The Atlantic Ocean

March 19th

Spike stood on the deck of the Aberdeen, cigarette clenched between his lips,

and leaned perhaps too much against the rail. It was twilight, and the last of

the sun's rays lit the tips of the waves on the western horizon. The ocean was

rough and beautiful, ephemeral turbulence on the surface belying the eternal

calm below.

The boredom was killing him.

The engines rumbled loudly below the thrumming deck, their smell inescapable

for anyone who actually had to breathe. In the dining room each night Spike

and Drusilla sat and ate the slop that was served to them. They did not have

to eat for sustenance. On this trip, however, if they dined with others aboard

the ship it was for the sake of appearances only and almost not worth the

trouble. Monotony The same faces passed by on the deck each night Three

British airmen returning home to do their duty for His Majesty. A young lady

and her governess en route via England to an elite Paris boarding school. The

filthy crewmen and anxious looking stewards. The fat American woman whose

pinched features threatened at any moment to explode in a torrent of abuse

poured upon her bespectacled, quavering husband. He represented an American

firm that hoped to introduce new techniques in steel welding and shipbuilding

to the British for the war. Apparently no one had explained to him that the

British were not bloody likely to be taking advice from the Yanks, if anyone.

Nearly every one of them had been the object of his homicidal fantasies during

the voyage. Most had escaped unscathed. It would not do to have the truth

about his and Drusilla's nature revealed to a passenger ship full of humans

already on edge because of the outbreak of war. Particularly not in the middle

of the Atlantic.

Spike took a long drag on his cigarette, the ember at its tip glowing in the

dark, and leaned out across the rail to stare down at the water churned up by

the Aberdeen's passing. "Careful there, mate. This old girl's in good shape,

but the rail might not hold"

The voice was gruff, British, and by now familiar. It belonged to Jack Norton,

one of the grimy men responsible for keeping the old vessel's engine running

He often walked the deck to stretch his legs after a shift below and was among

the very few living souls on board that Spike had no immediate urge to kill.

Smoke drifted in twin streams from Spike's nostrils, quickly sucked away into

the cold spring night. "I can think of worse things, Jack A little bit of a

dip, some chaos aboard ship, 'man overboard,' all that. It'd be a bloody joy

about now. How do you do this all the time without going out of your mind with

the boredom?"

Norton stroked his gray mustache, unmindful of his dirty hands. Who says I'm

not out of me mind?" he said, expression quite serious. "Tell the truth, lad,

it don't really bother me. I'm down below, me mind on me work. Don't have much

time to think about it."

The crewman paused, studying Spike closely. "You and the missus have a fight?"

Spike frowned. "I don't think I like that question."

"No offense, sir," Norton replied, unaffected by Spike's apparent annoyance.

"It's only that yer on yer honeymoon here, ain'tcha? Makin' yer way home.

You've spent near every waking moment in yer compartment, celebratin' like."

"Well, that's what newlyweds do, isn't it?" Spike snapped. "We've come out for

meals and walks around the deck and the like."

"Aye. But this is the first time I've heard ye sayin' how bored you are. None

of my business to be sure, but I've a feeling if I was on me honeymoon with

that pretty bird o' yours, I wouldn't be bored, or at least I wouldn't act it.

Just a friendly bit of advice, as me ol' mum used to say. worth what you make

of it."

The impulse to kill Jack Norton just then was quite strong Spike resisted it.

Instead he took another puff of his cigarette ,felt the burning in his throat,

and then snorted plumes of smoke back into the air. He shook his head "So you

don't think I should go for a swim, Jack? That's what you're saying?"

"That's what I'm saying," Norton agreed "I expect you knew that, but we're all

feeling a bit dodgy these days, aren't we? What with the U-boats prowling

about down there . . ." He gestured toward the water. ". . . and three people

lost on this trip already?

Spike raised an eyebrow. 'Three?"

Norton glanced about to make sure no one else was within listening distance.

"The captain don't want us talking about such things with the passengers, but

aye, the count's up to three now. The first one was that doctor from New York

Hastings was his name I think Same night one of the nightwatch went missing. A

piece of the rail give way. He were up there watching for subs, so he might

have gone over by accident. Might have."

"But then in the storm last night. . ."

"Aye," Norton said gravely

As if on cue, the fat American woman and her rat like husband ambled by on the

deck, out for an evening stroll. Many of the passengers stayed below decks as

much as possible, uncomfortable with the roll of the ocean and the openness

around them. Not this pair. The woman visibly flinched as she walked through

the trail of smoke from Spike's cigarette. She turned up her nose as she

paused to regard him.

*Pardon me, sir, if I might inquire? What manner of tobacco is it that creates

such an awful stench?"

Norton grumbled something under his breath and tried to diminish his large

frame somehow. He was uncomfortable around passengers other than Spike. Only

the stewards were meant to have contact with them.

For his part, Spike pinched the cigarette in his fingers, put it to his lips

and drew in a lungful of smoke. He did not need to breathe, but could

duplicate the process at will. With a devilish grin, he exhaled smoke into the

woman's face. Her husband blinked behind his glasses as his wife began to

cough.

"It's Turkish," Spike told her. "A bit exotic for you, dear, but you should

get 'round to that part of the world sometime. Like as not they'd slit your

throat for being such an obnoxious cow."

The woman had the imagination to glance at her husband as if he might have the

temerity to offer some retort He seemed frozen, rooted to the spot, and

managed only to look flustered and fiddle with his spectacles as if he were

warming up for some tart rejoinder. None was forthcoming however, His wife

marched away in a huff and her mate followed as though she held his leash.

Spike turned his attention back to Norton who was staring at him with an

expression of amazement. "You were saying?"

"Now see here," Norton said stuffily. "I may only be one of the blokes stoking

the engines 'round here, but it isn't proper for you to speak to a woman that

way."

"Spare me." Spike sighed "You'd like to see her over-board next, I'd wager.

You were telling me about last night"

The crewman seemed about to chide him again but then chuckled and shook his

head. He glanced about once more, then slipped into the conspiratorial tone he

had been using before the Americans had approached "Coulda been the storm,

right enough. But Webley, the man went over last night, had eleven years at

sea. Not the kind of man ye expect to fall overboard, even in a real guster."

"So that makes three," Spike noted. "But if they weren't accidental, then

what? Does the captain think you've got a killer on board?"

"Worse," Norton said, hi voice barely a growl. "Nazi spies."

Spike brightened "Oh, right! Now there's a bit of excitement?

"Keep it down, mate. You'll have me in a fix if anyone finds out I let it

slip."

"Not to worry, Jack. Ol' Spike can keep a secret," he reassured the man. With

a grin, he flicked his still burning cigarette overboard and watched it spin

down into the raging sea.

"Do a chap a favor though. Give us a shout if you hear any more, right? If

there is a Nazi spy on board, I'd like to get a few licks in myself. Break a

few bones for His Majesty?

Norton's expression became grave, his jaw set grimly, "Will do. sir."

They said their good-byes and Spike shoved his hands in his pockets and went

back below decks. He bumped into an older British couple, the Bracketts, he

thought he recalled, and nodded an amiable enough greeting. Not much farther

along, he came to his stateroom. When he pushed the door open, Spike found

Drusilla brushing her long raven hair and singing softly to herself. A violent

little lullaby whose lyrics were never once the same.

She turned to pout at him. "You were gone too long, Spike. Hurt my feelings.

The ocean hissed and I was afraid at first. Then I grew angry and it slunk

away."

Spike went to Drusilla and kissed her silent. Then he stroked her face

lovingly as he regarded her. "The bloody fools think they've got spies on

board, Dru Think there are Nazis killing the crew."

"Spies!" she exclaimed, her eyes flashing. "How exciting."

As he often was when around her, Spike was overcome suddenly with the

intensity of his feelings for Drusilla. He stared at her, glared even, almost

angered by how deeply she affected him. Lights seemed to dance in her eyes,

and the corners of her mouth turned up in a mischievous, seductive smile.

Overwhelmed, he kissed her again, harder this time, and ran his hands over her

body. His tongue flickered into her mouth, and Drusilla bit it hard enough to

draw blood. Spike hissed with the tiny pain, but did not withdraw. He felt her

curves beneath his hands. His fingers trailed up to her throat and he untied

the little bow that held her shift in place. It slid down her pale body,

alabaster skin veined with blue ice. They made love in a brutal frenzy on the

floor next to the corpse of Webley the steward, whose dead eyes watched with

blank jealousy. Later they drank of him again. In the small hours of the

morning, the lovers slipped out together to dump his body over the side and

into the tumultuous waters below.

The submarine sliced the rough ocean surface, the light of the moon gleaming

off the imposing armor of its conning tower.

Kurt Raeder sat deep within its bowels and wished for a shower. Not only that,

but he wanted every other member of the crew of U-28B to have one as well He

sat with the submarine's other petty officers in their quarters and ate what

passed for food after four days at sea.

The four men sat in silence on the lower bunks in the U-room, heads bowed to

avoid striking them on the metal frames above. A grim air of disappointment

mixed with their stink to contaminate the entire vessel.

A convoy had passed within forty nautical miles of them and they had missed

it. U-29 and U-5 had reached it in time and done a great deal of damage but

they had been out of the action. They had sunk only one vessel-a merchant

ship-since the outbreak of war.

"Damned convoy," Petty Officer Walther grumbled, dropping his spoon into the

slop in his bowl. 'What is the sense of a convoy of ships? They make a larger

target traveling together. I have never understood it."

Kurt frowned. "It is a big ocean. Ships traveling together are less likely to

run across one of our patrols and even if they do they have armed escort. It

is all about the odds."

He might have said more but the others all glanced at him distastefully and

then went back to their meals. Jaw set angrily, Kurt put down his bowl. He

ought to have known better than to respond to such a question. It proved

Walther's ignorance but attempting to correct one of the other petty officers

was fruitless. Kurt's uncle was Grand Admiral Erich Raeder, commander in chief

of the German navy. Kurt could have had any job on the ocean, but he chose to

serve under it. U-boat crewmen were valiant and clever. Their clandestine

operations required courage and stealth and were vital to the Fuhrer's plans.

Uncle Erich had attempted to dissuade him, but Kurt was steadfast. Submarine

service would be everything he had ever imagined.

Or so he had thought.

He lived, now, in a Type VIIA U-boat; crammed into the steel cylinder with

forty-five other men. From outside, the sub was the size and shape of a

passenger train car. Within, however, the size was revealed to be an illusion.

The vessel's interior space was filled with machinery; it was one long gangway

along which the men moved during shift changes. Even the captain had only a

desk hidden by a curtain.

There was no privacy aboard a ship like this. No room to move save to sleep or

do the job that he had been. sent to do. Nobody washed or changed his clothes.

When the U-boat was submerged the toilets did not work. The stink of men and

oil and mold was thick enough to choke on.

Kurt had chosen this. He might not even have regretted it, for there were

benefits as well The things he had imagined about U-boat service were true,

For other subs.

But U-28B had sunk a single merchant ship, nothing more glorious than that.

And the other men hated him because he was so obviously their intellectual

superior and because his uncle was Grand Admiral Raeder.

The others all dropped their spoons. Mealtime was over. Kurt's shift would

begin soon. It was still night above and he and others on his shift would

shepherd the boat through the night and into the dawn hours until the captain

awoke. By then they would turn for home. A day for rest and refueling, and

then out to sea again. It had not turned out to be all he had dreamed but Kurt

would not allow himself to become further discouraged. He would do his job and

speak to his uncle about advancement. If word spread and bitterness trailed in

his wake, so be it. He realized that the only way for him to prove his worth

was as a captain with a U-boat of his own to command.

"Your turn, Raeder," Walther grunted.

Kurt made no response as he picked tip the bowls and spoons from the table in

the middle of the corridor. The others folded down the table's leaves. With

them up, no one would be able to maneuver along the passage. Kurt carried the

bowls toward the galley, squeezing through other crewmen's quarters and past

the captain's desk on his way. Before he reached his destination he heard

shouts echoing down the passage all the way from the command center.

A target had been sighted

Kurt grinned even as the submarine-which had been running on the surface to

conserve time and fuel-began to dive. He stumbled with the pitch of the U-boat

but regained his footing before he dropped any of the bowls. As U-28B dove he

rushed to the galley, shoving men aside, and dumped the bowls in a sink.

Quick as he was able, he maneuvered back along the ship's single corridor

until he reached the command center. His clothes were always damp aboard

U-28B, but now they were damp with sweat as well The sweat not of fear but of

anticipation. Within the command center all was now silent. The chief stood

motionless between the men of the bridge watch. In the small space between the

periscope shaft and the interior wall of the conning tower, the commander sat

on the periscope saddle, feet on the controls that would rotate the entire

mechanism, hands on the levers that would raise or lower it.

The periscope motor hummed. The periscope rose.

The commander spun around the shaft on the saddle as the men watched quietly.

"There," he whispered. "A passenger ship under British flag."

"A passenger ship, Commander? Shall we move on?"

The commander froze. Took his eye away from the rubber ring of the periscope

to turn slowly and glare at the chief, "Move on, Haupt? We're at war. The

Reich does not move on. We have only one vessel sunk to our credit Now that we

have this opportunity in front of us, I won't return to port with that on our

log."

"But, sir, if the ship has no military use-"

His words were ignored At his post, Kurt Raeder allowed himself a tiny smile.

Men like Chief Haupt did not understand blitzkrieg, did not realize what war

meant to the Reich.

The commander put his eye to the periscope again

When he spoke, his words were guttural and low. Precise.

They were obviously lies for the benefit of those with a conscience about such

things, but no one would question him. It was his vessel to command, after

Buffy The Vampire Slayer - Spike And Dru Pretty Maids All In A Row

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