DEAD RINGER
Chapter 3
MEMORY LANE
Dreaming again. More William stuff. Playing as a child—a time before his mother’s death…before he’d withdrawn and become an outsider among his peers. Those hazy memories mixed with later experiences—his sister, his aunt…his stepfather. What started out as a somewhat innocuous, foggy assortment of scenes soon enough became nightmarish images of a drunken, violent man. Beatings, verbal assaults…feelings of anger and fear so deeply repressed, but finally released with the taste of blood.
Spike awoke once more with a start. But this time, instead of trying to forget, he made an effort to remember. And it was surprisingly easy. It was all there, in the back of his mind. William’s awkward teenage years, avoiding his stepfather even as he tried to protect Sarah from the man’s drunken rages. Aunt Kate, stubborn and strong…Randolph, for some reason, feared his dead wife’s sister. After Kate moved in, Randolph stayed out as much as possible, though when he *was* about, he went out of his way to make William’s life miserable. Sarah had been so young when Mother died that Aunt Kate was really the only maternal figured she’d ever known. She took to calling Kate “Mother,” almost immediately, and, though Aunt Kate never encouraged it, she understood her niece’s need. A spinster, she treated William and Sarah as the children she’d never had. It was her love that kept them whole. William was so used hearing Sarah refer to Aunt Kate as “Mother,” he’d started to make the same association himself. He’d even spoken of her, thought about her, that fateful night…
“I-I really must go…Mother is expecting me…”
Even when the world outside was cruel, as it so often was to a sensitive young man like William, he knew Aunt Kate would be waiting at home, hot tea and biscuits at the ready. And then there was Sarah—so bright and full of life. Being her “big brother” was the only thing he’d ever really excelled at.
*Is that why I let them live? Were the feelings so strong, even after Dru turned me?*
It didn’t seem possible, and it certainly conflicted with everything he’d believed—wanted to believe—for so very many years. But now, somehow, these feelings were bothering him less…
*Bloody hell. You’re supposed to be working through these memories to get back in touch with your inner demon, not your inner nancy-boy!*
Spike shook his head. There was something else nagging at the back of his mind. Another event from long ago. It was shortly before they had left London…about eight years after his turning.
He’d had another one of his run-ins with Angelus. Bloody bloke always had to be in charge—strategy man. Well, he wasn’t anywhere near as bright as he thought he was—and hadn’t the least appreciation for the high to be derived from a real, brutal challenge. He blathered on about finesse, about sneaking ‘round in the shadows—thought that was an “artful” way to kill. Really, he was just afraid of a messy tussle—too worried about grubbing up his frilly shirt cuffs. Spike (for he was “Spike” by now) was damn well sick of it. They were stuck in a rut—Dru, Spike, Angelus, and his tart, Darla. And Spike was getting restless. He’d needed to get away from the “family” for awhile, and found himself skulking down an alleyway in one of the nicer West End neighborhoods. It was a warm spring evening, and remarkably clear. He took a deep breath of the night air, his senses humming. He smelled prey. And then heard it.
“Here kitty—oh, no—don’t run away!”
A ginger cat bounded into the alleyway and hid behind an ashcan. Spike had a sketchy view from his vantage point in the shadows…the woman who pursued it looked to be in her late twenties. Fresh, pretty features dusted with freckles, and deep red hair coiled in a bun from which a few stray ringlets had escaped. That face…it was strangely familiar. She had a gentle voice…seemed very concerned for the mangy cat.
“Sarah, darling, come back out of the alley, please. You must realize we haven’t room in the house for a single new stray. You can’t rescue every single homeless cat in London, you know!”
The man’s voice was rich with amusement and affection. His shadow cast tall as he rounded the corner.
These two would certainly make a tasty—not to mention easy—meal. But apparently someone else had the same idea. As the two hapless mortals peered behind the ashcan, a particularly large, exceptionally ugly pair of male vamps set upon them. Spike had seen them before—identical twin brothers, both equally stupid and crude. He watched in distaste as one grabbed the woman’s breast.
“Cor, I’m not too hungry to enjoy a bit o’ fun before my supper!”
The woman screamed and struggled madly. She certainly had fire in her. No shrinking violet, that. Her male companion, whom Spike judged to be her husband, was doing his best to get free of his own attacker. He fought desperately in a battle Spike knew he was doomed to lose. He wondered if the terror in the couple’s eyes was at beholding the demonic visages of their attackers, or simply at looking death in the face. Spike had witnessed many such scenes before--participated in quite a few himself— though he never had gone in for rape. Dru liked it rough, but he never forced her. As he reflected upon this, he unconsciously moved closer to the melee. Close enough to get a full view of the woman’s now tear-stained face. Close enough for her to see him at last, a spark of astounded recognition igniting in her eyes…
“William?” she gasped. Then screamed, “William, oh dear Lord, please help us!”
The reality of who she was hit Spike like a tidal wave.
*God, it’s Sarah! And these bastards are…*
He set upon the twin vamps with murderous rage. They were young, relatively inexperienced fighters, so beating them senseless took little skill or effort on his part. Within minutes, he had them prone on the cobblestones. He spotted a broken chair leg protruding from one of the ashcans. He dispatched both brothers with nary a second thought. They’d dared lay hands upon Sarah—they deserved no better. A shaken sob caught his attention. He turned from the twin dust piles, adrenaline still pumping—game face still set…
“Oh, William—I can’t believe it’s you. We all thought you were…”
Her voice halted in a gasp as she saw not her brother’s face, but one eerily similar to her attackers.’ Yet she didn’t scream, or run. Simply stared, transfixed, a look of horror mingled with sorrow and pity playing across her features.
“William…what’s happened to you?”
At this point, her companion found his voice. He grabbed her arm and muttered under his breath.
“Sarah, that isn’t William—it can’t be. Whatever it is, we must get away from it immediately. Come along…”
But Sarah pulled free of his grasp, stepping closer, grabbing Spike’s coat sleeve.
“William, don’t you know me? Please, what’s happened, darling?”
The tremulous hand clutching his sleeve seemed to have caught hold of his heart as well. He felt a constriction in his chest, a tightness in his throat. For a moment, he wanted nothing more than to embrace his little sister. To tell her she was safe. To reassume his role as her brother and protector. But of course that was impossible. And the demon’s anger at the human emotions bubbling forth made it easier for him to snatch his arm roughly from her grasp and turn away. He strode steadily down the alley. Madness, it was, getting involved in that scene. She was no longer his “sister,” but nothing more than another potential meal. And if they ever crossed paths again, he wouldn’t hesitate to show her the deadly truth of what he’d become. Not human, but demon. Demon to all…no exceptions. As the distance between them grew, her voice grew fainter…
“William…Brother! Come back to me, please! Look at me!”
And before he rounded the corner, *something* made him turn back. With his human visage, he took one last look at Sarah. And she at him…before he turned away for good.
********
A grief-stricken cry startled Spike from his reverie. Though his crypt was in a part of the cemetery no longer used for burials, sometimes the voices of the bereaved carried some distance across the graves. Sometimes their song accompanied his daylight slumber. He rubbed his hand across his face. That memory had been intense. So intense, in fact, that his hand came away from his cheek wet with tears.
*Bloody hell. What’s happening to me?*