Gods And Monsters

Chapter Fifty-one:

Enfolded in a blanket, Spike sat curled up on the armchair in the living room of Buffy's house. His whole body was shivering, as if saturated by a bone-numbing cold. Self-loathing poisoned his mind. It was the worst form of betrayal, attacking from within. It was a toxin, a disease. A parasite gnawing away at his strength piece by piece.

Anya, Willow, Buffy, Xander, Dawn, and Hel sat around the dining table.

"And you believe him?" Anya interjected, sceptical. She had changed drastically since they last met, Hel noted. Of course, a lot could happen in a century. Her hair was much shorter, honey-blond curls skimming the nape of her neck. It also seemed that she was also no longer involved in the vengeance profession.

"You didn't see him down there," Hel replied, folding her arms atop the table. "He possessed no recollection of his actions. It wasn't in his control."

"Oh, an out of control serial killer," remarked Xander sarcastically, with a hand gesture for emphasis. "You're right, that is a great house guest."

Hel rolled her eyes indignantly. Glancing over at Spike, her expression was a seamless picture of inscrutability. Her eyes alone betrayed compassion for him. His back faced her, his head bowed. His arms were wrapped around himself, as if trying to hold the shreds of his sanity together.

"Wait, is he— is he staying here?" Dawn asked worriedly, apprehensive. The scar of a shallow laceration beginning to heal ran diagonally across her cheek. 

"I don't know," Buffy jumped in hastily. "Uh... But I'm not letting him out of my sight, that's for sure."

"Buffy, he's been feeding," Willow responded. "On human blood. That's gotta do stuff."

"I'm not keeping him around just to help him," Buffy explained to her. "I think there was something there. Talking to him, making him do things."

Willow frowned. "Something, like what was talking to us?"

Buffy nodded. "Maybe. And if it was, then it's been screwing with Spike big time."

"So, you want him around because...?" Xander leaned forward, trailing off expectantly.

"Look, there's something evil working us. If we're every gonna have a chance to fight it, we need to learn everything we can about it. This thing has been closer than Spike than any of us."

"And if you wanna understand it..." Willow began.

Buffy shrugged. "We're gonna have to get close to Spike," she said, finishing her sentence with an air of finality.

"Nah, it's too dangerous," Xander objected, shaking his head.

"I don't have a choice. Whatever this thing is, from beneath us, it's bad. And it's only getting worse."

In need of fresh air and a long, solitary walk to clear her head, Hel stood abruptly from the table. She strode past Spike and straight out the front door.

Gusts of wind battered her body the second she stepped foot outside the shelter of the house. It bit the bare skin of her face and hands. It ensnared her black hair, whipping it about her head and obscuring her vision.

She started briskly down the sidewalk, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Hel didn't have a destination in mind. She was restless, with too much nervous energy in need of expending.

She inhaled deeply, clearing her mind, while her aimless feet carried her onward.

The sky was black ink, cloudy wisps veiling the stars from sight. The trees and shadows that lined either side of the road were blots of murky indigo, and the path before her was illuminated by the pale glow of street lamps.

Before long, she found herself in the core of downtown Sunnydale. Taking the route down main street, Hel glanced into the shop windows as she passed by them.

It had always bewildered her, the importance that humans placed on petty material goods. The gaping, black maw of mass commercialism seemed to have consumed their culture. The accumulation of possessions for the sake of ownership.

She rounded the bend, entering a narrow side road. There were no street lamps here, only darkness. In the corner of her eye, a figure shifted.

She spun around, instinctively widening her stance to be on the defensive.

A statuesque, pale-skinned woman stood before her. Her sea-green eyes gleamed under the honeyed ambiance of the street lights. Waves of dark, espresso brown hair cascaded past her shoulders and over her breasts. A soft smile graced her full, rosy lips.

Hel felt her breath catch in her throat. She swallowed, smoothing over her startled expression. "What do you want?" She demanded.

The woman clicked her tongue disapprovingly, folding her slender arms over her chest. "Now, Hela, is that any way to greet your mother?"

"Answer the question."

"Tut tut, daughter," the woman chided. "Is this how I raised you?"

A storm brewed behind Hel's mismatching green and silver eyes. "You're not my mother. Angrboda is dead," she stated calmly, deadpan.

"Oh dear." Feigning hurt, the fraud flattened the palm of her hand over her heart. "What a hurtful thing to say." The floor-length skirt of her black silk, one-shoulder gown stirred around her legs and the single side slit parted slightly as she advanced forward. "I must confess, your father and I had hoped for a beautiful baby girl. Instead, I birthed an abomination, a perversion of nature. What a disappointment you turned out to be."

In spite of the venom being spat at her, Hel was adamant not to be swayed or intimidated and stood her ground. "Why do you taunt us? Your empty words mean nothing. Too much of a coward to act on your threats?"

"Patience, daughter. All in good time."

The counterfeit Angrboda closed the gap between them as she extended her slender hand, and Hel stiffened as she trailed a manicured, crimson nail down her cheek.

"You must forgive me, I tend to indulge my taste for the dramatic. I never could resist a good game. Alas, all good things must come to an end." An uncharacteristically slippery smile curled her lips. "I'm going to make your existence a living Hell."

"What do you want?" Hel demanded, clenching her hands in tight fists.

A dark, disturbing expression came over Angrboda's face. "Chaos."