TITLE: 'Out of Africa' 12/?
AUTHOR: Pythia
E-MAIL: pythia@tiscali.co.uk
DISCLAIMER: The characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy,
Sandollar Productions, Kuzui Enterprises, 20th Century Fox Television and
the UPN Television Network. The story is written for the pleasure of the
author and readers, and has no lucrative purpose whatsoever. Please do not
reproduce this story anywhere without the author's consent.
And a small reminder. This is a horror story. Readers with weak stomachs
are advised not to think too closely about what's going on here ...
POSTING NOTES: *.* is for emphasis. {.} denotes thought and [.] implies
translation from another language.
Something had died.
He could smell it. *Taste* it. There was the sickly sweet odour of burgeoning decay in his nostrils and the ugly flavour of death in his mouth. The combination was foul; he wanted to gag, to scramble away from the scent and the sourness - but while his perceptions appeared to have regained some of their expected clarity, nothing else obeyed him. He couldn't move. Couldn't stir so much as a single muscle.
Oddly enough - as far he could tell - he didn't seem to be *breathing* either …
{Did I die?} he wondered with sudden horror, fighting against a surge of panic. The thought of being trapped - aware and helpless - in his own corpse was a terrifying one. Then there was the other possibility; that he had succumbed to the vampire's bite and was - even now - undergoing the demonic transformation that would resurrect his flesh if not his soul. He found that thought equally terrifying, although the fact that he *did* probably meant that he wasn't - unless, of course, all the vampire lore he'd ever studied was wrong, and the soul remained, bound to the dead body, an unwitting, unwilling passenger on its journey to damnation …
{Stop that,} Giles told himself firmly, trying to focus on what he *could* judge about his situation, rather than speculation and conjecture. If his Watcher's training had taught him anything, it was the danger of making assumptions based on too little information. The more you observed, the more knowledge you accumulated, and that allowed you to both analyse and theorise. He took a mental step back and started with the basics. His eyes appeared to be shut and no amount of effort would make them open. He was lying down - flat on his back on what seemed to be a hard surface, the textures of rough stone and something else under his hands. Straw, he postulated, although that didn't make any sense at all. His last focused memory was of lying on linen sheets. If he *had* died, then surely his support should be satin padding - or perhaps the cold metal of a morgue tray, the bitter chill of a marble slab.
And there was that smell. Sweet, nauseating and tainted with decay. Wherever it came from, it had to be close, since he clearly *wasn't* drawing air into his lungs.
Something rustled and rattled close by. Muffled sounds of movement were followed by sudden and unexpected contact as the something - no, someone - touched him. Fingers stroked his cheek and then slid down the line of his throat, butterfly fingers, bestowing a gentle caress. They briefly lifted, then resettled something that sat in the centre of his chest, before returning in an upward sweep until they cupped his chin and turned his head this way and that, as if her were being studied with care.
He tried to speak, to alert his unknown company to his conscious state - but nothing responded. Nothing even stirred at his mental demand.
"*There* you are," a deep, sultry - and somewhat muted - voice announced with amusement and no little satisfaction. Giles' non-existent heart skipped a non-existent beat. The voice was unmistakable.
It was the vampire from the cemetery. The one who'd practically ripped his throat out …
"You took your time. Such a *hard* struggle - all to no avail."
Fingertips pressed against his eyelids with uncomfortable force, and he felt something crack, something that pulled at his skin and then fell away in pieces. It was an unpleasant sensation, not unlike having plugs of hard wax peeled from his eye sockets.
Exactly like, in fact. Fingernails scraped matching seals from his ears, and sound rushed back with startling clarity. A moment later he felt pressure against his mouth as she applied a forceful kiss that cracked the wax seal and forced his lips open. There was no warmth in the contact - and only the barest flutter of breath, *her* breath, the subtle lie of the vampire clinging to the pretences of life.
"There," she murmured, a soft whisper of sound against his skin. "Now - open your eyes and look at me. *Look* at me." The last was an order, a tight command that brooked no disobedience. Giles had no way to obey - but his eyes opened anyway, seemingly subservient to her will, if not his own.
Light flooded his perceptions - a dim light in reality, but briefly dazzling after being in the dark for so long. A shape and a shadow moved within it - one that slowly resolved itself into a sensuous face seemingly sculpted from gleaming ebony. A pair of tawny eyes, gold flecked and predatory, were smiling down at him.
"Perfect," the vampire murmured, reaching down to caress his cheek and sweep the last of the wax from his lips with her thumb. There was no tenderness in her touch; it was an arrogant, possessive gesture, as if he were a favourite pet - or a favoured slave. "Just *perfect* …"
{Oh dear lord …}
Terror is not a rational emotion. Nor is it something that rational men choose to experience. It simply happens; a response to a situation - a reaction to event or the result of circumstances. It can creep up slowly, or strike instantly, without warning; it tears the heart out of a man and it rips through his soul.
And no matter how wise or sensible its victim might be, when it hits, it can hit *hard*.
Which is why - in a sudden instant of comprehension, in the understanding of just how much trouble he was in - Rupert Giles succumbed to a moment of total and utter panic.
Had he *any* control over the body in which his essence lay trapped, he would have been trying to scramble away from his abductor, voicing a cry of horror and dismay - but he couldn't move, couldn't even close his eyes or express the scream that would otherwise have choked his throat. His mind went into overdrive, struggling with a reckless mental frenzy to free himself, to tear loose, to *escape*. Like a fox caught in a trap, or a cat cornered by a ferocious dog, he fought with frantic reaction, desperate for release, exhausting his spirit as he threw himself at the restraints of her spell.
All to no avail. The magic held him, imprisoned him with relentless certainty. He was bound, helpless and hopeless, in a body not his own - in something dead and decaying, in someone *else's* corpse.
"Are you done?" the vampire asked with amusement, her eyes gleaming in the dark. She'd moved her hand to rest it on his chest - no, on the *corpse's* chest - and her fingers swirled through a complex pattern there, idly tracing glyphs he vaguely recognised. "Don't waste your strength. This spell is as old as *I* am - and you have no way of breaking it. Not now. How does it feel?" She slid forward in a sensual movement, her face halting barely inches away as she studied him with disconcerting intentness. "To be a dead thing, clinging to life. Or is that a life - clinging to a dead thing?"
She laughed softly, a sound that sent a shiver through him. "Embrace it," she whispered, leaning closer still, pressing herself against him and murmuring into his ear. "I did. But not so soon," she advised, arching back and giving herself a little shake. "I need you as you are. *What* you are. Just for a little while. And when we are done? Ah …" Her smile was predatory. "If you serve me well, if you please me - I can reward you in ways you cannot begin to imagine."
Since Giles knew perfectly well what she was, even if not *who* exactly, he didn't need to imagine what she meant. Especially since she was licking her lips with anticipation. His mind skittered across the exquisite agony of her bite, and he shivered. Mentally, at least. Even knowing what he *knew* - the true nature of the demon she was and the horror of her unlife - there was a hint of temptation in the memory, a whisper of unbearable pleasure that lured like a siren's song. He could understand now why desperate souls might pay for the consummation offered in a vampire's kiss - why deluded ones might try and protect the givers of such a dark gift.
A *hint* of temptation - and one he denied with determined ease. Dancing with Eyghon had offered him far more exotic intoxication - and *that* was an addiction he'd learnt to master a long time ago.
"Lilithu can be generous - when she gets what she wants." Her fingers had gone back to their careful tracings, sketching intricate designs on a dead man's skin. "And what will you want, once I rule your world? The girl, perhaps." She paused to think about that, her lips curving back into one of those sensual smiles. "*Yes*. That would be fitting, don't you think? You will give me your heart - and I will you give you the blood of your own, sweet, Slayer …" She finished the thought with a deep throated laugh, throwing her head back with anticipatory delight.
Giles simply stared at her in horror.
There was nothing else he *could* do.