A Very Ordinary Evil

Part 15 – Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner


An hour after the guests have left.


Spike and Willow were curled together on the sofa, watching television. The redhead looked up at the blond, and saw he was mentally drifting, thinking rather than watching the images flickering before them. She realised that this would be a good time to broach the topic of her parents. “Spike, I need to talk to you about something.”

He looked at his lover and smiled. “Sure pet, what is it?”

“Well, you remember that I told my parents that I was moving in with you and stuff?” Spike nodded. “They sort of want us to come ofor for dinner, next Thursday.” She finished the sentence in a rush.

“They what?” Spike looked confused. “That could get … complicated pet.”

“I know,” Willow sighed. “I wonder what they would find least threatening. Or would least interesting be best?”

Spike looked at her. “Why don’t you tell me about your parents. The mundanities pet, not the emotional stuff.”

Willow nodded. “Mom’s a psychologist. Dad’s an Anthropologist. They’re both academics in the worst sense of the word.”

“So, you want an academic who is reasonably removed from their field, but not drastically opposed? How does that sound?”

“Perfect, but you couldn


Spike interrupted. “Hush pet. Doctoral Student, History, thesis topic Inter-class Social Interactions in Late Victorian England.” He grinned widely.

“But … but…”

“Remember pet, I lived it. I can wing it for a night. We make my school the University of Exeter, an obscure school, last I heard and we should be okay. The only other viable option is folklorist, specialising in vampire myths.”

“History is much better.” Willow answered, smiling timidly.

“I thought so too, pet.”

* * * *

“So, handsome, do I look acceptable?” Willow asked her lover.

“Pet, you’re always stunning. Also, I think you’re dressed appropriately for your parents, which is what you were asking.”

Willow laughed nervously. She had finally started to get her blush reflex under control, in part due to Spike’s continually risqué conversation. “You look good as well, although I really wish you had gone with something other than black, lover.”

“C’mon luv. It’s a dress shirt, slacks and proper shoes. If I changed the colour as well, I wouldn’t know meself.”

Willow sighed. She recognised that Spike would continue to be Spike, whatever he did. “Okay Mister, one more time. You’re a doctoral student researching archives here. You know your thesis topic. We met and you’re trying to transfer here. You have Porphyria so you can’t go out in daylight. Working class boy made good. That’ll explain the scar.

“I know luv, I know. I’m a bad guy. We’re good at telling porkies.”

“Telling what?”

“Porkies. Oh, yeah. Sorry pet, it’s rhyming slang porkies are pork pies, which rhymes with lies.”

“I think I’m sorry I asked.”

Spike grinned at her. “It’s useful Red. It started life as a thieves cant. A code so the police and informers wouldn’t understand what the bad guys we talking about. We could use it like that.”

Willow chuckled. “It’d take me ages to learn all the words and abbreviations though.”

“It’s okay pet, we’ll have a long time.” He flashed a dazzling smile which made her weak at the knees momentarily. “You ready luv?” Willow nodded. “Let’s go then.”

The pair got into the DeSoto and drove off, making the short journey to Willow’s parents uneventfully. Pulling into the driveway, however, things ceased to be uneventful. As they got out of the car, a crossbow bolt flew silently from the darkness of the hedges and narrowly missed Spike. He immediately pulled Willow down beside him, using the vehicle as cover. “Red, I need the demon. I need to see properly.” Spike whispered. Willow just nodded and Spike let his game face emerge.

He lay flat on the ground, looking under the car. “There’o ovo over there pet. One behind the hedge on the other side of the street–the shooter I’d guess. The other is closer, behind that tree to your left. Now, what we’re going to have to do is this. I want you to climb back into the car, but keep under the height of the window and turn the radio on, loud, full volume. Stay inside the car. Got that?” Willow nodded. “Okay pet, off you go.”

As Willow scrambled, crouching low, into the car and turned on the radio, Spike drew his knife and tensed, ready to move as quickly as his enhanced abilities allowed. He suddenly broke into a low sprint, moving faster than the human eye could see. He reached the tree unobserved and thrust the blade into the lurker. It was a killing strike, between the ribs and through the lung into the heart. Even as he killed his opponent, he screamed in agony, dropping the blade and grasping his head. Through the surges of pain, he thought {I wasn’t expecting a bloody human.}

Willow heard Spike’s shriek, and saw the bowman step out and move towards the sounds. At the same time, her parent’s outside lights switched on. She stood, took out a crystal and threw it, chanting. A bright flash dazzled both she and Spike, and afterwards, she saw that her spell had worked. The bowman had gone, leaving the crossbow alone on the ground. Spike had been crawling away from the corpse, and, as she did so, his moans of pain attracted Willow. She ran to and and was lifting him as she saw her father looming over her.

“Willow, is that you, dear?”

“Dad? Ummm yes, it’s us.”

“What happened?”

“Spike walked into the tree and hit his head. Can you help me get him inside?”

“Uh. Yes. Let’s get him inside shall we?”

Spike realised what was happening, and realised he had to play along. Acting up, he let himself loll a little and stagger as Willow’s father helped him inside. He brought up one hand to hold his head above the hairline to avoid awkward questions about a lack of bruising.

As he was carried inside, Willow hovered around anxiously, hoping Spike wasn’t too shaken up to realise what was happening. Her father got him into an armchair in the lounge and went to tell his wife what had happened.

Sheila Rosenberg came in to see Spike apparently stunned, and her daughter stroking his head and soothing him. She smiled. She had never seen Willow like this, even with that little musician.

Spike began to appear to recover. He started to make motions and movements in a more coherent and lucid manner than he had previously. She looked up at Willow’s parents and smiled tentatively. “I’m terribly sorry. This really isn’t the first impression I had hoped to make.” Without him realising it, that sentence had won over Willow’s mother. He was young and courteous to his elders, something she thought in short supply nowadays.

Spike began to ease Willow away, apparently indicating his ongoing recovery. He got to his feet, artfully wobbling very slightly, and formally greeted both of her parents. It was his old world courtesy that made Ira Rosenberg think that perhaps there was more to the young man than perhaps met the eye. Spike let himself appear to return slowly to normal over the next few minutes.

Willow sighed, the grilling had not taken long to start, once her parents were sure Spike was not concussed. It was total, and started right at the basics. She watched on, helpless to intervene.

“You said your name was William … Blood?” Sheila asked.

Spike nodded, “That’s right. We don’t normally use the middle initial in Britain, so I tend to forget people expect it here.” He smiled apologetically.

Ira decided to follow up. “So … William, why are you here in the U.S.?”

“Please, I do prefer Spike. I know that must sound silly to you, but I’ve been known by that name longer than my real one. Why am I here? Well, I originally came to Sunnydale to examine some archives relating to my thesis, but, having met Willow, I’m now trying to transfer to UCS from the University of Exeter.”

“Don’t you think that you’re both moving terribly quickly?” Sheila asked.

Willow interjected. “Mom, I’ve known Spike,” she emphasised the name, “for nearly a year. We’ve been friends forot lot longer than we’ve been … together.”

Spike picked up the flow of conversation and moved it along smoothly. “That’s right, Mrs Rosenberg, we became friends because we both tended to stay late in the library, researching, and simply started to talk. Little things at first, but the discussions grew and … well, I’m sure you know how it is.”

Ira looked at Spike, finding the apparent dichotomy between his appearance and his apparent academic leanings difficult to swallow. “What is your thesis title, William.” Ira was pleased at that, letting this young pup know that he wasn’t about to cater to his ego.

Spike, aware of what Ira was trying to do, responded politely. “My thesis title is ‘Inter-class Social Interactions in Late Victorian England.’ It’s a simple Ph D thesis; but I’m also considering expanding it into a D Litt. That’s why I came here. The former Spanish influence here provides a very interesting model to use in comparison to Victorian London.”

Willow was thinking and watching. {He was right about telling lies and making them believable. He’s already got Mom eating out of his hand, and he’s working on Dad now.}

Ira looked taken aback. He had not been expecting to hear that. The lad certainly seemed to be what he claimed, a post graduate student. And a good one at that, if he felt he could get a Doctor of Letters degree.

As dinner continued, Spike spoke flippantly and seriously by turns, as the conversation moved. Willow was astonished, until she recalled that witty and intelligent dinner conversation was considered de rigeur amongst middle and upper class Victorians. Spike would have learnt that literally at the knees of his parents. She could see that he had won her mother over very early in the evening, and that he was devoting more time to her father now. Realising that she would need to keep her mother occupied, she started asking her questions about her latest research project. With Spike and Ira in deep discussion about Victorian poetry, and it’s relevance to the society of the time. (And Willow giggling inwardly at what she heard of their discussion) The dinner and after dinner conversation was just like any other at which academics were the majority of the guest list.

Ira smiled happily. He was now certain that his daughter had found herself someone worthy of her intellect; all he really needed to know was whether ‘Spike’ could afford to keep his daughter appropriately. “Spike,” he asked, stumbling slightly over the nickname, “how do you intend to support Willow?”

Willow heard the question and reacted. “Dad! That’s not right! Do you support Mom? No, she works herself. I intend to work as well, so don’t go there.”

Spike, who being much older, was prepared for the question, stepped smoothly in, before Ira could get angry with his daughter. “I have a certain level of … private means. I know that, at first glance, that doesn’t seem to gel with my background, so let me explain. When I was nineteen, my parents were killed in one of the last IRA attacks in London. Because of the nature of the conflict, the survivors and their families received significant amounts of compensation. Being an only child, I also inherited my parent’s property. It was only a small terrace house in North London, but, as I’m sure you’re aware, property values there are astronomical. I sold the house, and when I added that money to the compensation, it left me comfortable, especially out here where the costs of living are much lower.”

{Damn! He’s got an answer for everything.} Was the thought that immediately went through Willow’s mind.

Ira looked somewhat surprised or bemused by what Spike had said, so he asked. “Do you have internet access here?” Knowing perfectly well that they did. When Ira gave the unnecessary affirmation, he looked at Willow and asked “Red, love, can you log on and find a London based Real Estate site?”

“Sure. I just need to use the desktop.” Willow got up from the table and went into her parents’ study. About five minutes later, she returned and said. “It’s on the screen Dad, along with a currency converter. You aren’t going to believe what you see.”

Willow sat next to Spike, resting her arms amongst the detritus of the dinner. “Mom, that was lovely. Thank you.”

“You’re more than welcome … Red.” Sheila smiled. She was astonished at the change in her daughter. Willow was more confident, more outgoing than she had ever seen her before. She was fairly sure that it was the work of this startlingly handsome blond who had so engaged her little girl. Even his pet name for her somehow seemed appropriate.

Willow smiled at Spike, they seemed to have pulled it off. Spike looked at Sheila and asked “Do you mind if I smoke inside, or would you rather I went out?”

Sheila looked uncomfortable for a moment, and then said, “I’d really rather you smoked outside please.”

Spike smiled and went outside. He could hear Willow and her mother talking about inconsequentialities. Quickly, he began searching for the corpse. He found it, withdrew the blade and began to check the body. There was nothing in any of the pockets. This was too well planned an ambush for him to feel happy. He saw that he would need to move the corpse, and carried it three houses away before dropping it. As his fingers trailed over the hands of the dead man, he found a ring. Removing it, he stood up, lit a cigarette and walked back to the porch. Examining the ring in the half-li he he felt a cold chill wrap around his unbeating heart. The Order of Taraka.

Walking back in, he resumed his seat and waited for a break in the conversation. When it occurred, he looked at Willow’s father and asked “Did you like what you saw, Ira?”

“I don’t know that ‘like’ is the right term, how can anyone afford to live there?”

“It’s not easy, mate. Even the provinces are pricey by our standards here.”

Sheila interposed, changing the direction of the conversation. “Willow was saying something about you being ill?”

“Well, ill isn’t quite the right word. I have a gen con condition called Porphyria. It explains my lack of skin colour. Essentially, I’m allergic to sunlight. If I’m exposed to the sun, my skin cracks and I begin bleeding.”

“Oh, yes.” Ira said, “I’ve heard of it. Isn’t it called ‘The Vampire disease’ or something like that?”

Spike nodded. “Yes. That’s the one.” His, to them, surprising taciturnity was taken as an indication he didn’t wish to discuss it further. After some more small talk, Spike looked over at the clock and sa“I r“I really think we should be going about now. Willow told me that you aren’t habitual nightowls and what with the crack I gave my skull ‘n’all…”

Both of Willow’s parents nodded, smiling at the obviously inseparable pair. “Yes, we quite understand. Now you drive carefully on the way home W…Spike.” Ira said, almost laughing.

Willow and Spike took their leave, got into the car and drove off. “Pet, we have a problem.” Spike announced as soon as they had taken the first corner.

“What?” Willow asked, realising it probably had to do with the abortive ambush.

“Well, two really. One is minor; your parents will ring tomorrow with news of a murder victim being found only three houses away from yours. Yes, I moved him luv. The other is far more worrying. It’s this.” He handed her the ring.

Willow looked at it. “Oh Shit!”