The Reluctant Guide

Angel sensed them coming well before Spike did. The older vampire whirled and then went still, his head turning only a fraction from side to side, dark eyes gleaming, listening for the whisper of a sound. Spike knew that his Sire was tracking something. He reluctantly cut off his taunting of the remaining vampires, both of whom were sprawled on the dirty tarmac, barely conscious.



The two vampires who Spike hadn't had time to dust, got to their hands and knees, trying to find their wits, shaking their ringing skulls. Angel ignored them as if he didn't care if they got away from the punishment they'd earned; the ashy dust of the others covered his and Spike's dark clothes. The two who hadn't died the true death were young and weak, and Spike supposed he and Angel were toying with them like tomcats after fat little mice. But Spike didn't want them to get away. Spike wanted to feel sternums crunch, ribs splinter, and flesh turn to dust. Spike wanted to play.



Angel lost interest. Spike could feel the power of his Sire's attention shift as it was absorbed elsewhere. He looked around first into the shadows and under the heaped mountains of trash to assess for closer threats. There were none aside from the staggering, addled pair of soon to be dead vamps, so he looked back to where Angel stood like a brooding bronze statue, heavy head swinging imperceptibly, searching for what had bothered him.



The little human was behind them all, gone so quiet Spike wasn't sure he was breathing. It was as if every hair on the man's body was erected, on alert, and yet he looked even smaller than before, as if he wished he could disappear into the very earth and be gone. Spike looked back over his leather-encased shoulder to make sure the other vampires were still down and sneered, letting his eyes go gold. A frisson of something, or a change in the way Angel stood....or...Spike let the game of intimidation go and concentrated hard. He paced four steps up to Angel's side and stopped, feeling his chest swell, his stance go aggressive.



There was nothing from the direction Angel looked in, not for a long moment, not even a sound that didn't fit to warn Spike. He was getting itchy, there were two more vamps that needed dusting, both on their feet now and soon capable of flight, and he was just standing here...not dusting them. True they weren't much of a challenge, not even making a move towards the human who had been their intended prey.



It had been good to whirl and stab and win. To kill something, anything, to have the taste of doling out death again. Christ, he'd been almost to the point of pulling wings off flies for a bit of fun.



At last, right before Spike was going to foolishly open his mouth and whine, his fingers flexing with the burn of need to ~do it~ around the splintery stake in his hand...there was the sound of running feet, but so quiet, so secret; it was impossible that they were so fast. The footfalls were too many. Spike felt the involuntary prickle of alarm start in the small of his back, shooting in both directions at once. What was coming with the speed of a freight train was anything but good.



When they came into view Spike almost took an involuntary step back. They should not have been so close, not from the muffled sound that had heralded their advance, too quiet by half. They swept in like a darkness from the clouds, like a misty drift of lethal plague. They were suddenly there. Like water poured, filling the shape of the glass. That fast it went all to shit. Fucking hell.



Sentinels. Spike almost pissed himself, would have if his sphincter hadn't locked so tight. He wanted to get the hell away from here, now. Whatever amusement he might have taken from the righteous fight with the hunting vampire pack, getting them no less than their comeuppance for hunting in his Sire's territory was washed away by a wave of instinctive fear. His testicles tried to climb up into his body. He wanted to go. Go. GO! But to run would draw them after him, they loved the chase, and were far better suited for hunting and capture than a vampire was for flight and evasion.



There was a moment, admittedly brief, where he thought he would run despite the knowledge of what it would bring. But Angel shifted, less than a fraction, and bumped into his body, the faintest of contacts. The touch was enough. Spike stayed put. The two vampires who had at last found their feet and a too small portion of their wits weren't so lucky. They ran.



Vampire fast, they still didn't stand a chance. Spike watched the hunters die. Fluid attack, like lions driving zebra before them, exactly where they wanted the prey to go. It was fast, brutal, emotionless. Pure instinct. Pound for pound nothing hunted better than a Sentinel, not human, nor animal, nor demon. Ash floated to the ground. The Sentinels stood, not exactly arrogant, not exactly proud, but perfect in their element, accomplished. One shook himself. Spike stared at the ripple of lean, honed muscle under clothing. The furthest Sentinel licked its lips; another stretched its neck, turned.



The sharp blue eyes focused on different targets then. Three pairs of eyes, one gaze dark enough to be thought black, one a regular blue if lasers were normal fare, but the pair that squeezed Spike's balls were ice blue. Chill, feral. Nasty. Spike shifted partly behind the bulk of his Sire. He couldn't have stopped himself, didn't try. Survival instinct was paramount. Sentinels were just human enough he wasn't certain he could hit one with the chip in his head. So, it was his Sire's duty to shield him, wasn't it? Part of being a good parent, right?



Angel didn't react, standing like stone.



The icy blue eyes of the largest Sentinel flicked down to the stake Spike held, assessing. His tongue flickered out again, tasted the air, as if weighing Spike's intent by his scent alone. Spike's fingers opened and he dropped the wood.



The clatter was loud as it hit the ground, startling, the Sentinels flinching minutely, and so Spike could be excused for not immediately hearing the gasp from the small human who had been the prey before Angel and Spike chose others to take that role. Now the man moved again, scurried rapidly, the droplets of mist on his hair catching the faint light like glittering micro-diamonds, his hair a puff of fractured reflections.



And fuck him if he didn't run ~towards~ Spike and Angel. Spike wanted to shoot him, strangle him, beat him to a pulp. Spike watched in horrified fascination as the man came, wishing the tasty nugget would run anywhere, in any other direction. Because the Sentinels snapped into tracking mode again. He saw their shoulders loosen, hands curling loosely, their eyes elongating, their lips parting, blazing white teeth revealed, drawing air into sense-gifted mouths and noses, tasting, scenting, then filtering in deeper, into lungs, internalizing every scrap of information in each millimeter of air.



Spike's scrotum was so tight he thought his berries would come out his mouth as the Sentinels took the first step towards Angel, himself, and the small human bloke who was lodged against Spike's spine. Small hands clung with surprising strength, and Spike knew he wasn't getting free without a tussle. Which starting was out of the question. Not while they were being hunted.



Angel for his part never moved. Spike felt not even a tremor from the solid form of his Sire.