Lucifer's Garden
A/N: Alright! A new story! This is about the third time I've replaced this chapter, so I hope you guys like it! This is technically a follow up to Gunshot Serenade, but I'm pretty sure you'll be able to understand it without reading GS. However, the situations and the characters won't be as deep or moving as they would otherwise be (Not that they're deep or moving in the first place... but I like to think they are).
Before you begin, there are a few things you might want to consider. The first is this: This story has a plot that assumes the ABSOLUTE worst possible outcome for Faye's storyline in the actual series. Yes, she has her memories, but they're sort of disconnected and hazy. I would also like you to let go of whatever past you think Spike might have... I've taken a different approach to his history, one that I don't think I've seen thus far on this site. So please, don't be biased when it comes up. Here is the third: This story WILL earn its rating. While I won't include a lemon (mostly because I'd die of embarassment writing it) there will be mature themes and content, including naughty language, insinuations, and heavy drug use. If you have problems with any of things, I don't recomend following this story to the end.
With that said, I'm very proud of this chapter and what will come next. I worked extremely hard on this story, and I hope you like it. I love you guys all so much! And please review!
Disclaimer: I do not own Cowboy Bebop. Although if you're offering... :)
And now, I am extremely proud to present...
Chapter One:
Ante Up
Sometimes, baby,
We make mistakes
Dark and hazy
Prices we pay
-The Seatbelts
Spike Spiegel was a lot of things. Stupid came to mind. Jaded, broken, reckless, lazy. Sometimes nostalgic, always cocky.
But not dead. Not in the most literal sense of the term, at least.
And there were reasons for that.
As Spike stood, handsome face in shadow, back pressed flat against the smooth metal of the Swordfish II, he was watching though half-lidded brown eyes. It was the dark of night, but that didn't matter. He could see them, all around him, waiting for him to make the first move.
Graceful hands tucked into the pockets of jeans, old but never worn before today. Shoulders slumped forward in long-mastered nonchalance. Black boots scuffed the ground, perfect blades of green grass bending beneath his toes. He was cool, collected.
…Make them think you don't give a damn…
His escorts made their appearance. Two shapes, mere silhouettes against inky blackness, making their careful way across the lawn. Just what he had been expecting. Some things, like the Red Dragon Syndicate's absolute faith in the old methods, never changed.
Spike heaved a sigh, his head tipping down as his one real eye worked. Took in the hedges, the men behind them, head to toe in black. The house before him, a massive stone mansion, a real piece of work, every window glowing gold with light. The sports cars and limousines and luxury sedans parked along the circular drive.
A party. Somehow, he wasn't surprised.
Footsteps and the crunch of grass. The two shades were getting closer, slowly taking shape through the heavy spring air. They were walking strangely. That meant wires or concealed weapons. Maybe both.
…make them think you're here to die…
A smirk found its way slowly onto Spike's face. He was getting hot in his leather bomber jacket. The whitish fluff, some kind of animal product, was sticking to his neck. The temperature difference between Callisto and Mars was jarring. His hands were beginning to sweat in fingerless leather gloves. But he wasn't going to take off the gloves or the jacket; they had been good to him, and he would be good right back. Besides. If he was going to die tonight, and he didn't doubt he would, he was going out looking good.
Damn good.
The moon meandered slowly out from behind the only cloud in the star-spattered sky. The lawn was bathed instantly in cold grey light, impassive and somehow endlessly flattering. His escorts were suddenly very identifiable and very near. A man and a woman.
The smirk turned slowly to a smile.
He should have known.
"Amber." His voice was low, rough. Russet eyes met familiar blue ones, sparkling in the moonlight with the same mirth and irony that was filling Spike's own.
"Hey there, Spike." The woman greeted. She was smiling, tossing brown curls over her shoulder, brushing out a black three-piece suit. Her name was Amber Beaumont, and considering the circumstances, she looked great. Hair and makeup their usual perfection, heels their usual height.
"Couldn't stay away for long, huh?" Spike was teasing, eyes flickering to the man with her as she laughed. He was of average height, built like a truck. Obviously uncomfortable in his tux, squirming under Spike's easy gaze. Just a common thug. Probably here to make sure things went smoothly. Two guns, one in each pocket, meant to be seen or they wouldn't be there.
Even without him, they were smarter than that.
…maybe you are here to die…
"You know, Spike," Amber was saying, "I could say the same for you."
"Yeah. You could." Spike pushed off his ship, his smile fading fast as he caught movement in bushes. Someone had pulled out all the stops for his arrival. He couldn't say he blamed them.
"We should go. You know how he gets. Not the most patient man in the solar system." Amber tilted her head to the side, letting her long bangs swing across her face. Her eyes were big and sparkling. She was on the verge of crying. And in all honesty, he couldn't blame her.
What he had done, all those months ago, was undoubtedly fresh in her mind. It was still fresh in his, after all.
Spike just shrugged and began walking, trusting that Amber and her flunky would lead the way. They did, leaving Spike free to observe. Everything about this operation, which seemed to hinge on getting him in the house, was completely overdone and hopelessly old-school. It felt like something he had seen in the mob movies of yore: the tuxedos, the darkness, the faint glimmering of expensive cars in the moonlight. Too film-noir to be real.
"So where have you been?" Amber's voice made Spike mentally start; the only visible sign was the flicker of his eyes to the back her head.
"Everywhere. Nowhere." He didn't want to talk about it. In all honesty, he didn't wanna talk at all. He was too tired… had been for a year and a half, now.
She seemed to catch on, her reply just some unidentifiable noise halfway between a grunt and a sob, all but lost in the heavy air. The scent of May flowers was thick and sticky with no breeze to sweep it away. Spike could feel himself suffocating on his own stagnant breath and the silence he was fighting so hard to preserve.
Maybe he was a little bit of a masochist, after all.
The flair of a lighter startled Spike, too. Amber had lit a cigarette, was taking long drags. She had never been much a smoker before. But he had known from the second she emerged from the shadows that something had changed. Some of that clinging innocence had disappeared.
It happened to everyone, eventually. Spike was just surprised she had held out so long.
The four of them continued across the lawn, grey-green and flawless in the starlight, leaving half-hearted footprints as they trailed towards the house. It loomed before them, a mass of light and music and false mirth. If hell really did exist, and if hell was on Mars, there wasn't a doubt in Spike's mind that this was it.
And that made the man inside the Devil. Not a stretch of the imagination, by any means.
Amber's cigarette smoke wasn't going anywhere. If Spike smelled the richness of tobacco, it was only because it stood motionless long enough for him to step through it on his way to that beacon of light. That god-damn house. Closer than ever. Amber's heels clicking neatly as she stepped onto the brick of the drive. She turned back to them, Spike and the thug, the cigarette hanging from her fingers.
Amber Beaumont was somehow tragic standing there, backlit and shrouded in a fog of cigarette smoke. Stretched too thin in certain moments, just a shadow of what she had been. She had lost something more than the bubbles. He could see that now.
"You killed him, Spike…"
"You coming, Spike?" Her voice was light as ever. The smoke just swirled up, wrapping in slow spirals around her body. She reminded him of someone. Two people, actually. But if he was too tired to have a conversation, he was sure as hell too tired to think about them.
But they lingered still in his mind, like the cigarette smoke in the still air.
Spike sighed, pushing them away as the glitter of metal caught his eye. Snipers on the roof, deep in shadow. Useless, if he was running. Which, in case of an emergency, he would be. They were there for show. Escape routes began to flood Spike's mind, roundabout methods that mostly worked.
Mostly.
It took a moment to realize they weren't headed for the front door. Instead, their sad little procession was cutting across the drive and moving to the side of the house. Up a few steps and they were on the porch. Spike watched as Amber and the thug moved along, one moment in the light spilling from the windows and another in absolute darkness, trying to deal with his own rapidly adjusting eye.
Blind one moment, fine the next. Lather, rinse, repeat. Somehow, it felt intentional.
Spike couldn't help but wonder what he had gotten himself into. He shouldn't have come. He and the Dragons hadn't parted on the best of circumstances, and if there was one thing their latest leader could do, it was hold a grudge. For all he knew, the plan was to execute Spike quietly and slip him out the back door. He wouldn't have been surprised. But that's where the gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans came in. Firearms: Never leave home without 'em.
Not that it mattered. Life and death were the only options, and Spike couldn't say he cared much either way.
A few more awkward moments of silence and the trio was pausing outside a side door, probably intended to be a servant's entrance. Amber let the cigarette slip from her fingers to the ground, crushing it into the smooth stone of the porch as she fished in her pocket. A key ring appeared in her hand. She searched it quickly, inserting one key into the lock and turning. It swung open and they filed in, Spike following Amber, the thug trailing behind. A corridor. Dimly lit, long and narrow. They moved forward, the floorboards shrieking under their weight.
The only exit in sight was a door at the other end of the hall. It stood closed, probably locked. Amber was still gripping the key ring, picking through the keys, making them dance for her. She found the one she was looking for relatively quickly, moving faster down the corridor. Like someone was waiting.
Someone was.
The door opened easy, smooth on oiled hinges. Beyond was a darkened room, illuminated only by a television hung on the wall. Amber beckoned Spike in with a jerk of her head. He complied.
It was an office. And sitting behind the desk that dominated most of the center of the room was the one person Spike Spiegel would have been happy never to see again.
Alexander King.
"Spike-o!" The man greeted, smiling a blinding smile and standing. He was easily over six feet tall, his shadow darkening the desk top. Long black hair, grey in the unnatural light of the TV, hung loose just beyond his shoulders, glossy and perfect. Violet eyes, now just pits of shadow in an ethereal face, watched Spike expectantly.
Crazy son of a bitch.
"Nice to see you again, Alex." A lie. No one needed to know that.
"You don't have to lie, Spike." Alex responded, his voice so good-natured that Spike had to wonder at his sanity. Not that that was anything new. "Sit down." He gestured to one of the leather guest chairs placed before the desk, flopping back down in his own seat.
One hand slid out of Spike's pocket to scratch wild dark brown hair as he meandered forward, deeper into the room. Alex gestured at Amber. The door snapped shut. The two men were alone.
Spike knew the room; he had been here before. Blue in the daylight, it was now varying shades of indigo and grey. The walls of the room, lined with bookshelves that held only a very small percentage of Alex's collection, were cast in deep shadow. The chessboard and additional chairs that Spike knew were there had disappeared completely in the black.
As he sank into the chair, the cool metal of his gun pressed against his skin, comforting him slightly.
If the plan was to kill him, Alex would do it right about now.
"It's been a while."
"Yeah. It has."
Silence. Alex rapped his fingers on the desktop, studying Spike's face through the gloom.
"So I bet you're wondering why I dragged your ass here."
"The question had crossed my mind."
"Well, it's not to kill you, if that's what you've been thinking."
Relief flooded Spike's mind. No emotion registered on his face. "So then why the call? I don't work for you anymore."
If there was one truth in the solar system, that was it. No, Spike did not work for Alex anymore. Not Alex, not the Red Dragons, not the Tharsis government. They all went hand in hand. At this point, Spike's boss was named Herb, and he ran a mining business on Callisto.
Beggars can't be choosers.
"See, Spike-o," Alex said softly, humor thick in his voice. "I was hoping to remedy that situation."
Laughter. Spike was in mild shock. Remedy the situation. He didn't like the sound of it.
"What do you need me to do?" Spike's voice was low, sticky with distaste. But he was like an animal in a cage; he didn't have a choice. And he was sure that Alex would remind him of that very shortly.
"I knew you would help out, old buddy." Another glittering smile, bright in the sickening half-light.
"I didn't know we were still friends."
"Always." There was finality in Alex's tone that Spike didn't like. "So tell me… What have you been doing for the last year and a half?"
Spike quirked an eyebrow. Random question. "I've been on Callisto."
"Been watching the news at all?"
"Not when it could be avoided."
"I see." Alex was nodding, searching through some papers on his desk. As he searched, he spoke. "Hey Spike, do you remember my sisters?"
How the hell could he forget?
"Yeah, I think so."
Alex had found what he was looking for. A photograph, old and beginning to fade. He slid it across the wood to Spike, who picked it up and studied it, just able to make it out in the hazy light.
A family portrait. A boy and a girl, around fifteen and sixteen, stood next to each other, dressed neatly in black. Both had long black hair and beautiful lilac eyes, and both wore the same grim expressions. The girl had a crucifix strung around her neck, somehow familiar, and held a baby with shockingly blue eyes and wisps of white blonde hair. All of them were strikingly attractive. Talk about good genetics.
"You and your sisters?" Spike inquired, tossing the photo onto the desk. It fluttered through the air to rest next to Alex's left hand. A ring flashed in the light. Spike furrowed his brow, but didn't ask.
"Yep." He pointed to the grim dark-haired girl. "Amelia. And the baby is Judith. You know her."
Spike couldn't help but smirk. "Yeah. I do."
Did he ever.
Alex caught the expression but ignored it, choosing to focus on the eldest of the three children. Amelia. "You've never met her." He said, leaning back in his chair, "And since you didn't watch the news, I don't expect you to know the name. But she's the reason you're here." There was distaste in his voice.
"What's going on?" Spike asked causally, lighting a cigarette to shush the screams of addiction at the edges of his mind. Alex followed his example before replying.
"She's a nun."
"I didn't know that was a problem."
"It's not. At least, it wouldn't be, if she wasn't such a crazy bitch."
An eyebrow went up. "I'm not following. What does this have to do with me?"
"You really need to watch the news, Spike-o. You're completely disconnected. At least read the newspaper or something."
"Thanks for that tidbit of advice. I'll remember it."
"Anyway. My crazy-ass sister got it into her head that the only way to save the sinners of Mars was to kill them, and-"
"What?"
"Tell me about it. So anyway-"
"Back up for a second." Spike said, not believing what he was hearing. "Your sister is a serial killer?"
"Not just her." Alex heaved a sigh, his perfect features arranged in an expression of revulsion. "A whole group of clergy broke off from the Catholic church. She's crazy, but she sure has a way with words…" He trailed off.
The heavy silence was broken only by the news casters discussing the upcoming summer.
"And a beautiful summer it will be, Tom. I just can't wait."
"Me either, Eileen. And word is the boys down at climate control are just as excited as we are!"
"How nice, Tom! You better start looking for those swimsuits, Tharsis City! I hear Dior is having another great sale!"
"Now there's something the whole family can enjoy!"
Unbelievable. Spike just sat, smoking, his mind whirring with thoughts of absolute disbelief. This had to be some kind of a sick joke. Everyone knew Alex was a little off his rocker, but to go this far?
"Is this some kind of joke?"
Alex fixed him with those violet eyes. "I wish. They've formed a kind of bloodthirsty rebellion, Spike. The Tharsis government hired the Dragons to put it down-"
Funny. I always thought it went the other way around…
"-but they were waiting for us." A pause. Long, dramatic, completely Alexander King-ish. "I don't think we've ever lost so many men."
Brown met purple. No. This wasn't a joke.
"So you failed. And now you want me to do it."
"No, Spike. I need you to do it. And you know I don't throw that word around lightly."
Alex's fingers were rapping on the desktop again. That ring on his left hand still shimmered. He slid the photo back across to Spike.
"If I say no?" Stupid question. Spike knew the answer to that. An image shot to his mind. Blonde hair, dripping with water. Blue eyes opening slowly, their beautiful depths completely void. He pushed it violently away.
"You remember what I have down in The Garden, don't you?" Softly, carefully. Viciously deliberate. "Think long and hard about why you're here in the first place, Spike. We've discussed this before."
The silence stretched on. Finally, Spike broke it. "What do I need to do?"
The smile that had faded from Alex's face was back in seconds. "I knew you would help. Good friend, good friend…" He exhaled sharply, his untouched cigarette smoldering in the ashtray. "What you need to do is kill Amelia."
"You want your own sister dead?" Somehow, Spike wasn't all that surprised.
"We were never close. And a job is a job, right?"
"Right."
Alex was playing the drums on the desk now, pounding out some random rhythm. He was getting impatient; the man had the attention span of a gnat. He was standing now, brushing out his sharp black tux, combing his fingers through his hair.
"Can we talk about this later? Tomorrow or the next day. You're staying in the pool house. All your stuff from Callisto is already put away. Amber will take you there in a little bit."
Spike stood as well, stretching as discreetly as possible, trying to ignore the uncomfortable indent his gun had left in his back. "Later? What the hell am I supposed to do until then?"
"I'm having a little party tonight, actually. I think you should make an appearance."
"I hope you're kidding." Spike replied, glowering.
"Ah, come on!" Alex said brightly, opening a door (not the one they had entered through) and proceeding out into a large, bright hallway. "You might see some people you know."
"I don't think so," Spike sighed, dropping his cigarette into the ashtray as he followed Alex out of the room. "I washed my hands of the Red Dragons a long time ago."
The comment earned him a laugh. The noise echoed unusually loud in the corridor. That was something about this house, especially the first floor; every noise echoed in the strangest ways. Something about the high ceilings, probably.
Still. It was unnerving.
The pair walked in partial silence. At least, Spike was silent. Alex was talking away about God knows what. In all honesty, the ex-cowboy didn't give a shit. He had worked with Alex long enough to know that about seventy-five percent of everything he said was useless, and the other twenty-five percent was only slightly amusing. And so, lost in his own thoughts, Spike trailed after Alex through the maze that was 665 Coltrane Avenue.
About the time they were cutting through one of the living rooms, they began to hear music. Jazz, a transition from upbeat to slow. Spike tucked his hands back into his pockets and did his best to block out Alex's voice, focusing instead on that single strand of melody drifting lazily through the climate controlled air. He didn't like what it did to him, bringing back memories of one particular night spent in this house, but it was infinitely better than listening to the purple-eyed man ahead of him describe one of his ties in perfect detail.
At last, what felt like a million years later, they arrived.
The ballroom.
Easily the biggest room in the house, the ballroom had changed drastically in eighteen months. Spike took this in stride; in the three years he had worked for Alex, the entire style of the room had changed six or seven times. That was Alex's little-known hobby; redecorating his ballroom. Some things had stayed the same. The French windows, the marble dance floor, the mural of cherubs and angels. All had stayed intact. But just about everything else was different.
The chandeliers that had once hung from the ceiling were gone, leaving no trace of their existence. The room was now lit by at least five hundred deep purple candles clustered around the room, matching the heavy velvet window hangings. A profusion of circular tables formed a ring around the dance floor, where a stage had been set up in the middle. It was there the musicians were set up, illuminated by two spotlights hidden somehow in the mural. The two streams of light bled together beautifully, somehow symbolic. Spike remembered the ring on Alex's left hand, and decided not to dwell on it.
There were hordes of people in attendance, all of whom were seated at the tables, chatting as they sipped champagne and nibbled appetizers. The overall effect was dark; it would have been depressing if it hadn't been so god-damn sensual.
Alex lingered in the doorway, and Spike stayed there with him. The murmur of conversation floated to them on perfumed air. The whole scene looked and smelled expensive. Just how Mr. King liked it.
"Hey, Spike." Alex asked quietly, beckoning Amber, now decked out in a white fur stole and black evening gown, and the thug from earlier over from their post near the open doors to the terrace. They crossed the room quickly. Alex followed them with his eyes as he spoke. "Do you believe in love?"
Spike was a little taken aback with the question. He was silent a moment, questions of his own streaking through his mind. When he answered, it was slow, careful.
"Yes."
Alex turned to him now, mirth deep in his eyes. "That's nice. I don't."
Amber and the thug reached them now, and the woman took Spike by the hand, leading him further into the room, away from Alex, who was making his way quickly to the stage.
"Amber," Spike asked, walking in step with her, trying to ignore an unusual feeling curling in the pit of his stomach, "What's going on here? What is this party for?"
Knowing Alex, he was expecting some cliché answer, like "It's your funeral, Spike." But that isn't what he got. Amber turned her head to him, pulling him to the back wall. They were moving fast. When they were directly across from the stage, she paused and turned to him.
"It would be easier if we left now." She murmured, her eyes flickering to the thug directly behind him. But the music had stopped. Cocking an eyebrow, Spike turned to face the stage. And there was Alex, smiling and waving, taking the microphone from the singer amidst applause from his guests.
"Thank you all so much…" He was saying, oozing with confidence and appeal. He was good. He was really good. Ten seconds, and they were wrapped around his finger.
"Spike," Amber insisted, her hold on his hands tightening. "It would be so much easier to go now."
"Amber," The thug interjected, his voice thick and deep. "Lucifer wanted him to see this."
Lucifer. So Alex was still using that old alias. It had been a long time since he had heard that name.
"Let's just watch." Spike gave Amber a little smile, meant to ease her mind. It just made her more uneasy.
"I'm so happy to have you all here tonight!" Came the voice from the stage. Two pairs of eyes turned to Alex again. Amber had dropped Spike's hand. "As a lot of you know, this moment has been a long time coming…"
Laughter from the guests. They knew something Spike didn't.
"… But now that it's here, I can't stress how happy I am. This has honestly been the best year of my life. And I'm so happy to tell you all this…" Alex was nodding to someone. A woman. She was standing from the table directly in front of Spike, her back to him. Long, layered black hair fell to her mid-back, shimmering as she made her way around the table and towards the stage.
Spike could feel his heart rate rise as the woman moved, the curves of her body painfully familiar under an amazing deep purple evening gown. The way she walked, the way she laughed. Arrogance and fire and something uniquely her own. It was suddenly cold. Spike's stomach restricted painfully. Flashes of the past were practically blinding him.
No…It can't be…
She started up the stage steps, laughing as she went, taking Alex's outstretched hand. Jewelry sparkled in the spotlight. A bracelet. A ring on her left hand.
Impossible. Fucking impossible.
"Mr. Spiegel," The thug was talking to him now, alarmed by the look on his face, but Spike didn't care. He was focused on her, on that woman as Alex pulled her into a quick embrace. Her back was still to him. There was no way of knowing. "That's enough. We have to go." Spike felt a hand on his arm. That stupid man. He shook it off.
Oh God…Impossible. Right?
But then that woman was turning around, and that face, and those eyes, and those lips…And Alex was kissing her cheek gently, grinning like the god damn Cheshire cat and saying into that fucking microphone… saying…
"We're engaged!"
It was cold.
And he was numb.
But then the pain… Oh sweet Jesus, the pain…
Amber was pulling him out of the room now, the thug's gun pressed to the back of his head, but he couldn't do anything about it… All he saw…
…no…
Green eyes, beautiful and exotic and full to the brim with broken promises, met russet across the room. Her lips, red and glistening in the light, parted in something like shock.
All Spike Spiegel saw as he was lead away was Faye Valentine.
Faye Valentine, and the ring sparkling on her finger.
A/N: Just a little note... Yes, Faye's engagement is part of the plot. And yes, it will be explained. And yes, I did have this planned for a long time. :) Sorry...
Lots and lots and lots of love!
Lucinda