Don't Feed the Plants.

Part Two

A voice inside me said "Kid, you'll love it,

I think you're into Heavy pain".

He can’t have been unconscious all that long.  No more than a few minutes, really.  But it was long enough for his assailant to drag him deeper into the greenhouse, to tug off his jacket, slash at the seams of his trousers, rip open his shirt, lash his hands together with garden twine and then to hook those bonds over a piece of the overhead racking, lifting him up so that when he awoke it was to find himself dangling helplessly, a good foot or more above the floor.

Everything hurt.  His glasses were missing and so, for some reason, were his shoes.  There was a tight band of pain around both his wrists, his shoulders felt half wrenched from their sockets and his head was pounding mercilessly.  There seemed to be blood trickling down the side of his face.  He could feel it trickling elsewhere too, little runnels of it tracking down scored skin; it painted his breastbone, ran dribbling from thigh to knee, and was creeping down from his knees until it dripped from his toes.  His captor was encouraging the next such cascade when he woke, clawing a pattern of deep lines from his shoulder to the base of his spine.

He probably should have feigned continued unconsciousness, but the fiery scrape of what felt like rusty metal points across his back was enough to spur an involuntary spasm, his body protesting the assault almost before he’d registered it.

“Bloody hell,” Giles hissed, biting back a gasp of agony as the shift of his weight twisted the bindings around his wrists.  The narrow twine was already cutting deep; another line of blood joined the rest of his open wounds, oozing out to slowly slide its way down his arm and drip from his elbow.

“Oh God,” he heard a matching exclamation echo from behind him.  “You’re awake.  You’re not supposed to be awake.  He’s awake,” the young man’s voice called, addressing someone else, someone Giles couldn’t immediately see.

He could hear them though.  Could hear the response to that uncertain cry, drift back from the echoing heart of the hot house, in tones of deepest, determined confidence.

“I don’t care what he’s doing, so long as he bleeds.  Feed me!”

They say the meek shall inherit,

You know the book doesn't lie …

The traipse down the now-empty corridors and across the school yard seemed much longer on the way back.  It looked as if the cheerleaders had finally gone home, leaving the school echoing with weighted silences. Willow seemed to remember flying most of what now seemed an interminable distance, encouraged by unwanted images of dried blood tracked across the floor.  The scuttle of large spiders and the rustle of what might have been rats in the shadows as she’d left the annex had added their own sense of impetus to her flight. 

She wasn’t proud of her rush, no matter how quickly it might have spilled her into the library and into Buffy’s confident presence.  The darkened, abandoned building had creeped her out, and she knew it – but that didn’t excuse the haste with which she’d left Giles’ side, the fluttering gratitude of her heart when he’d sent her in search of assistance.

Because now she was trudging back, her mind was wrestling with all the dire things that might have happened to him since she left him alone – and if they had happened to him she’d never forgive herself.

Buffy didn’t seem too worried though, striding ahead with the axe resting on her shoulder.  Angel stalked at her side, his expression a mixture of anxious and grim – a good look for a brooding vampire, and a bad look for anything nasty that decided to jump out at them from the shadows.  Xander was scowling at him, which was something that Xander did when he thought nobody was watching him.  Willow wasn’t exactly watching him, but she caught the look, all the same.

It bothered her a little.

Okay, not so much because of the ‘he’s a vampire and we can’t trust him’ stuff, but more because Xander’s attention was focused on Buffy and he didn’t seem to be noticing anything else.  She’d have liked him to notice her – except that she was glad he didn’t, because she wasn’t sure she could cope if he did.  But a girl could dream – just as she could sigh happily, watching a much older man stack books and expound on subjects both exotic and esoteric, engaging her in intellectual and adult conversation.

She liked Giles.  And she hadn’t liked leaving him, no matter how confident and commanding he’d been.  The shuttered, musty air in the annex had felt wrong the moment she’d walked into it, and the moment she’d seen the trail of blood she’d known there would be something very nasty waiting at the end of it.

“I hope he’s all right,” she muttered, drawing Xander’s attention away from the Slayer and her determined stride.

“The Library Man?”  He grinned, goofily.  “He’s fine, Will.  Probably lurking in a dark corner somewhere, watching the bad guys and taking notes.  Bet he’ll even ask questions, later.”

“You think?”

“Yeah.”  Xander gave her an curious look.  “You’re really worried about him, aren’t you.  You only left him – what?  Ten minutes ago?  How much trouble could he get himself into in ten minutes?”

He's got your number now

He knows just what you've done
You got no place to hide you got nowhere to run
He knows your life of crime
I think it's suppertime

“Feed me,” the voice insisted, a deep, velvet sound punctuated by a note of petulance.

“Okay, okay,” the young man agreed, his own voice strained and sounding harassed.  He stepped into the light, finally giving Giles a chance to get a look at him.  A somewhat fuzzy look, given the loss of his glasses and the blurring of vision from what was undoubtedly a concussion.

He was beginning to recognise the symptoms by now.

“Simon?” he questioned, blinking to get a better look.  “Simon Kellman?”  Kellman was one of the students who’d been reported missing – a good student by all accounting.  One of the few who made regular visits to the library.

“Uh – “ the young man froze, wincing at the sound of his name.  “Yeah.  Umm …” He turned and looked up at his captive, a decidedly apologetic expression on his face.  “Look, Mr Giles, I’m … I’m really sorry about this, okay?  ‘Cause if I wanted to do this to anyone, it wouldn’t be you.  You’re okay.  As … teachers go.  But – you walked in here, and you saw, and … it’s hungry,  It’s always hungry.  If I don’t … feed it, it’ll eat me.  And I don’t want to be …”  Kellman broke off mid thought, grimacing with a mixture of frustration and guilt. 

“It was going to be the best thing ever.  Ever,” he repeated with a note of pain.  “I found it and I planted it, and it just grew and grew. And then they closed the building and I had to start sneaking in to take care of it.  I gave it plenty of plant food and I watered it well. I used potash. I added extra sunshine – see how I fixed up the lights?”  He waved his hand at the scaffolding above the plant, indicating the six big arc lights that hung around the humid space.  “I gave it fresh dirt every day.  I even dug some up from the cemetery because they grow the best roses, you know?  I did all that, and it’s driving me crazy.  It ate all the rats, and then it ate my dog and it’s still hungry.”  His expression was strained, haunted in a way that almost made Giles feel sorry for him.  Almost.  The sensation of deep screaming scratches burning into his skin and the slowly numbing pain in his hands and arms somewhat dampened his surge of sympathy.

“Just – l-let me down, Simon,” he suggested as calmly as he could.  “And we can talk about this.”

“Feed me, Simon!  Feed me now!”

The cry was a demanding, almost angry scream; the vines that draped the greenhouse interior shook and rustled, writhing with almost animal motion.  Kellman quivered, tightening his grip on the rusty fork in his hand.

“I can’t,” he whispered.  “I can’t.  I gave it Orin, because … because he hit Aubrie, only …. Only Frank saw, so I had to give it Frank, and … now you came here looking and I – I have to.  Only … only – I thought I hit you hard enough, so you wouldn’t know and …”

“Feed me!”

It wasn’t a demand, it was a command.  The young man closed his eyes for a moment and Giles’ heart sank, realising that any chance he might have had of reaching him was lost.  The boy had just admitted to two murders – and while he might regret a third, he obviously felt driven to commit it.  Clearly, reason and rational argument would have little influence on a mind caught and enthralled by … by whatever it was that lay at the centre of the hothouse.

“Sorry,” Simon said, lifting the fork – and raking it savagely across the captive Watcher’s stomach.  “I’m really, really sorry …”

Giles didn’t really hear the apology.  He was too busy fighting the pain.  He’d hastily sucked in his gut as the weapon slashed in his direction, but even so the wounds the tines left behind were deep enough to start spilling blood almost immediately.  The movement had wrenched at his arms and driven the twine even deeper into his wrists; for one hopeful moment, he thought he’d been about to black out again.

No such luck: while nausea had flared and the fire in his skull had pulsed with white hot intensity, both sensations had quickly subsided again, leaving him limp and shaking from head to toe.  This was not good.  Nor was the way his blood was running down his skin, soaking into tattered fabrics and dripping in thick fat pendulous drips onto the leaf and vine covered floor.

He was in serious trouble, and he knew it. 

“Simon,” he tried, a last desperate appeal for mercy that the young man studiously ignored.  “Y-you don’t want to do this.  You don’t have to do this.”  Kellman was busy unhitching the ropes that worked the overhead racking, setting the mechanism into motion.  “I’m sure we can talk – “  Giles’ words became a gasp of pain as the racking shifted, the jerky movement wrenching at his arms and twisting the twine even deeper into his skin.  He glanced up in alarm as the section from which he was hanging started to move up and across, lifting him further from the ground and deeper into the glass enclosed space.  He rose several feet into the air, swinging like a lump of meat, while his blood splattered down, painting the vegetation below him with splashes of scarlet  

The green and purple coloured mass that lay at the heart of the hothouse stirred.  Unfolded.

Blossomed .

And became a yawning mouth – one with a deep purple maw and a row of jagged, splintery teeth.

“Oh, baby,” the nightmare flower declared, licking at its fleshy lips with a slimy stamen tongue.  “Come to momma.  It’s suppertime …”

And the little red dots seemed innocent enough …

“Definitely blood,” Angel reported, rising from his crouch in a billow of black leather and attitude.  “A day old, maybe a little more.  But not much.”

“So much for Frank,” Xander tried to quip.  “Or …Orin.  You think … who ever it was … was dead, when … whatever it was … dragged him …”

Willow winced.  “Don’t,” she said, grabbing his arm and silencing the rest of his comment.  Angel gave her a sympathetic look.

“Wasn’t vampires,” Buffy announced, her eyes darting round the shadowed passageway.  Snyder’s miserly attention to minor details meant that there were no bulbs in the overhead lights, and the only hints of light were those spilling in through the outer door, and distantly, a vague suggestion of illumination, deep within the complex.  The Slayer’s nose wrinkled.  “But there’s something …”

“I can smell decay,” Angel said, moving to stand beside her.  “Something sweet, like perfume, and …damn.”  He set off at a run, heading deeper into the gloom.  Buffy, after a startled beat, headed after him.

“What?” Xander questioned, staring after the two of them in bemusement.  “What’s got into him?  What would a vampire smell that would send him running …”  he broke off, sharing a horrified realisation with Willow’s wide-eyed alarm.

“Blood,” she gulped, starting to run, a little reluctantly, in the Slayer’s wake. 

Fresh blood …

Take a chance, just feed me and

You know the kinda eats,
The kinda red hot treats

The kinda sticky licky sweets
I crave …

Suspended as he was in mid air, his feet dangling and his heart pounding into rhythmical overdrive, Rupert Giles experienced a brief and utterly surreal moment.  One in which he seriously considered that he might be experiencing a drug-related flashback – or possibly even a flash forward, his entire life between his first taste of LSD and this moment nothing more than a bizarre fantasy in which he’d returned to the fold and managed to get himself assigned a Slayer.

Because the lurid psychedelic thing that was part venus flytrap, part animated orchid and entirely arrogant appetite, was exactly the sort of impossibility that bad acid had a tendency to construct; a nightmare made manifest, painted over with ludicrous colour and given the deep velvet voice of a master of soul.

The overhead racking jolted forward another few inches, sending a stab of pain racing down his arms and jerking him back to instant reality.  The monstrous plant lifted itself up on a thick, curvaceous stalk, took a moment to consider his approach – and then licked its lips a second time, darting forward to nip, almost playfully, at his toes.

His retreat was instinctive, a desperate upwards tug on his arms and an equally desperate lift of his feet; the first hurt like hell, and the second simply wasn’t fast enough.  Plump petals closed around one flailing ankle, the flower’s lips pursing in an obscene parody of a kiss.

He struggled to free himself, feeling the soft whisper of something damp and slimy brush across the sole of his foot, tasting the blood that painted it.  The creature made what Willow would probably term a yummy sound -  and then its grip tightened and it tugged, just like a puppy given a rag to play with.

No! No! There's only so far you can bend
No! No! This nightmare must come to an end

Willow had arrived in the doorway of the biology lab in time to see Angel push his way into the curtain of leaves across the greenhouse door – and just as quickly back away again with furious curse, his hands smoking, almost as if he’d thrust them directly into sunlight.

Buffy, barely a step behind him, grabbed him and spun him round, putting herself between him and the flicker of light.  Her eyes were wide as she stared at the vampire’s shaking hands.  So were Willow’s.  It was after ten at night; the world outside was dark and vampire-friendly.  But Angel’s skin was burning.

“What the ..?” Xander questioned from behind her, turning the vampire’s head in their direction.

“UV,” he hissed, his features twisting into their demonic visage as he wrestled with the impact of pain.  “It’s not as instant as sunlight, but … I can’t help you in there.  Not while the light shines.  Buffy …”  He turned to her with apologetic pain.  “It’s up to you to save him …”

She’d half opened her mouth to answer that when an agonised scream rent the air.  A strangled, bitten-back scream of protest and pain.  “Giles,” they chorused with horror, recognising familiar tones in among that gargled, anguished cry.  Buffy gave Angel a short, understanding nod and spun, raising her axe and charging forward, a look of total determination on her face.  Willow and Xander charged after her, leaving the vampire huddled in the shadows, his face distorted and his eyes burning with helpless anger.

The shift in the light was the first thing that struck Willow as she entered the hothouse.  She barely noticed the caress of heat, or the weight of humidity in the air; she was too busy blinking at the scene in front of her, letting the blur of colours and movement resolve into lurid impossibilities.  There were vines and gigantic leaves, green and gold and purple-pink; there was a huge pod-like thing lying in the middle of everything, its limb like leaves quivering and curling with ecstasy – and there was a limp and bloodied figure hanging over its gaping maw, his blood dripping down onto the dark purple petals. 

“Shit,” she heard Xander swear behind her, expressing horror and disbelief in matching quantities.  His voice tilted the flower thing towards the three of them, its lips rippling with what looked like amusement.

“Oh, my,” it drawled, its head shifting back with a disconcertingly human movement.  “First course and dessert.  Must be my lucky night.” 

“Don’t count on it,” Buffy spat, shaking away her initial shock and replacing it with determined fury.  The axe swung in her hand with ominous menace and her eyes darted around the vine-draped space, taking in everything in a single furious glance.  “I don’t know what you are, but that’s my Watcher you’re snacking on – and I don’t share.  Not even for a pretty please.”

“Now aren’t you a feisty one,” the creature chuckled, hefting itself forward and – very deliberately – running its frilled tongue up the length of its victim’s bleeding body.  Willow’s heart jumped at the sight – not just because the total ickiness of the gesture, but because Giles stirred at the thing’s touch, a feeble protest of movement that demonstrated he was still alive.

“Get your … your pistils off him,” she demanded angrily, taking a step forward – and then hastily leapt back as a vine as thick as her arm lifted itself from the ground and rippled in her direction.  The plant laughed.

“Ooh, momma, so eager.  Wait your turn, sweet thing.  I never mix my courses.  Savoury first,” it drawled with relish, taking another slurping lick.  “Honey later.  I’ll get round to you, I promise.”  And it chuckled again, a deep-throated sound that set the entire hothouse quivering.

“It’s no use,” a voice she recognised announced despairingly.  “You can’t stop it.  You won’t even get near it.  Not now.”

Willow turned, finding Simon Kellman huddled against the wall, his arms wrapped around his legs as he rocked back and forth.  A whole series of things made sudden sense: the jerry-rigged greenhouse, the exotic-looking plant …

“I’m sorry,” he was muttering brokenly.  “I’m really, really sorry.  I didn’t mean this to happen, I didn’t, I didn’t …”

Buffy had begun to make her way into the body of the greenhouse, circling round the outer benches and looking for a way to get closer without goading the thing into unwelcome action.  The plant continued to lick and suckle at its victim, chuckling softly to itself, letting her know that it knew exactly what she was doing.  Kellman shuddered at the sound.

“You?” Willow queried, feeling a second surge of fury take control.  She’d always had a soft spot for Kellman, who was a year ahead of her; he was a model student, and a fellow nerd, his obsession with his studies offset by his nervous manners and his unfailing ‘eyes down’ politeness whenever a girl spoke to him. Even her.

And he’d helped out in the library with the book cataloguing and everything.

Xander pushed past her and dragged the shaking youth to his feet.

“You’ve got a lot to answer for,” he declared, slamming Kellman up against the wall with a hint of an ex-hyena growl.  “And unless you start telling me stuff – like where I find the light switches and how we get him down from there, you’re going to start answering for it.  Right, Will?”

“Right,” she echoed, putting on her resolve face.  She tried to ignore the way that rustling vines were grabbing at Buffy’s determined stalk, turning it into ‘leap and dodge, slash out and duck back’ kind of progress.  Kellman whimpered.

“I can’t,” he said.  “I can’t.  It’ll kill me …”

Part Three

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