Blood on a Sundial: 1 ~ 9
by Maz

 

1. To kill this girl...

 

Watching the Slayer from the shadows, as she beat down that supercilious, puffed-up minion, Spike had to admire her style. Not as technically perfect as the one in China, and not as angry as Nikki, but she had passion, enthusiasm... Well, she had something, anyway. And she seemed to have friends. That was... different. So he gave her the ironic applause and offered her his threats, but as he walked away he was thinking. With any opponent, the key was to identify her weakness and utilise it to his own advantage. This would take care, planning, time... On the other hand... there was always the tried and tested, full frontal surprise attack.

 

*****

 

After the debacle in the school he decided to go back to his first thought. This slayer not only had friends - she also had family. It was annoying. But he had learned two things: Angel was in town and working with the Slayer, and the boy with Angel was one of her friends. He had been there in the alley. He had fetched the Slayer's stake. That suggested he was a trusted intimate. And Spike had his scent. Well actually, he had learnt three things - the other was that the Anointed One was a pain in the arse. Thankfully he was a pain easily dealt with.

 

Spike prowled his warehouse, glaring at the minions as he plotted. There was definitely something different about this one. And what sort of a name was 'Buffy' anyway? A slayer should work alone. She shouldn't have a cheering squad all ready to throw in a spare stake. She certainly shouldn't have a mother who knew how to wield an axe. She was supposed to live in the shadows, mopey and lonely and bitter at the destiny that demanded she die young on the fangs of her enemy. It was in the rules, for God's sake! But this one did have the friends. And she was altogether too cheerful. It made Spike's skin itch.

 

He continued to pace, ignoring Dru's attempts to poke life back into that damned bird of hers. Friends could be a strength or a weakness. Humans were funny about things like that. They got attached. It was time to find out whether this slayer, this Buffy, was really as different as she appeared. Minions were two a penny so it was hardly a sacrifice, and it could yield some valuable information.

 

In the end it cost him six, but three days later he had seen enough to know that she would protect her friends at all costs. They were her weakness. All he had to do was pick them off, one by one, and lay them out, like a trail of breadcrumbs for her to follow, and she would go wherever he wanted. After all, if it wasn't fun, it wasn't worth doing.

 

*****

 

The Slayer, the boy and the third one, the little red head, were sitting on a large tombstone kicking their heels and chatting. The Slayer was actually playing with a yo-yo. Kids today! No culture! Didn't they know that teenagers hanging around in graveyards were supposed to have alcohol and tobacco? With a curt nod Spike sent Frank in.

 

Spotting his undisciplined rush, the Slayer jumped down and grabbed a stake out of her back pocket. "Stay there!" she yelled at her followers as she moved away from them, apparently determined to engage in the clear area between the graves.

 

Frank's initial rush succeeded in doing nothing but send him somersaulting over her head as she rolled and used his own momentum against him. He wasn't much of a fighter and it was clear that he was well out-matched. She wasn't exactly playing with him, but she wasn't treating him seriously either. The other five minions edged closer, but followed orders and didn't attack.

 

The red head stayed where she was told, behind the tombstone, knuckles clenched as she gripped the top, swinging her upper body left and right in silent support of the Slayer's moves. The boy, however, possibly out of some misguided instinct of chivalry, was edging hesitantly off to the side, around the periphery of the fight, clutching a stake of his own. This was perfect.

 

"Xander, stay back!" Buffy yelled, when she spotted his movement from the corner of her eye. So the boy had a name.

 

Frank went staggering back from a kick to the neck, arms windmilling, and she followed through with the stake in her right hand, leaving nothing but a gently settling cloud of dust. Charlotte came forward to replace him and Spike edged away and around the back of the DuLac mausoleum until he was directly behind the boy. It was easy, with all their attention focused on the fight in front of them, to slip a hand round the boy's shoulders and clamp it down over his mouth. By the time the Slayer had dispatched Charlotte and had taken in the fact that the other minions were not about to charge, he had the boy secure. This was the moment of truth, did she understand the mission, or was she still infected by the belief that she could have an ordinary life?

 

She swung around, following the minions' gazes, and froze. Her dawning expression of horror was a joy to witness. Her eyes flickered around the scene as she assessed her chances of getting to him, before his fangs sank into her friend's neck. With a flick, Spike opened his knife, pressing it to the other side of Xander's neck. Pinned between fangs and steel, he stopped struggling.

 

Spike began to edge backwards, dragging the boy with him. Buffy matched him step for step, but didn't dare approach too close for fear of putting her friend's life in danger. The red-head had come from behind her protective wall and was also creeping forwards, a look of exquisite anguish twisting her pretty face.

 

Lifting his head and looking past them, Spike saw the minions dithering. "Well don't just stand there, people, come on!" he shouted. They charged.

 

All four of them leapt forwards and suddenly the Slayer had another friend to worry about and another fight on her hands. Spike faded back into the shadows taking Xander with him.

 

2. Conversations with (almost) dead people

 

When Spike entered the room he was feeling cheerful - jaunty even. The plan had worked beautifully and he hadn't even lost all the minions - at least two had managed to find their way home. After he had got Xander out of sight and clocked him one, he had even managed to find a cute little shop girl for Dru. God, he loved this town! Anywhere else the sight of a guy wandering the streets at night with two limp bodies over his shoulders would have been cause for questions. But not in Sunnydale. He'd even got a smile and a friendly nod from some old guy out walking his dog.

 

Xander was sitting on the floor in a corner. Alfred seemed to have gone slightly over the top, using both rope and shackles on his ankles, as well as rope around his wrists. Spike shrugged to himself as he sauntered across to the sofa and dragged it around so he could face the boy. At least he was awake. Finally. Pulling off his coat Spike dropped it on the sofa and sat down next to it. He leant forwards, elbows on his knees and looked at Xander. Xander glared back.

 

"What do you want with me?" He sounded like the petulant child he was. Spike raised one eyebrow. "I don't understand why you'd take me." Spike leaned back in the sofa, wriggled his hand into the pockets of his jeans and pulled out his Zippo. He rummaged around in his duster until he found his fags. Xander tried to pull himself up, to sit cross-legged, but found that the ropes around his ankles were too tight. Instead he lifted his knees and hugged them with his bound arms. He spoke to his kneecaps. "Am I just a meal then?" Spike smiled. "You do know I'm not the Slayer, don't you? I mean, you do know the bit about 'one girl in all the world'?" He glanced quickly up and down again. He was beginning to look a little panicked. "I'm nothing special, honestly."

 

Spike leaned forwards again, taking a good look at his prize as he pulled a cigarette out of the pack. "My Sire gave you to me, the other day," he observed.

 

Xander looked up, startled. "He was bluffing," he said. "And he didn't give me. He might have offered. But there was no giving! And... What's a Sire, anyway?"

 

Spike lit his cigarette. "Your sire is the vamp who made you." He explained.

 

Xander's forehead wrinkled in thought. "You mean he's like... your dad?" He asked incredulously. "Wow! I thought I had it rough." This boy was amusing. If it hadn't been so clearly part of the plan to kill him, he would consider turning him, just for the entertainment value. "But he still didn't give me to you. You can't give a human being. It's... unconstitutional, or something."

 

Spike took a deep drag. Amusing? Yes. But he was also becoming irritating. "He bloody well did give you to me. In the school hallway. He came in and offered me your neck. If that's not a present from my Sire, what the hell is it?"

 

Xander leaned back against the wall. "I don't care. I'm not some object to be given away. I'm human. And I know it's not sensible to argue when I'm totally in your power. And I realise I can't move or escape or do... anything, really. So if all you're going to do is engage in stupid arguments, you might as well just kill me."

 

"Well sure, I'm going to. That's the plan. I kill you. I leave your body where it will be found with a clue which leads the Slayer to the next one."

 

"The next one?" The boy's voice went quiet and acquired a distinct quiver. Seemed like the Slayer's weakness was shared.

 

Spike shrugged. "Yeah, not sure about that one, yet. Could go for the Watcher. Or maybe that nice little red head. What do you think? Which one would hurt most?"

 

"You stay away from her!" The little puppy almost sounded fierce. "I'm not telling you anything. I don't care what you do to me."

 

"Could turn you. Then you could do the little red head." Spike mused.

 

"Or you could just give me back to Angel. Think of me as a Sire's day present, or something."

 

And that was just too much. With a growl Spike chucked his half smoked fag away and was across the room, crouching in front of Xander, before the boy had time to blink. "You're a mouthy little bastard, aren't you? We'll see how you manage once I've ripped your tongue out." He glared straight into Xander's eyes, seeing the fear that the boy had been hiding behind his snark. "I turn you and you won't be such an argumentative git. In fact" he allowed his voice to turn soft and smooth, "you'll want to do what ever your Sire says."

 

Xander gave a choked half-laugh. "Yes, I can see how that follows. Seeing as how it worked so well with you." In spite of his continued defiance, his heart rate had accelerated and his breathing was becoming distinctly ragged.

 

Spike leaned forwards towards Xander's neck and Xander shrank back until he was cowering against the wall, as if attempting disappear into it. Just as Spike's fangs touched the warm, soft flesh, the boy started a panicked mutter, "Oh man, Jesse. I'm sorry, Jesse. I'm sorry."

 

Spike pulled back. "Will you stop that." He growled. "It's distracting. And who the hell is Josie?"

 

Xander raised his bound arms and braced his hands against Spike's sternum, as if that would do any good, if Spike chose to go in for the kill. "J-Jesse! Don't you say his name! He was my friend. The Master killed him and turned him and set him up as bait for us."

 

Spike flopped back on the floor with an exasperated sigh, bracing himself on his arms. "Oh, bloody hell! That's all I need! To be repeating some half-arsed plan of old bat-face's." A thought struck him and he added gloomily, "Which the slayer will be expecting."

 

He paused to think. "Okay boy, looks like it's your lucky day. You just got re-graded from un-dead bait, to live bait. I need you to have a heartbeat when Dear Old Dad sees you."

 

3. Bloody Family

 

Spike left him there - time to get the next one. Couldn't leave a trail of bodies if there was only one body, that wasn't even a straight line, more of a point. No, not even that. This one would stay alive, for now. Let them worry. They probably already had him dead, or turned. He could wait. They all could.

 

*****

 

Spike watched the car slow down to turn and the headlights sweep across the lawn as it pulled up to the front of the house. He had been hanging around behind a tree for over an hour, but now his prey was in sight. He left the shelter of the shadows and sauntered along the street. The driver's door opened just as he came level with the car and the woman clambered out, over loaded with shopping bags. Taking a couple more, hesitant steps, he leaned towards her, the picture of reluctant interruption. "Excuse me, love," he called "I wonder if you could tell me where..."

 

She started, almost lost one of the bags and half a dozen oranges and some tins spilled out onto the ground. He stumbled forward, all eager helpfulness. "Oh, I'm so sorry. Here let me..." He crouched down next to her and started gathering up the fallen fruit, putting it back into the bag.

 

Pausing in the act of collecting the rest of her spilled shopping, she looked at him, embarrassed but friendly. "Oh no, it's okay. It was my fault, I just wasn't expecting..." He hefted the bag and stood, extending a hand to help her up. She struggled to her feet, embarrassment turning to confusion. "I'm sorry, do I know you?" She peered at him, squinting with the difficulty of a woman too proud, or too busy, to acknowledge her short-sightedness, shaking her head as if to knock a memory loose.

 

Spike stood straight and spread his arms wide, casually and carelessly allowing the bag to fall to the ground. There was a sound of glass breaking. Before she could do more than gasp he had pulled her close and buried his face in her neck, smothered her cry in his shoulder. He ignored the hands battering at his arms and sides. The blood was rich and vital in his mouth and her struggles became weaker, in direct counter-point to the energy flowing into him. It was pure life. He relaxed and slowed his drinking, allowing her warmth to spread through him in delicious slow motion, relishing the taste and the slow fading of her life-force.

 

He flew across the grass and crashed into the trunk of a tree. Shaking his head to clear it, he gazed across the lawn and snarled - the Slayer was crouching over her mother's body while the Watcher rushed to the house, fumbling a set of keys as he ran. Damn them! He'd been robbed! That last heady drop, when the heart stopped, had been stolen from him. He growled and the Slayer's head snapped up, but she didn't rise from her protective huddle, or move the hand which was clamped onto her mother's neck to grab the stake he could see in her back pocket. For a moment he considered the chance that she would be an easy mark like that, too intent on keeping the rest of her mother's blood inside her body, to fight. But the expression on her face suggested withdrawal to be the better option, so he struggled to his feet and with one last snarl, backed into the shadows. He needed to check on Dru, anyway.

 

*****

 

It was disappointing. But Spike hadn't survived over a hundred years of unlife without being adaptable. He just needed a new plan. He considered reverting to his earlier idea and turning the boy. He considered going after the red-head, or the Watcher, while the Slayer was preoccupied. He worried about Dru getting progressively weaker, and his helplessness both frustrated and angered him. He needed to get the bloody Slayer out of his way. He paced.

 

A quick check on the boy, who was safe, if sulky, in the cellar store room and he headed back out to scout the Watcher's flat. The place was nicely secluded, with an unobtrusive door under the steps leading up to the flat above. Lots of useful places to lurk and he was using them to advantage when he felt it - the tingle along his spine that signalled family. And it wasn't Drusilla.

 

"Angelus," He turned and challenged the man who detached himself from the shadow of the gate post.

 

Angelus looked grim. "William."

 

Spike snarled. "Plonker! Why can't you ever get it right? I'm not your boy anymore. If you want to talk to me, you use my chosen name!"

 

Angelus conceded a nod. "Okay, and you use mine."

 

Spike paused, as if thinking that one over, but his Sire wasn't being violent so he must have something to offer. "Alright. 'Angel'." He put a bit of a sneer into the word, just so Angelus would know who was the petitioner here. "What do you want?"

 

"I'm calling in Wergeld, Spike."

 

Well, that was... unexpected. "Wergeld?" he asked, sceptically. "And how exactly does that work, Mate? Who did I kill that I owe a debt for? I've been playing nice with the other clans. Anything in the family doesn't count, and you know it. So if you object to what I did to the boy..."

 

"Yes, the boy." Angel interrupted. "Is he alive?"

 

"Alive, no. Nor undead. But it wasn't me what turned him. That's down to the old man. There was some prophesy or something." His brow furrowed with puzzlement. "Thought you knew all that. Weren't you there when the Slayer killed him?" Angel was wearing an expression of complete bewilderment. "Come on, Mate. Get with the programme. Anointed One, right? So I got rid of him. But that's family. Wergeld doesn't apply, and you know it."

 

"No. Not him. The boy. Xander. Is he alive?"

 

Spike shrugged. "Oh, him. Yeah, sure Mate. Got him safe and sound, under wraps. What's he got to do with anything?"

 

Angel sighed his exasperation. "For God's Sake, Childe, what were you thinking? You kidnapped the Slayer's friend, you attacked her Mother. She'll hunt you down, and she won't stop. She'll keep coming until she kills you."

 

Spike pulled himself upright and stalked away a few steps before swinging back round. He lifted his arms away from his sides in a gesture of offering. "She can try," he announced to the sky and, incidentally, to his Grandsire.

 

Angel sighed again. He did that a lot. "Spike, please?" He paused and looked at his Grandchilde, reassessing his approach. "How's Dru?" he asked.

 

Spike deflated. "Not so good. She's getting weaker everyday." He threw up his arms. "If I could just get rid of the damned Slayer, I know I could find a cure. But whenever I turn around she's there, muckin' up the works. She's the gnat in my ear! The gristle in my teeth! She's the bloody thorn in my bloody side!

 

"Spike!" Angel's yell, as much as the hands gripping Spike's shoulders, brought him to an abrupt halt. Angel started again in a more reasonable tone. "Spike. You don't have to do this. You can stop. I'll help you with Dru. I'll buy you the time you need to find your cure. But you have to stop this, before it becomes a blood feud. You almost killed Buffy's mother. She's lying in the hospital. She'll live, but Buffy isn't going to forgive this. I can negotiate a deal. All you need to do is pay the Wergeld."

 

"And why exactly should I do that? She's the enemy of the species. She's not clan. Wergeld doesn't apply to her any more than it does to the Annoying One."

 

"She's my clan," Angel said.

 

Spike looked at him, stunned by the realisation of just how twisted Angel had become. "Oh, I see. So I suppose now, I'm not? Now you have your band of humans, you don't have time for me and Dru. Is that it?"

 

"It's not like that. I'm trying to save you. You give Xander back and I'll make sure she accepts him as payment of your debt for her mother. And then you'll be free to sort out whatever's wrong with Dru."

 

"You bloody Bastard! You gave me that boy. And now you want me to give him back?"

 

Angel's voice took on a pleading edge. "It'll buy you the time you need to fix Dru. You said he's not dead. Come on, for once in your existence, be sensible. Buffy's strong and she's relentless." His mouth quirked in an amused and affectionate grin and somehow Spike doubted either emotion was directed towards him. "Even more so than you are." He gave Spike a little shake. "Pay the Wergeld and let me negotiate the peace. Take me to him, Spike. Let me help."

 

Spike's shoulders sagged and he took a deep breath. He thought about what it would mean to have Angel's assistance with Dru. He thought about sharing the load he had been carrying alone for so long. He looked up into Angel's face and grinned. "Okay Mate. Come on then. What are you waiting for? Follow me."

 

Angel's smile was more genuine this time. "Okay. Lead on, Childe."

 

4. Trading Places

 

As they walked back to the warehouse, Spike was quietly fuming. Family, clan, the whole bloody mess a soul could make of the simple bonds. Angel was twisted and bent out of shape so far he was hardly a vampire any more. Claiming the Slayer as clan and invoking Wergeld. It was so wrong, there was just no word for how wrong it was.

 

Angel glumped along beside him, thankfully refraining from small talk, because Spike didn't know how he would keep from screaming, if he once opened his mouth. By the time they reached the warehouse his jaw ached with it.

 

And then, there it was, the door and the lock bar that slotted into place to keep them safe during the day, innocently propped up next to the jam. Somehow it was so easy to grab it in passing and smash it into the back of Angel's head.

 

He felt nothing as he stood astride the body. "Nothing like a bit of insurance," he told the empty air, the bar still bouncing in his hands. "The boy, and now you." He looked down at Angel. "Fucking Wergeld, my arse," he snarled. "You have the gall to claim the Slayer as clan, against your own blood!" The second blow brought feeling back - a sense of justice done as the bones in Angel's left shoulder shattered. The third, smashing his right humerus, brought relief. Family, clan, loyalty, belonging, ownership and home. Those things were important. They mattered. Some crazy Gypsies committed an abomination and it all went out the window? Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. The bar crashed down on Angel's left leg.

 

Spike had it raised high above his head, ready to bring down on Angel's lower back, when movement caught the corner of his eye. He dropped the bar and was across the room in an instant. "Dru, love," he said, reaching out to steady her as she stumbled. "You shouldn't be up. What are you doing? Come back to bed."

 

She looked up at his face, eyes misty and vague. "I thought my Angelus was here." Her face crumpled and the pitiful weariness broke his heart. "I was dreaming again, wasn't I Spike? He's not here. He's never here."

 

Spike put one hand around her waist and brushed her hair back from her face with the other, tenderly stroking his knuckles down her cheek and ending the contact with a gentle nudge of encouragement to her chin. "Yes, Love, you were dreaming," he said softly. "Angelus isn't here." He pulled her close, taking comfort from her frail solidity, even as nightmare images of her turning to dust in his hands grabbed at his imagination. "Let me get you someone to eat. You shouldn't be walking around. You're weak."

 

His arm around her shoulders, she went with him easily and he ushered her back to the room he had appropriated for her. He helped her to lie down, smoothed the blankets over her and bent to kiss her forehead. "I'll be right back, precious. I'll find you a nice one, eh?" he whispered, as he retreated slowly backwards out of the room.

 

Grabbing Alfred, he gave swift instructions about the broken mass of bloody bones by the door, while he went to fetch a snack from the store room. Initial thoughts of feeding her the Xander boy were banished, as a new plan began to form in his head, coming to full fruition by the time he reached the bottom of the stairs. Oh yes! That was good. Angel claimed the Slayer as clan and cast off his own? Let's see what the Slayer thinks of that.

 

He took his time choosing between the offerings, eventually picking out a small blond girl, brought in from this night's hunt. She was fresh and clean and if anything could tempt Dru's fickle appetite, he would bet it was something like this. Releasing the shackles, he dragged her from the larder and carried her back up to the ground floor. They would have a picnic in bed, while he worked out the final details for constructing his new toy. He had time and more importantly, he had at least one minion with some modicum of technical skills. It would be twelve or eighteen hours before Angel's absence was noticed.

 

*****

 

Spike stood on the walkway halfway up the wall opposite the main door. Like a pirate captain at the wheel of his ship, he surveyed his command. From here he had a clear view of most of the room: the door, soon to be conveniently propped open, and the trapdoors with their attendant chains and fixings, opposite each other against the side walls. Idly he swung the big, floor mounted lever, first to the right, then to the left, watching the trapdoors fall open in turn.

 

He glanced over to Alfred. "Go talk carelessly at Willy's," he instructed.

 

*****

 

By the time the Slayer arrived, his preparations were complete. The minions didn't stand a chance. Not that that mattered. They were his forlorn hope, a sacrifice intended to make a point and take the edge off her energy, rather than a serious hope of victory. He stood back and watched her fight, realising, belatedly, that the very friends who were her weakness two days ago, were actually giving her more ferocity, now that she was fighting to free them, rather than to protect them. She was tricky too. When she lost her stake he thought for a moment that she was a goner. But she grabbed a chair, smashed it against the floor and used the broken back to stake two at once in a move he couldn't help admiring, even as he despaired of the stupidity of fledgling minions who didn't know better than to run at an attacker in tandem. He was a little encouraged when Alfred managed to take her down from behind. But it was short-lived. One moment she was pinned under Alfred's fangs, the next she was flipping herself on to her feet as he staggered backwards. She landed a right and a left, sending him into a pillar. He bounced off and fell forwards, straight into a roundhouse kick, which sent him flying across the room. The Slayer grabbed a broken chair leg from the floor and as Alfred scrambled up, she closed. There was a brief x-ray like image of his skeleton hanging in the air, before he disappeared in a cloud of bewildered dust. Yes, she was good.

 

Spike continued to watch as she spotted the last of his suicide crew recovering from being thrown across the room in her first rush. She stalked over and dispatched him with clinical efficiency, coloured only slightly by vindictive satisfaction. Time to bring his toys into the game.

 

"Stop!" he yelled. The Slayer froze. Spike stepped into her view and leaned his hands on the railing, staring down at her. "Hello, Sweetie." He smiled.

 

Buffy spared a quick glance for Angel and Xander, tied to the walls, gags in their mouths, and turned back to look up at Spike. Her body loosened and she shifted into an easy, deceptively relaxed stance, preparing to spring. "What? No minions?" he taunted. "Learnt that lesson, did we?" The tightening of her face was reply enough and he laughed. "So now we come to the fun part of the evening," he announced. He glanced right and left, directing her eyes to Angel and then to Xander and saw her take in their situation properly for the first time.

 

It was a pretty picture, he had to admit. They both had their hands secured behind their backs and were standing rigidly upright under the encouragement of the nooses around their necks, which were in turn fixed to rings in the walls above their heads. Angel was favouring his broken leg and didn't look too fit. The boy just looked furiously pissed off.

 

Spike placed his left hand casually on the lever. "You see, it goes like this. I push this lever to the left and the trapdoor under Xander opens, and he falls...." He spaced the next words out for emphasis. "Breaking his neck. Like a hangman's. Noose." His smile broadened. "Exactly like, actually." Her face was a picture. "I push it to the right and it's Angel's turn. I reckon I can only do one, before you get up here. But that's okay. I like my Slayers one-to-one. And since I'm feeling generous, I'll let you choose which of your avid admirers will survive you. Go on. Choose. Which way shall I go?"

 

She glanced back and forth between them, then back up at Spike. He could see the calculation she was making. "And I should probably mention, that although Xander's noose is plain old rope..." He loved this part. "Angel's is razor wire. You choose him and the wire will cut right through his neck. Come on Slayer." His voice turned vicious. "Tell me about family and loyalty and puppy dogs and tears."

 

She shook her head. "Why are you doing this?" she asked in total bewilderment.

 

Spike straightened his shoulders and shrugged. "Because I can?"

 

"No, that's not all this is. This is a test." She spoke like she was trying to figure something out. "What are you testing?"

 

"None of your fucking business," he snarled, then reconsidered - knowledge could be torture. And gloating was fun. "I want to know which of these two means the most to you. Which will you save at the cost of the other?" Good humour restored, he smiled invitingly. "Will it be Angel, the love of your life? Or..." He waved his arm to the left, a salesman extolling the product on offer. "Will it be Xander, here, the ever loyal sidekick?"

 

Buffy's eyes skittered around the room, frantically searching for a third option. He watched her measure the distance between them and saw her realise that, once again, she couldn't get to him in time.

 

"Look, you don't have to do this." Her voice had acquired an edge which matched her expression. He relished the pain.

 

"Come on, Slayer. It's simple. Just choose. I promise the other will go free."

 

She glanced around the room again and started to sidle to her left, towards the shadows. It was like she had seen something. But he had the lever and he wasn't going to leave it in response to some lame bluff. She looked up at him and he had a split second to recognise the triumph in her gaze, before she darted out of sight behind a pile of packing crates. He leaned forwards against the handrail and if his heart beat, it would have stopped when she backed into the open again, with Drusilla held hostage against her chest, her makeshift stake held to Dru's heart.

 

She looked up, over Dru' shoulder. "You were saying?" she asked. Spike's fear paralysed him and he knew she knew it. "Come on down," she called, mockingly. Her voice hardened. "Come down and release my friends, or your girlfriend fits in an ashtray."

 

He pushed back from the railing. "I'm coming," he agreed. "Just you keep that hand steady, or..." He couldn't think of an ending for that sentence, so he didn't try. Instead, he leapt over the rail to land on the floor ten feet in front of her. She jerked her head to indicate Xander. "Him first," she instructed.

 

Xander's eyes widened with surprised relief above his gag and Spike walked over to him. He removed the noose first. As soon as it was off Xander pushed away from the wall, attempting to head butt him. The Slayer intervened. "Xander, Stop it! Get Angel," she ordered. Xander stopped and turned, presenting his arms to be untied, and as soon as Spike released him he reached up and pulled the gag free.

 

Xander walked over to Angel and Spike stood back, bouncing his nervousness and keeping a watchful eye on Dru. Some part of Spike's brain registered the boy's curses as he cut his fingers, fumbling with the razor wire around Angel's neck and dimly he heard the 'humph' as Angel relaxed the tension in his good leg and staggered forward. But he couldn't spare the time to look - his attention was totally focused on Buffy and Dru.

 

Buffy shot a quick glance to the side. "Help him, Xander. Get him outside," she ordered. "I'll be out in a moment."

 

Xander snarled. "I hope you're going to kill that bastard."

 

Buffy turned towards him, dragging Dru around with her, and Spike saw the point of the stake push hard against Dru's bodice. Dru looked even weaker than she did earlier, before he managed to get her to eat. She gazed across at Spike, eyes silently pleading.

 

Buffy sounded weary. "Xander, I can't." And Spike had to think, to recall the boy's question. "I'm the Slayer. That means I have to do the honourable thing. Even if he wouldn't."

 

For a split second Spike considered arguing that point, but suddenly his arms were full of Dru and nothing else in the world mattered, except holding on to her. The sound of retreating footsteps was unimportant, his Dru was safe. She lay in his arms, eyes closed, unconscious but solid, and he wasn't sure whether the tears he felt prickling his eyes were the result of relief, or frustration.

 

5. Realisation

 

Xander lay on his bed, wondering at what point his life had gone so wrong. Ampata had been the embodiment of all his teenage dreams - exotic, beautiful, mysteriously foreign, and she'd liked him. That look she gifted him with, half admiring, half mischievous flirtation, had bowled his already bowled over ass... over again. It couldn't have all been an act. She hadn't taken one look at him and seen him as fruit, ripe for the picking. Had she? Did he really have that sign on his forehead - the one he always suspected was there? The one that said 'loser'.

 

Maybe it was just that he was the only guy in the Scooby Gang (you couldn't count Giles) and the Scooby Gang always got caught up with the evil. Was that why she had chosen him? His brain refused to accept that. But it seemed too much, to think it was just bad luck, over and over. He felt like his whole life was screwed lately. A quiet summer had been followed by non-stop badness, and then he got kidnapped by Spike and almost hung by the neck until he was dead. (Thank goodness for Buffy!)

 

He paused in his mental harangue to reassess that thought. Okay, so maybe the Scoobies went looking for the evil and he just got... got. But not this time! This time they were meant to have a nice, normal foreign exchange experience. But Buffy ended up with a murdered boy and a South American Mummy? And he ended up with a broken heart. It was wrong! Besides anything else, why couldn't Cordelia pick the evil short straw for once?

 

The mournful strains from his CD player came to an end and the shrill call of the telephone split the resultant silence. Without looking, he lifted the receiver, put it down again to kill the call, then dropped it on the bed next to him. He reached out his other hand and hit replay. He didn't want to talk to anyone and his parents, at least, respected that. But Willow was never able to leave well enough alone. He knew how the conversation would go - Willow would ask him if he was okay and he'd say 'yes'. But he wasn't okay and he didn't want to be okay. He wanted to wallow. He wanted to grieve. Even if he didn't really know what he was grieving for. For Ampata? For himself? For his own lost dreams? Maybe it was time to change the CD. It was a bad sign when he started getting poetic.

 

Willow wanted to apologise. She wanted to take the blame for their argument and hear that he forgave her. But it wasn't her fault and he knew it. He'd been looking for it. He knew her buttons and he knew how to push them.

 

He was just so mad at the injustice of it all! There should be a rule about the victim not turning into the monster. Abused children shouldn't grow up to be abusers and murdered girls shouldn't turn into life sucking demons. He sighed. He knew it was stupid, but he really didn't need Willow pointing it out, being all logical and academic about it. Like Ampata hadn't been a real girl, with real feelings and real dreams - as well as being a life sucking demon.

 

When Giles gave them a lift home last night, they were all pretty depressed. This morning, when he got up, the emotional load had not been magically lifted from his heart. He dragged himself to school, unimpressed by the bright skies and the cheerful shouts of his fellow students. He feigned a sudden interest in the psychology of Romeo's and Juliette's doomed love during first period, just because he didn't want to face Willow's and Buffy's sympathy. But as they left class he was surrounded, Willow taking up position on one side of him and Buffy closing in on the other.

 

With a free period, they did what they always did and headed for the library. The girls chatted across him, about love and doomed romances, and he was grateful to them for acting as a buffer between himself and the rest of the world. Just outside the library doors a change in the tone of Willow's voice caught his attention. It was hushed and concerned and he turned to her, thinking she was addressing him. "What?" he asked, pulling himself back to the real world of gradually emptying corridors and slamming classroom doors.

 

She looked up at him in surprise. "Xan-der," she admonished. "Where've you been?" and she smacked him lightly on the arm. "I just asked Buffy how Angel's doing? You know, with the broken bones." She spoke across him again, her voice once more sympathetic. "Is he walking yet? Did you find a source of blood?"

 

Buffy grinned. "Oh yeah! Nurse Buffy to the rescue, with a good supply of human blood, full of all the vitamins and minerals a healing vampire needs."

 

Xander was amazed. "You're giving him human blood? What do you do, go pick up stray people and take them over so Angel can have a quick bite? Do you arrange them a cab home, afterwards?" He knew he'd failed to hit the comedy note. He knew it had come over more as snark, than joking, but he didn't care. Willow gave him an odd look as she pushed open the doors.

 

They walked into the library just as Giles was coming down the stairs from the stacks. At sight of them, he smiled. "Willow, hello. Xander, how are you?"

 

Xander opened his mouth to reply, but just then Giles spotted Buffy, as she walked around Xander, and his face and voice both softened with concern. "Buffy, How are you? How's Angel? Is he responding to... treatment?"

 

It was too much. "Angel, Angel, Angel. Who the hell cares how he is?"

 

Buffy stopped and turned to confront him, blocking his passage. "I care," she said. "I care about Angel and he cares about me. He cares about us."

 

"Angel's an emotional pygmy. If Angel cares about anything, it's Angel."

 

"Xander!" Willow was becoming repetitive in her scolding. "You shouldn't say things like that." She paused for a moment, apparently thinking about why he shouldn't say such things. "It's racist," she said.

 

Xander snapped. "What?" he asked. "I'm insulting the pygmies of America? Come on, Willow. Get a life!"

 

Thankfully, Giles interrupted, preventing any response Willow might have made. "Please? Can we focus on business?" He turned away from them. "Buffy, have you had any sightings of Spike?"

 

Buffy shook her head. "No, I'll go back to the warehouse, but I don't expect to find them."

 

Giles took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Yes, well, best to be certain, I suppose. You go and have a look tonight and report back. If they've moved on it could be difficult to find them again, but there is always a chance."

 

Buffy nodded her agreement while Xander stood where she had stopped him, gazing around at the faces of his friends. So it was... what? Business as usual? Like Ampata had never been there. Like she had never smiled at him, or sat with him and laughed as she ate a Twinkie. Like she didn't matter? Like what he felt for her didn't matter.... Like they hadn't deposited the desiccated body of the real Ampata on the edge of the hospital grounds, where it was sure be found.

 

He hitched his book bag on his shoulder and turned towards the doors. "Okay, Guys. That's great. I'll see you later. I have to...."

 

As he pushed through the doors, back into the corridor, he heard Willow calling, "Xander, what's wrong?" But he ignored her.

 

He found a quiet corner of the sports field to hide out and spent the rest of the day doing... nothing. He couldn't face them. Even when the final bell rang and the school started to empty, amid shouts and the roaring of engines, he didn't move.

 

That had been his mistake. Because, of course Willow found him. She knew his spots, just as he knew her buttons.

 

She tried to be sympathetic, but since she didn't seem to know what she was supposed to be sympathising with, she didn't do so well. Eventually he challenged her, pouring out a full day's worth of brooding and grieving and she'd... been surprised. And then had come the snark and the snipping and eventually the recriminations, on his side, as his temper mounted in the face of her cluelessness.

 

Now, lying on his bed, he wondered if the Scoobies didn't suffer from their own version of 'Sunnydale blindness' and for the first time he wondered if the reason no one spoke of Jesse was because they really didn't remember him. He'd always assumed it was grief that kept them silent. And he'd done his best to respect their needs. But now he wondered. And as he lay on his bed, ballads full of heartbreak for company, he wondered why he seemed to be immune.

 

6. Halloween

 

Spike strode down the length of the room, spun on his heel and turned back to look at Dru, his arms raised away from his sides in a gesture of expansive pleasure. "Come on, love," he said, trying to instil in her some of his own enthusiasm. "It's much nicer than the last place. There's space here to expand. And a snug room downstairs for us, out of sight of any chance of sunlight. I've had your bed moved in." He trailed off in the face of her vacant apathy. "Oh love, please?"

 

Dru looked up at him from her chair. "I'm your princess." It wasn't a question but he rushed back to reassure her, just the same.

 

"Yes, my love. You are my princess. My wicked plum." He laid his hands on her shoulders, smoothing them down her arms to take her hands. "You're my dark delight. My wondrous jewel." He lifted her hands and bent his head to kiss them. "My all."

 

She smiled, a small wistful smile. "But the prince shall live in mourning when the flowers die," she said sadly.

 

"No, love. The Princess will blossom into her realm again. She'll rule the sundry planets and hold sway over it all."

 

Dru's face fell. "The Cats have found their hidey holes and the mice come out to play."

 

He knew he'd lost her then. She was off somewhere he couldn't follow. He had no idea how much of what she said was metaphor and how much was just nonsense, but he knew enough to take precautions. Turning around, he yelled, "Double the guard on all entrances. In shifts through the day. I want constant watch, people. No one gets in here. No one!" Turning back to Dru, he lifted her into his arms. "It's late, love. And you're feeling the coming of the sun. Let me take you where it'll never shine? Let me look after you?" He carried her down the stairs to their new room and laid her on the bed, before he retreated to the chair, to watch and guard her sleep.

 

*****

 

Xander caught up with the girls at the counter of Ethan's Costume Shop. He started to salute Buffy and just managed to avoid hitting himself in the head with his toy gun. Grabbing the gun in his left hand, he finished the salute with a flourish. "Sergeant Harris of Blackwing reporting!" he said smartly. "Ready and willing for action, Ma'am." He glanced at Willow "-s," he added.

 

Willow laughed. "Doofus," she said fondly. "You're dressing up as a comic book hero?"

 

"Not just any comic book hero, Ma'am. The Blackwing were the greatest soldiers comics have ever produced. And I've been with them since I was five." Adding belatedly, "Ma'am."

 

Buffy smiled. "That's not a costume," she observed.

 

Xander shrugged. "I've got fatigues from an Army surplus at home. Call me the Two-Dollar Costume King!" He raised his gun appraisingly "Okay, so it's not the most realistic of weapons, but have you seen the price of those? Not to mention the chance that the Sunnydale police might actually do their job for once and shoot me, thinking it was real. The way this year's going, that could actually happen." He grinned to show that he was joking, but a part of him was feeling smug for his forethought.

 

*****

 

Spike was watching a video of the Slayer fighting. "Here it comes," he warned. He stared up at the television mounted on the scaffold, where the Slayer was busy staking a vampire. Holding up his hand he commanded, "Rewind that. Let's see that again." He noticed the boy hovering on he edge of the fight, as always. At one point he surged forward as the vampire staggered back from a blow, and pushed the witless fool back towards the Slayer, just as she grabbed a post out of the ground. It was a pleasure to watch. Especially since the new pile of dust in the park wasn't one of his. "You see that? The way she stakes him with that thing? That's what's called resourceful. Rewind it again."

 

Drusilla came to stand behind him, placing one hand on his shoulder and whispering into his ear, "Miss Edith needs her tea." Spike turned, sliding an arm around her waist. She cocked her head appraisingly. "Do you love my insides? The parts you can't see?"

 

Spike nuzzled into her neck, wishing she was strong again. He pulled his head back and gazed into her eyes. "Eyeballs to entrails, my sweet. That's why I've got to study this Slayer. Once I kill her, you can have your run of Sunnyhell."

 

Dru's eyes lost their focus and her voice became sly. "Don't worry. Everything's switching. Outside to inside." She seemed to waver and he got ready to catch her, should she fall. "It makes her weak."

 

That sounded interesting. "Really?" he asked. "Did my pet have a vision? Come on, talk to Daddy. This thing that makes the Slayer weak? When is it?"

 

Dru's smile was among his favourite things and she gifted him with it now. "Tomorrow," she said.

 

That couldn't be right. "Tomorrow's Halloween, love. Nothing happens on Halloween."

 

"It does now. Someone's come to change it all. Someone new."

 

*****

 

Xander stood In the school hallway, a line of eager young faces gazing up at him. "Okay, on sleazing extra candy: tears are key. Tears will normally get you the double-bagger." As he talked he walked up and down in front of his rank of kids: the weathered veteran imparting his knowledge and experience into those eager, impressionable minds. "You can also try the old 'you missed me' routine, but it's risky. Only go there for chocolate. Understood?" The kids all nodded so he turned smartly and did a little drill step on the spot. "Okay, troops. Let's move out."

 

*****

 

Sergeant Harris conned the immediate area, all his senses on the alert as he tried to figure out what the fuck was going on. A roar in the distance caused him to spin, raising his rifle. He sighted on the large brown beast like thing. A clean head shot. It didn't matter what it was, head shots always worked. It veered off into the shadows behind a house and he lifted his eyes from his telescopic sight to broaden his view. The place was in chaos. He didn't have a fucking clue where he was or how the hell he got here. But wherever it was, it wasn't normal. Maintaining maximum alert he moved forward, scanning the environment for the rest of his squad. They would know what was happening, what the target was and how he'd lost his memory of recent events.

 

A young girl came running down the street and he readied himself to assist, or defend himself. She stopped in front of him. "Xander?" she gasped. He lifted his rifle. "Xander! It's me, Willow!"

 

So she had mistaken him for someone else. She didn't look threatening, but he had learnt through bitter experience that appearances could be deceiving. "I don't know any Willow," he replied, cautiously.

 

That didn't seem to dissuade her, rather it seemed to annoy her. "Xander, quit messing around. This is no time for jokes."

 

She seemed convinced he was someone else, but she may know something useful. "What the hell's going on here?" he asked.

 

Her face fell. "You don't know me?"

 

Didn't look like she was going to be any use to him. He mentally reclassified her as someone to protect. That felt right, so he went with his instincts. "Lady, I suggest you come with me and we find some temporary cover, until I can work out where the rest of my unit is." As he started to move on, she grabbed at his arm. Her hand passed straight through it.

 

She looked down at her hand, shook it, like it had a dead battery or something and reached out again. This time her entire arm disappeared into his chest. He jumped back, alarmed and a little freaked.

 

He raised his rifle again and aimed it at her as he began to step back. "What the hell are you?" he asked.

 

She looked as freaked out as he felt. "Xander, please listen to me. I'm on your side, I swear! Something crazy is happening. I was dressed as a ghost for Halloween, a-and now," her voice began to quaver. "I am a ghost. And you were supposed to be a soldier, and now I, I-I guess you're a real soldier."

 

Of course he was a 'real' soldier. He'd served in three separate wars. But nowhere had he ever come across a ghost before. "You expect me to believe that?" he asked.

 

A growl sounded behind him and he swung around, rifle at the ready. The ghost girl jumped in front of him. "No! No guns! That's still a little kid in there!"

 

It looked more like a garden gnome. "Step out of the way!" he ordered.

 

But she came right back, "No guns! That's an order!" The creature had already run away so he lowered his weapon. The girl looked around the chaos in the street. "We just need to find..." Her eyes locked on another young woman in some sort of ball gown, who was wandering dazed among the parked up cars. "Buffy!" she cried, taking off towards the newcomer.

 

Sergeant Harris followed. "I just want you to know that I'm taking a lot on faith here," he announced to no one.

 

The ghost girl seemed to know what she wanted, even if he didn't. She reached the prom queen and spoke to her urgently. "Buffy, what do we do?"

 

Buffy? Weird name. Weird girl - she took one look at them and fell to the ground in a dead faint.

 

Another scream split the night, this one more high pitched and panicked than the noises the monsters made. Monsters. He'd called them monsters in his head. Like they were real.

 

Yet another girl came running around the corner. "Somebody help me!" she cried.

 

Harris moved to intercept her, grabbing her arms to keep her on her feet and bring her to a halt. Thrusting her behind him he sighted on the big bear that was chasing her and shot it in the leg. It went down with a squeal and crawled away into the bushes. The cool logical part of Harris' brain began to fill in the blanks - it looked like he'd fallen into some sort of battle in the middle of a fancy dress party. At least the prom queen was on her feet again. He spread his glare impartially across all three of them. "What the..." he censored himself, "blazes, is going on here? What are you civilians doing mixed up in a conflict zone?" Turning back to his latest charge he took in her costume for the first time. "And why the... hell are you dressed as a cat?"

 

"Dressed as a cat! That's it!" So now the ghost girl had flipped, too. She was bouncing on the spot, waving her arms around in excitement. "I've got it!" she cried. "I know where it started." She looked past him, deflating as suddenly as she had started to buzz. "Oh no!" she said.

 

Harris turned to see what she was looking at. A young man in a long leather coat and punkish bleached hair was striding towards them, followed by six others, with very strange faces and a couple of the garden gnomes. Catwoman grabbed the Princess. The ghost girl pointed towards the young punk. "That one.... Not a civilian." She said.

 

Harris raised his rifle and took aim, but he was unwilling to kill just on her say so. "Halt!" He shouted.

 

The punk laughed. "And who's going to make me?" He yelled. He turned to his followers. "You lot, stay back! This one's mine."

 

That didn't sound very friendly. Harris took careful aim and squeezed the trigger. The young punk rocked as the bullet pierced his shoulder, but surprisingly he didn't fall. He did however stop his advance. "Fucking hell! That hurts!" He growled. Then something strange happened - his face seemed to change. Suddenly Harris was gazing across the four feet that separated them, into glowing yellow eyes.

 

Behind him someone screamed. Harris raised his rifle and turned it as he swung, so the butt slammed into the punk's head, knocking him over. He looked around, just in time to see the Princess taking off pursued by the cat. Glancing over his shoulder he noted that the punk was not going anywhere soon and his weird followers seemed to have scattered.

 

The ghost rushed up close to him, getting in his way. "Listen," she said. "You find some cover, I'm going to get some help."

 

Before Harris could say anything she was off, running down the street. He watched her disappear round the corner and mentally shrugged -.it was sad, but it was one less civilian for him to worry about. He took off after the other two girls, catching up with them in an alley off a main shopping street. It looked to be mostly warehouses. He spotted a door. "This way!" he called as he forced it open. Catwoman bundled the princess in before her and Harris slammed the door shut and shoved the bolt in place. "I'm going to check if there are any other ways in. Stay here!"

 

Behind him came the sound of pounding on the door. Across the room, he slammed the only other door shut and locked it. The pounding was replaced by the ominous squeal of tearing metal. He rushed back and leant against the door, attempting to hold it closed. "GO-OOOO!" he yelled. Then the door gave way, taking him down with it.

 

He must have been out for an instant, because the next thing he knew the strange men had both the girls in hand and the young punk was standing over him.

 

"Hello, pet." He grinned. "That was a merry dance. But I think it's over now, don't you?" He reached down and pulled Harris to his feet. He was stronger than he looked.

 

Harris straightened his back. "I don't know who the fuck you are, but you're getting nothing from me but name, rank and serial number."

 

The punk laughed. "Very nice, pet. But you can stop your game now. You know who I am. And you know what you are. Don't you?"

 

"Sergeant Alexander Harris, Serial number: Alpha Tango Delta 68594," he rapped out.

 

The punk's brows gathered in a frown. He looked hard into Harris' eyes. "Upside down and inside out..." he muttered to himself. "Well isn't this interesting. You even smell different. Not so... terrified."

 

Harris pulled away, looked the punk straight in the eye and stood to attention. He nodded to his captor and relaxed into 'at ease' with his hands behind his back. Keeping the rest of his body still, he slid his right hand into the waistband of his trousers and grasped his spare pistol.

 

The punk grinned. "Well, this is just neat!" Turning to his followers, he began to issue instructions. "Tie those two up. Take them back to the lair. This one, stays with me. For now."

 

Harris launched himself forwards as he brought his gun round. Slamming into the punk he knocked him over. The punk recovered fast, seeming to spin in mid-air. He grabbed Harris' wrists and forced the pistol up, so the shot went through the roof. Then he fell back, dragging Harris with him. They landed on the ground, with Harris on top and he tried to use his weight to his advantage. But the punk was really strong and somehow managed to roll them over. Braced himself over Harris, his face shifted into that weird mask from the street. His teeth looked huge and very sharp from this close range and he began to lower then towards Harris' neck.

 

*****

 

Xander got one arm free and raised his... water pistol? His eyes flew to Spike's face and he saw comprehension there, just before Spike was lifted bodily off him and thrown across the room. Buffy reached down a hand and helped Xander up. She tossed her head and the black wig came off, exposing her natural blonde. She turned around and faced Spike as he scrambled to his feet. "Hi, honey. I'm home."

 

Then she was across the room. She landed one punch in Spike's gut and another two to his face. Spike staggered back. With a scissor move that Xander would have sworn was impossible in those skirts, she followed up with a kick to his chest. Spike crashed back into the wall by the door. He grabbed a length of pipe that was leaning there and swung it at her. She caught the end of it and pulled him around so he collided with a crate, releasing his hold on the pipe.

 

Using the pipe like a quarterstaff, Buffy swung it into his face and followed up with a jab to the stomach. He doubled over. Planting the end of the pipe on the floor and leaning on it she laughed. "You know what?" she asked, rhetorically. "It's really good to be me."

 

Spike managed to regain his feet and looked around at the three piles of dust, and at the open door his other followers had fled through. With a last growl, he staggered after them.

 

Xander helped Cordelia up from where she had landed when Buffy had attacked her captors. "Hey, Buff. Welcome back," he said.

 

She smiled. "Yeah! You, too."

 

In the corner was a small boy, his face just beginning to scrunch up in a prelude to tears. "I'm scared!" he howled. "I want my mommy!"

 

Cordelia rushed over to comfort him and Xander shrugged at Buffy with a rueful grin. "You know what?" he asked. "One day, I'm going to have some say over the way my life goes. And when that happens, I'm going to declare Halloween illegal. What was that you said about 'one night off'?"

 

7. The principle of the thing

 

Dru was dealing her cards on the table in the middle of the room when Spike came up behind her. Placing his hands on her shoulders he bent down and whispered in her ear, "Darling! I heard a funny thing just now. Lucius tells me that you went out on a hunt the other night."

 

Dru pouted down at her cards, refusing to look up at him. "My tummy was growly. And you were out."

 

Yes, he was out. Watching Xander. Waiting his chance to take his property back. It had become a matter of face, even if he was the only one who knew it, that he eat the boy. Twice he'd had his fangs on Xander's neck and twice the Slayer had got him away. It was getting old. He would retake his own.

 

For the last two weeks it had just been frustrating - the way Xander was never alone. If the watcher didn't drive him home, the Slayer escorted him. Spike was reduced to watching from a distance, and haunting the back garden of the boy's house, so he could watch him in his room. As meals went, this one was a lot of trouble, but it was the principle of the thing.

 

At the moment though, he had other concerns. Spike put his arms around Dru from behind, imprisoning her and holding her close. "Did you meet anyone? Anyone interesting?" he asked softly. "Like Angel, for instance?"

 

Drusilla squirmed in his grasp, peering down at the picture of a man on a horse with a goblet in his hand. "Angel?" she asked, distractedly.

 

She seemed to be listening, which was something to be grateful for. "Yeah. So..." He dropped a kiss on her temple. "What might you guys have talked about, then?" He thought about what Lucius had said about the encounter in the park. Angel had been gone by the time Lucius caught up with her and he had not been close enough to hear their conversation, but the description of their almost embrace was enough to irritate. "It's a bit off, you two so friendly, him being the enemy and all," Spike snapped as he pushed away from her.

 

Dru cowered in her chair and whined. Loud voices could do that to her, especially since she got so sick. Spike was immediately remorseful. "Oh, I'm sorry baby. I'm a bad, rude man." He came around to her side, where she could see him, kissed her forehead again and felt her immediately begin to relax - her alarm as short-lived as her attention. "I just don't like you goin' out, that's all. You are weak." He picked up one of her hands, kissed it and sucked a finger into his mouth. Looking down at her out of half closed eyes, he smiled. "Shall I let you tell my fortune?" he enticed.

 

Dru tilted her head and gazed up at him, her own eyes huge and trusting. "Will you cry, my sweet?" She asked, dreamily.

 

Spike was momentarily disconcerted, unsure if she wanted him to cry now, or was seeking clarification of some future event. "Why should I cry, love? What's going to happen, to make me sad?" he asked, hoping he'd guessed right. She was quite capable of flying into a sudden rage, if she thought he was wilfully misunderstanding her.

 

"My poor Spike. All the world's a game, until the kittens' claws get long and sharp." Her voice turned vicious. "They tear into your skin and they won't let you go! Not even a little bit!" She stopped and gazed up towards the ceiling and her voice took on a dreamy, sing-song tone. "Cry, cry, the hunter's going to cry." Damn! He'd lost her. He knew that lilt in her voice. It meant she was off in her own world again. She tapped the card. "You keep missing him. Squandering your chances for the promise of more." That almost sounded like sense. "But the purple tulips bloom at night and so must we." Unfortunately, that didn't.

 

Dru collapsed back in her chair, apparently exhausted. Spike stroked her hair back from her face and signalled Lucius. "Go fetch a nice tender one and bring it here. I don't want your mistress tiring herself on some thick skinned old man." He turned back to Dru. "Will you eat for me, love? If Lucius brings someone up for you." He stroked her hair. "Will you try?"

 

His ministrations were interrupted by an unexpected voice. "This is so cool!" Spike spun around. There was a boy standing as easy as you please in the middle of the room! "I would totally live here."

 

Instinctively Spike moved between the interloper and Drusilla, glancing around for any minions. Only Lucius was in sight, frozen by the door down to the store room. "Do I have anyone on watch here?" he shouted. "It's called security, people. Are you all asleep?" He stepped forward. "Or did we finally find a restaurant that delivers?" he asked.

 

The boy couldn't possibly know where he was. "I'm Ford. And I know who you are." Or maybe he did.

 

"Yeah, I know who I am, too." Spike said. "So what?"

 

The child smiled. "I came looking for you, Spike. You are Spike, right? William the Bloody?"

 

"You've got a real death wish. It's almost interesting." A movement to his right distracted Spike for a moment and Francine walked in, clutching a book. Spike took it from her and nodded to her to stand guard over Ford, as he leafed through it. What he saw looked very promising, although he only understood the chapter headings. "Oh, this is great. This'll be very useful." He looked up. "So, how did you find me?"

 

Ford grinned. "That doesn't matter. I've got something to offer you." He paused, expectantly. "I'm pretty sure this is the part where you take out a watch and say I've got thirty seconds to convince you not to kill me?" He smiled again, adding, "It's traditional."

 

Spike was less than impressed. He slammed the book shut and strode over to Ford. "Well, I don't go much for

tradition." Grabbing him by the ear, he pulled Ford forward, exposing his neck. His face shifted and his fangs were in the boy's throat, the blood just beginning to flow, when Drusilla spoke.

 

"Wait, love!" she cried, running over to them and placing a restraining hand on his shoulder.

 

Spike pulled back and looked round. "What?" he asked.

 

Any explanation she might have offered was interrupted by the meal. "Oh, c'mon! Say it! It's no fun if you don't say it."

 

Spike turned back to him. He must be mad. "What? Oh." Releasing the ear, he pushed the boy away and recited in a flat voice, "You've got thirty seconds to convince me not to kill you."

 

Ford gave a little bounce. "Yes! See, this is the best! I wanna be like you. A vampire."

 

For a moment Spike thought he was hearing things. "I've known you for two minutes, and I can't stand you. I don't really feature you livin' forever." He turned back to Dru. "Can I eat him now, love?" he begged.

 

Drusilla shook her head, a message he couldn't read in her eyes and Ford took advantage of the pause to speak quickly. "I'm offering you a trade. You make me a vampire, and I give you the Slayer."

 

Spike was suddenly intensely interested, but it wouldn't do to show his hand. "You can deliver the slayer, can you?" he mused "And why should I believe you?"

 

By the time the boy stopped talking, Spike did believe him. It was interesting, this one's desperate determination to cling to existence. Sickness hung over him like a subtle cloud. Didn't make any difference to the blood, but it didn't bode well for the boy himself. Of course, walking into Spike's lair was not usually a prelude to a long and healthy life.

 

Spike waited until the explanation petered into silence. He could feel Dru at his back - feel her excitement in the grip of her hands on his arms. He looked at Ford and held his gaze, as if considering the offer. After thirty seconds Ford began to fidget and Spike thought Dru was ready to vibrate apart. He shook his head. "No deal" he announced. Ford's eyes widened in surprise and Dru's fingernails cut into his biceps. Her gasp was followed by the sound of her teeth snapping together, all too close to his vulnerable ear. "You want this so much," he added, "you'll have to give me more than that." Dru let out a little moan, which morphed into a reedy chuckle. Ford's shoulders slumped with the relief.

 

"I want Angel, too," Spike informed him. "You know who Angel is, don't you?" Ford nodded. "Good." Spike stepped away from Dru and walked across to the table. He turned and leant back casually against the edge, arms braced behind him and ankles crossed. He looked up at Ford "You still here?" he asked, with deceptive mildness. "Get out! Tomorrow sunset is quite soon enough to see you again."

 

The boy opened his mouth, hesitated and Spike could tell he wanted to check the deal. "I keep my word, once I give it," Spike said sternly - a bit of reassurance to stiffen Ford's spine. Ford nodded warily, but had enough sense to accept that. He shrugged and backed out of the warehouse into the daylight.

 

Dru floated over to Spike. "My clever tiger," she crooned. "You want my Angel out of the way, so the doves are unprotected."

 

Spike laughed, standing up so he could take her hands. He raised them in turn to his mouth, dropping a kiss on each wrist. "Got that cage downstairs," he said, "and the shackles. You need a pet you won't kill through neglect, love. I reckon it won't matter if you forget to feed him once in a while. With the Slayer dead and Angelus safe, you can have your run of this town and we'll make you well again."

 

8. Sunset

 

Even from across the alley, where he stood in the darkness of a deep-set warehouse door, the air was heavy with the sickly odour of the boy, Ford, mixed with a febrile excitement of many different signatures. The smell of sickness was alluring, promising an easy kill and a good meal. Spike pulled the night air deep into his lungs, his hunter's senses assessing and separating the component parts of the complex of scents, recognising both family and property, woven through the more mundane landscape of petrol, old fast food wrappers and... patchouli oil. The scents shifted as the air moved and the door across the alley was pulled open, sucking air with it, then the movement settled, heralding the appearance of his grandsire with an out-flux of warmth, human sweat, alcohol and a stronger trace of patchouli.

 

Spike watched Angel, Xander and Willow leave the club. Angel strode away quickly, body stiff with contained irritation, hiding from the humans the limp that Spike's experienced eye detected. After two weeks the broken leg should be better mended than that. Soft tissue and muscle would mend overnight, bones in a matter of a week or so. It was nerve damage that required more time and blood to rebuild. Spike knew he had done no real damage to Angel's nerves. Dru distracted him before he could smash the bastard's spine. But Angel was still in pain. It was interesting, like he was starving himself. Spike looked more critically, assessing his grandsire. He carried less bulk than Spike remembered from his pre-soul days, but he was a long way from being the walking skeleton starvation produced. Maybe it was something to do with the animal blood he lived off. Such a thing had probably never been tested before, but it was possible that human blood was superior in more ways than just flavour.

 

He watched as the others dawdled, letting Angel outstrip them. Their heads were close together and a trickle of nervous feminine laughter reached Spike's ears. Xander put an arm around the girl's shoulders and Spike was surprised by the annoyance that gesture roused in him. At the end of the alley Angel paused, turned and relaxed his stance as he waited for the children to catch up. They disappeared together around the corner into Main Street.

 

Spike was about to go and investigate the club more closely when the evening breeze brought a stronger waft of sick human to his nose. Stepping back into the shadows, he saw Billy Fordham enter the alley and head straight for the door. Pulling a key out of his pocket he inserted it in the lock in the handle and put his shoulder to the door, as if it weighed too much to shift with ease. Spike detached himself from the shadows and, in spite of his heavy boots, ran soundlessly across the alley, catching the door as it swung closed behind the boy. He held it still, just off the latch, for a few moments listening to the footsteps move away from the other side and, by the change in the echoes, begin to descend a set of metal stairs. Then he pushed it open and slipped inside.

 

Cautiously he stepped forward, through the inner door and slipped behind it. Leaning against the wall, hidden from any casual glance, he looked down into the well of the room, focusing on each of the inhabitants in turn, scenting for any signs of agitation or sickness. Except for Ford they were all healthy and, for all the nervous excitement in the air, there was no fear. Spike had to admire the kid's ruthlessness, using their stupid religious beliefs against them. Playing along, as one of the flock, when he was actually as big a wolf as any vampire. Spike's focus shifted to the three in the centre of the room, just in time to catch the tail end of the conversation that confirmed his initial impression of the game plan.

 

The whole crowd were apparently addicted to the more cheesy of Hollywood's vampire stereotypes, but the freak in blue was the worst. "Good? That's, that's it?" the freak asked, voice shrill with frustration as he trailed after Ford. "That's all we know? Well, when are we...?"

 

Ford pulled his arm free from the pleading grasp. "Soon, all right? Soon."

 

"Oh, soon, okay. If you say so." He obviously wasn't satisfied, but didn't have the nerve to insist. Instead, he whined. "Y'know, you could gimme a little more information here. I'm trusting you. I'm out on a limb here. Not to mention the lease is almost up on this place. Who's gonna cover that?"

 

Spike smirked. 'Not going to be your problem anyway, mate,' he thought.

 

Ford swung back around, his exasperation now obvious. "Marvin...." Marvin flinched and opened his mouth to interrupt. Ford pulled himself up and smiled, ingratiatingly. "Sorry. Diego." He emphasised the name, mocking his pawn, who didn't seem to notice the contempt. "Don't worry. Everything's gonna be fine." He fumbled a small bottle out of his pocket and extracted a pill. Turning to take a glass of water from a girl, who came to join them, he added, "Just make sure you're ready when I say. True believers only."

 

The girl had all the markings of a conventional teenager in ostentatious revolt, all flowing lace and heavy eyeliner. Another attentive follower to her doom. "I can't wait!" she said. The dreamy longing in her voice was slightly nauseating but the ribbon around her neck made for an attractive invitation. "Do you really think they'll bless us?"

 

Diego subsided, his brief foray into independence quashed. "Right, whatever," he grumped. "I guess we just continue to trust you." He didn't look happy, but he wasn't going to push.

 

Ford smiled at both of them, rewarding them for their good behaviour. "Chantarelle." His voice was faintly chiding but indulgent and full of reassurance. "Of course they will. A couple more days and we'll get to do the two things every American teen should have the chance to do: die young, and stay pretty."

 

Spike snorted, derisively. 'Sure. And you'll all live happily ever after in your gingerbread houses, surrounded by flowers and fairies.' He scanned the room again, assessing the collective mood. 'Those of you who aren't fairies already.'

 

He left as silently as he'd arrived, allowing the door to close gently behind him. Gazed up at the few stars visible through the orange glow of the street lights, he assessed the time: nearly 2 a.m. Time to find a late supper and head home. Come sunset this would be over, and if it got him the Slayer and his grandsire, that would be great. But even if they didn't fall for Ford's games, it looked like it would still bring him and his a very nice meal for very little effort. It might not be a delivery service, but it was the next best thing.

 

*****

 

Sunset came soon enough and Spike gathered his troops for their orders. "When we get there, first priority's the Slayer and Angelus." He turned to Lucius. "You. Guard the door." He pointed at a big, muscle bound male. "You. Stay with him. Don't let either of them near it. Someone'll bring you something to eat later." He surveyed the rest of his little force. "Once we have them under control, then you can do what you like. There's plenty for everyone, so let's remember to share, people." Walking over to Drusilla, he knelt to take her hands. "I'm sorry you're not up to this, love."

 

Dru lay back against the cushions from which he had shaped a snug nest on the sofa. "I want a treat. Bring me a treat."

 

Spike smiled "A very special one you'll have, pet. If the Slayer's blood doesn't cure you completely, it certainly won't hurt. And whatever happens, we still have the book. I just know there is a cure in there. It's being a bugger to translate, but we'll do it, love. Lucius will do it." He directed a glare at Lucius, who cowered strategically behind his large partner for the evening.

 

Spike turned back to Dru, who smiled, her expression as sweet and trusting as any of the countless children she had enticed over the years, but oh, so weary. It would be such a relief to have her well. When she was well, her visions didn't exhaust her, as they did now. When she was well, she just knew things, like she absorbed them from the very air. She said it was like they were all of them floating in a sea of knowing which pushed at their skin, but only she was permeable enough to let the pictures through. He'd laughed to hear her use a word like 'permeable' and called her his 'little osmotic generator', until she threw her tea pot at his head. He wanted that back. He wanted his lively, joking, laughing Sire back. He wanted to dance and play. He wanted her visions to come easily again, instead of leaving her wrung out. He wanted the security of knowing when they were true - because her visions had saved them from destruction more times than he could count. He bent his head and kissed her lips, a quiet kiss of love and devotion, and he resolved that she would be whole again. In the meantime, he had a slayer to catch.

 

Rising to his feet he pulled out his keys. "Lucius! Felix! Bring the cars around."

 

*****

 

With a squeal of burnt rubber Spike brought his car to a halt by the door of the Sunset Club. 'Stupid name,' he thought, with a private sneer. Lucius parked more sedately behind him and they all clambered out into the alley. Signalling Lucius and the hulk to lead the way, just in case the Slayer was there and had the upper hand, Spike waited to make his entrance. The rest of the cannon fodder forming in a semi circle behind him.

 

The door was unlocked. That could be a good sign, but Spike was taking no chances. With his designated doormen inside and still not dust, he stepped forward carefully. The welding kit, which had been there earlier, was gone. He ran his hand down the back of the door. So was the door knob. So that's how the little rat had kept everyone inside. Turning to Francine he pointed at a pile of rubbish. "Pass me that length of rebar." He bent the steel across his knee, into a U shape and wedged it around the door jam to prevent the latch closing. Then he took the four steps necessary to pass through the inner door, to the top of the stairs.

 

Angel was down in the pit with the cattle. Ford and the Slayer were up on the walkway to his right, arguing. Spike hissed in annoyance, right next to them was Xander. The Slayer had her fists clenched in the front of Ford's shirt, as he strained back from her face. "Ford, these people don't deserve to die!"

 

Ford laughed, bitterly. "Well, neither do I! But apparently no one took that into consideration, 'cause I'm still dying." He sneered at her. "I'm sorry, Summers. Did I screw up your righteous anger riff? Does the nest of tumours liquefying my brain kinda spoil the fun?"

 

The Slayer shoved him away and he staggered back a few paces, grabbing the handrail to steady himself. As the immediate threat of violence receded, Xander looked around and spotted Spike. "Err... Buffy," he said, hesitantly.

 

Impatiently she swung around. "What?" she asked, just as Ford pushed away from the railing and slammed into her back, knocking her off balance and straight into Spike's arms.

 

Keeping her off balance, Spike twisted and threw her to Francine, Joseph and Sam. "Hold her!" he ordered. They latched on, twisting her arms up her back and immobilising her. Spike turned back in time to take possession of Xander, as he charged blindly into him. "And what do you think you're doing, pet?" he asked. Xander kicked and squirmed, but he wouldn't get free this time. Spike turned to Ford, his face rigid with anger. "What is Xander doing here?"

 

Ford pulled himself upright. "I couldn't shake him. He insisted on coming if Angel came." He watched as Spike immobilised Xander by the simple expedient of knocking him out. "Anyway what do you care if there's one more than planned? I thought you'd be pleased." Spike snarled and for the first time in their acquaintance, Ford showed fear. He backed up slowly against the handrail, his knuckles turning white as he gripped it. Spike's fist caught him under the chin and he fell back with a crash.

 

"Spike!" Angel's voice cut through the sudden quiet. Spike lowered Xander carefully to the floor and turned to look down at his grandsire. From above he looked faintly ridiculous: feet spread, body taut but hunched and fists clenched at his sides. He looked like he was caught between a fighting stance and a childish temper tantrum.

 

"'Ello Ducks," Spike called, exaggerating his accent. "Fancy meeting you 'ere. Now ain't this a nice little get together?" He strolled back to the top of the stairs and gazed down.

 

Most of the sheep were now cowering back against the walls, some instinct telling them that this was not the way it was supposed to be. Except for mushroom girl. She was creeping up the steps towards him, an expression of transcendent expectation on her face. He'd transcend her alright. "It's time, isn't it?" She whispered, as she raised her eyes to his and straightened her back. "I'm ready for the change. Please, I need you to bless me."

 

Spike kept his eyes on his grandsire. "Not a twitch," he warned, "or your girlfriend's a goner." He paused in thought. "Well...." He let that hang as he redirected his attention to Chantarelle.

 

Behind him he heard the Slayer struggling. "No! Stop!" she shouted. "Listen to me!"

 

Chantarelle's eyes shifted to a point beyond Spike's right shoulder and her expression softened. "Why are you fighting this?" she asked. "It's what we want!" Her voice was soft and dreamy and she turned back to him, like she'd been thralled. "We're going to ascend to a new level of consciousness! Become like them. Like the Lonely Ones." And maybe she had, but only by her own delusions. Spike snorted to himself, 'opium of the masses' was true, since 'the masses' were such gullible fools. "This is a beautiful day," she whispered, gazing up into his face.

 

The Slayer was apparently getting desperate. Spike could hear grunts and the shuffling of feet as she fought her guards. "This is not the mothership, people!" She cried. "This is ugly death come to play!"

 

Spike grinned as he turned to look at her. "Got that right," he said. He caught Francine's eye. "Clock 'er one for me, there's a love?" He watched with satisfaction as the Slayer slumped under a blow to the temple and turned back, just as Chantarelle reached the top of the steps. Shifting into game face he roared at her and she flinched a bit, but didn't back down. He tore the choker off of her neck and as if the truth of her situation was at last beginning to penetrate, she began to cry in fear, but still she didn't move - frozen now by confusion at the unexpected form her dreams and faith had taken. He grasped the back of her neck and signalled his minions. "Take them all," he said. "Two of you, get him."

 

The vampires leapt past him, jumping over the rails into the crowd below. Most of them went straight for the food, but he watched with satisfaction as Sam and Francine followed orders and took on Angel.

 

His grandsire burst into action, kicking Sam across the room, where he crashed into the wall, sliding down to slump in an untidy heap, but Francine was there, slashing at his side, her knife drawing blood. He was slowed by his remaining injury. He managed to ram a fist into her face, sending her staggering, but he was off balance. He danced clumsily back and, to Spike's great glee, landed awkwardly on his left leg and Spike heard the crack as it broke again along the half healed fracture line. Joseph jumped on his back, bringing him down. Spike turned and sank his fangs into the neck he held.

 

Hang on! Sam, Francine *and*Joseph? With a sudden sense of dread Spike pulled back from his meal and turned around. Sure enough, there was the Slayer. She was awake, but she was just sitting there, Xander next to her. For a moment, he was puzzled by her inactivity, then Xander lifted his hand offering something for Spike to take: a small black box, the size of his hand.

 

The Slayer spoke. "Did you really think this was our only plan?" she asked, with a smug smile. Xander was trying to give him a cell phone. "My Watcher wants to talk to you. He's at your place, right now. You are going to let these people go."

 

Numbly Spike reached out and took the phone. "Everybody stop!" he yelled, as he lifted it to his ear. He watched as they obeyed him and stopped feeding. Joseph got up from Angel's back. Sam began to stir in his corner and Francine stood shaking her head to clear it. Spike spoke into the phone. "What do you want?"

 

The English accent came over clearly. "I think it's more a matter of what you want, don't you? You want proof. Well listen to this."

 

There was a rustling sound and then Dru's voice, soft and weak, but unmistakably Dru. "My poor prince. I'm sorry, my love. Don't cry."

 

"Dru!" Spike cried. "It's gonna be alright, baby. Dru, are you okay? Dru?"

 

Silence, and then the Watcher was back. "Give the phone to Buffy. Once I'm assured that all those people are out, I'll leave here."

 

"You touch Dru...."

 

"And you'll what?" His contempt was an almost physical thing. "Give the phone to Buffy."

 

Spike felt like he was moving through molasses. He handed the phone over. "Let them go!" he shouted, signalling his minions back against the walls. He watched as the sheep huddled together, then broke and ran for the door. He watched as Xander helped the Slayer to her feet. He watched as Angel limped past him up the stairs. Spike grabbed his arm. "You!" he accused. "You led them to my Dru."

 

Angel shook his head. "We were tracking Ford," he said. "He led us to you." Then he pushed past and followed Xander and Buffy outside. At the door, he paused and reached out to remove the bent rebar from the jam. Looking back at Spike with an expression of regret and half apology, he pulled the bar free and stood. And a shudder ran through him, just as a searing pain split Spike's dead heart. Spike screamed and collapsed forward onto his knees. Lifting his eyes to Angel's face, he saw an expression of pained surprise there. Angel staggered, but kept moving out through the door. He reached for the handle and began to pull it shut. "I'll come back and let you out," he promised as the latch clicked into place, leaving Spike weeping and trapped.

 

In the corner Ford began to stir. He rolled onto his knees and pulled himself upright, using the hand rail for assistance and gazed around, confused. "What happened?"

 

Spike swiped his arm across his face. "We're stuck in a fucking basement," he growled.

 

"And Buffy?"

 

"She's *not* stuck in the basement."

 

Ford shrugged. "Hey, well, I delivered. I handed her to you."

 

Spike felt the muscles in his face move into a parody of a smile, even as the bones beneath shifted. "Yes, I suppose you did," he said. "That and so much more." He paused for a moment, to savour it. "And now, you get your reward."

 

9. Gossamer Wings

 

Spike sat back against the stairs, numbly hugging his knees as he watched Ford struggle to haul painful breaths into his ruined lungs. Francine was keeping the remaining minions well clear, recognising that something very serious had happened, even if she had no comprehension of what it was. She had dusted four who had shown themselves unhappy with Spike allowing the humans to leave, or at their exclusion from the aftermath, but the disturbance had hardly registered on Spike's consciousness, absorbed as he was in his task. He rolled onto his hands and knees and crawled over to the broken body. Looking down into eyes slitted in pain. He grinned. "Nearly over," he promised. "At least for now."

 

Drawing a fang across his wrist, he let the blood flow. Then he bent his head and latched onto Ford's neck, whilst pressing his bloody wrist to Ford's mouth. A promise was a promise after all. Ford's heart stuttered to a stop just after his ruined throat managed to swallow a single mouthful of Spike's blood. Spike sat back on his heels, lay his hands on his thighs, threw back his head and howled.

 

By the time the sound of the latch clicking open heralded Angel's return he had sunk back into himself, exhausted and limp with sorrow, loss and the inadequacy of revenge.

 

Angel paused in his halting progress down the stairs and took in the scene. He bypassed Spike for the moment, instead going over to the last few minions, cowering all uncomprehending against the wall. They, recognising his power and his age, reacted predictably - straightening up and lowering their gazes to the floor, presenting themselves for inspection. It made Angel's task so easy. A series of fast jabs and they fell to the ground as dust, one by one. He turned back to his grandchilde.

 

Wearily he lowered himself to sit on the bottom stair and gathered Spike's hunched form into his arms. "I'm sorry. I should have known he'd never leave her alive. He's a Watcher. And for all his mild mannered ways...." He lapsed into silence, realising that Spike was not yet ready to hear his own apologies for this mess. Holding him close Angel gently stroked Spike's hair, soothing touches from a hundred years before and, at last, Spike let his tears run free. They sat like that for nearly an hour.

 

Eventually Spike raised his ravaged face to look at Angel, his eyes huge and questioning. "How could you stand it?" he asked. "What you did? How...?"

 

Angel sighed. "I don't know," he said. "It was different for me. She sent me away. In China... She set me free. That broke the bond. But even so... It hurt. Oh God, it hurt!" He shrugged. "I didn't think I'd survive it. But I did. I watched her disappear to dust under my own stake, and it almost killed me." He cupped Spike's cheek in his large hand. "I know you're hurting. And I find I can't walk away from that. But you need to get out of here. Buffy... She'll be coming back for the body. If you leave she'll assume that one of those piles of dust over there is you." Climbing awkwardly to his feet, he pulled Spike up with him. "Come, Childe, I need to get you out of town."

 

Without a backward glance, Spike allowed himself to be led, unresisting, up the stairs and out into the alley.

 

*****

 

Spike lay back against the silk and lace pillows of their bed, his body relaxed in the aftermath of lovemaking and watched his Sire dance around the room, dragging her partner's limp form with her. It was so good to see her strong and well. He ran his tongue around his mouth, savouring the flavour of her rich blood - the blood that made him, the blood that healed him, the blood that always tasted of home.

 

Dru stopped and opened her arms, watching the young stockbroker fall to the floor at her feet. She slowly raised her head, an expression of playful glee spreading across her face as she gazed at him from beneath her lashes. Stepping over the body she drifted towards him, light as a feather, or gossamer on a gentle breeze, and climbed onto the bed. Like an elegant panther, she crawled up the length of Spike's legs and he watched the hard, smooth muscles of her arm flex, entranced all over again by her wicked allure.

 

She was crouching over him and all he could see was her face, alight with laughter. "The knight and the knave, my love. You remember humanity too well. But so do I." Her laugher filled the room, echoes like wind chimes. "Do you remember, my sweet? How my mummy ate crab apples and lemons, raw? She said she loved the way they made her mouth... tingle." Her eyes turned wistful. "Little Anne... Her favourite was custard... brandied pears. And pomegranates. They used to make her face and fingers all red. Remember? Hmm? Little fingers. Little hands. Do you?"

 

Spike tilted his head back against the pillow so he could look at her properly. His body felt languorous, at peace. "I wasn't made then. I don't remember that."

 

Dru leant down until their noses touched and her eyes merged into one. "My baby boy. What will you do? Kitten's claws can be trimmed, but beware the cat." Cupping his face in her hands, she made a playful snatch with her teeth at the tip of his nose. "You have to wake up now."

 

Spike wanted to protest that, but his throat had seized and the words wouldn't come. He struggled to drag in enough air to form words, but it was thick as glass, or ice, and his tongue froze solid in his mouth. He shook his head, part denial, part attempt to free himself and he lost her eye, her eyes, as she pulled away from him.

 

Above him the ceiling faded from black to white as he opened his own eyes. His beautiful Sire was gone.

 

*****

 

From the television news he gathered that three days had passed as he lay lost in his drunken stupor. Empty bottles scattered haphazard across the floor, marked his progress. The mini fridge full of unopened cartons of cow and pig blood was evidence that he had Angel to thank for the hotel room and the booze. From the telephone directory on the bedside table, he gathered that he was in L.A..

 

 

Blood on a Sundial: 10 ~ 17

 

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