Adversaries: Part 1

The black-robed Senior Partner had been kneeling in the center of the pentagram for over an hour, but he did not allow himself to fret or question the passage of time. The ritual had been done to perfection, but Members of the Board came as they wished, and a wise man did not question or display impatience. And he would never have risen to his present position or lived to his present age had he not been wise.
The smell of blood that overlay the room gave him a moment’s regret, but he consoled himself that the sacrifice had felt no pain, and he did have other grandchildren after all. He would make sure to send his daughter and son-in-law on a nice cruise to recuperate.

A deepening of the shadows and chill in the air heralded the appearance of one of the Members. Not the CEO, the Senior Partner noted, but He only appeared under highly special circumstances.

He prostrated himself, careful to stay well inside the protective inscription. There was no guaranteeing that it would work, of course, but tradition had to be maintained.

The voice was a cold scrabbling of claws in his mind. “The Souled Vampire turns from the light. It is pleasing to us.”

The Senior Partner raised his head sufficiently to speak, careful not to look at the Other. “We are honored at your pleasure. We live only to serve.”

“Yes.” A chittering sound swept through the room as if the air had suddenly filled with insects. The Senior Partner kept his eyes firmly on the floor, refusing to glance toward the altar.

“There is another matter that requires your attention.”

“Name it, and it shall be done.”

“The wheel has turned, and once again the Adversary had been drawn to the Slayer. They have allied once. It must not happen again.”

The Senior Partner considered. “Shall I have her destroyed?”

“Fool.” He went cold, flattening to the floor in anticipation of obliteration, protective symbol or not, but the voice went on after a moment. “A new Slayer would arise on the destruction of the old, and the Souled Vampire would ally permanently with the Light.”

Just as well. It would be easier to kill the Adversary anyway.

“No.” The voice almost sounded amused as he started in shock at the reading of his mind. “You will not harm the Adversary. You will give him that which he desires. He has been bound. You will free him.”

“It shall be done,” the Senior Partner stammered in relief as the Presence departed.

He came to his feet, wincing as his knees popped, and shrugged the robe away. Opening a recessed closet door, he used the mirror that hung in the cedar-lined closet to assist him in straightening his tie and smooth the creases from his Armani trousers.

He tugged a cell-phone from his pocket and punched a number.

“Housekeeping.”

“Send a team to the top floor.”

There wasn’t much to require their services. Only a tiny, picked-clean skeleton remained of the sacrifice. Even the blood had been taken. Still, they would know how to dispose of it properly.

The Senior Parter sighed a little and headed downstairs to his three-o’clock appointment.

-----
Groans and an unmistakably rhythmic banging interrupted his attempt to read.

Bloody cheap hotel rooms, Ethan Rayne thought irritably. He considered pounding on the wall, but he’d seen the size, not to mention the biker tattoos of the man who had entered. Direct confrontation wasn’t his style.

After a moment’s thought, he smiled and dug through his bag to retrieve some wax. He warmed it in his fingers until it was malleable, then swiftly molded it into the appropriate shape.

The smile widened to a grin as he flicked open a cigarette lighter and held the flame to the tip of his sculpture. About ten seconds later, the banging stopped and a man’s voice cried yelled, “Shit! Ow! Jeezus Chr-ist what did you do? My dick feels like its on fire!”

There was a loud bang as the hotel room door opened and the man staggered off to his truck. At last, relative peace reigned.

Ethan sighed. Petty revenge magic was almost all he performed these days. Certainly, he didn’t dare do anything that could generate some cash. Every mage and occultist in the US and British communities knew that he was on the personal shit list of Giles the Ripper, and for some reason, no one wanted to get on his bad side.

As if the little pansy was any sort of threat. He was too busy hovering over his Slayer, and not in any sort of interesting fashion. Leave it to Rupert to be surrounded by nubile, pretty females and not do anything about it.

He carefully didn’t consider the fact that he wasn’t particularly eager to tangle with Giles and the Slayer either. Instead, Ethan sighed, closed his eyes, and leaned back to consider his sorry lot. About the only thing he was doing to earn money anymore was generating horoscopes and running the occasional minor scam. It was shameful. And he knew whose fault it was too. Rupert. And especially Buffy, the snip of a Vampire Slayer. He would do a lot for the chance to take the war to the two of them.

A knock interrupted his self-pitying reverie. He looked up, frowning. Who knew he was here? It couldn’t be the cops already. He hadn’t done that much.

Carefully, he sidled up to the door, but instead of looking out of the viewer, he put his palm to the door and stretched out his mind. He recoiled almost instantly at the sense of utter coldness that met him. No, not the cops.

Ethan seriously considered diving out the back window, but he had a mage’s inherent curiosity, and whoever stood on the other side of the door might be his ticket out of this dump. Not to mention, that he was fairly sure they could track him.

He opened the door cautiously to see a middle-aged man in an extremely well-cut suit. The immediate impression was of gray. Gray hair, gray suit, gray eyes like ice.

“Ethan Rayne?”

As if you didn’t know. “Yes?”

The man smiled colorlessly. “I have a proposition for you.”

-----
I’m either dreaming, Buffy thought distantly as she walked through the closed door of her bedroom, or I’ve developed new powers since bedtime. My money’s on dreaming.

She looked left and right. To the left, lay Dawn’s and her mother’s closed bedroom doors and the dark, silent upstairs hall. The stairs were to the right, and she could see a flickering light from below. Buffy padded down to the living room, her bare feet making no sound on the carpet.

In the disconnected way of dreams, it didn’t seem strange to see Tara seated cross-legged on the couch, an old book open on her knees. It also seemed perfectly normal that she was using a large ball of witchlight for illumination.

“You and Willow must have some low power bills,” Buffy observed. Tara glanced up and smiled briefly, then returned to her book.

“What are you reading?”

“A very old story,” the witch said quietly.

“Is it good?” Buffy stepped forward and looked more closely at the book. One side was full of cramped writing. The other contained a picture of a woman who was fighting a half-man, half-animal creature.

She blinked, suddenly unsure. Were they fighting or embracing?

Tara shook her head and closed the book. “Parts of it are good, but it’s sad at the end.”

“If you know how it comes out, and it ends sucky, why read it?” Buffy shrugged. She had gotten about half-way through Black Beauty once, then thrown it across the room and refused to pick it up again. Life was too short to make yourself miserable if you didn’t absolutely have to.

“Maybe this time it will change.”

“Once a story’s written, isn’t that kind of…it?” Buffy asked.

“Usually. But not every time.” Tara gazed directly into the Slayer’s eyes. “It depends on the characters. And on who tries to edit.”

Buffy frowned. “I don’t know what you…”

“Buffy!”

She blinked and sat bolt upright, confused at the sudden transition from living room to bed.

“What…Dawn what is it?”

Her sister scowled at her around the door. “It’s time to wake up. Jeez, Mom called you three times already.”

“I was dreaming,” but the memory was fading already. Something about Tara and a book, but she couldn’t remember anymore.

“Well, dream about not acting like a dork, and get up!”

Buffy made a face and threw a pillow at the door, and in the midst of the familiar squabble, the remnants of the dream faded.

She felt tired and out of sorts as she dried her hair in front of the bathroom mirror. Patrolling had run late last night. It was the new Sunnydale High School’s first Homecoming game, and Buffy had felt obligated to keep an eye on the festivities. Good thing too. She’d dispatched five or six baddies of various sorts. Demons were drawn to all that hormonal good-will produced by roving bands of…children.

That’s the real problem, she thought glumly. The high school kids are only a year or two younger than me, and I felt like an old lady out there.

Buffy tried to remember what had happened at her own Homecoming games. Something involving saving the world, no doubt, but it was hard separate all those incidents. She knew she’d never got to watch an entire game.

She tried not to whine about being the Slayer, even to herself, but it was harder sometimes than others. Watching everybody laugh and drink and snuggle as she moved through the crowds like a ghost had driven her own isolation home.

Buffy had seen only one other person who didn’t have a date of some sort, and that was Spike, who’d been leaning in his usual boneless fashion against one of the lion statues in front of the library, watching the crowds with a brooding expression. Probably wishing like hell he could hunt one or more down for a snack.

Spike’s gaze had met hers, and she’d had an odd impulse to go over to him but had repressed it, contenting herself with a look that said stay away from the cheerleaders, even if you can’t bite. He had scowled and melted back into the night, and she had gone on her way, telling herself that she didn’t have time to trade barbs with a vampire. He would probably have had some unflattering comparisons to make between her and the younger girls.

She frowned at her reflection. It wasn’t like 20 was ancient or anything. No bags under the eyes, no wrinkles. She unwound the towel and looked at body. Everything was too still high and firm.

Realizing what she was doing, Buffy banged her head gently against the bathroom wall. Since when did Spike’s opinion, particularly about her looks, count for anything?

“He was screwing with your head,” she told her angry reflection. “That’s all. And you’re standing here letting him, which is so completely pathetic I don’t even want to get into it.”

She wrapped the towel back around her chest and crossed the hall to her room. He was only getting to her because Riley was gone.

Riley.

Buffy blinked hard. No crying allowed. I don’t need a boyfriend, remember? I have lots of people who care about me and that’s enough. More than the other Slayers had.

But she couldn’t help being lonely. Couldn’t help waking in the night and wishing someone was there holding her. Couldn’t help wondering why she drove them away.

-----
Spike twisted and turned, unable to find a comfortable position on top of the hard tomb. Harmony had left, taking all the bedding, the little bitch, and he hadn’t been able to scavenge much in the way of replacements. His coat for a pad and an old blanket he’d liberated from a thrift store was the best he could do at the moment.
Slept a lot better in the old days, he thought angrily. In the very old days, Angelus and Darla had insisted on fancy accommodations. Darla in particular, had been addicted to views which required lots of heavy velvet curtains for daytime use.

Later, after Angel had made his unwanted appearance, Spike had become skilled at finding and furnishing lairs for himself and Dru. Of course, the fact that back then he could just kill the current owners and move in made it a lot easier.

Dru.

That was the real reason he couldn’t sleep. They’d had to lie rough a few times, but he’d always been able to rest with Drusilla in his arms. Now, he was alone.

Giving up on the attempt at sleeping, he swung into a sitting position on the coffin and leaned against the wall of the crypt, automatically fishing a cigarette out of his pocket.

This was all Buffy’s fault. She’d got into his head his first trip through SunnyHell, and he hadn’t been able to get her out again. Dru had known it, as she knew so many things, and she had left him.

Just as well, really, Spike told himself. Wouldn’t want her to see me like this. Weak. Can’t hunt. More crippled than when I was in that bloody wheelchair.

And that was the Slayer’s fault too. Her and her damned boyfriend.

His mouth twisted in a mirthless grin. At least that one was gone, off into the jungle, leaving the Slayer alone with her bruised little heart. Have a good time, mate. Hope something with a lot of teeth has you for tea.

“You’re the only one strong enough to protect them.” Well, that was something. She came to me when she had to, even though I saw how much it chafed her. She moved them back out fast enough after the godlet got herself sent back with a flea in her ear. Turns out the Council was good for something.

I want to Hunt. Last night had been especially hard. Homecoming at the high-school with jocks and cheerleaders abounding, enough for everybody with plenty left over to go back to school the next day.

He had watched from a distance, seen the bright eyes and red cheeks surging with the blood that flowed underneath the skin. Seen the Slayer stalking the edges of the crowds, eyes alert for danger, as much a predator as he was, although she’d never see it that way. She had noted him and graced him with her glare, but it had been reflex. Her eyes had passed on without interest, not seeing him as a threat.

One day, Slayer. One day, you’ll know different. You and your bloody friends.

None of the Scooby Gang had been with her last night. She was alone, the kids unconsciously drawing back to give Buffy her own little circle of space. For a moment, he’d thought of what it might be like to walk beside her, but then she’d seen him and given him that ‘You’re beneath me’ look.

So walk alone, Slayer, and then go home and sleep alone as well.

Spike relaxed a little more against the wall of the crypt at the thought of soldier-boy’s absence. No more teeth-grating, muscle-clenching frustration at the thought of Riley with Buffy. No more need, constrained only by the chip in his head, to rip the human off her, tear out his throat, and take his place in the bed.

Not that it would realistically have worked out that way. The Slayer would have had a stake through him before he got past the ripping-Riley-off-her part. Still, it was nice to think about. In fact, he was getting more than a little aroused by the fantasy, which would probably help him sleep after he got it taken care of, and…

Who the sodding hell was chanting?

Spike tried to move and realized that what he had thought of a pre-sleep lethargy was, in fact, a spell holding him in place, and fast draining his consciousness.

Oh, Bollocks, he thought vaguely, as the cigarette slid from his suddenly nerveless fingers.

-----
Spike woke slowly, with the strong sense something was wrong. The soft surface beneath him let him know immediately that he wasn’t in his crypt. What the hell…? Oh, yes. Chanting. Someone had knocked him out magically and then taken him somewhere. He seriously doubted that this was going to end up being a good thing.
He slitted his eyes open cautiously and peered at what he could see of his surroundings. The room was dark, with floor and walls of black marble. The only light came from candles in black metal holders. He thought there was some kind of pattern etched in the floor but couldn’t see enough to be sure.

A man, robed in what looked like red silk, stood with his back to Spike, head bent as if he were looking down at something.

Oh, lovely. I’ve been kidnapped by some kinky pouf that thinks a vampire would make a fun boy toy. He tried to rise and realized that he couldn’t so much as twitch. Panicked, he looked down the length of his body but couldn’t see any physical restraints. Make that a kinky, powerful pouf. This just gets better and better.

The man turned, closing the book he had been reading, and Spike hastily shut his eyes, hoping he would leave, and give the vampire time to work out an escape plan. Instead, he heard steps circling whatever it was he was lying on, then felt a hand on the back of his head, parting his hair.

His mind mentioned nervously that with a captor powerful enough to restrain him magically, it might be smart to be quiet or at least polite. However, Spike was constitutionally unable to shut up, even when it was in his best interest.

“Watch it, you sodding perv!”

“Oh, good. You’re awake,” a British voice answered.

The man moved back into Spike’s vision. He was in his forties or so, with dark hair and an expression that tried to be urbane but was wrecked by the ferret-like gleam in his eyes.

“Yes, I’m awake, so keep your bloody hands to yourself!” He strained against whatever held him down, but to no avail. He might as well have been lying under a house.

The man seemed amused by the outburst. “You mistake my intentions. I assure you that your, um, virtue, is quite safe.” As if to prove his words, he stepped back from the captive vampire.

“What’s all this about, then?” Another possibility came to him, and he sighed. “A sacrifice, right? You want to call up the great, holy, what’s-its-name, and it needs a vampire slaughtered in some particularly messy fashion. Am I getting warm?”

This was just unfair. If he were, Xander, say, he could count of Buffy rescuing him, but as it was, Spike had a vivid image of having his entrails pulled out through his nose or some other equally nasty demise.

“Good heavens. You are the glass is half-empty sort, aren’t you? Wrong again, I’m afraid. Actually, I’m trying to do you a favor.”

“A favor,” Spike said flatly. “Yeah, right. I’ve got people lining up wanting to help me. Join the queue.”

The man had continued to move away from the table as they spoke and now stood in the pattern on the floor. “I can’t speak regarding your general popularity, however, it is true that I’m doing you a favor. Or don’t you want the chip out of your head?”

Despite himself, hope leaped in Spike for a moment. Getting the chip out of his head had been his ultimate goal ever since last Thanksgiving. Then, he laughed bitterly.

“I’ve heard that one before, mate. Let me guess how this goes. You’ll get the chip out of my head if I do you some little favor, which, coincidentally, will end up getting me almost killed. If I do happen to survive, there’ll be another little favor and another, until I’m either dead, or you’ve got what you want, after which, you’ll conveniently disappear. Am I warm?”

“Cold as a mackerel, I’m afraid. The chip’s already out.” He muttered something else under his breath, and the magical restraint on Spike suddenly vanished. He’d continued to strain against it, and the sudden freedom was enough to almost send him off the surface and onto the floor.

He gained his feet, realizing that he’d been lying on a padded table, and disbelieving, touched the back of his head. There was no pain, but a thin line ran across his scalp. No stitches. It was more as if the skin had been parted and then fused back together.

“It will finish healing in a day or so,” the man smiled. “No scar.”

“How?” Spike breathed.

He shrugged. “Magic.”

“Why?”

“I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said the goodness of my heart.”

“I don’t suppose I would,” Spike snorted. “What’s in it for you? What do you want me to do for you?”

“Do?” The man shook his head. “My dear sir, I don’t want you to do anything. It’s entirely up to you.” He grinned. “Surely, there are things you want to do, things you’ve wished you could do but were prevented by your former circumstances.”

Spike knew he was being set up for something, but at the moment, he didn’t care. If the chip was out…oh, if the chip was out, there were some people who were going to be sorry they’d ever drawn breath. He suddenly, violently wished that Riley Finn was back in town.

Still, the proof was in the pudding as they said. He lunged at the man, vampire features snapping into place. He was brought up short, but not by the chip. Instead, he crashed into a barrier similar to that which protected human dwellings from his uninvited entry.

“Ah, ah, ah,” the man wiggled a finger at him. “Wards. You shouldn’t be so predictable. But don’t worry. I’m sure you can find someone else to prove I’m speaking the truth.”

Spike smiled. “I’m sure I can.”

End Part 1

Part 2