E-MAIL ADDRESS: cerebral_meltdown@hotmail.com

TITLE: One long night (part 1 of A Match Made In Hell).

RATING: M - for bringing of shame to entire human race level of swearing and kicking of arse (nothing more violent than seen in the show), as well as for allusions to dark, twisted, and inhuman sex. Ooh baby....

CHARACTERS/RELATIONSHIPS: All of the Scoobies (although Dawn is not really involved), Willy and some mention of Drusilla, Ethan and Angelus. No new relationships, but a more mystical connection exists between Giles and Buffy than I have seen in the show, and a hint or two of the future relationship between Buffy and Spike lurking about under all that mutual antagonism (wait for parts 2 and 3!).

ALSO WARNING - MINOR CHARACTER DEATH!

PLOT SUMMARY: “He was just crazy!” Xander said, waving his arms around. “Like Chainsaw Massacre insane only without the chainsaw - for which I am profoundly grateful by the way - and I know he’s a vampire and all and down with the grrrr argh, but that was not Spike. That was a crazy animal Taz possessed vampire with appalling hygiene.”

Spike trying to eat Buffy despite the chip is only the beginning. Hell has slipped through the Hellmouth and come up for air, and this time it may be more than anyone can handle....

SPOILERS: Everything up to, and including the early parts of season 5. With Keren’s patient help (huge thanks Keren!) I have been plugging away at my knowledge gaps in the Buffy-verse (I have not been able to see all the episodes unfortunately), so any inconsistencies/faults that remain are solely down to me.

Here are some bits of background I have included in this piece: Spike has been chipped, Dawn is around, Glory is not (or at least this story is occurring before/outside of that story line), Tara and Willow are together and so are Xander and Anya, Giles is alittle more magical, and I have taken some liberties with the Slayer/Watcher relationship (nothing drastic, more embellishments on a theme really).

THANKYOU’S: To Keren for her expertise and time as an excellent Beta reader, and to Pam for her encouragement.

FEEDBACK: Absolutely, if you have the time. I would especially welcome criticism of the non-flame variety. If you do find it crap, or in any other way not up to scratch, please let me know why. I love constructive criticism.

DISCLAIMER: I don’t own any of it, I merely love it. Suing me would not be worth anyone’s while unless they have nothing better to do with their time other than lose their own money....

Here ‘tis...

Chapter 1

He was running. Fast. The stolen blood roared a glorious technicolour song in his veins. Brilliant. Vital. His every fibre was exploding with life. It made him want to howl, made him want to roar and lay waste to the world, made him want to leap up and grab the moon. He spotted a large tombstone, crumbling and smothered in lichen and moss. In one perfectly calculated leap he flew to the top of it and launched himself into the sky.

For a moment he was flying. Lost in amongst the cold brilliance of starlight and vacuum; coat billowing out behind him like the wings of a dark angel. He flew, he soared, his hands reached for the pale disc of the moon. And he howled. Pure unadulterated joy filled and expelled from his lungs. It was ecstasy to use them. The howl turned into a rebel yell and he was descending. Falling fast. The moonlit grass was rushing up to meet him. His keen yellow eyes saw every blade of grass, every bug and crawling thing, every crumb of dirt. He could smell the rich scent of decay; hear every scrape of insect legs, and even, he fancied, the sound of each blade of grass as it grew. His senses grew drunk as he fell.

Then he hit. Messily. Limbs everywhere. Face in the dirt. He sprawled onto his back and laughed. Big belly laugh. Laughed and rolled around in the dirt. Ran his fingers through the soil, the beautiful death contaminated earth. How many had died here to make it so pretty? His clawed fingertips dug into it and it gave like flesh, it even sounded like the sweetness of flesh ripping open under his powerful hands. The grass roots, the decaying leaves, the seductive scent of decades of rot that perfumed it, tore and were exposed to the air. He inhaled. So sweet.

“I know this should surprise me, but somehow...”

He looked up with a growl, his claws still embedded in his prey. The scent of new blood exploded into his senses. Living blood. He could taste it, literally taste it in the air. Nostrils flared.

Prey.

Brilliant memories exploded through his mind and body. Prowling, hunting somewhere long ago when life was ecstasy. When life was blood. When he took it by force and it ran down his throat, hot and throbbing with terror. Scarlet and exquisite. He remembered. He remembered.

He charged.

Prey dodged at the last second and he tumbled back down to earth. His head connected with the dirt. Pain. He rolled and was on his feet in an instant. Tricky prey. He would have to hunt this one. Chase the scent. The glorious scent. Ecstasy blossomed in his chest and headed south.

Where did it go? He sniffed the air. Close. Close. Very close. Almost- Something hit him hard from behind and he was down again. Back down in the dirt. He sprang up, whirling to face his attacker.

“Spike, stop!” Prey was standing there. Waiting. Wanting to fight him for the life that it possessed. Better than the chase. Better. He inhaled again and eyed the bipedal banquet. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but unless you stop right now you’re going to feel the business end of Mr Pointy truce or no truce.”

Words, words, words. He remembered those too. Demanding words, pleading words, terrorized words, agonized words. Dying words. The pleasure was almost too much to bear. He was trembling with excitement and his head sang with the pain of it. He gathered to spring again. “I’m warning you Spike. I’m not playing.” Words. Words. Words. He chewed air, tasting the scent. Sink in the fangs. Rip and tear. Rich as earth and sweet as the moon. Prey watched him as he padded back and forth in indecision, looking for an opening past the giant splinter. The wooden stake smelt bad, like poison. He bared his teeth at it. Growled.

Then he feinted. Fast and deadly. The pleasure/pain arced like lightening as he scored a touch with his claws. Ducking and weaving. Prey was fast. Faster than it should be, but he wanted it. Want.

He danced. Prey danced too. Dancing fast and furious and deadly. Joy swelled up inside and threatened to burst his chest, his skull. Fast and fluid. Feint and strike. Searching for the opening he knew would come. Carnal anticipation thrilled through him and he growled rich and deep in his throat.

“STOP!”

And there it was. The throat was exposed. His vision sharpened and he focussed on the throbbing artery. Oh god, the ecstasy of the kill!

“SPIKE, NO!” He swooped with a triumphant howl and screamed. Agony tore through his head. A lightning strike of searing white gold ripping open his skull and killing him. He felt himself falling from a great height. Plummeting down into darkness until the light was just a speck in the distance. Then it was gone.

*****

“What the hell was that!” Xander said. He was staring at the unconscious vampire, tree branch still poised to strike. Buffy climbed to her feet, using a gravestone as leverage. Her heart was racing, adrenaline and Slayer senses still screaming through her body. To her sensitised ears Xander’s voice was as loud as Spike’s scream had been moments before he had almost made mortal contact with her neck. That had been close. As close as she had ever come. Closer than she had sworn she would ever let it come again.

She looked down at vampire where he lay sprawled in the dirt. Blood and soil had mixed over his face, his hair. His clothing was ripped up and it looked like he had not bothered to change or wash since they had last seen him over a week ago. But more disturbing than that, even unconscious his game face was still out. Fangs still bared.

“Don’t get too close!” Buffy jumped as Willow called out. Xander was edging around onto the other side of Spike. He gingerly prodded the vampire with his branch. Nothing, the demon was out for the count.

*****

“He was just crazy!” Xander said, waving his arms around. “Like Chainsaw Massacre insane only without the chainsaw - for which I am profoundly grateful by the way - and I know he’s a vampire and all and down with the grrrr argh, but that was not Spike. That was a crazy animal Taz possessed vampire with appalling hygiene.”

“Mmm.” Willow nodded. “Spike is nothing if not hygienic. For a vampire anyway.” Xander didn’t know how she could stay still there on the couch. He was still tingling with adrenaline, pacing and shifting around the Watcher’s living room.

Giles was standing by his fireplace, dressed sloppily in flannel pajama bottoms and an old t-shirt with a Sherlock Holmes-inspired dressing gown, hanging undone, over his shoulders. He was cleaning his glasses, again. He had been doing that in a chain smoking kind of way since Xander, Willow and Buffy had tumbled through the door to his house in complete freak out mode. His brows were furrowed: Gilesean body language for AAAARGGHHHH! Xander supposed.

“And there was no warning? He didn’t say or do anything that might shed some light on his behaviour?”

“N-not unless you count the growling and the rolling around in the, uh, dirt type shedding of light.” Willow put in. “Hey, can vampires get rabies?”

“Where is he now?” The older man asked ignoring the question.

“We carried him back to his crypt and tied him up tight. Slayer tight.” Xander bounced on his toes, nodding, riding the fear high.

“He’s not going anywhere tonight.” Buffy confirmed from behind him. She sounded quiet and calm. Only a Slayer could sound that calm after what had happened.

“Good.” Giles nodded and put his sparkly clean glasses back on. “And, I take it that there is no need for me to point out the seriousness of this situation.” Neither of the three replied. Serious was very understated, Xander thought. Maybe it was British for ‘Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!’?

“Do you think he’s uh, gone like mad or something?” Willow asked. “I mean, a vampire that can’t make like a vampire and.... Maybe he snapped under the strain?”

“Possibly.” Giles was cleaning his glasses again. “Spike’s is a unique case. A vampire that is being forcefully prevented from indulging a vampire’s most base instinct must be extremely stressed, but it is not something that has been recorded in the historical literature unfortunately. Or, for that matter, handed down by word of mouth.”

“What about Angel?” Xander blurted out, waving an accusatory finger at Giles.

“Ah, no, different case again I am afraid. Angel is under a curse. He is refraining from preying upon human beings by choice. One soul bearer to another.

“Spike has no soul, and given the choice it is very likely that he would resume his vampiric activities.”

“So we kill him then?” Buffy asked. Xander turned to look at her. She was still standing where she had been after they had burst through the door. Arms folded, pale and dirty under the lamp light. She looked agitated. Xander felt he could safely second that feeling.

“No.” Giles said.

“NO?” Xander exploded. “He just tried to kill Buffy. He was warned about making unfriendly right from the start-” Giles held up a silencing hand.

“We need to know more about what is going on here. It could be a nervous breakdown but it might not.”

“Ooh, magic you mean?” Willow pricked up. Willow and magic - could anyone say ‘red cordial’?

“Possibly. I take it you didn’t feel anything Willow?”

“Uh, no.” She ducked her head a little, chagrined. “I was kinda preoccupied with... You know. Ooh, but I’m on it now. Radar at full alert.”

“So what do we do?” Buffy said. “Research?”

“Yes. We should get on it right away. Xander, you come down to the Magic Box with me.”

“Sure thing G-man.” He bounced on his toes, pleased. Action was always good. “I’ll call Anya.” Anya was always better.

“Willow, I need you and Tara to go to Spike’s crypt and try to determine if we are facing a magical problem.”

“What about me?” Buffy asked.

“We need to know what the events were that lead up to this incident. If this phenomenon is peculiar to Spike that’s one thing, but if it isn’t.... I need you to interrogate Spike.”

She smiled briefly, coldly. “Not a problem.” Xander did not like the sound of her voice.

*****

After swinging by the U and collecting Tara the trio of girls headed for the Graveyard. Buffy chafed at their slow mortal pace. She knew that there was no apparent need to hurry: Spike was secured and no one was kidnapped or in any danger, yet. Still, she itched to break out into a Slayer fast sprint and start beating answers out of Spike.

He had come so close to ending her life tonight. Only his chip had saved her, and then only once he had almost reached the gold at the end of the rainbow. Why hadn’t it gotten to him before that? Was it the protective numbing effect of insanity?

“He really went off like that? With no warning?” Tara was asking. Buffy realised she had a hand clasped protectively over her throat and dropped it hurriedly, angry with her reaction. “What about the chip?”

“I don’t think he was really feeling it.” Willow shivered. “Not until the... end anyway.” She glanced apprehensively at Buffy. Tara put a comforting arm around her lover. Willow reached up and threaded her fingers through her hand as it draped around her shoulder. Tara smiled the reassuring smile of someone who really had no concept of the horror of what had happened.

They walked at a brisk pace into the cemetery. The moon was out tonight and the grey and white stonework of the graves and tombs glinted under its cold light. There really were too many new stones here. Last week another new extension had been announced and another three grave digger positions had been created. Sunnydale, doing its bit for the national economy...

Spike’s crypt was deep in the heart of the graveyard. A large decaying unfrequented family tomb, covered in vines, lichen, moss and filth. Very classical vampire. In recent times, though, she had started not to think of Spike or his ‘home’ in vampiric terms. Sure, she knew he was a vampire, but he was not a practising vamp so to speak. They had started to talk too. Who knew soulless vampires were so human-like underneath all that bloodlust? Shell or no, the leftover parts of William were still there, colouring his demon and making him into an individual.

He was the first vampire, she realised, that she had ever known the way other vampires knew each other. As a kind of equal. He had likes, dislikes, faults and, she admitted reluctantly, not so faulty bits. Spike would never be ‘human’, not like Angel had been, but he had been becoming more than just another vamp to dust.

Well, she thought, not anymore. She had almost paid the ultimate price for forgetting just how powerful and dangerous Spike was. Under all that cigarette smoke and annoying one liners he was a vamp. Sworn enemy of the Slayer. If he ever managed to get that chip removed or deactivated they would once again revert to that honest and natural state of affairs.

She would not forget that again.

They passed under the boulevard of dying trees that lead to Spike’s crypt. The trees never grew leaves or flowered here in the cemetery. Too close to the Hellmouth Giles had theorized once. Too close to evil, stunting fumes and vibrational thingies. They hovered in a state somewhere in between living and dead, coma like and stagnant. They towered over the trio now, black skeletal arms reaching for the moon.

Somewhere an owl hooted.

They came to the crypt at last, without incident, and Buffy pulled her stake. Willow started, alarmed.

“Better to be safe than sorry.” Buffy said. “Stay here. I’ll call if it’s okay.” And she slipped inside.

The crypt was dark and silent, but her enhanced senses easily picked up Spike, chained to the wall, hanging by his wrists. She could see the silhouette of his head as it hung down on his chest and smell his unwashed vampiric stink. She padded silently and rapidly around the cavernous interior but there were no unwelcome visitors. Just a very messy bachelor-vampire pad, stinking of old blood. Dirty dishes no doubt. Finally she came to the ladder that led to the second level. She listened. Nothing.

Dropping lightly, making almost no noise, she landed in the lower part of the crypt. The stink of old blood was stronger down here. Her feet connected with something slick and squishy and she almost fell. Shit! What the hell was that? Fumbling, she found the ancient pull-cord light switch and yanked on it. Weak yellow light clacked into the room and she looked down.

Gross!

She was standing on a heap of used blood bags. Willy’s - was stencilled onto the plastic. God, he was just such a... such a... MAN. Couldn’t even put the garbage out. Carefully stepping off the bags she hunted through the underground, even dipping into the sewers. There was no odour of vampire or demon and her ‘whiskers’ did not tingle danger. In fact, it felt rather old and uninhabited down here. Abandoned.

Spike’s unmade bed dominated the far corner of the room. It looked very unused. That was odd. Spike was not too keen on his coffin of late, and she had lost count of the number of times he had tried to trick her into walking in on him sleeping in the nude. Even the violently red silk sheets had been stolen for her benefit apparently. She pushed aside the mesh drapes that hung from the ceiling and put a hand out onto the sheets. Cold. No vibrations. Not a hint they had been laid upon since they had all seen the vampire last. That was over a week ago.

Thinking once again of Spike she headed back upstairs and crossed to the crypt door.

“Its safe.” She told the two Wicca. The three of them entered crypt and Buffy flipped the light switch. Bright white light flooded the room and all three blinked and squinted.

“Woah!” Willow breathed. The place had been trashed. Whirlwind, going ballistic, smashed beyond restoration destroyed. Spike’s precious T.V. was in splinters and chunks of unidentifiable plastic, and strewn all over the floor. The meagre furniture had been pulped into splinters and the coffin lid was lying in two pieces against the opposite wall. Dawn’s wall hangings were in shreds upon their support poles. And there was blood. A lot of blood. The floor and walls were red with it. There was even a giant splotch on the ceiling.

“How did we not see this?” Willow asked in the silence. “Guess we were too, you know, get Spike chained to the wall and run away....” She answered herself and trailed off, staring around the room. “What happened?”

“Woah!” Tara had seen Spike. He was still vamped out and the mess he was in was made stark in the light. Buffy took a step closer. She hadn’t seen the full extent of the damage before, despite her Slayer senses. Well, he certainly had not been looking after himself with characteristic Spike pride that was for sure. In fact, he had not been looking after himself with characteristic pig in a sty pride either. She had never seen him like this.

His hair was standing out at all angles, tangled and showing its natural wave as it tumbled over his forehead. It was streaked with gunk and blood. Buffy frowned, it looked like the case for insanity was gaining merit. There was no way Spike would let anything mess up his hair like that. She could even see the dark brown roots showing.

The rest of him was ragged, filthy, bloody and thin. This was not Spike. Not the Spike they knew and... tolerated.

“Right.” Buffy shifted her weight from foot to foot, psyching herself. “You two get started with the magic detection mojo and I’ll deal with Spike.”

*****

The Wicca were doing their chanty thing behind her as Buffy considered the limp vampire. If he didn’t get over this primal vampire deal in a hurry she was going to have to dust him. Not that that was an entirely unpleasant prospect, but Giles was right. Spike was not acting like Spike, even non-chipped Spike, and she shuddered to think what would have happened if it had been an un-chipped vampire that had succumbed to what ever was affecting El Neutero here. He had fought like a hurricane, unconcerned with his own safety, and in the end it was his unrestrained brute force that had tipped the balance. It was very unsettling, but she had to admit it - he had simply physically overwhelmed her.

Imagine if he hadn’t been chipped, imagine if other vampires and unnatural things had attacked her. Imagine if there had been more than one.

“Spike!” She called sharply. “Wake up Flatline!” Nothing. Well then - and she slapped him. Hard. With Slayer strength. His head snapped back and then flopped forward again. Nothing. She raised her fist and he growled. A full on, vampire mean, unnatural sounding rumble.

“That’s better.” She stepped back waiting for him to go ballistic. Instead he lifted his head and sniffed the air. Great, still in the land of the wacked out. She met his yellow eyed stare and bore down on the bloodlust with all of her Slayer strength. “What’s going on Spike? What’s with the make over? Is this the new 21st century vampire chic, because let me tell you: it sucks.”

He grimaced in reply and showed her his fangs in a droopy doing it for effect kind of way. “Is that the best you can do dead boy?” She considered him. Maybe he had brain damage? More than he already had anyway.... Stupid, annoying yappy-dog vampire. He blinked heavily and bared his fangs again. Old, very old. “Still not impressed.”

“Oh sod it! Can’t you take a hint? Piss off and let me disintegrate.” His voice was slurred and gravelly. He let his head flop forward again.

“Yes, well, I’d love to but as they say: business before pleasure. What’s up with you?” He did not reply. “Don’t make me hit you again.”

“Fuck off!”

“Wrong answer.” She hit him.

“Hey!” He spat out blood, right in her face and the cold liquid prickled her skin. Eew! “What’s that for? Not that I didn’t like it, but can’t a bloke suffer in peace when he’s got a hangover.” He tried to snarl again but it came out in a grimace. “Bloody hell. I’m never mixing drinks again.”

“Tell me what’s going on! What’s with the violence and the treaty breaking... And the... the chip resisting?”

“Huh?” He looked up again. This time his eyes were blue and blood shot and the vamp out was less pronounced. He tried to shrug and suddenly jerked his head up with a hiss, seeing the chains. His gaze darted around his den. “FUCK! What’s all this then?”

“You tell me.” She folded her arms. “I am not letting you down from there anytime soon so you might as well talk.”

“What happened to my clothes!?”

Suddenly there was a very loud, deeply offensive expletive from behind her.

“WILLOW!” Tara said, shocked.

“Sorry.” The two Wicca were sitting, cross-legged on some bloodless rubble, either side of a small green fire. There were white powder runes decorating the floor around them. Willow was holding a large amber crystal suspended on a string. The rock was glowing with a hot intense light. It was also defying the laws of gravity and straining on its lead, pointing toward the ladder. The string looked ready to snap. Both girls were sweating nervously.

“Magic.” Buffy said.

“Ooh yeah. Big mojo. Waaay big mojo. Down there.” She nodded at the ladder. “Cease!” The witch said and the rock was once again a slave to Newton; the light extinguished.

“Its really powerful.” Tara looked up at Buffy. “I don’t think we’ll need another spell to find it down there.”

“What is it?” Buffy asked. She heard Spike rattling his chains. Heard his frustrated growl.

“I don’t know.” Tara said and Willow shrugged. “It’s strong, but it’s also strange. Unnatural. I’ve never felt anything like it before.”

“Why don’t I find that surprising.” Buffy said flatly. “Come on then let’s go find it, stake it and go home.”

“Uh, no offence, but I think we’re going to need back up.” Tara looked to Willow for confirmation and received a nod. Then several more. Whiplash fast.

“What the bloody hell is going on?!” Spike suddenly yelled. “What bloody magic and who wrecked my place?!”

“What about him?” Buffy thumbed at the fuming vampire. Tara stood and approached him. Stopping a few metres away she flinched.

“Definitely him too. It’s all around him. He’s smothered in it.”

“Great.” Buffy pursed her lips, making death-ray eyes at the chained vamp. “You are just the biggest pain in the ass Spike!” She nodded at Tara. “You two had better go back to the Magic Box. I’ll stay here and keep an eye on things.” Buffy stepped away from Spike, giving the vampire a steely glare. The two wicca started packing up, ritualistically smearing and then collecting the rune dust; extinguishing the little fire and collecting its tinder. “Bring back whatever we need to clean this mess up.”

“Hey!” Spike yelled again. “Hello? What about me? Friendly vamp needing unchaining here?”

“Friendly!” Buffy retorted. “So that was a friendly little love tap before was it?”

“What the bloody hell are you talking about you daft bint?” He glared. Buffy raised her eye brows and turned away. “No, wait! Listen, I was drunk. Really drunk. Can’t bloody remember much after I left the poker night.”

“That was over a week ago Spike.” She turned back, arms crossed.

“Bollocks!” His eyes were actually bugging in what looked like disbelief. Maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe not. Either way that didn’t tell them much. He could still be a threat if he was as soaked in an unnatural magic as Tara said he was. “Not possible.” Spike was saying. His game face was melting back into its human guise. “Vampires can’t get that drunk. Doesn’t work that way. Not even when we mix drinks like I am really regretting right now.”

“Can you do a little truth spell on him?” She asked the Wicca.

“Uh, not while he’s all magicked up. Don’t know how it would react.” Willow said. “Besides, we haven’t gotten all the kinks out of that particular spell just yet.” She shared a secret, furtive look with Tara. Tara glanced away guiltily. There was a story in that look. Maybe more than one. Deeply disturbing too no doubt.

“See you later Spike.” And the two wicca were walking out the door ignoring the outraged swearing that followed them out.

*****

Spike watched the girls leave. He let them have it too. Good and proper. Bet he’d taught them a few new useful phrases there. Bitches. What the fuck was going on? First he had had the most incredible award winning sex and snuff dream, looking like it had the potential to surpass even most base shinannigans that he and Dru had gotten down to, and then he had woken up with the hangover to end all hangovers and found himself chained to his own sodding wall. By his ally the Slayer no less.

And then she’d hit him. Twice. And he wasn’t even feeling well enough to enjoy it properly.

“Hey Slayer! Let me down, there’s a friendly little demon killer.” She was ignoring him. Bitch. “Oh come on! My arms are comin’ outa the sockets here. Cut a hungover guy some slack can’t you?” He gritted his teeth and rattled the chains again. His feet kicked out. “Oh come on! Bloody hell, I thought we were friends...”

“Friends! One does not try to kill one’s friends Spike. Besides you are a vampire, which you more than reminded me tonight, and I am the Slayer. See the picture I’m painting here?”

“Listen to me you bloody fool. I’ve already told you I don’t know what you’re talking about. Last thing I remember I was making up some mixers and getting nicely sauced and the next I am chained to my own bloody wall. And my head is trying to explode!” He wriggled in frustration, his human face contorted in pain.

“Well, I think I can help you with the cranium detonation thing. That would be from you rolling around in the dirt and then deciding to try to rip my throat out earlier this evening. Ring any bells?”

Bloody hell! That was the dream. That was in his sodding dream. He remembered the thrill, the ecstasy of it and shivered. Ooh baby..... Oops, the Slayer was looking at him with a severely pissed off statement.

“Did you say something about being surprised?” He asked.

“Oh, its all coming back now is it?”

“Fuck you! That was my dream. You want to crash other peoples dreams with all that Wicca fun an’ games and see what you get!”

“It wasn’t a dream Spike.”

“Says you!” He glared. “Bloody little Wicca. I’ll bloody eat the pair of them chip or not!”

“Is this a dream?” The Slayer was stalking toward him now with murderous anger in her eyes. She pulled up the side of her sweater and he could clearly see the claw marks in her flank, already healing. The smell of Slayer blood tingled erotically in his nostrils - a delicious promise of sex and death. And not necessarily in that order. He thought better of licking his lips only at the last second.

“Fuck!” He breathed. “I remember that. What’s going on?”

“That’s what we are going to find out. As soon as the others get here.”

“Oh sod them! They could be hours. We don’t need them anyway. Let’s just go get this thing and kick the living, or unliving, shit out of it right now!”

“I can’t sense it moron. It’s some new magic. And you obviously aren’t much better since you’re bloody contaminated with it!”

“You said ‘bloody’!” He couldn’t help the grin. “I’m rubbing off on you Slayer.”

“Shut up!”

“Make me.”

“In your dreams!”

“Every day Slayer. Every day.”

“Ugh!” She looked extremely and pleasingly disgusted. “I’m going out for some air.”

Spike watched her go. “You’ll be missing me in two minutes! Two minutes you’ll be needing some more Spikey goodness-” And she was gone. Bought bloody time too, his arms really were going to come out of their bloody sockets. He kicked up from the wall and grabbed the chains above the cuffs. One flex of his lower half and he flipped, ramming a boot into the bolt above his head. Bloody stupid bint thinking he did not know his own lair, every last bit and bob of it. The bolt gave immediately and he dropped to the ground catching the chain as it fell.

Oh shit. Look at that.

He staggered miserably to his wrecked telly. Ah shit. He’d spent hours putting the damn thing together. And his coffin. His lovely stone coffin. And Dawn’s wall hangings! Oh damn, he’d liked those, what with the scenes of blood and death and all. Bloody sensational. She was an artist was what she was no matter what that wanker art teacher said. She didn’t need any counselling, she needed an agent. Damn, he’d really liked those hangings and now they were shredded into ragged strings.

Oh, someone was going to pay for this. Magic or no, they were going to feel the wrath of William the Bloody. He hooked his fingers into the cuff around his right wrist and ripped it open with a single savage tug. Invade a man’s private thoughts and expose them to the world would they! He tore open the other cuff. Trash all a man’s worldly belongings would they! Well, they weren’t going to be able to sit down for the rest of existence once he got hold of them - that was if he was sufficiently calmed down to let them live by the time he caught up with them.

All he needed now was a spot of blood to help his poor head and a change of clothes and then the world better get ready to give up his quarry. Spike sprinted over to the ladder, and with one hop was gone.

Chapter 2

Rupert Giles paced slowly around the magic shop deep in thought. In one hand he held a thick text concerning the Realms of Magicks in Matters of the Undead. In the other he rubbed a thumb over the smoothed rune stone tucked into his palm. He came to a halt in front of the book stacks once again. Behind him Xander and Anya were still staring morosely at the books he had given them.

He could not understand why he was unable to feel his way to the answer to Spike’s unusual behaviour. He squinted sharply at his vast and comprehensive literary cache. The hues and vibrations that he had magicked into his precious private collection of books were vibrant and pleasing to his senses. They covered and clung to the tomes in pockets of mist and cloud. Beautiful. Ethereal. Richly coloured and textured. And absolutely useless.

Ever since they had entered the shop tonight he had kept on glancing over at the book shelves hoping to see some discolouration, some blemish, that would taste dark and sour and guide him onto the correct path. The magicks had always given him an edge before. When ordinary research failed they always guided him truly, but this time they were letting him down.

“Reveal.” He murmured too low for Xander and Anya to hear him. The mists rippled before his eyes. They swirled around their tomes, writhing and searching as he had bidden them. Then, one after the other they gently settled around their books and were still. Beautiful as jewels once again, but as useless and deceptive as glass diamonds.

“Blast!” He said out loud as he snapped shut the book he held. He flicked off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I take it that that grandma cuss indicates no luck in the stacks?” Xander commented very unhelpfully. “You know you really should put some more thought into your swearing Giles. Something post world war two for a start... May be what the fu-?”

“Yes, thankyou Xander!” He cut the younger man off, turning to look at him. “And you are correct, unfortunately, there is nothing here.” He consented. Despite the banter the young man was radiating frustration, and his normally pale white aura was rippling with the stain of his dislike of book learnin’.

Anya had dropped any and all pretense of staring at her book and was staring instead at the lucky rabbit’s foot Xander had bought her a few days ago. It lay on the table in front of her. After she had fainted in front of the pet store last week Xander had decided that enough was enough. She had to learn that fluffy bunnies from this dimension were harmless. Becoming used to a piece of dead rabbit was her first test, but so far she had failed even to touch it. Her odd green aura was brighter than normal too. Probably terror. “You?”

“Zip.” Xander slapped the book shut and sat back in his chair. “An’?” He touched her back. She screamed. Both men jumped.

“Whatwhatwhatwhatwhat?” She demanded eyes wide as saucers. Her hands flew to her face, framing stark heart pounding panic.

“Whoa, An.” He reached around her and grabbed the foot, tucking it into his pocket. “I think that’s enough familiarizing for tonight.”

“Anything?” Giles asked the hyperventilating young woman. “Anya! Did you find anything useful?”

“Ah, no.” She finally snapped out of it and grabbed onto Xander’s shirtsleeve. The boy reached over and hugged the ex-demon and Giles thought he heard her mumble something about orgasms, Buffalo Bill and the Magic Box store room, followed by the words ‘right now!’. Xander’s pale tainted aura suddenly glowed pure white-gold. Giles sighed. This was getting them precisely nowhere. He had to be missing something -

“Giles!” The shop door suddenly crashed open and the two wicca hurtled through it panting and clutching their sides. “GILES!”

“What!?” He said, alarmed. “What’s happened? Where’s Buffy?”

“Oh!” Willow panted, her aura flickering and sputtering rainbow colours. “Oh, Buffy’s fine. We left her watching Spike.”

“And is it magic?”

“Oh yeah.” Willow nodded vigorously. “Powerful. Spike is drenched in it. We tracked it to the lower level of the crypt.”

“And?” Giles stepped forward, eager. Though he was unable to see it, he was sure his own aura was doing that gold sparkly thing Annie had described to him so long ago. “Were you able to discern its intent?”

“Er, no.” Tara glanced at Willow. The newest human member of their little group was nervous and the agitation was sending irregular shivers through her midnight blue aura. “Its really powerful, really really powerful. We were kinda hoping for some back up to check it out.”

“Yeah,” Willow gasped out. “Like, right now.”

“Right.” Giles nodded and pocketed his rune stone. It settled irritably into his pants pocket, annoyed at being sidelined. He could feel it moving about in tiny agitated jumps. “Tell me everything that happened whilst I gather some items.”

Giles was still no closer to the truth of the matter by the end of their story than before they had told it. Incredible. If only it wasn’t so potentially dangerous he would have loved to study it, slowly and with hugely satisfying attention to detail. But, like most unusual magicked happenings on a Hellmouth the fist seemed destined to come before the quill once again. He sighed.

*****

Spike was feeling mean. Bad, nasty and mean. He had not managed to find anymore clothes and all his hair gel was gone. They were low down bastards is what they were. He stuck his head under a gushing storm drain outlet and tried to wash the crap out of his hair. The water was cold, hurting his scalp and running down the remains of his shirt and duster. It just wasn’t cricket stealing a bloke’s intimates like that. It was kinky. It was unnatural. It was something he would do.

He scrubbed at his hair. “Shit!” His head really hurt. In fact, he was beginning to hurt all over. Deep achy hurt. Bloody Slayer beating on him like that. He was also hungry. Very hungry. He needed some of the good stuff: top shelf O-neg with a shot of something brain damaging. Yeah. Best preventative for a hangover was never to sober up.

He pulled out of the frigid waterfall and shook like a dog. Water sprayed the sewer walls.

He wiped the wet curls back trying to press them to his scalp. They wouldn’t stay without gel. Bloody thieves! Bloody bastard thieving knuckle-dragging mouth-breathing cretinous... Rrrrrr.

Anger boiling Spike set off down the sewer tunnels at a fast dangerous pace. He felt, heard, saw and smelt his undead bretheren scattering into side tunnels, into disturbed earth and even out of the access grates to avoid him. They felt his anger. The rage of a master vampire, a lord of the underworld, destroyer of two slayers and grandchild of the Scourge of Europe. They took one look at his game face, caught one gleam of yellowed eye and knew to keep clear. That was respect. That was how it should be. It did good things to his self-esteem to get a taste of such awe occasionally. Nothing like a bit of fearful respect in a being. Not like the bloody Slayer. Not the goddamn high and mighty Slayer. Bitch. How could it hurt to give him a little bit of the white of an eye, a little tremble, even a little “Ooh!” occasionally, especially since he couldn’t hunt and feast anymore.

Bitch.

He stormed through the sewers heading straight for the closest source of blood. Well, the closest that didn’t require money. Damn! This is what he was reduced to: thinking thoughts of lawful currency and stealing from a bloody pub. The Plunderer of China reduced to thieving like the Artful bloody Dodger! His growl rolled around the curved brick work ceiling like thunder.

*****

“Buffy!” She heard Giles calling out to her as he and the rest of the Scooby gang jogged down the ghostly boulevard. She rose from her watchful crouch by the crypt door and waited for them. Without a word she led them back into the crypt. Back to the crime scene that was called Spike. Asshole.

Except that he wasn’t there.

“Where’d he go?” Willow asked, very unnecessarily, as they spread out into the broken up tomb. Shit! Buffy sprinted over to his coffin and then headed for the ladder. Her face was flaming with embarrassment.

“Wow - look at this place!” From Xander.

“Buffy wait!” She was one leap away from dealing with the Evil Dead when Giles’ voice stopped her, almost mid jump. Damn, how did he do that? “Don’t, he’ll be long gone and we have more pressing matters.”

“Such as?” She demanded, almost unable to raise her eyes to his with the shame of her lapse. To her relief her watcher was not staring disapprovingly at her but was setting a large black bag down on the bloodied floor. Willow and Tara, without being asked, started clearing a circle large enough for a queen sized bed. Xander was still in major freak out mode and Anya was clinging to him like a limpet.

“Such as determining the nature of this magic for one.” Giles said.

“You and the gang can do that. I’m the Slayer, I should go slay, now, while the trail is still fresh.”

“And what happens if you run into Spike in the same state as he was before? What happens if this .... condition, has spread beyond Spike and infected others?”

“Then I’ll slay more than one vamp.” She pulled her stake out of her back pocket.

“Buffy- if I am not mistaken by the frenzied tale I was told earlier, Spike almost notched up three slayers for three tonight.”

“He got lucky.” She offered. Her watcher looked over his glasses and pursed his lips in that irritating way he had when he knew he was right. It was no good, she couldn’t even convince herself now. Damn he was good. She reholstered her stake and folded her arms. Bugger. Oh no, did I say bugger? Oh hell I said it again. Fucking Spike! I am so going to dust his pointy ass.

“Right then.” Giles nodded at her as he knelt down with his bag. “Now Buffy, what did Spike say about his little, er, act? Exactly, what did he say?”

“Oh, right, well. He said that he didn’t remember anything after the poker game last Friday. I got the impression that he thought today was Saturday and that everything else was some kind of weird vampire lust dream.”

“Hmm, memory distortion along with a severe disruption in behaviour patterns?”

“Is that significant?” Buffy asked.

“I’d says so.” Giles pulled a small cauldron from the bag. Then a belt of pouches. “If it wasn’t for the distinct presence of magic I would be inclined to say it sounds like a case of possession, maybe a psychotic break, but, well....”

“Can vampires be possessed?” Tara asked, pausing in her cleaning. Buffy thought immediately of Angelus and his possession by the dead high school boy.

“Yes!” Everyone spoke at the same time.

“So, its back to square one then?” Buffy said.

“I’m afraid so.” Giles pulled out a set of crystals and some things that looked a lot like incense sticks. “Willow, you tried the Seeker of Sargos incantation is that correct? What did-”

And she was tuning him out. She blew out her cheeks and started, unconsciously, to weave a protective perimeter around her watcher and friends. Her feet never failed to find the steadiest pieces of rubble and never strayed into a sticky congealed pool of blood. Slayer enhancements, there was nothing like them for maintaining a low laundry bill. She sighed. Dammit! This was no good. No good. She should be out slaying. Or at least out vamp chasing.

She side stepped a pile of T.V. parts and nimbly jumped over a broken wooden beam (where did that come from in a stone tomb?). Rubble. T.V. part. Coffin lid. Traffic pylon (!!!). She completed the circle and peered down the ladder. Blood bag. Hello, what was this? Without thinking she dropped back into the lower level and squatted down to poke at the opened half full bag. How did she miss this before? Not like Spike to leave any leftovers, he was a strict clean-your-plate man. Damn, I hate that I know that.... She leaned in a little closer and sniffed to assess its age.

Immediately she felt dizzy, almost nauseated. But she also felt good. Very good. Alive. That odour, it was like nothing she had ever experienced before. Not even Xander strength coffee gave her a buzz like that. She sniffed at it again. Woooo!

Power flickered like a rain shower through her body, strength poured into her limbs and the hair stood up on her arms. Her heart started to race. Pleasure/pain flared and grew in her belly and the world felt sharp and clear for the first time since she had been summoned to slaying. She felt good. Very good.

And she wanted something to slay.

Like right now.

Her palms itched. Filling one of her hands with her stake was good but the empty one clawed the air, searching for undead flesh to rend. It had been so long since she had had the blood of dead things under her nails, not just on her stake. Her eyes flashed; nostrils flared. The memory of a time long ago when slaying had been simple and bloody exploded into her consciousness. She remembered. Back when she had the death wails of demons in her ears and the immortal dust of vampires in her nostrils. When she had prowled through the night tracking, hunting, slaying and leaving horror in her wake. When her name had been Death.

She shot to her feet, stake raised to strike. The sweet stink of vampire was in the air. Yes! There was one not long left this place.

Prey.

Prey.

Prey.

What the hell?! Buffy blinked suddenly and the world deflated back into dull mortal hues. The urgent pleasure of the Slay dissolved and with it clarity returned. What the hell just happened? She looked down. Damn - the blood! She hastily stepped back. The innocent looking liquid shone a brilliant red in the weak light. Beautiful colour.

Really beautiful....

Then she was approaching it again. Crouching over it, eyes pinned on the rich scarlet. She reached out and touched the surface. The warm liquid seemed to rise to meet her finger tips, pulling on her skin, seeking to drag her in. Immediately the vibrancy of the Slay reignited and thrilled through her fingers, hand, arm, body. Her heart fluttered. Her senses flared and grew sharp. Just to touch it was almost overwhelming. What if she-

And she raised one wet finger to her lips.

“Buffy! What are you doing?!”

Sweet. It tasted sweet. Like power. Like frenzy. Like fire and ice. Like the power of the Slay, distilled and purified an infinite number of times.

“BUFFY!” Hands grabbed her around the biceps and for a moment she was propelled backwards away from the liquid heaven. Then she was recovering. One twist and the hands on her arms were wrenched free and she was springing backward to regroup. She landed on the bed, stake drawn. She growled.

Then she attacked.

The fragile mortal frame collapsed like a house of cards as she struck it, full body impact. Hard and fast. She followed it down, clinging to it like a lioness on a wildebeest. It howled pitifully and the weak noise barely made an impact on the world. Pathetic. She bared her fangs in a predatory smile. There was a wild cat inside her skin and it was roaring and demanding succour. Bite into the throat and suffocate the mortal snuff like the big cat would. Rip and tear. It would take only a moment and then the hunt could begin. The Slay. Yes. The fresh scent of vampire was still hanging sweetly in the air.

One bite and it would be done.

“BUFFY! SLAYER!” A new voice. Mortal and yet not. It cut through the air like lightening and pain exploded behind her eyes. She shrieked throwing herself backwards off the Prey and back onto the bed. It hurt. Like spikes inside her head. Make it go away.

Attack it, drive it away.

She gathered herself to spring and launched once again from the bed to slaughter this unnatural mortal that had dared to attack the Slayer. The new comer rushed up to meet her attack, charging with intent. Did it want to Dance? Could it Dance? The thrill of challenge rippled through her.

And then they crashed together and they were going down. She grabbed at its neck. Its flesh was unnaturally warm under her claws and she could smell the blood pulsing just a rip and tear away. The scent of the Slay. Glorious Slay. She inhaled, eyes half closed. Dreamy.

A familiar scent filled her nostrils and suddenly she was wide awake. It reeked of something... It smelt like another Slayer! She froze, stunned and confused. Can’t be, can’t be, can’t be. And yet it was. Under the dull musk of mortal flesh this one’s shadow was washed through with the power and thrill of the Slay. Another like her.

She sat up on its chest in utter confusion her hands fluttering indecisively over the delicate throat. Kill, no, kill, no, kill, no. Her thoughts grew twisted, complicated. She should kill. No, can’t kill. Slay! No! Frustration grew, swelling into a knot inside her chest. The pressure grew with it. Greater. Greater. Her head throbbed and her guts ached. KILL! NO!

Then the world seemed to implode. The super-sensory world of the Slay collapsed, rushing into her blackhole soul, and the dull flavourless mortal realm was pouring in to replace it. A tsunami of perception carried her away to drown. It swamped the colour, the scent, the ecstacy. Then it swallowed even the confusion and she felt the strength drain from her limbs. Her hands dropped to her sides.

“Buffy?” A familiar voice called out to her. Sharp like a knife. It penetrated the fog and she looked down at it.

“GILES!” She leaped to her feet and backed away. Oh my god! Her watcher lay on his back in the messed up pile of empty blood bags, staring up at her. His glasses were gone and there was blood on his neck. She looked down at her hands. Red was smudged over her fingers, under her nails. Oh, god. She’d injured her watcher. She’d tried to kill her watcher. Oh god. Oh god. OH GOD! “Buffy - ?” Giles was saying carefully, voice hoarse, like he was trying to talk down a jumper. He hoisted himself stiffly to his feet. One hand unconsciously touched the wounds on his throat.

“NO!” She pushed into the corner. I just tried to kill my watcher! “Don’t come near me. Don’t!” Her voice sounded shrill in her ears.

“Xander!” Buffy whipped around to see Anya scrambling down the ladder and rushing over to the limp body of her boyfriend. The Slayer felt her knees give out and she sank down onto the cold dirty stone floor. Xander... Oh god, could it get worse? The shock, the guilt, the terror, cut through her chest, pierced her heart and speared her to the spot.

Horror...

Horror...

*****

“Xander! Speak to me! Say something honey.” The boy’s aura was dull, transparent. Anya grasped one of Xander’s large hands in both of hers and peered into his face. “XANDER?” “Ooerrghhh.” The young man said obligingly, and Giles could see the dulled white glow surrounding him flare into brilliance once again. He sighed, relieved. Now -

“Buffy?” His Slayer was sitting against the wall, arms locked around her knees, staring blank faced at Xander. His Slayer... At least he could say that now and mean it. What he had wrestled with a moment ago had not been his Slayer. Hadn’t been anyone’s Slayer. It certainly had not been Buffy Summers. Her normally vibrant light blue aura had been streaked with black/red and pulsing with unnatural power. Now it was fluttering, transparent in places, but once again that clear and clean blue. “Buffy?” He edged closer, closer. No reaction. He stepped close enough to kneel in front of her and block her view of the couple across the room. He reached out a hand and grasped both of hers where they overlapped across her knees. She flinched but his grip held firm. “Look at me.” He commanded using his ‘Watcher’ voice.

She did, with an involuntary snap of the head, and he flinched himself at the haunted, hollow fear that he saw there. They looked at each other for a long moment and then there were tears in her eyes and she was launching herself into his arms. He grabbed, teetered on his haunches, and held firm. “I’m so sorry Giles. I don’t know what happened. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Hush.” Giles admonished gently, not minding that he could feel his ribs creaking under the Slayer strong grip.

“Can you hear me honey?” Anya said behind him. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Anya?” Xander, voice weak and small but clear.

“No, that’s my name. Your name is Xander, Xan-der.”

Giles heard the exchange and grinned into the top of his Slayer’s head feeling a ridiculous urge to laugh. Reaction to the situation he knew, but still... Everything was ok. Everyone was alive and not seriously harmed. Not least Buffy herself. Holding her he was suffused in her pale opal blue glow, it coloured his vision as he looked through it at Spike’s very unvampiric bed (hmmm, Spike has a book shelf. Odd. What was a vampire doing reading Seneca?). He waited until the aura’s strength began to return before moving.

Reluctantly Giles gently disengaged Buffy’s super-normal grip and pushed her back a little to look into her face. The blind terror was gone but the guilt that was there would linger for a while. He smiled a small reassuring smile.

“What just happened?” He asked after a moment. He did not release her arms from his grip. She was more than capable of breaking his hold if she wanted to, but he didn’t think she would.

“I don’t know.” There were unshed tears in her voice and the sound cut at him like a rusty blade. “I was looking around upstairs and then I spotted something down here. I came down and then... Then...” She grimaced, trying to remember. When she relaxed her face Giles thought she was going to cry finally, but she did not and he felt a glow of pride. “I don’t know! It was like a dream, a nightmare. I couldn’t wake up. I don’t know what happened.”

“I do.” It was Xander and Giles swivelled to look at him. He was sitting up, hand wrapped around his throat. He looked a little wild, a little pale. Understandable under the circumstances. He was also eyeing Buffy with undisguised shock and betrayal. Tara and Willow were peering into the lower crypt from the access hole, wide eyed. Giles did not release Buffy. “I saw her with the blood.”

“The what?” Giles demanded. He felt Buffy flinch.

“There.” Xander released his throat long enough to reveal deep red and blue marks and to point at the bag across the floor. Amazingly, it had not been spilled during the melee. Giles let go of Buffy and launched himself back onto his feet. His knees cracked and he felt a little light-headed. Getting old Rupert old boy. “I came down to see what Buffy was up to and saw her kneeling down next to the blood. Then I saw her ..... Taste it.”

“WHAT!” Giles barked, stopping dead. He whirled to face his Slayer. The girl had dropped back into her knee hugging position and, if possible, was even more pale than before. Her eyes were wide and ringed in darkness. Her aura flickered and pulsed in and out of his vision. “Buffy, what on earth possessed you to do such a thing?!” Mutely she shook her head.

“And then it was all - kill, kill, kill - friend Xander. I had no idea she was that strong. Not really...” He trailed off to himself. Anya rubbed his back and sent withering looks across to Buffy. “Kinda reminded me of Spike.” Giles looked piercingly at the boy.

“In what sense: reminded you of Spike?”

“In the literal. I mean, the way he was when we first ran into him tonight. All Grrrr and kill.”

Giles did not reply. He looked at the innocuous looking bag of blood and gingerly approached it. He felt out with all six senses but nothing registered. It was just blood despite the unidentifiable throbbing magic that filled the room. Maybe... But it couldn’t be, after all somehow the Slayer had been compelled to taste it. He shuddered, what would have happened had she not been discovered before she had consumed it all?

It had to be some sort of bewitchment. Some sort of Siren. If only he could sense it.

He paused, thinking hard.

Maybe it worked on proximity? He reached into his pocket and chased the little rune stone around. Withdrawing it he held it out in front of him in a fist and resumed inching closer. Six feet. Nothing. Four feet. Nothing. He could have heard a pin drop in the lower crypt. Everyone was holding their breaths. Three feet. Something? He frowned. The stone seemed to vibrate a little. If he wasn’t imagining it. Two feet. There. That was something. He had to grip tighter, feeling the stone start to wriggle. It was trying to escape. It tugged his hand in the direction of the bag. The pull was strong, as strong as he had ever felt from this little charm.

What are you telling me? He asked the rune. What’s happening to you?

Suddenly the little stone jerked in his grasp. Hard. He fell forward, but caught himself in time, or, he would have if the floor underfoot had not been covered in Spike’s slippery used blood bags. His feet flew out from under him and he was pulled forward. HELL! Behind him he heard the chorus of “Look out”s and “GILES!”s. Then his knees hit the ground. He arched backwards, not releasing the stone, trying to pull away from falling face first into the blood. He was falling.

Too late.

Suddenly he was jerked backwards. A small strong hand had grabbed his belt and was trying to haul him backwards. Helpless, he was, for a moment, caught between the bag and his Slayer. Then Buffy was winning. Just in time too. His top half was toppling forward despite his best efforts. His free hand slapped down on the stone floor; the other was desperately straining to keep the little charm away from the blood. He couldn’t lose the little stone.

My GOD! The blood in the bag was doming. Rising up and out, reaching for his closed fist. The odour of magic, and something much more powerful, erupted out of it like a volcano. He choked on it. Desperately he twisted his head to the side, squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath.

Hurry Buffy!

He felt himself being dragged backwards faster now. Thank god. He opened his eyes again and turned to look at the blood. If he had thought he was safe, he was wrong. The blood was still rising, arcing now to follow his fist as it withdrew. He squeezed his eyes shut in dismay. Then it touched his knuckles. Hot and cold, wet and dry. Like the touch of fever.

It was a narcotic-like rush. The kind he and Ethan had cooked up in the kitchen of his London squat, only they had done it in a cauldron, using magical ingredients rather than earthly. They had discovered early on that to get a real rush it was best to head straight to the supernormal; the more exotic the better. They had even tried dragon’s blood once. It had been worth the trip to emergency - or so he had thought at the time.

This was like that, only more so. He felt the rush rising inside him, touching something primal, something quiescent deep inside. His senses flared and expanded almost painfully until he was aware of everything in existence within the crypt. So clear. So bright. So intense.

And he felt the call of the Slay. It was more powerful and more insistent than he had ever felt in his life. It was incredible. The best high he had ever had. Ecstasy blossomed deep inside. It filled his soul.

He wanted his Slayer.

He wanted something to Slay.

He wanted it NOW!

Opening his eyes he sniffed the air. The dismal stink of inconsequential mortal flesh assaulted his senses, but beyond that there was his Slayer. Yes. She was looking down at him. And there was the stink of vampire. Fading a little now, but it was still trackable. Yes. Yes. Yes.

Prey.

Prey.

“GILES!” It was the Slayer. He sat up with a start. Slayer. Hunt. Track. Slay. Like it should be. Side by side, back to back, facing down the immortals. The demons. The strange creatures that crept and crawled in the bowels of the earth. The nameless horrors from the infinite hell dimensions. Fighting. Killing. Killing.

Licking the black blood from his claws.

Howling with delight as the undead flesh exploded into dust and the demon blood ran like a river under his hands.

Like he remembered. When Ripper was free and he was going to hell as fast as he could run there. The thrill made his skin tingle and he shuddered.

“GILES - SNAP OUT OF IT!” And his Slayer grabbed his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. An explosion of ecstasy from the contact burnt into his flesh. He looked at her and grinned. Her aura was so blue, electric. It hurt so good to look at it. He laughed, reaching out a hand to touch it, but it recoiled from his finger tips.

He frowned.

It recoiled a second time, like parting fog around the bow of a ship. Wrong. Wrong. This was wrong. All wrong. He dropped his hand. Wrong.

“Buffy - ?” His voice was rusty. They should be tracking, hunting through sewer and back alley. His hands twitched with the memory of killing. No. Something was wrong.

“Fight it Giles. Don’t let it take over! Its the blood, its the magic, its not you!” He heard the words but the desire to comply was hard to take hold of. It was the blood. Not him. The blood.

Blood. Rich. Red. Salty.

NO! THINK DAMN YOU!

He bared his fangs against the strain. Sweat ran down his face. He squeezed his eyes shut. The Slay pulsed within his skin, demanding to fulfill its purpose. Kill. Track the vampire scent. Kill. He was choking with deadly desire.

NO!

And then the world shrivelled, shrinking so violently he cried out, his suped up senses imploding and fading until he was left weak and disoriented with a pounding headache, on the stone floor of Spike’s crypt. The echo of the Slay was still ringing in his ears and the little rune stone was vibrating with anger in his fist.

“My god!” His laugh was short, breathless and not a little hysterical. “My god.”

“Giles?” He heard the concerned voice of his Slayer and opened his eyes again. Everyone was kneeling or crouching around him, staring with round eyes and pinched faces. He looked up at his Slayer. The electric colour had faded to the pale blue he knew so well. It was over, for the moment, but now he knew. He knew what it was and he also knew that they were in serious trouble.

Chapter 3

Spike jumped six feet straight up and grabbed the metal spike he had jammed into the tunnel ceiling weeks ago. He dangled for a minute looking up and down the tunnel. Nothing. Silent. Good. With a chimpanzee-loose swing he reached out and grabbed the grating above his head. The handle was stiff but he was able to twist it and then push up. The trap door opened easily enough. Then one last check and he swung up, feet first, into the ceiling.

The cellar complex of Willy’s Blood Bar was unlit. No need to waste money on lighting that no customer or employee needed. Spike lowered the grate back into place. It scraped against stone and he froze, listening. Nothing. He was unobserved.

Now, just follow your nose and in no time, my lad, you’ll be drinking your fill of all that’s good and nasty. He licked his lips. How long, he wondered, had it been since he had eaten properly? The Slayer said the poker night had been over a week ago, even though it felt like yesterday, so it could be a long time. He did feel kind of dried out.

Bloody Slayer.

He already had an idea about tracking methods for the bastards who had wrecked his place and drugged him up with magic. Ooh yeah, he knew some serious nasties that could help him out. Nona was the first on his list. He had known the demon priestess for nearly a century, ever since Angelus, Darla, Dru and he had gone on that summer vacation around the horn of Africa. Oh what a time that had been! All drenched in blood and voodoo. He and Dru getting up to all sorts of nastiness under that big beautiful African moon, fangs still wet with blood, drunk on the essence of life. He still had a few interestingly placed Dru shaped scars from that little trip. Sexy, sexy, sexy. He felt a rush of fire and memory, and rumbled a deep vampiric rumble that vibrated pleasingly through his chest. Beautiful Dru, delicate as a spider’s web and twice as strong, hurting him so pretty, making him bleed.

Nona had been held prisoner in a cave above a small village that had fallen prey to one of Angelus’ luncheons. Their inadvertent act had freed her from the cursed confinement magicked into place by the local priest (extra spicy that one’s blood had been) and she had been satisfyingly grovely; quite forthcoming with offers of repayment too. All sorts of lovely little services. Recipes for spicing up the blood of future snacks, curses, luring spells and of course, tracking services. Turned out she had quite a nose for hunting through everything from mud, to water, to magicks. And now she was in Sunnydale visiting her brother. It was time to call in a little favour.

Padding in silence down the hallway he let his nose lead him deep into the maze of corridors. Past gated cellars and recesses. Past locked doors. Ahha! This was more like it. He could hear the buzz that he had come to associate with refrigerators and thus BLOOD. Slipping like a shadow into the long recess walled with industrial fridges he rubbed his hands together. So much to choose from. Now, which one was it that held that excellent drop that had flavoured his mixers so nicely?

Eeny meany miny mo, catch a Slayer by the toe, if she hollers you must be doing something right, eeny meany miny mo..... Ahha - BINGO!

*****

Willow peered anxiously at Giles as Buffy reached around to haul him into a sitting position. He looked wiped out. Neatly combed hair messed up, clothing ruffled and sweaty. Sweat was running down his face too and the finger shaped bruised cuts either side of his throat were still bleeding sluggishly. He was still breathing hard too, but trying to control it.

The Wicca shuddered. She never wanted to see the Watcher like that again. It had been like a demon had slipped into his skin, pulling his face into a rictus of insanity and perverted hunger the likes of which she had never seen before. It had been the antithesis of the man she knew. Terrifying to witness. If she had not had hold of Tara she was sure she would be a shivering jelly on the floor. As it was, her lover’s hand was gripping hers so tightly she could feel her bones straining against it.

Come to think of it, Xander and Buffy did not look much better. Her childhood pal was pale as chalk except for his neck, which was showing the beginnings of spectacular bruising. Anya had bunches of his shirt gripped in her fists. The Slayer still looked haunted, eyes cowled with darkness and fear. She also had a tight grip of Giles’ jacket, knuckles white, and did not look like she was going to be letting go anytime soon.

Giles blew out his cheeks and opened his clenched fist with care. Willow caught a glimpse of a small ochre red stone with a faint smoothed carving on it. The watcher smiled at it, wearily. Whoa! Did that move?

“What’s that?” She asked, curiosity overcoming fear. Her magic radar was almost completely overcome down here but she was sure she was picking something up from the stone. Magical vibrations rippled out from it in tiny short lived waves. She glanced at Tara. Her best girl was staring too, head cocked.

“Oh.” Giles glanced up at her. “Oh, this? This is a little something I have had for a long time. A... fr... an associate gave it to me.”

“Ethan.” Buffy said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, Ethan.” Giles grimaced and pocketed the little rock. He clambered to his feet with Buffy’s help. They all followed him up. “Its a kind of detector, for magic, but its major function is to sense minute changes in magical fields and the like. Very useful for delicate work.”

“Delicate work huh? Doesn’t sound like much Ethan’s style.” Buffy pointed out still holding a handful of her Watcher’s jacket. Willow wondered if she was aware she was still hanging on to it.

“Yes, well, I didn’t say what he had in mind for it.” Giles was looking very uncomfortable. Oooh story there! He did not elaborate, but pushed gently through their throng and approached the blood bag, careful this time to stay well back. Buffy followed. “I think I know what this is.”

“What?” Xander asked. “Don’t keep us in suspense G-man. I think we have all learned from long experience that suspense usually leads to bad things in the ol’ Hellmouth.”

“Yes, quite right.” Giles nodded and Willow walked up to stand by him. Tara followed. She saw Giles make a familiar grabbing motion at his eyes and come up short. Glasses.

“Talk, we’ll find.” She patted his arm.

“Thank you. Right.” The librarian’s hands hovered for a moment and then he jammed them into his trouser pockets. Willow crooked a finger at Tara and together, staying well clear of the blood bag, they began to search the crypt. “Right. Well, I think its the blood of one of the original Hell Gods.”

“What?” Buffy peered around her Watcher’s arm and looked at the bag. “How do you figure?”

“Well, there have been several allusions to such blood written in a variety of ancient texts. I have been privileged to read a number. Most of them are extremely old and their voracity has never been proven, but the description of the activity of such blood and the symptoms from contact with it pretty accurately describe what just went on in here, and earlier this evening for that matter.”

“What’s with the magic then?” Tara asked, poking disgustedly at a lump of something crusty and gross.

“Camouflage I think. Has to be why I couldn’t see it before.” Willow frowned, what a curious thing to say. Then one of Giles’ hands sneaked out of a pocket and made to grab for his eyes again. Catching himself he put it back. Willow put her eyes to the glasses hunt once again. “Hell God blood is extremely potent, as you would imagine, and any being connected with the hell dimensions is attracted to it.”

“Like flies to doo doo.” Anya added helpfully. She now had Xander’s arm slung around her shoulder for his support. He patted her arm.

“Yes, well, quite.” Giles looked over his shoulder at her. Willow found Giles’ glasses under a patch of empty plastic bags. They were a little bloody, but mostly intact. One of the lenses had spidery fracture lines on it. She passed them to the Watcher. He nodded at her. “Anyway, as I was saying, muting that attraction would be an absolute necessity - ”

“If you were going to use it.” Buffy stepped out from behind Giles, released her hold on him, and stared at the bag. Her Watcher nodded. “My god,” Buffy murmured, “imagine the armies that could be raised. How could we stop an army of insane demons?”

“Its very likely that we couldn’t!” Anya said brightly. Willow wondered, not for the first time, if the ex-demon truly did not fully appreciate the ‘ex’ part of the equation. “I mean, some demons and vampires are nuts already; really violent, eat everything talk later kind of feral-”

“Spike!” Xander exclaimed, making a totally not subtle effort to cut Anya off. “That slimy no good undead piece of...”

“Unlikely Xander.” Giles interrupted whilst he inspected his glasses, frowned and put them on. “For Spike to get close enough to actually take some of the blood it is likely that he would never have returned. I imagine he would still be by the pool drinking himself into Hell if he had ever been so stupid as to try to collect any. And its not as if he could ‘enlist’ any really useful help with the chip still functioning.”

“Err, excuse me but: pool!?” Willow asked.

“Yes. The original Hell Gods are called Original precisely because they are what came before the current pantheon of Hell Gods-”

“Oh those Hell Gods.” Xander butted in. Anya patted his arm.

“Quite, now, as I was saying.” He glared at Xander but there was no malice in it. “They were the first and last Hell Gods to bring forth progeny. Not very intelligent of them. Can’t think why gods would be so stupid.

“As soon as they were able, their children, not surprisingly, turned on and killed their parents, but they kept their blood for later use, in great caverns deep below the earth. The positions they chose have become quite attractive to other hell tainted beings in the years since. They are usually called Hellmouths.”

“Great. So now someone is stealing and bottling Mommy’s and Daddy’s blood?” Buffy still had not taken her eyes off the bag. “Why? What for? To sell it?”

“That’s not really the issue at the moment is it?” Anya said. They all looked at her. “In case anyone’s forgotten, the one who started this night of fun by finding and drinking this God blood is out there right now. From what you’ve all said Spike looked like he hadn’t eaten in a while. What do you think a hungry vampire is going to do, first chance he gets?”

*****

Spike was up to his arse in delectables, bending over, half inside the fridge, piling bags into the inner thief-pockets in his duster when he heard the faint scrape of boot on stone. Dammit! Emerging from the fridge he yanked the smoldering cigarette butt out of his mouth and sniffed the air. Willy. And some others. Ooh, nasty, nasty, nasty others. His nose wrinkled and his game face flickered across his features. He jammed the fag back into the corner of his mouth. Time to go.

He looked around the corridor of fridges. No where to hide. The scrape of boot and a newer slithering shadow-soft padding were getting louder. Crap, if Willy found him like this his custom at the Blood Bar was going to be very unwelcome indeed. He’d be lucky if he’d be unbarred in time for the year 3000 new years bash. Turning once again to the open fridge he sighed - this was gonna be so cramped.

“So, hey, like you guys catch the game last week?” Willy’s voice, close. He sounded nervous. That sharpened Spike’s interest. It took a lot to rattle ol’ Willy. Spike knew this personally because he had tried everything to intimidate the demon barkeep into giving him freebies after he had become chip infested, but not even his impressive imagination had been able to come up with anything to get so much as a raised eyebrow. Willy had just polished his one eyes, said ‘uhuh’, and then poured Spike a mixer so tasty he had forgotten what he had come in for. In fact he had blacked out and forgotten all about that night until a flash back had reminded him a few weeks later. By that time he and the demon were set into a comfortable barkeep and best customer situation, so.... “No huh? Well, uh, what about them Dodgers?”

Spike hopped into the fridge and pulled the door shut. He was immediately drowned in total darkness. Instinctively he let the demon surface but he was still blind, very disconcerting. Oh, well, shouldn’t be here long... He relaxed his face again and fumbled for a seat. Brrrr, good thing he was stone cold dead already or this empty shelf would be freezing his arse off something serious. Reaching out to a find another shelf he grabbed a bag and bit the corner out. Mmm, tasty. Oh hell, who was he kidding - it tasted like cold, days-old, plastic-tainted sheep blood...

“Okay, right this way, uh gentlemen, uh ladies, uh, gender neutral patrons? Its right over here. Just like it was left.” A fridge door was opening. Sounded a few doors down. “See, just like it was left. Count it if you like.” The next voice made Spike’s dead flesh crawl, and his game face rippled to the surface, fangs barred in a grimace. His nostrils flared. The air, even in the fridge seemed to be writhing and warping, moaning low and tortured. He flicked out his tongue. Ugh! It tasted foul, bitter, and dark. Too dark even for him. Fuck me but that’s power, he thought. Very evil this. Very bad. He decided it wise not to inhale.

“One isssss missssssing.”

The whisper was slurred, indemon, inhuman even, but the accusation was clear. Spike’s body went rigid as the words made terror blossom in his demon blasted soul. The blood in the bag he held began to move. Writhing hideously like the air. Gripped by a voice so foul it could not withstand the pain. It pulsed and warped in his frozen hand.

“Uh... Uh... No. It can’t be. No.” Willy was stuttering. “It wasn’t me. I did everything like you told me! No, you can’t think I would do that. Not after... Not after what you did before... No! NOOOOOO!”

The screaming went on and on and the air around Spike continued to writhe and strain, peaking and troughing with the final wail of the demon bartender. The darkness, the evil, staining the inside of the fridge was so oppressive Spike felt crushed. It pressed in on his skin until he was sure all his bones were visible. Black, heavy, wet concrete malice.

Then there was silence.

Spike did not move. He did not indulge in human twitching or breathing. He could not. He remained rigid, fangs locked in a silent hiss. He was frozen. He was stone.

Suddenly an explosion blasted through the recess. Then another. The sodding fridges were exploding! Booming and screeching metal deafened him. He listened helplessly to the horrifying sounds of the doors bursting off their hinges. Impossibly violent. Erupting from their connections and smashing against each other and the ceilings, the floors. Spike could not move. They were getting closer. He could not move. Closer. Bang! Bang! Bang! Closer. He was going to die. Permanently.

Help me!

Bang!

Help me Angelus!

BANG!

ANGELUS!

*****

“So let’s go find him.” Buffy bent and picked up her stake. Anya’s input, as usual totally unexpected and totally clear headed, had galvanized them all. “If he’s run off to get more Hell Blood we have to stop him. I have to stop him.”

“Agreed.” Giles said. “Is the trail still fresh enough?”

“Yes, I think so, but I have to go now.”

“Be careful.” Her watcher looked at her from behind bloody, cracked lenses. “If he’s already feeding do not approach him without back up. I mean this Buffy. Do not attempt to intervene. Don’t even let him see you.

“We will not be far behind.” He suddenly reached into his pocket and pulled out the rune. “Here, take this. I can find you if you have it with you.” Buffy took the little stone, it was warm, almost hot, and it vibrated in her hand. She stuffed it into her pocket. “Willow, Tara and I need to get some supplies from the shop and do some fast researching.” He sighed. “Hell God blood is one thing but the spell that is hiding it is another. It is incredibly powerful. Whoever, or whatever, has woven that spell is not to be trifled with, and if they are also behind the appearance of the blood...” He pursed his lips, took in a breath and shook his head. “Just be careful.”

“What about us?” Xander was doing his keen puppy routine. It was falling rather flat with the hideous multicoloured bruising all over his neck.

“Are you sure you’re up to this Xan?” Willow asked. “Maybe you should go to the hospital?” She fumbled over the last word and glanced in Buffy’s direction. The Slayer cringed inside.

“I will if he does!” Xander retorted, pointing at the bloody wounds on Giles’ neck. Buffy cringed visibly this time. Drugged with Hell God blood or not, it had been her hands that had caused their pain. The shame burned like coals in her stomach.

“Honey, maybe Willow’s right...” Anya said.

“Traitor! Look, I may not have wicca powers or Slayer strength but I can help.”

“Fine.” Giles held up a hand. “We don’t have time for this. Xander, Anya, we could use some help assembling the weapons and magical arsenal.”

“See, told ya.” Xander said. Anya folded her arms.

“Now, what are we going to do with the blood?” Giles scratched his head. “We can’t leave it here and risk it being consumed by anything... nasty. And, more magic is out of the question. We’ll have to hide it until we can deal properly with it.”

“I’ll get it.” Xander, it seemed, was determined to be useful, insane plan or no. “We can de-mojo and re-mojo it at the shop.”

“I don’t think so mister!” Anya said. She made a preemptive capture of his arm. Giles did not reply, still thinking. Probably about how to get rid of Xander.

“Come on, I can do it.” He appealed to the watcher. “You said that only hell tainted beings were affected by Hell God blood.”

“Actually, I said that only they were attracted to it. Rather a different thing altogether.”

“Okay, so what happens if an un-hell-touched person goes near it?”

“Er, well, actually I don’t know?”

“Let’s find out then.” Xander made Wiley Coyote running arms. Ready to go.

“Hey, wait a minute, you don’t know!?” Buffy exclaimed, staring accusingly at Giles. “What does that make me then? A hell beast? For that matter, what does that make you?”

“No! Xander-” Anya suddenly yelled, interrupting Buffy’s fledgling interrogation. They all looked, just in time to see Xander using the distraction to retrieve the blood bag.

“XANDER HARRIS!” Giles actually bellowed. Buffy reeled back a little, she had never heard him do that before. It vibrated right through her and she nearly fell over. No one else seemed to notice its effect. Whoa.

Too late. The young man had already darted across and reached out to gather up the gaping hole in the bag, to fold it shut. His licked his lips nervously, but then he was lifting it. He grinned suddenly - “No problem!” Giles stared, looking speechless with something not remotely resembling pleasure. Then his shoulders sagged. He sighed.

“Alright, let’s go! Xander, you will have to stay well back from us.” Giles started shepherding the younger people toward the ladder. He did not look at Buffy - he was avoiding her question... Under normal circumstances she would be pissed off, but now his reticence was just freaking her out. Then he did look up once again at Buffy, eyes intense behind bloody and broken lenses, and almost spoke. His mouth froze before it had created the first syllable and instead he said - “Be careful. We won’t be far behind.” She nodded tightly, turned and fled into the sewer.

*****

Spike’s trail glowed faintly, visible to all her senses. Delicate as moonlight on water. Very delicate. Dammit! She was going to have to be very careful not to destroy it as she tracked. She cocked her head for a second. The typical scrabbling, creeping, skittering and occasional thumping that usually coloured the Sunnydale sewers tickled her ears. It was undead central down here. There were a few demons and other creepy things, but vampires were the order of the day in this end of town. Something to do with living close to home - where they first woke up after being Turned. At least it wasn’t daytime, things would get very interesting very fast if it were sunny out.

She slipped down the sewer, senses pealed, stake poised. She heard the faint scratchings of feet and claws all around her, but thankfully distant. The smell was something else too. All sewery and undeadish. Despite that though her nose found the most familiar reek with ease. Damn Spike. If he wasn’t intentionally causing trouble he was falling into it and dragging her with him. Should stake him, she thought. End both our miseries in one pointy jab. For a start there would be no more cigarette butts littering the garden and sending her mother into a near Slayer level rage on a weekly basis.

She frowned, suddenly projecting a future devoid of the English vamp.

A world without William the Bloody was an odd concept. An interesting concept to entertain, but weird. Certainly her highly disturbed Spike liking sister would never forgive her - neither would Drusilla. Hmmm might be worth dusting ol’ Mr Impotent just to bait her and finish that tortured insane killer as well. Angel probably wouldn’t object to her dusting Spike, but she wasn’t sure he would be happy about it. Despite being souled and all, Angel still had a soft spot for his blood and violence crazed grandchild (so much so he couldn’t talk about the circumstances of the siring of his grandchild without getting majorly morose and wallowing about in enough guilt to drown a whale), not to mention Dru, and she didn’t want to hurt Angel. Not unless it became impossible to avoid it.

Bloody Spike.

ARGH! I said bloody again!

Damn him and his stupidity. If she had killed Xander and Giles tonight because of him.... With renewed anger she began to lope down the sewers, senses pinned to the trail.

*****

Spike’s fridge door blew off with such force his rigid body was blown out with it. He flew into bright light, blinded once again. He had time for a brief sensation of moving through Van Gogh painted air, to feel its pain scald his skin, and then he was smashed hard against something very solid and very unforgiving. He would have howled in pain if he had had working vocal cords. His body bounced off and he hit the floor. Agony streaked through his shoulder and head.

The smooth stone floor was shuddering, waves of torment rippling through it. He rolled over it helplessly jolted along by its peaks and troughs. He could hear it cracking under the strain. The roar of the tortured air filled his ears. Dammit! Move you stupid git! Move! Why can’t I move? He felt pain and blood on his cheek. The floor was flooded with lakes of the red stuff, all writhing and agonized. He could smell it spoiling as the very life was squeezed out of it.

Then he was moving. Control returned with a snap and he immediately scrambled to his feet, fighting his way upward through the heavy weight of evil. His muscles strained to their capacity. Then he was up and the doorway was in sight. YES! Can’t keep William the Bloody down! Kiss my big fat lily white arse-

Then he stopped. It was silent in the destroyed recess. No more fridges were exploding. No more noise. No more flash frozen Spike. The back of his neck suddenly crawled.

Oh shit.

With a dread laden swivel he turned around.

Oh my god...

“Angelus-” He managed to work that one tortured word out in a rasping plea before his insides turned to water and he screamed with everything he had.

*****

Buffy knew where she was going now. God, he was so predictable. Willy’s. Then she thought: OH GOD WILLY’S! Willy had Hell Blood. Willy ran a bar. Willy was selling Hell Blood to his hellish bar frequenting customers.

Turning on a burst of speed she ignored the trail and sprinted toward the access grating to the bar’s cellars. Sure enough, there was Spike sign all over it. She peered up and listened for a moment. Nothing. Then suddenly a scream bit the air. A last breath horrified agonized howl. Its echo bounced and recoiled around Willy’s cellar and down into the sewer proper. The hair stood up on the back of her neck, and adrenaline suddenly sizzled through her veins. Then it was fading away and the sewer was abruptly plunged into total silence, its denizens ceasing their creeping and skulking, the very air seemed to have stopped moving. She swallowed convulsively.

Spike?

SPIKE!

Jamming the stake in her back pocket she crouched and launched, giving one hard push upward, full body motion just like Giles had instructed. So long ago it seemed like another life time now - Sunnydale High... Most efficient and powerful way to achieve some height he had instructed, right before she had complied and accidently taken the short route into the library rafters. It worked now too. She shot straight up, her hand finding and grabbing the metal pin jammed in below the grating. She twisted the handle on the grate and pushed it up and open. One flip and she was shooting up through the hole and launching into the darkened cellars. She crouched by the grate. She pulled out her stake, gripping it ready to strike.

What the hell?

The air was writhing, rippling, moving out in waves from somewhere up ahead; a banshee moaning accompanying it. It deafened her. The air... Her nose wrinkled and she recoiled a step. It smelt foul. Acrid and evil and sulphuric. It burnt her lungs and made her cough. Made her wheeze. Made her feel ill to her very soul. Can a soul puke? Unthinkingly her free hand grabbed for the cross at her neck. It burned clean and cool in her hand.

She stepped forward. The air pushed back. Its tortured writhings pulsed and pushed against her, wave after wave of poison and hate trying to force her back. She raised a hand to her eyes, instinctively shielding them from danger. Somewhere beyond this was Spike, she knew it. And, it seemed likely, the ones responsible for disturbing the lakes of Hell. Joy. Oh well, time to earn my keep. She pressed against the buffeting waves and forced her way into the maelstrom.

*****

It wasn’t hard to find the source. The waves were getting stronger, the light brighter, the air movement more violent, the closer she came. Her hair was flying out behind her now, buffeted and twisted by the streams and coagulations of atmosphere and it was becoming very hard to breathe. The pressure on her chest and the hurt of the poisoned air as she pulled breath after breath into her lungs was making her head swim. She was sure she would have suffocated by now if it weren’t for the increased strength imbued in her by the Calling. Gritting her teeth she pushed on, head down, body bent forward, each step deliberate and heavy, like those old films of antarctic explorers as they fought their way through gales out on the ice.

Then she saw it. Through the chaotic swirl and shudder of the air, there it was. The violent, condensed heat haze that signalled her goal. Regripping her stake she forced her way into its heart.

She made it to the entrance of a long recess and braced herself against the door frame to catch a badly needed breath. She squinted against the bright Escher air. The long corridor warped and rippled, fighting her sharp vision and making her nauseous. Dammit! She was as good as blind.

But, no wait...

Blurry images resolved slowly. The recess looked to be walled with huge gaping, cavernous containers. Wrecked and smashed containers covered in blood. The whole corridor was soaked in rippling, shivering, coagulating lakes and splashes of the red liquid. The stink was wet and heavy in the air. Steam snaked around in the twisting entrails of the air. There were twisted and broken metal panels lying along the corridor too, bucking about like icebergs on a rough sea as the stone floor crackled and cried out in agony.

She peered deeper, trying to find the definite article, the demonic source of the foul power that was killing the very elemental forces of this dimension. The cross on her chest burned ice bright against her skin.

There! In the haze, flickering like flame. The whisps of dull black/grey figures. They rippled in and out of her vision as the air moved violently around them, swirling, trapped in their blackhole embrace. Looked like three of them. Standing in a line deep inside the recess. No, wait there was another. A dark smear on the ground. As she stared the blackness pulsed in and out of sight. Blond hair. Her stomach dropped to her feet.

Spike.

She looked down at the floor. The shifting metal plates and shallow swamp of dying blood looked extremely treacherous. I’m going to kill him, she thought as she stepped onto the first slippery plate. It bucked. Her arms flailed as she fought for balance. The thick pulsing evil pushed at her, trying to bring her down. This was no good. No good. Have to keep moving.

She regained her balance using every bit of power she had. Then she started to run. Relying on Slayer skill and blind luck, she leaped from plate, to exposed stone floor, to plate and in and out of the containers along the walls. All the time the pure malice emanating from the three figures dragged at her limbs and tried to drain her of her strength. Her clothes and hair blew and billowed, whipping around in the frenzy. Her lungs burned with the effort of trying to draw breath, and the squealing wail of the air and the cracking and groaning from the stone floor grew louder and louder.

Still she moved forward.

Almost there.

The three dark figures did not resolve into clarity as she gained ground. If anything their whispy shape seemed to melt more definitely into the waves and twists of air and light that surrounded them. Spike, however, began to emerge from the haze where he lay on the floor. He was covered in blood, lying rigid, skin stretched to his cheekbones and forehead. His skin was grey. She remembered this. An image of the starving, newly chipped vampire at Giles’ house flitted across her mind. But this was wrong. He shouldn’t be like this, he hadn’t been in that bad shape.

“Spike!” She called. Her voice, even at full strength, was swallowed by the air - the strength gone and the sound dull and impotent. Spike did not hear her. Or at least he did not move. In fact he looked dead. Well, more dead than usual. “SPIKE!” The three figures did not move.

It was then that she noticed his hands. Clawed fingers strained at the end of arms raised in defence. Against the ghosts that now towered over him? Come to think of it... It had to be them. Somehow feeding from him even as they stood there. Shit.

“Hey! Casper and Co., you’re jumping the line! I’ve got dibs on dusting his undead butt.” The Slayer launched herself onto a container mere feet from the spooks, poised to engage. No reaction - nothing. Maybe they couldn’t respond. Maybe you had to speak ghoul. O.K. then, let’s communicate in the universal. She dropped into the container proper and snagged one of the plates as it bounced and shuddered past her. With a roar of effort she hoisted it above her head and charged through the treacle thick air. Using all her strength she swung it down to flatten the ghouls.

The plate arced hard and she continued using all of her strength until she felt it strike the floor. Three stack ghoul pancake feast for one, hold the syrup. The impact of metal on stone was like a gun shot.

Everything stopped. The air grew instantly still and placid, the floor ceased its struggles and silence crashed down upon her head like the plate had done to the ghouls. She staggered, suddenly freed from the oppressive weight and foul air. The artificial light vanished. Oh god. She reached out to grab onto a container, blind, weak and gasping for breath. She sank to her knees.

For the longest time Buffy did not move save to breathe. It felt like sweat was running freely from every pore and she was shaking so hard she could barely hold herself upright. That had been too intense. Waaaaay too intense. She felt contaminated with the tarry black hate that had been radiating from the ghouls. It was lining her lungs, corrupting her heart and guts. She felt sick. There couldn’t be enough ipecac in all the dimensions that would purge her system. Oh god...

“Angelus?” The weak, breath thin voice barely reached her ears, but she heard it and looked up, relieved to find she was once again blessed with night vision. Spike’s shadowy form was still lying where it had been when she had arrived. The only difference was that his arms had fallen to his sides.

Wearily straightening her bowed shoulders she picked her way across the floor toward him. Oh, those plate things are fridge doors... The blood had congealed and blackened everywhere. It stuck to the soles of her shoes, making sticky sucking sounds as she walked.

“Spike?” She said as she squatted down. God, he was a mess. Really a mess this time. Skeletal, almost a ghost himself. His dry cracked lips moved once again, silently, unintelligibly, and then he was completely still. Dammit. Fear rippled new energy into her guts, her limbs. Blood. She had to find some blood. Then he would live long enough for her to kill him properly.

Chapter 4

Giles waited until he was sure Xander had put the blood bag in a secure container on the counter before he would allow anyone else to enter the Magic Box. Then he charged his bookshelf.

“REVEAL!” He commanded, uncaring that he had an audience. “Maleus Sanguisa e Deux.” The auras went into a frenzy of vibrations and palpitations. Not waiting he plunged into the stacks, stalking up and down, glaring accusingly. This time. He would find it this time. His magicks would not let him down again.

Hell Blood and master level magical incantations (maybe surpassing master level). SHIT! His nostrils flared, fists clenched behind him where he had clasped his hands. What the hell had that stupid vampire been doing? Where had he been doing it? His eyes savagely raked the shelves. The auras were still writhing and twisting around their tomes as he had commanded. Still beautiful. Come on! The ephemeral masses shuddered. They churned faster still, their exquisite colours gripped in a frenzy to obey.

“What’s he doing?” Xander’s voice reached him as he paced.

“Magic!” Willow’s voice was barely a whisper but it was awed, disturbed, even frightened. She had a right to be. This level of the mages art he was practising was not to trifled with. A single word misspoken, unintended, used in anger or grief or passion, by one initiated at this level, could kill. Or worse. Ethan and he had learned that in the most painful way possible. Ethan. That thought suddenly sapped his agitation and he drew to a stumbling halt. His shoulders sagged.

He leaned his forehead against the shelf and sighed, suddenly weary. Forget your history and you were doomed to repeat it. The gentle auras brushed feather soft through his hair. A comforting gesture - one he did not deserve. He jerked away and began walking again. Slow and considered this time. He made for the section he knew held a range of possible books and sure enough the familiar tang of bitterness greeted him. As he neared the area he spotted a thick red tomb enveloped in a rotten egg gas cloud. It hung humid and heavy, fetid amongst the slowly settling brilliance of the other auras. Ah ha!

“Got it.” He announced as he exited the library, holding the prize aloft. He looked nervously at the wicca and winced. They were staring round eyed at him.

“H-how did you do that?” Tara finally asked, her aura had lightened a little to a navy blue. “You’re a magic user?”

“Uh,” he cleared his throat. You stuffed it up, now fix it! “As you know, I, uh, have dabbled a bit, in my youth. Stays with you you know. It can be very useful....” He trailed off. Bloody brilliant effort you great arse.

“Oh.” Tara said. Willow just stared. Their auras clearly broadcasted their hurt at his deception. All those times that he had cautioned against magic use in ordinary life would now be ringing hollow in their memories. If only he could explain in a way they could understand.

“What?” Xander asked, bobbing his head between the wicca and Giles. His grin was uncertain, as if he knew he had been left out of a joke and was trying to cover up. Some joke.

“Nothing important.” Giles grabbed at his glasses.

“Nothing important?!” Anya exclaimed, green mist pulsing. “Well, that certainly has hit an all new high of British understatement. If master level magic was so mundane it wouldn’t have annihilated most of the alternate realities for this dimension.”

“Thankyou Anya.” Giles sighed. Oh yes, there it was - he was getting The Headache.

“What?” Xander said again.

“Master level.” Willow had recovered mouth function. “That’s incredible Giles. Why didn’t you tell us?”

“What else haven’t you told us is what I’d like to know?” The ex-demon was hiding behind her confused beau. “You’re not really a fyarl demon are you?”

“No! Anya!... Look we do not have time for this.” Giles slapped the book down on the table.

“But, Giles...” Willow started. He could see the accusation in her eyes, it was rippling through the unique rainbow of her aura. There was no time for this now.

“NO! Willow. Later.”

“Ooh, don’t make him mad.” Anya warned, face paling.

“What?” Xander said again.

*****

Giles flipped rapidly through the book. The pages were brittle with age and a few cracked under his fingers. He could feel the four sets of eyes staring at him. Accusing, nervous, confused. He tried his best to ignore it.

“Ooh, Romanian.” He muttered to himself as he found the most unpleasant smelling portion and recognized the ink scratchings. “Uh, that’s alright.” He looked over his glasses at his little audience. “Its one of my languages.” He went back to the text. “Oh dear.”

“Is that an ‘oh dear’ or an ‘OH DEAR!’ ‘Oh dear’?” Xander asked.

“I hate it when he says oh dear.” Anya confided to Tara. “Its never a good thing.”

“What is it?” Willow was impatiently hovering at his shoulder, looking at the text. He could sense her continued discomfort. Her aura flickered at the edges of his vision. It did not reflect to him in his glasses, a phenomenon that he had never become accustomed to.

“The, er, author has written a short piece about an associate of his that spent the better part of a year tracking down a Hell God blood pool around the Hellmouth of Soarevale, Romania. About 500 years ago by the look of it. He has chronicled a translation into this text and has summarized the main points in this section here.”

“Its very brief.” Willow commented after a moment.

“Yes, it is.” He nodded slowly. “Very, actually.”

“What does it say?”

“Well, er, the essence of it boils down to this. After several reports of an increase in crazed vampire activity that resulted in the death of two Slayers, and the Calling of a third, the Watchers Council of Europe set Alexandru Tilea, being their best and brightest, the task of hunting down the cause and the finding of a cure to the inexplicable activity. He left the council a year before this writing, a willing servant to the purpose he had been sent forth with. For many months he searched through the foul swamps and mires of the Undead and inhuman creatures that inhabited the depths of Soarevale. He questioned many of their number, fought many battles and sent home regular reports. None were of consequence except for the last. In this report he alluded to a conversation he had had with one of the Undead: a vampire called Bogdan. This Bogdan was near death at the time and bore all the signs of the insanity that had been ravishing the vampire population. He was much diminished by famine and was barely able to speak. Promising nourishment to the expiring creature Tilea obtained the following words:

“Beware, for it always returns to the Master of Masters. To him and him alone belongs the Wine of Life, to him alone the Sire’s glory, to him alone the deepest, sweetest depths of the chalice of Baru. Beware of Shadows. They track. They seek. It always returns to the Highest of High.

“He wrote that he now had enough information to conclude that it was contaminated blood that was causing the rash of, er, rash vampire activity. The Master of Masters obviously indicated the Hell Gods, Baru refers to one of the ancient Hell Gods, and thus the rest followed. He concluded that he was about to embark underground to find out more. He never returned to report.” Giles pulled off his glasses and chewed on an ear piece.

“That doesn’t help.” Xander said.

“No.” Giles bit down on the plastic. “Its doesn’t.”

“Didn’t the Council send anyone after this poor fellow?” Tara asked.

Giles looked down at the book, slipped his glasses back on. After a moment he shook his head. “The activity seemed to burn itself out a few weeks later, so they never did. Probably wrote him off as a casualty of war and got him a nice bright shiny memorial stone.” He tossed the book aside in disgust.

“So he was successful in defeating it?” Willow said, hope in her voice.

“Possibly.” Giles nodded. “It may have stopped of its own accord. Unfortunately he did not return to tell us which and we cannot afford to assume that it ended ‘naturally’.

“But none of this helps us at the moment. I will contact the Council and ask them to check their records. Unfortunately I doubt they will have changed much since I read them all some time ago.”

“So its into the breach once more.” Willow said.

“With as much weaponry and mastery magical mojo as we can physically carry?” Xander asked hopefully.

“There is something else we have to consider.” Giles said. “The magic user behind the camouflaging spell. To so effectively mask the presence of the blood of a God we are dealing with someone, or something, very powerful. Possibly approaching godhood itself.

“If they are gathering this blood, bagging it up for what looks like individual consumption, then Buffy’s concern regarding a super army of hell tainted creatures becomes a rather urgent issue.”

“So,” Willow said. “We need a spell that seeks out this camouflage spell so we can track it to its source.”

“Then what?” Xander asked. “We track this blood back to the factory and then take on an army of crazed vampires that no longer respect their own existence and who now fight like Mike Tyson experiencing ear withdrawal? Then after we dust their little fanged hides, we track down the god who cast the masking spell and kick his sorry ass all they way back to hell? Hey, we should about done in time for the 6am cartoon hour.”

“Sarcastic much?” Willow asked, frowning at the boy for his outburst. Problem was, Giles acknowledged, he was right - they couldn’t do this without more information or without backup.

*****

Spike weighed lightly over Buffy’s shoulder as she carried him from the carnage. That was strangely disturbing. He was taller than her, bigger too, but she’d never really appreciated just how lean and light he was until now. All those times they’d had their confrontations, beating the hell out of each other and all those unnatural beasts she had come to assume a certain weight behind his punches, a certain gravity behind his presence. Like Angel. But, beyond the vampiric strength he still had William’s physique - all lean muscle and bone stitched together with sinew. The thought suddenly struck her that his fighting style was not at all like Angel’s either. Whilst his grandsire, perhaps harking back to his mortal days, was comfortable going head to head with an opponent relying on the strength and weight of his kicks and punches, Spike tended to throw, trip and use his opponents’ strength against them, opportunistically chipping them down a little at a time. Even in a face-to-face throwdown where strength mattered his force was threaded through with a strategy that probably had more to do with a perception of physical weakness that he still carried from his mortal days, than the real strength of the demon he now carried. She found the revelation disturbing on a level she didn’t want to think about.

Don’t think - find blood.

She jogged into the cellar complex, nose alert. There was nothing down here. Dammit. The dead blood behind them must have been the sum total of the blood supply that Willy stored. Where the hell was that annoying little snitch anyway? Okay, she hadn’t wanted to do this, but it was going to have to be the bar supply itself. Better not be busy up there...

She picked up the pace as she neared the stairwell. With out breaking stride she kicked the door open and bolted upward. Spike bounced against her shoulder and one of his limp hands connected with her backside. Unbelievable. Even unconscious and dying he was a lecher.

“You’d better not be faking Spike!” He did not reply. Very wise.

The bar door gave easily under her boot and she burst into the dimly lit Undead boozer. Immediately she swept the smoky premises with Slayer sharp vision. A vamp couple in the corner curled over glasses of something bloody. Male and female, dressed in what looked like mouldy left overs of the 19th century. They were both vamped out, surprised by her entrance, and scenting the air. No problem, she could skewer the both of them in heartbeat. A Malik demon, big, blue and hairy was hogging the bar. It stank of booze and something gross and was staring at her through its oversized eyes - the Malik’s Achilles heel. No problem. Then there was the barkeep. A pimply teenager with limp dish towel in his hands. Double no problem.

“Okay,” Buffy declared. “You all know who I am - the Slayer, right? Hi. Now, my associate and I would like a little privacy, so here’s what I’m going to do. A one time offer. All of you leave in the next 10 seconds and I won’t kill you.” She pulled her stake. The Malik demon stood, slapping its shot glass down ominously on the bar top. The vamps did not move, the barkeep turned a whiter shade of pale. “Oh, now, see, I don’t have time for that. Are you really sure you want to mess with me?” She glared. Every bit of her Calling funnelled straight into the eyes of the huge demon. It froze, pinned like imminent roadkill in car headlights, then it ran. Buffy blinked, surprised. “Cool.” The two vamps were gone by the time she looked their way. The barkeep was shaking in his boots but he did not flee.

“Gonna cause problems?” She asked him and he shook his head. He looked familiar. “Hey, aren’t you Tony Foster - Briny’s brother? What the hell are you doing in a demon bar?”

“My Dad got me the job. Seemed like a good idea at the time... You’re not going to Slay me are you?”

“Not if you get me all the blood you’ve got in the next five seconds. The good stuff. Nothing watered down.”

“S-sure.”

Buffy lowered Spike to the floor and looked at him again. Not good. Still grey and skeletal. What ever those things were they had taken just about everything he had. She frowned. For such powerful creatures they had folded so easily. She was missing something and Spike probably had the answers.

SPLAT! A blood bag exploded on the floor next to her. She looked up and glared at the pimply kid. There were at least five other bags in his arms. He shrugged at her, sweaty scared, and handed her one of them.

“He doesn’t look so good does he?” The kid said, very unnecessarily. He peered closer. “Hey is that Spike?” That second question held far more awe than it should. She was going to be having a little word with Mr Foster senior.

Ignoring Tony, she tore the corner off the bag and grabbed Spike’s jaw. Awkwardly she shoved the open end into his mouth and gently squeezed the bag. Most of the liquid ran straight out of his mouth. Come on. Come on. Then suddenly she saw his adams apple bob. Once. Twice. A brittle skeletal hand grabbed her wrist, holding her in place. The bag emptied in record time and she watched, fascinated and appalled as his skin lost its pasty grey look, becoming the flawless marble she recognized.

She pulled the empty plastic away and Spike followed it until he was sitting up. His eyes were still shut. Buffy turned, tossed the bag and held out her hand to the boy - “Another one.” That was when she felt hard cold fangs pressing on her neck. Spike was nuzzling her throat! She could hear him sniffing, scenting out the blood that pulsed just one bite away. He suddenly nipped at her skin, light and dainty, just getting a taste. Was that tongue?

“SPIKE!” She jerked backwards, more rattled than angry. He lunged weakly after her trying to follow her backward scramble. His yellow eyes were slitted and dopey; mouth, cheeks and neck covered with spilled blood. Recovering, she shoved the next bag under his nose. It took a moment for him to refocus and then he snatched it from her and plunged his fangs into it. His claws gripped the plastic so tightly trickles of blood ran down his fingers. And was that purring? There was a very faint rumbling vibrating out from the thin vamp that sounded a lot like a purr.

“What happened down there?” Tony whispered, still awe struck.

“I’m not sure.” She only partly lied. “But, I think it would be wise for you to go home. Then, once dawn rolls around you write Willy a nice little letter of resignation. A bar for the Undead is not the best place for a kid-.”

“Hey, I-” The kid started.

“What the hell!” Spike was back and looking wild and shaken. He tossed the empty blood bag aside and struggled to his feet. He stared at Buffy, then around the empty bar. “What’s going on?”

“Amnesia again huh?” She pursed her lips at him. “You could start by saying thankyou Buffy for saving my worthless corpse?”

“What?” Then she saw memory fire up behind his ice blue eyes. A flicker of fear and then something else shifted across his face. Then anger swallowed both of those emotions. “How did I get up here? Those ghouls were doing for me.” He looked at her properly. “You.”

“Me.”

“All of them?”

“Uh huh.” Buffy nodded. Spike cocked his head, assessing something. His vamp bumps smoothed back into his human face.

“What did you use?” He asked.

“Fridge door.”

He pursed his lips and with a preoccupied motion wiped a tattered sleeve across his mouth. All that that accomplished was to smear the blood and add a whole new layer of crud. He didn’t seem to notice. Then he shook his head.

“No. No. Not likely.” He pushed away from the bar and used a flat palm to shove Tony out of the way. The kid flew off his feet and crashed into a table. He made an oof sound as he disappeared out of sight. “We gotta go.”

“What?” It was her turn to fall out of the loop.

“Can’t kill a ghoul with a fridge door.” Spike spoke as he was heading for the door. “You should know that. Whatever they were up to they ain’t finished and I for one don’t want to be around when they pick up from where they left off.” Then he was gone, the doors flapping behind him, and Buffy was left feeling stupid, pissed off and still out of the loop.

“HEY!” She started after the ungrateful vampire. That son of a bitch. She passed Tony, on his knees crawling back to the bar, one hand pressed to his chest where Spike’s hand had connected. “And you, go home and stop hanging around the Undead. I see you again and I am so telling your mother.”

*****

Spike strode down the lamp lit street coat flapping out behind him. He hardly noticed the pedestrians as they scuttled out of his way, staring in horror at his dishevelled appearance. Fuck them. He had more to worry about that sticking out in a herd of glorified blood cows. He staggered suddenly but recovered, pushed off from the wall on weak legs, and kept on walking.

He did not know what the bloody hell was going on but he was determined to do something about it. Something was fucking with him and that could not stand. No one and no thing fed off William the Bloody and lived to gloat over it. Well, actually one had, but he wasn’t going to think about Angelus anymore tonight. He was still burning with humiliation after crying out for his Daddy back in the cellars. The self reproach smouldered in his chest and scorched a path to his cheeks. He thought he had been over that pathetic episode in his unlife.

He had learned to overcome Angelus’ mind games when his grandsire had gone through a very nasty stage of playing with his newly awoken grandchild. Trying to break his mind, trying to tie him all up in knots so that even if he took him to the point of a second death he would still love him and call for him like some deranged child, like some tortured dog - like Drusilla. His poor, sweet princess. Unlike Dru though, Spike had been turned before Angelus had started on him and he had had a resiliency that Dru had not. He had learned to withstand. He had learned to cope. He had learned to overcome. He had even learned to get off on it.

Or so he had thought.

With a short, choking roar he kicked over a lamp post. The metal pole caved in a car roof as it fell and the glass globe smashed onto the road. Car breaks squealed. A cow screamed.

Damn you Angelus. Damn you.

“SPIKE!” It was the Slayer. Yelling behind him. He could hear her feet running down the pavement. Smell her sweat and the congealed blood that smeared her clothing. “Don’t you walk away from me.” At least she had not heard him calling out for Angelus. He did not think he could live with the humiliation - better to get drained by those ghouls until he croaked. “SPIKE!” She grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. He came up with his game face on, the humiliation turning into rage, turning against Buffy.

“Don’t you touch me Slayer! I’m getting fucking sick of you laying into me all the time. What the hell do you want from me?” He was screaming right in her face, fangs so close snapping shut around any flesh he could get them into it was all he could do not to act on the urge.

“I tasted Hell blood because of you!” Buffy screamed right back. “The least you could do is show a little gratitude for saving your dead ass.”

“You what?” A surge of black emotion and tinged with green burst, supernova hot, through his body. He bared his fangs. “You drank demon’s blood? First you let the Great Poof drink yours and now you’re drinking other demon’s blood! What are you, some kind of undead slut?”

“Don’t call me that you neutered fuckwit. It was your fault. If you hadn’t been down in the sewers thieving and drinking any old shit like some vampiric wino this would never have happened.”

“I can smell it. I can smell him in you!” Spike sniffed the air. His nostrils flared and he panted with the intensity, lips pulled back in a grimace. The traces of the blood coloured the scent. Powerful and dark and familiar. They contaminated the clean burn of her blood. He didn’t like it, not one bit. Unthinking, he growled.

“I hate you!” The Slayer hissed, actually trembling with rage. Her fists were balled but remained locked by her sides.

“I hate you more.” Spike rasped back right in her face. He couldn’t remember being this angry, not even when the Slayer had killed off his last batch of minions, not even when he had been brushed off by Cecily in that shadow existence before he had been Turned, not even when Angelus had made moves on Dru. “If I could bite you right now I would!”

“That’s supposed to be some kind of revelation is it?”

“RRRRrraaaaaaRRRGRHHHHH!” Spike roared right in her face, frustration and rage coiled in his belly. It burned like acid. He turned away from her and took out his anger on the nearest object - a fire hydrant. It uprooted like a daisy in his claws and he hurled it across the road to smash against a shop wall. Water gushed and fountained like an oil well in the Iraqi desert from the hole it left in the pavement. It rained down on them, cold and hard.

“Have you finished?”

“NO!” He pointed accusingly at her. Then his arm dropped momentarily. “Actually, yes, but I still hate you.”

“Bite me.”

“Bitch.”

“Bastard.”

*****

They glared at each other in the down pour until the Slayer heard the cops coming. By mutual agreement they decided this argument could wait until they pissed off. Spike turned and ran. Couldn’t go back to the cemetery. Might have some unwelcome home invaders there. Couldn’t go to Buffy’s house because, whilst her sister was a pushy bitch, Dawn was a sweet distraction in his existence as a neutered freak. No way would he drag her into this. Giles and Xander had uninvited him from their respective homes. That was damned inconvenient but the respect it showed for his capacities, even in this unmanly state, made it a bearable problem - until now. And Willow and Tara had yet to invite him into their university rooms.

That left one place where he knew he could find what he might need to rid himself of these ghouls and exact his revenge. The Magic Box. The Slayer followed without complaint.

Unfortunately, his legs began to fail him before he reached the shop’s street. Not enough blood. He should have eaten more. He staggered, bounced off a wall, but he was still upright. No way was he going to be so helpless in front of anyone as he had been tonight. Not in this existence. Not again. He staggered again, panting out of habit.

“Spike-” The Slayer was jogging easily beside him. She made a grab for his arm but he shrugged her off.

“Fuck off.” He snarled. Putting everything into it he rounded the corner. Not far now.

“Spike, this is stupid.”

“Get fucked!” He roared and nearly fell over with the effort.

“What the hell is the matter with you? I’ve just pulled you half dead out of a ghoul fridge what does it matter if I help you now?”

“Don’t want your help. Don’t need your help. Don’t need anyone’s help. Don’t need anyone.” The street blurred in front of him.

“Fine.” She barked. Silence. He started a barrel roll walk, staying up right only in the momentum of his stagger. The Magic Box false front wavered and hazed in front of him as he approached. It reminded him of the ghoul tainted air. Echoes of the strange magical fear that had gripped him then made his guts feel icy. He had to find those bastards and get them.

*****

Giles looked up from helping the wiccas hunt for a location spell powerful enough to track mage level magic, as for the second time this evening the shop door banged open. This time it was the missing members of the group who burst through them. Looking like soldiers from the trenches too. Ragged, filthy and saturated with mud and blood. Spike was walking very strangely. Fast, bent forward at an impossible angle, yellowed eyes glaring in an unfocussed kind of way as he went. The vampire’s usually pure black aura was weak. Giles recognized the hue - he was low on blood.

“What the-?” Giles started as Spike barrel rolled right by him and ran head long in to the new fridge tucked around behing the counter. Buffy shrugged in a ‘fuck him’ manner and stalked over to the table. She sat down stiffly, angrily, as Spike wrestled with the fridge door. It opened with a pop and he fell inside. Scrabbling sounds started up. Giles suppressed the urge to go slam the door on Spike’s head - the blood inside that fridge was a new investment, a new line in summoning spell ingredients. Oh well, there went 200 dollars of hard earned money right in to the belly of the beast.... Mental note, if we live through this: send Anya to retrieve investiment from Spike.

“What happened?” He asked. “Buffy?”

“What’s with dead boy over there?” Xander had Anya’s thief deterrent in his hand. A piece of lead piping inscribed with a rabbit at the business end. He looked ready for someone to shout batter up. He and Anya had been assembling weaponry on the end of the reading table. Anya looked up from her crossbow and cocked her head.

“I tracked Spike to Willy’s.” The Slayer said. Her tone was sour, angry.

“My god! Willy isn’t dealing in Hell God blood is he?” Giles started, bracing both hands on the table top.

“No, I don’t think so. He wasn’t around to ask.”

“That’s because he’s snuffed it.” Spike looked up from the behind the fridge door. He had a blood bag in his mouth and was speaking around it. “Those ghoul bastards got to him. Musta dried him up like a husk and shrivelled him all away.” The vampire shuddered.

“What?” Giles said. “Ghouls?” But Spike disappeared behind the fridge door again.

“When I found Spike he was getting a little karma returned his way.” Buffy filled in. “Those ghouls, or whatever they were, were draining all his blood out. I hit them with a fridge door - long story, don’t ask - and they disappeared. We escaped. Came back here.”

Giles pulled off his destroyed glasses, thinking hard. The younger people were all looking at him. He wished they wouldn’t do that - expect him to spout forth all necessary knowledge and courses of action when their young energy and limited life experience was running short. He had no experience with children of his own and yet he seemed to suddenly have five of them, as well as two unpractising demon hangers on. The weight of their expectation was heavy. Sometimes almost unbearable.

“Ghouls.” He mused.

“Yeah, “ Spike was suddenly next to him. He had a fresh blood bag in his mouth and another clutched tightly in his hand. He looked sick, exhausted, angry, and not a little frightened. Though he was hiding it well, auras never lied. “Ghouls. Powerful too. They were radiating some kind of energy. It was killing the air, the blood and the stone. Never seen anything like it.

“I was looking for a little snack down in the cellars there when Willy comes in with these ghoul things. Nasty they were. Real nasty. Anyway, I made a strategic retreat (he ignored Xander’s unkind laugh though Giles noted his game face flickering - bad sign) and listened in. Turns out Willy had been hiding some blood for them and they had come to collect it. Too bad for Willy that a bag was missing. They killed him.”

“Missing?” Buffy stared accusingly at the vampire. “We found it, in your crypt.”

“What?” Spike looked genuinely confused. He pressed a hand to his stomach, suddenly looking queasy. “Who put it there? Those bastards that smashed up my stuff?”

“Actually it was most likely you who put it there.” Giles said.

“And redecorated.” Xander said, sounding nasty.

“Its Hell Blood.” Giles finally revealed, carefully gauging the vampire’s reaction. The 100 years plus demon paled visibly, becoming almost transparent, and stopped guzzling his blood.

“Bloody hell.” He breathed. Giles was sure he hadn’t meant the horrible pun. “I’ve heard about that stuff. Supposed to be lakes of it somewhere deep underground, innit? Around the Hellmouths. How’d Willy get Hell Blood?”

“We were hoping you could tell us that.” Giles sighed. The vampire’s aura was flickering, but not with deception. At least he didn’t think so. Damn. Another dead end. All they were left with now was a few hard to define threats, very possibly an army of insane Undead, ghouls with the power to destroy the elemental forces of nature and a cryptic passage from an unverifiable and ancient text that had originated from a dying, possibly delirious, vampire. How to fight that? They didn’t even have a time frame.

“No, can’t help there.” Their vampire was looking extremely ill now.

“Are you alright?” It was Tara who asked. Spike seemed not to have heard her. The hand over his stomach was twisting the torn t-shirt until his knuckles looked ready to pop through the skin. He was staring at the door too, eyes bugging. “Spike?”

“HEY!” Buffy shot to her feet and grabbed at her pocket. She reached in and after a second pulled out his rune stone. “This thing has gone nuts. Eew, it feels like a bug. Here, Giles, take it back.” He grabbed the little rock. It was agitated, alright, and burning hot. Oh no.

“They’re coming.” Spike’s voice was thin and rasped through his emerging fangs. “They’re coming back to finish me off.”

Chapter 5

No one moved. Then Giles felt something very faintly at the edges of his senses. It was pain. Agony. Writhing and crying carried on the air. He felt Buffy by his side. She was radiating fear, her aura rippling with it, but once again he felt enormous pride in the young Slayer - she had still pulled her stake and it was rock steady in her fist. Amazing young woman.

“What do we do? Feed Spike to the ghouls?” Xander asked. Giles looked over at the young man, impressed to see, that through the shaking and sweating he was still meeting the threat face on. He was surprised to hear no retort from the vampire in question, even if he was terrified.

“Can you be sure he is all they want?” Giles said. “In this situation we can assume nothing. Right, Xander, Anya, clear a space here. Move the table.” There was only one action they could take that he knew might save them. There was no time and no way to gather enough information to make any kind of militant defence or attack. He simply had no idea who or what they were dealing with. If they survived this encounter he might get enough to work with. “Willow, Tara. Spell of Protection. Get the ingredients, my spell book too, it’s in the store room on the shelf. Hurry. Buffy, talk to me. Tell me what happened when these ghouls attacked Spike. Spike...” He looked around, spotting the vampire still rooted to the spot. “Spike!” He grabbed the terrified vampire by his bony shoulders and shook him. “SPIKE! Pull yourself together man. We need you.” Yellow eyes flitted across his face, then settled to meet his own gaze. The vamp nodded stiffly. Giles could feel the terror radiating off him. That was disturbing. Vampires were not easily terrorized, In fact he had never seen a vampire this frightened in his life. Not even when they got the occasional one who pleaded for his life before Buffy took it.

But there was something else... Hadn’t Willow and Tara said that Spike was infused with the camouflage spell that had been cloaking the blood? Well it was gone now. What did that mean? Perhaps he had used up all the Hell blood and the magic had run its course? The strange absence tickled around the edges of his understanding.

“Giles!” It was Willow and she had his personal Magius. It was bound in thick chocolate coloured leather and embossed with silver - a gift from Annie. He had been carefully adding spells, incantations and power words to its pages for decades now. Energy pulsed between the compressed pages. He released Spike and hurried across to retrieve it. Tara brushed by him and, in the space left by the table she began sprinkling out a huge circle of sacred white powder. It glowed silvery in the store light.

“Talk to me!” He commanded his Slayer and she snapped to attention from across the room where she had gone to peer out of the window. He could see the air between them rippling slightly. Little twists and whisps of colourless movement that reminded him a little of a bucket of worms. It prickled his skin, little pin dots of pain and hatred that flickered like starlight over his face and exposed forearms.

“When I entered the cellar,” his Slayer said, “the air was moving like it is now, only worse, much worse. It was hard to breathe. Hard to move. I tracked it back to the source.” She looked a little grey around the gills as she recalled it. Behind him Giles heard the familiar clacking of weapons on the moved table. “It was intense Giles. Like you’d imagine the inside of a microwave to be. And the air, the floor, the blood and the fridges were all...” She searched for words. “Dying. I know it sounds bizarre but they were all dying. It was as if the life was being crushed out of them.” She swallowed and darted a quick look out of the window again. “It was those ghoul things. I don’t know how I know, they didn’t move, they were hard to even see, but I know it was them. They didn’t even need to be in contact with Spike to drain him.”

Giles gripped the smooth oiled leather of his Magius tightly and tried not to let the horror show. It was much worse than he thought. These ghouls sounded like Hell spawn. The twisted, mutant offspring of Bael himself. To harm, let alone kill, the very essence of the elemental forces of nature took a strength and a degree of filth and darkness that he did not even want to think about.

“Giles?” It was Tara. She tugged at his sleeve and he realised he had zoned out in dread. “Everything’s ready.”

“Right.” He turned back to the ring and spotted Xander at the reading table. His aura was still flickering with fear at the edges, but its white gold brilliance was startlingly intense. He was priming a series of blessed crossbows with a familiarity and comfort that only deepened Giles’ black despair - that anyone, especially one hardly more than a child, should be so familiar with such items...

Anya, it seemed, had overcome one fear with another and had attached her rabbit’s foot to the end of a pike. She was otherwise laden with charms and protective items. Of all of the people in this room she alone could join with him in the appreciation of the situation. Despite her seeming lack of knowledge concerning these specific ghouls - she would understand the gravity of Buffy’s recount. Her shivering aura told him all he did not want to know. As he looked she picked up a stack of small projectile weapons and put them inside the chalk circle.

Spike was loading up the circle with bottles of holy water which was a testament to his fear (not to mention his desperation - he wasn’t sure why Spike thought holy water would work on ghouls). Giles had lost count of the number of times the vampire had gone out of his way to avoid even touching the glass of such containers in the past. He had also found Giles’ Gorinth Helmet and was wearing it, cheek guards flapping, at a jaunty angle. Its dull burnished glow made him look more pale than he usually was, even under all the blood and mud and grime that was smeared over his face. He was also still vamped out.

Willow was fussing over a small Incendius bowl that Giles would need, polishing it out where it sat in the centre of the ring. On a piece of black velvet she had neatly set out the small number of ingredients that were needed. Thank god for the young Wicca’s sense of order. Beside the bowl she had also found the time to light a small pouch of tinder. Ready made flame where shaking fingers might ruin matches. Very thoughtful. Once again he was impressed by the young woman.

“Right.” He said again as he followed Tara into the circle. The air around them now was beginning to swirl in strained, twisted and chaotic steams and the keening of its pain was starting to register upon even mortal ears. The smell of sulphur tainted it and burned his lungs. The floor beneath his feet, the bare concrete, was shivering and it vibrated against the soles of his shoes. He looked around at the shelves as he stepped into the ring. The magical and new age items were shifting. Almost as if they were alive and waking from a deep sleep. They twitched and moved. Painfully. Agonized and not knowing why. The hair stood up on the back of his neck.

Not long now.

“Everyone, into the circle. Hurry. I have to start the protection spell now. Buffy!” He called across to his Slayer. The young woman was shifting on her feet, still peering into the street. Even through the writhing of the air he could sense her eagerness to end the wait and fight. It was the power of the Slay and it forced immediate attention from the one experiencing it, he knew.

“Get started Giles.” She called to him without looking around.

“I can’t without you here. Once I start, you won’t be able to enter. Buffy - you can’t fight them. Not yet.”

The rest of the group stepped over the chalk boundary and found position around the wicca and he. Buffy, with one last lingering look out of the window, moved shadow-quiet across the room and stepped into the ring. Her agitation was plain. Once she was safely inside and had taken up position with one of Xander’s crossbows, cocked and poised to fire, Giles knelt behind the little Incendius bowl and opened his book.

Either side of him the wicca were poised and ready to deal out the ingredients and light the bowl. To his right, at the front, Buffy stood ready facing the door. To his left was Xander, hands rock steady around his crossbow as he copied the Slayer and aimed at the door. Beyond Xander, Anya, pike raised and rabbit’s foot dangling, was ready to cover the back entrance. And above him towered Spike. The ragged vampire was trembling with strain as he stood his ground. In his hands he held bottles of holy water, ready to protect the magia below him. His fangs were bared and shone dully in the light.

No one spoke.

There was no banter, no chatter, no pep talks. They could all feel the malice growing all around them, and the foul odour of the air, and the pain of even the inanimate was beginning to weigh on their bodies, their souls. He saw Xander flex his shoulders, a frown of horrified consternation on his face.

“Wait, what about the blood?” The boy suddenly said. His voice was muted, dulled, as if the air had suddenly lost all of its reverb. “I should get the blood.”

“Not on your life!” Spike spat through clenched teeth. “As much as the idea appeals, I’d really rather have you alive right now and able to fire that pointy thing than on my dinner plate.”

“He’s right.” Giles said. “We’ll have to take our chances and leave it. They’re coming!”

He began to speak.

The power words flowed like honey from his lips and the wicca worked smoothly adding the ingredients to the bowl. The air was thickening around them. Spike made a strange half growl half choke above him. Then the thought struck - what if the evil destroyed the spell ingredients before he could use them. Dammit. He spoke faster, just barely keeping the appropriate timing and hoped the wicca could keep up.

*****

The contents of the shelves began to writhe for real. The thundering of their motions as they jittered against the wood added a base line to the growing banshee squeal of the air and the crackling rumble of the floor. A box of tinder suddenly burst into black flame. Somewhere beyond sight a bottle smashed, and the juniper sprigs on the counter withered and died before their eyes.

Then the air turned heat-haze intense and Buffy had to squint to see. She tried not to choke on the malice laden air. Her finger tightened on the trigger as she stared at the door. Just come on already! Adrenaline scorched through her veins. The cross on her necklace burned sharp, bright and cold clean against her skin. Come on!

Giles continued to chant. Fast and precise. His voice played a sweet counter to the evil in the air and she clung to it as the pressure grew. Then the sound of a magical fire behind her - the spell was in motion. Immediately the intensity of the distress within the circle dropped. The weight lifted slightly from her arms and the crossbow felt lighter. And it wasn’t a moment too soon. A bottle of newts eyes on the shelf right near her head exploded and the glass splinter fallout bounced off the protective barrier of the circle.

Her watcher continued to chant. His voice steady and calm in the maelstrom of his shop. Items were falling, flying and exploding all over the room. The air roped and twisted around them, screaming - deafening and horrible. The stink was overpowering. The floor around the circle suddenly crackled and began to shudder and tear. Anya shrieked. The reading table was buckling beside her. Then it cracked, exploded, and stake sized splinters pelted harmlessly off the barrier.

“BLOODY FUCKING SHIT!” Spike yelped. His voice was hoarse with terror. Xander suddenly coughed, a hacking bark. She spared him a quick glance. Her friend’s face was pulled tight in a grimace and he was panting, sweat shining his skin. Fear seized her anew as she remembered how hard it had become for her to breathe in the cellar. Slayer strength had almost not been enough. Oh god... Xander glanced her way and managed to pull his lips into a grim smile. She could not return the attempted reassurance.

Buffy looked down at the three magic users as they tended the fire and continued to incant. All three were already breathless. Willow looked near to fainting. Anya, a little beyond Xander, was already leaning against her lover, her pike at half mast. Oh hell! Just come on and get it over with you fucking bastards. Hurry. She ground her teeth in frustrated dread.

Then suddenly they were there. Just there. The heat haze revealed the three whispy, black-flame ghouls as they materialized by the counter. The metal strong box next to the cash register suddenly crumpled and smouldered like heated plastic sheeting, revealing the blood bag. That goddamned blood bag... The Hell blood within it was calm and unperturbed by the hatred scorching the rest of the shop.

She fired.

Her arrow flew straight and true and instantly disappeared in the blur of tortured air that surrounded the ghouls. Useless. Despite the failure her action sparked a volley of arrows, darts and holy water from the circle. Everything disappeared and still the ghouls remained.

She watched in horror as the Hell God blood vanished from the bag. Fading into the haze. Eaten by the ghouls. The plastic bag immediately melted onto the counter. The cash register pinged, rang up a sale and promptly exploded (Anya rallied enough to give an outraged shriek!). Shrapnel pelted the magical barrier.

Then Anya collapsed. Xander dropped his crossbow and caught her with a cry of alarm. Then Willow. Giving one final shuddering gasp the red head toppled into Giles’ arm and slid off out of sight. Spike started lobbing the holy water like a grenades, as fast as he could. His arms were a blur.

“GILES!” Buffy screamed, totally at a loss of what to do. Her Watcher looked up at her, still chanting. He was gasping the words out now, so short of breath that his lips were turning blue. She could see in his eyes that he couldn’t help her, and that he knew he wasn’t going to last, but he was going to go down fighting. Dammit - no! Not like this, it couldn’t end like this. When the final hour came it was supposed to be a swan dive of glory against a foe whose name made the world shudder on its axis. They weren’t supposed to die like this! Not in anonymity, not like this... Buffy threw down the useless crossbow and searched frantically for something to use against the ghouls. There was nothing. Then Spike ran out of holy water.

“Buffy - look out!” Tara’s breathless scream made the Slayer whip around. The ghouls were right at the barrier. Their hatred was pushing at the magic, forcing her Watcher’s strength to wither and die before her eyes. Heavy penetrating malice slowly pierced their little haven, sending wave after wave of pain to scald their skin and drive the last of the breath from their lungs. The weight of it drove her to her knees, her head started to pound and her vision was starting to grey out. Bastards. She bared her teeth at them and forced one agonized hand to her throat and wrenched free the cross. Using every last ounce of her dying strength the Slayer of the Sunnydale Hellmouth rammed the bright silver into the breach in the barrier.

Agony, unlike anything she had ever experienced before tore up from her hand and blasted across her mind. The utter evil, the hatred, burnt the tender tissues of her brain, her flesh. If she screamed she was insensible to it. Then it was over. Then she was over.

*****

He sat behind some thick bushes across from the Watcher’s house and patiently kept the sound equipment aimed at the voices. The muzzle rubbed up against a branch and he winced at the magnified scratching. Bloody clumsy equipment! He held in a curse. If only he could have used something more subtle. A careful elegantly woven incantation would have been much more preferable to this irritating stiff metal construction. It would have been much more effective too. Unfortunately it also would have spelled his instant discovery for there was one inside that deceptively mundane dwelling that would sense its presence the moment he released the words into the air. So he sighed a put upon sigh and adjusted the dial on the microphone.

This was going to be interesting. Finally. After the incident in the shop he thought all had been lost. All his carefully worked experiment looked like it had been laid waste by the hell spawn he had inadvertently released. That would have been a tragedy of wasted time, so after waiting for 20 frustrating minutes, watching the silent hell blasted ruins of the Magic Box he had slipped down the street, moving in the darkest shadows as the night lightened into dawn. Good thing he had been so careful too. He had no sooner taken a dozen steps down the silent street than the remains of the door to the shop blew off its hinges and a man had stepped out. Correction, a vampire had stepped out. How odd: a vampire if you please! Some people were keeping ill advised company these days. The demon suddenly turned his head and looked down the street toward him, scenting the air, and he shrank into the shadow. He held his breath but all was well, and he remained undiscovered. The creature looked back into the shop.

Hmm, interesting. The scruffy looking vampire was carrying something: a small red headed girl. Breakfast perhaps? Then he thought, no, the girl was moving and hanging on to the Undead creature’s shoulder like he was her last bastion, her buoy on the rough seas that had just spent themselves inside the building. How curious, a tame vampire no less! That was one for the books... Then the Slayer moved out of the shop supporting a brown haired girl over the debris that had spilled onto the pavement. The Chosen One was followed in turn by a dark haired young man carrying another girl. Blond this time and unconscious by the look of it. He held his breath once again. Were there no others inside the shop? Where was he? Was he lost? Something like fear tickled his guts as he waited.

Ahha, there he was: the one he needed.

A tall man suddenly stumbled from the shop, turning to step back and survey the damage. In one hand he was clutching a heavy looking book. His free hand went to his forehead as he looked. The gesture was pure shock and dismay. Understandable really, the place was an insurance nightmare.

“Giles?” The Slayer spoke. Her voice was unconsciously commanding and compelled a reaction from the tall man. He immediately turned toward her, nodded and set a weary pace behind her as she turned and lead the battle scarred group down the street. That left the shop unguarded and he hurried down to record as much data as he could before the dawn contaminated the site.

Well, what a mess the place had been. The contents looked like they had been caught up inside a tornado, there was nothing left that had not been smashed, melted, crumpled, burnt, torn, burst or contaminated by the evil presence that still tainted the air. He wrinkled his nose. Ugh, sulphuric and oppressive. He sampled the air, took some of the scorched chalk from the obviously ineffective magical circle and bagged the Incendius bowl and its contents.

He had then followed the group to the Sunnydale hospital and lost them amongst the throngs of people inside the emergency area. Oh well, it could wait. He doubted that he would learn more until the little group had licked its hurts and had time to ruminate over events. And when they did he would be waiting and listening and gathering valuable data about what had gone wrong with his little venture. And wait he had. With patience and not a few cappuccinos. In the end he had been forced to wait over a day for his answers, but now finally he was going to get them.

“Hey that’s mine!” A young man’s voice echoed tinnily in the mike. “Get your own!” An exaggerated slurping sound and then an English voice responded.

“Here have it back then.”

“Eew!”

“Ooh diddums. What kind of a man do you call yourself, scared of a little spit?”

“That’s your spit, your dead cold undead corpse spit-” Aah, the vampire was there. An English vampire as well, how interesting.

“What’s wrong with my spit? Perfectly good spit. Bet it has less nasties in it than yours what with all your vengeance demon shagging.”

“Anya don’t say a word - and what Spike? Are you jealous that you ain’t the one doing the shagging? Oh man, I can’t believe I’m discussing vampire spit. I can’t believe I said shagging. Why am I even talking to you? Who invited him anyway, he caused all of this in the first place?”

“Ask your Watcher, he reinvited me in.”

“Yeah, what’s with that Giles? Got a surplus of weetabix or something?” Finally down to business. The Watcher would want to stop this nonsense and get down to business.

“Alright, let’s stop this nonsense and get down to business shall we. Spike get your feet off my coffee table.” An oof sound and muffled protesting noises. “Now - Spike get your feet off Xander – what was I going to say? Oh yes. As much as it is irritating Spike should be here in case I need to verify certain occurrences that I was not privy to.”

“Privy?” The young man again.

“I’ve been thinking about what happened and the reports by Tilea, the last Council member who tried to investigate the existence of a Hell God blood pool under the Hellmouth at Soarevale. If you remember he told of meeting a vampire, Bogdan, and his cryptic little message concerning the blood: Beware, for it always returns to the Master of Masters. To him and him alone belongs the Wine of Life, to him alone the Sire’s glory, to him alone the deepest, sweetest depths of the chalice of Baru. Beware of Shadows. They track. They seek. It always returns to the Highest of High.” The watcher sounded like he was chanting the strange quote from memory. Bizarre quote at that.

“Bogdan, I know him!” The British vampire again. “Mad bastard, he was. Me and Dru ran into him in Zurich once. Romanian right?”

“Yes.” The Watcher sounded surprised.

“Mad. Crazy. We went on a gourmet tour of the city with him and damn near got staked and burnt and covered in holy water all at once! We crashed this open air mass right, and I knew it was a bad idea but Dru really wanted an alter boy and-”

“Please, spare us the details.”

“You people are no fun. Oh, alright. Anyway, after the alter boy-”

“Eew, details, details!” A new voice, female, followed by a long suffering male sigh.

“Anyway, Bogdan decides he wants to thrall the entire congregation and sermonize during dinner, right. So here he is ranting away, going off on some bent about chalices and the blood of the Mighty One, blah, blah, blah and this mob arrives. Seems Bogdan had been doing some sermonizing down at the local pub right before we ran into him. We barely got out in one piece.” Laughter. “I can still see it: Dru trying to eat and run and this woman she’s got going “no, no put me down. Put me down! Murder! Murder!” And Dru trying to get her teeth in just to shut her up, but she’s bouncing all over the place and all she can get is a mouthful of ear! And.. And Bogdan’s running right after us still preaching and waving around this christening -” Riotous laughter, gasping peals of mirth and quite possibly tears. A smacking sound. “OW! Bloody hell Slayer!”

“Ah, and just what was the point of that highly disturbing and, on the face of it, totally unnecessary story?” Giles again.

“It was funny. God, you people need to get out more.”

“Spike, do not speak again unless you are asked. Buffy?”

“On it.” A sharp voice snapped. No more mirth from the vampire.

“Right, now, Spike did Bogdan ever explain this Mighty One or the chalice?”

“No.” Sulky voice. “We got separated pretty much right away. I thought the mob got him. Daft bastard. And no, I never heard about any of that stuff before or since then, I thought ol’ Bogdan was just nuts. I mean, every vampire knows about these mythical pools and all, but everyone always said they were just fairy tales.”

“Alright then.” Clearing of throat. “Here’s what I think. If you consider the almost narcotic effect this blood has on the Undead, and others associated with the demon world, it is rather surprising that these pools of Hell Blood have not been plundered and drained long ago. Something must be preventing that from happening. Now, by deduction it cannot be a protective barrier or some such that stops the blood being taken at all or there would be constant attempts to find it and breach it, fairytale or no. If that was so then there would be more in the texts. Repeated attempts would not go unnoticed. So that leaves the alternative that seems to fit our experience.

“These ghouls maybe the failsafe that guards the pools. Bogdan, in his little speech, refers to shadows. Shadows that hunt and seek. From the reading of the text I think that Bogdan was referring to these ghouls. If you think about it, it makes sense. They went after the largest accumulation first - the fridge of it at Willy’s. Then Spike. I noticed, when he arrived at the shop that he was not infused with magic any longer. It puzzled me at the time, I thought perhaps that the spell had dried up, but now I don’t think that was the case.

“Then the ghouls took the bagged blood at the Magic Box, and finally sought out Buffy and myself inside the ring. It all fits with the Council’s observations of a self limiting pattern of aberrant vampire activity at the time of Tilea. These ghouls must have taken it all back then, as they did this time.” A pause. “I, ah, admit that there might be some holes in my deductions but at the moment it seems the most reasonable theory.”

“That’s why they were so keen to breach the circle.” Another voice, female. “And why they just left like that.”

“They certainly were shadowy. And hunty.” Yet another female. “And hellish.”

Silence. Fascinating theory. A lot of merit in it and well thought out. He knew it had been the right choice to set up the Hell God pool experiment in Sunnydale. He always did have excellent judgement in such things.

“So, its not likely to be a problem in the future? So long as we contain the odd stoned vamp, the thing should always burn itself out.” The Slayer asked.

“Yes. It should. If I’m correct.”

“What about the magic user behind the camouflage spell?” A female again.

“Ah, now that is a real worry Willow. We should look into it.”

“<Yawning sound> Tomorrow?”

“Yes, tomorrow.”

“Oh you’re not all going off to beddybyes now? The night is barely born. What about the Bronze? What about a boogy to work off the ghoul experience? How ‘bout it Slayer? - the night is fresh and so am I.”

“Spike - speaking.” The Slayer’s voice was threatening. Grumbling rumbled down the microphone. Then there was a series of goodbyes and shadowy figures were emerging from the house. The glow of a cigarette spotted the murky evening air, it moved away from the rest of the group.

“Hey Anya, nice rabbit’s foot.” Willow’s voice trickled down to him. Huh?

“Oh, yes. See Xander, I’m touching it now. See, all touchy touchy, no problem. So lots of orgasms tonight like you promised - ” And they were gone.

“Giles.” The Slayer’s voice in his microphone. She had not left and she sounded uncertain, almost fearful. “Are you going to tell me about the whole hell tainted beings attracted to and getting off on Hell Blood thing now?” Hello, what was this?

“Oh, you remember that part do you?” The watcher sounded a little apprehensive himself.

“What did you mean? That the Slayer is somehow hell tainted? Like Spike?”

“Good lord no!” A pause. “Not like Spike.”

“Not like Spike! Giles what does that mean?”

“Come in to the kitchen. I’ll put some tea on.”

“You’re not getting out of this with an English tea ceremony Rupert Giles!”

“That was hardly my intention Buffy. <sigh> I have a feeling that his is going to be another long long night.”

He lowered the mike and grinned. He would love to stay and hear the telling of that tale, but he already knew it and his plane was leaving in a few hours. He chuckled. Serves you right for not telling her sooner Ripper old son. Then Ethan stood, stretched the kinks out of his back and walked away into the night, amused and thinking thoughts of Hell Gods and the magicks that might ward off ghoul blood hounds. He yawned. Oh yeah, it had been one long night alright.