TITLE: Do not go gentle - Part 2 of the Match Made in Hell series

AUTHOR: Kath

E-MAIL ADDRESS: cerebral_meltdown2003@yahoo.com.au

RATING: M - violence, swearing and allusions to sexual matters.  Not to a greater degree than the show has portrayed, however (not that that is really being restrained!).

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....

The poem “Hausa hunters” was sampled from Leaf and bone: African Praise-poems,

Edited by Judith Gleason, (published in 1980 and republished in 1994).  Originally published in New York by Viking, 1980; republished by Penguin Books in 1994. ISBN 0 14 058.722 5

IT’S A GREAT BOOK!

PLOT SUMMARY:   He is just wrong.  In every sense this guy is just wrong - a snarling, mutant fusion of James Dean, Billy Idol and Freddy Kruger, forever getting in her face.  He’s everything there is to hate, everything there is to resist, every crime ever committed, and every sin under the sun.  He’s evil, sick, twisted, annoying, perverted and positively revels in it.  And so does she.  Whether she wants to or not.

So what’s a girl to do?  Well, if you are the Sunnydale Slayer you do what you have to to get rid of him, even if that means going straight to Hell. 

Too bad he’s coming too.

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 a little 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, to Pam for her encouragement, and to Diana for her unceasing enthusiasm and her very welcome and necessary cyber-nagging ;-).

CHARACTERS: Buffy, Giles, Spike, Dawn and some new characters (not telling more!).  Ethan pops his head up too.  Some mention of Dru and Angel/Angelus.  See One Long Night for more.

 

WARNING: Minor character deaths

 

READING OF THE FIRST PART - ONE LONG NIGHT- IS NECESSARY FOR THIS PART TO MAKE SENSE.

 

Also – for those that don’t know: torch means flashlight in the UK and Australia (and other countries I am sure – sorry if I have left you out).  If I mean a torch of the flame variety then I will make that clear.  Where the point of view of an American character is being used then I have used the term flashlight.

 

Do not go gentle (sequel to One Long Night)

 

Chapter 1

 

 

It is not for the meat  

But for the sake of the game                                                              

That we hunt.                                                                                                 

‘Hausa Hunters’ - Hausa                                           

 

 

Yippee-ky-ay motherfuckers!

 

Bruce Willis

 

 

Hunting.

Moving through the silent moonlit graveyard as quietly as a shade.  Bare feet padding over disturbed earth.  Feel how fresh it is between the toes.  Feel it.  Smell it.  Taste it in the air.

Birthing soil.

The former occupant is still close by, newly born, naked and vulnerable.  Hungry.  Looking, blindly seeking, its first kill.  Thrashing through the first hours of its life like a new born foal trying to stand, not thinking, not knowing anything but the necessity to rise up and live.  It is a sacred time, a pure time, a naked time.  A time consumed with a burning lust for blood.

She doesn’t need to tell him what she has found.  He knows.  Crouching silently beside her, toes curled into the grave’s disturbed soil, he knows.  She can feel him shivering with it.  He inhales the night air, searching: her partner, her other half, her Watcher.

A twig snaps somewhere in the darkness and he growls beside her.

They run.

Hunting. 

Chasing through the undergrowth.  Branches whipping by; leaves and cold turned earth sent flying.  Heart racing with excitement.  It burns and smoulders through her chest, her belly, lower.

And there it is.  Breaking cover to flee over the open ground.  Eyes flash, pure carnivore desire, and she is sprinting as fast as a cheetah, as fast as Death itself.  The ground flies under her feet and the trees are a blur.  Then her Watcher veers away and takes off on an angle, anticipating an ambush up ahead.  Now it is just her and the Prey.  And the chase.

The glorious chase.

Gaining ground on it as it flees through the graves.  It’s swerving, jumping, leaping and stumbling over the tombs.  But her feet move in an effortless blur.  Each footfall perfectly placed.  She is flying along the ground, leaping over the grave markers like they aren’t even there.

Then one flawlessly timed vault and she has it.  They go down in a skidding heap, churning up the leaves and rot until the air smells like perfume; incense.  Its newborn claws scratch at her and every wound feels like fire.  Like power.  Like bliss.

Its fangs snap and chew air.  Foam flies from its lips.  And then the stake.  Its sharp point, like lightning, striking the chest and piercing the heart.  She can feel the heart sack tearing as the sharp wood forces its way through into the tough heart muscle and for a moment she wishes she had used her hands, her teeth.  But then the dust.  Dust.  Exploding dust.  And she inhales it, eyes half shut, dreamy.

Stoned.

......

......

A growl: confident and predatory.

And right behind her.

One twist and she is up, whirling to face the new comer.

And there he is.  Pacing slow and deliberate on the edge of the clearing.  Skin like alabaster, like marble, glowing under the moonlight.  Eyes on fire, watching her.  He’s gauging, judging.  She smiles.  He isn’t going to run, he isn’t going to flee: he’s going to fight.

Better than the chase, better than anything.

He returns her smile and his fangs glint in the moon glow.  She shivers.  She can feel the energy radiating from him, the barely contained power, and her skin burns where it touches her.  This is the one.

Finally, this is The One.

They clash.  Claws and fists and feet and fangs.  Blood and bruises.  Looking for the killing moment.  Looking for death.  But it never comes and they fight forever and it is perfect.  It is ecstasy.

Then he throws her back.  She hits the ground, rolls and is up again, ready.  And he is still there.  Blood like black glistening spider webs streaking the porcelain of his skin.  Bruises like storm clouds.  Pretty.  Sexy.  And he is still there, waiting, snarling around a smile: feral and knowing.

Her blood feels hot in her veins and she knows he can smell it.  His nostrils are flared, chin lifted, eyes intense.  She looks into those eyes and sees herself reflected.  Sees fury and death.  Then he swipes his tongue over his split lip, tasting his own blood and she frowns.  His blood is hers by divine right, but he’s taunting her with it, showing off bloody fangs in a sharp smile. 

And suddenly she understands. 

Her charge is met move for move even as she knocks him from his feet and they fall.  Down into an open grave.  Soil falls like a rain shower to cover them as she takes her right to his blood.  A Slayer’s right.  She feels his fangs bear under her lips and she answers his growl.  Even as his claws rise to sink into her throat, even as she stabs down with her stake, she finally understands and she is alive: finally Alive.

“Spike...”

 

                                                                      *****

 

“ARGH!”  Buffy sat bolt upright in bed.  Oh my god.  No, no, no, no, no.  Not again!  Not again.  Adrenaline and something she didn’t want to acknowledge was still racing through her veins.  She was shaking.  Sweat was making the bed sheets stick to her skin.  Oh god.  That freaking dream.  Every night since the ghouls, since the dammed hell blood. 

FUCKING SPIKE!

(ARGH: horrifying Freudian mental picture!)

Ohgodohgodohgod.

What the hell am I going to do?

Call Giles.  Yes: call Giles.  He’ll know what to do.  Tearing back the covers she practically leapt across the room to her dresser.  Her hand curled around the phone.  No, wait.  What was she going to say?

Hi, Giles.  Sorry to call so late.  Yes, everything is fine.  Sure - I’m fine.  Except for the horrible, shameful, hell-blood induced lust fuelled death dream featuring mucho nakedness, blood and Spike, everything is great....

Oh god it was so shameful she couldn’t even say the words out loud.  Not to Giles.  Mom, Willow?  God no!  She let go of the phone and sat back down on the damp sheets.  Just calm down.  Deep calming breaths.  Yes, everything is fine.  Just a dream.  Not prophetic or anything, just a plain old dream.  A run of the mill technicolour Slayer type horrible mixed up nightmare of blood and hunting and death and lust and sex and Spike and - oh my god .....  With a groan she fell back on the bed and covered her face with her pillow. 

 

                                                                      *****

 

  Giles jerked upright in his desk chair and blinked.  What the-?  Something had just woken him.  Something....   He looked curiously at the phone, his gaze drawn to it  as if by a magnet.  What was he expecting?  A call?  He rubbed his face with one hand. 

Buffy?

He waited a moment but the phone stayed silent.   Odd.  He was sure for a moment that he had been woken up by something outside of himself.  He sighed and rubbed his face again; massaged tired eyes under his new glasses.  Just as well probably.  He had been having some seriously disturbing dreams ever since the night of the ghoul attack and was not sure he wanted to put himself in the position of accidently mentioning them by talking to Buffy so soon after having one.  He drew in a deep cleansing breath.  Back to work.

The desktop in front of him was splattered with layer upon layer of notepaper, pens, pencils, rune stones, bones, books and parchments and his Magia.  None of it was helping much though.  There was nothing anywhere that told him anything more about these Hell god blood pools.  Not even Tilea’s writings, easily the most extensive of all the scratchings he had come across, took him from the above ground search down into the Hellmouth proper.  How could the Council have let this happen?  How could they have been so lax?  Actually he knew the answer to that and it was one of the reasons he had rejected the offer of a position on the High Council Inner Circle.  Whether concerning themselves with the acquisition of new books for a school library, planning for a national budget or working on a yearly Hellmouth threat assessment, committees were committees and usually stuffed it all up.  He hated committees.  That was something he and his Slayer charge shared in common. 

Thinking again of Buffy, Giles looked at his phone.  Something had woken him up and if it hadn’t been Buffy then what-

RING!

“Buffy.”  Giles answered on the first ring.

“I’m sorry to say not Mr Giles.”  An Englishman’s voice.

“Oh, its you.”  Giles pursed his lips and sank back in his chair.  He tried, very unsuccessfully, not to get irritated.  If there was one thing worse than committees it was dealing with their lackeys.

“Oh yes Mr Giles, it is me as it has been everyday since I was born.  Begging your pardon Mr Giles sir, but you said to call at anytime of the day or of the night.  Night or day.”

“You’ve found something?”  That was unusually quick.  Even though he was chief librarian at the Council headquarters Barnabas Bartholomew Longbottom was not an especially sharp tack.

“Ah, well,” there was a hesitation.  “Mayhaps something Mr Giles.  Mayhaps something.”  Giles frowned, then he felt it.  Even down the phone line he felt the rotten little bastard at it.  Of all the nerve-

“Put him on Barnaby.”

“Oo, er, I - I’m not sure I know-” Old Barnaby stuttered.

“If you are going to spy Knightly you could at least have the decency to put some effort into it.”  A moment of soft cloth sounds against the phone and some muted whispering.  Then a new voice:

“Rupert old boy!”

“What are you doing Knightly?  This is none of your business.”

“Oh but it is my dear fellow.  Anything that takes up Council resources is my business and it seems you have been taking up quite a bit of Old Barnaby’s very valuable time these past few days.  I don’t think we’ve ever seen him quite so -”

“What are you after?”

“You haven’t changed have you Rupert.  I would have thought a spell in the colonies would have loosened you up little.”

“Knightly.”  Warning tone now.  Annoying little prick.

“Fine, fine, fine.  We know you have Barnaby searching the archives for information on the Hellmouth pools, even though we have already searched and given you what we had nearly a week ago, I might add.   So glad to hear your good self and the Slayer made it through by the way.  One might even think you don’t trust us.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?”  Giles retorted through his teeth.  “You haven’t answered my question Councillor: what do you want?”

“Barnaby hasn’t found anything new because there isn’t anything else here that you have not already seen yourself or we have not passed on to you.  So, the Council has held a session and decided that your concern over our knowledge gap is not only justified, but highlights a situation of grave concern.”  Giles froze in his seat.  They couldn’t be suggesting-?  No, they weren’t that stupidly naive.  Couldn’t be.  “The vote was unanimous: the Council is going to mount an expedition into the Sunnydale Hellmouth.”  Oh no, here it comes.  “Obviously the selection of the party is something that we have not yet finalized-”

“No.”

“Come come Rupert-”

“No, absolutely not.  Its a stupid idea.”

“Really?  How then do you propose we gather the data you have justifiably pointed out is sorely lacking in our archives?  I never pegged you for a coward Rupert.”

“Don’t patronize me with your childish attempts to manipulate, Knightly.  I cannot go and neither can the Slayer and you know very well why.”

“We have protective magicks-”

“Not that powerful.”

“I think you underestimate us Rupert.”  Knightly actually sounded insulted which Giles found childishly pleasing.  “We have discussed all the aspects, the expedition will be going ahead.”

“Then it will do so without myself and without the Slayer.”  A pause on the line.

“Very well, if you insist.”  All right, that was unexpected.  He was silent for a second and then forced his thoughts through the song lines, the ley lines, through the misty places and found Knightly.  “OW!  That is uncalled for Rupert!”  The Councillor’s voice squealed down the line and Giles found himself blocked.  “I have been nothing but honest with you.”

“Really?  So who have you chosen to die this time?”

“No one is going to-” A frustrated sigh.  “This is no longer your concern.  You will kindly desist monopolizing Barnaby’s time and move on to something else.  We will send you a copy of the data once it has been collected.”  Giles did not speak for the longest time.  The bastards.  The bastards.  They had him and they knew it.  He could not let them choose someone, no doubt some young, eager, hopelessly naive and inexperienced someone  (Wesley’s fresh, stupid young face popped into his mind), to go in his place to die because of some committee decision taken during a late night sherry session.

“Alright.”  Giles clenched his teeth.  “I’ll do it.”

“Well-”

“Don’t be an ass on top of a son of a bitch Knightly.”

“Welcome aboard, you-”

“Wait a minute, you haven’t heard my terms.”

“Terms, old boy?”

“You will give me command of the party.”

“Giles I-”

“Shut up and listen.  If I am going to risk my life, and more importantly: the Slayer’s life, for you then you will bloody well listen to me.”

 

                                                                      *****

 

Buffy couldn’t sleep.  Actually scratch that: she was afraid to sleep.  Instead she drew the curtains against the seductive pull of moonlight, flipped the light switch and got down to some Tai Chi. Clear the mind.  Yes, don’t think of anything except the forms.  Slow and fluid just like Angel had taught her.  Angel.  Control the body and the mind will follow.  Who was she to argue with a century of learned anguish control?

Thinking of Angel though got her thinking of other vampires she had encountered which lead to thoughts of the Master, Darla, Drusilla, and then, inevitably, back to Spike.  She pursed her lips, concentrated harder, but just got more Spike. 

Rrrrrrr...

Dammit, why didn’t Giles tell her about all this earlier?  They could have prepared.  They could have searched out a protective charm, or something, that would have put a wall between herself and her Hell dimension attraction.  Dammit!  And if he couldn’t tell her, why hadn’t he fixed it himself?  She sighed, straightened from the crane form and repositioned herself for another run through - she was being unreasonable and she knew it but jeez...

 

“Please, sit down.”  Giles had motioned her to a kitchen chair and turned to the kettle.  Then - nothing.  He fussed with cutlery and teabags and she sat there getting more frightened with each passing second.  After breaking a second nail picking at the cracked plastic tabletop she could stand it no longer.

“Giles!” 

“What?  Oh yes.  Yes.”  He turned around, leaned against the counter and took off his glasses. He still could not look at her. “Right.  I’ve been meaning to have this talk with you for some time now.”  He bit at his lower lip.

“Okay.”  Buffy prompted, not even trying to keep the apprehension out of her voice.  “Seriously freaking out now.”

“Oh no Buffy.”  That galvanized her Watcher and he pulled out a chair to sit at the table, then he reached out and engulfed her hand in his larger one.  “There is nothing to worry about.  I haven’t been reticent to tell you because it was something - threatening.  I just haven’t told you because, well frankly, it was of greater concern to teach you the more immediate facets of being the Slayer, initially.  The, uh, actual Slayage if you will. 

“Then, with the fuss with the Master, Angelus, Adam and such; not to mention various and sundry panic attacks regarding overdue papers and tests, the right time just never arose.”

“So, you’re going to tell me now right?”  She took a deep breath.  “How is the Slay - how am I connected to the Hell dimensions?”

“As you know, for every generation there is a Slayer.  One girl, chosen from all others to fight the darkness.”  He looked at her for a moment, curiously.  “Have you ever wondered how each Slayer is chosen?”

“Sure.”  Buffy said.  “But I thought it was all - you know - some mysterious mystical unknowable thing.  Like Britney Spears.”

“Brit - What?” 

“You know, Britney Spears.  Blond, dancy, can’t sing for nuts.  Virginal my ass.”  She muttered darkly.  “Anyway, I mean, how did she get so big?  Who knows?  Its one of those mysterious things - like the meaning of life, or pixie boots?  I mean who would have thought suede-?”

“Stop, please.” Giles pinched the bridge of his nose.  Squeezed his eyes shut for a long moment.  “Alright, from that unfathomable string of analogies one takes it that you haven’t given it a lot of in-depth thought?”

“Well-”

“Alright.”  Giles replaced his glasses and looked at her.  “Here it is: from the beginning of knowable time, for as long as vampires have existed, from the dawn of human kind there have been Slayers.  We are not sure how the first one was created, who created her I mean, but there has been a lot of research conducted and a lot of knowledge preserved from ancient times.”  He took a breath, paused for a moment - “the first Slayer handed down a legacy.  Along with saving humankind from a very premature demise she left another mark of her passing.  Her bloodline.”

“So-”

“So, you are a direct descendent of that first Slayer.”  Buffy blinked at him - woah, heavy.  “Her essence flows in your veins.”

“So that means that Mom-”

“No.”

“Dad then.”

“No.”

“Hey, is this your very not subtle way of telling me that I’m some freakish foundling left on my parent’s doorstep?” 

“No, your parents are your parents.”  He smiled.  “We aren’t talking about genetics Buffy.  It’s something more primal than that.  If it were only genetics then the bloodlines would be so weak by now that no new Slayers could arise. 

“You have the Slayer’s, well, it is hard to put into words like this, but within you is part of her very essence.  What made her the Slayer, you have inherited.  By detecting this essence the Council is able to pinpoint the location of each new Slayer.”

“Okay, handling that.”  She nodded slowly.  “So, what about the hell attraction bit?”

“From what we know, the first Slayer was formed in response to the creation of the first vampire.  Somehow, the progenitor of the vampire bloodline slipped into this dimension and so the first humans were murdered and in their shells parts of the essence of that demon took over.  Now, whoever or whatever, created the Slayer to counter the vampires did so by using material from that very vampire demon.  It makes a perfect kind of sense if you think about it.”  Giles had that geeky guy on speed look in his eye: staring into space, faintly excited, oblivious to his freaked out Slayer charge.

“Okay, thinking about it.”  Buffy prompted. “So far seeing no perfect.”  Giles did not appear to have heard her.

“The best analogy is the criminal profiler.”  He went on. “ How does the profiler catch the killer?  Answer: by figuring out how the murderer thinks.  What will be his next move; how does he arrive at that point?  The profiler reaches inward to find some sympathetic chord that allows him to intuit the next move of the killer.”  He broke off from his musing and looked at Buffy.  “It doesn’t mean that profilers are killers.  It doesn’t mean that they are one and the same as the murderers they are hunting, just that they, unlike most of the population, have the innate ability to empathize with the murderer.  That ability enables them to catch their quarry and prevent more deaths. 

“It’s the same with the Slayer.  The ability to understand the motivations and desires of the Undead, and I mean really understand them, in here,” he tapped his chest “gives the Slayer the supernormal ability to hunt them down.  It doesn’t mean that the Slayer is a hell beast.  Do you understand what I am saying?”

“I think so.”  She picked at her broken nail.  The kettle suddenly whistled and Giles instantly moved to the counter.  She smiled behind his back: Pavlov’s Watcher, conditioned to make tea at the sound of a whistle.  It was a strangely comforting thing to watch.  “What about you then?”

“Ah, well.”   He fussed with his tea bags.  “Watchers are a little different again.”  He poured hot water into the cups.  Steam billowed upward to fog his glasses.  “To start at the beginning: not all members of the Council have the potential to become Watchers, you know.  Very few in fact.”  He returned to the table and handed Buffy her tea.  He blew on his as he sat down again. 

“What, the essence of the First Book-Guy isn’t all that common then?”

“Something like that.”  Giles gave one of his faint tolerant smiles.  He sipped at his tea.

“So, give!”  Buffy demanded when he floated away on a tea high. “If I’m going to be all Silence of the Lambs-girl then I want some company.  What’s the deal with the Watchers.”

“Well, as you know, my grandmother was a Watcher.  In fact, I come from a long line of Watchers.  Going right back on my grandmother’s side.  Almost every generation of the Giles family has produced a Watcher.”  He sounded faintly proud of that which pricked Buffy’s interest.  There wasn’t much about his family, or his inheritance that he spoke positively about.

“So when did they tell you about your destiny?”  She asked.

“Actually about the same age as you were when you were first approached.  I didn’t take the news very well either.”  They smiled at each other.  “Not much is known about the origins of the Watchers.  It is believed that they were also created by those that made the first Slayer.  For instance, Watchers have some of the Slayer’s capacity to heal, and share a little of the instinctive understanding of the Undead, but compared to the Slayer herself it is piffling in degree.  Why Watcher’s were first created then is really a matter of conjecture.  Maybe it was an afterthought, an accident; maybe there was no reason at all.”

“Well, I for one am glad they were created.”  Buffy said.  Then she grinned.  “I mean, who would do all the book stuff for us?”  She sobered again - “Actually, it all makes a kind of sense.  When I, you know - with the Hell blood and kind of - you know what  - and you and Xander, well, you know (her Watcher smiled, amused and paternal at the same time.  He had taken the whole incident a lot more calmly than she had.  Typical Giles).  Yeah, well anyway I sensed something when I touched you.”

“You did?”  Giles sat up straight in his chair.  His eyes burned brightly, his body tensed.

“Yeah.  At first I thought it was another Slayer. It was very confusing, somehow I knew that there couldn’t be another and yet...”  She trailed off as a smile of pure delight briefly curled her Watcher’s lips.  It lit up his face like the sun and she couldn’t stop an answering smile.  That she had been the cause of this happiness rather than pain was a surprisingly heady rush.  She should do it more often...

“So why the hell blood attraction then?”  She asked

“Ah,” He sat back in his chair and scratched at his forehead with a thumbnail.  “An unfortunate side effect I am afraid.  Vampires, Slayers, and possibly, well (he tried not to smile) probably, Watchers, having all stemmed from the same demon/human mix are attracted to the very darkness they were created from.  It is not usually a problem.  Its, ah, not everyday that one has to deal with hell material in this dimension.”

They sat in silence and drank their tea.  Very heavy, Buffy thought to herself, I have demon essence.  The very concept was distressing.  Here she was, having been taught to hate, despise and fight the evil Undead, now finding out that they were in fact mystically related.  How sucky was that.

“Are you alright?”  Giles had asked after a time.  “Do you have any questions?”

“I’m fine.”  She had nodded, and crooked one corner of her mouth in a smile.

 

Now she wished she had asked more questions.  Spike popped into her head again.  Dammit!  It was no good; she would have to find something else to do.

I know - patrol the house!

She slipped into the darkened hallway and padded down toward her mother’s and Dawn’s bedrooms.  She looked into her mother’s room first.  A familiar long shape under a huge mound of covers emerged from the darkness.  She squinted and reassured herself that there was actual breathing going on under the tons of wool and cotton.  It was just amazing, her mother had to have equatorial blood lines, there was no other explanation for her utter hatred of the cold.

Further along she nudged the door to Dawn’s room.  It was a mess - as usual.  Clothes, makeup, magazines, tapes, CD’s and junk were strewn over every available surface.  In the gloom it looked like mounds and twists of seaweed splattered along a beach.  Why did Mom let her get away with it whilst she had to keep her room in mind-bending order?  It was just typical: favouring the youngest, always looking after the baby; letting her frolic about in a Barbie fantasy land and live in a sty, whilst expecting the older sister to go around staking vampires by night and cleaning her room by day.  She pursed her lips and frowned: like to see Dawn drive off a rampaging Mom eating monster and remember to vacuum up the dust bunnies under her bed afterward...

Speaking of Dawn...  Dammit, not again.  The bed was empty, and she hadn’t even had the decency to fashion a dummy out of pillows and cushions like any other self-respecting whiny little sibling would have done.   Rrrrrrr.   Buffy curled her fists.  There were no prizes for guessing just where her sister had gone either.  Fucking Spike.....

 

 

                                                                    Chapter 2

 

 

“So what about if a mortal wants you to bite them?  Like to sire them or something?”

“Don’t know, no one’s stepped up for the honour since I got chipped.  Why, you offering?”

“Maybe.”

“Fang tease.”  Spike scolded.  Dawn was in a cheeky mood tonight and it was doing unmentionable things to his body.  He stopped suddenly and stared down at her standing there, way too close to him and looking pale as porcelain in the moonlight, and wondered if she’d stop her goading if she knew what it was doing to him.  Maybe not he thought: there was just enough of Buffy in the girl that she might not care.

“Who says I’m teasing?”  She said, looking at him from lowered lashes as she stood hipshot and all pouty.  The smell of her blood tingled in his nostrils.  Sexy.  He stared into her eyes, game face flickering.  She was so small.  Once upon a time he could have eaten such a little snack in one mouthful.  Once upon a time...  

“I say you’re teasing and I say you’d better stop it.”

“Make me.”

“Rrrrrr.”  He took a step back and sat on a tombstone.  Thrusting both hands into his duster he fished around for the makings and rolled himself a cigarette.  “You’re getting as bad as your big sis, little bit, but I know you’re teasing.  Wanna know how?”  He lit up and dragged in a mouthful of delicious acrid smoke.  With a practised purse of the lips he released the fumes in an impressive smoke ring that melted over the girl’s face, much to her disgust.  She coughed, waving her hands around in annoyance.  He grinned, gaze focussed and sharp like a razor.

“Well?”  Summers junior demanded after a moment.  She really looked like the Slayer when she got all stroppy.  He let her stew for a moment to enjoy the view, and smoked some more.  Then he snatched her arm, movement cobra fast, and pulled her close to him.  Her skin burned hot under his cold hand.  The blood pulsed strong and vital.  Tasty.  His teeth ached to make contact with the artery he could see pulsing in her throat, and for a lunatic instant he entertained the notion of giving in to the impulse.  Fuck this chip, fuck it to hell.  Then the moment passed and he satisfied himself by tickling her mind with a tiny thrall.  Her eyes widened in surprise and he smelt a tiny flicker of fear.  It warmed his belly.

“If you were serious I’d know it,” he hooked a black nailed finger into the waistband of her hipsters and tugged suggestively, “because I’d smell it.”  His meaningful stare was not lost on the youngster and she blushed to her hairline.  Still got it Spike, you still got it.  He held on to her clothing for longer than was necessary, until she started to get some serious doubts, then let her stumble backwards a step.  She did not move far: stubborn, despite her little shock.  He liked that.  It was too damn bad he couldn’t sire her; she’d by far make the best companion he could ever hope for.  He flicked the cigarette butt into the dark.  It made a bright tracing arc, comet like, before it died.

“Does the Slayer know you’re here?”  She didn’t answer.  “Thought so.  You’re going to be the death of me yet, love.  You know she doesn’t like you hanging about with the big bad.”  At the mention of Buffy Dawn folded her arms and stiffened her shoulders.  Teenagers: they were entirely too easy.

“Buffy’s not the boss of me, I hang where I want.  With who I want too.”  Defiant tone, almost angry.  Sassy young Bonnie looking for her Clyde. 

“Right.” 

“I do!”  Cue the three year old.

“I agree with you.”  Calm.  Don’t laugh.

“I DO!”

“I know you do.”  Don’t laugh.

Silence.  She suddenly scowled, catching on.  “Shut up Spike.”

“Tease and tease alike, pet.”  He chuckled.  “Never mess with the big bad.  I’ve got more than 100 years on you in the mind games department.”  More than you could ever know.  More than I could ever tell.

“Yeah, you’re a real antique.”

He bared his fangs at her, eyes glinting yellow.  She grinned back, feral and sharp.  God, she looked so much like her sister it burned...  And after those bloody brilliant dreams he had been having lately it scalded even more than usual.

He had not seen the Slayer since the ghoul incident and, he admitted to himself, he was starting to miss the bitch.  Even her tendency toward domestic Spike-thumping violence (actually especially that part, ooh yeah, when he thought about that late in the day, in his bed, under his red silk sheets the colour of blood...  Oh Mummy, little Will has been a baaaaad baaaaad boy).  It really grated.  He shouldn’t even think about her enough to miss her, but after a few days of skulking about fixing up the crypt, acquiring new furniture, a new TV and a stereo he was bored out of his skull.  Spine snappingly, nuts numbingly, hunt your bed ridden-grandmother bored.  Even coming good with his obligations to provide information to the Watcher was starting to appeal. 

Fuck, he was getting desperate...

It was no fun at Willy’s anymore either.  Since Willy had gotten himself on the pointy end of a ghoul and been killed off the place had changed management.  It had gone up class and snooty.  Where Willy liked the homey let-the-fangs-hang-out relaxed atmosphere that was equally conducive to a satisfying spot of violence with pool cues and broken bottles, as well as peacefully drinking oneself into oblivion and sleeping it off on the floor, the new lot had made it very clear that that was out of the question.  Beneath them, they said.  Not the kind of look they were trying to generate.  It wouldn’t attract the right type of clientele.  What the fuck kind of language was that from a lord of the underworld?  Clientele.  Right type.  Generate.  Where were the edibles, anything breathing, and ravage in that lot of bunk?

Fucking new age poofs.

In a fit of pique he had savaged the new proprietor and snapped the necks of his three minions as they stood there stupidly in their pressed beige business suits and polished high tops.  That had learnt them all right, the great mincing nancies. 

Outside of Willy’s (from which he had subsequently been given a ban for the rest of his existence) he had lost most all of his regular choices of recreation.  Couldn’t sire any minions and plan for any world domination, the muse from his mortal poetry-scribing days still had not returned, Dru was still buggered off (miss you luv, more than I can say), hunting and feasting was nixed post-chip implantation, and palling about with Undead buddies was nearly impossible since he had thrown his lot in with the Slayer. 

Bloody Slayer. 

It always returned to her. 

He growled low in his throat as the realisation sank in.  Bloody fucking hell, he was becoming dependent on a Slayer to provide the colour in his existence.  That wouldn’t be so bad if the colour generated was red and was obtained by eating her, but noooo, he was thinking about her in terms of hooking up for a bit of demon slaughter.  Reduced to killing my own people out of desperation for something to do; fallen so low as to embrace The Enemy to get some decent kicks...  Rrrrrrr. 

Maybe it was time to blow this joint?  Leave Sunnydale for more entertaining climes where anonymity would let him back into the clan, for a time anyway.   Another Hellmouth perhaps?  Hmmm...  The thought was strangely unappealing.  He had his claws firmly embedded in the Sunnydale Hellmouth.  He had gotten himself a decent set of digs and put down roots.  Humiliating, dependence riddled roots, sure, but roots all the same.  The first since he had been sired and he was becoming very attached to them.  He was, dammit.  This was his Hellmouth now; this was his lair, his blood-cache, his T.V., his stuff, his world.  His.  Nobody else to claim it and take it away just because they ranked higher, were older, were his bloody relatives, was his fucking grandsire.

“Where is Summers senior anyway?”  Spike asked Dawn. He lit up another fag.  “Haven’t seen her in a while.”

“Do we always have to talk about her?”  Dawn pouted at him.  Spike stared glassily at her.  For some unfathomable reason she hated it when he did that.  “Alright, stop staring at me already!  She’s been at the Magic Box all week helping Giles clean it up.  It got wrecked you know.”  She kicked at the headstone he was sitting on.  “She won’t let me see it, like I might be scarred for life or something.  Sheesh, it’s just broken up stuff.  Not like it’s a rotting body or anything.  Not like it’s dangerous.”

“Well, now pet - FUCK!”  Spike flew backwards off the tombstone to the accompaniment of Dawn’s shrill squeal.  He hit the ground and rolled, spitting out the cigarette.  Stretching out a clawed hand, game face pealed, he grabbed the ankle of the soon to be ex-entity that had knocked him off his perch.  The man fell, hard.  Spike was up in an instant and springing, cat fast, to pin him to the ground.  He struggled but was outmatched by the master vampire on top of him.  Straddling the body Spike forced it to turn face up.  Pinned its shoulder’s to the dirt.  It was a vampire.  Wild eyed.  Frightened. 

With a really, really appalling mullet.

“What the hell are you doing?  People are trying to have a conversation here!”  Spike glared at his victim, being his intimidating best, but it just had the opposite effect.  The vampire stopped fighting him and blew out his cheeks in relief, not in the least alarmed.

“Oh man, like am I glad to see a brother.  Dude, like this crazy chick with super type powers is after me.  She dusted my buddies in town and now she wants me.”  He spat out the words around unnecessary gasps.  “You gotta help me, I can’t lose her.  I tried every trick I know but she just keeps on coming.  Help me!”  He grabbed pleadingly at Spike’s forearms.  Pathetic.  Pathetic and sad.  Then Spike saw the pup’s throat and he bared his fangs.  The raw wounds there told him all he needed to know and it ignited anger.  Dammit!  Barely a day old and no Sire within Cooee.   What the fuck was the world coming to?  He felt the urge to kick arse, Sire arse - the very best kind.

“Get up!”  Spike ordered and sprang lightly from the vampire, game face disappearing.  After a moment he held out a hand.  The man, his relief pungently obvious, grabbed and was hauled onto his feet.  He looked so ridiculously happy Spike felt nauseous.  “Who Sired you?”  He barked harshly.

“Sired?”  The fledgling repeated vacantly and Spike tried not to slap the stupid creature.

“Made you.”  He explained, gripping the bony shoulders.  “You know, made you?”

“Made?”

“Into a vampire.”  He prompted.  Slow and baby clear.  Bloody hell.

“Oh!”  A light bulb smile around a mouth full of oversized fangs.  “Made me, oh I see.  Yeah, dude.  Made.  Like, cool word man.”

“Well?” 

“Oh, yeah, dude -” And Spike was holding air as the vampire suddenly exploded into dust and his gripping hands snapped down on nothingness.  In front of him, through the brown cloud stood the Slayer.  Her stake was still raised in one hand.

“Thanks.”  She said breezily, dismissively, and before he could make a suitably caustic remark she was walking away.   Well, wasn’t that just rude and thoughtless.  He sucked in his cheeks and exhaled with exaggerated care through his nose.  Calm blue ocean, calm blue ocean, calm blue ocean.  Nope.  Not working.  He flipped her the British bird behind her back.  A two fingered salute, palm facing his chest.  “What the hell are you doing here Dawn?”  Buffy snapped at her sister. 

Spike slipped up behind the blond and mimed an exaggerated coup de grâce, fangs extended and snapping silently near her head.  Rrrrr....  Despite her chagrin Dawn choked on a giggle and Buffy spun around, glaring.         

“That was rude.”  Spike said, human face indignant.  “You know, you might be the Slayer and all but a little courtesy isn’t too much to ask.  I was right in the middle of a conversation.”

“And remind me why I should care?”  The Slayer shrugged, eyebrows raised.  Sarcastic little bitch.

“I don’t have to take this shit - ”  He waved a finger in her face, towering menacingly.

“Yeah well, anytime you feel like you’ve had enough, just call me.  I can always make room for you in Mr Pointy’s calendar.  We aim to serve.”  She turned her back to once again look down on her little sister.  “We’re going home, now!”  Spike had an excellent retort ready to smite the Slayer with when -

“Hey blondie!”  A new voice interrupted him.

“Bloody hell, does no one have any sodding manners anymore?”  He whirled around and pulled up short.  “Who the hell are you?”  There were five vamped-out fanged brethren looking mean and nasty and hungry.

“Me?  Hell I’m the one whose boy you just dusted.”  The Leader said.  He was bigger than Spike by a head and shoulders with oversized muscles to match.  Sweet.

“That bloke was yours then was he?”  He rounded on them, staying unvamped.  He sized them up.  This was gonna hurt, but it was gonna be so good.  Adrenaline cranked up his muscles.  “Well, what the hell was he doing out on his own?  How long ago did he Rise? Five fucking minutes?”  The lead vampire frowned.

“What’s your problem brother?  Our business is with the girl.”

“My problem?”  Spike’s laugh was bitten off.  The stupid idiot had no idea....  “Oh sod it.”  And Spike released the beast, lunging and body slamming the Leader.

The fight was good.  Bloody and savage.  And it hurt like a bitch.

Blocking  swiping claws Spike ducked, coming up under the swinging limb and smashing his forehead into the Leader’s nose.  The bone shattered to mush.  Stunned, the creature staggered backward, arms flailing.  Blood gushed from the destroyed face.

“Who’s the big bad now?”  Spike roared, following the Leader’s backward stagger, and knocking aside one of the minions rushing in to save his hapless Sire.  No chance of that tonight: William the Bloody had some anger to displace.  The Leader went down on his arse and Spike stuck the boot in.  “Get up and fight you useless fuck!  Fight me!”  He danced back suddenly as the Slayer waltzed through taking on the other minions.  He turned to watch her, eyes drawn like magnets.  Hot, hot, hot.  She was wearing that little white sleeveless number he liked so much.  If he cocked his head the right way he could see down the plunging neckline and .....

A body slammed into him and he was going down.  He hit the ground and rolled.  A boot found its mark and he felt a rib give.  Pain rattled his frame like a lightening strike.  Shit.  Then he was up.  Ducking a fist.  Coming in underneath the punch and sinking his claws into the vampire’s arse, propelling the creature forward so fast he was hurled straight into a tree.  The greenery shook, cracked and fell.  This time though the Leader did not fall.  Instead he staggered, and turned to face Spike, fangs wet and red with his own blood.

“I know you.”  He spat blood as he spoke.  “You’re Spike.”

“Congratulations for having eyes.”  Spike retorted.  “Collect $100.  Go to the top of the class.  Eat your teacher.”

“I’ve heard about you: you kill your own kind.  There ain’t a brother or sister this side of the grave that ain’t gunning for you.”  Suddenly there was a poof of dust across from them and the Leader’s head whipped around.  He roared, anger rippling down his muscular frame.  Spike grinned.  The Leader glared at him.  “I heard a rumour that you don’t hunt anymore.  I heard that the Initiative fucked you up so you can’t feast, but you know what - I don’t believe those stories.”  He was breathing hard; unnecessary breaths, rage seeping from every pore. The remains of his nose was flattened across to the left of his face. “The Initiative didn’t fucking touch you.  You just put that story out to cover up the fact that you’ve lost your fucking nerve.”  He moved out to the right, looking for an opening.  Spike blocked the move, coming further around to the right and forcing the Leader to keep his back to the fallen tree. 

“Talk, talk, talk.”  Spike said.  He couldn’t be bothered with trading such pathetic fightin’ talk.  Not when there was actual violence to be had.  “Let’s you and I go at it and let me see if I can’t give you a couple of eyes to go with that nose.”  Behind him he heard the Slayer grunt as her fist connected with undead flesh. 

The Leader lunged and they connected again.  Fists and feet and fangs and claws.  Hard and relentless.  They pounded each other for an eternity.  It was a good match, and as it went on Spike had to admit a creeping respect for the Leader: he was experienced and tough.  Just not quite tough enough.

One last time Spike pushed him back against a tombstone.  The Leader sagged against it and Spike bounced on his toes.  There wasn’t much left of his adversary: blood and mashed up facial features, a broken fang, bloody claw marks, but still he would not run or lay down.  The anger Spike had felt earlier, the urge to pound Sire arse into pancakes, was evaporating too.  Maybe he had been too hasty...

“Get up.”  Spike encouraged, offering proper honour to his opponent.  Vamp to vamp, death on your feet was the only way to go.  The Leader did step away from the tomb, eventually, but did not lunge at him.  Instead his features flowed back into his human guise and he straightened up.  Spike cocked his head, frowned.  What the - ?

“You’ve beaten me Traitor.”  He slurred the words through broken jaws.  “But remember this: when its all over and done it won’t change the fact that you’re still scum.  I won’t fight you anymore.  You’re not worth it.”  Then the Leader turned his back.  “You’re nothing.  You’re beneath us.”

And the world slipped into silence.  Disbelieving stillness.

........

Spike felt his unbeating heart swell agonizingly in his chest.  He took a shaky breath, and then another.  The rage that had been disappearing suddenly flared and burst out into every cell until each fibre was exploding with it.  In that moment he was not just enraged, he was rage.  From him the word took its form.

With a roar he charged and took the Leader to pieces.

Anger, rage, hurt and fire.  Claws and fangs, rip and tear.  If the Leader fought back at all it didn’t register.  Screaming somewhere in the far, far distance played a sweet melody to his primal baseline.  Flesh tore and tore and tore and bones broke and were splintered and pulped in his claws.  Then dust.  It exploded all around him and he fell forward, hitting the ground hard.

Silence.

He lay there, panting and snarling silently into the dusty earth.  Fucker.  Motherfucker.

Silence. 

Hang on, too silent.  Where’s everyone gone?   Slowly, he pushed himself upright, onto his knees, then his feet, and looked around.   In the clearing the remaining players were all still there: two vamps, Buffy and Dawn.  Except they weren’t playing anymore.  Every one of them was frozen, like life size game pieces, each with their head turned in his direction.

Oh...

“What?”  He snarled after a second.  “Can’t a bloke have a bit of fun?”  The Slayer blinked at him and he stared at her.  Then he frowned, his nostrils flared.  What was that-? “Look out!”  He called out to her as one of the vampires suddenly came to his senses and charged.

Then it was on again.  Dancing a glorious dance.  The Slayer moved like greased lightning, fast and sharp and deadly.  So sexy, so fucking hot.  He kept one eye on her.  Then he smelt it.  What he had thought he had smelt before.  My god...

Shit!  Pay attention you bloody fool!  He barely avoided a killing blow, instead ducking to take the impact side on.  It threw him into the Slayer and they went down in a heap of tangled limbs.  He had a moment to register the shock in her face, her eyes a mere inch from his, before the two vamps, also off balance, fell on top of them.  Dawn screamed.

Then dust exploded to his right as the Slayer found her mark.  A second later, one twist of his hands, and his own opponent was dusted.  He rolled over.  The Slayer was still there.  He scented the air between them as their eyes met again, and again he frowned.   It could not be true.  It just couldn’t be true, but it was. Mesmerized, shocked, unable to think he went with instinct, pushing closer.

She hit him. 

Right hook across the face, splitting his already healing lip once again.  Some of his blood sprayed over her soft white skin.  Pretty.  He smiled at her, eyes half shut, and rumbled deep in his chest.

“....  Get off me Spike!”  Two hard hands suddenly pushed at his chest and he was lifted off her to land with a thump on his arse.  She sprang to her feet.  “Get off me!  Gaaahhh!”  The impact broke Spike’s spell and he lay there staring up at the two Summers women.

“We’re going home Dawn.”  Buffy said after a moment.   Her voice was shaking. “NOW!”  And they were gone and he was alone, lying in the dirt.  Bloody hell.

 

                                                                      *****

 

“...  You bloody stupid son of a bitch!  If you think I’m going to take orders from you, you can just think again!  You’re insane...”  Rupert Giles paused for a badly needed breath as he paced angrily up and down.  “You’re worse than insane, you’re....  you’re .....  you’re ...  Oh, argh!  Fucking hell, you want a bloody good killing off, you do!  With a blunted spoon.  With a wet shoelace.  I’ve a good mind to come over there right now and ... ”

“You did not say that Ru.” 

“Yes I did.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Well no, not out loud maybe, but it was all there in the way I hinted  - ‘no thankyou, being tortured horribly for all eternity in the pits of hell is not really up there on my list of things to do before I retire, thankyou so terribly much for the offer.’” He sat heavily on the couch.           

“So why did you say yes then?”

Giles turned his head as he laid it back on the couch and looked at his companion.  She was still incredibly beautiful, even after all this time.   How long had it been now?  My god, it’s been 25 years.  Over two decades since that morning he had woken up, sick to his stomach, on the floor of his London squat to the same calm inquisitive dark eyed gaze that he was being subjected to at the moment.  A quarter of a century since she had grabbed his unshaven chin and asked what no one, not even Ethan, had dared ask him - “Why are you trying to kill yourself?”

He reached out a hand and covered hers where it rested on her thigh, liking the way his hand fogged over in the warm golden glow of her aura.  He sighed, suddenly feeling very tired and defeated. “How could I say no.  They were right - it’s been long over due and it could be so very valuable to the fight.”  But why did it have to be me....

“But why did it have to be you?”

“Stop reading me Annie.”  He scolded, but there was no malice in his voice.  He could never be angry with her.  Even when she cheated.

“I don’t need to be able to read you to know what you’re thinking babe.  You’re right, why does it have to be you?  There are others: many, many eager others.  So many younger others, perhaps?” She smiled a small smile at his scowl.  “So why you?”

“I’m expendable.  Its something they knew I couldn’t refuse.  And if I hadn’t accepted they would have sent some inexperienced child - ”  He smiled faintly when he felt Annie’s warm hand on his arm, but then forced his thoughts back to the immediate.  “Why are you here?  Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

“I was wondering when you would get around to that.”  She smiled her Mona Lisa smile.

“Well?”

“I don’t think I’m going to tell you - yet.” 

“It’s a little late for coy Anita.”  Giles chided with a mock glare.  “What are you hiding?”  He squinted at her but her aura remained true.  She laughed at him, but kindly.  “Tell me!”  He demanded.  He grabbed one of her hands, and captured the other.

“Impatient.  Always so bloody impatient!”  She laughed and grabbed his hands so that they were holding onto each other at last.  She smiled at him and he felt his heart shudder in his chest.  He remembered that smile and it blossomed one of his own.  “You were always so impatient.  I remember that.”  Her tone had become wistful as she moved a little closer.  He followed suit.  Closer.  Lips almost touching she suddenly grinned - “don’t they have a medical term for impatience now?”

“Cheeky cow!  I’ll show you impatience.”  And he cut her off with a kiss as her hands slid under the tails of his shirt.     

Knock, knock, knock.  The front door rattled on its hinges.

“Expecting someone?”  Annie said into his ear.

“No.  Ignore them, they’ll go away.”

Knock, knock, knock.

“I don’t think so.”

“Don’t think.”

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!

“Blast.”  Giles sat up with a frustrated growl.  “Don’t move; I’ll be right back.”

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!

“ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT!”  He charged at the door and yanked it open.  “What - oh, Buffy.  Er, hello.”  The Slayer barged straight past him and he didn’t need to be able to read auras to see that something serious was up.  Again.  Crap crap crap.  He glanced at Anita, pressed his lips together in frustration, and rubbed a palm over his head.  Annie smiled teasingly at him from behind the arm of the couch.  Don’t do that!  He glared.  She touched her tongue to her lower lip.  Stop that, you  - he gave up and turned away from her.  Buffy was gone.

He heard movement and looked across the room where his charge had marched.  Refusing to look toward the couch again, he followed his Slayer into the kitchen.  He found her; arms folded, face white and pinched, leaning stiffly against the kitchen sink.  Something was definitely wrong.  The clean pure blue of her aura was marred with something that immediately doused any thoughts of romance.

“What’s happened?”  He asked.  “Are you alright?  Buffy?”   She didn’t reply.  “Buffy?”  He said again, softly this time, and padded closer.  Apprehension and confusion furrowed his brow.  “Buffy, please tell - ”

“I - ” She started.  Then stopped, and she looked at him. A shadow passed over her face, some decision was being made inside that blond head, and suddenly she was talking again. “Vamps.  Five of them.”  He looked at her curiously.  Frowned.  Her aura was doing something very odd, something he couldn’t quite put into words.  “Dusted ‘em all.”  She said.

“Right.”  He nodded slowly.  This isn’t what you came here for; we both know it.  “Good.  Was that all?”

“Yes - ” she wasn’t looking at him.  Again. 

“Buffy - ” 

“Just reporting in.  You know: patrol report.  Reporting an encounter.”  She trailed off.  Picked at his bench top.  “Reporting....  Stuff.”  He cocked his head, exasperated and yet worried enough to reach out and grip her shoulder.  When she looked up he cocked his head toward her, prompting.  He could see her aura squirming.  Even if she was trying to hide her disquiet he could see it.

The phone rang.  He ignored it.  Buffy didn’t.

“You’re phone’s ringing.” 

“Yes.”

“Aren’t you going to answer it?”

“Aren’t you going to answer me?”  The phone stopped mid ring and Annie’s voice floated softly into the kitchen.  She was whispering, but to a Slayer’s ears it would make no difference if she had yelled.  Buffy’s eyes immediately flicked in Annie’s direction.  Giles sighed and shut his eyes briefly.  Dammit.

“Oh, you have company.”  She straightened up.  Nervous, apologetic voice.  “I should go.”

“Buffy, it’s alright.”  He did not release her shoulder.  “You came here to talk to me about something that is obviously upsetting you, and I wish you would stop this prancing about tell me.”  She didn’t speak.  “I am your Watcher Buffy, but I am also your friend - ”

“RUPERT! Rupert, come quick.  Its the Council.”  Annie suddenly interrupted him, her voice strained.  Urgent even.  Nothing flustered Anita, nothing, except for - oh no, it couldn’t be.  Not now, not now.

“What is it?”  He charged out of the kitchen.  Annie was standing, phone stretched out toward him, one hand clamped over the mouthpiece.  She looked pale and sweat glinted softly on her upper lip.  What the hell?  Giles’ heart began to race in his chest.  “What - ?”

“The Council: they say he’s escaped.  They’ve lost him - ” She didn’t get to finish. There was a sudden crack of wood slamming into brick.  The explosive sound amplified inside the house.  It stabbed at Giles’ eardrums and he froze for just a second, shocked.  Then instinct took over and he was moving.  He swivelled around on his heel, hand automatically reaching for the nearest object - his desktop lamp - and raising it to strike.  Buffy appeared in his peripheral vision, stake drawn.  And there in the shattered doorway, silhouetted in the streetlight, a lone figure stood.  Predatory.  Silent.  Waiting for an invitation.

“Hello Ripper.”

 

Chapter 3

 

 

“Sorry about that bit of melodrama mate, sometimes forget how fragile the physical is.  What, not going to invite me in?”  Ethan smiled.  Or sneered.  Buffy could never tell.  It never seemed to confuse her Watcher though; he definitely came down on the side of sneer. 

In the blink of an eye Giles had dropped the lamp and was across the room, taking Ethan by the throat.  Buffy didn’t follow him like she wanted to.  She suddenly couldn’t move.  Not even a finger.  Something dark and primal had been woken with his lunge and was shifting deep inside.  She felt paralysed by it.  So instead she stared.  Eyes locked on the muscles bunching and shifting as her Watcher’s shirt pulled tight across his back.  An abstract of shadow and form.  An erotic study in fury.  She could see it pushing at its prison of skin and cloth, trying to escape, to wreak its havoc on the world.  She could smell it too.  Feel it.  Hear it crackling in the static of the room.  Its velvet black, blood red savagery set her senses on fire and a feral smile suddenly pushed at her lips.  Hurt him.  Do it.  Do it.

“Rupert no!”  The dark haired English woman with the phone dropped the receiver and lunged after Giles.  She grabbed at his forearm and tugged.  “Stop it.”  Her voice cut the air like a blade.  As urgent, commanding and fierce as her Watcher could be, but Giles did not let go and Buffy’s smile grew sharp and cold and alive with anticipation.

“You heard the lady.”  Ethan was croaking.  “Now be a good chap and - ”

“Rupert, please.”  The woman appealed again. And then Giles was moving.  He stepped back from the doorway and dragged the other man inside with a single convulsive movement.  He pushed him up against the wall instead.

“What the hell are you doing here Ethan?”  Her Watcher’s voice was like ice and Buffy shivered.  “Think very carefully before you answer.”  Ethan made a choking sound, and motioned at his throat with one hand.  Giles relaxed his grip.  “Don’t try anything.  Nothing.  I warn you: nothing.”

“Fine fine fine.”  Ethan said and rolled his eyes.  They rolled toward the woman and suddenly widened in recognition.  “Anita!  How lovely to see you looking so well.”  Giles slammed his head against the wall.  It made a dull, thick thud.  Earthy.  Fleshy.  Nice, Buffy thought, feeling a small wave of heat roll through her guts.  A spark ignited and reflexively she loosed her spidey senses into the room searching, searching, searching, for something...  Someone.  But he wasn’t there - NO, CRAP!  She took a sharp breath, held it.  Dammit.  Dammit.  Dammit.  What the hell is the matter with me?

Break the cycle, break the cycle...

“Do you have a death wish or what?  What are you doing here?  How did you get away from the Initiative?”  She marched over to the English trio, hands clenched into fists.

“And the Slayer.  Well isn’t this just very special: a welcoming party.”  Ethan grinned despite himself.  Giles squeezed.  Ethan choked.  “Alright, Ripper, alright.  Bloody hell.  I’m here on Council business.”

“Liar.”  Buffy snapped.

“What she said.”  Giles seconded.  “What are you doing here?  Last chance.”  Buffy could virtually smell her Watcher’s invitation to his captive: give me an excuse, any excuse....  She understood that.  She had lived that (taken special delight in, and drawn strength from that), but to see it in her gentle Watcher was to put up in blazing lights just how wrong it was: how false, how twisted and evil; how she, how they, must never give into it. 

The Slayer swallowed the lump in her throat and pursed her lips.  She just had to find out what was wrong with her.  Natural attraction to Hell be damned, this wasn’t right, it couldn’t be right.   How could the Slayer fight Hell, how could her Watcher help her, if the first time she encountered it face-to-face all she wanted to do was roll in it?  Like a dog.  Like some kind of freaking rabid animal. 

“I am on bloody Council business.”  Ethan was protesting.  “Look at me Rupert - am I lying?”  Buffy followed Ethan’s suddenly piercing stare, and saw her Watcher frown.  Squint.  Then blink and cock his head the same way he did when he was searching his bookshelves.  Weird.  And then he was frowning again.  “Right.”  Ethan nodded, a tight humourless smile touching his lips.  “See.  I told you.”  Huh? 

“Giles what-?”  She started.

“Ask them.”  Giles ignored her, and barked harshly over his shoulder to Anita.  His gaze never left Ethan’s face.  The woman, however, had other ideas and did not immediately let go of his arm.  Buffy saw her fingers flex, applying pressure.  A warning?  A caution?  Whatever it was her Slayer senses registered the tiny relaxation in the arm and hand pinning Ethan to the wall.  “Ask them.  Please.”  Calm, controlled voice once again.  Anita released him.

“Well, isn’t that a relief.”  Ethan said.  “Three cheers for you Anita.  Now, if you would just move in and marry the git - ergh!”  Giles squeezed.  Ethan shut up.  Then they waited, frozen in place and listened to Anita’s voice.  And wondered at the silences. 

“Its true.”  Anita suddenly addressed them again.  “Its true.  He’s working for the Council.  They say he’s one of them; they say he’s a part of your team.”

 

                                                                      *****

Ethan stared at Rupert, waiting for the man to do him some serious injury.  He was more than capable, and more than motivated.  It wouldn’t be the first time either, but his friend was not moving.  Instead he was slowly going that whiter shade of pale that Ethan remembered so vividly from so long ago.  That he recalled with an hysterical kind of fear, actually, though he would never admit as such.  Especially not to Ripper himself. 

Unlike most people about to really erupt Rupert Giles did not go red, or even pink.  He did not shake or rage about like some rabid gorilla.  He didn’t yell or scream.  He went ashen and quiet.  Expressionless.  Like ice.  Ethan had seen him beat a Haunsa demon to death with a face as calm as sleep, and discounting the completely pathetic hand wringing breakdown afterwards, Ethan had been mightily impressed.  And afraid. 

A combination that he was presently re-experiencing.

“Well, colour me stunned.”  Buffy said from behind her Watcher.  Sarcasm dripped from every syllable.  “And here I was thinking how cool and so totally not-insane the Council are.  Please don’t tell me that he’s going to be hanging around.”

“No, he isn’t.”  Giles suddenly snapped out of his building rage.  He released his death grip on Ethan’s throat and stepped back a fraction.  “Watch him.  If he moves - break his legs.”

“Only his legs?”  The Slayer asked.  She folded her arms and looked up at Giles.  Ethan looked at the young woman and pursed his lips - she wasn’t being as entirely facetious as she sounded.   Which wasn’t very much to start with really.

            “I’ll leave that to your discretion.”  Neither was her Watcher.

This had better be worth the bloody trouble...

Rupert backed up and collected the phone from Anita.  His other hand surreptitiously sought out one of Anita’s, protectively pulling her close to him.  Ethan rolled his eyes.  Oh for the love of Mike, it had been over 20 years!   When would the man realise that Annie was not in any danger from him; that Annie had never ever been in any peril at the hands of one Ethan Rayne.  If anything it was just the opposite.   Rupert was never going to pull his head out from his arse and realise though.  Too busy playing Tarzan to his Jane.  Too busy with his testosterone high and getting his belly scratched. 

Lucky dog.

“So, how’s this slaying-gig working out for you then?”  Ethan asked Buffy as Rupert pushed the phone to his ear.

“Keep on making noise and you’ll find out.”

“Just trying to make conversation!  It’s been an age since we caught up.”

“Yeah I remember, it took me my whole allowance to get rid of the evidence.  A whole summer without serious mall-time.  That kind of stress can leave a girl with scars.  Oh wait a minute - it did.”

“WHAT THE BLOODY HELL HAVE YOU ARROGANT CRETONOUS SONS OF BITCHES BEEN SMOKING?”  Ripper suddenly bellowed.  Buffy jumped as if she’d been tazered and whipped around to stare.  “ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MINDS?   No...   No, I really couldn’t give a flying fuck about .....   Well then the deal is off.  Yes, you heard me correctly....  Well you can just....  just kiss my arse Knightly....  I...”  Well that was going well!  Ethan shook his head, a small, amused smile curling the edges of his mouth. 

His gaze slid around the room, gauging, calculating, unashamedly sticky-beaking.  Is that Whisky?  Ooh, it is!  Taking advantage of the fuss he slipped deeper into the lounge room and went for the bottle sitting on the overflowing desk.  It was half full and a very good brand.  Ethan grinned as he unscrewed the cap and poured himself a generous shot using Ripper’s glass.  If nothing else, being raised in the top societal ranks certainly gave one the dosh to afford the finer things in life.  He sniffed at the glass’ contents.  Nice, very nice.  Ooh, and what was this?  Tilea.  Soarevale.  Oh, excellent.  He sat down at the desk and pulled the ancient text closer.  In the background Ripper was still giving what-for to the idiots at HQ.  Good going old boy, he thought absently, just you let them know whose boss and leave us grownups to read in peace...

Ooh!

I knew it - I was right, I knew it-

“Get away from that!”  It was Ripper.  The book was slammed shut.  “And put that glass down.  I am not going to be your personal bar as well as your bloody keeper.”

“Let me guess: you lost the debate?”  Ethan said, looking up.  Giles’ expression was as dark as night and he did not reply immediately, so Ethan decided to go with the moment.  “I assume they told you why I am here?”

“You tell me.”

“Very untrusting of you old man!  I like it.”  He grinned: fast and sharp and fleeting, but Ripper’s expression only darkened further so he hurried on.  “Alright, Reader’s Digest version, and its all very simple really: the Council is the only thing standing between me and a very unpleasant return to the bosom of that very improbably named Initiative. 

“The Council want these blood pools investigated.  They want you and the Slayer to do it, but they need something to make their little nightmare a reality.  Chaos magicks.  The darkest of arts. That’s where I come in.  I help you do what needs to be done and in return they give me a running start on our little weekend warriors.”

“How did you get away from them in the first place?  Riley - ” The Slayer asked.

“Ah, your soldier boy.  Well, fortunately for yours truly not all of them are quite so dedicated.  Not quite so - stubborn, shall we say.”

“Mind control.”  Giles’ said.  It wasn’t a question and didn’t need an answer.  Standing beside Ripper Annie pursed her lips in disgust.  Some things never changed...  How hypocritical. He smiled a knowing, indulgent smile at his fellow English.  “Did you kill any of them?” 

“Ripper.”  Ethan admonished, using his best, most sincere voice and hoping its tenor transferred to his aura.  Giles closed his eyes briefly.  Oops...

“Wait a minute.  Giles?”  The Slayer spoke up, eyes wide and dark.  “Blood pools.  The...  The Council want us to go find the blood pools?  After what happened with the tiny itty bit of hell blood they want us to go find the whole pool?  When did they tell you that?  When were you going to tell me?  Why are you taking orders from them again?”

Giles looked down at his charge, opened his mouth, closed it and then looked at Ethan.  He pointed a finger in his face.  “You will sit here and not move, not so much as a finger, until I get back.  The Council may trust you but I do not and I will not hesitate to do what I should have done a long time ago if you persist in pissing me off.”  Ethan just nodded - he knew when to stop.  He did.  Usually.  Mostly.  Sometimes.  O.K. hardly ever, but this time he was on target.

Ethan watched in silence as Giles ushered Buffy out of sight into the kitchen. Murmuring, muttering voices floated back into the lounge room: a high, urgent staccato melody against a deeper calmer bass.  Ethan looked up at Anita.

“Well now love.”  He said with smile.  “What brings you to our lovely Sunnydale then?”

“What are you really doing Ethan?”  Anita ignored his question.  “Really.  What are you up to?”

“I told you, the Council have got me by the balls.  I help Ripper and they let me go.”

“You are going to help Rip- Rupert?”  She corrected herself with a wince and Ethan grinned. 

“Its alright to call him that you know.  Ripper I mean.  Its who he really is after all.”

“It is not.  Why do you persist in calling him that after all these years?”

“Because that is who he is.  Come on Anita, you were there.  You saw what he was, what he did.  Who he did.  No one could just let all that go.  Ripper is Ripper, he’s just chosen to ignore it for a while.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Am I?”

“You are and you had better stop goading him, or-”

“Or what?  He’ll lose control? He’ll stop hiding from who he is, and the world will become a much more interesting place to live in once again?”

“Or you will have to deal with me.”

“Really?  Is that a promise?”

 

                                                                      *****

 

Giles re-emerged from the kitchen leading his very subdued charge.  His explanation had gone over like the proverbial lead balloon, which was understandable, but the scale of Buffy’s reaction was very odd.  They had set off to face their share of danger numerous times, but never once had he seen his Slayer react the way she had tonight.  Anger, yelling, or even a flat out refusal to co-operate he expected, but not this, this disturbing lack of ferocity of feeling.  There was something serious troubling her.  Something she would not put into words.  It was radiating out in distressed waves that rippled and frayed the edges of her aura, and once or twice he thought he glimpsed the faint black/red that had stained it after she had tasted the Hell God Blood.  It might have been his darkened mood though.  Just the knowledge that bloody Ethan was in the next room was seriously distracting him with his own darkness, his own misgivings.

When he re-entered the room he was relieved to see Annie unharmed.  Only radiating deep frustration.  He pursed his lips.  The sooner they got this over with the sooner they, he, could be rid of Ethan.

“Right.”  He announced, and everyone looked at him.  “The other Council representative will be here very shortly I am told.  He should be on his way from the airport now.  That gives us more than enough time to ready ourselves.  Let’s get started.”

“Now?”  Ethan asked, looking surprised. 

“Yes, now.  The Council may have forced this little collaboration but that doesn’t mean it has to last any longer than absolutely necessary.  Buffy-” he looked the Slayer “can you be ready in an hour?”

“Sure,” she nodded.  Tight little movements that looked almost painful.  It hurt to look at too, and once again Giles found himself wishing that she would say what was wrong.  “I’ll grab some stuff from home and be back here ASAP.  I’ll leave a note for Mom.  And don’t look at me like that, you know I won’t tell her what we’re really doing.”  And she was striding away.  Giles watched her go.  A very large part of him was still hoping she might turn back and - but it looked like she was going to take her own sweet time.  Once again.  He exhaled heavily through his nose, pursing his lips.  “Small arms only.”  He called after her.  “Nothing too heavy.”

“Got it.”  She called over her shoulder and was gone.  He turned to Ethan. 

“I’m going up stairs for a moment.  Stay here, and don’t touch anything.  You know I’ll know it if you do.  Anita?”  He motioned to her and they both climbed up to the upper floor.  Once they had reached his bedroom he shut the door behind them.  “I’m so sorry Annie.”

“About what?”

“About all,” he gestured helplessly “this.  This hopeless bloody mess.  I really wanted to spend some time with-”

“Wanted Rupert?”  Annie moved closer.  “I travelled a million bloody miles to see you and if you think I am going to get back on the plane now, you can just think again.”  Giles blinked at her and a rush of happiness burned his insides.  Immediately he tried to squash it before she saw.  It wasn’t right.  She mustn’t come with them.  She mustn’t, no matter how much he wanted it.  If anything happened to her...

“Annie, you - ” He began, and saw her smile.  Dammit, busted.  He felt the last of his resolve melt in to a puddle at his feet.  It was wrong.  Wrong.  Wrong.  Wrong.

“Shut up.”  She reached up and rested her forearms on his shoulders.  Her thumbs tickled the hair at the base of his skull.  “Now, you told your Slayer to be back in an hour.  From my calculations that gives us at least ten minutes preparation time.”

“Ten?  What about the other fift-  Oh.”  He started, surprised when he knew he shouldn’t be.  He smiled.  “What about Ethan?”

“What about him?”

“He’ll hear us.”

“Yes, he will won’t he.”

“He won’t be happy.”

“Pity about that.”

“It would be cruel.”

“Inhuman even.”

“I love you, you know.”

“I’m counting on it.”

 

                                                                     ******

Dawn was too pissed off to sleep.  Lying, rigid with said pissed-offedness, in her bed she listened to the night sounds and sulked flagrantly, without remorse.  Buffy was such a bitch.  Just because she was the big sister, the big stupid Slayer, it did not give her the right to treat her younger sister like a baby.  Like some stupid child that needed constant checking on.  She was nearly 15, for gods sake, and she didn’t need a baby sitter.  She was old enough to know what she wanted and it sure as hell was not that.  Spike understood.  He knew that she was no baby, and he had shown her that tonight.  And how... 

Spike.

He was soooooo hot.  All lean and dangerous and gorgeous like that cheetah she had watched pace its cage at the zoo last summer.  Get too close and he would pounce.  All claws and fangs and hottness.  Dawn shivered suddenly, thrilled with the picture that was forming in her mind, and wondered if he would have pounced tonight if Buffy hadn’t shown up?  Bet he would have.

Man, it had been so much fun until Buffy.

Dawn, rolled on to her side and drew her knees up to form an angry pretzel on her bed.  And that was when she heard it: the soft click of Buffy’s bedroom door.   The Slayer was back from patrol, and back from beating up Spike she just bet.  If possible her anger only deepened.  As if Spike (as sexy as he was) was responsible for her late night wanderings!  As if anyone was but her.  Dawn scowled into the darkness - if Buffy wanted to beat anyone up for that it should be her, Dawn!

She shot up from the bed, stormed out of the door and marched down the corridor to Buffy’s room.  Without knocking she pushed the door open.  Buffy was still dressed and rummaging around in her weapons bag with jerky, strained movements.

“What do you want Dawn?  You should be in bed.”  The Slayer spoke tersely without looking up.  She tossed aside a crossbow, considered it for a moment and then pushed her hand into the bag again.

“I can go to bed when I want.”  Dawn folded her arms.  “Where have you been?  Did you beat up Spike?”

“Spike?  What?  No.  Look, Dawn I don’t have time for this.  Go to bed.”  Some huge nailed thing was tossed on to the bed.  A length of rope.  A sword. 

Buffy paused then, and stared down at this last weapon.  Then, with a decisive motion she scooped it up, slipped the blade into a neat little leather scabbard and heaved it over one shoulder.  A second later it was secured in place with a belt across her chest.  The pommel poked up above her right shoulder.

“What are you doing?”  Dawn demanded.  No answer.  More weaponry was piled on the bed.  “Its something big isn’t it?  Tell me.”  Buffy was still ignoring her, shrugging into a bulky black parka now.  A huge torch, a thrice-blessed silver cross (a gift from Angel that was so potent it had burned through the two inch thick bottom on the wooden box he had been carrying it in, giving the vampire third degree burns on both hands) and Mr Pointy disappeared in to the large zip pockets.  Buffy continued to ignore her and Dawn pursed her lips.  Time to break out the big guns.  “I’ll tell Mom.”  She threatened.  That got a reaction.

“No you won’t Dawn.”  Buffy stepped up close, moving so quietly Dawn didn’t even hear it.  “Go.  To.  Bed.  Now!”   Uh oh.   She meant it and Dawn flinched despite her best efforts.  She didn’t quite have the guts to stand in her way as Buffy pushed passed and went down the corridor.  Buffy rarely really threatened her, even by inference, so when she did Dawn noticed, and collapsed like a tower of cards.  Like she just had then.  Wait a minute....  Damn it.  Buffy hadn’t dared sit on her or get all cat-fighty since she had gotten her super strength.  Mom would kill her.  Dawn charged back into the fray.

“Where are you going?”  She demanded, finding her sister in the kitchen scrawling a note.  “Why won’t you ever tell me anything?  I’m not a child-”

“Yes Dawn, you are.”  Buffy said.  “And you should be glad for it.  Now go to bed, and don’t you dare tell Mom any stories.”  Buffy put the paper and pen in the centre of the bench.

“Well, I wouldn’t have to if you would tell me what you were doing!”  Dawn did block Buffy’s exit this time, and folded her arms.  Buffy stopped, an inch from her nose.  Dawn held her ground.

“Its Slayer stuff Dawn.  You know, running around in the sewers, chasing around in the dark and staking vamps.  Slayer stuff.”

“You’re lying.”

Buffy sighed explosively.  Then she was pushing past, nudging her sister out of the way and disappearing out the front door.  “Go to bed.”  The door clicked shut behind her and Dawn was left in the hallway so angry she was nearly shaking.  A second later she had snagged her coat from the hall rack and was out the front door herself.  Out into the cold and running after the Slayer.

 

                                                                      *****

 

Spike was in a devilishly good mood.  Sitting atop his crypt and chain smoking and drinking cheap scotch, he was working on getting arse kickingly drunk.  Cheerful drunk tonight though.  He swigged at the bottle and thought happy thoughts.  Nasty, happy little thoughts.

Buffy wanted him.  She wanted him.  In all the most nasty, sweaty and debauched ways anyone could want anyone, Buffy wanted him.  No, wait a minute, even better: The Slayer wanted him.  The Slayer wanted a vampire, and not the poofy souled kind either, to do the nasty with.  To fuck.  He bit his lower lip to keep from laughing, from snarling, from howling at the bloody moon.

Oh it was so sweet on so many levels.

He had known since he had first met her that Buffy got turned on doing her Slayer song and dance, particularly when the odds were against her.  That was only natural though.  He hadn’t faced a Slayer that didn’t.  Hadn’t really faced a vampire that didn’t either - on some level at least.  (Memories of Dru and he bloodying each other whilst going for it down numerous back alleys suddenly flooded molten lava through his veins).  And even that Watcher bloke got his rocks off.  But this was far above the norm.  This was unusual.  This was new, and it was hilarious in bad, evil and nasty ways.  He laughed out loud suddenly. 

Bloody hell, the look on her face!

Smoking and laughing to himself, Spike’s mind raced.  If his heart had been functioning he was sure it would have been hammering away in his chest.  Bloody hell....   For the first time since he had been chipped he felt something like his normal self.  He felt powerful.  Strong.  Once again full of the spirit of the beast.  He sucked the fag dead in one powerful inhalation.

The Slayer wanted him and she was terrified of it.  He had made the Slayer afraid.  Even neutered like this he had made her shake and lose her nerve; made her tremble before him like a daisy in the wind.  He sucked down more booze.  All sorts of delicious possibilities flooded through his mind.  So many plans.  So much mischief that just begged for expression.  Maybe he would find Dru first and invite her to bear witness to his personal rebirth into the realms of Bad.  Then she would leave that fucking Fungus demon and come back to her naughty, evil boy.

Oh yeah, the Slayer was going to get hers.

He looked down on the cemetery, his own private kingdom, and sniffed the air.  Dead things were abroad.  Hunting.  Rambling around and feasting under the lamplight moon.  He smelled the blood being spilled and drained; sensed it spurting out from ragged wounds.  It was rich and hot and very, very human.  He licked his lips.  Oh for a bite.  Just one.  Just a little nibble.  He smiled suddenly.  Maybe he could? The way he was feeling tonight he just might be able to.  Slipping down from the roof, flicking the fag and tossing the bottle, he vamped out and slipped away, melting into the blackness.  And very softly, almost too quiet even for his own ears, he growled.

 

                                                                       ****

 

The bloody cheek!  The bloody nerve of the pair of them!  Going at it like rabbits right above his head whilst he was forced to sit and listen.  Ethan pursed his lips and raised dagger eyes to the ceiling.  Bastard. 

Both of them. 

“You’re doing that deliberately Ripper.  Anita.  Don’t think I don’t know what you are up to up there!”  No reply.  Was that a giggle?  He scowled.

Well now, two can play at that game...

With a flourish he knew Ripper would feel, he poured himself another glass of booze and went back to Tilea’s writings.  His Romanian was rusty, but he could read enough to make do.  Hmmm....  He sipped at the whisky, bared his teeth at the sting and read the text.  It really was too bad that the poor bastard had not made it back to the Council; it made the work all the harder now.   More exhausting too.  He sighed.  Ever since escaping from the Initiative he had been on the run, a lot of the time quite literally, and he was beginning to feel it.  Not as young as he used to be (and not as young as Ripper seemed to think he was with all that activity upstairs - going to feel that in the morning mate).

It was the growing fatigue, and the failed Hell Blood experiment, that had finally turned him towards the Council.  He had needed a place to lie low and the closeted, tight knit, desperate little bunch had seemed like the perfect cover.  And once he had convinced them that they might once again have an open channel to the renegade Watcher, and by association: the Slayer, they had rolled out the red carpet.  His connection to Ripper had been the icing on a very hastily baked cake. 

He hadn’t slept so well in months.

Then to discover that Ripper had contacted the Council about the blood pools, and that they were considering sending both he and the Slayer into the Sunnydale Hellmouth...  Well, it had just been too bloody perfect for words.  It hadn’t taken any magicks or other trickery to push the little generals into allowing him on the team either.  Only one lecture and one tediously longwinded threat in the event of any misbehaviour and they had virtually wet themselves with smug pride as they put his name down underneath Ripper’s.  Proficiency in Chaos magicks was rare and they knew how valuable he could be for their little tea party.  Such a happy little accident that he was in their grasp just at the right time.

Not even old Travers’ could threaten some sense into them.  Thank the Powers.

For the next few days he had been paraded around like a captured rook one move from checkmate.  Every little arse kisser, every ambitious climber of the greasy pole, wanted a piece of the action. And for a while he was content to indulge their little fantasy, drink their expensive sherry, sleep safely in their plush little hidey hole and try his luck with the women, but there was only so much bureaucratic buggery one could take and he had felt obligated to remind the self satisfied little silver tails just who it was they thought they had under their control.  So, this morning, he had just walked away.  Simply up and strolled out.

Just to put the wind up them.

And Ripper.  He did not want them warning his old friend ahead of time.  No telling what he might have been walking into if the Watcher had known anything in advance.  He looked up at the ceiling and listened for a moment.  Still at it.  He was jealous.  Hey, he was man enough to acknowledge it, to himself at least.

Anita.  Such a remarkable woman.  It was still a source of amazement to him that she had left Ripper when he had returned to the Council fold.  After all, it was she who had encouraged his transformation back into that stuffed shirt: Rupert Giles, Watcher in training.  She had weathered something very close to hell to do it too.  And Why?  He had asked her that one night, after she and his old mate had had a blazing row that had lit up the old building like it actually had the electric on. 

Bloody hell that had been a thing to witness.  Ripper, so red in the face that Ethan had thought he was having a stroke, screaming bloody murder like to wake the dead, and Annie, red as a beet giving as good as she got.  Electrifying.  Ethan had watched, feeling the power as it grew like a static charge in the air.  The magic laced fury had blasted across his senses like dynamite.  There was such power in it.  Such potential.  If only Ripper had realised it at the time.

Ethan clearly remembered being nearly beside himself with excitement.  Watching from the fireside, eyes wide, as the two lovers tore stips off each other.  So fucking amazing.  The scent of magicks hung heavy in the air, sulphurous and thick.  He remembered Annie screaming something about Ripper doing the ‘Walk of Death’ incantation on himself over her dead body (which was kind of an amusing pun really), and then Ripper becoming alarmingly pale and silent.  He had lunged across the room, in a moment of pure rage and caught Annie off guard, slamming her back into the wall.  Chunks of plaster had avalanched down onto the pair.  A white flurry.  He remembered thinking, absurdly, that it looked like they had been caught out in the snow.  A millisecond later Ripper scuttled back from her like she was a hot coal and was out the door and gone.  He didn’t come back for three days.

Why was she doing this?  Ethan had asked her.  Didn’t she realise just what Ripper was capable of, just who he was?  Why did she want to return him to that stifled existence he had fled from?  She had looked at him and said something so vomitously pitiful that for the longest time Ethan just could not fathom the logic.  It was twisted and bizarre and stupid for someone of her calibre.  What the hell could she be thinking trying to force Ripper back into his straight jacket?  He was just coming into his own and it was bloody brilliant.  She couldn’t say that he didn’t enjoy it.  She couldn’t say that he wasn’t a natural; that he wasn’t born for the dark arts.  And she sure as shit could not say that it was not a bloody fantastic higher than high, fucking trip the light fucking fantastic, ride of all of their lives.  Hell, he had seen her getting into it.  More than once too.  So it was the most ridiculous, dangerous, incomprehensible, soppy pile of mush worthy of Barbara bloody Cartland when she just looked at him, (with a strange haunted, hunted look that made him burn all the brighter with curiosity, just as he suddenly regretted this confrontation) and said - “I love him.”

Gaaah! 

Bloody women!  Why couldn’t she just love him the way he was?

Well, Ripper had never been quite the same after that night, and no amount of persuading, pleading, or fighting could get his friend back.  He started spending more and more time with Anita and away from the rest of them.  He started to fight with everyone too, and the atmosphere in their dark little commune started to go sour.  It was the Yoko factor at work in their own bloody backyard. 

It didn’t last though and, very soon, some light began to shine at the end of the tunnel.  In the first weeks of summer Ripper made an utterly disastrous parental visit, (Anita’s idea, he was sure of it) and had returned early, steamingly mad and carrying an ancient tome he had stolen from his father’s library.  Eyghon, Ripper had said as he tossed the book into Ethan’s lap.  He had not bothered to explain at the time, being more intent on drinking their entire cache of cheap wine and trying to coerce Annie into bed, but all was soon made clear.  Ethan smiled.  Without a doubt, those next weeks had been the best of his whole life.  Not even Anita’s reservations could put a dampener on it.  Ripper, hell all of them, had been magnificent.

Then people started to get hurt.  And then someone died.  Which, to be realistic, is bound to happen when you are just starting out and getting in too deep.  Shit happens.  They had all known that and accepted it.  Everyone except Ripper it seemed...  And Anita was there to take advantage.  Hell, all that was really needed was a little nudge to get back on the dark horse, and the Powers knew Ethan had tried to give him the leg up he needed, but it had come to nothing.  They had been tight once, but Ethan knew he could not compete with Anita for Ripper’s attention anymore.  Ever since that ballistic argument, when he had come so close to hurting her, his old mate had developed an emotional fuse.  It blew with monotonous regularity whenever he argued with his lover, which was hardly ever anymore.  So Ethan was forced to take the passenger seat and watch as, within weeks of the unfortunate death, Ripper gave way to Rupert and they lost him to the Council.

Ethan drained his glass and poured another, giving the ceiling the evil eye.  He had vowed to himself that he would never let anything like that happen to him.  There was a bright future for Ethan Rayne, full of fun and fireworks, and no one was going to stop him from getting there.  No one.  Not even Anita.

“Er, excuse me?”  A small, wavery voice suddenly interrupted his brooding and he looked up.  There was a thin blond young man with earnest looking eyes, standing awkwardly in the doorway.  He had a bulky black bag in one hand and a suitcase in the other.  He couldn’t have been more than 19 or 20, Ethan noted, and also could not be anyone but Council.  No one could wear an ill-fitting suit like a Council trainee.  No one else would be caught dead in a tweed get up with a red stripy tie.  No one else could be such a walking stereotype.  Ethan cocked his head, amused and disgusted.

The Council had said that they were flying someone out from England, especially for this picnic.  This had to be him: green and skinny and probably a Mummy’s boy despite the mandatory Watcher training.  For the millionth time Ethan wondered just what the bloody hell Ripper had been attracted to in such a bleeding crèche.  There had been a time that the both of them had laughed at the very thought of it. 

“My name’s Frost, Edward Frost.”

“Well, how very nice for you Mr Frost.”  Ethan said, rasing his glass in a mock toast.

“Oh- Er-...”  Mr Frost blushed red as he stuttered away like a ninny.  “Uh, and you are -  Mr Giles?”

“No.  I’m afraid not.”

“We- Well, uh, where-” The boy’s face crinkled in confusion.  He looked down at a dirty, crumpled scrap of paper wedged into the fingers holding the bag.  He squinted at it, cocked his head and nearly dropped his luggage.  Ethan cocked his head, watching as the uncoordinated fool struggled and fumbled and mumbled apologies.  This was the Council’s man?  A small splinter of worry suddenly pricked his mind.  If this was their choice then what did it say about the mission....?

“Oh, you’ve got the right house mate.  Its just that Mr Giles is a little busy at the moment.”

“Oh.”  Edward said, managing to look confused, startled and stupid all at once.

“Yes, he’s upstairs.”

“Oh.” 

“Fucking.”

“Oh!”  He dropped the luggage.

 

 

                                                                    Chapter 4

 

Unnoticed, even by his own kind, Spike padded through the darkness.  Slipping between the trees and tombs as perfectly and silently as a shadow following its maker, he disturbed not a blade of grass and startled no creature with his passing.  The very moon was ignorant of his presence.  It felt good.  Power, like fire, rolled through his guts, his limbs, and once again he was a Lord - no, fuck it, he was a King.  He bared his fangs at the night.  Imagined sinking them into something hot and squirming.  Shivered with the thought.  Rrrrrr...  Oh yeah, he was back; he was bloody well back all right!   Spike.  William the Bloody.  Plunderer of China.   Killer of Slayers.  All these things and more.  He was the Beast.  He was the wild thing that crouched, quiet and deadly, at the heart of the blackest myth.

A bloody savage untameable monster, yeah.

He spotted a pair of Undead working the south entrance and paused to watch them pounce on a pair of lovebirds strolling passed the gates.  Proudly vamped out and rushing their Prey in roaring glory, they had to chase them half way down the block before he saw all four go down in a thrashing of limbs.  The screams were piercing; almost drowning out the heavy bass snarling that accompanied it.  He could hear it though.  As clear as a fucking bell.  He shivered.  It was a less subtle and refined method than he preferred, but bloody hell if he hadn’t felt its power in his very marrow. 

He remembered hunting like that himself, when he had been much younger and bloody death was new.  That night, so long ago, when Drusilla had saved him from Angelus and unleashed him on an unsuspecting London.  That first kill.  Dru’s squeal of proud delight.  His own preening swagger afterwards.  And then fucking like wild things in the mess left behind.  All fangs and claws and nastiness. 

That night had seemed to go on forever.  Rollicking and rambling around the old city, getting stoned on death and destruction and becoming the wild animal that he could feel snarling inside once again.  He remembered bringing his princess tokens of his love and gratitude, torn fresh from still kicking Prey, just how she liked.  He remembered the blood, like the finest silk, that covered her lips.  He remembered biting at those lips...  

Oh yeah. 

He wanted those feelings back.

He wanted them now.

Turning back into the cemetery Spike began searching for a suitable ambush site, something appropriate for a return to glory.  It took a while.  Since being chipped he had taken no more than a passing interest in such things.  What was the point in rubbing his nose in his own impotence?  But now he took delight in it.  Tonight it might happen.  Something had happened that had made the Slayer want him and be terrified of it.  Did she know something about him that he himself did not?  He was sure something was different.  He felt good.  He felt hungry. 

He was going to eat.

He found a tree, overhanging the west entrance.  It had good thick branches and so much foliage he would be hidden from everything, even the Slayer.  Scaling it, he crouched on a branch and looked out into the streets.  He sniffed the air.  There was promise on the breeze and he was in a mood to be patient.

Soon enough though he heard and smelled Prey approaching rapidly from the city.  They were heading straight for the graveyard.  Mmmmm....  Wait a minute....  Bollocks, it was the Slayer.  And her Watcher.  Three others lunchables though, but they would be more trouble than they were worth at the moment, what with being scented with magicks and protected by the Slayer and all.  He did not want a confrontation with Her tonight anyway.  He wanted a nice quiet kill, free from distraction.

A few minutes later the unwelcome party marched underneath his boots.  He watched them go with ambered eyes.  Watching the Slayer really.  He could smell her from where he was and he inhaled, sharp and deep.  Fear.  Anxiety.  It perfumed her scent like a spring bloom.  His eyes narrowed and a rumble built in his chest.  Sweet.  Only his clenched fangs prevented some seriously violent, cover blowing purring.  So sexy.  What he wouldn’t give for a taste of that...

With an effort, digging his claws deeply into the branch he clutched, he did not pounce.  Not now.  Not yet.  Soon though, he promised himself.  Very soon.

What was that?

Someone else was approaching.  He could hear the faint scrape of foot on pavement.  It was an alone someone.  A small and light and tasty someone.  A soon to be past tense someone.  Nostrils still tingling with Slayer fear Spike silently gathered himself.  This was it.  The acid test.  The powerful feelings were still with him and he drew confidence from them.  How could he be feeling this way if not because things were somehow different?  If he were not somehow different?

And here they came. 

Lunch.

He watched the small figure scurry underneath his tree, and suddenly he felt a light fluttering in his belly.  His palms began to sweat and he felt the unusual urge to breathe, fast and uneven.  What the...?   It was nerves!  He was nervous.  Bloody, fucking, stupid, bollocks’ed-up-shit, sonnavabitch, wanking, sodding, bloody-buggery, FUCK!  He was nervous!  Unbelievable.  William the Bloody had killed thousands of Prey and not one, but two Slayers and here he was having a panic attack over a tiny mortal that he could easily crush with a single pinky.  Indignation and shame flushed his cheeks a faint pink.  Rrrrrr.  Oh I’m not having this!  It was one thing to be physically neutered, no shame in that, but quite another to find his mind had followed suit.  Oh no way, no fucking way!  No, no, no, no, no.       

And he was launching himself from the tree branch with a ferocious movement.  The leap was perfectly timed and he collided with the Prey, bringing them both crashing to the ground.  He was careful not to crush the human with the force of his collision though.  He had something to prove now.  He was going to play and show the whole sodding world that William the Bloody, that Spike, was back and as bad and mad and dangerous to fucking know, as he had been that first night in London.  The graveyard would be red with blood and flesh by the time he was finished.   

He would make his Undead brethren wonder and dread again.

They would write songs about him once more.  Compose praises and sing them into eternity.  Choirs celebrating him even as the sun went supernova and destroyed the world.  No minion would be born that did not learn his name and give voice to it in their nightmares.  He smiled, fangs flashing as they caught the moonlight.  For all eternity they would howl, call his name to the bloody moon, and invoke the Terror that was William the -

“Oh sodding hell, its you.  What are you doing back here?”

“Get off me Spike.  And what are you doing?”   Dawn wiggled out from underneath him and glared.  She brushed at the dirt on her knees.  “What are you doing dropping out of the sky like that?  You could have hurt someone.”  Spike climbed to his feet, still vamped out.  Frustration boiled through his body.  He clenched his fists by his sides.

“That was the general idea!”  He growled.

“What?  You can’t hurt-” then the girl went pale.  She stared at him for a beat.  “What...  What about your chip?”  She asked, eyes going wide as saucers.  She took a step back and Spike felt a slow smile spread over his face.  Well, well, well, the night may not be a total loss after all.  He licked at his lower lip and bit down on it, stalking toward her.  Slow and easy.  Not stopping until he was almost standing on her feet, he delicately touched her face with one black tipped claw.  Ran it lightly down to the pulsing artery in her neck.  It felt hot and alive against his cold flesh, so he kept his finger there despite the small warning ache (dammit!) gearing up inside his skull.

“Still interested in being Turned then, little bit?”  Maybe he could take on the pain and win?

“What?”  Small voice.

“Turned, you know: become a vampire, like me.”  He bent closer.  Yellow eye to blue.  “We could have some fun you and me.  Stir up a right hornet’s nest and show that sister of yours a time.  Oh yeah.  So,” he leaned in closer still and sniffed at the pulse point.  Tasty.  Fear and blood mingling and spicing up the air.  The pain throbbed brighter.  He looked back into her eyes.  “How do you want it then?  I can do it fast, I can do it slow, I can even knock you out if you like.  Wouldn’t recommend that choice though, dying is not something you really want to miss.  Biggest event besides birth and your first kill, after all.”

“I...  I...”  The girl stuttered.  No bravado now.  No swagger or pout anymore, oh no.  But no matter, all that would return and then some, after the event.  Give her old Mum a right little shock it would.  He could just imagine it, hell, he’d done that kind of thing a few times.  Always good for a laugh.  Heh, heh, heh: poor Joyce...  Yeah, poor Joyce.  Joyce with her little marshmallows and her open never-disinvited door. 

“How’s the mortal toil going then Mum Joyce?”

“Spike!  It’s raining.  Come in before you catch cold.  Oh, do you vamp- er, peop-… catch uh cold?”

“Its all right Joyce, you can say it you know.  Me: vampire.  Don’t have any issues with what I am.  Beats bein’ a Raag demon anyway.  They’re nasty buggers they are, all covered in mucous and such-  No dress sense either.”

“Right.  Sure.  So do you, peop- I mean vampires, catch cold?”

 “You know me Joyce: don’t catch anything I don’t mean to. Your eldest not about then?”

“Buffy is at Giles’ tonight.”

“Heh!  My sympathies.  So....  How about a bit of company?”

“Sure, you can help me unpack these pieces.  Wait a minute have you been smoking again?”

“Moi?”

“Spike....  In my garden?  Again?  After last week?”

“Oh, don’t sigh at me like that.  Fine, I’ll stop ok?”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“You’re lying.”

“Heh, heh, heh.  So, how about putting the kettle on then?”

Rrrr - no!  He was a vampire, not some bloody Undead puppy.  Dammit.  He would not think thoughts of sugar and spice and everything fucking nice.  Sugar and spice was blood down his chin.  Nice was the feeling of flesh breaking under his razor sharp fangs.  Marshmallows played no part in a vampire’s world.  Even if they were the little white tasty ones that soaked up the hot chocolate like they were-

.....!!!....

RRRRRRRRRRRR!

He pushed forward, fangs tingling.  Dawn was frozen.  A trembling little flower, rooted to the spot.  It was funny; he had not expected Dawn to be the paralysing kind.  He thought the Summers’ bloodline would have given her a little more spunk.  A little more bite.  A little more something. 

Then he was pressing a deadly kiss to her baby sweet skin at just about the same time Dawn found some of that Summers’ intestinal fortitude and kneed him forcefully in the crotch.  And at just about the same time the chip went off.  With a roar Spike staggered back.  BLOODY FUCKING SHIT!  Pain arced between his balls and his brain like an electrical current and he saw white for a heartbeat.  Raw, pure, sweet as a mountain stream, snow blizzard hurt.  Tender as a chainsaw.  Sharp as Dru’s nails in the deep London winter.  His nerves screamed.  Sonnavabitch!  Sonnava-sodding-wanking-bitch!   

I’m burning in the sun...

Then the blinding pain was fading and he found himself still standing, not prone like he thought he should have been.  One hand was pressed to his head, the other doing a damn fine impression of a codpiece.  And there was the source of his hurt.  All five foot nothing of skinny little mortal girl, hands raised in front of her, forefingers forming a cross.  He could see her shaking in her tiny little loafers.  Tiny little Dawn in her tiny little mortal booties....

...!!!...

He laughed.

A tight bubble of hilarity burst high in his chest.  It shouldn’t be funny, but it was.  He should be pissed as hell, but he wasn’t.  Instead he laughed until his ribs hurt along with his two most prized body parts.  If his family were to see him now...  Angelus would think his bloodline had gone bad – the infection he had visited upon his Drusilla, tainting her blood and now her little pet William has caught the madness from her like consumption.  He stopped laughing.  Angelus.

Spike straightened up and looked down at the girl, letting his human face out once again.  Game over.

“Well hey - .”  He drew in a lungful of air and pursed his lips, raised his eyebrows.  Think, think, think.  “April fool!”  He finished lamely, letting the air out in a rush.

“What?”  She stuttered after a moment.  “It- Its not April.”

“Really?”

“No...  No, and, and...  You scared me Spike!”  White in the face for a whole load of new reasons now.  She dropped the finger-cross in favour of forming two small hard little fists.  “You shouldn’t joke about things like that!”

“Hey, evil, remember.  Big, bad and nasty vampire.”  He cocked his head.  “You seemed to like it earlier.”

“That was different.”

“How?  Because you knew I was all chipped up?”  He shook his head.  “Don’t tease if you can’t follow through little bit: gives a fella the wrong idea.  Lucky I’m a gentleman and all.”  He looked at her as she blushed.  “What are you doing here anyway?”  He glanced in the direction that the Slayer had taken.  “Following big sis?”

“I followed her to Giles’ place, and then the Magic Box and then here.  She won’t tell me what she’s doing, but I know it isn’t normal patrol stuff.”

“Well isn’t that just rude.  I think your big sister is getting airs and graces.”

“Huh?”

“What’s say you and me set her straight.”  He grinned tightly; the night was suddenly looking interesting again.  Not waiting for her confusion to resolve itself, Spike grabbed Dawn’s hand and set off after the Slayer.

 

                                                                      *****

 

Edward Frost tripped over his feet, again.  Giles heard the oof from the rear of their group as they moved through the graveyard.  Then a soft thud as knees hit the ground.  Again.  And again, the Watcher did not even pause.  He was far, far too angry for that.

After coming down stairs and finding Ethan finishing off the hugely expensive bottle of whisky he had foolishly left in plain sight on his desk, and crumpling the pages of numerous ancient texts, he had been greeted by the equally grating sight of the Council’s official agent.  All five foot six of blond, skinny, puppy dog eager, tweed bound twit, standing in his living room.  He could not have been more than 20.  It was utterly, inexcusably and totally unacceptable.  He had called the Council back and told them that too.

 

“...  This is totally inexcusable!”  He barked as the boy watched him with big blue startled eyes.  The red gold of his aura was bright and guiless.  It pulsed with potential, absolutely, but its honest purity was so distressing Giles had to look away. “I told you my terms for this assignment and you agreed.  NO CHILDREN!”

“Mr Frost is not a child Rupert.”  Knightly had replied.  “He has logged 24 hours field time, under the -”

“Twenty four!”  Giles stuttered.  “Twenty- Oh, well, why didn’t you say so.”

“There is no need for sarcasm.  Mr Frost is the Council’s selection for this mission.  It was agreed: your terms and ours and no objections.” 

“Have you lost your mind Knightly?”  Giles turned away fully away from Frost and hissed into the phone.  “Don’t you have any appreciation of how dangerous this is - Wait a minute, you do don’t you?  That’s why you sent him isn’t it; you don’t want to waste resources.  He’s expendable.”

“That is an outrageous accus-”

“Shut up Knightly, don’t lie to me.  You bastards.”

“Edward Frost has completed all of the mandatory training required for active field duty and has accepted this mission.  We have accepted him.  And so will you.”  There was a pause on the line.  “Look Rupert, he is going solely as a witness, nothing more.  He will record the mission for our archives.  That is all.”

“He’s going to get killed.”

“That is not a forgone conclusion.  He has shown himself to be an astute adept, he’s intelligent and he knows how to follow orders.”

“He’s not coming.”

“Oh yes he is.  He requested this assignment, he is capable and he is going with you.”

“He’s no more than a child-”

“And how old is the Slayer?”

“That’s different.”

“How?  Was she any more prepared for her first assignment than Frost?  There is always a first time Rupert.  For all of us.”

“Not like this.”

“Maybe not, but we are at war or have you forgotten?  We are all soldiers and we all have to face our first battle at some point.  We don’t always get to choose when or where either.

“For all our differences Rupert, I am glad that his first taste of the front line will be alongside yourself and the Slayer.”  Giles held back the retort that was poised on the tip of his tongue.  Knightly was being genuine.  He absolutely considered Frost expendable, but at the same time Giles got the impression that the man would rather that he lived through this experience - that he had an attachment to the boy, that he liked him.  And so he had put his sincere trust in both the Slayer and her Watcher to look after him. 

Giles looked at the boy and frowned.  His aura was still that fierce red gold and he was still staring at him.  Oh they were a pack of bastards all right.  Still, the more Giles peered at the boy, the more he looked into the flame coloured aura that bathed him body and soul, the more that strange potential impressed itself on his senses.  There was something in him.  Something.

“Alright Knightly, but just so we are clear: if he is not all that you say he is you and I are going to have a conversation.”

 

Giles was rehearsing that conversation, right now. 

Up ahead of him Buffy was leading the way to the site.  She had been all business after returning to his house, dressed in black, carrying her small cache of supplies in the coat pockets of her jacket and a sword strapped to her back, underneath the jacket.  Still worried, he could see that, feel it really, but she was as ready as any of them were.  As any of them could be. 

 

“What’s with Tweedle dweeb over there?”

“That is Mr Frost.  He is the Council’s other representative.”

“No, seriously, who is he?  Oh, you are serious.  Does his Mommy know he is out past his bedtime?”

“Buffy.”

“Oh come on Giles, look at him.  He’s all tweedy and geeky and English and - Er...  Okay, extracting foot from mouth.  But you know what I mean.  They can’t be serious?”

“They are and we are just going to have to make do-”

“We could leave him with Xander.”

“And you will explain this to Xander how?”

“Well....   He’s, he’s your cousin-”

“Why does he have to be my cousin?”

“What are you two plotting out there?  No fair starting the scheming early.  I thought you fought respectable Ripper!”

“Shut up Ethan.”

 

“This is it.”  Buffy suddenly called out from up ahead.  She had come to a halt in front of an ivy covered stone crypt.  An undecorated block of a mausoleum in the furtherest corner of the Sunnydale cemetery.  The oldest section.  The oldest tomb.  It squatted, heavy and solid, blacker than the night that surrounded it, in a nest of weeds and rubble.  Abandoned.  No one visited down here anymore.  In the entire time Giles had spent in Sunnydale he had never seen anyone, anyone living at least, come down here.  These people had faded from the memories of everyone who now lived and breathed, even their own descendents. 

Well, they were going to get some visitors tonight. 

Giles approached the door and squinted at it.  In the nightly gloom it looked impregnable - fused to its stone frame by centuries of gravity and mould and rot and mud.  He unclipped his torch from his belt and pressed the switch.  A pool of light splatted against the building and he ran it slowly over the door.  The lock was a rusted useless chunk.  Good thing they had not wasted time hunting for a key.  He pushed at the wood.  It was cold, moist and spongy, and when he pulled his hand back rotten flecks of it stuck wetly to his fingertips.  Oddly normal.  What were you expecting old man, a bright and shiny magickal portal that has somehow remained unnoticed for a few hundred years?  He palmed his rune stone, pressed it to the door under his hand and concentrated, opening his senses.  Tiny vibrations tickled his skin as the little charm shivered.

“What do you make of this Annie, Ethan?”

Without a word Anita drifted to his side and touched the back of his hand where it was pressed to the wood.  His skin tingled with the contact and a tiny breeze wafted her scent his way: sweet roses and lavender.  A distillation of everything he held dear.  He turned his head.

In the gloom her aquiline profile was a silhouette: a fine smudge of velvet night and golden fog.  And that soft sweet perfume...  It was a beautiful reminder of a time when existence had been so real.  When there was still hope of a choice.  When there had been life.

A warm ember of memory fired his guts.  Where had it all gone wrong?  Life had been so simple.  So full of promise. 

So they had been living one level up from a cardboard box on the side of the road?  So it had been cold and drafty and sometimes hungry?  They had had each other and had gloried in that. They had been so free, so wonderfully unfettered and just wild with the ecstasy of it all.  Power burst and poured from their hands. The night sky was theirs to play in. - to play with.  To pluck out the stars one by one and paint the moon midnight blue...  Where had it all gone sour?

They should never have left. 

What an horrendous and unfixable error.

What a bloody loss -

The ember grew and suddenly he was ablaze with regret.  They should never have left and it was all such a bleeding waste.  And she had been there.  She had been there all along.  The voice in the back of his mind: go home Rupert - go home and live.  Live?  What did she think he was doing?  What the bloody fuck-?

They should be back there. 

Tearing up the night.  Prowling around in the alleys and abandoned buildings.  Running through their old haunts, a ragged band of feral animals, eyes on fire with the knowledge that they were young and powerful and free and insanely happy about it all.  The Terror of the Underworld.  Yeah.  Like it had been. Once upon a time... Adrenaline burned his veins.  He inhaled sharply and the cold air burned his lungs. 

No.  Wrong.

The air should be on fire.  Blood and fire.  Screaming.  Howling and roaring. 

Incantations, like a waterfall, tumbled and rushed through his mind.  All jumbled and yet all screaming the same thing.  The same sweet desire.

Power.

Power.

Power.

“Rupert!”

Eyghon.

“Rupert!”  A sharp sting across his cheek and he snapped his eyes open.  Her.  The thorn in his paw.  The splinter in his mind.  A snarl formed on his lips.  They should never have left...

He threw her hand from his and turned, feeling tall and imposing.  Feeling big and feral.  Angry.  Full of....  And the fury died.

Oh no.

“No.   It got me - again.”   Giles let his shoulders sag.  That damn Hellmouth, that damn blood.  “Annie - ”

“Hush.”  She pressed her fingers to his lips for a moment.  “I know.  I felt it.  Boy, it really likes you doesn’t it?”

“Giles?”  It was the Slayer.  Standing tense and alert and close by his side.  Her aura was intense.

“Its alright Buffy.  Just opened myself up a little too far.”  He sighed. “Well, its here.  We’ve found our doorway, just as Tilea indicated.”

“And was then never heard of again.”  Ethan suddenly butted in, voice brittle.  “Well!” He pushed abruptly passed them and looked at the door.  With only a minute hesitation Ethan pressed his palm to the door.  The action was a hungry one.  His touched the door with the expectation of a lover.  And Giles watched the man’s aura change hue from its usual earthy brown to a deeper, darker, angrier shade.  With a sudden frustrated exhalation Ethan let his hand drop.  He rounded on Giles, doing a very poor job of trying to hide his disappointment.  “Can you handle it for now?”  He asked, making it sound like an accusation.  “It would really be better to wait to use the protection magicks, they have a limited lifespan.”

“I know.  And yes I can handle it.”  He looked at his Slayer, refusing to be riled by Ethan. “Buffy?”  He motioned to the door.  She hesitated and looked at the blocked entryway. Her apprehension sent a wave of shivers through her aura, but then she was moving.  Padding silently, cautiously, to the simple wooden door.  The movement reminded Giles of a cat picking its way across a foreign garden bed: wary of every ordinary leaf, every flower, every blade of grass.  Gingerly she touched the door with a single fingertip, then her whole hand, and then her shoulders suddenly drooped.  Good.  Giles looked back at Ethan.

“Let’s go.”

 

                                                                      *****

 

“Aren’t we there yet?”

“Almost, sweet bit.  Almost.”

“You said that a few minutes ago.  You’ve lost the trail haven’t you.”

“I have not.”

“Yes, you have.”

“No I bloody well haven’t.  I’ll have you know that William the Bloody has tracked far trickier things in his time than one itty bitty Slayer.  I know every part of this graveyard, and so if I take us on a short cut to head her off, then I know what I am - OW!”

“Gravestone.”

“......  Thank you.”

 

                                                                      *****   

 

The rotted door gave like cardboard under Giles’ axe, large chunks of it disappearing with every blow.  And with each new crack, each gaping split, Buffy’s apprehension grew.  Her palms had started to sweat first, and then the slight cool breeze began to chill her damp face.  Now, almost shivery with nerves she shifted her weight from foot to foot, never relaxing the hand that held her sword ready to strike, to defend her Watcher as he worked on the door.

Get a grip Slayer.  Get a grip. 

Beside her Anita stood silent, a watchful sentinel.  Who was she?  What was she doing here?  Where did Giles get all these English women?  And how many did he have for god’s sake?  Buffy snatched a quick glance and took in the long black hair, tied casually at the nape of her neck, and the seriously aristocratic features that presented a cutting profile in the evening gloom. Who was she, this woman who was so intimate with her Watcher?  Her Watcher.

The Slayer clenched her teeth, feeling a sudden urge to move away from Anita, feeling the air between them turn sour.  She should not be here.  She should be at home making tea for Giles or reading his books and drinking his whisky.  Anywhere but here.  Buffy frowned.  When the firefight started it was Slayer and Watcher - not Slayer and Watcher and Attachment.  But the way he looked at this woman...  Jenny Calender had not been so lucky. 

Yet Giles was not stupid.  He would not have allowed anyone to come on this mission that was not capable - regardless of how he felt about them.  Buffy knew better than to doubt her Watcher’s decisions.  He had proven over and over that he was capable of the most hard-nosed, most brutally practical choices she had ever seen anyone make.  Still... 

At least Olivia had had the sense to butt out of the business end of Giles’ life.

Buffy looked away from the woman.  She had just better not get in the way. 

Beyond Anita, pencil poised and motionless above a scuffed journal, Edward Frost stood shivering in the cold air.  Him she found less than comforting.  Maybe it was the fact that he was no taller than Oz but with none of Oz’s presence, maybe it was the stutter or maybe it was the tweed, but Buffy wished he would just disappear.  They should have paid a visit to Willow and Tara and had him ‘poofed’ back to merry old England.  Then again, that would have meant explaining why the Wicca were not invited on this picnic. 

Ethan had not offered to help Giles break down the door.  He was standing a little back from Edward, arms folded across his chest.  His silver necklace glittered like a string of cats’ eyes in the moonlight.  Ethan.  Why did it have to be him?  He was going to need watching for a whole load of different reasons than the proto-Councillor.  She looked up at his face and found him staring at her.  There was a cold gleam in his eye that was distinctly unfriendly.  Maybe Willow and Tara could just ‘poof’ him right out of this dimension?

CRACK!

Giles was through.  The axe head was buried up to the handle and Buffy watched him twist it and pull, dragging at the last bits of wood so that they bulged outward before cracking and giving.  Buffy was sure she could feel her tendons straining in sympathy with the ancient timber.  She felt tight enough for something to pop.   Then the doorway was clear.

For the longest moment she did not move, holding her breath, but there were no spouts of rancid, evil fumes, no gouting arterial fountains of goo.  Nothing emerged all fangy and feral and hungry for human flesh.   No rush of hell burst free to consume her in hatred and rage and leave nothing but a raw desire to hunt the Undead - one of them in particular.  She exhaled heavily.  It was a welcome anticlimax.  

Padding closer to her Watcher, Buffy peered into the black hole doorway.  It smelled a little musty and deady - she was used to that though.  It was all so oddly normal.   She looked up to see Giles’ face, damp with sweat, crumple up in that way it did when one of his books proved not to be as useful as he had thought it would be.

“Well, that was -” he started, but then something was coming out of the darkness. 

A voice. 

A very familiar voice.

“BUFFY!”  Though the words were faint, they were intense with terror, and there could be no mistaking their source.  They scalded the Slayer’s skin with ice and the heat of her blood bled out in to the night.  “BUFFY!”

“DAWN!”  Buffy’s scream was a reflex.  Fear forgotten, she charged straight for the ruined doorway.

“Buffy - NO!”  Giles’ cry was like a distant echo in her ear, a meaningless noise.

Dawn. 

Dawn - down in the Hellmouth.

Dawn - in trouble.

The thick putrid air within the tomb pushed against her entry; a fetid, rotting bubble.  It offended all five senses, and the gifts of her Calling bristled like a threatened cat, but she ignored it all and forced her way through without hesitation.  Nothing could be allowed to stand in her way.  Nothing. 

“Dawn!  Hang on, I’m coming!”

And she was gone.  Swallowed whole by the tomb. 

 

 

                                                                    Chapter 5

 

...  If you are going through hell, keep going...

 

Winston Churchill.

 

Edward Frost was a firm believer in the Slayer.  Not just the physicality, but also the concept itself.  The single girl chosen by fate to carry the sword for her generation.  To lead the charge not only literally, but spiritually, figuratively and mythologically.  To be the figurehead.  A Boadicea, a Joan of Arc, for every age.

If their war had been an open one there would have been a grand statue on every street corner, a celebration of every Slayer.  Everyone would know their names.  Great legends would be written.  Books, songs, movies....  But in a combat zone where battles were fought far far away in the long cold filthy dark, in nameless corrupt places and against foes long since made mockery by The Enlightenment there were no statues.  There were no monuments.  No names.

The greatest heroes of all time doomed to a silent life and a lonely death.  Discarded and forgotten.  Repeatedly.  Each and every generation.  Just thinking about it gave Edward a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach: there was a terrible horror in it and no mistake.

He was determined to be different though.  Since he could recall he had been consumed by that idea.  He would be a witness.  He would remember.  And so he had read the Watcher’s diaries.  All of them.  Repeatedly.  When his contemporaries had been reading comics, when they had progressed to James Bond and even when they finally dropped the written word in favour of pictorial articles in stolen magazines, Edward had stayed true.  Endless hours spent reading and rereading each diary.  Hiding in backrooms, closets, under the house, up trees, in wooded groves and in the dark shades of numerous gloomy graveyards, to avoid disturbance, and searching.  Always searching.  Dissecting and probing each page, each paragraph, each phrase, each nuance for clues to his holy grail: the One Slayer.  The first.  The one from whom all others inherited their gifts.  And the most forgotten of them all.

She was in there.  If only he could force his eyes to see her. 

And he would.  One day all the pieces would fit and he would see her.  One day.  He would.  It was his homage.  It was his gift, and though pitifully inadequate, it was the only one he could give.

Though they were not available to those outside of the High Council Edward had obtained Rupert Giles’ diaries as well.  All five years worth.  And he had been intrigued by what he had read.  Many diaries were dull affairs, report card analysis and mission reports, and it took hours and hours to glean anything useful from any part of them.  This one was different though because Giles was different.  And so was his Slayer.

Or maybe he thought that way just because these were the only Slayer/Watcher pair he had ever met face to face?

Or maybe it was being forced to stand in the Watcher’s lounge room for many, many very long minutes waiting for, wishing desperately for, the furniture to stop bumping about upstairs, whilst a strange man with cold calculating eyes pinned him to the spot, daring him to do more than blush about it?

Then again, it was likely the moment that the Sunnydale Slayer had padded into the house and he had found himself struck dumb with awe.  There was no fanfare, no announcement, and no preamble.  She was just - just there.  Right in front of him.  The Slayer.  The Chosen One.  Standing not two feet from him, casually redoing her long blond hair into a single braid and tucking it into her black jacket.  Leaning her hip now against the back of the Watcher’s couch.   He stared.  Here was his imagination made flesh, but all those hours dissecting and scrutinizing Giles’ diaries, constructing a picture in his mind, had not prepared him in the least little bit for the reality.  Words were failing him... 

And she was right there! 

Right there.  Radiating energy and vitality.  Smelling faintly of rosewood and sweat - and not two feet from him.  Edward Frost could not breathe.  He could not move.

She was exquisite.

His chest ached, deep and tight and penetrating.

Oh my god, she was incredible.

And the world narrowed, a thin darkening tunnel with the golden haired Slayer glowing like the sun at its heart.  A point of light in the dim mortal banality of the world.

The pain in his heart, spreading beyond his chest now, was intense.

She was so -

“Breathe you twit!”  A sharp male voice struck his ears just as a hand slapped the back of his head.  He lurched forward with a sharp exhalation and the vice around his chest disappeared.  He recovered himself quickly, but the embarrassment burned his fair skin an unfairly vivid crimson.

“What’s with Tweedle dweeb over there?”  The Slayer’s voice floated behind her as a new man, that could have been none other than her Watcher, steered her out of the front door.  Oh Lord, you unbelievable prat! He berated himself until even the tips of his ears felt like they might combust.  You stupid, stupid idiot.  If a wish-demon had suddenly materialized right then he would have immediately requested a deep dark bottomless pit to open up at his feet.

Now, hours later, he found himself short of breath again.  Staring again too, but this time at the ominous blackened doorway where the Slayer had plunged through into....  What?  Hell?  Calling for someone named Dawn.  Screaming for them with such fear and anger and urgency that Edward felt faint.  Something that could make a Slayer tremble was not something to be taken lightly.  His journal twisted in his hands.

“Buffy - NO!”  Giles lunged after her, fingers clawing uselessly at empty air.  “BUFFY!”

Oh my god.  She was gone.  What was she doing?

“Hold on pal.  Stop!”  It was the man with the cold eyes.  Ethan Rayne.  He suddenly lunged past Edward and grabbed at the Watcher’s shoulder preventing the loss of another member of the team.

“Let me go Ethan.”

“Don’t be stupid Ripper.”  Ethan barked in to Giles’ ear.  Without hesitation the Watcher reached up and grabbed, as he swivelled, finding the pressure points in the wrist holding him.  Squeezing.

“Fuck, you bloody idiot - !”  Ethan cried out, releasing him.

“I said let me go!”

“To do what Ripper?  Rush in where bigger fools than you have gotten themselves killed?  Great plan.  You’ll be so much more use to your precious Slayer as a corpse.”  The Englishman gingerly shook his wrist.  “And I am going to be so much more use like this!”  He brandished his paralysed fingers.  “Thank you so bleeding much.”

“What the hell do you suggest we do then?  Hold a bloody committee meeting?”  Giles roared.  “You stay away from me you fucking-”

“Stop this!”  It was the woman, Anita.  Edward liked her.  She had kind eyes.  “Stop this both of you.  Is this how its going to be?  You two fighting like a pair of imbeciles until we all get killed?”  She was not quite yelling, but the tone was as cutting as if she had screamed in their faces.  And it got the desired result.  Both men withdrew, still eyeing each other angrily, to their corners.  What was the Council thinking, sending Ethan Rayne on this mission?  Edward wondered.

“This is going to stop right now: it’s already old and we haven’t even started yet!”  Anita went on.

“Fine.”  The Watcher said after a beat.  “Ethan-?”

“Sure, we can kill each other later.  What’s a few hours between old friends after all?”

Edward noted the reflexive clench of the Watcher’s jaw and was immediately consumed with curiosity.  What was the history between these two that insult and injury were instinctive and reactive?  He started scribbling in his notebook, shaking hands making his notes scrawl across the page.  Questions, questions, questions.  Why was it that all his research and observations ever produced was more questions? 

“... Frost!”  The Watcher’s voice sliced the air and Edward jumped, dropping his pencil.  “Move it!”  Giles, cool and calm once again, was one step from plunging into the tomb.  His axe was poised in one hand and his torch in the other.  One step behind him Ethan was brandishing a beautifully crafted sword, and Anita a crossbow, already primed and ready to fire. 

“My pencil-” Edward started and shut his mouth.  Pencil - not important.  Important: he was going to be left behind.  Alone in the dark cemetery.  “Right!”  He managed to fall into step just as Giles flicked on the torch and plunged into the blackness.  A moment later Edward was gone too. 

Into the valley of death....

 

                                                                      *****

 

Buffy hit the tomb floor running and was promptly knocked on her ass, her sword wrenched painfully from her hand.  The vault was not as silent or as dead as she had thought.  It was alive, insanely alive.  A roaring gale was trapped in there with her and it threw her to the ground like she was no more than a gnat.  Chaotic, directionless winds whipped her hair and clothing.  Grit and sand whirled and lashed at her.  Instinctively, Buffy threw up an arm to shield her eyes.  Gusts of foul smelling dust blew and snatched across her skin.  Where it hit it stung like a zillion ant bites, and for a moment it was all she could do to hold her own, so she stayed down protecting her eyes and trying to orient herself.  She fumbled with her coat, trying to find the zipper to get at her flashlight, but found only Mr Pointy.  She pulled the stake free.

And somewhere in here was Dawn...

“DAWN!”  She screamed, but the gale ripped the word from her lips, crushing it.  There was no way her sister could have heard her. Buffy pushed upward onto her knees.  A stray blast of air thumped into her back and she nearly toppled to the floor. 

“Slayer.”  A rich, dark growl right in her ear.  An ominous rasp.  What the hell?  She spun around, rising to a crouch, bracing her feet wide apart.  Mr Pointy stabbed into the thrashing, roping wind.  There was nothing there. “Been waiting for this, oh yeah.”

“Spike?”  She called out, wincing and raising a hand to her eyes as airborne grit peppered her face.  “SPIKE!”

“BUFFY!” 

“DAWN! WHERE AREYOU?  I CAN’T SEE YOU!  TELL ME WHERE YOU ARE!”

A growl.

Footsteps.  Feet slapping hard against the stone floor, impossibly distinct above the gale.  Someone, something, was coming up fast.  She squinted desperately.  Nothing revealed itself.  Then a voice -

            “Oh my god, what have you done?”

“Giles?”  Buffy called out.  Then the running thing was upon her and she couldn’t see a damned thing.  She spun 360.  Nothing.  And the footsteps ran on. And were gone.

“....  Sanguisa...”

She whirled around again and staggered.  Mr Pointy lashed out at nothing.

“...  Please don’t die...”

“GILES!”

Someone screamed. 

“...  Don’t die, not like this...  Not like this...”

A slow, lazy laugh to her right.  No, her left.  Behind?  Front?  No, her right-

“...  Slayer...” 

“SPIKE!”

“...  Inflammate e moritificus...”

Flesh struck flesh - somewhere...

Then it was all happening at once.  A disconnected melee of distress and violence.  Coming from everywhere, from nowhere.  And all aimed at her.

Metal hits stone.  A voice cries out.  Footsteps pelt past, racing into nothingness.  Dawn.  Spike.  The wind pushing and pulling at her with increasing violence.  Growling.  The roar of the gale.  Giles.  Laughter, cruel and sharp.  Faster and faster.

“...  Rupert...”

“ANITA!”  The Slayer whirled around again.  Nothing.  What the hell?  Terror welled up inside and she slashed wildly at the wind.  Laughter.  “STOP IT!”  She screamed.

“... Oh god...”

“...  I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it, Ididn’tmeanit, didn’tmeanit, didn’tmeanit...”

“Been waiting for this, oh yeah.”

Feet on stone.

“STOP IT!  STOP!”   The Slayer felt her cry become a shriek in her throat.  “DAWN - WHERE ARE YOU?”

The hard clip of metal on stone. 

“...  Odisse...”

“...  Come on Ripper...”

“... Been waiting for this-”

Footsteps.  Gaining.

“NO!”  Buffy ran, straight ahead with no idea where she was going or what she might run into.  It didn’t matter, she had to break free.  The voices, the sounds, followed.  She ran faster.

 

                                                                      *****

 

“What the hell is your elder and crankier doing down this end of the cemetery?”  Spike paused in the grassy walkway between two rows of crumbling vaults.  He looked around with a suspicious squint.  “There’s nothing here worth the effort.”

“Are you sure this is where she went?”  Dawn stepped up beside the vampire and curled small fingers around his coat sleeve.  She shivered.  “I don’t like it down here - its freaky.”

“Its a graveyard ‘bit - its supposed to be freaky!  This is where the freaks live.  And yes, I am aware that that came out wrong...”  Then he looked down at her, at her hand, and frowned slightly.  She did not let go of the duster sleeve.  No way in hell was she going to get left behind if he took off.  He looked back down the corridor and spoke again - “yeah, this is where the trail ends alright.”

Dawn looked around.  What was Buffy doing down here?  The wide walkway that rolled out in front of them was filmed in strange sickly grey shadows.  And it was silent.  No traffic buzz, no wind, no animal sounds.  Nothing.  She didn’t like it.  It was just creepy.  Either side of them the stone tombs were jammed together like badly spaced teeth, each one in turn ashen and shrouded with darkness.  On the ones closest she could just make out lichen and decay peppering the stonework.  Even that looked pale and bleached.  Spooky...

Then it struck her: it looked dead.  That was what was wrong with it all - everything looked like a corpse.  From the moon washed grass, to the tombs, to the silent air, it was all dead.  Spike was positively pulsing with life by comparison.  A ripple of cold dread ran down her spine.  She let go of Spike’s sleeve to grab his entire forearm and hug it to her.   Dawn suddenly wished she were home in bed still cluelessly fuming over Buffy.

“Come on.”  Spike suddenly said as he started walking again, pulling her along with him.  She pursed her lips: like she would go anywhere else!  “Might as well look around.”

“Spike-”

“Shhh, I’m concentrating.”

“There’s nothing down here to concentrate on!  Let’s go back.  I can finish that mural in your crypt and -”

SNAP!

Dawn froze, so did Spike.  In the silence the tiny noise was like a gunshot.  Neither one of them moved.  Something was there.  In the dark.  Right next to them.  Behind them.  Oh god....  MOM-

“Its a pencil.”

“ARGH!”  Dawn nearly jumped out of her skin.  “Don’t do that!  And what do you mean it’s a pencil?”

“A pencil.”  The vampire repeated, stooping to pick up the small broken instrument from under his boot.  He sniffed it.  Then stared at it, vamping out for a second.  “I’ve sensed this bloke before: he was with your sister.  Told you this was the right place now didn’t I?”  He looked at her, lips pursed with an unspoken - HAH!   “Now where has she buggered off to I wonder?”

                                                                      *****

 

The tomb was so quiet, so wrapped in dull cold insulating stone, that it made Anita’s ears buzz.  That was her first thought as she followed Rupert inside.  The second was that it was pitch black.  No gradation from starlight to dark in here.  It was as if the meagre celestial glow was blocked from entering, or was being consumed the instant of its penetration.  Neither were particularly comforting thoughts.

Her third thought was not positive either, but this one was framed in a question: what was Rupert doing?  One moment he was striding purposefully into the dark, the next he was on his knees, the hand that still clutched the torch held up to shield his face.

“BUFFY!”  He yelled.  Loud and harsh.  Then he was trying to stand.  And she did mean trying. 

“Rupert!”  Instinctively Anita lunged forward, but a hard, strong hand grabbed her bicep and she was kept back.  She watched her lover fall back to his haunches.

“Hold on love.”  Ethan’s smooth calm voice slid into her ear.  “Wouldn’t get to close if I were you.”  Then he was moving past her, careful and quiet, to circle the crouching man.  In the wavering torch light their bodies were half made: shadowed and distorted.  Ethan’s sword glinted softly.  Anita raised her crossbow and tried to penetrate the darkness, to see Rupert’s attacker, but there was nothing there.  “Well, isn’t this odd?”  She saw Ethan crouch down.  “RIPPER!”  The sound of a finger-snap.

“BUFFY!  WHERE ARE YOU?”  Rupert called blindly into the darkness.  The raw sound twisted in her stomach.  It was a tenor she had hoped never to live to hear again.

“Wh - what’s happening?”  A small voice at her elbow.  Edward. 

“Something unhealthy I’d wager.”  Ethan answered, not rising from his crouch.  Anita moved quickly around them both.  Rupert’s face was in shadow, but she could see the faint glow of the whites of his eyes.  Wild eyes.  Unfocussed. Unseeing.

“Spike?”  He asked.  Then he was surging to his feet.  The torchlight whipped around in a frenzy.  “SPIKE!”

“Lookout!”  Anita grabbed a fistful of Ethan’s coat and pulled.  Just in time.  Rupert’s axe blade slashed the air barely a breath from them. It was a wide, wild swing searching for a target.  Ethan fell backwards into her legs and they both tumbled onto the stone floor.  Rupert surged forward.  They scuttled backwards.  The axe scythed the air again.

“RIPPER!”  Ethan’s voice was shrill in the dead silence.  “Bloody hell man - stop.  STOP!”

“BUFFY!”  Rupert called, turning away from them.  The axe bit the air again and she saw Edward, briefly illuminated by the slashing torch beam, scramble away from the weapon.  Then it struck her: he wasn’t blind.  He was just seeing something else.  She dropped her weapon.  He was somewhere else.  And he was lost.

I am blind that cannot see...

“ANITA!  WHERE AREYOU?”  He called out into the dark again.

I am deaf that cannot hear...

“Anita what are you doing?”  Ethan called as she lunged forward.  Rupert was still facing away from her, making slow determined, effortful steps deeper into the gloom.  She reached out and grabbed his shoulder. 

Make me a window to my soul...

And the world shifted.

In place of silence there was the penetrating howl of a gale.  Instead of stillness there was frenzy.  Wild tumbling whirls of air thrashed her clothing and froze her skin.    Dust and grit blew into her eyes, her nose and mouth.  And the smell: dead, rotted, putrid and wrong.  There was a flavour to it...  Oh no.

“....  Sanguisa...” 

A voice.  Familiar and yet not.  A whisper as loud as a scream. Coming from nowhere.

“Rupert.”  Anita pulled at the shoulder under her hand.  It did not give, even a fraction.   He was iron.  “Rupert it’s me.”

“BUFFY!”

“Rupert its Annie.”

“BUFFY - WHERE ARE YOU?”

“Been waiting for this, oh yeah.”

Footsteps on stone.

“...  Please don’t die...”

“RUPERT!  WAKE UP!  PLEASE, YOU MUST WAKE UP!  THIS IS NOT REAL.  LISTEN TO ME RU!”  Anita called again, hearing the desperation in her own voice.  The wind blew in a sudden hard thrust that nearly knocked her from her feet.  Her fingers started to slip.  Then the shoulder under her hand flexed, muscle and bone shifting to accommodate the axe.  A hard jab, straight out from his body, into the howling wind.  And that did it.  She lost her grip and was swept away to -

The tomb floor, the cool, calm darkness and the harsh wheeze of her own panting.  Her head felt dangerously light and sparkles lit the darkness.

“What the bloody hell are you doing woman?”  She heard Ethan’s voice above her, and then his hands were on her arms, helping her up.  She felt his fear, his anger, his hunger for greatness, and the stubborn, tightly held love that was always there in his touch.  So much like Rupert and yet so different...  Once she was standing he spoke again.  “What did you see?”

“The Hellmouth.  Its reaching out to him and he can’t break free of it.  He can’t even see what’s happening.  He doesn’t know that it’s all illusion.”  She clutched at Ethan’s forearms, feeling the wiry muscles.  Feeling his resistance.  “You’ll have to use the protection magicks, now.”

“Anita, its too soon-”

“BUFFY I CAN’T SEE YOU!  ANITA!  ETHAN!”  Rupert was still in the tomb but they could no longer see him. 

“Ethan, I can’t help him.  I can’t even get through to him.  You know what that means.”

No reply.  “Ethan-”

“You’re sure you can’t get to him.  You’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“What about a disruption spell?  Maybe I can break through the illusion.  I really don’t want to use the protection magicks yet.”

“Try it.”  She pushed his hands from her arms and back into his chest.  “Do it.  And hurry.”

She could not see him, but strange almost-words purred into the air between them. They filled the space with curious vibrations that tickled her senses.  It was sorely tempting to reach out and touch her old friend, to see what he was seeing, to experience it for herself, but she did not.  Now was not the time indulge curiosities.  Instead she held her breath and waited, heart tripping in her chest. 

“What the hell?”  From across the room: Rupert.  From right by her Ethan’s chant peetered out in a strained whisper.  She did not need to make contact to hear the toll the incantation had taken.

“Rupert?”  She called and was rewarded with the slicing yellow beam of his torch as it arced toward them.  “Oh thank the ‘Powers.”

“Don’t mention it.”  Ethan’s breathlessly flip reply came from the dark in front of her.

“Anita?  Is that you?  What’s happening?”  The Watcher was approaching them rapidly now.  The beam grew and grew until they were squinting in the glare.  Anita raised her hand to shield her eyes.  “Anita?”

“Ru, put that torch down.  It’s the Hellmouth: it was reaching out to you again.  Didn’t you hear me calling you?  Didn’t you feel my hand on your shoulder?”

“.......  No.  Hell!  I couldn’t find you.  I thought you had all been swept away.”

“No, just you old man.  Lucky yours truly was around hmm.”  Ethan said: cocky and out to get a rise out of the world once again.  Rupert did not take the bait.  “Well, at least we know what became of poor old Tilea - for all the good it does.”  Ethan went on. 

“You’ve blocked the signal?”  The Watcher said.  “Disruption spell?”

“Yes.”

“How long will it last?”

“Don’t know.  Maybe a few minutes, maybe a few hours.”  There was a sigh in the dark.  “This place is not right: not for evil, not even for chaos.  Its not following the rules at all and I can’t tell how long I’ve wedged the door shut.  Shit, the door is not even clear.  I can see it but I can’t feel it.”

“I can’t even see it.”  The anger, the frustrated distress in Rupert’s voice was naked in the dark.  “I can’t bloody see anything.  Everything is in shadow.”  His voice tapered off, “I’m blind.”  Anita reached out, but he pulled away.  “Damn it.  Where’s Buffy?  Did you see her?”  The torch beam waved over the tomb, illuminating an empty room and the faint dirty brown suggestion of brickwork on the far wall.  There was nothing else there.  No sign of the Slayer.  She was gone. 

Again.

Rupert’s torch slid over a gap in the far wall and it sucked dead the yellow torch light as it passed by.  Doorway.  There was nowhere else she could have gone.  A distressed shudder rippled through her lover as if he suddenly felt the cold air as it wafted across his sweating face and found the gaps in his clothing to stroke his skin with icy fingers.   She shivered herself.  Then he was speaking again, with a voice like broken glass.

“We have to find her.” 

 

                                                                      *****

 

 

William did not like the dark, which was ironic in the extreme considering that the circumstances of his life had been as miserably dank and morbid as a shroud.  All his years wrapped in the black cloth of mourning as countless friends and relatives gave up the spark to various fevers and chills, to misadventures of every pitiful sort, and the ever present consumption that rode about the dim foggy streets of old London town like the horsemen of the apocalypse.  And always, always the mystifying black melancholy that accompanied him everywhere.  The black stain on his precious fucking soul.  An eternal bitter pill that rose up in his gorge at will until he was puking great geysers of inexplicable sadness and anger.  Thoughts at once of murder and suicide both.  An agony of contradiction that drove him deep into the darkness of the London night as it drove him deep into his own blackness. 

Hours and hours in the dark, trying to hide from the gibbering thing that fed on his soul.  Hours and hours at once seething and crying, screaming inside.  Hours and hours of dying and dying and hating himself and the world and everyone in it.  Chewing bitter bile.  Inexplicable and ill deserved thoughts of murder consuming his mind in fire and rage.  Dear mamma, dear papa in his bank clerk’s uniform, and even dear sister. 

A fantasy of pistols in the night. 

Rage unleashed from its black mourning suit to paint everything in pain.  Scarlet suffering.  Hating and hating until it turned inward and murderous thoughts became terrible guilt.  Terrible, terrible guilt and horror.  Then tears.  Fucking tears if you will. 

So easy to fall under the cartwheel on these streets.  Stumble out of the dark fog, blinded by his own, and slip.  Oh horror.  What a poor dear, crushed under the horses hooves.  Smashed into the sewage stained cobblestones.  Terrible.  Terrible. 

Suicide is a sin.

Suicide is a sin young man, shame on you for being so selfish.  Be off with you and no more of that talk.  Oh your poor mother.  If only she knew the black thoughts of her only son.  Only son mind you.  Her only insurance against these hard times, what with dear father being so poorly.  See him cough and cough until the scarlet comes.  Not long for him now, until he ascends to his reward.  Pious man like that.  If only he knew the undeserving heart that beat in his own son’s chest.  His only son, mind you.  His only hope.

And writing on the walls.  The walls of old London town filled with pitiful chalk scrawls.  Poetry.  An outpouring of poorly crafted pain.  On and on until the white powder is red and the dawn is come.  At last.  And with it the lifting of the veil over his heart.

Inexplicable.

Darkness melting like ice in the summer sun, leaving him drained and sleeping for days.  Then everything is alright again.  Alright.  Poetry in his book now, in neat black ink.  Love and passion; beauty and truth.  The hand of hope guiding the pen.  Anything is possible and it’s all going to be alright.  Better than alright in fact.  Dear Cecily, my love ...

For the moment the long cold dark would be just a memory to haunt him.

And William so hated the dark.  Frightened of it he was: like he was frightened of everything.  Stopping and starting at every hint of shadow, be it the natural turn of day or the turn of the human condition.  The human condition, hah!  Oh, how little he had known about the human condition.  How very, very little. 

It was becoming impossible to put himself back there anymore.  Being Turned had changed his memories to grey - well, grey-er than they already were.  Sodding mortality... Yeah, remembering was one thing, but to re-experience the flavour was quite another.  Why had he been afraid to fight back?  Why had he retreated into a futile almost-existence, populated largely by his own imaginings?  Why had he not embraced the darkness and kicked some bloody arse?  He no longer knew the answers to those questions.  If he ever had done...

Stupid William.  Stupid, foolish boy.

The dark was not the problem; it was just the thing the doctor ordered.  It was the playground: the romping rollicking field that concealed only possibility and freedom.  Emancipation from everything that dragged at him, that bound his world in tightly held grief.  The dark was passion unleashed.  It was liberty of the most intimate kind.  He had had to die to learn that.  His princess saving him from a tiny and invisible life, skulking about in the shadows.

Ooh my precious boy, my dark prince; ooh the world is all fiery bright in your eyes now isn’t it?  Let Mummy see. Ooh.  It dances like little fairies.  Nasty little pixies in your eyes.  My darling, naughty boy. She’s all yours she is.  All hot and tasty.  Can you see?  Mummy brought her to you special.  Naughty little witch she is, our Cecily.  Won’t say no to our William now.  Won’t say nasty things.  Go on.  Ooh I can smell her fear.  Like honey and spice and all for Mummy’s darling.  She remembers your name now, my precious boy, and she is yours if you want her....

“There ain’t a thing to be bothered about Little Bit.”  Spike said as he looked about for the trail he now knew was there.  “Not a thing.  Just you stick by me and you’ll see.”  Dawn did not reply nor did she let go of his arm, but that was all right, he was here for her.  He would look out for her, guide her and teach her, proper-like.  Like he himself had been, only better.  He would.  It would just take a little longer than Dru’s method that was all - there were no chips back in the day, in Dru’s daft pretty head.  He would have to be more inventive, more patient, than his lovely Sire, but he was nothing if not patient with his girl already wasn’t he?  Indulgent.  All tolerance-having and ever so gentlemanly.

And big sis?  Well, maybe he wasn’t so tolerant with her, but then she always got under his skin.  She knew just what to say and just what to do to get him mad.  Months of him fuming, arguing and seething, bound up in his black leather and invisible choke chain unable to stop or counter her.  And inexplicably unable to leave her side.  It wasn’t right for a Lord of the Underworld to behave this way.   Why didn’t he just walk away?

But now thoughts of desertion were not an option.  He had seen her soft underbelly and he was ready to give her what for.  No biting though.  There was no chance of ripping and tearing like in days of yore, but that didn’t really matter anymore did it (oh bloody hell, on some deep level it sodding did, didn’t it)?  He wasn’t a stupid creature and he had lived by his wits for all his long Undead life, surviving more adept and crafty foes than the Sunnydale Slayer.  Defeating them too.  There was more than one way to skin your Prey.

Oh yeah, she was going to get hers alright.

Everything always got so very lucid in the dark...

And there it was: the trail.  Clear to his yellow eye, to his gifted senses.  It was also very short.  Within a handful of feet it disappeared into a ruined tomb doorway.  Well, the Nibblet had been right - this was not the usual patrol at all.  He inhaled hard.  Yep, there they were: the Slayer, the Watcher, the pencil carrier, the strange (strange) woman and the familiar man.  He could not place the scent but that new bloke had been here before.  In this very graveyard too.  Spike frowned, thinking.

“I don’t want to go in there.”  Dawn’s small voice suddenly came from down by his side.  He could smell her fear, and his demon grinned somewhere deep inside.  No more Bonny and Clyde tonight, just Mamma’s little baby.  He looked down and saw the wide round eyes staring at the open tomb.  Dammit, he didn’t have the time to take her somewhere safe.  “Spike, let’s go home.  Please.” 

“Now then Little Bit, don’t go all soft on me.  You were right: the Slayer and her merry little band have gotten themselves deep into something interesting.  Something they don’t want you and me to know.”  He took her hands away from his arm and held both in one of his own.  She was so warm...  He looked at her.  “They never want you and me to know, but we got a right.  We’ve paid the blood price we have and it’s our sodding right to know what’s going on.”

“Yeah sure, but-”

“But nothing baby-girl.  And don’t you be worried about a bit of dark now, not with the Big Bad by your side.  Didn’t get my reputation for leaving my princesses in distress now did I?”

“.....  Princesses?”  Her hands gripped down on his with an increase in pressure so slight a mortal would have missed it.  He didn’t.  Nor did he miss the interesting acceleration of her heartbeat: the delicious heating of already burning blood.  Oh I’m going to pay for this.

“Come with me?”

A nod.  Tentative, scared, but there. 

“Alright then,” he drew his hands away from hers and looped an arm around her shoulders, then forehead to forehead and a feral, conspiratorial grin, “let’s go.”

 

 

 

                                                                    Chapter 6

 

...  I am Jack’s smirking revenge...

 

Fight Club

 

Despite all his talk Spike stepped gingerly over the splintered wood piled in the tomb doorway and vamped out to cautiously sniff the air.  Her.  Right off that spice flooded his nostrils and his lips peeled back.  Slayer scent.  Nothing more intoxicating, except maybe Slayer blood.... None of that here though.  Just Slayer sweat and adrenaline and the burning echo of something violent.  He inhaled again and grimaced.  There was a tinge of magic there, a powerful spell that had singed the air not long ago.  There was something else as well: something dark in the undercurrents that caressed his bumps and tickled the tips of his bared fangs.  And not in a good way. 

And it was fucking dark too.  He blinked rapidly but it did no good, he was almost blind and that was disturbing.  Resonances of the inside of Willy’s industrial fridges tickled ice along his spine and he shivered, and then shrugged his shoulders in irritation.  Well, if those fucking spooks were back they would find more than a happy snack this time around.  William the Bloody had a score to settle that no amount of fear was going to rob him of again. 

Still it was extremely dark...

Spike turned back to the doorway and was relieved to see the bright stars were still where they should be, burning like icy dew in their mantle.   He held out a hand and took Dawn’s small one to help her over the ruined doorway.  She didn’t stumble, but skipped lightly across it to land softly by his side.  Had the Summers’ blood in there alright.  Nimble and quick just like big sis.

“Its so dark in here.”  Dawn’s voice was dull in the stone room.

“Had noticed that ‘Bit.”  His own voice was not much better.  Spike turned from the starlit sky and back into the blackness.  “Slayer’s not here though.  Not anymore.”

“Maybe she’s gone back outside?”

“Nope.”  He swept his nearly blind eyes around the room, just making out the faint smudge that was the far wall.  “She’s in here alright.  Just not here.”

“Its stinks.”  Dawn said.  He felt her shiver through his leathers.

“Yeah.”  He agreed.  The sudden image of a rotting corpse heaving and slithering itself around the room popped into his head.  Mummies?  Zombies?  A leper that some fucking sick brother or sister Turned for a joke?  “Like something that should be long dead.”   He mused out loud.  The odour was not the usual dead things stink though.  He squinted.  “Can’t see anything creeping about though.  Can’t hear anything, either.”

“You can see?  In here?”

“‘Course.”  He said confidently, only exaggerating a little, after all he could see well enough to swat any beasties that came charging couldn’t he.  He stepped deeper into the tomb and his living, breathing shadow followed.  “Its dark but its not that dark- Wait a minute.” 

“What is it?”

“A door.”  Yeah, that was where she, where they, had gone alright.  He padded across the floor, his boots a soft whisper against the dusty stone.  Dawn clumped along behind him, pressed into his coat.

            As he moved, strange air currents swirled around Spike’s legs, his arms, his chest, his face.  Delicate and sharp, like slivers of glass, they stroked at his skin with unkind intent and left tiny, transient lines of ice in their wakes.  Curious.  The little eddies flowed over his ears and he listened intently to their whispers, but there was no sense to be made of them.  It was just wind, flowing out of the dark doorway ahead, on its way back out into the starlight. 

Spike pushed Dawn further behind him as they came to the opening in the far wall, but no sounds emerged from the blackness.  Nothing tried to lunge out - it was quiet and still - which only served to raise his hackles.  He paused a moment to inhale again.  And yes, once more, there they were: the Watcher, pencil man, the oddly familiar fellow and the woman.  Strange, strange woman.  Her scent, smothered in lavender and roses, was tainted with something he had never smelled before.  Its dull stain was an ugly squat bulging thing amidst the flower scent. More curious...

And the Slayer.  She was there.  She had been there.  Her scent flooded his nostrils, his lungs and penetrated into his guts and he felt himself fill up with her glow.  What was she up to down here?  He would find out.  He would get it out of her.  And then he would have his way with her.  Oh yeah.  The memory: lying there in the battle dust, eye to eye, and her all ablaze with her want of him and terrified of that want, was so hot in his mouth he almost had to pant.  Revenge was going to be so so sweet.

Oh, he just had to find her.

“Come on.”  He forced his thickened tongue to form the words and stepped into the gloom.  Time to hunt.

 

                                                                      *****

 

Running.

Feet like flint against the tinder dry floor, striking fast and hard. 

“...  Odisse...”

Running.

“...  Slayer...”

Running.

“Dawn!  DAWN!”

 

                                                                      *****

 

...  Yon.  Alexandra. Zina.  Asako.  Isabel.  Nikita.  Cassandra.  Meiying.  Ebba.  Aishah.  Polly.  Pania.  Kaiya.  Bethany.  Babette.  Kirsty.  Zola.  Kalska.  Merpati. Katerina.  Nikki.  Shawna.  Peta.  Buffy... 

It was a soothing chant.  A ritual that always calmed him; that never failed to harden his resolve.  Edward’s lips moved silently as he scurried through the darkness.  Ahead of him, there were the dim forms of his companions walking in a ragged line, one after the other, down the slowly descending corridor.

The corridor, as far as Edward could tell, had been hewn straight out of the earth and the faint scent of soil filled the air.  The ceiling was low enough that Giles, the tallest of them all, was forced to hunch his shoulders; and its breadth narrow enough that they could not comfortably walk any other way but single file.  It was a frightening confinement - one made all the more so by his allocation to last place. 

The strange breezy air smelled cold too, and made the tunnel feel chilly and windswept, but also oddly smothered.  He reached out a tentative finger and touched the wall.  He let it trail over the surface as he walked and the rough sandpaper texture chafed his skin and vibrated unpleasantly through his flesh.  He shivered and pulled his hand back.

When he had requested this assignment, standing stubbornly in Councillor Knightly’s plush office and refusing to leave it, he had not really thought about the actuality of the mission.  At the time he had been utterly consumed with the idea of it.  The very concept of taking his place in the Council journals, of knowing that his name would be inscribed forever in parchment and compact disc, had aborted any projections about what it may actually entail - particularly any less than glorious possibilities.  Then, once Councillor Knightly had yielded to his superior brand of intractability and announced him, he had been too fevered in his preparations: reading the mission profile, organizing his equipment and attending last minute physical skills classes.

The latter were usually the bane of his existence.  He lacked the superior strength and co-ordination of those whose destiny lay in the direction of Watcher, and he lacked any interest to struggle against this deficiency.  He could see no use in a future Council historian and records keeper learning the finer points of rope climbing or wrestling or running aimlessly for miles and miles through snow, gale and burning sun.  But not anymore. 

“You will be accompanying the Slayer young Frost!”  Councillor Bryant’s voice was more clipped than usual.  The professor of his torment on any normal day, the man had insisted that he personally take Edward through his final days of instruction.  He was convinced, no doubt, that nothing short of his own attention could lift his worst student to a satisfactory standard.   If that could ever be achieved without resorting to the dark arts... 

Though it must have galled him no end that his most inept pupil was going where he himself had never had the privilege to go, Bryant was not overt in displaying his disgust.  Despite that fact, Edward was sure the tutor was going to make him pay for his new mission with sweat, for certain, and tears and blood if it became necessary.

“The Slayer!”  He had continued as he paced feverishly up and down in front of Edward in the Council gymnasium.  He had both hands clasped together and held tight at the small of his back.  “The Slayer!  The epitome of physical endurance and strength.  Not to mention her Watcher.”  He stopped abruptly and faced the younger man.  “Rupert Giles was a very capable student young Edward, dedicated and gifted, and I am told, he has only improved with time.”

Rupert Giles.  Councillor Bryant never stopped talking about the one that made it.  Though Edward knew the truth, Bryant’s version had grown to the point where most of his current students were beginning to believe that Giles was a male version of the Slayer herself.  Edward had not corrected them, enjoying the little buzz that his secret knowledge brought him, though he knew the real story from his extracurricular studies.  The records were very clear: whilst Rupert Giles was an above average student in the physical arts he was by no means brilliant.  Bryant’s own precise, terse assessments recorded time after time that the young Watcher-to-be was sound of movement and quick to master each new lesson, but he was stubborn and difficult.  He was polite; he was capable; but he would not follow instruction to Bryant’s satisfaction.

Edward thought about that as the Councillor sent him up the rope, again. 

“Grip it properly!  Put some effort into it!”  Bryant bellowed from somewhere far too far below Edward’s rope entwined feet.  “Do it properly, like I showed you, you buffoon.  Do you want to slip?  Well, do you?”

“No sir.”  Edward gasped, struggling to comply.  His entire upper body was on fire.

“I should think not!  You’ll be accompanying the Slayer!  And Rupert Giles.  I will not have their report stating that any student of mine slipped!”  Now, that was a truly horrifying thought.  That his name might be forever inscribed in the records alongside a description of his stumbling and bumbling millstone presence was too terrible to contemplate.   Edward redoubled his efforts.

Then he was there!

He made it to the ceiling and exalted being only a nose away from its smooth surface.  He grinned tightly at his faint, distorted reflection.  Sweat was slick over his hot skin, and his arms seemed to have cramped into place, bent tight against his chest, but he had made it! For the first time in his life he had made it.  A short time later as his feet touched down on the matting he could not help the smile that burst across his face. 

“Alright.”  Bryant made a very, very small mark on his file folder and looked blandly at him.  “Again.” 

As he lay in bed that night, listening to his roommate’s snoring, aching in every muscle and with both palms burning, Edward finally understood Giles’ reportedly poor attitude.  His secret knowledge suddenly became more than a private pleasure because he finally understood it: Bryant was an unreasonable, miserable old bastard who was impossible to please.  Edward had climbed that bloody rope for hours and hours until Bryant had been absolutely convinced that each and every finger was in its correct position.  That Edward had collapsed into a jelly by the end of this pedantic and excessive exercise, quite unable to use any of his limbs, did not rate a blip on the Councilor’s radar. 

The only remaining part of Giles’ record that remained a mystery now was that he had remained polite for all those years.  He must have taken lecture after scolding after insult, but he never once forgot his manners.  Edward had found himself filled with a new and even greater admiration for the Watcher and he had resolved to make himself a fit companion no matter what.  Returning to the gymnasium in the following days he had fiercely tackled every order and every criticism as a personal challenge, pushing himself until he collapsed again and again.  And never once was he anything less than perfectly polite.

Now, he was filling with a sick trepidation that he was going to fall disastrously short in his resolution.  Already he had proved himself a useless appendage when he had failed to do anything more than save his own skin back in the tomb gallery.  He wasn’t even able to make a running journal record, having lost his only readily accessible pencil, and the shame of it built into a lump in his throat.

Suddenly there was a mumble up ahead and the torch light, that was illuminating nothing more than tunnel, guttered alarmingly.  The little party stopped abruptly and Edward stumbled into Ethan Rayne’s back.  Rayne turned briefly and Edward could all too easily imagine the withering stare on that shadowed face.

“Dammit!”  Giles’ voice was harsh, and dulled by the earth.  There was a rattling sound and a sharp slap of flesh on plastic.  Another slap.  It echoed strangely, coming faintly, a beat later, from behind them.  Then the light was back and Edward exhaled with relief.  They started moving again, faster this time.

“Dawn!”  A sudden, faint scream froze the party again.  Somewhere close the Slayer was still chasing this Dawn.  And still being swept along by the same false visions her Watcher had succumbed to.  “Dawn!”

“Did everyone hear that?   It wasn’t just me?”  Giles barked over his shoulder. 

“Oh yes.”  Anita answered.

“Clear as crystal.”  Ethan.

            “GILES!”  The Slayer called out again, voice raw with strain.

“Oh thank the - BUFFY!”  Giles yelled back and the next thing Edward knew, he was sprinting as fast as he could not to be left behind.

...  Yon.  Alexandra. Zina.  Asako.  Isabel.  Nikita.  Cassandra.  Meiying.  Ebba.  Aishah.  Polly...

 

                                                                       ****

 

Dawn had a handful of Spike’s coat again, this time the tails, as he hurried them into the darkness of the underground tomb.  Ergh.  Gross tomb.  The blackened tunnels were as stinky as the entrance and just as freaky.  It wouldn’t be so bad though, she guessed, if she could just see something - anything!  She couldn’t even see the coat she was holding and the only indication that it was attached to anything was the tugging that went with Spike’s determined footsteps.  He wasn’t even breathing like he usually did, so she didn’t even have the comfort of a companion’s respiration.

For Spike not to breathe he must be really keyed up.  It was very weird.  Then again Spike was very weird (in a sexy way of course), because like: dead thing and breathing, not so mixy, and yet Spike did it all the time.  He breathed his cigarette smoke, he crooned to himself (when he thought no one was eavesdropping), he sighed and huffed, he panted like a steam engine after a really hard fight and he seemed to spend a huge amount of his time sniffing the air  - most times for no reason Dawn could see.  The only times she had seen him not breathing was when he was concentrating hard or when he was sleeping, and then she hadn’t really cared because, well, Spike slept naked...

.........

.........

... Yeah, uh well, so awake-not-breathing-Spike meant that he was not all that fun to be around.  Spike concentrating was Spike being quiet and totally focussed and oh so dull.  For once though, she was kind of hoping for dull.

Spike suddenly surged forward and she almost fell.

She stopped thinking and concentrated on keeping her feet.  When Spike had first charged through the tomb doorway and into this tunnel she had been terrified that she would trip or slip on something rubbl-y and be lost forever in the dark.  She wasn’t entirely sold on the concept that Spike would stop for her.  Despite his slip of the tongue earlier, she wasn’t totally convinced that being one of Spike’s princesses was really a 100% safe place to be.  Sure, he had been sweet on Drusilla for over 100 years, but she was, like, a vampire and tough in all the ways that a human wasn’t.  There was no real guarantee that Spike recalled anything about being human enough to remember that they needed a lot more consideration than someone who was one half demon and one half already dead person.  It was lucky for her that the sandy tunnel floor was free from rocks and stuff.  Now all she had to do was hold on...

 

                                                                       ****

Giles sprinted down the tunnel toward the sounds of his Slayer’s distress.  Again she called for him and again he surged forward.  It was instinctive, reactive.  He could do nothing but respond.

“BUFFY WHERE ARE YOU?”  No answer.  Dammit.  The tunnel seemed to go on and on: twisting and turning, but leading him no closer to his charge.  It didn’t make sense.  She sounded closer than this.  Was this another twisted characteristic of the Hellmouth?  Was it playing them all for fools?

“GILES?”  She was closer.  Finally.  Chest and legs burning the Watcher forced his pace to the limit.  “I’M HERE!  GILES WHERE ARE YOU?”

“BUFFY, I’M COMING-” And the tunnel hooked abruptly to the right. He tried to correct his trajectory but his feet slid on the sandy floor and he flailed for a moment, torch waving wildly.  Contact.  He slammed into the wall unable to stop himself.  Pain exploded across his right shoulder, ribs and arm.  “SHIT!”  His body ricocheted and he hit the opposite wall before spinning out of control into a dark open high-vaulted space.  He fell and dropped his torch.  The flashlight skittered away, light strobing as it spun across the floor.

“GILES!”  The Slayer’s voice was suddenly right on top of him, then so was she, grabbing onto his prone form so ferociously he was trapped where he was.  The sharp point of her stake stabbed into his ribs.  And the Hellmouth slid along his skin, spreading out from wherever Buffy was touching him.  God, not again.  He felt the small eddies of cold gritty wind begin to wind themselves through his hair, across his skin, through the gaps in his clothing. “Giles, oh thank god, thank god, thankgodthankgod.”

“Buffy, are you alright.”  He tried to twist around to sit up but it was impossible.

“I can’t find Dawn.  She’s in here but I can’t find her.”

“Its alright.  Dawn isn’t down here.”  He struggled to sit up.  The wind tugged at him and strange dislocated whispers tickled along his mind. 

“What?”  She demanded and Giles twisted his head to follow the voice to its source.  Shadows.  That was all that was there.  For a moment he wondered if this wasn’t yet another Hellmouth trick, sending him a false shade in place of his charge.  A wraith.   A flat collage of shadow that only superficially resembled Buffy.  He blinked.  Frowned.  Then he remembered and felt a surge of distress: this was Buffy.  Where he expected to see the rich suggestion of soul and spirit, revealed to him (even in the darkest of places) in jewel-like light and colour, now he saw only the surface.  That incantation of Ethan’s, or maybe the Hellmouth, had blinded him and it looked like it wasn’t going to release his gifted sight anytime soon.  He swallowed.  Was this how Ethan saw the world?  Xander?  Dawn?  And everyone else who called themselves normal?  It made the world dim and unreal and alarmingly unreadable.  He felt a panicky flutter in his stomach. 

The Hellmouth swelled like an ocean wave across his senses.

“Giles?”  Buffy asked in a panicky wind-blown voice.

“Its alright Buffy.”  Giles pushed his own panic down and turned his ear from the illusory.  “Dawn isn’t here.  It’s a trick of the Hellmouth.  Now, just let me up and we’ll see-”

“But I heard her calling me-”

“Buffy - trust me - Dawn is safe and sound at home.  Now please, let me up.”  He surged upward again and Buffy let him, moving off to crouch nearby, one hand twisted into his coat.  “Ethan!”  He called, and heard the faint scrape of footsteps coming in under the waves of Hellmouth illusion.  Buffy’s shadowed head swung around blindly, looking for Ethan no doubt.  She moved away slightly, but Giles scooped her close again and tried to ignore the touch of Hell that was growing stronger by the second.  “Ethan hurry up!”

“Giles-”

“It’s alright Buffy, just stay quiet for a moment.  Everything is going to be alright.”  I hope. “Bloody hell Ethan-”

And then it was alright.  Just like that.  Once again it was quiet and still and dark. 

Buffy collapsed against his side with an expletive he was sure she should not know.  Spike’s influence or his own candy fuelled fugue?  He squeezed her shoulders reassuringly.  No response.  He looked down, alarmed, and was again rewarded with only impotent, implacable shadow.    He opened his mouth, but was beaten to the punch by a sudden swell of light. 

“M- Mr Giles?”  It was Frost and the mislaid torch.  Giles turned his back to him and got a good look at Buffy for the first time.  And again felt his stomach clench at the sight.  With no familiar colours to cast her in her true light, to guide him to his best counsel, she was a figure on a TV screen: dim and two dimensional and distant.  If he hadn’t been holding her shoulders he might have mistaken her for a well-crafted waxwork.  He swallowed.  If this was a permanent condition he didn’t know what he was going to do.

“Buffy?  Are you alright?  Are you injured?”

“I’m ok.”  Her voice was small but he could see her rallying - at least he thought so.  He stared hard but it didn’t improve matters, he was going to have to take her word for it....  Then she was looking at him.  “What happened?”

“It’s the Hellmouth.  It was reaching out to you - ”

“So Dawn-” She asked again, unwilling to let the matter rest.

“Not here.  Its just us.”  He waited a moment and watched her take that in, and then peer around him, over his shoulder and then all around them.  She swallowed.  “Ok?”  He asked again.

“Ok.”  She nodded and let him rise, reaching out to steady herself.  But as they rose he realised that it was he who was steadying himself against her – helped upright with that alarmingly casual strength; that same strength that was now flowing through those sleek young hands to clasp his forearms in an uncomfortably steely grip.  His bruises were taking on new bruises, and that body slam into the wall was suddenly making itself felt anew.  He gritted his teeth.  Shoulder, arm, ribs.  One mass of hurt that he had to call on his training to suppress.  “Where is everyone?”  Buffy asked.

Oh hell!  He’d forgotten them. 

“Anita?  Ethan?”  He called, looking around the dimly lit ‘room’.  Frost ran the torch obligingly through the darkness.

“We’re over here Rupert.”  Anita.  He exhaled, unaware he had been holding his breath.  The three of them followed his lover’s voice back the way they had come, and from the shadows the torchlight drew out the forms of their missing teammates.  Ethan was sprawled bonelessly on his side and Giles recognized the ‘recovery position’, slightly twisted to keep the airway free.  He was quite unconscious.  Anita (dim and lost to him without her golden glow) was kneeling by his head, the fingers of one hand threaded through the short spiky hair. “He passed out right after casting.” Anita said. Giles pursed his lips, irritated to find himself alarmed by the sight, and squinted impotently at the prone form. 

“He’s alright.”  Anita spoke again, looking straight at Giles, straight through him really.   “He’s just sleeping, believe it or not.”  She switched her gaze to Buffy.  “Are you alright?”  Giles caught Buffy’s nod out of the corner of his eye, still unable to take his eyes off Ethan.  The stupid prat - then he found his gaze straying from the other man to Anita’s fingers.  Pale smudges tangled within the dark brown of Ethan’s hair.  He frowned.  It was another point of irritation that this was a sight that could still rankle, even after all these years.

“We can’t wait for him to sleep it off.  We have to keep moving.  We have to regroup above ground.”

“A moment Rupert.  A moment.”  Anita frowned at him.  “He -”

“What was that?”  Frost’s thin young voice suddenly erupted from behind Giles.  The torchlight was yanked away and Giles followed its rotation with an abrupt swivel. 

“What was what?”  He demanded of the younger man. 

“Th- there was a sound.  I heard it earlier but I thought it was just an echo.  I heard it again though, just now.”  Frost continued to make his lighthouse swing around the room.  Giles followed it, ears straining against the silence.  Beside him Buffy was also alert, staring around silently. 

Nothing happened.

“Maybe you -” Giles started.  Then he heard it.  A sound like a single footstep, but not quite.  It came from the far wall.  The jittery torch beam flashed across the space toward the noise.  Nothing.  Giles spared a quick glance back at Anita.  He motioned to her dim form, palm pushing the air down and back.  She nodded and shrank backward to the wall, pulling Ethan’s limp body with her.  The sliding sound was jarringly loud in the suddenly pregnant silence.

He felt a tug on his sleeve:  Buffy.  The Slayer pointed to herself and thumbed over her shoulder into the dark.  Giles cocked his head.  She pointed at him and the young Councilor’s turned back, made a ‘talk’ sign with her free hand and pointed out into the ‘room’.  Giles nodded and Buffy slipped away.

“You are hearing things Frost.”  Giles suddenly spoke.  Adrenaline gave only a slight tremor to his voice.  “This is the Hellmouth after all and we’re all a little bit jumpy.”

“But sir, you heard-” Frost objected. 

“Nothing.”  Giles stepped closer to the young man.  Frost looked up at him, torch drooping in his hand.  He made to object again, but stopped himself.  Well-trained young pup, Knightly had not been lying about that anyway, but unfortunately that was not what they needed right at this moment.  “Don’t trouble yourself about it.  This is your first time in the field and I know how unnerving that can be.  Why, my first time was with a team that had been sent out to clean out a Nest, and believe me when I tell you that -”

The footstep.  Again.  Followed by a skittering dozen of them.  This time from the left and closer.  Frost swung the torch before Giles could stop him and they all saw the flash of their target: a slim quick shadow moving with determination, and coming up fast on their left flank.  Giles reached for his belt: no axe.  When had he dropped that? 

Then there was no time to wonder, the intruder was upon them.

 

                                                                      *****