AUTHOR: 1stRabid/Rabid/Raeann
RATING: NC-17
COUPLE: Buffy/Spike
BETA BABES: Zyrya and Caia
SPOILERS: To S7 “Potential”& AtS S4 “See Author’s Note”
WARNING: MAJOR CHARACTER
DEATH
Pain and suffering ahead, but don’t lose all hope…oh…okay…go ahead and lose it!
SUMMARY: Well, there is this unstoppable hound and it has been called up to kill all the Slayers starting with Faith…and well…Buffy and Co. geared up for war…and won! Or did they? Things appear to be looking up…which, as you know, is always a bad sign in the Buffyverse.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Those of you following along know that there have been some changes made in the Angelverse as Ichnobate progressed. I will now reveal some of those changes: Cordy didn’t sleep with Connor but instead slept with Angel as fire fell from the heavens. This means no pregnancy and no Jasmine arc. The Beast does have a master, more dangerous than it is. But it’s not Cordelia. And it was Connor who saw Angel and Cordy in bed rather than the other way around. He went a little mad and then he went to Wolfram and Hart.
DISCLAIMER: I have no rights. I’m a wild and impetuous rebel. Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Fox TV, UPN and the WB own everything but my slightly outdated Windows XP operating system…six more payments and this puppy is MINE.
PART THIRTEEN
Crouched in the lee
of a broken fountain, Wes wished he could be sure of his allegiance. His heart pulled him in three or four
different directions, finding the good in each.
Spiritual advisors would council him to look to his soul for
guidance. But Wes knew his soul to be a
useless, shriveled thing, hardly a barometer of righteousness. He relied, as he always had, on his
analytical mind. The truth, he reasoned,
would set him free. And the truth could
be found in books.
Clutching the
precious volume to his chest, he darted from cover, staying as low as he could
manage while still maintaining top speed.
He ran a zig-zag course from overturned
vehicle to bus-stop kiosk to alley entrance.
Reaching the latter, he paused for a few ragged breaths and then
scuttled across a deserted four-lane street.
In the haven of a building, he flattened against a wall and slid along
until he could slip under the scant shelter of the canopy-covered
entryway. A mirror flash drew his
attention down to the nearest sewer grating.
“Psst,”
Fred hissed from behind the curb-level grille.
Wes checked the road
again and, seeing nothing lurking, waved her to him. She shoved at the metal barrier in her way,
cracking it free from its damaged cement housing. The heavy grate rattled stridently as it fell
away from the drain. Metallic ringing
echoed up and down the empty street. The
noise gave both of them pause but there was no stirring of any enemy. A second later, Fred, eyes sparkling with
excitement, was at Wesley’s side.
“Did you get it?”
she asked.
Wes flashed the cover
of the book at her. “I did. But you’ll have to take it to Sunnydale.”
“Alone?” The
excitement drained out of her, replaced by fearful uncertainty. “Wes, I
can’t. I don’t even know…”
“You can,” he said,
cutting off her objections. He pressed
her hand as he gave her the slim volume and a ring of keys. “There’s a car two
streets over on
“What about you?”
“I have to stop
Angel.”
“You’ll never get to
him.”
“I have to try,
Fred,” Wes said. “This is wrong on so many levels.”
“He’s just trying to
save his son,” Fred said softly.
Wes shook his head.
“This isn’t the way.”
He thought about Lilah, scenes flashing through his head in a disturbing
montage. Unlike the rest of the Angel
Investigations crew, he could see her offer of help for what it was: a
trap. Wes knew how inviting her traps
could be. He remembered the
accommodating grip of her long legs and slinky pussy. And he would never forget her ivory throat bared to the eternal stroke of his blade. She wouldn’t forget either. Nor was she likely to forgive. Even if the offer on the table was legit,
just business, Lilah always worked the angles.
“But if she can do
what she promises: save Connor and Cordy. Put and end to all
of this,” Fred waved a hand toward the horizon, “madness.”
“You can’t make a
deal with the damned for the good of all mankind,” Wes said with all of the
categorical emphasis he could muster.
“What if it isn’t
about good and evil any more, right and wrong?” Fred asked. “Aren't we past all of that now?”
“It’s still about the
power,” Wes said. “Just as Lilah said when she
offered Angel the helm of Wolfram and Hart.”
Fred nodded. “And
you believe the power can be controlled.”
“It was under
control,” Wes said, "Until very recently."
When Lilah had spoken to the gang, something had clicked over in his mind, a
series of rusty tumblers unlocking nearly forgotten knowledge gleaned in his
school days. There were gaps in his
understanding from lessons he rarely attended, boring lectures about ancient
history. But the dim memories of
diagrams, coupled with certain recent events had sent his thinking in a new direction,
a direction that had ultimately led to the Book.
“There’s only one
person who can stop this,” he asserted.
“The Slayer,” Fred
said the resignation resonant in her voice.
With a slight bob of
the head in goodbye, she turned to go but then, moved by girlish impulse,
turned back to Wes, sweeping in close.
Setting a hand on each of his shoulders, she gave him a quick kiss, a
light pass of her lips over his. Wes caught her to him like a man thirsting for
days might catch at a canteen. They staggered
a bit before finding mutual balance. For
a few precious minutes time stood still allowing them to pursue oblivion in an
insistent embrace. Worlds of meaning passed between them, tongue to tongue,
without words.
When he finally
broke free of her lips, Wes thrust Fred away with a grunted command to go. She stumbled; mind preoccupied with all that
she’d learned in the last few minutes.
Her feet moved her toward the street but her attention stayed on
Wes. Her gaze clung to his and he saw
his reflection framed in her eyes like a memorial photograph of some fallen
soldier.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“So it really surprised us about the Potentials,” Dawn told Wood as she clicked the buckle on her seatbelt. She spoke with forced peppiness, determined to make idle conversation. “All those girls. We thought it was only one into every generation.” She intoned the last few words in a pale imitation of Giles.
“Buffy never read the handbook?”
“Buffy’s more a woman of action,” Dawn muttered. “Not really into the book learning.”
“I imagine that gets her into trouble.”
“Yeah, but she gets out of trouble again. She always gets away with stuff.”
“Spoken like a little sister,” Wood said.
His smile was a shadow of mirth. Dawn watched his hand slither off the steering wheel. He flipped the turn signal for a left and the car glided in that direction. Glancing out the window, Dawn sat up straighter.
“Hey, aren’t we going to the school?”
“No,” Wood said absently as if distracted by more important matters.
“But I thought…”
“The school grounds are dangerous,” he said with a show of extreme patience. “We’re still cleaning up after the battle. My apartment is only a few blocks from here. And we will have all the privacy we need.” He turned solemn eyes on her. “It’s okay. You can trust me.”
“Sure…I know. If you can’t trust the Principal…”
“…then you can at least trust your sister’s Watcher, right?”
“Right,” she said, smiling wanly.
He flashed a devilish grin and winked at her before going back to watching the road. Dawn felt suddenly older, mature and sophisticated. Someone had finally taken her seriously. Settling into a nest of fine leather upholstery, she forced her body to relax. There was nothing to fear. Logically, she knew she was safe and moving toward answers to her pressing questions.
The warehouse district loomed around them like canyon walls. There should have been a sense of speed but there wasn’t. The interior of the big car had a lonely air underscored by the smell of new vehicle. Dawn wasn’t used to the luxury of a silent ride. The absence of road noise made the world beyond the tinted windows seem remote and slightly synthetic to her.
‘I could pop reality and it would vanish like a soap bubble,’ she thought, tapping her nails on the glass.
“Tell me about this spell,” Wood said as they took another corner. His remark shattered her sense of seclusion. “You hope to contact your friend’s ghost?”
“Her phantasm,” Dawn corrected. “It’s like a memory.”
“Ah, yes. I believe I read something about that in my second year. You can ask simple questions.” Dawn nodded. “And what do you plan to ask?”
“I want to know about Buffy. Why she’s acting this way.”
“I told you, she’s come back wrong,” Wood said, emphatically.
“Yes, but how do we help her?”
Wood didn’t answer. He navigated the car over a series of speed bumps into a gated community. They parked in a numbered space. Dawn assumed the number on the curb matched Wood’s apartment in the low-rise condominium block. He let the engine idle for a moment before cutting it. Dawn’s pleading gaze took in the firm set to his jaw. He didn’t look like someone who wanted to help. He looked like a judge…or a principal, a dispenser of impersonal justice.
But when he spoke, his words reassured her. “Let’s go find out.”
They left the car, walking side by side toward one of the condo buildings. Wood fished out his keys and, while Dawn stood to one side, unlocked the foyer door. After they entered the building, Wood motioned Dawn ahead of him, into a brass and glass elevator. They rode up in silence and he ushered her out at the appropriate floor.
“Here,” he said, stopping at the first door.
“This is a nice place,” Dawn ventured politely as she waited on the threshold for him to enter and flip on lights. “Quiet like your car. I guess a principal makes the bucks.”
“I have a little money,” he acknowledged with a twinkling smile, “From my family. It can’t buy me everything I want.”
Dawn trailed her fingertips along the textured wallpaper. “You know what never made sense to me?”
“Hmmm?”
“Why don’t they pay the Slayer?”
Wood’s bark of laughter caught her off guard. “What a delightful concept,” he said.
Puzzled by the response, Dawn frowned as she followed him into the apartment. “I’m serious. It’s an important job: being the Slayer, saving the world!”
“It’s a vocation,” Wood corrected.
“Anyway, Buffy’s the only one who can do it. So she should get paid.”
“What about Faith?” Wood challenged. “And who exactly would pay?”
“The Watcher’s Council? Before they were blown up I mean. They could have paid. Or maybe everyone could pay just a little bit to have her protect the city, like a Slayer Tax. It wouldn’t have to be a lot of money, just enough to pay the bills so Buffy could slay full time. If Faith doesn’t go back to prison they could pay her, too.”
“Tell you what,” Wood said, “If we live through this, I’ll see what I can do about paying off your sister.”
“Really?” Dawn said, delighted. As if suddenly remembering her manners and Wood’s status as Buffy’s boss, she added, “Not that she doesn’t like working at the High School…”
“I’m sure I know just who to speak to,” Wood said with an enigmatic smile. He waved a hand toward the sofa. “You can set up over there. Can I get you anything? Wolf’s bane? Oil of bergamot? A soda?”
“Just a glass of water, please,” Dawn said. Skirting the end of the coffee table, she dropped her backpack onto the sofa. “And you never finished telling me about the Potentials.”
“Finished?” Wood laughed. “Did I start?”
“Well, no,” Dawn conceded, “but you could start now.”
She wanted him to talk to her. It helped her feel grounded. Surreal sensations continued to haunt her as she unzipped her bag and began unpacking the ingredients for her spell. She nearly dropped the laptop as she pulled it out. Her fingers felt numb. She glanced at her feet, half expecting them to be sinking through the floor. Wood was speaking. He sounded like he was standing at the far end of a sewer tunnel. His words bounced around her. Dawn tried to focus on them and found they were brightly colored, like fluttering birds.
“I-I’m sorry,” she said weakly, blinking toward the kitchen. “I feel a little…”
“…treacle-y?” a voice asked just behind her. “Like life is getting sticky?”
Startled, Dawn tried to spin around but the rest of the world dawdled. Simple movements met with resistance as if the room was filled with water. To Dawn’s dismay, as she spun to confront the speaker, her arms floated and her hair swirled into a daisy blossom. Petals of hair blocked her view for far longer than they should have. When her vision finally cleared, she saw the speaker just for a second before he disappeared. Her heart tried to bang out a panicked rhythm but all it managed was a single heavy thud.
‘Ethan,’ she thought because it would have been far too difficult to say anything out loud.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Okay, let’s move ‘em out,” Faith
bellowed. Xander
and
“Her name’s Abigail,” Vi said, as Faith dropped into the front passenger seat.
“Like I care,” Faith returned, rotating at the waist to stare at Vi around the headrest. “If I call you Mary, Mother of Mercy, you move your ass like you mean to keep your anal virginity. Got that?”
“Yes’m,” Vi mumbled, lowing her eyes.
“What do we call you?” Rona said with sulky softness.
“Maybe she’s only got the one name,” Molly whispered back.
She was helping to load luggage into the van but was only slightly disappointed
not to be going with the warehouse group. “Like
“That’s right. It’s just Faith,” Faith growled. “Think of me as the one thing you’ve gotta have...if you want to keep breathing.”
“I see you’re still the Mos Def of motivational speakers,” Buffy said, leaning against the van door. She folded her arms on the rim of the door’s open window, two extended fingers passing a piece of folded notebook paper to Faith. “Here, Giles made a list of names and descriptions for me. Take it. That way you won’t have to Mother Mercy them.”
Faith compressed her mouth into a grouchy sneer as if help from Giles or Buffy was the last thing she needed. But she snatched at the paper when Buffy showed no signs of vacating the window. With studied ennui, Faith flipped the paper open, scanned it once and then stuffed the wad of it into her shirt pocket. Her fingers lingered on the blue checked flannel for a moment. Under the flannel, she was wearing a pair of Spike’s velvet pants and one of Rona’s sport-bras. She shot a nervous glance at Buffy, who had finally found a minute to change out of her bed sheet and into jeans and a tee shirt.
“Something on your mind?” Buffy guessed.
“Thanks for,” Faith faltered, eyes sliding away from Buffy’s inquisitive gaze. “You know….” She waved a vague hand. “The change of gear and the list and…”
“Putting you in charge?” Buffy asked lightly.
“No reason why I shouldn’t be,” Faith challenged.
“Right! You’d do the same for…” Faith raised a brow at her. “Okay, so you wouldn’t. But you had my back in there. Kicked the door in and rushed to my rescue like a regular hero.” Turning suddenly petulant, Buffy said, “Which reminds me: you owe me a door.”
Faith smirked. “Dock my pay, prom queen.”
“I was never prom queen,” Buffy said primly. “But I did get a shiny umbrella.”
“I got a knife in the gut.”
“Angel left me right after I saved the world.”
“Coma…then prison.”
“Okay, you win.”
There was an awkward
silence. Faith stared at the gathering
of Scoobies on the front porch. “So…Willow?” she
said, in a too casual way. “She available?”
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, don’t get all straitlaced
on me,” Faith snorted. She bobbed her chin at
“Not gay!”
“Just queer…right.”
Faith nodded sagely. “Getting those Slayer kinks?”
“What’s that
supposed to mean?”
“I got the Supergirl
hearing, too, B. Had
to wear headphones last night to drown out you and the Rebel Yell so I could
catch some shut-eye. You telling me you’d do whatever you did in his car
by the river…you’d do that with the undead…but you won’t wrap your legs around
a sweet warm body like Miss Cherry Pie?”
“
“Keeping her for
later?”
“And again…I’m not
gay.” She lowered her voice to a hiss as Xander
suddenly opened the driver’s side door.
“Just a little
kinky, huh Buff?” he said, tossing his bag into the back. “But then, aren’t we all?”
“There ya’ go, even the blind can see it,” Faith teased, winking
at a suddenly flustered Buffy.
“Hey?” Xander protested. “I’m the vision guy around here. I see
all.”
His weak objection
was lost in Buffy’s huffy response. “What Spike and I do is totally,
completely…none of your business,” she said with finality. She pushed back from
the van and half-turned to go but then couldn’t stop herself from adding, “And
also not even a little bit kinky.”
“Slayers who lie go straight to hell, B,” Faith chuckled as Xander started the van.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Expecting Cerberus
or something equally demonic to greet him at the gates of Hell, Andrew kept his
eyes closed for several seconds after his arrival. Icy wind whistled around him, making him
shiver. Apparently, Hell had frozen over. His Tigger pajamas offered little protection from the cutting wind. As the cold penetrated his bones, he eased
one eye open and made a shocking discovery.
He was blind.
Blind. He shrieked
the word and to his surprise heard it echo around him. Amazed and delighted by the return of his
voice, he yelled again and then broke into a snatch of Be Our Guest from
Beauty and the Beast. He stopped
singing a moment or so later, recalling the immense sadness of his lost
eyesight. After a stint of rapid blinking failed to cure this new handicap, he
fumbled a hand up to check that his eyes were really open. He couldn’t see his fingers but he dared to
hope the impenetrable darkness was external. It seemed to press against his
face like a clammy velvet hood.
He’d arrived in a
Hell as black and as frigid as space. Where,
Andrew remembered, no one could hear you scream…even if you were no longer a
mute.
For a second or two,
fear and indignation warred for supremacy in his heart. Indignation won out; most of all he felt
cheated. This was low budget, art house
Hell and there was a distinct lack of mythic symbolism. Andrew thought Hell owed him a little more in
the special effects department. Where was the fire and brimstone? Where were the slithery spiny things from Spawn? The very concept of Hell implied light and
heat. Andrew couldn’t help thinking he deserved better.
The darkness was so
complete, at first he was afraid to move, but after a few gulping breaths
produced nothing scarier than the dark, he grew bolder. He groped the night and discovered a wooden
wall an arm’s length to his right. A
splinter stabbed his palm, causing him to pull back from the reassuring
solidness. But the wall was all he had
so after some further indecision, he let it guide him. Visions of gaping chasms at his feet made him
shuffle along. He was numb from the cold
when his fingers found the door. As he
explored the yielding surface, debating the wisdom of giving it a good push, his fingers passed over a carving of six familiar portly vegetables.
Andrew was only slightly surprised to learn his personal
Hell contained a Mexican cantina called Las Seis Berenjenas. He and Jonathan had spent the latter days of
what Andrew privately dubbed their Year of Living Dangerously working in the
seedy dive. Jonathan had tended bar
while Andrew had swept up and washed dishes.
They’d shared a small room upstairs with a trio of hookers who sublet
when the bar was open for business. The
Eggplant did business six days a week from
When he pushed in
through the swinging door, the light and heat Andrew had been craving leaped on
him like a large, overly friendly dog.
The babble of a hundred voices assaulted his ears. Deafened by the din and blinded by the glare
of a thousand candles, he stood very still, waiting for his eyes to
adjust. The door completed its arc and
came back to nudge him at the knees.
Dancing away from the contact, he bumped into someone, a woman by the
scent of her yielding flesh. She pushed
him aside, her laugh ringing in his ears.
He didn’t dare move again.
There were too many
people in the too small room and the crowd would be in flux. On Friday and Saturday nights, seating at the
Eggplant kept shifting until the chairs and tables formed an unruly mob of
mismatched decorative styles. Heavy
mission furniture partnered delicate wrought iron. Art Deco warred with Queen Anne. An incautious step could mark the unwary with
a stubbed toe or impressive bruise.
“This is what Hell
is like,” Jonathan had told him one night while nursing a shin marred by old
and new injuries, “Hookers, heat and a series of bad dreams and minor
contusions. You won’t sleep more than an
hour at a time and the food will give you heartburn.”
As usual, Andrew
reflected, Jonathan had been right.
When his vision
started to clear, Andrew let his memories guide his feet. They steered him to the right, toward the bar. It was a long, low mahogany affair with
carved inlay and a battered surface, easy to see even with compromised vision. There was a mirror behind it, reflecting the
candlelight. The smell of stale cerveza and the clink of glasses urged him forward.
Just as he reached
the bar he heard Jonathan ask, “¿Qué usted tiene?”
“Déme
una soda con crema, por favor. Y el pan
“You want the bread
of the pig?” the blur that was Jonathan asked. There was a teasing good humor
under the question. “Do you mean the bread we were going to give the pig, or
breaded pig, or what?”
This was Hell…south
of the border, down
¿Cuál es Javier?
Un muchacho. Lo encontré por el campo
¿Un doctor?
Él necesita una ambulancia.
Espere aquí con él, I'll hacen la llamada telefónica.
Startled, Andrew
turned his head, straining to make out the conversation. Javier, he remembered, cooked for the patrons
of The Eggplant but the bar had no phone.
Andrew had limited Spanish but he knew something was wrong with the
snatches he was hearing. One of the men had a very odd accent. Searching for the speakers, Andrew put his back to the bar
and faced the dining area.
The room swam into
focus. But clear vision didn’t help. There were no men in evidence. The Eggplant
was full of women, young women, not one of them over thirty. There were ladies at every table, in every
chair and more of them graced the long staircase. They wore a variety of styles and fabrics,
from fur to spandex. Several of them
were naked; others dressed in outfits that spanned continents and centuries,
forming a timeline of fashion as diverse as the furnishings.
“A ham and cheese
sandwich, por favor,” Andrew mumbled as he stared in
awe at the crowd. “And
a cream soda.”
“You don’t scare me
any more,” Jonathan said. The anger in
his voice brought Andrew’s attention back to his predicament.
He was in Hell, supposedly
paying for his sins. Hell wasn’t about ogling women. Andrew checked his pockets
for money as he watched Jonathan pour his drink.
When his friend bent
to retrieve the cream soda from the private stash under the bar, Andrew spoke
softly, “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to kill you. I was just doing what I was told.”
Jonathan made a rude
noise through compressed lips as he came up with a bottle. “Isn’t that what the
guards in the concentration camps used to say?”
Setting the bottle down, he reached for a cup already in the pile of
used dishes. He wiped the grimy cup with
an equally disgusting rag. Then a sharp
jerk of his wrist broke the neck of the cream soda bottle on the edge of the
bar. He poured the soda over jagged
glass into the filthy cup before thumping both bottle and cup down in front of
Andrew. “You let the killing define you,” he said and then nodded toward the
gathered women. “You’re no better than them.”
Andrew daintily picked
up his drink and set it to one side. After
another nervous glance over his shoulder, he pushed off the footrest and
wiggled his torso up onto the bar.
Closer to Jonathan’s ear he whispered, “Who are they?”
“Señoras
de la noche,” Andrew said expansively. He nodded knowingly and then scooted backward
until he slipped off the bar. “Soiled doves. Fallen flowers. The demimonde.”
“Buy a girl a
drink?” A sultry voice asked just to his rear.
Even as he startled
and started to spin around, Andrew recognized the voice. “Kennedy!” he
exclaimed, when his eyes confirmed his guess.
He fell onto her neck in a wild hug. “Where did you come from?”
“The belly of the
beast,” Kennedy laughed. “You?”
“Oh, you know,”
Andrew said, stepping away from her to wave a carelessly airy hand. “I died.”
La ambulancia está en su manera. ¿Era
él tiene gusto de esto cuando usted
lo encontró?
Sí, pero más vivo. Él dijo algo.
¿Qué?
No seguro pero ella sonaba
¿Perdone? Forgive?
¡Sí! ¿Cosa extraña a decir, no?
“Did you hear that?” Andrew asked.
“Hear what?”
Andrew craned his neck, searching the bar for the men. “Someone talking.”
“I hear lots of people talking. Too many if you ask me." Considering the other women in the room, she mused mostly to herself, "Do you think they all had a shot at…? How many generations would that be?”
“Shh!”
Kennedy appeared to listen intently for a moment and then shrugged. “I don’t hear anything.”
“It’s men.”
“You’re hallucinating. Nobody here but us girls. Present company included.”
“What about Jonathan?” Andrew asked, twisting around to look for his friend. Katrina had taken Jonathan’s place behind the bar. She was dressed in his clothes, her hair caught up in a ponytail. She gave Andrew a tight, humorless smile as she busily wiped down the bar top. “Oh,” Andrew said.
Dipping her head toward Katrina, Kennedy said, “That one’s got loads of potential.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“You were asking about the Potentials,” Ethan said conversationally to a Dawn seemingly frozen in mid-spin. “Truly, a fascinating tale. They are the strongest women of any given generation, capable of wielding great power and,” he held up a finger stained with some grape-colored powder, “this is the salient point, remaining uncorrupted by that power.” He frowned at his stained digit and then looked around for some way to clean it as he said, “At least for a time. Absolute power, you may have heard, corrupts.”
“Absolutely,” Wood said distractedly as he stared at Dawn.
Ethan nodded. Spotting a box of Kleenex on Robin’s desk, he crossed the room and pulled out a handful of the tissues. Delicately, he wiped all trace of the purple dust from his hands. “Unfortunately, I can’t share all the details with you now. There simply isn’t time. No time.” He grinned broadly as if he’d made a joke.
“What did you do to her?” Wood asked, skirting in a wide circle around the statue of Teenage Girl Mid Pirouette which now graced his living room.
“Nothing,” Ethan said, drawing himself up as if offended. “I wouldn’t dream of harming a hair on her head. I just tucked her away for safekeeping,” he explained, wafting a purplish tissue in the air before dropping it into the desk-side wastebasket.
“You tucked her away?”
“The venom of the Glarghk Guhl
Kashmahnik has the handy property of making the
spirit of a person dimensionally transcendental.”
“The gargle
what?”
“Glarghk
Guhl Kashmahnik. Now, please try to
focus, Robin. The name of the wretched creature is hardly important. The salient point is the venom has this
property.”
“Dimensional
transcendence?”
“Indeed! It was a small matter to magically modify that property to create a temporal pocket.” He indicated the nearly immobile Dawn who, Wood noticed, was indeed still moving but with a kind of glacial grace. “Wonderful way to keep your tea hot and your sandwiches fresh.”
“She’s in another dimension?” Wood asked in amazement.
“Not quite. I needed to keep her closer than that. This is more like another time, a beat or two slower than ours. She’s trapped in this room, unable to leave. When we’re ready for her it will be a simple matter to bring her back into sync.”
“What do I do with her until then?”
“Why, I would have thought that was obvious,” Ethan said, rolling his sleeves down and buttoning the cuffs. “Keep her here. Keep her safe.”
“What if her sister comes looking for her?”
“Now, why would she do that?”
“Well when she doesn’t come home,” Wood intoned, as if speaking to the mentally challenged, “someone might get suspicious.”
“But my dear Robin,” Ethan said. “She’s going straight home from here.” Pointing a stern finger, he looked past Wood’s shoulder as he said, “And you’ll apologize, too, young lady, for your bad manners earlier.”
“Absolutely,” Dawn said from her perch on a stool behind Wood. He turned and just caught a glimpse of her, a perfect facsimile, before she vanished. He looked back at the real Dawn still stuck in the air like an insect in amber.
“I thought it could only be dead people,” Wood muttered.
“Indeed,” Ethan said as strode briskly to the door. “Now, if you will excuse me, my friend. I hate to dash but as it says in the good book: Other sheep have I.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“…Rayne!” Dawn gasped, completing her thought aloud as the world kicked her in the groin, doubling her over.
The name echoed and seemed to go on echoing as if it was the first word ever spoken. Straightening, Dawn stared wildly, half-expecting to see demons or Bringers leaping at her but she was alone, completely, utterly alone. Ethan had vanished. Principal Wood was also missing.
Dawn called to the latter. “Mr. Wood? Hello?”
Receiving no answer and wigged out by the creepy echoes, she headed for the bedroom, intending to check for Wood and a phone. The view out the kitchen window arrested her gaze, or rather…the lack of view. There was nothing beyond the pane of glass but a swirling silver fog. Gathering her nerve, Dawn returned to the front door and yanked it open. The silvery void growled at her. She hastily slammed the door closed.
“Oh, great,” Dawn declared.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Great!” Fred huffed as her car stalled and rolled sluggishly to the roadside. She smacked the steering wheel with an open palm. “Just great!”
Braking hard, she slammed the gearshift to park and tried the engine again. It whined in protest but failed to catch. She checked the fuel gauge and winced. It had taken her two days and three cars to get within six miles of Sunnydale and now she was out of gas. There wouldn’t be a chance at another vehicle. Somewhere on the road behind her were her personal demons. They had sharp teeth and a ’64 DeSoto with the windows blacked out. Fred could hear the roar of tires on the tarmac as she gathered the last of her bottled water, the book and her crossbow.
She glanced in the rearview mirror, careful to keep her head down. There was blood on her face, trickling from a small cut over her right eye. She wiped it away with the back of her hand. The blood worried her. She was bleeding elsewhere as well. That’s what came from ignoring Wesley’s advice and traveling at night. Not only had she taken too long to arrive but the enemy had caught her in the open, nearly finishing her off. Fred knew they were tracking her by the scent of her blood. She had to reach Sunnydale before sundown or her page in history would end before it got past the first sentence or two.
In the mirror, the reflection of the DeSoto crested a hill behind her and then disappeared into a valley. Fred crawled across the seat and slithered out the passenger side door. Crouching in the shadow of the car, she got her bearings. Shadows were her enemies. But the sun wasn’t her friend. A few hours wandering in the desert heat would drive her mad. She needed to be certain of her path.
Sighting on the huge red and white smokestacks of Sunnydale Electric, she set off over the uneven ground,
stumbling a bit. The
They were close, she could sense them. Wes had once called that Potential.
“Like potential meal?” Fred had quipped but Wes, his nose buried in some arcane text, hadn’t even smiled.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Andrew kept his eyes down, trying to give nothing away. His opponents could read him like a book. He peeked at his cards again. He had pocket kings. “Check,” he said off-handedly.
“He’s bluffing,” the dealer said.
Andrew blinked at her. He was fairly certain dealer commentary was against the rules.
“Does anyone have the Book of Hoyle?” he asked.
The dealer pulled a sour face. "I like to make my own rules,” she said.
She was hauntingly familiar, dark eyes, chestnut hair. She had a vibrant sexuality. Her steady gaze made Andrew feel all tingly and he didn’t even like girls that much. He struggled to recall her name. It was on the tip of his tongue but he couldn’t seem to dislodge it.
“I know you,” he said, hoping she had a tell.
“I just got here, sport,” she argued. “How could you know me?” She tapped the felt surface of the table with two fingers. “Are you playing poker or Truth and Dare?”
“Or,” Andrew corrected.
“That’s what I said…or!”
“It’s truth or dare. And I think you mean I’ve Got a Secret.”
“Not much of one,” the dealer countered, “with a poker face like yours!”
“I meant that’s the name of the game,” Andrew said primly.
“Called Texas Hold ‘Em where I come from,” the dealer said, eliciting snickers from the other players.
“Where is that exactly?” Andrew asked casually. He eased back his chair until it was precariously balanced on two legs. Tightening his belly to hold the cool pose, he tossed a stack of chips into the pot.
“
“And you’re a Slayer, right?”
“I’m a dealer,” she said, turning up the flop to reveal three queens.
“I call,” said the player to the dealer’s right. She splashed her chips into the center of the table.
Andrew glanced at her cards. She had ace/queen showing. “Lady with a sword,” he said.
The ranking seemed to mean something to him. And the player was also familiar. Andrew looked into her eyes, did a double take and then jerked to his feet. His chair tipped over and banged to the floor.
“Rona?” he gasped. His gaze swept around the table suddenly seeing the faces of his opponents as each of them turned up the same hand. “Vi? Chou-Ann? Uhm…wait don’t tell me…starts with an ‘A’?”
“Abigail,” Vi snapped as she showed her ace and queen. “Why does everyone keep forgetting that?” Her voice took on a strident edge as she stood up. Her hostile glare targeted one person after another. “What is wrong with you people?”
“Now look what you’ve started,” the dealer admonished Andrew. She gestured at his cards. “You gotta play the hand you’re dealt, cowboy. Nobody can leave ‘til you call or fold.”
“Call or fold,” Rona repeated and the other players took up the chant. “Call or fold.”
“You’re looking at dead money if you ask me,” the dealer told him, and in a flash he recognized her.
“Faith,” he whispered. “You’re not dead.”
“It was a bad beat,” Faith said.
Her dark gaze was full of wicked suggestion. Andrew felt like he was tumbling into her eyes. The sparkle in them grew brighter and brighter until he was forced to shield his vision with a raised hand. An intense light flared the room into white nothingness.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Looks like he took a bad beating,” the doctor said. He lifted one of Andrew’s eyelids and checked for dilation with a small flashlight.
“Yes, a terrible, terrible thing,” Ethan Rayne lisped coyly from his spot next to Andrew’s gurney. He'd sensed a weakness in the doctor, a fear of anything emasculating. True to form, Ethan was taking merciless advantage of the weakness, scaring the man for sport. “It’s getting so I’m afraid to walk the streets.”
“How long has he been like this?”
Ethan gestured vaguely in the direction of the hospital doors. “Javier, my lover, found him late this afternoon. Of course, I called for help immediately but when nobody came…”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” a passing E.M.T. said. “We’re the only service still working. There’s a backlog of calls as long as your arm. Heart failure, throat trauma…fiery immolation. This city is a ghost town but the emergency room is full. Go figure.”
“And we just got another one, Matt,” a second E.M.T. yelled as he rushed down the hallway. “Real massacre down in the warehouse district. Dispatch says the attending officer was weeping and raving about a bunch of dead girls.”
“Time to saddle up,” Matt said. His gear-burdened belt groaned as he turned on his heel and followed his partner toward the door.
“Don’t let us keep you, cowboy,” Ethan said, smiling and waving a hand but keeping his focus on Andrew and the doctor.
The sound of running feet dwindled in the distance as the doctor made a few notations in his chart. Short hairs stirred on the back of Ethan’s neck. His unctuous smile slipped. There was a prickling sensation deep in his veins as if all of his blood cells were suddenly scrambling for cover. A chill trickled down his spine as he turned toward the doors of the emergency room and saw a truly gorgeous and not wholly unfamiliar man striding toward him.
“Your name Delalluvia, mate,” the man called, obviously not recognizing him. Ethan’s smile returned.
“Light,” Andrew muttered. “Go toward the light.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The first day and night of alternating duty passed
uneventfully. The shift changes went
smoothly. No bad guys attacked. Buffy might have felt encouraged by the lull
in the action if a heavy depression hadn’t settled on her. They were no closer to solving the mystery of
The First. Andrew was still
missing.
When she returned home after her shift at the warehouse, Buffy tried again to speak to her sister. Her knock went unanswered. The house was eerily quiet in the early morning. Only Xander was stirring. He’d shuffled past Buffy with a grunt as she’d climbed the stairs. Waiting for Dawn to answer her queries, Buffy could hear him rattling pans in the kitchen.
‘This is my life,’ Buffy thought. ‘I’m living with people who don’t acknowledge I exist.’
Abandoning her efforts at peacemaking, she stomped to the
bathroom and drew herself a deep, hot one.
She felt put upon. Spike hadn’t
even greeted her when she’d come home. Not that she expected him to wait like a
dog for her return, but a bit of a welcome would have been nice after her hard
day with the kids. From the bathroom, she
could sense him, fast asleep in her bed. Pinning up her hair and locating her
robe, Buffy tried to act the part of a mature, self-reliant companion. They all needed, craved, a few hour’s
rest. She could wait until later for her
snuggles.
Buffy tested her bath water with a toe. The heat was almost unbearable. She added a dollop of eucalyptus oil and several sprigs of lavender to the water. The fragrant steam seemed to seep into her bones. She would bathe and then get some sleep. Sighing, she eased into the tub. The hot water lapped around her and she swished her toes, increasing the agitation. The motion soothed some of the ache from her muscles. Buffy couldn’t imagine how she’d gotten so sore.
She soaked for a long time in a dreamlike, half-snooze before startling suddenly awake. Time had passed. Her bath water was icy. Grumbling over her stiffness, she climbed out and reached for her robe. Her groping hand grazed bare vanity. Her robe had gone missing. Only when she took note of the missing robe did she think to check the room for enemies. The door to her bedroom stood ever so slightly ajar. Clutching a towel against her chest and bracing for a fight, Buffy padded stealthily across the tile floor.
At the door, she hesitated, listening intently before finally stepping across the threshold. Her breath caught in her throat. Her bedroom had been transformed into a welcoming womb of light. On the far side of it the unpainted door was completely closed and locked with a hook and eye. The levered closet doors were pushed wide like wings, exposing Spike’s duffle on a shelf, several of his dress shirts on hangers and her missing robe on a hook. A signature shopping bag from Wicks-n-Sticks on the closet floor explained the squat and tapered candles burning in dishes on every surface.
The golden glow gave Buffy a view of the subtle changes Spike had wrought in her absence. He had created a haven for her and yet, at the same time, marked her room as his. A pair of heavy boots peeked out from under the foot of the bed. A pile of leather and cloth-bound books spilled across the surface of her bedside table. Spike’s lighter, cigarettes and long-bladed gutting knife rested on her dresser in stark opposition to her makeup bottles and jewelry boxes. His black jeans were draped neatly over the back of a chair. He had replaced her ultra-feminine duvet covers and lacy sheets with more unisex bedding.
As she entered the room, he was lounging, completely at ease, in her re-made bed. He dipped the book of sonnets he’d been reading and smiled brightly at her over the top of it. Buffy self-consciously moistened her lips. He was beautiful, like Eros incarnate. Buffy recalled reading the story of Cupid and Psyche in high school. Until this moment, she’d thought it nothing more than a rip-off of Beauty and the Beast.
Spike’s skin gleamed in the flickering illumination. His eyes were dark seas of shadowed blue. He had stripped, at least to the waist, before climbing into bed and no marble statue had ever been so perfectly sculpted. The periwinkle blanket and white sheet were fresh from the wash and folded back to just skirt his hips. His hair had the damp ruffled curl it got when left to dry naturally.
“Welcome home, baby,” he purred.
“You look…this is all so…” Buffy blinked away tears. She didn’t have words.
She dragged a hand through her damp hair, pulling pins out so the heavy weight of it could fall around her shoulders. Then sighing, she sagged over to him. Settling one knee on the bed, she bent at the waist and planted a kiss on his forehead, another on his cheek and a third, soft and sweet, on his lips.
“I needed this so much,” she breathed, tongue teasing his.
Heart breaking from her tenderness, Spike groaned against the press of her lips. Eyes closed, he blindly fumbled his book to the table and then let his hands find her waist. A sharp yank removed the towel from between them. It slid down Buffy’s extended leg to the floor. She would have spilled over him then and into the bed but, with visible effort, he held her away.
“Let me see you,” he whispered his gaze raking down her body. He felt the heat of her blush sting his palms.
“What?”
“Stand up,” he urged. “Away. I want to look at you.”
“Spike…I’m…I don’t really.” Embarrassment created an excuse. “I’m very tired.”
“Please, luv,” he said, meeting her eye. “You’ve seen me naked, exposed. But you’ve never let me just take my fill of you.”
“I’m too skinny,” Buffy mumbled. “You know…I’m not…”
Spike put a finger to her lips. “Do you trust me?”
Eyes wide, she nodded. “You know I do,” she said against the light pressure from his finger. She wanted to sound confident. But the reassurance caught in her throat as Spike eased a length of silk from beneath the covers.
Wrapping the slippery black fabric around his hands, he snapped it tight and repeated, “Do you trust me?”
The question triggered a shameful crawling sensation in Buffy’s groin even as it tightened the skin around her nipples. Suddenly, her mouth was as dry as the desert beyond the city limits. Scenes from their past slithered into her mind. Many of them were horrific, but she winnowed out a few choice memories. In one of them, she was chained, almost helpless, as Spike repeatedly took her to climax. Every detail stood in bright relief: the creak of the bed, the slippery stretch and release of flesh, the harsh rasp of her breathing and the bite of the cuffs on her wrists. Replaying that scene left her wet and craving. She wanted to do it again.
Was it normal? Did that matter? It was too soon for this game.
Spike’s eyes seemed to hold the same doubts. When she remained silent, he let the silk slide free from one hand and let his palm find and caress her cheek. The end of the scarf trailed across Buffy’s wrist and slithered onto her inner thigh. It tickled and she glanced down. This was nothing she realized, only a game with a harmless scrap of sheer cloth. Buffy couldn’t help smiling as she flicked the scarf from her leg.
“Silk won’t hold me,” she said. “I could rip it to shreds.”
“Tha’s okay, luv,” Spike said, leaning forward for a confidential whisper. “I trust you.”
Buffy’s stomach did a smooth drop, like she’d hit a dip in the road at full speed. Her pulse stuttered. Hearing the flutter, Spike flashed his patented devilish grin. He had her. They both knew it. In response to her need, Buffy eased her legs apart. Slick fluid sent up a heady aroma as she brought her wrists together, holding them out for Spike’s trifling restraint. He trapped her in a few quick figure-eights of silk.
“What are you going to do?” she asked as he trailed her leash across the bed.
“Have my fill of you, pet,” Spike rumbled in a menacing register. His eyes glinted amber and his voice was almost a growl. “I want to look…love…” A sharp tug on the scarf tumbled Buffy into his arms. He quickly flipped her to her back and stretched her wrists over her head, tying her to the headboard. Staring down at her, he finished his list of desires, “…and drink my fill.”
Buffy gasped, flexing her biceps. They’d never. She’d never let him. It was too dangerous. Spike tried to straddle her hips but she dug her heels into the mattress, pushing into a partial crouch. The scarf slipped, loosening as she shifted her weight. Hissing, the silk’s friction burned along a wrought iron curl. They both heard the fabric sing as it started to rend.
Spike settled his palm, in a calming gesture, on Buffy’s bare belly. The dark circles around her eyes gave her a haunted stare but she didn’t smell terrified. She smelled heavenly, irresistible. Spike’s fingers seemed to melt into her flesh. His steely gaze wrapped around hers.
“Don’t fret, luv,” he said gently and, like a woman in thrall, Buffy obeyed. She started to relax. “Lie back. Don’t fight me. Just close your eyes. Good,” he rumbled, drawing out the word as he drew her out. “Keep them closed, now and let me have my way in this.” Stroking his fingers in long passes over the feline stretch of her, he soothed Buffy’s fears. “I promise… I promise you…I’ll go easy.”
Buffy struggled to control her breathing, knowing it was safe to let go of her inhibitions. She wanted this. Wanted to let Spike’s hypnotic murmurs work their magic. It went against every survival instinct she possessed. It infuriated the Slayer in her but Buffy trusted Spike more than she trusted instinct. God help her, she wanted to be a woman for him. She wanted it as much as he wanted to be a man for her. Spike couldn’t hold her against her will. He wouldn’t even try. Eyes squeezed closed, she talked her body into submission, relaxing her legs, letting her knees fall open.
“Oh, sweet Buffy,” Spike breathed. “You could slay me with a harsh word.”
The blade of his thumbnail skated down the side of her breast and then continued lower, tracing figures across her stomach, circling her navel. Something filmy, another scarf perhaps, slithered between her legs. Buffy arched her back, moaning out his name like a benediction. Her lashes trembled and he warned her to keep her eyes closed.
“I want to see you,” she pouted, lifting her head to face where she felt he was.
“You’ve seen me, pet, a hundred times over,” he said. “You let me parade around naked while you hid under the rug.” By the sound of his voice he was some distance away, near the foot of the bed. Buffy turned her head in what seemed like the right direction, but when next Spike spoke, he was close to her ear. “Imagine me…near you…over you…inside.”
After each phrase, he moved to a different point, the mattress never shifting to betray his location. Buffy grew confused trying to follow his voice. When his hands gripped both sides of her head, she started and her eyes popped open. Spike gave her a pained look. Disappointment plumped his mouth in a pout. Buffy had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.
“Sorry! Sorry!” she said. Accepting darkness again almost immediately, she closed her eyes, letting her head drop back so the curve of her throat was presented for his pleasure.
Unimpressed, Spike made an impatient noise. He scooped a hand under Buffy’s neck, lifting her head so his mouth could claim hers in a fiery kiss. He draped over her, blanketing her, smothering her with his presence. The soft something in his hand brushed by her nose. It was scented with her intimate aromas. Another scarf, she thought. Before she knew what he was about, Spike had tied the silk across her face, blindfolding her.
“No peeking,” he scolded, leaving her and moving across the room. His bare feet slapped the floor, a pointed and unnecessary noise.
He made her wait. But not long. It was less than fifteen seconds before he returned, his eagerness thrilling her. Bracketing her waist, he roughly dragged his hands down her torso until they caught on the jut of her pelvis. The bed rocked. She could feel his knees, inside hers, shoving her into a straddle. His cock had a velvet weight and a nudging wetness that reminded her of an inquisitive animal. His thumbs pressed into the hard sinew of her abdomen. Buffy squirmed and he lifted her, pulled her taut against the silken restraint, stretching her out to her full length, like the string of a drawn bow.
Instinctively, she tensed, seeking leverage. But her toes barely reached the bed. There was nothing to press against but Spike. Buffy resisted the urge to wrap her legs around him and take charge. Spike’s fingers slid under her bottom until he was cupping her in both palms. Working from the back, he eased her legs even further open.
“Spike, I…”
“Hush!”
The whispered admonishment stirred her feather-soft curls, inspiring a delicious tickling. The sensation seemed to creep along under her skin. Buffy groaned, needing him more fully then she ever had. When his tongue probed gently in the folds of her sex, hot fluid seeped from her core, the copious rush of it almost an embarrassment. Buffy thrashed and moaned. As if her reaction had startled him Spike shied away. The bed bucked as he bounded off it and Buffy fell, bouncing slightly when she landed. She sprawled in an ungainly tangle of long limbs, the sting of sudden abandonment shocking her into chilled silence.
Frustrated and impatient, she frowned in what she hoped was his direction. Not having fun, she thought. Her fingers plucked at her silken bracelets. She was toying with the idea of ending the game when Spike spoke in a grating lisp from the far side of the room.
“You have a treat for your Spike,” he said, sounding decidedly British and only vaguely human. The statement stank of the grave.
“Wh-what?” Buffy said her confusion palpable. “Spike, what’s wrong?” she asked, though part of her already knew. “William?”
“There’s blood,” he said, startlingly close.
Buffy shivered as the cool wash of his breath tickled her skin. The scent hit her. She was bleeding but not from a wound. Menstruating. “Shit!” The realization caused a nauseating splash of panic. Slayers didn’t have regular periods. There was a very good reason why.
A second before she could start flailing like a rabbit in a snare, Spike whispered in her ear. “Don’t move.”
The Slayer elbowed into Buffy’s belly, trying to get her attention. She had to do something. The room sprang into relief in her mind’s eye like an infra-red vision. She could sense the vampire with no effort at all. He was a greater darkness in the room, kneeling at the edge of the bed. It would be an easy kill. Even as she focused her energy, Buffy couldn’t help thinking that Giles would be proud of her control. Even blindfolded and restrained, she would still be able to take out this monster.
She had this Slayer thing down.
END THIS PART