Chapter
Four
It felt good. He had always loved the brawl, the
challenge, everything all fists and fangs. Much more satisfying than all that
bleedin’ ‘art of the kill’ garbage Angelus and Darla always used to waste time
oohin’ and aahin’ about. Tonight, though, the fight didn’t last long enough.
Spike even tried to prolong the battle, but the two vamps were young and
inexperienced – who was turning these idiots anyway? he wondered. Even givin’
them every opportunity, they were reduced to dust in a matter of minutes.
Spike growled, his fist meeting the brick wall of the
alleyway in frustration, and anger, and pain. Again, then again. Then the right
hand. Again. Maybe the physical pain would...
“Oh, stop!”
The voice was full of distress and he spun toward the sound,
ready to lash out, to maim, to kill.
It was the woman. The ones the fledglings had been
about to make into a meal when he’d happened upon the scene. Mindin’ his own
damn business. Immediately he was stuck by the horrifying thought – bloody
hell, he hadn’t been protectin’ her, had he?
He assured himself he had not. He’d just been
lookin’ for a fight, like any self-respecting evil demon should be of a night.
“Please, stop. Your poor hands – look at them...” she
trailed off as her eyes lifted from the bloody mess of his hands to his eyes.
He was in game face. Why wasn’t she runnin’ for her
life? Screamin’, damn it? Couldn’t he have that, at least? The ability to
instill fear in mortals who didn’t know he was incapable of hurtin’ them? Had
that, too, been taken from him?
Enraged, furious with fate, he leapt toward her, fangs
bared, yellow eyes flashing.
The woman flattened herself against the brick wall in
terror.
“Please, I can’t, I only meant...” The sight and scent
of her rampant fear soothed Spike to some degree, which worked to his
advantage. If he’d touched her, he’d be screamin’ and clutchin’ his head in
agony, wouldn’t he? And how bleedin’ scary was that?
“That’s better,” he snarled, pinning her to the wall
with his presence. “You’re wise to show fear, because, woman, I am all your
nightmares come to pass.”
He watched as she closed her eyes and turned her face
away from him, waiting for him to strike. She didn’t beg or plead or cry. Just
clutched her fear close and shut him out.
Bugger it all to hell.
She was wearin’ her hair in the same style Joyce had
started favorin’ before she died.
Spike pushed away from her and turned to go, mangled
hands already reaching for a cigarette, as his features shifted back to their
human form. Satisfaction was becoming a damn bitch to come by.
“Thank you for saving my life.”
He froze. What the hell had she just said?
He didn’t turn back to her. His hands were shaking –
bloody shaking – as he went ahead and lit his fag. He took another step away.
“I’ve seen you before.”
He spun back to face her, leather whipping around him.
Black menace.
“Who the bleedin’ hell are you?” he demanded furiously.
“Emily Huggins.” Her voice had gained strength. “I own
the flower shop,” she went on, nodding her head to the back door of the small
flower shop they were standing next to.
“I’ve seen you back here before, usually sometime
shortly before midnight. Almost every night the last couple of weeks.”
Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t...
“I’ve seen you taking flowers from those I’ve had to put
out.”
Spike swallowed, his face a frozen mask.
Emily relaxed a little when he said nothing. More
importantly, when he didn’t jump at her again or try to eat her.
“I always dislike having to put out flowers that are
perfectly fine, just a moment past their prime. It seems such a waste. But I
know they won’t sell in the morning, so I...” her voice trailed off. “I just, I
just wanted you to know that, well, you’re welcome to them.” Her chin came up
in defiance when he leveled icy blue eyes on hers. “Please take as many as you
want. I want – I’m happy to have them find a home.”
Spike took a drag off his cigarette, and inhaled
deeply, his jaw clenched. He couldn’t think of One. Bloody. Thing. To. Say.
He turned and strode away, duster billowing about him.
Sometimes image really was everything.
“I meant what I said,” Emily called after him.
As soon as he was certain he was well out of her sight,
Spike broke into a run.
~*~
His crypt was dark. He rarely bothered to light candles
anymore. Nothin’ to see anyway. And he belonged in the dark. He was a vampire,
right? Creature of the night.
No light for the likes of him.
He went straight to the refrigerator. Time to mix up a
little Buffy cocktail. One part Slayer blood, three parts whatever else was on
hand.
In all his years as a vampire, he had never craved
blood like he craved hers. He carefully doled out his dwindling supply in small
portions, like a money less addict planning his next fix from what was
available. Just so much per day. All at once? Or a little now, a little more
later?
And then he would sip it, savor it, licking the glass
clean greedily. He could taste her in every drop. Hot and strong and powerful.
Buffy.
He’d gone from the weakened, almost skeletal state that
Dawn had found him in to the strongest he’d ever been in a few short weeks. He
was still too thin, his face too full of shadowed angles, but strength surged
through his veins, and the power he could unleash while fighting truly
terrified his opponents.
He gloried in the strength her blood gave him. Relished
it.
The aphrodisiac qualities of Slayer blood were
ruthlessly ignored. He couldn’t – couldn’t fantasize. Wouldn’t. The
first time her blood had rushed to his groin, he’d almost doubled over in pain
at the very thought of seeking out or providing himself with sexual
gratification. So he simply – didn’t. He had power, didn’t he? And he had the
power to deny and ignore whatever he damn well wanted to ignore. His lips
twisted. Master of his own domain, he was.
Spike ran his tongue along the edge of his glass,
swiping up the last tiny droplet of blood. At this rate, Buffy’s blood would be
completely gone in less than a month. Would he be able to keep down blood that
was not spiked with the powerful blood of his Slayer? He didn’t know.
Didn’t care, either.
~*~
During the long hours of the day, he was, for the most
part, trapped in his crypt by the sunlight. More and more often now, with his
Slayer’s blood singing in his veins, he found himself escaping into the sewers,
searching for some beastie dwelling in the vast underground of Sunnydale to
pummel and kill. Searching for something – anything – to occupy his mind, his
body, his fists. But sometimes he still lay in silence atop his bier, flirting
with desperately needed sleep.
And she would come to him.
Sometimes she came in dreams. One dream flowed into
another, differing radically in mood and tone. He knew they were dreams. Just
dreams. He should be able to open his eyes and the images – both good and bad –
would be dispelled. But he couldn’t. His eyes refused to open. The dreams held
him tightly in thrall, and he couldn’t break away. The images pressed into him
relentlessly, without mercy.
He and Dawn were on the tower. But this time, this
time, Doc proved no deterrent for him. Spike was able to toss the strange
little demon to his death, preventing him from cutting Dawn. When Buffy
finished with Glory and joined them atop the tower, there was no need for her
to leap. Buffy and Dawn embraced...
He could hear Willow in his mind, telling him to run, to
get up the tower. But he couldn’t move. He looked down, only to see that his
feet had grown roots and were firmly planted deep in the earth. He couldn’t
move. Couldn’t. Budge. But he could hear Dawn screaming, crying out to him for
help, calling his name. He could see Buffy falling, falling. He was stuck in
the ground, unable to move an inch as he watched her die. Again...
They were making love. Oh god, she felt so good, better
than he’d ever imagined. He was moving within her, deep, strong, and she was there,
right there with him, responding to every touch, every thrust. Their eyes were
locked together and he could feel her, feel her tightening around him. She was
coming, coming, and she was calling his name. His...
The tower didn’t seem as tall this time. He knew he
could defeat Doc. He felt strong, invincible. He tried to convey his confidence
to a terrified Dawn. But she couldn’t hear him, couldn’t seem to see him. He
swaggered across the grid work toward Doc, but the little man didn’t turn to
face him. Instead he kept advancing on Dawn. Spike was angry at being ignored.
People shouldn’t ignore death when it walked up behind them. Spike charged him,
leaping at him in a tackle that would take them both down quickly. But he flew
right through the other man, landing on the hard metal between Doc and Dawn.
Enraged, he rose and repeated the motion with the same result. Then he
realized. They couldn’t see him, couldn’t even sense him. He was invisible to
them. He stared at the space his hands should occupy. Even he couldn’t see
them. He wasn’t there. He didn’t exist. He was dead...
She was sleeping in his arms. Naked and warm against
him. He lay awake listening to the strong beat of her heart...
“It’s your fault, yours. You incompetent scum, you
worthless, soulless demon. She’s dead because of you. You’re responsible.” The
Watcher and Harris advanced on him with stakes raised to strike. His arms were
pinned behind him in a relentless hold. He struggled to break free, twisting
around to see what it was that held him so tightly. It was Dawn, her eyes
glittering with malicious hatred...
He knocked the knife from Doc’s hands, watching it as
it fell into the rubble far below. Doc couldn’t cut Dawn. She was safe. He’d
saved her. Buffy and Dawn turned to him and smiled...
They were fighting. He and Buffy. Fists and words
flying furiously. And he could hit her without his head exploding...
She was still alive. Alive. Oh god, oh god, she’d been
buried alive...
They were making love. She knew exactly how to move to
make him groan, how to touch him to make him gasp. They’d done this hundreds of
times, thousands. He knew her body better than he knew his own, and she knew
his. He was going to come, could feel the beautiful build up of pressure, the
wild pleasure. Then his fangs were buried in her neck and he was drinking her,
coming violently inside her, taking her and – oh god, no, draining her, turning
her, even as she called out that she would love him forever. Forever and ever
and ever...
Sometimes she just came to him. He could swear he was
awake, open eyed and staring into the dark emptiness of his crypt. He couldn’t
see her, but he could feel her presence, could catch her scent in the air which
grew heavy around him, weighing him down.
Buffy.
And then, her touch. Ghostly fingers whispering over
his flesh, tracing delicate lines against his pale skin. Her touch was so soft.
It soothed him, calmed him. Then it aroused him, making him ache for more.
Buffy.
Her breath warmed his flesh; words he couldn’t make out
were spoken softly against his ear, his throat. He wanted to understand her,
wanted to know what it was she was telling him, why she was coming to him, what
she wanted, needed. Please, love, stay here with me. Stay here. Stay.
Buffy.
But of course she didn’t. He could feel her presence
slipping away, leaving, and he tried desperately to hold onto – her, her
essence. He wanted to cloak himself in it, wrap it tightly around him, cling to
it. But he never succeeded. She always slipped away.
Buffy.
He didn’t know which was worse – the dreams or the
waking visions, the passionate scenarios of sex, and joy, and saving, or the
nightmarish ones of failure and death.
When he woke it was always the same. In those first
dark moments, dreams and reality were so mixed up and twisted in his mind that
he couldn’t differentiate between them. Every single time he woke, he honestly
did not know if Buffy was dead or alive. Just. Did. Not. Know. His mind worked
frantically to sort through all the dreams, all the pain, all the horror and
the guilt and the hope until reality could be ascertained. Until he knew for
sure.
Until the world crashed down around him again.
No. No.
She was dead.
His Slayer was dead.
It was like losing her all over again every time he
woke. And, every time he woke, he laid there, his face pressed against his
upper arm, buried in the crook formed by his bent elbow, as the agony of loss
started screaming its now familiar path through every cell of his body all over
again.
Buffy. Buffy.
He hadn’t cried since he’d held her body through the
night in the morgue.
~*~