Chapter Fourteen

 

 

 

 

Willow had not been gone long when someone began pounding on the Summers’ front door. Buffy, who was halfway up the stairs and to bed, stormed back into the foyer angrily. Couldn’t she ever have a moment’s peace?

 

However, the moment she opened the door her rage turned to delight and she threw herself into the visitor’s arms. “Giles! You’re home!”

 

He smiled awkwardly under her obvious pleasure at his arrival. “Ah, yes. I arrived this morning, actually. I tried to telephone, but…”

 

He didn’t have to finish, Buffy knew what he meant. Joyce had been on the warpath all day and for some reason the majority of her anger seemed to be focused on Giles. Apparently, in Joyce’s mind, Giles had given Buffy too many adult responsibilities, causing her to “act out” inappropriately in protest. The concept was a ridiculous one, but as it took the blame off her, Buffy did not bother to correct it.

 

Now she motioned for Giles to speak more quietly so that Joyce, who was upstairs resting, would not hear them.

 

“Sorry about that,” she whispered. “But you know Mom…She’s having a hard time dealing with all of this.”

 

“Yes, well, I’m sorry to hear that. However…” Giles looked suddenly stern. “That isn’t why I’m here.”

 

She raised her eyebrows. “Oh? Why are you here?”

 

“I want to talk to you about Angel.”

 

“Angel?”

 

“Yes. Willow expressed some concerns to me about the nature of your relationship with him.”

 

“Willow!” Buffy’s eyes narrowed angrily. So that was why Willow was late this morning! She’d been with Giles’, gossiping about her .

 

“Yes, Willow. She told me she has reason to believe you might be expressing an interest in him that goes beyond the boundaries of friendship. And whether or not this is true,” he added quickly before she could argue. “I want to address the issue.”

 

She was afraid of that.

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 

 

Dinnertime.

 

Spike opened his eyes and stretched. The factory was dark and still, and his stomach was growling. The jogger he’d grabbed on his way in that morning seemed ages ago. He’d have a quick dinner and then head over to the Watcher’s to embark on the second part of his master plan.

 

Since he’d slept in the same clothes he’d been wearing for four days now, there was no need to get dressed. He just rolled out of bed, pulled on his duster and headed for the stairs. He felt a bit better after a good sleep, but still…he was disappointed in the Slayer. He’d expected better of her after what he’d pulled last night. He’d expected her to burst in on him, stake in hand, calling for blood. Wasn’t like her to curb her temper. He wondered if something had happened to her.

 

The rusted hinges of the factory’s main door screeched a loud protest as Spike pushed it open and stepped outside. It was a nice night, clear with just a slight breeze. Perfect hunting conditions. Spike stopped walking and raised his head, lips parted slightly as he inhaled, sniffing for prey.

 

Unfortunately, the first thing he scented on the breeze was not some sweet young thing out for a nighttime walk.

 

It was Angel.

 

Spike saw him a second after he smelled him. Angel was striding across the parking lot toward him. He was still about two hundred yards away but Spike could sense his aggression even if he couldn’t yet see his expression. It was in his posture, his heavy, purposeful tread. It was in the rank odor of hatred that drifted on the wind. This wasn’t a friendly call.

 

“What in the bleeding hell are you doing here?” he snarled, baring suddenly elongated canines at the unexpected visitor.

 

Angel stopped a few feet away, his expression just as hard as Spike’s.

 

“You shouldn’t have come back, Spike.” Maybe it was because he usually preferred to keep his demon side hidden, but Angel’s words had a slight lisp to them, as though he had a hard time talking around the fangs he so rarely sported.

 

Spike snorted at the warning.

 

“Yeah….You know, mate, you’re the second vampire to tell me that. And guess what? The first vampire is dust now.”

 

“Just like you’re about to be,” Angel said.

 

“Right…” Spike helped himself to a cigarette—not because he wanted one but because he wanted to show Angelus that he was not about to be intimidated. “Strong words, those. You got something to back them up?”

 

Angel withdrew a bottle of holy water from his pocket and threw it at Spike in reply. Spike dodged, but droplets of the burning liquid still managed to singe his face as the bottle splintered on the pavement.

 

Spike snickered, the cigarette dangling from his lips. He rubbed his fingers across the blisters on his jaw thoughtfully. “Well I guess you showed me.”

 

He yawned and stretched, heedless of the threat as Angel pulled a stake out of his coat.

 

“So what’s the matter, Peaches? Aren’t you happy to see me? Or…” He cocked an eyebrow wickedly. “Is this a Buffy issue? She tell you about us?”

 

For the first time Angel’s confidence seemed to falter. His poker-face flickered briefly, replaced by a quick flash of what was definitely alarm.

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

Spike smiled.

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 

 

“Giles there is nothing between Angel and me.”

 

“Yes, well, you say that…”

 

She crossed her arms over her chest defensively. “You think I’m lying?”

 

“I think you are being unrealistic in the belief that you and Angel can ever be ‘friends,’” he answered, raising his voice slightly. “I think you are allowing your affection for him to cloud your judgment. I think that if he truly possessed the love he claims to feel, then he would leave town and not stay here to upset your life.”

 

“You think he’s upsetting my life?”

 

“Buffy for God’s sake…it’s obvious! You refuse to discuss your future, especially college. You’ve become distant and secretive. You haven’t been yourself for weeks now and lately it’s been getting worse.”

 

His voice dropped low and there was something like sympathy in his eyes as he went on. “I know it isn’t easy for you, Buffy. But you have more than your share of burdens in life. Don’t add Angel to them. Let go of first love and allow yourself a chance at happiness.”

 

For some reason Buffy thought about Spike.

 

“I’m trying to do that, Giles,” she insisted. “I really am. And I haven’t been with Angel. The only time I’ve seen him this week was last night when I went to tell him—” She hesitated.

 

“I’m not insinuating that Angel isn’t a—a good—person,” Giles stated haltingly, completely ignoring Buffy’s words. “I—I’m sure he is trying compensate for past wrongs. I went to speak with him earlier and he was on his way to deal with Spike, as a matter of fact. But history showed us that a relationship with him isn’t safe—”

 

“Wait,” Buffy interrupted. “What did you just say?”

 

He looked startled. “Excuse me?”

 

“About Spike. What did you say Angel told you about Spike?”

 

“Only that you were unable to cope with him on your own and that he would take care of it himself.” Giles spoke of it as something of little consequence, adding quickly, “And while I appreciate the effort, I hardly think it offsets….Where are you going?”

 

“To keep him from getting killed!” Buffy shouted back, already halfway out the door.

 

Giles stared after her. “Angel will be fine—”

 

But she wasn’t talking about Angel.

 

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 

 

“I don’t believe you.”

 

Spike shrugged easily.

 

“Fine by me, mate. Ask her if you want to know for sure.”

 

“Maybe I will.” But Angel’s voice held little conviction.

 

“Good for you. Get yourself all the dirty little details, ‘cause they are grand.”

 

“Shut up!”

 

“I shagged her brains out, all right,” Spike said contemplatively. “You know you really shouldn’t have kept her all to yourself, Angelus. You made out to Dru and me that she was this chaste little prude, but really she’s a little spitfire in bed. At least she was with me…could be you didn’t bring it out so much.”

 

“SHUT UP!”

 

With an infuriated roar, Angel leapt forward. His stake was extended, but anger made his aim poor and the wooden shaft sank into Spike’s shoulder, not his chest.

 

“Bleeding Christ!” Spike howled. He clouted Angel on the side of the head, knocking him to the pavement, and then wrenched the stake from his flesh. The wound was deep, but since he hadn’t had a recent meal the bleeding was slight. Spike was relieved to see that his coat, at least, had managed to escape the attack unscathed.

 

Just to be on the safe side he took off the duster and threw in to the ground several feet away. Then he turned to Angel, who was just picking himself up off the pavement.

 

“That was a poor display. You should learn to control that temper, Angelus, before it gets you into trouble.”

 

“Buffy would never sleep with the likes of you,” Angel spat.

 

“No? Well she did, more than once. Point in fact—”

 

But Spike didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence. Angel had produced another stake and was now advancing slowly, a maniacal sort of gleam in his eyes. “You’re lying,” he repeated. “You’re lying because Drusilla left you and you blame me for it—because you know she preferred me to you.”

 

“You would never have touched her if I hadn’t been injured,” Spike snapped, his own temper flashing to the surface.

 

“That’s a laugh. Or have you forgotten London?”

 

He hadn’t forgotten London, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to discuss it now. He quickly shifted the conversation back to Buffy.

 

“She’s a demon in the sack, that one. And it isn’t just the enthusiasm, you know? She’s got stamina. ”

 

“SHUT YOUR MOUTH!”

 

Angel lunged but this time Spike was quick to dodge. He went on with his monologue without missing a beat.

 

“And that body! Nice little arse on her, I’ll tell you that. Firm, like.”

 

Spike laughed as Angel swung at him, his fist barely grazing Spike’s chin. He raised his knee and kicked Angel in the gut, sending him to his knees, groaning. Angel said something then, something Spike didn’t get, and he leaned closer.

 

“What was that, Peaches?”

 

Angel’s face was still twisted into a pained grimace, but his voice was strong, clear. “I said: don’t you ever get tired of taking my leavings, William? First Dru, now Buffy—”

 

Something in hearing Angel calling him by his old name startled Spike, and for just a second, he faltered.

 

Angel knew an opportunity when he saw one. He punched Spike in the balls.

 

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

Chapter Fifteen

 

 

 

 

Spike sank to his knees with a groan. He doubled over, face to the pavement, and clutched his groin with a grimace.

 

“Low—fucking—blow—”

 

“I really don’t think you have room to talk about low blows,” Angel answered. He picked up the stake Spike had pulled from his shoulder, but the point was splintered now, blunt and soft. Angel flung it away with an expression of annoyance.

 

Spike made a noise that was half-growl, half-groan, and answered: “Only poofs hit in the balls, Peaches.”

 

“I’ll keep that in mind the next time I kill you.”

 

Though he was still in excruciating pain, Spike forced himself to stand, knowing that if he didn’t Angel would be on him in a minute. He stumbled a safe distance away and took a moment to recover as Angel looked around for the stake he’d dropped earlier.

 

He did not, however, hold his tongue.

 

“You know you could’ve killed me by now, you prancing lightweight.”

 

“Why don’t you just shut your mouth for five minutes?” Angel snapped. He leaned down—presumably to pick up the stake—and added, “It’s no wonder Drusilla finally got fed up and left you. You prattle on just for the sake of hearing your own voice.”

 

“Considering the fact Dru was known to talk to the wallpaper on occasion, I don’t think she minded.” His tone was cool and unhurried, but as he spoke Spike’s eyes were darting around him, looking for something that would make a suitable weapon. His cock hurt and he was growing tired of the game. He was ready to dust the ponce and end this.

 

Unfortunately, there wasn’t a whole lot of wood to be had in a parking lot. No tree limbs or anything that could easily be converted into a stake. Looked like he would have to wrestle Angel’s away from him, and that wouldn’t be easy now that he was moving with the speed and precision of your average box turtle. He thought fast.

 

There was a piece of machinery lying several feet away from him. A long, thick piece of twisted steel, it had obviously been left over from the days when this place was a working factory. Rusted out holes the size of bottle caps peppered the entire length of it, but it seemed strong enough. Spike picked it up, tried a few practice swings. It would do.

 

 For now.

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 

 

Buffy didn’t have a clear plan in mind as she bolted down the front walk and onto the street. She wasn’t even certain who it was she was hurrying to save; experience had told her Spike probably wouldn’t be the one who needed assistance. But Giles’ words had triggered a sense of panic that drove her toward the factory and the fight therein, and she could have no more stopped herself from going than she could have stopped breathing.

 

The factory was a fair distance from her house, but luckily the streets leading to it were small, flat and well maintained. They were mainly residential and therefore had little traffic for her to contend with, which made things go even faster. She crossed the railroad tracks and climbed the gentle slope that led to Sunnydale’s industrial section. Spike’s factory, formerly the Master’s, was off to one side, rather isolated from the buildings which were newer and still in operation. Buffy left the road and cut across two parking lots and a large vacant area before reaching the rutted blacktop in front of the Spike’s place.

 

Spike and Angel were outside, off to one side of the door. It was obvious the fight had been going for some time, because both of them showed signs of injury and Angel, at least, was looking rather tired. They were circling one another like wolves, shouting, but from a distance Buffy couldn’t make out the words. Angel had his back to her, so she couldn’t see his expression. But Spike’s was enraged, his yellow eyes slits in the distorted features of his demon face. There was none of his usual pleasure at a brawl, just an unconcealed hatred for his opponent and a lust for the kill. Though he was facing in Buffy’s direction, he was focused only on Angel, and he did not notice her approach.

 

Buffy hesitated, wondering what on earth she should do now. She had arrived with no strategy in mind, only the singular thought that she didn’t want either of them to be hurt. Now, however, she had no idea how she could stop the dispute without raising awkward questions. After her conversation with Angel the previous night, she was eager to avoid arousing his suspicions further, but that seemed impossible, given the situation.

 

She smiled suddenly—a wry, slightly perverse smile not unlike the one plastered across Spike’s face at that moment. It amused her somewhat that Angel, who had been the instigator in this fight, was the one who was coming out the worse for wear. He was heavier than Spike, slower. Even the hundred or so years of experience he had on his adversary were of little help, for the latter’s genuine zeal for bloodshed served him in good stead. Already Angel’s face resembled a well-tenderized piece of steak; the result, apparently, of Spike’s proficiency with a very heavy piece of steel.

 

Buffy moved forward, thinking she should probably intervene before things went any further. She knew that in a moment Spike would gain possession of the stake and when he did, Angel wouldn’t stand a chance.

 

The movement caught Spike’s attention and he looked over Angel’s shoulder—and his jaw promptly dropped. Though she couldn’t hear him from a distance, Buffy saw his lips form her name. His expression was bewildered, distrustful, as though he though he was trying to figure out whether she was there to help Angel or not.

 

Angel didn’t even bother looking to see what had captured his rival’s attention. Instead he took advantage of Spike’s preoccupation and delivered a well-aimed fist to the younger vampire’s throat. The blow caught Spike off guard and he fell backwards onto the ground. Before he could recover himself, Angel kicked him in the head, knocking him back to the dirt. He pressed one foot into Spike’s neck to hold him and raised his stake.

 

Buffy acted completely without thought. She sprinted over the distance separating them and, grabbing Angel by one shoulder, she jerked him backwards off of Spike. The momentum caused both of them to stumble for a second, but neither fell down.

 

Angel snarled with surprise, clearly having no idea what had happened. And he didn’t bother finding out before he reacted, backhanding her with a force that sent her reeling.

 

Numb with shock, Buffy picked herself up off the pavement.

 

“What do you think you’re DOING?” she shouted.

 

Startled out of his game face, Angel stared at her. “B—Buffy! God, I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was you…”

 

“Well it is me,” she snapped, rubbing her bruised elbow. “Giles told me about your stupid plan and I got here as quick as could. Obviously,” she shot a look at his swollen, bruised face, “not soon enough.”

 

Angel was recovering from his surprise now, and his features slipped into his old brooding look. “Go home, Buffy,” he said steadily. “This doesn’t concern you.”

 

“The hell it doesn’t! I told you not to come here! I told you I was handling this!”

 

“Just how are you handling it?” he bit back. “By sleeping with him?”

 

Stunned by the accusation, Buffy shot Spike a single dismayed glance.

 

Spike shrugged.

 

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 

 

 

For a space of several seconds, no one said anything.

 

Buffy tried hard to summon some anger at Spike, but she was finding it hard going. This was not like what he had done to Joyce. After all, Angel was the one that had come to him , looking for a fight. If Spike had used their afternoon together as a weapon to hurt Angel with she couldn’t really blame him. But it didn’t make things any easier for her.

 

She drew a shaky breath and forced herself to meet Angel’s eyes. When she spoke, the words were halting, angry. “You—have—no—right—”

 

“No right?” he echoed disbelievingly. “Buffy how can you say that when you know that I—when you know how I feel about you?”

 

Spike snickered. “Now, this is too sweet.”

 

“Shut up, Spike,” Buffy and Angel said in unison.

 

Spike rolled his eyes and went back to rubbing his wounded shoulder.

 

Buffy looked at Angel sadly. “I—I know how you feel,” she stammered softly. “And if things were different I—but they aren’t. And it isn’t fair of you to act so—so proprietary of me when you know we can never be anything but friends. You have no right—”

 

“No right to what?” he interrupted. “To get to the truth? Buffy I want to know if what he said was true! Did you really—?”

 

“You have no right to accuse me of anything!” she snapped. “I’m not telling you anything because nothing in my personal life is your business!”

 

Angel looked stricken. “You did.”

 

Her face reddened. “Don’t…”

 

“I can’t believe you! I cannot believe you would actually let him touch you! You talk about things being impossible for us! H—he doesn’t even have a soul .”

 

“And yours seems to be doing you such good at the moment,” Spike drawled.

 

“Angel stop ! ” Buffy shouted. “Just stop! Y—you don’t know the whole story. You don’t know anything about it. So just…stop.”

 

“FINE!” he yelled. “You want to whore around with every corpse in the cemetery? Be my guest!”

 

Had he not already been so angry with Spike, Angel would probably never have said that. He was shocked, hurt, and jealous. He didn’t mean it. Buffy knew he didn’t mean it. But knowing it didn’t make it any easier to hear, and she lost her temper completely, striking him as hard as she could with her closed fist.

 

His head rocked to one side with the force of the blow, but he didn’t flinch. Nor did he wince as a line of blood oozed from his nostril. Instead, he merely turned around and began walking away.

 

Buffy thought about calling him back or going after him. But what was the point? She had no idea what to say to him and it seemed pointless to keep screaming. So she stood and watched as he retreated, his figure gradually fading away into the dark.

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

Chapter Sixteen

 

 

 

 

“Bloody hell!”

 

Despite the shock of seeing her—as well as the painful throbbing of his wounded shoulder—Spike’s words were almost exultant. There was nothing he liked better than seeing Angelus taking it on the chin and this time the blows had not just been metaphorical. And Buffy of all people had been the one to deliver them!

 

His eyes narrowed. Course, she didn’t seem too well pleased now that Angel had hit the road. She was just standing there, same spot she’d been in when he’d stormed away, staring out at the empty night like it had something to offer her. Angelus had got her mouth when he smacked her; there was a thin line of blood snaking from a split in her bottom lip. But she didn’t seem to notice it. She seemed pretty well out of it altogether.

 

“Oi!” he called impatiently.

 

She turned to face him with an expression of surprise—almost as though she had forgotten all about him in her concern for Angel. Spike could feel his temper rising at this thought, but before he could open his mouth to give vent to it, Buffy spoke.

 

“You’re hurt.”

 

Had he sat thinking about it for a hundred years Spike would never have guessed this would be the first thing she said to him. And he wasn’t entirely certain he liked it. Sure it connoted a bit of concern on her part, but he felt it implied he’d come off worst in the barney with Angel. Which he hadn’t. He set about telling her this.

 

“Yeah, well, wanker might’ve gotten a lucky hit, here or there. But I beat seven shades of shit out of him before you showed up.”

 

A hint of a smile played around her lips, which only served to confuse him more.

 

“I saw that,” she said. “Should I applaud you?”

 

Irritated, he rapidly switched tactics.

 

“And anyway—what’s that on your face?”

 

She touched her mouth lightly, expressing surprise at the blood that came off on her fingertips.

 

“I didn’t realize he’d hit me that hard.”

 

“He clocked you pretty good,” Spike agreed, “for a poof.”

 

There was an uncomfortable silence.

 

“So…” Spike drawled eventually. “Why are you here?”

 

Buffy looked startled, as though she hadn’t expected him to come right out and ask. Her face flushed darkly as she cast about for something to say.

 

“I—I was—afraid he’d…hurt you.”

 

He raised an eyebrow.

 

“And this concerns you? You hate me.”

 

“I don’t hate you,” she argued. “As a matter of fact I…”

 

“You wouldn’t piss on me if I was on fire.”

 

“I just saved you from meeting the wrong end of Angel’s stake…again!”

 

Spike’s hand flew to his wounded shoulder defensively.

 

“I had the situation well in hand until you showed up to distract me!” He paused suddenly as the full meaning of her words hit him.

 

“You don’t hate me?” he echoed. “The fuck you don’t! Then why did—”

 

“What?” she asked as he trailed away. “Why did I what?”

 

“Nothing,” he said and suddenly his brow furrowed in anger. “Go the fuck home!”

 

“There’s gratitude for you.” She didn’t budge.

 

“Gratitude?” he spat the word as though it was some kind of profanity. “If it weren’t for you I would’ve killed the bastard! Instead you showed up and distracted me…and you let him walk away!”

 

“I couldn’t let you kill him,” she said softly, “any more than I could let him kill you.”

 

He snorted derisively and Buffy’s eyes narrowed.

 

“What is your problem?” she demanded. “I came here to—to make sure you’re all right—even after that stunt you pulled with my mother. And now you’re acting—”

 

Her tirade came to an abrupt halt as Spike crossed the distance separating them and took hold of her arm. “I’ll tell you my problem,” he snarled. He arched his neck to bite her, but for some he reason he couldn’t summon his demon and his teeth remained small and blunt.

 

Disgusted and angry, he slung her away from him. Her small body lurched across the pavement until she fell, just a dozen feet from the factory wall. For just a second she lay there, too stunned to move. In that instant he was on her, straddling her body. His hands closed over her wrists, pinning her arms to the pavement above her head as his back arched and his face leaned close to hers.

 

“You left.”

 

Surprise crossed her face, mingled with a little fear. She knew he was referring to her defection of the previous afternoon, but to his astonishment she did not hedge around the issue or attempt to give excuse. She merely nodded.

 

Again, he tried to summon the demon and again he found himself coming up empty. The only thing he could figure was that the close proximity of her body was filling him with emotions other than hunger—emotions that overtook hunger, which in and of itself was a miraculous occurrence. Even the throbbing of his wounded shoulder seemed lessened.

 

Still, he was angry and anger took precedence over a burgeoning erection.

 

“You left,” he said again. All the words he wanted to say—the names he wanted to call her, the threats and accusations—all of it falling into insignificance beneath the weight of those two words. He was tired of being left and the rage, the tiny flame he had been nurturing so carefully, suddenly exploded.

 

By God here was a woman he wouldn’t let leave!

 

He could feel the tiny bones in her wrists grinding together beneath the pressure of his hands and he took pleasure in it. Though she was undoubtedly strong enough to beat his arse, somehow he had gained control and he relished it, relished the feel of how small she was and how easily he could break her. If he chose to.

 

Her eyes were dilated in the dim light, the black pupils dominating, ringed by just a little hazel. Looking at them, he felt his anger slipping somewhat, replaced by a curious weakening in his chest which was completely unfamiliar to him. He didn’t like the feeling any more than he understood it, and quickly he turned his attention to her wounded mouth. There was a faint puffiness in her bottom lip, blood smeared like lipstick around the thin opening in the skin.

 

Spike lowered his head, suddenly overcome by feelings he could understand. The scent of her blood reached him in warm waves: sharp and metallic, salty but with an underlying sweetness as well. Nostrils distended appreciatively, he leaned in even closer. His mouth was almost touching hers as he parted her lips, tasting the scent as well as smelling it.

 

Kill her, he thought suddenly. Bleed her dry, devour her.

 

He wanted to. He thought he would. But the blood-odor was as arousing to his libido as it was to his belly and when he fell on her, Spike found he was more eager to satisfy the former.

 

His lips closed over her wounded mouth and he drew her bottom lip between his teeth, sucked gently. Blood trickled onto his tongue, warm and smooth, as bitterly sweet as expensive chocolate. Beyond this her mouth was ripe and soft, as hot as though he weren’t forcing her. Beneath him he could feel her body shifting, struggling—though not, perhaps, to gain freedom.

 

When he had lapped the last of the blood from her wound, Spike ran the tip of his tongue against the outer edge of her mouth, coaxing her lips to part so that he could be granted entry. Her mouth was as hot as he remembered; he felt enveloped in fire as her tongue pushed back against his. She was responding to his kiss eagerly, seemingly without reserve or the confusion that drummed his brain with questions. And again, he felt that sensation in his chest…as though something were pulling him down from inside.

 

Releasing her wrists, he buried a hand in her hair, dragging her head to one side to expose the white line of her throat. He pressed his lips to the silky skin, nuzzling and kissing, inhaling her wonderful, earthy scent. The roar of her heart filled his ears, and suddenly her jugular was throbbing beneath his lips. Spike growled, low, at the familiar sensation and bore down with teeth that were not fangs, biting and sucking the tender flesh. With his free hand he explored the clothed curves of her body: the swell of her breasts, the slope of her thighs, the tight melons of her buttocks…

 

She arched against him as his cool palm pressed between her legs. Through two layers of fabric he could feel how hot she was, how wet. The scent of her arousal hung on the air, thick as molasses and just as sweet. And it was for him. She wanted him.   He pressed harder, working his hand up and down, massaging her clothed sex until she moaned and squirmed beneath him. Her breath was coming fast and ragged, and there was a raw edge to her voice as she whispered his name:

 

“Spike…”

 

The word was moist against his skin, hot. Everything about her was so fucking hot.

 

All of a sudden she was kissing his ear, her hands slipping beneath his shirt to knead the muscles of his naked back, fingernails lightly grazing the sensitized flesh. He purred at the caress, arching his back and rubbing his cheek against her shoulder like a contented feline, compelling her for more. And then she was stroking his chest, his stomach, tracing the lines of his carefully sculpted muscles…Her fingers were curving over his hipbones, rubbing his buttocks, flattening against his fly and taking measure of his excitement. And everywhere she touched him she trailed a heat which felt almost too good to bear.

 

Despite the chill in the air she wasn’t wearing a jacket, just one of those little wife-beater shirts that looked so hot on young women and so poncy on everyone else. Spike pushed at it a little impatiently, working the garment up her torso and over her head. He was panting now, gulping for a breath he didn’t even need as he took a moment to look at the woman beneath him. She was thin, all long bones and lean muscle, delicately curved. She was a child, a waif, and for a moment he was reminded of Dru so strongly it almost hurt.

 

He slid a hand over her breast, thumb rolling lightly over rosy nipple, his rough, calloused palm cupping her soft white flesh. She was beautiful lying there all bare in the moonlight and somewhere deep inside him was a man who knew how to appreciate beautiful things. And he thought to himself that she was a length of ivory, smooth and pale beneath him on the grass. Or a lick of fire burning him all through. And something about her made him hurt and he couldn’t bear that bastard Angel touching her.

 

“You’re mine, Slayer,” he whispered—a notion which had just occurred to him and which he latched onto fervently. He lowered the strap of her bra and leaned to kiss the smooth ball of her shoulder. His tongue flicked out to taste the salt of her skin as he said again: “You’re mine. Nobody else can have you…”

 

With a possessive growl, he met her lips feverishly, hungrily. He sucked her bottom lip, his teeth biting into the full, soft flesh and milking a small trickle of blood from her cut. His tongue explored the inside of her mouth, stroking her teeth, her gums, the roof of her mouth, before finally drawing her tongue out into his mouth and biting that, too. She was gasping now, her chest heaving with her heavy breaths. She arched her back and pushed her pelvis upward, grinding it against his erection until he moaned hoarsely.

 

He was tugging at her clothes and his own, struggling to remove the last impediments between them so he could claim her wholly. Buffy began to help him, pulling his shirt over his head as he fumbled with the zipper of her jeans. He got her undressed easily enough, but because she had his weight pressing on her, Buffy had a harder time. And he didn’t wait for her. His boots were still on, his jeans bunched around his knees when he pushed into her.

 

“Bleeding hell…”

 

He’d forgotten how tight she was—all those muscles gloved around him, squeezing. And so bloody hot.   Blood dripped steadily from his punctured shoulder as he drove into her, but neither of them noticed. He buried his head in her shoulder and bit down—so hard that for a moment Buffy wondered if he was about to vamp out and kill her. But no, in a moment he straightened up and began the fierce in-and-out that was to be her undoing.

 

“Say it. Say you’re mine,” he demanded. Her arms and legs clutched him tightly, her inner walls clenching him. She was slippery with sweat and the smell of her sex hung hot on the air; she was panting and moaning, pleading for it. For him. But it wasn’t enough. Nothing would be enough until she—

 

“SAY IT!”

 

“I’m yours,” she breathed. “All yours—”

 

He began slamming into her again, satisfied. But Buffy kept speaking, murmuring encouragements the way some girls will. And somewhere between her climax and his own, Spike heard it, something totally unexpected:

 

“I love you, Spike….God, I love you…”

Chapter Seventeen

 

 

 

 

Angel crashed through the underbrush alongside the highway, shortcutting his way back to the mansion. He muttered angrily under his breath and kicked at the dirt.

 

“William…fucking…Bloody…”

 

How could Buffy have slept with him? How, when only a few days ago Angel held her hands in his own and seen the love in her gaze? Now there was guilt in her eyes, pity. Now Spike had her affection and she labored to protect him. It made absolutely no sense.

 

Angel’s eyes narrowed and flecks of blood flew from his nostrils as he snarled with sudden rage. The look at that bastard’s face when Buffy struck him…Angel would have killed Spike for it had Buffy not been standing between them. There was no doubt in Angel’s mind that Spike had done something to her. Buffy would never have slept with that—that thing if she were in her right mind. Something weird was going on and Angel was going to get to the bottom of it.

 

He was going to get his Buffy back.

 

He toyed with the notion of turning around and heading back to the factory. Buffy might have left already. From the way she talked her only purpose in coming had been to stop the fight, so maybe she went home as soon as the fight ended. If so then he could stake the little bastard.

 

In the end, he just wasn’t brave enough to try it. He had seen the look that passed between them when Buffy showed up. Whatever Spike had done to Buffy it made her think she cared about the little asshole, and Angel realized there was a distinct possibility that Buffy had not gone home. She might be with him at this very minute, doing…Well God only knew what Spike might be having her do. Whatever it was, Angel certainly didn’t want any part of it.

 

The thought made him cringe.

 

“It’s all right,” he told himself, trying to stave off the panic that threatened to overtake him. “Something is going wrong—he’s doing something to her. But it can be fixed. Everything will be all right.”

 

“You sure about that?”

 

Angel jumped, startled by the question. There was another vampire sitting on the concrete wall that flanked the highway. He was small and lean, dark-skinned. And though he looked vaguely familiar, Angel could not place him.

 

The vampire grinned, his long canines gleaming in the lights of passing cars.

 

“I was wondering when you’d notice me.”

 

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 

 

The first rays of dawn were filtering through the trees when Buffy woke.

 

For a moment, she was confused, unsure of where she was or how she had gotten there. Then the events of the previous night came rushing back to her and she remembered that she was at the factory. With Spike.

 

Gingerly, she raised herself into a sitting position. At some point during last night’s sexcapades—was it during the second or third time?—Spike had decreed the paved parking lot “too sodding uncomfortable for shagging” and they had come inside. However, they hadn’t made it six feet beyond the door when lust overtook them and they had not, therefore, made it to the bed. And sex on concrete was hardly better than sex on pavement; Buffy’s muscles were sore and aching, and there was a serious case of road rash on her back.

 

Not to mention the damage Spike had inflicted on her. She looked down at her wrists, which were bruised an ugly shade of blue. There was another nasty-looking bruise on her shoulder where he had bitten her, and several smaller marks peppered her breasts and stomach. Her lips were swollen and her jaw hurt from submitting to the hard, deep, punishing kisses he had given her.

 

He had been rough last night and though she had enjoyed it thoroughly, she couldn’t help wondering why. Their first tryst together he had been forceful up until the point he realized she wasn’t going to fight him; then he had relaxed, behaved more like a regular lover. But last night…last night he seemed to want to punish her for leaving him. There had been a strange mixture of hostility, lust, and grief in his eyes. And when he demanded for her to tell him she was his, there had been a pleading look there as well.

 

Buffy glanced at him, now. His face was relaxed with sleep, his jaw slack so that his lips parted just slightly. He looked young when he was asleep, sweet. He had been sort of sweet when they finished: stroking her damp hair out of her face, kissing each of her small injuries as if seeking an absolution for hurting her. He had covered her with his leather duster to keep her warm, pulled her to him so that her head would be pillowed against the hollow of his shoulder. But he hadn’t spoken. Not a word. In fact, Buffy couldn’t remember him having said anything since the command for her to say she was his. Well, nothing except the suggestion that they move their lovemaking indoors, which she felt didn’t really count. He hadn’t even made a response when she said she loved him.

 

Buffy flushed with embarrassment as she thought of it. She certainly hadn’t meant to tell him she loved him. But in the heat of the moment the words just spilled out, and once out, she knew she couldn’t take them back. Of course…she wasn’t sure if she even wanted to take them back. She wasn’t sure what she felt for him. Every time she looked at him her heart started thumping out of rhythm; every time she heard his name she blushed. And the moment she thought Angel might hurt him she died inside. Did that indicate love?

 

She considered the question. It certainly indicated she was crushing on him pretty hard, she thought. This didn’t make any sense. She had never given Spike a thought before, not that way. He had always been just another enemy to be slain. A little more annoying than most, definitely mouthier, but still…he was just another vampire. At least, that’s what he was up until a few days ago. The moment he pinned her to the floor during that fight she knew that whatever he might have become, he was no longer just another vampire.

 

“You’re an early riser, Slayer.”

 

Buffy jumped. She had been so involved in her own thoughts she had not noticed Spike’s eyes open. He rose up on one elbow and cocked an eyebrow at her questioningly.

 

“Not planning on doing me in, now, are you?”

 

“Of course not,” she said sharply. It annoyed her that he could sound so cocky, so nonchalant about it. He was lying beside her without a stitch on; she had told him she loved him. But he sounded exactly as he had the night he approached her about forming an alliance against Angelus. There was no expression on his face. None.

 

“Can’t blame a bloke for asking,” he said. “When I wake up and find you looming over me like that.”

 

“I am not looming,” she snapped. “I’m…looking.”

 

He smirked. “Looking?”

 

“For my clothes!”

 

She climbed to her feet. Spike’s duster slid to the floor and she was naked, but she didn’t care. She had scooped up their clothes on the way in the night before, leaving them in a heap near the door. She stalked over to the pile and began pawing through it, picking out her own garments from Spike’s.

 

Had she looked up at that moment she would have seen a flicker of some very strong emotion on Spike’s face. A display which completely belied the disinterest in his voice when he asked: “What are you doing?”

 

Buffy didn’t even glance in his direction.

 

“I’m getting my clothes,” she said. “I’m going to get out of here.”

 

Her face burned as she pulled on her clothes. She felt like an idiot. She should have never given in to him at all—let alone told him she loved him. Now he was going to use the whole incident to make her miserable or blackmail her. He was staring at her with that bland, unreadable expression on his face and she thought she would scream if she had to endure it much longer.

 

Her left shoe had been kicked some distance from the door, and she had to cross the room to get it. Spike grabbed her arm as she passed him, holding her back.

 

“Ow! Do you mind?” She tried to wrench her bruised wrist from his painful grasp, but his fingers were like a vise. He pulled her down on his lap.

 

“Don’t go.”

 

Like a spell had been broken the blank expression was gone from his face. The pleading look was back. Though she had no idea what it was he was begging her for, Buffy shivered with pleasure at the naked want in those blue eyes. He wasn’t as indifferent as he wanted her to believe.

 

“I have to go,” she told him—a little brusquely, because she wanted to punish him for upsetting her. “I have to go to school.”

 

“Don’t go,” he repeated. He lowered his face into her hair, his lips brushing her neck as he whispered: “Stay here and play with me today.”

 

She laughed unwillingly. “I can’t…Giles and the others will be suspicious.”

 

His beautiful lips twisted into an unpleasant grimace.

 

“Not to mention Angel, right? Don’t want him to suspect, now do we? Gotta keep him dangling on the line until you’re ready to fry him up and eat him.”

 

“It has nothing to do with Angel.”

 

“It’d better bloody well not,” he answered bluntly. “Because you’re mine , Slayer. This is the second time you’ve come to me…and this time I’ve decided I’m going to keep you.”

 

Looking into his suddenly jealous blue eyes, Buffy felt a jolt of surprise. Did he love her? Could he—?

 

 She doubted it. It was probably just the typical vampire possessiveness that made him want to lay sole claim to her. After all, he had said nothing about having any kind of feelings for her—not even in response to her own admission. Probably this was just a diversion for him—a point of pride that he was most likely the only soulless vampire to ever bag a slayer. She was something to do to keep his mind off Drusilla.

 

Buffy frowned at the last thought.

 

“I really have to go,” she insisted.

 

“But you’re coming back.”

 

She considered playing hard to get on that one but decided against it. Possessive as he was being right now, she thought he might not let her leave if she suggested she might not be coming back.

 

“Tonight,” she told him. “I’ll try to come tonight.”

 

“Don’t try,” he said. “Do it.”

 

And even though she knew that she should be angry at him for his chauvinism, she wasn’t. He was ordering her around like a servant and Buffy squirmed inwardly, secretly pleased. He wanted to make sure she would come back this time. He wanted her to come back.

 

He wanted her.

 

Chapter Eighteen

 

 

 

 

“Buffy! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

 

Buffy, who was clad in a turtleneck sweater necessitated by the tokens of Spike’s affection, paused by the stairs to give Willow a chance to catch up. She looked down, fiddling with her bracelet as an excuse to avoid Willow’s eyes. She knew her friend had probably heard the lowdown about Giles’ lecture the night before—probably he had been worried something had happened to her when she failed to report back to them all night long. Her mind cast around for some excuse as to how she could have stayed out all night and still failed to slay Spike.

 

“Why weren’t you in first period?” Willow asked her, mercifully giving Buffy time to think.

 

“Came in late from slaying, had to shower the demon skuzziness off. You know how it is.”

 

Willow didn’t know how it was and she wanted to hear about it in more detail. “Giles called me last night. He said you went heck bent for leather to save Angel from Spike. How did it go?”

 

“It didn’t,” Buffy said quickly.

 

“You mean you never found them?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Well, do you think Angel is okay?” Willow asked, widening her blue eyes with the possibility that something may have happened to him.

 

Buffy shrugged offhandedly, her mind elsewhere. “He’s probably fine. He and Spike have got into it before and it always came out a draw. He’s off licking his wounds somewhere, I guess.”

 

Inwardly, she was groaning. Angel. How did Angel keep slipping her mind these days? She would have to be sure to talk to him before he could tell anyone about odd behavior of the night before. Angel had a big mouth and if Giles and the others found out that she had been defending Spike—that she had slept with him…

 

Shuddering, Buffy pushed the thought to the back of her mind. She wouldn’t have to worry about Angel today, anyway. He would be trapped inside the mansion until the sun went down. That gave her plenty of time to fabricate some reasonable excuse for her conduct…something that would keep his mouth shut.

 

She and Willow continued up the staircase, momentarily silent. It wasn’t until Xander met them at the landing that the conversation revived—and on a more relaxed, normal scale than before.

 

“Hey, Buffster,” he hailed her cheerily, placing an arm around each of the girls. “How goes life in Slayerville?”

 

Buffy was surprised; she had expected more sermony goodness from Xander. After all, she hadn’t even spoken to him since the night he’d escaped from Spike’s. The buoyant mood completely baffled her. Not that she was complaining. It was nice to have someone talk to her without mentioning Spike or Angel.

 

“Forecast in Slayerville says fair,” she told him, adding with a smile, “You seem to be in a good mood.”

 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he asked. “It’s a beautiful day…I’m with two beautiful girls. Another wonderful week is beginning.”

 

Willow’s Pippi Longstocking braids swung as she turned, looking from side to side. “Uh…Xander…we’re in school. Shouldn’t you be all despondent and moody?”

 

“Not today,” he grinned. “And here’s why: this weekend was sucky on the extreme.”

 

“You’re happy because you had a bad weekend?” Buffy asked, amused.

 

“I’m happy because said suckiness is at an end,” he explained. “I mean, the whole thing started off badly, what with the vampire kidnappings…and it went downhill from there. But I’m ready to put it behind me and continue on the path of teenage revelry unabated.”

 

“I give up,” said Buffy. “To what revelries to do you refer?”

 

“To ours. I thought all of us—you, Will, Cordy, Oz, and me—could hit the Bronze tonight. A little music, a little dancing…and my world will be bright again.”

 

Meanwhile, Slayerville’s forecast of fair weather was belied by the onset of storm clouds on the horizon.

 

“I can’t,” she told Xander. “Not tonight. I’ve got…things to do.”

 

“Things as in demony things?” Xander asked disappointedly. “Come on, Buff. You can put that stuff off for one night, can’t you? You’ve been working all weekend and now you want to forgo the Bronze? Even Giles isn’t that much of a slave driver.”

 

“Spike is still on the loose,” Willow volunteered when Buffy made no response.

 

Once again, Xander’s response left both girls completely nonplussed.

 

“So what? She can kill him tomorrow. A night of rest and relaxation will leave you all the fitter for demon carnage.”

 

Buffy hesitated. What she really wanted to do was keep her promise to Spike and head over to the factory as soon as school let out. However, there was the small matter of Angel to consider, and she knew if she didn’t take care of it soon the small matter would become a huge festering boil of a problem. But if she kept avoiding her friends like this they would definitely become suspicious. She had no idea what to do.

 

Xander counted the indecisive silence as a victory and gave her an affectionate one-armed hug. “So we’ll meet at seven, make a night of it and flaunt our school-night curfews?”

 

By now he even had sober-minded Willow in his corner. She laughed and nodded. “We’ll be there. Won’t we, Buffy?”

 

What choice did she have but to nod?

 

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 

 

Spike stared out the factory’s wide, cracked front window. The glass was so grimy he didn’t have to worry about any errant rays of sunlight burning him, and he had to do something or he would go mad. He was hungry as fuck; Angel had interrupted his dinner run the night before and there was little chance of his making it across the parking lot now without bursting into flames. Never mind trying to hunt in the light of the blazing winter sun. But hunger was only part of what bothered him.

 

He chewed his bottom lip absentmindedly. What the hell was she playing at, trying to sneak out on him this morning? Taking the mickey out of him was one thing, but running off twice in a week was really bordering on too much. If she thought she was getting away now she was off her rocker. His mind was made up: he was keeping her. She had bloody well get used to the idea because he wasn’t going to let her get away from him again. There was something in the way she made him feel…something different. Unfamiliar. Whatever it was he didn’t want to lose it.

 

A smile twitched the corners of his lips. Strange how being with somebody new made him think about old things. Maybe it was because she was as close to a mortal as he had ever had. It reminded him of his own human days. Not that he particularly wanted to remember them; he just couldn’t help himself. He kept dreaming about it. Not the changing—not that last night. He had often turned that over in his mind over the years and considered it, on the whole, a pleasant memory. But the other times…odd things he hadn’t thought of in over a century. Like the smell of the country estate in autumn or the rustling sound of his mum’s silk dress. Bad things, too. Like his favorite hunter fracturing a leg as he made a jump and having to be shot by the farrier. Or having the hell beat out of him by the schoolmaster for cocking up the lesson. And with every memory came a vile feeling of weakness—not the delicious quiver being with Buffy gave him. Something else. Something that made him feel…less. Like before.

 

He scowled just thinking about it. It was stupid. What did he think was going to happen? He think she was going to turn him human by virtue of a good lay? Doubtful. He’d do her in the other way, more like.

 

But still…there was something. Some fear…

 

He leaned his forehead into the warm window glass and sighed. Everything in him said this would be the end of him. If he was smart he would dash out her brains the moment she arrived tonight and stop the madness now. But it was too late. Bitch had him too well snared for that; he knew it without a moment’s consideration.

 

Just as he knew that he wouldn’t have had it any other way.

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 

 

 

“So how did it go last night? Have those pesky little roadblocks been taken care of for us?”

 

Allan cleared his throat and presented Wilkins with his best sycophantic smile. “All went according to plan, sir. In fact, I had it from Mr. Trick himself that it could have gone no better. He dealt with Angelus and has taken the proper steps to implicate the vampire Spike. All we have to do is sit back and wait for the Slayer to dispose of him for us.”

 

Wilkins frowned ever so slightly. “And how long will that take? I want this sorted out soon .”

 

“Another day,” Allan said quickly. “Possibly two. But that is at most. Trick assured me he had laid out a very easy trail for the Slayer to follow…”

 

“I see.” For a moment Wilkins looked ominously stern and Allan trembled in his shoes. But in the next moment the mayor’s face broken into a broad grin. “Excellent. Shall we drink to our success then?”

 

 Allan’s eyes flicked to the wall clock. Nine-thirty. Still…one could not exactly refuse a mayor’s invitation. Particularly this mayor. He grabbed one of the decanters from the table by the window and poured two large brandies.

 

Wilkins took his with a look of utmost contentment. “Excellent,” he said again. “I always said there’s nothing like a good stiff drink to get the day started off right.”

 

Allan started to take a sip, but Wilkins spoke abruptly—and so sharply Allan jumped, spilling half the brandy onto his shirtfront.

 

“A toast!” Wilkins proclaimed, raising his own glass. “To problems solved—or almost solved—and smooth sailing hereon out.”

 

Smiling weakly, Allan touched glasses with his superior. As much as he would like it to be so, something told Allan that things would not go quite as smoothly as the mayor assumed.

 

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

Chapter Nineteen

 

 

 

 

Buffy glanced at her watch nervously. Seven-thirty. Damn Xander to hell! Buffy had thought that she would have time to quickly dart over to Spike’s and let him know the change in plans, but Willow had chosen today of all days to follow her home. Apparently she needed advice on something, but Buffy had no idea what because she had been so upset by it she hadn’t been able to really listen. She had evidently said something, though, because Willow beamed and thanked her profusely for listening. By the time she’d shut up it was time to shower and get ready to go to the Bronze.

 

It occurred to her to drop by Spike’s on her way to the Bronze; it was out of the way and would make her late, but at least then he would know she hadn’t ditched him. But again her plans were thwarted by her friends. This time it was Xander, who showed up at the Summers’ home just as Buffy was heading out the door. Xander was with Cordy, who begrudgingly offered to drive her to the Bronze. Since she could think of no excuse not to go with them, Buffy had no choice but to climb into the backseat.

 

So here she was.

 

The Bronze was packed for a Monday night and the only way the five of them could hold their table was for one or two to stay behind while the others danced. This was a plan that suited Buffy perfectly, as she wasn’t in the mood to dance anyway. She slouched in her chair song after song, snapping at anyone who dared ask her to dance. What she really wanted to do was grab her coat and slip out while the others were busy dancing, but she knew if she tried it and they returned to the table to find her gone they would worry. And if they worried they would go looking for her. And she had a sinking feeling as to where they would go looking for her. Laboring under the delusion she and Spike were still at odds, they would immediately worry he had done something to her. The very last thing she needed was for them to barge into the factory while she and Spike were sexing it up. Talk about all hell breaking loose!

 

“C’mon Buff…why the long face?”

 

She looked up. Xander had just returned from the floor, red-faced and slightly out of breath. He dropped into the seat next her and inhaled deeply.

 

“Why aren’t you having a good time? Is it ‘cause of Angel?”

 

Angel? Buffy snickered to herself. Angel who?

 

“Why would it be because of Angel?” she asked in what she hoped was an even tone of voice.

 

“Well…you know. Everyone else is a couple here. I thought maybe you were feeling a little left out.”

 

For some reason this remark annoyed her. Whether he meant for it to or not, Xander’s tone implied that she was a fifth wheel and rather pathetic for not rounding up a date of her own.

 

“For you information, I’ve had several opportunities to dance,” she said coolly. “I’m just not in the mood. And it has nothing to do with Angel!”

 

“What is it then?” he asked bluntly. “You’ve been acting weird for days, Buffy. What’s wrong? Is it Spike?”

 

Getting warmer…

 

“I…guess so…” she said slowly. “Yes, he’s definitely got me wonked out—being back in town, I mean.”

 

Xander smiled. “Well, don’t worry about that! You’ll have him skewered in no time flat. He’s not even as old as Angel, right? And you definitely kicked Angel’s butt in a fight.”

 

He pushed back his chair and, standing, offered her his hand. “Now come on, you’ve gotta give me one dance. I’m not taking no for an answer.”

 

“What about Cordelia?”

 

“She’s in the ladies touching up her makeup. Now come on, get your boogie shoes on!” When that didn’t get her moving he added: “They’re doing Beatles covers!”

 

Buffy laughed at the way he said this last—as though he was dangling some irresistible carrot in front of her. She took Xander’s hand and allowed him to pull her to her feet. He was right. It wasn’t helping matters to sit here pouting. And who knows? Maybe Spike wouldn’t be too upset.

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 

 

“That lying, fucking cunt! ”

 

Spike flung his empty vodka bottle, shattering it on a nearby monument and narrowly missing his victim’s head. The young girl whimpered and ducked, but made no move to run away. And no wonder. Spike had told her he would kill her if she stirred so much as a step.

 

Actually, he was going to kill her anyway. He was hungry and angry—killing this bitch would help alleviate both problems. Lucky for him he stumbled across her while searching the cemetery for Buffy. He hadn’t really expected to find Buffy, of course. There were too many cemeteries in Sunnydale to hope that he would stumble across her in the first one he hit. But he didn’t know where else to go. He knew she would be out patrolling so there was no point in going to her house, but he had no way of knowing exactly where she would be patrolling so the only option open to him was to prowl every fucking graveyard in town until he came across her.

 

Then he saw this girl. She was evidently short-cutting it to the Bronze because she was dressed in typical adolescent club wear. And with heels like that it was no wonder she was so damn easy to catch. Spike threw her into the side of a mausoleum, but he wasn’t in the mood to make things easy on her. No fast and painless death here. He would play with her first.

 

“I mean…what the hell is she at?” he demanded now, pacing up and down in front of the mausoleum. “Standing me up like that…should’ve known she would. Tried to run out on me this morning and I woke up. I caught her, of course. Said she’d come back tonight. Right.”

 

His yellow eyes flashed on his prey’s tearstained face. “Is it something you bitches are taught to do, huh?  Or is it just instinct to be a cocktease? Second nature to you lying, conniving, whoring little—”

 

He grabbed her throat and squeezed until she choked, until he could feel the delicate bones in her neck beginning to give. Then he threw her back into the mausoleum, her small body striking the marble slab with great force. He watched dispassionately as she slid to the ground, gasping and coughing, trying to catch her breath.

 

“I don’t know what you mean,” she insisted. Her voice was so hoarse he could hardly hear her. “I don’t even know who you are.”

 

Spike ignored her; he was still ranting.

 

“Screw a guy and kick him in the sack…that’s her game and I’m getting damned sick of it.”

 

“Please, just let me go…” the girl whimpered.

 

“…thinks she’s going to get rid of me that easy she can think again.”

 

“I won’t tell anyone about this, I swear…”

 

“…just trying to play on the moral high ground. Good little slayers don’t and all that bull. But I’m on to her, I know she wants it. And I’ll make her admit it if I have to break every bone in her goddamn body.”

 

“Please…”

 

Spike turned to the girl in disgust. “Oh, would you just SHUT UP already!”

 

He grabbed her elbow and jerked upwards, pulling her to her feet. At the same time, he used his other hand to grab a hank of her hair, dragging her head to one side to expose her neck. He was just about to sink his teeth in when she suddenly brought her knee up and kicked him in the stomach. Had he not been drunk she would never have gotten away with it, but as it was the blow surprised him enough that he let go of her, which gave her the opportunity to push him backwards. And because he was already a little unsteady on his feet from the vodka, he fell down.

 

“Bloody hell! ”

 

By the time he had gotten to his feet again, the girl was halfway over the cemetery fence, heading for the street. She had a good head start, but Spike was faster.

 

He caught her again in the alleyway just behind the Bronze. She had been about to wrench open the back door when he grabbed her by the waist and dragged her away. He took her further down the alley where it was darker, where he knew no one would notice them. She tried to scream but he had one arm drawn across her throat, pressing into her trachea with enough force she could hardly breathe, let alone speak.

 

“Nice try,” he whispered mockingly.

 

Her eyes met his: huge and wet, the eyes of a creature who knew it had met its own demise. But she refused to give up struggling. He kind of admired that. Not enough to give her a break, of course. But still, it was admirable.

 

Still holding her from behind, Spike pushed her against the Bronze’s outer wall. He kept her arms pinned behind her back, moving both of his legs until they were between hers so that she wouldn’t be able to kick him again. Since both his hands were occupied, he couldn’t pull her head to the side like before. Instead he used to his teeth to move her shirt collar out of the way then forced her head over by pushing against it with his own.

 

All in all, he considered it worth the effort. Hers wasn’t the best blood he had tasted, but it was damn good. Especially given the fact he hadn’t eaten in two days. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth wider, letting her dying heart do the work for him, pumping all that blood straight down his gullet. He could feel it coursing into his veins already, making him stronger. She wasn’t struggling anymore.

 

He waited until the blood-gush had become a trickle then hefted her limp body up over his shoulder. There was a dumpster near the back entrance to the Bronze, one of those huge double-sided deals. The lid was already up so he just dumped the corpse into it and slammed the lid. Licking some streaks of blood from his fingers he turned away, fully prepared to resume his cemetery search. But just then someone opened the back door and tossed a bag of trash out into the alley…and something diverted Spike’s attention once again. There was a certain scent on the smoky air escaping the open door of the club, something musky and warm, feminine. It took him a moment but he recognized it—it was her scent. Buffy’s. She was somewhere very nearby.

 

Spike caught the door just before it shut and stepped inside the Bronze.