Chapter Five
The Skies Are Falling
Every time she opened her eyes, he was still there.
She prayed, too. Prayed to a god that had stopped answering her prayers years ago. A god she had never truly allowed herself to believe in. A god that she was almost certain had been killed by society that very first day of true civilization. But once more, her pleas went unanswered, and she was left staring down at a dead man.
She could smell his blood from across the room. She knew exactly how warm it was. How desperately her body craved it. How good it would taste if she only gave in.
The smell was intoxicating. And he had no broken skin.
A dead man Dracula had brought her. A nameless nobody, who’d lived in Sunnydale, and had been alive only a while ago. He had been killed because of her. Because she needed to feed. Because she was a vampire.
She was so cold. Her veins were frozen. Her heart didn’t beat. Her lungs didn’t breathe. And she was so hungry.
She needed warmth.
The dead man was losing warmth. Every second that she denied herself, the more warmth he lost. The colder he became.
Soon, he would be just as dead as her, only better off for it.
She recalled the way her slayees would often gaze at her throat with hungry longing. She had long thought it was merely like averting one’s eyes from a buffet, and that vampires too often focused on the drive of their hunger to enhance the motivation for the kill. She remembered the day she had taunted Spike while he was chained in Giles’s tub, running her fingers up and down the column of her neck to showcase exactly what he needed and would never have.
She hated herself richly for that. For ever mocking this hunger.
The man across the room was dead. The thrum of his pulse was not even there to tempt her; only the smell of his chilling blood. Blood encased in pale skin, waiting for her taste.
This hunger that would not leave her.
This hunger that scratched at her insides, demanding to be quenched.
Tears raked her cheeks. She had no conception of how much time had passed. How long Dracula had kept her here. Distantly, she was more than aware that she had the strength to break free, but for reasons beyond understanding, her muscles felt newborn and feeble.
She had the terrible suspicion that that was something easily remedied by giving in. By succumbing to her darker nature, and drinking the dead man while his blood was still fresh.
She had seen vampires crawl out of their graves, surging with new strength.
She had the strength. It just wasn’t working for her now.
Willpower.
Perhaps willpower had something to do about it. Perhaps she had forfeited the will to continue, simply by becoming what had been forced upon her.
Perhaps.
The dead man was still staring at her. And her hunger wasn’t going anywhere.
Buffy released a choked sob, tossing the mirror a glance. Nothing stared back.
I am not the Slayer anymore.
She felt the bones in her face shift. Felt the change spread through her. Felt the stab of hunger intensify. Every inch of her ached. Her fangs craved flesh. Her body craved the life that had been denied her. That richness that pumped through the veins of others. She thought of all the times she had complained about her growling stomach for things so ridiculously foolish. Thought of how her mouth used to water at the idea of chicken parmesan and slices of greasy pizza. How warm food seemed repugnant to her now. Now when she was starving for something her fangs promised would be much sweeter.
Buffy crawled to her feet and approached the dead man tentatively.
She had to get past him and into the hallway. She had to break free.
If Dracula tried to stop her, she would force him to end her existence. She would not become a thing. A creature of the night. Something to be hunted. Something she had been born to kill. She would not.
The dead man was staring.
It was like falling very fast and knowing what waited at the bottom. She saw herself falling and could not stop it. Saw herself from a distance and could do nothing. A foreign roar tore through her throat, and the next minute, pure ambrosia flooded her mouth. It was mild—not warm, but not cold. Sticky. And delicious. She slurped everything his neck would give her hungrily, fangs ripping through dead flesh, fingers clawing at him to draw more of his precious essence to the surface.
It was only when she caught herself licking the fingers of one hand while the other dug into the dead man’s belly that she recoiled in horror. Stunned realization. Blood covered the floor around her. Her skin was smeared with red. There was a moist sensation painted around her mouth. The aftertaste stung her tongue. Filled her system. Purified her confusion but presented her with all new anguish.
“Oh God,” she gasped, tearing away from him. “Oh my God.”
The dead man’s eyes had turned accusatory, the frozen look of horror on his face now crying out in pain.
“Oh God!”
Dracula had known this would happen. He had put the dead man right in front of the door because he had known she would try to leave, and that she couldn’t leave without succumbing to the scent of fresh blood. He had known that, and he had placed the dead man right there so that she would fall to her knees and drink everything his cooling body had to offer.
He had made her drink.
A flash of outrage spread through her body, tapping into her pain. The blood remained defiantly sweet; the blood pouring still from the dead man tempting her mouth for a second helping. She could feel its strength pumping through her. Feel it empowering her muscles; enhancing her senses to the point where every creak in the room was nearly deafening. Every scent was overwhelming. Every color shone with such vibrancy that it all but blinded her.
She could feel everything in the castle. Dracula. His cronies. Vampire women pleasuring vampire men. And someone was outside. Outside the fortress, watching over her. Someone was watching her. She felt it.
Someone was here.
Someone was here for her, and she knew it. She didn’t know how she knew it, but she knew it.
And she knew who.
More over, Dracula knew he was there, too. The connection she felt with her sire was powerful; more so now, with fresh blood flooding her system, than ever. She felt her maker’s outrage. The potency of his wrath. He was going to kill Spike, and he was going to do it now.
He was going to kill the one who was there to help her.
Buffy sprang to her feet and shot for the door, all but ripping it from its hinges in the heat of her anguished fury. The clamor of nuts and bolts scattered along the floor, covered in fresh sawdust and splinters. A chunk of wood found its way into her hand, and she bolted down the hallway with hell on her heels.
She wasn’t going to let Dracula kill the one that was there to help her. She would wonder about the how’s and why’s of Spike’s presence later. How she knew he was there. How she knew it was for her. Why he would even care that she had been kidnapped by the notorious vampire, she didn’t know. But she would not sit here and do nothing as her sire attacked the one that was here to help.
Not after all he had taken from her.
With fresh blood coursing through her dead body, she would see him dust now. Now or never.
He would know the fury of a sired Slayer.
And die begging her for forgiveness.
*~*~*
The castle was dead.
Buffy sat on the floor of the foyer, staring at the stake that rested in her blood smeared hands. Every breath she stole tasted of dust. Every tear she shed born for the monster raging her insides. A part of her had died. She had thrust the wood through Dracula’s chest, and everything within her had fallen in the most agonizing mourning she had ever known. Something within her screamed for mercy. Wailed for the sire that had breathed life into her after having torn it away from her. She felt she was bleeding to death from the inside, but death would not come. Death had already been given to her, and the one person she needed was now gone, at the treacherous turn of her own hand.
Spike was gone, too. She didn’t know why or to where; if he had abandoned her or not. All she knew was, she couldn’t have done this without him and survived.
Every vampire in the building had been distracted by his presence. By the time she unleashed her rage, it was too late to stop her. She had watched herself from far away—a torn, tattered girl who wore a familiar face and a blood-smeared nightie, fighting her way through those who were now her kinsmen. Thrusting a stake through the surprised eyes of her sire, and sinking to the ground over his ashes, haunted by the betrayal that had flashed across his face before he dissolved into nothing.
He had killed her, but it was only now she was dying.
Her sire was gone.
“No.” She was quivering and lost, but she was not defeated. Not for this. “It’s not supposed to be like this.”
Dracula had killed her, and she had killed him. She had killed him and everything else in this castle of sin. She was the Slayer; that was what she did. She killed vampires.
I have to get out of here.
There was no one stopping her anymore. She was free. Her own bloodbath had seen to that.
But there was nowhere to run. She couldn’t go home. She couldn’t go to Giles’s, or turn to her friends. Not like this. The thirst was already coming back, and she wouldn’t have happen to them what had happened to the dead man. She would not kill anyone; she would not become a threat to her friends. Her own vow to end her existence rang empty now, as she was so terrified of the death that waited beyond this.
To die again…
Nowhere to go.
She was a vampire. She couldn’t turn to her friends. Not while they pumped fresh blood. Not while her fangs craved everything that moved. Not for how she knew they hated vampires.
Giles would weep. Willow would fix her with magic. Xander would shut her out. Riley would stake her.
She couldn’t turn to them.
There is someone.
Spike had been here earlier. Spike was a vampire. Spike was her vampire.
Spike would understand.
She had to get to Spike.
Buffy released a deep breath, whimpering at the pressure that all but crushed her chest. Can’t breathe.
Spike breathed. Spike was around them all the time. Spike had to restrain his hunger. Spike would help her. He had been here to help her, and he would help her now. He would. He had to. He could teach her what she needed. He could make the pain go away.
And if he wouldn’t, she could at least ask him to stake her. He would have no qualms in that.
She would use the sewers. Spike used them often to navigate through Sunnydale; to turn up wherever she was in some unending quest to pester her. Now, she could not have been more grateful. The sewers would lead her to Spike. His scent would be potent. She would find him.
And safely bypass any chance of meeting a person on the outside.
Any chance of hurting someone, and starting down a path she would never recover from.
She would get to Spike.
And pray that he would help.
*~*~*
A strange sense of tranquility overwhelmed her the minute she crawled through the ground and into the soft sanctuary of Spike’s crypt. She knew the place was his, even if she had never been to the underground of his dwelling. There was a bed in the corner, a few random belongings scattered along the floor, and the scent of cigarettes polluted the air. It was comforting, though. Being here. In the home of another vampire; a vampire that she knew.
They were not friends, of course—they had never been that. Friendship was beyond them. A few days ago, they were enemies. Born enemies that occasionally helped each other out. An enemy she had taken for granted for the wealth of everything he had to offer. Now she was in his home, and the weight of his presence surrounding her now almost felt like home.
She would do whatever he wanted. She just needed to be here for a while.
It didn’t take much to locate the hatch that led to the upper level; the place she knew. It was empty, too, but she didn’t care. It was okay here.
Except there was someone outside. Someone who was not Spike.
Riley.
Buffy fought back the temptation to draw in a deep breath. She could smell his blood from here. The hunger burning her insides roared its need. In seconds, she was crying again, and she couldn’t look at the door.
Fresh blood. Warm blood. Live blood.
No, no, no. God no.
It didn’t last long. The presence she had felt so fiercely at the castle soared its reassurance just seconds later. Spike had arrived.
And he was angry.
They exchanged words. She listened as they argued. Listened without hearing what was said. She turned away from the door and wrapped her arms around herself, and waited for the storm to pass. Waited.
She felt the door open more than she heard it.
And seconds later, she heard his voice.
“Oh God,” he gasped, his voice making her tremble. There was emotion there that she had never heard before. Emotion she didn’t think he could express for her, especially with the way she had been. He had come for her. Was this emotion why? She didn’t know, and she no longer cared.
Then he said her name.
“Buffy.”
She turned slowly; suddenly aware that she was wearing the negligee that Dracula had dressed her in before she awoke. It hadn’t mattered before. Nothing had mattered before. She had just left. And now she was here, in his crypt, wearing next to nothing.
“Buffy…” Spike drew in a sharp breath and started for her cautiously. “Are you with me, kitten?” His eyes widened as he drew nearer. “God, what did he do to you?”
A shiver skated down her back. She was barely aware of how hard she was trembling. The way he was looking at her was enough to reduce anyone to tears. She had never fathomed anyone, much less someone who hated her, gazing upon her as though she was an angel fallen from the heavens.
He raised a tentative hand to caress her cheek. Whether he needed to familiarize her with touch, or simply reassure himself that she was not an apparition, she didn’t know. The feel of his skin against hers made her insides sing. It was the first time since turning that someone had really touched her without inspiring fear or revulsion. As though the sanctuary around her had manifested, and was here to reassure her that everything could still be all right.
“Buffy?” he asked softly. “C-can…it’s me. Can you—”
“Spike.”
Relief flooded his eyes. “You know me.”
She nodded, fighting sudden exhaustion. The promise of sanctuary gave her courage. She wanted to sleep away the next thousand years. “I know you. I had…there was nowhere else to go.”
“I was comin’ to get you. I was. I was there earlier. I jus’ had—”
Buffy shook her head. “He felt you. The house felt you. I felt you, too. You were there, and he was going to kill you. I killed him.” The words chased away her fatigue and penetrated her veil of security with the burden of guilt. Suddenly, it was all real. It was all too real. The dead man. The dust of her sire. The others of her line that she had slayed without prejudice. Something inside was broken. “I killed him. I killed him and ran. I ran here, because you were the way that I killed him. You helped me, and I killed him.”
Her voice was raw, nearly torn, and tears from nowhere flooded over her eyes.
Her dead sire. The thing that lived inside her screamed its outrage and inspired pain beyond pain. She needed solace so desperately, and Spike was the only one to offer it. Before she could stop herself, she threw her body into the mercy of his arms and unloaded the full of her sorrow into his shoulder, uncaring now if he rebuked her or not. Comforted her or not. Staked her or not. He was the way to peace, one way or another. She was certain of that if nothing else.
Why was anyone’s guess.
Buffy wasn’t truly prepared for his acceptance. He asked nothing of her. He let her weep for a long few minutes—running his hands through her hair, massaging her shoulders, simply allowing her to grieve. Asking nothing. There was no point to ask; she suspected he already knew.
When at last her cries subsided, he brushed a tender kiss across her forehead and scooped her into his arms. “Hush, little love,” he murmured. “Spike’s got you. It’s okay, now.”
His voice was so soothing. She could almost believe his words.
When he carried her downstairs, she didn’t know. Time and space moved, and she was on his bed in a blink. Spike was beside her; watching her with that anguished despair in his eyes that she did not understand. He was quiet for a long minute, then placed a gentle hand on her belly.
“Have you fed?” he asked softly.
The word chilled her, and she thought of the dead man.
“Yes.”
Spike froze for a minute, but nodded. His eyes dropped to her negligee. “Did he…dress you in this?” he demanded, fingering the flimsy strap.
Buffy shifted subconsciously and wrapped her arms around her middle. “Yes.”
A twisted curse tumbled from his mouth, and he leaned back to retrieve a blanket that was bunched at the headboard. “Here,” he said, draping the fabric over her shoulders. “I don’…Buffy, he din’t—”
She shivered. “No.”
His shoulders sagged in relief. “Oh thank God.”
Buffy stiffened. “God had nothing to do with it. I’m hurting all over. I’ve drank blood. He killed someone and I drank. And then I felt you were there, and they weren’t thinking of me. For the first time, they weren’t thinking of me. You’re the way I got out, Spike.”
“No—”
“If you hadn’t been there, he would’ve…” She choked back a sob. “He wanted me to love him. Be his queen. He said he would…he was going to make me…”
“He’s gone now, sweetling.”
“Then why do I hurt so much?”
Spike pursed his lips. “Because he made you. He’s your sire. He was part of you. Killing him meant…” He trailed off with a sigh. “The connection between vamps an’ their makers…’s one of the most potent ties in our world. Newly risen vamps rely on that connection, even if they never see their sire again. Killin’ him went against your demon. Your demon’s in mourning.”
Buffy nodded numbly, barely aware of the silent tears that still ran down her cheeks. “I…Spike, I have nothing. I have nowhere to go. I don’t know what to do. I need help.”
“I’m here,” he whispered.
“I feel so…”
“’S okay, precious. I’m here.”
“You’ll help me?”
He nodded. “Of course.”
“Even though you…you’ve wanted me dead for so long—”
“Not like this,” he said forcibly. “Never like this. You’re light. You’ve always been light. I’d never curse you to this. Never.” He shook his head. “I jus’ wish I’d’ve found it sooner. If I’d been there…”
“You couldn’t have done anything.”
“Ye of li’l faith.”
She shook her head. “It happened before anyone knew I was gone.” She shivered. “I can’t…I lost myself over the dead man, and he was already gone. What am I going to do? I don’t have a chip. I don’t have anything. Is the hunger always like this? Can I never go home? God, Spike, I’m so—”
His arms came around her, and he coaxed her head back to his shoulder with a soothing rumble of understanding. “Shhh. You don’ need a chip, pet. You already have everythin’ you need.” He placed a cautious hand over her unbeating heart and smiled kindly. “Here. Like Peaches, right?”
She paused. “I’m not like Angel.”
“Yeh. He, I’d’ve booted the minute I stepped inside.”
“You’re not like Angel, either.” She frowned as he went tense, and lifted her head. “I couldn’t have gone to Angel. He would’ve…he would have judged me. Said things…told me not to worry. That I am strong enough to deal with it, and I’m not. Not after…” She went quiet for a minute. “You’re the only one I could go to. You wouldn’t…be like him.”
With the way Dracula had continuously referenced Angel while she was his captive, there was no way she could even think of her once great love without flinching.
Something in Spike’s eyes had changed. He smiled only slightly and nodded his concurrence. “I’ll help you, Buffy. Whatever you need. It’ll be fine. You have my bloody word.” He paused and glanced to the head of the bed. “You need a good night’s rest now. Go ahead an’ get comfy. I’ll take the floor, yeah?”
She smiled through her tears. “Thank you.”
“Anythin’ you need, you jus’ ask.” He nodded to the space beside the bed. “I’ll be right there.”
She was bereft when he moved away, but didn’t have the words to tell him.
He was already doing so much. Sharing his sanctuary. And she was so grateful.
There were no words to tell him how much. Not now.
Not now when she was broken.
To be continued in Chapter Six: Sound and Fury…
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