Author: Holly (holly.hangingavarice@gmail.com)
Rating: NC-17 (For language, violence, and sexual situations)
Timeline: Season 5. Goes AU during Buffy v. Dracula
Summary: Buffy awakens to a new world where the rules as she knows them don’t apply and nothing is as it was. Without her friends, without her calling, there is only one person who can save her from self-destruction.

Disclaimer: The characters herein are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. They are being used for entertainment purposes out of respect and admiration, and not for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended.

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Buffy hadn’t truly thought it possible for her night to get any more bizarre. From beginning to end, she had been transported into some upside-down play the likes of which only Andrew Lloyd Webber could compose. Not that this particular vampire made a convincing Phantom of the Opera with his playboy looks and rich accent, but her reality was nonetheless shaken.

It didn’t help that when she opened her eyes, he was there.

Until tonight, she hadn’t thought any of the fables ingrained into vampiric folklore had any merit whatsoever. The ability to manifest themselves into bats? Sleeping in coffins? The myth about killing the master vamp if one wanted to be cured? Vampires’ inability to walk on hallowed ground? Lies, lies, and more lies. And if all of that stuff inspired by a hack-writer’s wet dream was false, then definitely the most infamous vampire of all, Count Dracula, was sure to be nothing more than the creation of some loony-toon psychopath.

That was until he poofed right in front of her. Parlor tricks, Giles had said; any vampire could master them if such was their prerogative. Xander had punned on the Count’s accent, Anya had appraised his sexual prowess, and all Buffy could do was slobber over the fact that a famous vampire had heard of her. Her as in Buffy Summers and not the Vampire Slayer. Buffy, the woman.

Buffy who sneaked out of her bedroom every night and worked out her sexual frustration while she was on the hunt.

She was alone in bed tonight. Dracula’s sole focus. The only member of his audience.

“I don’t remember inviting you in,” she said strongly, doing her damndest to suppress how hard she was shivering. There was something overpoweringly potent about the vampire’s eyes. It was unlike anything she had ever known; stronger, even, than the alluring pull of the Master five years earlier.

The Master had pulled her in with power alone. Dracula had charm; had charisma; had more than just thrall working for him.

For a vampire, he was devastatingly sexy, and she found that disturbing.

In Buffy’s mind, there were only two vampires in the world that were allowed to be sexy, and one of them was only a begrudging acknowledgement. She was just getting over the other. Just now allowing her long-suffering hurt to transfer to anger, her love scrapped in the face of the realization of everything this last year had cost her. The mistakes she had made in the wake of getting over her first twisted relationship. Parker. Racing to Los Angeles…twice.

And the replacement of her Angel that loved her unconditionally…

Riley. Her human Angel.

The only other vampire allowed to be sexy was the one she had the displeasure of seeing in every day life. The fact that he was incredibly easy on the eyes only made him more annoying. Still, that hardly stopped him from being so. He definitely had the stereotypical association of the undead to coincide with his namesake. Hauntingly beautiful, devastatingly lethal, and wholly forbidden.

Those were the sort of qualities that usually went unappreciated for the sake of his less-mystic and more annoying traits.

The vampire in front of her was gorgeous in that tall-dark-and-handsome way…and though that seemed to be the type Buffy fell for, she felt her stomach curl in apprehension.

“I required no invitation,” Dracula replied coolly, though a spark in his eyes alerted her to his lie. Her mother, most likely. This tall-dark-and-handsome thing was generic with Summers women. The tendency for the men that fit that description to be selfish assholes seemed to be generic as well. “Merely a desire to bask in the presence of death.” He reached out to brush tendrils of fallen hair from her face. Buffy drew in a deep breath, frowning as small shivers scattered down her skin. “A desire to taste…”

She blinked and jerked back at that, her eyes flaring dangerously. “There will be no tasting of me tonight, pal,” she barked, straightening as the haze around her world dissipated and the veracity of the situation became palpable. “Now get out before I—”

“Stake me, yes. That is what the vampire murderer does.” Dracula’s eyes flickered meaningfully. “She kills without prejudice, because it is all she knows.” He reached out to her again, fingers finding her hair. “But the marks on her throat are telling, no? She has been tasted.”

Angel’s bite seared with a sudden outburst of pain.

“He was—”

“Unworthy,” the vampire said decisively. “He let you go.”

Buffy inhaled again, the fog settling once more. There were certain things every vampire slayer knew, and never to be without a stake was one. Granted, she had never suspected a non-Angel or Spike-shaped vampire to enter her bedroom unannounced, but her lack of an immediate weapon sent a sharp pang of fear down her spine.

“You need to leave,” she said. Her mind was no longer her own. She didn’t know what he was doing, but it was overtaking her little by little. “My mother doesn’t like me to have vampires in my bedroom.”

“I only want a taste,” Dracula countered, a slow smirk drawing across his lips. “My Slayer will allow me a taste, won’t she?”

“I am not your Slayer. I am not your anything.”

“You are the Vampire Slayer. You belong to vampires.” He smiled. “I am a vampire, no? Tonight you belong to me.”

The fear entertaining her insides grew sharper. Fear was foreign to her now, especially where vampires were concerned. Her body wasn’t following her commands. Her arms were heavy and immobile, her heart pounding to the brink of pain within her chest. If he was going to do something, she couldn’t fight him. He had her under something. Had her will trapped beneath something too weighty for even her strength to move.

Belong to him? God, what did that mean?

“I…I think you should leave,” Buffy said.

“Yes,” Dracula agreed, his fingers skimming the length of her arm until his hand was clasped with hers. “We should be leaving.”

“We?”

“Yes. You will come with me, won’t you?”

No! shrieked her mind. That strong part of her that was kicking and screaming, pounding invisible fists against the walls of her will. No! Don’t even think about touching me, you piece of—

“Yes,” said her treacherous mouth, fingers entwined with his. “Where are we going?”

“Away,” the vampire replied, tugging her from the bed.

And then her room was not there. Her body separated from her will, moving toward something in the far reaches of understanding. She didn’t know how he moved them, or to where. She couldn’t see anything but the blur of colors clouding her vision, couldn’t feel anything but the cold touch of the vampire that was holding her hand. She was with him. That was all she knew, all she recognized. Dracula was leading her away from herself.

And he wasn’t letting go.

There were many unusual dwellings in Sunnydale, and at one point or another, Buffy had been to them all. Her job had a tendency of taking her to every corner of the miserable town. Every time a new demon mobster hit the Hellmouth, a new strange residence sprang from the soil as though it had been there for generations. With Spike, it was the factory. With Angelus, it was the mansion. With Adam, it was the Initiative itself.

Granted the Initiative didn’t spring from the ground as much as it buried itself beneath it.

With Dracula, though, it was a castle.

A castle erected in the outer reaches of Sunnydale. Buffy saw it without seeing. The dark premonition curling her stomach grew stronger with every step. Her inner voice kept screaming in protest, begging her senses to succumb control and allow the Slayer to take over. The shadows lurking in her mind were far too potent, the screaming woman inside trembling at the sight of the walls that would seal her fate. She knew that something bad was about to happen. She knew that stepping over that threshold while holding onto Dracula’s hand would be the means to her end.

If she walked into the castle, it would not be Buffy that walked out.

Oh God. I can’t stop him. I can’t…

“There is no reason to fear,” Dracula said over his shoulder, calm and collected. “I would not have harm befall one as lovely as you.”

Strange how those words inspired more fear than comfort.

“I will immortalize you.”

No. No!

“No,” Buffy broke through, commanding her feet to a halt. Her strength was denied her, but she persistently battled his own to pull her wrist free. “I won’t. You can’t make me. I—”

“Why this resistance?” the Count asked, frowning. “I will give you everything your former vampire could not.”

His voice dripped sexual promise, but the thought of his touch suddenly had her skin crawling. She had to get out. She had to get out, and now.

“No thanks. I have a boyfriend.”

Yeah. My name is Buffy the Lame-O, have we met?

Like Dracula cared if she had a boyfriend. Or, you know, free will and a mind of her own, including wishes that were not of the please-vamp-me nature. Her mind was still misty with blurred lines of defined right and wrong. She knew she needed to escape. He was no longer touching her, and while that was a step in the right direction, it did little to ease her nerves.

His eyes were still on her. And they held the most power.

Dracula was not going to let her do anything he didn’t want her to do.

“He is unworthy of you,” the vampire replied smoothly. “No mortal man could hope to touch the Slayer and feel her greatness. Not like those that she hunts.” His eyes flickered meaningfully. “Those that she kills.”

“Slays,” Buffy said automatically.

I am not a killer. I am the Slayer.

“You are the killer of my kind, yes?”

“I don’t kill. I slay. I have a calling.”

I am Chosen.

“I have a calling as well.” He glanced toward the castle meaningfully. “Now we go inside.”

“No.”

This he would not take from her. The free-will of Buffy was not for sale.

“You will follow me inside.”

Of course, vampires mostly stole what was not handed to them.

Even if the object of their desire was a human being.

And Buffy had no means of denying it. She heard herself agree to his command and the inner screaming started again, but there was little stopping the compliance of her body. Her feet carried her forward; her hand offered itself to Dracula’s grasp once more.

And then she was inside, and Sunnydale was a lifetime away.

Oh God.

“My home,” Dracula said, turning to her intently. “You approve?”

It was perfectly clear that he didn’t give a damn what she said, but at the same time, something told her that it was likely a good thing to be an accommodating guest to a master, legendary vampire. Even though she wasn’t so much a guest as she was a kidnapped slayer.

Besides, she’d only say no to be contrary. What was there not to like about a castle?

“Yes.”

“I think you will like it here.”

Buffy’s eyes went wide. Free-will…now would be a good time to come back from the dead!

This could not be happening. Not now. Not to her.

“For now, you should rest.” Dracula continued, stepping forward. “I will satisfy my hunger for you with a taste. Nothing more.”

Hunger? Me? Taste?

There was just no part of that sentence that Buffy liked.

Oh God. This is real. This isn’t a dream. It’s real.

Dracula’s fangs descended smoothly and his eyes went yellow. But that was all. There were no bumpies. There was no growling. He was the antithesis of every vampire she had encountered. And despite the paralyzing fear rushing through her body, she was alarmingly void of reaction. This was not her. Not really. It was a façade. Something was blocking her. An invisible wall crested between hysterics and serenity.

He had immobilized her. He had robbed her of her night. He had taken her away.

And now his fangs would find her throat.

And she would know nothing else.

The room was unfamiliar but comfortable. She felt miles away.

Her throat was throbbing, and she didn’t know why. A foreign thirst tore through her body, scratching at her skin with cuts of pleasure as well as pain. A bullet of fear pierced her heart, but by the time she had thought to resist anything, to fight anything, the pain had receded and she was back. Comfortable. Waiting in her silent oblivion.

Strange.

Buffy’s eyes fluttered open. She was bathed in lavender. The night was quiet, and she couldn’t see stars through the windows. But it was dark and she knew it would be for hours. The sun was a world away.

How she had come to this room, she didn’t know. Nor did she have the strength to get up.

Don’t have the strength for anything.

Sleep fell upon her again. Her eyes lost the battle for wakefulness.

The last thing she saw was her reflection in the hang mirror across the room. It was fading quietly; struggling for existence. Not gone but not there, either. Caught somewhere in the middle. Caught in the area in between.

What a strange dream, she mused, her eyes falling shut once more.

Ignoring the screams of her will, the girl locked inside that beat against soundless glass for freedom that would never come.

And she slept.

Chapter Two

The Garden of Good And Evil

Buffy was gone.

There was nothing but that knowledge. Riley had thrown open the door to her bedroom and found it empty. The bed was unmade, the window was open, and she was gone.

Buffy Summers was one of the least conventional Slayers to have ever been selected by the calling, and everyone that knew her knew that. Her methods were innovative and oftentimes shrouded in misgiving for their simplistic nature. Too frequently she ran off by herself to fulfill some task, kill some demon, and satisfy her sacred duty. She didn’t wait for others if she felt she didn’t have time; time and time again, she didn’t even mention where she was going or why. It was the way she worked. Granted, those weren’t entirely consistent with the person she was becoming—with a boyfriend who could watch her back while easily facing the forces of darkness—but Buffy did as Buffy thought she should. Her absence that morning was strange but didn’t really surprise anyone.

Such was Buffy.

Only today was different, because there was a vampire in town that needed absolutely no introduction. A vampire immortalized in time. A vampire that had inspired generations of folklore, novels, films, and ghost stories. A vampire that actually existed—something that the Slayer herself hadn’t known until the night before.

It was even more disconcerting when Riley discovered that Joyce Summers had mistakenly invited a pale foreigner into her home. That was all that the Slayer’s boyfriend needed to hear. Buffy was gone and Dracula had an all-access pass to her house.

Seemed like Spike had been right after all.

He hated it when Spike was right.

“I had no idea,” his girlfriend’s mother was saying frantically. He was so far placed he nearly didn’t hear her. “I…oh God, where would he have taken her?”

“I don’t know,” Riley replied, pivoting sharply, his face unreadable. “But I’ll find her, Joyce. I promise.”

A task easier said than done. There was no Initiative anymore. No place to start. Nothing but intuition, and a held breath that he was doing the right thing.

He had to go to Giles, then. He had to get on this.

From the way the Slayer had been going on about him last night, Riley couldn’t imagine which scenario he hated more. The vampire had Buffy, or Buffy was with the vampire.

Buffy who had a history with vampires.

Buffy who might not be a captive as much as she was a willing guest.

God, he hoped not.

“Well, I think we have Dracula factoids,” Willow said, glancing up. She wasn’t accustomed to seeing Giles’s house so vacant, but Buffy and Riley’s absence wasn’t so conspicuous. Her friend hadn’t exactly been coy the night before when she invited her boyfriend over; and from what she knew of their sex-life, the provocation had likely not gone refused for long.

“Like any of that’s enough to fight the dark master,” Xander retorted insolently, munching on a donut.

Giles and the redhead paused and looked at him strangely.

“…bator.”

The Watcher’s eyes shifted to her, and he looked more than a little irritated. She merely grinned. “A lot of it we already knew,” she said. “Turn-offs: wood, fire, crosses, garlic. Turn-ons: nice duds, minions, long, slow bites that last for days…” She cleared her throat. “If you…you know…like that sort’ve thing. Which I don’t.”

“Because you’re into girls now,” Xander said.

“Yes.”

Giles flushed and removed his glasses. “Right,” he retorted.

The quiet of the room crashed with the erratic swing of the front door, and Willow’s preconceived notion of her friend’s previous nocturnal activities dissipated instantly. Riley was there. Riley was there and Buffy wasn’t.

A spool of dread gathered her insides. Something was wrong.

“Oh,” the Watcher said in greeting. “Hello.”

“Buffy’s gone.”

The room froze.

“What?” Willow demanded. “What do you mean, Buffy’s gone?”

“Joyce invited Dracula into the house last night, and now Buffy’s gone.” Riley shook his head. “He took her somewhere, I know it.”

Giles frowned, paling. “Are you…how can you be sure?”

“Joyce invited him into the house! He’s a vampire, she’s a slayer. She was all…gushing for him last night, wasn’t she? In that…” He released a deep breath. “Buffy…after she saw him, she was different. I can’t even…”

“Buffy would never have just gonewith Dracula,” Willow protested, frowning. “That’s ridiculous!”

“Well, if Dracula’s objective was to kill her, he could’ve done it last night and just left her in her bed. He didn’t. She’s gone. She didn’t tell anyone here, did she?” Silence was his answer. “I didn’t think so. She’s with him…and we don’t know…what he’s doing to her—”

The Watcher’s frown deepened. “I don’t believe Dracula is the sort to do anything to any of his victims, aside turn them into…” The room stilled uncomfortably at that, and he did not feel the need to drive the point home with words. “But everything we have on him suggests that he prefers the more traditional turnings. If that’s true, then she might not be in any actual danger right now.”

A worried look crossed Willow’s face. “Traditional turnings?”

He nodded. “Well, your own research says as much,” he replied, indicating the open book in her lap.

The Witch’s eyes widened and she glanced down. “Oh right. Ummm, yeah, Dracula’s objective is different from other vampires. He’ll kill just to feed, but he’d rather have a connection with his victims…especially victims he sees as high-profile. Victims like…well, Buffy, in this case. He even has mental powers to draw them in.”

“So he might’ve thralled Buffy into going with him?” Riley demanded.

“Yeah. If she…yeah. He also has mental powers, so he could’ve put some cosmic whammy on her to make her more compliant.” The look on the redhead’s face grew increasingly worried as her eyes scanned the text before her. “Giles, this isn’t good. The ending result is always the same. He seduces his victims, but it’s always to make them a vampire. With Buffy’s case…”

“He wants her,” Riley snapped decisively.

Xander shook his head. “That’s ridiculous. I think you're drawing a lot of crazy conclusions about the unholy prince.”

The room paused again and stared.

“…bator.”

Giles’s eyes narrowed. “Xander…is there something you’re not telling us?”

Harris drew in a sharp breath and shook his head. “Nope. Nothing. Nothing that I can think of. Certainly nothing concerning the supremely spooky dark master.”

Willow released a long sigh. “He’s under Dracula’s thrall, isn’t he?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Xander recoiled at that. “No! That—that’s ridiculous, is what that is. The evil lord could’ve used anyone! Why would he, in his infinite wisdom, select me?” A forced, disbelieving laugh sputtered through his lips. “That’s just silly…that is.”

Riley’s eyes darkened and he stalked forward dangerously. “Where did he take her?” he demanded. “What do you know? Talk.”

The other man’s hands came up neutrally. “I know nothing!”

“You’re under Dracula’s thrall and you don’t know anything? Right.”

“Not what you’re talking about, no!” Xander retorted indignantly. “His Excellent Creepiness told me he wanted me to take Buffy to him!” He blinked as though the words spewing from his mouth suddenly made sense, his gaze clearing. “I-I…I didn’t take Buffy to him. I really didn’t.”

Giles’s expression grew even more troubled. “Dracula placed you under his power for the purpose of obtaining Buffy, but why…” There was just no part of this that made sense. “Perhaps his intention was to set us apart. He came to Sunnydale for the Slayer. According to what she said last night, he had heard enough of her to call her by name. He said she was a legend among the undead…it’s very possible that he knows about us. That he is employing the same technique that Adam attempted last year in separating us so that we’re too jumbled to find her before—”

“He turns her,” Willow concluded, her eyes wide. “Oh God, we have to do something.”

“Something,” Riley muttered blankly. “Yeah, something.”

The Watcher’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“I went to see Spike last night. Gather up some information on Sunnydale’s newest resident.” He paused. “Last time a Big Bad decided to split you guys up, Spike was involved, right?”

Giles and the redhead nodded.

“Then it’s feasible that Spike’s in on it, right?”

“‘In on it?’” the Watcher repeated incredulously. “What is there, exactly, to be ‘in on?’”

“If Dracula’s modus operandi is ultimately siring his victims, then—”

The older man shook his head dismissively. “Spike wouldn’t help with that,” he said. The certainty in his voice lent everyone pause.

Riley was staring at him. “How do you know?”

“Because he’s fought Slayers before and not once has he attempted to sire them. The two he killed were killed, not turned. Spike’s likely one of the few vampires that know about Slayers.”

“What do you mean?” Willow asked.

“Sired Slayers retain their souls,” Giles replied grimly. “You might call it a practical joke on part of the Powers That Be. As any vampire will boast, being a sire establishes a certain measure of power and control over their childer. Being the sire of a Slayer would make the vampire nearly invincible. It also would guarantee that every Slayer called would not strike fear into the world of the undead—instead of running from her, they would run for her…hoping to lay claim to her throat and obtain the power that being her sire would warranty. But Slayers retain their souls, and being as strong and assuredly angry as they are when they awaken, will usually not only destroy her sire and his childer, but every vampire in her path until she is stopped. If Slayers remained soulless, you can be sure that Spike would have taken advantage of that by now. Buffy sired wouldn’t be good news for any vampire in Sunnydale.”

The redhead worried a lip between her teeth. “Doesn’t Dracula know that?”

“One would think. Perhaps he doesn’t care. If we’re correct, and Buffy is with Dracula, we can assume it’s due to a mind control similar to the thrall that Xander is under.” The room eyed the carpenter warily, and he blinked once in response. “Or,” Giles continued, “it might be that Dracula hopes his influence as a sire will be too great for Buffy to resist.”

“That happens?” Riley demanded.

“Not in recorded history, no…but Dracula is a master of mind control.”

“Buffy’s the Slayer!” Willow protested. “I mean…shouldn’t she come with some…anti-mind control tags or something? Especially where vamps are concerned…it just doesn’t seem…how could this happen?”

“Erm, Buffy’s also one of the slayers in history whose close personal relationship with vampires has been problematic for the Council,” Giles replied awkwardly, avoiding Riley’s eyes. “She dated Angel and she’s allowed Spike not only to continue existing, but has been almost…protective of him in the past few months.”

“Protective?” the room echoed disbelievingly.

“Well, she hasn’t staked him, has she? Furthermore, she’s saved his life on a number of occasions. Granted, he’s done the same for us, but details like that don’t matter to the Council.”

“Don’t matter to me, either,” Riley murmured irately.

“Regardless,” the Watcher intervened sternly, “Buffy finds him valuable, and until he outright refuses to help us, it’s best to have a somewhat-ally that has an ear to the workings of the underworld. Besides…” He paused. “It might prove beneficial to pay Spike a visit with this. If Dracula does indeed have Buffy, Spike could well be the best way to get to her.”

Riley glowered at that. “The best? You think bringing in a vampire to track down a vampire is going to do us any good? A vampire that, by the way, happens to hate Buffy and everything she stands for? I have experience in slaying vampires. Maybe not a sacred calling, but I never knew that was a prerequisite.”

“You can’t honestly believe that asking Spike to help us is any more damaging than not,” Giles rebuked. “He might not want to, but he’ll do it.”

“How do you know?”

The Watcher’s expression turned grim. “I can be…persuasive.”

People always went a little bit crazy when a celebrity came to town.

For the past three months, the Slayer and her pals had done little to even acknowledge the existence of their resident vampire, much less pop by at all sorts of odd hours. Now, two nights running, the door to Spike’s crypt burst open, provoking the platinum blonde to his feet in nearly record speed. It was a scent he wouldn’t have associated with a nocturnal visit, but the presence of Buffy’s Watcher only went to validate his theory.

Honestly, one famous name bursts into the Hellmouth, and the bloody town goes wonky. First the Super Soldier, now Ripper Giles himself?

He couldn’t deny he was a bit disappointed. Dracula had been in town for nearly twenty-four hours and there had not yet been word from the Slayer. Was Buffy suddenly too good to go to him directly, or had she finally wised up and realized she was virtually a dictator with a staff of loyal lackeys?

Spike rolled his eyes and lit a cigarette. “Welcome to the bloody jungle,” he muttered, more to himself. “Lemme guess, you need information. Bloke’s a li’l taller than me, paler, Romanian accent, an’—”

“Shut up.”

The vampire’s eyes narrowed. “Oi there, mate. You’re in my home—uninvited, I might add. Might be surprised where a li’l manners can get you.”

“I need help.”

“Well, I coulda told you that years ago.” He grinned. “’m right, though. This is about good ole Vlad.”

“Yes, Spike, your perception is truly extraordinary.” Giles glanced down. “It’s Buffy.”

The vampire exhaled a puff of smoke. “Yeh? What about her?”

“She’s missing.”

Spike’s brows perked. He knew the point had to be coming.

Giles said nothing. Just looked at him.

Point was evidently lacking.

“Yeh, and?” he demanded. “This is the Slayer, remember? Pullin’ disappearing acts is what she does best. Need I remind you ‘bout that time last October when—”

“This is different, Spike. Dracula’s involved.” He paused. “He has her.”

For no reason whatsoever, those three words struck an ugly chord. Spike froze, cigarette burning between his fingers. He didn’t know why—he couldn’t explain it, but a wave of outrage washed over him, and his eyes clouded. The idea of Dracula touching his Slayer inspired a fury the likes of which God himself would tremble in fear. Buffy was not one to be thralled into submission. It didn’t work that way—it wasn’t supposed to work that way. Not for Slayers, not for Buffy. Buffy was his. She always had been.

“Spike?”

The vampire blinked back to himself, surprised at the look on Giles’s face; even more so at the realization that he was seconds away from allowing his bumpies to emerge in a fit of rage.

Still, he couldn’t help himself. No vampire touched Buffy. If he lost her before he made her throat his chalice, it wouldn’t be to another of his kind. It wouldn’t be to a demon at all. Buffy was either his or the world’s to destroy. She died at his hand or in the apocalypse. That. Was. That.

He wisely ignored the inner voice that had been growing steadily in volume for the past few weeks. A voice he feared carried a horrible truth that he was not ready to face.

That he would never really be ready to face.

“I told Soldier Boy when he came here last night,” Spike said slowly, blowing out another stream of smoke. “Told him Vlad wouldn’t back off till he had what he wanted. I also told him to bugger off an’ watch over his honey: once the count sets his all-knowin’ mind on somethin’, he doesn’ give up.” He paused. “He nabbed her last night, din’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Was Wonder Bread there?” His kept his tone purposefully neutral. If he betrayed just how unnerved he was at Buffy’s disappearance, Rupert might suspect he had something to do with it.

He would never credit him for the other. Whatever the other was, in this regard.

Respect for thine enemy, he quoted to himself, though the words fell empty even within his cavern.

Shades of palpable frustration began leaking through the Watcher’s eyes. “Spike, we don’t have time to play around with semantics. Dracula has Buffy…who knows what he’s doing to her. Is your alliance up for sale today?” He took a breath. “And let me remind you, if it’s not, I can make it for sale.”

Spike didn’t see a sliver of wood in the old man’s hands, but he knew his Slayer had to have learned that ‘stake up the ass’ trick somewhere. “When was she last seen?” he asked.

“She was at my flat last night discussing her encounter with Dracula.”

“An’ that’s the end of it?”

“As much as I know.” The Watcher eyed him warily. Spike knew well that he had yet to quote a price. Rescuing the Slayer…what sort of dollar amount could that equate?

A few seconds passed, and Giles heaved a long, aggravated sigh. “I don’t have time to wait for you to make up your mind,” he said. “Buffy is in danger, and—”

Split second decision. No more time for considering that line dividing what he should do and what he wanted to do. It was all left to instinct. A realization down to the core—he couldn’t stand by right now. It had nothing to do with money, and everything to do with that set of values that vampires were supposed to lack. That law he had established for himself without even realizing it. Buffy was his. No vampire was going to take her from him.

“Don’ get all testy,” he retorted, flicking his cigarette to the ground and stamping it out. “I’m in.”

Giles blinked his surprise. “How much—”

“We’ll talk about that later, yeah? You’re a man of principle. I don’ imagine you’ll cheat me out of a fee based on a sudden lack of desperation.”

The Watcher nodded absently. “Right. Well, Riley will be here to—”

Spike’s eyes widened. There was absolutely no way he was going to do anything or go anywhere with that stuck up wanker. If that was what the old man wanted, he had another thing coming. For this, he wanted nothing to do with the Scoobies. They could search their way; fine. He would search his way, and he would find her first. And there was no fucking way Riley Finn was going to be any part of that. “No,” he growled definitively. “I work alone.”

“We can’t—”

“I work alone or you’re on your bloody own, got it? I’m not sharin’ anythin’ with Captain Cardboard. If he’s so sodding sure he’s the man for the job, you wouldn’t’ve come here. ‘Sides, I told him everythin’ he’d need to know to find Vlad last night. Kinda stings, doesn’ it?” He sneered unpleasantly. “Had the enormous ponce listened to me, your girl would be snuggling up in her beddy-by tonight instead of enjoyin’ the company of vamps. I’m not goin’ out there with the wanker who’ll be responsible for her death if we can’t get to her in time. Don’ need you forgettin’ which one of us you need to hang from your gallows. I’m goin’ alone.”

Giles held his eyes for a long moment. “All right.”

“What?”

“All right. You’re right. Pairing you up with Riley for this would only incite more chaos than resolution.” He paused. “If you do find Buffy…if you bring her back to us…”

His voice trailed off, taking the rest of the sentence with it.

Imagining being indebted to a vampire wasn’t easy for those trained to hate them.

“I’ll bring her back, Rupert,” Spike replied softly. “Save the rest for then.”

The Watcher looked surprisingly grateful at that, and the vampire couldn’t blame him. It gave them both time to contemplate the invisible line that had been crossed. Their private Rubicon.

But he wouldn’t think about that now. He couldn’t. All he could think about was the Slayer. His Slayer.

And how to get her back.

Chapter Three

To Conquer Death

There had never been hunger like this.

It began before she awoke—clawing at her insides, attacking her blood, parching her throat with a craving so innate, her wake knew only suffering. The blackness of the room offered nothing to quench her terrible thirst. Her surroundings were foreign; stark and cold in the midst of a lonely rouse. Every inch of her ached with newness coupled with strength. Strength beyond her knowledge, bound to her muscles, fused with her very essence.

Everything hurt. Her lungs rejected the air she gasped. Her eyes blinded with a barrage of color. She was deafened by every crick and creek that pierced the silence. And through it all, there was the hunger. The yearning. A need so inherent she wondered if she had ever known anything else; wondered if this terrible craving had been there all along.

Somewhere, though, the blackest part of her knew the truth.

There was nothing to grasp as she fell. A twist of bedsheets locked her legs and left her dangling over the side of her cushioned prison. The jerk of movement deepened the alien sensation spreading through her body until she was swallowed by the clutch of her worst fears realized. There was nothing but this—a sad reckoning with a new world that denied her peace. Denied her endless thirst a drink. Watched as she suffered a hunger so deep, it felt her body was collapsing into itself.

I’m dying.

Buffy choked a sob, wrestling her limbs free until she fell with finality to the floor at last. The impact sent sharp shards of foreign pain through her tender skin, but she bit her tongue before her anguish could know voice.

I’m dying.

Then it was okay, because he was there. An unspeakable outreach of serenity from where she knew only chaos. Buffy’s warring psyche calmed and the rage within her forfeited the battle. All was well. He was there, and he wasn’t going to let anything happen to her.

No. That’s not right.

“This is no dream,” Buffy gasped, her voice producing a sound akin to two dead leaves mating in an autumn wind. “This is really happening.”

“You have just awoken,” came the answer. The presence at the door was soothing and repulsive all in one stroke. Something within her rejoiced at the sight of him. Something that hadn’t been there before. Something she didn’t understand, and desperately needed to grasp. The dark power that loomed in his aura quelled the fury within, but the look in his eyes terrified her. There was power there. Power that hadn’t been there before.

Power that went beyond the thrall, and aimed solely for the kill.

Buffy struggled to her feet. “What…have you…you done to me?”

“You are feeling disoriented,” Dracula said obviously, running his eyes down the length of her scantily clad self. She doubted she could have felt more naked if she decided to strip out of the negligee that she had somehow donned through the night.

Had he dressed her like this?

She didn’t care to examine that possibility. She just needed to get out.

Preferably now.

“What did you do to me?” Her mind was spinning again; the room distorting in a haze of dark colors. “You…did you drug me?” She didn’t realize that she was holding onto the dresser until the wood beneath her fingers cracked and crumpled into a handful of splinters. “Oh my God.”

“It is frightening at first,” the Count acknowledged. “Most newly risen vampires overcome the disorientation quickly. Most have to claw through the soil toward the night.” He gestured to the window. “I brought the night to you, my lovely. Calm yourself. The worst will be over soon.”

The room was suddenly very cold.

“Newly…risen?” Tears welled in her eyes. “Newly…I…you…what did you do to me?”

“I made you as I am. I gave you new life.”

“You…you…you turned me?” A strangled cry tore through her lips, a hand flying to her chest, desperate for the reassuring thump of her heart. The heart that had beat for her for nineteen years. The heart that had strengthened through victory and suffered more ache than any girl her age should ever know.

The heart that beat no longer.

She was dead. She was really dead.

“Oh my God.” Buffy collapsed again, tears clutching her throat, her body rejecting the air she tried desperately to give it. “Oh my God! You bastard! How could you do this to me? How could you, you—”

“I gave you life,” Dracula repeated, his voice a mimic of a petulant child just discovering what actions merited discipline and what didn’t. “I immortalized you.”

“You bastard! You’ve killed me! You’ve killed me!”

“I made you the way I am. I made you into a huntress in form as well as title.” He cocked his head. “This is different. Why do you resist me?”

“You made me a vampire!”

“I made you into what you are destined to be. You are mine now. For now and always.” Dracula smiled and moved forward. “A rare stream of sunshine in my world of darkness. You are mine.”

No. If there was anything worse than being a vampire, it was being his.

“I am not yours,” Buffy all but growled. She felt the bones in her muscles shift, a sharp shard of pain shooting through her body as her fangs descended and her bumpies emerged for the first time. “You’ve killed me. You understand that? You killed me! I am anything but yours. I will never be yours. I hate you!” Her eyes fell to the discarded shafts of wood that she had broken from the dresser, her hands aching for the familiarity of a wooden stake. “I’ll kill you if you try to touch me.”

Kill you.

She flexed her wrist. The air was deafening with the sound of her unbeating heart.

Her heart that would never beat again.

Then myself.

If he was moved by her threat, the Count didn’t make it known. Rather, he smiled diplomatically and spread his hands. “I am your maker, my darling. I made you into what you are. You are mine. For now and for all eternity. Resisting me is fruitless. You are mine.” He stepped forward. “You need me.”

“You are the last thing I need.”

Dracula paused, his eyes narrowing. “It was not supposed to be this way,” he said, frowning. “You are unchanged.”

“No, I think I’m pretty well changed.”

“Your conscience…it remains.” He paused. “Your soul still lives within you. The demon should have killed it by now.”

“I think the demon’s probably more worried about the fact that I plan to kill it before it kills anything.” Buffy expelled a deep breath, biting back a cry at how it hurt to use her lungs. She couldn’t live like this. She wouldn’t. Soul or no soul, she wouldn’t allow herself to exist in this state of nonliving.

He had killed her body. She would do the rest.

Right after she saw his dust collect on the ground.

“You are confused,” Dracula said, holding out a hand. “You need to feed.”

Buffy was quite sure she felt her stomach turn. She’d been the Slayer for too long to mistake his meaning. The thought of blood was too nauseating for words; the way her body reacted, though, disgusted her the most. “If you even try to make me…feed…I will end you.”

Her sire smiled. “Such a vibrant woman,” he said appraisingly. “Give it time. You will come to love it here.”

“Here?”

“With me.”

The lengthy silence that settled between them made her skin crawl. With him. Did he honestly believe she was going to bow to his every whim? Sit back and let him have her?

“Perhaps I spoke too soon,” Dracula said a minute later. “We will not be staying here. The Hellmouth…it is too crowded with demons that would not appreciate you. What you are.” He was within inches of her now, seemingly unconcerned for the way her eyes continuously flashed to the makeshift stakes at her feet. As though he had every confidence that she would not be able to go through with it, even when so thoroughly provoked. “We will return to my home, yes? I will lavish you with everything a woman of your nature could ever want.”

Buffy recoiled in horror. “No.”

“Why do you resist me?”

“Gee, let’s think!”

“You want this,” he replied, unbothered.

“No, I really, really don’t. I don’t want anything from you.” Rivers were streaking down her face. “You’ve killed me.”

“Mia cara,” he cooed soothingly. “It will get better, yes? You are a vision of perfection. A creature of the night. You could grow to love me just a little, don’t you think?” He palmed her cheek almost reverently, thumb flickering at her tears. “I will show you things no other man has ever dreamed of. Not even…” His fingers skimmed down her throat, resting over Angel’s bite mark. “…him.”

God, it was happening again. That slipping sense of self. His commanding power over her shook her foundation. Even now; her body trembling with rage and devastating grief, and he wheedled into her psyche, defusing her effortlessly with nothing more than the draw of his eyes.

“I don’t…” she heard herself saying. As though she was watching a picture show; unable to do anything but stand aside and say the things that her sire wanted her to say. He had something over her—she knew that from last night. Knew that was the way he had lured her into his clutches.

He came with the appearance of wanting her. He didn’t.

He wanted the puppet his powers made her.

Buffy wanted so badly to shove a stake through his heart. There were plenty scattered on the floor. All she had to do was draw herself away from his eyes, enact her Slayer agility, and be done with it.

Please God, give me strength.

She released a long breath. Her chest ached at the exertion. Everything ached.

Please.

“You won’t do it.”

He was still staring at her, and she was still staring back. And he saw what she was thinking.

“That just goes to show how much you really don’t know me,” she returned coldly.

Dracula offered a curious smile. “I know you, my queen. What I don’t know, I will.” He ran a hand down her arm, coaxing a trail of gooseflesh to follow its lead. “I will know you. I will know every inch of you.”

God no. Please no.

She would never give him that.

The stake would find itself in her chest if not his.

“For this,” her sire said, fingers finding the strap of her negligee. “We will wait. Yes, I think you should love me just a little before I take you.”

“You’re in for quite a wait.”

This did not seem to bother him. “All we have is time, my love.”

The term of endearment made her skin crawl.

Grab a stake. Have it over with.

Her arms remained immobile. She was seconds away from breaking all over again.

“You can’t do this,” she said, her voice filled with all the conviction her body wasn’t conveying. For everything she couldn’t do with actions and everything she could with words. “You can’t keep me prisoner and force me to love you.”

“I am quite confident that force will not be necessary.”

I’m going to see you in all kinds of pain before this is over.

Something dark flared within her. Something that would have terrified her were she not standing in the face of an adversary that had brought her deepest nightmare to life. Something squirming within her, clawing at the shattered remains of everything she had been just hours ago. Something that demanded release so that it might reign destruction.

“We will not worry about such things right now,” Dracula decided. “Now, you must feed.”

Her insides stormed with a resurgence of fury. “Funny, this sounds just like something you said a few minutes ago. Maybe you didn’t understand…you try to feed me, and I’ll castrate you. I’ll gut you. I’ll gouge your eyes and shove a stake through your chest, just centimeters above your heart so that every time you move, you know the true meaning of a brush with death.”

The Count merely maintained his odd little smile and leaned forward, brushing a repugnant kiss across her forehead. “Such fury,” he murmured with reverence. “Such dark beauty. Oh yes. I will love you well.”

Buffy flexed her hands, screaming orders that went ignored. Her body wasn’t listening to her. Her words were strong but there was a tremble of uncertainty that she couldn’t help but betray. She was in far over her head, and they both knew it.

She was in a world she didn’t understand, and she wasn’t waking up.

“My friends will find me,” she said. “They won’t stop looking.”

“You are beyond them now, my sweet.”

“They will find me.”

“There will be nothing to find,” he replied easily. “We’ll be gone before they even think to come here.”

Buffy drew in another breath, nearly unaware of the tears that were spilling over her eyes. There was nothing else. Reality at its finest, and there was nothing else. She was really here. This was all really happening. Dracula had her at his mercy. He had done something to her that she had feared every day since she was called to her duty. Something that haunted her dreams even when she kept them to herself.

Prophetic dreams.

God no. This couldn’t be it.

“Please,” she heard herself whisper. “God, please. Don’t do this to me. Please.”

He frowned. “You will come to love me.”

“No, I really won’t.”

“I will wait until you do. And until then, there is so much to teach you.” He smiled and moved back. “I will bring you something warm to dine upon, yes? Your first kill should be the sweetest. An initiation into your new life.”

“I’m not killing anyone.”

Still, he appeared smug and unworried. Near the door now, lingering outside her domestic prison. Giving her a view of the barrier outside this place in which he had captured her. “We will see,” he retorted. “Once the hunger strikes you, you will not be able to resist.”

A muffled sob scratched at her throat.

Oh please. Let me die before I hurt anyone. Please.

“My friends…” she heard herself saying. “They will come for me.”

Dracula paused at last, cocking his head to the side as though considering this for the first time.

Then, “There is no one capable enough of penetrating this fortress. Your friends are human. My people are not. If any should try, they would be killed.” Another meaningful pause. “You should hope, then, that they don’t come for you, yes? That would be most…unfortunate.”

The door closed with a definitive click and the twist of a lock. A lock that would not keep her. A lock that was for show. A lock that would scream her release if she crashed through the door, and send Dracula and his others to stop her from escaping.

And Buffy fell to her knees.

Oh god oh god oh god.

She had to get out. There was nothing but that. She had to get out.

Because he was right. There were more vampires in his residence than just the two of them. She could feel them by simply being. Sitting where she was, doing nothing but existing.

She felt the power in this place. Any attempt by her friends to recover her would be met with messy death.

There was no one.

Her nightmare had only begun.

Spike had been staring at the castle for the better of an hour. Contemplating. Considering. Doing his best to contain himself from declaring an all out war on his former nemesis. The vampire that had dared storm into his town and take his Slayer away. The vampire that had her now.

Buffy was in there. He felt her. Smelled her blood. Sensed her fear.

Felt her through means that rightly terrified him.

He had to get her out. He didn’t know how or why; only that she was in there, and he was her only ticket to freedom. If the Scoobies got involved, they would get her killed—and likely themselves in the process. Right now, she was alive. Torn in that gray area that tugged her between life and death.

An area he knew all too well.

Spike drew in a sharp breath, flicking his cigarette to the ground and stomping it out beneath his heavy foot.

It couldn’t mean what he thought it meant. It bloody well couldn’t.

With as much as he thought he hated Buffy, he would never wish his lonely existence upon her. She was light and warmth; beauty and glory. To rob her of sunlight would be a worse crime than any of the bloodbaths coloring endless red across his past.

He felt her, though. Caught in the stage between life and death.

It couldn’t mean the worst, though. He wouldn’t let it.

He would get her out.

And Dracula would taste dust for touching her.

Chapter Four

Return To Me Salvation

In a hundred and forty years, he had never known such a night.

The castle looked as though it had enjoyed five centuries of aging. It sat majestically, bathed in the soft glow of the fuzzy moonlight as the magnificent orb in the sky peeped in and out of its cloudy veil. Spike had been staring at the moon for about a half hour, blowing pillars of smoke into the sky as he considered the decades that didn’t seem so long ago; those short years when the huge rock had been the quest of every major power in the world.

An unobtainable query, once upon a time. The stuff the biggest dreams of the day were made of. He remembered begrudgingly three or four poems he had dedicated to the glory of the moon when he became enraptured with the enigmatic beauty in his latter teen years. It had been so far away. So untouchable. Such a plethora of mystery.

That was a good hundred years before Neil Armstrong uttered the famous words and became immortalized among American heroes.

He didn’t know when Buffy had become the moon for him. Untouchable. A plethora of mystery. Something worth risking everything to save. The Slayer; she was one of thousands in a long line of succession, and there would be thousands more after she was gone. He had tasted the lifeline of two Slayers. He had rejoiced in their death and bathed in their blood, and ever since he arrived in Sunnydale, he had been anticipating the day that he drank from this particular Slayer’s royal fountain.

He couldn’t remember when his loathing for Buffy changed into something else. When his hatred for her softened with tender admiration. When the cheeky girl had wormed her way into his heart.

She was his match. Of every slayer he had ever hunted, of the two he had killed, of even Drusilla and the few vampire floozies he had bedded since the fall of his once great love…there was none that could have ever come close to being his equal as Buffy did.

The last thing he wanted to do was put a name to the confused emotions he felt for the girl. The things he had safely ignored until Giles barraged into his crypt and told him that Buffy was gone and Dracula was to blame. Dracula, who was more show than threat. Dracula who made up for what he lacked in strength with persuasion and magic tricks.

Buffy was out of his reach. He was so close, but he could not touch her. He felt her inside the walls of the castle. Felt her presence as fiercely as though she was standing right before him. He could nearly taste her. Could nearly smell her hair. That rich Slayer musk that drove him out of his mind whenever she was near.

Spike expelled a deep, exasperated breath and tossed his fag to the ground, stamping its light out beneath his boot. The grass was accumulating an impressive collection of discarded ciggies—a testament to how long he had been waiting outside the castle, waiting for a brilliant plan to strike. Sad fact was, there was none. Dracula never traveled alone. Even if he didn’t feel the unmistakable presence of several vampires within the fortress, the Count’s liking for a posse was almost as notorious as the demon in questions.

If he took a step with the intent of knocking down the walls, snatching the Slayer, and making a quick getaway, he risked ending her here and now. If Dracula thought he was being threatened personally, he would slaughter Buffy and be out of town before anyone could hope to touch him.

And even if he didn’t slaughter Buffy, there was absolutely no way he would leave her behind.

Vampires had an incredibly potent sense of self and awareness for others. Dracula would know if the waters surrounding his citadel became dangerous. He would know if the cavalry was coming.

Spike was captured in a vicious cycle. The longer he waited, the slimmer his window of opportunity became. If he tried to get in now, he endangered the Slayer’s life or any hope of getting to her before she was beyond their reach. The Scoobies wouldn’t understand that. Moreover, with warm, fresh blood pumping their veins, they were walking beacons for the undead.

But God, waiting outside was against every instinctive nerve in his body. Buffy was out of his reach. He had to get to her now before all was lost. Before she was lost forever.

In that instant, he was so close to forgoing all else and storming the damn place that his feet started carrying him toward the fortress before he realized what he was doing. Buffy’s tug on him was stronger than he could have ever fathomed; such that he was nearly willing to cast all else aside and forfeit whatever was left to his name to get her out. And fuck if he knew why. He didn’t. He had no idea.

He had no idea why rescuing Buffy was suddenly so important to him.

That bothered him more than anything. Buffy was the Slayer. She had been his enemy since the moment she was born. Since the moment the Powers That Be selected her to become what she was destined to become. From the moment he had plowed over the Sunnydale sign, he had known his destiny was directly related with the Slayer’s. Buffy over any Slayer he had faced, or would ever face. He had lost track of the times he had tried to kill her. He had lost track of the times she had tried to kill him. How many times they had come to an impasse for their inability to get past the fighting and go directly for the ugly death.

Now Buffy was in actual danger of dying. She was strained in the gray behind the white of life and the black of death. He had to get to her before the light turned dark forever.

And bloody hell, he didn’t know what he would do with himself if that happened. The strain he had always placed on himself to maintain distance between his query and his own ethics was wavering. When Buffy Summers had ceased being his next big kill and begun down a venue of her own, he didn’t know. But she had.

And if she died inside Dracula’s castle, a part of him would die with her.

The largest part.

He would never forgive Riley Finn for putting him in his position. For bringing feelings he wasn’t ready to have front and center. For shedding light on something he had known for a long time, and taking her away before he had a chance to explore the wondrous sensation of feeling like this again. Feeling warmth where there had only been cold. Feeling light where he had so long been in the dark.

Drusilla had been all dark. Spike didn’t know when his feelings for his once dark princess had begun slipping into something that no longer resembled love. Something twisted and unrecognizable. A vaguely fluffy feeling for the woman he had been with for a century.

The fact that Buffy Summers had all but taken her place in his heart terrified him.

The fact that it had taken something like this to snap him from his denial left his insides quivering with dread.

He had no idea when it all had changed. But Rupert had made him aware of it.

For now, there was nothing. He couldn’t stand out here all night and hope to be stricken with divine inspiration. The longer he waited, the more Buffy slipped away from him. The more danger he put her in.

He had no idea how to pull off a great escape, but he was determined to do it. If he had to look up whatever demon Houdini had sold his soul to, he would do it. But not like this; not without an idea of how to get in and out without endangering Buffy or losing the one chance he had to get her out.

Spike released a long sigh. Turn around. You’re not doin’ her any good here.

Walking away from Dracula’s castle that night was one of the hardest things he’d ever done. But there was no other option. Not right now.

He had about eight hours to figure out how to get her to safety. After that, he would keep trying, but he feared his options would have dwindled to mere happenstance of luck. Still, he had to leave now before Dracula called his bluff and ended all before he stood half a chance.

Spike had never been much for plans. Sitting down and thinking out something for the better of himself simply was not his forte; when others were involved, others he cared about, he tended to get in over his head and forfeit the high ground. He recalled vividly the last time he’d visited Los Angeles. Angel had something he wanted, which wasn’t thoroughly unbelievable, and he had sworn to himself that he would take back what was rightfully his. Just as he had sworn that going to Buffy during the reign of Angelus was the only sure way to attract Drusilla away from her Daddy. Just as he had thought coming back to Sunnydale to kill the Slayer so many times would actually get anything accomplished. Every plan he had ever concocted had been foiled or abandoned, though for the first time in a long, long time, he was terrified of the results. Of what it could mean. What he could lose in turn.

He needed something that wouldn’t fall through.

Something that wouldn’t get Buffy killed.

He was so unbelievably outraged at Riley Finn’s gall; he was half-tempted to let the enormous football player know exactly how well the Initiative chip was working.

Just how much pain he could inflict before his brains started leaking out of his head.

Perhaps he could find Harmony and send her in to distract the ego-stricken master vampire. An empty smile tugged at his lips. The bint was so out of her bloody head; she wouldn’t know what to do with herself in front of such notoriety. On the plus side, she might serve in confusing the Count to the point that he let his guard down.

Spike couldn’t be sure of anything anymore.

Only that he had so much time to figure out what he was going to do.

He heaved a sigh and plucked out another cigarette, striding long, heavy steps in the familiar direction of his crypt.

An hour. He would be back in an hour.

And he hoped to whatever was out there that he would have an idea on how to proceed. How to get her out. Alive.

He had an hour.

The last thing he needed in order to maintain even a sliver of sanity was to see the face of Riley Finn. But there he was, waiting outside his crypt, a look of severe displeasure coloring the overgrown dolt’s features. As though the past twenty four hours hadn’t occurred, and the conversation that could have easily saved Buffy’s life had never happened.

Something cold shivered down his spine.

He couldn’t allow himself to consider Buffy’s life as beyond his reach. That sort of thinking would shove her firmly from the gray into the black, and she would be lost to him forever.

Though there was that small voice that warned him the line had already been crossed. That by the time he got inside Dracula’s fortress, he would find nothing but a cooling body with golden hair and smooth, near-flawless skin.

And it would be entirely Finn’s fault.

From the look in his eyes, Riley didn’t see it quite that way.

“You know, mate,” Spike drawled. “This might be the firs’ time you’ve respected my privacy enough to wait outside my home for an invitation.”

“I was about to kick the door open and I heard you coming up.”

“Ah, well there goes that, then.”

“I want to know what the hell you’re playing at.”

The vampire blinked. “’m sorry, me?”

“Yeah, that’s right. Giles says that you’re not in on this, but me…I’m not so sure.”

Spike snickered, huffing out another cloud of smoke. “Well, that’s because you’re a wanker an’ you need to learn that there’s not always a conspiracy theory to blame everything on. Especially things that make much more sense when they’re blamed on you.”

“You have something to say to me?”

His eyes darkened. “Many, many things.”

“Well, I don’t—”

“The bloody number of things you don’t would be enough to run a sodding Dateline special,” he growled. “Lemme guess…you’re here to express your dissatisfaction with the fact that Rupert came to me instead of you to find your girl.”

“My girl. Let’s remember that.”

“Yeh, I’m sure the Slayer’d love to learn that she’s been reduced to the likes of drinks an’ stereos an’ other earthly possessions.” He shook his head. “How you ever managed to dupe the poor girl into sharin’ your bed is bloody well beyond me. You let her see this side of you when no one else is lookin’? She know how you get your rocks off by bullyin’ around others, one in particular that you personally saw incapable of fightin’ back? Fuck me; I never thought her taste in men could get worse after Peaches. Guess it’s nice to be proven wrong every now an’ then.”

“Angel has nothing to do with this.”

Spike chuckled. “Ooh, does someone have an inferiority complex?”

“Shut up.”

“I never thought there’d be a bloke I’d hate more than I do my ponce of a grandsire, but I’ll say this for Angelus: he has stones. He’s been at both ends of an apocalypse more times than you’ve gotten laid, an’ he makes it worthwhile.”

“I’m sure you’d know this personally.”

A small, ironic smile crossed the vampire’s face. “Yeh, that’s how the big boys take it, right? Accuse everyone of bein’ a poofter to avert attention from their own drastic lack of masculinity. Sorry, but I don’t know it personally. Well, not personally, personally, but I do have an in with pretty much every bird the enormous ponce has ever shagged. Darla stuck with him for two centuries; Dru carried a torch for him for a soddin’ generation. An’ as someone who had to witness the star-crossed lovers an’ their endless soap opera a couple years back, I can tell you, your girl doesn’ work herself up nearly as much over you as she did for him.”

When the blow came, it was expected. The meaty fist smashed into his cheek, sending the peroxide blonde into the nearest headstone with more force than even he would accredit the former soldier. The impact tore his skin and sent a trickle of cold blood down his face, but the pain was minimal compared to the satisfaction he had indulged with the verbal toss.

“Yeh,” Spike drawled, wiping his blood away. “You’re the poster boy for moral values.”

“So says he who doesn’t know the meaning of the term.”

“Watch how you speak to your elders, boy.”

“No, I don’t think I will.”

The vampire laughed again, shaking his head. “You’re bloody unbelievable.”

“Well, thanks, I try.”

“Problem is, mate, you’re makin’ this personal. All I’m tryin’ to do is get the Slayer back in one piece instead of fifty.”

“You’re not a person. It can’t be personal.”

“I could say the same about you. I’m a vampire. I’m soulless. I don’ come with a conscience. What’s your bloody excuse?”

Riley stepped forward, glowering dangerously. “What exactly are you implying?”

“You made the fumble an’ you’re lookin’ for someone to blame.”

“What—”

Spike’s eyes flared and he cast his half-smoked cigarette to the ground in a flash of fury. “I bloody well gave you everythin’ you needed to avoid this, White Bread.”

“You told me nothing! I asked you if I should check out mansions and—”

“I told you to go home to your girl. Somethin’ you obviously had a problem with. An’ as much as you’re hopin’, pointin’ fingers at me’s not gonna get her back.” He shook his head again. “She’s gone an’ it’s your fault.”

“You had something to do with it, I know it.”

“Do you listen to yourself when you talk, or do you drift in an’ out?”

“I swear—”

Spike spread his arms. “What in God’s name would I have to gain for helpin’ Drac? Do you know what the wanker does to the girlies he pursues? You don’ fuck with sired Slayers. No one wins from that.”

“And you honestly expect me to believe that Dracula doesn’t know about Slayers?”

“You gotta understand the thing about him; tall, dark, an’ deadly…not too much with the smarts. Buffy’s the firs’ Slayer he’s ever had the gall to go after. His usual bird is small an’ frail an’ too fixed on her place in society to worry about things like intelligence.” He quirked a brow. “So far, does this bloke sound like the type to do his research?”

“Oh, and I suppose you did?”

“You’re damn right I did. I didn’t meet a slayer for fifteen years after I firs’ heard of them. The firs’ one I killed came three years later. You’re for bloody sure I did my homework.” A condescending chuckle erupted through his lips. “Slayers are the only things in this bloody world that demons have left to fear, besides each other. You honestly think a newbie vamp would go after her without knowin’ exactly what he’s gettin’ into? You’re off your bird.”

“Then why wouldn’t Dracula?”

“Because he’s not a newbie vamp. He thinks he’s learned everything there is to learn.” Spike expelled a deep breath and cast a hand through his peroxide locks. “’m not nearly as stupid as you’d like me to be, boy. You wanna learn yourself the goods on slayers, you come to me. I’ve done nothin’ but follow the sacred line since I firs’ heard tale. There’s no one who knows it better.”

“No.”

“No? You really wanna argue with me ‘bout this?”

“No. I mean, you’re just as stupid as I’d like you to be.” A pause. “Just not in this.”

It wasn’t an apology or even an acknowledgment, but it was something. And it was as far, Spike wagered, as he and Captain Cardboard would ever get with civility. Either way, time was running out, and he had yet to conjure a suitable plan that did not involve storming a castle and becoming a pile of dust.

“You better toddle off,” he said. “Slayer’s still out there. I’m sure she won’t be too mightily pleased when she learns her super honey decided to talk up all the reasons he thinks he’s better than me instead of comin’ to her gallant rescue.”

That seemed to strike a nerve, and for a minute he thought the soldier was going to waste more time by scolding him on points that mattered for absolute shit while the Slayer’s life dangled in the balance. It made him wonder, though he figured Riley was likely suppressing. It couldn’t be simple, knowing you were the reason your girlfriend was in the clutches of the world’s most notorious vampire.

“Yeah, well…yeah.” Riley started past him at that, not meeting his eyes. “I still have the north side of town to hit. I just…I wanted to know if you knew anything.”

“Accordin’ to you, that’s impossible.”

“Just let us know if you get word, okay?”

You’re the last person I’m goin’ to when I get her out.

“Yeh,” Spike agreed. It was easier than the other. “Right.”

And then the door to his crypt was between them, and that was that. He was in the cool seclusion of his home, left to himself once more. Left to the reminder that Buffy was gone and he was her only hope; time was now more a factor than ever.

He was left to darkness.

Only…he wasn’t alone.

He was anything but alone.

It came slowly at first. A steady sense of recognition that came at the expense of shoving established boundaries aside. Something was different here. Something had changed. It was a presence he knew painfully well; a presence that struck both a terrible fear and the most overwhelming sense of relief through his worn body. There was blood. That unmistakable scent of the essence of the undead. She was here; stretched between thin lines of life and death. She was here.

Oh God.

“Oh God,” Spike gasped, freezing at the entry.

No. Please no.

But she was there. He saw her. She was standing in the middle of the room, her back to him. And she was as still as death.

“Buffy.”

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 curl up and 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’ curl up. 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.

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