Chapter One

The road around Breaker’s Woods was narrow and winding, not a good road to be careening around at breakneck speeds, particularly at night. But Oz was worried and frustrated, and the only vent he could find for either of these emotions was through the gas pedal. He was riding the curves at a steady seventy miles an hour, oblivious to both speed limits and Cordelia’s frequent little gasps of alarm.

“What if they were kidnapped by Columbian drug lords?” she fretted, gripping the seat with one nervous hand. “They could be cutting off Xander’s ear right now! Or other parts.”

Oz glanced at her, half-irritated, half-sympathetic. “I really don’t think…”

“You don’t think what?” she asked quickly. Cordelia wasn’t accustomed to worrying about anyone but herself and the sensation was unsettling. She was eager for Oz to offer some consolation for her grief. Instead, his voice had trailed away and he was staring blankly at the side of the road.

“Why are you slowing down? They could be in trouble, we have to hurry!”

“Wait a minute.” He pressed the brake and the van slowed to a crawl. He lowered the window a bit and tilted his head back, catching the breeze with flared nostrils and a half-opened mouth.

“It’s Willow! She’s nearby!”

Cordelia’s face wrinkled with disgust. “What? You can smell her? She doesn’t even wear perfume.”

“She’s afraid.”

He threw the van into reverse and began slowly backtracking. Luckily, the street was nearly deserted because it was obvious to Cordelia that he wasn’t paying much attention to traffic.

“Is this some kind of residual werewolf thing?” she asked him, finally. “This is very disturbing.”

“I really agree,” he told her.

They were silent for a moment, both of them peering into the darkness that surrounded them, Oz still sniffing the air. Really Cordelia couldn’t see how Willow could be nearby. There was nothing around here but woods and icky wasteland, no buildings or anything. But Oz seemed certain.

She was about to suggest they at least get out of the vehicle to look around, when suddenly something appeared at the passenger’s side window. It took a double take for her to realize that it was a human face peering in.

She screamed and grabbed Oz’s arm. “Oh my God! It’s a vampire!”

He hit the brakes and spun around, staring past her. “That’s not a vampire.”

“I don’t care what it is—just go! Go!” She tried to push past him and press the gas pedal, but he shoved her back insistently.

“No, you don’t understand—it’s Willow!”

Stunned, Cordelia turned back around for a closer look. He was right, it was Willow. Not only Willow, but Xander was there too, clutching Willow’s shoulder and wincing with obvious effort to stay upright. Both of them were dirty and streaked with blood. Xander had a long cut on his temple.

She threw open the passenger door and immediately began to berate them with questions.

“Willow! What happened? What did you do to Xander? Are you okay? Is he hurt—?”

Willow opened her mouth to answer, but Xander groaned. “Later, Cordy, okay? We’ll explain everything—just give us a minute.”

Stricken to silence, Cordelia nodded.

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

Buffy sighed and just barely managed to resist the urge to pull her hair. In the hour and a half since she, Oz, and Cordy had split up, Buffy had circled the same twelve-block radius at least a hundred times. It was stupid, really. If she hadn’t seen Willow and Xander the first ninety-nine times then it was fairly certain she wouldn’t on the hundredth. It was just that she didn’t know where else to go. She couldn’t very well wander around town calling their names, and there were no real leads for her go on. Just the incredible mess left in the science lab, the absence of two people who were supposed to be there.

For the tenth time she silently cursed her watcher. Why had Giles chosen tonight of all nights to go on a stupid retreat in the stupid woods? He would know what to do in a situation like this, why had he left her to deal with it alone? And why were Cordelia and Oz taking so long to find him? Breaker’s Woods was a fair distance away, but Oz’s van could go pretty fast and Sunnydale wasn’t exactly a speed trap. They could easily have gotten back by now.

She toyed with the idea of calling on Angel for help, but decided against it. What help would he be, honestly? He didn’t know where Willow and Xander could be any better than she, and to drag him into this would just be a further waste of time and effort. No, she needed—

Spike?

Buffy stopped short, blinking with surprise as a figure slipped across her line of vision, crossing to the opposite side of the street and disappearing into a grove of trees near the cemetery entrance. It couldn’t be Spike, she told herself. He was in South America with Drusilla—he wouldn’t be stupid enough to go back on their agreement and return to Sunnydale. Even Spike wasn’t that stupid; he would know she would kill him if he every came back here. But it looked so much like him. Lean and muscular, and not-too-tall, sporting a sweeping coat and unnaturally white-blond hair… How many people looked like that?

Unable to contain her curiosity, Buffy stepped off the sidewalk onto the street.

She was about to cross in the direction where she had seen the figure, when suddenly a vehicle came careening out of nowhere. She dove out of the way just before the front end collided with her head. The driver of the van must have seen her at that point, because he laid on the brakes pretty hard. The tires squealed in protest, leaving quite a bit of rubber behind as the automobile slid to an abrupt stop just in front of her.

Buffy got to her feet angrily. “IDIOT!” she yelled. “You almost killed me!”

As she stormed toward the van, the driver’s door suddenly swung open and a head poked out.

“Sorry, Buff,” Oz said evenly. “We were just looking for you.”

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

It was such a simple plan Spike was angry at himself for not thinking of it earlier. He would kill the bitch. That would prove to Dru once and for all that he was every bit the bad ass she fell in love with. And when the Slayer was gone Spike knew all those unsettling thoughts would die with her. The strange hold she had over him, the draw…it would all be over. One stone, two very dead birds.

The fact that he had tried to kill and failed to kill Buffy several times before did not enter into Spike’s mind at all. He was a man of action, not contemplation. Besides, those other times weren’t due to his mistakes. It was the idiocy of others…that was where the trouble lay. This time he would be working alone and alone was what suited him best. He had snuffed the first two by himself, hadn’t he?

He gave pause to think about those former slayers and it occurred to him he might want to wait just a couple of days before he went for Buffy. He wasn’t much of a man for contemplation, but he realized that she would be on her guard tonight. Willow and the other one would have told her about him by now. She might even be looking for him. No, it was best to lie low for a bit and then hit her when she least suspected it. Maybe take the opportunity to relearn her habits, follow her a bit. Get a feel for her, so to speak.

Without bothering to check traffic flow, Spike jogged across the darkened intersection. If he remembered right, he could reach the Slayer’s house by cutting through the cemetery, which was right in front of him. It would probably be a shorter route and would offer less potential for being seen, and he could cruise through the old bone yard to see if she was there on the way. He’d stake her out for a little while tonight to whet the appetite, return tomorrow for some serious stalking.

Spike grinned to himself and quickened his pace. Every fiber of his being was telling him that things were going to turn out all right this time. It was all cake from here.

“Spike is what?”

Buffy shook her blonde head disbelievingly, certain she had misheard her friend’s statement. She opened her mouth to list all the reasons why Spike couldn’t possibly be back in Sunnydale, but before she could speak Xander began talking.

“He’s back in town. Holed up in the old factory, if you want the specifics of it. Apparently he came back to work some mojo on his ex…or rather he came so he could force Willow to work some mojo.”

Buffy held up her hand. “Wait a minute. This is going way too fast for me. Just…start at the science lab and go from there.”

Was it her imagination or did Willow and Xander exchange guilty looks?

Willow, always thinking on her feet, was the one who spoke first.

“I was in the science lab…trying out a couple of new spells. W—we were supposed to double date tonight. Xander came in to meet me and—and Spike broke in just as we were about to leave.”

“What did he say?”

Willow had to think a moment before she could answer Buffy’s question. After all, it had all been very sudden and a lot had happened since then.

“He said…he said he needed to…borrow me for a little while. He threw Xander against the wall and hit him on the head. Then he took us to the factory.”

Buffy nodded. “So where does the mojo come in?”

“Uhh…well apparently that was his whole purpose for taking us. He and Drusilla broke up and he wanted me to perform a love spell for him. He had all the ingredients and stuff already, and he said if I didn’t do it he would…kill Xander.”

Buffy’s eyes widened. “And you did it?”

Willow mistook Buffy’s tone of concern for accusation and quickly became defensive. “I had to! He was serious, Buffy! Xander was lying unconscious and Spike said he would—and then he pulled my hair and shoved a broken bottle in my face. He said he would kill me, too, if I didn’t do what he wanted. So I did.”

“So that’s that, right?” Cordelia said, speaking for the first time. “Problem solved.”

“Uh…no…problem not solved,” Xander answered. “There’s still a bloodthirsty killer on the loose, remember? Problem is far from being solved.”

“Yeah, but he got what he wanted. Willow did the spell and now he’ll get his girlfriend back. They can go back to wherever it is they’ve been hiding for the past few months.” Cordelia looked around the group expectantly. “Can’t they?”

“They could,” Buffy agreed. “Or they could also hang around here, killing us off one by one.”

“But you two had that truce,” Cordelia whined. “He can’t just go back on it…just like that!”

Xander rolled his eyes, then winced with pain and touched his temple. “Honey, Spike is a vampire. He doesn’t really hold a whole lot of stock in fair play.”

“Xander is right,” Buffy said. “Spike back in town—with Drusilla or without her—means bad news for us. There’s only one way we can be sure we’ll be safe, and that is—”

“Stake them both,” Oz interrupted.

Everyone looked at him, surprised. Though the statement was made quietly, there was definitely no hint of Oz’s usual deadpan demeanor. He was so angry his fists were clenched, the knuckles white and strained. When he noticed everyone watching him he stuffed his hands into his pockets.

“Well isn’t that what you were going to say?” he asked.

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

Spike combed Sunnydale Cemetery twice before giving up as a bad job. The Slayer was obviously spending her evening elsewhere.

There were more than a dozen other cemeteries in Sunnydale, but Spike had neither the time nor the inclination to check them all. It would be sunrise in a couple of hours and his prospect of finding her in that length of time was slim. She might not even be patrolling tonight, she might be at the library studying or dancing at the Bronze. There were just too many possibilities. He wasn’t too upset about this. Now that he had decided on a course of action he was in no particular hurry to carry it out. In fact, he almost enjoyed the prospect of a long, drawn out pursuit. A hunt was only interesting if it was challenging.

 Not that he was giving up for the night. He might not have time to check all of her usual haunts tonight, but he could check her house. He wanted to get a look at her residence anyway, get a feel for who it was he was hunting. The last time he was there—the only time—had not given him much of a read—probably because he was too preoccupied with Dru and Angelus to pay much attention to his surroundings. And anyway, all he saw was the downstairs. You couldn’t really get a whole lot of information from a person’s kitchen or living room. To really know someone you had to get into their private living quarters.

And on the off chance she was at home…

Spike smiled, canines elongating at the prospect of having something to sink them into. It had been a long time since that magic shop clerk and he was hungry. And Slayer’s blood…that was something special.

He left the cemetery at a run.

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

“Forget it.”

Oz frowned in what might have been his first genuine show of emotion ever. He shook his head to show he didn’t appreciate the bluntness of her answer. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t want you getting killed,” she said. “That’s why not.”

She leaned against the doorframe of the van and continued, addressing not just Oz this time but all of them. “I don’t want any of you to get hurt, that’s why I don’t want any of you to come with me to the factory. Spike is majorly dangerous, and the last thing I need is to have to worry about you guys.”

“But there’s strength in numbers,” Xander spoke up, siding with Oz. “I mean surely five people with stakes would be better than one…Spike would be totally outnumbered.”

“But not outmatched,” Buffy answered. “Not outclassed. Guys, Spike has killed two Slayers with apparently no effort at all. It would take him about two seconds to wipe all of you out…and in the meantime I would be distracted, trying to protect you. I’m telling you things will go down much smoother if I go by myself.”

She allowed her eyes to pan the group, finally coming to rest on Xander. “Anyway, you need to go to the hospital and get that looked at.” She indicated the gash on his temple.

“So where are you going?” Cordelia asked. “I mean…do you really think Spike is going to be lying around the factory, waiting for you to come stake him?”

“Cordy is right, Buffy,” Willow added. “Spike stormed out of there before I could even finish the spell properly. He was drunk and ranting about something…then he just left.”

Buffy smiled grimly as she hefted her crossbow onto her shoulder and prepared to leave.

"He’s gotta come home sometime," she said.

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

Spike had earned an invitation into the Summers’ home during his alliance with the Slayer the previous spring. This meant he could come and go as he pleased without any pesky door barriers to bar his path. Why Buffy had not called on Willow’s magical talents to revoke his privileges was a mystery to Spike, but he wasn’t about to complain. There had been a moment when he had remembered that such spells existed—and that Willow knew them—that he had grown nervous. If he couldn’t get into the Slayer’s home then part of his plan was down the toilet before it began. Not a great sign, overall. So it was a relief when the back door fell open with nothing more than a jiggle of the knob and a sharp slam with one shoulder.

He paused in the darkness of the kitchen for a moment, waiting to see if either the Slayer or her mum had heard the thump. When it became clear to him they hadn’t he continued on his way unabated.

Once he got upstairs, Spike had no idea which room was the Slayer’s. All the doors were shut and all of them looked exactly the same. The last thing he wanted to do was burst in on Mum and have her alarm the Slayer, so Spike relied of his excellent sense of smell to tell him when he had reached Buffy’s room. Though it had been months since he had smelled it, he would recognize that musky, slightly cosmetic, feminine aroma anywhere. He pushed open the third door he came to and stepped boldly inside.

No Slayer.

Spike stared at the empty bed for a moment, trying to overcome his feelings of disappointment. He had known she likely wouldn’t be here, of course. But part of him had become psyched for a brawl nonetheless, and to find he wouldn’t get one was a real let down.

Still, the trip wasn’t a complete loss.

He circled the room slowly, gazing at the clothes scattered around, the makeup on the vanity. There was a stuffed pig on the windowsill and a vial of holy water in her nightstand. A lightweight jacket was draped over the back of her chair. It smelled of perfume and leather, and there was a small blood spot on one sleeve. Her school books lay in a dejected heap on the floor. He didn’t miss a thing. It was all part of the game. Hunter and hunted. He had to know her.

When he grew tired of the looking, Spike threw himself down on her bed. It was fluffy and soft with those kinds of billowy bedclothes little girls like. He buried his face in a pillow and inhaled curiously. It smelled like…well perfume, of course. Makeup. Some kind of flowery soap or shampoo. That musky, vaguely pleasant odor of her flesh. And something else, something heavier. Something dark and almost salty. It took him a moment for him to realize what it was.

Sex.

He rolled over, folding his arms behind his head and grinning up at the ceiling. So Ms. Chosen One wasn’t quite as lily-white as she liked to portray herself. Not only was she shagging a vampire, she was doing it in her pristine virgin’s bed in her mum’s house. Either that or she was enjoying her own company a bit too well.

To his complete surprise, Spike found himself suddenly aroused by the latter thought.

Disgusted, he sat up and rubbed his forehead. But the image wouldn’t die. He could see her in his head, lying here. One small hand slipping beneath the sheets…

Bloody hell what was wrong with him? He hated that bitch; he was going to tear her into little bits the moment the opportunity presented itself. So why was he getting his rocks off on thinking of her in bed?

It was all Dru’s fault, of course. If she hadn’t left him for that chaos demon none of this would ever have happened. And it had been so long since then. Weeks since he had been with a woman. He just wasn’t used to that kind of restraint that was all. If Dru were here, pleasuring him the way she was bloody supposed to, then Spike knew he wouldn’t be lying on the Slayer’s bed, picturing her in nothing but her skivvies. Once he got Dru back everything would get back to normal and he would be happy again.

He would.

~*~  ~*~  ~*~
 

It was pretty apparent from the moment Buffy arrived at the burned-out factory that Spike wasn’t there. She waded through the piles of charred wood and empty whisky bottles to make sure, of course, but that was just following protocol. She knew he wasn’t there.

It pissed her off, to be perfectly honest. She had jazzed herself up for a fight, was ready for it. To arrive and find the place empty was just too much of an anticlimax to the evening. All the worrying about Xander and Willow had built up quite a bit of tension and the only way to release it was into somebody. She needed a kill.

Buffy kicked at the blackened remains of a doll. God look at this place. Even by vampire standards it was a dump. Why had Spike decided to come back here, even if he was in Sunnydale? Why hadn’t he just killed somebody and taken their house? Or found some dank crypt out in the cemetery?

She knew already, of course. It was because of Drusilla. He missed Drusilla and wanted to probe the sore tooth by returning to their old home.

It was baffling, really. Buffy’s experience with vampires had taught her that they were cruel, soulless beings, intent on destruction. They not only killed their victims for blood, but they enjoyed torturing them as well. They were…well…evil. So how could they fall in love? Angel had fallen in love, of course. With her. But then he had a soul. Spike didn’t have a soul. So how come Spike could love Drusilla as deeply as Angel loved her?

A sudden, unexpected wave of sympathy washed over her. Spike might be a soulless, evil being, but he was a soulless, evil being in love. Buffy knew how hard it was to be in love with someone and not be able to be with them. In fact, when Angel had lost his soul, she had quickly found out what it was like to be in love with someone who didn’t love you back. She couldn’t help but pity Spike really. He really had treated Drusilla very well; it was too bad she had to be such a big ho.

What was she doing running off on Spike now, anyway? They’d been together for a century. Why had she been so eager to cheat on him when Angel turned bad? Buffy could still remember the how hurt and angry Spike had been when he had admitted there was something between the two of them. He wanted to take her to South America to get Drusilla away from Angel so she would love him again. Apparently it hadn’t worked so well.

Buffy felt a sudden flash of anger toward Angel. Angel had tried to throttle Buffy the moment he had lost his soul; he had hated the very idea of her because she had made him feel love. So why didn’t Spike mind feeling love? Why was it he could be an evil, soulless vampire and an exemplary boyfriend but Angel couldn’t? She was going to have a serious discussion with him about that.

Just as soon as Spike came in so she could kill him.

Spike didn’t try to follow Buffy out of the factory. He could have. He might perhaps even have caught her, considering the state she was in.

But he was in a state of his own. A little drunk, a little battle sore. And something else. Something he wasn’t sure how to define. Something brought on by the quiver of warm flesh, the scent and sight and sound of her—yes, it was most definitely pleasure—when he bared his teeth to her. He had aroused her—the Slayer, the Chosen One. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. He wasn’t even sure if it was real. Could it not have been some elaborate hoax? Something she had planned beforehand in the event he overpower her? It had gotten him off her, had in effect saved her life. He wouldn’t put it past her to do something like that. He wouldn’t put it past any woman. They were all deceitful.

But could you fake something like that? Spike wasn’t so sure on this point. She could gasp, of course. Do the little head-tilt and arch her body into him. All of that she could do quite easily. But the other? Could she force her flesh to warm beneath him? Force her pulse to flutter and her blood to rush? And the scent—that wonderful, heady, musky scent—

You couldn’t fake that could you?

Spike traced a finger through the ashes on the floor. He was confused now. Fifteen minutes ago he had been calling for her blood—reveling in the anticipation of her death. Five minutes ago he had looked into her eyes and had been—

Confused?

Aroused?

Curious?

There had been a definite response on his part. Physically, at least. But that didn’t prove much, except that it had been a while and he was getting impatient. Otherwise, he had been too surprised to really have a response. She had made him so damn angry with those remarks about Drusilla…so angry he couldn’t even think properly. He had been running on autopilot, really, and it was pure luck that brought her down. He had her within his grasp, ready to be consumed. He had been ready. But then the look on her face—that little gasp when he leaned into her. He didn’t know what to make of it.

He stood up, kicked at the ashes angrily. It had been a mistake. No matter how strange she had acted or how strange it had made him feel, Spike knew he should not have let her get away. He was sure this wasn’t the end of it. She would be back, perhaps next time with an arsenal of weapons and an army of teenagers with which to do him in. Next time he might not be so lucky.

So maybe he shouldn’t wait until next time.

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

Buffy rushed into the house, charging up the staircase so quickly that her mother became alarmed.

Joyce left her breakfast preparations to follow her daughter. “Sweetheart? Are you all right?”

Buffy shut the bathroom door, snapping the lock behind her. “I’m fine, Mom,” she called. “I just really had to go to the bathroom. You know how it is.”

Joyce breathed a little easier. Calls of nature were something she could understand. It was a nice, normal reason for an adolescent girl to be in a hurry. She smiled to herself in relief.

Still, being a mother, she couldn’t just let it go at that.

“It’s six-thirty. Why are you home so early? I thought you and Willow would want to sleep in on a Saturday.”

For a moment Buffy was confused. Then she recalled the cover story she had given her mother. Even though Joyce was now aware of Buffy’s nocturnal activities she did not approve of them—especially if it meant she would be out all night long. So Buffy tried to shield her mother from as much worry she could.

In other words she lied. A lot.

“Uh…Willow has a history paper due and she decided to get up early to get started on it,” she said quickly, one hand on the door, as if willing Joyce not to open it.

“That Willow…she’s such a good student!” Joyce’s voice, though muffled by the door, nevertheless managed to convey that Buffy would do well to emulate Willow’s studious ways.

“That’s what they say,” Buffy muttered.

She waited until she was absolutely certain Joyce didn’t have anything else to say. Then she sat down on the edge of the bathtub, hugging herself to stop the shaking.

What was wrong with her? It was bad enough that she and Angel couldn’t keep their hands off each other despite their promise, but now she was getting hot for Spike. At least Angel had a soul…most of the time. Spike was completely evil. To find herself attracted to him was not only wrong it was...icky.

She drew a deep breath. It was okay, though. It was. This was probably just some sort of reaction she was having because of Angel. That was it. In Psych class they had talked about guilt transference—projecting blame onto somebody else to allay your own guilty feelings—and Buffy was sure that it could work the same way with physical attraction. She missed Angel. She was having a hard time adjusting, first to his returning at all, and then to the fact that they must remain only friends. This sudden interest in Spike was probably just some mind-wig over Angel. Transference, that’s what it was. After all, they were both vampires. It made a lot of sense that Spike would be the one to awaken such misplaced feelings in her.

She sighed heavily, much relieved to have found an explanation. The only thing that was left would be to find the solution and she was certain that wouldn’t be hard. After all, she already knew what it would be.

She would have to kill him.

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

“See you later, man. Thanks for the lift.”

Xander—the gash on his forehead now neatly sutured and bandaged—threw open the rear sliding door to Oz’s van and prepared to exit. However, something on his friend’s face gave him pause, made him ask, “You okay?”

Oz shook his head, brow furrowed thoughtfully. “Did she seem okay to you tonight?”

Almost mechanically, Xander backed against the open door. “Was who okay?” he asked warily.

“Buffy. She seemed a little out of it, didn’t she?”

Xander breathed a silent sight of relief, aware that in the front passenger seat Willow must be doing the same.

“She seemed pretty much normal to me, man. Maybe a little pissed off at Spike, but that’s expected right?”

“Why’d she want to go alone?”

Willow turned in her seat, glancing from Oz to Xander with an expression of relief and bemusement. “You know, I was wondering the same thing.”

“Well I had a concussion,” Xander replied. “So fill me in.”

“She was so adamant about going to the factory alone…didn’t that strike you as odd?”

“Not really, Will. She was just being the Buff, concerned for our safety and heroically willing to go it alone.”

Willow shook her head. “I don’t think so. She didn’t even bother to go to her house to get weapons and all she had on her were a couple of stakes. She didn’t stop to plan, or to talk to Giles. She just left. It’s not like her.”

“It’s very like her,” argued Xander. “God knows I love Buffy, but she isn’t exactly the world’s greatest for strategic planning. That’s Giles’ job…and he’s at that retreat in the woods. She probably didn’t want to take the time to find him for fear Spike might do something else in the meantime. And as for the reason she didn’t want the rest of us to go…I was injured, you were scared, Cordy is worthless as a fighter, and Oz is the only on who can work a stick shift, so he had to drive the van to get us to the hospital.”

Willow settled back in the seat.

“I guess so…” she said.

“I don’t,” Oz said.

The other two looked at him with surprise.

“Why not?” Xander asked.

Oz’s eyes riveted to Xander’s, expressionless as ever in the dim glow of the street lights.

“I could smell her,” he said. “That’s how I know.”

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

Spike was halfway out the factory’s main door before he found the one flaw in his great plan to kill the Slayer.

The sun was coming up.

Luckily, it was very early and the light was dim as the sun struggled over the horizon, or else he might have stepped right out into oblivion. Still, early as it was, the factory entrance was not protected by trees or other buildings, and the narrow rays of light shooting from the east hit directly on the side of his face, scorching his already bruised cheekbone.

Cursing, he darted back into the darkness of the dilapidated building.

“Stupid, sodding Slayer,” he muttered angrily as he soaked a rag in bourbon. “Wasn’t for her this would have never happened.”

He winced, pressing the cloth against his burnt face. Damn her straight to hell. She had taken up so much of his time tonight he hadn’t even had time to eat. Now the sun was up and he was starving, trapped in this godforsaken factory without so much as a rat to abate his hunger.

Oh, she was going to pay for this. He would make sure of that. She was going to pay for all of it.

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

“You aren’t here to fight.”

Spike slid off the bed and, without taking his eyes off her, began searching his pockets for cigarettes.

“So tell me, pet. Why are you here? Not for the ambience I’m sure.”

Buffy’s eyes followed his hand as he gestured to indicate the scorched walls and ashy floor, the broken and burnt furniture.

“It does lack something,” she agreed.

He stuck a fag into his mouth, lit it. “Yeah. So why’d you come?”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

He had to work hard to keep his surprise from showing. What was she at, saying things like that? She never wanted to talk to him. She preferred kicking him in the balls.

He took a long drag on his cigarette, playing for time.

“So talk,” he said finally. “The way I figure it, you’ve got about three minutes left where you can. After that I’m going to rip your throat out.”

“I don’t want to fight with you,” she repeated.

She moved forward and despite the fact he didn’t see a weapon, Spike jumped away, moving out of range in the event she decided to attack. He backed nearer to the wall and glared at her, eyes flashing briefly yellow. Had he not been so drunk he might have gone ahead and finished her—or tried to. As it was, however, the demon visage faded as quickly as it came. He leaned against the wall, ostensibly calm and collected, though really the posturing was more a support for his wobbly knees than a show of poise.

“Two minutes,” he said.

“Why aren’t you like the others?”

He snorted derisively. “Why aren’t I like the other what?”

“The other vampires. Angel lost his soul and he lost his ability to love. Why didn’t you?”

He bridled at the question, offended at the implication that he was different. The ability to love wasn’t exactly a trait revered by most demons and to have her say it aloud like that….Well, it was like an affront to his manhood.

“Who says I haven’t lost my ability to love?” he snapped.

“You loved Drusilla. You made an allegiance with me and risked your own life to safe hers. Why is it you could do that and Angel couldn’t bear remembering that he loved me at all?”

He cocked his head at her thoughtfully.

“Hey! Why all the questions, Slayer? I don’t recall you being this chatty before.” He grinned wickedly. “Oh…Don’t tell me you and Angelus had some of the old in-out and now he’s back to being a bad dog.”

“Don’t be disgusting!” she snapped, sounding more like he knew her.

Spike bounced on the balls on his feet, sensing a fight. “You didn’t always think so, did you, Goldilocks? Angelus told me you were panting for it not too long ago.”

“Just tell me why, Spike. Why are you different?”

He shrugged, disappointed that she would regain her calm so easily. “How in the bleeding hell should I know? And why should I give a damn?”

She didn’t bother trying to answer his question, just watched silently as he pulled the half-smoked cigarette from his mouth and crushed it against the wall.

Irritated that she had no rejoinder, Spike shot out, “You know…maybe I’m not the one who’s different. Maybe it’s your Angel who isn’t like the other vampires. Just because something is evil doesn’t mean it can’t have feelings, you know? Maybe something is wrong with him.”

He was hoping to piss her off again, but instead she nodded her head in agreement.

“Maybe,” she said. “I wouldn’t know.”

Perplexed by this, Spike tried to take another approach.

“Although…the Judge did say Dru and I stink of humanity. Maybe we’re the black sheep in our demonic field. A new breed of modern vampire that isn’t afraid of public displays of affection, monogamy, or discussing our feelings.” His voice was thick with irony, mocking himself as well as her.

But again Buffy refused to take the bait. Instead of getting angry at his remark, she considered it with a ridiculous earnestness, as though she had just discovered some great secret about him buried under all that sarcasm.

“You still miss her, don’t you?”

“Oh, bloody hell…”

“Why didn’t you let Willow finish the spell?” she persisted, ignoring his grumbling.

“WOULD YOU JUST STOP ALREADY!” he shouted, finally chafed raw by her questioning. “YOU DON’T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT IT—SO JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

“You could have attacked me the minute I walked in here,” Buffy charged right along, ignoring his demands—as well as the radical change taking place over his features. “Why didn’t you?”

Spike didn’t know why he was so angry, except that this wasn’t the way he wanted it to go. He didn’t want her to be so poised, so in control of the situation. And she mentioned Dru! What did she know about Drusilla or his relationship with her? Nothing! She had no right to mention her and rip the scab off a wound that wasn’t healing so great in the first place.

Shaking from intoxication as well as rage, Spike snarled at Buffy. “If you have a weapon on you then you had better get it out now, because I’m about to crack your head open.”

If the threat frightened her, Buffy hid it well. She reached into the back of her jeans and withdrew a wooden stake from where it was concealed in her pocket. There was a moment where she looked at the stake and then at Spike with an expression of indecision. Then, with the air of a skydiver pulling his parachute cord and hoping for the best, she threw the stake down at his feet.

Spike stared at the weapon as it skidded along the concrete flooring to rest near the toe of his boot. “What kind of game are you playing, Slayer?”

“No games Spike.”

“Then what?”

“I’m proving a point. I told you I didn’t come here to fight.”

Her small chin lifted almost defiantly and never had he seen her look so stubbornly resolved as when she added: “So if you want me, come and get me.”

So he did.

He dove on her, moving with enough force that both on them fell hard onto the dirty concrete floor. But Spike landed on top. He grabbed her wrists and forced them over her head, pinning them to the floor so she couldn’t strike back.

Oddly enough, she wasn’t even trying to strike back. Instead. she just lay there, looking at him with a baffling expression in those hazel eyes. And then there was that smell…that heady scent that he remembered from the night before. It was stronger now, sharper and hotter. It filled his nostrils and saturated his tongue, urging him to respond.

There was no doubt about it this time. She wanted him.

Spike smiled a grisly sharp-toothed grin, more than a little pleased with this turn of events. He arched his back in and bared his teeth, ready to sink them into the tender white throat just inches from his lips. He thought he might just not leave her dead after all, but instead bring her back to be his. He had never sired anyone for a lover before and he liked the idea of creating her, teaching her everything his way.

He would have done it had Buffy not suddenly tilted her head back, curving her back so that she pressed closer against him. She was warm and soft against the cold length of his body, her live heart thumping steadily against his dead breast. He had never slept with anyone but Dru; he had never so much as kissed a woman who was not a vampire. He liked the way her flesh warmed to his touch. He liked the quivering of her pulse and the low breathing that was growing heavier, more ragged. He didn’t want to kill her.

“What are you doing to me?” he whispered as he his features softened into human form once again.

“Nothing you don’t want done,” she whispered back. Though he wasn’t so sure of that.

He kissed her lips, hard. His teeth bruised her, punished her, dared her to resist. But she didn’t resist; she opened her mouth and welcomed him into the feverish heat therein. Then her tongue pushed back into his mouth, trailing heat as it explored his tongue, his teeth. And then he relaxed, kissed her like a lover because he didn’t want to brutalize her. Not just then, anyway. His mouth left hers, trailing kisses down her chin to her throat. His lips and teeth only feigned to devour the soft flesh, and though he scented warm blood just beneath the surface he ignored it. He wanted something else now. And maybe it was because he was drunk and lonely, but he didn’t care if she was the slayer. He wanted her.

She was so hot. Jesus Christ, how could he have spent his existence slaughtering people for food without realizing how much heat the human body was capable of generating? Everywhere he touched her it seemed she would burn him. He liked the feeling, wanted more of it. He wanted to get her kit off, to feel her naked body against him. He wanted nothing between his cold flesh and that wonderful heat.

Her blouse had about ten thousand tiny little buttons; Spike unbuttoned maybe two of them before he gave it up for a bad job. He grabbed her collar and jerked downward, ripping her shirt off her shoulder and scattering each of the ten thousand buttons across the grimy floor. Buffy looked as though she might have something to say to this, but Spike didn’t give her a chance to protest. He kissed her again, drawing her tongue into his mouth and sucking gently. She moaned and arched against him, completely acquiescent as he removed her jeans. More than acquiescent—she was helpful.

As he worked his own shirt off over his head, Spike could feel her hand slipping tentatively between their bodies, fumbling with the button of his jeans, lowering the zip. A cool rush of air hit him as his fly parted, his erection springing free. Buffy wrapped her hand around him, stroking up and down his shaft as cautiously as though she had never done it before. Of course, knowing Peaches, she probably hadn’t. Prat probably never let her play at all; it was all missionary position and lights out with him. Spike figured he would have to teach her.

He covered her hand with his own—“It’s all right, love, you’re not going to break it off”—and began guiding her, moving her hand hard and fast, until she caught the rhythm and continued on her own.

“Oh, bloody God, yeah…you got it now…”

He let go of her hand and, after a brief interlude to absorb the fact that the Slayer was wanking him off, Spike turned his attention to the removal of her bra. Her breasts were small and perfect, like Dru’s. Spike despised the gargantuan and unreal melons sported by so many females today. In his opinion anything bigger than a handful was wasted. And he didn’t want to know what saline bags under skin felt like. Buffy was smooth and firm; she fit perfectly into the curve of one palm. He stroked her breast for a moment, rolling his thumb over her nipple to make it hard. When it was, he leaned down and drew it into his mouth. He could tell by her startled cry that Angel hadn’t bothered doing than for her either, the idiot. He sucked hard, using his teeth and lips and tongue to full advantage until she moaned and writhed beneath him.

“Spike…”

Something in the toneless sort of cry with which she said his name turned on Spike even more and for a minute he thought he might just shoot off right then, right into her hand. But he didn’t want that.

He sat up, gently pulling her hand from his penis and placing it at her side. She looked confused, but before she could sit up or ask questions Spike placed a hand on each of her knees and pulled her legs apart. Waves of heat emanated from her center, bearing with it that incredibly spicy odor of her arousal. Spike reached down and slipped a hand between her legs, stroking first the silky curls over her mound of Venus and then slipping between her folds. She was dripping wet for him and, again, incredibly hot. He explored with his fingers the swollen nub of her clitoris, the lips of her labia. He teased her a bit, sliding one finger just inside the heart-shaped opening of her vagina and immediately withdrawing when she tried to push against him.

“You want me, Slayer?”

“Ooh…yes…” she sighed.

“I want you,” he told her, nuzzling her bare stomach. “God, I want you…”

“Take me, Spike.” Her hands, which had been stroking his hair, grasped suddenly. She pulled his head up so that she could look into his eyes. “If you want me, take me.”

He growled softly—a put on—and grabbed her wrists again, pinning her down.

“Maybe I will.”

She cried out sharply as he pushed into her and he had to hold back a grunt of surprise. Either she had only done it once or else Peaches had a todger the size of a pencil, because she wasn’t stretched at all. She was so tight that for a moment Spike thought he might not get in. She was practically a virgin, for fucks sake, and he was a bit larger than your average. He reached behind her, pulling her hips up so that her lower back was raised, and thrust hard. This time it worked. He sank in, buried to the hilt in that tight sheath of muscle.

“You okay, there, pet?”

She nodded, but he gave her just a minute anyway. He wanted her to be accustomed to his presence before he started pumping so he wouldn’t hurt her. Although had he taken the time to think on it he would have wondered why he even cared. She was, after all, an enemy. Shouldn’t he want to hurt her?

But he didn’t think about it.

When her breathing slowed a bit and the muscles surrounding his cock relaxed, he began to move around. He went gently and very slowly at first, testing the waters. When she moaned softly and moved in counterpoint, he began to push harder. Since the feedback continued to be favorable, he allowed himself the luxury of letting loose a bit. He slid about three-quarters of the way out, paused, and then plunged back in with enough force to push them both several inches across the floor. Buffy made a noise almost like a scream and for a moment he thought he must have split her open.

“Fuck it all! Did I hurt you?”

“N—no,” she gasped. “It felt really—really—good. Spike—do it again!”

He grinned.

“That’s my girl.”

He repeated the maneuver and again she cried out, her wet muscles clenching around his pulsing erection. She hooked her ankles together, her legs pulling against his lower back, pulling him even deeper. Her hips rose up, rotating and bucking against him, and to Spike’s utter shock she came. He’d expected to have to work on it a bit longer. Not that he was complaining; it felt fucking great, those hot, hard contractions around his cock. And it went on and on…Spike had to bite his bottom lip to stave off his own orgasm. He wasn’t ready for it yet.

He wasn’t done with her yet.

Buffy was breathing as though she had just run a race. She gasped then laughed, staring up at him with big, awestruck eyes. “Spike that was—what was that?”

Spike chuckled.

“If you have to ask, you’ll never know, pet.”

Easily he rolled over onto his back, pulling her along with him. Buffy, still coming down from what might have been her first multiple-orgasm ever, seemed surprised to find herself suddenly on top. She shot him a puzzled look.

“Your turn to do the work, Slayer,” he told her. “You got Chosen for a reason, you know? Now show me some of what those muscles can do.”

This was evidently a novel idea to the Slayer, and she took a moment in deciding what to do. Spike thought he might have to take her by the hips and guide her, the way he had with her hand. But just as he reached down she made up her mind and—

“HOLY FUCK!”

Spike grabbed the backs of her thighs, his fingernails digging in as she moved over him. He didn’t know what the hell she was doing—her movements were hard and fast and bizarre—but it felt damn good. And the way she looked, writhing around naked on his lap…sex on a stick if he’d ever seen it. Even though he had been trying to draw it out for her, Spike could feel his own orgasm building. It pissed him off, in a way. He’d wanted her to come again…and again after that. It felt so sodding good and he didn’t want it to end yet; he knew when it ended she just might kill him.

He grabbed the back of her head and dragged her down against him, kissing her open-mouthed. His hips bucked up once more and, just as he was about to give up hope, she came again. Spike groaned in relief as the walls around him shivered and clenched, drawing his own orgasm. His cold semen spurted into her hot passage, making both of them cry out.

When it was over, Buffy collapsed against his chest as though utterly exhausted. Her hair was damp and her body slick with sweat; Spike was as cool and dry as ever. Both of them were trembling.

“What were you doing just now?” he asked her, finally.

She smiled, twisting her head on his shoulder until she could look at his face.

“I was writing your name,” she said.

He shook his head in amazement.

“Your penmanship is friggin’ beautiful, Slayer.”

She laughed. But when she started to reach for her clothes, Spike grabbed her waist and held her back.

“What is it?” she asked, baffled.

“You don’t think we’re done, do you?” he asked.

the context of chapter seven, so I decided to slip it in as an interlude between chapters. Hope you guys like it. ;)

Interlude

“Not done?”

Buffy cocked her head at Spike, puzzled by his declaration. Her experience in this department was admittedly limited, but she had thought that guys had some sort of waiting period before they could get it up again. Maybe the rule didn’t apply to vampires.

Spike raised his eyebrow at her.

“Not sore, are you?” he asked. Buffy thought she heard concern in his tone, but when she looked at him his eyes were blank, his lips twisted into a smirk.

“Not sore,” she told him. “It’s just I didn’t know you could…”

She trailed off, embarrassed, but Spike caught her meaning. He grinned.

“Few minutes and I’ll be ready to go again, love. ‘Til then…”

He pushed her down until her back was against the floor again. He raised her knees up, spreading them apart much in the same way he had when he fingered her. But he didn’t touch her there. Instead, he leaned over her and kissed her belly button.

“You smell incredible,” he murmured—so softly that Buffy suspected he didn’t intend for her to hear him.

“Incredible how?” she asked, and Spike grinned against her abdomen.

“Like flowers,” he said huskily. “And salt…and sex.”

He bit her softly and she groaned. He was the one who smelled good. Though if had he asked, Buffy would have been hard put to describe the odd assortment of scents that comprised that interesting, earthy Spike-smell. Whatever it was it wasn’t the odor of the typical walking dead.

His lips continued on a downward path, tongue lightly laving her flesh even as his fingertips stroked her thighs, her hips. Buffy arched her back, raising her knees and spreading her legs almost without conscious thought. He was being so gentle, coaxing from her what he wanted her to give him, forcing nothing. It was hard for her to remember he was evil.

His thumbs were between her legs now, pushing apart the swollen lips of her sex. She could feel his mouth hovering just centimeters from her aching nub, the tingling out-rush of tepid breath as he spoke softly: “Guess this is another first?”

She closed her eyes and nodded speechlessly. His mouth was so full and soft, closing around her throbbing clitoris. And cold. The inside of his mouth was just a shade cooler than the rest of him—much in the way hers was a little bit warmer—but this didn’t detract from the eroticism of the moment. If anything, the chill of his tongue on her heated flesh drove her arousal even higher.

Through hooded, hungry eyes, Buffy watched Spike. His dark blue eyes were just visible, sparkling wickedly as he attacked her sensitive clit with his teeth and tongue. Just as Buffy was certain she was about to come again he moved his mouth away.

“Don’t…” she whispered.

He growled an indistinct answer, trailing kisses down to her wet center. He plunged his tongue inside her opening, holding her hips down when she tried to buck, laughing a little at the ragged little cries which escaped from her throat. She tried to hold back but the things he was doing to her—

What was he doing to her?

When she came, she came hard. There was nothing to grab on to—no strong waist to clasp with her legs, no lean back to hug, no kisses to muffle her groans of release. She twisted and sobbed, pulled his hair and scratched at his shoulders, searching for something solid to cling to. Her nails drew blood and the hair-pulling alone would have been enough to scare off a mortal man. But not Spike. If anything, the unexpected aggression of her response turned him on. It was, after all, something he was accustomed to.

Before the last of the tremors faded, Spike was on top of her again, kissing her hungrily. She could detect her own flavor in his mouth and though a few short days ago this would have grossed her out beyond all reason, now for some reason it only added to the experience. She was surprised at how sweet it was: sweet and vaguely salty, the way she imagined blood to taste. It made her wonder what he tasted like.

Buffy could feel him against her thigh, long and thick, the skin of the head as soft as velvet. He was hard again, pulsing with blood but not at all warm. The tip was slick with precum and, without stopping to think about it, Buffy reached down and slid her thumb across it.

Spike watched silently as she stuck her finger in her mouth and sucked the sticky substance off. He had been surprised when she broke their kiss, but this was even better. He liked the look on her face as she tasted him, those red lips wrapped around her thumb as though it were a lollipop. He raised his eyebrows at her.

“How’s it taste, love?”

For a minute Buffy wondered if he was being sarcastic. When she looked into his face, however, all she saw was desire. His eyes were black with it.

“Tastes salty,” she told him simply. It was the truth but not all of it. It tasted heavy and masculine, salty and sharp, absolutely without sweetness. All adjectives that could also be used to describe Spike’s personality and all somewhat lacking in the description. There weren’t words to describe him. Or it.

His eyes were following the movement of her tongue, lapping lightly at the pad of her finger. It was already clean, but she continued to do it because she liked the expression on his face as he watched her.

“You prick tease.”

“You like it.” She grinned.

“Only because I expect to be rewarded for my patience.”

Her breath caught as he moved her legs apart, slipping in between. His erection lingered at her center, the swollen head just touching her vagina.

“Yes?” he asked her, nudging her opening but not trying to push in. “No? Give me some feedback, pet.”

Fine, she thought. You want some feedback…?

She reached down and wrapped her hand around his erection, guiding him into her opening.

“Enough of a hint?” she asked.

“Bloody hell, yes!”

She dropped her hand and Spike pushed the rest of the way in. For some reason he went much more easily this time—perhaps because Buffy was already so wet, or maybe because she wasn’t nervous the way she had been the first time. Whatever it was, it felt a lot better.

“Buffy—?” His voice hoarse, the words muffled as he kissed her breast.

“Yes?”

“You want to try something a bit different?”

She smiled to herself. He was all about the teaching, was Spike. From what she’d seen so far, though, his lessons were fun as well as informative. She nodded her head.

“Good girl.”

He reached behind her thighs, lifting her legs up and draping them across his shoulders. It was a weird feeling, her ankles behind his head, her knees pressed against her chest. It opened her up and Spike slid in even deeper, hitting the sweet spot previously discovered only by incredibly hard thrusting. Now he was leaning right on it, rotating his hips so that the head of his penis was circling across that incredibly sensitive area. Jolts of pleasure traveled through her—not just her sex but up all her nerve endings, so that when he pushed against her she could feel it in her abdomen, her breasts…everywhere tingling with a sudden onrush of heat.

“Oh, God…” she whispered. “That feels…”

“Tell me,” he prompted when she trailed off. “Tell me how it feels, love.”

“I…don’t know. I don’t know how to describe it. It’s…everywhere…”

If he wondered what she meant by that he didn’t ask. Instead, braced his arms on either side of her head and began the slow slide out.

Buffy knew enough by now to know what was coming. She closed her eyes and bit her lip and—

“Ooh….”

She sucked in her breath as he pushed back into her, but it wasn’t from discomfort. He went fast and hard, slamming against her like a train wrecking. She could feel him shoving against that bundle of nerves deep inside her, and with each thrust it felt as though her body were being ignited anew.

“Ooh…good…” she moaned, clutching his head against her as she came. Spike laughed.

His hands cupped her buttocks, pulling her forward as he suddenly leaned backwards. When he was upright, he pushed off with his knees and the balls of his feet until he stood straight, her body draped around him like a scarf. Buffy was astounded, more than a little turned on. This was surely not something a mortal man would have been able to do.

One of his arms supported her hips, the other one behind her back to keep her steady as she slid her legs down from his shoulders to clasp his waist. When she was finally situated, he cradled her hips with the curve of both arms and pushed her against the wall.

“And this?” His words against her ear were throaty, almost a purr. “This good, too?”

He was rocking up and down, slowly at first, but building speed. Buffy nodded but didn’t say anything. The truth was she was wishing that they weren’t in the factory right now. She wanted to be in a bedroom, somewhere with mirrors so that she could see how she looked, riding this beautiful corpse. The contrast of them: her skin tanned golden, flushed with wanting, against his milky-white, blue-veined length. She knew how good it must look.

She couldn’t stop staring at him as he pumped her. Her eyes traced his cunning, almond-shaped blue eyes, the sharp planes of his cheekbones, the straight nose and full, sensuous lips. The cords of his neck and shoulders flexed and strained with effort as he bounced her, lifting her hips and dropping her to meet each of his thrusts. Beneath her fingertips his back was chiseled and firm. His whole body was like marble sculpture, cool and hard, solid. And it amazed her that evil could be like this. That evil could be beautiful. Desirable. Better than good.

Buffy closed her eyes as she felt Spike quiver beneath her, the cold liquid of his sex emptying into her hot passage. She sighed and laughed, came right on the heels of his orgasm, reveling in the wickedness of what she was doing.

She was so tired of being good.

Chapter Thirteen

As much as he didn’t want to, Giles supposed he must talk to Buffy.

He would have liked to believe that Willow’s concerns were just the imaginings of a teenager who turned everything in life into a soap opera. Indeed, had the subject been broached by Cordelia or even Xander he probably would have disregarded it altogether. But Willow was a level headed sort of person, even if she was only seventeen. And if she said Buffy was acting as though she were involved with Angel again then it must be the case.

He felt a flash of irritation just thinking about it. Buffy he could forgive—somewhat—for her irresponsibility. After all, she was child who was carrying a superhuman burden; if she did not always react appropriately to situations then he could understand. But after two hundred-odd years Giles would have thought Angel would be more mature than this. Angel knew full well what the consequences of a night with Buffy would be, and the idea that he would attempt even a nonsexual romantic relationship with her was ludicrous. He must know he was ruining her chances at being even remotely normal.

It was no wonder Joyce hung up on him, Giles thought wearily. He was her daughter’s watcher. It was his responsibility to make sure she was mentally and physically prepared for the challenges that faced her on the Hellmouth. If Joyce had gotten wind of the idea that her daughter was dating a creature who had tried kill her, Giles didn’t blame her for being angry with him. He had obviously failed Buffy somewhere.

So, distasteful as the idea was to him, Giles knew he would have to talk to her.

However, he would talk to Angel first and this Giles did not dread in the least. Since the death of Jenny Calendar, he had been waiting for an excuse to rake Angel over the coals. Oh, he’d heard the excuse of how Angel wasn’t responsible for Angelus’ actions—that the soulless creature who had senselessly slaughtered so many was not the same broody man who made cow’s eyes at Buffy and wallowed in self pity for actions he claimed were not his fault but which supposedly haunted him anyway. Giles didn’t buy any of it—any more than he had bought the fact that Angel could be “friends” with Buffy. He knew that Angel wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off Buffy for long.

Giles smiled grimly to himself as he stuffed his pockets with stakes and holy water. Oh, yes, he wanted to talk to Angel. He had writhed under this hidden hatred too long not to take this opportunity, and he hoped—yes, hoped!—that Angel would give him a reason to use these weapons. He no longer cared about Buffy’s feelings; he didn’t care if Angel had a soul. Time and time again it had been proven that the soul did not keep the vampire from doing stupid, senselessly dangerous things. It didn’t keep him from ruining Buffy’s life, hanging around, preventing her from burying their relationship where dead loves go and moving on with her life.

Dead loves.

Snickering humorlessly, Giles pulled a large pewter crucifix from a shelf and draped its chain around his neck. He knew all about dead loves.

 And how to bury them.

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

“Buffy are you sure this necessary?” Willow asked.

“What d’ya mean?” Buffy’s response was slurred around a mouthful of nails.

Willow shifted the stack of crucifixes from one arm to another. “Well, the barrier spell should keep him out just fine. Why are you bothering with the crosses?”

“I don’t want to take any chances.”

Buffy pounded the last nail into the wall and let the curtains drop, concealing the wooden cross from view. “How many rooms have we done?”

“Everything but the basement, now. Buffy won’t your mom be mad that you put all these holes in her walls?”

“That’s why I’m trying to make them as inconspicuous as possible,” Buffy explained. “Except the ones I had to put by the doors, I think I did a good job hiding them. Don’t you?”

Willow wasn’t sure how to answer that. It was true that Buffy had hidden crucifixes behind draperies and furniture, appliances and even picture frames. But suppose Joyce decided to rearrange things? The wallpaper was now peppered with tiny holes—not only from the nails used to secure the crosses, but also with scars from all Buffy’s failed attempts to secure them. She wasn’t as skilled with a hammer as with a stake.

“It—it looks really…ah...”

Luckily Buffy saved her the difficulty of finishing this sentence.

“Do you think I should put any in the yard?” she asked thoughtfully.

“The yard?” Willow echoed.

“I could nail them to trees….”

“I don’t think you need them in the yard. I mean, your mom usually gets home before dark, right? And she leaves for work after sunrise, so Spike wouldn’t really be much of a threat.” Willow brightened. “Anyway, you’ll probably have him at the sharp edge of your stake tonight. Then you won’t have to worry about him at all.”

“Tonight?” Buffy looked confused. “What’s tonight?”

Surprised, Willow stammered, “W—well nothing, really. I just thought you’d be eager to finish with him. If you need help—”

“I don’t need help,” Buffy interrupted. “I just don’t think I should go tonight. I’ve had about two hours of sleep in the last three nights, and I’ve got school tomorrow. I think I should probably wait until I’m in top form before I try to kill him.”

Something in Buffy’s tone made Willow wonder if she wasn’t just procrastinating. But that was silly. Buffy hated Spike—she would be eager to kill him. Probably she was just very tired; she had been working really hard the last several nights and without any help from the gang. “Is there anything I can do for you in the meantime?” she asked.

“Yeah…” Buffy threw down her hammer and looked in her friend’s eyes very seriously. “Don’t you guys go looking for Spike, okay?  And if he comes to you, don’t try anything. Just get inside and—and don’t listen to anything he has to say.”

Willow couldn’t help wondering just what it was Spike would say to her that Buffy didn’t want her to hear.

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

The sun was just slipping behind the trees when Angel’s front door burst open with a force that threatened to knock it from its hinges.

Angel, who was concealing weapons about his person in much the same way Giles had, turned to the open door with poorly concealed irritation. “It’s interesting that vampires need invitations but you can burst in any old time you please.”

Giles’ eyes were hard and cold as he answered, “The benefits of being human, I suppose.”

“Yes, well, as much as I’d like to stay and debate that, I have some things I need to take care of.”

Angel started to move toward the door, but Giles threw out an arm to block his path. “You aren’t going anywhere until we have talked.”

Angel sighed. He knew Giles had not forgiven him for what happened to Jenny, and though Angel did feel remorse for the incident he felt Giles was being unfair to him. After all, he had not had a soul when he killed Jenny; he didn’t even remember most of what happened during that period. And in a way, Buffy was just as responsible as he was. If she hadn’t given him his one moment of happiness he would never have lost his soul in the first place. Yet for some reason everyone seemed to be blaming him for all those miserable weeks. It wasn’t fair.

“What is it you want to talk about?” he asked morosely, certain it had to do with Jenny.

But Giles surprised him.

“I want to talk about Buffy,” he said briefly. “Rather, about something Willow told me about Buffy and its relation to you.”

“Go on.”

“Succinctly, Willow has voiced her concerns that you and Buffy, heedless of the dangers involved, have rekindled your…romance.”

Something in the way Giles paused before the word romance irritated Angel, and he made no effort to be polite in his answer. “Well, tell Willow she’s wrong,” he snapped. “Now if you don’t mind…”

He tried to move past Giles, but once again the watcher extended his arm—and this time he had a crucifix in his hand.

Wincing, Angel backed away.

“I don’t think Willow is wrong,” Giles said softly. “And I’ll tell you why. Buffy has been away for the past several nights with no explanation as to her whereabouts. She was supposed to go to the factory to slay Spike and for some reason she was not able to do this. She’s been acting distant and strange to her friends. All of this says she’s been keeping a secret from us.”

“And you automatically assume I’m the secret?” Angel asked incredulously.

“You were last time. When you returned from whatever dimension you were in, Buffy hid you away, took care of you until you regained your sense—and never said a word to any of us,” Giles pointed out.

“Has it ever occurred to you that she’s been acting strange since Spike came into town?” Angel demanded impatiently. “I found her lurking outside my bushes just last night. She came to tell me Spike is back and that she was unable to kill him when she had the chance. She said she wanted to handle it herself when I offered to help her, and then in the next breath and told me he was ‘behaving himself’. She said he kidnapped Willow and forced her to cast a love spell for him—and Buffy called that behaving! She talked as though she would just let him walk away from this.”

Giles’ eyes narrowed.  “What are you trying to say?”

“She thinks it is wrong to kill him because of the truce they made last spring. Apparently, she’s been away for the last several nights because she’s been running around, trying to convince him to leave town.”

“You’re not serious.”

Angel opened his coat to show Giles the stakes, knives, holy water, and other weapons concealed inside. “Does this look serious to you?”

Giles glanced down at the weapons. “What—?” he began.

“I don’t have a truce with Spike,” Angel said.

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

“What an interesting change in tactics.”

Allan shot Mr. Trick a glance of poorly concealed disgust. “Well can you do it or can’t you?”

“Oh, I most surely can do it,” Trick answered. He displayed his sharp white canines in a satisfied grin. “In fact, I think I’ll handle this one myself. I’ve never fought a vampire with a soul and I’m a little curious.”

“I don’t care who you get to do it or if you do it yourself!” Allan snapped. “Just get it done. Tonight. The Mayor wasn’t happy about the fiasco concerning your ‘committee’ and he will be even more annoyed if this doesn’t work.”

“It will work.”

“Tonight,” Allan persisted. “It has to be tonight. We want this taken care of!”

“Okay, okay….Just chill, baby. I’ll handle it.”

Relieved, Allan turned away. He was halfway to the door when Trick cleared his throat pointedly.

“However…”

Allan turned around. “However what?”

Trick smiled and, extending his hand, he rubbed his thumb and forefingers together. “There is the small matter of the bill….”

Allan sighed and reached for his wallet.

Chapter Fourteen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I want to talk to you about Angel.”

“Angel?”

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

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

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

She was afraid of that.

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

Dinnertime.

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

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

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

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

It was Angel.

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

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

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

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

Spike snorted at the warning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you talking about?”

Spike smiled.

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

“Giles there is nothing between Angel and me.”

“Yes, well, you say that…”

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

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

“You think he’s upsetting my life?”

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

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

For some reason Buffy thought about Spike.

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

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

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

He looked startled. “Excuse me?”

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

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

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

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

But she wasn’t talking about Angel.

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

“I don’t believe you.”

Spike shrugged easily.

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

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

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

“Shut up!”

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

“SHUT UP!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“SHUT YOUR MOUTH!”

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

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

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

“What was that, Peaches?”

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

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

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

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

Chapter Sixteen

“Bloody hell!”

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

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

“Oi!” he called impatiently.

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

“You’re hurt.”

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

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

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

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

Irritated, he rapidly switched tactics.

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

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

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

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

There was an uncomfortable silence.

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

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

“I—I was—afraid he’d…hurt you.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“And this concerns you? You hate me.”

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

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

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

Spike’s hand flew to his wounded shoulder defensively.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He snorted derisively and Buffy’s eyes narrowed.

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

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

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

“You left.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Spike…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bleeding hell…”

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

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

“SAY IT!”

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

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

“I love you, Spike….God, I love you…”

Chapter Seventeen

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

“William…fucking…Bloody…”

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

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

He was going to get his Buffy back.

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

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

The thought made him cringe.

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

“You sure about that?”

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

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

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

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re an early riser, Slayer.”

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

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

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

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

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

He smirked. “Looking?”

“For my clothes!”

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

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

Buffy didn’t even glance in his direction.

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

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

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

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

“Don’t go.”

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

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

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

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

His beautiful lips twisted into an unpleasant grimace.

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

“It has nothing to do with Angel.”

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

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

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

Buffy frowned at the last thought.

“I really have to go,” she insisted.

“But you’re coming back.”

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

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

“Don’t try,” he said. “Do it.”

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

He wanted her.

Chapter Eighteen

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

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

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

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

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

“It didn’t,” Buffy said quickly.

“You mean you never found them?”

“Nope.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What choice did she have but to nod?

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

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

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

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

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

But still…there was something. Some fear…

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

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

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

Chapter Twenty-One

Miss me, pet?

Buffy’s mind raced wildly at the question. What was Spike doing here? God, he sounded really pissed off…had he come to punish her for standing him up? She would have asked him except his arm was still across her throat, crushing her larynx and making speech impossible. She did, however, gasp and pull at his arm, trying to let him know she couldn’t breathe.

But he didn’t seem too concerned about that.

“I knew it,” he whispered. His mouth was against her cheekbone and she shivered unwillingly at the sensation. His breath smelled sharply of beer and something else, something metallic that was most likely blood. But instead of curbing her desire for him, the scent only heightened it. The hard column of his body—the sheer power in his pale, lean muscles. She felt like an idiot but she couldn’t help it; the danger of the situation turned her on.

What did you know?

She wondered but she couldn’t ask. He was still holding onto her, but now they were moving. He was propelling her across the crowded floor and into a shadowy space near the end of the bar. Buffy’s eyes darted around hoping to catch a glimpse of Xander or Cordelia, but it seems that they had already made it to their table. No one else around them seemed to notice that the man she was with was choking her. So much for safety in numbers, jeez.

He threw her into the wall, spun her around so that she was facing him. Propping an arm against the wall on either side of her, he leaned forward, completely blocking her in. Well, not completely. He had let go of her throat and now that her brain was receiving oxygen she could have always kicked him in the gut or knocked him down. But she didn’t want to do that.

“I knew it,” he said again. This time his voice was shaking with suppressed rage. “This morning—I knew what you were at. Off like a shot as always. I figured it was Angel—”

In the dim half-light of the neon bar signs, Buffy could see his eyes were bleary and bloodshot. Apparently the beer breath came from more than one bottle then. Great.

“Spike, I wanted to come to the factory tonight!” Her words came out a harsh rasp which burned her throat…but at least she could speak now.

“Forget your way, then did you?” he asked acerbically. “I knew blonds weren’t smart but that explanation won’t hold water even for you.”

“I did want to—” she insisted.

“Oh yeah? Then why do I find you here instead, prancing like a show pony in heat for some scratter whose balls haven’t even dropped yet?”

Frustrated, Buffy raised her voice. “Look, Glenn Close, if you’d just be quiet for a minute then maybe I could explain!”

“Let’s hear it then!”

“I wanted to come but this morning Willow and Xander invited me to the Bronze instead. I told them ‘no’ but they wouldn’t listen. They insisted. And, really, what was I supposed to do? Tell them I’d like to but I needed to go hump my dead boyfriend instead?”

“Then why the bleeding hell didn’t you come to tell me that?” he demanded.

“Because they wouldn’t let me! They’re getting suspicious about why I haven’t ki—about why we haven’t fought yet. They think something is wrong with me…like I’m depressed or something. And they’re worried. I haven’t had a moment to myself all day, so I couldn’t come tell you.” Her voice softened slightly. “I was going to come afterward. I swear to you, Spike, I was.”

“I’m getting sick of this.” This time his voice shook as well as his hands. But the worst of his anger seemed to have passed, leaving Buffy to wonder why he was still trembling.

“What are you sick of?”

“You…running off…not showing up. You said—”

She knew what she’d said and it frightened her somehow that he should be referring to it.

“I’m trying,” she cut in quickly. “I really am…but it isn’t easy. I’m like Clark Kent juggling my mild-mannered personality and my superhero personality…and one other personality now, too, apparently. You try it sometime and see if you can keep all of your appointments.”

“Bet you kept ‘em for Angel, though.” His voice was mutinous, like a sulky child’s.

“Would you stop with the Angel talk? I don’t want to be around Angel any more than you want me to be around him…so just shut up about it.”

“You know what your problem is?” he demanded, anger returning in a sudden, sharp burst. “You’re so afraid of that side of yourself you’ll find any excuse to hide from it.”

She looked away from him.

“That has nothing to do with—”

“It has everything to do with it, love—whether you want to admit it or not. You can’t play me like you could Angel. I understand you, see. He never did.”

“I wanted to—”

“Maybe you did,” he conceded. “But you never bloody planned on actually doing it. You were looking for an excuse—any excuse. Your friends gave you one and you ran with it—because bottom line is you’re too chicken-shit afraid of your own feelings to initiate anything. That’s why I gotta pin you down always, right? That’s why it starts as a brawl? That way it’s my doing and none of your own. You’re the Slayer—” he spat the word like an obscenity. “You’re above feelings like these…hurts your ego…doesn’t it? So you give it a good fight and—when you can’t fight anymore—you land it on me!”

His fist slammed into the wall just inches from her head. Buffy flinched away not only from the threat of being hit but from the sickening way his hand crunched into the plaster, leaving a blood-smeared indent. It seemed as though he was almost as eager to hurt himself as he was to punish her.

She watched him untangle his arm from the crumbled plaster and look at it. His hand was scraped and bloodied, the fingers curled up in a way that suggested he might have seriously hurt himself―or at least as seriously as a vampire could anyway. He stared at the rapidly-swelling appendage with a detached sort of interest for a moment and then before she could stop him he punched the wall again. And then again.

“Stop it!” Buffy grabbed him by the elbow and flipped him around, slamming his back into the cracked drywall before he could do himself further damage. “What’s the matter with you?”

He laughed in the sort of drunken, pseudo-hysterical way that made her think someone should really start a twelve-step program for the undead, and answered: “’s your skull or the wall, love. Were I you I’d let the wall take the brunt of it.”

And that was when it hit her like a blow––the reason he had come looking for her in the first place. The reason he was so upset. The reason he had hurt himself rather than give her the smack she might have deserved.

Spike was in love with her.

The idea was so absurd that for a split second she almost dismissed it altogether. But his bloodshot eyes were locked on hers and somewhere beneath the anger and jealousy, hidden beneath the bleariness of alcohol...there it was. He loved her.

A completely alien sensation of tenderness flooded over her and suddenly she felt an overwhelming desire to protect him. Him. William the Bloody, agent of destruction, destroyer of Slayers, and God only knew what else that she hadn't even heard of. And here she was feeling all warm and fuzzy for him. Had she given herself a second to think it over rationally, Buffy would have laughed.

But she didn't think about it.

Instead, she picked up his wounded hand in both her own and, under the pretense of surveying the damage, stroked her thumb across the ravaged knuckles.

“God, you idiot. You've broken it.” But though her words were harsh Buffy's voice was soft with concern.

“What the sodding hell do you care?” he growled. But he didn't pull his hand away.

“I do care,” she said softly. “And I'm sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” He wanted her to spell it out.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come to you tonight when I said I would. I should have told you I would be late.” Her lips just grazed his cheekbone as she added: “But I meant what I said...I wanted to come. I was going to come as soon as I could get away from here. I want to be with you.”

“Be with me.” He snorted. “And just what does that entail? I’m not your bitch, you know. I’m nobody's bloody plaything.”

Buffy didn't answer him. She slid her hands beneath his leather duster, into the back pockets of his much-worn jeans, drawing him in closer to the curve of her body. He wasn’t leaning down for her and she didn't wait for him to. She stood on her toes, tilting her head up so she could brush her mouth across his.

Spike didn't exactly return the kiss, but he didn't draw away from it either. If anything, he seemed to be waiting, riding his own responses with a curb to see how far she would go herself. She could feel his restraint in the hard muscles of his chest and arms; see it in the way his jaw tensed and his brow furrowed. It was really kind of a turn on.

She kissed him again, this time drawing his full bottom lip between her teeth and sucking softly, laving it lightly with her tongue. He made a sound like a cat purring and she leaned in further, kneading the tight muscles of his bum as she arched and rubbed against the bulge that was just beginning to grow in his jeans. His mouth parted a bit and she took advantage of the opportunity to slip inside, caressing his teeth and his tongue. Spike’s purring became a low growl, almost like a groan. And even though he was shaking with his effort not to respond to her, he was responding. Not just with his lips and tongue but with his whole body which leaned into hers...with his unbroken hand stroking and coiling in her long hair.

It felt wonderful, all of it. So wonderful that for a moment Buffy allowed herself the pleasure of forgetting where she was and whom she might be seen by. Just a moment. But by the time Spike’s undamaged hand began wandering around and underneath her clothing it all began creeping back to her.

“Spike wait.”

He sighed heavily.

“Jesus, it figures. What now?”

His eyes which had been closed opened again. They were still bloodshot, still hazy from drink and more than a little belligerent. As if he saw his responding to her kiss as a sign of weakness and was embarrassed by it. Or maybe he thought she was about to make some snide comment on it. Either way, Buffy could still read a certain, vague hope in there as well and she knew that despite his tough exterior she hadn’t been imagining his feelings for her. Even if he was determined to hide them as best he could.

“W––we can’t do this here,” she said, trying and failing to control her heavy breathing. “If someone saw us––if my friends saw us––”

“Yeah, yeah, they’d tell your watcher and then naughty Buffy would have to go to bed without any dessert.” Spike smirked, evidently thinking she was about to call an end to the evening and trying to appear dispassionate about it.

“No––I mean, yes. Well, something like that, I guess.” She sighed, completely flustered. “What I mean is...I want to leave now...with you.”

The vague hope she had seen in his eyes suddenly leaped to the forefront, though his voice remained measured.

“And where're we going?” he asked her.

She traced a finger over the lapel of his battered leather coat to give herself an excuse to look down. Her voice shook slightly as she took a chance and did as he wanted her to—took the initiative once again.

“How about the factory?”

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

Spike’s arm encircled Buffy's shoulders in a proprietary way as they pushed through the small crowd blocking their exit. Considering how truly shitey the evening started out, he was feeling more than a little surprised at how it was ending. Who’d of thought the Slayer would start snogging on him and him half ready to snuff her? Not that he was complaining, mind. But it was a strange turn to say the least.

He was trying very hard not to feel anything for her. She had already shown herself to be somewhat untrustworthy and the last thing he needed was to fancy another bird who would fly the coop on him. Yet despite his best efforts every time he looked at her he would feel that same warm, weak feeling in the pit of his stomach. As though the heat she was radiating was melting some part of him from the inside. And he kept thinking about what she had said to him the night before. That she loved him. She hadn't said it since and he certainly wasn’t about to bring it up. But did she love him? Why did it matter to him? He didn't love her, of course he didn't. So why was he worrying about it? Why was he hoping that against all odds she would say it again? That she would mean it this time?

Pushing the thought aside, Spike shoved open the rear door to the club. He nuzzled Buffy's ear as he gently propelled her into the alleyway, completely unaware that as he did four pairs of eyes were watching him from across the room—and four sets of jaws had promptly hit the floor.

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

Chapter Twenty-Five

Giles sighed and pulled off his glasses, rubbing at his eyes in a weary, defeated way.

“You are absolutely certain about this?” he asked, finally.

“Pretty sure,” Willow answered. “I mean I’m definitely sure that she was kissing him at the Bronze. But the other thing…the having feelings for him thing? That’s more like a hunch. She didn’t say she did…she didn’t say anything, really. It was just a feeling I got.”

“Could he be forcing her? Threatening her?”

“I don’t think so. Xander and I asked about that and she was really defensive of him…really clear that no one was making her do anything. And Giles…if you saw them last night at the Bronze…it was almost…”

“Almost what?” he pressed.

She flushed. “Never mind.”

“I think what Willow means,” Cordelia piped up. “Is that Buffy is over her vampire-lover squeamishness. She may have been embarrassed or guilty or whatever when it came to Angel…but she’s practically wearing a ‘Love me, love my vamp’ shirt now.”

Willow shot her a dirty look. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Hello. Were you there? We weren’t even two words in before she jumped on the defensive about it.”

“Well maybe she was defensive because she is embarrassed,” argued Willow. “Did you ever think of that?”

“Girls…” Giles began wearily, but they railed on unchecked.

“I think you’re being too judgmental!”

“And I think you are too quick to defend Buffy just because she’s your friend!” Cordelia snapped back. “If it was me—or anyone else in school—you’d practically be ready to burn her at the stake—”

“All right! You’ve made your point!” Giles voice was firm this time, almost angry.

“Yeah. He’s right,” Xander added. “And it doesn’t matter whether Buffy’s being manipulated by Spike or if they share a magical love beyond our understanding. We still have to do something—”

Giles head shot up.

“Magical love?” he echoed.

Xander looked around at the others, made uneasy by the librarian’s intense stare. “Did I say something?”

“Willow…you performed a spell for Spike.” As he spoke Giles’ voice became more energized. “A love spell.”

“Only ‘cause he made me—”

“You said it was a spell meant for Drusilla, but that he interrupted it before you could finish. That he was angry and ranting about—”

“Buffy!” The four teens spoke her name together excitedly.

“You think the spell backfired?” Willow asked. “Could it have?”

“Of course. Love spells are terribly complicated and notorious for some of the bad side affects they can have.  If Spike wasn’t concentrating—or if he was concentrating on Buffy rather that Drusilla—”

“But would the spell affect both of them?” Oz asked.

“No…that’s the extraordinary thing. It wouldn’t. Only Buffy would be affected. Which means that, so far as we know, Spike is acting of his own free will.”

Cordelia made a face. “So he’s, like, really in love with her? How sick is that?”

“Either he has feelings for her—or has developed feelings for her because of this. Or…”

“He’s toying with her,” Xander finished. “That’s it, isn’t? I’ll bet that’s it!”

“It might very well be,” Giles confirmed.

“Then we have to stop him. We have to kill him—”

“Kill Spike! And how are we going to do that? Buffy couldn’t do that even before Willow put the mojo on her—and she’s the Slayer!”

Xander’s face fell before this logic, but Giles’ eyes widened.

“Angel!”

“Yeah!” Xander nodded excitedly to Giles. “Angel can kill him for us—”

“No…Angel was planning to kill Spike. Two days ago. He told me—” Giles paused and then asked, “Have any of you seen him lately?”

“No,” Willow breathed. “Not at all.”

“And Buffy went to stop the fight. I thought it was to defend Angel, but…”

“Spike is obviously still alive because he was at the Bronze with Buffy last night.” Willow paled. “Giles, do you think Angel is—?” She couldn’t finish.

“I don’t know. We mustn’t take anything for granted, at any rate.” He rose from behind the heavy wooden circulation desk. “I’m going to the mansion to see for myself whether or not Angel is all right. The four of you stay away from Buffy! Do you understand? She isn’t acting herself and if you challenge her fantasy it could be dangerous—most especially if Spike finds out about it.”

“So what are we supposed to do in the meantime?” Cordelia whined.

Giles waved his arm in the direction of the bookshelves. “Search the spell books for a cure. We will meet back here in an hour to discuss what I’ve found.”

He pulled a crossbow from beneath the desk, hefted it onto his shoulder, and turned away. The Scoobs waited until he had gone and then headed to the stacks in a unit.

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

Buffy stretched her legs out across the sofa and aimed the remote control at the television before settling back against the cushions. Digging her spoon into her ice cream, she flipped channels until she found what she was looking for—a soap opera she hadn’t seen since the day she became a Slayer. It was half over, but it didn’t matter anyway. As with most soaps it was easy to fall back into the groove of watching.

Not that watching a cheesy soap opera was her first choice for entertainment. After leaving school Buffy went back to the factory, hoping that seeing Spike might lift her out of the bad mood the Scoobies had put her in. But he wasn’t there. She had no idea where he might have gone in the middle of a sunny morning, but she figured there was no reason to hang around waiting for him. He’d taken the De Soto and could be anywhere by now—and since he was under the impression that she wouldn’t be free until late afternoon there was no telling when he might return.

Buffy licked at her spoon and smiled to herself, thinking of the expression on Spike’s face when he said he wanted to slay with her. Who would’ve thought a member of the soulless evil dead club could be so…

Okay, well sweet wasn’t exactly the right word. But he was definitely being very nice to her. Concerned and affectionate. The look in his eyes when he woke to find her there was the same type of fondness she’d seen him bestow on Drusilla countless times. Obviously, then, the myth about vampires being unable to love without a soul was just that: a myth.

She frowned. That really didn’t speak well for Angel then, did it? Supposedly he had been in love her when he had his soul, but when he lost it…Which meant that either he wasn’t the same being with his soul as without or he was a much more evil vampire than Spike and just wasn’t capable of feeling anything. She wondered—

Her interest was suddenly diverted by a news flash preempting the soap opera. A pasty young reporter in an ugly suit was standing in an oddly familiar-looking alleyway, waving her microphone to gesture to the building behind her. Her chipper voice and sunny smile were oddly at variance with the words coming out of her mouth—words that made Buffy snap to attention.

“Employs of the Bronze, a favorite club among Sunnydale teens, were shocked last night to discover the bodies of two patrons stuffed into a dumpster, just feet from the club’s rear door. The bodies were discovered by a young waitress while the staff was cleaning after hours.

Authorities were notified by Bronze owner, David Merrick, and found the second body shortly afterwards. Merrick declined interview. However, his legal team assured us that measures are always taken to ensure the safety of Bronze patrons. Despite this, it is apparent that at least one of the murders took place inside the club, as blood stains and signs of a struggle were discovered in the men’s room. No witnesses have come forward and staff say that ‘all seemed usual’ last night’ although damage to some drywall was discovered this morning and is being called ‘in possible relation’ to the case.”

Buffy’s bowl fell from her lap as she sat up, but she leaned in toward the television, oblivious of the mess of chocolate and vanilla melting into the rug. She turned up the volume on the TV.

“The local authorities are calling the murders “possibly drug-related” and note the increasing problem of PCP usage among Sunnydale youths. They are confident that the perpetrator will be apprehended soon in spite of the admitted lack of forensic evidence found at the scene. When asked about possible suspects, the homicide detective on scene was evasive. He hinted that they had a few leads but that he could not comment further at this time. The names of the victims are being withheld until their families are identified but are being described as a Caucasian man and woman in their early twenties. While it is possible they knew each other, the time of deaths are estimated at as much as an hour apart. Both victims had similar deep wounds to their throats and appeared to die from blood loss.”

“Goddamn it, Spike!”

Buffy threw the remote at the wall.

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

Giles didn’t have to step inside Angel’s derelict mansion to know that something terrible had happened. The door was wide open, half hanging from its rusty hinges. From the threshold—and in spite of the dim light inside—Giles could make out the broken bits of furniture, strewn clothing and papers. Though he didn’t relish the thought of stepping inside for fear of what he might find Giles knew he had little choice. He gripped his crossbow tighter as he crossed over the doorstep.

“Angel…? Are you here?”

There was no answer to his call, no sound at all save the crunching of his feet over broken glass. Someone had taken care to destroy absolutely everything that was worth anything in the house: picture frames and glasses were shattered, books ripped apart, clothing shredded and what looked like ink poured over them. There was a dark smear of dried blood on the fireplace masonry. Giles moved closer to examine it and his foot struck something hard and light—something that skittered across the floor and struck the opposite wall with a clatter.

It was a wooden stake—and it was covered with ash.

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 tbc