Enemy Incognito

By Wynn

Chapter Eleven: Drowning in Darkness

The room was small. It contained a soft twin bed, a nightstand with a gold lamp, and a plaid armchair. One window faced the lush pasture of the English countryside, but the plains were covered by cream colored window shades. Willow sat on the bed, feet drawn up underneath her, eyes closed. She breathed deeply, attempting to clear her mind of her jumbled thoughts of the events of the past few weeks. The coven in Devon had performed a binding spell on her magical abilities as soon as she and Xander had arrived in England. She felt empty inside. The connection that she had magically forged with the world around her, with higher realms of power and other planes of existence, had been severed, leaving her cold and hollow.

'Bored now.'

Her eyes shot open. She shook her head slightly and sighed. The tenuous hold she had had on her memories crumbled. She stood and walked over to the window, pulling back on the shade and peering into the night. She wished Xander was here. He stayed by her side after the binding spell, encouraging her in her efforts to heal and in her lessons from the coven, just listening and supporting her. She wanted to talk to someone, to distract herself from the pain of the past, but he had gone back to his room in desperate need of sleep. A glimmer of tears appeared in her eyes. It was probably for the best that Xander was asleep. She didn't want him to see what she had become. She didn't want him to know she wasn't Willow anymore.

Bright light flooded the room, causing Willow to cover her eyes. She backed into the corner of the room as the glow gradually faded. She opened her eyes and blinked a few times, the room coming back into focus. Her eyes were drawn to the armchair and to the woman lounging in it.

"Cordelia?"

"The one and only." Cordelia shifted in the chair, her long brunette hair swinging over her shoulder; she wore a white silk dress and a pair of sandals. A broad grin crossed her face as she said, "How ya doing, Willow?"

"H-how did you get here? Am I, uh, hallucinating?"

"No hallucinations this time. Just trans-dimensional travel. It's sort of like teleporting, only prettier."

Willow nodded slowly as she slumped next to the wall. She closed her eyes and muttered, "Oh, of course, trans-dimensional travel. Should've known. Only I didn't 'cause I'm definitely hallucinating here. Crazy and evil now. Wonderful."

Cordelia rolled her eyes. "You're not nuts. Not yet anyway. Trans-dimensional travel is a perk of being a higher being."

Willow cracked one eye open. "You're a higher being?"

"Yeah. I was a half-demon first which, let me tell you, was *pretty* interesting, but the Powers of Vague wanted me elsewhere."

"Elsewhere?"

"Are you repeato girl or something? Yes, elsewhere, as in here. I'm here to help you."

Willow smirked, a wry and bitter twisting of her lips. "No one can help me."

Cordelia was silent as she looked at Willow, her dark brown eyes taking in the pale complexion, dark circles, limp hair, and shallow lines surrounding her eyes and mouth. She stood and moved next to Willow. Crouching in front of the redhead, she murmured, "You're worse than I thought. What the hell did you get yourself into?"

Willow turned her head from the brunette's steady gaze; she fixed her eyes on the cream curtains and picked at the ragged nails on her hands. After a few moments, she whispered, "Magic."

"Magic doesn't do this. Not if you use it right."

"I didn't."

"I know." Cordelia shook her head as a shudder ran over her body. "You got into something bad. You opened the floodgates to primal forces and now you're drowning in darkness. You don't know how to be whole again. Not without the magic."

Willow eyed Cordelia. "Since when did you turn into a font of compassion and actually care about others besides yourself?"

Cordelia tilted her head to the side. She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and said, "They thought she would help you. But it was already too deep within you." She leaned forward and placed her hands on Willow's wrists. The deep brown of her eyes swirled and melted into pure, glowing white. The window burst open, curtains billowing in the fierce wind as Cordelia said, "That's where I come in."

The edges of Cordelia's eyes glowed faintly, a glimmer that slowly drifted across her face and down her body, to the tips of her fingers and into Willow. The glow traveled the length of Willow's arms, washing over her chest and neck, delving into the depths of her eyes. Willow screamed as light poured into her and surrounded her, filling the small room, banishing the lingering shadows.

Cordelia placed one hand across Willow's chest, covering her heart. "It's poison. And you let it inside you, let it consume you."

Willow gasped. "What-what are you doing to me?"

"Letting you feel."

The wind howled as the light flashed, blinding, burning inside of Willow. She crumpled against Cordelia, haunting, mournful sobs wrenched from her lips. Visions flashed into her mind. The shredding sound of Warren's skin being ripped from his body. The dull thud of Tara's body hitting the floor, cold and lifeless. The piercing scream echoing from her lips in the abandoned prison cell. The terror and panic on Dawn's face. The ecstasy flooding through her as she sucked the life out of Giles.

'I love you.'

'Willow doesn't live here anymore.'

'I have to say skinning a man alive, nice work. Very evil.'

'Let me tell you something about Willow. She's a loser.'

'They love you like I love you. Forever and always.'

Darkness blanketed the room, covering Cordelia, Willow, and the harsh, wretched sobs of grief.

* * *

Four days. Four days had passed since Spike had appeared in the middle of the moonlit clearing, tumbling into the light in a flurry of fists and a shower of vamp dust. Four days had passed since Spike had disappeared from the moonlit clearing without a trace, fading back into the night, leaving her with one last look, one last glance of vivid blue. In four days he could have traveled anywhere. Yet Buffy knew he was still in Sunnydale. She could feel it. She could feel him. His presence nipped at the edge of her mind, dancing in and out of her consciousness, a constant hum of awareness burning within her. After four days of nipping, dancing, humming, and burning, Buffy had grabbed her stake, walked out of her house, and slammed the door behind her.

Four days of waiting were four too many. His time was up.

She gazed at his crypt, taking in the crooked door and low stone overhang. Ivy stretched along its walls; it curled around the door frame and stretched along the roofline, delicate shocks of green against the cool grey of stone. She shifted the stake in her hand and approached the door. Barely breathing, she leaned her ear against the rough wood grain and listened. A small smile curled the corners of her lips as the sounds of movement within the crypt drifted to her ear. He was here. Excellent.

Buffy grasped the knob and opened the door. She slowly walked inside, twirling the stake in her hand, hazel eyes casually drifting over the small television, tattered armchair, and rusted refrigerator before resting on him. One corner of her mouth lifted in a smirk as she said, "Hi Clem."

Clem glanced at her, shuffling a bit. His hand lifted in a small wave before he shoved them into the pockets of his pants. "Hi, Buffy. What, um, I mean, why are you here? Not that I don't want you to be here, or that you're not welcome to be here because you are. Both you and Dawn are always welcome here. But what I mean is, uh, why are you here?"

Buffy's smirk widened into a grin as she searched the interior of the crypt, her eyes finally returning to Clem. "I was looking for Spike. Have you seen him?"

"Spike? No, I-I haven't seen Spike yet. No. I mean, is he back in town? When did he get back?"

Buffy tilted her head to the side and regarded Clem. A minute passed, then another with no movement, no sound, just watching. She moved towards him, hips swaying as she sauntered across the crypt. "Let me take a wild guess here. A few days ago there's a knock on the door. You open it and find Spike. He looks a little different, less platinum, more dirty blonde, but still dressed in black. You invite him in, chat a bit about the weather, things like that, when Spike tells you that you can have the crypt. That he's found a new place to stay." She stopped in front of Clem and folded her arms across her chest; her hazel eyes were intent on his face. "Am I right?"

Head dropping slightly, Clem whispered, "Yes."

"He probably asked you not to say anything to me, right?"

"No, not exactly… well, yeah. He did."

Buffy nodded her head. She backed away from him and slumped into one of the threadbare chairs, sighing softly. Her eyes traveled over the crypt, over the chair that Spike used to sit in to watch Passions, over the coffin he used to sleep on, over the hundreds of half-melted candles that had cast a warm glow across the cold, crypt interior, across the cool planes of his body. She looked down at her hands, eyes cloudy with emotion.

Clem stared at Buffy for a moment before he walked towards the chair. Crouching next to it, he said, "He didn't tell me where he was staying exactly. He just said that it was somewhere on the east side of town."

Buffy raised her head and locked eyes with Clem. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Just don't tell him I told you, Ok. Good friends are hard to find in this town."

Buffy flashed him a small smile. "I won't say a word." She pushed off of the chair and placed the stake in the back pocket of her jeans. Moving towards the door, she paused and looked over her shoulder at Clem. "How was he?"

"Quiet." His eyes traveled the length of her back to her stake. "Are you going to hurt him?"

She looked at him; her eyes were shrouded in darkness. A ghost of a smile passed over her face, disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. She was silent as she turned back and walked to the door. She laid her hand on the knob and said, "Thank you again, Clem." Buffy stepped over the threshold, into the cemetery, and closed the door behind her.

** *

Nothing had changed. Four years had passed since she last set foot in the abandoned mansion on Crawford St., but it remained the same. The stillness, the silence that permeated the imposing three stories took her back in time. Back to a time when Angel was her past, present, and future; when Faith was her enemy; when her mom was still alive. When Willow was her best friend, and Giles was her Watcher, and Spike was a distant memory, halfway around the world, torturing Drusilla to love him again. A lifetime has passed since then. People had come and gone, apocalypses had been averted, and she had died. Yet for all of the changes, much remained the same. Giles was still her Watcher. Xander and Willow were still her best friends. And she was still involved with a vampire, albeit a blonde, chipped, abrasive, cocky, passionate, conflicted vampire instead of a brunette, soulful, tortured, brooding, intense, conflicted vampire.

Buffy sucked in a deep breath and approached the entrance. The door was open; trash was strewn throughout the hallway, nestled amid piles of crumbling leaves. Cobwebs stretched across the ceiling. Her hazel gaze traveled the length of the hall, searching for signs of recent activity, signs of Spike, and finding none. Yet she stepped into the hall and moved deeper into the house. Her heart pounded, blood screaming through her veins, as she made her way down the cold, stifling walkway and entered the large ballroom of the mansion. The scorched mark where Angel had reappeared was still burned into the tile floor, and she could see the courtyard through the archway, its fountain filled with dirty water and debris.

'You still my girl?' 'Always.'

She had thought she would be his forever. They had survived prophecies of death, the end of the world, and hundreds of years in hell, only to crumble under the pressure of perfect happiness. She shivered as she backed into the hallway, arms drawn across her chest.

'What are you going to do, B? Kill me? You become me. You're not ready for that yet.'

So many betrayals had occurred within these barren walls. So much pain. Lives had been flipped upside down, turned inside out, and utterly destroyed. Buffy continued down the hall, stopping in front of the main room. The stone fireplace was barren, black ash coating the granite, brittle twigs and kindling crumbled on the floor. The broken remains of the coffee table covered the room.

'Drink. Drink me.'

Her fingertips grazed the faded scar on her neck, grimacing at the jagged line of flesh. It was a mark of the ultimate pleasure and the ultimate pain.

It hurt a hell of a lot more than I thought it would.'

Buffy stiffened. The fleeting images of her Slayer dream flashed through her mind. William and his poetry… the dark, shadow filled cave… the green eyed monster… Faith straddling Spike, stake pressed hard into his chest… a crumbling house between dense woods and the Sunnydale Rest Haven Cemetery. Buffy stumbled out of the room and crashed against the wall of the hallway. Spike's return had been prophesized in her dream. Why? She closed her eyes a moment and drew in a deep breath before sprinting out of the mansion. Her golden hair whipped behind her as she streaked across the empty streets of Sunnydale to confront the vampire from her dreams.

****

The two story house sat amide a grove of elm and oak trees. Its grey paint was peeling, flaking off in large chunks, and the windows were covered with pieces of plywood. A wraparound porch circled the house; a pair of wicker rocking chairs sat in front of the boarded bay window. Buffy edged around the rundown residence. The back of the house resembled the front with peeling paint and covered windows. Hidden in the shadows, Buffy saw a metal trash can. She walked towards it and lifted the lid; the inside was full of garbage, moldy food, torn scraps of fabric, old newspapers. She replaced the lid, moved next to the back door, and gently turned the knob. Buffy slipped inside the house, easing the door shut behind her.

The kitchen was dark. A small formica table sat in the center of the room, surrounded by three vinyl chairs. Buffy ran her fingers over the countertops; they were clean, and the sink was full of dishes. A ray of light peeked into the room from under a set of swinging doors. She moved to the door, pressing on the heavy wood until it cracked open. A narrow hall lay outside the doors. She could see the front entrance directly ahead of her. At the end of the hall, light streamed out of the room on the right. Buffy stepped into the hall and made her way towards the light, body sliding along the wall. She paused at the opening to the room and closed her eyes. She could feel him inside the room. Her heart thudded in her chest, pounded in her ears so loud she knew he could hear it. Sucking in a shaky breath, she craned her head around the doorframe and peeked inside the room.

He sat in a plush armchair. The chair faced a marble fireplace, its crackling fire casting a warm glow across the living room. A low glass table sat in front of the fireplace; a black mug perched on the corner of the table. Light from a floor lamp behind the chair shone down on his streaked, curled hair and glinted off the small silver glasses perched on his nose. He shifted in the chair and thumbed through the slim book in his hands. He wore a black button up shirt and a pair of loose black pants. His feet were bare.

Buffy leaned back against the wall, trying to slow her racing heart, and wiped the palms of her hands on her jeans. She stepped into the doorway, crossed her arms over her chest, hazel eyes locked on the slumped form in the armchair, and said, "Hello Spike."

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