*************

Pain.

Like someone had hooked a white-hot claw into her chest and yanked it downwards, splitting her open and leaving her exposed before dragging its talons back up into her throat.

Screaming had been reflex.

All Willow had wanted was for it to stop, the fleeting question---I wonder if this is how Buffy feels when she gets hurt---the only statement approaching rational thought flickering through her mind.

When it came, its cessation was welcomed, respite offering a moment’s peace before she felt herself being hurtled---was that real?  Was her body actually moving?---through an ebony void, a cacophony of voices hammering against her ears.  Men, women, children…some whispering, others speaking as if nothing was wrong, the occasional scream of terror…

…and one, louder than the rest, laughing in madness as it grew in volume until it was the only thing Willow could hear.  Female, with a shivery drawl that made her skin feel sticky, hers and yet…not hers.

Its words when it spoke made the pain seem like ashes compared to the sense of dread that now suffused the witch’s being.

“Goodbye, little girl…”

She could see then, but when she tried to move her body, it refused her wishes, acting out of synch with her thoughts, as if someone else was pulling its strings.  Horrified, Willow watched the world tilt as she stood up, looked to the heavens before turning her gaze to her companions.  Freddie, and Stella, and some blonde vampire that gave Armani a really bad name.

She heard her voice then, the words Willow’s gone eliciting a silent scream of denial from her throat.

I’m not gone! she wanted them to hear.  I’m right here! 

But they couldn’t hear.  Nobody could.  Not even whoever it was…

…And she realized then that she could sense the other’s thoughts, remember the other’s memories, and knew then just what this whole kidnapping thing had been about.

Holy Hecate, she thought, and felt the void around her swirl in panic as what remained of her existence reacted to the truth.  They’re crazy.  She’s crazy.  This can’t be…Buffy.  Need Buffy.  Buffy will fix this.  She’ll stop this Sandrine.  She has to.

*************

Her gaze never wavered as Iris stepped into the circle Stella had created, her pale features cast in orange from the flicker of the dying flames.  “Well, I certainly didn’t expect a welcoming party of more than two,” Sandrine said.  Green eyes swept over the vampire’s form in mild contempt.  “Are we consorting with vampires now?  Please tell that’s not the latest and greatest trend.”

“This is---,” Stella started.

“Iris,” the vamp cut in, her voice cold.  “The reason you’re safely here in the first place, so it would probably suit your best interests to be just a tad nicer to me, little girl.”

Sandrine grimaced.  “I don’t have to be nice to anybody,” she said.  “Especially a second-class mongrel such as yourself with the fashion sense of a…”  She stopped, eyes focusing off to the side as if she were listening to some unheard voice.  “…Pretty Woman wannabe?” she finished with a curious question.  Her scowl faded into a small smile.  “Interesting.  I have her memories, her…vernacular, her…”  The grin widened as her gaze dropped to her hands, watching them flex and turn in the moonlight.  “…power, as well as my own.  I’m me, and more.  Oh, I think this is going to be fun.”

The crashing through the trees captured their attention, and four heads swiveled to see the two blonds appear in the distance, mud-spattered and bedraggled.  “Buffy,” Sandrine murmured, recognition springing from the font of Willow’s memories in spite of the changes in the Slayer’s appearance.

“Spike,” Iris hissed, her eyes glowing golden in the dark.

The new arrivals stopped, and across the distance, the group could see the confusion clouding Buffy’s eyes as her gaze flickered over them.  “Willow?” she asked tentatively.  “Are you all right?  They haven’t hurt you, have they?”

She doesn’t know, Sandrine thought and was about to smile in victory when more images from the redhead’s past flooded into her head.  The Slayer…dangerous, and powerful, and willing to do anything to protect those she loved…must be stopped.  She would do everything she could to prevent Sira’s rise, and that just…wouldn’t…do.

The smile she affected was saccharine sweet, and she took a small step toward the pair.  “I’m fine, Buffy, really,” she said, and raised her hands as if in surrender.

Nobody expected the golden blast of magic to explode from the redhead’s palms, flying across the space to slam into the chest of the Slayer.  They were even more surprised when the energy bounced away, deflected by some invisible source, scattering like a million fireflies into the night.

“Well, that didn’t work out like I thought,” Sandrine said with a scowl.

“Go for him, you idiot,” Iris hissed.  “He’s the threat here.”

“Spike?”  She turned with widened eyes to stare at the female vamp.  “You’re kidding, right?  He’s harmless.  Well, to me at least.  As long as he has that chip in his head, he can’t lay a finger on me.”

Iris closed the distance between them and glared down at the smaller woman.  “I don’t know anything about a chip,” she said tightly, “but I do know that if you can’t touch the Slayer with your magic, you can still get to her by going for her boyfriend.”

That was information she didn’t have, and for the first time, Sandrine looked at the demon with a speculative interest.  A long moment passed, and she finally shrugged.  “Let’s just see,” she said, and turned back around.

*************

Seeing her best friend standing there had sent a flood of relief throughout Buffy’s body as she skittered to a halt inside the clearing.  That reprieve, however, was quickly dispelled when the beam of Spike’s flashlight revealed the casual way Willow was standing amidst the group, as if there was nothing wrong in spite of the numerous scrapes and scratches that scarred her exposed flesh.

“Willow?” she asked, her voice tentative.  She felt Spike’s hand curl around her elbow, holding her back from advancing further.  “Are you all right?  They haven’t hurt you, have they?”

“That’s not Red,” Spike murmured, only loud enough for her to hear.  He was trying to pull her away, but she held firm, knowing he couldn’t move her without fear of his chip getting set off.

“I’m fine, Buffy, really,” Willow said.  It sounded like her, it looked like her, and why was she raising her hands like that?

The magic that erupted from the redhead’s palms startled Spike into tugging harder than he’d meant, setting off a twinge inside his head that he chose to ignore as the threat hurtled toward Buffy at breakneck speed.  His instinct to throw her aside never had a chance to act, however, as the magic crashed into the power of the charm that hung around her neck, dissipating in a shower of sparks to the ground around them.

Buffy looked down at the pouch in wonder, slim fingers stroking the leather.  “Well, good job, gris gris,” she commented.  Her gaze lifted to Spike’s curious one.  “Guess we know why she wanted me to have it now, huh?”  She didn’t give him a chance to respond, sliding her eyes back to look at the group around the fire, as the realization of what had just happened dawned on her.  Willow had attacked her, except, she wouldn’t…  “If that’s not Willow,” Buffy murmured, “then who is it?”

“Someone with some serious mojo,” he replied grimly.  A snap from his right turned his head, his flashlight following suit, and his eyes glittered as he caught the skulking shadows of a set of vampires trying to approach.  “We’ve got more company,” he said.

Buffy’s gaze followed the light, her hand tightening around her stake.  “Somehow, I’m feeling like monkey in the middle here,” she said.  “Who should we---?”

Her question was cut off with a choked scream as she saw the magic flare brightly in the side of Spike’s face, a brilliant flame erupting along his skin as it caught hold, sweeping down his neck and onto his chest faster than she could blink.  There was no time for words.  Instinctively, Buffy threw herself at him, tackling him to the ground and using their rolling to help tamp the flames that were scorching his flesh.  Her hands beat at the fire that the ground didn’t reach, her stomach in her throat as fear that she would be too late and he’d burst into a big pile of dust beneath her spurred her to go even faster.

Distantly, she became aware of giggling from the other side of the clearing, and shot a dirty look over her shoulder to see Willow laughing in glee.  “Now that’s more like it,” she heard the witch say.

“Who the hell are you?” Buffy snapped at her, the anger sharpening her words to a dangerous level that caused even the approaching vampires to hesitate.  “And just what do you think you’re doing?”

Willow’s hands were tracing discreet patterns in the air, and the smile she offered the Slayer glowed in menace.  “My name’s Sandrine,” she said lightly, “and I’m just getting started.”  Her hands came together then, a sharp clap piercing the air, and in a flash, she and the others around the fire had disappeared.

The Slayer didn’t have any time to contemplate the sudden absence of the quartet as the vampires that had been hanging back suddenly descended.  Five of them, and she was on her feet, a whirl of leather and lace as her leg swung around, sending two of them flying away, while a lithe twist of her torso landed her behind two others, grabbing their heads and slamming them together, not even waiting for them to crumple unconscious to the ground before turning to the last. 

He approached with a clumsy gait, awkwardly lunging at her.  She sidestepped him easily, driving her stake into his back, and settled back to the pair on the ground.  They dusted just as quickly.  When she’d straightened, ready to go after the two she’d kicked, Buffy caught only the flash of their backs as they scurried away into the depths of the swamp, the absence of their leader and the death of their comrades stripping them of their bravado in the face of the Slayer.

Instantly, she was back at Spike’s side, crouching in the mud as she rolled him gently onto his back.  The flashlight had been smashed when she’d been trying to extinguish the magical fire, but she could still see the marks it left behind by the faint light of the moon trickling through the trees.  The left side of the vampire’s face was an oozing scarlet mess that made her heart ache in sympathy, his skin abnormally hot, while half of his shirt was seared away, the burns trailing crimson rivers down his neck and onto his chest, shallow channels that seeped in blood.

Hot tears prickled Buffy’s eyes, but she furiously blinked them back, forcing herself to concentrate on the practical matter at hand.  He was unconscious, which was probably a good thing because the pain from the burns was most likely enormous.  But unconscious meant unable to move on his own, which left her no other alternative but to try and carry him back to the car.

She grimaced.  Crap.  The car.  No way was he going to be able to drive like this.  Could she remember how to get back to town on her own?  She wasn’t entirely sure.  For that matter, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to manage being behind the steering wheel of the Desoto in the first place without sending it crashing into the nearest immovable object. 

“Spike,” she said softly, placing her hand on his good shoulder and nudging him gently.

No response.

“Spike,” she said a little louder, her shake a little firmer, but still, the vampire never even stirred.

“Damn it,” Buffy muttered.  Rising to her feet, her gaze scanned the swampy area, assessing the demon situation just to be safe.  Nothing going off on the Slayer radar, not funny neck tingles, no hair standing on end on her arms.  The only thing that was running rampant through her body now was all the bells and whistles screaming inside her head about Spike.

The panic that had exploded across her nerves was only now receding, but it was the recognition of how stricken she’d gotten that rattled Buffy more than anything else.  How could she have done it?  How could Willow have attacked them like that?  And where the hell had she gotten such power behind her magic?

Except it wasn’t Willow.  If she’d had any doubts of Spike’s assessment before her little magic show, they were now completely gone.  She had called herself Sandrine, and Sandrine was the one who had attacked them.  No way could gentle Willow have been so vicious.  She was the one who’d stopped Spike from trying to kill himself before he realized he could still hurt demons.  She was the one who baked chocolate chip cookies to make everyone feel better.  It just wasn’t in her to turn so viciously against her friends.  Not the Willow Buffy knew.

But who this Sandrine was left a huge question to be answered, an answer she wasn’t going to get standing in the middle of a stinky swamp with a bleeding, unconscious vampire at her feet.

As carefully as she could manage, Buffy hoisted Spike up and over her shoulder, feeling the blood from his various wounds---the burns, the puncture in his thigh---seep into her clothing, sticking the fragile fabric of her top to her skin.  Job number one was to successfully find her way back to the car without his help.  She’d figure out where to take it from there once she found it.

*************

She had teleported them to a spot inside the French Quarter, and smiled instantly as a rash of young men hurried past them, their hands in various pockets, undeniable swaggers announcing their sexuality for anyone caring to pay attention.  Raucous laughter poured from the club behind Sandrine, and she twisted in her place on the sidewalk, green gaze hungrily surveying the thriving populace.

“Looks like my town has grown up a bit while I’ve been gone,” she purred in delight.  A pair of twenty-something lovebirds stumbled drunkenly through the exit, lurching awkwardly against her without even taking their hands from the other’s body.  Her smile widened as she watched them stroll away, oblivious to the slight disruption they had just caused.  “Although some things certainly haven’t changed,” she added.

“You should rest,” Stella said, but when her chocolaty hand lowered to rest on the redhead’s cheek, Sandrine swatted it away with a frown.

“I’ve been resting for far too long,” she growled.  “I’m ready to wake up.”  She leveled a dangerous gaze at the singer, her mouth thin.  “And why’d you bother bringing me here if you’re not going to let me have any fun?”

“You know why,” Stella crooned.

“Your little parlor tricks might’ve worked on the little witch,” Sandrine said, and her voice chilled even Iris as she spoke, “but she didn’t really know what a traitorous bitch you are, now did she?”  Her nostrils flared as she fought to repress her anger.  “Whereas, I have firsthand experience on how you deliberately sabotaged all our hard work the first time around here, Bettina.”

Stella blanched at the use of her previous name, but held her chin high.  “That wasn’t me.  I’m only interested in getting back the voix mortelle.”

“Funny.”  Sandrine’s gaze swept over the woman in disdain before turning away and starting to stroll down the sidewalk.  “That’s what you said the first time.”

She had placed several feet between her and the others, when she felt Iris fall into beside her, cool gaze appraising her from the corner of her blue eyes.  “You don’t need her, you know,” the vampire said, her voice barely audible above the din of the crowd.  “She wasn’t able to retrieve the voix mortelle without you.  Who’s to say you can’t get it without her?”

For a moment, Sandrine’s eyes softened as the memories of the past bobbed to the surface.  Bettina had betrayed her, and though it would be impossible for Sandrine to do it completely on her own, she wasn’t convinced the other woman knew where the other half of the voix mortelle actually was.  Someone else did, though, and her mouth hardened as the witch’s memories merged with her own.

“I have a place not far from here,” Iris continued, the cajoling wheedle in her voice slithering over the smaller woman’s skin like a snake.  “I also have employees who would appreciate a nice snack.”

Sandrine smiled.  “I have a better idea,” she replied, but before Iris could respond, she had whirled and darted to force herself between Stella and Freddie, looping her arms conspiratorially through theirs.  “Let’s not fight,” she said brightly to the pair.  “I’m just all cranky from this whole re-emergence thing.  Being brought back from the dead can really do a number on your head.”  She deliberately ignored the puzzled frowns the pair shot at each other over her head, forcing the smile to remain on her face even as she wished to tear their arms from their sockets.  “Let’s go clean up, get some food, and have a look around town.  We’ll have time enough to worry about that silly staff tomorrow, right?”

*************

Willow could only watch in growing horror at the scene being played out before her.  Sandrine’s thoughts came through to her in bits and pieces; it seemed the stronger the feeling, the clearer it came, and right now the other woman was sitting on about a kegful of anger and hatred directed at this Bettina person. 

That was Stella, she knew that much.  Seeing Stella now was like seeing her through a wall of water with someone else standing in the middle of the stream.  She was clearly the statuesque singer she’d met back in Sunnydale, but at the same time, there was a ghostly image superimposed over her, a curvaceous blonde with dimples that never ended.

Freddie wasn’t just Freddie, either.  Over him hung the specter of a young man named Percy, who surprisingly enough, actually closely resembled his current incarnation in many ways.  Tall, bland, forgettable.  Except for the depth of anger in the black pools he had for eyes.  She realized now why she’d never really warmed up to Freddie from the beginning.

They had gone back to Iris’ place, and Sandrine had immediately collapsed onto the overstuffed couch, entertaining herself by dragging out a dagger that had been on display on the end table.  Willow watched helplessly as she turned it over and over in her hands, regarding the others across the elegant living room as they waited nervously for some type of guidance from the redhead.

“You know, I’ve changed my mind,” Sandrine announced loudly.

This was it.  It was coming.  Willow only wished she had eyes to close so that she didn’t have to watch.

“It’s really too late to be worrying about the staff tonight,” Stella said, glancing at Iris warily when the vampire sidled closer to her.  “We have time.  You said so.”

“Not about that.  I’ve changed my mind about you.”  She pointed the tip of the blade at the singer.  “The way I figure it, you’ve done about all you can in this little adventure by bringing me back, so I think it’s time to cut you loose.”

Freddie jumped when Iris grabbed Stella’s shoulders, a strong arm wrapping firmly about her chest, pinning her arms in place so that she couldn’t move, her other hand covering her mouth.  He grimaced when she cried out in pain as her cracked ribs grated against each other, his eyes darting between her and Sandrine.  “You’re not going to kill her, are you?” he croaked, fear etched across his face.

“No.”  Willow could almost feel the malice drip from Sandrine’s smile as she held out the knife.  “You are.”

He paled.  “No,” he said.  “You can’t make me.  We’re in this together.  Stella’s been the one to organize this from the beginning.  She’s---.”

“---blah, blah, blah.  Save your little speech, Freddie, because I’m very much not interested in hearing it.  And you’re right.  I can’t make you.  I could kill her myself, but then I’d be so frightened of losing your loyalty that I’d have no choice but to kill you as well.  So.  It’s really up to you.  Kill her, and you live.  Don’t kill her, and you both die.”

Their gazes were locked, his beseeching, hers ice-cold.  “Please don’t make me do this,” he begged.  “Anything else to prove my loyalty to you, but not this.  Not Stella.”

“But don’t you see?” Sandrine argued.  “That’s why it has to be this.  Because I know how much you love her.  Show me that the power means more.  Show me that I mean more.”

No! Willow screamed inside her prison.  Don’t do it.  It’s not worth it.  Stand up to her.  Help me fight her.  But she knew even as she thought it that it was pointless.  She could see the fear in his eyes, could practically smell it coming off his skin.  Even if she could figure out how to fight against Sandrine, it was going to be too late for Stella.  She was going to die, one way or another that night.

Please, Buffy, you have to stop her, she thought as Freddie lifelessly took the dagger and turned toward the captive Stella.  She saw the silent regret jump between them, two sets of eyes moist with tears about what was to come.  You and Spike.  Find a way.  Please.

But even her frantic entreaties were silenced when the blade sliced cleanly through the singer’s throat, her lifeless body falling to the floor in a spray of blood as Iris released her from her grip.

*************

With a heavy sigh, D’Hoffryn closed the portal through which he’d been viewing the events at Sira Sommeil.  So near, and yet…so far.  A close eye on Sandrine---and how right had he been about the power housed within young Willow Rosenberg when he’d visited her the previous fall, so rich, so strong---and he was sure that the staff of the voix mortelle would soon appear.  Then, it would just be a matter of retrieving the crown and it would be his again.  Whole.  In his collection.  Where it belonged.

Provided, of course, the Slayer didn’t intervene again.

She was persistent, and her devotion to her friends immense, and he had no doubt that she would pursue this to the bitter end, even if she didn’t know exactly what was involved.  He could conceivably send some assassins after her, but that would be costly and would very likely fail to distract her for long.  No, he needed a more serious threat to get her nose out of this business, something that would cut more deeply, something…

His smile was slow as it came to him, its simplicity appealing.  Oh, that would be delightful, he thought maliciously.  Because why kill when he could wound?  And wouldn’t the world be such an interesting place again should those wounds be allowed to fester...

It would need to happen quickly, of course.  No time for dillydallying.  The sooner the better, because there was no telling how long Anyanka was going to keep her mouth shut.  For all he knew, she’d already blabbed the entire thing; it wasn’t as if she had any doubts any longer about what this was all about.

Time to get Halfrek.  He had another job for her to do.

*************

Giles was scribbling something on one of the hotel notepads, the telephone cradled in his shoulder, when Xander pushed the door to their room open.  He kept his silence as he dropped the suitcase by the entrance, collapsing into the chair by the window as he automatically reached forward to begin playing with the air conditioning controls.  They had had to wait forever for a flight to New Orleans, and none of them were in a good mood.  It was probably a good thing that the girls were sharing a separate room while they were here; Xander didn’t think Anya liked him very much right about now.  For that matter, he wasn’t sure he really liked himself very much.

“What’s that about, G-man?” he asked when the Watcher set down the phone.

“Spike left a message on my answering machine,” Giles replied.  “He and Buffy have moved into a hotel.” 

“What, did he leave blood on the sheets at the last one or something?”  Xander rolled his eyes.  “Someone needs to teach that vamp how to be a proper houseguest.”

“I don’t know what happened,” Giles murmured.  Picking up the receiver again, he began punching in a new set of numbers, reading them from his scrawled notes.  “Did you get Tara and Anya settled in?”

“If you mean, did I get heat stroke toting enough luggage to make Imelda Marcos jealous, the answer to that would be, yeah.  Last I saw, Anya was searching through the pay-per-view options.  She seems to be under the impression that she and Tara are having a girls night in, complete with porn, popcorn, and pizza.  Not necessarily in that order.”  He leaned forward so that the renewed blast of cool air coming from the vent would hit him full in the face, and sighed in relief.

Giles shook his head.  “This is not a vacation,” he said.  “This is---room one-four-two, please,” he said into the receiver before looking back at Xander.  “This is for Willow.  We are not here for recreational purposes.”

“She knows that.  She’s just…venting a little bit.”  Anya had been like a caged animal during the entire flight, every mile that drew them nearer to New Orleans only increasing her agitation.  Every few minutes, she would get up to wander the length of the aisle, paging the flight attendant for the most inane of requests when she found herself tied to her seat.  Only Tara seemed to be able to get through to her at the moment; her calming influence had actually saved them from a huge scene when the attendant had mistakenly brought the ex-demon an orange juice when she’d asked for apple.  He had long since decided it was a good thing that the two girls were sharing a room.  Perhaps a little distance from him and his own disorderly thoughts and emotions was exactly what they needed right now to fix what had happened between them.

The silence stretched as he watched Giles wait for an answer, the older man’s frown deepening with each passing second.  Eventually, he pressed a button on the phone, and cleared his throat.  “Yes, there doesn’t appear to be any answer there,” he said into the receiver.  “Could I leave a message please?”

Xander’s eyes fluttered shut as he listened to Giles rattle off their hotel information before hanging up the phone.  “Does this mean we can sleep now?”

Wearily, the Watcher sat on the edge of the farthest bed and took off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “I suppose we should rest while we can,” he said.  “There’s no telling when Buffy will call back.  I suspect she’s going to wish to start on searching for further information on the voix mortelle as soon as possible.”

“She’s probably out there right now, beating up some unsuspecting demon because he made fun of her shoes or something.”  He grinned.  “With a pinch of luck, that just might be Spike.”

Giles didn’t answer.  He hadn’t told Xander that it seemed as if Buffy and Spike were actually sharing a hotel room, and though he didn’t believe that it really meant anything, he couldn’t help but wonder what might have happened to his Slayer since she’d left Sunnydale that would convince her to willingly do so.  Perhaps some sort of détente has been reached between them, Giles thought as he put his glasses back on and rose to get his toiletry bag.  Having Spike as a genuine ally will give us a remarkable edge, both here and back on the Hellmouth.  He and Buffy could make a formidable team if they would just work together without killing each other.

*************

“C’mon, Spike,” Buffy coaxed as she eased him from the passenger seat of the Desoto.  “We’re almost there.”

He was only half-awake, his flesh burning from some unseen heat beneath her touch, unintelligible mutterings under his breath a whisper against her skin, and she grimaced as he slumped heavily against her side.  She was exhausted, stress from fighting with the car’s mechanics as she attempted to navigate her way back to New Orleans on her own combining with the physical drain of having to keep Spike from getting hurt any further, leaving her barely able to keep her eyes open and desperately wishing that he would snap out of it long enough to be a help instead of a burden.  It wasn’t a fair thought and she knew it, but with dawn beginning to creep over the horizon, she just wanted to get him into their hotel room in one piece so that the entire nightmare ride home would’ve been worth it.

It didn’t help, of course, seeing some psycho in control of her best friend’s body.  How or why it had happened to Willow escaped Buffy’s grasp at the moment, and the fact that she had no idea how to fix it only cut deeper.  She beat things up, killed things.  That’s how Buffy solved her problems.  How could she even think about using the same tactics on this particular enemy when it wore her best friend’s face?  Though she knew she would do it if it came down to it---after all, she had actually killed Angel---the possibility of what a wreck it would leave in her life ripped her heart in two.  Maybe it’s just a temporary thing, she thought desperately.  Please only be a temporary thing.

In her arms, Spike’s murmurings grew louder, and this time she caught the occasional word of his ramblings.  Something about glowing this time, she heard, though none of it really made sense.  He had been floating between being out cold and this semi-conscious, delusional state since she’d poured him into the car back at the swamp, and Buffy was beginning to suspect that there was more to Sandrine’s little spell than just setting the vamp on fire.  He was behaving as if he were fevered, every inch of pale skin almost incandescent from the heat that was radiating from within, and the burns that scorched the left side of his body had only just stopped oozing a pale viscous liquid she didn’t recognize.  Plasma maybe, she thought as she stopped before the door of their room, fishing around in Spike’s pockets for the key.  She was being careful not to touch his wounds, and only hoped they didn’t hurt as much as it looked like they should.

The blast of cool air was a welcome relief as Buffy pushed the door open, guiding the vampire to the nearest bed.  When he pitched forward from her arms, landing with an audible moan directly on his burns, she flinched in sympathy, scooping her hands underneath his slim form to flip him over onto his back as cleanly as she could.  There was mud and blood everywhere, and quickly, she set to stripping him of his clothes, his boots and bedraggled coat landing in a pile at the end of the bed, his t-shirt torn in half and tossed into the wastebasket.  For a moment, she debated on taking off his jeans, but as the burns stopped just above his waistline, decided against it.  The less she moved him about, the better.  Now, she just needed to get some salve onto---.

“Buffy…” Spike groaned.

She was instantly at his side, eyes searching his face as his brow wrinkled as if in intense concentration.  It was the first coherent thing she’d heard from him, and her hand itched to reach out and brush back the curls from his forehead.  She didn’t, though.  She just sat perched on the edge of the mattress, ready for whatever was going to come next.  “I’m right here, Spike,” she soothed.

His head turned in the direction of her voice, and he tried opening his eyes, only to grimace in pain as his left refused to work properly from the swelling in his skin.  “Feel like hell,” he muttered.  Each word seemed to sap more of his strength, but there was no denying the snark underneath them, and she almost laughed in relief.

“Well, you look like hell,” she replied.  “Don’t move.  It’ll only make it worse.”

“Cold…”

Buffy frowned.  He never complained of the cold.  “I’ll get you another blanket.”  As she turned to go to the other bed, though, his hand shot out, grabbing her wrist with surprising strength, and she looked back to see the plea in his one open eye.

“Don’t go,” Spike asked.

“I was just---.”

“Don’t go,” he repeated.

“But you said you were cold.”  She noticed then that his thumb was stroking the inside of her wrist, but when she searched his face again, there was no acknowledgment there that he was doing it.

“You’re warm.”  Gently, he tugged at her, and she fell across his thighs, grateful at least that she’d missed the burns on his exposed flesh.  “Don’t go.  Please…need you.”

Sitting down put a whole new perspective on Buffy’s exhaustion, and suddenly the temptation of just curling up into Spike and sleeping seemed like the best one she’d had in days.  Worry about him, about Willow, about whoever the hell this Sandrine was and why she was hanging around with Iris…all of it was eating at her insides, and she wasn’t sure she had the fortitude at the moment to continue stewing on it.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she argued half-heartedly, but didn’t move from her position.

“Hurt more if you go,” he murmured.

That settled it.  As she stretched herself out along his right side, molding herself to his hard lines, her eyes drifted closed as her head nestled into his shoulder.  His flesh actually seemed warmer than hers, but he seemed satisfied with feeling her pressed against him, his arm curled protectively around her back.  Sleep.  Sleep would be good.  Sleep would give both of them what they needed---time to regroup, time to heal, time to rest.  I’ll just get a few hours, Buffy thought.  And then I’ll get up and call Giles.  He’ll tell me what to do.  He’ll help me fix all this.

She never saw the little red light flashing on the phone.

*************

Insistent knocking from somewhere so close it could only be their door roused Buffy from her slumber, and she groaned as she buried herself deeper into Spike’s shoulder, as if by doing so it would make the sharp rapping go away.  The movement only served to bring into sharper focus the heat beneath her cheek, and she lifted her head, looking at the waxiness of the vampire’s complexion next to the lividity of the burns.  A quick glance at the clock told her that in spite of the five hours rest they’d had, Spike’s healing powers didn’t seem to have been at work, his wounds still as harsh as they had been at dawn, and she rolled herself away from him, being careful not to rouse him from his sleep.

She needed to call Giles.  There had to be something she could do outside of standard first aid that could help this.  Giles would know what that something was.

But she had to answer the door first.

Picking her way over the mess she’d left in their room, Buffy rubbed tiredly at her eyes as she reached the door.  “Who is it?” she called out, leaning her forehead against the wood, her jaws snapping wide in a tremendous yawn.

“Buffy?”

The sound of her Watcher’s voice was an adrenaline shot directly into her heart, and Buffy straightened, her hand flying to undo the lock.  Throwing the door open, she had launched herself directly at him before he could react, clinging to his neck with Slayer strength that made him gasp even as he hugged her back.

“Oh my god, Giles!  You have the best Watcher timing ever!”

He smiled in spite of his discomfort.  “Well, thank you,” he stuttered, and then saw the disarray of the room behind her, his gaze flicking from the pile of clothes, to the muddy footprints, to the unconscious vampire on the bed.

Buffy felt him stiffen beneath her and pulled away, stepping inside the room even as she saw the rest of the gang hanging back behind him.  “When did you guys get here?”

“Last…night,” Giles replied and followed her in.  His head swiveled, his face darkening with every sweep, until finally he turned back to look at her in barely disguised worry.  “What in blazes happened here?”

“We found Willow, that’s what happened”

Her words caused the others to freeze, hovering just inside the door.  “Is sh-sh-she all right?” Tara asked, her face white.  “She’s not here, is she?”

Buffy’s shoulders slumped.  “No, I don’t know where she is now.  You guys better have a seat.  I think this is definitely a sitting down kind of story.”  She waited until the girls had situated themselves around the table, Xander hovering behind Anya, while Giles crossed to the side of the bed to more closely examine Spike.

“Have you only just returned?” the Englishman asked.  “Is that why Spike looks like he fell asleep in the sun again?”

She shook her head.  “We’ve been in for a while, and Spike looks like that courtesy of some bitch named Sandrine---.”

“That’s her name!”  Anya exploded with a wide smile.

All heads turned to look at the ex-demon.  “What’s that, Ahn?” Xander prompted.

“Sandrine.  The name of the mambo I couldn’t remember.  I knew it was something French.”  She frowned, suddenly aware of why she now remembered.  To Buffy, she said, “Wait.  You saw Sandrine?  How is that possible?  She should be long dead by now.”

“I don’t know about the being dead part, but yeah, I saw her.  Well, I sort of saw her.  In a weird, I don’t know what the hell happened, kind of way.”  She sighed.  “This is the part I was hoping you’d all be sitting down for.”

Briefly, Buffy explained the events of the night before, skimming over the details of how they discovered the location of the night’s events and heading straight for the meat of the story in the swamp.  As she reached the part about Willow’s disappearance, Tara stiffened in her seat, fearful eyes darting from the Slayer to Spike and back to the Slayer again, before locking on her folded hands in her lap.

“It took me most of the night to get back here,” Buffy finished wearily.  “Spike’s going to throw a fit when he sees the dings I put in his car, but at least I got him in before the sunrise.”  She watched as Giles bent over the vampire’s sleeping form.  “He was delirious when he was awake.  I think there was something extra in the spell she used on him.  It’s like he’s sick or something.”  Her hand reached out to touch her Watcher’s sleeve, waiting for him to look back at her before adding, “You can fix this…right?”

For a moment, Giles’ eyes narrowed behind his spectacles.  It could’ve been just an indication of her own exhaustion, but he would lay good money that that was genuine worry on his Slayer’s face.  The fact that the other bed had not been slept in had not escaped his attention either, and this additional show of concern for the vampire was only leading him to conclusions that he wasn’t sure he was ready to reach.  Still, Spike had more than proven his right to their care with his diligence in rescuing Willow, so due steps must be taken.

“We can do a healing spell to help counter some of the effects,” he said reassuringly.  He looked at Tara.  “I’ll need your help with it.”

The witch nodded.  “We’ll have to get supplies.”

“And breakfast?” Xander piped up.  He bristled as they all turned surprised eyes at him.  “We haven’t eaten yet,” he defended.  “And this growing boy is in need of pancake sustenance.”  The look he shot Anya was pointed.  “Not everyone got to dine on pizza goodness last night.”

This time, there was no mistaking the worry in his Slayer’s eyes as she looked back to Spike.  “Is he going to be all right if we leave him here alone?” she asked.

“What’s he going to do?  Take a walk?”  Anya gestured toward the closed curtains.  “It’s daylight outside.”

“He was really out of it,” Buffy argued.  “If he’s still delirious, there’s no telling what he’ll do.”

“I’ll stay and watch him.”  Tara held her ground under Giles’ curious gaze. “I’m not really hungry anyway, and you and Buffy should really get caught up.”

“Are you sure?” he pressed.  “It might---.”  He stopped himself before he went any further.  To suggest hearing more details about Willow somehow being turned into this Sandrine would most definitely not make the young woman feel any better.

She nodded.  “I’ll be fine.”

Buffy seemed satisfied with that.  “Let me just change really quick,” she said, and with a final glance at Spike, grabbed her bag to head for the bathroom.

*************

She waited until they were alone in the car before broaching the subject with him.  “Do you like Spike?” Buffy asked, watching Xander and Anya as they walked up to the IHOP to check out the wait.

Giles had suspected she would bring the vampire up sooner or later, but her question still managed to surprise him.  “It’s not always necessary to like those you’re forced to work with,” he replied, watching her out of the corner of his eye.  “Has the past week been difficult for you?”

She was twisting her fingers in her lap.  “Difficult doesn’t even begin to cover it.  Difficult would have to be the size of Montana to cover how hard this past week has been.”  She looked at him then.  “Montana’s one of the big states, right?”

Giles sighed.  So maybe things hadn’t gone as smoothly as he’d hoped.  So much for wishful thinking.  “Well, hopefully it won’t be that much longer,” he offered.  “With what Anya knows and what you have learned, I’m sure we’ll find a way to stop this Sandrine and get Willow back without much more interference from Spike.”

“Who said anything about interference?”  Buffy said, with a puzzled frown.  “Spike’s the main reason I know as much as I do.  He’s been bent over backwards to help me with this.  Any more backwards, and he’d be a pretzel.”

“I thought…you said…”  He stopped.  “I’m confused.  Are you and Spike not fighting?”

“Oh, we’re still fighting.  I don’t think that’ll ever go away.  But…I don’t know…”  She was at a loss for words, unable to meet her Watcher’s eyes.  She didn’t want to tell him about the kissing.  After what had happened with Willow’s spell the previous fall, she wasn’t sure he could handle knowing about that if he wasn’t already blind.  But it didn’t mean she couldn’t talk about some of the other issues.

“Do you ever wonder about why he’s helping us?  I mean, I can’t think of any other vamp who’d drive the Slayer across the country just to save her friend.”

“You did threaten him, Buffy.  And we almost always pay him for his troubles.  He uses us, just as we use him.”

“So that’s it?  That’s all it is?  He’s just using us?”  She turned her eyes to look at him then, and Giles saw the entreaty buried within the hazel.  She didn’t want to believe that was it, he realized.  She was sitting there, willing him to convince her that it was something else, and for a moment, he wished for her sake that he could.

“He doesn’t have a soul, Buffy,” Giles said gently.  “Everything he does, he does without the aid of any type of moral compass.  He’s not capable---.”

“But what if he is?” she argued.  “What if he deliberately chose to help us find Willow, not because he was afraid of me---which we all know he’s not, not really---but because he wanted to?  Because he might like Willow as a person and not as a potential dinner entrée?”

He didn’t know how to answer her.  It was obvious she’d been mulling these questions over for quite some time, and though Giles wanted to give her some type of definitive answer, the truth of the matter was, when it came to Spike, he was flying just as blind as the rest of the gang.  Certainly, he had his own theories about the chip reconditioning the vampire’s way of thinking, acting as an artificial means for affecting a new model of behavior, but that’s all they were.  Just theories.  Until he had proof before his eyes that something fundamental had changed within Spike to indicate otherwise, he was going to be forced to consider him a potential threat, muzzled most surely, but still…a threat.

A tap at the window saved him from replying and he looked out to see Xander.

“Who’s in the mood for pancakes?” the young man asked, smiling broadly.

*************

Her original plan had been to pop directly inside his hotel room, but the presence of the human female at his side had put a kibosh on that, leaving Halfrek standing outside the door, focusing her energy as she prepared to knock.  Get rid of the girl, do what she had to do, and get her tushie out of there.  Cake.

Frankly, though, she was tired of D’Hoffryn’s impromptu assignments in regards to this little obsession of his over the voix mortelle, and if it wasn’t for the fact that he had authorized a use of her powers that would normally require someone making a wish, she would’ve put up just a bit more of an argument.  OK, maybe not really.  He was still her boss.  But she would’ve at least pulled a face when he asked her to pop over to New Orleans.  She could’ve gotten away with that at least.

Straightening her skirt, she settled her features into an obsequious smile, preparing for the charade she was about to put on.  It was a brilliant plan, she had to admit that.  It would most definitely serve to distract the Slayer from this current business.  But how D’Hoffryn knew Halfrek was going to get away posing as this old acquaintance of Spike’s, she had no idea.  Oh well.  Not her problem.  One knock, and she heard the light footsteps approach the door.

“Hi,” the blonde who answered said, a polite but confused smile on her face.  “Can I help you?”

“I’m Cecily.  I’ve stopped by to check on William,” she said, her faux English accent firmly in place.  She let her gaze flicker over the blonde’s shoulder.  “Oh, my.  Did I get the wrong room?”

“William?”  A moment, and then recognition.  “You mean Spike?”

The vampire’s name seemed to capture his attention and both women watched as his eyes fluttered open, blue turning to blink against the sunshine streaming in through the doorway.  “Cecily?” he muttered. 

Thank god for passing resemblances and magical fevers, the demon thought as she brushed her way past the young girl.  “Hello, William,” she said softly, stopping at the side of the bed.  She leaned forward and brushed the curls away from his forehead.  “You’re looking a little worse for wear.”

Hallie was glad the blonde couldn’t see the confusion in his eyes, and took care to shield his face from her when she stepped closer.

“I’m s-s-sorry,” she apologized.  “I didn’t know---.”

“That’s perfectly all right,” Halfrek interrupted.  She shot the girl a smile.  “I don’t suppose I could get you to fetch me a soda from the machine?” she queried.  “This New Orleans heat just does me in, I’m afraid.”

She was torn between her duty to her charge and her Southern upbringing, and the demon watched as the blonde let the debate play out silently across her face.  Manners won out in the long run, and she smiled at the arrival politely.

“Of course,” she said.  “I’ll be right back.”

As soon as she was alone, Halfrek turned back to the bed, perching herself on its edge, ignoring the vampire’s wince of pain as she brushed against the worst of his burns.  “We really shouldn’t dally with this, now should we?” she said lightly.

“You’re not really here,” Spike croaked.

“You just keep thinking that, William.” 

When her hand settled on his forehead, he flinched, trying to pull away, only to be held firmly in place by her hand pressing down onto his scorched shoulder.  “Hurts…” he muttered, but he was rooted, unable to move against her strength.

“I know, I know,” she crooned.  “But not for much longer.”

He struggled beneath her hands, but Halfrek’s face was firm as she held him down.  There was a flash, and the veins popped out in his neck as Spike’s back arched away from the bed, his teeth gritting against the pain, eyes now wide as they rolled back into his head.  It lasted for only a moment, but seemed an eternity, frozen there in time as both demons locked within the throes of her power.

When he fell back against the mattress, his lids were shut, his body unconscious yet again, and slowly, Halfrek pulled away, rising to her feet, the hand that had been on his head curled protectively around its silicon treasure.

“No more pain, William,” she said, and in a blinding flash, she was gone.

*************

She was forced to watch from the sidelines as Giles and Tara did the healing spell, but she was far from calm, far from feeling secure about the whole thing.  Too many fears and questions roiled within Buffy’s brain, most of them instigated by the odd conversation she’d had with the blonde witch when she’d returned from IHOP.

“Who’s Cecily?” Tara had asked.

“Who?”

“Cecily.  The pretty English girl who said she was a friend of Spike’s?  She stopped by to see how he was doing.”

“I don’t know any Cecily.”

“Well, he knew her.  But she didn’t stick around for very long.  She was gone before I could bring her back the Coke she wanted.”

And that had been it.  Giles had walked in then with the rest of the supplies and the subject had been changed to the spell at hand.  It didn’t leave Buffy feeling good as she stepped back, allowing them to do their thing.  Cecily?  Who was she?  She wracked her brain, trying to remember everyone they had met since coming to New Orleans, but no one sounded remotely like the description Tara had given her.  And even if she was a friend of Spike’s, how in hell did she know where they were staying, let alone that Spike was hurt?  Buffy had told no one their new location, and the vamp had only admitted to calling Giles with it.  Logic dictated that there should be nobody else who should know where they were just yet.

It might’ve been better if Spike was conscious; at least then, she could’ve asked him herself.  But he was still out of it, had been since Tara had returned to find their mystery guest gone.  Buffy was tempted to try and wake him up, but sleep seemed to finally be doing him some good.  With his skin cooler to the touch, the burns less angry, the best course of action seemed to be to let Giles speed his healing powers along with the spell.

Which meant Buffy had to wait in anticipatory quiet while they went about their business.

If she could just have someone to talk to, she would’ve been happier.  The problem was, all the other occupants in the room were either unconscious or wrapped up in the mojo, so she was pretty much out of luck.  Even talking to Anya would’ve been a preferred option than stewing in silence, but the ex-demon had begged off with a headache after breakfast, driving Giles to distraction until he’d dropped her off at the other hotel.

The tension between Xander and Anya had been as thick as the blueberry syrup he’d smothered his pancakes with, but he stayed in the car when she got out, watching her through his window as she fought with the seemingly non-functioning card key.

Buffy didn’t know the details---lack of privacy at the restaurant meant limited gossiping opportunities---but even she couldn’t help but see something was wrong.  “It’s probably not a good idea to split up right now,” she’d said to him, hoping he’d take the hint.  “Not that I think Sandrine could’ve figured out you guys were in town already, but it’s probably better to be safe than sorry, I think.”

His face had flushed in relief, quickly settling into a more neutral definition as his fingers tugged at the handle.  “Right,” he’d said.  “Remember to call if you need us for anything?”

Does being driven crazy by unanswerable questions qualify as needing anything? Buffy wondered, grimacing as the scent of the poultice Tara was applying to Spike’s chest drifted in her direction.  The vampire wasn’t moving, not even as the slim fingers eased the ointment into the worst of the burns, and the crawl of sympathetic pain the Slayer felt along her own skin made her wish---yet again---that there was something she could do.  She hugged her arms around her knees, watching as Giles stepped away and turned to face her.

“That’s about all we can do at the moment,” he said quietly, as if raising his voice would somehow disturb the unconscious vampire.

“How long will it take?” she asked, her gaze locked on Spike’s bared chest.

“The effects should be fairly immediate,” Giles replied.  “It appears as if his own natural defenses have finally begun to work as well, so really, it should just be a matter of hours before the worst of it is gone.”

“And what then?”

“See what he needs.”  Tara hovered at the Watcher’s elbow, eyes serious.  “Make him as comfortable as he can get, but if it really hurts, try a lukewarm shower or a bath before using any more of the cream if you can help it.  It’s very potent and I’m not sure what its effects on a demon might be.”

“Do you wish us to…stay?”  He was hesitant to ask the question.  His charge’s concern for Spike had been growing exponentially since she’d first opened the door to them that morning, in spite of the talk they had had in the IHOP parking lot, and it was very apparent that she was feeling helpless in the face of his injury.

“No,” she dismissed with a vague wave of her hand.  “You guys go talk to Anya about the whole Sandrine thing.  See if she can remember anything else that might help us in finding out how they’ve managed to take over Willow’s body in this.  I’ll call you when Spike wakes up.”

Giles nodded, knowing that’s what she would say.  “If you need anything---,” he started.

“I’ll call.”

She was perched on the edge of the mattress, eyes expertly scanning the wounds, before the pair had even left the room.  With Giles and the others here, she could let go a little bit of her worry about Willow while she waited for Spike to heal.  It wasn’t right to see him so helpless; in spite of what he was, the vamp was by far one of the most vital people she knew and witnessing him prostrate, drained of the essence that made him soar around the periphery of her world, left her feeling vaguely uncomfortable. 

She was lying.  It was much more than vaguely.

“You better be all right,” she said out loud, and risked reaching forward to trail her fingertips over his unmarked cheek.  “Don’t make me kick your ass by dying on me now.” 

Not when I think I’m falling in love with you, she added silently.

*************

He hadn’t really said anything since following her to her room, hovering behind her as she slipped in the key---and god how she missed the days of mechanical locks and not these stupid pseudo credit cards that required split-second timing in order to get to work right---following her into her room without even bothering to ask, plopping down into the chair by the door when she’d disappeared into the bathroom.  Part of Anya hoped that Xander would be gone when she stepped back out, but the tiny wounded puppy part of her was more than a little glad that he’d come after her. 

Of course, it was kind of freaking her out that he wasn’t saying anything, just watching her as she re-emerged and stretched out on the bed, not smiling but not frowning, either.  Fear about what was going to come, about facing off with Sandrine who might or might not be Willow, was stretching her nerves taut, and though she wanted more than anything to be able to work off some of the tension one way or another, she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of being the first to talk.  She hadn’t done anything wrong.  One of these days, Xander would just have to realize that.

“Does it feel any better yet?” he finally said.

Anya frowned, opening her eyes to stare at him.  That wasn’t what she’d been expecting him to say.  There was nothing remotely resembling an apology in those words.  “Does what feel any better?” she asked.

“Your headache.”

Her excuse for not having to watch Buffy make googly eyes at Spike.  She’d almost forgotten about that.  Actually, she had forgotten about it.  “It’s all right,” she replied, and closed her eyes again.  “You can go back to your room now.  I won’t tell Buffy you shirked your duties by leaving me alone.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“That’s the reason you’re here, right?  Because Buffy doesn’t want anyone on their own with Sandrine out there.”  His silence was the only confirmation she needed, and Anya sighed.  Sometimes she wished that it wasn’t so easy to read the Slayer.  Like this new fascination with Spike.  Well, not so new.  Anyone with two working eyes could’ve seen it coming.  The tension between the pair had always been ridiculously evident, and while having Riley around had probably kept the more sexual thoughts at bay, now that he was out of the picture, Anya knew that it had been just a matter of time before something exploded between them.  Apparently, that matter constituted the length of a road trip across the country.

“Just go away, Xander,” she said wearily.  “I’m not really in the mood to play watchdog right now.  I’ll be fine until the Slayer brigade returns.”

He didn’t move, though, nor did he say a word, leaving her in that same awkward silence until she felt her muscles twitching from lying still so long.  Finally, she bolted up, drawing her legs into a lotus position as she folded her arms across her chest.  “What?” she demanded.  “What is it?  Why are you finding it so necessary to annoy me like this?”

“I’m not doing anything.  I’m just sitting here.”

“Sitting there being judgmental.  I can hear you thinking all the way over here.”

Xander sighed.  “When are we going to talk about this, Ahn?  We can’t go on like this indefinitely.”

“Are you ready to apologize for how you treated me?”

His face clouded, bewilderment in his eyes.  “I know I haven’t exactly been Mr. Smooth in dealing with all this, but what do I have to be sorry for?  I wasn’t the one who lied---.”  He broke off his thought when Anya flopped back down onto the bed, rolling away from him so that her shoulders hunched in furious knots before his face.  “Now what?  What did I say?”

She was beginning to wonder why she was even bothering.  He didn’t get it, and for as long as Buffy or Willow was around, there was no way Anya was ever going to come out on top in any argument that might include them.  Xander still didn’t realize just how deeply his mistrust of her cut and though she wasn’t sure what else she had been expecting, it certainly wasn’t this unspoken disavowal of his own fault in this.  Maybe she’d been wrong about how good things had been between them.  Maybe the past nine months had just been one big lie.

The tears stung as they sprang from nowhere, and she squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to let him see her break down.  She was strong, damn it.  She’d spent a thousand years reducing men like Xander Harris to quivering piles of entrails and corpuscles.  Quite often literally. 

So why did she feel like curling into a little ball and crying until the next millennium had passed?

“I’m tired,” she said simply, keeping her voice as neutral as possible.  “I think I’m going to take a nap before the next inquisition starts.”

She could hear him shuffling around in his seat and curled her body around the pillow she clutched, forcing herself to keep her eyes closed as anxiety clawed into her stomach with pincer-like needles.  It would be nice if she could just go back to worrying about this Sandrine mess like she’d been doing on the plane; that was something tangible, finite, most likely ending in someone’s death.  Hopefully Sandrine’s and not someone she actually cared about, like her or Xander.  But his proximity made it difficult to refocus her emotions and instead she simmered in a bath of hurt, her mind flitting from each possibility---hope that maybe he would understand just what was going on in her head, anger that he didn’t, worry that perhaps she was doing something wrong, and frustration that she’d already done as much as she could and it still wasn’t enough.

Behind her, the mattress shifted, depressing under his weight and pulling her toward its center, but she held her body rigid, holding her breath as she waited to see what he would do.  Seconds stretched interminably, and then she felt the hesitant touch of his fingers along her shoulder, stroking the wrought muscles with ever-increasing pressure.  The sigh escaped her before she could stop it, and mentally, Anya kicked herself for being weak even as she relaxed into his tentative massage.  How unfair was it that the pride of D’Hoffryn’s fold, the vengeance demon who had wreaked havoc in the lives of thousands upon thousands of ungrateful men, could be reduced to a vulnerable mass of jelly simply from the reassuring hand of the man she cared about?  He wasn’t ready to see his own blame in the mess of the last few days---on that, he had been abundantly clear---but somehow knowing that he was bothered enough to follow her into the hotel, to want to comfort her even if he didn’t understand why, meant something.

She just hoped that that something was enough.

*************

Willow woke up before Sandrine.

OK, weird with a side order of just plain eerie, she thought.  Hold the confusion.

Everything was black---well, duh, she’s asleep and her eyes are closed---and the sense of nothingness that wrapped Willow in its embrace was almost scarier than the events of the previous evening.  Or morning.  She was kind of losing track of time in the face of everything that was going on.

Sandrine had ordered Freddie to get rid of Stella’s body, and once she and Iris were alone, the two women had spent hours discussing the ins and outs of Sira and the voix mortelle.  It surprised Willow at first that Sandrine wasn’t frightened in the least by the vampire, but after the glimpses---and sometimes too long and too hard looks---of the workings of the other presence’s mind, it made more sense.  The woman who now controlled her body had seen and caused just as much mayhem and hate as any demon Willow had ever known.  There was very little that scared her at all, so sitting around having drinks was probably a Sunday in the park with Iris to her.

Her plans were oddly familiar, and more than once, Willow had wondered why it was so many people were obsessed in end of the world scenarios.  Do they think they’ll get a free pass to live when it’s all over with?  Hello, end of the world means no more place for you too, you moron.  Think about it for a second.  She had quickly learned that she didn’t have to listen to everything that was going on, that by refocusing her thoughts elsewhere she could block out some of the more inane and boring details of what Sandrine was considering.  She still had to see whatever Sandrine was witnessing, but it was kind of like daydreaming during class.  There, but not.  Buffy would be really good at this, she couldn’t help but think at one point.

It helped that Sandrine seemed to have absolutely no clue that Willow was still around.  The witch was sure that if her presence was detected, one or the both of them would’ve done some more vodou just to purge what remained of her consciousness.  The thought terrified her.  As long as she could cling to whatever corner of her mind was available, there was a chance she could get back in control of her body.  She wouldn’t give up until she absolutely had to.

The sudden light that filled her head would’ve made Willow blink, and she saw the world come into focus around her as Sandrine abruptly woke up.  The desire to rub at her eyes was overwhelming, and even as Willow thought it, she felt her hand lift to her face and do exactly that.  It was disconcerting.  For a brief moment, it almost felt like she had been the one to instigate the movement.  The feeling quickly passed, however, when Sandrine rolled herself over, burying herself in the blankets and closing her eyes again.

At least it’s comfortable, she thought.  The night had been spent in Iris’ apartment, though Freddie had tried arguing the fact that Stella had already made arrangements for Sandrine to have her own place.  For some reason only known to Iris at this point, the two women needed each other, and Willow was safe for as long as that need was present.  Not relaxed about it, but safe, at least.

The sensation of her stomach rumbling jerked her from her reverie, and Willow listened to it for a moment before feeling her annoyance at Sandrine swell.  Hello, hungry here, she thought.  The least you could do if you’re going to steal my body is feed it every once in a while.  Images of pancakes and orange juice popped inside her mind, and she heard as well as felt the corresponding growl from her abdomen.  Wish I could just get up and go make my own breakfast, she thought.  Even just a banana would be nice about now.

 It was then that Sandrine threw back the covers, rising to her feet and padding automatically to the door.  Willow watched as she moved almost silently to the kitchen, heading straight for the refrigerator and opening it up, peering inside at its bare shelves before closing it again.  So much for food.  Maybe just a glass of water then.

And she moved to the sink, reaching overhead to the cupboard, just as Willow would’ve done had she been in control of her body.

The jolt of hopefulness sharpened the witch’s attention, alerting her to the sudden realization that she wasn’t really that aware of Sandrine’s presence at the moment.  Is it just coincidence? she wondered.  Once might be an accident, but three times is too fluky, even for me.

Time to test the theory.  As Sandrine’s hand---My hand! My hand!---reached for the tap, Willow concentrated on not wanting the water, and mentally squealed when her fingers hesitated above the sink, as if waiting for another command.  Put the glass down.

Except for the fact that she knew she wasn’t the one really moving her limbs, it could’ve been Willow who replaced the glass in the cupboard.  The possibilities of why it was happening tumbled around inside her thoughts, but even as they did so, she felt the insidious cold pressure of Sandrine returning to consciousness, as if it had taken her this long to fully awaken.  Her thoughts, like icy fingers slinking around her brain, permeated Willow’s, and she felt the modicum of control she had gained slip away, leaving her as helpless as she had been before.

Except I’m not helpless.  She doesn’t know I’m here.  And if I can tell her what to do when she’s not fully awake, I don’t have to sit back and wait for Buffy and Spike to come around and save me.  I can do some of the saving myself, for a change.

*************

He wasn’t cold any more.  If anything, it felt like his flesh was on fire, his left side searing as he kicked at the blanket bunched around his feet.  With a grimace, Spike opened his eyes, peering into the too-bright light of the hotel room, the edges of everything fuzzy and glowing as if his eyes had been closed for decades and he was only now regaining his sight.  Next to the bed, he saw Buffy sitting curled up in the chair, a sheen of sweat glistening across her forehead, a drop of moisture collecting in the tiny hollow above her upper lip.  The word scrumptious popped unbidden into his head, and in spite of his discomfort, Spike felt the stirrings of his arousal within the confines of his jeans, the denim yielding only the slightest to the pressing of his of erection.

She was asleep, or at least resting, her eyes closed, lashes surprisingly dark against her cheek.  Through the cracks of the curtains, he could see the promise of sunshine, and wondered briefly why she was so tired during the daytime.  That’s when the memories of the previous night came flooding back, the confrontation with Red/not-Red, the power of the gris gris repelling the attack on Buffy, the magic that had slammed into his body with the poker-hot claws that had made his flesh crawl.  He vaguely remembered getting back to the hotel---although how the Slayer had managed in his car made his head ache---and for some reason, Spike was convinced that he’d dreamt of Cecily and the blonde witch, both of them speaking to him, touching him, making his body hurt even more.

Should’ve just stayed on the Hellmouth, he groused silently, but knew even as he thought it that it wasn’t what he wanted.  No way in hell would he have traded any of the past week, even if he did currently feel like a marshmallow left a little too long over an open flame.  Being with the Slayer---Buffy, he could think of her like that now---made him begin to feel like his old self again in a lot of ways, in spite of the psychological setbacks he’d experienced learning about the gris gris woman’s eerily familiar words.  He felt strong, empowered.  Respected, almost.  Buffy had come a long way in trusting that he could help, and for some reason, that meant more than any of the other combined.

The urge to sit up was overwhelming, and with a slight groan, Spike swung his legs around, setting his feet down on the floor as he sat himself up.  Immediately, Buffy’s eyes flew open, her own limbs mimicking his actions, and she was standing there, hands pressing into his shoulders, holding him back from rising completely.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.  “You’re not going to heal if you don’t take it easy.”

“Good morning to you, too,” he said.  His head tilted, his brows knitting together as he watched her gaze sweep over his wounds, the hands that had been holding him down dancing over the edges of the burns gracing his skin.

“They look better,” she commented.  “Do they still hurt?”

His response was a sharp hiss when she touched a particularly sensitive spot.  “Like a bitch,” Spike admitted.  “But bein’ conscious I figure bodes well for gettin’ better.”

“Yeah, Tara’s spell really seemed to work.”  She frowned, suddenly aware of the stickiness of her skin, and glanced behind her at the radiator.  “Why is it so hot in here?” Buffy said.  Crossing to the wall, she began turning dials on the air conditioning, her frown deepening as nothing happened, the grate remaining silent as the fan refused to work.  “Crap,” she muttered.  “It was working earlier.”

“Did you say Tara’s spell?” Spike asked.  “Does that mean Rupert and your little friends finally decided to show their faces?”

She nodded, absorbed in the mechanics as she tried to get it to work.  “Tara watched you while we went out for breakfast and got the supplies to do the healing spell.  You were really burning up for a while there.”  She paused, and he could see the thoughts playing across her face before she turned back to look at him.  “Who’s Cecily?”

It was the last name he expected to ever hear from Buffy’s mouth, and he visibly started.  “How the hell do you know about Cecily?” he demanded.

“She stopped by to see how you were doing.  When did we meet her?  Because I can’t remember.”

All thoughts of his pain vanished.  Cecily?  Here?  Wasn’t possible.  Spike’s mind flitted back to his dreams, the sensations of Cecily’s fingers on his head, the pain that had wracked through him.  What had she said to him?  He remembered being called William, and something about…pain?  Fuck.  For some reason, it seemed important that he know what had happened, because how in hell had somebody from today even known about a callous bitch who’d lived more than a century earlier? 

More importantly, why would they pose as her?

“Spike?”

He realized then that Buffy was waiting for an answer, and shook his head.  “It’s not possible,” he said as strongly as he could manage.  “Someone’s just messin’ around with us.  Maybe it’s Iris.”  He didn’t really think so, but at that point, there didn’t seem to be any other options.

It was enough to distract Buffy, though, and she turned away.  “I’m going to call Giles,” she said.  “We need to get out of this hotel if we’ve been found.  Plus, this heat without air conditioning?  Not my idea of fun.”

He didn’t really hear her, though, as memories of long ago danced before his mind’s eye, questions upon questions piling up as he tried to sort out the fantasy from the reality.  What exactly had happened?  Cecily being around just couldn’t be, yet there had apparently been witnesses to her presence.  Maybe it wasn’t a dream.  Maybe it had actually occurred.

But if that was true, what in the name of everything that was unholy did that mean for him?

*************

“Do you really think that’s such a good idea?”  Giles frowned as he watched Buffy toss the clothing she had only recently unpacked back into her bag, noting with confusion the sheen of the evening gowns Spike had bought for her as she carefully folded them.  Mopping at the sweat that beaded on his brow, he felt it begin an insidious path down the back of his neck, crawling beneath his open collar to add to the sticky rivulets that forced his shirt to cling to his skin, augmenting his discomfort beyond the headache he was already nursing.  At this rate, he might as well be outside helping Xander load up the car.  It might actually be cooler in the sunshine.

“I think it’s a great idea,” Buffy countered.  “Spike and I pretty much beat up our welcome wagon around Midnight to be any good on the recon detail, so until we either have more information or bigger firepower, it’s pointless for us to show our faces there.”

They had been going back and forth on this ever since that morning.  Buffy was adamant about everyone steering clear of Iris and her gang until they had more information, while Giles didn’t understand why she would ignore such a valuable source.  To him, it made perfect sense to try and find out if Willow---Sandrine, he had to keep reminding himself---was still with the vampire, and what better place than at the demon’s club?  Even Spike had said that human clientele was relatively safe there; in the few moments he’d been present after Giles had arrived, he’d portrayed the nightclub as a high-class but low-profile operation.  This Iris seemed to be more interested in keeping up appearances and having the nice things in life than making waves that would only draw attention to her more diabolical operations.  That’s why when the occasional unescorted human wandered in, they were left unmolested.  Generally speaking.

Of course, the irony that he was siding with Spike rather than Buffy on this didn’t escape the Watcher.  But he couldn’t help but feel that perhaps in this one instance, Spike might not know better than his charge.  After all, he was much more familiar with the comings and goings of New Orleans nightlife.  If his description was accurate, there was no reason a careful approach to the club couldn’t be made to gather more information.

“I understand that,” Giles said.  “It’s this search for your mysterious gris gris woman I’m debating.  I’d feel much better if you waited until daylight.”

She hesitated in her packing, her hand automatically reaching up to finger the leather bag hanging around her neck.  When she’d related the gris gris story to him over breakfast, Buffy had conveniently left out the details of the woman’s words and their correlation to Drusilla’s own visions.  That was between her and Spike, and until she could be sure of Giles’ reaction, she wasn’t willing to spill on that just yet.

“She’s the only reason you don’t have an extra-crispy Slayer right now,” she said instead.  “We need to know what she knows, and if at all possible, get more of these to protect us from Sandrine.”  She smiled.  “Maybe she’ll give us a two for the price of one deal.  Gotta keep an eye on that Watcher budget, you know.” 

The Englishman sighed.  “I understand the need to see her.  I’m merely questioning your timing.  Spike’s not completely healed yet.  He’ll be a liability---.”

“Hey!”  Despite the closed bathroom door that separated them, Spike’s annoyed voice rang clear.  “I heard that, Rupert!”

Buffy ducked her head, hiding her smile from her Watcher.  “I know it still looks bad,” she said, resuming her packing, “but he says he’s feeling about a hundred times better.  I have to trust that Spike’s going to know when he can and can’t contribute to a fight.”

The raising of his Giles’ eyebrows spoke volumes.  “This is Spike we’re talking about here.  He’s not exactly renowned for his calm and rational thought.”

“I think you’d be surprised.  He’s done nothing but be rational since we started this.”  She stopped just long enough to look at him, gaze steady.  “And I’m sticking by what I said.  I trust Spike.”

*************

He doubted the witch could hear what was being said in the other room---although after his outburst, Spike couldn’t be certain she wasn’t trying to at least pay attention to them---but he lowered his head anyway, averting his gaze as he was reluctant to have her witness the surprised elation in his eyes in catching Buffy’s words. 

I trust Spike. 

So different from before.  And saying it to her Watcher?  Unheard of.  Sure, she could turn around and mouth those kind of platitudes to Spike’s face, but to actually have the stones to say the same thing to Giles meant that it was important to her.  That the words actually meant something.  Not just lipservice about what he wanted to hear, and not an excuse to fob off in an attempt to get her Watcher off her back.  Red’s safety meant too much to Buffy; she wouldn’t do anything she thought would be a risk to losing her.

None of this had been expected, and if he’d been asked a month earlier about whether it was what he wanted, Spike would’ve given whoever suggested it a sound thrashing, regardless of the headache it might’ve caused.  Now, he was ready to fight to keep it, which meant getting this business with Red sorted as quickly as possible.  Nobody was going to fuck with what he had going here, and if it meant staking Iris himself, he’d be more than happy to do it.

A sharp stab in his shoulder jolted him back to the reality of the hotel bathroom, and Spike’s head jerked around, blue eyes blazing as he glared at Tara.  She was cleaning out more of his wounds, and though his pain was markedly less than when he’d first woken up, the coarse dampness of the flannel as she dabbed at the burns sent searing slivers of pain into his muscles when the threads caught on the worst of the injury.

She flinched at his reaction, yanking the cloth away.  “Sorry,” she mumbled, and turned to run it under the tap again, washing away some of the dried blood that had come away from the wound.

Spike forced himself to relax, smelling her fear as it wafted from her skin.  “It’s all right,” he said gruffly.  “Guess I should be grateful I’m at least standing, considering just a few hours ago, I was pretty much toast.  Owe you a spot of thanks for that.”

“It w-w-was Mr. Giles’ idea.  I just came along for the ride.”  The smile she offered him was hesitant, but he caught the slight gleam in her eye, the faint hint of pride at having her spell work out so well daring to poke out its head, and smiled back.

“Still, I’m not so blinkered that I don’t see how much you’re doin’ here.  You didn’t have to sit with me earlier, you know.  You could’ve just gone off and had your pancake breakfast with the rest of the little Scoobies.  I would’ve been just fine all on my lonesome.”

She shook her head.  “Buffy was worried.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes the Slayer---.”  He cut himself off, unwilling to divulge anything more than he had to. 

Her hands returned to his injuries, gentler this time if that was at all possible, and Spike could see the question flickering behind her eyes.  “Buffy takes care of the people who are important to her,” Tara finally ventured softly.  “That’s not such a bad circle to be in, you know.”

It dawned on him, then.  In spite of her limited exposure to them---hell, she’d only seen them interact with both of them conscious for the few minutes before dragging him into the bathroom to check his wounds---Tara had seen what had taken Buffy and Spike what seemed like forever to discover.  Are we that easy to read? he wondered.  Do I have to worry about Rupert and Harris sussing this thing out between us before we’re ready for it to air? 

He knew, though, that the answer to both questions was no.  This was a Tara quirk, this uncanny ability to see beyond the masks, to slough away the chaff and appreciate the shine underneath without introducing discomfort in those she saw.  Caring borne of pain, he realized.  No wonder Red loved her so much.

“We’ll get her back,” Spike said quietly, referring to the redhead.  “The Slayer’ll see to that.”  It was almost as an afterthought, reaching up to catch her busy fingers with his own, that he added, “I’ll see to that.”

She was silent, lost in whatever remnants of thoughts his words evoked.  “Sometimes…I wish…”  Her tone was faint, her words translucent as they floated to his ear.  “…I think that it would be…easier not to care so much, you know?  Because when it looks like you might…lose it…”  The tiniest of cracks appeared in her voice.  “…it h-h-hurts so much, and you just want to brick everyone out.   Because it’s safer.  And it’s lonely but it’s better than feeling like you’ve been eaten from the inside out, and you’re just a sh-sh-shell of what you used to be.”  She looked at him then, eyes shining.  “But then you remember what life was like before, how dark it was, how…chaotic, and you realize just what’s been given to you.  And you know you can’t give up on it, no matter what, because it’s just not worth it to go back to that place.”

It was more than he’d ever heard come from the witch’s mouth, and Spike knew without her having to say so just why she’d chosen to share it with him.  These were thoughts nobody else could understand, not without having been to those ebony corners where shadows reigned, where he had lived.  Who would’ve believed that the pair of them could understand the other?  Certainly not him.  Yet here it was.  And surprisingly, he liked it.

The slight squeeze he gave of her fingers was reflexive, but it served to break her from her reverie with a nervous laugh.  “So…” she said, pulling away to turn back to the sink.  “Was that Cecily helping you guys?” Tara paused, catching her own flawed logic.  “Except…maybe not, because Buffy didn’t seem to know who I was talking about when I told her about her stopping by.”

The name chilled his good mood, and his mouth thinned.  “That wasn’t Cecily,” Spike said tightly.

She matched his frown with her own.  “B-b-but…she knew you.  And you knew her.  And…and…she called you William.  That’s your name, isn’t it?”

“Haven’t been William in a long time.  And Cecily hasn’t been around in almost as long.  Whoever that was, wasn’t good news.  Buffy and I are going to find out just what’s goin’ on before any more of this nonsense walks in under our noses.”  His tone was cutting, and he watched her visibly retreat from his coldness, his unspoken accusation for allowing Cecily to enter driving her away.  Spike grimaced, and stood, turning his back to her to reach for his shirt.  “You couldn’t have known, ducks,” he tried.  “Don’t fuss yourself over it.”

“I don’t understand.  It was daylight, and I didn’t invite her in.  Was she a demon?”

He snorted.  “You know humans who disappear that quick-like?”

Tara seemed to consider this.  “Maybe she was a witch.  Able to teleport and..shapeshift, and read your…”  Her voice trailed away, the ridiculousness of what she was saying sinking in.  “I’m s-s-sorry.  I didn’t know.”

Reaching for his shirt, Spike felt her eyes on his back as he carefully pulled it over his head, trying not to wince when the stitched hem caught on the worst of the burn.  “It’s all right, pet, ‘cause apparently, she fooled these old eyes, too, remember?”  He knew even as he said it that that wasn’t exactly true, that he’d been more blinded by his pain than anything else, but the need to reassure Tara was great.

She shook her head.  “I just don’t understand why.  What does whoever this is gain by pretending to be somebody you know?”

His face was grim, his eyes glinting as he glanced back at the witch.  “Don’t know,” he admitted.  “But that’s tops on me and the Slayer’s agenda to find out.”

*************

“This is crazy,” Xander muttered as they neared the door of the club.  “We might as well be wearing signs around our neck saying, ‘Want a nummy treat?  Ask me how!’”

“You didn’t have to come,” Anya replied.  “We could’ve just as easily rented a tuxedo for Giles, you know.”  She stopped on the sidewalk, smoothing her hands over the black satin of her dress as she peered at the blacked-out window, using her faint reflection as a mirror to check her appearance.

He had to admit, she looked good.  Great, in fact.  The dress they’d “borrowed” from Buffy---and why exactly Buffy had not one, not two, but three evening dresses appropriate for going to Midnight, Xander did not want to think about---clung to Anya’s angular curves in a way that made him wish they were back at the hotel instead of about to go parading before the local demon brigade.  Sure, it was an inch or two on the short side, but the added exposure of her ankles only enhanced her appearance, he thought.  He was almost glad that none of the dresses had fit Tara; as much as he hated this plan, getting to be the one to show off his gorgeous girlfriend gave him a silent thrill.  Now, if he could just get her to look at him without that damning annoyance in her eyes, like he’d let her down, life could start back down the road of being good again. 

“I think any of us just waltzing into a vampire bar is insane,” he said, trying to reinforce to her how foolhardy he thought this whole idea was.  It had surprised him to hear Giles suggest it after Buffy and Spike had left for the French Quarter, but no amount of arguing had seemed to shake the Watcher’s opinion that they would be relatively safe.  And when Tara had chimed in on the wanting to do something proactive instead of waiting around for the two blonds to return from trying to track down their gris gris woman, he knew he had been outvoted.

Anya didn’t even look at him.  “Stop over-reacting.  It’s not any different from going into Willy’s for information, except we get to dress up and our shoes won’t stick to the floor.  We’re going to be fine.”

She grabbed his hand before he could respond, dragging him toward the front door, leaving him to cast one last glance over his shoulder at the car parked just down the street.  Giles and Tara were waiting there, keeping an eye on the outside of the club while Xander and Anya scoped out the in, and though he couldn’t see them in the darkness of the night, he found it reassuring knowing they were only a phone call away should something go wrong.  Anya carried the cell phone, while he had the stakes she was adamant they weren’t going to need tucked inside his jacket.  That was the extent of their weapons.

He just hoped it was enough.

The inside of the club was not what he expected, its elegance dripping in crystal and clean lines.  While Anya seemed to slip into the ambience like a satin glove, he couldn’t help but suddenly feel like Bonzo, pulling at his collar as the artificial chill iced over the sweat that had sprung to his skin on the sidewalk.  Buffy had told them that the preponderance its patrons were vampires, but she hadn’t mentioned that they were good-looking vampires, with more style and grace than he saw in those Hollywood wrap parties on E!.  If he thought he stuck out like a sore thumb before, actually being inside Midnight made him feel absolutely gangrenous.

Anya acted like a woman with a mission, pulling him straight for the bar and flashing the man---vampire?---behind it her brightest smile.  “Two glasses of red wine,” she said, her outward demeanor fading only slightly as he tugged at her elbow.

“You’re going to get us carded,” he whispered.  “As much as I’d prefer jail to vamping, shouldn’t we be trying to keep a low profile here?”

Rolling her eyes, she pulled herself away, easing herself onto the nearest stool.  “For once in your sad, pathetic, human life, Xander,” she said, “will you just give me the benefit of the doubt and follow my lead?” 

Her voice was just as low as his, but there was no mistaking the anger in her words.  He knew, even as his mouth opened to speak, that this was the perfect opportunity for him to begin trying to make up for the hurt feelings she’d had regarding his reactions back in Sunnydale.  The smart thing would’ve been to stay silent.  The smart thing would’ve been to take his own seat and look out over the crowd, to see who would be the first person they would hit up for information.  The smart thing---.

It was the etched hurt in her brown eyes when she glanced back at him that froze his tongue, the single word tumbling from her lips.  “Please?”

Mute, Xander nodded, reaching for the wine glass that had magically appeared before him.  Something told him, this was going to be a long night.

*************

She seemed to glow, and as the minutes passed, Xander found himself unable to tear his eyes from Anya, listening to her laugh and chat with the various men who came to the bar as if he was seeing her for the first time.  She barely paid him any attention, focusing instead on the pointed conversations in which she engaged, but every once in a while, he thought he caught the corner of her eye, sharing those infinitesimal moments of partnership that had been much more plentiful before this whole mess had started.

Each one hurt.  Each one only served to remind him just how different they were now, how far away he’d driven her with his inability to see past what she’d done.  Was it really that bad?  Even this afternoon, lying next to her at the hotel, he hadn’t been able to grasp just why he had to apologize, but now…now he was seeing the woman he was throwing away with both hands, watching as she swallowed the fear that had bubbled her nerves ever since boarding the plane in Sunnydale to do what had to be done.  This was a risk; they both knew it.  In spite of the Watcher’s assurances, in spite of having Giles and Tara as a back-up just outside, there was still danger in being so near to the vampire Willow had last been seen with.

And yet, here she was.  Chatting and laughing as if nothing was wrong.

And he was feeling like the jerk of the century for taking so long to see just how much she was doing here.

“Ahn.”  He leaned forward, lowering his mouth to her ear, the smell of her shampoo filling his nostrils.  “Maybe we should call it a night.”  His intent was to get her out of there, to get her back to the hotel so that they could have the talk they should’ve had after breakfast.  But like everything else that had come out of his mouth lately, it backfired.

She stiffened beneath his almost touch, her shoulders straightening as her fingers tightened around her wine glass.  “I’m sorry I’m not getting information fast enough for you, Xander,” she said coldly, and slid from her seat.  “Maybe I should mingle.  I might actually be of some use to you people for a change.”

She was gone before he could stop her, a midnight fancy amidst a swirl of color, and his mouth thinned.  Way to go to push her away, Xander scolded himself.  And now she’s out there, without a weapon, and you’re stuck here at the bar with just a piece of wood to defend yourself.  Too bad that wood seems to be your head.

*************

For a little while there, Anya thought it had been working.  She’d been charming, she’d been funny, she’d been fucking adorable, and when Xander had ordered his third glass of red wine without taking his eyes off her, she had thought that that was it.  He was finally seeing what exactly he was missing.  Then he had opened his mouth and practically called her useless by suggesting it was time to go home, and she realized that he still wasn’t getting it.

She had hated the plan as much as he had when Giles suggested it.  And how annoyed was she that Tara couldn’t fit into any of the Slayer’s dresses?  It was her stupid girlfriend who was in trouble; she should be the one in here digging for more information on Sandrine and the voix mortelle.  But no.  She couldn’t fit Midnight’s stupid dress code, leaving Anya to be the Nancy Drew for the night.

Her hopes had risen when Xander had jumped to be the one to go with her, but all his complaining---at the rental shop, in the car, outside the club---had only showed her that he didn’t trust her to get the job done.  He couldn’t seem to wrap his brain around the fact that she’d dealt with demons for the last thousand years.  Did he think that she automatically forgot all that when she became human?  That all the experience she’d gained had suddenly vanished?

Obviously he had.  Because she was now alone at a small table, occasionally glancing at him sitting at the bar, wishing fervently he would just come over and tell her that he understood, so that they could both go back to the hotel and make up.

“Hey there.”

So lost in her reverie, Anya hadn’t noticed the forty-ish gentleman approach her seat, his pale complexion telling her without having to even blink that he was a vampire.  Her smile was automatic, though, and her response, seemingly genuine.

“I have got to ask,” he continued, his head tilting slightly as his eyes narrowed in contemplation, “because it’s been bugging me ever since you walked in.  I know you’re human, but why is it a lovely young thing like you smells like you’ve been around longer than I have?”

She blushed under his appreciative stare, surprising herself with her response.  “Ex-vengeance demon,” she admitted, and chuckled when his dark eyes went wide, holding out her hand in greeting.  “I’m Anya.”

“And I’m intrigued,” he replied, taking her offering between both his cold palms.  He was still holding her hand when he slid into the chair next to her.  “Tom.  I don’t think I’ve ever met an ex demon before.”

“I’m kind of on a break from the vengeance gig.  I thought I’d look up some old friends I haven’t seen in a while.”  The latter had been her standard line in introducing the subject all night.  So far, it had gotten her bupkiss.

Tom’s eyebrows lifted.  “Awfully risky since you’re human now,” he commented.

She smiled.  “Risky is my middle name.”  Though she had started getting tired of doing the flirting thing prior to moving away from the bar, Anya seemed to have developed a second wind, her eyes twinkling in satisfaction as she saw Xander straighten in his chair.  Serves him right, she groused.  I deserve to be flirted with, even if he doesn’t want to be the one doing the flirting.

Settling back into his chair, his dark gaze swept the room.  “So if you’re trying to find old friends, why is it you’re sitting over here all on your lonesome?”

“Because nobody’s seen her around,” she replied.  She leaned forward, fingers playing with the stem of her glass.  “Maybe you know her.  She’s a friend of Iris’.  Her name is Sandrine.”

*************

If the perks weren’t so great, he would’ve quit ages ago because living in fear of his boss and her little distractions was starting to get a little old.  Especially now that she’d hooked up with that little human.  Normally, he wouldn’t have given the small girl a second thought---except as dinner---but after hearing about what she’d done to Spike and having to dispose of that black singer’s body, he was beginning to re-evaluate his impressions.

He knocked at the door, body stiff as he waited to gain admittance.  At least he was showing up with less than dire news.  In fact, he was fairly certain that they would be pleased he’d actually picked up on this.  Maybe it would merit him a bonus in some way.

Iris’ voice filtered through the thick door.  “Come in.”

He didn’t bother crossing the threshold, just hovering in the entrance as he looked to see his boss and the redhead lounging on the couch, both of them decked in black and looking absolutely amazing.  His mouth watered at the thought of the human’s heat searing down his throat, and he visibly swallowed as he forced himself to focus on Iris.  “There’s something going on out in the club you need to be aware of,” he said.  “Somebody’s asking around about Sandrine.”

The redhead stiffened.  “Is it Buffy?” she asked.

He shook his head.  “Another blonde.  Human.  She came in with a dark-haired guy but she hasn’t been paying him too much attention.  I sent Tom over to see if he could get any more information from her.  Apparently, she claims to be an ex-vengeance demon.”

The tension in Sandrine’s body eased, and the malevolent smile she turned to Iris glittered with glee.  “Remember what I said about the mountain?” she said.  “Get ready to meet Mohammed.”

*************

He didn’t want to watch her anymore, turning in his seat so that his back was to her, ordering another glass of wine without realizing he’d already more than passed his limit.  It hurt, seeing her laugh like that with someone who wasn’t him, and though Xander knew she wasn’t doing anything he didn’t deserve, part of him wanted to go over there, turn into Neanderthal man, and drag her out by her hair so that this whole charade would stop.  Except, was it a charade?  Was she pretending?  Or was she finally getting a chance to be the person he didn’t seem to let her be?

Turning around didn’t make a difference in not watching.  He could see her in the mirror behind the bar, which was more than a little disconcerting as the lack of reflections from most of the clientele was giving him the wiggins.  It was a cacophony of sounds behind him---laughter, and music, and the clink of glasses---and yet it appeared as if the club was nearly empty.  Anya, especially, looked odd laughing and talking to herself, even though Xander knew if he glanced back, he’d see the vampire sitting opposite her.

The flash of red in the corner would’ve gone amiss if there had been more to distract him in the mirror.  As it was, he had to consciously squint at the reflection, the briefest doubt flickering across his mind, before it appeared again.

Red hair.

Wide green eyes.

Willow.

Instinct took over, and Xander stumbled from his seat, jerking around to see his best friend hovering in the entrance to what looked like the ladies’ room.  The crowd between them seemed to multiply as he pressed himself forward, alcohol clouding his rational thought as well as loosening his limbs so that walking seemed to take extra effort.  But still he pressed.

Gotta get to Will, he thought.  She’s here.  Have to help her.

More than once, he got an annoyed elbow in the ribs as he bumped into the wrong person, and one vamp even snarled when he accidentally stepped on his foot.  Doesn’t matter, Xander kept silently chanting.  Doesn’t matter.  Get to Will.  Help Will.  Doesn’t matter.

The door loomed in front of him, but all signs of the redhead were gone, leaving in her stead a burly demon with a face not even a mother could love.  Glancing around, there was no sign of her, and tentatively, he reached forward to push the door open.

“Don’t think so,” the guard rumbled, stepping sideways to block the entrance.  Yellow flashed in his eyes, causing Xander to back up awkwardly, and the young man held up his hands in a gesture of peace.

“Just looking for my friend,” he said.

“Well, go look somewhere else.  This here’s off-limits to non-personnel.”

For a second, Xander considered the weight of the stake in his pocket and debated if he could force his way past him.  He’d seen Willow; he was sure of it.  And she needed their help.

It was the “their” in his thoughts that shook his head clear.  Safety in numbers, he decided.  We know now that Willow’s here, so I just have to go get Buffy and the others, and we can storm the proverbial castle to rescue her.  Just have to get Anya and get out of here first.

“My mistake,” Xander mumbled, and turned around, pushing his way past the throng he’d just navigated to return to his place at the bar.  Tossing a couple bills onto the counter, his glance into the mirror was almost habitual, the shock of what he didn’t see there startling him sober faster than spotting Willow across the room.  A jerk of his head only confirmed what he’d already seen.

Anya was gone.

*************

Only the occasional tingle reminded Spike of his injuries, the odd slither of pain down his side when he moved in an unusual direction, and he silently thanked the witch and Rupert for their little mojo to get him over the worst of it.  Whatever they had done, it had worked wonders.  He’d never seen a healing spell take effect so quickly, or so thoroughly.  Red’s little girlfriend is more powerful than we all thought, he mused.  Probably should do to keep an eye on that one.

With the moon shining brightly overhead, he and Buffy prowled the streets of the French Quarter, trying to retrace her steps from that first day in the city, on the lookout for the shop she swore up and down the gris gris woman owned.  While the familiar scents of the city hung in the air---that sickly sweet sewage smell that was uniquely New Orleans---Spike didn’t notice it as much as the other, the eruption of aromas emanating from human bodies. 

Sweat. 

Fear. 

Adrenaline. 

Arousal. 

Blood.  

No matter where he turned, some revenant of fragrance charged his senses, reminding him of just how hungry he really was, abrading his flesh with granular fingers until his skin crawled in anticipation.  It came from anywhere and everywhere---the tourists with their garish attempts to play up the party atmosphere of the town, the more daring of the locals amused by the displays the out-of-towners were putting on, even the occasional wannabe seeking out the underbelly of everything they’d been told. 

His was not the only nose that was tickled.  More than once, Spike caught the eye of another vampire as it passed, silent assessments passing between demons that told of his superior power even in light of his injury.  It didn’t surprise him to see so many out; this section of the city was one of the areas his kind was able to walk about with relative impunity.  They were, in fact, embraced by many of the tourists as part of the attraction, and he felt an odd sense of nostalgia and longing as he watched more than one sneak off into an alley with a willing victim.  The good old days, he thought, and then remembered where he was, who he was with. 

She had been blind to the various demons that had passed them, saying nothing, but Spike wasn’t surprised.  Buffy had enough on her plate at the moment.  It was understandable why she was distracted.  Good thing, too, because as far as he could tell, no one knew that it was the Slayer who walked at his side, a minor blessing in disguise.  With what they needed to accomplish, having to deal with even more trouble than they already had would’ve only wasted precious minutes.

Not for the first time that night, his eyes slid to his right, flickering over her lithe form as she stopped and started, looking up and around.  She’d dressed lightly, a halter top and small shorts that curved around her ass, in an attempt to combat the still sweltering heat, but sweat still managed to shine along her skin under the moonlight.  He could see her pulse hammering in the hollow of her throat, and combined with the aromas that clung to the air, had to struggle to quell the demon within, his mouth watering at the thought of his tongue running along her skin, salty tang mixing with the coppery flow of her hot, sweet blood as it---.

Spike jerked his eyes away.  Fuck.  He’d been having thoughts like this all night.  Images of a sweating Buffy lying beneath him, his cock buried deep inside her, her head arched back exposing her neck, his fangs nipping at her jugular.  He was rock-hard, had been almost since leaving their old hotel, and while he certainly entertained the notion that getting this done and over with as quickly as possible so that he and the Slayer could slip away for a quick shag was delectable, the other left him with a sense of disquiet that made his pace quicken.

He heard her talking then, and turned to see her stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, a group of four college boys semi-surrounding her as she turned on the Summers charm.  The description of the store she was looking for tumbled from her luscious mouth, punctuated with girlish giggles that instantly made Spike frown, and he couldn’t help but notice the hungry gazes of the young men as they watched her play with the ends of her hair.

Stuffed deep inside his duster pockets, Spike’s hands balled into fists.  This was not the first time she’d tried this trick tonight.  In her attempt to find the gris gris woman, Buffy was stopping strangers in the street, asking them if they could help, and when the stranger happened to be male, she played her coquette card, flirting and smiling with an abandon Spike had only seen directed at him when she was drunk.  It didn’t last, though.  When no answers were forthcoming, she would politely say thank you and walk away, resuming her place at his side as if nothing had happened.  But the effect of it was still there, seething inside him with his growing hunger, knotting him tighter and tighter with each foot they traversed.

It wasn’t as if she was acting distanced around him.  She was in her all-business mode, intent on finding the woman as quickly as possible and getting back to the others.  Spike supposed that if he ventured to touch her, she wouldn’t recoil, but to that point, he hadn’t tried, maintaining his distance in order to let her work.  She was worried---he knew that---but watching her slip into such flirtatious behavior was churning his jealousy so that it blistered him in ice.

What happened to things being different between you? Spike scolded himself.  It’s all about the trust now, and the friendship, and the…the other.  Except that other had still yet to be clearly defined.  Lovers, in the technical sense of the word.  Lovers…in the literal?

He stole another glance at her.  She wasn’t even paying him any attention now, green gaze intent on the shops that lined the street, slim fingers occasionally straying to the charm that hung around her neck.  He had no clue as to her depth of feelings for him.  For the first time since he’d met her, Buffy was proving to be an enigma, hiding from his inquisitive eyes the truth of her emotions by not wearing them on her sleeve.  If she felt anything more for him than lust and maybe a strong like, she was playing it close to the vest, her actions in the shower be damned.  For all he knew, he was just another bloke to have a little fun with.

But then, maybe she did care.  It wasn’t like Buffy to be doing for him the things she’d been doing.  Announcing to her Watcher she trusted him?  Demanding someone stay with him to ensure his safety?  Forcing him to get out of his own head when doubt seemed to be winning?  Not the actions of someone who didn’t care.

Still.  It would be a helluva lot simpler if she’d just say the damn words.

And stopped flirting with every Tom, Dick, and Wanker that walked down the street.

But what about him?  Was he ready to admit that his feelings for the Slayer had grown beyond a professional respect?  Was he ready to be at her beck and call, even if she didn’t want him around, just for the few scraps she would throw him?  Was he ready to have his heart stomped again if this was all just a game to her?

After what had happened with Dru?  Hell no.

He realized then that Buffy had stopped again, and brought himself to a halt to turn back and look at her.  She was frowning down at the gris gris in her hand.

“Stupid thing’s broken,” he heard her mutter irritably.

“What’s that, pet?” he said, taking a step back to her.

She blushed at having been overheard, and dropped the charm so that it nestled back between her flushed breasts.  “Nothing,” she hastened to say.

“Not nothin’.  You said something about being broken.  Now unless I’ve gone completely ‘round the bend, I haven’t missed any stray blasts of magic aimed our way, which means you’re fussin’ about something else.”

“It’s just…”  Buffy’s flush deepened, and she edged her way away from the street and the people who were passing by, dropping her voice at the same time.  “I guess I kind of, sort of thought that, maybe it would go all…beacon-y or something.”  The last few words were rushed out, like she was embarrassed to admit it, and she was rewarded with Spike’s quick laughter.

“The thing’s not a soddin’ homing pigeon,” he said.  “Though wouldn’t surprise me if it doesn’t have a bird part or two wrapped up inside that skin.”

Instantly, Buffy’s nose wrinkled, and the fingers that had been reaching for the gris gris shot as far away from it as possible.  “Ewww!” she exclaimed.  “Please tell me that’s some kind of sick vampire joke.”  At his lack of a response, she tried, hopeful, “An English one, then?”

Spike shrugged.  “It’s probably just the crunchy bits.  They make for the most power when it comes to vodou.”

“So basically, you’re telling me I’m accessorizing with roadkill here?  I am suddenly not so much in a hurry to find our mysterious lady any more.”

The heat from her body…the roaring of her blood through her veins…the frustration of having just watched her flirt with every other male on the street except for him…and suddenly Spike was no longer in the mood to be looking for the gris gris needle in the haystack.  Answers.  That’s what he wanted.  And he wanted them from Buffy.

His eyes swept the length of the road, scanning the various establishments, before reaching forward to grab the Slayer’s hand.  “C’mon,” he said, pulling her across the street.

He felt her muscles tighten, readying to yank herself away, but after the first few seconds, Spike was surprised when her fingers shyly coiled through his instead.  “Where are we going?” Buffy asked.

“Takin’ a little break,” was his reply.

*************

At least it’s not another demon bar, Buffy thought as she stepped past the bouncer, into the dimly lit interior.  It could’ve been the Bronze, just picked up off the Hellmouth and plonked down into the middle of the Big Easy.  That made walking in almost a balm to her frazzled nerves.

A band, playing songs she didn’t recognize but didn’t actually sound like animals being strangled, was situated at the front of the room, with a small dance floor before it, a smattering of tables dotting the remaining interior.  Along the walls, intimate booths with high backs and velvet seats offered a little more privacy for those who were seeking it, and it was there that Spike pulled her, aiming for one in the corner with a good view of the rest of the club.

“What’s this all about?” she asked, as he came to a stop before the booth.  “We’re supposed to be---.”

“You’re hot, I’m hungry, and if we haven’t found her yet, luv, I’m not so certain we will without a little help from our witch friend.”  He let go of her hand and gave her a little push toward the bench.  “Have a seat.  I’m goin’ to get us some drinks and see what they’ve got to eat in this place.”

Sliding across the velvet, Buffy watched as he turned away from her, exposing the burned side of his face to her for the fullest inspection she’d had since they’d left the hotel.  It was definitely looking better, she thought.  No more oozing.  Bright patches of fresh skin shining through the worst of the fading injuries.  He even seemed to be moving easier, like it didn’t even hurt any more.  A far cry from just that morning. 

The relief it created in her surprised the Slayer, and she couldn’t help the small smile that curved her lips.  “Spike,” she said softly, reaching forward to touch the edge of his coat as it brushed against the table.

The look he shot back at her was curious, his brows knitted together.  “Yeah?” he asked, blue eyes sweeping over her face.

The words failed her.  How could she tell him why she’d stopped him when she didn’t know herself?  That none of this made sense to her?  That imagining her life without him in it, without him by her side, left a barren crater somewhere in the middle of her soul, as if someone had sucked an entire world out of existence?  He’d laugh her into next Tuesday if she started spouting off things like that.  No matter that they were true.  No matter that the urge to just pull him down on top of her and kiss every inch of his porcelain skin made her want to scream from suppressing.  He’d laugh.  That’s what the Big Bad did.

“Just get me water,” she said instead, keeping her tone neutral.  “We’ve been tapping way too deep into Giles’ resources on this whole highway to hell trip as it is.  We should really start being masters of the penny watching.”

His eyes narrowed imperceptibly, his head tilting as he regarded her.  After a quick glance back at the bar, Spike said, “Tell you what, Summers.  If I get the drinks and grub on the house, you eat it up like a good little Slayer.  Otherwise, it’ll be just the water and then we’ll hit the streets until we find her, all right?”

It was her turn to frown.  “How are you going to get the stuff for free?” Buffy asked suspiciously.

The smile he shot her was blinding.  “Thought you trusted me, pet,” he drawled, and with a smirk in his eyes, he sauntered over to the bar.

Twisting in her seat, Buffy watched Spike as he walked away---no, make that swaggered, she amended with a wry grin---but when she spotted the rather homely girl behind the counter he was aimed at, her mirth immediately vanished.  Her mood plummeted even more when she saw the brilliant smile light up the bartender’s face as he leaned across the bar to her, her laughter telling the Slayer more about what was happening on the other side of the club than if she’d actually heard the words.

He’s flirting with her! she thought, and though she’d cooled slightly when coming into the air-conditioning, the flush immediately returned to her skin, the unexpected ire roiling in her stomach.  He’s got the nerve to try and charm his way into freebies right in front of me?  When she saw him reach forward, slim fingers skating along the inside of the bartender’s bare wrist, Buffy was on her feet before she’d even realized it, determinedly marching toward the bar.

He may be a big ol’ flirt, but he’s my big ol’ flirt.

The bartender had just turned away to pull a draft of some kind of beer the Slayer didn’t recognize when Buffy slipped her arm through his, nestling herself against the side of Spike’s lean body.  Ignoring the startled look that knifed through his gaze, she turned on her biggest and brightest smile.

“So, do they have onions here?” she asked, just a little too loudly.

The bartender looked back then, eyes darting from the new arrival to Spike in curiosity.  Buffy leaned forward conspiratorially.  “He loves those stupid things but you really don’t want to know what they do to his breath.”  Rolling her eyes dramatically, she was rewarded with a quick, painless yank on her arm as the vampire tugged her back against him.

“You want lemon in that Coke?” the bartender asked Spike coolly, all signs of her pleasure from the flirting now gone.

“Did he order me a Coke again?” the Slayer pouted.  “Can you change that to an ice water, please?  Honestly, you’d think after all this time---.”  Another yank, this one harder, and she was silenced, watching in growing amusement as the other girl finished pouring the drinks.

“That’ll be fifteen even.”

Tossing a few bills onto the counter, Spike grabbed Buffy’s elbow and began pulling her away, not even hesitating when she reached awkwardly for her water still sitting on the bar.  When they were back at the table, she exploded.

“What the hell was that all about back there?” she demanded, sliding into her seat.

His face was closed as he slid in after her.  “What was what?” he asked obliquely.

“You were flirting with her!”  Her voice was hard now, all outward signs of amusement gone.  What had happened to everything they’d said?  All those words in the shower, the touching?  Maybe it all really was just a game to him.

“Well, yeah.  How else did you expect me to get it on the house?”

“You were flirting with her in front of me.”

He leaned forward, a glint in his eyes.  “Don’t tell me you’re jealous.”

“Don’t be stupid.”  She spat the words out, too quick, too sharp, and inwardly Buffy groaned.  Way to go for playing it cool, she thought.  Awkward much?

“Funny, I thought it was rather smart.  And you do know that that’s twice now you’ve tried tellin’ me that, right?”  His voice dropped, his hand reached across the distance to begin tracing the veins on the back of hers.  “You pulled this same trick with Iris, remember?  I didn’t buy it then, either.”

“You want to act ridiculous, be my guest.”

“Just thought I’d join the club, pet.”

His fingers were still stroking her hand, soothing her even as his words riled her up.  “What?” she asked, confused.  “There’s a club?  Did those burns go through to your brain?”

“I didn’t do anything different back there than you did out on the street, Buffy.  Used a bit of the natural charm to get what I wanted, is all.  ‘Course, I don’t have the advantage of being able to be practically naked in public in order to distract the other sex into helping me, but still, I don’t seem to have many problems gettin’ their attention---.”

She flushed with awareness.  He’d done it deliberately.  Just because she’d been friendly to some of the guys outside while she was trying to find the gris gris woman, Spike thought he could…

Wait.  He was the jealous one here.  She hadn’t done anything wrong.  Even when it had been apparent guys were interested, she’d always come back to Spike when she knew they couldn’t help her.  Surely, he realized that?  But then, obviously he hadn’t or he wouldn’t be acting like this.

Slowly, Buffy pulled her hand away, averting her eyes to focus on her drink.  “I’m not even going to dignify that with a response, Spike.  You know I’m worried about Willow.  All I’m trying to do here---.”

“What am I to you, Buffy?”

Too much was swirling around in her head, and she knew that one glance at him would betray more than she was willing to share at the moment.  Not going to look, she droned silently.  Not going to look.  Don’t see those incredible blue eyes staring at you.  He’ll be able to tell what you’re thinking the second he sees you.  Look at the water instead.  Watch the disco lights go through the glass.  Ooo, pretty. 

“You’re Spike,” Buffy said casually.  That was good.  That was…indifferent.  Pleased with how well she was handling this, she reached for the drink.

Spike’s hand shot out, palm covering the mouth of the glass before she had a chance to pick it up.  “I didn’t ask who I am,” he said.  “I asked what I am.  To you.”

Every pulsation of her heart beneath her ribs seemed to echo in Buffy’s ears.  Sometimes, this directness was infuriating, this ability of his to cut to the bone of the matter and make her confront what she didn’t want to.  Sometimes, it made her want to smash his face in out of sheer stubbornness, to mar the perfection of those cheekbones and make him feel just a little of the disquiet that she did, even if it was only through pain.  And then there were others, more dangerous times, where she felt like the fly caught in the spider’s web, forced to face the enemy head-on.

As she sat silent, she watched as his fingers curled, two lean digits dipping into her water to slowly extract a single ice cube.  “You’re not answering me,” Spike murmured.  His voice was nearer, his body only inches from hers---when did he get so damn close?---and she could feel the cool air from his words tingle below her ear.

“Is this just a game?”

She hadn’t moved.  She’d only watched as his hand fell away, feeling the weight of his arm shift the back of the cushion as he practically whispered in her ear.  The second the ice touched the back of her neck, Buffy stopped breathing in an audible gasp, holding it in as Spike ran the cube down the valley from the base of her skull to the top of her spine, dripping and freezing and cooling and heating all at the same time as warming rivulets managed to sneak away to join the drying perspiration on her back.

Goosebumps erupted along her arms, and she finally exhaled in a ragged sigh, her jaw dropping as her lids seemed impossibly heavy.  How could he know?  How did he always seem to know?

“Are you just playing?” he continued.  “Or am I more of a…diversion…”

The ice sinuated in lazy coils along her shoulder, tracing the strap of her halter.  The marble of his skin became visible as Spike allowed it to almost freefall along the fabric, arching along the curve of her breast, before taking control of it again with those nimble fingers.  Sliding it beneath the top, he found the already hardened nub of her nipple with the cube, tracing the aureola without letting his own fingers stray.

Buffy licked her lips.  She was suddenly parched, and more than anything, she wanted to take his hand from her flesh to suck on the water dripping from it, sating the growing thirst gnawing inside her gut.  It would be temporary, she knew.  The need would soon return, hungrier, angrier, demanding sustenance which for some reason only Spike could provide.  And she wouldn’t know exactly what to do then.

Just tell him, her mind raged.  Tell him what he wants and get it over with.

Before she could open her mouth, though, he was moving again, back over her clothing, the ice cube that was now almost completely melted away by the heat of her skin gliding over her stomach toward her waistband.

“Or is it something more…”  Spike taunted.  On the “more,” his fingers disappeared down her shorts, inside her underwear to brush against the coarse curls, forcing their way down to press the remainder of the ice against her clit.

She bucked then, unable to withhold her body’s response, agony and pleasure and needles of delight shooting into her pelvis as her fingers gripped the edge of the table, her eyes squeezed shut. 

His hand withdrew, leaving the cold behind, and it took more than a few minutes of ragged gasping and concentration for Buffy to regain control of the nerves that were racing out of control.  The silent order to breathe---in…and out…and in…and, oh fuck---was only being half-obeyed, every other attempt vanishing with the rational thought that accompanied it.  Never before, and she wondered if ever again, had someone made her feel like this, known what buttons to push to set her going.  Like she was some classic car that required specialist training.  And Spike was the only specialist on hand.  And what a hand it was…

When she finally felt strong enough, Buffy opened her eyes, turning her head to see him watching her.  He was waiting.  Still waiting.

“How can you even ask that?” she rasped, and everything---the questioning, the desire, the need, the emotion---shone in the green of her eyes as she stared at him in amazement.  “How can you not know?”

He paused.  “I need to hear you say the words, Buffy,” Spike said slowly.

Shadowed in the corner of the club, his eyes were dark, all signs of playing gone from them as he waited for her to answer.  Words?  He wanted words?  She wasn’t word girl.  Willow was word girl.  Buffy was action girl.  She did things.  She didn’t say things.  Would she even know what to say?

“I don’t play games,” she said.  “I’m not Parker.  Although I’m beginning to wonder if maybe you are.”

The smallest of flinches at the corners of his eyes, a slight flaring of his nostrils, but Spike’s voice remained calm.  “I’m still not hearing the words,” he murmured.  “And I’m not.  Parker, that is.”

He wasn’t running.  He wasn’t mocking her.  And he’d been as hurt by what he’d seen as her flirting as she was by his.  Time to stand up and smell the roses, Buffy, she thought.

“All of this,” she started, her voice a little more calm, a little more even.  “Looking for a way to get more of these…”  Her fingers picked up the gris gris from where it hung around her neck.  “…this is all because I am sick, and tired, of watching people I care about get hurt.”  It fell from her hand as she reached toward him, trembling as she ran her touch along the ridge of his brow, feeling the ache of the corrugated burn as if it was her own.  “I’m so sorry you got this after…after everything.”

Slightly, Spike’s head tilted into her caress, but his gaze remained enigmatic.  “I’ll be right as rain soon enough,” he said.  “That little healing spell had quite a kick.  And don’t be thinking I’ll let that bitch get another shot at me.  Not with the witches needin’ me like they do.”

“I need you, Spike.”

“For the fight.”

“For…you.”  Please understand, Spike, she begged silently.  I’m so not good at this part.  “We…just found…this…whatever it is.  I’m not ready to lose it.  Not when I want…more.”

Her breath hitched when his fingers caught hers, pressing her palm to his lips.  “See, pet?” he murmured, and his other hand reached up to brush the hair from her face.  “Not so hard.”

“Actually, I’ve faced a few apocalypses that were easier,” Buffy joked, smiling as the tension began to unfurl from her limbs.  He wasn’t laughing.  He was sitting there, staring at her, not running, not making fun of her, and she was still in one piece and the world hadn’t fallen apart around her and… “So…what…is this?  We’re…?”

“…eating,” Spike finished for her as the waiter came up with the blooming onion they’d ordered.  “And then we’re goin’ to give the Quarter another sweep for our gris gris bird---.”

Buffy’s nose wrinkled.  “Can you not mention bird and gris gris in the same sentence?” she asked.  “I’m trying to live in a state of denial here.”

He snickered.  “And then,” he continued, as if she hadn’t spoken, pulling a petal from the blossom, “I plan on gettin’ you back to the hotel and showing you just how much healing I’ve actually done.”  The last was said with a smirk, which brought a flush to Buffy’s skin.

“Sounds like a plan,” she agreed, and made a grab for her share of the onion.

*************

She’d said it.  Well, she’d almost said it.  He couldn’t really expect much more, knowing the Slayer like he did.  Didn’t matter, though.  It was enough.

Joy bubbled beneath his skin, putting an even greater swagger in his step as he pushed open the back door to the club and edged into the alley.  Have a smoke, get back on the streets, get back to the hotel, and spend the next twelve hours in bed with Buffy.  The perfect plan.  His earlier doubts were now forgotten, overshadowed by the unmistakable emotion he’d seen in her eyes, that knowing smile he’d seen thrown in everyone else’s direction but his prior to this trip to New Orleans.  Nothing could darken his current mood, he decided.  He might even let Harris get in a few gibes without having a go at him in response.  Let the boy have his fun for a few minutes.

Then again, maybe not.

Inhaling deeply, Spike caught the dark shadows of two young men, reeking of alcohol, come staggering into the alley.    

“Dude!” the smaller said as he pitched toward the vampire.  “Got a light?  And a cigarette?”

He was punched in the shoulder by his friend.  “Asshole.  Of course he does.  He’s smoking, isn’t he?”

Spike’s scarred eyebrow quirked.  He’d traveled all the way across the country to be called “dude?”  A quick sniff confirmed that they were human, and he affected his best badass attitude.  “Piss off,” he said.  “Unless you’re lookin’ for a spot of trouble.”  He didn’t mean it, of course.  The chip saw to that.  But no reason he had to share with two prats like this.

“Well, that’s not very friendly,” the smaller guy said, and before Spike could react, he’d launched himself toward the vampire.

His reaction was instinctual.  Ducking, Spike felt the man fly over him, crashing into the brick wall of the club.  When his friend’s fist shot out, the blond deflected it with a lift of his forearm, pushing back with more force than he realized.  He heard the bones crunch, and rolled out of the way, tossing his cigarette aside as he watched the two men writhe around on the ground.

“Next time, try sayin’ please,” he drawled, and turned to go back into the club.

It was only because of his vampiric hearing that he heard the words of the man who’d tried to punch him.  “Oh, man, I think the motherfucker broke my arm!  God damn it hurts!”

Serves the git right, Spike thought as he pulled open the door.  Think they can just roll me over because I won’t share my…

He stopped, frowning as the metal clanged shut behind him.  Wait.  Hurts?  Quickly, Spike replayed the incident in his head and reached a tentative finger to his temple.

No pain.

Not a single jolt from the chip.

What the bloody hell was going on?

*************

Xander’s heart was pounding as he bolted for the car in the street, his eyes stricken as he hammered at the driver’s side window.

“What is it?” Giles asked as he rolled down the glass.

“Anya,” he said, breathless.  “Anya.  Tell me you’ve seen her in the last two minutes.”

The Watcher shook his head, then glanced over at Tara to see her corresponding shake.  “What’s happened?  Don’t tell me you left Anya by herself.”

“For the record, she left me, and I only looked away from her for a minute when I saw Will---.”

“You saw W-w-willow?”

“Did you speak to her?” Giles asked.  “Did she approach you?”

“Yes, no, and no.  It was a mirror thing.  I tried to go talk to her, but---.”

“And now you can’t find Anya.”  He pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking for a moment, before pushing open his door.

Xander followed him around to the trunk.  “What’re you doing?”

“Tara and I are going to do a sweep around the club while you check once more inside, and if we don’t find Anya, we’re getting back in the car and going back to our hotel to wait for Buffy and Spike.”  Tucking a crossbow under his arm, he handed a stake to Tara, who had joined him on the other side.

“Wait.  We don’t find her and we run?”  Xander was incredulous.  “Are you kidding me?  I’m not leaving Anya behind here.”

Giles slammed the trunk shut.  “If we don’t find Anya, we have to assume Iris and Sandrine have her.”

“But why?  How do they know who she is?”

“Were you paying any attention this morning when Buffy was telling us about Willow being Sandrine now?  She recognized Buffy.  Most likely, she recognized Anya as well.”

“And if Anya was right about this being about the voix mortelle…”  Tara looked up at the Englishman with wide eyes.  “We probably sh-sh-should’ve thought of that before we did this.”

“Oh, dear Lord.”

“Thought of what?  What should we have thought of?”  His voice was rising in volume, his worry etched across his brow.

Giles sighed.  “The fact that if Sandrine is truly after the voix mortelle, Anya is the only person in this world who knows where half of it is.”

*************

Sandrine pointed to the couch.  “Put her there.”  With a satisfied quirk of her lips, she watched as Tom laid Anya’s unconscious form along the sofa’s length before straightening and edging toward the door, dropping her purse that he’d had dangling from his wrist on the chair near it.

“I don’t know how long she’ll be out,” he said.  “I hit her kind of hard.”

“That’s OK,” Sandrine replied, dismissing him with a wave of her hand.  “You can go now.”

When they were alone again, Iris frowned.  “Why are you waiting?” she demanded.  “Wake her up and find out where it is.”

The redhead scowled in the vampire’s direction.  “For someone who looks like she should have some finesse, you sure don’t act like it,” she said.  “There’s something new and exciting you might want to try out.  It’s called patience.”  Curling herself into a chair, the folds of her black dress fell around the slit in the skirt, exposing the length of her legs as she began to pick at her nails.  Her green eyes settled back on Anya, and her mouth became grim.  “Something tells me my old enemy just might be a little stubborn about sharing…”