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

Dust swirled around the truck's tires as it lumbered along the drive, jostling its occupants, startling a rabbit to bound off into the rising sun. It was already promising to be a brilliant day, but the woman in the passenger seat looked anything but pleased. Her heavy brows shadowed her dull eyes, and her fingers twisted endlessly in her lap.

Would he be angry with her? Her duty had been to catch the Slayer and bring her to him, unharmed. There had been no arrangement for her to use his men for her own gains, and no approval for accommodating her vampire within the ranch. And the Slayer, well...

She sighed, rubbing her exhausted eyes. One touch on the young girl's head and she knew...magic, a potion most likely...executed by novices...no consideration for the power of the spirits it was conjuring. Even now, the Slayer lay in the back, fevered as her body attempted to attack the remnants of the spirits that inhabited it, incoherent when she was awake, deathly still when she wasn't. Taking her had required virtually no effort; the witch had been the only obstacle, and she'd been knocked out with very little force. It had almost been too easy.

As they approached the house, she could see him waiting for their arrival on the front porch, his arms folded across his chest. When she'd teleported the Hound out of the alley the previous evening, she'd told him the time had come, and still remembered the smile of satisfaction that had contorted his too-full lips.

"I knew hiring you was wise," he'd said as he'd patted her shoulder and disappeared back into the house.

The knowledge that he only saw her as another employee, albeit a very powerful one, twisted the knife in her stomach even further. And now with the hunt over, he'd have no further use for her talents. He would soon be sending her away...

The truck jolted to a halt at the bottom of the wooden stairs, and she was out of the cab before her employer had even started coming off the porch. Straightening to her full six feet, she pulled at her skirts, wishing she didn't look quite so frumpy and wrinkled.

"Celandia, you look drained," he commented absentmindedly. Impeccably dressed in his tailored whites, she found herself slightly annoyed to see him already wearing his signature sunglasses, even though the sun was barely up. "Perhaps you should just go ahead and retire to your room."

"Oh, no, Daymon," she argued. "After all the work I've done, I wouldn't miss this part." And I have to somehow explain our extra passenger, she added silently.

Following him around to the rear of the truck, she hung back as the driver undid the padlock and swung the doors open. The other men quickly disembarked, revealing the blond vampire hunched in front of the bench that hugged the back of the cab. As Celie expected, Daymon turned to her and asked, "Who is this man and why is he bound like that?"

"The Slayer was with him, staying with him it appeared---."

Daymon motioned toward one of the crew. "Take off his gag. We're not barbarians."

She jumped forward. "We didn't want him to yell for help."

"Of course, of course," her employer said dismissively.

They watched as the man ripped off the tape from Spike's face, causing him to roar out in pain. "Bloody fuckin' hell!" He blinked against the light, glaring at the two standing outside the truck.

"Colorful, isn't he?" Daymon murmured. His cultured voice indicated humor, but with his sunglasses, his true feelings were hidden from those around him. "I still don't understand why you didn't just leave him there. What am I supposed to do with him now?"

"He's a vampire, sir," offered one of the men.

"He'll burn in the sun," said another.

"A vampire? Oh, how common," said Daymon, grimacing.

From inside the truck, Spike snorted. "I'll give you common, mate," he said, rattling the chains that bound him.

"Whatever possessed you to bring back a vampire, Celandia?" he asked, turning to the dark-haired woman.

Before she could respond, however, the blond vampire was speaking again. "Look, I hate to interrupt your little tea party, but Slayer's not doing so hot in here. Maybe if we could---."

"I told you the Slayer was not to be harmed!" Celie flinched at her employer's furious onslaught and watched as he jumped into the back of the truck himself.

Ignoring the vampire, Daymon stepped toward Buffy's prone form on the bench. Her hair hung limply over the edge, her breathing shallow, the rise and fall of her chest a ragged tune audible even to Celie outside. Spike could only watch as the foreigner crouched beside her, his broad features softening, and reached forward to stroke her forehead, wiping the dampness from her brow. "I didn't expect..." he murmured. "So...lovely..."

"She needs to be in a proper bed, with some proper---."

"Yes, yes, of course." He almost seemed hypnotized as he sat and stared at Buffy. "I have a room made up and ready for her..." Turning to face Spike, he asked, "You are her friend? You were...caring for her?"

"Yes." His response was automatic, more fervent than he intended, but it seemed to satisfy the other man. As Spike watched, Daymon crawled out of the truck, taking care to brush the dust from his trousers as he emerged into the sunlight.

"Have them both taken up to the Slayer's room," he said. "Your containment spell will work for two, won't it?"

Celie felt the hot flush creep into her cheeks. "Yes, but you can't be serious! He's a vampire! How can you trust him?"

"You're a witch and I trust you."

"How dare you equate me with that---that---monster!"

Daymon laid a strong hand on her shoulder. "Now, Celandia, you know I don't. But you said yourself, the Slayer was staying with him, am I right?"

"Yes, but---."

"And I'm sure Mr...." His voice trailed off as he looked quizzically back at the blond vampire.

"Spike."

"...Mr. Spike understands that if something happens to the Slayer, he'll find himself blowing with the tumbleweeds, am I not right, Mr. Spike?"

His head down, Spike stared at his captors through his lashes, his tongue running along the inside of his teeth. "Right," he finally drawled.

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

The down pillow under her cheek was the first thing she became aware of as she fluttered back awake. Soft...so soft...She tried to swallow but her throat was sandpaper, coarse and ever so dry...A cool hand pushed her hair off her forehead, and her eyelids flickered open. "Spike...?"

"Right here, luv," he murmured. His face was a sea of white in front of her, but the concern in his blue eyes was unmistakable. "Don't speak." She blinked, trying to focus on him, and felt the catch in her throat when he disappeared from view.

As she struggled to rise, the ice of his hands returned, pressing her shoulders back into the bed. "Stay still," he ordered. One hand slid behind her neck, a frosty relief amidst the blaze that seemed to be enveloping her, while the other reached across her to the nightstand. It returned with a tall glass of water, and she looked up at him gratefully as she gulped at the refreshment.

"This isn't...the crypt," she murmured as she settled back into the pillows.

"No." Spike didn't want to tell her about their capture just yet; better to wait until the fever was gone, when she was feeling more like herself again. "You shouldn't be wastin' your energy. You need to rest, fight the fever."

A weary Buffy shook her head. "Tired of sleeping. Can't I just...take some aspirin or something?"

"Not that kind of fever, Slayer." What had that witch said? "Drugs don't work on spiritual battles. You need to fight this one naturally."

"But..." Her voice faltered as the waves of fatigue washed over her. "...it's not getting any better, is it?"

How could he lie to her? "...No."

Closing her eyes, Buffy tried focusing on the sensations flooding her body. It had been a long time since she'd been this ill; she still cherished the memories of her mother hovering over her with that extra blanket...the steaming cup of soup...a gentle touch on her cheek...

"Bath..." she murmured.

Frowning, Spike leaned forward, his azure gaze intent on her flushed face. "What was that?"

"A cold bath," she repeated, a little louder although the exertion seemed overwhelming. "To...break...the fever..."

It was actually a good idea. Although it had been years since Spike had had to worry about physical illness, he remembered the old-fashioned remedy as having been effective a good part of the time, especially before the advent of modern pharmacology. "Smart thinkin', Slayer," he commented, rising to get it ready for her.

"Can you get...Willow, please?" she asked, laboring to sit up. "I don't think...I can do this...on my own."

"Ummmm..." He stopped, his back to Buffy. Aye, there's the rub, William, he thought, as he pursed his mouth, sucking at his teeth. Out loud, he said, "Red's not around. I'm afraid you've just got ol' Spike to lean on."

"Oh." He didn't want to turn and see the disappointment in her hazel eyes, but fighting the pull of her gaze was more than he could resist, and he glanced over his shoulder. She was watching him, and even from that distance, he could see the thoughts flitting across her mind's eye. "Do you...mind?" she finally asked.

His shoulder dropped, forcing him to half-turn back to face her. In the thrall of the fever, everything about her seemed brighter, the shine of her skin evidence to the potion's lingering power. This was the most lucid she'd been since her initial collapse, yet here she was requesting his aid in...what? What was she expecting? "How much...do you want me to help with?" he finally queried.

This time she ducked his blue gaze. The added color in her cheeks came from a different source, and she was mildly ashamed at her embarrassment. "I'm...not feeling very...Slayerish," she admitted. "I don't think I've strength to get to the tub, so you'd have to...carry me..." Her voice trickled away. Her rational thought told her that the cold bath was her best solution at this point in trying to break her fever, but the memories of her dream and her previous behavior made her wonder if she wasn't really asking for something else.

"Whatever you want," he replied thickly, and turned away before she could see him swallow the lump that had suddenly formed in his throat. "Let me just...get the water going..." Once out of her sight, though, he stopped, ducking and shaking his head. She didn't ask you to bloody join her, he scolded himself. Just get it going, carry her in, and stop thinking with your dick.

By the time he returned to the bedroom, Buffy had managed to push the heavy comforter off her thin form and was struggling to swing her legs over the edge of the mattress. In three long strides, he was at her side, his arms under her knees, her shoulders...and there she was, cradled in the curve of his neck. Spike felt the muscles in his cheek twitch as her soft breath fanned across his skin, and the tightening of his jeans made him all too aware of what touching the Slayer did to his senses. C'mon, Spike. Get a grip.

He had discovered that, for being essentially a jail cell, the accommodations were actually quite luxurious. The bathroom especially boasted an oversized claw-footed tub that now lay waiting for Buffy, filled just inches from its brim with chilled water. Gently, Spike leaned over, setting her down on its rolled lip. She seemed deceptively frail against the massive piece of porcelain, and he had to turn away as yet another wave of desire swept over him.

"Spike---."

"I'll just be in the bedroom if you need anything, Slayer," he said, his hand already on the knob to pull the door shut behind him. "No more than ten minutes, though---."

"I...can't do this...myself." Her voice was quavering, but whether it was from the fever or discomfort, he couldn't tell. He waited, unsure what to do. "Stay...please?"

Spike stuffed his hands into his jeans, desperate to hide the tremor that suddenly shook them. He'd been waiting a long time to hear those words, even if when this was all over, she wouldn't remember them. Though she seemed rational enough, he knew how illness could play tricks with your head; years of nursing Dru had certainly taught him that. But how could he possibly turn Buffy down?

Swallowing hard, he took the few steps across the ceramic tile with deliberate slowness, giving her ample opportunity to change her mind. She watched him as he pulled his hands from his pockets, reached forward to pull her to her feet, grabbing her hip to steady her as the room tilted drunkenly beneath her. Even as his free hand reached behind her, catching the drawstring of her tank top, pulling it free from its knot, she kept her hazel eyes locked with his, silently assuring him that it was OK.

It was only when the delicate fabric of her top fell to the floor, exposing the pale curves of her breasts, the dusty rose of her hardened nipples, did Spike make a sound. The sharp intake of breath echoed against the tiled walls, and he would've blushed at his own obviousness if there'd been any blood circulating in his system. Instead, he averted his eyes as his fingers slid down to the waistband of her jeans...undid the button...felt the sharp angle of her pelvis jut out from the curve of her hip. The denim fell to the floor, followed quickly by the satin of her underwear as Buffy gently pushed his hands away to remove them herself.

"Thank you," she murmured, and Spike felt her heat edge away from him, slide noiselessly into the water.

"Remember, ten minutes." He wanted to walk away, but his feet were stone, rooted in the cement of his desire, and he stood there listening to the cool water splash over her skin.

"Spike, I can't...the sponge..." Even as the words tumbled from her mouth, Buffy couldn't bring herself to make the request out loud. Vulnerability was not her strong suit, even when she knew it was necessary.

This is for Buffy, this is for Buffy, he intoned silently as he reached toward the shelf she couldn't reach. It wasn't until he'd knelt at the tub's side did he have the nerve to look at her full on.

Her eyes were closed, her lashes dark against her pale skin, and he could see her heartbeat pulsing in the hollow of her neck. The same throb was visible in her left breast, and his gaze crept lower, over the white velvet of her stomach...down to her golden curls swaying under the surface of the water...muscled thighs leading down to the gentle arc of her calves...all the way to the pale pink polish on her pedicured toes.

The sponge was a cloud between his fingers as it hovered over the water, hesitant to shatter the crystalline surface. Buffy was making no move to take it from him; although he was unsure of her reasons, he knew she was waiting for him to make the first move.

He didn't even notice the chill as he soaked the sponge in the bath, dragging it along the length of her arm in an extended caress. So slender, so succulent, completely belying the strength hidden within its depths. Under his gaze, the goose bumps sprang to the surface of her skin, and he echoed the sweep down the opposite limb. So engrossed was he in his ministrations, he almost didn't hear Buffy when she finally spoke.

"Are you still pissed at me, Spike?"

The question caught him unawares, breaking his reverie, clouding his blue eyes, jerking his attention back to her face. She still lay in repose, eyelids shuttered from him, no lines creasing her brow. "You're referring to a perpetual state, Slayer," he said, trying his best to keep it light. "When aren't you pissin' me off?"

"I'm serious." Her eyes opened, and her hazel gaze was steady. Spike was struck by the incongruity of it all, Buffy stretched out nude in the tub before him, his raging hard-on at the potential doing its best to distract him from her solemn tone. "Sometimes, I get so wrapped up in the whole 'Chosen One', Slayer package crap, that I forget about the why of the whole thing. I mean, I didn't even understand about Riley until it was too late."

Unconsciously, his fingers tightened on the sponge at the mention of her ex's name. "If you're comparin' Big Bad with Captain Cardboard, I really will be pissed."

"No, just that...bitchy Buffy isn't really me, and I think...I forget that sometimes." A wet hand emerged from the water to lightly grasp Spike's. He froze, wondering what would come next. "I don't hate you, you know. You annoy the hell out of me most of the time, but that's not the same thing, I don't think."

"Buffy, I..." He knew this was his opportunity, his chance to finally say the words out loud that had been plaguing his dreams for months now, but they choked in his throat. Dropping the sponge into the tub, he stood and turned his platinum head away. He reached for a towel and said, "I think time's up."

He could hear her teeth starting to chatter as she rose from the water, and passed the towel back. With the mirror just before him, it would only take a glance, a blink really, to catch one more look at those glorious curves, but he stayed the reflex. The memories of the bath alone would feed his fantasies for a long time to come; one more look wouldn't...

"'C-c-course, being sick while I t-t-tell you this has an advantage," Buffy was saying. "I g-g-get carte blanche to say I d-d-don't remember anything."

Unbidden, the smile came to his lips and, when his gaze slid to her reflection anyway, there was no mistaking the slight quirk of her mouth, the twinkle behind the too-bright eyes. Ducking her head, the Slayer wrapped the towel around her body, trying to hide the blush that swiftly rose to her skin.

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

Leaning over, Willow blew gently, extinguishing the last of the candles. Her head was still aching from her encounter the previous night, and attempting the locator spell again so soon had drained what little reserves she'd had left. A worried Tara hovered behind her, light hands stroking her hair, her familiar scent calming the redheaded witch's racing pulse.

"Please tell me you didn't ruin my map even further," Giles asked as he came back into the training room.

"Your map is fine." Straightening, Willow passed him the folded diagram, unable to meet his worried gaze.

"Well, when Xander and Anya get back from the crypt, we can take what they find and formulate a plan on getting Buffy and Spike back. You two don't mind missing classes today, do you?"

"Oh, no," reassured Tara. "But..." She glanced over at Willow, an exchange not missed by the Watcher.

"What is it?" he asked. "Didn't the spell work this time?"

"No, we're pretty sure the spell did what we asked it to," replied Willow. "But there's a reason why your map didn't go all poof."

His blue eyes narrowed, although he was fairly certain he knew what was coming next.

"Buffy and Spike aren't in Sunnydale anymore."

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

Xander kicked at the headstone, trying to dislodge the brown mire that had buried itself in the crevices of his shoes. "Who walks their dog in a cemetery?" he complained. "I mean, do they really think they're providing a service to the residents? That all these flowers need some extra fertilizer or something?"

"I told you to watch where you were stepping," Anya said, grimacing as a tall weed snagged at her sweater. "We're supposed to be looking for clues as to who took Buffy, remember? Unless you think that maybe that was left by the Hound."

Xander shook his head. "Not big enough on the poop-meter. I'm going to say this was left courtesy of something spaniel-sized."

"Well, I don't think we're going to find anything else. The only things I've seen are Spike's cigarette butts."

"Spike's?" He frowned. "Why would Spike be smoking outside so close to his own crypt?"

Anya shrugged. "I don't know, but there's a huge pile of them over behind the Dillard gravestone." She pointed back over her shoulder and watched as her boyfriend crossed the distance, suddenly forgetting his disgust with his shoes.

"I'm thinking these don't belong to our resident undead guy." Xander picked up a smashed butt, sniffing at it before making a face. "These have a funny smell."

"Funny, as in you don't recognize it, or funny, as in yuck?"

"Both. But definitely leaning toward the yuck."

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

It was the heat he felt first, rousing him as it warmed his cheek. Very quickly, though---too quickly really---the heat turned into fire and his blue eyes snapped open to see the first open flame light his face.

"Bloody hell!" Spike screamed, leaping to his feet, away from the stray sunlight that had filtered through the closed curtains, slapping at his face to snuff out the fire before it could spread. The room was south-facing, allowing maximum daylight during the
waking hours, and the skimpy coverings at the windows did little to keep the radiance out. Still, he thought he'd positioned the chair well enough to keep himself safe; leave it to the bleedin’ sun to find a way to get him anyway.

On the bed, Buffy stirred at the vampire's pained yell. It had been a couple hours since her bath; although she'd dropped back to sleep almost immediately afterward, Spike could see that the flush in her cheeks wasn't quite as rosy as it had been, her breathing not quite so labored. The effects of the potion seemed to finally be dissipating.

Oblivious to the pain in his cheek, Spike leaned over, brushing the Slayer's hair back from her brow. Her forehead is definitely cooler, he thought, even if, to me, it still feels like an inferno. A smile pulled the corner of her mouth up, while a satisfied sigh escaped her lips. Rolling over onto her side, she settled back into slumber.

"How is she faring?"

The voice from the doorway caught Spike's attention and he turned to look at the man who stood there. The sunglasses were gone now, revealing ebony eyes that glittered as if from some inner power. Although taller than the blond vampire, time and good living had taken its toll on his formerly trim form. A slight paunch, too fleshy hands...this was a man not used to labor.

"She'll do."

"You appear to have had a slight accident, Mr. Spike," Daymon commented, fingers fluttering toward his own cheek. "Do you need medical attention?"

"It's just Spike, and no, I'll be right as rain soon enough."

Daymon nodded. "Oh, yes. Vampire constitution. I'd forgotten."

"Look, mate, social niceties aside, I don't think you stopped 'round for a friendly cuppa tea, so let's cut to the chase, shall we?"

"You're direct. I like that." He paused, leaning against the jamb, arms folded across his chest. "My business doesn't actually concern you, though. You are...superfluous. My pursuit is for the Slayer, hence Celandia's little...hunt."

The truth began to dawn on Spike, and he nodded, a sneer on his lips. "The Hound is hers."

"Not exactly. She's the caretaker. But your intent is correct."

"And you hired her."

"Well, yes. I wanted the Slayer, she could find her for me." He straightened, turning to go. "I'll send for your...friend later. I trust she'll be better then."

Spike leapt from the bed, lunging for the man in the door. Within a foot of it, though, he was thrown back as he met an invisible wall, the magical barrier erected by the witch. It didn't hurt, but it was an annoyance, and he glared at his captor. "I don't know what your game is, but I think Buffy's going to have a few choice words for you once she's back in Slayer mode. Hell, if you weren't human, I'd take care of you myself."

Daymon stopped, an amused smile lighting his face. "Curious. You really are the most intriguing creature, Mr....Spike," he said before shutting the door.

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

Sitting at the old wooden desk, Giles stared down at the tome in front of him, not really seeing the pages, but envisaging instead the normally lithe form of his Slayer lying in a crumpled heap in the alley. Buffy's disappearance had sent ripples of concern throughout the entire gang, but as her Watcher, Rupert felt the weight of her absence the greatest. She had become so diligent in her training over the past few months; in many ways, he felt as if he'd failed in protecting her from this latest danger. They should've discovered more about the Hound sooner; he should've been stricter with Willow about the affinity spell. Could've, would've, should've. He could berate himself all day; it wasn't going to bring her back any faster.

The jingle from the door broke his reverie and he looked up to see Xander and Anya stroll into the shop, hand in hand. It had been several hours since he'd sent them off, and their casual manner suggested that they'd taken a detour on their way back to the shop.

"Anything?" he asked.

"Not lots," Xander replied. He broke off from his girlfriend, letting her get to behind the counter, while he pulled up a chair next to Giles. He pulled a handful of the butts from his jacket. "Just these."

Frowning, Giles reached for his glasses so that he could examine the find more closely. "They're not Spike's?" Taking a whiff, he grimaced and answered himself. "Oh, no. Definitely not Spike's."

"There was a whole pile of them just a few feet from the crypt. Looked like someone might've been hanging around there for a while." He looked back at the empty store. "Where's Willow?"

"I sent her and Tara over to the rooftop where we saw that woman last night. Somehow, she's linked to the Hound, and since it was most likely magic that got them out of the alley, I was hoping that Willow might be able to detect some residual emanations." At Xander's frown, he defended, "Contrary to what you might think, it's not reaching for straws. The locator spell proved that Buffy's not in Sunnydale anymore, so we have no idea how far they've taken her by this point. We have to be as thorough as possible to ensure getting her back."

"Too bad we don't have one of our own Hounds. He'd find Buffy fast enough."

"Yes, well..." Giles handed the cigarettes back to Xander. "In the absence of our own tracker, could you please take these down to the tobacconist? See if he recognizes them, where they're from, if he's sold any recently."

The young man scowled. "How come I always get the stinky jobs? First dog doo-doo, now this. I gotta seriously rethink my Scooby status."

"Dog...doo-doo?"

Waving a hand in dismissal, Xander said, "Don't ask."

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

The plaster swirled in patterns over her head, but an incensed Celie was blind to it as her thoughts raged in shades of red and black. Daymon had dispatched her to her room, telling her to pack her bags as the truck would be leaving for the airstrip before dinner. They were taking her and the Hound back to the island, whether she wanted to go or not, and she still hadn't had the opportunity to tell her employer the real reason she'd brought back the vampire. Although she had requested to see him, he was refusing all audiences.

The man's a fool, she thought, if he thinks he can contain both the Slayer and her vampire friend without the aid of my magics. It would only be a matter of time before the allies she'd seen at the battle would arrive to rescue their comrade, and if Daymon had his way, Celie would no longer be around to help. He didn't want to hear the particulars of the hunt; his only focus was on the young girl, just as it had been since he first learned of her existence.

Her anger drifted to the blond vampire. She didn't understand why he hadn't given them more of a fight the previous evening; one hit from the men and he'd been down on the floor, writhing in pain. It wasn't as if he couldn't fight; she'd witnessed those skills firsthand. Every previous encounter she'd had with vampires proved that their preternatural strength and prowess made them formidable enemies, yet this one hung around with humans. As their friend?

She had her own plans for him, and they certainly didn't include being his friend. Her nights were still haunted by the screams of her family...the stench of flowing blood...the sheer terror as she clung to her blanket, doing her best not to sob out loud and bring
her to their attention. Twenty-five years had passed since that night, and the horror still shrouded her in pain. Once and for all, she was going to purge herself of the demons, and for that...Spike was going to be her tool...

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

Spike hovered over her, watching as her fingers slowly pulled the pith from the orange slice, the white strands drifting to the top of her blanket, snowing intricate patterns of white lace against the burgundy comforter. Shaking his head, he strode quickly into the bathroom, grabbed the hand towel, and marched back to Buffy's side. "Glad you're not eating like that in my bed," he grumbled. "Joyce needs to give you some etiquette lessons on how to conduct yourself when you're a guest in someone else's house."

Buffy dropped her peels and orange remains onto the towel, wiping off the sticky juice from her hands at the same time. "Why should I be Miss Manners?" she asked. "You said yourself, that guy who hired the witch is the one responsible for sending Cujo after me, so sorry, not feeling very considerate here. He can just deal."

Spike turned his head to hide the smile he couldn't keep from forming. Buffy had woken from her nap more animated than she'd been since first collapsing, with almost no traces of the fever evident in the touch of her skin. In fact, the first thing out of her mouth had been a complaining, "I'm hungry," so he knew she was back on the track to normal. Thank God their captor had left a bowl of fruit at her bedside.

"Maybe he doesn't deserve consideration," he said, "but I bloody do. He's not the one who's stuck being your slopmaster while you scarf down your body weight in oranges."

Playfully, she stuck her tongue out, unable to hide the twinkle of delight in her eye. Bantering with Spike was familiar territory, terrain she was more than happy to traverse while she finished getting over Willow's spell. All her memories were intact; as much
as she'd wished that coming around would just erase them from the blackboard in her head, everything---the hardness of his cock as she ground her hips against him, the salty tang of his skin on her tongue---was etched onto her consciousness, coloring the vampire in shades she'd never associated with him before.

"I'm not a pig. Dog spell, remember?" She gave him a little bark in demonstration, and was rewarded with a blinding smile from her roommate as he glanced at her out of the corner of his blue eyes. Even he couldn't resist her jibe at her own foolishness.

"Still, no telling when we'll get another visit, so if I were you, I'd take it easy. That fruit might be all you get for a while."

Buffy frowned. "Did they leave anything for you?"

Shaking his head, Spike said, "Somehow, I get the feelin' he wasn't expecting a vampire caller."

"Oh." She watched him slouch in the chair, picking at the remains of the black polish on his nails, not meeting her gaze. Their sudden captivity meant that Spike was stripped of those things that seemed so quintessentially him---his duster was back in the crypt, so he had only the black t-shirt hugging his muscled shoulders; no hair gel meant that his usually slick and stiff coif was tousled into little boy curls; and his fingers looked nearly naked without their signature ebony tips. She knew better than to think that this made any bit of difference to the vampire within, but still...

"I'll do for a couple days," he was saying. "Now that you're feeling better, we should have no problem getting back to Sunnyhell."

"What about the spell on the room? Not exactly Queen of the Magic Fair here.”

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it." Silently, Spike echoed the Slayer's concern, but with her fever out of the way, it seemed like almost anything was possible anymore. "Maybe the Watcher will figure out where they've taken us."

"Giles...yes..." Biting her lip, Buffy took a deep breath before continuing. "How much do they, you know, know?"

He cocked his head. "Don't worry, Slayer. Your horny little secret is safe with me." His tongue tapped against his top teeth as he watched her settle back against the pillows. Although she hadn't yet mentioned her actions during the spell, he could tell that she
remembered more than she was admitting. There was a casualness to her attitude, an intimacy that hadn't been there prior, and he felt the familiar flicker of hope flare in his gut.

Her laugh shattered the newfound comfort between them, slicing through Spike's very core with its brittleness. "Like any of the gang would ever really believe I had the hots for you!"

Before she could blink, he was leaning over her, fists on either side of her hips, holding himself just inches from her face. The laughter died in her throat as she saw that his eyes had darkened to the color of a stormy sky, the muscles twitching in his cheek as he fought to keep his cool. "As long as you don't start believing that, Slayer, I don't really give a damn what the Scoobies think."

Buffy tried to push him away, but the strength still escaped her. "Don't flatter yourself, Spike," she said as harshly as she could manage. "It was the potion, remember?"

"If I remember correctly, Buff," he snarled, emphasizing the shortened version of her name, "your dream happened before your little canine caper, so, sorry, can't use that one as an excuse this time."

"I've told you, I thought it was Riley!"

"Really? Captain Cardboard made you feel like this?" Scooping her hips into his hands, he pulled her body in a clean jerk so that it lay flat before him, the pillows scattering to the floor. One hand traced the edge of her waist, sliding up her torso, over her shirt to the curve of her shoulder, while the other tightened around her buttock, squeezing it, massaging it, using it to pull her pelvis closer to his.

Buffy hissed at the sensation of his hard cock against her, her own eyes darkening with desire, her nipples rising to stiff peaks as he lowered his mouth to her neck, snaking his tongue along the tender flesh to the back of her ear, nipping at the lobe. Goose bumps erupted along her arm and she felt the heat of anger begin to suffuse her breast. "What's the matter, Spike?" she taunted. "Can't take a chance with a girl unless she's under par?"

"You're never under par, luv," he growled against her throat. Closing her eyes, she felt him nibble along its length as his fingers tangled in the honey-colored curls fanned across the sheets, holding her immobile, forcing her to respond to his caresses. "And you still haven't answered my question."

Buffy's mind raced, frantically trying to remember what exactly he'd asked of her. Something about...Riley? She couldn't think straight. God, why was he doing this to her? The bath...he'd been so tender...didn't take advantage...even helped her get dressed again without so much as a suggestive comment. Now...fragments of her dream filtered before her mind's eye, melding with the very real weight of Spike above her...Unconsciously, she spread her legs, allowing him access to the wetness between her thighs without actually vocalizing the invitation.

His laugh was more of a rumble, deep in his chest, and she opened her eyes to see him staring down at her. "Always preferred Action Buffy over Talking Buffy, anyway," he whispered before lowering his lips to hers, searing her in ice as his tongue sank into the sweltering depths of her mouth, savoring her taste.

Her response was automatic, an impassioned silent plea as her hands came up to pull his platinum head closer, forcing their kiss deeper, fingers laced in his curls, exploring the hard curves of his skull. There was no thought now; instinct is what drove her body to entwine with his, hard to soft, desperation demanding she be filled with the vampire's essence. As if of their own mind, Buffy's legs scissored themselves around his hips, the fleeting realization that both of them were still clothed barely registering.

If the Slayer was caught up in the moment, Spike was more than aware of everything that was going on. He'd started this little dance out of anger, annoyance at Buffy for having the nerve to deny her responses yet again, and had only taken it the step further at the mention of her ex's name. He hadn't really expected her to react so strongly, though, and the idea that she'd been looking for an excuse to continue their sex shenanigans had occurred to him more than once, pleasing him to no end.

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

They stood outside the door, feet shuffling but each silent as they waited for the other to make the first move. Absently, they both fingered the amulets Celie had given them to provide safe passage through the spell. "I don't hear anything," the shorter of the two men finally said.

"Probably sleeping," the other agreed, shifting the weight of the crossbow on his hip. "Most likely, the girl's still unwell."

"And vampires sleep during the day." Although their murmurs of agreement were more for their own reassurance than anything else, the men didn't relax their postures as they silently turned the doorknob.

Two sets of brown eyes widened at the writhing forms on the bed. The blond vampire was straddling the young girl, his face buried in her neck, and the moans that were escaping her were unmistakable. They had only one thought between them; their master's assurances that she would be safe had been for naught.

After years of training, their reactions were reflex. In one sweep, the taller man cocked the crossbow and took aim, while the other moved to the side, ready to grab the girl from the monster's grasp. The arrow whished through the air, burying itself in the vampire's shoulder, bucking him from the girl's form as he roared in pain.

Breathing heavily, the Slayer sat up, her eyes wide, dark, darting from the armed men to the crumpled body on the floor. A pool of blood began spreading out almost immediately underneath him, and with more energy than she'd had since the Hound's attack, she leapt to the vampire's side.

"What've you done?" she hissed at the intruders, her thin hands wrapped around the arrow. As she pulled, it slid from his shoulder but in spite of the obvious pain it caused, he didn't make a sound.

"The master wishes to see you," the man with the crossbow said, confused at the girl's apparent lack of gratitude for saving her.

Buffy ignored him, concentrating instead on the platinum-haired vampire. Pressing one hand against the wound, she used her free arm to turn him over onto his back, only to find her breath catching in her throat at the glazed look in his blue eyes. Her head whipped around to glare at the two men.

"Tell your master he can go to hell."

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

Her skirt billowed in the slight breeze, a gossamer cloud around her ankles, and her full lips curled in a smile as she watched Willow bend over the remains of the chalk diagram on the roof. Watching her lover’s nimble fingers, Tara felt the dawning of a warm flush between her thighs as unsolicited memories began flooding her consciousness.

“Whoever she was, she was way powerful,” Willow was saying, oblivious to the other girl’s distraction. “And super prepared.

These markings take forever to get right.” She straightened. “Giles won’t be very high on the happy scale, but I can’t get anything here that can help us. What about you?”

Tara shook her head, forcing her concentration to return to the task at hand. “I’m not seeing anything special either.”

“So, basically, we got bupkiss.”

“Maybe Xander and Anya had better luck.”

Willow sighed. “Maybe. I just wish---.” She broke off, kicking at a loose stone. “I mean, my head knows there wasn’t anything I could’ve done, but Mr. Guilt never seems to pay attention to that part of my anatomy.”

Coming up behind her, Tara slid her hands onto her friend’s shoulders, massaging them firmly. “You’ve got to stop kicking yourself on this one, Willow. Whoever they were, they knew what they were doing. You said yourself they got through Spike like he wasn’t even there, and they were all ready for you downstairs. You guys didn’t really stand a chance.”

“I can understand that logic-wise, but feeling-wise…” Her head rolled to one side, both in resignation and as an acknowledgement to Tara’s strong fingers. “…Buffy’s my best friend. If something happens to her…”

“Nothing’s going to happen,” soothed Tara. “Spike’s with her…” She let the thought trail off, realizing that she’d probably said too much, knowing the vampire wouldn’t be happy with her talking about his unrequited feelings for the Slayer.

There was a long pause as each girl played the debate through in her head. Finally, Willow took a deep breath and blurted, “Spike told me he was in love with Buffy.”

Tara exhaled loudly. “Thank goddess! I didn’t know how long I was going to have to keep my mouth shut.”

“Me too!” Willow’s face lit up as she recounted her experience. “You should’ve seen him in the crypt when he told me. He was all ‘bloody hell’ this and ‘soddin’ that, and punching the wall and everything. He imagined this whole scenario where Giles came swooping in and dragged him outside by his duster.” She giggled. “Like Giles would swoop.” Her smile relaxed as she added, “I didn’t expect it when he said you knew. I never thought you two were all Chatty Cathy or anything.”

“We’re not. I kind of guessed. And, to be honest, I think he’d do just about anything to make sure Buffy stays safe.”

Nodding, Willow said softly, “What freaks me out is that I’m beginning to think that maybe Buffy might be on the same love train.”

This stopped the other witch’s massage in mid-squeeze. “You think she’d fall for a vampire? Again?” Obviously, this possibility had never occurred to her. “She just broke up with Riley not that long ago, and you’ve told me what happened with Angel…”

“I know. And it’s not like she’s standing in a bell tower with a loudspeaker saying what’s going through her head. It’s just…a feeling…they have a lot of history, her and Spike. And sometimes I’ve thought, methinks the Slayer doth protest too much.”

Tara agreed silently and wrapped her arm around Willow’s waist, pulling her closer. “Makes our love story seem almost simple in comparison, doesn’t it?” she murmured.

A gentle kiss from the redheaded witch was the only response.

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

The blood had coagulated around the small wound in his shoulder, creating semi-soft ridges where it was starting to scab. Very gently, Buffy’s fingers grazed over the crimson wound, being careful not to set him to bleeding again, yet not able to resist the urge to touch it. Once she’d used the spare towels from the bathroom to staunch the earlier flow, she’d returned him to the bed, this time on his back, and set about to mop the pool from the floor. Glancing down at it now, she knew from experience that it would stain anyway.

“Don’t know why you’re unconscious anyway,” she said out loud, as if addressing the vampire in his present state would somehow wake him up. “It was just an arrow; it’s not like it even got anywhere near your heart.” She waited, her hazel eyes scanning his face for any sign of recognition.

Nothing. She tried again. “C’mon, Spike. It can’t be that bad. Big Bad’s a Big Faker, I think.”

Although her voice sounded cheerful, the worry lines between her brows contradicted that ease. Spike had been unconscious since the two men who’d shot him had left, and now a sickly blue pallor was starting to shade his sculpted cheeks. The deepening shadows under his eyes only contributed to her growing belief that something was seriously wrong. It dawned on Buffy that she hadn’t seen him look this bad since that day he’d shown up at Giles’, begging for help after the Initiative had chipped him; that couldn’t be good.

As if they had a mind of their own, Buffy’s fingers trailed across his chest, tracing the prominent collarbone before skating down his other arm in a feather-light caress. Touching him like this brought forth a surge of memories from the past two days---his icy tongue flicking against her ear…his fingertips barely touching her as he sponged her down in the bath…her thumb gliding over the tip of his hard cock as she pressed against him in his crypt…Even now, the lingering wetness between her legs made it difficult to concentrate on her task at hand.

In spite of how hard she wanted to wish it wasn’t true, Buffy knew she couldn’t ignore Spike’s ministrations to her over the past few days. He had nothing to gain by nursing her back to Slayer-strength; escape was always easier when there was only one person to worry about and, if nothing else, Spike was a survivor. Still…maybe he’d done it because he knew he couldn’t get out on his own, that he needed her as an ally in order to overcome their captors, and had been only simulating the tenderness he’d exhibited in the bathroom to ensure her good will. The bathroom…

Buffy felt the flush creep over her skin as the remembered sensations from the bath drowned her consciousness in sweltering waves of want. This was another truth she could no longer deny, her physical response to the chipped vampire’s presence. In the past, she’d attributed it to her heightened adrenalin levels while they fought; what was it Faith had once said? Something about slaying making her hungry and horny? But there’d been no hostility while he sponged her down, and she’d still found herself irrationally wishing he’d slide out of the those damn black jeans and join her in the water.

Snap out of it! she scolded herself silently, and straightened, stepping away from the bed. Think non-sexy, non-Spike thoughts. As she edged away from his side, the texture of cotton brushing against her bare foot tugged her gaze downward. Spike’s t-shirt lay crumpled by her ankle. In her haste to dress his wound, she’d ripped it off him, tossing it aside, forgetting about it as she waited for him to wake up.

Now, with slender fingers that seemed to have developed a permanent tremor, she leaned over and picked it up. He’d never be able to wear it again; the vampire’s wardrobe staple had nothing holding it together anymore, not now that Buffy had torn it in half. Still one more thing he’d been stripped of since the Hound’s arrival…

Almost without thinking, she raised the rag to her nose, inhaling deeply. This was Spike, the smokiness, the biting tang of the leather, with that underlying aroma of sex that clung to his skin like a lover’s embrace. It was heady, intoxicating, and the young Slayer felt the familiar quickening of her pulse as she drank it in.

The low rumble of a man clearing this throat wrenched Buffy from her reverie, and she dropped the shirt as if scalded, her head jerking up to see Daymon standing in the doorway. It was the first time she’d actually seen her captor, and a small part deep inside her stomach relaxed. She could take him, that she knew. Fighting hand-to-hand, she had no doubt who would be the victor, which was probably why he had so many guys around with weapons. There was still something dangerous about him, though, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on; perhaps if she could just see his eyes behind those sunglasses…

Out loud, she quipped, “Doesn’t anyone in this place believe in knocking? Kindergarteners have more manners than you guys.”

“I believe you should be examining your own etiquette, Miss Summers.” His voice oozed into the room like an oil slick, and it was all Buffy could do not to wrinkle her nose in disgust. “I extended you an invitation that you chose to decline. Where I’m from, refusing your host is considered a grave insult.”

She nodded slowly, her gaze cool and firm. “Funny,” she drawled. “Because where I’m from, we tend to get a little upset about being kidnapped and shot. Makes us a little edgy. Just as a point of reference for you, of course.” This last was said with a coy smile, in spite of the Slayer’s churning gut.

There was a long pause where he seemed to be studying her. “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better,” he finally said. He nodded toward the bed. “Seeing as how…Spike…is still in human form, I assume he’s still alive. Or dead. Or undead, as the case may be.” He shook his head. “I do hate having to deal with the semantics of it all.”

This casual reference to the blond vampire’s worsening condition sent her over the edge, and she took a menacing step toward her host. “No thanks to your goons. I don’t know what the hell they did to him, but I’ve seen starving children in Africa looking better than he does right now.”

Daymon nodded absently. “Yes, that would be the holy water. It’s amazing something so simple can be so effective.”

Her frown was instantaneous. “I don’t know what planet you’re on, but Spike got shot with a crossbow, not---.” Comprehension widened her hazel eyes and she looked back at the vampire’s inert form. “The arrow tip,” she said slowly. “Very clever. I’ll have to remember that next time I’m on patrol.”

There was no mistaking the glee in Daymon’s chuckle. “It’s the customary method utilized by my people. Sometimes, they can be quite ingenious.” He paused, choosing his next words carefully. “You have no reason to fear, Miss Summers. It works quite quickly, although…his pain will be excruciating until it runs its course.”

Buffy’s head whipped around, the blistering light in her eyes glinting dangerously. “When he’s sandbox filler, you mean?” She waited for a response, but got only a noncommittal shrug of Daymon’s shoulders. She plunged on. “You expect me to just stand here and let you torture him? Who exactly do you think you’re dealing with?”

“I know exactly who you are.” His voice was calm, unruffled by her outburst. “You’re the Chosen One. The Vampire Slayer. Which means you should be happy that I’ve alleviated your duty by one more demon.”

“And if Spike was your everyday, run-of-the-mill demon, you can bet I’d have front row tickets to watch the show. But he’s not. And I’m not going to just stand back and let you kill him.” As the words tumbled out of her mouth, Buffy felt the small germ of an idea begin snaking its way into her awareness.

Daymon’s twisted smile revealed his too-white teeth as he leaned against the doorjamb. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that, my dear. You’re really in no position to avert the inevitable.”

It was the Slayer’s turn to smile. “I love this part. See, this is where I get to tell you how you’ve massively fubarred, and all you get to do is stand back and watch while I foil your master plan. You might want to take off the sunglasses, though. I’d hate for you to miss anything.” Very deliberately, she turned her back on her captor, crossing around the bed until it stood between her and the door. “I’ll give you a choice. Door number 1, you win the Reader’s Digest version of what went wrong, or door number two, I just go ahead and save him.” She waited, the anger simmering behind her eyes, more controlled but definitely still present.

“You can’t save him.”

“Can’t I?” Her gaze never left the dark man in the doorway as she climbed up onto the bed. “Tell me, why don’t you come on in? It can’t be because you’re waiting for an invitation; it’s your house.” She paused as if thinking it over, then answered herself. “Personally, I don’t think you can. You don’t seem to have one of those protection-amulet-thingies that your little minions were wearing.” Dropping her voice, she said in an exaggerated whisper, “It’s OK, I have a witch friend, too, so I know all about those.”

“The more you talk, the faster your…vampire dies.” His tone had chilled as the truth of the situation became more apparent to him, and he mentally berated himself for being so rash as to approach the Slayer without the means to actually enter the room. Although he doubted she could really do anything to save Spike, her assurance seemed so definitive he wondered if perhaps there had been something he’d overlooked.

Buffy knew her captor was right, but she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her flustered. Even in the few minutes since Daymon’s arrival, Spike’s color had worsened, and the first niggle of doubt began to gnaw at her gut. Thank God I’ve got my strength back, she thought, as she slid her hands under the vampire’s arms and pulled him across her lap, cradling his head in the crook of her elbow.

“What you don’t realize,” she continued in that even voice that belied her jittery insides, “is that Slayers and vampires have a very unique relationship. It’s a whole first evil, primitive sort of thing; you probably wouldn’t understand it.” Lord knows I don’t, she added silently. “But what that means for here, today, in this room, I have exactly what is needed to help him beat this.”
With that, Buffy reached up with her free hand and scratched deeply at the base of her neck, drawing just enough blood to stain her fingers. “A Slayer may be strong, but her blood is even stronger,” she almost whispered, and touched her fingers to Spike’s lips.

A moment passed…

…and another…

…and Buffy began to think that she’d figured it all out just a little too late when…

…Spike’s lips parted, his dry tongue lapping at the few drops with agonizing lethargy. His eyelids flickered open, a dull glaze clouding the blue irises, no signs of recognition of where he was or who he was with illuminating their depths, and Buffy had to force herself to swallow the lump that had suddenly risen in her throat.

Dipping her fingertips back into the blood on her neck, she watched as the scent finally reached him, causing his nostrils to flare in hunger. This time, when her hand touched his mouth, he sucked at it greedily, suckling with his last reserve of energy. Awareness seeped back into his gaze, and as it did so, his eyes widened as he tried to pull away.

“It’s OK, Spike,” Buffy soothed. “But I don’t think these few drops are going to do the trick.” Ever so slowly, she pulled him closer, almost embracing him as his mouth began to nuzzle her warm skin. She couldn’t see his face, but she could feel him hesitate before the ridges erupted from his flesh, his teeth elongating against her neck.

Each time felt like the first. The moment when she could feel the tip of the fang hovering over her skin, infinitesimally close yet light years away…then…contact…twin needles piercing the delicate skin…

Buffy felt the familiar surge in her veins as Spike fed from her, sucking at the lifeforce that she hoped would heal him as it had Angel so long ago. It burned with an icy vengeance, ripping across her every nerve ending, electrifying parts of her that seemed dormant outside of a vampire’s embrace. Without realizing it, her eyes flitted shut and she leaned her cheek against his dishevelled curls, her arms tightening across his back, pulling him even closer. The hardening of her nipples almost seemed insignificant compared to the juices now dripping down her thighs. With her breath quickening, the Slayer seemed oblivious to the moan that escaped her throat, or the way the age-old vampire clutched the back of her neck, his thumb resting on the pulse-point that beat so strongly at its base.

In the doorway, an aghast Daymon just gaped in disbelief…

***********

Already the air was starting to cool in the desert, a crisp scent sharpening the senses, and both Celie and the Hound knew that true sunset was on its way. For him, loping alongside his mistress, travelling together through the barren countryside, he was at ease for the first time since arriving in this strange land. He had no quarry to hunt, and the respite was long overdue. Sooner or later, it would begin again; there was always someone to find, something to pursue, and for as long as she was there to tend for him, he would never let his caretaker down.

Her hand rested on the dog’s shoulder as she mulled over her new plan of action. The pilot had been highly receptive to her spell; convincing him that Celie and the Hound were both on his plane had been relatively simple, and she was grateful for the time it would buy her. Daymon would not be fooled for long, and his wrath when he discovered the truth would be great, but…it would be worth it, should she gain the retribution she so desperately needed for her family. How long she had, she had no idea, so she was acting quickly, decisively, reaching for the straw about which she hoped she was not mistaken…

…And the hunt would begin again…

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

“Just call me Xan-xan, the answer man!”  His voice carrying over the door’s jingle, Xander strutted into the Magic Box with a white bag held high over his head.  “A little bit of sweet talk, a couple of dead presidents, and I single-handedly---.”  He stopped in mid-sentence as Dawn’s strident voice filtered to the front of the store.

“If I hear just one more person tell me I’m being unreasonable, I swear I’m going to scream!”

Giles’ voice was low and soothing, as he attempted to ease the young girl’s pique.  “That’s not what I’m saying.  I just think you’re attributing much more significance to my presence than it merits.”  Even from where he stood, Xander could see Dawn wasn’t buying a word of what the older man was saying, not with shoulders set that squarely.

“Special Slayer training that doesn’t need her Watcher?”  Dawn quizzed.  “At least if you’re going to lie about what she’s doing, you could come up with a better cover story.”

“He’s not lying, Dawnie,” Willow interjected.  “He’s just---.”

“I got that stuff you needed, Giles!”  Xander rushed forward, the bag held out in front of him.  “Took me awhile, but I finally found the ones you were asking for.”

“What I was…?  Xander, please, I’m trying to explain to---.”

“But I got what you were needing.”  The young man enunciated his words carefully, his brows slightly lifted as he met Rupert’s frown.  “The smokes guy came through with the goods.” Shaking the sack ever so slightly in front of the Watcher’s face, he waited expectantly for him to take it.

After a moment of hesitation, a small smile of relief relaxed Giles’ concern as he took the offering.  “He…came through, you say?  Wonderful.” 

“You came back for cigarettes?”  The doubt was clear in Dawn’s voice, but for the first time since she’d arrived and found Giles hovering over some books with Willow and Tara, she began to wonder if maybe she’d jumped to the wrong conclusion.

Xander turned to face the teenager, an amiable grin belying his jumping nerves.  “Actually, they’re cigars.  Santa Rosa Torpedos Maduro.  Quite an elegant little smoke, if you’re into that sort of thing.”  Reaching past a confused Watcher’s hands, he extracted a small box from the bag and held it out to an even-more confused Dawn. 

Staring down at the jet-black columns lined up so neatly under the cellophane, the young girl bit her lip.  “But Giles doesn’t smoke.”

“No,” Giles jumped in.  “You’re right.  But these particular cigars have a distinctive…odor that attracts the…Laelaps demon.  And I can’t very well teach Buffy how to fight something if I can’t get it to show up.  However, I…forgot these when I prepared for our session, so I returned to get some.”

 “Which is when he saw me and Tara trying to find that spell,” Willow added.  “And since he said he knew where it was---.”

“---he sent me to go out and get the cigars,” Xander finished.  He turned to the Watcher.  “By the way, you owe me ten bucks.”

A now-disinterested Dawn tossed the box onto the table.  “Why didn’t you just say so in the first place?” she asked as she flopped down into one of the chairs.

There was a moment of silence as the adults just stared down at the young girl, all memories of her recent outburst seemingly vanished from her head.  Finally, Xander picked up the cigars and turned to Giles.  “About that money…”

“It’s not coming from my register,” Anya piped up.  “We’ve had this discussion, Giles.  Every time you dip into the till, I end up spending hours trying to get everything to balance out right.”

He shot her a withering glance.  “Yes, Anya, of course.”  To Xander with a nod of his head toward the back of the store, “My wallet’s in the training room.”

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

“Thank you,” Giles murmured, once the door was closed safely behind them.  “She was refusing to even consider what we had to say.  I can’t blame her, of course, she’s much brighter than any of us really give her credit for and our story regarding the training really was rather inadequate.”

“Just glad I could be there for the save,” Xander said.

The older man peered into the small bag he’d been clutching before pulling out a tightly folded piece of paper.  “What exactly happened at the tobacconist?  And what on earth ever possessed you to go and buy cigars?”

“That smokes guy wouldn’t say boo to me until I bought something.  And I thought they looked kinda cool.”

Giles frowned as he scanned the scrap in his hand.  “What exactly is this?”

“The best lead we’ve got as to where Buffy is, so don’t give me any crap about it, ‘kay?”  Straddling a nearby chair, he continued.  “Once we got past the preliminary buy-something-or-I-remember-nothing phase, Smokey had plenty to spill.  Seems our stinky cigarettes are imported, some Greek island he said.”

“Greece?  Well, that would certainly be in keeping with the Hound, if the two are indeed connected.”

“I’m thinking they are.  A group of guys came in and bought Smokey’s whole stash.”

Giles brightened.  “Really?  Finally, something is going in our favor.  If they used a credit card, Willow should have no problem finding them on the computer.”  There was a long pause while the Watcher waited for the younger man to speak up.  In the silence that engulfed the room, his smile slowly faded.  “Please tell me you at least asked how they paid for the cigarettes.”

“OK.  I asked how they paid for the cigarettes.”  Under Giles’ scrutiny, he blushed.  “But I didn’t.”

Turning away from Xander, Rupert reached out for the doorknob.  “Well, we’ll just go over there and find out now.  It shouldn’t be---.”

Xander jumped up from his chair, grabbing the Watcher’s arm in an effort to stop him from leaving.  “Wait!” he said.  “Maybe I forgot about the credit card thing, but I’ve still got something we can use.”  He began bouncing on his toes in excitement.

“Well?”

“Smokey overheard our guys talking as they were going out.  Seems one of them was bragging about shooting some wildcat, something about getting in the way of the car and putting it out of its misery.  Anyway, this little incident happened to occur on a covered bridge, which around here can only mean one thing---“

“---Cortina Lookout---“

“---which as I’m sure you know is on a road that just goes into desert no-mans-land---“

“---and if you’re not local, that means---“

“---you can’t know about it unless you’ve driven over it.”  A triumphant smile creased his face as he watched Giles take off his glasses and begin chewing on the end, lost in thought.  “Since that definitely falls outside of the realm of your Sunnydale map, I’m thinking, pack a little picnic, take a long drive through the desert.  I bet we find where they’ve stashed Buffy.”

There was a long silence as Giles digested this last bit of information.  He wasn’t even looking at his companion when he mused, “Perhaps if Willow and I were to go out there, we could try another locator spell…”

“…because those are doing so well.”  Xander ducked around so that the Watcher was forced to look him in the eye.   “C’mon, Giles, you’re not seriously thinking of ditching me?  I’m the only one who’s come up with anything concrete.  The least you can let me do is ride in with the cavalry.”

The Watcher’s gaze was firm, his mouth set into that line Xander recognized from many a late-night debate in the library.  “Someone needs to stay behind in case Buffy shows up.  And then there’s Dawn.  She believes us now, but she’s…unpredictable.  I need to ensure she stays out of our way.”

“So what you’re telling me is that I get Dawn duty.” 

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”  He started to turn away, then realized he was still holding the scrap from Xander’s bag.  “And why exactly was this so important?” he queried, worrying the paper between his fingers.

“Oh.”  A dejected Xander barely glanced up as he slumped back into his chair.  “That’s just my receipt.  Like I said, you owe me ten bucks.”

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

More than anything else, he could smell her skin.  Vanilla, made spicy with the pungence of her blood.  It scorched his throat, staving the pain radiating from his shoulder, creating a kaleidoscope behind his eyes as he drank…and drank…

The pad of his thumb pulsated in rhythm with her pulse, but he felt the first flicker of alarm as, in a second that seemed to stretch for an eternity, it faltered, hesitated, before continuing its beat, although not nearly as strong.  The second vacillation merely moments later cut through his consciousness with a blade of fear, and he tore his dripping fangs away to scan her face.

Her eyes were closed, her lashes dark against the increasing pallor of her cheeks, and Spike noted with dread that her lips, normally so ripe and luscious, were now shading to a deep blue.  As his game face slid away, his fingers slipped forward to push the stray curl that had fallen over her forehead.  “Luv…” he whispered, and broke her embrace to prop himself up on his elbow.

Once out of the vampire’s clinch, the young Slayer seemed to waver, suspended in some frozen moment of her own creation, before a tiny hand reached out to clutch at the comforter, steadying her, her hazel eyes fluttering open.  The first thing she did was look down at him, a small smile providing a sharp contrast to her wan appearance.  “No more crap about me eating in bed,” she joked.  “You’re dripping on the sheets.”

Spike reached up and wiped the blood from his mouth, his unbidden tongue darting out to lick it off his fingers before he realized what he was doing.  “You OK, Slayer?”  His voice was a rumble, stronger than hers, but still a shadow of his previous self.  “I stopped when I thought---.”

“I’ll be fine.”  She interrupted him with a wave toward a box on the nightstand.  “Could you hand me a tissue, please?”

He watched as she daubed at the bites on her neck, putting a slight bit of pressure on it to stem the flow, before handing it back to Spike to dispose of.  “Thank you,” she murmured unnecessarily, then raised her head to glare defiantly at the doorway.  It was only then that the vampire noticed that they weren’t alone.

“Very impressive, Miss Summers.”  Daymon had straightened during this display, his back stiff, his arms like ramrods at his sides.  “Bewildering, but impressive.” 

“Next time, you should probably remember that a little research goes a long way.”  Buffy swivelled her head to face Spike.  “Don’t you dare tell Giles I said that.”

“So tell me,” Daymon started, his voice congenial but cold, “what exactly is preventing me from summoning my men to shoot your vampire again?  Only this time, perhaps I should instruct them to aim for the heart.  It leaves so little to chance then.”

“Because I’ll stop them again.”  Buffy matched her captor’s tone, and Spike felt a small smile curl his lip.  That’s it, luv, he thought.  Let’s show this wanker who he’s really dealing with here.

“You seem a little too concerned in keeping me alive,” she was saying.  “I don’t think you’d want to risk your men accidentally---oh, I don’t know---killing me, now would you?”

For the first time since Buffy cut herself, the Greek relaxed, and the amused smile returned to his lips.  “You are very perceptive, young lady,” he said.  “No, I would be most upset should something untoward happen to you at this time.”    

“That makes two of us then,” the blonde quipped.

Daymon chuckled.   “I just have to ask,” he said.  “Why does the Slayer choose to save one she’s sworn to eliminate?  Granted, Spike seems very…interesting, and watching you interact with your vampire could be most entertaining, but I was informed he was attacking you---.”

“You were informed wrong.”  The lightness had disappeared from Buffy’s voice, and Spike could tell she was done playing games.  “Speaking of information, I think since I’ve had my turn at showing, maybe you should start doing some telling.  As in, why are we here and what do you want from us.”

His laughter echoed through the room, taking both of its occupants by surprise.  “You Americans are so blunt,” Daymon chortled  “And while I can appreciate your rather straightforward manner, I’m afraid I can’t really share my plans with you just yet.  Suffice it to say, I’ve spent twenty years trying to find the Chosen One.  For a search that long, you can be assured your purpose will be quite significant.  At least…it will be to me.”

 “And Spike…?”

“His presence is unfortunate.  You must accept my apologies; I’m afraid Celie was a trifle overzealous in her hunt.  I hired her to find me the Chosen One.  I really have no idea why she chose to bring me both of you.”

“So bring her in here.  I’ve got a few choice words I’d like to share with Cujo girl.”

He shook his head.  “I’m afraid that’s not possible.  The plane returning her and the Hound has already departed.”

The silence hung in the air like a cloud, thick with unfulfilled promise.  Finally, Buffy crossed her arms and sighed.  “So that’s it?  That’s all you’re giving me here?”

“For now.”  Daymon’s voice was low, modulated, as if he hadn’t a care in the world.  Spike could distinguish just enough behind the sunglasses to see their “host” wasn’t the slightest bit perturbed by this stonewall.  He was about to dismiss it out-of-hand when the sudden hint of musk in the air tickled the vampire’s nostrils.  Discreetly, he sniffed, hoping that he’d been wrong, but there it was.  The smallest line appeared between his eyes as he frowned.  Gotta tell the Slayer once we’re alone, he mentally reminded himself.

 “Since you’re now awake,” Daymon was continuing, “if you find yourself in need of anything---food, drink, etcetera---there’s a small buzzer under your nightstand.  Simply use it to summon the staff and tell them your requests.  They’re instructed to give you anything you may need.  Within reason, of course.”

Fingering the mark on her neck, Buffy glanced back at her blond companion before asking, “What about Spike’s---needs?”

There was a pause before Daymon responded.  “Haven’t you proven you can take care of your vampire yourself?”

The Slayer’s eyes widened and she leapt from the bed.  “Contrary to what you might think,” she sputtered,  “I am not his blood moll.  This was a once-in-a-lifetime, he’s-going-to-die-unless-I-do-this kind of thing!”

In spite of himself, Spike smiled.  He could smell the remnants of her desire; being his “blood moll”---and he particularly liked that term, must remember to use it later---had excited her almost as much as their foreplay prior to his getting shot.  No blinding headache from the chip just confirmed for him that he hadn’t been hurting her, had instead been giving her as much pleasure as she was giving him.  Well…almost as much. 

Out loud, he said, “Doesn’t have to be human.  Pig’s blood’ll do.  Just make sure it’s warmed before they serve it.  Don’t particularly fancy the chilled stuff.  Oh, and no novelty cups.”

Their captor just stood there, watching them, his long fingers tapping silently on the leg of his trousers.  “Very well,” he finally said. “I’ll direct the staff to also include your vampire’s needs.  In the meantime, I’ll send someone up with some clean sheets and extra clothes for you, Miss Summers.”

“Hey!” Spike interjected.  “If I’m not gettin' killed here, mate, the least you can do is clothe me, too.”

Daymon sighed.  “And for you as well, then.”  He started to turn, hesitated, and then looked back at Buffy.  “It’s not my first choice, but since you insist on keeping company with your vampire, I trust you have no problem with these---.”  He gestured, referencing the bedroom.  “---arrangements until our departure tomorrow evening.”

 “Departure?”  Buffy crossed her arms across her chest.  “And where exactly are we going?”

“Why, home, of course.”  And with that, he left the room, shutting the door behind him.

Buffy erupted as soon as they were alone.  “Where he does he get off saying that you’re ‘my’ vampire?  I mean, major ewww here.”

“Really?”  Very deliberately, Spike stood up, slowly enough so that his head didn’t swim from the sudden movement but decisive enough so that the Slayer wouldn’t realize just how weak he still was.  He stepped toward her, closing the gap between them, wondering when she would pull away.  “Don’t seem to remember asking you for this.” 

She just stood there like a deer caught in headlights as his hand reached up and his thumb caressed the bite mark on her neck.  “You were going to die, Spike,” she said as evenly as she could. 

He shrugged.  “Maybe.”  Blue eyes locked with hazel.  “Maybe not.  Still don’t see why you did it.”

His touch was hypnotic.  She had to swallow, moisten her now too-dry throat before she could reply.  “He said I couldn’t save you.  It pissed me off.”

“And…?”

And?  He wanted an and?  “And…you saved me.  From the fever.  I figured I didn’t have much of a choice.”

“There’s always a choice, pet.”  His eyes swept over her face, thrilling to the heightened color that seemed to be returning to her cheeks, noting with satisfaction the steadier beat of her heart.  “No one’s puttin’ a gun to your head.  I’m sure your mates wouldn’t hold it against you if you went back minus a Big Bad.  And I know it’d be easier on Rupert’s pocket if he didn’t have to keep paying me to cover your asses.”

Buffy’s head whirled.  Why didn’t she step away from him?  Here he was, invading her personal space yet again, just like he did every time he wanted to get a reaction from her… “Spike, please, can we not talk about this right now?” she finally croaked. 

His laughter was genuine.  “This world of denial you live in must be bloody comfortable, Slayer, since you insist on spending so much time there.”

“I just meant,” she said through gritted teeth, “maybe we should be talking escape plan instead of dissecting what I’m beginning to think was a really bad decision.”

He cocked his scarred eyebrow.  “You think you can get us out of here?”

“Only if you’re willing to play nice and do as I tell you, no questions asked.”  She blushed.  Oh God, she thought.  I’m doomed.  Even that sounded sexual.

Biting his bottom lip, Spike tilted his head as he gauged her discomfort.  In spite of her refusal to discuss it, Buffy still hadn’t moved, and he became acutely aware of her heat warming his bare chest.  Just an inch…her breasts would be pressed against him…it would be so simple…

“If it makes you feel better, Slayer, he’s got it all wrong.  Saving me doesn’t make me yours.”  He leaned forward until his cheek hovered next to hers, his voice a silky whisper in her ear.  “It makes you mine…”

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

Her foot tapped impatiently against the air, beating out an imaginary staccato rhythm, and she sighed as she flipped the page of the book. No one had come into the shop in over an hour, and Anya was beginning to regret telling Xander to go ahead and take Dawn home. “Go on,” she’d said. “We can’t have sex after we close with her here anyway.” Stupid boy. Since when he did start listening to her?

Giles had left explicit instructions before he’d left. “The replacement copy of the Tract of Telemus arrived yesterday,” he’d said. “Please look it over, see if you can find anything regarding the Hound.”

“It’s a little late for research, isn’t it?” she’d argued. “They’ve already got Buffy.” The dirty look he’d shot her made her shut up, but for a fleeting moment, Anya had wished she could just cast one more spell, something that would maybe give Giles an unfortunate horn, or temporary uncontrollable giggles, or pustules along his…

The telephone ring cut through the hush of the store and Anya jerked upright as her hand snatched it up. “Good evening, Magic Box,” she chirped into the receiver. Her smile vanished. “For the sixth time tonight, this is not Sombrero Ole!” The force as she slammed down the phone reverberated the countertop, sending the book skittering over the edge onto the floor. “Damn it,” she muttered, and bent over to pick it up.

Her fingers froze over the page, hovering just inches from the paper, as the image stared back at her. Oh shit, she thought. Where the hell is Giles when you need him? As she scanned the tiny script, her mouth silently forming some of the words, the line between her eyes deepened. We should’ve known about this sooner, she worried. Without even bothering to pick up the book, she hopped off her stool and scurried over to the ladder. “Please be there, please be there,” she intoned.

At the sight of the books stacked up in the corner of the loft, Anya sighed. I told Giles he needed to go through these. I’m never going to find it now. But she was wrong. There it was, right on top, almost begging her to pick it up. Its emerald leather seemed to gleam under the fluorescents, the gold lettering glittering in anticipation. She hesitated. I could be wrong, she thought, then laughed out loud. Good one, Anya.

It was right where she thought it would be, tucked between the entry about the Grand Evisceration and the one with the dream trolls. Without the Tract of Telemus, there would’ve been no way for them to connect the dots. But still…the ex-demon bit her lip as she re-read the passage. Giles needed to know about this as soon as possible, although having known yesterday would definitely have been better. With him and the witches out in the desert, however, there was nothing that could happen until morning.

Straightening, she shut the book and tucked it under her arm. Morning it is then, she thought. Maybe Xander will still be awake when I get home…

***********

“Is there a reason we couldn’t do this in the morning?” Willow asked.

Giles glanced at her reflection in his rear-view mirror before looking back at the Sunnydale street before him. “We’ve lost a day already,” he replied. “We really must be expeditious in this.” He frowned, glancing at her again. “Are you all right? Not feeling ill, are you?”

“Oh, no,” said Willow. “Haven’t had a headache for, oh---.” She glanced at her watch. “---twenty minutes now.” Next to her Tara smiled reassuringly, squeezing her lover’s knee.

“I don’t foresee any problem with casting the spell,” Giles continued. “The weather promises to be clear, and being so near the full moon, we should have fair enough illumination.”

In the back seat of the car, the redhead slumped, her arms folded across her chest, and muttered, “Sure, for being miles from civilization, surrounded by crazed wild animals.”

“Pardon?”

Willow sighed. “I’m sorry, Giles. Just not feeling like ra-ra girl for Operation Desert Spell. I mean, yeah, it’s great we finally have some info to get Buffy, but being out past the Lookout, in the middle of the night, with the full moon so soon…it’s just giving me the ooglies.”

Tara leaned over and whispered in her girlfriend’s ear. “What’s so bad about the Lookout?”

From the front seat came, “They’re just old wives’ tales. Nothing for us to be concerned about.”

Willow waited until the Watcher was through the red light, concentrating on the traffic ahead of him again before leaning conspiratorially into Tara. “The Lookout is named after this Spanish woman who supposedly ran away from her husband when he murdered their children. She hid in the caves, only coming out at night to hunt for food and water, and eventually went crazy and started attacking anyone who trespassed. They built the covered bridge to act as a kind of marker, so that people would know where Cortina’s land started and keep away.”

The car had come to a stop again and the girls heard Giles mutter, “Load of rubbish.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Tara argued. “It sounds to me like it could’ve happened.”

“No,” Giles replied. “I mean literally, a load of rubbish.” He pointed to the dumpster that had been overturned in the street, blocking any cars from passing.

“I guess that means we’ll just have to try again in the morning,” Willow chirped. “Darn the awful luck.”

Giles frowned at her in his mirror. “A small detour, perhaps,” he chided. “If you insist on relating that silly story, at least tell it in its entirety.”

“There’s more?” A wide-eyed Tara looked at her partner expectantly.

Willow squirmed against the leather seat. “Oh, just silly details,” she evaded. “Nothing of the important.”

“Come now, tell her how the children were killed.”

There was no escaping the withering tone of his voice. “…The husband ate them.”

“And what happened to the bones?”

“…Cortina stole them…”

“And…?

“And…used them to dig out the caverns.” Her voice was getting smaller with each response and she seemed to be shrinking in her seat.

“Which housed…?”

“…The bodies of the children she kidnapped to ease her loneliness.” Willow had shaded a deep red with each admission, embarrassed at the absurdity of it all.

“Like I said, old wives’ tales,” Giles stated. “Fiction created by worried parents to scare children from exploring caves that could very likely prove to be dangerous if they were to get lost.”

Tara snuggled against Willow’s shoulder, one arm looped through her girlfriend’s, with her free hand stroking the redhead’s knee. “It’s OK,” she soothed. “The story gives me the ooglies, too.”

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

They’d opened the curtains as soon as the sun had set. From where he was situated, Spike could see the near-full moon hanging in the velvet sky, the promise of her chilly caress filtering through the window. It framed Buffy in silver as she stood looking out over the desert, and the vampire couldn’t stop the smile relaxing his features. God, she was magnificent.

A simple silhouette against the glass, the Slayer’s body was an insurgence of muscular curves. Although Daymon’s men had brought up a change of clothing for her, she still wore the tank and trousers she’d arrived in. One look at the long skirt and high-necked blouse her captor had chosen and Buffy hadn’t been able to control her laughter, joking about some bird named Ingalls before tossing the outfit into the corner. Just as well, Spike thought. Can’t very well kick their ass if you’re tripping over your knickers.

“Are you ready?” A mere man wouldn’t have heard Buffy’s question, but the vamp had no problem picking it up, even with her back to him.

“I think I got it, Slayer,” he said sarcastically. “Not exactly brain surgery here.”

She glanced back, more at the room then at Spike, and he tilted his head to try and see her features better. “You’re right,” she murmured. “Sorry.” Stepping away from the window, she perched herself on the edge of the bed. “You comfortable enough?”

The vampire chuckled. “You’ve got me tied to a chair,” he replied, shaking his head. “What do you bloody think?” He expected some kind of reaction---anything, really---but Buffy seemed light years away. “Hello?” Nothing. “Look, Buffy, this Houdini of yours kinda relies on you being present and accounted for, not roaming off in some mind field. At least if you’re going to bail on the plan, let me rip these off and have a good stretch before we turn in.” He shook the makeshift ties that bound his wrists behind the chair.

That seemed to wake the Slayer up. “Nice try, Spike,” she said dryly. “You know this won’t work if they think you’re a real threat.”

“Could you rub that in a wee bit more, luv? ‘Cause I don’t think I’m feeling low enough just yet.” He grimaced. “And you tied me up too tight. I’m losing my circulation.”

She rolled her eyes. “Spike, you don’t have any circulation.” But she rose anyway, crossing to behind the chair. The vamp could feel her loosen his bonds and wished for a moment that Daymon hadn’t bothered bringing up another shirt for him. Right about now, he would’ve done just about anything to feel her hands on his shoulders, massaging his neck, maybe a little kiss here, a little bite there…

“I need to know, Spike,” Buffy was saying. “Do you really believe in all that choice mumbo-jumbo?” She hovered behind him, the heat of her body burning through the chair, his shirt, searing his back, until he had to consciously fight the urge to rip his bindings and just grab her.

“Well, yeah,” he said. “Sometimes fate steps in, decides to change the specials on you, but doesn’t mean you don’t get left with a new menu.”

Stepping around, the Slayer stood in front of the bound vampire. She wouldn’t meet his eyes; instead, her attention seemed transfixed by the edge of the bandage just visible beneath the collar of his shirt and unconsciously, her own fingers began to play with the bandage now on her own neck. “You think that’s why your chip didn’t go off? Because I specifically chose to save you?”

Finally, she was making sense. He knew where her head was now, and in spite of her earlier protestations, it wasn’t on the plan. Spike’s head tilted, his tongue running along his teeth as he contemplated how he should answer. Should he remind her that it had taken her nearly an hour after Daymon had left to even think about covering up the bite mark? Or maybe he should tell her that, even after everything that had happened over the past two days---the potion, the fight, the fever, her saving him---she still glowed as if from some inner light? “Think the answer to that one’s fairly obvious,” he finally replied. “My bite didn’t hurt you. No hurt, no headache. Simple as that.”

Buffy finally met his gaze, and Spike was surprised by the darkness he found there. “But why didn’t it hurt me?” The distress in her voice echoed in the room, beckoning the vampire for his aid. This is just eating her up, he thought sadly. “Well, let’s look at this logically,” he mused. “I wasn’t exactly your first vamp, now was I?”

“No…”

“And did it hurt with the poofter?” No way was Spike going to say the name; didn’t want to break the spell.

“That was different…” But he could tell that even she didn’t really believe that either.

“And then there was good ol’ Drac.”

She stiffened. “Totally not responsible for that one. He had that whole thrall thing going.”

“Yeah, that’s Brood Boy’s specialty. Question is, did it hurt?”

There was a long pause as she remembered her encounter with the Dark Prince, and Spike noted with satisfaction the tiny wrinkle in her nose. Not all peaches and cream, he thought. Good. “Yes, I think it did,” Buffy finally admitted. “Parts of that night are still blurry, like I wasn’t really there, so I can’t say for sure about the whole thing, but yeah, definitely in the beginning.” She glanced away. “That still doesn’t answer my question.”

“Yes, it does, Slayer.” No way was he going to let her run away from it now, not when she was so close to finally admitting the truth.

Whether they acknowledged them or not, the words hung between them, palpable in the cooling air. It makes you mine…They still smoldered, scarlet embers in Buffy’s head that threatened to flare up in rebellion against her common sense, rekindling the desire she’d been struggling to control ever since that damn dream. So he’s sexy, she argued silently. A leather jacket can make just about anybody look good. Except it wasn’t the coat and she knew it…

The short knock at the door shattered their fragile truce, and Buffy straightened up, all thoughts of whys and sex and Spike shuttling to the back of her brain as the plan came rushing forward. “It’s showtime,” she said firmly, her jaw jutting out as her body automatically steeled itself for battle.

In the chair, the blond vampire ducked his eyes so that she couldn’t see the hope that flickered in their depths. Any time now, luv, he thought. Any time…

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

The streets of Sunnydale were nearly deserted as Dawn and Xander strolled down the sidewalk. In spite of the clear sky, the brisk air meant the teenager was huddled in her light jacket, hands thrust deep into her pockets.

“…and so Robin, she told Mike that he was a big douche baby, which only made him madder, so---.” Dawn’s seemingly endless saga of the trials and tribulations of a junior high student were cut short by a very loud sneeze.

“Gesundheit,” said Xander. “You’re not coming down with anything, are you, Dawnster?”

“No,” she replied. “Just a little cold.” She hugged her coat even closer.

“Here.” Shrugging the brown mac from his shoulders, Xander slipped it over the teenager’s, who snuggled into it gratefully.

“Aren’t you going to get cold?” Dawn asked, stuffing her hands in the pockets.

“Nope. Got a tiny little motor inside me, keeps me all toasty warm.”

“What’s this?” The cellophane crackled as she pulled it out of the jacket. “Giles let you keep one?”

Reaching over, Xander plucked the cigar from the young girl’s fingers. “Oh, sure,” he answered. “It’s not like he needed---.” He caught himself just in time. “---all of them.”

Dawn’s face brightened. “Can we smoke it?”

“I think not, oh ye of the minority under-age.” He grinned. “But since I am very much a major, I do believe I’ll give it a go.” Ripping the plastic off, Xander popped the cigar into his mouth. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a match?”

“Ummm, no.” A giggle escaped her lips, followed quickly by another.

“What?” He reached up, touched his face, trying to figure out what so funny, only to set Dawn off into more laughter. “Glad to hear you happy, but do you care to share in the source of your merriment?”

“Your fingers,” she sputtered. “And…your face…” Her laughter was starting to drift down the street as it grew louder, but she seemed oblivious to it.

Glancing down at his hands, Xander saw the black streaks on the fingers that had been touching the cigar. “Oh, just great,” he muttered. To Dawn, he said, “It’s on my face, too, isn’t it?”

She nodded wordlessly, still smiling, and pulled out a compact from her inside pocket. “Well, that’s twenty bucks I’ll never see again,” Xander complained once he saw his reflection. On the teenager’s quizzical look, he added, “Anya and I had a bet that I wouldn’t look stupid if I tried to smoke it.”

“Oh.” She was about to make a comment about how Groucho Marx-ian he appeared when a low growl from behind them caused the pair to stiffen. “Xander?” she said in a small voice. “Please tell me that was your stomach.”

“Unless it’s floating above our heads behind us, Dawn, I’m going to have to disappoint you on this one.” Very slowly, he turned around.

On the sidewalk in front of him, the Hound crouched on its hindquarters, effectively blocking the way. Its tiny eyes glowed crimson in the streetlights, and Xander audibly swallowed. He slid over so that his body shielded Dawn’s, not that it would take more than a second to get past him should the demon dog choose to attack anyway, but he was at least going to make the effort.

“I wish Buffy was here,” the teenager whispered, her eyes wide.

The shadows behind the Hound seemed to solidify, grow stronger, paler, until the form of a tall woman stepped forward, stopping at the dog’s side. “Perhaps I can help you with that,” Celie offered.

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

Her nails dug into his arm, and in spite of his numbing fear, Xander winced. In an attempt to loosen Dawn’s grip, he rolled his arm in the socket, his brown eyes never leaving the woman and dog before him.

She stepped forward and he was struck by the sheer size of her. Holy Wonder o’ Woman, he marvelled. Wouldn’t that be a treat to find wrapped under the Christmas tree.

“You are the warrior,” she stated in a curiously accented deep voice. “You are her friend.”

“What’s she talking about?” Dawn hissed in Xander’s ear.

“I don’t know,” he sing-songed under his breath. Louder, he piped, “What’re you talking about?”

“The Slayer,” she replied. “You fought with her in the alley behind the store that sells magic.”

At the mention of her sister, Dawn jumped forward. “What about Buffy? Is something wrong? Is she hurt?” For a moment, she had forgotten the Hound, but he had not forgotten his duty. His growl grew louder as the teenager approached and she suddenly froze, all too aware of the dripping muzzle that was now only a few feet away.

Slowly, deliberately, Xander stepped forward and grasped Dawn’s arm, guiding her backwards and away from the dog. The Hound quieted, but its ears remained pricked, its haunches tensed in case of attack. “The child is rash,” Celie commented.

“I’m not a child! Why does everyone keep saying that?” Safely tucked behind Xander again, Dawn seemed to have regained her confidence and her elfin features were contorted in anger.

“You obviously want something.” Although his voice was steady, Xander was fighting to stay calm. The Wicked Witch music from the Wizard of Oz kept going through his head, and he had to squelch the urge to cackle and say, “I’ll get you, my pretty! And your little dog, too!”

Her black gaze swept over him and the young man unconsciously pulled himself straighter. “I’ve come to offer you a transaction,” she finally said. “You and your friends.”

“Ah, this must be the ransom part of the abduction,” Xander nodded. “At last, we’re finally getting somewhere.”

“Ransom?” Dawn’s voice was shrill. “You kidnapped my sister?”

Celie frowned. “The Chosen One has a sister?”

“Yeah, and I am so going to kick your ass!”

Xander turned to face the teenager. “Dawnie,” he cautioned firmly. “Don’t. Let me take care of this.”

“I come not for ransom but to offer you a trade,” Celie explained.

“You give us Buffy and we give you…what? A year’s supply of eye of newt?”

“I want the vampire.”

There was a long pause as confusion colored Xander’s face. “Did I miss a chapter or something? You got Spike when your guys snatched Buffy.”

“Yes. And no.”

“They got Spike, too?” Dawn’s voice was incredulous. “How much more were you guys keeping from me?”

“There isn’t much time,” Celie said. “The Slayer will be removed sometime tomorrow. If you wish to have her back, you must decide now.”

Xander crossed his arms over his chest. “Decide what? You haven’t given me the options yet.”

Celie sighed. The boy was proving to be quite exasperating. Perhaps she should’ve had the Hound find the witches instead… “I help you get the Slayer, you let me have the vampire.”

“And what exactly do you need me for? You didn’t seem to have any problems getting Buff the first time around.”

“You will be able to approach more easily than I. Daymon’s men are attuned against most of my magics. And you have skills that will prove very useful in the event of a battle against them.” She took a step closer, her voice growing melodic. “I can make it possible for you to save your friend. Does that not interest you?”

His brown eyes narrowed. There was a catch here someplace, he just knew it. Follow the witch, get Buffy, save the day, and all it would cost was a certain peroxidized vamp with a bad attitude? It just sounded too good to be true. “My friends won’t be back ‘til morning. What say we meet up at the Magic Box around nine-ish, you leave poochie at home---.”

“There is no time for that,” Celie interrupted. “Choose.”

“Xander.” Dawn’s eyes were wide as he turned to look at her. “You’re not going to let anything happen to Buffy, are you?”

Taking a deep breath, the young man squared his chest and faced the Hound and its caretaker again. “Deal.”

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

It had been almost a minute since he’d knocked and still all was silent inside the room. He shifted his bulk, right foot to left, wishing for the thirtieth time that he had a free hand to carry a weapon. Instead, he was stuck playing lady-in-waiting to the young woman and her vampire because all the maids refused to go into the room after what had happened earlier.

Upon Daymon’s orders, two of the newer girls had taken fresh clothing to the guests, accompanied by another of the guards. They had been surprised to find the man---vampire, he had to remind himself---tied to the chair, and the blonde woman saying, “He refuses to play nicely so he’s going to stay there tonight to learn his lesson.” As soon as the maids had entered though, crossing the barrier with the aid of the witch’s amulets, the monster’s true face had emerged, all ridges and fangs, taunting and teasing the girls until they had run from the room in tears. No amount of coaxing could convince them the demon was harmless as long as he was bound, so now, here the guard stood, a stack of towels in one hand and a fruit basket dangling from the other.
He was about to knock again when an irritated British accent cut through the door. “Just bloody come in, why don’t you?”

The vampire, wearing his human face, was still bound in the chair, and the annoyance in his blue eyes was more than obvious. “Took you long enough,” he groused. “She’s been in there singing ABBA songs for the last half hour. If I hear Dancing Queen one more time---.” He cut himself off, groaning as the slightly off-pitch, too loud strains of Mamma Mia came filtering from the bathroom.

The guard edged his way into the room. Although an unpleasant being, the blond vampire was clearly not a threat, as he was certain the monster would have done something---anything---to stop the young woman’s singing.

“Was everyone in this place born in a barn or somethin’? Shut the bleedin’ door!”

He found himself obeying the vampire’s command as quickly as he would’ve Daymon’s. Even bound, there was something authoritative about him, a feral presence that was almost impossible to ignore. He did not pretend to understand the relationship between the demon and the young woman, but somehow, it did not seem so unlikely that one could occur.

“Don’t know how she does it,” the vampire was complaining. “You’ve seen her; she’s just a little bitty slip of a thing. How she can use half a dozen towels for one---.” A crash from the bathroom splintered the air, followed by silence. “Buffy?” the vampire called out. The singing had stopped, leaving only the gentle sound of dripping water in its wake. “Buffy!” he roared, and faster than the guard could blink, the demon’s face emerged. Golden eyes glittered as he glared at the man. “Don’t just stand there!” he barked. “Go check on her!”

The guard hesitated. He was alone, unarmed, and should the vampire escape while he aided the young woman, Daymon would not be pleased.

In the chair, the monster growled. “If something happens to her because you’re afraid to move, I swear I’ll rip your eyeballs out and force them down your throat before tearing them from your gut.” His menace had the opposite effect on the guard, however, as the stocky man’s eyes widened, frozen in fear. The vampire’s blue gaze narrowed. “Wouldn’t want to be in your shoes when your master finds out the Slayer got hurt because you refused to check on her.”

That did the trick. Dropping the towels on the dresser, the guard scurried to the bathroom door. “Miss?” he called out as he pushed it open, disappearing inside.

Spike didn’t bother suppressing his smile as a loud thud, followed very quickly by the sound of a basket hitting the floor, drifted into the bedroom. As he watched the door, an apple rolled to the edge of the carpet, coming to rest on the thick pile. “Buffy?” he called out.

She appeared in the doorway, bending over to scoop the fruit from the floor, giving it a small toss from hand to hand before leaning against the doorjamb to look out at Spike. “Wow,” she said. “That was just too easy.” Without moving, the Slayer crunched into the apple.

“Doesn’t mean we get lazy,” Spike reminded her, and shook his bonds.

Tossing the fruit in the bin, Buffy crossed behind the vampire and began untying him. “Why do guys always fall for the damsel in distress routine?” she asked nonchalantly, not really expecting an answer.

Spike stood and stretched, his arms reaching overhead as the muscles in his back loosened. “Don’t know a bloke alive who’d pass on the chance to be a hero, ‘specially if there’s a beautiful girl involved,” he answered, and glanced at her out of the corner of his eye before bending over to finish his stretch.

Thoughtfully, Buffy watched him, her eyes sweeping down his body before returning to his face. “What about the undead ones then?” she queried.

His lip curled as he straightened. “Pretty much applies to them, too.”

Her laughter was unexpected. “Well, that certainly explains a lot,” she said, before turning to face the window. “Now, on to phase two.” Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out the amulet the guard had been wearing around his neck, crossing the room at the same time to within a few feet of the curtains. Her hand stretched out as she inched her way forward, anticipating the barrier, only to find it gone as she touched the window glass. “It’s about time something went right,” she commented, slipping the lock and sliding the glass open.

Spike watched as she leaned into the night air, inhaling deeply. “We can stop and smell the desert roses once we’re out, Slayer,” he said.

She tried ducking her head as she pulled it back in, but the blond vamp caught the blush tinting her cheeks. For being in the middle of an escape that could go wrong at any moment, she seemed remarkably relaxed, taking the time to joke with him as if he were just another of the Scooby gang, even having her guard down enough to let her occasional embarrassment slip through. No way would she have been like this prior to her coming to stay at his crypt, but then again, a lot had happened over the past couple days.

Turning back to the vampire, Buffy said, “Catch,” and flicked the amulet with her wrist.

Both of them fully expected the talisman to pass through the barrier; neither foresaw the amulet bouncing back and striking the Slayer in the cheek.

“Ow!” Buffy exclaimed, as she stooped to pick it up off the floor.

“Doesn’t seem to work unless it’s being held,” commented Spike.

“Well, duh. Question is, how do we get both of us through at the same time?”

Both of them knew the answer to that one, but Buffy seemed hesitant to admit it out loud. Finally, the blond vamp rolled his eyes and held out his arms. “Well, c’mon then,” he said impatiently.

Buffy’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?” she sputtered.

“Only got the one, right? Means we both have to go through at the same time, and I don’t really fancy bein’ hauled out a window by a girl, even if she is the Slayer.” He continued to hold the pose as he waited for her to come to him.

“Oh, really?” She crossed her arms. “I seem to remember you letting Drusilla drag your ass out of that church when it fell in on you. Don’t even start suggesting---.”

“That was different. I couldn’t bleedin’ walk then!” His arms dropped, and his eyes darkened at the sudden opposition.

“You got shot this afternoon!”

“And you seem to be conveniently forgetting how I’ve managed to get over that.” His voice was rough, his exasperation creeping through as he struggled to keep his composure. “Not feelin’ light-headed, are you? More than usual, I mean.”
“Spike…” Buffy stepped forward through the barrier. “We don’t have time for this.”

“Exactly.” He approached her slowly, stopping when only a few feet separated them. “Fact is, I’m taller than you and gettin' through that window will be easier for both of us if my legs aren’t dragging us down. So stop pretending that you’re all offended and get over here.”

The look that passed between them was electric, his hooded sapphire eyes challenging her hazel ones to defy the truth. Slowly, her gaze never leaving his, Buffy closed the distance between them. The amulet still dangled from her hand, gleaming dully in the lamplight, and she waited in silence for the vampire to claim it.

He didn’t take it from her. Instead, Spike took her hand in his, forcing her fingers to curl around the talisman, then scooped her up so that her curves melded against him. She lifted one arm around his shoulders to steady herself, forcing her body to press even more firmly to his, and the hand with the amulet nestled against his chest.

“Ready, luv?”

She nodded. “Let’s do it,” she said.

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

As he stood in the window watching the moonlight splay over the desert horizon, the last thing Daymon expected to be seeing was the Slayer climbing gracefully over the far fence with her vampire close at her heels. His fingers curled into the windowsill, carving half-moons into the soft wood, and his heart sank at the realization that somehow, Buffy Summers had managed to escape his control. Celie’s magic had proven fallible after all.

The pilot answered the phone on the second ring. “I’ll just have one of the girls go back and put her on,” he said in response to Daymon’s request. The wait seemed interminable, and the Greek was beginning to wonder if he’d been disconnected when the pilot returned to the line. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “Celie doesn’t seem to be onboard at the moment.” Further questioning revealed that neither the witch’s belongings nor the Hound were anywhere to be found, and Daymon replaced the receiver in an even blacker mood than when he’d started.

Somehow, he was right back where he’d started from when he’d first discovered who and what the Chosen One really was. All those years of searching, only to be spoiled by a headstrong girl with a penchant for vampires, and a witch with some unknown agenda. He sighed, rubbing his eyes. The deadline was drawing nigh; the time for being a gentleman about this was over…