Beyond the Darkness
Chapter Two
By Nichole (Neko-chan) Johnson
Rating: PG or TV 14
Pairings: B/S
Disclaimer: All BtVS characters and such are owned by Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy (bless that little paper monster…). The Red Bull, as well as the legend of the unicorns derives from an old cartoon movie The Last Unicorn based on the story by Peter S. Beagle, and is not mine, albeit being altered to fit this story.
Spoilers: Takes place during Season 5, immediately after “The Body”
Author’s Notes: I slightly re-vamped the first 2 chapters, for those of you who made some helpful suggestions. To those of you who reviewed and made said suggestions, thank you! Your opinions and suggestions were and are highly appreciated!
I hope you’ll agree with my editing—I agree that Spike did use some British slang too much, so I went back through and toned that down a bit. I also got rid of the description of Dawn’s hair as ‘strawberry blonde’—I’m still not sure how you’d describe her hair color, so I just stayed away from describing it at all…^_^;;
* * * * *
Chapter Two
For one brief moment, Spike was crouched triumphantly over his beaten foe, arm poised to stake, and in the next, everything was swallowed in red.
Screaming fiercely, the raging cyclone bore into him, flinging the wooden stake from his hand and tearing at exposed flesh with an intense heat not unlike that of a raging fire, picking up loose sand as it went and throwing it back at his unprotected skin in tiny missiles that tore into him like thousands of red hot needles. He threw up an arm, frantically trying to protect his bare face with the thick leather of his duster, shocked by the suddenness of the red whirlwind.
The heat was almost unbearable, assaulting him as if to burn the very clothes off his back, climbing up his nostrils and down his throat to sear at his lungs. He gagged against the cloying heat, coughing hoarsely and clamping his mouth shut tight in defiance, praying the heat wouldn’t be enough to start him afire. Secretly thanking the fact that he didn’t require breathing, he scrabbled blindly along the ground, feeling his way towards Buffy’s unconscious form. Though she may be the Slayer—more than human with superhuman strength—she still required breathing, and he knew she must be in trouble.
He stumbled on something solid, catching himself on a nearby headstone. The vampire Buffy had been fighting just moments before. Skirting the supposedly unconscious body without so much as a second thought, he chanced a glance from under the protection of his duster and spotted the petite Slayer sprawled several feet away, face-down in the dirt.
Buffy! Hold on, luv! Regardless of his own protection, he tore the heavy duster from his shoulders, draping it over the petite young woman’s frame and wrapping her up in the thick leather with one hasty movement, pulling her tightly against his chest to keep the hungry, burning wind from beating her further. Unable to open his eyes further than a crack in the melee of stinging sand bearing down on him, he blearily spotted the huge marble pillar, looming like a giant pawn in the whirlwind of sand. Stumbling half-blindly, gritting his teeth against the heat and sand, Spike hurried for the far side of the marble pillar, holding his precious cargo tightly against him. Once in the lee of the sturdy edifice, he immediately fell to the dirt, pinning the Slayer beneath him protectively and shielding her from the whirlwind with the bulk of his own body.
Immediately he could sense the lull in the winds, a furious low like that of a cattle cutting through the screaming winds with eerie clarity as the burning light drained slowly away like the fast-dying of a sun. Almost as suddenly as it had come upon them, the unearthly winds began to abate, and finally died altogether, leaving only an eerie stillness on the damp night air.
Hesitantly he raised his head, listening intently to be sure that the whirlwind was truly gone. After several seconds of silence, the night sounds slowly began to return.
As he lay there, metaphorically catching his breath in the aftermath of the strange cyclone, it slowly dawned on him that the Slayer was eerily still. A buzzing panic beginning to fill his head, he tore away the duster—staring at the pale, still form for a brief second—then immediately put an ear to her chest. The heartbeat was faint, and slowly fading, and putting his fingers to her lips, he found them still and breathless.
“Oh God…Buffy!” he gasped desperately, roughly shaking her shoulders in a vain effort to revive her. “Come on, luv. Don’t die on me now!”
Taking in huge gulps of air, he tilted her head back gently, desperately trying to breathe air into her. He had never given CPR before, only seen it on television, and since he was unused to breathing in the first place, he was quickly dizzy with his efforts. Still, the petite blonde Slayer lay deathly still.
Growling fiercely into the empty night air, he grabbed her roughly by the shoulders once again. “Bloody hell, breathe, you silly chit! You can’t die like this, not like some bloody goddamned mortal!! You’re the Slayer!”
Taking another deep breath, he attempted to breathe life into her once again for all he was worth.
* * *
Everything was a murky, black nothingness.
Feeling like she was strangely underwater, Buffy tried to move her head to get a better look at her surroundings, but the movement seemed detached; her sight reasserted itself, but she felt as if her body remained in the same place.
Did I fall asleep? she felt herself think, the words echoing muddily as if heard through thick-paned glass. Where am I? I can’t remember how…
Her thoughts scattered, dissipating along with the murkiness around her, and suddenly she was standing among the dark, musty bookcases of the Magic Box. The store was empty, its silence pierced only by the repetitive ringing of the door chime—as if the door were swinging back and forth on its hinges—and with intense purpose, she looked to the familiar round table in the middle of the room and spotted a single, leather-bound book lying closed on the dark wood finish. With heavy steps, she walked towards it, and looked down upon the book, burning the image of the pale-colored etchings on its surface into her brain. Hesitantly, she reached for it, but with a jolt, the book and all its surroundings disappeared, and she was once again surrounded by murky black.
But faintly, she could hear a voice, as if from a great distance.
“…can’t die! Buffy, breathe, you…not…this! …the Slayer!”
She recognized that voice. Her mind frantically tried to put a name to the voice, a face, anything! but her thoughts felt distant and muddied, and the voice began to fade away. Panic welling in her, she hastened towards it, stretching out with the edges of her mind to grab a hold.
And suddenly, scattered images were exploding in her mind with frantic bursts. Spike. Lying on a tile floor, the edge of a metal cadaver looming overhead. A dim, smoky room; the taste of alcohol on her lips. Spike. And falling, but being caught by a strong pair of arms. Darkness, and then bright sunshine. Spike.
A kiss. Hot, impassioned, full of desperation and quiet yearning.
Her chest constricting painfully, she burst away from her murky prison and into the light.
* * *
Dizzy, his head ringing, Spike was deathly close to giving up, when with a deep, hacking cough, Buffy came to. Choking violently, her throat ravaged raw by the grit and sand, she struggled to sit up, but placing a gentle hand on her shoulders, Spike urged her to lie still.
“Slowly, Slayer. Slow, deep breaths.”
Somehow, amidst her ragged gasping, the blonde managed a smile. “And what would you know about breathing?”
Spike favored her with his most charming grin, relief in his dark, blue eyes. “What, don’t ya think I watch ER?”
Buffy laughed hoarsely, grabbing his arm and shakily helping herself to her feet. She turned to him, a soft look, far deeper than mere gratitude on her face. “Spike, I…”
He patted her arm affectionately, cutting off her ‘thank you’ with a modest smile. “Thought I’d lost you for a moment there, sunshine. Guess the ER lessons paid off, huh?”
She nodded thankfully, feeling the flush again in her cheeks. “Right, Spike. Thank God for primetime television.”
He smiled, but the humor was gone as he stepped closer to her, a seductive air to his movements. “Just try not to make a habit of it. I’d like to keep you around for a bit longer, baby..." Smiling devilishly, he brushed past her, enjoying the mixture of confusion and desire in her face.
Gulping heavily against the fever overtaking her, Buffy turned to follow, still somewhat shaken by her near-death ordeal and the vampire’s libidinous nature. “Um…Do you know…ah…What was that thing?”
The vampire shrugged lazily, retrieving his discarded duster from the ground and shrugging back into it. “Crazy, red cyclone demon? Never seen one of ‘em ‘till now, pet, and right glad I haven’t. Quite a nasty bugger…” he remarked lightly, patting the pockets of his duster for his cigarettes. Remembering there were none, he swore softly, somewhat annoyed.
Buffy looked slightly unnerved that Spike was just as lost as she. “Great. Think it’s demonically linked or just some really nasty weather front we’re getting?”
“Unless Sunnyhell’s gone Nevada desert on us, I’d say the former, Slayer.”
The petite Slayer groaned, then smiled with false cheer. “Great! Ya dust the vampires, and just when you think all’s peachy, the dust decides to fight back! This is so like my life.”
All humor aside, Spike fixed her with a stern glance. “They’ll be time to bitch ‘n moan later, Slayer. I’d say you need to pay a visit to your Watcher about the new dust devil in town.”
He turned to leave, halting only momentarily with a perplexed expression at the sight of the two vampires’ bodies. Despite he and Buffy’s being completely unscathed from the red whirlwind, other than Buffy’s seared throat, the two unfortunate vampires had been quite thoroughly reduced to ashes. He shrugged, dismissing it for the time being, and casually sidestepped the two dust piles.
Buffy nodded sagely, sidestepping the dusted vamps with less than an afterthought. “With any luck, Giles will know something about what’s going on. Otherwise, its research city here we come…” She started after Spike, but the vampire suddenly stopped, cocking his head as if suddenly remembering something.
“Almost forgot, Slayer. We have unfinished business.”
With a deftness of speed that surprised even her, he spun around, and grabbing her by the waist with one arm, pulled her to him and kissed her with mind-numbing passion. Had it not been for his arm around her, she would have melted to the ground with the impact.
Pulling away, he fixed her with another dashing grin. “Can’t bloody well leave these sorts of things undone, baby, now can we?” And with his regular self-assured saunter, he left her speechlessly staring after his retreating back, wondering how he managed to be so damned charming in the end.
* * *
The Magic Box looked dark from the street. Willow, Xander, and Anya had already left for home and sleep, leaving Giles to finish up his research and wait with Dawn until her sister showed, and said Watcher was currently intent at stacking and re-shelving the books littered across the shop’s one lone table when the Slayer—punk rock vampire in tow—blew into the store.
A no-nonsense expression on her face, Buffy turned to her Watcher with business-like curtness, ignoring the slight bewilderment and surprise in the Englishman’s stance. “Giles! Spike and I were just attacked in the cemetery by some sort of freak, red whirlwind. I think we’ve got more than Glory to worry about…”
Eyebrows knitting in confusion, Giles paused from his work. “Ah, you and…Spike? What were you—“
Buffy brushed his question aside with a hasty gesture, moving to the table of books with purpose. “I’ll explain in a minute. Right now, I want to see what I can find on this cyclone thing.”
Spike, who had been waiting hesitantly in the doorway, came further into the room, eyebrows tight. “It may ‘ave been a poltergeist of some sort. A vengeance demon in dust form.”
Finally noticing the vampire, Giles sputtered wordlessly, his eyes flicking angrily between Buffy and Spike, utterly lost. “B-Buffy?! What’s going on here? What is…he doing here? Didn’t we discuss—“
Sighing irritably, Buffy shot the Englishman an impatient glance. “I know, I know! I know I said some things…” She bit her lip sheepishly, sighing exhaustedly. “…Just, let’s not worry about that right now. Right now—“
Giles fixed her with a stern gaze. “Buffy, I am your Watcher and am therefore entitled to know exactly what’s going on. So I insist you explain to me.”
Sensing Buffy’s discomfort, Spike stepped forward with his usual brazen attitude. “Alright, Watcher, here’s the dirt: your Slayer here was on her way out of the graveyard when she ran into me, and out ‘o nowhere we were both attacked by a couple ‘o vamps. Just as we’re about to finish them off, all goes to hell in a red whirlwind, and Buffy here is prematurely knocked out of the game. And that brings us here.”
Giles seemed to digest this momentarily, taken aback. Suddenly he turned to Buffy sharply, eyes widening. “Wait, are you telling me this storm thing knocked Buffy out? Buffy, are you alright—“
“I’m fine, Giles!” insisted Buffy hastily, her voice coming out hoarse. She cleared her throat sheepishly, ignoring the pain it caused her raw throat. “Really, I’m fine! I just…passed out a little from the dust.” Suddenly her face was stern, fixing Giles with a meaningful glance. “But if Spike hadn’t been there, I might not have been okay.”
Still skeptical, the old Englishman pursed his lips tightly, staring searchingly at the stubborn young woman. It was clear he didn’t like it, especially after past experiences with the unpredictable Spike, but Buffy wasn’t going to back down. And she was acting strangely benign towards Spike—a vampire who only days ago she was preaching vehemently about on terms of disgust and revulsion. She had been so adamant the week before about driving him out of her life and had tried to avoid him at all costs, but here she was, defending him against Giles’ good sense.
A strange thought began to worm its way into the back of Giles’ mind, and it made a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. Shaking away the feeling and sensing the uselessness in his arguments for the time being, the old Watcher sighed wearily, running a hand through his hair in a sign of defeat. “Well…Buffy, if you believe—“
“I do,” insisted Buffy firmly. “This thing could be really big, Giles, and we may need all the help we can get.”
Spike, who had been silent for sometime, suddenly intervened hastily. “Now wait just a bloody second, Slayer, I believe I have a say in this, too, y’know!”
Buffy turned to him icily, hands on hips. “Spike, if you’re going to get all self-righteous on me, let me remind you I just saved your pathetic ass right now—”
He gave her a withering look, rolling his eyes. “Buffy…”
“—and if you’re going to repay me by being a royal jerk once again, than you can just get lost like I probably should have made you do in the first place instead of—“
Surprising her in mid-sentence by plopping casually down in a chair, Spike grinned up at her with obvious amusement. “What I meant to say, pet, was when do we get started?”
She stared at him momentarily, embarrassed by her outburst. A minute ago she had been so insulted that after what had happened in the cemetery, Spike would just blow her off and be his usual pain-in-the-ass self, that she was momentarily thrown-off guard by his easy compliance in the matter. And then she felt the flush rising to her cheeks again and she nodded hastily in understanding, quickly turning away so as not to let him see her blush.
“Ah, um…right! I’ll go check on Dawn and then we can get started,” she mumbled quickly, hurrying towards the back room with forced seriousness. She secretly hoped Giles hadn’t noticed her slip, especially hoped he had missed the fact that she was blushing.
But as she walked away, feeling Spike’s eyes on her back, her blush only increased, as well as the giddy feeling that began as a tingle in her spine and slowly spread throughout her body. Quickening her pace, she pushed aside the improper thoughts that had begun to form in her mind, and concentrated on confronting her little sister. Guiltily, she realized she hadn’t seen her in nearly two days after abandoning her with Giles. She hoped the fourteen-year-old would be forgiving.
Watching her go with a mixture of concern and misgivings, Giles took his handkerchief from his pocket and began to polish his spectacles uneasily. “Yes. Right. Research.”
Spike watched him intensely, a strange depth to his gaze. “She’s got her head on her shoulders, that Buffy. Even after the deal with her mum.” His gaze had shifted to the empty doorway, mind racing. He didn’t know quite what had made him want to help, but he felt that it somehow involved more than just his feelings for the Slayer. Maybe it was just like he’d said; maybe he really was changing. Or maybe he had just panicked somewhat when it occurred to him how vulnerable Buffy really was, that she could die at any moment from something trivial and natural, not just because she was outmaneuvered by some clever demon. That she was human, susceptible to a million unexpected accidents and diseases that could strike at anytime, without warning. Just like with Joyce.
He didn’t want her to end up like Joyce. He realized, somewhat amazingly, that he would do anything to prevent that.
Changed. He had, hadn’t he? Drusilla’s words came back to him with simple clarity, having seemed so meaningless at the time they had been spoken:
“Poor Spike…So lost. Even I can’t help you.”
She was right. He would never be the demon he once was. He was tainted.
But he was strangely glad of it.
* * *
Several hours and books later, they still had nothing.
Spike and Giles were still diligently at it, fighting the urge to sleep with amazing restraint, but Dawn and Buffy had drifted off in their seats. Neither man could bring himself to wake them. They had been through so much in the last two days, that they were near the point of exhaustion, and it had taken amazing strength to last as long as they had.
Wearily, Giles pushed his glasses up on his nose and sat back in his chair. “I believe we are getting nowhere tonight.”
“Morning,” corrected Spike, not looking up from the pamphlets and books scattered before him. “We’ve been at it all soddin’ night and still nada on that bloody cyclone-spectre!” He sighed heavily, rubbing a hand over his face. “Bloody hell…I need a drink,” he grumbled, getting up and pacing in frustration.
Giles nodded with fatigue. “I agree that the lack of information on this…ah, wind devil, or whatever it is you call it, is extremely frustrating.” Looking at his watch with a slightly horrified expression, he stood up, stretching stiffly. “Perhaps it would be best if we ended for the night and reconvened tomorrow…er, later today.”
“Right, then. Good show.” The vampire seemed to be considering something, an uncomfortable expression on his face. All night, he had been continually bothered by something, but had been hesitant to bring it up. His eyes darted to Buffy. The young woman was sleeping fitfully, head on her arms on the hardwood table, blonde hair fanned out behind her. Occasionally she would stir, fine eyebrows furrowed in discomfort, and his chest tightened with a strange yearning to comfort her. Taking a deep, unneeded breath, he finally turned and pierced the old Watcher with a troubled yet intent look.
“I want to know what happened to Buffy’s mum.”
Looking up in surprise, Giles was momentarily silent, looking searchingly at the blonde vampire, caught completely off-guard. Spike looked truly curious, shifting uncomfortably under the Watcher’s scrutiny. He knew it was a strange request, especially for him, and he wasn’t quite sure what had driven him to ask it. Silently, he waited patiently for the Englishman to speak.
Finally, Giles cleared his throat uncomfortably. Shakily removing his glasses and cleaning them with intense diligence, he fixed Spike with a suspicious glance. “Buffy…told you? Of Joyce’s death?”
The vampire looked away, feeling the frustration beginning to well behind his perfectly erected wall of disinterest. “Who did it?” A deadly anger was slowly rising with his voice. “Was it that…Glory bird?” He could picture the self-involved bitch in his mind, smiling coldly with that look of holier-than-thou disdain on her flawless face, even as he pounded its smooth image into the pavement, feeling the crush of her skull under his boots like broken glass. Could feel the cool weight of the shotgun in his hands, and imagine the welcoming shock the weapon would send through him as he riddled her fragile body with bullet after bullet, exacting his revenge…
Giles’ voice was thick with emotion. “No…She wasn’t murdered.” He took a shaky breath, closing his eyes against the memory of the lifeless body sprawled on the living room floor of the Summers’ home. “She had an aneurysm.”
Spike looked taken aback, his vengeful fantasies fading away like distant shots on the still air of a frozen winter morning. “An…aneurysm?”
Giles nodded slowly, replacing his glasses carefully on his nose. “It was sudden. She was dead before she even discovered her.”
The peroxide-blonde was now pacing in distress, an unfamiliar feeling of hopelessness worming its way into his thoughts. “She?” he questioned absentmindedly, no longer fully listening.
Giles looked sharply at his sleeping Slayer, clearly pained. “Buffy. Buffy’s the one who…who found her.”
Spike halted sharply, following the Watcher’s gaze to the petite blonde at the table. Poor bird! No wonder she cracked like that! He felt a pang of pity, as well as the pent-up longing he had been burying for the last couple of hours, and the urge to pull her into his arms and comfort her was so strong, he thought he would crack in front of the bloody Englishman.
“Christ, Watcher…!” was all he managed to say, running a hand through his hair. “And she…!” He shook his head dazedly, unable to find words.
“It never ceases to amaze me how strong Buffy can be,” remarked Giles softly, looking at the sleeping Slayer with a new tinge of pride.
Spike shared his sense of pride. And wonder. She was incredibly strong—physically, mentally, and in every other way possible. That’s what had attracted him to her in the first place. With Drusilla, it had been the mysterious air of sensuality that surrounded her. He had been able to look beyond the madness, the sometimes weak dependency, which in the end had held her to him, and seen the dark and sensual creature beyond those mad eyes. There had been times when she was strong, but he always felt her strength and ability never quite matched his own, and that’s what had left him so open to the lure of the brassy Slayer. The Slayer was fearless and unrelenting, always able to hold her own in a battle against him, and had even bested him on numerous occasions. When he fought her, she held back nothing.
But he knew she was not indomitable. He knew her weaknesses, her fragility, and it strangely excited him. She had something he could never quite embrace: she had humanity. She drew him like the sunlight tempts the night, forever unattainable.
“Don’t think I’ll ever meet another Slayer like her.” Don’t think I’ll ever meet another woman like her…
Snapping out of his longing reverie, he turned questioningly to Giles. “Speakin’ of which, what’re we gonna’ do about the two bits?”
The Watcher seemed to snap out of his own thoughts as well, looking around absentmindedly. “Ah…yes. I suppose I’ll have to take them home. It’s getting quite late.”
Easily hefting the petite Slayer into his arms, Spike pursed his lips at the Watcher’s slip. “That would be ‘early’ again, old git. Looks like you’re in need of a break.” Inclining his head in Dawn’s direction, he started for the door, Buffy cradled comfortably in his arms.
“You grab the little bit and let’s say we call it a night?”
Flustered, Giles hurriedly scooped up the teenager with some difficulty, hurrying after the vampire. “Spike! Wait a moment! I can take Buffy and Dawn—“
Spike was already out the door, though, and walking towards his Desoto parked on the street. Already, the sky was beginning to lighten, the first hints of sunrise licking at the edge of the horizon. He turned to Giles with a casual grin, and swung open the passenger door to gently lay Buffy in the seat.
“It’s no problem, Watcher,” he remarked casually, ignoring Giles’ reluctance to let the vampire drive the two girls home. “It’s not that out of the way.”
Making a sour face, Giles reluctantly lay Dawn in the back seat of the old black car. “You vampires are insufferable,” he grumbled stiffly, sighing with resigned indignation.
Spike shot him his fangiest grin, jumping into the driver’s seat of the old Desoto. “We try, Watcher.” Turning the ignition, he spun out into the street, leaving the elder Englishman staring worriedly after the disappearing vehicle from the sidewalk.
“I don’t know why I listen to Buffy sometimes,” he muttered to himself, turning and going back into the empty shop. “God help us…”
* * * * *
TO BE CONTINUED…
Beyond the Darkness
Chapter Three
By Nichole (Neko-chan) Johnson
Rating: PG or TV 14
Pairings: B/S
Disclaimer: All BtVS characters and such are owned by Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy (bless that little paper monster…). The Red Bull, as well as the legend of the unicorns derives from an old cartoon movie The Last Unicorn based on the story by Peter S. Beagle, and is not mine, albeit being altered to fit this story. The song “War” is by The Cardigans.
Spoilers: Takes place during Season 5, immediately after “The Body”
Author’s Notes: Sometimes, the characters may fall into an OOC trap, but please bear with me—this was my first attempt at Buffy fanfiction, after all. I did as much research of former seasons, characters, backgrounds, etc. as I could, but I’m sure there will be mistakes, such as the mistakes in the description of Spike’s crypt. I hope though, that you can ignore such mistakes and enjoy the story on its own. ^_^
* * * * *
Chapter Three
Feeling guilty, worried Waking from tormented sleep
This old love has me bound
But the new love cuts deep
“So…let me get this straight,” drawled Xander, leaning forward with curiosity. “You and…Spike…got attacked by some crazy, wind-devil thing in the cemetery?” Clearly puzzled, he leaned back again.
“I don’t get it. Why were you in the cemetery with Spike?”
Buffy rolled her eyes in exasperation and gave her best friend a firm glare. As if in need of a change of scenery, the available members of the Scooby Gang had been gathered in the Summers’ living room for a semi-emergency meeting, rather than get together at the Magic Box. Giles had insisted, stating that he was trying to cut down on the clutter of books in his store, but Buffy had assumed it was just a cover to keep her and Dawn at home. Especially Dawn.
She chanced a glance across the room at her younger sister. The heart-broken fourteen-year-old had remained as silent as ever all day, perched comfortably on the back of the couch and staring with dull eyes out the window at the hazy gray sky. It had been raining the entire day, as if sympathizing with the young girl’s mourning; a heavy, gray mist that spattered the windows with beads of perspiration, completely masking the sun from view.
Frowning inwardly at her sister’s silence, Buffy turned back to Xander with a stern glance. “Xander, this is serious.”
The messy-haired young man looked at her with mock insult. “I am being serious. I mean, it’s Spike, for crying out loud! I thought you told me before that that’s just…creepy?”
The petite blonde looked just a bit exasperated. She really didn’t need her friends being difficult about this right now. They had a new enemy that they knew nothing about and meanwhile Glory was still waiting in the wings to snatch up the Key. A Key that was currently Buffy’s silently suffering kid sister, who needed her big sister’s shoulder to cry on right now, not some crazy hellgod gunning for her.
Buffy sighed heavily—such was the life of the Slayer. But sometimes she just wished she could have a normal life. Not to mention normal love interests.
“Yeah, well that ‘creepy’ vamp saved my life last night, so let’s just forget about that part of it for now and get to the important part of my story.” She gritted her teeth tightly to keep from commenting further; she just wasn’t in the mood right now. Her thoughts briefly flashed to early that morning.
“Buffy?” She was shaken gently from a light sleep, momentarily unaware of her surroundings. Then Spike shook her again lightly, her eyes springing open in recognition at the voice.
“Spike?” she muttered in surprise, still drunk with fatigue. He shushed her gently, indicating the door of her house with his head.
“Careful. Don’t wanna’ wake your sis, now.”
She sighed, exhausted, wishing she could just drift off to sleep again. “Where are we?” she murmured, unconsciously snuggling further against his chest.
“Your house, luv. You fell asleep.”
She ‘umm-hmm’ed absent-mindedly, feeling herself falling back into sleep. “…sleep…good…”
Spike shifted awkwardly, nonetheless enjoying her snuggling up against him, however. “Right, luv…” There was the briefest pause. “Um, Buffy…You’ve got to invite me in, first.”
“Hmm?”
“Remember? You uninvited me.”
She was silent for a moment and he was afraid she had fallen asleep. But after a moment, she nodded drowsily in remembrance. “Oh, yeah…”
She fell silent again and he shook her gently. “Uh, pet, I’m in a bit of a hurry with the sun about to come up ‘n all…”
Still she was silent. Finally, eyes still closed as if in sleep, she smiled lightly. “Spike, you can come in…” she murmured drowsily. Then, burying her face against his chest, she fell back to sleep.
She had re-invited him. Just after getting Willow to put an de-invite spell on the house. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be a problem. But she hoped to death that Willow wouldn’t find out; she just might flip.
Why do you come here,
When you know I’ve got troubles enough
Why do you call me,
When you know I can’t answer the phone
‘Make me lie—
I don’t want to!
Make someone else some kind of love-goin’ fool
“Right. We need to figure out what this wind thing is and what it wants,” Willow was speaking up helpfully at the moment, seated comfortably on the couch next to Tara.
Xander was relentless. “Yeah, but—“
“Sorry, Xand. No ‘butts’ in this house,” teased Buffy firmly, getting up from her seat. “We need to stick to priorities right now, not matters of hurt male pride.”
“Hey, Spike hardly hurts my male pride!” spoke up Xander in defense, “This is a matter of my over-protective male dominance complex and simply trying to keep my ladies safe.”
Tara smiled thinly from the couch. “Isn’t that the same as male pride?”
Buffy nodded smugly. “Right. And now I am going to the kitchen to get us some munchies,” she pronounced, closing the matter and heading for the kitchen. “I’ll be right back.”
Still not ready to back down, Xander turned to shout after her, “Yeah, well, you better explain when you get back…yeah.” Gaining no answer from the blonde, he frowned irritably. Willow patted his hand comfortingly.
Buffy smiled lightly to herself, shaking her head gently at Xander’s overprotectiveness. She was the Slayer, she kicked vampire and evil butt everyday and saved the world all the time, but her friend never ceased to feel the need to protect her from the evils of the male population time and time again. Not that she didn’t appreciate his concern. In fact, often they were quite well placed, and she would have done good a number of times to listen. But Buffy was far too stubborn for that.
You make me stay,
When I should not
Are you so strong,
Or is all the weakness in me?
She was so engrossed in her thoughts that it took her a moment to notice the figure seated rather casually on the edge of her kitchen counter.
“Spike!” she squeaked, taken aback.
The vampire grinned dashingly. “Sleep well, luv?”
She nodded absently, observing him curiously. Something was different. Unable to keep her eyes from wandering appreciatively over his lithe form, she realized that it was his clothing that had taken her aback. He had gone back to the more casual look he had begun to show shortly before Drusilla’s untimely return. Dressed in a long-sleeve gray knit top and fatigue-green khakis, he came off far less the dark, dangerous vampire and more like the “rebellious guy next door”. Feeling the feverish feeling in her limbs, she decided she liked the look.
“Uh, what are you doing here?” she spoke up, tearing her eyes away from her visual devouring to look him in the eyes.
Aware of her gaze, Spike grinned at her knowingly, blue eyes sparkling. “It was raining out so I decided to check up on you. You were out like a lamp as soon as I got you in this morning so I didn’t exactly get to see how you were.”
“I’m fine. Thanks,” she answered shortly, going stiffly to the fridge and retrieving the juice pitcher and a block of cheese. Setting the items on the opposite counter, she rummaged through the cupboards for the cutting board and some crackers and grabbed a knife from the knife block.
Spike nodded, eyes trailing appreciatively over her petite form which was dressed in a simple long-sleeve brown shirt with a teasing neckline and tight-fitting tan slacks. “That’s good, luv. Hope Dawn’s well. Little Bit hasn’t talked to me since…well, since last week, let’s just say.”
Her back to him, Buffy began to cut the block into slices, placing them on crackers on a plate. “She’s taking Mom’s death terribly. I think she thinks…” She paused, the words catching heavily in her throat.
Spike sensed her hesitance. “You think she believes you won’t love her anymore, am I right?”
She turned to look at him sharply, surprised he knew exactly what she had been trying to say. She nodded, turning back to her cutting. “Right. I’m just worried she’s going to do something stupid like cutting herself again…but worse.” She pressed down roughly with the knife, her frustration evident in her stance.
Sliding down off the counter, Spike came over to stand behind her. “It’s not hard, Buffy. Just let her know you still love her.”
She tensed, feeling him so close. “It’s not that easy, Spike,” she muttered sharply, her cutting becoming more furious. “She’s worried I don’t care about her anymore because she’s just some key. She thinks she’s not real and that’s why I don’t love her.” She spun to look at him suddenly, and he could see she was fighting tears. “But she is real, Spike. She is!”
He patted her shoulder soothingly, features soft. “Of course she is, luv. But she’s got to learn that for herself.”
Buffy stared at him silently, fighting the urge to let him take her in his arms, to cry in his embrace. She wanted him to hold her so bad. Everything was such a mess—if only he could just hold her. But she knew she couldn’t let herself indulge in such fantasies. The consequences of such an affair would most likely be far worse than what she was dealing with now.
Spinning back around so to quell her longing, she began to cut again furiously. “Are you still going to help with this cyclone thing or was last night just a one-time deal?” she spoke up stiffly, changing the subject.
She felt him shift slightly, leaning back against the countertop lazily. “Ah, about helping, pet…”
Buffy huffed in annoyance. “Yeah. Just like I thought, Spike.”
He shook his head accusingly, cutting her off before she could begin ragging on him further. “Now hold on a sec, you didn’t let me finish again.” He hopped back up on the counter, leaning his arms comfortably on his knees. “What I was tryin’ to say, was I don’t think the rest of the Scoobies should know about this.”
Pausing in surprise, the petite Slayer turned to look at him curiously. “You’re going to help? Wait, why shouldn’t the others know?”
Spike laughed shortly, but it held no humor. “Have you seen what they think of me? I think they’d sooner take a stake to my heart than let me help ‘em!” He shook his head emphatically. “Nope, I work with you secretly, Slayer. I’d prefer to live out my eternal life a bit longer, if I can.”
Buffy studied him curiously, knife paused mid-cut. “You really want to help, don’t you?” she asked softly, feeling a newfound amazement at the change in him.
The change in him. I’ve changed, too, Slayer. He really had changed, hadn’t he? The clothes, the mellowed-out attitude, and now the offer to help. She could almost completely dismiss all the times he had killed and tried to kill her and her friends.
Must have dismissed that stuff if you want him so much, hissed her thoughts angrily. She ignored them, searching the vampire’s dark blue eyes, staring back at her with open honesty.
He blinked at her, surprised. “’Course I want to help! That cyclone bugger almost bloody did you in! What, did you honestly think I’d just sit idly by and let yourself get killed, pet?” He smiled at her with an amazing amount of tenderness. “That was supposed to be my job, and bloody hell, no one’s gonna’ get it now…”
Buffy was frozen with shock momentarily, feeling her desire for him begin to well within her. Turning away hastily, she shakily resumed her cutting, not really seeing what she was doing. Almost immediately, the knife slipped, leaving a clean slice across the palm of her hand. She yelped in surprise, tearing her hand away as the blood began to well in fat, crimson beads along the cut.
“Shit…” she muttered, grabbing for some paper towel to stop the bleeding.
Immediately Spike captured her wrist gently, hopping off the counter to come up behind her. “No, here, luv, I’ve got it.” Her heart leapt nervously in her throat as he turned her about, bringing her heavily bleeding hand to his lips with a sensual tenderness that sent a tingle through her spine.
She had expected him to vamp out on her and start feeding, but instead he gently licked away the blood with tentative slowness, his cool tongue easing the sting of the cut and sending a wave of desire through her unlike anything she had felt before. She found she was holding her breath, and she gulped heavily, watching him lapping up the blood in her hand with a sensuality that surprised her.
Sensing her nervousness, he glanced up at her silently, eyes dark with pleasure. He could feel her heart beating crazily, her blood beginning to pulse through his veins as if she were physically a part of him. Despite the demon’s initial urge to emerge and feed, he fought it down with hardly a thought, so intent on merely her warmth and scent that his humanly desires all but drowned the bloodlust out with a lust of its own. It was intoxicating, his desire nearly overcoming him with the aphrodisiac power her blood held, and he growled deep in his chest with controlled ecstasy. He had tasted a Slayer’s blood before, had experienced the powerful effect it had on his body and senses, but never in such a personal way. And never Buffy’s. If the Chinese Slayer’s blood had been intoxicating, Buffy’s was mind-numbing. He had never wanted her so badly as he did right now, and he could sense she was similarly excited by the intensity of her gaze on him.
He could feel the flow of blood to the cut beginning to fade, and Buffy was beginning to look slightly dizzy from loss of blood. Still gazing at her deeply, he moved his lips gently up her wrist, kissing the soft skin with unconcealed longing. Closing her eyes with pleasure, the Slayer gasped with a sharp intake of breath. Encouraged by her reaction, he brought his lips higher, pulling her against him by the wrist, pinning her against the counter with his body as he continued to kiss her wrist with increasing fervency.
“Buffy?” came Willow’s voice suddenly, startling them both out of their guilty indulgence. Footsteps could be heard approaching slowly, and they both looked sharply at one another, panic in their eyes.
“Hide!” hissed Buffy urgently, pushing him towards the far counter. Needing no motivation, Spike easily leapt across the counter, ducking once he was behind it for cover.
“Buffy?” quipped Willow again, coming into the kitchen. She looked at Buffy, slightly concerned. “Everything okay in here? Do you need help?”
Leaning up against the counter with forced casualness, Buffy smiled shakily, trying to calm the fever raging within her. “Uh, no! No, I’m almost done.”
The redhead still looked somewhat unconvinced. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” insisted Buffy cheerfully, nodding fervently. She moved away from the counter, ushering Willow towards the door with careless flippancy. “You just go tell the others I’ll be out with munchies in a few minutes, ‘kay?”
“Alright…” Throwing her best friend an odd look, Willow went back out into the living room obediently, wondering what was up with Buffy. It must be the stress, she thought pityingly. She would have to ask her about it later.
Craning her head to make sure she had gone, Buffy turned back to the vampire, who was leaning casually against the kitchen counter once again. “That…was close,” she said, breathing a long sigh of relief.
Spike nodded in agreement, stealing a slice of cheese from the counter and popping it lazily in his mouth. “Tonight,” he said, looking serious, “I assume you’ll be patrolling again, luv?”
Glancing out the window at the mist-like rain, Buffy made a face. “Unfortunately…”
Advancing on her with predatory grace, he fixed her with intense blue eyes. “Right then. I’ll meet up with you at that marble pillar from last night and we’ll patrol together. See if we can get anything on this ‘new evil’.”
She gulped, her desire flaring anew. “Uh…patrol…right.”
He smiled at her devilishly, advancing even further. “Didn’t think I’d actually do the book thing again, pet, did you? Besides, I don’t think your Watcher’d like that much. Protective old git.” Pressing her back against the counter, he put his lips close to her ear. “Not that I blame him.”
She shivered, unconsciously pressing herself against him. Angel and Riley had always been rather tall, pleasantly built men, but not Spike. Leaner, average height…whereas Angel and Riley had seemed casually at ease in their height and power, the blonde vampire was firmly built—pure coiled muscle.
“No…can’t blame him…” Her blood was roaring in her ears, feeling him so cool and enticing, pressing against her with so much longing. Licking her lips, she looked up and met his eyes, dark with desire. She couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Spike…”
He needed no further encouragement, grabbing her tightly in his arms and kissing her violently. Immediately the familiar thrill shot through them both, increasing their passion. She moaned softly against his mouth, her hands gliding across his shoulder blades, and he growled low in his throat in response, pressing her harder against the counter. Both drank hungrily of each other, tasting each other’s lust and passion on their lips and tongue—cold on hot and hot on cold—as they shed their uncertainties for one brief moment.
Finally knowing she had to stop before things went out of control, Buffy pushed him back gently, pulling them both away from the counter. “You have to go,” she gasped against his lips, unable to tear her mouth away despite her words.
Reluctantly beginning to pull himself away, Spike nodded. “Right, luv. Go…” he murmured.
Breathing heavily, both paused momentarily in thought. Then, leaning into him, Buffy gave him one last firm kiss and pulled away reluctantly. “I’ll meet you at the marble pillar.” She turned away hastily before her desire could overcome her again. “Now, you have to go. Before anyone sees you.”
Gathering his wits, he nodded tightly, retrieving his leather duster from the kitchen table. “I’ll be there. Just make sure you’re there.” With that, he slipped silently out into the dark, rainy day.
Closing her eyes reflectively, Buffy put a steadying hand out on the countertop. “Oh, I’ll be there. I’ll definitely be there…” she whispered softly, licking his taste from her lips.
Why do you come here,
And pretend to be just passin’ by?
But I mean to see you…
And I mean to hold you…tightly.
Xander’s voice hailed her from the living room. “Hey, Buff, are we gonna’ get any snacks here?” She could hear Willow reprimand him sharply.
Smiling to herself in amusement, Buffy grabbed the snack stuff and headed out to the living room. “Alright, Mr. Antsy-Pants, I’m coming!”
She didn’t even notice the smear of blood she left behind on the counter.
* * *
Several hours later, full of cheese and crackers washed down with juice and having decided they’d gotten all the dirt they were going to get out of Buffy for now, the three Slayarettes made their good-byes and parted. Giving the petite Slayer a parting, frustrated glance, Xander hopped down the front-stoop, a polite yet silently concerned Willow and Tara following close behind with quick hugs and parting reminders. Buffy closed the door softly, releasing a long, weary sigh in lee of the empty silence that remained.
“Two hours until patrol,” she muttered absent-mindedly to herself, confirming her assumption with a glance at the hall clock. Glancing pensively out the living room window at the hazy shroud of rain suspended heavily on the lawn, she tried to collect her scattered thoughts. Wind-devil, Glory, Dawn—the Key, Spike, Mom…She swung her arms gently, loosening tired muscles as she walked towards the kitchen. Glory, wind-devil, Dawn, Mom, Spike, patrol…patrol, patrol…rain, rain, rain. Sighing again with further weariness, she stopped in the doorway, staring gently at her most important thought for the moment.
Dawn.
Fiery red wind spirits and narcissistic hellgods aside, it was long past the time for the big, heartfelt sister-to-sister talk. That big moment between two sisters, when all else is put aside—age, privilege, tastes, and disagreements—and true bonding is reached. Buffy’s stomach did a sour twist. This talk should have been about men. It should have been about being a woman, having your first period, or losing your virginity.
It shouldn’t have been about losing your mom.
“Dawn…” she began softly, crossing her arms uncomfortably and coming further into the room.
The teenager looked up expressionlessly from her seat at the counter, finger dancing lightly along the edge of her glass and making a low mournful tone against the rim. Her gaze seemed hollow, her eyes seemingly staring somewhere beyond Buffy’s shoulder.
The blonde’s heart ached painfully. This wasn’t right, just wasn’t fair. It had taken so much love, so much care, and so much devotion, to finally make her feel as if she belonged here after the ordeal of her birthday—as Dawn, with her big sister, Buffy, and her loving mother, Joyce. Not as a Key, but as a person. And now one of her links had been taken away. How could merely Buffy and her half-obligated devotion keep her feeling loved?
She pursed her lips, carefully choosing her words. “You haven’t said anything…since last week, Dawn,” she remarked softly, coming and taking a careful seat across from her at the counter.
The teenager’s eyes hadn’t moved from the far point on the wall. She continued to run her finger rhythmically over the rim of the glass in its dull, mournful tune, ignoring her sister’s pained expression.
Her throat dry, Buffy continued softly, voice strained with worry. “Dawn…you can’t just keep—“
“Is there going to be a funeral?” The girl’s voice was cold, empty, still not looking at her sister. Buffy was silent momentarily, studying a hairline crack in the countertop.
“We’re working on it, Dawn,” she said softly, looking up again and trying to get the other to meet her gaze. “It’s…hard. There’s…flowers, and guests, and hymns, and the casket still hasn’t been decided…” Her voice broke off hoarsely, looking down at the countertop again to collect herself. “There are so many arrangements to make. We’re…I’m going to need your help. We all need your help, Dawn.”
Buffy looked at her younger sister silently, wishing the other would look back. The hollowness in her eyes reflected a hollowness beginning to spread in her own heart. She had never voiced the fear to Giles or anyone but herself, but she strongly feared that her mother’s death could destroy something vital in Dawn. If Dawn wasn’t real and lost the desire to retain her human form, would that cause her to revert back to her original form, whatever that was? If such a thing happened, there was no way they could reverse the change.
“Let’s have it next week,” remarked Dawn finally in a dispassionate tone. Her finger pressed a tad bit harder against the rim of the glass, but otherwise, she stared ahead in continued emptiness. “There should be lots of flowers. Mom would have liked lots of flowers.”
Buffy’s eyes watered threateningly. “Dawn…”
“And she’d like a plain casket. She wouldn’t want us to spend too much on her like that.” There was a faint glimmer in the hollow, blue eyes. “And we should serve hot chocolate afterwards, with tiny marshmallows…just the way she liked it.” Her voice was slowly cracking, wavering precariously on each word. “And Spike…Spike should come. She liked…she really did like Spike. She would have wanted him to come.”
Her numb shock dissolving under the weight of so many memories, Dawn’s eyes began welling with tears; spilling down her cheeks and off her nose in an angry torrent of emotion. “If she was still here they could watch Passions together, and drink hot cocoa, just like nothing had happened, like he’d never said that stuff to you and she’d never…she’d never…” The dam broken, she lapsed into heart-wrenching sobs, tearing at her face with the weight of all that bottled up pain, her screams tugging at Buffy’s very soul with their complete and animalistic agony.
Pulling her into a tight embrace, Buffy joined her sister’s weeping, smoothing the younger girl’s hair with vicious, desperation, letting all the pain and hurt wash over her anew. She rocked the girl tightly, joining in her pain, but trying to soothe her as well.
Dawn gripped Buffy’s shoulders tightly, as if afraid she would lose her as well. “It hurts, Buffy, it hurts!” she moaned painfully, squeezing her eyes shut tight against the pain. “Why did she go? Why did they have to take her from us? It’s not fair!”
Buffy crooned soothingly into her hair, still rocking her softly. The pain was so biting and so deep. How could she ever soothe such a pain? It would never go away, it would haunt them forever. It could dull, it could lessen, but it would remain forever like some torn away piece in their souls, holding forever the memory and the pain in their hearts.
“I know. I know,” she murmured hoarsely, unable to find any words. And so she just continued to rock her sister, silently, soothing her trembling and anguished cries with soft murmurs and caressing hands. The only way she knew how.
* * * * *
TO BE CONTINUED…
Beyond the Darkness
Chapter Four
By Nichole (Neko-chan) Johnson
Rating: PG or TV 14
Pairings: B/S
Disclaimer: All BtVS characters and such are owned by Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy (bless that little paper monster…). The Red Bull, as well as the legend of the unicorns derives from an old cartoon movie The Last Unicorn based on the story by Peter S. Beagle, and is not mine, albeit being altered to fit this story.
Spoilers: Takes place during Season 5, immediately after “The Body”
Author’s Notes: I apologize for the extreme shortness of this chapter. When I originally started writing “Beyond”, I wasn’t exactly writing chapter-by-chapter; that is, I wasn’t designating a certain amount of pages per chapter. I was more writing it in parts, which consisted of several chapters that amounted to a certain amount of pages. So this chapter was originally meant as a lead-in chapter to Part 2.
I did, however, make sure to post Chapter Five right along with this chapter, so hopefully that will make up somewhat for what Chapter Four lacks in length.
Keep reading, keep reviewing—I love hearing all of your opinions (even if I don’t seem to listen sometimes.) ^_^
* * * * *
Chapter Four
Three days. Three nights.
Three days filled with dreary funeral preparations; the flowers, the coffin, the funeral home, the pallbearers. The piles of consolation cards, the flowers from the co-workers, baked goods and hot dishes from friends and neighbors, all flat and apart from the heaviness in Buffy’s heart. That empty despair, knowing none of it would ease the reality of the situation, but would only serve to make it all the more real.
With seemingly cold dispassion, she bore it all, signing the forms, the checks, the bills of such previously foreign expenses, and something she had never wished to realize before shone with heavy clarity in her mind’s eyes. Immediately she was back there—that filthy, damp alleyway, staring with growing horror and dread at the vampire crouched complacently at her feet on the wet stones—staring up at her with complete candor, blank face barely containing the vicious passion in those dark and depthless blue eyes as he proceeded to tear every truth and fear from its ill-guarded bonds and bring it, shamelessly, before her eyes. She had gone cold, asphyxiated by the haunting gaze and words, and been horrified at how easily he had torn her most hidden fears from within parts of her soul she had not yet fully explored.
And now she thought back on it with a maturity beyond her years, its clarity dulled by the heaviness of everything weighing down on her soul, and she realized that Spike had been right. Been so right, it put her in a sense of perverted awe.
“Death is your art,” he’d said, staring at her evenly. “You make it with your hands, day after day. That final gasp, that look of peace—part of you is desperate to know, “What’s it like?” “Where does it lead you?’”
She had known this, all along, whether she had acknowledged it or not, and yet, she would never accept it. Never truly accept it. Death would always be on her heels, waiting in the wings, affecting her and those around her. But somehow, she could not accept that. It was her job to fight it, no matter how inevitable it was in the end, and accepting it would be to admit defeat. How could she continue to fight her hardest, try her best to save innocent lives, if she refused to feel the remorse, the impact of her failure or inability as a savior? Spike had died over a century ago. He had already experienced death, had been the cause of it for some hundred-and-twenty odd years, and he had had the time to dwell on all the ‘why’s’ and unanswered meanings to it all, despite his inability to regret or feel remorse.
And that’s where they were different—where both could know the same truth and treat it as antithetical as their own natures. He was a demon in the body of a man who had died long ago. He could feign love, pretend pain, spout philosophy, but he would always be soulless.
She told herself this, over and over, but it could not explain that all-too-human passionate gaze, nor why he had felt compelled to save her life so many times over. And it did not ease her discontent.
While her days were filled with the hectic, dismal preparations of her mother’s funeral—staring out the gray windows and at her sister falling deeper and deeper into depressed silence—the nights were filled with fruitless and frustrating patrols and research sessions down at the Magic Box. There were no more mysterious attacks by red whirlwinds, no word in the books, and with her mother’s death and funeral preparations weighing heavily on her mind, Buffy was beginning to doubt herself. It appeared there was no such thing, all sources had been exhausted, and yet, she clearly remembered the stifling heat of the sand-laden winds, suffocating against the heat and grit filling her lungs, and the unearthly animal cry that told of urgent purpose. It had seemed so conscious and searching, a living force. There had to be more to it than just one simple attack—someone out to get her (when were they not?) or simply a new threat to the residents of the Hellmouth. But they were coming up empty-handed. The cemetery’s were quiet, except for their regular dead and undead occupants, and the rest of the Scoobies were beginning to tire of the search. Glory was still hanging on all of their minds, and the safety of the Key. It was time to get back to their real problem at hand.
And then there was the other problem on her mind, that tangible desire eating at her from the inside out. It made the late-night patrols so unbearable, tense and laced with burning sexual tension. So many times she had stopped herself, so many times she’d held herself back, and it had only increased the both of theirs’ jumpiness and flared at their tempers. The fights between her and Spike had risen beyond any fighting they had ever done when they were truly enemies—bitter and lashing with the strength of misguided passions that could not be released in anything but hateful words—and they had left each of them worn and more frustrated than ever by the end of each night. And most often, they were merely words, but once they had escalated into vicious blows on Buffy’s part. But what only resulted was the physical contact that she had been so fighting to avoid, and hastily, feeling the burning desire ignite, she had torn herself away and kept silent for the rest of the night. And there had been no more physical attacks for the remainder of their scheduled patrolling.
Despite all their discomforts, they continued to meet every night in the same graveyard, at the same elaborate marble grave-marker with its cruelly leering gargoyle and serene fat cherub perched atop it in paradoxical vigil. Continued to fight—each other almost as much as their intended quarry—and continued to curse the passion between them that was their fate.
And it felt as if the breath of something enormous, encompassing them all, was being held. Something was about to happen, something truly transforming, and they were too oblivious with their frustrations to even sense its coming.
* * * * *
TBC IN CHAPTER FIVE…