Dark Prophecy8

Chapter 37

A/N: Well, here it is--the last chapter of 2004. I know the chapters haven’t been as forthcoming as we all wish they were, but I hope there’s a little comfort in knowing that I have three or four later chapters already written. I totally forgot to thank my husband and my mom for their wonderful ideas for the last chapter, so a belated ‘thanks‘ goes out to them. Without their input I’d still be stuck here at my keyboard trying to figure out where the heck this story was going. As I keep saying, smut’s a cinch to write but plot’s frickin’ impossible :)

As always, thanks to those who review and who send me a quick note to say hi. It’s nice to feel appreciated.

On a last note, I have to mention that I’ve changed the final sentence of the previous chapter from “I know how to beat him” to “I know his weakness”.

Silence weighed upon the room as the three Brits stared blankly at the Slayer.

Spike turned to the watcher, worry evident on his face. His voice was quiet, as if he was afraid to disturb the silence that had settled upon the room. “You think she’s ok? Maybe she hit her head or somethin’...”

Buffy’s voice, higher pitched than usual, cut him off. “No she didn‘t hit her head! I’m just telling you what I was shown. It doesn’t make any more sense to me than it does to any of you, so don’t blame me for the wig factor.”

Amelia spoke up, attempting to placate the small blonde. “Buffy, we’re not blaming you for anything. It’s just that this revelation of yours is, well, highly implausible.”

“Don’t you realise I know that already?“ In a gesture of defeat, the Slayer groaned and relaxed into a slouch, letting her head drop into her hands. She was feeling worse than she was letting on, but hoped that the others wouldn’t notice. This wasn’t the time for slacking. They had plans to make, strategies to lay out, maybe even go over the details of that dream one more time...

Spike watched as the young woman’s exhaustion became more apparent. There was still so much work to be done if they wanted to stop that wizard prat from bringing in all kinds of interdimensional riff-raff. But for that to happen they all had to be in top shape, and for Buffy that meant rest. Lots of it.

“That’s it. I’m taking the Slayer back to the hotel--she’s nearly droppin’ off on us. This can wait till tomorrow when we’re not so knackered.” He crouched down beside the small blonde, expecting her to resist--after all, she wasn’t too keen on playing the role of damsel in distress. But all she did was smile gratefully and allow herself to be gathered up in his arms.

Once again it struck the vampire how small the Slayer was. Holding her in his arms, her head resting against his shoulder, warm breath tickling his skin, chest rising and falling slowly to the cadence of the sleep to which she‘d finally surrendered, he felt as though he was carrying a child. He accepted a blanket from Ruth and allowed the older woman (well, older than Buffy and Amelia) to tuck it around the sleeping woman’s form.

Amelia opened the door to let them through. The Slayer’s present condition excluded her from any of the cognitive activities that were involved in research. If she was going to recuperate, she might as well do it while sleeping in a warm bed. A comfort that neither she nor Ruth would be enjoying in the hours to come.

After seeing the two blondes off, the Council members made their way to one of the building’s myriad research rooms. As soon as the door was closed behind them, Amelia frowned. “So what do you make of this new development?”

The witch shrugged. “Honestly? I’ve no idea what to make of it. But I do know that these dreams have a message to deliver--their purpose isn’t to lead the forces of good astray. We just have to figure out what it meant.”

Resigned to a long, long night of research, Amelia groaned. Looking at the rows of books that lie before her she shook her head. “I don’t even know where to start, Ruth. I mean, who would have known that Evan is really a woman, anyway?”

(A/N: to make it easier for both the reader and myself, I will continue to use masculine pronouns when dealing with Evan, despite Buffy’s revelation)

***

The shopkeeper’s daughter groaned as she saw a familiar figure approaching the store. Jumping off the stool she abandoned her post and stormed to the back room. “Da! It’s that really odd bloke again! I told you I’m not going to serve him again, not after all the hassle he gave me last time.” Her arms flailed as she tried to imitate her previous transaction with said customer. “Oh, I can still see the stain! See, right here--if you get out your microscope you can still see a nano-smidgen of mango-cranberry chutney right here by the armpit...”

The owner of Patel Dry Cleaning, a short man of Indian descent, rolled his eyes at the girl’s theatrics. Why she had refused to take those drama classes was beyond him. “Rashida, please don’t talk about our customers like that. Mr. Blakeford is a good paying customer; we should not let his quirks bother us.”

“Quirks?” The young woman swept up her long dark hair with a clip before staring at her father as if he’d grown a second head. “Is that what you call a young man who only hangs around women? Do you know what he and his friend were arguing about last time they came in? Who’s better looking--Mel Gibson or George Clooney! Then the woman turns around and asks me! I mean, eww! They’re so old. Why don’t they ask me about Eminem, or Orlando Bloom...”

Rashida’s diatribe, much to her father’s pleasure, was cut short by the arrival of Evan Blakeford and a tall blonde woman.

“I don’t want to hear it, Camille!”

“But Céline isn‘t...”

“Oh, please! Do you see how she dresses? And that wedding of hers?! That was the tackiest thing ever...” Turning to the stunned shopkeeper, the young man gave him an arrogant sneer as he slid his tag across the counter. “Blakeford. And I’d better not see any stains this time.”

“Oh, don’t worry Mr. Blakeford, we were very thorough this week...” The words ‘microscope’ and ‘nano-smidgen’ flit through his mind as he could almost hear Rashida snickering in the back room. He turned away from the bickering duo, tag in hand, looking for the young man’s clothing.

The two silk blouses, wool skirt and matching blazer were almost first on the rack. As he picked them up, the middle-aged man forced away thoughts of why Mr. Blakeford dropped off women’s clothing every week. Or the especially disturbing thought of how the clothing seemed to be just his size.

Mr. Patel draped the items across the counter for his customer’s close inspection. Again, he was sure he could hear faint giggling coming from behind him. Hmm! She thinks she’s so clever, does she? I’m going to have to ‘disappear’ when old Mrs. Northam and her crazy Yorkie come in this afternoon...

Luckily for the owner of Patel Dry Cleaning, the clothing passed inspection and the young man paid for his service. Without a good day, or even a good-bye, he turned around and walked out of the store; his female friend gave the shopkeeper an apologetic smile before jogging to catch up to him, her heels clicking on the linoleum floor.

As soon as the door latched shut, the giggling in the back room turned to outright guffaws. Shaking his head, Mr. Patel couldn’t hold back a chuckle as well.

***

Camille dropped into the sedan’s passenger seat before closing the heavy door. She watched Evan out of the corner of her eye as her hands fiddled with the seatbelt. “So why do you go there if you don’t like it? There have to be at least half a dozen other dry cleaners around here.”

“Because Mother likes it, that’s why. She insists that we only use Patel’s, although I’ve no idea why. They’re so...” The young man stopped mid-sentence when the CD that his passenger had slipped in began to play. “Oh, not this again! It’s all you bloody listen to!”

The girl let out a very unsophisticated snort. “Oh please, you don’t have to pretend with me, Evan. I know who you really are, and that person is every bit as lustful for Enrique’s body as I am. The man’s fitter than fit.”

Evan’s gaze remained on the road ahead of him, but his face broke out into a lopsided grin. “Fit doesn’t even begin to cover it...”

Latin melodies played away as they both relaxed and enjoyed each other’s presence. This was a comfort that Evan didn’t get to appreciate often enough: not having to act against his nature, to pretend to be someone he wasn’t, to always be on his guard.

“Why do you let her control you like that?”

Of course, close friendships had their drawbacks, too... blasted heart to hearts...

Taking advantage of a red light, the young man turned to look at his passenger. “Who said there‘s a ‘let‘ involved?!” Pursing his lips, he took a deep breath and tried to lighten his voice. It wasn‘t her fault--none of it was; she genuinely wanted to help him and he felt bad for snapping at her. “Look, there’s a reason you’ve never met mum. She’s a mite unhinged--not exactly the type I want to introduce my friends to.”

Every previous attempt to bring up the subject of his mother had been dismissed. Camille had never even been able to get anything more out of the man than a curt ’let’s change the subject, shall we?’ Why was it that he was opening up now? Had something happened? “Evan, you’re not the only one whose mother is weird. I mean, the other day...”

“Did she ever poison your cat because you forgot to clean its litter for one day? Did she ever break your toys because you didn’t put them away when you were told to?” His voice wavered as the words just poured forth--there was no stopping them now, not after years of being held back. “Did your mother ever hold your meals back until you finally understood that maths problem--even if it took days?”

Ok, this wasn’t what she was expecting. ‘Mum talks to her potted plants’, or ‘Mum thinks there are aliens living in the attic’, but not ‘Mum killed my cat.’ The young woman knew that the wrong kind of reaction--anything over the top--would draw him back into his shell. Psychology had been the only course at University that she’d actually paid attention to--well, most of the time.

Her voice quiet but steady, Camille lightly placed her hand on Evan’s arm in a sign of understanding. “I’m sorry... I didn’t know...”

Strangely enough, the young man felt lighter after having shared his secret. He’d always kept his relationship with his mother as a secret for fear of any reprisal--people might question his maturity, laugh, or roll their eyes.

“That’s ok--you couldn’t have known. Don’t worry about it, though. I’ve got something in the works that will get us out of each other’s hair for good...”

***

As he stepped into the lobby of the Sheffield Arms, Spike smiled at the quiet that greeted them. For the first time since they’d arrived, he consciously appreciated not having been granted his wish for a five star hotel. Hetty’s little nook, far removed from any hustle and bustle, was far homier and comforting than Brown’s could ever aspire to be.

Buffy was nestled in his arms like a sleeping tot, her even breathing an indication of deep sleep. She hadn’t stirred since they’d left the Council, not even when the vampire had ended tangled up in her seatbelt, cursing under his breath, as he tried to pull her out of her seat.

The stairs creaked as he climbed them, the Slayer’s weight adding to his own. He managed to unlock their door without much trouble, nudging it closed behind him with a gentle kick. Home sweet home, he thought to himself. Had he not been so tired or occupied with Buffy’s well-being, he might have paused at how strangely comforting the thought was. But now was not the time for introspection and Spike busied himself with putting the young woman to bed. It took him all of two seconds to decide that undressing her was too risky, so he simply removed her footwear and lay her on the bed fully clothed, pulling the warm covers over her.

Still too wired to sleep, the vampire made himself a warm mug of O-Neg before slumping down into a chair by the bed. Finally relaxed, he could allow his mind to wander where it hadn’t dared: the complete flip in his and the Slayer’s relationship, the changes in his personality and, of course, this whole apocalypse kerfuffle.

Eight days. Eight bloody days is all that it had taken for his life to turn on its ear. Everything he’d stood for, everything that had made him the Big Bad--the blood, the guts, the glory--had lost its hold on him. Scary thing was, the changes seemed to be self-imposed. Heck, they hadn’t even left the States yet and he’d refrained from killing Bob the Portly Salesman. The vampire had been disgusted with himself at the time--a temporary weakness, he’d thought--but in retrospect he was oddly content. If keeping Buffy meant changing who he was, it was a no-brainer. Love’s bitch ever so...

But what about Buffy? How did she see their relationship? What did all this mean to... Spike shook out of his reverie when he noticed that the object of his musings was not only awake, but staring at him intently.

“Spike? Is everything all right?” Buffy had woken up to the feeling that she was being watched. Something that must have been deeply ingrained into the Slayer part of her, she assumed, since she was still way too tired to be waking up without the help of an oompah band. The look on her lover’s face worried her. Forehead creased, lips pressed together, he reminded her of Angel at his broodiest. And that was never, ever good.

The vampire kept his gaze steady with hers, relaying the seriousness of his mood. “What is this to you? Is it a holiday fling? An itch you’re scratching while you’re out of Scooby sight?”

Buffy would have been angry had she not seen the genuine worry in the bleach blonde’s eyes. Hadn’t he believed her when she said she loved him? What had he thought when she claimed him? It was now obvious to her that there was much more William left in Spike than he’d ever care to admit.

Smiling, the Slayer laid her head back against the oversized pillow and pulled the sheet back in invitation. “Come on, you worrywart. Get in here so we can talk.” She watched him as he undressed and slid in between the covers, waiting until he was close enough to hold in an embrace. Wrapping her arm around his waist, she pulled the vampire even closer and draped her leg over him. “Spike--I love you. And that’s not going to change once we’re back in Sunnydale. Everyone is just going to have to learn to live with it; Giles and Xander are going to blow gaskets, Willow‘s going to be support-o-girl and Mom... heck, Mom‘s probably going to be looking at mother-of-the-bride dresses before I’m done telling her. This, to me, is the start of a serious relationship, something that won’t be easy, won’t be without its bumps and problems; but we’re also going to have good times, Spike. You know all that stuff about sharing smiles and laughter? I think we’re both due for some of that...”

Well, for once, Spike was the one who was short for words. Buffy’s little speech had gone way beyond what he’d wanted--what he’d needed--to hear. He brought his hand up to her face, brushing a few stray locks and tucking them behind her ear. The warmth of her body, pressed intimately against him, instilled in him a sense of calm he’d never felt, not even as William. Leaning in, he brushed his lips against hers in a gesture that showed her how much she meant to him.

Sighing contentedly, Buffy pulled away from her lover. Her mind told her that more than anything, she needed sleep; her body, however, was telling her otherwise. She offered her lover a coy smile, dragging a fingertip up his hard chest.

“Why don’t you help me get these clothes off so I can show you just how much I love you?”

***

The young man had been standing in front of the door, staring a hole into it. His hand had reached out and grabbed the handle all of four times before pulling back as if burned. Come on, grow a pair, will you? You can’t just stand here all day. He frowned, realising what he’d thought. Great, now I’m even thinking like a red-blooded male...

Evan sighed. Coming home shouldn’t be like this. None of the neighbours would ever know of the psychological abuse he had--and continued to--endure at the whim of his mother. The well-kept brick bungalow, with its neatly trimmed juniper bushes, mature wisteria and immaculate lawn held secrets that none would believe, safe for seeing them with their own eyes.

Something odd, however, caught his eye as he turned the doorknob. Through the door’s frosted glass he could see a young man standing in his living room; a man who held a frightening resemblance to him. The stranger walked out of Evan’s sight, into the hallway that led to the bedrooms.

Weird.

He opened the door quietly and stepped in. Silence met his arrival and although he cocked his head, straining to hear something, anything, he couldn’t tell whether his mother was alone or not. Wouldn’t it be just his luck if she was ‘entertaining’? Not wanting to bring any attention to himself, he carefully draped the dry cleaned garments over the recliner that lay to his right and tread lightly across the carpet.

If he could only make it to the stairs that led to the basement, he could...

“Is that you, dear?”

Balls. “Yes, Mother.”

“Well, I hope you didn’t forget the dry cleaning. You can be so harebrained sometimes...” Roberta Blakeford entered the room in a whirl, buttoning up an emerald green cardigan. Her sharp gaze landed on the clothing that lay draped over the chair and she tutted. “You know better than to leave clothing lying around like that; make sure it’s put away before I get back.” She dragged the palm of her hand down the plastic-encased garments. “Nice clothes are so hard to come by nowadays...”

Get back?! Maybe lady luck was looking out for him after all. Her absence would allow him the freedom to iron out the final details of his plan. This kind of thing didn’t come about on its own and unless he wanted to bollocks it up, he had to pay close attention to every remaining minutiae.

“... and the dishwasher needs to be filled and run, and there’s still clothes in the dryer--you might want to let it run again to get the creases out, as my beige pants are in there... Are you listening to me?”

“Yes, mum. Dishwasher, dryer... You go and don’t worry about anything--the house will be spotless when you get back.” Just call me Cinderella... Evan helped his mother into her coat and ushered her out the door, glad to be out of her company and on his own.

So many things left to do, so little time. Evan Blakeford’s world was about to change for good. As he turned towards the kitchen, eyeing the dishwasher with distaste--at least he didn’t have to wash anything by hand--he realized that he’d completely forgotten to mention the young man he’d seen.

Maybe he wasn’t the only one with secrets after all...

Chapter 38

The Council’s lift seemed to take more time than usual in its ascent to the 6th floor. Although he thought he was doing a bang-up job at not openly displaying his nervousness, Spike couldn’t avoid the tension in his muscles or the singing of his nerves. A kinetic energy coursed through his body, leaving it coiled as if he was backed into a corner. That had always been fun in his old ‘fists, fangs and fuck all else’ days, but this time so much more was at stake. This time he had Buffy to lose.

Trying to stave off the sinking feeling that was settling in his gut, he replayed the hours that preceded this elevator ride like an 8mm reel, looping it over and over again in his mind.

Every sight, every scent, every sound, Buffy’s soft body beneath his, her warm breath whispering against the sensitive skin of his neck, more, harder, faster, loveyouloveyouloveyou, had to be committed to memory. One doesn’t live on the dark side of life for one hundred and twenty years without being able to distinguish true-to-God apocalypses from paler version wannabes. And this, that they were about to face on a warm June evening, was definitely of the former.

They had dressed in silence afterwards, neither caring to wash up, to remove the scent of their coupling from their bodies. An air of finality hung heavily in the hotel room, leaving both blondes to dark fears and bittersweet memories. Escaping their mission, running as far away as possible from the Council, Evan Blakeford, baby Dawn and her fate was an option, but neither had considered it.

Champions just didn’t skirt their responsibilities.

For the first time since their arrival at the small hotel, Hetty was in the lobby as they were leaving. She waved them off from her post behind the desk, smiling as always, but Buffy caught an underlying sadness in the older woman’s eyes. She knows, the Slayer thought to herself. She knows she won’t see us again.

She had shared this with Spike as they sat in the car, both knowing that there was so much left to say, but neither feeling like doing much talking. Her words were an affirmation of Spike’s state of mind, but he refused to let her see it.

“Don’t think like that, pet. We’re gonna win this; we’ll be the ones walkin’ out in one piece. You an‘ me--we‘ll be unbeatable.”

If only he could convince himself as well, then maybe he could push away the feeling of dread that was numbing his spirit.

“Spike?” Her voice was timid as she took his hand in hers.

“Yeah, love?”

“If... if anything happens to me,” she touched her fingers to his mouth “please don’t interrupt, this is hard enough already--if anything happens to me, I want you to make sure Mom’s ok.” Buffy’s voice wavered as she fought to keep her emotions under control. “Tell her I love her and that I’m doing this for her. Tell Giles not to blame himself, that I’ve never listened to him anyway.” The car’s occupants shared an uneasy chuckle before the young woman took in a deep breath and continued. “Tell Willow, Xander and the others to finally have a normal life that doesn’t include figuring out how to get the latest demon goo off their good shoes.”

“That’s a nice speech, pet, but...”

“But I’m not done.” Truth was, now that she’d opened her mouth, the words just flowed. The Slayer had never been known for her verbosity but, in the confines of the BMW, she was giving it her best. Spike knew, by her avoidance of his gaze, that this next bit was going to be about him. About them. And he didn’t want to hear it, wanted to assure her it wasn’t necessary, but wouldn’t that involve believing it in the first place?

Sure, he was being all noble and cocksure of a positive outcome, but that was on the outside. On the inside, doubts flittered about him like pesky little butterflies, never getting close enough for him to shoo away, but making their presence felt nonetheless.

Her first words, though, caught him off guard.

“I loved Angel like nothing else.”

The vampire’s brow furrowed and his mouth opened as if to protest, but he bit his lip. It was up to Buffy to deal with this however she felt necessary. Even if it meant bringing up the poofter.

“At least, that’s what I thought, back then. And when he left me, I swore off relationships. Buffy and guys were not mixy and that was it. Falling in love was messy and only led to heartbreak, right? I mean, look at Mom and Dad, Willow and Oz, heck--even you and Drusilla. So why set myself up for the inevitable?” Finally, the young woman’s face lifted and her hazel eyes turned to gaze upon him.

“But I forgot one really important thing, Spike. I forgot the ‘during’ of relationships--everything that happens between the meeting and the leaving. Having someone to share jokes with, to hold hands with, to snuggle up to when you wake up from a bad dream. Sharing your life with someone, going through experiences together; that’s what’s great about being in love. Dad cheated on Mom, left her high and dry with me to take care of, but she still smiles when she drinks a certain wine or watches a certain movie; I know she’s reliving some of the good times they had together. You can’t delete those any more than you can erase the hurt.”

Spike watched his love as she sighed and melted back against the lush car seat. Although she hadn’t covered their own relationship yet, his heart was already swelling with her words. And, by her body language, this tête-à-tête was doing her a world of good.

“I know it’s only been about a week or so, but I already feel like my good memory container is filling up. The stuffed animal, that night by the Tower and our first kiss, the strawberries... It’s all been about feeling good about ourselves and being happy. I’m not used to that, you know. I’m more familiar with the heartbreak and the angst and the having my heart ripped out. I...” She let out a dry chuckle. “Geez, listen to me, all talky. Point is, I love you and it’s not something I say cause it sounds neat or grown up. I really, really love you and I want you to know that just in case... just in case tonight doesn’t go so well for me. You’ve made me truly happy, Spike.”

Before he had time to respond--he was astounded, to say the least, by her frank words--her lips found his for a searing kiss. When she pulled away her shoulders were stiff again and her eyes set out ahead of them. “Now let’s get out of here before I wuss out.”

***

The ding of the elevator brought the vampire back to the present and he took a step back, allowing Buffy to leave its stuffy confines first. His Victorian manners were of constant amusement to the young woman, who wasn’t really accustomed to having men put her needs ahead of their own. She’d even teased him once, a twinkle in her eye, about old chauvinist habits.

The Slayer looked around and, seeing no one, became perturbed. “She did say the sixth floor, right?”

His duster swirled as Spike did a 360 on the spot. “Yeah, that’s what she said alright. Maybe we’re supposed to...”

A loud ‘shh!’ interrupted him and both blondes turned towards the sound. They spotted the young watcher about twenty feet down the corridor to their left, her head peeking out one of the doors.

“Get your asses in here and stop making so much noise!” Amelia craned her neck, checking the length of the hallway for any other Council members. If anyone found out about what she was up to, well, she‘d most likely find out just what ‘up to your ass in alligators’ really meant. Probably in a literal sense, too, knowing this lot.

Hunching their shoulders and stifling a chuckle, the two crept towards the room as stealthily as possible. When the door closed behind them with hardly an audible click, Buffy caved.

“Ok, so what’s got you all cloak and daggery? You sneaking behind Travers’ back? Cause that would be so funny--really, it would.”

At least she was honest enough to look abashed. Amelia took in a deep breath and released it. “No. And, yes. Although he told me to do what I could to help you, I doubt he meant bringing you here.” With that, she took a step back and allowed her guests to take their first good look at the room in which they were hiding.

Spike let a slow whistle escape his lips as he glanced around the room at the myriad weapons adorning the walls and tables. He was about to take a step forward--damn, but that was a nice axe--when he was knocked off balance by an eager Slayer.

“Oh, God! Look at them all!” Completely ignoring Amelia’s call for quiet, she picked a dagger up off one of the tables. “Ooh, pretty...”

The vampire righted himself, straightening his coat. Nearly knocked over by a five-foot nothing girl. That‘s my Slayer for ya. “Well, we’ve lost her. No gettin’ the Slayer back now.”

Amelia shook her head at the almost orgasmic sounds Buffy was making as she picked up various weapons, testing their weight in her grasp. Slayers were no doubt in a class of their own. “Yes, well, I’m sure you find all of these quite fascinating, Buffy, but we do have business to attend to.”

It was as if she hadn’t spoken. The young woman’s attention remained focused on the large sword she was twirling, a wide grin spread across her face. Only Spike’s too loud “Slayer!” was able to roust her from the personal moment she was sharing with the weapon.

This only seemed to aggravate the watcher, who stormed over to the Slayer and grabbed the sword from her hand, giving both blondes dirty looks. “Will you please pay attention!” Realizing that she’d lost her cool, Amelia pinched her lips and concentrated on replacing the weapon in its proper place. When she turned back her companions, she couldn’t believe their ramrod stances or the properly-chastised looks on their faces. Good, she thought to herself, maybe they’ll start taking this seriously.

“I’m sorry I lost my patience, but perhaps I haven’t projected the extent to which I’m sticking my neck out for you two. If any of us get caught here by Stewart or those who support him, I don’t know what could happen. Quentin would no longer be able to assist us--that much I know.”

Buffy’s voice squeaked as she spoke up, voicing what was--to her, anyway--a very important point. “But isn’t Travers the head cheese around here?”

“Yes, he’s the Head of the Council, but the combined powers of the other members can override his if he’s deemed unfit to govern.”

Spike snorted. “And since Stewie has more than half the lot on his side...”

“Exactly.” Amelia sighed. This assignment had become a much bigger undertaking than she could ever have imagined. Her head was pounding, her stomach ached and she was jumpier than the time she’d watched the black and white version of The Haunting on her own. “Which is why we have to be as covert as possible, and that involves not turning the weapons room into a playground.”

Feeling unfairly singled out--how the heck else was she supposed to react to all these cool weapons?!--Buffy mumbled a petulant ‘sorry’.

“I’m sorry, too. Under better circumstances you could play to your heart’s content, but right now we need to put our heads together and decide how you should arm yourselves.”

The next half hour was a futile effort in reconciling two different schools of thought. Buffy and Spike both argued that in order to walk out of the abbey alive, they needed to be armed to the gills. Amelia, on the other hand, tried to convince them otherwise.

“First of all, you’ll be bogged down by the weight of all these...” Her hand waved over the assortment of weapons surrounding them. “Furthermore, how will an axe or a sword fare against a Warlock’s magic? Your wits will be your biggest asset; you’ll have to rely heavily on using your brains.”

“But what...” Spike stopped pacing at the dirty look Amelia threw him. Lowering his voice, he continued his line of thought. “But what about the Pelorak? What the hell am I supposed to do against them? Ask them not to hurt me?”

“You’re forgetting my promise, William.”

“Will it prevent me from feeling pain? Is it going to stop me from getting my limbs hacked off?” When the watcher slowly shook her head, he chuckled humourlessly. “So tell me again why I shouldn’t bring as many sharp and pokey things as I can carry.”

“Look, how about if...”

“Hold on, here. What are you guys talking about?!”

When Amelia opened her mouth to respond, Spike spoke up. “S’nothing, love. The watcher just promised that we’d make it out alive.”

Buffy pursed her lips--she knew the vampire was lying. But they’d already wasted enough time bickering and Amelia was right--if anyone caught them in there, they could kiss Dawn goodbye. This had to be resolved as quickly as possible. “Ok, then--we’ll go easy on the hardware, me more so than Spike.” The thrall of the weapons subsided and the seriousness of the situation once again caused the Slayer to take control. Turning to Spike, she was all business. “Take whatever you can hide under your coat without weighing you down. If we walk in there with a sword in each hand, we might as well have a neon sign above our heads saying ‘here comes trouble’.”

Impressed by the young woman’s take-charge attitude, Amelia watched her in silence as she chose a dagger and a sai. The Gem of Amarra, which she’d managed to ’borrow’ earlier that morning, was a slight weight in her coat pocket. Her fingers were constantly toying with it, feeling the power that emanated from it. She cleared her throat, getting both blondes’ attention.

“Ruth and I have done some research, based on the descriptions provided by Buffy, on the location of her dream. At first we believed it to be the Franciscan monastery, but the courtyard is still well tended to. The only viable option after that is St. Monica’s Abbey, which has fallen under neglect these past decades; it fits the description--the tower, the colour of the stone, the courtyard--almost to a tee.”

A brief pause was followed by a giggle. “St. Monica’s Abbey?!” Buffy couldn’t help but be incredulous. “Aren’t saints supposed to be called Mary, or Teresa, or... Mary?”

“St. Monica’s the patron saint of wives and abuse victims, you ninny.”

Both women stared at the vampire, slack-jawed. Before either of them had time to say anything, he raised a finger, daring them to speak up with a glare. “Mum used to go there after Da died, spent some of her time helpin’ the women who stayed there. Said she was doin’ her bit, having been lucky enough to marry a good man.”

Buffy knew better than to press Spike for any details about his past, so she just nodded and mouthed an ’oh’. “Okay, then. We go to St. Monica’s and punch first, ask questions later. That about it?”

“Sounds good to me.” The weight of the situation was beginning to get to Spike. He’d never been good at the planning, the waiting, the minutia of a well thought-out attack. Fists first, questions later; that was the best plan they could have come up with.

The vampire’s fidgeting was really beginning to get on the Slayer’s nerves. “That’s it. We’re getting out of here before Sparky implodes.” She turned to the watcher and tried to smile. “Any last words of wisdom? Cause I’ve never been up against a Warlock before.”

Amelia returned the young woman’s smile. “Only to be on your guard. We don’t know the extent of Evan’s power, Buffy, so I need you to expect the worst. Don’t let him get your goat, don’t let him touch you. If possible, try to turn the tables--if you can make him lose his concentration, that might buy you some time.” She walked over to the Slayer and wrapped her arms around her affectionately. “Best of luck, Buffy.”

Spike’s eyes followed Buffy as she left the room. He turned to Amelia and they stood there, awkwardly staring at each other, both waiting for the other to make the first move. “Bloody hell,” he said as he walked over to her and held his hand out. “Suppose this is it, eh? Remember what we talked about in the pub; I wasn’t kidding. Somewhere sunny--she deserves no less.”

The watcher’s handshake was firm, and her gaze steady as she replied. “William, you’ve a stout heart and have proven to be more of a man than most who work alongside me. You won’t let her down; I believe in you.”

It was the second time in the span of a week that someone had said those words to him, and they meant just as much now, coming from the mouth of this woman, as it had from Buffy. He remained glued to the spot, unable to say anything, until she handed him the Gem. It fit snugly on his finger and he immediately felt its energy flow through him.

His strong embrace surprised Amelia more than if he’d hit her. She was left there gobsmacked, watching him as he left, duster billowing behind him, wondering what part of what she’d told him had merited his choked “thank you”.

***

For the fourth time that evening, Evan pulled a knapsack from under his bed and pored through its contents, making sure that everything he’d need was in there. Tonight was the night that would change everything. The world was finally going to take a turn for the better. Well, for him, anyway.

A sound in the hallway caused him to jump, nearly spilling the bag’s contents out onto the floor. He shoved it back under the bed as the footsteps got closer; he let out a sigh of relief, however, when the sound went past his door and straight to the bathroom. The last thing he needed was for his mom to present him with another list of chores. Cinderella is my middle name...

Not that it would matter after tonight, of course.

“Are you upstairs?!” Victoria Blakeford’s shrill voice called out from behind the bathroom’s closed door.

Gritting his teeth, the young man pulled himself from the sanctuary of his bedroom. “Yes mum.” Stay calm, this will all be over, then you’ll be free...

The door opened, and the older woman stepped out, commanding attention even in the narrow hallway of her bungalow. Her white blouse and light grey skirt were immaculate and not a hair on her head was out of place. Piercing black eyes settled on her child as her lip curled with disdain. “Tonight’s meeting is scheduled to last late, so don’t wait up for me. I’ll most likely be back after midnight and I don’t want to see any lights on--you know what your bedtime is.”

Evan watched his mother slip on her boots and coat, thoughts of hellfire dancing through his mind. The cruel bitch was going to get what she deserved. Years of putting up with snide remarks, constant put-downs and right-out abuse had culminated in this one act that was going to change things for good. Her shrill voice shook him from an image of hideous demons dancing around her broken and bloodied body.

“Are you listening to me, child?!”

“Yes, mother...” Damn, think fast! “I’ll make sure all the plants are watered.” He almost let out a breath of relief when she nodded. Lady luck was with him--this had to be a good sign.

Not another word was uttered between the two, not a good-bye or a good evening. Evan simply shut the door after her and watched her get into her car and leave. He turned from the door and went to his room to fetch his bag, singing under his breath.

“This is the end of the world as we know it...”

Hey guys! Spuffy Realm is down for now (don't know how long it'll be)
so I figured I'd send you the newest installment of DP rather than let
you fish it out on your own. And I don't say thanks enough for all the
work you guys do, showcasing people's fics :)

Thanks!
Kristine (Pipergirl)

The world around him blended into a mishmash of undistinguishable sights and sounds, all of it passing by him unnoticed. Evan Blakeford drove through dark, empty streets, preoccupied with the knapsack that lay on the passenger seat of his sedan; a mix of emotions surged through him every time his eyes lit on it, from the fear of losing his nerve, to relief that all this would soon be over. His attention concentrated on the bag at his left, the young man nearly collided with the vehicle ahead of him which was stopped at a red light.

The rush of adrenaline from the near-accident cleared his head enough for him to realise he had no idea where he was. It was an odd sensation, to have no distinct memory of the last... he checked the clock on the console... thirty-five minutes. No notion of what streets he’d taken, which landmarks he’d passed--it was as if he’d been on autopilot. Granted, that happened most evenings on his way home from work, but he’d never thought it could be possible in any other circumstance. Not when he was so on edge. Not when it was the night.

He craned his neck to take in his surroundings. The lack of functioning streetlights made it difficult to distinguish anything apart from dingy buildings and garbage piled along the curbs, but that in itself was enough to tell him that he wasn’t in the safest of neighbourhoods. A movement to his right caught his eye; someone--his mother of all people--crossed the parking lot of an old church before disappearing behind some overgrown shrubs. What the...? When the light turned green he hit the gas, cut off oncoming traffic, and sped into the church’s parking lot.

What was his mother doing here of all places? Had her widow/widower’s meetings been transferred here, so far away from the local community hall? Well, won’t matter any longer, he mused as he flung the bag over his shoulder. Everything was still going down as planned.

He walked towards the entrance, never noticing the car that coasted into the parking lot, lights dimmed.

“Bloody stupid modern cars. What’s the point in not bein’ able to turn the bleeding lights off, anyway? Might as well have a neon sign up top sayin’ ‘Hey! Look at us!’”

He had been like this the whole drive down. Buffy sat in the passenger seat, quiet as a church mouse, letting the vampire blow off steam in his own personal, very verbal, way. She remained silent as she caught sight of Evan disappearing behind some unruly bushes. Letting out a weary sigh--no one’s ever really ready to face an apocalypse--she spoke up for the first time. “Guess we’re right on time.”

As they grabbed their weapons from the BMW’s trunk the trip’s first uncomfortable silence settled upon them. They had already given their final speeches--Buffy for once having more to say than Spike--and anything they’d say at this point would just seem superfluous. When he closed the trunk, the Slayer’s attention was brought once more to her companion’s left hand, which now sported a gold ring--much different than the other jewellery he wore, which was all made of silver.

She wanted so much to bring it up, knowing it was the promise he’d ixnayed Amelia on. Its purpose, its role in their mission, was gnawing at her. If they had an additional weapon, a card up their sleeve, shouldn’t she be in on it? But her relationship with the vampire--personal and working--was based on trust. And if she placed her trust in him, it meant letting him take the reins every now and then; Buffy had to believe whatever reasons Spike had for keeping this ring were valid and that he had the baby’s best interest in mind.

Although his eyes were fixed on the lid of the trunk, Spike felt the Slayer’s gaze on him. He knew that she’d spotted the ring and was amazed that she’d held her tongue. There wasn’t much that was more curious than she; at least, not he’d ever come across. Shit, he couldn’t even put his hands in his pockets without her asking what was in them. And now here she was, literally biting her lips closed, working so hard at showing how much she trusted him.

Thing was he was afraid, and that was the main reason for being tight-lipped. The Gem’s powers were legendary, but what if it was really just a bauble, a useless trinket? What if one had to be of stout heart and all that rot for it to work? Hell, what if this wasn’t even the real Gem of Amarra? There was no reason to give Buffy a false sense of comfort in something yet to be proven.

So the ring weighed silently on both blondes’ minds as Spike nodded towards where Evan had disappeared.

Ignoring the damp chill of the abbey, Evan cursed under his breath as his path meandered from one cold empty room to another. This new development threw his well-organized plans right out the window; too late, he realised he should have left room for Murphy and his stupid law.

His mother’s presence baffled him and sent his thoughts flying to the four winds. Why was she here? Was the community centre closed? How many other old crones did she have with her? Had she mentioned something before leaving? The young man was so busy playing twenty questions with himself that he didn’t notice the two shadows following him.

Buffy and Spike trailed their suspect, both lost in thought as they studied the man before them. Inhaling deeply, the vampire frowned. There was something slightly off about the man--or woman, rather, if the Slayer‘s seers were right. He gave the thought a moment’s ponder and smiled as he grasped what had been eluding him. Evan Blakeford didn’t smell like a woman, not even a little. The only sweet tang of female pheromones to tickle his nose came from the Slayer. So what did that mean? Were Buffy’s guides wrong, or was this a glamour to beat all? If only they could get a little closer, he’d be able to get a better idea...

The young man was really beginning to set Buffy’s nerves on edge. Although she wasn’t getting any nasty demon vibes off him--hello, human!--that certainly didn’t mean he was ok. His mutterings were audible even with the damp stone walls absorbing all sound, and he sure seemed pissed off about something. She couldn’t make out any of his ranting, but his body language spoke volumes: muscles taut, head bent forward, shaking from side to side, hands gesticulating wildly--this was neither a happy nor a sane camper.

When Evan’s pace slowed to a stop--he almost seemed confused--both blondes did likewise, having gained a little ground on him. Now that he was closer, Spike was able to rely on more of his senses. He picked up the young man’s rapid heartbeat, heard his erratic breathing; hell, his fear was almost palpable. Pausing a short moment to relish in its taste--this was their dreaded warlock?!--the vampire came to a decision.

The bleach blonde shot ahead of Buffy before she had time to react. “Stupid vampire,” she muttered, running after him. What the hell was he doing? Trying to get them both killed?! She watched helplessly as he grabbed the back of Blakeford’s coat and tossed him soundly against the wall. The Slayer winced at the solid ’thud’ Evan’s body made as it hit stone. Spike’s nose was no more than an inch from his, game face on. She was this close to asking ’what the hell?’ when she heard a whimper, followed by a trickle of something hitting the floor.

Cold yellow eyes stared at Evan as an iron grip held him inches off the ground. Whatever it was that had a hold on him wasn’t human--its facial features were distorted, it was growling for God’s sake, and it had... long pointy teeth? The beast’s mouth opened and its head tilted, as it made for his throat. The young man’s eyes shot closed and he held his breath, waiting for his neck to be torn out. Time seemed to slow to a halt as the monster paused, its cold breath washing over his sensitive skin, its hard figure pressed against his, their similar heights making them fit together a little too well. He let out a frustrated groan as his body reacted to its proximity in a very embarrassing fashion. If only this one had been as old and ugly as Nosferatu, this wouldn’t be happening...

Spike’s eyes grew wide as he took a sharp step back, letting the man fall and bumping into a frazzled Slayer.

“Spike! What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” Without tearing her eyes from Evan, Buffy grabbed the vampire by his coat and shoved him behind her to the other side of the corridor. She faced the young man with a flashlight in one hand and a dagger--aimed dangerously at his mid-section--in the other. Her eyes narrowed as she took in his countenance. This was definitely Evan Blakeford, the same man whose pictures were in the file Travers had given them, the same man she’d seen at the wharf, yet it wasn’t. There was something vastly different in his eyes; they lacked the arrogance and confidence she’d seen when he’d killed the Pelorak. This man didn’t look like he was high on power and dark magic.

At the young man’s frantic protests of innocence, “what do you mean, a baby? Who are you, what is he, and why are you following me?!”, Buffy couldn’t help but roll her eyes. Did these people think she was born yesterday? She was just about to sic Spike onto him when the sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the hallway.

“Shit, Pelorak.” The bleach blonde was the first to speak up; he grabbed the two others and pushed them into a room, following closely. The darkness swallowed them up, acting as an acceptable cover to keep them from the demons’ eyes.

When the danger had subsided--along with the heavy footsteps--Evan was once again unceremoniously jostled out into the corridor, landing in his same spot on the wall. His shoe made a squishing noise as he stepped in his earlier puddle, causing him to wince in disgust. He craned his neck to look down the hallway, where the purple demons had gone. “What... what were those?”

The vampire’s chuckle was humourless. “Sure, mate, play the dunce card and we’ll just fall for it.” He was just about to go into a ‘hit first, ask questions later’ mode of interrogation when an idea popped into his mind, one that would help them answer at least one major question. The Slayer was sure to throttle him later on, but it was a valid attempt at getting answers and he was just plain curious to see what her reaction would be. He peeled his duster off, handing it over to Buffy. His eyes met hers for a moment, pleading with her to trust him, before he turned back to the young ‘man‘.

Buffy had no idea what the bleached blonde had up his sleeve, but she was curious. If he thought he could get Evan to talk, it was worth a try. She was getting tired of his innocence shtick, anyway--that was just an attempt to confuse them and waste time. What she never expected, though, was for the vampire to turn up the charm. But when she thought about it, what woman couldn’t resist his advances?

Their captive gulped as Spike faced him, eyes hooded and tongue tucked between his teeth. The blonde was liquid sex as he prowled across the few feet separating him, in his sinfully tight black jeans and even tighter black tee. A pale, sinuous, arm reached for Evan, calloused fingers gently tracing a cold line down his jaw. The vampire’s body was soon pressed against his, more so than before as they were touching intimately this time, and Evan could feel its taut musculature, coiled like a spring, ready to go off at a moment’s notice. He should have been on his guard, should have remembered the surprise in its eyes the first time it had felt his reaction, but his mind had gone numb. His eyes closed as a strong hand cradled the far side of his neck, pulling his head back, baring him for its cool breath. “I know what it’s like,” it whispered seductively, “to have a secret, Evan.”

Buffy was utterly speechless at the sight before her. It was wrong. No, wronger than wrong, actually. However, she couldn’t help but feel her breath shorten, her nerves tingle at the sight before her. Her lover had another man--a woman disguised as a man, Buffy!--pressed up against a wall in the most erotic scene she’d ever witnessed. If her lips weren’t so darned dry--all her moisture seemed to have headed south--she’d try to speak up. Really, she would.

“To hide behind a veil, always having to pretend...” The Slayer’s arousal filled his senses and Spike felt himself stiffen. And although it was conducive to his plan, being hard while pressed against another man’s body wasn’t exactly his cuppa--especially when he was no longer sure what gender was hiding beneath the male exterior. Way back when, he would have had his victim’s throat torn out before things could get awkward; women weren‘t the only ones weakened by his guile--he‘d lured his fair share of men, too. But there was a point to this seduction--one that didn‘t include draining the man dry--and it was time to get back on track. And that meant no more thoughts of Buffy and why on earth this image made her so wet...

The demon’s words, spoken softly against the shell of his ear, were hypnotizing but true. He was tired of hiding his true self, of putting on a false image to the world. All it had amounted to was an ulcer and a sorry excuse for a sex life, cowering beneath Mother’s shadow. Hell, tonight was the night that would earn him his freedom; what did it matter if he jumped the gun by a few minutes?

Spike felt Evan’s body lean into his just before a whisper of breath tickled his ear. As the young man’s words registered, “and you’re my ’out of the closet’ present, are you?”, the vampire felt a warm hand settle on his hip and soft lips press against the skin of his neck.

That was the answer he was looking for. Fighting the urge to punch the young man--he had, after all hit on him first--the vampire took a stiff step back, wiping away at the remnants of the kiss, and turned to the Slayer. “Your seers were wrong, pet. He’s not a woman.”

The two stared at him blankly, their minds hazy with lust. Buffy was still trying to get past the ’a guy kissed Spike and I thought it was sexy’ realisation as she looked from one man to the other. And then it hit her, what the vampire had worked out: Evan wasn’t female...

She turned to the vampire and admonished him quietly, her arms crossed over her chest in a patented pissed-off Slayer pose. “That was mean, Spike. I mean, beyond mean--it was downright cruel. How could you play with someone’s emotions like that?!” What she was about to say next was a low blow, but she figured he deserved it. “I guess that having been someone else’s laughing stock doesn’t stop you from doing it to others, does it?”

Ok, he knew he deserved some of her vitriol, but not all of it; and certainly not that last bit. “How the hell else were we supposed to suss out if he was a woman? Ask him politely?!” Adopting a very posh Giles-like accent, he continued. “Excuse me, evil powerful warlock, but we’re in an awful tricky spot here--you wouldn’t perchance be a woman, would you?” Pulling his duster on in sharp, angry motions, he snarled. “Don’t rightly think it would have gone down well, Slayer.”

The argument ended instantly when the echo of an angry voice made its way down the hallway to their ears. It was Evan’s voice.

Two sets of narrowed eyes turned to the young man and before he knew it he was pressed against the wall--again. Gauging by all the dirt and mould clinging to the stone, his dry cleaning bill was going to be a bitch. The questions came at him fast and furious, almost too much for him to take in at once.

The young man shook visibly; he seemed just this far from hysteria. “Look, I truly have no idea what you’re talking about. My name is Evan Blakeford--although you seem to know that already, somehow; I’m a mortgage underwriter at Friedman, Morris & Thorpe. I don’t know anything about babies or purple... whatever those were, I swear!”

Spike stared at the young man blankly for a moment before turning to Buffy; Evan’s huff of indignity went unanswered, as if he wasn‘t present. “Pet, did those seers of yours come and tell you straight out that he was a woman?”

“Well, no, but they had a witch--not a warlock--as the bad guy in their play. That’s what was most important, because she’d been dressed as a man, but took the robe off and was a woman. I assumed that meant he was a woman; I never really thought about the other option...”

There was no way anyone could have tapped in to his plans, was there? As though he hadn’t enough on his plate already with everything going on. Damn it! Evan’s shrill voice finally got their attention. “... and ‘he’s’ right here in the room with you, so stop talking about me like I’m not here. And how the hell do you know who I am and what I’m doing here?” How would they know? He hadn’t even told Camille about it.

With a flick of her hair and a roll of her eyes that told him this wasn’t nouveau jeu for her, Buffy answered him. “Oh, it’s prophesied, just like every other time an idiot like you kidnaps a baby he plans on sacrificing so that worlds can bleed together.” At the incredulous look on his face--damn, but this guy was good, he looked genuinely surprised--she let out a sharp laugh. “What, do you think the good guys are stupid just because we’re nice?”

The Slayer almost screamed as he once again began to protest his innocence. This was going nowhere--how the hell were they supposed to get anything done sitting here playing ‘he said, she said’? “This is so stupid.” Grabbing Evan none too gently by the coat sleeve, she began pulling him down the hallway towards the sound of his voice--and gee but didn’t that sound weird? “Why don’t we just go and see for ourselves who Evan #2 is?”

As he was being dragged behind them like a rag doll, Evan wondered at his captors’ ability to bicker. It was like nothing he’d ever seen, a constant back-and-forth that seemed as natural to them as breathing. Well, for one of them, anyway. His ears perked up as soon as they fell back to the topic of, well, his leanings.

Buffy groaned. He’s never going to let this one go, is he? “And how was I supposed to know they meant he was gay?!”

“It’s not a matter of what you should have sussed out on your lonesome, love, it’s what you should have told the witch and the watcher--or me, even. I’m sure one of us could have figured it out. Now that I think of it, I can’t believe we actually bought it--a bleedin’ woman... Christ’s sake...” The vampire paused in his ranting, sniffed, and turned back to the other man. His eyes lowered to the knapsack before returning to Evan’s. “Wouldn’t happen to have a change of pants, in there, do you? You reek.”

A snarky retort was on the young man’s lips when the woman cut them both off with a dirty stare. Almost as bad as mum, these two.

When their path led them to a small room containing a table, chairs and an oven, Buffy knew they were on the right track. Gingerly opening the creaky door, she motioned to the darkness beyond it. “This way.”

Spike peered over her shoulder at the narrow staircase. “How do you know it’s this way? Could’ve been through that other door.”

“You know, just for once I’d like you to go along with me, no questions asked. Really, is that too much to ask for?” She waited patiently for the vampire’s ‘sorry, pet’ before explaining. “This is where I went in my dream. At the bottom of the stairs there’s a huge room with a vaulted ceiling. That‘s where I met the Cirque du Soleil wannabes, so I‘m guessing that‘s where Evan... well, the other Evan‘s gonna be. The room‘s perfect for all kinds of portally badness.”

As far as deja vus went, she could have missed out on this one and been happy. The air in the corridor was damp and musty, the stone just as slippery. A soft light shone from the room, illuminating the small parcel of floor at the base of the stairs. The parting point from her dream, however, was the amount of noise to be heard.

The other Evan, the one not sandwiched between her and Spike, was shouting orders, trying to be heard above the din of clashing weapons and a screaming baby. When her foot touched the bottom step, she quickly poked her head through the doorway, trying to amass as much information as possible from a two-second peek.

It could have been worse, really it could have. The other Evan stood on a platform in the middle of the room with Stewie The Wanker at his side and the baby off to their right, in a car seat. And although two dozen Pelorak were nothing to sneeze at, it was a lot better than what she’d witnessed at the docks--go Travers! But it would still be one hell of a job for Spike, even if she did get her hands on a few of them.

The Slayer quickly relayed what she’d seen to Spike, adding the layout of the room, which she remembered from her dream. Since everything else was dead on, she had to trust her instinct on that, too. She fully expected the vampire to mutter about needing ‘a bleedin’ miracle’, but Evan’s near outburst surprised Buffy. Struggling to shake loose from the iron-like grasp that held him, he whispered through clenched teeth. “You’re lying! I’m here--I can’t be in there, too! Let go of me! Let me see!”

The two blondes shared a confused look. Why would the young man waste his energy now? His gig was up, wasn’t it? Spike’s eyes were drawn to the sack that he held close to him. “Alright, then. But first we take a look at what you’ve got hidden in your bag.”

Before Evan had a chance to protest, the knapsack was torn from his grasp and opened. That small girl sure had a good arm on her.

The trio remained silent as a black jacket, a balaclava and a gun were pulled out. “Okay, so not what I was expecting...” Buffy looked up at Evan, eyebrows raised. “What the hell is this?”

Upset but still a bit defiant, the young man sneered. “A jacket, a balaclava and a gun. Question is, what do you see? A magic wand?” He looked first at Spike then at Buffy. ”Look, I don’t know what you two are, but you’re both off your bird. Now. Let. Me. Go.”

The Slayer stood her ground, leaning in until she and the young man were nose to nose. “Who. Are. You?”

“Evan. Blakeford.” He half expected them to shine a light in his eyes--this was getting ridiculous.

“Evan Blakeford is a psycho warlock, who is in there right now planning on ending the world. Once again: who are you?”

“For the hundredth time--my name is Evan Blakeford and I have no bleeding clue what you’re talking about. I’m not a warlock--I... I only played Dungeons and Dragons once, and I was elf. Is that what this is about? Is this some sort of game?”

Spike swallowed a laugh before pulling the Slayer off her victim. “Think he’s telling the truth, love. No one would openly admit to playing Dungeons and Dragons if they were making stuff up.”

The vampire shrugged, not being any closer to an answer than the two others. “What were you doing here with the weapon, junior?”

Evan, relieved that they were finally following a different path of interrogation, told them everything. About how his mother was overbearing, how he‘d spent years suffering psychological and physical abuse at her hands. That he’d finally had enough of her and decided to kill her--that’s what the gun was for. “And I was on my way to the community centre where she has her widows’ meetings when I noticed that I was stopped across from this place. Don’t know how I ended up here, but I saw her in the car park and followed her. When you two caught me I was trying to find my way through, to see where she’d gone...”

Buffy took a sharp step back, nearly losing her footing. “Nonono....” She was shaking her head, her lips pressed together firmly. “No, it couldn’t be. They--those seer guys--they couldn’t have been telling me... oh shit... we‘ve been following the wrong Blakeford...”

The answer dawned on Spike, like the proverbial light at the end of a tunnel. “Bloody fuckin’ hell--it’s his mother.”

Author’s Note: Bet you guys didn’t expect an update till, oh, this summer, eh? :) The ideas for this chapter and the next--the hardest ones to write to date--came to me just days after I posted the last chapter. Hopefully the next one will pop up sometime in the next two weeks. Life’s handed me a lemon (not going back to my old work for various stupid reasons--now I have to find a job pronto that pays as much as my old one. yuck.) and I’m trying to make lemonade... Hope you guys like--let me know what you think of the end; did you see it coming, or was it a surprise?

Chapter 40
Evan’s mouth opened and closed a few times before he was able to find his voice. “What the hell are you two talking about? What’s this about Mother?” This whole evening had become surreal. First there was the sudden change of plans, then these two show up, and now the sound of his own voice was coming from the adjoining room. Should’ve just stayed home and moped in the dark, putting this off, like every other night.
Inwardly, Buffy groaned; she knew they didn’t have the freedom to explain the ins and outs of the supernatural world to Evan. The more time they wasted dawdling, the closer Mama Blakeford got to success.
And that wasn’t an option.
Ok, she thought to herself, time for a crash course at the Buffy School of Sink or Swim. None too gently, the Slayer found a good grip on his shirt sleeve and shoved him towards the great hall’s entrance. Quietly, so as not to be heard, she muttered “Evan, welcome to your mother’s night job...”
The young man allowed himself to be jostled around. There was no way he could delude himself into thinking that he had a choice, anyway; he’d never met anyone--woman or man--who was as strong as this wisp of a girl.
Now, there are moments in life that remain forever imprinted in one’s mind. Some people remember the taste of their grandmother’s prize-winning blackberry pie, the smell of their father‘s garage, or even the tingle of a first kiss. For Evan Blakeford, it would be the cold terror that crept up his spine as he laid eyes on himself.
Well, it was him, but not really him. The other Evan--the one in the midst of a crowd of those purple whatevers--looked like him, and sounded like him, but there was something about his eyes that just wasn’t right. A wild look that, coupled with his frenetic movements, projected the quintessential mad scientist poster-boy look.
Evan pulled back, paler than ever, his breathing ragged. He turned to the two blondes, resenting the wry amusement with which they stared at him. Damn it but he wanted to sound angry, but he ended up sounding more like a frightened child. “How... how do you figure that’s my mother?!”
Well, he hadn’t fainted or shit his pants, Spike gave the poofter that much. Probably would have pissed himself if he’d have any left in ‘im, though. Just as he was about to launch into a rant about how much personal knowledge one would need to pull off such a powerful glamour spell, a cold, throaty voice interrupted him.
“Evan?” Amused, eerily seductive, yet rife with age and decay, the sound of that one word froze all three peeping toms. Evan’s heart caught in his throat; the malicious glee in the voice chilled him through to his soul. It was no longer the sound of his own voice. In any other circumstance that would have comforted him, but the realisation that it really was Mother in that hall all magicked up, disturbed him more than anything.
A flurry of options flit through the young man’s mind as the seconds ticked by. He had to think fast; as impatient as Mother usually was, he was certain that she would be doubly so in her present condition. His first instinct was to run, plain and simple--just let his legs carry him as fast as they could away from this nightmare. Would the two blondes stop him? No. He firmly believed that even as crazy as they seemed, they were on the straight and narrow. They’d probably just shake their heads, knowing for sure that he was the wanker they thought him to be.
His mother, on the other hand, might not be so lenient. If she didn’t send those purple demons after him, she’d probably turn him into a toad or summon a lightening bolt and fry him on the spot. And even if he did manage to run away, he sure as hell couldn’t go home to hide. So, running away? Not a smart move.
A second option would be to face her, gun in hand, and try to shoot her. Seeing that he knew fuck all about how to work a gun, his chances of figuring out the safety, aiming and firing before something really bad happened to him would be in the ‘Pauly-Shore-wins-an-Oscar‘ league. The odds just weren’t reassuring.
Or, he could play stupid. Something he‘d spent a lifetime perfecting.
Precious seconds ticked away as he struggled through his options. By the time his mother spoke up again, his mind was made.
“Evan, I know you’re there, I can smell your fear...”
No, there would be no more running away. It no longer mattered to Evan if his mother was an overbearing bitch or a psychotic hag. He had to face her once and for all.
Pushing himself away from the wall he headed towards the hall’s entrance, pointedly ignoring the hushed “Hey! Where the hell are you... get back over here!” that the girl tossed his way. However, he allowed his gaze to lock with the vampire’s. Strangely enough, the bleached hottie didn’t try to stop him--he raised an eyebrow, nodded in what seemed like respect, and even held his partner back.
“Hold on, Slayer. Let’s see what Junior’s got up his sleeve...” Although he hadn’t mentioned it, Spike had noticed that Mother Blakeford hadn’t made an allusion to either himself or Buffy. It had been ‘Evan, I know you’re there.’ Not a ‘who is that with you’, or an ‘I can smell your friends, too’. If the young man could keep her occupied, it might allow him and Buffy to get the job done after all.
“H..hello, mum.” He really did wish that she’d switch back to her regular semblance; as little as he enjoyed laying eyes on his mother, it was worse speaking to a deranged copy of himself. There was an awkward pause, with Evan and his mother simply staring, each waiting for the other to speak up. When it was obvious that she waiting for a reason for his presence, he cleared his throat. “Um, well, I was going to water the plants--just like you asked--but, um... I couldn’t find the watering can.” He let out a nervous laugh, wringing his hands and rocking on the spot, just like a six year-old who‘d been caught playing baseball indoors. “Thought I’d left it on the windowsill, but the darned thing just wasn’t there. So I figured I’d come by, see how the meeting was going--you know, meet some of your friends” he waved at the Pelorak gathered around the platform “and see if you knew where it is.”
Back in the stairway, Buffy and Spike gaped at each other. The young man’s story was the absolute worst cover-up and should no doubt have gotten him fried to a crisp on the spot. However, it was so stupid that it had left the witch confused, thus buying them all a little more time. This third person changed their battle strategy which had been, up to the last minute, create a fray, jump in said fray, and slash their way to victory.
But now they had a normal everyday guy to look after, someone who didn’t know a roundhouse from an uppercut, and who certainly wouldn’t be able to hold his own in a fight against a roomful of Pelorak. Evan’s presence was at once a boon and an impediment to their mission.
Evan may have been scared shitless, but the confused look that passed among the Pelorak didn’t escape him. Guess they didn’t expect a bloke to sound like an old woman. Well, it could also have been that they were seeing two of him.
The witch’s voice cut through the room, shaking those who were present from their stupor. She motioned towards a Pelorak who stood near the edge of the dais, calling out to it. “You--take him and tie him up. It will please me to no end to witness his gruesome death at the hands of the first beasts that come through.” When the demon didn’t move, choosing instead to remain on the spot staring at her curiously, the old woman lifted her hand and, palm outward, shot forth a ball of fire.
The acoustics of the room amplified the sound of the spell, resulting in a thundering boom that shook the ground. Evan jumped at the sound and nearly lost what was left of his lunch at the sight of the mutilated demon that lay in his line of sight. Trying to keep his eyes anywhere but on the smoking corpse, he unwittingly turned his attention back to the dais.
Something strange was happening to his mother. She seemed to be shimmering, almost fading in and out of sight. Her short chestnut hair faded to a dull grey mane, the proud, straight body curled onto itself and the youthful mask that she’d borrowed withered and became sallow. Not only did the woman on the platform no longer look like her son, she lost, in her transformation, her own features.
She looks, thought Evan, like... like...

***
“Baba Yaga...”
“Huh?!” Buffy turned to Spike, eyes narrowed. “Did she cast some kind of spell or something, because it sounds like you’re speaking in tongues...”
The vampire couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “Haven’t you ever watched A&E on Saturday afternoons? She’s a witch in Russian folklore--one of the real scary ones, not like those Disney wannabes...”
“Hey! Maleficent was real frickin’ scary to this 8 year old!”
Spike snorted in response, but his retort was pre-empted.
“Look, whatever, we don’t have time to argue about cartoon witches when we’ve got the real thing next door. As ingenious as this playing dumb idea is, it’s only going to float for a certain time before Mother gets tired of it.” The Slayer’s quick words were a whisper, almost too quiet for even the vampire’s ears.
Spike nodded in assent. Yeah, it was action time, but he was damned (well, even more damned) if he was going to let Buffy risk her life by taking on a roomful of Pelorak on her own. “Alright, then” he said, readjusting the duster back onto his shoulders. “This might be the best opportunity we have. She’ll be off her game, what with her son’s appearance and dissention in the ranks. Pelorak are a patriarchal society; most of the buggers aren’t going to want to be led by a woman. We should be able to use that to our advantage. Now, I’ll go in first and catch her attention--good looking bloke like me shouldn’t have a problem” he puffed out his chest and winked at her. “Once I have her full attention, hopefully far away from the doorway, you sneak in and get the baby to safety.”
“Oh, no you don’t!” Her emotions ran from incensed, to worried, to angry in the blink of an eye. She poked her finger into his chest, punctuating her words. “You don’t get to pull that macho bullshit with me, mister. Either we both go in, or we both stay here.”
The vampire sighed, and took her hands in his. Logic had never worked well with the Slayer--Rupes would no doubt attest to that--but it was worth a try. “Buffy, if the two of us go in there at once, we’ll both be killed. She’s too strong and we’ve no defence against her magic. All we have left are our wits. It’s the only way we’ll get the baby out of danger. And don‘t worry about me; I‘ve got my bases covered.”
Something about her lover’s strong grip felt different to Buffy. When she looked at their clasped hands she noticed, once again, the glint of the band on his ring finger.
“It’s the ring, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, the watcher bird gave it to me. I’m pretty much invincible while I’m wearin’ it--or so she says.” He kept his gaze fixed on the gold band as if he expected it to do something spectacular. When his statement went unanswered he looked up and found the Slayer grinning widely at him. His face scrunched in confusion. “What?!”
“You’re, like, a superhero now. William the Bloody, former scourge of Europe, now invincible and using his powers for the good of humanity. It’s just... wow.”
“Oi! You take that back!” The vampire couldn’t help but smile, though. The Slayer’s playful ribbing was a good sign that she had most likely resigned herself to agreeing to his plan.
Every fibre of Buffy’s being was telling her that this was a bad idea, that letting Spike go in there alone was going to end badly. But there was the issue of trust, a sharp thorn in their relationship, that she forced herself to remember and--especially--respect. Spike was more than capable of taking care of himself and the ring was added insurance; if he let his ego run wild, as he surely would, it could help just long enough for her to run in and help him knock some heads.
“Bein’ pretty quiet, there, Slayer.” Spike’s hushed words pulled her from her musings. She brought her hand up to cup the side of his face and smiled. “Just thinking about how much ass you’ll kick when you get in there...”
That must have been the right thing to say, because the next thing she knew she was pressed up against the damp wall, the vampire’s cool lips over hers. The embrace was passionate, frenzied and much too short for either of their liking.
“God, Buffy.” The emotion in the vampire’s voice surprised even himself. It sounded choked and rough, and he wasn’t sure it would have sounded much different had he not been forced to whisper. “I love you so much.”
Yeah, the young woman thought, that was *exactly* the right thing to say. “I love you too, Spike. And I believe in you. Now get your ass in there before the baby’s old enough to ask for the car keys...”