There was an inhuman howl that rent the air and Buffy spun around, eyes blindly searching the darkness behind her. She saw nothing but knew, without a doubt, that whatever it was that had made that scream of anguish would be coming after her. She didn't know why or how she knew, but it was truth.

So close to safety. She had to keep moving. Dropping the shovel to ease her flight, Buffy gathered up her skirt in both hands, cursed the odd shoes she was wearing - small boots of some kind that pinched her toes unmercifully - and raced toward the welcoming beacon of her home.

Again that vicious snarl tore into the night, but this time there was less anguish and more unadulterated rage. Pure and hot it hung heavy on the air. Buffy's heart skipped a beat even as her steps sped. Almost there, almost there. It became her mantra as she ran.

Finally, blessedly, she made it to safety and slid the bolt home on the back door of the house. Chest heaving, breathing labored, she leaned against it weakly. She was safe. The doorway was a barrier to this creature that hunted her. Somehow she knew that. It calmed her fear and straightened her spine.

Pulling herself together, Buffy walked calmly down the long hallway, passing the kitchen on her right, heading toward the living room. She came to an abrupt halt when she passed in front of a mirror hanging on the wall. Staring at her reflection, Buffy was stunned. This wasn't…her mind was telling her…she didn't remember the face that was reflected back at her. It was only familiar in the vaguest of senses and she couldn't figure out where she'd seen it before. It wasn't her face; that much was sure.

Miranda.

The name floated into her brain. It seemed right somehow. The woman she was looking at, the woman that was standing where her reflection should be was named Miranda.

Buffy turned away in a daze of confusion and continued down the hall, accepting the absurdity of everything without question. She slipped into the water room behind the stairs, wanting to clean the dirt and grit from her hands. It wasn't proper for a lady to have such deplorable hands. Cleanliness was so very, very important.

Frowning at the archaic thoughts, Buffy poured water into a ceramic pot on the small counter and dipped her hands in. Grabbing a coarse and unpleasant block of what she believed was soap, she scrubbed and scrubbed until her hands were finally clean.

Drying her hands on a hanging towel, she made her way to the living room. As if nothing unusual had happened, as if she hadn't just fled from some unknown evil stalking her, she picked up her embroidery ring. Without conscious thought, her hand started to work the needle through delicate fabric and dainty flowers appeared as she stitched.

It was so surreal, so natural but not, as if she was walking through memories that weren't hers, but were. Buffy didn't question it; she just did it. She was stuck. Knowing something wasn't right, knowing she was misplaced somehow but completely unable to do anything about it, she just acted out the scene.

There was no warning. No prickly sense of impending doom. One minute she was sitting on a settee, calmly stitching, the next she had leapt to her feet when the large picture window in the living room exploded inwards, tinkling glass shattering and flying everywhere.

Terror clutched at her throat as she stared in horror and confusion at the creature that had burst through the window. It was a vampire in full game face, snarling and vicious and completely intent on his quarry. There was recognition, a painful and shocking recognition. Spike. The vampire was Spike.

"H-how?" The voice wasn't hers, neither were the words, but she spoke them. "Y-you should not be able…you were not invited. Devil's spawn. What evil is this that you can come here into my home?"

The vampire tilted his head and stalked closer. Predator hunted prey. "Foolish woman. In this house, I need no invitation. Your time has come, Miranda. Plans have changed. Your own actions dictate the course I take. It could have been…no. I shall not give thought to roads not traveled. You will die."

He was on her instantly, fangs descending with evil intent toward her throat. Her struggles were as ineffective as a moth's in a spider's web. Soon she felt the stabbing pain, felt her blood well and drain from her neck. The monster was not gentle. Ripping at her throat, flesh tore and mangled under his sharp incisors.

It was beyond pain, beyond torture. She was beyond fear.

Dying, she felt herself dying. He was draining her, and revulsion turned her stomach when she heard his thirsty drinking. He was in ecstasy, a painful yet naked yearning. It disgusted her, even as she died. Still there was no fear, only rage. Fury at this demon, this child of Satan, this thing. This was not supposed to be the way it happened. She was not to be food for the dark one. It could not be.

It was.

The last thought she had before breathing her last was an oath. He would pay. Upon her last dying breath, she swore the vampire would pay the ultimate price. And demons will tremble at her wrath.

Opening her eyes to the dark ceiling above her, she lay there, getting her bearings. He wasn't beside her; she could sense it. When she smelled the burning tobacco on the air, she knew he had gone into the living area to smoke.

Slipping silently from the bed, she padded on bare feet to the bag in the corner. Power and energy coursed through her veins. Reaching into the duffle bag without looking, her hand closed on the weapon she needed. Standing, hiding her arm behind her back, she went in search for Spike.

He was standing at the large bay window in the room, his back to her. She smiled to herself. This would be easier than she had thought. Moving quietly, she walked up behind him, her hand tightening on the weapon behind her.

A whisper of sound had Spike spinning, ready to throw on his game face if danger threatened. He breathed a quick sigh of relief when he saw Buffy standing there, moonlight from the window caressing her skin like glowing silk. He smiled.

"Startled me, pet. What are you doing…"

His words trailed off when he looked into her eyes. Her large brown eyes.

"What the bloody-"

"Abomination." It was Buffy's voice, but it was not Buffy. "Devil's spawn. You will finally pay. Now is the time for you to feel my wrath."

Her hand shot out, stake moving towards his heart. Spike was too shocked to do anything to defend himself.

As he watched in surprised horror, knowing he was going to die but unable to stop it, something happened. A glowing blue orb of light flared between him and the girl in front of him. It slammed into her and sent her flying, tossing her several feet away.

Her body collided forcefully with the door to the suite and she seemed to hang there for a second, confusion and disbelief in deranged brown eyes - eyes that should be tawny and light and pure - before she dropped, unconscious, to the floor.

Reaction to what he just witnessed had his chest heaving in breaths he didn't need. His eyes were wide in fear and surprise as he crossed the room to where Buffy lay, knocked out, in a heap by the door. Dread pooled in the pit of his stomach when he realized that his worst dreams had just been realized.

A flash of color caught his eye and he stood there, staring at the door, as blood red letters appeared before him. It was a message for him and he didn't like what it was telling him. Staring at it with a harsh statement of absolute determination, he read what was being written.

"You will die, Vampire. You and your whore will taste my fury. I'm coming for you both."

Bending down, not taking his eyes away from the door, Spike lifted Buffy and cradled her to his chest. Whatever had taken over her body had been cast out. He was sure of that. Just as sure as he was that it wasn't a ghost. Rage not at the threat to him, but at the threat to Buffy, brought the demon inside him forward and he snarled low in his throat in warning.

"You don't need to come for us, bitch, because I'm coming for you. And your fury is nothing compared to what I'm gonna do to you if you harm a hair on this girl's head."

The words faded under his gaze but still he stood for long minutes, until he was sure that that thing was gone. Shaking off his visage, he glanced down at Buffy, tenderness and fierce protective caring in his eyes. He strode over to the phone with her in his arms and sat down in the chair next to it.

Not willing to let go of her yet, he shifted her slightly to free his arm before grabbing up the phone and dialing. When he heard the person on the other end pick up and mumble a sleepy, "Hello?" he spoke in a serious and intense voice.

"Giles, we have a problem."

"S-spike? Do you have any idea what time it is?"

Spike ignored the question. "It's in the house, Rupert. A haunt. And it's not happy about my presence."

Still foggy from sleep, Giles hadn't quite caught on to the meaning behind the vampire's somber words. "Yes, well, so few of us are."

"Watcher, listen to me! Now's not the time for petty slights. It's a haunt and it's pissed. And it took over Buffy's body to try to kill me."

"Wh-what? A haunt? Are you sure?" Giles had popped up in bed and grabbed his glasses off the end table next to the bed.

"Seein' as I had a front row seat to my attempted dustin', yeah, I'm sure. We need you here. As soon as possible. And you might want to bring Red, we could use her talents as well."

"Yes, of course. We'll come right away. Spike, can you get out of the house until we get there? It would be best if you could leave until we arrive."

"Doubtful. I don't know the bleedin' area, and the sun will be up soon. I'd rather not do the haunt any favors by getting dusty searchin' for a safe house."

"Good point. Where is Buffy now?"

"Right here, unconscious. And that leads me to the next problem. There's somethin' else here, Giles. I'm not sure what. Could be another haunt, could be somethin' completely different. It…well, it stopped the haunt from killin' me, but I have no idea why or even if it could do it again."

Giles sighed deeply at the news. "Oh for the days when you were our biggest foe. Listen, Spike, haunts can be particularly unpleasant and they're not concerned with causing trouble only at night. Be careful. Be very careful. We'll be there as soon as we can."

"Right then. Be quick about it."

Spike hung up the phone and leaned back in the chair, wrapping his arms around Buffy. He would need to wake her up soon and explain, but he wanted to hold her for a second first. He brushed a strand of hair off her forehead and stared down at her face. Bathed in moonlight, she was ephemeral in her beauty.

Nothing, certainly not some dead bint bearing a grudge, was going to threaten her and continue to exist. No how, no way. Pressing a kiss to her forehead, he sat and thought about their next move.

Regaining consciousness with a nifty, mind-shattering headache for the second time in the same night wasn't exactly in the norm, even for the Slayer, whose life was way beyond anything remotely resembling `the norm' to begin with. With complete disregard to the constraints of normalcy, however, Buffy's aching head and body dragged her mind out of the dark recesses of numb oblivion once again and she slowly became aware of her surroundings, even before she cracked open her eyes and peered around.

She knew without looking, for example, that unlike the incident earlier, she wasn't lying on the icy, tiled floor in the bathroom. She was being held in strong, familiar arms, pressing into a hard, muscled chest. Essentially snuggled up on Spike's lap. She also knew where she was, in a general sense anyway. The scent of lavender was familiar; she'd noticed it when she first entered the Dalton Suite hours ago. Buffy didn't know…nor did she particularly care…if she was in the bedroom or living area. Her head hurt badly and her body felt too bruised to bother with wondering.

She was plagued by memories of a dream that had seemed all too real and tormented by a reality that seemed anything but real. In the dream she'd had her throat viciously ripped out by a monster bearing the countenance of the vampire she had so recently pledged her love for. Reality was worse. She had watched from inside herself as she stalked Spike and tried to stake him, completely helpless to prevent it from happening. Then, to add to the wonder that was her wicked fun `vacation', something else - something less than pleasant - blasted her across the room. All in all, Buffy wasn't having the best time.

She lay there, feeling confused and guilty and a little scared, and just tried to get her head to stop spinning.

Spike, who had been unable to let go of her after calling Giles, knew the minute she had started to regain consciousness but kept silent, offering nothing but the support of his embrace. Hearing her heartbeat quicken and breathing alter slightly, he could tell she was awake, if not completely aware. She'd been...not possessed really...inhabited...and she'd want answers eventually. Spike had very few to give her.

One of the differences between the vampire and the Slayer was simply that where Buffy would demand reasons and understanding, Spike simply wanted retribution. He couldn't care less why the haunt was targeting them. He couldn't care less about identifying what that thing was that saved him. He wanted payback. He wanted Buffy safe. Not necessarily in that order.

When she finally felt coherent enough to attempt speech, her voice came out in a dry, ragged whisper of sound.

"So," she murmured, keeping her eyes closed for the time being, "I'm thinking either we need to revisit the issue of you working on that `ghosts can't hurt you' theory…or really not ghosts we're dealing with."

"Not ghosts," he told her with a resigned sigh. He would have preferred to slide into the subject slowly but he should have known she'd be straight to business. Perhaps he was being a bit over protective, but he was concerned about that last smack to the head she had taken, and he wanted to make sure she was okay before she hopped back into that cavalry saddle of hers. "How's the noggin', pet?"

Snorting in sarcastic amusement was out of the question with as much pain she was in, so she settled for cracking her eyes open and glaring at him balefully. "Attached. If they're not ghosts, what are they?"

"At least one of them is a haunt. Don't know `bout the other, the one that introduced you to the door in flyin' fashion." Buffy rolled her eyes at his colorful commentary and a corner of Spike's mouth quirked in response before he continued. "Short of divine intervention, which I'm thinkin' bloody unlikely, your guess is as good as mine. Nothin's scrambled in there, is it? You're okay?"

"Not ghosts. A haunt. Kind of a fine line there, isn't it? Like the nonexistent kind?"

"Not really, luv. More than just semantics, trust me. How bad are you hurtin'?"

It was an odd cadence of conversation, but he couldn't be dissuaded from his concern for her. Ever since she had come back - had been brought back from the dead - his entire existence revolved around guaranteeing that she stayed back. Well, that and that nothing happened to Nibblet, or any of the Scoobies for that matter. Unfortunately, she wasn't one for easy dissuasion, either.

"Damn it, Spike!" There was irritation and frustration in her voice. "Let me worry about my head. I'm fine, okay? It's sore, but I'll live. Which is more than I can say for you if you don't tell me about the damn haunt."

As soon as she said it, she regretted it. She wanted to call the words back, swallow them whole, but it doesn't work like that. For all the times she'd threatened to stake him - empty threats and posturing, but a habit - this was the first time she felt guilty about it. Even though she was no more serious now than she had been in the past, the events earlier had changed the rules, altered their relationship, even though it hadn't been her, really, that had been responsible.

Buffy's wide-eyed and guilty expression answered any questions he might have had about just how much she would remember while the haunt had been in control of her. She remembered almost staking him. If it were under any other circumstances, he would have been greatly amused by the amazingly accurate `landed fish' look she had going on. As it was, he was too bothered by the idea that the careless banter and empty threats between them that he enjoyed so much had been tainted by the malicious entity in the house.

No way he was going to let a dead bint with an attitude problem have that much influence on the relationship he had with Buffy.

Burying his concern behind a sardonic sneer, he raised a brow and grinned at her. "Haven't been able to off me in the past, pet. Hell, you even had some assistance from our non-living annoyance du jour, and yet here I sit. Still undead and lovin' it. So you'll have to forgive me if your ever-amusin', if oft repeated, threat and swagger routine doesn't exactly leave me tremblin' in my knickers. Now, once more for the slow learners, how do you feel?"

To say she was surprised by his nonchalant dismissal of what had happened would have been an understatement. No. That's not quite right. Spike had a tendency to be very dismissive of things related to his own well being, it was only when it came to things that could put a crimp in her or her family's aliveness that he dropped the sarcasm and derision and got straight to business. It was one of the things she loved about him. It still surprised her that he was so…forgiving…about almost getting staked. By her. More or less.

She was left feeling oddly put in her place, like he had just given her a `take care of yourself before you take care of business' lecture. But strangely enough, she was also relieved. Things were still okay between them. Haunt or no haunt, things were still `same old, same old' between her and the vampire she loved to tease and taunt. That was good. As long as she didn't think about that dream she had, things were good.

She tried to wiggle out of his grip, he held her firm. She could have used her Slayer strength if she felt like it - she didn't. Finally, she just sighed dramatically and rolled her eyes again, playing along with the fiend that cared so much about her. "I'm a little sore, and can't say that ghostly…or, er, haunt possession is tops on my list of things to try ever again, but super healing powers should have me good to go in no time at all."

He just smirked at her, pleased that she had given in so quickly, and pressed a quick kiss to her forehead before letting her finally wriggle away from his embrace.

Sitting next to him, a much better position for focusing on the matter at hand, she said, "Okay. Lets leave the unknown knock-Buffy-across-the-room thing out of it for now; we'll deal with that later. Haunt versus ghost. Give me the skinny. Or…whatever you give a person that's all about the information. Spill it. What do you know?"

"Told you before about ghosts, haunts are different. Both dead people - or what's left of dead people - but where ghosts are harmless and pathetic, haunts aren't. They're nasty buggers, often with right big chips on their shoulders about some such rot that happened when they were alive." He paused and sighed, trying to figure the best way to describe the difference.

"See, pet, most ghosts don't even realize they've become members of the see-thru club. Those that do are too busy trying to find a way to move on to cause harm, they try to interact with the livin' world and all manner of interestin' things can happen - like the mind tricks and stuff I told you `bout. They're perfectly harmless, sometimes even playful - if more than a little annoyin'."

"Playful, right. Doubt many of the people they `play' with would see it that way, but okay. And haunts? Not big on the play, I'm guessing."

"Not hardly. Basic difference between the two, haunts know they're dead. They know it and they're mightily pissed off. They don't want to move on. They want to punish the livin' for their…condition. Or, in this case, apparently, the unlivin'. And they can. Don't really know why they're able to do what they do, but you've seen a small piece of it."

"So, they're like…what? Poltergeists with purpose?"

Spike chuckled despite the seriousness of the situation. "Yeah. I s'pose you could say that. A not so pleasant purpose, but yeah. And they're powerful. Right nasty to deal with, lemme tell you. Anger management issues and what not. Don't rightly know why this one's all hot and bothered over little ol' me, but I seem to be the focus of its fury."

"And ya know? Surprisingly easy to imagine you could bother the dead just as effortlessly as you bother the living."

She was teasing him. Good sign. He liked that.

"Hey now! No pickin' on the vampire, thank you very much! Bint's bearing a grudge against yours truly and I've no idea why."

Buffy stared off into space for a minute, trying to decide if she should tell him about her dream. She didn't really want to think about it. It had been horrible. But if she was right, and it wasn't so much a dream as it was a view into the past, than she had the answer to why. He deserved knowing.

"I might know why. I think she was killed by a vampire."

Raising a brow, he turned his head to stare into her serious eyes. That was not good news. "Bloody hell. Do I want to know how you know that, pet?"

"Probably not, but you need to. I had a dream, except I don't think it was just a dream. And, ya know…Slayer dreams - big on symbolism, small on warm fuzziness. This one was particularly not happy. I was in this house, downstairs in fact, sitting in the front room. A vampire crashed through the window and killed me, except it wasn't me. I think it was a woman named Miranda, who, thanks to the wonders of the supernatural and some serious rage issues, is currently working the haunt gig in this house."

She could have stopped there. She almost did. Just thinking about the rest, the true horror of her experience, sent wave after wave of nausea rolling over her. In the end, it was the desire to get it out, to tell the one person who would really understand, that kept her talking. "I felt him bite me, like I was part of her. He ripped at my throat; drained me."

Buffy had no idea that shudders were wracking her slight frame, making her tremble. The viscous memories, the pain, the sounds of her flesh tearing under sharp teeth, the smell of her blood flowing freely out of the wounds, all had her struggling with her composure. Still, she spoke. "When I woke up, I watched from inside myself, saw me…her…walking up behind you with a stake in my hand. I knew what she was going to do. I couldn't stop her. I felt her rage, her hatred of you, and all I could do was watch. She was…happy…about the idea of staking you. She felt justified and redeemed. It was sick. It was awful. And then she…well, you know. Spike, there's something else. The vampire that crashed through the window…it was you I saw in my dream. You killed me - her."

She was staring at her clasped hands. There was no way she could meet his eyes right now, not after that. Buffy knew she'd upset him, heard his quick intake of surprised breath. Considering that he didn't need to breathe, it told her just how much he was affected by what she said. She was completely unprepared, however, for his response.

His game face surged forward and he leapt to his feet, growling ferociously. "I BLOODY WELL DID NOT! That…bitch! I had nothin' to do with her death, Buffy, I swear it to you. I told you I'd never been here before. I meant it!"

His mind was spinning and he was struggling to keep a lock on his rage. It wasn't working. He wanted nothing more than to rip the room apart, tear and bash and smash everything that had anything to do with this place.

The haunt had gotten into Buffy's head, made her see things that weren't true, made her live through something that he never wanted her to experience - a first hand glimpse at the demon in him, the demon in all vampires. He saw the effect it had on her. It clawed at him, adding fuel to his fury. Not to mention the haunt almost staked him. Bad in and of itself, but inconsequential compared to Buffy's trauma. He was as enraged as he'd ever been.

The worst part, he had no idea how to convince her that he had nothing to do with this Miranda person's death. And he couldn't believe Buffy could go through what she went through and still look at him without staking him on her own.

Buffy watched him stalking cagily in front of her. Back and forth, back and forth, pacing angrily. He was full into the bumpy forehead and fang look, and it surprised her just how not bothered by it she was. This was the man she loved. Still loved. Sure, he was a vampire. He was even soulless. But he had an amazing capacity for love, and he understood kindness and loyalty. When he had fallen in love with her it had changed him forever, and now, well…maybe he wasn't like any other vampire that had ever existed before. He was still evil; just…he had redirected the evil towards other evil things. And good done by evil is still good.

Buffy herself was a shade of gray that was unique to humans, was it any wonder that she could accept Spike as a shade of gray unique to vampires? Was it any wonder she loved him?

"I know you didn't, Spike. I never thought you did. Well…okay, so I more than wigged to the tenth degree when I first saw you crashing through that window, but in my mind I knew it wasn't really you."

That got his attention. Gold eyes flashed with feral intensity and hope as his head snapped around and pinned her with questioning fire. "What? You knew? Not that I'm complainin', luv, but how? Sounds like the bint did a wicked head job on you."

She smiled at him and stood up, walking up to him and wrapping her arms around his waist. He was trembling, she could feel it. Whether in rage or fear of her response, she didn't know.

"She tried to. Apparently not wicked enough. I'm the Slayer. A Slayer that's been dead not just once, but twice. The mind games and parlor tricks are so not a good, but I'm not that easily manipulated by the unseen masses…or, well…mass. And, hello? Not just pretty, here. Smart, too. I know something that she obviously doesn't. William the Bloody didn't come to this country until the 1960's. Miranda was killed in this house in the late 1800's, if the clothing was any indication. I'm not even sure you were a vampire when she was killed. The dream was very not good, but I know it wasn't you. No more than it was really me that tried to stake you."

Wrapping his arms around her, he felt the band that had been painfully squeezing his chest let go. He shook off his game face and pulled her body into a tight embrace, resting his chin on the top of her head. "Well, well. Look at the little scholar, rememberin' her history and what all. I'm impressed, pet. Maybe you're not a natural blonde after all."

Pulling back just enough to give her arm room, she punched him in the stomach and grinned mischievously before pressing a quick kiss to his smiling mouth. "What can I say? Giles taught me well. I did all kinds of ultra fun research on the evil you back when you were actually a scary vampire." Sighing dramatically she said, "Of course, now you're hardly more threatening than a fuzzy little kitty cat."

Neat thing about vampires, they have that cool growl thing. Spike made good use of it, rumbling in her ear, heat and desire pooling between his legs, hardening him. Thoughts of ghosts and haunts faded away as their teasing stimulated him. It had always been like that for him. When it came to Buffy, their verbal sparring had always been the sweetest foreplay. "Better watch yourself, luv," he snarled playfully, "even the fuzziest kitty has claws. And I know just how and where to use mine."

So saying, he pressed his spread fingertips into her stomach, under her shirt, and flexed his hands. She felt the blunt edges of his nails pressing into her flesh and she gasped in surprise and hunger as he dragged them up to her breasts slowly and seductively. Cool fingers danced gently over her nipples and she swallowed convulsively, but he drew back and stepped away from her, the passion in his gaze being replaced by purpose.

"Better not start that just yet, as I don't fancy another of those soddin' Buffy impersonations the haunt is so bleedin' good at without bein' prepared a bit better than we are right now."

Practically panting at just the simple touch, Buffy shook her head to clear it, then grew grim as duty intruded on her moment. "Right. Hey, can the haunt do to you what she did to me? I think I should know if I'm going to turn around and find a pissed off you-looking haunt with a yen for making you dusty. She could have you stake yourself - and I have no intention of taking you home in a baggy."

"Your concern is touchin', but no. Vampires are immune. She can't get into my head. It's a soul thing, I think. How haunts make a connection. They don't seem to be able to affect creatures without souls. Not like that, anyway. Good thing, too, as I'm not the only one she's after. According to the thoughtful head's up she provided, she's got her sights set on both of us now."

When she questioned him, Spike told her about the message on the door. Then rolled his eyes when she was more upset at being called a whore than being targeted by the haunt.

"Oh, this bitch is so gonna pay. She has the nerve to call me a whore? Don't think so. It's not my fault she was all alive and stuff in the Victorian prudish age of high collars and long dresses. Not like she hasn't been around for the changing times. Well into a new millennium here, buy a clue. People my age have sex - rings and ceremonies not withstanding. It's not a bad. Sure, the vampire thing is a bit unusual…but still. I am in no way a whore."

"Of course you're not, luv, but I think you're missing the point."

"I really don't think I am, Spike. Got the whole `she's coming for us' bit just fine. Let her. I can take her. And now, she's gonna get taken and get payback. I'm nobody's whore."

"Actually, Buffy, that's the problem. You can't take her. She can't be taken. Not by us, anyway."

Buffy stopped ranting and looked at him, curiosity and concern etched on her face. "What do you mean?"

"You said it yourself, woman. You don't do dead people. There's a very good reason for that. No body to be done. Haunts are dead. We don't have the proper tools. Best we can do is stay outta her way. And as she's targetin' us, even that's gonna be a bitch."

"Okay, so we leave. Pack up and go. If it's you that has her all upset and stuff, we leave, she goes back to being nothing more than a cold draft in a big house, right?"

"Love to, can't. Sun's gonna be up in a little while, and we don't know the area. I don't remember seein' many protect-the-vampire-from-spontaneous-combustion places on our way here. I'm stuck."

"No. You're not. We are. We're a team, Spike. And it's not just because she's after both of us. We're a team. We fight together, we stand together. That's just how it is."

Walking quickly over to the phone, she didn't notice his expression. She didn't see how her words, spoken so casually and with so much honest conviction, affected him. He quickly reached up and swiped at his surprisingly moist eyes, not wanting her to see how her belief in him, in them, made him go all poof-like.

"If you're thinkin' `bout putting in a call to the Watcher, don't bother, pet. Did it already. Him and Will are on their way."

She was surprised. Very surprised. "Oh. You did? Oh."

"Yeah. `Bout and hour ago, now. I figured it would be a good idea. Called him while you were doin' the knocked unconscious nap time. Giles has all those books, may as well put them to good use. Also figured Willow might come in handy, powerful little witch that she is."

"No, Spike, that's fine. That's good. I'm just surprised, is all. You're not exactly known for calling in the cavalry, even when you need help."

Shrugging in embarrassment, he said, "Yeah, well, it's not just me that needs help, now, is it? Don't take risks when it comes to your safety, luv. Makes me a team player, even if it is against my nature. You White Hats are good for the rushin' to the rescue, may as well make use of it when we need it."

"It'll take them a while to get here. How much trouble do you think we're in, in the meantime?"

Spike thought about it and frowned. "Well, it'll take a while for the haunt to come after us again. There are limits to its power. We may get lucky, too, it may not be as strong the next time around. It has to recharge, so to speak, or it won't be able to do much more than give you a shiver."

Buffy, curious, interrupted him. "Can't you feel the cold drafts?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, I'm a vampire so temperature doesn't really affect me, but I can feel changes in it. It's just, those icy drafts are the haunt - or ghost, they do it too - trying to make contact with you. Touchin' you, so to speak. Feelin' you out. She won't bother tryin' that with me, she knows I'm a vampire. Knows there's nothin' she can do to affect me."

Under her breath, she muttered, "Good. Don't have to worry about a haunt getting her hands on my man. Good to know."

Spike raised a brow and slid a sly grin her way, not commenting on the `her man' part. He doubted she had any idea of what she was really saying. It was instinct, but it was a nice instinct. Gave him hope that one day he could explain that whole `belonging to each other' thing without worrying about her staking him for it.

"So, this thing has to recharge," her voice interrupted his thoughts. "That's good. That gives us time. We can do something with that."

Now that was something he didn't like the sound of, Buffy going all intense and thoughtful. "What's goin' on in that head o' yours, woman?"

Playing it off with a wide-eyed look of pure innocence, almost making Spike laugh in the bargain, she just smiled slightly and said, "Well, there's breakfast. It's almost 6:30, and there's that nifty room service. I'm hungry."

"And you're not tellin' me everythin'." Narrowing his eyes, he searched her face, trying to guess at what was going on behind the tawny eyes he loved so much.

"Well…lets just say, we have a haunt that we know is trying get us up close and personal with the flip side of that life coin, right? But there's something else here, too. Something that had a vested interest in making sure you didn't get all dusty. Something powerful enough to send me crashing into a door several feet away. Normally that would be one of those `not boding well for Buffy' things, but I wasn't myself at the time and it kept you from getting staked, so I think I can forgive whatever it was."

At his suspicious and vaguely concerned look, she rolled her eyes and spelled it out for him. "Something protected you, Spike. We need to find out what. We need to find out why. We need to find out if they can do it again. There's something going on here, and it's more than we've seen so far. I can feel it."

"Oh, bloody hell. You can `feel it'? Great. You get a cramp; suddenly we're both on poltergeist patrol. Fan-fuckin'-tastic. And just how do you expect to do…whatever it is your suggestin' that I know I'm not gonna like? You have heard the term `borrowin' trouble', right, luv? Well, it sounds to me that that is exactly what you're dabblin' in here. Sure, somethin' plowed into the haunt. Saved my ass, it did. Doesn't mean I want to invite it in for tea, find out what its ulterior motives are. Could be worse than what we've got on hand already."

Shaking her head emphatically, she thought about the possibilities. "I don't think so. I think it's something that might just be able to help us." Thinking back to her dream, she remembered something else that had bothered her at the time.

"He was punishing her."

Coming completely out of left field, Spike could only stare at Buffy after that comment.

"I completely forgot. The vampire. I…she was outside of the house at night. She had a shovel in her hand. I heard, behind me, it was him; I'm sure of it. I heard him howl. There was…pain in it. Anguish. Something is off, Spike. Don't you see? When he killed her, when he came into the house, she was surprised that he could get into the house, but she wasn't surprised at him. She knew him. Not only did she know what he was, she knew who he was. She had done something, Spike. Something that made him come after her. He said something to her - I can't remember what. But I know it's important. It may be the key to everything. He didn't just kill her, he was punishing her for what she did."

"And this is important to us because…"

"What if Miranda isn't just a haunt because she's mad at vampires for killing her? What if it's something else entirely?"

"I'm not followin', luv. What difference does it make?"

"I'll tell you what difference. We have to deal with this thing on our own for the next several hours. That's a long time. We have no weapons, nothing useful to use to fight it off. It can get into my head; it can kill you. Ducks doing the sitting thing are cute and all; doesn't mean I want to be one. We can't leave. We can't just sit here and wait until it comes after us again. All we can do is find out what really happened when she died. We do that, maybe we'll have a chance to do something. I don't know what exactly, release her maybe. Or at least we'll know what's going on. In my experience, most humans don't think of vampires as anything more than Hollywood storytelling, or a metaphor for…metaphorical things. This woman - over a hundred years ago - she knew. And that's just not normal. I'm in no way keen on finding out if third time's the charm with Buffy deceasedness, and I'm certainly not letting her turn you into a demonstration for a vacuum cleaner infomercial. We need to find out what happened. We need to find out what that other thing is, too - the thing that stopped her from staking you. And we need to do it quickly."

Sighing he sunk down into the couch and leaned back, resting his head against the cushions and staring at the ceiling, which was even now growing lighter at the coming dawn.

"So your sayin' we find out what really happened, find out what that other thing in the house is, we may just live to see the sun set tonight. Right? That is what you're sayin', isn't it."

Plopping down with a significantly higher level of enthusiasm than he was showing, she leaned into him and nodded. "Exactly. I don't see any other way. Sorry, Spike, it's a part of the Slayer package. I was born to be a solver of impending death problems. I'll admit, this is a new one on me, as I'm dealing with the already dead, but I'm programmed to be Slayerly. Can't help it."

"Can't help it, she says."

Mumbling to himself, he knew he'd eventually give in. What choice did he have? The only plan he had was to wait for Giles and Willow to show up, but Buffy was right. They were sitting ducks. He knew that. It's just this whole information gathering thing wasn't what he was about. He was a fighter. A brawler. This was so…passive. He hated it. But he'd do it. He'd do it because it may just help him keep her alive. Give me a cemetery in good old Sunnyhell any day. Give me a good Bovleaur demon, or a Rohmlix, or a few dozen vampires. This…this is just bloody wrong. One thing's for sure, next time I get her to go away for a weekend, we're gonna be doin' it my way.

"You know," he finally said, "if you'd listened to me to begin with, we'd be in a nice motel in San Diego right now, recoverin' from a night of dancin' and debauchery. No haunts or mysterious glowin' blue orbs of power anywhere to be found."

"Yeah, yeah. And I'm never gonna hear the end of it, am I?"

"Not bloody likely. How do you figure on findin' out all this stuff, anyway? We've got nothin' right now."

"Well, we'll start with the breakfast, I really am hungry. Then, when it gets later, we're going to go and talk to Ida, see if she knows anything about the house. As old as it is, there's probably some historical information lying around. We'll take it from there, I guess. We'll figure it out as we go along."

Spike tossed an arm over her shoulders and pulled her to him, inhaling her scent and nuzzling her hair. She turned her head to kiss him gently before pulling back and staring into his eyes.

"I love you, Spike."

He melted. He was such a poof. In that moment, if she'd asked him to dive into a pool of holy water, he'd be stripping off his clothes and going for a dip. He'd do anything for her. He'd die for her. He lived for her. He belonged to her. Until the dusty end, his world was her world.

The haunt would rue the day that she made the mistake of threatening Buffy's safety. It didn't have to be like this. If she'd left them alone, none of this would have happened. Now, however, Spike was going to destroy her. He was going to strip away the last shred of existence from her, and do it gladly.

"I love you, too." Swooping down, he captured Buffy's mouth in a serious kiss. "Order me some bacon and eggs, would you, pet?"

"Sure." Getting up, she paused before picking up the phone and turned back to him, a curious expression on her face. "Spike, why is it you eat more than blood, anyway? You're the only vampire I've ever met that eats like a teenager, instead of eating the actual teenager. Of course, there's the chip, but still. You eat food. Why is that?"

Spike thought for a minute, smiling to himself. He didn't really know why, but he liked food. Always had. Used to drive Dru nuts. She never understood it. Even Angel, souled poofta that he was, never ate normal food. He was unique. In more ways than one. "Don't rightly know, pet. I just always have. Most vampires don't have a taste for the stuff, what with the difference in the taste buds and all, but that never really bothered me. I like food. It has…substance."

Buffy just shook her head and grinned playfully. "You really are one of a kind, fang face."

"You too, blondie."

"Peroxided pest."

"Fashion victim."

She laughed out loud at that one. "That from a man with a serious case of Billy Idol envy. Good one, Spike."

Blowing her a kiss with a sexy, devilish gleam in his eye, he watched her butt as she turned and picked up the phone.

Something flickered in the shadows of the room and he just barely caught it out of the corner of his peripheral vision. Turning his head with vampiric speed, he caught the glimmer of energy hovering in the darkness. It was small and dim, but he knew what it was. Without alerting Buffy, he vamped out and bared his fangs silently at it. It was a warning. A deadly serious warning.

The haunt apparently took the message, for the time being at least. Spike knew she would. She wouldn't be strong enough yet to do much of anything. Watching intently, the vampire saw it sink through the floor, leaving the room. Unfortunately, it looked as though the haunt was more powerful than he had thought. She shouldn't even be able to show herself so soon after the energy she expended tonight.

They didn't have as much time as Spike had originally thought. The haunt would be coming again. And soon. Bloody hell.

Pt 5

Trailing behind the Slayer as she stormed down the hallway on her way to the stairs, Spike avoided a few rays of sun pouring through a hall window by skirting around a potted tree and using his duster to shield his still-tender flesh. He wasn't thrilled with the idea of prancing around in a house graced with several large windows, providing more opportunities to ride down that crispy vamp highway to hell, but he certainly wasn't going to stay in the room and wait like some prat. Not to mention he was more likely to stick a hot poker in his eye then let Buffy go toddling around in the house by herself.

Between the second and third floor, Buffy whirled around and pinned him with an intense stare.

"Say nothing. I need to charm…there may be cajoling. If you start in on your `I'm an annoying vampire that runs off at the mouth' routine, we run the risk of getting tossed out of here. Unless you brought along any SPF three million sun block, not the way to go."

Smirking at her all-business attitude, not offended in the least, he shoved his hands in his pockets. "I feel compelled to mention, pet, when it comes to charm, well…you're less than gifted in that area."

Buffy felt a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth but she forced her face to remain impassive. "Spike, every time your lips move you prove my point." He raised a brow and grinned knowingly. Rolling her eyes, she pointedly ignored his unspoken indication that she just proved his point. "Just…try not to be too…you."

The sound of a door closing and people moving down the hallway of the floor below them prevented their conversation from degrading to the `I'm way cooler than you are' stage. It didn't stop Spike from leaning in towards Buffy and whispering, "If memory serves, that's a different song than you were singin' last night, luv."

"Uh huh. Right. And was that before or after we were dealing with the psychotically deceased?"

Tingles danced down the flesh at her neck when she heard his husky laugh and an almost non-existent, "Both," before he slid around her and continued his descent down the stairs.

Ida Heggan was standing almost exactly where they'd left her the night before, the only indication that she hadn't been there all night was the change in her clothing. Though she did look equally professional in another trendy business suit, apparently the favored code of dress for the contemporary woman.

Buffy took a deep breath and pasted a large smile on her face, wrapping a hand around Spike's not only to complete the happy couple image, but to be able to have some inconspicuous way of communicating - even if it was only the occasional hand squeeze. They had gotten to the point of knowing each other so well, working together so extensively, that the slightest pressure could transmit a myriad of messages. It wasn't romantic; it was practical.

"Good morning, Mrs. Heggan," Buffy chirped pleasantly as she pulled the rather reluctant Spike up to the reservation desk.

The middle-aged woman looked up from the paperwork spread around her and beamed at the attractive couple, her professionalism preventing her from commenting on the fact that the pair looked less rested this morning than they had last night, the slightly wicked sense of fun she kept hidden from all but her husband allowing her to make assumptions on what they would have been up to during the night hours that would have prevented sleep. "Good morning, dear. But please, call me Ida. Really. Formality is so formal. I hope you enjoyed your first night at Carr House."

Buffy squeezed Spike's hand, just in case he felt a sarcastic rejoinder coming on, and beamed back at the kind-hearted woman. "We did, thank you for asking." Her efforts to keep Spike as silent as possible were for naught when Ida directed her attention to the vampire.

Ida addressed Spike with a happy twinkle in her eyes. "Good morning, Ken. Was the Dalton Suite satisfactory?"

He clenched his jaw at the offensive nomenclature, but decided it was just about time to show Buffy just how charming he could be. Not to mention he had the accent, and in his experience, his north London drawl easily swayed American woman - regardless of age.

Flashing a smirk filled with sexual heat and sardonic humor, he stepped forward and reached over the desk, clasping the woman's hand in a gallant show of chivalry. Bringing it to his mouth, he kissed the back of it before straightening up and winking at her conspiratorially. "It was very impressive, mum. I, for one, was especially taken with that monster of a bed you have up there. Sunk right in, we did. Got a bit lost for a while, but the little woman here made sure we found our way out." He caught Buffy's warning glare out of the corner of his eye and decided there was no reason not to enjoy himself as much as the situation would allow. Draping a casual arm around her shoulders and giving her a squeeze, he chuckled at her embarrassed squirm.

Buffy was desperately wishing a hole would open up in the floor and swallow her, but this wasn't Sunnydale, so Hellmouth activity of that sort couldn't be counted on. What a shame. She was left with little choice but to grin and bear it, damning Spike to hell in the meantime and definitely making a mental note to torture him later. She just didn't understand how he could think acting like a sex-fiend-type pig equated with being charming.

And for the life of her, she couldn't figure out why it always worked so damn well.

Ida, though, was proof that it did, because she tittered almost coyly at the vampire's words. The Slayer tried to steer the conversation back to a safe and hopefully more informational path.

"Ken and I are very impressed with the whole house, Ida. It's beautiful. Way old, too, I bet."

Spike winced inwardly, shaking his mental head at Buffy's blunt and less than subtle prompt for information. He caught the slight frown that clouded Ida's face and he rushed in to smooth out the rough edges of Buffy's words.

"Now, pet," he said chidingly, in a similar tone Xander used when warning Anya whenever she's being…well, Anya. "Historical is not the same as old and this house is definitely historical."

Spike flashed an engaging smile to Ida, ignoring the sparks that flared in Buffy's eyes at his purposefully condescending tone. "See, this house is what, one hundred and fifty years? In my country, that's little more than a blip on the timeline, but here…" Spike paused; glad to see Ida was listening intently, the slight offense taken at Buffy's words forgotten, "…well, here this house has to be one of the oldest in the surrounding area. Where else but in the States can you find something so old and so young at the same time? That's one of the many great things about this country."

Buffy had to struggle not to laugh out loud. What's with all the `ode to America' stuff? Not that she could argue it was working. There was also the amusement about the `so old and so young at the same time' thing. From a vampire. From a vampire that looked to be in his late twenties, but was actually closer to his late one hundred and twenties. Ironic much?

Ida smiled, completely enchanted with Spike. "You know, we're featured on California's list of historical landmarks."

"Impressive, mum. Not many can boast that honor, I wager."

"Very true. And it's more than just the age of the house, which is actually closer to one hundred and thirty years old, but because it's in its original condition. There has been no structural renovation done, as is so often the case with houses as the passage of time takes its toll."

Buffy was encouraged. It sounded like Ida was more than just casually informed on the house, so more in-depth information was well within the realm of possibility.

"Wow, Ida," she said, trying to take back some small measure of control, not that she wasn't duly impressed with Spike's rather ingenuous ploy. "It sounds like you know a lot about the history of the Carr House."

Ida chuckled merrily. "Oh, I should, dear. I am, after all, a Carr."

Buffy and Spike exchanged a glance, sharing the thought that they just hit the mother load. That one quick look set the stage for the next round of information gathering - and Buffy slipped into the `dumber than she really is' blonde routine.

Frowning prettily, as if trying to work out the logic, she questioned the older woman. "You're a Carr? As in the Carr House? So…your not a Heggan?"

Reaching out and patting the young girl's arm in a friendly gesture, Ida said, "I'm both, dear. Heggan is my married name, and in truth, Lockley is my maiden name, but my Great-grandmother was a Carr. I was raised in this house. After my parents died, my husband and I were left ownership. It seemed natural to make use of it. Lived in it until my husband and I decided to try our hand at inn keeping. Once the children moved out - I have three boys…all about your age - the house was too large for Fred and I. Fred is my husband, of course. Now we share a smaller cottage next door, though still on the Carr House grounds."

Everything was going according to plan, better than the Slayer had even hoped. They had established a congenial rapport, information was flowing freely…if a little longwindedly…and Buffy was getting ready to ask another `I'm a little dim, could you clarify?' question. Snags, though, have a tendency to pop up when least expected. Snags in the form of a family - father, mother, and small child of the sticky-faced, male, five-year-old variety - that came bundling and bungling down the stairs. Loud, laughing, playful, a couple in their early thirties held their son between them, carrying him as if he was doing some odd sort of impression of a dribbling, squealing airplane.

"Zachary!" Ida called to the giggling bundle of energy in his parents' arms. "Look at you! You're flying! Aren't you the lucky one?"

It took all of three seconds. The contemporary businesswoman, chic and respectable, turned into a pseudo-grandmother, all earth-mother wisdom and `lives through the children' exuberance. Buffy and Spike may as well have no longer been present, though they did get an introduction to Roxanne and Dylan Kaplan, visiting from Salt Lake City, Utah, with their already identified son, Zachary.

Now, just how well did you think that went over with the less than patient pair?

Dylan Kaplan, a walking advertisement for the self-made Internet-loving generation X'er, all Land's End and Gucci, slapped Spike on the shoulder - once he'd set the wriggling mass of son down - in gregarious congeniality. Some kind of male bonding thing.

For the first time in longer than the vampire could remember, he was completely out of his depth and more interested in just munching on the whole lot of the noisy bunch than spending one more nanosecond in their company.

It was fortunate that a couple of parents with a precocious and hungry child had little time for pleasantries when the breakfast bells were tolling, because the three moved off to find some food after fifteen minutes of the mindless gab.

Which in Spike's mind was about twenty minutes too late.

Especially as Ida's next ten minutes were dedicated to informing Buffy and Spike all the known details of the Kaplan's lives. By the time Ida had started to wind down and Buffy and Spike could finally get a word in, both of their patience levels had been stretched to the breaking point.

Without words, without even realizing they were doing it, the Slayer and the vampire leaned into each other, Spike wrapping his arms around Buffy and pulling her back against his chest. It was calming, and it saved both of them from going boom - but it was a near thing.

"So," Ida had returned most of her attention to the paperwork in front of her, not that she thought the guests at the Carr House were distracting - but in her experience, paperwork knew no social necessities, "what do you two have planned for today?"

What a good question, Buffy thought. A little haunt bashing, a little making sure Spike and I don't get dead, a little investigation into the mysterious spectral nasty. The usual. "No plans," she said as she rested her head back against Spike's chest. "We came here more for the resty time, less for the touristy time."

Already lost to her work, Ida just nodded vaguely. "That's good dear, I'm sure you'll find your stay completely relaxing."

Little late for any hope of that, Buffy thought, and the soft huff of derision she heard from Spike expressed his opinion quite plainly.

And the truth was, there just wasn't time to ring around that rosy any more. Charming wasn't cutting it. They needed information. Ida was the one that had it. No way she could live in the house as long as she had and not have it. Time for the Slayer to come out and play.

"Actually, Ida," she started slowly. Spike heard the change in her tone of voice and tightened his grip on her in support of the `lets up it a notch' plan. "There's something about that relaxing thing I wanted to ask you about."

Spike wasn't the only one who caught the change in tone, and though she didn't understand the reason behind it, it did pull Ida away from her ledgers. "Of course, dear. Anything I can help you with, I will. Ask away."

"Who was Miranda?"

If Spike was surprised that the `up it a notch' plan turned out to be more of a `lay it all out there' plan, it was nothing compared to the reaction Ida Heggan had. She started as if she'd just touched a live wire, then paled considerably. Buffy stepped away from Spike and cocked her head at the obviously surprised woman, arms crossed and serious.

"I see we're all on the same page. Good to know."

Staring hard at Buffy, the innkeeper's surprise turned quickly to offense. With her mouth set in a firm line - the first time the Slayer had seen her unsmiling - she motioned to the two of them to follow her and stepped from behind the desk. Briskly, efficiently, she crossed the hallway and disappeared into the room she'd come bustling out of the night before.

Spike and Buffy had little choice but to follow her.

It was a small office filled with filing cabinets and furniture, a desk, a lamp, a computer and computer desk…things like that. Ida was bent over the coffee machine, pouring herself a cup, her back to the door. When she turned with the mug in one shaking hand, she wasted no time cutting to the chase.

"Who do you work for?"

Frowning, a little thrown, Buffy glanced at Spike in confusion before saying anything. "I-I'm sorry?"

"Is it that `Scariest Places on Earth' group? Did they send you here? I told you people that I wanted nothing to do with having this house turned into some kind of supernatural theme park. This is my home. My family home. And it's my business. You're money will be refunded for tonight's stay. I want both of you to leave."

Backpedaling quickly, trying to get control of the situation, Buffy was quick to reply. "Whoa. Wait. We're not working for anybody, Mrs. Heggan. I promise you."

"Really." Ida was by no means swayed by Buffy's attempt. "Then how do you know anything about Miranda?"

Buffy and Spike looked at each other for a long second before deciding to answer the question with the truth. More or less.

"We saw her, mum. Last night. Had a slight difference of opinion with her, so to speak."

Glaring at them warily, sizing them up, Ida frowned. "If you're suggesting that a woman who has been dead for over a century popped into your room and introduced herself, I think you've more than outstayed your welcome. Get out. Whoever you are, just leave."

"Mrs. Heggan," Buffy said, worried that things were getting totally messed up. "How would we know the name if we weren't telling you the truth. Miranda is haunting this house. You have to trust us."

Moving around the desk, setting her coffee cup down with enough force to slosh the liquid over the rim, Ida laid her hands on the tabletop and addressed both of them. "I don't have to do anything of the sort, young lady, and let me tell you why. There are very few people who know Miranda's story. I don't care if you heard it and came here out of some morbid curiosity or were sent to research the house and her story for those dreadful television people. Either way, I want nothing to do with having you here."

"Listen," Buffy tried again, "I understand you're skeptical, I do. But we are telling you the truth. And we can help you. We can get rid of her, I promise. But we need information from you first."

Ida was indignant. She scoffed at the Slayer, "Help me get rid of her? You're not serious. I don't need your help and I have no desire to get rid of her. She's my Great-great-aunt, for goodness sake. She's family."

Spike's head reared back in surprise, a move closely matched by the Slayer's. "You know," he accused. "You know she's here. In the house. You've always known."

"Of course I know. I told you I've lived here most of my life. How could I not know?"

Sputtering, confused, Spike said, "So havin' an evil nasty floatin' around, terrifyin' your visitors is what? The premium package? All's right and proper because she's family."

"Excuse me," Ida replied, the epitome of offended affront, "I will not have you referring to that poor woman in such a manner. She's no more evil than you are." Buffy shot Spike a look at that particular comment. A look that he pointedly ignored. "What's more, she's never terrified anyone. She exists in this house, yes, but she's harmless. I don't know where you got your information, Ken, but it is obviously flawed."

Fed up, still agitated by everything that had been going on since he stepped into this nightmare of a house, furious, Spike stalked to the desk and spoke with deadly intensity through clenched teeth. "That's it. I'm done playin'. First, the name's Spike. Second, Buffy and I spent the better part of the evenin' doin' the bloody duck and cover from this thing - so don't play that long-lost relative rot with us. Trust us or not, Auntie dearest has started a game she won't get to finish."

"Okay, enough." Buffy turned to the vampire and laid a comforting hand on his arm. "This isn't the way, Spike." Glancing at the stricken expression on Ida's face, she pushed him back a step and placed herself between him and the desk, right in front of the innkeeper. Speaking calmly, smoothly, she took control. "Ida, we don't mean to trash your relative, but Spike's right. Miranda is nowhere near harmless. She is dangerous - you have to trust us on this. I'm…" Buffy broke off, not sure how to explain without going into the `I'm the Vampire Slayer and I say so' deal. Tact and discretion were needed.

"When I was fifteen, something happened to me. I was given a…calling…of sorts. This calling lets me see the world differently than most people. And I deal with things…things that other people can't deal with. But because of that, those things - mostly not so nice things - have a way of finding me. Spike and I came here for a vacation away from that - but we've had that `nowhere to run, nowhere to hide' lesson driven home. Really driven home.

"We're not here to turn your house into the top draw on the Tour of Homes from Hell, and we don't work for a television show. We came here for rest. We got Miranda instead."

Falling silent, the only sound in the room was a low hum coming from the computer on the table. Buffy watched Ida for a reaction, waiting, hoping that what she said was enough to keep from getting tossed out on their collective ear. Finally, after what seemed like minutes, Ida sighed and sunk down into the leather chair behind her.

"She's not evil. You're wrong."

Not exactly promising, but at least she wasn't throwing them out…yet. Buffy walked around the desk and kneeled down next to Ida's chair, looking up at her earnestly. "We need to know what you know, Ida. Maybe you're right. Maybe we are wrong. But we need to know."

Doubt and indecision marred Ida's features, and for a long time she remained silent. Then, as if coming to an internal decision, she sighed deeply again and spoke. Her eyes were trained on her clasped hands lying on the table. "My grandmother would tell me about Miranda when I was a very little girl. Long before I knew she was still here. I remember thinking how romantic it was, but so sad. So tragic. I would pester her to hear it over and over, though I could have recited it verbatim."

Ida met Buffy's eyes and gave her a tentative smile. Spike leaned back against the doorframe, getting settled, impressed as hell with Buffy. Looked like she saved the day…again.

Leaning back against a filing cabinet, the Slayer got comfortable for what may be a long story. From across the room, she felt Spike staring at her and she met his gaze. Relief teased her mouth into a smile. His lone nod and wink were recognition of her accomplishment.

"Miranda was fifteen when she met Jacob Morgan. He was older, ten years older, but she fell in love with him and he with her. He was a good man, the son of a banker. The Morgans were one of the richest families in the area - mostly because of the business Jacob's father William did during the California gold rush. Jacob himself was a simple man, a man of less exclusive tastes. Instead of going into banking and following his father's dictates, he chose to become a minister. Once he'd been ordained, he chose Three Rivers to start his ministry. Miranda saw and fell in love with him at the church's very first picnic.

The age difference was a problem for Jacob, though, and he tried to stay away from her. He didn't think she was old enough to really know whom she loved, but Miranda was persistent. Finally, he couldn't deny his love for her any longer. On her sixteenth birthday, Jacob asked her to marry him. I know that sounds young - but it was a different time, girls were women at sixteen. And true love, that kind of deep and abiding love, knows no age barrier. She said yes."

Buffy could see the faraway look in Ida's eyes as she told the story, and Buffy knew she was reliving fond memories of hearing the story from her grandmother when she was young.

"They were married for just over a year when Miranda gave birth to Nathan. Jacob was thrilled and so very, very happy. They both were. You can't understand just how much that man loved his wife and son - it was a beautiful thing to see, according to my grandmother - as her mother, Miranda's younger sister, told her. He would have moved mountains for them, died for them. There's nothing he wouldn't have done.

"When Nathan was eight, Jacob started building this house. He dedicated it to Miranda, named it the Carr House in her honor. But…" Ida frowned, lost in her memories. It was a story oft told at family gatherings, oft repeated between family members, but for Ida, it had never lost its power.

"Just days before they had planned to move into the Carr house, it happened. Jacob went to the church one morning to prepare a sermon for the next day's service. He never came home. The next day his horse was found grazing by the road less than a mile from his house, scratched up and injured, but alive. They found Jacob's body later that day, several yards from the road, just inside the nearby woods. It looked like an animal, probably a cougar that came down from the Rockies, had taken him.

"My grandmother told me that Miranda was never the same after they buried her husband. She moved into the Carr House with Nathan. There were too many memories for her in the house she'd shared with Jacob. It was too painful for her to stay there. She became withdrawn, staying in this house with only her son for company. There would be days - weeks that would go by without her family ever seeing her.

"It was a dark time for the whole town. In the year after Jacob's death, several women and children were also taken - found days after they'd disappeared, all attacked by an animal, left just inside the woods. The town leaders were convinced they had a man-eater on the loose and put all of its admittedly limited resources into trying to find and destroy it. Nothing they did stopped the killing."

Buffy was numb. Ida had been right; this was not a warm and fuzzy story. But it was worse for the Slayer, because Buffy had more than a sneaking suspicion about just what kind of creature was really responsible for the death of Jacob and the other people of the town. It was a predator, all right, but it wasn't the four-legged kind. And she had a funny feeling that the story was going to get worse before it got better. If it ever got better.

"Nathan Morgan, Miranda's son, was the twenty-third victim, almost exactly one year after his father's death."

Man, I hate it when I'm right, Buffy thought, a maelstrom of emotions churned painfully in her stomach. She didn't need to look at Spike. There was no doubt in her mind that he was thinking exactly what she was thinking. A vampire had killed the townspeople.

"He'd stayed out late at a friend's house - past dark, even though he knew he wasn't supposed to. He was always supposed to be in the house before the sun set. Miranda was extremely protective. Unfortunately, it wasn't enough. Nathan was the only victim whose body was never found. His disappearance destroyed what was left of a once vibrant and happy woman.

"For a week they searched for Nathan, just about every man and boy over the age of ten that lived in Three Rivers searched for him. One morning, just before sunrise, my grandmother says, several members of the search team headed here to update Miranda on where they'd be looking that day. They found her on the front porch. Dead. The window in the living room had been broken in, and the same thing that killed her husband and son had apparently attacked her. Miranda was its last victim. They never found the animal that killed all those people and they never found Nathan. The killings stopped - they just…stopped." Coming back to the present, the innkeeper studied the blonde couple in turn. "Those are the facts of Miranda's story as I've been told, but the part that always struck me as the most poignant, is the legend."

"Legend?" Buffy prompted, enthralled and aching for Miranda, despite herself. "What legend?"

"Well…its been said that when those five men from town crested the hill and saw the house, just warming up to greet the morning sun, that they saw Jacob Morgan standing on the porch, holding Miranda in his arms, facing east. They say they saw him sit down on the porch steps, never letting go of her. And they say, when the sun first bathed the house in all its glory, that he burst into flames and disappeared. When they got to the porch, all that was left was the body of Miranda, laid gently and with great care on the porches' top step. Nothing but a pile of ashes next to her, around her, covering her. Perhaps the ashes of the husband that had been dead for just over a year, the husband that had loved his wife so much that upon her death, had left heaven to find her, to bring her home - for the final time."

Spike was staring hard at Buffy, not liking the stricken expression on her face. He knew she was feeling sympathy for Miranda. He knew it. But he was a vampire. It was beyond his ability to feel sympathy for a woman dead over a century ago, a woman who had done what she had done to Buffy. To him. The haunt may have gotten the raw deal in life, but that didn't mean Spike was going to stop trying to destroy her for what she'd done in death. He was just afraid that Buffy may no longer want to, might even try to stop him. Not that she could.

He wasn't happy about it, though. Fear that the actions he knew he had to take would drive a rift - perhaps an unbridgeable rift - between him and the woman he loved had him grimacing and miserable. The haunt may have succeeded in doing something worse than killing him, and without even being here to do it. She may have just made him and the Slayer adversaries again.

And that royally pissed him off.

"Nice story," he drawled sarcastically, " `specially that legend part. It's complete rot, but then, you know that."

"What?" Ida was looking at him in confusion. She didn't understand his demeanor, and looking at him, seeing a dangerous glint in his eyes, she felt a slight twinge of fear. Hostility was shimmering off him in waves; she could feel it. But she had no idea why he would be so hostile.

"Spike." There was warning in Buffy's voice and she frowned. She recognized that look, knew it spelled trouble. She needed to get him out of there, out of the office, before he did or said something that they would both regret.

"Oh, come on, mum. You have to know that last part's a soddin' fairy tale. Else we wouldn't have the hauntin' Auntie to deal with now, would we? Think `bout it. If hubby dropped down from the great beyond to take his chit home, she wouldn't still be here."

Speaking slowly, thinking about what Ken…Spike said, she conceded, "Well…no. I suppose you're right about that."

"Spike!" The warning became a demand, and Buffy got to her feet. She really didn't like that look in his eyes, that look that told her he was about ready to put his fist through something.

He ignored her. Never took his eyes of Ida. Couldn't look at Buffy's face and see the disgust for his kind there. He wasn't that strong. His heart was breaking and he just wasn't strong enough. It was a familiar feeling.

"So why's she still here, mum. Tell me. What's that bint still doin' here if her business was finished?"

The young man was across the room, but Ida felt pinned under the intensity in those feral blue eyes of his. Eyes that had been so clear earlier were now clouded with anger and…pain. None of it made any sense. Why would he have taken the story so personally? It just didn't make any sense.

"I-I d-don't know," she stammered, "m-maybe she's here because she never found her son." As she thought about it, she became stronger in her convictions. "Miranda has appeared to several people - mostly family. She only appears in the south side of the house, in front of windows in any of the rooms she goes to. It's like she's standing, watching, staring out the window, a sorrowful expression on her face. Maybe she's looking for her son. Waiting - still waiting - for him to come home from his friend's house."

Spike, enraged, pushed himself off the doorframe and stepped dangerously closer. Buffy was across the room in a heartbeat, not letting him go any further, shoving a Slayer-strength hand into his chest. She flipped her head around and flashed what she hoped would be a conciliatory smile at Ida. "Could you excuse us for a minute, Mrs. Heggan? I need to talk to Spike."

She didn't wait for the vague and surprised, "O-Of course." Buffy yanked the mightily pissed off fiend out of the room before the damage became irreparable.

Dragging him across the hall, past the reservation desk, into the living room, she finally let go and whirled on him.

"What the hell is your problem?" she hissed, trying to keep her voice down low enough not to be overheard by everyone in the house. "Would you care to explain that rampage you were on in there?"

Sullen and aching, Spike didn't meet her eyes. He turned away from her and paced off his excess energy. "Listen, Slayer," he answered hotly, "I'm sure you're all weepy and forgivin' of that bitch and what she did to us now, but I'm still gettin' rid of her. Let me save you from havin' to do the `you're a bad, bad man' routine. I'm a monster; I know it. But I'm a monster that's makin' that bint pay for what she did to you. Don't rightly care how bad she had it in life. Hate me, I'm used to that. Stake me, even. But get the hell out of this soddin' house."

Realization dawned, lightening Buffy's expression and making her smile. He was scared. Spike was afraid that hearing Miranda's story, how bad it was, would make her change her mind about taking the haunt down. And if she did, she'd be against Spike, enemies again, and he was terrified of that happening. He thought he'd lost her, that she wouldn't love him anymore. That explained the defensive and prickly act in the other room. Geesh. Save me from insecure vampires, she thought, amused.

Still pacing, still not able to look at her without his heart breaking in two, Spike didn't notice Buffy's expression.

"Spike," she said casually, "what part of `losing you would destroy me' did you not understand?"

Stopping abruptly, his back to her, she watched as he swiveled his head around slowly, confusion and hope etched hauntingly on his face. His body followed his head and he faced her, looking into her love-filled face for the first time. It soothed him, chased away his temper. He loved Buffy so much, his chest hurt sometimes. Just looking at her made him happy. And he hadn't lost her. He grinned at the knowledge that she loved him - still.

"Now, about Miranda - who we are so getting rid of. Sure, I feel bad about her life, but she's dangerous. Besides, I still have that `whore' score to settle with her. We are both thinking Jacob was a vampire, right?"

Long strides carried him back to her side and he dropped his mouth to her smiling lips. Her hands came up and wrapped themselves in his hair, pulling him down, deepening the kiss. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he lifted her off the ground a bit, hugging her strongly. When they finally broke apart, Buffy was panting and Spike's eyes were gleaming again. With pleasure and relief.

"Spike." Buffy frowned, thinking about what Ida had told them - about the legend. "Did you notice anything odd about Miranda's story?"

Nuzzling her neck, he mumbled in her ear. "What do you mean, luv?"

"Well…Jacob gets turned. Got that. Spends a year feeding on the town. Got that. Finally kills his son and his wife. Got that - especially the wife part. Had a front row seat to that one, thanks to Slayer dreams - and that explains why he could get into the house, too. This was his house, he wouldn't need an invitation. But why does he only feed on women and children? That strike you as unusual? This town would have been one long smorgasbord, so why only the women and children? And if you're a vampire, large with a thirst for life - and blood - why did he dust himself after killing what was left of his mortal family?"

She pulled away from Spike slowly, her mind going a mile a minute. He watched her walk over to the large window in the room - the window that had been broken in almost a hundred and thirty years ago. Under her breath, lost in thought, she muttered, "What was she running from that night?"

That's when it hit her. Like a ton of bricks it hit her. She remembered what Jacob had told Miranda when he crashed through the window. "Your own actions dictate the course I take," he'd said. Then he didn't just kill her; he punished her with death.

"Oh God." The words were ripped from her throat in a hoarse whisper.

Spike heard her and panicked, but was held back from rushing to her side by the sun coming through the windows. Stuck in the shadows, cursing his helplessness, he called out to her. "What is it? Buffy? What's wrong?"

She didn't answer him, couldn't answer him. The thoughts in her head were too horrible to express. It couldn't be…

"Buffy! Talk to me damn it!"

Backing away from the window, she stepped back into the shadows and he was on her in a minute. Holding her shaking body, he searched her face, confusion and worry gnawing at his stomach. She raised her eyes and he sucked in an unneeded breath at the dead expression in them.

"I think I was wrong, Spike. I don't think you're as one-of-a-kind as I thought you were. He loved her. Not just before he was turned - but after. He was a demon and he still loved her. Whatever she did…it was so horrible that he killed her for it. And I think I know what it was."

Tears trickled down her face. She wasn't sure how she could be so sure, but it was there - like a cancer that wouldn't go away.

"She killed her own son. She killed Nathan."

They had no warning. One minute they were standing, alone, in the quiet living room. The next, an explosion of sound was ripping through the house, shaking it on its foundation. Glass shattered, blown in by some unseen force, from every window on every floor. Buffy and Spike ducked down behind a couch to escape the deadly flying projectiles.

"You know nothing, whore!" The shrieking sound of inhuman fury came from behind them and Spike and Buffy spun around, still crouched behind the couch, prepared for anything.

Anything, that is, except what they saw.