Haunt of the House 4

It’s not everyday that you close your eyes in the middle of a forest and open them…in the middle of a forest. Well, okay, so that’s not large with the unusualness until you factor in the tiny details that make it particularly interesting. Details like where once was day, now was night. Or where a copse of large, centuries-old trees towered high into the air, there were now younger, smaller trees that were less with the towering, more with the ‘hurry up and grow’.

Silence, too. A complete and utter silence that anyone familiar with the age of technology, traffic, and over-population cannot even comprehend.

It was that, more than anything else, which struck a chord in the Slayer’s heart, letting her know that the where wasn’t what was important. It was the when. And this time – unlike the last – she was seeing it, feeling it on her own. Not through the eyes of Miranda. Not in a dream. This was real. Well, as real as it could be, Buffy supposed.

Spike, a little confused, spun in a tight arc and took in the new scenery. Or more rightly put, the very old scenery.

For him, the night was nowhere near silent. It was screaming at him, echoing in his head in a way he’d never known it could – because when you live with noise every day, exist in it, you don’t hear it. And Spike had lived with this particular silent noise before. He’d been human at the time, then not. But it had been so long ago – over a century, really, that it was slamming into his head with all the subtlety of heavy artillery.

A mile away, a cougar screamed out in victory over a fresh kill.

Just over his shoulder, a creepy-crawly crept and crawled.

The worms turned in the earth. The predators flexed talon and teeth. The circle of life was loud, large with vitality, and in full charge of this reality. Not like in their own time, when life – real nature-type life – was held at bay in designated areas or held back from their destinies by cages and walls and people. The difference was startling and severe. And oddly tragic. For when Spike was barraged by the call of the wild, a call that was as temping as a siren for the vampire, he knew a sense of homecoming that almost brought him to his knees.

And it had nothing at all to do with the demon in him.

There he was. In that shrieking, loud silence. Home. Sure, a continent and an ocean away from where he was born, but home in a way that time, being what it is, never allows. And it was the man in him that ached deeply in response. The tragedy in that? Well, it’s not like he could just blurt out how intense the pleasure was. Or why he was fighting back the sting of tears. Or how having Buffy next to him, experiencing with him an age that existed before he was even aware that monsters were real, a time before he was one, made him feel…blessed.

No. Spike – Mr. ‘Kick some bloody ass now, ask questions never’ William the Bloody – couldn’t say that to anyone. Not even to Buffy. Hell, he hadn’t even known he was capable of that level of poof-ness.

He hated it. And he was moved by it. But he was Spike, so he went with indignant and pissed.

"Well, well. Fascinated with all the seein’ we’re doin’. Be better if there was actually somethin’ to see." Sighing in aggravated frustration to show just how put out he was by the whole deal, he turned to Buffy. "No more guidin’ lights of boy-sized energy, either. Looks like we’re on our own. So. What’s next on the need to view?"

The Slayer shook her head and frowned, perplexed and just as let down at the absence of ‘show’ in their little ‘show and tell’ as Spike was. "I have no idea." She motioned in the direction they’d come almost one hundred and thirty years in the future. "Let’s head back to towards the house. Maybe we’ll find…something."

Unable to think of a better plan, Spike just huffed at her and followed her lead through the forest.

The going wasn’t as easy, that much was sure. More ground clutter to impede their progress. As they trudged along, silent and lost in their own thoughts, they came across a well-worn path that looked like it headed straight towards the Carr House. It was a path that didn’t exist in their own time, but they took advantage of it, regardless.

Just after they turned to walk down the path more traveled, the proverbial other shoe dropped with an ominous thud.

Spike heard it first, thanks to vampire hearing, and he reached out to lay a hand on the Slayer’s shoulder to halt her progress. She shot him a questioning glance but didn’t say anything when she saw the serious expression on his face. A few moments later, she heard what had caught Spike’s attention and locked eyes with the vampire.

Wordlessly, they slid off the trail and melted into the comforting arms of shadowy darkness as the sound of fast-approaching footfalls drew closer. Side by side, they were tense and ready for just about anything, almost hoping for something tangible to pummel to release some of their pent up frustration. They waited to see what would hopefully aid them on the ‘get rid of Miranda forever’ campaign.

The ready for anything bit went out the window when a small and remarkably familiar figure dashed down the trail in front of them, out of sight before either Buffy or Spike realized that it was none other than a very alive Nathan Morgan that had stirred up all their fighting instincts.

A Vampire Slayer and a vampire exchanged an almost disappointed expression.

"Well," drawled Spike laconically, "that was certainly…"

"Anti-climatic?"

Unable to hide the smirk at the double entendre, Spike arched a brow and nodded at her.

She ignored him. Glancing down the path that Nathan had taken, she said, "We may as well follow him."

There was no way a dashing child could match their supernatural speed, so it didn’t take long before Nathan was back in sight. Buffy called out to him. "Nathan! Stop!"

The child didn’t even break stride, apparently not hearing her hail.

After listening to her holler out to the lad a few more times, Spike finally spoke up. "Won’t work, luv. We’re not really here, remember? It feels real, smells real, but at the end, it’s just a memory we’re playin’ at."

He could almost feel her roll her eyes as she sprinted in front of him. Her response, spoken under her breath, floated back to him as he ran.

"I mention the ghost of Christmas past one time and poof. We’re neck deep in Dickens."

The sound of an unseen creature thrashing in the underbrush just off the trail in front of them and to their right echoed through the woods. One lone, keening bleat of misery rang out, silencing the nightlife and bringing the three on the path to a screeching halt.

Slayer and Vampire recognized it as the sound of death and slipped back into the woods to investigate. For the moment, they completely forgot about Nathan.

Ten feet from the path lay a deer, its head twisted at an impossible angle, kicking weakened limbs reflexively as it died. But there was nothing natural about this death. Attached to its neck, feeding hungrily, was a shadowy figure with dark hair. A vampire.

He held the deer in an almost reverent embrace as he drained the large animal dry. Spike and Buffy looked on in grim fascination. Buffy couldn’t help but watch, as much as she would prefer not to. There was something so visceral…primal…about it. It was the first time she’d ever seen a vampire feeding on something that wasn’t her duty to protect. Still, there was nothing at all pleasant about watching a creature of the night – her sworn enemy – munching down on Bambi.

But still she watched.

And when the vampire raised his head and shook off the demon visage, Buffy sucked in a surprised breath at the pain she saw in shadowed, hazel eyes. Her own mixed emotions about what she’d just witnessed paled in comparison to the combination of self-hatred and yearning completion she saw there.

Before she could puzzle out reasons or explanations, a horrible, tormented expression darkened his features and with nothing but a whisper of air to mark his passing, he leapt up and fled into the woods like the hounds of hell were after him.

And a disbelieving, confused, lost and heartbroken voice disturbed the silence with one word.

"Papa?!"

The wail was long and haunting in the dark and lonely night.

Spike and Buffy spun at the tragic sound. A small boy stood in a shaft of moonlight. Shocked and trembling, an iridescent tear dropped from one wide eye and trailed a devastated path down a pale cheek. Able to do nothing but stare, Buffy’s heart was in pieces. Spike cursed the circumstances that had transpired. They finally realized what Nathan was starting to show them and it was no longer a matter to be taken lightly.

Jacob Morgan.

They’d been right about one thing. Nathan’s father – Miranda’s husband – was a vampire.

After a long minute, Nathan turned away and headed back towards the house, leaving Buffy and Spike in the dark.

"Do you think he saw…?" Buffy’s voice trailed off as she focused on the now-empty spot the little boy had stood.

"His father feedin’?"

She just couldn’t force an affirmative from her throat so she nodded slowly.

In a serious, low voice, Spike answered. "Don’t know. Doubt it matters. He saw enough."

"More than."

"Yeah."

Buffy looked over her shoulder and searched out Spike’s eyes in the darkness. "This vacation sucks."

"Yeah."

She sighed deeply, the weight of a child’s pain dragging her down. Lifting a foot to take a step after the boy, it came down not in the forest, but in a dimly lit hallway. Without so much as by your leave or a buzz of warning the woods were gone and in its place were the familiar walls of the Carr House.

Buffy jumped in surprise when Spike snarled angrily behind her.

"What the bloody hell?"

It was a good question. One for which she had no answer. After a brief moment to acclimate to the new surroundings, Buffy walked cautiously down the hall, half expecting something to jump out at her. Nothing did, but she gasped reflexively when she passed in front of a mirror hanging against the dark paneled wood that in their time is light and polished. In that mirror was not the reflection of Miranda as it had been during Buffy’s dream, but the reflection of…the matching dark paneled wall behind her.

"Geesh," she hissed out in surprise, flashing a glance at Spike – who was staring at her with a lone brow arched in question. "No reflection. Creepy."

A smirk tugged at Spike’s lips and he dropped his voice down into a sexy drawl. "You get used to it, pet."

One trademarked eye roll later, Buffy resumed her trek down the hall. Sounds of habitation were coming from the dining room and they moved to check it out. When they entered, Buffy noticed how similar it was to the one in their own time. The walls were whitewashed instead of papered in the attractive mauve color they were in the present, and the lamps lighting the area were less with the electricity and more with the gas, but the table was the same – as well as the ornately carved chairs, a serving curio cabinet against one wall, and a small table in the far corner.

The troubled boy sitting at the table – pushing food around on his plate and lost in thought – was new…or old, depending on how you look at it. As was his mother perched stiff-backed at the head of the table, eating delicately.

Spike snarled deep in his throat when he saw Miranda sitting there, calmly and primly dining. Buffy felt rage just looking at her. But in this time, Miranda was alive and they were insubstantial. They were no more equipped to deal with her than they’d been in their own time. Buffy laid a hand on Spike’s arm and squeezed gently. It drew his attention back to her and he tamped down on his demon just enough to be able to smile tenderly at the woman he loved, letting her know he was in control of himself.

"Bleedin’ ironic if you ask me," he said.

"What is?"

"House is still haunted." Spike nodded his head at the two occupants at the table. "Just, now they’re the real ones and we’re the ghosts."

Buffy grimaced at the thought while they moved further into the room, watching past events unfold before them.

"I’ve had quite enough of your sullen behavior, young man." Miranda’s voice was stern as she stared down the table at her somber son. "You may either eat your dinner or leave the table, but we do not play with our food and glower."

Nathan made an effort to sit up straight and he looked at his mother with sadness swirling in his eyes. "I’m sorry, Mother."

"As well you should be. You know how important it is to be in by sunset, but you willfully disobeyed me. I will not allow you to ruin my meal because you are upset with your punishment."

The little boy stared down at his plate guiltily.

Watching him, Buffy could see him wrestle with his thoughts. She wished there was something she could do to comfort him. Glaring at the imperial Miranda, she silently vowed to a long-dead child to do whatever was in her power to make sure Miranda didn’t hurt anyone else. It was the best she could do.

But it would never be anywhere near good enough.

"Mama," Nathan’s voice intruded on Buffy’s thoughts and she glanced at him. He was staring intently at his food and his voice was little more than a mumbled whisper. "I saw someone in the forest on my way home."

Spike had been watching Miranda when Nathan spoke and he saw the quick stiffening of her shoulders and the almost imperceptible tightening of her mouth. His eyes narrowed and he stalked to her side, listening for and hearing her quickened pulse and fast breath. Under his scrutiny, she paled visibly.

"I saw Papa, Mama. He’s not dead."

"That’s ridiculous, Nathan," the woman scoffed with forced dismissal. "You are well aware that your father, may he rest in peace, passed on almost a year ago."

Large brown eyes so like his mother’s lifted and met hers across the table. The ragged edge of hope was prominent in them, enlarging them, begging for a truth that would never come.

"Are…are you sure, Mama? That Papa died, I mean. Maybe you were wrong. Maybe he was just hurt and couldn’t come home to us. Maybe – "

"That’s enough, Nathan!" Miranda pushed herself away from the table and stood up quickly, visibly shaken. She gripped the table until her knuckles turned white. "He died, Nathan. He died and we buried him. I will not listen to this…this…fantasy you’ve concocted. Are you trying to hurt me?"

"No!" the boy vehemently denied, obviously upset and growing more and more so as he tried to convince his mother of what he saw. "No, Mama. I would never…I saw him, Mama. I did. But he ran away. I called to him but he ran away."

Miranda was flustered and frantic. "You were confused. You don’t know what you saw. You couldn’t… No. It was dark. I’ve told you not to stay out after dark. You saw a stranger. It was not your father. It couldn’t be."

"It was, Mama. I saw him. But…"

"But what, Nathan?" The boy didn’t speak right away and Miranda asked again, her voice bordering on hysterical. "But what, Nathan?"

"Well…at first…I thought I saw…." He took a deep breath and finished in a rush of confusion. "There was something wrong with his face. It was…bumpy. But it went away so I thought it was the shadows. It was dark. But it was Papa, Mama. He’s alive!"

An eerie calm descended on Miranda as she stared at her son. Her face expressionless, she just stood and stared. Then she calmly stepped around the table and went to her son. She ran a hand over his head in a gentle caress but Spike saw it. Buffy saw it.

There was cold deadness in her eyes.

As if the conversation had not taken place, Miranda reached for Nathan’s almost empty glass on the table. "I’ll get you some more milk, dear."

"But…Mama?"

Miranda didn’t turn back to her child. She disappeared through the doorway that led to the kitchen.

Separated by a table, the Slayer and vampire locked eyes for a long minute. A sense of impending doom weighed heavily in the room and as insubstantial as they were, they weren’t exempt from feeling its suffocating presence.

"This is not good on a large scale, Spike. Did you see her face? Man, I hate this!" The frustration was eating at her, as was the sinking feeling of helplessness. She was a doer. A fighter. A righter of wrongs and protector of the innocent. But in this she was only spectator. The deed had already been done, the battle lost, the wrong wrung, the innocent…dead. And it hurt her more than she could ever say, seeing him sitting there, a lonely, confused little boy. Time had not yet run out on him in this time. But it would. It had.

There was absolutely nothing Buffy could do to change that.

Miranda reentered the room with a full glass of milk in her hand. A wasteland of glacial ice chilled her eyes. It was the coldest thing Buffy had ever seen.

Laying the glass down next to Nathan’s half-full plate, she told him, "Drink your milk, dear."

Miserable and anxious to please, he picked up the full glass and took a long drink. By the time he’d set the glass back down, his mother had reclaimed her seat at the head of the table. He took a breath to plead his case once again but Miranda spoke first, overriding him.

"I’m going to tell you a secret, Nathan. It is something I had hoped to wait to tell you until you were much older, but obviously your actions this evening have left me with little choice. I did not lie to you. Your father did die one year ago."

Nathan shook his head and tried to interrupt, but she didn’t let him.

"He died. It’s true. But you were not mistaken. It was your father you saw in the woods. And it wasn’t. Your father is a vampire, Nathan."

Buffy and Spike were stunned. The casual disregard with which she spoke was bad enough, but to just…blurt it out like that to a child that had no hope of comprehending the meaning of it all. It was beyond cruel. But Nathan didn’t look upset. He looked surprised and confused, but he also looked…tired. He had an elbow on the table, probably something that wasn’t allowed in this strict household, but Miranda didn’t correct him. And when he rested his head in his tiny palm and stared at his mother, she just kept coldly relating the facts.

She may as well have been reciting a dissertation on the proper procedure for baking bread with as much emotion was in her voice.

"He is undead, Nathan, a demon in a man’s body. The demon is evil. Devil’s spawn. An abomination. But your father is there too. His memories. His personality. His mind. They are all there and they are in control of the demon. Most of the time. Your father drinks blood, you see. That is how he survives. That blood is what keeps the demon in check. With it, he is able to be the man that I fell in love with. That is paramount. His love for me and mine for him. That has not changed. And he speaks of you, Nathan, every time I go to him. He loves you."

Buffy was beyond worried. Something was wrong. Not only with Nathan, who was falling asleep at the table, but with her. She felt…odd. Off. Dreamy and floating but at the same time so very, very sleepy. Something was terribly, terribly wrong. Mostly because it felt so good. She raised a hand, reaching out to Spike, but stopped when it seemed to float prettily in front of her. So she stared at it for a while. Stared and floated and listened to the drone of Miranda’s words. Pretty music in the swishing background.

"You saw the demon. The bumpy forehead you mentioned was the face of the demon. When he doesn’t feed regularly he loses control over it and has to hunt. It drives him. The hunger is so intense. He feeds on the creatures of the forest. I try to help. It’s my duty as his wife to do what I can. The blood is the key. With the blood he is your father. The man I married. Without it…he is nothing that can be understood. He needs the blood."

Spike was mesmerized by the story Miranda was telling. She was speaking of his kind. And she was so totally off her bird it was laughable. So he laughed. And he tried to share the joke with Buffy, but when he turned his head to look at her – and…why was the room spinning? – she wasn’t there. Nathan had collapsed on the table. That couldn’t be good, he thought, but he couldn’t remember why. Staggering a little, he backed away from the table. Oh…there she is. Why is she on the floor? Why is she sleeping?

"Buffy?" His words were slurred and he snorted at the funny sound of her name on his lips. "Bu…ffy. C’mon, Slayer…. Huh…. Slay-er. Slay her. Wanna slay her, Slayer? What’s wrong with you? Your all…lyin’ down."

"I can see now, Nathan, that I have been remiss in more than just my handling of you. It’s so clear. There is no other way."

By the end, there was no one to hear Miranda’s precisely and coldly spoken words. Nathan was unconscious at the table. Buffy was unconscious next to the table. And after one last, shuffled step, Spike crashed to the floor, one hand outstretched towards his Slayer.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Her head was pounding. Her mouth felt like a whole field of cotton had sprouted in it. She was freezing – wherever she was, it was cold. And she was blind. It wasn’t darkness; it was the absolute absence of light. A whole different thing altogether. Her body felt strange. Disconnected. Combined with the lack of sensory input from her eyes, it robbed her of the ability to determine if she was standing or lying down…or flipped upside down hanging from the ceiling, for that matter. An agonized moan slipped past her lips – but she heard it. As confused and disoriented as she was, adding to the fear over the sudden lack of sight, just hearing her own moan was a good thing.

"Buffy, luv, you there?" Spike’s voice was hoarse and scratchy, like pieces of sandpaper rubbing together.

"Um…yeah. Think so, anyway. Spike…I can’t see." The admission was hard. It was a weakness that she didn’t think she could afford to have.

"You too, then. Right." There was relief in his voice. Waking up just minutes ago, he’d been shocked by the darkness. It affected him more than he could ever have guessed. He was a vampire, a creature of the night. His sight was hyper sensitive. Twilight was like day to vampires. Shadows were his home. But this was different. There was just…nothing. And it bothered him on an elemental level.

But Buffy was having the same problem, so he hadn’t been blinded. Unless they’d both been blinded…but there was no reason to rush to that horrible conclusion.

"What happened?" Buffy asked. "I remember listening to Miranda, then it gets foggy."

"Yeah. Tends to happen when you’re drugged."

"Drugged? What? Spike, that’s not possible. Christmas past ghosty stuff, remember? We’re not really here."

"That may be, but we were drugged. Laudanum I’d wager. Was the drug of choice back then. Used on everything from headaches to saw jobs. Opiate based. Right nasty stuff, but effective."

"The what’s what in the history of narcotics is nice, Spike, but it doesn’t explain how or why we were affected. Or where we are. Can you see anything at all?"

"If I could, you think I’d be lyin’ here? Woulda gotten us outta here already."

"Right. Sight gone, ego intact. Good to know."

Her sarcastic drawl amused him. It served to buoy his confidence. "May not be able to see, but I can tell we’re underground. Can smell the earth and damp. No mistakin’ it."

"Well that’s just great. You’re feeling right at home, then. I’m happy for you. Do you think we can get out of here now? I’m cold." She moved to rise from the floor. And couldn’t. Thinking it was just a side effect from the drugs in her system, she tried again, concentrating hard this time. With the same effect. It felt almost like something was holding her down. "Damn it. Spike, I can’t move."

The vampire tried to roll over, tried to get to her side, but had no more luck in getting his arms and legs to work than she had. "Oh, bloody hell."

Sighing deeply, trying not to give into the tendrils of panic that were threading through her, she tried again. But she couldn’t do so much as twitch a finger. "Is this an effect of the latinum?"

"Laudanum, pet, and no. If it’s worn off enough for us to rise and not shine, it wouldn’t be keepin’ us kissin’ the dirt. This is somethin’ else." A weak moan echoed back to him and he frowned. "You alright, Buffy? Are you hurtin’?"

Horror reared its ugly and ever-present head and Buffy squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Unfortunately, closing your eyes on unmitigated darkness to block the sounds echoing in your head is never a successful course of action. "That wasn’t me, Spike." The admission was ripped from the tortured girl’s throat. "Oh, God. It wasn’t me."

Realization dawned and Spike could only stare at the black around him, cursing the Carr House and all of its ugly secrets.

"Mama?" It was a whisper of sound in silence. The barest scratch of a twig on a wintry window.

"Mama? Are you there? What’s happening, Mama?"

Buffy agonized over the tiny voice of the scared little boy. Nathan was trapped in a black hole, and though not currently alone, he had been during the live version of this sadistic scenario. And nothing Buffy could do would ever make that not true.

They were living it. There was nothing they could do to deny it or make it not be true.

"Mama? I’m scared. Please, Mama, what’s happening? Where am I? I can’t see, Mama. It’s dark. I’m cold, Mama! Help me! Mama!"

Buffy couldn’t speak. Spike was also silent. They couldn’t comfort the child. They couldn’t silence his fears. They couldn’t speak of their own understanding that it would never get better. They couldn’t talk over the desperation of a child, not even to recognize that it would only get worse. For all their combined strength, they couldn’t even draw comfort from one another, almost didn’t want to. If a nine-year-old boy were to suffer the unspeakable torture of being utterly alone in this dank hole, they would listen and pay attention to what Nathan was showing them. What they needed to see.

"Mama? Where are you? I don’t understand? What did I do wrong, Mama? MAMA?!"

The hysteria was rising in Nathan’s voice, the fear palpable in the room. Spike could hear it, taste it in the air. The little boy’s heart was pounding, he was crying, then whimpering, then screaming, then whimpering, then sobbing, then sleeping, then waking, then crying, then whimpering all over again. Spike didn’t know how long it went on. Time meant less than nothing. He didn’t know how long Buffy had been crying along with Nathan.

But she was.

Spike didn’t know what was worse, listening to the wails of the child or the almost silent sobs of the woman that meant more to him than his own unlife. But another sound was filtering through to his consciousness. A familiar sound. A sound that he’d heard on and off for over a hundred years but never, not once in all that time, had he had this particular perspective on it. It was so grossly out of place that he almost didn’t credit it as fact. But after several long minutes, he could ignore the stark truth no longer.

His heart was beating.

More than beating, it was pounding in his dead chest like a freight train pounded down the tracks. Faster and faster and louder and louder, Spike tried to shake his head to clear it of what obviously nothing more than an illusion…or hallucination…or something. It had to be, because vampire hearts do not beat. Ever.

But his did. And it was. And it scared the hell out of him.

"Buffy," he whispered to the dark, "I…there’s somethin’ wrong."

The laugh that ricocheted off of the earthen walls was ugly and harsh. "Something wrong?" There was hysteria in her shrill voice. "You’re kidding, right? Because I thought being trapped in this hole, unable to do anything but listen to a little boy being tortured, knowing what’s coming next and not being able to stop it, was already pretty large with the wrongness. But hey, you’re a vampire, so it’s possible my idea of wrong and yours are on totally different planes of existence. So tell me, Spike, what else? What’s wrong now?"

A sharp pain tightened on his chest. He tried not to let her callous words bother him, but he was glad she couldn’t see his face. He wouldn’t have been able to hide the hurt he knew was in his eyes. It wasn’t fair, her hostility towards him. But he understood the reasons behind it. Not that it was any easier or less painful with the understanding, but it allowed him to answer her.

"My heart, Slayer. It’s beatin’."

For a long minute the only sounds in the room were the haunting whimpers of the boy. Finally, incredulously, Buffy spoke. "Your heart is beating? Did you just say your heart is beating? Are you sure?"

He rolled his eyes and his frustration slipped into his voice. "Am I sure?" he sniped. "A loud thump-thump throbbing in a chest that’s supposed to be cold and quiet inn’t exactly somethin’ easy to mistake. Yeah, I’m bleedin’ sure."

"What the hell is going on here? I don’t understand. We’re not really here, but we get drugged, pass out, wake up here, and now your heart is beating? What the hell is going on?"

"You figure it out, you let me know. Because I have no soddin’ idea."

A creak of a door was the only warning they had before a warm draft of air slid over them and the smell of lilac tickled their nostrils. The dark was relentless, but the new presence in the room was easily felt. And not just by the Slayer and Vampire.

"Mama! You’ve come! Help me, Mama. Please? I don’t understand. What did I do? Tell me what I did. Why can’t I see, Mama? What’s happening?"

The silence that echoed back at the frantic questions and pleas was doubly tragic because the woman that should be her son’s staunchest supporter and fiercest defender was responsible for it all. And Miranda said not one word.

"Mama?" The voice was no longer loud and pleading, but soft and small. Almost non-existent. "Help me. Please? I’ll be good. I promise. I’ll be good from now on."

The loudest silence Buffy had ever heard was in the aftermath of that little boy’s final promise to a mother who had no intention of being merciful. But the silence was not a long one. And hell descended on a pitch-black room.

Nathan Morgan shrieked in pain. Buffy and Spike jumped at the shrill sound and sucked in quick, surprised gasps at their own pain. A slicing hot pain that stabbed into both of them.

"Spike! My leg!"

"Buffy! Bloody hell, what the fuck? You feelin’ it too? Left leg, inside thigh? Shit!"

"Yes," she hissed, trying to lock down her fear at the sharp pain in her left leg that was even now abating to a hot ache. Her arms and legs started tingling – and it was spreading. Like she’d been sitting wrong and her extremities had fallen asleep. She started feeling lightheaded, too, and thoughts were harder to make sense of. Nauseated, cold, trembling, Buffy closed her eyes in an effort to will herself better. Not knowing exactly what was wrong, but knowing it was very, very bad.

Spike’s newly beating heart raced, tripped, and thudded painfully in his chest. And he, just like Buffy, felt the tingling, stinging feeling in his arms and legs, felt the floating feeling in his head. But he, unlike Buffy, knew exactly what was happening to him. To them. And when he figured it out, everything else fell into place as well.

Spike was bleeding to death.

He should know. He’d done it before. And the feeling was exactly the same. The smack of irony was less painful than the cut on his leg, but he felt it, regardless. Listening to his heart slow gradually, sputter a bit and throb on some more, he was completely robbed of even the will to struggle. And it was all so tragically clear to him.

They were dying. He, Buffy, and Nathan were all dying. Together.

"First hand." The will to speak was strong but his words were weak. He didn’t even know if Buffy heard them. But he had to say them. "He said we’d see it first hand. Bleedin’ blue ball of energy told us. Said…first hand…said we’d see…Miranda…she…..Buffy…love……"

His words trailed off into a whisper of nothing as he passed out. The last thing he heard was a final beat of his dead heart. And with nothing more – not even a sigh – Spike died. Again.

Buffy was weak and dying when she felt him go. She felt him leave her. A lone tear slipped past closed lids. She’d heard him. At the end, she’d heard him. Her heart broke even as it slowed to a stop. But she couldn’t force words from her throat, no matter how hard she tried to tell him she loved him. All that she had were fragmented thoughts and distorted guilt. Nathan, why? You’re killing us. Spike. Love…you.

Nathan Morgan died in a cold, black room. He died in darkness. Alone. Confused. Terrified. The one person who was supposed to protect him from everything had betrayed him in the worst way imaginable. The person that had given him life had murdered him.

He showed Buffy and Spike exactly what had happened, how it happened. Let them see. And it killed them all.

Haunt of the House

Part Nine

Deep in the recesses of a thick forest, a place where moonbeams dance to the ground in just the thinnest of shimmering threads, an owl perched on a high branch, surveying his kingdom, his home.  He was alert and watchful, and a little hungry, so he used extraordinary ears to listen intently for the sound of the softest rustle of a leaf along the littered floor beneath him.  Just the faintest squeak would tell him where his next meal was.

For all his attention, he neither saw nor heard the two figures blink into existence far below.  The first, with shocking blonde hair contrasting a jet-black wardrobe, appeared mere seconds before the smaller, female figure.  As if conjured out of thin air and with not even a whisper of a breeze to announce their arrival, the pair stood on a ribbon of bare earth and stared hard at their new surroundings. 

Good old Mr. Owl had no idea they were there.  To him, they were insubstantial.  When his patience was finally rewarded and his prey had been targeted, he dropped from the branch and spread silent wings to catch the air.  He swooped past the newly arrived couple with no idea that he wasn’t alone, no idea that a vampire and a Vampire Slayer saw the movement of his wings out of the corner of their eyes and had turned their heads to watch him fly away.  Even if they’d spoken, shouted at the top of their lungs, he wouldn’t have heard them.

They were anachronisms.  Misplaced in time.  To him, they didn’t exist.

Spike watched the owl soar silently into the darkness, feeling Buffy’s presence a few feet behind him.  He felt her but couldn’t look at her, not because he couldn’t bear to see her pain and torment, but because he couldn’t let her see his.  But he needed to do something, so he reached into a pocket of his duster and pulled out his pack of smokes.  His hands trembled but she wouldn’t see them.  It was better that way.

That hellish hole, or wherever they had been during that bint-orchestrated sadistic romp was gone.  He’d heard his heart stop beating…again…then everything went black.  Then the scenery changed. 

The forest was back, surrounding them.  It was still dark – or dark again, he wasn’t sure which – and he saw thin shafts of moonlight dapple the forest floor.  That he could see at all was a good thing, reassuring, but he didn’t recognize the surrounding foliage.  They weren’t where they had been before.  They were still in the past, still being led around by a dead boy, but he had no clue exactly where they were.

Not that he cared, really.  They were alive.  More or less.  One thing he did know, the next time some nappied nipper tells him he was going to be shown events of the past first hand, he’d demand sloppy seconds instead.

He felt her.  Still he didn’t turn. 

It was within the realm of possibility that he could speak, say something, but for once the vampire that always had some quip or sarcastic rejoinder or pearly bit of wisdom had absolutely nothing to say.  So he stood in a forest that he’d never seen before and stared off into the darkness, trying to collect himself, trying to incorporate something he’d learned when he’d been…dying.

He felt her.  The tears he’d been struggling to contain mocked him, sliding past his lids to trickle down his cold cheeks.  And he thought about what he’d realized just a heartbeat ago.  Literally.

After she’d leapt to her death and saved the world, after he’d lived one hundred and forty-seven days without her, after she’d come back to the world she’d saved, finally came to him, he decided that before she got a chance to slip the constraints of mortality again, he’d die first – the dusty kind of death.  He’d decided that being selfish in this, in not wanting to continue un-living with the loss of her again, was an acceptable course of action for a vampire without a soul.  But now he realized that there was something infinitely worse than existing with her loss.

Dying, slipping away, knowing that her death would be cold and lonely with no one to tell her that it would be alright, to calm her fears or dry her tears, that was worse.  Going first was worse.  Now he knew.

She may die in battle, probably would, but she may live to a ripe old age.  Didn’t matter.  Spike would never let her go alone.  He’d be there.  He’d cope with her loss again.  He’d curse life, real living and dying life, and he’d hide those curses behind his love for her while he held her hand, brushed a strand of hair off her forehead, and kissed her goodbye.

Then he’d stake himself.  Or greet the sun.  But he would wage war on hell itself before he let her die alone.

He felt her.  Then he heard her move.  Slowly at first, stepping carefully towards him.  A branch cracked under her foot.  A dried up leaf disintegrated upon contact.  He heard it.  And he dashed away the tears on his cheeks and sucked in a breath, struggling to find that part of himself that could deal with anything with a wink or a show of fang.

“Where are we?”

Her voice was soft, barely above a whisper.  But the lack of volume didn’t hide the horror she’d experienced.  Nor did it mask the resolve and determination.  She was the Slayer.  In everything, she was the Slayer.

He didn’t turn to look at her; he just shook his head and shrugged.

“When are we?”

That was the question of the day…or night…or whatever.  He managed to rumble out a low, “Still in the past.”

“I know, but when?  Why?  What else could Nathan show us?  He’s…”

“Dead.” He finished her sentence, taking that burden as his own.

“Yeah.  But I don't want to talk about that right now.  I...can't.”

 There was nothing to say to that.  He’d never agreed with her more.

“So why are we still here?” she asked.  It was a rhetorical question.  They had been brought back to see what happened to Nathan.  What else could there possibly be to see after he’d been mur…after he’d died? 

She forced her mind to other things.  “Is…?  Your heart…is it still beating?” 

Her small hand rested on his back and he sighed at the pleasure of it.  And suddenly he was nearly bowled over with the need to see her standing in front of him.  He turned, and fell in love with her all over again. 

“No,” he said, forcing a wry smile to his face.  Tapping his chest, he said, “Quiet as a tomb, pet.  But see, what I find really interestin’, is that yours inn’t either.”

Buffy didn’t question how he knew or if he was teasing her, she could see that he wasn’t.  His eyes were grave.  Her hands flew to her throat in search of a non-existent pulse and her eyes flew wide in surprise.  “Oh, God.  I’m…it’s…I’m…”

“I think ‘dead’ is the word you’re lookin’ for.”

For such a momentous declaration, Spike seemed remarkably unaffected by it, amused even, but he was more than vaguely familiar with deadness.  Not that that did anything to calm Buffy’s distress, in fact, his cavalier attitude ticked her off.  On top of the major wiggins over her non-beating heart, she wasn’t feeling terribly gracious.

“I’m glad you’re taking it so well, Spike.  Somehow I can’t seem to be all, ‘Dead again?  Oh well, third time’s the charm.’  Now, if you have anything resembling useful information, feel free to wow me with your insight, if not, just shut the hell up!”

She tried to spin away and storm off, but two vice-like hands gripped her shoulders and prevented her escape.  His voice was low and rough, and unlike before, fierce with emotion.  “You’re not dead, woman!  You think I’d be standin’ here, chattin’ you up like nothin’ was botherin’ me if you were?  You bloody well know better.  You didn’t die in that soddin’ hole.  I didn’t die.  Nathan died.” 

He sighed deeply and loosened his grip on her arms…a little…when she winced slightly.  His voice was more composed when he continued.  “Think, Buffy.  He told us we’d see what happened to him first hand.  Woulda been nice if he’d been more bleedin’ specific, as we seem to be more than seein’ it; we’re living and dying it, but there it is.  That’s why we had that wicked trip to laudanum land, that’s why we…in the dark…” He trailed off, not wanting to say something that would bring her back to the horror.  Instead he explained, “That heartbeat of mine wasn’t mine, it was his – so was yours at the time, I expect, but you’re used to havin’ the chug-a-lug in your chest so it didn’t seem different to you.  Now the shoe’s in the other ribcage, so to speak.”  His jaw snapped shut and she could see the muscles in his cheeks ripple at the pressure.  “Point is, we’re still bein’ shown.  My guess is, when he’s done with us, you’ll get that blood pressure of yours back.”

Buffy stared at the vampire holding her.  She didn’t say anything right away, just watched him watch her.  She was still upset, but for a different reason than before.  The peroxide pest had actually wowed her with his insight.  Sometimes that habit of his, the one where he had a tendency to see straight through to the heart of a matter, or to understand the way things were before she did really bothered her.  Come on, she was the Slayer.  She was the one that was supposed to figure out all the big nasties.  But often, he was just the smallest step ahead of her – not to mention the times he was more than small steps ahead.  It was…frustrating.  Right up until she remembered that they were a team, it was downright annoying.  But they were a team, and they worked well together.  And to be fair, since they’d been together, he had never lorded his abilities over her head.  Much.  When he did, it was usually to goad her into a response that inevitably ended…satisfactorily for both of them.

Her irritation melted away, concern over the lack of a pulse lessening a notch.

“And, ya know?  Imitation death…even less fun than the real thing.”  Her dry sarcasm tugged the corners of his mouth into a brief smile and he released his grip on her shoulders.   As he turned to scope out the area, she said, “Just so you know…if you’re wrong, I’m going to haunt you for the rest of your un-life.”

Spike stopped in his tracks and looked back at her.  She was teasing him.  He managed to muster up a sexually charged smirk and quirked an eyebrow.  “I know I’m irresistible, pet, but I appreciate the reminder that you can’t stay away from me.”

She rolled her eyes at him.  The normalcy of their banter went a long way in allowing her to pull herself back together.  To heal a bit from the tragedy they’d experienced.

Minutes later, they were walking through the woods.  Staying in one place rarely accomplished anything, so Buffy suggested they start working the area, moving in an ever-widening circle so they didn’t miss whatever Nathan wanted them to see next.  So far, he’d popped them into scenes either close to or directly in the area of what he wanted to show them, she was working on the assumption that this time would follow the same pattern.

When she caught a flicker of light through the trees, she knew she’d been right.  Pointing it out to Spike, they moved to intercept it.

It wasn’t a little blue ball of energy, it wasn’t a malevolent haunt, it was…a lantern.  An old fashioned, gas lantern.  And it was in Miranda’s hand as she made her way through the forest.  For the first time in her life, Buffy looked at a human being and sincerely thought that some people did deserve to be eaten. 

The irony of having a vampire on hand more than willing but unable to do the job was not lost on her.  Not to mention the fact that Miranda had, in fact, been eaten.  Though far, far too late to do her son any good.

Neither Spike nor Buffy made any comment, snarl, or growl when they saw her.  Sometimes emotions were just too deep seeded, too raw and jagged to express out loud.  They seethed, but they did it quietly.  Perhaps they just wanted to get through with whatever other horrors there were to be seen as quickly as possible, perhaps they didn’t want to waste even one more syllable on the contemptible woman.  Perhaps they were just tired.

Whatever it was, they followed her quietly, resigned to it.  She had the lantern in one hand and a satchel over her shoulder.  Miranda walked quickly and surely through the woods, like she knew exactly where she was going.  Every once in awhile she’d pause and look around, check out her surroundings, and then continue along. 

Somehow, when she reached a gaping hole in the earth – the mouth of a cave – and slipped inside, neither vampire nor Slayer was terribly surprised.  Miranda had, after all, been walking with purpose and had an obvious destination in mind.  And they had seen too much to be surprised by anything.

Or so they thought.

Following her into the darkness and moving further into the bowels of the earth, Buffy and Spike saw light up ahead.  Ducking and weaving around low-hanging rock, they finally reached the end and stepped into a large cavern just behind Miranda.

Several candles were lit, a chair and a bed were against one wall and dozens of books were piled high on the other side of the cave.  One table next to the books had a gas lamp glowing softly on top of it.  A gentle drip and plunk of water falling somewhere echoed in the room and Buffy noticed that there was another opening in the rock against the back.  Another tunnel.  The cavern was damp and cold, but curiously homey.  And even more appropriate for a vampire’s lair then Spike’s crypt.

Pacing the length of the cavern, walking back and forth and back, was Jacob Morgan.  He must have noticed the presence of his wife, but hadn’t so much as flicked a glance in her direction.  He looked…concerned. 

“Jacob,” Miranda’s soft voice bounced off the walls as she hailed her husband.

“He saw me.”

Buffy and Spike watched the scene unfold.  Grim and disgusted, they hoped for something – anything – to make sense of everything they’d seen so far.

“Yes,” Miranda answered him, crossing the cavern and setting her lantern down on a small table next to the chair.  She shrugged the satchel off her shoulder and set it carefully down next to the chair.  “He told me about it at dinner last night.”

“He wasn’t supposed to be there, my love.  I wouldn’t have…” Jacob slid a tortured glance to his wife.  “I would have stayed away from the house had I known.  Did he…?  What did he see, exactly?”

Miranda crossed the room and laid a gentle hand on her husbands’ forehead.  The emotion in her eyes was unmistakable.  It turned Buffy’s stomach.  There had been none for her son.

“He saw the demon, my love.  He told me.  I was able to convince him that he was mistaken.  It was dark.  He admitted as much.  I explained that the night played tricks on his eyes.  You were dead.  Had been for a year.”

Jacob looked so guilty, so torn up about what his son had been through.  “And he believed you?”

“It took awhile, but yes.  He believed me.”

“Perhaps it is time to tell him the truth.  Perhaps we were wrong in keeping it from – ”

“No.”  Miranda’s voice brooked no argument.  “He is but a child, my beloved.  He would not understand and could not keep the secret even if he did.  When he left for school this morning, he was content in the knowledge that he had been mistaken about your identity and I am certain that he will not break the rule about being in the house before the sun sets ever again.”

Buffy glanced at Spike and noticed he was staring at her.  She knew her face was twisted in revulsion over the combination of sick lies and macabre truths that fell carelessly from the bitch’s lips.  There had been no school for Nathan that day, or any day after, for that matter.  As for the rule of being in before dark... 

Miranda's certainty was wretchedly justified.

“He must have seen this,” she whispered to him – though why she bothered to speak softly was beyond her.  “He was here, after he’d died.  He saw this and didn’t understand.”

Spike didn’t confirm her statement, but the agreement was in his eyes.  For them to be there, Nathan must have seen it, in whatever form he had become.  “He had school the day after.  Today.  That’s why she called out the search team.  Bint dinn’t want to answer questions ‘bout why he wasn’t in school.”

“Well,” she said on a sigh, “at least now we know why she did what she did to him.  She didn't want to risk him telling anyone about his father.  The bitch.”

Spike wasn’t looking at her anymore, he was watching Miranda walk back to the discarded satchel and pull out a corked bottle.  The contents inside were hidden from view behind the green glass, but he had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach when he saw it.  A feeling that he hoped to hell was wrong.  He mumbled a non-committal, “Yeah,” as he studied Miranda.

“You should have told me that the bloodlust was growing, Jacob,” Miranda was saying as she uncovered the bottle and removed it from the bag.  “The demon hunted last night.  You could have told me, come to me.  I could have helped.  I want to help.”

Jacob stared into the flame of one of the candles on the small table next to the bed.  His back was to his wife, so she didn’t see his features twist in emotional pain.  Didn’t see him close his eyes against her words.  Buffy and Spike saw it.  Their eyes narrowed as they watched the vampire’s feelings play across his face.  Something danced at the edge of Buffy’s mind, something that bothered her, but she couldn’t grasp what it was.  It was just a nebulous tugging feeling, telling her that she was missing something important.  But Jacob spoke and she gave up trying to pin down the feeling to follow his words.

“I saw searchers in the forest tonight.  There’s been another, hasn’t there?”

Miranda stiffened.  “Yes.  Sometime last night.  I heard the news in town today.  They have been searching all day.  But I don’t want to talk about that, beloved.  I know how it upsets you.”

She met her husband in the middle of the room after setting the bottle down and lifted a hand to the worried frown marring his features.  Smoothing away the lines, she kissed his lips and wrapped her arms around him.  He embraced her, resting his chin on the top of her head, but his eyes remained troubled.

“It is upsetting, darling,” Jacob murmured.  “There is a blight on the town.  This last is the twenty-third victim in a year.”  He eased away from his wife’s arms, clearly agitated, and resumed his pacing.  “I’ve searched, Miranda.  I’ve tried to find the creature responsible.  I felt it was my duty.  I was smote by this…condition…but it is not without its meager compensations.  It should be child’s play, tracking a mindless beast, but I have had no success!”

“Please, husband, do not work yourself into a frenzy.  You know what happens when you do.”  Miranda’s placating voice was calm and rational.

His hazel eyes were tortured when he glanced at his wife.  “Do not concern yourself overly, dearest.  I am in complete control of myself.”

Something dangerous flared briefly in Miranda’s eyes and there was a new firmness in her voice as she contradicted him.  “That…demon is not you, Jacob.  Do not talk as if you were one.  You know how it bothers me to hear you speak so.”

Jacob looked as if he was going to say something, but he stopped.  Spike, as a fellow member of the ‘undead man walking’ club, had a sneaking suspicion Jacob was going to correct his wife’s erroneous assumptions about the true nature of vampires, but changed his mind before he began.

“I have seen the tracks, my love,” Jacob said instead, “surrounding the area where each body has been found.  I caught the scent.  I’ve even followed the creature into the mountains on more than one occasion, but the ground is rock and the cat is wily.  I loose both track and scent before I can find her den.  Still she feeds on the town when her stomach rumbles.  It makes no sense!  There is plenty of wildlife in these woods.  She should have no need to taste the flesh of humans!  She should fear them.”

The Slayer’s jaw dropped open at the pack of smoothly spoken lies, so carefully and concisely laid out there.  It was a joke, a horrible, tragic, and by no means funny joke.

“Oh, please!”  Buffy’s irritated voice rose in anger and covered Miranda’s response.  She just couldn’t stay silent any longer.  “He’s lying!”  She spun on Spike and tossed a hand up, motioning to Jacob.  “Can you believe this?  He’s blaming a cougar for the people that he killed!  And that bitch,” she pointed an accusing finger at Miranda, “don’t even get me started!  Nathan was the twenty-third victim, Spike, remember?  Ida told us he was.  Couldn’t help but notice Miranda conveniently failed to mention the name of the person the search team was looking for!  Between the two of them, this was one fucked up family.”

Spike didn’t say anything; he was staring at Jacob intently, watching all of his responses, cataloguing even the barest flicker of expression or tightening of muscle.  He was bothered by what he was seeing, but not for the same reasons Buffy was.  Still…he wasn’t sure…

“Miranda, I do not want you to come to me any longer.  It is not safe, darling, and I could not bear the thought of anything happening to either you or our son.”

The woman’s eyes went wide at her husband’s words.  She shook her head vehemently.  “Do not speak so, Jacob.  I can assure you nothing will happen to me.  I pray you not ask me to stay away from you, my heart.”

The vampire broke away from her clinging arms and his temper – temper born from concern – burst forth.  “Damn it, wife, I can not lose you!  You will heed me!”

She gasped in horror at the misshapen features on her husband’s face.  In his heightened state of emotion, his game face had emerged.  Miranda rushed to the table and grabbed up the bottle she’d brought along with her. 

Drawing herself up, she glared at Jacob recklessly.  Gone was the tenderness in her eyes.  Once again Buffy and Spike caught a glimpse of the cold and calculating woman who had destroyed her son’s life.

“Be gone, Devil’s spawn,” she hissed angrily.  “You have no sway here.  Take this,” she held the bottle out to him, “and drink.  You are an abomination.  Take the blood you crave and return my husband to me!”

Demon-gold eyes pinned the small woman, then dropped to the bottle in her hand.  Miranda trembled only slightly in fear as she uncorked the bottle and brought it closer to Jacob.  The scent of blood permeated the room and Spike breathed it in, his own hunger stirring in response.

That’s when he knew his fears had been justified.

Jacob took the bottle out of his wife’s hand and brought the mouth to his lips.  He drank thirstily but with gentility, then turned to set it down next to him.  When he faced his wife again, the fangs and ridges were gone.  Almost embarrassed, his eyes begged her for forgiveness.

She granted it by stepping into his arms.

“You are too kind to me, my love,” he muttered, burying his face in her hair.  “You do not need to bring me this cursed sustenance, but you do.  I know it must be difficult for you to obtain it.”

“It is not kindness, beloved.  It is duty.  As your wife, it is my job to see to your needs.  And the difficulties are minimal.  Fortunately, our neighbors, the Hanson’s, have a healthy herd of cattle.  They feel minimal pain and are none the worse for the small amounts I take from them now and again.”

Spike’s stomach pitched and fell sharply.  His jaw dropped open.  His eyes grew wide in disbelief.  He watched in stunned amazement as Jacob accepted his wife’s words at face value and pressed a caring kiss to her willing lips.  Then he spun and – without a word to Buffy – stalked out of the cave.

Buffy, frowning and confused, watched him go.  That feeling of being just a touch out of the loop was back again.  She stared hard at Jacob, then at Miranda.  Something wasn’t…

Oh, God.

The Slayer ran after the vampire.

He was just outside the cave, stalking back and forth.  Buffy almost barreled into him as she emerged from the tunnel.  When he turned away from her, wouldn’t look at her, she knew she was right.  She finally recognized what had been bothering her and it sickened her.

“No.”  She denied the unspoken truth vehemently, senselessly.  “She didn’t.  You’re wrong.”

Spike didn’t turn to her, didn’t say a word, just kept moving cagily back and forth.

Buffy felt the hysteria rising.  Felt her grasp on rationale slip.  “We’re wrong.  We’re missing something.  It’s not possible!”

It was the ‘we’ that stopped him in his tracks.  She had been a step behind him in figuring it out, but once she did, it was so horrible that she tried to deny it.  Tried to, but the truth was already there.  A part of her had already accepted it.  And it was tearing her up inside.

Slowly, knowing full well what he was doing, he turned and faced her.  He saw the tears in her eyes, tears that had not yet had the chance to fall.  She was being eaten alive by the horror of it all.  There was only one thing he could do for her now.

He brought his game face forward and grinned coldly at her.  “Of course it’s possible, Slayer.  Makes sense, too.  Waste not, want not, I always say.”

She hit him.  He knew she was going to.  She had to get rid of it, the rage, the pain.  It was the only way.  So he set himself up for it, knowing all along that she’d lash out at the only thing…person she could.  Him.

Advancing dangerously, she swung again.  “Damn you!  It’s not true!”

Spike’s head flew back and he winced at the force of the blow.  He managed to duck under the spin kick that was aimed at his head, but caught the uppercut and fell back into a tree.  He shook his head, then rolled away before she could lunge for him. 

“What’s the matter, Slayer?  Forget what he is?  What I am?  Of course it’s true.”

He goaded her, taunted her, and she fought him hard.  A kick to the head he didn’t see coming sent him reeling.  An elbow in the gut when he grabbed her from behind lifted him off his feet.  A flurry of jabs bled his nose and his lip.

“You son of a bitch!  I can’t do it!  I won’t do it!” 

The tears coursed down her cheeks and still she kept coming.  Her chest heaved in gasps of air as she grew tired and winded but she continued to throw punches and kicks.  Some he blocked, most he didn’t.

That was his gift to her.  The only one he had to offer.  The only one she needed right then.

Finally, it came out.  She had worked herself hard, had bruised and bloodied him, and finally it slipped past her lips.

“I can’t tell that little boy that his mother killed him to feed his blood to his father!”

Everything stopped.  Eerily, as if time itself was too horrified by the truth to continue on, the night around them grew silent.  No crickets chirped, no frogs croaked, no creepy crawlies crept and crawled.  Predators paused their hunt, the stars dimmed, the moon hid.

And deep in her chest, Buffy’s heart started beating again.  So it could shatter.

She sunk to her knees, tired hands covering her face, smothering the wracking sobs that were shaking her body.  Spike watched her with somber blue eyes.  The demon visage had served its purpose and he’d shed it quickly, gladly, when he saw she’d reached the breaking point.  Understanding her as no one else, he’d known she needed to pummel something.  Her release was in the physical, it always would be.  Now he had to give her space to let it all out and that, more than the vicious hits he took, cut him deeply and made him bleed.

Buffy Summers accepted comfort like she did everything else.  On her own terms.  Vampire feelings be damned.  He knew and accepted that about her.  While he waited, he straightened his disheveled clothing and wiped the blood from his face.  Christ, he hurt.  And he’d do it all again if she needed it.

Exhausted and drained, Buffy finally cried herself out.  It felt like she’d been sobbing for days, but she knew better.  Her hands hurt, her arms hurt, her heart hurt.  She remembered punishing Spike for…well, for being there.  For being a vampire.  She knew he’d let her do it.  He had even pushed her into it. 

As shamed as she was in her behavior, she knew he would never hold it against her, knew he’d never even mention it.  That was Spike. 

Dragging shuddering breaths into her raw lungs, she wiped the tears from her face.  It seemed like a good idea to stare intently at the ground, so she did.  Her emotions were spent, and when she finally managed to find her voice again, her words were cold and arid.

“She bled him and gave the blood to Jacob.  She lied to him.  She told him it was cow’s blood.  And he didn’t know the difference, did he?”

“No.”

Buffy nodded, turning over the meaning of that in her head.  “He didn’t know human blood when he tasted it.”

“No.”  It was hard for Spike, just waiting for Buffy to work it all out and put it into words.  He could have explained, could have told her everything he figured out as he’d watched Jacob in the cave, but some of it was so absurd, so out there, that unless she came to it on her own, she’d never believe any of it.  So he answered her when prompted and watched her carefully.

“He didn’t kill the people from town.  He couldn’t have.  He would have known the difference in the blood.”

Buffy glanced up at him and he could see the hope that she was wrong still clinging tenaciously in her eyes.  He had to destroy that hope.  He nodded gravely.

She looked away, her mind spinning crazily as pieces of that notorious puzzle fell into place.  Getting to her feet, she rubbed her damp palms on her pants.  “Jacob didn’t kill them.  He honestly thought it was a cougar.  There probably was one, but it was attracted to the…to the bodies.”

“Wouldn’t be too surprisin’, Buffy.  You see what this place was like.  Big cats are everywhere in this time.”

Slowly, she started walking back and forth in front of him, watching the ground intently again as she thought it all out.  “I knew it, too.  The minute I saw his face after he fed on the deer, I knew he couldn’t have killed those people.  It bugged me, but everything was moving so fast, I didn’t get a chance to figure out what was wrong.”

To that, Spike said nothing.

“Twenty-three women and children were killed.  That’s what Ida said.  Women and children.  That’s why there weren’t any men killed.  They would have been too heavy to move.  We were so wrong.  Miranda didn’t just kill Nathan.  She killed all of them.  She killed them – to feed him.”

She stopped and raised her head.  Eyes that had seen too many horrors, too many unexplainable things, and had still managed to shine were now dull and ancient at this atrocity.  Sighing deeply, she set her mouth in a thin, hard line and squared her shoulders.

“Miranda was human.  There isn’t a name for the kind of monster she was.  Jacob Morgan was a vampire.  He felt love, he felt guilt, he felt sorrow and pain.  Why?  How?  Did he have a soul?”

Spike stepped out of the shadows and joined his woman in the moonlight.  She had acclimated.  Still hurting, but able now to function as the Slayer, she’d forced herself to continue on. 

“That I don’t know,” he admitted.  “Watchin’ the poor sod, all I know was he wasn’t like any other of my kind I’ve ever seen, except…”

“Angel.”

The name hung in the air between them.  Spike studied her intently, waiting to see what she would do with it.  She raised her chin and met his eyes squarely, showing him her heart – battered and bruised, but still his.  He saw it.  The relief was overwhelming.

“We’re going to destroy her, Spike.”

The certainty with which she spoke brought the first smile in a good long while to Spike’s mouth.  “Bloody right we are.”

As if waiting for them to make that decision, the scenery changed around them.  Staring at each other, they didn’t even flinch at the suddenness of it, nor did they break eye contact.  Whatever else Nathan was to show them, it would have to wait for a minute.  There was something else vitally important that the Slayer and her vampire needed to do.

Coming together, closing the distance between them, each took one step forward.  Their bodies fit together perfectly as they stared deeply into each other’s eyes.  Spike dipped his head a bit; Buffy raised her chin a bit.  Each compromised slightly in who they were and what they were.  To be together it was necessary.

And neither one saw it as a sacrifice.

Their lips touched softly at first, then deeper, harder.  It didn’t matter any more that it wasn’t a good time or a good place.  The truth of the matter was, it never really did.  If you loved someone, you loved him.  And a vampire and a Slayer weren’t likely to get many ‘perfect’ places or ‘right’ times.  They had to make their own.

Their hands entwined at their sides; their bodies pressed closer.  Their tongues touched and they sought solace and comfort and love and passion – and found it all.  They found themselves in the kiss.  They gave themselves in the kiss.  Time stopped for them because they demanded it.

When they broke apart, finally, they had laid their ghosts to rest.  All that was left was a haunt.    And ‘rest’ wasn’t what they had in mind for her.

The night had given way to day and the blessed sounds of cars and trucks rumbling down a nearby road filtered through the trees around them.  They were back in the clearing where Nathan had been buried, back in their own time.

Buffy and Spike glanced around, both relieved that the scenic tour was over.  Tall trees shaded the area and beyond them the forest was no longer being blown and tossed about by a furious dead bitch with a monster of an attitude problem. 

“Home sweet home,” Spike drawled sarcastically.

“Oh yeah.  Now all that’s left is the making a dead woman deader bit.”

He grinned at her evilly.  “Sounds like a plan, luv.”

Buffy frowned a little.  “Well…that’s more of a priority of a plan.  I’m a little planless at the moment, actually.  Sure, we got the not-so-guided tour of the past, and now we know all those nifty ‘transgressions’ Nathan referred to.  Pretty sure the Mistress of Denial won’t be too quick to fess up to the deeds, though.”

“Hmm.  Good point.  Bint had a body, we could beat it out of her.  I miss baddies with bodies.”

Turning to look at Spike in surprise, seeing his wistful expression, Buffy tried to choke back a snort of amusement.  It seemed inappropriate after everything they’d seen.  But the problem was Spike looked so damn earnest.  Earnest and a little pouty that they couldn’t just chop off Miranda’s head or break her neck or something.

“Baddies with bodies?” she questioned him slowly, struggling not to give into the laughter that was threatening to burst forth.

“Well…yeah.  Somethin’ to sink a little teeth into.  You know.” 

Spike was staring at her like she’d fallen off her rocker.  She probably had.  She was grinning like a buffoon, after all.

“Oh come on, Slayer,” he grumbled, “don’t tell me you wouldn’t rather be back in Sunnyhell, increasin’ the town’s dust population or dealin’ with demon remains.  I know better.”

She just shook her head at him, amused and more hopeful than she’d been in a good long while.  They’d figure something out, they always did.  “Cheer up, Ken,” she teased, “if all else fails, we may just have to burn Barbie's Dreamhouse to the ground to get rid of our sadistic specter.”

The vampire perked up and sent a hopeful look in her direction.  “Really?  You’re not just sayin’ that?”

Rolling her eyes, she leaned over and picked up the comforter, tossing it to him.  “Come on.  I want to check out the house before the trade winds start blowing again.  Miranda sealed off the place before; I’m hoping she’s running too low on energy to keep us out by now.”

“Great,” Spike complained as she walked away.  “You are familiar with the fryin’ pan and fire analogy, aren’t you, pet?”

Buffy didn’t bother acknowledging his gloom and doomness.  She had a haunt to destroy.  And the one thing of which the Slayer was certain, Miranda would be destroyed.  By whatever means necessary.

TBC