Title: The Long Journey Into Darkness
Author: Crazy_Girl_Mary
Email: crazy_girl_mary@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: The two main characters are Joss', but I'm not stealin' I promise I'll give them back when I'm done.
Summary: A female is on the run from a killer, and he's not going to give up until he has her right where he wants her.
Pairings: Female/Male. This story has a female character a human, and a male vampire from the Buffyverse, but names are not used anywhere in the story. I did this so the reader could envision any characters they wanted. So if you have a thing for Willow/Spike, hey man it's them. There were two characters I had in mind when writing it and some subtle clues you may pick up may lead you to that conclusion, if you want to know who they really are then you can email me and I'll tell you.
Category: Angst.
Spoilers: None, complete AU, just a girl and a vampire.
Rating: NC-17 parts for sexual content, brutal torture, and character deaths.
Author's Comments: This is my latest work, and I think the fact that I've progressed as a writer shows. I'm probably more emotionally attached to this story as corny as it sounds but I still desperately want to know any thoughts, feelings, praises, and most of all criticisms, so please please let me know!

Part XXX: Supermodel Auction


“Well,” I say brushing a hand along the low bust of my tight corset and then pause to take an accentuated sip of champagne. “The way he tells it is that he was praying to the fashion gods for a fresh new face and I just stumbled into his store, wet, hung over, and wearing a shredded nightie from his summer 2001 line.” My story is received with laughter and toasted with more drinking. They always think it’s completely ludicrous. They think he found me at some posh Manhattan nightclub.

“So Billie,” an inebriated young starlet who’s had his eyes on me the whole night begins. “How did the Vogue shoot go yesterday?”

My answer is a simulation of what I have seen this past year in models. “God, you know those make-up and hair artists, so easy to please, and they could put me in a potato sack and the people would love it. Although, I think they put a little more effort into this cover then the previous two.” This answer draws more laughter and I take another deep sip of my wine. God, I’m bored, what I wouldn’t give for some damned action. This life is so dull, work, work, work, bump elbows, and more work. There is the occasional exotic vacation, but that usually entails some photo shoots too.

Who am I kidding; I know this life is easy. Those models who pretend it’s so strenuous and hard are on too many drugs, or aren’t on any. I say the things I know will please them because I want to stay in their good graces, I want to continue to make good money and pay good body guards and stay out of his reach. I know it’s probably useless, but it’s been another year without him and I’m surprisingly thankful to that. After I escaped I realized how life could be without strife and I really wanted to live.

The questions they ask me have been ones that I have answered in countless interviews, they know the answers, just want to see if I slip, if I mess up, they’re pretty faced scavengers and they can’t wait to see me fall so they can eat me and take my place on the food chain, like him in a way. “You’re obviously not built like other runway models, not as tall, not as skinny. Do you ever feel any pressure to measure up to them?” This question comes from a female, who is built like other models, tall and skinny, and would love to hear me answer yes, that I wished I looked like her.

“Not at all, you know I have individuality that sets me apart on the runway, people notice me because I am shorter and built more like the average woman, I also have breasts and they help to draw attention to my body as well,” I say laughing and the rest of the table laughs too.

“So are you really as superstitious as magazines say?” the young male eyeing me up asks curiously.

“No,” I say smiling, “I’m much more superstitious than people think,” I joke, and that elicits yet another roar of laughter. It’s so easy to keep them entertained.

“Here comes Armando!” the starlets shriek pointing behind me. I feel his small arms wrap around me.

Armando Miki, the fashion designer who I stumbled in on two years ago. He really was looking for a fresh new face, and I really was wearing his lingerie and he didn’t want to call the hospital or police about my wounds because he didn’t want to find out what kind of whore or criminal his fresh new face was. I really should be kind; he saved my life, and saved me from a lot of trouble. I gave him my fake name and he got a Florida license transfer from a fashion designer wannabe in the motor vehicles building.

He is a surprising six years younger then me, nineteen, one of the youngest fashion designers ever, but he started earlier thanks to a very rich family.

“Billie!” he croons in my ear, “How is your party going doll?”

“Just lovely,” I say and stand to kiss both his cheeks.

“The food is excellent yes?” he asks.

“Wonderful.”

“Armando, a few moments ago we were discussing who is expected to be here tonight to bid on this lovely little vixen, have you heard of anyone particularly exciting?” the guy asks holding out his wallet and winking at me. I smile. He doesn’t stand a chance with that little lump sum.

“Well, I haven’t really ever concerned myself with rumors. I just think it’s important that my girl has a wonderful time and that she can use her beauty and charisma to raise a lot of money for her charity.” Always so proper and pleasing, you should hear him curse up a storm when his fashions get a spot or he gets a yard short of purple silk lining.

I smile radiantly, “I heard that Michael Kearney was coming,” I gush. Kearney is an anonymous contributor that supposedly attends only the swankest of parties and events. I didn’t really hear that of course, but he’s so anonymous no one knows what he looks like anyway, so how will they know whether he comes or not. He’s all the talk in magazines and television and at socialite parties; everyone thinks they’ve seen him at one party or another. I think it’s all bullshit and that he isn’t even a real person but some rich computer geeks alter ego.

“Really?” the skinny woman gushes, “have you ever met him? He’s a great family friend.” She’s trying to drawl attention to herself again and it worked so I’m temporarily relieved of the burden of conversation.

I turn to Armando, “It’s about time to get dressed,” he says and whisks me off without time for a goodbye to the table of young Hollywood stars.

Once back stage he plops me in a makeup chair and passes me a joint. “I hate fucking Hollywood,” I whine.

“I know, I know, me too doll,” he soothes as he lights my drug and his own. He inhales deeply, “don’t worry angel, just this little charity thing and then we’ll go on a long vacation.”

I glare, “There’s no such thing as a vacation with you!”

He smiles, “You’re right. Well this date thing shouldn’t be that bad, I mean it’s not like you have to spread ‘em for the guy, just show him a good time ya know?”

“That’s easy for you to say, you don’t have to do it.”

“I wish I could, I’d love to have a handsome socialite pay loads of money to our charity just to take me out to an expensive dinner, maybe go to a club or two, but sadly,” he pouts, “I don’t think I’m in as high demand as you doll.”

I can’t stifle the laugh that breaks my angry face, “I guess it’s not that bad.”

“Right,” he says smiling, “Well we want something a little more sexy then denim don’t you think?” he asks frowning at my clothes.

“It’s a goddamned mini skirt and corset!” I say throwing the roach, “Jesus Armando what the fuck do you want from me?” I scream.

“Well for starters, tits and that ass wouldn’t hurt, I’ll trade ya,” he says pulling up his shirt to reveal his skin over bones tan chest. I just smile, I can never stay mad for long around him, “Kim!” he screams, “Step on it!”

Soon a short Asian woman with a black bob hair cut and a red smock with purple stockings appears carrying a martini and a makeup bag. “I guess you want me to work wonders with this hideous beast huh Armando?” she asks smiling at me. I turn towards the mirror and fluff my hair, which has flattened from a few hours of talking, dancing, and making appearances at my own party.

“See what you can do honey,” he says taking her drink. “I’ll send Stephan back in a few to do hair.”

“You want anything to drink?” Kim asks me as she places a little radio in my lap.

“Nothing,” I say as I turn on the radio and find a hot salsa station that seems to put a step in Kim’s work.

“Oh so we’re going to be disgruntled temperamental model tonight huh?” she asks smiling as she uses make up pads to wash off the previous make up in preparation for the new.

“I suppose so,” I say smiling, “I haven’t been her for a few days.”

“Have you picked out a dress yet?” she asks after a few minutes have passed and she has made the foundation for the makeup to sit on.

“No, Armando is supposed to do it,” I say, “I was just going to wear this.”

She smiles, “Armando!” she screams. “You really do have no fashion sense,” she mutters.

“Look who’s talking,” I reply and she just laughs.

Armando quickly appears from the other room, “How do we feel about pink?” he asks. “I always loved you in pink.”

“How about black?” I ask.

“Fuck Billie, always black with you!” he says and disappears.

While he’s gone Kim is sure to mention that she thinks black washes my skin out. “You’re the makeup artist, fucking fix it.”

She frowns and adds a medium brown to the top of my brow with a pink on top and a dark brown under my eye, then a little blush and red pouty lips. By the time Armando returns with a short black dress with a back open to the crack of the ass the makeup is done and he expresses his fondness. He has returned with Stephan who notes soft curls with some sparkling earrings will perfectly dress the rest of the picture. By the time it is done everyone agrees, although Armando still eyes the black vehemently thinking inside a softer color would bring out my dark eyes. I know him well, and I always know what he’s thinking.

Armando wants to keep me backstage until the announcement is made that the auction will start so I wait for a little over an hour. I brushed my teeth and angered Kim who had to reapply my lip-gloss; she put the makeup in a small black handbag and started to accompany me to the stage entrance.

“I think I can find the runway myself Kim, I mean I walk it every damned day.”

“Well,” she whispers, “I just wanted to tell you that Ronnie my assistant went out front to check the registry and Michael Kearney’s name is on the list, it’s just that the guards don’t remember seeing him.”

“Please,” I mutter. “These people will say anything.” I dismissed it but I knew Kim’s assistant Ronnie to be a very truthful down-home type of girl who had traveled everywhere with Armando and I for the past year.

“And now gentleman, here she is, Billie!” Armando announces in a childlike Spanish accent that is uniquely his.

I strut out onto the stage in that don’t fuck with me, gentle fawn mix of a walk that I’ve always seemed to have. I smile happily as Armando glances down at my feet and notices I’ve changed the strapped high heels he put on to a pair of black leather flip-flops. I know I’ll never hear the end of it.

He passes me the microphone and I look for the first time out into the sea of forgetful faces, “Hello gentleman!” The people actually invited to bid are only a small group between the twin catwalks holding bright pink cards with big blue numbers on them. The rest of the people are socialites still lingering from the previous party, their body guards, our body guards, and the media as a large with their flashing cameras and rolling videos.

I turn my attention to the small group of men who are willing to pay small fortunes to take me out on a date that I know won’t lead to anything. They might even know it too. I hear jazz music starting to drift lightly towards me from the carefully places speakers, “let’s get this show started shall we?”

Once started the bidding moves quicker then I can follow. I’m not as flattered as others would be, these men aren’t bidding on me, they’re bidding on the image, and not even completely on that, this is just another way to show they’re loaded, another trophy for the shelf. But I put on that happy sultry smile all the while. The bidding goes on for longer then I expect, close to an hour and starts to get ridiculous. In the end two men are head to head. It’s starting to get intense. The two men are brothers from an oil family, both filthy rich and resentful that they had to share. The older brother has refined gray hair and wisdom about him and looks nice enough. The younger brother looks like much more fun.

“I have four hundred thousand,” Armando coos happily into the microphone, “Do I have-“

I snatch the microphone from him, “Enough of this back and forth, to and fro,” I smile and look from man to man, “Do I have one million dollars?” I ask slowly, the awe echoes through the silent showroom. Even Armando looks shocked. I don’t feel like standing here anymore, everyone knew that was where it could end up I just didn’t want to wait. Both men seem out-bided and I smile, whose balls are bigger now? I wonder. I continue to glance from brother to brother perhaps one will feel the pressure and give; it’s tremendous fun watching them squirm. It’s for a good cause right?

My eyes are still watching the younger brother sweat, rumor has it he is really in love with me and the older brother just wants to deny him, but rumors will be rumors. The start of hushed whispers and shuffling feet drawl my eyes towards the back of the room a second before Armando’s hand touches my back, his finger points to the door where a man is gently leaning against the doorjamb with the bright colorful card in his hand but I already see him.

I gulp, the bright lights are shining and I can barely make out the outline of the man. Could this be the man of mystery? Could this be Michael Kearney? “Did you raise your card sir?” I question. The vast people between him and the runway begin to part like on television. Without words he slowly starts towards the stage. When he gets to the steps I can see his tanned skin, sandy blonde hair, and bright blue eyes. Our eyes meet and I feel an electric moment, he’s definitely attractive, far more then the brothers or anyone else at this clown show. He steps up next to me, “Yes, I did,” he answers the question I had forgotten I asked lightly enough for only Armando and me to hear.

“You did,” I say into the microphone, “well that’s nice,” I smile. Then to the crowd, “Anyone care to top it?” I ask. He’s a vampire, I can sense it, he’s too cool, too calm, not even breathing or so it seems. The audience is quiet but dying to know whom this strange but wealthy interloper is.

“Well there it is then,” I say wrapping my arm through the strangers, “Might I ask who is the benefactor of such a gracious contribution to my charity?”

“My name is Michael Kearney,” he says smiling like I’m the only one he’s addressing. So rumors are made true, the name definitely matches the man, his Irish lilt is strong, like he just jumped off the boat; and shit he’s a good-looking one.

I look to Armando and he smiles his approval, I bet he’s wishing he could go out on the date. “Well Michael, my name is Billie Knight, and I am very happy to meet you.” He smiles and gestures with his hand to lead me down the steps and out of the building. I lumber quickly down the steps since I’m not hindered by any pesky high heels, I always hated the things, and give all my socialite girlfriends double-cheek-kisses before we pass through the crowd and enter the lobby. Armando and a few guards shut the doors to obstruct the view to the masses.

“Down to business,” I say lightly turning to Michael.

“Excuse me?” he asks.

“The money Michael, one million dollars.”

He smiles, “Ah yes,” he gets out a check book, “What shall I make the check out too?”

“The Billie Knight Fund, it’s a college fund for underprivileged females,” I smile, “but I’m sure you knew that,” I lie.

“Yes,” he says and passes me the check. I hand it quickly to my assistant, “Thank you Maxwell,” I smile to Armando, who’s considerably happier for no apparent reason. “We’ll be at the Sunset Bay Club where the reservation is made. You don’t mind do you Michael?”

“No, not at all, no need to ruin a good reservation,” he answers politely.

My head body guard, a burly black man fitting the television description down to the black clothes and sunglasses at all times steps forward with a metal detector overbearing Michael easily. “There’s no need for that,” I scold, “I’m sure our benefactor is a perfect gentlemen.” I wink happily at him and he smiles back. He has no idea I’m on to him. “Well, let’s get going then,” I say cheerily and lead him out the doors.

There is one black limo at the front doors but the driver is not mine. Okay, I’ll play his way. “I have my cell phone boys,” I say. They’ll be following anyway. The driver opens the door but steps back to allow my partner to help me in and I express my gratitude. He climbs in next to me and the door is closed. Soon after the limo starts and we head towards the restaurant. He smiles with his arm resting behind my shoulders.

I frown and move away from him on the seat, “So I assume you heard the rumors and decided to find out the truth for yourself huh?”

He looks a little shocked but still reasonably happy. “You know, you heard the rumors about my house being covered with mirrors and my guards all being trained in special ancient battle tactics and weapons, wooden stakes perhaps, and you came to find out the truth for yourself?” He just smiles so I continue, “You can’t always believe what you read in magazines or hear through the grapevine.”

“I assure you,” he lilts through smiling lips, “I’m not one to base my thoughts and opinions on magazines or gossip.” I see the moment when his smile and his whole body language turns menacing, “I only process facts.” He snatches at my purse, “Fact one, you have three body guards trailing us right now, and two posted at the restaurant with an approximate time when we should arrive and explicit instructions should we not. Fact two, you always wear a transmitter. He pulls out a slim metal cigarette case, and since you don’t smoke cigarette’s I’m guessing this would be it.” He opens the case and I smile at the joints it contains, but it doesn’t fool him. He uses his fingernail to open the thin cover and reveal a state-of-the-art paper-thin transmitter. He smiles and throws it back in the bag. The car comes to red-light stop and I look over my shoulder and notice the van with my guards is only three cars back, I could easily get their attention by rattling the black windows or jumping out or something, too easily.

“You know two facts, that's impressive,” I say sarcastically.

He smiles that menacing vampire smile. “Can you please look over into the car next to us?” I follow his instructions and notice a family, a mother and father in the front seat and an older teenager and a young girl in the back seat. I shrug. The woman in the passenger front seat looks over at the limo and winks as if she is looking right through the black glass dead into my eyes, which is impossible.

“That woman, along with the driver and the man in the back work for me, the girl is an innocent and she will die if you do not follow my orders completely.”

I frown, “What makes you think I care about that girl?” I ask as the light finally changes and the car turns the opposite direction from us.

“Because I know you,” he answers smugly; the Irish lilt is no longer sexy. “Now pick up the phone and call your body guards and inform them that you have to skip your dinner and that you and your date are returning to your home, and tell him that you want the house empty when you get there. Empty.” He’s starting to get a little anxious not calm or nervous, in the middle.

He passes me the phone. “How do I know after I do this that the girl will be safe?” I ask.

“She won’t be safe, there are a few more instructions before she will be safe, but until then…” he clicks on a little television set and from a camera planted somewhere on the teenager in the back I get a perfect view of the sleepy little girl. I wonder who these people are and why she feels secure with them.

I nod and turn on the cell phone and I dial in the number, and after two rings it is answered. “Yes David,” I say cheerily, “I changed my mind about going to the restaurant…” in the middle of my sentence Michael places a typed page in my lap and I know immediately what it is. “…Yeah we’re just going to go back to my place and I don’t want anyone there, completely empty, and no surveillance, no tails okay… thank you.”

I hang up and throw the phone down and his smile broadens. The paper is a document I typed and printed from my personal computer containing secret phone codes only my bodyguards can translate.

“I see I’m considered an old friend,” he says arrogantly. Old friend is code for vampire. He caught me. I was going to say ‘my old friend and I would rather be alone’.

I know from here on out I am really alone. The guards know what goes on in the supernatural world but they also know I’m always pulling tantrums and wanting to be alone and I always use the codes when there is a problem.

I glance at the little girl now leaning her head against the car door, “What else?” I snap.

“A woman with a mission,” he lilts. “Disarm your transmitter.”

“I can’t,” I say.

“Yes you can,” he says, “You know how.”

“Yes, but they’ll know something is up.”

He smiles and pauses, “Twisted question, why would you admit that?” God damn his arrogance! “Why not just disarm it and let them know something is up? Are you looking forward to a night alone with me?” he asks only half sarcastically. He thinks I fear him. I’m way past fearing pretty much anything in my life… pretty much anything.

We pull up to the gates of my mansion. Why are we coming here? And since we are why would he want me to disarm my transmitter anyway? Maybe just to see whether I would disarm it and let the guards come or say something. Would he take that risk?

The separator opens and the driver requests the entrance code. Michael looks at me expectantly but I just keep my mouth shut and look the other way. He laughs and tells the driver my code, which is the date I met Armando. That date is so meaningful in my life in so many ways. It represents an illogical metamorphosis in my life from dead to living. How did he know this? How does he know any of this stuff?

I toss him a few dirty looks and he just smiles in return. Soon we’re up the winding driveway and parked at the front door to my mansion. The driver gets out and opens the door for me and I jump out still holding my bag and the paper with my codes. I get out a lighter and light the paper and drop it to the concrete while they watch. I’m positive it was only a copy, but I still like the symbolism. He just smiles like it’s all a big joke on me. “The access code and then the girl goes free,” he says.

The access code is only known by me, not even the security guards know it, and it is only activated when I am leaving the house for a long period of time. The regular security system codes change everyday and the guards keep track of that but the main code doesn’t have to change because it’s never been broken and never will be. They need me for this. It’s my birthday. Easy to guess right? Wrong, it’s my birthday, not Billie Knight’s birthday. No one, no one knows who I really am. Armando knows I’m not Billie, but he doesn’t know who I really am and he doesn’t care, he likes Billie, everyone does. Not that many people liked the real me, that’s why I have so much fun being her.

I recite the access code and his eyes twinkle as he punches it in. My feet stay rooted as he gestures for me to enter. “The girl,” I say.

He nods to the driver who takes out a cell phone and I don’t hear what he says because I return to the open limo door and look in at the television. The car has stopped and the driver answers a cell phone. The teenager is now holding the camera and pointing it to the appropriate places. They open the door and carry the little girl to the front door of her house, knock and run away. The camera remains as a woman and a police officer open the door and the woman is tearfully reunited with her sleeping child.

“Satisfied?” he asks from behind me.

“Not completely,” I answer, “but I haven’t eaten dinner so I’m bound to be moody.” He just laughs like a socialite and I’m so goddamned bored with them. He motions for the door and I enter. I haven’t invited him in but he seems too smart to overlook something like that.

“Well,” he says, “Maybe I’ll see you again.”

“What?” I ask, “You’re leaving? Just like that?” I was putting down my bags and slipping off my shoes ready for a fight or a good run. There are plenty of rooms in this house built for hiding and one, which requires a separate invitation, my bedroom, is on the third floor.

“That surprises you?” he asks smiling, but the evil is gone and the kind stranger is back.

“A little,” I admit, “But that’s only because I know from experience with your kind that there is always a trick, always a catch.”

He turns towards the limo and calls over his shoulder, “And I assure you this time is no different.” Then he’s in the car and gone.

What the fuck was that? Who the fuck does that guy think he is threatening me? I make sure the main access code is back on and I call the guys on their cell phones and tell them what the car looks like. They’ll have him before daybreak. “Oh, and don’t bother having anyone come back tonight,” I request, “The main system is on and I’m just gonna relax a little and go to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He thinks he’s so smart, fucking amateur; he has no idea who he messed with. But I will heed his warning and keep an eye out for him because I never saw a vamp that went through all that trouble or had all the information on me, and since he did he must have had a damn good reason. As I’m pouring a glass of wine and making a peanut butter and fluff on toast I wonder what that damn good reason is. It’s useless, I won’t know until it comes and there’s no need to worry about it now.

After eating I head up to my bedroom and smile at the memory of the earlier party before I auctioned myself off like old furniture. The young socialite who the tabloids has me recently engaged to was wondering if it was really true that my entire bedroom, walls and ceilings were lined with mirrors. “Of course not,” had been my reply then, but as I looked into my room I remembered that it might as well be, the canopy of the bed was lined with mirrors but that was for a much more enjoyable reason. The walls were pretty much covered with different mirrors of all shapes and sizes that I have collected over the years. I frown, I feel safe in New York, at my main house, which I rarely see these days, there are no mirrors.

These thoughts always lead me to drink and drug and I have no objections, this body has been reasonably kind to me but I never think to return the favor and this is no time for exceptions or new beginnings. I’ve had enough new beginnings to last two lifetimes. I hold the bottle of wine and my small purse, as I enter my spacious bathroom, not bothering to close the bathroom door. I’m actually alone for once and that’s refreshing.

While running the water I call Armando and he answers the phone a second before the answering service is activated. “Hey, I thought maybe you were sleeping for once,” I say laughing.

“Hey, what happened? I heard the date didn’t go according to plan.”

“Fuck, don’t you miss anything?” I ask exasperated.

“Of course not,” he says laughing and the crowd in the background turns to an empty echo. He escaped to the bathroom of the club to explain, “well you know, I called the restaurant to check up on you and they said you never arrived so of course I called Maxwell.”

“Right, figures.” I’m indifferent, he always checks up on me; fatherly love from someone six years younger then me.

Maybe he senses that I want to end the conversation, “Okay well, I’ve got to get back to the party and you need to sleep, we have an early photo shoot and while dark circles give you that mysterious look,” he jokes, “that’s not really what we’re going for this time.”

“See-ya,” I reply and hang up the phone. Great, spur of the moment shoots. Maybe not so spur of the moment, maybe he’s told me before but I never know the difference.

For that short time as I soak in the huge tub filled with passion scented bubbles smoking expensive weed and drinking expensive wine, I’m thankful for the nights events that led me to this place. I dare not consider the events prior to this night that led me to this happy place because I’m in far too good a mood to ruin it with unhappy reminiscing. My mind is so attune to not considering such dark things that I don’t even really think them when I think like this.

When the water has cooled and my roof hitting high is beginning to induce sleep I know it’s time to leave one happy abode for another, bed. Besides, early shoot in the morning and goddamn it, I hope it’s not on some pain in the ass location.

I get out of the tub and drain it, and then I gather up the empty wine bottle and the ashtray and purse and head for my bedroom.




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