Part Three
Buffy didn’t realize she’d fallen asleep until she woke up with a gasp. Had the bed just been shaking, or was she dreaming? The room was stiflingly hot and so dark that she couldn’t see her hand in front of her face. Apparently the house had lost electricity while she’d been asleep. But more frightening than the darkness was the roaring outside. What was that, she wondered as she sat up wide-eyed in the bed. She’d never heard anything like it, at least not outside the Hellmouth. Surely that couldn’t be the wind?
“Spike?” she called out in a small voice. The heaviness that clung to the air seemed to carry her words no more than a few feet. There was no answer.
A chill ran through her as something caught her eye in the far corner of the room. It was a pale, wispy glimmer that Buffy hoped was merely a product of her imagination. She stared at it in disbelief as it danced playfully across the room and vanished a few moments later through the wall. Okaaaay, she thought. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes with her fists, she decided it was high time to get the hell out of there.
Reaching out in the darkness, she inched her way off of the bed, feeling for the edge with her fingers since she couldn’t see it. She felt something beside her on the mattress and picked the object up, realizing after a moment that it was a flashlight. Spike had probably left it there for her in a rare moment of foresight. She fumbled with the switch and had to shake the batteries, but it worked. With the aid of the pale swath of light, she got her bearings and rose from the bed. She couldn’t get out of the room fast enough.
The house had been creepy enough earlier when the lights were on, but it was downright terrifying when cast into complete darkness. The roar of the wind outside wasn’t helping her nerves. It howled like a banshee, ripping and scraping across the exterior of the house. Buffy grabbed for the wall, keeping her hand on it for support as she made her way down the hallway.
“Spike?” she called again. “Spike, where are you?”
Still no answer. She wanted to cry – and that was pissing her off. She was the Slayer, she told herself. Or at least a Slayer. There was no reason she should be afraid. But the fact remained that she was alone in the dark, in a strange house that was practically shaking under the force of a hurricane – not to mention the strange glimmer she’d seen dancing across the bedroom. Perhaps under the circumstances, she should cut herself some slack and accept the fact that she was terrified. Or alternately, she could stand up straight, find Spike, and kick his ass around the room for leaving her alone. She selected Option B. At least it would be distracting.
She did stand up straight and lifted her chin for good measure. Armed with new confidence, however superficial, she made her way into the kitchen, the last place she’d seen Spike. Apparently, though, that was hours ago. Who knew where he’d gone while she’d been asleep?
Without warning, an icy chill ran over her exposed skin, and for the first time that day, Buffy wished she had worn more than cutoff jeans and a tank top. She looked around, wondering where the cold air was coming from. It was biting and unpleasant, and it only amplified the feeling that something wasn’t quite right in the house. She’d suspected as much the very second she’d walked in the door.
The hair on the back of her neck stood straight up when the floorboards creaked behind her. She whirled around with her flashlight and cried out in alarm at what she saw.
It was a man’s face – and only his face – floating about six feet off of the ground, where it had probably stood on a body once upon a time. His skin glowed pale in the darkness, and his brow was thick, casting a heavy shadow over his eyes.
Buffy thought about running, but her feet simply wouldn’t move. Wait a second, she reasoned. Slayer here.
And with that realization came new confidence – genuine, this time. She clenched her fists and gave the apparition a look that clearly implied he should find someone else to mess with. To her surprise, the face faded away into the shadows, leaving her breathless and shaken.
The floorboards creaked again, this time immediately behind her; she swung around without a second thought. Her fist came into contact with a surprised face.
“Bloody hell!” sputtered Spike as he fell backwards, hitting the ground hard. “That fucking hurt, Slayer!”
Buffy’s shoulders relaxed when she saw who had snuck up behind her. “You’ll live,” she replied between deep breaths as she tried to calm herself.
“The hell’s gotten into you?” asked Spike as he got to his feet, gingerly touching his split lower lip. “Look like you’re about to come unhinged.”
“There’s something in here,” she told him. “In this house. I thought I saw…”
“Yeah, I know,” he cut her off. “Ghosts. Two of ‘em, I think. There may be more, I dunno. Probably wondering what we’re doing in their house.”
Buffy’s jaw dropped. “What? We can’t stay here, Spike. No way. This place is just … ugh.”
Spike gave her a questioning look. “Not like you to get so worked up, Slayer. What’s the what?”
“I don’t know. This place is just unnerving me for some reason. I don’t like it here at all.”
“Well, there’s nothing to worry your pretty little head over. Ghosts can’t hurt you. Might spook you a bit, but well – they’re called spooks for a reason. Can slam doors and throw things at you, but I don’t see that as being much different from living with Dawn. We’ll be fine. Don’t see that we have much of a choice, anyway.”
“I think one shook my bed while I was asleep.”
“Maybe it thought it was high time you woke up,” said Spike. “Getting nasty outside. Was about to come fetch you myself. The bedrooms are too exposed. Could be a nice tree through the roof come morning.”
“Can’t we just go into the basement?” she asked. “That’s a safe place, right?”
Spike shook his head. “This is New Orleans, Slayer. You’re not likely to find a basement here. Place is a swamp – they don’t even bury their dead underground. I’ve already made us a place in the middle of the house.”
Buffy wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that. “What kind of place?”
“C’mere,” he said, gesturing for her to follow. He padded through the house confidently, unconcerned with the darkness or ghosts, while she shone her flashlight into every corner she encountered.
“Shall I hold your hand, Slayer?” mocked Spike as he led her into a parlor, one of the few rooms that was situated in the center of the house.
“Here’s an idea,” she shot back. “How about I hold yours? You’re the one who’s freaked out by the storm.”
“Touché,” he replied evenly. “So what do you think of the room? Does it get the fabled Slayer stamp of approval?”
Buffy frowned at the parlor. It was probably quite beautiful in the daytime, but it was too dark for her to think much of it at that moment. It was lit only by the few candles Spike had painstakingly set around the room, supported on all sides to keep them from toppling. He was apparently afraid of starting a fire should the storm somehow find a way inside the house. It struck her as odd. She’d never known him to be so purposeful about something like that. She wondered again exactly what had happened to him in Galveston.
The room was mostly comprised of wooden surfaces. The hardwood floors were covered in gaudy, expensive rugs, and a fireplace sat cold and unused against the wall. Two paintings, framed in gold, hung above the mantle – a man and a woman from another time. There was a baby grand piano in one corner of the room and a gathering of couches and chairs in the other. Buffy found the room stiff and uninviting.
She glanced down and saw that Spike had located supplies and dumped them unceremoniously on the floor. There were blankets, pillows, water, and other necessities. She noticed he’d also brought in the emergency bag they kept in the car, filled with weapons, medical supplies, and changes of clothes. She hoped they wouldn’t need any of that, but it was nice to know it was there all the same. Beside the bag were all the things only Spike would think to gather in an emergency – a variety of crunchy, flavorful snacks, a deck of cards, a variety of dilapidated books from the library, and … was that alcohol? God, she hoped so.
From the looks of it, Spike had already had a few drinks himself. There was a cool anger about him, something she often noticed when he was slightly intoxicated. Spike followed her gaze to the bottles he’d lined up on the coffee table. “Pinched ‘em from the wine cabinet,” he explained. “‘Fraid I’m gonna have to be pretty damn hammered if I’m going to last the night.” The ‘with you’ was implied.
“Hope you’re willing to share. Seems I’ve got the same problem.” Buffy threw herself down on the couch, which was stiff and uncomfortable, and watched him pop the cork out of one of the bottles of wine. “You know, you could try being a little nicer,” she said. “It wouldn’t kill you or anything.”
He glanced up at her, surprised. “What, it’s all me, then? You’re not doing anything wrong yourself? Please.”
She blinked at him as he filled the wine glasses, feeling a little stunned at the venom behind his words. When had they started being so cruel to each other? She didn’t know if she could handle much more. “Listen, Spike,” she said, accepting the glass he held out to her. “Can we maybe stop? Even if it’s just for tonight?”
“Stop what?” he muttered, taking a seat beside her on the couch.
“The snarking,” she replied. “The fighting, the insults. I just get tired sometimes.”
He was quiet for a moment, as if he was letting the words soak in. To her eyes, it suddenly looked as if he was about to cry. That surprised her. Somehow it hadn’t ever registered how deeply Spike was hurting because of the rift in their relationship. He was mentally curled up in the fetal position, lashing out at her to keep from being hurt himself. She’d always assumed he was simply angry with her because she’d rejected him – but no, Spike was just hurting. But damn it, so was she. Her throat grew tight, and she looked away, feeling a fresh wave of resentment flow through her.
“I don’t mean to show my adolescent side,” said Spike, “but you bloody well started it.”
Buffy tasted her wine thoughtfully before replying. “I know,” she admitted. “Let’s both just try to make it through the night without killing each other, okay?”
There was another pause, and she felt him looking at her. “Right then,” he said, reaching for the deck of cards. “Fancy a game of Rummy? Might as well get comfy and find a way to pass the time. ‘Fraid we’re gonna be here a while.”
She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “I’m not in the mood for Rummy.”
“Poker, then? We could play for your knickers.”
“Whereupon I forget about what we just agreed on and kill you out of spite.”
Spike smirked and began to shuffle the cards. “How about we enlist the help of our resident ghosts and play Hearts? Need four for that game. Bet they’re as bored as we are.”
Across the room, the flames on all the candles flickered and nearly blew out. Buffy turned to glare at Spike. “Don’t say stuff like that,” she hissed.
“You pick the game, then,” he said, holding out the deck for her to cut.
“Go Fish?” she asked hopefully.
He rolled his eyes and snorted. “Brilliant. God, this is going to be a long night.”
The game proceeded without further conversation. By the time they worked through the first bottle of wine and into the second, Buffy was feeling warm and slightly more relaxed, though not as relaxed as she would have liked to be. The shadows all seemed to be moving around her, breathing with hidden intent. Spike was distracted as well, she noticed – constantly tilting his head to listen to the wind. The storm had worsened considerably since she’d woken up in the bedroom, and she could actually hear debris flying down the street at times, crashing into trees and street signs, even the side of the house. An eerie whistle floated above it all as the wind picked up.
“Galveston,” said Buffy, breaking the silence. When Spike glanced up at her curiously, she said, “Tell me more about the hurricane you were in. Was it like this?”
Spike’s entire countenance changed, going from slightly tense to absolutely rigid in a matter of seconds. “No,” he replied in a quiet voice, looking away. Setting his cards down, he began searching through his pockets. She knew he was after his cigarettes. Her question had apparently unnerved him.
“What was so different about it?” she pressed. Curiosity was beginning to gnaw at her.
“Dunno,” he replied dismissively. “Stuff.” His hands emerged empty from his pockets, and he let out a frustrated sigh. “The hell are my fags?”
“Why won’t you talk to me about it?” she asked, unwilling to let him change the subject. “I don’t get it. What happened in Galveston that was so horrible?”
“Why do you keep pushing this?”
“Why do you keep avoiding my questions?”
“Because it’s none of your damn business,” he snapped. “You made it clear to me months ago I wasn’t one of your nearest and dearest anymore. Don’t see any reason why I should tell you anything.”
Buffy bit the inside of her cheek, steeling herself against getting into an argument with him. Whatever he was hiding from her, it was personal. Deeply personal. No amount of yelling at him was going to make him open up – quite the opposite. If she wanted to figure anything out, she was going to have to play nice with the stubborn vampire. Maybe she would get some answers out of him eventually – if she didn’t kill him first.
Fanning out her cards in front of her, she smiled at him derisively. “Got any queens?” she asked through clenched teeth.
Spike flinched. “Go fish.”
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To be continued.
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