Spike growled loudly, shoving his way through the panicking humans that cluttered the hall. He could feel Buffy. Her presence was all around him, teasing him with its closeness yet eluding him when he tried to reach out for her. He couldn’t make out whether she was conscious or hurt and his demon raged beneath his skin to be let out and help its subconsciously chosen mate.
The entire upper floor stunk of magicks. The air was thick with it and without even extending his senses, Spike could tell that the Council had bumped up their schedule and the ritual had begun a night early.
The thought of Buffy being bound to anyone was enough to make Spike’s demon howl with fury, but the idea that she might be bound to someone within the Council ranks so that her power could be abused and used as nothing more than a weapon for their use…
He let the faint sounds of chanting and the thick stench of magicks guide him down the corridor as he concentrated on picking up some trace of her presence. The presence of the Watcher and her friends behind him went practically unnoticed as Spike finally came to stand in front of the door that he knew would lead him to her.
He reached down and tested the door handle—locked. So much for the element of surprise, he thought as he drew back his leg and kicked the door in, tearing it right off its hinges in the process.
His eyes immediately sought the familiarity of her form, looking for reassurance, for solid proof that she was alright. When they landed on her he felt for a moment like the floor had dropped out from beneath him, a jolt of unpleasant tingles pulsed once in his stomach, leaving him with a nauseated feeling as he gazed at her.
Buffy looked dead. Her skin that had once held a golden brown tan was so white that it almost looked blue, and her lips were void of any of their natural rose colour and instead they appeared as translucent as her skin. Her hair was limp, her eyes closed and her skin looked as if it had been stretched across her bones. She looked starved and weak as she lay motionless, completely helpless to what was going on around her.
Spike swallowed heavily and for a split second was frozen in place, unable to help her. Waves of fear threatened to bubble over and fully incapacitate him, but soon he was moving across the room in a blur to get to her.
His demon burst onto his face with a snarl that was equal parts enraged at what he saw and happy at finally being given control.
Without thinking, Spike threw himself at the bastard that could claim parental status over the Slayer, moving quickly to avoid being caught off guard and restrained as he had been when Hank had first taken Buffy.
Hank pulled himself out of the haze of his trance a moment too late to stop the fist aimed at his head from connecting with its target. The blow was brutal, a loud crack emanating through the air as the warlock fell to the ground with a dislocated jaw bone.
Hank moaned in pain as his hand came up to cup his face. His eyes were wide and held a fear in them he had never felt before as he looked up at a demon that he had left for dead and now was defenceless against—unable to chant, unable to whisper an incantation that would see him through this alive.
“You deserve a lot worse that what you’re going to get. But fortunately for you mate, I’m running on a schedule.” A booted foot was slammed down across Hank’s face hard enough to knock him out but not kill him.
Spike’s demon howled miserably from within, wanting to finish the job, but Spike turned away. As much as he wanted to drain the bastard dry, Buffy needed him and Spike wasn’t certain that she had as much time as it would take for him to finish the job properly.
Spike’s eyes fell on Travers as he turned to face the circle once more. The man was on his hands and knees halfway across the circle when he realised he was being watched. A sudden realisation burst into the fore of Spike’s mind upon seeing him and with it an almost overwhelming feeling of sickness as he took in the state of the man.
Sweat was beading across his forehead and dribbling down the side of his face with the exertion that was forced on his body as he became a conduit for the magicks being wielded. He was clad only in black silk pyjama bottoms and intricate designs had been painted in a thin strip down the centre of his chest. There was no random Council lackey to be bound to his Slayer. It was the head honcho himself.
A small snarl curled at Spike’s lips as he began making his way towards Travers.
“You sick bastard!” His voice was low and dangerous. Travers barely flinched though as he returned the vampires glare with his own steely gaze.
Travers slowly pushed himself to his feet within the circle so he could stare directly back at the vampire in a manner that had helped gain him the position as Head of the Watchers’ Council. If there was one thing Quentin knew he was good at it was intimidation.
“I, ah, wouldn’t be doing that if I were you.” The Watcher spoke up as Spike moved to take a step inside the circle. Quentin’s voice was only slightly out of breath as he continued to combat the magicks that were pulsing through his system. There was no way he could even entertain the thought of taking the vampire in a fight in this state and he knew it, not to mention he didn’t have a stake anywhere on his person.
Spike paused and raised a sarcastic eyebrow at him. “Oh?”
“The ritual has begun and there is nothing you can do to stop it. One step inside this circle and you could risk killing us both,” Travers answered motioning to the inert form of the Slayer at his side.
Spike stopped abruptly at the edge of the circle just as he had been about to take a step in and let his eyes flick to the Slayer. “You’re bluffing.”
Quentin let a slow smirk slide onto his features. “Are you prepared to find out?”
Spike looked unsure. His instincts told him it was a bluff, but Buffy’s life hung in the balance so he remained hesitant.
“Yes, wouldn’t want to hurt your precious Slayer now would you? Hank told me all about you. William the Bloody, Slayer of Slayers… willingly siding with the Slayer? Somehow that reality doesn’t fit the image I had of you.” Spike shrugged and remained unaffected by the goad as he took up a casual stance despite his tense state.
“Sorry to disappoint,” he said offhandedly in response.
“I never said I was disappointed.” A tense silence settled over them following that statement. Spike’s eyes strayed to the Slayer once more wondering whether it was his imagination or whether she seemed to be getting bluer.
“So, how do you intend to finish your ritual, now? You seem to be one man down,” Spike noted, tossing his head in the direction of Hank’s unconscious form, aware that his time was rapidly running out.
Travers looked over Spike’s shoulder casually and shrugged. “He has played his part. The rest of the ritual can be done without his input. His chanting would have only emphasised the passing of magicks during the…act.” Travers grinned at him.
Spike snarled and went to take a step forward before looking down once more at the ring of dried blood marking the carpet.
“Wouldn’t want to do anything rash now would you, William?” Travers provoked as he walked casually across to the slayer and knelt down beside her as he ran his knuckles down the side of her face. “She really is very beautiful. If not a bit strong willed though, perhaps I can break her of the habit. After all, we will have all of eternity.”
Spike growled again and looked between Travers and the ring of dried blood. He could feel the magicks crackling in the air all around him. The Watcher’s heart was rapidly increasing in pace and his breathing was becoming laboured. His eyes drifted to Buffy’s motionless form once more and Spike made his decision.
“You know what, mate? I think you’re full of shit,” Spike retorted as he deliberately picked up one foot and stepped into the circle. Nothing happened.
“No!” Giles got as far as mouthing the word as he burst into the room in time to see Spike step into the circle. To his great shock, however—which was quickly followed by a rapid sinking feeling—nothing happened. Neither Quentin nor Buffy—as far as he could discern—were harmed in any way.
His stomach sunk even lower when he took note of the fact that Quentin’s upper body had been tattooed in an intricate design which would allow him to be the conduit for the magicks being wielded—markings that would allow him to override Buffy’s consent so that he might bind himself to her without opposition.
Giles watched, unable to bring himself to care as he witnessed Spike beat the man senseless. The Watcher turned to the two teens that had arrived behind him.
“Tie Buffy’s father up,” he said, pointing to the man passed out on the floor a few feet away.
“If you think for one second that I would allow something like you—” Giles watched on as Spike paused mid speech to send two closed fist punches across Quentin’s face in rapid succession, “—to lay even one hand on Buffy, you are sorely mistaken.”
Giles tried to stop himself from thinking about the significance of the fact that Spike had been able to enter the ritual circle without causing harm to those already within, as he watched Spike throw Travers out of the circle and head first into the wall on the opposite side of the room.
Spike was by the Slayer’s side within seconds and it was in that moment the Giles realised with some measure of clarity that despite what he wanted, and what they had planned, a decision regarding his Slayer’s binding had been made.
Spike gently scooped Buffy up into his arms, wincing slightly as her head flopped lifelessly into the crook of his arm. She felt so cold, even against his own cool skin, which was only room temperature at best.
He narrowed his eyes affectionately on her as he pushed her limp hair out of her face gently. “Come on, kitten. Show me those pretty eyes of yours.”
He frowned when he got no response from her. His eyes searched her face looking for any sign that she had heard what he said but found none. Slowly bringing his wrist up to his mouth morphed into his demon’s guise and bit down so that his blood blossomed and began to flow freely from the wound.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he whispered softly as he lowered his bleeding wrist to her mouth. “Show me you’ll be alright.”
He waited a beat. Two beats.
Then he felt the sluggish swipe of her tongue against his skin as she parted her lips to allow the blood entry into her mouth. Relieved, Spike released the breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding, as she slowly started to drink from the wound.
“There’s my good girl,” he whispered more to himself than anyone else, as his free hand soothingly stroked her hair from her face.
He almost moaned out loud when he felt the sharp sting of her fangs entering his wrist, quickly followed by the pleasure that always came with a bite that was becoming more and more familiar. The shock of it cause him to let out a soft rumbling purr as he turned his gaze back towards hers to find her eyes open and staring at him intently.
“Hey there,” he said softly. She held his gaze for a moment longer before moaning as she shut her eyes, the borrowed blood beginning to slowly bring her body ‘back to life’.
A weak little hand came up to hold his wrist to her mouth and Spike broke out in a smile knowing that it was a sign—at least for him—that she would be able to make a full recovery.
“Spike,” she said softly as she let go.
“Shh, kitten,” he said as he ran the pad of his thumb down the curve of her cheek and across her lips, swiping up the small crimson stain she’d left.
“Don’t ‘shh’ me,” she said with a hint of her usual spunk making its way back in her voice. Spike grinned down at her.
“Why, is there another way you would prefer me to shut you up?” he asked with a playful leer.
“Maybe,” she replied as she drew his head down to her own.