It's my fault, really. I thought he was just a vampire, but I should've known better. Two fallen Slayers and his sire's own words stood as testimony to his viciousness, and I should have heeded their warnings. Instead I let my pride in my Slayer blind me to the very real danger that Spike posed to her. And it was Buffy who paid for my hubris... with her life.
I didn't want to believe it at first, tried to tell myself that she hadn't contacted me because she was immersed in college and parties, slipping further away from me as every child does when they first step out into the world on their own. But I knew, deep down inside. Willow's death merely serves as the tragic confirmation of the painful suspicion that has dogged me for days. There can be no doubt as to who her killer is, not with the way she was arranged. They went to a great deal of trouble to lay her out like that, and my heart goes out to Oz. I know exactly how painful that particular scene is, although thankfully I was spared the bloody sight that he had to endure.
There's been no confirmation yet, no call from Joyce to say she's come by the house, but then I doubt they'd go there. And even if they did, it's unlikely she'd say anything- this is the woman that served William the Bloody hot chocolate at her kitchen table, after all. Somehow I doubt the simple fact that her daughter is now a soulless demon would stop her from inviting the both of them in for dinner. I don't know whether I think she's some kind of saint or simply a fool for having such unbiased faith and trust in the remnants of humanity she believes they carry that she'll stake her very life on it. Perhaps when one has had tea with a vampire, one can overlook the blood on his hands, even if it's that of one's own child.
I can't afford to take that kind of risk, though, not when the Council remains unaware of Buffy's fate. But at the same time, I haven't been able to bring myself to write it down just yet. I just can't help feeling that writing the words and commiting my suspicions to paper somehow makes them tangible, bringing the unthinkable that much closer to being an undeniable reality that I can no longer refuse to face. I should be calling someone, letting others know, but instead all I can do is sit here with a glass of scotch and pray that nobody else I care for dies tonight.
Three nights since she disappeared, three nights that have, no doubt, been filled with instruction of the darkest and bloodiest sort. He'll have taught her to hunt by now, there's no question about that, as all available records indicate that it's the first lesson any vampire receives. But Spike is no ordinary sire, and Buffy no common fledgling, so I'm almost certain that standard teachings are only the tip of the iceberg for them. Three nights at the side of one of the most violent, prolific killers that has ever lived, three nights of being taught the art of bloodshed by a creature that learned at the knee of a vampire the entire demonic realm feared and respected... three nights for him to nuture the darkness and cruelty inside her to full bloom. I've fought for years to help her keep it at bay- indeed, done my best to keep her from even discovering its existence, and now in just three nights, all of it has been for naught.
She should have been told the truth about Slayers long before this, should have been warned about the pull of darkness that they all succumb to at some point, but I couldn't bear to do it. Her world was a simple one, where good seemed to always triumph over evil, friends provided the necessary help and strength to save the world over easily discernible villains. Her righteousness and faith shone like a beacon, and I let myself believe in the untarnished vision that she clung to, forgetting my training and my duty in my desire to help her bring that better world about. It only took one vampire to prove us both wrong, and that was a lesson I thought neither of us would ever forget.
I can't help but feel that I bear a great deal of guilt in that matter as well. She should never have been allowed to develop a relationship with a vampire, should never have made contact with one aside from what is necessary in the line of duty. Once we knew what he was, it was my responsibility to cut the ties between them, my duty to explain his natural tendencies and, if necessary, expose those depravities that I discovered in the archives about him. She was young and innocent still, and little more than a few pages would no doubt have been enough to nip their fledgling romance in the bud. But I let myself be drawn into his story, perhaps even fancied myself as some sort of modern day Friar Laurence to this particular 'pair of star-crossed lovers', and in the doing, failed her yet again.
With Angel, at least, I can plead my own ignorance as to the nature of his curse, but with Spike, I have no such ability. He is the very epitome of the creatures she was born to hunt- soulless, evil, vicious, and as cold-blooded as any of them could ever be. I can't know why she never staked him, what it was that stayed her hand in the countless confrontations that the two of them have had, but I'm sure that any type of hesitance on her part could have been overcome with the proper training and coaching. I don't want to believe that she was already lost, because then I'll have to wonder when it happened, and why I didn't see.
Laughter outside my apartment breaks into my thoughts, and I look over at the open door to see her standing just beyond the threshold. I had hoped she would come here, but I wasn't prepared for this. I wasn't ready to see her golden California beauty twisted and warped like this. She looks over at me and even her eyes seem darker, as though the color changed when she put on the red and black leather outfit she's wearing. It's something far more suited to Faith's wild looks, and I wonder if she chose it on purpose, if this is some sort of sick tribute from one fallen Slayer to another. But then I see an arm wrap around her waist and pull her back against a lean body and I realize that this has nothing to do with Slayers any longer.
She snuggles back against him for a moment, then gives me a sweet smile, and chirps, “Hi, Giles.” For a second I almost want to believe that this is all some sort of gross jest, that at any second she's going to laugh at me for believing it, but I look into her eyes again and know: my Buffy died three nights ago.
I set my glass down and pick up the stake, bracing myself for what I know I must do. She isn't my Slayer any longer, I tell myself; she's just a vampire now. “Hello, Buffy. Please... come in.”
