Chapter 7
Buffy has long since ceased to expect Spike's teeth in her flesh so when the blood arches from her wrist like a Technicolor fountain she's too stunned to react. The feel of his cool fingers gripping her arm tightly is more urgent than the pulsating arterial spray or the slight sting from his bite. It wasn’t like taking a bite from an apple; he was raking his teeth into the soft skin of her under arm, tearing it open. She looks up into his face and sees his pupils gazing large and hungrily dark upon the bright red stream as he licks his lips slowly. He looks away from her, she doesn't know why, and she's not prepared for the sudden swoop of his head back to her wrist. His tongue licks her wounds, with a raspy briskness that she can’t connect at all to the endlessly delicate lickings of her pussy way back when.
Her thoughts are hazy, and her mind trails after her like a fluttering ribbon when she whips her head around to check out what Spike sees. Bright red blobs on the shiny white floor, hissing and burning away the markings on it and before she can decide what to do her feet leap after Spike, who goes straight through Mrs. Andersen with a roar. A little wail hangs in the air where she used to be. Buffy turns to Mr. Andersen and his doings at the makeshift altar. Without stopping to think she picks up the brass rod which is still lying at the foot of the stairs and throws it at, and through, him. It strikes the bulging cellar walls with a hollow clang and bounces ringing onto the floor.
Mr. Andersen's face twists up like a Silly Putty parody of disappointment and his mouth opens wide in a silent scream. The shiny blue ring of light expands with a flash and a pop like a photo in a black- and white movie. Then there is no more basement wall, there is a roiling darkness and a jet of foul air leaps out to meet them. When the demon pops out his giant head and stretches his rubbery lips wide in anticipation Buffy totally gets the bad breath deal. His tobacco brown teeth look like all his victims from his entire existence are still rotting away merrily in every crease and surface.
She feels no hesitation. The rod is back in her hand, she must have picked it up. Quip and weapon leave her in the same instance.
"Tongue piercing, anyone?"
In its way this moment is wonderful. For a little while her path is shining true and straight ahead of her with no branching or off ramps. She must kill this thing, and her favorite fighting buddy is beside her. He will anticipate her every move and guard her back.
The demon spits out the curtain rod disdainfully. "Yeah, baby, slay me with your tooth pick," he rumbles and waves of dark laughter ripple out from him, setting Buffy's teeth on edge and sending a sickening wave of fear to her stomach.
The one giant eye is surrounded by thick wrinkled purple flesh, the sclera bright yellow, and Spike comes in from the left with a masterful lunge. He hits right in the middle of the black well of its pupil and the eye bursts open and spews fluid all over Spike's wild curls. The roar that comes from the big mouth slams Buffy into the far wall. Spike has sensibly ducked beneath it after his spraying.
"Slayer!" Spike pants. "Get an axe or a saw! Bitty staves aren't going to kill Yaphet Kotto Senior here! I'll distract him."
"Whoo! That hurt!" the mouth brays. A massive shiny tentacle wriggles out of the hole from beside the ear and wrenches it further open to allow a bulging shoulder through. "Is that a curtain rod or are you just happy to see me?"
The tentacle grows longer and grabs Spike around the middle. It smashes him up against the ceiling and back down against the floor. "Bamm-bamm! Bamm-bamm! We'll have a yabba dabba doo time, a dabba doo time, we'll have a gay old time!"
Buffy scrabbles across the floor near the far wall, trying to get to the other side of the basement, where she thinks she saw a work bench. Spike looks sort of limp and leaves bloody stains on both the ceiling and the floor.
"Wiiilllllmmmmmmaaaaaa!!!"
Buffy pulls herself up by her fingertips. Someone tweaks her ass, which is so not the right time for this. She cranes her head to check out how Spike got loose but then spots another tentacle trying hard to get a grip on her and visibly succeeding inch by inch, growing longer and thicker.
The frenzied singing and the Spike smashing continue. "It's time to play the music, It's time to light the lights…"
Bamm bamm!
"Slayer…" It comes out like "Zhazher" and Buffy's hands frantically feel their way about on the work top. With a feeling of relief she finds a heap of assorted tools, a saw, a hammer and so forth. The mad singing goes on and on, pouring from the foul mouth like vomit.
"It's time to put on makeup, It's time to dress up right, It's time to raise the curtain…
She turns and throws the big file and the screw driver into the thick glistening arm that's playing with Spike, just to hurt it some and maybe even shut it up.
Thick oily laughter bubbles behind her as she directs her attention back to the work bench. She's not expecting a sword but a saw would be nice, or an axe. She finds a nail extractor and finally a bonus chainsaw. Time to go Giles and cut through some red tape. Contrary to popular belief Buffy does not kill all things mechanical on sight and the saw's drive catches at the first pull. She slices off the tentacle that's trying to gain grip on her waist. A sluggish fluid like crude oil seeps out.
"Owie!" the beast carols gaily. "And now let's get things started, Why don't you get things started, It's time to get things started, On the most sensational inspirational celebrational…"
The best place to get rid of the thrashing tentacle is close to the portal and she sets the vibrating blade against the meatiest part of the black fleshy arm. The blade goes through easily but the circumference of the arm is huge, and since it doesn't exactly keep still it takes a few minutes before she's through. Spike drops to the floor and lies motionless while she continues to saw. Another tentacle tries to wriggle out from the portal and although it keeps on getting wider and wider, it's still too narrow.
"Aw! You cut off my pinkie!" the liquid voice booms in her ear, making her teeth rattle and ache with subsonic tremors. "The rest of me is gonna sit on you and squash you like a bug!" The big face starts to retreat.
Spike tugs at her arm. Blood drips down on his face from his battered head, but he can still walk and talk. "Come on, Slayer; let's make ourselves scarce before Fred Flintstone comes back."
The saw starts to buck in her hands and stops. Buffy tries to get traction on the floor, slippery with black and red fluids, but Spike's sturdy boot heels win over hers and she's tugged along willy-nilly. This is not acceptable. Her duty is clear, the monster must be destroyed, and she's not going to be deflected from her purpose now that she has one.
"Spike, stop. I'm going to kill it before it destroys the whole town or worse."
"Who cares? Let's steal the Andersens' car and get out of here fast."
They reach the stairs and Buffy makes her stand on the first step. She's stronger than Spike, or she used to be, she thinks as he continues on upwards. Subtler tactics need to be deployed.
"Spike, I can't believe that you're walking out in the middle of a fight. My Spike never was a coward."
"Slayer, you don't think I'm going to fall for that piece of transparent emotional blackmail?”
"Stop with the excuses already. It'll be fun," Buffy says firmly and manages to halt his progress. She tries to look up to him winningly, because although she can't see his face, he can probably see hers.
Spike comes to a decision. "All right. Let's go kill the big smelly bastard. I hate it when something I'm killing tries to be witty at me, puts me off my game."
"His pop culture references were way behind the times anyway," Buffy says, stung.
"Spongebob Squarepants!" The voice booms in their ears. A jet of putrid dark fluid leaves its lips and Buffy dives to the right just in time. The smell gives her an idea and she fishes Spike's lighter from her pocket and flicks it on. She thrusts it just below the stream of monster logy and it flames up with a deep rumbling whoosh that makes her ears pop.
The demon utters a wordless scream and withdraws into the portal, where she can hear it burble and whine in a moist basso profundo.
"Good thinking, Slayer," Spike says from the other side of the basement. "Now why don't you crawl in after it and set the whole thing on fire."
"Yeah, right. I'm so over the whole death wish thing. If we had a kind of bomb we could throw into the portal, something that won’t go out so easily?"
She strains to see a little better in the dimly lit basement, but it's not very likely that there will be hand grenades or cannonballs lying around like in cartoons.
"Did you happen to spot a bottle of turps or lighter fluid on your little foray just now? I could make a Molotov cocktail from one of those," Spike says.
"We're going to offer him a drink?"
"Forgot you weren't there when the Soviets invaded Finland, love. Trust me, it'll work just fine."
Buffy gets back to the bench and finds the plastic and glass bottles with murky fluid she passed over a couple of minutes ago. "Something like this?"
"Yeah. Exactly like that."
Spike tears some strips from his bloodied shirt and stuffs them in the necks of the bottles. He silently holds out his hand and she places the lighter in it. Tentacles explode from the black hole, straight as spears right at her, and she only just manages to roll under them. The head follows the arms, blaring loud indistinguishable words and Buffy feels the air get heavier and slower, pressing down on her. From the corner of her eye something orangey bright arcs through the air and she sees the monster turn his head, snap out with his long black tongue and flick it back into the wide toad-like gash of his mouth. Spike falls on top of her and claps his hands over her ears. He's gonna wrench off her head and she doesn’t know why.
The world turns inside out and when she's managed to heave Spike away the basement is back again, not a single trace on the wall to indicate there was a hole in the world just a minute ago. The floor is a whole different story; it's blotched and glistens with blood and oily splatters. Two big pieces of tentacle are lying limp and dead across the altar.
Spike holds out his hand to her. She takes it and half stumbles against him. He steadies her with a hand on her hip and she doesn’t slap it away.
"Let's go get the device, Spike," she says, and her voice sounds small and flat.
"Yeah."
Spike slurs a bit and slumps down on her. He's not holding her up anymore, she's supporting him. He does look very battered, lumps and cuts vying for territory on his pale face. She puts her arm around him more securely and props him up with one hand under his shoulder. Walking the few steps towards the wall is harder than she thought, her legs are jittery and her feet are woolly and uncertain on the floor. Spike's hand is hooked around her hip, digging painfully into her belly, but she knows he'll fall otherwise.
Hooking Spike's arm over her neck so she can still keep him upright she reaches for the oversized piece of squid ink spaghetti. The moment she touches it, it snaps back into action, tautly coils around her arm and lifts its pointy end, searching for her face as if it has a purpose.
She can’t hold Spike and fight at the same time. "Spike! Wake up. Stand up. I have to fight."
The other tentacle has joined the play and they snake around her legs and torso, on their way up to her neck. Now's she's getting really mad. It was just a fight until now, but this is pushing her boundaries. She hopes there's no special reason these tentacles are back in action again, are they vampire tentacles or something? She grabs one and tears it into two, shouting and stamping with the effort. At last it breaks and she gasps in relief as the coils around her middle loosen. The moment the last breath of air has left her throat, a cool slick necklace winds around her neck and draws tight. She wants to call out to Spike, whose weight she can no longer feel, but it’s too late. She can’t get a grip on the thing squeezing the life out of her and her sight is starting to dim. Not like this, she thinks frantically, not now, lemme get home, I was just getting…
Spike draws her off the floor again and she leans against him, gulping great big draughts of air, clasping him tightly because her rubbery legs threaten to topple her. She leans her forehead against his shoulder, which is sticky and smells of iron filings and oil, and attempts to get her bearings back.
"Thanks," she croaks into the flannel.
His hand lies reassuringly on her neck and he presses her closer. "You too, Slayer. Can we go now? Is this dead enough satisfy those righteous Slaying criteria?"
"Yeah."
But she can't move just yet, although she knows she should. The tentacle pieces could become alive again, she's embracing a dangerous vampire, they could freeze to death, but she needs a minute to get back on her feet, she doesn’t want to face the reality of alternate universes and wrong vampires just yet.
Spike pushes her hair aside and breathes on her neck. "Feeling better now, aren't you, love? Heart getting all slow and quiet." His lips move against her skin and they don’t feel cold at all. Buffy leans against him a bit more, but there's nothing going on here, just two tired warriors taking a well-deserved rest. He feels so solid and real, anchoring her with his body from her thighs up to the crown of her head, Spike everywhere.
She pats his shoulder blade, but her hand is too heavy to lift so it becomes more of a stroking. Spike pushes his hips against hers, and it’s still okay, she can handle it, it's not her Spike. He licks her neck and now she's awake, her whole body tingles with awareness and a small moan leaves her mouth. This is not safe, but she arches against him and pushes back, so good, such a long time ago. His hands stroke down her back firmly, up and down, cupping her ass for a moment and then pushing the tension out of her back muscles again and she relaxes against him further. She's too limp to come into action herself, but can he please lick her neck again?
"That's right, love, let Spike take care of you, so sweet and warm you are, good little Slayer, all hot for Spike, the prettiest little bum you have and such nice skin, so sweet and salty, so tender…"
He licks and licks, she sags against him so he has to prop her up by shoving his hand between her thighs. Her legs buckle and Spike's all that's holding her up now. Her neck falls back and she wants only one thing now, Spike inside her. Why is she still wearing these damn jeans?
"… so sweet and hot, pulsing inside, all that lovely blood, let Spike have one little sip, just a drop, promise, cross my heart and hope to die, right here, one tiny drink from your sweet neck, let me drink from it like a chalice, my Slayer, my sweet…"
His sexy babble finally penetrates what remains of her brains and she wrenches her neck away. He wants to drink from her? How can he say that? It hurts on so many levels that she's speechless. Betrayal gives her strength to shove him away.
He grins unrepentantly and licks his lips. "I see the disapproving look is back. Don’t be such a tight arse, Slayer. It'll feel good, I promise.
The bright path of her future, that shone so straight and true a moment ago has scattered into a rainbow of choices, no white or black, just red and yellow and blue to pick and choose from. Which is right and which is wrong? It's up to her. Her tongue moves over her lips and Spike takes a step closer to her, smirking again and already holding out his hands to her breasts.
She turns away. "No. No drinking, no biting, no nothing. Let's torch this place and get out of here."
Spike sighs but shrugs. "Take it or leave it, Slayer. Would have been fun, though. And aren't you forgetting a little something here?"
He holds up the interdimensional device with the same pencil Mr. Andersen used. Buffy swallows. She almost forgot that in her insane fuck-the-wrong-vampire moment. "Right. Good thinking, Spike." They are complimenting each other a lot, polite and thoughtful, like strangers. Which they are.
She finds an old plastic bag and Spike shoves the shiny bracelet in. She walks painfully to the stairs, Spike close on her heels. So close that her back tingles all over, but she's not going to go there, she's firm on that.
At the top of the stairs, Spike lights another piece of his tattered flannel shirt and tosses it down. The basement goes up in flames with a whuff and a muted bang.
"The bastards took my duster too, damn them all to hell."
"Not to mention my boots and some really nice underwear," Buffy agrees. "Let's get out of here. Take their car, like you said."
"Right."
Chapter 8
The Slayer ahead of him is stumbling and bumping into things. Spike brushes past her brusquely and takes her unwilling hand into his. Stubborn bint that she is! He can see so much better than she can in this murk, she should just have let him go first. She tries to wrench loose, still pissed about the little fiasco downstairs, he reckons, but he ignores it and forges ahead. They must be in the downstairs hallway but it seems unwontedly long. He bumps into a wooden barrier, which ought to be the front door. He kicks it open and sure enough they are on the porch. The reverberations of the kick go on for a long time. At last they die down and everything is silent again. It's still pitch dark outside but the snow reflects what little light there is. Almost midnight, he gauges. He's lost less than twenty-four hours and the portal device is already in his possession, pretty fucking good as adventures go. The Slayer is bringing him luck. He thinks ahead to the actual activation of the portal. It should be a piece of cake if his contact comes through as expected, and he considers possible courses of action afterwards.
Too bad he didn’t manage to wangle some blood and pussy, and his own silly fault it had been too. He really should learn to keep his gob shut, but when his cock and fangs are doing the thinking for him his mouth pretty much tends to run away from him. However, the Slayer is still gently steaming under her borrowed clothes, angry or not, and that bodes well for the future. He'll simply not mention biting or drinking at all and strike when he's good and well inside her, when she's screaming for more. How difficult can that be? His hard-on is giving him plenty of grief, and the discomfort overshadows all other cuts and bruises, of which there are many. He's of a mind to try again right here and now, but he sees the Slayer stiffen up and shiver in the suddenly frigid air, and regretfully sets his plans aside until they find a more congenial venue.
The house creaks and settles again. The clear night sky indicates low temperatures, and he looks doubtfully at the Slayer in her jeans and flannel shirt. The first and biggest barn is no more than fifty yards away, but it's risky. They'd better search the house for some warmer clothes for the Slayer, maybe even use the rotted bed covers.
A deep sigh trembles through the house. Spike looks around and sees nothing out of the ordinary. The floor starts to rattle beneath them. A rumbling comes closer and closer. The Slayer doesn’t react but stares with big unseeing eyes at the dimly lit expanse of snow outside. He decides they can't wait anymore and they should make a run for it. He seizes her limp hand and pulls her outside.
"Get a move on, Slayer. We'll look for a car in the big barn over there."
The Slayer mumbles something he doesn't want to listen to and hangs back, trying feebly to get her hand out of his. It's annoying to see her return to morose silence, especially when he was thinking she was some kind of alright as a fighter. He pulls on her arm sharply and they run stumbling and slipping to the shelter of the big wooden structure at the other end of the yard. Behind them there is a whooshing and a dull thud. Spike whips around to check out the danger and sees a softly billowing cloud of pale powder dust where the house used to be. There's a gust of warmer air over his face but it dissipates quickly. The dust clears from the air and the moon obliges them by popping into the sky from behind it. He sees there is nothing left of the farmhouse but a rubble-filled pit, still hazy with heat and settling house fragments.
Where the porch used to be there's a shapeless heap of a different substance. Spike pokes it gently and it falls apart into their own discarded clothes. His duster! With a shout of joy he fishes it out of the heap and shrugs it on. He is taller and more commanding when the soft old leather falls in its accustomed folds around him. He strides towards the barn with strong easy steps.
The moon's appearance brightens the whole scene so much he can make out the details of the cast iron weather cock on top of the barn. Spike jumps on top of the structure in one big leap, just because he feels like it. He balances on the roof beam and looks around at the white world spread out beneath him like a pristine table cloth, with only the picnic missing, although the Slayer would make a damn fine starter. The quarter moon throws long shadows away from the barn and the other outbuildings that are still standing, until they finally peter out and the silent plains begin, glittering eerily and seeming infinite.
Spike throws his head in his neck and hollers upwards, "Look Ma, no hands!" He jumps down with a back flip, down into the white mound of sugary snow that the wind has blown against the side of the barn, arm outspread. He disappears into a cloud of powdered sugar that enters his nose and mouth and ears. He waits until the snow clears up and he can see the stars again. They pierce the dark blue porridge bowl of the night with their prying eyes. When he was a young boy he believed that the souls of his father and sisters looked down upon him from above and would tattle to his mother if he was naughty. Now he knows there is no one looking down on him, because with all the things he's been up to they would have been raining fire on his head on a daily basis.
He never really believed it even as a young man, but went to church every Sunday nonetheless, his mother on his one arm, the prayer book filled with his father's scribbles in the other. There will never be names and dates of William's children on the flyleaf, like his father meticulously kept adding. "A son and heir!" his father's careful script announced behind his name. He'd shown more restraint in writing down his daughters' particulars, all of whom he subsequently buried during his short lifetime. Spike remembers their funerals, remembers his love and sadness, but the memories have lost their sting and seldom intrude when he rifles through his past.
He spreads his arms and makes swimming motions. "Look Slayer, I made an angel in the snow."
She hovers at the edge of his vision, a black blot against the spangled splendor of the sky. He can tell she's wearing her disapproving expression just by her hunched-up arms crossed body language. She may be this great warrior, but she's not very playful, is she?
He wishes Dru could be lying beside him, and they would stay like that for hours, impervious to the cold, free as night birds. He'd name the stars for her and make up stories about them because Dru didn't like the real ones. She always got mad if he forgot the ones he'd made up before, like the one where Cassiopeia was a beautiful princess who lived happily in a castle with her Daddy, tending her little babies and roses and nothing exciting or bad ever happened to her.
A boot in his ribs reminds him of his present circumstances, Dru-less and bound to the serious straitlaced Slayer. She's standing over him and glowers at him. Under other circumstances he might think it was a sexy glower, but the cold makes her look pinched and worried.
"Car, Spike? Cleveland? Getting back your minion?"
Does she really think he gives a shit about his stupid minion?
"What are you waiting for, then, Slayer? Can't get the barn door open with your own lilywhite hands?"
"Can't start the car," she admits stiffly. "It's old, it probably won't run at all."
Spike leaps up with a showy flip, which is wasted on his unappreciative public, but a man's got standards to keep up. The car in question is a perfectly respectable looking pick-up truck, no more than twenty five years old. How convenient that it didn't fall apart with the house. He climbs into the driver's seat and flips down the rearview mirror. Of course there is a key taped there, not a lot of car thieves in the middle of those endless cornfields. The truck starts at the third try, but shows a nearly empty tank.
He jumps out and winks at the Slayer, who looks daggers at him. May the best man win, he thinks, knowing that it's him. He potters about the barn, whistling a cheery tune, and finds several neatly lined up gallon-containers of gas. He just loves these neat and careful people, who are now gnashing their teeth in hell as they watch him escape. He fills up the tank and climbs back in. The Slayer sits slumped on the passenger seat, still lost in her own unhappy thoughts, if her furrowed forehead is any indication.
He turns the truck to the north and strikes out for the highway. In less than a mile they're there, and it's even been swept clear of snow. He stops the car and debates with himself whether to go back for the DeSoto or not, and decides the risks of it being towed away or stolen are minimal and he can retrieve it on the way back. He climbs out and walks around to the passenger door. The Slayer stares back sullenly. He climbs in and sits next to her.
"Your turn to drive."
"It's still dark!" she protests.
"Our friend from Bedrock banged me up pretty good back there. I need some time to heal," he says.
She doesn't answer but slides silently over to the driver's seat and drives off.
Spike shifts around until he's found the least uncomfortable position and closes his eyes.
When he opens them again there's something lying over his face that smells of Slayer and a past meal. His aches and pains have abated for the most part, and now he's just really hungry. The Slayer's scent so close makes his mouth water and he has to force his game face back into hiding.
He lifts the jacket up and has to close his eyes to the bright light. Still day. He checks out the rest of him and sees the Slayer has covered him with a rough grey horse blanket as well as her down jacket, and has hung something on the side window to protect him from the sunlight. How thoughtful of her. If she keeps this up he's gonna think she has soft spot for him.
"Where are we, Slayer?" he asks softly, so as not to startle her. Not a very reliable driver, this girl. She has to have been driving for at least eight hours straight.
"Couple of hours from Cleveland," she says and yawns widely.
Spike ponders his options for a few moments and then suggests, "Why don't you find another motel? You need to be fit and alert if we're to get you back home. Kip for a few hours."
"Is kip like sleep?"
She yawns again.
She gets them to the next motel in one piece and is still yawning when she gets back with their room key. Spike runs for it while she holds the door open for him. Very efficient and all.
The Slayer stumbles to the bead and crashes down fully clothed. "Wake me in a few hours, 'kay?" she mumbles and passes out.
He might as well grab a couple of more hours, it's still light outside anyway. He wakes himself up just after sundown and has almost succeeded in stealing outside, shoes in hand, when the damn woman suddenly blinks awake and is on him in an impressive display of alertness.
She has him in an iron grip. "You’re not killing people," she says grimly.
He tries an elbow, wants to step on her feet, but she's got everything covered. He never realized just how strong she was.
"Perhaps," she says silkily, "you've been underestimating me, because I'm not a very experienced driver and don’t much like the cold. Perhaps you don't realize what it means that I'm the oldest surviving Slayer ever. Let me spell it out for you: you will not kill people, not on this trip. Understood?"
He nods and she releases him. He doesn't understand how, but she manages to block his vicious headbutt backwards and the crippling blow to the midriff he had in mind, and now he's lying on the floor with his cheek in the polyester carpet and his arms cruelly twisted behind him. Okay. He'll accept that she is his equal in the person to person fighting stakes, but she has other vulnerabilities.
"Ow," he says. "You're giving me carpet burn."
"Stop whining," she says, not unkindly.
Spike wiggles his hips, trying for her weak spot, and for a moment thinks he's succeeded when she gets off him with a muffled exclamation. He rolls over and faces a stake, poised at exactly the right place. He'd forgotten she must have recovered it with her clothes. Her face is soft and warm from sleep but glows with determination. If she wasn't standing between him and a much needed meal, he'd like her more.
"Slayer," he says, softly and reasonably. "How could you possibly enforce that? You'll need to sleep once in a while. You could really use a shower right now for instance, and what would keep me from popping out for a bite?"
She quirks an eyebrow. Summers, Buffy Summers, licensed to kill him. "Your word. Again."
"I couldn't have eaten those ghosts anyway, now could I?"
The Slayer doesn't answer, just shifts the position of the stake minutely so she's more comfortable. She's obviously not gonna take no for an answer. He doesn’t think she'll stake him, not really, but the boredom of facing her off a minute longer is already threatening and he'd really like something to eat.
"But what will I eat? I need blood or I won’t be able to function properly to fulfill the mission!"
"Pig's blood," the Slayer answers. "We'll find a butcher."
"Don't tell me the poor sod drank pig's blood for all those years?"
Silence from the Slayer.
"He did?"
He tries to think of a good reason not to go for it. "Isn't that really fattening?"
Her voice darkens. "He was always lean as a whip."
He relaxes and looks up at her. She's sitting across his thighs, and her hand is still holding the stake, but her other hand is splayed on his stomach. He doesn’t think she even knows she's doing it. She's staring straight through him, her eyes dark green with remembrance and grief, the emotions scudding across her face like storm clouds. If he wasn't so hungry this would be the best moment to take advantage of her, but he lets it go.
"Get off me, Slayer," he says gruffly. "Let's grab a shower and get going to find my contact. I've had it up to here with the Midwest already, let's not extend our stay longer than necessary."
The Slayer returns to the here and now and looks at him silently. Then she nods and gets up. She gathers her recovered clothes and heads for the shower. Spike shucks his coat and is sinking down in a chair, preparing to wait for her when he sees her look back at him. He wipes the scowl from his face and tries to look blank, a canvas for her to draw on. She doesn't extend her hand or say anything but he knows it's an invitation anyway, or as much of one as she can allow herself to give. He gets back up and walks towards her slowly, unbuttoning his shirt, not saying anything, because he knows he'll fuck up again if he does.
They have to stand close together in the cramped little bathroom and he can see every tremble of the Slayer's hands as she undresses. This is not the heated aftermath of battle, nothing here to create a mood, just plain bathroom fittings and ugly tile. It only serves to make the living breathing woman in it more beautiful to him, filled to the brim with the gentle simmering of life, a myriad fragrances swirling around her body like a ball dress, a cloud of warmth exploding from her breath.
The hardened points of her small breasts almost brush his chest as he slides the shirt from his shoulders and he sees her catching her breath. He moves his hands down slowly, very slowly, doesn’t want to scare her off, and undoes the first button of his fly. Her bloodwarm hands slip under his and finish the job for him. He's in a hurry now, yanks the jeans of his legs and follows the Slayer into the shower. Her heat throbs against the palms of his hands moments before he actually touches her and he stifles a moan. When his hands do meet her flesh everything happens in a blur, handfuls of hot Slayer ass, she's climbing him and eating him alive, her hot mouths draw him in and devour him.
"Slayer, you're so…" Shut up, shut up, he sings to himself on the rhythm of his hips, don’t talk you fool, don’t think of dinner, just fuck and shut up. He closes and opens his eyes, dark red from the inside of his closed lids alternating with flashes of fluorescent lighting on white tiles, while the Slayer vibrates under his hands, slick with water and need, saying unintelligible things to him.
When they finally make it out of the shower he can hardly stand. How long have they been at it? The Slayer is like a demon in her insatiable lust, wringing the last scrap of stamina out of him, and he drops down at her knees where she sprawls on the bed covers like a lewd goddess and worships her anew. He crawls up on the bed beside her and collapses. He can do no more, but she's merciless and forces him in again. He's covered by warm pliable slayer flesh like a blanket and her smooth neck rests with the unmarked side against his lips. He hardens again at the thought, it would be so easy, his whole body tautens like a bow, ready to twang and let go, and the Slayer flutters around him at the slight movement. He's about to explode again himself, he won’t need more than a couple of strokes when he thinks of drinking her dry, feeling the blood hit his parched throat like a blessing, but he won't, bound by his word like the gentleman he once was.
Chapter 9
Spike's post-coital driving style is so laid back that he rolls into corners at the very last moment while Buffy hangs on grimly to the little handle above the door of the old pick-up. She doesn't want to slide into him when he takes one of these liquid turns, which probably feel cool and speedy to him but are really very uncomfortable if you’re a passenger. She doesn’t want to slide into him because she can still feel him inside her, and she's feeling odd all over, trembly and hot, about to burst into tears. She can't believe she did this, made him do this, because it's just wrong. She doesn’t love him and he doesn’t love her and they're the wrong people in the wrong place.
Tactile memory and muscle memory have betrayed her both tonight. In fact every sense she possesses has conspired to make her feel for precious moments that he was the right person. The padded silk of his luminescent cream skin, his scent, tobacco and hot metal before the shower washed it off, later like musk and an echo of the way of her own bed smells in the morning. His eyes grey and stormy, but bluer than the sky if the light catches them, tiny pink nipples and lush reddened lips. The sound of his voice, just a tremor between her thighs or cooling butterscotch chocolate poured down her neck, whispers against her skin to make the goose bumps race up and down her spine. The way he tastes, for which there is no comparison, uniquely Spike. When their tongues shiver against each other delicately she closes her eyes and she's no longer Buffy, no longer anchored to the world by duty and gravity and stuff, but something floating free above it all.
And yet something so perfectly fitted the one moment often strikes a wrong the next. The fine malt voice caws out a harsh sentiment and she almost draws back, chilled, until she warms again by a velvet tongue lapping her nipples until they scream. She's exhausted, she has worn herself thin by rubbing the glass goblet to a fine sheen, but when she rings it the sound is dull and falters quickly. All the positions and orgasms in the world cannot make her forget a request for her blood.
She sighs. She can hear how tremulous it sounds and she throws a worried look at Spike, who sits there presenting his perfect high-nosed profile, cream and silver against the backdrop of the night, smoking non-stop while he drives. She doesn’t have the energy to hassle him about it. He flicks her a quick smile and pats her thigh. He always gets her moods, and his touch goes straight through her jeans to her deepest innermost places. She needs to think of something else. She'd better ask him some questions about this contact of his they're on their way to see, to stop thinking about that thing they did, although actually it was more like seven things. Oh boy. This shouldn’t be so bad, it’s no different from what all the Lorenzos and Jean-Pierres failed to do for her in Europe, just two lonely people comforting each other. No reason to be so angry with herself, she should just forgive her little mistake.
The thing is, she knows exactly the moment she decided to give in to it. It was when he said he wouldn't kill anyone, though not in so many words, when he surrendered to her. Is that what she likes in a guy, to be top bitch to him? Or is it just Spike? Her self-esteem is like a yoyo these days, up and down all the time. She remembers what used to happened to yoyos, the string would get slack and rough and Mom would throw them away.
Spike was all touchy, cuddly guy afterwards, insisting on keeping his hand on her neck all the time in the butcher shop, which was so embarrassing. His finger rested lightly on her artery, and she had no idea anymore what message he was sending. Buffy works death magic and enslaves second vampire? Vampire holds Slayer in thrall? She sits up straighter and shakes her head. Go away, deep thoughts. Not now.
"So, tell me about that contact of yours. You’re still sure he’ll be able to provide us with the magic we need to operate the portal?
Spike sits up straighter and his face tenses. To Buffy’s surprise he steers the truck to the side and parks it.
He turns to Buffy and takes her hand. He clears his throat. “See, there’s this really ancient and powerful vampire who holds court in Cleveland. Maybe he's even the oldest living vampire. Him and me did a deal before, so I guess we could make it work."
“He owes you a favor?”
Spike scratches his head and doesn’t meet her eyes. “Not exactly. I thought I’d offer him a trade, but now I have to think of something else to persuade him with."
“What trade were you gonna offer....” Buffy’s voice trails off when she realizes who was gonna be offered in exchange for the magic.
"Oh. Oh! You sneaky bastard! You two timing...You were gonna offer me to this creepy old vamp?”
The words stick in her throat. She shouldn't be so surprised, he's just an unsouled vamp, but she’s been fooling herself again that he's different. The yoyo shoots sideways and does a back flip. Not evil temptress Buffy, luring men to their death, just delusional Buffy, who thinks she just needs to have sex with vampires to reform them.
"'Course I would! You're my enemy! ‘S only reasonable, Slayer." He sighs and tries to placate her. “Now we’re partners, okay, we fought together. Wouldn't sell you now, you know that.”
No, she doesn't. In fact this earnest avowal of partnership is as surprising and unsettling as his confession just now.
A slight headache is starting behind her eyes and she tries to rub it away by pinching the skin between her eyebrows. “Okay. Rewind. Ancient vampire. Powerful, but willing to negotiate.”
"Yeah, well, maybe." His voice sounds doubtful. "I delivered something he really wanted when he came to Sunnydale a couple of years ago, hunting. Scary looking bloke, he’s so old that his hands are cloven like hooves."
Something tickles in the back of her brain. “Sunnydale? Ancient vampire? Name of Kakistos by any chance?”
Spike nods, surprised. "You know him?
Buffy throws her hands to heaven, exasperated. "We killed him, you idiot. That creep is your contact? I didn't exactly get friendly vibes from him when he was trying to kill me and Faith.”
“Right, that was her name.”
Buffy screeches. "You traded him Faith? That is so inhuman! Didn't you know what he'd do to her?”
“Well, yeah. So? Didn't know the girl. And besides, Slayer, risk of the trade and all.”
Yes, Buffy, do try to have a pointless conversation about morality with an unsouled vampire. Rewind again. Forward.
“So we’re going to talk to this very powerful, unfriendly, ancient vampire...
“Oldest in the world,” Spike adds helpfully.
"Oldest in the world, who looks like something we’d rather see in neat cutlets on the barbecue than have a chat with. What’s the plan now?”
Spike assumes that raised eyebrows, innocent face he uses when he's bluffing. “We’ll have to improvise.”
“He'll just welcome you, a strange vampire on his territory? You have rules of hospitality?”
“Not exactly, pet. We’d have to have a bloody good story to convince his perimeter guards to let us in.”
"And our cover story is...?”
Spike shrugs. “Something will occur to me. We can always fight our way in if need be.”
Buffy shakes her head. “No. No, no no no. We make a plan first. Not a vague harebrained plan like yours but a serious plan with research and deployment and stuff.”
Spike snorts. “Right. And where’s the legion of Watchers who's gonna do that for us? Waiting for us at the school library, no doubt?”
“We’ll make the plan ourselves. You're a Master Vampire, I'm the oldest surviving Slayer. We can so do it, we don't need Watchers.”
Fifteen minutes or so later they agree on a plan. “I pretend to be a captive Slayer – and you do understand the concept of pretend, don't you Spike? You won't forget in the heat of battle and trade me off for real?"
“Hey! Who do you think you're talking to? Have I ever reneged on my word as a ...vampire?”
"Not in the past three days, no. With me and my stake to persuade you every inch of the way." Buffy ticks off the points on her fingers. "You pretend to trade me off, we capture the tame magician you say Kakistos always has with him, and then we leave. We leave. Together. Or we fight. Agreed?”
“Sound plan, love. Spoken like a true general. Go in, kick ass and leave. Perfect. But you know, maybe you could change your looks a little? Look a bit more like a prize?”
Buffy flushes so hard her ears tingle. Her Spike would never ever have suggested that she looked less than perfect. Guys. But he's right, they're gonna deliver a performance, and looks matter.
"Are we talking lipstick and a comb through my hair here, or are we talking Xena costume? Last thing, not gonna happen. Ever.”
Spike backs off. “Fine, pet, fine. Not that you need a Xena costume to look very, em, appetizing.”
Buffy glowers in his general direction of his grinning face and proceeds with the combing and lipsticking. Motel quality, alas, but better than nothing. Spike starts the car again and they cruise on through one of Cleveland's industrial areas, where, according to Spike, Kakistos reigns in an enormous derelict factory building.
“What's with you guys and abandoned factories? Why not go for, say, a mansion? A nice hotel? Factories tend not to have much in the way of modern comforts.”
Spike shrugs. “Kakistos is three thousand years old, doesn't need to eat or shit, doesn't need sunlight or a nice view, and heating and electricity are concepts he's probably never got the hang of.”
The car approaches a brightly lit chain fence which surround a giant brick structure, some kind of nineteenth century tycoon's dream of the ideal work place.
“See? Buffy says. “Someone loves electricity."
Spike scowls. He slows the car and they drive up to the gate at a crawl. A couple of big hulking vampire goons step out of the shadows and bend down to Spike’s window.
Spike stares straight ahead. “Tell Kakistos that the Master of Sunnydale is here and has an object that will interest him.”
The goons confer rapidly in a strange language.
“Is that Ancient Greek?” Buffy whispers to Spike.
“Huh. No, Chechen. They're all the fashion in goons.”
"Oh.”
Spike leans towards her and yanks on the zipper of her down coat.
“Hey! Hands off.”
“Don't be so prudish. We’ve got to show off some goodies, don't we?”
"I thought we were selling the fact that I'm a Slayer, never mind the size of my boobs?”
“Always helps to add a bit of sex into the mix, Slayer, you ought to know that.”
Buffy feels her cheeks heat and Spike chuckles and squeezes her thigh, moving his hand upward to her groin in a kneading motion. Buffy slaps his hand sharply, excited and irritated at the same time at the involuntary clenching and flooding her pussy is doing. “Spike! Knock it off! They'll be able to smell..."
Spike smirks his nastiest, most irritating smirk at her. "Exactly, Slayer.”
Great. Buffy scoots away from him and sits fuming in silence while they wait for Goon 1 to return. She checks out Goon 2, who's standing with crossed arms on her side of the car. He bares his pointy teeth at her and scratches his crotch ostentatiously. Ew. She moves a couple of inches back in Spike's direction. There are nuances in evilness, that is very clear right now, and Spike must be almost at the good end of the scale if these guys are any indication. Jeez, what a creep.
Goon 1 returns and confers with Goon 2. If they are newish vamps, why can't they use cell phones? At this rate, half the night will be used up in waiting. Goon 1 motions the car through the gates and two other, almost identical goons fall into step beside it. Spike drives so slowly that the vamps can keep up with him while going no faster than a dignified parade walk, as if he is the President. Buffy groans and tries to think of something to make the time go faster. The suspense is killing her.
Spike’s finger hooks behind the waistband of her jeans. "If you're bored, Slayer...” he offers sotto voce.
It's pretty hard to say no, even with Goon 4 walking not four feet away from her window. “Gross, Spike, with people looking on! That means no.”
He sighs. “Thought you wouldn't. Look, there's the gate.”
As the car rounds the corner to the north wall of the giant building Buffy can see there’s a tall broad gate in the factory wall. She can hardly believe it was original, but it's very impressive. Big doors flank the opening and she can see torches flickering in the interior. On the other end of the gate a neat row of a dozen or so XXL black stretch limousines are parked. Maybe Kakistos runs a funeral home on the side.
Spike stops the car when Goon 4 gives him a hand signal. He steps out and bends in to grip Buffy's arm hard. "One step behind me, Slayer and not a word!”
Buffy nods. He yanks her out roughly and doesn't help her when she almost falls on the concrete. This must be so much fun to him, she thinks. Or maybe he’s already been there, done that with her alter ego. He stands as tall as he can and struts forward into the big hall, duster flaring out behind him. He still looks pretty short next to the goons 3 and 4, Buffy notes with a strange kind of sad, sweet feeling she has no name for.
She follows behind him, keeping her eyes downcast but letting them rove around the dark echoing space she enters. It's so big she can't see the ceiling and mostly empty, with some movement she can't yet determine at the edges, and glimpses of people moving in torch light at the far end. She wonders what they made in here when it was still a factory, why it had to be so big. Workers would need so much time to move from one side to the other; she thinks people probably didn’t have roller blades back then. She can make out a small throne with a figure on it. She walks on behind Spike, and it takes a long time before they finally approach the throne. It has grown in their long trek down the aisle. There is no wedding march, only low key wailing and murmuring. She can't pinpoint the source of the sounds, but as her vision adjusts she can see more clearly.
The throne is enormous, and so is the bulky ancient vamp sitting on it, sipping leisurely from a drooping naked white-skinned form. He lifts his ruined swine face as Spike approaches and smiles a blood spattered yellow-tusked smile. He drops the neck he was drinking from and the red headed girl slides down without a sound into a small heap at his feet. She can't be more than fourteen or fifteen. Her little white breasts are covered with purple bruises and bite marks. Buffy has to look away; the girl's white skin reminds her painfully of Dawn. She doesn't want to look Kakistos in the eyes either; afraid he might sense her anger.
Now that her eyes are more used to the dark, she can see chained up vampires dotting the walls at regular intervals like statues in a church. They are all female, mostly naked or randomly hung with rotted scraps of cloth, frighteningly skinny like concentration camp victims, showing every bone in their humanoid bodies. Their hair is long and matted and their nails grown long and curved. One of them pokes out her own eye when she walks past her. They gnash their teeth and shriek at her with broken voices. She almost feels sorry for them, and is glad she can't understand a word they say, if they are saying words.
She looks away from the beseeching eyes and black stump of tongue of the crazy vamp on the left and concentrates on what's in front of her. Row upon row of vamps in all shapes and forms line the back wall of the factory interior. Some of them look a bit like the Master, bat-like with their mouths stained red, others like younger versions of Kakistos, and some wear their human faces.
"William the Bloody!" Kakistos' voice booms. She remembers that voice. On his left there is another vamp she remembers, Mr. Treat or something.
"Hail to Kakistos, Prince of Cleveland," Spike says, and Buffy has to bite her lip at the Prince moniker. So un-American.
"I ask a boon from you, Kakistos. I want your magician's services."
Spike's being very direct. Maybe that's the way to go in vamp society. No, an elaborate ritual starts, and her attention wanders away from the conversation to take in potential opponents and exit routes. Her conclusions are chilling; anyone here could kill her, and there is no way out. Great. Spike and Kakistos are still boasting of their prowess and past deeds. Buffy takes another sweep of the pack around the throne. The dense mass of vampires shifts a bit and she sees a cage quite close to her at the foot of the throne. In it is another of the emaciated female vamps, not chained, but huddled down in a pitiful heap of bones, and is she seeing that right? Actually gnawing on her own thin olive skinned arm. Ew. The vamp acts as if she's heard the mental exclamation and lifts her head. Dark eyes stare at her from under matted black hair and she bares her teeth at Buffy. She hisses something at her. Buffy strains to hear it and inches closer to the cage.
"Bee…" the vamp whines. "Kill Bee…."
Buffy steps back hastily, every muscle in her body clenched to smother the sounds her mouth wants to make. She stuffs her fist between her teeth and drives the nails of her other hand in her palm. It's Faith. She takes a deep shuddery breath and blinks furiously to keep the tears away. Faith vamped, killed by the only vampire, the only being she'd ever been afraid of. Killed horribly, no doubt, and now kept in a cage like a psycho dog, starving and insane. Oh God. She has to find some way to kill this poor creature, put it out of its misery. Poor Faith. The thought that she was rutting away with a vampire just hours ago now makes her sick. This is what vampires do to Slayers, what Spike perhaps did to the Buffy from his universe, and she's been entertaining the thought of not killing him?
She feels cold through and through, her face freezes and she's biting down hard on her own teeth. She has to get out of here, torch this whole filthy place, kill them all.
Spike and Kakistos seem to have reached some kind of agreement.
"You brought me another Slayer?" Kakistos rumbled. "She smells familiar. Smells like your bitch."
Buffy is unprepared for the vicious yank on her hair Spike uses to bring her closer to Kakistos' murky gaze. She suppresses an indignant squeal and keeps her gaze below Kakistos'. The old vampire leans forward to get a better look or maybe sniff at her. One of his cloven fore hooves digs absentmindedly into the still white body puddled at his feet and he brings the hoof to his mouth and licks it off with relish. Buffy remembers seeing him killed and wishes she could do it right now. She owes it to Faith.
Kakistos wants to take possession of Buffy immediately, but Spike bluffs and postures until he sighs wearily and waves to Mr. Trick or Treat to take them to the court magician. Mr. Trick walks them past a row of the gibbering shackled vamps, who start to writhe harder when Buffy comes closer and try to spit at her, throwing themselves at her. The chains abrade their cold flesh and sluggish blood creeps out.
"Is this the vamp equivalent of prison?" Buffy asks Spike.
He shrugs. "Dunno love. I usually just kill a minion that displeases me. Of course, if you're into torture…They say Kakistos brought these vamps with him when he removed his court from Athens and moved here in the eighteenth century."
Creepier and creepier. Mr. Trick depresses a brick in what appears to be a completely unmarked wall and a door opens outward. Buffy meekly follows the henchvamp and Spike through, but a gob of spittle lands at her feet just when she wants to step over the threshold.
The vampire who spat glares at her in human face. She was a tall girl once, and is even now less emaciated and damaged than most of the other prisoners.
"One girl," she says in a low monotonous voice. "One girl in all the world…" She spits again.
Ew. These vampires know she is the Slayer. That explains the extra writhing and cursing efforts they've been putting in for her benefit. Buffy turns away and steps through the door.
TBC
[Reviews - 8]
-
Table of Contents [Report This]
Chapter or Story |
Chapter or Story | 
Chapter or Story
Has been viewed 1410 times
- Text Size +
-
Table of Contents [Report This]
Chapter or Story |
Chapter or Story | Chapter or Story - Text Size +